Cedric doesn't talk about his family like he didn't love them. He doesn't talk about them like they were something he escaped by going to the Chantry; if she's noticed any diffidence, it feels like the briskly pragmatic kind. The Chantry relieving a burden. One less mouth to feed. Her gaze still hangs on his name, carved into that wall, and she thinks: who commemorates the relief of burden?
Who'd carve out a memory in rock, except because it was precious? It's hard to reconcile the idea of someone who'd decide a ten year old was dead to them with that he could somehow have never known it.
“What do you remember about leaving?” she asks, quiet. A steady place to brace the anger against, maybe.
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Cedric doesn't talk about his family like he didn't love them. He doesn't talk about them like they were something he escaped by going to the Chantry; if she's noticed any diffidence, it feels like the briskly pragmatic kind. The Chantry relieving a burden. One less mouth to feed. Her gaze still hangs on his name, carved into that wall, and she thinks: who commemorates the relief of burden?
Who'd carve out a memory in rock, except because it was precious? It's hard to reconcile the idea of someone who'd decide a ten year old was dead to them with that he could somehow have never known it.
“What do you remember about leaving?” she asks, quiet. A steady place to brace the anger against, maybe.