Work Text:
He's got explicit orders not to touch the prisoners.
Unless directed to, of course, he thinks with a wicked grin.
He's been watching her though she tries to hide in the darkest corners of the dungeon, away from his penetrating eyes.
They take the wandmaker for questioning.
Rather than listen to the man scream, Rabastan makes his way to the dungeons to listen to hers instead.
When she steps into the light, she looks like an angel, glows like a faerie in the forest.
She's too pure, too perfect, for his filthy hands to touch and he backs away unsatisfied.