Neverwinter Forest there was a thousand storms in his eyes

Tagging for knowledge purposes, Rachel! ♥

The orphaned prince listened raptly as Kjalarr attempted to talk some sense into him. Having bled out the initial wildness and desperation of his panic, Cypress went back and tried to smooth his story into clear, understandable lines. “It was Rannoch,” he insisted quietly. Kjalarr had spoken out of incredulity and not skepticism, but Cypress went back and started over for his own benefit as much as his brother’s. Rannoch was alive. “I went to find my parents. I don’t know why,” the boy said in a low murmur. “I saw him from far away and I thought I was dreaming, but he knew my name. He asked if it was me — he said, ‘Cypress, is that you?’ — and I kind of went crazy. I wanted to — I wanted to kill him.” He shook his head, utterly at odds with his own psyche. “He beat me like he always used to and I told him about Mama and — and Paw — ” his voice cracked painfully “ — and he told me he’d been kidnapped and hadn’t seen Lucy for a really long time. He said it was his fault that everyone was dead.”

The withered eidolon drew a long, shuddering sigh. “I don’t know why he wanted me to tell everyone he was dead,” he said honestly, “but probably because then everyone would stop looking for him and nobody else would get hurt. He said he couldn’t face them. He said he couldn’t hurt anybody anymore — and I — I told him he already did.” Shame colored his tone and remained within the defeated set of his shoulders where he lay motionless and cowed upon the frigid earth. “You’re not angry, are you?” he asked of the berserker. “Not at me — and not at Rannoch?” The upward inflection was hopeful. Cypress, for all his anger and hurt and confusion, didn’t want any repercussions heaped upon his brother’s head if the grayscale Frostfur should ever return to the evergreens. “If you have to be mad at someone, it should be me,” he informed his Caribbean-eyed brother, “because I’m the oldest and I have to look out for him.” His voice hitched painfully, jerking unevenly so that his thin sides fluttered wildly for a moment. It was an odd sensation — he felt like he was going to cry, but he had no tears left.

The tight ache in Cypress’ chest did not ease, even when he straightened into a sitting position. “October’s gone,” he remarked quietly, “and Kendra. Kjalarr, when you decided to be — well, you — instead of Jorunn, did you feel stronger?” Jorunn was an unknown quantity to Cypress, who had always known Kjalarr by his current moniker. He accepted his fate simply, revealing the generally agreeable nature that still lurked beneath the dark veneer fashioned of his grief and rage: “I’ll tell @Allure the truth, then. How come you know so much, Kjalarr? Sometimes I feel like I’ll never know enough.”