[ (He holds her hands in his as he answers the question — frankly, it is a difficult task, one that seems to grow harder with each passing year. The capacity for kindness is matched only by the world's capacity for incredible cruelty — he has seen it wrought upon his people, by those in the service of evil and those who perceived themselves as acting on behalf of good. He sees it in the orcs, in his kin who have been twisted beyond all recognition; he sees it in the way shadows ever seem to loom despite their best efforts to usher in an age of light. But to close one's heart completely is to invite the darkness in. Ultimately, one can only choose one's own path, and trust in what difference that may make in the outcome of things.
And so, he offers those he meets his trust, his belief, the chance to share in hope for the future rather than to think it doomed.)
She offers him something similar, now, imparting to him not only the feelings he can only imagine she has had to bottle up over the years but the secrets held by the Red Keep, by her lineage. That is the magic of it, he supposes — when trust begets trust, when belief is met by shared strength rather than poison.
For a while, he is content to listen and follow, simply taking in the breadth of the passages she shows him, quietly putting the pieces together as to their intended function under Maegor's rule as well as their current role, now, as a secret kept by Rhaenyra and, he imagines, precious few others. (It reminds him, a little, of the kingdoms of the Dwarves, of the many winding routes they'd made through the earth, all in search of something more.)
The chamber she finally leads them to, however, gives him pause.
The skull is titanic, of a size that makes imagining the living dragon a terrifying thing. The wavering shapes of candlelight cast upon it only serve to make it more forbidding. The dragons, as they are here, as still somewhat difficult for him to wrap his head around. The bond between dragon and rider is a precious thing, one that he understands better now having seen how Rhaenyra cares for Syrax (and vice versa), but the scale to which the beasts are capable of destruction (and the idea that all of that should hinge on the will of a single soul) is somewhat more complicated.
(For a full day and a full night, his father had battled against Ancalagon the Black. In the morning that had followed, he finally managed to cast the dragon out of the sky.)
To trust in them requires another kind of belief, he supposes — the will to believe that these creatures, bred not for evil as they were during Morgoth's reign, and their riders should understand the power that they wield. It is with this thought in mind that Elrond's gaze falls back to Rhaenyra as she poses a question, one he can tell carries some weight. ]
I understand the decision was preceded by an age of significant turmoil, [ he says carefully, picking back through his memories of Westerosi history. ] Beyond that, I am afraid I have heard precious little, beyond the usual reasons of ambition that drive men to conquer other lands.
[ He hesitates, then, too, aware that he's treading into uncertain ground. ]
no subject
And so, he offers those he meets his trust, his belief, the chance to share in hope for the future rather than to think it doomed.)
She offers him something similar, now, imparting to him not only the feelings he can only imagine she has had to bottle up over the years but the secrets held by the Red Keep, by her lineage. That is the magic of it, he supposes — when trust begets trust, when belief is met by shared strength rather than poison.
For a while, he is content to listen and follow, simply taking in the breadth of the passages she shows him, quietly putting the pieces together as to their intended function under Maegor's rule as well as their current role, now, as a secret kept by Rhaenyra and, he imagines, precious few others. (It reminds him, a little, of the kingdoms of the Dwarves, of the many winding routes they'd made through the earth, all in search of something more.)
The chamber she finally leads them to, however, gives him pause.
The skull is titanic, of a size that makes imagining the living dragon a terrifying thing. The wavering shapes of candlelight cast upon it only serve to make it more forbidding. The dragons, as they are here, as still somewhat difficult for him to wrap his head around. The bond between dragon and rider is a precious thing, one that he understands better now having seen how Rhaenyra cares for Syrax (and vice versa), but the scale to which the beasts are capable of destruction (and the idea that all of that should hinge on the will of a single soul) is somewhat more complicated.
(For a full day and a full night, his father had battled against Ancalagon the Black. In the morning that had followed, he finally managed to cast the dragon out of the sky.)
To trust in them requires another kind of belief, he supposes — the will to believe that these creatures, bred not for evil as they were during Morgoth's reign, and their riders should understand the power that they wield. It is with this thought in mind that Elrond's gaze falls back to Rhaenyra as she poses a question, one he can tell carries some weight. ]
I understand the decision was preceded by an age of significant turmoil, [ he says carefully, picking back through his memories of Westerosi history. ] Beyond that, I am afraid I have heard precious little, beyond the usual reasons of ambition that drive men to conquer other lands.
[ He hesitates, then, too, aware that he's treading into uncertain ground. ]
Am I to take it that there is more to the story?