Simple Gifts [Closed] - Part 2

[laurenande]

WHO: Galadriel, Thranduil, Solas, Myrobalan, Merrill, Kitty, Lakshmi, Teren, Marcoulf, Jang, Obi-Wan, and Anders
WHAT: A trip to a perfectly normal Chantry in the middle of nowhere.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: The Island of Alamar, Ferelden.
NOTES: Current warnings, to be updated: Mild Gore

The Abbey on the White Cliff

Around noon on the fourth day, Brigette and the other sisters gather up the people of the Abbey. Everyone who can walk, who can stand, is urged to join them in the auditorium--the doors at the end of the main hall are thrown open and the people welcomed in. Today Reverend Mother Alvar will be enacting her final miracle and, in the grand tradition of this Abbey, the people are invited to behold and take joy in the sight of it. They are encouraged to be there for the end of the previous Reverend Mother's life, just as they are encouraged to welcome the new Reverend Mother, Luca, as she assumes her new position.

The auditorium is a wide, stepped chamber that drops downward into an open forum and stage. The roof is high and domed and was once constructed of the same grey stone as everything else on the island. It was caved in at some point, destroyed by a falling tree, but it has been patched over with wood and canvas. The extensive scaffolding speaks volumes of how much effort has gone into restoring this room, but all of it stands still and empty in preparation for the ceremony.

Above the center of the stage, in the very middle of the room, visible from all angles, there is a great green tear in the veil--a massive rift cleaves the room in two. It churns sluggishly, ebbing and twisting, muted under the weight of whatever pall hangs across this Abbey. Around the rift there is a golden arch--the wood is carved into flames and swords and papered over in hammered gold leaf. Behind the rift there is a triptych depicting scenes from the Chant and each is lovingly painted and framed in gold.

The room is filled with chaos, but not of the sort one would expect in the shadow of a rift. The people who meander in, the pilgrims who take up the seats near to the stage at the base of the steps, all of them are smiling, all of them are happy, some are weeping tears of joy or remorse, but all of them are entirely unsurprised by the rift's presence. They take no issue lingering near it. Praise is heaped upon the carpenters for their diligence in finishing the arch, songs are sung softly as everyone gathers, and eventually the room is prompted to recite from the Chant as Alvar comes to the center of the stage. She is frail and those who spoke with her earlier will see how she has aged--twenty years in a day, it seems--and she leans heavily on Luca until she moves apart to stand on her own.

Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.
In my arms lies Eternity.

When she speaks the Chant, for a moment, her voice sounds youthful again--no older than Luca's--but it is fleeting and before the end she is breathless and thin once more.

OOC:

Hey everyone, this is part 2! I will be posting an initial thread for this scene that will be a free for all, but feel free to start a thread beneath the Ceremony Header if you want. Below I will be reposting the updated areas and people links, same as the previous post.

New Top-levels are welcomed, as always, but if you have questions please hit me up.

This section will contain the rest of this plot, unless we skyrocket to too many tags for me to keep them straight.

Comments

The Infirmary Hall - CW: GORE

[laurenande]

The Infirmary Hall is dark and bitter cold.

The tang of death has not abated in the wake of Alvar's rein, if anything it has intensified. The wounds have reopened, both metaphorically and literally--there is struggle here, now, and the urgency of it bleeds into the walls. Estmond layers the bodies in the beds with blankets, he rushes in a panicked frenzy to keep them comfortable, but still they writhe. They have awoken, the sleeping patients in the hall, and the force that has kept them in stasis has weakened tremendously.

They are failing, they are dying now, and with some staggering speed. Their blood does not clot so easily, their pulses are not slowed and calmed, and they suffer the effects of this world around them as any man might. It is a terrible place to behold, now, because it is loud, it is painful, and nothing in this room is sedate any longer.

[dirth]

Whatever had been keeping the illnesses at bay has obviously abated, and Solas has no time to waste; he wants nothing more than to do whatever he can. If he helps these people then, perhaps, he can give himself time to think about where he might find Galadriel, where to even search for her. Dreams are clearly not an option, no matter how much he might wish to sink into the familiarity of the Fade, and he is beginning to feel as though he will have to search every inch of this place.

It is, of course, something he is entirely willing to do. For her, because of her, at her side. He would do it.

The room is loud and pained and dank and Solas moves among it, doing what he can to soothe the hurts of anyone nearby, to aid their pain and to help them relax. He bandages, he treats, he gets his hands dirty and covered in blood, but it brings him time away from the others to think, to consider, to find out what he must do next.

There must be something, he thinks, but his mind cannot grasp it.

[justice_is_blond]

He greets Estmond as he comes in, already pushing up his sleeves and grim. Solas' presence is a little bit of a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.

"Solas," he says quietly as he gets to work on one patient. There's something about the elf's stance that suggests he is preoccupied and Anders doesn't want to disturb him, but at the same time he doesn't want to seem to be ignoring him. ...Plus healing can be a lonely task. They're going to lose a lot of people here, now that whatever that was had happened.

After a few minutes he grabs one of the basins laying around and casts ice into it before melting the ice and bringing that over. There's never enough clean water for this task.

[dirth]

Healing might not be what he was best trained in, but it is something he knows and is familiar with. He had been a kind of a healer, once, and Solas is well aware of how it feels to have blood on his hands. He has learned to accept it, even if he might reject the idea of death itself being present.

Hearing his name makes him pause, snapping him out of his distant and wandering thoughts before he turns his head to look over at Anders, expression tightening. This is not the place for any kind of conversation, he thinks, but there is no ignoring help when it is being offered, and he nods his head, as gentle as slow as he can make it. It's grim enough in here, no need to make it worse.

"They are dying. Faster, now."

[justice_is_blond]

There's no denying it, and Anders' grim nod is agreeing. Former Mother Alvar can have made as many claims about low mortality as she'd like but he can't see these people making it.

"And I can't use Mercy due to risk of being attacked." He's got a hand tied behind his back, in essence. Anders takes up position at the bed next to Solas, dressing the burns of the female patient for the millionth time. This time, though, he treats her without much hope. She'd been improving and that's over now as decay sets in all over the place. But he's still trying. To do otherwise just doesn't make sense.

"I can't imagine this was the plan. I can't..." He shakes his head, voice and hands far more gentle than his thoughts.

[dirth]

"There is not much that can be done, other than giving them some peace." His powers are limited as well and even then there was very little that he could offer these people. Traditional healing would not be enough and magical healing would do little for them, not when there was so much pain and suffering. Solas wishes that there was more that could be done, more help he could give, but it is not that easy.

He shakes his head, the frustration obvious as he swallows it down, swallows the anger and the hurt and the fury.

"There are no miracles here," he says, finally, voice scathing. "There is no saving. Whatever is done beyond these walls is not enough - and will never be enough. Not when people who do not deserve to suffer do so."

[justice_is_blond]

It's refreshing, hearing the anger and scorn. Validating, too, to know that he's not the only one feeling like that, thinking like that. This place is a sham. A show. People will pour their faith and money and hope into it, give everything, and struggle in return for what?

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow," he recites bitterly, but quietly. There's no need to upset the patients. "Maybe that's why fire can't stay alight. There is no true blessing to be found here, only mockery. Andrastianism always hurts those who can afford it least."

Like the woman before him. There is nothing left he can do and she doesn't have much longer. He might have saved her, elsewhere. Anders gently puts her blanket back around her.

"She could use the sleep spell, if you know it. There is nothing I can do."

[dirth]

Why should he respect people who are unable to treat those who are ill? True, Solas can appreciate that they are short staffed, that they do not have the same number of healers or medically trained surgeons that the Inquisition might have, but that does not excuse how they have been treating the people here. With so many 'miracles' being performed beyond the realm of the infirmary... It's not something he can just accept.

"It must have something to do with the strangeness of this place," Solas says, voice soft. His frustration is not entirely based around the infirmary itself, but also because of Galadriel, because of Myr, because of everything tangled up in everything leading him to feel snappish and unsure about his place here.

Breathing out, Solas looks down at the woman before them, feeling the desolation prickle at him.

"I can." A sigh. "It should not be necessary, but... I will do it."

for anders.

[chainlightning]

Merrill has come down in the evening, worried as she is about frightening the patients. With Esmond gone and the extra strangeness in the wake of Alvar's death, the patients need sleep. Some of them may never wake up from it, but sleep is a relief from pain, and rest helps the body heal. Merrill can provide them with sleep, magically induced though it is.

Seeing Anders here is no surprise. She wonders if he will sleep, or if he'll keep a vigil in the infirmary. Merrill comes up beside him, making just enough noise to not startle him, but not enough that she'll disturb any of the others.

"Show me which ones need my help the most," she says, glancing over the injured, the sick.

[justice_is_blond]

He's commandeered a chair, stuck it against the wall, and there are a couple of shabby pillows and blankets turned into something that's not comfortable, but it's not uncomfortable either. It means that as patients pass he can at least make sure they're in less pain than otherwise.

Her request gets a blink, and then her meaning sinks in. Anders nods.

"These two especially," he says quietly as he gestures at the two beds closest to the door. All he's been able to do for them is ease the pain a little and it's not enough. It's not even close to enough. "A little rest would be a kindness. If they..."

He trails off, looking at them with heavy eyes. "I don't think they're able to say anything anymore. But if they try to speak, give them an ear. It'll be their last."

He's tired in a way that sleep isn't going to really do much for. But at least he's doing all he can.

[chainlightning]

"Rest," Merrill advises Anders, even as she straightens to go tend to the patients he's pointed out. If there is nothing more he can do for them, he ought to conserve his energy for the others.

It's some time later when she returns. Merrill had ended up sitting with the patients for some time, softly singing a Dalish lullaby. It's a strange sound in a Chantry, but she thinks it's soothing enough; it had helped her, too, as she let her spell sink in to the people who had nothing to wait for but the end.

She says nothing, just settles down next to Anders. If he's awake, she'll reach for one of his hands to squeeze, reassurance for the both of them.

[justice_is_blond]

He detours to another that's stirring fitfully before winding up back in his chair, slumping down and considering getting some sleep. At least he's off his feet. Her hand nests in his, then, and he gives her a small, sad smile.

"There are times I'm not certain how much will be left to save, in the end," he says after a few moments of quiet. "And there are times I'm fairly well convinced that we'll not succeed."

It isn't that he doubts they'll beat Corypheus. It's that he thinks the wrong people keep being saved, the ones who will continue oppression, and his and Merrill's people will find no peace or safety.

[chainlightning]

"Me too," Merrill whispers, as if giving any louder voice to her doubts will make them real, tangible. She squeezes his hand, nestling a little closer; she's small enough that she doesn't think it'll disturb his nest of chair and blankets.

The Inquisition was an Andrastian thing, after all. Just because mages and elves have been welcomed doesn't mean things will stay that way. One only had to look at the Dales to know that.

"But I don't know what to do about it."

Day 4, Very Late/Day 5, Very Early

[hello_there]

"Well," Obi-Wan replies, when they have a moment alone. He's tired, and his hand hurts, which is surreal enough considering it's the hand he doesn't have. He doesn't bother standing, for once abandoning dignity to sit at the edge of the bed, "If nothing else, we finally know what's happened here."

Only then does he look up and see— Ah. Hello there. He's as tired as he looks, thanks for asking.

"I've been to see Galadriel. It seems that everything here, was caused by an artifact from her world. It must have fallen through the rift, and now it's the source of all..." He waves his hand with a vague, sloppy gesture, to indicate the trouble of the past week as if it were a fly buzzing around his face, "...All of this."

[justice_is_blond]

That makes it sound so simple. Too simple. Anders stares tiredly at Obi-Wan for a few moments before shaking his head.

"One thing falls through, and the Chantry is ready to turn into a cult, and people are happy to line up to be blind idiots. I shouldn't be surprised. This is Thedas. How do we get it out of the hands of people who would abuse it, though, that's the question. And what is it?"

[hello_there]

"I tried pressing Galadriel for more, but she..." He stops, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, "I'm very tired, I don't have the stamina. Perhaps she'll share more with someone who's not about to fall over."

Again, mind you. Obi-Wan has had a very trying twenty-four hours.

"She would only say that it wouldn't be visible, if the person wielding it didn't want it to be seen, except that if they're new to the power, or unable to control it well, it should seem to have a glow, either held in the hand, or worn around the neck," He relates this news with the same grim exasperation with which he had first received it. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a man increasingly tired of coping with dark elven secrets, "It might be a piece of jewelry, then. Something shiny, that someone would pick up and... Turn themselves into a cult, I presume."

He sighs heavily, and tilts his head back. Obi-Wan is not often so informal around anyone else, but Anders has shared a particularly intimate few moments with him, lately and... and anyways, he's got few enough friends anywhere. Fewer still that he can trust; no-one really.

"Given what we've seen, we should start with the Reverend Mother's supposed successor. Though, I've been told we may not be able to simply take it without more bloodshed."

[justice_is_blond]

"At this rate, I'd not be surprised. People don't give up power easily. And when they're connected to the Chantry it's nearly a guarantee that they'll cling to it."

There's exhaustion in his words and thoughts. Jewelry. One piece of jewelry and of course people create a cult. Of course people are so desperate to put faith into something that they'll trust jewelry.

"Whomever has it won't talk. We should approach the successor by all means, but..." He trails off. He sees no hope in someone willingly surrendering what brought them acclaim and donations. "And people will resent the Inquisition for intruding no matter how it goes. Because how dare we take away what was saving lives, even if it wasn't."

They should just tell everyone to evacuate and burn the place down, really.

[hello_there]

"We'll start with Sister Luca, then. Or perhaps we'll soon be calling her Reverend Mother Luca," He replies, still frowning up at the ceiling, "Hopefully not... ice-wraith Luca..."

Kriff, he's tired. He hasn't been this tired since... Obi-Wan winces, arm twitching, breaking away from the thought. No need for that here, where there's already so much misery to go around.

"There's also the matter of the Rift. But that's my job, I suppose."

Infirmary Hall Civillians

[laurenande]

Even with the immense number of the fatally wounded and ill that had near immediately died once the influence of the ring had disappeared, they'd run out of litters to carry the sick fairly early on. The Infirmary was meant to be a place of rest, not a buzzing hub of movement. Even so, new ones are made with bedframes pried apart and sheets tied taut, the fruits of clever industry driven by need and the near feverish desire to not lose any more than they already had.

It will be a long and vulnerable procession on the claustrophobic forest path to the cliffs, then down the winding way to the docks that have gone so long unused that they are both vague memory and best hope, and the faces of those who carry the ill and those sick and wounded who are yet well enough to be apprehensive turn worried gazes from their prone positions on those from the Inquisition who are accompanying them.

[esquive]

With a final tug, Marcoulf knots the last corner on one of the maked-do litters. It's infuriating knowing that in another portion of the abbey that there are scattered building supplies they could be turning to this effort instead, but the time wasted and the hideous risk involved isn't worth the trouble. Fine. This will do. They only have so many hands capable of carrying the sick anyway; it does them no good to outstrip those--

Maker, he is ready to be rid of this terrible place.

He avoids meeting the eye of any of the expectant ill and instead cuts his way toward the infirmary's heavy doors. His hands are fretting, one absently rubbing at his wrist and then turning to work at some tension in the back of his hand.

"We should be away now," he says to anyone upright near the doorway as he peers out. The rain is cutting and frigid cold. The trip would be dangerous even without the threat of wraiths' pursuit. "I'll bring up the rear. See what can be done about waylaying anything after us."

This is going to go badly. He feels it in his marrow.

[faithlikeaseed]

"I'll join you, if I might," Myr remarks from his spot by the lintel. "Don't know I'll be much use in the van, not having seen the path."

He's a mirror to Marcoulf, hand working over hand as he stares out at the rain, though there's deeper purpose to the gesture than burning off restless energy: Potential spellwork warps the Fade, yet unrealized but for the least glimmer of light as he sorts through patterns in his head to see what might serve to keep the damp and the chill from the worst of the wounded.

Rain's a problem he's solved before, but not in so little time as this, in such urgent haste, without barriers.

Abruptly he folds his hands together, dispersing the nascent spell. "Give me a moment and I'll be along. I've an idea." Though why that idea requires disappearing back to where they've made the litters and spending precious time filling his pockets with as many bits and scraps of discarded bedframe as he can grab in one pass--

Well. It'll come clear shortly enough and it's not long before he's back with the rest of them with his odd acquisitions.

[esquive]

The company is, Marcoulf thinks, unpleasant. Away from this place there may be no bother to it, but standing here at the edge of the rain in the cold of this cursed place something in Myr's face - his eyes, maybe - makes his skin crawl. He doesn't care to think about it long enough to set his finger on exactly why it bothers him anyway (a demon gave you those eyes), and there are more pressing matters to attend to like seeing that the sick and injured on their cots are ready to go out into the weather; that the people ready to dredge their litters along are as fit as they can be; sorting out some arrangement of play defense--

Maker, it'll be a miracle if they get any distance at all.

Fretting aside though, there's nothing much left to be done. In minutes, the population of the infirmary are making their way out into the rain and the dark. Marcoulf lingers in the doorway for as long as seems reasonable, attention turned toward the rest of the abbey rather than the direction they're all meant to be moving in. As Myr comes up alongside again, Marcoulf shifts his hand to his sword and looks to him.

"Ready?"

[faithlikeaseed]

"Ready."

Myr touches hand to the hilt of his spirit blade--brief instinct, quickly quelled by the knowledge the wraiths would be on top of them the instant he drew it--then takes his staff down from off his back. To hold loose, one-handed, as he removes a chip of wood from his pocket and impresses some fragment of magic on it and tosses it behind him.

Breadcrumbs. But not to find their way back--to be snuffed out if a wraith passes too near, and scream the alarm before the monsters are on them.

"What odds," he murmurs as they set out into the gloom and the cold, "d'you give us?"

[esquive]

Marcoulf doesn't hesitate. Myr speaks the word and he is cutting out into the rain after the slow moving caravan of the abbey's sick and injured. Even at their quickest over the relatively flat, open ground immediately surrounding the abbey, it's a maddeningly sedate pace. The pouring rain will have soaked them utterly before they even make the tree line.

"Either the wraiths will have us or the path down the cliff face will." In this weather, one is nearly as likely as the other.

[faithlikeaseed]

It squares with Myr’s estimate: Whatever hope they’ve got is in Andraste’s hands.

“When they come,” the wraiths, because they will, “I’ll draw them off as long as I can.”

He’d pull their attention anyway when he joined the battle in full; best to make use of it against their awful odds. Accordingly his attention is on the terrain around them, considering lines of escape and how far the wraiths might be led. Likely not far enough—because nothing since getting to this place has gone the way it should—but damned if he won’t try.

Even restricted to the pace of the litters there are those in the grim little procession who can’t keep up; a tottering pilgrim goes down in the mud before them, and Myr breathes out on anxious sigh as he closes to offer her a hand up.