[This garden may be here in his dreams, there when ever he sleeps, but that's a fact that brings him little comfort. It's not natural for an undead to sleep -- he had to use an alchemical concoction to get there in the first place, a mixture of brew and enchantment to give his mind some rest. For a brief, wonderful moment, he'd felt as though nothing was wrong; it was just him and his garden, both of them alive and well.

And now he knows better. This garden is a cruel illusion, and he's no more alive and human than he was before. None of it is real. Reynir may be disappointed in Carlisle's self-pitying, but he does not realize how such a revelation crushes a man who has already lost so much to a life where he often struggled with the border of reality and hallucination. It's not as though Carlisle has been terribly honest with him regarding his history.

He shakes his head, his nose wrinkling.]

I do not want to be here. I would rather see some place that brings you comfort than remain in a place that gives me false hope.