His gasp is quiet, when Felassan slides his hand into Solas' own. He wanted the touch, craved it, needed it, but even so desperate he had known better than to hope, let alone to ask. How could he? But Felassan's hand is warm against his palm, and Solas' fingers close with belated care— and then urgently, returning that hold with touch-starved strength. They are shoulder-to-shoulder now and it takes real self-control not to sway into Felassan's weight. He must content himself with what he is given. It is not right to wish for more.

It is enough, for now. Enough to steady himself, and to ease some ghost of the horror out of his limbs.

"I lived more than a year among the mortals, no stronger than any of their mages. It showed me much of what the world had become, though I know you will have seen more," he admits. Time alone separated them, and the experience that went with it, and Felassan undoubtedly had more of that in the waking world than Solas, "I do not believe any of us could have predicted how well Beleth would adapt to circumstances. There was no reason to believe she would do more than become a useful tool. Instead, she mastered us all."