Tamping down the burgeoning sense of pride — he isn’t her charge any more, hasn’t been for years, and she’s not going to try to claim more of an influence in the young man he’s become than his mother (to whom she credits more of her own journey than Morrigan would probably agree with) — she nods, thoughtfully, leaning her hip against the edge of her desk as she sets her gauntlet down upon it. (A curious thing, wires and lenses; her anchor focus. The glove that she drops on top of it matches, but for near purely aesthetic purposes.)

It’s still hard not to look at him and see the boy with his wooden sword, showing her what Alistair had taught him.

(Alistair and Morrigan, both asking her if she thought them awful once she knew. How easy it had been to say it had never entered her head not to trust that they’d done their best, made the best decision available to them.)

“We can use you,” she says, frank. “We’re still shorthanded more than we aren’t, but the work is...you aren’t going to be bored, I can promise you that. Though I suppose you might find our eluvians rather old hat, knowing your mother.” Fondness colours her voice; she misses Morrigan constantly, thinks of her often.

If she’d led a different life, maybe she’d have a daughter now, named for her.