Copious other protests reached for the edges of his mind, but the familiar state of being cradled in such a way hushed them into silence. He hadn't expected for the sergeant -- Lythe, as it was hard to think of her rank like this -- to so easily fall into this role, and a tug at the back of his mind said that he was rather too old for it, but he hardly cared just then. He direly needed it, and when he felt her hand in his hair his breathing eased and he closed his eyes. She was a natural, and he turned a little further to rest his arm over her lap in a half-attempt at returning the embrace. Her pulse was strong under his ear. It was like a lullaby.
"Did you have children?" he asked suddenly, his voice still coming out in low puffs. He could picture Lythe with them, a good mother in the dwarven fashion, at once a powerful disciplinarian and a shelter from the rest of the world. The children of such a mother would never wonder if they were cared for. Thoughts of mothers led him to rambling again, having no strength to temper them and keep them silent. "My mother was so beautiful. She had hair like spun gold and weaved little trinkets into it. She'd always yell at me for trying to pull them out when I was little, but what child could resist sparkly crystal beads and the like? And she wore this dress... it was my favorite. Sapphire velvet, same color as her eyes, high and modest on the neck and twirling 'round her figure very softly, like water. She always told me she wanted to see the ocean someday. Now I will see it without her."
A heavy sigh punctuated his lips, raw, as if the woman he spoke of was dead. "I wonder what Guthor thought of her. I hope he thought she was beautiful. I hope she offered him tea." The last bit was utter nonsense, but it apparently related to the image in his mind, perhaps some memory of his mother on a particular day, teacup in hand. He could still see her clearly with very little effort. Her mouth curved like a bow around the porcelain rim, around the words of his poetry lessons, around her dreams for his future, around her goodbye. How long would it be until she began to blur around the edges, like water on ink? The thought made him shiver again, this time in fear. He did not trust even the finest of the words he knew to keep her memory crisp. One day, the whole of Orzammar might follow, receding until it was no more than the faintest accent on a former foreigner's tongue.