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Simple Gifts [Closed] - Part 2

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.

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"I think," Solas says, voice soft. "That we might be closer than we had thought."

The whispering is something he can feel almost like a cold touch against his skin - and he refuses to ignore it. When he had tried to trace her dreams he had been so unsuccessful that it had left him bitter and angry, but now... Now he has a chance, a hope, and there will be nothing that will keep him from Galadriel. If he can find her and save her from whatever has befallen her then he would be content with himself.

Turning his head back, looking at his friend, he nods, switching languages, as unaccustomed to it as he might be.

"I can hear the whispers. It is like the dreams again." Frowning, he takes another step, the shape moving, different. "We cannot stop." And he continues.

The hall head has four doors, two across from two and all of them dark. From the farthest left, the sound of water dripping and trickling, from the other three there is a deathly silence. As they move ahead through the water, the whispering is but a distant thing, until they near the end of the hall. Another voice joins as they near the two farthest doors. It is soft and familiar--Galadriel.

The room to the left is pitchdark save for the faint glow of the woman in the corner. There is a large chair in the room and she is seated in it. She is positioned in the way that people are when they are thrown down rather than elect to sit for themselves. She is still, statuesque in her rigidity, and the water comes nearly to her neck. Her face is frozen in a grimace and, beneath the water, she is curled forward, her hands clutching at her stomach and the blade embedded there.

His reaction as soon as he sees her is to move forward, to press through and open the door. Water floods out and cools his feet but he barely reacts, wading through it as it thins out from the room, leaving more space for Galadriel herself. It means that Solas, ignorant of whatever Thranduil might be doing behind him, can rush forward, dragging his heels as the water tries to hold him back.

After days of searching for her, of trying to find her, of glimpsing into dreams and finding no sign of her, to have her before him... It is a gift indeed, and one he does not intend to ignore or not take advantage of. Nothing stands between them now and when Solas reaches for her, the curled form and the obvious wound, nothing will stop him from helping her. The walls could crumble and he would shoulder the weight.

"Galadriel," Solas' voice is soft as his hand lifts to reach for her, laying gentle and flat against her cheek. He turns her towards him and glances down at the blade in her stomach - he doesn't dare take it out in case it is doing something to keep her blood from pooling out, but his discomfort is obvious, prickling at him. Leaning forward, he rests his head against hers, forehead touching, wanting to keep as close to her as possible.

Pain floods him. He does not want her to feel this, to suffer so, but he does not know what to do. Without using too much of his magic... This wound might be beyond what he can do for her. He is scared to know that she might be so mortal, that he might lose her. His eyes close and he breaches out, his fingers pushing hair from her face, his hand going to her shoulder, urging her to sit straight, to see if she can speak.

"Ma vhenan, speak. Please."

Where Marcoulf could not have begun to budge her, the moment Solas touches her the art over the room breaks apart. The distant whispers come to a hard halt, the movement of the water and the shadows become more normal, plain, and time takes normal hold over Galadriel again. She gasps sharply her hand still clutched around the hilt of the dagger, and her eyes dart to Solas in the darkness.

He is so very near, his forehead against her own--she is shocked to find him there, to find either of them here, and there is a moment where she is without words. He urges her to sit straight and she does, almost unthinking and it shifts the knife. Her first words are not romantic, she can only hope that Thranduil had not taught him how to curse in Sindarin.

She grimaces once she regains her sense of space, of self, and lets her eyes close.

"Melda nin where are we?"

The smell of blood tints the water already and the cold of the abbey begins to seep in, in earnest.

There's a moment where Solas doesn't quite recognise what is happening, why the magic has been undone; it is as if time itself has split apart and begun again, as if the pause in the moment is over, and he takes a deep breath as he glances down at her. No, he does not quite recognise the swearing, the cursing, but he understands the intent of them. All the better, he thinks, for it disguises what he had said in his concern and his desperation.

Let her forget it, for now. Another time, a better place.

"Nowhere important. For now... We must find a way to move you." His fingers brush against her skin, the curve of her cheekbone, gentle and sure, comforting himself as much as he is trying to comfort her. She is damp, the blood is beginning, and she will get cold. Slowly, he takes the cloak from his own shoulders, the one she had given him that he had refused to part with, and places it around her.

"I cannot heal you, but we must move you." He frowns, leaning down, looking at the wound. He needs bandages, he thinks, something to press into it, something to stem the blood flow - and he thinks that's where the knife must be doing work, that or the magic. Breathing out, he reaches, brushing his fingers over hers with all the tenderness he can muster.

His touch is welcome, if jarring. Her nearest memory is not of this place, nor of this time, but if Solas is present then she cannot be in too dire a strait. The knife in her hurts but she has kept the blade near enough to keep it from worsening. It was a fool's errand, that, and she laments it.

"I know not how badly this wound will bleed," Galadriel warns him as his fingers ghost over hers. Her own hold the grip with a white-knuckled urgency...but she begins to release it as he moves in close. She can think of no one she trusts more to aid her.

More softly: "I stumbled when it was turned on me--something in the wine--I may trip if I attempt to wade through this place."

Thranduil stands in the doorway, she notices him only as she leans. The gleam of him on the water's surface. She is embarrassed, then, and it is a strange feeling. She turns her face back to Solas and her fingers shift enough to allow him to grip the hilt of the blade.

"We must go quickly, this place is very dangerous."

"I do not know what happened. I have been searching for you, but -" But it doesn't matter. He is here now, and he will take care of her. Thranduil is there to offer aid, should they need it, but Solas has enough experience when it comes to battle and war that he can manage a stab wound, even a stomach one, but these are not the best circumstances. There is better, he thinks, and if he could get her to the infirmary, to proper bandages, all the better.

He's not sure of his welcome there anymore, but that is not an issue. Not when she is before him.

"I will find a means of stemming it. I will take care of you." At least there is trust there, and Solas can see it - she does not reject him nor does she turn from him, demanding that Thranduil, her kin, come for her. Her faith fuels him and he nods, shifting a little and leaning to tear at the fabric of his shirt where the ends hand down.

"The dagger first, then I will bandage it as best I can. After that we can move you." His fingers join hers over the hilt, nudge hers away, take it, readying her. "Are you prepared? It will hurt, and I will have to hurt you more to stop the bleeding for as long as I can." He turns, eyes shifting, looking back at Thranduil, asking for aid but not being sure of what to do.

He can try and stop the bleeding, as much as he can, but... The risk of magic is too high and this place will not do anything to help prevent infection or disease.

Edited 2018-10-02 21:08 (UTC)

He has kept his eyes cast to the ground for the duration, listening to the whispers rather than the far louder conversation between lovers. It is too intimate a moment for him to witness, and yet. Here he is, caught in the perfect stillness so often ascribed to Lothlorien, to Galadriel herself.

When she moves, when he smells copper in the water, he looks up, and steps forward, the water rippling outward as he does.

"Carry her. Our pride," he says to Galadriel, "is meaningless. We will play at dignity again when we are above ground."

He will need to run for Anders. He trusts the healer little, but who else do they have?

"She has it," Thranduil confirms, as Solas lifts her. "I saw her put it on, after the mortal who had used it spent her life on it."

"It is not wholly spent," Galadriel warns with a grimace as she looks back to Solas. Her expression is softer then and a little apologetic, but whatever words well up in her, this is not the place for them.

"With you here, I know that I will survive this; I forgive whatever you will do," she says softly to him and sits straighter, rises up a bit to make the exit cleaner. That dagger is very sharp, it would not do to cut herself again with its removal.

"We must go now, I do not know what this new mortal will command of them. If she can."

Whatever is being discussed is not as important as her life, not as far as Solas is concerned. He is set on moving her and as she shifts he presses the makeshift bandages against her wound, enough that it should stem some of the bleeding, at least for a moment. The dagger then comes free and Solas moves, handing it to Thranduil to take - it is a clue of who had harmed her if nothing else.

His focus is on the woman before him, barely able to tear his eyes from her.

"I will carry you, as best I can," he's sure of his strength, but it would be somewhat awkward all the same, no matter how gentle he is. Her hurts will be a burden to bear, and he makes adjustments for it even as he leans down to settle his arms under her legs gently. "Lean on me, vhenan."

A whisper.

Galadriel braces but she cannot keep herself entirely silent as the dagger comes free. She curls around the wound, her own hand replacing his to press the bandages to her side. It hurts terribly but she does not scream or shout--his arm goes beneath her legs and she does as he instructs into the quiet space between them.

He has so rarely called her by anything that is not her name. She wishes to ask after it but he shifts her and she gasps again, this time against his neck, as pain lances through her side. The water is tall enough yet that it takes some of the burden of her from Solas, but Solas is also quite deceptively strong.

Her free hand grips his shirt as they move. The familiar beige knit is ruined, both by blood and by tearing, she would find it a pity if she could focus.

He thinks he knows who will have done it, but takes the dagger anyway, and below the water, hides it in a pocket. The water and the light and the feel of this place scream Dagorlad-as-it-is, but he moves, grimly and quickly.

"When we get outside, I will get Anders." Not whatever healer they have here. They will not even go into the infirmary, if Thranduil can avoid it. Let them keep Galadriel's safety close to their chest.

If nothing else, they have damned themselves by harming an elf. There is no higher law than that.

He does not say 'keep her safe'. He does not need to. Solas did not come by the jawbone around his neck and all that comes with it by happenstance or for looks.

There is no comfort in anything of Solas' movements; he is on edge, he is unsure, and he moves to lift Galadriel, to hold onto her, to give her his strength. He lifts her and holds onto her, drawing her against his chest and moving immediately to step out and away towards the doorway.

Let Thranduil come at his side. Let him feel stronger for it. Let him believe that they might be able to take care of them, that the two of them together might be able to make sure that Galadriel is safe, that she heals from this.

Moving forward he breathes out, beginning to lead her out and up towards the surface.

"Go ahead, if you can. See if you can find him."

Travel is ungainly through the high waters, and it is slower for Solas and Galadriel than Thranduil. The latter finds his way from the darkened halls of the basement first and is off quickly enough. The former find their way up minutes later.

The south transept is empty, as it often is, and provides some cover from the rest of the Abbey. The pilgrims take shelter in the cloister, away from the traveling cold of the wraiths, and so the world around them is quiet. As they reach the dry places and the shadowy corner before the closed door, the sound of trickling water and whispering below ceases entirely. Everything is silence, save for the wind and the rain outside.

Moving free of the water is more jarring than within it and Galadriel grits her teeth as they move onto wholly solid ground. She can tolerate more but she is not dismayed when Solas slows and stops in this place.

You'd think he could get some sort of explanation while they moved, but Anders is in the dark still by the time they reach the Southern Transept. Thankfully the sight of Galadriel leaning on Solas gives him some answer, and the sight of blood on her dress adds some more.

"Galadriel. Can you hear me?" He needs to see if her eyes can focus on him, and how aware she is. The color in her face isn't good either, which has him looking to Solas. "Help her to sit down, please. And I need one of you to move her dress away from the wound. I can't touch her."

Thranduil may already be aware of this, the way the Blight means Anders would get burned if he comes into physical contact with her, but Solas might not. As he waits for answers and the following of instructions, Anders begins casting.

"She can hear and she can speak," Solas relays, moving to one side. He makes sure there is more than enough space, makes sure that he can look around and see where is flattest and most comfortable before he even considers moving down. It's only then that he bends, shifting and placing Galadriel on the ground, not moving too far away from her. He's not going to leave her, no matter what kind of space Anders needs.

He had spent so long trying to find her that the idea of being even an inch too far from her is something he cannot tolerate. It's a weakness he cannot hide, at least not right now, and he breathes out gently, eyes lifting.

"I'll do it." Let Solas be the one to be intimate with her, at least for now, and he moves, pulling the fabric away from the wound gently.

Anders has drawn the unlucky card of being supervised by two very emotional (old, angry) elves. Thranduil hovers within reach of Solas, mouth caught between a snarl and a frown. He's still soaking wet, though he'd glamoured it away for his run.

(The fewer questions, the better. Even from Anders. Especially from Anders.)

Thranduil hisses at the sight of the stab wound, the knife burning a hole in his pocket. In good time. They've out up with this farce for long enough. He waits for Anders to-- fix it. Heal her, as much as he can.

It is fortunate that Anders recalls he cannot touch her because, at the moment, that consideration is so far from Galadriel's mind she would have foregone warning him entirely. She releases the bandages clutched to her stomach and Solas does her the courtesy of drawing her dress away from the wound.

It is a direct injury. A very well honed dagger straight in to her abdomen and drawn straight back out again. It bleeds sluggishly and in time with her pulse as it is permitted to do so. Galadriel only spares it a short glance before she looks up, away, to Solas.

She wants to ask questions, of both him and Thranduil, but they are not alone and she is not so far gone as to think she can bring up anything around anyone at all.

"Apart from this, I am uninjured," she tells Anders, though her hand shakes a bit where it grasps the makeshift bandages she had pressed against the wound.

Solas gets a nod, and then the two male elves are basically invisible to him. They're there, he can hear Thranduil make a noise, but it's Galadriel who has his attention as he kneels beside her.

"Are you," he half-asks grimly. Blood loss can cause a lot, but not that shade of green in her skin, nor what he's seeing in her eyes. Infection could, but he can neither see nor smell that setting in; the wound is too new.

"There's poison in your system." It's the one line that connects the dots. "Do any of you know where the weapon is that caused the wound? I can use a generic salve to counter the poison if it's missing, but seeing it could let me give her something meant for it, something that would definitely be effective instead of possibly."

In the meantime, he's pulling out a clean cloth from one of his belt pouches, as well as a flask. Clear, sharp-smelling alcohol is poured onto the cloth and then dabbed into the wound with care. He doesn't want to cause more damage, and he also doesn't want to singe his own hands.

All of Solas' attention is focussed on Galadriel and the healer touching her - and he wishes, desperately, that his own magic could help her more. If it was the Anchor or something to do with a Rift then he might be better able, but he is not, and it frustrates him. He feels utterly powerless, and that is something that Solas does not allow himself to consider often. It happens, true, thanks to the nature of his losses and the state of the Inquisition, but...

He turns his head as Anders speaks, his fingers brushing over Galadriel's knuckles in a rare public showing of his tenderness - as if carrying her himself had not been enough to show what feeling he had towards her. What is the point of hiding it when his worry is colouring his face?

"Vhenan," he whispers again before his eyes turn quickly to Thranduil. It would be easy to mistake who he was calling what, but he hardly cares. He nods to his friend. It's up to him to decide if the dagger will be shared, as Solas knows how it is to keep secrets.

Everyone had their specialities, and they had yet to receive the blessing of an elf with healing abilities passing through the rifts, so Anders it was. And Anders is not stupid; she was stabbed, there is a knife. No sense in hiding what they have.

Galadriel's wellness is far more important than that.

Thranduil squats down beside Anders, and pulls the knife from within his robe, offering it wordlessly to the mage. It was buried in her underwater, then carried in soaked robes. Whatever he can glean from it is whatever is left to clean.

A poisoned knife speaks too much to forethought for his comfort.

Solas' touch says far more than the word. That the word can be something of a petname or term of endearment Anders knows, but Merrill's used it everywhere. Any speculation is cut short with the offer of the weapon, though.

"Thank you," he says with some relief. That makes his job easier, or should. He takes it with care. Maybe he'd be able to have safe physical contact with Thranduil, but on the off chance Anders would much rather take precautions.

Nothing obvious presents itself as he looks it over. There's no residue, which is... well. Considering the blood on it and the soaked nature of all three elves, maybe he should have expected that. But that doesn't stop him from quickly rifling through his belt pouch and grabbing a couple specific dried leaves, dropping them into a vial with an electric blue liquid in it. They fizz as he drips the liquid on the knife. The fizzing doesn't change. There's nothing left. Between the blood and the water, whatever was on the knife is gone. Even the burn marks on the handle don't tell him anything; it's a painfully common dagger, much like what he's seen on many Inquisition members.

Exhaling, mind still racing, he holds the blade back out to Thranduil. Something is hurting her beyond the wound. Beyond the blood loss. He looks again at the color of her skin, the shape of her pupils, and catches the scent of something familiar. It's like what Estmond was using to keep his patients sedated. It can't exactly be that, she can't be having that bad a reaction to that, but at least it gives him a heading. The next blend of herbs he makes is more along the lines of a stimulant, and he holds it out to Solas.

"Give this to her, at her pace." At least he can close the wound, too.

He did not have much hope for the knife, at least, but he thinks that Thranduil has more of an understanding of the trail to follow than he does. He is here to make sure that Galadriel is well taken care of, that she is safe, that she can heal and is given the space to do so. His concern is, foremost, making sure that she survives this with no lasting effects. After that he can concern himself with who and what had trapped her, making sure they are given the vengeance that they are due.

Taking the herbs, Solas reaches down and begins to look at the wound, his expression gentle and intimate, letting himself take the role of active participant since Anders himself is not able to do it.

"I will." It's an easy promise to make - as though he will leave her side any time soon.

"I will take it gradually," she agrees and, with the impatience in her tone, seeks to remind Anders that she remains in this life yet. She is still addled, and disoriented, but she is not dead. All directions and questions need not be posed to the others, she is not so weak from bloodloss and poison that she cannot speak.

That it is a near thing does not escape her.

His magic has helped the wound in her gut, it has halted the bleeding entirely. It hurts still, but that, she imagines, has more to do with the poison or the days spent with it lingering inside her. Her hands and Solas's shirt are soaked in blood and water.

"If it does very little?"

The both of them get a wry smile to briefly flicker over his face.

"You're weak, Galadriel. They need to know how to assist you. It is no little thing to be able to care for someone you care about." He knows full well that it's difficult to let other people help, but she and Solas both need it here. Possibly Thranduil as well.

But now for her question, and the reason the smile was so short-lived. "It may only do a little. The lack of anything on the knife is... frustrating." To put it mildly. "But the herbs will help, you're no longer bleeding, and I'll keep a close eye on your recovery and continue to tend to you. You'll make it. It may be a long climb back to normalcy, however."

Some people would want the truth sugar-coated. He'd been fairly certain she wouldn't want that even without the tone she'd taken.

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laurenande - 2018-10-07 21:49 (UTC) - Expand

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