Mobius (
favoriteanalyst) wrote in
faderift2024-03-12 01:13 pm
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Entry tags:
but I still hold out hope that maybe someday
WHO: Mobius, whomstsoever decides to bother him
WHAT: it's another catchall /fingerguns
WHEN: All month long
WHERE: around, about
NOTES: tbd
WHAT: it's another catchall /fingerguns
WHEN: All month long
WHERE: around, about
NOTES: tbd
Sure, the library is like a home now ever since he sidled on into the Gallows and decided it all needed a little upkeep, spiraling out into taking it under his wing and being a resident bookworm with, sure, a penchant for being precious about the resource of the word. And he spends a good amount of time there on the daily as it is, though less through the new year with the new title. So long as nobody's destroying things or starting fights, it can all be tended to with assistants (thanks Abby!) and not need to be micromanaged under his care. He won't be breaking any arms.
Where he's been spending more time is in the archivist's office, spending time...well, archiving. Cosima appreciated the assistance with what's already been started, though it's clear there have been differences in organizational tactics between whoever all has been in here over the years. It's relatively quiet work to sort through reports and notes and track down dates and related project pages and suss out where to put it all in a manner that makes sense. And then there's rooting through new documents or half-finished projects that have come before. Having the good Lady Lamonia's collection of personal letters and libraries of journals and such donated to Riftwatch's care has been...fun. (It has not been fun.) He's been more than glad for assistance in perusing sultry love letters for tidbits of gossipy information about other lords and ladies from across the Marches, because frankly it isn't the most interesting thing to him, and he's not sure why it's all been donated to them. And whoever left this particular project barely started with some archaic archival system the likes of which might only be understood by the Maker Himself didn't do Mobius any damned favors. Please. Save him from this. Uuuuuuugh why is it another perfumed letter talking about beauty and oh did you hear what Marquis Audile got up to and blah blah blah...
When he spends time away from that, he makes a point to spend some time each day in the chapel, dutiful in his beliefs in his own ways. Quietly praying and keeping to himself, cleaning up if it's dusty or a bit of a mess. When in the dining hall, he keeps an eye out for friends and associates, and even occasionally makes the acquaintance of someone he is less than familiar with, though more often he keeps more to himself. The less than stellar function of his hands might always be something of an embarrassment to him, he knows. Which never stops him from training, keeping a firm grip on his sword at all times, shield at the ready strapped to the other arm, or simply going through the motions to keep himself in shape. Bookworm he might be, but he won't skimp on being battle ready.
He also lately is spending time out in Kirkwall proper, asking after printers and asking them where they procure their supplies, asking too after those who make paper and parchment. Does research on the side, since naturally he'd turn to books first, on how best to start setting up that kind of practice within the walls of the Gallows. Maybe there's space in the basement somewhere? Or an empty office space? Negotiating prices for deliveries might help in the short-term, but...
[or y'know hit him up elsewhere, or hit me up for a bespoke prompt]
for Loki
The Maker and Andraste both have Their plans and ways. Mobius just has to trust this. Every time he flexes the hand that now bears the mark and power that can help the world and eventually kill him (unless he chops it off at some point), he is reminded that faith needs to hold fast even in the darkest times. Especially in the darkest times.
Not that these are things that he says. And it must burn Loki in some way, the way they both know they aren't talking about the most important things, the way some of what each knows and feels is kept locked in their chests, as though that's ever been the way they've communicated with each other before. Maybe that's why Loki keeps staring at him when he thinks Mobius doesn't notice. Looking away again when Mobius lifts his head. Like trying to must courage to say something? Or just analyzing him from a silent distance? Loki clearly thinks he's being smooth and clever about it, but even if Mobius has yet to actually red-handed catch Loki doing it, he can still feel the eyes on him.
And it's so damned distracting. He sets one of Lady Lamonia's letters aside with a sigh and stretches in his seat before making his way over to Loki, sitting heavily beside him, and flatly asking: "What."
no subject
Who is and yet distinctly is not the man sitting here. Himself, Mobius. Pick one.
Loki smooths the document he's been attempting to read (with very little success, too distracted by Mobius and then by pretending to not be distracted by Mobius) and finally he lets out a heavy breath.
"Tell me about your hand." Softly. He doesn't want to ask but he does want to know. "Please."
no subject
Given Loki says hand singular, it doesn't take a genius to guess what he's asking about. There's a desire to rebuff, a petty thing, but Loki says please. And everything feels softened.
"What would you like to know?" It isn't an exciting story to tell. And he hasn't had it long enough to be able to do a whole lot with it. But there are feelings wrapped up in it that are difficult for him to express from simply knowing how others around him might react. Maybe not Loki, though. Maybe not him.
no subject
He loves Mobius. In a way that is much less effusive and publicly visible, perhaps, than his passion surrounding Alexandrie, but it is love nonetheless. And while he and Alexandrie have fallen into a very familiar pattern (spurned forward somewhat by Loki's despising of group housing, truth be told) the same cannot quite be said of himself and Mobius.
Mobius saw him at his worst, and then Loki vanished overnight, asleep at Mobius' side. Everything that has happened since feels both unfathomable to understand in any meaningful detail and necessary to comprehend before they can move forward. There is no real returning to the past, not even when you repeat it over and over again.
Something they both know firsthand, hm?
"Your shard. It's more recent than..." What does he call it? The injury? The sacrifice? Loki sighs noisily because if he brings it up directly they will get off track from his intended starting place. "The rest. What happened, that you ended up with one of your own?"
no subject
When did he get so sensitive, anyway?
"Nothing of note. There was a rift, out in the countryside, somewhere we'd been trying to help improve things before, and several of us were given the gift in the process." Couple poor souls on the run who stumbled ass backwards into the whole thing, too, it seems like. These things happen, like it or not.
He flexes his hand. "It's almost a blessing unto itself that it was through relatively mundane means and not," with an encompassing motion, "in the midst of something far more exciting."
no subject
But right now Loki is watching Mobius talk about the shard in his hand, as if they both don't know that keeping it - and the hand it is embedded in - will eventually have a mortal cost. Which, alongside Mobius' determination that the ordinariness of obtaining it was a sort of blessing, returns Loki's thoughts to the notion of sacrifice, and the truth that his friend has to wear odd support straps for his utensils at meals, lest they go flying when Mobius is more focused on other things than keeping visual track of his fine motor skills.
So he frowns, a little. It's not about 'the gift' but it's not not that. "You still feel it is a blessing from Andraste?" A shake of his head. "Of course you do. Faith is your strong suit, and I'm not suggesting you should feel otherwise."
no subject
That it will eventually kill him doesn't mean much. Eventually the lyrium use will turn him into a vegetable. Eventually this war will see the end of him. Hell, there are people who have been here since the beginning of this with shards in their hands that haven't died just yet. He could wake up one morning and have a heart attack. He could choke on a particularly fatty cut of meat.
Nothing Andraste asks is ever easy.
"She picks Her chosen," he says quietly, "deems them worthy of Her blessing. All my life's come to this. And, honestly, I'm kind of afraid of squandering the gift."
no subject
Because there are other things to consider. Mobius is his friend, and Loki can't dismiss Mobius' feelings automatically anyway, even if he is not built to understand them.
"What would be 'squandering the gift'? What does that even mean?"
no subject
Which are unreasonable demands, he knows, which is probably why he hasn't done all that in the first place. And he wouldn't expect the same of Loki. It's hard not to want to be a hypocrite about the whole thing, so...he sighs.
"It can't be for nothing, is maybe what I'm trying to say." Which is perhaps not true, but it's how he sees it. "I'll figure out how and where to use it as it comes to me." A glance over at his friend, askance. "That's why you've been staring at me and pretending like you haven't been?"
no subject
Which crumbles almost immediately after, because now Loki has to consider the staring and his various reasons why. "I want for us to be close again, but I have no idea how to begin. Or. If you would want to. It feels like so much has changed, things you don't want to discuss."
no subject
"A lot has changed. Are you gonna tell me everything that's happened to you, or is it painful to think about?"
Because that's a lot of what's behind Mobius and his reluctance. He doesn't want to recount his hands, or delve deep into the shard, or talk about Granitefell, or talk about even some of the more amazing things he's seen when it leaves him grieving and wanting. "I'm not trying to push you away." That pain is something he has to figure out himself; it's not on Loki to deal with or fix. "You can ask questions. Kinda feels like you just wanted everything to slide back into the way things were, and it's not like that. Not that easy."
no subject
I suspect that is the problem of us as well, or part of it. I've never come back, before. I have always left the past behind, until I had no choice but to confront it, again and again, and relearn the same tired lessons endlessly until I accepted the truth of them. And then I had to move forward. It's not the same as coming back at all."
Loki has leaned back in his seat a little, frowning at his own hands folded in front of him on the table. He turns his head to Mobius. "I want to ask, certainly. But I don't think that demanding a retelling would actually solve the problem of time minus distance." A little shake of his head. "It isn't that I want what was. It's that I want it to be a part of what is to be, and I have no idea how to do that."
no subject
"Neither of us knows what coming back is like, is what you're saying. What to do with the coming back, how to pick things back up."
The few times he's come back, it hasn't gone well. Starkhaven's more or less gone, for instance.
He takes a long and steadying breath, shoulders up, holds it. Lets it go and sinks back down. "We figured it out before. We'll figure it out again."
no subject
Which, for the record, was the option he chose at the time. The him that didn't know/remember/experience Thedas.
The Loki that remains here is glad it's not likely to come up again as something he has to do (hopefully).
He watches Mobius breathe through it. Hears but only halfway pays attention to the things Mobius says along with that bit of breathing exercise - not because it's unimportant, but because what Mobius says with his body might be moreso.
Mobius' body says this won't be easy. Loki agrees.
"Okay." A beat. "Sorry for the odd staring."
no subject
He rises from his seat and moves to the door, shuts it all the way. The work they're doing isn't anything sensitive, and sometimes there's more help, and sometimes there's Stephen making his attempts to throw what he calls 'paper airplanes' across the hall and diagonally to the room to get his attention. But this might be. More sensitive.
"I'm sorry. For not being more forthcoming. For being..." No, he's not really sorry for anything that he is, now. Different. Changed. Things that can't be helped. "I'm sorry for making you feel like you can't talk to me."
for Strange
That's what makes it just a little bit genius. Mobius has no reason to decline in any official capacity. If Stephen had come asking as a friend, he might have been turned down. (Or they might have talked. They talk often, just not always about these things.) But a summons from the Head Healer for Official Riftwatch Business is a lot harder to simply ignore.
He could. But. Then he'd have to start avoiding his friend as a whole, and he's not about to do that. It would make their seating arrangements in the Research office real awkward, for one.
"Don't suppose I could get away with just saying I'm fine for you to mark down in your files?"
Hi, in other words.
no subject
This way of levering the professional responsibilities as an excuse to talk to him, a smokescreen to check in on what he’s really asking— well, it’s a tried-and-true technique, and that’s why it works. Stephen waves Mobius into the infirmary (clean, empty, they don’t have any long-term residents at the moment) and gestures for him to take a seat by the desk at the back.
It’s still a step down, becoming something more like a general practicioner and casting this broader net: now the Head Healer is attending to the everyday concerns of taking temperatures, measuring pulses, pressing his fingers to lymph nodes. He tries to tell himself that the banal, everyday nature of these checkups are a good thing, that it’s not a crisis or broken bones or contagious blood plagues,
but, still, perhaps some part of him does crave the crisis. It would scratch the itch for a puzzle to solve, adrenaline to keep him running. So Stephen’s often a little bored, going through the motions with this sort of thing— except, that as Mobius is finally shooed into the room, the doctor’s already craning his head to look at his hands as he retrieves a piece of paper.
“So. Any changes in the last five months?” he asks, dryly; they both know the change.
no subject
Would he still prefer to be a quiet librarian at the end of the day? Honestly, probably so. Knowing Stephen as he does, though, he's aware that being an everyday healer isn't near enough mental stimulation. Not enough for him to take pride in. (Maker, has he ever tangled with a pride demon?)
Mobius glances around to double check that there really isn't anyone else hanging around, and then flops into a seat with a roll of his eyes. "Really, you're really gonna go through the motions like that?" To make this little charade actually official, maybe. "You know exactly what to mark down," he adds, perhaps petulantly, as he starts to tug off his gloves, tossing them on the desk. The shard is there, a slash in his right hand, unnatural against his flesh.
his harrowing absolutely would’ve been a pride demon
But he leans closer, to take a look at that shard. Familiar and just like his own, except that his is in the left palm. (He still wonders what makes them gravitate to the hand, when other implant locations are possible but infrequent.)
“So I’ve been curious,” and his voice does turn more conversational now, dropping some of the aloof, official trappings. “Have you felt the shard pain? What takes precedence, your numb hands or the shard?”
no subject
His hands have been subjected to Stephen's scrutiny before, so it doesn't bother him. It isn't like he can feel it. It's more what it's about that gives him a lot more pause. His brow furrows at the question.
"Still numb most days. Day to day, it's exactly the same. But when I'm near a rift..."
He licks his lips, shakes his head. How to describe it? "I feel something. I'm not even sure it's pain, or if I'd really recognize it as pain. Maybe discomfort's a better word? Only in that spot. And it almost feels like it's not even my hand, really. It's a piece that isn't even really my hand, right? Maybe that makes sense. There's an ache because it's part of me, but almost feels like it's coming from elsewhere. Can a part of you besides your own mind have an existential crisis?"
no subject
“That makes perfect sense to me, actually. I expect you might’ve already experienced, even though you don’t have any sensation in your hand, sometimes it does feel like your hand’s still there, or like it has an itch, or your nails are digging into your palm? We call it phantom limb syndrome. You see it all the time in amputees: they’ll forget they’re missing an arm, it’ll feel like it’s still there, sometimes the missing limb itself will still hurt. It’s actually very interesting, we think it’s a neurological issue because of the memories remaining in your brain’s neural connections—”
Tangents. Tangents, doctor. He remembers to cut himself off, leaning back in his chair again. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if some healers here have noticed it and written about it as well. And my point being, even if elven magic and rift magic is absolutely fuck-all abnormal, it makes sense to me that you might still feel those fleeting sensations or that discomfort even when you’re not supposed to.”
no subject
But Stephen is a Rifter. And a fellow chosen of Andraste. Stephen doesn't have to believe for Mobius to still take at least some solace in his beliefs.
"It's why I can still use my hands. Muscle memory. Brain knowing the neural connections are still there. All the parts are still there and fully functioning, at least." The discomfort he'll still ascribe to the Fade itself and, to some degree, having a bit of it as part of himself now, rather than imagined sensations because his brain still thinks he should feel things.
His hands still retain an irregular pattern of cuts and bumps and burns and bruises, daily use gloves not always enough to keep him from accidents. Cut down on the number of them, yes, and improvements in his daily life and getting used to it all have helped. But it can't always be helped.
"It'll be a race against time to see what kills me first," Mobius comments with dark humor. "Really don't think this'll get the chance."
no subject
There’s a pause. Thinking about all the other things waiting to kill Mobius. So have you reconsidered the whole dementia-inducing magic drug thing yet—
Maybe not. Instead, he admits, “I spoke to the other templars. About their lyrium usage. Much to my surprise, I got all of them to sign off on my knowing their personal doses and to be able to administer to them in an emergency. So— thank you, for that. I wouldn’t’ve been able to use the I know what the hell I’m doing argument if it weren’t for your information.”
no subject
Some have gone years upon years with no appearance of slowing down. Mobius figures he'll be well on his way to vegetable by then, if he isn't felled by a dracolisk, if he doesn't have a heart attack, if he doesn't get a bit of red in him, if he doesn't fall off a crumbling precipice, beforehand.
Though if Stephen's starts to go, sooner than expected, that will be of much greater concern.
The doctor's comments on what he's been up to otherwise snaps him out of any of those troubled thoughts, blinking with surprise. Barrow, yes, he could see Barrow not making any particular fuss. The others he's much less sure of. It's a personal, quiet thing. But, between Stephen's persistence, his now genuine knowledge, and Riftwatch's assurances and protections to those who still partake, maybe it isn't such a shock.
"You still could've used that argument," he points out, "it just would've been a lie." He rolls a shoulder, glancing off. This shouldn't make him want a drink so bad. "I imagine there might be some who have given it up."
Because if Stephen won't bring it up just yet, then Mobius will just to get it over with.
no subject
But thank you, Mobius, that’s a convenient opening to: “So. Have you reconsidered it at all? You could practice with that shard, you know, and pick up anchor magic. Your templar abilities wouldn’t have to be your only suprahuman capability. This could be an alternative.”
Is he manipulative enough to lean on Mobius’ spirituality for this—
“You could maybe,” said delicately, “even,” step-by-step, “see that as the silver lining in picking up the shard. Maybe it was meant to happen. A lifeline.”
no subject
"No," impatiently, "I haven't reconsidered. My abilities are a gift of mine same as my hand. There's no reason I can't use both at once if the power's been granted to me. You saw me pop your doppelganger's head." Maybe a testament to how weak the nightmare shadows were the further from the device they were, but still. "Less an alternative, more an extra tool in the toolbox."
Having his cake and eating it, too. Possibly greedy, but if he's been allowed this, then why not have both?
"I'm not lopping off my hand, and I'm not quitting lyrium. Because like you said. Maybe it was meant to happen."
no subject
Stephen props his chin up in his hand against the desk. There’s a particular question he’s circling and wants to ask, but he decides to sidle into it sideways. So what he asks instead: “How old are you, Mobius? How long have you been on lyrium?”
no subject
He used to be better at this, he thinks. Or maybe that's just time and perception playing tricks on him. This is still casual enough to be between them as friends, the professional air out of the whole thing, but Stephen's always going to be a doctor at heart. He didn't give an answer the arcane neurosurgeon liked, no, but really, any answer that isn't 'yes i'm planning on giving up a lifetime dedicated to something i've felt uniquely qualified for (and i'm not scared of what i'll become after)' is going to be frowned upon. Anything that doesn't get him closer to fixing a problem. Stephen's not afraid to be blunt with anyone, and certainly not with friends, but he's also shrewd and knows to look at angles, look for them, create them himself. So he's fishing for something, or finding another way to ask. Being delicate just for friendliness sake or even just inadvertently.
Okay. He'll play the game. Takes a breath, straightens out, wonders for a moment to joke at asking someone their age being rude. Doesn't. A doctor should know these things. "In my fifties," he starts with. Lifts a shoulder and amends: "Fifty-four entire years and some change. I've been taking lyrium regularly for..." Mobius leans back, blows out some air. "Longer than some of the kids running around Riftwatch have been alive for, that's for sure."
no subject
“Joining the Order and making that decision and agreeing to that addiction when you’re a young man with your entire life ahead of you, and the dementia is decades away as only the most distant of worries— I can see it, y’know. We all make gambles against our own futures. That’s a problem for your future self; maybe you won’t even live that long. It’s an acceptable tradeoff at the time.
“But, speaking frankly, you’re older than I am. You’ve been taking it longer than some of these kids have been alive. Eventually, the bill comes due.”
Christ, did he really just quote Mordo—
“I’m still not, y’know, trying to force you to quit tomorrow. I think what I’m saying is— keep an eye out for those symptoms. Monitor it. Be honest. If it seems like that dementia’s starting to catch up to you, changing the equation and diminishing your faculties, then would you at least consider it anew? Better to be another trained warrior without his templar abilities but who can blow people apart with an anchor-shard, rather than a trained warrior whose brain is mush and doesn’t know where he is and can’t do a lick of good.”
no subject
But. He lets Stephen talk. Mollified by the understanding, not ashamed but a little shy at the suggestions given freely. "I keep notes. Kept." He raises a hand, waggles it back and forth. "Obviously my handwriting's not near what it used to be, but my wrist still remembers all the motions. Quills and I don't get along." They're too fragile; he snaps them half the time. "I do what I can. Things to remember, in case I forget. Try to keep track when I don't remember. Makes a man a little paranoid," with a scoff of a laugh. "If I forget a word or don't recall a detail of a conversation had weeks ago, is that just human forgetfulness, or is it the lyrium eating holes in my brain?"
He's thought it so many times. So many times it's like a script he could recite from memory. But actually saying it out loud is another experience. Makes his chest tight and his skin crawl to let someone in on the secret fears he harbors every day. Threatens to jostle something loose.
He swallows around his own heart lodged in his throat. "They don't tell you these things, when you join." A breath in, a breath out. "You're told that you're to take lyrium every day so long as you're one of the Maker's own warriors to keep strong. It sounds great. Down some lyrium with your morning coffee, something like that. Of course they're not going to tell you the downsides. If they had...well, if I'm honest, I don't think it would've stopped me. But you don't really know, and the others around you don't tell you until you've already taken the rite. And even then, you pick up on the details as you go. When you miss a dose and everything starts feeling strange. When one of the older knights who seems to lose a step or two gets sent out to pasture."
He licks his lips. "It's not a perfect system." To put it mildly.
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/FubD-2nWAAAUHTO.png
That horror and anger steeps, curdles. Christ, he thought at the very least the templars knew what they were signing up for: an intellectual awareness of the risks even if they weren’t old enough to take them seriously at the time, in the same way of every high school senior adopting crippling student debt, or signing on for the army without thinking about the inevitable injuries, the trauma, the potential disability.
Stephen leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t fault anyone for picking up a weapon on the shelf,” god knows he’s wielded terrible magicks that he wasn’t technically supposed to, “but ’not perfect’ is certainly an understatement. Mobius, I’m not—” He suspects this might lead to a fight, he’s got his own sore wounds on the topic of organised religion so might be ruder than he should be, but he has to say it anyway.
“I’m just saying. There’s a difference between the Maker’s will and how humans choose to implement it. Children shouldn’t have to be tricked into how they serve Andraste. Your lyrium abilities aren’t necessarily the way it has to be.”
no subject
It's a reason he can't find fault in what the doctor says. People use the Chant and proclaim the Maker's will to justify all kinds of terror and awful. The Divine might be in charge of the church, but she's an elected official with biases and politics guiding every decree. It will never be perfect because people aren't perfect.
"It's one of the Chantry's fun little open secrets. I could say that if they were upfront about it, a lot fewer people would be interested in signing up to be a holy warrior, but then I can see the argument in return being that maybe there don't need to be that many holy warriors. If any. Which I don't think is true." Just to point out. "They aren't fully truthful or upfront about much. I don't know how much I agree with tricked, though. It's not a bad life."
Hm. Though. He feels he has to amend it. "It wasn't a bad life."
Maker knows, with Circles gone, with the Order in disarray, practically nonexistent but for the Exalted March that he has no interest in joining thank you very much, that it isn't a very good life now.
"I feel like," with a little sigh and a circular motion, "we keep going around this, keep coming back to this, this idea, but Stephen, c'mon, the magic nullifying abilities are good to have around. None of us here are gonna be instructing others how to become one; I don't know that any of us are capable of it. I can't just hand you some lyrium and tell you to shut a mage down and you do it. It's years of training and honing skills, and we need someone to do it with the Venatori around. It's a rock and a hard place, but I'm willing to keep doing this for as long as I'm alive, not because the Maker's Bride told me to, but because it feels like the right thing."
Mobius leans in, elbows on the desk. "I know you don't like it, but I thought you at least understood the position I'm in. Being chosen doesn't necessarily mean that changes. Maybe I can do both, maybe I can do it all!"
no subject
But at the end of the day, he just can’t stop thinking about those quick-sparking neurons withering away to lyrium. The neurosurgeon once thought losing his hands was the worst thing to happen to him, but the prospect of losing his mind is even worse. And here it is, an inevitability for Mobius, only a matter of time.
“The nullification is a unique ability, but by no means the only one which works. Blowing off a Venatori’s head can be just as effective.” He’s still leaning back in his chair, feeling that annoyance simmering away. His first month in Riftwatch, he’d almost caused a diplomatic incident arguing with Chantry sisters and trying to explain to them that the behaviour in their town was due to bacteria in the wheat, not demonic possession. How many times does he have argue down to someone?
And yet the extra-irritating thing is, he does understand. Other Stephen Stranges had traded against their own lives in order to do more, accomplish more: those burnt-black fingertips, paging open the Darkhold. Hypocrite.
“I understand your position, but the fact remains that it’s a ticking timebomb. It’s going to happen and you’re going to start becoming useless when it does. It’s not even just the dementia, Mobius, it’s— well, it’s a strategic risk. Say you’re caught by enemy forces and locked in a dungeon. Say you hit your head on a rock and you’re laid out in some civilian’s farmhouse for weeks. You start going into forced withdrawal, unplanned, away from the Gallows, without assistance. Wouldn’t it be safer to tackle it in a controlled environment, at your own pace, at a time of your choosing and with support on hand?”
no subject
Mobius leans back again, scrubs a hand (carefully) over his face and sighs loudly out his nose. There are points made that he can also understand from his position. If his mind starts to go, well, there goes being Head Archivist. What use would he even have as a doddering librarian? Would he even read anymore? Would he remember how, would he retain anything he read if he could?
"One of the things out in the desert," he starts, looking somewhere in the middle distance, "from my nightmares was myself. Couple versions. Not unlike you. One's gotten into red lyrium, become one of those monsters that barely count as a person anymore. Another was me...after. I would see me marching along with the others and I had nothing behind my eyes. It isn't that I'm not afraid of it." He just figured he'd be dead before it happened. And here he is, still alive. And further still, it felt like an acceptable trade for so many years of dutiful service. Does the service mean much if he hasn't been in that service for years? Even if he uses the powers still?
"If I start seeing signs, I'll reconsider my position." That's not a guarantee he'll agree to change that position. He'll think about it. If he sees the signs. Of the lyrium taking hold, or signs from on high. "I don't know if the damage can be reversed if it starts showing. One more thing for you to research and study, if it happens."
no subject
“Alright,” Stephen says, and it has the sound of a temporary relenting, an easing up and giving ground. This conversation (debate, argument, fundamental disagreement) is more a war of attrition, rather than a single chat. He’ll keep working on it.
“Thank you. I appreciate you being open to consideration, at least. And I’ll put some reading into the matter even before it happens. To no one’s surprise,” his expression turns rueful, self-aware, “I’m still pretty interested in how people’s brains tick.”
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And it's Stephen. He means well. He's a healer first and foremost, and he's a friend. "Sorry for getting snappy." Because he feels that much is owed. "I come across any particularly interesting and relevant material in the library you might have overlooked, I'll send it your way."
His fingers tap mindlessly against the arm of his seat. "Question for you. Sort of a hypothetical." That also maybe might sort of become not-hypothetical someday, hypothetically. "Your doctors, they make certain promises, take certain oaths, right?" Look, weeks watching tv and browsing the internet, yes, he's come across the concept. "And sometimes there are ethical...dilemmas that arise. If someone were dying, for certain, but they didn't want you to do a procedure that would save them, what would you be obligated to do?"
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but he is too interested in medical ethics, so. He sees the trap, acknowledges it, and then chooses to walk right into it.
“It’s complicated,” is his first answer. “Doctors swear an oath to do no harm, but we also don’t want to unnecessarily prolong someone’s suffering, either. That, too, could be considered harm.”
And Stephen had had to adjust those morals after becoming a sorcerer, as much as it pained him: killing enemies for the first time, focusing on the big picture at the Ancient One’s brutally pragmatic side, trading one set of ethics for a more malleable one, and even so it’s still a work-in-progress. His mouth thins.
“What you’re talking about. There’s this thing called a a DNR, a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order, to not restart someone’s heart if it stops. To allow what they call natural death. Typically used if the patient’s going to be left in a vegetative state or coma, or with an otherwise low quality of life if you resuscitate them.”
As a surgeon, even he had callously refused cases that were lost causes — but then, hypocritically, would probably move mountains if it were someone he loved. Where do you draw the line? He’s working through it aloud even as they speak, trying to figure out where he lands on this:
“And then more directly, there’s assisted suicide, usually if someone’s been diagnosed with a terminal illness and wants to go out on their own terms. A physician providing them with poison to drink, essentially. It’s still hotly-debated where I’m from; only legal in a few jurisdictions, and not where I practiced, so I’ve never come across it. I can see the value if they’re truly terminal, if they only have six months left to live and their life’s going to be miserable in the meantime. But even so, there’s still the question: how much of it is undiagnosed clinical depression, how much of it is societal pressure and not wanting to be a burden on their loved ones, and sometimes patients with terminal diagnoses last much longer than they expect— and then with surgeries with risks of complications, you don’t always know if they’ll pull through fine, and you should have tried after all. It’s complicated and there’s no clear obligation. It’s a balance.”
You’ve really opened a can of worms, Mobius. Stephen sighs, crosses his arms; he’s managed to talk a lot about it but not actually commit to saying where he stands. And there’s the philosophical angle, but then there’s also the directly practical one: “Mobius. Are you asking because you’d like to die if you were grievously wounded?”
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Maker, while he wouldn't trade the times in the false Rifter realities for anything, it's sometimes a struggle to remember how much they don't have in Thedas, how primitive the technological level is in comparison, and no good and easy ways to rectify that.
He notices that while Stephen gives a good overview of the ethical and moral dilemmas at play, he doesn't really answer the question, directly. Put that up on a high shelf and only take it down on a case by case basis, seems fair enough.
And also fair enough: the question lobbed at him. Mobius coughs out a chuckle, shifting in his seat with a halfway smile. "I'd really like to live if at all possible. I get shot full of arrows, you do your damnedest to make sure I live to annoy you another day." That's honest. If he's grievously wounded, if his heart starts to give out, if an infection takes hold--he wants to live to see another day, and another and another.
He holds up his hand, arguably unnatural green sheen and all. "I'm more talking along the lines of this. If nothing else gets me, this'll kill me eventually. I know it gets some quicker, some less quick. That amputation's a viable option. Maybe I'll change my mind if it gets to that point, but as it stands right now, if this thing starts killing me, I...well, I just don't think I'm all that interested in getting it lopped off." He lowers his hand again. "But that probably won't be a relevant debate." Ever, possibly. "Not for a long time." Hopefully.
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“Not all of us are prepared to pull a Wysteria,” Stephen admits. “But fair enough. I’ll take note of it. And you’re right, I’m actually far less worried about this one; Gwenaëlle’s had hers for eight years, with no especial ill effect. And if-when it does start becoming a problem for you, or any of us, I imagine it’ll be far more visible and noticeable than… y’know.” A rotating gesture of a hand, an indiscreet indication to Mobius’ head.
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Well. Doing something mostly involves stopping lyrium intake and see if the damage can be stopped before it gets worse. He's aware enough.
"But definitely do what you can for me in the event I end up on one of your tables for more than just a stitching up. I happen to like being alive. I've got more to do besides. And if I go, who's gonna be your voice of reason?" His eyebrows bob up. "Gwenaëlle?" Whooooo wants a slight shift in topic? Hmmm? Gossip, anyone?
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So instead, as utterly bland and neutral as he could make it, “I’m friendly with our new Provost. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, too.”
And there’s a beat, before he can’t help but add: “But, also, I could do far worse than listening to Gwenaëlle Baudin.”
Perhaps some people might take issue with her opinions (she has a lot of them, and they’re loud), but she’s been his sense-check, his lodestone and compass needle, for far longer than they’ve been fucking. There’s an inevitable quiet fondness buried in his voice when he says her name.
Christ. He needs to jump out the window.
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The comment on Gwen gets Mobius breaking out into a crooked little smile. He hears a tone in Stephen's voice, just enough to suggest, and it's very cute. "And people say you're no fun."
What people say that? Mobius isn't telling.
"At least you've got backups to tell you when you've got a stupid and dangerous idea after I inevitably kick the bucket. Warms my heart to know."
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(and oh that reveals how much he knows of how she ticks these days)
but he cuts himself off like someone swerving away from oncoming traffic. Then squints at Mobius across the desk, tit-for-tat and bemused. “For the record, Mobius, I see what you’re doing when there’s a topic you’re trying to avoid… but I’m doing the same thing, so y’know what, fair’s fair.”
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-and here he makes an attempt at doing Stephen's voice back at him, the slightly nasal and robust baritone, and the steep cliff of sarcasm and don't-argue-with-me tonality. "'Cut back on the pancakes and eat more leafy greens, here are some herbs for mental acuity, more daily exercise won't kill you.' To which I would then point out I do my daily training, well, daily, and you'd also better be thankful that soda doesn't exist here. Yet."
God help Thedas if someone invents cold, caffeinated, carbonated sugar-water.
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He shuffles the papers mostly for the appearance of wrapping up, and then rises to his feet. They’ve meandered horrifically off-topic, but they were just about done anyway. All that remains is the tedious recordkeeping part of it:
“We’ll measure your height, check your pulse, check your lungs, and then you’ll be clear to go. And then I’ll take off my coworker-and-Head-Healer cap, and return to simply being your friend with minimal nagging. Or, well. Somewhat less nagging.”