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WHO: Galadriel, Zevran
WHAT: Chatting before the departure for the Emprise Du Lion
WHEN: Backdated slightly, early to mid-Wintersmarch.
WHERE: Skyhold: Great Hall

Galadriel's schedule was nothing if not predictable. She made no attempt to hide her movements in Skyhold, not on whole, and was extremely easy to locate. Her mornings were spent watching the sunrise in the garden, mid-mornings saw her reading in the Rotunda, mid-day she spent outdoors, and in the afternoons and evenings she retired to further the tasks she had taken on.

There were only a few tasks she carried out, and all of them were the sort that could be trusted to the untrustworthy. Many in Skyhold still suspected that the rift-folk were demons, after all, and she could not blame them for their caution. Redundant as they were, she did her tasks as dutifully as anyone else, and was otherwise left to her own devices.

At current, there was little to occupy her, so she had taken to spinning fine gold thread. The blacksmiths had been kind enough to reduce several coins (all the gold she had gained in these lands) to little more than flakes. With great care, Galadriel wound them into the silk fibers she had acquired from the merchants in the yard and hand spun a considerable length of thread.

It was a mundane task, apart from the bowl of fine golden flakes at her elbow, but it was pleasant and calming. The afternoon light streamed beautifully through the stained glass windows of the great hall. Very few people paid her any mind and Galadriel ignored them in kind as she worked.

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A glaive?

The word was marked as he provided it and her appreciation for his cleverness grew. It was possible he had seen her practicing with Krem, for she did so on occasion, but she had only ever wielded the lackluster practice staves and serviceable halberds that the Inquisition stocked. Even if he had witnessed her sparing, assessing her favored weapon from brief bouts of combat was no small achievement.

A glaive would serve her well in the Emprise. She was not particularly eager to face one of the great worms, if the creatures in Thedas resembled them at all, but a properly fashioned weapon greatly eased her concern. She was uncertain if she could slay one without the full use of her power, even armed and armored, but anything less than a dragon would not be a threat.

"How fortunate," Galadriel said. "I am diminished, somewhat, from the prowess of my youth but speed has ever been my preference."

Galadriel regarded the thread wrapped around her fingers and, in a gentle motion that was largely inexplicable, she rolled it free of them and, in doing so, had tied it into a strangely looped knot. She wound the remaining thread onto the spindle in her lap and set it aside on the table.

"Come, let me see what you have gathered so I may properly praise your keenness," Galadriel encouraged fondly and rose from the table.

The Inquisition was not Lorien, that Galadriel recognized. There were many who would steal any valuables left about, for want or need if not malice, but none had been so bold as to pilfer anything from her. She expected it was due, in part if not entirely, to the fact that she was from the rifts. What she made was distinctive, even something so mundane as spun golden thread, and thus was to be avoided. That she inherently wove magic into whatever she worked was a coincidence that only served as a greater deterrent.

None would steal from her for fear they might spontaneously contract demons. It was an idea that was both amusing and useful. So far she had not seen fit to disabuse anyone of this notion.

"Though I do wonder why you have decided to do me such a kindness. I was ill armed, true, but this is quite an exceptional gift you give."

Even as observant and dexterous as he is- whatever strange twist she managed with her fingers and that thread? He missed. The knot is strange to him and he could not replicate the gesture even if he tried. That was...disconcerting, but simply another shade of 'other' that encompassed the entirety of Galadriel all the more so.

Comforting and strange, but- he attempted to squash the knee jerk reaction to assuming she was patronizing him or worse, humoring him. It was true they did not know one another well by design. She was fine and fair and kind and wept for this world and he...

He was everything that was wrong in it, save for mages.

All the blood and loss and pain and sorrow boiled down into one displaced elf. He could not stand giving her reason to grieve. So he spoke little of his past. Kept the shadow away from her light.

"...Perhaps I wish a favor to be paid back some time in the future." A jest made easily as he bid her follow to the armory. "I simply...wished for you to be prepared. Others have been arming themselves and we elves must care for our own. Even if you are not of Thedas I did not think anyone had taken steps to see you properly outfitted."

In Arda there were none who lived that would jest so with Galadriel; to suggest that she grant some future favor, undecided in both shape and severity, was a truly singular event. Her step hitched in surprise as she walked with him--it took a moment before she realized it was a joke; he didn't know what he requested--and how could he? They were in Thedas, as all their conversation made perfectly clear.

In Thedas there was one, at least, who would risk so easy a tone and so grave a suggestion to Galadriel. She was uncertain how to feel about it, but she was not angry. His joke was jarring, true, but even if he held her to it, he lacked the malice to truly do harm with a favor from her. It was jesting, little more.

"What kind things your words are," Galadriel commented as they strode through the hall. "Thus far no elf of Thedas has called me kin, even at my insistence. It gladdens me to hear you think otherwise."

But, that was neither the point of the conversation, nor of his answer, and Galadriel let it go. They were speaking of battle and preparedness, of arms and armor, and of Dragons.

"Have you faced a dragon, mellon nin? You speak as though you have experienced them."

"Well you are at least a head taller, a fair deal grander, and far more regal than any elf we know of has any right to be. Not even the Dalish hold themselves with such grace. Here we are diminished, if we ever were like you and yours- but that does not change the fact that you are an elf. So long as it does not offend you to consider us your kin, I see no reason to call you anything else." Aside from Bright Lady- for she was just that.

He led her to the armory, to a back table where he'd set out that which he'd commissioned for her. The armor may likely take some adjusting, but the glaive was more than ready. At her question he snorted a laugh.

"Ah- yes. More than one, and they were more than enough. High dragons are terrible things- Archdemons? All the more so. I have faced both and come away alive."

Zevran was alight with compliments, the like of which made her smile; if they were insincere, he was skilled enough that she could not detect the lie in him. They reached the back table of the armory in good time; the surface was obscured for all the weapons on it, but Zevran's gifts were made clear.

The armor was of an unfamiliar make, but reminiscent of the elves of Thedas. She had seen no Dalish warriors, not clad thus, but she would gladly wear something in their style. To test it for fit would require a great deal less modesty than those of Thedas employed, so she set it back down after examining it. The glaive, however, received all of her attention.

"This will serve me well," she announced as she lifted the weapon and twisted it gently. Once she had inspected the blade, she cast a look at Zevran.

"High Dragons? Archdemons?" Galadriel asked and her brows crept upward as she did. What she imagined, when such words were uttered, were likely not the creatures that Zevran meant. Her first conversation with Korrin had taught her to restrict her imagination...but it was a difficult task.

"I cannot say I have fought either. I cannot imagine surviving one, let alone both." She stepped away from the table and Zevran as she tested the balance of the glaive. It wove between her fingers as easily as water cascading over rocks. It was a very fine weapon. "You must be a fearsome warrior or a truly lucky fool, mellon nin."

"A dragon fully grown, always female, always large and angry. Incredibly powerful and quite old." More often than not. "Teeth the size of my head, it does get the blood going; facing one of these creatures."

She did have the right of it, that he was terribly lucky. The odd quirk of survival was one he questioned on a daily basis but it was what it was. An odd quirk he took advantage of for living? Was quite wonderful at the moment. A little sad, a little strange, a little daunting- but these things were a constant for him. Were life ever truly good he would become immediately suspicious. As things were still awry? He could trust the truth of it.

"An Archdemon is a blighted dragon, one tainted much in the way of Darkspawn. Only Grey Wardens can kill them; but I aided in the battle none the less. Someone needed to man the ballista." Not the most glamorous tactic, but one that worked. "I was fortunate to be in a company of warriors that knew what they were about."

Somehow.

They stumbled through it, more or less.

Galadriel was not so unkind that she would interrupt him, but it was a near thing. As of yet, no one had given her a scale by which to measure dragons, nor explained that one might be blighted. The latter of that information was still lacking but the measure Zevran had provided made Galadriel still with shock. She stared at him as he finished and, wide eyed with surprise, she let out a laugh that was most impolite.

It bubbled up out of her, incredulous and uneasy, and was terribly hard to stay.

"Teeth the size of your head?" Galadriel repeated and lowered the glaive. The butt of the weapon clinked against the stone floor and she found herself leaning on it as she tried to school the bemused expression from her face. Her eyes were apologetic, even as she stifled her laughter.

"Saesamin, forgive me, I cannot help myself," she explained and, sadly, sounded rather mirthful as she did. "Your accomplishments are great, of that I have no doubt, but I had no idea they were so...small."

"Well I am sorry to disappoint." Said brightly, with a wide smile. Whatever manner of world Galadriel was from? Suddenly did not seem half so appealing. Ageless and powerful, that was well enough, but dragons larger than those in Thedas?

No thank you.

Shrugging he took a knife from the table, turning it about in his hands, more settled now that he'd seen a shade of condescension. Someone so bright and noble without anything to mark them as such? Was far, far too good to be true. Honestly now that he thought on it there were parts of her that reminded him of the Dalish Keeper he'd met. Faintly imperious, but not overly offensive in such. Yet. "We cannot all be ageless elves from worlds where dragons shake the heavens and humans don't attempt to make slaves of us. You will find the beasts here easier prey, I should think. Clearly I've no need to worry."

Zevran had yet to be anything less than unfailingly polite, his dig caught her attention even if his tone did not. She tried to stay her mirth but it was a lost cause, she felt too much relief to keep it bottled within her and, as he idly turned the knife in hand, she offered him a pinched smile.

"Unlike you, I have never before slain one, be they small or great. I cannot contest your achievement." Galadriel admitted freely. It was subtle but she leaned on her staff as she spoke, her whole posture at ease. Her shoulders shook but she reined in her delighted laughter--at least, she managed, for the moment.

"The Urulokë were a scourge upon all the world; mountains fell beneath the and great cities were lost to flame," Galadriel explained. Though she tried for somber, she was a far cry from it. "The last one I saw was so great and so terrible, it rose so tall, that its wings darkened the horizon at nearly two hundred leagues distance."

She smiled, despite the grim comparison.

"I am not so much disappointed, mellon nin, as I am relieved."

There was the faint notion, and it was terribly faint for that he was new to reading the lines of Galadriel's body and had yet to gather the meaning of each nuanced gesture, that he was being either teased or mocked. One was as likely as the other. Fortunately his response for either was much the same and divining a deeper meaning wasn't all that required. "It is the age of Dragons. There will be more yet until something else earth shattering occurs and prompts whatever new Divine there is to call the beginning of a new one. Though it would be on of the shortest ages at that; most last at least a century or so."

Then again they had no Divine and the world was likely going to end in demons and green fire.

At least things were interesting. It kept him busy. "...You know I envied you your world somewhat for a time? And now I no longer do. You may keep your forests and your massive, horrifying dragons. The ones we have here are terrible enough."

"Oh," Galadriel said, her mirth overcome with a wash of something far less lively. It wasn't pity but, insofar as expressions were concerned, it was very near to it.

"Do not envy my world. It is a dark place; there are shadows there that do not sleep, evil that waits in the deepest places, and all things are fading to their doom."

As delighted and polite as she had been, her speech slowed as she spoke. Acknowledging these things aloud was a terrible task and one she would not have chosen to undertake, had she considered it. However, for all Zevran's kindness, she had mocked him. She could not apologize for her delight, it was honest, so she would give him the whole truth of things, instead.

"There is little light left in my world, and less still that can cast such things out." She let out a slow breath, but smiled at him still. "It is a fate I would wish on no land; drawing a comparison between them was untoward of me."

"In Arda, our Ages are ended upon great changes to the world. I have seen three and it is, thrice over, too many. I would be glad to see your age renamed, if the beasts are truly terrible, but not if it meant a new horror came upon you all."

Perhaps a better man- a better elf- would see that sorrow and hear the weight in her words and react accordingly. Would make noises of comfort or protestations that it could not be so very terrible. But Zevran? Knew this world and knew the fickle fates well enough to know one truth: The greater a world's light may be? So too would be it's darkness and cruelty. Balance was something of a constant. Any world that had so much light and grace as Galadriel in it? Would have it's horrors. Zevran needed little prompting to imagine such things.

He lived among them well enough. Live was cruel and dark and painful with the rare scrap of joy and light that one could grab, and then? You died. The longer you lived the worse the world became, the rarer the joy.

Now it was he that smiled, he that made no attempt at his laughter. It was not bright and it was not kind. If anything the sound was wry and faintly bitter. "Ah, my Lady."

That much was said sincerely. She was a lady and- of those he might call his own? She was far from the least of them. "Such is the way of any world. There are horrors and then there are new horrors. Nothing remains fixed. The only difference between a joyful tale and a tragedy is how long one listens to it- or rather here? How long one survives it. We have our new horror, Bright Lady. But you must admit."

Here a fluid shrug, a flickering, flourished gesture with the knife at the sky beyond. "Calling it The Rift Age does not sound quite so grand. It does not sing, mm? It doesn't dance."

Here, through some strange twist, Zevran had found his comfort. She did not know why, nor take particular pleasure in his sudden ease--it came with a veneer of insincerity, however inconsistent, and she was not fond of such things. Still, as she wielded his gift, she could find little malice in her; he was a friend, or as near as she came in these young, foreign lands.

But, then again, she was prideful, and holding her tongue, particularly when someone so young chided her about the way of the world? That was a challenge. She was skilled in masking her emotion and the openness of her face dropped away, hidden behind a bland and amicable smile. It was flavorless and impersonal.

"It does not," she agreed as one might agree about the weather. "How lucky I am to have you here, mellon nin."

She should have stopped herself, that she recognized, but she did not. Whether she could not or simply chose not to, that she could not say.

"To explain to me how tragedy mounts over time, how all things are ever-changing," she said almost lightly and settled the glaive back against the table. She would regret this, of that she had no doubt, but she would not begrudge his rescinding his gifts if he chose to do so.

"If not for you, I might not recognize the ways of the world, nor the mounting horrors of the dark, mm? For here I am little more than a Bright Lady, am I not, and the rifts that conjured me hence are so...dreadful, I can scarcely comprehend."

Yet again there was a moment, one that might have been called tense were he one to think such things, but he recognized a play made as he himself had just. Turnabout was fair play after all and to that end? He laughed- warmer, brighter, far less bitter. "I have spoken out of turn, yes? Forgive me. I am far too accustomed to those that wander into the Inquisition with their wide eyes and bleeding hearts, ever surprised at the cruelty of the world. I forget that you are older, wiser, and likely have scars the rest of us can only imagine."

For no one so bright and so graceful, no one who could play the game so well was any mere 'bright lady' as he might discount her.

Perhaps empathy was no real weakness.

Zevran's apology was quick and appropriate, insofar as apologies were ever truly appropriate, but sincere? That, she could not say. He was clever. If anyone could draw up a mask sufficient to hide before her, she had no doubt he could. For several seconds she merely regarded him, her expression unchanging.

For the first time since she had sworn that oath to Adelaide, she was tempted to break it--to know how his heart wound through his words would grant her much ease. Though if she did read his heart, any trust she found would likely be lost.

It was fortunate, she supposed, that she did not readily break oaths.

"I would not look upon them with such disdain, mellon nin," Galadriel replied. Her tone was too calm to be called chiding, but held just enough reproach that it couldn't be deemed anything else. "Bloodshed and suffering have poisoned us both; that we readily agree to call the world cruel marks us more clearly than any scar.

"No, I dearly envy them, for they see much beauty that we do not, and feel the shadow more keenly when it falls across them," she said and, after a beat, cast an almost wry smile at him. "I envy you as well, but that is no surprise."

She had always been bold, in word and deed, but the few times she had spoken with as much candor and pride as he? She did not regret the occasions, not precisely, but she had spent thousands upon thousands of years paying the price for them. Ah, to be headstrong with youth and conviction.

"But this is a conversation where we both have faltered, is it not? I would forgive you if you would do me the same."

"If I spent my days envying them their lack of scars I would have time for little else." Much like if he spent his days feeling guilty- he would do nothing but feel as such until he went mad from it. The dagger went back to the table, his hands free but resting against the worn wood. Unarmed as much as he ever is, shrugging, and smile somewhat self depreciating.

Alistair's trick, not his, but it works well enough.

"It is a poison we both took for different reasons, I should think. Something we have both survived. I do not begrudge them their bleeding hearts- merely their judgement of my scars. I do so weary of them seeing me and coming to conclusions- well. Conclusions that I have not quite yet deserved. Let me earn my scorn if I am to earn it." A strange way of living through the world, but the only one he knew. The only way he could keep what was himself safe and tucked away, what they saw ready and waiting for them. "I forgive you, though truly? There is nothing to forgive. You were behind honest."

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[Closed] - Spinning Threads

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