Solas doesn't know what to say, shocked by his own admission, guilty and uncertain. He both craves and despises the idea of being pitied. Her fingers are cool and damp on his face, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head in a tiny, mute denial.

"She... was all I had. My first and only, for many years," He whispers, ashamed to be telling her all of this, who must surely resent the inevitable comparison. He cannot enjoy hurting her, but having said as much he has no power to say less, "She was everything."

It is a plea; to be understood, and not blamed, a cry for forgiveness that he does not deserve. These are old memories, and arguing with a reflection of the past could only yield pain. Yet it was to Mythal's compassion that he was still yoked; in the service of a people who now despised him, and fought bitterly to oppose him at every turn.

"You are free," the emphasis is gentle, but real. He reaches to mirror her touch, smoothing the pad of his thumb where once green ink flowed, "Your people... They do not understand what they do to their children. Perhaps the tradition will die, now that they may know. But you are free, and others will follow. I will break the chains of all who desire it."