Valko, who still can’t believe that you are okay with him being a werewolf. How could you be this perfect?
Valko, who now pops out his ears and tail every time you two are in your apartment.
Valko, who definitely does not hope for constant pets and scratches. Totally not. The way he immediately leans into your hand is just a coincidence.
Valko, who was endlessly annoyed by his inability to control his tail around you. The traitorous thing started wagging if you smiled at him, laughed at one of his jokes, called his name, brought him food, complimented him or simply looked in his general direction.
Valko, who once tried holding his tail still with one hand while talking to you because it simply would not stop wagging. It somehow made the situation even more embarrassing.
Valko, who went on a twenty-minute, painfully nerdy rant about the difference between dogs and wolves when you teasingly snatched the last chocolate milk from him because “chocolate is poisonous to dogs.”
Valko, who ended that rant with “Besides, I am a werewolf. That is a major difference,” as though that single line somehow settled the entire argument.
Valko, who dramatically plopped onto the floor with his back facing you, ears drooping and tail lying lifelessly beside him while letting out the most pitiful little whines after you drank the last chocolate milk staring at him
Valko, who tried very hard to ignore you, when you began playfully poking him, only to fail miserably when you scratched his ear.
Valko, who tried to playfight with you just to save a bit of dignity.
Valko, who then realized that during the scuffle you somehow ended up lying on his lap, desperately trying to swat his hands away while giggling.
Valko, who immediately stopped and looked away, covering his stupid smile with a hand and hoping you would not notice his bright red ears.
Valko, who once corrected a documentary out loud for an entire hour. You sat beside him eating popcorn, while he became progressively more passionate over “bad research.” By the end, you weren't watching the documentary anymore. You were watching him.
Valko, who now refuses to watch certain wildlife programs with you unless he gets to provide commentary, because otherwise he will spend the whole time muttering corrections under his breath like a very handsome, very irritated professor.
Valko, who somehow managed to turn every casual conversation into an hour-long lecture about mythology, ecology, ancient history, astronomy, programming, obscure game mechanics and whatever was holding his interest at the moment. And you actually enjoyed listening even if you could understand maybe twenty percent of it.
Valko, who lights up every single time you ask, “Can you explain that?” because nobody has ever given him permission to infodump quite so enthusiastically.
Valko, who always apologizes halfway through one of his rambles with, “Sorry, I'm talking too much.” Only for you to answer, “No, keep going.” He falls in love with you all over again.
Valko, who reads otome games alongside you, somehow always managing to get the perfect ending for each route on his first try without ever using a guide.
Valko, who teases you mercilessly for your unexplainable ability to get only the bad endings on your first attempt.
Valko, who sulks and whines when, in retaliation, you start fangirling over every werewolf love interest.
Valko, who discovered that the quickest way to lose every coherent thought in his head was for you to scratch behind both ears at the same time while quietly telling him he was a good boy. His brain simply disconnects.
Valko, who gets flustered whenever you call him adorable, because he is a terrifying alpha wolf chairman mastermind, not some domesticated fluffball.
Valko, who is, unfortunately for his pride, also very much a domesticated fluffball in your apartment.
Valko, who loves making spreadsheets. He once found a simple notepad file with a list of games you wanted to buy. An hour later it had turned into an elaborate color-coded spreadsheet with release dates, genres, platforms, prices, estimated discount prices, review scores, and little notes like “wait for sale” and “high priority.”
Valko, who enthusiastically built an entire spreadsheet ranking every board game the two of you owned by complexity, average game length, replayability, strategic depth, and “relationship damage potential.”
Valko, who unconsciously mirrors your posture. You cross your legs. So does he. You stretch. He stretches. You catch him doing it.
“...I can explain.”
“You really can't.”
Valko, who became ridiculously excited whenever the two of you visited a museum. He somehow knew something about every single exhibit. You'd quietly wander behind him while he bounced from display to display, happily explaining obscure historical details with enough enthusiasm to accidentally attract a small crowd of strangers. He wouldn't notice until someone applauded.
Valko, who panicked the second he found you curled up in a ball on the couch because your cramps had hit you hard. The sheer terror on his face made it look like you were minutes away from dying, when in reality you were just in pain and trying not to cry into a blanket.
Valko, who immediately called several of his cousins to cross-reference every possible tip for helping you. Heat pack? Done. Tea? On it. Snacks? Already on the way. Painkillers? He had three different brands lined up like he was preparing for a medical emergency.
Valko, who got teased mercilessly by his cousins for his overreaction, because he had kept them company during their own periods before. “It’s different when it’s her, okay?” he snapped, only to go red-faced the second everyone started laughing harder.
Valko, who hovered for the rest of the evening like an anxious guard dog, bringing you water, medicine, your favorite snacks and a blanket you did not even remember asking for.
Valko, who hated it whenever your period happened to fall on a full moon week, because that meant there would be a full twenty-four hours where he could not be by your side to help you. And that was completely unacceptable.
Valko, who seriously debated locking himself in a bunker during every full moon, because he was terrified his instincts would somehow drag him straight to you.
Valko, who spent weeks designing increasingly ridiculous containment plans. Reinforced steel doors. Silver-lined restraints. Automated sedative dispensers. His family eventually confiscated the blueprints after realizing he was actually considering building the thing.
Valko, who, despite knowing full well that you accepted him, still acted like a tragic little beast every time a full moon approached, because he kept imagining the worst-case scenarios and convincing himself he had to protect you from himself.
Valko, who appeared on your balcony during a full moon anyway, because he couldn't control himself.
Valko, who broke your couch within five minutes by enthusiastically flopping onto it and rolling all over the cushions, breathing in your scent with complete bliss.
Valko, who woke up the next morning surrounded by the remains of your couch and immediately entered a state of complete panic.
Valko, who almost passed out when you simply giggled and told him he was “really adorable and fluffy.”
Valko, who spent the next hour cursing the full moon to hell and back while hacking into every street camera in the city to locate and delete footage of a giant wolf running through the streets, and simultaneously ordering a replacement couch for you.
Valko, who loudly celebrates every single one of your victories like you'd just won an Olympic medal.
“You beat the boss!”
“It was a tutorial.”
“A WIN IS A WIN.”
Valko, whose cousins have started a betting pool over when he's finally going to say “I love you.”
Valko, who insists they're all wrong.
“I'll say it when the moment is perfect.”
“You've had, like, forty perfect moments.”
“They weren't perfect enough.”
Valko, who secretly had an entire folder on his computer titled Potential Confessions v38 (FINAL) (Actually Final). Inside were dozens of confession drafts. There was also a folder called Potential Confessions v39 (FINAL FOR REAL THIS TIME). And another called Potential Confessions FINAL FINAL DEFINITELY. None of them had been used yet.
Valko, who somehow managed to turn researching “cute date ideas” into a twelve-hour rabbit hole that ended with him reading historical papers about medieval courtship rituals because he wanted to know where modern dating traditions came from. He forgot to actually plan the date.
Valko, who starts noticing every little sign that you love him back but refuses to assume. Because what if he is wrong? What if he ruins something precious? So instead, he waits. And waits. And waits. Despite everyone around him screaming that you are practically already married.
Valko, who eventually decides that it’s time. He takes your hand, clears his throat, and says, “I have calculated every possible future in which I do not tell you this tonight, and every single one ends in regret. Therefore, by the laws of probability, emotional attachment and the extremely compelling data gathered over the past several months, the statistically correct conclusion is that I am hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.”
Valko, who looks one step away from passing out because you stare at him with the softest expression in the world and say, “That was the nerdiest love confession I have ever heard.”
Valko, who feels he is about to combust, when you blush and whisper “I love you too”.
Valko, who later admits, very quietly, that he had been terrified of saying it wrong. And you just take his face in your hands and tell him he said it perfectly.
thanks to @maul-appreciation-week for putting this event together!
a/n: this is posted late because yesterday was A Day and ive written a lot of these prompts out of order. told from Rook's POV. Icarus, Scorn, and Spybot make an appearance. i promise ill write something serious soon. i honestly have no idea why ive kept most of these one shots so light hearted lmao. i need to write something tragic.
Rook Kast toppled Duchess Satine's pacifist government. She rescued Lord Maul from the Spire, escaped imprisonment after the Siege of Mandalore, and returned to his side with his lightsaber. She was Lord Maul's confidant, his right hand woman, and handled the daily operations of the Shadow Collective.
And Rook was assigned to hoodie transportation duty.
Lord Maul summoned her at 0600 to inform her, without once looking up from the star charts, that the garment on the table was meant to be "Delivered to her before the temperature drops." Nothing else. No reason offered. Rook was not above questioning Lord Maul, but she was well acquainted with the concept of time and place.
Lord Maul did not lie, but when he didn't want to answer something, he dodged the truth. The last time Rook questioned him about an order in regards to you, he spent four unbroken minutes rambling about the logistics of requisitioning a specific blanket produced only in the Outer Rim. It was, frankly, a load of bantha shit and a poorly constructed excuse from a man whose deceptions were usually clever.
So Rook took the hoodie, said "Yes, My Lord," and left the room.
The east corridor ended at the crew quarters. The door was open, and inside, the woman in question sat at the small table, oiling her heavily modified rifle. Rook liked you. You were competent and pleasant company away from the horde of testosterone she tolerated before you came along.
She presented the hoodie to you when she walked into the room.
"A cold front is coming within the next few days," Rook said. "This will keep you warm."
You blinked and wiped the oil off your hands before taking the hoodie. "Oh, you didn't have to—"
"It's not from me."
Rook was already out the door before you had the chance to ask who.
You wore it.
The sleeves ate your hands unless you shoved them back, and the hem stretched to your mid thigh. The collar sat wide, and slipped down your shoulder often.
Lord Maul noticed.
He didn't stare. But he stood differently. Briefings that once positioned him at the head of the table, logistics readouts between him and the room, now took place at the table's side, within a pace of wherever you settled. Rook watched Lord Maul claim territory for the better part of two years. She was familiar with what it looked like.
When the shoulder slid, he stumbled through a sentence about fuel reserves. For half a second, maybe less, his eyes slid to the bare line of your shoulder, and the next word caught in his mouth. Lord Maul played it off expertly, as he did with almost all things, and no one else noticed.
Rook did. She wished she didn't.
You wore it for nine days, then stopped, and wore your fitted jacket around the base instead. Rook only noticed because Lord Maul became insufferable on the eleventh day.
Not rage, she could deal with his rage. This was nothing short of nit-picking. He found fault with the docking rotation that had run smooth for a month. He queried perimeter shifts he personally signed off on. The head of the table became his throne again, and he briefed like an exasperated school teacher one year away from retirement.
On the twelfth day, Lord Maul summoned her.
He stood on the causeway with his hands behind his back, and let Rook wait a moment before he spoke, which meant the words were rehearsed.
"The garment," Maul said. "She stopped wearing it."
Rook said nothing.
"Find out why," he continued. "If the provisioning was insufficient, it requires correction."
There were several things wrong with that statement, beginning with the notion that this was about provisions. Rook stared at the back of his head.
"Why don't you ask her yourself?"
Lord Maul turned, just enough, to glare at her from the corner of one eye. "Monitoring the condition of the crew," he said, slowly, "is part of your duties. Equipment that goes unused is a failure in supply. I am asking you to do your job, Rook."
Her job.
For once, in all her time spent in service of Lord Maul, Rook thought that she wasn't getting paid enough to do her job. Never mind that Lord Maul had a habit of being frivolous with their supplies as it stood.
She held his eye long enough to prove a point, then looked away before it became a question of insubordination. "Yes, my lord." And Rook moved to go ask you why you weren't wearing that damned hoodie.
Rook found you in the mess between shifts, alone with a ration bar and datapad, wearing your fitted jacket. She sat down across from you, which was odd enough to draw your attention.
"The hoodie," Rook said. "You stopped wearing it."
You blinked. "I…am I in trouble?"
"Equipment that goes unused is a supply concern."
"It's a hoodie."
"It was allocated."
You set the bar down and studied her for a moment, looking as if Rook had grown two heads.
"Okay," you said, slowly. "It's just too big on me. I normally don't mind oversized clothes, but I look like a toddler wearing my dad's shirt. I tried shrinking it in the wash twice, but the fabric is, apparently, indestructible. It's a nice hoodie, it's just built for someone the size of, I dunno, Scorn, I guess."
Rook said nothing, which historically got people talking.
"And it kept," you gestured vaguely to your shoulder. "Sliding down because the collar was so wide. And, well—" you sighed and scrubbed your hands over your face. "This is incredibly stupid, but during the briefing the other day, I'm pretty sure Lord Maul saw my bra strap. Which, who cares, it's just a strap. But he made this face and— well, you know how he is. I got the feeling he found it distasteful. So I figured I'd stop wearing it before it became a problem."
Rook looked at a fixed point on the wall, roughly a handspan left of your head.
Lord Maul once controlled all the major crime syndicates in the galaxy and took the throne of Mandalore. And you spent your days worrying if he found the sight of your bra strap distasteful. The word Rook would use is not one she wanted to associate with Lord Maul. Yet, here she was, and somewhere else in the galaxy, there were people whose problems were sieges. Rook had been assigned here.
"He didn't find it distasteful," Rook said.
"Did he tell you that?"
"He doesn't need to."
"Then how do you know?"
"He didn't find it distasteful," Rook repeated, and she seriously considered, in that moment, what her life would be like if she quit and lived in a cave somewhere.
"Wait, why are you asking about the hoodie anyway?" you asked just as Rook rose from the table. "Why is it such a big deal?"
"A cold front's coming." Which was the partial truth, and got Rook out the door without further questioning.
She found Lord Maul on the causeway again, working on a modification for Spybot, who sat faithfully at his side.
"I spoke with her," Rook said.
Maul did not turn, but the rise of his shoulders was noticeable. "And?"
"It's too big. She tried to shrink it in the wash with no results."
He set down his tools.
"The fabric is a composite weave," he said. "It isn't meant to shrink."
Spybot looked between them, likely recording their conversation. Little bastard.
"The collar is too wide and kept sliding down her shoulders," Rook continued. "She stopped wearing it because she believes you found the sight of her bra strap distasteful."
The sentence hung in the room between them. Spybot laughed.
Lord Maul turned slowly to face Rook, wearing an expression that was rare as a smile: confusion.
"Distasteful," he said.
"Her word, my lord."
He turned back to his tools and began tinkering again.
"Her comfort with the material is irrelevant. The garment serves a function. If she elects to freeze, then that's her prerogative."
Rook really, truly, did not get paid enough for this. Lord Maul, once the apprentice to Darth Sidious, put her through all of this, because he didn't want you to be cold. The blanket. The Force forsaken hoodie.
Rook needed a drink and to shoot something.
"Understood," she said. "One matter, for the record. The garment was sized well past her measurements. I want to know who specified the dimensions so it doesn't happen again."
He was silent far too long for Rook's liking.
"Supply fills available stock," Maul said.
She blinked. "Available stock."
"That will be all, Rook."
Rook inclined her head and withdrew. She made it three steps into the corridor before the pieces assembled in her brain.
Lord Maul knew the fabric of the hoodie and how it would behave in the wash.
Rook stopped walking. She had access to the requisition logs.
The cargo bay terminal was slow and Rook's patience was thin. She paced while the machine displayed the records.
It took several minutes, but she found the log, a single order placed against your name, and scrolled to the specification field.
Not chosen from the stock sizes. Specific values entered for the shoulder span, sleeve, chest, and length from neck to hem. Rook read the numbers. Then read them again.
She knew those proportions. She walked behind the span of those shoulders for the past two years.
Rook checked the authorization code anyway, because procedure was procedure.
Lord Maul's. Not routed through a supply account, nor laundered through the quartermaster's requisition. There was no attempt to hide it at all, as if it never occurred to him that anyone might check, which was uncharacteristically sloppy for Lord Maul.
He sat somewhere alone, at 0300, she checked, and typed his own measurements into the fields, so that you'd wear something the exact size and shape of him, and never know it. The idiot just wanted to keep you warm and somehow made it everyone else's problem.
"You've got the look of someone who found a body."
Scorn was behind her, soundless, because all the Nightbrothers were incredibly quiet on their feet. He set a crate down and looked over her shoulder at the screen.
Scorn read it, then laughed. Not the maniacal, blood thirsty one he used during mission's. This one was almost fond.
"It was only a matter of time before he laid claim," he shook his head. "This whole place reeks of his pheromones. You humans are lucky you can't smell it. This isn't a subtle thing he's doing."
Rook stared at him.
"It's an old nesting instinct," Scorn explained. "Reserved for someone you're courting. He's doing every step out of order, though. I can't imagine he was old enough to have it explained to him before he was taken."
"Nesting."
Scorn laughed and left Rook alone in the cargo bay, utterly dumbfounded.
Nesting? Claiming? Pheromones?
She wiped her search and powered off the terminal.
Rook was going to get very, very drunk.
Rook planned assaults on missions that took less forethought than she gave the next two days.
The problem was not complex, tactically. She needed two targets in one room, neither aware the other would be present, with the door behind her and the evidence on the table, and she needed them there long enough that neither could retreat. It was a containment operation. She had run a hundred of them. The only novel variable was that both targets were people she could not order into a room without one of them smelling the trap— one figuratively, one, apparently, in the literal sense.
That's where Spybot came in. Rook summoned the droid in a corridor. He hovered at her shoulder with an expectant, curious tilt. Spybot liked one person, and that was Rook. Maul, he loved, as much as a droid could love. Which, currently, was a problem.
"I need you to summon Lord Maul to the briefing room tomorrow at fourteen hundred," Rook said. "Alone. And I need you to tell him it's a security matter."
Spybot went still. The curious tilt drained out of his shell and something warier took its place. He made a low sound. That's a lie.
"Yes," Rook agreed.
The droid's response was immediate and affronted. He growled, his eye shutter rolling to the "anger" position. I do not lie to Master!
"All I want is for you to get him into a room."
By lying! He drifted back from her a few inches, shell rotating, and the noise he made was almost wounded— the closest a machine could come to how dare you. The droid was programmed to lie, cheat, and steal. But not to Maul.
Rook sighed. "Spybot, you want to please Lord Maul, right?"
The shell stopped rotating. Always.
"This is an opportunity to make Lord Maul very happy," Rook went on, quieter. "Sometimes us sentients don't know what's good for us, and we need a push in the right direction. Would you agree?"
Master has been…different. Spybot's optical shutter cycled once, slow. You promise this will make Master happy?
"As happy as Lord Maul can get."
Spybot was quiet for a few seconds before releasing a blood thirsty giggle from his vocabulator. I make Master happy. He floated away and it did not make Rook feel better.
"Spybot," she called out. "Lord Maul cannot know it was me."
Yes, yes, yes. The little droid floated down the hall, talking to himself.
Rook stood alone in the corridor and considered that she had just handed the most sensitive operation of her career to a droid who purred when he was pet and cackled when he killed. And that he was, stars help her, the most reliable conspirator on the base.
At 1350, Rook laid the hoodie out on the table.
You arrived first at 1359, datapad in hand and question already on your face. "Rook, I got your message, but I rebalanced the accounts and—" You stopped and looked at the table. "Is that the hoodie?"
Rook regarded you with the tilt of her chin. "This won't take long."
You looked from the hoodie to Rook and back, caution building behind your eyes. Just as you opened your mouth again, the door slid open at exactly 1400.
Lord Maul was already speaking, jaw drawn tight. "Spybot informed me there's a security breach—"
His eyes landed on you.
Maul stilled, eyes dragging from you to the table, then slowly over to Rook. His shoulders rose like the hackles of a wet tooka cat. Behind him, Spybot lingered.
The droid's shell rotated slowly between the two of you and his master, optical shutter cycling. He made a sound low in his vocabulator— not the evil cackle, something softer. Something that might, on a creature with a face, have been a smile. Lord Maul's head jerked towards him, and Spybot fled, floating off down the corridor, muttering delightfully to himself: make Master happy…no more brooding…happy Master…good droid
The door slid shut, leaving the three of you alone. Maul's gloves creaked.
"Rook," his voice was very controlled. "What is this?"
She stood at attention, helmet hooked underneath her arm.
"Lord Maul requisitioned this hoodie for you," she said to the room. "In his own measurements."
She waited just long enough to watch the realization dawn on your face— and for Lord Maul's eyes to widen.
"She stopped wearing it," Rook continued, pointing at you, "because it doesn't fit. And because she thought you found the sight of her bra strap distasteful. Neither one of you has discussed this with the other. So I've been your messenger, for days."
You covered your face in your hands, and Rook fought the urge to smirk.
Lord Maul hadn't moved. She could lose her job or even her life. Lord Maul did not take betrayal lightly. Instead, he did something Rook had never seen him do: raised one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Rook had seen Maul enraged, wounded, vicious, triumphant. She had never seen him perform such a mortal, exasperated gesture.
And you dragged your hands over your face, flushed to your hairline.
Neither of you looked at Rook. You and Lord Maul, vicious criminals who killed in cold blood— both bested by a piece of fabric.
"I am a Mandalorian." She stepped back from the table. "Not a mediator. The two of you can sort out the rest."
Rook made it four steps our the door before she heard low, muffled voices through the wall.
"You gave me your hoodie?"
"It was practical."
"…Practical."
"You were cold"
She sped up, because Rook had firmly decided that whatever happened next between you two, she would be left out of it.
Spybot was floating by the stairs, spinning slowly, insufferably pleased with himself.
"Not a word," Rook told him.
The droid laughed the whole way up.
Three nights later, Rook was losing at sabacc and trying to bleach the memory of the hoodie from her brain.
Scorn and Icarus were cheating. She had no evidence, but she just knew it. Scorn said something in Dathomiri that made his brother laugh. Rook took another sip of her whiskey.
Both brothers went still at the same moment. It was a specific stillness she'd come to associate with the Nightbrothers; small lift of the chin, flare of their nostrils. Even if Icarus and Scorn weren't as Force sensitive as Lord Maul, they could always tell when each other was around.
The door opened and Lord Maul came in. He crossed the room towards the cupboard where he kept his tea. Rook turned back towards her cards and startled when Scorn's hand slammed against the table.
"Brother!" the word came out warm and delighted. "You mated!"
Rook folded her cards and stood from her chair. She took the bottle of whiskey with her.
"Finally," that was Icarus. "This place reeked for weeks."
"Enough," Lord Maul snapped, but with little malice behind it.
Rook exited the kitchen and took a swig of the whiskey directly from the bottle.
tag list: @lady-aires@purechickenwing@deluliaa@shitty-pigeon-nest39@p-arapsychology@timeladymorsillon@limousinecatblog@erenstitanweave@thelilypadlounge@lady-bess@ninthqueen@weoweo8@night-erudite @anishinew@kimbasfanfics@lindseybaby@and-bone-appetit@jayleeslasher@aneccentriccatgirl@ive-made-so-many-mistakes @bnuuwitch
I keep seeing clips on TikTok where Astarion looks at the camera in a very subtle but im breaking the fourth wall, kind of way and all I can think about is Astarion x readers where he’s aware of the player and not only falls in love with their tab, but also them because he realizes that they’re the one making tavs choices
Given the fact that Bilbo is canonically such a songwriter, I'm pretty sure the only reason why there aren't dozens of songs about everything and everyone he encountered on his adventure is that after Thorin's, Fili's and Kili's deaths he was too heartbroken to sing. So in an everybody lives AU he'd write songs all the time. He'd write heroic songs, funny songs, ballads, you name it. He'd write dozens of love songs about Thorin. He'd write a funny song about how the dwarves escaped the Mirkwood dungeons in barrels and the elves would frickin love it. He'd write a song about Bard defeating Smaug and Bard gets flustured every time he hears it. Bofur would help him write and compose. Fili and Kili would learn all his songs by heart as soon as they are finished.
I've seen a lot of people point out that while Astarion's whole "thing" in act 1 is that he's this sexy sweet talking savant, he only has 10 charisma and actually isn't all that good at it.
He practices cheesy pickup lines within earshot of the person he's going to say them to, and every single time he flirts with tav it's extremely heavy-handed and almost cringeworthy. It's pretty obvious that he's trying to manipulate tav, even if the reason doesn't become clear until his act 2 confession.
But here's the thing: Astarion never actually needed to be all that good at flirting.
He says himself that the vast majority of his "targets" were drunks and brothel-goers. People who never actually saw him as anything other than an object for their pleasure. They were going to go home with him no matter what he said. A few pretty words and his physical beauty would do the rest.
But Tav is the first person to actually view him as a real person, which is why it becomes so glaringly obvious that he's not nearly as charming as he thinks he is. Astarion tells them at the tiefling party that "every part of their body screams temptation" and their response is that he's "sweet" and "silly". They're not buying it for second, because they don't need to be told pretty lies to like him. They like him because of who he really is as a person. They fall in love with him not because he's good in bed or has pretty eyes or a sexy body. They fall in love with him because he's sweet and secretly very kind. Because there is so much pain and sadness and fear in him, and he truly cannot see how amazing he really is. That his goodness never really went away, it just got hidden for a while.
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