Truly he had only been a piece. That was helpless, and he's never stopped blaming himself for not becoming a player. Some day, hearing someone tell Ffamran that it's alright, that he's loved, is probably something he needs.

But that's going to be difficult, because he's never talked to anyone about any of this except Fran. And Wilhere, but he doesn't want to think about that. Fran, though, she'd said similar things. That's at once soothing and horribly painful. He misses her.

"You're right," he sighs. He half-means it, and the other half of him just wants to close this jar again. "But that doesn't mean anything to the people who died."

No, he's not going to do that. He shakes his head, like he can shake this off. "I'm sorry -- I'm stuck in old thoughts. I appreciate you pointing out where my logic is flawed." Even if it doesn't take away the guilt. His father had Venat driving him; what's his own excuse?

And here he is, still needing attention when there are bigger things afoot.