(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.)
[ the three of them drift around skyhold with a vague, constant awareness of one another, a tug dimmed by the veil. aragorn resonates in it too, as does samwise, but to lesser degrees, someone dropping a nail on marble compared to the high, clear note of a flute.
he finds her easily with this—it makes sense. elves are not meant to be alone, so with so very few of them here, their dimmed fëa sing out to fight the loneliness. she weaves; the dust motes from the loom are bright in the sunlight of this little out-of-use room, and with the noise of the beater he ought to have found her even without the song of her fëa. thranduil does not close the door behind him, only walks to the window and looks out, over the vista- or appears to. he has never learned for sure how skilled the lady is at stripping away the illusions he cloaks himself in, if she knows the extent of his injuries.
he does not say: ‘i was looking for you’, or ‘we need to speak’. they are both far too old and far too jaded to need to bother with flowery pretenses alone. they are elves. for all the animosity between them—thranduil’s, really, there are some things that are truth. ]
We must approach the Dalish. [ he speaks in quenya. he was fluent, before the fëanorians came, and after his father’s death, he spent a considerable amount of gold retrieving books written in that tongue to keep his own sharp. ] Once this matter is taken care of, the men will be weak.
[Where she would have risen for anyone else, Thranduil was too familiar to her to require such novel acts of politesse. He would not have appreciated the break in conversation, nor the florid language required, and so she offered neither. He did grant her a small concession as he stood by the window. So often she spoke in Sindarin, to hear Quenya was a mild but decided gift.
She responded in kind as she carefully worked.]
It would be simpler to act before this is concluded; organizing during disarray will prove easier than awaiting the end of this...conflict.
[She doesn't dispute the weakness of Men, or the state of Thedas. Thranduil was keen enough that she has no doubt he'd already ascertained as much as she.]
I admit, I do not care to wait. Our kin have suffered far too long already.
Apparently, being under guard by Templars is the only way for an elf to get a room at the Duc's estate. It seems small, to him, but it is not technically a cell- or he'd have to raise a great fuss- Galadriel, the things he does for you- and he supposed she has two windows this time, rather than one.
"Pardon me," he says to the great chunks of poorly-forged ore 'guarding' his cousin, and wonder of wonders, they step away and he steps inside. He looks— happy, or something close to it, a smile on his face that should be alarming for the falseness of it, for the fire in his eyes behind the courtly mask. It's a purposeful fire, but it will fade into icy determination, to do, as always, what must be done.
Orlais is gilded rot, and nothing pleases him more, now that he has seen the country in person, than imagining it returning to the elves.
It's a prickly, near petulant mood, one that merely needs to run its course, it covers hurt and anger both, which Galadriel will know because she knows him, and for the first time they are being wholly honest with one another.
"How would you like, cousin," he starts, sitting down in the closest chair to those coveted windows. "- to get a new dress?"
Galadriel offers him a long, silent look, as she considers his question. Her expression is polite and distant, but it is a look she holds for the sole purpose of masking her irritation. Despite herself, her feelings regarding the Templars in her room are all too apparent.
"A new dress?" she repeats thoughtfully. He is in a mood, one a bit too young and put-upon for elves of their years, but it is one with considerable promise. There are too many teeth in his smile.
"I cannot say I had considered it, but a change would be nice. Have you seen something suitable?" she asks and the last word hangs there, heavy with alternate meaning and disdain. Orlais is proving to be a trial, not least of all for the distinct trends in fashion.
[ 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?
[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.
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.
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:
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.
[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.
I owe sincerest apologies for failing to attend our scheduled training. My memory was as severely compromised as any other during the sickness, and I deeply regret the disrespect and negligence that came about as a result. To blame the sickness in and of itself strikes me as irresponsible; I am very sorry for the part I played in any injury inflicted upon you during that time.
If you should wish to continue our sparring, I would be eager to do so. I did not wish to make assumptions to that effect after this recent shortcoming.
There is another matter I would also wish to seek out your guidance regarding. If that would be agreeable, then I am happy to speak in person or by whatever means most convenient to you.
(This is ridiculously overdue, but Maedhros has had to come to grips with how he acted and his return to health. Besides that, he is, well, embarrassed.)
Lady Galadriel,
Your forgiveness is sought; it has not been earned - yet - and I only ask that you keep an open-mind. The Elves of Arda are not accustomed to illness and it struck me hard. (I assure you that blue skin is not attractive in the least when paired with copper hair.)
I am sorry, cousin, for my poor, atrocious behavior. What I said may as well have come from my father's lips for I believe I was channeling him. The first-born does not fall far from the tree. However I seek to do better - to be better - and avoiding you, while tempting, will not heal any wounds.
I await your response eagerly - yet nervously - and hope, truly, that you have not suffered the same illness as I did.
You presume many things and chief among them is that I am willing to entertain your excuses. Why would I humor your requests? Of all my kin, you alone questioned my honor. You alone accused me of perfidy. And now you seek to blame it on your father? On the illness we all suffered?
The weight of your actions fall entirely on you.
Write me no more; if you've not the courage to face your mistakes I shall spare no effort forgiving you for them.
[There is no signature, nor greeting, and it is delivered by a different runner than the one who first delivered it. The letters themselves are far more jagged than they ought to be and indented the parchment considerably.]
[Galadriel is not often caught by surprise but she is now. When she speaks there is a croak in her voice that only comes from bitter weeping. Even she cannot banish that sound quickly.]
The Inquisition will never deign him worthy of receiving a sending crystal, but that is no small matter. In dreams, Atticus slips into the Fade and allows his feet to guide him across vast distances; to explore, indeed to visit torment, and on occasion, to touch minds with a friend.
He can use that word to describe her, can't he?
However she dreams, he steps into it from the periphery clad as he might have been in Minrathous. "I feel I ought to apologize for not calling on you sooner, in this fashion," he tells her, his thin smile wry.
"I cannot say you have ever called upon me in such fashion," Galadriel answers gradually as her mind assesses him and begins to adjust to his presence. It is a quicker shift than before, but it is still much slower than waking.
Her dream is neither pleasant nor unpleasant, now. She stands in a courtyard overgrown on all sides by trees. The branches and trunks curve, grow against the stones and frame the alcoves, the windows and the columns. The whole of it is shady because the trees blot out all but the barest hints of the sky above. It would be a pleasant dream save for the fact that the courtyard is empty and silent. Galadriel regards the walls quietly. Her gown is ill-imagined, an amorphous shape of shifting colors, and lucidity does little to correct that.
"It is certainly more sitting than what you wore in Kirkwall," she says and her lips quirk up in a familiar sort of ease--not quite a smile, not quite anything else.
(He can move like a shadow and he utilizes that skill now. Galadriel will find a letter tucked neatly under her door. It is sealed with wax featuring a simple "M".)
Cousin,
My brother and foster-son have made their way to the fates that await them on Arda. I am reminded, by their absence, how little time we are given. We should take naught for granted. This is not a comment on your feelings or actions - I think they are just - but I have reexamined mine.
Not many know that I and Kano fostered Elrond and Elros. Of course we did it after we frightened their poor mother and razed their city to the ground. However the effect those children had on us was good. We love them truly and I imagined, for a time, that we could forget the Oath and raise them.
Yet that was foolish. They belong with their kin and their people. We let them go, safe and sound, so that they could become the leaders they were always meant to be. I should have dedicated the rest of my life to watching over them; I would not have minded the duty in the least. But the Oath howled and clawed at us, demanding us to press on and do the impossible.
I perished a fool, Artanis, and apparently that is not an attribute that has improved over time. But I want to be less foolish; less rash and pig-headed. I can easily imagine the scorn you have earned for being kin to me. For that, I am sorry. Let my future actions speak for me, dear one, and know that I did not lie. I have and will always love you.
[ Alacruun does a bit of poking around and manages to ensure a note finds it's way to Galadriel's door. ]
Lady Galadriel,
We have not yet spoken, but I felt it would be best to allow myself a letter of introduction. My name is Alacruun and, like yourself, am one of the "rifters". I have been watching, listening, and interjecting into the debate regarding phylacteries and I find that you and I share a point of view on the matter. Further, you seem to be someone of experience and one unwilling to suffer foolishness. If you're amenable, I would enjoy having a discussion regarding the potential proposal and efforts that might be made to counter it.
Force of arms may not avail us, although at the end it may be needed. Still, there are other methods, are there not?
Regardless, you'll find my address attached; if you feel the need to reply, you may leave a letter there for me or you may come in person. If you have great need of me, contact Adalia; she's one of my own, from home.
Despite her ease speaking out on the network, Galadriel was hesitant to send runners with her transcribed thoughts. It would have been a simple matter to return the note with a letter of her own but, instead, she had elected to come to his door in person.
She arrives after dusk, shrouded in a cloak of her own making, hidden in plain sight. She lowers the hood as she knocks but refrains from drawing back the whole of the fabric as she awaits an answer.
[ As promised, Iorveth arrives at the courtyard just before dawn, leather boots a soft padding against the cool stone as he approaches, awake and aware as promise, and looking a rough mess next to someone as elegant and graceful as Galadriel as he makes it to her side, eyes on the sunrise. ]
Galadriel, I take it?
[ Tall, elven, beautiful in the kind of way that seems to have a natural glow to her, like an aura too strong for her skin to hold in, much like Thranduil. It's a trait that will never cease to amaze him, and leave Iorveth in a mild state of awe. They look so much like a dream in physical form, memories of a time long, long past, only kept alive in stories and art in his world. Their presence alone is a refreshing, hopeful thing. ]
You've chosen a fine spot to watch the day begin. I hadn't thought Kirkwall capable of looking so beautiful.
[ because he hates this city, for the most part. ]
[The courtyard is silent in these hours and Galadriel relishes it. The grey sky before the sun has risen over the ocean, the way the water still clings to the air. If there were but a few more trees, a few flowers, to hold the dew, it would be ideal. Instead, they have Kirkwall.]
It is a rare thing...but there are few sights that are not improved by the dawn of a new day.
[She regards the horizon for a moment longer before turning to look at him. Her expression is placid as she regards his face, swathed in a length of fabric, but her brows shit as she spies his ears.]
Strange. No one saw fit to tell me that you are our kin...assuming elf is what your people are called?
The revelation from Adalia shakes him, more than he is able to admit.
He had known that she had learned much from the Temple - many people had, with the spirits that had come to them, the journal from the priest, the whispers and the secrets of the People long dead and taken from this world. He had known they had escaped with knowledge that was beyond their imagining but familiar to him, and she had found the pieces of the world, tied in with the whispers he had given her, and learned more than he had estimated that she might.
He had given her too little credit, he thinks, underestimated her intelligence, what coming from another world might do to her, and now...
Now, for the first time in some time, he was something like afraid.
It's easy to slip through the city in the darkness, few people paying attention to an idle elf moving here and there. Even being who he is, a familiar face to most of the Inquisition itself, Solas does not stand out - no robes to identify him, nothing gaudy or bright, nothing that demanded attention. He moves through the night with speed at his heels, finding his way to Galadriel's door without hesitation, pausing outside of it. The night is at its peak, he thinks, and if anyone did see him sneaking his way to her room... Well, the rumours would start.
Galadriel sleeps only when the world demands it of her; it is not a consideration she is accustomed to and not one she is likely to embrace. When the knock comes on her door, she is at work, bent over her loom, and she only finishes the line before she rises. She is tired, enough to warrant lying down and resting, but the slowness in her limbs doesn't strike her as odd until she is at her door.
What hour is it?
She opens it and, despite the oddness of his arrival, she cannot muster confusion for him, only happiness.
"Solas," she greets, warmly and quietly and steps aside so that he may enter.
Solas is not prepared to let Galadriel too far from him, not with all that has happened. Being aware of her strength and her ability to care for herself does not mean that he would be entirely prepared for her healing alone, and the limitations of what might happen as a result of her wound is not something he can think about too hard. He doesn't want to worry about her any more than is necessary, but he also doesn't feel comfortable leaving her alone.
No one will take her again, but he will need a few hours to assure himself of that.
He finds her again that evening, never too far from her side, and settles down. He makes himself as comfortable as he can get, in a new shirt, cleaned and warmed and as comfortable as he can be. When he reaches out his fingers touch hers gently and he sighs, voice soft and low.
The healing had helped, had closed the wound, but the sting of the cold and the strange sick pull of time had left her terribly disoriented. She was glad to have Solas with her, is glad that he has remained, and takes his fingers with her own as quickly as she can.
With the poison in her system that is not terribly swift and she is glad he indulges her.
"As though I am removed from everyone through a thick fog, and by several days...but I am awake and aware now. I am no longer halted in a terrible moment."
She does something then that she has very rarely done. She uses his hold on her hand to pull him toward her. She has been resting, lying in bed, and his standing beside her is too distant for her taste. Sit, or join her, her weak tug says.
Solas comes to her more evenings than he doesn't now, even if it is not to stay for longer than a few hours: he enjoys her company, enjoys the warmth, the understanding that the two of them together, as a pair, is something that he clings to amidst everything else seeming to go wrong. He is losing much and it pains him to think that, in the end, he might lose her as well, but he is selfish enough to cling to whatever she might be able to offer him, anything that she will give until the world ceases to be.
Slipping into her room is easy and be brings with him some more notes on the nature of Thedas for her to read. Around his neck is his usual jawbone necklace, but twisted around it and the string holding it together are strands of golden hair - likely familiar to her, if no one else. Solas expects many people to imagine that it is her hair and not someone else's, give their relationship and standing with one another.
"Feamarnya." His voice is soft as he leans to kiss her cheek in greeting. "Good evening."
"Rafarion, in Melda," she greets and her attention drifts from her weaving.
She is glad to see him, as she always is, but her smile falters as her eyes drift across him and catch the dull glimmer of blonde hair. There are some, perhaps, in Thedas who might mistake her and Thranduil at a distance, but up close their hair is hardly similar. Her movement to welcome him is halted as he eyes fall on that lock, twisted around his necklace.
"A strange new accessory," she comments, her tone painfully blank and diplomatic. She will not guess how he came by them, nor allow herself to begin guessing. She has already had one of her great loves choose Sylvan elves before her, to suffer it again and with Thranduil as the very face of it would be truly devastating.
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12th bloomingtide
he finds her easily with this—it makes sense. elves are not meant to be alone, so with so very few of them here, their dimmed fëa sing out to fight the loneliness. she weaves; the dust motes from the loom are bright in the sunlight of this little out-of-use room, and with the noise of the beater he ought to have found her even without the song of her fëa. thranduil does not close the door behind him, only walks to the window and looks out, over the vista- or appears to. he has never learned for sure how skilled the lady is at stripping away the illusions he cloaks himself in, if she knows the extent of his injuries.
he does not say: ‘i was looking for you’, or ‘we need to speak’. they are both far too old and far too jaded to need to bother with flowery pretenses alone. they are elves. for all the animosity between them—thranduil’s, really, there are some things that are truth. ]
We must approach the Dalish. [ he speaks in quenya. he was fluent, before the fëanorians came, and after his father’s death, he spent a considerable amount of gold retrieving books written in that tongue to keep his own sharp. ] Once this matter is taken care of, the men will be weak.
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She responded in kind as she carefully worked.]
It would be simpler to act before this is concluded; organizing during disarray will prove easier than awaiting the end of this...conflict.
[She doesn't dispute the weakness of Men, or the state of Thedas. Thranduil was keen enough that she has no doubt he'd already ascertained as much as she.]
I admit, I do not care to wait. Our kin have suffered far too long already.
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sending crystal.
( that's one way to open a conversation. )
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Considering how few requests I receive through crystals, it would be singular no matter the contents. What do you wish of me?
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"Pardon me," he says to the great chunks of poorly-forged ore 'guarding' his cousin, and wonder of wonders, they step away and he steps inside. He looks— happy, or something close to it, a smile on his face that should be alarming for the falseness of it, for the fire in his eyes behind the courtly mask. It's a purposeful fire, but it will fade into icy determination, to do, as always, what must be done.
Orlais is gilded rot, and nothing pleases him more, now that he has seen the country in person, than imagining it returning to the elves.
It's a prickly, near petulant mood, one that merely needs to run its course, it covers hurt and anger both, which Galadriel will know because she knows him, and for the first time they are being wholly honest with one another.
"How would you like, cousin," he starts, sitting down in the closest chair to those coveted windows. "- to get a new dress?"
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"A new dress?" she repeats thoughtfully. He is in a mood, one a bit too young and put-upon for elves of their years, but it is one with considerable promise. There are too many teeth in his smile.
"I cannot say I had considered it, but a change would be nice. Have you seen something suitable?" she asks and the last word hangs there, heavy with alternate meaning and disdain. Orlais is proving to be a trial, not least of all for the distinct trends in fashion.
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slides in here. voice;
[ it's apparently which grandmother he means. ]
Voice, now signed in.
[She is used to unusual conversation starters, but it's a singular occasion when someone brings up her grandparents.]
Did you wish to know her opinions on the Valar?
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harvestmere 10th
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i got this date wrong. can i say this is harvestmere 15th?
Harvestmere 15th it is!
thanks!
Np np
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backdated to like. october tenth.
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.
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.
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In dreams, Mid-Haring.
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.
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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?"
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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?
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a letter, by runner.
I owe sincerest apologies for failing to attend our scheduled training. My memory was as severely compromised as any other during the sickness, and I deeply regret the disrespect and negligence that came about as a result. To blame the sickness in and of itself strikes me as irresponsible; I am very sorry for the part I played in any injury inflicted upon you during that time.
If you should wish to continue our sparring, I would be eager to do so. I did not wish to make assumptions to that effect after this recent shortcoming.
There is another matter I would also wish to seek out your guidance regarding. If that would be agreeable, then I am happy to speak in person or by whatever means most convenient to you.
Yours sincerely,
Knight Enchanter Amsel
(Letter)
Lady Galadriel,
Your forgiveness is sought; it has not been earned - yet - and I only ask that you keep an open-mind. The Elves of Arda are not accustomed to illness and it struck me hard. (I assure you that blue skin is not attractive in the least when paired with copper hair.)
I am sorry, cousin, for my poor, atrocious behavior. What I said may as well have come from my father's lips for I believe I was channeling him. The first-born does not fall far from the tree. However I seek to do better - to be better - and avoiding you, while tempting, will not heal any wounds.
I await your response eagerly - yet nervously - and hope, truly, that you have not suffered the same illness as I did.
Signed,
Maedhros
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The weight of your actions fall entirely on you.
Write me no more; if you've not the courage to face your mistakes I shall spare no effort forgiving you for them.
[There is no signature, nor greeting, and it is delivered by a different runner than the one who first delivered it. The letters themselves are far more jagged than they ought to be and indented the parchment considerably.]
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Action - Library
Action - Library
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crystal.
Crystal.
No--no you are not, gwanu--
You are not. What do you need, Gwenaelle?
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in a dream;
He can use that word to describe her, can't he?
However she dreams, he steps into it from the periphery clad as he might have been in Minrathous. "I feel I ought to apologize for not calling on you sooner, in this fashion," he tells her, his thin smile wry.
I know you, I walked with you once
Her dream is neither pleasant nor unpleasant, now. She stands in a courtyard overgrown on all sides by trees. The branches and trunks curve, grow against the stones and frame the alcoves, the windows and the columns. The whole of it is shady because the trees blot out all but the barest hints of the sky above. It would be a pleasant dream save for the fact that the courtyard is empty and silent. Galadriel regards the walls quietly. Her gown is ill-imagined, an amorphous shape of shifting colors, and lucidity does little to correct that.
"It is certainly more sitting than what you wore in Kirkwall," she says and her lips quirk up in a familiar sort of ease--not quite a smile, not quite anything else.
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(Letter - Brought and Left In Person.)
Cousin,
My brother and foster-son have made their way to the fates that await them on Arda. I am reminded, by their absence, how little time we are given. We should take naught for granted. This is not a comment on your feelings or actions - I think they are just - but I have reexamined mine.
Not many know that I and Kano fostered Elrond and Elros. Of course we did it after we frightened their poor mother and razed their city to the ground. However the effect those children had on us was good. We love them truly and I imagined, for a time, that we could forget the Oath and raise them.
Yet that was foolish. They belong with their kin and their people. We let them go, safe and sound, so that they could become the leaders they were always meant to be. I should have dedicated the rest of my life to watching over them; I would not have minded the duty in the least. But the Oath howled and clawed at us, demanding us to press on and do the impossible.
I perished a fool, Artanis, and apparently that is not an attribute that has improved over time. But I want to be less foolish; less rash and pig-headed. I can easily imagine the scorn you have earned for being kin to me. For that, I am sorry. Let my future actions speak for me, dear one, and know that I did not lie. I have and will always love you.
Sincerely,
Maedhros
A Note
Lady Galadriel,
We have not yet spoken, but I felt it would be best to allow myself a letter of introduction. My name is Alacruun and, like yourself, am one of the "rifters". I have been watching, listening, and interjecting into the debate regarding phylacteries and I find that you and I share a point of view on the matter. Further, you seem to be someone of experience and one unwilling to suffer foolishness. If you're amenable, I would enjoy having a discussion regarding the potential proposal and efforts that might be made to counter it.
Force of arms may not avail us, although at the end it may be needed. Still, there are other methods, are there not?
Regardless, you'll find my address attached; if you feel the need to reply, you may leave a letter there for me or you may come in person. If you have great need of me, contact Adalia; she's one of my own, from home.
I look forward to your reply.
Sincerely,
Alacruun
Action
She arrives after dusk, shrouded in a cloak of her own making, hidden in plain sight. She lowers the hood as she knocks but refrains from drawing back the whole of the fabric as she awaits an answer.
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action;
[ As promised, Iorveth arrives at the courtyard just before dawn, leather boots a soft padding against the cool stone as he approaches, awake and aware as promise, and looking a rough mess next to someone as elegant and graceful as Galadriel as he makes it to her side, eyes on the sunrise. ]
Galadriel, I take it?
[ Tall, elven, beautiful in the kind of way that seems to have a natural glow to her, like an aura too strong for her skin to hold in, much like Thranduil. It's a trait that will never cease to amaze him, and leave Iorveth in a mild state of awe. They look so much like a dream in physical form, memories of a time long, long past, only kept alive in stories and art in his world. Their presence alone is a refreshing, hopeful thing. ]
You've chosen a fine spot to watch the day begin. I hadn't thought Kirkwall capable of looking so beautiful.
[ because he hates this city, for the most part. ]
Action forever.
It is a rare thing...but there are few sights that are not improved by the dawn of a new day.
[She regards the horizon for a moment longer before turning to look at him. Her expression is placid as she regards his face, swathed in a length of fabric, but her brows shit as she spies his ears.]
Strange. No one saw fit to tell me that you are our kin...assuming elf is what your people are called?
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crystal, transports us back to "when the templars were captured";
Lady Galadriel? Do you--have a moment to speak?
Lets do it.
I do. What troubles you?
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to action!! and sorry for a laggard reply!
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action. pre-tevinter, post-adalia. night.
He had known that she had learned much from the Temple - many people had, with the spirits that had come to them, the journal from the priest, the whispers and the secrets of the People long dead and taken from this world. He had known they had escaped with knowledge that was beyond their imagining but familiar to him, and she had found the pieces of the world, tied in with the whispers he had given her, and learned more than he had estimated that she might.
He had given her too little credit, he thinks, underestimated her intelligence, what coming from another world might do to her, and now...
Now, for the first time in some time, he was something like afraid.
It's easy to slip through the city in the darkness, few people paying attention to an idle elf moving here and there. Even being who he is, a familiar face to most of the Inquisition itself, Solas does not stand out - no robes to identify him, nothing gaudy or bright, nothing that demanded attention. He moves through the night with speed at his heels, finding his way to Galadriel's door without hesitation, pausing outside of it. The night is at its peak, he thinks, and if anyone did see him sneaking his way to her room... Well, the rumours would start.
He doesn't care. He knocks.
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What hour is it?
She opens it and, despite the oddness of his arrival, she cannot muster confusion for him, only happiness.
"Solas," she greets, warmly and quietly and steps aside so that he may enter.
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action. you know what's up
No one will take her again, but he will need a few hours to assure himself of that.
He finds her again that evening, never too far from her side, and settles down. He makes himself as comfortable as he can get, in a new shirt, cleaned and warmed and as comfortable as he can be. When he reaches out his fingers touch hers gently and he sighs, voice soft and low.
"How are you feeling?"
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With the poison in her system that is not terribly swift and she is glad he indulges her.
"As though I am removed from everyone through a thick fog, and by several days...but I am awake and aware now. I am no longer halted in a terrible moment."
She does something then that she has very rarely done. She uses his hold on her hand to pull him toward her. She has been resting, lying in bed, and his standing beside her is too distant for her taste. Sit, or join her, her weak tug says.
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post hair cutting.
Slipping into her room is easy and be brings with him some more notes on the nature of Thedas for her to read. Around his neck is his usual jawbone necklace, but twisted around it and the string holding it together are strands of golden hair - likely familiar to her, if no one else. Solas expects many people to imagine that it is her hair and not someone else's, give their relationship and standing with one another.
"Feamarnya." His voice is soft as he leans to kiss her cheek in greeting. "Good evening."
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She is glad to see him, as she always is, but her smile falters as her eyes drift across him and catch the dull glimmer of blonde hair. There are some, perhaps, in Thedas who might mistake her and Thranduil at a distance, but up close their hair is hardly similar. Her movement to welcome him is halted as he eyes fall on that lock, twisted around his necklace.
"A strange new accessory," she comments, her tone painfully blank and diplomatic. She will not guess how he came by them, nor allow herself to begin guessing. She has already had one of her great loves choose Sylvan elves before her, to suffer it again and with Thranduil as the very face of it would be truly devastating.
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