There are a number of reasons why Cyrus hates cold and misty mornings. They’re cold, for one. And misty, for another. Mostly, he hates how exhausted the bad weather leaves him. It doesn’t matter how well rested he should be, all his energy seems to vanish with the warmer winds.
Today is an especially bad morning.
Or afternoon, really. Considering how late it is when Cyrus finally drags himself from bed.
“Maybe today’s the day the chores will do themselves.” He grumbles, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders as he stumbles from his room. They won’t have. They never do. But maybe Wren’s taken pity on him. Better yet, maybe Dilen’s returned in the dead of night and done everything.
Cyrus is well aware his elder brother won’t go near the horses and his twin won’t have time to do chores the day he gets home. He lets himself dream anyway, and grumbles about reality as he brews the tea.
It’d be nice if Dilen had returned, unfinished chores and all. It’s been near two months now, and Glimore is only two and a half weeks away! Even if his trial had taken the full week – it never takes the full week – there’s no reason Dilen should still be travelling. Some delay, Raj’s letter had said, although he’d been painfully vague on the details. Dilen hasn’t written at all. Or if he has, he hasn’t found a runner heading their way.
Mists, his twin is going to get such a kick out of this. Cyrus can already hear his brothers tone when he inevitably comments ‘couldn’t handle two months without me, could you?’. The teasing will be deserved and Cyrus will gladly take it if it means they can finally joke about it.
He really hates cold and misty mornings. They always make Cyrus think of things he’d rather not.
“Morning.” His mother greets, ducking into the kitchen as Cyrus munches on his toasted bread. Any other day she’d have startled him, today he’s just too tired for that. Slowly, he looks over to see her bouncing with all the energy he normally has. Her long, brown hair has been pulled up in a messy bun and her blue eyes are bursting with life. On a sunny day, her olive skin would have more red it by now but even in the overcast weather her work clothes are just as messy. He’s pretty sure Pa washed that apron yesterday.
“Hi.” Cyrus finally mumbles some minutes after she’s entered the room.
“Not quite awake yet?” Rosalie teases, leaning over to ruffle his hair. If the everything about him wasn’t answer enough, the fact he doesn’t have the energy to protest would be. “Wren’s already taken care of the chickens for you.” Cyrus straightens up hearing that, suddenly wondering if his dreams weren’t as far-fetched as he thought.
“Did he do everything else too?” He asks hopefully then slumps back into his chair when his mother laughs.
“You know he hates looking after the horses.” She says, turning back to pour the tea he’s just brewed. “That boy wouldn’t have ridden one here if we hadn’t called home in such a worry.” She sighs.
“Not that he needed to.” Cyrus grumbles, turning to rest his head on his hand and look out the kitchen window. Even on a clear day it doesn’t get much of a view, just barely angled right to see the farm’s entrance gate. Today he can’t even see that.
“I’m sure Dilen and Raj will be home any day now.” Rosalie assures, as she’s said almost every day. If she doesn’t say it, his father does. Or his dad. Or Wren. Or Cyrus himself, when he’s the one in high spirits. They’re both silent for a moment. Stewing in their worry and unanswered questions. Then Rosalie perks up, lifting a tray of four mugs as she does.
“Make sure you clean out extra stables, just in case.” She instructs. “The boys don’t need to be worrying about stables before they’ve had something to eat.”
“I will mum.” Cyrus says, as though he hasn’t cleaned out extra stables since the day Raj and Dilen left.
“And make sure you don’t take the Moories’ horses riding today. Just let them out into the paddock a while. They’re still recovering from the Rison trip.”
“I know mum.” Cyrus says, tone a little more present in his voice this time. He’s been taking care of the horses all his life; he knows how to look after them. Still, his mum means well so he keeps his eye rolling internal.
“Oh!” She stops, her foot pushing open the kitchen door sightly and Cyrus turns to hear whatever she’s remembered. “You might want to go out the back door today. Dina stopped by and now she and your father are talking new seeds. She’ll be here awhile.” She warns. Ah, that explains the extra cup.
“Do we even have space for new seeds?” Cyrus asks. The deadpan expression on his mothers face is answer enough but she answers verbally anyway. Likely to complain.
“No. Which is what your Pa and I told him.” She huffs. “We especially don’t have space for seeds we don’t even know will work out. The kind she’s bringing up have only been grown further into the kingdom, who knows if they can stand up to the mist out here!” Rosalie stops herself, taking a deep breath. “Well, it’s an argument for planting season. I’d tell Dina that but you know what she’s like on misty days, she just needs someone to talk to. Better Kieran than either of us.” Rosalie shifts to continue walking outside calling, “take it easy today dear,” as she does.
“I will.” Cyrus calls back, glad she’s not still in the room to see him frown. The door shuts loudly, leaving nothing by Cyrus’ thoughts to fill the silence that follows.
No one in Mist’s Edge likes it when the weather takes a turn. It’s not just the cold, not just the damp, that dulls their moods. It’s the memories. The Mist rolls in on days like today, and when it rolls out Mist’s Edge is rarely the same.
Cyrus takes a deep breath and brews himself a new cup of tea. The Mist won’t settle over them today – if the town had any doubt of that, no one would be out and about – but the memories… the memories aren’t so controllable. They come quicker than the Mist, they stay longer. Cyrus slips out the back door, tea in hand, and hopes that Dilen gets home soon.
Not just because of the chores.
♕♕♕
In a town as small as Mist’s Edge, it’s practically impossible to walk about and not get roped into conversation. Thankfully beyond the Hafen’s farm is the mountain and the wall of Mist. In other words, easy access to the back paths that no one uses. The real danger of the walk is the final stretch. Cyrus keeps his head down, holds his cup of tea like it isn’t empty, and holds his breath as he walks towards the communal stables. When the door shuts behind him without so much as an ignored ‘good afternoon’ he lets himself breath a sigh of relief. Now he just has to hope his luck holds for the rest of the day.
Well, maybe luck isn’t the right word. Most of Mist’s Edge gives Cyrus a wide berth on days like this. They all walk past his stable at one point or another, off to pay their respects to the engraved stones where the mountain meets Mist. Few offer him so much as a glance, so concerned that the attention might break something in him.
Cyrus agrees it might, and he isn’t sure if that makes things better or worse.
He sets himself up in the tack room – placing down his cup and grabbing his bucket – before Cyrus turns his attention to his stable. It’s not technically his stable. Like the oven in the centre of town and the large hall beyond it, the stables at Mist’s Edge are communal. They kind of have to be. The stable normally houses nine animals and most of those are communal – the two oxen, and four of the seven horses. Despite it’s communal nature, looking after the stable and it’s occupants has been a Hafen responsibility for as long as anyone can remember. Cyrus and his sister took over it’s care as kids, when their grandmother faded. It’s hard work, especially now that he’s doing it alone, but it gives him the perfect excuse to ride the horses. A fair trade in Cyrus’ book.
Before he starts cleaning, Cyrus greets each animal with a pat on the muzzle. The oxen, the Moories’ horses, the horse Wren rode home on, and the three communal horses. He stops at the last, giving particular attention to the pure white mare inside.
“Hello beautiful.” He greets. The white mare accepts his attention for a moment then tries to look passed him. “Sorry Swift, he’s still not home yet.” Swift huffs and stops her searching as though she understood him. Maybe she does, Cyrus has always thought Swift seemed smarter than the average horse.
Her intelligence doesn’t help the town’s opinion of her.
A horse is a horse is a horse, especially in Mist’s Edge, but the only people that actually ride Swift are Dilen and Cyrus. She looks too much like the dreaded empty creatures. They say she draws in the Mist. It’s ox scatter and they all know that but still they refuse to ride her.
Raj says the towns further into the kingdom are even more superstitious, which is why he convinced Dilen not to take Swift for his knighting trial. Cyrus isn’t sure who was more disappointed, Dilen or the rest of town. His brother had begrudgingly taken the chestnut horse that Cyrus favours – Dust – and Swift has spent everyday since impatiently awaiting Dilen’s return.
Attention given – and the early afternoon quickly becoming late afternoon – Cyrus finally gets to work. He lets the horses and oxen into the paddock and cleans out the stalls, including an extra two for Dust and Raj’s large, black mare Ember. Then he cleans out the last stall because it seems strange to leave it. Not that there’s much to clean, just a little bit of dust really. Cyrus isn’t sure the stables have ever actually been full. Maybe back before Pier built the knight’s stable?
The sun is low in the sky by the time he’s finished with the stalls. He could head home without riding the horses, no one would fault him for it and one day without thorough exercise wouldn’t hurt the horses.
Except Cyrus would fault himself for it.
He leaves the oxen and Moories’ horses out in the paddock as he saddles up one of the communal horses – Jam – and rides through the edge of town for about a half hour. It takes another half hour to brush Jam down before he repeats the process with Spot. Then he takes out Wren’s borrowed horse, Guiding Way.
The sun is definitely setting when Cyrus is done. If it were another day, he’d take Swift out anyway. They both know the trails well enough. But he’s tired and distracted and would rather not risk an injury for either of them.
“Sorry girl.” Cyrus sighs as he brings her in to at least brush her down. “We’ll go for a longer ride tomorrow.” He promises. Swift is restless all throughout but Cyrus can’t fault her for it. There’s just enough light left to walk home when he finally finishes bringing in the animals and brushing down the Moories’ horses. Which is what he should do.
Instead Cyrus grabs his cup and the lantern from the tack room and takes the familiar path towards the mountain. The same path Cyrus is sure everyone else in town has walked today. The late hour hadn’t been entirely unintentional.
The mountain path is well trodden, although it’s surroundings are not. Trees, tall grasses, and weeds grow thick as the path continues. As a child, Cyrus thought it look rather mystical. He supposes a part of him still does, clinging to the stories he grew up hearing. His grandfather used to say this path ran through the very mountain itself, all the way to Stroma. His grandmother used to say this path led to the Mountain Hag’s house, where she’d baked wandering children into pies.
When the path forks, Cyrus hesitates but doesn’t look up. If he did, he’d see the thick wall of Mist but a few feet ahead, and resting before it he’d see the large protection rune that was placed there years ago. He’d see the small stones placed neatly around the rune, each carved with a name of someone who faded into the Mist.
That’s the place everyone else has come to visit. To remember all the people they’ve lost on days so similar to this one. Cyrus knows some of those names well, has memorised the way they’ve been carved into their rocks.
And he knows some of those names, though he’s never seen their stones. Even now, four years on, he hasn’t had the strength.
Cyrus steps on the path to his right. It winds a bit further up to a small cabin, one that would have a great view of the rune if not for the trees covering it up. The knights outpost is the only building in town closer to the Mist than the Hafen farm. No one lives in it. Not anymore.
He stops and stares at the building a moment. It’s small, only two rooms, but well put together. With a front porch and a two-stall stable to the side. Nothing has changed about the building in Cyrus’ lifetime. It’s always looked old but put together, quite the contrast to the thrown together house he lives in. The Hafen farmhouse was built generations ago and every few decades something gets added to it. This cabin looks as if it’s always been this way and always will.
Or maybe he’s being sentimental, Cyrus tells himself as he finally forces his way forward. The cabin is unlocked and just as empty as he expected. He lights a few candles around the rooms and looks for something to do.
There’s not much. Certainly not like their was when Knight Pier was around. That man could hardly keep the place clean for half an hour, let alone overnight. Cyrus had always hated cleaning the place back then, had only done it in trade for his lessons. Now he’d do anything to have that mess back. Strange, how the things we hate become the ways we remember.
When Cyrus has cleared off any dust he can find – there’s not much – and run his finger over books it’s too dark to read, he finally gives up on keeping busy. He really should go home, his dad is always such a worrier. Instead he grabs some water from the small well outside to brew some tea, halfheartedly grumbling about the messes he’d had to clean as a boy. Cyrus takes his tea to the porch, laying a bit of bird seed in the feeder before taking a seat. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes, letting himself take in the noises around him.
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It’s pretty quiet. There are no birds or bugs or creatures of any kind wandering about. Animals don’t like coming this close to the mist, and if they end up here they rarely last long. If Cyrus strains his ears, he can make out the faint sound of a creek winding it’s way through the trees and rocks. He can hear the wind whistling through the mountain like a witch cackling into the night and the ancient trees straining under their own weight.
When Cyrus opens his eyes, he can’t see any of it. Not the river, not the ancient trees, not even the mountain proper. There is only the wall of settled Mist, separating the mountain from it’s base. No one in town has ever seen the mountain top. His great-great-grandparents supposedly had, but his great-grandparents were too young when the Mist first came to remember it. The land beyond was already a story to be passed down when his grandparents were born. Even those who’ve survived the Mist haven’t seen it. To travel the Mist is to travel a void without so much as grass beneath your feet, let alone a mountain.
Was the town called Mountain’s Edge, Cyrus often wonders, back before the Mist? His grandparents had long since passed before he thought to ask and his parents don’t know. They couldn’t have been called Mist’s Edge before hand, he thinks, the names just too practical. Theirs is the only town in all of Riknear that borders the Mist this way. There’s a danger that comes with living here, a danger that comes with sitting where he is. When the Mist rolls in in Mist’s Edge, it comes in heavy and fast. There’s little time to escape fading into the magic of the Mist.
It’s not like that in most towns. Even Woolston, which is only two days travel away, is a whole day’s walk from where it’s nearest Mist settles. Do other towns keep memorials, Cyrus wonders. Rison doesn’t. Not like Mist’s Edge. They keep a book and a travel date and they wait, just in case the person returns. Mist’s Edge might be the only town that doesn’t hope it’s dead walk home one day. Or maybe Rison is the strange one. It’s the only other town Cyrus has been, and he’s never bothered asking any of the others. Seems an odd thing to bring up. Even for him. Especially for him.
Cyrus sits and contemplates the Mist, life, and the stones he doesn’t dare look at until there is only moonlight to guide him home. Until it’s late enough even Pa will definitely give him a lecturer. Then he finally stands. He tells himself he feels a little more ready to be a person tomorrow as he extinguishes all the candles he lit.
Hopefully he’ll actually feel that way come morning.
♕♕♕
When Cyrus wakes with the sun, he knows it’ll be a good day. Or at least a better day. He rolls out of bed with a perk in his step and a smile on his face.
“Clear day today.” Rosalie comments, glancing up from the daily schedule she’s organising when Cyrus steps into the kitchen.
“Think so.” Cyrus hums, glad to see someones already collected water to make tea.
“I don’t know how you’re so energetic with how late you got in last night.” His dad notes. Cyrus grins back at him, acting oblivious to the way Tori’s narrowed his brown eyes. His dad gets up early because his other parents do, but he’s never really settled into the morning routine. His blonde hair is undone, a loose mess reaching his midback, and he’s still in his bed clothes.
“Tori, you lectured him last night you don’t need to do it again this morning.” His pa lightly scolds. Kieran is leaning against the kitchen bench, half watching the oats boil, and notably more put together than anyone else. His brown eyes are alert and his shaved head is tucked under his sun hat. Cyrus and his mum are early rises by nature, Tori is an early riser by bedmates, but Kieran’s sleep schedule has always been ridiculous. He gets up an hour before sunrise to do the weeding. By the time they have breakfast he’s dressed and half a mess.
“Plus, you can’t do the grumbling if you’re not making the tea.” Cyrus jokes, getting a laugh from his other two parents as Tori grumbles something under his breath. Once the tea is brewed and passed out Cyrus stays standing, swinging slightly on his heels. He always feels restless after misty days. Like he wants to make up for all the things he didn’t do yesterday, no matter how much he actually did. His parents don’t comment on it. He’s two tens and one winters, they’re well aware of his quirks.
“Any noise from Wren yet?” Kieran asks when the oats are ready, spooning them into four bowls but leaving the fifth empty.
“Ah, that boy.” Rosalie tsks, shaking her head. “I think he might have been up later than Cyrus last night. I don’t know how he even has work left the rate he’s going through it.”
“He’s stress-sewing.” Tori says, a little more awake with a cup of tea in his hand. “I’m sure we’ll all have a new wardrobe by the time he heads home.”
“I can go up and check on him?” Cyrus offers, already heading towards the door before they’ve answered. He takes the steps two at a time, walks quickly to the end of the hall, and knocks on the door.
“Go away.” Wren’s response is muffled, likely talking into his pillow as he shouts it. Cyrus doesn’t listen. As a little brother, he’s required not to.
“Pa made breakfast.” He calls, pushing Wren’s door open. Wren’s room is larger than Cyrus’ even though Wren’s moved to Woolston. Every visit – save this one – Cyrus and Dilen joke about stealing his room when he leaves. Their older brother really doesn’t need all that space, despite the way he covers every inch in mess when he visits. He shares the room with Raj now – when the fiances are both home at the same time that is – but he used to share it with Avery. Her bed is still pushed up in the corner, her bedside table and desk just the way she left them. It’s the only part of the room safe from Wren’s projects.
“Pa makes breakfast every morning. Hardly a reason to get up.” Wren whines, pulling his blanket up over his head to try and block out Cyrus. He makes a wordless noise of annoyance when Cyrus pulls open the curtain to let in the morning sun.
“If you didn’t want to be tired you should have gone to bed sooner.” The younger Hafen teases.
“You were up late.” Wren reminds, finally giving up on his desperate attempts to cling to sleep. He sits up to glare at Cyrus whose been assured – many times – that Wren’s near black eyes make for an intimidating glare. He’s never noticed.
“I slept in yesterday.” Cyrus says, grinning when Wren’s eyes narrow further.
“Then let me sleep in.” The elder demands.
“No.” Cyrus replies, laughing as he dodges the pillow Wren throws at him. Now his brother will have to get up. “Your hair’s a rats nest!” Cyrus calls as he escapes into the hallway, just to get in another word.
“You’re the rat!” Wren shouts back. His door shuts a moment later but Cyrus can hear him getting dressed inside.
“I think that was antagonising, not checking on.” Kieran notes when Cyrus returns to the kitchen.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cyrus claims, falling into his seat. “Wren was like that when I found him.”
“Always nice to have the kids together.” Tori sighs, but his smile suggests he’s being more honest than he sounds. “I can only imagine how much rebuilding we’ll have to do when Dilen gets home.”
“We broke a wall one time!” Cyrus exclaims, immediately defensive. “And we were only ten and two winters. And it was Wren’s fault!” He adds, just to double down on how much the patched wall shouldn’t be held over his head.
“Ah, I still remember the drafts that repair job brought.” Kieran remembers. “Thank the Queen Raj is marrying into the family. Always good to have someone happy to get their hands dirty.”
“You can keep your dirt, I became a tailor for a reason.” Wren huffs as he takes his seat. It’s only been a few minutes but he’s already tamed his curls into a bun and thrown on an outfit much too nice to justify wearing around the farm.
“So you’re not helping me with the chickens today?” Cyrus ventures, laughing at the deadpan look his brother sends his way.
“This is why I don’t do nice things for you.” Wren claims. “You start thinking they’re habits.”
“Ah, my own son, refusing to work on the farm.” Kieran laments, hand over his heart in mock pain. “Ros are you sure he’s mine? You didn’t sleep with another man behind my back, did you?”
“Certainly not behind your back.” Rosalie smirks, making eyes at Tori that Cyrus would rather not see right before breakfast and implying things he’d rather not hear ever.
“Gross!” He exclaims, mostly joking, as he covers his ears. “I don’t need to hear that.”
“I can’t believe you woke me up for this.” Wren groans and almost lets his face fall into his breakfast. Their parents laugh, teasing the boys a bit more before they all dig in.
♕♕♕
Cyrus spends more time than he should that morning trying to convince Wren to look after the chickens. It’s a lost cause from the get go. Wren’s hated farm work since he was old enough to do it. He jumped at the chance to study tailoring under Raj’s mother and only looks back when the family needs help. Unfortunately, Cyrus doesn’t actually need help today. He’s just being lazy.
When Cyrus finally gives up and does it himself, it takes less than half as long as it took to bug Wren. A fact he decides to keep to himself.
After the chickens, Cyrus heads to the stables. This time he walks straight through town, greeting his neighbours as they go about their own days. The weight of yesterday isn’t entirely gone, but it feels more bearable today. Cyrus is no longer the fragile Hafen boy they have to be careful around.
No, now he’s the fragile Hafen boy they all have to check up on.
“Heavy mist yesterday, wasn’t it?” Oswald – lucky visitor number four – greets Cyrus the same as all the others. Cyrus doesn’t react immediately, letting his eye twitch where Oswald can’t see it. He should have kept the stable doors closed.
“It wasn’t too bad.” Cyrus replies after a moment, hoping his smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels as he steps out of the stall. It’s too early for the horses to need new shoes and yet Oswald is holding an assortment of them in his gloved hands. Any chance to pretend they have an actual reason to visit him, apparently. Cyrus gestures towards the tack room and Oswald takes that for invitation. Technically that could be the end of it. Oswald’s been helping make horse shoes longer than Cyrus has been working with the horses, he doesn’t need an escort. But Cyrus isn’t so frustrated as to ignore his neighbours not-so-subtle intentions.
At least not yet.
“Seemed heavier than normal to me when I stopped by the stones.” Oswald claims as he sets himself up, examining the horse shoes he’s brought and the spares Cyrus already has. Cyrus leans back against the other shelves and eyes his empty mug. At least Mav brought him tea.
“The wall didn’t seem any thicker than usual when I went up.” Cyrus counters. He went up later than Oswald – likely by a few hours – but he’s pretty sure he’d have heard if the Mist seemed thick. The town might avoid him on misty days, but the stable walls are thin and gossip is loud.
“You went up to the wall?” Oswald asks, almost dropping half a dozen horseshoes in his surprise.
Cyrus’ smile feels a little more forced when he corrects, “to the outpost.”
“Ah, of course, of course.” Oswald nods, resettling the horse shoes. “’Suppose I don’t know the Mist very well. Only really go up there to visit my parents. I’m always expecting the Mountain Hag to pop out of no where and grind my bones.” He says it with such a straight face that it startles a laugh out of Cyrus. There’s a bit of a grin to Oswald’s smile when he reacts. “Don’t be like that, it’s a very terrifying thought! You remember the old costumes from when we were kids, don’t you?”
“That’s what you imagine?” Cyrus manages through his increasing laughter. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve been so bothered by Oswald’s visit – fourth distraction of the day or not. The man’s always been good company.
“They left quite the impression.” Oswald claims, nodding as he doubles down on the idea.
“I swear most years Mr Amal just worn an old, ratty sheet.” Cyrus says.
“A terrifying old ratty sheet.” Oswald corrects. As much as Cyrus wants to tease the man, he can’t manage anymore words through his laughter. Mr Amal jumping from the mist in his old sheet, doing his high-pitch and breathy witch voice is too funny an image. Once Cyrus has calmed down, Oswald places the last of the horse shoes away and rolls his shoulders back.
“Should be getting back. Plenty of work still to do. A couple of the kids are hoping to start their knights training soon and I’ve hardly got any blunt swords left.”
“Already?” Cyrus asks. “Geez, how are any of them old enough to hold a sword?” There’s only a handful of kids in Mist’s Edge, less then there was when Cyrus was younger. Not that you could tell from how many people his age are left.
“You’re old enough to have your knighthood.” Oswald reminds. “Most everyone I grew up with has theirs. Half of them have taken over for their parents too.”
“I’m barely old enough to have my knighthood.” Cyrus argues. Dad says that kids in the city can get their knighthoods as young as ten and six winters but that seems ridiculous to Cyrus. Even two tens and one winter seems young. Old enough to wield a runed sword sure, but way too young to guard a town the way a few of his peers plan to. “I don’t think half the kids now were even born when I started training.”
“Probably not,” Oswald shrugs, “but that’s how time works Cyrus. You get older and so does everyone else.” He points out, tone teasing.
“I don’t like it.” Cyrus whines. “Everyone else should just stay the same.” That gets a laugh and a sympathetic shoulder pat from Oswald. Cyrus is just glad it sounds as joking to Oswald as it doesn’t feel to him.
“Good to see you’re in better spirits today.” The blacksmith smiles. He gives Cyrus’ shoulder another squeeze then steps passed him.
“Close the door on your way out!” Cyrus calls after him. “At this rate I won’t be able to get any work done.” That gets another round of laughter from Oswald.
“I’ll try to assure anyone else I see going your way.” He claims but doesn’t shut the stable doors. Cyrus can only hope he doesn’t have half a dozen more visitors before the day is done.
♕♕♕
“At this rate I’ll be out even later then yesterday.” Cyrus complains, dropping his head to rest against Swift’s side. The horse huffs, having little sympathy for Cyrus’ struggles when she hasn’t been able to get the run she prefers. “You’ll get your run, just give me a second.” Cyrus huffs right back at her.
This is getting ridiculous.
Was there something particular about the Mist yesterday? Some reason the town seems especially intent on checking up on him? It didn’t seem odd to Cyrus. Maybe they’re as hyper aware of Dilen’s absence is as he is, or maybe yesterday was an anniversary Cyrus wasn’t here to remember.
Whatever it is, Cyrus would like it to stop. Oswald’s visit was almost immediately followed by Alwin, and while his bread is nice it really doesn’t make up for how awkward they are around each other. He barely got through two more stalls before Dadi stopped by, which is always a little stressful because his Dad will kill him if he’s rude to the oldest woman in town, even accidentally. Cyrus has only just managed to shoo off Rae. At least she wasn’t here to check in him, although he’s much to tired to keep up with the young girls questions about knighthood and runes. Those are really more questions for Mav, and if he finds out she set Rae to him he’s soaking her pillow.
“I need a nap.” Cyrus grumbles. Swift’s response is a notably more impatient huff, as if she can sense that he’s contemplating leaving her exercise-less for a second day in a row. Which he is. Just a little bit. Swift shifts so she’s not holding his weight and Cyrus is forced to stand up properly again.
“Okay, okay.” He gives in. “We’ll go riding and then I’ll take a nap.” The other horses should be fine after spending a day in the paddock and hopefully tomorrow things will be more normal than the ‘normal’ he was expecting today to be.
Thankfully, no one else bothers Cyrus as he saddles up Swift and leads her out of the stables. They start on the usual route, taking in almost half the time the other horses do. Wind rushing through his hair, Cyrus can already feel his mood improving. Just a few minutes and few deep breaths and maybe he won’t need that nap after all.
He and Swift take the path round the back of town next. They run all the way to the Key-Ruiz farm, then further through the Bowman’s land – the latter of which is thankfully empty of it’s usual cattle. Hobbes hates when Cyrus rides through on Swift, it startles the cows. The pigs, happily settled in their field, could care less as the two whip by. They keep going round the edge of town, passed the Mill and towards his own families farm. A loud caw rings out as they near the town sign and Cyrus pulls Swift to a stop. A large, black crow is not quite sitting on the edge of the sign. People say black animals are good look, as removed as they are from the pure white empty creatures that populate the Mist. Perhaps noticing Cyrus’ attention, it caws again.
The world beyond Mist’s Edge is coated in mid-afternoon light, a path wide enough for a cart is the only thing clear of trees and overgrown vegetation. Cyrus doesn’t really like leaving town and he rarely has reason to but… well, Swift is particularly restless. What harm could it do?
He nudges Swift back into movement, racing down the path as quickly as she’ll let him.