Cyrus had never been a man of his word, particularly.
It wasn't like he told lies or broke promises all the time, of course, just that he'd always done both when it was convenient to do so, and hadn't seen any particular reason to be otherwise. For most of his life, too much honesty would have been a fatal weakness, and not necessarily just for him. It was better to be... flexible, in certain ways.
But he'd promised Zahra that he would consult his former master about Faraji Contee and his family, and for once, it just didn't feel to him like breaking that promise was an option on the table, unpleasant as this was bound to be.
Ridiculous as he'd found most things about the whole Halamshiral affair, he more than most people could probably understand the allure of wearing a physical mask. He hadn't ever been the best at hiding his feelings when his face was bare, and Cassius knew him far too well for any attempt like that to have a hope of success anyway. Descending to the dungeon level of Skyhold felt almost like going back in time, to when he'd been a little boy, approaching the master's office knowing full well that he was about to be punished. The whistle and crack of rattan were still vivid in his memory, recollections that would never quite fade entirely, as so many other things would. Nothing in life was fair, not even what one remembered of it and what one forgot.
Alighting softly on the landing, Cyrus nodded at the templar and the mage guarding the large cell on the end, drawing himself up as tall as he could force his spine, tilting his chin upwards to have an angle that displayed more confidence than he felt. He folded his hands behind his back. When the templar opened the cell with the key, he stepped inside as though nothing was off whatsoever, as though there was no child in him still, apprehensive and hopeful and so many other things that he didn't know how to be anymore.
Cassius's extended stay in the dungeon showed in the appointments of his cell: a simple screen closed off the privy and washbasin. The floor had a modest rug, and someone had allowed both a small bookcase—no doubt long overstuffed—and a writing desk with a proper chair. It was not luxurious, but it was no doubt a great deal more comfortable than it could have been.
"Cyrus." Cassius's voice, parchment-dry, was thinner than he remembered it, but what two years more of age had taken away in resonance, it had loaned in a certain raspy gravitas, a light susurration on the edges like reed-grass rubbing together or a snake's scales sliding over hot sandstone. He sounded... old.
Intellectually, Cyrus knew that by this point he well should. But it was startling nevertheless. Cassius had never worn his years as heavily as some others, but they looked to weigh their due now. His master's skin was as papery as his voice, the lines near his eyes deep, and rendered deeper by the dim light of the room, on the side where his magelight lantern didn't illuminate.
He still sat at his desk like a Magister, however.
"It has been some time. Deigned to show me your face at last, have you?" He arched a grey eyebrow, still well-kept like the rest of him. Somehow there was yet a great deal of judgement in his tone, a scolding undercurrent that evoked instinctive reaction in Cyrus. Such things were easy to ignore when he was nearly blind with rage, but in this setting, they were not.
His chin lost the defiant tilt; instead, he dipped his head in some form of acknowledgment. He didn't owe this man an apology, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he owed him something. He'd been doing a lot more thinking about the course of his life, of late. Perhaps that was inevitable, with how much it had changed. What he thought—felt—about Cassius was not something that could easily or neatly be summed up into a few words or phrases. It was too complicated for that, too bound up in things that were still changing, and in his own changing understanding of what in life was theirs to control, and what inevitably controlled them.
“I've come to ask you a question." That much was probably obvious, but if he didn't say it himself, Cassius would still make him, by feigning obliviousness until Cyrus was forced into the position of making it a request. Better to get it over with.
"So there are still things you don't know, are there?" Cassius's dark eyes narrowed; he pulled a leg up and crossed his ankle over his knee. His robes were plain, but the perfect Viridius sage-green of them meant they were his, from somewhere. "Please, allow me a moment to savor the revelation that I might have something left to teach you. I believe you once told me otherwise, after all." His voice did not suggest any actual enjoyment, just a very thick layer of sarcasm. Still, he gestured at the extra chair in the cell. It looked to see very little use. Likely none.
Cyrus debated with himself for a moment, then took it, settling his arms carefully on the hard wooden rests.
"Now... what does my not-so-omniscient apprentice want to learn this time?" Cassius pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting the very edge of the formation at his chin. It was a familiar bit of body language. Cyrus resisted the urge to sit up straighter.
Instead he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Whatever you know about another Altus house. Contee."
Cassius made a face that suggested mild revulsion. "Altus on one side only, with a name like that." It was certainly not a Tevene name, that much was true. Then again, if Zahra had been promised to one of the children, they obviously didn't mind that as much as most houses would. "Through the Lady, of course. Claudia Contee, née Olivarius. Husband was... oh, I don't remember. Rivaini, I think, one of the hedge-mages, though of course it's the matriarchs that run things there." Predictably, he was dismissive of any other country's version of magic and rulership, but he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about.
"Two sons, as I recall. Corveus, and... Faraji. One name from each side, I suppose." He made eye contact with Cyrus from beneath heavy brows. "Why the interest? You hardly cared to know the names of the peerage before. I can't imagine it's suddenly become more relevant to you."
“Not to me." Cyrus hesitated, hedging around the word 'friend.' He knew quite well what Cassius thought of having friends, particularly those whose status would not advance his in any way whatsoever, a category Zahra without question fell into. “To the Inquisition, or some of its members, anyway."
The penetrating stare he received in return suggested that he probably should have just used the word. "Planning social suicide, are you? That's exactly what it would be, if you attempted anything against them with the kind of inadequate preparation this lot is likely to be able to muster." Cassius shook his head, the flicker of disdain returning momentarily before it faded. "They're quite reputed for 'experimental' blood magic, that lot. You know as well as I that means toying with forces they aren't competent enough to control. There's rumors of black market lyrium trafficking as well, but I cannot substantiate those."
“They sound like such lovely people." Cyrus felt his mouth pull down into a frown.
Cassius grunted. "As lovely as any, of course." The Imperium did tend to sow its own garden with bad seeds. It was hardly surprising that so many bore rotten fruit. "They have an estate in Minrathous, as most do. Ivory Quarter, I believe." Cassius let his hands fall away from his face, tilting his head in a way that suggested a shift in topic was imminent.
"I know." The words were so flat there could be only one thing they were about.
Cyrus's jaw clenched. “And?" No doubt whatever chastisement had come before would be nothing compared to this one.
Cassius sighed heavily. "You stupid boy. Have you forgotten everything I ever taught you so easily?" Cassius sounded more weary than anything, shaking his head with a ponderousness that suggested an almost-physical fatigue.
But it had the opposite effect on Cyrus, lighting a spark in his belly that he'd thought extinguished as soon as his feet hit the floor here. “You would condescend to me in this, too? That entire situation was of your making, Cassius. If you know what happened, you surely know who was responsible." His master was the one who'd given him an impossible choice. The one who'd told him to kill Leta, or kill Milo, or watch the both of them die.
He sat up, hands gripping his knees until his knuckles were white.
Cassius's lip curled. "This beast was not of my design, Cyrus. You gave the wrong answer, and you paid for it. Years later, but you paid for it. As you were always going to."
“Then, o wise one, please do enlighten me! What could possibly have been the right answer in a situation like that? The choice was impossible!"
"It was easy." Cassius shot the words back harshly, but not at the same volume. "No loose ends, Cyrus. You keep your hands clean, and you make sure nothing that happens can come back to bite you."
“And what?" Cyrus stood, the spark churning in his guts until it was a full-blown flame. “Let two innocent people die because you couldn't stand the idea that I might possibly have a heart? That I might possibly think a life that wasn't a magister's could have worth?" He shook his head. “I'm not a monster, Cassius. I'm not like y—"
"You are exactly like me!" Cassius stood too, a much more familiar thunder in his voice. He had to look up a couple of inches to make eye contact, but this did not seem to diminish his presence. His magic pressed down on the room like something palpable. For a moment, there was utter silence. No doubt the guards were unsure whether they should intervene, but they did not. "You are exactly like me." The words were quieter the second time. "I made you that way. And though I tried, I failed to fix my mistake." He shook his head, slowly, bending down to right the chair he'd overturned in his haste, and sank back into it.
Cyrus's breaths were hard in his lungs, billowing in and out of his chest with harsh rasps, but he didn't have the words to deny what Cassius was saying. Perhaps because it was true.
"You protect what matters to you no matter the cost to the rest. You keep your word only as long as it's convenient. You mix lies with truth so skillfully you sometimes forget which is which." He sighed wearily. "You can't hide your tells from the people that know what they are. And some foolish, stupid part of you sometimes forgets that it is better not to care."
With a hard scoff, Cyrus shook his head. “And what have you ever cared about, that wasn't your family or its standing?" He had no doubt that Cassius loved his daughter, though he was never especially expressive of this fact. He'd lent her the protection of his name too many times despite their ideological disagreements. But they were family—blood. The most important thing of all in Tevinter.
"I cared about you." The answer was surprisingly soft, almost uncertain in delivery. Cassius, in the uneven light of the lantern, looked much older than he had even a few minutes before. "My choice of apprentices, and I took you. A Laetan boy, as likely elf-blooded as not, who could just as easily have been a slave."
“You had a funny way of showing it, then." Cyrus's lip curled. “Most people who care wouldn't take the cane to a child, or lock him in the library until he learned his spells for the week." Though he knew he had the right to be angry still, the fire was weakening; the things he could have fed it with were bitter and ugly, but he just couldn't work himself up to it. Righteousness was not in his makeup. In the makeup Cassius knew well enough to describe with such uncanny accuracy.
"I said I cared. I didn't say I wanted to." Cassius leaned back in his chair. "Another way in which I suppose we are similar." He paused, allowing several heartbeats of oppressive silence. "Don't imagine that what has become of you is changing you, Cyrus. Men like you and I... we don't ever change. Not really. You want your magic back, which means you'll find a way. And once you do, you'll have power enough to be exactly as you were again."
He didn't want to believe it. Cyrus wanted to believe he was capable of something more enduring than that. A change that wouldn't just evaporate if his circumstances should shift again. But what evidence could he marshal to the contrary? He was a rational man, someone who didn't take things on faith or believe in fate or luck. Not everything happened for a reason in the cosmic sense, or any of that other nonsense. His fists clenched, then relaxed. Nothing in the evidence could show Cassius's claim to be false, however much he might wish it were otherwise.
Cyrus felt something fighting its way up his throat, but it was no fire. Almost the opposite; it tasted like bile. He felt he'd be sick, but swallowed hard, suppressing the feeling and the physical reaction at the same time. In the end, all he could muster in his own defense were two words, almost a concession in themselves.
“We'll see."
Turning on his heel, he departed the cell. He didn't stay long enough to hear the key turn in the lock behind him.
It wasn't like he told lies or broke promises all the time, of course, just that he'd always done both when it was convenient to do so, and hadn't seen any particular reason to be otherwise. For most of his life, too much honesty would have been a fatal weakness, and not necessarily just for him. It was better to be... flexible, in certain ways.
But he'd promised Zahra that he would consult his former master about Faraji Contee and his family, and for once, it just didn't feel to him like breaking that promise was an option on the table, unpleasant as this was bound to be.
Ridiculous as he'd found most things about the whole Halamshiral affair, he more than most people could probably understand the allure of wearing a physical mask. He hadn't ever been the best at hiding his feelings when his face was bare, and Cassius knew him far too well for any attempt like that to have a hope of success anyway. Descending to the dungeon level of Skyhold felt almost like going back in time, to when he'd been a little boy, approaching the master's office knowing full well that he was about to be punished. The whistle and crack of rattan were still vivid in his memory, recollections that would never quite fade entirely, as so many other things would. Nothing in life was fair, not even what one remembered of it and what one forgot.
Alighting softly on the landing, Cyrus nodded at the templar and the mage guarding the large cell on the end, drawing himself up as tall as he could force his spine, tilting his chin upwards to have an angle that displayed more confidence than he felt. He folded his hands behind his back. When the templar opened the cell with the key, he stepped inside as though nothing was off whatsoever, as though there was no child in him still, apprehensive and hopeful and so many other things that he didn't know how to be anymore.
Cassius's extended stay in the dungeon showed in the appointments of his cell: a simple screen closed off the privy and washbasin. The floor had a modest rug, and someone had allowed both a small bookcase—no doubt long overstuffed—and a writing desk with a proper chair. It was not luxurious, but it was no doubt a great deal more comfortable than it could have been.
"Cyrus." Cassius's voice, parchment-dry, was thinner than he remembered it, but what two years more of age had taken away in resonance, it had loaned in a certain raspy gravitas, a light susurration on the edges like reed-grass rubbing together or a snake's scales sliding over hot sandstone. He sounded... old.
Intellectually, Cyrus knew that by this point he well should. But it was startling nevertheless. Cassius had never worn his years as heavily as some others, but they looked to weigh their due now. His master's skin was as papery as his voice, the lines near his eyes deep, and rendered deeper by the dim light of the room, on the side where his magelight lantern didn't illuminate.
He still sat at his desk like a Magister, however.
"It has been some time. Deigned to show me your face at last, have you?" He arched a grey eyebrow, still well-kept like the rest of him. Somehow there was yet a great deal of judgement in his tone, a scolding undercurrent that evoked instinctive reaction in Cyrus. Such things were easy to ignore when he was nearly blind with rage, but in this setting, they were not.
His chin lost the defiant tilt; instead, he dipped his head in some form of acknowledgment. He didn't owe this man an apology, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he owed him something. He'd been doing a lot more thinking about the course of his life, of late. Perhaps that was inevitable, with how much it had changed. What he thought—felt—about Cassius was not something that could easily or neatly be summed up into a few words or phrases. It was too complicated for that, too bound up in things that were still changing, and in his own changing understanding of what in life was theirs to control, and what inevitably controlled them.
“I've come to ask you a question." That much was probably obvious, but if he didn't say it himself, Cassius would still make him, by feigning obliviousness until Cyrus was forced into the position of making it a request. Better to get it over with.
"So there are still things you don't know, are there?" Cassius's dark eyes narrowed; he pulled a leg up and crossed his ankle over his knee. His robes were plain, but the perfect Viridius sage-green of them meant they were his, from somewhere. "Please, allow me a moment to savor the revelation that I might have something left to teach you. I believe you once told me otherwise, after all." His voice did not suggest any actual enjoyment, just a very thick layer of sarcasm. Still, he gestured at the extra chair in the cell. It looked to see very little use. Likely none.
Cyrus debated with himself for a moment, then took it, settling his arms carefully on the hard wooden rests.
"Now... what does my not-so-omniscient apprentice want to learn this time?" Cassius pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting the very edge of the formation at his chin. It was a familiar bit of body language. Cyrus resisted the urge to sit up straighter.
Instead he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Whatever you know about another Altus house. Contee."
Cassius made a face that suggested mild revulsion. "Altus on one side only, with a name like that." It was certainly not a Tevene name, that much was true. Then again, if Zahra had been promised to one of the children, they obviously didn't mind that as much as most houses would. "Through the Lady, of course. Claudia Contee, née Olivarius. Husband was... oh, I don't remember. Rivaini, I think, one of the hedge-mages, though of course it's the matriarchs that run things there." Predictably, he was dismissive of any other country's version of magic and rulership, but he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about.
"Two sons, as I recall. Corveus, and... Faraji. One name from each side, I suppose." He made eye contact with Cyrus from beneath heavy brows. "Why the interest? You hardly cared to know the names of the peerage before. I can't imagine it's suddenly become more relevant to you."
“Not to me." Cyrus hesitated, hedging around the word 'friend.' He knew quite well what Cassius thought of having friends, particularly those whose status would not advance his in any way whatsoever, a category Zahra without question fell into. “To the Inquisition, or some of its members, anyway."
The penetrating stare he received in return suggested that he probably should have just used the word. "Planning social suicide, are you? That's exactly what it would be, if you attempted anything against them with the kind of inadequate preparation this lot is likely to be able to muster." Cassius shook his head, the flicker of disdain returning momentarily before it faded. "They're quite reputed for 'experimental' blood magic, that lot. You know as well as I that means toying with forces they aren't competent enough to control. There's rumors of black market lyrium trafficking as well, but I cannot substantiate those."
“They sound like such lovely people." Cyrus felt his mouth pull down into a frown.
Cassius grunted. "As lovely as any, of course." The Imperium did tend to sow its own garden with bad seeds. It was hardly surprising that so many bore rotten fruit. "They have an estate in Minrathous, as most do. Ivory Quarter, I believe." Cassius let his hands fall away from his face, tilting his head in a way that suggested a shift in topic was imminent.
"I know." The words were so flat there could be only one thing they were about.
Cyrus's jaw clenched. “And?" No doubt whatever chastisement had come before would be nothing compared to this one.
Cassius sighed heavily. "You stupid boy. Have you forgotten everything I ever taught you so easily?" Cassius sounded more weary than anything, shaking his head with a ponderousness that suggested an almost-physical fatigue.
But it had the opposite effect on Cyrus, lighting a spark in his belly that he'd thought extinguished as soon as his feet hit the floor here. “You would condescend to me in this, too? That entire situation was of your making, Cassius. If you know what happened, you surely know who was responsible." His master was the one who'd given him an impossible choice. The one who'd told him to kill Leta, or kill Milo, or watch the both of them die.
He sat up, hands gripping his knees until his knuckles were white.
Cassius's lip curled. "This beast was not of my design, Cyrus. You gave the wrong answer, and you paid for it. Years later, but you paid for it. As you were always going to."
“Then, o wise one, please do enlighten me! What could possibly have been the right answer in a situation like that? The choice was impossible!"
"It was easy." Cassius shot the words back harshly, but not at the same volume. "No loose ends, Cyrus. You keep your hands clean, and you make sure nothing that happens can come back to bite you."
“And what?" Cyrus stood, the spark churning in his guts until it was a full-blown flame. “Let two innocent people die because you couldn't stand the idea that I might possibly have a heart? That I might possibly think a life that wasn't a magister's could have worth?" He shook his head. “I'm not a monster, Cassius. I'm not like y—"
"You are exactly like me!" Cassius stood too, a much more familiar thunder in his voice. He had to look up a couple of inches to make eye contact, but this did not seem to diminish his presence. His magic pressed down on the room like something palpable. For a moment, there was utter silence. No doubt the guards were unsure whether they should intervene, but they did not. "You are exactly like me." The words were quieter the second time. "I made you that way. And though I tried, I failed to fix my mistake." He shook his head, slowly, bending down to right the chair he'd overturned in his haste, and sank back into it.
Cyrus's breaths were hard in his lungs, billowing in and out of his chest with harsh rasps, but he didn't have the words to deny what Cassius was saying. Perhaps because it was true.
"You protect what matters to you no matter the cost to the rest. You keep your word only as long as it's convenient. You mix lies with truth so skillfully you sometimes forget which is which." He sighed wearily. "You can't hide your tells from the people that know what they are. And some foolish, stupid part of you sometimes forgets that it is better not to care."
With a hard scoff, Cyrus shook his head. “And what have you ever cared about, that wasn't your family or its standing?" He had no doubt that Cassius loved his daughter, though he was never especially expressive of this fact. He'd lent her the protection of his name too many times despite their ideological disagreements. But they were family—blood. The most important thing of all in Tevinter.
"I cared about you." The answer was surprisingly soft, almost uncertain in delivery. Cassius, in the uneven light of the lantern, looked much older than he had even a few minutes before. "My choice of apprentices, and I took you. A Laetan boy, as likely elf-blooded as not, who could just as easily have been a slave."
“You had a funny way of showing it, then." Cyrus's lip curled. “Most people who care wouldn't take the cane to a child, or lock him in the library until he learned his spells for the week." Though he knew he had the right to be angry still, the fire was weakening; the things he could have fed it with were bitter and ugly, but he just couldn't work himself up to it. Righteousness was not in his makeup. In the makeup Cassius knew well enough to describe with such uncanny accuracy.
"I said I cared. I didn't say I wanted to." Cassius leaned back in his chair. "Another way in which I suppose we are similar." He paused, allowing several heartbeats of oppressive silence. "Don't imagine that what has become of you is changing you, Cyrus. Men like you and I... we don't ever change. Not really. You want your magic back, which means you'll find a way. And once you do, you'll have power enough to be exactly as you were again."
He didn't want to believe it. Cyrus wanted to believe he was capable of something more enduring than that. A change that wouldn't just evaporate if his circumstances should shift again. But what evidence could he marshal to the contrary? He was a rational man, someone who didn't take things on faith or believe in fate or luck. Not everything happened for a reason in the cosmic sense, or any of that other nonsense. His fists clenched, then relaxed. Nothing in the evidence could show Cassius's claim to be false, however much he might wish it were otherwise.
Cyrus felt something fighting its way up his throat, but it was no fire. Almost the opposite; it tasted like bile. He felt he'd be sick, but swallowed hard, suppressing the feeling and the physical reaction at the same time. In the end, all he could muster in his own defense were two words, almost a concession in themselves.
“We'll see."
Turning on his heel, he departed the cell. He didn't stay long enough to hear the key turn in the lock behind him.