she is all the colours in one.

[dirth]

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."

Comments

[laurenande]

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."

[dirth]

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."