( CLOSED ) i am tearing in revolution

[dirth]

WHO: Solas and Thranduil
WHAT: Elfy stuff
WHEN: After the leadership meeting, before the mod plot
WHERE: Thranduil's office
NOTES: Sad elves

Solas had not expected the pain of the mission.

He had not expected the Sentinels any more than he had expected the Crossroads to be as beautiful as they are. His memories of them are brighter, broader, of course - they were his home, his pathways, his life before the Veil had come and separated Thedas from the Fade - and he misses them with an intensity that must have been painted on his face the entire time. There are knots in his stomach and he is well aware that agony must be painted on his face; he cannot disguise how much this pains him.

Surely the others must be able to tell, but they must think it nothing more than the pain of an elf who adores his history - the true history, not the one the Dalish cling to with messy attempts at reclaiming their culture. A sour part of him is glad Sorrel was there, able to witness some of the truth of the world.

He does not knock as he steps into Thranduil's office - the other man will surely be expecting him now. Instead, he slips inside and closes the door behind him, locks it, and comes to sit in a chair, wilting and tired now that he is in private, now that he must not pretend to be simply Solas. Fen'Harel beats in his chest and he cannot deny how much it hurts now, to see what has become of the People.

"I know them. In my heart, I know them."

Comments

[rowancrowned]

Either he has developed a sense for Solas’ moods—and, distressingly, Solas for his—or he just always has wine out and ready, especially in this heat. He presses the cool brass cup into Solas’ hands, filled with wine not as watered as it should be, and leans against the edge of his own desk.

(If walls could talk, he would have been executed for—well, not treason, but something like it many times over.)

“Old friends?” he asks. “From before.”

He’s met Mythal—what remains of Mythal. That there would be others beyond her, elves, plural—it makes him feel an emotion that might be described in other people as—giddy.

[dirth]

Thranduil knows him too well and Solas is only just readjusting to a sense of belonging with the other man once more. Forgiveness is not an easy thing for him to muster, not for himself nor for others, but he recognises the necessity of this friendship; to be known, to be understood, to be welcomed... He needs it, desperately, in a way he had not imagined needing it before their friendship deepened. Being alone for too long had broken him and now he was beginning to repair.

Ready for the end.

The cup is cold against his fingers, soothing enough, and he breathes out, lifting his gaze back up to Thranduil without too much pause. There's no need to play games with this, is there?

"Not quite," he admits. "I likely knew of them, once, but not personally. They're guardians - Sentinels. I... Did not anticipate seeing any of them alive."

Not with what he had done to the Veil. Not after seeing the Elvhen ruins, the bodies of the dead, lost to their sleep.

[rowancrowned]

“Then this is a joyful occasion,” Thranduil offers, taking his own cup and raising it. “To find you have more than you thought—truly, I suspected it. We are not mayflies.”

He knows it isn’t that simple. The cup falls, he tilts his head. He minds his tone, and the side of his boot bumps gently against Solas’ bare foot.

“I know it hurts, Solas. Your heart bleeds, and I ache to see you raw again. What can I do to help you, and them? As little blood as possible should be split, especially blood as precious as theirs.”

[dirth]

Is it joyful? Solas doesn't feel it, deep in his soul, a twisting ache inside that makes him feel tired. This is too much, especially when he had been so sure for so long that he was alone, that he was isolated, that there was nothing left for him. How could he have ever been prepared for what was to come in front of him? Knowing what he would have to do, what he would have to pay, only to bear witness to their revival?

The touch to his foot has him lifting his head, glancing, almost nervous, almost shy, before he sighs softly and leans back, rubbing idly at his forehead.

"We must speak to them, not attack them. They are doing a duty they have carried for as long as I have lived - and longer. They are eternal in a way that this world is not." His lips purse. "They will speak Trade, but I imagine speaking to them in the language of the People will be a benefit."

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil brings his hands together.

“Then that is what we will do, mellon-nin. We will speak, attempt to show them that there is possibility still, and, with any luck, less elvhen blood will be spilt.”

It is childishly simple, but it is the roots of a plan. There is a freedom in having few options.

He takes a swallow of wine himself, and pushes himself off the desk to stand. To wander to the window, and look down upon the harbor, upon Kirkwall, which the humans reckon old.

“Has your lady told you of the fall of Beleriand?”

[dirth]

It is refreshing, Solas thinks idly, to be listened to. Thranduil hears what he says and accepts it - someone knows that he is the expert, that he knows what he is talking about, that he has the information that Riftwatch might need. It soothes some of the tension in his shoulders.

"No blood should be spilt. Not again," his voice is soft. He knows his own regrets, can feel it each time his heart beats, and he closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. "I would not have them die after so long working in dedication. They are the People and I would have them with me, not against me."

If there is something that can be done, if he can speak with them, spend time with them...

Turning his head, he watches Thranduil; for a moment, the ache of his heart lessens. Just enough that he feels like he can breathe.

"She has told me a little, but not much."

[rowancrowned]

“It was beautiful,” he says, and he sinks into remembrance so easily, something falling over his expression like a curtain settling after being blown by the breeze. “My lord’s kingdom had rivers cutting through it full of fresh, clean water, and the trees grew so tall as to touch the heavens. I was born there, as were my mother and father, my sister and my brother, and we knew peace, and comfort, and safety. I would have not—I was to become no more than a steward, a musician if I showed an inclination to it. I did not know of Men, for they were not yet discovered.”

He does not drink. His hold on the glass is tight.

“And then everything changed in the span of a century. Dwarves murdered my lord king for greed, Galadriel’s kin slew the next and his wife and children, then came after the survivors of that massacre. With my lord king dead, his wife who had held our realm in safety crumpled in her grief, and evil invaded. To stop that, armies came from the West to fight him. They sank the whole of Beleriand under the sea. All I had known was gone.”

He tips the glass, emptying the contents out the window. He has lost his taste for it.

“My father had fled with his household, else we too would have died. He had lost his wife and one of his children, and had no desire to expose those remaining under his protection to either the Noldor or the evil that yet lurked. So he found others of the same persuasion and Eryn Galen rose out of all that ash. We rebuilt, and we learned from our mistakes. You have the same chance, Solas."

[dirth]

Solas sits and he listens and he feels the agony of something familiar and dangerous, pressing against his heart and making him feel old and tired. He is too far gone for this place, too many years pressing on his shoulders, too much making him feel as though he cannot breathe sometimes. It's too much for Thranduil to understand, surely, even if he has felt something similar; the guilt does not compare, he thinks. It cannot.

He stares at his own wine.

"I understand the feeling," he admits quietly, voice soft and quiet. "The world before the Veil was more beautiful than you could imagine. The anger between myself and the Evanuris was something intense, something that spanned the world itself, but... It was something that had to be done. I would not see my people in chains any longer. The markings, the servitude, the worship..."

Bowing his head, he squeezes his eyes shut.

"I would not have that be repeated."