Just know this too shall pass - any

[Falk]

THE STORY GOES OR THE WAY THAT I WAS TOLD
THERE WAS A KING THAT ALWAYS FELT TOO HIGH
AND THEN HE FELL TOO LOW

He is so glad for its absence, because the fear likes good things like this. 

They clamor for it, rattling the bars of his ribs and stomping angry little bruises in his gut. They become overwhelming—they become wild and unchained and they whisper to the basest part of him like sirens on slippery rocks. The part he has, at times, wished could be excised or otherwise lobotomized from his body; and at times, he embraces it. Staring into that abyss, he finds faces upon faces staring back at him, all dead-eyed but steeled in the arrogance of their own darkness. They, the dead-eyed family, have no moral compass but an appetite that acts as their Polestar.

It would have been easy.
It would have been animal, and it might have made him a king somewhere.

He has subsumed himself into that fear. He has, though it was not his proudest time, and even then he found he could not exact precise control over it. He is not a perfect krampus. He is a damaged one—and that might seem like a good thing, but instead it is a dangerous thing, because the fear slips from his fingertips like loose sand and seawater that he cannot grasp adequately and so, without need to keep orderly, the fear casts itself off, errantly.

Falk cannot control it. Not always, but especially not when faced with good things. Or boiling, carnal things; or deepest, darkest things.

He is glad, once again, that it is gone, because it would so love her. And it would have her, because he knows the way those jawing, fanged soldiers see blood in bright smiles and war in dreamy eyes. He smiles on, hoping the unsure nature of it—anxiousness and loneliness lay behind it, in equal measure—becomes calmed and more real, in time. (He could smile freely once, though that was very long ago, when he scaled and tumbled down seaside cliffs and examined strange bug-like things in tidal pools. That was when he was carefree and the fear came wobbling in like soft-handed toddlers, his playmates barely noticing their reckless adventures inside their brains.

How they all have grown.)

“Oh,” he shakes his head, suddenly keenly aware of how odd it might sound—it is easier, and more rational by far, to doubt the accuracy of his own memory than to suspect the world has been rearranged, “I just. I’ve been gone for such a long time, I feel a bit… disoriented.” He laughs, trying to cast off any shadow of doubt, “I suppose that happens, though, doesn’t it? Time plays tricks and all that.” He casts a small glance to the Mountain, letting his brow furrow, but never dropping the cocked grin, “feels a bit like going crazy.” He says nothing of his horns or hooves or fear. He cannot imagine he is the only one to have been changed by… whatever had changed him.

It sits like a big elephant he refuses to mention for the sake of remaining cool.

FALK, SON OF POLLOCK AND SYNTYCHE