To the end of everything. Because I was told to murder all life, and I was going to. You sow fear, and you slit throats. You leave the cities rank with the unburied dead, and you burn and destroy until you set your armies against themselves and wait until you are the last living thing alive to lay yourself on the altar. Then, maybe, he'll be proud.

All things she cannot, will not say. Not in this holy place. Not to someone she barely knows, who she's having to open herself up for - oh, it's probably obvious, as clear as an operation without anesthetics, that this is hard. And yet, she's pushing herself, ignoring her own lines that scream with fear about being crossed. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. She gave up the right to that comfort, to privacy about these issues.

"If I answer those questions, Ellen, it will only sound like I'm making excuses. And that is the last thing I want to do."

Let her keep the blame, and the shame. Let her keep that she was made and molded for it as a smith does a blade, as a poisoner distills a new brew, as the flames are lit on the pyre.