faderift | open | then in the pounding of my heart

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open | then in the pounding of my heart

WHO: Myr & you!
WHAT: new eyes who dis
WHEN: Throughout Harvestmere, backdated to the team's return from the Abbey on the White Cliffs.
WHERE: The Gallows & Kirkwall
NOTES: potential cautionary cw for trauma & gore mentions

Their return was no triumphant one. What had started hopeful for alliance and aid from the Abbey on the White Cliffs had collapsed under the weight of the horror there and taken so many lives with it. One of the Inquisition's own is dead. A potential ally is lost. And a power from beyond the rifts has warped the world past bearing, making plain once more the awful danger rifters themselves could be.

As for Myr, subject to a miracle hidden in the heart of the whole thing--

He doesn't hide from his friends in the Inquisition, exactly. Doesn't shirk his duty or vanish into his quarters. But while he's often there in body there's some part of him missing in spirit, curled in on itself to reflect on what had happened.

i.

He spends his first full day back in the Gallows undoing his locator glyphs, one by one.

They could simply be unsnarled all at once without him walking the halls; he could have done it the moment he set foot on the Gallows' docks. But he has not seen the ugly place in person but for flashes granted by the Provost; he doesn't know the look of the halls, only how the glyphs stand in relation to one another and the sound of their chiming. Their removal, but for a handful, is a chance to learn his home of the past year by sight.

He pauses often, especially by inhabited rooms; he listens to echoes and sometimes stares concerningly long at a doorframe or a wall or a bit of tapestry. Sometimes it's with a look of puzzlement; sometimes with no look at all, his mind occupied with other troubles. He's surely run into someone in all that distraction.

ii. a.

The commission to head up the Chantry Relations project had been waiting for him on his return, piled up among his other correspondence. He'd not ever seen the seal on it before but it was different from the others in the pile and so he broke it open to read, in a halting way.

It took him three re-readings to fully comprehend the letter and set it gently back down atop the pile of its fellows.

"So that's why," he remarks to the air (or anyone outside the open door). "That's why You put me there."

From the first to the very awful last of it, miracle included. He makes a small helpless noise that might be a laugh or a sob.

b. (for Cade)

Of course, he began packing immediately--what there was to pack; much of what he'd kept in the Rifts and the Veil office was proper to that project and not his at all. There are Procedures and Forms to these things, though for the life of him they're all out of order in his head right now and all that remains is he needs to occupy the space allotted him.

He did remember at least to send a message to Cade--that he was back in the Gallows, that they'd be in a new office now--though somehow it slipped his mind to mention he didn't need help urgently for the move, being quite able to find his way between rooms with laden arms now.

iii.

It isn't all for sorrow. Whatever the cost of it, he'd been given a gift he couldn't not use; and slowly, as Harvestmere wears on, he grows into the joy of seeing again.

One morning is better than the others: He rises before dawn and goes for a run about the Gallows, flat out in a way he's not been able to for years. In no fit shape for it but game to push himself, he manages a lap at that pace and a second at a slower, before settling on the stairs down to the docks to watch the light break over the windless water.

"Good morning," he greets the first person who walks near him, smile bright. "D'you know, I didn't think the sea could be that still. It never feels it, riding across."

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That is a tone to keep away from, a line not to pursue, and so Myr lets the talk of boats go gracefully without comment. There's better to speak of than that.

"Ah," a syllable of understanding, "you were in the joust in Wycome and I'd thought it restricted to knighthood or those near." He offers her a bow in turn, his own hardly courtly and rough for disuse, but there's something delighted in it. (That he can see such a greeting and return it without guessing.)

"It's good to meet you as well; she's always spoken of you highly," and there's something a little sad, a little troubled in his words; not for what he knows of Six, but to speak of Adalia and how she had been when she was well, and now she...isn't. "She and I don't agree much on matters of faith but she's got such admiration for your belief-- I've wanted to meet the woman who inspired her in that for some time."

He looks back out over the ocean once he's said that--not for nervousness but because there's so much of it he can't help his eye being caught--and rolls his shoulders idly. Thinks of saying more but bridles his tongue, well aware he can let it run away with him and overwhelm the more laconic among them.

Reminders of her father have been coming thick and fast of late and Six would like to step away from it and avoid the matter altogether; she would like to imagine she is free from his clutches and his memory. It is not so, and recent ventures with Marcoulf and the hayloft have reminded her of her weaknesses in a way she would rather like to pretend to be ignorant of.

"In my world I was something known as a Paladin. It seems as though this was close enough to the ideals of knighthood that I was permitted an attempt, even if I do not have one here." She would like to have her Paladin mantle back, to have all the things that were familiar to her returned to her, but it does not seem possible here in Thedas. It seems, actually, that she is somewhat bereft, even now months later.

Thinking of her sister, though... Since Tevinter things have been distant between the two of them. Six knows it is best not to push on these matters, best not to demand, to force Adalia to speak with her, but... She worries and she fears. She knows more of her sister than her sister does of her, in the end, and it makes some parts of her heart ache just a little.

"She has not had the same experiences that I have had," Six admits quietly, her hand raising to the amulet around her neck. It's a clean, well loved thing, shining even in the soft light between them, clearly well cared for. "My devotion to my God is not something I can force her to understand. Sarenrae is the true guiding light in my life."

And, Six thinks quietly, she's rather lost without her.

The gesture's just visible out the corner of Myr's eye and he looks over again to take note of the pendant. (How strange to remember you could miss things on first look but they'd been there all along, unobserved; not like dreams, where something didn't exist for the eye to perceive until you thought of it and so everything beneath current notice was sketched-in, vague, assumed.) Its shape pulls at the familiar--the wings, the sword--and he can't help but be reminded of the Sword of Mercy and all it's come to stand for.

Pray Sarenrae's paladins have as well as the best of the Maker's champions; though from all he's heard, they have.

"A knight for your god, then." His tone is unabashed, admiring. "Instead of a noble patron or--your Chantry, if you've anything like one." Better than what a knight-enchanter or templar could boast, truer, and for a moment he's envious though it's a clean sort of envy; the kind that desires what another has without wanting it wrenched away from her.

Though whatever he willed, it may have already happened. "Adalia said She spoke to you, from time to time--that you knew Her as you knew anyone else." A careful pause, weighted and worried.

"Does She still?" Would the Maker recognize a spirit wearing Myr's face as one of His children, if he appeared somewhere other than Thedas? Would He care?

Six does not even try to hide the pendant; she wears it proudly, no matter what other members of the Inquisition or the populace of Thedas might think of her. It might be dangerous, especially for those who are more intense in their faith towards Andraste and the Maker, or the other religions that she is beginning to learn are spreading across the world. She will not be shamed into hiding her faith or her feelings towards Sarenrae, no matter what people think.

Her thumb presses into the wing and she breathes out gently. It calms her, soothes the rattling of her heart.

"Something of the kind. She gives me my strength and I spread her message, as best I can." It's a good message - redemption, bringing people to the light, giving them second chances. She can appreciate those, even if she thinks there are times when she can't rationalise it for herself; she cannot, ever, think of how she might do that for her father.

Turning her head, she looks at Myr, pausing for a moment. Another sore spot; she breathes out, gently, before she nods, trying to manage herself better. She must be looking a little foolish.

"I did. She was a friend, a - a support. She guided me and helped me when I needed her most." When Adrian had died, when she had finally made her Oath, when she had been keen for something to grasp, some thread of hope.

"I cannot hear her here. She does not answer my prayers, but I made them anyway. I do not wish for her to think I have turned from her, if she can hear."

So. There it is.

Myr knows he should be relieved to hear nothing's speaking to her through the Fade; the Chant says no good would come of it. Thedas was but one world and had but one god and He was the Maker (though how did that change, knowing there were other worlds beyond the Fade?)--ever had the followers of false gods been led to visit horrors on the innocent.

But it's hard to rejoice in someone's loss when she clearly feels it so keenly. (It's hard not to wonder if the Maker goes by different names on different worlds; if His Bride might not speak to mortal champions on a world that did not offend Her Husband so.) "I can't imagine," he says, quietly, "having had that and losing it when you've the most need. I am sorry it cuts you so."

He realizes he's--not quite staring at her, but certainly has been looking longer than is strictly polite; he looks back out toward the sea and the rising chop, awakened by a freshening wind now that the sun's above the horizon. "We do a lot of praying without answers ourselves, here; I know the Maker hears them, and I'd think Sarenrae wouldn't listen any less, knowing one of Her faithful servants was as far from home as you are."

It's not something that she can really speak about without too much pain, and it's clear on the shape of her face.

Six had been devoted to Sarenrae for almost six years now - which might be enough to bring some humour to her face - and being without her is painful. Her devotion to her God had been as sure and as strong as her faith in her sword arm, but now... It has been incredibly difficult to have her be taken from her completely. Her powers mean far less to her than the connection she had felt with Sarenrae.

There's a lump in her throat, she thinks, but she tries not to think too hard on it or she will surely lose herself completely.

"It has taken a period of adjustment," Six admits quietly, her voice low and soft. "But I send her my prayers each day, even if she cannot respond. If she can hear me then at least she will know my devotion has not paused, that I will not turn my back on her, no matter what this world offers." There's that, at least. No matter what the Chantry offers, Six will not abandon where her heart most lies.

She barely notices Myr staring at her, but at least she manages to find words.

"I hope that she can hear me. I hope that your Maker can hear you."

"I will not turn my back on her, no matter what this world offers."

Myr glances sidelong at her again--takes in the evidence of grief in the lines of her face and how she holds herself--and thinks that is a subject to tread lightly 'round. (It brings him no joy to think that in their way, both Six and her sister will be implacable in resisting the Chantry; there's much to love in both of them and it aches to think that they might both be left to wander the Void hopelessly after death, unwilling to accept Andraste's mercy. If that is indeed what happens to rifters.)

"Thank you," he says, for what else does one say to so sincere and kind a hope? "I know He does; else I'd not be able to see you. I hope in turn you find peace and comfort in your prayers."

A brief pause, for the space of a few breaths, before he asks gently, "Does speaking of Her help? I'll gladly listen, if so." Or find something else lighter to speak on, if not, though it seems a little forward to say as much aloud.

There's no denying the fact that most of this world would label her a heretic or worse; she denies their Chant and clings to a God that no longer speaks to her, though the blame cannot lie at the fault of Sarenrae. She had been pulled through the Rift and her God had not; that is simply how Six explains it, a matter of unfortunate circumstance rather than the abandonment others might fear.

She does not care, at least, what this world might offer her should she die. Her spirit will find some peace, she will go beyond this realm, and she hopes that Sarenrae will find her wherever she may end up. The magic of this world is not her forte nor something easily studied - Adalia, surely, is better at that - but she is doing what she can. She is adjusting.

It is all that can be asked of her.

"They are an old friend now," the prayers, of course. "It has been many years since she found me and took me under her blessing. I had been training but had not made my Oath, but... She took it gladly." That is what it meant to be a Paladin, after all; allegiance, a promise, a swearing of devotion. At least in Six's case.

Sighing, she shakes her head.

"If you have questions then I would be content to answer them. I would not speak of her for the sake of speaking otherwise."

There's a sort of dim, ashamed relief in Myr to hear that; he is curious, he wants to know about her god and he hadn't been lying in saying he'd gladly listen if it would help her--

But he's also very well aware of his own tendencies toward heresy, and worse; into asking after what he should not and straying away from some of those things the Chantry holds most dear. Some of it--he knows, in his stubborn pride--justified by the Chant and what was really written there instead of what fallible women and men had made of it. The rest of it...often like this, when his soft heart and eager curiosity have led him into speculating well beyond the bounds of any reasonable interpretation of the Chant.

It might not be a sin simply to ask and listen, but it feels near enough to that he worries, sometimes. "I did have one question," many more than, but--restraint, for both their sakes, and who knew who else might be listening to them out here in public, at that.

"What did She ask of you? That's to say--what were Her virtues that she had you act on? Or the vices She'd have you avoid."

It's not as if Six is unaware of the Chantry's view of alternate religious worship; she had seen it herself and had been spoken to quite sourly about it, even from her own perspective. Perhaps it is different for her, coming from a world with many Gods and many worshippers, with higher powers that grant gifts and magics that are borne of belief and pact both. Perhaps it gives her an insight she would not have otherwise.

This is easy enough for her. She can speak of Sarenrae and touch the amulet around her neck - she can pray and hope that she is heard, even if there is a great distance between herself and her own world. She can peer through the Rifts she helps close and wonder if Sarenrae peers back, watching upon her faithful despite the other devout that are across the world. She would never imagine herself rated too highly in a God's favour, not when there are so many others in the world.

"Sarenrae is the sun, the Dawnflower. She speaks of redemption, honesty and healing and seeks for her followers to offer that kindness to those that have strayed from the light. Compassion and peace are in her heart, and she would ask that mindless slaughter be ignored for the hope of redeeming those that have found a path of shadow." It's one of the things that Six has struggled with personally, one of the reasons she can never return to her hometown. There is one man there she could not offer redemption to.

She pauses, staring away for a moment.

"She expects us to be skilled at swordplay, to focus the mind and body and so that foes do not suffer more than is needed."

And it's for this reason--even if he knows his curiosity often leads him where it shouldn't--that he keeps asking; it's not simply a hunger for other worlds in all their variety but a hunger for other shapes of the divine, other ways to live life the way the Maker bid them to. To create, from all the world's suffering, something brighter and truer and lasting.

So of course there's an earnest gleam to Myr's eyes when he looks up at her again, attentive to her words even as he's fitting them in with all else he knows of goodness. That last sentiment especially wins a thoughtful noise from him; it puts together two pieces of martial training he'd long thought disparate--you became skillful to succeed and you didn't draw out suffering as a matter of honor. He can't help but like the fit of the pair together.

"That's an admirable path to tread, though I can't imagine it's an easy one--not so much the swordplay but the forgiveness. I don't know if folk on Toril are much different than they are here, but I know we on Thedas don't forgive lightly." Easier to hold grudges for Ages and visit the sins of the fathers on the children ad infinitum, though he doesn't voice that.

"Though it's expected of us." And here he is, not living up to that even now, with all the venom he's carrying around in his heart after the abbey. ...He wonders, sometimes, at the Maker's purpose in bringing the rifters to them.

"Does She say--how to forgive? As well as that one must?"

It is strange for her, to be in this world and speaking of Sarenrae to those who have never heard whisper of her name. In her world there are few that do not know the light of the Dawnflower, few that have not heard some preaching of Sarenrae and her gifts. Six had learned most of her teachings from Adrian, true enough, but she had known who her God was before she had given her Oath; it still feels odd and difficult to know that people know nothing of her.

Myr, at least, seems earnest in his desire to learn and so she does not pause and does not hesitate. Sarenrae would wish for her word to be spread, for others to learn of her, to be brought to the light. It does not matter how many worlds might separate them from her touch - let them know of her all the same, in case her touch does break through the barriers of worlds. Let people recognise what it means to be blessed by a deity of such kindness.

"It can be trying. There are some that you might imagine do not deserve such forgiveness, such redemption, but it should be given all the same. Her path is that of finding the light once more, of guiding them to a path that is better for them." Is that not how she had met Adalia? Sarenrae had shown her the way forward and she had gone, without pause, trusting in her God. There she had met her sister and had been shown what the world could offer her.

There are some that Six knows she cannot forgive. Sarenrae would not ask her to return home: she knows the limits of her faithful's hearts.

"Forgiveness is given through mercy. Do not take a life where it is not necessary, unless there is no alternative. Show kindness to all that you can so that they might see the guiding light of her heart. She would ask that your inner light be a guide for the others, a searing flame against unrepentant evil." A pause, a breath. "Offer them kindness, offer them words, offer them what they might have been deprived of before. Raise your blade only when there is no longer hope, so that their soul might find her and find peace."

Though his shoulders round in the presentiment of a hunch, Myr doesn't tuck into himself as he listens to Six's every word. It can be trying, she says, and he has to keep his expression from twisting into the unhappiest smile. That it can be--and everything else she says resonates like the ringing of a bell somewhere in his chest, an unintentionally painful reminder of how he has not done all he could for those who do not deserve such redemption.

"It's most difficult," he says, at length, "to offer it to those I know have hurt the Maker's innocent children. Who may do it again--and I'm asked to stand at their side as an ally."

It is not that he hasn't stood in that position; Corypheus was larger than the war that had torn open the Chantry and spilled the contents of the Circles across Thedas, and Myr perhaps had an easier time than most in acknowledging and working from that. But there were some--

He wraps his arms around himself as a particularly sharp breeze cuts by them, lifting his head to it. "It's almost easier when it is a real enemy. Then I know that I might defend what I love if there really is no hope."

Sometimes, Six knows the choice she makes is not always the right one or the just one - she makes the kind that are tragic and dangerous to herself. She knows that burying Adrian wasn't the best choice, but she had done it. Tracking down his parents was tragic, painful, but it was necessary. Everyone, she knows, deserves a second chance, but sometimes she sees a picture of a face in her mind and she's not sure what to do with herself, if she can go that far, if she can truly consider herself blessed by Sarenrae when there is someone she cannot forgive.

A face flashes in front of her eyes and she grits her teeth, feeling something like nausea twisting inside of her. Some things, surely, cannot be forgiven.

"It is what Sarenrae asks. It is difficult, but it is the price of her affection and her gifts. It... There are many people who..." She breathes. "Who it is hard to give that gift to, but we must try. We must try and bring them to the light, because that is what is best for the world."

Bowing her head, she sighs softly.

"It is what made monsters easier to face," she admits quietly. "But sometimes men can be monsters too."

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open | then in the pounding of my heart

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@ii rides again

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