a thousand faces staring at me, a thousand times i've fallen
The answer is far more generic than Glas was expecting, but he wasn’t sure what other kind of answer he wanted. The fact that it was ducking noticeable, the fact that it made other people confused, all of that wrapped into one? Perhaps this was just Loren’s attempt at trying to make his life better, but even Glas can’t imagine what that might be like. It’s a fine line for him to be the needed child versus the one that abandons his post at the workshop to go and venture out elsewhere. And he’s not sure where that leaves him.
Trembling fingers clutch the bag, and his gaze drifts away from Loren’s again to focus on the cup of tea in front of him. “I-It’s not my past.” That’s not why he’s uncomfortable. Sure, the scar adds to it a small amount, but it wasn’t the sole reason he was panicky about dealing with people. “I just… I have to know… How to react to people and I don’t.” People are unpredictable, the solace of working with wood and glass was that it was always the same, always the same movements required to get different end products. It was comfortable. And this certainly wasn’t.
Trembling fingers clutch the bag, and his gaze drifts away from Loren’s again to focus on the cup of tea in front of him. “I-It’s not my past.” That’s not why he’s uncomfortable. Sure, the scar adds to it a small amount, but it wasn’t the sole reason he was panicky about dealing with people. “I just… I have to know… How to react to people and I don’t.” People are unpredictable, the solace of working with wood and glass was that it was always the same, always the same movements required to get different end products. It was comfortable. And this certainly wasn’t.
a thousand voices dead at my feet
GLAS
