[Briefly, Daan pauses, watching how Vergilius flinches away from his touch. He knows this kind of sign, the way the past dictates how they can process or decide such things.

It's selfish and awful, but all he can think of about the prospect of dying is so what? Death for himself has never been a frightening concept, only dying before he'd ever know the truth about Elise. But that, in turn, is probably also cruel to Vergilius, who has a more fragile heart than he cares to admit.]

Considering the kind of places we're from... well, I can't blame you for being afraid.

So you tell me, then. What the fuck do I deserve? [When all he's ever gotten was being spat in the face by gods, their twisted morality, and probable betrayal.]

And when do I get to tell you what you deserve?