Work Text:
"I...hate you," she chokes.
It starts, as it always does, with a voice. At first he thinks the voice speaks to him; but no, the person lying in the prison cell is unconscious, must be, after the explosion. The explosion that started everything - and ended it.
Solas kneels at their side, taking their hand in his, peeling away the gauntlet first, the glove second, finger by finger, inch by inch. The hand he holds in his own is small and elegant, though calloused and many-scarred.
And it glows with magic. His magic. Crackles with it, pulses like a living thing, a beast nesting inside her flesh.
Carefully, Solas pulls away the cowl over her face, feels the hollow space of his stomach drop down to his toes. Of course she would be beautiful. Of course.
“No,” his heart is in his throat. “You do not hate me now. But you will.”