Cirno is dead. Cirno remains dead. And we have killed her. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was iciest and strongest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become cirnos simply to appear worthy of it?