Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a tentative thing at first, Therion noticed. When had it started? When had he started to take comfort in something so small it was barely worth mentioning?

The contact. The tactile affection. The way Cyrus used touch to speak at times. The way his hand would settle on Olberic's shoulder or pat Tressa's head. The way he'd nudge Alfyn and Ophilia down to sit so they could rest after handling everyone's injuries. The way he'd happily accept touch in return- from Primrose when he'd tried his hand at dancing, and from H'aanit when she'd clap him on the back so hard he'd stumble forward a little.

And oh, Therion knew that touch. Knew it from the way the scholar's hands would touch his own to guide his magic. Knew it from the way Therion would reach for him in battle to share that same magic with him.

He knew that touch—feather light and devoid of the callouses wielding a blade would give him. So different from all the hands the thief had known before...

Therion remembered how infrequent those touches were in the beginning. How Cyrus's hands rarely reached out to touch his companions unless the contact was initiated by one of them first, as if needing their permission for such an act, no matter how small. It was something Therion had easily dismissed upon first seeing it, brushing the idea aside with the thought that "no way someone that loud would act like a timid kid."

He'd been forced to acknowledge it when Cyrus had reached for him one night. One night where they kept watch together.

Now, keeping watch in pairs wasn't something unusual among their party. With eight people camping together night after night in Orsterra's wilds, it became routine for the travelers to pair up to make sure nothing attacked them in the night. On one such night, Cyrus and Therion had been set to keep watch.

Well. Therion was doing the watching. Cyrus had quickly gotten distracted with a book he'd acquired in Goldshore a handful of nights ago. The scholar was sitting by the fire light, a mere foot away from the thief and fairly engrossed in reading. Therion couldn’t help the small twitch of a smile on his face, exasperated though it might be. He keeps his eyes away from Cyrus, resting his cheek on the palm of his hand while he sits cross legged in the dirt. “You’re shit at keeping watch,” he quips, hoping the fondness behind his words was aptly masked behind the teasing lilt in his voice.

Cyrus blinks, a tinge of red reaching his cheeks as he realizes that, yes, he supposed he was doing a terrible job keeping watch. His eyes turned away from the pages of his book to look at Therion. “Ah. My apologies.”

Therion huffs a little, shifting slightly so his scarf better hides his amusement. “It’s fine. Just don’t want you to be surprised if a froggen jumps us.”

“I’m not so sure how likely that is, as froggens don’t tend to reside near this area nor be nocturnal creatures-”

“Not the point, Professor.”

“...Right. Quite so.”

A silence fell over them, the soft crackle of the campfire becoming the only sound to fill the air… At least, until Cyrus decided to break the quiet. "...The other night," he began, hands fidgeting with the leather bindings of his book.

Therion perked up, brows pinching together. The other night? What about the other night-?

He realized the answer only as Cyrus formed the words. "You got up rather abruptly. The sun hadn't even risen yet…"

Shit.

"It's nothing." How did I not notice he was awake?

"I highly doubt that-"

"Cyrus."

The scholar nips his lower lip, hand reaching out as if to touch Therion's own before seeming to think better of it. That wayward hand retreated as subtly as possible back on top of Cyrus's lap. It was a small thing. Easy to ignore, really… but in that moment, that was the one thing Therion could not do.

He looks… smaller, somehow. And that image alone twisted something in his gut. The thief's hand twitched, the impulse to reach out in return niggling at him before he shoved it away, settling for verbal assurance instead.

"I'm fine. Really. It was just a bad dream, nothing to fuss over." He couldn't help but explain himself just that bit further.

Cyrus eyes him, brows pinched with concern and clearly weighing the truth of Therion's statement. He opened his mouth, then closed it before opening it again: "How long have you been having these… nightmares?"

That… Therion wasn't sure if he had the answer to that question. He must have taken too long to respond, because the next thing he heard was a mumbled apology from the man beside him. What do I say? He didn't know. He was never any good with words.

He lightly bumped their shoulders together instead. "They pop up every once in a while. It's nothing new."

That sentiment only serves to make Cyrus frown a little more. "Can I help somehow?"

Help? Therion can't help but scoff at that. "Not sure how that'd work."

"Well, there are options. I've read that doing something calming before settling down for the night tends to aid in good rest."

"...You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am quite serious, actually. Reading, going on walks, meditating, and general activities that relieve stress can aid in alleviating nightmares. Establishing a regular sleeping schedule also helps, but that's not possible while we traverse the land like this. Listening to some form of white noise that you can tune out has also been proven to assist in the process of relaxing oneself before falling asleep. There is also the more medical side of handling this matter, but you would be better off asking Alfyn on that front. His expertise will be far more valuable than anything I can offer."

Therion would rather die than admit he was going to consider attempting any of what Cyrus was suggesting. "Huh. Alright," he murmurs.

Cyrus smiles wryly in response. "Ah. I'm rambling again. Either way, whatever you choose to do I hope these nightmares plague you less as the days go on."

Therion glances away, a foreign feeling fluttering in his stomach. Why does he have to say things like that? If he didn't know better by now, he'd assume Cyrus had an ulterior motive, but… Cyrus was just Cyrus and he simply didn't think like that.

The night passed in relative silence after that, the quiet only disturbed a handful of times by the scholar. Those hands did not reach for him again that day.

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.

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.

Chapter Text

Good. He's sleeping. Therion lets out a small breath, doing what he can to stay still in case his movements wake the scholar. Bad news, I'm stuck until he wakes up.

Technically, Therion could manage to wriggle himself out of the scholar's grasp with a decent chance of not disturbing him… But that smaller chance of waking Cyrus deterred him. He needs sleep.

He wouldn't admit that Cyrus's disappearance had worried him. He wouldn't admit that he'd been relieved to see him, injured but alive. He wouldn't admit that the look on Cyrus's face after killing Yvon bothered him. He wouldn't admit that the scholar's silence set him on edge nor that he noticed Cyrus touch no one. No pats on shoulders, no pets for Linde, no little nudges paired with an affirmation or fun fact to assure everyone he was fine. No comforting touch.

He probably needed this more than we thought he did.

So he lingers until he can't anymore, the hours ticking by with him woefully awake. He's alerted to the morning when he hears the others rise and shuffle around. Footsteps make their way to the tent, and Therion takes that as his cue to separate from Cyrus. He's not about to get caught showing… affection, of all things.

As anticipated, Cyrus barely twitches as Therion pulls away just as Alfyn murmurs a “Comin’ in!” before parting the tent flap.

Therion sits apart from Cyrus, and Alfyn, quick to catch on that Cyrus was still sleeping, lowers his voice to a whisper. “Mornin, Therion,” he says with a smile, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his concern.

Therion gives him an acknowledging nod and makes room for Alfyn to properly settle beside Cyrus. The apothecary checks the scholar over carefully before gingerly lifting his head up to replace the bandages. They were both fortunate that Cyrus was a heavy sleeper because he barely stirred from the motion. Alfyn lets out a small breath once that was done, shoulders untensing. “The head injury's healin' up nicely. I'll check him proper again when he's awake, but for now…” The apothecary turned his sharp eyes onto Therion and held out a hand. “Lemme see those scrapes of yours.”

Therion slowly hides said scrapes under his poncho, looking innocent as a lamb. “Don't know what you mean-”

Alfyn's brows pinched, frowning deeply before holding his hand out to the thief. “Theri. Your scrapes.”

And this time, Therion begrudgingly obliged, allowing himself to be led out of the tent for treatment without risking waking Cyrus. He endured a small lecture from Alfyn about not hiding his injuries as he’s being treated until Alfyn eventually left to check on everyone else’s wounds.

The fight with Yvon had not been pleasant nor easy. The four that came to rescue Cyrus sustained several magic-related injuries, leaving bodies sore and marred. Those were the natural consequences of battle. A bit of blood and gore always came with the territory of adventuring… but this was one of the few times any of them had killed a person and not a monster.

Yvon was the first man Cyrus killed.

No doubt the taste of victory was bitter, the professor’s nightmares were proof enough of that.

“By Sealticge, Therion, you look like you’re about to have a conniption.”

Therion’s head snaps upward from where he'd been glaring thoughtfully at the ground, immediately locking eyes with Primrose.

The dancer stood with her arms crossed over her waist, a single manicured brow raised. He opens his mouth to make some sort of snide comment in response, but can't quite form the words for it. He presses his lips together in a thin line instead.

She eyes him a little longer before sighing, pressing a hand to her temple as her features soften all at once. “How is he?”

He pauses for a moment at that, caught off guard. He shakes his head after a second. “Sleeping.” Telling Primrose her intuition was wrong was usually more trouble than it's worth- worse still that she was rarely wrong about such things.

“Ah,” she breathes out, lips pursing briefly. “At least he's resting. He probably needed it after- well. After everything.”

Understatement of the year, Prim. He shrugs before glancing at the far off silhouette of Stonegard, tall and imposing even from so many miles west of it. “We should put some more distance between us and the city soon.”

Primrose follows his gaze up before looking back at him, a wry grin on her face. "Once the professor wakes up, that'll probably be the first thing we do.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “But first, why don't you help H'aanit forage a bit? She should still be near camp.”

Get your mind off things for a little while, she meant. He lets out a breath and glances around for the huntress and her faithful companion. Sure enough, she was nearby, checking the fletching of her arrows. Therion thinks for only a moment more before taking Primrose's advice.