thranduil oropherion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rowancrowned) wrote2015-03-22 06:02 pm
rowancrowned) wrote2015-03-22 06:02 pm
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Is one an orphan in Thedas with one parent living still?
I do not know. Perhaps it is blood telling.
I do not know. Perhaps it is blood telling.
One I would hope my son is not in.
[ suddenly feeling the need to check in with legolas about that. ]
Thank you.
[ suddenly feeling the need to check in with legolas about that. ]
Thank you.
( post-wedding. )
Most nights, if there's help needed—or, honestly, even if there's not—it's Thranduil who provides it to his wife, having shared a bed with her now long enough to be far better acquainted than he once was with the intricacies of Orlesian corsetry, the ways that her many gowns come apart with a clever tug here, or there. It's a familiar ritual, and one of which Gwenaëlle is fond, but the night of their wedding he's not given the opportunity; celebrations continue late into the night, but though she stays past the threshold of only good manners she slips early from the courtyard, into the house proper and to the rooms set aside for their use.
Maids divest her of cloak, of gown, of jewels. Each part of her bridal ensemble is taken with care, to be preserved—she thinks Anne would like it if another daughter, one day, wore those same jewels—and there is one last surprise, for all his inquiries as to a costume change had been, at the time, met with nothing but repressive no's.
The filmy thing wrapped around her at the end of the day is more suggestion than garment, held together with strings of pearls and knotted silk roses. It presents more than it covers, purely decorative and painstakingly embroidered to match the veil that she'd worn at the beginning of the day, loose and lightweight over a scant set of matched smalls that Alexandrie might be proud to call more than fine enough for the exacting standards of the seamstresses at Liaisons Dangereuse. Some of the pieces that make up its whole will be, no doubt, recognisable to her husband; embroidered under his nose, oh, for the veil, she had said, because now and then she can keep a secret if she puts her mind to it.
She intends—well, some seductive thing, some clever witticism or particularly alluring pose, but perhaps she misjudges her timing or perhaps he's delayed by well-wishers, an argument, something. Regardless, by the time Thranduil joins her, she's rolled onto her belly, elbows in pillows, reading a book with her ankles crossed in the air behind her, one shoulder dropped.
It is rather more the woman he's married than anything more deliberate would have been.
Most nights, if there's help needed—or, honestly, even if there's not—it's Thranduil who provides it to his wife, having shared a bed with her now long enough to be far better acquainted than he once was with the intricacies of Orlesian corsetry, the ways that her many gowns come apart with a clever tug here, or there. It's a familiar ritual, and one of which Gwenaëlle is fond, but the night of their wedding he's not given the opportunity; celebrations continue late into the night, but though she stays past the threshold of only good manners she slips early from the courtyard, into the house proper and to the rooms set aside for their use.
Maids divest her of cloak, of gown, of jewels. Each part of her bridal ensemble is taken with care, to be preserved—she thinks Anne would like it if another daughter, one day, wore those same jewels—and there is one last surprise, for all his inquiries as to a costume change had been, at the time, met with nothing but repressive no's.
The filmy thing wrapped around her at the end of the day is more suggestion than garment, held together with strings of pearls and knotted silk roses. It presents more than it covers, purely decorative and painstakingly embroidered to match the veil that she'd worn at the beginning of the day, loose and lightweight over a scant set of matched smalls that Alexandrie might be proud to call more than fine enough for the exacting standards of the seamstresses at Liaisons Dangereuse. Some of the pieces that make up its whole will be, no doubt, recognisable to her husband; embroidered under his nose, oh, for the veil, she had said, because now and then she can keep a secret if she puts her mind to it.
She intends—well, some seductive thing, some clever witticism or particularly alluring pose, but perhaps she misjudges her timing or perhaps he's delayed by well-wishers, an argument, something. Regardless, by the time Thranduil joins her, she's rolled onto her belly, elbows in pillows, reading a book with her ankles crossed in the air behind her, one shoulder dropped.
It is rather more the woman he's married than anything more deliberate would have been.
Thranduil,
I first learned of you both secondhand; by the words of others, ink and reputation. Nothing any of us might escape.
More rare (revealing) are the ways in which we come to see each other: Second glances, chances to reshape not only our appearance, but our manner of observation. To know someone is to know their capacity for change. To love them — perhaps, to accept the limitations of that act. To compromise in the name of that which brooks none.
It has ever struck me that the essence of faith lies in action. I speak of it too often; no doubt, you will hear so again. Bear with. This is my gift to you, an honest word. You could not have it from all Orlais.
Creation demands of us a conscious stewardship. It is a path bent toward dawn, toward a world we may not see, that our children and grandchildren may not. That is yet worth the striving. To be not as shadows from a flame, but the fire which shapes them. Mutable, vital. Eternal.
May you always seek light.
— LC
I first learned of you both secondhand; by the words of others, ink and reputation. Nothing any of us might escape.
More rare (revealing) are the ways in which we come to see each other: Second glances, chances to reshape not only our appearance, but our manner of observation. To know someone is to know their capacity for change. To love them — perhaps, to accept the limitations of that act. To compromise in the name of that which brooks none.
It has ever struck me that the essence of faith lies in action. I speak of it too often; no doubt, you will hear so again. Bear with. This is my gift to you, an honest word. You could not have it from all Orlais.
Creation demands of us a conscious stewardship. It is a path bent toward dawn, toward a world we may not see, that our children and grandchildren may not. That is yet worth the striving. To be not as shadows from a flame, but the fire which shapes them. Mutable, vital. Eternal.
May you always seek light.
— LC
Edited (smol edits) 2019-01-11 10:15 (UTC)
[Sorry Thranduil you are third and last on the Yngvi Apology Tour. You know how it goes.]
Is Leviathan still alive if you ponced off to a war for Orlais because you're you and I'm assuming you did even if you were marrying m'lady and I'd have grounds in at least three countries for a duel 'bout that.
[Did you miss him ignore the impending hiccup he's not nervous and just running his mouth.]
I'm back. Properly it was-- Well I'm back. Hi.
Is Leviathan still alive if you ponced off to a war for Orlais because you're you and I'm assuming you did even if you were marrying m'lady and I'd have grounds in at least three countries for a duel 'bout that.
[Did you miss him ignore the impending hiccup he's not nervous and just running his mouth.]
I'm back. Properly it was-- Well I'm back. Hi.
You missed my lady wife's wedding.
[ to him. that's how one generally obtains a lady wife. ]
[ to him. that's how one generally obtains a lady wife. ]
No one serves turnips at fancy weddings. Not Lakshmi-madwoman or whoever you replaced her with for herding drunk Orlesians and hobnobbers.
[Your lady wife talks. Talks plenty when she's upset.]
[Your lady wife talks. Talks plenty when she's upset.]
If you had but asked-
[ they could have had turnips carved into the faces of inquisition members, for a lark. ]
I did. I was shepherd.
[ they could have had turnips carved into the faces of inquisition members, for a lark. ]
I did. I was shepherd.
Edited 2019-01-19 22:22 (UTC)
[That-- Well that's interesting. Does he report back? Does he let it lie? The rules of marriages-not-Avvar are foreign lands with customs unknown, boundaries uncharted.
(That'd be a criminal waste of turnips, cruelty too. There are some ugly bastards in the Inquisition and well they both know it. There are gingers don't inflict that on innocent root vegetables.)]
Thought you were the groom though, what time did you have to pick guests, run a division, go running off to a war and get married to m'lady into the bargain? Maybe for the best I weren't there then, not much mixed company we keep.
[That don't fight.]
(That'd be a criminal waste of turnips, cruelty too. There are some ugly bastards in the Inquisition and well they both know it. There are gingers don't inflict that on innocent root vegetables.)]
Thought you were the groom though, what time did you have to pick guests, run a division, go running off to a war and get married to m'lady into the bargain? Maybe for the best I weren't there then, not much mixed company we keep.
[That don't fight.]
Lakshmi was remarkably efficient. There was, in truth, little work left to do.
[ and he'd leaned on a number of friends. ]
I was abed after Ghislain. It made it much easier to request favors for what I could not do myself and garner pity.
Have you visited her yet to apologize?
[ and he'd leaned on a number of friends. ]
I was abed after Ghislain. It made it much easier to request favors for what I could not do myself and garner pity.
Have you visited her yet to apologize?
She's mad as a box of frogs and I know frogs, thought a proper wedding was meant to be about gestures for Chantry scam types. Lakshmi's not that type.
[There's a tone. A particular Yngvi tone.]
Well you were the tit who went to Ghislain with the rest of the tits so if you want me to feel sorry for you then that's not happening, it's Orlais, they wouldn't piss to put you out especially.
And no. I'm on a horse. He's a big horse to back into the stables. Literally got back into Kirkwall right now mate and got the essentials sorted to see who was dead.
[There's a tone. A particular Yngvi tone.]
Well you were the tit who went to Ghislain with the rest of the tits so if you want me to feel sorry for you then that's not happening, it's Orlais, they wouldn't piss to put you out especially.
And no. I'm on a horse. He's a big horse to back into the stables. Literally got back into Kirkwall right now mate and got the essentials sorted to see who was dead.
He had never thought he was going to die in the field at Ghislain. Indeed, he was more occupied with the thoughts of her death, before necessity had made him stow them away so that he might focus. Still, he did have an image of her that came to mind most often when the errant thought of the Fade reclaiming the essence of what he was, and it was her as he saw her in the evenings: sitting in their bed, reading, relaxed, undone.
She was beautiful then, in the pretty Orlesian nightgowns or a shirt she’d stolen like the magpie she was, but he was one to appreciate extra effort, special occasions, visual appeal—
“Is it a good book?” he says, in Orlesian, closing the door and locking it, and coming to her side of the bed, where he moves to take it once she’s marked her place. “On your back. Let me appreciate your hard work, wife.”
Love in every stitch, and all that.
She was beautiful then, in the pretty Orlesian nightgowns or a shirt she’d stolen like the magpie she was, but he was one to appreciate extra effort, special occasions, visual appeal—
“Is it a good book?” he says, in Orlesian, closing the door and locking it, and coming to her side of the bed, where he moves to take it once she’s marked her place. “On your back. Let me appreciate your hard work, wife.”
Love in every stitch, and all that.
Her laugh is warm and low and shifting as she shifts, rolling playful obedient onto her back to better display the results of many afternoons intent handiwork—lifting her hands above her head to elegantly elongate, book duly surrendered. The rest of their day has been anything but theirs, and this, at last, is the reason it's all worth it. Or: he is, and she likes nothing so much as having him near her.
“Do you like it?”
A beat.
“My veil.”
(Of course she couldn't help herself. She's sure he's already figured it out. Nevertheless—)
“Do you like it?”
A beat.
“My veil.”
(Of course she couldn't help herself. She's sure he's already figured it out. Nevertheless—)
He sets her book gently on the table next to the bed, and lays his hand over her wrists where they stretch near the headboard. She likes it when he forgets his strength, but maybe remembering it and using it is similarly enjoyable, as he shifts his weight, and presses them down into the bedding as he leans over her.
"Forgive me," he says, in a tone that no one has ever used for a genuine apology, ever. "I believe my Orlesian has failed me, for I thought the veil was meant to cover the face."
He runs a hand down along the front of her corset, uncalloused fingers not catching at the silk or embroidery but instead savoring the details, the effort of all her days and evenings, presumably also the time spent with the Fontaine girl.
Briefly, the heat fades, approximately when his fingertips are but a hair's breath away from the excuse passing for smalls, which she has now chosen to wear. Concern is sketched over his face, and he asks, "You are well? It is over now, but it was not too much?"
"Forgive me," he says, in a tone that no one has ever used for a genuine apology, ever. "I believe my Orlesian has failed me, for I thought the veil was meant to cover the face."
He runs a hand down along the front of her corset, uncalloused fingers not catching at the silk or embroidery but instead savoring the details, the effort of all her days and evenings, presumably also the time spent with the Fontaine girl.
Briefly, the heat fades, approximately when his fingertips are but a hair's breath away from the excuse passing for smalls, which she has now chosen to wear. Concern is sketched over his face, and he asks, "You are well? It is over now, but it was not too much?"
The way she exhales when his fingers stop is—
her hands fists above his grip, and her mouth quirked to the side. He has a captive audience, and she very nearly softens at what he chooses to do with it; forestalling what would otherwise have been an inevitable complaint. Tease, she thinks, not without affection. Her husband knows her well: it is perhaps the best way of assuring himself of something like an honest answer to that question, if only because dissembling might result in his not continuing at all.
She tilts her head back, putting her teeth in her lip, weighing both her words and how easily she thinks she could free herself if she wanted to. (She doesn't want to; he'd let go in a moment if he thought she did. But she likes the way it feels.) Finally,
“I'm not sorry it's done,” which slightly resembles something diplomatic. “And I'm not sorry we've made everyone recognise our marriage.”
Time will tell if it was worth it—or maybe it won't, maybe it'll just be one of a hundred small things that everything would have been worse without. Either way, it wasn't a disaster today, and he's here with her, and she thinks that increasingly it seems there is absolutely nothing that they can't do if they only put their minds to it.
So, enough. It's enough.
And then, warm in a way with promise, “I'm better now you've come to bed.”
her hands fists above his grip, and her mouth quirked to the side. He has a captive audience, and she very nearly softens at what he chooses to do with it; forestalling what would otherwise have been an inevitable complaint. Tease, she thinks, not without affection. Her husband knows her well: it is perhaps the best way of assuring himself of something like an honest answer to that question, if only because dissembling might result in his not continuing at all.
She tilts her head back, putting her teeth in her lip, weighing both her words and how easily she thinks she could free herself if she wanted to. (She doesn't want to; he'd let go in a moment if he thought she did. But she likes the way it feels.) Finally,
“I'm not sorry it's done,” which slightly resembles something diplomatic. “And I'm not sorry we've made everyone recognise our marriage.”
Time will tell if it was worth it—or maybe it won't, maybe it'll just be one of a hundred small things that everything would have been worse without. Either way, it wasn't a disaster today, and he's here with her, and she thinks that increasingly it seems there is absolutely nothing that they can't do if they only put their minds to it.
So, enough. It's enough.
And then, warm in a way with promise, “I'm better now you've come to bed.”
“I enjoy,” he says, and his hand slides under the band to cup her, warm because he has the sense not to come to her bed with cold hands, middle pressing, the heel of his hand resting on the hard shelf of her pelvis. “—making others eat their words.”
He’s not much for humble pie, but he loves stuffing it down others’ throats.
“I will keep you here for a while, I think,” he considers, easing a knee onto the bed to better lean over her, better loom and play the rake as his fingers continue to stroke. It is, technically, his wedding night. The ‘again’ part of that needn’t be remarked upon. They benefit from knowing one another now where they did not before—not this way—and now he can take his precise knowledge of exactly what she can and cannot stand before getting snippy and put it to good use.
The Gallows are perfectly fine (he’s settled in to them) but this is private, and besides, it’s been a fair few weeks.
He’s not much for humble pie, but he loves stuffing it down others’ throats.
“I will keep you here for a while, I think,” he considers, easing a knee onto the bed to better lean over her, better loom and play the rake as his fingers continue to stroke. It is, technically, his wedding night. The ‘again’ part of that needn’t be remarked upon. They benefit from knowing one another now where they did not before—not this way—and now he can take his precise knowledge of exactly what she can and cannot stand before getting snippy and put it to good use.
The Gallows are perfectly fine (he’s settled in to them) but this is private, and besides, it’s been a fair few weeks.
Genuine? There was some sentiment to this, beyond necessity. It was not entirely a farce.
[ and now it's done and the ink is dry, and thranduil has a claim to the name baudin, should he need it. ]
Once you are finished, and in a fit state, come to my office, if you would. For supper, perhaps.
[ and now it's done and the ink is dry, and thranduil has a claim to the name baudin, should he need it. ]
Once you are finished, and in a fit state, come to my office, if you would. For supper, perhaps.
I know what a private gesture means. I read books!
[Scandalised as Mother in the Chantry long enough to be in her dotage.]
As if I've ever been in a fit state, that's a thing that'll never approach me ever in my life. 'sides, why you wanting me for supper? Got a horse to settle. A goose. A cat. Twenty nugs. See if anyone took over my old room or if it's still free, you've probably got better things to do than supper and all.
[Scandalised as Mother in the Chantry long enough to be in her dotage.]
As if I've ever been in a fit state, that's a thing that'll never approach me ever in my life. 'sides, why you wanting me for supper? Got a horse to settle. A goose. A cat. Twenty nugs. See if anyone took over my old room or if it's still free, you've probably got better things to do than supper and all.
I do need to eat. Perhaps Gwenaelle and I have run out of things to say to one another after nearly a fortnight of marriage, and need the company.
[A three minute raspberry ensues.]
M'lady says more with her silence than three quarters of the Inquisition say with three months of words. And don't spoil the illusion, I don't need to know you eat, thought you inhaled the Dalish looking at you the way deshyrs touch up the Paragons.
M'lady says more with her silence than three quarters of the Inquisition say with three months of words. And don't spoil the illusion, I don't need to know you eat, thought you inhaled the Dalish looking at you the way deshyrs touch up the Paragons.
So that is why we have had so many Dalish vanish; I merely thought them eloping en masse.
Come. Will you make me say it?
Come. Will you make me say it?
I mean I grew up here. Even in the dark we had stories about Sundermount and the last clan didn't end up coming out all jolly. [Or at all. Maybe that's what's happening now.
Is it kinder if a big weird rifter elf is absorbing them somehow?]
What sort of supper?
Is it kinder if a big weird rifter elf is absorbing them somehow?]
What sort of supper?
Sundermount is not so bad.
[ downright homey, even. thranduil isn't afraid of the dark. ]
Stew and brown bread, in all likelihood. It is too cold for fish, still. Wine. Some manner of Orlesian pastry.
[ downright homey, even. thranduil isn't afraid of the dark. ]
Stew and brown bread, in all likelihood. It is too cold for fish, still. Wine. Some manner of Orlesian pastry.
How many times you actually had to go crawling through it, bet you go send your underlings that go fawning about wanting to shine your boots. Or buff your slippers.
[It's velvet slippers yeah? Monogrammed with initials and elaborate antlers?]
If I can convince Gaspard to bed down in a stable again. I'll bring tea, is tea allowed at your table?
[It's velvet slippers yeah? Monogrammed with initials and elaborate antlers?]
If I can convince Gaspard to bed down in a stable again. I'll bring tea, is tea allowed at your table?
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