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

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

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."

"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.

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.

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.

"It asked for a willing sacrifice of a life, first." He can feel the tension of the grip up his arm. It's a start. So long as he doesn't inadvertently relax too much. "That wasn't a choice. And I'm..." He hesitates on the word. Trying to decide if he means it. If it's the right word. And he isn't sure. "...glad, that no one needed to lose their life in the end." He's not sure. He's not sure about that. He might never be sure.

"It's all right," Jude says, measuring his words carefully, "To feel grateful that it wasn't worse. And still grieve what you lost. You can carry both at the same time."

It's so much more complicated than that, and always will be. Mobius is a proud man, one who habitually takes on more than he can carry.

This is about more than his hands.

"Usually I'm the one doling out advice to the needing." Wry even if it's without much humor. He carefully scoops some food on the fork, rather than going for a stab. If he maintains the pressure he thinks he's got going on, then he should be fine. This kind of attention to automatic reflex is tiring. (It could be like learning utensils when he was a child, but. He does not remember those days of learning.)

"If others hadn't had to lose anything, that would have been better. Instead of this collective suffering."

"Usually. And then there's me." Jude casually regards the way Mobius works his fingers, re-developing the memory- it's harder still because he pays so much attention, wants so badly to get it right. Jude can practically see the cogs turning behind his eyes, frustration making him lose his place.

"Is it? Wouldn't make for a very good time for the sacrificial lamb." Jude takes a bite, chewing slowly in thought. "And then there's the guilt, for anyone who watched. Benefited. Didn't suffer, but felt they should. Never an easy thing to live with."

Jude hums under his breath, just one note.

"This isn't a blast you could have contained."

"Collective suffering's better than the loss of one person, huh?" Makes sense, when it's said out loud. "I've always been bad at taking my own advice. Always sounds better from the other side."

If it had been just one group, that would've meant something. But each group had to make the decision. Lose something.

"I wonder if there's a version of me that could."

Because...because of those hazy ghostly versions of themselves they saw on the way. The ways in which they fucked up. Bizarre, unsettling. But was there a version of him that didn't fuck up?

(Is there a version of him out in the multiverse that's better than he is now? One with Loki, maybe, or one where he lives a rich life, or one where's a respected knight or--)

"It's not about what's better."

Jude can't read his mind, but it comes easily, a taste of knowing what channels self-recrimination can dig in the wake of trauma. Jude leans in closer.

"Thinking about what might've been is a good way to torture yourself," he says, and the palm of his hand meets the small of Mobius's back, resting there. He rubs, with his thumb. A tiny movement.

"You do the best you can with the tools you have."

"I know." He does know, too, which might be the worst part. These are the kinds of things he would say were their positions flipped, if he were talking to someone who had suffered a setback such as this. The gentle reminders of what are and what cannot be.

Is that what makes this all the worse? Jude's hand soothes, and his words. Mobius is still angry upset humiliated humbled, but it's less upfront, a little less jagged with Jude around.

With a small sigh: "I know. Thank you for reminding me, though. Just have to work through it. Get out to the other side of this."

Jude stops, then, letting his hand stay where it is, because Mobius does know. Unfortunately, knowing doesn't protect one from the pain of processing. Jude rubs with his thumb, the slow wind rushing through the grass around them, rendering the low murmur of voices to part of the breeze.

"Knowing your destination doesn't make the road less rocky," he says, drawing a small circle with his thumb.

"But you don't have to carry everything there with you."

"Sure I do. I've carried everything with me my whole life. Practically my house."

He smirks a little, looking at Jude, and then back at the food he only barely feels like consuming. Gives another bite another go, spills a good bit of it at least back onto the plate and not all over himself. Contemplates. He knows what Jude is saying. But also, it feels important to keep it all with him. It's him. It's part of him.

"I'm glad you've decided to stick around," Mobius eventually says with a little difficulty, "after the whole Templar thing."

Mobius says that like it's something he's been carrying that around, too. Speaking of. Jude exhales, knowing the truth of it.

Plenty of people are keeping their distance from Mobius now, and even if Jude personally disagrees, he does understand why. It's not an easy thing from any angle.

"It wasn't a question," he says, measured, though his voice is heavier.

"How has it been?"

Somehow, he's not expecting that. That it had never been in question. That Jude was of course going to stick by him, no matter how complicated the situation.

"Isolating," Mobius finally says. "But hey, not everyone knows yet, or cares as much. People still need books from the library. Still gotta talk to your partners on missions."

Even though, ha ha, look where that's gotten him now.

"Messere Rowntree attempted to give me a sound interrogation of my history and motives, implied to be okayed by Commander Flint. I don't know if I simply annoyed him too much to bother, but I was expecting a bit more of a fight when I wasn't keen on complying. Anyway, sure, let's have a known rebel mage start asking some very pointed questions about loyalty to people affiliated with Chantry politics. That seems like a fine idea. Not at all biased."

"There's a hurt man."

It's one of his less than measured responses, and the fact that he says it like that makes it clear that Jude has thoughts.

Rowntree hadn't made a particularly balanced impression the first time Jude watched him at length during the meeting. In fact, he'd gone and socked Kostos in the eye, a tussle that had been quickly broken up. The type of scrap that would have been understood between younger dominants, but as Jude understands, in humans it's far less acceptable.

But Jude leaves it at that, because although he can identify the hurt, the anger, he can't speak to the source of it, even if he can infer.

"And a protective one."

Another pause, though- because there's more, and it's something that Jude almost didn't consider. It's something he's only heard about in passing, would know very little of if he hadn't read up on the reports.

"There was a Chantry brother who organized an attack in the Gallows last fall. He'd-" and this is something Jude doesn't understand, because it wouldn't have been possible for a shifter. Not with a Sentinel around, anyway-

"Managed to infiltrate Riftwatch. Was trusted."

Mobius only grunts to let it be known Jude is heard, at first. Marcus might very well be a hurt man; he's someone who's survived the uprising and being hunted, turned on the hunters it seems. That's fine. Everyone's done the things they've had to to survive. And mages most certainly got the brunt of the hurt.

But also: fuck that guy, perhaps.

He gives up on food for a moment just to give his hand and arm a rest. Sure, he can't feel the end of it, but he can feel his wrist, his elbow, the tendons and muscles up the arm. He is perhaps more conscious of these things in a way he hasn't been since he first was training with his weapons of choice.

Drinking is sometimes easier, even if he has to use two hands. Most mugs and tankards are sturdy enough that he's not going to do any damage if he presses a little hard. Glasses are going to be a trip. Best avoid them for now, he thinks, as he takes a long drink.

He's heard whispers about Something Happened, sounds like some kind of abomination busting through the walls. That they let someone in they thought they could trust.

If he sets the container down a little hard, obviously it's because of the hand thing.

"That's the thing about trust. It's a bladed weapon. Do you just stop trusting everyone ever involved with the Chantry over it? Do you start watching the chantries in the city, keeping an eye on potential saboteurs? Where does that go, and where does it end? I'm sorry it backfired, sorry about the damage done to life and property, sorry the trust swung around and cut them. I don't know that it calls for paranoia."

Jude listens, his eyes deep and dark and without tension as Mobius works out his own. He can feel it, like an itch under his skin, a pulse, and he revels in it. That faint shadow of a breath.

He can feel it.

"You're right," he says bluntly. "It doesn't."

Jude taps his finger lightly against the side of his knee, letting that hang in the air for a moment. But.

"He's the captain of the guard. Who recently survived an attack he didn't see coming. And now, he's got someone who hasn't said where he's from, who hid his ties to the Chantry, who's walking around with access to a lot of vulnerable people he's responsible for.

"Somebody who he doesn't have the measure of. Who can interrupt magic at will, and make all of those very hurt people all but defenseless. The same way they were hurt before."

Jude's eyes soften.

"He wasn't being paranoid. He was making sure he had the measure of you."

And apparently, Mobius passed.

He does not feel like he passed. He feels like there's a target sitting right between his shoulderblades. But apparently where dealing with him would've been easy in the depths of an ancient elven ruin, Marcus wisely chose not to do so. A bit outmatched, certainly, but still.

"I don't answer to the Captain of the Guard," Mobius says succinctly.

"Though I guess whatever rock bottom opinion he had of me before is burrowing under the dirt after the ass I made of myself on the mission. So it doesn't matter so much in the end. I don't have to impress him. Or anyone. I just have to not get kicked out."

Prove his worth. After relearning how to use his hands.

"You won't be kicked out."

Jude is sure of that. And Mobius did make a little bit of an ass of himself, by his own admission, so Jude won't get into that.

But his voice does soften. It pains him, seeing Mobius at odds with others, with people who should be allies. So many things of worth can be tossed aside when people bury themselves in their hurts.

Patience.

"But demonstrating some of the same care you showed me could go a long way."

Mobius purses his lips and keeps an unkind comment locked behind them. He does not, as well, repeat the phrasing that he does not answer to the likes of the captain.

Eventually, he unlocks his mouth again. "Well, I'm not going to start petting him. Pretty sure he might actually remove my hands if I ruffled his hair."

It's not what Jude means, of course, but nothing wrong with a bit of levity.

No, nothing wrong with a bit of levity. But he can sense what's beneath the upset, more from the look on Mobius' face than anything, and the distinct sense that he would've said what he was thinking had he loved Jude less.

Jude flattens his hand against Mobius's back, and leans in to touch his forehead to Mobius's shoulder, a promise to stop pushing him. He's made his point.

"Shame. He looks like he could use a good petting."

Jude has his reasons for being extremely casual and constant with his touches, be they a lay of hands or this, too. But this feels like a little more. Maybe because Mobius was the first to greet him after falling out of a rift. Maybe they've always had something of a connection ever since that.

He lifts a hand and--thinks better of putting it on the back of Jude's head. He'd never feel it. So his arm goes a little further, wrist feeling the warm skin of Jude's neck, arm resting across his shoulders.

"I'll leave that job to someone else. I'll pet you instead. Seems a fair trade to me."

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

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