Heat was slow to return to Cyrus's extremities—Kirkwall had been much kinder as far as temperature went, but the Inquisition's return to Skyhold had amply demonstrated that winter was far from over yet. Soon it would again be Firstday, another year passed by. It was almost startling, to realize just how much time had elapsed since he'd taken up residence here, with these people and this cause.
Stretching his hands out towards the fire, he flexed his fingers several times, trying to bring the feeling back to them. Why he'd chosen this night of all of them to come here, when it was positively frigid outside and snowing heavily besides, he didn't know, but perhaps it was only because he'd found himself with a momentary surge of courage, and decided that it was—more or less—now or never.
Cyrus blinked, the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes blurring his vision until he repeated the motion and cleared them away. The chair creaked softly as he put his back against it.
"I heard you returned to Minrathous. Nearly died." Cassius spoke quietly, seated in the only other chair by the hearth. It heated the entire cell block, but was situated in this one. Even dungeons could discriminate—none of the other prisoners had accommodations quite so cozy. Then again, none of them were at work developing siege spells for large groups of mages, either.
“Are you going to tell me how stupid I am again?" Cyrus couldn't help the fatigue that came through in his tone. “You wouldn't be the first."
Cassius scoffed, but it was only minimally derisive. That was something, he supposed. "No." He paused, his voice quieting even further. "You—you saw her, right? How is she?"
Cyrus chanced a glance sideways at the man he'd once called master. Cassius stared into the fire, leaned back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of him. As they seemed to do so often, the shadows in the cell carved deeper the lines in his face. He looked as tired as Cyrus felt.
“Exhausted." He didn't blunt the truth. “But now that the Venatori aren't actively pursuing her anymore, I think she'll recover." There was no need to explain why they'd been pursuing Chryseis—Cassius was smart enough to put two and two together on that front.
"She has allies, then?"
“Catus." Cyrus shrugged. “I don't know if there are more. Or how close they are. But she's resourceful, you know that."
A grunt of assent was his answer, but it was enough.
Gradually, the numbness in Cyrus's hands gave way to an uncomfortable tingling, as the skin and muscles woke back up. He rubbed his hands against each other and relaxed back a little further, cupping them and blowing warm air into his palms.
Cassius let the silence sit for several more minutes, but it was obvious enough that he didn't actually know why his former apprentice was here, and he could not abide ignorance for long. "Is the fire in your quarters unsatisfactory, that you had to seek out the one in mine?"
In answer, Cyrus reached down to the leather-bound book he'd tucked next to his leg on the chair, holding it wordlessly out towards Cassius. He didn't look, only felt when the old man had taken it from his hand, and then heard the steady shuffle of parchment that was the pages turning. It wouldn't take him long to grasp what all the formulas and notations were about, even if none of them were labeled.
Cassius exhaled heavily, no doubt reaching all the same conclusions Cyrus had. "This is quite a risk." Of course, between them, that might as well have been a passing remark about the weather. No one achieved what they had without risk enough to turn the cautious away entirely.
Cyrus nodded, still staring into the fire. “I'd considered having someone make me fully tranquil beforehand, but I don't think it would help." All the same emotions would be there when the spirit touched his mind again, and he didn't have a year to spend purging himself of them in the same way the Seekers did. If he was to do this at all, it had to be soon.
"You have to try this anyway." Cassius tapped the open page in front of him with the knuckle of his index finger. "You don't have a choice."
Cyrus had been expecting that, more or less. He might even believe it himself. Of course he had the literal option available to him not to make the attempt to get his magic back. But when he considered anything he'd ever aspired to... the choice was illusory. He wasn't the kind of person who could just give up on all the things he'd wanted to do with his life. And like it or not, all of those things were tied to his magic. He could wish he were someone else if he liked, but that didn't make it so.
This was the way in which he could best help the Inquisition. It was far from the only consideration on his mind, but it numbered surprisingly highly on the list. He shifted, crossing one of his legs over the other and his arms across his chest. At least the uncomfortable pins and needles were gone. He was just warm now, and drying, thankfully.
“I know. And that's why I'm here." He paused, swallowing. He did not expect that this conversation was going to be an easy one to have, or that he would like it. But there were things that needed to be said, things that may well shatter the almost-comfort they existed in now, where neither of them felt the particular need to barb each other or open old wounds.
But any such peace was doomed to fragility. “What was I to you, Cassius?" The question was blunt, but he figured all of this had to start somewhere.
The Magister sighed heavily, tipping his head to rest on the edge of the chair back and fixing his eyes on the ceiling. It was a strangely-disarmed posture for him to take, and became even moreso when he let his eyes close. "What do you want me to say? Would any answer to that question satisfy you?"
He honestly had no idea. Cyrus looked down at his hands; dropped them into his lap. “I don't know." He wasn't sure what it would take, to come to terms with that part of his life. With everything that had taken place in it. It seemed recently to him that talking about such matters helped him deal with them. But this was a conversation he didn't even know how to begin. No doubt Cassius would be less hospitable a guide through it than Stellulam or even Harellan.
Maybe that was because he didn't know how to have the conversation, either.
“I don't—I don't hate you." It sounded absurd to his own ears. Like the wrong thing to say. Like nothing Cassius would care to hear. “I think I did, for a while. Just not—now." Resentment still burned under his skin, for what felt like injustice. Perpetrated against himself, but also others. Old and new. What burned worse was feeling as though it was simply luck that had spared him from worse than he got. Because he was lucky enough to be talented and useful and more often an aid to his master's ambition than an obstacle to it.
But the times he had been an obstacle...
Cassius was silent, so Cyrus continued, tracing the scar on his left palm with his right index finger. The callus dragged; he'd never used to have those. “I want to believe you gave a damn. That you cared, as you said, even if you didn't want to." Closing his fingers over his palm, he formed them into a fist, the tendons in his forearm tightening beneath his skin. “But I need the truth. What was I?"
When he looked up again, it was to meet Cassius's dark eyes directly. The old man's expression was unreadable, and for a long moment, he still wouldn't answer.
Eventually, he shook his head; slowly, almost with regret. "You are nobody's son, Cyrus. Certainly not mine." The words were matter-of-fact—there was no bite to them, just unambiguous declaration.
Cyrus didn't know if that was worse or better, but either way. He'd been expecting as much. It landed as a blow, but in a way, that was almost as a relief. Living under the hammer, however much he tried to ignore it or convince himself that it was unimportant, had been beyond uncomfortable, like splinters under his fingernails. A constant prickle at the back of his mind. Confirmation hurt.
He swallowed, Cassius's face disappearing for a moment as he blinked to clear his eyes. Hurt was temporary.
“I'd sort of figured that part out, yes."
Cassius studied him through narrowed eyes. It occurred to Cyrus that perhaps that had been almost as difficult to say as it was to hear. Emotional honesty had never been in either of their repertoires.
"But I did care. You were my apprentice. That doesn't mean nothing. I didn't select you at random, and I didn't teach you anything without careful consideration. Say what you will of my methods; we'll never agree on that. But I kept you alive in that world, and that was always intentional."
Cyrus pulled in a breath, nodding slightly, just once. He could accept Cassius's reasoning, even if, as he'd said, it was flawed in more than one respect. He could acknowledge what he'd done as both mentor and provider for him without finding any merit in the method. Without being forced to claim that he was a good human being. It wasn't that different from how he was trying to learn to look at himself.
Perhaps he could even let the anger and resentment go, in light of that. “I didn't deserve how you treated me." He needed to say it. Cassius had told the truth, and now so would he. “Leta and Milo didn't deserve how you treated them. The Inquisition certainly does not deserve what you tried to do." He sat up a little straighter, brows knitting. “I am grateful to you for what you taught me. I acknowledge that you're owed that. But I refuse to owe you anything else." He refused to continue trying to find something in this man that was never there to find. He refused to be beholden to that any longer.
If that meant he was no one's son, then so be it.
After a moment of consideration, Cassius conceded, more with the way he shifted back in his chair than anything. "I suppose I've earned that for myself."
“We both have."
Stretching his hands out towards the fire, he flexed his fingers several times, trying to bring the feeling back to them. Why he'd chosen this night of all of them to come here, when it was positively frigid outside and snowing heavily besides, he didn't know, but perhaps it was only because he'd found himself with a momentary surge of courage, and decided that it was—more or less—now or never.
Cyrus blinked, the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes blurring his vision until he repeated the motion and cleared them away. The chair creaked softly as he put his back against it.
"I heard you returned to Minrathous. Nearly died." Cassius spoke quietly, seated in the only other chair by the hearth. It heated the entire cell block, but was situated in this one. Even dungeons could discriminate—none of the other prisoners had accommodations quite so cozy. Then again, none of them were at work developing siege spells for large groups of mages, either.
“Are you going to tell me how stupid I am again?" Cyrus couldn't help the fatigue that came through in his tone. “You wouldn't be the first."
Cassius scoffed, but it was only minimally derisive. That was something, he supposed. "No." He paused, his voice quieting even further. "You—you saw her, right? How is she?"
Cyrus chanced a glance sideways at the man he'd once called master. Cassius stared into the fire, leaned back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of him. As they seemed to do so often, the shadows in the cell carved deeper the lines in his face. He looked as tired as Cyrus felt.
“Exhausted." He didn't blunt the truth. “But now that the Venatori aren't actively pursuing her anymore, I think she'll recover." There was no need to explain why they'd been pursuing Chryseis—Cassius was smart enough to put two and two together on that front.
"She has allies, then?"
“Catus." Cyrus shrugged. “I don't know if there are more. Or how close they are. But she's resourceful, you know that."
A grunt of assent was his answer, but it was enough.
Gradually, the numbness in Cyrus's hands gave way to an uncomfortable tingling, as the skin and muscles woke back up. He rubbed his hands against each other and relaxed back a little further, cupping them and blowing warm air into his palms.
Cassius let the silence sit for several more minutes, but it was obvious enough that he didn't actually know why his former apprentice was here, and he could not abide ignorance for long. "Is the fire in your quarters unsatisfactory, that you had to seek out the one in mine?"
In answer, Cyrus reached down to the leather-bound book he'd tucked next to his leg on the chair, holding it wordlessly out towards Cassius. He didn't look, only felt when the old man had taken it from his hand, and then heard the steady shuffle of parchment that was the pages turning. It wouldn't take him long to grasp what all the formulas and notations were about, even if none of them were labeled.
Cassius exhaled heavily, no doubt reaching all the same conclusions Cyrus had. "This is quite a risk." Of course, between them, that might as well have been a passing remark about the weather. No one achieved what they had without risk enough to turn the cautious away entirely.
Cyrus nodded, still staring into the fire. “I'd considered having someone make me fully tranquil beforehand, but I don't think it would help." All the same emotions would be there when the spirit touched his mind again, and he didn't have a year to spend purging himself of them in the same way the Seekers did. If he was to do this at all, it had to be soon.
"You have to try this anyway." Cassius tapped the open page in front of him with the knuckle of his index finger. "You don't have a choice."
Cyrus had been expecting that, more or less. He might even believe it himself. Of course he had the literal option available to him not to make the attempt to get his magic back. But when he considered anything he'd ever aspired to... the choice was illusory. He wasn't the kind of person who could just give up on all the things he'd wanted to do with his life. And like it or not, all of those things were tied to his magic. He could wish he were someone else if he liked, but that didn't make it so.
This was the way in which he could best help the Inquisition. It was far from the only consideration on his mind, but it numbered surprisingly highly on the list. He shifted, crossing one of his legs over the other and his arms across his chest. At least the uncomfortable pins and needles were gone. He was just warm now, and drying, thankfully.
“I know. And that's why I'm here." He paused, swallowing. He did not expect that this conversation was going to be an easy one to have, or that he would like it. But there were things that needed to be said, things that may well shatter the almost-comfort they existed in now, where neither of them felt the particular need to barb each other or open old wounds.
But any such peace was doomed to fragility. “What was I to you, Cassius?" The question was blunt, but he figured all of this had to start somewhere.
The Magister sighed heavily, tipping his head to rest on the edge of the chair back and fixing his eyes on the ceiling. It was a strangely-disarmed posture for him to take, and became even moreso when he let his eyes close. "What do you want me to say? Would any answer to that question satisfy you?"
He honestly had no idea. Cyrus looked down at his hands; dropped them into his lap. “I don't know." He wasn't sure what it would take, to come to terms with that part of his life. With everything that had taken place in it. It seemed recently to him that talking about such matters helped him deal with them. But this was a conversation he didn't even know how to begin. No doubt Cassius would be less hospitable a guide through it than Stellulam or even Harellan.
Maybe that was because he didn't know how to have the conversation, either.
“I don't—I don't hate you." It sounded absurd to his own ears. Like the wrong thing to say. Like nothing Cassius would care to hear. “I think I did, for a while. Just not—now." Resentment still burned under his skin, for what felt like injustice. Perpetrated against himself, but also others. Old and new. What burned worse was feeling as though it was simply luck that had spared him from worse than he got. Because he was lucky enough to be talented and useful and more often an aid to his master's ambition than an obstacle to it.
But the times he had been an obstacle...
Cassius was silent, so Cyrus continued, tracing the scar on his left palm with his right index finger. The callus dragged; he'd never used to have those. “I want to believe you gave a damn. That you cared, as you said, even if you didn't want to." Closing his fingers over his palm, he formed them into a fist, the tendons in his forearm tightening beneath his skin. “But I need the truth. What was I?"
When he looked up again, it was to meet Cassius's dark eyes directly. The old man's expression was unreadable, and for a long moment, he still wouldn't answer.
Eventually, he shook his head; slowly, almost with regret. "You are nobody's son, Cyrus. Certainly not mine." The words were matter-of-fact—there was no bite to them, just unambiguous declaration.
Cyrus didn't know if that was worse or better, but either way. He'd been expecting as much. It landed as a blow, but in a way, that was almost as a relief. Living under the hammer, however much he tried to ignore it or convince himself that it was unimportant, had been beyond uncomfortable, like splinters under his fingernails. A constant prickle at the back of his mind. Confirmation hurt.
He swallowed, Cassius's face disappearing for a moment as he blinked to clear his eyes. Hurt was temporary.
“I'd sort of figured that part out, yes."
Cassius studied him through narrowed eyes. It occurred to Cyrus that perhaps that had been almost as difficult to say as it was to hear. Emotional honesty had never been in either of their repertoires.
"But I did care. You were my apprentice. That doesn't mean nothing. I didn't select you at random, and I didn't teach you anything without careful consideration. Say what you will of my methods; we'll never agree on that. But I kept you alive in that world, and that was always intentional."
Cyrus pulled in a breath, nodding slightly, just once. He could accept Cassius's reasoning, even if, as he'd said, it was flawed in more than one respect. He could acknowledge what he'd done as both mentor and provider for him without finding any merit in the method. Without being forced to claim that he was a good human being. It wasn't that different from how he was trying to learn to look at himself.
Perhaps he could even let the anger and resentment go, in light of that. “I didn't deserve how you treated me." He needed to say it. Cassius had told the truth, and now so would he. “Leta and Milo didn't deserve how you treated them. The Inquisition certainly does not deserve what you tried to do." He sat up a little straighter, brows knitting. “I am grateful to you for what you taught me. I acknowledge that you're owed that. But I refuse to owe you anything else." He refused to continue trying to find something in this man that was never there to find. He refused to be beholden to that any longer.
If that meant he was no one's son, then so be it.
After a moment of consideration, Cassius conceded, more with the way he shifted back in his chair than anything. "I suppose I've earned that for myself."
“We both have."