He should have known she would not permit it to go without comment; he can see the recognition in her eyes, can see the moment when she realizes what it means. What surprises him is the gentle censure in her tone— does she believe he should have defended himself? Solas is unused to tenderness; he is not gentle with himself.

He allows himself one bare, quiet moment of weakness, and then reaches to grasp her wrist, to carefully disengage her from tending to him. He doesn't deserve it... and it will do no good.

"It is nothing," He says, quietly, "And it will likely happen again. I—"

He stumbles on the verbal threshold, and cannot quite prevent himself from closing his eyes against the pain of the admission. The scrabbling, animal horror is climbing up his throat, and Solas fears she will hear it in his speech, see the agony in his expression.

"I have no magic. I cannot even sense the Fade," Solas nearly breaks, can hear the crack in his own voice. He would offer much to prevent it, but there is little he can do, "It will heal. But let us be diligent at our work, and perhaps our new Masters will be merciful."

He does not fool himself into believing they are free to refuse. Whatever this place is, however prettily it dresses itself up, it is a place of bondage. But he can do nothing as he is.