Traversing any kind of affectionate relationship is mostly foreign to Galadriel, though she often learns something new about the often nuanced bartering between individuals. She is learning from Wrenley, quickly and deftly; and she finds pleasure in every twinkle and twist of the woman’s words and body language.
As a child, Rel spent too much of her time screaming. Screaming because she felt misunderstood, because visions plagued her, because there will always be a part of her that is so inherently sour. Sometimes—in interactions like these—she wants to yell at the top of her lungs, either from the thrill of realizing how complete she has become or from the frustration of not understanding the easy banter that wafts around her like the heaviest incense.
She considers that now: what Wrenley might do were she to begin hollering her pleasure across the ancient redwoods. She then wonders if that youthful exuberance might wake the sleeping giants sure to live beneath the pine needle earth. If they might strike her down for such insolence or bow to her for accepting the power of knowing who she is.
“The beaches,” Rel muses, violet eyes glimmering with mischief. “Perhaps you can take me there sometime?” She peers out in the direction she thinks the beaches are, wondering how she hasn’t made it there in all of her exploring.
“Yes, just a place.”
Rel turns back to Wrenley, eyes now sharp with astute observance.
“And what are places, if not just stepping stones to creatures as lovely as us?”
The smile on her face writhes like a serpent, a glimpse into the shadows Rel fights to keep from swallowing her whole. For now, it feasts on her mind, nurtured by the subtle darkness her new companion seems to bear.
