faderift | when they tell you you are made of stars, tell them you know.

It takes too damned long is how long it takes—oh, it could have been longer, but it could have been a single day and she'd still have greeted him the same way, opening the door with a frown and then continuing to frown up at him for longer than he would probably like for her to do when they're being 'discreet' and 'sensible' and 'waiting for a closed door between them and the rest of the Gallows'. The hall is deserted now, who knows who might be around a corner—

He isn't who she's angry at, he's just who's in front of her right now. Gwenaëlle opens the door wider (Hardie is sleeping on the end of the bed behind her, and Leviathan sleeping on top of him as is becoming their usual wont) and exhales very deeply.

“Tell me what happened.”

He does not obey immediately. Thranduil looks at her instead, takes in the whole of her— safe, uninjured— and holds it, uses it to wipe away the last of his fears.

He owes Coupe a debt.

No talking, just an arm about her waist as he steps forward, glad the door was open so wide and stepping beyond the frame and into the room proper, his hand over hers on the knob and tugging it closed.

“I returned Guilfoyle to your father, unharmed,” achey, perhaps, but it was not Thranduil’s fault if he was old, “—and your father and I had a conversation. An accord was reached.”

The spirit of which he will hold to, absolutely, if not the terms. He will be sending a letter to Romain, soon.

“I am very sorry, Gwenaëlle, for leaving you.” And now, the apology, holding her hand in both of his, not risking an embrace until he is assured of her temperament, as much as he wants to feel the solidity of her in his arms. She will not be truly safe until he makes everything right, but that may well take years, time he finds himself loathing.

Gwenaëlle had known what had happened the moment she'd looked up to the familiar crags of Guilfoyle's face, even if processing it in the moment had been difficult, whatever sedative he'd mixed with the magebane dragging sluggishly through her system—he does nothing without the say-so of her father. If he were there, knives out and flames licking the walls, it had been at Emeric's behest. She thinks she should feel something more at Thranduil's confirmation, but it has weighed on her mind since that moment and it's hard to muster more, now.

She frowns at nothing, and pushes his hands out of her way to lean against him, dissatisfied with this account of things but not sure, precisely, what answer would have been better.

(She never had any real expectation of his actually killing her father.)

“What accord was this,” she says, question in the words if not her still-flat tone, hands settling flat against his back and her eyes closing. She should acknowledge his apology, but might suppose her position does it for her.

“That if you wish to leave me, I will let you go without fuss.” Which he would do anyway— he is no monster, to keep her captive, to blackmail her into staying. “Without blame, without any stain of having been attached to an elf.”

He thinks the rifter charge the lesser of the two. Given her permission to hold her, he does, holds her tight, arms around her middle and shoulder, murmuring against the top of her head.

“I saw an old man, Gwenaëlle. Old and tired.” I saw shades of Thingol in him and I did not know what to do with those feelings. “He has a better grasp of the dangers you would face should a slip be made. I cannot yet protect you. If Celene cannot protect Briala...”

(How long has the ‘oldest’ rifter been here?)

He lifts his head. His hair still has the stink of smoke to it. He has not had time to bathe.

“He was not what I thought he would be,” Thranduil admits.

It all would have been nothing if he'd been human, she's sure; the Leblancs had adopted a damn rifter, even if he didn't last long enough for it to rightly matter. She touches the edge of Thranduil's jaw, recalls how vaguely unsettling she'd found his glamour in Nevarra, and tries not to think so much of the sad old man in Halamshiral.

"I'm never going to leave you," she says, the calmness of it deceptive over turbulent waters, "so that's fine."

That he tried to have him killed, less.

"Just my luck to have got away with so much under his nose only for him to start paying attention when I leave his house, that's all. It isn't any more his business than any other part of my life. I don't care what he is. What he is shouldn't be 'in my affairs'."

He lets her shoulders go so that he can touch her fingers where they brush his face. “No,” said steadily, with absolute confidence. “You are not. I would not have bound myself to you with such unbreakable ties if I thought you flighty. It was an easy promise.”

He considers Guinevere’s portrait, the vulnerability of it, and tries to push it from his mind. He is no Beren, Gwenaëlle hardly Luthien, but it nags at him. He closes his eyes, focuses just on her, her hand, her body against his.

“I forgive him his foolishness. Less so the chance that you could have been injured.” But Emeric was hurting himself for that mistake. And then there was the odd gossip he had picked up—

“May I beg a boon of you, Gwenaëlle?”

The sound she makes on the subject of her father's foolishness doesn't sound much like she shares her husband's forgiving nature—

which she had not previously imagined him to have, if she's honest

—but proof if proof were needed of that assured devotion in what she says instead of commenting on it: “Of course you can,” without what anyone else should expect, wherein she immediately demands terms and conditions before writing any blank cheques of agreement. She more or less trusts that this isn't going to be anything she doesn't want to grant, and probably marriage is about compromise, and probably if it is something she doesn't like, he can be persuaded to compromise.

Or she might. A bit.

It comes, it goes, it blares alarmingly and suddenly like Myrobalan’s locator gylphs every few centuries or so, and then Thranduil is back to not giving a damn, frankly, as assuaged of his guilt as any good Andrastean post-confession until the timer goes ding again.

(That she agrees to listen, at least, is a comfort to him, a warmth in his heart, a coal lit with ‘she trusts you’ and ‘she loves you’.)

“A letter, to your father, letting him know that we spoke, and that you understand the value of discretion.” He tucks her hair behind her ear, thumb running over the curve of her ear. “I will not have our love paint a target on your back, though I doubt anyone other than your father and those friends who you have told know.”

Whom he really ought to be informed of, and keep it in mind. He has been awfully stingy, on his own end, in telling—perhaps it is time to relight the rumors about himself and Cassandra.

The immediate downward pull of her mouth can come as no surprise. It isn't as if the antipathy she has toward him is a secret; Thranduil, perhaps, would have been less surprised by the man he found in Orlais if it had been. Less immediate is a spoken objection, because it's hard to find a rational reason for why she absolutely shouldn't do that that isn't because he's a twat and why should she—

“It'll be a short letter,” is what she says, finally, darkly.

Not the sort Emeric will enjoy receiving.

“Later,” he says, and tucks away his thoughts about Romain for the moment, somewhat aware of how much luck he can push, and releasing her so they can speak face-to-face. “I am in need of a bath, and a change of clothes, but once I am presentable, I would have my reunion.”

He picks at his cuffs, glances to the (barred) window, at the snow on the ground. “Where is Yva?”

Here are the things he will need to start taking into account.

“Where she's been,” is the shrugged answer—the room Gwenaëlle is officially listed as residing in, within the former Templar tower. Not this particular room, her explanation offered— “Galadriel doesn't keep a consistent room, and I don't care for the neighbours where Yva is. But I left the birds with her.”

There's a reason they have their own room in the house, and it's mainly that anywhere people might be talking, well. After a time, they do start to do her sodding head in.

She rises up on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth, briefly, wishing for a moment that they were in the house or his bedroom weren't in presumably something of a state, and his bath could be their bath and reunion both.

(Yva's absence presumably accounts for why Gwenaëlle's hair is loose and her waist feels soft, absent of whalebone and tight-lacing. The velvet dress that had been a little much in Nevarra is quite ideal, now.)

“… where is Yva?” being the rational follow-up to that particularly leading bit of information.

He’s glad she’s with Galadriel—no one he trusts more to keep her safe and back that keeping up with the ability to do so, fury and ten millennia of experience. His hand lingers on her hip with that kiss, a little shift in the way he’s standing. He orbits her, here in private, a devotion unmistakable as anything other than love. The only thing that would make him leave her side in this early blush of marriage would be a threat to her life—which there had been, and he was still smarting about it, but he was back now.

“Are you fond of her?” he asks, instead. “Galadriel,” he clarifies, curling a strand of her hair about his fingers.

With a dismissive little wave on the subject of Yva—they can circle back to that, probably, but it doesn't seem that urgent. A shared room in the former Templar tower, or what is listed as one, anyway, while Gwenaëlle fails to share it with her beyond as somewhere to keep her belongings. She comes and goes from it often enough not to seem particularly remarkable, if only to collect her things.

So, his more interesting question, then, and it's with some muted surprise at the direct acknowledgment of her own answer: “I am, actually,” a little thoughtful. “We didn't speak much, before. I didn't really make much of her, I don't know—I didn't have a particular opinion.”

She hadn't exactly been sympathetic on the subject of her incarceration, having been in fact one of the most strident voices in support of Cassandra Pentaghast's right to do whatever the fuck she wants because she's perfect—it seems impolitic to bring that up right now, in so many words. She and Galadriel have never spoken about it. She'd be honest, she supposes, if they did.

“I didn't imagine getting along with her so well.” A very pleasant surprise.

(This will come back to haunt him, maybe.)

“She is a remarkable elleth,” he says, to her, and never to Galadriel herself. “You are kin to her now, through the son of my father’s brother, which makes you—special.”

He lets her go, look around the room, sees nothing of his own in it. He will go fetch what he needs from the (partial) ruin of his rooms, and clean himself, and make noise (if anyone asks) about sleeping in Galadriel’s rooms until his own can be sorted. Which he will start, tomorrow.

“I want a bath,” he says. “And a change of clothes, and then we will speak more, yes?”

“Have one,” she agrees, because he still smells of smoke quite distinctly and she will be glad to have him back with less of the stink of road and horse and the fire's chaos, “and I'll be here when you come back.”

She lets her hand slide down his arm, fingertips brush, and sits down finally—standing in the middle of the room like lovesick idiots who've forgotten what chairs are. (She missed him terribly, which is stupid because he's been gone longer, before, but with everything...)

Then— “This is my family, you know. You, and Galadriel, and...here. Whatever we make of it.”

Nevermind Halamshiral; what's most precious to her is within her grasp. Morrigan and Kieran as well—the strange life she's assembled out of parts.

“We will build something good,” he promises. “Something that will last.”

He has his people, the group he has built to help him feel purposeful, without his hive of elves to protect and lead and live with. And his purpose, his drive, his wants for the future. Soon, he thinks, he will give her the full picture of it, lay it out plainly, balance being complicit with being informed.

He takes his leave, then, goes to explore his room and see what was lost (not lost: his chest, his wardrobe, his notes. lost: a rug, the curtains, his table and chairs, Coupe’s patience) and wash the filth and lingering thoughts. It works as well as a bath can solve anything, and when he returns to her (through the halls like a shadow) his mood is much improved.

No knocking, this time, only slipping inside, the door hinges well oiled, the door closing softly.

When he returns, she has a comb and every expectation of using it—small animals nudged off the bed and down onto a fur that Hardie's own has shed all over, Gwenaëlle settled there, the brazier tended to keep warmth in the room. She has a shawl, but it seems less necessary with the prospect of large, warm husband to keep her company. His company, particularly, improves the prospects for the evening.

“Come and talk to me,” she invites, quiet, gesturing him down with the comb.

Sometimes, she surprises him. When Gwenaëlle yields, he has the context for it now, mostly because he is familiar with the unyielding. So this is a gift—and better still, always best, when she remembers. She is very observant, but she does not always choose to recall.

He agrees by coming over to her, sitting next to Hardie and the nug, his shoulder and head at the right height for her to touch if she sits on the bed and he keeps his back to it, which he does. He also picks up his nug, holding Leviathan on his knees, crooning softly at him until he settles back into sleep, and then stroking his nose and ears. Hardie earns himself an approving look. He was a good choice for a protector.

“What did you and Galadriel speak of?” He is clean, now, and softer for it, hair damp and scented, clothes changed and the bandage around his palm white linen, rather than off-white and sweaty. The Quendi spare little thought for blood poisoning beyond the most dire cases, but being in Thedas has given him an appreciation for that gift.

Once he's settled, she settles too; cross-legged behind him, the slight press of her knees against his shoulders, her hands there for a moment before she lifts his hair free of them both and draws the comb through it. Placidly, she says, “We've decided to run away together, just the two of us.”

A perfectly reasonable thing for the two of them to have decided to do, under the circumstances.

“Keep you on your toes,” she adds, “not that you need the further height.”

Nevermind that he knows perfectly well, now, she objects to his having any less of it.

He exhales, face relaxing into utter bliss, leaning his head back against her crossed legs (it’s not an unfamiliar expression) and deciding that this is paradise.

“I wish you the joy of her,” he murmurs, really, she could tell him anything right now and he might hum happily and agree. “What else? Have you been eating? Has she? I would worry that she might forget. It is harder for her, to remember to do all the little mortal things we are condemned too here.”

Perhaps they might take care of one another—or perhaps they both might enable the other’s forgetting.

If she'd ever owned a cat, she might be inclined to think that this is very like; as it is, she bends down to press a kiss to his temple and then neatly and without feeling particularly as if she needs to give him any warning (or say in the matter) adjusts the way he's leaning to give her freer reign over his hair, sectioning it in her lap and combing minor, damp-related tangles out of it from the bottom up.

“I've married an anxious geriatric,” she sighs to no one in particular, unfairly maligning his character and blithely ignoring all the precedent she's set to make his persistence on this topic, in fact, completely reasonable. “I promise we're both in perfect health and we slept, as well, so I can forestall your next question.”

(Much as with Wren, though, she'd miss it if he stopped asking.)

Her fingers are deft, weaving his hair into neat braids behind him; “What about you? You rode all the way to Halamshiral apropos of,” fire, “well, unexpectedly.” A beat. “Was Guilfoyle all right?”

He's very old. She worries, a little.

He is moved, and does not complain—she is touching him, so she may do what she likes, sighing prettily and luxuriating. No one has done this for him in a very long time. She is starting to get a grasp of it, to do it as an elf might, and it is like her dress—she brings his home back to him.

“You have,” he agrees. “But it is part of my duty, now, and yours to fuss over me. Good, good,” he says, soothed before he can fret. And really—it would be hard to fret, while he is being combed and brushed.

“I have ridden longer and further on less rest. I would have preferred aras-nin but to bring him would have meant glamouring us both. Guilfoyle is fine. A warm bath and a week of rest will soothe his ills.” Or so he assumes. He didn’t inquire. “I attempted to make him—comfortable. He would not speak, but neither did he attempt anything as we rode, so I did my best.”

Felix Guilfoyle is not, she reflects, much of a conversational man at the best of times. By no estimation was this anything bearing slight resemblance to the best of times, so she can't be particularly surprised; she takes that answer and lets it be enough, conscious of what it is to be fussing over the man who had been in their bedchamber lighting fires. Who'd left Thranduil wounded, too, if only a little—

He is here, and safe. All the most important things are. It's enough.

“He'll work for us, one day, if he outlives my lord.”

It's a strange thought, under the circumstances, but who's to say if he will or won't—Guilfoyle older, Emeric reckless. She exhales, soothed a little by the repetitive motion of binding his hair into neat braids. “If a hundred other things.” There's a good deal they might not inherit, but she suspects his loyalty would trump much if she were the last one standing.

With no offense to Guilfoyle, he’s faced worse. The wound is nearly healed, he will consult with the Medicine Seller to make sure it is clean, and it will fade to pure, unblemished skin within a month. Such is the way of things—he can afford to be generous when there was no cost beyond mortal goods.

“’Work’ is a relative term, and it will be for you,” Thranduil says, and does not open his eyes. “He is old, and ought to be given something dignified but not taxing. From the view of this geriatric.” He feels her fingers braiding, and imagines the patterns. Perhaps she would like to know the language of them, the way the Silvans and sometimes the Sindar used them to say things. He would like a marriage braid in her hair—

“Your father shields you,” he says. “More than you realize. More than I knew. I would rather he be alive, and you a lady only, and not a—Comtesse? Is that the word?”

Us, she repeats silently to herself, obstinate, but the rest of it is not to be disputed; it aggravates her to see him expected to keep up a pace he set many years before. The work he does managing their estates is valuable and more than enough—if someone needs killing, surely he knows of readier hands than his own he might trust the job in.

Also, she hopes not to need to have anyone killed. (Hopes, but does not expect.)

“Comtesse,” she confirms. Then, a little reluctantly— “I know he does.”

If she's honest, she knows enough to credit him as the reason she's lasted so long in a court like the empire's; he is an able player of the game, all the better for having Guilfoyle at his elbow to steady him at the right moments, to fill in the gaps where his old wounds fail him. He has worked hard and steadily and for her and it is infuriating for that reason, because she would have it be simple and it isn't. Because she would have him let her be, and he won't, and her life might not be the better if he did.

“What am I supposed to do, Thranduil? Meekly follow him about until he's dead and I don't know what to do with the space he made for me to live in?”

when they tell you you are made of stars, tell them you know.

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