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[ like a dwarf, the outsider thinks -- delighted by the comparison and likewise keeping it to himself. those that dig deep and make the earth into works of art beneath the feet of others are delightful, as far as he's concerned, if only because it is not at all common in his world. ]

Skyhold would not do then, I'm afraid, [ as much as he is pleased, because where thranduil is more careful about the void, the ocean is one thing that they can agree on- ] You would need something grander.

[ or, perhaps, just closer to the coast ]

Make it a game. How many Freemen can you dance with until the party is over?

[ do not make the comparison, he will find a way to climb through the crystal and explain all the ways you are wrong. more commotion from the side-- a fight between a freeman and a chevalier, he thinks, and it ends quickly, but the tension is going to explode-

now is the time for the knife. he slides the thin blade from his boot just as the screaming starts, and quickly notches and tears off the bottom few feet of his robe, casting the fabric to the side. ]

Oh? Tell me more, my friend.

[ his voice is low, and it's good the crystal is on a chain, because he can let it settle against his chest and keep the knife hidden. the freedmen are advancing, herding the remainder of those in the ballroom towards the center, like cattle to the slaughter.

his tone turns-- curious. there's a lilt to it. ]

Are you asking me to count kills for you, Outsider?

Edited 2017-01-20 01:44 (UTC)

[ well that sounds fun, too.

he can hear the sound of fabric ripping, the slide of a blade against leather. this close to them happening, they are familiar sounds. the fight is starting in earnest, now. thranduil may have to cease speaking to him, soon.

(this is why he does not interfere. interference has a price. his presence has a price. the distraction of his voice in thranduil's ear could cost the elf his life, and yet-

and yet, the outsider cannot bring himself to stay silent.) ]

The setting sun would paint its towers. You would smell the salt of the sea and the flowers of the meadows at its highest tower, where even air wonders if it is too tall. Vines would crawl over it, making it a living fortress; a part of you, as you are a part of it.

[ it sounds- nice. it sounds very nice, actually, and for a moment, the outsider imagines that he might be a part of it, too.

but there is a game to be played, a dance to watch -- in a manner of speaking -- from the sidelines. ]

If you would.

I will hold you to that, my friend. I will consider your promise fulfilled when we both stand upon the threshold.

[ he will not die here. he will not die in any place at any time. his body may be destroyed in the course of his time in thedas, and his spirit will go unto mandos' halls-- but he will leave people behind and work undone when he goes, and the outsider-- duinenor-- will be the most alone of them all, with no kith or kin.

he cannot imagine the loneliness of being the last and the first all at once. and once they are gone from thedas, he will have no way to see him, speak with him.

later, he will have the leisure to consider it. for now, there is only--

it happens quickly. the red templars and the freemen have not wholly integrated their structure of command. the templars no longer have samson, and are half mad. some orlesian noble attempts to break from the crowd, and the templars and freemen rush all at once at the packed crowd.

a freeman comes from him, raises his sword. he turns, moves faster than they can see, brings the knife across the throat. holds the body, kicks it into the path of the next, and the knife comes down in the shoulder of a freeman raising her bow towards someone on the higher levels. he grabs the sword of the first man, and breathing heavier than he was, checks the room. it's chaos, and he has the chance to slip free. he'll take it, but first: ]

Two. Na lû e-govaned vîn, Duinenor.

You may have to wait for some time; I am not gifted with architecture.

[ At least, not the architecture that he thinks of when he thinks of Thranduil. He knows the hard lines of Dunwall, the dust from Karnaca's mines, the modern angles of the once-Duke's palace. He knows the old places of Pandyssia. He knows how it all can come tumbling down and be built over, not to be remembered.

But Thranduil, his castle, his fortress? It would be remembered. It would last.

Here, he can do nothing. He has sent his message to the advisers as Thranduil fights, listening for any sound of pain, any gurgle of the end of life. He hears none from his friend, and his voice betrays none of the tenseness, nor the way he has his crystal clutched tight in one hand. ]

And what does that mean?

What is 'some time' to those like us? Rest assured, my friend, that I would gladly wait a century or three.

[ there are no noises beyond what happens in the background, and it fades as thranduil's boots on the marble floors show he is quickly moving away, heading to some other room. ]

'Until I see you next'. And I am afraid that I must now leave you-- I must find my cousin. There are elves here who need my aid. I will see you shortly. Or, perhaps, you might come find me.