He always has, since earliest childhood; where many of the alienage's children could pick up something from simple instructions, he had to be walked through the motions. It went with him into the Circle, where he struggled with the easiest spells until they tried teaching him the gestures first. And where there weren't gestures, he had to make them up; and when he had to memorize new information, it had to be written down, because that teaches him the shape the memory should take.
For all his blindness, none of that has changed; though he's learned different ways to commit things to memory--and there's so much now he needs to memorize about the world because he can't see it any longer--the best and surest way is still to write things down.
And he can still write, in his dreams.
He keeps the demon in front of him: When looked at straight on, it takes the semblance of a man; but out of the corner of the eye it drips with golden radiance, with flaring wings and eyes to adorn them like a peacock rendered in gilt and sunlight. It is terrible to gaze upon as the Golden City must once have been, magnificent as Andraste's army with banners, and it basks there like a dragon. "She was a Lady of miracles," it says conversationally, in the least conversational voice imaginable: A fear-thou-not voice, a voice like thunder and wildfires. "Who through Her Husband's divine power made the lame to walk, the deaf to hear, the blind to see.
"That power exists still, for the righteous to take hold of."
Finishing the page he's working on, Myr looks it over once, then transfers it to a short pile with the dragon and serpent of Tevinter locked together in deadly embrace upon it. He looks up then, past the demon that fans a half-seen wing languidly in the breeze, through another archway that--with the impossible architecture of dreams--opens on the wide sun-drenched expanse of the desert. There's an unguarded fondness about the elf's expression, in his dark eyes (not quite so wide and doll-like as another elf of Atticus' acquaintance but the genetic similarity is there, the line of heredity from a grandmother through a son and a daughter to a pair of cousins) as he gazes across the playa toward the horizon.
With all this beauty around him, he can't not stop and appreciate the scenery, just for a little while.
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He always has, since earliest childhood; where many of the alienage's children could pick up something from simple instructions, he had to be walked through the motions. It went with him into the Circle, where he struggled with the easiest spells until they tried teaching him the gestures first. And where there weren't gestures, he had to make them up; and when he had to memorize new information, it had to be written down, because that teaches him the shape the memory should take.
For all his blindness, none of that has changed; though he's learned different ways to commit things to memory--and there's so much now he needs to memorize about the world because he can't see it any longer--the best and surest way is still to write things down.
And he can still write, in his dreams.
He keeps the demon in front of him: When looked at straight on, it takes the semblance of a man; but out of the corner of the eye it drips with golden radiance, with flaring wings and eyes to adorn them like a peacock rendered in gilt and sunlight. It is terrible to gaze upon as the Golden City must once have been, magnificent as Andraste's army with banners, and it basks there like a dragon. "She was a Lady of miracles," it says conversationally, in the least conversational voice imaginable: A fear-thou-not voice, a voice like thunder and wildfires. "Who through Her Husband's divine power made the lame to walk, the deaf to hear, the blind to see.
"That power exists still, for the righteous to take hold of."
Finishing the page he's working on, Myr looks it over once, then transfers it to a short pile with the dragon and serpent of Tevinter locked together in deadly embrace upon it. He looks up then, past the demon that fans a half-seen wing languidly in the breeze, through another archway that--with the impossible architecture of dreams--opens on the wide sun-drenched expanse of the desert. There's an unguarded fondness about the elf's expression, in his dark eyes (not quite so wide and doll-like as another elf of Atticus' acquaintance but the genetic similarity is there, the line of heredity from a grandmother through a son and a daughter to a pair of cousins) as he gazes across the playa toward the horizon.
With all this beauty around him, he can't not stop and appreciate the scenery, just for a little while.