Anders (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justice_is_blond) wrote2016-01-15 11:45 am
justice_is_blond) wrote2016-01-15 11:45 am
Inbox for Fade Rift
[Please leave a message after the beep that doesn't actually exist.]
[His smile grows at her comment only to fade as she looks away.]
...Is something the matter?
[She'd let him heal her and she's not had objections to his company so it's not magic that's the problem here, he's fairly certain. But he also can't see why she'd might be squeamish when she'd made no face as he told her what they'd be doing.
Anders finishes the thawing and watches her, eyebrow raised.]
...Is something the matter?
[She'd let him heal her and she's not had objections to his company so it's not magic that's the problem here, he's fairly certain. But he also can't see why she'd might be squeamish when she'd made no face as he told her what they'd be doing.
Anders finishes the thawing and watches her, eyebrow raised.]
"He did." Myr does not look up immediately, though he knows Anders has--knows the other mage is looking at him. Instead he's found something in the binding of Odetta's journal to preoccupy him, fingers searching for a loose thread before stroking it back into place. It helps him to think--it's always helped him to think--to be moving, somehow, when he does it.
But in this case it's an excuse not to answer and he realizes as much, and laces his hands together over the journal before looking up to meet Anders' gaze. "There were thirty--just the Revered Mothers. They burned through themselves as fast as they could to keep anyone else from dying."
A pause, and then more quietly, "I expected more, too. Not as many as you did. But I didn't imagine..." That there had been that many women in all of Thedas--let alone one little backwater quarter of Ferelden--who'd think their own lives that kind of acceptable trade. Even knowing the ring may have had a part in that--
It's still humbling to confront face-on.
But in this case it's an excuse not to answer and he realizes as much, and laces his hands together over the journal before looking up to meet Anders' gaze. "There were thirty--just the Revered Mothers. They burned through themselves as fast as they could to keep anyone else from dying."
A pause, and then more quietly, "I expected more, too. Not as many as you did. But I didn't imagine..." That there had been that many women in all of Thedas--let alone one little backwater quarter of Ferelden--who'd think their own lives that kind of acceptable trade. Even knowing the ring may have had a part in that--
It's still humbling to confront face-on.
No, nothing at all.
[ Her aversion to magic is nothing that concerns Anders. She dislikes looking at it if only because it reminders her of her own faults and failures - not good enough for her dreams, not good enough compared to her brother. ]
Please continue.
[ Her aversion to magic is nothing that concerns Anders. She dislikes looking at it if only because it reminders her of her own faults and failures - not good enough for her dreams, not good enough compared to her brother. ]
Please continue.
"Just..." There's puzzlement on his face, confusion and surprise. "But he..."
There'd been such a clear implication, such obvious doubt. If they didn't lose people, why had Estmond been so convinced they would? Why had there been so much discarded clothing?
"He was certain we were going to lose people." It isn't an argument. He's trying to talk himself through understanding something quite this inexplicable. "So certain. The way you are after you've..."
No longer is he looking at Myr; instead he's staring at a wall as he rubs one of his temples. That one factor had set him entirely on the wrong path, and while certainly his attitude toward the Chantry had influenced how readily he'd accepted it, the heaviest influence in his acceptance had been Estmond's certainty and worry and the way it tied into Anders' experience as a healer. He'd given full blind belief to a medical worker the way he'd accused Myr of blindly believing anyone involved with the Chantry.
He breathes out a quiet, frustrated 'fuck' before shaking his head. "Half-answers. I went with half-answers the entire damn time. They lost lives, but not the patients. Spirit magic was dangerous, but to the targets of it rather than the casters. There were demonic influences, but not demons of our world's making."
There'd been such a clear implication, such obvious doubt. If they didn't lose people, why had Estmond been so convinced they would? Why had there been so much discarded clothing?
"He was certain we were going to lose people." It isn't an argument. He's trying to talk himself through understanding something quite this inexplicable. "So certain. The way you are after you've..."
No longer is he looking at Myr; instead he's staring at a wall as he rubs one of his temples. That one factor had set him entirely on the wrong path, and while certainly his attitude toward the Chantry had influenced how readily he'd accepted it, the heaviest influence in his acceptance had been Estmond's certainty and worry and the way it tied into Anders' experience as a healer. He'd given full blind belief to a medical worker the way he'd accused Myr of blindly believing anyone involved with the Chantry.
He breathes out a quiet, frustrated 'fuck' before shaking his head. "Half-answers. I went with half-answers the entire damn time. They lost lives, but not the patients. Spirit magic was dangerous, but to the targets of it rather than the casters. There were demonic influences, but not demons of our world's making."
[Calling out something he's unclear about seems a waste of time and also possibly goodwill, so he moves on.]
What we're looking for, [he says as he starts a careful incision along the side of the organ,] are small sections of swelling that might be present. Dragons seem to be able to seal away the Blight until it overwhelms them, but I don't know what parts are involved.
[Or, honestly, the full relevance of parts that are involved.]
I've... I've far less information than I'd like to have. But how is the largest question, because I'd like to see if it can be used, somehow, to make the cure less of a risk, or if there's a way to stave off the Blight for longer for those who might not want to risk the cure.
What we're looking for, [he says as he starts a careful incision along the side of the organ,] are small sections of swelling that might be present. Dragons seem to be able to seal away the Blight until it overwhelms them, but I don't know what parts are involved.
[Or, honestly, the full relevance of parts that are involved.]
I've... I've far less information than I'd like to have. But how is the largest question, because I'd like to see if it can be used, somehow, to make the cure less of a risk, or if there's a way to stave off the Blight for longer for those who might not want to risk the cure.
It's strange, watching from the outside as someone goes through the same realization he did--I only had half the story, what I assumed wasn't true. It's strange and it wakes emotions in him he's not sure he likes, the same doubt and and remorse for misjudgment he'd come away with after their first conversation.
It was easier, not to see parts of yourself in someone you'd long believed you hated.
But the world's not made for ease.
"We all," Myr says softly, once Anders has reached his conclusion aloud, "put together the story we wanted to hear from the truth we actually heard. Miracles that came at a dreadful cost because what one man gains, another has lost. An empty Fade because the Maker's power could drive His first children away. And spirits of the dead that truly lingered because--"
He looks away at that, studying something across the hall and breathing out in a low sigh. "I never worked that one out. It didn't seem worth asking too closely and dissolving everything else like it was a dream."
Demons had promised him his eyes before and it hadn't been hard to resist, knowing what they'd take in trade. But say the cost is mine to bear, and mine alone,...
It was easier, not to see parts of yourself in someone you'd long believed you hated.
But the world's not made for ease.
"We all," Myr says softly, once Anders has reached his conclusion aloud, "put together the story we wanted to hear from the truth we actually heard. Miracles that came at a dreadful cost because what one man gains, another has lost. An empty Fade because the Maker's power could drive His first children away. And spirits of the dead that truly lingered because--"
He looks away at that, studying something across the hall and breathing out in a low sigh. "I never worked that one out. It didn't seem worth asking too closely and dissolving everything else like it was a dream."
Demons had promised him his eyes before and it hadn't been hard to resist, knowing what they'd take in trade. But say the cost is mine to bear, and mine alone,...
[ Sidony leans closer immediately - not so close that she might be a bother or, perhaps, risk some kind of danger, but enough that she can see what is happening and what is going on. She's clearly curious and there's a twitch to her fingers, like she wishes she might take notes. ]
Something like a tumour? Some place where it is stored before it overwhelms them?
[ An imbalance, she thinks, much like one humour too much compared to another. When there's too much of one a sickness occurs. ]
Are we investigating, then, a means of transferring what the dragons do to humanoid bodies?
Something like a tumour? Some place where it is stored before it overwhelms them?
[ An imbalance, she thinks, much like one humour too much compared to another. When there's too much of one a sickness occurs. ]
Are we investigating, then, a means of transferring what the dragons do to humanoid bodies?
[He nods at her questions as he finishes butterflying the liver and opens it.]
Not so much transferring as if we can further it, see if our bodies can isolate it but then purge it on their own. The current cure is...
[Anders exhales.]
Not only is it complicated and kills more than it saves, there's an ingredient in it that's vastly difficult to obtain. Great dragon blood. So few Great dragons and so much Blight makes it fairly impractical except when someone is desperate.
[There's a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips for a moment before he's back to looking studious.]
Any creatures other than dragons get blighted and they succumb quickly. Sometimes it takes scarcely an hour, sometimes a couple of weeks, but only once has it been longer. Dragons can go on for so long. If I'd some clue about how, maybe I can make my imperfect cure a little better.
Not so much transferring as if we can further it, see if our bodies can isolate it but then purge it on their own. The current cure is...
[Anders exhales.]
Not only is it complicated and kills more than it saves, there's an ingredient in it that's vastly difficult to obtain. Great dragon blood. So few Great dragons and so much Blight makes it fairly impractical except when someone is desperate.
[There's a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips for a moment before he's back to looking studious.]
Any creatures other than dragons get blighted and they succumb quickly. Sometimes it takes scarcely an hour, sometimes a couple of weeks, but only once has it been longer. Dragons can go on for so long. If I'd some clue about how, maybe I can make my imperfect cure a little better.
He doesn't think he wanted the Abbey to be bad and demon-laden, but that's beyond the point. The point is that they came at it seeing different things because they'd different lives. Or maybe it lines up with the point. He's not entirely certain, and he can find no added insight in the shredded meat he's pushing around on his plate.
"The dream of seeing again?" The question is very quiet. He's not certain when healing was offered to Myr, or how much the elf was told beforehand.
"Or some other dream?" A dream of those who were lost sticking around? He doesn't know if that would be a good dream or not, no matter how many he misses. Most are better off at the Maker's side than in this world; if the Void is real it's only him and Merrill he cares about who the Chantry says are going there.
"The dream of seeing again?" The question is very quiet. He's not certain when healing was offered to Myr, or how much the elf was told beforehand.
"Or some other dream?" A dream of those who were lost sticking around? He doesn't know if that would be a good dream or not, no matter how many he misses. Most are better off at the Maker's side than in this world; if the Void is real it's only him and Merrill he cares about who the Chantry says are going there.
Isn't that true for many ways of healing?
[ There are more dangers in medicine than many people might be able to wrap their minds around; she had learned that through studies and seen it on the battlefield, even if it is only one battle that she can put behind her now. It was experience enough for her, and she breathes out gently. ]
I've never seen the Blight first hand. I've learned a few things, from books, but I doubt they're particularly true to life. [ Sidony is obviously completely interested in the dissection happening in front of her, eyes wide. ] How much do you think you'll learn?
[ There are more dangers in medicine than many people might be able to wrap their minds around; she had learned that through studies and seen it on the battlefield, even if it is only one battle that she can put behind her now. It was experience enough for her, and she breathes out gently. ]
I've never seen the Blight first hand. I've learned a few things, from books, but I doubt they're particularly true to life. [ Sidony is obviously completely interested in the dissection happening in front of her, eyes wide. ] How much do you think you'll learn?
A twitch of Myr's head goes for acknowledgement of the question--that and no more, at first. To say something requires confessing to having a desire he should have killed and buried before it did the same to someone else. Requires confessing just how far beyond the bounds of orthodoxy he believed, and how it misled him, and how he fears--as Odetta did--he'd failed the test set before him.
"Of having my eyes again. Yes."
His fingers walk the spine of the journal once more, those same eyes drawn down to its cover.
"Of having my eyes again. Yes."
His fingers walk the spine of the journal once more, those same eyes drawn down to its cover.
"Was it worth it?" There isn't judgment in his voice. He's never been without a sense, and while people died... it hadn't been Myr's choice alone. And if it hadn't been Myr being healed, it may have been someone else setting off the chaos. The place had always been bound to, well, explode considering how it was fueled and run. But that hadn't meant it had to be Myr who lit the match.
The question echoes Teren's the night of the abbey's utter collapse, recalls the rain and the cold and the pain of fingers scraped raw by digging. Why ask me that, Myr wonders anew, as if his own judgment on the worth of what he'd experienced redeemed it. As if it could somehow balance one small part of Thedas' ledger of suffering and injustice before Andraste's returning to do away with it all.
As if seeing Simon's face outweighed Alvar's lost sanity; as if Van's tentative return to the Chantry was just payment for the lives lost to it.
As if. As if--
He'd equivocated last time, too stunned for certainty. This time he's a better idea of what to say, when at length he looks up at Anders: "I've got to live as if it was. They did."
As if seeing Simon's face outweighed Alvar's lost sanity; as if Van's tentative return to the Chantry was just payment for the lives lost to it.
As if. As if--
He'd equivocated last time, too stunned for certainty. This time he's a better idea of what to say, when at length he looks up at Anders: "I've got to live as if it was. They did."
Six avoids the infirmary as much as she can; she's used to healing her own wounds, used to making sure that she's alive by her own hand, to relax any kind of reliance on others as much as possible. She misses that ability, that power - the chance to heal herself, the chance to press a hand against any bleeding wound and feel the warmth of Sarenrae healing the panicked edges of her.
Without those powers she feels utterly bereft, weakened, unsure. Lost.
Walking in now, Six looks around, nervous and unsure. She does not want to walk into Isaac, does not want to see him even if she knows, rationally, she will not mistake him for her father in the bright light of day. She hesitates if only because she's not sure if she even needs to be here. Her leg is sore, yes, but it's not the kind of pain that will slaughter her completely. It's a manageable kind of pain.
"Hello?"
Without those powers she feels utterly bereft, weakened, unsure. Lost.
Walking in now, Six looks around, nervous and unsure. She does not want to walk into Isaac, does not want to see him even if she knows, rationally, she will not mistake him for her father in the bright light of day. She hesitates if only because she's not sure if she even needs to be here. Her leg is sore, yes, but it's not the kind of pain that will slaughter her completely. It's a manageable kind of pain.
"Hello?"
"Hello," he calls cheerfully back. He knows that voice, and he also knows she doesn't sound entirely at ease. Then again, few people who come to the infirmary are. Anders comes out from the back area with a hairless cat perched on his shoulder and gives Six a little wave.
"Come on in, have a seat. What can I do for you?" She looks a little pale, he thinks.
"Come on in, have a seat. What can I do for you?" She looks a little pale, he thinks.
She does seem to relax a little when she realises that it's Anders who has come out to see her and not someone unfamiliar and strange to her, walking forward. She's not quite limping anymore, but it's clear that she's favouring one leg over the other, still considering the depth of her recovery since the battle. Six wants to make certain she is prepared in case she is sent somewhere else, in case she needs to fight for someone else.
"My leg was damaged," it's likely obvious when. "I only wished to make certain it was appropriate for me to start training properly."
"My leg was damaged," it's likely obvious when. "I only wished to make certain it was appropriate for me to start training properly."
"Of course." He waves her toward one of the cots. "Have you noticed any particular swelling of the joints?"
Her walking is a little uneven, telling him which leg it is. "And where was the injury?" They don't have organized, centralized notes, but in a way he's all right with that. There aren't heavy records on the Rifters or the mages and it seems safer.
Her walking is a little uneven, telling him which leg it is. "And where was the injury?" They don't have organized, centralized notes, but in a way he's all right with that. There aren't heavy records on the Rifters or the mages and it seems safer.
"Nothing that has caused me any concern. It has been sore, but that was to be expected."
Settling down, Six motions to the leg that was crushed. It's not something she's comfortable thinking about - not because of the nature of the injury but because of what had happened after it took place. She still can't quite think of Isaac without some hesitation, without some feeling of uncertainty about what she had done to him. It was unjust of her, but she had not have control over it.
"The lower half of my leg, here. It was broken severely."
Settling down, Six motions to the leg that was crushed. It's not something she's comfortable thinking about - not because of the nature of the injury but because of what had happened after it took place. She still can't quite think of Isaac without some hesitation, without some feeling of uncertainty about what she had done to him. It was unjust of her, but she had not have control over it.
"The lower half of my leg, here. It was broken severely."
Sidony has been wandering the infirmary listlessly.
She spends ten minutes making idle notes in her notebook, another ten reorganising the herbs at one side, another ten making tea and not drinking it, and then decides that she is clearly wasting her time and gets out one of her textbooks from home. She spends a good half hour flicking through the pages with a huff of noise each time she skips the page; nothing is keeping her distracted enough,
Slamming her teacup down, she pushes herself away from her desk and, without checking the room, makes her way to Anders and leans over his shoulders, just to make sure that he isn't working on something delicate with his hands or something disgusting. Only when she's sure that he's as clean as possible does she move, slipping herself between him and the table and setting herself on his lap.
There.
"Entertain me, please. I need to be distracted."
She spends ten minutes making idle notes in her notebook, another ten reorganising the herbs at one side, another ten making tea and not drinking it, and then decides that she is clearly wasting her time and gets out one of her textbooks from home. She spends a good half hour flicking through the pages with a huff of noise each time she skips the page; nothing is keeping her distracted enough,
Slamming her teacup down, she pushes herself away from her desk and, without checking the room, makes her way to Anders and leans over his shoulders, just to make sure that he isn't working on something delicate with his hands or something disgusting. Only when she's sure that he's as clean as possible does she move, slipping herself between him and the table and setting herself on his lap.
There.
"Entertain me, please. I need to be distracted."
She's been fidgeting for forever, but Anders is never sure when she'd want someone to intrude versus when she wants people to pretend it's not happening so he busies himself in his own work until suddenly she's not just there, but she's there. In his lap. For a brief moment he tries to hide his amusement, tries to look stern... and then he fails entirely and breaks out into a grin, leaning back in his chair.
"I'm a fairly passable tenor, will that help?" He lightly loops an arm around her shoulders, reaching over to mark his place in his book with the other hand. "Or you can tell me what I'm distracting you from and I can work from there. Current options that come to mind are... cats, other cats, and still other cats."
"I'm a fairly passable tenor, will that help?" He lightly loops an arm around her shoulders, reaching over to mark his place in his book with the other hand. "Or you can tell me what I'm distracting you from and I can work from there. Current options that come to mind are... cats, other cats, and still other cats."
The problem is, of course, that she doesn't really know what she wants. She's frustrated - by what Byerly told her, by what Jester had done, not realising what the flowers were, not putting the pieces together. There's some anxiety there too, of wondering what might happen if Jester did figure it out, what might happen as a result, baring a part of herself she wasn't sure she was ready to admit to just yet.
Here, settled against Anders, she can hum a little and pretend as though nothing was wrong at all.
"As long as you don't sing the Chant I don't much care," at least he's comfortable, and she settles herself against him. He will have to tolerate it, she thinks, because she doesn't intend to move. "What cats will you distract me with?"
Here, settled against Anders, she can hum a little and pretend as though nothing was wrong at all.
"As long as you don't sing the Chant I don't much care," at least he's comfortable, and she settles herself against him. He will have to tolerate it, she thinks, because she doesn't intend to move. "What cats will you distract me with?"
"And here I'm such a great devotee of the Chant," he says dryly. This is nice. Not being able to drape over Nate has left him feeling a bit hollow, but apparently having a friend drape over him helps. He'll take it.
"We've got Isaac the Second here, somewhere, though he's probably napping. I've the Hero of Purrelden and Lord Pawdric in my room, one's likely awake. Then there are the cats that like to wander around the gallows courtyard, or the stables in the city. I'm fond of one with only one eye who lives near the docks; he's fast, darting out to get the fish guts and vanishing back into the shadows. I call him Eyevan."
"We've got Isaac the Second here, somewhere, though he's probably napping. I've the Hero of Purrelden and Lord Pawdric in my room, one's likely awake. Then there are the cats that like to wander around the gallows courtyard, or the stables in the city. I'm fond of one with only one eye who lives near the docks; he's fast, darting out to get the fish guts and vanishing back into the shadows. I call him Eyevan."
"I will tear your hair out if you even whisper a verse, Anders," and she looks so genuinely serious about it that, for a moment, it seems that she might actually do it. At least his lap is comfortable, and Sidony hums as she looks around, as if the cats might leap out at her at any moment.
"Oh, don't bore me with more of Isaac," she's fond enough of him, but she's less fond of the cat then she is the man. Lifting her head, she raises her eyebrow, giving him a soft, judgemental look. "You have the most ridiculous names for cats I have ever heard in my entire life, darling."
"Oh, don't bore me with more of Isaac," she's fond enough of him, but she's less fond of the cat then she is the man. Lifting her head, she raises her eyebrow, giving him a soft, judgemental look. "You have the most ridiculous names for cats I have ever heard in my entire life, darling."
He snorts at the threat. He may know the whole Chant by heart thanks to having a year full of too much nothing in his past, but there's no fondness in his heart for it. There is fondness, however, for his cat names.
Anders presses his free hand to his chest and gives her a wounded look. "I beg your pardon? My cat names are magnificent. They're fitting and funny, and cats need names that are fitting and funny. Who really wants another dog running around with the stuffy name of some long-dead warrior? Especially in this day and age, when everything likes to go wrong. We need the ridiculous." He needs the ridiculous.
Anders presses his free hand to his chest and gives her a wounded look. "I beg your pardon? My cat names are magnificent. They're fitting and funny, and cats need names that are fitting and funny. Who really wants another dog running around with the stuffy name of some long-dead warrior? Especially in this day and age, when everything likes to go wrong. We need the ridiculous." He needs the ridiculous.
Sidony has no love for the Chant or any of the religion linked to it, clearly, and the frustration she feels prickles at her as she forces herself to live in a world that tries to press that religion down her throat. Perhaps if they were more accepting of things...
"Do we?" Sidony raises her eyebrow but says nothing, smothing her smile with pursed lips. "I don't think I'd like to walk around here shouting out names like Hero of Purrelden and Pawdric. I get enough looks as it is."
"Do we?" Sidony raises her eyebrow but says nothing, smothing her smile with pursed lips. "I don't think I'd like to walk around here shouting out names like Hero of Purrelden and Pawdric. I get enough looks as it is."
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