[ closed ] non, rien de rien

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Thranduil, Lady Vauquelin 
WHAT: A long overdue conversation.
WHEN: Late Justinian
WHERE: chez Vauquelin
NOTES: none

The staff know how he likes his food. He thought at first that they would perhaps waver, given his foreignness, the shard in his hand, but they spare him no regard. Which he may well prefer—let him be as a ghost to them, a statue, maneuvered around and addressed only when necessary. They are all well suited to living around one another like planets in orbit, forever circling, never touching.

He hesitates to make requests of the elven staff, does not wish to lord over them. And yet, with the Men—he is not inclined either to cause trouble in Romain’s house. This is not where he will fight his battles.

So, lunch— brought out for him was a plate of greens and cheeses, a small cold sampling of what could be rabbit or nug, some dark bread. Nothing he needed utensils for, all suited for tearing up into small pieces and eating. He uses his left, frees his write to flip through the pages of a tome on Sundermount’s history. Thranduil looks up at the sound of footsteps, all the staff being trained out of the habit—and Kieran far too small to sound like this.

The food, she’ll note, is far away from the book, far away from all the books in her library.

”Gwenaëlle,” he greets, uncrossing his legs. His hand stays poised on his place in the text, one fingertip on his next word.
 

Comments

[rowancrowned]

"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.

[elegiaque]

A little more insouciant--

"I will."