She doesn't need to hear the exact words he says, she's heard the refrain enough for it to echo in her head. She can't, he can't, he's sorry, but--It doesn't matter, she has never heeded him in this manner, and there are more important things. Puzzle pieces introduced, though she's not sure how they fit into the greater mystery. If anything, they muddy the water.
For neither the first nor last time in Beleth's life, especially when her emotions start to rise in her throat as they are now, she wishes her brother were here. That he would bull his way through into the heart of the matter, and Creators damn--ah. No matter the consequences. But he isn't (and it's her fault, a voice whispers in her head), and it's up to her.
He seems more Fen'Harel to her then, with his hands grasped so tightly behind his back, his pose so stiff and careful, face so seemingly composed. A tall, distinguished figure, her vhenan cuts, when he tries. She wants to reach out and touch his face, get that stiffness to melt under her fingers. Or find another Well of Sorrows to go bother with, to break him out of the chill that wraps around him. She'd take his wrath over this.
"It is already finished--That is what you told Rook, what you told me, and--her." There is a moment where something flavors that word. Anger, or distaste. It's someone Beleth does not like, at least. "Your prison--" Was that it? Was this the piece? "--Do you speak of the one you swapped with the Evanuris--And then swapped with Rook in turn." She levels a look at him at this, and holds it steady. "Or the one where you feel like you have no choice, but to continue this crusade? You told me, you told me--" She takes another few steps, but her eyes are flashing. Is she the idiot? The fool who once again believed the Dread Wolf? She had thought she'd known him well enough. That his surrender to them all had been genuine. The way he had held her, and--
no subject
For neither the first nor last time in Beleth's life, especially when her emotions start to rise in her throat as they are now, she wishes her brother were here. That he would bull his way through into the heart of the matter, and Creators damn--ah. No matter the consequences. But he isn't (and it's her fault, a voice whispers in her head), and it's up to her.
He seems more Fen'Harel to her then, with his hands grasped so tightly behind his back, his pose so stiff and careful, face so seemingly composed. A tall, distinguished figure, her vhenan cuts, when he tries. She wants to reach out and touch his face, get that stiffness to melt under her fingers. Or find another Well of Sorrows to go bother with, to break him out of the chill that wraps around him. She'd take his wrath over this.
"It is already finished--That is what you told Rook, what you told me, and--her." There is a moment where something flavors that word. Anger, or distaste. It's someone Beleth does not like, at least. "Your prison--" Was that it? Was this the piece? "--Do you speak of the one you swapped with the Evanuris--And then swapped with Rook in turn." She levels a look at him at this, and holds it steady. "Or the one where you feel like you have no choice, but to continue this crusade? You told me, you told me--" She takes another few steps, but her eyes are flashing. Is she the idiot? The fool who once again believed the Dread Wolf? She had thought she'd known him well enough. That his surrender to them all had been genuine. The way he had held her, and--
"You said that we would go, together, Solas."