fast enough to get in trouble and not fast enough to get away

[favoriteanalyst]

WHO: Mobius, whoever has business with him
WHAT: open-y log for mobi during fantasy september (and like late fantasy august too if need be), for various catchup purposes
WHEN: both pre- and post-arlathan forest
WHERE: [makes a general motion to kirkwall] Around
NOTES: warnings will be in subject lines if/when need be!

Before the mission to the forest, Mobius still has plenty to deal with. After the Conclave, the 'secret' of his life being a(n ex-)Templar does not stay quiet for long. It isn't something he ever addresses publicly; he's not taken to speaking on rumors just because they exist. But if someone comes to find him about it directly, he might actually be willing to talk to them about it.

So long as it isn't someone interrogating him under some ridiculous pretense of the good of Riftwatch.

But that isn't the only thing to deal with. Sylvie and Loki are both gone, wherever and however Rifters go. Sylvie takes a little more time to notice, but given her absence on the training grounds and around her usual library haunts where she, catlike, likes to cause him some trouble, it doesn't take too long. Loki--of course he noticed Loki being gone right away. Given they had finally started to see each other, at least sexually, and Mobius trying to get used to the idea of sleeping with someone and staying, in their bed, together, instead of leaving immediately after. Not every night; he was hardly about to move into Loki's-which-was-Alexandrie's place. But often enough.

So when he awoke in Loki's bed one morning to the conspicuous absence of Loki, well. That took a much shorter amount of time to figure out.

It stings.



After the mission to the forest, Mobius returns worse for wear. Like a lot of other people, in fact. He is in various states of burnt and bruised and battered. He'll heal as surely as anything else, with time and patience. But.

He has very apparently lost some kind of use of his hands.

The fingers still bend and curl. His fists can still form. Can still point, can still count on them, or give a thumbs up. But on the training grounds, his sword has a habit of slipping from his grip as though there's no grip at all. When jotting notes down, he's snapped more than a few quills and has taken to putting up with writing with the nubs where the tip remains. Meals have become fraught affairs, where he is slow and careful with utensils--and finger foods don't always fare much better. He can be seen, when not spilling half of a meal, grabbing at bowls or cups that he is warned are too hot to the touch and not minding at all. There's not much yet that seems too cold, but no temperature seems to bother his hands at all.

He tries to eat during off hours, or to take things somewhere a little more private. His training sessions have shifted to earlier in the morning (which, given the habits of nightmares, is not much of an inconvenience) when there are even fewer people. But it isn't as though he can hide the way he sometimes grips things too tight, or too loose to drop. He hasn't yet taken to wearing gloves, so one might be able to catch nicks and cuts and scrapes and a few angry red marks.

He's fine, basically. Definitely fine. Others have had it worse.

Comments

[foolsmakeitcolder]

Mobius is sitting next to Jude, when he reaches for a skillet just recently taken off the fire. It's wrought-iron, and though it's black and doesn't show it, it's still extremely hot.

Fast as he can, Jude reaches out and puts his hand over Mobius's, gripping to draw it back. He knows the problem; Mobius told him the first time this happened. But it still doesn't make it less unsettling to see.

He says nothing right away. Just holds his hand, strangely nerveless in his fingers.

"We need to come up with something."

[favoriteanalyst]

He'd told Jude specifically because of their penchant for touching. Holding hands, specifically. Holding and touching just more broadly. It's important for the one he (currently) touches most, for how meaningful it is.

Normally, Mobius would know better than to reach for metal not too long off the flame. But he can't feel the heat still radiating off of it. Once at his wrists, all feeling has remained. But his hands, while still perfectly functional, feel like there's nothing there at all.

He frowns at their hands. This is better, he knows, was sure then, is still sure now, than some of the other options on the table of what could have been taken from him. Still sucks, though. "Fireproof gloves?" he offers with a false joviality.

[foolsmakeitcolder]

Jude eases his grip, moving instead to curl his fingers around Mobius' wrist, where the feeling is, and gently drop a fingertip on his pulse point.

"Gloves to start," he agrees, with a slight smile. "Dragonskin, if you wanna be a high roller."

Letting go, Jude leans his shoulder into Mobius, reaches across with a fork to move some food onto a plate for him -- say when.

[favoriteanalyst]

His other arm still has a healing burn, nothing that he thinks will scar, but enough from a sleeve caught aflame that even a gentle touch might have hurt. This is fine, this arm.

"Imagine if I had the coin for it. Maybe if I bat my eyes at Provost Stark, he'll lend me some money for the sake of keeping one of his people safe."

He'll be fine. Eventually. The lean is appreciated, the touch that they can still certainly feel. "I'm good. That's good. I'll try not to drop everything all over the place."

[foolsmakeitcolder]

"Work expense it," Jude agrees. Something that Mobius needs in order to keep his hands functional? They'll almost certainly scratch up the money for it. Especially because this injury was while he was carrying out orders.

Looking around him at missing eyes, at deaf ears, Jude knows they'll all have plenty of things to adjust to.

Jude stays in the lean, setting the fork down with a nod.

The others are far enough away not to hear a low conversation, if they have it here.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, plainly. It's a lot. A lot of feelings, a lot of hurt, and grief, and processing, and violation. Every sacrifice hurts. That's why it's a sacrifice.

[favoriteanalyst]

He doesn't complain, or tries not to. Because this is fine. He still has his hands, unlike others. He's retained his mind, the memories that he does still have, the knowledge he's accrued, the ability to read that he doesn't have to be re-taught.

Hears the question, but doesn't answer right away, because he focuses on a fork and tries not to feel stupid that he thinks if he can just figure out a visual cue that tells him he's holding something tight enough (but also not too tight), then that'll really get him on his way. He'll have to be more careful when carrying stacks of books, won't be able to feel when they're slipping out of his grip. Easier to wrap his hand around the utensil like a child would, a whole fist around the body of it. And pretty sure if he goes too tight, it still won't break or hurt him in return. At least when he lifts it, it stays in his fist. Jude might be able to tell that it's a pretty tight grip, not quite white knuckled but not too far from it either.

"It didn't feel like much of a choice." Is what he eventually says.

[foolsmakeitcolder]

It's whispers only. That ball of tension carried in the back of a throat, bitter-tasting things that sit on Jude's tongue. He is learning to taste the traces. He still wonders, sometimes, if he's imagining them so hard he's fooling himself.

Mobius is grieving, and is trying to talk himself out of the right to.

"It wasn't one," Jude says simply.

If Mobius had been a different man, perhaps it would have been a decision. For him, there was no other choice.

mealtime

[thereneverwas]

It's midday, after a particularly harsh training session. Barrow isn't the type to pry, considering how much he hates noses poking in his own business, but it would take a fool not to notice that Mobius is struggling, and one simply hates to see it.

Barrow takes a seat next to him at one of the long tables, setting down his plate and his mug of watery ale, where he begins to eat in companionable silence. He'll give Mobius a chance to talk first, if he likes.

[favoriteanalyst]

It isn't as though he regrets it. Not really. But now there's this embarrassment on top of people giving him the fucking evil eye for his former alliances, topped off with what a mess he was and frankly so little help with all those puzzles...

Hard sometimes to feel like he belongs. Even if he's sure this is where the Maker wants him to be.

It's thankfully not soup. Bit of shepherd's pie. Easy-peasy. He holds the fork well enough for a moment, but it's cutting into it to get a bite on it that's giving him a spot of trouble. Not holding it quite tight enough, slips from his hand, nearly punches his meal for it.

He sighs. And tries again. He'll get there...eventually. It feels slightly less bad with Barrow around, the first friend it feels like he really made here. "How stupid do I look? Be honest."

[thereneverwas]

"You look tired," Barrow supplies gently, rifling for something in one of his belt pouches. He offers out his hand, wordlessly indicating that he wants to see the fork.

"What happened, mate?"

[favoriteanalyst]

"Word of advice:" started after only a moment of hesitation before handing the utensil over as best he can, managing it even if it's a little loose in his hamfisted grip, "if an elven statue in an ancient temple demands any kind of sacrifice, maybe try to find literally any other way to get around."

Mobius is hardly the only one who came back with difficulties following him.

[thereneverwas]

Barrow takes the fork and begins to wind a thick strip of leather around the handle, increasing the width of it until it reaches, to his eye, a comfortable grip for Mobius.

"Couldn't have sacrificed your hair or something?" he asks amusedly, tying a knot tight enough to hold temporarily and then handing the fork back.

[favoriteanalyst]

"Well, I was just going to offer up my life instead. Would've been a lot easier. But they're a finicky sort."

Humor is always easier as well. Makes it simpler to drop information like that without it feeling too heavy, even if obviously the heaviness is implied. He takes the utensil back gingerly, sliding into the grip and...it at least doesn't slide back out of his grip. He blinks at what a simple fix that is. It still doesn't help with the fine motor control, but the damn thing is far less likely to simply fall out of his hand.

"So's this. Why didn't I think of that?"

Because most people don't need it, Mobius.

crystal

[armd]

(It takes Abby a little longer to notice that Loki is gone. Their friendship is like that: he's usually doing his own thing, as is she. The two of them come together whenever they do and catch-up with great gusto, so it's not odd when he goes silent for a couple. It's when she reaches out to him after that goddamn nightmare and fight that she knows something is up. He doesn't reply, when he would have come running.

When she tries Sylvie hours later, out of concern for Loki, the line is similarly dead.

... Contacting Mobius next is done out of desperation more than anything.)

Mobius? (He was close with the two of them, too. Abby's almost checking that he's there for reassurance she isn't going crazy. Maybe her crystal isn't working.)

[favoriteanalyst]

[He startles at the sound. There's a moment between sleepiness and wakefulness where he's not entirely sure where the surprisingly small voice came from--but then it's the crystal. Just the crystal.

Maker's sake, this nightmare stuff needs to stop. His voice is a little thick from shaking off the almost nap he was taking.]

Yeah? What's wrong?

[armd]

(Thank fuck. Okay. A breath, and she says,) Where's Loki?

(He's at Alexandrie's and too busy to pick up. Right? Or he's gone on some mission and couldn't take his crystal with him, or he got knocked out and he's in bad shape but that explains why he wasn't answering her. He didn't leave. He said he wouldn't leave.)

[favoriteanalyst]

[The long silence between Abby asking the question and Mobius forming an answer is likely not going to go over well. But he has to sit there with it for several long moments. Clearing his throat.]

Not here. That I know of. If he's gone somewhere, he...never said.

[armd]

(She doesn't need him to answer to get it. The silence speaks for itself.

For a long time she doesn't know what to say in return. The two of them sit in that air, and all Abby can hear is the soft sound of them both breathing, and Mobius shifting in place. She rubs at the corner of her neck, and closes her eyes tight.)

Oh.

(What else do you say? Maybe he got to go back. She sniffs.) Okay.

[favoriteanalyst]

...I don't know what it looks like. When a Rifter leaves. This is--new, to me.

[How had it happened? Had he simply faded away, as though returning to the Fade? Mobius doesn't know. He'd been fast asleep and not even bothered to waking by nightmares.]

Sylvie doesn't seem to be around, either.

before;

[notathreat]

Ellie doesn't recognize it, the first night. When she comes through she makes a game of leaving the white-ish pebbles from the ground-floor gardens in Loki's flowerpots, and he hadn't caught her for several days in a row.

In fact, he'd gone radio silent. Fully silent. She'd mentioned him once, and- nothing had come of it. It wasn't like him.

The third time, she straight up breaks into his house. The hightown apartments open to rooms cold, left in slight disarray, the fire grates unswept and marble icy. Nobody here, and nothing in the way of signs of habitation, or packing up for a mission.

Ellie stands by the windowsill, gripping it, and knows the house is empty. She's been in too many empty houses. Without intruding further, she backs out the window, and heads to the Gallows.

She's on her way up to the Research offices when she passes Mobius, and she reaches out to touch his arm.

"Hey, um-"

Ellie pauses, twisting around the stumps of her fingers.

"... does the Provost keep track of Rifters who've disappeared?"

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius is aware of Ellie's little break-ins. Loki had awkwardly made mention of it, a little game that they play. It was for just in case they happened upon each other by accident, don't raise any alarm.

He hasn't been back. Until such a time as Loki...returns, potentially, he won't be going back to the estate. It felt too big for even two people, let alone one, and it isn't his. He only stayed over now and again. Not like he had a key.

He can't say it's fine, but there's nothing for him to do about it.

Ellie catches him, and he is instantly attentive. When she haltingly asks about Rifters, he knows that she knows. Swallows for a moment, puts a hand over hers. "I don't know." He doesn't. Should they? Such that, if they appear again, they don't have to go through quarantine? "We could ask him." Surely he'll be at least a little relieved that Loki's gone.

[notathreat]

Mobius takes her hand, stopping her from fucking with her fingers, and her brow pinches, allowing for something softer to peek out from beneath the guard. They've lost somebody, probably the both of them.

Ellie puts her hand on top of his, a little stack between them. Takes a breath.

"Who was it?" she says, and the for you is implied. She doesn't know- neither of them told her.

[favoriteanalyst]

"You've been by his place, right?" Mobius is aware of her break-ins. Loki had warned him one morning over a sleepy breakfast, just in case they somehow happened upon each other in the middle of the night, and perhaps he might want to wear a robe if he's going to be up.

"If the Lady Alexandrie ever returns, she'll have to be notified."

[notathreat]

Ellie closes her mouth, nods slowly. That Mobius knows to miss him sucks even more. What Ellie knew about Loki's inner workings could fit in a thin paper back, but he was always kind to her.

And apparently to Mobius.

"... any way we can send her a letter, or something?"

She hesitates, something catching in her throat.

"I fucking hate this. We're acting like he died."

[favoriteanalyst]

"I don't know where she is. I never met her, actually; I only learned a bit about her through him. Someone might have a better idea? We could ask around."

He doesn't say that it kind of is like he died, though. From what he understands, what the smarter Rifters seem to have figured out, is that their bodies are simply Fade made manifest, born from the emerald waters. A copy of their natural selves, in a sense. If they are no longer here, in this world, what happens to that body, to that self?

He'll find it a very interesting conundrum to consider when it hurts less.

"Sylvie's gone, too, far as I can tell."