Brands? What do you- [ horror. the color drains from his face. he reaches up to touch his own cheek, and thinks of beleth. of sorrel. of merrill. he must tell them. they must know.

(it does not cross his mind that solas is being anything but truthful.)

he releases solas, and steps back. gone is the stiletto-sharpness of his words, meant to flay his friend open so that they might address the ugly truths. ]

You are no god, no more than I. You are dear to me and close to my heart. You returned when Mythal did not.

[ he must rethink some things. reorganize. his voice is not hoarse, they were not that loud, and shielded from the hearing of the rest of the gallows too, but he finds his glass, and drinks deeply from it. he would rather address the wine than his friend. ]

They do not parade, Solas. [ softly. ] They simply know no better, and cling to what scraps they have. If you want to give them something, give them love. Unconditionally. Accept that they will stumble, like children, cry, like children, have fits of temper, like children, for children is all they are.

[ he hesitates, a moment of consideration, of interrupted thought: ] They die like flies, breed when they are but children, but Solas, but there ought to have been enough of those who followed you, who knew the truth. Where did they go? Did they have no children? Leave no record? This is too much to forget, even with how little time they had.

[ how had they all died? how was the truth forgotten this badly? ]