#theoren

Spiders are actually good luck in their culture, so both of them are totally able to handle it in canon! In the more entertaining modern au, elenah's grabbing the paper cup while Theoren is vaulting the sofa to get away from it lmao.

41. Who sings to the other? Are they any good?

Theoren sings to Elenah, and he is, in his customarily infuriating way, very good at it; a rich and mellow voice. Elenah sings as well (it's a pretty common skill to have culturally) and has a deeper, slightly huskier tone, it's considered less "uniquely beautiful" but he insists she's wonderful and she will on rare occasions deign to sing for him when they're about to go to bed.

54. What's something that they don't really care for but tolerate because S/O has an interest?

Theoren has a sweet tooth! Desserts aren't super common in Eastern Ashar, and Elenah has a fairly low tolerance for sugar/honey since she didn't grow up with it as an ingredient, but she will have tea with Theoren and eat his little rice puddings and fried doughs and stuff lol.

Elenah likes waking up early. Theoren does not. But he will wake up early with her and complain only a little bit about it #truelove

A slippage of gold from gold, a strand of hair feathering across his cheek, a flash of discomfort across his face quickly smoothed out. Elenah moves without thinking to smooth it back into place. The notes falter minutely but do not break from their pattern, and he does not look up, continuing to play. It is only when her thumb accidentally brushes the edge of his cheekbone that his breath startles across the delicate skin of her wrist and his eyes meet hers. That’s probably fine. As badly as she wants to immediately retreat, contrariness draws her forward like a fish on a line—he’s playing music, some small part of her says with indignant righteousness. She was just being a good friend, preventing him from having to stop playing. On the momentum of her own conviction she tucks the strand behind the ear, delicate shell of it studded with gold and pearls, a look like he had risen draped in sea-silks from the palace of the deep gods. In doing so, more contact is inevitable—and when her fingers scrape at his hairline the notes stutter in their meter, discordant against the river-gliding melody. That feels less fine. She snatches her hand back like she is the one at risk of burning here, clenching and unclenching her fist as she works fruitlessly for words to excuse whatever in the trials of the damned she had just done that for. His playing had returned to its easy, original meter, but he is looking at her now, instead of the strings, a familiar glint in his eyes that says if she does not say something he will. “Didn’t mean to distract you.” She says stiffly, because Theoren, for all of his unearthly grace, could be cursedly obstinate, and Elenah thinks he’s probably not going to let her get away with pretending that didn’t happen. “Ah.” Theoren says, looking down briefly as if surprised he’s still playing, then up again. He is trying very hard to hide his smile, and not doing a very successful job. “You didn’t. Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” Elenah says inanely, because he was giving her an out even if it was probably the worst he’d ever lied and says “You should do the akarah variation.” Because the only thing worse than having done all this would be to sit in silence afterward, and maybe because his eyes always brightened as his hands danced across the strings, thrilling in its complexity. If he has drawn her intention out of her, he is kind enough to let it go with a smile—turning back to begin the new piece Elenah sits back and listens.

It does not surprise Elenah that Theoren's room is a good deal nicer then her own—perks of princehood, she'd wager. His addition to the delegation had been much less slapdash then hers. Three times the size, a simple but comfortable bed heaped with pillows and gauzy blankets. It even had the extraordinary luxury of a small window, gauzy curtain half-drawn along its edge. He ushers her to it now, his hand warm between her shoulder-blades.

“You should sit.” Elenah thinks to tell him that's not a good idea, but refrains. The one positive of hurling her guts off the side of the ship was that her ill feeling had somewhat lessened. “I've got some candies you could chew on. Do you need more water?“

”I'm fine.“ She says, sitting—or sinking, rather—into the plush give of the mattress. Theoren, once satisfied she is not going to be sick again, disappears behind the screen divider to fetch the aforementioned candies. In the scant moonlight there are traces of his shadow rummaging.

”Found them.“ Theoren pops up again, bearing a little cloth bag. He hands it to her before taking one himself, sitting on the edge of the bed much more gracefully then she had. It's honey sweet, with a gingery edge to it that blunts the edges of Elenah's nausea.

“They help.” She says, with an experimental crunch. It splinters between her teeth in a way that will certainly stick, but rewards her with a more intense flavor. “Do you get—seasick?” She wouldn't have guessed, he seemed as natural on the ship as off it. He only shakes his head.

“Plenty of people do, though.” He says, anxious to reassure. “Especially on your first trip.” She acknowledges it with a grunt, letting the last of the candy dissolve on her tongue. True, she was embarrassed—she was twenty-five years old. To be stricken by her own discomfort was enough humiliation, but to have Theoren see her in such a state? Elenah might have prayed to the gods to strike her down, if it didn't feel like it'd be the one time they'd actually deign to listen to her.

But he was trying so hard to be kind to her. And she was trying too, not that it was as easy as he made it out to be. So she pushes aside the embarrassment and tries to focus on the goodness instead—the softness of the bed. The warm, sugary scent melting on her tongue, and the gilt edge to Theoren's hair, loose to his waist. He was still dressed in his day-clothes, bright sash tucked into the elaborate tunic that fastened high on his neck.

“Why are you still dressed?” Elenah says. Most of the ship was asleep, she herself was only in her under-clothes. She must have surprised him by talking, he startles to hear her voice, opening his mouth and closing it again multiple times. His look is hard to decipher in the darkness. “Surely embassy outfits aren't made with comfort in mind.”

“Oh.” He says, louder. He clears his throat, then does it again for some reason. “Oh. Yes, of course. The captain wanted to speak with me, after dinner. After that, I—“ He hesitates again. ”Got lost in thought. They're not that comfortable, no, but not the worst thing I've worn. What I could tell you about some of those holy day robes…” There's more to it then that, from the forced lightness to his voice, the way he quietly tries to divert her to a no-doubt elaborate and amusing anecdote about his feast robes. She has no desire to pry his secrets from him, however, and instead digs another candy out from the bag before nudging it his way.

“You should change” She tells him. “No need to stand on ceremony.” She certainly hadn't so far. She felt warm just looking at him—or maybe that was the seasickness. In any case, he acquiesces, ducking back behind the divider while Elenah settles into the pillows and rolls around the candy on her tongue. The bed is softer then anything she had ever laid on, almost alarmingly plush. His choice, or standard? Theoren had his weakness for sumptuous delights, but over time she had found what she considered excessive was baseline to many. The Temple was no band of ascetics, but Talkair was another level.

The sound of fabric rustling draws Elenah's eye again, back to the other side of the room. The shadow had gotten more solid in the strengthening moonlight, enough that she could make it out as he put his overcoat aside and lifted his hands to his throat. She looks away instinctively, cheeks stinging with heat.

For the love of—get a grip, she chides herself sternly, annoyed by her own reaction. She wasn't that solitary, to be flustered at such a normal gesture. And she refused to be pathetic about it. Theoren was beautiful, not a new revelation. She was cursed, not blind. Plenty of people were lovely, even if few reached his splendor. And he had been kind to her—consistently, determined, when she had deserved it little or less. He cared about her, fine, but she would not falsify amorous intentions out of it. So there was nothing to act the fool over.

Satisfied with her logic, she glances back just in time to see what must be the last of his over-shirts slip from his shoulder, revealing the outer tracings of his frame.

Elenah inhales, chokes on the shard of ginger candy still in her mouth, and promptly sends herself into a coughing fit.

Thank you for the tag again, bookish! Tagging @emeraldgreaves @fangmich @euelios and @bi-stander if you have anything you wanna share—no pressure at all though!