Self-Made

by Karmic Acumen

His life started in darkness and he never quite remembered how he welcomed the first light, which was probably for the best. He did remember absolutely everything that came after, though, which wasn't for the best at all.

2. Overture: The Stages of Empathic Mimicry

A/N: The chapters won't all be so long, but the prologue segments have a structural theme that I didn't want to do without, so here you go.

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Overture: The Seven Stages of Empathic Mimicry

"-. .-"

Observation

Other than helping Reevor with the lighter supplies from the storehouse to the Inn, Cyrus' didn't have many chores. He was determinedly kept away from anything even remotely tangential to animal-based food preparation. Ulraunt didn't want him to poison anyone, Father wanted him nowhere close the concept of killing things for consumption (or, really, for anything), not that they told him any of that. Ulraunt also wouldn't hear about him becoming a scribe or (eventually) an acolyte, likely because he wouldn't even contemplate the idea of Cyrus being nearby for the rest of his life. And working at the stables or chicken coops or other livestock proved similarly hopeless, since animals tended to become agitated or worse if he got too close. Reevor's cats had been the only exception, but even their lack of good sense was resolved after the fateful incident in the storehouse on that day, long ago. They kept well away from him now.

So all Cyrus had to do, besides running errands, was occasionally weed the gardens, vegetable patches and flowerbeds. The last ones Imoen usually helped with. Or, more often, helped hinder, since she tended to gripe constantly (when she wasn't going on random tangents about this or that piece of mischief she engineered) and smell the flowers more than care for them. She also wandered off or slipped away the first chance she got, claiming that she did more good to the world by going on adventures and having great and funny stories to share afterwards. She could only tell so many times the one about the barely failed pickpocket attempt on Winthrop in Beregost that somehow prompted the old innkeeper to take her in.

That her adventures were limited to little besides mixing up Phylida's and Dreppin's belongings (all variations of which she had done at least ten times before) did not make any difference, though to Imoen's credit she did occasionally manage to swipe one of Firebead Elvenhair's magic scrolls as well. That her attempts to learn the magic on them almost invariably ended in failure (save for occasions like that strange week when she walked around with all her colours inverted and became obsessed with the colour pink as a result) never deterred her. The same way her abysmally slow progress in learning her letters never seemed to deter her from escaping from Winthrop's enforced "time outs" either. This in spite of the man only trying to use them to teach her the worthwhile skills in life, and even more in spite of the fact that her continued semi-illiteracy was the reason for constantly failing to read Firebead's scrolls properly, which led to the biggest and strangest of the disasters in Candlekeep and, therefore, got her landed with those very "time outs."

As he carried a couple of ammunition stacks down into the basement of the Candlekeep warehouse, the not-as-small-as-he-should-be dwarf wondered why Winhtrop and everyone else seemed so bent on trying to impose any sort of structure on Imoen. Her free-spiritedness was precisely the reason she wasn't and never would be like him. Would never become dark/bleak/nothing.

That being dark/bleak/nothing was not… right.

It was probably nice to be able to feel happy. Cyrus only wished he could have more time to spend with Imoen. Maybe enough exposure to her self-light would even help him gain one of his own, or at least let him reflect hers for longer instead of staying bleak/dark/nothing.

Being bright on the inside was right. Bright like her. Like his name meant for him to be able to. He didn't feel much, but he did feel certain of that one thing, if nothing else.

Affectation

The main warehouse was big, but it didn't compare to the basement in neither length nor width. It was there that most of the long-term supplies of the fortress were stored, and the quartermaster of the keep had an office near the back on the left-most side as well. On normal days the place was packed around two thirds of the way with sacks, crates and chests of various goods, from potatoes, salt, spices and smoked meats to fabrics, paints, leather and even iron, in ore and ingots both. All neatly stashed by term and category.

Today was not a normal day. Not because the place was in any way fuller or emptier (which it wasn't), or because it was warmer or cooler than the earthy temperature just right for storing wine (which, again, it wasn't), but because it was populated with more than the quartermaster (who had a day off anyway). Specifically, Jondalar the combat trainer was there, as was Obe the illusionist. Obe, who was animating a number of illusionary monsters which a number of Candlekeep Watchers (those off duty, Cyrus counted) were practicing group combat against. The arrows and bolts were for them in fact. Cyrus got saddled with the task of bringing them over because he had to get Winthrop another crate of the cider that was so very popular with visiting nobles, and since there wasn't any left in Reevor's storehouse (and the Dwarf still hadn't come back from meeting up with visiting clansmen in Beregost, incidentally) Cyrus would have to go to the ultimate source anyway, so he may as well run that errand at the same time as well, there's a good lad.

Good lad. Good. What would Winthrop say if he knew better, Cyrus wondered?

The basement was not quiet. It was most definitely unquiet, practically boiling with sounds of metal on metal, shouts, winding bowstrings, chants and spell lights. Cyrus paused at the foot of the stairs and stared at the chaos for a few moments. Chaos that Jondalar was trying and failing to yell some sense into while Obe was trying and failing to hide his snickers right next to him.

"No! NO, Fuller, when that happens you thrust. I said thrust! No, don't swing as if you're trying to fan the bad goblin's bad mood away! Oh for Oghma's sake, Davros, it's a hobgoblin sapper! You don't turn your back on the assassin! No, not even to go after the mage! Why…? BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT HULL IS ALREADY DOING! So you don't have to pull stupid maneuvers like that and… leave your mage for the sapper to slaughter apparently… Well, you're still alive! But lo, shockingly, your new friend isn't! So now you'll just have to hope the invisible enemy mage doesn't burn you to a total crisp when it finishes its nice fire spell because you couldn't be bothered to keep your mage alive until it dispelled the concealment! (Gods, Obe, why do I even bother asking you to come conjure illusionary helpers for these idiots?) Oh for… Marl, Fire at the bloody kobold! Yes, the one with the nice little fire arrows, not at the bloody skeleton! (Oh Torm, give me strength that I might manage not to strangle him for trying to hit such a tough target that also happens to be literally made of holes again). And there's the burning hands…"

It seemed that everyone was busy. Also, Jondalar appeared to be a more complex man than Cyrus had previously thought, considering that the god he cursed by was different from the one he prayed to.

Wasn't there some sort of eternal punishment associated with that? Or did that no longer apply now that Myrkul wasn't around to torment the departed anymore? Cyrus was fairly certain that Cyric was by and large considered to be in no way better, and those who disagreed generally did so only because they were adamant he was, in fact, even worse.

Shrugging, Cyrus decided not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. That Jondalar chose that very moment to yell at Fuller for not paying enough attention only enforced that decision.

The boy quietly made his way around and behind the commotion. He couldn't stay right next to the wall since there were too many containers alongside, but there was plenty of room nevertheless. If Jondalar, Obe or someone else had the attention to spare, they would notice him soon enough anyway, seeing as how he was already entering their sight range, even if just from their far left side.

He was ten paces away from the sturdy (if old) table holding most of the spare practice equipment when his death flashed before his eyes.

Twice.

Well used to such things by now – Imoen never seemed to realise how close he came to dying every time she only barely failed to startle him off the roof, eaves or crenellation of this or that building – Cyrus abruptly stopped, leaned his head backwards and held the arrow cloth-wrapped stack of arrows up and to the right.

An illusory hobgoblin burst into smoke and the crossbow bolt that had killed it bore into a large crate with a loud thunk, shaft quivering inches from Cyrus' nose. Not that the young dwarf felt inclined to afford it much attention, or the gasps and cries of alarm from the other side of the room. No, his attention was on the arrow tip just a couple of centimetres from his ear, barely stopped by the bundle he'd brought in its path. The arrow had gone more than half-way through by the time it stopped its flight.

Frowning at the potential damage to the new ammunition this might have resulted in, Cyrus lowered the arrow bundle, dropped the bolts so he'd have a free left hand to pull the used one out of the crate – which took a couple of good tugs – then grabbed said bundle again and made for his intended destination. Once finally there, he set the bolts near the table edge and the arrow bundle in the middle to inspect the damage.

It turned out that the arrow had gone right through but not all the way to the back feather.

Well, one arrow feather would not be too much of a loss, especially since it could be redone. Cyrus grabbed the arrow from below the head and firmly pulled, using his other hand to press the feather closer to the shaft. With some careful handling the whole thing came out with minimal damage, and the lack of wood chips or splinters implied that the new arrows hadn't been harmed much either, if at all. Finally unfolding the bundle and spreading the arrows wider confirmed it, only three of them had been touched, with just one having actually broken.

Reasoning that he had exhibited the proper level of conscientiousness his father expected of him, Cyrus decided he was ready to acknowledge how quiet the entire area had become since his latest brush with that ever returning visitor called death.

He was met by eight stares ranging from incredulously relieved to gapingly disbelieving. Save for Jondalar who was looking at him with a stern not-quite-a-glare, though his self-light was a matter not so different from that of the others. "Lad, what were you thinking!?" The man snapped, then seemed to catch himself from yelling at him like he'd been yelling at his men up to that point. "You could have been seriously hurt just now."

This was another one of those increasingly frequent situations when he was expected to answer even though he hadn't been asked a question. "Yes," Cyrus answered politely.

That seemed to just intensify the stares and deepen the silence.

Then Obe sighed with what was probably exasperation. Cyrus wasn't perfectly sure of his ability to distinguish the nuance from impatience and annoyance, not on someone he didn't spend much time with, though he assumed the impatience was less likely than the annoyance here. He was fairly sure exasperation was the best bet though. "What were you thinking just now then?"

"I was thinking I would finish delivering the ammunition so I could set about Winthrop's other errand I'm running."

Fuller snickered something about him always being at the beck and call of the "old bags" and how he's glad he outgrew that stage. This made Jondalar's self-light flicker with irritation at him for a few moments before it cleared.

"That's not what I meant, kid," the head trainer sighed. "I mean why did you place yourself in danger like that?"

"Like what?" Cyrus asked, honestly perplexed. "Was that danger grave? I'm usually in more danger of dying when I nap on the roof of the bunkhouse." Because of Imoen and her never-ending crusade to catch him by surprise which, ironically, became more and more futile the harder and better she got at trying due to the extra surprise factor only increasing his likelihood of death by fall-resulting-in-broken-neck and, thus, more obvious to him. But he wasn't about to say any of that. Everyone would assume the worst of her and while it was generally deserved (and blessedly ineffectual) most of the time, it really wasn't her fault in this.

Jondalar groaned and pinched his nosebridge. "Never mind. I am not qualified to deal with this." He looked at Cyrus again. "Now what errand was that?"

"I'm supposed to bring him a case of cider bottles, since the storehouse is out." The boy looked at where the cases of such usually rested. And where there currently weren't any. "Should I tell him there aren't any left?"

The conversation grew to include a few of the others and swung between the idea of sending him away empty-handed, telling him to come back later, telling him to send someone else later, and waiting for one or more of them to fill some fresh bottles from one of the untapped barrels. In the end, the last option was chosen after Hull mentioned that it would probably all fall to them anyway, now or later, since the quartermaster wasn't available and they were already there anyway so they may as well just double-down while Cyrus waited.

The dwarf drew on Gorion's thorough lessons in manners and politely thanked Hull for his consideration, and the 21-year-old ruffled his hair with a smile in response. Cyrus decided not to show the puzzlement on his face. He never quite understood the point of that act, but seeing Hull's self-light flicker brightly with good (fond?) humour implied there was definitely some point and use to it, even if Cyrus himself didn't feel it.

"Ha! Forget about it, you're not the only one who went through the runaround phase," Hull told him. "Sure, you and the hellion are the youngest kids by far to live in this fortress, but there isn't much difference in what you do compared to what the junior monks and Watchers have to do. Won't last forever though." He drew his sword and made a couple of loose swings. "Soon enough you'll be down here, swinging a blade with the rest of us, you'll see."

Evocation

"That's an idea!" Fuller suddenly exclaimed. The face Jondalar made, as if he was regretting not sending him as part of the group tasked with preparing the cider bottles, seemed to matter not at all to the teenager. "How'd you like to get a taste of it right now?"

The discussion devolved into a debate on the merits (Fuller and Davros) versus demerits of that idea (Jondalar for safety concerns, Marl because he didn't like Cyrus, something which the boy completely understood since he didn't like or dislike himself either) while Obe just glanced between each of them and Cyrus with an uncertain frown, not saying anything. Finally, and perhaps surprisingly, Fuller actually won the debate with his last argument, which even brought Hull to his side, though that wasn't the reason for his success.

"Oh come on! It's perfectly safe, Obe just has to spell the arms to be blunted and cushioned, as he always has a couple of them prepared for the one-on-one practice sessions we haven't gotten around to today. Just let the kid choose something, spell both our weapons and Bob's your uncle! What's the worst that can happen?"

It was, perhaps paradoxically, that very last question that swayed Jondalar into agreeing. "There is doubtlessly a special place in Gorion's custom-devised hell waiting for me." The man sighed and rubbed his face, then killed Fuller's nascent glee in its cradle. "But given the way you so idiotically tempted Beshaba just now, I find myself morbidly interested in seeing how this whole thing explodes in your face."

"Hey!"

There was some amusement indulged in at Fuller's expense, so the young fighter-in-training pretended to ignore them and focused on Cyrus to their exclusion. "Well kid, go on, pick something up and let's see what you can do."

The boy tilted his head in confusion. "I thought training usually came before the actual-"

"Bah!" Fuller cut him off with an impatient wave. "No harm in having a quick spar at the beginning to see where you're at. Now pick up a weapon and let's go."

"I suppose…" Cyrus said hesitantly, then looked over the swords, maces, clubs, flails, staves, axes, daggers and other weapons piled next to and on the table. "What should I use?"

"Anything you like," Fuller shrugged. "It's not like it'll make a difference," The 15-year-old boasted. "Even if you put your all into it, it won't matter. Just putting it out there so you won't be too disappointed."

Cyrus looked away from the weapons and back to Fuller with a frown. "Are you sure?" That sounded like an assumption and Imoen had a very specific thing to say about assumptions and what they make out of her and him. Impersonally speaking, that is. "I'm stronger than I look." He cautioned. "Quicker too." Cyrus paused and considered the lack of subjects to compare himself against and amended. "At least I think so."

"Hah!" Fuller barked a laugh. "Would you look at that, boys! There's actually a cocky brat underneath all that polite and bland exterior." The young man moved into the freed up open space nearby and made a few practice swings. "Don't you worry about holding back none, kid! I guarantee that you won't be able to put a scratch on me!"

But Gorion had spoken to him very firmly about the importance of informed decisions and Fuller wasn't looking like he was making one right then. And Cyrus had watched enough of that battle earlier to identify at least three posture modifications that could improve Fuller's performance by at least 26%. "Are you sure I should do that?" Cyrus repeated dubiously. "I mean you're not very good."

And so it was that nothing was heard, for a moment.

But only a moment.

Then Fuller balked in what was obviously shocked indignation, the others snickered, Hull bent over laughing, and a bottle fell and shattered to pieces somewhere at the back of the warehouse amidst sounds that could be nothing else but guffaws. Even Jondalar had a smile on, though the way he was rubbing his temples spoke of a dawning headache as well.

Looking upon the situation that had been caused by the simple act of speaking facts, Cyrus wondered what he should really be doing, if anything. He almost asked whatever-he-was to show him a path, then remembered the last time he'd done that – viscous-coloured misery that turned abyssal and all-chilling – and stopped himself.

It wasn't even his first choice of tactics anymore.

Now what would Imoen say about all this, Cyrus wondered.

Steal his boots!

To which Gorion would say something like that will hardly be an inconvenience indoors, child. Or possibly not, since his reactions to Imoen were drastically different from those he had to Cyrus himself, even when he said the same things as she would.

Sneak into the barracks at night and… well, do things to him!

Not an idea applicable to the current situation but maybe worth further consideration at a later date.

Pelt him with rotten eggs!

Which was not contextually aligned at all, so no.

Let's break his legs!

Better, but that qualified as an excessive use of force, Cyrus was sure.

Oh… well, I got nothing.

Which was such a lie, Imoen always had something cooking in that brilliant mind of hers. If Cyrus was any better than not at all at feeling things he would have probably been baffled at her continued refusal to learn proper reading and writing by now. She'd master it in days if she tried. As many things as Imoen was, good at strategy she was not. If she were, she'd have long ago realized the benefits of maximising available time for fun and profit by the expedient of getting all the tedium out of the way as quickly as possible.

But the commotion at Fuller's expense finally started to die down, so Cyrus decided to try something he hadn't previously.

Bringing his many and very thorough observations of Imoen to the forefront of his mind, he mixed them with Gorion's stubbornly hopeful level-headedness until his mind's eye shone with the combined glow of their remembered self-lights.

Only then did he will.

I want to kill Fuller's pretension in as painless but thorough manner as needed to compel him to spend the next few days thinking about and learning from the experience.

There. It even had a specific requirement for his continued living and haleness.

Points and items of interest bloomed and glowed in the dwarf's range of perception then, and he knew what to do to make that happen and how. "So… I can use any weapon I want." He made sure to look straight at Jondalar when he asked that, not Fuller or anyone else.

The man sighed and nodded. "May as well, yes."

"Alright." The dwarf pointed at the man's own scabbard. "I want your sword then."

The first exchange went to Fuller, as expected. Jondalar's longsword was a bit too big for Cyrus' still developing dwarven frame. It was also the first time the boy had ever held a weapon, which took away from his performance. Significantly.

The same story repeated itself on the second exchange. And the third. And the tenth. Those watching were encouraging him throughout, as apparently he was doing much better than any of them had expected. Or at least less dismally.

"A little higher and further – ah. Well you almost had it there!" Hull cheered from the side. "Just be careful not to try for upswings too perpendicular to the ground, you're too short to avoid clipping and glancing off the floor." Hull added after Jondalar nodded. "You'll probably want to switch to a short sword soon. It'll fit your frame better, I think, and you should be quick enough to make better use of it than a full longsword."

But Cyrus had accomplished the first stage of what he intended, namely to get a good feel for the weapon and let his mind settle from the influx of murder/death/kill information that rushed into his mind the moment he grabbed the hilt. Flickers of scenes had entered his awareness just from looking at it with an open mind, but that didn't compare to actually holding the thing, as he'd expected and intended. That was, after all, the whole reason he picked Jondalar's sword out of everything else.

Of all the weapons in that warehouse right then, it was the only one that had been used to kill. And not just by Jondalar either, but by his predecessor Dinodas as well. And both of them had carried and used it on trips to and from Beregost and Baldur's Gate on a number of occasions. Used it to kill things.

If Cyrus knew anything, it was killing.

Fuller clipped him in the shoulder again and pulled back his next swing. "Ready to give up, squirt?"

"What a strange thing to ask," Cyrus said. "You're the one who insisted on this." He rolled his shoulder to dampen the rapidly diminishing ache. "I'm almost ready now, though."

"That's good!" Fuller said grandly. "Good to know your limits." Fuller misunderstood what Cyrus said he was ready for. He also pointedly ignored Davros questioning his ability to know his own limits, let alone anyone else's. "But I suppose I can find it in me to give you another shot, even if it won't do any good."

Cyrus didn't say anything. Instead, he held up the longsword vertically in front of his face and, once he had absolutely nothing in his mind but the blade, closed his eyes and delved.

The experiences rushed almost chaotically into the forefront at first, images of cut skin, sliced flesh, chopped limbs and arcs of blood painting the Coast and Lion Way air all around him. But he was beyond accustomed to this type of feedback by now, given how often he stood in the presence of his father and others who had a significant number of kills to their name, personally delivered or otherwise. Most noteworthy being the ones at the unknown temple of the woman who fancied herself good at killing infants but really wasn't.

Jondalar was definitely no incompetent though, and Dinodas had been his superior in all things, even though he'd died in an Ogre and half-ogre ambush just two years ago, his last act being to pass his sword on to his successor.

Cyrus delved into the original history of the sword all the way to the beginning when it was laid aside to cool after being taken off the anvil. The totality of the sword's experiences, the swords' wielders experiences, gradually built up in his mind as he traced the life of the item all the way back to the present. And there was a fair bit of experience. Though he only saw the ones that resulted in a death, practically every maneuver had been used or at least vividly considered by the users to kill something or someone at least once since the sword was put to use. Jondalar's keepsake truly had lived a full life, even for an item of its exceptional quality.

The combined skill of the longsword's wielders settled in his mind just in time for Cyrus to note the line of death rapidly sketching a wide arc in front and above him, aiming to knock the erect sword off kilter.

The young dwarf immediately swung his sword in the same direction – Fuller hit nothing and overbalanced – then swiped it back on an opposite arc underneath it, scraping the Watcher-in-training with the tip from one side of the abdomen all the way to the other.

The young man jumped away with a yelp amidst startled exclamations, giving Cyrus the few moments he needed to get his bearings.

Only he realized there wasn't much to it. Just twist the body to the side to offer a smaller target, turn on both feet part-way to allow for stable footwork and all that was left was to hold the sword out one-handed, tip-first and blade parallel to the ground. "Alright." He finally spoke, eyes staying closed to allow him a better view of the death lines all over Fuller's body, sword and the veins filled with lifeblood. It wouldn't do to hit or trace the length of one of those by mistake. "Now I'm ready."

Comments ranging from impressed to incredulous, Fuller trying to brush it all off as luck, hesitation in the face of being expected to attack a blind opponent, further hesitation at doing it to one so young and little, catcalls from the spectators, self-lights flickering, flashing, surging and waning in concert with each comment. Cyrus forced himself not to pay them much attention since he was liable to fall victim to a surprise shot like the one Fuller had just aimed at his chest. Rather hesitantly too.

Cyrus bent to the side, deflected the attack the same way Jondalar would have, closed in – Fuller's sword went aside and downwards enough to hit the floor with the tip – spun on around and sunk his elbow into an unprepared stomach. He allowed the young man to stagger away – his blade scraped off Cyrus guard with a familiar and at once unfamiliar shing – then spun on his feet to face him again. It was odd indeed, to find something he was better at while blind than seeing. Doubly strange was that it just happened to be fighting, as opposed to killing.

Fuller attacked again, not hesitant or generous this time at all, but Cyrus had his measure now, not because of the prior exchange but because Jondalar certainly had it and it was his and his trainer's skill the boy was using. It was really a shame that he didn't have time to do this for longer, but he really needed to get back to Winthrop with that cider.

Cyrus made as if to block the descending head chop but turned the block into a deflection again, sending Fuller's sword off-course along with the man himself. Then it was over in moments. Reverse the grip, leap in, keep your sword between his and your neck, hit the outside of his wrist with a knuckle fist to break his hold on his weapon, lash upwards with the sword to send his own flying vertically, then follow up with a slice at his face to make him bend back with a yelp, overbalance and fall on his backside, hitting his head and back against the wine barrel he'd ended up in front of. Then just spin on a heel and stab forward as fast as you can, hard enough to sink the sword tip three finger widths into the wood just an inch from Fuller's ear. Close enough to shear off hairs, blunted edge or no.

That only left Fuller's airborne sword, which Cyrus reached up for, grabbed by the hilt and drove tip-first into the floorboard right between Fuller's legs.

The short-lived exchange concluded with a flinch-inducing smash. Cyrus realized that his heart was beating faster than it ever had, almost as fast as Fuller's was, but that everything else had fallen silent.

His mind briefly stalled. Could it…

But no. Though outside it was all silence, inside wasn't. His whatever-he-was remained as active as ever, more so even for a few moments before it seemingly realized it had missed its chance at fulfilling its nature and settled back to the regular, manageable level, if the term could even be applied to a churning melting pot for all life and reason.

Cyrus stepped back from his erstwhile opponent and the firmly lodged weapons – the full measure of prior wielders' skill started to fade immediately from his mind as soon as he let go of Jondalar's longsword – and opened his eyes to look around.

He only got to see Fuller's stock-still, shocked face and the slack-jawed Watcher trainees holding the cider crates before Gorion's angry voice came from behind and commanded the full attention of anyone.

"What in the Abyss has been going on down here!?"

Fuller flinched, stared between Gorion and Cyrus, between Cyrus and the sword, Cyrus and the other sword, the sword and the sword, the sword and his nether regions, his nether region and the sword, the sword and Cyrus again, then he passed out.

Introspection

He was 7 and he knew triumph for the first time.

Triumph in a contest of arms, but the triumph did not lie in winning it so much as in how he won it. Or perhaps what it didn't devolve into. He was fairly certain what concepts of right and wrong Gorion adhered to by now, so Cyrus could attribute qualifiers like "good" and "bad" and "terrible" and "no, don't do this, son, ever" to things, even if he himself didn't have it in him to form any emotional opinion on most matters.

That triumph also resulted in his first punishment but in retrospect it really wasn't much of one, much to Gorion and Winthrop's shared dismay.

Or, really, utter horror. Cyrus was familiar with that soul shade by now.

For his part Cyrus really wondered why they could ever think that being grounded along with Imoen would be any sort of hardship. Especially when he was only expected to sit down and practice his calligraphy, which he expected to be doing anyway for Dethek, or Dwarvish as it was called by most people. He supposed that this might have been a ploy to render Imoen more compliant to the idea of learning her own letters (finally) but the boy was fairly sure Gorion would have told him that straight out. As it was, the man had been fairly obviously and honestly incensed. And his reasons had not at all pleased the Watchers-in-training and their trainers.

"What were you thinking, son? (It was something new to try, father.) Whose idea was this? Fuller's? What possessed you to go along with anything he suggested!? (That had been aimed more at Jondalar than him). And the rest of you, I cannot believe that… (Here Gorion fairly fumed for half a minute). And you, son! I honestly expected more sense from you than any of these sense-forsaken simpletons! (Hey!) Especially simpletons who think full-contact weapons sparring is a viable pastime for seven-year-olds! (We had the weapons spelled for safety!) (I was only doing what Imoen would have suggested I do, Father). Well that makes everything alright then! It's not like bruising or broken bones or crushed eyes or smashed throats are anything to worry about!"

Cyrus was fairly certain that was called sarcasm and was determined to remember the self-shade it came flavoured in forevermore.

In all honesty, Cyrus enjoyed the Winthrop-supervised "time out" with Imoen more than he had enjoyed most things in life. Which, admittedly, wasn't much to go on with since the general amount of enjoyment he found in things usually levelled off at "none at all," but it was still something. On the other hand, two hours of being bathed in constant hope-glow did have the effect of making him think some unexpected (troubling?) thoughts too.

Thoughts he expressed to his father when he came to collect him that evening. "Father, can people spontaneously become stupid?"

Imoen giggled behind him but Gorion gave him a startled look. "Why would you ask that?"

Cyrus thought carefully about his answer because even he wasn't sure of it. "Until today I was… fairly sure that I was at least moderately intelligent." The incredulity behind Father's eyes was a rare sight, but the boy had something too heavy on his mind to pay heed to that too much. "But now I learn that getting to spend more time with Imoen was as simple a matter of following her example and getting myself grounded." Winthrop suddenly radiated dread behind him, and Gorion's self-light surged with the same, but the question demanded asking, so he looked up at his father and did just that. "Why didn't I think of that before?"

And that was when the horror overcame the hearts of all nearby.

Imitation

Months turned into years and Cyrus got better and better at understanding the way Imoen had chosen to live. At first he only joined her on her various capers, to varying (generally low) degrees of success. Still, the mayhem in Candlekeep effectively doubled within a month of the first time he started contributing. Gorion tried to get him to reconsider his newfound goal in life by refusing to ground him along with Imoen, but the latter became insufferable after the second time, and insufferably impossible to keep a hold of as Winthrop kept saying. She'd inevitably pop up to hang around wherever Cyrus was (even areas she wasn't allowed in or even supposed to be able to get in, somehow) so the two men had to fold and let them be grounded together in order to get anything done.

And Gorion always seemed reluctant to just outright order Cyrus to stop reaching out to the only other child his age in the Keep, so Cyrus decided to keep following her around and go along with all her ideas, only pointing out the ones that would result in actual damage to people, since anything too serious was liable to get him cut off from the hope-light to an extent he wasn't willing to allow. Then he started contributing to the ideas, then a year had passed and he'd gone even further until the two were engaged in an ever-evolving contest of one-upmanship in terms of how outrageous the next stunt would be, and whether or not it would score more points by being shouted from rooftops or kept secret. They usually pulled pranks off in sets of two like that, each a dare from the other.

Cyrus was unquestionably superior in execution and challenging Imoen to do prior stunts better and more efficiently, but he never came even remotely close to the imagination and audacity of her dares. Not that he tried, since that would demand the sort of emotional investment he was incapable of. He vastly outdid her in terms of diligence and attention span though, and after a year of being her partner in crime and only doing what he was suggested, he decided that perhaps it was time to take the initiative for once.

Which was why when Khelben Arunsun visited the Library Fortress during the month of Flamerule in the year 1357, Cyrus jumped him as soon as he undid his cloak clasp, stole the cloak and ran away.

He'd remember the chase for as long as he lived, not for how it underwent but more for what followed after the charge through, over and around people, puddles, mudpits and buildings.

He led the Watchers on a nearly literal stampede around the entirety of the Candlekeep grounds. Three times. It probably would have gone on for longer, seeing as Gorion was still frozen next to the famous guest and literally unsure of what to think of his son acting out on his own that way, if not for what next happened.

The Blackstaff caught Cyrus by the scruff with a magehand and the boy almost killed Imoen in response.

He hadn't even seen her huddled and laughing to herself from behind the inner gatehouse corner tower. The whole point of the second part of the prank was to find her hiding place before he was caught by whoever reached him first. A tall order when she constantly changed hiding places.

So when Khelben Arunsun's magehand grabbed him, Cyrus's mind nearly blanked, threw out all awareness of how far he'd run, how fast his heart raced, how many people were after him, how many were ahead of him, how filthy the cloak had become along with the rest of him, all in favour of scrambling for something, anything that would allow him to keep looking for her. He didn't even register the indignation that surged from somewhere deep, not immediately, or how it wasn't really indignation so much as a throwback to the only time in his life when he had felt indignant, during the second of his earliest recollections.

No, he entirely forgot to check his thoughts, so for the first time in a long time what came to his mind was dangerously less than specific.

I want the spell dead and off of me!

The surroundings disappeared between one moment and the next, and he could see behind him without eyes a spectral hand made of weaved strands of bronze and moonlight. Strands that he only had to wrench apart – it didn't matter which or how or when or what order – threads that he had to grab – whatever-he-was poured out and latched on with grasping, slithering feelers – and pull every which way with all his might.

His first mistake was assuming the strands he saw weren't tied to or sourced from others he didn't.

His second mistake was acting it all out.

The world exploded in a cacophony of colours and everything that could be heard in the world was heard within the walls of Candlekeep all at once.

Cyrus fell to the ground and stumbled in a daze, sight swinging to and from two different states like a half-bent pendulum that was showered with flares, blasts and currents of light on and on, regardless of state, regardless of what layer of reality it sensed. Cries, shouts and curses of everything from shock and alarm to pain and terror carried through and over the sourceless wind spout and dust devil, some piking or cutting off abruptly, few even degenerating into croaks and bleats and other sounds of beasts big and small. Light of all hues he'd ever seen blared all over the space around him, along with an equal number of shades previously unseen entirely. Then stone somewhere cracked, wood broke and splintered, solids of all sorts warped together and apart, and a flare of agony cracked a star of light so distinctive and brilliant that Cyrus saw almost nothing at all, for a moment.

And it wasn't owed to the lights and flashed going off everywhere, but due to the sight of a causelessly crumbling construction scaffold that had been erected along the west wall in preparation of approaching Midsummer decorations. Because Candlekeep did have them, however understated. A scaffold that was now broken and falling in a heap after the nails holding it firmly together had all decided to burst out every which way. Half-a-foot-long nails, every which way. Three of which were responsible for Imoen shaking and gasping wetly from where she was spread across the grassy soil fifteen feet from where Cyrus had just staggered to stand.

The young dwarven boy found himself unable to do anything but stare at the two iron spikes sticking out of her stomach and the third one in her chest. He could only stare, open-mouthed, for a second.

A second during which he might have in any other situation been able to notice that he'd poured out, spread out enough of whatever-he-was to render himself totally, blissfully silent within. But he couldn't and didn't.

He likewise failed to register the moment when he felt, for the first time, something truly, entirely of himself.

Thus it came to pass that the first free emotion Cyrus felt on his own was terror.

It was perhaps the height of irony that he couldn't even then be said to have felt anything for himself.

But he was beyond the reach of such a thing as irony, or any other feeling or even capacity for reasoning, besides what was needed to stagger forward, charge forward blindly – literally – heedless of the wild surges everywhere. He barely noticed the way his arm skin cracked under alternate heat/cold, or the blindness that descended on him – he'd never seen with just his eyes and he could go around blind anyway – and the way space warped and made him trip on a previously non-existent pit. Somewhere somewhen Gorion was shouting and calling for him and voices were chanting spell words or trying, but they didn't matter either. Not with Imoen's self-light sputtering and quickly sinking into itself, as if about to permanently wink out.

He didn't even care that he had no idea what he'd do even if he did reach her, but it almost ended up not mattering.

Five paces from her, wild magic blasted into and through him, then decided it was there to stay and latched on and together, forming into a net that instantly arrested all movement and forced him into total stillness. And because he was charging at his fastest, that meant he wound up falling face-first in an immobile, statue-like heap just half a meter away from her.

The way the terror inside him bowled and shifted from a torrid yellow to a flame-red fury might have had him amazed at finally being able to feel freely on any other day. But fury was fury at being robbed of what was his, and in the moment when he looked at magic and saw what it was doing, saw it working to bring him only pain and ruin, he felt, for a fleeting instant, hatred.

Hatred and the utter certainty that he needed to know how to kill it.

For the second time that day, his mind fell inward and outward and all he could see was blackness weaved through with bundled strands of light. Frayed strands that were knotted, cross-streaked, straining and coursing with light, pouring power or choking it with a sort of chaotic unwellness that tore, quivered and flowed from one shape to the next like boiling quicksilver coloured everything and everything else. The young boy might have felt fascinated by it all on any other day, if he could feel anything at all, but not enough of the moment had yet passed to take away the hatred. He almost gave himself to whatever-he-was, nearly told it to grab and rip and tear, but then remembered that this was exactly what he'd done before and it had only caused more of the same. He needed to see further.

The bleak/dark/nothing rushed out of him almost entirely, and he might have thought of looking within to see if it was hiding anything but whatever-he-was managed to meld with whatever-he-wasn't and revealed every single strand running through every figment of air and space, the brilliantly vibrant and the shadow-woven alike. All-pervading and unquestionably alive, even if in a way different from everyone and everything else.

The Weave of Magic.

Mystra's and Shar's both.

DIE.

---

Hope was glass on verge of cracking, greyed-out, still and silent image of same-as-him-but-really-much-more-overall.

(What in the Nine Hells just happened!?)

(Sorcery! Wild sorcery! Wild sorcery inside these hallowed walls!)

(He inflicted a zone of dead magic! Is there no end to that boy's unnaturalness!?)

Hope was miracle unmoving, still alive in spite of how Cyrus had utterly killed all odds of her salvation, even after he reached her, grasped her and wrapped her nearly faded self-light in his bleak-dark-nothing that it might freeze solid entirely, that it might stop, stop, stop, STOP DYING BECAUSE I SAID SO!

(We have to move her! She needs magic and there's none to be reached!)

(We can't move her! She'll die if we do!)

Hope was debt owed to a stranger who took the certainty of death by the throat and, with just a few short words spoken from just beyond the edge of the dead magic, broke that certainty utterly.

(I Wish That All of Mystra's Weave within a Hundred Meters of My Position Be Restored Right This Instant to How It Was One Hour Ago!)

Hope was light silenced by stillness and the sleep of thrown-hurt-skewered that had barely been saved from the edge of the hereafter by the thing Cyrus had done his all to kill.

(Cast your spells on her now, quickly! And see if anything can be done for the young man over there!)

Cyrus willed the light to stay motionless, glass-like and undiminishing until the priests managed to knit her body of flesh back together, all the while carefully not looking or thinking of the motionless shell of the youngest Watcher who'd been brought low by a nail through the eye just a few feet away.

(How did he do that? He saved her life!)

(No, he only stopped her death.)

Ulraunt was right, Cyrus had only gone and stopped her death, and he'd almost not had enough whatever-he-was for even that. For seizing that moment between life and not-life-anymore and deciding that it would last as long as it took to preserve the chance of getting her healed in time for it to make a difference.

Somehow.

(Kid, kid, KID! You can let go now, the healers've got her, she'll be fine!)

Only after did he falter and slant, almost collapsed if not for Hull catching and carrying him off.

Yet of hope for Davros there had been none to be had.

---

Retrospection

He'd been allowed to sit by Imoen's bedside only because everyone assumed he'd gone into shock. It might even have been true for anyone else, but the bleak/dark/nothing had returned to him and settled inside to what it usually was so he was back to not feeling much of anything, even after the short-lived, universally devastating moments of self-sprung ill feeling.

Gorion spent the evening next to him. And the night. And the morning. He never said anything, he just sat nearby, a mass of weary confusion, sadness and worry. And dread aimed at something, or caused by something or other.

Cyrus learned what it was after dawn, when Tethtoril showed up. Not that he hadn't already suspected.

"Gorion? He wants to see you." The First Reader said. "Both of you."

'He' being Khelben Arunsun.

Cyrus suspected he knew why they were being summoned. It was a feeling that had spiked the day prior just after the magical disaster and had yet to come down.

"Son?" Gorion called. "Are you alright to walk?" He asked uncertainly. "You haven't slept at all since yesterday night. If you're too tired I can just go alone."

"Gorion-"

The sage raised a hand to silence his nominal superior.

But Cyrus already knew that the feeling of finality hanging above his head like a guillotine would only get worse if he stalled or chose to take Gorion on his offer to essentially take the worst of whatever he was being called for. "I'll come, Father."

Gorion smiled but it was a sad thing, at once fearful and determined for his son's future, and that quality didn't change after he took him by the hand or on the way to the room that had been granted to Khelben Arunsun during his stay.

The man was in bed, though propped up with his back straight against the pillows stacked against the headboard. He looked aged but not wizened, with grey-streaked but generally dark hair save for the pale patch running down the middle of his short beard. The Blackstaff was propped next to the headboard as well, within easy reach.

The man gazed evenly at Gorion and him as they were led in, looking not at all as weak and tired as the Wish spell had left him. If not for him being still abed Cyrus wouldn't have been able to tell he was in any way weakened.

Not that his attention stayed much on that tangent, considering everything else he could see in the man.

"Thank you for bringing them, Tethtoril," Ulraunt grunted. "You may go."

"I may but I will not," his tutor said calmly, walking to stand some distance to Cyrus' right. "As far as I can see the boy could use a neutral party to stand for him here." He gave Gorion an apologetic look but did not amend, then he gave Ulraunt a long stare. "Both of you are too emotionally close to the matter."

Cyrus wondered if this was what a trial was.

"Well?" Khelben demanded, dismissing the adults completely and treating the young dwarf to a cold gaze. "Step up, boy. Let me see the one who left me and another bedridden and a third ready to lie in the last bed they'll ever get."

Cyrus glanced up at his quietly outraged Father for permission and only did as told when he got it, however reluctant. The boy closed in several steps, stopping by the small table that blocked the rest of the direct path to the bed. There was almost nothing on the table, not even a cloth. Only a pair of scrolls, a stack of paper and a paper knife. One without any history of killing, unlike the man looking at him from ahead. He was strange. He was covered in lines of death but Cyrus knew instinctively he could not succeed in tracing them if he tried to, even with the man bedridden. Not without killing the enchantments protecting him, and perhaps undoing whatever spell was on him that was the reason for that one seam wrapping around him like a spiralling veil.

Cyrus wondered if it was a disguise of some sort, given that the grey-streaked hair and imposing manner was somewhat at odds with his age. The sheer amount of deaths the man had delivered or engineered traced back nearly a thousand years. He wondered if Gorion knew.

"The Keeper of Tomes has had some very interesting things to tell me about you, boy."

Gorion glared at Ulraunt for that, though he didn't seem surprised, and positioned himself on Cyrus' left and a little ahead of him, to cut in between the boy and the Candlekeep senior librarian.

Cyrus did not reply. He was still working through the sheer magnitude of the realization that this man's experience with murder dwarfed that of everyone else the boy had ever met combined.

"Tell me, boy, what it was that you did to the Weave yesterday." The man treated him to a piercing gaze that should have been a glare, given the way the man's self-shade cast shadows from within. "Provided you have any idea at all."

"I assume…" he started slowly, "that you have Gorion's permission to ask these questions." Because given historical evidence his Father would have probably wanted to seek insight into his son's mind first. And possibly without others finding out what he learned.

"You are all here, are you not?" Arunsun said sternly. "If he had misgivings, he would have voiced them."

"You can go ahead and answer his questions, son," Gorion spoke from beside him, then the glow behind his voice shifted focus to the Archmage with an echo of that scarlet-colored conviction of years before, after the balcony. "You have nothing to worry about." Scarlet and the shine of challenge.

Yet the guillotine loomed above him still, changing in likelihood and closeness not a whit. "I was surprised by the mage hand and reacted by willing the spell dead and off me." He related everything factually, and the people around him reacted not at all (or nearly) on the outside but very much on the inside. "This enabled me to see the spell matrix and further allowed me to pull it apart at the seams." This time the reactions were much more pronounced. Tethtoril actually gasped. Slightly, but he did, and Khelben's eyes sharpened. Ulraunt was, as always, disdainful of him and every time he said anything. As for Gorion, he was just wearily resigned. "Being the first time I did this, or even seen the Weave itself, I did not anticipate this to pull on more of the Weave than was invested in the spell itself. This, I assume, caused the wild surge."

"That was no mere wild surge, or even a single one!" Ulraunt snapped from behind and the side. "The whole world went mad because you did not want to be caught and disciplined for your brazen theft!"

Tethtoril intervened before Gorion could explode, though he only barely made it. "I do believe we are all well aware of how events yesterday unfolded. After all, we all were there." His enforced calm remained, but the rays revolving around his same-self seemed to radiate remonstration. "And I think we all are old, intelligent and wise enough to tell the difference between a theft and an innocent prank, however tragic the outcome. Aren't we."

Khelben interceded before that tangent could continue further. "You claim to be able to see the weave patterns making up spells." He did not sound anything but level-voiced, but there was incredulity there, behind his eyes, however faint. "I suppose next you will tell me that you next saw into the whole Weave and did something to it that left the area around you dead to all magical energy."

"Yes." Cyrus nodded, wondering why the grey/dark/clotted the man was inside jerked with startled surprise at his answer, even as he remained outwardly unimpressed.

The Archmage gazed at him without blinking for a long moment. "How? How did you do that?"

Cyrus blinked in surprise. If he didn't already deduce it meant Ulraunt probably hadn't told him about the lines, which meant that Father hadn't shared the details of his death-seeing eyes even though Cyrus had told him about them just weeks after Winthrop caught Imoen trying to pickpocket him in Beregost and brought her home with him. "The same way I imagine everything else can die." He shrugged. "I traced the death lines on them." He paused. "There didn't seem to be a difference in their case."

"Oh, will you cease your stalling! Explain!" Ulraunt nearly shouted.

Cyrus frowned at him over his shoulder but turned back to the Blackstaff. "I don't know what you expect me to say."

"He perceives the death of things as lines interposed over objects." Gorion said with a sigh. "He explained to me that he believes he could… break objects by tracing those lines with a sufficiently sharp or edged implement. I cannot speculate on how that concept was adapted for destroying the Weave, but I imagine the principle is the same, whatever it is." There was a strange subcontext of steel-colored defiance as Father spoke to the outwardly unchanged Blackstaff. "But this is all still supposition, since he has never done it."

"Until yesterday," Khelben stated, not asked. Stated at Cyrus, not his father.

"Yes," Cyrus confirmed.

Khelben stared. Gorion stared at Khelben while Ulraunt and Tethtoril stared at him, though that was the only thing common between the two.

"Show me." The Archmage told him, gesturing to the knife.

The boy picked up the knife, bent forward to reach for the far end of the table (he had to stand on the tips of his toes to reach far enough) and steadily traced the circuitous route that death travelled along the surface. Whatever-he-was fairly gushed through and around the item in his grip, cutting through everything that mattered even as the knife didn't leave behind even the faintest scratch.

It was a sturdy thing, that table, made of walnut treated with lacquer.

The moment he finished and lifted the knife the table top crumbled to thumb-sized pieces, splinters and a fair bit of dust.

Cyrus stared. Everyone stared at Cyrus.

The four table legs fell on top of the scrap pile.

"Huh," the boy said when no one seemed inclined to say anything themselves. "I didn't expect it to outright crumble. At most I thought it would just… break in half."

The blade of the guillotine fell down on the non-existent shade of his hope for the future and Cyrus understood what it meant for one to know exactly when they would die.

Intellectually at least.

Khelben levelled an outright glare at Gorion, but the latter returned it just as fiercely. "Do not presume to try and intimidate me. I am not one of your impressionable apprentices so either speak your mind or look elsewhere."

"You did not feel this was a matter worth mentioning?" The Archmage was outright livid, even though it barely came through in his tone.

"How I choose to handle my personal and family matters is no concern of yours or anyone else's."

"This is not a mere personal or family matter!" Khelben Arunsun outright snapped from where he'd straightened even further.

"There is nothing mere about personal and family matters," Father oozed outright disdain. "I would have expected Laeral, at least, to know that."

Khelben slammed the Blackstaff against the stone floor. Cyrus looked away from the knife he was holding in order to avoid missing when people did meaningful things, like reaching for weapons. "Enough! You and I both know well how this issue should have been handled! To keep such a matter secret, what in the Abyss were you thinking!?"

"That is droll, coming from you!" Gorion bit out. "You, mind. You who never share anything with any, even when it would help, because 'a secret is not a secret if you tell anyone.' Who are you to lecture me when your whole existence is entirely built on that double standard!?"

Cyrus stared between his knife and the Blackstaff. There was no way to end the mighty artefact the same way he'd ended the table, not with the enhancement and other magics on it, but maybe if he sketched out the death of each enchantment one by one first?

"We are nearing the cusp of one of Alaundo's most critical foretellings and you hide something of this magnitude under the veil of family matters!?"

"He is my son and in my keeping! I have taken the necessary steps to let the relevant parties know of all salient facts in case of the worst. Beyond that, my business is just that. My business!"

"Necessary steps! Relevant parties! I suppose there is no need to worry then!" Khelben outright shouted in derision. "One day you will just drop dead, we do not even need to look beyond this room for the most likely cause, and the relevant parties will take over! I suppose Elminster will step in at that point, pat the boy on the head and pass on some vague portents, after which he will merrily go back to his Dale and damn the consequences on everyone and everything else!"

He called him 'boy' even though he thought Cyrus was just some abomination posing as one. An abomination that had somehow deceived his way into the graces and protection of the ones in that room, bar Ulraunt. Cyrus could tell because the man had already come up with over five ways to kill him and dispose of the remains, distinction between the two steps not necessarily required.

"So proclaims the mighty Masked Lord of Waterdeep," Gorion hissed. "Do not pretend you are any different from what you disdain in others! Your pursuits are no less single-minded or harmful to people and causes you have not claimed as your own, if they measure up at all! Nor are your plots and schemes always wanted or needed!"

Khelben Arunsun levelled a searing glare on the old sage then. "It seems age and the strain of raising so troublesome a ward have blurred the line between reasoning and rationalisation."

But Father only glared back just as heatedly. "And it seems power and reputation have blurred the line between criticism and insult."

"Oh, I have no doubt you have many insults that you would like to hurl at me yourself, and I am sure you will be transmitting them to the relevant parties after my departure, among many other misgivings."

The two sages glared at each other much like Gorion and Ulraunt had done years prior on the balcony.

But there was no verse on which to base an end to that heated discussion so the two old men stood and respectively sat, glaring, for quite some time while Ulraunt and Tethtoril watched on, one with vindication and the other with distress. Distress and a fair measure of outrage on the behalf of Gorion and even Cyrus himself, surprisingly.

But this was all such a waste of time. Inevitable things had already been decided so there really wasn't any need for further wrangling.

He reached up and tugged on Gorion's sleeve.

Gorion started so badly that he almost jumped in place, and the look he levelled at him was raw with such stunned surprise that Cyrus almost changed what he wanted to say. Almost. "I would like to go spend what time I still have near Imoen, Father."

Gorion stepped forward and reached out to him, but didn't dare lay hands on him for some reason.

Cyrus blinked at the chaos of shock, amazement, hope and naked alarm for a few moments, then shook his head and met Gorion's eyes properly. "May I?"

"Son…" Gorion breathed. Hoarsely, almost. "That… this… this is the first time in your whole life that you ever asked for anything."

Blackstaff's grey/dark/clotted churned with something old and tepid but it passed almost instantly.

"Cyrus…" Father hunched forward but still seemed afraid he'd shatter if touched. A myriad questions formed and died before they were spoken, then the man fell back on one that had become a defining element of their bond. "Son. What are you feeling right now?"

The boy blinked and looked up from the wood scraps that had once been a table. "I suppose I am a bit curious if the Wall of the Faithless still exists."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis upon being faced with a topic that had come so completely out of nowhere. At least that was what their emotions implied.

Cyrus didn't really understand it, but then he didn't understand many things. "The texts following the Godswar say that Myrkul was destroyed by Midnight, the new Mystra. I was wondering if the wall broke with his death or if Cyric decided to keep using it." He personally didn't estimate very good odds of it not being there. Not under Cyric the Mad.

"Child what makes you ask that? And so suddenly?" Tethtoril questioned when Gorion seemed unable to.

"I figured it might be useful to know where I'll end up once I die three or four days from now." Gorion's heart seemed to outright stop and Cyrus caught Khelben Arunsun jerk in place from the corner of his eye. Barely, given that his grey/dark/clotted practically shuddered in shock inside, though he didn't show much of it on the outside. Cyrus turned to look at the Archmage, though it was still Tethtoril he was talking to. "The exact time of my death hasn't been strictly decided, even though the certainty of it is no longer in question." He turned his head to look at his frozen tutor again. "I figured I may as well bask in the light of Imoen's spirit for as long as I can manage between now and then."

The next moment he'd been shoved back and Gorion had interposed himself between him and the Archmage of Waterdeep, though Cyrus stumbled sideways enough that he still had a line of sight to the much older man. "He'll have you over my dead body!"

But the odds of Cyrus' death did not waver in the least, and neither did Gorion's own death get any closer or probable.

And Khelben didn't even pay the man any mind, speaking at the young dwarf as if there wasn't a full grown man between he and him. "And so the lie is revealed at last." That didn't really make much sense, but people tended to speak more than was strictly needed and it seemed the Archmage was no different in that regard, at least this time. "Tell me boy, if that term even applies to you, what do you really see, if indeed it is seeing at all? You claim to see lines and then profess foresight. Which is it?"

But the boy was already shaking his head. "The lines are just death that hasn't happened yet. As for everything else…" He frowned, thinking. "It's not foresight. It's… extrapolation I suppose. I can see the odds of a planned attempt on someone's or something's life based on the competence and experience of the one setting them up versus those of the one being set up for murder." He shrugged and met the Archmage's eyes square on, even as the time window between him and death shortened by leaps the more he spoke. "You've decided I need to die and you only need to wait until you are strong enough to leave your bed to do it."

Gorion snarled and pulled him back but didn't dare turn his back on other man. "I won't let you have him!" He switched to Cyrus for just the one moment he needed, since he dared no longer leave the Archmage out of his line of sight. "I won't let even him have you. Over my dead body." He repeated, tone so frigid that Cyrus thought he would have felt a chill on his spine if he were anyone else, but he hadn't become all that much better at sensing anything at all, so he didn't. "Son, get back."

The boy obeyed, largely because he was manhandled into it, but this was still such a waste of time and effort. "He doesn't plan to do it now. And even if he did, it makes no difference that you disagree." Gorion clenched his fists hard enough that they shook. "He's simply much, much better at premeditated murder than you are."

Blackstaff's soul-shadow outright sputtered with enraged indignation. "And so your poisonous voice continues to sow discord. How very not surprising, boy, if that really is what you are! Watch your words lest this death you are so certain of decide not to delay in coming for you!"

"There will be no murdering of anyone within these walls!" Tethoril roared over the near-boiling tension. "And there will be no threats either! Have I been clear enough!?"

Cyrus shook his head. "It makes no difference what you say or how clearly, tutor. The certainties haven't changed. Just like different opinions made no difference for any of the other the deaths he delivered over the past nine hundred years."

The whole world seemed to stall.

"What's this!?" Tethtoril shouted.

"Nine hundred years…?" Ulraunt breathed even as Khelben's soul-shade seemed to freeze for long moments, as if he hadn't intended or expected that particular piece of trivia to be thrown out, especially not so carelessly.

Gorion blinked slowly at the older man. "And so the lie is revealed at last," he literally tossed the Archmage's words back in his face. "Khelben the Younger indeed." His voice turned low and accusatory. "Is there anything real about you in what you show the world?" He paused. "Is there anything real about you at all?" His eyes roamed over the man on the bed. "Is that even what you really look like?"

No answer.

"Cyrus," Gorion said coldly, never averting his unblinking glare from Khelben Arunsun even then. "Please describe this death that is hanging over you right now."

Ancient black eyes bore into his but Cyrus didn't feel intimidated or afraid because he never felt much of anything. "I'm not sure what details I can share, since they seem to keep changing every other second. I just know it will happen when it happens." He looked helplessly at Gorion. "One way or another. The only constant seems to be that it has to be soon because he can't afford to delay his trip to Tethyr." And it became so very clear that moment that no one had had any idea where the man was headed before that moment.

There was a drawn-out silence.

Gorion, as expected, broke it. "Tethyr is a long way from Waterdeep…" He said ponderingly. "One wonders why you would need to go there, especially with any measure of haste, given the utter chaos that has ruled that country since the fall of the Lions' Dynasty. And the Harpers already have people looking into those matters …" A realization seemed to come over him then. "Has your habit to designate rulers for Shadowdale kindled a taste in you for setting up your own kings in lands even further removed?"

The Archmage's eyes snapped from Cyrus to his Father. "His hold on you is truly mighty if you so easily believe everything he says."

"I believe everything he says because he has never said a lie in his life, to me or anyone else!" The man was visibly shaking, he was so mad from insult and betrayal. "I am tempted to ask my son why you would be going there but there is only one way he would be able to even tell. Dare I ask whose murder you are going there to premeditate?" His lips curled into something ugly. "Will you even stop at one? What next, shall I learn that at some point you have also become a thief!?"

Cyrus' head snapped from looking at his father to stare at Arunsun when his self-shade flared with a colour that could not be anything but guilt. Guilt for something he was planning to do, not already done, but something planned as part of a greater plot to engineer the deaths of a number of different other people so Cyrus perceived the concept regardless. And the emotional colour. It had been very, very faint, but months of trying to puzzle out the nearly indistinguishable but very real and numerous variations in Imoen's brilliance meant he had a lot of practice to draw upon.

It became clear a moment later that his reaction had not been missed by anyone there.

"I see…" And Father's voice could not be described as anything but bitter.

Seemingly having enough, Khelben Arunsun rallied together – his self-shadow tightened around itself though it did not drip with the blood of others any less – and glared, truly and unrestrainedly at Cyrus for the first time. "You, boy, see too much."

"Do I?" What even was the meaning of too much? "What does that even mean?"

"How can you even sit there and say that?" Gorion wondered aloud still looking at the ancient wizard. "Sit there on your millennium-old trove of dead bodies, vanished nations and extinct societies and act as the offended party while plotting my son's murder in your mind?" The old sage shook his head in disbelief. "What could possibly be just in that?"

Blackstaff did not see fit to justify himself.

Cyrus did have a question about that, however. "Is it supposed to be?"

Gorion started and looked down at him. "What?"

"Is it supposed to be? Just, I mean."

"Is it supposed to be just…?" Tethtoril echoed. "Child, why would you even ask that? Why would you doubt…?"

The dwarf blinked. "Shouldn't I? The moral arc of the universe doesn't bend towards justice." Gorion's light seemed to dim as a familiar misery bubbled upwards, and the soul-shades of the others either recoiled or thrummed in surprise at his bluntness. "It can't. Evil is actively encouraged and enforced by Ao." The boy gestured towards the door and the library beyond. "There is a godly domain for every vice and ill thought. Every single text of lore agrees on that even when they disagree on everything else. And now with the Godswar…" He trailed off. "There is nothing just about the most powerful god of present times being the mad god of death, murder, strife, lies, intrigue, deception and illusion."

Everyone stared at him like they couldn't believe what they were hearing. Even the age-old Archmage.

Cyrus honestly couldn't understand why but it happened so very often that he was sure his inability to feel the same as others meant he must be missing on a whole lot of context.

"Is that why?" Khelben asked him, arresting the attention of everyone else again. "If you truly see your death approaching as you claim, is that why you do not try to fight against it, assuming your apparent indifference is not an act itself." The old man had a strange look in his eyes and disbelief formed a bizarre mixture behind his voice, blending with uncertainty and the ghost of warm lips and skin on his and memories of times long disappeared. "Because you believe the universe to be an unjust place so you believe there is no justice in people either?"

"No," Cyrus answered easily. "It's really not that complicated at all. There have always been people outside Candlekeep who wanted me dead. It's not surprising that one would find his way here eventually." Tethtoril's glow dimmed with wrong/wrong/wrong/unfair, but Cyrus hadn't finished. "As for everything else…" He shrugged. "You're simply the only one whose decision has any stake on whether I live or die next." Gorion's soul-self lurched beside him, but Cyrus ploughed on "So despite how clearly Father's or anyone else's moral compass does point towards justice, it doesn't matter because yours doesn't." He wondered if he would feel resigned or liberated if he could feel anything at all.

"Unbelievable," Ulraunt muttered from where he stood, watching everything. "He does not even realize or care about the pain he causes his professed father with every word he speaks."

That was an odd thing to say considering that he was only speaking the truth. Should he start lying, then? Gorion hadn't told him to, so he wouldn't and didn't.

"How can you be so certain of what you say, boy?" Arunsun asked slowly, though Cyrus couldn't tell if he was truly curious what with the turmoil that his self-shadow had been thrown in after the dwarf said that last thing. "How claim you to understand what others feel and how they live their lives? Or is there yet another thing besides death that you see." He narrowed his cold eyes even further. "How claim you to know anything of what I believe or feel?"

Cyrus ignored the scepticism because it didn't have any bearing on the situation either. The certainties hadn't shifted even then. "It's all there." He gestured to all of him. "Everything you've killed is grafted into your spirit. I know I'm likely missing a lot of the context since I don't generally feel anything of what other people feel, even though I can see feeling shining inside them." He tilted his head. "Or not shining. But I do know what I do see, and in you it's blood." Khelben's eyes flashed but his self-shade said a lot more than that. Too much. "Blood clotted over soul-cutting gashes deep enough that even the ones of centuries ago are bleeding still, even now." He wondered if he would feel anything due to the rapt attention he was treated with by everyone there, or the chaotic swirls of how/what/why/should-I-do-anything that overcame each of the adults. "And perhaps it's also down to similarity. Maybe I can distinguish you more clearly than others." Others like Imoen. He looked away from the soul then, to meet the man's black eyes instead. "You're almost as dead on the inside as I am."

For one, heavy moment, Cyrus felt like he had no waiting to do for death at all.

And as if to prove him wrong about the comparison between them, Khelben Blackstaff's grey/dark/clotted burst into hot/tar/fire. The grip on Blackstaff looked like it could have warped the wood if the powerful item could be harmed at all. "Listen carefully boy, because I will not repeat myself." The man's voice was iced over but Cyrus expected it would have still burned if he could feel anything at all. "There is nothing alike between your nature and mine."

Nine-year-old eyes looked into those of a man a hundred times older as the world seemed to shy away.

Then the hot/tar/fire simmered down and sunk back beneath grey/dark/clotted and Cyrus realized he really had missed enough of the context that he had been wrong about this one thing. "I suppose not…" He broke eye contact and stared down at his palms, at the blood flowing beneath his flesh and the total lack of soul-light that set him apart from everyone else. "Perhaps some souls are simply born into death. They never knew how to live."

The guillotine lifted from just above the spine of Cyrus' mortality and he knew he once again had a few more days to live through, but he didn't pay it any mind. It wasn't worth dwelling on, no more than everything else he didn't feel anything over. He just stared at the blood running through the veins inside him, wondering how something that kept him moving, speaking and generally carrying out as if he lived could seem so very not alive at all.

"Tell me, boy," Khelben said quietly. He sounded spellbound, inexplicably. "What would you call justice?"

"Justice…" Cyrus echoed the word as he just stared at the bleak/dark/nothing. "Justice… would be if my soul and Imoen's had been swapped at birth." Gorion uttered that pained, familiar 'no' he never seemed to contain or even realize he said whenever Cyrus said he felt nothing, but it had been a long time since the old man had still had it in him to feel enough to be emotionally overcome in any manner. The boy let his hands drop and looked up to gaze at him. "She's everything you hoped I'd be when you gave me the name you did." Cyrus mouth twisted on its own for the first time ever then, and he wondered if he really felt sadness or if it was just an echo of something else. Or someone else. "She would have made you happy."

The old man sagged so totally that the boy almost felt fear at the idea that he may fall from the weariness overcoming him so completely. "Son…" his voice trembled. "Why do you speak as if you don't believe you deserve to live?" He made to reach for him, but he seemed to lack the energy for even that. "You deserve to live as much as anyone else."

"Do I?" He seemed to be asking that a lot, regarding increasingly many different things. "I've brought you nothing but enough misery to smother everything you ever were." Gorion's fists clenched tight enough to go white, as white as the skin on his face. "The only time you were anywhere near happy was long ago, when mother still lived." Grief literally engulfed all the defiance and anger that Gorion had been clinging to like a lifeline. "Your soul was so beautiful then…" Grief boiled and subsumed everything, then thickened until there was only the misery that the man had only barely been keeping down for so long. "There's barely anything of that glow in you now. There hasn't been since the balcony." Misery that fell inwards as finally as it did the first time, leaving only the black pit of anguish.

Tethtoril moved and uttered something or other in a low voice but Cyrus didn't have it in him to pay attention, let alone recognize the Spell of Sending for what it was, and for once no one else seemed any more inclined to care about anything than he was.

He looked down at his hands again, seeking and failing to find anything resembling something that wouldn't be bleak/dark/nothing.

Perhaps having his place swapped with Imoen's wouldn't have been justice after all, being that it seemed more and more likely that he had no soul of his own at all.

For long minutes no one said anything more.

Then there was a knock on the door.

Tethtoril moved quickly to open it, revealing Hull.

"You sent for me, First Reader?" The young man tried and failed not to look around at the sombre scene. He also looked tired and the bags under his eyes spoke of something more than a sleepless night.

That's right. Davros had been his friend.

Cyrus wondered if he would feel guilt at that realization if he were able to feel anything at all.

"Yes. I have a task for you." The robed man came over to Cyrus and physically herded him to the door where he handed him over in Hull's keeping. "Keep an eye on him. And if you need to leave him for any reason, make sure there is someone else with him at all times." His stern gaze was not at all at odds with the fierce determination gleaming from inside. "At all times, am I understood?" Once Hull nodded, Tethtoril gazed over the other adults, pointedly looked right at Arunsun for a moment, then meaningfully looked to Hull again. "It appears there are certain threats levelled against him from sources we had previously overlooked."

Hull's grip suddenly tightened on his hand. How odd. "Understood, sir," Hull said, voice hard. "You can count on me."

"Good. Off you go then. In the meantime…" Tethtoril turned to address the other three adults and very deliberately said what he said next before Hull and Cyrus were out of hearing range. Before the door had even been closed shut. "In the meantime, we three are going to have a long, long discussion to figure out when it became right and proper to measure morality in terms of willingness to murder children!"

Hull's grip on his hand became even firmer and the Watcher pushed him in front of him and herded him away as quickly as he could.

Emulation

The wind was strange. It had no lines of death to trace at all but it died on its own when it hit him or the cliffs behind and around him.

"I'm bored! Bored, bored, BORED! They tied me to the bed, can you believe it? This is terrible!"

The sea, though, was deathless even in sunlight.

"They even used weird knots I never saw before! It's a crime, I say. A crime!"

How similar the sea was in colour and illusory nature to the sky.

"Tell me a story!

Cyrus had said alright.

"Thanks! You're the best guy someone could accidentally pester into befriending!"

In the days of the year of the Tower-

"Not that one, I already know it! Wait, what do you mean you were telling it wrong last time? WHAT? There's a child-friendly version? You insulted Imoen the Magnificent with a children's tale!? I can't believe you!"

The sea was similar in colour and illusory nature to the sky. But despite that it was so alike, despite that it effectively blended with the sky at night, it was still the sea, not the sky.

"Alright, that's enough out of you two! If you can't abide by the peace in the house of healing, then you'll have to do without each other."

Perhaps that had been his mistake. That he'd sought to imitate rather than emulate.

"Sorry that happened, kid. I know you really like to spend time with her even though I'll be bugg- uhm, damned if I understand why. Maybe she'll be more willing to listen to the healer's orders after a bit of time out (not that it ever worked before). Besides, now you get to spend time with me!"

Perhaps if he'd spent as much time looking everywhere else as he did looking at Imoen he would have seen the changes undergone by everyone else. Known that he'd been noticed and taken under consideration by many other people even if he hadn't done the same in return. Known of the life paths travelled by all the others. Lives that had to be as vivid and complex as Imoen's own, as Gorion's had been once long ago, otherwise they would not be able to feel as happy or content as they seemed to, even if they didn't glow as brightly as hope did.

"Listen, kid, me and the others swiped some of the good stuff from the cellars and plan to get together tonight in the western tower. If you can get permission or manage to sneak out again, come drop by. I know you're still young but you're a dwarf so you should be fine with a swig or two at least!"

Happy and content even as they wrestled with loss and grief over the man he'd killed.

"Bullshit!"

An opinion that seemed to be shared by most of the Watchers. And a fair few tutors and scribes in the keep once Parda caught wind of what Tethtoril had ordered Hull to do. Nearly every single one of them, in-training or not, seemed to quietly but definitely rally around him over the two days that followed the morning discussion in the First Guest's bedroom on Candlekeep's sixth floor. Rather than Hull or one other person with him at all times, there always seemed to be at least three or four in line of sight, concealed or pretending to be idle or otherwise occupied with varying degrees of success.

"I honestly can't imagine anyone thinking they could get to you here inside the walls."

But the odds of death hadn't slipped from total certainty at all, in spite of them, so they wouldn't make any impact in the end.

"We'll see about that!"

If it made any difference, at some point during the second day the situation had gone from the relevant parties wanting to kill him to only wanting him dead.

"And what the heck do you mean they only want you dead? Like that's any difference!"

Things got particularly strange on day three when Hull showed up near the hedge he was trimming and rushed him off to the warehouse undercellar. Things got even more peculiar when he handed him Jondalar's sword and told him to do his thing and see if he could make it stick this time.

"Heard the windbag's gonna be up and about later. And before you ask it's totally legitimate. Jondalar is entirely on board with this but can't be seen with you or it'll be suspicious."

It was at that point that Cyrus begun to wonder what kind of conspiracy the Watchers had dreamed up with regard to him but did as bid and spent a few hours holding the sword in his hand and its death-dealing history in his mind, huddled cross-legged behind the largest mound of potato crates in the warehouse basement. Held them until the remembered skill went from short-term to long-term memory in one, full influx.

Of course, the certainty of him dying if Khelben decided on it, and the fact that the Archmage still slipped occasionally in that odd state between wanting and not wanting to do it after all, didn't change his projected lifespan at all even after he did as Hull bid of him.

"That was so weird. You didn't even twitch for the whole afternoon. I know, I asked Fuller. And you didn't even realize he was here, did you? Seems it is possible to sneak up on you after all."

As he handed back the sword and accepted the dagger that Jondalar had provided for the same purpose (But he says you can keep that one for good) Cyrus wondered why they went to all those lengths. Hull had been beyond incensed at the question.

"Because you're ours! I don't care what some old northern windbag has to say! Yes you're weird and quiet and creepy, but you're also polite, honest, hard-working and damned brilliant and your Dad loves you like you have no idea!"

And that was the truest thing Hull had ever said. Cyrus had no idea how much his father loved him. Had no idea how much anyone loved him. Had no idea what love was supposed to feel like at all.

He wondered if Hull had loved Davros the same.

"Not the same, love is never the same, and the love between spouses and between father and son is special, but yes, I loved him. We all did."

Cyrus supposed he should feel sorry for killing him.

"And the Oghmite priests should feel sorry for not offering to resurrect him, and the old windbag should feel sorry for casting the magic in the first place, especially since he could cast another Wish to bring him back without even suffering the same backlash. But they aren't sorry and as long as they continue not being sorry you shouldn't feel sorry either."

The boy didn't think that made any sense.

"I am a man in mourning! I am exercising my gods-given right to biasedly choose who to be angry at and I've decided it's them and not you."

The fourth day turned out the most bizarre, or that is how he suspected he'd label it if he could feel anything at all. The Watchers, scribes, tutors and whoever else had somehow, overnight, turned into a messengers service whose sole purpose was to let Cyrus know where the Archmage was at all times and steer him clear of his line of sight by going this way, that way, the other way and no, dammit, the other other way! Cyrus eventually asked why they came to think it was Khelben Arunsun that was after him. Tethtoril hadn't been that blatant, had he? He could just as easily have implied that Khelben Arunsun had been the one to warn them of the supposed assassination plot.

"I'm a Watcher, kid. I see things. And I also hear things. Besides, who else could it be? Until The First Reader comes to set the record straight you're not allowed to go near him."

But there was no assassination plot. Really. Gorion had told him so just that morning so that all was only liable to get him and the rest of the Watchers involved in serious trouble. Especially once Khelben Arunsun called them out on their insult to his character.

"We know, obviously. But unless you know a way out of the keep that we don't you're stuck with us."

And while Cyrus didn't care enough about anything to make an emotional decision, that comment did make him realize that it would be a real shame if he up and died without experiencing the outside of Candlekeep at least once. Khelben could go from wanting him dead back to wanting to kill him at any time, depending on whatever Tethtoril had said or done to get him to reconsider his initial decision on the matter. And the Watchers and others would only see their lives complicated for nothing in either case. Which Cyrus reasoned he would have a problem with if he could feel to begin with.

Which was why the young dwarf snuck out of sight the first chance he got, made his way to the battlements through the nearest tower and, after making sure the patrolling sentries weren't looking in his direction, sprinted out of the tower and leaped feet-first in-between the nearest pair of crenels, twisting to grab at the edge for the best position to start gouging hand and footholds. After that, all he had to do was scale down the wall and subsequent cliff face the same way he'd climbed to Ulraunt's office.

Easy.

It was the height of irony, Cyrus suspected, that Candlekeep's sentries were less alert in daytime than they were during the night, but it worked to his benefit. Or deficit if this turned out to be the worst decision he'd ever taken, which was highly likely.

But not important.

The wind brushed his face, and Cyrus decided he'd spent enough time there, on that jutting rock half-way between the top of the walls and the grassy lip of the outcropping Candlekeep stood atop. From here it was all rough stone and wind-beaten cliff face.

As he scaled down the rest of the way, Cyrus wondered if he would feel annoyed at the extra work or pleased at the variety.

When his booted feet touched the grass, Cyrus gave himself a moment to contemplate the reality of having left his home. Even if home was just a few meters behind, however high up.

He didn't feel anything.

Nodding at that confirmation that there was nothing out of the ordinary, he gave the sea one last glance, then turned around and walked purposely in a very specific direction. Granted, it was the only direction available, but it was specific nonetheless. A very specific source of possible death, to be exact. Of the painful and flesh-skewering, possibly limb-ripping variety.

Five minutes later, Cyrus Anwar stood at the mouth of a wolf den and his death had already flashed through his mind enough times and with sufficient variation that he knew exactly where the nesting wolf mother was, how many cubs she had, how hungry they were, how hungry she was and everything else pertinent to his odds of suffering a messy demise.

Ten more minutes later, the dwarf stared in bemusement as the wolf mother growled, barked and generally chased her cubs out of their own den. Cubs which she followed after, slowly backing out of the cave and never breaking eye contact with him until she was all the way out and ready to bolt.

Which she did.

Cyrus stared.

The wolves didn't come back.

Well.

Seemed predators had something in common with livestock after all. Which was to say, they were all terrified of him for some reason. Probably whatever reason Khelben Arunsun still felt he should die for, whatever it was.

Or perhaps animals did have a way to know what you were thinking when you looked them in the eye and the wolf mother just didn't feel comfortable with all the ways Cyrus had come up with for using Jondalar's dagger and the garden pick to kill her as soon as she thought to jump him. He'd been in the middle of planning the 32nd scenario when she started to forcefully herd her cubs out into the world and away from him.

He suspected he should feel bad for chasing someone out of their home. He wondered if there was going to be an angry ranger knocking on Candlekeep's doors next week with a complaint about small dwarven homewreckers.

A whimper snapped him out of his musings.

There was a wolf pup left at the back of the cave.

As he walked towards it, Cyrus thought he might have felt rather like he was part of some bizarre play. What would nature be thinking that something like this would even happen? What were the odds even? Had the wolf female left him behind as tribute in exchange for being allowed to live by the greater predator? He took back everything he assumed about her, she was a terrible parent.

He didn't even look like a runt, even though he whined pitifully at his feet, backed away against the cave wall.

Cyrus bent down and picked it up by the scruff. Then he stared at it for a while. "I never imagined I'd ever run into anyone more hopeless than I am."

It was at this point that Gorion would make some noise or other, speak some words to lead him away from that train of thought and towards something else he could chew in his mind.

But he wasn't there then, so Cyrus tucked the pup against his chest and walked over to stand in front of the cave wall furthest in. The one separating him from sites of visions of masonry, torches and trick steps tied to lethal traps in the alcoves. Images and remembered words of ancient architects of long ago formed recollection of premeditated murder via hidden springboards and mechanical systems tasked to make sure that everyone entering the catacombs would either have business there or never leave at all.

Well, the boy thought blandly. He'd tried living peacefully. He was bound to try to live dangerously at some point.