"As do many," Solas replies, trying to color the sharpened edge of regret with at least a pale skin of humor, with limited success, "Myself included. But there can be no going back; the damage is permanent, and the consequences irreversible."

You were as much the weapon as the thing you made, Barcus says, and it's all Solas can do not to laugh, or cry, or both at once. He's sure some measure of the confused hysteria shows on his face; he has to look away, seeking dignity.

"You are not wrong to say that I was used. Mythal... I always held out hope that she would again become my friend. That if only she would understand—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head, "Foolish. But perhaps, in the end, we are not so different, you and I. We both wish for better in someone who simply cannot offer it."