Work Text:
The wind howls through the crags, mournful. Brand wails, lamenting his lost followers, and mourning in solidarity with his favourite child. A dirge, as befits a gravesite of this magnitude.
There is a strange force at play here, as if time has had no bearing on this place. Decay has not set in as it should have. Smoke rises in perpetuity from the rubble. There is naught but smoldering devastation, as far as the eye can see. Here and there, tattered pennants whip in that harsh, sorrowful wind.
Further ahead, in the heart of the hills, crimson light spills forth, bleeding into the sky. The black spires of the infernal gate can be seen cresting the ridges. They are near the end.
Cyrus had always been fascinated by Hornburg. As the oldest and grandest civilization in Orsterra it of course had a rich history, with its king's lineage tracing back for centuries.
Yet it had remained in a shroud of intrigue even as it stood, secluded, far removed from the rest of the land, isolated in the harsh Highlands.
The fall had fascinated him, too. Civilizations rise and crumble, such is the way of all things. However, the reports claimed that fierce civil war had been responsible for the fall of Hornburg, but how could that be true, when there had emerged no victor?
In truth, the fall was cold-hearted annihilation, nothing more, and all orchestrated by an ignorant, yet cunning and ambitious man with dreams of grandeur. What could have been gained, though, that would be worth such a terrible price? All this, for mere lordship?
And for all that he feels, Cyrus cannot begin to fathom what his poor knight must be feeling, seeing his beloved home, reduced to… to this.
The scholar tries to picture himself standing in the wreckage of Atlasdam, and it is certainly a painful thought, but that is all it is. In the same way that merely reading about the fall in a book cannot hope to compare to standing in the carcass of Hornburg, preserved in the moment of its destruction for eternity.
They walk past the remnants of houses, a step behind their companions, that Olberic might have some privacy in his grief. Cyrus catches glimpses of things in the debris, relics of an ordinary life. A teacup. A pitchfork. A child's doll.
Cyrus's heart clenches, hand reaching blindly for Olberic's, whose larger one squeezes him back with crushing force. He's almost afraid to look at him; to see the heartbreak on the face of his loyal, steadfast knight would surely break his in kind, but Cyrus would gladly share their burdens, as well as their joy.
Normally so stoic, his pain is evident. Brows drawn, mouth a hard line, eyes haunted as he looks and looks, taking it all in.
Cyrus tugs at his hand.
“Do you remember when we first met?” His voice carries strangely in the air, dampened as though they stood in dense fog. “It was not so very far from here.”
“...how could I forget?” Olberic's voice is strained, a knife's edge from breaking, but he looks at Cyrus, momentarily drawn away from the horrors around them, from the ghosts in his mind. The corner of his mouth twitches, the smile dying quickly. “You invited yourself to join me. I thought you were a witch. And a pest.”
“Mm. You were not wrong on that last count.” Cyrus tries to smile too, wan.
“I was. I was a fool. I do not know where I would be without you…” He stops in his tracks, and kisses Cyrus's hand, pressing it to his eyes. He sounds so lost. “There’s no one else I'd sooner have at my side… in battle, or in life.”
“I feel the same, of course... I- ah, Olberic?”
His head is bowed, hiding his face, but Cyrus can feel dampness on his hand-
Olberic is- oh, no, no-
When he falters, cracking under the weight of his torment, head bowed, Cyrus is there in an instant.
They all are.
One by one, they surround their friend. Ophilia gently takes his other hand between hers. Tressa hugs his waist from behind. Primrose kisses his cheek, stroking his hair. Alfyn, on the brink of tears himself, grips him hard by the shoulder, H'aanit doing likewise on his other side. Linde nudges against his shins. Therion stands apart from them, aloof as always…
But then, after a moment's hesitation, he joins them too, squeezing past Cyrus to hug the knight. He's come a long way.
They all have, and Cyrus loves them so fiercely.
Between them, they help carry the burden of the knight’s grief, and they are soon moving again, towards the gates, and the end of the world.