#knife.

matching my lips to the knife handle

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The direct path to this temple cut through the Graves, reminders of slaughter of those trying to defend their home. Now Alanari rode at the head of the invading army. They'd expected the temple to be empty, still, silent.

Alanari hadn't wanted to kill Corypheus' templars, or enthralled Wardens, either - not really, not if there'd been another options. This was different.

She'd begged the guardians to hold their blades, to listen. None had. Hot blood covers her hands, drips from the dagger that had pierced the side of the elf crumpled at her feet, finished by a shard of ice. The blade clatters against metal, fallen from the hand unwilling to wield it.

Solas had intervened, saved them from their hesitation. He's closer than they'd thought, and that, too, points to their distraction. Whatever he says is lost to the pounding of blood in their ears, covering their hands. Andraste had come for the elves, again. Whatever he's saying is lost, their attention glued to the corpse they'd made. Fixed, even as his bloodless hands rest on their head, lips buried in their hair. Too gentle; he'd seen what they'd done.