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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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backdated to like. october tenth.

[rowancrowned]

[ he's been sitting quietly, watching her work the loom and acting rather subdued, greeting her quietly when he first stepped in. since then, he's been sitting, quietly appreciating her presence. ]

Galadriel, what do you suppose might happen when immortality is restored to elves that assume it is-- acceptable to kinslay? That think the solution to being wronged is to seek bloody vengeance?

Omg I choked on my drink. Good. Lets do this.

[laurenande]

[Thranduil is often wont to watch in silence. She expects her presence is a balm to him just as his is to her. Because he does this with some regularity, she isn't startled by the sudden question.]

You expect it shall be restored abruptly? [It was an interesting hypothetical--true, it was a goal they were working toward, but hypothetical nonetheless.]

Were I an idealist, I might expect that the allure of immortality would sway a mortal heart to gentler means. In truth? I suspect there shall be a generation of terrible, bloody conflict that shall go unforgotten ere the ending of this world.

As it did in ours.

[rowancrowned]

It appears to have been lost within a generation or two.

[ he crosses his legs, arms folded, leaning back against the wall. he's relaxed, or he's come to a conclusion. all that remains is to bring galadriel along to the same conclusion. ]

Worse, perhaps, for this world has Blights and demons and Craft handed out to every tenth Man. For all your Uncle did, his madness and the madness of his followers could be turned against the Enemy. At least we Quendi united for that. And who is to say it will breed out within a generation?

[laurenande]

[Galadriel continues weaving as she listens, and she listens carefully.]

It is an easy thing, recalling my uncle and his followers as mad--but it is folly to dismiss him so. Madness very rarely drives any mind to murder.

[She pauses her weaving and turns in her seat.]

The conflict that will rise in this world will be truly terrible, even by our standards. The whole of it may burn before the fires can be doused...but, the more dreadful the toll, the more quickly change comes.

Unless they are truly without feeling, it will only be a generation.

Do you wish to stay the restoration of immortality among them?

[rowancrowned]

[ he inclines his head, allows her that. he's... proud of this companionship they have, born by necessity, putting the ghosts behind them. still, it is fragile. he'll leave her uncle be. ]

And then how long before it catches again? Thedas cannot seem to go a generation without outright slaughter. These thoughts they have, the impulses, the violence-- The only way to be sure that they are turned to the correct path is to monitor the whole of a generation, to see them raised without these tendencies, teach them to their children.

[ which falls to him and galadriel. ]

Yes. [ that's why he's having this conversation. ] And I would have-- ideally-- that nurtured generation be the parents of the ones that would have immortality restored to them. These rifts, Corypheus-- the population will drop as it did after the Blight, however-- it will still be far too large for us to manage.

[laurenande]

[Her brow dips gently as she listens to him, as he weaves the future he fears and draws it into the shape of the one he prefers. It is an interesting theory Thranduil has conjured--to raise children without the violent influences of the world around them...but it is no small task, even for the Eldar.]

And such is our task, is it not?

[Managing the people of this world?

Ultimately, it likely is what they were sent to this world to do, but it is dangerous thought. It is a thought Galadriel has struggled with for long, dark years. ...But, of all people, she perhaps understands the allure of power and dominion best.

Her answer is neutral and diplomatic; she does not disagree but neither can she allow herself to agree.]

If that is the goal, we must first remove the danger from these lands. The shadow that lingers here is too deep to foster gentleness in the hearts of elves.

Then, once the world is freed of poison, we may direct the flow of events.

[rowancrowned]

Such is our task, he echoes, And none better suited to it.

[ they are uniquely talented, each in their own way. if he had a choice, there would have been more he would have wanted at his side-- elrond half-elven, for example. thingol, if they could reach beyond middle earth. melian, luthien, if he could dream so broadly. his son.

such hopes are beyond him. he must only work with what he has. and what he has is not insubstantial. ]

You are, dear cousin, the Lady of Light. Such titles are not given out so easily. I think shadows will flee before you once you have the means to shine your light into the dark places.

In dreams, Mid-Haring.

[laurenande]

Galadriel did not often take rest, not until it was forced upon her, and she had avoided it for as long as she was able. Sleep came upon her like the tide; it swallowed her whole and rarely provided anything as valuable as restoration. When she was awake and could recline and ponder, that was when she recouped the energy she had spent; slumber was a wild land that drew upon ancient shadows and fears, that dragged her into a raging sea of old terrors and graces as her unconscious mind was made to unpack all the long centuries of her life.

The snow that fell around Kirkwall, that encased the Gallows, had done much to tint the shade of her dreams this night. Cold was a sensation that transalted roughly to the sleeping mind, to memory and recollection as a whole, and it was always dulled and tinted by emotions. This cold had been sharper than any in her long memory and it persisted, even through sleep, all around her, as she walked, and walked, and walked. It pressed downward, consumed her, and with great glassy jaws it ground down against her limbs. It was nothing so dramatic as a storm, indeed there was little to the memory but darkness and ice and the sound of waves, but rather a pervasive presence. Occasionally, faint starlight would glimmer off some facet in the distant reaches of her mind, but it was always lost before she could turn her attention to it.

The ice below was silent but ominous, there was a perpetual threat to it, even if her mind could not recall what it was. There was a hunger in the darkness and Galadriel ignored it for the sake of walking. Walking was all that mattered.

[minrathousian]

As is the way of dreams, there is no clear moment of distinction between Atticus' absence and his presence; he is merely there walking at her side, though his identity is carefully shrouded. A black dragon skull helm obscures his face; the robes that cloak him ripple with each step across the ice.

This is not the landscape he had expected to bear witness to upon entering her sleeping mind, and for a time it gives him pause, time which he passes by keeping pace with her, a silent companion. Then:

"Where are you going?"

[laurenande]

The answer that comes to her is a strange one, it is a blend of what is and what was. Had she actually been in this time, in this place, she would have replied differently, her answer longer and the meaning less clear, but this is a distant memory couched in a dream and time is strange here.

"Toward the dawn," she says, her own breath freezing in the air before her the very moment it leaves her lips. There is a brittle quality to the world as she speaks but she doesn't seem to notice it. "Across the sea to Middle-earth and to all that matters in this world."

It is a cryptic answer but only by omission. Even here she cannot recall the whole of her life at once, but the reminder of Middle-earth does spark something in the darkness beyond them. A distant glimmer flashes against the sky, bisected by what might be the horizon. Below, the ice groans and grinds in heaving waves.

[minrathousian]

The strength of her mind's recollection of this cold is powerful enough that Atticus, though he knows that the world around them is only the workings of her own thoughts put into the flesh of the Fade, feels the frigid bite in his bones. Somewhere in the waking world, he shivers, and looks with a rush of unexpected longing towards the light on the distant horizon. There, he knows suddenly, is relief, but it is so far away--

(A pause. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, to find his place in this fiction. A visitor, not a participant--)

It is then that he notices the buzzing swarm of demons shifting, hissing and undulating in the pitch blackness around them; there is no fear in his cold eyes as he watches them, only sudden understanding. Despair; that is what they feed on, and the despondency of this dreamscape only slakes their appetite for more.

"Tell me what it is that matters about this Middle-earth," he coaxes her, his tone like silk across steel, and keeps his eyes on the mass of demons that seem as repelled as they are attracted by Galadriel's peculiar, alien power.

[laurenande]

Her mind doesn't follow the question well and something in her step falters as it tries to wrap itself around it. The distant crack and shift of the ice shelf resounds across the plain. There is a rolling tremor as it crashes and refreezes, but the ground remains stable beneath them.

Nothing is important about Middle-earth--it must be protected at all costs--it is the land of passing things--it is my home--it is not my home--my family is there--my family will all die there--power awaits me--it shall all be lost--darkness has gathered there--

The answers, a hundred strong, cascade alongside them in an impossible tangle, a cacophony of hushed whispers, one atop of the other until they are spent. She speaks none of them and all of them at once. She walks and the ice beneath them is sharper, more brittle, the ocean waves are louder as they crash against it.

"I am needed there," she says, once her mind has expended all other possible answers. She looks down, a reflexive motion, to her left hand and then, abruptly, she stops walking. The whole dream jars, the momentum of their walking disrupted, as she lifts her hand and stares at the gold ring wrapped around her finger. Her brow dips and, as she turns her hand over to stare at the sharp text engraved into the ring, she says: "I am bound to it."

[minrathousian]

What an inconsequential bit of gold finery; it should not, in this place, exude such a draw upon anyone, least of all a magister whose interest in wealth and finery has never extended beyond sporting enough of it to denote his position in Tevinter society. Atticus' eyes glance off of it at first, the immediate threat posed by the demons and the murmur of indistinct whispering around them occupying the vast majority of his attention. Yet as Galadriel lifts her hand, he looks back again, and fixates.

"I am bound to it."

Around them, the dreamscape shivers, the scope of it narrowing upon the ring; what else matters beyond its potential, whispered into his ear with promises of the wonders he could create, if only he could touch the band one time? Wear it, and what obstacle would the Veil be to his vision? Rend it like shorn metal or part it gently like silk curtains, he could coax the visions of his sleeping mind into the waking world and weave together earth and sky and water with magic that could outlive the limitations of his own feeble body.

(Yet why limit himself in such a way? Why not weave together magic with flesh? A body is just another distant horizon waiting to be crossed--)

The helm that masks his face seems to disintegrate like ash caught on the wind, revealing his identity, his expression more tabula rasa than covetous. Atticus turns his pale eyes, wondering and wide, towards Galadriel... and witnesses the curl of elongated, bony fingers that rest against her cheeks. There, beside her face, a demon--and upon his own shoulder, slipping through his hair, cold talons and the near press of teeth. Venhedis--

His draw upon the Fade mutes and muffles the grinding groan of the frozen sea as it shifts under their feet. The protective barrier that suddenly envelops and encompasses Galadriel hums with energy, and absorbs the brunt of the impact from the spell that rips apart the demons that had been curling and crawling around them.

(A near-miss for the Inquisition, who nearly had two powerful abominations to contend with.)

[laurenande]

The promises of the ring are familiar, the whispers of Sauron eke their way out of the cracks in the ice, the shadows at her feet, and she is transfixed. When the world around her bursts with light and power the whole of the world shivers and jumps to the left. Galadriel is thrown off balance by it and stumbles as the Fade ignites around her.

Fade?

The word is strange and it pulls at a thread in her mind causing the whole of this place to begin slowly unraveling. It begins with her hand, with the glimmering gold that rests on her finger, and she stares down at it as it crumbles to ash. The thread pulls again and it begins to take the blistering cold. She twists to watch it, watch as crystals form through the snag in the air and fade away, and this time her eyes catch on the human in her dream.

Dream?

She says nothing, skill with words has not returned to her, but she stares as her mind attempts to wake itself to the reality of this place.

[minrathousian]

Like pulling the threads of a tapestry loose until the weight of the loose fibre hangs heavy enough to case the rest to collapse; like a ship's captain might read the clouds on the horizon or spy through a sextant to chart a course, Atticus reads the dream around him, and knows it is time to depart. Leave, awaken, before the power of this imagining draws more demons and spirits to this place than he can conceivably fend off without the aid of another mage equally confident in their abilities in this place.

The pale, smokey haze that lingers in the aftermath of his spellcasting is blown away as though at merely a gesture, Atticus can control the wind--and he can, in this place. His pupils blown wide, he turns to find Galadriel's eyes on his, and knows a moment's trepidation. Reckless, careless, he should not be making these mistakes.

"My apologies," he bids her once, countenance closed off. Then he reaches out a hand towards her temple.

"Wake up."

[laurenande]

The air is collapsing inward as the horizon draws close and a Mage stands before her here. Where is here? There is a moment of confusion and then he speaks, his apology ringing across the space between them, and reaches for her head.

Wake up.

Galadriel's eyes open with a start and the world appears before her in startling clarity. Her dream passes, as they all do, but too quickly for her preference. She grasps, past the whispers of the One, the cold and darkness of the grinding ice, and pulls the stray thread. The face is no guarantee, dreams work strangely, but she knows that voice.

Unfortunately, she knew not what to make of this.

[rowancrowned]

There is a fire in my suite. If you would not mind lending your aid, [ he says this all very causally, but there is an edge to his voice, a hint of the elvenking. ] It would be appreciated. There was an assassin. My lady's father sent him.

[laurenande]

[Galadriel regards the crystal as one might regard a rodent wearing pants. Someone was mad enough to send an assassin after Thranduil? How remarkable. After a pause she rises and dons her cloak.]

I presume I am aiding you with the fire and not the assassin.

[Given the past tense and so forth.]

Or am I aiding you with her father?

[rowancrowned]

The fire, [ he agrees. ] If I need your help with the father, I will contact you again. I-- left her to make for Orlais.

I think him a paper tiger [ arda or thedas has tigers, probably. ] but I would come to an understanding with him. She has asked me for his head.

[laurenande]

I have never know you to disappoint your wife or deny her a request, gwanur nin , but as you like it.

I shall see what I may do to set your chamber to rights or, at the least, extinguish it.

Neither of you suffered injury? [That is barely a question. She assumes Thranduil dispatched his would be killer within moments.]

[rowancrowned]

She begged for the assassin's life, but condemned her father with the same breath. I have questions, but there will be answers eventually. If she is ready for comfort, I beg you offer it.

[ thranduil hesitates, in a very unthranduily way. ]

He had a knife. I was angered, and suffering the effects of poison. My hand is wounded, but it is healing. She is frightened, and may be slightly singed.

[laurenande]

[His request barely merits acknowledging. Galadriel would have offered comfort or the option of it whether he begged it of her or not.]

Poison?

[Perhaps this assassin hadn't been completely incompetent, then. Her concern is mitigated somewhat by the knowledge of what hideous poisons Thranduil could likely survive and how this world lacked anything equivalent to the venom of Ungoilant's progeny.]

I shall do what I can about both states, though I expect the latter will be more easily solved than the former.

Do I need to dispose of the body?

[rowancrowned]

Magebane, [ he admits. ] Tampers with the connection to the Fade. He put it in either my food or my wine, because Gwenaëlle was also— somewhat stunned. I am not sure the whole of his plan and nor do I care to learn it.

He lives. She begged for his life and I will do this bloodlessly if I can.

[ he anticipates galadriel’s reaction well enough. ]

Your concern for my well being is touching. I will gladly allow you the right to do whatever you want with the next assassin.

[laurenande]

Ah, so generous of you.

[Her deadpan is more lilting than most but no less dry.]

Has he at least been restrained and shuffled off to some cell, or has she begged to spare him that fate as well?

[rowancrowned]

I hit him [ primly. ] with a sword.

[ when the arts of mirkwood would have allowed thranduil to drag him into unwilling sleep. ]

I am returning him to her lord father in Halamshiral.