It was never about the clothes she'd chosen to wear. Gahald's distress, the very real concern that he'd demonstrated for her; it was never anything to do with hair that had finally relaxed its curl, with garments well-fitted but drab. She might have imprisoned herself in silk and whalebone and gentle orchids from her lover's greenhouse, she might have painted her lips and brightened her eyes, recited poetry from any one of the strange, thin books which fill her home's library, and still it would have come to this question. Still he'd have known.
You and your burden.
And it had taken her this long to realise it. It simplifies; in the same moment, it complicates. So that a swordswoman sheds the intentions which she'd brought with her, abandons a half-stiff posture in favour of taking a seat for herself here near his side. A boot-heel propped against his bed's edge, a wrist slung across the bent knee; she does not smile, not quite, but her eyes are steady upon him, solemn and not unkind.
"You know something of - weapons, of armour; such things. Have you ever watched a 'smith craft these things?" And there is but a moment spared for his answer; a nod will do, a shake of the head or nothing at all. "Raw metal is worked under a heavy heat, at first with tools as common as those used for - horse-shoes," she quietly grins. " For such ordinary things. But that is only the beginning. When the material has begun to take form - in one way or another; sometimes welding, sometimes folded - the 'smith begins to refine what he has made. Straightening the blade's line, honing its edge; advocating for balance, without which - " A pause, the space between breaths. "Detailing is required: the manner in which the grip is bound, the width of the guard; the angle at which the ricasso might curve," and she does not draw her own weapon, but only shifts this small measure upon her seat, that he might catch a passing glimpse of the gleaming presence at her hip. "A hundred different things, informed by need and purpose and the 'smith's art. It is the work of hours, of days upon days; it is demanding - a moment's carefuless and everything is ruined. And in the end no sword so crafted is quite identical to any other."
A moment for breath, a moment for the narrow body to ease back a little in its seat.
"That is one way. There is also another. In E'strielle, a city-state very far from here, the crown 'smith is sometimes tasked with the crafting of a particular sort of weapon. They name it the gol'kathir, and its price is - unfathomable. He pours molten gold into a mould, you see? and when that gold has cooled to hardness it has the look of a sword from pommel to tip. Very simple. Swifter by far. Very pleasant to the eyes, and that is the purpose of such a weapon: it is worn by the crown guard upon festival days, a demonstration of the monarch's wealth, of the state's command of beauty. It shines like you would not believe," she laughs, "and if you try to wield it as an actual weapon, it will suffer; heavy though it might be in the hand, it will bend and fail. It is an ornament of stunning beauty. But it is not a sword, even though at a glance it might have the look of one."
It was sudden earnestness. It was a risk - too many words. It was everything, all at once, from a creature who knew no other way.
"Elliot." It almost hurts to speak his name. A remembrance, a mourning; a silent fear that she has harboured for weeks. Because there are two young Elliots and only one conclusion towards which that fact can possibly lead. "I was a very lovely ornament." Her smile is small, distant. "The sort of loveliness, perhaps, that inspires - for a time. But I was - without substance. In time, I, too, would have failed, accomplishing nothing and yearning to be more. Do not think I lack for joy, just because it seems now that I do not shine."