faderift | [Closed] - Spinning Threads

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

[Closed] - Spinning Threads

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject