❧ video; 01

[firith]

[ Tiny, delicate little hands are the first sight to be seen when the locket begins to broadcast, closely followed by a pair of bright grey eyes. A fairy flutters from Thranduil's arm to sit on his shoulder and, pointy-eared as he is with a river of pale blonde hair (not to mention a crown of red berries and leaves), they make a fine pair, though neither of them appears particularly human. It isn't locked to one court or another, singularly because he isn't aware it can be, displaying the brilliant golden walls of a private solar in Caer Glaem. A king's chambers.

The feed shuts off abruptly.

Minutes later, it clicks back on to the sound of the tinkling laughter of the same fairy; someone is clearly learning how to use the locket's functions via trial and error. Judging by the first glimpse of him, he needs the practice. The third time he speaks, the message runs along the screen like a river of inked words taking form: A charming tool. And they will be able to respond in kind, you say? I think I will, yes. How do I —? Ah. Thank you, little one.

Fourth time is a charm; the locket is held at arm's length, affording the best view yet of a fascinated elf. ]

I am Thranduil, Elvenking of Eryn Lasgalen, that which is the Wood of Greenleaves in the land from whence I hail. I would welcome those with greater knowledge of the Drabwurld and the creatures within it. Well do I understand the nature of being summoned thus — that is not a point of contention for me, as it is with many of you.

[ The fairy shimmers insistently, drawing a glance. ]

Lothdithen will visit any who wish to further discuss with me the matter of the war and lead them to where I will be in the castle until nightfall. The library will suffice with its maps of where we might strengthen this fortress with our differing experience and arts.

[ There is no thanks, no goodbye. The feed simply ends with the tone of one who is not accustomed to bandying idle words. ]

Comments

[steeledskin]

[ the notion of equals might frighten her more than anything else. she's come to understand how to function when beholden to someone else: a false-father who would cajole her kisses; a cruel king whose ego needed to be preened; even an honest hound who'd taken a song on the night of the blackwater. and so it's understandable that she watches thranduil -- listens to his argument -- with considerable wariness. she may yet learn to trust the king, but she's not one to trust in liberty of any kind. ]

You are strange -- [ she breathes the word, fearing what insuly it may give (however unintended) ] -- as kings go.

[firith]

So have all the daughters and sons of Men thought of Elvenkind. Our ways were never yours, yet if you were a maiden or a warrior, I would treat you the same as any she-elf.

[ She is clever and navigates courtly routine well, so he indulges himself in elaborating. ]

I am one of the Sindar, as is my son. The Elves which first took my father for their kind are Silvan, a different faction considered by the noble-blooded Noldorin Elves to be rustic and rude. My father sought to integrate our two cultures and they have since been as one, without distinction.

[ His head tilts. ]

The blood that runs through someones veins and whence it came matters not to me, for I love those loyal to me and would not see them come to harm.

[steeledskin]

[ but blood -- she thinks childishly -- is everything. the blood of the first men surges in her veins, set to boil when she thinks about all that has befallen the starks. even now, sansa longs for a simplified view of her world: black and white; good and evil. she wants the monsters to die and maybe (just maybe!) petyr baelish can give her that satisfaction.

but it would be better if she didn't feel guilt and distress and grief go hand in hand with every scrap of vengeance. when she cried for joffrey, she doesn't truly cry for him -- but for her childhood, for all she lost at his hands, and for the memory of metal crunching into her jaw. the taste of blood. stark blood. ]

We are not so magnanimous in Westeros. [ she admits. ] But your father must have been a hard-working man -- [ no, no, that's not right ] -- elf to have accomplished such peace.

[firith]

He was hot-blooded and he disliked our Noldor kin. So much so that he crossed a continent to escape them and did not heed their call during a great battle, charging to his death outside the Black Gates of Mordor.

[ It's spoken quietly, with the same even cadence that allows for him to remain composed. ]

That is how I inherited his throne, as Elven princes seldom do. Legolas understands he will never be king, as once I did.

[steeledskin]

[ hot-blooded. that is not sansa -- but she remembers her father telling the children, once, that some of them were as wild and tempered as his sister (their aunt) had been before them. and she wonders if the elven understanding of hot-blooded is somehow separate from her own. or maybe not -- and she bows her head in a respectful sign of compassion for a lost father.

daughters, she thinks, seldom inherit anything either. especially daughters with three brothers, all who should have been in line before her. but now winterfell is hers: ruined; distant; but hers, so long as she bears no children for her lannister husband. ]

Never a king, perhaps. But always a son. It seems a fair price to pay to keep such a connection intact and alive.

[ she would give up so much to be a sister again to brave brothers. a daughter to a brave father and a brave mother. ]

[firith]

A price unweighed by my kind, the natural order of things. I did not have a son to be succeeded but because we wanted him.

[ Which brings to mind his dead queen, and leaves him silent for a beat longer than anticipated.

[steeledskin]

[ sansa can no longer imagine it: wanting sons, bearing children. being the mother to princesses and princes was all she'd hoped for, once. and after that? well, she thought she might give sons just to appease a husband. but now...

she senses something in his silence -- watches briefly, wondering whether to intrude. ] My sentiment exactly, your grace. I would rather have my father and my brothers than be the one to inherit what should still be theirs.

[ whether they would still want her, on the other hand... ]

[firith]

I am sorry for your loss. May I ask how they died? You need not answer if the subject is too raw.

[ But knowing might account for her solemn disposition. ]

[steeledskin]

Lions, King Thrandruil. [ but then -- after a heartbeat -- she decides he deserves more than a bitter metaphor. ] They fell afoul of a king. One of a different temperament to you.

[ and perhaps that's all she might say on the matter. everything else makes her throat hurt and her eyes burn, and she would not wish to lose composure in his company. ]

[firith]

[ A nod. ]

Woe be to that king if ever he seeks my company or counsel. [ But this is all rather intense and she seems put out, at least with bad memories dredged up. He straightens, a hand on the table and his tone shifting to something lighter. ] Will you help me look for a particular book today?

[steeledskin]

[ ah. a distraction. sansa musters her strength to meet it -- gingerly sweeping aside her hurt and her horror for another moment, hiding it tidily under a placid expression and folded hands. ]

Of course. Certainly.

[firith]

[ His smile is small, grateful. ]

It is a small thing, the librarian tells me. Blue and slender, so much so that I doubt my own keen elf-eyes will find it in short order. It shall be our mission — do you agree? If we find it, we shall order something sweet from the kitchens.

[steeledskin]

...And its subject, your grace?

[ her head turns as she asks the question. sansa hasn't yet stood, but she does glance at what shelves she can see from this position. the search would be tedious. but she doesn't mind tedious; there are many things worse than tedium. ]

[firith]

The Elves of this realm. Look here.

[ He leans over the map, pointing to a labelled city in Dorchadas. ]

Quendi. That is the word for all of my kind, without factions or divides. If they were here, they died out long ago and the details in that book might explain why.

[steeledskin]

Quendi -- [ again, she repeats a word. eager to commit it to memory. this one is easier to wrap her voice around than the one he'd graciously gifted her as a name. but perhaps the difficulty made the other one that much more beautiful.

sansa rose from her chair. ] We had a lovely library in my home. And Maester Luwin, charged with caring for most of it, had a pattern to the way he shelved our books. Do you think the fairies have perhaps done the same?

[firith]

[ He walks beside her, hands behind his back. They may as well take a stroll together, he has no idea where the little blue book is in all the vast library. ]

I think they prefer to eat cake and show off their pirouettes more so than keep an organised library.

[steeledskin]

...And who would blame them for it.

[ it isn't a question, but a sad commentary from a young girl who has lived her fair share of excess only to be plunged into abuse at the hands of that same frivolity. had she the choice, she might gladly go back to a time where eating cake was all she had to worry about. but she is a fugitive, now. and a conscript of sorts in this fairy war. perhaps the fairies needed someone to do their organizing for them, and so sansa silently committed that possibility to memory.

she does not dwell on it long, because she and the elvenking have a little mission of their own -- doomed to fail, but pleasant enough in the company it made them keep. therefore, the afternoon is passed quite pleasantly. ]