faderift | this town is only going to get worse.

He will not have this conversation over the crystal. And he is ill at the thought of needing to have it at all. Whatever happened on the mission that Solas, Gwenaelle, and Iorveth found themselves on was clearly firmly in the realm of awful, but he will content himself with waiting for the report to reach his desk.

All of them are alive. It is, in the end, what matters most.

He lingers before he calls, rolling the crystal between his fingers while the sun sets outside his window. Once the room is dark- once he must either light candles or continue to brood like a particularly blonde fox in a burrow- he lifts it to his lips, speaks clearly Solas’ name, pauses, and says;

“Could I beg your company this evening, my friend?”

Solas has not been faring well, and that might yet be an understatement.

The events of the mission had been wearing down on him, even now, and it was a struggle to rationalise it all, to wrap his mind around the depths of the uncertainty and discomfort he had felt. To see all those things, to bear witness to the loss and the pain and the heartache... He cannot escape it, not even in his dreams, and he bears it all with the familiar mantle of one who has seen and endured more than he ought in one lifetime.

Thranduil's message doesn't surprise him in the sense that it happened, but only that he waited so long in the first place.

"Of course. Your office?"

"Given the lack of something better suited for entertaining," he says. "Yes. Please."

He lights the candles, because to do otherwise would be to admit to his own sad state, but does not put out the wine. Solas dislikes tea, Thranduil dislikes ale, but he has drinking chocolate from what might have been a gift, and this he sets about making for a lack of other options and because hospitality binds him in the way that routine binds the ancient, like a wheel in a rut.

"Enter," he calls, when Solas knocks. "Lock the door after you."

The chairs are where they always are, but Thranduil is standing. Not pacing. He is too dignified to pace, but he is brittle, if only because he has not yet decided how to act yet, but is loaded with the potential to do so.

"What was it?"

It doesn't take Solas long to arrive at the office - it's a path he's walked enough that the routine and familiar makes it easy, even with his distracted state. He comes inside and locks the door as bid, but even a fool could see just how clearly out of sorts Thranduil is. Solas knows because he is much the same, even days later, with a weight pressing down on him and making him feel on edge.

There's something, he thinks, that needs to be discussed, but he is not sure what it is.

Walking over, he settles by his chair and not in it, watching his friend before he speaks. When he does there's a pause, Solas tilting his head, before he frowns just a little.

"What was what? You'll have to be a little more specific."

"The temple," he says, and he focuses in on Solas, stepping over. "You went with Gwenaelle and Iorveth," and there were others, but his sphere of concern outside of being the Provost chiefly contains the three of them. "The report has not yet reached my desk, and I am disquieted by my ignorance."

And Solas' history makes him even more concerned for Solas himself. He cannot be everywhere, and it is not his duty to shield those he cares for from every harm, but occasionally his powerlessness in the face of Thedas' horrors strikes him.

"So- what happened?" He does not bother with assuming Solas' feelings. He can extrapolate them well enough.

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."

Solas is his mirror in a way the other elves are not and cannot be; is it any surprise that tension between them leads to first warry circling and then coming together?

"Bound by some other force, or of their own volition?" As much as spirits could. And since Solas has sat, and he'll seem a fool if he continues to prowl about, he brings the mugs over, and sets one down at Solas' right before taking his usual seat.

As for the coffins-- that's what coffins were generally for. But elven coffins, coffins for a race that did not experience death unless slain-- he is sure the sight was chilling.

"Another force, I should think." Solas doesn't like to think about the things he saw and read in that Temple; the last missives of a Priest laid to waste because of the veil, the coffins of the People who had been in their uthenera that will now never awaken... The spirit who had taken the form of Mythal before him, begging him to give up, to move close, to accept her fate in tune with his own.

He turns and looks at the two mugs, watching, for a moment, before he reaches out to take the one by him. Chocolate, it seems - sweet, and nothing that will keep him awake, which he appreciates. Thranduil knows that, at least.

Leaning back, he bows his head, feeling the weight of it all over again. He appreciates Thranduil's desire to learn more, to learn whatever he can about the mission, but it is a heavy thing for Solas to speak of. He doesn't want to discuss it all, he doesn't want to admit it, not when it weighs so heavily.

"Perhaps another night?" he asks, gently, weighted with his own sorrows, and not wanting to tether Solas when he already binds himself so tightly. How lonely he must be, Thranduil thinks again, and how unlikely that only a few sparse weeks of being known will have done much at all to heal that. Even Galadriel's attentions could only do so much.

"My love was also with you," he sidesteps, looking for a way out of the worst of the conversation. He will get more out of watching Solas than interrogating him directly. He unwove his past depending upon slips and feints, he can work with very little here and now.

"Another night," Solas agrees without pause, nodding his head. The idea of going into details about what he saw in the Temple isn't a comforting one and he'd rather put it to one side for now. Perhaps later, when the wound is less sore and salt does not hurt it as much, perhaps then he would be more at ease with it all. Until then... He will ignore the pangs and the hurt and focus on his friendships, few and far between they might be.

The rest of the questioning doesn't shock him either and Solas neither tenses or relaxes. He had imagined that Thranduil was unaware, given the shouting that occurred one evening, but...

"Yes, she was." Is he going to say more on the matter? Unlikely, and Solas simply drinks more of his hot chocolate, not refusing to look at his friend but not inclined to gaze at him either.

"But you returned her to me," he thinks, he would certainly know if his lady were dead, "and for that I am grateful."

The hot chocolate, the conversations: these are not things he does because he is grateful, these are the something for nothing of friendship and he does them gladly, for love of his friend.

He rises from his chair, and sinks in a pile of robes on the ground next to Solas, graceful like an exhale in the way he folds himself there. His hand hovers briefly above Solas' foot, and then he glances over his shoulder and up--

"Have you never stepped on broken glass, or do you shield yourself with magic?"

"I do not know how much of it was my doing," he admits calmly, considering his own circumstances, "but she was returned safely. None of us sustained serious injuries."

All of this is welcome, of course, because it distracts Solas from the reality of what had happened to him; a spirit of Mythal trapping him, the bodies of dead elves, the diaries, the knowledge he had learned. All of it is painful in a way that burns somewhere deep inside of him, resting heavy on his tongue.

Still, Thranduil moves and drags him from his thoughts, drawing him away from solemnity and sadness with the graceful drop to his knees. It makes Solas frown, concerned, considering, before he manages to respond.

"I do not step where there might be broken glass. That is a mistake you only make once."

"A mercy," he says, and does not speak of the weight that seems to have dropped upon his friend's shoulders. They are elves. There are wounds other than the physical, especially to the immortal.

"When?" Thranduil asks, briefly amused. "And you avoid the filth of Mannish cities, too. You step very confidently for one who must consider where he steps with such care. Perhaps I ought to watch you more."

The Dalish have, at worse, the appearance of a bee or rock to contend with. Solas' soles are more like hard leather than not, but Thranduil isn't about to examine them.

There is always a weight to Solas and perhaps that is the problem; he has carried it for so long, so secretly, that it is simply a part of him now. There is no escaping it, no avoiding it, and so he lets it rest upon him. It might not be obvious to everyone that looks at him now, but to Thranduil and Galadriel? It must appear like holding up the world itself.

"There were many mistakes made in youth," Solas admits quietly, looking down at his bound feet absently. "If you wrap well and use appropriate fabrics there is no need to fear where you step." The idea of being watched more makes him feel very uneasy indeed, but there's no denying the fact that if there was anyone to do it he would prefer it be Thranduil himself.

Tilting his head, he raises a brow.

"Is there a reason you are so concerned with my feet, my friend?"

"You must show me sometime," he says, and his hands find his way to his lap instead.

Amusement both warms his face and turns his smile into something feline. "Is it something I ought to leave to Galadriel?"

The chance to tease will never be avoided, but the expression smooths off his face and he shakes his head, exhaling. "No. Only as they are part of you. I would carry more of your burden, but I know not how to ask so that you would say yes."

They live split lives in that regard, both of them biding their time, dependant upon the work of others. He is patient, moreso for Gwenaelle, who he has so little time with. He envies Solas the eternity of Galadriel, if not Galadriel herself.

"If that is what you wish." Though, he thinks, it might well not be the most exciting of means to pass the time. "Though I would imagine she would find it equally as boring."

All the same, the smile goes from soft to something daring and Solas scoffs, staring at the hands in his lap instead of his friend's face.

It's easier, he thinks, to ignore the knowledge Thranduil has of his intimacy with Galadriel, such a strange and new thing. They have spent much time together over the last few days as Solas came down from the heights of pain the Temple had caused, bringing him back to the kind of spirit that might well be able to survive conversations without losing himself entirely. It had taken calm and kindness from her, the kind Solas knows himself to be unworthy.

"Your knowing is enough," Solas says, finally, after a drawn out silence, choosing his words with care. Honestly, Thranduil and Galadriel's awareness is enough to make him more uncertain, more on edge, but he'll not voice there. "There is nothing more you can carry for me."

"You will ask," he says, "if that changes, so that I needn't coax it from you."

Thranduil reaches for his drink, rising slightly off his knees to do so before returning to his seat on the floor. He lets them stay in companionable, easy silence. He will need to leave in the morning, but it is not the morning yet, and he longs to linger here for as long as he can.

He is halfway through his cup when he speaks.

"Do you have anything you wish to say before I go to Skyhold?"

Nearly everyone else has made their opinions clear.

"It matters," he admits. "But less, given our intentions, our plans. I would arrange things to our advantage as much as I can."

"If it changes you would be among the first to know." It's easy enough to promise, because Solas is well aware the likelihood of it changing is minimal. It's an impossibility - he has no desire to share anything, to admit anything, to let anyone else know the depths of his secrets.

It is strange, to have Thranduil on the floor beside him, but Solas does nothing to protest or argue against it. He allows his friend his own strange comforts as he has his own; he wonders if it would be considered rude or not to join him, to settle down with his back against his desk and his thoughts as distant as they are now.

The conversation changes, however, and Solas pauses, considering.

"Only that you ought to take care of as many as you can. The Inquisition is a precious resource and it would not do to see it limited. It would be dangerous for us all should anyone else gain strength and traction over one group or another."

He lifts his shoulders.

"But I am no diplomat, and I will not be attending. I am sure you will attempt to make the best of it for as many as you can. It is not in your heart to be ill to others."

He tilts his head to smile up at Solas, then settles.

"The Chantry will demand concessions, and I will guide the talks as best I can, but I am no king, and none of them owe me loyalty. Their concerns are likely to be more varied than mine, and if they outvote me--"

He shrugs his shoulders, and takes another drink. "However this ends, there will be those who will be angry with my choices. You may know my heart," and he is grateful for Solas' generous estimation of it, which he will not admit to, "but others know me not so well."

He does not have much softness left in him.

"Gwenaelle has not spoken to me since I told her I would be attending the negotiations."

Solas smiles in response, small it might be.

"That has always been the case," he shakes his head. "I have yet to see the Chantry do anything that might demand a level of respect that they think they ought to deserve, and those that follow them..." Solas shrugs his shoulders. His views on organised religion are varied and confusing at the best of times, but at least the Chantry ranks higher than the Qun.

It's no great surprise.

Looking elsewhere, Solas breathes out quietly before he manages to find words again, careful and deliberately chosen.

"I know some of your heart. I would not expect to know it all." No more than Thranduil would know his. He doubts he can even promise to be contented with the results, whatever they might be - he has no reason to think that whatever happens will please him. His anger will be varied and just, he thinks.

Finally, his attention returns to his friend.

"Yes. She was quite outspoken on our travels."

He does not look at Solas- one of the benefits of the position- and maybe it is even embarassment that prevents it.

"You should know of my plans," he confesses. "I would buy us enough time,and freedom to be by your side when we fight Corypheus, that you might have four hands reaching for the Orb, and not just your own. I intend to bargain for the right to convert, and take it, and the right for recognized personhood alongside. If permitted, I will wed Gwenaelle, yes, because I love her, but also for what it would grant the Inquisition."

He exhales, shakes his head, stares down into his cup. If Solas could see it, he might call the expression mournful. This is a man who is choosing a path he knows to be rocky, but doing it for the sake of something.

"The elves loved me, and I them, but that I gave up to protect the Rifters. In that was political gain. This will sever the last of those bonds. I will lose the Dalish and the chance to attend Arlathven. But this assumes that Gwenaelle will not leave me for-- forging ahead, with the matter of the phylacteries. For assuming our future."

Tell me our friendship will stay, he does not say. Tell me I may depend upon you, and trust you.

It's not an expression Solas can deny recognising; he knows how it feels, to choose to walk a path that will end in danger, destruction. He has been preparing for that path for a long time, aware of the price that he might have to pay each time he makes another step. Plan after plan falls around him and as he goes he recognises that the only options left to him might be drastic indeed.

"Time is all we can ask for, with the Inquisition as it is." Solas sees the Anchor shards and feels pained, knowing them for what they are, sparks of power that only he can control. It's good that few question why he has the knowledge, or consider it part and parcel of his understanding of the Fade, not considering the depths of his link to each shard that comes under his hands. "That Rifters are not recognised as people is a shame indeed, for I've seen better from them than I have many people born to this world."

It's something that he's still struggling with himself all the same. Rifters... To consider anyone of Thedas 'people' when they are so cut from the world, so different from what had once been, so very far from what Solas remembers... Personhood is not something he would be entirely willing to grace them with, even now, even with Thranduil and Galadriel and Adalia resting close to his heart.

"The Dalish have no love for me," Solas shakes his head, frowning. "They do not see the truth and deny their histories, their heritage. It does not come as a surprise that they deny you, too." The idea of the wedding, of conversion, of it all makes Solas frown, an intensity to it, something frustrated and uncomfortable, but... Thranduil has chosen his path. Solas knows well enough that he cannot likely dissuade him, no matter how strongly he disagrees.

"You are making many grievous choices." It's all he can say for a moment, back shifting to straighten, face tight. "But..." But. He breathes, bowing his head, eyes closed. "Remember your goals and do nothing that does not further them."

He lays his shard-embedded hand on Solas' knee. The glow is dull, unused to seal a Rift in several weeks, but there always, a persistent night-light and reminded of just how he came to be in Thedas, what he is and who he is not.

"You have my love," he says, "And I do what I do for my love of the elven, and the good, that something like Corypheus might be prevented from rising ever again."

(The Blight, it always comes back to the Blight.)

"I have lived with hatred and misunderstanding before, I will not falter in the face of it again. I will walk beside you, until we accomplish our goals, and after, when we might know rest."

He owes Thedas that much. Eru placed him here, he understands the reasons, now, as much as he can claim to know the whole of the song.

Reaching, Solas rests his hand upon Thranduil's, touching the glow of the shard without pause. It had been painful, once, to see the glow of shards and Anchors and know what he had lost, but here he can think only of what he has gained; that there is a friendship here that is unexpected and, yet, welcomed for the intensity and promise it carries. He allows some of his power to reach, hopefully to soothe, but nothing that would betray that he had done anything but touch skin with tenderness.

"That is the hope for us all, I think." Solas does not respond to the love, but he is certain his friend recognises the impact of such simple words. "You know why I walk the path I have chosen, the reasons behind my actions. I do not think there is room to explain it once more."

Galadriel might have learned more of him from his mind, but Thranduil knows enough - more than Solas might ever willingly be comfortable with, but enough all the same.

"I have walked the paths of time itself, eras long gone in the eyes of the people. I would have them remade, reborn, returned to how they once were. I would have the People bright again, as they deserve to be. To have a friend at my side is a gift that I had not expected; there are no thanks that might be enough."

Thranduil does not notice; if there is a change in sensation it is beyond even the notice of elven senses, but he will sleep better tonight, when he is finally allowed it.

He turns his hand, palm-up, but does not close his fingers around Solas' own, and only leaves the promise of a future squeeze of his hand, if they come to a topic where he needs it. Thranduil likes this languid conversation, the pace made comfortable by their measuring of time.

"Without the slavery," he says, only somewhat wry. "I wish I was able to walk you through my home, or Galadriel through hers. You might know what we seek to build, then, and know it as more than a dream."

Arda, unmarred, or something like it. Middle-earth, but cleansed, and with no fading to worry about. A paradise. Hope, the potential for growth, the advancements of the First and Second age without Feanor or Sauron.

He confesses, halting: "- Gwenaelle has guessed enough of my plans. I fear she may leave me when she knows the whole of them."

Solas

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