[He stands firm, an austere figure with harder lines than he had worn during those evenings he had spent with Godfrey above ground; they have both changed over the last decade, for how could they not, and Gale does not feel it was for the better in either case. His mouth pulls into a thin line, and he finds himself feeling an urgent need to reclaim some semblance of control, of neutrality; in any other case, it would not have mattered who sat at this table, he would have done his job to the letter and felt very little about it, because to allow himself to do anything otherwise would be opening himself up to be disciplined all over again.

Godfrey, as ever, makes him want to break all the rules, even when it spells nothing but trouble for him.]

You do not have to believe me. I've done nothing to earn your trust. I do not expect you to.

[His response is cool, terse as a more guarded expression becomes his mask, a vain attempt to hide the hurt and the frustration despite the fact that it's far too late to pretend he feels otherwise.]

That does not make it any less true. If it had meant your safety, I would have been fine to accept that you thought me a monster. The tragedy here is not that you have come to hate me— it is that I failed you. You were never meant to walk in this world.