The Elf in the Mirror
You have left a significant amount of your week relatively free. Though there were several heart pounding moments when you thought that time would be consumed as the forest collapsed into violence, it has so far not done so.
You refuse to even think the sentence 'and it will not'. You will not tempt Mandos any more than you already are.
The reason you have left this time free is simple. You intend to return to the Sabrae clan to continue working on the Hahren. Leaving aside that you feel responsible for the whole affair, it is a tantalising thought, to possess the ability to soothe the dead without the aid of The Judge. Perhaps, in time, you may even learn to re-embody them.
Before you meet the Keeper you take a moment to gauge the attitude of the clan about the whole affair with Lanaya's clan. Attitudes have not broadly shifted much. Several pockets echo Tamlen's concerns and general distaste for having to fight their kin. The majority however seem resigned to the fight, blaming Lanaya's clan for starting the affair. You believe the fact that nobody has died helps.
Marethari meets you in her aravel, looking like she has been spending entirely too many nights working on this project instead of sleeping. Shilya's face can be seen in the mirror that houses her spirit, though shadows crowd around her. Occasionally her face will stretch and shift into something monstrous for a short time, but she manages to maintain her sanity the majority of the time.
"I hope you have not exhausted yourself to no avail." You say as you finish looking around the room.
Marethari waves a dismissive hand at you. "I'm older than you, I know my limits."
"You are not older than me." You remind her. "But I will take you at your word for now. Just know that, should you collapse at any point while I am here, I will tie you to a bed."
"Didn't take you for the kinky type." Marethari says with a slightly hysterical chuckle.
You note that word down for later investigation. "Your progress?"
"Well, the good news is that I don't think we could have done this just talking to the mirror." Marethari explains. "I've tried talking to some of the others, and it's very hard to get through to them. Or rather, it isn't but making it stick is another story."
"I assume that due to the lack of temptation of access to other souls, it is easy to acquire a verbal agreement but their behaviour does not change meaningfully?" You ask.
Marethari blinks in surprise. Both she and Shilya turn questioning gazes upon you.
"That is correct, how did you know?" The Keeper asks.
"It is not any lore that I have withheld if that is your concern." You reply with a grimace. "I am, familiar, with the ease with which one can proclaim repentance when there is no challenge before you."
Marethari nods sadly. "Yes. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But in essence yes, making any meaningful inroads is a challenge."
"Perhaps we will be best served by focusing on Shilya until we have solved her issue." You suggest. "It may be easier if we have one who knows intimately the challenges faced by the others."
"My thoughts exactly." Marethari nods. "Shilya, you've been unusually quiet. Is something wrong?"
The face in the mirror glances between the two of you, before a spectral voice emerges, quietly. "He's scary."
"I am not currently a danger to you, and I assure you that I intend to do everything in my power to restore you to your old self." You proclaim quietly. "I will not tell you that your fear is foolish, but I shall not harm you unduly."
The face flinches, and the shadows roil and writhe in an ominous fashion.
"I don't think that was as comforting as you were hoping." Marethari notes drily.
You sigh through your nose. "Unfortunately I doubt there is anything I could say that would assuage her fear. Even without accounting for the fact that there is little in this land that could harm her as the Light of Valinor does, I am undeniably at fault for her current existence. Nor will I lie and claim that I would never hurt her, because that is demonstrably untrue."
There is a somewhat awkward silence following your statement. Shilya is watching you warily, and you suspect Marethari feels she should comfort you, but also thinks your words were foolish. Arguably they were, but you believe that it is likely to be more comforting if Shilya knows where you stand than if you act deceptively.
"So, I've been looking into treatment options." Marethari says at last. "I'd like your opinion on them."
Marethari takes meticulous notes. It is a rather interesting comparison to her student, whose notes tend to the chaotic. That is not to say that Merrill does not take notes diligently, merely that she is much more prone to adding new ideas as and when they occur. Perhaps it is simply a matter of experience.
The first set of notes seems to be the oldest, likely reviewed just before your arrival. They document her theories about the Light and how it might affect a houseless. Some of her theories are outlandish, but you must admit that it is a possible solution, if a drastic one.
"I think that attempting anything akin to an exorcism would be much too risky." You state. "I think we should table that for desperate times."
"If you think it's too risky." Marethari agrees easily. "You are the expert on that matter."
"You flatter me." You reply, picking up the next page.
Interesting, it seems to be her current set of working theories on the nature of the houseless. You have never heard it speculated to be a primarily psychological phenomenon before. It is interesting, and there seems to be some basis for it. However, you suspect that Thedas' bias away from the more mystical aspects of life is showing in Marethari's work.
"I am not confident that this option will achieve anything at all." You observe.
Marethari raises an eyebrow. "Does it come with any particular risks though?"
"Nothing beyond wasting our time, I suppose." You concede.
"Exactly. So unless you have a better idea, then I think it is worth trying if nothing else." The Keeper says.
The moment before you agree something catches your eye.
"What is this?" You ask, raising a third paper.
"Oh, that? It's an extension of the ritual we used to calm her in the first place. I was trying to turn it into something more workable for immediate results." Marethari remarks. "A failure unfortunately, it simply does not allow the minds to meet in the right way."
You flick your eyes over the paper. Theoretically, this would allow you to essentially lend your own will to the houseless to allow them to suppress their hunger for life. Admittedly a long shot, but if you understand the condition as well as you do, it might essentially allow you to help them come to terms with their death.
She abandoned it as a long shot, due in part to not having the right kind of telepathy. But you do have it.
"This seems like Osanwë." You muse to yourself.
The Keeper's head snaps to face you. "What was that you just said?"
As you explain the concept to Marethari you reflect that you have another advantage that Marethari does not know of. You have died before. Perhaps you might be able to lend some of your acceptance of the fact to the houseless. Though how successful it will be is hard to say.
After you finish your explanation, you raise the possibility of using your abilities to carry out the plan she has abandoned.
The Keeper worries at her lip. "How risky would this be."
You pause in thought. "This is an unprecedented matter so I cannot be certain. There is obviously some risk of failure, but I cannot think of too many outright dangers."
Marethari takes several deep breaths. "Very well. Let's try it."
You take a few minutes to prepare a plan. First, you will reach out to Shilya's thoughts. Then you will carefully share some carefully curated memories. You mostly just want to test how this will work.
"Do you need anything? Is this all good?" The Keeper asks nervously.
You nod. "If this works the way I believe it should, then we will need you to cast a spell to actually make any progress, but I have never tried to open the thoughts of a houseless before."
Marethari nods repeatedly, breathing deeply. "Ready Shilya?"
"I am ready Marethari." The houseless replies with a wan smile.
You give the pair a comforting smile. "Osanwë should only allow for the transmission of words. If anything, I am being over cautious even attempting this without your assistance Marethari."
As the two take comfort from your words, you reach out towards Shilya. The Nandëo has been instructed to leave her thoughts open to you (a conversation which had taken far too long for such a simple concept).
The instant you make contact, you hear her thoughts. A monotonous chant of 'open thoughts'. It makes you chuckle, and you try to extend a memory.
Then several things go wrong at once.
Shilya starts hearing your laughter in her head. Then she loses control of herself. As the houseless surges forth, you feel the Nandëo cling to your mind subconsciously trying to draw strength from you as discussed. The wraith side of her follows the connection back and immediately tries to possess you.
Between the mirror, your own protections and Shilya's aid it should have been, and is, a futile attempt. However, the nature of the Nandëo's soul interacts strangely with osanwë.
A spike of pain lances through your skull. For a moment you are Shilya, an experienced weaver of the clan. You are married and have a daughter. You are Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol Maedhros. Marethari was your friend back when she was a First, and to this day she is still your best friend. No! Fingon was your best friend, you owe him your life. You are the eldest son of Fëanar, lord of Himring, prince of the Noldor.
The weight of your history crashes into these memories. Seventy years is a long time to mortals but you are not a mortal. Further, this is not the first time you have taken in memories of another soul.
You are Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, and no houseless' memories can change that.
The pain fades and you look into a mirror to see your Shilya clutching her forehead.
"The fire, it burns! My hand!" She screams, form flickering wildly. "FINGON!"
The word you utter is one your mother would never stand for. That Shilya yells Uslambë[1] reflexively in response bodes ill.
Your first reaction, to act, to do something anything as long as it fixes the current situation, you supress viciously. Reacting without forethought is a significant contributor to being here in the first place. Instead, you look around, determining what exactly is happening.
The image in the mirror is roiling and raging. Sometimes it is abstract dark shadows, other times it is Shilya, still other times it is simply a mirror. Throughout it all, Shilya mutters, screams and rages randomly. Sometimes she speaks Thedaslta, other times Quenya, still others Sindarin.
What she says changes just as frequently. Sometimes she calls out for people you knew, other times she calls to you and Marethari. The rare moments she repeats her name, or that of her husband and friends, to herself are no more comforting than anything else she does.
Marethari is staring in transfixed horror. In part due to ignorance, in part due to racial differences but mostly due to shock she is much slower to react than you are. Your first act should be to break her out of her inaction and being to form a plan of action, before Shilya grows much worse.
"Marethari." You call out. "Something has gone wrong, as best as I can tell Shilya has taken a number of my memories for her own. Or more accurately she brought our minds close enough that we exchanged memories."
The Keeper whirls on you. "You knew this was possible?!"
"What?" You ask in absolute shock.
"Again, you demonstrate recklessness with that which is most precious to us. Is this a game to you? Do you not see that this matters to us or do you simply not care?" Marethari screams at you.
"What are you talking about woman?" You ask incredulously. "I knew nothing of the possibility of this, by all that I know it should be impossible! Do you truly believe that I would painstakingly learn a tongue among strangers if I had the option to simply take the memories needed from another's mind?"
Marethari snarls. "You must have known! This can't have been an accident, I thought you knew all about these creatures!"
You grasp her by the shoulders. "I do not. Marethari you must understand, as alien as I am to you, so too you are to me. I hide it better because I know much about the world and the principles by which it works, but in this matter I am as lost as you are. Mandos took no students, and I never had the inclination to study under him besides. This should not be possible. Osanwë does not work like this!"
To prove your point, you reach out to her mind, unsurprised to find it closed.
"What did you just do?" She shrieks.
"I attempted to reach into your mind but could not do so." You explain quickly. "The permission is not some magic barrier that once lowered cannot be raised. It is a constant pressure, if a mind should choose to eject you, you are ejected, at that instant."
"Say I believe you." The Keeper says, glaring at you. "How does that prove this is impossible?"
"Because the fastest way to get someone to reject you is to cause them pain." You point out. "It leads to a reflexive flinching away from the contact. You know this, you did it the moment I reached out to you."
"But the memories…" She says slowly.
"I explained before, remember. Osanwë should not allow the transfer of memories, merely surface thoughts." You repeat. "It is more like speech, merely without your tongue."
"Yes… Yes…" Marethari repeats to herself several times. "You wouldn't do this. You wouldn't have to. What would you even get out of it?"
"Exactly I came here with the best of intentions." The mirror says.
The two of you freeze and turn your gaze to the mirror. Your own face stares back out from it, red cloak and all.
"Nelyafinwë, where is Shilya." Marethari asks very deliberately.
Both you and the mirror go to speak at the same instant. What follows is more akin to a comedy routine than any actual conversation. The both of you attempt to get the other to stop talking.
"Enough!" Marethari yells, then points to you. "You. Explain."
You look from her to the mirror and back again. "I have no idea."
"No idea?" Marethari asks, eye twitching.
You shrug. "I have theories, but I do not know enough about the Beyond or what just happened to have any certainty about which is more likely than the other."
"List them then." The Keeper says through gritted teeth.
You sigh. "Firstly, my memories have overwhelmed Shilya and she now believes she is me. The appearance would then be a function of the Beyond's nature."
"She isn't in the Beyond." Marethari points out.
"You described the realm in the mirror as similar, so I assumed." You reply. "Again I do not know enough to be certain."
Marethari raises a hand to massage her brows. The image of you in the mirror has adopted an expression that you recall Pityo describing as your 'scary thinking face'. It is eerie, to be frank.
"Continue." Marethari forces out between her teeth.
"It is also possible that some kind of apparition has been born based on me, much in the manner of a memory in the Beyond." You continue. "The final theory I have is that I am, and have always been, just such an apparition based upon the real Nelyafinwë and the mirror has simply copied that."
Marethari glances from you to the mirror and back again. "You sound very calm about that possibility."
"Just because I cannot disprove it does not mean I believe it." You and the mirror chorus.
Then you sigh. That is not a good sign.
Buying and Selling
Denerim's market square bustles with activity. The air is filled with the sounds of people hawking wares, and faintly the scent of animal leaving and humanity is accented by notes of spice that dance on the air. Bright shade cloths cover stalls and weapons and jewellery glint in the bright winter sun.
In this crowd Delora is going about her business. She's not quite started her day just yet, but she's keeping an eye on what's being sold. Sometimes, the boss wants something popular, and those don't always last, so she's keeping an eye out.
"Excuse me, ma'am." A rather proper sounding voice interrupts her thoughts.
"What do you want?" Delora replies shortly, turning to face the speaker.
It proves to be a man in a rather fancy dark shirt. There is a moth stitched in white thread on the left breast, and his greying hair has been pulled back into a tail, rather uncharacteristic for Ferelden.
"Manners cost nothing young lady. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I am Dylln of the Dark Moth Trading Company. I have been asking around, and I have been told that you represent a certain, Nelyafinwë? That is correct yes?" The man replies.
Delora's hand slowly creeps towards her dagger. "Yeah, I do. What's it to you?"
With a contemptuous glance towards her ears, the man drawls. "I don't suppose you can prove this claim, can you."
Delora glares at him but flashes the seal thing that the boss gave Martin.
The man inclines his head. "My apologies, one can never be too careful with such matters."
"Get to the point. You're wasting my time." The elf grumbles.
"In that case, you are most cordially invited to a luncheon with Maeglin son of Ëol." The man says, producing a card with a flourish. "It shall be a working occasion, costs to be covered by the Dark Moth Trading Company, naturally."
Carefully Delora took the card. "Why's this Maeglin want to meet with me."
"It is hardly my place to question my betters." The many replies archly.
Delora paused outside the fancy restaurant. She ran her hands through her hair and patted down her clothes for dust. She felt incredibly out of place already, surrounded by all the colour and high fashion of Denerim's merchant class. A quiet cough from her escort, the man who delivered her invitation.
"I'm going already, I'm going." The elf grumbles.
"Of course ma'am." Dylln replies condescendingly.
She finds this 'Maeglin' sitting at one of the better tables. Her first reaction to him is shock. His dark hair framed a pale face that she would once have claimed was the fairest she had ever seen. However, exposure to her boss had numbed her to otherworldly beauty somewhat, and she soon took note of other details.
The dark blue cloak that hung on his chair for example, it stood out for how worn and old it looked when compared to the rest of his fine garb. So too did she note a certain feverish intensity in his dark eyes. He had the look of one who is desperate and hunted, for all that he should have seemed at ease in the lap of luxury and power.
"You are the merchant Maedhros employs?" Maeglin asks brusquely.
"No sir." Delora replies, in a slight daze. "I don't know anybody called Maedhros."
Those dark eye flicker with annoyance. "He goes by another name, I cannot recall it. Tall, red of hair, dark of eye. Belts his sword to the right, red cloak?"
"Oh, Nelayfinwe, yeah I work for him." Delora nods.
"Come. Sit down. I would know what my dear cousin is buying in preparation for this 'Blight'." The tall elf gestures to the seat across from him.
"Cousin?" Delora asks weakly, sinking into the chair.
"Once removed on my mother's side." Maeglin rolls his eyes at her clear incomprehension. "My mother's father was his father's brother, that made them cousins, thus I am a cousin once removed on her side."
"Who the hell even keeps track that closely." Delora asks.
"Nobility generally and royalty specifically." Maeglin answers offhandedly. "Now we have some time until the food arrives, I took the liberty of ordering for you, as the menu here is designed to be hard to comprehend. In that time, you can tell me what Nelyafinwë is buying."
"Well, right now we're stocking up on long lasting food." Delora admits carefully.
She's not sure how much she should share here really. She knows that merchants use what other people are buying as a source for their own decision making, she's done it herself. Yet, at the same time this whole set up is giving her, well, the impression of a set up.
Maeglin lifts a single eyebrow. "I see, stocking up for a campaign I suppose."
Delora shrugs. "Can't say I know. I just do what I'm told."
How Maeglin manages to convey intense annoyance without moving his face is almost as impressive as it is intimidating. Still the elf doesn't give way. She doesn't know what Maeglin is trying to find out, but horror stories of merchant cartels and guild thugs flash through her mind, made all the more credible by how most elves get treated in this city.
Maeaglin steeples his fingers. "No armour? No weapons?"
Delora shrugs. "Don't think so."
Definitely not mentioning the probably illegal transaction with the dwarves. No sir.
"I wonder why that is." Maeglin asked himself.
"Well, I think Nelyfainwe…" Maeglin glares at her. "Nelyafinwë, has recruited and equipped all the soldiers he wants to? It seems like he's more focused on getting people to get along?"
Maeglin nods slowly. "Yes. That does make sense. Only so many trained warriors to go around, better to pull in those who already are here than starting from scratch. I wonder if I can apply that myself…"
After what Delora maintains is far too long, lunch arrives. It's really good, to her frustration. Maeglin even proves a decent host, though given how this all started she's too on edge to really enjoy it. But her worst fears never come true, when lunch is finished he bids her farewell and she's allowed to walk free.
Tensely Delora waits until he disappears before relaxing.
"Alright, I'm telling the boss all about this and Martin can come and do the shopping in Denerim from now on!" She proclaims to the sky.
She then blushes fiercely as people stop to stare at her.
Weekly Report
So Maeglin has been interrogating Delora. With all the grace and gentility that you are rapidly coming to expect of him.
"Perhaps I need to interrogate Turko more closely about his relationship with Irissë." You muse, mostly in jest. "He certainly seems more fit for House Fëanaro than House Ñolofinwë."
Then again Ëol had hardly been a picture of grace himself, and Tugon had the diplomatic manner of an angry bull, so he likely came by his attitude honestly.
Truth be told there is relatively little else to look over from the week. Your spies report strange behaviour from the Dark Moth Trading Company, but you think you know what is going on there. You were here when Lanaya's merchants swung by to pick up their arms and armour. Even Ranger and Anneth informing you of the failed hostage negotiations are not news, even though you had not known of them.
No wait. Apparently, it snowed in Denerim a few days ago. That is news.
"Sir?" Anneth asks at your door.
"Come in Anneth. What news?" You respond.
"That Solas fellow's shown up again, and he's brought, uh, friends." She explains.
You stand up. "Well. Let us hope that they are friends then."
[1] Us (prefix)- improper, wrong, bad, lambë - Language/tongue. Elven equivalent of just saying 'Language' because prefixes are neat like that.