The way Eirlys seems to withdraw makes regret sting as freshly as the lash of a fresh wound. Herian does not flinch, or withdraw, even as Eirlys says shemlen; she is ever steady, akin to marble given life. The one tell is the tightening and loosening of her jaw, making a tendon flex visibly, and the brief drop of her gaze. "You are not beholden to me, Healer. The decision is yours. I will not be a human dictating what elves may think or do or believe."

That she will say first. That is the most important point of all, before all else. It would be one thing if she were an elf, but even as her blood runs elven, as her heart beats for them, she is human. She cannot forget it; the cost would be too great. She is a shemlen, even as it makes her wince. And she is called shemlen so often, so lightly. It is not always an offence, but it is burned in her mind as surely as the sight of her father's body. Shemlen, the mark of what she is, and all she is not. It is as Eirlys as said: shemlen have abused elves. They have been cruel beyond words.

But so too have the Dalish.

"Our party was attacked by the Dalish on the way here. I will not see them made fearful because of the presumptions of those—" For a brief moment there is fury that catches her mouth, her nose and her brow, a distortion that is a ripple from far off that disturbs the surface all the same. "Their crimes should not be forgotten simply by virtue of their flesh and ears, Healer."

Somehow, somehow she says it very calmly.