If Myr had wandered out of the Gallows and into the Golden City, he could not be more surprised nor wider-eyed than he is now. (It's a surprise driven in no small part by contrast; this is worlds away from the horrors he's been feeling, the obscenities that throng the Gallows with the Veil thinned nearly to nothing.)
He sets his foot down, caught as he was mid-step by the sudden vision, and stares unashamedly at the peacock-bright elves, the brilliant walls, the tree set in the center like a vhenadahl kissed by the Maker's grace itself. It suggests things, conjures things, that Sorrel's description of what elves had been never could; Myr's only the hints in Thranduil's stories to lead the idea the elvhen could be so noble as--
As this. "O Creating Glory," he breathes. "Where is this?"
iii
If Myr had wandered out of the Gallows and into the Golden City, he could not be more surprised nor wider-eyed than he is now. (It's a surprise driven in no small part by contrast; this is worlds away from the horrors he's been feeling, the obscenities that throng the Gallows with the Veil thinned nearly to nothing.)
He sets his foot down, caught as he was mid-step by the sudden vision, and stares unashamedly at the peacock-bright elves, the brilliant walls, the tree set in the center like a vhenadahl kissed by the Maker's grace itself. It suggests things, conjures things, that Sorrel's description of what elves had been never could; Myr's only the hints in Thranduil's stories to lead the idea the elvhen could be so noble as--
As this. "O Creating Glory," he breathes. "Where is this?"