[ he's not quite expecting the question: his head tilts to the side, slightly, and his mild, lilting tone remains. ] What did we talk about yesterday?

[ as he's taking a place at the starting line, and ignoring the way his shoulder aches when he moves, ignoring the wet red dripping down the white fabric. placid. mask in place. calm. full of grace. temenos the cleric smiles. ]

A lost lamb is just that: lost. It does not make you an outcast, or someone forgotten.

[ and, though he won't say it out loud, the more obvious comparison rings to. a sacrificial one. a lost little lamb, terrified and crying when someone hugged her as the weight of the weekend came to its toll with a guilty vote - lost is the only word.

(or maybe - and it occurs, but he won't voice it. maybe sacrificial, too. in the eyes of their audience, in the eyes of whoever orchestrated this, mika is just that - the example, the sacrificial lamb. for the second time in his life, he is the one who brings the lamb to the lion's den.)

the countdown continues. his smile warms a touch further. ] Are you ready?