Factually, this is true. Gwenaëlle has always favoured her — her high cheekbones and big eyes, the curls that she'd never seen until Guenievre was sharing her quarters in Skyhold, even their high hairlines. Slight and slender, where her father had been tall and broad and rather more muscular than your average dandy. The nose is him, the jaw, enough that she and Marcellin have also always favoured one another, but with the Baudins, it's striking. If she'd been an elf, it'd have been inarguable.
She sits, slipping a hand into his while she weighs the things she wants to say. If anything. Maybe she could just leave it at that—
then again, when was the last time she left well enough alone.
“Before we separated,” she says, slowly, “Thranduil had talked about, he thought if we had children they'd be like from Arda. Half elves are a thing there— apparently fucking everywhere but here, but— I always sort of kicked that down the road, you know, because it's not as if I'm going to stop using birth control in a war zone. In Forces. Psychotic. And we might die. But I could never figure out if it would be worse if he were right, and then I have a baby that I'm jealous of, which is fucked, or if he's wrong, and then is he disappointed? And what do I feel about every elf I share blood with being dead and now I've got this human baby that I'm sure I'd feel very normal about,”
reader, she was not sure of that at all,
“and I'd just think, Maker, I sort of hope I just die before I have to deal with that. I think it's more complicated than I used to believe,” a concession that he cannot know the magnitude of, coming late to this particular journey, “but—”
she breathes out something very like a laugh and leans against his shoulder. “I think I only want to figure it out for myself. So this would be a terrible time to tell me you want children.”
no subject
She sits, slipping a hand into his while she weighs the things she wants to say. If anything. Maybe she could just leave it at that—
then again, when was the last time she left well enough alone.
“Before we separated,” she says, slowly, “Thranduil had talked about, he thought if we had children they'd be like from Arda. Half elves are a thing there— apparently fucking everywhere but here, but— I always sort of kicked that down the road, you know, because it's not as if I'm going to stop using birth control in a war zone. In Forces. Psychotic. And we might die. But I could never figure out if it would be worse if he were right, and then I have a baby that I'm jealous of, which is fucked, or if he's wrong, and then is he disappointed? And what do I feel about every elf I share blood with being dead and now I've got this human baby that I'm sure I'd feel very normal about,”
reader, she was not sure of that at all,
“and I'd just think, Maker, I sort of hope I just die before I have to deal with that. I think it's more complicated than I used to believe,” a concession that he cannot know the magnitude of, coming late to this particular journey, “but—”
she breathes out something very like a laugh and leans against his shoulder. “I think I only want to figure it out for myself. So this would be a terrible time to tell me you want children.”