Her fingertips twitch as she draws nearer - there's an urge in her to touch, to reach out and wonder what shaped grief would feel like under her fingertips, to wonder what the mix of pain and devotion would weigh. The Farkhad-sculpture is fragments, will be the patchwork of uncounted time, days and days layered upon it. Something to remember by.

And what will he feel, when he finishes his tribute and beholds it, shining with all of his agony for his companion? This thing that if he keeps it, will render him unable to forget (the man/his words/his fate).

(Names on a list. A song hummed in winter.)

Is it worth all of this, though?

Did you bury him with your own hands?

Fever watches him work, silent - beholding.