The Seven Stages of Empathic Mimicry (VII)

7: Emulation

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

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

The sea, though, was deathless even in sunlight.

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

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

"Tell me a story!

Cyrus had said alright.

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

In the days of the year of the Tower-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bullshit!"

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

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

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

"We'll see about that!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wondered if Hull had loved Davros the same.

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

Cyrus supposed he should feel sorry for killing him.

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

The boy didn't think that made any sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easy.

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

But not important.

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

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

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

He didn't feel anything.

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

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

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

Which she did.

Cyrus stared.

The wolves didn't come back.

Well.

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

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

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

A whimper snapped him out of his musings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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