Solas, contrasting to Galadriel, feels time deeply. Each day that passes feels like an aeon, an era, centuries under his fingertips, waiting and wanting for the world to change. There is nothing he can do, powerless as he is, and the agony of that is unforgettable. He is of Arlathan, of a world forgotten, changed and marred by his touch and his strength, and his bones feel shaped by it, twisted and broken even as he stands tall.

She speaks and they echo, soft against the curve of his spine and the warmth of his skin.

Words are meaningless, he thinks, when he feels her so deeply in his heart.

"Why can it not be both? We have a great deal of time here." His smile is soft, gentle, accepting the touch of her hand. "I will do what pleases you best."