faderift | there was only me and my disgrace

WHO: Solas and Thranduil
WHAT: Something a little like this
WHEN: After Morrigan's report has been handed to Thranduil
WHERE: Solas' rooms
NOTES: Some Trespasser spoilers, if anyone is worried about them!

It's rare that anyone comes to Solas' rooms - there are a few people, enough to count on one hand and little more, who might know to seek him out here if he was not in the library, but it is few and far between. Most people, if they seek his council or his wisdom, are content to wait for him to emerge from his sleep with whatever new memories and fond visions he has captured from the Fade, with whatever it is that he's learned that evening.

The knock shakes him from his ready and he frowns, considering for a moment. The very fact that someone has come here without contacting him first - as would be the case for Galadriel or Gwen, for example - makes him think that it might be some kind of emergency, even if he's not entirely sure he wants to deal with those sorts of issues right now. Given the state of Kirkwall... It's hard not to get yourself entangled in it all.

In the end, good intentions - or, rather, bad ones, depending upon the person - win out and Solas moves forward, putting his book down on his desk. It's an easy walk to the door and his surprise is evident once he sees who is waiting there for him, his head tilting and his eyebrow raising just a little. He's surprised but not altogether unhappy to see his friend on his threshold.

"Thranduil. I did not expect you." Slowly, stepping back, Solas motions him to enter the room.

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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.

there was only me and my disgrace

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