( the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire )

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, Thranduil, Wren Coupe, & division heads and anyone in their quarters or offices.
WHAT: A quiet night in goes awry.
WHEN: Forward-dated slightly to the 6th.
WHERE: The Gallows, main tower. Also, Halamshiral.
NOTES: Violence, drugging, attempted assassination. Also, the division head quarters are slightly on fire. Toss any queries in here!

CLOSED

In less than a week, the Vauquelin household is shut up for the remainder of the winter; savvy enough not to want to have to instruct an entirely new staff on her particular idiosyncrasies, Gwenaëlle sends most of her servants home with generous stipends to cover the lost work and the expectation of seeing them all again in the spring. Kieran decamps for Sundermount and his mother, and with her small menagerie (birds, hound, horse, Thranduil's fucking pony, the elk) she retreats to the Gallows and quietly takes up residence in a fifth floor room of the Templar tower.

Or, at least, is seen to have done that. Many of her belongings are there, certainly, and her lady's maid occupies the second bed. Were anyone to glance in, they would have every reason to assume that they have merely caught her out - indeed, when Felix Guilfoyle is discreetly dosing the wine that will be taken up to the research division head, it's where he expects her to be for the evening. An oversight, one of several, that he will live to regret—

but he is not as young as he once was.

It's only late into the night, having set the fire and preparing the final touches, that he discovers his mistake in the sight of Gwenaëlle's slight form sleeping peacefully beneath the weight of Thranduil's arm over her waist, their sleep-murmurs echoed dozily by a pair of peculiar birds in a cage in the corner.

OPEN TO PEOPLE IN THE DIVISION HEAD QUARTERS & OFFICES

It's a slow start - increasing warmth, the faint smell of burning and then the stronger smell of smoke -

but there is definitely a fire spreading from the division head quarters.

Comments

[elegiaque]

“I know no such thing,” Emeric returns, incredulous, tossing aside the glass as carelessly as he'd done the first. “You will ruin her life. We have nothing to discuss—there are no concessions that you could make to me that render it acceptable for you to destroy my only child. I swore a promise to her mother. I want that promise honored.”

[rowancrowned]

He, too, finishes off the last of his drink, and sets the glass on the nearest table.

“It would aid me if I knew what the promise was,” he says. Explaining elven biology is pointless. He is pointless. Gwenaëlle's father cares only for his daughter, which is admirable. And the two of them—the stubbornness is so silly.

(That he himself can be just as bullheaded is ignored.)

So pleas to her happiness, her safety, her love: these he can and must do. The discord between Gwenaëlle and her father should not stand. It injures both of them.

This is how much he loves her.

“Please, Comte. It does not help her if we are at odds. I will beg if I must,” and he will. He thinks for a moment of Beren—he does not bother to compare himself, or her to Luthien—and all the ill it caused.

[elegiaque]

“I swore to Guenievre all we'd done would be worth it,” and it's quieter, half to himself. “All she gave up. All we did for her to give her everything she deserves. I told her I'd protect her children and two of them died at that woman's hands,”

he does not name Celene, not even in his own home, not in Halamshiral. Not even when Celene's grip on power seems so weak. His show of support for Briala (such as it was, attending the ball, flirting with her as if she's any other noblewoman he might encounter) had been support of Briala; it's unfortunate that it lends support to Celene, as well.

“and I will not see Gwenaëlle undone by her own stubbornness. Her future's not a thing I'm prepared to barter away.”

[rowancrowned]

“What do you want for her?” he asks. All the protections of wealth, which he’s given, the insulations of nobility. Gwenaëlle, who has never been cold or hungry, but still so, so afraid and angry and sad.

He remembers her poetry. All the ones who came before who were not gentle. The things she has told him about Emeric. All the protestations he will not utter because they are childish and not convincing, where they would be, to another elf.

“She is—unlikely to be tied down. What do you think she will do, if I was willing to break her heart? Wed another? After what that smith boy did,” Thranduil, quiet distaste and cold about it, “—after so much, she may well be jaded and stubborn. And she has met all the bachelors in Orlais. Would you have her be alone?”

He does not presume to lecture, but he ventures very close in her defense. “What did you imagine she would do if I had died?”

[elegiaque]

It's the wrong tack to take, at least to mark it by Emeric's bitter, tired laugh; “Anne was a fool to think she could be forced into marriage,” he says, dismissing the whole of the conversation as irrelevant, pointless. “She wants none of it and she'll have none of it. None of them would do. She deserves better than to be buried in the countryside with whatever name would have her.”

He might have harbored marital ambitions for her—if she indicated even the slightest hint of interest, he'd tear apart the Veil to give her whatever she willed. A Duke. The throne, if he thought he could get it. The sun plucked out of the sky.

“Much good marriage did Anne or I. I want her safe. I want her the space to find her joy of the world. I want her untouchable, you understand. You will bring her nothing but sorrow and ruin. How many of these rifters still walk Thedas? You can't even promise her tomorrow.”

[rowancrowned]

It is the best knife to drive into his heart. He looks away, displays that weakness for Emeric to see. Does not protest or argue. He will never have Emeric’s approval—he does not want it. An accord, though, that he needn’t fear the knife at his back or a repeat of the events in the Gallows—

He ran off before he could comfort her. He left her in very capable hands, but he left before she was calm, and settled again, and their conversations on the crystal could not be called that. He aches to be near to her again. He blames the magebane for his stupidity.

“It is done,” he says. “It cannot be undone. We are where we are—we may only plan for the future.”

He wants her beyond scandal. He said and did nothing to prevent what Thranduil read in her poems, the normal sort of scandal, that is fine to these Orlesians, but an elf is too much to stomach.

(Galadriel’s plans cannot come to fruition soon enough.)

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle has always prized her father's ignorance above all else—he can't interfere with what he doesn't know. She'd miscalculated how badly the distance between them would worry him, enough to be a good deal more proactive, to stop trusting so much that she could keep little from him—she'd not anticipated his finding out about Thranduil in truth because he never found out about the rest of them, before.

Only Asher, and only because she wanted him to. He still doesn't know about Guilfoyle, either, and like as not never will.

Speaking of Guilfoyle: he forces the door, only to pause:

“My lord.” Without inflection, a query. He looks roughly as well as one might expect him to, but some things are in the bone.

Emeric looks up, smiles brittle and wintry. “Felix. I'm delighted to see you alive.” Quite sincerely. “Leave us.”

“My lord.” No shift of tone, expression—or body from doorway.

“Felix,” he repeats, and Guilfoyle's jaw very briefly clenches. “I will send for you,” he promises. As the other man leaves (weary, aching), he says to Thranduil as if they'd not been interrupted, “Look on Orlais and see what your future holds, then. Look what they do to an elf raised so high. The Empress has her throne, but what power is she wielding from it? The power to be snubbed by her own courtiers? My Gwenaëlle has no throne. If you ruin her life, she will not rebuild it. The only future is one in which this can be undone. She must be able to walk away with nothing of you clinging to her.”

Emeric looks back up at Guenievre—

“I could have married her,” he says, after a moment. “An elf bears a title in her own right. I could have made her a Comtesse, if she'd lived, but what kindness would there have been in doing that? Hold her up for all to see and all I'd fucking do is change the shape of the hands pulling bow-strings. It's small wonder Gwenaëlle's always been alone—what examples must we have set her, that she finally looks to be loved by something that will ruin her.”

[rowancrowned]

He takes it all, silent and watching. He says nothing about Guinevere, about this private picture, these private thoughts that he has intruded on. He does not spare any thought for ‘if only’—he has every confidence in Galadriel, in his ‘machinations’, as she calls them. It is only when—and he will only stand beside her once he is sure they are secure and safe. He is patient.

(But she is mortal.)

“I am not holding her captive,” he says. “She is free to leave me if she finds herself with the inclination, to take another lover.”

It would break something in him, but so many things have splintered over the long years, so many shattering, the deaths he could not stop, but the betrayals have been the worst of them. Elves could be reembodied. A knife in ones back was not so easy to exorcise. But he would not have married Gwenaëlle if he doubted her, if he thought her the sort of Man to hold his heart in her hands after his careful, persistent explanations until she grasped the whole of what marriage to him meant, and then throw it away.

“There will be no further—connections to any Rifter elf.”

[elegiaque]

“I'll hold you to that,” he says, evenly.

He thinks: I will never see her again, and the realisation ages him unkindly, knuckles to his mouth and his weight on his elbow as he looks into the fire and not at his unasked for companion. He knew—

She will not forgive this.

[rowancrowned]

She will appear to have a lover—no reason not to deflect, to obfuscate, he has guarded his glamour well and it will be little trouble to take on the form he wore in Nevarra when he wishes to stay the night, perhaps a bit of extra theatre where he and the other appear in the same room. Difficult, and draining, but not impossible.

“Thank you for the drink,” he murmurs, and stands. “I will see myself out.”

And for that purpose, he uses the face from Nevarra, slightly weathered but still some of himself in it, dressed far more plainly, and leaves Emeric alone with his thoughts.