faderift | [ closed ] go ahead and cry little girl, nobody does it like you do

The notion of being looked at, put in so many words, makes her balk more visibly - the small step back she takes betrayed by the gentle sway of her skirts, even when she doesn't move far enough or decisively enough to tell it any other way. The set of her mouth when she makes herself go forward is as one steeling themselves to put a hand in fire, and it's not fair, she thinks. Thranduil is always trying to be kind to her, and she wishes for kindness. She thinks he would let her sit with him, if she liked. Most days, most of the time, she's put behind her the suspicion of his motives; most of the time, she's willing to trust that someone as frankly egotistical as he is wouldn't humble himself for anything he didn't actually value, so - he must. There isn't anything she could give him that would otherwise be worth it, she thinks.

But it would be easier to veer away now if she didn't think that, if she could more easily dismiss him, and it is too complicated. He is too complicated, foreign and strange and presumptuous, and she isn't going to tell him that Guenievre died not because he wouldn't care but because he would, and she doesn't care to hear what he says. What he might think, or the way he takes for himself things that are not his and that aren't his to take when she can't even wear a fucking flower in her hair if she wants to.

He doesn't get to grieve her mother as if the loss of an elf is more his than hers. That isn't fair, either.

--his last words prompt a sound from the back of her throat best described as 'derisive'. "I'm sure he scarcely notices. Burden him all you like."

He holds his hand out for as long as he feels willing to be vulnerable about it, then lets it fall to the bedspread. His rings are still on his fingers. Good. Thranduil wouldn't be concerned about theft, not in a noble house of this standing, but he isn't delighted with the idea that he might have been touched so intimately by healers not his own while utterly unable to protect himself.

"Should I be requesting grander meals? Breaking a few of those gilded plates?" He smoothes a hand down over the blankets before starting to pick at a loose thread.

He needs to comb his hair. He needs to regain control over his body, over himself, over all of this-- and Gwenaëlle, he needs- to be consistent for her. He cannot repeat his oft-promise of keeping her safe if he is so easily wounded.

It is a very nice house, for a Man. Certainly clean and well-tended. "Was this always a guest room?"

"No. It was mine."

It doesn't look much like a young lady's room, besides the generous space; other than the bed and the paintings that hang on its walls, it's more sparse than the other guest rooms, stripped back. On the other hand, Thranduil has seen inside her quarters in Skyhold, and how much of what must have been hers at home had gone with her to the Inquisition. The things that must have filled this space are all there, now, and only a little has yet been replaced here; Emeric has grand plans for a bigger set of rooms for her here that open into the garden, a gift for her eventual return, but presently she occupies a guest bedroom in her own home and, dubiously, Thranduil had been put into the interim space that previously was hers.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, just out of easy reach, and can't quite find it in herself to be playful enough to answer his suggestions for ways of inconveniencing her papa.

"We won't be here much longer," she says, finally, "so I don't suppose it matters."

"Thank you." She must have had some hand in it- he's an elf. Elves don't get placed in the rooms of the lady of the house unless there' some oversight somewhere or someone requests it. Or so he assumes. He's beginning to grasp some of the social lines with a bit more sensitivity. "It is a lovely room."

And a very comfortable mattress, properly made with down rather than straw. Clearly, he needs one in Skyhold.

Thranduil moves his legs so she isn't forced to sit in the dip created by his weight, trying to draw her closer. She's so easily startled that he has to move slowly. Gwenaëlle is so undeniably fragile, both for being utterly untrained in combat and again for her mortality. He values her company. He cares for her. He's never been the type to deny his own affections, or lack thereof, try and deceive himself about what he wants. He wants her friendship, her regard, her attention. Thranduil sits straighter in bed, leans forward, though one of the pillows he's been using to prop himself up with slips out of alignment. She's no longer out of reach, not if he strained for her, but he makes no move to touch.

"They did not hurt you." Not physically, he means, concern writ large on his face. She doesn't look injured.

A shrug - she could clarify that she didn't, that it was in all likelihood the simplest room left, but what would it matter? Really. Let him think whatever suits him better, she doesn't think she has the energy or inclination to wade into elf politics or what her household will and won't prioritise right now. She hadn't known where he was til she'd finally consented to see him -

But she supposes if there were anything else behind it, it must have been her father's doing. He hasn't tried to speak with her, but she sees his hand in the small ways the party is accommodated in their stay, in the provisions made for her herself. She hopes -

He does hurt, she knows it. How she feels about that is complicated.

Another shrug, then, "No. I'm fine." Physically. When he moves she doesn't, folds her hands in her lap and looks down at them; she is running out of subjects to shift to, if he will insist in not being segued. "Councillor Amsel has gone on early. The Inquisition is sending her with some of the tame Dalish to make some sort of," and her evenness can't disguise the contempt with which she uses this next word, "'diplomatic' effort with the clan that sent that attack."

Edited 2016-10-14 09:06 (UTC)

She isn't fleeing and that's important, but he knows not to press his luck. When she's been hurt before, when he's expressed concern or alarm, her response has been anger or coldness. This fear, this quiet- he isn't sure how to best handle it. Thranduil knows- or suspects strongly- that mentioning Guenievre is something that might pull those more volatile emotions out and he-- doesn't particularly feel like... letting them muddle this. Not when it's nice to have her near him, where he can see for himself that physically, she's whole.

"I should be with them." His hands curl into almost-fists; he sounds nothing so much as disappointed in himself, angered at the restrictions this state puts upon him. He should be with them. He is here, this is part of his purpose, this needful death and aggression needs to stop, and if not, be redirected. Thranduil reaches up to tuck hair behind his ear. "Herian is a poor choice to send on a task that will doubtlessly require tact and diplomacy. This will only lead to more bloodshed."

Thranduil finds himself curious as to how the Dalish sent by the Inquisition are handling her.

He... respects Herian, if for nothing else than the strength of her convictions. That those convictions will likely lead her to murder or deplorable cruelty means he'll never particularly like her but- it takes a strong personality to maintain such fallacies and juggle them against the facts of reality.

Edited 2016-10-14 19:00 (UTC)

The sound Gwenaëlle makes, derisive, is undignified.

"I certainly hope so, but she told me that martyring them for what they've done would only create more violence and give them an opportunity to think themselves justified in vengeance."

And it still annoys her. The archer that had loosed the arrow killing her mother was dead - dead within minutes of his actions, Lex's knife buried in him - but it didn't feel anything like enough. It leaves her cold to think of, which perhaps might mean that bloody vengeance is not going to satisfy anything, but on the other hand, maybe it just means there hasn't been enough.

He can think of a thousand ways this could be made worse without death, but discussing this with Gwenaëlle won't end well. He would like to think he's perhaps become more adept at-- handling her is the wrong world. Anticipating is better. Mayhap one day soon there will be another fight worth having with her, but this one is not it.

Instead: "I wish her luck." That's the best way about it, when Gwenaëlle seems upset- on edge- not about what might have been done to her but what, instead, was done to Guenievre. Who was possibly bedding Gwenaëlle's father, but he can't be sure. There's very few other ways to explain the odd push-and-pull between the two of them. The behaviors that were, he thinks. Gwenaëlle will never speak with him about it. They are not close enough and she wouldn't make herself vulnerable.

"Will you come to see me tomorrow?" He, however, isn't wholly above asking. His head is cocked, even if by degrees, still not reaching out to touch her, still not asking much of her.

"No."

It's not as sharp as it might be; as she can be. It's not spiteful, but - tired, a little, when the matter of what she wants done to the Dalish for attacking them is set aside and she has to sit here in living with it. For the rest of her life. She'd been reluctant to come when he asked for her and having done so -

It isn't any different than she imagined it would be, and besides how swiftly they'll run out of conversational topics that aren't going to start a fight (if she were thinking of it more clearly, perhaps she'd be surprised she got away with that tame Dalish remark), she simply doesn't have the energy required to sit with him and keep her composure. That she doesn't know how to grieve Guenievre doesn't mean she doesn't need to. Whatever it is he needs of her, she doesn't think she has it. Later. When the worst of all this passes, when she doesn't have to think so hard about not screaming, when just sitting here doesn't feel horrifically exposing - not now.

She shakes her head, shrugs, and doesn't explain herself.

His hands flatten on the coverlet, he gives up the pretext of being light and airy and talking about nothing at all. Maybe this is a conversation where they cannot avoid emotions, maybe they periodically need to fight or their friendship will wither. Either way, watching her sit and stew in her pain is bothering him.

"The door is closed, Gwenaëlle, and there is hardly anyone with their ear pressed to the wall-- what are you hiding from, to be so indifferent? I will not harm you, I admit freely to being frightened, there is no shame in it." He touches his chest, a short gesture, sharp. He's at a loss. He wants to do something. Why does she have to be so difficult? "Please. Let me aid you in whatever way I can."

He isn't invincible, he's more than proven that, but there must be something he can give willingly to her. Something he can do.

Gwenaëlle's lips press together and for a moment she's just quiet, just still. Another little shake of her head -

"I'm not afraid," she says, and it's careful. It's polite, the clean and neat tone she takes when she doesn't wish to say anything else. Of course, she is - and she will be again when they leave these walls and her father's guardsmen behind - but for the time being, not any more than she ever is. Fear isn't the problem (or, at least not the largest one, and not the sort that he can fix when it's his reactions she doesn't trust), so -

It's easier to deflect when he gives her something to do it with. She can easily dismiss what it isn't.

"We just haven't got anything to discuss at the moment. I don't need anything from you, I just want to be done with this place and leave."

Edited 2016-10-14 20:30 (UTC)

He holds for a moment more, watch her, waiting, hoping-- before exhaling, laying back on the pillows and returning the covers up to around his chest. She wishes to leave, he will not make her stay any longer due to his own frailties, which means he needs to heal as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Which, he supposes, means he needs to stay in bed and focus wholly on healing himself.

"Thank you for coming. I am glad to see you hale and whole." He smiled, or at least attempted to affect it, warmly as he could manage despite the edge of concern from her precise manner and silence. Thranduil was aware it felt flat. "It is considerate of you."

He worried, after all.

The tight smile she forces herself to muster up in response is a bleak thing devoid of any real warmth; equally telling is the relief in the way her shoulders loosen when she can stand, leave.

The door is closed, no one has their ear pressed to the wall. It's only him that she's hiding from; him that she doesn't want to see something. Maybe it's the way she flinches when he calls her hale and whole, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach when she makes herself nod and agree, like she can't still feel Guenievre's blood coating her hands, see her eyes go sightless whenever she closes her own. As if it doesn't feel like she's herself a wound on the landscape -

All that's left of Guenievre is her, and it's wretched.

She says, "Yes," very tersely, and doesn't trust herself to say anything else before she turns on her heel and flees.

[ closed ] go ahead and cry little girl, nobody does it like you do

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