faderift | Player Plot: The Arlathvhen

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Player Plot: The Arlathvhen

WHO: A big pack of elfs
WHAT: The Arlathvhen
WHEN: Vaguely Solace
WHERE: A Secret Elven Location
NOTES: OOC Plotting post here, and a special thanks to Ema for the header image

In the ordinary course of life, Dalish clans rarely encounter each other. This isolation is a protection; their diaspora is as much of a blessing as is a curse. Only once every decade or so do the Dalish clans all meet together, and their Keepers, the elders and leaders of the People, who are responsible in keeping elven lore and magic alive, will meet together and exchange knowledge in a meeting called the Arlathvhen. During such a time, the clans will recall and record any lore they have relearned since the past meeting, they will exchange goods, people, knowledge, news, and culture, along with reiterating what lore they know already to keep their traditions as accurate and alive as possible.

Today is the day.

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"Ah. That's the truth. I haven't seen it myself, but Beleth told me all about it."

There was a style, among the Orlesians, for gluing bits onto everything, until the facade of every part of them was more buttons than substance. It was decadent, that much couldn't be denied, but in the way of a braggart more than anyone with sense. The louder your money spoke, and the more often, the less it had to say.

Maybe that was the point. Either way, it was ugly.

"Well. Most everyone knows about Arlathan these days, but it used to something everyone considered a quaint Dalish myth. We call the humans shem because their memories are so short and quick; they forget Elvhenan, and don't see why anyone else would want to do otherwise. But when Arlathan fell, Tevinter ate her, and enslaved every elf that survived, down to the last soul, as my Mother told it," His wry, sad little smile, and the helpless shrug tell their own tales. Was it really every elf, when so many elven ruins are found, in every country, and elves in every corner of the world? Likely not. But whether or not the truth is literal, the truth of it is real; it was the heart of the Elves that was enslaved, in Sorrel's faith, if not the whole of them, "We spent centuries, whole generations in chains. We became mortal, and even then short-lived, given the conditions. I don't know if it was losing the Creators that did it; many think just being around humans is enough to shorten the natural life-span, but everything except the memory and blood of Arlathan died in Tevinter. Then, one of the slave uprisings caught fire."

Ha, fire. Literally.

"Andraste would have failed without the elves. But we rose up with her, us and Shartan, who was her friend. We remember him, even when the shemlen choose to forget that an elf can be good without being theirs. Andraste promised the People the one thing we want more than anything; a homeland, a place to call our own. When she was burned and gone, and the war won, Andraste's left-behind followers tried to forget her promise to the elves, and then tried to forget that we had ever any claim to part of the victory. But..." And here Sorrel grinned, waggling a hand demonstrably about the ods of this venture. And then spread them to indicate the camp around them; small, for a gathering, but only a representative fraction of the Dalish as a whole, "...Even Andraste's army couldn't actually say no to that many angry, hungry people, when they're living right at the doorstep."

There is a truth universally recognized by all who wish to take power and hold it: any movement, regardless of its short-term power, can be killed in its cradle by the starving desperation of a peasant uprising.

"So they gave us the farthest, most unappealing part of the map they could imagine, and neither boat nor cart nor any other way to get there except walking. So, we walked. There are so many stories of people dying, and being left beside the road, starving, or being killed by bandits as they went. A lot of people never made it to the Dales, but when the rest finally reached the northernmost border, they founded a city there, and named it Halamshiral. The Journey's End."

Sorrel took a deep breath and held it, then was quiet for a few seconds, struggling, and then sighed and took another. He tried again.

"The palace there. It was supposedly the only thing left when they burned the city, and threw down the Dales. The Keeper would always say, it used to be a temple, a holy place that now only worships gold. The Chantry forgot that we had marched with Andraste, that she had called Shartan brother. So now they have the Dales, and we have... memory. And blood," He smiled again and shrugged. It was enough, really, and what would he do with hallowed halls and a city all their own? A question better left unanswered, truly, and not for lack of answers to be had, "And the vallaslin. So, it's not all hopeless, and as the last of Elvhenan, we do not forget, and we do not submit. Everything else is just politics."

"I did not know that was what it meant, Halamshiral," Galadriel replies. She had been unaware of both--the word and its translation and the meaning of the place. It is enlightening to learn this, it matters little if it is accurate or a complete tale.

"And the vallaslin, I know of, though I expect my understanding of them pales in comparison to yours. Their purpose is...to honor the gods?"

"Oh sure. Vallaslin have always been about honoring the gods. Some of the designs go all the way back to Arlathan, protected all that time, or rediscovered. But it's more than just... The gods are shut away, you know that?"

He can't help the sad, wistful tone of it. Galadriel is hard to read, her emotions, her reactions, and looking up at the grace and dignity of her, he feels very like a child. Sorrel closes his lips and looks away.

"In the Dales, most people had bare faces. But not everyone. If you were a priest, or part of a temple... If you were a Keeper. Then you would be marked. It was tradition, to show your dedication to the Creators. To honor our gods, with that dedication, the promise to keep our history, our people's way of life. When we left to wander, that's when we started marking every child's face as they grew up, to prove that if the shemlen, and their Andrastian Exalted March, that if they wanted to take our gods, they'd have to skin us to do it," His voice, at first so quiet, has risen almost to a snarl by the end, and Sorrel realizes it only too late, in the clench of his teeth, and coughs. Well. That's embarrassing, "...Sorry. That's the history of the Dalish, though. They tried to kill us and failed, so let's be as obnoxiously ourselves as we can. Repeat forever. It's the same concept, though; we're all keepers now, in our own small ways. Every one of us."

Edited 2018-08-24 19:05 (UTC)

She listens, patiently, as he speaks of the gods and their absence. She finds she is jealous of that, but she does not interrupt. His tale of the vallaslin is fascinating, as is the escalation in his tone, and she nods along as he concludes his mild tirade.

"These sentiments I understand," Galadriel assures him. They have walked some distance from Ionni, enough that they can slow and linger in the dappled shade of the trees. She does so and turns to face the aravels and the elves between them. Their conversations sound distant and just out of focus; Galadriel is grateful for the noise of them, especially as she considers how best to explain to Sorrel.

"In Arda, no elf would mark themselves so...and the reasons vary," Galadriel starts. "There are those who revere the gods, the Valar, and who would not slight them by marring the creation of Illuvatar. I cannot say I agree with them...but I would not acquire such markings either.

"You see, Sorrel, the elves of Arda have been waning--for ten thousand years we suffer under the geas of the Valar. We diminish and with it, so too diminishes the world. I would not mark myself because then...then it would be a challenge to forget. I would always be faced with a time before the marking and afterward and that time would always, no matter the joy of it, be tied into the Doom of Mandos and the decline of all I hold dear.

"I would not honor the gods because I hate them," Galadriel says, as calmly as one might announce the weather. "I hate them more than I have ever hated the darkness, than I could ever hate another being...but the Dalish. I love the Dalish, with all their pride and their obnoxious self. You are glorious and you give me such hope.

"For all I fear will come to pass, for all that we have lost, that we will lose, I can only dream that we will become as you are. If our fate is to become as the Dalish, then I have no reason to fear the coming doom."

Sorrel stared at her with eyes greener than the leaves, except at their newest, in the brief, bright youth at springtime. There was so much in that, and for a handful of breaths it was all he could do to circle the tide of ten thousand years, enough so that he couldn't even remember that first small bitterness because of course the elves of her Arda would never mark themselves. They would all be like her, pale and tall and strong and beautiful. And if the world waned over ten thousand years, they would be there to see it.

"...I won't live to see eighty," Was all he could say, at the last, and his voice came out weak, trembling and wet, like a new-born halla, though still standing— barely, "But. Why? I don't understand."

Sorrel knew why he loved the Dalish, and he understood why so many didn't. They were enemies, as seemingly inimicable as nugs and spiders, and in both cases it was the cause of nature that it should be so. Neither side could be elsewise, though one be wrong and the other right for it.

He didn't know what to think, or what to say. But how could his Creators and her Valar be the same, then? And how could she hate them? If they were not always good, they were at least on our side. If they sometimes warred, well then without them, everything had gone to the void, in chains and blood and thousands dead.

And she called this glorious?

"Why?"

His expression breaks her heart, just so, and she does not resist the urge to extend a hand at let it light on his shoulder. The movement is slight and not unkind--though she hopes he does not find it patronizing. Her smile is small, a sad thing in comparison to the bright laughter and delight from before.

"It is difficult to explain and, I fear, I may speak poorly if I try," Galadriel warns him and thinks, then, of Merrill and Siuona. Sorrel would not be the first she had told such things to, and she would welcome him no less should they meet again in the undying lands.

"But I shall try, for what glory is there in abstaining?"

She urges him to come with her, to sit beneath the trees and enjoy this world. Thedas is not so different from Arda, not in moments like this, and she is tired of wandering.

"I ask now, do you know how old I am, Sorrel? Has that knowledge been passed to you?"

"You just said ten thousand years, as if that's even a real number of years," Sorrel said, in outrage, because he was upset enough that hid good sense had had to go have a lie-down, leaving his mouth unattended and free to do as it pleased, "That's like a fairy-story, that's fake, you'd tell that to a child who wouldn't let you get away with saying never."

He's gesticulating now, and only when she touches him does he remember that he's not alone, and is drawing attention. Sorrel colors, pink at the tips of his ears, and clamps down on the impulse. He used to be so good at repressing, he spent years being quiet and dutiful and good. What happened to him? Why could he never do anything but be a disgrace? Eighty years, what was he even talking about, he'd be grateful to see the ground open up and spare him the next eighty seconds, if it'd save him the humilation. Not that it ever would. He grit his teeth at the ground and pressed it all down again. Repress, damn you!

"I'm sorry. I. I'm sorry. Sorry."

His outrage is a first and it startles a real smile out of her--fortunately she restrains herself before she laughs. He stills himself, or tries, and flushes pink as he does. She wants to reassure him, to tell him that his brightness, the fervor that runs through him, is part of what she adores about the elves of Thedas, but that will certainly be taken wrong.

"Do not apologize," Galadriel says quietly and leans forward just so. "I am related to more figures of mythology than I care to name. Your assessment is not wrong."

She lets her hand linger a moment and then, as calmly as she extended it, withdraws it to her lap. She can relate many things in conversation, but physical contact when speaking of the eldest days is...uncomfortably grounding. Those days need no aid to be real and full of terror.

"In truth, I do not know how old I am--time was strange ere the days of dawn, before the sun rose over the world. I know that first sunrise was fifteen thousand years ago, or near to it, and that three ages of the earth have passed since that first day.

"I was far older than you when that day came, perhaps older than many of the countries of Thedas, but that is an ancient reckoning and I've no desire to parse it," she admits and lifts her shoulders in some delicate approximation of a shrug.

"I was born in the Undying Lands, in Aman, the Elvenhome. Even by our reckoning, I am exceptionally old and I have seen glories that most of the Eldar are removed from by an Age or more. I have seen what it was to be an elf at the very height of our glory, at the very peak of our power and grace. I was raised beneath the boughs of the trees that lit the world and I watched as they were first cast down and darkness fell upon all things.

"I watched as the Valar did precious little, as one of their number tore the world apart for glory, and followed as we sought to right things. There were wars, great and terrible, with deaths beyond the numbers of Thedas, and I was present for most. I have known such elves, such heroes and villains, and have seen them face their deaths. They are taken and we are slowly worn away by the doom that lingers around us.

"I have met young elves, elves who will never know a fraction of what I know, who stand taller than the greatest of those heroes. Who would not have failed where the elder had perished...and because of the gods, they will never burn so brightly as those before them, not if they should live to see the ending of the world."

She pauses then, her gaze a bit distant, and draws a slow breath. She cannot think too long on her grandchildren, on her daughter, or on those who live in Lorien still. It will bring her too near to grief and Sorrel does not deserve her silence.

"It is not great age that makes us elves. It is not glory, nor power, nor knowledge of the far past that feeds our souls," She continues. "Something else beats in the heart of us, Sorrel, and it is only great age that allows me to see it. It has taken me all my life, it has taken my coming here and meeting the Dalish, but I can see in you the same flame that lights the Eldar, renewed.

"You burn brighter than we do. You are a brilliant wildfire, one that sparks to life and changes the world, where we are an eternal candle lit in a still place. We are different, but you are our kin. You are my relation just as those heroes were, as my family is, and I revel in that. I do not yet understand you, but I see it in your hearts as easily as I see the sun above us or the stars in the sky.

"You are my cousin and I love you dearly."

All this long story passed through him like the knife of a winter wind, cold and cutting, undeniable. It was in him to deny the whole thing, brush it off for false, because it was so fantastical. The shape of it kept falling into impossible shapes in his mind, configurations that led nowhere, and had no meaning at all.

Because it wasn't the kind of story that came from living creatures. It was something out of the Fade, something a Creator would have seen, a world before dawn, and then the first sunrise. He had to remember by force, like swallowing a too-large bite, that Galadriel was no god, only a Rifter. Part of him wondered helplessly if she weren't simply the world's best fraud, and had been waiting all this time to spring the story on him, having held it so long in her mind, and embellished each detail in all her idle moments.

"That..." He stops, thinking, choosing his words carefully, "...that doesn't explain... anything. I think I'm more confused than before I asked."

Change the world? Heroes? None of it made any sense, as a whole, or in pieces. Deserving or no, he might like a little of her silence, of only to be of use making sense of the opposite state of being.

"Why me, though? And don't say the thing about fires again."

She has spoken earnestly and from the heart, dredging old memories to explain this to him. His expression is pained in his confusion and then, after pondering his words, he complains about her answer. Galadriel cannot help but laugh, bright and bubbling as he demands she rephrase what she has said--that he has demanded clarity of her is beyond all reason.

She laughs longer than is polite, honestly, but it is a happy sound.

"Ai! Mellon nin, I cannot explain it, it is too obvious!" She protests brightly. "You are refreshing and clever and I like speaking with you. I cannot detail why; I know not how!"

"So now you're making fun of me," he replies, willing to let her smile be infectious, "I see how it is."

Love, so strong a word. He couldn't see the merely part of it, that thing so large, and with such power, that it could change everything about the world, and barely be noticed doing so. But he could smile for Galadriel, and let the story lie. Sorrel would go over it all later, in his head, and decide how he felt, studying it the way he'd studied under his Keeper. And then he might have some questions.

But not, he thought, today.

"Tell me what that means? Mellon nin."

She takes his reply for teasing, the same sort he had given to Ionni, and her smile persists as he speaks.

"Mellon is the Sindar word for friend, nin means mine, my own," Galadriel answers readily. "I would be happy to teach you more, if you have an interest in languages."

It does occur to her that she has taken a liberty, one she might not have had he been Eldar.

"I have not overstepped my bounds, have I? Calling you friend?"

"Well," He says, after a moment of thought. Maybe she never would, but it didn't hurt to try and make Galadriel sweat a little. Someone who goes around claiming tens of thousands of years ought to have the patience for it, "We would say, ma falon."

And then he smiles for her, a little lopsided, tugged down on the scarred side.

"So, not at all. And I'd love to learn, if you have time to teach me."

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Player Plot: The Arlathvhen

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