Chapter Text
By the Gods, I'm a stupid man. Thinks Cyrus as he tilts his head up to gaze at the grates sealing the pit he'd fallen into.
Or rather, the pit he'd been thrown into. He couldn't even deny his fault in the matter. Cyrus had separated from the other travelers, intent on following his lead on From the Far Reaches of Hell.
Cyrus had located the man who bound and translated the damnable tome. The current headmaster of the Royal Academy, Yvon, had been the one to commission the copy Cyrus discovered in Quarrycrest's sewers. Just as Cyrus began to ponder what to do with this information, he encountered a familiar face:
Lucia.
Yvon's assistant.
He should have known getting verbal confirmation of his former superior's misdeeds would be too good to be true, but Cyrus had been all too willing to overlook the questions that sprung up in the wake of Lucia's presence. Lucia capitalized on Cyrus's naïvete, and in a mere moment, struck him on the back of his head and sent him tumbling into the pitfall carved into Yvon's old home.
Yvon, ever the charming fellow, deemed it necessary to show up just to gloat after Cyrus had regained his wits somewhat from the whole… falling into a pit after being bludgeoned, thing. He also came to tell Cyrus to join him in his, frankly insane, blood magic endeavors, but that was hardly worth noting when Cyrus had no interest in even humoring the idea.
"Alright, fine, but a bloody pit, of all things?" He laments, wincing as he presses his fingers to the patch of matted hair on the back of his head. His hand came away red. "...No matter," he reasoned, trying not to fixate on how light headed he was, "I simply need to find a way out."
Cyrus turned to survey the smooth, stone walls of the hole he's trapped in. He presses his hands against the cool surface, frowning and tilting his head upward. "Even were I adept at climbing, I would have difficulties scaling something with no footholds."
He turned his focus toward a different method of escape. "Perhaps a button in the walls, then? Surely there must be some way for someone to at least clean the place…" That hope didn't last very long when he slipped on something, a soft crunch echoing as the scholar landed on the ground.
With a small groan and murmur of complaint, he sits up to examine what made him lose his footing… and paled. "Oh. Oh, dear." A bone. Likely the humerus bone belonging to a human skeleton. His mind helpfully supplied. He turned to look at the further crunched remains of a different part of the human anatomy before quickly rising.
"...S-surely there must be a way to at least…" That sentence wasn't worth finishing when his mind knew the answer: Unlikely.
What do I do?
He paced around the pit, restless and aching and desperately searching for something, anything that could get him out of this mess. He found nothing. No one would find me down here. His companions hadn't been around to see where he'd gone. They have no idea he's here right now.
Have they even noticed I'm missing? Is there a chance they would prefer not to find me? He knew thoughts like these were likely nonsense… but here, stuck at the bottom of a hole with no light, food, water, and a head injury, they were far more difficult to suppress.
"Don't be ridiculous," he tells himself, sitting on the rocky ground (He won't acknowledge the way he wobbled on his way down). "They'll find me in due time, I'm sure of it."
Unless they don't want to.
He exhales, long and deep, closing his eyes. "I must be patient," he murmurs.
Cyrus didn't know how much time passed before help arrived. It didn't matter. Therese had come, and with her, Therion, Alfyn, and Primrose.
Thank the Gods.
He wasn't going to cry. Not in front of them. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't come close, though.
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Cyrus couldn't sleep. He was trying his best to sleep, but the lull of slumber wouldn't reach him, adrenaline still burning through his veins even as he stared at the inside of his tent. His head throbbed, the lingering ache of his treated injury making his attempts at sleep twice as futile.
It was supposed to be his turn for the night watch. He was supposed to be by the fire, with Therion, watching the stars and waiting for something to pop out of the darkness… but in an unexpected act of kindness, Therion had told him not to join him that night.
Cyrus got up to leave the tent, recognizing the familiar shuffle of Tressa and Ophilia returning to their bedrolls, when a hand pressed against his chest stopped him in his tracks.
"What are you doing?"
Therion. The thief was frowning at him, brows pinched together with something he didn't see often on the other man: concern.
"It's our turn to watch, yes?"
"My turn. Alfyn told you to rest."
"I don't believe I-"
"And I don't care. You're injured." Therion glanced away from him. "You need to sleep. Ophilia and Alfyn'll get mad if you don't."
Therion gave the scholar one last nudge to the chest, pushing him just that inch more inside the tent… and Cyrus acquiesced.
I mustn't cause any more trouble than I have.
And he would have loved to abide by that simple order, if his body was keen to obey him. But no, he was awake… and a silent part of him dreaded sleep. He knew he wouldn't dream well that night. Perhaps his body was simply trying to aid his mind in avoiding that dilemma.
He barely noticed Therion had come back until the other's voice reached his ears. "Still awake?"
"...Forgive me. I can't seem to find sleep tonight," he murmurs, a bit of frustration bubbling in him.
Therion sighs a little and settles by Cyrus's side. "...None of those sleep-strategies you told me about working?"
He smiles wryly at that. "No. It seems not."
The thief eyes him for a moment, then heaves a heavy sigh. When Cyrus shifts to look at him properly, he's perplexed to see Therion pointedly avoiding eye contact… and with his arms spread open as he lay on his side.
"What are you doing?"
"Shut up. One time offer, you want it or not?"
Cyrus blinks a few times. What- oh! Oh? His eyes widen briefly as the realization hits. Oh. "...Truly? Are you sure you're comfortable with-" Therion had shied away from his touch before. The thief tended to prefer that physical distance, and Cyrus would be damned before he broke that simple boundary.
"It's fine, Cyrus."
The scholar hesitated for a moment... then inched over, carefully watching in case Therion changed his mind. He didn't. Cyrus settled against Therion's chest and felt arms wrap around his torso. When was the last time I've been held like this? He couldn't recall. He didn't want to.
"...Tell anyone about this, and I'll kill you," the thief said. It was an empty threat. Cyrus would keep this secret nonetheless.
"...Thank you."
They fell into an easy silence. It was a steady road to slumber... but eventually, Cyrus felt his exhaustion melt through the tension in his frame, lulled gently to sleep by Therion's heartbeat and the comfort of his embrace.