He knows when he sees the amount of weapons they are trying to smuggle through the borders, that the war is starting.

Cyrus readies his people as much as he can, but what is there to really say besides; you’re probably going to die tomorrow, just pray that it can be for something important…?

As far as an actual battle strategy goes, he doesn’t have much, mostly just overwhelm them with numbers. So, they prepare what they can; swords, and rags dipped in flammable oil, and spears that the old men carve out of tree branches.

The elderly who cannot fight prepare the camp to protect and watch over the children. Cyrus sees Solis giving the little ones a stern talking to about staying together, and he can’t help but feel a twisting in his gut as he sees their little worried faces and realizes that if they fail and don’t return, the children are not going to make it either.

An eerie silence fills the forest, as no one seems to know what to say. Cyrus doesn’t want to give up before the battle has begun, but all the words his people are too afraid to speak out loud just prove to him how dreadful their task really is. No one would suffer this torment if there were any other choice.

At least he has Solis on his side, always there to ask what he needs from moment to moment. The light in the man’s golden eyes draws away a portion of the darkness, and Cyrus feels a tightness at the back of his throat everytime he sees Solis glance at him. Cyrus wants to thank him for… whatever he’s doing. A small part of him longs to pull the beautiful man deeper into the pitch-black forest, to spill his guts about how he feels. They might not live beyond tomorrow, and Cyrus aches at the idea of dying with regrets or words left unsaid, but truly, he cannot bring himself to put his love out in the open when it might just as soon be stained with blood.

They have a chance. They have breath in their bodies, and if by some miracle they manage to set into motion a change in their Kingdom… if Cyrus lives to see it, he will thank the sun for every day it rises, and he will tell Solis the truth; that he is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, that he loves every single day they spend together. That is, if they live. If they don’t, Cyrus will just have to be buried with secrets. That realization tastes bitter on his tongue as they finish readying supplies, and Cyrus gathers his people at the edge of the forest.

They are technically within Bastia’s borders now, the Kingsguard likely on patrol, but it’s still dark, and besides, Cyrus knows these woods like the back of his hand…

However, little did they know that that very night, the cruel King was being visited by a god in his dreams; a god cloaked in visions of blood and death. The god whispered to the King that he would win the war, but only if he wielded a very special sword forged in the Heavens. The King woke just before dawn with a gasp, and there, on his nightstand, was the sword exactly how it appeared in his dream. If Solis could have known this, perhaps he would have told Cyrus something different instead of the words he whispered as they waited to attack…

“Good luck. I believe in you-”

Cyrus’ heart ached, everything in him begging to reach out and steal a kiss from the man, just in case they didn’t make it. The young thief could only smile bitterly and force out the words;

“Isn’t that a little redundant, coming from a god?”

Solis’ laugh eased all of the tension in Cyrus’ heart, which truly was no blessing as just then, a ferocious scream echoed through the woods and everyone snapped to attention.

With that one cry, The Battle of Bastia commenced…

Cyrus was going to be brave if it killed him, and it very possibly would. He led the attack; the first line of their strongest young men clashing like steel against the abrupt surge of soldiers that swarmed them at the kingdom’s gate.

There was so much noise, it felt like the air was vibrating with it.

Cyrus could barely move; they were so crammed into the mess of bodies and blades. He was pressed shoulder to shoulder with both friend and enemy, each army pushing at the other, slashing weapons with no real room to swing.

It was obvious very soon however, that Cyrus’ people outnumbered the Kingsguard. Once that first line of soldiers stumbled and fell, the rebels took the momentum and ran with it, trampling the first few rows and widening the playing field so that more weapons could be drawn from all sides.

Cyrus had been using all his strength to push back and now his arms were screaming at him. He was using his knife and a pitifully dull sword mainly to keep soldiers off him, but he wasn’t sure if he was actually killing anyone.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Adrenaline made his ears ring and his heart pump, forcing him to keep going as their entire army descended on the gates. It was shockingly easy to push through them… one second they were slamming up against the iron barns and the next, Cyrus was among those that fell over each other as the gate bowed and burst open. With blood-chilling shouts, they flooded the streets.

The soldiers they were met with on their rapid-paced march to the palace were few and far between, and Cyrus felt a small flicker of hope within reaching distance. He could almost envision his kingdom flourishing under a fair rule. Gods, he wanted that for his people so bad-

They deserved it, after all the hell they’d been put through. And, Cyrus felt he deserved to be done…

Their battle continued again at the palace gates themselves, but these were for sure locked and bolted; guarded by the fiercest soldiers, all of them wielding weapons far stronger and more powerful than any Cyrus could have gotten his hands on. They also had horses.

Which is about to really fucking suck-

“In line!” Cyrus shouted to his men, “Extend spears!”

This had been part of his butchered attempt at training… he had once upon a time apprenticed at a stable, so he did know a thing or two about horses. Less about their cavalry, but Cyrus was making do.

His men had just fallen into a half-assed formation, spears pointed out at the attacking guards, when suddenly the gates to the palace were forced open by what felt like a gust of strong wind. It knocked everyone on the street off their feet.

Cyrus was flung into the window of a nearby shop as he distantly heard people screaming and horses whinnying in distress. As the gust settled and Cyrus managed to crawl his way out of the broken shards, wincing as he felt a sharp twinge in his shoulder, suddenly all he could do was freeze at the sight before him.

If I had any doubts about Solis before, I sure as hell don’t have them now…

There the man stood, at the barren center of the street between two halves of a completely battered, blown-away war. Almost everyone was still on their ass; a few horses and Kingsguards were trying to struggle to their feet, but the blast had incapacitated the entire fight. It had touched everyone except Solis, who was currently fending off the King of Bastia himself, with what looked like a beam of pure light.

Unable to see his movements, Solis fighting at a clearly inhuman speed, Cyrus watched from his pile of broken glass as Solis handily out-maneuvered the King and blocked blow after blow, even landing some of his own strikes with whatever Heavenly weapon he had procured.

Cyrus had never seen a god before, but it was still so clearly Solis that he almost wanted to burst into tears right then and there…

I prayed for someone like you to come and save us, the boy hesitated to admit. I just thought it was going to have to be me-

The King was bleeding from several wounds, however Cyrus’ breath caught when he saw that Solis was too. When the King swung again, this time his broadsword landed, slicing a thick gash down Solis’ side. The man cried out in agony, stumbling and flailing as his blood gushed and hit the street in a horrible, audible stream.

Cyrus began to panic. Wasn’t Solis a deity? Could he really be injured so easily?! He was obviously in so much pain… could he not just heal it?

Cyrus’ own pain from whatever he’d done to his shoulder, and the glass that was making itself known deep under his skin, was becoming harder and harder to ignore. He felt his eyelids wanting to close, a bone-deep exhaustion threatening to drag him under, but still, Cyrus forced himself to stay awake. Not only that, he forced himself to move. If he could just get to Solis, if he could get to a sword, if he could help the god, maybe everything would be-

“Ahh!”

Cyrus looked up just in time to see the King pulling his blade out of Solis’ chest. Something he hadn’t even known he possessed, shattered inside Cyrus, as he watched the man crumble to his knees and then fall bonelessly to the ground, eyes glassy and unseeing.

In the mere seconds it took to happen, Cyrus was already getting to his feet. Gone was his exhaustion, in fact, there was only one thing he could feel as he ran straight towards the King with nothing but his bare hands to rip flesh from bone…

Cyrus felt death.

He felt Solis’ death; like a knife in his spine, pulling him down to the ground and telling him to lay there a while. He felt his own death; looming before him as he walked straight into its clutches. Cyrus felt the death of this wretched King, as the boy screamed incoherently and grasped the man by the throat, choking him and making him bleed. He felt death, even as the King’s sword pushed deep inside Cyrus’ heart.

He barely felt it. He did, however, experience an odd surge of strength, the sensation making him feel almost euphoric as he felt and heard the King’s neck snap, his body slumping to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Cyrus stared down at the blade sticking out of his chest. He realized he could not take a breath, that it was stuck in his lungs, and that he could also no longer feel his legs. They collapsed beneath him in the next second.

Fingers going numb, vision going dark, he still tried to reach out through the pool of blood under him to find the pool where Solis lay. The man was still so beautiful, even with crimson on his pristine white robes.

Cyrus almost grasped the god’s hand, but his injured shoulder wouldn’t let him reach that last inch. Dammit all to hell, the boy thought numbly, as he bled out…

I should have really given him that kiss after all-