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"It's rather quiet now," he heard Cyrus say, in a voice one level above a whisper. Olberic felt his brow raise.
"Do you dislike it?"
"No, but it does feel a little cathartic. This has been quite the night," the scholar replied, an easy smile on his lips as his fingers deftly reached for the chess pieces in front of him. "Silence like this is a bit sobering, don't you think?"
"…That it is,"
Silence, save for the loudly snoring Tressa on Cyrus's lap, Olberic noted. That was to say nothing of Alfyn's own snoring on his side, deep in the depths of drunken somnolence. Therion likewise was laid upon Alfyn, stretched over him like a cat and dozing peacefully in a way Olberic hadn't thought him capable of. Come the morning, the thief would blame it on the alcohol. But all of them would remember the way he burrowed himself into Alfyn's chest, and he imagines that Primrose wouldn't let him live that down. Olberic would know. One day, he will resolve himself to be stricter when putting Cyrus to bed.
Or he could lord over the face she made as she snuggled into H'aanit – so full of bliss and peace that Olberic could hardly mistake her feelings for anything else but blooming affection. Ophilia meanwhile, clung unto Linde, her hand rubbing gently over the snow leopard's coat in her sleep.
Put simply, they almost looked like a family like this – close-knit and vulnerable, sleeping in a pile by the gently-crackling fire on a Frostlands night. It almost brought a smile to Olberic's face.
In the faint haze of alcohol, Olberic couldn't remember how long it has been since he was left alone with Cyrus in such a way. Since meeting the rest of their eight-person family on the road, the scholar occupied his days with hovering over their younger, newer companions with a zeal that could only ever be seen on bright-eyed teachers like himself. It was simple happenstance that the Emberglow Inn had a chessboard, and that Tressa and Therion thought that it could be a good idea to hold a competition around the game. As was Alfyn barging into the room with a fresh casket of ale.
As was the fact that Olberic found himself enamored with the intense, precisely-designed strategies that Cyrus employed in their ending matches. All simple happenstance.
It ended with everyone but him and Cyrus scattered about the warm floors, surrounded by cotton and wool blankets and pillows. Olberic, minding Alfyn and Therion's combined weight on his side, reached for a stray blanket to drape over them both. "We should wake them up soon,"
Cyrus chuckled lightly, pausing his ministrations on the chessboard to look upon Tressa with fondness. "Now now, what's the harm in having us all sleep together like this? And I would rather not wake them when they're dozing away so peacefully," he reasoned, lifting a hand to run it through the merchant's hair. Tressa shifted slightly – and only to move closer to Cyrus's tender touch, a smile weaving its way onto her face. "...haha. It's hard to believe how rowdy they were just a little while ago,"
That fond delight framing the professor's profile seemed almost unbearably pure to Olberic.
Olberic grunted, redirecting his gaze toward the chess pieces before that familiar ache could come haunt him. He thought back to the matches they had earlier, and the noise that surrounded them then –
– and back to Cyrus's placid smile, painted red against the fire in the hearth. Such purity wasn't on his lips when performative fervor guided his hand.
"You say that, but…"
"Hm?"
"You've been moving the mood along earlier, haven't you?"
Cyrus's eyes crinkled with a strange, mischievous mirth Olberic hadn't thought him capable of having, lazily twirling a white bishop around in his fingers. "Hehe. Whatever do you mean?"
"... it's just a hunch." Olberic narrowed his gaze, crossing his arms lightly so as not to disturb the apothecary laying on his side. "You didn't feel like you were at your best while everyone was watching."
The scholar chuckled again, placing a hand above his mouth to muffle the sound. The bishop had been bright before, in this dim room – but now it seemed to reflect the light emanating from the scholar's laughter. "Does it take one to know one, after all? Your victories were all closer than they should have been." he said, with a voice betraying nothing more than a teacher's simple joy at receiving a correct answer.
It was a feeling Olberic regretted not sharing in. Instead, his hand shuffled forward towards the board, rough fingers tracing the edges of a rook. Magic was wonderous, and he doubted Cyrus was capable of telepathy – but there was no mistaking the knowing edge to every victory they exchanged. All their matches were short, oftentimes decided in ten moves or less with quick checks and barely any movement from their back lines.
It made for a sturdy, entertaining illusion to their younger companions. He didn't think himself so transparent – but Cyrus Albright was no ordinary man.
"Nothing gets past you, does it?" he sighed.
"Call it a habit, my friend. And call yourself a great actor while you're at it, because you are quite the enigma of a man. I've not had so much fun simply watching someone in a long while,"
He didn't quite know what to think about being watched, nor what to make of the man who could admit to doing such a thing so flippantly. It was no secret, not really – Olberic's life necessitated constant vigilance, and the scholar's gaze was too intense to go unnoticed. It was an odd thing about him that even the unguarded civilian could feel it – and, consequently, Cyrus's actions become misconstrued.
He could hardly blame them, of course – when the professor's silver tongue works its magic, comprehension becomes skewed. Cyrus Albright disarmed people as naturally as he breathed, and he was breathing now too. Olberic wondered then if brilliant minds like his could ever know rest.
Or maybe this was just how it was meant to be.
"I'm no actor. Perhaps I'm simply too unknown to you."
"There's an exciting thought," Bright again, those dancing, calculating hues in his eyes. Cyrus set the bishop back in its rightful place among the rest of its comrades. He leaned forward to rest his head atop his knuckles. His other hand was open, thin lines across fair skin visible as it gestured towards the clean arrangement. "Now, what say you to a real match? Just us two – and, as they say, we'll lay down all of our cards. No acts this time, only us."
It was a strange, tempting offer. There was no malevolence in Cyrus's words – Cyrus was not so capable of feeling such volatile emotions towards his companions, Olberic had observed – but, there was boldness. This was unmistakably a challenge, and yet an edge in the professor's tone told him that victory could not be so easily defined like it had been when everyone else was awake.
'Only us' seemed dangerous.
The silence lasted only seconds before Olberic shot him a wry smile. "Tressa will be cross with us if she catches wind of this,"
It was the dead of the night in the Frostlands, and yet in that instant Olberic could swear that it was day – the stars in Cyrus's eyes shone bright like unrelenting midnight suns.
"Oh, she will. I suppose I'm playing with fire at the moment…" he said, with only a hint of an apology on his lips as his fingers reached for the front row. To Olberic's mild surprise, the scholar chose a bishop's pawn instead of his king's, moving it two squares. No matter. It changed nothing about his strategy.
He placed a knight to f6, a move that let the edge of Cyrus's lips quirk upwards as he countered by placing his queen's pawn to the center. These were the moves of a scholar eager to prove himself. That was fine – Olberic will give him that good game. He would be lying if he'd said that Cyrus's aggression didn't intrigue him, with every non-pawn piece he brings to the front lines – a far cry from the cool yet impassioned logic that dominated his hand when everyone had been awake.
Before either of them knew it, black pawns had all dominated the center rows, blocking off every possible move that a white vanguard could take. Cyrus's expression remained placid throughout, even as the first loss of the match went to one of his cornered knights – taken by one of Olberic's bishops.
"... Check already? You really did have some tricks left up your sleeve," As it happened, the bishop's placement ensured that Cyrus's king was checked. His fingers approached his monarch with confidence, switching its position with that of a rook’s. With only mild surprise, Olberic’s own hand retreated to the back lines of his obsidian army.
“Shall I tell you what's behind this?”
“If you do not mind being at a disadvantage.”
“Is that so? There aren't very many disadvantages to be spotted when throwing caution to the wind,” he said, taking one of his open rooks and sending it to the middle of the board, where it is then surrounded by pawns both black and white. “You can't read this, can you?”
Cyrus leaned forward, a furrow in his brow as he inspected every piece placement. At the moment, the rook Olberic had just thrown into the battle was vulnerable – and simultaneously, protected – with that area breaking the standstill between the pawns and leaving them free to make moves. “...hm, I suppose I can't…”
The scholar’s bafflement gave Olberic all the openings he needed – at least for this match. Cyrus’s fingers made the mistake of brushing against one of his safe bishops, and he had no choice but to move it along the white squares. Olberic wondered for a split second if he should tell the scholar that he didn’t mind just letting the accident go, yet there was something about the scholar’s gaze that told him that doing so would have been a grave mistake.
In no time at all, both of Olberic’s knights had worked together to surround Cyrus’s king – not in checks, but in blocking every possible escape route it could use. Take the pawn approaching the ivory reagent in e3, and it’ll be slain by the left knight. Should one of the bishops try anything strange, it will face death – whether by rook or by knight or even by one of the pawns, backed by several other pieces Olberic still had at his disposal.
In taking one risk, Olberic’s opponent was left with nothing with but risky moves.
The opponent in question wore nothing but delight on his pretty features as he reached for his king. “Now, if you're going all out, I suppose the polite thing to do is to respond in kind,”
The scholar moved the piece closer to the line of fire, behind a pawn and a rook that could be taken at any moment. It was far away from its queen.
“A bold move. I didn't take you for the type,”
“I like playing on even ground. I suppose you can call that a necessity. As you can see, sir, I am rather frail. There aren't many ways a man like myself can even out the playing field in this wide, dangerous world,”
His words were steady, yet in them there were sparks – like a child who's found a new thrill to fuss over. He was losing more pieces to Olberic's defensive maneuvers, but this seemed to only excite him more as he moved his king even closer to the flames.
"That's why I'm very happy that I can go toe-to-toe with you here." Cyrus said, in that lilting, lecturer's voice of his.
Olberic blinked, and that was all it took for him to realize that in claiming some of Cyrus's pieces, he'd given the scholar more room to move. Cyrus's remaining units were stationed in places that left Olberic’s pieces in equal danger of being taken. One look at the board would tell an outsider that Olberic still held the overwhelming advantage, but a closer, second look would see that Cyrus was holding him in check by the barest of edges.
Olberic narrowed his eyes, staring ahead at the smiling scholar. "…I cannot tell if this self-deprecating talk is genuine, or if you are trying to disarm me."
“Well,” Cyrus’s smile widened into a grin. “What do you think?”
“I will say that you undersell yourself. A great mind is not one to be underestimated,” Olberic replied, finally touching his queen and moving the obsidian piece to the center of the board, and the center of a standoff between rooks and knights. It was full of openings, but he knew it was safe – trusting in Cyrus’s refusal to be straightforward. His gambit paid off when the scholar moved his own queen, having it glide into the front lines as though he were accepting an offer to dance.
That gave Olberic all the information he needed for this match. “You praise me for my blade as though you do not wield one just as deadly.” He ceded, and let his queen take its first victim – an unassuming pawn to the left of a black rook.
He did not know if it was fatigue, nor simple delusion when he saw Cyrus’s cheeks flush with a dusty red, joyous bliss painted across his upturned lips. A breathless laugh left his opponent’s mouth as he let his own queen respond, taking a black bishop that would have killed his king in two moves. “Haha, I did not take the Unbending Blade to be such a flatterer.”
Olberic huffed. “With you, I don't need flattery. I only need truth, so that is what I will give you.”
“You understand very well how I work.”
Any more of Cyrus’s mirth, and he thinks he would implode on himself. He’d often been told as a child that staring into the sun would destroy his eyesight. Tonight, in the silent dead of an inn room, he heeded that advice – Cyrus’s many new faces were all dangerously, blindingly bright.
“Know thy enemy.” He said, taking his queen one last time and moving it backwards, blocking the last exit Cyrus’s king could have used by killing the defenseless ivory queen. Moving it anywhere would lock it into the sights of an enemy unit. “That is the first rule of war.”
‘The second rule,’ Olberic mused to himself, as he surveyed the board to double-check if there were any exits that he’d neglected. In the end, he kept more than half of his pieces alive, his king safe and surrounded. ‘– is to avoid unnecessary conflict wherever possible.’
As he’d expected, the scholar’s expression did not dim at all at the loss – if Olberic could still even call it that. He raised his dainty hands and clapped, feather-light like petals brushing past skin so as not to wake the still-sleeping Tressa atop his lap. “A splendid win, sir.”
If that was what Cyrus called a splendid win, then there was truly too much that Olberic did not know about him.
Olberic collected every downed piece from outside his board, carefully aligning them once more to create a pristine white row in front of Cyrus. He could feel the scholar’s curious eyes on him as he worked, scrutinizing his every move – and Olberic knew then that the night was far from over.
Not if he had anything to say about it, at least. Where was that focus earlier, he wondered – or, had he been playing into Cyrus’s whims this whole time?
A part of him didn’t mind that at all. “So then, will you let me see what you're truly capable of?” He said, as soon as the last piece was placed back into position.
A faint glint of surprise bloomed across Cyrus’s face at the words. It flashed for only a second before his features melted into a smile once more, a giddiness in the air as he reached for a pawn. “How can I refuse a request from the victor himself? Very well,”
His finger stopped short, a hair’s breadth above a knight’s pawn, before he retracted it – moving the knight behind it instead. A black pawn freed a path for the bishop, while the white pawn from earlier met the knight Cyrus had moved on the same row.
Two squares freed on the backlines seemed defensive, but the next few moves of the game seemed like anything but – with Cyrus’s pawns advancing themselves further along the center, this time around attempting to match Olberic’s movements pace by inscrutable pace. Soon enough the board turned into a kaleidoscope of white and black locked in a standstill – and Cyrus’s king had never once made a move to retreat into the corner of the board.
They were going nowhere with this, Olberic realized – and he wondered if that was what Cyrus had been aiming for. He was doing more than just stalling.
Olberic’s hand hovered over his queen for a second, two seconds – but he hadn’t caved in with the third second, pushing a rook to his right to claim a white pawn instead.
“…now this is different,” he heard Cyrus mutter, as the scholar idly pushed a pawn further down the line of fire. That placid image of him remained persistent – expectant, and Olberic once again was left questioning what this strange scholar’s true intentions really were.
“In war, you must also be flexible,” he said, tentative. “And you will surely lose if you play into the expectations of your opponent.”
Cyrus met his gaze, wordless at first – and Olberic could swear that in that moment, mist had gathered around the bright, blinding cloud of stars he had come to know as Cyrus Albright. In the midst of this solstice was cool shade, and a flickering flame of light being challenged head-on.
“I see. I will keep that in mind, and I should tell you –” The scholar replied lightly, taking a white rook into his fingers and breaking the symmetry of the board himself. “I am quite the fast learner.”
“Show me.”
What perfect symmetry that was cast over the battlefield was more than simply shattered, Olberic realized – in the next few moves, chaos had consumed the board. No attempt at matching pace was made when pieces were consumed left and right, with seemingly reckless abandon – Cyrus had broken his own defensive strategy, but like a wildfire razing a forest to the ground, Olberic’s own defenses had been rendered ineffective.
In the haze of white and black queens engaging in wild conquest – ivory towers collapsed and bishops cried out for their gods in vain, pawns falling like the snow outside their window – Olberic had failed to notice a lone white pawn approaching the opposite edge of the board.
He would look back upon this battle with fondness in the morning, that much he was certain of. But morning was still a few hours away. Until then, they were enveloped in shroud – and Olberic, overwhelmed and tired and unsure, will come to regard this fatal mistake to be a great mark of embarrassment.
What words did he have against the trembling of his hands, after all, when one of his knights fell to a stray bishop that Cyrus’s chaos had left in its wake? Certainly none – and he had even less words to use when Cyrus’s white pawn breached the walls of the board, making it the first pawn of the night eligible for promotion.
They didn’t have any extra pieces to work off of, and they would rather fold than look for that unlikely extra chessboard, if it meant leaving their sleeping companions undisturbed. Cold sweat ran down the side of Olberic’s temple when he realized that the best – and only good – candidate in Cyrus’s arsenal was the black knight he’d just captured.
Like a looming phantom in the dead of a cold night, that accursed ache came to bite him, in this feeble, unreal battle. Once more, he was faced with visions of knights and swords and cornered lieges – defenseless and left at the mercy of those too close, and yet so far away. Upturned, the ebony piece seemed to bleed red and gold in the light of a screaming pyre – relishing in the chaos of the moment, kicking up ash and smog in the air.
There were no blades in chess. There were no fires, nor was there blood, nor dust. There were no voices to cry suffering.
Least of all there was no anguish, there should be none, there is none –
“… oh, this won't do at all.”
Cyrus’s voice snapped him back to reality. The sight of him filled Olberic with more relief than he dared divulge. All the excitement in his eyes had dimmed down, and he’d looked at the board with a sourness Olberic had never seen before.
The scholar took a breath, and bit his lip. Olberic thinks he almost looked remorseful, but before he could even get a question out, Cyrus had reached for the knight again. He began to drag it far away from Olberic’s king – a move so blatantly illegal that Olberic had half a mind to shake them both awake.
Instead, he grabbed the scholar’s wrist. Cyrus kept his head down, no attempt at a smile this time. “What are you doing?” Olberic asked, voice hoarse.
“Taking a scenic route,”
“Victory was yours,” Olberic pressed on, loosening his grip on Cyrus’s hand.
A pensive silence enveloped them both. Olberic hadn’t bothered counting the seconds they stayed like this, and over and over he’d wondered how they’d come to this strange position. And like most nights where he ended up alone with Cyrus Albright, he cursed himself – in hushed repetition, just how was it that things between them could never become simple?
Cyrus knew nothing about that day. Not yet – that was the promise Olberic had made to himself. He was faultless here, and Olberic needed to tell him that – but the words remained difficult to say. What apology could even be said in this situation, he wondered – and he wondered some more, aimless and endless, spiraling into that great, gaping maw where Cyrus’s ignorance ended and Olberic’s burdens began.
“…no, I think you are mistaken. There was no victory in that strategy,” Cyrus finally said, placing a gentle hand atop the one Olberic had enveloped around his right. With a slight nudge, he freed his hand – and the black knight, sordid and unfeeling, was laid several squares away from where it was supposed to be.
“Hesitation will spell your doom in a battle like this.”
“…so it will. Thank you for your advice,”
Olberic had no words left to say when Cyrus’s finger touched the white, gleaming king, watching as he slowly, but surely laid it low – signaling a premature defeat that had no business happening in a heated battle where victory was yet nowhere in sight for either of them.
“But this is my win.” Cyrus said, simply, locking eyes with Olberic with an assurance that seemed so far away from making any semblance of sense.
“… what did you do that for?”
“… Intuition, I suppose. Part of me felt that neither of us would be having fun if we carried on with that match. And that’s not what I want,” he replied, and the smile on his face returned. The air around them became lighter, like nothing had ever happened. He took Olberic’s pensive silence as a cue to go on, letting his hands rearrange the pieces back to their territories as he spoke with weighted words. “You’ve been going on about war earlier, sir. It’s fascinating to watch… And I am not at war with you, nor am I your enemy, but I would like to know you more in my own way.”
Realization crashed into Olberic like cold water from a Frostlands stream, and he couldn’t help but let out a breathy chuckle. He leaned into the table, placing his head in an open palm as he watched Cyrus work. Slow, methodical movements and clear hands seemed almost mesmerizing to him as he let the knots in his heart loosen.
He looked around him once more, the weight of Alfyn and Therion on his side grounding him to the quiet and the calm of the moment. They slept, taking refuge in dreams and knowing nothing of this latter half of the night – as did the sight of H’aanit and Primrose, still bundled together barely a foot’s distance away, as did Ophilia, ever-peaceful, leaning into the softness of Linde.
Tressa still snored away on the professor’s lap, contentment across her youthful face as she rested just beneath the smiling stars.
His fingers grazed the burning scar on his forehead, feeling the cracked skin and rough edges sizzle like a brand of hot iron. But he’d continued to watch Cyrus, slow, steady and meditative – and vaguely, he felt the embers fade away into something more akin to streaks of sunlight.
“… you really are a strange man. It's as if every time I talk to you, there's something else that I can't account for. Is this another way of evening out the playing field?” he said, and Cyrus giggled.
“Hehe, the feeling is mutual.” The scholar replied, letting a hand fall to his side so as to caress the sleeping merchant’s hair. “And no… perhaps it excites me to simply know. I suppose we're discovering a lot of things about ourselves on this journey.”
Olberic felt like kicking himself for not seeing earlier what he was meaning to do. He had half a mind to apologize for this indiscretion, but Cyrus had beat him to it – closing his eyes, and letting his free hand graze the spot just below his neck.
“…I am glad to be here. And I am glad to have met you… I felt as if I should say that. One day, I hope that I may hear you say the same.”
If something had been blooming before in Olberic’s chest, it had surely burst now – drowning him in a warmth so sincere that it almost left him gasping.
He felt a tightness in his chest, and he forced himself not to think about how it hadn’t stifled him as he cleared his throat. “I don't think you need to wait so long to hear me say that,”
‘Soon’, he thought. ‘But not now. Any time but now.’
“Shall we call it a night?” He asked, for fear of the feeling swallowing him whole. He willed himself not to flounder when he heard Cyrus hum – tuneless and playful, in a voice only Olberic could hear.
“… I would like to stay up for a little longer, actually. I'm feeling rather restless… So would you play a few more rounds with me?”
He should say no. They had an itinerary to follow – places to see, things to do, goals to reach. But even his eyes haven’t yet drooped so low that he could really rest. Something told him that it was a futile effort – and that it had been a futile effort from the moment he decided to accept Cyrus’s offer not an hour before.
“… it's only a few hours 'til dawn.”
“I'm sure our companions would appreciate resting for a while longer…” If he had been playing into Cyrus’s hands after all, then so be it – Cyrus, already reaching for a pawn, wasn’t the only one who wanted to stretch this moment out. “So, please keep me company.”
Indulging in that delicate, eager warmth for now – perhaps it wasn’t so bad.