"It does," There's a pen-knife in his pack. There are footprints on the carpets, marks on the benches; nearly invisible. A dozen places where presence wears imperceptibly thin. Taken altogether in one great hollow. "Makes it real."

Death pushes on the Fade. Life, it pushes back. Heavy. Concrete.

"Never went back to Nevarra. Hill just collapsed."

Little funny, after all that. The capital, with a heap of dust; then Ferelden, and its tomb.