"You don't know what you're asking me." His voice is low, words scraping out his throat. It isn't a protest. It's not a denial, either, a dismissal. It's a statement of what he is. He can do things. He can be brave and make sure duty is carried out.

Words? They're a different thing entirely. Words are complicated. They twist around and mean different things to different people. Words aren't straightforward. They paint pictures and craft poems, and Hercules isn't an artistic man.

"I swear it, by the Grey Wardens and the Maker, I will call her." He just has no idea what he'll say.