Cyran had never been to the Desert Rose himself, but its reputation was already known to him from the brief time he’d spent in Zeinav City. Even if the locals didn’t have a propensity for chatter, though, Cyran would have already been vaguely aware of what the practice was, for much more personal reasons. He’d never met the medic in charge of the practice, but the people of the desert spoke highly of him, enough so that Cyran already had a comprehensive picture of his medical prowess and business practices. He was a powerful healer, but didn’t rely on magic alone, and he didn’t charge anyone a single solar for his services. All of those objective facts on paper that detailed his power and his selfless nature.

Cyran only knew Kvasir as a friend of Cirice, and the one who’d made the eyepatch currently secured over his right eye as he made his way through the oasis to the apothecary under the dim light of the moon.

Its presence was a small comfort- though he didn’t technically need it, he felt better with it on, secure with the knowledge that passerby would not be afraid of the dark miasma that now swirled in his right eye, a reminder that something was utterly wrong with him, that dark magic had sunk his claws into him and made its mark. The covering, at least, was a less threatening alternative when he was not on the job. Its construction was beautiful, really- a pitch Ash Rose, surrounded by tiny beads of lilac and forget-me-nots. Cyran wondered what Kvasir had been inspired by when he made it. Cyran had never met the man- only heard stories second hand from him from Cirice, after…

After.

Well, he’d learn more soon enough, he figured. Assuming Kvasir was in his home right now. Cyran hadn’t meant for this impromptu visit. If he were being entirely honest, he hadn’t planned on setting foot in Zeinav at all, not for a long time, but he could not let fear dictate his life. Cyran had been through worse scrapes, and his survival meant something, he supposed, even if he didn’t quite know what. He didn’t have Seiya’s attitude about scars, nor Cirice’s boundless optimism for life, but Cyran understood that he’d survived another day, and that in itself was a battle won. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still dealing with the wounds that had been caused.

Work had brought him back to Zeinav, though, and Cyran figured that now was as good a time as any to confront those ghosts, and repay a favor to a man who’d taken the time to do a small kindness for a stranger.

The Desert Rose Apothecary would be closed by now, but Cyran still knocked on the door with his free hand. His other clutched a small parcel wrapped in parchment paper and held together with twine, something small he’d picked up on the way here. Bringing cake seemed like a good idea at a time, but now he simply felt rather awkward about the whole ordeal. Perhaps Kvasir didn’t want company tonight, or preferred that they stayed better strangers. But the decision had been made already, as he’d already knocked and made his presence known, and the sound of shuffling inside told him that someone was coming to open the door.

When it opened, he was face to face with a man of foxfolk blood that matched Cirice’s description down to a T. Before he could say anything, Cyran held up the parcel, one that contained a milk-soaked cake he’d bought from a nearby vendor. It seemed a pitifully small offering in comparison to what Kvasir had done for him, but it was what he could offer.

“Hello,” He greeted, “You don’t know me, but you did me a favor some time ago- I’m here to repay that as best I can.”

---

Bringing Pet
Yeux (Vampire Bat)

Kvasir is not sure if he will ever truly get used to a life where he's buried roots.

He does not know how old he was anymore when he stumbled out of his father's cottage somewhere in the Moonglade's endless forests for the last time, hand in hand with Mehr Mirzadeh, whose strong and kind hands swept him across the continent in some long and wild and now-hazy journey, through the Marsh Flats and King's Valley into the heart of the White Sand Sea, wandering and wandering until pale pink flowers poked out from beneath the sands and the empty terrain finally yielded to the sight of strangers, who he's sure might have greeted him with a smile. Even then, any place they rested was a mere stepping stone in an eternal river, a nomad's cycle guiding them forward.

And then, when the time came where kind eyes no longer fell upon him, when warm smiles grew touched with grief and kind greetings became hushed whispers of pity, even then, Kvasir wandered, ready to drag himself across Charon in a neverending cycle until not a trace of him remained.

He did not expect anything to ever change.

This, all of this-- the Desert Rose, taking an apprentice, forging connections with people who do not bleach him from his mind after one meeting-- is strange. It is strange to wake up in the same room every morning, to have his own possessions, to be greeted by something other than tent flaps and filtered sunlight when he cracks his eye open come dawn; stranger still to fall asleep in the same bed every evening, to have little places to go when sleep refuses to take him, to have anyone or anything to bring him back down to earth when heaven threatens to tear at the fraying pieces of his mind. It is strange, yes, but... the constancy of it is nice.

It is not quite late enough for Kvasir to try and get any rest; he's always been late to sleep and early to rise, able to function on lower quantities of sleep the way a medic should. Still, it's been... a restless evening, one where he can't quite settle with a book or with notes or anything usual, so he needs to keep himself busy, and so he tied his hair back in a loose braid and took to the kitchen. A low flame crackles beneath the stove, embers bursting to life before flickering out, mercifully quiet in their fiery dance. He doubts the low noise would be loud enough to rouse Nyr, but Kvasir would prefer not to disturb his apprentice while he's trying to get some rest, anyway-- especially not for the sake of a late night hot drink. What sort of teacher would he be, then?

He sighs, poking at the flame with a stick before fetching the water pot he'd filled up earlier, ready to set it atop the stove so he can start debating whether he's going to indulge in some tea or coffee or maybe even some hot chocolate or something to that effect, when there's a distant, resonant knock on the door from downstairs.

Kvasir pauses.

This is not an uncommon occurrence. He keeps a sign posted outside the door with working hours, but there is a note indicating that he is always available for handling emergencies-- his keen ears come in handy for such things, for hearing any urgent late-night knocks at the door that may occur. But this sound, the gentle rapping of knuckles against wood, hardly sounds especially distressed; no, this is polite, gentle, the way one may knock at the door of a familiar friend.

Giving one last careful look to the fire, ensuring that it is well-maintained and well-contained, Kvasir slips out of the kitchen and down the staircase, slipping past the curtain of the stairwell to emerge into the silent, dim storefront of the Desert Rose. He slips past the shelves and steps to the door, unlatching the lock and pulling it open, confusion etched across his face as he comes eye to eye with a stranger.

The first and easiest assessment is that his face is kind; there's a softness there, a wisdom, an old sadness festering beneath careful gentility. He's a few inches taller than Kvasir is, lithe in frame, with a stronger build, and he cradles a parcel in one hand, holding it like some treasure. His hair is half-shaven, half long, flowing over one shoulder in a silver-stained cascade, and his one grey eye is--

Ah. So that's where that eyepatch had wound up.

"...Ahh, you must be Cyran," Kvasir says, the confusion in his face ebbing away into a gentle smile. "Come on in-- desert nights can be quite cold, and I was just starting to boil some water anyway."

He steps out of the way, holding the door open so Cyran can enter, only closing it behind them once the elven man has stepped into the storefront. As soon as it clicks shut, Kvasir beckons for Cyran to follow him, leading him past the curtain to the stairwell and up the staircase, onto the landing and into the pristine kitchen, gesturing for him to take a seat wherever he would like.

"Make yourself at home, friend," he says, moving to resume his work, setting the pot of water on the stove. "What can I get you to drink? I have coffee, tea, even some spirits... we can move out to the living room once I've got it all prepared."

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Cyran that Kvasir knew his name. Cirice had to have told him when she explained what happened to his eye, and yet, he still looked surprised all the same when Kvasir nodded, as if this visit was entirely expected, before opening his door wider to allow Cyran in. There was a gentle smile on his face, every bit as kindly as Cyran had expected from the stories Cirice shared. She had painted him as a quiet man, if not a bit guarded, but a good friend of hers, and a capable healer. And of course…

The flower resting over his left eye, a perfect mirror of Cyran’s own, hiding a secret that Cyran had no doubt was just as ugly as his own.

There was understanding in that gaze.

“I… of course.” He murmured, barely acknowledging the comment about the cold. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with these days. He stepped inside, surveying the front office while Kvasir closed the door behind him. Everything was carefully arranged- shelves lined the wall with bottles of every shape and size. What free space that was not occupied by medicine had been taken up by a large variety of plants that had obviously been cared for with meticulous, loving hands. Kvasir was obviously an organized man, one who cared for his space with a touch of hesitancy of someone who had yet to truly live in this space he’d created, as if he expected it to disappear from his grasp at any moment. Cyran knew that ugly, twisted feeling all too well.

For him, home hadn’t meant anything in almost a decade. Now, it meant the Rookery, and drinks shared with Zarius and private nights spent learning sign language with Eirynor. Home was nights spent training with Iryla, and telling her stories while she drew in a booth at the bar. Home had a definition, and it had taken him a long time to give meaning to the word, and even longer to let himself believe that he belonged in it. And yet, he still sometimes found himself frantically wondering if it would still be there for him every time he left for travel.

Those ugly, twisted roots of doubt were difficult to prune, even for the most experienced gardener like Kvasir.

Distantly, he realized that Kvasir was speaking to him- a question. In his thoughts, he’d almost missed it. “Just coffee is fine, thank you.” He replied. It wasn’t quite time for spirits, not yet. “I, erm… I brought cake.” He called as he wandered around the storefront, idly waiting for Kvasir to finish what he was doing with drinks.

He was just perusing Kvasir’s collection of poisons when the healer returned with a steaming mug in his hand for Cyran, a drink for himself, and a couple of utensils. The smell of caffeine was like a balm, a scent slightly unfamiliar to him. It must have been a local blend.

“Thank you.” He muttered, taking a long sip. He needed no sugar to muddle the taste of the coffee, electing to savor it as it was. “I hope I’m not imposing on anything. I didn’t want to visit during your work hours- according to the locals, you see a lot of patients around here.”

He appeared to be alone, but even so, the last thing Cyran wanted to do was intrude upon a quiet night in. Not to mention that even though Kvasir was on his own, this home was clearly occupied by multiple people, and well-loved by many others. Some of the vials on the shelves had been written in different handwriting, shakier and less certain than one might expect of a master alchemist- Cyran couldn’t help but wonder if Kvasir had an apprentice.

“I don’t have to stay for long.” He promised. “I was simply in the area, and thought I would pay you a visit and give my thanks for your help with the eyepatch. Cirice said that you had a fine eye for craftsmanship, and it really is lovely… it’s not much, but I brought this for you.” Here, he offered the parcel to Kvasir that contained the cake.

Really, Kvasir had given him more than just something to cover his eye. He’d given Cyran the reassurance that his appearance no longer frightened others, a way to hide the visible signs of the darkness that simmered underneath his skin.

“It’s the least I could do.”

There is something amusing about the little flicker of surprise that shines in that one silvery eye, a candle's flame only amplified by the low lantern light shining by the doorway, at how quickly and easily Kvasir recognizes who Cyran is.

If they had met before in Kvasir's fleeting visits to Darkveil City, he does not remember it, but he does remember the stories Cirice has told him, the way her crescent moon-bright smile waxes as she chatters on about a kind man-- who is sometimes a woman-- and all the ways he's stepped in to protect her, all the million little gentilities he's spared for her and countless others in the world. He remembers the way she had stumbled in to the Desert Rose one morning, her expression strangely dim, devoid of its usual shining light as she laid forth filtered fragments of a story, little glass pieces that reflected implications of a larger tale of suffering. She'd asked a favor, then, on Cyran's behalf: an eyepiece just like his own, fitted for the right side of the face.

He understands why she would come to him. Eyepatches and other such things are not uncommon; you can wander into any town across Charon and find some poor soul who dons one, whether it's a mercenary who's had one too many brushes with difficult foes or merely some poor injury-prone soul who fortune continues to elude. But leather and cloth and gauze are simple things, banners that beckon the eye to loss.

A man can only take so many piteous looks.

And so then, in the early days of his wandering, he had taken magic and thread and his encyclopedic knowledge of flora and spun grief into a garden, shrouded what a deity had taken from him beneath smooth petals until the start of his decline into death became art, determined to wrap divinity's ugly, sulfuric touch up in floral beauty. It is a small comfort, now, when he looks in the mirror and sees dark anemone petals and hydrangea blooms instead of that unseeing gold iris; he can understand why anyone else would have wanted the same.

Kvasir had been all too happy to grant Cirice that favor. It had taken some time, plenty of careful magic to keep those damn petals from falling off and crumbling as they are so prone to do, careful stitching and other such work, but in a few days, he'd sent off that eyepiece, an Ash Rose layered over lilacs and forget-me-nots, with a note in careful penmanship: I hope it serves you well.

Based on the fact that Cyran still wears it, his careful craftsmanship still maintained, it seems to be doing just that.

He waits to see if Cyran will follow him upstairs, and is... unsurprised when he opts not to, rooted in the storefront like he is a customer and not a guest. Kvasir has to bite back a chuckle over it, has to veil his amusement over the awkwardness that colors Cyran's actions, like he truly does feel as though he's imposing by being here. Still, Kvasir won't force him out of his comfort zone too quickly-- he's content to let the other man browse through the potions and plants and other such things the shelves are stocked with, hoping that a bit of sated curiosity may ease his nerves, and he turns to go and brew some coffee for them both.

Kvasir is a tea drinker, first and foremost, but he'd be loath to turn down any kind of hot drink, especially in the chill of a desert night; he's found his ways of preparing coffee to his tastes, anyway. Cloves, some cinnamon, brown sugar-- depending on the day, sometimes a bit of orange zest or a cardamom pod or two. He's unsure of what Cyran might like in his; the aromatic spices and flavors Kvasir tends to favor don't always appeal to everyone else, after all. Ah, well, he can make an offer, at least.

It does not take especially long to get two cups of coffee prepared; Kvasir takes a moment to load his with a stick of cinnamon, two cloves, a pinch of brown sugar, and a bit of cardamom, but he leaves Cyran's as is, setting a tiny bowl of sugar on a plate alongside some other utensils. Holding both mugs carefully in hand and balancing the plate on his elbow, he starts back down the stairs, emerging back out into the storefront and walking back over to Cyran, extending the mug to him, smiling as he takes it, even as he turns down the sugar.

He does, however, raise an eyebrow at Cyran's implication that he's taking up space, as if he is unwelcome.

"...you are hardly imposing," Kvasir says, his voice firm, but not unkind. "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, friend. I've been awfully restless tonight. Can hardly get a thing done. I'd rather spend my time talking than pacing-- if anything, Cyran, you're doing me quite the favor."

He pauses all the same as soon as Cyran hands him the parcel-- it is his turn to be surprised, he cannot help but think, over the fact that Cyran thought to bring a gift of all things. Gratitude shines in his eye as he looks between the parcel and the man who just placed it into his hand; truly, Cirice had not been exaggerating about his kindness. Not a bit.

"I sure hope you didn't feel obligated to do this, friend," he says with a little tsk, but he smiles all the same. "Truly, though, thank you-- I'm sure my apprentice might like a bit of this come morning. I'm looking forward to it, myself. You and I will have to taste-test it tonight, though-- here, come along upstairs. Standing around in the dark next to all these vials and plants is hardly comfortable."

Kvasir starts off toward the staircase once more, watching to make sure Cyran follows, and he guides him upstairs; he pauses to set the cake parcel on the kitchen counter, intent on returning to it in a few minutes, before leading Cyran down the hallway, past a set of closed doors, toward an open area at the hall's end, one untouched by unnatural lighting. It is veiled in the night's dark shroud, evening reflected through transparent panes set in the ceiling, the field of tiny stars glistening overhead visible through the gentle distortion of glass. There's a woven carpet spread across the room, handmade quilts and cushions embroidered with flowers and stars and other pretty things layered into every corner of every bit of furniture clustered into it, the space cozy and star-speckled-- and yet, it is eerily clean, an artfulness found in its dishevelment, a falseness laying beneath the illusion of looking lived-in.

This, too, is one more thing Kvasir is still learning to let himself have, and he is still not sure where to begin with it.

"Anywhere you'd like to settle in, you're free to," he says easily, setting his mug of coffee down against the table at the room's center, aromatic steam still curling off the surface. He pauses for a moment before settling at the corner of one of the chaises, tail swishing over his lap, legs folded, the starlight filtering through the glass overhead illuminating the curiosity sparking to life in his eye. "...So, Cyran... you said you wished to repay a favor? Do you mean the eyepatch?"

His nerves were somewhat eased as Kvasir insisted that he was not interrupting anything. It was difficult not to feel every bit the unwelcome stranger in another man’s home, but if Cirice’s stories and local testimony was anything to go by, Kvasir was a kind man. A generous one.

He’s a very kind person. But a troubled one… you remind me of him.

Cyran had wondered what kind of man Cirice had met that she would speak of him in such high regard. She loved too easily, and gave bits of herself away freely to others without much thought, a fact he was all too aware of, as present as the weight of cold metal against his neck and softly glowing cowries in his bag. He could not help but worry what kind of people she met on her adventures while he was not around- but after seeing Kvasir’s soft demeanor for himself, Cyran was assured that Cirice was in good hands. Every word out of his mouth was an honest one- not a platitude to assure Cyran out of some sense of obligation or manners. He was a doctor, through and through, with a kindly bedside manner and an understanding maturity for someone so young.

“If you’re certain.” He said, exchanging the parcel for the drink Kvasir had prepared for him. “And I wanted to. I hear this practice is rather new- think of it as a belated housewarming gift. Opening a business is a new and frightening adventure, but from what I’ve seen of this place… I’ve no worries about its success.” He gave Kvasir what he hoped was a comforting smile. He was pleased to learn that his guess about Kvasir’s apprentice had been correct. “And if you’d appreciate the company, I would be more than happy to share with you.”

Kvasir led Cyran up the stairs to a much more comfortable room, one that resembled more of an observatory than a lounge room. Constellations twinkled in his eye as he delicately stepped around carpets and cushions and blankets that had all been delicately arranged to appear deliberately messy. Another room that Kvasir had designed, but yet to fully live in. The sight of Kvasir setting his drink down on the table and sitting stiffly like he was just as much a guest as Cyran broke his heart. It was another illusion, but a lovely one, nonetheless. Kvasir clearly cared about this home, cultivating bits and pieces to plant the seeds of homeliness. They had not quite sprouted yet, but with careful attention, Cyran hoped they would flourish.

He took a seat across from Kvasir and sipped at his drink once more. His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly at the question, but it was to be expected- he was not foolish enough to believe it wouldn’t come up in conversation. Given that Kvasir had gone through painstaking lengths to construct this piece of fabric, to enchant these flowers so their beauty was perfectly preserved and frozen in time, Cyran figured he deserved the honesty.

“I’m not sure how much Cirice told you what happened.” He started, voice quiet and weary. He stared down at his reflection in the mug, distorted and rippling- in such a short amount of time it had already changed so much. What if it kept warping and distorting until the moment he could no longer recognize himself?

“We… were hired to investigate a tomb in the desert not to long ago. It was just supposed to be a regular job- get in, investigate, and clear out dangers for further excavation later. But we encountered some complications. Wounds were received. I am endlessly thankful that Cirice was able to heal her own eye. I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t…” If he’d had to live with the guilt that he’d brought her along to that horrid place and forced her to live with the physical scars as well as the emotional ones. “And as for my eye… let’s just say it didn’t come back quite right.”

He let out a quiet laugh. One that could only be described as bitter.

His grip tightened on the mug in his hands.

“I couldn’t beat forcing her to see that physical reminder of… this. Or anyone else, really.” He didn’t want to think about what might happen if Vi’ira or Iryla or Seiya saw the black eye. Could visualize the horror and disgust and pity in their expressions and couldn’t stand the thought of it. “So when she suggested that she had a friend who could help, I was relieved. It probably wasn’t much to you, but it meant quite a lot to me.”

He finally managed a smile- weak but genuine. “So thank you, Kvasir. I never forget a favor… if there is anything I can do for you, name it.”

For a room that is meant to be comforting, Kvasir is not having an easy time getting comfortable.

Despite the size of the living room, despite the fact that it is designed specifically to be welcoming and accommodating for multiple people and serve as a nice place to relax or read or eat or do whatever the hell anyone wants, Kvasir almost never steps over here. He does his personal work in his room or in the study with Nyr, he tends to drink tea in his own room, he handles his actual work downstairs, so on and so forth, and Nyr, too, still seems to be getting used to the idea of having his own space to exist in. Sometimes there are visits from friends that liven this part of the house up, and there is always Morrigan, when they're here, who knows so much about how to fill the blank spaces Kvasir cannot help but leave behind, but when there is absence, Kvasir just returns to what feels familiar-- to what does not feel so vast and empty when it is him and him alone.

So he fidgets a bit, though he is loath to admit it; he is usually quite capable of holding still, of finding one redundant little thing to do to hold his attention and maintaining it so he can continue to hold still, but he shifts a bit in the chaise he's settled into, not sure if he should keep his feet set on the floor or keep his knees near his chest or do whatever the hell else he wants. It's his own home; if he wishes to prioritize comfort, it is his prerogative, but finding something comfortable feels downright impossible, strangely enough.

Ah, well. He leans back against the high slope of the chaise's back, curling up halfway and swinging his tail over his hip once more, reaching over to the table so he can set his coffee mug in his lap, one hand permanently looped through the handle.

Kvasir takes a quick sip of the spice-laden liquid as he watches Cyran weigh on his words, turning an answer over in his head. A little surge of guilt wells up within him over the way Cyran seems to hesitate, a second away from wincing, his voice weak and tired with an exhaustion that's newborn and a thousand years old as he starts to speak, and Kvasir is about to tell him that he doesn't need to talk about it if he doesn't want to, he just wanted some clarification--

Oh.

"...A tomb?" he whispers, voice a little more hushed and strained than he cares to admit. It is not.. unheard of; Zeinav is home to all manner of lost ruins, all sorts of ancient sins enclosed in ancient temples and tombs and monuments. But the one Cyran speaks of sounds like a horror story, like the kinds of things the nomads used to whisper to steer clear of, the things treasure hunters chased and would inevitably be devoured by.

A dull ache pulses somewhere behind Kvasir's eye, dead interest thrumming to life, and he bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself. Merely equivalent exchange: one pain for another, divine fire for mortal teeth.

"...she never told me, no," he murmurs shakily, fingers curling around the porcelain of his mug. His nails scrape against the exterior, the sound quiet but not indiscernible. "I... I am so sorry, Cyran. That's terrible. I love Zeinav with all my heart, but there are some truly... wretched things out there that are better off staying buried. I'm sorry you had to.. suffer through one of those things."

He lapses back into silence, continuing to listen as Cyran continues talking, but Kvasir clings to one little detail: it didn't come back quite right.

He knows such a thing well. Has known it since his fingertips brushed glass and gold and holy sand somewhere in the depths of the White Sand Sea, since centuries of memories that were Not His split his skull in two and took his eye with it, since golden ichor poured down his cheek and the pain of having his sight and skull invaded by an alien consciousness sent him careening down into unconsciousness. He has known it since he first unraveled those bandages by the waterside despite Mehr pleading for him not to, despair flooding over him as soon as he caught side of that unseeing, golden iris that now sat where green once did.

Kvasir blinks as soon as he feels fingertips against his cheek. Somewhere in the midst of his musing, his own hand had risen to stroke at the petals and beads covering his left eye-- his own example of not coming back quite right.

Cyran is smiling at him, though, however sorrow-touched, and Kvasir should give him an answer.

"...Ah," he manages, clearing his throat, tethering himself back to the present, refusing to stray too far into the one tru domain of the God of What Once Was. "...really, Cyran, I... I am just happy I could help you and make you feel more at ease. I don't expect any favors. Not one bit. Helping others is just what I do; I don't expect favors..."

He shifts awkwardly, taking a sip of his coffee one more time.

"...I'm... sorry, though, again," he whispers, voice hollowed and haunted. "That the ghosts in the sands are the ones who did that to you."

“There is no need to apologize.” Cyran insisted as Kvasir attempted to utter his own laments, as if he could offer them on behalf of his entire homeland. It was silly, really, that even the sight of the rolling sands of the desert would set him on edge, as if expecting a hydra to jump out at him out of the corner of his uncovered eye, or that he could still remember the horrifying sight of Cirice, calling out to him in fear, her own quiet prayer for him to save her, as the ceiling came down to greet them.

It was not Cyran’s own life that he feared. No, he had accepted his death a long time ago, in the living room of an old, elegant but empty mansion, once over as Rowan slashed into him with her claws, and twice over when he was thrown to the wolves without a solar to his name. Cyran was already fully aware he lived on borrowed time, and every day he had survived was one that he ought to cherish. It was the thought that he could have failed Cirice and Gerhart that scared him so much. Those kids- they’d been through a hell of a lot. He didn’t miss the way that Gerhart held his emotions together with wire-thin smiles and reassurances because he thought he had to be strong for them, or how Cirice thought herself utterly useless without her magic. They were just kids, and-

His hands thrummed with nervous energy, shaking where he held his cup. With a start, Cyran glanced down to find that in his thoughts, he’d instinctively called upon the shadows, which had coated around his hands until they formed darkened claws. Frowning, Cyran willed them to go away, for his hands to return to normal. For a moment, the shadows didn’t budge, and he began to panic- but then they retreated, and his claws once more retracted, and he forced himself to breathe once more.

Oh. Kvasir was talking.

“Nevertheless, a favor is owed.” The fact that Kvasir could not bring himself to ask for one, or thing of anything once Cyran had asked, was further proof that he was a good person. Cyran felt comfortable offering it knowing that Kvasir would not take advantage of such a thing. The promise of an assassin was a dangerous one, if one knew how to take advantage of it- Cyran did not give them away so lightly. Perhaps Kvasir would not know what to ask for at the present moment, and Cyran wouldn’t push. But in the future, should Kvasir call upon him, Cyran would respond. “Just… should you ever need my help in the future, you have it.”

He let out a small laugh. “Really, I should be thanking you for your friendship with Cirice, as well. She is a lovely young woman.” Like a moonbeam personified, she touched everyone in her life… perhaps not with the gentleness of Lunala’s celestial body, but with an energy that was contagious. She deserved dependable friends to look after her when Cyran couldn’t be around. “I worry about my kids a lot when they’re out galavanting on their own. It eases an old man’s troubles to know when they’re safe and cared for by others.”

Kvasir shifted in his seat, suddenly quiet once more as another apology left his lips- heavier than the last one.

Burdened.

Cyran had the feeling he was not the one being haunted by the ghosts of the sands in this scenario.

“I have lived a long life.” Cyran said slowly, unsure where to start. It seemed that ghosts were a commonality they shared, though it was not a particularly pleasant one. “An eye is hardly the worst price to pay for living, in my case.” He leaned forward, setting his cup back down on the table with careful hands, mindful of Kvasir’s things. He could still remember the claws that had come forth, unbidden. “It’s not the prettiest sight, not anymore. But those parts of me- even the ones that have been twisted beyond recognition-“ Despite everything that had happened to him- “It’s still me.”

He was not only talking about himself as he spoke.

Cyran wasn’t sure if his words would help or not. He knew little about Kvasir’s situation, or what had taken the doctor’s own eye, forced him to cover up his own changes with lovely flowers and pretty things. But they were the words he had to offer nonetheless. A reassurance.

A mantra.

I am still me, and you are still you.

And no one- not even the spirits that seek to gain purchase where they are no longer welcome- can take that away from us.

It's hard to tell what sort of hell Cyran found out there in the depths of the White Sand Sea.

Tombs host all manner of horrors; they are meant to house the dead and all their memories, their oldest sins and regrets and secrets, their possessions, their records, and oftentimes, their curses. Cyran does not specify what they found down there in the dark, but he doesn't really need to-- there are all manner of shadows and monsters to be found in the reaches of Zeinav's mausoleums, and whatever made its mark on Cyran and Cirice clearly dug deep with pointed teeth and jagged claws. It is not Kvasir's place to ask or theorize; it is merely his place to offer what consolation he can, what kindness he can, and hope that they never stumble upon another one of those long-dead monsters beneath the sands.

There are too many out there, it seems, festering in a sun-bleached grave, waiting for a chance to claw their way out from old tombs, and too few of them seem keen on staying buried. The garden of anemones and hydrangeas, of roses and lilac and forget-me-nots all blooming to veil new and old wounds are a testament to that.

"...You are impossibly kind, Cyran," Kvasir says quietly, eye cast downward, fixed on the indistinct swirl of flaking cinnamon and cloves and cardamom at the heart of his coffee, a gentle curl of spice coiling at the heart of the beverage's surface. He watches the way all these tiny flecks of fading colors dance around beneath the curl of steam, watches them slowly dissolve into the shadow of the liquid they're immersed in, watches them disappear once they've circled around once or twice or three times if they're lucky enough. "I insist, you owe me nothing. I... I would hardly even know what to ask of you. I'm merely happy I could help you..."

It's an odd feeling, really, to have someone be so insistent on repaying him for something like this. He's had to awkwardly deflect attempts at payment before, even failed at pushing away reimbursement for medical services in the past from more insistent people with more Solars in their pockets, but to have Cyran so earnest offer him a favor or his help down the line should he need it all because of the eyepatch... well, he hardly knows what to do with that. He hardly knows what he would do with that-- he has all the attainable things he could want, and the unattainable...

Well. No man or god could bring those things before him.

He takes another sip of his coffee.

"Mm-- Oh, Cirice?" he blinks, almost surprised to hear Cyran thank him for his friendship with her. That's certainly never happened before, as far as he knows-- it isn't as if he's kept an overwhelming number of friends in his life, but he's certainly never had the father of a friend thank him for being there. "Ah, well, she's a lovely young lady, and I'm happy to call her a friend. I assume she's told you how we met? I could probably fill the pages of a book with the things she's told me about you, so if she keeps the same momentum for everyone, I doubt I need to repeat the tale. She's a spitfire when she wants to be. I admire that about her."

A softer look follows the words, a gentler smile and an earnest chuckle spilling from the edges of the words, his whole expression warm with the memories of that first encounter in the depths of the Marsh Flats. That had certainly been one hell of an encounter, indeed; he doesn't fancy himself a ghost hunter, still, but if he ever had to pick up that line of work, Cirice Lunestra would certainly be his first choice in a partner for the job.

Still, the softness does not last long.

There is a bittersweetness that settles into every corner of Kvasir's expression as soon as Cyran carries the conversation back to ghosts, back to the things they both have lost, his voice heavy with meaning as he speaks of what remains of him, of the fact that no matter how time twists him, no matter what is stolen from him, that he is still merely... himself. As that silver gaze lingers, silently pleading, Kvasir gets the nebulous feeling that he may not be speaking about himself alone.

It is a lovely thought, really, to look at the parts of yourself that have been twisted beyond recognition, torn apart and torn away and still say that it's you, it's still you-- Kvasir wishes he could echo the sentiment with ease. He wishes he could remember his mother's face and her name, wishes he could remember the name of the woods he grew up in, wishes he could remember all the fundamental pieces of himself that he's lost to time, wishes he could look in the mirror in the morning and not see gold glinting in the glass, wishes he didn't have to repeat that same desperate prayer of I am Kvasir Sigurros and I am not a god I am not a god I am not a god just to keep himself together.

...he does not know what haunts Cyran, what has bitten at the seams that hold him together. He knows he is older and wiser and has seen more monsters than Kvasir can dream of, has seen more years than Kvasir and his scattered memories of two lifetimes can hope to compare to.

He should know better than to... to rush to doubt.

"...That's a... lovely thought, Cyran," he murmurs, voice a bit strained. "I... ah... learning to accept those pieces of yourself as yourself... can take time."

He flushed at Kvasir’s unexpected compliment, one he likely hadn’t been meant to hear. It was not a word he would use to describe himself. He simply did what he thought was right, and that meant repayment to others for the kindness that had been shown to him. It was easy to forget that such people willing to extend a helping hand to a stranger were rare in the world… when one dealt with criminals and murderers for a living, perhaps one could fall into a pessimistic mindset. After all, one only had to look at himself. The ease with which Cyran could take a life with his own two hands and feel nothing was startling. Oh, he liked to pretend at times, he supposed, that he was not really what he was. Once, he’d even called his profession Bounty Hunter, as if wrapping it up in a more pleasant name made it any less horrifying.

But then there were people like Kvasir. A man whose honest intentions were clear as glass - there were skeletons in his closet, ones he kept tucked away where guests could not see them, like bad linens - but Cyran, at the very least, could pride himself on his judge of character. Where he was not an adept liar, he was incredibly skilled at spotting them. And Kvasir had not uttered a single lie this far.

With hesitant hands, careful not to break Kvasir’s things, Cyran retrieved the cup he’d set down once he was sure that his emotions would not get the best of him once more, that she shadows would not creep in where they were unwelcome. Their comfort only left him cold and empty.

“With all due respect, I am not one of your patients.” His tone held an air of finality about it - firm, but not harsh. He was no charity case, no wilting flower that needed to be attended to for nothing. He shifted, crossing one of his legs over the other. “It is no trouble to me to help a new friend.”

He had a feeling that Kvasir still would not be convinced, but Cyran had the added advantage of a secret weapon up his sleeve - the very same lady Kvasir was currently praising. Cirice was one of the most honest people he’d ever met, to the point where she herself did not seem to comprehend when others were lying to her or taking advantage of her. It was a quality he loved in her, and one he secretly hoped she would not grow out of… besides, perhaps, some of the naïveté, but that kind of learning came from age and experience. Still, he trusted Cirice to let him know when something was wrong. She’d told Cyran plenty on Kvasir before this meeting.

The kindness and patience he showed for others without much of a thought - he let me pet his ears right when we first met!

And the deep sadness that seemed to cling to him - he acts like everything is okay, but there’s something bothering him. Something he won’t tell me about.

Yes, Cyran knew enough about Kvasir in turn that he supposed neither could rightfully call each other stranger, all thanks to Cirice’s friendly nature. Cyran trusted that if Kvasir needed help in any form, Cirice would come to him for help. And then Cyran could repay the favor he owed.

“She did tell me how you met.” It had something to do with ghosts… a prank? He couldn’t quite remember the details with how rapid-fire Cirice had given them to him, but what he did remember was the joy that sparkled in her eyes as she talked about her new, smart friend and the fun adventures they had together. “It sounded rather… hectic.” Far more than someone like him could handle. His own trip to the marsh flats in search of spirits, undertaken while inebriated, as embarrassing as that was, had been more than enough for him for a lifetime. But he had happily listened to Cirice’s own story.

Idly, his fingers toyed with the silver chain resting on his neck. “Her energy is far greater than someone like me can keep up with. But I love that about her.” He never wanted to see it dimmed. Not like -

He did not want to think about that cursed dungeon anymore.

So he would focus on listening to Kvasir instead. There was skepticism in the young man’s voice, making it evident he didn’t believe Cyran. He supposed that was only natural. Kvasir was haunted by something Cyran could not comprehend, and such advice seemed paltry when Cyran had no idea what he was going through. Had no clue where the pinched expression on his face, the doubt glimmering in his only visible eye came from.

But he could try to understand.

“Perhaps now is a good time to start, then.” He offered, voice low and quiet. “For both of us. If you’d like to share, that is.” Perhaps Cyran could repay his favor sooner than he thought. “There is no expectation, of course. But I am a willing ear.” Kvasir seemed like the kind of person who put the needs of others before his own… but even someone like that needed another to lean on from time to time.

It’s hard to help the quiet, humorless laugh that escapes Kvasir at the firmness Cyran’s tone adopts, infallible and tenacious, like the roots of an especially stubborn tree that has no intention of budging for anyone or anything anytime soon. It feels inaccurate to call them strangers, considering just how much Cirice has told him about Cyran before, considering just how easy it feels to settle into a conversation with him at all, but... he really is remarkably stubborn about offering help toward someone he's never even met properly before. It's sweet and vexing all in one.

Cirice had not warned him about Cyran's stubbornness-- she had, however, spoken of how deep his well of kindness ran, how infinite the waters of his heart seemed to be, how freely he offered the gifts of that well to the people around him. It becomes clearer by the moment that she hadn't been exaggerating in the slightest; compassion sits naturally in the creases of his face, in the corners of his eyes, gentility forged through the flames of exhaustion and old wounds sewn into his skin-- it is the sort of kindness that is born from a life of witnessing so many horrors that the only desire it leaves you with is to bury it all beneath flowers until it all looks palatable again.

“I suppose if you really do insist,” he sighs softly, wistfully, his voice gentle with a fond exasperation. A gentle smile pulls at the corners of his lips, his expression warming just so, some of the ghosts of those old sorrows slowly receding. "I hope you know, however, that I'd be happy to offer you any aid you might need in turn. A mutual arrangement is always a lovely one, wouldn't you say?"

Kvasir taps at the rim of his coffee mug, nails drumming against porcelain in a muted rhythm, still searching for some repetition to fill the silence, to fill the void of inactivity. These short gaps of silence are hardly awkward, but, well... Kvasir has never been all too adept with accepting the gratitude of others, no matter who is offering it.

"'Hectic' is certainly a word for it," he chuckles quietly, shaking his head to himself at the memory of that mess in the depths of the Hauntwood. Kvasir has had myriad strange first meetings with various people across Charon, but those ghost hunting escapades with Cirice certainly ranked high among the oddest-- how the two of them had wound up getting roped into a complicated revenge ploy between family members still remained lost on him. "I don't regret being out there that day, of course, but it was a strange way to meet, for sure. It gave me quite a bit of respect for her, though-- she's quite the spirited young lady when she's angry. Her sense of justice is a strong one."

Warmth lingers in his expression as Cyran talks more about Cirice, as he speaks so fondly of this girl he so clearly loves like a daughter-- he harbors no shame for that love, no desire to restrain it, not when he can make it known how deeply he adores her. It's sweet, and... enviable, really, that he can adore so proudly, so openly, open the doors of his heart and let people make their home there with full faith that they'll find shelter instead of the blood-bound maws of a trap.

It's enviable. So, so enviable-- there is no bastion to be found in the shell of Kvasir's heart, in the space between his ribs, only the prying eyes and waiting claws of a deity desperate to tear his life to shreds, desperate to unravel all he loves and all who love him. The only safety Kvasir can give the people he adores is through closing those doors and denying them entry, keeping them at arm's length no matter how desperately he wishes to pull them close, no matter how desperately he wishes for the comfort of company and the comfort of mundanity, of normalcy, of the simplicity of sitting by someone's side and treasuring the silence and the lack of space between them--

Kvasir's ears twitch as Cyran continues talking, his voice low, soft, sorrowful with an understanding he most certainly possesses as he speaks of now being a good time to-- to talk. To... discuss the things that haunt them both, if it feels correct to.

He blinks.

"...to... share?" he whispers, tilting his head. "I... Cyran, that's a very kind offer, but I don't wish for you to feel at all obligated-- I-- It... There's quite a bit going on, and I..."

He shifts awkwardly, fingers curling tightly around his mug.

"...are you sure...?"

“I do insist.” There was a spark of humor in his voice, despite the gravity in his tone. He meant every word of his promise - Kvasir was about to learn that while Cyran did not consider himself an especially stubborn man, he possessed the kind of infinite patience that could only be cultivated by someone who had lived a long lifespan, and knew how to lie back and wait. He paused, considering Kvasir’s offer of a favor in turn. It was a funny, roundabout thing, offering a favor in turn for a favor in turn for a favor. He supposed this only the kind of loop that could have been expected from two men who were not as accustomed to receiving as they were to giving. When feelings of burden ate up their insides upon being gifted something even as benign as an eyepatch, or a favor.

“I accept your terms, then.” It was best for both of them if they put an end to this game, lest they find themselves sitting here all night with no end to this loop in sight.

The conversation topic shifted to Cirice, seemingly a much more comfortable topic for the both of them - a mutual connection. Cyran nodded along while Kvasir offered his recollection of the events. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen Cirice angry. Dejected, yes, doubtful and afraid and hopeful and loving and practically every color of the rainbow. But not angry. He could imagine that she was as passionate in her righteous hatred as she was everything else she did. Though… he did have a difficult time picturing her so enraged. “It must have been something rather horrible to evoke such a reaction from her.” He commented idly.

The more he spoke, the more he began to get a sense of discomfort from his conversational partner. Had he prattled on too much? Though he wasn’t the most talkative of people, Cyran knew he could get going when there was a subject he was passionate about. He stared down at a spot on the table, suddenly feeling sheepish for having gone on about Cirice for so long like a sentimental fool. “… But regardless, I am happy that she is safe and sound after what we endured. I know she isn’t really my child, but.” He shrugged. “I feel very protective of her, the way one might a ward or an apprentice. I’m sure you understand the feeling.”

Cyran did not expect such anguish in the face of his offer to listen. There was genuine fear in that face, the look of someone who believed themselves unworthy of that kind of support. He’d buried his secrets so deep that he could not could no longer comprehend what it meant to bring them to the light. Cyran chose his next words carefully, speaking in an even, measured tone.

“Much of my work deals in uncovering uncomfortable truths.” Where other assassins were skilled at weaving tapestries of lies to suit their needs, Cyran’s own talents lie in a different direction. There were few who were as adept at unraveling those tapestries to find the thread of truth. Information gathering was one of his specialties… and those were burdens he was accustomed to. He flashed Kvasir a crooked smile, one that masked his own discomfort at the prospect of sharing on his own end. But here in the comfort of the dark, where there was no one but themselves, he felt comfortable that the secrets that were shared here would only be between them and the shadows. “… What I am trying to say is that I do not feel obligated in the slightest. I have asked, and what you share here will never reach another soul. If it would ease your doubts, I can go first.”

And then he took off the floral patch. The sudden light made him blink as his vision readjusted, and he turned, allowing Kvasir gaze into the abyss that now occupied the right side of his face.

One more quiet, chittering laugh escapes from between Kvasir’s lips as Cyran agrees to their “terms,” an endless loop of favors for favors for favors, an ouroboros of gratitude; it is as funny as it is sad that they really could go on like this for so long, insistent that the other needn’t do anything to repay them for any small task they’d done. Kvasir is all too accustomed to expecting nothing in return for the things he does for others, and… he knows from the look in Cyran’s eye, from the way he speaks, the way he shifts in his seat over the topic that he is very much the same. They’ve both built a life on a pyre, content to let themselves burn through all seasons for the sake of whoever may need the warmth, the light, the comfort, and neither one of them knows how to live a life untouched by the flame.

“Then a mutual arrangement it is,” he says, offering a small smile as he lifts his mug in the air in a mock toast before lifting it to his lips again, letting the flavors flourish on his tongue– rich spices and tangy citrus and the bittersweetness of the coffee, a rare pleasant assault on his alert senses. Something grounding– something from home. “I’ll hold you to it.”

The smile grows ever-so-slightly strained as soon as the mention of that hectic, horrible day pops back up; Gods above, it truly had been something, hadn’t it? Admittedly, a lot of it is… a blur, now, the minutiae melding together into one big mass in Kvasir’s mind, but he does remember the important bits, as far as he’s aware, had documented most of them quite carefully in his journal after the fact. A cruel trick from an in-law, vengeance for a woman’s efforts just to process her grief and move on, home invasion, shattered glass, blood on the walls, the forgetting, all of the anger that had followed. The way anger ebbed away into something eerily similar to apathy as he and Cirice had turned their backs on that little town in the Marsh Flats and let them take their own justice, turning a blind eye to however the cover closed. It is scattered, but he remembers those key bits– those key feelings.

“She’s quite the spitfire, when she wants to be,” he says, managing a hollow little chuckle. “But yes… I am glad you are both safe after all of that. And… I do understand quite well. The protectiveness, thinking of her as your own... I truly do, Cyran.”

And really, he did; perhaps Kvasir had… not quite experienced the same depth of suffering alongside his own apprentice as Cyran had with Cirice, has not had enough time yet to know the young fellblood he’s taken beneath his wing well enough, but he cannot help the way he cares for him already. It is something about the apprehension in those dark eyes, the hesitation to accept any kindnesses, like he’s never received a gift without a knife to undercut it– Kvasir cannot help but want to protect him, want to take all the things in the world that had scared Nyr so much and resculpt them, reforge them into a shelter, shoot the stars from the sky until their light seemed closer, realer, more tangible, until that fearful, near-permanent frown leveled out into something close to a smile.

Oh, yes, he understood.

There’s still a bit of hesitance visible in Kvasir’s expression even as Cyran’s efforts to ease it go through, though that crooked smile does ease the anxiety blooming like an unruly garden in his ribcage. It’s clear that Cyran means every word he says, that this is a genuine offer born of kindness– it is… merely difficult to… let himself lay down the doors he’s built and only reinforced since that wretched day in the World Crown. Morrigan’s words still linger with him, even now, but it is… difficult. How could it not be?

But then Cyran offers to go first, and then he’s pulling that eyepatch away, and–

Oh.

“...Oh,” Kvasir whispers, tilting his head as he observes the void that’s made its place on the right side of Cyran’s face, dark as a shadow, as the night of a new moon. “And that’s… a byproduct of what happened down there...? In that tomb...? That’s why you requested the eyepatch...?”

He bites his lower lip, hesitant for a moment, before lifting a hand to carefully undo the clasp holding his own in place, letting the flowers fall away from the left side of his face until all that remains is one mostly ordinary eye: dark-lashed, large-lidded, pupils gently slitted as a nod to his vulpine heritage, but where green should flourish, a sickly, solar gold takes root instead– brilliant and bright and sulfuric as the sun.

It is beautiful, ethereal, and entirely inhuman.

“Well, friend,” he begins around another hollow chuckle. “Where do we begin?”

To his credit, Kvasir did not let the silence linger for long.

Cyran was not the kind of person to fidget; it would not do for an assassin to wear their nerves on their sleeve, and he’d long since trained such habits out of him back in the before days, when he had to school his emotions in front of an uncaring father for his own self-preservation. And yet, he found himself toying with his floral patch in his lap while Kvasir stared at him, calloused hands running along delicate petals. Preserved in a moment of eternal beauty, with whatever alchemical concoction Kvasir had used to keep the flowers intact. Such a small item carrying the slim hopes of a man who so desperately wanted to hide the monstrous parts of himself; naive dreams held together by thin string and forget-me-nots.

He didn’t look away from Kvasir, whose gaze had morphed into something like… it was not pity, nor was it horror. He was a doctor, first and foremost. He’d seen the horrid nature of humanity, injuries wrought by weapons and the sicknesses of the earth. A single black eye in retrospect was likely not the most grotesque thing he’d ever seen in his life, but still - this moment felt like everything.

Cyran nodded.

There was no point beating around the bush.

“It should have healed normally. The other eyes did, when given proper attention and enough healing magic. But when the healer came to me, it… came back wrong. Like this.” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “It works fine, but when it happened, there was this sort of resistance, like-“ He bit his lip, falling silent for a moment. He hesitated to share the details, but Kvasir was a doctor. If there was anyone who might be able to give him an informed opinion, it was the foxkin.

“A long time ago, I was… infected, for lack of a better word, with some kind of dark magic. That’s the best way I can think to describe it.” Perhaps it had been inside of him all along, or perhaps Rowan had passed her power along with him, but either way, it had made its home in his chest and only overgrown, like a neglected garden. “This was long before the tomb, mind you. I’ve always kind of known I’ve had this dark magic brewing in me, and though I hesitate to use it, there are times when tense situations call for power. I don’t mind using that when it’s necessary, but this thing. It keeps growing. And I worry that perhaps it seeks to consume me.”

He tapped at his cheek with a small laugh, an attempt at good humor for a grim situation that only felt flat. Truth be told, he didn’t much feel like laughing about this. He’d spent more than enough sleepless nights staring at this eye in the mirror, wondering what it meant for him. Was this the end of it? Would he just keep progressing until he melted into the shadows entirely? Would he just keep losing pieces of himself to this rot until he was no longer Cyran, but something else entirely? He’d like to think that he would still be himself - that even if he were to change, he would still be the same person. But what about others who knew him? Would they see that, or would they only see the unfortunate creature he’d become? How long until his friends - dare he even say his family - forgot what Cyran had ever looked like? And if he met Marlow again, she would only gaze upon his face and see a stranger.

Only he would remember. Cling to what the others had forgotten.

He reached for his mug and sipped at his drink while Kvasir removed his own patch in turn.

It should not have been difficult to describe the glittering gold that had taken over Kvasir’s pupil. Cyran was staring straight at it, he knew he was. And yet, it was almost painful to gaze upon, as if he was incapable of knowing such a thing. It did not glow with Solaria’s warmth, but something else entirely. Melted gold bars and treasures buried beneath the desert, the harshness of light reflected off the sand. It was the harshness of a viper and the bite of a desert fox. Divine essence leaking from its very center.

It was like Cyran’s, and yet, not - where Cyran possessed an emptiness, Kvasir had been overtaken by a completely different entity. One being dissolved into nothingness, and the other rewritten, like sands shifting over a temple until the structure was a forgotten memory, replaced by the natural dune.

Where to start, indeed?

Cyran would not flinch away from this, either. He reached out to put a hand over Kvasir’s, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“Thank you for sharing with me.” He whispered. His brows furrowed; an unfamiliarity with this… condition, or whatever it was, left him feeling rather ignorant. Concerned. Kvasir was so young, so horribly young, to bear an affliction like this.

“I think we begin at - well - the beginning.” Cyran sighed after a moment’s thought. “I have to apologize, Kvasir. My experience is limited when it comes to divine possession. I wish I could help you find answers, but my experience is not limitless. I wish-“

He drew in a sharp breath, cutting off that thought before he could finish.

“Well, just because I don’t know now doesn’t mean I can’t help you find answers, if that’s what you want. But for now, why don’t you tell me what you want to share? It is not easy, keeping this bottled up, I know.” They were more similar than Cyran had perhaps initially thought. There was comfort in that, but just barely. Because it meant he was not the only one dealing with this great, horrible thing.

That was okay. At least it had brought Cyran here, in the dead of night surrounded by the smell of coffee and the taste of sweet cake, to be a listening ear when it was needed; and to be heard in turn.

This is far from Kvasir’s first brush with something not healing right.

He’s heard of this, before, seen it happen– called divine light down through his palms to restore a lost extremity, to return what time had taken, only for something to go wrong somewhere in the process, to see something strange arise in a lost limb’s place. He’s seen armored bone rise to take over places where flesh and muscle and bone once worked in tandem, seen plant matter twist together to take the shape of a leg, of an arm, seen embers knit themselves together to replace what once was skin. It is a rare thing, but not an impossible one; the magic that lurks in people’s bodies can do all manner of strange things, twisting them to suit their needs whenever the opportunity arises, leaping at the chance to make a deeper home in their veins, their bones, their flesh, desperate to be as outwardly a part of them as it is inwardly.

His brow furrows as he studies Cyran’s eye, glances at the contrast between the orthodox silvery color of one and the all-encompassing black of the other– the influence of the arcane is clear as day, bleeding into him readily, easily. There’s no apprehension in Kvasir’s own expression as he observes; instead, there’s a quiet flicker of curiosity in his face as he leans forward just so, studying the ink-darkness of that eye, ears twitching just slightly as he listens to the slow, hesitant explanation the older man gives about what happened to bring about this change.

He… can’t say he faults him for the hesitation, either. Kvasir digs one of his too-sharp canines into his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth at the way Cyran speaks of the dark magic lurking somewhere in his veins, readily offering its aid to him, but threatening to consume him, all the same– a curse wearing the veil of a blessing, eager to devour him as soon as he gets comfortable with utilizing it enough, like a fairy-tale wolf lurking on the other side of a sturdy door, trying to charm its way into the house so it can claim its prize.

Kvasir can only imagine how harrowing it must be to war with– how terrifying those moments when there is no other choice but to give in must be. He prays, quietly, to whatever deity might listen, that there are never too many of those moments, and that none of them is… final.

“I see,” he begins, his voice surprisingly steady despite all he’s just heard, almost clinical– he is, above all, a doctor, and despite the horror he feels for the man before him, he wants to cling to some semblance of propriety, wants to offer vestiges of help where he can grasp for them. “I… I have heard of similar cases in the past, but nothing quite as… particular as your case. I can only imagine how… awful that must be. Do you have any idea what might cause it…? Where it might have come from, or what it ultimately wants from you…?”

And then the conversation shifts, the ink-dark night shifting to sun-stained gold, and…

And Cyran’s hand is over his, kind and reassuring, as though he had not also just been speaking of the horrors he’d undergone, just as eager to offer compassion and comfort despite breaking his ribs apart to unveil an aching heart, and the invitation to talk about the divine force that’s cast his memories to the wind, and–

And–

And Kvasir thinks of bitter cold and unforgettable numbness, of beloved blood staining his gloves, of desperation, of closed doors and fingers in his hair and a promise– and–

…

“That’s… ha, well,” he forces out a choked laugh, wheezing painfully around it, his voice strained with the sound. “It’s a very, very long story, is all– I’m simply not quite sure where I’d start. Ah, well…”

He pauses for a moment, idly drumming his fingertips against the sides of his coffee mug, the rhythmic sound of his nails against porcelain strangely grounding, in a way. Cyran hardly needs his whole life story or anything of the sort– the man didn’t come here to have every fine detail Kvasir can still barely hold onto thrown at him, and Kvasir will not give another man the responsibility of holding him together. The barest necessities will be… just fine– what little bits of knowledge he has of the Archivist King, and his understanding of what happened to him, and nothing more.

“Where to start,” he muses anxiously, giving a quiet hum, trying to pretend his tail isn’t flicking about fretfully behind him. “So, let’s see… A few years ago, I… I lived with my f– former fiance, out in the White Sand Sea. He was… part of a group of nomads, and I traveled with them, offering my medical expertise and all.” There’s a definite inelegance to the way he explains, the story erratic and stilted, but it’s just– it isn’t easy to tell. “And I… found this strange thing in the sand one day, and I touched it by complete accident, and next thing I knew, I couldn’t see out of this eye and I barely knew who I was anymore.”

Kvasir forces another wheezing laugh, though it sounds more like a gasp of pain, and he knows it.

“...I had someone else’s memories,” he admits. “A… god who had long since passed. My own were all… scattered, and his were in pieces, and ever since, mine have been… fading, day by day. It’s through pure desperation and miracle that I even still know who I am anymore– some days, I’m… not so lucky.”

He casts a long, bitter glance to the notes adorning the walls, the simple reminders scrawled in his penmanship– his name, Nyr’s name, shopping lists, chore lists, things he likes and dislikes, anything, everything he can still desperately cling to, plastered wherever he can see it, just so he won’t lose it.

It is a feeble attempt, but it is all he has.

Cyran would have found himself more uncomfortable if Kvasir did not present himself so professionally. Doctors and assassins may have been opposite sides of the same coin, but that dichotomy still meant they were two halves of the same whole. Neither flinched at death and decay at all its forms. In their lines of work it was important to keep a neutral and impassive face. One, to put on a calm bedside manner, and the other, to keep from showing fear. And both had a keen understanding of the order of life and death and the sheer gravity of holding that fate in your hands. Yes, Kvasir was quite the keen doctor. He’d likely seen worse, though none of it showed in his expression, any fear or disgust he might have experienced covered up by… professional curiosity was probably the best way to put it.

Cyran merely stared at him, the concentration in his furrowed brow and the twitch in his vulpine ears. There was no recognition in his face, though Cyran would be lying if he said he’d hoped for any. Even those with knowledge of the arcane had limits, depths of depravity that they were unwilling to sink into. Hell, Cyran himself did not have a name for this dark sorcery. It was merely a convenient tool, a boon as much as it was the hangman’s noose. A fun game of how much Cyran was willing to subject himself to horrors he could not fully comprehend to achieve his mission… help his loved ones.

The answer, he knew, was that there was nothing he would not stoop to. And what did that mean for him? How truly certain was he that cruelty had not existed within him all along? A seed could not bloom in soil it was not fit for.

The thought alone made him sick.

Cyran swallowed the surge of nausea. Focused on Kvasir’s question. A bitter laugh tumbled from his lips as he stared down at his hands, tapping the table. A shadow cast from the lantern onto his ceramic mug jumped to life, prancing along his fingertips before taking the shape of a miniscule bat.^[1] Suddenly, he found it entirely difficult to meet Kvasir’s gaze, easier to focus on the motions of twirling around the bat and giving it life, like a puppeteer tugging at invisible strings.

“Oh, I know exactly what caused it. A bad case of ‘wrong place, wrong time, the wrong woman’. I’d known, really, the incident that might have caused this. The what and the how. It is the why that eludes me. It had never occurred to me, though, exactly the dangers that had rooted themselves within me.” He shifted in his seat. The bat fluttered nervously, responding to his frustration. Cyran prided himself on being a patient man, but… this was not sustainable. This was bigger than himself. And he wanted no part in it.

Evidently, he was not the only one with these worries.

Cyran nodded while Kvasir spoke, stammering uncertainly through his words like even he was not sure of them. It was confusing to Cyran, for a time, how something so prevalent and horrible in his life was such an unsure fact. But the more Kvasir spoke, of ghostly gods haunting the recesses of his memories, a thief stealing away his memories in the night. Consuming him. Devouring him.

And all at once, Cyran understood.

The situation was almost laughable, really. Two perfect strangers, both desperately trying to cling to a semblance of humanity while the unknown gnawed at their souls. It was not perfectly the same, but Cyran sympathized with the young man, this safe haven he’d built for himself. The assassin leaned back in his seat, gazing thoughtfully upon the plethora of reminders stacked atop one another in doctor’s scrawl, everything from inane little notes to prescriptions he needed to remember, names - most Cyran didn’t recognize, but one he did. Written over and over, a mantra, a promise, a pact, a lament. Kvasir Sigurros, Kvasir Sigurros, Kvasir Sigurros…

Oh.

Cyran turned to look at the young man, then back down at the shadows gathering along his hands. A horrible, terrible gift he had been bestowed. As if the fates knew that he would willingly plunge himself further, not for power, but to help others. And in the end, motivation did not matter when the outcome was the same. Others would forget Cyran while he alone remembered every excruciating detail, and Kvasir, doomed to become a husk who could not even remember his own name. Both misers with ticking clocks placed upon them.

But maybe there was something Cyran could do.

He kept his gaze on the fluttering bat. Took a deep breath. It pained him to ask, but… he would be remiss if he didn’t. And Cyran would do it in a heartbeat if Kvasir so wished it.

“I might be able to help… attenuate your symptoms.” He started. “My curse does not just extend to the things that go bump in the night. It is knowledge, memory, thought. And the destruction of it.” The bat fluttered to his open palm, where Cyran clenched his fist - the shadow, breaking away into nothing.

“I cannot bring back what has been lost. Nor would I dare dream destroy what you have. But if those pieces of you are still there, merely… repressed, then I can read them. Bring to light what has been obscured by the shadows. At the very least, I could look into this god for you. Perhaps, in its own memories, answers on how to purge it lie within.”

He finally met Kvasir’s golden-green gaze. He, too, would not flinch.

“You are well within your right to say no. I just want to help, Kvasir. Say the word, and I will do it.”

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1. Mass Shadow Control (Shadow Dancer II)