Cesare shrugs, softly-but-firmly. "I am sorry, Master Xellos, but the greatest courtesy a horse can expect from me is to be raced, and winded, and stabled well." It's not what the other wants to hear, he can tell. He looks at him openly, tries to meet unmeetable eyes.
"Perdona mi se follament ti parle de passiĆ³ parteixen mes paraules lo sent paor d'infern, al qual faƧ via girar-la vull; e no hi disponc mos passos,"
he says, almost apologetically. "Forgive me if what I say is madness. My words arise from anguish. The fear of Hell grips me, for I have started along the road towards it; I want to retrace my steps, and yet I do not turn in that direction."