Cyrus and the Six of Cups (Reversed)

It would be another sleepless night, it seemed. Cyrus tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find comfort after waking in a cold sweat. Thesy lay beside him, thankfully a heavy sleeper and still fast asleep. Cyrus attempted to control his breathing to calm himself, relax and fall back asleep. The hardest part about returning home was how peaceful it was. Only a year and some months ago he was fighting in a war against entities that had existed for millennia. The darkness that threatened to bleed into this world and the horrors that came with it were more terrifying than he could ever have imagined. Training with his father and the other brightminds was a bubble of comfort that quickly popped out in the field. He had lived to see the end of the war. Many did not.

Cyrus would turn 20 in a few days, which by all means meant he was still very young. But he felt just the past year had aged him a decade, phantom pains of injuries long healed still haunted his body, the horrors of death and darkness and monsters still lurked in his nightmares on sleepless nights. The days on the farm were busy and physically taxing, a welcome distraction from dwelling on memories still fresh in his mind. Even being exhausted from working out in the fields, rest still evaded him. How could he sleep peacefully, seeing what he had seen?

They called him a hero, but Cyrus certainly didn’t feel like one. He defeated Mel’Kahad, the singular mind controlling the fallen dreamsingers, but had been mortally wounded in the struggle for the fate of Eidolon. He remembered the heat, the searing radiance of the Sword of Light as Mel’Kahad was immolated until it was nothing but ash. When the dust settled the corpses of his friends lay around him, the final gambit ending in their sacrifice. It was the only reason he was able to defeat the King of Eidolon, but Cyrus lived. He wasn’t a hero. He was a survivor.

When Cyrus was young, he dreamed about becoming a hero, becoming one of the heroes of legend. Not much happened on the Karion family farm, so he and his brothers would play with sticks for swords and barrel lids for shields defeating the imaginary dragons and monsters that would stalk the corn fields, and save the family farm from pure annihilation. Cyrus longed for that feeling of romanticized heroism, of only imagining monsters instead of knowing them.

He sat up quickly, seeing something in the shadows that wasn’t there. Dreams and sleep be damned, he couldn’t stand to stay in bed any longer. Cyrus quietly snuck out of the bedroom as to not wake Theseus. He walked into the kitchen for water. The barrel was getting close to empty. so Cyrus slipped on his shoes, picked up the barrel, and made for the well. If he couldn’t sleep, at least he could do something useful. This would be one less thing everyone would have to worry about come morning, and though it was still early yet he could start prepping breakfast before the others woke up.

The open fields of their patch of land were bathed in the pale blue light of an almost-full moon, whitewashing and desaturation the colors of everything around him. It was planting season, so the lack of crops meant they had a perfect view of the far distant mountains of the Red Hills. Cyrus was thankful for the extra light even though he could see fairly well in the dark but still not trusting of the long shadows across the small courtyard outside his home. The door to Eidolon was shut now, under the protection of the Pyorthi to the west, but he still feared irrationally that every shadow held another creature waiting to strike.

A memory flashed suddenly before his eyes. Kishara struck down by a blade of pure shadow as the life was pulled out of her by a living darkness. The color of her once warm-toned skin fading to a dull gray as her very essence was ripped from her body. Cyrus had to stop and lean against the gate to their garden to ground himself, a cold sweat threatening another uncontrollable panic. Kishara was younger than Cyrus, one of the strongest in his group of brightminds. She had so much to live for, a family that loved her, friends that revered her. And she is dead. She will never age and will become another name lost to time before even the memories of her faded into nothingness and the people who knew her would think fondly of a name long in their past. Cyrus hadn’t realized he dropped the water barrel until what little water inside was seeping into his shoes. He cursed under his breath, quickly picked it back up and prayed it didn’t make enough noise to wake the family back inside the house. The barrel didn’t appear to suffer any damage from the fall other than a new scratch on the side where it hit the stone pavement. Cyrus made a note to commend Theseus on his craftsmanship when he was awake.

The well stood in the middle of the garden where he and Thesy grew their own food. Some of the winter plants were still producing fruit, and many of the spring and summer vegetables were already starting to grow tall. Cyrus placed the barrel near the well and wandered over to inspect his plants, lingering a bit longer at the daisies he recently planted. Some of them were just starting to flower, their white petals appearing to glow in the moonlight around bright yellow centers.

Daisies were his mother’s favorite flower, and by extension his own. She was thousands of miles to the south and across the sea, but the daisies were native to this part of the world. They grew in many places nearby, but he still wanted to have something to remind him of her nearby that he could tend to. He made a note to himself to write her a letter. The few daisies that were already begin to flower were so delicate as he rubbed his hand across them. He whispered a quiet prayer for his mother’s health and well-being. She had remained at the Karion family farm despite the threat to her safety during the war. Although he feared for her after he left to become a brightmind, she was a stubborn woman and he did still appreciate her tenacity.

His mother had packed Cyrus a sack lunch when he left. She handed it over with a kiss on the cheek, saying she loved him and would see him later. Later he would find out through his birth father that she refused to leave the farm. Because it would be easy for Cyrus to find her again when it was all over. And if things turned sour, his birth father’s people would know where to deliver the news.

A sudden, intense anger rose with him. He was never able to return to his first home for very long, and with the distance being so great it was incredibly difficult to visit regularly. They had only settled here on this land after it was gifted to him by the Pyorthi, and it was close to Theseus’ family in Tzecuti at the center of the lake he could see off to the west in the daylight hours. Cyrus was so far from home, and after everything he had suffered through… this was it? Being nearly alone in the middle of nowhere in a strange land working the fields and harvesting crops like he was still back at home but not. This was what he got in the end?

Cyrus placed a hand on his face, suddenly overcome with emotion. He dropped to his knees, some of the daisies crushed beneath him, and started to cry quietly. It felt so unfair that he had lived and so many of his friends had not. Cyrus thought of his birth father Tarkosh, who he had only known for several months before his death, another victim of the war. Grief and an overwhelming sense of loss flooded through him, and the tears flowed freely. Through choked sobs, he tried to collect himself.

A hand gently rested on his shoulder. Through blurry eyes, Cyrus turned to see Theseus crouched beside him. He was barefoot, eyes still droopy and half closed from being very recently asleep, his curly hair flattened on the side he favored sleeping. Theseus was quiet, and said nothing while Cyrus collected himself. His presence was calming in a way Cyrus could never explain, and had been ever since they had met. Theseus understood him. He had been there, though later when the Pyorthi joined the brightminds in the fight against the dreamsingers. But Theseus had lost people too, and though the source of their grief was different they both still were grieving. Theseus kissed the side of Cyrus’ head, and Cyrus leaned against him.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Thesy stood up. Cyrus squeezed his husband’s hand, three times like they always did, their way of quietly saying ‘I love you’. Theseus smiled softly at him, still half asleep, and trudged back towards the house to leave Cyrus to fill the water barrel.

Cyrus watched his husband disappear into the house before he began drawing water from the well. It was the house they had built together. Theseus had built the frame, Cyrus had chopped the wood and cut the stone, and together they built it from the ground up. And from there they had planted the fields together to sustain their land, planted this garden to sustain their bodies, and brought Theseus’ kids here to escape the bustling city of Tzecuti to sustain their souls.

Once the barrel was full, Cyrus hoisted it onto his shoulder and walked back towards his home. Perhaps what he had earned from struggling was this: a quiet life and a loving home. Sure enough, another struggle would rise and he could be called upon again for another fight, but he would always return here. He would always come home. His life would always be different than what it was before, and even in these peaceful moments the fear would simmer beneath it all. But he still would keep trying to build something better, to let go of that fear. To move on. To live.

This story is based off a character I played in a high-fantasy game GM’d by my husband, Dane. It’s part of a series of short stories based off a 20-card tarot spread meant to guide you through your next year. This is for February and my pulled card, the Six of Cups in reverse.