[ That, as though his efforts had been some parlour trick; the result of a child's afternoon with a sketchpad and crayon box.

He might have kept his head high at any other juncture of this terrible conversation. He may have been able to remind himself that Gale and those of his kin had no understanding of his power; they had to look down their nose at it, lest they see how crushing and severe it truly is.

This wisdom no longer reaches him; the conversation has reached its fever pitch. Blood is roaring in his ears, and each minute is a second.

Gale reconstitutes at his back. Godfrey turns, and for a frigid second, falls still as stone. He hears Gale's voice before he realizes words had been spoken.

In the next instant, the table flashes in his face, flipped and sent sprawling in one fast motion by Godfrey, before he can surge forward and get his hand around his throat. ]

You--

[ He wants to resist the urge to crush his throat in his hand. Godfrey wishes he could. Instead, he feels its stillness beneath his hand, and finds new fury in his own younger stupidity all over again. His fingers begin to tighten. ]

You have done nothing but drag me into this darkness. [ Godfrey's anger does not push him to shout; the words continue to seep from him, slow and strained, ] I worsen for every moment I spend here, infected by this disease. You are a noose around my throat.