Cyrus stumbles his way to his room and lets the door shut behind him. The vague feeling of what he thinks is blood and sweat running down his back and absorbing into his cloak, feeling abhorant but he ignores it in favor of fumbling with the handle to his bathroom. It opens with only a slight creak, and he stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is disheveled, and he looks like death warmed over, but when does he not?
He finally strips off the cloak and tattered dress and stands on the cold bathroom tiles in shorts and an undershirt. Staring at himself in the mirror, he finally sees the wound that's been a pain in his side, or well, shoulder. It's a deep and gnarled gash that's even managed to chip part of his rock-like skin away.
'Well shit, that's gonna be permanent,' he thinks to himself.
He ignores the continuous stream of purple blood still leaking from the wound and gently hovers a hand over it. He squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates all of his magic into trying to heal it.
His eyes squeeze harder, and his body grows more tense the longer he struggles to concentrate.
'Feel the magic. Think healing thoughts. If fucking Adelaide and Juniper can do it, you sure as shit can as well. Come on, Cyrus.'
But nothing happens. He wasn't made for healing, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to. It's not something he was ever taught. Death was an inevitability; why delay it with healing magic —he can't help but see Aspen's face, drained of color and drenched in teal blood— and he refuses to believe that idea.