[ CLOSED ]

[aenseidhe]

WHO: Iorveth, Thranduil and Gwen
WHAT: Arguing, naked people
WHEN: Directly after this.
WHERE: The Gallows, Thranduil's office
NOTES: Bad words and life choices, also Gwen's boobs.

[ Thankfully, no Templars get in Iorveth's face on the way to Thranduil's office, and he makes it to the door with no blood on his hands. However, he's no less enraged, paranoid, and ready to bolt from this shithole of a city, possibly without a left hand, thanks, Casimir.

Or possibly with all the left hands of all the Rifters. He really shouldn't have mentioned that part.

Shoving the door open, Iorveth marches in looking entirely like the officer that carved vengeance out of men's bodies, claimed trophies from human officers, and burned men alive. There hasn't yet really been cause for him to get so up in arms, until another set of foreign negotiations made rules over his will. It compounds - the thoughts he'd had in wondering what the consequences to telling the Inquisition 'no' would be, how long the Inquisition's insignia will keep him from being cornered into an alienage as well, all the people standing still while things something disgusting occurs and calling it civility, or politics.

It makes his skin crawl. So here he is, because Thranduil called, and somehow he has the respect to obey that when very few else would win it, but today that's been pushed too. ]

What?

Comments

[elegiaque]

The anchor-shards will kill us all, unchecked, ( is a very blunt assessment, ) that's why they fucking hurt. The fatality had hers embedded in her chest.

( the time delay on that was not what it would be, for the rest. it is what it is. and it's better than gwenaëlle taking breath to speak on the fucking dalish, because—

because she had the chance to do something monstrous and she knew better, even if blood screaming for retribution didn't want to. and she needs to remember she knew better. she is not exempt from all of this, from knowing better than to tear themselves apart from the inside out when the outside is plenty ready to take advantage of the chaos. she understands thranduil's reticence on these matters, but

but. iorveth isn't wrong about the limitations and risks of negotiating. nor is anyone else wrong that no matter what they do, negotiating is where they'll end up, and their position is stronger if they're smarter before they get there.

after a moment, )

Yes, that's what I am. It's rare, I think. Accidental—a fade rift derailed the carriage I was traveling in, there weren't a great many survivors. And I had a anchor-shard, at the end of it.

[aenseidhe]

The Fates must favor you alive.

[ Iorveth voices, after a time of silence, thinking on the odds of that happening just so. A rift at the exact moment a carriage passes, holding the exact woman of a rare few capable of holding a shard, and she ends up one of the few to live. He isn't so religious in the ways the Chantry followers, but there's a spirituality in Aen Seidhe culture, in all of them. The take away, otherwise, is that the Inquisition cannot make their own Rifters. He takes note of that too.

And once the two of them are done pouring over the notes Thranduil did not do a splendid job of hiding, all that's left is to wait, Gwen quietly fuming at the edge of the bed, Iorveth leaned against a dresser with his arms crossed, staring at a far well. Also fuming. You know what really makes times like these such a little less? ] Want to smoke?



[ about forty or so minutes later, they're still in the same room, Gwen still in Thranduil's robe, and Iorveth with his typical headscarf replaced with a silken, silver pillow case instead, half of it flopped back, oddly reminiscent of a certain elf lord's hair. his weapons have been discarded somewhere to the side, along with the heavy chainmail and leather armor worn over top of his typical garb.

Walking into the room, the first thing that hits the sense is the overwhelming scent of weed. Iorveth can be seen on the floor, flopped on a bunch of pillows, snickering like a school girl, with Gwen standing up, straight backed and imperial looking. ]

Do the twirl again! Do the twirl!

[rowancrowned]

[ it is a very good twirl, but that is beside the point. he is tired; he has spent the last hour and change arguing with fools and the eager and those in both categories who he feels will be able to handle further steps.

if they attempt to take blood from galadriel, there will be a massacre. if they hang it over the head of iorveth, there will be a massacre. if bronach is afraid, she will flee from kirkwall and die in some bower before allowing herself to be enslaved. they are his, all of them, and he will do what he must to keep them safe.

(you can take the king out of elvenking but what you have left over is still ancient and dangerous.)

he hears them before he sees them, sees gwenaëlle finish her spin with his circlet upon her head and makes sure the door to his office is closed and barred before he lingers in the doorway.

that is the smell of pipeweed.

somehow, this crisis seems far more manageable than the one he just left. ]

I was gone but an hour, [ he complains, ] and I return to you, and you up to-- this.

[ where is leviathan. where is hardie. why is this his life. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ iorveth, once gwen finishes her spot on twirl, is snickering like a boy much younger than a century, possibly with a snort-laugh in there somewhere, because they smoked a lot to deal with this bullshit day. there's mock applause and all.

but when Thranduil speaks up, its like being caught by dad with your hand in the liquor cabinet, and iorveth jumps some, before dissolving into another bought of laughter. hanging his head backwards over the pile of pillows he's made his throne, he offers a gift: ]

Only an hour, meaning there's still time to catch up.

[ the gift is the weed pipe. with pipeweed in it. just for you, booboo. ]

[elegiaque]

( leviathan, for reference, is clasped in one arm of gwenaëlle's, partly within the voluminous sleeve and so not immediately obvious until she turns and two sets of wide eyes fall on thranduil's arrival.

she tucks the robe conscientiously. possibly she has been obliged to do so several times already, that it's so thoughtless a gesture to tug it closed again. )

Hello, darling,

( blithely, )

Is anything on fire?

[rowancrowned]

[ he bends to pluck the pipe out of iorveth's fingers and take a drag. he is no wizard to blow smoke rings, but when he exhales after a hold, the smoke curls pleasingly nonetheless.

he offers it back to iorveth. ]

Not yet, my love, [ two can play at this game. at least kylo ren didn't also come up here and stumble upon gwen and gwen's breasts. only iorveth.

which is its own set of problems. he holds his hands out for leviathan, who is definitely having the time of his little nug life, but all good things must end. ]

What are your thoughts on revolution?

[aenseidhe]

[ A sharp grin of approval is flashed for Thranduil deciding to join their nonsense rather than scold them for it. white teeth bared and scarred lips curled, he somehow manages to still look dangerous despite being blazed out of his mind. ]

Commander Nugithan will be leading the charge on chicken-back. [ Iorveth helpfully answers for the critter that he probably spent ten minutes trying to have a conversation with not terribly long ago. ]

We're going to need you to acquire the Commander some Templar flags to heretically burn, if you please.

[ 'heretically' is not a word, shut up, Iorveth. ]

[elegiaque]

( surrendering leviathan only a little reluctantly (she waves, mouth downturned, goodbye commander), gwenaëlle's gaze tilts back up and she brightens, adding helpfully, )

You know, the bird is bigger than Hardie, and he manages Hardie's back, it's perfect.

( so their feelings are 'enthusiastic', if hazy from iorveth's pipe. the circlet comes askew as she follows the nug forward into thranduil's arms, looping hers around his waist. )

Are we revolting? I'm prepared to reconsider how vexed I am with you.

[rowancrowned]

I was correct, [ he says, to one of them. which one? ] You like him. Too much, I think.

[ gwenaëlle, then. he uses the toe of his slipper to gently prod at iorveth, somewhere around his ribcage, rather than say 'move you great big high lump, I too wish to sit'. no. only prodding.

leviathan he sets down onto the bed very gently, and he cups gwenaëlle's face in his hands, looking down at her. ]

Possibly. I am ever prepared to graciously accept surrender.

[elegiaque]

( considering her present mood, and what iorveth's initial crystal messages had interrupted, that is a provocative tone to take with her on several different levels and she is provoked on at least three of them—the part of her that likes to defy him at every turn warring with the part that rather likes it when he looks at her meaningfully and asks for surrender. that part sees her pliant under his hands, fingers snagged in his sleeping robe,

the circlet very slowly sliding down the back of her head. )

I don't want anyone to have your blood, Thranduil.

( judiciously, ) Except me.

( she has no need of or purpose for his blood. that she has thought writing her name on him with a knife is irrelevant, and only fantasy. even so, the pedant's impulse is ever-present. and then, )

I think I like Iorveth exactly the right amount for someone I wasn't warned would be there in anything like time enough—

[aenseidhe]

[ the prodding at his side is plenty enough to cause iorveth to squirm himself to the side a bit, making space for the other big lump of fancy elf to settle himself down. for gwen, he casts a frown over his shoulder. hey, not his fault. ]

Had I known, I'd have knocked.

[ said like it's been announced several times already. he'd have knocked, but he'd have also still broken in, that part was not up for negotiation. thranduil may also find his notes from the negotiations spread out on one of the dressers not far away, as the two of them have already thoroughly gone through them, sober and high. ]

You ought to know, [ thranduil ] I had several offers of assistance in revolution and denied all of them in favor of appeasing your demands for my presence. It was extremely difficult for me.

[ because he loves revolution, it's his favorite. given he's broke into this office twice now, it's entirely feasible he could've broke himself out before thranduil's return, so appreciate him, okay? ]

[rowancrowned]

[ thranduil settles into place beside iorveth, gwenaëlle still curled around his middle. he drank with coupe, smoked with them, but he still has the grace to pluck the circlet from gwenaëlle's hair before it can fall off and hit the stone floor. ]

This, [ he says, and it too gets placed on the bed. leviathan noses at it. ] is irreparable and you will need it in one piece if you intend to perform your twirling again. And- you like him very much, given that he is still here.

[ the room is a mess. there was very obviously snooping and he will need to check his real hiding places later to make sure they did not stumble upon anything by accident-- not that there's much to hide, what kind of fool hides seditious documents in their own bedroom?

he leaves one hand to stroke through gwenaëlle's hair and uses the other to cup iorveth's face, thumb brushing his jaw through the bandanna. and the pillowcase. both of them are very very good at innovating, but did it really need to be at his expense? ]

You would not refuse me. I knew that. [ he leans forward, his forehead pressing against iorveth, the briefest of elven embraces before he draws back. ] You have my thanks.

[ thranduil scoffs, and shifts his shoulders to compensate for sitting on a robe he cannot remove while seated, determined to give himself a bit more freedom of movement. ]

It is my blood.

[elegiaque]

( thranduil is yet tall enough that once sitting, it's comfortable enough that gwenaëlle still stands, insinuating herself between his knees and leaning her weight against him and not disputing, immediately, that iorveth's presence speaks to her ease with it. because it does, probably, and she's still sufficiently in the mood to argue with him that it seems wholly unnecessary to touch on something more obviously agreeable. )

Everything that's yours is mine, ( is instead muttered obstinately, of thranduil's blood, tangling her fingers loose enough in his hair at his back to suggest the spectre of her fist, pulling, without quite following through.

they do still have company. interesting company. )

[aenseidhe]

[ There's apparently something very important about establishing that gwen likes iorveth, and while it does maybe give him some cute little stomach flips, because he's high as a kite for the first time in months, and gwen is someone very likable (also, he saw her naked on accident like 5 times by now, probably), it seems a little o d d .

Made all the more odd when there's suddenly a hand on his face (the bandanna doesn't cover his jaw), thranduil's hand, it seems, as it came from his right/blind side, and that's where he let Thranduil plop down, assuming the man wouldn't take advantage and stab him in the side. well, it wasn't that he did, at least, and Iorveth isn't taking nearly the kind of offense to it that he would a knife in his ribs, but he is deeply, deeply confused. the first reaction is a short jolt of surprise, completely forgetting what was said directly before the contact, and once the man leans in to press his forehead to him, Iorveth freezes up, still as stone.

most people do not end up this close to his face, unless they're either fucking him or fighting him, and neither of those things are occurring right now, nor does he expect them to. because, again, the naked woman sitting in his lap and touching all up on his hair and — he's not sure if this feels strange because he's high, or if it's just, actually, strange. ]

The two of you, you're...? [ Lovers? Really handsy friends? Married? That's a question, please answer. And a follow up — ] And why the need for secrecy with it?

[ Even intoxicated, he remembers that well enough, that Gwen had mentioned not many people know, and it seemed easy enough to piece together that that is the intention. ]

[rowancrowned]

My wife, [ thranduil says, calmly. ] In the custom of my people, because the Chantry will not allow us to wed, and because her father spoke strongly against it and sent his man to kill me.

[ as far as the importance goes, that one is the very last. after a moment, and as an addendum, this directly to iorveth, with accompanying hand gestures: ] The Dalish would loathe me for it, too, as the children of the elves and the Men of my world are as yours—mostly. None of this elfblooded stupidity.

[ another really good sign that something is very very wrong with thedas. he waves this off as well. ]

The elves here are… children, though I think many would prefer that I had taken a wife of that kind. [ more suitable to being parented then partnered, though he loves them dearly. ] And I am not so mercenary as to arrange a match for the sake of breeding back long-life alone.

[ the idea is… deplorable. like unto the creation of the orcs, but he will not speak of that in the safety of his rooms.

to gwenaëlle, and as solemnly as he can manage through the haze of smoke and drink and the after-affects of adrenaline. ] I do not think I will be attending Arlathven, my love. Better to beat them over the head with us to show how well assimilated and unlike a criminal I am.

[elegiaque]

I am this elfblooded stupidity, ( a mild objection, nevermind that she's said worse about exactly that, at length and to him. it still stings, out of someone else's mouth; out of his. she ignores that he's also perhaps the only person who thinks that matters worth a damn, since it allows her to ignore that she objects whenever he says that, too,

it is exhausting being her. she leans her cheek against his temple, her robe fallen open again but exposing little when she's tucked so close; hidden by the bulk of her husband. )

If you aren't going, we don't need to keep any more secrets, ( after a moment's more thought, asiding to iorveth, ) My lord wanted me a duchess or something stupid. Well, now everyone knows he got me on his housekeeper, I won't even be the Comtesse, so what it all fucking matters I'm sure I don't know.

( she doesn't think thranduil's serious, but he oughtn't test his impulsive bride. )

And what business it is of the Dalish who you're fucking, either, for that matter.

( no, she knows. )

[aenseidhe]

[ wife, okay, that seems like it makes sense, with the sentimental pet names and the nudity. and the legitimate shared pet with people clothes. married people have those, right? what the fuck does iorveth know, the closest thing he's gotten to married is telling isengrim he'd follow him through every bloodbath he decides to traipse through.

there's some vague nodding besides, as he looks very pensive taking another puff of the weed pipe, and tries not to think about gwen's naked thigh being half on his chest now for how snuggly they're all sitting, or, in his case, lounging, together. ]

Has it been actually requested of you to breed back long-life? [ something Iorveth catches on, squinting, because that sounds creepy as all fuck, let alone the Dalish having any say on who a Rifter should wed, even if they're an important and well-respected Rifter. the trappings of nobility and political marriages have never meant anything to Iorveth, a child born in a slum, raised underfoot and hungry most days.

that said, he's struggling to keep up with all that Gwen goes into, eventually puzzling out that it has something to do with her father wanting to breed her to his advantage as well, and didn't appreciate the fact she's wed to the king of an ancient nation. welp. ]

You seem to have done much better than a duke or wealthy merchant. [ He tells Gwen, voice earnest and frank, because he's a horrible liar, and has never been good at giving filtered opinions besides. ] Your father should be groveling for the forgiveness of you both.

As for the Dalish, [ Thranduil, ] you aren't their whore, and they make themselves no different from the human nobles they despise by trying to shame you into being one. Announce your wife, and go to Arlathven, if for nothing more than my own amusement to see them turn away a seven-thousand year old elven king.

[ that sentence ended with some snickering, because it's hilariously likely to happen and people are so fucking stupid he can't handle it most days. by the way, you are not a quiet arguer. ]

[rowancrowned]

In fewer words, and meant with more kindness, [ but there were implications enough for him to suppose what would come next. but it is all very optimistic—it assumes they survive corypheus, that skyhold will take action on things they have yet dragged their heels on. but what does he know. he is only the head of a division in a position he is beginning to suppose was only used to placate this selection of rifters and natives. ]

[ he keeps gwenaëlle close, and rubs apologetic circles into the dip of her spine. the other hand—he rests it on iorveth’s arm. just because it’s there. ]

The Dalish are not asking it of me. It was only an errant comment from one or two, but my credibility will be much injured if I present myself with my Mannish wife and no children to prove the claims I will make. [ he is not, under any circumstances, going to bring up the breed them out of existence problem. ] No, [ and he shakes his head. ] I will not burn that bridge by pretending I am—worth their time by virtue of my claims. What proof have I of my age? What does the crown I held in Arda matter to the Dalish? Can they eat it? Can they use it to raise and command an army? Will it keep their children safe? No.

Arlathven does not matter. What matters now is preventing a slaughter of the Rifters, which will occur if they attempt to make phylacteries from those unwilling to allow it.

[ he gestures for the pipe and takes another drag. after giving it back— ]

Coupe heard through her door. I assume you did as well.

[aenseidhe]

[ For the majority of Thranduil's speech, Iorveth is blinking down at the warm hand on his arm, bereft of the studded leather gloves he'd had on earlier, and at Gwen's aforementioned bare thigh. by the time Thranduil's speech is done, he's decided these things are good (and comfortable, and cozy, and personal, and enjoyable) and may be kept. he may possibly start inspecting the stitching on Thranduil's robe idly, because it's pretty and so is he.

But, when Thranduil hands him back the pipe, he's immediately pushing it back from whence it came, even trying to put the end of it back between his lips. ]

Nono. You need it more.

[ Until you stop talking about political bridges and hungry Dalish and slaughtered Rifters. Stop being a buzzkill. ]

[elegiaque]

( iorveth makes an excellent and compelling point, far more immediately interesting than further dissection of potential dissections; when thranduil breathes in smoke and lets go the pipe, gwenaëlle is there a moment later, lips pressed sweet and thieving to his. there's a pleasant shared burn, and the tang of coupe's probably acceptable alcohol on her breath from thranduil's mouth when she exhales a wreath of it for iorveth, the lean of her toward him pressing her knee in and bringing to her attention for the first time exactly how much of her thigh and weight he's been tolerating. )

Fuck the Arlathvhen, then, ( sedately. )

[aenseidhe]

[ that is. much more involved of an inhale than he was expecting to happen, but then again, he's hanging out blazed out of his mind with a couple married people, one of them very naked, and the other not seeming too concerned by that. his jaw might have gone a little slack while watching that exchange, feeling like he's caught with a hand in the cookie jar when gwenaëlle's attention turns back to him.

iorveth's head is too much in a blissful daze to feel any kind of awkward panic that might have come from thranduil's wife imparting another stream of smoke to him to do anything but inhale the remnants of it deeply.

that, and, feeling the balance of her perched half on thranduil and half her weight on his chest now, iorveth grabs quickly at her knee to steady her, making sure she doesn't go toppling over. a century worth of reflex training beats out stoner motor skills, heyooo.

it ends with him beaming a lazy grin up to the both of them, relaxing back and repeating her. ]

Fuck the Arlathvhen.

[rowancrowned]

[ he tips his head back and closes his eyes. gwenaëlle’s kiss? entirely expected, given her opportunistic ways, but considering how she shares it with iorveth, how iorveth responds, well—

gwenaëlle has made her point well enough. there will be no more ruminations on politics and consequences this evening. which is well enough—he is feeling pleasantly warm, and his lover is here, and both his doors are locked.

he waits until gwenaëlle looks at him to speak softly. ] We cannot offer to keep him until he knows what it means, [ he says. his own tendencies towards possessiveness, gwenaëlle’s vulnerabilities, their altered states. something about duty to make sure not to take advantage of him.

but thranduil wants him to stay, wants this odd arrangement of limbs and personalities. another pull from the pipe—and if he jostles gwenaëlle when he leans over to hook a finger in iorveth’s collar to drag him close enough to share the smoke with the other elf like gwenaëlle had done with him, he thinks he will hear no complaint from her about it. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ it's the aftermath when gwenaëlle leans back into her husband's arm that iorveth's sluggish mind starts to put pieces together and understand what's happened. typically he prides himself on being quicker on the uptake than most, enough to have kept his unit alive and well through the decades, but this is something very different from guerrilla warfare, and it's been a very difficult day thus far.

On the tail end of what he doesn't quite catch spoken between thranduil and his wife, Iorveth's lips are already parted, and the first half-second of sound that makes up 'I'm sorry' is half-way past them. Abruptly derailed with Thranduil dragging him upward, hand jerking to grasp his forearm to keep himself upright, but with absolutely no complaint for the brush of lips that siphons him another lungful of smoke.

everything feels surreal and slow around him, the shift of Thranduil's lips, the expanding of his own lungs, the beat of his heart in his ears, and the way his friend's face comes back into focus when he parts. his gaze holds with thranduil's for what seems like much longer than seconds, meaning sinking into his mind like cogs fitting together, and the step from there is a natural progress.

tilting his chin up and back, he leans for gwen, waiting for her to close the distance before exhaling to pass the smoke on again, the same exquisite slow of time and buzz all through his skin that he'd felt with thranduil repeated with her once more. Another few seconds of silence to watch her exhale, and he murmurs a question, soft and dazed. ]

I've never been married... but this doesn't usually happen, does it? [ just. to make sure there's not something glaringly obvious that's gone completely over his head for one hundred twenty-seven years. ]

[elegiaque]

( that is


a good point that he's making, reminding her of the conversation they had and the conversations that would need to happen before they acted on anything. if they want to, when they sober up. something like that needs to be looked at carefully, not fallen into in a fog of pipeweed, so easy and comfortable and intimate. so easy, breathing in smoke from iorveth's mouth and processing slowly, what thranduil says and he does,

oh,

well.

gwenaëlle doesn't complain of being jostled. she rolls down from thranduil's lap, tangling herself thoroughly in his robe and landing in the crook of iorveth's elbow, nestling in snug and hooking her (apparently very interesting) thigh over his knee where they drape at the end of the bed- )

No, ( she allows, and then, very seriously to them both, ) but we can just cuddle.

( she's very tactile. )

For now.