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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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?"

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.

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."

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.

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.

It's odd, to have a dragon so close, so awkwardly affectionate as he tries to suss out what is happening with it's mother-like figure. It's so small, especially compared to the natives of Thedas that seem to be huge even in their younger years, and he worries for it's future. Will it grow and flourish, or will the time come that it is snuffed out because Thedas isn't prepared for anything like the domesticated nature of the small thing? His fingers keep brushing over scales even as he shakes his head, nodding once, a sharp motion of his head.

"Then let us go." He offers his arm for Charis to settle on, ready to turn to go and speak to Adalia. "We will figure out how to aid her. Together."

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?"

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?"

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."

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."

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?"

Soon enough, Charis will not be able to perch on arms anymore — already he's too much for Adalia to carry, even around her shoulders, and although she's not all that strong, it's becoming more of a problem of size than of weight. Still, he's not too big for it yet, and when Solas holds out his arm Charis climbs on, settling himself with his chin rested on Solas' shoulder.

From across the room, Adalia raises her eyebrow.

"Stealing my son, are you?" she calls quietly, soft enough the words don't carry too much farther than Solas and annoy any of the other people in the library.

"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."

For now, Solas is content to carry him, and he gives the dragon a little time to make himself comfortable before he nods his head, guiding him forward and making his way back over to Adalia. He tilts his head, watching her for a moment, his expression careful and measured. It's clear, he thinks, that she has the same illness that has befallen some of the others - and that means that he is, at heart, entirely unable to help her. At least it means he can look a little closer at the problem, the symptoms, and try to figure out something that might become a solution, given time.

Finally, he manages a smile, tilting his head.

"I fear that he may be the one who has stolen me."

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."

Inessa straightens a little, her gaze lingering over the prone rifter though it's clear that from head to toe, there's nothing about him which explains anything about his present state. She nods, not about to push undue hope onto a random idea, but unable to abandon it either.

"Nothing is certain, but no other options come to mind, at least not currently. Even if we cannot directly aid him, what we learn might set us on the course needed to correct this." Her gaze shifts away for a moment, back to Solas. "I would not put all this on you alone; if enough lyrium is accessible, it's worth considering sending in other mages as well. Perhaps they may not be needed, but I would rather overprepare than underestimate the risk."

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 is nothing particularly special about the Rifter either, other than the rather odd nature of him almost slipping from the mind the longer you're away from him. Solas is drawn back because of the anchor, of course, but even he finds remembering him difficult, as though he slips from his mind like water through a sieve. Disturbing, and worthy of note, but he's not entirely sure how to deal with it beyond constantly reminding himself.

"I can make the attempt, sometime soon." He's already been prepared to talk to the spirits about him, at least, to see if they can recognise anything about him, but he's not sure what sort of answer he hopes to get. "If there is anything to be done then I will certainly ask the mages for aid. Otherwise, I think it best not to give people cause to worry."

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."

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.

Her gaze doesn't linger long on Solas, though that's due to the presence of the patient and how easy it is to let him slip from her mind if not staring right at him. It's an unusual and interesting phenomenon, to be sure, but one thing at a time. The matter of his comatose state is more of a pressing issue, assuming the two aren't linked.

"People are already alarmed enough as it is, that's quite true." She crosses her arms, lips curved in a thoughtful frown. "Even so, I am ready and willing to assist however I can, if it comes to that. We...couldn't save the girl with the chest-shard. It's something that weighs heavily on the minds of many in the project. If we can save someone else...."

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?"

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?"

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 3

a blaze of light in every word.

later;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Later in the week, waking him up probably.

no subject

Later

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Later

no subject

later in the week, checking on the rifter;

no subject

no subject