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year 5, quarter 3
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[attr=class,bulk] Clive disagreed with Dion’s assessments on the other dominants. This was to be expected. Dion did not know Clive’s experiences though he had heard they had been far more personal than Dion’s, and that Titan had fallen at Ifrit’s hand. He also knew that Clive had taken his place as an outlaw, an anomaly outside of the social, religious, and political world in which a dominant was meant to reside.
Dion had not thought well of either Harmon’s sadism nor Kupka’s self-interest, but whatever they were as people, they were still just that – people. He knew the burdens of their power and the expectations it had placed upon them, and he doubted they would wish trouble with Bahamut no matter what they thought of Dion. Dion held a certain respect for every dominant regardless of their casualties, every dominant except of course for King Barnabas Tharmr.
He feared the Warden of Darkness. Not for his own sake. Not for the sake of a life cut short in battle. He feared only for those countless men who would fall for the sake of his bloodlust and his own crazed ambitions.
”There is a small solace to be found in the King’s madness,” Dion offered. ”He is not the type to fade quietly into obscurity. If he takes to the blade once more, we shall doubtless hear news of his atrocities. His name shall spread swiftly, and his reputation long preceding it.”
He had read of the terror which had gripped Ash at the time of Odin’s conquest. It was not a comforting thought that such terror might grip these lands once more, but at least there would be those to stand firmly against him.
He did not fully understand his own relation to Clive Rosfield. It felt at once tense and reassuring. They were not friends. He knew that for certain yet their loyalties ran deep. He could not help a touch of fondness as Clive confided that there were few he would rather have at his side in case of conflict, and Dion smiled faintly to himself at such high praise.
There were many amongst his cohort who Dion would trust with his life. Even so, he could not deny the strength of a bond formed in a mutual fight to the death. He realized with some surprise that he shared Clive’s sentiment. Despite his many friends and allies among the forces of Sanbreque, he would rather stand beside Clive, the outlaw, the second dominant of fire, than almost any of them.
Even so, Dion was taken aback by Clive’s offer to search for those closest to him. He was not accustomed to such inquiries towards his personal wellbeing. Dion considered it for a moment before he slowly shook his head.
”Do not trouble yourself for my sake,” he told him. ”I have as many friends as I do enemies among the ranks of my nation. Even I cannot always tell the difference between them.”
He paused for a second longer before he added, ”You may trust any among the Holy Order of the Dragoon. They were my cohort, and their loyalty is assured. And I suppose…” He glanced away, his eyes dulling with pain. ”If you were to come across my father…I ask that you spare his life. I cannot say that he should deserve such mercy, but there is much that I would ask of him and much that I wish to know.”
Never before had Dion felt so raw and vulnerable. This was a request not born from logic or faith, but of his own personal torment.
”I know it is much to ask considering all that he has done. But I ask as an ally and a comrade in arms. You may imprison him, but please. Send for me. I dare not hope that I should speak with him again, but so long as there is a chance, I would take it.”
[attr=class,bulk] Dion was uncertain how to respond to Clive’s comparison to his father. Had he intended some kind of insinuation, or was it merely as he’d stated – a comparison and little else. Dion wavered between praising the memory of the late Archduke Elwin or indicating that perhaps Clive should not place his faith in a man who reminded him of one whose fate had been sealed in a game of bloody politics. Neither option seemed particularly wise, and so he said nothing. Silence, he had been taught, was often the most tactful response.
He understood the elder Rosfield’s animosity towards the Holy Empire. Dion wondered if that animosity extended towards himself.
Despite Dion’s expression of sympathy, Clive looked…somehow affronted. Dion frowned back at him, uncertain of what he could have said to cause offense. If anything, he had thought himself as vulnerable before him, offering no excuses for the lives he had taken as Bahamut, for all of the homes burned and the livelihoods rendered inert. It was well known that Eikons existed for war. Had…Clive not considered Ifrit in the same light?
Once again, Dion sensed the gulf of experience which differed between them. Dion had known Bahamut’s light from birth. He had studied the scriptures and the art of combat in equal measure and been raised not as a child, but as the great dragon’s vessel. He had once feared that power then grown numb to it and then hated it for everything it had taken.
He had blood on his hands in the name of his eikon. He had assumed that Clive must have borne the same weight.
If he had caused Clive any offense, the other dominant did not show it. Instead, he merely sighed and straightened himself. ”I can live without being able to prime,” he said. ”My mission is complete. However, we may both feel differently if Benedikta, Kupka, and Barnabas return as well with eikons intact.”
”Ah.”
He had to admit, the thought had crossed his mind. Already, he felt his mind focus. He listened to Clive’s tale with a hand at his chin, turning over each piece with careful consideration.
”Of course. We are bonded by all we have lost and all we would stand to protect. You may forever count me as your ally, however…” He had been trained in the art of politics, including diplomatic relations. He had gone to war against every sovereign nation in Valisthea, and he knew their players well.
”While I have no doubt that Commander Harmon and Hugo Kupka would hold a grudge against you, they are not the type to strike the innocent at random – not even with their eikons. Harmon was ruthless, but sharply intelligent. And Kupka…” Dion’s brow furrowed. ”He had no interest in the state of Dhalmekia nor his role as the Warden of Earth. He never acted without personal incentive. If either were revived, I doubt that they would find cause to prime except to smite their enemies or at the command of another.
“King Tharmr is the far more immediate threat. He was a conqueror by nature and cared nothing for human life. If he were revived in this world then it would be a grave danger indeed.”
Bahamut’s full strength had only been enough to briefly deter Odin’s might. Dion felt a chill at the thought of confronting the Warden of Darkness without it.
”We will face these threats together,” he said, straightening his posture. ”Despite our history, I may be able to reason with Harmon and Kupka. If we hear word of the King, rest assured that you will not fight alone.”
Dion doubted that even their combined efforts could strike down Odin’s blade, but then, he had once doubted that their efforts could kill a god. They had sacrificed their lives to that fight, and yet they had succeeded nonetheless. Dion did not fear death so long as his life might be in use of a noble purpose.
”I shall alert you if there is any sign of their revival…Or that of your allies.” He knew well of Clive’s comrades, of the cursebreakers and the many faces which had passed him in the blighted Hideaway. He knew of Cidolfus Telamon, and of course, he knew Joshua.
Clive knew none of Dion’s associates, but that could not be helped. There were more important matters at hand.
[attr=class,bulk] Terence looked as abashed as Dion felt. His dark eyes landed on Yuna and with a sudden realization, his ears reddened the way they always had whenever shame overtook him. Dion couldn’t help the fondness in his gaze at its familiarity. Any other time, he might have brushed Terence’s hair behind his ear and teased him lightly for his ease of embarrassment.
This was not one of those times.
For now, he must try to regain what little dignity still remained for him in the eyes of their healer. Then there was the matter of Valisthea…
Terence’s eyes widened at the news of their arrival in this strange place. Dion offered him a sympathetic look of his own, taking his hand and stroking the back of it softly. He could not tell what tormented his knight’s thoughts though Dion could guess. He had experienced the same news himself, after all, and it had sent him into something like depression. His own lack of purpose, his own powerlessness in the face of Valisthea’s fate, had so nearly crushed his resolve. Now Terence was beside him again, and he hoped beyond hope that he might protect his knight from suffering the same crippling blow.
After a moment, Terence muttered the lightest of curses before he locked his eyes on Dion’s, urgent and anxious. ”Is the civilian safe? Did that monster harm her?”
Dion stared back at him. His blood ran cold. ”That monster…” He could have only meant his attacker. Bahamut stirred within him, whispering his unspoken wrath upon the unjust, but Dion silenced him again.
”She is safe. I swear it.” Dion tightened his grip on Terence’s hand and offered him a weak smile. ”There was a woman beside you. She blamed herself for your wounds and offered her gratitude that you would shield her from them.”
No matter how Terence disparaged himself for his perceived weakness, he had always been strong of heart. He had proven his courage time and time again, and it came as no surprise that he had risked his own life in protection of another.
This monster though…The attacker. Dion would inquire further once Terence had fully healed.
”You did well,” Dion said gently. ”You acted bravely to defend the innocent. I could not resent you if I tried.”
Why did Terence insist on apologizing for his injuries when Dion had acted with far less regard for his own life? When he had left Terence on a mission they both knew to be tantamount to suicide?
He looked back at Yuna as she spoke, insuring him that he could stay at Terence’s side so long as he promised to sleep for the night. Dion gave a short, tired laugh. ”I shall try,” he said. If she was scandalized by such blatant displays of affection, she did not show it. In fact, she was smiling.
Dion’s fondness for the healer swelled within him. Most would not have been so approving. Her heart was a gentle one indeed.
He took the chair she offered gratefully, falling into it with a short sigh. In the heat of the moment, he had nearly forgotten his own exhaustion. His bond with Bahamut had been severed and now reforged. He felt like a wounded soldier learning to walk again, struggling with the dragon’s light as he had when he’d been nothing more than a child.
It was a strange feeling, frustrating and yet not entirely unwelcome.
Yuna began her spells again, imbuing Terence with her healing magic. She too seemed alarmed at Terence’s claims.
”I found him outside the city proper on a road near the farmlands.” Fatigue had crept into his voice. Now that he could finally rest, he could no longer keep it at bay. ”He was only semi-conscious. The people there were kind, but could offer him no aid. They claimed he would be lost, and I…” Dion winced at the memory of that pain, that panic. ”I could not retain my composure. Bahamut’s will overtook me.”
He kept his eyes down, shifted slightly to one side. He could not stand to see Terence’s concern nor his guilt. He would doubtless object to Dion’s sacrifice, hastening the curse for Terence’s sake.
”His wings were swift and Yuna acted quickly on our arrival. If I had not acted…” Dion shook his head. ”You still live. Your wounds will heal. I could ask for nothing else.”
[attr=class,bulk] For three weeks, Dion hardly left Terence’s side. He slept in Terence’s bed meant for one, his head resting on Terence’s shoulder and Terence’s arm wrapped comfortably around his waist. He insisted upon caring for Terence in all ways other than magic, and the healers agreed even if Terence was reluctant to accept. Dion had learned the art of cleaning and dressing wounds from the camp’s physickers though he had never been allowed to perform such lowly work himself. To care for another, to bathe them and bring them food and assist in their recovery was not suited for princely hands.
But he was no prince here – at least, he was a prince without a kingdom to serve – and there were no such expectations from any but the two of them. Terence might have objected on principle, but Dion delighted in the freedom of this broken taboo. Terence’s objections quickly faded once they were able to eat together, both picking off a single tray set upon Terence’s lap. Terence’s eyes closed contentedly every time that Dion brought a cloth of warm water to his bare chest in a loving, almost sensual motion. As for the caring of his wounds, Dion could think of no better suited. The act of giving rather than receiving such care was a gift that he could do nothing but cherish.
When there was nothing else, they would idle away their hours with stories. Terence, telling of the world his sacrifice had created. Dion, telling of this new world and all he had learned of it. He would also tell of the local gossip simply to pass the time, and one day as he passed through the clinic preparing another tray of food and a bag of the appropriate potions, he heard of such gossip passing through the secretary’s hands.
There had been a request – mercenarial business, it seemed, though quite unconventional at that. A local orphanage had asked for an educational visit for its children. The secretary lamented that while this was good work, they were a clinic and needed every set of hands they could muster.
Dion brought this news to Terence, and to his surprise, his knight countered with a request of his own.
”Could it not be you?” Terence asked, and Dion nearly started in surprise.
”I vowed never to leave your side,” he countered, but Terence gave a weak laugh and pointed out that such a task, if taken literally, would be quite troublesome indeed. He was feeling much better, he insisted, and Dion’s talents could be better served elsewhere.
He was not wrong. After nearly a month of recovery, Terence was no longer a man on death’s door and looked stronger every day. Dion needn’t worry for his health, but to leave him here when they had only just been reunited…
It was a difficult decision, but one that he ultimately conceded. Terence was rarely wrong. Not in this nor in anything else.
And so Dion unexpectedly volunteered to take on the task. He was given directions and seen off on chocoboback. The road was easy to follow with little danger in sight, but still, Dion kept his lance strapped to his traveling pack even if he had not donned his armor for a fight. He did not expect one, and one did not come to meet him. The orphanage was only two days of travel away, and he made to his destination in good time.
He arrived by morning to a quaint cottage near the woods. It was isolated along roads lesser traveled, but it was not lonely for its isolation. Indeed, it seemed almost cheerful with the brilliant rays of sunlight and the sounds of laughter from children at play in the yard. It was only as Dion dismounted, unstrapping his lance out of habit, that he realized that he had never played at the role of a tutor before. Not a scholarly one, at least, and though he was well-studied, he couldn’t help but wonder the good it would do when he had been educated on strictly Valisthean matters – more specifically, that of the Holy Empire.
Dion sighed and shook away his doubts. He had learned well that confidence was key, and that if he did not possess it, he must at least present the facade. And so he strode towards the cottage with his head held high, offering a polite smile to any child that stopped to gaze at him in awe. He supposed he posed a striking figure even without his noble titles or his dragoon armor. It was only natural that he would draw their eye.
He found a woman among them, tending to the garden it seemed with a young child at her side. Dion slowed his step so as not to startle her. ”Pardon,” he said as he approached. ”But you would not happen to know of a Miss Muireach by chance? She sent a summons to a clinic to the north.”
Post by Dion Lesage on Mar 20, 2024 9:25:06 GMT -6
Ifrit,
I hope this letter finds you well. I vowed to write should I discover any facet of the light I had once lost. I know not whether it is a blessing or a grave portent, but it seems my power has returned as far as I am willing to test it. I would not dare loose Bahamut upon this peaceful world, and so I cannot say if I possess full command of my eikon. I have, however, wielded his light in the heat of battle, and merged with his draconic image under desperate circumstances.
In this, I promise to wield my for the sake of our shared cause. I do not know what it might reveal of the other Dominants you had once rendered powerless. Perhaps they could be reasoned with in these new, troubled times. I fear it will not be so.
Our time away has been infinitely eventful, it seems, for in that short time, I have been reunited with one I knew well in Valisthea. A friend, my second in command amongst the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon, has found his way to my side. He shall accompany me in my travels as I seek your counsel on these matters though I fear we must delay such a meeting. He has sustained grievous wounds in battle and must recover his strength before we set out for your southernly station. I hope that you understand the delay.
Though the two of you have never met, we are aligned in the same cause. As I set sail for the Enterprise that I might aid you in Stonehyrr, my knights remained with your Lord Uncle and supported him in his efforts to secure Ran'dellah from the Askhashic and forge a Dhalmekian alliance with your Cursebreakers. At my request, he then returned to Twinside to repay the last of my debts.
His loyalty is without end, and I have no doubts that he shall stand with us in our crusade.
[attr=class,bulk] ”Terence?” Dion felt his love stiffen in his arms. He felt the short, warm huffs of his labored breath against his neck, and in an instant he understood. He gazed upon Terence in horror as his knight pushed himself away and lay back where he should have remained – resting with his still grievous wounds. Terence, as always, tried to play off his own pain even as he could hardly find his voice between the spasms of it.
”Forgive me.” The words fell out of his mouth once more, a tumbling, desperate plea. ”Forgive me my passions. I should have known better. To risk your health for my longing of you…” He felt his cheeks redden as shame overtook him. Terence may have worn a strong visage, but Dion was no fool. He knew it was all for his sake. As always, his knight sought to shield him from his burdens. Even so, Dion could not help a short, breathless laugh at the man’s jests.
”You flatter me,” he insisted, and a traitorous smile crossed his lips. He should not be smiling at a time so dire as this, but Terence had that way about him. Even at death’s door, he was a light stronger than any which Dion wielded at his command. It threatened to blind him to reality.
A reality which was slowly shifting into focus. Dion started as though only just remembering himself, and he looked up at their unwitting audience with a look somewhere between surprise and mortification.
”Ah,” he started only to find that words had abandoned him as readily as his self-control. He lowered his eyes from Yuna’s youthful professionalism and cleared his throat awkwardly. ”Yuna, this is Terence. My…knight.” Yes, his knight. Only his knight. What good was the pretense now when she had seen them bear their hearts in the throes of passion? Still, Dion tried at some semblance of composure.
”Terence, this is Yuna. She is a skilled healer.” He paused before fixing him with a meaningful look. ”This place is not Valisthea. Magic runs freely here, and its wielders are revered for their talents. Yuna is no exception.”
He hoped that his implication was clear. Yuna was no Bearer, not culturally speaking at least. He wished to spare Terence the same shock and confusion that Dion had felt when he’d lain bedridden in this very clinic. Thankfully, Dion had managed to stifle any words which might incriminate him of his thoughts. He thanked Greagor he had not offended the healer and her kind, gentle gaze.
”Rest.” Dion took Terence’s calloused hand in his own and squeezed it reassuringly. ”I shall not leave your side. Though perhaps I am in need of a chair.” It was Dion’s turn to jest, his lips quirking slightly. After all the events of the morning, it felt strange that it should end this way, sitting patiently at Terence’s side, but there was no other end which did not threaten to strike his heart. Dion forced himself to breathe, slowly and quietly.
He banished the last echoes of Bahamut from his mind. This was no place to entertain the Dragon’s thoughts. There was only Terence, and whatever Terence might need of him, Dion would provide.
[attr=class,bulk] Dion felt a hand upon his cheek. He felt the gentle motion of a calloused thumb against it. He felt Terence. How familiar it all was! It was as though an emptiness within him had been filled. As though he had finally found his way home.
Terence’s voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. ”Great Greagor. It truly is you, isn’t it? My Dion.”
Dion’s heart leapt into his throat the way it always did when Terence called him by name. It was an uncouth act. A practically heretical one, and yet, it was an act of warmth and love, a recognition of himself which could rarely be muttered aloud. Terence’s hand fell from his cheek as he muttered, ”My Prince.”
Dion laughed weakly, his relief nearly cracking his voice as he answered, ”My Knight.”
’My love, my reason, my everything.’
Yes. This was how it should be. How it always should have been. They could speak freely now with no witnesses to hurry their gossip to the Imperial courts. They could speak freely. They could love freely.
Terence threw himself upon him, and while Dion knew that he should caution against it, that he should push him away and demand that he rest, he was powerless against the pull of his heart. He wrapped Terence in an embrace of his own, heedless of the blood which would stain him nor of the weakness in his arms from the exertion of Bahamut’s light. He pulled him closer, ever closer, as though they might unite their hearts as one. Terence’s cracked lips met his own, and Dion deepened the kiss, compelled forward by love and love alone. How he had missed him! How he had missed this, the only warmth he had ever felt in his harsh life of duty and endless expectation! Terence’s hand stirred in his hair, and Dion angled his head, bringing him closer, ever closer, as though he might never let go.
”Terence,” he muttered into his lover’s lips. ”How I’ve longed for you at my side. Apologies cannot right what I have done. Please. Forgive me.”
Passion would not allow him to end this moment, and he kissed him deeply again and again as though he might drown without it. Love kept his arms wrapped firmly around him, helping to steady the wounded man and bring him ever closer to his heart. He prayed to Terence as he might to the grace of Greagor.
’Forgive me, my love. Forgive me of my sins. Forgive me for the pain I have wrought in you. Forgive my selfishness and my sacrifice. I ask only this and nothing more.’
[attr=class,bulk] Thankfully, Clive did not seem to hold Dion’s lack of certainty against him. He merely nodded and gave his affirmation. It was acceptable. He would be stationed here for the foreseeable future. He was, after all, on “house arrest.”
Dion nodded solemnly. He understood what it was like to pace in one’s own cage, ever reminded of his good fortune. He also understood the weight of the man’s crimes. If any man had been caught trying to destroy the Mothercrystal at Drake’s Head, they would have faced execution. Of course, Clive had destroyed the Mothercrystal at Drake’s Head, but he hadn’t exactly faced justice.
It made Dion wonder of this nation and its king. Even with the good word of a mercenary on Clive’s side, how was it that he had escaped state imprisonment, let alone execution? Dion could not think of a single nation in all of Valisthea which would act in such a way towards a criminal caught in the act of endangering its Mothercrystal.
What were the motives of this unknown king? Of this unknown nation? Perhaps Clive wasn’t quite so fortunate as he seemed.
”Keep caution, Ifrit,” Dion answered. ”I sense…other forces at play behind your pardon. Perhaps this king truly is as merciful as he seems, but I know well the machinations of an empire. No king nor emperor nor arch-duke would let a criminal of your caliber walk free. Either their crystal is truly meaningless or they have other plans for you. I would not see you lose your freedom again.”
Dion let out a low sigh. How many Imperial Bearers had he seen fall in the line of battle? How many could have been Clive had Greagor willed it so? Dion had always taken care to regard the Bearers with civility, but he could not deny that his nation’s policies were…cruel at best.
”There is no shame in a semi-primed state,” Dion said. ”An Eikon is not easily tamed and exists only for destruction. Perhaps it is for the best that you cannot embody such power. I do not know your relation to Ifrit’s fire, but I understand your feelings of loss. Bahamut’s light had accompanied me since birth. Losing it felt like losing myself.”
Dion picked up his glass again, sipping at the water until he had drained the last of it. ”Even should that light return, I would never wish to harness my Eikon again. Bahamut has wrought too much destruction. At my father’s command and…at my own.” Dion’s gaze dulled. He could not change the past, but perhaps he could help change the future. ”This world is not ruled by war,” he said. ”It has no need for Eikons, and I would not give it that need.”
[attr=class,bulk] Yuna. His eyes caught on her, rushing forward with her staff and it was only with great restraint that he did not dash towards her, thrusting Terence upon her without preamble, his blazing blue eyes rimmed with unshed tears.
She greeted him as a stranger, polite and professional. Then her brow furrowed in confusion before she finally recognized him.
This did nothing to assuage her confusion.
He called him by a term which he did not know. She straightened in respect and then bowed before him. Within him, Bahamut held his head high, pleased at this show of reverence from his subject. Dion, however, could not keep the desperation from his layered voice as he cried out, ”Please!”
It was almost child-like, his pleas, if that child bore the undertones of a demon in angelic form. Yuna quickly remembered herself, and her expression turned professional and urgent once more.
She ushered him into an empty room, and he hurried inside, laying Terence upon the bed with as gentle a touch as his draconic strength could muster. He gazed down upon his lifeless form, head lolled to the side, cracked lips partially open with the rattle of his breaths, and he felt something break inside of him. If Yuna could not save him…If he was beyond the aid of magic then…
Then…
Yuna’s voice startled him from his thoughts, and he nodded numbly. Of course. Of course, Terence’s armor would need to be removed. As Yuna casted her spells, Dion set to work on removing Terence’s pauldron only to find that his thickened, scaly fingers tipped with their talon-like claws could not work the buckle.
Dion took a long breath. Channeling Bahamut’s form had been second nature, an accident in his agony. Even still, the king of dragons pulsed with every beat of his pounding heart, his light flooding him with the desire to kill to fight to make them pay, whoever “they” might be.
Such power was intoxicating, and Dion struggled to keep his own consciousness afloat above the waves. The time for strength was done. For now, there was none to fight. He could not protect Terence with this light when disaster had already struck him in Dion’s absence. For now, he was powerless to his fate.
It was this powerlessness which he must accept, and he did, closing his eyes, willing his heart to slow and the light dim. Gradually, he felt himself diminish. His leathery wings lost their form until they were but silver shadows upon his back which then dissipated to nothing. His horns shattered and his fangs retreated and scales melted away. When Dion’s eyes opened once more, his vision was no longer tinged in blue.
Exhaustion struck him so violently that his knees nearly buckled, but he merely gripped the side of the bed, taking a moment to steady himself before he began his silent work on Terence’s armor once more.
His fingers trembled as they undid the many buckles and straps which held Terence’s armor in place. Was his trembling from exhaustion? From fear? He did not know, but he thanked Greagor that he was so accustomed to this ritual, helping Terence from his armor after a long day of military life as Terence aided him with his own. He was able to free Terence of it with little difficulty, setting each small piece aside before carefully sliding his breastplate over his head, hoping as he did so that it would not cause him pain.
A ridiculous thought when Terence was decidedly unconscious.
He said nothing as Yuna worked. She promised to do all she could, a promise he knew she intended to keep. He was grateful towards her, regardless of the outcome, but he could not bring himself to mutter even a word of thanks. His throat was closed tight, his eyes unwavering from Terence’s face. Dion was powerless. He did not have the healing fire of the Phoenix on his side. His power wrought only destruction, and so he could do naught but wait.
And then Terence stirred.
Dion’s eyes widened. He felt drawn towards him, his unbearable exhaustion all but forgotten. Yuna, too, seemed to fade as though there was nothing else in the world but this. Just him and the stirring form of the man he loved, brought from the brink of death back to him again.
Terence’s eyes opened slowly, half-glazed from weakness and pain. Dion smiled back at him, a smile of relief and pain all at once. He would live. Or if he would not live then he would at least live long enough that Dion could spend this time at his side. Slowly, Terence’s dark eyes found his and Terence let out a half-delirious chuckle. ”I have gone mad,” he croaked. ”I have finally gone mad.”
Dion’s smile turned in confusion until finally he understood. His expression was overtaken by concern and then anguish and then the deepest of shame.
Was this…the life to which he had condemned his love?
Terence struggled to a sitting position before the pain overtook him and he placed a hand to his heart, eyes locked closed. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and the sight broke every thread of Dion’s composure. There was nothing, nothing, more important than this.
He placed a hand upon Terence’s chest and pushed him back, gentle yet firm. ”You must rest. Your wounds are not healed.” Dion’s voice threatened to tremble just as his fingers threatened to tremble and his knees lacked the strength to carry him. Still, he persisted. ”Take my hand,” he said softly as he threaded his fingers through Terence’s own. He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together as they had so many times before, and Dion breathed in the smell of him, like fresh earth and chestnuts.
”I am here,” he said through his own tightened throat. ”By the grace of Greagor, my life was spared, and by that same grace we have been united once more.” Dion felt his eyes burn with warmth. Finally, tears spilled from them, streaming down his nose until they fell upon Terence’s cheek.
”I shall not leave your side. Not now, and not ever again.”
[attr=class,bulk] Clive told him many things. There were affirmations and sympathies and more tales than Dion knew what to make of. Every time he felt a question on his tongue, another took its place. Destroying Origin had ended the Blight? But how? Clive had succumbed to the Curse? But was he not meant to be the only man immune to it?
And then there was the confirmation that Bahamut lived no more.
Dion swallowed, nodding slowly at the news. It had not been expected when he had walked into these mercenarial halls, but it was no surprise now. He felt no shock – only a dull numbness that threatened to overtake his heart. Bahamut had been a gift from Greagor graced upon her Holy Empire. Bahamut had been his burden to carry, his purpose of existence, the core of all they held dear. With Drake’s Head shattered, with Oriflamme in shambles, with the empire fractured and piecemeal, there had been only Bahamut to remind him of what once was. Clive had never truly connected with the King of Dragons. Not as Dion had known him. But it was still there. Stolen and displaced, perhaps, but alight with holy fire all the same.
Clive assured him that he would have returned Bahamut’s power had he the ability. He sounded apologetic as he informed him that he had stolen that light unwittingly. He’d had no choice in the matter. These were fine sentiments, but it did not change his reality.
Bahamut’s might had graced Dion with opportunity. It had laden his shoulders with the weight of an empire. It had afforded him company which he treasured beyond measure. It would mean the end of his life. Yet it had always been there, a part of him, inextricable and tied to his very soul.
He wondered, truly, if his salvation from death was a punishment for that loss.
Dion did not interrupt Clive as he spoke. He could not find the words even if etiquette had allowed for such a thing. Instead he waited, eyes dull with loss, until the eldest Rosfield asked a question of him in earnest.
”How much of your power have you attempted to use, Your Highness?”
Dion frowned, brow furrowing. He knew Clive’s true question – could it be that the power of the Eikons could return to those from which it had been stolen? Dion had spoken true. He wished to aid Clive in any way he could, but this…
”I have not made the attempt,” Dion said simply. He placed his glass of water back on the table before straightening once more. ”Til now, I did not think it a possibility. I am still weak from the wounds I have sustained.”
Clive had told him the tale of his ill-fortuned arrival, stolen away from the clutches of death itself. Dion supposed he should return it with a tale of his own.
”I was found on the side of a road outside the capital city of a kingdom to the north of this one,” Dion began. ”A talented healer brought me to consciousness. My wounds, it seems, were consistent with that of a fall from some great height.” He paused. Neither Clive nor his brother had witnessed Dion’s end and so he added, ”The last I remember, my Eikon had shattered, and I could take flight no more.”
Dion closed his eyes, remembering that final moment of relief in his passing, before he shook his head and went on. ”For several weeks, I have been bedridden. This has been my first excursion from the healer’s clinic. So no. I have had no reason to test my strength.”
In fact, he had the sneaking suspicion that he would be scolded even for traveling this far. Had he so much as lifted his lance, Healer Yuna’s wrath would most certainly fall upon him.
Dion gazed down upon his gloved hand. Could his light…truly have returned? As much as he mourned its passing, he felt no excitement at the thought it may have found its proper place once more. He had proven himself unworthy of its power. Would Bahamut allow its use for one so lost and desolate?
He took a deep breath and tried to find the light within. He thought he felt it stir, but that was not unusual. Its echo had never truly left him. But it had only been that – an echo.
He attempted to bring that stirring to fruition, stoking its warmth like the embers of a dying hearth, and he felt it rise until his hand was alight with its silver-white glow. He tried to push it farther, but when it refused to budge, he let it go with a deep, regretful sigh.
He did not know if it eluded him due to Clive’s actions or his own weakness.
”Apologies, Ifrit,” he said. ”It seems I can give no answer.”
He was silent for a moment, thoughtful and brooding, before he raised his head, attempting to sort those thoughts into something more useful. ”I know not if you have ever struggled to harness Ifrit’s fire,” he said. ”I have found that my power comes most easily when my nature and Bahamut’s align. Bahamut is…proud. As the king of dragons, he stands regally above all, eager to protect his subjects and bear wrath upon those who have wronged him.”
Bahamut, a king. Dion, a prince. Despite this correlation, their natures rarely fit without effort. Bahamut knew no mercy. Dion often found himself twisting his own thoughts in order to fill Bahamut’s shadow.
”It is possible that Bahamut’s light remains lost to me. It is equally possible that some combination of my wounds and my doubts have barred me from the power of my eikon. If I should find it once more, I shall send word in haste.”
Regretfully, there was no more which he could offer.