[ When he acknowledges her, Neria immediately seeks his arm, touching it gently with her hand. For a time, she says nothing, assessing him first and foremost. His guilt is a symptom of a very dangerous and physical ailment, the withdrawal wracking his body. She is more concerned that he might get worse, that this is the beginning of a steeper decline, and she fears greatly for him. Her grip is gentle as she squeezes his arm, hoping to provide some kind of relief in the moment. He sounds awful, tired, his voice cracking. ]

There's nothing to forgive. You've done nothing wrong. You haven't failed anyone.

[ The Inquisition is run by vagabonds, outcasts, apostates, nobles, and oddities. They each, in turn, have had their difficulties and trials. Cullen is too hard on himself. She has known this for some time, with every apology he has offered for angry sentiments he expressed in his darkest hour. She never needed to forgive him for what she would have done, too, if they had been in opposite places. ]

You're hurting. The withdrawal...

[ Some nagging voice insists it would be better for him to take a little, to detox slowly. But would it, really, be better? Would he feel any better or would it drive him to take more? He has suffered enough to his esteem and pride in this moment; to suggest he give up would break him.

Instead, she simply remains beside him, and she reaches for his hand with her other one. ]

I'm here.