Davin struggled for composure as every gasping beat of his cowardly heart sent heat to his face. Frantically he searched the strangers’ faces, looking for some hint that they would take pity on the plight of the elves. He saw… something, perhaps distaste, perhaps a repulsed recognition. He needed them not just to know what transpired, but to understand.
Before Davin’s muddled mind could formulate a plea, one of the remaining elves raspingly called for the others to listen. Horad, who was hearty for his age and had been a fierce sight in battle, now lay wan and pale in spite of the newcomers’ healing ministrations. Now he looked weak. Vulnerable. But even though his aging body, clad so unassumingly in tatters, was shaking and spent, his eyes still burned with the same fury Horad had shown on the battlefield.
That fury was now focused solely on Brethor. “Cooperate? Don’t dare speak to them of cooperation!” he spat, no thought of pleading or reasoning in his voice. “Don’t dare look at any one of them and pretend to be anything more than the blackhearted devils you are!”
Davin placed his good hand on Horad’s shoulder. “Fifteen years ago,” said Davin, “Horad lost is wife to the Tevinter slavers. Rayna, who you see there by the fire, lost both her parents. Every one of us has lost something. Each of us remember what it was like to have a piece of our hearts snatched away so men like these can line their pockets with sovereigns.”
He continued, “That letter that you hold -- we are the ‘goods’ it speaks of. We are wares in their eyes, a commodity. One cannot reason with men who value your dignity so little; to take up arms against them was our only choice. Now I ask that you show compassion to those of us who remain.”