The heavy glass bottom of the flask thudded against the wooden surface of the desk; Leon grimaced at the taste of the potion and swallowed it quickly, shaking his head. That proved to be a mistake—the throbbing pain there flared with the motion. A soft grunt escaped him; he exhaled heavily. He knew for a fact that Rilien's painkillers weren't addictive; there was nothing in them that would cause a dependence of that kind. But it was still disconcerting that he now had to take double the dose he'd started with for them to be effective.
Leaning back in his chair, Leon rested his head against the upholstery, staring up at the ceiling of his office. He should be working on the training schedule; the templars were due to run a full mock battle outside of Skyhold within the week. He also needed to think about what he was going to have Khari do next as part of her training. That at least would be fun, if he could gather the energy to do it.
But that had been harder and harder to do of late. Particularly since the incident in the Emerald Graves, he'd had considerable difficulty keeping his focus, as though the effects of his tincture were wearing off very, very slowly. It was becoming difficult to function in his administrative capacity even as the continual wear on his body promised that he wouldn't be able to function in his battlefield one for much longer, either. Something had to change, or he was going to have to recuse himself from his duties sooner than anticipated.
There was one avenue left to try.
By the time he managed to rise from his chair, the painkillers had taken effect, and he felt roughly functional again. Unsure how long that would last, Leon elected to act quickly, throwing his heavy cloak over his shoulders and heading out onto the battlements. The quickest way to Cyrus's tower was along the walls, and he took the route at a swift walk, the mild exertion keeping him warm despite the heavy chill outside. When he reached the atelier's door, he knocked twice.
"Cyrus? Are you in?"
It took a few moments, but the door opened; Cyrus arched his brows in a dull version of surprise. “Commander. Come in." He pushed the door open and stepped back.
It looked quite different in here from the last time Leon had been. The worktable that had once dominated the room had been pushed against the far wall. Several books occupied it, but the haphazard piles of notes were gone. All the drawings and schematics that had papered the chamber had vanished as well, the stone stark pale grey in their absence. A pair of armor racks had been added: one held what was clearly a practice set, the other the mail and light plate Cyrus had worn into the Graves. His swords leaned against the wall in the same area. The bookshelves were mostly the same, as were the instrument cabinets, but it was quite a bit... neater, than it had been.
Pia occupied one of the armchairs, curled up in a black-furred ball. She did not stir when Leon entered, nor when Cyrus closed the door behind him.
“Is there something I can do for you?" Cyrus paused, then gestured slightly at one of the armchairs. “I don't have much to offer but a place to sit. Afraid I just finished afternoon tea a few minutes ago."
"That's quite sufficient, thank you." Leon took the seat he was offered. He wanted to say it wasn't necessary to call him Commander, but he had no doubt that Cyrus knew that, and had chosen to, anyway. It left him feeling slightly wrong-footed. The back of his neck was stiff; he raised a hand to smooth over it, trying to loosen the knot at the same time as he collected the words he wanted.
It didn't get any easier the longer he thought about it, so he tried something else. "Are you well? I haven't seen you around much, but that may be because I don't leave my office as often as I'd like." Even when he did, though... he didn't get the impression that Cyrus socialized much. The reasons would have to be very different than they used to be, though. There was little evidence of long research hours to be seen here anymore.
A soft sound left Cyrus at the question. It sounded almost like incredulity. Sighing, he picked up the sleeping cat and sat in the chair she'd occupied, replacing her on his lap. She made a vague, sleepy noise and went back to her nap while he rubbed at her ears. “I'm not sure 'well' is the right word, but I am... functional. Unlikely to become any more of a liability than I already am. That's the important thing, I suppose." The twist to his mouth was bitter, but nothing about it gave the sense that the bitterness was directed at Leon in particular.
"I'm afraid I must disagree," Leon countered. He studied Cyrus for a moment, crossing an ankle over his knee. "You're a human being, Cyrus, not an automaton. It's not only your function that matters." But then... didn't he treat himself essentially the same way? It had taken him this long to even seriously consider seeking the other man's help, not because his condition had begun to interfere with his health, but because it interfered now with his ability to function as he believed he should.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Cyrus kept his eyes on Pia, petting her in long strokes from her head down her back to her tail. He shook his head minutely. “It's better if I don't think about it that way right now." His voice was quiet; he still refused to make eye contact. “If all I have to do is function, I might succeed." The second half of the statement went unspoken, but it was clear enough anyway.
He pulled in a breath, chest and shoulders rising with it. “But that's enough about me. I'm sure you don't have time for social calls with the local hermit, which means you need something. I already said I owe you whatever you like, so all you have to do is ask." He had said it—implied that it was a debt owed, for the time Leon had burned the red lyrium out of his blood, and saved his life in so doing.
If this worked, it would be a rather symmetrical repayment, though Leon had never intended to request it as that. He didn't like debts, either owing or being owed. But it didn't seem like a good time to try and push that line; Cyrus wasn't in a particularly-good mood, it seemed, and he wasn't oblivious as to why. Glancing down at his knuckles, Leon tried again to gather the words he wanted, flexing his fingers against the armrest of the chair. "Do you remember, at Therinfal? When you asked me about the tincture I drank before we fought the Red Templars?"
Whatever topic of conversation Cyrus had been expecting, this was not it. He raised his head, arching both brows and finally making eye contact again. “That was a while ago now, but yes. What of it?"
Leon sighed heavily. Cyrus didn't know everything Rilien did, so it seemed better to give the full explanation. "It's Reaver tonic. A type of blood magic. A warrior is given an alchemical mixture that includes the blood of some dragon or near-dragon species in a ritual, and it... enhances their strength and the like. By... a significant margin." He vaguely remembered the sensation of ligaments tearing and snapping beneath the pressure he could apply. The sudden loss of resistance as the red templar's head came free of his neck.
He could almost still feel the echoes of it, the rush of exultation that had flooded him during and after, the very draconic feeling of glorying in his own carnage. Or he had to assume it was draconic. He'd never felt any such thing before he'd submitted to Ophelia's ritual. Quite the opposite.
Cyrus nodded slightly. “I've heard of this, yes. I would not have expected it to be something a holy man did, though. I'd have thought the Chantry would abhor the use of blood magic in its highest military order. The blood of such people is of some academic interest in Tevinter. It has unique properties, depending on the sort of dragon involved." Though he spoke of the matters he knew best, his tone lacked any particular enthusiasm, and his expression didn't change much.
"The Chantry will tolerate a lot, if they don't have to know about it officially." Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes it felt like the right hand kept secrets from the left, in that particular body. "And... it was the only real option. There's no good use for a Seeker that can't bring himself to do what's necessary." He paused, pursing his lips. "And I couldn't. Not after my vigil. I couldn't bring myself to kill. I still don't know why." He'd never had to try, before; and he'd enjoyed sparring a great deal. There simply hadn't been any warning signs that he'd be so completely incapable of dealing death. But his failure on that count had been catastrophic.
“So they flooded your system with a dragon's strength and a dragon's aggression, and that did the trick." Cyrus leaned back a little, tongue clicking against the side of his teeth. “That is quite... ruthless of them." He blinked. “And this has something to do with your frequent ingestion of potions and the physical infirmities at its root?" He didn't indicate how he'd known that, but it was clear enough that he wasn't merely guessing.
Leon supposed a trained alchemist would know the physical signs of potion use, especially regular potion use. It may well be that he could hide those signs from some, but Cyrus was, quite possibly, the most intelligent person he'd ever met. It didn't especially surprise him that he'd noticed. With a nod, the Seeker elaborated. "The usual way of doing things only requires the reaver initiate to take the tonic once. For the duration. The magic sits in the blood and bone after that until their death. There are rumors that some part of it even passes to children." Not that he had to worry about that.
"But my case is different. It... wears off, after a while. I don't know why, only that it means I have to continually repeat the ingestion. It has the health effects you've described, and others. And they're accelerating. If I don't find some way to fix this, I'm going to die within a few more years at most." He grimaced. "Rilien is doing what he can, but the underlying problem doesn't seem to be alchemical. I'm using dragon blood, and I always have. Nothing weaker has the right effects. At this point, all he can really do is treat the symptoms as they arise."
Cyrus tilted his head, silent for several long moments. He seemed to be processing the information, parsing it carefully, letting it sink in. His brows furrowed. “I am... sorry to hear that, Leon." Another silence; his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, before he blinked and clarity returned to them.
“I can't promise anything. Perhaps if I still... well. I'd be able to test more, discover more. It sounds like the underlying cause, whatever is interfering with the tonic, must be magical. While I've no doubt that your pacifism is a powerful and inherent part of your personality, it should not be able to overcome the effects of such a tried and tested method of making a Reaver a Reaver. But I'll look into it as much as I can by mundane means." He appeared to regret his inability to do more, if the slightly forlorn expression on his face was anything to go by.
“In the meantime... may I suggest that you try to contact your teacher? She may be able to offer more insight into the specifics. And if you can think of any... strange or unusual magical happenings in your history, do inform me of those as well. I don't believe such a resistance would germinate on its own."
Contacting Ophelia was going to be tricky; Leon didn't even know where she was, and she'd be almost impossible for even Rilien's agents to find unless she desired to be found. Still... it was worth the attempt. "I can't think of anything immediately," he admitted, "but if I do, I'll be sure to write it down and tell you." He stood, inclining his head. "Thank you, Cyrus. I don't have great hope for a solution, to be completely honest with you, but... it seems like a waste not to at least try and find one."
Cyrus's eyes fell to the floor, but he lifted them back up a moment later, smiling thinly. “I suppose you have a fair point. I will do my best to help you."
Leaning back in his chair, Leon rested his head against the upholstery, staring up at the ceiling of his office. He should be working on the training schedule; the templars were due to run a full mock battle outside of Skyhold within the week. He also needed to think about what he was going to have Khari do next as part of her training. That at least would be fun, if he could gather the energy to do it.
But that had been harder and harder to do of late. Particularly since the incident in the Emerald Graves, he'd had considerable difficulty keeping his focus, as though the effects of his tincture were wearing off very, very slowly. It was becoming difficult to function in his administrative capacity even as the continual wear on his body promised that he wouldn't be able to function in his battlefield one for much longer, either. Something had to change, or he was going to have to recuse himself from his duties sooner than anticipated.
There was one avenue left to try.
By the time he managed to rise from his chair, the painkillers had taken effect, and he felt roughly functional again. Unsure how long that would last, Leon elected to act quickly, throwing his heavy cloak over his shoulders and heading out onto the battlements. The quickest way to Cyrus's tower was along the walls, and he took the route at a swift walk, the mild exertion keeping him warm despite the heavy chill outside. When he reached the atelier's door, he knocked twice.
"Cyrus? Are you in?"
It took a few moments, but the door opened; Cyrus arched his brows in a dull version of surprise. “Commander. Come in." He pushed the door open and stepped back.
It looked quite different in here from the last time Leon had been. The worktable that had once dominated the room had been pushed against the far wall. Several books occupied it, but the haphazard piles of notes were gone. All the drawings and schematics that had papered the chamber had vanished as well, the stone stark pale grey in their absence. A pair of armor racks had been added: one held what was clearly a practice set, the other the mail and light plate Cyrus had worn into the Graves. His swords leaned against the wall in the same area. The bookshelves were mostly the same, as were the instrument cabinets, but it was quite a bit... neater, than it had been.
Pia occupied one of the armchairs, curled up in a black-furred ball. She did not stir when Leon entered, nor when Cyrus closed the door behind him.
“Is there something I can do for you?" Cyrus paused, then gestured slightly at one of the armchairs. “I don't have much to offer but a place to sit. Afraid I just finished afternoon tea a few minutes ago."
"That's quite sufficient, thank you." Leon took the seat he was offered. He wanted to say it wasn't necessary to call him Commander, but he had no doubt that Cyrus knew that, and had chosen to, anyway. It left him feeling slightly wrong-footed. The back of his neck was stiff; he raised a hand to smooth over it, trying to loosen the knot at the same time as he collected the words he wanted.
It didn't get any easier the longer he thought about it, so he tried something else. "Are you well? I haven't seen you around much, but that may be because I don't leave my office as often as I'd like." Even when he did, though... he didn't get the impression that Cyrus socialized much. The reasons would have to be very different than they used to be, though. There was little evidence of long research hours to be seen here anymore.
A soft sound left Cyrus at the question. It sounded almost like incredulity. Sighing, he picked up the sleeping cat and sat in the chair she'd occupied, replacing her on his lap. She made a vague, sleepy noise and went back to her nap while he rubbed at her ears. “I'm not sure 'well' is the right word, but I am... functional. Unlikely to become any more of a liability than I already am. That's the important thing, I suppose." The twist to his mouth was bitter, but nothing about it gave the sense that the bitterness was directed at Leon in particular.
"I'm afraid I must disagree," Leon countered. He studied Cyrus for a moment, crossing an ankle over his knee. "You're a human being, Cyrus, not an automaton. It's not only your function that matters." But then... didn't he treat himself essentially the same way? It had taken him this long to even seriously consider seeking the other man's help, not because his condition had begun to interfere with his health, but because it interfered now with his ability to function as he believed he should.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Cyrus kept his eyes on Pia, petting her in long strokes from her head down her back to her tail. He shook his head minutely. “It's better if I don't think about it that way right now." His voice was quiet; he still refused to make eye contact. “If all I have to do is function, I might succeed." The second half of the statement went unspoken, but it was clear enough anyway.
He pulled in a breath, chest and shoulders rising with it. “But that's enough about me. I'm sure you don't have time for social calls with the local hermit, which means you need something. I already said I owe you whatever you like, so all you have to do is ask." He had said it—implied that it was a debt owed, for the time Leon had burned the red lyrium out of his blood, and saved his life in so doing.
If this worked, it would be a rather symmetrical repayment, though Leon had never intended to request it as that. He didn't like debts, either owing or being owed. But it didn't seem like a good time to try and push that line; Cyrus wasn't in a particularly-good mood, it seemed, and he wasn't oblivious as to why. Glancing down at his knuckles, Leon tried again to gather the words he wanted, flexing his fingers against the armrest of the chair. "Do you remember, at Therinfal? When you asked me about the tincture I drank before we fought the Red Templars?"
Whatever topic of conversation Cyrus had been expecting, this was not it. He raised his head, arching both brows and finally making eye contact again. “That was a while ago now, but yes. What of it?"
Leon sighed heavily. Cyrus didn't know everything Rilien did, so it seemed better to give the full explanation. "It's Reaver tonic. A type of blood magic. A warrior is given an alchemical mixture that includes the blood of some dragon or near-dragon species in a ritual, and it... enhances their strength and the like. By... a significant margin." He vaguely remembered the sensation of ligaments tearing and snapping beneath the pressure he could apply. The sudden loss of resistance as the red templar's head came free of his neck.
He could almost still feel the echoes of it, the rush of exultation that had flooded him during and after, the very draconic feeling of glorying in his own carnage. Or he had to assume it was draconic. He'd never felt any such thing before he'd submitted to Ophelia's ritual. Quite the opposite.
Cyrus nodded slightly. “I've heard of this, yes. I would not have expected it to be something a holy man did, though. I'd have thought the Chantry would abhor the use of blood magic in its highest military order. The blood of such people is of some academic interest in Tevinter. It has unique properties, depending on the sort of dragon involved." Though he spoke of the matters he knew best, his tone lacked any particular enthusiasm, and his expression didn't change much.
"The Chantry will tolerate a lot, if they don't have to know about it officially." Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes it felt like the right hand kept secrets from the left, in that particular body. "And... it was the only real option. There's no good use for a Seeker that can't bring himself to do what's necessary." He paused, pursing his lips. "And I couldn't. Not after my vigil. I couldn't bring myself to kill. I still don't know why." He'd never had to try, before; and he'd enjoyed sparring a great deal. There simply hadn't been any warning signs that he'd be so completely incapable of dealing death. But his failure on that count had been catastrophic.
“So they flooded your system with a dragon's strength and a dragon's aggression, and that did the trick." Cyrus leaned back a little, tongue clicking against the side of his teeth. “That is quite... ruthless of them." He blinked. “And this has something to do with your frequent ingestion of potions and the physical infirmities at its root?" He didn't indicate how he'd known that, but it was clear enough that he wasn't merely guessing.
Leon supposed a trained alchemist would know the physical signs of potion use, especially regular potion use. It may well be that he could hide those signs from some, but Cyrus was, quite possibly, the most intelligent person he'd ever met. It didn't especially surprise him that he'd noticed. With a nod, the Seeker elaborated. "The usual way of doing things only requires the reaver initiate to take the tonic once. For the duration. The magic sits in the blood and bone after that until their death. There are rumors that some part of it even passes to children." Not that he had to worry about that.
"But my case is different. It... wears off, after a while. I don't know why, only that it means I have to continually repeat the ingestion. It has the health effects you've described, and others. And they're accelerating. If I don't find some way to fix this, I'm going to die within a few more years at most." He grimaced. "Rilien is doing what he can, but the underlying problem doesn't seem to be alchemical. I'm using dragon blood, and I always have. Nothing weaker has the right effects. At this point, all he can really do is treat the symptoms as they arise."
Cyrus tilted his head, silent for several long moments. He seemed to be processing the information, parsing it carefully, letting it sink in. His brows furrowed. “I am... sorry to hear that, Leon." Another silence; his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, before he blinked and clarity returned to them.
“I can't promise anything. Perhaps if I still... well. I'd be able to test more, discover more. It sounds like the underlying cause, whatever is interfering with the tonic, must be magical. While I've no doubt that your pacifism is a powerful and inherent part of your personality, it should not be able to overcome the effects of such a tried and tested method of making a Reaver a Reaver. But I'll look into it as much as I can by mundane means." He appeared to regret his inability to do more, if the slightly forlorn expression on his face was anything to go by.
“In the meantime... may I suggest that you try to contact your teacher? She may be able to offer more insight into the specifics. And if you can think of any... strange or unusual magical happenings in your history, do inform me of those as well. I don't believe such a resistance would germinate on its own."
Contacting Ophelia was going to be tricky; Leon didn't even know where she was, and she'd be almost impossible for even Rilien's agents to find unless she desired to be found. Still... it was worth the attempt. "I can't think of anything immediately," he admitted, "but if I do, I'll be sure to write it down and tell you." He stood, inclining his head. "Thank you, Cyrus. I don't have great hope for a solution, to be completely honest with you, but... it seems like a waste not to at least try and find one."
Cyrus's eyes fell to the floor, but he lifted them back up a moment later, smiling thinly. “I suppose you have a fair point. I will do my best to help you."