And there was that awful weight again, so heavy it seemed almost a physical thing.
Nothing solid. Was this... was this why he'd thought he had to warn her about himself, about how he'd killed a boy in a long-ago story? Not just because it frightened him to know he'd been capable of it, might still be capable of it, but because... because if there was nothing solid about him then what was there to stop him from being a child-killer again?
Qebhet's heart ached for him. Stars, what a terrible fear to have to live with. No wonder Much looked like he was being crushed.
But it was also wrong.
Much was more than just a collection of names. He wasn't nobody. He was as alive and vital as anybody Qebhet had known, he was loyal and funny and generous and good; he was— he was organic, maybe. Changing with his environment, like a plant that leaned towards the sun or a tree that dropped its leaves, but no matter how its appearance altered a plant was still rooted in the earth.
"Not nothing." Qebhet moved slowly, setting down her fork and reaching to take Much's hand again, as though to assure him of his solidity. "You're a Merry Man. That is solid. And the Merry Men are..." Heroes, she almost said, or good, but those words seemed too much for him to bear right now. "...clever. Brave. They try to do what's right. And you try to..." She thought, trying to grasp at the unchanging core of him. "It's, it's more than what the story wants, you try to do what they need of you, your friends. Because you're loyal, you want to help. You care."