"I have been known to craft a tool of magic, on occasion," He says, and reached out to her. They were all skin and bare now, for all that their position was wretchedly exposed, but Solas allowed himself this much.

It ought to have been awkward, wooden fingers, cool to the touch. But the veneer was smooth and elegantly applied, the wood moving almost as skin would, over internal joints. He could sense nothing of its interior, limited as he was, but he guessed at lyrium, and a combination of runes. Solas brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them, first the wooden hand, and then the one of flesh and blood, as the light of her flare played over his face. His foolishness was what had allowed this to happen; he would never forget the terror of her screams as she lay curled around the mark's agony.

"Ir abelas," He murmurs, both for the delay, and for her pain, "Come, now. Let us get this over with. The sooner we begin..."

He lets her go, and steps back, finally. Deep breath, now. And step into the water, where it is hideously, blessedly, cold.