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By the time the fatui skirmishers join the fray, Cyno’s grip is starting to weaken.
It began with complaints from the locals about a band of eremite mercenaries causing trouble. Nothing Cyno hasn’t taken care of before. He’d readily taken the request to drive them out, and drive them out he does. It doesn’t take much effort to track them down in the shadows of Lokapala jungle. They’ve never been the most elusive sort of people, he’s learned. An easy idle task for him to complete.
Cyno readies his spear and lunges from the treetop.
There’s almost a dozen of them at this site—and maybe more still out there—but it matters little to Cyno. He weaves between the angry swings of the blade, the arrows shot at him haphazardly. What a joke—he’s seen amateur archers at the Akademiya take better shots.
With a swift blur of clashing metal and a display of acrobatics, the camp is settled and silent. Unconscious and groaning mercenaries litter the mossy ground. Cyno rises with no more than a sniff of his nose. He lowers his spear, listening.
A moment passes, and Cyno is dodging a jab from a pyro agent just in the nick of time.
He’s hardly afforded the time to stop and wonder why the fatui are sending their foot soldiers to this part of the jungle, because these guys are strong. The pyro agent is accompanied by two vanguards.
Cyno grits his teeth as he blocks and dodges coordinated attacks. Damn these guys for never playing fair. Three against one? Cyno knows he’s fully capable of taking them, but there’s a sharp sting in his side that gets aggravated by a swing that he doesn’t quite manage to sidestep. Shit. One of the mercenaries must’ve gotten him earlier. A light hit, surely, but the fatui guy pinpoints the spot and now he’s on a wobbly foot.
Cyno shoves the guys back, knocks one out with his spear in the process. Two left. He ignores the trickle of warm blood down his side. The two guys grin. Cyno aims his spear and launches himself at them.
The second guy goes down. Those two weren’t nearly as good as they’d paraded themselves to be, but the pyro agent is different. There’s an air of confidence to him that Cyno is more than happy to spear through, so he goes at him, eyes narrowed in focus.
Something about the way the pyro agent moves eludes Cyno, though, and before he knows it—he’s stumbling on the ground just to catch his footing, the pyro agent manages several blunt hits on him, and the gash in his side splits wider from how Cyno is straining himself to keep steady.
Eventually, Cyno is down to one knee. The end of his spear digs into the ground and he’s taking shallow, uneven breaths.
And the pyro agent has the gall to laugh through his fatui mask.
“The great General Mahamatra,” he exclaims. “What a sight this is, having you on a knee and holding on to dear life.”
Cyno spits a mix of saliva and blood.
“You’re not welcome here.”
The pyro agent tuts. “Ah, but will you be able to stop me? In that pitiful state?”
Cyno keeps his eyes on the guy. He doesn’t bother humoring him. He needs all the energy he can muster up to raise his spear one more time.
Chuckling, the pyro agent brandishes two more pyro blades. He twirls them in idle loops. Playing around. The worst kind of guy. If he could, Cyno would maul his face off before kicking his ass right out of Sumeru.
But the odds are not in his favor.
Cyno palms his wound. He can smell the blood without looking—never a good sign. It’s not like he hasn’t fought while injured in the past, but he’s not sure he can juggle this and the pyro agent simultaneously. The guy’s formidable, he’ll admit that. Underestimating the enemy is what gets you killed.
Cyno doesn’t need to kill him. Doesn’t even need to maim him all that much. He just needs to tire him out, scare him off. Whatever that takes, he’ll do it. If only he weren’t bleeding out so much…
Cyno clenches his spear as the pyro agent takes leisurely steps forward, closing their distance.
“Well. It sure is a shame to see the General Mahamatra go out like this, isn’t it? I would’ve thought—”
“Do not take another step forward, fatui agent.”
They pause, turning their heads to the side to see who’d just called out.
Cyno’s eyes widen. “Tigh—nari?”
Behold, Tighnari, with an unreadable, stoic expression, emerging from the shrubbery and vines. His hair is a little tousled, a little windblown. A brush of dirt’s on his cheek.
Tighnari faces the pyro agent head-on.
“Tighnari, you say,” the guy purrs. “The little forest watcher who goes around giving botany lectures, is that right?”
“And life-saving wilderness survival skills,” says Tighnari.
The fatui agent hawks a laugh. “Oh, yes, how could I forget. Look, General Mahamatra, he’s come to your rescue. How valiant of him.”
Cyno tries to lift himself with his spear, but the pain strikes him and he groans.
Tighnari turns to him, glares at him, and hisses, “You. Sit still.”
Cyno blinks. “I—”
“Sit. Still.”
“Okay! Okay.”
Cyno says okay, but he does not feel okay about this at all. The pyro agent isn’t planning on backing down anytime soon, even if his jubilant attitude could indicate otherwise. Cyno doesn’t doubt Tighnari’s hand in a fight, but this simply isn’t a good matchup. Run, Cyno wants to say—or at least let them face the enemy together.
“Here to save your friend, forest watcher?” the pyro agent coos.
Tighnari steps closer and closer to the guy. Cyno struggles to stand on his feet. This is—reckless! Tighnari isn’t even armed; what is he thinking?
It’s so ridiculous to the pyro agent that he flings around his dagger like it’s a toy, thoroughly amused. Doesn’t stiffen at all at Tighnari’s slow approach. He’s totally unguarded, as if Tighnari’s some harmless little animal, and does nothing about it.
The guy chuckles. “I would just love to see what you have in store for me.”
Tighnari keeps walking until he’s right in front of him.
Then, Tighnari suddenly decks the guy in the face with a punch so hard that it sends him tumbling back and eating the dirt.
Cyno’s jaw drops, but he’s not horrified—he’s blushing. Holy shit.
Even the guy is so stunned, sitting on his ass like a dumbfounded child, that he just stares at Tighnari and his clenched fist.
“I’d tell you to pick on someone your own size—” Tighnari’s bow and arrow materialize into his hands as he trains his shot on the pyro agent, point-blank. “—but what’s the point when you can’t even take a punch from a guy half your height.”
The guy slowly inches back.
Tighnari menacingly draws his arrow.
“Get out of my face.”
The guy scrambles to his feet, scurries away, and Cyno thinks he’s falling in love all over again.
At home, Tighnari has clean hands wrapping bandages around Cyno’s torso. His tail swishes and swishes, thumping against the back of his chair. He does not spare a glance at Cyno.
Ah, Cyno thinks. He’s really upset this time.
Cyno puts his hand over Tighnari’s wrist.
“Tighnari, listen—”
Tighnari stops what he’s doing to peel Cyno’s hand right off.
“Do you realize how much work it took for me to figure out where you were. Do you realize how hard it is to pick up on your tracks because you don’t leave any—”
“Yes,” Cyno quickly says. “Yes, I understand. I’m sorry.”
Tighnari’s mouth snaps shut. His glare lingers on Cyno’s face until he pulls it away and continues to work the strip of bandage over the gauze stifling the cut in Cyno’s side.
Tighnari’s scissors snip off the rest of the bandages. His tail stops swaying around.
“Cyno, I was worried,” Tighnari murmurs. “And when I finally found you with all that blood - I was scared. Really scared.”
Tighnari sets the scissors aside on the wicker table. He quietly stares at Cyno’s dressed wound.
“I’m sorry,” Cyno says again, cupping Tighnari’s face. “I’m glad you came by.”
Tighnari finally looks at him. His eyes are gleaming, his lips are curled in a tense frown. His fingers are gentle and delicate when they rest upon Cyno’s hand.
“Don’t ever pull that sort of thing.”
“I won’t,” Cyno promises. He seals that with a kiss on Tighnari’s lips.
Tighnari exhales. His head tips forward, leaning his temple onto Cyno’s bare shoulder. Their hands find one another and twine their fingers. They do this often when he’s worn out from patrol duties and hours of lecturing and all the humdrums of life. Cyno is glad to soothe the stress out of Tighnari any day. It earns him a special privilege—glimpses of the unturned sides to Tighnari.
And speaking of unturned sides.
“I didn’t know you could punch like that,” says Cyno.
“It takes muscle to draw arrows all day,” Tighnari supplies.
Cyno breathes in. “Cool.”
“What does that mean.”
“It’s just,” Cyno says, “I thought it was… kinda hot.”
Tighnari lifts his head. “You—what?”
“I mean, you were…”
(Briefly, Cyno thinks back to it: his view of Tighnari, silent and brimming in anger, releasing his fury onto a guy who really fucking deserved it. A balled fist, a solid hit to his face that chokes a noise of utter shock out of him. He looks at the guy, then at Tighnari’s chest rising in impatient breaths.
Oh, Cyno had realized back then. He’s angry. For me. He’d sucker-punch for me.)
Tighnari grabs him by the shoulders. “I was what,” he says, vibrantly red in the face.
“You were sexy, okay!” Cyno pulls Tighnari to him and smothers him in a tight hug. “You’re really sexy when you’re mad, Tighnari.”
Tighnari stuffs his anguished whine into Cyno’s chest.
Cyno laughs. He cradles Tighnari close, kissing the top of his head. Tighnari’s tail starts to furiously swish again.