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( the blank look she gives him isn't offended by his dismissal, or chastened by it, because it wasn't—because it's normal. because they weren't dramatics, because it was so long before she realised anyone else lived any other way, and then afterwards comforted herself that it was orlais, so probably mostly they didn't, anyway.

the sky is blue and the mother who was allowed to hold her didn't want to; it is a hurt that she has held so close as to become comforting. it doesn't feel revealing to speak of it to him, she had simply taken it for granted that—based on the rest of their conversation so far—it would be normal to him, too.

and it is, that's apparent, but probably so are the histrionics of silly rich girls, so. )

You've got it the wrong way around, ( is what she says, instead. ) What exactly would displaying my displeasure have got me in Orlais except having it known what displeased me?

( everyone smiling at her, knives hidden in their fans and behind their backs—when she had something to protect, she had ample motive to try much harder than she does now. but they took all the things from her that they valued to take, and she had tried, and tried, and tried and she is so tired of trying to be things she isn't. )

Less than nothing is much less interesting. Why am I supposed to be polite, now? People will ask after me. And I can tell them to fuck off if I want to.

Edited (gwen has too many moms we have to be clearer) 2018-09-17 03:35 (UTC)

And suffer every moment of it.

[ He cocks an eyebrow at her. ]

Squirming under their attention.

Now, you see,

( she points. under his chin. mostly because she is quite small, so that's just sort of where pointing ends up, they're both on horses, there's no real advantage here. )

You see, that would be a compelling counter-argument, if your proposed alternative wasn't 'also suffering, with the added embarrassment of constant failure'. I have a great deal of experience with trying it your way, and it wasn't better.

( quieter, unhappy: ) It wasn't better.

So then we return to my earliest proposal.

[ He reaches out with his long arms and, easily, taps the tip of her finger. Which quite wrecks the ferocity of her gesture. There are few things worse than a small, slight woman being booped. ]

Stop playing at any of this at all.

( there is something comical about the way her nose screws up like a rabbit and she slaps at his hand—probably better not to comment, though, considering.

emeric gave her a velveteen rabbit when she was small, never thinking. it's sort of funny, in retrospect, but the sort of joke that you laugh about to yourself, and then don't repeat because the worst thing isn't that they don't laugh, it's the pity. )

I'm doing it my way, ( with a mulishness that emeric was never stripped so bare to without first the application of hard liquor. ) It might be shit and it might not work, but it is at least my way.

Are you?

[ He cradles his hand to his chest, mock-nursing it after that terrible blow. ]

"I am unlike you," cries day to night, "in every way." But the thing is, my lady, they're merely opposite. And the opposite of a thing is still that thing. To truly break away from the night, daytime must become a river, or it must become a dream, or it must become a dog barking at a frog. Do you see?

No!

( an annoyed groan, tilting her head back, her braid tumbling over her shoulder and the loose curls at the end bouncing. if she were standing and not on horseback (and not still limping without support), she might turn in an angry little circle, adrift— )

There is no fucking winning. I can't leave, if I could leave I wouldn't leave because I have things to do, ( and people she cares about, ) I've never been good at any of those things so I'm not trying to be any more but trying to stay out of its way isn't good enough either, and I can't even abandon it the way that would be sufficiently ideologically pure for you because I married a dirty great elf who is at any given moment up to his fucking balls in seventeen different fucking intrigues, so I have to...find some kind of balance, and I don't see why burning it all the fuck down isn't an option.

( she slaps her hand down on percy's backside, prompting an offended sound and a few steps, but not more than that; this is not an inquisition mount, unfamiliar with her rider, but a beast well acquainted with her mistress's temperament.

and dramatics. )

I am doing my fucking best. Fuck you.

But you're making so many mistakes, milady.

[ He lifts his hand to his mouth, then, smoothing down his mustache. His gaze is steady and intense. He plays at the Game, yes, but he's not an Orlesian; he does not do intrigue for the sake of intrigue, does not play for the sake of playing. There's always something more to it for him. ]

So very many mistakes. You're doing harm to yourself and to others in your confusion and frustration and unhappiness. Do you think the world truly allows you any leeway for those mistakes?

I am well fucking aware it does not.

( and that's what makes this worse—she can't argue with his premise, it's not unfair. she isn't good at this. she makes mistakes. hadn't thranduil told her as much himself? hadn't her own maker-damned husband told her he has to keep secrets from her because they both know she can't—

but it was never for lack of trying. didn't she owe them that? hadn't her mothers given up so much for her; didn't they deserve her best effort? her life was not her own to squander, it was their every sacrifice embodied and she had been a poor trade. a waste. everything they built for her slipped through her fingers because so much had always relied upon no one looking, and she had raised herself up here, cocky. trusted her father's confidence one last time. )

I don't need you to tell me any of that. You're not telling me anything useful.

Actually -

[ His face softens, abruptly, in a smile. ]

Actually, it does. Forgiveness comes as easily and as inevitably as the tide, dear lady.

( gwenaëlle, who is certain she's never forgiven anyone, stares at him as if he's speaking an alien language. perhaps one from beyond a rift. )

[ Which draws a laugh from him. He grins, and shakes his head. ]

Dear heart. If you stopped trying to drown yourself in the sea, perhaps you would notice that the water was only waist-deep. - Shall we ride on? I weary of this view.

[ He kicks his mare into a jaunty trot. ]

( it drowned everyone i loved—

even in her own head it sounds like something he would only laugh at again. she stares furiously after him for not nearly long enough before she wheels poor beleaguered percy around to follow.

sulking. )

[ He fills the silence. Quite easily. He is chatty indeed when it suits him. ]

Ah, is that - ? That plant there. Is that blooming hawthorn? I can never remember whether that's pleasant when eaten, or whether it's poison. I expect that'll kill me someday. Do you ride this way often?

( curtly, )

No.

( it's been quite rare since the shift to kirkwall her to go out other than for the express purpose of reaching a destination; this is, probably, the first time it's ever happened. )

To Sundermount, sometimes.

Do you not ride for pleasure?

[ He blinks at her in mock-horror. ]

Dear lady. No wonder you've gone so pale and sickly-looking. Doesn't your lord husband see to your health? Make sure you take the air?

I don't know if you've noticed, but we are in Kirkwall.

And...?

And the pleasure of riding is in leaving Kirkwall.

( like, duh. )

Bilious lady of my heart, Kirkwall holds innumerable pleasures. Tell me - have you ever gambled?

Edited 2018-09-17 13:40 (UTC)

( what an irritatingly, impolitely accurate description of her. )

You're mixing me up for my lord. Taller, more irresponsible.

[ He looks over at her, eyebrows raised. ]

Never? Not even once?

( relenting— )

Not for money.

Ah-hah.

[ Delighted - ]

What did you wager?

( without batting an eye; )

Sexual favours.

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