6

Cyrus rolled over, and there was a figure stretched on the ground. In the darkness, he couldn't see Greyson's features in detail, but he heard the gentle sound of his breath going in and out. Cyrus tucked an arm under his head and stared at him.

Groaning, Greyson shifted. His face scrunched, looking uncomfortable, then his expression smoothed as he fell back asleep. Worry plucked at Cyrus' heartstrings. The floor couldn't be comfortable. Greyson made another noise, but this one sounded upset—scared even.

He scooted to the edge of the bed to pat Greyson's arm in an attempt to soothe him. "It's alright, Greyson," Cyrus whispered, watching his face closely.

Greyson's eyebrows squished together as he whimpered. Cyrus grabbed Greyson's hand and continued to make calming sounds. Eventually, Greyson settled back into a deep slumber and fell quiet.

He would have to talk to him about trading nights on the bed, so Greyson didn't spend every night on the floor. Of course, he thought, we could always share. He smothered a smile. That prospect didn't bother him in the slightest. Somehow, he didn't think Greyson would be amiable to that idea.

Laying on his stomach, Cyrus squeezed Greyson's fingers as he fell asleep to the sound of even breathing and the warmth of skin.

Sunlight filtered in from the windows, waking Greyson. With a blurry gaze, he squinted at the bright light in confusion as his back throbbed. He'd overslept. Normally, he arose before the sun, but for whatever reason, he'd slept longer than usual. He started to stand when something stopped him.

Cyrus held his hand.

He gaped, unable to move in the slightest. Calluses covered Cyrus' hand, probably from the constant sword work, and scraped against Greyson's skin. His palm was wide, fingers thick and stubby, almost swallowing Greyson's much thinner one. Greyson's hand felt warm, and, surprisingly, comfortable in the warrior's grasp.

Cyrus slept on his stomach, face relaxed as he quietly snored. Greyson had never been this close to him before. Well, at least not when he wasn't angry or fighting Cyrus. It was odd to be so close, to see his sleeping face.

He twisted out of Cyrus' grasp and got to his feet, stifling a cry. His back ached. He lifted his arms above his head before twisting side to side. His bare feet dragged across the wood floor to his clothes, which he donned before striding outside to take care of his needs.

When he re-entered, he threw some kindling and logs onto the coals. They quickly caught, sending a pleasant heat throughout the cabin. With winter coming, the air had grown cold, especially in the morning. Once the flames steadily burned, Greyson started the water for his morning tea.

Cyrus still slept, sprawled across the bed. Greyson shook his head and began making breakfast. Cyrus would be hungry when he woke up, as he'd slept through dinner. Greyson tried to move as quietly as possible to not wake him.

As he prepared the tea, he couldn't help but stare at the cup full of bright orange flowers. He'd planned to transfer them to another container, but Greyson found he couldn't. It was like they belonged where Cyrus had placed them.

Shaking his head, he refused to think about it because it didn't matter. He would either kill Cyrus, or the man would remember who he was and this charade would end. At the thought of ending Cyrus' life, Greyson's gaze flicked toward the kitchen before darting back to the bed. Cyrus had not moved.

He removed the false back on the top shelf of the cabinet. A handful of innocent-looking berries sat in the cubby. The rubrum berries' bright red color contrasted against the dark green of the leaves. Sweet to the taste, it would be easy to add them to Cyrus" food. Slowly, he would fall sick—vomiting, fever, chills—then he would die after a week or two. Of course, if Greyson fed him all of the berries, Cyrus would die in an hour or so, screaming as he clutched his stomach.

Carefully, he held the berries by the twig they clung to. Greyson twisted them one way, then the next, the light glinting off their shiny skin. His jaw clenched. Should he poison Cyrus? It would be easy. Barely an effort. Add a berry here and there, and Cyrus would be gone.

Unease twisted his gut. It felt almost underhanded. It shouldn't.

During the rebellion, Greyson had poisoned the enemy soldier's food stores and water. It had become a trademark of sorts for him in the short but deadly war.

I should've let him die, Greyson thought. He thoroughly cursed his soft heart and the rain.

"Good morning," a groggy voice said.

Greyson shoved the berries into the cabinet, then put the false back in its proper position before turning to Cyrus. "You're finally awake."

Cyrus' arms went above his head as he yawned loudly. He stood, then went outside in nothing more than his undershorts. Cyrus would freeze in the chilly mountain air. Greyson took a sip of warm tea, then finished making a simple breakfast of hotcakes and eggs. When he set the food on the table, the door creaked open and Cyrus rushed in, rubbing his arms.

"It's freezing out there," Cyrus complained.

He scoffed. "No one told you to go outside basically naked."

Not bothering to get dressed, Cyrus sank down across from him. Greyson rolled his eyes, not commenting, as he prodded a cup of tea toward Cyrus, who grinned in response. Cyrus plunked most of the hotcakes on his plate, then spread a heaping amount of butter on them before taking a huge bite.

"Delicious," Cyrus groaned, mouth full of food.

"Shut your mouth."

Cyrus grinned, cheeks full like a chipmunk. Greyson frowned and placed a spoonful of eggs on Cyrus' plate. He nodded his thanks, chewing the mouthful of hotcakes. Greyson frowned again and took a reasonable-sized bite of food while he stared at the flowers resting in the middle of the table.

"Did you get those for me?" he asked, not looking at Cyrus.

"Yep. You said you like the color orange."

Nodding, he glanced toward Cyrus and then away. "Thank you."

"I'm glad you like them."

Greyson cleared his throat, guilt surfacing about his earlier murderous thoughts. It shouldn't bother him; Cyrus deserved it. Nevertheless, the annoying sensation persisted. "It was a nice surprise. Did you get them from Widow Abney?"

"Yes. She didn't mind me picking them. She also had plenty of clothes that fit me."

Greyson poked at his food, not even glancing at Cyrus. A hushed, muttering came from across the table, and unable to help himself, he studied Cyrus. His face was pinched as he mumbled under his breath.

"Did she say something to upset you?" Greyson asked. He had not explicitly told Widow Abney or anyone else to not say anything to Cyrus. He was counting on people's general dislike to keep Cyrus from finding out the truth. Not a great plan, but none of this situation had been well thought out.

"No," Cyrus said, then shook his head. "Well, yes. Her family died."

"Yes, they did. Her husband died years ago, then her sons died in the rebellion."

"Your family's gone too?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Greyson had waited years to hear an apology from Cyrus, but this is not how he'd imagined it. He wanted it when Cyrus kneeled on the ground, defeated. He pushed the image out of his mind. "My family was not your fault."

"I can still feel bad about it."

"They died over ten years ago. It's fine," he said, returning to his breakfast. The eggs had gone cold and rubbery. Greyson forced himself to eat them and the hotcakes before downing the remainder of his tea.

"So," Cyrus asked between bites, "what are we doing today?"

"I suppose that means you want to come with me?"

"Of course."

Of course, Greyson thought with a shake of his head. He pushed his empty plate to the center of the table, then poured himself another cup of tea. Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated what to do. It would take a month at least for the letter to reach the capital and another month to return with Frederick's response.

Greyson could check his traps, harvest roots and herbs, then pick up the bread from Widow Abney, not leaving the area. Or he could take Cyrus around and see if he could find the person who wiped his memories. Even if by some miracle he found the mage, it would hardly matter. It was impossible to restore Cyrus' memory. But they might have vital information about why Cyrus was here. Maybe he'd said something and that was why his memories had been taken?

Of course, if Cyrus had merely hit his head, then Greyson would be out of luck.

He could spend the next two months twiddling his thumbs or he could rustle up some information. Though if he showed Cyrus around, Greyson couldn't kill him. Poison or not. Too many people would have seen him at that point, and if Cyrus died, word might reach the emperor's ears about his presence in the Griseo Mountains.

Despite that, he went so far as to pick the rubrum berries yesterday, but could he actually use them?

A callous hand rested on top of his, making Greyson jerk. "Are you alright?" Cyrus asked.

Warmth seeped into his skin from the simple contact. Cyrus' brow furrowed, forming two lines between his perfectly arched eyebrows, and his mouth curled down. As Greyson stared at his enemy's face, he didn't know if he could go through with his earlier plan.

Could he end his life? Destroy that easy smile?

"Greyson?" Cyrus asked, squeezing his hand.

"I'm fine," he lied, withdrawing from his warm grasp.

Cyrus watched Greyson, whose expression didn't change as he extracted his hand from Cyrus' grip. He immediately missed the contact, but let it go. "So what did you want to do today?"

"Gather supplies."

"Supplies for what?"

"Your memory loss has two possibilities: head trauma or someone magically scrubbed your brain."

"Okay," he said slowly.

"I can't do anything about a head injury. Magic, though, we might be able to find the person who did it," Greyson explained.

"Could they reverse it?" Cyrus didn't know if he wanted his memory back or not. He should want it to return, to remember his life, his friendship with Greyson, but his stomach churned. What if he remembered something bad? While, presently, he felt like a flag in a windstorm, it was manageable with Greyson by his side. But what if he remembered something he didn't like?

"No. At least, I don't think so. But we might be able to find out why they did it. It could tell us something, maybe."

That didn't sound very definitive, but Cyrus let it go. "How do we find them?"

"I figure we travel to different villages in the Griseo Mountains, and I'll talk to the mages I know, hence the supplies."

"You think a mage did this to me?"

Greyson took a drink of tea. "Everyone here has magic, but there are basically no trained mages; my mother was an exception and she taught me. So it could be someone with a little magic and no training. It doesn't take much to scrub someone's mind. It's rather crude."

"Do you think I can regain my memories?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Well," Cyrus said, shrugging, "let's get supplies, then talk to your mage friends."