( He thinks, this is the moment, then. When people, far better and sharper than he, blades of social grace — when his brother might lean in and pat a young man's back and speak one or two or three words, and all at once, the troubles of the world would expire. The pain, the agony, the doubt would evaporate. Whatever Lockwood thinks of himself, whatever hellish experiences have hollowed him — would be exorcised.

But he is not Xichen, and he escorts a troubled, now muttering and mumbling spirit, who wails that the next tomb they accompany her to is as bare and futile as its predecessor. Still, she carries on, undefeated, rubble and foul, rot-filled earth churned in her wake. She does not give up.

Perhaps there is ai lesson there, in one and all. Clumsily, unbidden, he reaches out a hand, and — does not give up — nor does the touch fully land, fingers awkwardly grazing Lockwood's shoulder, if never quite latching. The pat-pat of a skittish cat, far too petrified to land a proper caress. He withdraws, after. )

I do not like your world. ( May it burn. )