Galio’s words tore at Syllke’s heart, as did the anguished concern he saw in the boy’s face. It wasn’t Galio’s fault that Syllke had fainted, but that fact did nothing to still the wild hammering of the Vantha’s heart, the gasping of his breath, or the sweat that had broken out on his back and neck and forehead. His hands felt clammy and his ears were still buzzing slightly. Syllke only wished, fervently, that somehow Galio would just vanish – or at least go away. But he knew that was his irrational fear talking inside his head. He knew the boy was there for some good purpose, and really was not responsible for any of these horrible feelings of panic. Not responsible at all.
Trying to speak past the huge lump in his parched throat, Syllke stammered, “G-Galio, p-please. Don’t – don’t worry. It’s not y-you.” Syllke forced his hand to drop, and his head did as well, his eyes slipping away from the other boy to stare down at the floor. He brought both hands to his face, rubbing them over it as if he could rub away this vision that so terrified him. He drew a long breath, hoping to steady his nerves, and let it out with a sigh.
He swallowed, and then looked once more at his friend. His friend – just a young boy – not a big, huge, snarling angry bear.
Yes, but he had been that way, just a few days before, hadn’t he?
Syllke shoved that thought away. With a very sad, tremulous, tiny smile, he said, “It’s not you, Galio. I – I was born this way, I guess. I’m terrified of bears. Before – before the festival, when I saw you in your – other – form, I guess, I guess I was able to control my fear. I knew you were my friend. But . . . the other night, when you shifted like that, and I saw . . . I saw . . . “
Syllke put his hands over his face again, covering his eyes, trying to block out that image.
“I’m sorry, Galio.” He said, his voice strained to breaking. “It’s me, not you. I’m the one with the problem.”