"Of course I do. I needed a place to belong, a purpose. Somewhere I could learn to defend myself—" He stoppedabruptly, his face going blank for a moment. His eyes unfocused, like he was trying to grasp something that kept slipping away.
"Defend yourself from what?" she pressed gently.
The blankness lasted longer this time. When awareness returned to his eyes, there was a flicker of frustration there. "I... it doesn't matter. The point is, I'm here now, and I'm fine."
From across the room, someone laughed, one of the younger members telling a story to his companions. Symond's entire body went rigid, his shoulders snapping up toward his ears. He recovered quickly, smoothing his expression, but Violette had seen it.
"Just startled me," he said with a forced smile. "Wasn't expecting it."
But she'd seen that flinch before, back when his memories were intact. She'd seen him react that way to unexpected sounds, to certain tones of voice, to being touched without warning. His conscious mind might not remember why those things triggered him, but his body did. His deeper mind, the part that couldn't be so easily edited, remembered everything.
"Symond," she said carefully, "forgetting your trauma doesn't make it go away. It just makes it harder to recognize when it's affecting you."
He shook his head, that easy smile never wavering. "But I don't feel affected. I feel... nothing. Isn't that better than feeling too much?"
The question almost brought a tear to her eye. This was what she'd been afraid of—not just that he'd locked away his pain, but that he'd locked away everything else with it. The parts of himself that had been forged in that pain, yes, but also the parts that hadgrown despite it. His fierce protectiveness, his determination, his ability to spot weakness in others because he'd lived with his own.
"No," she said firmly. "It's not better. Those feelings, even the painful ones—they're part of you. They've shaped who you are, taught you things you need to know."
"Like what?" There was a slight edge creeping into his voice now, the first crack in his serene facade.
"Like how to recognize when someone else is hurting. Like understanding what it means to survive something terrible and come out the other side." She paused, watching his face. "You’ve protected people, you’ve fought to make yourself something beyond what The Institute tried to make you. Don’t throw all that away."
“Do I? Protect people? I really didn’t care about any of those mercenaries we just lost.”
“You used to. You saved me in the sewers. You saved Elora—who you hate but risked your life for anyway because you knew deep down that she was a victim just like you. I didn’t tell you to save her in the barn, that was all you.” Violette paused, studying his face for any sign of recognition. “You do remember her, right?”
Symond looked vacant for a moment, his eyes fluttering, as if trying to piece together the fragmented memories he still had.
“Elora… the alchemist from Ravenpoint. Of course I remember her. It’s only been, what? A week or two since we split from her and Rell?”
“You grew up with her at The Institute,” Violette reminded him. How much of his dark past was connected to her that he nearly erased her entirely from his mind?
Symond looked puzzled, but his face settled as he began to put the pieces together. “Right. I hardly remember her from then. I remember feeling hatred towards her, but I don’t know why anymore.”
He was quiet for a long moment, and she could see something working behind his eyes—confusion, maybe even the beginning of doubt.
"I can learn those things again, protect people, learn to care, adapt…" he said finally, but there was less certainty in his voice now.
"Can you?" Violette leaned back in her chair. "Without the context of why they matter? Without understanding what you're protecting others from?"
She could see she was getting through to him, just a little. His fingers drummed against the arm of his chair—a nervous habit she remembered from before, though he probably didn't realize he was doing it.
"The memories aren't gone, Symond," she continued. "You've just locked them away where you can't consciously access them. But they're still there, still influencing you in ways you can't recognize or control. That's not healing. That's just hiding."
"But I feel fine," he repeated, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself now.
"Do you?" she asked. "Or do you feel nothing at all?"
The question hung in the air between them. Violette watched as he considered it, really considered it, and for the first time since he'd done this to himself, she saw a glimpse of the person he'd been before. The one who questioned everything, who didn't take easy answers at face value.
"I..." He started to speak, then stopped. His hand went to his temple, rubbing absently. "I don't know how to answer that."
"That's the problem," she said gently. "What you've done... it's taken away your choice. Your trauma is still controlling you—you just can't see how."
He was quiet for a long time, staring out the window at the bustling city beyond. She could see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to work through something he couldn't quite grasp.
"Let me help you," she said finally.
