Seven Thousand Steps

[laurenande]

WHO: Galadriel and You
WHAT: Galadriel is getting bit stir crazy with all this winter and has decided to work in the library when she's not getting pumped. Open Wintermarch post/catch all.
WHEN: Throughout Wintermarch
WHERE: Kirkwall, The Gallows
NOTES: There will be a gunshow.

I Library

The Library at the Gallows was considerably larger than Skyhold's; it is not a feat to be overly proud of, considering the remote nature of the other fortress, but it is worthy of note. She crosses into the room and spares a moment of wonder for the rows of books, the tall shelves and the tables that litter the place, and then sets about her work.

Today she is not cloaked, not as she has been wont during the rest of her time in Kirkwall, and wears a dark brown dress of Orlesian brocade. Her brooch with its shining emerald is pinned at the lowest point of the modest neckline and it glitters as she passes through the shafts of light that the windows provide. She carries a stack of parchment and a small box, all of which she abandons on a table before she moves toward the stacks.

Galadriel spends some time wandering the books, plucking familiar tomes from the heavy laden shelves. None of them are exceptionally rare, nor are they of any real interest--histories, Chantry tomes, books on the places and peoples of Thedas. She stacks them on her table and moves out to locate more. Once she has amassed nearly a dozen, she finally takes her seat and begins her translations anew.

II Training (Stairs)

The stairs of Kirkwall are a remarkable feature, if somewhat depressing by their nature, and Galadriel is drawn to them. For so many thousands of years she has had ready, constant access to stairs and the steep climbs to lofty heights--without the trees of Lorien to demand it of her, she is beginning to grow soft. It is a luxury she cannot abide, not while she rests powerless in this human city, so she has decided to train.

She has not trained, not truly, since the days of dawn and the sudden rigor of her old routines catches her up quickly. Still, she is not a woman of idle resolve and she takes the stairs with speed and determination. It does gall her to be seen, to stand in the open so very plainly and without concealment, but she will tolerate it, if it will return to her some semblance of power.

Galadriel begins ere the sun has risen, in the frigid cold of the early morning, and starts down the steps. Icy and snow-laden, they are a struggle and one that mounts quickly and with great satisfaction. Then, once she has reached the foot of them, she takes them again, and again, and again. Six full trips is her goal so she runs.

Her acquired clothes are similar to what she wore when she first arrived in Thedas, in a winter years ago, and they fit her in the loosest sense of the term. The pants are short, the shirt is long in the body and the shoulder but short in the sleeve and tight across her chest. She looks very odd, with her hair bound back dressed in such a fashion, running up and down stairs, but no one has halted her progress yet and she can spare little thought for appearances.

III Training (Courtyard, yes, on the ice.)

a. Tai chi
It is mid-afternoon by the time she finishes taking the stairs and, to ease her heart back down from the stress of that, she falls into an ancient rhythm. The forms are familiar to her, but they lack something without a weapon in hand. They are worth the effort, even bare handed, and she does them as she was taught. She moves slowly, almost excruciatingly so, and loses both herself and the time to the meditative nature of the activity.

b. Pushups and strength training

After running, Galadriel finds a corner of the courtyard, a place where the sky still hangs above but that is outside the area where ice-skating still occupies the time of those that live in the Gallows. The cold is bracing but she is not hesitant to drop to her hands and toes and push herself up from the ground. She does this with an almost worrying dedication before shifting to her back and curling up over her bent knees.

When her skin is cold enough that it has begun to pink from the bite of ice, she rises and gathers up bundles of the firewood that are kept outside the quartermaster's office. She hoists them over her shoulders and holds them just above them. Her arms strain at the strangeness of the angle, but hold fast as she moves them from one side of the yard to the other and then back again.

Wildcard~!

Anything else. :D

Comments

[dirth]

It's clear that she appreciates his forethought, and Solas is glad for it. It's not truly borne of a desire to impress her, though he's sure anyone would be glad to find something they decided to do welcome and met with thanks, but it was the protection of knowledge and merit. He might not be entirely aware of the content of the books and what is written inside them, but it's still knowledge. It's the sort of thing that he might take into the Fade and his dreams with him, to share with the Spirits of Wisdom and Purpose and Learning. He is glad to bring them something new, just as they do the same for him.

"You are welcome, twice over." The urge to open and read the books had been there, but Solas didn't give into it, not really - he had opened the covers to see if they had belonged to her, as he had imagined they might, but he didn't poke any further. Unable to read the language he had been entirely unaware of the content of it, not able to translate the words despite his knowledge of languages. He had hoped, quietly, to himself, that she might offer him the chance, but he wouldn't push. That might take things too far.

Solas would not take someone's mind from them. That is not his duty, nor his desire.

"Then I am all the happier to return them to you." He smiles, soft and gentle. "I looked at the first page, to make sure I knew who they should be given to, but no further than that. I didn't recognise the wording well enough to make the attempt."

[laurenande]

She looks back to find him smiling and her expression mirrors his. He has done her a considerable kindness, one with no price levvied upon it, and that has endeared him to her greatly. She gestures to the table alongside them with one hand.

"Would you care to join me?" The offer is extended without reservation, as is the next: "If you wish to learn the tengwar or the language I would happily teach you.

"I have offered this to all elves I have met in these lands; it is called elvish, collectively, so it seemed only right."

Few had taken her up on the offer, surprisingly, but those who had were given her full attention and care. These books were not for them, they already knew their world's history, but they would serve well enough as practice.

[dirth]

It doesn't take much effort for him to move forward and make himself comfortable, sitting near her with a nod of her head. It's a welcome chance to learn more about her, especially since he recognises the power of her and the strength in her - and, of course, she has an connection with Thranduil. It seems foolish to ignore the merit of that.

"I would be glad to." The offer surprises him, though, and he cannot deny he is curious. Often, this place does not feel real, as though it's some kind of illusion or a scrape of a world that he had once known, but there is an opportunity to learn here and he cannot ignore his curiosity.

"If you have the time to teach then I would be glad to learn. It might be interesting to compare it to the native tongue of the People."

Not the scraps of elven that the Dalish cling to; the flowing, easy language that he knows, that's second nature to him, the delicate shifts of word that the people of this Thedas had long since forgotten or abandoned. That is what he might compare it to, and he might well gift her an education in return.

"Is there only one version of the language where you are from?"

[laurenande]

He joins her, his curiosity and surprise evident in his smile and Galadriel does not hesitate to answer him. She turns, just briefly, to pluck her papers and her quill from across the table. A page is pulled from the notes he has returned, but the text across it is small and layered many times over.

"There are many, more even than I can claim to know, but I speak most," she explains and carefully begins scribing the basic letters of the Tengwar for him. The whole of it is curls and stems and the sum of them resembles nothing so much as branches or perhaps musical notes.

"The eldest that I would teach is called Quenya and, ages ago, it was written in letter that were not so simple as these. Fortunately, the tengwar replaced the sarati and reading one is as simple as any other language."

She passes him both the chart and the layered notes that he had returned. Upon close inspection the letters on the layered notes are compared against those of Thedas. Trade, Orlesian, some Dwarvish, and partial Qunlat are all interspersed between the rows of tengwar and sarati. The first pages she had made were a base for translation, for all her cousins and those who might join her in these lands.

"Sindarin is more common, but it is a mutation. A combination of Quenya and Sylvan and knowing the former is more than a bridge." She settles her hands on the table and smiles at him, happy for the conversation. "I would be glad to teach anything you like. I find myself with little purpose of late and this would be a balm."

[dirth]

Solas has always been curious, almost endlessly so, and that is why he reads; his research might be focussed upon the Fade, the Veil and the Rifts but that does not mean he has no time for other areas or other studies. There had not been much opportunity before, with his isolation in Skyhold, but there is a chance now and he welcomes it.

"Then I have found myself a good teacher." He leans forward to watch as she writes, looking at the shape of the letters and the care in which she writes them. It's not as similar to his native tongue as he had imagined it might be, but that doesn't surprise him as much as it could have.

These people were pulled from Rifts, brought here by something still unknown to him, and he has some qualms about the nature of their existence and what it means for Thedas. He'll never voice it, certainly, but seeing their language, something grand and wonderful that could not be simply imagined, gives him pause for thought.

At least the trade and Orlesian is familiar, and while he doesn't speak much in the way of either Dwarvish or Qunlat he can recognise the lettering. He wonders if he could do the same for elven, offer a true translation of her letters into the tongue of the People, but he doesn't quite have the heart to make any kind of offer. He is still sore and embittered by the nature of elves today, and he can't find the words to deal with it.

Instead, he focusses on her, on the education he is being given.

"The tengwar is the easiest, if not the most common?" Solas turns to look at her again, thoughtful and curious. It might be beneficial to learn a language that few here speak, especially with his growing closeness to both Thranduil and Galadriel herself. "I would be glad to learn whichever would be most suitable."

[laurenande]

"The tengwar are simply letters, sounds to be transcribed, applied easily to any tongue," she explains and takes the sheet she had been working on when he approached her first. He cannot possibly have the aptitude to simply read them, not without some time to study, so she traces the shapes with a finger and reads off the first of the trade she has transcribed. The Quenya beneath it goes unspoken.

"There was a time when Kirkwall was believed to be the very edge of the world," she reads. The open book on the table a red bound history of this city. It is...educational if not expressly pleasant to read. "It was Emerius then, named after its founder Magister Emerius Krayvan, and it was but one outpost on the very fringe of the Tevinter Imperium."

Her finger reaches the end of the line of fine letters, shorter than the corresponding language in the book but far longer than the Quenya beneath it.

"The tengwar will be of use regardless, but there are very few who know them in these lands. Apart from myself and my kin, few write with them inherently, so there will be little to read. If you wish to learn the most suitable language, I think Sindarin would serve you best. My kin in these lands are split, somewhat, between the old and new languages, but Thranduil prefers Sindarin, as does my Warden, and for all its beauty Quenya is largely a lost tongue. It is a relic, as I am."

She takes a new sheet from the stack of parchment across the table and begins writing anew. The tengwar change precious little between languages but, despite Thranduil's ill ease with leaving written keys to the languages of the Eldar around Thedas, Galadriel transcribes a series of basic phrases into the trade letters of these lands.

[dirth]

"Some languages are easier to learn than others. I am glad to hear that this may not be a trial." He has a genuine interest in it, after all, and while he has no reason to balk from a challenge nor turn away from it there's no denying that the sooner he learns the sooner he can begin to use it regularly. There will be time, he supposes, between his readings of books and notes to learn another set of letters and words, and no one can fault him for his curiosity.

It would make a rather splendid code, should the need arise. He doesn't imagine there are a great many people in Thedas who have been taught so kindly by the lady Galadriel, nor her peers and relations.

His eyes follow her fingers and Solas nods, letting himself begin to try and match lettering to pronunciation, to link the two together. It is something of an awkward cousin to elvhen, he thinks, to the language of his people, and he respects the connection even as he turns from it; it won't do him any good to make idle comparisons of the two. The fact that Galadriel confirms his suspicious of the popularity of tengwar is enough for him, for now.

"I will learn both, if I am able, but Sindarin first if you think it most appropriate." The more languages he learns the more codes he can employ, a mixture of the two with scattering of elven where necessary. It seems prudent to begin to maek those plans, considering the uncertainty of his future, and Solas nods his head as his eyes are drawn back to her face. Sometimes it hurts to look at her, to see the echoes of a time long gone reflected in her eyes, but he works beyond it and focusses on the present, as difficult as that might be.

"Am I to have work to do at home?" He questions her gently, more of a tease than anything else. "Would you have me learn these words before we meet again?"

[laurenande]

A short laugh leaves her as he asks about work done at home. She passes him the list of phrases, at first thinking little of it, but he is right. She looks at the parchment in hand and considers. If she was inclined to, she could request that he learn the phrases without her, or that he learn the letters she had handed him...but she is not inclined. The idea of teaching someone their letters and their greetings is delightfully nostalgic to her.

So many of her memories of the past are terrible; indulging in this sort of nostalgia is something she cannot possibly resist.

"If you wish," she replies easily. "I am certain you could learn them all without my aid, just as I expect you could learn the letters with less than what I have given you. However, I am in no rush to send you off."

She leans back in her chair and settles her hands in her lap. The library is quiet, as it is wont to be, and the peaceful air about them makes her feel utterly at ease.

"Len suilon. Man i eneth lîn?"

Her own accent is terribly Noldorin, echoing Quenya far more severely than Sylvan, but she makes no move to temper it. Those who walk in Thedas are more than capable of understanding her lilting, he will be at no disadvantage for learning from her.

[dirth]

It's not as if Solas is particularly against work being down outside the library - his own room is littered with notes and parchments of his own studies, carefully placed even if it seems as though they're entirely unorganised. He leaves in the library what he cannot risk taking back - the books that are rare, or commonly sought after - and focusses instead on what he can do when he is alone, when there is no one to peek over his shoulder or question him on his theories or exploits.

It has been some time since he learned a language - what little of Qunlat and Dwarven he had learned, once, has not been as useful as he had hoped, and will take some study to relearn it.

"Then we shall study as best we can with what time we have together." Solas appreciates the desire to have a student present, at least; he, too, wishes to pass on knowledge. It's simply the case that what he has to say has been rejected by nearly everyone that he had dared to come close to, be it in dreams or in the physical world. He would be more offended if he had not come to expect so little from the Dalish.

At least this is a start, and Solas can look down at the list of phrases he has been given to translate what is being said. A question, then, and a greeting, and his lips twitch a little as he begins to reply, testing out the phrasing of the words. It's not quite the same as elvhen, but it is not entirely dissimilar.

"Len suilon. I eneth nîn Solas." His eyes flick to her, to test to see if he had spoken correctly.

[laurenande]

"Mae l'ovannen," she congratulates in Sindarin and moves to the next phrase. "Ci maer?"

His accent is sufficient; as predicted, it is a copy of her own...but a very good one. There is some strangeness in how he speaks the letters, the lilt of the 'suilon' curves in an odd way, and the sharpness of 'nîn' is tempered harshly. They are noteworthy shifts but not uncommon. The languages he speaks must lack such sounds, or at least sounds in these combinations.

"I am called Galadriel," she says and writes on the page before her. "Galad," she says and switches to the trade tongue, "means 'light', and iel is feminine. The literal translation is Lady of Light."

If he was clever, and he was, he might notice that her introduction was not the one that he had used. 'Am called' and 'my name is' were two very different phrases, though both were on the sheet before him. Her own name is a translation of a name gifted to her; it is her real name, for all intents and purposes, but it is not the name she was given at birth, nor those granted in her early years.

"To write your name, it would look like this," she explains and begins the careful curve of the tengwar. Solas is a name that is not out of place in these letters. It both begins and ends in out-facing swirls around a simple tree. It is almost a monogram, in and of itself, and there is something delightful in that. The word is a complex one in Quenya but she resolves to explain it to him eventually. It is not unlike a palindrome, an adorable curiosity.

[dirth]

His accent is a reflection of hers, surely, but it harks back to a time where the elven language of modern Thedas was slightly different, lilted in a way that time and centuries had forgotten. Some scraps of the lexicon remained, but he knows he speaks it in a way that highlights his age and his wisdom, that brings attention to the natural flow of the language - something that separates him all the more from the Dalish, that makes him something more than he is appearing to be. It's good, he thinks, that few have picked up on it.

Another glance at his sheet reveals what she is saying, and what he ought to say in response. It's not the same as learning Qunlat or something akin to it; it's like wearing clothes that don't quite fit, but the shape and style of them are so familiar that you don't have the heart to shrug them off or destroy them. Homesick, but for something that doesn't exist.

"Ci maer." He watches as she writes, watching the shape of the letters under her hand, and he fights the urge to smile. 'Lady of Light' is a fitting title, he thinks to himself, thinking of the myths of his dear friend, protector of the sun and creator of the moon, a light of Light in her own right. It hurts him, somewhere deep in his soul, and he has to force himself to focus on the teaching before him.

There's something about her phrasing that makes Solas pause, though. My name is, but I am called... It almost makes him smile. It's something he can recognise in himself, something that he can never voice aloud - to know your own name, but to be called something different, as though the name you are given belongs to the ideals pinned to your mantle, the title given to you by others... He thinks he can appreciate that.

"I will have to learn this well," he says, gently. He moves quickly to copy her motions - and his mimicry isn't an imperfect copy, but there is some practice to be done. The shape of the curves and the difference between his own tongue and hers means that he will have to work to make it seem easy, familiar, practiced. "Perhaps I should sign some letters to Thranduil in this way, to see how he judges my penmanship."