It's still not enough. She sees it in his posture, in the way he shakes his head, the look on his face. Mythal wove a fine collar around the throat of her wolf, and while his vallaslin may have been taken, Beleth doesn't know what can be done to free him from this service to a dead woman. Why can't she do it? Why can't she figure out the words to convince him?

Jealousy is an ugly, bitter thing, sunk like a rock into her stomach. But Solas tries to explain, and it cannot be easy for him. She can't hold him to blame for being collared, only herself, for her inability to free him, and for the one who put it there.

"She didn't deserve you." The words are repeated stubbornly. "She was not worth what you gave her. You deserve..." Her hands both cup his face, love and sorrow intermingled freely. Her beloved, the one she'd bound herself to, tragic and desperate for peace. She would figure it out. She would free him, no matter what it took. "...Everything."

He speaks of her people, and the anger has gone from her, but the hurt remains. It's built into her, inherited from her mother's body, same as her hair, and her grandmother before that. Generations that stretched from Solas' memories to connect to her own. "I don't know if they will." She admits to him, and suddenly feels exhausted, pulling her hands down, to wrap around his chest, fitting her head underneath his neatly. "It is the symbol of the Dalish, of the people who have stayed true to--" She stops then, pressing her face into him.

"I guess it doesn't matter anymore, does it?" The admission feels like a greater betrayal than any other they had accused her of. "None of it ever mattered. The gods we devoted ourselves to cared more about making sure we had a lovely variety of branding than they did of us."