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Lysithea was tired. A bone-deep, world-weary sort of tired. War seemed to have that effect on her lately. She dragged her blood-and-mud-stained feet up from Gronder Field toward the encampment. Nearly all of her magical reserves were gone, leaving her wobbly as a newborn fawn. She hated showing weakness, hated the frailty that her body forced upon her. But today, she allowed herself to not feel shame over her exhaustion. Narrowly escaping death at least five times in one day may have tweaked her priorities. Lysithea prepared to stumble her way up the hill until a familiar shadow cast over her. Her furrowed brow softened at the sight.
He’d made it.
Cyril and his wyvern, Nasrin, glided gently down to land near her. Poor Nasrin had a few arrows stuck in her hide, but they had missed her membranous wings and vulnerable air bladders crucial for keeping her airborne.
“Glad to see you’re okay.” Cyril–her dear friend from a much simpler, happier time–leapt down gracefully from the saddle. His left sleeve–or what remained of the charred mess–fluttered as he jogged toward her. Her heart swelled at the sight of him: windswept, bruised, and battered but alive.
She smiled wanly. “Only on the outside.”
Cyril nodded. No further words were needed. “Need a lift back to camp?”
“I’ll only slow you down. Nasrin’s worked hard enough today,” she murmured, too tired to muster up a stronger rejection.
“You’re such a featherweight she’ll hardly notice.” Cyril paused, his tone more sincere now, less playful. “Besides, it’ll make me feel better knowin’ ya got back okay.”
Lysithea knew she was doomed the moment she looked him in the eye. He looked so earnest, so quietly hopeful. She could never say no to him, not when he asked so sweetly. “I suppose.” She held out her hand to him, and he graciously took it before boosting her up to Nasrin’s saddle. Effortlessly, he slid in behind her. Blearily, Lysithea welcomed the warmth of his torso against her back. Cyril had always been such a source of comfort for her. And during the war, she found herself drifting more and more to his side. He never condescended to her, never made her feel weak but always found ways to look out for her.
As Nasrin flew them back to camp, Lysithea found herself wishing for the distant, halcyon days of the Officer’s Academy. Her life was not free of worry back then. She still had her shortened lifespan and her territory’s weak position hanging over her head, but she was at least able to forget that for a time. Claude doting on her, teasing her in the library. Hilda sharing her perfume and teaching her how to style her hair for formal events. Desperately trying to get Felix to eat cake and admit that he’d been wrong about it. Lorenz finally treating her as a peer at the mock round table meeting they held in Rhetoric class. Teaching Cyril to read his grocery lists in the kitchen pantry, nibbling on apple tarts as they worked.
“Do ya ever wish things had been different?” Cyril murmured, so soft Lysithea almost felt rather than heard his words.
“In some ways. The killing and death I could do without. I empathize with Edelgard in some ways,” she paused, fidgeting with her hair a moment, “but how she did it can’t be excused.”
Cyril grimaced, “I know how ya feel about your Crests an’ stuff, but I can’t forgive Edelgard at all. The Church isn’t perfect, I get that now, but Rhea was like a second mother to me. Ta know she’s trapped somewhere… We gotta find her and set things right, Lys.”
“Well, there is one thing I’m happy about.”
“What’s that?”
“I got to see you again.” Her words were soft, gentle. She’d nearly forgotten how to speak like this, vulnerable and relaxed. “It doesn’t quite fix everything, but I’m grateful for the reunion, nonetheless.”
As she spoke, she felt Cyril’s arms tense around her. He swallowed thickly behind her before speaking, his voice tense. “Gee, I’m not worth that much concern–”
“If I say you are, then you are.”
They sat in charged silence the rest of the flight. Once Nasrin touched down, Cyril helped Lysithea down, his hands on her waist as he eased the drop down. Like when she’d taught him how to perform a lift before the White Heron Cup all those years ago.
“Whatcha smiling for?”
Lysithea blinked, “Oh, I guess, I was just reminiscing.”
“What about?” Cyril’s hands hadn’t moved from Lysithea’s waist, even as they had long since finished dismounting.
Lysithea placed her hands on Cyril’s shoulders, minding his burns. “Remember that time in the Knight’s Hall when I dragged you into dance lessons?”
Cyril’s eyes crinkled with a rare, full-faced smile. She’d forgotten about how he had a lone dimple on his left cheek. “Of course I do. Ya sure whipped me into shape in time for the ball.”
Tired though she was, she felt a small thrill in her belly at the sight of his smile. “Well, I just remember how much fun it was. I almost had more fun that day than at the ball itself.”
“Well, I don’t know how that could be. Ya looked like you were havin’ so much fun, all decked out in your fancy dress and gettin’ ta eat all the cream puffs the kitchen could churn out.”
“Maybe so, but it was missing how fun and…silly we were able to be at practice,” Lysithea wistfully leaned back to meet Cyril’s gaze. “I’m so happy we got to share that afternoon.” And this one too.
Cyril’s eyes slowly tracked up and down, deep and soulful and wise beyond his years. And Lysithea knew that she was grateful, so grateful, that the goddess granted her this at least. To exist in the same, brief speck of time that Cyril did. And to be his teacher, his friend, his…
“Can I show ya something?” Cyril asked, his voice jarring Lysithea’s wandering thoughts.
“Certainly” she replied, attempting to cover up the fact that she had been thinking…things.
“It’s just in my tent. Can ya make it over there?”
With anyone else, Lysithea would have bristled at the implication of weakness. After everything that happened today and with Cyril, it felt different. Leaning against his uninjured shoulder, she linked her arm with his. “I think so.”
Walking arm in arm, the two went at a leisurely pace to Cyril’s tent. Once there, he opened up his knapsack and pulled out a gorgeous green scarf, patterned with intricate whorls of gold. Lysithea’s jaw dropped as she ran a hand over the fabric. “Cyril, it’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Cyril’s voice was reverent in a way she’d only heard when he spoke of Rhea. “It’s one of the few things I brought with me from Almyra. It belonged to my parents. This was their dance scarf from their wedding day.”
“A dance scarf?”
“Back in Almyra, there’s some different traditions we have. One of them is a type of dance with a scarf. There’s not really a word for it in Fódlani… But anyways, I was wonderin’ if I could teach it to ya, as a thank you for you teachin’ me how ta dance a waltz.”
One look at those eager, disarming eyes, and Lysithea knew there was only one answer. The dust of the day, the exhaustion of the battle, that all could wait a little while. “I would be honored.”
With an eager smile, Cyril took one end of the scarf and placed it in Lysithea’s hand while holding the other end. “I’ll do the man’s part first. For this, you just stand still with one hand on your hip and move the scarf with me.”
He then stepped back until the scarf was fully extended and raised his hand up at a right angle with the other tucked neatly behind his back. In a steady step that almost looked like he was floating, Cyril circled around Lysithea. His steps took him clockwise and counterclockwise, with each change a small flourish in the way he switched hands, always keeping the scarf in his inside hand.
“This is certainly much easier than a waltz,” Lysithea joked as she lifted the scarf overhead.
“You say that now,” Cyril quipped back, changing to deep, lunging steps as he worked his way closer to the center. He pivoted on his knees and his toes, creating small turns with each low stance before retreating back and repeating. “If I had some more energy, I’d throw some jumps in too, but that’s about all I got in me for this part.” Cyril then stood with a spin and wrapped the scarf around his wrist until his hand was only a short distance from Lysithea’s. With a flick of his wrist, the scarf unwrapped and extended back out. “Now this is the part where I stay still and you dance.”
“Are my steps the same as yours were?” Lysithea asked, raising her arms up and stepping back.
“The first part is, where you circle me. But the part after that I can show you.” So Lysithea–much less smoothly than Cyril–tried to float in those neat circles. However, keeping the scarf from tangling was a lot harder than Cyril had made it look. But he never stopped encouraging her with each unsteady loop she made.
“Next, you’re going to move like this,” Cyril made an S-motion with his foot before stepping forward and continuing the motion with his hips. “Keep doing that. Then when you reach me in the middle, you pull your arms up in front of you like this and then spin out like this. But since you’re just learnin’, you can just back up.”
Lysithea fumbled her first few attempts at the swaying, snake-like motion from foot to hip, but after a few tries she got the rhythm of it down. “I feel like a reed in the wind,” she joked before locking eyes with Cyril and just wiggling back and forth.
“A very pretty reed in the wind,” Cyril laughed.
Lysithea then placed her hands palm-to-palm before raising them up above her head. Foolishly, she tried to spin like Cyril showed her, but ended up nearly clotheslining Cyril as she went the wrong direction. “Well, that’s what my pride gets me.”
“Aw, but you’re bein’ such a good sport. I appreciate ya tryin’. Are ya havin’ fun?”
“Of course,” Lysithea responded as she backed up, hands clasp heavenward. “I wouldn’t be making a fool of myself if I wasn’t.”
Cyril’s grin widened at her words, his expression soft and joyful in a way she hadn’t seen it in a long time. “All right, this last bit is one we do together. You initiate it by wrapping the scarf around your wrist like I did.”
With big, looping circles of her arm, Lysithea managed to (sloppily) recreate the motion Cyril used to bring their hands together.
“Perfect,” he praised, a bit too generously for Lysithea’s opinion, but her bruised ego could use a few gentle strokes today. “Next, drop your wrist to let the loops go slack. Then I’ll go under the scarf and–” with a flick of his wrist, Cyril held both the ends of the scarf behind Lysithea. “And the last step would be to pull us together, but we only get to do that when we’re actually married.”
Lysithea’s mind went blank for a moment. Did he just– “When?”
Cyril tanned skin flushed all the way to his ears as he quickly let the scarf go. “I-I mean, if we ever got married. To someone, anyone, well, maybe not just anyone. I mean, you deserve someone special and smart and stuff, and well, I’m just–”
Lysithea placed a finger, spell-stained and fragile against Cyril’s lips. “Just my Cyril.”
“Yours?” he breathed.
Lysithea nodded as she picked up the dancing scarf and offered it back to the young man who had stolen her heart ages ago. “You’re special to me, Cyril. But, you don’t deserve a wife who won’t be with you long.”
“But ya want to be… ? Ya think ya could…?” there was a quaver in his voice, tenuous, hopeful.
“I wouldn’t want to sentence you to the life of a widower, Cyril. You’re too kind for that.”
“But that’s not what I was askin’,” Cyril squared his shoulders. His voice was steadier now, but still trembling. “Would ya find me acceptable, to be your husband?”
“Without a doubt in my heart or mind.”
Cyril unfurled the scarf again, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Then, please, as much time as you will grant me, I want to spend it married to you.”
Lysithea, eyes stinging with unshed tears, nodded. Any future–no matter how short–mattered little without Cyril. She placed her forehead against his, eyes closed and content to feel his breaths upon her face.
“Guess we’ll really need to practice then?” he whispered.
Lysithea couldn’t help the giddy giggles bubbling out of her at the thought. “I can’t wait.”