(Galadriel is fairly used to getting mail but she'll be a bit shocked to receive any in Thedas. For any notes, missives, letters, or other communications.)
The answer that comes to her is a strange one, it is a blend of what is and what was. Had she actually been in this time, in this place, she would have replied differently, her answer longer and the meaning less clear, but this is a distant memory couched in a dream and time is strange here.
"Toward the dawn," she says, her own breath freezing in the air before her the very moment it leaves her lips. There is a brittle quality to the world as she speaks but she doesn't seem to notice it. "Across the sea to Middle-earth and to all that matters in this world."
It is a cryptic answer but only by omission. Even here she cannot recall the whole of her life at once, but the reminder of Middle-earth does spark something in the darkness beyond them. A distant glimmer flashes against the sky, bisected by what might be the horizon. Below, the ice groans and grinds in heaving waves.
The strength of her mind's recollection of this cold is powerful enough that Atticus, though he knows that the world around them is only the workings of her own thoughts put into the flesh of the Fade, feels the frigid bite in his bones. Somewhere in the waking world, he shivers, and looks with a rush of unexpected longing towards the light on the distant horizon. There, he knows suddenly, is relief, but it is so far away--
(A pause. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, to find his place in this fiction. A visitor, not a participant--)
It is then that he notices the buzzing swarm of demons shifting, hissing and undulating in the pitch blackness around them; there is no fear in his cold eyes as he watches them, only sudden understanding. Despair; that is what they feed on, and the despondency of this dreamscape only slakes their appetite for more.
"Tell me what it is that matters about this Middle-earth," he coaxes her, his tone like silk across steel, and keeps his eyes on the mass of demons that seem as repelled as they are attracted by Galadriel's peculiar, alien power.
Her mind doesn't follow the question well and something in her step falters as it tries to wrap itself around it. The distant crack and shift of the ice shelf resounds across the plain. There is a rolling tremor as it crashes and refreezes, but the ground remains stable beneath them.
Nothing is important about Middle-earth--it must be protected at all costs--it is the land of passing things--it is my home--it is not my home--my family is there--my family will all die there--power awaits me--it shall all be lost--darkness has gathered there--
The answers, a hundred strong, cascade alongside them in an impossible tangle, a cacophony of hushed whispers, one atop of the other until they are spent. She speaks none of them and all of them at once. She walks and the ice beneath them is sharper, more brittle, the ocean waves are louder as they crash against it.
"I am needed there," she says, once her mind has expended all other possible answers. She looks down, a reflexive motion, to her left hand and then, abruptly, she stops walking. The whole dream jars, the momentum of their walking disrupted, as she lifts her hand and stares at the gold ring wrapped around her finger. Her brow dips and, as she turns her hand over to stare at the sharp text engraved into the ring, she says: "I am bound to it."
What an inconsequential bit of gold finery; it should not, in this place, exude such a draw upon anyone, least of all a magister whose interest in wealth and finery has never extended beyond sporting enough of it to denote his position in Tevinter society. Atticus' eyes glance off of it at first, the immediate threat posed by the demons and the murmur of indistinct whispering around them occupying the vast majority of his attention. Yet as Galadriel lifts her hand, he looks back again, and fixates.
"I am bound to it."
Around them, the dreamscape shivers, the scope of it narrowing upon the ring; what else matters beyond its potential, whispered into his ear with promises of the wonders he could create, if only he could touch the band one time? Wear it, and what obstacle would the Veil be to his vision? Rend it like shorn metal or part it gently like silk curtains, he could coax the visions of his sleeping mind into the waking world and weave together earth and sky and water with magic that could outlive the limitations of his own feeble body.
(Yet why limit himself in such a way? Why not weave together magic with flesh? A body is just another distant horizon waiting to be crossed--)
The helm that masks his face seems to disintegrate like ash caught on the wind, revealing his identity, his expression more tabula rasa than covetous. Atticus turns his pale eyes, wondering and wide, towards Galadriel... and witnesses the curl of elongated, bony fingers that rest against her cheeks. There, beside her face, a demon--and upon his own shoulder, slipping through his hair, cold talons and the near press of teeth. Venhedis--
His draw upon the Fade mutes and muffles the grinding groan of the frozen sea as it shifts under their feet. The protective barrier that suddenly envelops and encompasses Galadriel hums with energy, and absorbs the brunt of the impact from the spell that rips apart the demons that had been curling and crawling around them.
(A near-miss for the Inquisition, who nearly had two powerful abominations to contend with.)
The promises of the ring are familiar, the whispers of Sauron eke their way out of the cracks in the ice, the shadows at her feet, and she is transfixed. When the world around her bursts with light and power the whole of the world shivers and jumps to the left. Galadriel is thrown off balance by it and stumbles as the Fade ignites around her.
Fade?
The word is strange and it pulls at a thread in her mind causing the whole of this place to begin slowly unraveling. It begins with her hand, with the glimmering gold that rests on her finger, and she stares down at it as it crumbles to ash. The thread pulls again and it begins to take the blistering cold. She twists to watch it, watch as crystals form through the snag in the air and fade away, and this time her eyes catch on the human in her dream.
Dream?
She says nothing, skill with words has not returned to her, but she stares as her mind attempts to wake itself to the reality of this place.
Like pulling the threads of a tapestry loose until the weight of the loose fibre hangs heavy enough to case the rest to collapse; like a ship's captain might read the clouds on the horizon or spy through a sextant to chart a course, Atticus reads the dream around him, and knows it is time to depart. Leave, awaken, before the power of this imagining draws more demons and spirits to this place than he can conceivably fend off without the aid of another mage equally confident in their abilities in this place.
The pale, smokey haze that lingers in the aftermath of his spellcasting is blown away as though at merely a gesture, Atticus can control the wind--and he can, in this place. His pupils blown wide, he turns to find Galadriel's eyes on his, and knows a moment's trepidation. Reckless, careless, he should not be making these mistakes.
"My apologies," he bids her once, countenance closed off. Then he reaches out a hand towards her temple.
The air is collapsing inward as the horizon draws close and a Mage stands before her here. Where is here? There is a moment of confusion and then he speaks, his apology ringing across the space between them, and reaches for her head.
Wake up.
Galadriel's eyes open with a start and the world appears before her in startling clarity. Her dream passes, as they all do, but too quickly for her preference. She grasps, past the whispers of the One, the cold and darkness of the grinding ice, and pulls the stray thread. The face is no guarantee, dreams work strangely, but she knows that voice.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"Toward the dawn," she says, her own breath freezing in the air before her the very moment it leaves her lips. There is a brittle quality to the world as she speaks but she doesn't seem to notice it. "Across the sea to Middle-earth and to all that matters in this world."
It is a cryptic answer but only by omission. Even here she cannot recall the whole of her life at once, but the reminder of Middle-earth does spark something in the darkness beyond them. A distant glimmer flashes against the sky, bisected by what might be the horizon. Below, the ice groans and grinds in heaving waves.
no subject
(A pause. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, to find his place in this fiction. A visitor, not a participant--)
It is then that he notices the buzzing swarm of demons shifting, hissing and undulating in the pitch blackness around them; there is no fear in his cold eyes as he watches them, only sudden understanding. Despair; that is what they feed on, and the despondency of this dreamscape only slakes their appetite for more.
"Tell me what it is that matters about this Middle-earth," he coaxes her, his tone like silk across steel, and keeps his eyes on the mass of demons that seem as repelled as they are attracted by Galadriel's peculiar, alien power.
no subject
Nothing is important about Middle-earth--it must be protected at all costs--it is the land of passing things--it is my home--it is not my home--my family is there--my family will all die there--power awaits me--it shall all be lost--darkness has gathered there--
The answers, a hundred strong, cascade alongside them in an impossible tangle, a cacophony of hushed whispers, one atop of the other until they are spent. She speaks none of them and all of them at once. She walks and the ice beneath them is sharper, more brittle, the ocean waves are louder as they crash against it.
"I am needed there," she says, once her mind has expended all other possible answers. She looks down, a reflexive motion, to her left hand and then, abruptly, she stops walking. The whole dream jars, the momentum of their walking disrupted, as she lifts her hand and stares at the gold ring wrapped around her finger. Her brow dips and, as she turns her hand over to stare at the sharp text engraved into the ring, she says: "I am bound to it."
no subject
"I am bound to it."
Around them, the dreamscape shivers, the scope of it narrowing upon the ring; what else matters beyond its potential, whispered into his ear with promises of the wonders he could create, if only he could touch the band one time? Wear it, and what obstacle would the Veil be to his vision? Rend it like shorn metal or part it gently like silk curtains, he could coax the visions of his sleeping mind into the waking world and weave together earth and sky and water with magic that could outlive the limitations of his own feeble body.
(Yet why limit himself in such a way? Why not weave together magic with flesh? A body is just another distant horizon waiting to be crossed--)
The helm that masks his face seems to disintegrate like ash caught on the wind, revealing his identity, his expression more tabula rasa than covetous. Atticus turns his pale eyes, wondering and wide, towards Galadriel... and witnesses the curl of elongated, bony fingers that rest against her cheeks. There, beside her face, a demon--and upon his own shoulder, slipping through his hair, cold talons and the near press of teeth. Venhedis--
His draw upon the Fade mutes and muffles the grinding groan of the frozen sea as it shifts under their feet. The protective barrier that suddenly envelops and encompasses Galadriel hums with energy, and absorbs the brunt of the impact from the spell that rips apart the demons that had been curling and crawling around them.
(A near-miss for the Inquisition, who nearly had two powerful abominations to contend with.)
no subject
Fade?
The word is strange and it pulls at a thread in her mind causing the whole of this place to begin slowly unraveling. It begins with her hand, with the glimmering gold that rests on her finger, and she stares down at it as it crumbles to ash. The thread pulls again and it begins to take the blistering cold. She twists to watch it, watch as crystals form through the snag in the air and fade away, and this time her eyes catch on the human in her dream.
Dream?
She says nothing, skill with words has not returned to her, but she stares as her mind attempts to wake itself to the reality of this place.
no subject
The pale, smokey haze that lingers in the aftermath of his spellcasting is blown away as though at merely a gesture, Atticus can control the wind--and he can, in this place. His pupils blown wide, he turns to find Galadriel's eyes on his, and knows a moment's trepidation. Reckless, careless, he should not be making these mistakes.
"My apologies," he bids her once, countenance closed off. Then he reaches out a hand towards her temple.
"Wake up."
no subject
Wake up.
Galadriel's eyes open with a start and the world appears before her in startling clarity. Her dream passes, as they all do, but too quickly for her preference. She grasps, past the whispers of the One, the cold and darkness of the grinding ice, and pulls the stray thread. The face is no guarantee, dreams work strangely, but she knows that voice.
Unfortunately, she knew not what to make of this.