Martin's body kept squirming and tensing against the rough handling – something he had to consciously stop. There was no danger in the little hurts or too-tight holds or the hair pulling, which made his face scrunch up each time a heavy finger dragged too roughly along his scalp. The little hurts were not important because Bariyan wept with greater hurts...and he said my son.

Those words, along with the endless torrent of apologies, caused a shudder of physical fear. In his past, hearing an apology meant for him had frightened Martin, had made him start to search for something wrong with himself. Why would anyone apologize? Why would Bariyan? For all the boy had done, the trouble caused...the deaths, still days fresh.

The both of them were so grossly buried in their guilt and apologies; how Martin had never realized before was hardly a wonder, but still a great shame. I never saw how much you truly suffered. I was too busy looking for reasons to blame myself. He wanted to apologize, truly and with all that awareness behind it, but...that wasn't what Bariyan needed then and there. He said my son. Martin's throat tightened. Are these words for me?

Did it matter?

"I forgive you," he uttered, and again, to be heard. "I do."

Please. Forgive yourself.