Chapter Text
( i am that i am, and i am nothing )
Sylvain felt sick. He had lost track of how long he’d spent trapped in the close confines of the coach, subjected to the stuffy atmosphere, the rickety motions, and the spontaneous lectures from his father. Worse yet, he’d lost track of how long they had been travelling altogether. The timeline of their journey from the former Holy Kingdom to southern Adrestia had amalgamated into an indiscernible blur in his mind. Sylvain tried to parse it; accounting for every night spent at Adrestian inns, the minutes spent eating Adrestian food, the hours spent sleeping under Adrestian skies, every agonizing second spent breathing the fetid Adrestian air. Anything to distract him from the low, ragged sound of his father’s voice which seemed amplified within their mobile cage.
“...Sylvain.”
The sound of his name, spoken in a tone that could have drawn blood with its razor edge, demanded his attention. Releasing a stifled sigh through his nose, Sylvain reluctantly tore his eyes from the window to meet Matthias’s. His father’s stony glare conveyed his annoyance, and the frown permanently sewn over his mouth seemed deeper than usual.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” he rumbled.
“Yes,” Sylvain replied, closing his eyes and digging the knuckle of his thumb into his forehead where he felt a headache manifesting. The aggressive rocking of the coach seemed to be getting worse the further south they journeyed. In spite of that, he rifled through his memory bank, trying to differentiate his father’s words from the background noise of the past hour. “Something about making a good first impression and forging a symbiotic relationship.”
He peeled his eyes open to gauge his father’s response. The cold severity in his gaze had dipped into sub-zero territory, enough to freeze Sylvain where he sat.
“We’ve yet to arrive and already you’re slacking,” he said with all the menace of a dog’s growl.
Sylvain folded his hands in his lap and ducked his head. He didn’t particularly care about disappointing his father, but the force of his tone and his scowl seemed to increase gravity’s pull on him. “...Sorry,” he muttered.
Matthias let him simmer in his silent fury a few extra seconds for good measure before giving a huff. “I won’t be Margrave forever,” he began, still audibly irate. “I’m hardly one now. Our house still stands only by the grace of the Goddess. We bear the weight of not only the Gautier name, but the legacy of the Holy Kingdom. That weight will be yours to carry in due time. It’s time you start taking that seriously. Our survival is a gift. I will not let you squander it for us. Do you understand?”
Sylvain nodded but kept his eyes averted. His nausea was suddenly worse and bile stung the back of his throat. He’d heard this speech before and the absurdity of it made him sick every time. ‘Grace of the Goddess’? That was bullshit. If there was a goddess, she looked down on them with about as much favor as a hawk lends to a field mouse. Their house still stood as a result of his father’s vanity and cowardice. Nothing more.
They should have fallen with the rest of Faerghus—with their king. Their beating hearts were a mark of dishonor. Every other noble house had fulfilled their duty to the monarchy by dying in its service. House Gautier was the only exception. When Fhirdiad fell and the Adrestian army arrived at their doorstep, Matthias had bartered. He offered up the scant resources their barren land could provide. He volunteered his soldiers; warm, strong bodies to fight in the Emperor’s name. Blood currency.
Then he offered himself, and by extension, Sylvain. He renounced his fealty to their dead king without shame or remorse. Sylvain felt it on his behalf but he’d done well not to let it show. He was present for the whole negotiation, his attendance requested without any knowledge of what was going to happen. When his father told him to prepare to meet the Adrestian army, Sylvain had assumed he was going to fight and die in honor of his kingdom and he’d welcomed it. Then the bargaining began. He could only listen in muted horror as his life was taken in a manner more awful than he ever could have anticipated.
Adrestia wasted no time putting them to use. In the months since they’d conquered Faerghus, Matthias and Sylvain had been roaming their former nation convincing—or threatening—the few straggling loyalists to pledge themselves to the Empire. When the last echoes of discord were silenced, they’d begun their integration into Adrestian society in earnest. Matthias and his wife were invited to Enbarr to meet and network with the rest of the reformed aristocracy, an affair Sylvain was grateful to have avoided. Matthias had played his part and played it well. So well, in fact, that he’d captured the interest of the Empire’s Minister of Domestic Affairs.
From what Sylvain had heard upon his father’s return, the two hit it off quite well. They’d arranged a formal meeting to discuss, among other things, House Gautier’s strategic position at the northern border of Adrestia’s newly acquired territory. This meant traveling from the northernmost region of Fodlan all the way to the southern coast, a trip Sylvain had not been allowed to miss—something about how he’d be taking the reins of House Gautier eventually, and putting in an appearance would boost his reputation, and he should learn whatever he could to better serve his new lord.
His former self would have complained about the obligation or conjured some excuse to skip the meeting. He would have argued, fighting for whatever shred of autonomy he could cling to. But not anymore. There was no point. His existence was moot, holding no more value than a hunk of land to be traded and dealt and used however his father or the Empire saw fit. The course of his life was already scrawled in permanent ink; he would be married off to some Adrestian girl of high birth, ascend to the role of Margrave in all its bastardized glory, and live out the rest of his days burdened by the responsibilities of a job he did not ask for or want, serving the nation that ravaged his homeland and slaughtered his allies—
“Boy,” Matthias barked, making Sylvain start. He glanced at his father again, finding him sitting just as frosty and rigid as before. “Get a hold of yourself. We’re nearly there.”
Sylvain adjusted in his seat, sitting up a bit straighter and feeling his stiff spine ache at the movement. He dreaded the meeting itself, but he couldn’t wait to stretch his limbs. He could look forward to that if nothing else.
“After introductions, I expect we’ll get right to business,” Matthias continued, retrieving a pair of velvet gloves from the pocket of his trousers and whipping the wrinkles out of them. “Count Hevring strikes me as rather meticulous. I doubt he’ll want to waste too much time on pleasantries.”
Hevring…? Sylvain echoed silently. Why did that name sound vaguely familiar?
“He has a son close to your age,” Matthias continued, sheathing his hands in his gloves. “You attended the Officer’s Academy at the same time, I believe. I didn’t catch his name.”
“Linhardt,” Sylvain supplied, pulling the name from the dustiest recesses of his memory. “I didn’t really know him.”
“Nevertheless. It would be in your best interest to establish an amicable relationship with him. He’s Count Hevring’s only child, so I assume he’ll inherit his station one day, if not one of equal heft. May as well sow the seeds of a healthy allyship now.”
Sylvain nodded his understanding, though he didn’t particularly care. Like him or hate him, he and Linhardt were countrymen now. He would honor his political obligations to him and nothing more.
Their coach slowed to a stop, and Sylvain’s churning stomach was immediately grateful. The doors were opened for them, and Sylvain exited behind his father. Fresh air hit his face like a spritz of cold water on a summer day, revitalizing him slightly. The Hevrings’ manor sprawled before him, grandiose with its three stories and tall spires. It appeared bigger than his own house, which didn’t come as a surprise. Adrestia was the wealthier of their two nations; a fact that they liked to flaunt in their architecture.
While their accompanying help unloaded their luggage, Matthias and Sylvain walked to the entrance where a man and a woman stood waiting. The man was paler than marble, so absent of color that Sylvain wondered if he might be ill. He stood tall, taller than Matthias by more than a couple inches, but he lacked weight. His high cheekbones jutted beneath his skin and his hair was slicked neatly back from his forehead. Looking at him made Sylvain grateful for the high collar shielding his jugular. The woman next to him was positively vivacious by comparison with her rosy complexion and dark curls that were pinned half-up, half flowing over her squared shoulders, and a round, full face that might have made her appear cherubic in her youth—much easier on the eyes than her skeletal counterpart.
The couple dipped their heads respectfully in unison as Matthias and Sylvain approached, and the Gautier men returned the gesture upon reaching them.
“Count,” Matthias said curtly. “Pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Count Hevring returned, smiling easily at his guest and gesturing to the woman beside him. “You remember my wife, Gisela.”
“Countess,” Matthias said, bowing to the woman who nodded in return.
“Welcome, Margrave,” she said, mirroring her husband’s courteous smile with a bit more enthusiasm.
“Valleria sends her regards. She regrets that she couldn’t accompany me, she was so looking forward to seeing you both again,” Matthias said as he straightened himself, and held a hand in Sylvain’s direction. “My son will have to do instead.”
Their host’s eyes shifted to Sylvain simultaneously, but he did not falter under their pressure. “Sylvain,” he said with a warm smile and a reverent bow. “Thank you very much for having us.”
“Good to meet you,” Waldemar returned, his artificial smile remaining intact. “My own son is around here somewhere, I apologize that he won’t be joining us this afternoon. I’ll arrange for the two of you to meet before your departure later this week.”
“Very kind of you,” Sylvain said politely, even though he personally didn’t care if he saw Linhardt at all. Frankly, he didn’t care whether any of them lived or died.
“Well,” Count Hevring said, extending an arm toward the massive double doors that stood sentry before them. “Shall we?”
No sooner had they crossed the threshold into the Hevring estate than Sylvain felt his stomach clench again, not with the nausea he’d suffered within the coach, but with…dread? Anticipation? Nerves? He couldn’t quite place it. Whatever the cause, it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. He imagined it was what worms felt as they were affixed to a hook and flung into dark waters where greedy, gaping jaws waited to be fed.
He chalked it up to the circumstances. He was, after all, in the domicile of people who had been his sworn enemies less than a year ago. There was bound to be some lingering distrust. Yet he couldn’t resist the impulse to scan his surroundings. A quick sweep of the grand foyer supplied no immediate answer for his unease. A few servants descended one of the twin staircases that led to the second floor, and more walked briskly past them to assist with the tending of their coaches, but other than that, the manor seemed quiet.
It wasn’t a comfortable quiet, though. It felt secretive and full of foreboding. He thought again about dark waters and gluttonous mouths lurking below the surface, just out of sight. Sylvain tried his best to banish the thought. The Hevrings’ manor dwarfed his own home. Without the restraint of close quarters, it was bound to feel disproportionately quieter. There was more room to distribute all of the noise, more space for people to go about their work in private.
Still, there was something unnamable. Something watchful, and wanting, and omnipresent. And bad. Very bad.
•
The afternoon dragged on at a paralytic pace. The four of them must have been cooped in the Hevrings’ assembly room for at least six hours, only breaking when the kitchen staff arrived with their supper. The topics of discussion ranged from House Gautier’s history within the kingdom, to their border disputes with Sreng, to House Hevring’s geography, and every mind-numbingly boring subject in between. There were several occasions where Sylvain had to bite down hard on his tongue just to stay awake, eventually making himself bleed.
Fortunately for his wounded mouth, he wasn’t required to talk often. He could count on one hand the number of words he’d spoken throughout their exchange, not that he’d expected anything less. He wasn’t there to be an active participant. His purpose was to demonstrate the quality of his upbringing—to show his new allies that he was well-bred, well-raised, and would be a trustworthy successor when the time came for his father to retire. Thus he adhered to the age-old maxim that echoed from his youth; children are to be seen and not heard. He sat in thoughtless silence, no more a witness to the afternoon’s proceedings than the paintings on the walls, and no more alive than the people they depicted.
By the time they wrapped up, the sunlight beaming through the arched windows had turned a fiery orange. Sylvain etched a single tally into the prison walls of his mind to mark his victory over the day. Just four more to go, he thought bitterly.
“We’ve prepared rooms for you in the east wing,” Waldemar said as they all stood from their chairs. “Your effects have already been delivered and you should find everything in order. I’ll have one of our attendants escort you.”
“We’re grateful for your hospitality,” Matthias said, and Sylvain nodded respectfully.
As they exited the room, the Count beckoned to a man who stood waiting outside the door. Before they parted the two noblemen shook hands.
“I look forward to meeting again tomorrow. I’m especially eager to learn more about your mining operations in the mountains. House Gautier may be able to put that knowledge to use within our own territory.”
“Of course,” Count Hevring said with a shallow, but polite smile. “Rest well in the meantime. I doubt our talks will be very fruitful if you’re sleep-deprived.”
The two parties bid each other goodnight, and the Gautier men followed their guide up the eastern staircase to their quarters. They were assigned to rooms at opposite ends of the hall—Matthias at one of the first rooms closest to the stairs, Sylvain at nearly the furthest end. The beds were freshly made, the floors freshly mopped, and not a speck of dust could be found on the furniture. Their belongings had been neatly placed on their beds as promised, though Sylvain made a mental note to take thorough inventory before going to sleep.
In spite of how he’d fought to stay awake during their meeting, Sylvain found himself unable to relax in the unfamiliar, daunting shelter of the manor. His legs were stiff from prolonged disuse. They itched for more exercise than he’d been granted in days, an itch that demanded to be scratched. He shed the stifling layer of his formal overcoat and left his room, shutting the door securely behind him.
He paused at his father’s room and knocked lightly on the door. Hinges creaked as a sliver of Matthias’s craggy face appeared from the other side, scornful without the mask of pleasantness he’d worn since their arrival.
“What is it?” he asked gruffly.
“I’m taking a walk,” Sylvain said, careful not to seem like he was asking for permission, “in case you come looking for me at some point and I’m not in my room.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Matthias replied coldly, giving his son a once-over. “...Don’t stay out too late and don’t go far. We made good strides today. It’d be a shame if you reversed our progress overnight.”
Sylvain barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I would never,” he said with an undercurrent of insolence that went undetected.
Matthias eyed him dubiously before shutting the door. Free from the vicegrip of his father’s gaze, Sylvain felt his shoulders relax as his lungs exhaled their stockpiled air. He had the impulse to jab his middle finger at the wood that divided them, but didn’t. He was too tired. His flame of indignance could rise no higher than an ember at the moment.
Sylvain wandered outside into the cool evening air. The sun was only a neon line on the horizon, bathing the earth in warm, rosy light as it bid farewell. The dark would follow on its heels. Sylvain was eager for it. The shade of nighttime would make everything harder to see. He could pretend that the house at his back was his own. He could pretend that the land underfoot was Faerghus. It would be harder to see just how far different things were.
He followed the gravel path around the perimeter of the house until he was behind it. There, the walkway branched off in different directions; one continuing its circle around the building, another deviating in the opposite direction and leading to a statue garden. Wanting to put some distance between himself and the imposing silhouette of the manor, Sylvain chose the latter.
The pale light of the moon began to overtake the warm glow of the sun. It was only halfway full, but it shone as bright as if it were a complete circle in the sky. Sylvain wondered if that was because they were so far from any hub of civilization. House Hevring was somewhat secluded, surrounded by forest and mountains, mere miles from the coastline. In its solitude, it should have felt similar to his homeland.
But the air was too warm. Even late into the Horsebow Moon, the chill of the evening didn’t bite him as it would back home. This air didn’t have the teeth to do so. This air was fresh off the high seas, softened by the saltwater and thick with moisture. The air up north had no essence of ocean to sweeten it. It crossed the continent to meet Sylvain’s skin, and was harrowed by the journey. It had no gentleness left for him. Only the bitterness of a scorned lover.
But that, at least, had the comfort of familiarity. This southern air was too heavy. Too clingy. Sylvain could feel the weight of it on his clothes and in his lungs. Trying to take a breath felt like trying to inhale soup. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could tolerate such conditions. Still, he preferred it to the stale air inside the manor. This air hadn’t been used and regurgitated by the mouths of his former enemies.
Sylvain stopped suddenly, locked in place on the path. His eyes moved restlessly inside his skull as he combed the manicured shrubs and lattice arches of the Hevrings’ garden. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. Even the birds and squirrels seemed to have retired for the evening. The only living things around him were flora, nothing with a beating heart. Still, he could feel it, as plainly as if he were standing in a crowded room…
He wasn’t alone.
He heard, not with his ears, the faint drone only emitted by things with a pulse—the culmination of flowing blood, ions firing through nerves, and cells in constant mitosis. Seeing nothing in front of him, Sylvain turned to look over his shoulder. There was nothing there either except for the house. Maybe that was all it was. Excess ‘noise’ from all of the people within.
He blinked at the great, looming shape, now more menacing without daylight to expose it. Light seeped from the windows, giving the impression of a dozen nocturnal eyes reflecting back at him. He quickly turned away from it and continued down the path, too aware of its presence at his back. He tried to focus on the crunch of gravel underfoot rather than the low buzz in his cerebrum.
But the further he strayed from the manor, the louder it seemed to become. The hum amplified until it rang like the vibrations of a gong, reverberating through his very bones, coming to a crescendo inside his chest cavity. It brought back the sickness he felt as he was jostled inside the coach, and yet…there was a fascinating quality to it. Pleasant even. It urged him on, growing stronger all the while, until he thought every atom in his body quivered with the unseen force. He became entranced with it, like there was no helping it.
His feet, moving sluggishly but assuredly, carried him off of the path, deeper into the garden. Gravel gave way to dirt, winding into a section bursting with great, pale blooms of peony and dark dapples of verbena. They sprung from expertly-groomed bushes and wound up arches all around him, nearly to the point of inducing claustrophobia.
Sylvain was hardly aware of the masses of flowers. His eyes were focused elsewhere. The plants ahead of him gave way to a circular clearing where a stone statue stood at the center, thoroughly weathered from nature’s repeated beatings. He didn’t know who it was supposed to be. It looked like a knight, but Sylvain knew nothing beyond that.
He walked until he stood before it, glancing at the nameplate and finding it unreadable. His whole head buzzed as if it held a colony of enraged bees. The hairs on his nape stood on end in anticipation of something he couldn’t know. It was as if some preternatural sixth sense had awakened and he had no way of reading it. The signals, both psychic and physical, warred with each other and muddled his brain. The one thing he could discern above the flood, was the tug inside his chest. It was like the needle of a compass, directing him where to go, where to look. As he stood secluded in the garden, engulfed by the dark, the needle swung 180 degrees, compelling him to follow.
Behind you.
Sylvain turned, eyes landing on a figure just feet away. He’d known they would be there, but he flinched at the sight regardless. How had he known…?
“What are you doing here?” Sylvain hissed, clutching his chest to both calm his heart and try to smother the tug inside.
Linhardt tilted his head quizzically. “...This is my property?”
“So you should know of a hundred other places to lurk around,” Sylvain grumbled. “I meant, what are you doing out here?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Linhardt said, folding his hands behind his back. “It’s odd to see guests wandering the grounds unsupervised. I’m surprised my father allowed you to stray so far on your own.”
Sylvain held his vigilant, unreadable gaze. Linhardt was scouring him for something. He could feel it. “What are you doing here?” Sylvain asked again, emphasizing a different word to see if he might get a different result.
“I’m here because you’re here,” he finally answered.
“So you’re stalking me then?”
“I wasn’t stalking.”
In spite of the suddenness with which he’d appeared, Sylvain was inclined to believe him. He didn’t seem to be purposely sneaking as he stood in plain sight just feet away. Just as Sylvain thought about allowing himself to relax a bit, Linhardt began to approach. Sylvain felt an inexplicable acceleration in his pulse. As Linhardt stepped closer, Sylvain took a couple steps back in turn. If Linhardt was offended by the response, he didn’t let it show. He must have noticed, though. As intently as he stared at Sylvain, it would have been hard to miss.
“My father told me we’d be hosting visitors from Faerghus. Though I didn’t expect it would be you,” he said as he studied Sylvain closely. “Gautier territory is awfully far away, isn’t it? I can’t imagine what business we could possibly have with your house.”
Has he been living under a rock? Sylvain thought with mixed disdain and jealousy. How nice it must be to simply ignore the political intricacies happening all around you. “You realize we’re part of Adrestia now, right? So we’re technically the Empire’s furthest outpost and the only obstacle between our country and Sreng. I guess your father wants to make nice with us so we’re motivated to keep the border strong.”
“I suppose. Though I don’t see how that’s any easier than just evicting you and replacing you with a more trustworthy party.”
“Enlisting my house means more blood, sweat, and money to fuel the machine, I guess. Plus, even if the Empire won’t admit it, there’s something to be said for the boone of our bloodline’s crest…” Sylvain muttered reproachfully, having momentarily forgotten who he was talking to and promptly shutting up when he remembered.
“Yes…your crest,” Linhardt echoed contemplatively as his sights fell from Sylvain’s face to the curve of his neck.
Sylvain’s body went rigid. Upon mentioning his crest, it seemed as though Linhardt’s eyes knew exactly where to look for it; imprinted on the skin of his right shoulder blade, hidden under his clothes at present. But how could he know…? He probably went rummaging through our files back at the academy, Sylvain thought, recalling how much time the other man spent with the likes of Professor Hanneman. Bastard probably knows more about my crest than I do.
“Fissure Dragon sign, yes?”
“Sorry?” Sylvain said, pulled from his reflections.
“Your crest is the Fissure Dragon sign?”
Sylvain gave a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know—”
“And the tarot for death in Fódlan’s arcana?”
Sylvain shrugged again, more exasperated as he grew increasingly irritated. “I don’t know.”
“You should. It’s your crest.”
“Never really cared to learn.”
“I could teach you,” Linhardt said, slowly closing in on him, eyes still set on a point just off-center from Sylvain’s neck. It made his crest itch, as if Linhardt’s gaze had the infectious quality of poison ivy. “I like to think I’m something of an expert after so many years of studying. I bet there’s all kinds of secrets I could share with you, and you with me. Knowledgeable as I am, some questions are impossible for me to solve on my own. Sometimes only a crest’s owner has the ability to answer them. If it were a joint effort, though…”
Sylvain sensed rather than felt Linhardt’s hand slowly reaching for his shoulder—for his crest—and he stepped away until he was well out of his reach, goosebumps rippling over his skin at how close they’d come to physical contact.
Linhardt smiled benignly, not at all perturbed by the way Sylvain avoided him like a plague-carrier. “Relax, I mean no harm.”
Sylvain rolled his shoulder uncomfortably, finding that his itch had evolved into a prickling sting. “Just…keep your hands to yourself, got it?”
Linhardt held up his hands in submission. “Understood.”
Sylvain didn’t like the feeling of disquiet that came over him. He felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat—pierced by morbidly curious eyes as paws with hidden claws reached for him with unknowable intent.
“How long will you be staying?” Linhardt asked, his eyes finally abandoning Sylvain’s shoulder in favor of his face.
“Four days.”
“A short trip, then,” Linhardt sighed, almost as if he were disappointed. “Although I suspect there will be plenty more to come.”
Sylvain frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“Being the Minister of Domestic Affairs, my father will almost certainly want regular, extensive briefings regarding the state of trade and industry up north.”
“Can’t that be done in writing?”
Linhardt quirked an eyebrow at him. “Do you have any idea how many letters my father would have to sift through if every figurehead in the country were writing to him about their affairs? It’s much easier if people deliver their reports in person, especially in the case of your house. You’re too far away to reliably mail such sensitive information. Plus, by making the effort to appear in the flesh, your father is expressing his loyalty and commitment to his new sovereign.”
“Great,” Sylvain groaned, loathing the thought of being carted across the country every month.
“You and I will probably be seeing a lot more of each other.”
“...I guess,” Sylvain mumbled, though he was already formulating plans to avoid Linhardt in the future. His company wasn’t any worse than his parents, but he was…odd. Off-putting in a way Sylvain couldn’t define. Something about his presence put him on edge, but not in a way that was wholly unpleasant. There was no better word for it other than…weird. Just weird.
Sufficiently disturbed, Sylvain turned to walk back to the manor. He was anxious to be alone again, maybe inspect his crest when he bathed to ensure Linhardt hadn’t used some subtle magic to make it sting the way it did.
“Heading back already?” Linhardt asked.
Sylvain paused without looking back. “Yeah. We had a long trip, I’m worn out.”
He heard Linhardt hum his acknowledgement. “Would you like company while you walk?”
There was something lurid in his voice that compelled Sylvain to cast a glance over his shoulder. Linhardt stood where he’d left him, blue eyes gleaming through the evening gloom with the knowledge of something which Sylvain had no inkling.
Not yours, Sylvain thought venomously. Something in his chest, behind his ribs, beneath the bone, deeper than his heart, urged him backward to where Linhardt remained in the moonlit garden. “...No, thanks,” he finally answered, surprised to find that his throat had gone dry.
Linhardt skimmed him up and down, a thin, sly smile returning to his lips. “Very well, then,” and more softly, he said, “Goodnight, Sylvain.”
The sound of his name made Sylvain lightheaded. It was something in the gentle, experimental way Linhardt said it—as if he were tasting each letter as they left his tongue. Blinking through the sudden vertigo, Sylvain managed to utter a courteous “goodnight” in return before walking briskly back to the house. Even though he could breathe easier with each step, it was difficult to ignore the profound ache in his breast that seemed to protest their separation. He did not let himself dwell on the ‘why’.
He’s so fucking weird…