He had to think about it. A good man. To Martin, he was good, of course. It was almost as natural to think as thinking...the sky was blue or there was air to breathe. Explaining why took a lot more than simple compulsion.

"He..." He what? What is good? Trying to recall precise memories on command was difficult somehow; he had to follow feelings and hope they led him the right way.

"I don't remember it all, but...but I don't remember any time he wasn't there when I was sad. Or hurt, or...sick, things like that. I know there had to be, but I don't remember those. I think that's why I was so bad afterward...afterward, without him."

His mouth tugged, eyes dropping to their hands.

"I thought...I spoiled everything, so that was that. When you or Martin–" Septim. "Or...or anyone here. Lea, Ico...Anyone was nice to me, like that. I thought it would all end the same way."

And then, with a sudden thought, his breath wavers into a bit of a laugh. "It's why I got so upset...do you remember?" He looked up. It was a lot clearer, speaking about it. "You were only trying to help, but I got so upset...He used to do that, too. Touch my head? That's what he'd do when I was unhappy. That...and say...'Well, that was something, wasn't it? It's done now.'"