( wild wood elves presumably have to cut up herbs as well, gervais presumes, prepared to be more glad for her skilled assistance than he is surprised by it. he worked alongside elves often enough in the circle -

though he is not fool enough to think that even in a circle, the difference meant nothing. not when his own accident of birth still mattered, still counted for something; the experience of a city elf in the white spire was not the same as the experience of the scion of a noble house.

but she poses his question back to him. he takes his time with it. )

For, for, for my own, ah, part.

( his expressions are barely there; long-ingrained steadiness, habitual understatement. he is a man who has spent his entire life holding still, looking harmless - it lingers even now. there is no great sigh, just a brief moment where his hand is still and flat on the table. )

I will, ah, write. I will write. A letter, to, ah, to -

to someone I, ah, hope will read it.