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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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"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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