I know, and I'm sorry it hurt you--I am sincerely--but at least against all goddamn odds it's over now! You don't have to live with it for a decade, Diarmuid!

[He wasn't ungrateful, honestly. He'd always, always been grateful that Diarmuid had saved him--undeserving as he felt. Guilty as he felt for surviving. But that didn't change the hole that was torn in his chest that night. It didn't change the horrible, endless emptiness that had lived in his chest for so long.]

[It didn't change how that pain turned to anger; at himself, at the Holy Grail, at the Spirit Gate, at his own weakness and uselessness, at everything but Diarmuid himself.]

I know...I know living with that feeling is worse than hell, but I couldn't just let you die, I'm not that fucking salmon-scented son of a bitch!