the daughters of kings run feral through the forest ( closed )

[elegiaque]

WHO: Thranduil & Gwenaëlle.
WHAT: Everything's fine, probably, nothing really happened while he was gone.
WHEN: Shortly after Thranduil returns from various missions.
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: Just that gif of walking into fire with pizza.

Thranduil's quarters are not entirely as he left them.

For one thing, they don't appear to be just his any longer: in addition to herself and her effects, Gwenaëlle has brought with her from Hightown the sofa that Hardie sleeps on, set against the wall; there's a full length mirror where there wasn't before, and a few pieces of storage furniture that weren't either, entirely recognisable in origin. Fastidiously neat as she is, there's not a thing out of place, just...more things, though she's spared him the birds.

(They live in Casimir's office, now, where it's quiet enough they won't bother anyone excessively.)

More things, and: Gwenaëlle, occupying his side of the bed, sat up with her reading glasses perched on her nose and a writing tray in her lap, lamp burning beside her and Leviathan optimistically circling the end of the bed like she might change her mind about who's sleeping where this evening. (She will not, and sooner or later, Hardie will be wearing a nug hat.) She's frowning when the door opens, Yva having been dismissed earlier and not expecting anyone else to be opening that door, and,

“I can explain.”

And who says marriage kills the romance.

Comments

[rowancrowned]

“Do you have any other family of which I ought to be made aware?”

Not chiding, not really, but they’ve banded themselves together and something like that is important. Granted, she’s all out of father’s brothers and mother’s siblings to come out of the woodwork. All that is left are Emeric Vauquelin and his wild oats, as they are—what a difficult man, but how easy it is to draw lines between him and his daughter’s actions.

“Have you informed your grandfather?” The Duke is a far cleverer player of the Game. Thranduil suspects it will be a good diversion (even as Romain is wholly aware of it) for him to hunt something down that is hurting his granddaughter and is not her Imperial Majesty.

He watches her set her hand against his own and resists the urge to curl his fingers into the spaces between hers. How invigorated he is by even the simplest touches of hers—what a wonder. This is not the path he would have ever seen his life taking.

[elegiaque]

“It remains to be seen if the Duke,” a term of address that almost seems more a reminder to herself than to him—that she must not presume on a relationship based upon a lie now revealed, that he is a clever player of the Game and that she should expect him to play it, “is interested in hearing anything at all from me beyond when I intend to move my belongings out of his property,” a little drolly.

“The Inquisition never seemed to particularly interest him in itself. I don't think he'd be that interested in their security problems, if he isn't interested in mine. I'm not going to try to predict what he'll think of any of this.”

(Though her lack of optimism is, in itself, a sort of prediction.)

She threads her fingers through his and curls them tight over the back of his hand, less restrained, and exhales. “And I don't know what my idiot fucking brother will make of any of it, either,” and that's the admission that matters. She distances herself from worries about her grandfather, but the prospect of losing Marcellin—a relationship that she's held close in her hands and not spoken of, something that when she finally drags it out is so clearly precious to her—is one that comes as a blow. “He's a selfish little bastard and there's no one to speak for me to him.”

Gwenaëlle grimaces, turning her face against his shoulder; stays there only a moment before (inevitably, like the tide) pushing blankets and tangles of robe out of her way enough to settle at home in his lap, still holding his hand. Every time he's away is too long. She is so much more acutely aware now of the possibility that something more tangible than disgrace might take him from her. “I'm tired of myself. Tell me about Morrigan's dreadful elves and all you've been doing.”

[rowancrowned]

"So we wait," Thranduil murmurs, and suddenly finds himself with a lapful of her. He adjusts; reaches out to put out the last candle and then wraps his arms about her, winding them under the covers and actually in bed, now.

It is a we. They are bound together. Whither thou goest--

"Wild, and free, when free means none can catch you for long enough to hold you accountable, but their way of life is not sustainable. They worship different gods," he is absolutely simplifying this for her, "-- and do not diversify their bloodlines. It will lead to naught but trouble for them, and I suspect other clans have been punished for their actions."

But it had been informative anyway.

"I returned from that in time to be directed to go south and join with the rest of the forces at the latest rift, but was recalled before reaching them. They were successful and had no need of me. And now I am here, with you."

[elegiaque]

"Best place for you," she says, staunchly, finding the side table in the dark and leaving her reading glasses there, settling beneath the coverlet, her back pressed to his chest and her loose curling hair a nightly hazard to navigate.

Better with her than arsing about a forest, watching inbred elves slowly wiping themselves out. Some twinge like conscience reminds her, punished for their actions, she thinks of that unpublished draft that still sits in the bottom of her desk; all her rage given courteous and brutal outlet. She had held off.

Others did not. It had only ever been an option because others would not.

"Leviathan missed you," she offers, "but only for a moment. Hardie's very charming." Then, "You aren't dashing off again immediately, are you?"