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[ 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.

[ he is, when he wants to be, very good company. witty enough to carry a conversation, a font of empathy (genuine or false, those court manners-) and always, always free with drinks.

he does not shrink under her gaze, only looking away once she brings up an acceptable topic, a mutual thing for them to wrinkle their noses about. ]

It has been getting rather crowded, mm? [ and that's not just because he's sharing his room with a pony, no, he really prefers bill over other occupants, and he invited the outsider into his life. ] I have not heard good things about Kirkwall.

[ it's where yngvi comes from, isn't that enough? ]

I don't pretend to have a great knowledge of the city, but I daresay there aren't any good things to hear.

( That's about the sum of her knowledge of Kirkwall; it's fucking terrible. )

We're to the Gallows. What a charming name that is.

Your grandfather will quickly remedy that, I am sure.

[ he's actually rather fond of romain, in fact, and cannot blame the man for putting it all to rights.

his nose wrinkles as he frowns, utter distaste. ]

Is that not the name for where hangings take place?

( She's sure, too, but perhaps not quick enough for her liking- and it grates, a little, to so easily turn to the solution of let her grandfather solve the problem. She's not needed him or her father or any of them for months, and now he's here, and it frustrates her how easy it is to slide into reliance.

She doesn't allow herself. So much so that they've scarcely spoken -

But that's as may be. )

One can only assume they felt very fondly about their mages, ( is her dry confirmation of what a gallows is, in any case.

Small wonder he blew that Chantry half to hell. Still. )

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