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Cyr stumbled out of the interrogation room, the world spinning with him. The stench of burnt flesh and scales clung to his hair and clothes despite being as far from the inquisitor and the heretic as possible in the small, claustrophobic room. He could feel the smell with every breath he drew and it turned his stomach.
“Here.” He jumped when someone rested a warm palm on his shoulder, loosely pressing a perfumed handkerchief to his face with their other hand. “Slow, deep breaths. It will help.”
The first few inhales were hellish, the cloying sweet scent laying heavy on his tongue almost nauseating, but after a few more breaths it got better and washed away the smells of the torture room. It was an herbal scent, he recognised now, something with hints of lavender.
“Come. You’ve done well.” Now that the ringing in his ears subsided he recognized the voice as his master’s. Charibert’s tone wasn't free of its usually sharp edges, but he could detect a hint of pride there and maybe even an almost genuine attempt at softness, as alien as that was to Charibert. When Cyr stumbled his master was there to support him with a strong arm around his shoulders, ready to match his long stride to that of the young hyur as they slowly walked down the corridor.
He wasn’t watching where they went, his focus solely on putting one foot after the other and keeping his breakfast down. Cyr only realized that his master took him to his own room when he was firmly pushed down onto a bed much softer than his.
He had only been in Charibert's room twice before, both times very briefly, but the smell of incense and dried herbs was clear in his memory. The room was in equal measures the library of a pious scholar and the workroom of an alchemist, one half filled with numerous well cared for tomes, the other housing a workbench and a cabinet of near countless drawers.
"Take off your outer robe," his master ordered, not waiting for his answer as he turned to open a wardrobe and started to methodically look through the clothes stored within. "It has absorbed most of the stench. If it turns your stomach, take it off."
Cyr paled at the reminder and hurried to obey with shaky hands, any embarrassment he felt at his worn shirt secondary to removing the smell of burnt flesh before he could get sick again.
"If anyone were to ask, tell them it got contaminated." Charibert pulled a coat of light fabric from a stack, regarding it critically for a long moment. "This will do. The sleeves are much too long, of course, but there is nothing to be done about that."
He held it out to Cyr who hesitantly accepted the coat. It was cheap, but well made, obviously tailored to fit an adult elezen's tall, narrow frame. It looked slightly awkward on Cyr, but it wasn't as bad as he feared. His master was of a slight stature for his people while he himself was likely going to take after his Highlander grandfather, already taller than most of his peers. They still had to roll the sleeves up, Charibert helping Cyr when his fingers fumbled.
Charibert nodded with approval when his charge looked presentable again and retreated to the workbench. Cyr found himself focusing on his hands as he pulled two chipped cups from one compartment, several boxes Cyr couldn't identify, then a small bottle of milk from another lined with ice shards to keep it fresh… It was better than focusing on the white noise in his head, even when the flicker of the aether burner brought him back to the torture room for a moment.
It wasn't until his master handed him a cup of warm, soothing tea that his brain caught up to his eyes. "Ah- thank you, master."
Charibert seemed to evaluate something, but after a beat he sat down next to his young apprentice with a long-suffering sigh and wound an arm around the boy in a loose hug. "If you tell anybody about this, I will make you regret it," he groused, but there wasn't as much bite to his voice as usual.
Cyr smiled into his tea, his limbs still trembling slightly, and basked in this rare kindness. "I am… I'm not sure I could do what you do, master," he admitted, shame and fear gnawing at him. The embrace tightened a fraction.
"Not everyone is cut out to be a torturer." Cyr flinched. They usually avoided using the word, even if everyone knew that was what they were doing - indeed his very master gained the respect he held within the Inquisition because he could break open anybody and coerce the truth from even the most willful heretics. "You did well for someone seeing an interrogation for the first time. You have made me proud today."
He didn't know what to say, so he busied himself with his cup of tea. When his cup was drained Charibert set it aside, then stood in front of Cyr with a scrutinizing eye, taking stock of his meek posture and still shaking limbs.
"This won't do," he said at last, pulling Cyr to his feet. "I cannot, in good conscience, let you out of here when the lightest wind will blow you over." He glanced at the door. "But if I send you to your room to sleep off the experience, another is likely to come along and drag you into a lesson or chore anyway."
He clicked his tongue, stepping around Cyr to start preparing the bed, pulling the protective cover off the heavy duvet and even going as far as to fluff the pillow.
Cyr blanched at the idea of sleeping in his master's bed. He stammered some excuse to leave and was gently but firmly shut up.
"Hush, Cyr. You are my responsibility and by Halone's grace if it is a good, undisturbed nap that you require to stay sane in the face of our duties, then you will get it." Charibert's face softened a little, as it sometimes did when he imparted his secret kindnesses. Like when he first taught Cyr how to braid his hair when he started his apprenticeship. "Rest now. I'll be here at the desk if you need me."
Cyr could only muster a weak nod, fumbling to shed his boots and socks, folding the borrowed coat with some haste and diving under the duvet before he could lose his nerve. It made Charibert chuckle, not unkindly and Cyr could feel an overly warm hand rest on his head for a moment before his master returned to his desk and picked up a pen and his paperwork.
Cyr turned towards the wall and buried his face in the pillow. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and Charibert's cologne. He never expected that he'd come to associate his master's scent with safety, but here he was now. He could feel his heartbeat settling with every breath, slipping into sleep before he could grow anxious over trying to puzzle out what it all said about him.
When he woke it was already dark. His face was wet with tears, his shirt stuck to him from the cold sweat covering his body, his heart beating wildly in panic and Charibert was leaning over him, his eyes right glowing in the faint candlelight.
"You are here, you are safe. Nothing will hurt you here." Charibert said it like it was a charm to ward away the nightmare, with the same practiced conviction Cyr had heard him pray before. "Come on up, sit. Sit and breathe, it will be better."
Cyr was helped to sit, slumped against his master's chest, his hands clutching the elezen's worn shirt and his tears still flowing free. Charibert's hand found its way into Cyr's hair, half petting and half combing out the remnants of his disheveled braid. "Put words to the nightmare, Cyr. Bring the demons to the light where they cannot hold power over you."
It was hard, finding the breath between sobs to stammer out the words, but Charibert’s voice was firm and Cyr had already learned during the year he spent under his tutelage that it was in his best interest to follow his master’s directions.
“It was my mother. In the dream. Then these faceless shadows came, in inquisitor’s robes and they… and they…” He couldn’t say it, the image too clear and too horrifying in his mind still.
“‘Tis all right. You don’t have to say more.” Cyr found himself being pulled closer, Charibert allowing him to tuck his head under the elezen’s chin and cry into his shirt. “It was only a nightmare.”
When his tears had finally abated somewhat, Charibert stood, his face momentarily contorting in disgust at his snot- and tear soaked shirt before he schooled his expression. It made shame well up in Cyr and he kept his eyes on the floor as his master moved around the room, lighting more candles wherever he went.
He kept staring at the flickering shadows on the rug until Charibert appeared in front of him again, holding up a neatly folded, clean sleepshirt. “Go wash off the tears and the sweat.” When Cyr looked up he indicated a side room with his head that the boy hadn’t noticed before.
Cyr took the shirt with a wordless nod and slinked into the bathing room, sighing softly in relief when his master closed the door behind him to grant him privacy. The room was already lit with candles, hastily placed on every available surface to light up the space, and his master had set out a clean towel and filled the washbasin for him. When he dipped a hand in the water he was surprised to find it pleasantly warm and teared up again at the unexpected consideration.
He put his sweaty shirt in a woven basket with what recognized as his own foul-smelling robe and tried to focus on washing up, but he couldn’t help his eyes from wandering. Charibert was no ascetic and his personality left plenty of touches on his space, especially in the form of various cosmetics strewn around the room. It reminded Cyr of his mother and older sister, which brought back echoes of the nightmare, so he hastily focused his attention elsewhere - on the gently scented soap next to the washbasin, the unused looking locked door that likely led to a storage room or a walk-in wardrobe. Nosiness was a good quality for an inquisitor, but Cyr was not quite nosy enough to check what lay behind the door.
At last he returned to the main room, refreshed and clean, to find that his master had prepared tea and food, setting out cold roast and bread on the desk.
“That shirt fits you better than I expected,” Charibert commented idly, ushering Cyr to sit at the table. “Eat. ‘Tis past dinnertime and you will rest better on a full stomach.”
As tempting as it was to excuse himself and flee from the embarrassment of intruding on his master’s good will, Cyr was quite hungry and he found that he couldn’t voice his excuses when Charibert pulled up a rickety stool and split the roast with him. He mumbled a quiet thank you into his mug of sweet tea and dug in, focusing on eating to avoid staring. Charibert let his hair down sometime after Cyr went to sleep, wild waves shining almost red in the candlelight, and the difference from his usual, tightly controlled presentation was mighty distracting.
It occurred to Cyr that he really did not know much about his master and spent the rest of the dinner torn between burning curiosity and his mother’s lessons about how he should never pry into the private matters of his betters. Despite this ongoing conundrum, they ate in companionable silence and Cyr prided himself on how natural sounding it came out when he insisted on being the one to wash the dishes. He felt guilty for accepting his master’s kindness so readily when the man surely had much better things to do than coddle him…
He was trying to polish the mugs to a high shine, as much as the worn ceramic would allow, when Charibert appeared behind him and placed his hands on the hyur’s shoulders.
“That is quite enough. You will wear them down into nothing if you keep that up.” Cyr deflated a little at the gentle chastisement and allowed himself to be led back to bed. This time, however, Charibert sat down on the edge of the bed, his expression one that Cyr could only describe as uncertain.
“Cyr, do you trust me?”
The question was, perhaps, not as strange as it could have been, considering the elezen’s reputation for cruelty.
“With my life, master Charibert,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. The look on the elezen’s face - shock morphing into relief, his mouth twisting into a barely perceptible, fragile smile - was one he would remember for a long time, especially on days when Charibert was at his prickliest, lecturing him sternly. Despite all his very well deserved reputation, his master was a man of his word. He took responsibility for his apprentice - his education as well as his wellbeing - and Cyr wholeheartedly believed that he would not betray the trust he placed in his master.
“That is good. Scoot over.” The boy did as asked, having a fair idea what Charibert had in mind. He still remembered climbing into his parents’ bed for comfort when he was young and his sister’s tales filled his dreams with vicious, ravenous dragons out to get him.
Charibert didn’t have the firm breadth of his father’s broad shoulders or the softness of his mother, but his embrace was no less secure for it. He held Cyr with a confidence that made him briefly wonder if the elezen had done this before, perhaps at the orphanage, providing comfort to the younger children when there were no adults to hold them through a stormy night.
“ Dors bien, mon petit frère. " The words were quiet, so quiet in fact that Cyr wasn’t sure he was meant to hear that, but they made a stubborn knot of doubt unravel in his chest. He closed his eyes with a smile, snuggled closer to the comforting scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke and let sleep claim him.
When Cyr woke, once again, it was morning, although the faint light suggested it was still bells before breakfast was served. He expected his master to be up already, knowing the man to be an early riser most days, but he found him still asleep, stretched out on his stomach on top of the duvet. He seemed remarkably comfortable despite the morning chill, his shirt riding up and revealing a handspan of his back. Cyr stared at the stretch of naked skin, trying to comprehend the sheer amount of scarring he could see. Without meaning to he reached out, touching the ugly, raised welt of a scar. It felt cold as ice compared to Charibert's usually feverish skin - a side effect of his magic skewing so heavily towards fire - and touching it made Cyr come to his senses and snatch his hand back, but it was too late.
Charibert rolled over with a yawn and if Cyr wasn't certain whose room he was in, he would have struggled to recognize him. Without his makeup and his tightly bound hair he looked much more ordinary and sleep had softened his stern expression.
"Good morning. No more nightmares?"
"No more nightmares. Thank you, master!" Charibert studied his face for a moment for lies, then allowed himself a small smile.
“I thought as much. You slept through it when mother Sianne came to check on you, after all.”
A chill ran down Cyr’s spine. If mother Sianne came, then she likely saw him sleeping in his master’s bed and he was not naive enough to not know how that looked.
Charibert read his expression and let out an irritated sigh, reaching out to prod Cyr’s forehead where his brows furrowed in distress.
“Wipe that grimace off your face! My reputation is in no way threatened. My colleagues know it well that if I cared to share in my master’s vile proclivities, I would not have killed him.”
Cyr blinked at him, shocked.
"Master, I'm not sure I understand…"
Charibert sighed and lay down again, tugging his shirt up so it revealed most of his back, marred by the same criss-crossing pattern of roughly healed marks, scar upon scar upon scar. They started just low enough that the neckline of his shirt still covered them and disappeared under the waist of his pants, making Cyr wonder how low they went.
"My master was a corrupt man," Charibert said in his neutral lecturing voice. "Who used his apprentices as an outlet for his sick urges. I swore to Halone that I would never sink to the depths of his depravity."
He let his shirt drop and turned to his side again, watching Cyr's expression to gauge the effect of his words. "I gathered proof and dragged him in front of the Holy Tribunal. Paraded all his sins and all his corruption in front of Ishgard and the Fury and when judgment was decreed, I asked to face him in trial by combat." The corner of his mouth twitched, a look of dark satisfaction settling on his face. "I have earned that revenge and by the gods it was sweet."
By the Fury, Cyr could imagine it. His master was renowned both for the precision and power of his spells, flames hot enough to strip the scales off dragons. Fueled by righteous anger, they would have burned the corrupt man alive, in front of everyone.
"As you tell it, he deserved nothing less," he admitted, secretly glad now that despite all his harsh words and stern demeanor, his master was Charibert and not someone who would hurt his young charges so willingly.
"He deserved much worse, but he would have found pleasure in a slower death, so I made it quick." A look of displeasure flickered over Charibert's face, just for a moment. "Degenerate whoreson."
Cyr blinked in shock, both at the choice of words and the unmistakable Brume drawl that tinged them, so rare was that his master's background made itself known. When Charibert raised a questioning eyebrow at him he made certain not to comment on it, fearing he would offend.
"I see. So our peers know you to be above such sins as Lust and know your intentions to be pure and true." It felt like an apt summary, but it prompted a fit of startled laughter from Charibert, mirthful and clear like a spring brook.
"That would be- how old are you again?"
"Almost fourteen."
"Then let us leave the matters of sin and lust to rest for a few more years. You are much too young for that discussion." He tapped his chin, still smiling as he thought. "Unless, of course, you find yourself sweet on one of your fellows. I would have you come to me with your questions, then. I am certain I still have Jannequinard's informatory pamphlets stashed away somewhere…"
Embarrassed, Cyr, buried his face in his pillow to hide his blush. “Master, please …”
He could hear a chuckle and then the rustling of the bedding as Charibert slipped under the duvet once again. "It's the weekend, so there is still time for a nap before they ring the breakfast bell. Try to rest a while longer, because I won't go any easier on you after this."
Cyr tried to settle back to sleep, but his thoughts kept returning to the night before.
"Master?" he asked quietly, in case Charibert had already fallen back asleep. He got a questioning hum in reply, a pale eye opening a crack to regard him. "Will the nightmares ever stop?"
His fear and anxiety must have been clear in his voice, because Charibert sighed, opening his arms to invite him back into the same embrace that kept the nightmares at bay last night. Cyr blushed faintly in embarrassment, but scooted closer so he could nestle back into the security of Charibert's warmth.
"In truth, I do not know, Cyr." The elezen admitted quietly. "It is different for everyone. For some they stop, others learn to cope with them. Yet others leave the inquisition so they do not have to suffer the night terrors any longer. I wish it was a sign of mental fortitude or the purity of one's spirit, but truth be told, it is simply a matter of predisposition."
Cyr shuddered at the possibility of seeing that horrifying nightmare every time he settled down to sleep.
Charibert petted his hair, humming as he thought about how to reassure his young charge.
"The room next to mine is vacant. It is half sized and opens into my living space, so nobody wants to take it." He chose his words carefully, watching Cyr's reactions like a hawk. "It is not quite unusual to want to keep one's apprentice close at hand. I know it well that many of my colleagues delegate their most tedious bits of paperwork to their pupils."
Cyr recalled the door he wondered about earlier. "The one opening from the bathing room?"
"Aye, that's the one. I believe the woman who lived here before used it as storage, but I couldn't be bothered. We would have to share the bathing room, of course, but if you require my presence to ward off your night terrors then I suppose there is not much we can do about that.”
That was implicit permission for Cyr to seek him out for comfort if he had a nightmare, albeit couched in his usual, thorny mannerism. Grinning ear to ear he hugged Charibert tightly, barely able to stammer out his thank yous in his giddiness.
“ Hold on now! None of that!” As expected, this outburst of gratitude made the elezen bristle. “Do not think I will allow this tomfoolery to go on indefinitely! You must needs learn how to deal with your night terrors yourself, because I have neither the will nor the time to coddle you forever.”
He grumbled and huffed, but he didn’t push Cyr away. He held the boy carefully until they both drifted back to sleep.
There would be time for harsh words and strict lessons another time, but not today.