faderift | We come from the land of the ice and snow

We come from the land of the ice and snow

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: Thedas' strange new guests are delivered to Skyhold
WHEN: 25 Harvestmere (October)
WHERE: Skyhold main gate & courtyard
NOTES: This is Part I of a two-part intro event, Part II will be posted tomorrow.

A long uphill tromp through the snowy mountains ends at Skyhold, the distant fortress finally before them in all its tumble-down glory. There is time to admire the drop into the river gorge far below as they cross the only bridge into the castle; it is briefly backed up with traffic, several carts bearing supplies and visitors stalled as the portcullis is raised. Those coming to help catalog and unload the shipment and greet the guests, or otherwise present near the front courtyard, will find themselves witness to a far more interesting arrival.

Guards at the gate carry the word quickly, and more gather, though they make no move to imprison the strange people who fell out of a rift. They just line the perimeter and keep a close watch. Perhaps this adds a level of tension to this first encounter, but it also reassures the many who are unsettled by the uncertain turn of events and keeps in check those who might attack first and ask questions later. Others will no doubt soften the Inquisition's first impression, offering food, information, and other assistance.

Medical attention is available in the tented-encircled corner of the courtyard where the wounded from Haven are still treated. The quartermaster's assistant is called upon to provide spare odds and ends of clothing to those in need, and to issue blankets for all, though they are left to fend for themselves to find places to sleep.

Any mage willing to help is called in to do so and a cluster forms in one side of the courtyard to examine the rifters. They are objects of curiosity in general, but the marks on their hands are of particular interest, resembling smaller slivers of the Herald's famous mark. Despite their best efforts, no mage will be able to provide any real insight after this initial assessment. What the rifters and their marks are is a question they cannot answer today.

But one question is answered: in the midst of all the commotion, another Inquisition agent arrives from Haven, rushing in red-faced to announce that the Herald's body has finally been found.

OOC

It will be decided (partly for OOC reasons, admittedly) that the rifters will not be imprisoned at this point, but they will be watched carefully, and the guards are on alert for any strange behavior by people with glowing hands or strange attire. And of course, their freedom can be revoked at any time if they're deemed a danger. Though there are some OOC considerations at play here, you're welcome to ICly lobby for more or less freedom for the rifters, and things may change based on IC action/consensus.

Also: Part II, aka the log for the funeral/wake/etc. event, will go up tomorrow!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

1 - In the courtyard

Skyhold

The fortress, for that was certainly what it was, was very old and impressively built. While it lacked elegance, its walls had been built for strength and endurance, but without a care for artistry, it was no small thing to place a stronghold in so precarious a location. It stood, firm and strong, in the cradle of towering mountains, surrounded by a basin of staggering depth. The distance yawned beneath them as they crossed the causeway toward the open gates.

This fortress could be taken, but only at great cost. Its walls were far too tall and strong to strike from afar, and no ladder would reach the battlements from such a dizzying drop. There were two paths to conquer this place, either by this narrow bridge or by air, and nothing else. It could not be stormed with anything less than a convocation of Great Eagles or a winged dragon. As a foothold it was, truly, very impressive.

There was danger in Skyhold's security, however, for there could be no retreat from this place. Should the causeway collapse, it would be nearly impossible to repair from the fortress's side. To scale the cliffs it stood upon was madness. It could be held, but it could easily become a tomb as well.

As wary as she should have been, Galadriel was at ease as they entered the fortress.

Walking beneath the archway and into the stone walls of Skyhold was familiar to her. The sun was high and, surrounded by the peaks of unfamiliar mountains and the chill bite of high winter cold, Galadriel felt as if time had turned back. Their group was given a wide, suspicious berth and Galadriel exploited it. She moved to the center of the lower courtyard as their company trickled through the gates. The guards moved to surround them and, as she heard their armor resound off the stone, she knew there were many.

A cold breeze whistled through the fortress. It stirred the tents in the courtyard and heavy cloak she'd been gifted. It was impossible, but she imagined it carried the scent of cold stone and new dawn, that it was chased by the lingering vestiges of starlight and untainted night. Galadriel pulled back her hood and looked to the sky as she drew a deep breath. She smiled at the feel of sunlight on her face and imagined the fondest moments of distant, darker days.

She was not alone for long, little more than a few a few moments, before need and urgency cluttered the courtyard. The others gathered there as well and, at once, the group became a spectacle. The people of Skyhold were many and varied, as were their reactions to the company that had arrived. The ones who sought to study their marks were polite, if insistent. They left Galadriel to herself as she savored the sun. It was not until the announcement that she stirred; the Herald's body had been found?

She knew not who the Herald had been, but she had no doubt that their passing was at the heart of the grief in Haven. She felt for these people, truly, but this fortress provided the barest reminders of home; this place was familiar, in a distant way, and she was deeply reluctant to relinquish the comfort it provided. She would not grieve with them, but she would not hinder them either.

For now, she drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, and simply basked in memory and mountain air.

2 - The Library

The courtyard could not remain peaceful forever, there was far too much work being done within the walls of Skyhold to allow for so central a location to remain undisturbed. They were not to be jailed, they had committed no crimes, but still the people of Skyhold remained wary. Galadriel had, long ago, ceased to suffer under the weight of mortal eyes, but she was not entirely without purpose. As long as she was, if only by implication, a captive guest, she saw no need to assist in either their works or progress. She would not strengthen the walls that, ostensibly, held her, but she would not be a hindrance either.

If she could not enjoy the peace of old memory, there was much she needed to learn, and there were few fortresses that lacked a storehouse of knowledge.

She found the library with little assistance and, to her mixed amusement, found it full of carefully bound tomes. The artistry that went into binding them was fine, particularly for human hands, but a problem arose as she opened the first book that caught her eye. Beneath its neat stitching and delicate artistry were hundreds of pages, each of which was scribed in letters she did not know. She flipped through the book, replaced it, and searched for another. The second was much the same and, as she examined the script, resignation settled in her chest.

It was not the first language she had ever been obliged to learn, but it was a difficulty she had not foreseen. The spoken tongue was so similar to Westron, she had not imagined that the written word would be so different.

True, it was conceivable that an elven work lived within the shelves, but she did not harbor much hope. She had yet to meet an elf who spoke even the barest Sindarin; the likelihood that the elves of Ferelden used the tengwar was beyond remote.

3 - Other

(Galadriel will be moving through Skyhold, going anywhere that is not immediately restricted. If you want your character to watch her swan through somewhere, or literally walk into her in a corridor, or what have you, go for it.)

Now, this is an elf of the like Pel has never seen. The Dalish could be wild animals sometimes, but they were like the halla: small, usually peaceful, keeping to themselves, and generally plentiful. They had constantly dirty feet, trouble keeping bedding dry with the weather, and daily had to think about food and water.

Comparing the Dalish to an elf like this would be like comparing scampering squirrels to a majestic lioness, beautiful and terrifying.

She is tall, first of all--well over a foot above Pel, with the most extraordinary hair she has ever seen, sunlight and moonlight combined. There is a light to her, an effortless perfection, something no amount of Orlesian pampering could achieve over any lifetime. The poise Pel breaks her back trying to achieve is nothing compared to the silent, relaxed grace of this creature.

Pel approaches in awe, though she checks multiple times to make sure her mouth is shut. She can't approach too close without permission, since it doesn't feel right, somehow. Someone like this lets you know when you can come close.

"Ara seranna-ma, hahren. I must examine your hand."

She had listened while travelers moved around her, the hesitation in their steps as they turned away was clear as the dawn, and let her linger in memory. When a set of steps approached and did not deviate, however, Galadriel knew her moment of peace had drawn to a close. It was inevitable, all such moments had to end, but she let out a slow breath as she lowered her face and opened her eyes.

She did not expect to see an elf with plaited silver hair and bright grey eyes. Caught as she was, between the distant past and the strangeness of this present, her surprise carried a memory she did not wish to recall. The sight of this girl, with her high, round cheeks and gentle steps, drew an expression of adoration across Galadriel's face. For just a breath, her heart sang and then, as quickly as that joy had come, it was chased away by a wretched, profound sorrow, and a look fathomless longing.

"Hínanya."

The word was spoken without her leave. It was little more than a startled whisper, just loud enough to carry the ache of her heart, and hearing it was enough to pull her from the depths of memory. Suddenly she sucked in a deep breath and, very briefly, closed her eyes. She banished the vision from her mind, or attempted to, but it was too late. The damage had been done. When she looked back to the elf before her, she could not unsee what she'd remembered. The small differences, of which there were many, were not enough to separate this woman from the memory of Celebrian in her youth.

Galadriel's smile was sad but resigned as she spoke.

"I am sorry," she began softly, "I was apart from myself; I do not recall your words. Would you repeat them?"

To be the subject of this woman's attention is overwhelming. Pel feels wretched, ashamed of her own vanity and plainness. Surely if one of the Creators came to walk among them, they would look like this lady. Pel bows her head and sees how very dirty her feet are.

What is wrong with her? This woman is flesh and blood like anyone else. Or perhaps she isn't. It's not her beauty that strikes Pel the most. It's something else, something she can't put a name to. Something makes her feel like a peasant before her. If this woman came through the Fade, she could be anyone, or anything.

She takes a breath and raises her head.

"Andaran atish'an, Hahren, I have been sent to examine your hand. I'm a mage of the Dalish."

Edited 2015-10-26 13:00 (UTC)

Her head bowed and Galadriel was unable to see her face. She reached out, to raise the girl's head once more, but she drew it up herself. Galadriel was left, hand outstretched, as she explained her purpose again. Her accent was unfamiliar, as were her words, but the lilt of her voice was not so unlike her daughter's. Over different words she would have sounded so very similar. Perhaps that was what broke Galadriel's resolve.

"Gohenna'nin," Galadriel said and, despite herself, crossed the remaining distance and held the side of her face. Her touch was excruciatingly gentle, as though she expected the elf before her to vanish. When she did not, Galadriel was overcome. Her eyes darted across the girl's face, expression gradually breaking apart as she did.

She leaned forward but the clatter of armor, the shifting of the warriors that watched them, was sharp and sudden enough to stay her. To embrace a stranger so suddenly, without cause, while she was watched would be most unwise. She refrained, despite the difficulty of it, and pulled herself upright once more.

When she withdrew her hand, there was the slightest tremor in it.

This grief had not been so near in a long time.

"Forgive me," she said abruptly, repeated in this common tongue. "You are the very image of--" She halted herself and abandoned those words. There was no conclusion there, nothing that could explain her outburst without forcing another, and this was neither the time nor the place. She swallowed and inclined her head. "Of course, examine it as you will."

She extended her marked hand even as she drew the other to herself. The heavy fall of her sleeves did much to hide how tightly her fingers curled into the fabric.

Pel doesn't push. She takes the offered hand and opens it like a letter. The mark is completely alien to her, though it bears a glint of fade-light any mage would recognize. She releases the (slender, exquisitely perfect) hand with a bow of her head.

"Thank you, hahren." She glances up. "Are you...where do you come from?"

The girl before her examined the mark carefully and politely. Though her assessment was brief, the pause gave Galadriel time to collect herself. When she released her palm and bowed her head in thanks, Galadriel was far more composed, if somewhat removed from the here and now.

"A distant place," Galadriel answered vaguely. She had steadied her voice and her expression, but her eyes refused to look away from this elf's face. It would be disconcerting before long, that much she knew. "Before I found myself here, I walked the woods of Lothlorien in Middle-earth."

Already she had given that answer and already she knew that none in Thedas would know it.

"Tell me: what is your name?"

"Pel." It's such a minute, unglamorous name. But Lothlorien must be as beautiful a place as it is a name, mustn't it? Middle-earth.

"Are you one of the elvhen?"

"Pel," Galadriel repeated and was immediately charmed. Unfortunately, the elf's second question gave her pause. She had not heard the word elvhen before. It was very similar to elven, but it was not the same, there was enough emphasis in that word that she could not be certain what she wanted to know. Was she asking if Galadriel was an elf? Gavin had already wondered as much and seemed resistant to her claiming she was.

"I cannot say," Galadriel replied after some thought. "I do not know the word. I am one of the Eldar, I am an elf, of that I am quite sure."

"What is elvhen?"

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He kept his distance, at first, unable to entirely figure out what he thought, or felt, about her presence. No one was locking them up (which was good), or seriously claiming they were demons (which was better), but it still felt awkward in her presence and so, for the most part, he avoided it.

Or, well, he tried to.

You see - he didn't tend to sleep where he was supposed to. He was supposed to sleep in a bedroll, in the assigned quarters in his barracks, but instead he ended up sleeping in trees, or under pews in the chantry, or wedged in between toppled pieces of tower. This time he was snuggled in against one of the pillars in the pagoda, which stood in the middle of the courtyard. It had been unusually busy during the day, and even the night. But now the first morning light started streaking across the sky, a careful herald as the sun lay still beyond the mountains.

And when Gavin opened his eyes, he saw a figure that would be forever unmistakable to him.

He blinked, blearily, and then pulled himself up, stepping over towards her carefully.

"... Lady Galadriel?"

The voice was enough to pull Galadriel's attention from the rosy shades of dawn. She turned her head and, after a moment, the rest of her followed. She was not stood far from where Gavin slept and had spent most of the night in the garden. She smiled at him as he unfolded himself from where he'd taken his rest. His hair was disheveled and askew; there was a leaf in it.

"Gavin, mellon nín," she greeted.

He had been avoiding her, though she could not see why. She had worried, briefly, that he feared her. The possibility was, in and of itself, something that saddened her, but she dismissed it. He was not shy in combat, nor without skill of his own, and awe was not such a close relative of fear that they always went hand in hand. If not fear, though, there was little else that would make him evade her so.

Ultimately she concluded that she had offended him. She had been so amused by his name that she'd mispronounced it intentionally, an act that was both rude and of great risk. Now, obliged as he was to greet her before he dashed away, she'd finally corrected her slight.

"Did you rest well, my friend?"

It was far from offense that had kept him away, and now, hearing her refer to him as a friend-- he flushed, his ears reddening.

"I-- yes, fine. Well, sort of. I think." Fantastic, Gavin. Go ahead and spout gibberish. Great impression. (The blush spread further.)

"Did- did you sleep well, my lady?"

Did she even sleep? He quickly revised the statement before she actually had a chance to answer. "I- I mean, I imagine this must seem- strange- and I hope you've been able to rest--"

He was going to bang his head against a wall, later. That much was clear.

"I am rested," Galadriel replied, but her smile shifted from soft to curious as she regarded him. His answers were disjointed, but it could have been a symptom of sleep. She had known many mortals who rose from slumber and were unable to marshal their thoughts, at least for a time, so his stammering was not such a curious thing. Amid his words, however, she thought she heard something troubling.

"Are you uncertain of your sleep?"

There was no mockery in her voice. She had no idea if reckoning the quality of sleep was something done easily. If he suffered, though, she would see him aided. It was only right; he had aided her so greatly, already, that kindness was the only response she could give.

"Does something trouble you?"

It was somewhat like a star from the sky fell and then worried about whether or not Gavin had eaten his breakfast. He blinked at her, unable to comprehend her worry, and then flushed even darker.

"No! Not at all, your- my lady." He'd get that right eventually, he swore to himself. "No, I was just-- ah - I'm not used to--"

His tongue betrayed him, his face so red he could feel the heat radiating, and he looked away.

"You're just very beautiful," He got out, because he was never good at lying about that kind of thing, but he also was completely at a loss for how to talk to her properly. "So it's not - It's not anything you have to worry about it, I just have to - grow accustomed to it." He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

It was not the first time someone had told her as much, nor even the most embarrassing or straightforward admission she'd ever heard, but each time she heard it was something of a surprise. She was not cruel and she had no desire to be, but she couldn't quite stay the pleased laugh that rose out of her. He stood so awkwardly and his face was flushed and hot; what she mistook for troubled unease was something far less harrowing. Galadriel's expression softened and she stepped up alongside him.

"I am unsure that such a wonderful compliment should be paired with an apology, mellon nín, but I thank you for it," she said and settled a hand on his shoulder. If this was why he had avoided her, because he was overwhelmed, she would spare him her presence, but it only made her more fond of him. Such youthful things brightened her heart.

"Although...I must say, to claim me your lady is rather bold," Galadriel added with a small smile and an arched brow. The sentence had been an accident, a mere coincidence caused by his words tangling on her title, but his flush was so very endearing. Now that she knew it for what it was, she could hardly resist a bit of teasing.

"I do not object...though my husband, perhaps, would." She paused, just briefly, and leaned forward. Her voice was less teasing when she spoke again. There was no one to overhear them but she spoke quietly anyway. "You are dear and need not be sorry; I will not scorn you for such compliments."

With hardly a pause, she leaned the rest of the way and brushed a kiss on the top of his head. She regretted his discomfort, truly, but she had not been so glad, nor so amused since she had come to this land. She had missed the dawn, but the sincerity of his words had granted her the same ease.

She was quite a bit taller than him, which made him feel a bit like an idiotic child, right next to her, and the more she spoke the stupider he felt, trying to protest without a word being able to come out of his mouth. He hadn't meant - He would never assume - Her husband--

But then she was leaning down and pressing her soft lips to his copper hair and soon his face was exactly the same colour. Her own golden hair had flowed down around her, so he caught the shimmer of it as it fell in front of his face.

He did managed some sort of sound, a strangled sort of "Ah--" as if in protest, and when she stood back up he was very much rooted in the spot - a shade of red that should never be seen on an elf - and completely unable to meet her eye.

"I merely -- That is, I did not wish to--" He started, trailing off in a few more half words that made no sense, and then "-- T-thank you."

Edited 2015-10-31 14:27 (UTC)

She drew back only just. His flush had darkened his face and his eyes evaded her with fervor. He began his excuses, to tell her how her teasing was incorrect, but abandoned the attempt when his tongue refused to cooperate with him. His stammered thanks lifted her spirit and, softly, she replied.

"You are welcome."

With that she stood up and drew away from him. Her expression was all fondness and calm, lit from within with a rosy light like the morning sun. She folded her hands into her sleeves and, before he was of a mind to flee, bowed to him.

"I shall leave you to your day, then, my friend, and will trouble you no more. I do hope, eventually, you will find my company more tolerable, but I am capable of great patience. I can wait."

She stood and, with a last smile to him, she turned and made toward the Great Hall. The gardens were peaceful, but she took no issue with surrendering them. There was work to be done, surely, and she had much to learn about this world. Her worry was assuaged and, indeed, she felt lighter and more at ease than she had for days.

Even if a man cannot read a word, a library still has its uses. Havens of quiet, corners of solitude. Slip between the stacks and hide yourself for a few hours, in peace and warmth and quiet. Not only that, a library can be the perfect stage for a hushed meeting, for whispered secrets, stolen kisses...

And naps. This is a time honored practice for Scipio, cheerfully functionally illiterate but happy to occupy the space. There are few places in Skyhold where he feels properly warm, and he does not count the library among them--but there is a place around a corner that becomes a cradled nook of a dead end, the perfect place to lay out one of his cloaks and curl up in the quiet--under S for Sleep, perhaps, and maybe a little bit for Snoring. He's generally a quiet sleeper.

And a light sleeper, too. The rustle of a single page is not enough to wake him. A handful of rustling is, however, and he emerges from around the corner, sleep-tousled but not bleary, a man too used to having to vacate premises in a hurry.

That hurry lags at the sight of the elf at the shelves. Beautiful is what first comes to mind, but no, she requires a better word. Unworldly beautiful, better even than the sort of muse that inspires painters to paint and bards to write ballads. Scipio, a lover of beauty, is thusly inspired, and says:

"Have you found what you were looking for, my lady?"

--Which is a mistake, because if she hasn't, she might ask for help, and he can't read a word. And if she has, she might wish to discuss what she has found, and, again: he can't read a word. That one would be a little easier. And if nothing else, there's always sheepish confession. Worry doesn't even cross his mind, let alone his face, which is arranged into a sleepy sort of smile. If it comes off a little drunk, it's only because she is, of course, so beautiful.

While she had not expected to linger alone and undisturbed for long, it was a rare thing for her to be so unaware of another's presence. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and rightly so. He hadn't so much approached as risen, and in that way he took her by surprise. Galadriel's brows rose and she turned, quite quickly, to face him; as far as startled reactions were concerned, it was not dramatic, but it was more than most people had ever seen.

At first sight, he seemed little threat. He was not an imposing figure as far as men were concerned; sleep clung to him heavily, his hair was disheveled in a rather rakish way, and his smile was easy if somewhat dazed. It took mere moments to realize how he'd appeared so silently and Galadriel nearly laughed.

She'd stumbled across his sleeping space.

"I have not," Galadriel told him as she glanced back at the pages. They were indecipherable and what few illuminations this book had were far apart and lacking context. "But I expect I shall not, so long as these letters remain unfamiliar to me."

With only a short pause she closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. Many of them were without markings on their spines, not that it would assist her if they had them, and she scanned the shelves idly before looking back at the slightly rumpled human. If he was so fond of this place that he would sleep here, perhaps he could assist her.

"Tell me, do you know of any maps? Surely one must be kept here." The room was small but the center was open to the space above and below. She was not terribly far from him, but it seemed only polite to follow the banister and stand nearer as they spoke.

Yet, as she came closer, a disquieting feeling came over her.

So much of this place was strange, their skills and the spirit that permeated this world were so odd, that she had resigned herself to learning the wealth of them. The prospect was taxing, in and of itself, but this...this was not so new. Weary though she was, she did not question this.

Galadriel stopped a few feet from him, the ease in her gait and her smile dropped away, and all at once her stare was grave and hard. She had been wary of taxing herself, and so she had not truly pressed anyone since she had arrived here, but she did then. She stared into the heart of him, even though her power bled from her as she did. She would have the measure of this man, if he were one, and if he was not, she would strike him down.

"Maps," Scipio starts, brightly. That's one word he knows how to read, so long as it's written in Antivan script. And given the size of this library, and given the size of Antiva's wharf and all her ships, surely there was one book of maps that was written in Antiva.

Confidence bolstered by her smile and kindly tone, he turns away to scan the shelves beside him. "Maps are easy. I think there's maps over he," which is a word that curdles and ends in an, "urk," and then, "agk," as he turns back to find that the room behind him suddenly turned all to ice.

Not really. But if ever there was a stare that felt icy, it's the stare that the elf has fixed on him. Did he think the library cold before? Foolish. Now it was cold. There was a man in Antiva City who sold butterflies in frames every spring, beautiful gossamer wings pinned out straight to display iridescent patterns. The sight of that aesthetic cruelty had always made Scipio feel a little sick. Stood under the elf's gaze, he now knows exactly what those butterflies felt like, and when he goes home to Antiva City, he is going to wait until the spring so he can smash all the frames and unpin the butterflies, unless he never gets the opportunity to go back to Antiva City, because this elf might kill him here and now. She might. She actually might.

And when he opens his mouth to say something, to try to beg his way out of the room, out from under the weight of her gaze, the words don't come. That's almost worse than the pinned-down feeling. Words have always saved him. The words in him instead are at the back of his head, like an itch under the scalp, and Scipio feels the whisper of them, that song. That bloody song. Feels rather than hears, like insect legs rubbed dry against some deep mortal part.

"What." Words are hard, but he swallows, forces it out, "Did I, do, what's--" and he wants to say more but he can't; he wants to run but he can't. If this is where he dies, horrible and transfixed, at the white-cold hand of this elf, with this bloody song in his head, it will be awfully unfair.

It was difficult to open his heart, perhaps more so than was reasonable, but her eyes were fixed on him. She could not read the books in this place but he was not beyond her, her pride and her duty would not allow it. Her steps were silent and smooth as glass as she narrowed the distance between them. As her steps closed, she was forced to look down and, all too soon, she was towering over him.

She could feel it, the curl of deepest, darkest poison beating in his veins. Standing so near, she could hear it, the horrible edge of song in him, clearer and sharper than she'd heard since Lord of the Dark strode the world. It was the song of Beauty corrupted, tainted with the heart of Discord...but it was quiet.

The great enemy was many things, as were his servants, but quiet? Soft?

No, those had never been among them...and there was no malice in this man's heart.

Galadriel reached out, then, and lifted her hand to his face. Her fingers lighted on his forehead, the barest brush of touch, and he did not smolder even as the song recoiled. She guided his hair from his forehead and trailed her fingers down his cheek to his chin. Though she'd commanded his gaze, she tilted his head up to meet hers directly. When he did, however....

Butterflies?

The thought was muddled, hazy and filled with lamentation; she pursued it, but it danced beyond her grasp. There was great adoration in him, a love of things beautiful and delicate, and a heedless kindness set into a foolhardy heart. There was no test that she could give, for he had little resolve or mettle, but there was a depth of generosity in him that was--

Galadriel drew a slow breath and shut her eyes; with that, her hold was broken.

Already her power flagged; it was insubstantial here, like morning dew, and burned away as quickly. She could read no more into this man's heart and, even as she withdrew, she knew she had over-spent herself. She swayed back, her hand coming away from his face at once as her legs briefly failed her. She caught the banister, but it was only an interruption. She was going to collapse.

The touch of her fingertips is cool and lovely and distant, a feeling so far removed it's almost like hearing it second-hand. Once he realizes, he almost thinks to flinch away, and then can't say why he thinks that. Perhaps it's because a light touch can be a trap, too. Perhaps it's something darker. He can't pull away anyways. She is so much taller than he would have thought her.

And then something in her face shifts, like someone's dropped a veil, and when her hand comes away, her attention does too, and the pins lift out of him and the pressure of her scrutiny peels away and Scipio sucks in a great breath, like a man resurfacing. His lungs burn, and his veins feel shot with jelly, and his knees are all jellied too. There's a hitch in his breath when he lets it out, sucks it in again. He blinks, and blinks again.

Not dead. Still the bleak whisper of song.

He snaps his attention back to her, ready to run. The cool marble of her face has turned pallid, and he knows what comes next, he can read the signs. Someone else might let her fall. Scipio sees her crumple, and sway, and he moves quickly, with what little coordination he has left in him. Most of it feels drained away, along with the bulk of his senses. It's muscle memory that tugs him to action. He grabs for her shoulder, to break something of her fall as she sags back against the banister. There's no nearby chair or sofa, only the floor. And while touching her puts a strange feeling in his fingertips, Scipio gamely ignores the sensation, along with the little voice that says to leave her. He will, in a moment. Once she's sitting down. Once he gets his legs back together.

Thought was beyond her. For several seconds her strength was devoted to breathing and little else. To say she lowered herself to the floor would be kind and, ultimately, a lie. Her hand on the railing slowed her but the limb had no power behind it; had he not grabbed for her shoulder and carried part of her weight, she would have folded entirely. That she didn't end up sprawled on the stone was a kindness, it had been a near thing.

With so much of her power spent, there was something dimmer about her. She did not radiate light and her grace had failed her, but she could not hear that accursed song any longer. A few moments passed and she shifted, or tried to. Her fingers obeyed her and gripped the rail beside her, but they moved numbly and there was a fluttering tremor in them. It would pass.

She lacked the strength to draw herself up. She could not be so forceful again, not in this place, not until she had learned why her power burned away so quickly.

Why was it so hard to recover?

Her desperate questions received no answers and, once they had drawn themselves across her mind, she was able to focus on the world around her. She could not recall if her eyes had been open or not, but she regained her sight in a hazy wash, as though she'd walked through a bank of fog. When she found herself upright, it was deeply confusing. Her expression shifted freely and wrote her confusion boldly across her face.

Her eyes tracked to the side--the human was still beside her? He was holding her shoulder, either to brace her or himself, and looked both shaken and exhausted. Her searching had harmed him or, at least, had weakened and wearied him. Without the power to sense the darkness that poisoned him, she felt a sharp pang of heartfelt regret.

That too would pass.

"You are not..." Galadriel said, in a slow listing voice, her volume barely a murmur, "...what are you?"

"I'm," he begins, and then, "er," because for once, maybe the first time in his life, he can't think of the way to end that. Hundreds of names, hundreds of aliases, hundreds upon hundreds of titles. It would be poetic, to say that she is what stumps him. If this was a story, maybe he would find inspiration in her, a step toward honesty, an impulse to tell it true now that he felt close to something like dying, like mortality might carry some weight, or maybe because she seems so weak, when she was so powerful just seconds before, but--

But that's not true. Not really. Truthfully, Scipio is mostly stumped because he just doesn't know how to answer any longer. Life is a game, he told a barmaid just the other day, and he still believes it. Someone's changed the rules on him, that's all. And the deep pierce of the way she had looked at him--with a cold that crackled in the air and shot somewhere under his skin--and the tingle of the song at the back of his head--well, okay. So maybe it did have something to do with matters more serious than he ever wants to consider.

"Scipio," he tells her. He's still holding her shoulder. The grip is not tight, but all the same, he ought to let her go. "I'm Scipio. A, er. Grey Warden." The title still feels stupid to claim, and not entirely his. He winces, somehow manages a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

What are you? He doesn't look the part, certainly. For starters, Wardens are never so good looking (not true; he'll claim it anyways). But she'll know what Warden means, now that he's said it. Everyone does, even Scipio, who had only met Wardens in tales before one turned up at the tavern all those months ago. But the way she had asked is colored differently. What did she expect him to say?

Now he's just being superstitious, and foolish. She's got him a little spooked. Scipio shakes his head, as if to clear it of cobwebs, and dares a glance at the elf's face. Still pale. She looks awful, even under all that beauty. "If you sit down, will it help? I don't know what-- happened, to you, or--" Stumbling. Not his style. "A drink might do it. Does for me, usually, it's just finding one that's strong enough."

Edited (nitpicking sorry) 2015-10-29 17:43 (UTC)

The way she looked at him as he explained, as each word stumbled out, halting and uneasy, was far less piercing than her gaze had been. Strangely, for how little she could read him now, what she had read gave her the ability to see him. It was a perplexing thought, and a disquieting one given how his blood sang; it was a shame she could not understand all of what he did. Perhaps, if he lingered, her faculties would return and she could parse him out--

"Why do you stay?"

The thought was complete. It was the most pressing question, at least now that she had a word for what he was. She didn't know what a Grey Warden was, but she knew he was not--was not what? Evil? Despoiled? The former was too complex for her to know, the latter she had felt at a distance.

She continued to watch him, too exhausted to turn away but too interested to want to. He asked after her health, caught her fall, and offered her comfort. He had been filled with dread and awe at the sight of her; she would have killed him had she not found the glittering memory that distracted her. Butterflies? He had a love of beauty and lamented cruelty. He was a fool, perhaps, but kind.

He was not a servant of the Enemy, even if poison sang in his blood.

"Yes, a seat," Galadriel answered with some effort and, on her next try, was able to force her arm to cooperate. Her legs were weak but they bore her weight as she drew herself up. The idea of sitting on the ground had not occurred to her, narrowly as she had avoided collapsing on it, but the nearest chair was halfway around the room. She considered it, automatically, as one would look up to gauge the weather even during heavy rain. The sensation that nagged against the back of her mind was painful, like a raw wound, and she tried to ignore it. As her thoughts began to recover, some of her grace returned, as well as some coherency.

If he was not a servant of the enemy, his answer both made sense and lacked it entirely.

"What is a Grey Warden?"

We come from the land of the ice and snow

Galadriel | OTA (Brackets or Prose are both fine)

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So about that taint...

cries one million tears

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