this town is only going to get worse.

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Thranduil and Solas / Adalia / Finch / Loki
WHAT: Catch-all log for July.
WHEN: Current, slight backdating to pre-negotiations.
WHERE: Various locations among Kirkwall, Skyhold.
NOTES: None applicable.

Comments

[rowancrowned]

"It will be done," he says. "We have time."

We, we, we. An elf alone is a dangerous thing; they are not meant to be. Solas' loneliness wounds him, and he will soothe it, if only by repeated application of his own company.

"Once Corypheus is defeated," he amends. The danger is real, and he does what he can to push the war effort forward, but he would be lying to say he is content with things as they are being run. The Mannish rulers are weak and slow and wrapped up in themselves. The elves, the ones who ought to be reminding them of their duty, who ought to have memories long enough to dispense the wisdom needed to battle this, are children of a dying race.

"When I... convert," when he lies his lies, and spins a pretty tale to win love and gold for the Inquisition, when he loses the love of the elves who he is protecting. "... it might be in our interest to... disagree, publicly. What are your plans for after Corypheus' defeat, should you have the orb in your possession once more? If he breaks it?"

[dirth]

"We are not yet able to defeat Corypheus. We have until a means of destroying him is discovered, you are correct."

And Solas is actively working on that, which is part of the problem. He had given Corypheus the strength to become this powerful and he must find a means to undo it. To get his orb back is what he dreams of, more than anything else; to have the power he had enjoyed before his sleep, to feel the strength return to him in full force rather than part by part. He feels weak without it, as though he is truly the aged man he appears to be.

As if the forties were old. As if he were not thousands of years on top of that.

Solas, of course, is still dismissive of the Dalish. He has no love for them, no concern for them, and he shakes his head as he frowns. He finds them intolerable, he finds them too foolish and too ignorant, unable to see what is laid out before them, what lies are whispered in their clans. He wishes, desperately, to help them, but time and time again he is rejected.

Turning his head down, Solas frowns, expression tense.

"... Perhaps so." Publicly, but not so privately. Solas' fingers flex and he breathes, trying to manage himself. "I will take the orb and regain my power. I need my Foci to have my strength. After that... I will find a means to strengthen the People once more."

[rowancrowned]

"You have the Inquisition at your back," he says, which it true and very different from having it at his command. Beleth Ashara wields more effective power than he does; he is under the authority of three different people, including Thranduil himself (who chafes, occasionally, at being under the command of Skyhold). But it is not at cross-purposes, even if it is occasionally slow.

"We will speak of it later," he says. Let the thought sit. They can refine it at their leisure.

He stands, a slow unfolding of his height, and goes to the windows, to peer out at the harbor around his curtains.

"I leave in the morning for Minrathous."

[dirth]

"For now," Solas admits, low and quiet. "They are not my friends. I know well enough that the Inquisition sees me as a means to aid them in their ventures. I am useful to them, for my knowledge, for what I can give." He's well aware of that. They don't question him as long as he is managing to help them, as long as he is useful, and that's what Solas uses as a means of protecting himself. He keeps himself safe by being exactly what they need.

Solas watches as Thranduil stands, tilting his head, watching. His friend is weighed with as much as Solas himself is, and he knows it.

Frowning, he shakes his head, tense.

"I will not be joining. I have no desire to see what became of the People in Tevinter."

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil turns to look at him, fingertips pulling the curtain back to reveal the night sky, the stars.

"Instead you will see them at the Arlathvhen. I am very nearly jealous."

But there is the matter of Gwenaelle, and the upcoming conversion. Still, he would have liked to see it once, and been comforted by it.

"I fear I will sleep poorly tonight," he admits, letting the curtain slip past his fingers, and coming back to stand before the fireplace. "Will you be able to find me in the Fade, even when I am in Tevinter?"

[dirth]

"Those are not the People. They are the Dalish."

It's what he does when he is cornered and whipped with our people or your people. He is not of the Dalish, he is not of their world, not of their ilk. He is of the People, beyond anything the Dalish could hope to achieve without his input, his stories, his power. They are adrift, blaming their sins on the shoulders of the one who freed them, and Solas loathes it.

He breathes out, focussing, forcing himself to be calm, to relax, to settle.

"I can come to you, if you wish it." It wouldn't be the most difficult thing and Solas knows his powers in Dreaming are beyond that of anyone's estimation. "I could find you anywhere, my friend, no matter how far you go."

[rowancrowned]

"Come to me," he says. "I will not beg for your attention for more than one night of all the time we will spend there, but I will see things that will horrify me, and I will not sleep easily."

Thranduil favors him with a smile, leonine in its contentedness.

"There is no one I would rather have at my back." He walks back to the chair, leans against the side of it, rests his hand on Solas' shoulder, the shard bright in the fading light. "If I am ever lost, I trust that you will find me and bring me home."

[dirth]

"I will come," Solas promises, his voice careful and gentle, never pressing nor demanding. "If one night is all you ask then I am more than able to give it. I would not deny you that."

The return smile is as soft, calming. He would not deny Thranduil much, he thinks, given their roles, their positions.

His own hand lifts to touch his, resting over the Anchor. He does not try to soothe it this time, only feels the light of power that should be his own, that is a curse and a blessing to so many.

"And I shall find you," he promises, careful, gentle. "If you call for me, my friend, I shall find you."