He is expecting it. Wanting it, actually— it would be better, cleaner somehow, to receive anger, even violence, than this seething, stunned disappointment. The silence reigns for a few minutes, between them. He looks at his friend, at the stoic, silent face, once so well-known; it now seems like that of a stranger.

"I am sorry," He tells him, and it is true, "It can change nothing, and I cannot deserve forgiveness. But I am sorry."

There is, ultimately, nothing more he can say. There is, even still, so much more he would say if he could. To tell him of all that had come to pass. The shards of Mythal, the fate of Orlais, Corypheus, and his own mistakes. And the Inquisitor, of Lavellan, what would Felassan would think of her?

All foolish hopes. Stupidity, and spoilt by his own hand.

"You were right."