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Cyril always preferred the monastery at night. There was no one to litter the grounds or drag mud onto carpets. No one to point and stare at him as he worked. It was peaceful. He could get his work done.
The daytime halls were filled with students and monks and soldiers, mingling and mucking up the walkways Cyril had so painstakingly swept clean. Accidents happened, of course. He understood that. But more than a few times Cyril spotted a well-dressed student stepping on just-mopped stones with their muddied boots, or tossing trash on the ground as he walked past, the quiet snickering of the student and their friends weighing on him as he cleaned.
Yes, Cyril felt more at ease after sundown. Even now, after Edelgard lifted her axe to the Church’s throat and the monastery’s population had fallen by half, he still preferred the night. The lowering sun meant that it was lesson time.
The moon crested the monastery’s towers, but Lysithea would still be awake. Cyril knew as much. He padded softly up the stairs to her dorm room, careful to not wake anyone, and was greeted by the telltale sliver of light slipping out from beneath her door.
He could hear her shuffling around inside. She was probably expecting him, and he braced himself for an earful, especially since he was running quite late.
“I’m here!” Cyril said, bursting into Lysitheas room. “Sorry, I know I’m not on time, I was—what are you doing?” he stuttered, his eyes widening.
Lysithea squeaked and jumped back, knocking over an empty cup on her desk. “Cyril!” she screeched, “You should have knocked!”
She crossed her arms over her torso and hunched over, trying and failing to hide herself.
“Is that…” Cyril asked slowly, realization rising with the flush on his cheeks, “...your old uniform?”
It was dark, but thanks to the flickering candlelight, he could just make out the familiar old silhouette, with its dark, thick fabric and gold embellishments. Cyril always thought that uniform looked stuffy. Uncomfortable.
His eye caught on sliver of moon-colored skin where her high socks didn’t quite meet the edge of her skirt. He felt his mouth go dry.
Lysithea tilted her face towards the ground, suddenly very interested in the patterns woven into her rug. “I–I was just–I was curious to see if it still fit me. I was thinking it would fit smaller than this…” she sighed. “Guess I haven’t grown much at all.”
Cyril disagreed. She had grown. Back in Almyra he’d often heard old women coo that a young lady had “bloomed,” and Cyril didn’t know what that meant. But now as he looked at Lysithea and understood—she had bloomed.
She had grown a little taller, more lithe and slender. Her face had lost its baby fat and longer lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. She had always carried herself with confidence, but these days it felt less like a costume and more like a natural extension of her being. There were sad things, too. Exhaustion weighed on her like a heavy coat. It sagged her shoulders and tugged at her lips.
Yet she had stayed the same in many ways. Her hands remained princess–like—even if they were no longer perfectly manicured, with nails worn down by the labor demanded of all soldiers during war. She still held her head high and defiant, her gaze ready to stare down the world; her words were still sharp and quick as a dagger.
And she still treated him with the same kindness. When the Golden Deer returned to the monastery, he worried she wouldn’t remember him. He was just some servant boy, one of many, running about maintaining the halls, after all. But when she saw him, she took his hand and said they had to make up for all their lost time. Her smile was so big and bright that it made Cyril’s chest felt light, like when riding atop a wyvern and it takes a sudden dip in the air.
Cyril wasn’t sure how to put all of this into words.
“I think it looks great,” was all he said, and he meant it. He kicked at the stone floor. “And I think you have grown a lot.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. A silent pause between them, and then, “You’ve changed a lot, too, you know.”
“Really?” Cyril said, unsure if he agreed. Each morning when he looked into the reflective surface of the pond, or of a dish he was cleaning, or the water trough at the stables, he saw the same thing. The same bronzed skin. The same wiry, black hair. He’d needed new clothes of course, but that was a given during a war, where fabric and flesh alike were ripped and torn. “I have? I mean, I guess I’m not as short as I used to be. But otherwise, doesn’t feel like it.”
“Well,” Lysithea said, stepping closer to him, “you’re definitely taller. And your face is different, too. You used to have such a baby face! But now you’ve got a stronger jawline, and your hair is a little longer, and you’ve got, um...broader shoulders…”
She reached a hand out, as though she wanted to brush a stray hair out of Cyril’s eyes.
“Woah.” Cyril breathed, taking a half-step forward. “You noticed all that about me?”
Lysithea snapped her hand back. “I–nevermind that! Why were you so late? I only put this silly thing on because I got restless waiting for you.”
“Sorry about that,” Cyril chuckled as he reached into his pocket, “I was in the kitchens, um. Making this.”
He procured a small bundle, wrapped carefully in a napkin, and held it out in front of himself. “I hope it’s good.”
Lysithea’s brow knitted. She took the bundle from his hands and when she unwrapped it, she gasped.
“A cake!” she exclaimed, her whole face brightening. It was a plain little thing, small and golden brown with none of the toppings or flourishes he felt sure a noble would expect. She held the cake up to her face, inhaling the scent deeply. “Wow,” she sighed, “it smells divine!”
She held the treat out to him.
“You…don’t want it?” Cyril asked, a little hurt.
“Of course I want it!” Lysithea snapped, “But I want you to take the first bite. You made it, after all.”
If it were anyone else, he would fight. But he knew Lysithea, and he knew she wouldn’t back down. So he relented and took back the cake. He ripped off a piece and sunk his teeth into the soft, buttery crumb.
It was good. Really good, actually, subtly sweet and slightly crisp on the outside, and Cyril didn’t know whether it was because it had been so long since he’d had anything sugary or because it really was delicious.
He handed the treat back to Lysithea, who took it gingerly, turning it around in her hands.
“Are you gonna eat it…?” Cyril ventured after a few silent moments.
“Of course I am,” Lysithea replied. “But I just…I want to remember this. It’s been so long since I’ve even seen a cake, I find it’s getting harder and harder to imagine what they even look like.” Slowly, she took a bite, and her eyes fluttered shut.
The smile that blossomed on her face was beatific. Cyril did not believe in Fodlan’s goddess, but looking at Lysithea’s smile, he almost reconsidered his faith.
“Mmmmm,” she sighed, “it’s delicious!”
She took more and more bites out of the little cake. Crumbs fell out of her mouth as she spoke. “You made this yourself, Cyril?”
“Well, Mercedes made them. I just helped.”
Lysithea wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thank you. And tell Mercedes I said thank you, too.”
Cyril’s gazed dropped to shoes. “It was nothin’. You do so much for me, I figured I had to return the favor.”
“I do, don’t I?” Lysithea replied with her hands on her hips. “Speaking of which, we need to work on your spelling! It’s getting better, but you certainly need practice. Come,” she said, sitting on the bed and propping open their workbook. She patted the spot next to her.
Cyril took a seat beside her, and they worked until the candle on Lysithea’s nightstand shrunk and became a short, stubby thing, falling into that old familiar rhythm that hadn’t completely changed but instead took on a new cadence. Lysithea was still a firm but gentle teacher, and Cyril was ever her eager student. But every time their shoulders brushed, or their hands met on the pages, Cyril found himself scrambling to pull back and apologize as Lysithea’s cheeks took on a bright shade of pink, barely visible through the curtain of hair she fought so hard to hide behind.
Much had changed over the past five years. This thing between them had changed, too, but perhaps, Cyril thought as Lysithea’s head drooped onto his shoulder, perhaps some things change for the better.