persephone sits in a courtroom dress as green as summer trees her lipstick red as blood

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Baudin, Thranduil, assorted guests.
WHAT: It's a nice day for a white wedding.
WHEN: Haring 30th / Wintermarch 1st
WHERE: The de Coucy residence, Hightown.
NOTES: The OOC post. Your character wasn't in the chapel unless you play Romain, Coupe or Legolas. Post co-authored with rowancrowned. Questions section of the OOC post still open! This is a mingle log; top level, tag amongst yourselves, hit us up if you have particular needs or desires.

Despite the events of the previous month, the winter's afternoon wedding of Gwenaëlle Baudin and Provost Thranduil proceeds as planned—or at least, close enough that any last minute discrepancies are invisible to the eye of oblivious guests (and indeed the bride, having taken approximately zero interest in the planning). In the ongoing absence of a suitable Chantry, the ceremony itself takes place in the modest chapel within the home to a select few witnesses hand-selected—chosen mainly to avoid any untoward rumours that it might not have been done properly, including the acting Viscount, the Gallows Forces commander, and a handful of others whose stature within Kirkwall lends them the sort of credibility this wedding is in dire need of being lent.

With the ballroom ripped out and redesigned for another purpose, the estate doesn’t possess the space to host the number of guests invited to the post-ceremony fete, instead making use of the courtyard in its center. Guests are shepherded there, and are not entirely left out of the wedding itself when they are joined by the happy couple to publicly sign the legal documents some who've not previously attended weddings between people with money may never have seen before. To ward off the midwinter cold—to varying degrees of success, based on one’s proximity to them—braziers have been set up at intervals throughout the garden everywhere but the space cleared for those moved to dance, and servants in de Coucy colors bring round trays of small, hot food and enough drinks to stave off the worst of the chill.

The decorations betray the groom’s tastes over the bride's. Holly and juniper and other such evergreens make up the majority of the arrangements, bright red berries a better ornament than the inexcusable expense of hothouse flowers. There is the underlying reminder that both halves of the couple are Inquisition members, in the smart dress uniforms that half the guests wear as they mingle with the better part of Kirkwall society.

This is a pageant, the diplomatic arm of the Inquisition flexing the agreement made with the Rifters and also the normalcy it seeks to restore. But it is a pretty pageant, and an easy excuse to wear something stunning and dance and eat food purchased with Orlesian coin—and, perhaps, to enquire about making a donation to the Inquisition in support.

Comments

thranduil | equally ota

[rowancrowned]

i. receiving line.

Thranduil greets the various guests with a smile and a murmured welcome, Gwenaëlle close enough to his side that her skirts are crushed against his hip. Thranduil remains in the same thing he wore for the ceremony, resplendent in a white silk robe ending at the thigh and a collar opened to reveal the hollow of his throat. The firelight catches on the silk, sets it aglow in the same way that it dances off snow, off ice, off the white embroidery at the cuffs and the real silver on his fingers, and the brooch at his neck. His hair falls down his back, unbraided, a counterpoint to Gwenaëlle’s veil, the two of them complementing one another in their choice in color.

He smiles, demurs, laughs politely, charming enough to offset (he hopes) any lingering misgivings about either rifters or elven rifters. Eventually, the line is whittled down from various Hightown nobles or other important guests to those in the Inquisition—or with close enough ties to the Inquisition that he does not need to lean so hard upon the eyelash batting.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, formalities partially dismissed with, but his gaze a bit warmer for it.

ii. dancing.

The bride’s Orlesian heritage cannot be avoided, and the party certainly cannot exclude dancing. The newlyweds dance first, after which Gwenaëlle temporarily retreats, but Thranduil stays on, politely taking several partners around the floor, making polite conversation—a pattern that will see itself repeating several times over the evening as Gwenaëlle excuses herself immediately after or before that sort of entanglement, and Thranduil inserts himself in her place with enthusiasm enough to make up for it.

iii. drinking.

All the machinations, all the careful maneuvers, had, in some way or another, led to this. Granted, he still had irons in the fire, and this was but the first step of a long march, but small victories could be savored along the way, and towards the end of the night—or, rather, in the early hours of the new year—Thranduil savors his triumph, and a glass of the Duc’s wine, sitting one of the scattered chairs with a posture that hints at kingly.

It’s well and good. It isn’t as if everyone else has been abstaining from Romain’s hospitality, and he is a newly-wed with a beautiful new wife, a comfortable position in the Inquisition, and, as far as anyone needs to concern themselves with his plans, a desire for nothing more, having secured his future.

The fires in the braziers are dying down, and the chill is starting to bite at fingers and noses, but Thranduil, caught alone for the first time this evening, relaxes, eyes settled on the other side of the courtyard, glass at his lips, seeing and not seeing.

iv. open.

_{create your own.}

ii

[dirth]

Solas is not here from personal desire but from a promise he had made to someone he had once called friend.

It's obvious that he is not as entirely comfortable with being here, with being dressed so fine. It's the outfit that Thranduil had purchased for him, because not even Solas is damnable enough to come to something as fanciful as a wedding without at least attempting to fit in, a glass of wine in his hand and his fingers curling around the stem of it with a small frown on his face.

He is here and made an attempt to prove that he was not as frustrated with his old friend as he had once been, the curl of hair around his jawbone necklace enough to soothe some of the aches. His hand does not quite reach to stroke over it, some kind of fanciful motion to soothe in the midst of all the people, nobility that he would never normally find himself mixed with, but it is a close thing.

Lifting his head, he deliberately catches Thranduil's eye as he pauses between dances. Look, it says. I am here, as promised, and now I shall go. There are better things for him to do, he thinks, than attend a wedding that it pains him to be at, his heart on his sleeve for Thranduil as it has ever been.

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil will have the full measure of what he paid for.

He cannot be escaped so easily as that. There is, doubtless, some measure of subterfuge employed that takes him from across the floor to silently beside Solas a beat or two later, some twisting of the air to allow him to escape notice from those in the crowd who might want to wish him well. His hand settles at Solas' hip, steers him back to the floor with the gentlest of pressures, most of the movement Thranduil's. He offers the other- the shard-bearing hand- palm up.

He is the taller of the two of them. It is best he leads, if they are to dance.

[dirth]

He would escape if it was possible for him to, there is no denying that. Having agreed to show his face, Solas would have been content to making sure that he was seen and not heard in any particularly way. Clearly, he was mistaken in thinking that was possible when Thranduil is as determined as he is.

Given the formality of the moment and the fact that he has been trying, quite hard, to act as though there was no discord between them in public, Solas allows it to happen. He allows the hand on his waist, allows his own to be held, allows himself to be lead. He is shorter; he would likely allow Galadriel the same prerogative had she asked.

There is warmth when his finger touches the anchor shard. It's soothing as much as it is unsettling.

"One," he comments, voice low. "That will do."

iii

[limier]

"Congratulations are due," It's tempting to tip a glass over him. "No one threw a punch."

Emeric's absence. Even so. She eyes him a moment before easing into the seat beside. The creak of joints, a breath.

"To your health."

Some irony in that.

[rowancrowned]

"To yours," he says. To Casimir, who he ought to bring some cake, because that seems to be shaping up to be the next great 'who, me?' of Thranduil's life.

But he is wedded and well and taps his glass gently against hers, the chime of glass merry in the sparkling courtyard, and he says, "I am happy."

[limier]

"Hold to it."

Happiness. Nothing here stays; the creep of a smile to know they needn’t say as much. The war may be distant of an hour.

"I’ve something for you." It takes stiff fingers a moment to come up with the carefully-folded page. "Do not open it now."

Lays a palm to his elbow.

"Just hold to this."

[rowancrowned]

He tucks the paper into his coat. Not close to his heart, because that is not where the robe has pockets, but somewhere more secure. He won’t embarrass either of them with profuse thanks or an acknowledgement—this being the greatest measure of his gratitude.

“I will keep it in my heart,” forever, or however long Thedas deems forever to be. And he will, every detail, to be drawn on when he needs to remember why he does what he does, when it gets hard and he must grit his teeth and continue on. For this, for her, for them.

“Will you be leaving us soon to return to the Gallows?” he asks.

d..rinking i guess.

[tofindthesun]

It isn't Dorwinion, but that itself is already a special enough brew that Legolas doesn't expect to see a similar quality. To be honest, he much prefers their local fruit wines for regular drinking.

Then again, this is a wedding, and the wine is...

Well. It's not Dorwinion. But.

'Not Dorwinion' still doesn't mean it's polite to drink as much as he can stomach, so he excuses himself from some very interesting gossip (if by interesting we mean that he finds it engaging but otherwise liable to make him down wine by the bottle) to swing by the area he last saw his father at.

And there are chairs. Which Legolas conveniently does not sit on, properly, and instead perches (properly) on the armrest of one nearest to Thranduil. To see if he should interrupt his lord's thoughts, or let him be idle a while longer.

But he speaks, eventually. "..You suit the wedded life well, I think."

He thinks. Because his memories of both his parents are daringly few, and it's only been, what, a few hours since the ceremony itself. Although if they go by Elvish tradition, Thranduil and Gwen have no doubt been 'wedded' for some time now, but that's none of Legolas's business, so he just reaches over to smooth out some of Thranduil's hair gone astray.

correct guess

[rowancrowned]

Too many nights were spent with his thoughts on Legolas’ safety for him not to simply appreciate the proximity of his son, content to have him perched there, his presence easing Thranduil’s mind and heart.

When Legolas does speak, Thranduil turns to look at him. He mimics the Men here intentionally, puts them at ease or tries to with freer expressions, less-restrained speech, no luxury of aloofness granted. But his smile is not a manufactured thing, even if it is but slight—the genuine contentment is in the ease with which he holds himself, the look in his eye.

Just for now, he has won, and can savor his victory with those he cares for.

“Do you?” He tilts his head, watches Legolas. And—Legolas wouldn’t know, but he will come to.

He lets his son set his hair to rights, nods his head by degrees in thanks, and looks back out over the garden at the crowd. “You are enjoying yourself?”

[tofindthesun]

He wouldn't call it odd to see Thranduil more open and emotive now than before-- Legolas has long since learned to read even the slightest minutiae in Thranduil's expression. It is strange, though, not having to do that. He misses it. It was kind of like a game.

(Legolas himself has never tried that same brand of aloofness. His face gets stiff after the first few minutes.)

"Well," he says, with a quirk of his head like a songbird, "it has been barely been a single night. I did not know there was such a difference between being wedded and unwedded."

The legal documents were a new thing, from what he could hear of them. He can't recall if Aragorn and Arwen had anything of the sort-- but perhaps those had been done ahead of time, or were done after. Legolas isn't much one for human customs, or Mannish.

But Thranduil has been here several years. Legolas would not question that judgment.

"Mannish weddings are dull," he says, too bright to be a real complaint. Despite the Elvish accents and decor, it is... Mannish. "The dance is enjoyable, at least. Lady Gwen dances well enough for the both of us, and for my restless feet no less. But my heart is light, and glad to see my father in better spirits."

It's been rough. The planning and the battle and all.

because everyone else is drinking,

[faithlikeaseed]

Southern winters are damnably cold. Magic is damnably convenient for fixing that.

But it would be poor form indeed to put fright to any soul not used to the idea of mages free of their Circles, and Myr's keenly aware of exactly all he represents here tonight. Even after hours, so long as he's still in the uniform. Once all such souls have tendered their goodbyes and departed, though--

He does not have a drink in hand as he approaches Thranduil through the evening gloom, only sparks drawn from the Fade to rekindle the nearest of the braziers--ever the northern flower, Myr takes the free seat closest to it. Perches on the edge as if he might be off again at any second, but more for the charge the evening's left him with than any thought he'd be shooed away.

"That went well--and congratulations. No more fitting beginning to a life in the Chant."

The words are earnest and without guile. Whatever Myr knows of the bride's feelings on the Chantry, whatever he worries at in the back of his mind about the groom, it hasn't a place here at the wedding feast.

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil smiles by reflex, pleased by the easy way Myrobalan makes himself comfortable: lights the fire, chooses what would be a precarious seat without his sight.

“Thank you for your well-wishes,” he demurs. Myrobalan is correct. It did go well—exactly as Thranduil hoped. Bland, even, would have been acceptable. The circumstances themselves were all that would have been needed to make the event memorable.

“And you?” he asks. “You have been well? I regret that I have not seen you as often as I would have liked, between Ghislain and preparations for this.”

[faithlikeaseed]

"I've been well," Myr affirms, smiling a little wider to say it as something more than politesse. To realize in that moment he has been well at last, after the abbey and Ghislain and all; glad to be here and see two friends wed and evidence of the world moving forward just a little.

Ah, hope. That's what having it back felt like. The stars are still shining; His Light remains. "And I share your regret; I've missed our talks. I'd hoped my new duties would leave me a little more time than they have," but, but. He tips out a hand to let that thought go; they're here now. "I am sorry they've taken me from Research almost entire."

[rowancrowned]

“You have been,” he says, delicately, “adjusting well?”

He has easily spent the same amount of time that he has been in Thedas without seeing a human—without leaving his Halls—in the last century. He has adjusted (all around him, proof that he has adapted) but for Myrobalan, time has been different. Disruptive. Strange. There is no way to have the whole of this conversation here, now, but they might start it, Thranduil might at least offer a chance to have the whole of the thing by insinuation now—

“We might take supper together,” he offers carelessly. “With or without my wife—” how he savors that, like a cat that’s got the cream, “—as you please. I will speak with whomever has stolen you away, if they might protest.”

He no longer has quite the same lure, now that Myrobalan is restored.