Family. There's an ache in her to hear that, fingers pressing against a bruise that goes bone deep. But she doesn't know why, couldn't track it even if she tried her hardest. A shape she can't grasp, no matter how she stretches her fingers towards it, only to fall into hollow. Just another thing that's lost to her - another thing known by its absence, the great and yawning void of who she used to be before now. The scattered fragments she has are wrought in agony and gore, and they are all Fever has. Glimpses of a self swallowed by the tadpole's ceaseless hunger, or the brush with death, or that necromancer's explorations, or perhaps never there in the first place. Who knows, because the scars she does bear cannot speak.

Why me, Fever thinks, when I don't even know who I look at in the mirror?

(That damnable butler, she should have gripped him by the throat and demanded all the answers he held the moment she saw him. He must have known - she should have ripped it from him, instead of him leaving her to have to beg Shadowheart to bind her hands and help her fight. It will only get louder, the more it's denied - she should have vented it on him and saw where they ended up.)

Distantly, she knows she should think on it as some kind of honor, if a god is letting her know secrets, saying that she can handle it, and maybe she does feel that, but it's hard to express it in the moment. Hard to put words to all of it in a succinct and precise way.

"...who are you, then, if you're not him?"