Fin brought the cup to her lips, looking so, as if the drink was the best she had ever drunk. Solas swayed on his feet as he saw the bloodstain she placed the cup on.
He never went around cleaning that table. Letting it get infested with maggots.
Letting it stink.
He had told himself, time and time again, that it was his own soul which was stinking. That he was just as rotten as that table.
It was what had kept him bringing the whip down on his back time and time again.
How could Fin be so calm sitting by it?
That table, which was a mirror of her brother's soul?
"I threw it away," she brought the cup to her lips again. There were marshmallows there.
Solas dragged himself to the table, sitting down. He wanted to scorch his throat with that drink. To make sure that he would never, ever, taste anything but his own burned tongue.
He drank from the hot chocolate… but it wasn't hot. It was ice-cold.
Kept liquid with a rune.
"Why?" He asked her. "I ruined your life."
