5

Greyson sat before the crackling fire, drinking a cup of strong tea. Cyrus was across from him, staring blankly. There wasn't much in the way of entertainment. He had a few books, but they were magical theorem books that his mother had brought with her when she returned from her studies and enlistment in the capital. A couple he'd stolen from the royal library when he visited. None of the books would interest Cyrus nor did Greyson want to reveal he owned them in case Cyrus recovered his memories and recalled them.

"You should go to sleep."

Cyrus' gaze shifted to the lone bed. "Where are you going to sleep?"

"On the floor."

Eyes widening, he said, "I can't let you do that."

A sigh broke out of his lips. He'd sighed more in the last few days than he had his entire life. "It's fine, Cyrus. Go to sleep." Cyrus opened his mouth, but Greyson snapped, "Just sleep."

Expression falling, Cyrus undressed before he settled on the bed. "Thank you, Greyson."

His eyes flicked to Cyrus, who stared at him as he rested on his side. "It's fine."

Greyson kept his gaze on the flames until he was absolutely certain that Cyrus had fallen asleep. Once he heard snoring, Greyson took three blankets from the chest pressed against the wall, then used the thickest as a mat, one as a pillow, and the final to cover himself. After he'd stripped off his clothes, Greyson stretched out.

Almost immediately, his back began to protest. He rolled to his right side and saw Cyrus sleeping on his back, mouth open, and blonde hair falling over his forehead.

What am I doing?Greyson thought. This was not a good plan or even a well-thought-out one, which was unusual for him. He'd acted before thinking, saving Cyrus with little regard for the future.

Maybe I could poison him?

A plan started to form in the back of his mind. He could slowly poison Cyrus while searching for the reason he'd traveled this far, and maybe he could figure out who'd wiped Cyrus' memory. If Greyson did find who'd erased his memory, they might know something about this journey Cyrus had taken.

The only problem was the emperor. If he found out, he would blame the entire Griseo Mountains and punish them, though no one besides his village had seen Cyrus yet. They wouldn't say anything. Greyson shook his head. It would've been better if he'd let Cyrus die.

Counting silently in his head, Greyson forced himself to fall asleep.

Cyrus awoke with a smile because Greyson was on his side, facing him. Cyrus tucked an arm under his head. In the void of nothingness around him where he couldn't recognize anything, Greyson and his familiarity were like a mooring rope that kept him from floating adrift. Their friendship was a balm to his soul and the bone-deep terror he felt with not remembering anything.

Even as he watched Greyson, Cyrus couldn't help but wonder. Greyson didn't act like they were friends.

Greyson jerked back. "What the hell? Why are you staring at me?" He rolled to his other side, then stood and stretched. Greyson wore nothing besides undershorts, which gave Cyrus an excellent view. Greyson didn't have well-defined muscles, but he was in no way out of shape. He donned some clothes before striding outside.

Cyrus threw the covers off. Standing, he put on his own clothes. The door opened, and Greyson returned. Cyrus went outside to take care of his needs, then headed back into the cabin.

The smell of food already filled the air, as Greyson started cooking breakfast. Cyrus sat at the table and watched him, stomach growling. Greyson deposited a plate in front of him with eggs and a slice of bread.

"Thank you."

Grunting, Greyson put the kettle on the flames for tea.

"Are we going into the village to send the letter?" he asked between bites.

"Yes," Greyson replied as he sat across from him. "We also need more bread. I usually buy it from Widow Abney."

"I'm surprised you can't bake bread."

"I can," Greyson said, "but I like to support her. Also…" He trailed off as his gaze wandered over Cyrus.

A blush started to rise to his cheeks from the close inspection. "What?"

"We'll have to do something about your clothes. Eventually, they'll have to be washed. If you weren't so short and broad, I would let you wear mine, but you won't fit into my clothes." Greyson pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll have to ask Window Abney or Annabeth to make you some."

"Who's Annabeth?" A tightening sensation started in Cyrus' chest and stole his appetite.

"A woman in the village, and the closest thing we have to a seamstress." Greyson took a sip of his tea before eating his eggs.

Cyrus nibbled on his bread. "It would be nice to meet other people."

"Hmm."

Cyrus whistled jauntily as they entered the village. In the distance, he could see a few people in the fields doing who knew what. A couple of boys led a herd of bleating goats into the trees while a little girl of five or six chased after some chickens.

Several women huddled near the well, talking, and their eyes kept darting in his direction. Cyrus gave the gaggle of women a friendly wave, which they didn't return. Instead, their whispers intensified.

"Is there something wrong with me?" Cyrus asked, patting his body.

Greyson swiveled toward him, brow furrowed. "Why? Do you feel ill? Do you need to go back?"

"No." His eyes shifted to the women. "They keep looking at me."

With a frown, Greyson glanced at the group of women, who instantly became a flurry of activity. "There's nothing wrong with you. People here are not used to travelers or visitors. Ignore them."

"If you're sure," Cyrus said.

Greyson grunted, then stopped in front of a single-story house that had abundant orange flowers growing in the wooden planters under the windows. He knocked on the door with a brass knocker, and it creaked open, revealing Widow Abney.

Her wrinkled face stretched into a smile as she pushed the door all the way open. "What can I do for you two boys?"

"I was hoping you had some bread that I could purchase?" Greyson asked.

She waved them in. "Of course. I can whip some up and give it to you tomorrow. Why don't you two come in?"

The house boasted a decent-sized kitchen, a light wood table with matching chairs, a fireplace, and a bed. It was cozy and decorated in bright shades of yellow and blue. A strong smell of baked sugary treats filled the small space, lending a homey air, and it made him moan in appreciation.

Widow Abney ambled to the stone fireplace and put a kettle on the flames. "I assume you want tea, Greyson."

"You know me too well," he said as he sat at the table.

Cyrus sank onto the chair beside Greyson. "Do you come here a lot?"

"Yes. I lived with Widow Abney for a bit in my teenage years. Also, since her sons died, I've been taking care of her."

He nudged Greyson with his shoulder. "You're a nice guy."

Grunting, Greyson rolled his eyes, which made Cyrus chuckle. Greyson gave him the barest hint of a smile in return. Cyrus swallowed and his pulse raced as they stared at each other. Time slowed. Something powerful strung between them. Greyson"s smile dimmed, but his eyes stayed soft. Cyrus leaned closer.

The tea kettle let out a shrill whistle, making them jump.

Widow Abney loaded a tray with a yellow teapot decorated with small white flowers, cups, and cookies. Cyrus jumped up and snatched it from her, so she didn't have to manage the tray as well as her cane. He set it on the table, teapot and cups rattling.

She sat across from them, resting her cane against the table, then poured them each a cup of tea. Cyrus took a drink and fought back a frown. It didn't taste as bitter as the tea Greyson made, but it clung unpleasantly to his tongue.

"This is good," he lied, setting the cup down and pushing it away.

"Widow Abney makes the best tea," Greyson said.

The old woman released a croaky laugh as she prodded the plate of cookies toward them. Cyrus gratefully accepted one. It was soft and melted on his tongue. Shaking his head, he thought, This is amazing.

"It's magic," she said, almost like she'd read his mind.

"What?" he asked, mouth falling open.

"Magic," Greyson repeated. "Not many people in the Griseo Mountains are traditionally trained, but almost everyone possesses some form of magic. Some people can tell with perfect accuracy what the weather will be or where someone lost something. Anything Widow Abney cooks tastes amazing. It's her gift."

Cyrus gaped at her. "That's the best gift possible."

Chuckling, she offered him another cookie while Greyson rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea. "Well, it has come in handy," Widow Abney said.

"I don't suppose you could make Cyrus some clothes? I will pay of course," Greyson asked, dipping a cookie in his tea.

"My hands are not what they used to be," she replied.

"I understand. I will have to ask Annabeth."

A frown immediately pulled on Cyrus' lips. He didn't know why, but he despised the idea of Greyson spending time with someone else. Widow Abney glanced between them for a couple of breaths before returning her gaze to Greyson.

"No need," she said. "My son's clothes should fit Cyrus."

Greyson took her hand. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I"m sure."

"Okay," Greyson said, pulling back, then looked at Cyrus. "Can you find your way back to my cabin?"

Blinking, Cyrus asked, "Where are you going?"

"Check my traps, hunt for herbs, and such."

"Oh," he said, peeking at Widow Abney, who watched them with a curious expression. "I'll be able to get back."

"You promise to not search for me and go straight to the cabin?" Greyson asked as he rose.

"I'm not a child."

Scoffing, Greyson said, "That's debatable."

"I will go straight home."

"Good." Greyson nodded at Widow Abney and strode out of the house, closing the door behind him.

"Thank you for the clothes," he said.

She patted his hand. "You're a good boy."

They both sat in amiable silence for a few minutes as she finished her tea, and he ate the rest of the cookies.

Once she finished, Widow Abney slowly walked to a trunk under a window. Opening it, she rooted through the clothing, then waved her cane at him. "What are you doing? Get over here."

Cyrus came to her side and peered into the trunk. It was filled with clothes that appeared like they belonged to several different people, as they were different sizes and styles. "Whose are these?"

"My sons' and husband's. They're all gone."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." She picked up a stack. "I think my eldest's clothes should fit you."

He accepted the clothes, trying them on. The shirts were a tad long, but overall, everything fit well. He changed into a green long-sleeved shirt made of soft wool and sturdy brown trousers. Widow Abney tugged on the hem of his shirt with a sad smile on her face, eyes wet. He didn't know what to say in the face of her grief.

Searching for anything to break the quiet, Cyrus asked, "How did you and Greyson come to know each other?"

"It's a small village. I've known him since he was born. I helped his mother bring him into this world. But since our families passed, we've gotten closer. We're both alone."

"I'm glad he has you."

"Now," she said, tugging on his shirt again, "he has you."

"Yes." He nodded. Greyson had him now.

"Well," Widow Abney said, "you better get home."

"Okay. I'll see you soon."

Bright orange blossoms caught his gaze as he opened the door. They were round balls with countless petals. Their vibrant orange contrasted against the light green stems. Looking over his shoulder, he asked, "Can I pick a couple of your flowers?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Orange is Greyson"s favorite color."

Widow Abney smiled at him, sinking onto a chair. "I'm glad you came."

"Me too. The old me might not have agreed, but I can't know for sure because I can't remember."

"I'm still glad you're here." One hand clutched the top of her cane while the other gestured to the overflowing planters. "Help yourself."

"Thanks." Cyrus picked several, then waved goodbye to Widow Abney and headed home.

Greyson stepped into the one-room cabin, exhausted. Arms going above his head, stretching, he looked around. Stopping, his gaze froze on the orange flowers, King Zinnias, in his favorite cup. He glanced at Cyrus, who was sprawled on the bed like a giant cat, asleep.

What in the world am I doing?

His worst enemy had brought him flowers and slept in his bed. This could not be worth any chance of information or even killing Cyrus.

He touched one of the soft, smooth petals, flattening it. While he would have to relocate the flowers to a different cup, it was a nice gesture. He peeked over his shoulder at the sleeping man. Cyrus was on his back, arms thrown out and mouth open with thunderous snores escaping him. His feet moved to the bed, and Greyson peered at Cyrus. The golden boy of the capital. Warrior. Enemy. The greatest pain in the ass. How could Cyrus lay there completely at ease?

"You need to remember who you are and soon."

A loud snore erupted out of Cyrus' mouth.

Never in his life would Greyson have thought he would want to see Cyrus—the real Cyrus. This unshielded, vulnerable man before him unnerved Greyson. Keeping his back to Cyrus, he stoked the flames and carefully placed a kettle on for tea. Once the water boiled, he poured it into the teapot.

Setting the teapot down, Greyson pinched the bridge of his nose. Why do the flowers bother me so much? He could throw them outside if he wanted. They were just flowers—flowers that Cyrus had picked for him. Greyson refused to contemplate it. He strode to the cabinet and removed another cup, standing a bit back from the table as he poured tea into it, spout resting on the rim of the cup. He sank onto a chair as his gaze moved to the flowers. He would switch them to another cup. Tomorrow.