faderift | forget the bull in the china shop

Entry tags:

forget the bull in the china shop

WHO: Thranduil (

parkourprince ), and Cassandra (

stabsbooks )
WHAT: Finally getting Galadriel out of prison, Mirkwood style.
WHEN: Mid-Drakonis
WHERE: Cassandra's Office
NOTES: Occurs morning after this.

Displeasure left a sour note in his mouth—he was far less prepared than he would have preferred. But he has the bare minimum; knowledge of the language, an outfit suitable for his rank, and support in the form of his son, behind him by one step and to the right, where he ought to be. His hair hung long and silver-blonde down his back, his circlet set just-so, the rich brocade of his robes and the silk of his clothes adding to his appearance. Legolas was similarly stunning, and he mourned that his son was not also crowned. Perhaps it would have been too much.

He arrived at Cassandra’s door half an hour after she had entered for the morning. The elven servants had been very helpful when it came to advising him and his son of her schedule. Catch her now, after she had eaten, before she had trained—catch her at what he thought would be her most malleable. Thranduil would take every advantage he could—he would need it.

He knocked, waited for a response to affirm he could enter, and swept inside with a rustle of silk and the sound of his and Legolas’ well-cobbled boots on the flagstones.

Thranduil bowed—no, Thranduil inclined his head the precise number of degrees appropriate for a king addressing a foreign diplomat, gave Legolas the space to do the same, and then spoke.

“Seeker Pentaghast—“ the insignia on her chest piece meant she could be no one else. “I am Thranduil Oropherion. This is my son and heir, Legolas Thranduilion.” He indicated Legolas beside him with an elegant little gesture before returning his attention to her. “I understand there have been difficulties with my cousin, the Lady Galadriel. I would remedy them.”

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

For all the years they have lived apart, after the war, it was still all too easy to fall back into the role of Thranduil's right hand. The Prince, the head of the royal guard, the envoy too, should it all become necessary. Legolas dressed for his rank, indeed, looking like a copy of Thranduil himself, only shorter, only softer around the edges and yet he did not forego any of his weapons. At his hip, the long knife, on his back the arrow-filled quiver and in his hand the bow. Too long to be truly comfortable to be used in such close quarters, but he would manage if it came down to it.

Though he hoped it would not, he did not expect it to either, but it was better to be prepared for any outcome.

Legolas said nothing, entering the chamber, only inclined his head, mirroring Thranduil's gesture, in a greeting. No more but the handful of degrees he had been taught, showing enough respect to be polite, but at the same time easily certain of the rank he held. His eyes were fixed on Cassandra, already with the first look at the room he noted all that was worth noting about it.

She stood when he bowed, almost without considering it, her gaze snapping from one man to the next. It took her a moment to even recognize them as elves, but as soon as the taller one mentioned Galadriel and his relationship to her, the resemblance became obvious.

Her expression changed immediately, neutral surprise to dark suspicion. "Would you," she snapped, though without quite the level of challenge she might have given to most who would dare to enter her office and speak to her with such presumption. She was wary as she studied them. Whether conscious or not, Thranduil's regal bearing had had an effect. "And how exactly do you propose to do that?"

They were strangers, acquainted and associated with the mage, and that alone made them dangerous. Perhaps it was not too much to hope that they were more levelheaded than she - that Thranduil had come to assure Cassandra that he could control her, leash her and prevent her from action. But it was equally likely that they agreed wholeheartedly with her goals, that they meant to threaten Cassandra, to try to force her hand to free their cousin.

And it was all too probable that they were as powerful as the mage herself, and that they would do more than just threaten. She stood tensely, hands gripping the edge of the desk as she waited for Thranduil's response.

The day before Legolas did manage to speak with Galadriel, with the guards asleep it was not so difficult at all to sneak past them and into her room, and he - now both of them, too - had known just what had come to pass that resulted with Galadriel's imprisonment. Yet this wasn't knowledge they would be offering in this particular conversation. All they knew was what they learned through rumours, nothing more, nothing less.

Here and now, it all played out like a well rehearsed scene on a stage for all to enjoy. Legolas responded, though it was not exactly him being addressed, he neither cut in on Thranduil's response nor even as much as looked at his father before speaking. "First, by trying to understand what has happened at all that lead to the imprisonment of our kin," he spoke quietly, but in tones softer than Thranduil, "There are rumours that we have heard, and they are what lead us to you, yet they are not what we wish to base much more on. Rumours are only rumours, after all, with but thin threads of truth to them at best."

And this particular thread was that the Lady Galadriel is imprisoned, all else? Unclear, generally unknown.

"What is the truth of the Lady Galadriel's crime?"

Cassandra looked sharply to the younger elf as he spoke. They seemed, at least, to be content merely with speaking, at least so far. That could change at any moment, of course, but she allowed herself at least to breathe before responding.

"You are right not to trust the rumors," she said. "They are more lies than truth." Her eyes narrowed. "But you have not answered my question. What do you intend to do? Why should I tell you anything?"

"Because I would wish to be allies, Seeker Pentaghast." If there was a rebuke in his tone, he hid it under honeyed patience, in gentle instruction. He was older than she could imagine- and had dealt with his share of frightened nobles balking at elves. Granted, the situation was on its back in this time and place, but he had the soothing, edging on patronizing tones firmly practiced. "You have concerns about the Arts my cousin wields. She is haughty, and disinclined to explain herself to Men. I, however, have traded with mortals in wine and goods for nigh on six thousand years, and perhaps can guess some of your concerns."

Here, of course, was when the delicate information gleaned from Galadriel came into play. How lucky he was to have a son as fair and fleet of foot as Legolas. Thranduil glanced overtly at the chairs, called attention to her lack of manners. Well, perhaps it was different here. He slid over, pulled out a chair for Legolas, sat and crossed his leg, right over left, leaning back in his seat.

"Firstly, it is true we will not serve mortals. I have knelt for three kings, I will not bow to another." He rested his cheek on his curled fingers. "My cousin feels much the same, I suspect. Do not take this to mean we will not offer you aid! No. Long have we offered guidance to the second-born. But Men ought to rule Men, and Elves, elves. We do not interfere, only offer bow and knife and knowledge when the need is great enough. Such as, for example, when the world is in peril."

He gestured lazily at the window, and the scar in the sky. He lifted his newly-Marked hand; spread the fingers. Let the light crackle below the skin. "I intend to help. I offer my aid- and the aid of my son, should he agree- freely. There is much we have to offer. As for Galadriel, I suspect the Lady's concerns echo around the treatment of elves she has seen here. Anyone might react the same if dropped in a strange, new world to find their people treated like vermin, all alone, with no allies. She seeks only to defend herself from bondage when she threatens. She has always been so terribly dramatic, but disinclined to violence. Rest assured, I vouch for my ability to soothe away some of her concerns. She is my family."

Thranduil smiled, folded his hands in his lap. "And I do hate to ask, yet- might we have some wine? Sit, and speak in a civilized manner? If you have questions, Seeker, my son and I will answer them. Lift the veil around the nature of our people.

There was a retort at the very tip of his tongue, and it burned, and it begged to be breathed into the air, but Legolas held it back. He did not flinch from Cassandra's gaze on him, meeting her eyes with the same look of impassive gentleness that took great effort to uphold. At her words, his eyebrow did twitch into an arch, betraying nothing beyond his surprise that she had not gleaned what he had meant. Still, Thranduil spoke, his father in a possession of far greater patience than Legolas ever cared to show.

It did not please him, still, but they had spoken of this for hours on end and decided to present an uniform front. And so it was now, he deferred to Thranduil and his wisdom — and this faith, this trust had never let him down — and followed suit in taking a seat, easily getting himself seated comfortably after unstrapping the quiver from his back.

Cassandra was wary, still, but his measured tone at least calmed her enough to listen. Allies was ridiculous, but at least he was not challenging her, or threatening her.

Six thousand years made her eyebrows shoot straight up, surprising her enough that she did not react at all when he took his seat and when Legolas did the same. She remained standing, staring keenly down at Thranduil as he spoke.

She did not agree with all that he said, and it showed; a sharp frown and a minute shake of her head when he attempted to explain Galadriel's motives. He was wrong, naturally; Cassandra was sure of it. Still. She knew how powerful Galadriel could be, knew that she was (for some as yet unknown reason) choosing to respect the lock on her door, when she could so easily do otherwise - when she could, perhaps, tear Skyhold itself apart. If this elf had some influence over her, if he could ensure her continued cooperation, ensure she would not be a threat -

She blinked at the request, surprised, and after a moment of hesitation, turned to the sideboard - careful never to entirely turn her back on the elves.

"I do not have wine. If brandy will suffice - " She poured two glasses and set them before the elves, taking none for herself. She would need a clear head to deal with them, she could already tell.

She sank into her chair, still watching Thranduil carefully, with an occasional curious glance at Legolas. She was not yet altogether certain why the younger one was here. Were they attempting to intimidate her through numbers? Was he here to observe and learn, or as some sort of bodyguard or servant? And how young could he really be, if his father was truly thousands of years old?

But wondering would do no good. Thranduil had offered to answer questions, and Cassandra had plenty of them. She didn't bother to wait before jumping right in.

"What do you mean, you will not serve mortals?"

If this was any indication already, this entire conversation would become a great test of patience for him, Legolas could tell already. Little love did he already have for the Inquisition and those leading it, but now also not only was her demeanour inappropriately demanding, but she was asking questions which had obvious answers to them.

"Does it not speak for itself?" But, perhaps, the word was unfamiliar for one reason or another. He lifted one hand, palm open and upturned, indicating one side of this story to tell, "We are the Eldar, the First-born, those who have never been bound to the reign of time, and never will be, we will live until the end of time," the word immortal was not outright stated, but the implication of it was heavy. That was as detailed as Legolas cared to go, already this was far more good-will than Cassandra deserved, having shown them none herself. Then he lifted his other hand, spreading it out much the same way on the other side. "The mortals are those who inevitably succumb to time and old age be it only several dozens of years, or a couple hundreds."

In all that too, laid the answer as to why they would not serve mortals. If anyone thought that they ought to, that would be a display of arrogance that he would not stand idly to watch.

"Do you have questions, Seeker, that do not already hold their own answers within them?"

“Ion-nin.” He laid his hand on Legolas’ wrist without needing to look to find it; took the brandy intended for his son and pressed it into his palm instead. “We must remember that the Seeker knows nothing of the order of things.” Legolas’ Silvan nature was the perfect foil to his own manner—while he welcomed the idea of Legolas being a lord in his own right, he wondered how the Thranduil-who-would-be dealt with the loss of so perfect a companion. It would be like unto losing his right hand.

“Simply put: you will die, Seeker. You have your goals, the span of your accomplishments. But we have eternity. Our plans stretch longer than your own. We have the ability to wait. A tree grows to maturity for us in the way a flower blooms for you. It would be exhausting to change leaders every three decades. In that way, I would call us simple. ‘Tis easier not to have to refocus just after starting.”

He sipped his drink, relaxing back into the chair and releasing Legolas. “How much time we have shapes how we think. It would be easier for us to confer with whomever serves as your delegate to the elves, when we are needed. They would have a similar manner of thinking—and in battle, that is terribly important.”

Thranduil set his glass down. “Assuming, of course, you would allow us to be allies.”

Cassandra turns sharply to stare at Legolas, her eyes narrowing in disapproval. His cheek and what he likely perceives as wit remind her of no one so much as Galadriel herself - hardly the way to Cassandra's good graces.

His answer, naturally, is as nonsensical and useless as anything Galadriel had ever said. She turns instead to Thranduil, still frowning but at least willing to listen.

Is it true? She has no way of knowing. She cannot think what benefit there would be in lying, and she pushes back the questions that immediately spring to mind. If it is true, if these elves - Galadriel herself - are truly immortal, what does that mean?

One thing is certain, and she shakes her head brusquely at Thranduil's suggestion, at his many assumptions. Apart from the fact that they have never had anything like a delegate to the elves - had never considered such a thing - though it may not be such a terrible idea, after Cassandra's own disastrous attempt at communicating with them...

"The elves here live and die just as we do," she says baldly. "They would not think as you do." She frowns. "I do not know how many you have met. But they are...different than you and," she grimaces, "your kin. Even the Dalish."

“I have met enough to know them valuable, Seeker. Especially when you are so low on allies. Who better to scout than the Dalish, who know a great deal about keeping quiet and out of sight?” As well as the much, much more important worth of elven servants, given little thought, as much part of the landcape as the papers on her desk. Did she know their names? Did she know how much they knew?

That was best left unsaid. After all, it wouldn’t due for her to become too paranoid.

“We are all of us elves, Seeker. I think you will find we are all in agreement on most things. For examples, my cousin’s confinement. It displeases the elves here- who, if what I have seen is correct, clean your rooms, do your laundry, pass your messages, make your food—and at a fraction the cost of the human servants! How well would Skyhold function- how well would the Inquisition function if you lost them? Not only that, but the Rifters as well. Your confinment of my cousin sets a dangerous precident. You need as many as possible willing to close the rifts. The loss of three or four due to moral objections could prove… difficult.”

Eventually, he had to list consequences. He let his arm rest on the arm of the chair, the other folded, rubbing his thumb over the back of the ring on his left finger. “She has been frightened enough. Releasing her gains you goodwill with Rifters and elves both. Prevent nasty misunderstandings from happening in the future—arrange for a treaty for an alliance with the Quendi. That way all of us will know what we owe the other—and it will be clean and legal to punish her should she step out of line the next time, and utterly without objection from myself or my son.”

It was good, the touch, and it was timed impeccably. It prevented the toothy sneer — a threat no less than the glint of a bared knife would be — from surfacing, it soothed hackles raised at ignorance and arrogance flung every which way, it... grounded him. This was meant to be as much a show for Cassandra, as it was simply the truth of the matters. Legolas's loyalty was undisputed, Thranduil and no other held it in his hand, and with loyalty came obedience and complete trust, neither forced nor demanded, but willingly given instead. For the nth time since coming here, Legolas thanked the Fade — or whatever stood behind them being here — that neither of them was alone in this. Thranduil had his support, and so this time his mouth remained shut, floodgates against the tide of words that would do them no good.

His temper was not an easy fire to extinguish, and though the flame was gone, the cinders remained. And Legolas listened still, attentively though he made no show of it, and he sipped the brandy as they spoke, grimacing but barely at the flavour so unpleasant to his palate.

She's sharp enough to pick up on the implication behind what he says, and her eyes narrow, her expression going dark. Cassandra does not respond well to threats, unspoken or otherwise.

"I see," she says coldly, and makes herself stop before she can say any more. Much as she hates to admit it, he is right. Leliana is right. They cannot afford to alienate the Dalish, nor the rifters.

She dislikes this elf already, if only for his arrogance in coming here, like this, and for his relation to Galadriel. But she cannot help a grudging respect, all the same. He had not come unprepared.

Still.

"Frightened," she spits out, shaking her head. It's difficult to believe. Galadriel had acted anything but frightened. She could point out that what she had done had been perfectly legal, will be if she has to do it again, but she doesn't. That's not important. What's important - what she had failed to account for before, what had been made all too clear to her - is how people react.

"And the Dalish?" She raises a single eyebrow. "You may not object, but they will, should she be arrested again." It's obvious from her tone that this is a very real concern. She has no reason to believe that Galadriel will behave, that she won't immediately do something that will force Cassandra to send her straight back to the dungeons. "You cannot speak for all of them."

"The Dalish are no fools, and neither are they mindless savages, show us all respect and some good-will and you will be shown the same in return. That is all that is needed, that is all any would ever ask for." That was what he had always thought to be simply common sense, until he came here anyway. So the obvious had to be stated, again and again, and though his patience was at its limit, he fought back against venom and he fought back against rolling his eyes.

"What you have at your hands now, are rumours allowed to fester, and now doubt and distrust seeps out like pus from an infected wound. Your next steps taken are what will determine whether this wound begins to heal, or rots into something far worse than this now."

He fought back a shrug, a sigh, and any further sign of disapproval with some success. In the end, he just sounded tired and a touch bored, but Thranduil outlined the consequences already and Legolas just stopped there and then, and let him continue as he saw fit.

He nodded as Legolas spoke, and added: “They will respect myself and my son for the same reasons they respect her. I cannot promise impunity if you are cruel with the lady, but we can smooth ruffled feathers.”

Thranduil leaned forward in his chair—Legolas’ fussing impossible to miss, and with his temper up too—they ought to finish this, or at least wrap it up for the day.

“Are we in agreement, then, Seeker? You release the Lady Galadriel, my son and I handle the Dalish reaction, and we set down in writing what the obligations of myself, my son, and the Lady Galadriel are to the Inquisition. An alliance treaty, if you will, as binding as your laws allow, with penalties if the provisions therein are broken.”

Cassandra's mouth curves down in a frown. She doesn't like this, and she doesn't have anything near Legolas' confidence that the Dalish will be so quick and so eager to fall in line. That centuries of bad blood - on both sides - can be smoothed over with a touch of respect and goodwill.

But something must be done about Galadriel, and Thranduil is the first who has offered anything near to an assurance that the threat she poses could be quelled. If nothing else, he will be obligated to help stop her, if she threatens the Inquisition again.

And if he refuses to help, should the time come, he will face the consequences for breaking an official treaty.

Slowly, she nods. Time may prove him foolish, perhaps. She understands, now, the regard that the Dalish have for Galadriel, despite her otherworldly origin. It is possible, perhaps even probable, that they will regard Thranduil the same way. But awe and wonder do not equal blind obedience, and Thranduil, for all that he claims to be, does not know the Elves' history.

Still, that is his lesson to learn, if he must learn it. Perhaps he is right, and the Dalish will listen. For herself, Cassandra is tired. Tired of Galadriel, of her disagreement with Leliana, of the judgement and disapproval of the Dalish and - it seems - everyone else. And no one else has offered anything close to a solution.

"A treaty," she repeats. "Yes. If we can manage to compose one that suits us both, I will sign it. And I will uphold my end."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

forget the bull in the china shop

no subject

no subject

w/ Kate's permission responding first!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject