His jaw tightens, and he cannot say the words he must say. He cannot turn her away, tell her no. This world, empty and cold, which has stripped every hint of the fade from his very blood...

"Vhenan," He whispers, broken, and he bends to acquiesce to her will. Very well then, if she wishes for the lie, then he can no more deny her that than to fly, "Lavellan..."

The kiss is light and gentle and broken, and then abruptly he cannot bear it and his other hand comes up to cup her jaw and it is searing and grasping, a hideous, clinging lack of control. He needs something, anything to hold to, some strength in this terrible place, to bear up against the impossible odds.

Weakness and strength. She has always been both, to him; so it is, now.

"I believe you," He murmurs, eventually, breathing the aphorism against her mouth, panting for air. He sets his brow against hers, and simply sways there a moment, eyes shut, and the snowfall is silent around them, "You are formidable, my heart. I was right to run from you."

His laugh is all air, just a broken, bitter little chuckle, devoid of good humor, "You would have broken my resolve in a day."