Maybe Felassan should look guilty. He's laughed before. But guilt isn't something he wears easily or often, so he doesn't, watching her across the water with a look that is understanding and unforgiving all at once — the latter not aimed particularly at her, though of course it's hard to tell from looking at someone when the harder edge in their eyes is meant for thousands of years of history and their own failings.

"People used to weep when he removed them, for what it meant," he says. "But once the Evanuris were gone, everyone wanted order. Reconciliation. They'd left behind their priests and their generals and the upper class that had formed at their feet. Fen'Harel left behind," you know. Him, he concludes with a gesture to his chest. Others, too — and he might name them if it were credit instead of blame he would be sharing — but he was the second.

She's savvy, he knows. A politician. He assumes he does not need to lay out further how this reconciliation went. She certainly knows how it ends: with young Dalish girls having homage to the tyrants they'd spent centuries trying to prove were not gods tattooed on their faces.

"We did not win the war in all the ways we should have," he says instead, a tidy package of self-recrimination. He should have done more. He should have not have hung so much hope on finding Solas again and repairing what had broken before it set. "It has been difficult to learn to leave it alone."