Slight PP.
His words were no different than before, leaking of guilt and frustration and despair, as if all and any arguments his father could pose to him would be of no use. Simple words of discouragement would not ease the guilt away — Jefferson knew that from experience — but Pripyat had hardly begun to know guilt, to know the unpredictable fashions life weaved itself through. Pripyat was not directly at fault, and as he blamed himself further and started away, the father suppressed a growl deep in his throat. In one quick motion, the cyclops stepped to catch him, seized the boy in his remaining, scarred fingers, and spun him to face the scarred man's horrible visage once more.
"You do not know guilt," Jefferson hissed, fires of auburn burning within his glowing green eye. Fingers clutched Pripyat's shoulder tightly, digging into his skin. "You have not committed real atrocities worth blaming yourself like this. When you have killed and assaulted you will know guilt — and I will not let you waste away with it like me until you've done something deserving of it!"
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