He has seen horrors in his time. Most of them stemmed from war, from cruelties easily prescribed to Sauron or to the greed for the Silmarils. This is—beyond that. His hands rest a shoulder’s-span apart on the sill, and he bows his head, lets his hair fall about his face like a veil.
“There are children starving in this city, Galadriel. They will die.” The switch to Sindarin is for comfort. There is no mistaking what he means—he says ‘gwinig’. Elven children. Again, that wind-up mechanical energy, the snaps of elven quickness from one who uses his body as an extension of the state, from one who wields precise control of himself, born from seven thousand years of being in this hroa. He looks up from the window—he cannot stop, he must stop, condemning all the Men of this world to death is not a sentence he has the authority to pass.
Smaug did not outrage him so. Smaug was—a force of nature. A sentient hurricane, evil, but predictable. The Fëanorians, had, for the most part, stayed their blades from the children. No elf could torture another. No elf could watch a child starve and be unmoved. The yrch were yrch, but there was nothing extraordinary about the Men who had burned the Low Quarter. And even before that, there had been elflings here, dying.
These everyday acts of cruelty. They cannot be blamed upon the Enemy—they sit in the grey of things. Indifference. This is why they are here.
He brushes past the guards. They do not topple. It takes—an extraordinary act of Will, but his hands are laying flat on the arms of the chair when he sits, and his legs are neatly crossed at the knee. His fit is through. He came here to discuss arrangements for clothing her to best suit their needs at upcoming functions, and he will return to it momentarily, but she is the only one who would understand his outrage, so it is to her he expresses it.
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2016-08-09 03:14 am (UTC)“There are children starving in this city, Galadriel. They will die.” The switch to Sindarin is for comfort. There is no mistaking what he means—he says ‘gwinig’. Elven children. Again, that wind-up mechanical energy, the snaps of elven quickness from one who uses his body as an extension of the state, from one who wields precise control of himself, born from seven thousand years of being in this hroa. He looks up from the window—he cannot stop, he must stop, condemning all the Men of this world to death is not a sentence he has the authority to pass.
Smaug did not outrage him so. Smaug was—a force of nature. A sentient hurricane, evil, but predictable. The Fëanorians, had, for the most part, stayed their blades from the children. No elf could torture another. No elf could watch a child starve and be unmoved. The yrch were yrch, but there was nothing extraordinary about the Men who had burned the Low Quarter. And even before that, there had been elflings here, dying.
These everyday acts of cruelty. They cannot be blamed upon the Enemy—they sit in the grey of things. Indifference. This is why they are here.
He brushes past the guards. They do not topple. It takes—an extraordinary act of Will, but his hands are laying flat on the arms of the chair when he sits, and his legs are neatly crossed at the knee. His fit is through. He came here to discuss arrangements for clothing her to best suit their needs at upcoming functions, and he will return to it momentarily, but she is the only one who would understand his outrage, so it is to her he expresses it.