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[rowancrowned]

 

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a letter;

[alankazam]

[ pressed into thranduil's hands by a distracted inquisition scout whenever he next visits the docks. it’s written in a familiar (if meandering) script, and looks much battered for journey. there's no signature or return address. ]

Orlais is full of feathers.

It's full of life, too. There was life in the Winter Palace, but not like this. The Winter Palace is Orlais as a tumour is a heart; you would only think it so for the blood.

Orlais is full of life — the fires are gone now, but breaths still smoke with their memory: Tongues trip over each other in search of rain. There was a forest I once knew, in a village a long time gone. They set their own ablaze, that lightning wouldn’t take more later. I suppose it worked for the Prophet, to be reborn as storm.

It’s easy for me to go unnoticed here, if I don’t go upon my own feet. To trade places would change that about, but there’s value in not being seen, and more of it for her than I. Some names hold long memories, long as the plume upon a helmet, long as the faces their shadows assume.

Orlais is full of feathers. The dawn may find wax between them.

[ enclosed is a rough sketch of a mallorn. it’s difficult to tell, after alan’s abstracted style, what size it might be or whether it’s still growing — but the particular shape of its whorls and leaves is rendered faithfully enough. ]