His words were soft, patient, even as the muscles in his lips pulled back into an almost scowl.

"Are you asking me if I feel better now that I need rest?"

They were foreign words on his tongue. Bitter, like poison. Rest was only shades away from death, and every time Aunamee closed his eyes to sleep (to die) he felt a small part of him grab the edge of his consciousness and beg for it stay, please stay. Maybe R missed the things that made him human, like sleep and diseases and cramped muscles. Maybe he didn't know any better.