She needed me. Barcus feels his heart twist a little in his chest; millennia-old spirit or not, he can read the emotion in Solas' voice easily, just then. Wouldn't he have done the same sort of thing for Wulbren in a heartbeat, if he'd just asked? If at any point he'd had said to Barcus he needed him, he'd have been willing to try to move the entire planet for him.

It casts their situations into sharp relief, which--maybe it shouldn't, because while the emotions are parallels, the stakes of the the situations aren't the same.

Still. Maybe Barcus should be grateful that Wulbren wasn't that interested in him, that he thought he was an annoyance and not an asset.

As Solas goes on, the weight of grief and guilt in his voice makes the gnome ache for him. The horror that he caused is no doubt shocking; Barcus couldn't bear the thought of murdering a single congregation, much less an entire race. There are few crimes more heinous. And yet, as if he were prophesying earlier, not just talking off the top of his head, he can't feel any hatred. Shock, distress, horror, yes, but it seems unlikely that anyone could hate this man as much as he seems to hate himself right now.

"I wish I could tell you it wasn't your fault," he says softly. "I mean...it doesn't sound like it was, entirely, but...degrees and percentages don't matter much, do they, when you're talking about suffering on a scale so big."

"Except it sounds like...you were as much the weapon as the thing you made." Used, manipulated, cruelly. Maybe out of desperation, or maybe out of mere ambition. He can't know.

Barcus wrings his hands a little, the urge to reach out still present, though he stifles it. It's not his place to render judgment against a being that's probably older than his entire species. Equally laughable, perhaps, that he would wish to offer comfort, but--here they are, nevertheless.

"I'm sorry." His voice is gentle. "I wish it hadn't happened. I wish it could be fixed."