Cyrus sighed, leaning himself back against the wall behind the bench he sat on. The wood was not soft on his head, but he couldn't say he noticed it much. His eyes felt heavy when he closed them, but he was in no danger of falling asleep. Not when Stellulam was still being attended to by healers. Zathrand had stabilized her to the point that they could move her back to the Saeris residence, but beyond that, she'd been shut away in the infirmary and the rest of them left to wait outside for some news.
He imagined that no words could accurately convey how difficult that fight had been for her, how hard she'd had to work to win it, how far she'd had to push herself. But he wondered if it might not have been almost that difficult to watch it all happen, to hear her scream when that sword found her stomach, to watch her find her feet again and again when everyone knew it would just put her in the path of more pain. He believed in her—Cyrus liked to think he knew what she was capable of about as well as anyone—but his heart had been in his throat the whole time, and he wondered if he hadn't left part of it behind in the ring.
They'd all been so close to losing her, and being able to do nothing about it. His faith had wavered; it wavered still, because he did not know if she would survive this, however much he wanted to believe she would. He could feel himself shaking, residual adrenaline slow to leave him while there was still so much cause for concern. He cracked his eyes open again, studying the wood grain in the ceiling, letting himself mindlessly trace the pattern with his gaze. He was not in awe of the architecture, for he had seen Arlathan as it used to be, back when he'd used to be capable of peering into the past. So it was only a minor distraction, not nearly enough of one.
Vesryn looked like he'd taken on some of Stellulam's injuries for himself, as though watching the fight had somehow brought him that much closer to his own death, or madness, or whatever it was that awaited him. Where it was walking that drained him before, now it seemed to be simply standing that was too much after a time, and so he sat, eyes reddened and commonly wet, though he never broke apart entirely. There was an easy enough look to identify behind his emerald eyes. It was one of guilt, a guilt that he wouldn't speak of. Perhaps he already knew how the conversation would go. Likely he'd had it with himself a hundred times already, ever since Estella had fallen after the fight.
Astraia, for her part, was a pacer, and preferred to be walking when nervous. She did so quietly, little bare feet padding softly across the floor of the room, her fingers gripping and slowly twisting the staff in her hands. She wanted to help. She'd saved Stellulam's life once before, as Cyrus had been told, the most damaging wound inflicted near the same location, but the weapon then had been a small dagger, not a greatsword. Zathrand's healers were to a one more skilled than she was, and so she simply had to wait. She did so in silence, all save for the soft tread of her feet, and the occasional pause to wipe at her face.
Harellan lingered near the door, his arms forded across his chest, leaning back against the wall. He was more difficult to read than the other two, but his breathing was so even that he could only have been forcing it that way, and there was a tightness to his jaw that bespoke a struggle to remain composed.
After what felt like hours, the door to the infirmary opened, and Zathrand stepped out, his robes somewhat askew but his face carefully serene. He glanced over all of them before addressing himself to Harellan. "She's out of the woods," he said without preamble. "At the moment, her biggest problem is just exhaustion. It seems that something she did during the course of the match prevented her from losing too much blood, but her magic is completely depleted and all of her major systems are very strained. I was able to more fully repair the lesion in her stomach and the acid damage to her other organs, but it will be some time before she regains complete function."
He pressed his lips together. "I've told her to rest, but she is quite insistent that she will not do so until all of you have been given a chance to visit her. So you may enter, but please attempt not to disturb her too much." Reaching back, he slid the door aside, stepping away from it to allow them to pass him. "Harellan, if you have a moment to spare."
His uncle's expression tensed, but eventually, Harellan nodded slightly, following the healer in the opposite direction.
Cyrus wasn't inclined to wait any longer than he had to, and he didn't think Vesryn or Astraia were, either, so he pushed himself to his feet, taking the open door into the healer's domain, holding his breath almost involuntarily.
The inside of the infirmary didn't deviate all that much from the one at Skyhold, truth be told. Aside from the fact that one whole wall was in fact a curtained window, currently closed, it had all the ordinary trappings: a few narrow beds, shelves with meticulously-labeled potions and ingredients, a few worktables for the healers, and the occasional squashy chair for visitors. At the moment, it appeared Stellulam was the only patient, and the other healers had left through a second door, this one set opposite the window.
She was laying at a slight incline, several pillows stacked behind her back to keep her half-upright; someone had rid her of the bloody clothes she'd been brought in with, her boots at the end of her bed the only articles that had remained of that set. The new ones didn't look all that different—more crisp white, loose fabric. Her hair was unbound, cleared at least of the obvious traces of dirt that had been there before. She looked wan, paler than usual, and unusually delicate, her hands folded uncomfortably in her lap. The collar of her tunic was wide enough that the bandages on her shoulder were visible, a pink spot apparent where the puncture wound from the trident was no doubt still healing.
She relaxed a little when she realized who'd entered, and smiled. "Looks like you were all right in the end," she said, trying for levity and perhaps not quite getting there. "Zathrand says I'll be back to normal in a few weeks."
Vesryn rushed to her side at a swift walk, Astraia staying back and out of his way so he could get there first. He pulled a chair beneath him so he could sit, reaching out to take one of her hands as she unfolded them. He took it into his carefully, not wanting to move any part of her too suddenly, but when he had it at her side he leaned down to kiss it, shedding a tear as he did. "Gods, I thought..." he cut himself off before he could finish, the words perhaps just catching in his throat. "I don't know what I thought. Too many things. But you're alright." He lowered his head, his forehead touching down on the side of the bed, the top just brushing against her thigh.
"That was amazing, Stel," Astraia added, obviously trying not to overcrowd her. "I'm glad you're okay."
Estella shifted slightly, using her free hand to card her fingers gently through Vesryn's hair, moving a few strands of it behind his ear. Her eyes fell half-lidded, and it seemed to take her a moment to register that anyone else had spoken. When she did, she blinked and lifted her eyes, the smile on her face reverting to something only slightly less tender. "Thank you, Astraia." The gratitude in her tone was warm and sincere; despite her injuries, she seemed to be quite... content, almost. Perhaps simply glad to be alive.
With some effort, she shifted herself, moving her legs over a little so there was an empty space at the foot of the bed. She met Cyrus's eyes, then nodded at it. "Don't stand all the way over there, Cy. I definitely don't need that much space."
Cyrus swallowed thickly, but took her up on the invitation, gingerly planting himself at her feet and pulling his legs up beneath him on the mattress. He found himself completely unsure of what to say, of what words were best or even acceptable to express the depth and range of his feelings. In the end, he settled for reaching over slightly and resting one hand over her ankle, releasing a heavy sigh. “For the record, I would prefer it if you never, ever did anything like this again." He didn't hold out much hope that it would be so—it was clear enough to him that somewhere along the line, Stellulam had been afflicted with a chronic case of heroism. Perhaps she'd always had it in her, but the Inquisition and all of the rest of it was certainly exacerbating the condition.
"I think I would, too," she admitted, breathing a sigh of her own. A frown overtook her features a moment later, though, her brows knitting. "I actually... Fenesvir isn't—he hasn't died, has he? I think I was supposed to—" her frown deepened. "I don't know if this is going to count as a success on their terms." Now that it had occurred to her, it was clear that the thought troubled her deeply; her eyes moved to Vesryn. "Has anyone... said anything about it?"
"There was some debate." The answer came from Harellan, leaning in the doorway. He waited for Estella's acknowledgment before entering, and came to a stop a bit further away, next to Astraia. "I've just finished speaking with my mother. It would seem a few members of the council are unsatisfied with your failure to meet the terms of a traditional challenge, but Yerion of all people was able to broker a compromise." He pursed his lips. "Everything will now hang on the second trial."
“What else could they possibly want her to do? Surely this has proven she's serious about the matter." If what they wanted was proof of her discretion, there was hardly a test they could devise for it. At some point, they'd have to take the risk.
Harellan shook his head. "You have to understand. Mahvir was the best and brightest of us. More than just an echo of what we used to be. It's very difficult for them to believe that not only could he voluntarily leave his duty here behind, but that he could really defy their expectations so much as to have children with a human. They're scrutinizing you for anything they can point to, anything they can say indicates the impossibility of the fact that you carry his legacy. You can't just be as good as one of them. You have to be better."
It was completely absurd. Cyrus grit his teeth, knowing that to tell Harellan that wasn't going to help anything. For all his faults and for all that Cyrus still didn't trust him, he clearly agreed about that much, at least.
"There is one fortunate thing. The second trial is not going to be physical, at least not in the same way the first one was." His lips thinned. "Our youth undergo a sort of... rite of passage, if you like, where they spend a night by themselves in a place called the Catacombs. It's a cave system not too far into the forest. Your trial is to spend three days there. Alone."
Stellulam considered this for several long moments. "Catacombs? So there are tombs in there?" The nature of the trial didn't seem to make much sense to her, which was perhaps fair enough. She leaned back a little further into her pillows. "I don't understand. Is there some kind of catch to this?"
Wasn't there a catch to everything? Cyrus was hardly surprised when Harellan nodded slightly. "The caves are rich in lyrium. For all that the Veil is thin here, it's almost nonexistent there. This, combined with the presence of the dead, has been known to produce very convincing illusions, and to wear on the mind in a way that little outside the Fade ever does. It's also considered to be a test of character. As in all things, the Fade responds to what is in the heart of the dreamer."
Vesryn by this point was sitting up again, and struggling mightily to hold things together, though he shook it off as best he could to speak. "Must there be more tests? Seems to me they'll simply force them on her until she fails, or dies. This is insanity." Of course, the necessity of it was already a decided thing, and they were powerless to fight against it. Clearly that didn't stop Vesryn from feeling ill about it.
He looked to Estella. "I would rather suffer as I am for eternity than watch you go through some torturous trial again."
"Ves..." Astraia's voice was soft, just loud enough to get through to him. "We don't have eternity. Maybe the second trial will be easier." She didn't seem confident of that, though.
Estella still held Vesryn's hand, and shifted hers in his grip slightly, threading their fingers together. "And I would rather deal with whatever will happen in the next three days to put an end to your suffering," she replied quietly. "If it really will just hang on this, then... that's no comparison at all." She let out a breath; obviously her fatigue was beginning to catch up to her.
"I suppose they'll probably want me to do that starting tomorrow. I can't see them letting us remain here any longer than they must." The comment seemed to be almost rhetorical, or perhaps only the result of her thinking aloud. Estella's eyes found Harellan's. "Tell them I'll do it. And... if you can, please apologize to the General for me. I do not think he anticipated this when he allowed us inside."
That wrung a smile out of the elf, and he nodded slightly. "I don't think he did either, but I'll make sure to tell him. In the meantime, get some rest, lethallan."
He imagined that no words could accurately convey how difficult that fight had been for her, how hard she'd had to work to win it, how far she'd had to push herself. But he wondered if it might not have been almost that difficult to watch it all happen, to hear her scream when that sword found her stomach, to watch her find her feet again and again when everyone knew it would just put her in the path of more pain. He believed in her—Cyrus liked to think he knew what she was capable of about as well as anyone—but his heart had been in his throat the whole time, and he wondered if he hadn't left part of it behind in the ring.
They'd all been so close to losing her, and being able to do nothing about it. His faith had wavered; it wavered still, because he did not know if she would survive this, however much he wanted to believe she would. He could feel himself shaking, residual adrenaline slow to leave him while there was still so much cause for concern. He cracked his eyes open again, studying the wood grain in the ceiling, letting himself mindlessly trace the pattern with his gaze. He was not in awe of the architecture, for he had seen Arlathan as it used to be, back when he'd used to be capable of peering into the past. So it was only a minor distraction, not nearly enough of one.
Vesryn looked like he'd taken on some of Stellulam's injuries for himself, as though watching the fight had somehow brought him that much closer to his own death, or madness, or whatever it was that awaited him. Where it was walking that drained him before, now it seemed to be simply standing that was too much after a time, and so he sat, eyes reddened and commonly wet, though he never broke apart entirely. There was an easy enough look to identify behind his emerald eyes. It was one of guilt, a guilt that he wouldn't speak of. Perhaps he already knew how the conversation would go. Likely he'd had it with himself a hundred times already, ever since Estella had fallen after the fight.
Astraia, for her part, was a pacer, and preferred to be walking when nervous. She did so quietly, little bare feet padding softly across the floor of the room, her fingers gripping and slowly twisting the staff in her hands. She wanted to help. She'd saved Stellulam's life once before, as Cyrus had been told, the most damaging wound inflicted near the same location, but the weapon then had been a small dagger, not a greatsword. Zathrand's healers were to a one more skilled than she was, and so she simply had to wait. She did so in silence, all save for the soft tread of her feet, and the occasional pause to wipe at her face.
Harellan lingered near the door, his arms forded across his chest, leaning back against the wall. He was more difficult to read than the other two, but his breathing was so even that he could only have been forcing it that way, and there was a tightness to his jaw that bespoke a struggle to remain composed.
After what felt like hours, the door to the infirmary opened, and Zathrand stepped out, his robes somewhat askew but his face carefully serene. He glanced over all of them before addressing himself to Harellan. "She's out of the woods," he said without preamble. "At the moment, her biggest problem is just exhaustion. It seems that something she did during the course of the match prevented her from losing too much blood, but her magic is completely depleted and all of her major systems are very strained. I was able to more fully repair the lesion in her stomach and the acid damage to her other organs, but it will be some time before she regains complete function."
He pressed his lips together. "I've told her to rest, but she is quite insistent that she will not do so until all of you have been given a chance to visit her. So you may enter, but please attempt not to disturb her too much." Reaching back, he slid the door aside, stepping away from it to allow them to pass him. "Harellan, if you have a moment to spare."
His uncle's expression tensed, but eventually, Harellan nodded slightly, following the healer in the opposite direction.
Cyrus wasn't inclined to wait any longer than he had to, and he didn't think Vesryn or Astraia were, either, so he pushed himself to his feet, taking the open door into the healer's domain, holding his breath almost involuntarily.
The inside of the infirmary didn't deviate all that much from the one at Skyhold, truth be told. Aside from the fact that one whole wall was in fact a curtained window, currently closed, it had all the ordinary trappings: a few narrow beds, shelves with meticulously-labeled potions and ingredients, a few worktables for the healers, and the occasional squashy chair for visitors. At the moment, it appeared Stellulam was the only patient, and the other healers had left through a second door, this one set opposite the window.
She was laying at a slight incline, several pillows stacked behind her back to keep her half-upright; someone had rid her of the bloody clothes she'd been brought in with, her boots at the end of her bed the only articles that had remained of that set. The new ones didn't look all that different—more crisp white, loose fabric. Her hair was unbound, cleared at least of the obvious traces of dirt that had been there before. She looked wan, paler than usual, and unusually delicate, her hands folded uncomfortably in her lap. The collar of her tunic was wide enough that the bandages on her shoulder were visible, a pink spot apparent where the puncture wound from the trident was no doubt still healing.
She relaxed a little when she realized who'd entered, and smiled. "Looks like you were all right in the end," she said, trying for levity and perhaps not quite getting there. "Zathrand says I'll be back to normal in a few weeks."
Vesryn rushed to her side at a swift walk, Astraia staying back and out of his way so he could get there first. He pulled a chair beneath him so he could sit, reaching out to take one of her hands as she unfolded them. He took it into his carefully, not wanting to move any part of her too suddenly, but when he had it at her side he leaned down to kiss it, shedding a tear as he did. "Gods, I thought..." he cut himself off before he could finish, the words perhaps just catching in his throat. "I don't know what I thought. Too many things. But you're alright." He lowered his head, his forehead touching down on the side of the bed, the top just brushing against her thigh.
"That was amazing, Stel," Astraia added, obviously trying not to overcrowd her. "I'm glad you're okay."
Estella shifted slightly, using her free hand to card her fingers gently through Vesryn's hair, moving a few strands of it behind his ear. Her eyes fell half-lidded, and it seemed to take her a moment to register that anyone else had spoken. When she did, she blinked and lifted her eyes, the smile on her face reverting to something only slightly less tender. "Thank you, Astraia." The gratitude in her tone was warm and sincere; despite her injuries, she seemed to be quite... content, almost. Perhaps simply glad to be alive.
With some effort, she shifted herself, moving her legs over a little so there was an empty space at the foot of the bed. She met Cyrus's eyes, then nodded at it. "Don't stand all the way over there, Cy. I definitely don't need that much space."
Cyrus swallowed thickly, but took her up on the invitation, gingerly planting himself at her feet and pulling his legs up beneath him on the mattress. He found himself completely unsure of what to say, of what words were best or even acceptable to express the depth and range of his feelings. In the end, he settled for reaching over slightly and resting one hand over her ankle, releasing a heavy sigh. “For the record, I would prefer it if you never, ever did anything like this again." He didn't hold out much hope that it would be so—it was clear enough to him that somewhere along the line, Stellulam had been afflicted with a chronic case of heroism. Perhaps she'd always had it in her, but the Inquisition and all of the rest of it was certainly exacerbating the condition.
"I think I would, too," she admitted, breathing a sigh of her own. A frown overtook her features a moment later, though, her brows knitting. "I actually... Fenesvir isn't—he hasn't died, has he? I think I was supposed to—" her frown deepened. "I don't know if this is going to count as a success on their terms." Now that it had occurred to her, it was clear that the thought troubled her deeply; her eyes moved to Vesryn. "Has anyone... said anything about it?"
"There was some debate." The answer came from Harellan, leaning in the doorway. He waited for Estella's acknowledgment before entering, and came to a stop a bit further away, next to Astraia. "I've just finished speaking with my mother. It would seem a few members of the council are unsatisfied with your failure to meet the terms of a traditional challenge, but Yerion of all people was able to broker a compromise." He pursed his lips. "Everything will now hang on the second trial."
“What else could they possibly want her to do? Surely this has proven she's serious about the matter." If what they wanted was proof of her discretion, there was hardly a test they could devise for it. At some point, they'd have to take the risk.
Harellan shook his head. "You have to understand. Mahvir was the best and brightest of us. More than just an echo of what we used to be. It's very difficult for them to believe that not only could he voluntarily leave his duty here behind, but that he could really defy their expectations so much as to have children with a human. They're scrutinizing you for anything they can point to, anything they can say indicates the impossibility of the fact that you carry his legacy. You can't just be as good as one of them. You have to be better."
It was completely absurd. Cyrus grit his teeth, knowing that to tell Harellan that wasn't going to help anything. For all his faults and for all that Cyrus still didn't trust him, he clearly agreed about that much, at least.
"There is one fortunate thing. The second trial is not going to be physical, at least not in the same way the first one was." His lips thinned. "Our youth undergo a sort of... rite of passage, if you like, where they spend a night by themselves in a place called the Catacombs. It's a cave system not too far into the forest. Your trial is to spend three days there. Alone."
Stellulam considered this for several long moments. "Catacombs? So there are tombs in there?" The nature of the trial didn't seem to make much sense to her, which was perhaps fair enough. She leaned back a little further into her pillows. "I don't understand. Is there some kind of catch to this?"
Wasn't there a catch to everything? Cyrus was hardly surprised when Harellan nodded slightly. "The caves are rich in lyrium. For all that the Veil is thin here, it's almost nonexistent there. This, combined with the presence of the dead, has been known to produce very convincing illusions, and to wear on the mind in a way that little outside the Fade ever does. It's also considered to be a test of character. As in all things, the Fade responds to what is in the heart of the dreamer."
Vesryn by this point was sitting up again, and struggling mightily to hold things together, though he shook it off as best he could to speak. "Must there be more tests? Seems to me they'll simply force them on her until she fails, or dies. This is insanity." Of course, the necessity of it was already a decided thing, and they were powerless to fight against it. Clearly that didn't stop Vesryn from feeling ill about it.
He looked to Estella. "I would rather suffer as I am for eternity than watch you go through some torturous trial again."
"Ves..." Astraia's voice was soft, just loud enough to get through to him. "We don't have eternity. Maybe the second trial will be easier." She didn't seem confident of that, though.
Estella still held Vesryn's hand, and shifted hers in his grip slightly, threading their fingers together. "And I would rather deal with whatever will happen in the next three days to put an end to your suffering," she replied quietly. "If it really will just hang on this, then... that's no comparison at all." She let out a breath; obviously her fatigue was beginning to catch up to her.
"I suppose they'll probably want me to do that starting tomorrow. I can't see them letting us remain here any longer than they must." The comment seemed to be almost rhetorical, or perhaps only the result of her thinking aloud. Estella's eyes found Harellan's. "Tell them I'll do it. And... if you can, please apologize to the General for me. I do not think he anticipated this when he allowed us inside."
That wrung a smile out of the elf, and he nodded slightly. "I don't think he did either, but I'll make sure to tell him. In the meantime, get some rest, lethallan."