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year 5, quarter 3
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[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.
[attr=class,bulk] Dion’s thoughts were troubled as he roamed the many narrow streets and canals of the city he now called home. It was a strange feeling, this unfettered roaming. There were no eyes upon him except in passing. Without his lance and armor, he appeared as nothing more than he was – a man, taller than average perhaps, with amber eyes and a naturally confident gait that had been practically beaten into him by his tutors in etiquette and politics. He would watch the common people pass as they went about their daily lives, their gazes lighting on him and then passing away just as his passed from theirs. It was a strange feeling, almost bizarre in nature.
He had never been free of movement. Not like this.
He remembered once when he and Terence had been called back to Whitewyrm Castle at his father’s request. They had been only boys then though armed with spears and the company of dragoon knights, they had thought themselves men. Terence had told him that he’d never visited the city of Oriflamme before and Dion had admitted that though he had lived in the city all his life prior to his military service that he too had never truly visited, locked away as he had been behind the walls of the castle. It was then that Terence had hatched a plan.
Dion did not know exactly where he had procured the cloaks which would hide their faces, but they used them to abscond like thieves into the night, using their dragoon training to jump nimbly from the castle’s walls and spires until they reached the city streets below. Dion had stared in wonder at the lives of the common people, at their stores and their gossip and the way that they danced openly, without poise or purpose, simply to the rhythm of the drumming of their hearts. He had seized Terence’s hand and dragged him about, wishing that night could last forever, if only they could show their faces.
They had been but boys then though they had thought themselves men. How time had changed them. Time and responsibility. Now Dion could show his face openly for there were none here that knew it. He was a prince of no nation. He no longer carried the expectations of Bahamut, champion of his people, upon his shoulders. It was all he had ever wanted as a boy, not yet a man, but he had grown since then, and now he knew that this life was not for him.
Eventually, his wandering brought him to the outskirts of the city where the narrow streets widened into dirt roads and the multistory tenements gave way to open fields of wheat and barley. Still, his feet carried him forward on this dry, hot day with wind that hinted at the changing of the seasons. Soon, the harvest would begin and farmers would be hard at work, carrying bundles of crops onto chocobo-drawn wagons. This would provide them with the means of life for themselves and their families, and in this way, they had their purpose.
But what of himself? Here? Now? Clive Rosfield’s advice echoed like a dark reflection through his thoughts.
’If I can protect this world the same as Valisthea, I will do so. It is only right that I do right by them. As for yourself, Your Highness, what you do now is yours to dictate.’
Dion had been born to die for his people. This had been his purpose from the start, whether he’d known it or not, and he’d learned rather quickly. His tomb had been constructed before his cradle. The priests had carved it with his name – Dion of the House Lesage – and his date of birth – 850. All it awaited was a date of death and the remains to fill it, be they flesh or stone. Then he would be sealed away in the Vault of Bahamut so that future generations of dominants could enter and gaze upon his sarcophagus in holy contemplation.
All of this, he had known. All of this, he had accepted. But now, what was there?
His feet continued down the road, his boots kicking up dry dirt and dust as he went. He had no destination in mind, merely pacing like a caged animal though there were no longer bars to hold him. His eyes wandered often to the sky where he had once found solace. So lost was he in his own dreadful thoughts that he did not notice the crowd until he was practically among them. He heard their whispers among these farmers and travelers and traders, and he frowned as he peered past them towards the form they kept almost entirely out of view.
”He saved me! This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t-!”
”Poor lad. I doubt there’s a healer in the city who could help him now. Not that there’d be time to get him to one.”
”We can take him to my house down the road. Get him out of the street at least. Best we can do.”
It was then that Dion saw him, lying there limp in the dust and the dirt, hair askew, armor torn asunder, pooling in thick, dark blood.
And time seemed to stand still.
”Terence…?” Dion pushed forward as though in a dream, first cautiously and then roughly shoving the bystanders aside. There was nothing that existed now. Nothing but him lying in the road, lips pale and chapped and bloodless. Dion felt himself collapse, falling to his knees beside him. He touched his chest, his neck, his cheek. He lifted Terence’s head though his love did not gaze back at him. His eyes were half-closed and glazed with unconsciousness. His lips, deathly still, almost seemed to be smiling.
”Terence!” Dion’s voice broke as he brought Terence closer, staring into those glazed, unseeing eyes. ”I am here! Please, stay with me! You promised…”
A weight fell upon his shoulder. A hand. ”We can move him somewhere quieter if you’d like. For the both of you.”
”Stay away!” Dion thrust the hand aside and grabbed Terence by the shoulders, lifting him to his chest in a tight embrace. His hands slicked on blood. Dion pressed his face into Terence’s neck and felt a heartbeat, weak and frail. “No. Not like this. Not like-!”
Cold adrenaline engulfed his own pounding heart. It drummed in his ears and made his mouth go dry. He felt a sob escape him, his shoulders trembling.
And with it, came the light.
Bahamut stirred within him, surging with his holy might. It was too much. All too much. His thoughts and the eikon’s and his pounding heart and the weight of Terence, lifeless in his arms.
’My love-’
’My dearest subject-’
’What became of you?’
’They shall be punished for their insolence!’
’I shall not let you go!’
’You have served me well.’
’No matter what it takes-’
’Worry not for-’
’I shall-’
’-save you!’
With that, the two became one, clicking into place as the light overcame him, surging forth with a power all its own, and Dion cried out in agony as his vision tinted blue then yellow then blue again and there were shouts of alarm and the scrambling of running feet and from his back sprouted a pair of wings – ethereal at first before they took solid form, wide and jagged and leathered. Horns sprouted from his temples, arching above him like a crown, and the light pulsed through him, streaking through his hair and pooling at his forehead like a third eye.
Someone screamed. There was the slick metallic sound of a sword being drawn. It did not matter. All that existed now was Terence – Terence and his mission and Bahamut and his power. He placed an arm beneath Terence’s knees, his gloves transformed with thick scales and wicked claws, and gently lifted him as though the weight of his body and his armor were nothing more than a child’s. Then he launched himself into the air with inhuman strength, and at the peak of this height, he unfurled his wings.
Like this, they flew. Like this, they soared above the city – Dion, Bahamut, and Terence. The townspeople cried out. There were cries of a dragon circling ahead. Demands for archers or mages. None of it mattered.
’Let them try,’ growled a voice just behind Dion’s fangs. ’We shall smite them in holy fire!’
At last, they reached their destination, and Dion shot like an arrow towards the earth, spreading his wings at the last moment to slow his descent so that he could take to the ground at a run. He burst through the doors of the clinic, nearly tearing them off their hinges in his urgency, and there were shouts of surprise and fear from the people in the lobby.
”Yuna! Monori!” His voice was layered. Dion’s – urgent and desperate. Bahamut’s – a booming roar. ”I need a healer! Please!”
He gazed into Terence’s face. Terence, the boy who always snored just a little on the military cot beside him. Terence, whose glances could hold a conversation’s worth of meanings and who laughed when Dion kissed the hollow of his neck. ”I shall stay by your side,” Dion whispered. ”Always.”
As the beam of light faded, sparking in the air like static before a thunderstorm, Dion was left panting, his head spinning from the heavy use of magic. There was a time when he could channel his power at will, calling it to his fingertips as simply as breathing. Now, he was out of practice from the sensation. Aether, overflowing in his blood. Bahamut’s will, whispering within his heart. He felt as he had as a child, practicing his drills again and again until his knees collapsed beneath him. This was power not meant for mortal men, and…
And…
Dion’s eyes flicked across the clearing to see the results of his actions. Singed grass. A tree burned through, oozing sap like blood. And in the center of it all, a human form sprawled upon his back.
Dion let out a soft, pained noise and looked away. In his desperation, his light had awoken. The power had flooded his better judgment, and just as he always knew it could, it had taken over and blood had been spilled for his weakness.
He had broken his own promise, it seemed. A promise of non-lethality at his own insistence. Now a man lay dead. This was undoubtedly a blow to his honor, and one that would haunt him for some time to come, but in the end, he could not say that it was not for the best. The madman would have fought again. He would have taken the lives of those less suited for combat than a dominant of Bahamut. In the end, it was but another burden to weigh heavily upon his shoulders, but one for the greater good.
Or it would have been if the man had not stirred.
Dion snapped to attention once more, uncertain whether to rush to the man’s aid or back away from potential danger. That decision was quickly made for him. The enemy combatant took a deep breath and slowly, delicately, rose to his feet. And Dion was left staring.
The man before him – it felt wrong to even call him a man. He had transformed in a single instant, his blonde hair shortening with streaks of neon red, thick glowing tendrils sprouting from his head like a marlboro’s tentacles. One of his arms had grown swollen with angry red flesh, over-elongated with clawed talons. And then there were his eyes.
Red. They were alight with red. Dion knew well the power of the aether. He knew the piercing blue of a dominant’s eyes. He knew the dangerous yellow of an eikon, feral and frenzied. He knew nothing of red, and yet, it chilled him all the same.
”You are a dominant?” he muttered, utterly aghast at the creature before him. He’d thought the rules different here in this unfamiliar world, yet what could he call the power before him but a semi-prime? The man was bound to an eikon of darkness. There was once a time when he would have thought it absurd for there was but one warden of each element, but had he not seen Ifrit? Fought alongside him and his brother, twin eikons of fire?
Dion did not have time to ponder these implications. He didn’t have time for anything at all before this strange new dominant threw himself forward with a speed hitherto unseen. Dion’s eyes widened and he launched himself skyward, hoping that this change in his opponent would not give him the benefits of flight.
The madman declared his intentions to tear down the heavens themselves, and what could Dion do against him? He was a dragoon, too terribly injured to so much as raise his spear. He was a dominant so unused to the feel of aether in his blood to use his magic freely. He was a useless prince who had thrown himself into danger needlessly, too careless with his own life to guard against the consequences.
And below him was a maniacal creature, half eikon and half man, radiating power with every flick of his dreadful eyes.
’Greagor fill my wings.’
He landed in the treetops once more, aware than he was slower than before from bloodloss and his own general weakness. He grit his teeth and forced himself to jump again, twisting around so that he could fire off a few more missiles of holy light as his momentum carried him across the clearing and he landed dexterously in an opposing tree.
What was he to do? Even his mind had grown heavy. The blood from his injured arm streamed carelessly down his fingertips, down his lance, and dripped in heavy splotches from the speartip.
What was he to do?
His enemy was mad with bloodlust. He would not listen even if Dion were to yield. He could try to make his escape through the treetops, but that would only lead his feral creature back towards the city, towards the civilians, towards their hopes and their dreams and their lives which he was sworn to protect. He could prime, but that…
With the shattered state of his mind, that was out of the question.
He would have to semi-prime himself, but did he have the strength for it? He was no prince here. No warden of light, protector of his people, bound by birth to guide them. Bahamut was the king of dragons, a king, tall and proud. Dion had learned to merge his will with Bahamut’s own – his draconic form would not come to him otherwise – but how could he? How could he a failure of a prince and a dominant, he who had turned his wrath upon his own people, who had delivered the deathblow to Sanbreque himself, how could he stand tall enough to fit in Bahamut’s shadow?
His vision darkened. His balance slipped, and he was sent plummeting into the underbrush below, crashing through twigs and brambled leaves until he used the last of his strength to twist himself into a proper landing, taking the force of the earth on bending knees, his good arm buckling as he kept his head aloft. He tried to stand, but found that he couldn’t. His breaths came heavy and slow. His lance was useless in the grasp of his wounded arm.
Was this how it would end? So senseless with nothing left to fight for?
’Apologies, Healer Yuna. It seems your work may have been in vain.’
[attr=class,bulk] The madman moved faster than Dion’s descent, faster than a freefall, faster than a dragon’s wings. It took only that time for the man to rise to his feet, and though Dion’s spear struck its target, scraping down his opponent’s leg, the wound was light enough to draw blood but little else. A soft moan escaped the man, almost in pleasure as Dion’s lance was driven into the earth and he realized, a moment too late, that he had made a grievous mistake.
For those brief seconds that it took to wrench his lance free, he was left vulnerable, nearly kneeling before this madman whose scythe was already raised.
He barely deflected the first blow, gritting his teeth with the effort of repelling the blade, nearly losing his grip in the process, but the blows kept coming. For every successful block, there was no time to parry. Each time he proved unsuccessful, he felt a sting of pain along his arm, his cheek, the side of his torso, each time followed by the warm chill of blood. Then there were the shockwaves of magic which he had no means of blocking and no space to dodge. These stuck him head on, knocking him back each time as the icy darkness struck his heart and battered his body with the force of charging behemoth.
He kept himself on his feet, but only barely. His soldier’s training kept him moving, kept his lance twirling faster than he could process, blocking, deflecting, scraping the scythe down its edge with a metallic screech to somewhere less vital for the blow to land. Once more, he was back on the battlefield, his feet moving with the rehearsed steps of a dancer being led in a waltz, always reacting, never taking the lead himself.
There wasn’t time. And still, he fought.
He was on the backfoot, trapped in a corner of his own making. His opponent was stronger, faster, and wielded that accursed magic.
A particularly strong burst of darkness sent him staggering, gasping for air, as his grip loosened, his spear lowered, and finally the scythe met flesh.
Dion’s gasping turned into a strangled yell as the tip of the blade sank into his left shoulder and sliced down in one clean cut. On instinct, Dion grabbed the shaft of the spear, yanked the blade from his arm, and then shoved his palm outward towards the man as pain blinded him and his heart deafened him and inside him came a familiar whisper that ripped through him until it screamed.
Light burst from his palm. White, searing, holy. The light of Bahamut. His light.
It sought its target in missile projections like arrows curving inward toward the kill. Once it had left him, Dion was left standing there, shocked and numbed as he gazed at his own hand, still glowing with magic.
”What in Greagor’s name…?”
This magic was meant to be lost to him. It was meant to have been taken. Why then could he still…?
He didn’t have time to think. This was still very much a battlefield and one on which he was badly injured. His other hand still held his lance – just barely – as his own blood slipped down his arm and dampened his grip. He didn’t know if he could still raise it, but with this new development, he had an entirely new (or perhaps old?) weapon in his arsenal.
Dion called upon that power again, and it came to him easily, gathering in his chest where he had always felt it strongest. Dion placed his hand to his chest, focused that magic, and then set it loose in a great beam of brilliant white light, an imitation of Bahamut’s divine flare.
Dion’s blow struck as intended, the aftershock of his strike hurling the man off his feet blasting him through the trees as though he were made of nothing more than cloth and cotton. With every blow the man took, with every crack of shattered tree trunk and heavy branches, Dion feared that he had reneged on his promise of nonlethality.
And yet over the sounds of destruction, he heard something far more chilling. Laughter.
Was that right? Surely it couldn’t be. As Dion wrenched his spear from the earth and raised it cautiously, he felt an ominous dread rise within him. This was not finished, it seemed to say. Though his eyes, his ears, his mind all spoke to the contrary, his soldier’s sense did not waver.
From the cloud of dust and wooden debris came a swing of scythe and the reflection of his own shockwave, and Dion jumped on instinct, barely clearing the blow with catlike agility. When he once more landed, he looked up to see the man shrouded in broken leaves and splintered wood, his hair disheveled and his eyes burning. They did not burn with fear or hatred, but with something much more savage like a dominant awakening to his frenzied eikon.
’This is madness,’ Dion thought, horrified as he stared in the face of something so utterly inhuman. ’He has gone mad.’
He did not know if it was fear or panic which spurred him on, but he hesitated no further, twisting his spear into an offensive position as he launched himself past the treetops, heart thundering within him. This time, there were no feints. No clever trickery. He would end this swiftly and so, once cleared from the confines of the trees, he twisted himself around, angling his spear, and thrust himself earthbound with a dragon’s ferocity.
He would aim for a limb, he told himself. An upper thigh, preferably, angled away from the major arteries so as not to break his promise. He would pin the man with his spear and thus quell whatever he’d seen burning in the man’s eyes.
As he reached his maximum velocity, shooting like an arrow downwards towards his target, he prayed for a swift end to this battle before he saw what those eyes could do.
[attr=class,bulk] Though Clive spoke nothing of it, his distaste for Dion’s reasoning was clear in the tightening of his lip and the slight wrinkle of his nose. Dion, who had survived a world of hidden meanings and half-buried hostilities, had developed a sense for such things. Clive did not need to speak it, and though he thanked Dion for his honesty, Dion knew that this itself was somewhat disingenuous.
Clive was courteous beyond what Dion deserved. Master Harpocrates, once expelled from the empire’s borders for false charges of heresy, had found a home among those rebels and outlaws under Cidolfus’ command. Clive, expelled from his homeland and forced to serve the empire, had found much the same. They must have formed a bond like teacher and student, an inevitability once introduced to Harpocrates’ warmth. Clive knew the elderly scholar well, and his fondness was well-earned.
He knew little of Dion. Though they had both been born into nobility, though they both fought for the sake of Valisthea, their sensibilities differed to the point of farce. Dion wished they could see eye to eye. He wished, in this strange time torn from nearly all others of the Twins, that they could find common ground and perhaps even kindle a friendship.
But that seemed an impossibility. As Clive continued, Dion could only sigh in return. ”Yes. This place, this chance, should be impossible,” he agreed. ”Yet my thoughts lie only with the fate of Valisthea.”
He had been born to wield great power for the sake of his people. He had been raised to die in their defense. Yet here he sat, stolen from his fate by mysterious circumstances, while his people fought for their very lives.
Terence would tell him that he had earned his rest. Terence would urge him to find peace and to allow himself the time to heal. His heart ached with his absence and Dion’s utter solitude.
Yet Clive did not allow his thoughts to linger. The eldest Rosfield brother had already pushed forward, seemingly speaking his musings aloud.
Dion’s eyes lifted to meet Clive’s, brow furrowed in confusion. ”You’ve lost your power?” That Clive could no longer prime made a kind of sense. He had awoken at Ultima’s command, and if Ultima was truly defeated then perhaps this new Eikon of Fire had been likewise dispelled. But the majority of Clive’s power did not come from Ifrit alone.
”Then Bahamut’s light is truly…?” Dion felt something tighten in his throat. Clive had taken that light for himself, a fair price for the atrocities that Dion had committed, lost to its might. But now, if Clive had truly lost that light…
Bahamut’s light…
His light…
”I…have not attempted to prime,” Dion said, half choking on his own dread. ”It seemed unwise given my emotional state.” This much was true. While Dion had managed to keep his will once before, every second had been a battle with Bahamut’s wilder impulses. Only Dion’s unbending resolve had kept his wings steady, every flare of light and flash of his fangs of his own volition.
Now his resolve was shattered. Without it, he was a danger to himself and this new, peaceful world which had welcomed him.
”What power have you retained?” he asked as though the answer would not devastate him. As though Clive had not carried a part of his soul now lost and forsaken. ”I do not know if I can be of aid, but I can certainly try.”
[attr=class,bulk] Clive sat with his offer, as unexpected as it was, for long enough that Dion began to suspect that his fellow dominant had no questions of his own. When Clive finally spoke, Dion wished that it had truly been the case.
The question was unexpected enough to pierce Dion’s armor of composure, striking him like a lance to the heart. He opened his mouth as though to speak, his eyes widening with what he knew was pain. He quickly averted his eyes, choosing instead to focus upon the clear, cool water in his hands. Clive further explained his reasoning though there was no need. The question was enough.
’Why didn’t you accept Harpocrates’ gift?’
He did not need Clive to plant the image in his head of Dion’s elderly tutor waiting faithfully for his return, heartbroken by the truth that he knew but could not state. He had seen the way hope in the scholar’s eyes had shattered. He had heard the weight of his words weighing heavy upon his aged shoulders. Dion did not need Clive’s aid in the guilt which weighed just as heavily on his heart.
Dion measured his words carefully lest that guilt break free and end him.
“It was not for lack of care,” Dion answered slowly. “Master Harpocrates was once quite dear to me, second only to my own father. He taught me well and sought to challenge the worldview fed to me from birth.” Despite his guilt, despite the pain he had caused, despite the expanse of time between them, Dion could not help but smile. ”I remember his study, so cluttered with his books and maps and paintings that one could scarcely see the walls behind them. It was a source of warmth and kindness within the cold halls of Whitewyrm Castle.”
He let the memory of it linger for a moment longer than he should have. He felt it constrict in his throat, threatening to betray him as he went on.
”He thought to test my knowledge at the dawn of our first lesson. While I was well-versed in matters of history and politics and religion, I knew nothing of the lives of the common people. He challenged me to connect with the castle staff, to learn of their joys and their woes, so that when I one day took the throne, I would do so for the sake of my subjects. I vowed to shoulder any burden to ensure them lives of comfort and peace.”
Dion forced his eyes closed, swallowing hard. ”How could I accept his forgiveness after all that I had done to betray the very values he had instilled within me?”
He let his own silence envelope him. He took that time to collect himself as thoughts of war and destruction sought to drown him. When he spoke again, his voice came softer than before. His eyes remained downcast.
”You hold him in esteem,” he said. ”As do I. You would not see him hurt in such a way, and I know that I have hurt him. If I were as selfless as I ought to be, I should have taken the wyvern’s tail and accepted his words with grace. But I am not. And perhaps…knowing the end would soon come…Perhaps I wished that there was one who knew what had become of me and cared for me still. Perhaps I wished to leave him with a reminder that I had once lived.”
It was an honest answer, more honest than Dion had ever intended. It was shameful in that honesty. Dion had broken an old man’s heart for the sake of his own sentimentality and self-loathing. It was shameful. It was unbecoming.
He hoped that Ifrit would not judge him too terribly for it.
”I am sorry, but I do not think I can speak further of Master Harpocrates. I would not wish to burden you when you already carry so much on your shoulders.”
