Sorrel stared at her with eyes greener than the leaves, except at their newest, in the brief, bright youth at springtime. There was so much in that, and for a handful of breaths it was all he could do to circle the tide of ten thousand years, enough so that he couldn't even remember that first small bitterness because of course the elves of her Arda would never mark themselves. They would all be like her, pale and tall and strong and beautiful. And if the world waned over ten thousand years, they would be there to see it.

"...I won't live to see eighty," Was all he could say, at the last, and his voice came out weak, trembling and wet, like a new-born halla, though still standing— barely, "But. Why? I don't understand."

Sorrel knew why he loved the Dalish, and he understood why so many didn't. They were enemies, as seemingly inimicable as nugs and spiders, and in both cases it was the cause of nature that it should be so. Neither side could be elsewise, though one be wrong and the other right for it.

He didn't know what to think, or what to say. But how could his Creators and her Valar be the same, then? And how could she hate them? If they were not always good, they were at least on our side. If they sometimes warred, well then without them, everything had gone to the void, in chains and blood and thousands dead.

And she called this glorious?

"Why?"