34

Widower Smith puttered around the room, making tea. Cyrus, Jasper, and most of the village were busy telling their stories for the scribe. Widow Jones, fearing Greyson would not behave himself and stay off his knee, sent Widower Smith to watch him.

The old man had basically no hair with a few gray wisps on his pale dome. His square face was heavily wrinkled with pronounced jowls, and his back bent with age. Widower Smith had to be close to ninety, but he still got around.

Once the tea was done, Widower Smith brought him a cup with a toothless smile.

"Thank you."

"You know," he said, sitting down, "I dislocated my knee once when I was young."

"Did you?"

Widower Smith nodded. "You need to stay off it, but make sure to stretch."

"What stretches would you recommend?"

The old man frowned, hand on his chin. "I remember a few. Get up, and I'll show you."

Greyson slowly rose, knife stabbing his ribs and knee twinging. Widower Smith showed him several stretches. Greyson watched closely and copied, following the movements. The tendons pulled, stealing his breath and making him wince, but he continued. If it would help him, he would do it regardless of any discomfort.

"What are you doing?" a voice shouted as the door opened. Greyson looked over his shoulder at Cyrus. His brow furrowed as Cyrus rushed toward him with a thunderous expression.

"Widower Smith is showing me some stretches to help my knee," he stated in a calm voice.

"Ah," Cyrus said as he took a deep breath. "Why don't you sit down again, so we can ice your side and knee?"

He lowered to the bed, shaking his head. Cyrus had gotten overprotective since Jasper had arrived, and Greyson didn't exactly understand why. Any little movement on his part brought Cyrus barrelling toward him. Anytime Jasper spoke to him, Cyrus buzzed around like an angry bee.

"Thank you for spending time with me, Widower Smith," Greyson said, ignoring Cyrus' fidgeting next to him.

He patted Greyson's arm. "It's no trouble."

"I'll walk you out," Cyrus said.

Widower Smith patted Cyrus' arm as well. "You're both good boys."

"We try," Cyrus said as he led the old man out of the apartment.

Greyson imagined he would escort Widower Smith all the way home to make sure the old man did not slip. It took several minutes for Cyrus to reappear. When the door opened, Greyson smiled at him as he slowly extended his leg and moved his foot up and down.

Cyrus kissed the top of his head. "I missed you."

"I saw you this morning," Greyson said with a laugh.

"So?"

"I missed you too."

Cyrus grinned. "I knew it.

"How is it going?"

"Good," Cyrus replied, sitting next to him on the bed. "Jasper already spoke to Lord Darius, and Widow Jones has rounded up a lot of people. It will take a while."

When he fell silent, Greyson glanced at him. Cyrus had a faraway look as his hands fisted on his thighs. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. Let me get you some snow."

"Thank you."

When Cyrus returned, he helped Greyson onto his side before placing a towel over his ribs and gently setting the snow down. After it was situated, Cyrus moved to leave, but Greyson snatched the edge of his cloak.

"Stay with me."

"I need to read some reports."

"Fine."

Cyrus stood by the bed, hovering, before sitting next to him. Greyson rested his head on Cyrus' thigh. "Thanks."

Running his fingers through Greyson's hair, Cyrus said, "It's fine. I like spending time with you."

Greyson sighed in contentment. The snow chilled his side and banished the pain, but Cyrus' gentle ministrations were what truly soothed him. As sleep was about to claim him, muttering came from above him, and Greyson cracked his eyes open. Cyrus' brow was furrowed as he shook his head, then began mumbling again.

"What's wrong?"

"Huh? What?"

"You seem distracted. Since Prince Consort Jasper came you've been upset. What's going on?"

"Nothing."

He snuggled against Cyrus' well-muscled thigh. "Well, that's a lie."

"Sorry," Cyrus whispered, running his fingers through Greyson's hair. "I'm thinking."

"About?"

He did not answer.

"Should I be worried?" he asked, tensing.

"No," Cyrus said, eyes wide. "Of course not."

"Alright."

After a pause, Cyrus asked, "Why do you call them ‘widow' or ‘widower' and their surname?"

"Is that what you're thinking about?" he asked with a startled laugh.

"One of the things."

"We call them that as a reminder. They lost their spouses, and it reminds everyone that they need extra support and help." Greyson had honestly never thought about it. They simply called people that when their spouses died. "You don't do that?"

"No."

"Hmm."

Eventually, Cyrus took the dripping bag of half-melted snow off his side. He disappeared for a few minutes, then helped Greyson onto his back, propping his knee up with a pillow. Once Greyson was settled, Cyrus sat next to him and cuddled close to him.

"What if I dared to tell you earlier?" Cyrus asked.

"What do you mean, love?"

"What do you think would have happened if the first summer you came, I told you I liked you? Before the animosity built between us."

Greyson had no idea what would have happened. He had not been as confident in his youth. If Cyrus had approached him, what would he have done? "I imagine," he started, "it would have gone one of two different, yet similar, ways. One, I would have been so flustered that I would've never spoken to you again. Or two, I would've stared at you, completely shocked, and walked away."

Cyrus chuckled. "You don't think we could've gotten together?"

He pursed his lips. Maybe they would've gotten together? Greyson would have been intrigued by Cyrus, and Cyrus wouldn't have given up. Images of them together, exploring the city, holding hands, and stealing kisses danced through his mind.

"It wouldn't have lasted long, as I would have returned to the Griseo Mountains for the winter."

"You don't think I would've followed you?"

Yes, Greyson could easily imagine Cyrus coming with him. He smiled at the thought of Cyrus chasing him around the mountains, the two of them together. But soon it was replaced by images of war. What would have happened when the rebellion started?

"What about the war? We would've been ripped apart, and I don't think we would have ever recovered from that."

"It might never have happened if we were together. I could've better advocated for the Griseo Mountains, and we could've banded together," Cyrus argued.

"I think all that matters is we're together now. I like us now."

"I like us now too."

Greyson limped across the room. He was steadily getting better. He imagined that in another few days, he'd feel almost normal. Cyrus had left this morning with a deep frown while he muttered unintelligible words. Something was bothering Cyrus, but he would not talk about it. As the days passed, they were discussing more and more, dismantling the wall of the past between them. Though some things, foundation bricks, as it were, stopped them dead—like the emperor and the future.

The door opened, and Cyrus came inside. "You're up."

"I am."

"And everything is alright?" he asked, staring directly at Greyson's knee.

"Yes." Greyson fought to keep his voice even. Once Cyrus started worrying, he never seemed to stop.

Cyrus captured his hand. "Can I talk to you?"

His brow furrowed. "What's going on?"

Cyrus led him to the table and then sat, facing him, but he didn't say anything. His face was a blank mask that Greyson hadn't seen since almost directly after he woke up. It reminded him of his teenage years, and not in a good way.

"You're scaring me," Greyson confessed.

Almost instantly, his expression softened as he rubbed his thumb over Greyson's knuckles. "What are we going to do if my uncle makes me come home?"

Thisissue was something neither of them brought up, but both of them had to be thinking about it. "Well," Greyson started, "we'll be okay."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you may have to go to the capital for a few months or so, but we will be fine." Apparently, that was the wrong answer because Cyrus frowned. "What?" Greyson asked. "You don't think we will make it?"

"No, I think we'll be fine," Cyrus said, starting to stand.

Greyson tugged Cyrus back down. "Talk to me, love. You've been so quiet and surly."

"I don't want to be separated."

"Okay," he said slowly. "I don't either, but that might be what has to happen."

Cyrus bit his lip. "What if the emperor lifts the banishment order and bounty? Would you come with me?"

"I don't like the capital."

"I know."

Greyson scooted to the edge of his seat. "I would come with you, but I can't live in the capital forever."

A blindingly bright grin grew on Cyrus' face. "It won't be forever."

He opened his mouth but then closed it. Greyson had some serious doubts about Emperor Caspian allowing him to come to the capital. He stared at Cyrus, who beamed. He didn't want to ruin his happiness, but at the same time, it was the reality before them, and Cyrus needed to be prepared.

"Love," Greyson said softly, "he might not let me come."

Cyrus' expression dimmed. "No."

"No, what?"

"Just no."

"Cyrus, this is a very real possibility."

He stood, shaking his head.

"We'll be fine, love."

"You would be alright being apart?"

"No," Greyson said, getting up. He grabbed Cyrus' shoulders pulling him close. "No, I don't want to be separated. But what I'm saying is we'll make it. I love you, Cyrus. I'm yours. It doesn't matter how much time passes or where you go, we will be alright. We'll write, and you'll convince your uncle to let me come to the capital or for you to return, then we'll be together again."

Eyes glassy, Cyrus said, "No."

"Cyrus," Greyson started with a sigh.

"No," he said as a tear slipped down his cheek. "Just no, okay?"

"Okay," Greyson whispered, wrapping his arms around Cyrus. "Okay, love. It'll be alright." Cyrus trembled, arms winding around his waist.

"Just stay with me."

"I will," Greyson promised. "I'm right here. It will all be alright."