Less concerned with the names and more the memories, Godric just listens, letting B go over each one in that halting sort of way that he's grown used to.

He sits back, arms crossed, running his hands along his skin like he's cold. He's not, of course, but he's thoughtful. Worried.

"And you were never told why?" He thinks he knows the answer, even as he says it. It's more of a rhetorical question anyway.

"It's your move."