"He's dead." The words are practically spat out, like her tongue found them to rancid and unpleasant to contain for long. She shouldn't be dumping her issues, her mess, on this kind man, who's made her laugh and lifted her spirits. But it's hard to ignore the feelings bubbling up when she just watched Varric hug her one last time.

"Varric. He died. On that mission I sent him on." It would be easy to let her grief slip into anger, to pin the blame on--Or maybe, it would be so, so much harder, and that's why she can't do it. It has to be her fault, or it would be someone else's. "He was my best friend, and I sent him to his death."

Even if she wanted to avoid it (and quite frankly, she would have preferred it to be so), the tears are burning hot in her eyes. She hates it. Hates the weakness, hates imposing on Vax, hates the grief that rises like bile, hot and miserable. But Varric and Vax are right, a soul can only keep things bottled up for so long. And she hates that, too.