"How am I supposed to do that?" He opens his eyes, finally. The tears standing in them roll over, fall down his cheeks; he grinds them away furiously. Catches a hiccuping breath, forcing down the grief. It is unmanly, un-Vorish, to cry. "You cannot have all of this. If I am - was - your friend, then I cannot permit you to be - unhappy. If I permit it, then I was no friend. The latter is an easier thing to believe, isn't it?"