It does feel that way, doesn't it? ( a conversation that has only just begun. ) I look forward to its continuation, my lord. ( words demanded by politeness, punctuated by her own bow in answer and yet theres another press of wryness that already alludes to a secrecy between them, time stolen away before it was time to carry on with what was expected of them.
she steps away, already catching note of the handmaidens drifting closer with some poorly kept urgency — likely having started to worry that the princess may have already decided to run off again. but not before looking back to him — he, who stands carved ethereal amidst this elven land, a visage that could easy be writ on some tapestry, inlaid in golden thread. that is how she should wish to remember him, she thinks in turn. ) To happy evenings. I will see you soon enough.
( many trials lie ahead but for the moment, it is easier to be swept up in the preparations. nerves peak, regardless of the hope that's taken surest root. she still sees her father regard her with something akin to concern and some shade of guilt and it is tempting to ask if he's finally found an appropriate remedy for his political headache. she doesn't, fire pacified to rolling embers, but it is somewhat amusing — as though he still half expects her to bolt like a flighty colt. she has no such intention and viserys seems to breathe no short sigh of relief when she finally steps forward in brilliant reds and silvered white silks, in homage to their hosts, and slips her arm through the crook of his elbow.
the unearthly nature of lindon seems to reach its crescendo as night finds its zenith, the evenstar particularly brilliant through the branches. courtly life had ensured an exposure to grandeur, and yet it pales in comparison weighed against sights she's never seen before.
it is all manners from here on out, seated at their table and navigating unfamiliar tradition with whatever grace she can muster. (it had made sense, to follow more in the steps of their hosts rather than their own, save for the smaller allusions) her attention, in all the inevitability, drifts to elrond to see how he fares, what expression he might wear. despite the political nature — such union seldom done amongst the elves, as she is so abundantly made aware of — they drink and they feast and they toast much the same, celebratory nature of all of this transcending borders well enough. there are promises announced, in honor of the futures of both realms; promises of duty and alliance and the (tentative) hope looking ever onward. in some way, it only serves as a reminder. they are to be the catalysts to what future might lie ahead, for ill or for good.
it isn't until they stand face to face once again that this feels real. that despite the quiet promises exchanged between themselves mere handful of hours before, there is weight to this, here and now, hands linked and golden rings exchanged. it is only natural, to have the band that comes from her house be inlaid with three brilliant rubies, for fire and blood. blessings are given, and though rhaenyra lacks the fluency to understand it, the language sounds melodic, magical. (a contrast to the sharpness of high valyrian). it feels sacred in unspoken ways.
and once the blessings are spoken, it seems as though it gives credence to celebrations to begin in earnest, with melodies plucked along delicate strings and members of the elven court effortlessly twisting into dance.
she finds herself drifting further inwards, delicate wine flute held in her hands; her heartbeat is quick in birdcage ribs, and it does not take long to seek elrond out to meet again — so terribly close to the place where she'd first caught him earlier this day — and she raises her glass, with a smile and a bow to her head. ) And how do you feel this evening, lord husband? ( she'd asked him near the same thing, before their hands were joined. there's a twist of mirth, to hide remnants of bittersweetness well beneath. )
no subject
she steps away, already catching note of the handmaidens drifting closer with some poorly kept urgency — likely having started to worry that the princess may have already decided to run off
again. but not before looking back to him — he, who stands carved ethereal amidst this elven land, a visage that could easy be writ on some tapestry, inlaid in golden thread. that is how she should wish to remember him, she thinks in turn. ) To happy evenings. I will see you soon enough.( many trials lie ahead but for the moment, it is easier to be swept up in the preparations. nerves peak, regardless of the hope that's taken surest root. she still sees her father regard her with something akin to concern and some shade of guilt and it is tempting to ask if he's finally found an appropriate remedy for his political headache. she doesn't, fire pacified to rolling embers, but it is somewhat amusing — as though he still half expects her to bolt like a flighty colt. she has no such intention and viserys seems to breathe no short sigh of relief when she finally steps forward in brilliant reds and silvered white silks, in homage to their hosts, and slips her arm through the crook of his elbow.
the unearthly nature of lindon seems to reach its crescendo as night finds its zenith, the evenstar particularly brilliant through the branches. courtly life had ensured an exposure to grandeur, and yet it pales in comparison weighed against sights she's never seen before.
it is all manners from here on out, seated at their table and navigating unfamiliar tradition with whatever grace she can muster. (it had made sense, to follow more in the steps of their hosts rather than their own, save for the smaller allusions) her attention, in all the inevitability, drifts to elrond to see how he fares, what expression he might wear. despite the political nature — such union seldom done amongst the elves, as she is so abundantly made aware of — they drink and they feast and they toast much the same, celebratory nature of all of this transcending borders well enough. there are promises announced, in honor of the futures of both realms; promises of duty and alliance and the (tentative) hope looking ever onward. in some way, it only serves as a reminder. they are to be the catalysts to what future might lie ahead, for ill or for good.
it isn't until they stand face to face once again that this feels real. that despite the quiet promises exchanged between themselves mere handful of hours before, there is weight to this, here and now, hands linked and golden rings exchanged. it is only natural, to have the band that comes from her house be inlaid with three brilliant rubies, for fire and blood. blessings are given, and though rhaenyra lacks the fluency to understand it, the language sounds melodic, magical. (a contrast to the sharpness of high valyrian). it feels sacred in unspoken ways.
and once the blessings are spoken, it seems as though it gives credence to celebrations to begin in earnest, with melodies plucked along delicate strings and members of the elven court effortlessly twisting into dance.
she finds herself drifting further inwards, delicate wine flute held in her hands; her heartbeat is quick in birdcage ribs, and it does not take long to seek elrond out to meet again — so terribly close to the place where she'd first caught him earlier this day — and she raises her glass, with a smile and a bow to her head. ) And how do you feel this evening, lord husband? ( she'd asked him near the same thing, before their hands were joined. there's a twist of mirth, to hide remnants of bittersweetness well beneath. )