(no subject)

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Thranduil + closed prompts for Galadriel, Atticus, Ellana, Gwenaëlle, Myrobalan, + open!
WHAT: Thranduil's phase one afflictions are noticed by several and enable the behavior of others.
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Hit me up for a starter on Plurk (pr0ph3t) or make your own!

Comments

[elegiaque]

It's a persuasive argument, but she isn't convinced; she's grown used to his ways, the warmth and solidity of his steady presence at her back. He sleeps like the dead most nights, unmoved til morning, and it isn't just him behaving oddly, lately. It's hard not to look at him with lingering worry, though at this nearness she doesn't look at him at all, lashes lowered, a sigh breathed out against his mouth.

“Normally,” she says, ruefully arch, “I'd be flattered that your excuse is just my obvious irresistibility.”

And it isn't as if she isn't, now, or as if she hasn't enjoyed the attention—isn't enjoying it right now, common sense warring with the temptation to just give in and worry later—but one of them has to be clear-headed.

It's just that it's usually him. She's not got quite so much practise as he does.

[rowancrowned]

“You are irresistible,” he counters, the hand moving to the back of her neck. “Has no one told you so?”

He is warm. He changed into his sleeping clothes and has managed to keep them mostly on, and then refastened after, during all afters, but she is right in thinking him warmer than before. Or perhaps the fire is just built better, or the frost receding. A portion of one, a dash of another, she is still overreacting.

“Gwenaëlle,” he says. “We will just lay in bed, if you are worried. For the rest of the time we have. No lovemaking. You will lay here with me, and sleep more if you like it, and you will stop worrying.”

[elegiaque]

The tranquil, she decides. Lyov, isn't it? She'll speak with him, later; it will ease her mind, and she can relent now. If she's wrong, she's wrong, and if she isn't—which she's sure she isn't—someone will do something about it. Hopefully. With any luck. He is so bloody large, though, what are they going to do if he decides to be as uncooperative with healers as with wife?

“I wish you'd sleep, too,” she says, finally, her thumb against his cheekbone for a moment before she sinks down against him, into his arms. Her own nightgown is...somewhere...discarded earlier in the night, no subsequent barriers to his hands later—their sweat mingled on her skin, tacky. She'll have to sleep, else she's going to doze off when she bathes later and drown.

“Please. Try.”