I was glad he was an inmate, she says. He hunkers down a little in her palm at that, and when she looks at him, he rolls up into something that doesn't have eyes so he doesn't have to look at her through anything but extrasensory perception.
He himself looks a bit like a very small tribble with a tail.
His mental voice can't be muffled, really, but the sense of someone burying their face in a pillow is there.
He's just... waiting. Waiting for the comparison, or the reasons he shouldn't be upset with Charlie, because Charlie is Saga and Edwin is Alan, so therefore.
His ears are a little hard to find at first, but the more she doesn't say what he's expecting, the more he starts to unfold, bit by bit. He's still balled up in her palm, but he at least had an actual animal shape again.
That's okay. She'll keep going. He's getting thumb pets now.
"The trick is I'm not going to 'tell' him. I'm going to help him. And I think that when he remembers he can be a hero again, he won't keep trying to make you out to be the monster."
"And now, you're not. You started a new story. Your story. Edwin's story. Edwin's story is a redemption story. It's a story about learning. It's a story with love and growth and-" she peers at him gently," I bet it has heroes. Friends. Family. Community. It's a better story, right?"
He smushes his face against her palm, glad that sugar gliders can't cry. He assumes they can't anyway.
It is.
After a second:
Do I ever get to stop thinking about what I was before? I don't remember, my brother doesn't want me to remember, but I can't-- I'm not supposed to just be Edwin, either. I have to always know I was the King, and I did what he did, even if none of it feels real.
That, she needs a moment for, serious consideration for a serious topic.
"Your first story won't ever go away," she admits, "but the more volumes you add, the more stories you live, the less and less that first story will feel relevant."
It's not a bad answer. It's a good one, a fair one. It's also not the kind of answer he was hoping for.
This time when he curls up it's into the shape of a three-banded armadillo, a little ball of keratin that nonetheless is a fair bit larger and heavier in her hand.
I don't remember. How can it be my story if I don't remember it happening?
"A lot of people don't remember their childhood," she says honestly, "and next to no one remembers being a baby, really. But it defines where and how they got started."
She turns her other hand while the first holds the little armadillo.
"What color eyes they have, what color skin, if their parents are rich or poor... lots of things. And sometimes, people do hold them responsible for the terrible things their parents did, even if they weren't alive at the time. In some ways, it's a very normal problem to have."
He doesn't answer, freshly knotted up, simmering in resentment and frustration. He wants to say something mean and a) he's not able to think of anything and b) he knows it's not remotely fair to be mean to Saga when all she's ever been is kind to him.
"And until he learns to keep it together, he should," she agrees, steady and warm, "I meant what I said earlier."
A wry little smile.
"My Grandpa can't stand my father, apparently. And it meant I never got to know either of them. Just because it's a common problem doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. I'm sorry you have to deal with it."
He wishes that made him feel better. He wishes it soothed the stupid aimless anger that keeps boiling up whenever he thinks about the way Charlie looked at him while he held Faroe. Maybe that was why he couldn't make her feel better either, maybe she could tell how upset he was himself.
It occurs to Edwin that he hasn't put anything new into his personal garden since before the flood. He's been too... busy.
Busy is the wrong word. He's been too focused on how bad everything feels, too wrapped up in anxiety and anger and animosity and the spring-tight feeling of being ready to defend himself. Ready to argue, ready to fight, ready to make people see that what Charlie did wasn't fair.
I...
I like going to the enclosure in the morning and asking for sunrise from a place I haven't seen before.
I like working in the kitchen because it helps me learn something my brother loves.
I like napping on the bookshelves in the library because I think the books talk to me while I'm asleep.
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He himself looks a bit like a very small tribble with a tail.
His mental voice can't be muffled, really, but the sense of someone burying their face in a pillow is there.
You're a good person.
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"I do my best."
She'll wait a few breaths before-
"You okay?"
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Yes.
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Not quite, Edwin.
"That's why Charlie needs to treat you like a person."
She'll try to find his ears to give them a scratch.
"I know he can do it. Because you and him, you're both good people. So I'm going to help him see that he's not in a horror story anymore either."
She looks down at Edwin.
"And you're not a monster."
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I don't think he's going to listen to you.
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"The trick is I'm not going to 'tell' him. I'm going to help him. And I think that when he remembers he can be a hero again, he won't keep trying to make you out to be the monster."
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It's tired, not quite defeated, a rote delivery.
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"And now, you're not. You started a new story. Your story. Edwin's story. Edwin's story is a redemption story. It's a story about learning. It's a story with love and growth and-" she peers at him gently," I bet it has heroes. Friends. Family. Community. It's a better story, right?"
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It is.
After a second:
Do I ever get to stop thinking about what I was before? I don't remember, my brother doesn't want me to remember, but I can't-- I'm not supposed to just be Edwin, either. I have to always know I was the King, and I did what he did, even if none of it feels real.
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"Your first story won't ever go away," she admits, "but the more volumes you add, the more stories you live, the less and less that first story will feel relevant."
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This time when he curls up it's into the shape of a three-banded armadillo, a little ball of keratin that nonetheless is a fair bit larger and heavier in her hand.
I don't remember. How can it be my story if I don't remember it happening?
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She turns her other hand while the first holds the little armadillo.
"What color eyes they have, what color skin, if their parents are rich or poor... lots of things. And sometimes, people do hold them responsible for the terrible things their parents did, even if they weren't alive at the time. In some ways, it's a very normal problem to have."
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I just want him to stay the fuck away from me.
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A wry little smile.
"My Grandpa can't stand my father, apparently. And it meant I never got to know either of them. Just because it's a common problem doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. I'm sorry you have to deal with it."
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I hate him. I was happy before he came.
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"Tell me about what makes you happy?"
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Busy is the wrong word. He's been too focused on how bad everything feels, too wrapped up in anxiety and anger and animosity and the spring-tight feeling of being ready to defend himself. Ready to argue, ready to fight, ready to make people see that what Charlie did wasn't fair.
I...
I like going to the enclosure in the morning and asking for sunrise from a place I haven't seen before.
I like working in the kitchen because it helps me learn something my brother loves.
I like napping on the bookshelves in the library because I think the books talk to me while I'm asleep.
I...
I don't know.
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"So... do you like books better? Or movies better?" A pause. "You've seen movies, right?"
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Depends on what I want--they're completely different.
He closes up again at the movies question.
....Yes. I missed the last big movie night party.
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When do you want books? And when do you prefer movies?
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I prefer movies... when I want to see the world how normal people see it.
Books...
Books when I want to talk with something but I don't actually want to talk to someone.
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