faderift | we're all so upset about the disappearing ground

Entry tags:

we're all so upset about the disappearing ground

WHO: Adalia (

thunderproof), Gwenaëlle (

elegiaque), others
WHAT: Adalia is Not Having A Great Time with this illness stuff. She has a panic attack, prays to some gods.
WHEN: Throughout illness phases two and three.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: CW for anxiety/panic attacks. Subject to adding more threads throughout the plot/month.

i. for gwenaëlle — you say i choose sadness, that it never once has chosen me

Really, she's taken this illness about as well as could be expected up to now. She's kept a positive attitude, she's helped where and when she could, she got quite a bit done — even when her magic started becoming unmanageable, all she did was send Charis to Myr and isolate herself to keep from hurting anyone. If that had been the worst of it, she probably could have made it through this whole thing without panicking.

It's not, though, and she can't.

Losing her magic is — it's like losing her self. It's worse than selling off her soul. Not having a soul hasn't had any negative effects, at least, she just doesn't have one.By rights, losing her magic should be the same. It's not as though lightning and thunder magic have a lot of practical applications outside of combat, right, she doesn't use it every day like some of the natives do. But even if she doesn't use it, she still has it. She can feel that wellspring of power within her, and knows that if she reaches for it, lightning will leap into her palm and thunder will clap wherever she wills it. Now that wellspring is gone, and Adalia can't — she can't. She managed to go a few days after the realization without outright panicking. The period of unmanageable magic only lasted three days, so maybe unusable magic will last just as long.

Adalia's spent the whole of the fourth day in the Gallows courtyard, trying to call anything — sparks, a pop of sound, anything to her fingertips, but as the day goes on, it becomes apparent that there won't be anything. Her magic is gone, entirely, and nothing Adalia tries is going to work. The sun is beginning to go down and Adalia is stood in the middle of the courtyard, staring at her hands, cold dread spreading from the pit of her stomach throughout her whole body. The cold reaches her lungs and Adalia's breath begins to come in shallow gasps, it reaches her heart and it races — she can't see, she can't think, this isn't happening, she can't be losing this, too —

Her world is shattering into pieces, the delicate balance of positivity and denial tipping into despair, and all Adalia can do is stare at her hands unseeing, frozen in place.

ii. open — my mouth will just turn to dust if i don't tell you quick

Adalia's not much one for prayer. She never has been, not even back on Toril where she knew the gods were listening — less out of a lack of care for them than a lack of belief that she needed them. She's prayed twice in her life, though, to two different gods, and each time she got a response.

This is just another plane. That's what she's believed this whole time, no matter what any native says, and so — so Bahamut should still be listening, right? She hasn't heard from Alacruun since she was spat out of the rift, but that doesn't mean he's not listening. She just has to reach for them, and they'll hear her. They are not like Thedas' Maker. Bahamut would never turn his back on his followers. Alacruun wouldn't turn his back on her.

It was difficult to decide on an appropriate place to pray to both of them. In the end, she opted to go for one of the smaller chapels — if any Andrastian were to walk in, she'd probably be driven out for blasphemy, but she doesn't care. There's power in places, and the natives call upon their Maker and his bride here. Adalia needs as much help as she can get for her words to reach through the Divine Gate.

Maybe she's walked in on while praying to Bahamut — "I apologize, Platinum Dragon, but I don't know any formal prayers. I've never been a religious person, but I pray to you now with an earnest heart, and I hope that's enough. I chose wrong when I reached for Alacruun before you, I know that, but I — I know, too, that you haven't abandoned me. You're just and good, and I am doing my best to be the same. Please — Bahamut, Justicemaker, help me. Point me in the right direction, show me what I've missed. If not for my sake, then for all the others here who've fallen ill. We need guidance, and I know illness is not your purview, but I believe you can help us. Please help us."

Or perhaps when praying to Alacruun, after hours of prayer to Bahamut with no answer — "You've been quiet but I know you, Alacruun, you're not gone. You wouldn't give me up that easily. But what good am I to you if I have no magic? Help me, give me some of that knowledge you've collected. Lead me down the right path. I can't be your high priestess if I'm dead, or without magic. Come on, you fuck, answer me!"

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"Adalia?"

He's blue, and gloomy, and restless, and he misses her. He hasn't had a chance to see her, although he's been trying to give her space, to decide if this is something she even wants to try and pursue.

The Eldar and the Edain, they don't pray, much. Oh, they might toss off a word to Uinen when they head out to sea (Lady, keep an eye on your husband, eh?), they remember to honor Eru, and in his place, Manwe and Varda at times of festival and rememberence, but they don't really pray, not the way other people do.

But Elros has walked with all sorts of people, he knows what worship looks like. He'll knock, and wait a little until she's done.

"You pray to a dragon god? I suppose that explains Charis." He tries to keep his tone light. Teasing. He wants her to smile. It's hard, when he's tired and sick and the sea is pulling at his bones.

Really, Adalia is much the same. Blue and gloomy, at the least, and edging closer to restless the longer this drags on. She's not made for extended convalescence or containment, and this illness is beginning to drain her in more ways than the obvious.

When she hears Elros behind her, Adalia looks up and her face sort of — twists, in something that's as much a smile of greeting as it is an embarrassed frown.

"I don't... usually pray to anything. I'm not a religious person, really, I just thought..."

She gestures between them as if that could encompass the entirety of her thought process. Nothing mundane has been helping, and she's beginning to lose that which she cannot bear to part with. If there was ever a time to ask the gods for guidance, it's now.

"That it couldn't hurt?" He suggests with a wry smile, coming further into the room. There's a restlessness to him, his fingers twitching as if they itch to be doing something, but there's weariness in his stance, the soldier standing because to sit is to not rise again.

"I'd have to agree that it can't do any harm to try - did you get an answer?" It would be nice, he thinks wistfully, if they could. If so, he might try and see if he can reach Ulmo, from this world - the Vala of the Seas has ever been attentive to his family, but he can't hear the sea any longer, not the way he was able to before, and Maglor has said that the songs here are different.

"And how are you bearing up?"

"Might as well, you know?" she confirms, shrugging somewhat helplessly. There isn't too terribly much else she can do, and as someone for whom inaction does not come easy, this has not been a particularly enjoyable time. Sickness she could deal with, though it would be unpleasant. Loss of her magic, her ability to be useful... that she takes less well.

Even so, this is all moot, since — "No, no answer. It could be a few different things but as a man once said, the simplest explanation is usually the right one. There's no answer because he can't hear me, because he has no connection to this plane."

Which is... a distressing thought all on its own. Adalia's assumption had always been that this is just another plane, as connected to Toril as the Shadowfell or the Feywild. The deities may go by different names, the rules governing magic and people may be different, but surely there could be nothing outside the Great Wheel. That this may not, in fact, be the case... Adalia doesn't know what to do with that idea.

She smiles at Elros though, shrugging. She tries to keep up a happy presentation, even when everything is going to shit.

"Not dead, so that's nice, I suppose. You?"

"I guess it was too much to hope for." He sighs.

"Then again, I suppose when the Master Bard complains he can't touch the song of the world properly I shouldn't be surprised the world is so far separate that we can't reach our guardians." He smiles at her weakly. "Although once again, I am surprised that your world puts such faith in dragons! How is Charis doing?"

He's not sure who he's trying to distract with his chatter, her or himself.

"I've felt better. Felt worse too? It's not as bad as the time with the Necromancer?"

Adalia is used to hearing words she understands in different contexts now — bard, for instance, means something very different here than it does on Toril. But Elros says it in a way she understands — bards use song to make magic, where she's from, and it sounds like on Arda it's similar. That makes her feel... better. Even if just for a moment.

Thedas is strange and in many ways unfathomable to her, but there are still elements of all that she finds familiar, even in other worlds. The Great Wheel is not bullshit, it's just... greater than maybe she had been taught. Maybe they're on an outer rim, one the gods just can't reach.

The small smile that had begun to creep across her lips drops entirely at the mention of Charis, and Adalia frowns deeply.

"Much the same as us, I'm afraid, only it's harder for him to understand illness than it is for us. I'm trying to keep him as carefree as I can, but he's been growing increasingly terrified. I hope this ends soon for his sake even for than mine."

As distractions go, it wasn't Elros' best work. That next thing, though, that's better.

"Necromancer? What?"

Elros sees the smile drop and he curses inwardly - he's not trying to make her feel worse damnit.

But she seizes on the next statement and he's only too glad to take the option offered.

"Yeah! You know that trip recently to the other city? There was a catacomb visit, and all the dead started attacking." He makes a face. "Must have been a Necromancer. But it's not the first time, of course. The Enemy was very fond of enslaving the spirits of the dead. Elrond and I had to defeat one to reclaim Amon Hen, during the War, but they were a sadly far too common foe."

There is a scandalised murmur in Orlesian - a Chantry sister who walked in around the same time as Herian, and cannot imagine the place of such language in a chapel. Although the flurry of words is not in trade, all of the italics are very obvious, and her volume seems to raise a little as she begins to gather momentum.

"Calm yourself, Sister. The rifters are under considerable duress; Andraste would not turn those in need of succour away, be it of body or spirit." Her voice is as inevitably calm as ever it is, quiet so as not to escalate this to a scene, and whether it is because title Knight Enchanter isn't meaningless, or Herian's new role, or maybe it's just that she seems particularly unmovable, Sister Elsa opts to let it go.

Then the problem is that she has no idea what to say. "Does... do you light candles, for your gods?"

She's honestly not sure how she feels about the Maker's chapel being used for other gods, but then it's not like they've offered rifters somewhere else in particular to use, so far as she's aware.

Adalia... isn't much help. As soon as she hears the murmur — she doesn't understand Orlesian but she sure as hell can tell what kind of tone the woman is using — Adalia turns around and says "Bite me, Sister, your Maker's heard worse."

Not that she'd really know, of course, but one assumes — you don't become a god without dealing with some intensely pissed off people. And it's not as though Adalia hasn't said worse to the god she's actually addressing, even, so. She has no patience for scandalized religious women today.

Herian, of course, puts her to shame. She should be so patient, and usually she can be, but... Adalia watches the Sister leave, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn together, but she doesn't apologize. Later, maybe, when this is all over with and she has her magic back and the world is put right again. The question takes her a bit by surprise, and Adalia turns her attention to Herian with the wide eyes of someone asked a question for which they have absolutely no answer.

"I... don't know what people do when they pray. I've never really done it before." Only twice, ever, and that was under strange circumstances.

Herian resists the urge to cast her eyes skyward in a silent display of Maker, please - it would be more a plea for guidance on how to best help the situation, but she opts against indulging herself to avoid inadvertently stoking the fires of either party further. Once Sister Elsa is gone, she decides better to ignore the comment entirely. There was a time and a place.

"Fire is a complex thing in Andrastian faith. It brings light, and warmth. It is a cleansing thing, that so many of us rely on to survive. And yet... it is that which killed blessed Andraste. A cruel fate for any, let alone a woman who fought so desperately for the freedom of others."

She offers Adalia a hand to help her up. "We can light candles as votive offerings, to accompany our prayers. They are not required but... they are symbolic of the prayer, and I find they personally grant me further focus. A— comfort, of sorts."

Ugh, talking. Talking about feelings. Worthwhile but so hard.

For a moment Adalia tries very hard to put herself in an Andrastian's shoes — any religious person's shoes,really. She has always believed in the gods, but in much the same way as one believes in anything that demonstrably exists but has no bearing upon their life. The gods had never given Adalia anything, everything she had in Candlekeep she worked for herself, right up until the moment Alacruun slammed into her life and wouldn't fucking leave. The path to becoming a devotee was never one Adalia would have imagined herself walking, and she especially can't imagine what anyone would be doing worshiping a god who turned his back on his people. Andraste seems a good sort, at least, the very stuff martyrs are made of, but the rest?

It doesn't matter if she understands, in the end. What matters is the offered comfort. Adalia takes Herian's hand and lets herself be pulled up, brushing at the knees of her dress as she looks about for candles.

"Do you pray often? I'm guessing most prayer doesn't involve cursing but otherwise how did I do?"

Probably not great, really, given that she has absolutely no reverence for Alacruun as a deity and only slightly more respect for him as an entity. If he was listening he'd be suspicious if she talked to him all formally anyway.

"Yes. When I can I like to attend the vhenadahl and chapel once a day, but when circumstances do not permit, I simply pray whenever it strikes me. An altar and a holy place is... it can inspire hope and reverence, but it is not necessary for prayer. That comes from within ourselves."

She takes a moment before elaborating further. "Truthfully, I doubt there is any Andrastian who, even if only in thought, has not used more colourful language in their prayers at least once. When spoken aloud it is, admittedly, a break from convention."

Her words are, as always, so serious. There is also, however, a very faint smile hiding about the corners of her mouth, even if she does not indulge it. "I cannot speak for your relationships with your deities. How do you feel about it?"

And she leads them to the candles. They stand before a statue of Andraste, metal rack for the candles before her, and Herian takes two coins from her purse to put in the offering box. "Not required," she explains softly, "but as I've the coin to spare."

As I've the coin to spare she'd rather make contributions. That's all, really.

Vhenadahl. She's heard that word before, she must have, or read it at the very least. It takes Adalia a moment to place it, but she remembers — the tree the elves in the alienages all have. That... doesn't track.

"Why would you go to the vhenadhal? You're human."

The question, though rude in subject, is at least not rude in tone. It's genuine confusion and curiosity that colours Adalia's voice, not judgment or derision — she knows half-elves here don't have any of the markers half-elves do on Toril but she will always think human before anything else when she sees a humanoid with blunted ears. Granted Herian's hair is big enough to hide pointed ear tips (as well as a great many other things besides), but Adalia could have sworn she was human.

"— ah." How does Adalia feel about her relationship with her deities? It's a complicated question, almost certainly more so than Herian was expecting, and eventually Adalia just shrugs helplessly. "They exist? I've never been too bothered about them. Up until recently it was the kind of relationship you'd have with... I don't know, a whale? You know it's out there, doing its whale thing, living its best whale life, and you're happy for the whale and the people whose lives are bettered by the whale, but as a land-dweller it has absolutely no bearing on you or anything you care about. Does that make sense...?"

Probably it doesn't, but Adalia's not too concerned. When they reach the candles, she stares at the offering box, torn — she really does hate the Chantry. Maybe she shouldn't let herself have such a strong opinion on things she only knows about through books and biased arguments, but she can't separate the institution that should be helping from all the hurt it's done. She has coin to spare, at least a little, but she doesn't want to give it — nor does she want to be an asshole, though.

"Where does the money go? Do you know?"

Again not a judgmental question — if Adalia knew it was going to the elves in the alienage, or the people suffering in Darktown, she could give with a clear conscience.

"I am of elven blood. My mother was a human of elven blood, and my father an elf. When elves and humans in this world bear children, they are always human." Her voice as a different sort of evenness in it - it tilts into flatness, although the slight change might be hard to notice. "I grew up in the Starkhaven alienage before I went to the Circles." More simply, to cut to a point she has been asked about many times before, "the elves are my people and my priority."

One ear, clearly human, but the left is mutilated - two segments roughly cut off, in a mockery of an elven point. She does not draw attention to it, but it always feels painfully more obvious when she such topics come up, like her ears will be looked to with scrutiny.

"This box only serves to keep candles stocked, to the best of my knowledge. I like to make sure that there will be candles for those others who might come who are less able to supply candles than myself." For more meaningful ways to assist others, there she takes on a more direct approach. She has been burned by the Chantry too, for all her faithfulness, for all that she has been devout.

"And it does make sense. I am sure there are a good many here who feel that way of the Maker or Andraste."

"...oh? — OH. Yes, right, your half-elves are totally bizarre and make no sense. I remember."

Being a half-elf herself Adalia is allowed to say these things.

"That's good," she says, agreeable and even, if Herian cares to pay attention to the nuance, impressed. From what she can tell, it's better to be a human than an elf here. To throw one's lot in with the elves even without really having to... That, more than anything else she's seen of Herian, is what makes Adalia believe she's a good person. Anyone can be repressed and intense to a terrifying degree; it takes a truly good person to stick out something difficult when they could just as easily walk away.

And, well, if it's just for the candles — Adalia pulls a silver out of her pocket and drops it into the box.

"May we supply candles for many days to come, or something."

With that she grabs a candle of her own and passes her palm over it willing sparks to light it —

only they never come, and her shoulders drop precipitously as she remembers. Right. No magic. She's alone and useless and everything is terrible. For a long moment she just stares down at the wick, looking utterly stricken, and then she turns to Herian and wordlessly holds out the candle — she's a sorcerer, surely she can light a candle.

You have a truly enviable way with words. She thinks it, but refrains from speaking it. Wanton offence, not needing to be granted voice. Granted, she could fairly request that Adalia speak with a little more tact, but the girl is clearly distressed. Reprimand, at this point, even gently given, will do little good. Injury upon injury does not better a wound's healing.

The Chantry is empty, save for the two of them. Normally she would take the candle from Adalia, and lean it against one of the candles already lit. For the same reason that she did not offer reprimand, though, Herian does not draw the candle away. She cups the wick in her hand, and prays this will not be a moment her magic falters, that she will not feel sick from her mana seeming to drain away.

The candle lights, and Herian holds her own candle against it, so it can be lit as well.

"You magic and health will be restored to you. I am no healer, but those we have in the Inquisition's service are of great talent and dedication. They will find the answers - I have faith in that. You needn't hang all on a god, if that goes against your own beliefs. Have faith in those about us. You will be whole again."

If there is anything at all to be said for Adalia's tactlessness, at the very least it is that she never really means to offend. She speaks the truth as she sees it, not without care for how it is taken, but without consideration that it could be taken badly — her meaning is entirely clear to herself, so it must be to others, as well. The half-elves here make no sense because they don't consider themselves half-elves in the way Adalia understands the race, not for any other reason.

Of course, that doesn't change the fact that she speaks without thinking more often than she doesn't, but maybe points will be granted for not being a total knob on purpose.

Whole. The very concept seems foreign to Adalia, who has never felt whole for as long as she's been alive, but it seems especilly far away now. Magic is all she has, or indeed has ever had, to set herself apart from any other orphan. There was a legacy of power in her blood, something that made her someone rather than just some random nobody girl. Without it, she has no way to make her mark, no way to set herself apart, no future. Again, she sees her future yawn before her, interminable and endless and alone.

She shudders, and pulls the candle close to her chest, avoiding Herian's eye.

"Rather a difficult thing, to have faith in people who'd rather you not be here at all, don't you think?"

The Inquisition would be much better off if the Rifters ceased to be a problem. That is indisputable.

'Quarantined in the Gallows' is not how Gwenaëlle might have envisioned seeing out her winter, but here they are and there's nothing else for it; she's grit her teeth with the rest of them and got on with it, something that comes more naturally to her than most might expect. She comes and goes from the main tower and its offices, occasionally trailed by hound and nug (...atop hound, more often than not, it's getting weird, but if Hardie doesn't mind and Leviathan doesn't want to walk, who is she to say nugs can't ride dogs), goes about her own private work quietly, keeps track of what matters to her.

On an ordinary day, Adalia would not really feature on that list; today, when she catches sight of her gasping at nothing, it's an uncharacteristic gut-wrench of empathy that shifts her steps before she's decided, planned, acknowledged. Like in many things: she knows how to handle this, so she does it. It's not often that she makes a decision something will be done, but when she does, by the Maker, it gets done.

“Adalia,” she says, briskly, her fur wrap sliding down her shoulder slightly when she reaches out to press their hands together, Adalia's flat and tightly-held between her own. “Adalia.”

See how bad it is. Go from there.

There's a roaring in Adalia's ears, but she can hear someone saying her name. It feels like it takes a monumental effort just to raise her head, but she looks up to Gwenaëlle, and for a moment she doesn't know what to do. There's nothing to do, everything that made her anything is gone, she's of no use to anyone, with no connection to anything, not even to the air. She has nothing, she is nothing —

"I'm sorry," Adalia says, gasps, not even entirely sure why she's apologizing. Gwenaëlle doesn't like her, she shouldn't have to pay attention to her like this. "I'm sorry, I can't — I was trying —"

No matter how she tries, she can't finish the sentence. She can't catch her breath or order her thoughts enough to do it, and her hands begin to shake in Gwenëlle's. All that she can think of is the solitary life unfolding in front of her, isolated, mundane, without touching or being touched by anyone else. No family, no roots, no connections to anything — she'll live and die and no one will notice, there will be no one to say she was ever here at all —

Adalia's knees buckle, beginning to give way beneath her.

Ah, she thinks, gripping Adalia's elbows and turning what could have been a catastrophic tumble on the ice into a shared, controlled descent—her control, not Adalia's, but at least someone has a hand on the reins—

that bad.

Even through the heavy weight of her skirts, she can feel the cold leeching beneath her knees; optimistically, she imagines it might well have a clearing effect on whatever roaring is happening in the elf girl's ears, in her head. The distraction of discomfort, an unreliable thing at the best of times and never a useful habit to get into, but not to be overlooked when it comes to a swift way to clarity.

She manages to contain a number of dry remarks that would not be at all useful, instead taking Adalia's hand and pressing it beneath her own over her heart, mirroring the gesture. If she has the presence of mind to make some sort of inane attempt at wit about them groping one another in full view of any idiot who walks along, that'd be promising, but somehow Gwenaëlle suspects she doesn't need to brace for that. She takes a deep, slow breath; holds it, exhales.

“I don't care,” she says, not unkindly for all that she is brisk where another might have been gentle. “Shut up. Don't pay any mind to anything except how I'm breathing, and breathe with me.”

Distantly, Adalia is aware of falling to her knees. It should have been a more painful tumble, but Gwenaëlle kept her from hitting the ice too sharply — she should say something, right? She should thank her, or apologize or acknowledge in some fucking way that her knees are still intact entirely because of Gwenaëlle's interference. She can't figure out how, though, clarity and breath not coinciding enough that she can find the words.

Cold seeps through her cloak and her dress to chill her knees, and a shiver runs up Adalias spine. The cold does have a clarifying effect, but not so much of one that she's able to speak again. Just enough that when Gwenaëlle takes Adalia's hand and presses it over her breast, Adalia can comprehend the instruction.

Does she know how to breathe? Adalia isn't sure. She must have known once, she couldn't have made it this far if she didn't, but now the mechanism of inhaling and exhaling seems as complicated and impossible as trying to get her magic back. For the first moment, her breath doesn't come any easier, hiccuping and gasping through her as her mind races and her limbs shake. Gwenaëlle's heart beats steadily beneath her palm, though, her chest rising and falling rhythmically with the pattern of her breathing, and the longer Adalia kneels in front of her the easier it becomes to tune everything out. She keeps her gaze focused on their hands, times the seconds between each inhale and exhale, and tries not to think of anything but their tandem breathing.

In this, Gwenaëlle is patient as a rock; steady, steadfast, waiting for breath to even and then waiting longer. Her knees ache and she's starting to feel the ice melting beneath her body-heat, slowly but surely soaking into velvet, and she ignores it: when Adalia has the presence of mind to feel uncomfortable, they'll get up again. Moving before that seems pointless to her mind, an interruption of something she has only herself to judge by in calling useful.

The stillness always helps. Eventually, stillness itself jostles past every other thing in her head to become a problem, and that in a way marks out a solution—

It'd be hard to explain, but she knows how it feels.

For long moments, all Adalia can do is sit and match her breathing to Gwenaëlle's. That itself will be a problem later — how useless she is, how rude, to force someone to sit in the snow and take care of her when she should be able to take care of herself — but for as long as it lasts it's an anchor that keeps Adalia from completely falling apart. She sits, and she breathes, and slowly her heart stops racing, and her stomach unknots itself, and her lungs fill. She's not okay — her hands still shake and she feels about two seconds from crying — but she's better, and for the moment that will have to do.

Her knees are cold. That's the first thing Adalia notices — they're cold and they're stiff, like she's been on them for way too long. She sniffles and blinks as she looks around them, her vision refocusing and consciousness of where they are setting back in. Her gaze settles back on Gwenaëlle in front of her, and it's — strange. Gratitude wars with shame, and Adalia doesn't know how to express either without bursting into tears or otherwise making this all even worse.

"What happened?" she asks instead of dealing with either of those things, and sniffles again. At the very least she can hold in the tears until she's alone.

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we're all so upset about the disappearing ground

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sorry for the lateness, feel free to drop

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