It should be easier, perhaps. To see the way that Reginald's treatment of him was just as unjustified as the things he had done to Ben's siblings. Some part of him has been quietly convinced this whole time that, amongst all of them, he was the only one who deserved it. The only one so inherently dangerous and dark that any methods at all were justified. But here is Cole, saying animals aren't evil, can't be. Sympathizing even with demons from his own world, that are merely reacting to pain and fear, like frightened creatures.
Ben thinks of the nightmares he's hard - the ones have felt different to others, where he is on the other side of the portal. Where there is no light at all, no noises apart from the roaring of blood in his own ears, and they are all around him, slumbering and tranquil in their own realm. If that really is anything like the place they live... how harsh this world must seem, with its riot of bright light and cacophony of sounds, and hordes of small creatures, scuttling and screaming and incomprehensible.
His insides gives an uneasy lurch when Cole touches his stomach, but he doesn't flinch away. He struggles to breathe slowly, deeply, in and out. Keep the panic from digging its claws in any further. Every one of Cole's words hits him like a blow. No one has ever really thought he was brave before. No one has ever told him he doesn't deserve to be afraid.
He shuts his eyes, feeling the heat of tears welling up, but his breathing is steadier now, and the worst of the blind terror is decreasing, by tiny degrees. He doesn't feel it, the impression that comes back through, from them to Cole. Not words or anything like them, but the concepts and emotions of dread, of loathing, of wanting the breach gone, wanting permanent separation. The impressions are simple and urgent, animal-like in that way. They do not convey any understanding of how long the breach has been there, any memory of when it has opened before or anticipation of when it would again. They don't experience memory or time in that way, so each time would be like the first, as horrible and inexplicable and awful.
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Ben thinks of the nightmares he's hard - the ones have felt different to others, where he is on the other side of the portal. Where there is no light at all, no noises apart from the roaring of blood in his own ears, and they are all around him, slumbering and tranquil in their own realm. If that really is anything like the place they live... how harsh this world must seem, with its riot of bright light and cacophony of sounds, and hordes of small creatures, scuttling and screaming and incomprehensible.
His insides gives an uneasy lurch when Cole touches his stomach, but he doesn't flinch away. He struggles to breathe slowly, deeply, in and out. Keep the panic from digging its claws in any further. Every one of Cole's words hits him like a blow. No one has ever really thought he was brave before. No one has ever told him he doesn't deserve to be afraid.
He shuts his eyes, feeling the heat of tears welling up, but his breathing is steadier now, and the worst of the blind terror is decreasing, by tiny degrees. He doesn't feel it, the impression that comes back through, from them to Cole. Not words or anything like them, but the concepts and emotions of dread, of loathing, of wanting the breach gone, wanting permanent separation. The impressions are simple and urgent, animal-like in that way. They do not convey any understanding of how long the breach has been there, any memory of when it has opened before or anticipation of when it would again. They don't experience memory or time in that way, so each time would be like the first, as horrible and inexplicable and awful.