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“Can I ask you something?”
Solas didn’t look away from the campfire at Zara’s question. “If you like,” he replied simply, too focused on not grunting in pain while she sutured a particularly deep wound in his shoulder.
“Do you think we have any chance of winning this fight?” she asked, voice sounding small and more innocent than he’d ever heard her in the four months he’d come to know the Trevelyan mage.
He grunted as her needle passed through a particularly sensitive spot of flesh and he grimaced at the lancing pain.
It was not a terrible question. In her position, he would have asked the same, especially since she was so young compared to most in their circle of friends. Such innocence and uncertainty was to be expected. It was… refreshing to his old bones after so many ages of violence.
“I believe that you can,” he replied after a time. “Just as I believe there is a chance for failure as well.”
The raven-haired woman was silent for several moments.
“Well, at least you’re honest,” she sighed after a while. “That’s comforting.”
Solas chuckled as the last few stitches were sewn into place. “I’m pleased you think so, Inquisitor.”
Zara cut at the remaining thread and tapped his shoulder. “All done here. Do try to be more careful about letting undead stick a few arrows in you, next time.”
Solas stood, pulling on his still-soaked tunic and smiling ruefully as Zara wiped at the blood on her hands with a cloth. “I shall certainly endeavor to do so.”