faderift | she is all the colours in one.

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she is all the colours in one.

WHO: Solas and Galadriel
WHAT: Solas had a Bad Field Trip and is sad.
WHEN: On his return from the Temple of Falon'din
WHERE: In Solas' room
NOTES: References to terrible Temple things (suicide, blood, death)

The Temple had been nothing that Solas had anticipated.

He had expected the old elven architecture and the artefacts; those were things that were easy to guess and imagine, especially in something as old as a Temple to one of the evanuris. He had even imagined, perhaps, a handful of spirits or guardians, something to test them, to judge them, to push them one way or another. He imagined that it would be something familiar, easy to figure out, easy to encourage his fellows into following his lead. Who else would know as much about this type of place than him, after all? He had lived it, breathed it, shouldered it.

He had not expected it to break his heart the way it had done. Reminders of the pain he had caused written in clear lettering. Bodies of dead elves that would never wake from their long sleep. Spirits calling for him, damning him, wearing the guise of someone he had cherished and adored. Each step, each pathway, had split his heart open and left him feeling broken and unsure, his hands shaking and his mind numbing and the burden of it pressing down on his shoulders, carrying that weight from the escape across the river of blood all the way back to Kirkwall itself. It's something that Solas cannot shrug off, no matter what attempts he might make.

There's not much time nor space for Solas to sleep as he might usually and when he gets back to his room he spends a long space of time considering his options now. The Temple had opened his eyes to a great deal of things, that is true, and the weight of that is bearing down on him all the more. He doesn't feel as though he can do anything right now, in this moment, and he knows that it's the weight of uncertainty and guilt pressing down on him; a few days, a reminder of his cause, his mistakes, his duty, then he will be fine. He'll return to what he was before, determined and powerful.

Until then... He does very little, at least until there's a gentle knocking at his door. There are very few people that might come to seek him out and few still that he would consider speaking to, so he is wary when he comes to the door to open it, only relaxing when he sees a familiar face.

"Galadriel. Please, come in."

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Her hand settles against his cheek once he has brought it there, her thumb smooths over his cheekbone and her fingers curl nearly to his temple. Her smile is honest, but there is a subtle note to it, curiosity and something like pity mixed in. She knows enough of his history, flashes of the world below, to guess that the temple of the god of death was not a pleasant sight.

"And I you," she replies and steps a bit closer. Her other hand settles against his shoulder and rests there a time.

"Do you need anything, melda nin?"

The touch of her palm is warm and soft and Solas basks in it. There's an irony, he thinks, in seeing her touch as an Anchor, something to hold him to a time and place when his mind is rushing with the memories and thoughts of centuries of pain. He touches her with his own fingers, a touch that brushes over her knuckles, and he has to swallow the words that wish to come forth. He's not sure if he can speak of them yet, even with her, even with the burden pressing heavy on his chest.

He cannot lie and tell her he would have come to her eventually, even if it might be the truth. Instead, he closes his eyes.

"Are you otherwise occupied this evening?"

"I am not," she says, her answer even and without hesitation. She had promised him all the time he desired and she meant it. She would give him whatever was within her power to grant and this, this was a simple thing.

"I can remain, if you like," she offers. This is hard for him, this mission was hard on him, and Solas does not have a grand history with revealing his feelings to her. So often he must be coerced. She will not do this, but she will grant him what he asks...and, failing that, what he requires and will not state.

"I do so prefer your company."

There's the shared knowledge between them - the truth of what he is, who he is - that makes this easier for Solas. She, more than anyone, will recognise the painful weight of the events of the temple, should he choose to admit them. When he has the words and the courage to tell her all things then he knows she will listen with a gentle touch and a calming presence. Until then... Solas is glad that she will stay, even though he is unworthy of her time and her attention.

"I would like that," he says all the same, drawing her close, one arm slipping around her waist. Eventually they'll settle down, sitting, perhaps, or perching somewhere, but he wants her company and her touch in this brief moment of vulnerability. Outside his rooms, outside of the quiet of their shared company, Solas must be stronger and braver, hiding the truth of his mistakes and the damage he had done. Here he can be himself with no chains to bind him.

Leaning forward, he tilts himself up so that he might kiss her forehead. She is taller than he is and sometimes he forgets until moments where he wishes to give her gentle affection.

"Until duty calls us both away."

"Then I will stay," Galadriel says and bends down to make it easier for him to reach her. The brush of his lips against her forehead makes her smile, the expression wider and more obvious than it had been.

"Do you wish for a distraction, Melda?" she asks and her thumb shifts against his cheek again. She has always enjoyed the closeness of touch, the way it grounds the world, and she cannot say she objects to how Solas indulges her in private. She will not withdraw until he does and she expects that will be some time from now.

"Or just to be near?"

"Thank you." Solas doesn't know what he could possibly have done to deserve her, to have had her pay him any mind nor attention. He has strength, yes, and history and knowledge, but there is something between them, something that feels good and warm and fond, that makes his heart ache a little. Solas reaches for her because there is nothing else he can do - there's nothing else he wants. He wants her, to soothe the aches and pains deep inside him.

Tilting his head once more, Solas breathes out, a gentle little noise. His hand reaches for her free one, drawing her close, indulging in the intimacy of it, eyes closing a little as he basks in her. She is beautiful, he thinks, so beautiful, and...

"What kind of distraction would you suggest?"

She shifts, moves her hand from his face to draw him into an embrace, to resettle it against the back of his neck and rest her head against the side of his. She is quiet a moment, in thought, but it is not a tense silence.

"Perhaps a tale or two," she suggests. "I know a great deal about you, Solas, but you lack the ability to learn of me in kind. I would be happy to share, stories of lighter days and fonder times, if you wish to hear of such things."

She would have offered her secrets as well, what few of them she did not keep still in Thedas, but those were not light tales and he was already distressed. She would not see him pushed farther.

It's a quiet, drawn out moment, one that Solas feels himself sinking into without hesitation. He yearns for the acceptance, for the warmth, the tenderness that is borne of the sweetness and wonder of a budding relationship. The things he feels for Galadriel are not something that he is comfortable putting into words, but he accepts what she offers. He accepts what she can give just as she accepts what he gives - it is what makes theirs a good balance.

"I have always been fond of stories," Solas comments quietly, wrapping both his arms around her and holding her. "Those told in dreams, in memories, in tales. I would be glad to hear yours, too."

Now is not the time for anything heavier than that, he thinks, not with his own aches pushing down on his shoulders. He shifts, offering her a gentle squeeze, before he tilts his head to look at her. "Shall we sit?"

"If you like," she agrees and parts from him just slightly, leading him back toward his bed and sitting, herself. Once she is seated she draws him down, keeps the closeness they have achieved, and lets out a quiet, unbidden sigh of comfort.

"I have many stories I can share, would you like one of the early days, when all was rosate light and the glimmer of starshine? Or perhaps something nearer to now, about dear friends?"

"I would." He walks with her easily enough, allowing himself to be taken to his bed, to settle down, to be at peace. He leans into her body, into her warmth, and offers something that's like a smile - as close to one as he can manage with memories still preying at him and hissing in the quiet of his mind.

He reaches for her hand again, holding onto her, letting himself have this.

"Whichever would bring you the most joy," he says, finally. "That is what I would like to see most."

"Very well," she agrees and leans forward until her forehead rests against his. Solas is solid and near and wanting for stories and distraction. She will give him all she can.

"Have I told you that I am very fond of dwarves?" Galadriel asks quietly into the space between them. "Once, I was invited to travel through the great halls of a dwarven king, below the most treacherous stretch of mountains. In his halls we walked deep below the earth, past glimmering pools of water so deep that it defied examination. We walked past smith who wound metal through their forges as a seamstress winds thread upon a spool.

"The dwarves, then, delighted in our company and the look of us as we traveled toward the laurenande, they called us friend and sang and laughed as our smiths watched them in awe. For all our years, there are no better smiths on whole than the dwarves, and they were well aware of it.

"The doors that sealed the way through those mines, through the great soaring halls, were inscribed with mithril and enchanted by the hands of our people. Upon them a simple instruction, but so many see it as a riddle.

"Speak friend and enter, they say, for all elves were welcomed there and those doors, enchanted to keep the darkness from passing them, would part and permit our kin asylum, should we want for it.

"My borders were the same, ere I left them, but no dwarf ever came to the edges of the golden wood seeking refuge, not for all the thousands of years I was steward. It was a pity, I think, because I would have loved to see them climb high into the trees and watch the sunrise across the golden leaves of Lothlorien."

Thank you, he thinks, in the depths of his mind. She draws him closer and, even now, knowing all that she knows and being aware of the depths of the things he had done... She still finds the warmth and kindness to accept him. Solas is awed by her, even now, and feels his heart rush in his chest, fast-paced and intense, growing affection that is impossible to deny. How can he, knowing that whenever he looks at her he will feel the same?

He sits with his head resting against hers, leaning into her body and allowing himself to drink of her comfort. It would be nice to be the one hearing stories for a change, to be the one drowning in truths and histories rather than trying to wade through the lies and myths that others have created. It eases some of his tension, some of it falling away with a soft sigh.

Each sentence is enough to have Solas relaxing and when she tells more, whispering words. He wants to learn more about her home, he thinks, about elves that are so akin to the People and so different at the same time, cousins that share features if not blood. It makes him think of what Thedas could have been before the Veil, before humans and Tevinter and the rest. It aches, but in a way that is far easier to handle.

"Elves are dwarves are friends, then." Solas hums. "It was not so for the People, not all the time. The dwarves were long hidden, Children of the Stone, and Arlathan was not theirs to walk."

"Friends is...perhaps...overgenerous," Galadriel admits. The term Children of the Stone is new to her and apt, but she makes no comment on it. Instead, she lets her hands settle against him and, where they rest, her fingers shift softly, in idle movements of comfort.

"Their realm was never our own, they were always apart from us, and they betrayed a great king once in ages long passed. It was a betrayal not easily forgotten but, in time, holding the grudge became a strange exercise. These were the descendants of the folk who stole from Thingol, a hundred generations thence, and even the tale of those deeds had passed out of mind among them.

"They knew not why we were angered, so to dwell upon it was foolishness." Galadriel hums and a small, almost dry laugh leaves her. "Some still do, of course, but most try to avoid such sentiments."

She moves, tilts her head and brushes her lips against his forehead.

"Would you like to hear of Lorien, melda nin?"

"As it often is," Solas admits, low and quiet. Friendships are few and far between and those that he calls 'friend' are those that know more than they ought, that see more, that are better and greater. Thranduil is one, though he does not know everything, and of course Galadriel is another. Adalia, perhaps... But he knows the word is a messy one, more dangerous than it seems.

The story is easy to listen to, simple to sit and be present for, and Solas accepts it for the kindness that it is. Normally he would have to contribute, he would have to offer more, he would have to prove himself and hide in deceptions, but it is not so here. In his pain, in his grief, he does not have to do anything more other than survive, to lean against a gentle woman and allow himself a moment to breathe.

"Clinging to sentiment is not easy in times such as these," as if he is not one who clings to the age-old world of the People, who is desperate to return them to what once was. "It is not always easy to avoid it, however, no matter what attempts are made."

Quietly, careful, he tilts his head, leaning into her kiss, her warmth.

"Anything you wish to tell me."

Galadriel hums in agreement, she knows too well the draw of sentiment, but she doesn't speak it aloud. Instead, she rests her cheek against his forehead and considers how to begin the next tale. Certainly he has seen enough to disturb him, she need not tell him about her homeland...at least, not in great detail.

"A very, very long time ago, I was born in a land called Aman. It was a time before many things and Aman was an evergreen country, unfading in the face of time." That is enough of a preface, she expects, and so the topic shifts.

"When I came Arda, I came so that I might have the chance to govern, to lead, and I did, but Arda was not evergreen. Arda was...is the land of mortals and it pained me, it pains me still, the slow passing of time. When the lands of Lorien became mine to steward, they were beautiful, but not glorious for there is little glory in mortality.

"I was given a great gift, then--trees from my homeland, trees that grew nowhere else in all the world, and I planted them. In Lorien they took root and before two centuries had passed, they were as large as any that I had ever seen before.

"Mallorn they are called. White trunks rise high into the clouds, so thick around that ten elves might not be able to encircle one. Their leaves are silver and green, their flowers a delicate spindle of spun gold petals that sparkle in the sunlight and bloom in time with the eldest calendars.

"We built a city among those trees, platforms grand and expansive, high and low, stretching above grand gardens and the streams that cut across the naith. It was a beautiful place and there, finally, I was able to halt the passing of time. It became the elvenhome, the sanctuary from the darkness of Arda, and I loved it more dearly than my life.

"I hope, perhaps, that those seeds will take root in Thedas, but I dare not plant any in Kirkwall for fear they might. One day, however, I should like to try it again, r to see that which we have already planted. I would love to show them to you."

It all sounds vey similar to what he knows Arlathan to be - a home that had been wonderful, that had been beautiful and grand, ripped away from him because of his own foolishness. He knows that it was not a choice he would unmake, not really, but the consequences... Those are something he would like to adapt and change, were he given the chance to do it. Knowing what the cost might be to repair what he might do...

Solas lets himself rest and listen to her as she tells her stories, time and time again, gentle words that make him feel as though his soul is being healed and taken care of. It's almost dangerously easy to lean into her and welcome her into his arms, to curl close and let himself wrap around her with a kind of joy that has been missing from him for a long time.

Lifting his hand, careful, Solas touches his fingers against her cheek, drawing her close so that he can tilt his head just so and leave a kiss against her lips.

"One day we shall plant the Mallorn and it will grow strong with pride." His voice is soft, quiet. Resolute. "I would see them, when they have reached their true heights."

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she is all the colours in one.

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