faderift | walk the same tale over and over

WHO: Thranduil + Nuada
WHAT: First meetings.
WHEN: Post Rifter arrival
WHERE: Gallows infirmary
NOTES: None applicable.

He leaves Iorveth once the other elf has started to drift towards sleep. In the last few minutes, his voice was pitched too low to hear, and he had shifted nearer to the patient, as close as could be in sitting next to the other elf without ever outright touching him. Thranduil returns the chair to where he took it from when he arrived, and draws the curtain half about the bed, leaving space in the bed for the other elf to see the rest of the room when he wakes.

He sees Nuada—really sees him, which is to say, sees his ears, his hair, him—as he is leaving, and he pauses in the way the elven do, inhumanly still for a brief moment before the little movements come back online, the camouflage in the affliction of less-than-economical movement, and he inclines his head in greeting.

“Good evening,” he says, even though they’re in an infirmary, because he was raised in a court, and you acknowledge other large male elves when you meet them for the first time.

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Thranduil catches Nuada in the middle of struggling into a sitting position, one pale hand pressed to the bandages wrapped around his stomach as he begins to shift his legs over the side of his cot. He pauses in his movements when he hears the other elf, turning to Thranduil with narrowed eyes as he gauges the danger of the elf in front of him. The elves sent to dress his wounds and assess the progress of his healing (because no human will come close to him any longer, and glad he is of it) are almost unrecognizable to Nuada as true elves, small and human-like as they are, and this one isn't much different. He is tall, though, taller even than Nuada, and there is something recognizable in his carriage, at least, even if his skin is strangely coloured and his eyes seem so like a man's.

Perhaps his were changed, as Nuada's were.

"Good evening," he replies, wary. It takes a moment for him to elaborate on the greeting, wary as he is of these strangers — but in the end, he relents, though his shoulders do not relax and he remains perched on the edge of the cot. "You are the first elf I have seen here not of the staff."

"I am flattered by your assumption," Thranduil says, half a smile on his mouth. He lingers at the foot of the bed (he has not been given an invitation to stay) and his head cocks, if only slightly.

He is not staff, but he is the Provost, integrating himself as much as he needs to into this place and this life for the sake of his own needs. He knows he stands out in comparison to the elvhen, a grackle among sparrows. Part of that is the height, but the clothing does not help. Nuada, though, is set apart by the starkness of his appearance, the shock of his skin and eyes. Thranduil is pleased, at least, that his hair has not been hacked off and instead rests at a respectable length.

"I am the Provost," he says. "Thranduil Oropherion."

A full name, the patronymic included. Offered freely.

It's true that Nuada had never even paused to consider that this elf — Thranduil — may be part of the staff, but that idea seems so at odds with his bearing it didn't even merit a moment's thought. Nuada has seen the way elves and men act in subservience, he has seen how it bends one's back and averts the eye, and Thranduil has no trace of that debasement in his manner. He reminds Nuada more of his father than of any staff he's ever seen.

Though his title is... a wrinkle. An unexpected element in something Nuada thought he might understand.

"Provost. You work with these humans?"

The distaste in his voice is obvious, barely checked fury colouring his tone. It takes a moment, but — a name for a name. He has not lost all his manners in exile. It is painful, but he affects a slight bow — as much of one as he is capable, with his stomach still bandaged and knitting itself together.

"I am Prince Nuada, Silverlance, of Clan Bethmoora."

"My life is not mine to spend on what would amount to only a futile gesture," he admits, without a trace of shame. The Rifts have been giving them the rebellious sort as of late. Thranduil gestures away the rest of any possible formalities, given Nuada's state, though anyone who can agitate their injury for the sake of politeness is sturdy and proud. He tallies it next to the rebelliousness.

"You are not from a world where they hold the upper hand and the leash both then, prince?" It is good that they are alone. He considers raising the glamour, but holds. There is no need for it unless there is need for it, and they have not discusses anything particularly sedatious as of late.

"How were you wounded? Upon arrival, I assume."

There is no leash yet made which could hold the fae, Nuada wants to say, but it's not really true, is it? There is the leash of their word, their nature, that which they are which his father prized above their survival as a species. The words die on Nuada's tongue and instead he considers the question.

"The upper hand, yes. The leash was one made of our own nature, which my father held. I attempted to free us of that leash."

And he was not successful. It's a strange thing, to know he should be crumbled into dust, now, and to still be walking. To be alone in his own mind and skin.

"Tooth faeries. They did not appreciate the journey." There is an element of levity in his tone at the last, a quirk to the corner of his lips that could almost be a smirk.

"But enough lead in the leash that you still have princes." A king was nothing without a kingdom, and a prince nothing without a parent to have inherited the title from.

If Thranduil was the rude sort, he would highlight the 'attempted', but he can managed subtext well enough, and leaves it be. Instead: "And sought refuge in your flesh?"

Or they're still out and about in the world, wreaking havoc. The way Nuada speaks of them, Thranduil thinks them more beast than reasonable creature.

"As much as any dying kingdom has a prince."

It rankles, to acknowledge the ultimate fate of his people. Without him, without the Golden Army, they would not survive another hundred years. Balor is dead, and Nuala was not far behind — there was no longer a royal family to guide the people. A power vacuum causes chaos even at the best of times, and with the elves so close to extinction as it was...

He is the last. A stranger in a strange land, and the last of Clan Bethmoora. Despair might overtake him, were he not so accustomed to subsuming it into rage.

"Tooth faeries eat everything. I frustrated their attempts to pluck my teeth from my mouth, so they decided to attempt to burrow up from my gut. The hound rescued me, but damage was already done."

Other, old wounds he has no inclination to take a dig at. He can afford dignity and graciousness; he isn’t the one on a hospital bed with an injury that would be risky even for an elf.

“Not enough to prevent you from reaching the Inquisition; I would be a liar if I said your presence did not please me, even as barely acquainted as we find ourselves now.” His tones suggest that he would like to fix that. Elves kept to elven company most of the time with good reason. An expansion of his social circle benefits him.

“I would hope that you have not been treated poorly.” After a moment: “And the faeries? Did the hound handle them?”

"I have been treated by elves, for the most part, which is how I would have it. The humans are reluctant to come close any longer."

There is a sense of pride in that, Nuada's shoulders drawing up straighter and a pleased glint in his eye. Humans should keep their distance from him, lest he be given cause to kill them — and he has no doubt he could, even as injured as he is now. Perhaps he could not take on the armies he could have once, perhaps not even the whole of the Gallows... But enough to make a point.

If the humans keep their distance, that will not be necessary. All for the better; it would hurt, and Nuada would rather learn more about this place before he attempts to kill anyone in it.

"The hound was trained well. He killed many of the tooth faeries, and defended me when I could no longer defend myself." Nuada wants to keep the animal, truly, though he finds it difficult to imagine what that would look like. It has been an age since he's had need of such a companion. "I am unsure if all of the faeries were killed, if that is your concern."

Is it his concern? It's not really Nuada's. The idea of tooth faeries roaming this land now is... amusing.

This sort of statement from Iorveth earns that elf a fond look. From Nuada, who he does not yet know as well, who he cannot anticipate—something like a smile, the flash of teeth.

“Oh? How did you frighten them off?” Given that Coupe hasn’t come to inform him of it and that he didn’t hear about it at the time, he assumes it was effective and localized; no one is blaming the Alienage for his actions. But perhaps that is Thranduil’s paranoia speaking, his behavior reigned in by the fear of consequences for others.

“I am sure we will hear of it if they were not.” He waves it off. “That is a rather—distinctive injury.” And the whole potential for missing teeth.

walk the same tale over and over

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