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Who: Galadriel & Zelman
What: Dinner, conversation, picking the other's brain, etc.
When: The evening of the 21st.
Where: Zelman's mansion.
Rating: PG... 13...? 8(

It has not been a particularly good couple of days for Zelman.

Which is funny, because he's finding it increasingly difficult to think of it as a couple of days when the whole week has been weird, and when the whole month has been weird, and when, really, the whole order of his personal universe seems to have been jostled around a little ever since the Christmas holidays. He can't imagine why (a blatant lie--he can easily imagine why, but it seems silly, and he has no reason to suspect a cause-and-effect relationship between the two events just yet). All right, not actually that funny at all.

What's funny is finally getting so fed up with building and circling and decomposing and building again while the rest of the world buzzes about in tiny cycles, like fruit flies (except that fruit flies can actually get something done when their numbers are high enou--for fuck's sake, he's been doing this all day). And then the intelligent, rational, interesting fairy lady seems to respect him as a person and so help him, he lashes out for a bastion of sanity and common sense in the most eloquent way he can manage. Immediately and apathetically asking her to join him for dinner.

He's waiting by the massive gates outside his house, sucking his way through a cigarette, thinking about how this is a poorly-thought-out idea. No, no. That's giving it too much credit. It was barely thought out, but he has a gut instinct. A feeling. Call it a hunch. He's leaning against the bars, one side swung open and digging between his shoulder blades. The whole of him is a little off today. He seems tired, apathetic. If he were a flame, he would be burning lower than usual. The snow around his feet is only melted for about two feet in every direction, instead of his usual five.

But he's determined. He sticks, patient and a little early, to the diagonal shadows that usually keep people out. It occurs to him that he doesn't actually know how she'll show up, but this is a new pack of smokes. He's not really worried about it.

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She walks, of course. Perhaps the long walk and the snow that still blanketed the ground would deter most people, but Galadriel enjoys the quiet and solitude and the cold has long since ceased to bother her- a survivor of the crossing of the Helcaraxë isn't easily fazed by a normal winter. A simple green cloak covers her, providing a striking silhouette against the white background.

She has no inner flame to melt the snow about her feet. She needs none- she steps lightly and effortlessly over the snow as she approaches, exactly on time. When she reaches the gates, she lowers the hood of her cloak and nods to Zelman, somehow knowing exactly where he is standing, despite the shadows.

"Zelman."

Of course she does. An elven lady couldn't just trudge through the snow, now could she? It's ridiculous to him, but fitting enough that he sneaks out a small chuckle, even before she's close.

He waits until he has the full picture--visual, auditory, smell, body heat, heartbeat--before he flicks away the last of his cigarette and gives his guest his full attention.

"Galadriel."

Given that she is a guest, he gathers himself up to step out of the shadows, stand straight, and appear gracious. The latter seems to be an effort, more so than usual, but the gesture is no less genuine. He's never been one for making people feel particularly welcome or at-ease in his house, so he skips what would have normally been several lines of eloquent formality.

"I'm glad you could come," is what he cuts it down to, his polite smile fading a little as he looks in the direction they'll be walking. "I'll lead."

And from that he turns, expecting her to follow, and walks down a path that's already been melted away. Steam still kicks up in little wisps around his feet, though, the dead grass suffering all the more for the snow's poor placement.

And follow she does, once the necessary pleasantries are exchanged. It may be difficult to tell, given the extreme dignity with which she conducts herself, but she's terribly curious about this place. A dwelling is very often a reflection of its owner, after all, and this particular owner rather fascinated her in his own right. So she subtly studies her surroundings and her host as she walks.

"I will admit, the invitation came as something of a surprise."

She smiles as she says it. Most people were extremely predictable, their feelings leaned a certain way and they would continually respond in the same manner. It wasn't a bad thing, necessarily- it was natural and, at times, she even found it useful. But we you have lived as long as she had, you picked up on the patterns and knew to watch for them. Zelman was something different, something more volatile and double-edged. He presented a challenge and that she found refreshing.

If a dwelling is telling of its owner, then Zelman's has a lot to say. It's no Cair Paradisa, but the mansion looming in the center of the grounds--several stories higher than it even needs to be--is still nothing short of impressive. Two wings stretch outwards from a central mass, seeming to almost draw in the rest of the world around it, in towards its hundreds of curtained windows, hundreds of little eyes.

The rest of the grounds are massive too, reaching for several acres all around the center of things--which is not the mansion itself, as one might guess, but a fountain in a sort of courtyard that lies before it. In the middle of that fountain is a statue of a woman, arms replaced with wings, nearly lifted with flight.

As he leads her towards that fountain, the whole of the place becomes clearer. It's impressive and very well-kept, even with the snow obscuring everything, but despite the high walls and the perfect form and the grandeur of the architecture, the place feels... empty.

Maybe it's just the hush of snow, but the grounds seem too quiet. Aside from an inner wall that runs a distance to their left, the only real break in the landscape is the cold mansion and a few distant trees. It's as if this whole world is occupied by only one person, and that person puts a strong value on his solitude, privacy, and distance.

It might be prettier in spring, but who knows when that will show up.

"It wasn't exactly given with any forewarning," he replies, now stepping along part of a path where the snow has already been melted away, "But I'd been meaning to ask anyway."

He turns at the fountain, going for that wall to their left, hands in his pockets and a set look on his face like this is nothing new or interesting. Bandages peek out from under his sleeve, but as Zelman isn't the type to let his image slip up--he probably doesn't care whether or not she notices.

She does notice, unsurprisingly, and chooses to address it as she follows him.

"You are injured." There's not a large amount of concern in her voice. Galadriel is sure that Zelman, of all people, can take care of himself. Still, she feels the need to comment, nonetheless. Perhaps it's her nature as a healer- she sees a wound and she wants to tend to it. Or perhaps it's merely curiosity- what did he get himself into? But either way, her statement is laden with unspoken questions.

Which leads to the question--why didn't he bother to try covering it up? Is it out of a determination to prove he doesn't care, or is he just looking for a reason to complain? Or does he want something else out of it?

Whatever the reason, he glances down at his wrist, a little like he'd forgotten it was like that. When he raises his arm, his sleeve slips down enough to see that the bandages aren't very extensive, or even very thick. One particular spot seems... dirty, like it's covered in a dust.

"I was shot." He says this casually, almost cheerily. Like discussing good weather. "Something like a dozen times. The worst of it has long-since healed..."

Though not without a price--doing that is tough on his body, and healing that much silver drained his energy reserves. He's really just waiting until his main source of blood has recovered enough to give him more--a thought that briefly floats through his mind (Asuka is in the mansion, and here's to hoping she stays there) as he stretches out his fingers. They seem to be working fine.

"This is just to keep me from bleeding on things until I can fix the rest. I've ruined too many shirts this week as it is."

The wall ahead of them is starting to loom, though more snow-covered trees peek out over the top than can be seen everywhere else on his grounds.

Even knowing what she does about his kind, it's startling to hear him speak so casually of something that would have killed most others. She follows in silence for a moment before she peaks again.

"Were you almost any other, I would offer my skills as a healer. But you would find them unnecessary, would you not?"

And, truth be told, she's not entirely sure what would work on him; Dwarves, Men, and even Istari were one thing- they shared enough that her talents were of some use. But vampires- or, perhaps more specifically, Zelman- she wasn't certain.

He hums, thoughtfully, rubbing his thumb over the palm of his hand while he thinks about it. Something about the offer must have intrigued him, for him to be giving it as much thought as he is. And since he isn't the type to really ask or even accept help, it must be him wondering if it would even work.

He ends up stuffing his hand back in his pocket.

"Unnecessary, with the addition of a feeling it wouldn't help anyway. I would imagine that we are comprised of very... opposing things."

Light, darkness. It's not a set rule, but ballpark estimates have done worse. By the time they pass through an archway in that wall, Zelman at least looks a little more animated--mind now churning over completely different things that don't anger him, and body consciously working to appear more as he usually is.

Inside the walls is a garden. Tall hedges line the ground, smaller trees spot here and there, and what must be a garden of flowers is spread everywhere in-between. There's a small pond, frozen, and a table in the middle with two chairs. Most notably, two women are standing there, chatting quietly and excitedly about the guest that Zelman is supposedly bringing--though they stop and move to attention when they notice the their arrival.

Second-most-notably, there are statues. Lots of statues. In the wintertime, with most everything colorful looking dead or gone, it becomes more of a statue garden than anything. They are in all kinds of style and subject, but most of them are human. Or... human-like.

"The thought had occurred to me." She can't exactly imagine asking for the grace of the Valar on his behalf. Still, the suggestion seems to have improved his humor somewhat and that was success enough for her.

As they pass into the garden, she nods at the two women- both greeting and acknowledgement. How does Zelman keep servants here, she wonders. He could wish up their salaries from the castle, of course, but she wouldn't put it past him to have some other method up his sleeve. She turns back to Zelman, offering an approving smile.

"Lovely. It must be truly splendid in the spring."

"Go ahead and tell them what you'd like," he waves off their presence with a literal wave of his hand, aloof as per his usual attitude. The two seem quite giggly at the presence of both of them, but Zelman appears to be more than used to it.

After eight-hundred years of being unreasonably beautiful, well. Some stuff is just a part of your normal day.

He sits in the furthest chair (his only politeness in the matter being that he picked the chair a couple more steps away--otherwise, he expects Galadriel to be perfectly capable of following the lead and sitting herself). When he's settled, his aura settles with him. His physical self doesn't move, but his power shrinks in on itself. He's reserving energy, not that he doesn't have to go melting snow.

He hasn't forgotten the earlier comment, though, leaning forward to rest his head on his hand.

"I never really had the time to bother with something like this back home, but I'll admit I've grown rather fond of it. Many of these trees will blossom when it warms up." He's looking at the trees as he says it, even looking a little distracted--signs that this is genuine opinion, not just smalltalk. "It's a much more preferable kind of snow."

Galadriel seems equally unfazed by the giggling; she gives them her request- some thing simple and light- and seats herself across from Zelman, giving the two women one last charming smile.

"It is. I have always taken great delight in the growing of things." She allows herself a small sigh. "To think, it has been nigh a year since I tended the gardens of Lórien. So little time and yet so much has occurred."

The two take the smile and quickly walk off together. They start talking in forcibly hushed voices a little too soon after they leave, as well, but it's just the start of gossip. The poor girls have to put up with Zelman and his numerous "guests" on a regular basis, so they have to do something to make it worthwhile.

"Nearly a year, hm?" He brings his attention back to Galadriel, red eyes meeting hers without hesitation, as usual. He's nearly hit four years, himself, but that's neither here nor there. "It's funny how this place makes them really count."

"You have been here far longer, I am aware." He may not have been inclined to bring it up, but she had not forgotten.

"But you are quite right. It is only natural, I suppose, in a place where one may experience many things they could not in one's own world."

It bothers him when she does that--says something close to what he's thinking. It's probably just his usual track of paranoia, so he shoves the idea to the side for now. He's got another track to catch up to.

"It's helped along by something that doesn't like us sitting still for long."

Speaking of, he leans back and sits up straight, one leg crossed over the other. He weaves his fingers loosely together in his lap and somehow, strangely, looks much more deserving of those titles of his now that he's not slouched over.

"Why did you accept my invitation?"

He's cutting right to the chase. He doesn't sound chastising or condescending, but he doesn't sound strictly curious, either. He sounds very... business.

"Have you not guessed?" He has to know, she thinks, she's hardly been subtle about it and she finds herself strangely honest with him.

"I find you intriguing. I wish to understand you better- to know more of your thoughts and of your nature. And, to borrow your metaphor, we are both 'players,' rather than 'pieces,' are we not? One day we may face each other in opposition. Should that come to pass, I would be prepared for it."

A mix of business and pleasure, of personal interest and personal gain. Her answer is neither black nor white, here nor there, but something in-between. Fitting.

"I also quite enjoy conversing with you."

Oh, he'd guessed. He'd guessed a lot of things. He's always guessing--that's why he's still alive.

But he doesn't make his guesses known. What she says must coincide, must match up, or must at least please him to hear; a smile spreads across his face, bizarre and a little bitter by nature.

"And here I am, looking less than my best for such a response."

Which is a lot, for him. He looks fine, no less than he always is. On the inside, though, he feels sick and angry and tired. A mess. With a huff of unneeded breath, the moment dissolves as more steam into the air, and the smile dissolves with it. Back to normal, careful, careful.

"I suppose you're particularly interested in my frustrations, then." The comment is good-natured enough. "I'm pleased that you considered it."

Edited 2012-03-13 02:24 (UTC)

"I consider many things." Which is why she's still alive. "But, yes, I will not deny that they are of interest to me."

She smiles, but continues to regard with with a cool eye. It's the kind of smile that most would find unnerving- that of a chess player examining the board or a general surveying the battlefield.

"It is not often you make them readily apparent, after all."

Ah, this is where it gets dangerous. He'd be lying if he said he didn't appreciate the particular attention; few think so much of him (few think so much, period) to give him this sort of strategic consideration.

"And it was not a decision made lightly," as she probably already understands, "But I'm put in a very strange position here. That and, I'll admit--a poor mood is part of it."

He flexes the fingers of his injured hand once, absently, then brings it back to rest.

"A situation I do not fully understand, I will confess. You are more invested than I might have expected."

It was... interesting to see him care. Granted, she's quite sure he has an agenda of his own and that his concern was not for the castle at large, but his reaction was still intriguing.

"We have a history," he says, plain and simple. It does not take a genius to scour back through the journals and find them talking to each other here and there. If anyone bothered, they could probably piece together where Legato was staying for the time he wasn't in the castle. He doesn't think he has anything to lose by saying they've known each other for longer than those three days in his room.

But he won't let it sit with just that, smirking a little and tilting his head into a half-shrugged shoulder. "And let's be honest, watching the Good Guys fumble around with his case is just short of painful. They're too inclusive... Or too stubborn. They're afraid of risks, it's pathetic."

She knew they had a history, of course. It was what kind of history that she was interested in. But details.

His little smirking remark, however, elicits something of an exasperated sigh. "There we agree. They are too divided, each too certain in his own opinion, and fail even to present a united front to the public. We ought to, at the very least, have the decency to keep our petty squabbling behind closed doors. You should never have been made aware of it; it is shameful."

If they had done a better job of public presentation she might have hidden her frustrations with the group- this fracturing of it was a weakness, after all. But Zelman was already knew of it. The entire castle knew of it.

Edited 2012-03-15 14:38 (UTC)

And something about that really makes him happy. He likes Galadriel, he really does--especially when she agrees with him on subjects where the two of them should be, by laws of narration, on opposite sides of the spectrum. It makes him feel a little like his opinions transcend all that, like he's the highest truth in the metaphorical room.

That's probably just his ego talking, though.

"I took advantage of a loophole," he admits, knowing full well that he shouldn't have been there anyway, "But there was a loophole to take advantage of."

His eyes, so adamant about meeting hers earlier, dart towards the wall. It's nothing dramatic, he's just noticed that the girls are coming back in their direction. When it registers, his attention is back on Galadriel and the topic at hand.

"I could point out the Patrol's structural problems all day. In a perfect world, what I've said will at least drive someone to action. I don't believe that they can ever make a decision as a unanimous whole; if someone doesn't rise above it, nothing will ever change."

Which is why he was... admittedly somewhat pleased to hear Rin's suggestion. Even if he only tolerates her on the best of days, she knows how to get things done. Maybe she could manage it.

Edited 2012-03-15 16:29 (UTC)

Things are rarely that simply divided- the Good Guys always right and the Bad Guys always wrong. If over eight thousand years of life did not give you a more nuanced view of things, then you are either blind or exceedingly stupid.

"It is a difficult balance. As you say, unanimity is out of the question. Yet one must find enough support that one's actions are not undone the moment they are finished."

Which is her main worry with Rin's plan: it requires some degree of support and the girl has not been the best at negotiating and political maneuvers. Still, it seems the best solution any have suggested and she thought it prudent to offer her assistance. Things are so much easier in Lórien, where her authority is unquestioned and her judgement final.

Boy, does he know it. Four years ago, he had every shady, unruly, and otherwise undesirable Black Blood in the Special Zone under his thumb. Now he has to work on a smaller scale, with too many people around who can overtake him if he tries anything gutsy.

That's not to say that he'd ever seriously consider trying to run anything here but you know how it goes (you get bored, you get thinking).

"That implies that you have enough uniformity against you that your plans will actually become undone," he points out, "Which may mean another emerging figurehead."

He glances over Galadriel's shoulder at the girls as they enter again. One puts an appropriate plate and silverware in front of Galadriel, while another does the same for Zelman--french fries, because quite frankly, they're delicious and he can do what he wants.

"But even that would be preferred," he continues, ignoring the two as they curtsy politely and start to leave again, "That's direction."

A moment of thought later, he leans forward and adds one more thought, "Though practical application in this particular case is problematic."

"Opposition need not be uniform nor organized to be inconvenient." She's the last person to overlook the possibilities of a singe, seemingly insignificant person throwing a wrench into the works, as it were. "One must take into account the natures of those involved as well as their numbers."

And that's one reason she's such a social butterfly. She knows who is likely to listen to her, who isn't, and who is most likely to do something about it, with or without help. Zelman was right when he had called her manipulative; she does her utmost to know exactly what strings to pull. She nods, though, at his last point.

"The circumstances do not lend themselves toward constructing aught with any degree of permanence."

It's not like he's all that set on permanence anyway.

He misses intelligent conversation, he really does--Legato was his previous source of it and, well, we can all see how well that worked out. So he follows all of it with a smirk, his elbows set on the table, propping up his frame. He can feel the pressure up at his shoulders, more signs that he should really probably be resting.

But time waits for no one.

"The powers-that-be are bad enough," he extends, picking at his food (though he is not paying attention to it in the least), "But Legato has always been... good at making things much more difficult than they need to be."

"That does not surprise me in the least."

Partially, it was their few cryptic conversations that led her to that conclusion. Partially, it was his personality and-honestly? It was partially the nature of his abilities.

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