Chapter Text
It has been two years since Cyrus has done such a long escort alone.
As captain of the royal guard, it’s strange that he doesn’t seem to be trusted to complete extended travel with consequential inventory by himself, but there is never any actual discussion regarding it. It is merely the appearance of another soldier—masked, saddled, and armed—when it’s time to depart.
This time, he’s meant to leave, and a lone horse is tied to his own Brenen, presumably for his upcoming passenger. Cyrus isn’t sure if that means he’s somehow regained some confidence in his position. If so, he doesn’t recall how, as his head is pounding from a hangover, and that’s all he can focus on at present. He brings his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, attempting to rub the soreness away. It’s a pointless gesture, but he hopes it will prove somewhat soothing at least before—
‘You’re his highness’ captain of the guard, then?’
Cyrus opens his eyes too suddenly, light pouring into his vision with a vengeance. He hisses and shields his sight with the back of his hand, trying to squint through his fingers. He knows he probably looks foolish as he tries to pair the face to the gentle voice that’s spoken.
When he can focus, he registers golden skin and messy, snow-colored hair hiding kaleidoscopic eyes, sparkling from aquamarine and amber to emerald and silver. The young man is a head shorter than him, at least, draped in the traditional dark onyx cloaks adorned by those that work with the dead, as warned by Mother Iren back at the castle. If that wasn’t clear enough, jagged runes that Cyrus expects to thrum bright with power are carved deep into the young man’s skin—starting from the edges of his lips, racing down his jaw and his neck, and disappearing beneath his robes.
‘You’re the necromancer,’ Cyrus observes, straightening.
The man makes a face, like Cyrus has said something unsavory. Cyrus knows the title isn’t necessarily favored amongst all, but he didn’t say it meaning harm. He knows his hulking, grouchy appearance does not exactly invite diplomacy, but he was raised better than to say things to offend outright! The smaller man adjusts his robes with a sigh. ‘My name is O’alwyn,’ he says, his pronunciation bearing a distant accent Cyrus isn’t familiar with. ‘Most refer to me as Wyn, though.’ Wyn’s hands—which Cyrus notes are also scarred with similar runic designs, down to the tips of his fingers—squeeze at his cloak, as if he’s wondering what to do with them.
Cyrus nods. ‘Mother Iren gave me your name,’ he explains gruffly. Though it didn’t sound nearly the same coming from her, he thinks. ‘Cyrus. Horses are tied up at the gates. It’s about six days back. We can stay around for a little, but no more than an hour’s—’
Wyn shakes his head, interrupting. ‘I’d like to leave sooner, rather than later. I’m not staying anywhere. The inns wouldn’t allow me entry.’
Cyrus raises an eyebrow, about to question him, but then he notices a couple passing by, both of them whispering obviously about Wyn’s appearance. His cloak is blatant enough, but the runes on his body make it clear he isn’t simply a passing seller. Cyrus purses his lips. ‘Right…’ The sound of double doors whooshing makes him wince, laughter filling the air momentarily. A tavern. Cyrus swallows. He’d wanted a drink and maybe some leaf when he’d arrived—maybe fresh ale and a smoke would soothe the discomfort from the previous night—but there are more important things at hand.
Like duty.
‘Sir Cyrus?’
Cyrus’s gaze snaps back to Wyn. He gathers himself, rolling his shoulders in a failed attempt to ease the tension gathered in him. ‘Follow me, then. I plan to restock provisions and water before we leave.’
It’s during said restock that Cyrus really begins to realize the oddness of their appearance. Besides Cyrus’s gigantic height, his dark skin, closely cropped curls, and thickening scruff, the royal emblem on his cloak is what stands out most clearly, gaining bows of respect and wide-eyed stares of awe. Most clearly think he’s escorting a prisoner, then become confused as to why Wyn is unchained and able to roam freely. When the young man is given his own horse, it’s made clear that the two are some kind of pair, and perplexity quickly morphs into fear, then contempt.
A woman carrying a basket close to her chest goes so far as to gather a wad of saliva in her mouth and spit at Wyn’s horse’s feet, hurling a glare in his direction. She draws a symbol in the air, her lips silently casting an angry prayer.
Cyrus recognizes it as a warding symbol, and he thinks to himself, superstitious bitch. The thought surprises him. He doesn’t care much for religion, but he tends to ignore it when it’s displayed in front of him. He’s not sure what about it sets him off now. He looks next to him at Wyn. He’s not sure what he’s expecting. Some outward reaction of discomfort? Sadness, maybe?
Wyn’s expression doesn’t change. His posture doesn’t shift. He doesn’t look at the woman, doesn’t tighten his grip on his reins, doesn’t look ashamed. But then Cyrus notices. Wyn’s jaw clenches ever-so-slightly. His breath changes. They’re minute, barely noticeable shifts, like he’s swallowing around something that’s formed in his throat.
It shouldn’t bother Cyrus.
It does
He kicks Brenen into a quicker pace, shifting him in front of Wyn’s mare. The woman is startled—a pleasant response—and drops her basket, spilling its contents.
Wyn makes a strangled sound Cyrus thinks is meant to be a laugh as they continue out of the main street. He doesn’t speak until they’ve left the town behind them, as if those that live there could hear his words. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’
Cyrus glances at him, surprised at how meek the witch looks in the orange sunlight. ‘She should know her place,’ he responds dully.
Wyn makes another sound, but Cyrus isn’t sure what it means. He doesn’t ask. ‘Is that part of your protective duty?’ Is what Wyn inquires, a hint of amusement trickling into his tone.
Cyrus doesn’t speak for a moment, keeping stiff and steering straight as if he hadn’t heard anything at all. He sighs, peering at Wyn with exhaustion. He’s beginning to feel like he’s a caretaker for a child. ‘You are under royal protection, necrom—’ Wyn’s breath hitches softly. Right. ‘Witch,’ Cyrus corrects.
‘Wyn.’ The corner of Wyn’s mouth lifts into a smirk. Silence passes between them for a moment again. ‘Why did they send you?’ Regret immediately forms on his face after the words leave his mouth, and he shakes his head, expression crumpling. ‘That is not what I—I meant it as in—’ He closes his eyes. ‘The captain of the royal guard should not have to abandon his duty for mere transport. Especially during talks with foreign enemies. That is all. I’d hate to cause trouble for any of you.’ He finishes quietly.
Cyrus hums, masking his surprise for Wyn’s consideration by lifting a shoulder dismissively. ‘Your arrival is considered of utmost importance to His Majesty’s plan in the upcoming battles against the Roquen,’ he explains as if it makes all the sense in the world. Though, if he’s honest, it’s a question that has plagued his brain as well. He hasn’t been able to pinpoint the exact why of his assignment. There are plenty strong members of the guard that could escort a witch back to the castle—there was no need to assign Cyrus, specifically, in his opinion. Not that he has any intentions of sharing that with the necromancer—witch he’s just met.
The topic seems to make their ride finally fall into silence. Cyrus isn’t sure how long it lasts, but it’s enough that when Wyn makes a sharp, startled noise, Cyrus’s entire body goes rigid on alert. ‘What is it? Do you sense something?’
Wyn doesn’t answer, then his mare jerks when his body suddenly stiffens, hands locking up and twisting the reins. ‘Don’t,’ he suddenly whispers, voice panicked. Wyn’s chest heaves, and Cyrus hears leaves rustling around them with his exhale. They sound like whispers as they race across the ground, and Cyrus feels like their unintelligible words are crawling up his arms and legs.
‘Oy. Witch, are you ill?’ Cyrus interjects sternly, placing a hand on Wyn’s leg. ‘The next town with aid is still hours away, but there may be something we can obtain from—’ Cyrus’s voice trails into silence when Wyn opens his eyes.
Wyn’s eyes, once fascinatingly colorful, have been drained to a colorless, mirror-like grey—even the pupils muted into nothingness as he stares ahead blankly. His skin is draining of its color, like the life is escaping him with every breath he doesn’t seem to be taking. Cyrus isn’t even sure how the man is sitting up. It’s quite the horrifying sight.
‘Wyn?’ The man’s name comes out easier than Cyrus expected it to. He isn’t sure if it’s the fear of failing his mission before it’s even started—did the necromancer somehow die before they’d even made it out of the area?!—or the concept of seeing something he doesn’t fully understand, but Cyrus is not one to be easily rattled. Right now, however, he may be on the path to being unnerved shitless.
Wyn opens his mouth, and though he isn’t directly looking at Cyrus—is he looking at anything?—his lips form a shape that Cyrus recognizes, and Cyrus knows it’s meant for him.
Help.
Before Cyrus can speak, a rattle he has only heard from those about to die emerges from Wyn’s throat. A chill runs through Cyrus’s body, icy and immobilizing. His fingers curl, unsure where to reach. The reins dig into his hands, and his head twists, the bones in his neck cracking. But he’s alive, yes? He’s still moving.
Wyn’s horse protests wildly, knowing something is wrong. Cyrus has little time to react, given only seconds to both move out of the way of the charging beast whilst simultaneously trying to catch the dead weight as Wyn is thrown from her back.
The air is expelled from Cyrus’s lungs so violently he sees double. His ribs ache so badly he feels he may be sick, but he swallows and forces himself to sit up, cradling Wyn’s greying face. His eyes look like stone, completely void of any resemblance of life. But he blinks, slowly. Cyrus shakes his head in disbelief. ‘In all the stars…’
Suddenly, one of the runes on Wyn’s cheek begins to crackle. It’s a quiet sound, like taking steps on a pebbled road. Then a faint light emerges, like golden dust. Wyn sighs. Cyrus does, too, in relief that the man is alive. But then the next sound he makes is more pained. The rune lights up again, brighter this time, and Wyn sits up with a cry. The sound is layered, reminding Cyrus of battlefields and pillaged villages—the screams of many, both innocent and guilty, all wailing.
The sound is so loud, so intense, and overwhelming that Cyrus almost shuts his eyes and covers his ears like a little child, but his pride won’t allow it. He blinks for what feels like too long.
When he opens his eyes, he isn’t sure what’s happened. Cyrus doesn’t remember standing up, but he is very clearly upright. His hands are over his ears, precisely as he told himself not to do. The screams have died down, but there is one that still remains. It sounds close by and… familiar, somehow. Yet Cyrus doesn’t think he’s heard it, all at the same time.
It takes a moment, then Cyrus realizes his mouth is open and his throat feels raw.
The screaming is his own.
Wyn is standing right in front of him.
Horror floods through Cyrus, and he summons all his strength to regain any fragment of self-control. He’s able to press his lips together, and silence fills the forest, save for his unsteady breathing and the sound of Brenen’s stomps and huffs. When he looks down at his hands momentarily, he notices splotches of crimson from his throbbing ears. He swallows before bringing his eyes back to Wyn.
Wyn stands stiff only a few feet in front of him, his head cocked to the side at an angle as though he can’t hold it up. His skin is the sickening white of a corpse. His runes and veins are the same depth and darkness, hollowing his face and intensifying his empty gaze. His lips are tinged blue and look roughly chapped when they part.
Though the voice that emerges is not his. Recognizable as it is.
‘Captain.’
Cold races down Cyrus’s spine. His eyes are wide and he recoils.
Possession of the body is not unheard of, and he has witnessed it a number of times. But, as he understands, it normally requires touch, a connection with an object or being. To possess someone from a distance says a lot about the possessor, yes.
But more about the vessel that can withstand it.
Cyrus swallows, realizing his silence has extended far too long. He crosses his right hand over his chest and bows his head in quick reverence. ‘Divine Mother Iren,’ he greets. He lifts his head, not bothering to keep the shock off his face as he gazes at the blankness on Wyn’s. ‘What… What is happening?’
Cyrus can almost hear the laughter in Mother Iren’s voice coming out of Wyn’s lips, overflowing with his own in a haunting array. ‘You are in the presence of a miracle. You see why the king has chosen this one. You see its importance. Death has touched Wyn. It is not just a powerful necromantic seed, but a vessel to be used.’
Cyrus watches tears begin to stream down Wyn’s cheeks. Something feels amiss in his stomach. He doesn’t have time to think of the oddities of it—why a necromancer would cry at the reminder of being blessed by Death Itself. Joy, perhaps? Yet it doesn’t seem that way.
‘You must bring the vessel back to us safely, Captain,’ Mother Iren continues, Wyn gasping after her words as though each one were glass inside his throat. ‘There are those that would wish it in their possession. Would wish it destroyed. You must keep it safe.’
The way she dehumanizes Wyn, referring to him as ‘it,’ makes Cyrus's skin crawl, but he doesn’t say anything about it. It’s not his place. ‘Of course, Mother.’ He bows again. ‘But… A necromancer and vessel of his strength… really needs protection?’
Laughter sparks, but it isn’t just Mother Iren’s. It rises from the dirt. Echoes in the trees. The energy in the entire forest has shifted.
‘What is this?’ Cyrus demands, his hand going to his sword, though he doesn’t draw. He’s not sure what he would fight.
‘Show him your blessing, O’alwyn.’
The earth trembles.
The dirt around them clumps, and the animals come to their senses again. Birds screech and flee. Small rodents scatter. Cyrus’s horse stomps and neighs, ears pointed in distress.
‘No,’ Cyrus hears Wyn’s voice, singular and trembling, and he looks to see the witch shaking his head wildly. One of his eyes is still a complete stony orb, while glassy jade is leaking into the other. ‘No, no, no, I don’t—I don’t want to! There’s a—a town—close by and—’ His voice breaks, and suddenly he claps a hand over the eye regaining color. When his hand limply drops to his side, he’s seemingly staring at the sky, eyes completely grey again—streaks of blood dripping down his cheeks.
The earth swells. As if the ground breathes, small mounds of dirt—graves—that have been long forgotten re-emerging like memories demanding to make themselves known. Cyrus doesn’t know how long it will take the corpses to crawl their way up from their resting place after much time has passed, but he hopes to be away from this place by the time they do.
‘A perfect instrument in anyone’s hands is just that: a tool. It can be used however they see fit.’ Wyn’s iron tears have spilt into his mouth and spill down his smiling lips as Mother Iren speaks. ‘Do not delay, Captain. The king requires his most important device.’
A raspy inhale and settling of bones indicates the return of Wyn’s body, and Cyrus watches in awe and horror as white returns to his eyes. The majority of his irises are grey, aside from some green and blue, and he only meets Cyrus’s gaze for a moment before the trembling begins.
Cyrus doesn’t need much more of a hint. He doesn’t know what happened to the dirt in the area, but he has no intentions of staying to find out. He settles the witch in front of him on his horse, keeping him as steady as possible. His body is freezing and stiff, already corpse-like, and Cyrus tells himself he should have expected it as their bodies fall into each other’s. Wyn makes quiet whimpering noises every few moments, like he’s having troublesome dreams.
Cyrus fears he’ll be the one facing troublesome terrors in the near future, both while awake and asleep. Realization sinks into his bones like ice. This is no mere escort. That is why the captain of the royal guard was needed.
This has the potential to be Death’s pilgrimage.
He is riding with a weapon that can be fired from a hundred miles away.