The sun was starting to crawl into the sky, slowly inching up into the dusty blue bowl above them. The slanted, soft beams of the sun were not as harsh, hot, as they were in Greece, in Kreos specifically. There was a cool breeze rolling in through the trees, abloom with new Spring. For a moment, Kysis closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath.
Birds chirped from treetops all around him, wings fluttering as a group launched into the sky. Kysis tensed, muscles along his shoulders tightening, if only for a moment. It was a reflex. His dark blue eyes opened again, gaze sliding over the shadows, scanning them.
Ever since what happened in Kreos, he had been jumpy, skittish; who could blame him?
With a low, quiet cluck, Kysis spurred Atropos, his beige warhorse, to continue on. The powerful horse was attuned to him and no one else, having felt his unease. The horse trotted on, nostrils flaring with a snort. Kysis rubbed a leather gloved hand up the horse’s neck slowly, soothingly, though his gaze never left the darkness, never stopped being watchful and wary.
Though he had a travel-mate, there was little to no conversation. They were both in grieving, but for their own, different reasons. In Kysis’ mind, at least Matthew had a home to return to. Yes, Oberon was where his wife was, his young daughter was, but at the same time, Kreos was home.
Kysis nudged his boots back into Atropos, the horse starting faster, into a gallop. He did not look back to see if Matthew was moving to keep up. Lam’s servant had done a fair job of it thus far; Kysis trusted in his competence at this point.
It was Matthew, after all, who delivered news north of the battle, his capture, the losses.
Kysis’ breath rattled, catching in his throat. He swallowed at the sudden lump there.
Oberon was near. He could hear it.
The city gates stood tall and proud, as he remembered them. Kysis sat up, running a hand back through his disheveled, platinum blond hair. He tied it back with a leather cord, making quick, neat work of it. He straightened his cloak, smoothing it out slightly as Atropos trotted to a halt.
The guards stared at him with open mouths, wide stares, but did not say anything, scrambling like they had seen a ghost. Kysis frowned, that tug of his lips pulling down a fresh scar through his bottom lip, wrapping down around his jaw line near his chin.
It had been long enough that Kysis almost had trouble remembering his way, the streets winding and unfamiliar, the faces all new, the sights and smells near overwhelming.
After two wrong turns, Kysis finally saw his manor, a sore thumb sticking out in the noble’s quarter, horse trotting right through the front gate. Kysis dismounted, an easy, graceful music. When he landed, on a slight grimace flashed across his tanned features.
Not all of his wounds had healed yet.
The front door opened, Alex standing there, surprise and joy lighting on his face at once. He jumped, hurrying down the small set of steps, falling to his knees at Kysis’ feet, arms wrapping around his Lord’s legs, “Ο Λόρδος μου, σκεφτήκαμε ότι ήσαστε νεκροί!” Alex paused for a moment, eyes glassy.
Kysis stared down, face a stone mask, before he finally reached down, hand touching the top of Alex’s head.
“Πάρτε τα άλογά μας στους σταύλους.” The Greek rolled easily, naturally, from Kysis’ lips, though the words came out hollow, flat.
Alex’s surprise remained, the joy slowly melting from his face. The guard stood, nodding. He hurried off about his duties, leaving the door to the manor open.
That door was welcoming, beckoning almost. Kysis took one step, pausing. He closed his eyes, lowering his head, before he finally forced himself to walk onward, crossing the threshold into his manor.
It looked utterly foreign from what he remembered. It was not the feeling of home he had been hoping for.