He moves closer. Two steps, three. No more, although she longs suddenly and sharply for him to move closer, to take her in his arms. She wishes she were brave enough, confident enough in this area, to do it herself. But she's not, so she just wants.

Wants, and is so grateful for the way he says what she couldn't bring herself to. That she's still frightened. It's less damning in his mouth, seemingly more just an acknowledgement of humanity rather than the precursor to demon possession. Like he sees her, not the Herald of Andraste. As honoured as Ginevra is that the Maker so clearly has a reason for her, she's still a living, breathing, moral woman. She's still herself, despite the Mark.

Despite what Envy tried to do.

"Thank you," Ginevra says, looking at him again. Sincerity rings from her, tired and worn but true. "I think I needed to hear that."

It feels real, coming from him. He, who was so clearly fought battles and wars, who isn't offering her platitudes of what he thinks she might want to hear. Just reassurance, from one warrior to another.

Strange, to think of herself as such. But she supposes she is, now.

She's killed enough now. Fought with her body and magic for enough, now.

"Is it... normal, though, to feel hollowed out by it all? Even surviving, even triumphing?"