[ Meaningless. Hasn't every death here been meaningless? They were always only for the whims of the people who brought them here — whatever shabby redemption given to them by the idea that they were a sacrifice, that they were protecting the others, was always a lie.

She'd never accepted the idea of a necessary sacrifice in the first place. So how is it somehow worse to know the truth? But it is, it's an emptiness and a pettiness and a pointlessness that gnaws at her until all she wants is to cry and cry until she doesn't have to feel. ]

You're right. None of us means any more than the others. How could we put a value on that? Everyone here mattered.

[ Is that what Merlin was trying to tell her? Is that what he needs from her? She'd finally started understanding herself. The way she loves like desperation, the selfish wish that an echo of that love might find its way back to her.

She lets out a breath that's half a sob and looks over at Waltaquin. She lifts her hand and freezes, as if she still can't decide whether she's going to reach to cup her face, or perhaps slap her. ]

I don't know if I'm strong enough to do what Merlin needs. I don't know what to do right now. I'm so angry. I don't want to carry this secret for you. What good does it do to blame you?! I don't know anything anymore!