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Summary
“You need to turn back the clock, Dante,” Vergilius managed to say instead, his speech breathless and garbled. “Before more come.”
He wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t. Even in death, even if Vergilius knew in the deepest, darkest parts of his mind that Dante would reciprocate, that they had been waiting for him to say it first so as not to rush him, Vergilius couldn’t say it. As much as those damned three letter words hung on his tongue, he couldn’t.
