[It hits him harder than Gideon's punch had, just some few bells before.

It's strange how he can almost imagine it — how vividly it all comes back to him, every bit and detail of that moment on the Ragnarok, Alisaie's tears and Alphinaud's pleading and G'raha's lashing tail, only instead of the near-lifeless body of someone deserving of such anguish and turmoil, for an instant in his mind's eye he can imagine how his own corpse would look there instead. He can imagine his own waxy flesh, his closed eyes, his spent breath.

He can imagine two small fists beating on the chest that housed a failed heart, each pounding impact accompanied by a wail. Wake up! Wake up, damn you, wake up! You can't — you can't!

How much does he think they're at peace with his death?

(Hasn't he been asking himself all this time, where is she, I would've thought she would've found me by now?)

The breath he draws, then, shakes like a leaf in a windstorm.]

I couldn't bear to look them in the eyes, if I took that chance away from another.

[Accepting this as his fate would've been so much easier, if he hadn't been made to confront what he wants.]

Why should it be me? Why me and not one of them? Why me and not you?