open | then in the pounding of my heart

[faithlikeaseed]

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."

Comments

[writteninblood]

"You're worried about the possibility a general Dalish uprising," Sorrel laughs, only slowly catching on when Myr says should be most worried, "And you're asking the half-exiled maybe-First for military information? You ought to be worried about more things in general. If the People decide they've finally had enough, nobody's getting advanced warning, least of all me."

Blood Writing. That was the word, truly, as Myr said it, and not for the first time Sorrel has a lurch of who before remembering Genitivi and wanting to go back and punch someone from Ralaferin for their trouble. Compassion and mercy, and this was what always come of it; not that he wasn't doing exactly the same, even now.

"Dirth'amen," Sorrel replies, shortly, ignoring the scones; to forgive is one thing, but the Dalish aren't much known for ever forgetting, "It's not rude to ask, exactly. But it is kind of personal."

[faithlikeaseed]

There’s a luxury about having eyes that Myr had forgotten and that’s you can roll them—which he does at Sorrel’s retort, though there’s good humor in the gesture. “Most worries about of the two options I’m presented with,” he clarifies, laughingly. “If you want my real list of worries and where exactly ‘general Dalish uprising’ ranks on it we’ll be here the rest of the day.”

He looks down again at the abandoned plate of scones in the no man’s land between them, his briefly antic smile fading from his face. “Though I admit I’m more worried for you should anyone,” see: the Chantry, “get the idea that’s a possibility.”

Likely though they neither need nor want a flat-ear’s expressed concern. He folds his hands neatly before him and looks up at Sorrel once more. It is kind of personal wins an odd, sad smile out of him. “Then shall I not pursue that any further?”

[writteninblood]

"Even if something like that were to happen, they'd hardly tell a half-exiled Dalish First who's done little but act like a fool and practically sell himself to the shemlen Inquisition," Sorrel replies shortly, and tips his head sharply to punctuate the point. Not a nod, not a disagreement, only a little cock of the chin as if to say and there you have it: I'm useless to everyone, not just you, "But the burden of having to make up a conspiracy out of nothing has never stopped anyone from attacking the Dalish. More than one clan has died that way."

The Dales itself, died that way.

"It's not that I don't like you," Sorrel temporizes, although if asked outright, he didn't, "But I don't know you. And even I did, I certainly don't know you enough to go on a weird hours-long journey about my years-long religious soul-searching."

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr's expression flattens, gone quiet and considering at Sorrel's at a half-exiled Dalish first. His look isn't a pitying one, exactly, but there's worry to it-- One mention in passing might be held at arm's length to consider the truth of; two in close succession says another thing again about Sorrel's assessment of himself.

They haven't been on the same footing this whole conversation, Myr thinks, and here he'd been playing his own unease off with humor and missing the more important subtext the while. More care's required, next time.

If there is a next time.

(Practically sell himself to the shemlen Inquisition. Maker's breath and bones, that sentiment augured ill.)

"No, it hasn't," he agrees, quietly. "But I didn't come round to speak to you for fuel for rumors. Just there's a very great deal I don't understand about the Dalish," other than from tainted sources, other than a scared kid's hopeful imaginings, "and I don't think I help anyone by remaining ignorant."

Especially not if this is anything to go on. He takes the implicit rebuke as given, not--laughing, not shrugging it off or turning up a palm to let the whole idea go, simply nodding in response. "Understood. I'd not presume to ask that of you had I known."

[writteninblood]

"No," Sorrel says shortly, in agreement. It helps no one to remain ignorant; whether or not that's preferable to what help Myr might be when armed with knowledge, and to whom, is another question. Sorrel sits quietly for a moment, considering the paper under his hands, and the angle of the light in the room. Deep breath in, hold it, and then... let it go.

"Understand I'm not mad at you, anymore," Because, and only because, he had apologized. Pride had its place, and dignity, but respect was most necessary, always, "But what you're trying to put out as innocent curiosity can get people killed. I'm sure it's best for you to learn, but I'm not so sure you won't turn around and report everything to someone else who'll care less about offending someone than getting all these filthy, diseased knife-ears away from someone's pretty estate."

A shrug, one-shouldered. Evil. You work for it, Myr, whether or not you believe that that is its true form, it's been the face of that organization since soon after its inception, from Sorrel's perspective.

"So, ask whatever you like. I'll answer if I think I can. I don't know where to begin, or what it would take to satisfy you."

finally excavates my own writing ability from the grave it died in

[faithlikeaseed]

There are parts of this Myr desperately wants to argue--just as he'd been--and it shows in his face. But if there is one thing one learns as a Circle mage who viewed magic as a blessing--or a southern Andrastian with a little too much Imperial in his upbringing, or a near-Loyalist who loved a Libertarian like a brother--it's when to bridle your tongue in the face of provocation.

Besides, he'd already laid out exactly how he felt about the Chantry's treatment of elves. No sense in repeating it if he wasn't taken at his word the first time.

And no sense confessing he doesn't know where to begin, either, if Sorrel's looking to him for some kind of direction under the burden of I'm useless to you for not knowing. "I need to know what I can't ask of you," Myr says carefully, "you--specifically--and you, the Dalish more generally. You've said every clan's as particular and independent as any part of the Marches, and I know it's damned unlikely those who aren't working with the Inquisition at this point will have a sudden change of heart any time soon."

Who could blame them, says something in his tone; he heard the lectures, loud and clear. "But surely there's some things you all hold sacred--things that should be respected if we want even a sliver of a chance of aid. Or to be able to offer useful aid in turn."

[writteninblood]

Sorrel opens his mouth to reply, but then has to close it again on a grimace. What was safe to tell him? What was safe to withhold? In reality, even defining the boundaries would be too much— the guardian statues, stone wolves of Fen'Harel, but then wherever you saw those you would know the Dalish camped nearby. And knowing something was sacred wouldn't mean it was off limits; true too, it would make them a target.

He was beginning to understand, now, how all the books on the Dalish came to be so skewed. The answers, like the questions, were a minefield.

"The Inquisition only helps the Dalish because of what we have made them do," He replies, because that much truth was easy to give; it was Beleth and Sorrel, Pel and Ellana, Nari and Sina, who had made the contact with the clans, and who kept it alive, "And any sensible Dalish would believe anyone will honestly give the Dalish aid before the Chantry will."

Which is to say, even if it's offered, they'd have to be truly desperate to accept.

"The truth is..." Sorrel stops himself again, thoughtful. Silence passes in the time between words, like the shadow of something ominous and large, eyes shining in the dark, "The truth. I love my People. I want to tell you everything; how we raise our children, what the Vallaslin are from, every story I know about every statue and symbol and carving. Because you... seem... like a good person. But you're working in a system of people who would be very happy to see my People dead, so even small things are too dangerous. And you don't share that risk with us. You... just don't. How can I trust you to understand, and guard our lives, when you can only ever want see them from the outside? It's not as if you're trying to actually be a Dalish."

because of course there's a thedosian sartre, how could there not be

[faithlikeaseed]

I could, Myr doesn't suggest, though the thought flits across the back of his mind in that way all his bad ideas do. It's almost the weird fulfillment of a childhood fantasy, something Vandelin had whispered about in the apprentice quarters when they couldn't sleep for homesickness. They'd escape the Circle and go back to the alienage and take his dad, and Ben, and Van's sisters, and run away to join the Dalish, and no one would ever try to steal them away for being mages again.

Eight-year-old Myr could imagine that it would be as simple as that, and of course the Dalish would be completely accepting of these flat-ears, and of course they wouldn't mind if he didn't pray to the Creators. That's how it works when you're a kid.

Twenty-two years on-- He's got no desire for it, no matter how much he admires his Dalish friends and wonders what their kind of freedom might be like. (Freedom from as well as freedom to, and wasn't there some philosopher or other who'd made the point that total freedom meant total vulnerability, too? Babies in gutters.) But Sorrel's point is apt: He isn't the one at risk, if he says something he shouldn't or something he gives out with the best of intentions is warped to evil purposes.

"No," he concedes, "I'm not. I couldn't be if it meant walking away from the Maker." The Maker is the rock to which I cling. "Though I take your point. I s'pose," his tone is not joking, precisely, but that sort that says I don't know this can be taken seriously, but here you are, "I'd need to live with you part of the year and take on that risk myself."

What the Chantry might make of that is problematic, and then where would he get time, and there's a war on-- But it certainly wouldn't be looking in from the outside.

[writteninblood]

"You don't have to walk away from anything, any more than I am by living here in the city. But if that's a serious suggestion you're making, you should at least agree to yourself that there are other ways to walk, other Makers, and Creators, that are just as valid a path. Turn-about is fair play, isn't that the phrase?"

It was a city phrase, he was sure he hadn't heard it before coming to Kirkwall. But now it was one of his favorites, another bad influence learned from his extended association with one Adasse Agassi.

"You s'pose, do you?" Sorrel says, drawling out the pronunciation, not bothering to restrain his accent as he continues on a growing smile, "Oh, the Keeper'd love this. Mother Mythal, give us Flatears making camp, and what will the world come to?"

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr raises a brow at that, biting his tongue a moment as he comes up with a more appropriate reply than Do you? Eventually, he gets it: "I'll supply Nari as a reference for that one--didn't proselytize once in all the time we were rooming together."

It isn't quite a yes but it's not a no, either. There are other paths, truly, and they make good people of the ones who walk them--but better no one have to walk part of those paths through the Void on their way to the Maker.

His eyebrows go up in surprise as Sorrel actually--seems to take the suggestion on its face? Well. "Collapsed tents and burned food, probably," he says glibly, then: "If it's something you'd actually consider--there's someone I'd need to consult about it," because like hell the Dalish are letting an absolute unit of a shem templar into one of their camps--and besides, Simon's his second conscience on this kind of thing.

"But I'd be glad to learn."

[writteninblood]

"You should have come with me to Arlathvhen, Myr," Sorrel opines, blandly, "Sighted or not, you'd have seen something then."

It's the most direct reference he's made to the issue of eyes, but it has no apology in it, only a friendly sort of sneer, a joke made in the friendly way.

"Well, we'll just see then. And no harm in it, if it's only us girls out there, clan or otherwise. I could always happen to send a bunch of us Dalish and then you, for the next little scouting foray, if it comes to that; I do have a position of authority here, such as it is."