a blaze of light in every word.

[dirth]

WHO: Solas + open!
WHAT: Lots of research thanks to Solas' keen intellectual interest
WHEN: During Phase One
WHERE: The libraries, mostly
NOTES: Feel free to ping me (aziraphale) if you'd like something specific.

FIRST FEW DAYS

Solas spends the majority of his time in the library, and had done long before the sickness had started to take shape, so he assumes that it will not be particularly suspect that he has begun to spend more time there. There are books laid out over the table in front of him, pages open in a way that seems entirely at random, and folded pieces of parchment marking other areas for further study and interest; there's a notation on herbs in one book and another has a small set of healing spells that might prove useful, even if he's not inclined to go out of his way to heal anyone he meets.

What proves clear, eventually, is just how much time Solas is actually spending in his studies. For a man that enjoys sleeping as much as he does he is not getting much of it - and he has no other symptoms, so this is clearly a personal endeavour rather than anything from his own suffering. The piles of books get larger, higher, and he can often be found scowling at them, as if they should have more answers than they do, as if the hours he had spent uncovering the history of Kirkwall had been entirely pointless.

It had been, in a way, at least in his eyes; he had come no closer to the answers he sought. At least he was taking a break, a few days in, settling in his chair with water in a glass in front of him - no tea for now, he thinks, because the welcome arms of the Fade would be more than enough to soothe his rattled nervous. He is looking for something - someone - to blame, and so far he has found nothing to calm the storm in his own mind.

LATER IN THE WEEK

Once the week has moved forward and the symptoms have begun to get worse, Solas has taken something akin to desperate measures. Anyone who knows him well will recognise his absence from the library - those times he can be found sleeping in his room, a light barrier around him, deep in sleep as he searches for something. One of those times he comes out of his sleep and moves swiftly back to the library, beginning to write a series of notes down on parchment before - somehow - the knowledge slips from his mind. It's clear that he's learned something, but what it is isn't something that he's prepared to be vocal about.

The books on his desk have begun to change from healing tomes and medicinal diaries to scholarly notes on the Fade and the Veil, and the pages have just as many bookmarks as the others. The desk seems lighter, at least, and there's space for someone to come and join him, to settle down and quiz him. He also takes the time out of his studying to visit the nameless Rifter, and comes back just as quiet and solemn as he had been before; clearly, he's been checking on the man and his shard, but nothing has come of it.

More than anything else, Solas seems frustrated, uncertain and bristling with it. He has dipped into the Fade and the spirits there had little information for him, and the books have just as little. For the first time in a very long time he does not know what to do or how to help, and it leaves him remarkably tense.

Comments

later;

[thunderproof]

Adalia hasn't slept in... too long. She knows it's too long, but she can't bring herself to sleep — any time she even attempts it she feels like the silence and stillness will swallow her up, and she instead lights another candle and reads another book. Charis has managed to sleep, at least, she hasn't ruined his nights, but every time her dragon wakes up to see her still awake he grows more and more concerned.

At the very least, she has been productive. Adalia has filled all the orders her note on the crystals had garnered, and she has moved on to attempting to research non-floral ingredients for sleeping draughts. She's already in the library, in her usual seat when Solas comes in, clearly agitated. For a moment she just watches him, frowning, and then she turns to Charis and nudges him forward. The dragon is reluctant to leave her side, but after a few more nudges he flies over to Solas —

and over him entirely, slowly enough so that he can breathe a spot of icy breath directly on top of his shiny bald head. Charis lands on the table in front of Solas and squeaks, doing his best approximation of a smile.

[dirth]

Solas has very little interest in actually spending time with other people, as it stands. He would much rather be spending his time with the books, scraping together some kind of knowledge and information about the world, trying to figure out what is happening here and what is the cause of the illness that has people so out of their depth. He is lucky, he supposes, that it chose not to target him, but that makes him question the nature of it all the same. Those who came through the Rifts, those that have anchor-shards, they are ill, but he is not?

The thing that shocks him out of his thoughts and reading is, of course, Charis, and he frowns as he lifts his hand to touch the ice attack on his head. If it had been anything - anyone - else he would likely have been on the edge of frustrated fury, but recognising the dragon for who he is... That is enough to calm him, even as he brushes a hand over his head to warm the skin there.

"If you are here then..." Turning his head, he spots Adalia sitting over in her usual seat, and he sighs. Is she unwell too? There are few people here that Solas knows particularly well, and she is climbing that list with her little dragon in hand. "Tell me. Has she been sleeping?"

[thunderproof]

Charis immediately shakes his head no, sitting back on his haunches and looking up at Solas with undisguised fear on his features. Dragons are not supposed to look afraid, really, so it's a strange expression for him to wear, but his eyes are wide and his brow ridge is drawn up and his mouth is pulled down in a frown. He chitters nervously at Solas, reaching to hold onto his arm. As he talks, his taloned paws rhythmically open and close on Solas' arm, anxiety keeping him from staying still.

Adalia watches this with narrowed eyes, trying to discern what's going on, but she can't quite see.

[dirth]

Ah, he sees. His hand is careful as he reaches out, fingers stroking gently over Charis' head. It's not often that he sees a creature so clearly afraid and uncertain, but the actions of this small dragon betrays just how severe Adalia's condition must have become. She is not sleeping, and a lack of sleep will catch up with any mortal person - he recognises that. Slowly, he strokes his fingers down along the dragon's neck, trying to soothe gently, as best he can.

"I will speak to her, soon." His voice is gentle, low and careful, turning his back so Adalia can't see the shape of his words. "But you must be calm first. It will upset her, to know you are pained."

[thunderproof]

The noise Charis gives this time is a sort of sad, trilling coo, and he leans forward to bump his head against Solas' chest again, just as he had done the first time they met. This is all quite a lot for a little wyrmling to handle, and he's growing fast but he's still young yet. He doesn't know how to care for a sick loved one, or what to do when she won't sleep. She's always been the one taking care of him, and now she's acting strange and he doesn't know why or what to do to fix it. These things weigh on a baby, you know?

After a moment, though, the dragon takes a deep breath and looks up at Solas with a determined set to his features — much more natural for a dragon. He may be frightened, but for mom, he can hold it together.

Later in the week, waking him up probably.

[laurenande]

Galadriel has spent her days running herself ragged against the weather and architecture of Kirkwall, at night she retires to the library or her room and writes, endlessly, into a wide leather-bound tome. She spends endless hours with a dictionary by her side, scrolling the pages line by line and copying down endless text. When she has finished and her focus has faded to the dim distraction of fever, she seeks out Solas.

It does not occur to her until she comes upon him that it is very late and he must sleep.

She lingers in the doorway to his room and regards him. In her eagerness and pride she had wanted to give this gift and see uis delight. It is a silly notion and an impulse she resists. Unfortunately she does not know about the barrier spell, even as she comes upon it, intent upon leaving the book by his pillow before exiting his room.

[dirth]

The spell ripples as she gets close, a light barrier that is there to warn him of intruders more than actually protect him, and it doesn't take very long at all for Solas to be ripped from his sleep. When he sits up, his hand moves to where his staff had been laying at his side, in easy reach, ready to defend himself from the would be intruder - until he recognises who it is. It's then that he stops, frowning, tilting his head as he looks upon her, careful and uncertain all at once.

He hadn't expected her to visit him, especially not in his small quarters, and the hesitation that colours him is more of confusion than anything else. It's not an unwanted surprise, certainly, but an unexpected one, and he's not entirely sure what to do with the fact that she's here.

"Galadriel." Solas pauses, frowning, watching her. He recognises the signs, at least, and there's a sudden stone weight on his chest; the illness has her, too, then. Nothing has given him anything that might aid those suffering, and not even the spirits of the Fade are able to help. "Is there a problem?"

[laurenande]

Her expression shifts, dances through surprise to regret and then settles in apology. She is caught in a strange posture, half bent with her cloak just obscuring the book in hand. She had frozen when he awoke and still she remains as she was. Ah, but he is staring at her, wary and confused, and she cannot help but beg his pardon.

"My apologies, I had not meant to wake you," she says and there is a brittleness to it, the sort that comes with long periods without sleep and manic energy. She pushes back her cloak and holds the book out to him. It is unmarked but for a small inscription on the cover.

"I cannot sleep of late, so I made this. It seemed fitting to give it to you and I...forgot the hour. I had intended to set it beside you and take my leave."

[dirth]

At least he is not offended - he doesn't mind company, and while he enjoys and respects his own privacy it's clear that Galadriel is not thinking clearly with her own mind. No, whatever sickness has befallen the people of Thedas she is suffering it as keenly as the others, despite her rather more distant nature. She is not an elf of this land, but she is linked to it through the anchor and her concern for the people. Solas can respect that, if nothing else, and he watches her carefully, taking in her symptoms as best he can while maintaining a careful distance.

"You are forgiven. I am not offended." Which is true. It's obvious, however, that she isn't quite as at ease as he is, and he shifts to stand, moving away from his bed. It's a mess, and he has slept in it, but it's there should she decide to sit and make herself comfortable. In truth, she might get more use out of it than he does.

"Do you have any suspicions as to why you've been able to sleep? I'm aware of the illness spreading through people here, but I have yet to understand the origin of it."

Later

[circleprodigy]

Inessa hadn't been hadn't been intending to visit the rifter, mostly because it was all too easy for the man's presence to slip her mind. The fact that she's had her own troubles has hardly helped, but that morning another dizzy spell and bout of exhaustion occurred, forcing her to cut short office hours and head to the infirmary before Garahel can guilt-trip her about it. As the symptoms recede and she's gained some color back in her face, Inessa ignores the suggestion to rest further. She's on her way out, when catching sight of the strange rifter man brings him back to mind. Heading over, the slight elven woman pauses by Solas, her eyes straying to the patient's shard.

"Has there been any change at all?"

[dirth]

Solas has been able to focus a little more, but only because he is desperately interested in the anchor-shard the man possesses - as well as making sure it doesn't harm him unduly during his rest. There hasn't been much need for him to take care of it, nor soothe it, but it's better not to risk something dangerous. There's no need to ignore it, he supposes, especially when the man's arrival was twinned with a sudden sickness that seems to have struck too many members of the Inquisition.

Turning his head, he considers, for a moment, before he breathes a sigh. It's almost like hovering at the Herald's side, back when she had suffered the same deep sleep.

"No, there has been no change. He has neither woken nor moved."

[circleprodigy]

Unsurprised, Inessa echoes the sigh. "His anchor seems no different from any other, that I have seen." She frowns, both stumped and unnerved. There seems to be so little they can do for anchor-bearers anyway, but at least the vast majority are conscious. That this man can't manage that much is troubling, and has her wondering what they've missed, what is preventing him from rousing on his own. Then she straightens a little, that frown becoming a more thoughtful one.

"If he cannot come to us, what about going to him instead? Could he be reached in the Fade?"

[dirth]

"I would agree with the assessment. I have seen nothing that makes him odd in comparison to the others." Which is frustrating enough. He can't see anything about this anchor that could explain why the Rifter has yet to wake, and nothing that Solas has tried has done anything to change his state - it doesn't even seem as though the anchor itself is causing him any trouble in whatever deep sleep he's in. It's clear that Solas isn't particularly happy about it, but he turns to look over at Inessa carefully.

"I am uncertain. I could make the attempt, but I am not certain that it would be as fruitful as we hope."

Later

[minrathousian]

It is in these later stages that the peculiar elf finally draws enough attention to himself to catch Atticus' eye, and have it linger.

He himself is a near constant presence in the library, drifting among the tomes and pursuing research for the division. Given the affliction that has besieged a sizeable portion of the Gallows populace, it is towards this direction that his research currently tends.

The mountain of books currently building atop Solas' desk draws the eye, and on one evening, Atticus steps away from his work to approach him. He moves a bit like one big cat carefully considering another, and his eyes remain more on the notes on the desk than they do on Solas himself. "Perhaps you would benefit from an additional set of eyes on this work," he suggests.

[dirth]

It's clear that despite his reading Solas is frustrated and on edge, flicking between pages of notes and information as if re-reading the same diary of a herbalist from two decades before might enlighten him to something that he had somehow missed. It's not the case, of course, and his irritation with the matter is clear in the way he moves and shifts, arms crossing over his chest and behind his back in turn, weight shifting from one foot to the other again and again.

He's not entirely shocked when he's approached. While he's been invested in his reading he hasn't been completely blind to the world around him, and the man has been in the library nearly as often as Solas himself has been; it would be easy to imagine that they were attempting to find the solution to the same problem, but Solas has learned not to have high expectations of most people.

"I do not think an additional eye would reveal anything," he admits, though it comes out a little sharper than perhaps might be polite. He recognises Atticus, if only vaguely and in a way that makes him incredibly careful, and he shifts, settling down in his chair. "I have yet to find anything that might prove useful."

[minrathousian]

Solas has not dismissed him, which is as good as an invitation to approach the mess of texts and notes on the desk. Atticus comes closer, his hands laced together behind his back, and examines what is on display before him. He doesn't disturb anything with his touch.

He lifts his gaze from the work to meet Solas' eyes, and gives him a thin smile that reveals little. "Well," he starts. "Shall we not give it a try? It seems our research interests overlap considerably." There's an understatement. "Perhaps you have missed something that I have not, or vice versa."

There's no denying his Tevene accent, and he does not attempt to hide it.

[dirth]

The man is earning something by not delving in and disturbing the complicated arrangement of notes and books that Solas has gathered, and while it doesn't necessarily endear him to Solas it does do something to soothe some of the rattled nature about him. He's clearly not happy, clearly on edge and uncertain about what to do with both the illness and the stranger newcomer, and trying to adjust to that with some of the pressure still on his shoulders has been difficult.

"I will not have missed anything." The words come out sharply, now, and Solas stands a little taller. He is used to being dismissed, and while he is not necessarily on guard he is being careful. He recognises the accent, the nature of the man in front of him, and the way that his people treated what remained of his own. Attempts at civility are important, of course, given his position, but he has no desire to be kind - at least not now.

"But you are free to read the texts. The library is public, and I have no claim on them. I would like them returned when you are finished, however."

later in the week, checking on the rifter;

[justnice]

It's been a while in silence, or near enough to it. 

The soft squelch and drag of rags over stone floors is broken at last when Finch leans on his mop, pries out the words: "Is he going to die?"

[dirth]

Solas turns at the sound of a voice, curious despite himself, and when he realises that it is no one he promptly recognises he shakes his head.

"I am uncertain. I have seen nothing to indicate death yet." Yet is the word, though, isn't it? He's not a healer, but he knows the anchor well enough to aid in some cases. This is not one of them.

[justnice]

It's a moment before he shuffles closer — still hanging wary as a hare with its ears set — to peer down over the man. The strange weave of brow and fringe, the bizarre dress,

The persistent sleep. Finch frowns, worries at his lip.

"Maybe he should," He breathes, and seems after a moment, to wonder that he's said it aloud. About to correct himself, he shuffles a guilty look to Solas and adds: "It's just, it's got to be awful, hasn't it? Being stuck there. Wasting away."

"Even if he does wake up, he won't be home."

[dirth]

Solas wonders, quietly, why he thinks to be wary or unsure - he blames himself, at least for a brief flash - before he accepts that it must have something to do with the oddness of the stranger. Coming through the Rift at the time of a terrible illness, resting unconsciously while they try to work out a cure... It must be strange to witness.

Pondering for a moment, he decides he ought to choose his words carefully.

"Perhaps. But there will be much unease if he dies and nothing in the illness changes." He frowns, careful as he drinks the man in. It's almost like the long elven sleep of old, something intimately familiar, and he has to breathe in deep to stop himself from saying something he might soon regret.

"A home can be made here, for a time."

Later

[justice_is_blond]

There's a similar frustration in Anders as he stands in the library, staring at books that have already proven useless and wishing something would work as he pets a purring Pawdric. With a sigh, he retreats to Solas' desk to look over the titles of his chosen books before dropping down in the chair next to the elf.

"The Fade. It makes sense, but how do you treat something if the very Fade is involved?"

[dirth]

He has been doing his best to manage his frustration, but the lack of answers is beginning to nudge at him more than he would ever feel comfortable welcoming. There is a challenge, and some excitement in that, but this is something altogether more disturbing and dangerous than anything as simple as a challenging illness might present. Turning his head to Anders, he frowns, pursing his lips.

"The same as we would treat anything else. The Fade is a symptom, for now. Until we can prove it is a cause we can do nothing more."

[justice_is_blond]

"The Fade as a symptom," he repeats, mulling that over for feel. It's a possibility, and one he starts trying to explore out loud.

"When dealing with something unknown, the first step is alleviating the symptoms so that the body has a chance to join in on the fight and you can hone in on the source. Alleviating the impact of the Fade on Rifters and Templars..."

They have a different connection than mages. One is drug-strengthened, the other is still foggy even with the shards they bear.

"There's Dispel or Silencing, but they're very temporary and I wouldn't want to delve into longer-lasting things there. It treads too close into territory that needs to be left far behind." He pauses for a moment. "And it doesn't explain why non-Rifter mages are unaffected."

[dirth]

It's an idea, and not one that Solas is inclined to put a huge amount of weight behind, but it is something they need to consider. The symptoms are too significant to ignore, and with sleep becoming more of an issue... He frowns.

"There is only so much that healing seems capable of. These people need rest, above all else. Their bodies can fight nothing if they do not have the strength or the energy to do it." He's not a healer, but he recognises what exhaustion can do to a person; he's felt it himself, on enough occasions that it's almost an old friend.

He moves, looking at his books again, thoughtful. If he could speak to the stranger, perhaps ask him where he is from, if this is similar to anything he had experienced... But the man refuses to wake, and there is little Solas can do.

"There are too many things we do not know. We needs more information." Which is the problem. Solas loathes not knowing, and this is an extreme case. "But I'm uncertain how to find it."