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]
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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.”
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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!"
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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."
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“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.”