[ Cassian's hands begin to move, and to Set — that confirms whatever it is he thinks in that fathomless, strange mind of his. What he sees is both all-encompassing and simple, without any sense of hypocrisy between the two; he thinks of his siblings and the relationships they had cultivated with mortal lives, the way they had bothered to, when each one of them knew that life was short, and to him? More often insignificant, than grand. ]

Someone who wants to do something else, but might always become involved in what he knows he's good at. Who needs to learn he is capable of both.

[ The sense of Cassian Andor is a creature so bent into a shape, that the simple act of unbending himself from it is impossible without the aid of other hands. He is brittle metal and will lose parts of himself as he works, but enough of him will be left that he can see his intentions take the form he'd rather they take — and were humans not deeply enamored with the romanticism of making the attempt, of doing their best? ]

If you are only good for one path, how is it that you learn to care for something new so readily?

[ And he reaches for Cassian's hand, to lift it from the plant and show him the green stains upon his own fingers. To let the scent of lemon rise from his own palms and catch him, fresh and clean. ]