"I am no longer sure I wish to be me." That was an oversimplification. It might have even been completely wrong, but she was unrelenting. She threw at him so many absolutes. Arrows would be easier to dodge. There was no ease, no relief to be found in her, in this conversation. She pushed without restraint or remorse against a tree with a rotted root. Could she not hear the creaks? For all of her lofty declarations of responsibility and need, couldn't it be that she simply wanted to tarnish one more thing more beautiful than herself.
He took a step away from her, two steps, then three. She wanted him to run? He was considering running. Away from her. "I understand need. I understand purpose. I understand calling. I do not understand I." His lip quivered ever so slightly. He understood puns too, though not well enough to know for sure if he had made an unintentional one there. Was it in bad taste? Being in bad taste still made him sick to his stomach, generally without him realizing it until it was already done and he'd corrected his behavior. There was no behavior correct or incorrect enough for Gloria Wynsee though. No behavior was enough for she would always want more.
He had so little to give. "It's as if you'd put a sword in my hand to ensure that I not use it. That's madness. It's a leap that makes no sense, Miss Wynsee." Still, he was a young man of discipline, and he forced himself into a false calm as he stared her down, though not before he took one last step back. "If I am to believe you, all of you, instead of every memory I have, then I am to believe that everything I am was created, fake." It was an impossible premise to start from. It meant wiping the slate clean. Or it meant doing as she said, but could she not see the flaws there? He did, certainly. "You'd have me embrace that falsehood! Why? Because there's a need for more lying? Because it's easier? When do lies do anyone good?"
He was a knight, yes, something out of fables and storybooks, something made to accent and accessorize a Myrken that never was, that only existed in a madwoman's fantasies. That knight was crafted of false memories, of course. Those false memories were crafted, however, out of the real memories of Elliot Brown, before the point of deviation and even after. At the root of Gahald was the stubborn and animalistically canny Brown. That had always been the crack in the facade. An artist was only as good as her materials. The hair on his neck, fair and fine as it had somehow grown to become, still stood slightly as he stared at her with his one good eye, the discarded chrysalis of a boy's accusations shining upon her. "Gloria Wynsee, is this about me? Is it about Myrken Wood and what it needs? Or is it all really about you in the end?"