Thinking about the mirror of this scene that will take place in just roughly over 800 years just miles away from here. Sisters two halves of a whole whose connection, whose tether, crosses planes.
Okay, we’re going to try this again. Critical Role has done a million things for me over the course of the 4.5 years I’ve been aware of it. I’ve attached myself deeply and unflinchingly to characters and plotlines, made and lost friends, found company when I was at my lowest, and learned how to not let loss completely wreck me. I have seen myself reflected in fuckups and godkillers, chaos-mongers and law-bearers. I have found pieces of myself in this show, one after another, that I wasn’t ever really aware that I’d lost in the first place.
But this time, specifically, we’re talking about Opal.
The first time I watched EXU Prime, I was in one of the darkest places of my life. I was closed off from everyone, not least of all myself, with only a vague idea of how bad things actually were for me under my mask. I couldn’t look. I didn’t dare. I wasn’t ready. So I watched it at surface level: I laughed during the pageant, I cried during the last episode. I displayed the socially appropriate level of investment in every character, every moment, every line. Like so many others, I was mind boggled by the general display of craftsmanship at the table, and by Aabria. (This was my first time really seeing her in anything at all. I’ll always be grateful for the Summer of Aabria.) I loved the series, I raved about it, and then I set it down and moved on.
The second time I watched EXU Prime was a few months ago. Work had just started slowing down and I needed something to keep my brain occupied while I did mindless busywork at my desk. I figured why not: it had been a little over a year since I’d watched it, and I’d had fun the first time, it could only be more fun the second time, right? For the most part, I was correct. I was in stitches by the time The Crown Keepers got to breakfast in the first episode. I had so much more context for Dorian and Orym and Fearne.
And then there was Opal. Now, in the interests of absolute transparency, Opal was a hard pill for me to swallow the first time I watched EXU Prime. She’s a masterclass in playing a character as exactly who they are without faltering, even when it’s uncomfortable. My first time around that block, I thought she was selfish and stubborn to a fault and relentlessly insecure behind the self-assured façade. I think I was right. I also think that’s why I couldn’t really look her in the eye at that time. I read once, and I promise this is relevant, that a lot of times the things that make us hate other people are the things we hate to see in ourselves. This is not always true, but it certainly was true of me with Opal.
The real kicker is that with Opal came Ted. Ted, who I definitely considered the unheard voice of reason for her impulsive sister. Ted, who had given up so much for the safety of the one person in the world she could protect. Ted, whose sacrifice we still don’t know the extent of. Ted, who I could relate to and be unafraid of it, because she’s right and because she’d made the justifiable choices and because she was the one who got left, not the one who did the leaving.
I was at work when it happened. I’ve gone back and scoured youtube to try to find a compilation of the Opal and Ted conversations from EXU Prime so that I could get the exact quote down word for word, but haven’t been able to find one. The gist, at least as I heard it, was this: Opal wanted distance, wanted power that was hers, wanted to be an individual without the baggage of her past weighing her down or the shadow of her sister just out of sight. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. Without help, without hinderance, without interference. She wanted to be just Opal. And Ted wanted to keep her safe. Would give anything, everything, in fact had already done so, to keep Opal safe. Because she couldn’t see herself without her, because her purpose was to protect her. Because she didn’t know how to do anything else.
There’s this thing in therapy called inner child work, and it’s the hardest part of the healing process for me. Every step of it is painful, every Little Me I’ve had to look in the eye is a gut punch. But there’s one in particular that I’ve been ignoring willfully for years. She’s waited in my periphery, patient and resigned, for the day that I could give her even a fraction of my attention. That day was a few a months ago.
I had to get up from my desk after the scene was over because I was beside myself. Literally having a breakdown at my desk, I rushed off to the bathroom to try to pull myself together. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. Calming down took over 20 minutes of box breathing and other grounding methods, working my way back into some semblance of being present in myself.
And when I got there? All I heard was Her. Over and over again. Almost like she was screaming, like she’d been screaming for years. I’ve been holding this for too long. I can’t do it alone anymore. I need help. I need you. I did this to keep us safe, but it’s too heavy. Help me. Please. I’m afraid of what will happen if I let go.
I was Opal. She was Ted.
Both were me.
I’m still figuring out what all of that means. All I know for sure is that I’m grateful: I don’t know how long it would have taken me to hear Her without Opal and Ted. It’s not easy. There are still days that I have a hard time looking her in the eye, but it’s a start that I needed to heal.
for the dialogue prompts, angst 5 or angst 8 with dorian? whichever one stands out to you most! i love your writing, thank you <3333
Ahh thank you! It took me a while to figure out how I wanted this one to go, but when I did, I absolutely loved writing it! Hope you enjoy!
8. "Is that blood?" "...No."
Content warnings: blood, mild descriptions of injuries
*
Dorian’s fingers were moving effortlessly over the strings of his lute. The soft, bright sound of a popular local tune filled the little corner of the tavern he was entertaining. A small pile of silver had amassed on the table in front of him, which wasn’t really why he was playing, but it was a nice bonus to make some money. Safer to look like they were earning their way along, as well, even though he and Cyrus had several hundred in gold and platinum pieces tucked at the bottom of their bags.
He hid a frown as he thought about Cyrus. His brother had left a couple of hours ago to go buy them some travel supplies for the long stretch of road between here and Kymal. It was getting late–all of the shops in town must have closed already, and Cyrus wasn’t back yet. Should he be worried about that? Probably not, right? Cyrus was probably fine.
His hand slipped, and a painfully wrong note played in the middle of the quick part of the song. Nobody but him seemed to notice. Still, he felt the little spiral of self-deprecation start up in his head.
A few minutes later, he saw Cyrus slip into the tavern. Relieved, he settled back into playing, but kept an eye on Cyrus as he walked. Cyrus kept himself pressed against the opposite wall, his head down, clearly trying not to draw Dorian’s attention. The obvious avoidance just made Dorian suspicious, however.
Those suspicions were confirmed when Cyrus started up the stairs. He turned at such an angle that Dorian could see a deep crimson stain down his right side.
Hurriedly, Dorian strummed a final chord and gathered the silver coins into a pocket. “That’s all for tonight,” he told the handful of people who were watching him. “Thank you, you’re such a lovely audience, have a great night!” Trying not to appear too panicked, he rushed up after Cyrus, and reached their door just as it was closing. He grabbed the handle and pushed his way in before Cyrus could lock it.
“Oh–” Cyrus yelped.
Dorian closed the door behind him, locked it, and turned to his brother with a bewildered expression. “Is that blood?!” he demanded.
“...No?” Cyrus tried.
“You were going shopping, why are you bleeding?” Dorian grabbed his wrist and kept him from twisting away. “How did you get hurt? What happened?”
Cyrus winced, putting his other hand up to his side. “It’s not too bad, I’ll be fine.”
“That answered exactly none of my questions, Cyrus.”
“Just a little scrap! Guy saw me buy the healing potions, figured I had money, pulled a knife on me.”
“Holy shit,” Dorian said, dumbfounded. He let go of Cyrus’s wrist. “You’re an absolute magnet for trouble, do you know that?”
“I’m starting to figure it out, yeah.” Letting out a soft hiss of pain, Cyrus stumbled over to the corner and sat down on the floor. He took off his shirt, stared at the tear and bloodstain, and shrugged. “It’s already ruined,” he muttered, and pressed it against the long gash on his side.
Dorian hesitated. He put his lute down on the nearest bed. Part of him wanted to let Cyrus deal with the injury on his own, to teach him a lesson about being careless. But it was a deep, painful looking wound that could easily get infected, and honestly, if Cyrus hadn’t learned his lesson by now, he probably never would. “Let me see it,” he sighed, going over to kneel next to him.
“Said I’m fine–”
“Shut up, just let me fix it,” Dorian said harshly.
Cyrus glared at him.
“That’s what I’m here for,” added Dorian. “To fix things for you.”
“That’s…”
“It’s true.” Dorian reached out and pulled Cyrus’s hands and the bloody shirt away from the wound. “Hold still.”
Shoulders tensing, Cyrus looked away, held his breath, and closed his eyes, wincing like he was preparing for a strike.
“It’s not going to hurt,” Dorian told him.
“That’s usually what people say before something hurts.”
Dorian rolled his eyes and put his palms gently against the wound, murmuring a melodic incantation. His hands glowed with a pulse of magical energy, and the air around them seemed to hum in harmony with him for a moment. The broken skin wove itself back together, leaving a dark blue scar that would fade in a few days. "There." He took his hands away. "Was that so bad?"
Cyrus exhaled softly. "No," he admitted. "Thanks. Hurts way less now." He looked down at the scar, a curious look on his face.
"Clean yourself up, you're covered in blood." Dorian stood up, rinsed the blood off his hands in the basin, and went back over to the bed he had claimed. He normally would have stayed downstairs and played music for another few hours, but he wasn't in the mood anymore. He took off his cloak and tunic and sat down on the bed, facing pointedly away from his brother. After a minute, he couldn't help but ask, "What happened after he pulled a knife on you?"
"I tried to talk my way out of it."
"Oh, and that went well, I assume?"
"Not particularly," Cyrus replied. "Got my own blade out to show him I wasn't defenseless, he tried to get the blade away from me, his knife ended up in my side, I decided that I'd had enough and, y'know, got out of his reach. Guess he thought it wasn't worth trying to keep robbing someone floating ten feet off the ground."
At least he has some instincts of self-preservation, even if they're not very strong. "Glad you got away," was all Dorian said out loud.
"Ha. Yeah. Coulda been bad." There was a long pause. "Hey, Br--I mean, hey, uh, can I ask you something?"
Dorian winced at the fumbling words. It wasn't like he wanted Cyrus to call him Brontë, but it was honestly more grating to hear him dance around the name like that. "Sure," he said.
"You didn't know how to do that when you left home, the healing magic stuff. At least, I don't think you did. Where'd you learn it?" asked Cyrus.
"Just on the road," Dorian replied. It had been a combination of trial and error, watching other bards, and occasionally ducking into a library before he had figured out how to tap into the magical potential in his voice and his swords. "Even when I wasn't getting into many fights, it seemed important. Useful." He had earned a place to stay for a week by fixing a kid's broken ankle on his way to Emon. And once he did start getting into fights more often, once he had met his friends, it had suddenly become a lot more important. Lifesaving, occasionally.
"It's cool," Cyrus offered. "It's impressive. I don't think I could learn how to do that. Mother and Father always told me that the only magic I'd ever need was the innates."
"They told me that, too," Dorian said. He let the air around his hand swirl in a gentle breeze. "It's not something I learned, really. I mean, I did, but it was more like discovering I could always do it. Like it is innate, as well. Just a different kind."
"It makes sense for you. It looks natural, like it's part of you."
Dorian stared down at his hands. He didn't really know how to respond to his brother complimenting him. His first instinct was to laugh, to assume he was being mocked somehow, but there was an earnestness to Cyrus's voice that just didn't lend itself well to teasing. He stayed quiet.
"You took to this life better than I ever could," Cyrus added softly.
He acknowledged it with a hum and reached for his lute again. From the first note he plucked, he sent out a wave of gentle magic that resonated in the air of the room. If there was any pain or bruising left in Cyrus's wound, the Song of Rest, as it was known in bardic circles, would take care of it. Dorian hadn't really thought about the tune before he started playing, but the one he had chosen was from home. It had chords he had rarely heard outside of the Silken Squall unless he was the one playing.
He heard Cyrus sigh and hum a few notes. "It's nice, I haven't heard that in a while," he mumbled.
Dorian didn't look back at him, just kept playing. When the magic he was weaving into the music finally faded, he leaned his lute up against the wall and glanced over his shoulder. Cyrus had finished cleaning the blood off of himself, but had just sat down on the ground next to the basin instead of getting in bed. His eyes were closed, his head leaning against the wall. His slow, deep breathing told Dorian that he had fallen asleep.
He can deal with that one himself, Dorian decided. He settled down for bed, missing the comfortable familiar warmth of Fearne and Orym nestled up beside him. Hopefully, their journey to Kymal would be quick, and finding Opal and Dariax there would be easy. As surprisingly nice (despite his better judgment) as it was to have Cyrus around, Dorian missed his friends. So fucking much. He reached into his pocket to touch the Sending Stone and wished that the day he no longer needed it would come soon.
Aabria: And we pan over now... to Opal
Aimee/Opal: HAAAAAY!
This fucking party princess, this absolute fucking disaster, this goddamn nightmare rave queen with a surprising amount of rope bondage experience, I love her so much
I’m catching up on Exandria Unlimited and as an identical twin I think Aabria and Aimee owe me financial compensation for the line “If you're gone, there's no shadow.”
