Cyrus's tower was still structurally unsound, so after he'd collapsed in the... whatever the place was between the eluvians, they'd carried him back to Skyhold's infirmary with some help from the elf who'd introduced himself as Harellan. Estella swore she knew him from somewhere, and she even had some idea where, but she hadn't had much of a chance to ask. He'd been escorted to a room under Rilien's supervision a few hours ago. She knew he'd be treated fairly, and she found it difficult to focus on anything but Cy's condition at the moment.
She sat on the edge of her brother's bed, relatively certain that he'd wake soon. Asala had seen to her injuries from her mark accident, as well as doing what she could for Cyrus. She moved about the private room now, perhaps stowing her supplies or something of the kind.
Gently, Estella brushed his hair back from his brow. She still had so many questions. About Livia, about everything. But she also knew, better than everyone else, that Cyrus carried a weight. One he seldom deigned to share with anyone. This was, perhaps, the first time she'd really glimpsed more of it than he'd intended anyone to see. Her fingers glided through his hair; she pulled them away and repeated the motion, sighing softly.
And he thought she was the one who kept secrets. Perhaps they both did.
Some amount of time passed before he stirred. Returning to wakefulness seemed to be a slow process this time. Understandable, maybe, given all he'd been through in the last day. Cy's brows furrowed; he hissed softly between his teeth before cracking his eyes open. They landed on her knee, it looked like. He followed the line quickly up to her eyes, blinking groggily.
“Stellu—" He winced. “Stellulam. How did...?"
She thought she understood what explanation he was asking after. Moving her hand back to her lap, she offered a half-smile. “It wasn't too difficult, after we went through the mirror. The new password kept the Venatori from following. We'll need to set the Skyhold one soon as well, I'm sure." She was sure he could do it, given how much he seemed to know about them. Ves hadn't been wrong—Cyrus really did seem to have all the answers, sometimes.
“How are you feeling?"
“I'm—" He cut himself off, a distressed look crossing his face, followed by outright panic. Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath, urgently pushing himself upright on the bed. He groaned, one hand going to his head. His breathing picked up, shallow and fast. “No. No, no, no, it can't be." He swallowed, his throat working furiously.
“No, no please." His eyes were bright with unshed tears. It wasn't clear he even remembered she was there, so great was his panic. Sweat beaded on his brow; he clenched one hand into the fabric over his chest, as though something in it caused him physical pain.
“Cy? Cyrus! Asala, get over here, please!" Estella took hold of sides of her brother's face firmly, ducking her head so he was forced into eye contact with her. “Cyrus. You have to tell me what's wrong, or I can't help. Please." His distress wasn't helping her own state, either; she could feel her heartbeat accelerating. What if this was some complication from the red lyrium? What if what Leon had done was only some temporary stopgap, and couldn't save him after all? What if, what if, what if.
Estella choked her fright back down, knowing it wouldn't help anything. She ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, hoping he could feel it. Hoping he knew she was there. Hoping he understood he could let her help him.
Cyrus shook his head in her grip, some clarity returning to his eyes when he blinked the tears free. But then he just looked like someone had torn out his insides and left him hollow. There was no spark in his eyes, none of his seemingly-inherent mischief. Just a keen, bone-deep pain. “It's gone." He breathed the words softly, his voice cracking on a sob.
“My magic is gone."
"Gone?" Asala asked. She had rushed to their bedside and was now kneeling in front of them, and intense healing spell in both hands. When he spoke though, the spell sputtered and faded away, replaced by the confusion on her face. "Wh--" she stopped herself, uncomfortable with the question she was about to ask but in spite of herself, she still asked it with her face, contorted by worry.
It was debatable whether Cyrus really heard Asala, either; he sagged heavily against the wall next to his bed, turning his face into the stone. Estella could see his eyes close, hear the heavy shudder of his breathing. He wasn't shedding any more tears, but he seemed to be wholly withdrawing into himself, shutting the both of them out with the same effectiveness as he shut out the rest of the world in the middle of his research. The fingers of his left hand curled into the wall, nail beds turning white with the pressure, leaving little chips in the soft yellow paint.
No. No, this wasn't good. She'd seen him like this only a couple of times before, and Estella knew she was not prepared to see it again. “Cyrus. Cyrus, don't you dare. Don't you dare keep me out like this." She shifted, clambering up onto her knees on the bed and putting her hand on his, trying to ease it away from the wall before he cracked his nails or worse.
She found it more difficult than expected; he seemed to be actively resisting her. “Cyrus. Cy. Please. Please don't do this." Her hand slid down to his wrist, her fingers winding around it as far as she could get them. She forgot, sometimes, how strong he was. It seemed so inconsequential next to what he could do with magic. Estella swallowed thickly.
“Cy... Cy look at me. Don't go. Please. Don't go." Not where she couldn't reach. Not where she couldn't follow.
Not again.
Nothing. Not a word, or a look, or even a flinch. She might as well not have existed, save that he was indeed still resisting her attempts to move him in any way. If anything, he pressed his brow harder into the stone wall, wrapping his other arm tightly around his own midsection, fingers digging at his side through the loose linen shirt he wore. She knew what this was—he wasn't merely shutting her out, he was shutting himself down.
"Cyrus," Asala stated, her words barely above a whisper, but still in possession of a firm tone. She had since risen from the floor and now stood over the bed in an attempt to restrain him, most likely so that he did not accidentally hurt himself. However, even in spite of her size, he still fought her off and she had difficulties pulling him away from the wall. "Cyrus." she said again, louder and firmer.
If Asala couldn't do much to move him, there wasn't much chance of forcing it. Estella didn't believe that was the best solution anyway. When he got like this, he usually wasn't even doing it on purpose. It was basically his version of what other people usually referred to as a panic attack.
“Asala," she said quietly. “Could you please go get us some water and something for headaches?" If he didn't have one already, he probably would soon.
The next part was a bit trickier. Estella took in a deep breath, keeping her hold on his wrist and ducking herself underneath it. He was against the wall at an awkward angle, mostly sideways, and so she struggled to squeeze herself in between them. She needed him to notice that she was there. Needed him to acknowledge it. Only if he got that far was there hope for any of the rest. With some work, she insinuated herself so that her back was against the wall and she was facing him, and tucked her head under his chin, wrapping her arms around him.
“Come on, Cy. Come back. I'm here. We're all here." She squeezed, firmly enough to reinforce her words, but not with the intention of causing him discomfort. Her left hand rubbed at his back; she sniffled, trying to smother the emotions welling up in her chest. “It's okay," she murmured against his shirt, unsure which one of them she meant to convince. “It's—it's going to be okay."
For several long moments, he reacted not at all. But slowly, she could feel his arms relax, held in tension for too long and falling heavily to the bed. One of them, he eased around her waist. His breathing hadn't changed, but in little increments, with each breath, he became a little less stiff, until perhaps too much of his weight was leaning against her.
“What if I can't come back?" He rasped the words, hoarse and raw. She heard him swallow. “It's gone, Stellulam. I'm gone. There's nothing—nothing left."
There were a thousand things she could have said. Estella knew that almost none of them would mean anything to him. For most of his life, Cyrus had been defined, for better or worse, by what he could do. By what he was capable of. And by all measures, he was extraordinary. As bizarre as it would have been for most anyone to have the thought that all there was of them was some natural capacity of theirs, she knew why he thought that way. Because it was all he'd ever heard from anyone. Even she'd done it, in her own mind, dividing them into the one born gifted and the one for whom it was a gift to have been born at all.
No insistence that he was alive and here would overturn the work of years of life. Not even if it came from her. Her chest ached, and she exhaled heavily, leaning into him just as ponderously as he leaned into her. “I know it feels that way," she said, her tone rough with the effort of holding in her tears. “I know it hurts. I know." She couldn't imagine it, but she didn't have to—that he was in this much obvious pain was enough.
“But my brother is still here. And I—" she sucked in a breath, eyes burning. “I still need him. Don't go, Cy. Don't leave me alone again."
Whatever thin threads were holding him together broke at that. His other arm joined his first, squeezing her until it was hard for her to breathe. He buried his face in her hair. She could feel the tremors that wracked him, starting at the spine and radiating out into his limbs, down to his fingertips. For long, slow minutes, he did not speak, did not move otherwise. But the distance did not reappear; he remained as present mentally as physically. She could feel it in the urgency of his grip.
“I won't. I... I promise I won't."
She nodded against him, but said no more. Estella could hear footsteps; likely Asala was approaching with what she'd asked for. She'd need to thank her, in a moment.
Her fingers curled into the back of Cy's shirt.
But not just yet.
She sat on the edge of her brother's bed, relatively certain that he'd wake soon. Asala had seen to her injuries from her mark accident, as well as doing what she could for Cyrus. She moved about the private room now, perhaps stowing her supplies or something of the kind.
Gently, Estella brushed his hair back from his brow. She still had so many questions. About Livia, about everything. But she also knew, better than everyone else, that Cyrus carried a weight. One he seldom deigned to share with anyone. This was, perhaps, the first time she'd really glimpsed more of it than he'd intended anyone to see. Her fingers glided through his hair; she pulled them away and repeated the motion, sighing softly.
And he thought she was the one who kept secrets. Perhaps they both did.
Some amount of time passed before he stirred. Returning to wakefulness seemed to be a slow process this time. Understandable, maybe, given all he'd been through in the last day. Cy's brows furrowed; he hissed softly between his teeth before cracking his eyes open. They landed on her knee, it looked like. He followed the line quickly up to her eyes, blinking groggily.
“Stellu—" He winced. “Stellulam. How did...?"
She thought she understood what explanation he was asking after. Moving her hand back to her lap, she offered a half-smile. “It wasn't too difficult, after we went through the mirror. The new password kept the Venatori from following. We'll need to set the Skyhold one soon as well, I'm sure." She was sure he could do it, given how much he seemed to know about them. Ves hadn't been wrong—Cyrus really did seem to have all the answers, sometimes.
“How are you feeling?"
“I'm—" He cut himself off, a distressed look crossing his face, followed by outright panic. Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath, urgently pushing himself upright on the bed. He groaned, one hand going to his head. His breathing picked up, shallow and fast. “No. No, no, no, it can't be." He swallowed, his throat working furiously.
“No, no please." His eyes were bright with unshed tears. It wasn't clear he even remembered she was there, so great was his panic. Sweat beaded on his brow; he clenched one hand into the fabric over his chest, as though something in it caused him physical pain.
“Cy? Cyrus! Asala, get over here, please!" Estella took hold of sides of her brother's face firmly, ducking her head so he was forced into eye contact with her. “Cyrus. You have to tell me what's wrong, or I can't help. Please." His distress wasn't helping her own state, either; she could feel her heartbeat accelerating. What if this was some complication from the red lyrium? What if what Leon had done was only some temporary stopgap, and couldn't save him after all? What if, what if, what if.
Estella choked her fright back down, knowing it wouldn't help anything. She ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, hoping he could feel it. Hoping he knew she was there. Hoping he understood he could let her help him.
Cyrus shook his head in her grip, some clarity returning to his eyes when he blinked the tears free. But then he just looked like someone had torn out his insides and left him hollow. There was no spark in his eyes, none of his seemingly-inherent mischief. Just a keen, bone-deep pain. “It's gone." He breathed the words softly, his voice cracking on a sob.
“My magic is gone."
"Gone?" Asala asked. She had rushed to their bedside and was now kneeling in front of them, and intense healing spell in both hands. When he spoke though, the spell sputtered and faded away, replaced by the confusion on her face. "Wh--" she stopped herself, uncomfortable with the question she was about to ask but in spite of herself, she still asked it with her face, contorted by worry.
It was debatable whether Cyrus really heard Asala, either; he sagged heavily against the wall next to his bed, turning his face into the stone. Estella could see his eyes close, hear the heavy shudder of his breathing. He wasn't shedding any more tears, but he seemed to be wholly withdrawing into himself, shutting the both of them out with the same effectiveness as he shut out the rest of the world in the middle of his research. The fingers of his left hand curled into the wall, nail beds turning white with the pressure, leaving little chips in the soft yellow paint.
No. No, this wasn't good. She'd seen him like this only a couple of times before, and Estella knew she was not prepared to see it again. “Cyrus. Cyrus, don't you dare. Don't you dare keep me out like this." She shifted, clambering up onto her knees on the bed and putting her hand on his, trying to ease it away from the wall before he cracked his nails or worse.
She found it more difficult than expected; he seemed to be actively resisting her. “Cyrus. Cy. Please. Please don't do this." Her hand slid down to his wrist, her fingers winding around it as far as she could get them. She forgot, sometimes, how strong he was. It seemed so inconsequential next to what he could do with magic. Estella swallowed thickly.
“Cy... Cy look at me. Don't go. Please. Don't go." Not where she couldn't reach. Not where she couldn't follow.
Not again.
Nothing. Not a word, or a look, or even a flinch. She might as well not have existed, save that he was indeed still resisting her attempts to move him in any way. If anything, he pressed his brow harder into the stone wall, wrapping his other arm tightly around his own midsection, fingers digging at his side through the loose linen shirt he wore. She knew what this was—he wasn't merely shutting her out, he was shutting himself down.
"Cyrus," Asala stated, her words barely above a whisper, but still in possession of a firm tone. She had since risen from the floor and now stood over the bed in an attempt to restrain him, most likely so that he did not accidentally hurt himself. However, even in spite of her size, he still fought her off and she had difficulties pulling him away from the wall. "Cyrus." she said again, louder and firmer.
If Asala couldn't do much to move him, there wasn't much chance of forcing it. Estella didn't believe that was the best solution anyway. When he got like this, he usually wasn't even doing it on purpose. It was basically his version of what other people usually referred to as a panic attack.
“Asala," she said quietly. “Could you please go get us some water and something for headaches?" If he didn't have one already, he probably would soon.
The next part was a bit trickier. Estella took in a deep breath, keeping her hold on his wrist and ducking herself underneath it. He was against the wall at an awkward angle, mostly sideways, and so she struggled to squeeze herself in between them. She needed him to notice that she was there. Needed him to acknowledge it. Only if he got that far was there hope for any of the rest. With some work, she insinuated herself so that her back was against the wall and she was facing him, and tucked her head under his chin, wrapping her arms around him.
“Come on, Cy. Come back. I'm here. We're all here." She squeezed, firmly enough to reinforce her words, but not with the intention of causing him discomfort. Her left hand rubbed at his back; she sniffled, trying to smother the emotions welling up in her chest. “It's okay," she murmured against his shirt, unsure which one of them she meant to convince. “It's—it's going to be okay."
For several long moments, he reacted not at all. But slowly, she could feel his arms relax, held in tension for too long and falling heavily to the bed. One of them, he eased around her waist. His breathing hadn't changed, but in little increments, with each breath, he became a little less stiff, until perhaps too much of his weight was leaning against her.
“What if I can't come back?" He rasped the words, hoarse and raw. She heard him swallow. “It's gone, Stellulam. I'm gone. There's nothing—nothing left."
There were a thousand things she could have said. Estella knew that almost none of them would mean anything to him. For most of his life, Cyrus had been defined, for better or worse, by what he could do. By what he was capable of. And by all measures, he was extraordinary. As bizarre as it would have been for most anyone to have the thought that all there was of them was some natural capacity of theirs, she knew why he thought that way. Because it was all he'd ever heard from anyone. Even she'd done it, in her own mind, dividing them into the one born gifted and the one for whom it was a gift to have been born at all.
No insistence that he was alive and here would overturn the work of years of life. Not even if it came from her. Her chest ached, and she exhaled heavily, leaning into him just as ponderously as he leaned into her. “I know it feels that way," she said, her tone rough with the effort of holding in her tears. “I know it hurts. I know." She couldn't imagine it, but she didn't have to—that he was in this much obvious pain was enough.
“But my brother is still here. And I—" she sucked in a breath, eyes burning. “I still need him. Don't go, Cy. Don't leave me alone again."
Whatever thin threads were holding him together broke at that. His other arm joined his first, squeezing her until it was hard for her to breathe. He buried his face in her hair. She could feel the tremors that wracked him, starting at the spine and radiating out into his limbs, down to his fingertips. For long, slow minutes, he did not speak, did not move otherwise. But the distance did not reappear; he remained as present mentally as physically. She could feel it in the urgency of his grip.
“I won't. I... I promise I won't."
She nodded against him, but said no more. Estella could hear footsteps; likely Asala was approaching with what she'd asked for. She'd need to thank her, in a moment.
Her fingers curled into the back of Cy's shirt.
But not just yet.