Though Jude doesn't have the instinctive understanding of what, exactly, Marcus has been through, he knows enough of the structure of Thedas to know this likely knocked on some doors that he's been keeping firmly shut.

He still remembers that rushed meeting in the belly of the Gallows, a thrown punch.

Even if he doesn't have a name to put the grief to, an altar to lay it at, Jude can taste it as clearly as the rest.

He comforts him as he would a wolf.

His fingertips first, brushing his spine, followed by the warm, steady expanse of his palm against his back, rubbing up between his shoulder blades. It brushes against him like a current, not obscuring, not hindering, but grounding. Centering. He will not allow Marcus to be swept away by the rushing tide.

Instead he gives him solid ground to anchor himself, so he can watch the greater shape of the feeling as it swirls around them both.

It is him and it is his, and it isn't wrong. But it can be dangerous.

"Yours is a strong soul," Jude whispers. "How much of that strength have you been turning against yourself?"