[ That makes a grin break through his pensive frown. There’s a flare of certainty that he will find them, and they’ll be alive and well and happy to see him, and they’ll have a half-dozen children among them, each one more enraptured than the last with this tall, impossibly handsome Fereldan, drawling jokes that go over their heads and a little awkward with the littlest ones but still unmistakably kind. He can see it, clear as day. Curly-headed kids swarming him like a litter of kittens at mealtime. ]
Uncle By.
[ And he would be—Uncle Laith, probably, which is where his clarity and certainty crumbles. If he were someone else it might panic him. But he only puts it aside, a bridge to cross when he comes to it. None of them will call him anything if he can’t find them.
no subject
Uncle By.
[ And he would be—Uncle Laith, probably, which is where his clarity and certainty crumbles. If he were someone else it might panic him. But he only puts it aside, a bridge to cross when he comes to it. None of them will call him anything if he can’t find them.
Anyway, more importantly: ]
Cousin Whiskey.