(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.)
Thranduil moves to the window and the templars treat him to the same wary scrutiny that they do her. His barb is agitated and casual, intended more for the guard than her, but it is not so unusual to hear him bandy mild insults. He is rarely tolerant of the presence of Men and has always been vocal regarding anything he finds distasteful.
What is unusual is how he pulls at his cuffs. Thranduil has always been impeccably dressed, as a rule, and he reserves such motions to be used as punctuation. This was not punctuation. It was possible the clothing troubled him, but she couldn't imagine it would trouble him enough to merit fidgeting so. No, something had pushed him to the point where even the banal bothers him.
It is a curious situation and one that merits her full attention. She casts her guard a sidelong glance and, with a wave of her ring hand and a pull of power, draws the surface of this world around them. The guards, as they have done whenever she catches them up and tangles them into the border of what is concealed, adopt blank expressions and sway on their feet. Today, by some chance, they remain standing. It is a near thing.
"Such high praise," she replies dryly, but moves to stand with him by the window, nevertheless. "If they are to your standards, however, then they will certainly meet mine.
"Are clothes what concern you, gwanur nin, or has something happened? You seem ill at ease."
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.
Thranduil is rarely so unsettled and she can count the times she has seen him this way without straining to recall. It is alarming but not half so much as his words. She knew, of course, that the elves of Thedas had horrors perpetrated upon them, that some vestiges of those horrors still lingered, but she had not imagined that children suffered now.
She watched his tantrum and watched him breeze past her guard to take one of the low, down-stuffed seats that littered the room. His expression settled into one of calm as he sat, but she recognized it for the veneer it was. She makes no comment as she moves to join him, her own face frozen to mask her horror.
After a long moment of contemplation, she lets out a slow breath.
"They shall not perish," Galadriel says as one might remark upon the weather. It is simple fact. "We shall see to it before we depart."
It would be a stopgap measure, of course, but if she has to break the minds of a dozen men, she will see the children here fed. She cannot abide cruelty to elflings, they are simply too precious.
Immortality does not become monotonous to one who was designed to bear it. They are not emotionless, despite what rumors might suggest. It simply takes great feeling to bring a reaction to the forefront and when it makes a rare appearance —
Galadriel is twice his age and royal by all her lineage. She bears the violent outpouring with grace. He will let her puzzle the logistics out; he will turn his talents to other matters.
"They are apprentices who will never move beyond that. Forgive me, I do not know the word." Back to Trade, and with a flick of his fingers to the guards— what he will speak of now is not seditious or treasonous in the least, and it cannot be healthy for those Men to be ensnared for too long. "Gwenaëlle's elven maid Guenievre recommended them to me. They do the actual work of clothing the Comte, as I understand, and are accustomed to getting a good deal of work done to satisfaction in a short time."
He exhales, rests his elbow on the chair, and gestures vaguely at the window to indicate the tittering from the courtyard. "Despite earlier distain, ready-made is also an option, though clearly these humans cannot see color as we do, for their choices are raucous."
And finally. "We will have to provide them with designs of some sort, reuse what we had in Arda. We have not the time to find a proper tailor. I have been informed anyone wishing to keep standing will not serve elves."
"I would prefer, I think, to wear something crafted by elven hands. Tempting as strangely colored clothing might be, it has been long years since I favored such...bold colors." Galadriel says after a moment of deliberation. She ignores Thranduil's motion to the guards--while the draw of power is tangible, she is in no hurry to relinquish what privacy they have, regardless of the sensitivity of the conversation.
"There might be some merit in wearing the styles of our local kin, but if need be I can furnish designs for something more familiar."
She regards her own sleeve in an absent sort of way--already, in the back of her mind, she has begun pondering how to feed a city within a city. Her white dress has endured Thedas admirably but, despite her skill in staying its decay, it is troublesome owning only one proper garment.
"It is a pity I must tolerate these Templars. I would like to see what our native kin might make if I could show them the arts one can weave into cloth."
It is an abstract comfort to know she can continue to hold the Templars even though there is no urgent need for it. They are not as poorly off as he thought. He considers her. He has thought of Galadriel in so many different tones over his life, but she is uniquely gifted for the exact situation they have found themselves in.
"A blend, perhaps?" Has he seen her in anything but ill-fitting Mannish clothes and her dress? How they approach the same problem is startling. But she is of a different Age, a different family. It is understandable.
"Do they pose any real threat, cousin?" He has little concern for swords, unless there are a great deal of them against him- partially arrogance. "I have met very few."
"The templars?" Galadriel prompts and regards the frozen pair casually. "Largely, no. They are skilled with their weapons, formidable in combat, but they are only Men."
She looks back at him and rests her hands in her lap. Thranduil's curiosity is idle, but they had long ago agreed to share knowledge.
"Their commander is a keen man, and has seen through simple concealment, but I have found little reason to fear them."
She looks him over and considers the clothing Thranduil has been forced to adopt. His suggestion, a blend of the styles of Arda and Thedas is an interesting one. She had not considered it before, but the possibilities such a marriage provides are many.
"The Dalish favor earthen tones. Would browns and greens satisfy you, cousin, or have your preferences shifted entirely to shades of silver?"
It is teasing, perhaps. It is certainly said in a lighter tone than the rest of their conversation has had, though that's not really an accomplishment.
"I have not worn anything but white in an Age, but I recall being fond of blues. I expect that is well within the pallet of our local kin."
"How simple?" is his first question. They all have their talents, and if his rests in a realm that the Templars have some immunity to, he'd rather not find out in the middle of needing it.
(He longs mournfully for but twenty of his guard. What they could do if they had so many!)
He wishes he had a glass of wine, but as far as he can see, she keeps none close at hand.
"If it is suitable for my guard, it is suitable for me." He's certainly not shied away from exploring a bit here. (Excepting purple. He looks hideous in purple.)
"The Dalish favor a pattern of crossing bars- I have seen in on the wraps Solas wears in place of shoes. It would suit as a subtle nod to them." As well as the not so subtle nod of being seen around the Dalish. If they are fêted, they will need to make sure to dance with city elf and Dalish both.
He scoffs a little at her pronouncement, but all in good humor. "I wore red to your granddaughter's begetting-day feast. Surely you recall that?"
It had been centuries before, one of the last excursions made before the spiders had descended. Thranduil, still wed, had been far more cheerful. He supposed he still owned that robe, somewhere.
"If you can be persuaded from your white, I can be parted from my silver. Brown and blue, perhaps?" Though, really, the idea of Galadriel being forced from her usual raiment by necessity. He's struck by curiosity, suddenly. "I do not suppose," he says, slowly. "- that you have the sense to wear something else whilst you launder your dress and smallclothes?"
He wants to suppose that the answer is yes, but after hearing what the Outsider had done, well. Safer to ask.
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no subject
What is unusual is how he pulls at his cuffs. Thranduil has always been impeccably dressed, as a rule, and he reserves such motions to be used as punctuation. This was not punctuation. It was possible the clothing troubled him, but she couldn't imagine it would trouble him enough to merit fidgeting so. No, something had pushed him to the point where even the banal bothers him.
It is a curious situation and one that merits her full attention. She casts her guard a sidelong glance and, with a wave of her ring hand and a pull of power, draws the surface of this world around them. The guards, as they have done whenever she catches them up and tangles them into the border of what is concealed, adopt blank expressions and sway on their feet. Today, by some chance, they remain standing. It is a near thing.
"Such high praise," she replies dryly, but moves to stand with him by the window, nevertheless. "If they are to your standards, however, then they will certainly meet mine.
"Are clothes what concern you, gwanur nin, or has something happened? You seem ill at ease."
no subject
“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.
no subject
She watched his tantrum and watched him breeze past her guard to take one of the low, down-stuffed seats that littered the room. His expression settled into one of calm as he sat, but she recognized it for the veneer it was. She makes no comment as she moves to join him, her own face frozen to mask her horror.
After a long moment of contemplation, she lets out a slow breath.
"They shall not perish," Galadriel says as one might remark upon the weather. It is simple fact. "We shall see to it before we depart."
It would be a stopgap measure, of course, but if she has to break the minds of a dozen men, she will see the children here fed. She cannot abide cruelty to elflings, they are simply too precious.
"Tell me of your seamstresses."
no subject
Galadriel is twice his age and royal by all her lineage. She bears the violent outpouring with grace. He will let her puzzle the logistics out; he will turn his talents to other matters.
"They are apprentices who will never move beyond that. Forgive me, I do not know the word." Back to Trade, and with a flick of his fingers to the guards— what he will speak of now is not seditious or treasonous in the least, and it cannot be healthy for those Men to be ensnared for too long. "Gwenaëlle's elven maid Guenievre recommended them to me. They do the actual work of clothing the Comte, as I understand, and are accustomed to getting a good deal of work done to satisfaction in a short time."
He exhales, rests his elbow on the chair, and gestures vaguely at the window to indicate the tittering from the courtyard. "Despite earlier distain, ready-made is also an option, though clearly these humans cannot see color as we do, for their choices are raucous."
And finally. "We will have to provide them with designs of some sort, reuse what we had in Arda. We have not the time to find a proper tailor. I have been informed anyone wishing to keep standing will not serve elves."
no subject
"There might be some merit in wearing the styles of our local kin, but if need be I can furnish designs for something more familiar."
She regards her own sleeve in an absent sort of way--already, in the back of her mind, she has begun pondering how to feed a city within a city. Her white dress has endured Thedas admirably but, despite her skill in staying its decay, it is troublesome owning only one proper garment.
"It is a pity I must tolerate these Templars. I would like to see what our native kin might make if I could show them the arts one can weave into cloth."
no subject
"A blend, perhaps?" Has he seen her in anything but ill-fitting Mannish clothes and her dress? How they approach the same problem is startling. But she is of a different Age, a different family. It is understandable.
"Do they pose any real threat, cousin?" He has little concern for swords, unless there are a great deal of them against him- partially arrogance. "I have met very few."
no subject
She looks back at him and rests her hands in her lap. Thranduil's curiosity is idle, but they had long ago agreed to share knowledge.
"Their commander is a keen man, and has seen through simple concealment, but I have found little reason to fear them."
She looks him over and considers the clothing Thranduil has been forced to adopt. His suggestion, a blend of the styles of Arda and Thedas is an interesting one. She had not considered it before, but the possibilities such a marriage provides are many.
"The Dalish favor earthen tones. Would browns and greens satisfy you, cousin, or have your preferences shifted entirely to shades of silver?"
It is teasing, perhaps. It is certainly said in a lighter tone than the rest of their conversation has had, though that's not really an accomplishment.
"I have not worn anything but white in an Age, but I recall being fond of blues. I expect that is well within the pallet of our local kin."
no subject
(He longs mournfully for but twenty of his guard. What they could do if they had so many!)
He wishes he had a glass of wine, but as far as he can see, she keeps none close at hand.
"If it is suitable for my guard, it is suitable for me." He's certainly not shied away from exploring a bit here. (Excepting purple. He looks hideous in purple.)
"The Dalish favor a pattern of crossing bars- I have seen in on the wraps Solas wears in place of shoes. It would suit as a subtle nod to them." As well as the not so subtle nod of being seen around the Dalish. If they are fêted, they will need to make sure to dance with city elf and Dalish both.
He scoffs a little at her pronouncement, but all in good humor. "I wore red to your granddaughter's begetting-day feast. Surely you recall that?"
It had been centuries before, one of the last excursions made before the spiders had descended. Thranduil, still wed, had been far more cheerful. He supposed he still owned that robe, somewhere.
"If you can be persuaded from your white, I can be parted from my silver. Brown and blue, perhaps?" Though, really, the idea of Galadriel being forced from her usual raiment by necessity. He's struck by curiosity, suddenly. "I do not suppose," he says, slowly. "- that you have the sense to wear something else whilst you launder your dress and smallclothes?"
He wants to suppose that the answer is yes, but after hearing what the Outsider had done, well. Safer to ask.