faderift | a blaze of light in every word.

Entry tags:

a blaze of light in every word.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

She sets the book aside, just on the edge of the bed, then turns her attention to him. His questions are sensible but she has trouble with two very key aspects of them.

"Illness?" She asks sounding baffled. "I cannot become ill."

A simple statement but a true one.

"Mortal afflictions hold no sway over the Eldar," she explains and pauses. This place has already afflicted her, however, from her very arrival. "I had never slept ere I came here, I assumed it was a reprieve from slumber...but now I find I miss it. I cannot say why I am suddenly unable...just that it began earlier this week."

There's a question on the edge of his tongue - are you sure? - but he knows better than to ask it. There's an uncertainty about her, he thinks, even if he can't name it; perhaps she could not get ill at home, in the world she knows, but here in Thedas things are different. She has an anchor and she has the knowledge that she is not truly meant to belong here. That might be enough to change how she views her own health.

"Then there must be another reason."

Shifting, Solas moves from one foot to the other, an idle movement as he collects his thoughts and tries to put them into words.

"It is possible that it is not a usual affliction. There have been others that have suffered the same; unable to sleep, walking restlessly through waking hours, seeking comfort from something that will not come. I am seeking to find a means of curing it, but I have been unsuccessful."

She waits, silent and patient as he ruminates over what is to be done. He shifts his weight, idly, and she is reminded of the strain in her limbs, of the fog in her head, and they are abruptly much more difficult to ignore. His next words are only half sensible to her, despite her straining to listen.

There is a long pause once he finishes where she is silent. One might expect this was one of her usual silences, the kind that linger at the end of complex thoughts as she builds her answers, but in truth she is simply processing what he said...and the results are mixed.

"Is it dangerous?" She asks, after some time, and a thread of ill ease creeps into her tone. She has heard nothing of deaths, or of injury, but she has been occupied almost constantly. Occupied by her own works and her own endeavors and distracted by little else.

"Is it contagious as other mortal illnesses?"

There are many things that he could say, Solas thinks, many words that he could offer that might soothe her, but it would be idle chatter rather than anything truly remarkable. No, he thinks, best to keep some of his more fatalistic thoughts to himself, as grim as they might be. Some might appreciate the honesty, but it does not seem to be appropriate when it seems as though Galadriel is bordering on the edge of something akin to fear.

There's nothing he can do nor promise with regards to the illness; for all his studies and dreaming he has yet to find anything that might resemble a cure, and he's frustrated that he is somehow without the knowledge to do something for people that are suffering. It's not something he has ever seen in his long life, nor anything that he can pick out from dreams.

"I am uncertain. As it stands, it does not seem to be entirely life-threatening." It's not the illness that will cause problems, after all. It will be the lack of sleep and energy that will sunder those that suffer, the side effects damning them before the illness can claim them. Sighing, he shakes his head.

"I do not think so. I have been around many people who have suffered and I have not fallen ill."

His answer is honest and she appreciates that more than he can possibly know. Unfortunately, she lacks the capacity to even consider the possibility of mortality. Whether it is entirely life threatening or only partially, she cannot say, and she cannot truly comprehend the potential of that. It is not a specter she has ever had to confront at all, so the danger of it looms terribly and all she can conjure up are images of the Fallow Mire.

She had meant to leave.

The thought continues running through her mind and she has to close her eyes for a moment. Standing still for so long has encouraged a tremor in her limbs and, despite herself, she moves to sit on the edge of his bed. It is still warm.

"That much is fortunate, at least," she says though the sentiment feels a bit automatic. "It is...unpleasant, if productive."

It's clear that the knowledge has affected her deeply, and Solas isn't sure what he can do or say that might offer her any kind of comfort. He cannot promise her a cure, or something to soothe her, because he is so far from that in his studies that it seems a bleak and foreign concept. Whatever has brought this upon Thedas must have come through the Rift, and those worlds and people are different enough from the people here, on both sides of the Veil, that trying to tackle it seems an impossible fear.

He steps back, at least, to allow her some room, to settle herself. If she is comfortable here then he doesn't intend to kick her out or remove her - let her take whatever rest she can however she can, he thinks.

"I have been reading as much as I can to find a cure." Which is why he had been asleep, too - not to rest, to regain his energy, but to slip into the Fade and locate his friends, the Spirits that rest there, and see if they have any knowledge that might prove useful. So far, he has been entirely unsuccessful, and it shows in his tight brows and careful frown.

"We will find one."

It is a mild reassurance, but a reassurance nonetheless and Galadriel looks up at him for a moment in silence as she absorbs it. She does not know him terribly well, this elf, but she finds she believes him. She does not expect that he is wont to make idle promises or token reassurances.

She inclines her head and holds her hands before her. With focus she can stay the trembling in her limbs, the fever pitch of her heart is a bit harder to mitigate, but this she can do.

"I should go," she says and there is a long moment where she neglects to move. She does, after her hands are stilled and she has gathered her thoughts, but it is with an unintentional sort of slowness.

"I will leave you to your rest and your study, that can wait until you've the time to address it," she says and gestures to the book on the bed. "It is not imperative."

There's a confidence in Solas that betrays him, sometimes, a little more than he would like; he's sure of himself, prideful without being arrogant, aware of his strengths and his abilities and willing to use them for a suitable purpose. Curing the ills of people who should not be allowed to suffer is a more than suitable purpose, even if it seems to be enough to make him want to throw a book halfway across the library sometimes. He will manage not to, of course, but the urge is tempting.

What he notes, above anything else, is the way that Galadriel holds herself. He isn't certain if it's because she refuses to show weakness or because she does not want anyone to worry for her, but either way it shows a strength that is worthy of respect. It's something to note, to remind himself of, and when she moves to stand he does no more than give her the space to do it.

"Thank you, for bringing me such a welcome gift." Something he truly means. It's not often than someone gifts him with anything, especially not something he is genuinely interested in, and he will treasure it with the due respect. All the same, he moves forward, opening the door for her.

The Fade does await, after all.

"I will send you a message should I hear of anything to help you," he promises. "This will come to an end."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

a blaze of light in every word.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject