At first, Galadriel is very confused. To see Thranduil so urgent and, daresay, eager was a vast departure from how he generally behaved in their interactions. That he had drawn silence around them and folded them into a girdle, a skill she was unaware he possessed, only added to her state. She glances about the room, a quick look, but noone is there.
Not alone?
Surely he does not mean her cousins, and while she has met Iorveth and he is longer lived, he is not of the Eldar directly. Her brow furrows as she regards him.
“He has been here all along," he says, intent. All along, all alone, since the fall of Elvhenan, and the lessons learned at Cuivienen taught that no elf was to risk as much. There is no point in stringing this secret out; he hardly wishes to lord his secret over her, and it is hardly his secret anyway.
"Solas is elvhen," he says, plainly. "The rest, he owes to tell you himself, but that much he was afraid of revealing to you, and bid me to do it on his behalf."
"Elvhen?" Galadriel repeats, her expression shifting mildly with her shock. She stares just past Thranduil as she considers what that means--Solas is immortal then, he is their kin. She had been so concerned that his life would be a fleeting moment...and to learn this, now, from Thranduil--
Galadriel's smile blooms unbidden and it takes her a moment to conjure words.
"Well, I thank you, cousin. How good it is that we have found him."
His head tilts, and he looks young. Eased, at least, and perhaps it's the Girdle (he never had skill with Melian's sort, moreso with the one he cobbled out of his own Craft, but they needed something impenetrable for this) or the absurdity of it all that wipes some of the shadows carved in by the Necromancer, but it feels as though they could be in another city, in another time--
"Will you be seeking to ease his loneliness, cousin?"
Galadriel doesn't answer quickly, she is silent for several seconds, just smiling, before she looks at Thranduil once more. The lightness in him is encouraging--enough that, for just a moment, she forgets that he should be livid with her, that he is the one person who should hold her accountable for this choice. It nearly looks as though he will be neither and the strangeness in that does not occur to her before she speaks.
"If I can, and if he will permit it," she answers without guile. "I fear he may be too reserved to tolerate me long...but it will be sweet, however brief it is."
"It needn't be brief," Thranduil says, and who could he be thinking of other than his own lady. "We are not suited to briefness."
As Legolas had told him, even her own granddaughter had been granted more than a handful of decades of knowing her beloved. As Solas is more their kin than not, they ought to hold onto that hope and that time with both hands.
"'Tolerate'," Thranduil says, dismissive. "I hope Celeborn's stupidity is not a weight about your neck in this."
Leaving your spouse, when they were hale and whole and beside you. Choosing to be apart from them. It sounds and feels like a betrayal. But Celeborn could always be a fool, and Legolas had never lied to him before, possibly incapable of it. That anyone could leave Galadriel astonishes even his most cynical of hearts.
At that, Galadriel is surprised--that is twice in one conversation that Thranduil has managed it and it is something of a record. She looks at him and draws a slow breath.
"I should hope his choices do not weigh me down, but I cannot be sure of that." She replies. It makes sense that he knows, after a fashion--his son had been from beyond the third age, had he not?
"You are not angry with me, for loving again while he lives, however distant?"
Ah, they have come to this. The path from their choices to this conversation is clear; it is not as though her question is unexpected.
"Legolas came to you, and carried no message from me, no warning to prepare for Thedas. I would not allow such a thing to happen. Nor would not allow Legolas himself to come to Thedas without warning. And none of your kin or Haldir find a way to pass along any news to us, and all of them from Arda long before either of us departed. In light of that-- in light of that we find ourselves able to love, I must believe that Eru has a hand in this as much as He did bringing us here."
He did not believe in Eru. No elf did. They knew, they felt the Music, they understood. But he did not speak of Eru, or the Valar, and he only spoke of Melian because he had known her.
"Extraordinary things are being asked of us. I believe that He means for us to take root here, to protect and serve our kin as best as we are able. That we have found love here is perhaps by His design."
Three times in a conversation. He might as well. The solemnity leaves his tone. "And we are both too sensible to beget another Feanor between our spouses, so all will be well."
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Not alone?
Surely he does not mean her cousins, and while she has met Iorveth and he is longer lived, he is not of the Eldar directly. Her brow furrows as she regards him.
"Has someone arrived?"
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"Solas is elvhen," he says, plainly. "The rest, he owes to tell you himself, but that much he was afraid of revealing to you, and bid me to do it on his behalf."
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Galadriel's smile blooms unbidden and it takes her a moment to conjure words.
"Well, I thank you, cousin. How good it is that we have found him."
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His head tilts, and he looks young. Eased, at least, and perhaps it's the Girdle (he never had skill with Melian's sort, moreso with the one he cobbled out of his own Craft, but they needed something impenetrable for this) or the absurdity of it all that wipes some of the shadows carved in by the Necromancer, but it feels as though they could be in another city, in another time--
"Will you be seeking to ease his loneliness, cousin?"
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"If I can, and if he will permit it," she answers without guile. "I fear he may be too reserved to tolerate me long...but it will be sweet, however brief it is."
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As Legolas had told him, even her own granddaughter had been granted more than a handful of decades of knowing her beloved. As Solas is more their kin than not, they ought to hold onto that hope and that time with both hands.
"'Tolerate'," Thranduil says, dismissive. "I hope Celeborn's stupidity is not a weight about your neck in this."
Leaving your spouse, when they were hale and whole and beside you. Choosing to be apart from them. It sounds and feels like a betrayal. But Celeborn could always be a fool, and Legolas had never lied to him before, possibly incapable of it. That anyone could leave Galadriel astonishes even his most cynical of hearts.
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"I should hope his choices do not weigh me down, but I cannot be sure of that." She replies. It makes sense that he knows, after a fashion--his son had been from beyond the third age, had he not?
"You are not angry with me, for loving again while he lives, however distant?"
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"Legolas came to you, and carried no message from me, no warning to prepare for Thedas. I would not allow such a thing to happen. Nor would not allow Legolas himself to come to Thedas without warning. And none of your kin or Haldir find a way to pass along any news to us, and all of them from Arda long before either of us departed. In light of that-- in light of that we find ourselves able to love, I must believe that Eru has a hand in this as much as He did bringing us here."
He did not believe in Eru. No elf did. They knew, they felt the Music, they understood. But he did not speak of Eru, or the Valar, and he only spoke of Melian because he had known her.
"Extraordinary things are being asked of us. I believe that He means for us to take root here, to protect and serve our kin as best as we are able. That we have found love here is perhaps by His design."
Three times in a conversation. He might as well. The solemnity leaves his tone. "And we are both too sensible to beget another Feanor between our spouses, so all will be well."