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( understandable confusion - gwenaëlle is reluctant to clarify at once, a shudder in her shoulders that relaxes when she isn't pushed away, scolded. she could have gone elsewhere; she knows if she went to her grandfather, he'd deal with it. she'd never have to think of it again.

he'd never take her seriously, either. she'd just stay the little thing he has to mind, always.

the idea of fussing like this to the short list of alternatives is too embarrassing to be borne. why he's safer is not to be closely examined- he just is, she can be grateful. )

I don't want to see anyone.

( she hasn't actually let go her vice grip on his shirt. )

Edited 2017-03-29 01:23 (UTC)

I am someone, [ he says, and resigns himself to this being something. what has happened for thranduil, the very tall rifter elf, to be a source of comfort. is corypheus at the gates? ]

Come sit with me, [ not able to follow up on it, to usher her to a chair and perch on the edge of his bed. unable to detangle himself, mostly, and if this is the best way for her to be comfortable- when she doesn't need to look at his face- then they might be like this a while longer. ]

Are you injured?

[ he'll work his way down the list. ]

Anyone else, ( the stubborn, answer-for-everything answer comes promptly; she doesn't make it any easier to disentangle, tilting only enough that if he glances down he might be able to tell that while she's not crying now, she almost certainly has been. the world is overwhelming and unfair and he, at least, doesn't make her feel small and stupid for not knowing what to do with the whole of it.

a little shake of her head, curls that she hasn't bothered arranging tumbling around her shoulders. )

I couldn't breathe, it was too quiet.

Can you breathe now? [ the hand stroking over her back, feeling the boning under her dress, the neat seams. her ribs aren't straining, the words she's speaking are neat, no ragged breathing between them, and while her face is wet where it presses against his tunic, she isn't a mess.

leading to the most important thing: ]

Who did this?

[ gwenaëlle does not cry, she gets angry, she wields her father's estate like a knife because she never knelt. she is orlesian to her bones, even without the mask- he wonders if masks can hide tears, he supposes they must- and who could have brought her so low? ]

Ser Coupe.

( she regrets it as soon as she's said it; she'd undone it, too, had known better than most how to, refocusing her and breathing with her, sparing gwenaëlle the awkward, stilted experience of needing to walk someone through walking her back. it isn't entirely fair. she understands better than she wants to have to admittedly that she was - is - trying to help.

it's just not how she wants to be helped. )

It doesn't mattered, I don't care -

( convincing!

more plaintive than knife-edged; ) I want someone to be kind to me.

( hadn't he wanted to? she'd refused it, but here she is now, needing kindness, won't she feel stupid again after all if that wasn't an open invitation-- )

[ what is a ser coupe and how is it the thing that has driven gwenaëlle low? templar? templar. no good use for them anyway, and he broods over this as the hand on her back attempts to remember what humans like and settles for stuttering circles rubbed over her dress. ]

I care. [ and then really, she's chosen him for kindness? she knows full well how he feels about a variety of issues. he cannot be the best choice-- not that he's not flattered, but: he is an elf. she has her grandfather (possibly too old), her smith... ]

Why not the Luthor boy? Your smith.

[ he will keep the teeth-pulling to a minimum, she's nearly unlocked that kindness. ]

( at this distance, hand on her back -

he can't miss it when she stiffens. how she forces herself still again, her fingers flattening out against his chest, smoothing the fabric she'd rumpled. )

He's left.

( it almost sounds like something she can just say, unaffected. the way her hands stay so consciously still belies her quietness, when she is never still-

he doesn't want her here, she thinks, she's waited too long, pressed his patience once too often. this is a mistake, another on the depressingly long list of them; she should have known better, should have just swallowed it. her mothers wouldn't have done this. )

I'm bothering you, I'm sorry-

( it's a little bit sad, how she tries to gather up her dignity with her skirts. )

[ she can't see the way his brows rise, the gentle admonishment, his hand unmoving on her back even as she tries to pull away. ]

Have I said as much? I am only... curious.

[ flattered, nearly, because who comes to him for comfort? the outsider needs little, galadriel is ... galadriel, and he would shake under the weight of thingol's needs. ]

I did not think my presence one to be described as comforting.

[ he needs to work on his image, maybe. he used to be feared and loved and above all this. yet, here he is, lap full of crying man, and not minding it. ]

( she hovers indecisively for a moment, uncertain; looks up properly for the first time, hollow-eyed and pale, tired above all else. it is tiring just living, some days. a respite seems so often too much to ask - something she should be ashamed of even needing. )

If I went to the Duke, ( grandfather, ) he'd make it go away, but then I'd always -

I'd always have had to do that. I don't want to be a fucking child.

( she doesn't sit on the chair; settles beside him instead, rests her head against his shoulder. )

I'm just tired.

[ it takes him a moment to realize which duke, and isn't that silly, even he's on a first-name basis with romain, unearned as it is. she looks sickly and awful, and he's inclined to offer her something to drink, but she holds tight to him and he doesn't feel the need to deprive her of what comfort his presence provides.

he exhales, his shoulders lose a little of that stiffness, but he's mindful to not shrug her off. ]

You are a woman grown, [ he agrees. for a man, she is of the appropriate age, and for the most part, she takes care of herself as a high-bred lady ought to. ]

Have you been sleeping? [ thranduil asks. ] Eating?

[ he hasn't seen her, hasn't imposed his presence on her; doesn't know. ought to know, wants to know. ]

What happened?

( gwenaëlle has never been receptive to such questioning - evasive by habit, difficult to persuade to prioritise the things that one might naturally consider priorities. or to admit the precise ways in which she doesn't do the things she ought to be doing; guenievre's slight despair of it, months ago, thranduil's own fuss over ensuring she ate.

so it might be telling in itself that instead of dismissing him, she appears to actually consider an answer past her instinctive yes, of course. )

I've been distracted, I - no, I did eat, Yva brought me something before Ser Coupe met with me. I've been sleeping.

( see, she's so reasonable. answering questions and not haring off into a temper over nothing.

answering...some of his questions, and not the one she is fairly sure will result in him taking the templar's part. )

Good, [ he says, and he has never withheld praise from her when he thinks gwenaëlle deserving of it. the games they play of are another type entirely; he has always been honest with her. still, he reaches for something wrapped up in a handkerchief. the bread is not sam's, it is not even galadriel's lembas, but something borrowed from the kitchen, a roll intended from dinner. he half-stands to pour her a glass of watered-down wine into a clay mug, one hand holding the jug's handle, the other holding his sleeve back.

(he would not be sloppy with this.)

he presses the bread first into her hand, offers her the very-much weakened wine next. ]

I would appreciate it if you stayed here for a little while. [ he meets her eyes, still hovering above his chair, not quite willing to sit yet, on her level.

she has said she has eaten, slept, but not before him. not where he can witness her recovering and be sure of her safety. ]

( she doesn't want to leave; that makes it easier. the part of herself that says you must isn't silent, just easier to ignore when she wants comforted - wants a safer place to be, where no one will think to look and bother her. no one will come seeking her here.

maybe no one would come seeking her at all, but. )

I, yes. All right.

( she sips awkwardly at the wine; closes her eyes a moment, steadies herself. )

Are you [ he starts. ] uncomfortable?

[ he is her elder to a magnitude that comes back around and eats itself; he is a different species, and she is a (titled) young lady of good breeding. he is not suited for tender things. there are always rumors, too. their history of pecking at one another. ]

Would you have me find Morrigan, and leave the two of you be?

[ he watches her, still not quite settled, ready to give her the room. ]

( another day, and a different worry - she might say yes. she would say yes - saying yes would be unnecessary, she'd have gone to morrigan first, buried her face in her skirts, been bolstered by the trust she's managed to build there, a rare and precious thing.

but it--

morrigan is proud of her. this doesn't feel like the sort of thing that would make her prouder. this feels like the sort of small, embarrassing thing better kept from her attention, because it isn't the impressive thing morrigan thinks she can be, just a silly little girl afraid of shadows. )

No,

( after a pause, quieter. )

No, thank you.

[ he sits, then, seeing no more reason to hover about, uncomfortable in his own room. he is used to moving around in it with the outsider, the space between the bed and table just enough to keep them from needing to risk touching at the start. now, the brush of fabric when they pass is so little as to not be thought of. he is aware of his body (an odd sensation, bordering on self-concious), of gwenaëlle sitting on his bed.

he pours himself a glass slightly more haphazardly, and takes a long drink, leaning back into his chair, watching her sit.

nothing ought to be said about halamshiral, they cannot talk about shard-related nonsense, and he thinks himself at a loss, without any topic at all safe to choose from, but then: ]

How is the hound?

[ she knows. the one he forced upon her. a replacement for his own tendency to sniff about her and growl. ]

( she warms involuntarily, affection and pride doing their part to ease the lingering tightness in her eyes, her shoulders. )

Hardie. His name is Hardie, for Asher. He's learning - and growing, I didn't realise how swiftly he would. We never kept dogs.

( what is she, after all, some kind of doglord? )

He sleeps at the foot of my bed - he's mostly stopped growling if my maid moves about in the night. ( her new maid, speaking of things best not spoken of. ) I've grown accustomed to his company. We walk most days. Commander Rutherford has been generous with his time, to be sure he's trained properly.

A good name.

[ good, this is- safe.

and he is, of course, pleased that his little plan went off very well once he had managed to get the hound into her possession. it grew on her, as he knew it would, and now he is free to worry less about her safety.

that it wasn't with her when whatever happened happened is... regrettable. ]

He ought to protect you, first and foremost. He will become accustomed to your maid in time. [ totally casual about this poor girl being terrified at night. ]I appreciate the Templar's generosity, but Hardie mustn't hesitate at any command from you.

[ cullen is shady. ]

( former templar, she might say, but the distinction is almost meaningless when there aren't really any official, chantry templars any more. everything is still so unstable, without leadership; everyone might as well be former something or the other. also, they aren't arguing right now and it feels tenuous enough she has no urgent, pressing desire to correct it. )

He listens to me first and foremost, ( instead, a reassurance easy to give in its truth. ) I haven't had much trouble with him at all - he's very good.

( she looks down into her wine as if it might explain to her where she's ended up in her life. )

And Kieran likes him.

I would not wish to cause you trouble. [ and yet.

another moment of companionable silence where he takes the time to take a long drink of his wine. his lips curl into a warm smile against the rim of the glass. ]

That is a ringing endorsement, my lady. I could not be happier. [ and if kieran likes him, morrigan likes him. perhaps they ought to speak about the little orlesian lady. ]

Why was he not with you tonight?

( oh.

about that. gwenaëlle doesn't immediately look up from the wine, which has the effect of making it slightly less obvious when her mouth presses together, not a wince, exactly. )

He was.

( it's a measured response, now that she's steady enough to measure them. )

He was there. She only spoke to me.

[ words were enough to put her so out of sorts? had this been what she was like after their own fights, finding comfort somewhere quiet? ]

What did she say to you?

[ he sets his glass down, crosses his legs. he has all the time in the world. ]

( the truth of that is sometimes, yes; the sharpest knife she ever wields is always palmed inwards, quiet ugliness left in the wake of every rage, the awful loneliness of the self-defeating. )

I don't want to talk about it.

( of course.

she shakes her head, as if pre-empting an argument- )

It just - she was -

I didn't care for what she was saying. It doesn't matter, I just - didn't wish to be so easily found, for a little bit.

[ he doesn't want to fight. he remind himself of that.

(he is not one who has things hidden from him; gaps in his understanding needle at him. stop. draw back. you're not entitled to the little things she hides in the shadows.)

he looks, briefly, to the floor rather than at her. ]

And I... offer sanctuary.

[ don't do it, thranduil.

he exhales.]

Do I risk repeating her folly if we speak about the mundane workings of Skyhold, or recent events, or are those topics safe?

Edited 2017-04-17 02:36 (UTC)

( when he puts it like that -

it does sound a bit mad, she recognises. a man - elf, she can hear him correcting her in her head - she's spent months avoiding as thoroughly as she could. that's who she wants to be near, right now, that's who instinct took her to - if he'd turned her away at his door he'd have been well within his rights to do so.

she tilts her head. studies him for a moment, instead of her wine or the ceiling or any of her own life choices, which honestly do not bear examining. )

I'm glad they're seeing sense finally about not having the Wardens at Skyhold, but I don't see why the rest of us have to leave.

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