#forever lamenting the scars being on the wrong side in the vg cc

[gwynbleiddyn]

Rion closes the gap between himself and his son, stood in the quiet, damp stones of the Cobbled Swan. He feels the echo of his cane against the floor, watches as the sound ripples away from him in tides of red, fading. A punch of vibrant orange slips through in the shape of a word he knows well.

"Dad..." Kerros says, "You should be at home. Resting." Safe, is what he means. Rion smiles. Ten years ago, would he not be saying the same thing to his son? His eyes flick down at the movement of Kerros' hands towards him, pleading. Setting aside his cane, years of observation as a father come to the forefront of Rion's mind as he catches Kerros' hands gently, and holds them both in his own - still larger, still stronger, for now.

"These held little wooden dragons, once. Carelessly. You dropped them more than you played," he laughs, and even without hearing, he knows the sound is ragged. The blight has strangled him into a whisper. It will render him silent soon. "Luckily for us, you held a blade with more intent."

Rion meets his son's eyes - like his own, and yet, not at all. A faint crease of laughter narrows them for a second before Kerros' brow furrows again, honing in on what Rion isn't saying.

"You can be angry about this, Kesi. I was angry about the Inquisition. I still am. I think I always will be. And there is nothing that will make it easier to swallow, because people weren't meant to hold the fate of an entire world in their hands," Rion explains as gently as he can, but gentleness never came easy to him. "I asked Varric to keep you safe when this all started. I knew he couldn't promise it, and neither can I. Not really. But in all this, I still have my part, and as long as I'm still standing... I can't and I won't let you carry the world alone."

It's as though Kerros was waiting for permission to breathe, the way his head sinks and his shoulders drop - a man freed from the noose, albeit temporarily. Rion feels a hairline fracture slip through his heart, sick and wounded, and doomed to die by a thousand cuts. It's his lot as a Warden. As Inquisitor. Perhaps even as a father. He wouldn't change it if he could.

He pulls Kerros in, embracing him, becoming his fortress for another day. It won't last. But for now, it will hold.