(no subject)

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Thranduil + closed prompts for Galadriel, Atticus, Ellana, Gwenaëlle, Myrobalan, + open!
WHAT: Thranduil's phase one afflictions are noticed by several and enable the behavior of others.
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Hit me up for a starter on Plurk (pr0ph3t) or make your own!

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Myrobalan - Day 10

[rowancrowned]

He knows, by now, that something is wrong, a creepy dread on his spine. He wants—he wants Gwenaëlle, her hand on his forehead, cool against the fever he now knows is brewing there, as alien to him as the idea of his hair shorn, or that he would have wings instead of arms. At least he has his glamour settled, skin tinged blue to match the rest of them, and Gwenaëlle safe, ordered to stay away, lest she catch whatever this is.

Myrobalan is not a healer. He is not anything in particular but steady and a solid elf, yet another Thranduil looked at and thought wasteful that he was born in Thedas and not in Mirkwood, and sought to nurture the ability to lead in. He might be able to distract him, though, now that the Gallows is in somewhat of an uproar—Thranduil calls for him, and waits, paces his office, sets a pot on for tea, tidies his desk, paces again—

It is unending.

[faithlikeaseed]

He is not a healer, but the Maker had seen fit to give him a healer's heart and with it the urge to reach out and mend whatever was broken and whatever hurt. With a third the Gallows' complement ill and the rest going to pieces (with Simon trying to kill himself through overwork like so many others), Myr has nearly given up sleeping himself in the effort to be everywhere at once. So many of the afflicted would go without food, or continue limping about on torn muscles, or carry off Inquisition property to parts unknown and forget it-- And that's to say nothing of the need to take down what they know of the illness and its victims, to match disparate pieces.

He'd promised Beleth he would take better care of himself--but when Thranduil calls him he abandons the half-eaten meal he'd been dozing over and goes straightway. (Much as it frustrates him, he's got to stop at the top of the stairs, lean against the wall and catch his breath, weary with what should be routine exertion. Once he has--)

"Messere Thranduil?" He's forgotten to knock in favor of simply letting himself in. Manners are--hard to remember, beyond the grace required not to sharpen his tongue on anyone.

[rowancrowned]

The room is not a mess. The room is perfect, cleaner than before the fire. Not that Myr can see it—not that he can appreciate the care Thranduil has put into righting everything, the spines of his books sharp and alert and perfectly in line, his desk bare of paper—

(the words start swimming whenever he looks at them)

-and the only thing out of sorts the fact that the kettle is by the fire.

“Myrobalan,” he says, and his voice is raspy, in need of a warm drink flavored with honey. “Come sit,” and a hand at his elbow, guiding him over to the chair by the fireplace. “Tea?” he offers. “Wine? Elllana was here—recently, yes, I believe she left me food…”

[faithlikeaseed]

Three years (nearly four now, isn't it?) is not time enough to learn the intricacies of how a room sounds when it is cluttered, or when it is neat, but there are enough little differences in the echoes that get back to Myr to suggest something has changed. A thought he dwells on as Thranduil helps him to his seat; his relief to find it is ill-concealed. (So long as he doesn't nod off again in the warmth.)

"Tea, please." He can hope it's strong. "If you'll sit and have a cup with me--wine'd be a mistake right now, I fear."

Though there's not much a single glass could hurt--he'd never had reason to learn his limits with it in the Circle, though; and outside, the drink's not been kind to him. Better to keep his head as tolerably clear as fatigue will allow.

Once they're settled with tea (or one of them is settled; there really is no settling anyone taken with the illness at this point, well he knows), Myr laces his hands around his mug and asks the question that brought him up to Thranduil's office: "What do you need of me?" Somehow, he manages a smile to go with the words. "I'm sorry I've not much to report in the way of progress on a cure, but if there's something else you wish to speak of--"

[rowancrowned]

He puts the kettle on, makes tea—how life with Samwise had acclimated him to these sorts of things, Hobbit-comforts—and settles Myrobalan into his chair while he drifts about the room, aimless. His own cup is placed on his desk. He’ll find it later, with a dry mouth and unsteady hands, and drink it cold.

“I desired to know your opinion in who I ought to,” he rolls the words over in his mouth. “—appoint. To carry on for me, if this gets worse. In a temporary fashion. I cannot leave the word unaddressed. It would be irresponsible. So, I would have your thoughts on the matter, given that you have a perspective I do not. Would allowing Casimir to head the division in my absence create a problem among the mages here? Some nuances of Thedas' politics yet escape me. I understand you knew one another.”

[faithlikeaseed]

That was certainly not what Myr was expecting, and he sits in what would be a blinking silence in a man with eyes. Never an enchanter, he isn't accustomed to the idea someone might seek him out for administrative business--

Albeit it's not the first time someone with power over him has asked his opinion on Casimir. He takes a cautious sip of his tea to buy himself a plausible moment of thought.

"We did; he was a decade or so at Hasmal after his transfer from Nevarra City. We're friends." Perhaps that's not something he should give so lightly away--but it's a statement of his own bias, a preface to his evaluation of how the other man might be received. (A fond and foolish part of him had always believed Casimir deserved better than how Hasmal thought of him--whether or not it was earned.) "And--that's difficult to say, messere, without having felt them all out on the matter of the Tranquil. It's not unusual for them to be regarded as less than people, incapable of much beyond mindless work."

How bitter to say it; how obvious from Myr's tone the derision he holds for the thought. "All the same, they're known to be competent. If you don't make much of it," he thinks, briefly, of the argument that had started off the week; the idea that mages had been deprived of something in the elevation of rifters, "and simply let Casimir be about his work in your stead, no one might notice--or care--enough to complain."

Tranquil did so often slip beneath notice, unnerving as they might be.