Moonspear we just sell different parts of ourselves

"wintersbane," the featherbride said softly. different but no less iron-sided, she supposed; he had always been kind, but kind in the way that a stone atop a mountain might choose when it fell downward to kill its enemy. melkor no longer. he said the name of andraste, and the elf-queen's visage filtered back into the duck's mind. kukutux parted her lips to speak, but then the shadow revealed that she was no longer.

harboring the muted terror of a moment for having not recalled only the name but the face of a dead ruler, she nevertheless breathed up through the grey anguish. "i did not know. i am sorry for the hurt in your spirit." he had loved her and she him, but kukutux had not forgotten that she had been traded here to pay a debt, and had not been told until she stood before hydra and arcturus. 

it blunted the end of any sadness she might have experienced at the knowledge of it, but so much had gone on, and so many lost, that the duck was unsure where that pain ended and the newer began.

kukutux hoped the elven-made had been kinder to wintersbane in the end.