At last Francel stops mutilating his flowers, though only because he has no more flowers to ruin; tearing his hand out from beneath Felih's, he throws the decimated stalks over the cliffside.

He tells himself that he should not do this. Not here, especially; not in front of Haurchefant's monument. But then, Francel knows as well as anyone that the monument is naught but cold stone. Marble that he bought and paid for. And the epitaph beneath Haurchefant's name was something that he chose for himself.

"What do you want from me, Felih Tia?" he asks, in a voice finally his own: dry and crackling with thunderous rage. "Do you think me a priest to give you absolution? Would you have me tell you that all is well? That I have found happiness? That I endeavor to smile because that is what he would have wanted?"

This is the man he really is, he reminds himself: the man who left Ishgard for cold vengeance, the man who would have died to defend the reputation of a faltering family. All such talk of piety and selflessness are lies.

"Spare me," he snaps. "I knew what he wanted. He wanted you."