[ Roy ought to hear joyful Elvish songs. The weaving of illumination under Varda's veiling stars which first touched the Eldar is beautiful, he knows, and the song is one close to the hearts of all elves, but to hear the woodland call of summer and crisp green leaves, new life — it would prove far more healing. Those verses no longer lie readied in his breast these days, not easily exhumed.
The surrounding din closes back in on them and what lightness Roy offers to veer the subject away from any awkward emotions is immediately picked up by Thranduil, in part because he has no idea what manner of compliment he received albeit actually being one. ]
Millions of what?
[ Songs, he supposes, but who would want to make millions? That's a little much even for the Elvenking himself. ]
no subject
The surrounding din closes back in on them and what lightness Roy offers to veer the subject away from any awkward emotions is immediately picked up by Thranduil, in part because he has no idea what manner of compliment he received albeit actually being one. ]
Millions of what?
[ Songs, he supposes, but who would want to make millions? That's a little much even for the Elvenking himself. ]