therookery | rest, my brother, and tell me all about the ocean

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rest, my brother, and tell me all about the ocean

FORM: Sending crystal.
SENDER: The Outsider
RECIPIENT: everyone
WHAT: Poking the hornets nest.
WHEN: Nowish?
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: He creepy.

What a tumultuous time it is in this world. An empire at war, ancient protectors showing what many feel to be their true colors, strangers falling from the sky -- the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I am not of this world, though it bares similarities to my own -- namely a prominent disdain for the other and ridiculous class differences -- as much it it shows its differences. Empires rise and fall; I admittedly have little interest in wars that have played out hundreds of times in similar ways across hundreds of worlds.

However, I do want to know what you find interesting about this world, if you will share.

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[ There are stories, in some parts of the world, about the Outsider swooping in to use children in magic rituals. Ridiculous, of course; followers of his have done it, but it was for their own purposes, not his own. Nothing truly to do with him at all, as the choice was theirs and the magic worked the way it worked, with or without him. But this nug does not fear the fact that he is strange, Other -- only, perhaps, that she might fall.

As for Thranduil- the words mean nothing, for a moment. The touch, the visual, those mean little either. But he can feel it, hear it; like the core of the earth, the center of a tree. It is what makes Thranduil himself. In his world, he could play with the souls of those who were gone, embed them in objects or listen to their whispers. Here, he can do none of that -- but it is familiar to him now, all the same. ]

It is how you cover your face, then, [ he murmurs, gaze still on Thranduil's hand -- now so like his own. It doesn't occur to him, in the moment, that Thranduil doesn't realize he can see through it -- nor does it occur to him that he might take offense at it. ] Few can manipulate such a thing, in my own world; can all elves do as much, in yours?

[ his fingers curl, flinch, even while his face stays icy-bland. ] Yes. [ he agrees, ] just so.

[ he lets the glamour fall, turns the outsider's hand palm-up and resting in his own while he tugs the sleeve, the cuff of the coat, adjusts it to his liking. ] No. Some. And the methods by which it is put to use- it works as well to protect one's vanity as it is to build a wall that keeps the unwanted out- or lost.

[ he taps the center of his palm, then curls the outsider's fingers inside until his hand makes a loose fist before he releases it. ]

Yes. Craft is as all other learned skills, though some are more inclined to certain branches than others. Age helps.

[ Ah. It is not something that warrants an apology, he thinks, so he does not offer one; Thranduil knows, now, and if it comes up later, then it will. In the meantime, he's almost interested to see if he'll try to hide it more from him.

The adjustment to the sleeve not being chewed on is new yet again. He is being- preened, almost. Yet Thranduil is older than he is, and also not mortal; unlike so many others, he has never shown fear or discomfort at what the Outsider is as opposed to what he says. The Outsider allows this, then, watching with some curiosity at the changes that are made. ]

Magic in my world is much the same. What you are naturally inclined to comes easiest, and many never seek out other types.

[ the temptation is there, to see how much he would have to push and layer his illusions to hide his wounds. but the outsider has seen what is, and his opinion is formed. now, such an effort would only wound his pride further.

(he fights the urge to use his hair to shield the scars, or turn himself just-so to offer the healthy side.) ]

I am set in my ways. [ he admits it readily, watching the nug as she gives the (sodden, shredded) piece of cuff a good tug until the frayed edges give and she has a mouthful of cotton for her troubles. ] But we also lack in teachers. Most have gone West or passed to the Halls. Elves born now are not as capable of great Arts.

[ Thank you for that, little nug. Not that it stops him from going back to petting her, or from making sure she doesn't accidentally tumble off when she tugs. ]

And there is no way to follow, no way to contact them there?

[ He imagines there must not be, otherwise surely students would go on pilgrimages, less capable or not. Humans often try to reclaim old glory, and he knows the elves of this world are -- but perhaps not Thranduil and his kin. They are not the same as the others. ]

It is fascinating, to see what people are drawn to -- the magic that picks them, as opposed to the other way around.

The West is a journey made only one way, in most cases. [ he could list them all in the span of a single breath, but he refrains, not wanting to bore the outsider (is such a thing possible?) or flood him with too much information. he digresses, watching the nug chew her prize, and tugs his own sleeves in protective sympathy. ]

Perhaps they still teach in Valinor- I suspect they do- but in Middle Earth, we wait. We watch.

[ the sea-longing has no hold on him yet. even if it did, he would shunt it to the side in favor of other, more urgent callings. he wonders if thedas' oceans will tempt him in the same way. perhaps he will find out. ]

And what of you, my friend. What Craft draws you?

[ Far more possible than his presence in Thedas would imply. He is horribly bored of his world and those in it; it is why when he makes his presence known, it means something. ]

Being what I am, all of them are possible. But I tend to use those that allow me to watch, the most -- to be in all places, to see everything, to see forever.

[ There is a pause, a slightly more thorough scratch behind the ears of the nug. ]

Of course, those are more innate, in my world. Here, I have no such reach. But besides that -- to give the gift of what men call magic to those I find interesting, to see what they will do with it. Another option taken from me here, though perhaps, considering this world, it is a good thing.

[ it falls into place neatly- too neatly. the affection for the nug, the name-- he reaches out and gently tucks his fingers under the outsider's chin, looks into his eyes. ]

You were alone.

[ even iluvatar is not alone. but to be the only of your kind, to only have men to spend your time with, and they are like ants. perhaps there are beasts in the deep that live for a fraction more time. the outsider is restricted to watching, to being an observer only, forever apart.

he does not ask 'were you lonely?' because even said without malice it could hurt. instead, he drops his hand and pats the nug instead. she closes her eyes and grinds her teeth happily. ]

[ Once more, he freezes. His eyes are near impossible to read, regularly, but the Outsider feels- exposed, now. He feels like he is truly the boy he appears to be, instead of what he has been for thousands of years.

He feels almost as though he is being parented, which is a truly foreign sensation.

Still, he answers, as Thranduil drops his hand. ]

Yes.

[ Alone, with only his favorites for company -- human each, with a short lifespan, shorter still in many cases because of his interference. Those who lived longer, like Granny Rags, grew steadily more insane and steadily less interesting because of it. ]

Even if I were to walk freely in the world of mortals, humans have always feared what they do not understand.

[ they do- and because they cannot feel the rhythm of the world, they do not exist in harmony with it. he could go on- and normally, he would, comforting himself with the familiarity of the similarities of mortals of wherever they are. but he does not.

instead- minding the nug, of course, because she has teeth well-suited for for tearing a hole in his clothes- he leans forward, and brushes the outsider's bangs out of the way, tucking the longer ones behind his ear. he'd embrace him, but- nug. instead, he settles the intimate touch to the outsider's hair, and a hand clenched into his fist over his heart, an inclined head.

(he is not alone. though it does come with a hint of that parenting.) ]

[ He does not know what to do.

It's an utterly foreign feeling. He can vaguely recall the gentle touch of a parent from long, long ago; a parent who cared enough to name him, to raise him for a time before death took her instead of him. But that was a long time ago, and it was not like this. He was not like this.

And so he is still, save for a slight incline of his own head -- enough that it touches Thranduil's. One hand holds the nug, the other still over her for her to bump her head up, if she so chooses to demand more petting -- and he is quietly grateful, because otherwise he imagines they would just hang at his sides, ultimately useless. ]

[ he withdraws- he doesn't expect much from the outsider, and beyond that, he's also fairly uncomfortable with too much affection. he pets the nug with a cautious fingertip, minding her as she watches him with large, wet eyes before neatly spitting out a sodden lump of lace onto the outsider's wrist.

softly: ] You ought to return her to the Spymaster eventually.

[ he won't press for more, and he inclines his head before turning to slip back to the library for the rest of the afternoon. ]

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rest, my brother, and tell me all about the ocean

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