What Rhocanth looked up to was still an expression of utmost sympathy and understanding. Only someone as heartless as a darkspawn could have sat there and not be moved by the pain that ached in the boy's every word, and Lythe was no such person. Her own life and transitioning death were so simple in comparison to Rhocanth's, but it was not so hard to put herself in his shoes as she had done with so many other Legionnaires before.
The hard thing was walking that careful line between truth and kindness, given Rhocanth's emotional turmoil and the fact that she truly didn't want to make him feel worse. He was old enough to be a warrior but still young enough to be a child, and yes, there was an old part of her that still could've wished for magic words to set everything to rights again, but the rest of her knew far better.
"I'm sorry, Rhocanth," that rest of her answered unhappily, and she put a callused hand on his back as if she could somehow take some of the burden off his shoulders that way. "It isn't fair that you were punished for being truly noble, but there is nothing that can be done about it now."
Lythe then hesitated a moment, weighing her own words, before allowing herself to add: "If there's any consolation in it, the Shaperate can't erase the memories of us from those that loved us -- and I assure you, Guthor will have delivered that letter of yours by now... even if he had to barge through the doors of House Garal itself to do so."
And that was neither platitude nor well-meaning lie. When it came to Guthor, once of Harrowmont, it was the plain and honest truth.