It's impossible to draw his eyes away from Thranduil, intent and serious in the moment, with a heaviness to him that Solas can recognise. He's seen it himself enough to know that there's something under the surface; a mirror image of himself, or something close enough to it that there's an edge of uncertain discomfort borne inside him.

He frowns for a moment, staring, intense, before he makes his way to the chair and sits down, leaning back and closing his eyes. He hasn't even spoken about it at length with Galadriel, gladly distracted by her stories, but he fears there is no escaping this conversation nor it's direction.

"There were many coffins of the People, all dead and gone. Spirits attacked us."