Galadriel sleeps only when the world demands it of her; it is not a consideration she is accustomed to and not one she is likely to embrace. When the knock comes on her door, she is at work, bent over her loom, and she only finishes the line before she rises. She is tired, enough to warrant lying down and resting, but the slowness in her limbs doesn't strike her as odd until she is at her door.

What hour is it?

She opens it and, despite the oddness of his arrival, she cannot muster confusion for him, only happiness.

"Solas," she greets, warmly and quietly and steps aside so that he may enter.