faderift | open | then in the pounding of my heart

Entry tags:

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."

Threaded | Flat

Myr's omission means that Cade is quite prepared to do all or at least most of the moving himself, and is already in the office when Myr walks in. Carrying a crate filled with books, Cade is on his way to the doorway when he sees Myr come in, opens his mouth to say good morning, and instead gasps and drops the crate on his foot.

Six is often up in the morning, taking part in her morning rituals; a run, her training programme, her prayers. She tries to reach Sarenrae even though she knows that none of her whispers can be heard and she pushes herself more and more each day. She needs to prove herself, needs to be strong enough, and there's an uncertainty that comes with it all - all tied up with her confusion about religion here, the place of Rifters, what she ought to be doing with herself.

Her run slows into a jog, breathing hard, her loose cotton shirt hanging from her shoulders. Her bulk is still in place, muscles heavy as she shakes her head and pushes her hair from her face. She can hear a buzzing in her ears, but she turns her head over when she hears a voice.

"Boats are not designed for comfort," Six replies, breathing sharply between her words. "I am no sailor, but I imagine you need a hardy stomach."

Julius happens to be passing, when Myr makes his remark to no one. He's a man who understands discretion, but he is also a man who is curious, and he's friendly enough with Myr to presume a little. So he pauses, poking his head in the door.

"That's why wha... oh." He stops not because the answer to the question is evident, precisely, but because Myr is reading a letter, and that's going to take a quick adjustment mentally.

"Oh, welcome back!" The cheerful exclamation comes from down the hall, accompanied by the close of the door, Nari's voice getting louder as she approaches. "Putting something new into the glyphs?"

It's not long before the padding of a certain large canine is heard from behind, Garahel darting toward Myr and letting out a friendly bark. That his bipedal friend is busy doesn't deter him at all, especially since it's been a while since they've enjoyed each other's company. Inessa follows, a little distracted but Garahel's barking gets her attention so instead of ordering him to follow her up the central tower, the slight elven woman allows the detour.

"Garahel, what is--oh, Myrobalan? Hello again." She approaches while Garahel is a wriggly, happy circle of canine love all around him. "Is there trouble with the glyphs?" She thought she saw him at another earlier on, but that was at a distance and she'd had a meeting to attend. Now, however, she can give him her full attention.

In a break from her normal routine, Korrin is around and up early. She's not usually a morning person -at all- but for some reason found herself itching to leave her dockside apartment and head on over to the Gallows. Some training or exercise and a good soak seem an ideal start for the day rather than squeeze out a little more sleep when her body just won't cooperate.

The tall Vashoth woman has just passed through the entrance of the Inquisition headquarters, stretching a little as she yawns, when a familiar voice reaches her ears. She starts down at the elven mage, violet eyes narrowing for a moment before she stops short.

"You--the fuck, didn't you have a blindfold before? I wasn't imagining things, was I?"

There comes, one morning not long after Myr moves himself into the Chantry Relations office, a knock on Elven Artifacts' door.

Strategically, it's probably a poor move for the new leader of Chantry Relations to be seen consorting with with a Dalish elf for any reason whatsoever; surely, Myr's aware already there are elements in his own project that would want to see him right back out of it for any sign of impropriety. But: First, screw that, as he's friends with the Dalish and nothing's about to change that; and second, given historical tension (and more than) between the Chantry and the elves they'd now call allies against Corypheus, he's every reason to seek to ease that. And to do it, he needs more and more correct information than he has--and who better to ask that information from than his fellow project leader.

So: Here he is on Sorrel's doorstep, a sheaf of papers and his usual offering of food in-hand. (Starkhaven tattie scones today; someone in the kitchen was experimenting for breakfast.)

Threaded | Flat

b for meee

iii

ii.a. -- If you had a better idea, though, lmk and we can backtrack!

i

i

iii

For Sorrel