faderift | [ CLOSED ]

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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?

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( the warmth and weight of their hands is comfortable, and gwenaëlle is tempted to let them keep talking over her head and go back to sleep until such time as someone jostles her in the process of actually getting out of bed, but— )

I'm going to speak with Araceli, ( on the subject of rifters who ought to be trusted not to speak thoughtlessly. more than most, in fact. ) Bonaventura. She's been here the longest and she's smarter than all of you,

( that's how it works when you're gross boys, sorry gross boys, )

I want to know where her mind is. Besides 'annoyed with everyone running their mouths'.

( she hasn't actually spoken to araceli yet, she just knows her. that gwenaëlle herself wasn't openly one of those people is somewhat due to the combined influences of 'what would thranduil and/or araceli think', even if it had been thranduil she'd been shrieking at under cover of privacy. )

[ there's the soft, familiar touches again, and they shouldn't be more surprisingly than waking up tangled and snuggled with the two of them as he is, but it's still a pointed thing in his mind. Something done with intention he hasn't quite figured out yet - if it's simply Theodosian or elven culture, or if there's much more beyond that.

Regardless, these trifles aren't near so important as the threats the Rifters face now, so Iorveth gives a solemn nod. ]

I can do my best. Not all may listen, but I'll try.

[ people skills are not his forte, but rebellion is. Perhaps that'll serve him better in the end. As for Gwen's comment on shard-bearers: ]

I've not met her. But given I've no desire to be cursed at as I found you cursing your husband, I'll not argue your wisdom on the subject.

[ nurr hurr hurr ]

She is very clever, [ thranduil agrees, and thinks of the man who was the see, with his endless eyes. his counsel would be appreciated greatly right now, but he is only a cedar chest now, and the ring on thranduil's left hand.

thranduil's hand finds the curve of iorveth's waist, fingers brushing against bared skin. ]

It will be enough, I think, [ he says, slowly. ] I believe I will be able to unite enough of the Rifters to prevent tragedy, and the rest, well. Knives in the darkness will serve; all the elves will understand me enough that kinslaying will not be a risk.

[ to gwenaëlle: ] Please tell me Araceli's thoughts once you know them.

( the vague grumbling sounds she makes could be taken for agreement—certainly she'll tell him—and she pushes herself up onto her hands between them, and then sits up properly, sweeping her tousled hair over one shoulder. the shoulder that her robe has fallen from, so she's still more or less decent—with that much hair. )

I will, ( yawning, rolling her shoulders back. an exhale. she could make thranduil go and deal with hardie, but at this hour of the morning there's likely no one haunting these hallways and no one who'd be surprised to see her there, now de cedoux is absent along with what mages haunt her doorway. ) Don't kill anyone I like.

( that is an altogether entirely too off-hand remark. she bends to press a kiss to his forehead, then his mouth—doesn't linger at it as she might have done without company, this morning, but though it's brief it's not particularly chaste. a kiss that promises later, even as she's using the time to slip from the bed. )

Hardie's still locked in your office. Give me a moment to send him to bother some stablehands.

[ the majority of iorveth's several million layers of clothes found their way onto the floor and corners of the bedroom at some point the night before, and it's only trousers and a thin, loose cotton shirt that'd ridden halfway up his stomach at some point of rolling around with them in the night. thus, it's immediately apparent to him when Thranduil's fingers slip along his naked skin, a chill that's nothing to do with the temperature in the room creeping along his spine.

they aren't high anymore. they aren't asleep (well, gwen's consciousness is debatable, but between him and thranduil more so). no one's having any great panicking crisis at the moment, and they two of them are still married. Gwen makes a momentary distraction by rising up and pressing her kiss to her husband, something Iorveth watches with interest and curiosity, before she toddles off to tend to her dog. once she's gone, it leaves them with no barrier to the space between them.

the arm Iorveth had been stroking through gwen's curls with is free now, and shifts, along the center front of thranduil's robe, fingertips lighting along the porcelain pale of his throat, and the sharpness of his jaw. His thumb eventually finds the curve of Thranduil's lower lip, tracing the outline of it, still warm from Gwen's kiss. He swallows, before asking quietly - ]

And this?

[ they've discussed what's to be done next on all their accounts for the phylacteries proposal. so now, how about this? it's clear he wants them, both of them, but the questions are, what is this, why are they doing it, how do they expect to, and why him, of all people? ]

[ he does not bite, though he wants to, digit within reach of teeth. but then they will tumble back, and gwenaelle is gone-- he watched her go the same way an artist would watch a statue being taken from his studio to another resting place-- so they will not have any more of that. ]

I believe, [ thranduil says, ] that we will be keeping you.

[ they will find a way. there are optics to think about, the mess of their own marriage to be revealed, a quiet moment of mourning for being unable to attend arlathven in light of his reordered priorities, a flight to organize realistically enough that it would be foolproof if it were actually needed.

but iorveth deserves the full of his attention and he gets it, thranduil's eyes intent on him. ]

If you wish to be kept.

[ and that will take getting used to, but they've dealt with an attempt on his life and oh, another person in the room would have made that easier. he gestures vaguely. ]

And there are cultural considerations. Those of my people.

Keeping me.

[ Iorveth repeats, not said disapprovingly, but also, not entirely certain what that implies, in its entirety. He can guess at enough, given the kissing, the naked cuddling, and intimate touching. Iorveth's mouth works a bit, trying to come up with things to say, and abandoning them halfway through. It's a rare thing, to see this man speechless. He's clearly not opposed to the idea, with this thumb trailing over Thranduil's jaw, idle movements while his mind works. ]

It's, um. Not a topic that's come up before. [ Not the notion of romantic involvement with a person, that has, and he's turned them gently down, but the notion of being something like a known mistress between a married couple. he's not sure if that's exactly what's meant, but anything beyond fuck-buddy status seems like a disaster waiting to happen. especially when the two of them seem so content with one another. (it doesn't help that this line of thought is accompanied by the mind theatre of acting on that fuck buddy status with both gwen and thranduil at once).

maybe all he means is an extra body, but instead of assuming that alone, Iorveth tries to carefully specify. ] Much as I enjoy the both of you, romantic commitment has not been my strong suit. Ever.

[ not a 'recently' or a 'out of practice'. just ever. he's slept around, had his fun, but relationships don't happen with him. if they're wanting him for more than an extra body for sex, he's likely to disappoint, or hurt. and yet, there's still that part of him that dreams of quiet homes and warm beds and another soul to curl up with. that part, though, will always be pushed to the back of his mind when the more important principles becoming pressing. if the two of them asked him to do something against his beliefs and values, there would be no question of which side he'd choose. Thranduil's only known him a few weeks, Gwen a few hours, and they haven't seen him skinning men, setting fires to tents, torturing mercilessly and slaughtering in droves. He's far from the kind of person built for domestic entanglements, attractive as the option, and the ones offering, are. ]

There's much neither of you know about me. I'd gladly share a bed, if the both of you wish it, but I'm not sure you'd want much more than that. If that's what's meant by 'keeping me'.

If Thranduil were prepared to share a bed with someone for anything less than a promise, ( from the doorway, dry, having only taken that moment to open the outer door and send hardie about his morning routine, ) it wouldn't had taken me anything like as long as it did to get into his trousers.

( which might not be entirely true, considering all the other hurdles they had to traverse to reach the point with one another they (finally) have done, but is nevertheless far from insignificant. she comes back to the edge of the bed, sitting down with her knees folded easy to one side, shaking her hair out over her shoulder and dragging her fingers through the tousles and tangles of how they slept as she considers both of them, and this, and what to say. )

You don't have to...none of us, ( her glance at her husband affectionate, ) should be making any dramatic declarations of intent this morning. But maybe we could...

( something about being the sensible voice feels wrong. she trails off, half uncertain that she's doing it wrong. then, )

We could get to know one another. Court one another. We could maybe see if we might like to make some dramatic declarations, in the future. As prelude to some very athletic sexual congress, obviously.

( a meaningful raise of her eyebrows. you have no idea how flexible she is, iorveth. )

And, the other parts. The romantic parts. This part. ( where they share a bed, a morning, their early thoughts. )

[ he opens his mouth to correct the assumption, to hold the thought until gwenaëlle comes back and can set it to right with her clever, cutting words and far better understandings of the complexities of relationships that are not quendi. ]

Court him, [ thranduil says, testing the idea. yes, he wants to court iorveth, see how (if) he settles between them, which thranduil finds he desires very much. and testing the idea is far, far better than winding the three of them together that going any further would entail.

he holds his hand out for gwenaëlle to catch in her own, and pulls her closer. yes, there she is. there they are.

to be very clear, and this he says to iorveth: ] My people do not do anything less than centuries. We would court you to have all three of us together for that long. Not as a [ he's reconsidering his earlier words in a disgusted horror. ] kept man. We will have time for coaxing out your secrets, and you will have ours.

Edited 2018-05-18 02:12 (UTC)

Court... [ if anyone he knew back home - Geralt, Saskia, Zoltan, any of the hundred men and women he commanded - witnessed him in this moment, they'd be laughing their fucking asses off. Iorveth, terror of the Scoia'tael, vengeful wraith of the aen seidhe, bloody war hero and bane of humanity - being courted. Or attempting to court. A small, difficult to contain smile pulls his lips, and Iorveth almost laughs. The giddy, foolish part of himself would love to just tell them yes, that he wishes it, and fall back into their snuggle pile. That part has long been overshadowed by the cynic he is. ]

It isn't secrets that I mean. [ just plain and stark truths, that the entire Continent new about him before, and he wore proudly, literally badges on his gear as trophies. sighing, Iorveth pushes up to sit, because it's awkward to say things this seriously while snuggled up to someone's chest. ]

I'm called murderer and terrorist, in my land, in all of my land. I've slaughtered, and tortured, enough humans to fill a valley with corpses, and not all of them were soldiers on a battlefield. [ civilians. merchants, traders. villagers, with houses set to flame. after Cintra, and places like Drakenborg, he stopped caring about armed or unarmed. they were all monsters. and while there are reasons, he's never made a point to try making excuses of it. it is what it is. ] I regret none of it.

[ he's looked to Gwen a good part of it, because he knows Thranduil has seen wars, ought to understand the horror of them, but even still, there's something about living in a world where elves are as noble, respected and untouchable as Thranduil's that just doesn't compare to the sickening cruelty such hatred on both sides breeds. ] I don't mean to sound dramatic, just transparent. These are things people typically want to know about a person before attempting to trust them.

[ he'd rather not have affection in them bloom only to learn of what horrors he's happily committed, would gleefully do again, and feel betrayed by it. they're simple truths about him that will not go away, and will not change regardless of how happy this place might make him. ]

( in truth, she's far less worried that he'll horrify her than the other way around. her relationship with her own blood has never been an easy one; the things that she has said and done, she could easily imagine killing offenses in the life he describes. soldiers and mercenaries and war; violence doesn't unsettle her the way it should, for those reasons and for more private ugliness. but some of that private ugliness- )

You'll have plenty of voices telling you that it's me who shouldn't be trusted, ( after a moment, when it becomes clear that he's done. ) I can hardly condemn you for violence I'm well enough used to, ( and she's not inclined to, not bothered by the implications, not even in the ways perhaps she ought to be. )

I thought what I owed my mama was to be what they wanted me to be. And it was a...

( there's never an appropriate moment to complain about how hard it was. least of all now. she swallows that, as ever. )

I've not been any particular friend to elves. Pietro-

( maybe that story doesn't need to be told now, either. )

I don't know. It sounds as if you're exactly what you seem to be, I can't think it's a surprise. I lose my charm a bit, the more you know. ( frankly. )

[ thranduil finds himself bereft of iorveth's warmth and the hand held out for gwenaelle ungrasped. he draws back, pulling himself into a sitting position on the bed, his back against the headboard. ]

Have you harmed another elf in anything but self defense? [ he asks. ] Have you forced yourself upon another? Have you harmed children?

[ children, not elflings, so he means both. kinslaying, rape, harm of an innocent: these are the things he cannot abide, and he would dismiss iorveth now for any of them. there are other laws, customs to be spoken of later, but these are sacred above all others.

and, conveniently, the reasons he will never welcome maedhros with open arms. he failed twice. ]

I have lived through many kings, seen many lines of Men falter and others succeed. A clever tongue could accuse me of a great deal of sins in Thedas, let alone Arda. I have let you know my wife as just that, and you have not disappointed me so far.

[ a glance to gwenaelle, though. what is a pietro. ]

[ Iorveth watches Gwen closely as she speaks, like trying to read behind the words, and perhaps it truly doesn't bother her. Some have desensitized by violence, and he has no real clue to what life she came from. In the end, he nods solemnly, and doesn't debate it, because he'd clearly be making shit up - he really doesn't know her terribly well. But. ]

Of the three total voices I trust in this realm, your husband makes up a third of them, and I trust his intuitions on character. [ The other two are Beleth and Six. He has concerns about others, Adalia too brash and passionate, Bronach too foreign, Kylo too... Kylo. But those two have proven wise, stable, intelligent and noble thus far. But even that doesn't really matter, Thranduil versus the word of others. It isn't how he manages things. ] I make no judgments without evidence.

[ Even with people like Letho, practically a stranger, accused of murdering Iorveth's second, but he made no move until he could confirm the truth of it. As for Thranduil's questions, he turns his eye to him, two of those questions easy, another... less so. ]

I don't rape, I don't kill children. [ But kinslaying? He so rarely feels like he needs self-defense from city elves, but they're such twisted, selfish, ugly things sometimes. he's met creatures calling themselves aen seidhe that would turn a scoia'tael in just for an extra loaf of bread. while he doesn't really target them, they've certainly been harmed because of him in the past. There's the elves that fired on them, at the bordered of Dol Blathanna, and Iorveth's never had any desire to replicate that kind of disgusting betrayal. ] The Aen Seidhe are complicated, on the Continent. One drags on the other, asking the young to lay down in puddles, paint battlefields with their blood, so they can crawl a little further along the gutters of human cities, or die peacefully in a valley of flowers. I no longer protect those that have proven unworthy of my comrades' lives.

[ he has no intention of lying to thranduil or trying to convince him he's better than he is, so it's important to note what harm he has and hasn't done. let him decide where it ought to fall with his principles. ] I won't expend myself or my men for elves unwilling to do the same for them, nor will I concern myself with casualties they suffer due to human reactions to my people doing what's right. But no, I don't hunt them without provocation.

[ he can say that, at least. if they stay out of the way, they won't come under his fire. ]

( with a hint of mild remorse for her distraction (and maybe just the fact it's a little easier for her to speak when they aren't touching, training herself out of a marked habit to derail conversations that should be had with sex instead), gwenaelle shifts nearer, settles into thranduil's side. meets iorveth's gaze, steady, not uncomplicated; her relationship to violence is a difficult one.

it's her own hands that have slowed her, for reasons she knows but can't quite explain without shame. embarrassment as much as anything has driven her unwillingness to take the steps that would have prevented coupe's tutelage of her; how mortifying, to know why.

eventually, )

Elves killed my mother. And Hardie was named for a man who was, besides the best of men, a mercenary.

( her perspective on thranduil's idea of kinslaying is far more thedosian; far more aligned with iorveth than her husband, on that. )

A warrior's fought a war. ( her eyebrows rise in exaggerated scandal: ) Heaven forfend.

( then, because he took the cyclops gag well but this is a serious discussion, and she doesn't entirely mean to be flip- ) You're quite the bastard, Iorveth, I don't mean to imply there's nothing to that. It's just I'm rather at home with bastards.

( because she's a nightmare. to be fair. )

[ Gwenaelle fits neatly against Thranduil's side, and it's a sweet, pleasant picture they paint, iorveth drinking in the image of them, the quiet support and affection. it's an effort, trying to imagine what place they might want him to have there, if it seems too odd or too wrong. if it seems like he'd belong.

the idea itself is appealing, tempting, the want to just sink into their warmth and greedily soak it up strong, though iorveth wouldn't be iorveth if he didn't overthink it to hell and back. what benefits there could be, what complications it would make, if one is worth the other. His focus is taken more by gwenaelle, though, and the facts she gives, what they imply. he'd thought of her as a particularly clever, brutally honest noble woman, but the murder and the mercenary are things that don't fit into that picture. he's learned much of both of them tonight. ]

I'm sorry, for your mother. There's no balm that soothes the loss of one. [ one he knows, as well as a parent murdered by a faceless group you know only hatred from, or for. she's come a long way, to find herself married to thranduil. he is, though, pretty exceptional an elf, to admit. there's things admirable, intriguing and attractive in both of them, and Iorveth finds the idea of leaving this room something loathsome. it's careful, hesitant, that he voices it. ]

If it's still your wish to try, [ And that's a big if, because Thranduil had some pointed qualifications that Iorveth may not fit, and it's him that he glances to. ] I'm willing.

[ foregoing dramatic proclamations and promises of being worth anything more than a warm body and convenient assassin. Iorveth's faith in his courting skills aren't great, and maybe never really cultivated to begin with, but he's sure he's made that point well enough by now. ]

[ his expression is placid as he considers through gwenaelle speaking and iorveth speaking in turn. whatever calculus is occuring- who and what iorveth is being weighed against, what laws thranduil is consulting in his own heart- is unspoken to either of them. ]

[ to gwenaelle: ] I am not a bastard.

[ the word is funny, coming from him, the same unaccustomed intonation as the one time he'd called her 'bitch', but it is his answer, more or less, and he already finds he dislikes iorveth wavering and discontented. ]

I would ask, [ thranduil says, much more serious than his previous protest, ] that you refrain from harming another elf but in self-defense here.

[ they are all of them rumpled and in need of, perhaps, a wash basin and a clean change of clothes at least, but iorveth has no clean clothes here. thranduil will offer him his own, once they are up, but for now- ]

Let me put your hair in order, Iorveth.

( gwenaëlle doesn't outright disagree with thranduil, but she does cast him a long, tolerant glance that somehow doesn't seem to suggest she agrees. he can be a very difficult man. iorveth may run screaming from the both of them in search of easier, gentler pastures.

then again, he might not. which would be more interesting. she acknowledges his condolences with a tilt of her head—dalish elves killed her elven mother, but it was celene's men who did for her sisters, she's no shortage of resentments to go around—and the picture she paints the more one knows her is one of someone who had learned not to be looked at too closely, that she might live a more complicated life. the simple picture had protected her, until it didn't. )

What happened to that Dalish clan was self-defense, you know, ( is all she says, mild. )

[ Iorveth wouldn't know easier, gentler pastures if they slapped him on the ass. The curse Thranduil lets out sounds incredibly strange coming from his lips, and Iorveth near sputters a laugh, visibly lets out half a quiet, choked sound, shoulders hitching, before swallowing the rest down.

He listens to him, then to Gwenaelle, and the question of what Dalish clan comes through his head. It's apparently a touchy subject, so he leaves it for now, puts a mental note to investigate on it later. Instead, he turns his mind back to Thranduil's request. Iorveth doesn't like to swear to things often, because you can never truly tell what will happen in the future, what people will do, whether they're elves or humans or anything else. It's with no small matter of consideration and pause that he does finally nod his assent, eye meeting Thranduil's. This is Thedas, not the Continent. ]

I can agree to that. [ and yet, there's no telling if this place will become like the Continent. He's a bit lost in thought of that still when he recalls Thranduil had spoken about putting his hair into order. Which, would require him taking his headscarf off, which was tied tightly enough, plus the strap of leather belting that holds it in place, to stay mostly in place throughout the night.

Typically, removing the scarf means very little to him, as he walks around in with his eye uncovered about half the time, especially in peaceful places, his hand already moving to the buckle at the side of his head, when it sinks in where he is, and what they'd just discussed. courting, lovers, romance. a certain quite shame is around it, the loss of something so culturally key to his people, but that's nothing iorveth would admit to, claiming pride in the horrific kind of wound inflicted in a place most try not to stare at when conversing with him, likes that it's off-putting and disgusting. like it says - he can survive this, what can you really else do you really think you can do to him? but it is that - disgusting. not something you want to brandish in front of a potential lover, especially not for the pity it might bring. ]

It's never in order, [ Iorveth chuckles, moving to scratch just underneath one edge of the fabric instead of continuing to the buckle holding the strap, a casual kind of movement. ] And the moment I walk outside, it'll be out of sight again, so likely wasting your time.

Not tonight, [ he says in an aside to gwenaelle, because that is not a conversation to be had here and now if at all, and certainly not in front of iorveth.

while iorveth makes as if to take off his wrappings, thranduil leans half across gwenaelle to the side table, to open the drawer and pull out one of the simple horn combs rather than a brush. he intends to make no great fuss about this, only thinking of how letting him go in such haste would be unworthy of both of them. as unworthy as sending him back unwashed and in his own clothes to his room, but they will make do with what they have and keep up with the secrecy, for now.

for all his concealment of gwenaelle's nighttime and morning comings and goings, no one has commented on the afternoon ones, much to his chagrin.

comb in hand, he folds himself into something like sitting. ] Not at all, [ thranduil offers. ] I wish to do it for you.

( gwenaëlle lets not tonight pass without comment because—he's probably right, and it's a subject on which they rarely see anything like eye to eye. that conversation has all the hallmarks of an argument, even if it's a familiar enough retread by now.

no, instead, she puts a hand on his wrist, restraining: )

I think, ( carefully, ) that there's something you might do first that might make that more palatable.

( because she saw that hesitation of fingers. the gesture that probably wasn't going to be what it became, at the start. she's spent enough time teaching herself to look in the mirror of other people's eyes without flinching; how much worse must it be, when the injury is so immediate?

much, she could guess from thranduil's smooth, unbroken glamour. )

I was lucky enough rage demons apparently respect 'not my pretty face', ( dry as the hissing wastes, ) and Iorveth's seen mine, but maybe if you want to see his, he sees yours first.

[ he is grateful enough for her easy assent to leaving it be, and so when she puts the plan to him, he does not flinch, physically or mentally, away from her suggestion. ]

If you think it best, [ he says, and submits to her better judgement although it has him uneasy. the glamour drops in a ripple across his skin, withdrawn slowly. putting it away all at once feels too much like being made to, and he loathes that feeling.

and then it is there for iorveth's inspection: unseeing eye, a cheek with the flesh burned down to the muscle underneath, a web of healed burns across shoulder and arm that speak of it being lifted to cover from some sort of fire, as if he had expected a shield to raise when his arm had.

(no, he had dropped it, when they had called the retreat.)

he holds still, and steady. ]

[ Iorveth had his lips already parted to give another excuse to keep the headscarf on, but gwenaëlle has a dreadfully keen perception for things others aren't saying, any facade of polite smiling melting as she hits the nail on the freaking head. The way she does, though, brings up something curious - talk of scars, of Thranduil's, as if he has something similar. on his face, no less, and it starts to click in his mind.

he realizes it must be something like the sorceresses do to stay looking young, even before the glamour starts to ebb away, and the damage to the one side of his face looks painfully extensive. nothing iorveth flinches from, but much more than he's been expecting. it's half-mesmerized, the way he reaches a hand up gingerly touching at the scarred edges of Thranduil's skin, soft, like a caress. ]

You'll have to teach me that trick some time. [ Iorveth murmurs, a small smile on his lips, already feeling a good deal more comfortable, and a little raw from the honesty of the moment. ] Seems much more comfortable than wrapping a rag over it.

[ he's not really sure he should, but Iorveth knows the distinct shame of being an elf that's had their beauty taken from them, and the idea of wanting it to disappear. how difficult this must be even for a elven king of 7,000. by means of thank you, and reassurance, he eases forward, pressing a short kiss to thranduil's lips - chaste and momentary, to make a point, and not looking to start more things than they're wanting to.

So, right, his turn.

when Iorveth tugs the scarf from his head, his hair is braided back in a few small places, but the majority of it is loose, pushed back but now falling to the side in places, at the corners of his face. raising his chin, it's easy to see the wound where his eye used to be, and it's no simple scar over it, or just the lids sealed shut. the socket is burned out, vicious and mangled, clearly something done with intent behind it, rather than a stray battle wound. the deep, jagged scar that curves a wicked trail from his temple down to the corner of his lips is secondary next to it. ]

Edited 2018-05-21 04:18 (UTC)

( the restraining hand on thranduil's wrist turns gentle, finds his fingers and tangles with them; gwenaëlle presses her closed lips to his shoulder and stays there, a small solid constancy. too much else had been happening when she first saw his scars to flinch at them then, and she doesn't now—is better prepared not to do it when iorveth removes his bandana, and the brutality of what was done to him becomes apparent.

more like unto what was done to herian and her father, in its cruel deliberateness, but that's a thought she lets come and go, a story that isn't hers to tell and not made for this moment.

she doesn't let go of thranduil, but she does reach out with her free hand—not for iorveth's face. yet. he's near enough that her hand can fall on his thigh, and settle there. the only way she's ever known how to express a desire to be close to someone is just to be close to them, and it's a small thing, sometimes, but it's always felt as if it mattered. to demonstrate. to be demonstrative, in the small ways. )

Rag, ( she echoes, grimacing at that as she hadn't at his actual face. ) I'm going to make you something nicer.

( she has just decided this. )

[ he would hiss, at the comparison, and he nearly snaps at the hand; he loathes pity or any fuss made and intended (intends) to extend the same courtesy to iorveth, but there is gwenaëlle's hand and he hardly has any room to maneuver, so submit he must. once the hand and lips are gone, neither of them finding yielding ground, up it goes again, and thranduil allows him time to remove the rag- well, gwenaëlle is very right about the situation, how poorly appointed he is, it will not do for him to look so untended- and he takes up the comb again, and shifts his leg so that iorveth is between them and more or less in his lap. ]

Good, [ thranduil says, pleased with his clever wife, already working at undoing those smaller braids iorveth had spoken of. he needs a long soak and oils for his hair, but this will have to do. ] We are courting you; are you enjoying it.

[ that is far from a questioning tone, far from a tone that expects anything other than a nod or perhaps a drowsy stretch. he will permit the fussing for a quarter of an hour more at most; thranduil will not press his luck, and then he has calls to make. ]

[ iorveth thinks he will never stop having the urge to laugh when the word 'courting' comes up, because it brings such an unfitting imagine to his mind. even before his life as a scoia'tael, iorveth only knew of the social lives of nobles through the mocking he and his friends would do to entertain themselves.

in the slums, there wasn't courting. there was getting drunk and feeling each other up in the backs of dark taverns and alleyways. in the scoia'tael it was about the same, with a few exceptions of Possibly Actually Real Feelings that were entertained for a night or two. courting is completely behind him, and brings up romeo and juliet nonsense pictures in his head, ladies with fans and suitors making bargains for them.

what gwenaelle and thranduil are doing seems nothing like that imagining, and he's glad for it. he's never had much patience for frivolity and put upon gestures. getting high, snuggling, playing with hair in the morning sunshine. these are things he prefers. ]

You are picking at me like mother hens. [ correction. he hasn't been dotted on like this since he was a child, but the way he's slumped a little, back leaning some on thranduil's chest, his eye blinking shut after a moment, it's clear he doesn't have any complaints about it. ] But yes. I'm enjoying it.

[ after a moment of soaking it up, he looks to gwenaëlle, motioning her to come closer, to sit between his legs like he is thranduil's, because his hands are idle and he wants them closer. ]

Come here. I haven't gotten to put real braids in long hair in years. [ and by real braids, he means elf braids. ]

[ CLOSED ]

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