( his laughter, somewhat surprising in the context, although it only serves to pull her further from her own thoughts, mouth briefly ticking upwards in return, though more driven by subconscious mimicry. its an easy thing to forget — that perspective of his. the centuries of wisdom gathered. that this inspires amusement is almost a sobering thought. humanity is given to fatalizing. does this seem trite, in comparison to the rest of his life?
it isn’t meant to be self-deprecating — if anything, it is still her reality to fend in — but it is a point more strongly proven by the time he begins his account. )
Elrond, ( she chides, softly and it is her turn to catch his eye. ) Had we not agreed? Nothing is owed. Though, ( wryly: ) forthrightness is appreciated — and I do greatly wish to hear this.
( and with that said, she falls silent, for most of his retelling, attention entirely enrapt. takes the time to watch the shifts of his expressions, the depth in his eyes, the cadence in his voice — something strikes her as near reverence.
she heard some of the tales, of course. limited, and as such, had failed to aptly capture the extent of their grandeur.
they will find nothing but the names of kings and heroes, he says, simply fact and she wants to laugh. it all sounds so fantastical — so far removed from anything they’ve known.
targaryens are said to be closer to gods than men, but — if that were even half truth, they would have stories like this of their own. instead, they had dragons (a fearsome force, but the truth of it is clear — without them, they are just men). and even if this history is recounted to viserys (who would no doubt be far more invested than elrond might realize), she imagines he would be moved to propose yet another retelling to the small council, if only to watch the look on their faces when they are proven so deeply and astoundingly wrong.
but beneath it all — he is a child of such legacy. that reverence with which he speaks might hide the truth of how great a shadow such a history may cast. inevitably, it strikes a cord, one that teeters dangerously back to duty. does he put upon himself those expectations? she almost thinks to interrupt to ask, but —
he speaks of his capture, and something in her throat presses in. hands, folded on her lap, and she had resisted the urge to turn at her ring until there is mention of this. to have witnessed such a horror in his lifetime and yet still be so kind through the rest of his life — she cannot imagine. targaryen nature lends less to gentleness. such stories are not unheard of in their lands — people, children murdered for less. to hear of it amongst the elves...
she supposes it doesn't matter. elf or human, there will always be a capacity for tragedy and a place for cruelty. that he was not alone through it is some consolation, though the note of grief with which he speaks of his brother doesn't go unnoticed. she likes to think she understands, what missing someone like that feels like.
when he quiets, he dares think she was bored to listen. her expression is one of disbelief. ) You recount tales that most would not witness in a lifetime — and yet you ask me that? I — ( a shake of her head, a moment to gather her thoughts. there could be so many things to ask — about his brother. his parents. pieces of his past that served to define him in some way because she finds herself drawn towards that curiosity, towards knowing his heart.
for now though, she settles on the expression he wears, the softness of his voice. simply: ) I'm sorry.
( followed by a short beat, brows knitting.) — does it weigh heavy on you? Such a legacy? ( she searches for...something, in that question. she cannot stop herself from thinking of the conqueror’s dream. an heir’s secret. a lineage’s task, defining so much. )
no subject
it isn’t meant to be self-deprecating — if anything, it is still her reality to fend in — but it is a point more strongly proven by the time he begins his account. )
Elrond, ( she chides, softly and it is her turn to catch his eye. ) Had we not agreed? Nothing is owed. Though, ( wryly: ) forthrightness is appreciated — and I do greatly wish to hear this.
( and with that said, she falls silent, for most of his retelling, attention entirely enrapt. takes the time to watch the shifts of his expressions, the depth in his eyes, the cadence in his voice — something strikes her as near reverence.
she heard some of the tales, of course. limited, and as such, had failed to aptly capture the extent of their grandeur.
they will find nothing but the names of kings and heroes, he says, simply fact and she wants to laugh. it all sounds so fantastical — so far removed from anything they’ve known.
targaryens are said to be closer to gods than men, but — if that were even half truth, they would have stories like this of their own. instead, they had dragons (a fearsome force, but the truth of it is clear — without them, they are just men). and even if this history is recounted to viserys (who would no doubt be far more invested than elrond might realize), she imagines he would be moved to propose yet another retelling to the small council, if only to watch the look on their faces when they are proven so deeply and astoundingly wrong.
but beneath it all — he is a child of such legacy. that reverence with which he speaks might hide the truth of how great a shadow such a history may cast. inevitably, it strikes a cord, one that teeters dangerously back to duty. does he put upon himself those expectations? she almost thinks to interrupt to ask, but —
he speaks of his capture, and something in her throat presses in. hands, folded on her lap, and she had resisted the urge to turn at her ring until there is mention of this. to have witnessed such a horror in his lifetime and yet still be so kind through the rest of his life — she cannot imagine. targaryen nature lends less to gentleness. such stories are not unheard of in their lands — people, children murdered for less. to hear of it amongst the elves...
she supposes it doesn't matter. elf or human, there will always be a capacity for tragedy and a place for cruelty. that he was not alone through it is some consolation, though the note of grief with which he speaks of his brother doesn't go unnoticed. she likes to think she understands, what missing someone like that feels like.
when he quiets, he dares think she was bored to listen. her expression is one of disbelief. ) You recount tales that most would not witness in a lifetime — and yet you ask me that? I — ( a shake of her head, a moment to gather her thoughts. there could be so many things to ask — about his brother. his parents. pieces of his past that served to define him in some way because she finds herself drawn towards that curiosity, towards knowing his heart.
for now though, she settles on the expression he wears, the softness of his voice. simply: ) I'm sorry.
( followed by a short beat, brows knitting.) — does it weigh heavy on you? Such a legacy? ( she searches for...something, in that question. she cannot stop herself from thinking of the conqueror’s dream. an heir’s secret. a lineage’s task, defining so much. )