Chapter Text
It is midmorning when Olberic crawls out of his grave. Sun beams slant through grey clouds, dappling the pass in strange shadows that suit him well, revenant that he is.
Eight years it's been since he first drifted into Cobbleston, alighting there like a single mote of ash drifting away from an enormous pyre. All that remained of a once-great kingdom- or so he had thought.
The knight doesn't have a great deal to his name… though he doesn't truly have that, either. He has no map and little in the way of leaves. He'll need to find work along the way, and hunt to sustain himself. What he has is his meager few possessions, relics from a past life; his weaponry and armour, his Hornburg tunic that he still clings to, at the bottom of his pack. His old trappings, the very last of his honour.
Beyond that, the good folk of Cobbleston have provided him with some supplies to aid in his journey. He owes them a great deal; they'd taken him in without question, fed and clothed him, and had come to rely on him in turn. Yet now…
Now, he's left them behind in favour of a wild goose chase. A failure of a knight and protector once more.
Vaguely Olberic wonders what in the hells he's doing. Has his grief finally driven him mad? Is he so eager to escape the monotony of a simple life that he's willing to throw it away? So bereft of purpose that he's dashing off into the wilderness, without even truly knowing his destination… All on the barest rumour, to meet a man that may know of a man.
The fact remains: Erhardt yet lives. He clenches his fist. The thought rankles him, stokes the fire of his heart once more, rousing him from living death. It should not surprise him, yet the newfound knowledge that he is out there, somewhere, walking the land, as yet unpunished for his loathsome deeds…
What will he do, if and when they meet again? What answers might he yield? To what end does Olberic wield a blade?
He hopes to live long enough to find out.
With his wretched luck, he has not made it to the main causeway yet when things take a turn for the peculiar. Carried along the quiet mountain air is soft humming, echoing queerly between the mountains. He loosens his sword in its sheath, expecting trouble.
Footfalls light, he approaches the fence running the edge of the path, cautiously peering down and there, further ahead at the bottom of the trail is a strange sight indeed.
A man, cupping his chin in thought, silhouetted by the sweeping landscape laid out around him, looking like the subject of a fine painting. There's a book in his hand, but his gaze is off somewhere far away on the horizon, over the crags and down to where the mountains give way to desert. He hums distractedly, attention wavering between his tome and whatever fascinating thing he sees in the distance that Olberic does not.
From this distance and angle it's hard to get a good measure of him, but Olberic thinks he might be some kind of noble. Tall, finely dressed, dark robes adorned with real thread-of-gold that blazes resplendently even in the weak sunlight. Not a brigand, that is clear.
Did he come here from Everhold as part of some troupe? There's no signs of a caravan having passed through recently, nor of any other living thing. Olberic considers if this is some sort of ploy or ambush, though to what end he's not sure. The man hasn't noticed him at all.
Though, the knight is struck with the strangest feeling that he's waiting here, for him…
He must make some noise as he stalks forward to get a better look at him, for the man suddenly whirls around to face him, robes billowing as he bristles, book still in hand.
“If you mean to try and rob me, I would advise against it!” he calls, almost cheerfully. Olberic doubts he's ever been threatened in such a pleasant manner before. What bandit would be disassuaged by such? It very nearly startles a laugh out of him, and he wonders how this odd man would react if the knight were to challenge him on it.
“...nay, I mean you no harm,” he calls back down from his vantage, hands raised. He gestures to the foot of the trail. “Come, let us talk.”
They move in unison, cautiously approaching where the paths converge, and when they are face to face, they carefully appraise each other. Pretty thing, he is, though it's rather unnerving the way the man outright studies him. He holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes roaming. First on Olberic's sword, travelling up to his face, his scar, then back to his sword again.
“You've had some trouble, I take it?” His intense gaze snaps back up to Olberic's, his eyes a rich and rare shade of blue, like lapis. Fetching, and most unusual.
“Indeed, a day or so ago,” he answers distractedly. “A pack of brigands thought me an easy mark, but I ran them off quickly enough.”
Ran them off…? Olberic thinks, lips twitching as he suppresses a smirk. His robes, clasped at his throat, conceal some of his form, but it's still clear there's not much of him. Broad in the shoulders but otherwise a willowy sort, slender, long limbed and delicate looking. The knight can't see any obvious weapons on him, either. With what, then? A quill?
“A shame, though it does not surprise me,” he says instead. “There's been no end of trouble with these men. They are desperate, and thus dangerous, if they are forced to ply their trade in these harsh lands. You'd have done well to hire a guard.”
“You needn't worry on my behalf. I suppose I may not look it, but I'm quite capable of fending for myself.”
Oh, he so desires to test him, to see just how he might, hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, but t’would be unchivalrous. Still, he is most curious. Olberic supposes he must have some trick up his sleeve, to have made it here alone.
“What brings you out all this way? Not the company, surely.” He snorts, and gestures to the path winding upwards, where chimney smoke can still be seen curling high above the ridges. He's hardly come any distance at all… “If it's Cobbleston you seek, t’is further up the trail.”
“I'm just passing through, actually. I've quite a journey to make,” he says with a dismissive shrug, still looking at Olberic like he's an anomaly. “And you? You are a local, I assume?”
“Mm. Though I've just departed on a journey of my own.”
“Ah, splendid! And where are you off to, if I may?”
Olberic hesitates, folding his arms. He'll need to ask for directions eventually. Can he trust this odd man? He seems too keen to know more of the knight, and has yet offered little about himself.
“I need to go to Victor's Hollow,” he says, deciding after a long moment. “Do you know of it?”
“Certainly! That is to say, I know where it is on a map. I've never been there myself... But if you've need of a guide, I can see you at least part of the way there.”
“That's not… I mean- I've no leaves to pay you-”
“Nonsense! I'm already heading that way, and I should be glad for the company.”
“Er.” Drat. That happened quickly. There's no easy way to back out of this now, not if they are bound along the same path. He sighs resignedly. “...very well. Might I know who is travelling with me, then?”
“Oh, how terribly rude of me. My apologies,” he says, bowing with a little flourish and extending his hand. “Professor Cyrus Albright, of the Royal Academy of Atlasdam, at your service. And you are?”
“Berg,” Olberic answers stiffly, carefully taking his elegant hand in turn and shaking. “A hedge knight.”
“Berg,” Cyrus repeats, dubiously, as though testing the weight of the word, looking at him for a rather long, uncomfortable moment. His blue eyes narrow; it feels like he's prying into his very soul.
Then the moment is passed and he grins, squeezing his hand and clapping him on the arm.
“Well then, Berg! Let us be off!”
He breezes past him, heels clicking loudly on the stone trail, leaving Olberic to stare after, and then reluctantly follow.
An auspicious start to his journey, indeed. What a strange encounter, he thinks, scratching at the scar on his forehead in puzzlement. He has no idea what to make of this Cyrus Albright, but he supposes he's thankful that the Gods saw fit to deliver him a guide in his time of need.
#
The Gods must have a grim sense of humour.
“So,” Olberic begins awkwardly after a while. He's an eloquent enough man, more so than some might give him credit for, given his heft and roguish appearance, but he's never needed nor enjoyed having to indulge in small talk this way. Needs must, however, if he's to learn more of his new companion. “You said you are a professor?”
“Indeed! I teach a number of subjects, though my true passion lies with history.”
Blast. Another historian. Of all the ill luck… How is he to avoid this one, when they will be travelling together until Steorra-knows-when?
“Hornburg, in particular, fascinates me. The knowledge lost with its fall is immeasurable, not to mention the staggering loss of life. Without a doubt, it is the greatest tragedy of our time.” Cyrus pauses. They aren't looking at each other directly, but the knight knows those blue eyes are boring into him sidelong. “Wouldn't you agree?”
Though he does not react outwardly, his heart stutters briefly. Is he… testing me, then? Taunting me? This professor is a sly one; Olberic will have to watch his tongue.
“Hmm,” he hums noncommittally, maintaining his stoic exterior as he casually diverts the conversation. “There is a historian visiting Cobbleston. She believed there was aught of interest in the area relating to Hornburg.”
“Oh! Truly?” He sounds heartbroken, slowing and looking back over his shoulder as if he's considering retracing his steps. “Ah, well… perhaps on the return journey…?”
Olberic breathes a sigh of relief as his ploy pays off.
“You still have not mentioned where it is you are bound.”
“You're quite right. My apologies,” he says, sounding contrite. “I'm on my way to visit a friend in Quarrycrest. Our paths will diverge before then, so-”
He's cut off by a cacophony of shrill screeching.
Ratkin swarm the pass ahead of them, emerging like smoke and clambering out of the harsh juts of rock, crude weapons in hand having sensed easy prey. Foul beasts! Olberic will not give them the chance to regret misjudging him, ripping his sword from the sheath, blood full of fire, when Cyrus calls from behind him-
“Halt, Sir Berg! Allow me to deal with them!”
Before he can question just how he intends to do that-
The pass in front of them is engulfed in a raging conflagration, reaching tall enough to be seen from Cobbleston. The noise is deafening, and it feels like the air in his lungs is being sucked away. The heat is nigh unbearable-
Then just as suddenly as it appeared, the hellsfire recedes into nothingness from whence it came, leaving no trace- of anything living. Smoke drifts away into the grey sky above the charred maw of hell.
Behind him, he hears Cyrus click his tongue in mild irritation, followed by a clinking sound as he pulls out his quill and ink, scratching as he scribbles notes into his tome, quietly muttering ‘too much’...
Olberic stares with barely contained horror, first at remnants of the carnage, then at the man who wrought it. He rounds on him, his grip on his sword tight enough to make the leather of his glove creak.
“You- you're a sorcerer?!”
“What?” Cyrus looks up from his mark making, his confusion evident, before his fine features soften into a pitying expression, like that of a parent explaining to a child that ghosts are not real. ”Ah, no, my friend, you are mistaken. Sorcery has been extinct for some time. I'm merely a scholar, a practitioner of the arcane arts.”
The knight stares at him as though he'd just admitted to being Galdera himself.
“What is the difference?!”
Cyrus lights up, more incandescent than the flames he'd conjured. He suspects he's made a misstep.
“Oh! I'm very glad you asked! You see…”
#
The Gods hate him. He is sure of it now. It has not even been a day and already this sorcerer they've sent him is proving to be quite troublesome.
His question is answered tenfold, probably, but Cyrus doesn't stop there. He can seemingly talk for hours without end, and then does, about everything and nothing. It frequently skews towards the latter.
“...lost to the annals of time, as things are wont to do… in the age of legends…”
“...the Kindling is about to begin- that we might witness it! Can you imagine…?”
“...ridiculous, really, to have thought he could get away with such…”
Olberic is a reserved man; he enjoys solitude, and knows the weight of his words, of when to speak or remain silent. The value of silence itself. This… this is a veritable assault on his being. He is being drowned in a deluge of nonsense. But he considers himself a polite and patient man as well, so he grits his teeth and says nothing.
At least Cyrus has a pleasant voice, and that makes the experience much more palatable. A skilled orator, lively and expressive, with perfect diction and a charming accent. His good looks surely help too, and Olberic suspects this man has not been corrected on such behaviour earlier in life due to a combination of these things.
He recants on thinking him pretty. To call him handsome, even, would be to do him a disservice; he's utterly ethereal, one of the best looking men Olberic has ever seen, and he admits to being more than a little charmed by him, as much as he finds himself baffled or irritated. Cyrus possesses almost all of the features that so appeal to the knight. Long, perfectly groomed hair, fair skin, bright eyes… sharp jawline, without a hint of stubble, long eyelashes… beautiful, handcrafted by the Twelve.
Would that he were blond, but he supposes one can't have everything. Not without a terrible price attached, at least.
Often, while they walk, Olberic finds his gaze has wandered over to the sorcerer, as if under one of his spells. Cyrus notices him staring several times but never remarks on it, instead smiling broadly as he blunders ever on in lecture. Not out of mere politeness, rather he seems oblivious to the nature of Olberic's fascination with him.
It's definitely not due to the knight's interest in the average rainfall here in the Highlands as compared to the sorcerer's home of Atlasdam.
Sometimes he catches Cyrus looking at him too, eyes bright with curiosity.
#
They find a likely spot to camp before the sun sets, out of the wind and fairly defensible. Cyrus lays out their bedrolls while Olberic sets to collecting firewood. There's precious to be found in this harsh terrain, but enough to make do with for one night. When he's built the campfire and about to light it, Cyrus crouches across from him.
“Would you teach me how to do that?”
“Can't you use your sorcery?” he asks derisively in turn.
“That would be a feat, considering I am not a sorcerer,” Cyrus says with a huff. “No, my friend, that would be a disaster. Would you use your sword to fillet a fish?”
“...I suppose you've a point. Come here, then.”
Eager to learn as he is to lecture, he's at Olberic's side in a flash. Just enough time for him to regret agreeing. Gods, he's unnaturally warm, heat pouring off of him like a hearth. Is it his magic? Pliant, Cyrus lets the knight guide his hands as Olberic shows him the motions, his elegant hands feeling so fragile under his larger, rougher ones…
After a few fumbling tries, Cyrus strikes the flint just right, catching the tinder. He's elated, and with some encouragement the fire is soon crackling away merrily.
“Would you look at that…!” The mage sounds awed, looking at Olberic as though he's the one that's cast some grand spell. He doesn't move away, still sitting far too close, enough so that Olberic is drowning in his beguiling, perfumey scent. “You have my thanks, Sir Berg.”
“...t’was no trouble at all,” Olberic mumbles, feeling his face heat. He stands abruptly, making himself busy by preparing to cook.
In the warm firelight, Cyrus finally falls silent, pulling out his notebook, quill and ink from his pack as he settles. His hand is constantly in motion, channeling his chaotic thoughts into the pages instead of Olberic; a welcome reprieve. The quill skates easily over the parchment with masterful ease, alternating between sketching and writing. Olberic is sure he's the subject of more than one drawing as he works. Should he be flattered? He's not sure, with the way the man looks at him, like he's a specimen that wants for studying.
After their meal of a simple stew, Olberic offers to take the first watch, to which Cyrus gratefully accepts with a yawn. T'is gentlemanly thing to do, but in truth it affords him much needed time to reflect on the sudden, strange turn his life has taken while he tends to the fire. He'll need to get his thoughts in order to have any hope of managing a wink of sleep.
How odd that, just yesterday, he had been resting in his bed where he'd laid his head for the past eight years. Now he's crossing Orsterra on foot, when Olberic has never even seen the world beyond the Highlands, in the hopes of finding his purpose again. A nebulous goal, he freely admits, but… a goal it is, nonetheless.
Erhardt yet lives. And now, Olberic lives again, too, if perhaps Orsterra knows it not. But he will reclaim his name, when he is ready.
That thought is troubling to him. Cyrus knows of him, without a doubt, though he thankfully hadn't brushed against the topic again. Can he trust him to leave it well alone? Well, it would seem he has no choice in the matter. Perhaps a more cynical, heartless man might see that he remains silent, by whatever means…
Frowning, he watches Cyrus, curled up on his bedroll under his robes. It's strange to see him so still; the man has been a constant flurry of motion thus far. He looks… adorable, frankly, features smoothed out by sleep, soft hair falling over his lidded eyes and fluttering with each exhale. Not at all how he'd envisioned the accursed wielders of black magic and necromancy.
Olberic's initial horror at his magic has receded into mild disdain. It still strikes him as unsavoury, dangerous, but even he cannot deny being glad to have such a powerful ally, and he seems well meaning… if far too chatty for his liking.
But he supposes he'll not have to tolerate him for long; Cyrus has estimated that they'll part ways in a week or so. What is that, compared to almost a decade of self-imposed purgatory?
The rest of his watch goes by peacefully as he gazes at the night sky, feeling insignificant under its broad, majestic canopy. The next trouble arises when it comes time to wake Cyrus. He goes to gently shake the man's shoulder, and finds him insensate, to the point Olberic almost fears him ill or dead, heart sinking for a moment, until he hears him quietly snoring still.
Another shake, less gentle now. Firmer yet earns him a grumble and nothing more.
“Albright,” he calls out, patience slipping. “Cyrus. Up you get, now.”
No response. Olberic scrubs his face in irritation. How did he make it here without being killed in his sleep?
He's forced, in the end, to grab the pail of water for the campfire and upend it over the mage's head. That finally does it, and he's up like a shot, his startled yelp echoing into the far distance. He sputters indignantly, shoving sopping wet hair back from his face and eyes, glaring up angrily at Olberic, looking very much like a drowned cat.
“It's your turn to keep watch,” he says flatly, still holding the bucket.
Cyrus groans into his hands.
#
Even on watch he is a nuisance.
It's clear his fell magic is immensely powerful, a force of nature, capable of reducing foes to dust in an instant. In that, he very much embodies the image he'd held of a fearsome sorcerer, stepped right out of the stories that terrified Olberic as a child.
As such, it does not lend itself well to discretion. On the battlefield this is no issue- so long as Olberic is safely out of range. It is less than welcome in the dead of night as he fends off an assault by conjuring a roaring inferno that towers well above the ridges surrounding them.
“Worry not, my friend!” he says pleasantly, when he notices Olberic has leapt to his feet with his sword halfway out of its sheath, still half asleep. Cyrus smiles at him, face streaked with soot, flecks of ash fluttering down like snowflakes to rest in his dark hair. He idly scribbles adjustments into his tome. “I've the situation well in hand!”
Olberic stares bleary-eyed at the smouldering wreckage around them, the scorchmarks marring the rock face, the smoking debris, all that remains of the slavering pack of ratkin.
“Yes, I can see that.”
#
They are both exhausted come sunrise. Cyrus is yawning, rubbing at his eyes when he wishes the knight a good morning, seemingly not holding a grudge over being near drowned in his sleep.
“With any luck, we'll make it to Sunshade this evening,” he says, stifling another yawn while he combs out his glossy hair. “Ah, a bath and a bed would be wonderful…”
Olberic grunts in response, focused on preparing their food. He hopes they make it to an inn, too. Another night like that and he just might kill him.
#
They are beset once more before they can make it to the rolling dunes of the Sunlands. These ratkin are persistent, if nothing else. He doesn't even reach for his sword this time as they are felled by a barrage of ice. It's beautiful, terrible, and just as deadly as the flames, glistening in the sun like a cut gem before melting away. He can certainly see why the sorcerers were feared so.
“For the last time, Sir Berg,” he says, rubbing his eyes with poorly concealed exasperation. “I am not a sorcerer. Their arts died out a millennia ago.”
“I'm afraid I do not understand the difference,” Olberic says, holding up a hand to cut Cyrus off before he can start ranting again. “I have seen magic, but never as you weave it.”
“I'm just rather… overzealous, shall we say, in my casting. I assure you, the magic I wield is perfectly mundane otherwise. Anyone might learn it. Why, I could even teach you, if you were inclined to learn!” Olberic glares at him. “Ah, no, then?”
He forges on ahead, glimmering sands finally in view.