[He won't contest the years between them. It's true this rage has festered for far longer, though he knows better than to say that his is something more than Hope's.

Yet . . . fourteen years are nothing compared to three hundred, but isn't that the tragedy of it? Fourteen is far too young. Sieghart sighs silently.]

My anger was also born from hatred. For three hundred years, I wandered in search of him . . . and now he's finally gone.

[However, he does not relish this victory. All that transmits through their connection is that sense of emptiness, just like the one back at the butterfly garden when they met again. At the end of the day, Sieghart feels as though he's achieved nothing.]