There was a time when he believed in the Maker, when he believed there was some higher power watching over him. He was young then, and his governess would tuck him into bed with the Chant of Light and soft prayers. But he grew older and he knew death. He knew sorrow, and grief, and pain. He saw the horror of man and he learned that if the Maker did exist He did not care. He came to bear the Mark and he came to be the Herald, and still he did not believe. Every time someone called him Herald or Your Worship, it made him sick inside. He wanted not to be as false as the Maker, but the people needed something to believe in. So he held his disbelief inside and spoke the words of the Chant as if he believed in them and they tasted like ash on his tongue. He played at divinity and felt like sin. And others' comfort became his torture. He drew himself up in solitude, became what the people needed him to be, and forgot who he was. He looked into the mirror and wondered who was peering back at him. He had compromised his beliefs for the sake of others and he felt all the hollowness of a being made of lies. He had crafted a cage around his soul and made for it no key. The comfort of others was no longer his to receive, only to give. So he gave, and gave, and gave, until he wondered at how much more he had left to give, and then gave more. By the time his Mark began to turn against him, he had begun to wonder at how no one had seen the emptiness in his eyes. He began to wonder whether the Mark would finally take the last he had to give, whether he would finally be free of his responsibility. Solas' betrayal only took that away from him. He would have to go on, keep giving, until the man who had been his friend was stopped. Afterwards wonders on the end of his burden could be entertained. For the moment he would have to draw himself up in his false faith and his comfort of lies and continue on, until his duty was done or his life was.
