Her grip tightens painfully around one of those very things that went bump in the night - hoping that hers was the more powerful one, if there were any other ones creeping around in the shadows. Amelia crowds close, not allowing him to part a second time. ❝ Don't even joke ⸻ I don't want my soul to be trapped in a creepy place like this for all time ! ❞

She is hoping that, he will find some kindness in his old, grouchy heart, and maybe he will comfort her. Amelia should have known better. He leans in and her freckles stand out against the the whitening of her skin.

"Psht. It'd be a relief. If only some such creature would be gracious enough to take you from me," he grumbles. It's all a joke to him, but some part of him does feel a pang of guilt not only for recognising her fears at all, really, but also for insisting she's so disposable to him. He knows better than that nowadays.

It is a thunderous noise that makes her jump in place, throwing herself against the wall to attempt to look as small as possible. The sudden noise of grunts and fighting barreled through the corridor to their right of the nearest room. Maxima glances towards Brasidas, feeling her breath catch. Her mouth was about to ask when the figure of The Misthios came barreling through, pushing one of the masked figures against the wall opposite to them.

Inhaling, Maxima could hardly explain the wave of relief at the sight.

Cassandra looks to them with a surprised expression, eyebrows arching with a smile opening once she recognises Brasidas realising the now dead cultist, she turns to them.

"Then let's join forces. We're not safe just yet," Kassandra proceeds, nodding towards the doorway across the throne room. "Behind the dais," Brasidas corrects, pausing to straighten his body — notwithstanding the sharp pain it sends through his torso. "We should take the stairs there."

It takes a final back-and-forth about whether he is up to the task in the state he's in, but at length Kassandra and he set off, having escorted Maxima to a begrudged exit — with Kassandra in the lead, as the unharmed party of the two. For the sake of efficiency, he will not make a fuss out of not leading the charge.

Some hours pass, night turns to dawn, the kings are found, and Brasidas is completely and utterly spent. Instead of seeking the help he – at this point – rather desperately needs, he goes to seek Maxima instead; to ensure she found the safety of her home at all. That, in truth, has been a lingering anxiety up until this point; up until the moment the door swings open and he sees her there, standing at her desk.

One last time, and one last favor; and to her amazement, his hands squeezed hers, and he granted her this last wish.

And like the first blossom of spring from the snow, she smiled, truly smiled, for what felt like the first time in a long time. She had expected a protest, to have to convince him, and yet as ever Elladan was as gracious as he was kind. She could not help but embrace him fiercely, face buried against his neck. The relief was palpable, and for a long moment they stood there, beneath that fiery sky.

"Thank you," she whispered when she pulled back; that smile softened, but her eyes glittered-- did he know the enormity of this gift, this peace he brought her?

"I think I just might forgive you your punishment, for that." The quiet laughter that followed was sincere. It was hard to believe that mirth could be found, when all was at the edge of a knife.

But like all things, it too could not last, and she turned towards the Anduin, watching the black water ripple in what little light still shone above them, lost in thought. Elladan had never shied away from conversations most others would. And yet, with him she could speak openly, honestly. After all these years, she hid little from his keen eyes.

"I have lived a long life," she said after some time, "I have seen many sights, meet many people---and I have fought in war, and seen many deaths." Both at her own hand and not. Tomorrow would bring only more. "But I have lived a good life, and have no regrets."

Grey eyes search his, steely and determined, before that ghost of a smile returns. "Should it be that tomorrow, Death comes for me on that field, I will meet it." They had not come this far only to falter before the end. She does not fear it for herself- but for others, moreso.

She shook herself from her thoughts. If this night were to be their last, she would not steep herself in misery. Not with her dearest friend at her side. "You remind me that there is much good to look forward to, as well as much change. That not all is bad, so long as you have those you love." Her hand found his again, expression softening as she searched his face, ever inscrutable.

"And what of you, mellon?" He, too, was no stranger to war, nor to death, even among his kind. Of all of them, Elladan and Elrohir held more experience than all of the Grey Company combined. Yet they had a choice, before them- one few of their kind did. If there were ever a time to make such a decision, such moments as these might be one of them.

Having the question find its way back to him might have shaken him some, if not for the predictability of the topic under these circumstances. They are facing death — what question other than any pertaining to it could he have anticipated?

Still, his own – or rather the consequence of it – has only ever crossed his mind in private, verbalised only in the presence of Elrohir and his father. Whilst not even they can truly understand what might await those of their line who have not yet made their choice, there is a quiet comfort to be found in the knowledge that he is not alone with his uncertainty.

But the same might apply here, tonight, too. Créa, the dear friend she is, has never lacked the sympathy delicate topics such as these require. He decides to speak candidly as such, albeit after a lengthy moment of contemplation.

❛ I fear ... not knowing what will follow should I perish before I have made my choice. Will what might already be in my heart, unbeknownst to myself, be read so plainly; the decision made for me in the moment? ❜ he muses, gently clasping his free hand over hers. ❛ Perhaps I will end up in a purgatory of sorts. Or, maybe, I am simply not fated to die until I have come to my decision. ❜ Here, he almost jokes, but some part of him wants to believe it.

Another theorises whatever fate would apply to his father, who has made his choice long ago, would count towards him, too, until he decides otherwise. For the time being, though, his answer stands: yes, he fears it — the end that may not truly be an end, even should it have contributed towards a victory for those Free Peoples that remain.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐀  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓  𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐀  𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐒.  long  before  that  which  had  been  built  into  something  so  homely  and  full  of  life.  a  mothers  love  glows  brighter  than  golden  leaves  adorning  ancient  mallorns,  she  leads  @mindsmade  along  the  same  winding  path  she'd  often  run  wild  upon.  ❛ there  is  a  tree  as  old  as  me.  ❜ she  points  to  that  which  had  been  planted  the  day  she  was  born.  roots  which  grew  with  her  in  lorien,  the  same  as  those  placed  into  the  hearty  loam  of  imaldris  for  each  of  her  children.  ❛ i  climbed  the  tree  to  see  the  world.  ❜  or  escape  from  it,  a  varied  mood  anointed  by  youth.  suffice  it  to  say,  not  all  elladan's  spirit  could  be  blamed  entirely  on  his  father.

　 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐗 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 ( ... ) unyielding in his beliefs, her fixer had ofttimes exclaimed that one can truly be in power only once they have absolutely control over life and death at the same time, in equal measure. but this is different, whispers her now thunderous heart against her ears, for the life of this man has meaning and she would rather eat her own bone - marrow rather than accidentally condemning him to an unfortunate fate.

beneath beauteous lineaments, now pulled taut in pursuance of hiding any sentiment from his attentive eyes, her anxiety bubbles venomous. she welcomes him into her personal space, dares to run a blood - stained hand across his thigh in a tender and mayhap desperate attempt at soothing the nerves that have dug deep creases on his visage. her gaze, until then stubbornly anchored to the knife and the wound beneath it, finally returns to him ; thin eyebrows furrow above the bridge of her petite nose, an unspoken apology for the pain that she is about to cause. ❝ i promise that i will be quick ... it will be fine. ❞ a reassurance that is feather - light and almost quivering, barren of true convinction.

All in all, though, it goes too quickly for him to even need to bite into the arm on which he'd leaned his mouth. His biceps will come out of this unscathed, at least. His ego, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether. It takes him a moment to lift his head somewhat; enough to be able to enunciate, at least.

❛  Yeah, I'm fine; 's fine, ❜ he mumbles, leaning still into the pressure of her palm. This bloody mess is hardly a display befitting a literal diva like herself — or maybe he's just mistaken about her. It wouldn't be the first time he's misread a person. So far, she's handling the unsavoury repercussions of the scuffle surprisingly well.

In fact, she handled herself pretty damned well back there, too. That thought actually has him raise his head properly, straightening himself opposite to her ( while making a point of holding her hand against his chest; it feels good there, somehow ... stinging aside ).

     “Well, perhaps you can tell me whether or not the bullets are real.” A debate she recalls on theatrics; so much can fool the eye these days — as did the gentleman upon first impression (even if she didn’t get past “American”). "Has England enchanted you enough to linger here a little longer, Mister Chandler?” 

They were, and are — loaded into the very pistols suspended from his hips now, concealed by his trench coat. Miss Bellecourt doesn't need to know that, however.

❛ Hm, ❜ her question stabilizes his inclination towards cheek, his demeanour levelling out some. A pensiveness takes him and, for a moment, his mind is with Brona and Miss Ives. ❛ I think you could consider me ... swayed, more than enchanted. ❜ England will have its piece of his heart in one way or another. ❛ So I'll be here a while longer, yes. ❜