[He hasn't, of course. Has instead remained here poised and uncertain, willing himself to turn on his heel and head back the way he came as though he'd never found his way here to begin with, but also propelled forward into that maze of cold and sleeping bodies with equal force. His feelings in regard to what may or may not lay in wait, the answer to questions that stutter and start at the back of his mind with every step he takes in this place-- they're complicated. Love and hate. Fear and longing. A bone-deep desire for the familiar whilst knowing that difference could be, perhaps, freeing (and maybe therein lies the problem; there's a certain freedom in slavery after all). All of these things, the press in on him, just as they always have only magnified now, made worse by the knowledge that everything he's ever known could be gone.
(Mother. Heine. All of it.)
And so he shakes his head, even as this unknown woman turns away from him. Face made tight around a frown.]
no subject
(Mother. Heine. All of it.)
And so he shakes his head, even as this unknown woman turns away from him. Face made tight around a frown.]
I don't know. Hence the question.