faderift | Fearful fever dreams (OPEN)

WHO: Galadriel and You
WHAT: A Catchall Post for threads during phase 2 of the illness.
WHEN: From late phase 1 throughout phase 2 of the event.
WHERE: The Gallows, various.
NOTES: Probably sickness related fears and some mild horror over turning blue, also eventual mind powers and nonsense.

Contact me on Plurk, Discord, or PM to plan a thread. Because of the nature of this part, I won't have generic open prompts but I'd be happy to make one for you. Alternately, if you want to just drop a starter into the comments I will smash into it. It's all good.

Anders:

She closes her eyes, closed her eyes, and when she opens them once more it feels as though no time at all has passed. She has slept without dreaming, without thought, and while it is a thing to revel in, she finds she cannot remain still. She sits up, her limbs painful and heavy with fever and overuse, and before she has even turned to place her feet upon the ground, her fingers are all but twitching with the need to move.

Her thirst and hunger feel distant once more, unimportant, and she swallows around the thickness in her throat and the empty sensation in her stomach and pushes herself to rising. She must find Anders and ask what he has done to calm her nerves; she needs to know this spell that grants her dreamless slumber. It is one she must learn, regardless of how conflicted she is about his...allegiances.

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"How long did I slumber," she asks, an edgy sort of impatience already creeping into her tone. Her hands fidget as she draws herself to her full height. She looks disheveled and already she is turning a strange shade. She stares down at her fingers and their considerably more dramatic color and glowers.

She has never been skill with glamour, not as Thranduil is, but she exerts some effort into employing it. Her skin changes to something more...appropriate, but it is little more than a thin veneer.

"What did you do that spared me dreaming? Can it be taught?"

He comes in closes the door behind him before leaning against the desk in the room; there's no need for others to hear details of her case. And no need for anyone else to see her color visibly change, that's different and also beside the point.

"You slept for a day. What I did was heal you enough that the symptoms were no longer keeping your body from getting what it needed and I... I can teach healing, yes. Whether or not it will work with your magic I'm not certain. May I see how you're doing?" Anders holds up a hand but doesn't cast yet.

He has not answered her questions, but to Galadriel it sounds as though he has. Healing. She regards him with a strange look as she considers how long she has been asleep but there is only a short moment of hesitation before she extends her hand and sets it in his. The glamour ripples at the contact, like a veil being drawn over a flame, but it settles over time.

"I have never been a healer, but it is not beyond the skills of the Eldar. The Elessar has proven to be enough until...this. Why it cannot reverse this, I do not know."

He casts, and is dismayed to feel how much further the symptoms have progressed while she rested. He'd hoped... But hope has no place in fighting a plague. Dismay turns into concern as he realizes it seems to have skipped past some cases in severity. Why? She'd rested. Is it some reaction to her? to what he'd done?

"A moment," he says, hastily letting go and paging through his notes. What if it's not simply resurgence being reported, but actual worsening? Maker's breath. Is it the healing, though, or something the illness is already doing underneath everything else? Anders rubs his temples.

"It may have progressed it," he breathes out. "Given you a break but also, Andraste's asshole. Healing is supposed to heal. I'll teach it, but shit. It might not, it might not be actually helping."

His sudden dismay is startling, when it turns to concern and hasty action, Galadriel feels a hollow sense of unease and panic settle into her chest. He is worried and visibly so--she has never had cause to see him this way, not even when she was all but bleeding out before him. How much worse is this?

She pales and the glamour over her flickers like weak candlelight.

"Progressed it?" she repeats, distantly and withdraws her hand. She had been at the very edge of desperation, weak and exhausted and all but mindless...and this had made it worse? Her mind flashes to the scenes of the Fallow Mire, of that terrible plague, and her throat goes tight with terror.

So rarely has she felt terror, it is a strange look on her and she presses the heel of her hand over her racing heart.

"I cannot heal from this?"

"That's not what I'm saying," he says quickly. "I'm not saying it's lethal, just that it seems to have skipped to a further stage. No one has, no one has succumbed. Natural healing may still happen, herbal healing, I know that sleeping potions aren't causing problems, they can still do something. But I don't know if magical healing will."

He reaches out, resting a hand on her shoulder gently. It could be lethal but he can't dwell on that possibility right now. And she can't afford to either; panic doesn't help anyone heal.

"Your body may kick into action here and beat it now that it's had a break, or it may not. I am sorry. I do not have the answers I'd like to give you."

She looks at her shoulder, distracted by her own distress and it does not occur to draw away from him. She can feel the corruption in him like a knife and, while it pains her, she does not bother recoiling from it. Unfortunately, in her lack of reaction, his touch lingers and the power that has coiled, inconsistently rising and falling inside her, sets to him with a sudden burst, scalding his hand where it touches her flesh.

The sensation is enough to startle her from her terror and, finally, she jerks away from him.

"I am not so far gone, it seems," she mutters distantly and stares at his hand. "My apologies."

Fearful fever dreams (OPEN)

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