Disclaimer: I do not own Chrono Trigger, or any of the characters here. They belong to SquareEnix, and no money is being made off of this piece of fiction. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original ideas are original (duh) and belong to me, unless otherwise mentioned. This story contains fluff, some angst, and is unbeta'd. Enjoy.
No Lancelot
He kept her letters near him at all times; when they travelled he tucked the delicate papers under the thick padding beneath his heavy metal breastplate. They were wrapped in protective leather, but still the sweat and blood from his many battles reached them. The ink on the parchment smeared and became lost in splotches of crimson. His fingertips had left streaks of it all along their frail and torn edges.
The letters themselves had long since grown illegible, but he had read each one so many times that it did not matter. He unfolded the oldest one, now nothing more than a wet and discolored scrap of paper, his bright eyes scanning over its surface. A smile touched his mouth and he raised the letter to kiss away the last remnants of her flowing signature. He inhaled deeply and imagined that he could still smell her perfume after all these years. It washed over him with a sense of overwhelming nostalgia.
He could still recall her beaming smile and boisterous laughter throughout each message. Thoughts of her soft pale fingers running through his grimy and unkempt hair haunted him nightly; her painted lips brushed over his ear as she whispered imaginary secrets to him just before the sunrise they never saw together. When he did sleep, he dreamt only of her and the times they might have spent in one another's company.
"Cyrus!" the name cut across the sanctuary of his memories like a knife. He jerked, gauntlet-clad hand clenching compulsively around the letter as his head snapped up to look around for the speaker. A boy—young man now, he mentally chided himself—waved to him from the other side of the forest clearing. Cyrus ducked his head, carefully smoothing out the letter atop his thigh. It had torn. He put it back with the others in their leather cover and slipped it beneath his breastplate once more as he stood. His companion jogged over to him, a hand steadying the broad blade at his hip. "Are you ready, Cyrus? The road grows no shorter as the day lengthens."
"Your youth shines through with your impatience, Glenn," Cyrus replied with a tight smile. His companion blushed deeply and mumbled something unintelligible as he quickly averted his gaze. The knight chuckled at the childish antics, stepping forward to pat the younger man's shoulder before moving on. Glenn turned slowly to watch him walk away, but spoke up after only a few paces:
"You've seemed troubled of late."
Cyrus paused, glancing over one shoulder. "How so?"
"You've been distant ever since we left San Dorino."
". . .My heart aches with the desire for peace and our return, as surely yours must also," Cyrus responded with a shrug that was met by a dubious look from his observant friend. Although it was not the whole truth, neither could it be called a lie; this was often the case with the word of a knight. He associated her bright blue eyes with the skies over Guardia, and the space between her arms, home. He could have wrapped his whole world within her. Silence filled the air for a long and tense moment, begging for something more, for Cyrus to cave and continue, but he did not.
"If this is about the Queen's last letter—" Glenn began, but he was cut off by the knight's terse command:
"Today we will reach the summit.-" Cyrus gave the rest of the order as he strode purposefully towards their camp site, reach up to touch his breastplate briefly, as if to check that the letters were still there "-You had best banish women and their handwriting from your mind until after we recover the Masamune."
They packed their gear wordlessly after that, and continued their journey with each man deeply entrenched in thought. The Denadoro Mountains rose up around them, the ground growing rocky and steep, the winds blowing treacherously. Cyrus knew without asking what it was the Glenn feared most: the possibility that they were not heroes destined to end the war, but merely men with a tarnished medal and blood-spattered convictions. He feared death. Cyrus was more afraid of going home empty-handed and defeated than of dying in vain. At least then, he would not have to see disappointment in those beautiful eyes and know that he was the cause of it. If he died here, then he would not have to struggle between love and the need to remain loyal to his king. Neither voiced their concerns, nor spoke of Leene's latest request to return to the relative safety behind the castle walls.
But Cyrus could not be her Lancelot, no matter how much pain it caused him.