faderift | OPEN + starters | nothing is what it seems

Entry tags:

OPEN + starters | nothing is what it seems

WHO: Myr & YOU; starter for Simon (and more by request)
WHAT: Divine Election nonsense + an elf/mage doing elf/mage things
WHEN: All through Drakonis
WHERE: The Gallows & Kirkwall
NOTES: hit me up if we've discussed something for this month & you would like a starter for it!

i. extended office hours - Chantry Relations office
With the Divine's election in the offing, there's much for Chantry Relations to do, both officially and not. Above the board there's letters to be sent on Inquisition policy, research to be done on the various candidates' intentions for the organization, requests to answer for their agents as guards or troubleshooters at Chantry functions, good will on all fronts to curry and maintain. That by itself would be enough to keep Myr in the office most working days of the week--

But there was also the matter of Skyhold's unofficial suggestion that Grand Cleric Clorentine ought to be discouraged in her ambitions. After much deliberation (and thought, and prayer), he had agreed to go along with it--and so there is all that much more deniable work to sort through as well, often later in the evenings when he's alone.

So: If anyone's looking for him they would find him in the office from shortly after breakfast to not long before dinner (and sometimes well after it), with or without Cade present; the door's usually open in invitation, a kettle of hot water for tea and a plate of treats on a side table to share with anyone who stops by with a concern or a report.

In the new-minted Inquisition tradition, he's also left a box outside for anyone who'd prefer to bring their comments, complaints, or other communications through writing.

ii. cash me outside - the gallows & kirkwall
Despite the workload, keeping at it seven days a week through the whole month would be a recipe for disaster and cruel to Cade, besides. Myr can afford to set aside a day to tend to body and soul, whether that means spending time in the library with some light reading (Hard in Hightown for the umpteenth time) or mucking around in the garden with the Comtesse on hand to dispose of grubs or dead plants with all a nug's voracity.

Sometimes you might catch him practicing spells in a disused corner of the courtyard, tweaking the Fade in volatile ways that are prone to backfiring (though mercifully without much effect on anyone but him).

On good days he'll make the trip out to Kirkwall and the Chantry memorial garden there, to pray at Andraste's feet or simply sit on a bench and absorb the early spring sunshine.

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There are many things Myr's found himself regretfully setting aside to make more time for all the work he's got to do in Chantry Relations--but his regular sparring with Simon isn't among them. When that, and mealtimes, and an exhausted tumble into their bed at the end of a very long day are all the chances he gets most days to be with his lover, he'll cling to every one of them like a drowning man to a lifeline.

(Don't think of it as storing memories up against an uncertain future. Nothing's written yet and nothing will be even after the Divine's installed. Don't think of it--

But do treasure every instant with new appreciation for the gift you've been given.)

Long hours spent sitting behind a desk are a recipe for twitchiness and there's extra energy Myr brings to their encounters for it. He pushes a little harder, for a little longer; takes a few more risks to score a touch, throwing himself into the mock-fights like winning them would solve all the problems facing Thedas. Though however much he dares he does not press for anything outside the rules they've long held between them: No live steel, no magic (but for his barriers), no blows that'd ruin the rest of the evening's plans--and none of a templar's abilities.

Until, one evening, between bouts: "Silence me this time."

He'd meant it seriously for all there was a laugh in his voice, and when Simon had protested he'd pointed out reasonably they might be fielded again soon and who knew if there wouldn't be red templars this time. And besides, he'd enough practice with seeing now to not need his barriers to sense for him, and--

All right, all right, had been the reply, before Myr could exhaust every one of his arguments on the matter. They'd try it the once but if anything went even the least bit wrong that was the end of it for the night and ever. He'd acquiesced to those terms, pushed off from leaning on his staff, and started the next bout with renewed enthusiasm. Then it's only a matter of waiting until Simon feels harried enough to lash out with the Maker's grace...

Which he does without much warning between one exchange and the next, collapsing Myr's barrier like a popped bubble and cutting him off from the Fade.

Philomela's trick with the knife requires close quarters and a templar that thinks his quarry's at bay. Given nearly two years' familiarity between them, Simon knows better than to close while Myr's still got his staff in-hand--which is why Myr artfully drops it as the spellpurge washes over him, his ensuing disorientation not entirely feigned. (It never really gets easier.) He takes a wobbling step in retreat, (heart pounding in his ears; last time, this had been in deadly earnest,) and then Simon's on him.

Not, Maker, going for a grab on a disabled mage like so many did but going for a kill, and Myr has to scramble away from the lunge, feeling intolerably slow without even the option to fade step away. A small mercy: Simon's overextended and Myr sees his opening, miming drawing the dagger he's left on the sidelines and darting in to try for that deathstroke that's worked twice before--

There's been an excess of correspondence resulting from the current political climate, and more than one late night has been spent just catching up on filing and replies. Cade's sense of duty knowing no bounds, he had shooed Myr out the door with the assurance that he'd work a bit late and lock up when he's finished.
It's several hours later now-- unreasonably late-- and he still hasn't traversed the hallway that Myr and Simon share with Nari and himself. Cade hasn't come home, and that's because he's still at work. Or at least, the physical place known as work. He's asleep, with a smear of black over his cheek and forearm from where they've rested on the parchment, of which he makes a further mess every time he moves.

Galadriel finds him in the garden.

It is early, the sun has crested and the layer of fog that comes with proximity to the sea has yet to burn away completely. The spring air is bright and crisp and Galadriel savors it, even though this conversation is one she has...reservations about.

She hesitates as she watches him work, digging in the soil and clearing away debris. A small creature follows in his wake, a nug, snuffling the ground and prancing daintily through the budding flowers and new green grass. She watches a moment longer and then moves forward--it is habit, approaching from behind, moving softly, and it does not occur that she might startle him by doing so.

"Myrobalan," she says, kindly, and it has the lilt of a greeting. She is uncertain if he has ever seen her without her cloak, but today she wears none. Her dress is white and sylph, silk she has woven herself that is as delicate as spring. It is terribly bright, even in this light.

"Good morning."

Edited 2019-03-12 05:42 (UTC)

Myr'd been disappointed, at first, to find the miracle that had given him his eyes back hadn't also returned a regular sleep schedule. Then he'd shrugged and gone back to taking sleeping draughts to keep himself in sync with the Gallows proper, which was fine as far as it went but every so often he had to take a break from them to make sure they kept their effectiveness.

Cade shooing him off as early as he did had meant Myr could snatch a nap in preparation for the sleepless night to come, and he'd intended to spend it in his room reading with the lights out as Simon slept (there were advantages to being an elf)--but when the lonely evening hours stretch on and he doesn't hear Cade return to quarters, well. He gets up as quietly as he can, throws on whatever's to hand for decency (a bathrobe and worn trousers) and wanders back down to the office.

There to find his scribe exactly where he'd left him, a sight that brings a fond smile to Myr's face as he stands in the doorway. If it weren't for how uncomfortable that was going to be in the morning, he'd get a blanket and throw it over Cade and go back to bed himself. But that right there is a recipe for a ruined neck--and honestly, it is a little worrying to see Cade like this.

"Cade. Cade--wake up."

The Comtesse notices Galadriel approaching before her owner does, raising her snout from investigating a promising stone before scooting beneath the nearest bench. Myr pays it no mind--a nug, after all, is a prey animal and will start at any alarming shadow cast by a flying cloud--and so nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears his name in that lilting voice.

"Ah--lady--" He sucks in a breath to calm his racing heart, dusts soil off his gloved hands and gets to his feet to greet her properly. All time to calm down and center himself, so he can greet her brightly as he'd like: "Lady Galadriel! Good morning to you, too. It's--"

It's been a while, he doesn't quite manage, because to say so is to recall the reasons why they might've been avoiding each other a little (or, truthfully, he might have been avoiding her while sorting through all he'd learned in the abbey--), and it's too lovely a day for that. "--good to see you again. You've been well?"

"I am...much improved, yes," Galadriel admits and answers his question at once.

It is more forthcoming than she is wont to be but, ultimately, Myr was the one who deserved honestly most. She regards him as he stands and there is a moment when she is struck silent. It passes, as all things must, and she offers up an apologetic smile.

"I apologize, I have spent many hundreds of years silent on this subject, it is hard to address even the farthest orbits of it with candor," she prefaces and gestures to the bench the young nug darted beneath.

"Sit with me, please. I wish to know how you have been in the wake of...what happened."

Knowing now the power she had at her command, Myr hadn't really doubted the answer, but--she had been so ill, just before they'd fled, and then...

Well, let that all be past. He takes her brief silence, the apology, and the invitation with equal equanimity, dipping his head in acknowledgment and moving to join her on the bench. "I understand," he says, with a sympathetic smile. "At least--so far as I can, for as little as I've lived."

The Comtesse gives a snort of dismay as they seat themselves, but doesn't remove herself from her chosen bit of cover. Hmph.

"I," Myr starts then, and stops, thinking. It's been his habit to keep much of what he'd been feeling--after that first disturbed week--to himself, to not brood too openly or give any sign he'd noticed how some people were talking about him. How sentiment toward him had changed, and people he'd thought friends put him a little ways off, not sure what to make of a miracle in their midst. The Maker wasn't a god of miracles, after all (not to orthodox believers, whatever Myr felt on the matter); but there were demons who could offer that sort of healing...

It's been his habit to keep quiet--but she'd offered him the unvarnished truth about the ring's nature and answered his questions when doing so could've put her at great risk. Did put her at great risk, given how hard they'd all had to work to keep that truth from spreading to Skyhold. Another secret kept. "I'm not--I've got to act like I deserved all of this," he says at length, gesturing to his own face. This, his eyes back and what he'd done to himself undone. "But I'm not--I'm not at peace with what happened yet. I still ask myself if it was the right choice, or if I was--if I should've--if it was weakness in me, that I couldn't bear what I'd done--what I'd done to myself any longer."

What he'd done to himself was something he hadn't offered anyone else but Simon (and Alvar, and Brigitte), for the shame of it and the echoes of old panic it always brought back to think about. But it seems right in the light of everything else that she should hear it, if she asked.

He often watched people train from the sidelines, quiet and unobtrusive. He'd be loathe to disrupt something so vital, given what Beleth had told him about the Inquisition's defeat at Ghislain, after all.

But Myr's training catches his eye - perhaps it's the use of martial and magical that bares some resemblance to his own techniques which makes it more feasible that he might learn something useful from observing.

When Myr was taking a breather, he finally spoke.

"I have not seen mages use such skills before."

Normally it was a lot of staff twirling and sparkly lights.

Myr isn't the only one who struggles with sleeplessness, though Cade's has improved somewhat since he took up residence with Nari; chalk it up to the herbs Colin gives him or the... erm... activities toward which he and his roomie are disposed, but either way it's unwise to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He is still a light sleeper, however, especially when the herbs aren't involved. Cade stirs at his name, then sits bolt upright with the second utterance, a few pages and his quill falling to the ground with the force of it. Blinking confusedly around at the dark room (the candle burned out ages ago), he tries to piece together what happened.

Bunking with the other apprentices in a Circle got you accustomed to all the various sleep disorders mankind (and elvenkind) might be prey to, and all the weird things people did in the grips of them--and as you got older, you learned a thing or two about waking people who'd fallen asleep (or wandered asleep) into weird places. Myr's voice is accordingly quiet, and calm, as he offers some explanation for where Cade's found himself: "You fell asleep in the office--it's after midnight. Feeling all right to go back to your room?"

He could light what remains of the candle from across the room--he can see it, after all, and the desk's well within range--but that would be needlessly alarming. Instead he steps away from the door to head to the cupboard holding their various office supplies, to rummage out a new one while waiting on Cade's answer. They'd need it for the walk back.

Though he sucks his breath in when the voice that woke him comes again, they're both fortunate that any dreams Cade was having were not of the violent sort, and he recognizes Myr pretty quickly. Then the moonlight from the window, the desk in front of him, the faint smell of smoke from the candle going out.
"--oh," he breathes, and looks to where he can see the elf partially illuminated. "Yes. I'm sorry."

She listens with the whole of her being as Myr answers, as he speaks in starts and splintered thoughts, dancing back and forth between starts and ends. It is a confusing confluence, but each aborted sentence is aligned to the same axis. He catches himself, begins, catches and begins again; she makes no move to stop him, nor to join the sentiments together through suggestion. She will wait--in this? Patience is the very least she should offer him and she has a great wealth of it.

Galadriel cannot know his guilt, especially not given the true weight of his blindness. That he had taken his sight from himself is a horror and one only he can know, but she recognizes the shape of this feeling, she has known its like. It is a tragic thing, that he should feel this, that he should have stumbled into it without real warning.

What was done, unfortunately, cannot be undone, not even if he should want to.

"Is it weakness to accept a gift given freely?" she asks and, for all her wisdom, there is a genuine question there. "Given to you with the full knowledge of what it would cost?"

It is a question she has pondered often and one for which she has no answer.

"In the end, it does not matter if you believe you deserved your sight," she continues and she speaks kindly, softly, despite the stark content of her thoughts. "The woman who returned it to you believed you deserved it. She believed you deserved what it would cost her to grant it. You did not take, you did not steal, you were given this gift...and once it became yours the question of deserving, or want or need, of weakness, that all became irrelevant."

She takes a deep breath and turns her gaze from him to look at the grass, at the fledgling shoots and blooms that litter the soil around them. Spring is dear to her and seeing it here brings her joy, despite all the ills of Kirkwall. Of Thedas. It is a small thing but she is grateful for it, regardless of the desolation and despair that wanders the lands beyond this small garden.

"Have your eyes given you joy?" she asks. "It has been some time since you regained them--have you seen anything beautiful or merry? Have you not beheld one precious thing that would have otherwise passed unknown?"

Is your gift a burden?

In the box in the morning, Myr will find complaints, comments, and a small bundle of freshly cut flowers: the brilliantly purple crocuses that are spring's advance guard. Given that there is a small careful arrangement of them in a little carved wooden vase on Cade's desk as well, it's not too difficult to guess the origin.

Even less difficult when Nari turns the corner and comes walking back down the hallway carrying the second vase that she'd gone to fill with water. She raises a hand in greeting, smile breaking warmly across her face.

"Oop. You beat me back."

Edited (maybe put a subject) 2019-03-13 16:07 (UTC)

"Truly, it's all right. I'd almost a mind to get a blanket for you rather than wake you."

Myr pads back to the desk with the new candle in hand, changing it out for the old one before lighting it. (With a striker and not with magic, as he'd ordinarily do.) Once the flame steadies, he offers the holder out to Cade with a smile. "Shall we?"

They can get back to the office and tidy it all up in the morning, he thinks. Better to get Cade home to Nari than dither about a few papers and a pen when it's this late. Or early, as the case might be.

He looks up from where he's leaning against his staff and offers a lopsided smile to the bright-hued apparition on the sidelines. (...Huh. He'd recognized the voice--and of course had heard descriptions, but those pale in the face of reality. Maker's eyes, that's a sight.)

"You've not seen a knight-enchanter in action, then. Of which breed I'm the least spectacular in the Inquisition, I must confess." A few more deep breaths and he straightens up, a cocksure set to his shoulders that belies the self-effacing words. "We're trained for the front lines, in with the templars or other soldiers. Can't always stand still for magic there. --Welcome back, by the way."

It's good to see you again, doesn't quite work because he never had the first time, but, well. The sentiment's there in the words anyhow.

As it's become a part of his morning ritual to dump out the box and sort through it before anything else, Myr's definitely found the flowers--and, in fact, has them in hand when the responsible party appears. She gets a smile of surpassing sweetness by way of thanks. "Yes--well, I thought I'd skip breakfast for what we've got in the office and have an early start on all this."

This, by indication, being the tidy pile of paper he'd just poured out. "Care to join me for that? Or have you already eaten?"

It's been too long, is the undertone, a quiet note of need. He hadn't meant to avoid all his friends but he's been so busy...

Nor, for all his worry, his agonizing and his grief, would Myr undo it. That would be to squander the gift--bad enough if he'd deserved it, but a tragedy recapitulated if he hadn't. He looks sidelong at her as she answers that very line of thought, rubbing the thumb of one hand over the knuckles of the other where he's knotted his fingers together before him to keep from fidgeting. It's both hard to hear and liberating to hear, a reprise of that moment Alvar had said How can I refuse you? When she'd invited him to give up the pain he'd carried with him four years, the self-recrimination and the penitent identity he'd built with it it-- Something, it seems, he's had a harder time giving up than he thought.

(It makes him wonder, a moment, if along with all the evil Nenya bore with it the ring did not also carry a thread of gentle wisdom through all its bearers. Or perhaps he's simply been blessed to know two such women in his life who think of him so kindly. What a wonderful thing, if so.)

Was it weakness to accept a gift? No, he'd say for anyone else who wrestled with the same question. Rather, by taking the gift you gave the giver an opportunity to show that unforced kindness--and you honored their agency in offering something they were willing to spare for your sake. It seems so clean when it isn't about him and doesn't involve the scars he'd left all those years ago in Hasmal, still there for all the tangible ones were healed. But properly accepting Alvar's gift means accepting absolution for those too, absolution he's still convinced she had authority to give, however she got her position and whatever happened after...

Still, it's a hard question to answer aloud. Not so much the second one Galadriel asks him; that draws a helpless, breathless, delighted laugh out of Myr. "Oh, yes, lady. So many things I thought I'd never have the chance at. Even this awful old fortress--it's a hideous place but it's a piece of our history and it's worth knowing it." But there was also the sea, and the Chantry garden with the statue Nari had carved, and a halla in the woods, and all the new friends he'd made on joining the Inquisition, and Gwenaëlle's wedding in all its spectacle--

And Simon's face, and the way his lover looked at him. "I think," he begins again, after a quiet moment, "I think I didn't know how to weigh those against everything else that happened. To say the joy I have now balances with the evil that befell those poor people, because I--because I thought, if I'd only asked the right questions and spoken more to the rest of the team, everything that happened might've been averted."

He'd blamed himself. He still blames himself. He knows he shouldn't, that he was one among many and none of them but Galadriel and Thranduil truly knew what they were up against, but, but...

Oh how lovely his hope, how bright and beautiful the sparkle of it is, even as it wounds him...even as it wounds Galadriel as well.

Her expression softens to the point of absolute fondness and then drops to something a bit sadder as she looks to his hands, twisted together in anxiety. She had not expected an answer to her first question, doesn't expect one still, and the fact that his eyes have brought him joy...that is heartening, if nothing else.

"You cannot..." she begins and stops, trails off as her gaze drifts and she considers her own hands.

For Myr, as she has done for no one else in all her life, she shifts and twists Nenya free. The ring parts from her with a tug, already resettled into the space between her fingers, the space that it shall occupy evermore. The ring appears as she moves it, her own light dimming as it shifts free. It is a fine band of mithril and adamant, delicate as woven roots, glimmering in the sun like the surface of a river at dawn.

It is small and, in the spring light of this garden, seems no more dangerous than any other piece of jewelry. It is a far cry from how it must have looked during the flight from the Abbey.

If anyone at all had been nearby she would not have done this, but for him, she will.

"No one," she begins again, the distinction much more firm. "Can avoid the price that must be paid. Many have tried, the wise and the strong, each with great knowledge of these bands, of the shadow that clings to them and the breadth of their power."

She takes a deep breath and, despite the grimness of the sentiment, cannot help but look at the ring with that same sad fondness that she levels at him.

"All have failed...including the elf who forged them," she admits and lets out a short sigh that is broken in the middle, either as a soft sob or a soft laugh, it is impossible to say. "Do not blame yourself for something far beyond your control, Myrobalan."

He may not know the full significance of what she does in showing this to him, but he knows enough. He knows enough that the breath catches in his throat--for worry, for awe--when her light dims and Nenya is revealed as itself: A ring, and no more than a ring, and not the terrifying bright star Alvar had held up between her fingers at the height of her madness and power.

A ring. A very pretty ring, that Jang had picked up and somewhere, somehow died for. Despite knowing that, despite everything that had happened, Myr's own curiosity still clamors that he reach for it and find out exactly what that power felt like, and the shadow that came with it. He's always wanted to learn these things for himself, first-hand--

But twenty-three years resisting demons who knew exactly how to play on that curiosity has made him stronger than it--at least, when the threat is known, when what he could pay for first-hand knowledge is still graven into his memory and unlikely to ever fade. By the time that thought reaches him he's already unlaced his fingers and must refold them, digit by digit, a small exercise in concentration. This is not for him. He could not bear it any better than the poor women at the abbey (think of all the lives his might buy if he walked into Darktown--or into a red templar camp); he had not joked in saying, not so long ago, maybe I'd rather be fleeting and glorious.

He knows himself for a would-be martyr, and that's not all for taking blame for what he couldn't control. Galadriel's gentle rebuke is well-taken. "I will not, lady," he says, softly--lifting eyes that had been drawn to the ring to her face. (Knowing it isn't as simple as saying I won't when it comes to dealing with turmoil in his own heart, but committing himself to it much as he has anything else. This isn't his to bear and he doesn't need to be told a third time.) "But--Andraste's ashes--how do you bear it? Bear knowing what's waiting?"

Knowing how he would answer that question gives no insight into how someone much older and more tempered would. (All that would give light must endure burning. Perhaps--no, surely--she knows better ways to weather the pain of that and the knowledge that the flame must someday consume what it touched.)

Stop being allergic to pastels, Thedas, you don't know what you're missing.

"My thanks," he said, his tone flat as ever, but there was a brief dip of his head that may suggest he wasn't being insincere.

"I have heard of knight enchanters, yes. Most mages tend to favour staves. Not swords."

She watches the emotions play on his face but holds the ring in the open, nonetheless. Something in her rallies against this foolishness, but her heart calms it. Myrobalan is too clever to fall for power so easily; he knows all too well the price of it. Eventually, he withdraws his hand and breaks his gaze on her ring.

When his eyes turn up to her, she can see the turmoil in them, the longing and the resignation. His heart is an honest one, for all his guilt and debate.

"I was not given this ring idly," she tells him and it is nothing so strong as a correction. She reaches down with her free hand and traces the lines of the metalwork with something like nostalgia.

"This ring, and both its sisters, were intended to protect us," she explains. "To protect our people from the rising shadow."

She lifts the ring again and, shifts it, settles it back into place on her finger. She has no desire to hide it from Myrobalan, but what he sees may no longer be the ring.

"They were...and they remain a necessity in Arda, for without them we would fall to ruin. I do not fear what Nenya will make of me, dreadful as it might be, because I know what could be without it. I know what would become of me if I cast it aside."

She is strangely at ease when she continues.

"I would fade to a wraith myself, a hundred times over, trapped ere the ending of all things, before I would surrender the security the rings grant....and I may suffer that yet, but such is the fate of those who bear rings of power."

Nari opens her mouth fully intending to say she had, but she'd join him anyway, and then her brow furrows as she slowly realizes she can't actually remember the last time she'd eaten. There'd been a quickly bolted sandwich of cold meat and cheese on her way up to the Grove... but... that might have been yesterday?

"Huh," she says with a self-conscious ruffle of her hand through her hair and a lopsided quirk of her smile, "You know, I've no idea?"

Better stay.

Kain is wandering through the garden with a couple of packages in hand. He's done quite well with giving away most of those sweets by now, and is seeking out one more individual to whom he's promised them... Ah, perfect. The sight of the nug wandering about makes even him stop and half-smile. He glances around, seeing Myr, and approaches.

"Ah, Myr... I'd hoped to come across you eventually. I've come bearing gifts, for one or... perhaps even both of you."

One of Myr's eyebrows ticks up as Nari goes quiet to think on the question; long familiarity keeps him from interjecting. He huffs out a laugh at the answer. "That busy? Here--let me settle that," he holds out a hand for the vase, flowers in the other, "and you go take first pick of the pastries. Water should be nearly ready, too."

As if it's heard him, the kettle on the sideboard gives a first tentative whistle.

"Once you've some food in you, I'd love to know what's so consuming--not the harbor chains, is it?"

HONESTLY, give Myr more fun things to look at now that he can again.

"Like as not because there's not so many swords forged for channeling magic--and if you're not planning to use the pointy end very often, no reason to have one over something with more reach." He puts up his own staff across his back and ambles over to the sidelines to join the Medicine Seller. It's as good a time as any to take an extended break and yield the space to someone else.

"Besides, time you're learning to swing a sword properly is time you're not practicing magic, and then what's the point in being a mage?"

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OPEN + starters | nothing is what it seems

iii. it'll take more than we've got [for Simon]

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ii - training

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sets us up for TIMESKIP ACTIOOOON

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guess who almost mispelled alvar's name again rlfksld <3

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Me, in every tag I wrote with her name in it. You are not alone.

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ii garden

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