Work Text:
25th Day of the Wyvern Moon
1187
There is no space for their wyverns to land in the small Almyran village. The streets are narrow and the alleyways narrower- to keep out the heat and dust storms, a far-off part of Cyril's mind helpfully supplies. It's been doing that ever since he and Claude- no, Khalid had passed the jagged mountain range that separates Almyra from its neighbour. Tiny little snippets of a life long gone worm their way into his head, and he isn't sure he likes it.
They settle their wyverns on the outskirts of the village instead, letting them rest in the shade of the buildings. Cyril is accustomed to heat, but still he feels the sweat that drips down his neck and pools uncomfortably in the rim of his shirt. He can only imagine how Khalid feels in his capes and padded cavalry pants. He raises his waterskin to his lips for the dozenth time and lets Khalid take the lead down the sand-dusted street.
He feels eyes on him, also for the dozenth time, and glares so that Khalid will know to look away. This 'surprise' is supposed to be for Cyril- one that he never asked for, and honestly feels quite inconvenienced by- but Khalid is the one who can barely keep still, a hundred and one words threatening to spout from him with each step. Cyril would've thought (and hoped) that Khalid's newfound responsibilities as the Almyran king-to-be would've tempered his childlike curiosity. If anything, the power has gone to his head, making him even harder to predict.
Cyril sighs, and distracts himself from his own grouching by taking in the scenery around him. Almyran architecture is a far cry from Fódlan's: where Garreg Mach had square towers and pointed spires, here the roofs are smooth and domed; the walls are thick to keep out the heat, and lacking the windows that welcome sunrays into every Fódlan home; the only wood in sight has been used to make the doorways, all of which are adorned with tilework depicting the Almyran language. It's all irritatingly familiar, like an itch that he can't quite reach. Cyril had been no older than five the last time he'd been in a village like this. These rooftops must have loomed over him then. Had he ever felt small, or scared? He can't really remember, but he doesn't think so.
"Here it is." The building that Khalid presents to him looks little different from its neighbours. The tilework here has been done in a deep green, and the words are ones that Cyril can't read; he hasn't read Almyran in a long time, and even then he could only parse it as well as any young child could. The language here is poetic, probably with a significance that Cyril doesn't understand. He stares at the words and at the door for what feels like a long time, but nothing stirs in his breast. No sense of excitement or wonder. He doesn't even feel nervous. It's not right to feel so cold inside, is it?
After all, this is supposed to be his new home.
Khalid waits until Cyril shakes himself from his reverie and then hands him the key to the door. He fingers the metal uncertainly before he places it in the lock, the door opening with a quiet creak when Cyril presses on it. He is assaulted first with the scent of dust and then something pleasant underneath it, something fruity. He follows his nose through the octagonal entranceway and down one of the narrow corridors. Already he feels lost; this place is a mere fraction the size of Garreg Mach, which was adorned with so many passageways that even veteran clergymen often found themselves going down the wrong direction. But Cyril had known it all like the back of his hand, and he's not sure he's ready to scrub the memory away and replace it with a new one.
He's surprised to find that the corridor doesn't lead to a room, but rather opens out again into a courtyard. Here were the plants offering such delectable smells, which Cyril could decipher now: figs and grapes and pomegranates, interwoven with the fragrancy of flowers. They are set in two tidy rows that lead to a small pond, an errant leaf skimming its otherwise pristine surface. Likely Khalid had given this place a cursory cleaning before introducing Cyril to it- his ineptitude with housework explains the dust that's still present. Cyril makes his way over to the pond, noticing now the row of five windows that look into the courtyard. That's right, the windows of Almyran homes usually faced inward to keep out dust and noise from the streets. He remembers now being a child and counting the blots of red stained glass, then green, then blue...
Cyril remembers, too, how he would splash about in their pond, his mother chiding him while his father laughed. The water was to wash the fruit and their faces, not to play in! Cyril feels a smile tug at his lips, even as his heart twinges in pain. He kneels down to fish out the leaf. The water is pleasantly cool against his fingertips.
"You'd never think that we're creeping up on winter." Cyril flinches, having forgotten that he wasn't alone. He turns to see Khalid settled in one of the courtyard's cushioned seats, his eyes drinking in the luscious green foliage. "Only the greenhouse and the sauna could get this warm back at Garreg Mach."
The greenhouse, that's what this courtyard reminds Cyril of. But it's different in one important way: where the heat of the greenhouse had always felt stifling, here it was the opposite. Freeing, if Cyril had to describe it. He spots another seat away from Khalid and makes himself comfortable there- he knew that if he was even slightly friendly then Khalid would take it and run a mile. "Even if the cold sucks, I'd rather spend the winter back in Fódlan."
"And you're more than welcome to." Khalid offers him his usual annoying smirk. "This is a house, not a prison cell. You're free to leave whenever you want."
He's dodging the point, as always. Cyril huffs. "It barely even counts as a house if I'm not gonna use it."
"You haven't even taken the full tour and you're already writing it off?"
"I already told ya- I don't want to live here. Everyone I know is back in Fódlan. My whole life is back there."
"Back in a country that you despise?" And there it is, the steel in Khalid's eyes that he masks with his merriment. His persona is stronger with Cyril than it is with anyone else- it's unnerving to be reminded of the cunning mind underneath.
"I don't have any love for Fódlan, but I wouldn't say I hate it..."
Khalid puts an elbow on each knee and then rests his chin atop his interwoven knuckles. "You say you have your whole life back in Fódlan. Putting aside your friends, what do you mean by that?"
Cyril opens his mouth. He closes it. A place to sleep. Food. A job. None of those are things that he also couldn't find here. Lady Rhea. Not anymore. And he knew now that it hadn't been her that he'd cherished so deeply, but the freedom and safety that she'd provided. "Aren't friends enough of a reason to stay?" he counters weakly.
Khalid at least has the decency not to smile at him triumphantly, instead only cocking his head. "I think one of the most important things that a person can have is a place to call their own. It doesn't have to be a house- it could be a bedroom, a library, a resting spot up in a tree... just somewhere that is special to them, and them alone."
"And you think this is gonna be my special place?" Cyril frowns. "I didn't even know it existed until you told me it was mine. It doesn't mean anything to me."
Khalid chuckles. "Of course it doesn't. And maybe you'll never come to like this place, in which case I'll happily take back the key and pass it on to someone else who needs it. But for now? This place is yours. It's up to you, and you alone, what you do with it."
His words are persuasive, as they always are, but Cyril isn't convinced. What right does Khalid even have to make such big changes in Cyril's life? Why can't he just stick to his own business? He's always been weirdly invested in being Cyril's friend, even though Cyril had never shared the sentiment. That feeling had only grown once he'd learned of Khalid's true heritage. Why was the crown prince so interested in a servant boy with no future? It didn't make any sense.
Quizzing Khalid on his motivations is likely just going to leave Cyril even more confused. And that's assuming Khalid didn't just deflect the questions like he usually did. He's such a pain to deal with. Cyril sighs. "Okay, whatever, but why is it in Almyra? I don't care about this place anymore than I do Fódlan, and flying between them all the time is gonna be a huge pain."
"What, you don't like spending time with your wyvern?" Khalid cocks his head further as he raises an open hand to his ear. "I think I hear her crying..."
"Ugh." Cyril rolls his eyes and turns his attention away from Khalid completely. He focuses instead on the garden's scent, carried to him on a light breeze. He can see the selfsame breeze ruffle the foliage, making the sunrays dance across the leaves. It's difficult for him to stay so riled when his surroundings are so beautiful. He finds himself relaxing against his will.
"'That's the thing about landscapes. The view is affected by the viewer's feelings.'" Cyril tenses at the familiar words. "A mutual friend of ours said that, right?"
He thinks about not replying, but he's too curious. "You've been talking with Ignatz?"
"The two of you had plans to come here, didn't you?" Cyril doesn't reply, but Khalid continues regardless. "You say you don't care about Almyra, but you haven't been here since you were young. I'm not going to lie and say it's a paradise- you and I both know that's far from the truth- but, well, maybe you'll be able to see it differently this time around? Especially since I'll be making sure that nothing bad happens to you."
Cyril finds himself going stiff again. He doesn't want anyone looking after him. He doesn't want to shoulder another burden of debt. Khalid has never once asked for anything in return, but it's only a matter of time. Cyril tells himself that it isn't true- that Khalid is his friend, and he's shown time and again that he doesn't harbour selfish motives- but the panic is quick to settle in Cyril's stomach and difficult to dispel.
He wants to be alone. He deserves to be alone.
"In any case, I didn't buy this place spur-of-the-moment. So the least you can do is feel it out before rebuffing it, don't you think?" Khalid winks and Cyril has to remind himself to respond. He's sure that Khalid has noticed his distress- Khalid notices a lot of things that he pretends he doesn't, and like all those times he simply observes Cyril rather than prying any further. Cyril isn't sure whether to feel grateful or insulted.
"Well, I hate to chat and run, but that's about all the time I can spare. There's meetings to be had and documents to be signed- unfortunately, I'm in charge of both." Khalid rises from his seat and stretches himself out with a pleased groan. Cyril had just been wishing to be left alone, yet a part of him is uncomfortable at the thought of it. "At least check out the rest of the house before you leave yourself, will you? Oh, and before I forget-"
He ducks down into one of the other corridors. He's away long enough for Cyril to start retreating back into his head, cultivating questions that he isn't sure he wants to know the answer to. By the time that Khalid returns, a small chest gripped between his hands, one of the questions has started to burn so bright that Cyril can't stop himself from blurting it out. "How will I even know if this place becomes special to me? How will I know that it's a home?"
He feels embarrassed the second that he says it, but there's no way for him to withdraw the words. Khalid pauses in his step, taking a moment to seriously consider his answer. "Well, I think 'home' means different things to different people. Raphael would tell you that his home is where a good meal and his baby sister is. And Leonie would probably say it's where you can recover after a long day's work."
That didn't make Cyril feel any less confused. "What about you?"
Khalid takes so long to respond that Cyril is sure for a moment that he won't. He probably wouldn't have if Cyril was anyone else. "My home is... somewhere where it's safe for me to be vulnerable, I guess."
He leaves Cyril little time to contemplate his answer, pushing the chest into the younger man's hands. He can hear things shift inside it with the movement. "Take some time to think about what a home might be for you. I'm sure the stuff in there will help." Cyril looks down at the mystery chest. When he looks back up, Khalid is by the corridor and looking back at him with eyes as warm as the Almyran air. "Happy Birthday Cyril."
He'd almost forgotten. His face flushes as Khalid departs, leaving him alone with his mess of emotions and whatever awaits him inside the chest. He places it down on the ground and kneels down next to it, so he has more space to work with, but takes a moment to relax before he opens it. Leaning back on his haunches, he raises his face to the sky and breathes in the calming explosion of fruity scents. He closes his eyes and feels the harsh sun beat down against his lids, his closed gaze alight in a brilliant orange.
It's okay that he is a little confused and angry and scared and... wistful? He is allowed to feel those things. He had spent much of the past few years teaching himself that.
Once he's calmed a little, Cyril turns his attention back to the box. There's nothing special about the exterior- but the same can be said for this house. The gorgeous courtyard, the stained glass windows, the stucco decoration, it is all kept inside. Its very own little world. It's a little appealing, when Cyril thinks of it like that.
He undoes the buckles and flicks away the leather bindings, pulling open the lid without further delay. A menagerie of knick-knacks greets him, a letter set atop them all grabbing his attention first. His name is scrawled on the front of it- he recognises the writing as Khalid's, though it looks a little simpler than his usual fare. A little easier to read. He opens the envelope, balks a little at the letter's length, and then slowly sets to it, reading the words aloud to ensure he is getting them right.
Cyril,
Let me start this off by saying how relieved I am that you finally gave in and told me your birthdate after what had to be months of nagging. Lady Rhea was the only other person I could think to ask, and it's not exactly the sort of thing that you set up an appointment with the archbishop for. But even knowing it back then, there was always too much happening for us to celebrate it properly. Now that the war is over, and we're (sort of) back to peaceful times, I'm happy to catch up with all the years that we missed.
Of course, I'm not the only one. I couldn't tell you what started it- I mentioned it to Raphael, maybe?- but soon I had all of Golden Deer knocking at my door with their contribut gifts to give. And a couple of people from outside the house too. I never knew you were so popular!
Cyril feels a lightness in his chest, but not an unpleasant one. He'd never thought of himself as having a lot of friends. 'Popular' is certainly not a word that had ever occurred to him.
There's a lot of things to go through, so I'll get right to it. The candleholder was a group project by Leonie, Raphael, and Hilda. Hilda was all in a tizzy, saying they should make you something 'cuter', but the other two thought you'd prefer something practical.
He picks out the gift in question. It's hard and off-white, likely made of bone. He can see where a rough hand has chipped away and then smoothed the base, and then where a gentler hand has etched swirling decorations into its sides. It's beautiful. He runs his finger along the engravings, losing himself in a daze. When had he last received a present? Let alone one made with such care. He brings it delicately to the ground and then continues:
Lysithea, of course, wanted to get you a book. As luck would have it, Hilda overheard and told us about Seteth writing a book of fables. Keep an eye out for the story about a chrysalis- from what Seteth told me, he took some inspiration from you.
Cyril brings the book onto his lap and flips through it, marvelling not only at the gorgeous illustrations, but at the writing borne from someone that he knew personally. And one of the stories is about him? It's a level of acknowledgement that he's never experienced before. He is already smiling when he notices the little scraps of parchment hidden between the pages; he recognises Lysithea's handwriting, and realises that they're notes explaining some of the more obtuse morals. He traces the swirls of her handwriting, remembering her face fondly, before he tucks the book next to the candlestick.
Petra was the one to get you the hunting dagger. She got me one too, in fact. I think she might be planning a hunting expedition with all three of us- it'll be interesting, if nothing else.
He finds the dagger protected in cloth. The blade is tapered with hide wrapped around the grip, the pommel made of ivory and carved into something resembling a bird. It's like nothing he's seen before, in either Fódlan or Almyra, and he finds himself captivated by it. Petra had been one of the first students to talk with him about the future. He remembers how staunch he'd been back then about everything remaining the same, and about his disinterest in returning to Almyra. Can he really say that he still feels the same now, after everything that has happened? It gives him pause for thought before he continues.
The gloves are also a joint gift, from Shamir and Ashe. I knew you were working as her apprentice, but you have Ashe as a friend too? Next you'll be telling me that the two of you and Bernadetta have an archer's club that you never invited me to.
The gloves aren't like the ones that Shamir uses. Rather, they're like the ones he always sees Leonie wear: the first three digits are covered, to give him protection when nocking the bow, with the ring and pinkie free to maintain flexibility. He picks one of them up to run a thumb over the leather and feels something hard inside it. Sewn into the wrist is a tiny plate of metal engraved with the letter 'C'. They're his gloves. Something that is special to him, and him alone. He's beginning to wonder if this barrage of gifts isn't part of one of Khalid's vaunted schemes.
The bags of tea are, surprise surprise, from Lorenz. He's as pretenti fancy as the sky is blue, but I will give it to him, his choice in tea isn't awful. That said, Professor Manuela also packed a few 'common' type that she thought you might like better.
Manuela had only spoken to him a handful of times, and he was pretty certain that she hadn't been listening for half of them. Yet she still cares enough about him to send a present? Lorenz also hadn't struck him as the gift-giving type, yet here were small bundles of delightful-smelling tea. The amount of thought and care given to him is starting to overwhelm Cyril. It's almost strong enough to drown out the voice telling him that he didn't do anything to deserve any of it.
I think you can figure out for yourself who the drawing is from. Take him to Almyra sometime- I could tell he was disappointed that I was going with you before him.
The scene that Ignatz has drawn is one that Cyril remembers well. The Golden Deer sat in the war room, discussing their strategy for the upcoming battle. Lysithea had suggested she remain on the back line, prompting Claude- Khalid to make a wisecrack about her being unable to see from back there. Raphael had offered his assistance, leading to the moment that Ignatz had captured so faithfully: Raphael hauling Lysithea onto his shoulders, Lysithea screaming with bright red cheeks, and the rest of the room caught between hysterics and confusion. And there he is, right next to Lysithea's empty seat, laughing harder than he ever had in his life. Cyril knows that Ignatz has painted the Deer dozens of times, that there were many paintings that were objectively more beautiful than this one. His laughter must have left an impression if this is the one that Ignatz chose to send.
The blanket is from Mercedes. Your connections continue to astound! I tried to tell her that a blanket was the last thing you'd be needing in Almyra, but she said it was the sentiment behind it that was important.
Of course, Mercedes had often been there to offer her company when he slept in the library. He can have a proper bed now, and he can wrap himself up in the thick cashmere blanket and remember fondly the woman he had come to regard as a big sister. Even if they were a country apart.
The last thing under the blanket is from me. I know you're not going to wear it, because you know it'd make me happy and you hate doing that. That's fine though: I don't think anyone can pull it off as well as I can.
He rolls his eyes and knows what the present is even before he reaches in to take it out. It doesn't have the same colours as Khalid's- green and brown instead of yellow and blue- but the material is still long enough to be wrapped and tucked around his head. Khalid is right that Cyril will never wear it in his company. That doesn't stop him from wasting a few minutes trying to keep it in place above his ears. It shames him to admit that his failure only makes him more determined to wear it.
That should be it all. I know that some pretty gifts can't make up for all the years that you weren't able to be happy- all those times that you couldn't be a kid when you deserved to be. What they can do is remind you of all the people that are in your life now. All the people who care about you, and want you to have a future where you're happy. I want to help you reach that future in any way I can. And not just you, but every Almyran kid that came before you and all the ones that have come since. It's the very least I can do- not just as the future king of Almyra, but as your friend. Your brother.
Take care of yourself,
Khalid von Riegan
Isn't that just like him, to make some blithe comment and then follow it up with a level of sincerity and compassion that Cyril is barely able to handle? He lowers the letter to the ground, covered now in presents from friends and acquaintances alike. He can't hear them now- the words that fill him with such dread and panic. And even if he could, how could he believe them when he's surrounded by evidence to the contrary?
He stays in that position for a while, until the midday sun stops beating down on him and the breeze across his face gets a little chillier. He looks up at the unfamiliar courtyard, the low-hanging fruit trees and small rectangular pond, the stucco decorated walls and the stained glass windows, and he doesn't feel anything new. This place is still just a house to him.
But this little circle around him, filled with well wishes and love? This is his home.