ORIGIN

"We can."

He sent a mental message to Mischief--Watch Jampa. Warn me if she wakes. And he saw, distantly, through his familiar's eyes, the child resting in the distance.

Good.

He followed James with a clear conscience, then, picking his way delicately through the ruins and into the home. Silver eyes cast briefly over the chrysalis, the flowers, the furs. They lingered on the furs; he wondered briefly how many were those of deer. He had done his share of hunting for Aster, way back when, but he'd also gotten to know the deer of Eridanus, at least. He hated to see them die.

But he pushed that thought aside, for now, and focused on the horse instead. A nod, and he spoke: "Go on," even as he lowered himself to his knees a bit away, and then lay down, watching James. "Think about all of this, how you see it; I would like to understand your viewpoint a little more. Maybe... where all of this comes from," he added. He wasn't quite sure where to begin, but maybe together, they could figure it out.

It was, in some sense, like a puzzle--pieces that he'd have to sift through. But perhaps an answer wouldn't be so easy; the metaphor fell apart when one realized that it wasn't simply parts of a whole, but a thousand interactions of other thoughts and feelings, not all of them making perfect sense.

The image of James failing stood out to him the most: the batcats, a confusing tumult of noise and strange creatures. Of the scent of blood, in memory. Pride's brow furrowed, and he shifted in place, a little, pondering. "What was that?" he asked James, in both thought and speech, tone quiet, and he showed a brief echo of the memory to point out what he meant.

There was a sense of gentle dismissal, like the shake of a head, at the horse's apology; no words, mere emotion, faint and reassuring. Pride's focus was on the task at hand, though. Where had James shifted? Is this where you began to feel as though you were making only mistakes-? Or was it another point? he asked him, eyes unfocused, mind wandering through the horse's tumultuous thoughts.

Pride considered all of this, thoughtful, frowning. He took his time before replying, mulling over James' thoughts, his feelings, addressing it as best he could--mentally, at least--from different angles.

He feels pathetic. Guilty. Shame because of mistakes. Where did this come from? A habit, from where?" Intrinsic, perhaps. Some of Pride's thought might have bled through, though he did attempt to shield it a little. But it was just pondering, and he spoke slowly, contemplatively.

"I think I told you once," Pride began, thoughtful, "that you ought to always do the best you can, and then take pride in that attempt. We all fail, James. We all make mistakes." Pride tried, for a moment, to throw his mind back into his own past--not to show James but to find some example of Pride's own failure. But when he combed his thoughts he found a bloody past--and some brief flickers of it might have come through, glimpses of the white stag's history. A black dog yelping with broken leg, twinned with Pride's terror; a sneering lizard, and the bones atop the Throne; a bloodied goose sneering to him and, later, bodies lying in Eridanus among blood and charred foliage, chrysalising. There were snarls in the dark and some great, black creature with beak and yellow eyes slipping toward them. Pride shook the memories away--no, nothing good would come on looking over his history. Only violence and bloodshed, and for a moment the realization of just how fraught his past had been with combat rocked him. He briefly considered, and hoped that none of this had really bled through, but he had to move on. "We all have things that we regret, certainly. Do you think those Gembound blamed you-?" he went on, and his voice was gentle. "Would they not blame the--the black creatures that attacked them? You did what you thought best, no?"

Another pause. It was hard to push away guilt, and for a moment another brief glimmer rose up in his memories, and this one, he latched onto.

Envy. Livius. He held it up before James, the shining example of what he was about to say; a weasel, green, prickled with strange quills, a golden crown atop its head. It looked bold, bright-eyed, but twinned with the image came deep sorrow. Grief, and sympathy. What came next was what Pride had seen in Envy, through similar links: guilt, self-hate of some form, a feeling that Envy would never be enough. "A close friend of mine. The leader of the Seven, technically. They always wished to call themselves King. Yet they blamed themselves for a thousand mistakes. Unlike you, they tried to make up for some perceived guilt by promising others an image of themselves: a powerful leader, a king. They sought adoration, to prove this vision but they, themselves, believed it to be false. They felt only shame, as if they were nothing, all the time. Can you guess what they did wrong-?" Pride went on, peering at James. "What it was that made them feel this way?"

It was patience in his tone and thoughts, and hope; he was leading James toward some conclusion that he hadn't yet revealed.

Memories, he responded, a distant whisper, a touch of his mind to James'. But the horse didn't press, and he didn't offer further; those memories were painful, each and every one. He had neither the desire to dwell on them, nor to inflict them on the horse.

If they do not blame you, then why do you blame yourself..?
Silence, then, for a moment--silence as the rest came through. James, forced into adulthood--fatherhood--before he was ready. James, struggling with a relationship he most certainly hadn't been ready for, maybe hadn't even wanted. James, trying to raise children while still dealing with this trauma, with no one there to guide him for it.

A soft exhale escaped Pride at the enormity of it: at the immensity of the horse's burden. It was not all brutality, war, death, as Pride had seen; but it was at least in part violence, and in part a burden of another sort that was no less painful. The weight of others' emotional well-being, as well as physical. And it had, Pride thought, ground down James until the bright spark of interest and enthusiasm had been whittled into the dimmest of embers, shrouded by pain and fear.

He thought about this. And then he turned his mind back to King Livius.

"I mean, what do you think it was that they did wrong? What they dwelt on, to give them this guilt, this shame-?" And for a moment, Pride turned this little picture, perfectly clear, of Envy. It rotated in his mind, like a sculpture or a statue atop an invisible pedestal: the little green weasel, leaping with fierce joy and determination in its eyes--and then, rotating, turning, to reveal grief, pain and shame, self-doubt and self-loathing, misery... "Nothing, is the answer. They never did anything wrong--never failed in anything that I know of. They simply despised themself. Envy never thought they were enough. They were born with a burden they didn't want--a toxic gemstone, one that made it hard for them to eat. They thought they were less than others and their life was one of suffering, though I tried and tried to make them understand that they were good: a good friend, a strong fighter, a competent leader." A pause, Pride studying James with those absent silver eyes. "Envy--Livius--sleeps, now. But their life was one of misery purely because they'd deemed it so. They did nothing wrong. I do not want to see that for you, and I want you to understand: your life is what you make of it. But you, I think, have something else that needs touching on." For James' trauma was more than self-doubt, though that certainly echoed Livius's life, returned to Pride sad memories he'd thought buried.

A stray thought--a memory of Fireheart, and of Nassir--threatened to return, as if drawn by nothing more than misery. He pushed them sadly away.

"I think you were not ready for children, James, nor a family. I think Aristotle pushed you into it--whether he meant for it, or not. And I think you went into this still suffering guilt, perhaps fear, of what happened to you. Do you fear the same will happen to your children--being attacked by creatures like that? Is that why you fear so strongly for Comet? Is this related, do you think--all of this, together?" There were other things he'd like to say--things he wanted to say--but he had to take this bit by bit, or risk overwhelming them both in feelings and in memories.

He listened in silence and, for now, he let the mind link drop. It was beginning to become taxing, the edges of a headache throbbing at the corners of his temples.

The gentle nature of his voice, however, said enough: it was warm, supportive, encouraging without being overbearing. What he offered were light suggestions, nudges in what he hoped was a good direction. "I can't pretend to know everything, James. You can be little more than a home for your child to return to--and a guide as to what you have learned. Because all of us are making it up as we go along. There is no rulebook of right, and wrong, and what the right way is--some guide hidden from us, someone tallying up our mistakes against this mysterious set of information. We just have to do the best we can. And I think as long as you love them, above all else, you cannot truly fail." Pride fell silent, for a moment, to think--and to phrase his next few words.

"If you ever blame yourself for something, take a step back, I would say: and ask yourself if... if I made the same mistake, or if Comet or anyone did--would you blame them for it? I think you may be too harsh on yourself after what happened. That was not your fault." Another pause, a soft exhale, and he continued. "As for fear of what might happen with your children--talk to them. Tell them everything you've just told me. Tell them what you have been through; offer your mistakes, so that they can learn from them. Tell them you are afraid. I think if you are honest, and listen to what they have to say in return--what they think of it, what they want, what they need--it will lead to a more... open, a healthier, relationship. Do you think..." Pride's head tilted as he considered a new possibility. "Do you think you might feel as though you haven't been doing this-? That perhaps you are--feeling guilty, as though you can only do wrong, because you are not listening to them, and not realizing it? They want something, and you want something else; perhaps you find that a painful conflict?"

This last was more a genuine question than a suggestion: Pride didn't wholly know the state of their relationship. Maybe he was on the mark, or maybe he was way off, but it was something to consider, if he was close, at least.

"If you want to speak to me more of Aristotle, of what happened--if you'd like me to open the link so you can show me, perhaps?--then I can listen. I get the impression you haven't had a chance to speak to anyone of it?" he went on, frowning some. He still did not know the entire story--how Ari had roped James into a family (for in his mind, it must have been this way), what Aristotle was like, how they'd treated one another. He didn't know how much, if at all, it factored into James's fears--or his guilt. But so far, it sounded like a problem, and Pride was willing to listen.