Since waking from his nightmare the previous evening, Cyrus had dared not sleep again. It was one thing to know, intellectually, that what had come to pass in that future had been reversed. It was another entirely for the realization to have any weight. As of yet, it hadnāt settled properly, and what he felt more than anything else was the looming possibility of it. For as long as that was the case, he knew it wouldnāt be safe for him to do any dreaming. That fact alone rankled himāit was infuriating and frustrating and agonizing and unnatural. The Fade, he felt, was where he belonged more than heād ever belonged anywhere else. Sans, perhaps, wherever Estella was.
But that, too, was not as simple as heād believed it to be. She didnāt like the way he relied on her. Thought it was unfair. That had been a considerable shock to his system, and much as he hated to admit it, he might not have been able to sleep even if heād wanted to, because that new knowledge would have kept him awake and restless. And now everyone was packing things away, getting ready to move the Inquisition out of Redcliffe, apparently something to do with the Arl wanting it back and the Fereldan King and other things that Cyrus didnāt care about.
And so while everyone else went about their business, he simply sat here, on an empty dock, feeling distinctly like a man frozen while everyone else moved about. Life went on, even when it felt like his had ground to a halt. It must have been ironic, that only now did he truly feel unmoored in time. He stared listlessly out over the waterāLake Calenhad. Named for a king with the blood of a dragon. One useless fact, just the kind of thing that his head was filled with. To the brim, to bursting. The same way his physical bounds were filled with magic, trying to claw its way out with him as conduit. Spirits and demons in his ear, all the time, the echoes audible even in the material world, because he was never wholly here.
He looked terrible, at least relative to himself: his cheeks were sunken, in part because heād not eaten inā¦ nearly two days, perhaps. He didnāt remember. It didnāt matter. There were livid bruises under his eyes, evidence of fatigue and sleeplessness. Even his clothing was a bit rumpled, seeming to hang looser in the absence of proper lacing and belting. Usually he only looked like this when heād locked himself in his atelier in Minrathous, working frenetically on something near-incomprehensible to anyone else. But his eyes were alive then, with the light of discovery and vivid interest. This was nothing like that at all.
Light foosteps came up behind him, soft, but making no real attempt to remain hidden. The voice that spoke was quiet, and belonging to Chryseis Viridius. "If your intent is to remain alone until you starve to death, say the word and I'll depart. Though I seem to recall you mentioning a desire to catch up. The desire is mutual, if yours still remains." Though the words were perhaps a bit harsh, her tone was not as it usually was. There was little coyness to it at all.
It took him perhaps a beat too long to respond, but he did, turning away from the water for a moment to glance over and up at her, as she was indeed standing. He supposed he could have used the opportunity to slide back into the effortless demeanor he usually wore around other people, plaster a smile on his face and muster a gleam for his eye, but he elected not to bother, perhaps more than anything a sign of his fatigue. āOn the contrary. If youāve the patience for the inelegant setting, then Iād most welcome a return to things I actually understand.ā His thoughts were circular and sinking and dark, and a distraction from them would be most welcome, though he still had the good sense not to phrase it quite like that, lest he offend.
Chryseis no longer wore her robes, those with her house colors, clearly identifying her as a magister of Tevinter. It was undoubtedly a wise-choice, in the environment that Redcliffe had fallen into in the Inquisitionās victory over Cassius. She was incapable of appearing entirely inelegant, but her garb was plain and unadorned, hooded robes that couldāve belonged to any mage fleeing the Circle and looking to cast off the old trappings.
She worked her way forward and sat down beside him, curling her legs up sideways underneath her and drawing her hood back slightly, enough to see him in her peripherals while she surveyed the water. āI wanted to thank you, first, for staying your hand after we returned. Perhaps my father deserved death for what he would have done, and perhaps he will still die. At least now the decision can be made with more distance, more perspective on the crime.ā She tucked her hands into the ends of her sleeves, obviously not the most comfortable with the relative chill of the southern country.
āI expect his removal from the Magisterium will stir up a great many things back home. The Viridius name is becoming ever harder to lean on.ā
The water itself was mostly smooth, almost glasslike, and mirrored the late-afternoon sunlight quite brightly, interrupted only by the occasional stir that the chill wind made as it passed over. He didnāt mind it much anymore, actually. Only half-aware that he was doing it, Cyrus raised a hand up to his sternum, sliding his hand beneath one side of the loose v-neck of his shirt and rubbing at the spot with his fingers. He swore it ached, but only sometimes.
He couldnāt really muster much sympathy for Cassius, but there had been a time when things were different. It wasnāt nothing, to take in a child from a Laetan family like the Avenarius oneāit was a risk, and a big one, considering all the Altus houses who would have almost killed to have their children apprenticed to Magister Viridius, back then. Rightly so, really; for all his faults, Cassius was a brilliant mind. Sometimes, especially as he aged, his magic had been outstripped by his theoretical comprehension, but that had been exactly what Cyrus was for. Even thenā¦ to open a rend in time was something very few could have accomplished, at any age.
āYour father was a gambler.ā That was what he said at lastātrue, and by far one of the kinder things he could have said. The past tense didnāt have any special significance. There just wasnāt much decision-making to do when one was a prisoner of war. āSometimes it paid off. This time, it bankrupted him.ā He pressed his lips together in a thin line.
I did what I did so that House Viridius would weather history. So that we would survive.
Cyrus knew he would be a hypocrite if he took issue with the motive. He himself acted in much the same way, for an even narrower reason than the survival of a family. House Avenarius was essentially dust now. His grandparents were dead, his mother long thus, and his fatherā¦ his father was another matter altogether, one he would certainly not be discussing with Chryseis.
He wondered if he would have allied with this Elder One, in the same way, if heād believed it was the path necessary to protect what he held dear. The answer was obvious. The only difference was probably that Cyrus would not have believed it necessary. He would have thought his own strength enough. Hadnāt he labored for so many years to make certain that it was?
āBut you donāt have to lean on it, Chryseis. Youāre smart enough to figure out how to strengthen it again, even if everyone else does think youāre an irredeemable idealist.ā It was almost funny, that he should use that term for her, when he might be the only person of a similar background who was actually worse, in that respect.
She laughed softly, looking down a moment. "We'll see, I suppose. My power and intelligence may corrupt me yet. I find myself quite lacking in good influences these days." Her tone was at least half serious, even if the words were delivered lightly. She fell silent for a time, clearly thinking on something, while she studied the gentle lapping of the water beyond the edge of the dock.
"Do you ever regret leaving?" she asked. "I'd always assumed you'd simply had enough of the whole charade. There were a great many opportunities awaiting you, though. The Magisterium, your lessers begging for your approval, the Archon's granddaughter... or so I heard." She let the last part linger a bit, her eyes having shifted from the water to peer sideways at him. "You could have gone as high as you wished."
Ah, that particular question was one he expected had lingered for quite some time after his departure. Heād almost intended for it toāthere was part of him that almost couldnāt bear the thought of being forgotten entirely. Better to leave a little mystery behind when he departed. But the truth was at once simpler and more complex than simply growing tired of it. He had, of course. But if heād thought it would serve his ends to do so, he would have remained anyway.
Cyrus shook his head. āEven Tevinterās heights are bounded by a ceiling.ā That was the thingāthere was a structure there already. A way to do things. One had to work within the bounds, no matter how gifted one was, or how radical oneās ideas. Everyone in Tevinter was slave to the system itself, even those who did not see it. āIf I want to see how high I can go, I canāt remain indoors.ā
A lack of ambition or daring had never numbered among his flaws.
"But what is there to gain, from running, being alone? Knowledge only becomes power when it's put into effect. What have you been searching for out here?" By her tone, she was more invested in the answer than mere curiosity would warrant. "Not this Inquisition, I would think. You're here purely for Estella, are you not?"
He nodded. The only reason he remained with the Inquisition was because Estella was here. But of course, he had not left two years ago merely seeking his sisterās locationāindeed, heād not thought heād need to be in her proximity at all, at least not for a while yet. He was glad he was, because that impression had clearly been mistaken, considering how much danger she was in, but Chryseis wasnāt wrong. He had been searching for something, something that could not be found in only one place.
āI havenāt been running. At least, not away from anything. Iāmā¦ā He paused; his eyes fell half-lidded, his focus shifting so that he looked at something far away. āI needed some answers. This was the way to find them.ā Perhaps he yet would.
Chryseis pushed a few strands of blonde hair from her face and sighed lightly, apparently deciding that she was not going to be able to pry any more from Cyrus on the subject, which she was right about. She fell silent for a long time once more, perhaps debating whether or not to press forward with a subject. She seemed lost in a memory, and remained so when she spoke again.
"You'll remember that I was a married woman once. A dark time for my father, no doubt. He always did hate Pyrrhus." The words were spoken with a sort of pride, or perhaps just amusement, in a rather dark way. She seemed to have taken herself to a fairly dark place in general. "You'll also remember that I was widowed a year later. I did not emerge from my manor for almost two weeks. Grieving, it was assumed." She searched for Cyrus's eyes.
"Do you remember how Pyrrhus died?"
His brow furrowed, but Cyrus nodded, maintaining eye contact. She didnāt speak of this often, much less to him of all people. He wondered why she was choosing now to do so. It was hardly a topic of contemporary changeāsheād been married when he was still a teenager, all the way back in his days of awkward adolescent fumbling. āI understood it to be the Qunari. Near Seheron, yes?ā He kept his tone even, neutral. Whyever they were treading this ground, he assumed it had relevance. He also knew, however, that Chryseis had taken Pyrrhusās death quite hard. Arguably, she hadnāt been emotionally available since, not that heād kept tabs on that or anything. Cassius had, though, and occasionally dropped unsubtle hints to him about it.
"Yes," she said, heavily. "He was not a memorable man, not to my father, likely not to you, and certainly not to the Magisterium. His magical talent was middling at best. But he was a rare man... a good man. He meant the world to me." The words seemed to threaten taking her happier memories, and she clearly forced them aside.
"When he died, and left me alone... I spent considerable resources to arrange for the discreet transfer of a group of Qunari prisoners of war. I had them placed in my cellar. It was an expansive room, but still a tight fit for twenty of them. They were seafaring warriors, all of them, and I knew that there was a slim, slim chance that one of them had butchered my husband." She curled up her lip, a clear expression of hatred.
"My weeks of grief were spent tormenting them in every conceivable way. Together, my blade and I learned to inflict an exquisite variety of agony upon them. He was a natural with a knife, and I a burgeoning expert in the things that can be done with Qunari blood. It made me feel no less destroyed, no less like my world had ended, but it was what I felt needed to be done at the time. They deserved a swifter death than what we gave them. But I always felt I deserved at least some small measure of happiness. As it turns out, people rarely get what they deserve."
The relaying of the information seemed to have shaken her quite deeply; it was highly likely that neither she nor Romulus had ever spoken of this particular event before. She looked to be fighting a trembling in her hands, and steadily losing.
"Sometimes, when our world ends, we do not end with it. We merely become twisted by it, and carry on." She looked about to say something else, but then thought better of it, and shook her head, standing, and speaking with more confidence as she turned to leave.
"Farewell, Cyrus. I wish you luck with your search. And please, do remember to eat once in a while. You look dreadful."
Something dark passed, over his face for a moment, like a shadow behind his eyes, but it swiftly cleared. When he spoke, it was somberly, and distinctly measured. āFarewell, Chryseis. And good luck.ā To have any hope of recovering her standing, let alone advancing, she would need it.
But that, too, was not as simple as heād believed it to be. She didnāt like the way he relied on her. Thought it was unfair. That had been a considerable shock to his system, and much as he hated to admit it, he might not have been able to sleep even if heād wanted to, because that new knowledge would have kept him awake and restless. And now everyone was packing things away, getting ready to move the Inquisition out of Redcliffe, apparently something to do with the Arl wanting it back and the Fereldan King and other things that Cyrus didnāt care about.
And so while everyone else went about their business, he simply sat here, on an empty dock, feeling distinctly like a man frozen while everyone else moved about. Life went on, even when it felt like his had ground to a halt. It must have been ironic, that only now did he truly feel unmoored in time. He stared listlessly out over the waterāLake Calenhad. Named for a king with the blood of a dragon. One useless fact, just the kind of thing that his head was filled with. To the brim, to bursting. The same way his physical bounds were filled with magic, trying to claw its way out with him as conduit. Spirits and demons in his ear, all the time, the echoes audible even in the material world, because he was never wholly here.
He looked terrible, at least relative to himself: his cheeks were sunken, in part because heād not eaten inā¦ nearly two days, perhaps. He didnāt remember. It didnāt matter. There were livid bruises under his eyes, evidence of fatigue and sleeplessness. Even his clothing was a bit rumpled, seeming to hang looser in the absence of proper lacing and belting. Usually he only looked like this when heād locked himself in his atelier in Minrathous, working frenetically on something near-incomprehensible to anyone else. But his eyes were alive then, with the light of discovery and vivid interest. This was nothing like that at all.
Light foosteps came up behind him, soft, but making no real attempt to remain hidden. The voice that spoke was quiet, and belonging to Chryseis Viridius. "If your intent is to remain alone until you starve to death, say the word and I'll depart. Though I seem to recall you mentioning a desire to catch up. The desire is mutual, if yours still remains." Though the words were perhaps a bit harsh, her tone was not as it usually was. There was little coyness to it at all.
It took him perhaps a beat too long to respond, but he did, turning away from the water for a moment to glance over and up at her, as she was indeed standing. He supposed he could have used the opportunity to slide back into the effortless demeanor he usually wore around other people, plaster a smile on his face and muster a gleam for his eye, but he elected not to bother, perhaps more than anything a sign of his fatigue. āOn the contrary. If youāve the patience for the inelegant setting, then Iād most welcome a return to things I actually understand.ā His thoughts were circular and sinking and dark, and a distraction from them would be most welcome, though he still had the good sense not to phrase it quite like that, lest he offend.
Chryseis no longer wore her robes, those with her house colors, clearly identifying her as a magister of Tevinter. It was undoubtedly a wise-choice, in the environment that Redcliffe had fallen into in the Inquisitionās victory over Cassius. She was incapable of appearing entirely inelegant, but her garb was plain and unadorned, hooded robes that couldāve belonged to any mage fleeing the Circle and looking to cast off the old trappings.
She worked her way forward and sat down beside him, curling her legs up sideways underneath her and drawing her hood back slightly, enough to see him in her peripherals while she surveyed the water. āI wanted to thank you, first, for staying your hand after we returned. Perhaps my father deserved death for what he would have done, and perhaps he will still die. At least now the decision can be made with more distance, more perspective on the crime.ā She tucked her hands into the ends of her sleeves, obviously not the most comfortable with the relative chill of the southern country.
āI expect his removal from the Magisterium will stir up a great many things back home. The Viridius name is becoming ever harder to lean on.ā
The water itself was mostly smooth, almost glasslike, and mirrored the late-afternoon sunlight quite brightly, interrupted only by the occasional stir that the chill wind made as it passed over. He didnāt mind it much anymore, actually. Only half-aware that he was doing it, Cyrus raised a hand up to his sternum, sliding his hand beneath one side of the loose v-neck of his shirt and rubbing at the spot with his fingers. He swore it ached, but only sometimes.
He couldnāt really muster much sympathy for Cassius, but there had been a time when things were different. It wasnāt nothing, to take in a child from a Laetan family like the Avenarius oneāit was a risk, and a big one, considering all the Altus houses who would have almost killed to have their children apprenticed to Magister Viridius, back then. Rightly so, really; for all his faults, Cassius was a brilliant mind. Sometimes, especially as he aged, his magic had been outstripped by his theoretical comprehension, but that had been exactly what Cyrus was for. Even thenā¦ to open a rend in time was something very few could have accomplished, at any age.
āYour father was a gambler.ā That was what he said at lastātrue, and by far one of the kinder things he could have said. The past tense didnāt have any special significance. There just wasnāt much decision-making to do when one was a prisoner of war. āSometimes it paid off. This time, it bankrupted him.ā He pressed his lips together in a thin line.
I did what I did so that House Viridius would weather history. So that we would survive.
Cyrus knew he would be a hypocrite if he took issue with the motive. He himself acted in much the same way, for an even narrower reason than the survival of a family. House Avenarius was essentially dust now. His grandparents were dead, his mother long thus, and his fatherā¦ his father was another matter altogether, one he would certainly not be discussing with Chryseis.
He wondered if he would have allied with this Elder One, in the same way, if heād believed it was the path necessary to protect what he held dear. The answer was obvious. The only difference was probably that Cyrus would not have believed it necessary. He would have thought his own strength enough. Hadnāt he labored for so many years to make certain that it was?
āBut you donāt have to lean on it, Chryseis. Youāre smart enough to figure out how to strengthen it again, even if everyone else does think youāre an irredeemable idealist.ā It was almost funny, that he should use that term for her, when he might be the only person of a similar background who was actually worse, in that respect.
She laughed softly, looking down a moment. "We'll see, I suppose. My power and intelligence may corrupt me yet. I find myself quite lacking in good influences these days." Her tone was at least half serious, even if the words were delivered lightly. She fell silent for a time, clearly thinking on something, while she studied the gentle lapping of the water beyond the edge of the dock.
"Do you ever regret leaving?" she asked. "I'd always assumed you'd simply had enough of the whole charade. There were a great many opportunities awaiting you, though. The Magisterium, your lessers begging for your approval, the Archon's granddaughter... or so I heard." She let the last part linger a bit, her eyes having shifted from the water to peer sideways at him. "You could have gone as high as you wished."
Ah, that particular question was one he expected had lingered for quite some time after his departure. Heād almost intended for it toāthere was part of him that almost couldnāt bear the thought of being forgotten entirely. Better to leave a little mystery behind when he departed. But the truth was at once simpler and more complex than simply growing tired of it. He had, of course. But if heād thought it would serve his ends to do so, he would have remained anyway.
Cyrus shook his head. āEven Tevinterās heights are bounded by a ceiling.ā That was the thingāthere was a structure there already. A way to do things. One had to work within the bounds, no matter how gifted one was, or how radical oneās ideas. Everyone in Tevinter was slave to the system itself, even those who did not see it. āIf I want to see how high I can go, I canāt remain indoors.ā
A lack of ambition or daring had never numbered among his flaws.
"But what is there to gain, from running, being alone? Knowledge only becomes power when it's put into effect. What have you been searching for out here?" By her tone, she was more invested in the answer than mere curiosity would warrant. "Not this Inquisition, I would think. You're here purely for Estella, are you not?"
He nodded. The only reason he remained with the Inquisition was because Estella was here. But of course, he had not left two years ago merely seeking his sisterās locationāindeed, heād not thought heād need to be in her proximity at all, at least not for a while yet. He was glad he was, because that impression had clearly been mistaken, considering how much danger she was in, but Chryseis wasnāt wrong. He had been searching for something, something that could not be found in only one place.
āI havenāt been running. At least, not away from anything. Iāmā¦ā He paused; his eyes fell half-lidded, his focus shifting so that he looked at something far away. āI needed some answers. This was the way to find them.ā Perhaps he yet would.
Chryseis pushed a few strands of blonde hair from her face and sighed lightly, apparently deciding that she was not going to be able to pry any more from Cyrus on the subject, which she was right about. She fell silent for a long time once more, perhaps debating whether or not to press forward with a subject. She seemed lost in a memory, and remained so when she spoke again.
"You'll remember that I was a married woman once. A dark time for my father, no doubt. He always did hate Pyrrhus." The words were spoken with a sort of pride, or perhaps just amusement, in a rather dark way. She seemed to have taken herself to a fairly dark place in general. "You'll also remember that I was widowed a year later. I did not emerge from my manor for almost two weeks. Grieving, it was assumed." She searched for Cyrus's eyes.
"Do you remember how Pyrrhus died?"
His brow furrowed, but Cyrus nodded, maintaining eye contact. She didnāt speak of this often, much less to him of all people. He wondered why she was choosing now to do so. It was hardly a topic of contemporary changeāsheād been married when he was still a teenager, all the way back in his days of awkward adolescent fumbling. āI understood it to be the Qunari. Near Seheron, yes?ā He kept his tone even, neutral. Whyever they were treading this ground, he assumed it had relevance. He also knew, however, that Chryseis had taken Pyrrhusās death quite hard. Arguably, she hadnāt been emotionally available since, not that heād kept tabs on that or anything. Cassius had, though, and occasionally dropped unsubtle hints to him about it.
"Yes," she said, heavily. "He was not a memorable man, not to my father, likely not to you, and certainly not to the Magisterium. His magical talent was middling at best. But he was a rare man... a good man. He meant the world to me." The words seemed to threaten taking her happier memories, and she clearly forced them aside.
"When he died, and left me alone... I spent considerable resources to arrange for the discreet transfer of a group of Qunari prisoners of war. I had them placed in my cellar. It was an expansive room, but still a tight fit for twenty of them. They were seafaring warriors, all of them, and I knew that there was a slim, slim chance that one of them had butchered my husband." She curled up her lip, a clear expression of hatred.
"My weeks of grief were spent tormenting them in every conceivable way. Together, my blade and I learned to inflict an exquisite variety of agony upon them. He was a natural with a knife, and I a burgeoning expert in the things that can be done with Qunari blood. It made me feel no less destroyed, no less like my world had ended, but it was what I felt needed to be done at the time. They deserved a swifter death than what we gave them. But I always felt I deserved at least some small measure of happiness. As it turns out, people rarely get what they deserve."
The relaying of the information seemed to have shaken her quite deeply; it was highly likely that neither she nor Romulus had ever spoken of this particular event before. She looked to be fighting a trembling in her hands, and steadily losing.
"Sometimes, when our world ends, we do not end with it. We merely become twisted by it, and carry on." She looked about to say something else, but then thought better of it, and shook her head, standing, and speaking with more confidence as she turned to leave.
"Farewell, Cyrus. I wish you luck with your search. And please, do remember to eat once in a while. You look dreadful."
Something dark passed, over his face for a moment, like a shadow behind his eyes, but it swiftly cleared. When he spoke, it was somberly, and distinctly measured. āFarewell, Chryseis. And good luck.ā To have any hope of recovering her standing, let alone advancing, she would need it.