The cold does not bother Francel. He has long grown numb to the ice and snow.
"I have asked nothing of you, Felih, and I ask nothing now," he says, as calmly as he can muster, though the clipped and strained quality to his voice belies the emotion he is trying to keep at bay. "The time for this is long past. The time..."
He trails off. Words seem to catch in his throat, choking and strangling him; he brings his fingers to his neck, as if to clear them away by hand. It always comes down to this: words. Words.
"It's all too late," Francel says, and somehow those words feel like the only truth in the world.
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"I have asked nothing of you, Felih, and I ask nothing now," he says, as calmly as he can muster, though the clipped and strained quality to his voice belies the emotion he is trying to keep at bay. "The time for this is long past. The time..."
He trails off. Words seem to catch in his throat, choking and strangling him; he brings his fingers to his neck, as if to clear them away by hand. It always comes down to this: words. Words.
"It's all too late," Francel says, and somehow those words feel like the only truth in the world.