It was chaos.
Alexia was crying because I had hit her.
"Hic! D-Don't you know how to treat a noble lady?!" she managed between hiccups, her voice wobbling.
Michael was crying because I was alive.
"No, really! I'm so glad you're alive!" he wailed, trying to go for another crushing hug that I fended off with a well-placed foot to his sternum.
But he didn't relent. Somehow, through some sheer emotional persistence, he managed to grab hold of my ankle and started to weep onto my toe.
"Eww— get off!" I shrieked in pure disgust, thrashing against the mattress of saplings.
"I thought I'd have to live with your death!" he sobbed. His face was a mess of genuine relief and snot and tears. "I was already writing your eulogy in my head! It was going to be so poetic, Sam! I mentioned your 'complex' personality and your 'misunderstood' heart!"
…Complex personality and misunderstood heart?
Was this fucker seriously planning to indirectly call me a jerk at my own funeral?!
