the holy dove was moving too

[dirth]

WHO: Solas and you
WHAT: Open post
WHEN: Throughout the entire month
WHERE: All around Kirkwall
NOTES: N/A

LIBRARY.

Solas spends much of his time in the library as he always does. There are books open in front of him. They're written in Common, in Elven, one or two with scraps of Qunlat littered around the margins (this is Kirkwall, after all). He is devouring what he can, still studying and investigating everything that he can, making notes and putting pieces of parchment to one side, putting things to one side, closing books but not getting up to put them away.

What proves clear, eventually, is just how much time Solas is actually spending in his studies. For a man that enjoys sleeping as much as he does he is not getting much of it - and he has no other symptoms, so this is clearly a personal endeavour rather than anything from his own suffering. The piles of books get larger, higher, and he can often be found scowling at them, as if they should have more answers than they do, as if the hours he had spent uncovering the history of Kirkwall had been entirely pointless.

He sits in a corner keeping to himself, waiting, frowning, reading and reading. He makes himself comfortable eventually, pouring himself a cup of something to drink - not tea - before he gives himself a moment to shut his eyes and relax.

KIRKWALL.

When not in the library, Solas can be found wandering Kirkwall, investigating things he might have otherwise missed. He doesn't linger much in taverns or bars - they're hardly the kind of place he'd waste his time, even if it means he might be able to discover more of what the 'common' people might be interested in - but he does travel to Darktown at times, does look into the depths of what it is like for the elves here, offering what he can to aid them as little as it might be. He is a familiar face to some of them: they are absent from the Dalish and so the two of them get along far better than he might with anyone of the clans.

Eventually, he makes his way back to the Inquisition proper and spends a little time wandering around the gardens, arms crossed behind his back and his attention focussed on the herbs, on the plants, on the things that interest him. He does not seem to mind being interrupted, if anyone has the desire, and he seems in a pleasant enough mood before he makes himself comfortable on a bench, drawing a book from somewhere and beginning to read, flicking the pages absently.

WILDCARD.

( Find him in the Gallows, near his room, hanging near Galadriel and anywhere else your heart desires! )

Comments

[dirth]

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."

[rowancrowned]

He gasps; not when the knife is at his neck, his pulse briefly quickening under the sharp press of a blade (he has not put himself in this precarious of a position before, he has always had more resources at his fingertips—) but when the blade slices through the hair at the back of his neck, the noise of a wounded thing.

His first breath hitches. He does not bend to pick up the knife, not yet, but he watches Solas’ fingers toy with his hair, for as long as it takes for him to recover from the shock, to respond to Solas’ words as he knows he must, to speak.

“I will aspire to forgiveness,” he says, and dips his head. For the moment, that is all he can manage.

[dirth]

Solas knows the depth of what the hair means to Thranduil's people: he is close enough to Galadriel to understand the nature of it, the intimacies. He cannot kill Thranduil but he can take something - he can prove his strength and the danger of crossing him with something else, something deep and intimate and soft that no one else can understand nor take from him. Thedas does not understand the elves from another realm and they have little desire to - let him use that to his advantage.

He says nothing for a long, long moment, stroking his fingertips over the curl of hair, letting it settle against his palm before he reaches and twines it, gently and properly, against the jawbone around his neck. On display: a public reminder of Thranduil's betrayal and his vow to earn forgiveness.

"We shall see," Solas comments, voice low and set. "You have my promise - one that will not be broken."