He listens. Vandelin doesn't interrupt people, not when he's angry, not when he's horrified, and certainly not ever when he wouldn't trust his voice not to break if he did. He's never been an optimist, but in spite of everything, he's still been an idealist. He's expected more from the world than this. He's thought that human nature--humans being the ones who most often proved him wrong--still had better angels.

Later, in the safety of his own quarters, he can grieve as much for that stupid naive hope as for those elven children and the man who died for them. And for the casteless, pent up in their smothering underground alienages to become living evidence that nowhere in Thedas is free from monstrosity. There is no standing against that tide, small and singular as Kit is, his goodness a flickering cigarette light in the midst of a storm at sea. And if he can't fight it, Vandelin doesn't know who can.

He reaches for the bottle and pours himself a glass.

"Who forced them?" he asks finally, when he's sure his voice can stay steady.