Chương 4: Chapter Three: A Name Too Grand for Either of Us

Cyrus moaned. The pain… it seemed to be everywhere. His body trembled. He tried to twist around, but it was to no avail. Utterly useless. And for what reason? Well, Cyrus found that a coarse wool blanket had been draped heavily over him. It weighed on top of him like a sheet of metal, scratching without mercy at his neck. Steeling himself—and bracing his spirit—he forced one eye open. Slowly, the world swam into focus. He found that the ceiling above him was terribly unfamiliar. It was weird as well.

Strangely darkened—probably because of constant exposure to smoke. But who would light a fire inside of a house? He sniffed the air, and immediately felt some awareness snap back. He was catching the scent of bitter herbs and old wood, yet no matter how much he gasped, there was nothing even remotely like the smell of bread. This wasn't home.

"Tsk." The sound startled him, making him nearly lift his head with the pure panic that momentarily befuddled him. Who was it? Who was here? He tried to speak, but his lips seemed to be glued shut.

"Lie still, boy," the irritated voice rasped.

"I won't do anything for you if you continue to be a stupid brat." Ignoring the voice's order, Cyrus attempted to turn his head. Which was an attempt quickly foiled, as a striking pain ripped across his skull, making his body spasm and his mouth gasp.

"I said to be still," the raspy voice barked. That was when cool cloth was draped across his forehead. Cyrus could almost swear that he could hear the sizzle as the damp fabric met the hotness of his skin. The shock of the cold made him shiver, but the angry pain quickly began to subside, seeping out. With a desperate squint of the eyes, Cyrus pushed past the blurriness. And barely, he managed to piece together the view of a figure looming over him. It was a hunched old man.

His skin was dry and cracked—Cyrus could not help but think of how much it needed a slather of olive oil, with a scruffy beard that was equally unkempt. Wearing a coarse and dirty tunic that must scratch the skin to an impossible amount, the man was currently grinding a mixture within a small clay bowl.

"My... head," Cyrus croaked. Those were the only words he managed to get out before his lungs gave out. He quickly dissolved into a fit of coughing.

"Quiet, fool," the old man grumbled. He unceremonially clutched the back of Cyrus's neck and lifted him up, pressing a clay cup to his cracked lips.

"Drink, if you must." The water was cold and crisp, tasting heavenly, and Cyrus swallowed it greedily, letting the cold liquid soothe the fire within his gullet. When the cup was pulled away, Cyrus sank back onto the bed. His eyes fluttered, as he fought the impending exhaustion.

"My head…" The old man huffed.

"Hurts, huh? I mean, what did you expect? You took some fine blows, boy. You're lucky I arrived when I did, or I might currently be instead tucking a coin beneath your tongue and dumping you in a random hole in the wilderness." Setting the pestle down, he scooped up the dollop of the dark green paste. Reaching out, he tapped at Cyrus's swollen forehead.

"Hold still," he ordered, before slapping the gunk onto the bruise. At the sudden onslaught of the pungent sting of herbs, Cyrus blanched, nearly throwing up the little he had in his stomach. When he was pretty certain that he wouldn't do just that, he managed to muster up a few words.

"What is that?" he muttered.

"It… burns."

"It is supposed to burn," the old man answered in a dry manner.

"If it didn't burn, it wouldn't be leaking the bad blood out of your thick skull."

"Yeah, but what is it?" The old man sighed.

"Comfrey root, oregano, blah blah. Just some mountain herbs." Gingerly tapping at the paste, Cyrus's fingers came away sticky. But no matter how disgusted he felt, he couldn't deny how much the medicine was helping. The paste seemed to seep and drag the very pain out of his wounds, relieving Cyrus tremendously. The intense smell still made his eyes water though. He blinked, trying his best to squeeze away the salty liquid plaguing his gaze, and glanced at the ruffled old man.

"Who are you?" he asked. He had never seen someone like the man anywhere within their village before. The old man huffed, tossing away his clay pestle onto the floor.

"I am Nicomedes," he answered coldly. Cyrus blinked.

"That's... an awfully grand name. For a—" He coughed, stopping himself. Nicomedes's bushy eyebrows rose.

"For a what, exactly?"

"Nothing," Cyrus tried to quickly salvage the conversation.

"I didn't mean—""No, no. Please go on. I'm quite curious!" The old man leaned against the table.

"For a what?" Cyrus's face burned with shame.

"Never mind."

"Hm." Nicomedes tilted his head.

"And what, may I ask, is your own name? Since you seem so judgemental on names." Cyrus hesitated.

"Well?"

"... Cyrus," he admitted, already wincing at the hypocrisy. Nicomedes failed to move, a look of surprise stretching across his face. Then his lips broke out into a wide grin, barely a step away from mania. He exploded with hacking laughter.

"Cyrus!" the old man cackled.

"The Great King of Persia! The conqueror of Babylon, ruler of the four corners of the earth!" Pointing at Cyrus, he howled harder.

"And here he lies, buried under a damn wool blanket!" Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, cheeks burning.

"Its not like I chose the name." Nicomedes sighed, sliding the grin off his face.

"I suppose not." Picking up a broom, he began sweeping the floor.

"Seems we both have a curse, boy. Both of us have names far too grand for our own good." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Pausing in his chores, Nicomedes leaned against the broom. Even with the seriousness that supposedly infected the old man's face, Cyrus immediately noticed the corners of Nicomedes's lips curving up.

"So," the old man murmured, "who was it that reduced the great Persian conqueror to this?" Cyrus held his tongue. He dared not to speak, or even think, or Leandros. He had already made the mistake of talking back to the noble's son. He was in no way prepared for the consequences of telling about his beating to someone else.

"No one," Cyrus muttered, ducking his head.

"No one?" Nicomedes snorted.

"Was it a spirit then? Don't try and lie to me, boy."

"I said it was no one," Cyrus snapped. His temper flared, and in a pathetic attempt to be left alone, he wrapped the wool blanket tighter around him.

"It's none of your business." Nicomedes raised his bushy eyebrows, and failed to keep the incredulous chuckle from slipping from between his lips.

"None of my business?" the old man repeated. He shook his head, as if he was unbelieving at the pure audacity.

"I drag you into my home and heal you, and this is your repayment? Such a spoiled child you are, aren't you?" Cyrus glared right back, his pride stung. He knew that Nicomedes's words had truth, but he was unwilling to concede.

"I didn't ask for your herbs! I didn't ask for you to save me! I could have made it back on my own." Nicomedes burst into laughter.

"Oh, could you now?" Tossing away his broom, the old man strowled over to the side of the bed. With surprising strength, he grabbed the edge of the heavy wool blanket and yanked it completely off Cyrus.

"Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of such independence!" Nicomedes cackled, stepping back.

"Go on then, Your Majesty!"

"Fine," Cyrus hissed. With pure willpower, he forced his legs to stand up. They creaked and wobbled, feeling like utter sticks, but he pushed past it, shoving his feet into his stiff leather sandals—finding them at the foot of the bed. Then he began stumbling past Nicomedes, making sure to issue out a huff of defiance, before yanking the front door open. Outside, he forced one foot in front of the other, the cool evening air making him shiver. Behind him, he heard the sound of the door closing.

The first stretch of road wasn't so bad. But his anger-borne energy soon burned out, and by the time the old man's little house had vanished behind him, every part of him had begun protesting in earnest. He stopped, leaning against a tall tree, feeling absolutely miserable. What is wrong with you? He thought, disgusted with himself. Why had he acted like that? The man had found him at the brink of death and brought him to his household, spending his own stores to heal him. And this…

this was how Cyrus was repaying him? Truly, Nicomedes hadn't had to do anything. He could've just gone his way, and Cyrus would most likely still be outside, being fed on by the crows. But instead of showing gratitude, Cyrus had mocked the man's name, and even worse, stormed out like a spoiled brat! How am I any different from Leandros? Cyrus scowled. He had always hated people like Leandros. Inconsiderate, selfish, and gluttonous, only caring about themselves.

The arrogance that filled that young boy's form knew no bounds, and for good reason. And though Cyrus could hardly even bring himself to accept it, it was true that he was beneath Leandros. Yet here he himself was, acting exactly like a spoiled, petulant noble's son, spitting in the face of the very man that had saved his life. His throat seemed to close, the utter hypocrisy seeming to fold its skeletal fingers over his neck and choking him brutally.

But as Cyrus looked back at the dusty road that led back to the small hut, he couldn't muster enough courage to go back and apologize for his actions. To crawl back now, it just felt impossible. And so, even with a heart that was clutched with bitter regret, Cyrus continued forward, keeping his back to the hut. His leaden legs creaked onwards, trudging down the road. But as the road stretched on, the guilt was almost like a stone within a fast moving river. It was heavy and big, sure, but it quickly dissolved away.

In its place, worry began to take root. How am I going to explain everything to Mother and Father? For sake, he had vanished for an entire afternoon! He had missed the evening meal, he had missed all of his chores, and look at him! Just look at him! He was trudging his way home after having undergone one of the worst thrashings he had ever experienced. And that was all without even mentioning his face covered and riddled with purple bruises, his torn clothes, and his forehead slathered with the smelly green paste.

Cyrus felt his stomach deepen with regret. Why had he said such a thing to Leandros? He knew better. His father was an honest man, and similarly, he upheld everyone else to his own values. And his mother would likely just lose her mind with worry. To even think of telling them the truth— Cyrus could already feel the chills climbing up his spine. He hated to even imagine it. A conflict with a wealthy landowner's family could utterly ruin their bakery.

Swallowing hard, Cyrus tried to force his spit to calm his angry throat. His stomach continued jerking, self-reproach consuming him. Seriously, why couldn't I have just stayed silent? What was I thinking? But there was no point in rueing about the past. What was done, was done. All Cyrus could do now was make certain his family wouldn't be harmed. And the first step to doing so was buying himself time. He finished the forged story just in time, as the familiar outline of his house peeked out in the distance.

Cyrus had decided on a simple explanation to answer his injuries: he had been ambushed and beaten by bandits. It was common enough—at least in the news from the elders' conversations he overheard—and it would spare his family from ever learning just whose son had left these injuries on him. In a futile attempt to steady his mind, Cyrus inhaled a deep gulp of air. It barely helped, but the stench that flooded his nose did help him recognize the strange-smelling green paste still slathered on his forehead.

Hurriedly, he wiped it off. He couldn't go inside looking so monstrous. Cyrus pushed open the door to the courtyard. For a moment, his heart leaped, for he found no one around. Perhaps he could go to his room, and hope that he would look better when morning arose from his nap— That was, until he found his mother crouched besides the hearth, picking at the coals with the poker. He tried to back away, but it was already too late. The older woman's ears perked up.

"Cyrus?" The voice came, then his mother turned around fully. In an instant, her eyes widened." Popoi! What happened to you?" A few moments later, his father appeared, clearly drawn out by the shout. At his waist, he was carrying a basket that had been filled with grain. Cyrus felt a flood of guilt as he watched the color drain out of the older man's face. Quite obviously, his parents had been preparing the products for tomorrow morning, and now Cyrus had come to ruin the whole thing.

"B-bandits," Cyrus stuttered. He had thought of a better execution, but the panic befuddled his mind. Still, he managed to expel the beginning of the story from his lips, though the lies sat on his tongue, tasting awfully bitter.

"They ambushed me." His mother leapt up, his brows knitted with worry as she cupped Cyrus's cheeks.

"What are they doing so close to the village? Are you okay? How did you get away?" The onslaught of questions almost ate him alive. Unable to bear meeting her eyes, Cyrus stared at the dirt floor, lying through his teeth.

"They beat me, but I managed to run while they were distracted." He gulped, his strength slowly faltering.

"Yet…"

"You are alive," his father said, his voice thick. With a rough hand he clasped Cyrus's shoulder.

"The gods have spared your life. Come. Your mother will wash the dirt from your wounds." Cyrus nodded dumbly, letting his mother guide him inside and into the kitchen. Ordering him to sit down on the ground, the woman quickly got to work. Getting out a bottle of strong vinegar, she dipped a cloth within the vile liquid. Then, she dabbed it over the worst of his cuts. Cyrus hissed. Even through all his guilt, he couldn't contain it. It simply hurt too much!

But he let her fuss over him, saying nothing and—trying—to make no sounds, for the guilt curling tighter in his chest hurt more. His father stayed back. Instead of rushing over and gushing over his son, he lingered in the courtyard. Unusually quiet, he stared at his wife hard at work, before, without even uttering a single additional word, he disappeared outside into the streets. Cyrus paid the strange occurrence no mind, his mind far too consumed with current thoughts and dilemmas.

He couldn't help but to glance at the fire flickering within the hearth, until his focus wandered away just enough, and the strange ache stirred within his belly. Hurriedly, he whipped his head back around, causing his mother to glance up at him strangely. Flashing a wobbly grin, he dragged his gaze downwards. He shoved the feeling down as best as he could, burying it deep. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow… he thought, trying to calm his conflicting heart. I will stay far away from Leandros.

I won't make this any worse. But how wrong he would be.