The placement of Sina's shard is rather - striking. Some of them, Gwenaëlle thinks, will probably die sooner than others. It isn't kindness that stays her from commenting as much out loud into the awkward silence that descends between them, but the chill thought of how little they know about these things they bear in their bodies. To take for granted what it is readily apparent is to accept that there is something in her own self she can't control, doesn't understand, and that might kill her -

Just slower. Maybe they'll have solved it, by then. Some fucking blessing, Andraste. Bless your own arse, she thinks, sourly, laying her palms flat on the stone. What good has it done anyone? What good did it do the Herald? If she was blessed. If she wasn't just - there. Like Gwenaëlle had been, in the wrong place at the worst time.

"How did it happen?" she asks, abruptly, and this time she is conscious of the rudeness of the question. Sounds conscious of it. Acknowledges it without letting it stop her. "For you. You didn't go near the rift on purpose."

She assumes. She considers herself slightly generous for assuming.