A Little Knowledge: Missing Scenes

Cyrus allowed the portrait-guarded door of his apartments to close behind him and stood there for a moment with his back against the solid wood. He felt cold all over and, now that he was alone, he found couldn’t maintain his emotionless facade nor could he stop trembling. He let his cane fall from his fingers and clattered dully upon the stone floor. He hardly heard it. Such a sound couldn’t pierce the cacophony of his mind wherein he could still hear his own pathetic screams, the sounds of the forest, dark and deadly all around him, and the perilous hiss of an undead foe that was so close, so near to him that he could feel its putrid breath on his neck.

He took a struggling breath of his own and staggered away from the door. For an instant, he had contemplated opening it again and calling after Howard. Begging her to stay with him, at least for a little while. More than anything, he didn’t want to be left alone with those sounds and those horrid memories, especially the memory of the pain he had endured. Cyrus pressed the heels of his palms into both eyes as a phantom of agony newly remembered passed through him like a ghost.

Taking an uncertain step forward, he stumbled into his endtable and felt its sharp corner gouge into his thigh even through his robes. Unable to steady himself, Cyrus pitched forward and expected to strike the unforgiving stone floor of his parlor face first. Instead, his cheek connected with something warm and solid, but soft at the same time. A pair of strong arms wrapped around him, holding him up even when his knees would not.

“I’ve got you,” said a familiar voice into his ear.

Only then did he remember that Reynard had promised to wait for him in his rooms, to be there for him when the ordeal was over. His shoulders shook for a moment as Reynard held him. Cyrus was able to forget the pain and fear just for an instant as he buried his face in his friend’s robes and tried, successfully, not let the tears flow from his eyes nor the ragged sobs escape from his chest.

“It blinded me, Reynard,” he said in a strangled whisper. The words bubbled forth like water from a spring.

Adjusting his grip so that he could support more of Cyrus’s weight and make him more comfortable, Reynard hushed him softly. “Don’t be frightened. You’re going to be all right.”

His shoulders shook again as Reynard combed his fingers through his hair and tried to soothe him. The room felt so cold. He was shivering because of it. The world was suddenly so dark and so full of terrible things. But Reynard was there to lean on. And Cyrus wished more than anything that he could just let Reynard fret and fuss over him as he knew he would. He wished with all of his heart that someone could take care of him and make the pain and the fright go away. But even though he wanted it, Cyrus couldn’t allow himself to give into such weakness.

“Don’t do that. Please,” Cyrus whispered just loudly enough to be heard, “I don’t want to break down. I’m so afraid that if ... if you’re kind to me, I won’t be able to hold myself together, Reynard.”

“What happened?” asked Krohn. His tone of was full of undisguised concern. He removed his fingers from his hair and merely held Cyrus to prevent him from collapsing. “Can you tell me?” he questioned quickly.

“The procedure worked. I remembered what went on in the forest that night,” he replied. “Every blasted moment of it,” Knowles added as he slowly lifted his head from Reynard’s chest.

“You’re shaking,” Reynard observed before pulling him toward the nearby couch. Cyrus was grateful to have him there to direct his stumbling, unsteady steps. “Here. Sit down,” he instructed.

“Thank you,” said Cyrus in a low, weary voice as he let his friend gently maneuver him into a sitting position on the couch.

He stiffened for a moment as Reynard lifted his legs from the floor and pushed him into a half reclining position against the arm of the sturdy sofa. The old piece of furniture squeaked appropriately under the additional weight when Reynard sat down next to him.

“Any better?” he asked.

“It will never be any better,” said Cyrus before he could stop the words.

He could feel the last of his strength beginning to ebb. The ordeal had taken so much from him and left so very little in its place. His chest ached as Reynard cautiously loosened the collar of his robes and made of soft hushing sound. He lifted his chin and closed his eyes, letting Reynard do whatever he thought was best.

Then he remembered another pair of hands, just as dexterous as those of his friend, but colder and not nearly so gentle, tugging at his collar and trying to decide whether or not to make a meal of him. Teasing him. Toying with him. Taunting him. Tormenting him. Then Cyrus blacked out.

When he came around again, Cyrus realized that he was lying flat on his back and that his shoes had been removed. He started slightly as Reynard called his name. The potion master’s lips brushed against his temple. He imagined that Reynard kneeling beside the sofa. Cyrus reached for him as he called his name again, but he couldn’t articulate a reply as of yet. He was still too disoriented.

“Another minute or so, and I would have fetched Madam Pomfrey,” said Reynard as he grasped Cyrus’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. The worry -- and dare he say fear? -- in his friend’s voice was unmistakable.

“And caused trouble for both Dumbledore and me, no doubt,” said Cyrus softly, not really caring about that. In fact, he would have welcomed the mediwitch, and a Calming Draught, just then. “Why is it so damnably cold in here?” he asked.

“Here, I’ll try and fix that, if you don’t mind,” said Reynard before beginning to stand up.

“Don’t go,” Cyrus blurted out. He felt incredibly foolish after those words had left his lips, but he couldn’t take them back. “My apologies. I’m not feeling like myself,” he whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Krohn in a very comforting tone.

Cyrus blinked back tears as Reynard tenderly rubbed the top of his hand. He wished that he had the strength to admonish him for being so foolish, and so kind, but there was nothing there for him to draw upon. No strength. No courage. No bravado. Just emptiness and exhaustion. He shivered.

“You really are cold, aren’t you?” asked Krohn.

“My body’s being just as stupid as I am right now,” said Cyrus with a wry look. Like the dungeon-dwelling professor of potions, he seldom felt the bite of winter’s chill, but that night it seemed to pervade his entire being, slicing through muscle and piercing sinew like a knife.

“Do you want me to draw you a warm bath anyway?” asked Reynard tentatively.

Cyrus shook his head in response. He could exactly verbalize what he was thinking. How could he tell Reynard that a bath would have been just thing, but he didn’t want him to see his scars from the war?

“Here then,” said Reynard, pulling him into a seated position. “I think I might be able to warm you up a bit, if you don’t object...”

“Not at all,” said Cyrus weakly.

Reynard slipped behind him on the couch, and after a bit of jostling and tugging, pulled him back against him. Cyrus could feel his friend wrap his heavy robes around them both. He breathed in the soft scent of the robes and their owner, potions’ ingredients and the smell of the library, and burrowed closer to Reynard. He closed his eyes and drank in the radiated warmth that was both physical and emotional. It was everything he craved and tried to deny himself. Tears threatened again as he rested his head against Reynard’s chest. He shook with a suppressed sob as his friend shifted and wrapped one arm around his waist and used the other to lightly stroke his hair, tucking a few errant strands behind his ear.

“Is this all right, Cyrus?” asked Krohn cautiously.

“Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about any of the things you remembered?” asked Reynard after a few moments of silence, of waiting for Cyrus to speak to him. His tone was a gently probing one.

“I owe you that, don’t I?” asked Knowles, remembering that he had as good as promised to share that information with Reynard.

“You don’t owe me anything. You can talk about it when you’re ready,” he replied.

“They hurt now,” said Cyrus softly.

“What hurts?” asked Reynard.

“My eyes. Remembering how it blinded me brought the pain back. I can feel it all over again,” he confessed.

“Do you want something for the pain? I can get something for you quite easily. Madam Pomfrey need never know about it,” offered Reynard.

“I’m not sure it would help,” he said, choking back another dry, wracking sob as Reynard rubbed his shoulder. “Sorry,” he whispered, and he meant it.

“You can cry, if you want, Cyrus.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to feel any of this, and I especially don’t want to turn into a helpless puddle of goo in your lap,” he said in mild retort.

“That’s why I’m here,” said Reynard.

“You’re here because you can’t leave well enough alone,” he corrected. He felt Krohn chuckle quietly. “Well, you can’t.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure you qualify as well enough at present,” said Reynard.

“Point taken,” Cyrus murmured. He realized that warmth was beginning to seep back into his skin at long last. “I was a fool, wasn’t I? That night ... when I let this happen.” His voice was so quiet that Reynard had to strain to hear him.

“Foolish, perhaps, but a fool? Never, Cyrus. You did what you thought was best. You followed your instincts,” said Krohn. His next words, carefully considered, came after a pause. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for what that creature did to you.”

“It was waiting for me. Do you know that, Reynard?” he whispered, closing his eyes against some of the last memories he had before he lost the ability to see.

Eaves of the forest. Dark shadows fleeing from his lighted wand tip as he ran across the damp grass toward the trees. A feeling of exhilaration coursed through his body like fire through his veins. It felt good. Very good after so many years sitting idle in a classroom. Branches snapped as he pushed his way into the Forbidden Forest with limbs catching on his robes and in his hair. He thrusted them away as he sought his quarry, pushing recklessly, heedlessly forward.

Then there was a sudden voice from behind him and cold washed over his body. He crashed to the ground in a heap of tangled robes. He couldn’t raise his wand arm or even disentangle himself. His heart began racing faster as he recognized the full body bind for what it was.

The vampire had been hiding among the trees. Waiting...

“Cyrus, please say something,” said the worried voice of his friend in his ear.

“Waiting,” he murmured in a confused, disoriented tone.

Knowles shook again as he realized that he was safe, that Reynard had his arms around him, that what he had remember was nothing more than that, an unpleasant memory visited upon him with special vividness because of the charm that had been removed.

“He was waiting for you?” asked Krohn tentatively.

“Dammit, Reynard, don’t you dare call that thing, that horror, that ... that devil a he,” spat Cyrus angrily. “It doesn’t deserve that much consideration.” His heart was pounding again.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that let his friend know that he had startled him. “I misspoke,” he added.

Cyrus nodded and squirmed slightly as the specter of pain rushed through his eyes again, nearly consuming him. He hissed sharply through his teeth and tried not to think nor remember.

“No matter,” he said before Reynard could inquire about his well-being.

“Let me get you something, Cyrus, even if it’s only a glass of wine or Calming Draught,” insisted Krohn with a desperate, half-pleading note in his voice. “I’ve heard that Calming Draughts can even make it easier to speak of such things...” he began to tell Cyrus.

“How long?” asked Cyrus, finally giving into his friend’s wishes. “How long would it take to concoct such a potion?”

Krohn shifted. A moan escaped Cyrus’s lips as he feared for an instant that Reynard was going to leave him there alone. But then he felt his companion’s fingers brush against his side as Reynard reached into the interior pockets of his heavy robes. He silently cursed his weakness and stupidity as Reynard withdrew something, a bottle, he guessed, from the pocket and resettled them both. He closed his eyes and carefully reigned in his emotions as Reynard touched the side of his face.

“I brought a vial just in case you should need it. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of doing so,” said Reynard.

“Of course not. Quite thoughtful of you, actually,” said Cyrus nonchalantly, though he continued to berate himself for his weakness, for needing one of his colleague’s remedies, and needing it so badly.

There was a soft popping sound as Reynard removed the stopper from the vial. Cyrus thought he could smell anise for a moment, but he was no expert where potions and their ingredients were concerned. As nice as it smelled, he knew better than to believe it would taste the same.

“Drink,” instructed Krohn, touching the cool mouth of the bottle to his lips.

Cyrus did so without comment, blinking in surprise at the sharp, but not entirely unpleasant taste of the draught. He had been given drafts such as that one before; however, he did not recognize the flavor. He suspected that it was one of Reynard’s own recipes, especially given the taste, and likely to be unusually strong. When he had finished taking the potion, he felt Reynard shift and deposit the empty vessel on the floor next to the couch before encircling him with his arms again.

“Now you should try and relax while it takes effect,” said Reynard.

“I’ll try,” said Cyrus softly. A moment later Reynard’s fingers brushed his throat and he flinched. “Don’t do that. It makes me think of unpleasant things,” he snapped more harshly than he intended.

“My apologies,” said Krohn, removing his hand immediately. “I just wanted to monitor your pulse. Be certain that the draught is working properly,” he explained as he cautiously reached for Cyrus’s wrist instead.

“By all means then,” said Cyrus with a slight nod, pulling back the sleeve of his robes to help Reynard.

He was keenly aware of the fact that his heart was racing again. He rested his cheek against Reynard’s chest, listening to the steady, perhaps slightly faster than normal, thumping of the other man’s heart. By comparison, his heart was beating like that of a wild and frightened rabbit.

“Perhaps a stronger dose was in order,” said Reynard as he finished making his examination. “Or else it is slow to work,” he added in a serious, yet musing tone. He interlaced his fingers with those of his friend. “Trying taking slow, deep breaths, Cyrus,” he suggested.

Cyrus did as he asked, concentrating on his own breathing and the scent of Reynard’s robes, and began to feel calmer and more relaxed. He was certain that part of this had to do with the potion he had been given and part of it was the result of the comforting, unobtrusive presence of his friend, in addition to his sensible instructions.

“I don’t know where it, the vampire, took me,” he said, beginning his story again as soon as he felt capable of doing so. He bit back a curse as his eyes began to ache once more, though only dully, and his heartbeat quickened. It was like reliving the nightmare of the experience all over again. “But I imagine it doesn’t matter,” he added softly.

“Certainly it matters,” Reynard assured him. “As long as was required to locate you, believe me, it mattered very much at the time. And now.” He did not mention that he had not been out there with the other searchers that first night; Cyrus already knew that Reynard had had his own difficulties, and responsibilities, to deal with, and the defense professor did not hold that against his friend.

“I won’t ask where I was found. No one has ever said precisely, and I would rather not know,” said Cyrus, taking a deep breath as Reynard released his hand so that he might wrap his arms and his robes around him again.

“Quite understandable,” said Reynard.

“It dragged me through the forest by the collar of my robes,” Cyrus told him in a quieter voice, “instead of using levitation or the Imperious Curse to force me to walk -- and we both know it is quite capable of using such a curse.”

“Yes,” Reynard agreed, not quite shivering, but flinching somewhat at the implications.

“It was so strong. That monster didn’t need any more magic after it had me in that body bind,” he said in an almost matter-of-fact tone. His shoulders shook slightly despite this. He remembered the underbrush of the forest scratching his face, his robes tearing on the brambles and stones, and the overwhelming sense of fear he had experienced that night. “I would never tell anyone else this, Reynard, but I was terrified, truly terrified, of what it was going to do to me.”

“Anyone else in your place would have felt...”

“Perhaps, but I’m the one who has to live with knowing that underneath it all, I’m simply not the man I was during the war. He wouldn’t have been afraid. Sweating. Half out of my mind by the time it threw me onto the ground in some secluded spot in the forest,” said Cyrus in a self-contemptuous tone. “No, not the man I used to be at all.”

“You give yourself both too much and not enough credit. Anyone, even Dumbledore or Armando or Ogg, would have been very much afraid,” Reynard insisted, naming two of the bravest and one of the brawniest wizards he knew.

“Ogg? You’re comparing me to Ogg?” asked Cyrus.

“It was kindly meant. Please, if you don’t feel like continuing...” he began to say.

“I need to get it out, Reynard, if you’re willing to listen to more of my ramblings,” Cyrus confessed. He needed to tell someone what had happened, no matter what they would think of him. That Reynard would not think less of him for demonstrating such weakness only drove home how very pathetic and foolish he had been.

“Always. I will always be willing to listen to you,” Reynard promised.

Cyrus took a deep breath. “It Legilimenced me immediately. I still don’t know what it wanted or was trying to find out...”

Sharp fingernails dug into his cheek as the vampire grasped him by the face. As though the body bind simply weren’t enough to keep him still. No, that wasn’t why. It needed to demonstrate its complete power over him. Dark red eyes that seemed to glow from some unholy internal fire bore into his blue ones. Cyrus couldn’t close his eyes against the assault, but he tried to fight it off, just as he had been taught all those years ago. The vampire laughed at his feeble attempt.

Though the creature scarcely touched him in the physical sense, he felt an overwhelming sense of violation to the very core of his being. All that he knew or was and all that he had ever been or could become was laid bare for the perusal of the vampire. And tried as he might, Cyrus could not fight back against this horror.

When he came around again, Cyrus was horrified to find his limbs moving without volition, stilling just as he became fully conscious of his surroundings again. Reynard was holding him in a vice-like grip with his massive legs wrapped around his smaller ones to hold them in place, to prevent him from twisting or kicking out. The larger wizard had his arms pinned neatly to his chest as well with both arms wrapped around Cyrus in a secure hold. Unlike during his time with the vampire, Cyrus had been free to thrash about while reliving the mental attack and had taken full advantage of that, though stronger Reynard had prevented him from inadvertently harming either of them.

He throat was sore as though he had engaged in a bit more screaming. Cyrus suspected that he had. He swallowed and tasted the metallic flavor of blood in his mouth. He assumed that he had bitten his tongue, though he could hardly feel it; the pain was insignificant compared to the renewed ache behind his eyes and the agonizing flood of emotions, ranging from intense fear to anger to mortification, that nearly overwhelmed him entirely.

Reynard relaxed his grip on him and made a soft hushing sound. Cyrus lifted his face slightly and was surprised, yet comforted, when his friend gently kissed his forehead. He whispered something that Cyrus couldn’t understand. His voice was low and kind, understanding and comforting.

“I think we should take you to the hospital wing now. You have just frightened me out of ten years of my life,” said Krohn.

“What happened?” mumbled Cyrus, not arguing with his friend’s assessment of the situation, though he was reluctant to do as Reynard suggested. The questions that would doubtlessly be raised had no simple answers.

“I think you were trying to fight it off,” Reynard guessed. “If the circumstances had been different, I have no doubt that you could have taken give it a fight to remember.”

“Rubbish,” Cyrus muttered, though he felt very much complimented by what Reynard said. His friend slowly released his hold and adjusted their position on the couch to a more comfortable one again.

“Now, shall we go to the hospital wing?” pressed Reynard.

“No, just ... give that draught of yours more time. Please?”

Cyrus could feel that he wanted to argue by the way his muscles tensed and tightened. He squeezed Reynard’s arm and turned his face toward him again. He did not realize it, but his expression was a beseeching one.

“As you wish,” said Reynard quietly.

“I wanted so much to able to fight that creature then,” he said with a soft sigh a moment later.

“You did everything you could,” said Reynard, resting his head against Cyrus’s. Reynard’s cheek felt damp against his forehead; he suspected that his friend was or had been crying.

“Not enough. It’s still terrorizing our students, isn’t it? And the staff. All of us wall those corridors in fear after dark because I couldn’t stop it when it first came here,” said Cyrus with a derisive snort.

“You’ll never believe me when I say that it wasn’t your fault, everything that happened that night ... and after, will you, Cyrus?”

“No,” he answered simply, “but I appreciate ... I am very grateful that you say them nonetheless.”

“Perhaps I should help you to bed soon?” Reynard inquired.

“Am I not to finish telling you what happened then?” asked Knowles.

“I said that I would listen, and I meant it, Cyrus, but I don’t think it is a good idea for you to continue, Calming Draught or no. It’s awful for you and ...”

“...no picnic for you either, I’m sure,” he agreed with a slow nod of his head, “but I...”

“You need this? Sometimes I feel that I both do and do not understand you. This is one of those times. But whatever you choose, I am here,” said Reynard with a muted sigh of bewilderment.

“There were voices in the distance when it did it, when it ... blinded me. I could hear the headmaster shouting for Patrick. It hissed and stopped using Legilimency on me. My eyes were already too bloody to see out of...”

The extremity of his discomfort nearly matched anything he had felt during the war. The body bind had even begun to cause him pain. His eyelashes were sticky with blood. A dull haze had settled over his mind. But still he heard the familiar voices somewhere not so far away and was comforted and filled with hope by the sound. He could hear Professor Kettleburn’s excitement as he found the vampire’s trail and Dippet answering him confidently, so full of hope himself. Dare he think that he was going to be rescued at last?

Then a familiar cold hand grasped him by the throat. He heard the foul and malevolent hiss of the vampire in his ear. All of his hopes melted away as long nails sank into his neck. Cyrus wasn’t sure if it intended to choke him or prepare him for its bite. His heart raced like it had that first night as fear such as he had scarcely known before flood him. He tried to close his eyes, tried to steal himself.

But something jabbed him, a wand, he realized, just beneath his right eye. He could see flashes of color beneath the lower lid. He wanted to struggle, but there was nothing for it. He was utterly helpless.

“Annihilaro!”

The intense pain that washed over him was like nothing he had known nor conceived of in his imagination. It seemed to envelope the right side of his face before driving deeper into his skull like a red-hot nail impaling him. And the pain would not cease nor diminish.

“Annihilaro!”

He barely heard the voice of the vampire, knowing only the agony had doubled and was consuming him like hellfire being poured into his brain through his eyes. Cyrus believed that the magnitude of the pain was going to kill him or overwhelm him and drive him insane. Then everything went black.

Cyrus found that he was shaking hard and that he didn’t know where Reynard was when he came out of the memory. He wanted Reynard there to comfort him. He needed him there. Then warm hands touched his bare stomach. He flinched as long fingers wandered over the scars he had earned during war. The hands, which he knew to belong to his friend, were immediately removed. Cyrus stirred slightly and realized that he had been undressed, except for his trousers and his socks, and that he was lying on his bed now and had no notion as to how he had got there.

“You shouldn’t have done this, Reynard,” he whispered.

“You were ill. I tried to perform a charm to clean your robes, but ... you were ill a second time. I had no choice: I contacted Poppy and told her ... as much as I could without causing undue trouble for you or Dumbledore. She said to give you another Calming Draught, one of hers this time, and put you to bed. I had to remove your clothes. They were filthy. I’m sorry, Cyrus,” he said in a fretful and rambling manner.

Cyrus wrapped his arms around his midsection and turned onto his side with his back to Krohn, who was quick to drape a blanket over him and whisper his apologies again, but with no less sincerity or fervor.

“How long was I unconscious?” he questioned, pulling the blanket closer and shrugging off the hand that Reynard attempted to place on his shoulder. He noticed that the pain in his eyes had receded.

“Nearly half an hour,” said Krohn.

“What potions have I been given?” asked Cyrus.

“A standard Calming Draught and a very mild potion for the pain, both at Poppy’s instruction, I assure you. Please don’t be angry with me,” he said in a fervent whisper.

“I didn’t want you to see the scars. You shouldn’t have seen them.”

There was a pause before Reynard said, in a rather contrite voice, “Cyrus, I had seen them before tonight.”

“When?”

“That morning ... after I carried you from the Entrance Hall to the hospital wing. When Poppy was getting you into proper robes, I was just standing there, trying to figure out how to get the blood off my hands, and ... I swear, Cyrus, I didn’t mean to look at your scars. You know I would never have embarrassed you on purpose.”

Cyrus imagined that the additional Calming Draught was the only thing keeping him in a proper state of mind at that moment. His throat was tight and prickled nevertheless. He pulled the blanket over his face as his eyes began to sting, and not because of anything he could remember, but because of something he still could not. He couldn’t remember Reynard, nor anyone else, being there with him after he was returned to the castle. Just pain, emptiness, and confusion. People said that he had spoken to them, and they, to him, but he could not remember any of that very well. Just shadows, friendly voices, and confusion. He listened to Reynard’s soft footsteps on the carpet as he came around to the other side of the bed.

“I just didn’t want you to see them,” said Cyrus in a muffled voice.

“Because of the way you believe the scars look?” asked Reynard, gently peeling back to blanket to reveal Cyrus’s face.

“They are not exactly attractive,” he agreed. He could hardly believe that he was willing to discuss the subject, and almost happily. But compared to talking about what the vampire had done, it was vastly easier. “But it isn’t that simple. After we got off to such a bad start those years ago, I didn’t want you to know what I had gone through...”

“... while I was hiding here in relative safety,” Reynard finished for him as he took a seat on the bed.

“Not the words I would have used, but, yes, something like that,” said Cyrus with a nod.

“You were protecting me?”

“I was protecting both of us,” said Cyrus. He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if he had unintentionally revealed too much with that statement. He was jostled a bit as Reynard sat down on the edge of the bed. “Don’t say anything silly, Reynard.”

“I won’t,” he replied, brushing Cyrus’s hair from his forehead and kissing his slightly furrowed brow. “Poppy was very insistent that you rest. Get a good night’s sleep. All of that. Would you like me to bring you a nightshirt or something?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” he answered with a slight shake of his head. He hesitated. “Could I trouble you for an extra blanket?” he inquired.

“No trouble. Just tell me where you keep them,” said Reynard, jostling him again as he stood.

“Top shelf of the wardrobe,” said Cyrus.

“Same place as mine then,” he commented. Cyrus listened to his footsteps on the rug as he crossed the room and the soft squeak of the wardrobe door being opened. A moment later it was closed again. “Do you need any help climbing under the covers?” asked Reynard as he approached the bed again.

“No, I can manage,” said Cyrus, working his way beneath the bedclothes while keeping the original blanket wrapped around his torso.

No matter what Reynard said, he still didn’t like him seeing his scars. There was no reason that Reynard should ever need know what he had gone through over there during the war. No reason at all. And Cyrus was worried, on some level, that he would think they were horrible and ugly. Someone during the war, perhaps it had been Moody, had called them ‘badges of honor.’ But to him they were just hideous reminders of worse days, etched forever into his flesh.

“Comfortable?” asked Reynard as he spread the blanket over him.

“Nearly,” said Cyrus. He couldn’t tell Reynard that his arms had been more comfortable than his own bed. But they truly had been in many ways.

“Good. I imagine those potions will start to make you drowsy in just a bit. Would you like anything else before then?”

“Don’t coddle me.”

“Who’s coddling? Anything, Cyrus? Before I go?”

He took a deep breath, trying to work out how best to phrase his request. He couldn’t imagine Reynard giving in; he couldn’t imagine him refusing the request either. As Reynard smoothed his hair and sat down next to him again, he was forced to close his eyes as a mixture of emotions rolled over him.

“Stay,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”

“Cyrus, I can’t stay with you tonight,” said Reynard, and his friend could hear the sadness and regret -- or was it guilt? -- in his voice.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me for ever asking such a thing of you ...” said Cyrus hurriedly. He felt as though a vice had snapped closed on his heart.

“No, I cannot stay tonight, Cyrus. It is Christmas Eve, and my children will have no gifts in the morning, if I don’t set them out for them while they are sleeping tonight. It is my responsibility as their head of house to see to this,” said Reynard. “I want to stay. My God, Cyrus, you don’t understand how much, but my duties ... they do not permit it tonight,” he said fervently into Cyrus’s ear. Cyrus nodded that he understood, but did not trust himself to speak.

“I ... I don’t have to go now. I can stay until you fall asleep,” Reynard told him to reassure him. “Perhaps I could turn off the lights, to make is easier for you to go to sleep, and I could lie down with you so that you...”

“...would know I’m not alone?” Cyrus whispered.

“Yes.”

“Please,” he said softly. Without the Calming Draughts, Cyrus knew that his shoulders would have shaken.

He listened as Reynard took off his shoes and removed his heavy outer robe. The bed creaked softly as Krohn lay down next to Cyrus, who thought they would have seemed an odd pair: Reynard lying on top of the covers, almost fully clothed, and him swaddled in several blankets and the bedspread, nearly naked beneath. But he didn’t care. He only cared that he wasn’t alone, that Reynard was with him, that everything was going to be all right.

“Cyrus, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you,” said Reynard softly, moving so that their shoulders touched.

Cyrus found that closeness very reassuring. He moved his hand until he found Reynard’s and smiled slightly as the other man, knowing what he wanted, enveloped it in his own, giving his hand a firm, comforting squeeze that conveyed more than his words had.

“Good-night,” he managed in a barely audible voice, too tired to talk anymore, though he wanted to say many things to Reynard.

“Yes, good-night.”

Cyrus didn’t know what time Reynard left to perform his duties, but some time during the early morning hours, he felt the mattress next to him sink, jostling him from less than pleasant dreams into half-wakefulness. He thought for an instant that he might still be dreaming. Someone hushed him softly as he made an indistinct sound. Lips brushed against his cheek and an arm wrapped around his waist. If it were only a dream, and a good dream at that, he decided, what was the harm in allowing this kindly phantasm to hold him close and reassure him? Cyrus moved closer to the form that he knew in his heart to be Reynard’s and curled up against his chest before he allowed sleep to engulf him once more.

---