Ellen isn't a threat. Ellen isn't Orin, and Fever's mind carefully puts some pieces together, arranges them in the right way. Hysterically, she almost thinks she would take Pyotr's offer to temporarily pull out her emotions, and just as quickly as such a thought is born, it dies. Let her retreat into many places in her mind, but the river will surge in its banks, this clawing desire to hurt someone, knowing it would offer some relief.

But she is in control, still. As much as it wants to rip out of flesh, take myriad mirror shards or the three knives held close and hunt someone down, they are only thoughts. Only a desire that she binds and sinks into the earth. Sink. Sink.

Say something. Say anything. She cannot meet her eyes - and what are Ellen's eyes on her skin, when everyone witnessed a great sundering? When Fever is still struggling to place the when of it all, hands reaching into the muck and mire of her mind and pulling out a memory and why did she think that this time it would be anything worth saving, anything that isn't stained and grotesque and fetid and -

you deserved it.

If anyone deserved such a happening, if anyone deserves to have every past memory be miserable, another wound that needs to bleed out every time it comes back, it's her.

"No. I didn't die the first time that happened either."

Lacking any better explanation, she takes Ellen's hand, brings it to the back of her head. Lets her feel what's hidden under her hair - the scar from knifepoint at the back of her skull. A little higher than the re-enactment, but unmistakable.