— something new begins to take

[ziryla]

— I need my golden crown of sorrow, my bloody sword to swing; I need my empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology —

( a little place for our feral little hearts. )

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[osanwe]

[ There are a few conversations he knows yet await them: the question of children, whether they desire them at all, and if so, then when, given their still tentative steps into intimacy; and the matter of whether or not she would desire, when the time should come, to sail into Valinor, let alone whether or not his kin would permit such a thing. It is, in theory, a less pressing matter, but he cannot deny that the issue of time is not one that plagues him. The idea is one that appeals to him — that the end of her mortal time should not preclude the ability for them to spend more time together — but he knows it to be selfish, too. Even at death's doorstep, it would be difficult at the best of times for a queen to leave her people.

(It is strange, too, to admit to himself just how quickly he has become fond of her, how attached he feels. He looks for her when she is not present, misses her when they are parted. He had never thought himself to be so easily affected by anything before, but with her— the years seem to fall away. He does not relish the idea of losing that feeling, knowing that what they have is finite. He understands better now the tales of those from whom he is descended, of the kinds of emotions that spur such great tales. It makes him wonder, in the moments he allows for his ambition to take true hold, how they will be written of; if the marriage will be purely characterized by its political significance or if they will manage something greater.)

But, for the moment, he smiles in return, a soft laugh escaping him. It is a relief that their journey is one she's eager for, rather than solely an obligation. He knows, already, that there'll be some work to be done — the missives he receives hint at some unrest, though he does not know yet if he'll be able to be of much use — but, as per their conversation already, he does not intend to let such things monopolize their time. Time is such a precious thing, after all. Day by day he grows more conscious of the waste of it.

He also imagines there'll be some to-do given Syrax's presence (and some more thoughtfulness required should they travel with the beast outside of the Elven realm, particularly if they intend for their trip to be free of any potential violence), but that's a bridge they'll cross when they come to it. ]

I think you will very quickly become the apple of every eye that perceives you, [ he says, of her inclination.

In fairness, he'd think so even if gifts weren't on her mind, but there are few better ways to prove oneself a considerate guest, and more than that, he finds himself touched by the thought, that she should think that one step further for the sake of those he calls kin and kindred. ]

May I ask what you had in mind?

[ziryla]

What flattering bias you have, husband, ( dryly, though with a pleased little smile before her expression turns a bit more thoughtful, a twist to the moue of her mouth.

it is easiest, perhaps to address the more pragmatic side of their journey, lest they spend more time dwelling on it than she’d like: ) In the interest of keeping an appropriate message, I thought to present the High King with a sapling of our Weirwood. Viserys wishes to pass some letters along, a continued confirmation of maintaining our political agreements and we need to ensure that, despite what Gil-Galad might hear on the matters of succession — should he — Targaryen word holds steadfast. ( she knows it sounds terribly droll, in some way. Impersonal, nuanced. Necessary. Setting the right pieces in motion for when they might call for Elven support in return (if by promise alone, and not sword). It almost feels petty, in some way, but her hope lies in the sapling, then. A reminder perhaps, of growth. Of peace, of appreciation. A living thing to tend the life of, as they have done here. It would send a different message if she were to present any sort of armament, ceremonial or no (even if more fitting with their history of conquest, but that is certainly not how she wishes to tend this history. Her whole lifetime, as it were).

With that out of the way, she sighs, lets the silence linger a little while as they turn to their guest chambers. A chance for him to speak in agreement or against while she tosses a brief look at the tapestries hung around the quarters. They show victories of the Sea Snake, ever persistent reminders of conquest and survival and pride in equal measure. Her eyes pass along them without much hold, though it is Corlys’s errant remark that lingers — history remembers names.

She turns a softer attention back to Elrond (at times, she has to wonder, if she has her love for him, why she would need anything else, but those are thoughts best reserved for poets, and not future queens) ) — As for Durin, and Lady Galadriel — ( absently, her hand rises to the Elessar, held precious in so many ways, more and more with the tales Elrond had shared on its significance.

As with many things around her, this too felt bigger than she was. Could anything ever come close?

Truly, there had only ever been one thing to ever try. ) — I thought Valyrian Steel to be most fitting. It is a metal that has not been recreated since Valyria’s fall. The edges never dull, the steel never tarnishes.

The pieces we have carry that significance. It is the only thing we have that might boast the same longevity. ( There are things in that she doesn’t say. How she wishes for them to know how much significance Elrond holds. How he had changed everything. And how, no matter what may befall her house upon these shores, that there may be keepsakes scattered within Middle Earth, free of what the futures might hold. The last bastion of memory.

Of course, there is no shortage of the greed of infinity, around him. And of course, it works in such brittle dichotomy to her father’s health, to the inevitability of time and the duty to her house and kingdom that she has thus far ignored for the sake of indulging in the warmth of a slow development.

She had approached one of their packs, to remove a slender wrapping of deep red. ) For Galadriel — it would be a gift from myself as much as Viserys. I do not think I’ve ever seen him parted with it before. ( In her hands sits the dagger of the King, an elegant sweep of a blade that sings of old history.

To some degree, she knows it pains him to part with it, near as much as it pains her to see him parted. But just the same, it would have been Rhaenyra’s one day, to do with as she pleases. And If their lives are to interweave with the elves, who better to hold to prophecy of kings than the Lady Galadriel herself?

Perhaps Viserys knows he would not outlast this ailment to an age that would have fit him.

Rhaenyra extends the dagger, holding the steel above the flame. Its warm on her skin, against her fingers, but she had never minded the heat. Valyrian script soon alights itself across the swirling metal and she keeps her gaze upon it. ) Do you think a safekeeping of prophecy would be a fitting gift, or an obvious burden?

[osanwe]

[ To a certain extent, Elrond has always known the colors of the tapestry that could come to be his life — an early interest in and talent for politics had led to a place in the High King's court, and his rise to the position of herald had shaped what sort of avenues would be afforded him next. He had known, before his marriage to Rhaenyra had been arranged, that his life would never be purely of luxury, that to be a representative of his people, to play some role in stewarding their future, demanded a degree of personal sacrifice.

And so this discussion now, of what will best maintain the relationship between House Targaryen and the Elves, of what kind of gift will make the best impression and suggestion as to their intertwined futures — as much as it may be a chore, there's something heartening in being able to share it with her, in being able to track the course of her thoughts. Bias, she says, which isn't strictly untrue, but that's hardly a problem in his mind. ]

I imagine the High King would take kindly to such gifts, [ he says in agreement. A sapling would be appreciated, he knows, and suits the Elves' affinity for nature, and some correspondence from the King would likely set Gil-galad's mind a little more at ease. (They are similar in some ways, Elrond thinks, though he does not give voice to it.) As for whether or not Gil-galad has yet heard of the conflict brewing within Viserys' court, the burden rests largely on Elrond's shoulders as his people's main emissary; there'll be no avoiding it, he expects, though his prognosis is somewhat more positive than his wife's.

(As for Viserys — there is a part of him that wonders if the King would not benefit from the medicine of the Elves, if they might not somehow be able to turn the tide of the illness that ravages his body. But that is not a decision for him to make, and, nascent as the thought is, he has yet to bring it up to Rhaenyra. The moment has not yet presented itself, but perhaps soon—)

The sight of the dagger is the first thing to give Elrond pause. Even without it said aloud, he recognizes the importance it holds not only in terms of prophecy but as to Rhaenyra and Viserys' attachment to it as a marker of their legacy. It's strange — the design is not dissimilar to what the Elves prefer in their arms, especially in short-swords and daggers, though its colors are somewhat more striking than the more celestial palette of his kin.

Gently, as he watches the letters come to light upon the metal: ] We do not see prophecy as a burden. I think she will see it for what it is, as a signifier of trust.

[ His gaze finds hers, then, searching her features. He knows well that she would not even bring it up if she weren't certain, if she hadn't already spoken of it with her father, but still: ]

Are you certain you wish to part with it?