Reynard must certainly be mistaken in his sensing of desperation. There is nothing desperate in Galadriel’s quiet ascertaining of Taiga’s unguarded borders. Hunger, sure—but the sickly feeling of desperation? Rel shed that kind of emotion when she met Reave for the second time, shed the last remnants of it once she realized she had survived Hera’s trials.
But Galadriel doesn’t know of his misinterpretation, so her lip doesn’t curl in the sneer that would appear if she did. Instead, she smiles and dips her head in the benevolent way she’s studied others do. She doesn’t even bother to tell him she most certainly knows what a coronation is. A sort of sadness wells in her chest for the goat-hybrid, one deeply unfamiliar to her. Rel doesn’t know what abandonment is like, but she does know loss, even if it is not intimately.
“You’re not being rude at all,” she murmurs, violet eyes glimmering.
Galadriel turns to look out over the fog and the redwoods, the roots she’s taken to slumbering over, before replying with, “I’ve already decided this will be my home, Reynard. My name is Galadriel.” She pauses, the smile on her face turning into something genuine.
“Will you show me what changes your parents made?”
@Reynard