A Matter Of Time
Thank you @bladeverbena for the prompt (and sorry it took so long to deliver)!
In which there’s trouble at the Miller Farm, Cyrus puts himself in danger, and Darren finally figures out how to explain why he is not okay with that. (Approx 6000 words, set five years post-Inquisition. First kiss fic).
Cyrus had overstayed his welcome. He knew it. They knew it. Everyone knew it. Even though he kept trying to ignore it, he couldn’t shake that stomach-sinking sensation that today, surely, would be the day. The day the Millers paused when they saw him and shared one of those long, heavy looks. The day they apologised profusely and wrung their hands; an attempt to ease the final blow.
This was it. It had to be.
Today would be the day they finally asked him to leave.
It had been two months since he’d found himself at the freshly painted gate of the Miller farm, hovering uncertainly before the wooden partition. There had been no one in sight, but Cyrus had been bone-weary and exhausted, his boots falling apart on his feet, his coin pouch empty, his stomach twisted into painful knot of hunger and apprehension. In the end, he’d taken a risk, opting to beg forgiveness if he couldn’t ask permission. He hadn’t known what else to do. Even months later, part of him still remembered the way his heart had pounded as he approached the quaint, picturesque farmstead. It had been loud. Violent. Terrifying.
Now, as he descended the stairs from the second floor, he felt that same rhythm like a kick to the chest.
It told him to expect the inevitable. Told him that he was a burden. A strain. Cyrus knew nothing about farming; he was certain that whenever he tried to help he just slowed things down. He was another mouth to feed in a town that had suffered average to poor harvests two years in a row. Another body to clothe, clad in Darren’s old shirt and trousers. They hung loose and comfortable off his leaner frame. He had lost weight since parting ways with Ralon and Lyrene in the Free Marches.
In the end, one thing was acutely obvious. Cyrus had nothing to offer besides himself.
Maker, what a piss-poor deal.