[ No, is the answer his eyes give. When he'd come here, perhaps that had been the plan, after he'd asked the questions he'd needed to ask and gotten the answers he hoped for, but now that he has — how can he drag Isaac any further into this? (Doesn't he owe him a fucking explanation, after all that?)

Instead of words, his gaze drops. Hands, too, to his pocket, fishing out a simple circle of beads strung to a long cylindrical clasp. Has to press them hard against his coat to get at the fastener one-handed, fingers slipping on the clasp, but he breathes and (pull yourself together) sets to unscrewing it. ]

I will handle it. [ A preface. An easy out, for when at the end of this Isaac still wants him gone — from this room, from his life. ]

I trusted someone I should not have, once. It went very poorly. [ It's the thinnest sliver of the story. It's not a lie. (It went very poorly, and he needs to ask now if his would-be lovers enjoy deforming live darkspawn; he can't just tell.) ] But he was dead. Years ago, I was so sure that he was dead.

But either I am losing my fucking mind, or— [ Or he isn't. Is it crazier to wish for a hallucination, or to have one? One end of the bracelet swings free. ] I hoped that I could trust you to just— tell me which. Please.

[ Please. A hand extended, the beads offered in a white nuckled fist. Within the hollow cylinder of its clasp, a small, very old vial of clouded glass and red. It's not Circle standard issue. It's easier to hand a Templar than a story about twisting bones. ]