[ open ] tell me everything that happened, tell me everything you saw.

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Galadriel, Merrill, Thranduil, Velanna & open.
WHAT: A tree grows in Orlais..
WHEN: Forward-dated: Matrinalis / August 19th, early, early moring.
WHERE: Low Quarter of Halamshiral.
NOTES: Guerilla gardening.

i. They wait until it is dark, the little hours between dusk and dawn when even the pickpocketing gangs are sleeping. They do not count on that alone to conceal their progress: magics foreign to Thedas keep them unnoticeable, unremarkable, unheard and unseen. Four figures slip through the streets of the Low Quarter to the burned portion of the city, and from there to what use to be a trunk of some magnificent tree. One cloaked figure kneels, reaches out a hand, touches it—

“Gwanur, peld nesto—“ but the figure tucks hands neatly back into the cloak with a realization. No, nothing can be done for this tree, no living parts remain. He turns to look at the tallest standing member of the group, switch languages now that he remembers they are among mixed company, speaking low.

“The soil is healthy.” And heavily watered by blood, but that’s something for another member of the group to take into account. For her, he steps back and offers examination of the ground, moving to the sidelines so the three elleth can move forward.

Galadriel is first to move, kneeling in the dirt and ashes where Thranduil was before, removing something from her pocket and holding it in a clasped hand. There has always been a weight to her actions, a graceful consideration in how she moves that seems effortless. Ceremonial, even.

What she does here is even more ritualistic.

Merrill falls onto bended knee beside her, seriousness cutting through her usual joy. She is the one to lean forward and dig through the dirt and ash with her bare hands until a hollow has been scooped away. Velanna, standing a few steps away, watches intently, thrumming with more excitement than nerves as Merrill takes something small but bright from Galadriel’s hand and drops it in the hollow.

It is Galadriel who passes her—something that Merrill presses against her palm. The rest of what happens is obscured by cloaks as the elleth close ranks about the seed. Thranduil holds a hand up to signal.

“Someone is coming,” Velanna says. She does not take her eyes off the seed and the hole until Merrill pushes the soil over the hollow, and stands, Galadriel after her, all four of them facing the noise from the cramped alley.


ii. Nothing happens for the first hour. All four sets of eyes occasionally glance at the turned soil. Anticipation hangs over them.

Thranduil has found a mostly structurally sound crate and perches upon it, while Galadriel guards the seed. Merrill’s head rests against Thranduil’s knee while she sits in the dirt, Velanna sitting neatly on a crate behind them.

She is the first to notice when there is the smallest of shifts—something is breaking through the soil, unfurling—

It grows faster than it has any right to, behaving more like an animal as it moves, reaching. It is an inch high, and then it is two, three inches, two leaves unfurling, golden and bright. At the height of Velanna’s waist, it begins to slow, until at a meter tall—clearly a proper sapling, it stops. The tree is silver-brown with a riotous burst of golden leaves, as alienly beautiful as the Lady of Light herself.

“A mallorn in Thedas,” Thranduil murmurs, duly impressed. He offers a hand to Merrill, helps her back to her feet and looks to Galadriel for direction. They have several hours before sunrise, but they still need to move before the residents of this part of the Quarter begin their day.

Galadriel steps around the tree, fingers tracing their way around the trunk, wistful, before nodding her assent, the four of them exiting the way they came.

Comments

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil steps forward once Galadriel finishes speaking, and inclines his head. "I would be honored, my lady, to accept your help."

They are not here as saviors. He makes no such claims. They will aide. But there is only so much two elves can do. The rest-- must be done by those like Sina, who seem to have ready shoulders to take the burdens that will fall upon them.

"You know what we intend? You would stand beside us still?" Blood magic is- he sees how it might be turned to evil, and done so easily. He will make no demands of Sina, only ask her silence if she disagrees.

[eolasemah]

In truth, Sina doesn't know what they intend. But if these two are involved in it, she's willing to trust their judgment. Not to mention Merrill, who she's found to be a good sort despite their ideological differences.

Sina nods eagerly to Galadriel, but looks curiously at Thranduil when he poses his questions. "You intend to help the tree, hanin, do you not?

[laurenande]

"We do," Galadriel says. She does not often speak for her cousin but they are aligned in this.

The elves they had gathered were skilled at this sort of spell-work. Whether it was a Dalish talent or simply chance, Galadriel didn't know. Sina was given to the tending of plants--it was possible she knew how to raise them with magic, as well.

"The tree we are growing is special, even where we come from. There are few places they will grow, outside the Elvenhome, but if we can coax it to sprout, it will survive unto the ending of this world."

She moves alongside Sina and, with a gentle hand, ushers her toward where the seed was planted.

"I do not know how well it will draw from your Fade; we have chosen to give it power from ourselves instead. Be careful, Siuona, and do not give too much...but if you falter, we are here to aid you."

[rowancrowned]

He wonders, as he sometimes does, what his father would think of the scene before him. He has wondered about choices perhaps far more imaginable to Oropher, and heard his father's voice. In Thedas, whenever he draws to mind the image of his father, he hears only one thing- 'keep them safe.'

"It is the least we can do for your people," Thranduil agrees, stepping to the other side of Sina, dropping into a crouch that he might easily spring out of were there to be trouble. "Or the start. But the cost is great enough that I will spill blood for it."

What were a few drops of blood in exchange for a mallorn? It may not grant him the peace and ease the Fade did, but it will not hurt.

[eolasemah]

Sina is on board for the theory, although it's rapidly beginning to seem as though the practice may be over her head. Or... beyond what she's willing to do. And yet, there's no sign of ignorance or treachery among those gathered. She barely knows Galadriel, and has only just met Thranduil, but a deep part of her compels her to please them. Even if...
...blood magic.
Is it worth the potential cost, to plant a tree that will live forever? Her heart urges yes, but too many years of guidance against this very thing now leave her silent and still.
She suddenly looks, not at either of them, but at Merrill. Of everyone present, only she can provide counsel for this exact situation.

[chainlightning]

Watching, anxious, Merrill both is and is not surprised when Sina looks to her. She offers her a soft, gentle smile and steps forward, offering her hands for Sina to hold.

"It is your choice, always. That is part of what sets us apart from those who would use it for- for horrible things. We aren't asking for any spirits. We also aren't using it to hurt -- we're using it to grow, to heal."

But she will not push. She will not ask more than Sina is willing to give -- in this, in truth, she did not even ask.

"You do not have to do anything you're uncomfortable with. There are other ways to help."

[eolasemah]

Measuring Merrill's words, Sina watches her pensively. What the older elf is saying is true, but years of indoctrination have taught Sina-- as well as every other mage-- that blood magic is not to be trifled with.
On the other hand... trifling isn't what they're doing. As Sina looks down at the small growth, she realizes this isn't so unlike what she already does: transferring life from one being to another, even if in this case the being is she herself instead of a dying plant.
Perhaps, echoes a grim thought in the back of her mind, the dying plant is her.
She nods slowly, and, sitting back onto her heels, she tugs the drapings of her shawl back over her forearms for freedom of movement. Then, without looking at Merrill, she extends her hand for the knife.