extramural | CONTACT ;; faderift

The seamstress is remarkably calm. He likes her no-nonsense manner, and her ability to take large amounts of coin and, in short order, turn them into clothes that even he approves of.

“Stop fussing, Duinenor.” He supposes it is possibly too much to ask of the Outsider, to sit still in the third hour of being measured and used as a draping stand, a nearly full wardrobe of clothes to be taken in and adjusted to fit him. The shirts, at least, were done in quick order, but fussier pieces like jackets and pants took more time—and the steamstress and her assistant now knew to wait for Thranduil’s nod of approval before jotting down the final notes and marking with chalk and pins. “You are nearly done, and I am sure Anais is nearly as tired as you.”

It occurs to him too, as he stands, unfolds himself out of the chair where he’s spent the last few hours lounging, watching, while the Outsider stood with arms out and was subjected to being treated like a mannequin, adjusted and clothed, unclothed, clothed again—that he had never had clothes made for himself. That this was the first time he had been fussed over so, had no chance as a child to accustom himself to it. Even his Silvans are patient for it.

So, best to distract him: “Anais does lovely work.” The elven lady in question acknowledges the compliment with a polite nod in Thranduil’s direction, hardly pausing from her pinning. “What did you like best?”

He had not been so tyrannical to cut the Outsider from the process, encouraging his input on style and especially color.

While Thranduil undoubtedly chose this seamstress because she is an elf (and, the Outsider muses, perhaps required to charge less for it -- there is, after all, quite a bit of racism in Thedas), the Outsider finds that he appreciates the choice as well. The elves have endured, and he likes them far more in general than he likes humans, especially those members of the public and those in positions of power. To have such blatant passive-aggression leveled at him by a human while having to stand still for hours would likely end poorly for everyone involved.

It isn't as though he doesn't appreciate the skill level involved, or that Thranduil is doing this for him. It truly is just that it is new, something he has never once experienced. It's interesting and he wants to observe, which is difficult when one is supposed to be standing still so as to not get poked with any needles.

And, well. Yes. Standing still for hours is oddly exhausting.

"Yes," he agrees, almost absently; Anais does do lovely work. It is perhaps a bit wasted on him, but at least she and her assistant hadn't screamed in fright or anything at the sight of him. He focuses further at the question, frowning softly in thought.

"I enjoy the jackets." Yes, all of them. "But the shirt that has fabric with color that seems to change as the light catches it- that is rather entrancing to look at." Beat. "And soft."

He is wholly guilty of giving the woman and her assistants some warning—nothing explicit, but the shards in their hands had served as a good calling card, a reminder of what they were. But she was the sort to whom coin was coin—and he had done his best to be on best behavior for her.

Thranduil stands, and pulls a twist of waxed paper from his pocket, tearing it open. He offers the light yellow slice to the Outsider. “Candied ginger root,” he explains, neatly paying no mind to the fact that he is, in certain lights, bribing him with candy to keep still for a few minutes more.

(The Outsider deserves the full breadth of the experiences he never had as a child.)

“Are your nightclothes not soft enough?” He tucks the scrap of paper back inside his pockets. He suspects it will be difficult to convict the Outsider of the need—build new habits, as it were. It’s the most visceral way to show he cares. Someone loves you, it says. Someone wants you to be dressed for the weather. Someone wants you to look cared for.

If it's blatant, he doesn't mind.

Edited 2016-09-05 23:30 (UTC)

The offer of a treat is wholly unexpected, and it stills him immediately, even before he takes it. He rarely had candies, as a child; they were always stolen, when he did, and often a bit off. This one tastes all the better for being freely given, and he sucks on it with a slight hum.

He is, at least, still again.

He is also distracted, experiencing flavors he has not experienced in- some time, if ever. He did not need to eat, in the Void, but it is a habit he does not wholly mind having to partake in when the flavors are as vibrant as this. It takes several moments for him to reply, the root gently pushed to the side of his mouth so that he can keep savoring it.

"They are soft. I am not accustomed to sleep, or resting, and I suspect I will not wear them as often as the rest." Does one bring nightclothes out when on a mission, sleeping in tents, ready to fight or flee at the first word from a scout? One certainly uses them in a bedroom, but the Outsider does not have one. He suspects, however, that it may upset Thranduil to hear the latter, and so he adds- "I mean to travel as much as I can, to learn more about this world."

And he would rather like it if Thranduil accompanied him, but he will not ask. Even being cared for in this way is something he treats with some suspicion; less than he otherwise might, due to it being Thranduil who is doing it, but he is a cynical being. He has had every reason to be cynical.

Anais has finished truing the sleeves; taps the Outsider’s shoulder to signal he can lower his arms, and turns her attention to fussing with the back seam, murmuring to herself in Orlesian over the breadth of his shoulders—or so Thranduil thinks. He is not focusing the whole of his attention on listening to her.

“I have never seen the sea,” he admits, admits to an entity who reeks of it because somehow, instinctually, it resonates with something in Thranduil, some hint of the sea-longing. “’Tis dangerous, in its own way, for once a Sinda sees it, we must cross to the far shore or Fade from wanting.”

His voice trails off, at the end, and he is looking as if seeing something far away, even through the glamour his eyes fixed upon some far spot—and then he is returned to himself, hands neatly folded in his lap. “To have you as guide would be no small delight.”

His arms drop, and the Outsider at least attempts to listen to Anais for a moment before tuning it out, focusing on Thranduil once more. All it takes is the mention of the sea for his attention to be completely captured.

"Do you believe it will cause the same effect in this world?" Do you hope for it? Do you believe fading away will return you to the world you have been taken from, the son and the people and the kingdom you have been stolen from? The Outsider wonders, but does not ask. Not this time. "If so, I imagine we will have to find a ship."

They will cross to the far shore, if needed, even if it is not the same far shore that Thranduil means. Perhaps it will be the spirit of it that will fulfill the contract written in Sinda blood.

"I saw whales, when I went to Rivain. Did I tell you? A mother and her calf."

He smiles; the slight curve of his lips that indicates reserved pleasure, which grows with a laugh- though far from at the Outsider's expense.

"No ship in Thedas will take me to Valinor, my friend. And were I to go, and throw myself at the feet of the Valar for aid in our little problem-- well, I would lose my audience when I berated them for allowing Thedas to be in such a state." But that offer, the kindness behind it, even though Duinenor can have no idea of the magnitude of it-- that is why he is fond of him, calls him 'friend' so carelessly and without his usual reserve. He runs his thumb over the silver tangle of branches that makes up a ring on his hand. "And I do not think the sea will raise the longing in me. Perhaps an echo, but those are easily silenced."

He is well trained in ignoring everything but the problem at hand by placing to the side his own desires. And more inclined to think on whales and their young than considering it in the first place. Thranduil's smile turns soft, and genuine; relaxed. "No, you did not. I have been told they sing. I would like to hear that. Tell me about the calf- how new was it?"

"Perhaps the ship would go through a rift and return in your world, upon the open sea." Though it's more likely, considering where the rifts in Thedas open, to land him on top of Mount Doom or in a cave deep underground.

Still, they plan to see the sea. It is something to look forward to -- both for himself, for his own longing for the water, and for Thranduil. The Outsider wants, he finds, to introduce Thranduil to the ocean, to is wonders. Where the elf, his friend, has offered the Outsider kindness, compassion, the Outsider will offer knowledge. Perhaps it is not a fair trade, but it is something that he finds he wants, at least for the pair of them.

"They sing," he confirms, smile soft, a little sad, and perhaps the most relaxed and human he's ever looked. "The calf was young enough that they remained in the shallows, though I imagine they were moving to deeper waters soon after we saw them. They are different to the whales of my world, in appearance and song, but they are beautiful all the same -- are perhaps fated to a better end, when compared to those of my world."

It is fair- one might suppose the Outsider sharing knowledge weighed alongside his patience while being fitted for a wardrobe would balance neatly alongside Thranduil's attentions and-- very near-- fussing.

"How old was the calf? How large?" And he's hungry for this sort of information, to learn all he can about the sea, about the fish that live there, about tides and sailing and all these things formerly forbidden to him. He leans forward by degrees, enthralled.

"What do the whales of your world look like? A trader brought a book to my halls. It has the most intricate pictures of beasts not drawn by elven hands. Oliphaunts, which I had not seen, and whales. Crabs, a fish that was flat, as if it had been pressed." Thranduil had bought the book, of course, had looked through it. As had his Silvans. But books were not meant to last forever, and within five hundred years it was dust, though he had carefully scribed copies. He almost sounds... wistful.

"... what have the Men of your world done to them?"

(As if he needs to clarify first that it was mortals bringing doom down upon the world.)

"It is difficult to tell, due to the differences between worlds. I would guess either very young or several months old and ready to leave the bay. It was larger than even the largest horse, though; perhaps more akin to the creatures called 'brontos' in this world."

They're big, Thranduil. Really big.

"Oliphaunts? The rest are familiar, even the flat fish." Learning, yay! "The whales of my world have pointed faces, with the eyes and mouth low. They have barbels before their main fins, something it seems whales of this world do not have. And they produce something that humans call whale oil -- a bright blue, combustive substance used for a variety of technologies."

He closes his eyes, just for a moment.

"Men hunt them for it. They believe whales to be no more than mindless, violent beasts, and they capture them and drag them upon their ships -- if the whale is not able to destroy the ship in self-defense. They do not kill the whales at first; they bring them back to the slaughterhouses. The whale oil is harvested while the whale is still alive, while it is in pain, to obtain more of it. Eventually the whale either dies or it runs dry and is killed. Then they harvest the meat and throw away the bones."

It is wasteful, arrogant, and cruel. It is dooming the world. He imagines even the seamstress may feel a pang of pity for the great beasts of his world.

"More than one butcher has been driven to insanity by the echoing, sad songs of a tortured whale. Deep inside, some humans understand, eventually. But it is not enough."

He's seen illustrations of brontos in the nature books in the library, and is far more determined now to see them in person. If the sea is safe- and they are gentle creatures, even if he is a mute elf here, unable to speak with them-- perhaps he might swim with them? They breathe as elves do.

(That's not a longing sigh, Outsider. You totally didn't hear that.)

"Large grey beasts, larger than two horses atop one another, larger than a bronto. They use their noses like hands, and have long teeth from their mouth that are prized in carving. They do not come so far north as my kingdom, but I have heard that they are ridden as beast of war." He owns carven ivory, though not much.

His expression turns from pleasured reminiscence to anger-- that subtle, cold anger, a chill about him and his lips thin and tight.

(The seamstress is-- doing her best to ignore the conversation. Things are happening here to which she shouldn't be a party, and she knows.

A moment, and Thranduil remembers her, and quietly glamours away their conversation to a buzzing she'll forget.)

"Someone." Softly. "Should do something about that."

Why not you, Duinenor?

The Outsider, at least, would certainly recommend swimming with whales. Oliphaunts, though, they sound- somewhat familiar, at least.

"I believe we may have something like that, in Pandyssia. Have you never wanted to bring some north yourself, or do you fear they would not do well in the climate?"

Thranduil is thoughtful about such things. Men of his world would not be, are not be. Elves, though, at least of Thranduil's ilk, he imagines would be. (Also, he has a hard time imagining Thranduil riding one to war. Perhaps because he would be distant enough that he couldn't see his hair.

"Some have tried. Laughed out of the Academy, but it shows- at least some promise. There is a new Empress now, a young girl. Her mother was killed by one of my Marked, and her father is another of my Marked. He restored her to the throne. She is curious, has now seen many things that other royalty have not seen. Perhaps it will be under her that things change."

That the suggestion is for him to do something doesn't even occur to him.

"It is not my choice if they come north. Were a- herd? I suppose a herd- to wander north, I would do my best to accommodate them, assuming they wished to have such an arrangement with my elves, as the elk and birds do, but otherwise- I would not move them from where they are happy." It's nearly incomprehensible. If he wishes to see an oliphaunt, he will go to them, or read his books. But he could not leave his people- he is the Elvenking, and there is a distinction there that the Outsider might appreciate.

The seamstress makes a few more marks in chalk, then begins to unbutton all the little buttons up the front, ducking under the Outsider's arm to do so, single minded in her task as she starts to undress him. Thranduil uncrosses his leg and drums his fingers on his thigh for a moment, the sensation of pins and needles odd and wholly unwelcome.

"My goodness, my friend. Your fingers are in every pie." He's all tangled up in the mortal world, but won't help the whales. "You have not considered offering her advice? Though perhaps, considering the murder of her mother, she might be less inclined."

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