It's impossible to deny how strongly the urge to kill comes to him. He has done it before, brutally so, for lesser slights than this. It is Thranduil's position that saves his life, that had saved him before now - knowing how easily he might be traced, how dangerous it might be for him to fall now, the titles that are laid at his feet. Thranduil is the Provost, a division head, important to more than just Solas, there is no denying that. It would be too much of a risk to slaughter him where he stood, even using his own knife.
The urge to summon a barrier to protect him comes as soon as he sees the glint of the knife, but he hesitates. There is no need to betray himself and he does not think Thranduil has a callous heart, not the kind needed to kill a friend. Solas knows he carries that burden himself, weighed down with the intensity of his own choices, of his own path, even as it calls to him from beyond the realm of his own hands.
Solas reaches out and he takes the knife. Stepping forward is easy, just as it is to raise the knife to Thranduil's throat. There's a gentle press of steel against skin, curling it as arms sink around his neck. It's intimate, dangerously so, and Solas does not tear his eyes from Thranduil's even as he moves, drawing the knife higher and higher, the hilt pressed square against the skin of his neck from behind, intent.
The knife curves against the hairline, cutting a stand. He drops the blade, heedless of where it goes, and moves back, curling the lock of hair around his fingers, twining them for a moment in a picturesque plait, frowning as he turns his back to Thranduil.
"You are not yet forgiven," his voice is low, cool. "But your death is pointless. I will trust you with no more and you will not ask of it, but I will come. I will consider our future."
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The urge to summon a barrier to protect him comes as soon as he sees the glint of the knife, but he hesitates. There is no need to betray himself and he does not think Thranduil has a callous heart, not the kind needed to kill a friend. Solas knows he carries that burden himself, weighed down with the intensity of his own choices, of his own path, even as it calls to him from beyond the realm of his own hands.
Solas reaches out and he takes the knife. Stepping forward is easy, just as it is to raise the knife to Thranduil's throat. There's a gentle press of steel against skin, curling it as arms sink around his neck. It's intimate, dangerously so, and Solas does not tear his eyes from Thranduil's even as he moves, drawing the knife higher and higher, the hilt pressed square against the skin of his neck from behind, intent.
The knife curves against the hairline, cutting a stand. He drops the blade, heedless of where it goes, and moves back, curling the lock of hair around his fingers, twining them for a moment in a picturesque plait, frowning as he turns his back to Thranduil.
"You are not yet forgiven," his voice is low, cool. "But your death is pointless. I will trust you with no more and you will not ask of it, but I will come. I will consider our future."