[ It isn't the first time as of late that he has thought of Nut, of the mother he tore his way from rather than waited for her readiness -- it is not the first time he's yearned for her dark hands to hold him while he ached and took ill.

He allows himself but a moment to rest, quiet, in Yima's space. To feel her presence. Then, he draws himself in -- he is a lance and and arrow and the sand upon which feet burn into ashes. ]

Should I rejoice in an impossible choice? Surely if anyone knows anything of me, it is that given two choices, I will burn them both and take my own route.

[ That is what ails him must. ]

I like you, Yima. My nature urges me to choose you, but my mind has expanded -- it seeks amends, and for that, I must align with Cyrus's goals. That is my trouble.