Chapter Text
The climate of the Highlands afforded them with murky grey skies and deep fog settling comfortably amongst the hilltop. The air was heavy and cloying with the threat of rain, each warning drop of water falling upon Tressa’s nose prompting a plea to whichever gods governed the rains to hold off just that bit longer, her voice echoing plainly off the stacked stone cliffs guiding them up toward Stonegard. If I were a god, Therion thought irritably, I’d dump an entire month’s worth of rain on the girl just for talking back. But it seemed the gods would indeed be merciful today. At least, in matters of the weather, for all that was worth to him.
He led the group alongside Cyrus, one hand resting anxiously on his dagger where it sat in the sheathe under his arm, concealed beneath his heavy poncho. There was little to be seen but the sickly, barren trees and jagged cliffsides, blurred and indistinguishable by the fog that sat immovable on the landscape, stubbornly clinging like a veil to keep their pursuer out of sight.
H’aanit had been the one to inform him of their unwanted company, shortly after their hasty departure from Wellspring. He’d been dismissive about it.
‘As if we haven’t been jumped by bandits before? It’ll end the way it always does,’ He had said drily. ‘With a few arrows, a dagger in the back and Linde with a full belly.’
H’aanit’s neutral expression drifted ever so slightly towards a frown.
‘Thou thinkest this a game.’
‘I thinkest you’re being overly cautious. There’s eight of us, and one of them.’
‘That we have seen.’
‘Could be a dozen and we’d be fine. We’ve fought a dragon, H’aanit.’
‘’Tis not numbers nor surprisen Olberic and I fear. They hath ben tracking us for a half moon, and have made nary a move.’
That caught Therion’s ear. Half a moon ago was – Quarrycrest. He couldn’t possibly have remained ignorant to being followed for so long, and he told H’aanit as much.
‘’Tis truth that thou hast a hunter’s eyes. I have ben honoured to beholden this throughout our training.’ She smiled lightly, eyeing the bow now strung across his back.
She’d been intensely skeptical of his sincerity when Therion had inquired into apprenticing himself to her, assuming it was some form of long-term japery he was engaging in, and likewise he wasn’t sure he’d be able to tolerate her strict lessons. With time, however, H’aanit had quickly become his preferred company among their group. Whilst that was hardly a feat given the competition, he appreciated her straightforward manner and aversion to small talk. While he would never have the way with beasts she did, he’d begun to enjoy the more pragmatic tricks the hunters possessed. He’d the natural instinct for it, and H’aanit’s instruction had sharpened his senses to a fine, deadly point. But apparently, he’d missed the mark nonetheless. He knew perfectly well why, and in vain hoped H’aanit hadn’t puzzled it out herself.
‘Thou hast ben of wandering mind since the black market.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, unaffected.
‘Mayhap,’ she said, eyeing the way he folded his arms defensively across himself. ‘But we are in neede of thy full attention; Cyrus asken for thy watchful eye as we approachen Stonegard.’
‘Albright wants a personal guard now?’ He sneered.
‘Our pursuer first appeared as we departed Quarrycrest,’ she said impatiently. ‘Olberic was first to spyen them. ‘Tis like to be they wishen harm upon Cyrus, specifically.’
‘Maybe you should ask Alfyn, he’s more than happy to take an arrow for just about anyone,’
H’aanit rolled her eyes with such vigour to rival even Therion’s practiced exasperation. Maybe he’d taught her a few things, too.
‘Alfyn does not know. Nor Ophelia or Tressa. We are concerned that too many wary eyes may giveth away that we are wise to their presence.’
‘And Primrose? She and Albright get along just fine, disgraced nobles and all, and she’s got more up her sleeve than me.’
‘She knoweth, but is shaken, though she insisten otherwise. ‘Tis a frustrating trait thou art like to share.’ It was Therion’s turn to roll his eyes, at that. ‘I hesitate to placen her in the way of harm.’ She grimaced. ‘Or in the way of the Cyrus’s bids to raisen her spirits. I fear that may be a greater danger to his own hide that whoever stalken him.’
‘Oh, but I’m just fine to be his meat shield. Your favouritism towards dearest Lady Azelhart is showing.’ Therion huffed, feeling more guilt than satisfaction when a blush spread across H’aanit’s cheeks. The usually even line of her mouth crinkled toward an unpleasant snarl.
‘I asken only because Cyrus trusten thee. I fear that thou are not thyself after our encounter with that vile thief but--’
‘I told you, I’m fine,’ he said curtly. It was even less convincing the second time.
She hesitated, drawing a deep breath and composing herself once more. Probing eyes tried to meet Therion’s own, and he cast them aside toward where the others had begun to pack up their camp, still groggy and less than enthused for the lengthy trek up into the Highlands. Tressa loathed to leave the coast behind, watching merchant ships fade away distantly over the horizon. Olberic, gentle giant he was, placed a hand on her shoulder and appeared to speak some reassurances to her. Ophilia and Alfyn rolled up the last of the bedrolls, whilst Primrose basked alone, effortlessly stunning even while brooding. When Therion’s gaze finally found Cyrus, standing blatantly apart from the group, Cyrus in turn quickly turned his gaze away from the two of them, seeming to have been watching their hushed conversation for some time. He stiffly speed-walked over to where Olberic and Tressa were, beginning a conversation too suddenly and too loudly, startling the two of them and earning a smack on the arm from the homesick brat.
H’aanit too watched, and shook her head. ‘Cyrus wolde be comforted by your sharp reflexes, shoulde Obleric or myself fail to prevent an attack on him. But if thou art insistent I ask another, thou art welcome to say.’
He was welcome to laugh in her face, suggest that maybe if Cyrus kept his head down and considered a little before throwing himself into matters of the blatantly occult, he wouldn’t be in this situation at all. Perhaps then he would have the upper-class of Atlasdam to rely on, and would not have to stoop so low as to court a thief’s aid – aid which he wouldn’t even ask for personally, the coward.
‘Whatever,’ he said instead, and H’aanit had come to understand that this would be as close to an enthused yes as she would get. She placed a hand upon her chest and bowed her head gratefully.
‘I will letten him know. I thankest thee, Therion. I wolde not asken were it not urgent.’
Thus Therion ended up at the front of the march, soles sluggishly dragging along the now gravel-ridden paths just behind a purposeful Cyrus. The breeze fluttering the edges of his mantle and half cape coupled with his intent, graceful stride left him the picture of elegance, rejuvenated and confident now they were back on the trail of his pet mystery. It was a shame he spoiled the whole spectacle by humming a strange tune, loudly and completely off-key. But he wasn’t speaking, and that was odd. The fog seemed to thicken around them, and the urge to break the silence sat like an itch atop the column of Therion’s spine.
‘Thinking about Stonegard?’ Therion finally said, voice sounding ridiculously tight as he realised he’d been holding his breath.
‘Among other things.’ He said absently, keeping his eyes forward, but he mercifully stopped humming.
It was not uncommon for Therion to catch Cyrus burning the midnight oil, but it always seemed as if his whirring thoughts carried the weight of his exhaustion. Yet there was a weariness in his voice, which didn’t match the purposeful way he strode through the trails leading ever upwards.
Not that that was a bad thing. A quiet Cyrus made for a more tolerable Cyrus. And yet, it unsettled him.
‘Are you faring well?’ Cyrus said evenly. A simple question, if a loaded one. Cyrus was not with them at the black market, and Therion had been grateful for it, but secrets were hard to keep around this group. Primrose and H’aanit had been sympathetic, and both knew better than to bring it up, for the most part. Alfyn, on the other hand, went and none-too-discreetly babbled about everything he’d seen to just about everyone. Therion liked the guy well enough – they’d been drinking together more than once. More often after Wellspring, and maybe too often after Saintsbridge. But he had a loose tongue, and a soft, misguided heart. It had taken no small effort to not marathon all the way back to Bolderfall when he’d wandered blearily into the tavern that night, to be met with seven pairs of glassy, worried eyes and a litany of are you alright Therion, you can talk to us and what happened to you?
Cyrus, strangely, had remained quiet, apparently just well socialized enough to know he probably wasn’t going to be a balm on Therion’s mind at the time. All he’d had to offer was a tight, regretful little smile, that appeared almost apologetic.
‘You don’t have to answer,’ Cyrus said reassuringly, when he didn’t respond.
‘I’m just peachy,’ he bit out, unconvincingly. He asked himself when he became so awful at this, but he knew exactly when, the exact moment it all started pouring out of him like a swollen, cracking dam, a near decade of carefully cultivated indifference withering the moment his partner stepped into the torchlight. He folded his arms across his chest, as if he might stem the flow of sentiment in some hopeless way.
‘That being said,’ Cyrus began, voice turning chipper and encouraging, seemingly oblivious toward Therion’s prickly tone, ‘If you would like to—‘
Therion held up a hand instinctively, and Cyrus, to his surprise, stopped immediately. He folded his hands in front of himself timidly, not unlike a scolded student.
‘Of course,’ Cyrus said simply, and left it at that.
The agonizing silence refused to pass. The fog yet rested steadfast among the hills. Cyrus was being absurdly agreeable, minding himself and displaying restraint seldom seen by any of them. He’d grown accustomed to their barbed exchanges – more barbed on his behalf, perhaps. He couldn’t recall a word of insult from Cyrus. More pedantic, but well-intentioned debate, that might lead to unintentional offense. But he’d always entertained Therion’s teasing, occasionally asked questions on his superstitions, or inclined towards a few lessons in thieves’ cant. Safe, vague inquiries that never lead anywhere uncomfortable, which seemed inverse of how he tended to go about gathering information from everybody else. Given the number of times Therion had to quietly pass a few thousand leaves across the sticky counter of the local tavern to pay for reparations of the man’s reputation, he wished this less invasive side of Cyrus were not afforded to him alone.
‘I appreciate your willingness to remain by my side,’ Cyrus said suddenly, tilting his head with a thoroughly sincere and disarming smile.
‘Uh,’ Therion said articulately, once again drawn out of his thoughts too quickly to say much else.
‘I know it’s not convenient! I appreciate that you would prefer your own company, or perhaps that of H’aanit or Alfyn – that did surprise me, if I am honest. I wondered if his unique concept of personal space might be too much for you. ‘
‘Unique,’ Therion struggled against a smile. ‘That’s one way of putting it. You’ve been a victim of more than one bear hug, I’m guessing,’ he said, forcing his voice flat.
Cyrus’s wide eyed, distressed expression confirmed as much. Therion snorted and shook his head, burying it deeper into his scarf. Sun broke through the now thinning clouds, and began to dispel the weighty grey cloak from the mountain’s shoulders.
‘You could probably tell him to hold back,’ Therion said, ‘It might break his heart though, and the girls will likely beat the hells out of you for that.’
‘I could never,’ Cyrus mused. ‘At the very least, should he happen to break anything anatomically important, I can at least be sure he’ll know how to fix it.’
Therion hummed in agreement.
‘As for H’aanit – well, she’s trained you spectacularly.’ He continued. ‘You’re truly breathtaking on the field.’
Therion shoved his hands into his pocket and shrugged, letting the compliment roll off his shoulders ineffectually. It didn’t take much to impress Cyrus, so his praise had become trite with time. Still, the word breathtaking seemed to stick heavily in his throat.
‘I’m alright,’ he said. ‘Stuff comes natural, I guess.’
‘Come now, you’re an appropriately skilled apprentice for her. I wouldn’t possess half the dexterity required to commit the feats you have.’
‘I can’t exactly shoot lightning out of my fingertips, so you have me on that one.’
‘I’ve witnessed you conjure fire,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m sure you possess the flair for the arcane as well.’
‘What’s your point?’ he said harshly. Cyrus flinched, pulling his mantle across his chest defensively. Therion fixed him with an interrogatory stare, trying to puzzle out his intent. Honeyed praise and careful questions always came with a price, and he felt some old habitual paranoia creeping up his spine. What did a man like Cyrus possibly want from him?
‘Nothing,’ he said, looking forward again. ‘I merely wished to point out that you are a talented man. My apologies if it came across as patronising.’
‘Oh,’ Therion averted his gaze, scanning his eyes across pale greens and greys that seemed to bleed into each other.
It hadn’t been patronising, just unnecessary – Therion knew he was good at what he did, compliments only served to lower his guard, flatter him just so. Still, the way Cyrus fidgeted uncomfortably beside him was almost even more insufferable than the loaded flattery.
‘Thanks,’ he said quietly, his gut untwisting slightly as he felt Cyrus relax somewhat beside him.
‘No thanks required,’ he said softly, seemingly appeased.
The fog broke, finally, as they crested the height of the mountains and the grand, aged steps leading to lower Stonegard. Therion glanced back, eyeing H’aanit as she trailed far behind with Olberic. Their last encounter here had been unpleasant, to say the least, and he quietly admonished himself for antagonising her as they had approached the valley. It was no wonder she was so much less receptive to his attitude – returning here must dredge up harsh memories. She was a stoic woman, but seeing one’s greatest friend in such a state would shake anyone. She met his eyes, and there must have been something piteous in his stare as she smiled softly and nodded reassuringly.
Cyrus turned his gaze forward about the same time Therion did, quite obviously observing Therion himself.
‘You need to get better at that,’ Therion challenged. Cyrus straightened out his shoulders, laughing sheepishly. ‘Some fellows would gut you for staring too long.’
‘Quite right. My apologies.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ His hand came away from his dagger. With Stonegard so close, and cursory glance around, it didn’t seem their pursuer planned to make themselves known now. ‘Just hope she’s doing well. Wouldn’t do to have more wandering minds.’
‘We’ve certainly got more than enough of those, myself included. Again, I know this is not ideal, but I am grateful for your assistance.’ His lowered his voice some. ‘Though it appears we are in the clear, as it were.’
Therion nodded. ‘It’s fine. Certainly beats listening in on whatever painfully dull conversations Tressa and Alfyn are having.’
‘Oh, they’re not so terrible,’
‘To the painfully dull, I suppose not,’
Cyrus pulled a sardonic smile at that, shaking his head and sighing theatrically.
‘By the grace of Alephan,’ he said warmly. ‘Almost an entire conversation before you gave in to the urge to insult me. One might call that an improvement.’
Therion couldn’t help huffing out a laugh.
‘I’m a simple man, with a simple need to take shots at every velvet-clad noble I see. ‘Fraid you’re going to be in the crossfire for some time still.’
Therion brushed past him nonchalantly, already climbing the steps. Perhaps he could sneak in a bit of thieving before the rest of their do-gooder companions could catch him in the act. He could use the alone time after that awkward string of conversations.
‘Oh heavens,’ Cyrus mourned loudly at his back. ‘Am I doomed to an eternity of mockery, then? Have the gods punished me with this lavender-cloaked tormentor?’
‘Lavender,’ Therion cringed, and the sound of Cyrus’s laughter followed him as he drifted into Stonegard.