So many pieces of the tragedy are hard to explain, sound horribly torrid even in his own grief-stricken telling. He's ashamed of it, in a burning way, in a tired way. What a fool he was, to think that this part of his past would not weigh him down even in death. To believe that he would simply weather this toll. And yet he must.

Better to give Need her reason to recoil now, while she still has the strength to carry on in the Ferryman's wake, and while he has the same. He swallows, though it does nothing to erase the thick feeling in his throat. The grip on his shoulder is grounding, and his grip on the strap of her apron is white-knuckled. Even expecting her to pull away, he is not ready for it. It is not his place to judge for her actions, extrajudicial or not, but he can't help but expect the opposite for himself.

"They knew we were lovers," he manages to rasp, "When they brought me the body of his - of his wife. I saw that he had done it, when I touched her body. I could not hide the truth." Could not, would not - perhaps they were the same thing, to a man with only his Calling left to cling to.