This time, Solas does not flinch away, does not even make a pretense at indifference. Instead, he turns in on himself, twisting— twisting slightly towards Felassan, as if that touch, one bare hand on his wrist is something he would hold onto, if he could. For all that, the motion is minute, reflexive, and the sound he makes no less deliberate. Solas is still, after all these thousands of years, a wounded animal, when it comes to Mythal.

"She said she knew I would come. She— it was a familiar touch," He says, quietly. She had touched his cheek, and embraced him. And he had cut her down, coldly, in that moment. The first note of tenderness that had existed between them in more time than he could truly reckon with, despoiled, "I am sure she understood what I had come for. She called me old friend, and she did not resist."