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Chapter Text

Every traveler has by now realised they have a counterpart in their little group, a companion whose natures complement their own. If Cyrus Albright was surprised to discover his partner was Olberic Eisenberg, the Unbending Blade, he’s hidden it very well. However, it does make sense. Olberic is practical and straightforward, a quiet and patient hulk of a man with a fiercely protective nature. His sword and spear are sharp and true, with an unstoppable mass of muscle and momentum behind every blow. He’s both the irresistible force and the immovable object, Cyrus thinks wryly, watching arrows clatter uselessly off his broad chest. He’s safety, stability, that great reassuring presence.

Cyrus is, in many ways, what Olberic isn’t. He’s idealistic, highminded, fiercely curious and reckless, in that arrogant way intellectuals tend to be. He knows more about any subject than anyone Olberic’s ever met, but he specialises in history, and when he talks about the fall of Hornburg there’s a excitable lilt in his voice that betrays his passion. It’s mesmerising, that voice and diction which can capture the full attention of even the most apathetic listener. On long journeys, where before Olberic had tired of having naught but the company of his own thoughts, he had been able to instead lose himself in tales of past battles. He’s come to find Cyrus a comfort, he realises. It’s an odd feeling.

They’re on just such a journey now. They’re traveling to Flamesgrace from Victor’s Hollow, a winding route passing first through dense and deadly forest, and then through barren snowfields wherein the ever-present blizzard has long since obliterated any trace of a path. Cyrus is still talking about S’warkii, enraptured by the customs of H’aanit’s little village.
“Their speech pattern is completely localised to that area - it’s an homage to Draefendi, the god of the hunt, possibly due to the proximity of the Hunter’s shrine. Though, you’d think that Victor’s Hollow would have been influenced too, given it’s even nearer the shrine…”
Olberic is keeping pace with the scholar, who seems to have mastered the skill of writing in a journal while walking and talking. Of course, he’s completely oblivious to the surrounding forest and the creatures that lurk in its depths, so Olberic’s been swinging his spear lazily about Cyrus’ bowed head, batting away the vicious little owls that are so fond of harrying travelers.
“... But one could also argue that the isolation of S’warkii is a contributing factor to its culture. As the largest settlement in the Woodlands, Victor’s Hollow harbours visitors and a constant stream of traders, not even mentioning the Arena and the competitors and spectators who flock to it…”
“I must confess to not sparing much thought for the origin of H’aanit’s speaking pattern,” Olberic’s voice is low and subdued, as always, with a gravity that demands silence and respect, “Though I have oft wondered whether nearby gods affect the thinking of the people.”

Olberic hums, and as he turns slightly to check the path behind them for stalking creatures, he catches Cyrus staring. It’s the first time he’s seen Cyrus fully drawn away mid-topic, and he’s feeling a little cornered, feeling the full force of the scholar’s attention on him.
“Could I trouble you to expand on that thought? It’s fascinating.”
Olberic turns his attention back to the trail, embarrassed, using the butt of his spear to nudge Cyrus back onto the path from where he’s strayed. He’s still watching Olberic with a light in his eyes.
“I was raised in the Highlands, among the mountain folk. Those around me looked to Brand for strength in times of hardship. It was a comfort, to find strength and bravery in harsh, bleak surroundings.”
They walk a little further, and Cyrus can see that Olberic is consumed in thoughts of the past, so he lets the silence linger. It’s unfamiliar territory for him, so he occupies himself with noting down Olberic’s thoughts in his journal. When Olberic finally speaks again, Cyrus realises with a jolt that he’s staring down at a sketch in rough ink of the warrior’s sharp profile. There’s some immense sadness in the drawing, somewhere in between the stark lines, where loneliness makes its home.

“It seems that the gods’ virtues are suited to the lands of their people. It just leads to a fancy of mine, that perhaps the lands were changed by the thinking of the gods, or by the people they led. Perhaps even the gods were changed by the needs of the people they served.”
The air is turning colder, and the vegetation is less lush and more hardy than deeper in the Woodlands. They’re nearing the snowfields surrounding Flamesgrace.
Olberic bows his head, and feels a little thrill in his chest at Cyrus’ answering hum, gratified at having provoked the scholar into thought.
“The next time we pass through Atlasdam, we must go to the Archives. I can’t help but wonder if this angle of theology has been expounded on.” Cyrus’ expression darkens slightly, “Or at least, I wonder if the Headmaster has allowed anyone to expound on this, or if exploring the relationship between man and god is as heretical as believing that knowledge is for the people.”

Olberic knows well enough not to press this point with Cyrus. The man is a veritable fount of amity and benign interest for the most part, so to inspire such sourness in him is a difficult task.
But their conversation has distracted them, and having entered the snowfields proper, their luck in avoiding encounters has run out. The bear that has bounded out of the frozen brush at them is towering at well over eight feet, backed by reptilian monsters clutching spears and polearms. Olberic steps swiftly in front of Cyrus, planting his feet wide apart and drawing his sword and shield. He can hear the ruffle of pages behind him as Cyrus thumbs through his tomes, searching for the right incantation.

It takes only a moment for Olberic to slip into his familiar rhythm, parrying blows and batting away swinging claws and paws with his sword. He knows what Cyrus is waiting for, so he starts forward, and breaks down the creatures’ defences with a series of well-placed attacks. He digs his boots into the snow and springs backwards, stumbling gracelessly past Cyrus as he stands with one arm outstretched, mouth already moving -
The inferno is little more than a tower of blazing heat. Cyrus isn’t an experienced fighter, but he is powerful, so restraint isn’t a strength of his. That’s clear enough when Olberic gets a distinct whiff of singed hair.

When the roar of flames has subsided, and the air is alive only with the hiss of still-melting snow, they start again on their journey. They plan to meet Alfyn and Therion in Flamesgrace, the pair having just split from Primrose and H’aanit in Stillsnow. Olberic doesn’t know for what reason H’aanit and Primrose have set off alone, but chances are they’ll be grouping up with Tressa and Ophilia further south, in the Coastlands. None of their group are too happy with making such dangerous journeys in lone pairs, though they do tend to naturally fall into little couples. Olberic finds himself wondering how himself and Cyrus are perceived by the other travelers. He’s not sure he wants to know.

Chapter Text

In all his time, Olberic’s noticed a few things about people. One, as he watches Alfyn bounding towards them through the narrow, slippery streets of Flamesgrace, is how childrens’ instincts are often better than those of adults. The young boys and girls crowding around him, bringing him little gifts of smooth stones and flowers, are a reflection on his nature. Ophilia’s the same. Both are good with children, but more than that, the little ones look to them for comfort and safety. If one tried to bring up how Olberic’s become a role model for quite a few Cobbleston kids, he would brush it off, but the trust he has in the unclouded eyes of youth is unshakeable.

What those eyes see is that Alfyn and Ophilia are both clear through, like a pool of spring water. Olberic knows that that’s why Therion, who’s trudging through the snow in Alfyn’s wake and making heavy weather out of looking disdainful and put-upon, is so close to him.
“Ho, travelers!” Olberic catches Therion roll his eyes at Cyrus’ call. “Have you been in town long?”
“Oh, barely!” Alfyn skids to a stop at the town gate, his friendly smile ever-present. “We only just had time to check in at the inn and ask around the town a little. We didn’t know if you’d arrived yet, you see.”
“We had time for you to gather an entourage of infants.” Therion says mutinously, eyeing the children with suspicion. “Didn’t you ever hear of the Pied Piper? This doesn’t end well.”
“Aw, I was just showing them a few tricks with flatgrass! I guess growing up in the Riverlands, you tend to assume everyone knows how to grass whistle. I forget it’s a novelty for other folk!”
Olberic can see Cyrus is itching to go and see the cathedral, so he speaks up.
“Alfyn, have you been to the cathedral yet? Cyrus has some business with the clergy there.”
Yes, business like talking their ear off about the history of the Kindling, as if they don’t already know. But Therion’s caught his drift.
“Oh, remember Ophilia said she was raised there. You might get to meet her family.”
That does it.

The tavern is warm and crowded - any well-heated public place is, in the Frostlands. Olberic and Therion have tucked themselves into a corner. Therion’s factual, if sharp-tongued, account of their journey puts Ophilia and Tressa halfway to Noblecourt by now, though if they have any sense they’ll stop in Atlasdam and Tressa will hire some help. It’s a difficult path, and neither are heavy hitters, offensively. Usually, following the necessary discussion of travel logistics, Olberic would be more than happy to allow Therion the drink in silence he’s always denied. Tonight, however, something compels him to down a bit more ale than usual, and his tongue has loosened. Therion’s tipped off by the giggling.
“What’s got you so tickled?”
“Ahaha… I was just thinking, on the way through the flats. How amusing it must be…”
“I don’t know what it is about drinking that makes you so easily entertained, but it’s incredibly disturbing.”
“With everyone in their little pairs, what must you think of Cyrus and I?”
Therion raises his eyebrows.
“What do you want me to say? It’s a good thing he has someone keeping him from getting himself killed out there. Or keeping other people from killing him, as is more likely. Your patience rivals Ophilia’s.”
“He is… divisive, I suppose.” Olberic takes a deep sip from his tankard, suddenly solemn.
“That kind of personality is either endearing or alienating. For most, it’s the latter.”
Olberic remains silent. Perhaps motivated by the ale himself, Therion finds himself probing a little further.
“Do you think it endearing?”
“I suppose I do. And you?”
Therion chokes. “Cyrus?”
“No. Alfyn.”
Therion curses himself for opening up this avenue of conversation.
“You act as if his behaviour alienates you, but it is clearly the opposite…”
“Is that so.”
“You find him charming. He’s a good man, open and honest, with a great many virtues to his name. I must admit… I don’t see why you strive to deny it so.”
“Think as you like, Olberic. You’re drunk.”
Therion has the distinct feeling of a man drowning at sea, and the way Olberic’s only response is to raise his eyebrows knowingly only makes it that much worse.
“In any case, he cares for you deeply. I shouldn’t squander that, if I were you.”

“Look who’s talking.”

A crowded inn, on short notice in a busy town. Olberic and Therion had drunkenly realised their horrible blunder at the same, awful moment. A sobering realisation, as it were.
Especially when both are sharing their respective beds with the alleged object of their affections, who are quite sober and have a distinct smell of … church incense? lingering about them still.
But in truth the effects of the alcohol have passed, and what keeps Olberic awake is instead Therion’s last remark before the other two returned to the tavern. The implication - the outright statement, by Therion’s dodgy standards - that Olberic himself is cared for by Cyrus. It’s laughable, is what it is, though Olberic finds himself humourless. He doesn’t doubt the scholar has a fondness for him - as he does for all their companions, as he has a general fondness for people in general - but it would be cruel to think himself apart from the rest.

No good could come of it. One thing which seems abundantly clear to all but Cyrus, in any case, is that the man has no idea how to identify romantic interest, whether it’s directed at him or whether he’s unintentionally wooing hapless bystanders.

Damn Therion. It should be a sentence of capital punishment for giving a man false hope. And, he realises belatedly, particularly so when it was simply a maneuver to direct attention from his own romantic woes. Devious.

He must have fallen asleep at some point in his fretting - which isn’t like him, usually, it’s been a long while since he’s been caught up in matters of the heart - because he wakes in the twilight, dawn a long while yet to come. It is twilight, the night air timeless, the world stilled. Cyrus is warm next to him, snoring softly. If he tries, he can even hear what he fancies to be Alfyn’s snores through the wall of the next room. And for now, he doesn’t think of past heartbreak, or future dismay, he simply thinks of love, and how much he would brave to experience it again. If that requires honesty, or bluntness, or courage - he is known for it. Right now, in the dark, he just wishes to try.

Chapter Text

Alfyn’s a morning person. Therion is not, particularly when his hangover is this bad. Olberic had hastened to make good his escape once morning came. When Cyrus sleepily hauls himself out of bed and pads downstairs, the inn’s lobby is a mixed bag.
Usually, the group likes to make the most of Cyrus’ tired state to enjoy his silence. It’s admittedly rare, and had come to a great surprise to Tressa when she put two and two together and realised that the professor is almost completely nonfunctional shortly after waking and late at night. Olberic would say it’s cute, the way he rubs his eyes and silently lays his head on the sticky, stained inn table, but that’s Olberic’s cross to bear.

But no such tranquility lasts long, particularly when Alfyn comes out of the kitchen smiling wide, a borrowed glass full of some concoction in hand. He places it in front of Therion, (who’s been doing a fantastic impression of a dead man up to now) and slaps him heartily on the back, eliciting a sympathetic wince from the professor.
“Hangover cure!”
Therion mumbles something that may have been a thanks or a curse, it’s hard to tell, and downs the mixture with grim determination.
“You need one too, prof? I don’t remember you drinking last night!”
“Ah… no thank you, Alfyn. It takes me a little while to… adjust, in the morning -”
Cyrus cuts himself off with a stifled yawn, and grumbles a little. He’s never enjoyed being interrupted, particularly by himself. Olberic clears his throat with a rumble.
“So, Alfyn, I trust you and Cyrus had a good time at the cathedral last night? I’m afraid Therion and I were preoccupied...”
“It was most enlightening.” Cyrus murmurs. “Even just the history of the building itself…” He trails off.
“He’s bored himself to sleep for once.” Therion grins.
“Easy to see how Ophilia grew up such a kind person, with a family like that! Of course, they’re her foster family, but your family’s whoever raises you, I think. Take Meryl, from my village - right before I left, I heard she’d been scooped out the river as a babe! But no matter where she goes, her folks’ll be her folks.”
“Mm.” Olberic finds his mind straying to a little boy in search of a father.
“ ...under Aelfric, and the Kindling suffering such an inauspicious start…”
“Is he awake or asleep?”
“I honestly can’t tell.”
Olberic chuckles, and tucks into his breakfast.

Once they’ve all recuperated slightly, arrangements are made for their journey to Noblecourt, to meet Ophilia and Tressa and perhaps Primrose and H’aanit too, though more likely they’ll continue down towards Rippletide and meet them there. There’s a suggestion of stopping by Atlasdam, but Cyrus isn’t keen on revisiting just yet, given the circumstances of his sabbatical.
“I’m still determined to research that idea of yours, Olberic. Don’t you worry.”
“Oh yes, Olberic, not to worry.” Therion winks. The warrior’s sword arm itches.

The sun would have been considerably higher in the sky over Flamesgrace by the time they set off, were the sun ever visible in the Frostlands. Gathering provisions had taken a while, as had replacing battered armour and weapons, and not least extricating Alfyn from a crowd of the town’s youth, who were sad to see him go. At least Cyrus was fully awake, and Therion’s headache had long since cleared.

Olberic finds himself watching the way Alfyn meanders along the path, Therion always a few steps ahead or behind. He’s never far from Therion’s watchful eye, but it’s not controlling - instead a kind of fierce, protective care. For his part, Alfyn is far from oblivious. He pulls Therion close to him when he laughs, watches him with twinkling eyes. Olberic would be lying if he didn’t feel a little envious. But then Cyrus sighs and leans his head on Olberic’s arm, and they slow to keep pace with one another, saying nothing, and it doesn’t seem so bad after all.

The sun sets soon - the days are short here. Therion lights a campfire, Alfyn gathers firewood, Olberic sets up the camp itself and Cyrus sorts through their provisions.

Alfyn talks happily, easily relating stories from his hometown that have Olberic snorting into his food, that have Therion burying his nose in his scarf to hide a smile. The fire burns lower and lower, spitting sparks into the night air, filling the windy quiet with crackles and snaps and shiftings of kindling. Cyrus is nodding off again - like Ophilia, heavy magic use causes him physical fatigue, and he's a heavy sleeper by nature. A more cynical group would perhaps be irritated at how he's never able to keep watch, but when a person reduces a horde of slavering ratkin to ash in a matter of seconds, some things are let slide.
Alfyn takes first watch. He's taken pity on poor Olberic, since the professor fell asleep slumped against him about an hour ago, and not hell nor high water would compel him to rouse the other man. Therion seems restless, curled up like a cat in his bedroll, firelight reflected in one lazy eye. Olberic's only seen Therion's other eye once, in the midst of battle. The younger man had been knocked backwards, and as Olberic had stepped in to shield him he'd seen Ophilia's light magic reflected disconcertingly in a milky white, unseeing eye.
But there's a low, melodic humming from where Alfyn's keeping watch, and it puts Olberic in mind of a lullaby.

The route skirting Atlasdam is largely unmarked and not often used. Perhaps this is why the monsters in this area, where the Frostlands meet the Flatlands, are not as exhaustively documented as a wary traveler might like. Cyrus seems to be enjoying correcting the area's wildlife records, at least, so it's not a total loss. The problem, of course, is that a particular species of monster can catch a group completely unprepared.

Which is, of course, exactly what happens. Of course! Why not, as Therion says, aiming a dagger at the beast's wing joint. It's a Frostwing Serpent, as Cyrus informs them, studying it for weaknesses, though how it got this far south is anyone's guess. Apparently, they're usually found between Stillsnow and Northreach, and are generally considered to be nasty bastards. Although, Cyrus did add that last part as the thing's talons slashed a book from his hands. The group has been focusing on the serpent's wings, trying to ground it, while Cyrus calls down a constant barrage of magic from the heavens.

Now, Olberic has a twist in his gut. It's bad news, for a warrior, and one who trusts his instincts - instincts well-honed through a thousand battles. He can feel that something is about to happen, so he's been cautious, covering for his teammates and keeping up ranged attacks with his spears.

Something not often noted is that to use magic, a user has to voice their incantations. Some mages can, with great concentration, cast a spell without making a sound, but to do so in battle is unheard of. The pressure is too much, the time too short. So, some beasts in particular have learned to use this to their advantage, and prime among them is the Frostwing Serpent. Its talons are deadly, sharp and curved, and it rips at the throat, silencing a single hapless victim and inflicting terrible damage in one fell swoop, rendering them incapable of making a single sound, much less recite an incantation.

So, no-one sees it coming, but the beast shrieks and dives, and Cyrus tumbles backwards but appears alert, and Olberic swings his heavy sword into the thing's thin chest, feels ribs splinter and collapse as it is knocked back into the snow. When he looks back to Cyrus, he's getting to his feet, one hand held up to his chest and the other gripping his staff. Olberic advances on the downed monster with his sword raised, and decapitates it with one sure swing. He turns back to the group. He sees Therion looking at him with one eye wide. He sees Alfyn crouched by Cyrus in the snow, where he can now see droplets of scarlet staining the white about them. He sees Alfyn coax Cyrus’ hand from where he's been clutching at his throat, and he sees blood spill down the scholar's crisp, clean clothes. And he sees Cyrus try to speak, and not a sound come out.