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

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

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.

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There have been no elven lords in ages. Only the Keepers, who were respected, of course, but not kings. Yet here she is, with her head resting on the knee of an elven king, one whose people are at least similar to her own -- to her own of old, even. She is tired and while she had not meant, really, to rest her head on Thranduil- well, his knee had been there, and he had not refused. So they wait, stirring occasionally at some noise, but mostly sitting in silence.

Silence, as it turns out, is hard for staying awake. The suspense is there, of course, but she is tired. She has ridden across what feels like half of Orlais, and she has used magic and her own blood in conjunction to that. Catching herself nodding off yet again, Merrill curses slightly under her breath ("Fenedhis!") and reaches her hands up to slap her own cheeks.

"I think," she murmurs, shaking her head both at the sting and to try and wake up further, "that sitting for my vallaslin was easier than this."

He pets her hair, hoping it soothes her. It is so short, and the elves of Thedas do not seem to take the comfort from it that the Quendi might, but he does it anyway. Thranduil turns his attention from the alleyway to her, hand halting.

"I hope this is not painful, Merrill." He shifts on his crate-seat, trying not to jostle her as he moves to an angle where he's free to look down upon her, and her eyes. They are terribly bright, even in the dark, and he cannot help but admire them. "And you are free to rest, child. I will wake you if we need you, or when the growth starts."

The petting certainly feels nice, if nothing else. Merrill tilts her head into it once Thranduil has resettled, sighing softly. It's nice but it is soothing, and she doesn't want to fall asleep, even with permission to do so.

"I'm not so sure I'd wake up any time soon- it's been a long week." Few weeks, really; Asher had been in the healing tents clinging to life for so long, or at least it felt that way. He'd been sick and none of them had really known, or hadn't known how bad, and she-

No. He was with his Lady of the Skies, and he would return. The tree is what's important, for the moment.

"And the vallaslin itself isn't that painful. I mean, it hurts, but- to have it completed means that you sat through it without crying out. It's a sign of coming of age, of being able to handle the responsibilities of an adult."

He has never touched hair like hers, in his defense. It is Noldo-dark and very soft, and he is very fond of Merrill herself. If it was longer, he would have worked it into some manner of elaborate braid, simply to keep his hands busy.

"I will carry you home." His thumb brushes over the branch closest to her ear, the vallaslin nearly hidden in the dark. He would ask if she wanted water, warmed wine. But she's shown what she needs, and he's glad to talk to her.

"I would not know. Very few elves have such things done. It would be... tiresome, to have to redo an inking such as that every few decades."

She may grow it out, just to see how it looks; it was easier short, as the First and in the alienage, just in case any trees or shems reached out to grab it. Now, even so surrounded by humans in the Inquisition, she feels there's less of a chance of that happening. Still, even a simple braid by another's hand would feel nice.

"Honeysuckle would probably try to trample you. He's protective." Or something- he's certainly a war horse, but he lets Merrill dote on him as if he's a gentle gelding bred for delicate ladies. "And even if you calmed him down, he'd likely decide to chew on your hair in protest."

Even if Thranduil was riding. Somehow. Honeysuckle, Merrill is certain, would find a way to sneak it in.

"I do not know if they did it in the time of Arlathan, when we were ageless," Merrill muses, reaching up to trace over the mirrored line that he has touched, just for a moment. "If they did, I don't know if they had to redo them. But it is a ritual, for us; a way to remember that we are a part of the People, that we have not completely forgotten who and what we once were. 'We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.'"

There is a soft hum in thought, Merrill's head tilting just enough to look at Galadriel for a moment. Then it's back up to Thranduil, green eyes glowing like a cat, reflecting the light of moon and stars. "I imagine the two of you are walkers of the lonely path, also. Maybe a different one, but that doesn't make it less important. Just different."

He smiles, even if she cannot see it. "I have a way with animals, my dear. I suspect I may persuade him to find me worthy, especially once he sees we have common cause." Namely, keeping Merrill safe.

He untucks a lock of hair from behind her ear, uses it to tickle her nose. She is so, so unbearably young, and yet handles it with grace. Her eyes shine, and the smile turns sad. She ought not to worry about death.

"I never considered myself lonely. I held myself above, yes, especially when we had shemlen-" how he loves that word. "- visitors, but I had my son, my foster-daughter. My orchids. My elves. Nor am I lonely here. I have you, Merrill, and my cousin, who I find myself... appreciating much more."

There's a thoughtful hum, and Merrill nods slightly. "I'll definitely have to introduce you to him either way. Dalish don't usually have horses, but he's so fluffy." Besides, it isn't like most Dalish consider her Dalish anyway.

The tickling has her stiffle a shrieked laugh, and Merrill reaches up to bat at his hand, much like a kitten. It certainly makes her smile less sad.

"I'm glad. But I'm not as long-lived as you are," unless that has changed, when he crossed into Thedas, and she hopes for his sake that it has not, "and I worry. I don't want you to feel lonely here even when I'm gone." It's also so much easier to worry about Thranduil, who is in front of her, than Hawke, who isn't.

"Vallaslin would mark you as one of the People, so they would accept you, but- well, yes, you'd need to find someone to redo it after it faded. And I'm so used to seeing you without it that I think it'd be a bit odd to put it on your face." There's a little giggle. "It's not as though you aren't capable of the responsibilities of adulthood."

"Halla?" he guesses. He catches her hand as she bats and him, and presses his lips briefly to the back of it before returning it to her. "They do not seem large enough for me- perhaps for you, but Solas-" who is the only one approaching normal elven height. "- and the Lady and I would be without mounts."

He, of course, prefers his elk. The herd has given him mounts for years, but they are not here. The hart are an option, but he has yet to meet one with whom he felt the kinship necessary in a partner.

He casts his gaze to the side, finds where Galadriel is, where the others are, and reasons them out of hearing for everyone besides the Lady. He does not change his tone.

"I fear that the Veil has created-- difficulties. We cannot die, but the gap 'tween my spirits and my flesh will only continue to weaken me." He has now a finite span of time- a large one, he is sure of that, but eventually he will not be able to hold himself through will alone. Eventually, he will-- fade? Falling into the Fade bodily make him realize just how poorly he had become.

He laughs. "I like to think I can handle myself as an adult, my lady, but you raise a fair point. But your designs are dedicated to the ones you call gods, yes? Mythal and the like."

"The ones in Orlais are smaller. We had ones the size of horses, when my clan lived in Ferelden." Never fear, Thranduil, you could get a halla that you could actually sit on despite Bioware's weird size retconning thanks to the power of headcanon.

Perhaps they should have taken their deaths as a sign. Perhaps some of them even had. Their troubles had not started with the eluvian, no matter how many of her clan members had wanted to say as much; the Blight had started before they found it, and their problems with nearby humans had as well. But the death of their halla- that had been even more upsetting than the death of two clan members. All are dead, now; she is the only one left, and she is speaking to an elf who is now faced with his own mortality in a more immediate way.

"In the old days, some of the People would grow weary of the world. They would go into what we call uthenera -- the long sleep, the endless dream. Their spirits would wander the Fade. Some of them would truly die -- others would wake up centuries later, and share what they learned from the spirits to those who were awake. They even say some wouldn't wake but wouldn't seem to die."

She reaches, then, for his hand -- the one with the shard in it, fingers lightly, gently tracing over the green. "You are connected to the Fade already. Perhaps you will sleep, as they did in the old days, instead of dying."

Is that better? She doesn't know. Perhaps he could find answers. Perhaps he could find a way to return to his world. But Merrill has no real answers, and she drops her fingers away from the shard to laugh a bit herself.

"Usually. There are set patterns for each of the Creators. If you ever see even more Dalish, you may start to recognize the patterns. Mine are unique, though. There is no reason yours couldn't be unrelated to the Creators but still clearly elven in design."

"Large horses?" he asks, careful to clarify, watching as her hand plays over the shard. It has not hurt him since the day he received it, and he has long since stopped considering cutting it out. It serves a useful purpose, even if that is only as a reminder of what he must do- but what isn't?

"I am not afraid, little one. I would hate only to leave things unfinished." He closes his hand, gently squeezes hers. "'Uthenera'. It sounds to be something Solas might enjoy."

He would feel wretched trapped in something like that-- to lay around only, to be unable to affect the change he needed to; it was the definition of sloth. No, he had but two options: bring change as he intended, or fall in the attempt and return to Arda by those means.

He brings himself back by looking at Merrill's face again through the low light. "I know the one for Mythal." The branching pattern was distinct. And with only seven of their so-called gods (thankfully, that discussion had not come up) they were only so many possibilities. "Why did you not keep to the usual designs, my dear? Does choosing one of your own design not run the risk of some clan not recognising them as genuine?"

(He is- despite himself- at least considering the idea of branding himself so, his silence as much consent.)

"Large horses," she laughs, a little wistful. The halla, at least, had never rejected her.

Still, she would do it all again for the same purpose Thranduil would reject Uthenera: leaving things unfinished is not an option. She is not quite certain what, in fact, he means to finish. Corypheus? That this fight against him might be so long as to end elders to sleep, that new generations will have to take up arms, is not a thought she's yet had. It's not a thought she particularly wants to entertain now, and she chases it away by squeezing his hand in return, by bringing her thoughts back to vallaslin and differences.

"It has similarities. The Keeper approved it, and- well. I was the First, I would have been Keeper after her. The other clans would have respected that."

Her hand closes tighter, her gaze falling away from Thranduil to the stars above. "I always thought, though, that if you were to be the Keeper- you should know as much as you can about each of the Creators. Why only wear the markings of one when we have stories for each? Why stay close to the designs we know now when the old writings and old ruins have art to draw from? So- I did something different, something to represent all of the People."

Not that most would consider her one of them, now.

The stars are a great source of comfort. They always will be, even if they are not where they ought to be, it is still enough to look up at them and think of Varda. His people do not do religion, there is no truth but Eru—and how could it be elsewise, when they hear the Song and are in tune with it. But he is no Vanya, to think on the will of the One. He has been placed here for a reason, it is his duty just as it was in Arda to fight against evil and help keep his people safe. That his people are now the elvhen, too, makes little difference.

“You are inclined to unite your people.” Or at least had the foresight to know what too many differences and distance caused.

(The stars are bright pinpricks against the void.)

“When is the next Arlathvhen, Merrill?”

Even the old stories don't say that the Creators created the world. Mythal and Elgar'nan were born of the world, which already existed, and it's said Elgar'nan overthrew the sun, his father. Perhaps there is truth in the metaphor, but Merrill would need to delve far more deeply into historical religions to dig anything up. At the very least, she won't claim Thranduil's deity is less than her own.

"I would reclaim the knowledge we lost. Something happened to us, and while it's easy to just blame Tevinter, I'd like to know more. History repeats itself when knowledge is lost. So many of us are content with the way things are, with little skirmishes against human villages as though that will do anything, change anything for the better at all. So many ignore their cousins without vallaslin, as if they are somehow lesser due to the circumstances of their birth."

She shakes her head. "I would have us all be a people worthy of respect again."

But Thranduil mentions Arlathvhen and she freezes, passion going out of her like an extinguished flame. "... Soon, I think. But I don't know where. Most Dalish don't consider me one of them anymore, despite the vallaslin."

"We are, all of us, elves." Thranduil could no more ignore a city elf asking for aid than one of his own people. He understands the roots of the division- which will hopefully help bridge it. Even as she freezes, he's back to stroking her hair. As he would soothe his own son.

"I may not know the histories of the Elvhen, but my grandsire's father was one of the Unbegotten. From him and from my grandsire, I have stories enough to share with you whilst you wait to uncover the other histories." It is a poor offering, but it is what he has, and he will give it freely.

He has not read the Tale of the Champion. Perhaps he should. It would answer the questions he has now- though that assumes a great deal of the book and the truthfulness of it. For now, he lets it be.

It isn't poor to Merrill, at least. She eagerly latches on, shifting once more to easily look at his face.

"The Unbegotten? I would love to hear your stories -- history of other worlds may help us with our own histories, and our futures." She doesn't think they can hurt much, at least.

Though there is still the question of vallaslin. "Are there any Elvhen things you feel especially drawn to?"

"Gladly, Merrill, though I fear tonight too close to over to properly tell any of our histories." Soon, they will need to move again- it cannot be much longer until the seed finishes spreading its roots and begins to grow upward instead. He loves how easily emotion plays across her face, the joy so plainly spelled out.

"I like your halla," what little he's been allowed of them. "Your language. I have yet to see a clan properly, but I am curious to see a land-ship. The traces of song I hear are beautiful." He shrugs his shoulders with a hint of a smile playing across his face. "It is hard to distill what I am drawn to when I am still so joyful to find another facet of elven culture and so eager to learn all I can."

"Later, then." She will take it as a promise, and therefore she's content to wait. "And I've built an aravel of my own, actually -- I could show it to you." It is down in the Warden camp, but it's still an aravel.

Humming slightly, she shifts a little, tilting her head to look at Thranduil from different angles. "Halla horns, perhaps. Have you been able to look at them up close?"

'Still an aravel' is all he needs, and he murmurs his thanks before turning to the thought of the halla he's seen- the halla he's been allowed to see, carefully conscious of the prickliness of some of the Dalish. He leans down a little more, sitting so casually already- what difference does it make?

"They are trellised, like roses, yes?" He supposes carven, too, which means they do not lose their horns from year to year, for surely some of that carving must have taken a very long time. "I am not able to look as closely as I would like. Tell me about them."

He suspects them to be just as intricate as Merrill's vallaslin.

"Yes! Like the most intricate of vines. They're beautiful, and very prized, especially among humans. Halla have learned not to trust them because of it, I think; so many hunters attack them because of that. They're very smart creatures -- we ask them to help us, to carry us and pull aravels, because otherwise they will only refuse."

Not that they speak exactly the same language, but you can tell, with halla -- and halla can tell with Dalish.

"They grow and entwine together more as the halla ages; they have only little prongs, when they're young. The carvings fade sometimes, at the tips of the horns."

There's a soft hum as she settles a bit more, and then- "Oh! I think maybe the halla would let you get closer if I was with you. Or the Dalish being particular about it."

"So our peoples have managed to hold to some of the same ways." He's disgusted by the needless slaughter of the halla, but when have men ever been right or kind?

-- kind thoughts only, good thoughts. For the mallorn, which he will eventually need to leave behind and trust that the work that all of them have done tonight will be enough to keep it whole and growing. "Ah, this I know." He taps the sides of her forehead to illustrate.

"We have a similar arrangement with the elk in my forest." He misses them, not as much as his people, but they were friends, kin, just another thing gone. But he has others, here, a duty and a purpose greater than the one before. He has-- Merrill. She cannot see him, but this smile is unglamoured. Paternal.

"I would welcome an introduction to the halla."

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

thandoobydoo.

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