faderift | I can't help but pull the earth around me

Entry tags:

I can't help but pull the earth around me

WHO: Thranduil + Solas
WHAT: Thranduil prods at an inconsistency, Solas parries.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: Provost's Office
NOTES: n/a

The room reflects the occupant. There is the tapestry, naturally, the heraldry of the Inquisition mapped out in deep green branches and vines. The shelves are filled with books—mostly the sort that cannot be checked out from the library on a whim, but they are far better guarded here, mixed in with ones they have multiple copies of, or Thranduil’s own stash. Behind his desk, looking out over the rest of the room, the Fen’Harel mask he received for use in the play held for Sina watches out over the room, empty sockets over a long snout.

Thranduil meanders back to the little table by the fireplace, bringing with him a small tray of sweets. He sets them down near Solas’ elbow, and then sits opposite him, offering a brief but conspiratorial glance. They are, naturally, entirely for Solas—in his other hand, he had a glass of wine, which he made no move to offer Solas a twin of. Asking, only to be refused, would be a waste of time.

“How have you been faring?” he asks, settled and comfortable in his seat. “I would comment on the weather, but surely it must be better indoors than outside as I imagine apostates find themselves all too frequently. Barring the location, of course.”

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He nods along, following, taking the occasional sip of his wine.

“’Supposed Elven Gods’,” he says. “I did not take you for an Andrastian, Solas.” He wards off judgement with an even tone, no disapproval to be found in carefully minded language. Myrobalan, who he is quite fond of, holds to the Chant fiercely, and Thranduil knows he has no chance to affect that—if change comes, it must be from Myrobalan himself. Still—no reason to end a friendship over it. It is not as if he wholly approves of the Dalish way of doing things, either. Only that it is—easier to reach them, as he is.

“There are massive spiders,” he says. A nuisance, but little trouble for seasoned warriors. “And I would not tempt chance. But you must be vulnerable by necessity when you commune, so I would beg you to continue minding what might remain.”

This is what Solas enjoys about conversation with Thranduil; it's quiet and simple, and easy. It is good, he thinks, to have someone that he is able to spend time with that doesn't make him want to press his face into his brow with frustration.

"I do not remember saying that I was," his smile is small but present. "I am simply aware that what the Dalish might consider Gods are not necessarily as they seem. I have ventured into the Fade and lived the dreams of those who have passed; I have seen histories come to life before me. I know the truth of the People, and many see fit to ignore the knowledge that I have discovered." 'Many' is the Dalish, of course, who Solas had approached in order to try and give them an understanding of all the things they had lost over time.

Very, very few of them had ever had the courage to listen.

Still, the conversation makes him smile, settling back into his chairs. "I set a barrier, and if you leave them food they are content to allow you to sleep in peace. The spiders are no danger to me."

“You have said little enough about yourself,” Thranduil half heartedly complains. “Enough that I consider knowing your love of sweets a prize. Though I do not fault you for being a private man.”

Perhaps hiding was better than lying outright. Curious now, he holds his glass and leans forward to Solas’ leaning back, drawn in. “I would know the truth, if you would share it. I have long wondered about those who would be closest to... my kin. To know I missed the Dales by two centuries only is....”

Solas, who must see so much of the lives of others, will perhaps be more forgiving of the careless way that he speaks of his age. Not to brag, disliking the awe that might sometimes accompany it, only stating fact.

“May they continue to be appeased,” he says, and spares a thought to if one of those spiders is Morrigan.

"You have not asked," Solas responds, the smile still settled on his face. It's true enough - not many people ask about his background, his history, his past, even if he doesn't go out of his way to be particularly open about it. "I'll admit, I did not come to the Inquisition intending to make friends. I came to offer my help and that's what I have done."

It would be too difficult to lie, to give half-truths and pretend as though he is something he isn't - more than he is already, that is. Solas is well aware of how dangerous and deadly it is to try and keep track of a dozen lies said to a dozen different people, so he keeps his thoughts and his voice to himself. It is simply easier.

"The Gods... They were arrogant and fickle. They warred against themselves with feuds and vendettas. No real god need prove himself. Anyone who tries is mad or lying." Solas frowns, turning his attention away. "The Dalish have lived as separate clans for centuries now: thus they have learned and interpreted and forgotten parts of their history."

He does not blame them for forgetting, not truly; he blames them for refusing to relearn the truth of the heritage they are so desperate to keep alive.

He scoffs, if good-naturedly, and makes an elegant gesture with his free hand. “Forgive me my oversight. Where were you born? What sort were your parents?”

Who did you love and who loved you. General enough questions. He will not pry overmuch, but he wonders a great deal. How he avoided the Circles and what surrounds that.

His voice is soft, sadness lilting it.

“No gods at all, then. Unique and original Creation was beyond them, I suppose.”

Perhaps that was better. He had his suspicions. He takes a drink.

He has seen so much. The pattern is not unknown to him.

“Men make grand heroes out of their forebearers. It is strange indeed to me to see elves reduced to a state where they must rely on legends, not living memory, and so do the same.”

That, at least, makes Solas laugh, and he shakes his head with an idle fondness. There are few people that he would tolerate such questioning from, and he hums absently.

"I do not know much about my parents. I was born in a village to the North and began to travel young, as I wished to learn more about the world. I knew that I could see memories in the Fade and there was a great deal for me to see across Thedas."

There are not many people left in Solas' life; whatever friendships he had developed were nothing now, gone and lost to the world, and what remains are his connections to spirits and the world of the Fade. Friendships outside of dreams are harder to come by, especially with the uncertainty he carries on his shoulders more often than not.

"They pass their tales down through word and stories rather than truth. With the spread of their people across Thedas it is not such a great surprise, but their unwillingness to accept the truth is what will be their downfall."

“Surely not Tevinter?” he says, though what would be better to spark such a mindset in a young elf. And then there would have been the matter of his magic. “When did your talents manifest?”

Allowed the chance to question, he will indulge. Solas invited it.

Not wholly a rebuke, and with his brow slightly creased in concern, he steps around the issue. “If they had all submitted to the Alienages and converted wholecloth to Andrastianism, what would be left? To endure takes strength, and if they draw that strength until they are retorted from stories, what harm is there in that.”

More humorously: “What happened with the clans you tried to enlighten, my friend, and how did you go about it?”

"Not Tevinter, no. I doubt I would be before you now had I been born in Tevinter." His distaste for the nation is clear in the way that his lips curl just a little; he doesn't like their ideals, the way they treat people, be they elven or otherwise. Solas has no time for slavers and would do his best to change it if he had the power.

Still; just because he is allowing the questions doesn't mean that he is going to answer them in the kind of depth that, perhaps, Thranduil might want.

"They endure because they forget," he shakes his head, jaw tight. "They claim to be holding true to their heritage, claim to be the holders of the truth of elven history, and they are incorrect. If they were willing to listen, to accept that, perhaps, they might have something wrong then there may be some redemption, but they are not."

Solas sighs, frustration obvious.

"I tried to speak to them. I tried to tell them that there was more they needed to learn, things they misremembered, but I was shunned and cast out."

“The Anderfels, then? I would not have taken you for an Ander.” The distaste is felt mutually, but Thranduil leans a bit forward if only to press the dessert plate just a little bit closer to clear the taste from his mouth.

“You threaten their hope, Solas.” Again, a careful handling, mindful and diplomatic. “You cannot try and take away the cornerstone of all they are and expect them to survive it. If they cannot cry out to Falon’din in grief or Elgar’nan when one of the shelmen has slaughtered their children, what would they replace it with? Andraste? Who condemns the magic they all once wielded like breathing? The Qun, who would cut out their hearts and make them another sort of slave? The truth set before the most devout of them—the unbroken who love the legend so much they wear it on their skin—it would break them. Surely you can understand their resistance to the removal of those who they believe protect them when no one else does.”

Another slow drink. He settles back into his chair.

“Not,” thoughtfully. “—unless you offer them something better.”

(Galadriel, shining, he and the Noldor that have been put here standing tall, unbroken, their arms open, speaking of truths forgotten and forbidden in Thedas.)

"Somewhere like it, certainly." It's not as though he's edging around his heritage - he had told the Inquisition exactly where his village was when he had joined them as an ally. He has nothing to hide, not as far as he's concerned - because he has already given them the information.

Still, Thranduil leaves him a touch frustrated, his features coloured with the slow beginning of irritation that comes from endless conversations that go hand in hand with any tales of his ventures into the Dalish camps.

"I would replace it with the reality," Solas frowns. "They celebrate these beings as if they were godlike, as if they have somehow earned the reputation of being great and wonderful. The Dalish pass on their stories, mangling the details, forgetting the truth of the people that they dare to suggest are worthy of worship. I have ventured into the Fade... I have seen what they have not. There is no room to give them the right to claim themselves as being of the People when they shun the reality of what that meant. I will not allow them to wear a mantle that is undeserved. The culture of 'our people'... It should mean more. The Dalish forget much."

Bowing his head, he breathes out, the tension clear in his shoulders, frustration from years of a weight he cannot share, of knowledge that has been refused time and time again.

"The truth is better. They can be better from heeding it, but they are foolish and ignorant."

Something about the anger is too personal, held too close to his heart. This, somehow, strikes him not as the frustration of one who has glimpsed things as they ought through the Fade, as much as something like that might give Solas ideas of what might be. It is too much like Thranduil’s own—Solas knows what is possible. Knows it because he has lived it. But how—

Solas is in his division. He will have a copy of the information taken down either in Haven, or from Skyhold. In fact, the paperwork is a bare few steps away, but no amount of temptation could overrule the necessity of not giving anything away. Checking the information—birthplace, whatever dates have been provided—can wait. And the likelihood of his suspicion bearing fruit is infinitesimally small.

He would know. All those months alone, with no kin, no Galadriel—he would have sensed it. There would have been some way to tell.

“Forgive me. I would not have spoken of it had I known how distasteful you find it. May I bring you something to drink?” he asks. “I find myself longing for familiar things, and I regret not paying better attention to my father when he prepared our meals. The wine is a passable enough imitation of what I preferred there.”

It's impossible for Solas to reign himself in when buttons are pressed and the nature of Dalish heritage and history is one of the things that he cannot, for a moment, begin to ignore. It hurts him to think about the lies and untruths that those people have spread for decades, clinging to ideals that are wrong and refusing to listen, even for a moment, about what their true history is. They are ignorant, in his mind, and foolish, leaving themselves open for all the criticism the world has to offer.

At the same time it's obvious that, perhaps, he had let himself go too far; Thranduil will be all the more curious about what he has seen in the Fade, the memories that haunt him even now, and he cannot let too much slip before his plans have begun to be put into motion. He has to be more careful, and Solas berates himself for being so foolish that he cannot wrap himself around the idea of being calm. His emotions got the better of him, which is rare indeed.

Slowly, carefully, he breathes out, shaking his head and waving his hand carefully.

"No, thank you. It is something incredibly dear to me and my frustration got the better of me. I'll have to beg your forgiveness in this instance, my friend."

He smiles, shaking his head. “Never feel the need to beg for anything from me, Solas. It would be granted freely if it was needed at all.”

A moment, perhaps, for Solas to catch his breath. His glass is nearing empty anyway, and the bottle by his desk. Thranduil stands, and leaves the other elf by the fire, retrieving the wine and refilling his glass. The room is small enough that he can speak in a normal tone and know it will carry.

“I know you will need to return the favor eventually. Tell me; how goes your painting?”

"Your kindness is too much," Solas manages a smile, at least. His friendship with Thranduil is a precious and marvellous thing, something he had never imagined nor expected, and he bears the mantle of such soft wonder on his thinning shoulders.

The moment alone gives him a few brief seconds to compose himself, to push the anger and frustration down and away back to the pit of his stomach where it boils and bubbles, prepared to burst over for another argument, at another time and place. He's safe here, Solas is aware of that, but sometimes it is difficult to trust oneself when you carry so many secrets.

"Well enough. I think I shall have to find some newer places to spread it otherwise I'll run out of room."

"The walls of my bedroom are blank," Thranduil says, gesturing with elegant fingers to the door over his shoulder. "Stone, yes, but rough enough to take a coat of plaster and dry enough that I would not fear damage, not for several hundred years at the very least, assuming the roof holds."

It is a room with tall ceilings, undecorated but for tapestries thrown up against the winter cold, and even these are only an acquiescence to the fire he bore the fault for to protect his lady.

"You would be left alone whilst you painted," he says. "And I would hardly restrain your hand when it came to the topic. It is, after all, my bedroom, and Leviathan," the nug, dozing in the corner, "the most likely to see it. Perhaps you might paint some of the things you had seen in Arlathan. The pieces without those fools who would claim godhood. That is, if you were so inclined."

Solas does play along with the game; he looks around and takes in the blank walls, bare and barren of artistry or anything that might suggest that this room is Thranduil's beyond some personal objects (he is ignoring, still, the mask of Fen'Harel upon the wall). There is some curiosity about what he might do, and it's obvious that his mind is taking that in even as he tries to focus his attention back on his friend.

"You would have me paint the history of the People?" Solas' lips twitch a little, but he doesn't seem put off by the idea. He has seen things in dreams that he might have longed to bring to life around him, but there's some uncertainty about where he might do it. The Gallows were not worthy of such memory, but somewhere private like this...

"If you wish your room painted I would glad to do it, my friend."

“The history of the People, some forgotten scene that pleases you,” he says, accompanied by an elegant little shrug of his shoulders. “Whatever you wished.”

Solas’ assent makes him smile, leaning forward to close some of the distance between them. “Thank you. Truly. If there is anything I could do that would give you as much joy as this will give me, you need only ask.”

Perhaps take the mask off the wall? How his eyes skip over it is most delightful. That he finds the Dalish that offensive is—curious. Someone his age would have had time to have a series of unpleasant run-ins in the woods.

"That pleases me? I should hope it would please you as well." Free reign to paint as he desires opens up avenues of portraits and histories that have yet been denied to him, but there is that gentle nudge in his mind - to be wary, to be careful, to not paint anything that might give him away or ruin what might be too much for someone like him to know. There are limits to the whispers of the Fade and he is yet unaware of just how much Thandruil might know.

Turning his head, Solas relaxes as his friend leans near, his own smile soft and gentle. There is something to be said for the comforting familiarity of friendship and it has been some time since Solas had enjoyed it for the sake of simply having a friend; most of his relationships of late have been borne of necessity, not a simple desire to be around someone for good company.

"Painting my people will give me the greatest joy." He admits it quietly, nodding his head. "There is nothing better that you could give me, truly. I welcome the chance to paint you something wonderful."

"Anything depicting the history of our people would please me," he returns. "Though I will admit a fondness for scenes set in forests at twilight. I had in my rooms as an elfling a large tapestry depicting the awakening of my kin at the shores of a great lake, all lit by starlight with bodies gently rising from slumber. It was soothing to slip into reverie while looking at."

If only he had some way to show Solas his childhood, the singular splendor of Thingol's court or the amber-hued afternoon of his own. Conveniently absent the trappings of his kinghood, of course, for that is a secret closely held.

"Perhaps you could find the time to start within the next month? I will arrange to have the furniture moved to allow you access. Lady Vauquelin is the only one who haunts my rooms with any regularity, and even she has the sense not to bother an artist at work. Do you have all the supplies you require?"

"I have paints and brushes, enough for this room at least." Solas has had little time for painting and frescoes since he abandoned his position at Skyhold; that room is decorated with some echoes of what their Inquisitor had done, once, but had laid bare for some time. With nothing to follow and no stories to write Solas had instead buried himself in research alone, at least until he was drawn to Kirkwall.

The idea of being allowed to paint again pleases him more than he'd like to admit. It's something he does for enjoyment more than anything else, something that hails back to a time and a place that has been ripped from him by his own mistakes; being given the chance to relive that... It is something that he cannot express in words. He thinks, perhaps, that Thranduil understands better than most all the same.

"I can begin within the week, if you wish." He smiles, almost lifting a shoulder, as if casual. "My time is taken by reading and research, beyond the calling of the Inquisition. I'm sure most would be glad to see me leave the library more often."

"I do wish," he says, less imperious and more sweetly delighted by the whole matter. "Though I will miss your company in the library, I confess. I have heard you served as a more moderating influence if only by your presence."

Soothing, even, which is what Thranduil thinks he will be with the anchor of the elven once-and-future on his wall.

"It is pleasing to know that you by your own nature will not overwork yourself; I think you least of all would find yourself sleep deprived."

"I would not call it moderate," Solas comments gently, something like a smile colouring his features. "Only that there are some that seem afraid of my company, as if I might bite, somehow. It seems my lessons on the careful handling of books have had some impact, at least."

He cannot imagine any world or place where his presence might be soothing, where he might offer comfort instead of antagonism and uncertainty. His eyes flick around the room, taking it in, already imagining artwork, before he pushes himself up and to his feet.

"I can assure you that I will not lose sleep over this. I am a master of my own time." He bows his head. "If you have anything that you wish to add, any specifics, then let me know. Otherwise, I will plan." And that, he thinks, should be enough; there are many thoughts and things that Solas can do, and with his regular meeting with his friend come to a close he can begin to place them upon paper.

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I can't help but pull the earth around me

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call it concluded after your tag?

sounds good!