[ Diarmuid's doubts are accurate. The vigilante is a wall, with 'don't touch me' scrawled stonily across the front, arms crossed, tight, over his chest; all skepticism. He's powered by violence, not affection.

There's only one person he'd want a hug from right now, but his father isn't here. ]

I'll pass. Your friendliness may be contagious.

[ Diarmuid might have cooties.

He watches the butterfly flutter around, squinting. A magical, vapid insect. Not the strangest bit of conjuring he's heard of, but a mildly inane one. ]

But can it really do anything?

[ Besides flutter around uselessly. A butterfly isn't even strong enough to carry a peanut, let alone be practical in its helpfulness. Not like Titus. ]

Hm, already been spoiled about your future, then? [ As if it isn't bizarre, talking to a legendary figure from the past. ] Not a bad way to view it. Others might slack off if they thought their future was set in stone.