#cyberic

i bet cyrus loves talking to olberic!!

Maybe some headcanons or ficlets??

“Do you think of him still?”  Their eyes don’t meet. It isn’t an accusation, isn’t pointed enough to be, but with time, Olberic has learned of Cyrus’ ability — admirable, at times, and irritating at others — to mask himself behind a tone of idle intrigue. He’d overheard Tressa wonder aloud whether or not the professor was capable of anger; he’d not replied, but Olberic knows any man with a tempest at his fingertips must know how it feels to rage as one.  “I have spent many years living in my past,” the warrior answers steadily. “No longer.”  “He’s not in the past anymore,” comes that level remark, and at last, Cyrus’ sharp blue eyes peer at the other man from over the top of his book. To that, Olberic has no reply.  Two full moons have passed since the night they spent lying in the grass beneath the stars, avoiding the noise of the tavern in favour of each other’s company until the small hours of the morning. Two full moons have passed since Olberic spoke of the ghosts of his past that had lived on only in his regrets until then. The nights that have gone by since meeting one of those ghosts in the flesh are far fewer. Erhardt is no longer a question, a figure in the shadows of dreams, a traitor disappeared like the dust he’d helped turn Hornburg into — now he was only a man who’d found a new purpose, not a stone’s throw from the one Olberic had searched for. And his stature, his swordplay, and the ease with which he’d fallen shoulder to shoulder with his old friend again has left Cyrus with an unfamiliar feeling tightening his chest.  “Your story is coming to an end.” There is no curiosity in Cyrus’ voice this time. Only something small and melancholy that makes Olberic settle a hand over one of the scholar’s legs that had come to drape over his lap while he read and gently squeeze. “Will you join him in Wellspring when it’s over?”  The warrior breathes in slow. “No,” he answers on the exhale, and the tightness in Cyrus’ chest drops to the pit of his stomach as he watches the man’s features, the way the muscles in his cheeks stand out when he clenches his jaw so. “There are enough good men on Wellspring’s front lines. And Erhardt..”  The name lingers in the silence that falls between them.  “Erhardt has no use for me now.”  Slender fingers replace the bookmark between the pages before him as Cyrus sets his book aside. He moves into Olberic’s lap, the warrior’s hands settling on his hips with ease, Cyrus’ raised to cup his cheeks. The pad of his thumb brushes affectionately across stubbled skin, and he closes the gap between them with a delicate kiss on the lips.  “Sir Olberic,” the scholar murmurs in the brief moment they part for a breath, “I need you.”