It wasn’t easy for the former Watcher to admit that Rraiec had valid points concerning the t’kth-vaali philosophies he’d studied. As much as it pained him, Wesley knew that the dalhari was right. And, to be honest, a part of him had been waiting for just this kind of information to crop up. After all, nothing in his life was easy.

What Wesley had found out that troubled him so was that the techniques of memory eradication he found so enticing were used to create mindless slaves—creatures who blindly served and who weren’t even truly conscious. They didn’t feel, didn’t think beyond what crude capacities their masters left them, and did nothing but fulfill their master’s wishes. In trade, they lead ultimately peaceful lives—no worries, no anxiety and no trouble.

He wasn’t sure he could pay the incredible dues such bliss charged. It seemed that a side effect of destroying memories was the breakdown of even the most basic aspects of personality. The more fundamental the memories were to the nature of the person, the more complete that destruction was. Wesley knew that in his case, he would simply cease to be. What he wanted to get rid of was a large part of who he was.

In admitting that, Wesley knew he was in effect giving up on trying to truly annihilate those memories. He didn’t want them in his mind, tainting his person, but at the same time he didn’t want to change into something like that—some unthinking, unfeeling zombie. Of course, in rejecting that path, Wesley was left with another, bigger problem.

He’d twisted and torn and shoved his nasty memories into a deep, dark hole in his mind. They weren’t actively bothering him right now, but soon he would have to deal with them. Like any infected wound, if they were left to fester, they’d kill him. The thought of having to resolve what lay in those memories truly frightened the changed-dalhari. He hadn’t been able to deal with that stuff before; how could he possibly do anything productive now?

So now he was back where he began at Ke’reo Der—building a meaningless wall. The major change was in his species, since he was dalhari. That, too, was a bad thing—he’d managed to force himself up on Rinhe. She didn’t hold him accountable, but he still felt bad… when he even thought about it. That was another memory he’d conveniently not remembered, so all he had to go on was what others told him.

All of this coalesced into yet another spate of self-indulgent depression for Wesley. He didn’t want to admit that what he wanted was an easy way out—some mechanism to get rid of the pain without having to work at it.

•••

Rraiec was just finishing his evening meal when someone knocked on his door. He went to open it and much to his surprise found Wesley on the other side, looking more than a little nervous. “Wesley,” Rraiec said coolly. “May I help you?”

“You were right,” Wesley said softly. “About all of it.”

Rraiec stepped back and ushered Wesley into the room. “How so?”

“I…I need your help,” Wesley admitted. “I can’t keep on like this.”

“Perhaps you should explain,” Rraiec said quietly.

“Perhaps I should,” Wesley agreed. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then he began to speak.

He started at the end, describing the events that led up to his appearance in Xo’pa—Angel and Connor, Lilah and her infernal law firm, his utter failure as a human being. But he didn’t stop there, no. Wesley told of Faith and Buffy, of his disgraceful career as a Watcher, how he was such a disappointment to his family. The changed-dalhari described in excruciating detail all of his mistakes, his downfalls, his weaknesses.

At some point, he began to cry. Rraiec simply handed him a cloth and continued to listen. The older dalhari didn’t interrupt, not even once. He just followed along with Wesley’s story, watching as the younger man broke down, trembling and shaking as he poured his heart out. The story was painful to hear, and must have been torture to speak. He couldn’t imagine a person surviving all that Wesley had—a lifetime of cold, impersonal relatives, uncaring acquaintances and no real friends.

Wesley finished near dawn and drifted off to sleep, exhausted by his outpouring. He was too tired to even be embarrassed by his uncontrolled behavior. Rraiec picked the dalhari up and laid him in his own bed, covering him with a blanket. The younger man would probably sleep all day, which left Rraiec time to consult with Rinhe. He needed guidance on this situation.

•••

“He talked to you?” Rinhe commented. “That is rather surprising.”

“But not wholly unexpected,” Rraiec replied. “He ran out of things to do to avoid it.”

“And now?” The elder asked.

“I believe he does want to recover,” The younger dalhari stated. “But it will be difficult.”

“Yes,” She said absently. “You will have to guide him. Help him understand why all of his memories are important, even the ones that are painful.”

“Would it be better to teach him how to integrate his memories, or simply let him read the texts on his own?”

Rinhe thought for a moment. “For now, I think it best to let him read on his own. He seems to be the type that requires independence in learning.”

“I agree,” Rraiec murmured. “I should check on him, however. He did not eat last evening.”

•••

Wesley woke to the smell of sweetcakes and paz grain. Both aromas were heavenly to him, since he hadn’t eaten the night before. The former human poured himself out of bed and stumbled towards the door, wondering why it had moved. It wasn’t until he started to look around that Wesley realized that he wasn’t in his own room.

When he got to the main room, he found Rraiec standing next to the fire. A quick glance told him he was still in the other man’s quarters. Had he fallen asleep there the night before?

“Ah, you are awake,” Rraiec commented. “You should be hungry. Eat.” He pointed at a table, which was laden with food. Wesley considered refusing, but decided against it. He wouldn’t win anyway; Rraiec was rather militant about making sure he got enough to eat. The ex-Watcher dug in, scooping up mushy paz grain with the sweetcakes, wishing all the while that cinnamon existed in this world. The grain wasn’t bad, either spicy or sweet, but he missed cinnamon.

Wesley finished his meal reluctantly, knowing that once he was done the talking would start. Some of his bravado had fled during the night; now that he’d dumped all of his hidden foulness at Rraiec’s feet he felt more than a little apprehensive about returning to those topics. “So…” He began uncertainly, wanting Rraiec to lead their discussion.

Rraiec recognized the ploy and decided to play along for the moment. “I selected some texts for you to study,” He said, gesturing to a massive pile of books on one table. “They should aid you in your lessons.”

“Ah,” Wesley murmured, not sure what to make of that. He’d been expecting a conversation revolving around how he’d gotten into those messes, maybe even touching on the fact that he really didn’t deserve sanctuary at all. Or perhaps Rraiec would inform him that he was no longer welcome in the hold—or any other hold—because of how foul he was.

“We should meet again to discuss them, of course,” Rraiec continued. “And I informed Uvu that you would be absent from your wall for a while—until you’ve finished your studies.”

“He is amenable?” Wesley inquired, knowing the answer already.

“Of course. The wall is not of so great an importance. Even if it were, other arrangements would be made. This is of far greater meaning to you than wall-building,” Rraiec chided.

“I should begin, then,” Wesley murmured, standing from the table. He approached the books warily, knowing that they would be quite a heavy load to carry back, even with his enhanced strength. Rraiec helped him with the texts, taking some of them himself.

The two dalhari walked back to Wesley’s room, silent but for the echoing footfalls they left in their wake. When they arrived, Rraiec simply placed the books on a side table and left without a word. Wesley stored the books he’d carried and started a fire, deciding that if he was going to spend the day reading, he might as well do it comfortably. Thinking ahead, he also put on some water. Soup would be a nice meal later, when his eyes were crossed and fuzzy.

Wesley chose a book at random and settled down into a pile of cushions. “On Forgiveness,” He murmured, reading the title of the book. The very words made him wary and he opened the text with some trepidation.

“Ask the guilty what they most desire, and often as not they say ‘forgiveness.’ They wish for their wronged victims to pass merciful judgment upon them, to give freely an ethereal substance which grants pardon for their wrongdoings, a salve for unseen wounds. However, when such treatment is given, it does little to rehabilitate the guilty, despite being precisely what they seemed to wish for. Why is this? Why is it that the most coveted balm is so very useless? Perhaps it is because the guilty misunderstand what it is they need, and what it is they are asking for from their victims.

“Forgiveness is a unique commodity for the soul, a highly desirable substance produced and consumed wholly within the self. One can ask, even beg, for forgiveness from others, but the stuff they receive in return does nothing to assuage this guilt. No, the only forgiveness that satisfies such a need is that forgiveness that one provides for one’s own self, in the act of forgiving the self for its own wrongs. What does it matter that another grants forgiveness for wrongdoings? That they no longer feel enmity towards is all good and well. However, that does not settle the matter at hand—that the soul knows what has been done, how weak it is and how it has degenerated.

“When the soul sees such failures, it turns in upon itself. The soul begins to mire itself in hatred, disgust and revulsion. How can it do anything else, when it is constantly surrounded by proof of its own inadequacies? Once the soul has seen these wounds, festering and raw, it becomes sickened. This illness spreads, tainting everything else the soul encounters. Every action taken is distorted, until even the most benign of activities, the most innocuous of words, becomes further indictment of the soul’s own worthlessness.

“And then, then the soul tears at itself in a desperate attempt to heal, to excise the dead and rotting parts of itself. In its pain-driven insanity, the soul tries to destroy itself. Oh, it is not trying to die, but rather to recreate itself into a pure thing. However, the distortion through which so much of this pain is filtered also warps the image of perfection, so that the goal that the soul so strives for is not truly pure. This miswrought perfection may be cold and unfeeling, or rigid and unable to change and adapt. Regardless of specifics, the soul is breaking itself down to rebuild itself. The rebuilding process will never be complete or successful, however, because the soul refuses to use all of its parts. Without each and every part of itself, the soul simply crumbles. Time and again the soul will struggle to rise, but with only part of itself available, it will fail again and again.”

Wesley looked up from the book. It was disturbing and uncomfortable to read such an accurate description of what he was trying to do—what he had partially done already. It was clear, however, that from at least this perspective it was a dangerous, futile effort. The dalhari rose to tend to his meal, which would only be edible if he bothered to actually prepare it. A few handfuls of grain and chopped, dried vegetables made for decent soup and Wesley was soon returned to his reading.

“Thus the only recourse for the soul is to heal itself, all of itself, regardless of what it has done. The soul must look past its own flaws and illnesses to see the truth of its existence—that these unsavory parts of itself are just as much a part of its makeup as that which it would keep. Then the soul must forgive itself for being weak and imperfect—and realize that there is no perfection, no ultimate strength, in anything. What the soul must see is that in order to heal it must move on, aware of its faults and, more than knowing, doing, all it can to strengthen those weakest areas. The soul must bind itself together and apply the healing salve of its own mercy, so that it might grow into wholeness again.”

“And the next five hundred pages will tell just how to do that, right?” Wesley muttered as he closed the book. What had he been thinking when he’d confessed all to Rraiec? He didn’t want to face his problems; he wanted them to go away!

/But they’ll never go away,/ Wesley admitted to himself. /They will do all that festering and rotting, until you cannot fix them. Then where will you be? Back mired in insanity, only this time you won’t even be able to escape it through old age./

The dark-skinned man reluctantly took up the text again. Wesley knew he needed this, needed to see how the dalhari would approach his problems. After all, he was one of them now, and would be for a very long time. /And perhaps all their eons of navel-gazing have produced truly effective psychotherapies,/ Wesley joked to himself. /Humans certainly haven’t managed it./