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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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[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.”