faderift | this town is only going to get worse.

He is still. Preternaturally so.

"Burning yourself out," he says, "would be a waste. Please refrain. It is possible, contrary to popular belief and the actions of half the Rifters in Kirkwall, maintain your reputation whilst also pursuing your goals."

A year ago- months ago, even- he had the trust and confidence of every elf in Kirkwall, and before that, Skyhold. The period when he had the same for all the Rifters was smaller, but no less dear to him. Adalia intersects with so many of his goals, so many of his plans, but-

He is tired of seeing elves die.

"You know why, I assume. Gwenaëlle must have told you."

A waste. Viciously, with all the venom of a cobra, "I am not a resource. I am not kindling, or stone, or anything else one could waste. I'm a person."

She knows how she is perceived. Useful, to a point. Could be even more so if she would stop being so troublesome, if she would know her place, if she would stand in the background and observe instead of having opinions. Young, and foolish, and lacking the sense the gods gave a goat. She is painfully aware. There are people she is willing to be useful for. People whose good opinion she wants enough that she will swallow her own desires and hone herself into only that which will best serve.

Thranduil is not one of them.

"I said Gwenaëlle is my best friend. I said nothing about being hers."

Even if she hadn't royally pissed Gwen off, Gwen wouldn't have told her anything about why Thranduil would do something so monumentally moronic. She has other friends for such important talks, Adalia just... latched on and wouldn't let go.

"You are a child," he says, "with the whole of your long, long life in front of you, and it makes no sense to take what grace has granted you when it leaves others with so little and spend it upon suffering. Listen to me, please," suddenly soft, and pleading, genuine if measured in his expression to achieve it.

"You are your own. But it is lonely, and a cold, cold road to set yourself upon so soon. We," elves, which he counts her one of, has since she arrived here. Perhaps if he had but spoken to her sooner. "Are not meant to be alone. I love my wife, she honors me with her companionship, but she is not the rock to break yourself against in search of her love. That is not how you gain it. You deserve better."

He knows the rough shape of her upbringing. Something about a library; she's an orphan.

"Were you alone when you were but an elfling?" No wonder she's grafted onto unsuitable creatures.

This conversation has — turned. Become something Adalia doesn't know how to parse, seemingly genuine interest out of what she had seen as equally genuine distaste. It feels a trap, then, a snare being laid to catch her out when she lowers her guard and allows herself to relax. What does he know of what she deserves, who is he to tell her how to earn Gwenaëlle's affection —

her husband, and thus someone with a modicum of experience in how to go about it, presumably —

"What does it matter? No. Yes."

The first snappish, the second relenting, as she accepts that yes, it matters. It matters to her and always has, and she's not exactly made a secret of it, but giving Thranduil more ammunition to use to condescend to her feels dangerous. Feels like losing.

"I was raised from a babe communally, by the Avowed of Candlekeep. No one took especial responsibility for me."

Edited 2018-08-14 12:16 (UTC)

There are many ways to lose. Chiefest among them is ignorance of your opponent.

'Especially responsibility'. He would scoff, if he felt it would not send her running. Instead (calmly, evenly, despite the horror in his heart) he takes a step towards her, restores the distance he put between them before she cast her spell.

"And were there elves among their number?"

"Some. None who were particularly concerned with being very elf-y, and none who thought I needed any instruction in it. They were monks who had eschewed all ties except those of the library, their race only mattered insofar as it meant they would be there many hundreds of years longer than the other monks. My being only half an elf, they didn't see any need to pass anything along."

What use would it have done her? She'd always be marked as different, no matter what she knew of elven culture or practices — and no one particularly expected her to leave the library ever anyway. No one paid enough attention to expect it. The monks, elven, dwarven, human, and all others alike, were never particularly unkind to Adalia. She was fed and clothed, and no one allowed more harm to come to her than could be expected of any child. But she was only a child to them, not their child, and where she didn't lack for care she lacked affection, lacked context.

"Why, do you plan on teaching me the proper way to be an elf?" The scoff that follows that question should say more than enough how she feels about that idea.

"They instructed you," Thranduil corrects. "No teaching is a very specific sort of instruction."

And another thing: "We both know that Thedas is an abnormal. You are peredhel. What space is there for you around the short lived? What sanity in living around those who will leave you in a moment?"

None. Only pain, and then the callous of indifference, which he counted as worse. Elves felt as men did, if differently in scope, and the depression of being alone transferred across species lines. It would be like making a man live among mayflies. Eventually, the urge to empathize would wear off.

He shakes his head.

"I would not have you be alone."

That startles a laugh out of Adalia, though it's more spiteful than truly amused. She can feel her anger as though it is a seeping, boiling thing inside her, bubbling up her throat and dripping down her teeth.

"You don't want me to be alone! You, who snapped at me when I asked you questions, who used me afterward, who froze me out of everything important and made me feel like an infant, only worth your time so long as you had something for me to do. You care so much about how alone I am, how adrift I am," she spits, calling back to their conversation when Iorveth had suggested she speak to Thranduil and Thranduil gave her nothing, "so very much indeed! Woe am I, that I never had elves like you to teach me how to elf in Toril!"

She's so angry now, feels like she's angry all the time — like all she needs is the slightest provocation and her rage will begin to eat her up, dissolve her from the inside and leave a black dragon in its wake.

Sometimes, Adalia wants nothing more than to tear Thedas down to its foundations, and to fry everyone who has ever made her feel small and worthless and wrong on the ruins of the land they love so much. It's terrifying, how angry she can get, but what other option is there? If she was ever anything but angry, she would collapse in on herself and never move again. There's too much to do for her to allow herself to feel anything else.

The air around her and Thranduil feels sharp, tingling — suffused with electricity, though no sparks have popped off yet.

"I will never allow you to make me feel like a tool again. I am not yours to keep and I am not yours to teach."

The static catches the very ends of his hair, leaves it hovering, nearly comical, but he is aware of the tension in her besides that, would have caught it just from her voice.

(It is so much easier for him to speak with her when the dragon is not nearby, a constant threat.)

He needs a moment to recall the exact scenario she is speaking of, and then a moment to close his eyes, to mind the switch of his tone, to take some of the saccharine (though genuine) concern out of it.

"Thank you," he says, "for your help with Jang. You did well." And with anyone else it may well have worked, but Jang had Kitty's stubbornness and the mirror opposite of Araceli's ability to blend in.

"You are not mine," he agrees. Really, the only ones he would call his are Gwenaelle and Iorveth, and Iorveth only when he thought the other elf likely to allow it. "Your heartstrings are drawn across your chest, Adalia. That makes them easy to pluck."

Which he has refrained from. He has refrained from her, really.

"Thank you weeks after the fact is not sufficient," she spits in return, seething to cover up the flush of pride in her cheeks, the way her shoulders draw back straighter. Her craving for praise must be as obvious as anything else about her, but she needn't give away just how desperately she wants approval. It's followed up by admonition again, anyway, and that pride curdles, turns to shame in an instant. She's not subtle at all, nowhere near quiet enough, wears her heart on her sleeve and her spleen in her fists. She would have been dead a million times over if she'd been born in Thedas. She knows.

Her anger burns through her like a wildfire, eating up all the fuel she's accumulated since she left Candlekeep. Whatever it claims disappears, leaves her hollow, and the wildfire races for some core she's forgotten, or buried, or abandoned — she can't be with Thranduil when the fire reaches that core. That core is where those heartstrings strung across her chest nest, and when her anger burns all the fuel around them it will die, and leave her with the truth at the end of all of them, and she cannot be standing in front of Thranduil when that happens.

But they're in the middle of the mountains, and Adalia has never been any kind of tracker. Even with their footprints in the snow to guide her, she could never hope to reach Skyhold without Thranduil's help.

"I'm done with this," she says, voice trembling, "take me back to Skyhold, or show me the way and I'll go myself."

"Come along," he says, not unkindly, turning his back on her, trusting that she will follow, offering her his exposed back (he will not try the same trick twice) and making back for the path.

His original outreach to her was faulty. He should have arranged to meet her without her dragon earlier, should have known the things he knows now within weeks of her arrival. Still, the damage can be undone (slowly) and he has always had a head for this sort of thing. She is young; they have time.

He does her the kindness of not looking back. Her misery does not need him as a witness. Let him not harm her further.

this town is only going to get worse.

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HI SORRY I MOVED TO EUROPE

rude tbh

sorry I can't hear you over the sound of all this delicious cheese

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