You realize you haven't measured your time in days, months, or weeks in... well, in a long, long time. You don't remember when exactly you stopped, but you do know why. Instead, you've measured your days in the lessening of the ache. It will always be there, you've come to understand that much at least, but it has gotten easier to bear. Perhaps only Aymeric knows the depths of which this goes, but even then, you've blunted the blow a little.
This pain is yours and yours alone, just as he was.
Artificial echo is something you would not wish on your worst enemy, especially something as uncontrolled as this, but you find the most prominent emotion you feel when Fordola asks you her question is one of relief. That someone, anyone, other than him has asked you this. That someone has, at least in passing, brushed up against the weight you carry, and for a moment, carried it with you. He would have helped you shoulder it gladly, you remember.
Yet here you stand, unbroken.
She asks you why, and you tell her, "You know why."
And she does. She's seen it, experienced it, and for a moment, she seems to look at you with sympathy, or perhaps even shared sorrow, before the mask of the Butcher returns.
You tell no one of this and likely never will; even Alphinaud does not press you. You have, after all, always been a little reclusive by nature.
What is one more secret?