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[laurenande]

(Galadriel is fairly used to getting mail but she'll be a bit shocked to receive any in Thedas. For any notes, missives, letters, or other communications.)

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[laurenande]

"Rafarion, in Melda," she greets and her attention drifts from her weaving.

She is glad to see him, as she always is, but her smile falters as her eyes drift across him and catch the dull glimmer of blonde hair. There are some, perhaps, in Thedas who might mistake her and Thranduil at a distance, but up close their hair is hardly similar. Her movement to welcome him is halted as he eyes fall on that lock, twisted around his necklace.

"A strange new accessory," she comments, her tone painfully blank and diplomatic. She will not guess how he came by them, nor allow herself to begin guessing. She has already had one of her great loves choose Sylvan elves before her, to suffer it again and with Thranduil as the very face of it would be truly devastating.

[dirth]

Solas recognises the blankness, the diplomacy - how many times has he entertained and engineered it himself, to protect himself, to learn from others? Lifting a hand, he brushes hair from her face, fingers touching her cheek gently, thumb along her cheekbone.

"Not given willingly." His voice is soft, low. He does not reach to touch the hair twined along the jawbone, does not look at it or do anything that might draw more attention to it. There's a reason he chose to take hair rather than blood: he knows well enough the damage it might do, the hurt, to have one curl of hair taken without consent, without allowance from the Elvenking himself. Solas knows better.

"Thranduil offered his blood in return for my forgiveness. I did not feel as though it was an appropriate trade." He has nothing to hide from her, after all, the woman who has truly seen into the depth of his heart and not turned away. She knows all he has to offer, the memories that burden him even now. "His hair was taken instead, by his own knife."

[laurenande]

The gentle brush of his fingers stays her panic for a moment, his answer banishes it--but it does give rise to another question. He had taken it. Did he understand the significance of that, especially given that it was she he was with? Perhaps...but likely not.

"A bold choice," she replies and sounds neither enthused nor particularly reproachful about it. Thranduil is her kin here, just as he was in Arda, and while they have become closer than they were, that is not a grand and impressive claim. Here they are two immortals amid a sea of mortality, they are close by necessity and inevitability.

His disputes and the punishments he endures for transgressions? Those she has no stake in...at least, to a point. This? This is not that point.

"And have you granted the boon he sought?"

[dirth]

Solas knows enough to recognise the kind of punishment he had thrust upon Thranduil's shoulders, and that is enough for now. He cannot demand anything else when the theft of blood was too dangerous to take. Thranduil is no agent, no creature under his control - he is a Provost, a leader, an Elvenking. Solas cannot bend him to his will completely, but he can ward and warn him, can punish him for broken trust.

"One that was necessary," he admits, voice low and quite. He does not know if his vhenan will judge him for what he had done, if he will inspire his ire, but he hopes that she does not. He reaches for her, palm flat against her cheek, drawing her close and leaning up to meet her lips with his own. There's is always that slight thrill at the reminder of her height, the glory of the elven people, what she mirrors.

Careful fingers rest on her hip, gentle, and his smile is just for her.

"I have promised I will attend his wedding. My heart will have to decide the rest another time."

[laurenande]

"Then I wish you a clear mind," Galadriel replies and makes no move to draw away from him. In fact, she nearly leans into him, into the hand at her hip or the one on her cheek.

"It shall be a very interesting wedding, I expect. Will that token be permanent?" She reaches here and lifts just the edge of his necklace's cord, plucking it up a bare inch from his chest. She does not look down at it, nor at the hair wound with it.

"If it is, I fear I may be driven to compete."

[dirth]

“I am sure one will come, in time. Betrayals are not easy to forget.” But he has her to soften the edge of himself, to calm the more rattled side of him. There might be an edge of something darker and more dangerous, had he not been encouraged towards forgiveness, but he is a touch kinder - especially around her.

Galadriel brings him more comfort than he could have ever imagined. It is almost frightening.

“It will remain for some time. It would not do for him to forget.” He does not lean away from her touch. His heart lies surely in her hands, no hesitation as he leans to steal another kiss, pressing their mouths together. Whatever affection he might have held - or might still hold - is second to the depth of his love for her.

There’s a small smile on his face.

“How might you compete with him, ma vhenan? What would you have me do for you, to show you my heart?”

[laurenande]

"How?" she repeats as he stands near, as the lingering warmth of his lips lingers on hers, and she cannot help but smile a bit in response to him. She lets the necklace fall back against his chest and settles her hand, instead, in the fall of her hair over her shoulder, drawing her fingers through the strands.

"I would first be inclined to grant you a gift, in melda," she says and loops one strand around her finger as she speaks. "One hair, a boon I have granted to few others--and for proof, for evidence of your heart, I would ask you weave and wear it, if you are inclined?"

[dirth]

There is no hesitation in him, not when it comes to this. There is a weight of a world on his shoulders, but Galadriel eases it for him - why would he not want to give her something in return? To show his affection to her however she might demand or ask, to prove that he is true to her... It is not so great a burden to bear, not when his thoughts are a myriad of things. When he considers what she might mean to him, what her existence means to the fate of Thedas...

Solas bows his head, voice soft as he speaks.

"I would wear it with honour, vhenan."

[laurenande]

She smiles as she tugs on the hair wrapped around her finger and plucks it free. Individually, her hair is long and jut slightly waved, the strand shines like gold in a cold light, and she winds it between her fingers until its length is turned several times over.

"If your situation is truly dire, I have used strands like this to string bows and line fishing rods." She tells him, softly, and presses the strand into his hand. "It shall not break, not so long as it shares my will."

[dirth]

It’s a similar ilk to Thranduil’s, there’s no denying that, but it means something more to be given it by her own hand. Solas is not fool enough to mistake the gesture; he’s warmed by it, fingers curling around the single strand. There’s a distinct urge to kiss it, as thin as it is, but he resists. Instead, he smiles.

“I am no archer,” he admits. “But I will remember it, should it be necessary. Thank you, Galadriel.” He steals another kiss, soft, gentle. “What shall I fashion it into? How best would you like me to wear your affection?”

[laurenande]

"How you fashion it is yours to choose, my love," Galadriel tells him and shakes her head a bit. "I would weave it, but I weave many things."

She leans her head forward as he kisses her again, her smile curling against his mouth, and rests her forehead against his. She is too close, staring at such a distance that she can only see his eyes and the fine freckles across his cheeks, but not his face on whole.

"I would ask you not wind it alongside his...that I would find intolerable."

[dirth]

“Perhaps I shall fashion a ring, so that I might always have it close. I can think of little else that would please me as much.” It’s impossible to keep himself too far from her now, in this moment, soft and careful as he embraces everything that she gives him. This is the kind of moment he will not forget, that will soothe him in his dreams.

He would kiss her again and again, their noses nudging as he shakes his head, offering a new promise.

“Yours I shall wear with pride and joy. Many will mistake his for yours,” because people are foolish and would never suspect the truth, “but I shall wear your gift close to my heart. It has great meaning to me, my love.”