Her words are nonsensical, a rising, angry spew of random— no, not random, merely jumbled. She is angry, has every right to be angry with him, it is the outcome he has often worked towards, after all. Better for her to despise him, to let go and move on.

But not this; this was... passion. She advances on him, and he takes an unwilling half-step back before recovering his balance, holding his ground. She's never done that, before, never come at him as if to attack.

She doesn't attack, not with her hands, nor any weapon, save that which is most cutting.

"What? Finished?" Solas stares at her in astonishment, "Nothing can be finished while Elgar'nan still lives."

It is the most novel thing that has happened to him since the surprising occasion upon which Varric's most recent wastrel had enclosed him in his own trap. Perhaps he should be grateful to even be capable of being surprised, but Fen'Harel does not appreciate the sensation.

"We have not spoken directly in— Dirthara'shiral, go where? What are you talking about?"