"You could have told me the truth," and she cannot help the bitter way it comes out, the snap of her words in the cold air. It isn't fair to hold him to what she wished to have been, for everything has been said and done and they are simply left with this. Pain and hurt and a love she cannot rid herself of; she has surely done something wrong to be punished so.

Or so she'd think, if her gods weren't false. But there are no gods, not for the People and not for the shemlen either. Their Maker is no doubt as false as her gods. The offer takes her by surprise, and she's silent for a moment, considering it.

The wound is too fresh, she decides. "Maybe in time, Solas." When she can accept it not through bitterness, not through resentment of the lie she's lived. But as something she's certain she wants. "I suppose it would only be continuing a grand tradition, if the murals in your sanctuary are anything to go by."