Geraint was silent, but he accepted Vara cleaning him up.  He had complex feelings about the darkness inside of him.  The feelings were too big to show, to complex to read, and they swirled in his head.<br/><br/>Eventually, having not put on the clothes as she washed him, he said, "You don't have anything to be sorry about."  Then: "That sounded harsher than I meant it."  He looked over at her, concerned and worried, but also filled with that intense complexity that defied easy analysis.  "I don't think you can help.  I'm not even sure there's anything <i>to</i> help.  The question if I'm okay is not simple.  This thing in me, sometimes it feels alien, but at other times it feels like it's the purest essence of my being.  When I'm not that thing, I fear it and hate it.  When I am that thing, there is a purity of intent, a simplicity, that is glorious and I would be a liar if I didn't say I liked it.<br/><br/>"But, Vara, this is important.  It grows stronger.  Inside of me.  The longer it's in, the more it wants to come out, but either it's able to force its way through more often, or I'm fading in my strength or desire to hold it in."  He looked away.  "I'm not sure which it is.  It could be that I don't fear it or hate it as much as I used to and grow to enjoy being what it is."