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— something new begins to take
— 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. )
— 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. )
no subject
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-dûm 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.
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Driftmark was similar, in some way — there was still Laenor, to inherit Corlys' seat, but he had no heirs (preferences and proclivities a poorly kept secret, even if she had done her best to cover for him when he'd asked). So then the question became: would Driftmark then be succeeded by Daemon's daughters? It shouldn't be a question, if Rhaenyra would take the throne as first Queen. But, all to point: funerals for the court were never simply funerals, and the song of sorrow that might ring so true in Elrond's ears is still mostly lost.
And, in that, it was easy to feel adrift. One must wonder, if she is made softer in the company of her husband, to be so torn.
But, where Elrond might have been politely trying not to eavesdrop on her conversation with her uncle, Rhaenyra hadn't missed the way Otto's attention lingered on them across the battlements. Nor Alicent's, or Cole's and while she wished for Elrond to be proven right in the mending of her childhood friendship, she had to wonder if such a hope would be enough after the years at quiet odds. The smallest hurts can fester if left un-soothed. Perhaps after they return...
But there are other matters to concern herself with now, too — the journey ahead will need to be a careful one. They will arrive far faster than they would on boat, that is true. And Rhaenyra had taken to flying Syrax to and around Dragonstone, to ensure a lasting endurance of an otherwise over-spoiled she-dragon. Had ensured she knew Elrond by sent and sight (and worried, somewhat, how he would fare on his first journey on dragon-back). Had asked the keepers on what preparations needed to be made, and even Daemon had a few short words of advice, given the extensive time spent in flight. But — it would be the longest time she would be away from the keep. Ample time for things to go awry, for those who wished to undermine her claim to make their moves undeterred. Viserys had grown all the more weary as of late (and with all that, his insistence on her own heirs was harder to navigate).
Elrond's hand on hers is a comforting warmth. As are his words, and it has become no less surprising to hear such encouragement so openly. Her nose wrinkles, affair having put her in a particularly cloudy mood. ) And yet, I find myself restless.
( Thumb runs along the top of his hand — a fidget taking place of twisting at her hands and rings — as they walk back inside the keep. Pointedly pretending not to see Otto drag a very drunk Aegon back inside. ) We should fly on Syrax to Dragonstone early on the morrow. ( besides, better a short flight to acquaint her boon companion and husband first. ) Finish our preparations there. The Keepers are more fit to assist, and it brings us closer to the open sea.
( The prospect of their journey is an anxious one as much as it is an exciting one; with the thought of politics removed, there is still a childish thrill to the thought. That finally, finally she gets to share the skies with someone dear, and see the open world far beyond what she could have ever hoped for. It might be the only thought that serves to ease the tension from her brow, as she looks up to him, a tick of a smile. ) Are you looking forward to returning home?
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Still, the thought is passing, for now, as he returns his mind and his attention back to Rhaenyra. He nods, adding, ] I think it best not to linger. [ There are too many people here, too many high emotions, and should the matter of Driftmark's succession require their vote or involvement, it isn't as though they'll be totally out of reach.
(And, blessedly, the night passes without event. In this life, with Rhaenyra yet to bear children, Vermax is given to Aegon; claim to Vhagar remains with Laena's daughters.)
His smile grows softer in response to hers. (That wrinkle of her nose is something he finds endearing each time the expression crosses her face. It's similar to the way he's grown fonder and less wary of Syrax — there's a distinct charm to watching a beast so great, so dangerous, indulge in its more playful or childish impulses.) The crash of the waves still sounds in his ears, but — such farewells are not all sorrow, though that can sometimes be difficult to remember. He nods again in answer, the gesture accompanied by a slight shrug of his shoulders. ]
I cannot deny that I am. It is strange, I would say that I sometimes feel split in two, except the words carry too much pain to be true to my meaning. My home is with you, that is what I hold most important in my heart. But there are threads, still, that tie me to my people, beyond the framework of political alliance, all of which I would share with you.
[ A little too earnest, perhaps, but he thinks it required given the delicacy of the subject matter at hand. He has a life here, now, with her, but that does not erase his connections to Middle-earth, to Valinor. To simplify things to some extent, he is glad that the occasion for their betrothal demands maintaining ties across the sea, and the occasion to see old friends again.
The precariousness of their position — and more pointedly, their impending absence — is not lost upon him, especially as Viserys' health shows no signs of improving. But, in the interest of ensuring his daughter's smooth succession, and to address matters in the most practical terms possible, he had done well to wed her to an elf. A slight against her would also be a slight against her husband, and the prospect of drawing the High King's ire, and moreover, the High King's action, is a powerful deterrent. In truth, Elrond does not believe Gil-galad willing to march to war over such a thing, but the Greens need not know that. ]
Are you looking forward to visiting again? Admittedly, your last visit to Middle-earth was painfully brief, nor do I believe you were given so much latitude as to explore.
no subject
And still, it has taken an outside perspective looking in to have Rhaenyra realizing how messy things have truly gotten. The thought goes unvoiced, but she has to wonder, at times — this will not settle with her ascension, should it even be allowed to occur. Petty quarrels bleed longest.
But — to lighter matters at hand. Especially now, it feels akin to chasing the sun. As they walk the halls — blissfully away from higher emotion, higher tension (and thus, history rewritten), it's easier to ease her shoulders, the tension of her arm lessening, sliding instead to thread her fingers through his as she listens.
My home is with you he says and no matter how many times he speaks of such things, or passes small compliments, it is said so wholly it always catches her breath. But she has an end. A startling thought, though not entirely irrelevant, given the funeral at their backs. She cannot bring herself to ask where he intends on going after her death (or if their children will follow, because that is a conversation that hangs closer and closer as Viserys' strength wanes and his needling persists). That isn't how she wants their adventure to begin.
There's a hum, thoughtful. ) It has been your home for far longer than we've known one another. I do not blame your sentiment. To some degree, I even hope I understand it. ( Targaryens held a history lost to flame; many of them had yearned for a return to something that was no longer there. She saw it in Daemon, at least. She saw it in how they held their traditions, their tongue. It isn't the exact same, she knows that too. ) I'm happy you want to share such things.
( He has had a life without her for far longer; and for far longer, gods willing, will he have it beyond her. Middle Earth had served as his home through it all and despite his absolute devotion, is this political union not a short breath when held up to the year before and to follow?
It is a benefit to them, that the elven alliance (in whatever capacity it was) was one of high privacy. Hardly any could claim to know elven nature, and that Gil-galad was unlikely to send any contingent to march for them was not an assumption many would know of, regardless. That, she hoped, would need to be enough.
Before long, the worry of what they left will be replaced by the thrill of the journey, the wonder of things she's yet to see. An adventure to a world not even Daemon had ventured to, to think! All for them, to quell a dragon's hunger.
She smiles, and it wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. ) I am, yes. Very much so. I've no marriage to be rush to, ( said with love. )
Admittedly, I was thinking of gifts. I could not very well come empty handed.
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(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?
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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?
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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?