The Benefits of Cosmic Power (I)

Cyrus Anwar came to his senses in the midst of a world gone mad.

It was a world of steaming water, blazing wood, shifting solids and shuddering winds. A world of wildfire and rent nature, light flaring every which way in colours more agonising than dazzling. Sound wasn't much better, lacking only the screams of the damned. It was like the world and the world's individual pieces were breaking, building, cracking and shattering all at once, arcs of lightning flashing to and fro everywhere as the night wore on. And the fire…

His scalp stung, his beard smoked and his skin burned and felt in places as if it had melted. Was melting. It was pain almost severe enough to make him see white and hear nothing but a faint ringing, but the cacophony all around would not be ignored, and the drumbeats…

Drumbeats.

No.

Not drums. The rap of fingers on a lute belly. A lute whose strings were being plucked.

The soft voice of Hope, singing.

I walk alone, the night wears a shadow

Painted in silver, painted in gold

The moment ends in silence, then the moment grows old

Dwarven ears focused entirely on the sound of music, as he'd done countless times before without fail when he recognised just who was playing her instruments and enchanting voice.

And when he smiles, a thousand dreams surround him

Dress them in secrets no one can hold

The fire dies in the distance, as the embers grow cold

Beautiful lies streamed from her tongue. His secrets weren't his, he almost never smiled, his dreams were not dreams at all and the fire most definitely was not distant or cold.

Sing for me now...

All the world is a stage

Smile take a bow,

From your gilded cage...

Still more lies, though perhaps the world was a stage in a manner of speaking. A stage for sins made unwitting. Killing and murder inflicted on kobolds, wild animals and a loyal wolf companion whose body lay lifeless and broken against the trunk of the oak a dozen feet away. He didn't need to wonder how that fate had befallen him. What fate he had inflicted upon him after the hound caught up to him at the end of his single-minded sprint through the forest. He did not have the luxury of forgetfulness this time.

Behind the veil, he's safe where no one can reach him

Roses with thorns

Just make him bleed

A fragile porcelain angel

Break so easily

He wondered if he should laugh at the absurdity that were those mournful verses. Laugh or perhaps cry. He did neither, since he could feel nothing at all to any meaningful extent, even as the rhythm of the wordless interlude picked up the pace, a little bit. Nothing except faint surprise at who and what spoke next.

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

Rent Weave healed, spellfire disappeared and magic calmed and faded under the calm proclamation of a mighty voice. Elminster Aumar. Focused. Contemplative. Roused to action, driven by a soul shining with a mournfully volatile merger of command/comprehension/pity.

That was okay. Pity wasn't a shame. It was a sign of a decent nature and a sign that there was something wrong in the world that didn't in any way, shape or form reflect badly upon the receiver.

Strings that plucked themselves were joined by a fiddle as Hope let her lute drift off and sing on its own to use her bow instead. The tune melded oddly but seamlessly with the crackle of the flames that still lingered here and there, fire that had long since stopped being a merely magical thing.

Sing for me now...

All the world is a stage

Smile take a bow,

From your gilded cage...

"Son." Gorion. Outwardly deliberate, calm and determined. Internally terrified for him beyond anything he'd ever before been. Stubbornly hopeful regardless because of that elusive but brilliant thing called faith. "I am going to cast Mind Blank on you. Focus on me as I do and do not waver in your attention on the fact it is there after I am done. From here on out, at all times, you must know that the protection exists and know that death will not force it still."

Cyrus nodded with some difficulty, almost collapsing where he was nearly sprawled face-down on the ground due to the dizzy spell that brought on him. The scorched earth barely stayed away from his face under the strain of his arms, and his knees felt like the only parts of his body not burned, despite the Staff of Healing having already been used on him twice. The protection spell enveloped him then, though even with it on he felt no different at all.

No, that wasn't quite true. His heart flared with a pang of agony that disappeared nearly as quickly as it came, taking the momentary vision of a dark abyss of blood along with it.

But not the memory of it, or of the sensation.

Hope, as she often did without knowing the effect she had on him, effortlessly pulled him out of the vision that would have made him fail his father's order.

The restless heart

Cries when no one is listening

He's waiting for someone

Waiting for you

To want, love and need him

To help him to make it through...

As the moment grows old

In his Gilded Cage...

Imoen trailed off slowly, followed languidly by her instruments and Cyrus nearly broke concentration on the Mind Blank then and there. Even feeling nearly nothing as he always did, he had to put effort into dealing with the reality of how easy and beautifully his little sister could sing songs made entirely of what could only be called blatant lies even as they evoked the gravity of his situation with perfect accuracy. That song, that last stanza in particular, portrayed the effective opposite of his situation. Gorion - and from some point onwards Imoen and Khelben Arunsun – had always been there to listen, want, love and need him. Just like they were now.

Just like Khelben Arunsun chose that moment to step into the light cast by the fire, walked over to the dead form of Arawn, crouched to lay a hand on the animal and spoke the second Wish of the night.

I Wish for this Wolf be Resurrected with Full Health and Vigour Right this Instant.

"-. .-"

"Well, 'twould seem there be a fair bit of rhyme and reason in these notes ye wrote, lad," Elminster said from where he sat at the table in the main conference room of Khelben's Magnificent Mansion. The man was entirely unperturbed now that things had calmed down. Not that he'd been overly flat-footed before. He hadn't even suffered the backlash of the Wish, unlike Khelben had been misfortunate enough to in the past.

Case in point, the Sage of Shadowdale gave absolutely no indication of feeling awkward or in any other way uncomfortable despite sitting with his back to a gigantic gouge in the wall. And floor. And part of the ceiling. Gouge that went through the room behind as well as the room behind that and the room behind that and all the rooms beyond those, plus the exterior wall, the ground and through both upper floors of the conjured mansion. And the rooms behind those and the rooms behind those.

Cyrus had gone a step beyond the stillness of death when he turned upon the weave matrix and-

"Aye aye," Elminster said, forcefully drawing Cyrus' attention from the massive damage he had inflicted on his teacher's conjured abode. "We art all well aware of the bisected nature of the half of this mansion located behind me. We art also fully cognizant of the disaster thou would have wrought had ye still been here when yon wild sphere erupted from thee. As opposed to ye merely forcing thine death essence out early and clearing thine's self an exit in anticipation of embarking on thine night-time excursion."

Mordekainen's Magnificent Mansion. A massive, temporary conjuration literally made of Weave strands for him to rip into. If he'd torn at it like he'd done back at Candlekeep, all those years ago…

If they'd been inside an extradimensional version of that spell…

He gripped his wolf's head tighter at the thought. That was another thing. The absurd animal had bounded over to him as soon as he'd been revived – instead of, oh running the sod away from the maniac who'd hurled him into the tree to begin with – and refused to be more than two feet away since. Even when he changed clothes to a new set Father conjured for him. Case in point, Arawn had lain his head in his lap as soon as Gorion sat Cyrus down at the conference table and-

"Forsooth! We art also surely shocked at the lack of sense exhibited by thine animal friend as well," Elminster said mildly, snapping him out of his mental tangent – he'd forgotten about Mind Blank again, check for… yes, still there, small mercies – and waved a few papers in his direction. "Now that that is well enough established, mayhap we might focus on the issue at hand? Specifically these notes thou spelled up in the few minutes between the charming racked of thine sudden awakening and the even more charming racket that defined thine flight from this place."

Gorion squeezed his son's hand. Save for when Cyrus changed into intact clothing, he'd not let go of him since they finally tracked him down in the forest, not too hard a task given that they needed only walk towards the newest forest fire in progress. Khelben also gave him an encouraging nod from across the round table they'd chosen for that middle-of-the-night research session. Imoen, oddly enough, had chosen to sit between the two Archmages rather than on Gorion's other side – Elminster was already on the dwarf's left – which put her right face-to-face with him. She occasionally munched on the snacks provided by the ghost-like servants, but that was all.

Elminster pushed over a dozen pages filled with annotated diagrams Cyrus could vaguely deduce the meaning of due to having been the one to conjure them two hours earlier. Along with the 124 sheets that Khelben was going through (the third time) and the other 124 sheets of paper stacked at Elminster's elbow. 123 now that Imoen had taken the one on top to look over. It was probably curiosity but Imoen was even harder to read than normal. She seemed to have become a lot more serious and quiet during the short time since his… excursion.

"I can only vaguely make heads or tails of these, and even then only half-way," the dwarf said, rubbing his now hairless head. He probably looked a sight, bald and with just the minimum of moustache and beard. Not enough to even denote him as a member of the dwarven people as opposed to a malformed specimen of the human race. Distressing is what it was. "As far as I can see, these are research diagrams and guidance notes for a ritual. Specifically, a ritual designed especially for my unique… problem."

"It seems so," Elminster was treating him to an oddly intense gaze. Fortunately, his inner light was much more expressive: certainty/comprehension/already-assured.

Cyrus wasn't exactly feeling very reassured himself, though. He looked to the stack of auxiliary papers. "May I?"

"Certainly, lad," Elminster said, pushing the bundle over while Khelben did the same.

Cyrus had effectively created those papers as soon as he'd catapulted from his bed with the memory of that never ending nightmare and a self-imposed compulsion to wake everyone up, grab the massive pile of information that had appeared in the forefront of his mind and put it all on paper right now.

He'd been appropriately loud despite that only Imoen and Gorion were asleep – the other two had stayed up to study Rhialto's spellbook – and was pretty quick with the magic too, creating all the papers in around 10 minutes. But by the end of it he'd felt the malignant presence at the back of his mind trying and succeeding in momentarily overpowering his own will, so Cyrus had dumped the papers, whirled around and cut at the magic barring his way and run off before his abusive biological seed donor forced a large enough connection to the waking world to rip at the mansion's structure. Good thing too, since it would have resulted in a wild magic cascade that would have put all but the worst ones of the Godswar to shame.

Banishing the memory and checking the Mind Blank again – still there, Bhaal being held at bay for now, prior lapse was a freak occurrence that could not be helped if the memory reclamation and information transfer was to work – Cyrus spent the same amount of time it took him to create the papers on scanning the notes and refreshing his memory.

In the end, his conclusion was the same. "I can get the broad strokes but the execution… the preparation, they're beyond my understanding." He frowned. "But I know I understood them while I was writing them down."

"I suppose that confirms these annotations here, then," Elminster dug out a specific sheet and tapped the relevant lines with his finder while speaking the words aloud. "Bhaaltaint ownership: dual. Claim: equal opposites. Claim contested via Vestigial Divine Authority. Ownership still inviolate: my soul, my body with all that implies. Overall Effect: Level of Awareness on par with intruding Bhaal Vestige while mind and soul a single whole. Conversely: ability to use essence and otherwise act by own will very limited."

"Which is where one of the more interesting recurring terms in your transcriptions come ups," Kheben picked up from there. "You seem to have deliberately focused on the ritual data and diagrams rather than auxiliary information. But you also used certain terms deliberately meant to allow us to make inferences. Here, 'intruding' implies not only that you have claim at least on par with his, but also that Bhaal's consciousness literally should not be there and likely was not there to plague you in the beginning. More importantly, it could mean that the Vestige is literally an intruder. As in, he may have channelled most of what was left in his dead husk into you, if not forced himself inside you entirely in anticipation of taking you over earlier."

Imoen choked on a pastry at the double entendre but the men were able to keep a straight face, even if their inner lights were a different matter.

Khelben tapped his elbow with his fingers. He was leaning forward on his crossed arms. "If that is true, it may be that the reason he is as cognizant as he is because he rebuilt some form of self-awareness from your essence. Provided himself the ability to actually act from beyond the grave despite the powerlessness that should have defined him after he was slain in the Godswar. Though why he would be so impatient as to seem outright desperate I cannot say."

"There was some concern over the rites for his resurrection not having started yet, I think," Cyrus frowned in thought. "I don't think Bhaal realised exactly how much he let slip whenever he taunted me. Though he wasn't always coherent so he occasionally forgot what year it was, especially once I managed to reliably conceal my more relevant thoughts from him." His heart twinged with the ghost ache of the nightmare.

"Yes, there seemed to be some mentions of that as well," Elminster said, combing through the stack of notes.

The two Archmages and Gorion proceeded to review the various papers one more time, taking copious notes of their own. It went in that vein for some time, during which Cyrus returned to focusing on the Mind Blank not going still or dying entirely while stroking his wolf's fur.

Eventually, when it was about 4 in the morning, Elminster broke the quiet that had subdued even Imoen. "Right then." He exchanged meaningful looks with the other old men before meeting Cyrus' eyes. "I do believe we have our way forward."

"So the ritual is workable then?" Cyrus asked, feeling relief for the second time in his life. Arawn gave a soft whine at that. "You understand it?"

"Aye," his mouth twitched into grin momentarily. "'Tis truly an onerous duty to be as brilliant as I am, but I bear it as best I am able."

"Note the humility, young one." Khelben threw in. "Why, he even acknowledges that he is not the only intelligent person in the world, occasionally," the man further said drily, not looking up from his latest handwritten notes.

"And I am not the only one to understands the information packet thou provided," Elminster added with a huff.

"Very occasionally, Little Prince."

Cyrus had expected the Sage to harrumph or otherwise comment but instead the man looked at the other Chosen of Mystra pensively. "I was not certain before but thou truly care about him, don't ye?"

Khelben stopped writing, carefully put his latest note and dwarven-made pen aside in favour of meeting Elminster's stare with a challenging one of his own.

"Astounding," the Sage said, uncaring of how insultingly that could be taken. Clearly, the Chosen of Mystra had learned to make certain allowances over the centuries. "Nine hundred years thou spent keeping thineself to thineself, looking for problems even when there were none to be had, all the while never truly confiding in anyone until Laeral Silverhand. And even then thou never changed or trusted in anyone but the Goddess, insofar as ye could trust at all. Let alone trust that others could be trusted with any meaningful information, or even-"

Khelben glared and cut him off. "Perhaps I had good reason not to trust others with information, seeing as even those with the 'onerous duty of being as brilliant as you are' can carelessly throw private details around, as you have just proven."

Elminster shook his head slightly and rested it in his palm, dismissing that rebuke entirely. "And now here thou art, putting aside literal matters of state and international affairs for the sake of a friend and his son whom thou once wanted to kill in his infancy." Khelben showed nothing openly, but a ghost of that gnarly, sickly green shame of long ago flared all over his inner self for a dreadful instant. "And thou are not even doing it only for Gorion's sake, are you? Not truly."

"He isn't?" Cyrus asked despite himself.

Khelben's head snapped in his direction with an incensed and unmistakable glare he only ever managed to muster for the greatest of the world's idiots.

"Oh, that's right," Cyrus murmured in recollection. "We had that talk after your fist visit following my 12th birthday. I actually remember it now."

Gorion's soul dimmed beside him and Khelben's own self-star went grim and almost still for a terrible instant before it returned to the ever-burning, unbowed silvery flare coloured pink/not-pink/royal-purple/violet and every nameless colour Cyrus had ever found pleasing to look upon.

How he wished Father's soul could glow like that again. Brighter and more colourful even, like it used to.

The Archmage of Waterdeep let his glare fade. "You had forgotten…" He said sadly, face softening even further. "He actually made you forget that. Such a thing…"

Cyrus ignored the curiosity, internal and external alike, that coloured Elminster Aumar. "He did well in taking away some of my foundational recollections." Cyrus tried to smile, but he doubted it looked right. He'd never managed to properly emulate the expression and the real ones were few and far between. "Anything to prevent me from making properly informed decisions."

Everyone fell silent at that, for a time.

Eventually, Gorion broke it. "Son." He waited for the dwarf to look up at him. "How do you feel right now?"

It was a good question, but for once he did not have to think about it too much. "Weary."

Father's self-light flickered with the ghost of anger – one of many emotions he could no longer muster properly – but instead of dimming, it paradoxically flared brighter with that scarlet determination of his.

Cyrus' heart sank. "You're doing it again, aren't you?" he murmured, though no one was far enough to miss it. Martyrs. Hopeless the lot of them. "You've decided-"

"On a perfectly appropriate course of action," Father cut him off implacably. "One that we will not waste time debating over, son. Not this time." But his episode of manifest will did not last long. His face softened soon enough. "There is nothing that can change my thoughts on this. Not when I'm looking at you knowing that you've never had an actual night's rest since the temple."

"And that is likely the most important matter here," Elminster cut in, preventing what would have been a tense silence. "It appears we have a very limited time to prepare. This ritual is based around the Rule of Three. Very well detailed too, that part. The plan enwheels fully-detailed and sketched arcane circles and rune chains depicting the concepts available to draw on." He begun to sketch words in fire mid-air, using his fingertip. "Attack–defence–climax, conquest–counterattack–victory, tyranny–rebellion–freedom. These three sets of three in turn are each a part of the decision–process–consequence thematic. However, the preparatory part, which ideally should be the one most lengthy and meticulous, instead needs to be fully done over the next three days if this ritual is going to work." Elminster set the paper he was examining on the table. "That is all the time your soul expects to be able to endure unbroken and unbent now that you have finally inflicted death on an ensouled sapient. We literally do not have the time to bicker or otherwise waste time on chatting since you apparently have your days numbered"

Cyrus struggled to say something, though he didn't understand why he felt the need. "Or maybe the time since my birthday to now counts as the period of preparation? That's when I actually begun putting all this together I think."

"Fifteen years since the balcony," Gorion muttered. "Fifteen divided by three."

"I suppose it won't hurt to keep it in mind," Khelben pondered, exchanging a look with Elminster.

"Which we three will discuss tomorrow, at length," Elminster rose from his seat, prompting Khelben and Gorion to do the same. "Now, much as I wouldst like to say we shall all keep your son company, Gorion, I am afraid Khelben and I have some very specific spells to prepare. We will need our magic in the days to come." The Archmage walked around the table to look down at Cyrus, who'd just gotten out of his seat himself. "Thou will have to eschew rest entirely, I fear. But of course, thou already know this. I suggest thou use it to think about any contingencies, no matter how ludicrous they may seem. The little lady there said something earlier about turning you into an Elf so you need no longer sleep." What? Stop being a dwarf? Preposterous. "It sounds ridiculous but it must be said that it is not without its logic. 'Twould work as a stopgap measure, if nothing else."

Khelben stepped forward next to the old man just as Imoen did the same for him, standing on the other side of Gorion. "I will teleport to my home first, I think," the Archmage of Waterdeep said. "You will need certain potions and possibly a magical item, or two?" He waited to see if Imoen would nod, which she did, before continuing. "Two, then, to make the next few days easier on you both. Though I fully expect you to grab a nap when you can, young lady, even if it has to be during the day when Gorion is available to watch over the Little Prince in your stead."

"Pfff," Imoen waved him off. "You clearly haven't heard about our chained all-nighters then."

"So it would seem," the man answered drolly. "Nevertheless, better to be on the safe side regardless I would think." He looked at Gorion. "I am strongly inclined towards spiriting the lad away to my tower and doing all we can there, but you would not be able to make the trip. And since all signs suggest that separating you from him would be the worst folly…"

Cyrus was going to murder Firkraag if and when he no longer had to worry about losing his body and soul because of it.

Khelben actually moved fairly quickly, all things considered. He was gone seven or so minutes later and returned only an hour after, bringing not only a potion case but also a minor bag of holding (full of gold and only gold) and a gem bag (full of gems, naturally). The latter two were 'just in case they decide to cast some spell or other with more pretentious material components' or so he told Gorion.

The wait that loomed before Cyrus would have been nostalgic in any other situation – deathless night with a clear sky, Imoen nearby to talk or just watch with him – but it was marred by the strangely subdued manner of a sister that decided against playing or singing anything, and the knowledge that his days were literally numbered.

"Lad," Elminster said, much to Cyrus' surprise. He'd have expected him to have turned in by then, but there the old sage was, coming to stand next to where he was looking out the… cut 'decorating' the western half of the mansion. He also seemed to be ignoring Imoen entirely. "Thou mentioned that the dead god hath been preparing to assimilate ye but that the progress he'd done over the past decade and a half was undone."

"That's right."

"That means he will be unable to destroy ye and will have no choice but to cast thee out or at least thine soul even if he wins when thou next fall asleep."

"I believe so."

"Excellent." The old man turned to look down and waited for his gaze to be met before speaking again. "Then if worst comes to worst, we will merely reincarnate thee." Something tightened in the dwarf's chest and he didn't know what it was. Whatever it was, it must have shown on his face as well as Elminster noticed it. His voice took on a softer cant than he'd used until then. "One way or another, lad, ye will come back from this."

The man left, then, to prepare his spells and have his necessary hours of rest, so Cyrus turned to look at Selûne as he often did after dark. Even so, he could not help but wonder what if.

What if he did get consigned to oblivion? What then?

…

He'd need to have some words with Khelben Arunsun before his time was up.