"I am not so worn," he murmurs, and he is a child, a child who draws bones close to his heart, the stale stench of death and squalor pungent, corrosive.

He does not flinch; loves the dead thing, near and dear and a part of him that does not require him to be made whole, a memory that has decided to attain independence. How may he injure it, when all it asks of him is attention?

Shuddering, he breathes and breathes and chokes and does not sob, not the dried waters of him, not his eyes bright, not his mouth barren. Does not beg her mercy.

"I shall not inconvenience."

And so, he does not beg the privilege of having this. It is his own.