physician, heal thyself

AESTUUM. of the undulating, heaving motion of the sea, the swell, surge; the sea in agitation, waves, billows; the boiling up of water in a vessel; of the ferment or commotion of the mind, the fire, glow, ardor of any (even a good) passion .

private , low-activity , canon-divergent & headcanon based rp blog for CASADH THORNE - A GREY WARDEN ROOK from dragon age : the veilguard . mun & muse 25+ .  nsfw content present . written by paladin .  they/them . please read rules & info before interacting . promo credit .

( in the burned house i am eating breakfast. you understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast. yet here i am. )

The statue of Andruil had grown so large it enveloped the prison behind them. He didn’t need to look to see it. He could feel her. His focus slipped.

“Don’t turn around,” Solas said sharply. Or maybe they should. Never turn your back on a predator, wasn’t that the maxim? But they were surrounded, her claws buried too deep.

Perhaps they should fight. But Casadh was a mortal, a healer, a gentle spirit. The blood on their hands should be from relieving pain, not causing it. 

They should run. But there was nowhere they could go, no safe haven to flee to. It was too late. She had already ensnared them. They were trapped. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he said desperately, shaking his head. There was nothing he could do. They were trapped. But he wasn't. 

The shadow grew longer, engulfing them in its darkness. It stretched over the chasm, the endless depths now a dark abyss. It crept over the sheer edge of the cliff. All he could see was the fear in Casadh’s eyes.

Solas took one step back, and then another. He could run. He could flee as deep into the prison as he dared and hide. She would grow bored with him. But a hunter was patient. She would turn to livelier prey. But she never stopped once she’d caught a scent.

It was Casadh she wanted. It was Casadh she had. If he fled now, perhaps she would be satisfied with her catch. Their sacrifice could save him.

He shuddered as her laughter echoed through the silent chamber.

Solas had run when she had Ghilan’nain. Afraid and cowering, he had abandoned her to an agony worse than death. He would not abandon Casadh.

“She’s dead,” he whispered, weak, like he was trying to convince himself. He dug his fingers into his palms. “She’s dead,” he repeated louder, stronger, blinking the hot fear from his eyes. “She has bound you,” he said. His voice shook, but he forced through his panic. “You have to break free.” 

It had worked. Of course, it had worked.

How, Casadh couldn't begin to guess, since they knew that the god they had prayed to had died a long time ago. Perhaps gods never truly died. Perhaps they became bigger, became more, as long as people worshiped them.

Casadh stares at Solas. He looks panicked, and scared. They know that this is a nightmare for him, moreso than it is for them. Andruil is not the spectre that haunts their darkest moments. She is not anything but a reminder to Casadh of a simpler time, and of someone who loved them.

Andruil, though, is not a god to be trifled with.

Casadh takes a deep breath and tries to steady their heart rate. They're only marginally successful.

Think of a time when you were trapped. Too many to count. Focus on freedom.

Casadh squeezes their eyes shut, and lets the shadow swallow them whole.

After a few moments, a memory begins to materialize. They aren't sure if it's visible outside of their own mind, if the colors of their childhood refract in the air above Solas' lonely island, or if he is simply watching them sink into darkness.

But they focus on the image of their mother kneeling beside a makeshift shrine that was set up just out of sight of the house.

Give her a part of your hunt, Casadh. It's good to honor her aid.

Casadh reaches from the memory to the shadow. "I did my part," they say, voice barely steady. "I gave you the hunt. You've been given what's yours by right. I am not prey."

Their voice cracks on the last. The shadow doesn't disappear, but the piercing pain of her talons in their head lessens. Perhaps Casadh can persuade whatever this shadow is that the bargain has been satisfied.

This one, however, needs to be kept relatively whole. It would seem.

Imshael feels the mortal's magic prodding at them, and resists the urge to roll their eyes. "You could ask first, you know," they say instead, chidingly. At first, all Rook's magic is able to pick up on with this prodding is the fact that their form, while solid and real, is temporary. As real as a shape-shifter becoming a raven and equally as distorted.

Next time comes swiftly, as being called little one raises their hackles. They don't care for the condescension. However, they don't want to make two missteps in a row, so they bite their tongue and wait.

"Nothing," they answer, truthfully. There's nothing wrong with a little help. Perhaps it's all the time they've spent with Solas, though, that gives them pause. Some spirits would offer their help freely, but those spirits—Compassion, Mercy—don't hide their true nature.

Casadh tilts their head and purses their lips, considering the spirit.