The part of her that thinks, sort of no, briefly relieved that by her word Ennaris can't hear that thought particularly — that part does not answer to captain. That part can scarcely believe that she is thirty years of age, and has a profession, and cannot turn over this question to someone responsible because it is fucking her. She has turned around and discovered that she is, herself, the adult in the room.
It's less disorienting each time, but not none. Resignedly aware that in saying so she puts her own arse on the line in the event that this goes horribly tits up and she finds herself called to account by Commander Rowntree, she does not say, I'd kind of rather not, but instead:
“Yes, I'd like that.” For a given value of thinking she will deserve it if she's made a fool of for sticking her neck out— but she's done it, and so.
Her head tilts. She studies her, with that one remaining eye, and after a beat says, “At one time I had family here by way of my ex-husband. One of them, she did that, too.” It didn't not frighten her; the rising panic in her throat that she had ruthlessly quashed, trusting Thranduil, trusting those he trusted. Knowing Galadriel to be so ancient as to be far fucking beyond her ability to scold, would be still if she were here now Gwenaëlle is Captain Baudin, and had demonstrated on more than one occasion her willingness to fuck with the Inquisition. Her discretion in how.
Galadriel had been long gone by the end of her marriage, so she had never had to reckon with the fact of losing that connection in that way, and it crosses her mind now, a fleeting pang of loss. But to her point, “She was clever and she was discreet. I know that you can be both of those things.”
Believe, maybe, but it feels like she could use the bolstering of someone else's certainty. Gwenaëlle, already committed—
“We need every advantage we can get. Just make sure that that's what it is.”
no subject
It's less disorienting each time, but not none. Resignedly aware that in saying so she puts her own arse on the line in the event that this goes horribly tits up and she finds herself called to account by Commander Rowntree, she does not say, I'd kind of rather not, but instead:
“Yes, I'd like that.” For a given value of thinking she will deserve it if she's made a fool of for sticking her neck out— but she's done it, and so.
Her head tilts. She studies her, with that one remaining eye, and after a beat says, “At one time I had family here by way of my ex-husband. One of them, she did that, too.” It didn't not frighten her; the rising panic in her throat that she had ruthlessly quashed, trusting Thranduil, trusting those he trusted. Knowing Galadriel to be so ancient as to be far fucking beyond her ability to scold, would be still if she were here now Gwenaëlle is Captain Baudin, and had demonstrated on more than one occasion her willingness to fuck with the Inquisition. Her discretion in how.
Galadriel had been long gone by the end of her marriage, so she had never had to reckon with the fact of losing that connection in that way, and it crosses her mind now, a fleeting pang of loss. But to her point, “She was clever and she was discreet. I know that you can be both of those things.”
Believe, maybe, but it feels like she could use the bolstering of someone else's certainty. Gwenaëlle, already committed—
“We need every advantage we can get. Just make sure that that's what it is.”