faderift | [ closed ] non, rien de rien

She looks at him for a long time, lingering in the doorway - as if she isn't mistress of this house, as if she can't come and go of it as she pleases. It borders on impolite how long she leaves him with his finger to the page, but that is perhaps the least of ways she's historically been rude to him.

Asher has been dead a year now. Soon, Guenievre will have been as well - already she's been dead longer than she had been a part of Gwenaëlle's entourage. The world carries on around her. They remain as they were, out of her easy grasp -

Some things need to be learned from.

Some mistakes need not be repeated.

"I have a question," she says, "but before I ask it I want you to promise me that you'll answer it first of all. You won't ask me questions before that's done. You just answer. Can you promise?"

He will have something to say, she's sure. But if she can just get through hearing the answer, first, because she isn't sure she can struggle through this twice--

He does not feel her question will be impertinent; she wouldn't feel the need to apologize for digging into his business. This care lodges in his throat like a cherry stone, and so he closes his book and wipes the greasy tips of his fingers in a napkin.

"I will," he says. She cannot ask anything of him truly dangerous to his health. So what has her dancing around him, what has wrung caution and delicately from her fiery tongue and her general disinclination for kid gloves as a whole?

The confusion sits poorly on his shoulders. She will have his attention through every word.

His agreement given - she steps forward, pulls the door closed behind her. No further footsteps follow; they are, for the time being, alone in this part of the house. It's not an accident.

"I know that they're dead," she says.

Not, on the whole, the most promising beginning. An important preface, however: "I saw her, that night, when we made camp. It wasn't good news, whatever it was that you said. And everyone had known, of course. I still assist Guilfoyle regularly on the matter of our finances. I have been aware that money allocated to the Baudins was no longer going to anyone."

She exhales. Presses her lips together, looks at anything but Thranduil.

"I want to know," as steadily as she can manage, "what- I want to know," like it's important that she says that, that part, as clear as possible, "what happened to my--"

She can do this. Say it. She told Asher, she told Morrigan. She's spoken with Alistair. She can say this.

"My sisters. I want to know what you found out. For her."

For Guenievre. For her mother. Swiftly, before he can speak: "You promised."

Edited 2017-08-26 04:15 (UTC)

To his discredit, he needs a moment to slot her words into the spaces needed to grant him understanding. Then it is clear, a thousand small pieces gliding into place. He exhales, then pushes the plate and book both away, his hands laying in his lap sedately.

"Magalie Baudin was trapped in their home. Alix Baudin attempted to rescue her. The chevaliers murdered her when she would not stay back," he states. There is no comfort to offer in telling her where they were buried. Fire is not kind. The mallorn had rooted well in the grief and the ash, but she would prefer her sisters alive, and what comforts him will offer her no succor.

He knots his fingers, but remains seated. If she leaves, he will follow.

"I am sorry for your losses."

It's so easy to see it in her mind's eye; Alix, braver than either of her little sisters, determined until someone determined to put a stop to it. To her. Magalie, trapped; the more delicate of them, the softest. The most vulnerable of Guenievre's children burning to death, alone - could she hear Alix? Was it too late?

Gwenaëlle slides down the door, heavy skirts tangling around her, knees falling to one side. She sits there, expression terribly blank, and it isn't as if she'd been expecting a happy story. It isn't shocking. It's the truth. It's what Celene did -

They are just as gone as they were an hour ago. All that's changed is how much she knows.

"I'm all that's left." What a terrible thing.

Again, faltering. Caught between the rock and the hard place of every interaction they have had, and his own disinclination towards displays. Compassion wins out, and he stands and kneels beside her.

She is elven by his world's measure. It will open more doors than it closes, but it is a tender thing and he sets it so the side. He will examine all of this later. Gwenaëlle comes first.

"She loved you," he murmurs. Love is not a frail creature. Especially not in Guenievre Baudin. Thranduil is insistent. "You are not alone."

Last is not least. His empathy has always been a sluggish beast when asked to apply itself to things outside his realm, and his tenancy toward physical affection of a similar nature, but kindness does not escape him.

"She didn't know me." The words taste bitter in her mouth; would her mother have loved the girl as much as the idea of a daughter? It's hard to imagine. They spoke so little in Skyhold, so little of consequence-

"She was always kept away from me, when I was growing up. I remember the first time I heard her voice. I remember thinking it was a little lower than I'd imagined her speaking." More like her own.

An exhale, and she looks up at him, steadying by sheer force of will.

"I can't mourn my fucking mother, but you could just walk in here and be everyone's fucking cousin."

-ah. Yes. That. The line that had been drawn between them, after Guenievre.

He cannot hold her anger against her, she is entitled to it for all of the lies. Gwenaëlle is not living in an alienage due mostly to Emeric's hand, he wagers. What it took to arrange everything-- well, this was a very important secret. One that formed the foundation of her entire house.

"You cannot mourn her in public." She strikes out only in anger. He is the closest target and this is bigger than him. Still, he does not touch her but for where his robes meet hers.

"I am," he repeats, "so sorry for your loss." Empathizing with her pain is not beyond him. Grief still freezes a part of his heart. "She loved you. I had mistaken it for duty, but..." He holds, and shakes his head. "She bid me watch over you, once she returned to the estate."

"You rather won her over," she says, dry in that particularly brittle way she has when holding her composure with her nails, "once she'd discerned for herself you're not just a better-smelling Asher Hardie."

Not another big strapping mistake for her daughter to risk her reputation with. If they'd not had much to say to one another, Guenievre had nevertheless made sure that certain details Thranduil had shared of himself were made known to the relevant party. (And Katell, rather indiscreetly sharing them with Luwenna Coupe, months later-) She might have warmed to Asher in his last days, but she'd never have approved of Gwenaëlle giving up for him all that so many people had worked for her to have.

She had needed it to have been worth the sacrifice. It had been the kinder thing, not to tell Gwenaëlle as much in so many words - but she lives with that weight of expectation all the same, and always has. The combined efforts of so many people who did and gave up so much, their hopes and dreams like rocks anchoring her skirts and pulling at her skin--

"I've braided my own hair at night for years," apropos of nothing, looking up at him with wide, golden-brown eyes that look like her mother's, "ever since my fingers were deft enough to do it. But every night she was in Skyhold, she'd sit at my vanity with a brush in her hand and I would say, you know, I can do it myself, and she'd just wait me out. She'd not say anything, she'd just look very patient, and not give me my brush, and wait until I sat down at her feet and let her do it."

Now led to the truth of her parentage, he can see the resemblance between Gwenaëlle and Guenievre. He searches for them, marks her eyes and her hair and the tallies them against Emeric and Romain's features. If he had been given more time with Guenievre, if he had known before--

Well, suffice to say, his outspokenness in the months and weeks before he and Gwenaëlle had settled (as great shifting tectonic plates do, with a great deal of grinding and eathquakes) would not have done them any good-- likely worse, likely another fight they would not returned from.

And her young blacksmith--

He glances at her, brows drawn together. "Would you have me comb your hair?"

An undertone of scandalised accusation laces her immediate response, momentarily whiting out the dull aches she's spent months now learning to live with-

"You never let me touch your hair."

...which she might not mark so severely had she not been slightly piqued by that blanket ban more or less since they met. If she hadn't wanted to, to play with in quiet evenings or to pull when he irritates her (and Maker knows he irritates her).

She isn't allowed. She's abided by that with more respect than most things, but not by not thinking of it.

He sits straight, a rapid withdrawal from her space. He does not touch his hair, no need to draw any further attention to it. She's clearly been looking already, and he needn't pretend it isn't something that draws the eye, though thankfully his carriage tends to make sure it isn't pawed at--

"It isn't a toy."

The only one here who would care is his Lord, and he isn't in the room, and was never one for scoffing, though this might draw his ire, were he to find out. Even in his youth, Thranduil was discrete. He has perfected the skill by now.

His curiosity wins out. If she remembered the 'don't' of the conversation, she must also have remembered the 'why', and so...

"What do you wish to do to my hair? Braid it? Cut it?"

Her nose wrinkles as soon as he says cut it (she is so willing to change the subject, would much rather dissect this than her own broken heart-) - so there's that. She says, "Touch it, I suppose," with a slightly diffident affect that would fall flat at the best of times, nevermind when she's half curled into herself at the bottom of a closed door.

Braid it, twist it around her fingers, get his attention -

She remembers the why. He moves away from her and she presses her lips shut on answers to his question that might make him move even further.

"I don't need anyone to comb my hair," is directed at the window she can see over his shoulder. "I can do it myself."

One of those things is true. One of them is just true enough if you don't look closely at what she might need of companionship.

"This is about wants, Gwenaëlle, not needs." He watches distaste bloom across her face when he mentions mutilation, and is pleased. So, he sits properly, folding his legs under him and not waiting on his knees. He cups his hand along the back of his neck and pulls the heavy weight of his hair forward over the shoulder closest to her, fingers running through it once to pull out any tangles from that process.

"Do as you like." This isn't entirely bribery, Thranduil reasons. It can't be, not when it's so intimate, even if she doesn't have the weight of culture to appreciate his gesture. It'll lure her out of that little curl she's knotted herself into, and he very much wants to see her face again.

"Gently," he amends.

She nearly pulls another face at him for gently, but he's already said do as you like which is rather compelling as an opener--

Very lightly, she combs her fingers through; sits up to reach, rising on knees cushioned by her skirts, tilting her head to one side. It's nearly visible how she considers what to do - what she would like to do - and it isn't to tug or to braid or to play with. Her hand moves up through his hair (it feels as soft as she imagined) and settles at the side of his throat, warm, thumb smoothing against the edge of his jaw.

Which is not what he'd invited her to do, precisely.

"I wanted to tell you the truth."

She unfolds, and he does not relax so much as make himself lean forward, make it a bit easier for her to do as she likes. Which seems to be less what he imagined- braiding, toying, twirling strands around her fingers- and more the delicate sort of touch that has him parting his lips to speak, and saying nothing.

Thranduil watches her, stares at the pulse point of her wrist, and closes his mouth. It's nice to be touched. He's particular about who he allows this close to him, and he's aware that her touch is different from Beleth's or the Outsider's. He closes his eyes in a long blink, letting her touch settle him. This relaxation is pure impulse, but he invited it.

"I am grateful," he murmurs, eyes still closed. "It was good of you to wait. I suspect..."

He lets that linger, lets out a long exhale. "I still hold you in high esteem."

"I wasn't going to." While they're being truthful; a conclusion he can probably come to himself, given the long chilliness that had settled in almost immediately after Guenievre's death, the sharp and sudden way Gwenaëlle had closed herself off. It can't be particularly surprising to hear, but wintry as she had been--

Winter ends. Gwenaëlle thawed. He lives in her house because she feels safer when he's nearer than not; it feels like the right choice, and she eases a little the longer it doesn't just ruin everything.

"Everyone else heard." Herian, Bellamy, Alistair - Alexander. "I don't remember exactly what I said, but they all heard it. Morrigan knows, and Kieran. My lord has gone to a great deal of trouble to keep it quiet, over the years."

More than she knows. More, Maker willing, than she'll ever know.

Her fingers slide to his collarbone and her thumb settles in the dip. Give her an inch and see what she does with it, the little furrow in her brow, looking down at where she touches him and not looking up to his closed eyes.

"I wondered if it might have been why Alexander left. But it could have been anything. And people leave, you know, that's what they do."

Except Thranduil, who would not go even when pushed. Her mind supplies this thought without waiting to be asked.

"Am I the last to know?" His brows raise, but his eyes stay closed. He's sure he could make a list if he needed to guess, wonders if Romain is on it, goes back to just enjoying her touch. He doesn't bother to offer reassurances as to his ability to keep his silence. She knows him well enough by now. "Your betrothal to Alexander was formally broken, I assume?"

They were so affectionate with one another, in the ways Gwenaëlle performed affection, and Thranduil hadn't misliked him. But he had left the Inquisition and sent no letters, and all Thranduil's missing was reserved for the Rifters who were no longer here but may return.

"I have no intention of leaving." He is resolute to the point of exasperation. Stubborn. He does have questions, an unsettling feeling settling somewhere in his gut.

"That is not my hair."

The last she means to tell, she thinks; what she says is, "We were never formally betrothed to break it." Courting, yes - she doesn't deny that any longer. But no agreements had been made and there'd been nothing to break but her heart, which has always been a little that way.

He doesn't rebuke her, precisely, in so mild words as he chooses, so she doesn't answer them - but her hand stills, and lifts away. She doesn't curl back into herself but she lowers back to seated from where she'd knelt up to reach him; all the ruffled dignity of a cat caught at something it knew better than.

"I've never been formally betrothed to anyone."

"Mm," he says. "Someone could be forgiven for thinking you were." All that time arm-in-arm, shoulders brushing. He had been rather happy for her. But when her touch stops, he opens his eyes. His lips purse, a momentary displeasure. Why has she stopped?

"Never? Not even the sort of agreements made between parents for their children?"

He doesn't think Thedas is immune from those. They are a neat and tidy way of tying up inheritances, something Elves ought not to have to worry about. His face relaxes back into serenity, and he unfolds his legs, turning his back to Gwenaëlle and sliding forward. Thranduil lays back, hair held back from his neck as he does so, placing his head on her knee. His hair fans out into her lap, and he closes his eyes again.

"Have we spoken of Elven marriage?"

Well. When he puts it that way; a moment of hesitation and then she relaxes, curling her fingers into his hair and carding through it in lazy, idle strokes. She shifts, a little, to better accommodate him in her lap, and lets her thoughts drift some.

The sting of new knowledge will not soon fade, but she learns to live with it as the rest.

"My lord didn't want anything legally binding that he couldn't easily extricate us from as required when I was so young. And I had my ways of avoiding it when I was older." A brief pause. "They did nearly trap me, once,"

she's always spoken of marriage thus, a threat to her to be avoided - maybe it makes more sense now, when he's seen more of Thedas and knows more of her heritage,

"but Asher came to my rescue as he was wont to do. Is elven marriage different?"

The Outsider did this for him. It was similarly pleasant, soothing in the way a cat would find a sunbeam soothing. He is no less leonine despite his size and species. He does not purr, but here he is, laying on the floor of her library. Eighteen months have found them in a very different place from whence they started.

"'Once'?" he echoes. He must be careful of sleep, now. Speaking distracts just enough from her hands that Thranduil fears trapping her on the floor less. "Greatly. It is... we do not make mistakes. We are steadfast, and eternal."

And often separated from spouses for decades, centuries. Gwenaëlle's ancestors had not yet arrived in Orlais when his wife had died. He does not see the need to mention that.

"Marriage is as simple as a joining of bodies."

It takes her a moment to understand what he's intimating, and that time is perhaps the only reason she doesn't blurt something as charming and clever as oh, I'd be in real trouble if that were true of the rest of us. She begins working a braid into his hair from the temple, considering.

Of course, what she does settle on is, "A simple joining of bodies got me out of a marriage," dryly, because she is herself and her smart mouth will out.

(That answers once, at any rate.)

"Everyone says they prize loyalty. In others, though. Rarely themselves."

Lonely words.

He laces his fingers and settles his hands on his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. "I understand that things are different for Men." Understood and witnessed as much. He does not blame Gwenaëlle for using the means she had available to escape a situation she felt trapped in; she accepts the limitations of his people with similar ease.

"Do you consider yourself loyal?"

They are what they were made to be. It is hard to be unvirtuous when designed never to falter. They are far from their original purpose now, and he in Thedas even further, but he still does not so much cling to the rules of Arda as he has them imprinted upon him. He could no more kinslay or turn his hand to evil purpose than teach a fish to fly.

"I am." An answer that comes easily, assured; the simple fact of the matter. For as many other things as she is, fickle isn't really one of them. Constancy is what she wants and consequently what she offers, a port in any storm for those she cares for as well as steadfast in her loves.

Mixed success, but then, she's fit a great deal of living into twenty-three years.

"I suppose it doesn't look that way from where you're sitting," in her lap? "but I've never been unfaithful to anyone. It must've been exhausting to be my lover and my handmaiden, which I will deny saying if you ever have cause to repeat it, but I can say for myself I was even faithful to Sabine. That was before all of this Inquisition. Alistair suits her better."

She's grown less sure over time that there's anything that suits her. This does, right now.

"Sabine?" he says, note rising, because he certainly remembers her. "Were you so at odds that you considered being unfaithful?"

He is relaxed. How nice it is, to lay and simply feel, to notice the smell of the library and the feel of Gwenaëlle's hands through his hair. There is also the firm floor under his back, the softness of her dress and her thigh under that.

"There is a firmer line for us. Wed and unwed." And once the line has been crossed, there is no way to step back. "There is much less grey in our lives. It must be freeing, to have so many choices."

And a burden to have all the pain that comes with it, but with how easily he's seen so many entangle themselves, it must be worth it all.

Not then, she thinks, not when they were tangled together and Sabine had seemed like the most wonderful and wonderfully exciting person in all of Orlais - afterwards, maybe, when she was flinging herself angrily around in Sabine's absence, making lists of all the awful things she hadn't done and therefore didn't deserve to be abandoned in that fashion, or the affront she'd been dealt beforehand -

"I'm sure there are people who feel that way," neutrally, in the tone of someone who doesn't. "I didn't find anything freeing about her cutting my hair."

It's long since grown back, curling down to her waist as it does when unbound, but she's still a bit sore about that. She'll probably still be referring to it thirty years from now, remember that time. Hearing the story had made Alistair feel better, though, so maybe it's not all bad.

He unfurls a hand and reaches, pausing somewhere by her hip. Their eyes meet, he's very careful on that, and when her face doesn't register displeasure or disagreement, he catches a strand of hair in his fingers, thumb brushing over the ends and his hand balanced against her waist.

"Should you grow displeased with me, would you try the same?" Which isn't the sort of thing to be discussed in low murmurs, half in her lap in a position that needn't be seen as compromising by only elves, and yet--

"Sabine is inimitable," he admits. "Least of all by myself."

He lacks the resources and the time to be as he was. He has felt so strange since he fell through the Rift, his actions like ones through a looking-glass, his skin oddly foreign. His convictions still hold, but it is disorienting to reach for an ability you knew you had and feel a lack of response from your own body. To have a response when none should be.

"I wouldn't have done it to her, either," the comfort of his closeness doing much to blunt the edge of what might have otherwise been affront at the question. She shifts only to ease where her corset presses bruises into her waist at the angle she's come to rest, her hand falling to settle at his shoulder, fingers tangled in his hair and holding, not tugging.

After a moment, "You displease me constantly."

It sounds more affectionate than the words she uses have any right to.

He smiles up at her, the cat who caught the canary, head lolled back into her lap and the rest of him draped over her library floor, the velvet of his pants scraping against the wool of her (grandfather's) rug. He cannot see much of her face, less of her dress, but the light from the windows puts a halo of brightness around her hair. She isn't an elf- he'll do his own math for that later- but she has lovely hair.

"Even now?" he says, aware he is displaying himself to his advantage. It is vanity, sharper than pride, that has him preening, only half for her amusement, for a laugh and perhaps a rebuke. She hasn't pulled his hair once.

Her faint smile is a little crooked, rueful - "Yes," tartly delivered, an exhalation and the coiled tension under it all the warning he has for an experiment she's already half-regretting before she's done it -

As tightly laced as she is, she'd never be able to reach him if he weren't so damned over-large, but she doesn't have to bend far so the press of her lips (soft, warm, the taste of a floral tea) is decisive, her hair coming down a curtain around them, curled from her braids and not pulled up as it will be by evening.

Her fingertips touch very lightly to his jaw, slide more purposefully to his hair, his nape. It has the air of curiosity -

She remembers the conversation they had, about hair and intimacy and what it means. She's been telling herself for some time not to think - but maybe she was wrong? Maybe he is for her, after all. Maybe this is a terrible mistake and she's ruined everything, that would be just like her.

Well, if she has she'd better make the most of this.

He cannot say he wasn't expecting her to kiss him, that he is in anyway innocent or free from blame. Thranduil encouraged this, and is there to meet her as her lips press against his, his eyes falling shut. His hands do not wander. One cups the side of her face, and the other releases her hair to settle at the back of her neck. He does not presume to hold her, but neither does he keep his touch light.

It comes on him all at once, a realization sweeping through his mind: he wants this.

The technical aspects, the hows-and-whys, those are lost in favor of the sweet smell of her skin, the taste of her mouth- a curious probe before he deepens the kiss in search of more- and the feeling of--

of wanting.

He is, perhaps, out of practice. He must pull back at some point, or perhaps she does. His eyes open, he watches her for a moment before he lifts himself off her lap, pressing his lips to her forehead before laying back down.

"Well," Thranduil says, and exhales. He pulls the hand at her neck away, keeps the other on her cheek, thumb stroking her skin.

The way she tilts into his hand is unplanned, unguarded; some of her edges softened by the startling warmth of being welcome. She'd been so ready to be pushed away that there's a moment she has absolutely no idea what to do when he doesn't, uncharacteristically quiet. He says well, but he's still touching her, so she takes her time. Turns her face into his palm and presses her lips there, briefly sparing her the need to think of something intelligent to say.

"I thought," she starts, stops.

Then, "If you want to pretend it didn't happen," please don't want that in the glance she casts from under her lashes, studiously avoiding her own thread of uncertainty, "I won't tell Morrigan."

Spare him overprotective retribution, she means, but she'd sell her ease with letting him go a little more convincingly if she weren't still holding his wrist near her so tightly.

Don't want that.

His smile is affectionate as she kisses his hand, warm with all the edges sanded off. "Do not," Thranduil starts. The implications- he does not want to consider them, not when he cannot risk upsetting her as pieces of revelations fall into place.

Curious- and hardly forgetting Morrigan's oft spider-themed reminders- he marches along, repurposing his words. "Do you tell Morrigan about all your trysts?"

They gossip, he knows that, and he watches her closely. It's impossible to ignore the firm grip she has on him. She allows herself to be read so easily, but he cannot act as if he's guarded either.

After a pause, he shakes his head. "No. There is no need. I would ask that you mind whom you mention it to, I..."

And what to say here? If she knew Arda better, if she had allowed him to prattle on about the elves more, perhaps she would have grasped this without needing to be told in halting, careful tones. "This was, perhaps, more to me than it was to you. You have said you have never been betrothed."

He thinks, briefly, of the Outsider, whom he had touched nearly as affectionately. Never quite to this degree, and desire had not pushed him to this final step. Had the Veil so torn him from Arda that he was akin to a Man? Could he feel this temptation freely? But the Outsider is not here for him to test this theory, and even if he was, well. What answer would he want?

She's stirring to dispute that point, he can see it, it is a great deal to her, thank you when he says betrothed and her mouth snaps shut. He's right, and if she doesn't know what he's thinking she is already along similar lines: if only she'd listened to him a little closer, if only she hadn't been so averse to seeming interested.

At length, "There hasn't been anyone since Alexander. Seeker Pentaghast told me then when I asked that I would be allowed to hold a wedding in Skyhold if I wanted to."

They hadn't been betrothed, but she is aware pretending she hadn't wished it is disingenuous -

It isn't that she still wants. In her awkward, fumbling way, what she means to say is: I'm not reaching for less than that, it's not nothing, I've thought--

She doesn't let go his wrist.

"I always tell her about the things important to me. Morrigan." And you are.

Amused, despite the situation, a smile plays along his lips. No, the Quenya do not do things by half-measure, Eru made them unbending, unyielding, and that he can give ground at all, that he is able to consider kissing her again with anything other than boredom is--

He will speak to someone wiser. There is a division head who will know more, because these questions are not ones to go unanswered.

"Tell Morrigan. Tell Yngvi, if you must. I ask only--"

That she consider how it looks. That she not bandy him about in such a way that he might appear no different that another Orlesian noble's elven toy. Discretion. Grace. He does not wish for the Inquisition to know.

"Remember why I am here."

For his kin. For the Dalish, the city elves. They will be everything, until this body fails him or until he is returned to Arda. Would she be able to bear that?

He extracts herself from her lap, sitting up slowly, allowing her to keep her hold on him.

"Ah, the Seeker. As tempted as I am for you to propose such a thing, I would beg your patience. We needn't..." He cups her hand where she holds his wrist. "We needn't rush this. I would beg you for time. That we might both consider."

This does not come to elves easily. Eighteen months in the making, and he knows the name for these feelings, but she-- she must have time. To consider all the implications, how this will affect her life. Then, they will speak. He will not trap her.

Before he's finished speaking, she's already shaking her head - not in dispute, precisely, because on this they are wholly in agreement, but:

"Yngvi doesn't want to know." He is as dear to her as Marcellin and much more endearing; a dirty little brother she very rarely has to have the law bent to rescue; he doesn't care for Thranduil in the slightest and would not be thrilled to hear about this new development. (Imagine if he started fucking Coupe, ugh, that would be the worst thing-) "And I don't - if my lord were to get wind of this, if I were to...I mean, I don't think it's even legal."

To marry him, she means, however much the idea of throwing it in the teeth of about half a dozen people might please her. And it would, if she could get away with it.

But that's not why, not the important thing.

"I'd be ruined in Orlais. I'd be in the back of a carriage bound for the highest and most thoroughly locked tower my lord could find for me. We'd never see each other again."

(It's very sweet that she thinks this. Emeric, though, he knows better of trying to prevent her through such ineffective means; it would be Guilfoyle with a blade and readiness to console her grief afterwards. She would weep, of course, but there would be no undoing it and grief eases, in time.)

...she doesn't argue his plea for time, but it is apparent even from this much that she's been thinking on it longer and in more detail, perhaps, than he imagines, knows the look of it well, knows the knife edge that she walks with her reputation even as hard as she tries to be good. But-- marriage is as simple as a joining of bodies. Even if they were not to tell, that is quite the commitment, isn't it. (Isn't he--? How would that--?)

He considers what she's said about Yngvi, balances that against the potential hurt of Yngvi finding out at a later date, and gives her this. He has no intention of being the gossip of Hightown, let alone the Inquisition. Whatever conclusions have been drawn by the staff are dismissed every time the laundry is done, and he has no intention of wedding her until he has answers. For both her sake and his.

He smiles, and pulls his wrist towards his mouth, and her hand attached to it. Thranduil kisses the back of her hand, his manners too well taught to avoid the chance to be courtly. "Oh, Gwenaëlle, you underestimate me."

There will be things he has to tell her, certain histories she will need to be made aware of. And he-- well, as much as he can confess to enjoying the act, he will want children, someday. Another thing to add to the list. Very slowly, he stands-- offering his arm, the strength of his stance to aid her in standing too.

"I will not leave Kirkwall," he vows. "Not without letting you know, but there are things I must know, if we are to do this."

Allowing him to help her up, she straightens - bare feet on the hardwood floors beneath them, her toes curling underneath, rising up on them for a moment to add that tiny amount of height that makes not a blind bit of difference to how much larger than her he is. It's easy to recall, still, the first time they spoke on the ramparts; the biggest elf she'd ever seen.

The space around him adapts to him, as much as the other way around. It had taken her time to notice. She wonders, sometimes, how much of her has adapted, too - how many places they've met in the middle. How hard would it be, now, to untangle him from the whole of her? If she had to let him go--

She doesn't have to. She won't. She'll figure something out, find a way.

"What things?" More than just herself, she supposes, since he could ask, although- she's not going to pretend she doesn't know how damned difficult she's been in the past, when he has asked of her. Her hands fall when they stand, but not far - stop on his waist, lightly.

(His hands would about span hers.)

Then, more importantly: "You can't leave me," as if he's suggested that actually in the morning there's been a change of plans and the moon will be rising. "If you had something to do. But not just to go." He went to Solasan, to the Korcari Wilds, without so much as a frown.

--without a frown anyone saw. Something might've happened. People get hurt. It would...displease her.

"We love once, and only once." Finwë aside- firmly aside, Thranduil glad he will not need to think of him, does not have his granddaughter here in Galadriel to judge him for his actions or understand them with the full grasp of the Quendi- they are devout. "That I am able to indicates some-- oddities. I am not from here, and the Veil..."

Long had he blamed it for his current state, as if it was a sieve that held the most solid pieces of himself in the Fade, his fëa diminished, his natural state cleaved. If these feelings are an abomination of the ruin of his spirit, he--

It does not feel like that, he reminds himself. It feels right, and whatever those reasons are, he must find them, and put his own mind to rest.

"I will not leave you," he promises, settling his hands about her waist, his fingers nearly-not-quite touching, but he's not trying. "I may need to visit Sundermount, to go to the Gallows as I always do. Inquisition business may well call me to Orlais again. I will tell you. Unless it is dire, I will never make off like a thief in the night. I owe you that."

And he will firmly avoid-- he will not allow what happened to Legolas to happen to him.

Gwenaëlle does not think of the rifters who came and went, who melted away in the night and for whom there were no explanations - she does not wish to, so she doesn't. (She thinks once of Martel Leblanc, a footnote in her last publication, the rifter who died at the Winter Palace - Thranduil has much more practise at not dying than anyone, though, so surely-)

Reassured on the subject of being left (not being left, most importantly, and it troubles her a little that she trusts but he has yet to disappoint her and so), she worries instead at the oddities he raises, lingering on what is implied in the observations he makes, and does not make. That he is able to love. He doesn't say it, in so many words, so she hasn't got to answer it in so many words, and all the same: it lingers.

"Spirits and demons," she says, after a long pause, "are different either side of the Veil, aren't they. One thing in the Fade, and one thing here. What if it's...that? You loved once, there, and you're - different, here, so you have - new opportunities. To do things once. On the other side."

Occasionally, it's apparent that Gwenaëlle is both brighter and more observant than her frequent, loud tendency to kick off at the slightest provocation tend to suggest about her. In this instance, she even demonstrates the restraint many would be forgiven for not realising she's capable of and does not make any crack as her first thought inspires about how he's probably definitely a demon, then, after all.

This is probably not the time.

(She saves it up, though. He'll find it funny once he's found himself some proof to the contrary, she thinks.)

"Calenmiriel," he says, and for once it doesn't feel like ripping stitches. "She was my wife. She was Legolas' mother."

And she was-- everything. He has never been good at small gestures. He never commits himself to anything halfheartedly. He remembers her face, her laughter, the smell of her hair, every moment they spent together. Thranduil is grateful that he is not a moral who would lose those precious memories.

"If I go back," if, if, Valinor is not an if but a when, the same as Mirkwood, for all the events Legolas told him have already come to pass, and-

(How is he here, if Eru himself did not interfere?)

"I will not shame her or you, Gwenaëlle." Emphatic. "I will not-- these feelings are unnatural, unless they are not, in which case I need answers even moreso than I did before."

He shakes his head. The things she's said, he almost-- hopes? for them, in some odd way, because isn't that neater? But he is flesh and blood, though it is different here. He is not a man, but not Elvhen, but yet not still Quendi.

It's hard not to take the word unnatural as a blow, her gaze dropping to her hands, his hands - presses her lips together and presses against the instinct that tells her to pull away from him at once, if it's so fucking unnatural -

The weight of what he's talking about is...

She can't begrudge it, not in earnest. She wants answers, too, wants the certainty that they aren't making a terrible mistake, that it won't unravel because of what he is; he wants answers because he wants her, that means something, more than how his choice of words prick at her pride. Look at this way, she tells herself, you've seduced someone past their own nature, that's probably sort of impressive, actually. Well done, you, Gwenaëlle.

(She doesn't want to think about him going back.)

"But in the meantime," after another long pause, gathering her composure and her ability to answer him without being snippy about it, "if we're - sort of - engaged..."

Is kissing over now, or.

He sighs, and leans forward, pulling her just that bit closer. He has many faults; he can be roused to jealousy fairly easily, he tends, tended, to split his life with a line into state and personal business, and starve the personal side, and he his fiercely proud.

(Thranduil has not forgotten the stag in the Fade.)

He presses his lips to her forehead; breathes in the smell of her like he is so weak as to forget it. As if he ever forgot it, or stopped knowing it for a moment. He cannot allow himself to dwell on this, it does not deserve to consume him. He will find his answers, and return to his work.

"It is not as though I can un-kiss you, my lady." He brushes her hair over her shoulder, quietly fond. "I- would ask that we stop for the day. Please."

He draws her into his arms and she leans there, turning her face and exhaling a sigh against his shoulder.

"What about tomorrow," slightly muffled.

"Ask me tomorrow," he replies. He knows what his answer will be. The prospect of refusing her if they touch too often, if she combs his hair again, if she strokes his cheek or kisses his neck or does any of the hundred other things he's (infuriatingly) sure she'll find, well.

Winter is coming, and that means heavier robes. She doesn't need any encouragement to be a temptation.

A little more insouciant--

"I will."

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