Talos and Cyrus

Chapter 2 - Away

Cyrus splashed water in his face and looked into the cracked mirror in his tiny room, blinking droplets out of his eyes. At his feet, the water basin was nearly empty save for a couple inches of murky water at its bottom. It was a rusted, stained old bucket that served as one of the few sources of water littered around the house for his family to clean themselves.

Cyrus now stared at himself in the mirror, examining his oily face. Dirt was caked into his bright, nearly white hair. It fell over his forehead in a mess of wavy locks, some longer pieces brushing the tops of his eyelids. Cyrus had never liked his hair. A deep wooden brown was the dominant hair color in Aeredale; almost every villager had a mop of chestnut atop their heads, including his own family. Only a select few people had blonde hair, but none were nearly as light as his. When he was younger, his mother told him he had been kissed by an angel sent by Toniliotis from the clouds and that's why his hair shone so brightly. He believed it as a young boy. Now, the tale seemed almost laughable.

He stood tall before the mirror, rolling his shoulders back. Cyrus had turned nineteen years old that previous winter and he was to be considered a man now, though he noticed no remote changes in himself. Not that he expected any. The villagers, especially the elders, commented on how tall he had grown and how handsome he had become. Cyrus now stared back at his ragged white shirt with a hole in its collar. He stared at his dirty face, his pale skin dull with patches of stubborn dirt embedded in his pores. His lips were always dry and cracked, causing him painful discomfort when the cold winds of winter blew. His eyes were drab, the color of wet mud after a particularly heavy rainstorm. He disliked them immensely. He envied his sibling's eyes above all else. Their eyes were beautiful shades of blue and green and were filled to the brim with happiness and love. Cyrus looked at his eyes and saw, behind dark eyelashes, loneliness and not a hint of the beauty his siblings were graced with. When he looked at his eyes, Cyrus saw the disappointment and frustration he felt after an unsuccessful say in the woodlands. He saw his forgotten youth and the childhood he never appreciated. Cyrus did not consider himself handsome. Not even in the slightest.

That was why he needed to go away. He needed a new life far from the poverty that plagued the isolated village of Aeredale. He was not one of any of those farmers or beggars or traders. He yearned for freedom and carelessness and laughter and adventure. As he stared at himself in the mirror, Cyrus realized that when he left, he wouldn't dare to step foot in Aeredale for a long time to come. It pained him far worse than he would have cared to admit.

It was early in the morning. The sun was just starting her slow journey across the sky, casting a low haze of light through the windows. Cyrus took care to notice every crack in the wall and mark on the wooden floor as he climbed down the staircase. He even stepped on the one creaky floorboard by the fireplace, promising to himself that he would never forget the noise.

On the small dining table by the back door sat his leather satchel. Beside it was his old and dusty compass, which miraculously still worked after years of misuse, and his short sword, its iron blade glinting as it caught the sun. With it was a scabbard and a wrinkled old map, it's edges torn and bent. The sword had been his father's, a gift from an old trader. It's hilt was rusted and it didn't glimmer as it used to, but it had grown to be Cyrus' proudest possession. Swords were never an easy thing to come by in Aeredale, not to mention the prices they were sold at.

He could see a couple of shirts and trousers folded neatly inside of his satchel, no doubt the works of his mother. He smiled to himself, slipping the old compass into his pocket and fastening the scabbard around his waist, taking care to enclose the sword gently in its casing. He stuffed the map into the satchel, closed its flap, slung it over his shoulder, and pushed open the back door.

His mother and father were outside, busily working to tie a few bags over Flossie's back. They looped straps under the elkorse's belly and fastened the reins over her nose, making sure it wasn't too tight on her long snout. Several moments went by before they noticed Cyrus standing on the wooden steps.