[ A song of sorrow carries through the crash of the waves, the humming of the wind, even the scent of salt in the air.
It is a kind of music Elrond is familiar with, and one he wonders if he can hear only because he knows how to listen for it. It had been as natural as learning a language to the Elves, the messages carried by the nature around them as vital as learning how to heed their own hearts. Looking at the other mourners gathered around them, he imagines they must be able to hear it, too; they would not be here if not for shared grief.
Granted, it's a conviction that he grows somewhat less sure of as conversations begin to splinter, meaningful glances cast across uneasy space that, he does not have to guess, have less to do with Laena than with the political web that seems constantly to draw together new threads. A shame, but nothing he can remedy. All he can do is pay his own respects, and to look after his wife. It is not easy for her to be here, and even less so given that an occasion for mourning is now also one for further intrigue.
He wonders, from time to time, if the rumors as to the senses of the Elves are taken as just that, here; people would surely be more careful with their whispers if they thought them to be true. Often, it takes active effort to focus his thoughts despite hundreds of years of practice at quieting his mind, at picking out solely what is necessary. Daemon, at least, speaks in High Valyrian, though Elrond assumes that is less to do with wishing that his niece's new husband does not overhear so much as it restricts the conversation from nearly all present. (On that same token, he cannot help but think that such attempted secrecy would be more effective if not also accompanied by a somewhat pointed glance.)
The difficulty is not that he needs to restrain a desire to know what Daemon has to say, but that he trusts Rhaenyra totally. He does not need to know what they say to each other, despite the history he has felt lingering between them, and to eavesdrop feels like a sort of violation of that trust. What they share, he dares to think that no one could break. He need not watch over her every action, despite his desire to remain ever by her side. He offers his condolences, in that time, to Lady Rhaenys and Lord Corlys, instead, though even that exchange does not totally drown out the sound of the conversation occurring across the battlements.
(Though he keeps the thought to himself, largely because whatever worry it might birth he regards as, for now, fairly needless, he does not totally trust Daemon. What he can divine of his previous relationship with Rhaenyra does not serve to endear him to Elrond, but Rhaenyra has grown in the intervening years. Daemon does not pose a danger to the love they bear each other, if not necessarily so as to the way succession will play out.)
He smiles, softly, when Rhaenyra returns to his side, his hand rising to rest over the one she slips through the crook of his arm. (Elven speech sounds natural on her tongue, the shape of it rounder than the sharp edges that, to him, characterize High Valyrian.) The direction of her gaze does not escape him, but it is not a matter to be discussed here. He says, though not in so many words, that he does not believe her old friendship with the Queen to be truly lost, but to repair such wounds as they have incurred is something that will take time and true effort, neither of which they really have the space for, here.
And besides, they have travel to prepare for. The prospect of dragon flight still unnerves him a little, but it has come to excite him, too; and even beyond that, it will mean they arrive in Middle-earth much faster than if they were to travel by boat, meaning that they will have more time once there as well. (He fancies, too, that Syrax has grown more fond of him, though he leaves it to Rhaenyra to truly confirm it.) The prospect excites him, not just to show her more of the Elves but to hopefully visit Khazad-dรปm as well, to introduce her to Durin, to take a little time simply to show her Middle-earth, a world that is still mostly foreign to her. ]
Of course, [ he says simply, as he begins leading them back toward the keep. Though he schools his expression into something more solemn, he cannot resist the initial smile that he offers her, in no small part because he is proud of her for having forded the day so well (and because such comfort, he thinks, is a necessary thing). Such a funeral is not an easy thing to navigate. In ]
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It is a kind of music Elrond is familiar with, and one he wonders if he can hear only because he knows how to listen for it. It had been as natural as learning a language to the Elves, the messages carried by the nature around them as vital as learning how to heed their own hearts. Looking at the other mourners gathered around them, he imagines they must be able to hear it, too; they would not be here if not for shared grief.
Granted, it's a conviction that he grows somewhat less sure of as conversations begin to splinter, meaningful glances cast across uneasy space that, he does not have to guess, have less to do with Laena than with the political web that seems constantly to draw together new threads. A shame, but nothing he can remedy. All he can do is pay his own respects, and to look after his wife. It is not easy for her to be here, and even less so given that an occasion for mourning is now also one for further intrigue.
He wonders, from time to time, if the rumors as to the senses of the Elves are taken as just that, here; people would surely be more careful with their whispers if they thought them to be true. Often, it takes active effort to focus his thoughts despite hundreds of years of practice at quieting his mind, at picking out solely what is necessary. Daemon, at least, speaks in High Valyrian, though Elrond assumes that is less to do with wishing that his niece's new husband does not overhear so much as it restricts the conversation from nearly all present. (On that same token, he cannot help but think that such attempted secrecy would be more effective if not also accompanied by a somewhat pointed glance.)
The difficulty is not that he needs to restrain a desire to know what Daemon has to say, but that he trusts Rhaenyra totally. He does not need to know what they say to each other, despite the history he has felt lingering between them, and to eavesdrop feels like a sort of violation of that trust. What they share, he dares to think that no one could break. He need not watch over her every action, despite his desire to remain ever by her side. He offers his condolences, in that time, to Lady Rhaenys and Lord Corlys, instead, though even that exchange does not totally drown out the sound of the conversation occurring across the battlements.
(Though he keeps the thought to himself, largely because whatever worry it might birth he regards as, for now, fairly needless, he does not totally trust Daemon. What he can divine of his previous relationship with Rhaenyra does not serve to endear him to Elrond, but Rhaenyra has grown in the intervening years. Daemon does not pose a danger to the love they bear each other, if not necessarily so as to the way succession will play out.)
He smiles, softly, when Rhaenyra returns to his side, his hand rising to rest over the one she slips through the crook of his arm. (Elven speech sounds natural on her tongue, the shape of it rounder than the sharp edges that, to him, characterize High Valyrian.) The direction of her gaze does not escape him, but it is not a matter to be discussed here. He says, though not in so many words, that he does not believe her old friendship with the Queen to be truly lost, but to repair such wounds as they have incurred is something that will take time and true effort, neither of which they really have the space for, here.
And besides, they have travel to prepare for. The prospect of dragon flight still unnerves him a little, but it has come to excite him, too; and even beyond that, it will mean they arrive in Middle-earth much faster than if they were to travel by boat, meaning that they will have more time once there as well. (He fancies, too, that Syrax has grown more fond of him, though he leaves it to Rhaenyra to truly confirm it.) The prospect excites him, not just to show her more of the Elves but to hopefully visit Khazad-dรปm as well, to introduce her to Durin, to take a little time simply to show her Middle-earth, a world that is still mostly foreign to her. ]
Of course, [ he says simply, as he begins leading them back toward the keep. Though he schools his expression into something more solemn, he cannot resist the initial smile that he offers her, in no small part because he is proud of her for having forded the day so well (and because such comfort, he thinks, is a necessary thing). Such a funeral is not an easy thing to navigate. In ]
You did well. I hope rest will come easily.