"If I don't care, then I'm like the mad apostates."

It's not what she meant to say, and she worries it might spoil their moment. If they were having one: Andraste, she doesn't know. But Blackwall sees her, he's fought beside her, he knows battle and fighting and the ugliness of it, so maybe she can say these things. Maybe she can say them and he'll still look at her like this, like her dark thoughts and mortal failing aren't a disappointment to an image.

"That's..." Ginevra huffs a breath. "That's what I've been telling myself, since the rebellion began. I have to care. Even if it's hard, or maybe especially because it's hard. It's so easy to feel rage and hatred, and." And let it consume you, let it build and build until you do awful things, all the things you justify to yourself no matter who is screaming.

Except she can't think about Ostwick. She can't think about what happened there, which isn't the same as not caring, it is about not falling into a sobbing heap on the poor man beside her.

"Maybe it's all some test. If we can make ourselves care through being numb, we're still... Us."