Alone (Cyrlan, past)

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Two weeks into this entire 'Herald' business and Cyrlan had finally reconciled to the fact that it was, unfortunately, not just another bad dream. It certainly felt like one of the worst of such, except this time it was reality, cold and relentless in its assault. Haven had yet to live up to its name, the wooden walls more akin to prison bars (not that he knew what those looked like, but he had certainly heard stories), to contain rather than protect. People were open in their awe or disgust alike, and the elf was rather uncertain about what to make of that. But one thing was clear - his position as the people's declared 'Herald' granted him no power whatsoever, he was simply another figurehead to spearhead this ragtag Inquisition. Perhaps a human in his position would have felt frustrated at such, but for now he was simply glad no one in their little band of misfits were trying to kill him. Actively, at least. It was because they called him a Herald, that their faith lead them to believe that he was sent to them by a shemlen god or other.

He didn't want to be the herald of anything.

Here they stood, the Seeker, the Commander, the Spymaster. One had threatened his life more than one, one was a former member of an order born out of the need to control mages, the last he knew far less about but somehow, he didn't doubt that she could kill him just as easily as the other two. Though clan Lavellan may have been considered tall among the other of the Dalish, here he felt distinctly dwarfed by the humans, if not by size then by their confidence alone. They walked around as if they had every right to do so, and he often found that difficult to argue with. Yet he refused to simply pretend as if he was one of them, stubbornly clinging to his own improvisation of Dalish culture. Boots lay disregarded at the foot of the fluffy human bed, binding his feet instead, though the leggings and tunic he took, for the sake of keeping warm if nothing else.

Cyrlan did his best to hug the walls as the others spoke, hearing their words but not quite comprehending. It was all very human, the brief mention of some Chantry figure or other, an offhanded comment about templars or mages or circles and whatever. He had considered simply running away as soon as he could, yet even then he could already hear the Keeper's voice sternly admonishing him about duty and whatnot, his responsibility as a First (sweet, almost motherly as she chides then just as smoothly transitions into an order because the clan is always the priority). The elf bit his lip and fought to keep his expression perfectly neutral. Oh, the clan. He tried to not think about the fate of the hunters who had accompanied him here, yet his thoughts always strayed back to the clan. Perhaps they had been lucky, had escaped and were now on their way back to the Free Marches, back to wherever the clan had settled this time.

Interrupted. Not a strange thing, nothing out of the ordinary, except the soldier was hastily reporting about a strange elf and that was enough for Cyrlan to straighten up suddenly and dart out of the room, blatantly ignoring the surprised yell that his action incited. It was not difficult to pinpoint where this stranger had supposedly intruded, neither did it take more than a short moment for him to jump and sprint his way across. The crumpled figure was a familiar one, the elf dropping to his knees and raising his hands towards the other, worry etched into every line of his features. "Ashyla. Lethallan. Stay with me, okay? You're gonna be alright." Abruptly, he twisted about, and when he shouted out his voice was sharp and strained, strange even to his own years. "Someone get the apothecary! Now!"

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Creators, she looked absolutely terrible. The huntress looked as if she had been dragged through battle after battle with no time for breath between, and whether she had won those battles was questionable at best. At worst, she clung onto life by a fraying thread. At best, multiple broken bones and some head injury. Cyrlan was not a healer by any means, painfully amateur next to actual mage healers, but now he reached out frantically with his mind, dimly aware of the soldier's announcement. His focus was on the injured elf, fingers weaving green threads of magic around whatever open wound he found, but there were so many and there was only so much he could do before Adan was there, giving instructions in that oddly comforting waspish way of his. Someone else scurried in to wrap her arm in a splint and for a moment Cyrlan could only watch, until he was given a nod and proceeded to slowly, gingerly lift her off the ground.

Silently he repeated apologies like a mantra, screwing his eyes shut as she shrieked and promptly passed out due to the pain. He moved as quickly as the situation would allow, careful not to jostle her any more than possible, the Dalish nature finally coming to light at the swift yet smooth movement, navigating easily to the aforementioned bed and lowering her. In a single, detached moment, he felt as though he were rewatching his own arrival in Haven through someone else's eyes, in someone else's body. Then the moment passed and desperation gripped him again, hovering by her side to give the apothecary just enough space to work. Again he called magic to his fingers and grasped at it almost wildly, but just as he thought it was about to work, it slithered back out of reach. The elf gritted his teeth in frustration and tried again.

It was nothing like combat magic. The elements were almost second nature to him by now, primal forces that were readily available, direct and straightforward, instinctual. He could throw himself into a fight wholeheartedly and that would only bolster his magic, but when healing it was an agonizingly delicate process. Too much and the connection would shatter, too little and he could scarcely heal a minor scrape. Vaguely, he recalled that the key was to act as a conduit for energy and nothing more, but combining his lack of experience with the throbbing mark on his hand made it the task but simple. Cyrlan took a deep breath, steadied his shaking hands, beckoned towards the magic, and this time it came readily. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he began the slow work of knitting torn flesh, rejoining broken bones. At some point, he downed a lyrium potion (or perhaps two) to keep him going, the tense silence in which him and the apothecary worked only ever broken by muttered comments on the state of their patient.

Finally, he allowed himself to breathe. His skin, already pale, had since turned more pallid. A thin trickle of blood ran from where he had bit his lip in concentration, but he barely noticed it. "Alive. Still needs work." His voice scarcely more than a whisper, yet the concern for his clanmate was palpable. She was out of immediate danger, at least. Since they had started, her wounds had been cleaned, blood and dirt wiped away to the best of their ability, bones mended where they could, some patches of skin little more than scar tissue, but they would heal on their own over time.

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Silence on Cyrlan's part would meet the woman's comment, the type of heavy, exhausted quiet that was an answer in itself. There was a rustle as the apothecary stood and left with only a grunt as acknowledgement, but the elf himself simply dragged his chair closer to a wall so that he could lean against it. "I'll stay." It was barely more than a whisper, yet the assistant seemed to hear him perfectly fine and nodded, thankfully not lapsing into conversation of any sorts. Perhaps at one point he could have willed himself to stay awake lest something happen to her and he was too late to help, but in the face of exhaustion and the recent string of events, his resolve weakened quickly and soon he slumped against the wall, finally giving in to sleep.

It didn't last too long, the elf waking as soon as the sun began to shine through the windows, frosted over as they were. The sudden, unprepared use of magic that strayed far from his usual combat skill set left an effect, as expected, a feeling akin to a particularly annoying hangover. The other healer, upon noting his return to the waking world, took her leave with palpable relief, released from a night-long watchful vigil over the sleeping redhead. Cyrlan only managed a somewhat bleary nod in thanks before returning his gaze to the huntress. At some point, he took the opportunity to stretch stiff limbs and gently massage warmth back into his hands - he had taken off the thick Ferelden gloves provided to heal and had presumably forgotten to don them once more - and when he looked back, he noted that the other had since opened her eyes.

"Fancy meeting you here." A subtle curl of the lips, the familiar humor which coloured his voice belying the concern he held. He dragged the chair closer to the bed, pale eyes skimming over freshly healed wounds in a cursory examination. "How are you feeling?"

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Her eyes finally focused on his face, though that was a term he used loosely. They gained clarity as she muttered a response, searching for something he did not quite recognise. "Two weeks." Not a long period of time per say, yet so much had transpired, most of it less than enjoyable. An imperceptible twitch under his eye at the unwelcome memory (too fresh, too recent to have been hidden along with the rest), but the elf simply set his jaw and continued to speak. "You were missing for two weeks. They tried to find survivors right after the blast but they didn't find anyone so I thought you dead." His breath hitched in his throat as he stumbled over the last two words, forcing a shaky smile as he recomposed himself. He could not falter here, not in front of her, not as the people's 'herald', or whatever they called him now. Regardless, he had to lead, and it would do no one any good to see their leader break down.

"I'm fine," he managed shortly, something perhaps considered normal to any other, but to the elf he sounded curt even to himself and silently berated himself. But whatever the other said seemed to soften him, the grief most likely, his response not much more than a quiet hum of affirmation. A moment passed before he thought to inquire about the time lost between them, but as he looked down the huntress had once more drifted back into sleep. Just as well, he conceded, for now he had a letter to write. With all the spymaster's ravens, surely she could spare him one for the sake of contact his clan. Another healer wandered into the room, presumably the next watch. All of a sudden, the walls felt as if they were pressing in, and he was gripped with the sudden need to breathe. A few quiet words informing the healer that he would later be found in one of the little side rooms in the Chantry and he tore away from the little hut. Ashyla would not die in the few moments without him, and he desperately needed a chance to stretch his legs.

He set a brisk pace, running about Haven to talk to one person about this, to comment to another about that, finally procuring what he needed from the ambassador and retreating to a corner to write, scratching out woeful words onto yellowed parchment (once or twice the antivan woman had brushed past, only to pause and scrutinize his penmanship). It was here that anyone would find him should they care to look, hunched over a flimsy sheet of paper that fluttered in the chilly breeze through open windows.

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Words, unlike magic, did not come to the elf naturally. He paused every few words to ponder his next, scratched down a few more slanted lines and repeated the process. It was tedious, to say the least, with Cyrlan finally admitting defeat about halfway through and simply writing whatever came to mind, the grief fresh as the ink he used. The message was surprisingly brief for that long a period of crafting, recounting the events as he knew them, briefly speaking of what he understood from others, before signing off with simply his name. Something he had not heard in the past few days, to be honest. The flurry of activity, however, had been enough to keep his mind off it until a clanmate showed up, until he was suddenly aware of just how out of place he was.

Task completed, he set off to deliver it to the spymaster, sent the raven off with hopeful eyes and mournful words, then plunged into his new daily routine of running around the little village and helping where he could. Views seemed to differ by a large deal, some only to happy to treat him as an equal (or lower, by virtue of pointed ears or the stave he carried), whereas some were adamant in their refusals of oh no, herald, you must have better things to do than help us! Yet there he was, fetching these notes here then locating new resources there, until the sun settled into its midday seat and the elf finally took a breather.

Though it was not so much a break as a change in pace of activities, now letting his legs rest slightly as he strolled towards the Chantry, musing over how exactly he would explain the huntress' appearance to the three advisors - everyone else probably died except two elves, an apostate mage and a huntress who has yet to see her twentieth nameday, good luck with saving the world! People were kicking up a big enough fuss as it were, and he could only hope that this incident would not further aggravate them. His eyes now found the brightly clad figure at the foot of the building and the elf ignored his body's complaints as he pushed himself into a jog, the urgency and concern almost tangible as he called out. "Ashyla! How are you feeling?" Shifting his position ever so slightly, a strategic move to shield the other from prying eyes, Cyrlan placed a hand on her shoulder to guide her into the building itself. His brows drew closer, dragging a critical gaze over where every wound was, watching for signs of gashes reopening or wounds being infected. "Do me a favour and don't be running all about just yet, okay? I don't think I have enough energy to heal that much more." Indeed, the elf did look tired, dark circles under his eyes and hair that now stuck up in odd places. Appearances, in the havoc of it all, had certainly not been a top priority.