faderift | there was only me and my disgrace

He enters with a smile and a swish of his robes against the floor, turning to close the door after himself.

“I apologize for the surprise,” he murmurs, making for the window. Open or closed, it does not matter; the likelihood that they will be overheard is so slim as to be zero. A benefit of the sparsely populated Gallows, but he enjoys the view of the harbor well enough.

Thranduil looks Solas over searchingly as if to prove to himself that nothing is new. No, his friend looks like he always has, calm and scholarly in a very particularly homegrown way. And he cannot really blame himself for missing signs, for the elvhen, though alike, are not mirrors to the quendi.

“What was it like, when you woke from uthenera?”

It's always a pleasant surprise to see his friend outside of their weekly meetings with one another; it makes a chance to be welcomed in his own rooms rather than the offices he's used to. There's a few moments where he steps away and shifts to tuck away some of the notes and drawings that litter his desk, pictures of Legolas based on the art that Gwen had brought him.

Eyes follow Thranduil moving around the room. There's not much to see, truly - it's bare and sparse for the most part, decorated only with the desk and the books that he brings back from the library, when he does dare to bring them back. Thranduil seems oddly out of place in the midst of it all, looking regal.

Being stared at makes him uncomfortable, a little on edge, and he's about to comment on it when Thranduil speaks. It takes great effort for Solas to stop himself from instinctively tensing in reaction to it and he turns his head, eyes scanning over the other man before he breathes out gently, as if confused.

"I'm uncertain as to what you mean."

"Mellon-nin, we could speak cleverly around one another for hours without saying anything at all, or you could acknowledge yourself to be closer kin than I suspected at first," he is not alone, Galadriel is not alone, they have more than they thought they did, "and we could speak of what we are going to do, going forward."

Because this changes everything.

Thranduil crosses over to him, reaches out a hand.

"You are elvhen." The difference in word is clearly enunciated. "You have dreamed of Elvhenan but you lived there and then too, and now you are here, with Galadriel and I, and we need you."

Edited 2018-05-08 21:16 (UTC)

It's very clear that something has happened to inspire some new, novel knowledge in Thranduil and Solas is not entirely sure how to manage the situation. It has never been the case that he has been caught out so thoroughly and he wishes he knew what had betrayed him if only so that he could counteract it appropriately. As it stands he is somewhat on the back foot, left to stand his ground or decide, instead, to flee with tail between his legs.

He has never been trapped as well as he has been now, in this moment, and he lifts his head a little higher, watching Thranduil with an intensity that he cannot disguise. He has to find a means of protecting himself, his position here, the future of his plans and what he seeks to do with the Veil and the Fade.

It seems, no matter what happens, he cannot deny it any more than he can confess to all his sins. Thranduil has some pieces of the puzzle but not everything that Solas is, and that is the best that he can hope for. For now, at least. He ha to protect himself and that is what comes first, before anything else, beyond any friendship that he might share with Thranduil.

Solas stares at his hand. He hesitates.

"What are you asking of me? On what assumptions?"

Solas makes as if to flee, and Thranduil allows himself to consider pursuit through the halls of the Gallows. He would never actually, but—an interesting thing to imagine.

“You are—” he gestures, something short, as if to indicate himself. His hand falls. “You know too much. You speak of the Elvhen Empire as I speak of Doriath, and while I would allow for some of that as a consequence of your Fade-walking, it is all—very convenient. Your friend, Wisdom. And,” he says, “I had a scout in the area you spoke of as where you came from. She took a detour to your birthplace. She was shocked by the age of the ruins, and she has seen a great deal.”

He waits, to allow it to sink in. “You are my dear friend, Solas.” Gently, now. “I ask nothing of you other than what you would give freely.”

There is some fear, true, and some panic, mixed in with uncertainty, but above all that... Above anything else is a swell of pride. Solas chooses his friends and allies wisely, he always has done, and the pride he feels in seeing one of his fellows put the pieces of a puzzle broken over centuries together is immeasurable. It is not something he expected to happen for years, yet here Thranduil stands as though it had been something of a few mere moments to piece together.

He knows enough, Solas thinks, but not everything. It is what encourages him to stay, to stand, to pause, to abandon the idea of turning and fleeing through the Gallows, to return to Skyhold. For all that Thranduil is a close friend he knows there are limits - and this is one secret he wishes to keep, for as long as he can. Hopefully until he is able to carry out his plans.

"It seems I must be more careful with my words." Which is admittance he enough, he thinks, given the situation. "What am I to give? You would not come here with these secrets if you didn't have something you wanted, my friend."

“Your continued friendship. Your trust,” he replies with ease. “I have no intention of sharing this with the whole of the Inquisition. It is enough to know you are here, and that we—” he and Galadriel “—are not alone among so many children.”

Children who wither and die before they would be considered adults in Arda.

“I would tell her, with your permission.” That, he stresses, earnest and sweet. “Or you ought to. The news will bring her as much joy as it brings me.”

She will be delighted. That conversation—if it is after Solas tells her or if he is allowed it himself—will be splendid.

“I have… several questions, however. If you would permit me to ask them.”

It's so little to ask in the wake of such a revelation and Solas, as much as he's sure Thranduil is in earnest, cannot entirely trust it. This is not a world where these things come without a price - this is a world where things come with a heavy mantle, where the Game is played and one must be a better player and actor than the people around you. He's not yet certain if he can trust this man with this knowledge but, backed into a corner, he has little choice.

"I will consider it," because that's all he can do. He's not sure if he wants this information to be spread to anyone, even if it is someone as important to him as Galadriel herself is to him. His trust in her is sure, certainly, but his own doubts colour him - his cowardice leads him to the urge to flee, to back away, to hide from the truth until he is strong enough to overcome it. The weight of it all feels like a burden on his chest.

Another time, he thinks, a thought for another moment. Solas isn't certain he's ready for the emotional consequences of letting Galadriel, of all his fellows, know the truth of him.

Instead, he motions for Thranduil to sit at his desk before he makes his way over to settle, straight backed, on his bed, watching him intently.

"Ask."

Thranduil feels nearly like an elfling being reprimanded by an elder, but he sits, though he leans back and crosses his legs, left-over-right. He looks up at the other elf—the last of the elvhen, perhaps—and it lights something in him. He stands, crossed over to Solas, and lays a hand on his shoulder before he leans in, eyes closed, and presses their foreheads together.

It is only a moment, and then Thranduil pulls away.

“They can wait,” he admits. “I have imposed upon your hospitality, which was unkind of me. I will take my leave, and I hope you will seek me once the idea has settled with you. I will keep your truth,” because it isn’t a secret, not really, “and I would only say again—it is good not to be alone here, mellon-nin. Thank you. Your existence is a joy to me."

There is nothing inside of him that prepared him for a moment like this - Solas had not been prepared for anyone discovering his past so soon in his plans, nor had he been ready for the fallout of it. All the little things he had made and put into place seem to be crumbling around him; he's on edge, desperate and clinging to a half-truth that has carried him this far, and he's not certain that he can trust whatever it is that Thranduil is telling him.

He thinks he should be shocked by the touch to his forehead, but he isn't. The touch is gentle, the hand on his shoulder anchoring him, and he lifts his hand to touch Thranduil's cheek, fingers tracing the shape of his cheekbone in the moment. It feels longer than it is and Solas realises, with a sharp burst of agony, that he has a fellow, he has someone who understands, who empathises. Not someone of the ancient elvhen that he misses so desperately, but someone that shares a kinship with them that goes beyond anything the Dalish could ever hope to possess.

In this moment, right now, Solas feels closer to home than he has in years.

Leaning back, he tries to manage his features, to put an air of cool, collected calm about himself, as though everything around him is not tumbling around in a strange, broken mess. As though this is completely normal and part of the drawn out plotting he had been making for months now, as if Thranduil finding out about this was all part of his grand scheme.

"I have done nothing to require your thanks," Solas says, finally, voice low and quiet. "I cannot make any oaths on this, but I trust your word, lethallin. Your secrecy is appreciated."

"It is yours," he promises again, and steps back, allowing Solas his space to think and overthink and perhaps come to a conclusion. Still. It is his space.

"Come back to me," he implores. "When you are settled again, Solas. Then perhaps we will speak of prior centuries and difficult things. Or perhaps we will not. Either way, I beg you not to linger too long in only your own company. You have been alone for too long."

And it is a wretched thing to be alone.

He offers a final, significant nod- more akin to a bow, in truth- and then takes his leave, as quietly as he arrived.

It takes some time for Solas to feel settled and comfortable again.

He had not been prepared for anyone to find him out so soon in his planning. While the whole truth may not be known - he is not without some secrets, at least, for which he is glad - there is enough for more connections to be made, more theories to come together, more secrets to unearth. If anyone would be capable now, he thinks to himself, it would be Thranduil, who had gone so far and learned so much already.

It takes almost a week for him to seek out his friend once more; he imagines that Thranduil might think him prepared to skip their weekly meeting with one another, but Solas is learning that there is some strength to be found in courage and, for the moment at least, he cannot run from this problem. It is already there - the most that he can do is accept it, allow it to exist and keep a close eye on it, fearing what might happen should anyone else find out.

(He has been told to tell Galadriel, but he does not have the faith, the confidence, the courage to even begin to explain it all to her, not when he can feel the gentle, phantom feeling of her hand upon his shoulder, comforting and warm and filled with something unsaid.)

Coming to Thranduil's office, he hesitates at the door before he breathes out, gathering himself. He moves inside, as he has done for many weeks now, and stands upon the other side of his friend's desk, eyes careful and measured, betraying nothing.

Oh, the room is still set up as though there was nothing different. There are the cakes, here is the half roast chicken to be shared between them; a treat, and a bottle of wine next to the potatoes. But there is something to Thranduil's movements and smile as he looks at Solas, something ancient and vast and long-hidden.

Galadriel is ethereal and magnificent and does not dim any of that to make herself easier to look upon. Thranduil is younger, and allows himself the stages inflictions that hide the worst of it. He blinks, he moves less fluidly; he builds a smokescreen that allows others to be more comfortable with him. He dealt with human realms far more often than she, it is well-constructed. But they are alone now, he and Solas, and there is no reason to hide. This is what relaxing is, to him, making himself known to be unhuman.

"If I did not know you better, I would think you afraid," Thranduil chides, and moves to pour the wine.

Solas wishes that he were able to relax as easily as Thranduil does, that the knowledge of his acceptance didn't weigh on his shoulders like the burden it is. He had kept his own secrets for so long that sharing them with another - even someone who can empathise or understand - seems too dangerous, too much of a risk. He is familiar with being three steps ahead in the real life game of chess, but now all of his carefully plotted moves must be remade, reevaluated, changed and fixed.

It isn't too much for him but it is something he would have preferred not to do.

A few short strides has him coming to Thranduil's desk, as it always does, and his eyes flick to the ever present mask, his frown in place as it ever is. Let Thranduil continue to think of it as his distain for the Dalish; perhaps that truth might be more believable now, in the wake of what he has learned. When his friend speaks Solas finally manages something of a smile, turning his attention back over to the other man.

"Afraid? No. But one must be prepared when walking into the unknown." He had promised answers to questions, after all, and here he stands.

"'The unknown'?" he asks, and shakes his head. "Surely not, Solas, for I have never lied to you, and I would consider you cleverer than most at taking the measure of another."

He follows Solas' gaze from the man's own face to the mask, and his tone is softer when he asks, "Shall I take it down? If it offends you."

Things can be twisted in the telling and retelling, and the elves have has two thousand years of children's lifespans to do so. Is it akin to having the helm of a yrch displayed on his wall. Considering that he does, in fact, have an elf who would know in front of him, he might as well make use of his chance to ask questions.

"Why does it offend you?"

That, at least, inspires something of a laugh from him as he makes his way over, settling down as comfortably as he has done in the past. Not everything has changed, despite the awkwardness of their confrontation -- Thranduil stands at his side all the same, as steadfast as ever. Solas has his own set of questions that he is keen to get the answers to, but for now... He can wait. There are more pressing matters.

"It is your wall. You may do with it as you please."

He cannot tell the true reason for his distaste, after all. Thranduil may have learned some of the truth, but Solas cannot reveal all. Not yet. There are too many plans to put into place, too many things to uncover and settle before he can turn his back on all that he has made here and undo this world. Until that point comes... He has to continue as he is, as Solas more than anything else.

"The Dalish put too much stock in Gods that are nothing as they describe. Any reference to them offends me."

"But it is your time that you choose to share with me, and I would have you comfortable," he notes, and stands to take it down, the wood polished to a high sheen by many hours of work before it was painted. The inside is smooth to the touch, and strips of suede rest against where the wood meets skin, to serve as padding. He holds it for a moment. Love and care was put into the making of it, and it is with reverence for that that he tucks the mask into a drawer.

"'Supposed elven gods'," he quotes from memory. "And now 'nothing as they describe.' You are level-headed, Solas. I would have that history from you first. What have the elven lost over these two thousand years? What do they misremember?"

Men would make gods out of their ancestors, if left uncorrected in their histories. Some have managed it, outside of elven watch. Had they done the same here? He shudders to think it.

"The rooms are yours." Solas makes no more protest, though. He watches as Thranduil rises, lifts the mask into his hands and places it into a drawer, out of sight if not out of mind. Admittedly, it is difficult to accept the fact that his heart feels heavy and he is uncertain about the weight of it in his chest -- too much has happened over a short amount of time and he's struggling with his ability to keep himself above water, so to speak. If Thranduil is comfortable putting his things away...

"Supposed, yes." Solas frowns, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. It's not going to work very well, he's sure, but at the same time... I would have that history from you. How many times had he hoped that the Dalish would come to him with the same open mindedness? How often had he been turned away, ignored, because of their folly? It's enough to make him scoff, anger bubbling in his chest.

"The Gods that the Dalish worship are not Gods at all. They were incredibly powerful, yes, but they had no claim to Godhood. Anyone who claims to be a God does not need to prove themselves, after all." He frowns, lips pursed, frustrations on his features. Why bother trying to lie now? Thranduil knows the truth, knows something of his age and his history - perhaps now is the time to express all his irritation and anger. "They had a deep connection to the Fade, but they were arrogant and fickle. They were elders, respected, but then... They became more, in their arrogance."

"That is an interesting way of speaking, Solas," he says, and shifts in his chair, back no longer so straight, legs crossed. "'Are' not gods, 'were powerful'. Though I agree with you on the sentiment. Anyone who need scream his qualifications rarely possess them."

A virtuous man did not call himself such, a king who proclaimed such was of very little sense, and a creator needed only to create. Melkor had tried, but Melkor had lacked command of the Music, and Melkor had failed, but it had taken the strength of many to dash themselves against the rocks of his arrogance to do so.

"What happened, at the end?" He uses his fingers to nudge the glass closer, the plate of food and cakes. "The Tevene say one thing, the Dalish another. What happened to your People and my kin?"

"People speak of the Creators as if they are still present today. It seems prudent to follow that language to best encourage them to recognise their folly." He doesn't relax, not quite, but there's something weighty to him, something that feels like too much for him to handle. To know that Thranduil is willing to sit and discuss this calmly, to not push, to back Solas into a corner and demand more of him... That is what allows him to calm, to let down some of his guard.

Solas glances at the food, the wine, the cake, but pauses for now, not daring to even consider it. He feels as though his stomach is in so many knots that there's no way for him to ever be able to stomach food while settled around Thranduil right now. The urge to close his eyes and calm himself is there, but he manages, his lips turning into a small, almost broken smile.

"It's an old story." Solas frowns, shaking his head. "It is blamed on Fen'Harel. He betrayed the Creators and sealed them away so that they were unable to interact with the world. He is a scapegoat, or something like it, blamed for all the ills the Dalish have suffered."

Thranduil, who isn't exactly Mr. Not-Pushy, is restraining himself here, and allowing conversation to flow. There is no prepared list of questions, only himself and his friend and the quiet dinner he's prepared. It is a moment alone in the best private he can manage, candlelight and a chilly evening after a thunderstorm.

"I know that much," Thranduil says. He wore the mask, he performed in their play, he has listened to every story Beleth and Morrigan will tell him. "But a scapegoat is one who is blamed unfairly. Did you know him?"

Him, or the elf who was transformed into legend with time. Why did Solas wake from slumber when so many others failed? That he might have known the false pantheon, or been powerful enough to have intimate knowledge of them is not unlikely. A strength to survive this long speaks of it.

Solas realises that this conversation is not going to settle somewhere that he's comfortable with; he has to dance around his truths and his words, carefully managing what he wants to reveal and what he is willing to admit. It's a dangerous road that he walks, but he thinks the risk is worth the price - there's something about having Thranduil on his side, supporting him, that seems worth the dangerous tiptoeing that he has to endure.

"I knew of him," not entirely a lie, and he knows that it's the truth as much as it is anything else. He didn't know Fen'Harel personally - how could he, when it was a mantle created to shame him, when it came after his own name? "I cannot comment on the judgement of him. It has been centuries since any of the People walked amongst this world and some of the truth is hidden in the Fade."

Reaching out, Solas takes one of the cakes, ignoring the tension in his back, the way he settled. He is sure Thranduil will expect it, given how forcefully his secret was revealed, but he still doesn't feel as though he can let his guard down.

Solas, who has gained himself a few moments with his chewing, gets Thranduil's full look of concern; brows knit, tone gentle, all the sympathy that comes naturally to someone his age, someone so worn by the wheel of time. Well, if any are entitled to it, it is Solas, and whatever odd behavior he possesses is writ away in the name of habits developed by being so very alone.

"What are you afraid of telling me? The picture you paint in response to my questions is muddled; you obfuscate the answer to any query I pose. You know I bear you no ill-will, mellon-nin. And whatever and whoever you were, you are very far from anyone who would accuse you. You have done nothing but aid the Inquisition so far." Softly, like unto how he would speak to one wounded. "If there are topics you would prefer I keep away from-- if you need more time--"

Solas eats and finishes his little cake carefully, thumb brushing crumbs off his finger as he focusses on thinking. Thranduil knows when to push, when to press, when not to, and it makes him an interesting and dangerous person to discuss these questions with. Whatever oddities he brings to the table, Thranduil accepts them in stride, and it warms Solas as much as it terrifies him - knowing that he would be accepted... It doesn't make it easier.

"It has been a long time since I have been around anyone who knew my age," he says, voice low and quiet. "I am more used to answering questions with as little as possible to avoid anyone else finding out what you have." He's not desperate, necessarily, but he is careful, even now, admitting as much as he has in such a short space of time. "Forgive me for being a little careful with my phrasing."

"I ache to know the reason for the rotting of this world," he admits, and it is a rotting, with the veins of the Deep Roads carrying the Darkspawn and the poison of them just under the skin of the world. And then there is the moral rot, the failures of the hearts and minds of Men, the mortality of the elves-- all seem intertwined to him, and as akin to the lack of ancients as a garden choked with weeds indicates the absence of a gardener. "If you do not trust me to keep your secrets, then we will not add more. But mellon-nin, surely you must know that Galadriel and I have been making plans for after Corypheus. Your input, your knowledge-- it would be invaluable in restoring what was lost."

Rather than groping about in muddled history for the reasons, building their plan from sheer power and handholds in the dark.

He takes up knife and fork; cuts a sliver from the roast chicken and whatever vegetable the kitchen saw fit to cook this night and uses the excuse Solas had of his mouth being full to allow the other elf to answer.

Edited 2018-06-01 15:23 (UTC)

"Many people do," Solas frowns, watching, curious. There is more to this than what he sees and he's starting to become aware of it. Thranduil has been in Kirkwall for longer than Solas has, he's aware of that, and before the move from Skyhold there had been some interesting developments between the elves, him and Galadriel - Solas has been keeping track. It wouldn't do for him to be unaware of something that might become a major player in his plans for the future, not when that person has such depth and meaning in the way that Thranduil does.

It's impossible for him not to lean forward in his chair, but he fights back the urge to draw himself completely close, shifting a little. There's a promise here, something more, something that he hadn't expected. Something that might be... Worth investigating.

"What are your plans? I understand if you wish to keep them for yourself," his voice is low, careful. He's not exactly being forthright himself, so he cannot beg the same of Thranduil. "What do you seek, lethallin?"

"Cleansing the Blight, firstly," he admits. Nothing can be accomplished without that being handled first. "Galadriel, at the height of her strength, could shine Light," particular wording, that, "into even the darkest of places. To secure anything else for the elves first risks it being placed in the hands of the Darkspawn, and granting them greater and more terrible power."

He sits forward in his chair, sets down his silverware. "But to do so-- and protect her in her workings-- we must have access to some font of power. The Veil-- it separates our spirit, our fea, from our flesh, our hroa. When we were in the Fade bodily, we felt no such limitations. If reaching past the Veil was beyond us, we had considered obtaining the Orb. What we are capable of, what you have seen her and I do, it is nothing in comparison to our birthright. With that, Galadriel could purge the rot, and from there we might see to restoring the grace of the elvhen."

He hesitates. "From what you have said- from what I have seen- it seems that the elven here did not have the same innate compulsions against kinslaying or rape. Restoring them all at once, if such a thing were even possible, did not seem wise."

He takes a drink, watching Solas very carefully for his reaction. Then: "It is odd of you to bring up Fen'Harel alone, and to be so attentive to the mask, when Adalia was here but a few days ago, and behaving much the same."

The words strike Solas into silence. There's nothing he can do for a long, long time other than stare at Thranduil and try and find words that are somehow lost on his tongue. So sit before a man who shares his ideals, who has the exact same plans that he does, that whispers the same desires... There's a lead weight in his stomach that curls through him and makes his entire body go cold. His plans are laid in front of him, twinned with Thranduil's, and his hands shake just a little before he gathers himself, forcing himself back together.

Remove the Blight. Destroy the Veil. Carefully return the elves to their former glory, hand in hand with Galadriel. It's all that Solas wants to do but cannot with his power so limited and his strength sapped from him, and he has to try and restrain himself, to try and limit what he does and says. His excitement bubbles - to have Thranduil and Galadriel on his side, to have their strength fall in line with his own plans and desires... It's more than he could have ever expected. He feels as though this must be some kind of trap, but there's is no way that Thranduil knows the truth about him.

He would have said so otherwise.

"Restoring them immediately would be dangerous. If these old 'Gods' are locked away they could return to Thedas and they would be angry." He leans back, hand touching his jaw as he thinks. He has to generate the illusion of thinking this through, as though he had not been aware of every aspect of this plan from his own side of the story. "The Veil is another matter entirely. It was said that it was created centuries ago and removing it from Thedas will take a great deal of power, perhaps even more than Corypheus himself holds. His Orb may hold the key to that, but we cannot be sure. With the Breach and the Anchors present..."

Solas frowns, shakes his head, turns away, considering. It's obvious that he is not necessarily against anything he has heard here, even if it might put him at odds with the Inquisition proper. If anything... He seems inclined.

"Adalia is curious as well?" He turns back, curious about this as well. "I assume you are keeping this from her as well, then. It is a dangerous thing to tell to the wrong person."

"Then let us have the Orb in hand, to be sure." He's caught the scent, now. Worrying the truth from Solas is paramount. The other elf is far too reserved to allow this to happen again. So-- into the Breach, and what remains of their relationship after will be enough. He does not think it likely to be a ruin, not when Solas' hands shake in eagerness to hear more spoken, to hear his secret desires said aloud by the kin he has been without for two thousand years.

"Let be kind to one another," he says, all earnestness. "I have never lied to you, Solas, and I would beg the same courtesy. You were there, and to survive what laid waste to all the others... I would wager something of value beyond gold that you knew the world before the Veil. You know your spirit friends so well that you must have known a time where speaking with them would have been as easy as speaking with me," to say nothing of Thranduil's own construction as a Rifter, a sore subject still. "You witnessed the excesses of those elves who dared name themselves Gods, your vitriol is far too personal for anything else, mellon-nin."

Another cake pushed his way, to allow him a moment to think. And the wine, for thirst is a terrible thing.

"I am nearly offended you would ask," he says, all sharp smiles. "I keep counsel with Galadriel, and lately Gwenaelle and Iorveth, but something like this is mine and mine alone. Although she is clever. Beware, or her next question of you-- and mine, in truth-- might be why you flinch at a mask of Fen'Harel but wear a wolf's jawbone over your heart. Again, too personal."

Backed into a corner, Solas knows that he has met something of a match. One secret has lead to another, unravelling one by one, until they're fumbling out of his fingers and dropping onto the ground in a mess. Thranduil has caught something, the hint of a secret beyond what he has already discovered, and the pieces are coming together like a puzzle being put into place second by second. Thranduil's plans are so akin to his own that he feels the burn of it, a pressure deep in his heart that he cannot ignore. It makes tears prickle at his eyes.

He has agents - of course he does. But this is different, so different. To have Thranduil, to have Galadriel... What could stop him then, when Corypheus is gone?

"I saw it." Solas' voice is quiet and soft, his eyes and head turned away, as if it's painful to look at Thranduil for even a moment. "The stories the Dalish told... There are a thousand unwritten stories, told in desperation to give credit where it was no longer due. We..." The fear chokes him. Thranduil continues, Thranduil speaks, and he looks down at the wolf bone that hangs around his neck as a glaring beacon. Thranduil will put the pieces together even if Solas denies it, and he begs for truth. He begs for honesty, and Solas cannot truly deny him.

Again, too personal. Solas almost wants to laugh.

"I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me... Is that what you wished to hear, lethallin, mellon-nin, Thranduil? You would win your wager. I saw more than anyone can possibly imagine." It's almost the whole truth and Solas is desperate to admit it, as though his hands are bound and his tongue is not his own. His fingers brush the wolf bone necklace hanging from him, brushing over his heart. Fen'Harel, Solas, one and the same. A name is meaningless - he is but a man, carrying the mantle of a world that should not have been made.

He stands, comes around the desk. His hands rest on Solas' shoulders and guide him into standing. The embrace is intimate, Thranduil's hands yet on his shoulders, just tall enough that their foreheads press without too much awkwardness. His eyes are closed, tears beading in sympathy at the corner of his eyes. The jaw between them digs into Thranduil's chest, unsheilded from the teeth as Solas' homespun allows him to be. When he pulls away, one hand remains on Solas' shoulder.

"This is far from holding yourself and laughing," Thranduil says, gently. "Though I think you have been denied companionship for far too long, and after labors that strained you so. Let us comfort and aid you, Solas."

It is impossible not to feel near limitless sorrow for the other elf. His mind works quick enough; he can fill in some of the gaps of Solas' half-gasped story. The admission is enough for now. But equally impossible is tempering the joy singing through him. What he and Galadriel hope to accomplish is not beyond them-- indeed, they have the impossible gift of an ally in a deeply beloved friend.

"We are here now," he murmurs, once Solas gathers himself enough to look at him. "We are here for a reason. If it is to help a friend-- if it is to right the wrong of elves in chains, even after your sacrifice," anger heating his voice, "I can imagine no greater purpose. We will finish your work-- all of us. I vow," and there is something great and terrible behind his words, something ancient being called to witness, "that I will see the elvhen brought in harmony with the Music. And that you will not be allowed to suffer again, alone and misremembered."

It hurts - it has always hurt. From the moment that he woke up to now he has been hurting, alone and desperate, feeling as though the weight of this world has been on his shoulders along. There had been no one - no one - that he trusted with the graveness of his mistakes and his heartaches, not in the span of years since he had woken. Not since he had touched the Orb and realised the loss of his power, not since he had allowed his agents to take it to Corypheus to unlock it. Not since he had caused the very Breach that allows for people to struggle as they do.

Thranduil knows. If Thranduil knows then soon, too, will Galadriel, and the tension he feels in his heart will lesson. Slowly, carefully, with all the uncertainty that he feels, he lifts his arms and wraps them around his friend, allows himself the moment of comfort and sanctuary, a moment to feel as though he is not alone. Thranduil knows that he is Fen'Harel, but the depth of his pain, the depth of his secrets... He tilts his head, leaning into the touch of their foreheads, and manages something like a smile. Pained, and small, but present.

"Our plans are aligned," Solas admits, voice low, soft. They both want to destroy the Veil, to free the elves, to allow them to have the future that they seek. Does Thranduil know the cost of that? Does he know what would happen to Thedas? Solas continues to research, continues to discover options, and so far there has been nothing but the destruction of everything that he held dear.

It takes him a long time to manage to lift his head and look at Thranduil. He expects that when he comes to this office next the mask will no longer be in place - that Thranduil will have some idea of why it makes Solas so nauseated to see it, why it frustrated him to view it in the first place. He draws himself together, stitches up the loose parts of himself, and puts his mask on again. It is the only thing he can do in the face of... This.

"You do not yet know all the details. The Dalish misremember much and lay blame where it is due, but also where it is mislaid. They do not understand what they are doing, that their memories are exactly what I wished to save them from in the first place." Lifting his hand, Solas shakes his head, almost touching the jawbone again. "You do not know what it is you vow, Thranduil. I do not do this to clear my name. I do this for the People - for my People, what is left of them in the hearts of the elves."

"We have time enough for details," he soothes. "And I vow not for you, nor for myself, but for the elven. If we are dreams made flesh, then let us be the dreams of the elven."

As torturous as the truth of his nature here is, it is poetic, in the way that great and terrible workings are poetic. The Music has only so much room for chaos, and this makes sense. There is a price for everything, in blood or tears or sweat, and if the price to pay for the unchaining of this world is a vow from Oropher's son and Thingol's kinsman, his pain, his blood-- he will pay it. He is only one elf, and there are tens of thousands in Thedas, even if they play at their ancestral memories like children in costumes far too large for them.

"Perhaps you should rest a while. Such an admission is a strain on the head and heart. Rest here, where it is safe, and eat something if you can stomach it. I would fetch Galadriel, so that she may hear this from you." Again, the joy in his heart, the relief singing out. She will be well-pleased.

"There are months ahead of us," Solas agrees, voice quiet. Corypheus remains a threat and there's no denying the fact that there is still much to be done to bring him down and take his power from him - and Solas needs that Orb. The power of it is unlocked now and to feel it back in his hands... The yearning is there, as it has ever been, and it makes him feel on edge and desperate, like hands curling around his body to twist and grab at his neck. It's his, his Foci, and he wants it back.

He wonders what will happen once the Breach is gone and they have found a means of dealing with the Anchors and the shards that lie in people's hands. He's not sure what the solution to that problem is yet - something for him to consider, especially in line with what he has learned. There is so much for them to do still and he knows it like a fresh wound on his skin.

"Here?" He smiles, thin and wry, but nods his head. The urge for another cake is present, but he ignores it for now. It's the mention of Galadriel that catches his attention. "You'll have her brought here now?"

Once Solas is more himself-- or less, as may well happen, he wraps his disguise about him like a mantle but Thranduil wonders how much dirt is natural inclination and how much is put upon-- they will speak on it. But as sweet and lovely to be trusted with as his fragility is, it is not something to be dragged about the Gallows and exposed. No, Thranduil decides. He will keep him here, as long as possible.

"Yes," Thranduil says, gesturing to the chair Solas had taken upon arrival. Sit. Be comfortable. (Even while he seems miserable.) "We will speak first, there is no need for you to repeat yourself or venture out into the Gallows." He looks Solas over-- bruised, but not exhausted. Unless he's misjudged? "Would you prefer I refrain?"Yes

Thranduil seeks her out as he usually does and finds her, as always in Thedas, weaving at her loom. While his step down the halls were well paced and did not belie any urgency, they are within Galadriel's room but a few moments before they leave it together. Their steps back are somewhat more hurried, but there is no sense of dread chasing their steps merely eagerness.

When they arrive back in Thranduil's office, it is Galadriel who throws up the spell to silence the space around them. It is much the same as Thranduil's save for the truly tangible nature of the barrier and how it distorts the spaces just along the walls and beyond the windows. Once it is cast and they are secured, Galadriel moves toward the desk and Solas, her expression hopeful and laced with no small measure of sympathy.

"How full of secrets you are, melda nin," Galadriel says and sounds nothing so much as happy. "I had not imagined that was a trait we shared."

She wants to embrace him but refrains, for he is seated and she is not, and instead looks to Thranduil briefly. If they are to discuss plans, she would know what he has told Solas already.

Solas waits, quiet and patient, for Thranduil to return with Galadriel. He manages to eat another one of the cakes, his stomach in knots and uncertainty colouring him, but he is as patient with this as he has been with everything else. It takes a little time for him to muster himself, to feel as though he is not on edge, somehow, desperately uncertain and unsure, but he pushes his nausea down to the back of his thoughts for now. There are more important things to think about, especially with Galadriel on her way to greet him.

She steps through the door, as beautiful as ever, and for a moment Solas is struck silent by looking at her again. She's wonderful, he thinks, truly, and the expression on her face is one of sympathy and gentleness that he knows he doesn't deserve. They don't know the entire story - they don't know what he did to cause the downfall of the People - and he wonders if their opinions of him would change if he said it all.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, for now he is greeted and welcomed as a friend, as someone special and wanted, and it has been so long that he cannot help but embrace it.

"Some secrets aren't fit to be told to anyone," his voice is low and soft, drawn out as it ever is. He didn't quite tell his secrets - he was found out, and he rises to welcome her. There's no hesitation in his movements; he reaches out and takes both her hands in his own, unable to help himself despite the company. "But here I am, discovered. You are both wiser than Thedas deserves."

He looks between them, briefly granted absolute clarity, and thinks only, ‘ah’. He will leave the room as soon as he is able. They deserve privacy, even if they do not yet know they need it. Let her be granted the comfort he has found here. Whatever time they have here is separate and apart from Arda—he does not think he will see Mandos’ halls, but he has been called to serve by Eru, and so he will, with the whole of himself if it is called for.

“If you do not wish to speak it aloud,” Thranduil says. “Galadriel’s talents would allow her clear sight of it, as you had.”

The Girdle soothes him, because it was there when he was begot, because it sings to him as Melian’s did. How splendid, to be under it once more, to see it turned to the use of the elven. He savors it for a moment, and then begins. “He knows of our intentions to cleanse the Blight, and your ability to do so. We are all in agreement that it must be done before anything else. He knows of our difficulties with the Veil, and your need for some wellspring of strength to remove rot. He has suggestions.”

"So much to discuss!" Galadriel says and arches a brow at Thranduil. He has not, then, shared her secrets with Solas. That, she supposes, is her burden to bear and she resigns herself to it. When she looks back at Solas her expression is serene with just an edge of questioning within it, like a breeze that stirs the fog.

"If you dislike words, think only upon what you would show me, and I shall see it," she says, her voice just a bit hushed, and she squeezes his fingers just so.

I can see many things, her voice resounds between them without words, but reading the hearts of those before me is...something I have abstained from, of late, unless permission is given.

Her power does not come as a shock to Solas, not when he had given her permission to show him images and memories of friends long gone; he had always known that she was strong, that she was powerful, that there was more to her than her wisdom and her beauty. He welcomes it now as it eases the burden of explanation, allows him to show her what he and Thranduil had discussed without words being shared nor spent.

"I will show you what Thranduil and I discussed. Then you will know." It seems simpler that way. Why mince words when she can see into his heart, with granted permission? He has no reason to hide from her now, not when Thranduil himself has broken down the walls of secrecy and promise and dug out his head, laid it bare upon the table and brought her to view it. Solas isn't angry, per se, not when the burden ahead is one that he no longer has to shoulder alone, but he is cautious and concerned and careful. It is the way he has always been.

Let her see what Thranduil had discovered, Solas thinks. The link between himself and the history of the People, his own desires, the shape of this world. The long years he spent asleep. The hours he had spent mourning what was lost and the things he had done to plan for a future - plans that, it seems, are tied up with hers as well, and Thranduil's. Solas thinks that he ought to be shocked but, at the same time, it makes sense. He has always seen them as being creatures more like himself than the Dalish, the comparisons of Mythal and Galadriel constantly in his mind and on the tip of his tongue. There is no ignoring them.

Watching her, gaze soft and sure, Solas allows her to do what he will. He has no secrets left.

To show Solas a memory, a fragment of the familiar, was not truly a daunting task. To read his heart, his soul, is something altogether different. Her expression, mild and understanding, shifts only slightly as she stares at the elf before her, as she focuses and listens.

She hears his heart as clearly as any of them, as bright and loud as if it were singing to her, and it speaks with each shift of memory, with each word and half-truth told. Her brow furrows just slightly as two conversations emerge, one spoken between dear friends, and one unspoken and laced with cold, imminent dread. There is a facade here, one Solas wears even now, and she is certain he knows the very moment she has seen through the whole of it.

There are no games to be had, no misdirection that can twist the heart--in this he is laid bare before her. All his misdeeds, those he has admitted aloud this day and those that linger on the edge of his tongue, weighed down with guilt, are known to her and when she knows, finally knows, her heart breaks for him. Her expression shifts in the silence and her eyes go very sad as she stares at him; she breaks his hold on one of her hands so that she can bring it up to cradle his face.

"Poor wolf, you tried so very hard," she says, aloud, very softly and the intensity of her gaze fades. Too long spent reading his heart will weary her to exhaustion and she cannot allow the girdle to fall, not yet.

"We will undo it, as much as can be undone. You are no longer alone."

The depth to which she sees is not something that Solas should be surprised by; it feels a little like he is baring himself, stripped to the very core of his being, allowing her to see anything that she might bed for. He is open to her in a way he has never been with anyone else; the number of people he has trusted to come this close to him has been less than the number of fingers on a single hand. It has only become worse since his long sleep, waking to a world that didn't seem to exist with fleeting figures in place of real people.

For a moment, he basks in the quiet, the silence, his hands in hers. He does not know how he stumbled into this, into this friendship with two beings that wished the same as him, that discovered the truth and demanded more, but he knows that he is glad to have it. The relief he feels overwhelms him and prickles at him, making him yearn to reach for them both, to hold them close, to tell them just how thankful he is from the depth of his heart. Perhaps Galadriel already knows it.

When she is done he can feel a hand move to touch his face, palm gentle and soft, and all he can do is close his eyes and lean into it. Poor wolf, she says, and Solas wants to break, to shake her hand off and walk away, to turn and flee. The terror he feels at being found out - a wolf caught in a trap, chewing off his own leg to find sanctuary - is enough that he feels as though his stomach is in knots and his hands are shaking even as his own comes up to brush over her fingers. Oh, he thinks, quiet. Oh.

"I am glad to hear it," Solas admits, quiet. He doesn't move away from Galadriel, as if fixed in position under her careful, gentle stare, but he does turn his gaze to look at Thranduil. An equal friend, someone special and important, someone that he respects more than he can say. It makes Solas hesitate even as he nods his head, tongue heavy in his mouth.

"You know all, now. I would ask -" beg, really, but he refuses to stoop to levels he would regret, "- that these words do not leave these rooms. No one else can know of what I was and who I became. It is a secret we three must share. I do not lie to you now and in return I ask for that." And if it is not held to? He will leave. He will flee. It seems a simple enough thing, even if it pains his heart.

It is time for him to withdraw. But first;

"I will keep your secrets," he says, a brief touch of his fingers to his heart in an elven salute. He pauses, corrects himself after a moment of thought. Solas must have all laid before him if he is to act with confidence. "I spoke with Lady Morrigan regarding uthenera. I believe she has enough to put together the puzzle that one of the elvhen walks among us, but at the moment she is greatly occupied with her son and matters regarding her mother and her eluvian."

What an absolute delight she would find Solas, and how useful they would be to one another.

"Should she display any further interest, I will let you know-- and guide her away from it." He looks from Solas to Galadriel. He has none of her gifts but hardly needs them to communicate. She will put him back together. Thranduil brushes Solas' shoulder as he turns to go, coming to the edge of the Girdle and waiting for Galadriel to allow him leave before he lends them his office.

She does not need look to know Thranduil is at the very edge of her spell; she permits him through it with a careful thought at, just as quickly as that, they are alone. Her eyes are sad as she watches Solas's face, but they are soft as well. She will not chide him, no, she understands too well why he has done as he has.

"And my silence is yours, for however long you bid me remain so," she promises and her thumb strokes gently over the sharp rise of his cheekbone.

"This, I would guess, is why you recoiled?" Her lip twitches just so, amused that he had likely attempted to prevent her being entangled in a plan she and Thranduil shared. "Unless...perhaps... there was another reason?"

"I have made great effort to make it that I am the least of suspects. You are cleverer than most." He is, after all, an unsuspecting elven apostate - the most interesting thing about him is that he is a Dreamer, a convenient excuse for all the information he has in his mind. He nods his head to Thranduil, does not lean into the touch, but allows him the escape - for it is a means for him to discuss things with Galadriel that he is yet unaware of.

"You have my sincerest thanks for it." His eyes close, just for a moment; Thranduil is gone and this moment is for them, now. He can bask in her touch, her gentleness, her warmth, his eyes flicking up to look at her. His hesitance is there but it has faded in the wake of her newfound knowledge, something like a laugh slipping from his lip.

"Yes." His fingers wrap around the ones on his face, holding her hand. "I could not allow myself to have... Feelings when I had a goal to focus on. It was not right." But she shares that goal, that plan, and there's a want bubbling through him that makes him want. "It was no fault of yours."

"A comforting reassurance," Galadriel replies. In truth, it was. She had never had someone recoil as he had after kissing them, it was a strange moment, but one that was not being corrected.

"And a noble attempt to spare me pain, however unnecessary it ended up being. Tell me, Solas, do you still wish to avoid feelings in the face of our goal?"

She has not stepped back, nor does she appear eager to do so, but before she presses him, in word or to the table, certainty is key. She read much in his heart and expects she knows his answer, but she would hear it from him.

Galadriel is now more aware of him than anyone had been in centuries; she reads through and cuts to the heart, knows his mistakes, his guilt, his pain, and does not shun him for it. It had been on the tip of his tongue, unvoiced if not unthought, and he had yearned for her acceptance, for her comfort, for her to reach for him and tell him that he was doing what was right. To know that the two of them together, with Thranduil at their side, will find a means of reaching their goals... It is miraculous.

"I am cautious," he admits. It's not because he fears her learning the truth now - that cowardice has been broken and shattered under her gentle gaze - but because of how long it has been. He does not consider himself worth affection, worth tenderness, not with all that he had done to and for the People, but he wants. He may act as a solitary creature but he misses the company of his fellows more than he can express.

He hesitates, his eyes lifting to look at her, before he manages a soft, gentle smile.

"But not unwilling."

"How fortunate," Galadriel says softly and closes the distance between them to press a kiss against his mouth. It is not hurried, nor firm and simmering with passion, but a delighted thing, glad for the news her heart has received. Once she has granted it, she sets her forehead against his.

"You need not worry that I have judged you, Solas," she says. "I have no fondness for gods, nor for those who would claim that mantle...and I have done such...terrible things to prevent the decline of the Eldar from grace.

"Desperation is an enemy we have both known well, but we shall not meet it again afield, not alone."

Solas leans into the kiss, as gentle and soft as it is. It's nothing made of passion or overwhelming desire, but a promise for something more in the future, an acceptance, an understanding of one another. It fills the empty part of him with warmth and tenderness, his body tilting up as he leans against her, the smile never fading from the gentle turn of his mouth.

He could grow accustomed to this, and it frightens him as much as it soothes him. Wolves are pack animals at heart and Solas has been alone for a terribly long time - but his People, even a fleeting image of them, may return. For as long as the Anchor shards are present, for as long as people are here, for as long as he can reach and try to believe...

You change...

Solas kisses her again.

"I am glad to have you at my side, Galadriel."

there was only me and my disgrace

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