notyourherald | OPEN POST - Beware of Spoilers

"It is," Pel answers, cramming a few more okra into a crock before sliding it to Cy to be corked. "Most of the good game has either been hunted or frightened off. We've started some trade with the shemlen to make ends meet, but it would be good to know for sure that we're going to be warm enough during the winter. Thank you."

Edited Date: 2015-09-16 01:05 pm (UTC)

Cyril frowns a bit at that. He worries every day that the only reason they're stuck here is because of his place in the Inquisition, but at least he can also use that left over influence to prepare for them.

"Is there anything else you need, lethallan?" he asks, quietly. He feels the weight of all that he knows for a moment, things he doesn't think he can very fully talk about. He realizes he wants to tell her so badly about the gods, but he isn't sure how many details she'll believe.

The last crock is corked. Pel looks at Cyril closely now, hearing the change in his tone. He wants to be of use, so let him.

"Walk with me, lethallin?" Out of sheer habit, she reaches to hook her arm around his. His is truncated now, and a little different even with the prosthetic, but it still conveys what she needs: she is not really asking. Off they go.

He nods and lets her tug him along, knowing better than to try to debate. "Of course," he says, as he is led. He also can't help but feel comforted that she easily takes his arm without hesitation. It's nice to remember that some will always see him as whole.

Pel has always seen Cyril as younger, in spite of him being a year her senior. It was only because of the fact that he was hanging out with that younger crowd, and she was raised to be a Keeper since she was a toddler. It's hard not to treat him as being as young as Merrick or Lulwen, especially given his attitude.

When they're away from the camp, she speaks gently.

"If you want to spend some time with us, you always have a place here. If you're homesick, I mean. We've all missed you so much."

It didn't help at all that Cyril liked being thought of as younger than he was, but now he was 30 and it too much had happened to let him remain completely care free.

"Thank you," he says. "I thought that would be the case, but it's comforting to hear."

"And you know nobody here is going to treat you differently because of your hand."

She's poking around, trying to figure out what's bothering him and how she can help.

He smiles a bit at that but it's still muted. "Well of course not," he teases just a bit. "Not when I still have my impressive personality and smile."

She stops now, well into the woods, hand gently squeezing his arm as she turns to face him.

"What happened?" she asks softly.

"Quite a bit," he admits after a moment. "The Inquisition... We discovered a Temple to Mythall deep within the Arbor Wilds a couple years ago. Have you head of that?" If he was honest, he wasn't sure just how much what had happened had filtered through to elves who weren't directly involved.

Pel's version of a double take is slow. The first take is a flickering of her eyelids. The second is her head sinking forward and tilting a bit, to give a nice, quiet are you kidding me? message.

"You found a temple of our people from the time of Halamshiral and you didn't write home about it?" she asks quietly, as if offering him the benefit of the doubt only one time, and if refused, it will not be offered again.

Cyril shakes his head. "It... it wasn't what you think." He pauses, forming his words carefully. She knows him, he can see the walls starting to go up. The walls he usually builds to protect himself from pain or disappointment. She can also probably tell that if he doesn't get all of this out, he'll close up completely.

"It wasn't what we were taught. There were ancient elves there, sentinels who served Mythal. They rejected me as one of their people and told us that it wasn't the Tevinter Imperium that had destroyed the elves. We did it to ourselves. Later, while in the Fade, I met Mythal... and Asha'belannar. They are one in the same. The spirit of Mythal attached itself to Asha'belannar. That's how she has survived so many years and why she is such a part of legend."

He steels himself expecting her to think him mad.

She doesn't think he's mad. Logically, it all seems sound. If ancient elves were indeed immortal, it's possible some are still around, and rejection of their diminished kin would be why they haven't come back and taught their descendants how it's really done. Asha'belannar has always been a friend of the People, and this would explain why.

"So...she's heard us. All this time, she's heard our prayers, and that's why she watches over us."

Something in her chest gives way, a sort of lightness creeping in.

"The Creators haven't been completely lost. There's at least one who has come back."

Cyril sighed a bit. It was a deep frustration that he only felt when it came to talking about the gods. Even before he had learned everything, he had never fully understood the pious. At least it wasn't directed at her, it never was, only at his own inability to relate on this one thing. He feels like he should have known that she would respond like this.

"No lethallan. No, that's not what happened at all. Mythal was killed by the others. Her spirit raged against the other elves. She only found Asha'belannar because they were both so wounded. She expressed regret at not being about to help the remnants of her people, but I got the impression she didn't try very hard to aid us." He pauses, just for a moment. There's no bitterness in his voice, only truth. "None of them see us as elves. We are sundered to them, cut off from our past lives, as unnatural to them as a Tranquil appears to us.

The Veil destroyed that aspect of who we once were. It was created by Fen'Harel to punish them for killing her, and now it's the reason none of them see us as whole." He pauses, for a moment, because he realizes he's getting ahead of himself.

"I met him too, The Dread Wolf. Even befriended him."

Pel is listening. She's listening with incredible intent. But she's not seeing. Her eyes have gone glassy. It would be one thing to hear that there was proof of the Creators' non-existence, but to hear that they existed and did not give any more shits about the elves as anyone else is something she could never have prepared for.

She bows her head, letting stray strands of hair obscure her face.

"Don't lie," she whispers. "Don't hold anything back, Cy. If you're playing a trick, it's cruel. Crueler than I know you to be. If it's true, tell me everything."

He reaches out to touch her arm, just briefly, and then takes a deep breath. After that, he takes deep breath and then tells her. He tells her everything he knows about Solas, about Flemeth, about the temples he found, both to Mythal and to the Dread Wolf. He tells her about the revaluations about the slaves that had been kept by those posing as gods.

More than anything he tells about the Evanuris and the things he learned from Solas. He hesitates only in telling her about the danger, but even then he has to share that. He has to prepare his clan for what is to come.

When he's done, quite a bit of time has passed. His throat is sore and so is his arm. His remaining hand reaches up to touch the place where his arm connects to the prosthetic as he waits for her reaction.

There are tears in her eyes at points, but she keeps swallowing the lump in her throat and blinking her eyes dry. There is a long, long silence after Cy finishes talking. Pel eventually takes his arm again and starts walking him further into the woods. The clan can't see or hear their First when she's in this state, trying to lock away a pain her little body can't contain.

She stops fighting the tears. It's a while before one falls, and quietly wipes it away. The only sounds she makes are sniffles and shaking breaths.

Eventually, they come to a creek, cold and littered with fallen leaves. Only now does Pel release Cyril. Following some rumble of white noise in her head rather than a train of thought--thinking is too deafening to be allowed right now--she begins to undress. Off comes her outer coat, the wide sash, the tunic beneath. Leggings are shed and kicked away.

"Come on," she mutters, padding naked over the grass and over the bank. Without waiting for him, she jumps into the deepest part of the creek. Water closes over her head, and the resulting shock to her system wakes every nerve in her and banishes the fog like a torrent of wind.

She emerges with a yell and a gasp, then a laugh.

Edited Date: 2015-09-18 12:57 am (UTC)

Cyril follows and then removes his clothes. He also unstraps the prosthetic so that he's exposed completely. The arm doesn't have as deep of scar like you might expect, the skin is almost smooth. The removal had been magical and it shows.

He gets into the water then and swims up to her, using his legs more than anything. He still has to get used to swimming with one arm but he manages.

"You're still one of the only women I'll get naked with," he teases gently as he gets closer, because joking during a serious moment is how he handles things.

She's standing and shuddering, still overcome with the shock of the cold water. But it helps, piercing the cloud in her head.

"Mythal'enaste, it's cold." She shivers, but does not climb out, instead starting to tread water. "Puts things in perspective. Our gods hate us and want us dead later, but the water's cold now."

Her breath shudders, and it's not just the cold.

"I prayed to her. She couldn't even hear me. She was just a mage like me all along. I prayed that she would teach me how to protect my people and she doesn't want us any more than the rest of the world wants us."

Tears are back, hot tears against cold skin, and she's shivering hard, cold and rage and grief.

"Is there one person in this fucking world or the next that doesn't wish we were gone? Why do we have to fight so hard to get less life than everybody else, Cy, why are we fighting so hard when nobody wants us and everybody wants to purge us like vermin, even our own gods?"

Tears are rolling freely down her face.

Cy comes closer and puts his arm round her. He's careful to offer comfort without forcing her to hide her pain.

"Because our existence is not about them," he explains after a moment. This is what he's always thought, if he was honest. Now he has more reason to believe it. "We are for ourselves and for each other. I am here for you."

"And why are we so determined to stay in a world that keeps trying to spit us out?"

She leans into the half-hug, far more self-conscious about her inability to stop crying than their mutual nakedness.

He holds onto her, uncertain what else he can do for her. "The other choices are far worse."

"Letting ourselves be wiped out?" She tries to breathe in and keeps hiccuping. "At least we could stop running then."

But it's not a serious consideration. She finally manages a deep breath, then another. The tears are slowing down.

"No. No running. If no god is going to protect the People, Fen'Harel is going to have to get past me instead, and may Mythal protect him."

She dashes her tears at last, anger bringing vigor back to her. Quickly, she swims to the bank and starts to climb out.

"Come on. We're going to dry off and get warm and you're going to tell me what I can do to stop him."

Cyril follows her out of the water and rubs as his arm again, just above where it had been removed. The ache hadn't gone away and adding the cold only made it worse. "That is something I've been trying to figure out," he admits.

"I believe it's possible to convince him that he's wrong, but we need to have a plan in place in case I'm wrong."

"I'll kill him," Pel says flatly, teeth chattering as she quickly dries off with her coat and starts dressing. "He's a mage. I'm a mage."

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