faderift | we all keep our sadness cupped safe in our hands ( semi

He's unraveled denser offers from Dwarvish diplomats, but her proposition is nearly at that level of obtuseness. He doesn't answer right away, choosing instead to mull it over, mindful of his words when he finally says them. Clarity is important. They misunderstand one another in too many little ways for him to chance anything but plain speech.

"You would hire me to play protector?" he asks, tone curious. Thranduil has done it for free, would continue to do it for free- barring it interfering with his main priorities, mainly elven interests- but her putting a price on it makes it seem... mercenary.

He cocks his head, considers her, her house. "And how much would I be play-acting?"

"I imagined it a bit more informal than that," after a slight pause, slightly less sure of herself. "You have employ with the Inquisition, this would be... I wouldn't expect you to follow me around or take my orders, I just don't-"

This is about as awkward as she imagined it going, after all. Possibly she shouldn't have got cocky.

"It wouldn't be much," almost a grumble, turning her spectacles in her hands. "If anyone asked, I suppose. In your comings and goings. No more than you already must. I thought it would be good for you to live here."

It's nicer than the Gallows. And she's not terrible company.

"I could pay you, if you wanted-"

"No," he says, leaving no room for that with a wave of his hand. "No, you will not pay me."

For doing what he will gladly do for free. He will not put a price on keeping her safe.

He checks behind himself for somewhere to sit, and finds a bench, stepping to it and settling himself. Speak plainly, then, coax her into doing the same- they are, after all, alone, or alone enough to justify informalities.

"I understand there is a new fashion in Orlais," he reminds her, but she's sure to know already. "And you acquiring an elven protector will not go unnoticed. There will be talk. Do you intend to steer it a certain way, or are you not playing at all."

He crosses one leg over the other. "I do appreciate the offer. This place would clearly provide certain comforts the Gallows lacks, and your company as well."

The mention of Orlais - of the new fashion among Celene's more ardent admirers and probably a few who just wanted an excuse - twists her expression tellingly. Her instinct is to immediately withdraw her offer (request), but she checks it; he's quite right that he's not telling her anything she doesn't already know.

"One of the very few benefits of Kirkwall is how far from Orlais it is," she says, sourly. "I don't like the idea of anyone thinking I approve of the Empress or what she does," it's astonishing how disrespectful she can make Celene's title sound, "but I can't do anything about what conclusions they draw."

A beat before she says, deliberately diffident, "I might not return at all when all's said and done."

So fuck 'em.

He considers for a moment more, then leans back, back against the wall behind the bench, finally satisfied with his conclusion.

"I will use the front door. I will eat when you eat. I would prefer a room that I needn't share. Whatever faces we put on outside the walls will be discussed beforehand should you prefer that I act contrary to my normal manner." He adds things he knows she will have no trouble agreeing to. "And, since you are keeping me so that I might keep you safe, you will listen if I see something amiss. I welcome questions, should you wish to have me explain myself."

There, laid out plainly: the terms of his pride, how he will fit himself into her home and life. He glances to the side, looking over the gardens.

"I value the kindness you are offering with this, Gwenaëlle. You needn't be so generous, and yet..."

Gratitude invariably makes her squirm, just a little; she measures his conditions in the time she's obliged to take not to respond dismissively or in an effort to wriggle away from what feels like scrutiny. She thinks of objecting to his use of the front door -

Well, it isn't as if anyone outside the household can see which door he uses ordinarily, in any event. There's only one gate, and the walls rise high enough and set the property far enough back that goings on are not the immediate concern of onlookers. It isn't perfect, but it means she has slightly fewer hesitations; she can always argue his status as a rifter and Inquisition agent in his favour if she's challenged later.

"Kieran will have the rooms to the left of mine and you'll take the right," she says, instead. "There's no sense in housing you here for peace of mind and then having you too far to be of use if anything does happen."

Nesting here, gathering the people she wants near her and keeping them jealously close.

"I don't want to be alone here."

"You would place me at your right hand?" he asks, amused. "And yourself in the master's bedroom. Do the rooms have doors to one another?"

And can he put a lock on his, because this one is like a cat, and he can admit the likeliness that he might find her sunning on his sofa some day. Still- he's pleased, she's pleased, and he's already entertaining thoughts of a space of his own, something he hasn't had since he fell through the Rift.

He stands, his side brushing her shoulder as he walks past her, a moment too long to be anything but personal and affectionate. "You will not be. It is a very large house, but having Kieran running about as children do will fill it."

"There's a sun room between yours and mine," she says, half-turning when he goes past (Hardie rolls over in the grass to look up at him, too, inquisitive), "both doors to which lock. And I've a door to Kieran's room," the key to which she will keep, for safekeeping and both of their privacy.

Her hands rest in the blanket spread beneath her and she relaxes by increments as she gets her way, breathes a little easier.

"You can do what you please with your rooms, I don't mind."

Thranduil has no compunction for easing onto his knees beside Hardie, offering his hand-- someone ought to remember him, if vaguely, from the few weeks when thoughtful gift was potential obligation-- and scratching him under the chin.

"I think," he says, "we have covered most of my objections."

Doubtless, more will arrive as they work out the difficulties of living together, but he is optimistic. He turns his attention from Hardie to Gwenaelle, matching the hint of a pleased expression with one of his own.

Hardie sniffs at him a moment, the testing way of an animal seeing if a familiar person has brought home any unfamiliar smells, and then lolls backwards in unsubtle suggestion as to what Thranduil could be doing with his hands, which is obviously rubbing his belly. Gwenaëlle rolls her eyes, but not without fondness. For either of them. Somehow.

"Then it's settled," she says, firmly, as if saying so makes it real and harder for him to regret and undo.

(Ask a little less, and get a little more.)

She watches them a moment, in the grass.

"Ser Coupe will come in a few days time to choose a training space. I think perhaps the ballroom. If it doesn't suit that, I'll do something else with it."

But from the outset: she does not mean to be setting herself up as a hostess.

And so it goes- Thranduil, long-suffering, acquiescing to the demands of one dog and one young woman. He considers Ser Coupe, his unlikely ally if in only this, and stands back up, offering his hand to Gwenaëlle so that she might lift herself.

"I think I would like to see the rest of the house."

He will not be moving in immediately- it would not be polite to take his leave of the Inquisition so suddenly, and he suspects that as a Rifter and as an elf there will be paperwork- and it gives him a chance to stay with her just a little while longer. The property is large enough that they won't chafe living together, but he wants to see as much of it as possible. They live differently in the Free Marches than in Ferelden, and this visit to Kirkwall seems decidedly less spider infested.

"Have you hired staff?"

"Bon-papa - that is, my grandfather took it in hand before he decamped." Orlesian all the way down to her toes, for all that she misses Orlais little. "I expect to find his choices well enough, though I have written Guilfoyle that I want him to provide me any names he think might serve me better."

As tempting as it is to demand him; no. Better he stay where he's most needed, keeping her father in hand and occasionally putting the fear of Guilfoyle in visiting dwarves who know full well which of the two is the more pressingly dangerous.

She rises with her hand in Thranduil's, tucks it at his elbow as she leads him into the house proper. Little is personal to her yet about its layout or its decoration, but it's self-evident that she has plans, and beyond that, the eclectic way that she'd decorated her room in Skyhold might well speak for itself that she will, in time, leave her fingerprints throughout this new home.

"But I've not had any complaints yet. I don't know all of their names, but Yva does." And obliges her mistress when Gwenaëlle wishes to be able to address her servants by name when she sends for them for one reason or the next.

Pleased, he notes the state of the shubbery with keener eyes. Whatever house and table Romain would build for Gwenaëlle- whatever Romain would have built and kept for himself, had he not been pulled away- is the exact sort of taste Thranduil must come to associate and judge class and decorum of the rest of Orlais by. Romain has always been tasteful, a hawk among songbirds, and Thranduil resolves to find his hand wherever it might be in the decoration and organization of the house.

Elven and Orlesian manners meld well enough as she settles in next to him, and she could be any lady. This, he knows how to do, matching his steps to hers and allowing himself to be guided while giving the appearance of escorting her.

"A cook?" he supposes. "And Yva, and perhaps someone to aid her, maids..."

He will not have a Yva, and he will learn their names on his own. They pass through halls and he notes the start of projects, contemplates what she might do, and the tall walls and high ceilings that Kirkwall's wealthy seem to favor.

"May I beg a favor of you, my lady?"

"I've no need of two lady's maids," she says, dismissively, of Yva being given any assistance. "There is a housekeeper, a cook. Maids, footmen, a groundskeeper. I've a woman from the Inquisition minding my horse, but she's other duties as well, so there's a stablehand, of course..."

The thought trails off into nothing in particular. He will acquaint himself with the household in due course, and she is admittedly still a little bit vague on all of the details herself. There's much to be done, though she favors much the same decorative restraint as her grandfather; her home will never be gaudy.

She's leading him upstairs, to show him where he will be quartered, and the way the room between theirs catches the sunlight; she glances up, from his side.

"What favor?" Too much herself to just say yes. Naturally.

we all keep our sadness cupped safe in our hands ( semi - open )

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