#i am DECEASED i am PASSING AWAY i am VIOLENTLY UNWELL

[gwynbleiddyn]

"How are you so calm?!" Kerros whisper-shouts, conscious of the figures milling around in earshot. His fingers tremble and tap along the wooden edge of a makeshift war-table, strewn with torn maps and wine bottle corks -- fragments of an attempt to make some sense from within the eye of the storm.

He feel his father's gaze boring into the side of his head. It's pointless trying to avoid it, so Kerros turns to him, swallowing around the lump that has lodged itself in its throat ever since stepping foot into Minrathous.

"You're here," Rion answers.

Kerros frowns. What a ridiculous and entirely useless thing to say. He's here, sure, but so is an army of wardens. A horde of assassins. A collection of Lords. In actual fact, there is a veritable sea of people swarming through the ruins of this blighted city who almost certainly have more to offer in this moment than he does, spilling their own blood in defense of it while he dithers around a war-table with fumbling fingers and pretends to know what he's doing.

Much like a child stumbling around in his father's boots while everyone else prepares for the inevitable fall.

Kerros snorts in disbelief. "That's funny."

Rion smiles. It is a small and fleeting thing quickly tempered by a pained grimace and a sigh, his eyes flitting to the war table where he is lost in memory for a moment. The silence stretches out for too long, and Kerros reaches out gently, knocking the hard metal of his father's arm.

He waits until Rion looks at him before he speaks again, ensuring he can see.

"I'm sorry. I'm just... scared."

"Of course you are." Rion's gaze softens, and there is no shortage of comfort in a father's understanding. "I was scared too, when I was standing where you are -- the first time, at least."

The smile returns, but is gone in a blink. Kerros can feel the tension radiating off of him, listening to breaths that turn shallow as they try to keep the pain at bay. Why is he here? He's too sick.

"The Wardens knew how to deal with a Blight. An Archdemon. None of that was a surprise," Rion continues, and he leans forward slightly as a breath slips through gritted teeth, hand bracing on the table. "But I was still fucking scared of it. Of dying. Of losing other people. Cullen. Leliana. Morrigan. What happens if I fuck it up? Only the end of the world."

Kerros listens intently. He's heard stories of the Fifth Blight more times than he can count, varying from fond reminiscence to angry recollection. The truth always hid somewhere in-between, in the moments where Rion allowed himself to be known -- even to his son. Moments rarer than they should be.

Rion shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he shakes off his sickness to stand upright again. "Then came the Breach. The Inquisition. Solas. That whole crock of shit."

Kerros huffs out an almost-laugh. Rion's disdain for Solas has always been palpable, but it has never been relatable -- not before now. He nods, this time in understanding, and gestures for his father to continue.

"What's the difference, Kesi? Between the Wardens and the Inquisition? What changed?" Rion raises an eyebrow, stance relaxing as the last of his pain recedes for the moment.

"Uhh... you...uhh... experience? You had more experience? Wisdom and yadda yadda--" Kerros attempts a feeble answer, but Rion shakes his head again. No. Okay. "Time? Power?" No, and no. "I don't know, dad. Come on, we don't have time for--"

"--you." Rion interrupts, arms folding across his chest as he matches his son's level stare. "Between the first time and the last time I stood at the end of the world, you came along. This tiny, shrivelled little thing, screaming your lungs out so hard that even I felt like I could hear you."

Kerros' thoughts unravel abruptly, like thread caught on a nail, split and fraying into useless fragments.

"You scared the shit out of me - more than any Archdemon could. And it wasn't the little things, like... how should I hold you? Or are we feeding you right? Or were you sleeping? We could handle those fears, silly ones, ones we could unlearn as time went on and you grew up just fine," Rion explains, and Kerros feels that all-too familiar knife twist in his chest each time Rion's voice struggles against the blight coursing through him. It is getting worse by the minute in this forsaken place.

"What really fucking frightened me, Kes, was just... everything I didn't know. Who you were going to be. What you were going to do. This world had been so hurtful to me, so what the world was going to do to you?"

Kerros doesn't know what to say. He swallows again, watching as Rion begins to fiddle with some of the makeshift map markers. He nudges a would-be contingent of Crows through a hastily drawn street, scribbled over thrice and relabelled in varying hands as people argued over directions a mere half hour ago. Rion casts his eye over the table, silence stretching between them, leaving Kerros feeling as though he is chasing a receding tide.

"Dad?" Kerros wiggles his fingers in Rion's line of sight, catching his attention. Rion seems unwilling to look up. He sniffs, rubbing at his nose under the pretense of adjusting the metal adorning his bridge, and clears his throat. Kerros pretends he doesn't notice.

"Varric was right," Rion admits. "Rook, he called you, because you were always a resourceful little bastard. Did he ever tell you that?"

This time, Kerros shakes his head. His throat grows tight, grief shutting the way for any words to follow.

"Yeah. You always, always found a way. Through anything. Into anything. Out of anything. And that's what gave him hope in all this. Hope that he died with." Rion knocks over a cork, looming at the epicentre of the Archon's Palace. "You have cut through every single fear I had for you like it was nothing. At every turn, you surprised me. So yes, Kesi. I am calm because you are here."

The broken stone fragment that represents Elgar'nan topples as Rion knocks his knuckles against it, before he pushes away from the table and turns to Kerros, hands gently cradling his face - one cold and unfeeling, the other, a perfect fit.

All at once, every little doubt that had been threatening at the edges of Kerros' mind, like the shadow threatening to swallow the sun overheard, grows silent, and now he instead finds himself afloat on his father's words alone, adrift on an open, gentle sea.

"So I know this too: you will find a way, my little bird, varanharel, because that is what you do."