Twilight descended upon them slowly, bands of red, gold, and blazing orange fading away -- deepening into violets and indigos that contrasted sharply with the lingering golden rays that touched upon the horizon. It was getting cooler as the hours progressed, strains of humidity that typically plagued Amaranthine over the summer alleviated by milder zephyrine caresses. Whatever sympathy was visible on Deidre's face was tempered with the sort of contentment that was found rarely in those that have experienced plenty of conflict and all for the sake of furthering her knowledge of the world; sundown was her favorite time of day, not even the dark subject matter that predominated their present discussion took away that obvious appreciation.
After Bethen finished speaking, the hazel-eyed female absently tugged at a wayward chocolate tress, looping it around her pinky and tugging at it absently. She quietly observed the mage -- she was no mindreader, and her companion held her expressions so carefully she wasn't sure what to make of it. Whatever the alluded something was, she couldn't quite discern it from what she saw. If that particular avenue was open, she would have to rely on whatever logical deductions she could make about the matter; subtler cues, the sorceress's tone of voice. While she knew little about the principles that drove magic, she had been schooled all her life by the Chantry. The very nature of a mage was to carry some of the world's direst transgressions, her childhood colored by the idea that those who wielded mana were by their existence blasphemous. Years on the road whittled down those biases bit by bit, rose-colored glasses shattered in favor of truths more complex than described on those textbooks. The world was never shaded by black and white, or even shades of gray, but the multiple hues which constituted right and wrong; complicated kaleidoscopes resultant of human thought, emotion, and reactions to a particular set of circumstances.
"...it wouldn't solely be that I'm a mage, but you can't say that it isn't a factor," her raven-haired companion pointed out, her glacier stare falling onto pale and delicate finger-ends.
The audible sound that responded to Bethen was one heavily laden with contemplation, and no small degree of skepticism. "Well," the historian began slowly. "Are you certain that your very nature as a mage matters to him, or is it the fact that you yourself are painfully aware that you're a mage that matters to him? Verbally the difference is subtle, but the gulf between both states of thinking are quite wide. To clarify...he might care that you are one, or he might not give a damn about that so much as he cares that you care you are one, and despite being disconnected from you for so long, knows enough about you or is aware enough to be able to discern that."
Her expression gentled at witnessing the briefest brush of the other woman's fingertips over the corner of her eye. "The best and worst part about Aurin Demarc is that he keeps you guessing," she commented, bemusement hinted at her tone. "He isn't the sort to open his chest and expose his heart to the four winds on his own accord...he has been under templar supervision too long to do that. It's not the most reassuring thing to hear in the world right now, I know, but it's the truth. That's why I always thought that the best way to determine what goes on inside his head is to just ask. That's...really the extent of my opinion. It would be a pity, I think, to let your friendship with Aurin stagnate just because your paths are different or because Time allegedly dictates that the two of you concentrate on your separate paths and move on. Especially when I can see that you really don't want that to happen."