It was fortunate that Cyrus's debriefing with the Inquisition's lovely panel of advisors was not scheduled until the afternoon, because he woke up at about midday with the worst headache he'd had in years, and an unfortunately-complete recollection of the way the night before had gone. He couldn't say he'd intended to share that particular story with anyone, especially not within earshot of Stellulam, but... it hadn't turned out as badly as he'd expected. He'd long since accepted that the memory of that day would haunt him for the rest of his life. Unlike those who had killed only in defense of self or others, he knew what it was like to spill the blood of an innocent helpless to defend himself. To spill the blood of a friend. It was a stain on his soul, if such a thing existed. It probably shouldn't go away.
He lacked the strength to move, at first, remaining where he was on Stellulam's sofa and trying to slowly open his eyes and accustom them to the light. He hadn't dreamed—but of course he couldn't, anymore. Gone were the days when he wandered further afield at night than he ever did during the day. Now he just... blacked out for a while; lost track of everything. It felt unnatural, strange and wrong, and he was never able to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. Unless, apparently, he had the assistance of very strong drink.
He needed to get up and bathe, among other things. He knew this, but couldn't quite seem to find the motivation or will to achieve it. He was lethargic, heavy in the limbs, and the splitting pain in his head made it difficult to dredge up the effort required. More than that, though, he just... didn't really see a reason. With a soft groan, he extracted his arm from between his body and the back of the sofa, laying it across his stomach instead, but that was as far as his first effort took him. It wasn't as though he had anything urgent to do, anymore. His experiments were impossible, his research inapplicable. He no longer had anything to offer the Inquisition, save perhaps a sword arm better than some but worse than others. And what was one more of those, in the grand scheme of things?
He would stay for Stellulam, but all she required was his presence, and he could be just as well from here as anywhere. Maybe better, since her office was just a staircase below at the moment. If she wanted him for something, he would be easy to find.
But... there was perhaps one more thing he could do, at least. With more time to think about matters—and he'd done little else for days—he'd become relatively certain that he knew who the Venatori's leader was. And that seemed like important information that for the moment only he was likely to possess. It was time he let the others know, so that more useful people could decide what to do about it, and then carry out those plans.
Getting himself cleaned up and into a fresh set of clothes took the batter part of half an hour because he moved slowly in his recovery, but he didn't bother with the more polished touches to his appearance. His hair he left to air-dry, and it curled a bit near his nape as a result. It probably needed a cut. His shirt was just a loose, white linen thing, tucked into grey trousers and his well-traveled boots. His face looked like he'd been through hell: sunken cheeks, hollowed eyes, chapped lips, even, and a very fine layer of black stubble. But he was clean, and even that felt oddly like a victory on this particular day.
He made it down to Marceline's office on time for the meeting, at least; Estella's tranquil tutor let him in when he knocked. He mustered half a bow from somewhere, but the effortless light air of it was gone, leaving only the bare minimum motion of rote instead of grace.
Lady Marceline stood on the other side of her desk, where she leaned over and appeared to be discussing something with Larissa, who sat in her chair. When Cyrus entered, she turned to greet him and nodded politely, and added, "Lord Cyrus," before she glanced back at Larissa. The elven woman nodded succinctly and retrieved a ledger from one of Marceline's drawers as well as a quill and inkwell.
With whatever affairs that they were discussing apparently settled, Marceline finally turned to face Cyrus more fully, though not before she reached for a half empty wineglass that waited for her on the corner of her desk. Larissa's eyes went to the glass as well, though only for a moment before she too started to look toward Cyrus. "If you are so inclined, you are more than welcome to take any seat you see," she said, gesturing toward the finely upholstered chairs and couch, as well as the stiffer ones situated in front of her desk.
He wasn't particularly inclined to do anything, honestly. But he supposed sitting was marginally better than standing, for present purposes, so he nodded slightly, taking a seat in one of the firm-backed chairs in front of the desk and leaning back with a sigh likely only audible to himself. Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, but blinked them open again soon after.
“We met the Venatori's leader, on the other side of the eluvian." He spoke without preamble, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. The pounding behind his eyes hadn't abated, not even with the help of an alchemical pain-reliever. He'd used to hate the very thought of putting something like that into his body. Of disrupting the natural harmony between his chemistry and his magic. But there was hardly any point in such reservations anymore. What did they protect, now?
He lifted dull eyes to meet Marceline's, arching an eyebrow without humor. “I know who he is now. I don't think it'll mean much to anyone else, but I can at least tell you what little I'm aware of. Not sure if you want to take notes or something." He gestured vaguely with a hand before he let it fall back to his leg with a soft thud.
"Larissa?" She asked, tilting her head in the woman's direction.
"Ready, ma'am," she said after dipping the quill tip into the inkwell. It appeared that they had been prepared to take notes regardless.
Satisfied, Marceline then turned back to Cyrus and nodded, "All information helps, even the smallest piece. Now, who is this man?" Marceline asked, leaning heavily on the lip of her desk. She had an arm tucked across her body while the other held the wineglass to her lips, where they rested while she awaited Cyrus's explanation.
Cyrus huffed. It might have been a laugh, at some point, but he didn't really have the energy for it right now. “If anybody had told me it was him, I'd have thought the whole enterprise doomed to fail. He has a habit of doing that, but only because he picks such... lofty ambitions." Not that he was really in a place to be criticizing anyone else for wanting too much or aiming too high, really. He scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving it curved over his mouth for a moment before dropping it to his own opposite shoulder.
“His name is Alesius. Marcus Alesius, and unsurprisingly, he is a Magister. Though certainly not one with much clout in the Imperium as it is. He's... honestly something of a laughingstock, but his magic is formidable enough that few would dare mock him to his face. So they just all do it behind his back instead, as politicians tend to prefer."
Marceline sighed and shook her head. "I know of his name, this Marcus," she revealed, letting the glass fall away from her lips. "There was an incident at Chateau Haine some years ago that I believe involved him as well as an... acquaintance of mine. From what I recollect, this Marcus had also had audiences with the Empress herself at that time," she said, glancing back at Larissa. At the pause, Larissa returned the look and nodded in agreement.
She then looked back at Cyrus, "It is a surprise then to hear that his own people held such a low opinion on him."
Cyrus shrugged. “Back when he was an apprentice, he worked under Magister Cæcilius. His magic was always better than his master's, basically as soon as he'd learned the fundamentals. But Cæcilius had the more powerful family. Predictably enough, Marcus wanted an engagement to his daughter to reinforce the connection. The bond of apprenticeship is second only to those; it's not uncommon for apprentices to eventually marry into the family, if they're well-liked by the Magister." Fortunately for both himself and Chryseis, Cassius had never insisted on anything of the sort, though there were always going to be vague insinuations. They just never came to anything.
“The rumors say he decided to prove himself in deed rather than word. Personally, I suspect wanting to marry into his teacher's family had little to do with it. But he infiltrated the Qunari—posed as a convert, hid his magic. They put him into the Ben-Hassrath, which meant he and his partner were handling a lot of sensitive information. Five years later, she has a list of the Qunari operatives in the Imperium and he has her in Cæcilius's basement." Cyrus grimaced. “Of course, it wasn't the fact that he tortured her that earned the ire of the Magisterium. It was the fact that he failed to do it well enough to get a peep out of her. And then she pretended to be dead and dug her way out of her grave, they say. You can imagine what a spectacular failure that was for him. Thwarted by a half-dead woman. Everything he's done since hasn't succeeded either; that's why he tried other courts in the first place, I suppose."
“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?" Leon asked. “How he fell in with Corypheus, anything about his resources or likely plans?" From the sound of it, he knew the questions were a bit of a reach, but most likely he found them worthwhile to ask anyway.
“Probably it was a desperation move." Cyrus narrowed his eyes; it was really too bright in here, with the daylight filtering in from outside. “But... I will say this. Alesius is remembered for his failures, but he has bounced back from each of them. He overreaches occasionally, to be sure, but there's a certain brilliance to his thinking all the same. It would be unwise to underestimate him. Quite a lot of people want him dead, and yet he is not. That itself should serve as warning." Few survived in Tevinter very long with no allies, and perhaps aside from Leta, Marcus had none.
"Much of the same could be said of us," Marceline noted evenly.
Leon nodded slowly. “I believe that should cover all of our questions, then." He'd clearly noticed that Cyrus was not quite himself, if the furrow in his brow was anything to go by. Once Marceline and Rilien had confirmed, his lips thinned a bit. “There is one last thing, though. If you wouldn't mind accompanying me for a while, Cyrus?"
He wasn't really expecting the request, and for a moment, he considered simply declining. But he supposed he owed Leon his life now, whatever it was still worth, so he found himself nodding. "Very well." He stood with a soft grunt of effort and followed Leon from Marceline's office.
Leon did not immediately makes his intentions nor their destination clear, instead leading Cyrus through the keep and out the front door. It wasn't until they were up on the walls that he finally stopped, leaning forward on the crenelations and bracing himself with his hands. “Apologies. I suppose the light level might not be all the comfortable. If you'd prefer to go indoors, I'd understand."
Cyrus shook his head, slowly enough not to agitate his headache. "Considering how much I drank last night, I probably deserve it." His face pulled into a grim frown, but he did turn away from the wall, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. This high up, he could see the soldiers practicing on the training grounds below. The mages Aurora led were just in sight; he watched one of them fling a lightning spell and felt for a brief moment as though it had struck him square in the chest.
He exhaled softly, turning his eyes away to watch the arms practice instead, blinking back the tears that had suddenly gathered in his eyes. He felt... empty. Hollow. Like a shell. All the ways he'd heard others describe tranquil, and yet this might be worse. Because he felt the loss. He still reflexively reached for his magic every time he wanted a light or to warm cold tea or something as simple as a book on a far shelf. It hadn't been much more than a week in total, but still he felt as though it would never be otherwise. This would never be normal for him.
He wasn't sure he wanted it to be.
Cyrus steadied himself with a breath. "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Commander?" He knew that by now, Stellulam had told her three advisors and fellow Inquisitor of what had become of him, and as of last night, he could be relatively sure that both Vesryn and Zahra knew as well. Asala of course had been there when he'd first learned. That was plenty more people than he would've liked to have told, but each had been necessary, in a sense. If he had his way, there'd be no more. At least not until he figured out what he wanted to do with himself.
“I'm sorry, Cyrus." Leon still stared out at the landscape beyond the wall. His eyes were narrow, mouth set into a deep scowl. He looked angry, almost, though it didn't seem to be directed anywhere in particular. “That this happened... and that I did that to you."
It honestly took Cyrus a moment to figure out what he was talking about. But then it came back. A burning feeling, like his body was being incinerated from the inside, bones scorched and blackened, something in the Fade searing the corruption in his blood. He understood, now, in a way he had not before, why all the metaphors about Andraste's pyre were as they were. Not because he was any great martyr, of course, but because he knew now what it felt like for something to burn and be somehow pure at the same time. If he had to describe it, that was what he'd call it: holy fire, in his flesh and blood. It rather stood to reason that he'd be burned, didn't it?
Exhaling a short breath at his meandering train of thought, Cyrus shook his head. "As I recall, I demanded that you do it." Not that anything about that point was especially clear in memory, with the notable exception of pain. "I will try not to hold saving my life against you." His tone nearly dripped with irony, but there was a grain of truth in it, too, perhaps, considering how little he thought of what life was available to him now. Many mages would rather die than be rendered tranquil. He had figured himself among them.
At least he felt no such inclinations at present.
“Even so." Leon did not seem particularly assuaged by Cyrus's words, pushing back from the wall and turning to face him better. “That... I've done it often enough to know the kind of pain it puts people through. Others have called it a necessity, but it is torture, and I don't..." He heaved a deep sigh. “I honestly prefer not to remember I can do it. Regardless of the result, I am sorry I did it. Caused you that kind of pain."
Cyrus could see this wasn't an argument he was going to win. And he wasn't particularly inclined to try. Leon knew his own capacities better than anyone, and he had no desire to try and tell him differently. It had hurt. If that was what the apology was for, then... fair enough. "Consider yourself forgiven." He managed a very thin half-smile. "I am in your debt, Commander. If ever you should find yourself in need of... whatever I can do now, name the favor."
“I won't forget it," Leon said, his own smile mild. “In the meantime, is there something the Inquisition can provide you? You prefer swords, if I recall correctly. We could supply you with the steel kind, at least."
Cyrus gave that some thought. He supposed he would have to do his best to be useful again eventually. He wasn't going to do that laying about in Stellulam's room and trying to forget. "I'm not sure I'll be in shape for anything for a couple of months, at least." It was difficult to admit, but he was going to need time to acclimatize to the facts of his situation, and learn to adjust for them. But adapt he must—even if he wasn't strictly needed, he knew himself well enough to know that he would be unable to stand the idea of being locked up here in Skyhold while Stellulam and his other... friends ventured into danger. He'd be restless, perhaps eventually mad.
"But... yes. Two, if you can spare them. Longblades, preferably of lighter make, but nothing so thin as a rapier, please. I'll supply the rest." After a letter to his steward in Minrathous, anyway. But that shouldn't take longer to get here than it would take him to be ready for it.
Something akin to relief passed over Leon's face at that. “Consider it done."
He lacked the strength to move, at first, remaining where he was on Stellulam's sofa and trying to slowly open his eyes and accustom them to the light. He hadn't dreamed—but of course he couldn't, anymore. Gone were the days when he wandered further afield at night than he ever did during the day. Now he just... blacked out for a while; lost track of everything. It felt unnatural, strange and wrong, and he was never able to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. Unless, apparently, he had the assistance of very strong drink.
He needed to get up and bathe, among other things. He knew this, but couldn't quite seem to find the motivation or will to achieve it. He was lethargic, heavy in the limbs, and the splitting pain in his head made it difficult to dredge up the effort required. More than that, though, he just... didn't really see a reason. With a soft groan, he extracted his arm from between his body and the back of the sofa, laying it across his stomach instead, but that was as far as his first effort took him. It wasn't as though he had anything urgent to do, anymore. His experiments were impossible, his research inapplicable. He no longer had anything to offer the Inquisition, save perhaps a sword arm better than some but worse than others. And what was one more of those, in the grand scheme of things?
He would stay for Stellulam, but all she required was his presence, and he could be just as well from here as anywhere. Maybe better, since her office was just a staircase below at the moment. If she wanted him for something, he would be easy to find.
But... there was perhaps one more thing he could do, at least. With more time to think about matters—and he'd done little else for days—he'd become relatively certain that he knew who the Venatori's leader was. And that seemed like important information that for the moment only he was likely to possess. It was time he let the others know, so that more useful people could decide what to do about it, and then carry out those plans.
Getting himself cleaned up and into a fresh set of clothes took the batter part of half an hour because he moved slowly in his recovery, but he didn't bother with the more polished touches to his appearance. His hair he left to air-dry, and it curled a bit near his nape as a result. It probably needed a cut. His shirt was just a loose, white linen thing, tucked into grey trousers and his well-traveled boots. His face looked like he'd been through hell: sunken cheeks, hollowed eyes, chapped lips, even, and a very fine layer of black stubble. But he was clean, and even that felt oddly like a victory on this particular day.
He made it down to Marceline's office on time for the meeting, at least; Estella's tranquil tutor let him in when he knocked. He mustered half a bow from somewhere, but the effortless light air of it was gone, leaving only the bare minimum motion of rote instead of grace.
Lady Marceline stood on the other side of her desk, where she leaned over and appeared to be discussing something with Larissa, who sat in her chair. When Cyrus entered, she turned to greet him and nodded politely, and added, "Lord Cyrus," before she glanced back at Larissa. The elven woman nodded succinctly and retrieved a ledger from one of Marceline's drawers as well as a quill and inkwell.
With whatever affairs that they were discussing apparently settled, Marceline finally turned to face Cyrus more fully, though not before she reached for a half empty wineglass that waited for her on the corner of her desk. Larissa's eyes went to the glass as well, though only for a moment before she too started to look toward Cyrus. "If you are so inclined, you are more than welcome to take any seat you see," she said, gesturing toward the finely upholstered chairs and couch, as well as the stiffer ones situated in front of her desk.
He wasn't particularly inclined to do anything, honestly. But he supposed sitting was marginally better than standing, for present purposes, so he nodded slightly, taking a seat in one of the firm-backed chairs in front of the desk and leaning back with a sigh likely only audible to himself. Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, but blinked them open again soon after.
“We met the Venatori's leader, on the other side of the eluvian." He spoke without preamble, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. The pounding behind his eyes hadn't abated, not even with the help of an alchemical pain-reliever. He'd used to hate the very thought of putting something like that into his body. Of disrupting the natural harmony between his chemistry and his magic. But there was hardly any point in such reservations anymore. What did they protect, now?
He lifted dull eyes to meet Marceline's, arching an eyebrow without humor. “I know who he is now. I don't think it'll mean much to anyone else, but I can at least tell you what little I'm aware of. Not sure if you want to take notes or something." He gestured vaguely with a hand before he let it fall back to his leg with a soft thud.
"Larissa?" She asked, tilting her head in the woman's direction.
"Ready, ma'am," she said after dipping the quill tip into the inkwell. It appeared that they had been prepared to take notes regardless.
Satisfied, Marceline then turned back to Cyrus and nodded, "All information helps, even the smallest piece. Now, who is this man?" Marceline asked, leaning heavily on the lip of her desk. She had an arm tucked across her body while the other held the wineglass to her lips, where they rested while she awaited Cyrus's explanation.
Cyrus huffed. It might have been a laugh, at some point, but he didn't really have the energy for it right now. “If anybody had told me it was him, I'd have thought the whole enterprise doomed to fail. He has a habit of doing that, but only because he picks such... lofty ambitions." Not that he was really in a place to be criticizing anyone else for wanting too much or aiming too high, really. He scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving it curved over his mouth for a moment before dropping it to his own opposite shoulder.
“His name is Alesius. Marcus Alesius, and unsurprisingly, he is a Magister. Though certainly not one with much clout in the Imperium as it is. He's... honestly something of a laughingstock, but his magic is formidable enough that few would dare mock him to his face. So they just all do it behind his back instead, as politicians tend to prefer."
Marceline sighed and shook her head. "I know of his name, this Marcus," she revealed, letting the glass fall away from her lips. "There was an incident at Chateau Haine some years ago that I believe involved him as well as an... acquaintance of mine. From what I recollect, this Marcus had also had audiences with the Empress herself at that time," she said, glancing back at Larissa. At the pause, Larissa returned the look and nodded in agreement.
She then looked back at Cyrus, "It is a surprise then to hear that his own people held such a low opinion on him."
Cyrus shrugged. “Back when he was an apprentice, he worked under Magister Cæcilius. His magic was always better than his master's, basically as soon as he'd learned the fundamentals. But Cæcilius had the more powerful family. Predictably enough, Marcus wanted an engagement to his daughter to reinforce the connection. The bond of apprenticeship is second only to those; it's not uncommon for apprentices to eventually marry into the family, if they're well-liked by the Magister." Fortunately for both himself and Chryseis, Cassius had never insisted on anything of the sort, though there were always going to be vague insinuations. They just never came to anything.
“The rumors say he decided to prove himself in deed rather than word. Personally, I suspect wanting to marry into his teacher's family had little to do with it. But he infiltrated the Qunari—posed as a convert, hid his magic. They put him into the Ben-Hassrath, which meant he and his partner were handling a lot of sensitive information. Five years later, she has a list of the Qunari operatives in the Imperium and he has her in Cæcilius's basement." Cyrus grimaced. “Of course, it wasn't the fact that he tortured her that earned the ire of the Magisterium. It was the fact that he failed to do it well enough to get a peep out of her. And then she pretended to be dead and dug her way out of her grave, they say. You can imagine what a spectacular failure that was for him. Thwarted by a half-dead woman. Everything he's done since hasn't succeeded either; that's why he tried other courts in the first place, I suppose."
“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?" Leon asked. “How he fell in with Corypheus, anything about his resources or likely plans?" From the sound of it, he knew the questions were a bit of a reach, but most likely he found them worthwhile to ask anyway.
“Probably it was a desperation move." Cyrus narrowed his eyes; it was really too bright in here, with the daylight filtering in from outside. “But... I will say this. Alesius is remembered for his failures, but he has bounced back from each of them. He overreaches occasionally, to be sure, but there's a certain brilliance to his thinking all the same. It would be unwise to underestimate him. Quite a lot of people want him dead, and yet he is not. That itself should serve as warning." Few survived in Tevinter very long with no allies, and perhaps aside from Leta, Marcus had none.
"Much of the same could be said of us," Marceline noted evenly.
Leon nodded slowly. “I believe that should cover all of our questions, then." He'd clearly noticed that Cyrus was not quite himself, if the furrow in his brow was anything to go by. Once Marceline and Rilien had confirmed, his lips thinned a bit. “There is one last thing, though. If you wouldn't mind accompanying me for a while, Cyrus?"
He wasn't really expecting the request, and for a moment, he considered simply declining. But he supposed he owed Leon his life now, whatever it was still worth, so he found himself nodding. "Very well." He stood with a soft grunt of effort and followed Leon from Marceline's office.
Leon did not immediately makes his intentions nor their destination clear, instead leading Cyrus through the keep and out the front door. It wasn't until they were up on the walls that he finally stopped, leaning forward on the crenelations and bracing himself with his hands. “Apologies. I suppose the light level might not be all the comfortable. If you'd prefer to go indoors, I'd understand."
Cyrus shook his head, slowly enough not to agitate his headache. "Considering how much I drank last night, I probably deserve it." His face pulled into a grim frown, but he did turn away from the wall, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. This high up, he could see the soldiers practicing on the training grounds below. The mages Aurora led were just in sight; he watched one of them fling a lightning spell and felt for a brief moment as though it had struck him square in the chest.
He exhaled softly, turning his eyes away to watch the arms practice instead, blinking back the tears that had suddenly gathered in his eyes. He felt... empty. Hollow. Like a shell. All the ways he'd heard others describe tranquil, and yet this might be worse. Because he felt the loss. He still reflexively reached for his magic every time he wanted a light or to warm cold tea or something as simple as a book on a far shelf. It hadn't been much more than a week in total, but still he felt as though it would never be otherwise. This would never be normal for him.
He wasn't sure he wanted it to be.
Cyrus steadied himself with a breath. "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Commander?" He knew that by now, Stellulam had told her three advisors and fellow Inquisitor of what had become of him, and as of last night, he could be relatively sure that both Vesryn and Zahra knew as well. Asala of course had been there when he'd first learned. That was plenty more people than he would've liked to have told, but each had been necessary, in a sense. If he had his way, there'd be no more. At least not until he figured out what he wanted to do with himself.
“I'm sorry, Cyrus." Leon still stared out at the landscape beyond the wall. His eyes were narrow, mouth set into a deep scowl. He looked angry, almost, though it didn't seem to be directed anywhere in particular. “That this happened... and that I did that to you."
It honestly took Cyrus a moment to figure out what he was talking about. But then it came back. A burning feeling, like his body was being incinerated from the inside, bones scorched and blackened, something in the Fade searing the corruption in his blood. He understood, now, in a way he had not before, why all the metaphors about Andraste's pyre were as they were. Not because he was any great martyr, of course, but because he knew now what it felt like for something to burn and be somehow pure at the same time. If he had to describe it, that was what he'd call it: holy fire, in his flesh and blood. It rather stood to reason that he'd be burned, didn't it?
Exhaling a short breath at his meandering train of thought, Cyrus shook his head. "As I recall, I demanded that you do it." Not that anything about that point was especially clear in memory, with the notable exception of pain. "I will try not to hold saving my life against you." His tone nearly dripped with irony, but there was a grain of truth in it, too, perhaps, considering how little he thought of what life was available to him now. Many mages would rather die than be rendered tranquil. He had figured himself among them.
At least he felt no such inclinations at present.
“Even so." Leon did not seem particularly assuaged by Cyrus's words, pushing back from the wall and turning to face him better. “That... I've done it often enough to know the kind of pain it puts people through. Others have called it a necessity, but it is torture, and I don't..." He heaved a deep sigh. “I honestly prefer not to remember I can do it. Regardless of the result, I am sorry I did it. Caused you that kind of pain."
Cyrus could see this wasn't an argument he was going to win. And he wasn't particularly inclined to try. Leon knew his own capacities better than anyone, and he had no desire to try and tell him differently. It had hurt. If that was what the apology was for, then... fair enough. "Consider yourself forgiven." He managed a very thin half-smile. "I am in your debt, Commander. If ever you should find yourself in need of... whatever I can do now, name the favor."
“I won't forget it," Leon said, his own smile mild. “In the meantime, is there something the Inquisition can provide you? You prefer swords, if I recall correctly. We could supply you with the steel kind, at least."
Cyrus gave that some thought. He supposed he would have to do his best to be useful again eventually. He wasn't going to do that laying about in Stellulam's room and trying to forget. "I'm not sure I'll be in shape for anything for a couple of months, at least." It was difficult to admit, but he was going to need time to acclimatize to the facts of his situation, and learn to adjust for them. But adapt he must—even if he wasn't strictly needed, he knew himself well enough to know that he would be unable to stand the idea of being locked up here in Skyhold while Stellulam and his other... friends ventured into danger. He'd be restless, perhaps eventually mad.
"But... yes. Two, if you can spare them. Longblades, preferably of lighter make, but nothing so thin as a rapier, please. I'll supply the rest." After a letter to his steward in Minrathous, anyway. But that shouldn't take longer to get here than it would take him to be ready for it.
Something akin to relief passed over Leon's face at that. “Consider it done."