World fell away then, misty in mem'ry,
'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams
A vision of all worlds, waking and slumb'ring,
Spirit and mortal to me appeared.
"Look to My work," said the Voice of Creation.
"See what My children in arrogance wrought.ā
-Canticle of Andraste 1:10
'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams
A vision of all worlds, waking and slumb'ring,
Spirit and mortal to me appeared.
"Look to My work," said the Voice of Creation.
"See what My children in arrogance wrought.ā
-Canticle of Andraste 1:10
Exhaling with a sense of finality, Cyrus set the quill aside, missing the inkwell on his first try. When it hit air where he expected solidity, he started, glancing in the right direction to find that his hand was trembling. Ah. He probably hadnāt eaten in a while. Or maybeā¦ He shook his head, replacing the implement where it belonged and rubbing his now-empty fingers together. They were stained darkly with the ink heād been using; when he was really committed to getting something down on paper, he just blotted anything he needed to with them instead of bothering with doing it the proper way and keeping himself tidy. The shaking stilled a little now that he was thinking about it, and he closed his whole hand over into a fist before relaxing it and sinking down into the nearest chair.
Bodily sensation came back to him in a rush as it often did. He was hungry, and tired, but not as much as heād suspected. The gnawing in his stomach wasnāt debilitating, nor did his lips crack because theyād gone too dry. His body was a little heavy with fatigue, but a bit of rest and something to eat would likely solve most of that as well. He estimated heād lost track of the time about six or seven hours ago, then.
His eyes fell to the desktop still in front of him. The sheaf of parchments heād been writing on would ordinarily need transcription into a bound volume, in much neater writing than heād used for them. Butā¦ Cyrus traced a finger along the arm of the chair, irregular bumps passing by under the slight callus of his digit. He knew better than most that knowledge was not a neutral thing. Some people liked to imagine that what one knew, like what one could do, was without valence or purpose until one gave it such things. Knowledge and skills were only evil or dangerous if possessed by someone with evil or dangerous intentions. He might agree about evil, whatever that was, but he definitely disagreed about danger. There were some things that, just in the knowing of them, could change a person. And some things that, if known widely enough, would surely change the world, and not necessarily for the better.
These notesācalculations, theories, experimental results all run together and woven into the simplest, most elegant net he could make of themāwere dangerous in that way. Heād known it the whole time, and taken some precautions because of that, but he wasnāt sure that was enough. The very idea of destroying the evidence of such a breakthrough in magical understanding was practically anathema to him. Yet there were some good reasons to do it, and he found his eyes moving towards his empty fireplace. Fires, of course, were not generally required for warmth at this time of year, not even this weak thing Skyhold called a summer. But it would be the most trivial of tasks for him to light one, to ensure that the knowledge remained in his mind alone, and hope that the pieces never again all came to be in the possession of someone with the intellect to put them together the same way he had.
At the very least, he was resolved to tell the others what he had found, at least in the vague terms without detail, and see what they thought should be done. It might still be of use to the Inquisition, to understand more about how the Breach was opened, and how it might be possible to do so again. More likely, it wouldnāt really matter, because the defeat of Corypheus would probably end attempts to do it, at least for now. When inevitably others tried to recreate the results years from now, for whatever ill-considered reason, knowledge of how to close one would be more significant.
A soft knock at his door drew Cyrusās attention, and he lifted his head to stare at it for a moment. Even through the wood, he could smell something rather appetizing, and that alone revealed the likely identity of his visitor. āCome in, Livia.ā
He wasnāt mistaken, and when she entered backwards, pushing the door open with a shoulder, he might have even smiled a little. Her hands were both laden with the wooden tray that bore the source of the smellāsome portion of whatever was being served downstairs today, no doubt. The smile she gave him was a great deal more obvious than his own, though still a bit retiring. If it werenāt so absurd to think so, he would have sworn there was something familiar about it, somehow. He supposed she must be having a bit of difficulty, getting used to being in a place where open expression of deep or important emotions wasnāt something to be avoided at all costs.
He supposed he was still having a bit of difficulty getting used to that, too.
"Hello, Cyrus.ā She set the tray down on his desk, glancing curiously at the papers heād just finished. Likely they were all but indecipherable to her, upside down, written in a rushed version of his handwriting, occasionally splotched with excess ink and the rest. "Did you just finish a project?ā Stepping away from the tray, she took the small bottle of wine and the glass off it to pour.
āNotes on the Breach.ā He didnāt say what they contained, of course, but he didn't see any reason not to tell her that much. His tone confirmed that they were finished, at least.
The cork came out of the wine bottle with a soft pop, and Livia gestured with her chin towards the wall behind him. "No new pictures this time, then?ā
He followed her eyes, turning around to scan the slapdash arrangement of images, both color and monochrome, that plastered the plain stone behind them. āNo.ā He murmured the word quietly. He hadnāt felt the same urge to set down images of the Breach as he felt about any of the other things he studied or dreamed. Perhaps seeing it once was enough. āNot this time.ā Cyrus turned back as Livia set his half-full wineglass down on his tray. He tilted his head at her. āYou can stay a while, if you like. Howās your practice coming along?ā
It had never quite made sense to him, her refusal to participate in the exercises he set for Asala. Heād invited her several times, and she seemed happy enough to sit and absorb his more academic lessons, but she always refused to do magic in front of him. He knew she couldāheād at least convinced her to show him the light spell. But she was reticent to do anything more complicated than that.
"Oh, itās fine.ā Her response was so noncommittal that they both noticed it, and there was a heartbeat of slightly-awkward silence before she elaborated, taking the chair he offered to her with a gesture and folding her hands demurely in her lap. "Iām not a very good mage, really. Iāve just never had the knack.ā
Cyrus sighed, picking up his fork and spearing a sprout of some kind. Only after he swallowed did he reply. āI despise this notion that magic is a matter of talent. Or mere power, for that matter. It is neither.ā He took another bite, mostly to forestall the tangent that was incoming. She hadnāt asked him for it, and he was conscious of the fact that servitude was still enough a part of her mentality that she would weather a lecture of any length without complaint, no matter how much she wished to be elsewhere. He hated that feeling, like he was imposing on people but they would never tell him. Heād hated it for as long as heād known to feel it.
But that was venturing far too close to territory Cyrus did not allow himself to tread. He could almost feel the discomfort alreadyāit seemed too warm in the room, even for summer. He took a deep breath and tamped down on the magic threatening to rise. The last thing he needed was some kind of overflow accident. He shook his head slightly and reached for the wine. āMy apologies if that sounded cross. I onlyā¦ā He tried to find the words, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip.
The vessel fell from his fingertips, shattering on the ground and spilling the rest of its contents everywhere. Pain ripped through Cyrus, unlike anything heād experienced in his life, exploding along the length of his vessels and muscles and bone, burningāburning him from the inside out. The breath left him; he couldnāt so much as gather the air to shout, not even as his entire body convulsed and he left the chair, falling sideways with a heavy thud he could not begin to try and avert. He gasped for air like a fish pulled ashore, but no amount of it was enough. Black and red fought for control of his vision, like his head had been plunged into a vat of putrid, decaying blood, thick and cloying and impossible to see or breathe around.
His fingers curled against the stone floor, desperate for purchase that he could not seem to gain. His larger muscles felt locked in place, his body curling in on itself until his knees were almost at his chest. Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for his magic, but that proved to be the biggest mistake he could have possibly made. A fresh wave of agony tore him with such force that he bit down on his own tongue, turning his head aside just barely enough to avoid choking on his own blood.
"Look at you.ā Somehow, Liviaās voice was audible, even though it sounded like it was reaching him over a great distance, or through a wall. "Making the same mistakes as you always have. Only thereās no one here to protect you now. No teacher to hide behind.ā She sounded almost like a different person, tone hard-edged and cold where before it had been soft and at least lukewarm.
Cyrus groaned softly; something unyielding slammed into his sternum. Sheād kicked him probably about as hard as she could. He felt something snap. It was the lesser pain. "And to think you didnāt even recognize me. You ruined my life and you couldnāt even be bothered to see past a few yearsā difference. But youā¦ oh, Iād know you anywhere, Cyrus Avenarius.ā
He forced his eyes open, trying to make them focus on her. It wasnāt difficult; sheād crouched in front of him. With surprising strength, she picked him up by the collar until they were nose to nose, glaring with a fury he did recognize.
"There is is. Say it, Cyrus. Say my name.ā
When he didnāt immediately respond, she shook him once, hard.
Somehow, he managed to choke it out. āL-Leta.ā
The thing that twisted her face did not deserve the name smile. It was more akin to the rictus of the mad. But even his hazy vision was enough to understand that she was the victim of no madness. She knew exactly what she was doing, and why. "Good. As much as I would love to stay here and watch you die, I cannot. Consider your final moments a gift, a boon from my master. You were always far too purist to take lyriumāso Iām sure this kind will just be an adventure.ā She stood, letting him drop back to the floor, and he could hear the sound of shuffling as she gathered something from his materials.
Heād have known what, probably, if he werenāt too busy simply trying to move. When she had what she wanted, Leta made for the door. Cyrus just barely managed to get a hand around her ankle, which gave her a momentās pause. Glancing back and down at him, she made a disgusted noise and ripped herself free.
The strength seemed to bleed right out of him with each of her receding footsteps, ebbing like tide, impossible to grasp like water. The fire in his veins had become magma, seeping through him slowly and destroying him as it went.
So this was what dying felt like.
He supposed it was only fair.
Bodily sensation came back to him in a rush as it often did. He was hungry, and tired, but not as much as heād suspected. The gnawing in his stomach wasnāt debilitating, nor did his lips crack because theyād gone too dry. His body was a little heavy with fatigue, but a bit of rest and something to eat would likely solve most of that as well. He estimated heād lost track of the time about six or seven hours ago, then.
His eyes fell to the desktop still in front of him. The sheaf of parchments heād been writing on would ordinarily need transcription into a bound volume, in much neater writing than heād used for them. Butā¦ Cyrus traced a finger along the arm of the chair, irregular bumps passing by under the slight callus of his digit. He knew better than most that knowledge was not a neutral thing. Some people liked to imagine that what one knew, like what one could do, was without valence or purpose until one gave it such things. Knowledge and skills were only evil or dangerous if possessed by someone with evil or dangerous intentions. He might agree about evil, whatever that was, but he definitely disagreed about danger. There were some things that, just in the knowing of them, could change a person. And some things that, if known widely enough, would surely change the world, and not necessarily for the better.
These notesācalculations, theories, experimental results all run together and woven into the simplest, most elegant net he could make of themāwere dangerous in that way. Heād known it the whole time, and taken some precautions because of that, but he wasnāt sure that was enough. The very idea of destroying the evidence of such a breakthrough in magical understanding was practically anathema to him. Yet there were some good reasons to do it, and he found his eyes moving towards his empty fireplace. Fires, of course, were not generally required for warmth at this time of year, not even this weak thing Skyhold called a summer. But it would be the most trivial of tasks for him to light one, to ensure that the knowledge remained in his mind alone, and hope that the pieces never again all came to be in the possession of someone with the intellect to put them together the same way he had.
At the very least, he was resolved to tell the others what he had found, at least in the vague terms without detail, and see what they thought should be done. It might still be of use to the Inquisition, to understand more about how the Breach was opened, and how it might be possible to do so again. More likely, it wouldnāt really matter, because the defeat of Corypheus would probably end attempts to do it, at least for now. When inevitably others tried to recreate the results years from now, for whatever ill-considered reason, knowledge of how to close one would be more significant.
A soft knock at his door drew Cyrusās attention, and he lifted his head to stare at it for a moment. Even through the wood, he could smell something rather appetizing, and that alone revealed the likely identity of his visitor. āCome in, Livia.ā
He wasnāt mistaken, and when she entered backwards, pushing the door open with a shoulder, he might have even smiled a little. Her hands were both laden with the wooden tray that bore the source of the smellāsome portion of whatever was being served downstairs today, no doubt. The smile she gave him was a great deal more obvious than his own, though still a bit retiring. If it werenāt so absurd to think so, he would have sworn there was something familiar about it, somehow. He supposed she must be having a bit of difficulty, getting used to being in a place where open expression of deep or important emotions wasnāt something to be avoided at all costs.
He supposed he was still having a bit of difficulty getting used to that, too.
"Hello, Cyrus.ā She set the tray down on his desk, glancing curiously at the papers heād just finished. Likely they were all but indecipherable to her, upside down, written in a rushed version of his handwriting, occasionally splotched with excess ink and the rest. "Did you just finish a project?ā Stepping away from the tray, she took the small bottle of wine and the glass off it to pour.
āNotes on the Breach.ā He didnāt say what they contained, of course, but he didn't see any reason not to tell her that much. His tone confirmed that they were finished, at least.
The cork came out of the wine bottle with a soft pop, and Livia gestured with her chin towards the wall behind him. "No new pictures this time, then?ā
He followed her eyes, turning around to scan the slapdash arrangement of images, both color and monochrome, that plastered the plain stone behind them. āNo.ā He murmured the word quietly. He hadnāt felt the same urge to set down images of the Breach as he felt about any of the other things he studied or dreamed. Perhaps seeing it once was enough. āNot this time.ā Cyrus turned back as Livia set his half-full wineglass down on his tray. He tilted his head at her. āYou can stay a while, if you like. Howās your practice coming along?ā
It had never quite made sense to him, her refusal to participate in the exercises he set for Asala. Heād invited her several times, and she seemed happy enough to sit and absorb his more academic lessons, but she always refused to do magic in front of him. He knew she couldāheād at least convinced her to show him the light spell. But she was reticent to do anything more complicated than that.
"Oh, itās fine.ā Her response was so noncommittal that they both noticed it, and there was a heartbeat of slightly-awkward silence before she elaborated, taking the chair he offered to her with a gesture and folding her hands demurely in her lap. "Iām not a very good mage, really. Iāve just never had the knack.ā
Cyrus sighed, picking up his fork and spearing a sprout of some kind. Only after he swallowed did he reply. āI despise this notion that magic is a matter of talent. Or mere power, for that matter. It is neither.ā He took another bite, mostly to forestall the tangent that was incoming. She hadnāt asked him for it, and he was conscious of the fact that servitude was still enough a part of her mentality that she would weather a lecture of any length without complaint, no matter how much she wished to be elsewhere. He hated that feeling, like he was imposing on people but they would never tell him. Heād hated it for as long as heād known to feel it.
But that was venturing far too close to territory Cyrus did not allow himself to tread. He could almost feel the discomfort alreadyāit seemed too warm in the room, even for summer. He took a deep breath and tamped down on the magic threatening to rise. The last thing he needed was some kind of overflow accident. He shook his head slightly and reached for the wine. āMy apologies if that sounded cross. I onlyā¦ā He tried to find the words, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip.
The vessel fell from his fingertips, shattering on the ground and spilling the rest of its contents everywhere. Pain ripped through Cyrus, unlike anything heād experienced in his life, exploding along the length of his vessels and muscles and bone, burningāburning him from the inside out. The breath left him; he couldnāt so much as gather the air to shout, not even as his entire body convulsed and he left the chair, falling sideways with a heavy thud he could not begin to try and avert. He gasped for air like a fish pulled ashore, but no amount of it was enough. Black and red fought for control of his vision, like his head had been plunged into a vat of putrid, decaying blood, thick and cloying and impossible to see or breathe around.
His fingers curled against the stone floor, desperate for purchase that he could not seem to gain. His larger muscles felt locked in place, his body curling in on itself until his knees were almost at his chest. Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for his magic, but that proved to be the biggest mistake he could have possibly made. A fresh wave of agony tore him with such force that he bit down on his own tongue, turning his head aside just barely enough to avoid choking on his own blood.
"Look at you.ā Somehow, Liviaās voice was audible, even though it sounded like it was reaching him over a great distance, or through a wall. "Making the same mistakes as you always have. Only thereās no one here to protect you now. No teacher to hide behind.ā She sounded almost like a different person, tone hard-edged and cold where before it had been soft and at least lukewarm.
Cyrus groaned softly; something unyielding slammed into his sternum. Sheād kicked him probably about as hard as she could. He felt something snap. It was the lesser pain. "And to think you didnāt even recognize me. You ruined my life and you couldnāt even be bothered to see past a few yearsā difference. But youā¦ oh, Iād know you anywhere, Cyrus Avenarius.ā
He forced his eyes open, trying to make them focus on her. It wasnāt difficult; sheād crouched in front of him. With surprising strength, she picked him up by the collar until they were nose to nose, glaring with a fury he did recognize.
"There is is. Say it, Cyrus. Say my name.ā
When he didnāt immediately respond, she shook him once, hard.
Somehow, he managed to choke it out. āL-Leta.ā
The thing that twisted her face did not deserve the name smile. It was more akin to the rictus of the mad. But even his hazy vision was enough to understand that she was the victim of no madness. She knew exactly what she was doing, and why. "Good. As much as I would love to stay here and watch you die, I cannot. Consider your final moments a gift, a boon from my master. You were always far too purist to take lyriumāso Iām sure this kind will just be an adventure.ā She stood, letting him drop back to the floor, and he could hear the sound of shuffling as she gathered something from his materials.
Heād have known what, probably, if he werenāt too busy simply trying to move. When she had what she wanted, Leta made for the door. Cyrus just barely managed to get a hand around her ankle, which gave her a momentās pause. Glancing back and down at him, she made a disgusted noise and ripped herself free.
The strength seemed to bleed right out of him with each of her receding footsteps, ebbing like tide, impossible to grasp like water. The fire in his veins had become magma, seeping through him slowly and destroying him as it went.
So this was what dying felt like.
He supposed it was only fair.