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year 5, quarter 3
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[attr=class,bulk] The healer’s voice was soft and reassuring. She humored him, but that’s all it was. A kind, well-intentioned humoring. He knew the tone well enough to recognize it even in his half-conscious state. He wished that he could thank her for it. He wished that he could feel gratitude, but beneath the panic, the confusion, and the pain, there was no room for such sentimental things.
It pained him that he could not grant her the proper dues of respect. Perhaps at another time when his chest did not ache as much with his wounds as with his desperation. He would owe her a great debt indeed for the comfort she had offered him, a stranger with nothing to his name. He owed her his life, and perhaps in time, he would find the chance to offer it to her.
For now, however, the healer was stern and assertive in her instructions. He must cease any thoughts of return until he had healed. It was a reasonable request, and one that he feared he could not follow.
Still, Dion took the effort to nod slightly in recognition. She granted him advice – to trust in those he had left behind. His heart ached with greater force. Terence. It was the only name that came to him. The only face which swam ever familiar in his mind. Perhaps he could rest easier if he knew even if he still lived, but he did not. Neither did he know of Ifrit’s cohort nor the forces of the Holy Order of Dragoons. Dion had fallen in battle, one of three dominants remaining who still had the power to stand against Ultima, and yet, it had been for naught. That dark god’s strength made child’s play of even an Eikon’s power. With Dion’s fall, only Ifrit and the Phoenix remained.
Did Valisthea still stand? Did humanity still grace its surface? And why was it that Dion still drew breath, that he was ever conscious of the rapid pounding of his heart?
Had the Goddess taken pity upon him? Was this his reward for his service unfaltering? It felt far more like the cruelest of punishments.
Dion let his head fall back with an exhausted sigh. The healer insisted that he rest. And, as much as he was loathe to admit it, he could do nothing in this state but worry.
”Thank you,” he muttered. It was lackluster and far less than she deserved, but he found he could muster nothing else. Instead, he closed his eyes once more, this time unconcerned for his conscious state. She would work easier, he thought, without his resistance. Even so, he could not help the thoughts that weaved their way through his subconscious, teased out like a weaver worrying at their threads.
When he dreamed, it was of darkness all-encompassing and of a great, unfathomable fall.
[attr=class,bulk] The man did not dodge. He did not move, but rather shifted almost imperceptibly so that when Dion’s lance struck, it merely grazed him, dragging across fabric and skin leaving a trail of blood akin to a papercut.
Dion immediately brought his halberd before him again defensively, the man’s taunt ringing in his ears. ’Not so easily?’ His opponent was a hulking monster of a man, more akin to a charging beast, and yet he seemed more perceptive, more evasive, than could reasonably be expected. The expected counter-blow never came. Instead, the man simply…
Disappeared.
And Dion was left blinking, mouth slightly open in surprise. He did not have time to linger, however, as a voice sounded from behind him. ”Dodge.”
Instinct guided him – half at the warning and half at the voice itself, so close it sent a shiver of danger down his spine. He moved instantly, ducking and rolling away as he heard the sound of displaced air where his neck had been only a moment before, coming to his feet in motion with the somersault, spinning to face his opponent and pacing back to make distance between them.
The man had teleported. His mind reeled as he processed what had happened in the blink of an eye. He had teleported which was a skill known only to…
The dominant of Odin. Warden of Darkness. Had the man not already demonstrated his mastery of dark magic? His opponent then wielded the strength of Titan, the magic of Odin, and the bloodlust of a wild beast. And Dion himself was without his usual advantages. Bahamut’s light had forsaken him for his sins, and now he had only his own strength to guide him – his own ability against this impossible monster of a man.
”You are toying with me,” he stated – not a question, but a fact. Why else would he give warning to his attack? He thought Dion beneath him, his skills no match for his own. Perhaps he was right.
Still, his mind was racing, his training guiding him even where his doubts would give him reason to pause. Dion could not rely on lightness of foot. No speed or dexterity could outmatch magical teleportation. He could not overpower the man. Nor could he outmaneuver him. If he could not rely on strength or speed then he had but one option remaining – agility.
Instantly, Dion took to the air. He launched himself over his opponent, twisting in the air as though to thrust himself back to earth, but instead he simply landed in the branches of the opposite tree.
For all his advantages, the man was still – as far as Dion was aware – confined to the ground. Dion had been allowed to choose their battlefield and so he had chosen one to his advantage. The treetops would provide the perfect cover for a dragoon hoping to capitalize on his airborne maneuvers. While Dion’s skills were no match for his opponent’s in hand to hand combat, he still had this. He would use this one advantage to its fullest.
The moment that he struck, he would be left defenseless until he managed to wrench his spear from the earth and make distance between them again, and so he would make his movements unpredictable. He’d hardly heard the tree branch groan beneath his weight before he launched himself again, once more acting as though he were to strike and once more simply landing in the cover of the treetops. He performed this feint several more times in rapid succession, each time acting as though he were strike before, finally, he did.
Unfortunately, it was near impossible to skewer a man from above nonlethally, and he was bound by his word to honor their agreement. Instead, Dion aimed for a position directly behind his opponent, hoping that the shockwave of his strike would deliver the damage that his spear was honorbound to avoid.
This shockwave had been known to send even armored enemies flying, sometimes to their deaths. But he had no doubt that this opponent would survive. He hoped that the force would stagger him if not leave him entirely exposed. He hoped as he wrenched his spear free in his own moment of vulnerability and tried to bring it up before him, either defensively or offensively depending on the outcome.
[attr=class,bulk] Dion was left reeling. With fury. With turmoil. With concern. He had not spoken of that fateful night at Twinside since its happening, and pain flooded him as it had that night as though spoken back into existence. The smell of blood. Father’s blood. The sight of his body, clutching at the spear which had only a moment before left Dion’s hand. His guttural last word, hand outstretched. Dion’s name.
It was too much. Far too much, and Dion thrust the memory away, sealing it tight. He could not risk it overwhelming him once more. He could not risk losing control. Bahamut, he knew, would spare no soul unfortunate enough to stray in the path of his fury.
Clive spoke at length of the situation at the Northreach garrison. Dion listened with the composure of a sovereign, a commander, a prince. However, when he replied, he found that his voice had gone hollow. ”This ‘Duke’ could be the patriarch of any one of the surviving noble families,” he answered. ”If he’d had any true connection to the seat of Holy Emperor, he would have stated as much. The nobles are always vying for power.”
It was important to keep a level head. This was invaluable information, limited as it was to a single surviving garrison south of Oriflamme. Dion was grateful for it. Or at least, he tried to be.
”You mean the Mistress of the Veil?” he asked tonelessly. ”I know her well though we have never met. Much of my cohort were patrons of her establishment. Only those of us honorable or faithful enough to partners left behind would pass on the excursion.” Another pang of loss struck his heart. The thought of his cohort…Of the knights and dragoons who had traveled at his side…
He had lost many to battle. Others, he had abandoned on his quest to aid in the fight against Ultima. He hoped he would be given the chance to rectify his mistakes. He hoped that there were many who still lived.
The topic returned to Anabella, treacherous and heartless as the demon she had spawned. Clive’s reaction came as little surprise. Dion too was well aware of her intentions. To merge the lines of Bahamut and the Phoenix…
He wondered if his father had shared the same ambition or if, perhaps, the lure of a legitimate heir born within the safe confines of wedlock had been enough to secure their union.
Dion’s full attention was not recaptured until Clive confirmed the events after Dion’s last moments of consciousness. ”She…took her own life?” He frowned, more confused than taken aback. He supposed that the events of that night – of witnessing her husband’s death and Bahamut’s subsequent wrath before Dion had, in the end, managed to steal from her the one child she had ever truly loved…
It was enough to leave a woman in shock. Dion had seen the effects of such a state many times on the battlefield, but he had never known it to progress to suicide.
He had always thought Anabella a woman of pure selfishness, a woman concerned for her life and goals above all else. It was strange to think that in the end she had, ultimately, died at her own hand. Perhaps it was to take the power away from her other would-be murderers? Dion could not say, and his brow furrowed at the effort to make sense of it all.
His eyes flicked back to Clive’s as he spoke of their choice within the condemned castle walls. He was…surprised to say the least. And more than a little touched. ”My life…came first?” Clive had already admitted that they had saved him at Joshua’s insistence, but regardless…
That they would prioritize his life – the prince of an enemy nation, the feral dragon which they had only barely defeated at great personal risk, a practical stranger – over the corpse of their own mother…
”You…have my gratitude,” he muttered, glancing away once more. ”And I am glad to have repaid my debts though it seems they were far greater than I knew.”
A silence fell over him as he processed all that he had heard. It was no easy task, and it was one that would likely occupy him for days to come. Dion sipped from the glass in his hands as he thought and as he secured his composure, grasping for the next step which etiquette would allow in their conversation.
After a moment, he found it.
”It seems I have spent our reunion bombarding you with questions,” he said slowly. ”If there is anything you would wish to know on my end, I would be more than happy to assist.”
[attr=class,bulk] ”What?” Dion sat up, eyes wide with shock. He stared at Clive for a moment longer than he should have, struggling to comprehend what he’d been told. Clive reaffirmed that he had indeed been branded by no other than…
”Your own mother would…?”
Anabella. The vicereine. The empress of Sanbreque. His own step-mother. He’d known her to be heartless. He’d felt her presence like a venom sinking deep within the cold marble halls of Whitewyrm Castle since the day she had arrived, and yet even he, as acquainted with the woman’s treachery as he was, could have never imagined…
”She Branded her own son? She raised you! What evil could have-?” But Dion did not have words to describe the sense of rage he felt at Clive’s behalf. He felt Bahamut stir within him, prideful and indignant, and he wished that Anabella was stood before him so that he might finally enact his murderous intentions upon her. From the moment that Joshua had enlightened him on the nature of Ultima, he had been certain that she had been the demon’s vessel, insistent that her puppet sit the throne on her behalf.
His half-brother may have been the one truly possessed, but her evil surpassed his by far.
Dion’s knuckles were tense, collapsed into the fabric of his pants, and he attempted to loosen them but found that he could not. If he had been in full possession of his power, he might have feared his vision would turn yellow. That diabolical woman had betrayed her country, killed her husband, Branded her firstborn son, and all of it before her crimes in Sanbreque.
Clive went on, and while Dion had no opinions on his technical desertion, another detail struck him like ice. ”You were sent to kill…Dominants?” he asked, his mouth curdling in disgust. ”On whose orders? Your commander’s? Or…could Father truly have…?” Again, he could not finish. The very thought of it brought bile to his throat.
There was so much that he, the supposed crown prince, had never been told. Was it because they had never intended him to take the throne? Or was it that they would have known his objections? Dion was useful as a dragoon, as a commander, as a figurehead, as Bahamut, but he could not say that he had ever been useful as himself.
”That is abhorrent,” he muttered, more to himself than Clive. It seemed the eldest Rosfield knew far more of Sanbreque’s true nature than Dion did himself.
He listened as Clive shared his sentiments about a brighter future for Valisthea, collaborating together. He did not mention his own secret discomfort near the Bearers of Clive’s Hideaway nor did he comment on the world of which Clive and Cid had dreamed. Here merely listened, already lost in musings far too dark for thoughts of a peaceful future. He stirred only when Clive mentioned the current events of the Imperial territories, though his reports did little to ease his mind.
”I know neither of those names,” Dion said with a shake of his head. ”Sanbreque has been a centralized nation since the days of its first emperor. I cannot say that its people could not survive in a fractured state, but…” He sighed. ”I would feel better if those who wished it could be united under the eyes of Greagor. That is all.”
For what else had he been born and raised? He had been born with power unimaginable. He had been raised to rule and to protect his people. Anything else was…
Failure.
”That night,” Dion went on slowly, ”I led my forces to treason with one purpose in mind. I would purge the poison from Sanbreque’s veins. With the power I wielded, I would force my father to see reason, and…I would kill my brother and step-mother both…”
Only moments earlier, he would have felt too ashamed to admit his murderous intentions towards Anabella to her firstborn son. Now, he felt none.
”That wench cared only for the purity of blood and for herself most of all. She would have seen all of Valisthea burn for nothing but her own pride.” Dion hesitated, not daring look up from his own clenched fist. ”Do you know…what became of her? I only wish I’d had the strength to avenge you of your pain.”
[attr=class,bulk] Dion did not know what to make of Clive’s confessions. It was not that they were somehow out of line for him, but rather, that he could not place the relationship between them. Clive spoke openly in a way that seemed unbefitting of their few, stilted interactions together. Perhaps Dion had been mistaken in his assessment of the other Dominant’s welcome. Though Mid he was undoubtedly fond of Mid, one could not confide in a child – let alone a more or less adopted daughter. Though Dion and Clive were not overly familiar with each other, Dion was, as far as he could tell, the only other from Valisthea to be found.
And so he listened.
He listened respectfully, pushing his own pain and frustration aside for the sake of one lost to his own. Dion did not miss the implication that Clive would have much rather Joshua have miraculously revived than him, but that was to be expected, and Dion took no offense. He was far more surprised as Clive went on after wiping the tears from his eyes.
He’d killed as…one of the Empire’s Branded soldiers?
Dion’s mouth opened to interject. He felt his brow furrow in confusion and concern. Had he heard correctly? But…how? Why? Had the Imperial armies mistaken the blessings of the Phoenix for a Bearer’s magic? How had the eldest Rosfield, a noble by birth, been unable to confirm his true identity? How would such a thing have been possible while Anabella, his mother, sat the throne of Sanbreque?
Even so, Dion kept his thoughts to himself. He did not dare interrupt when Clive needed more than anything to speak his pain. Still, Dion found himself sitting forward, frowning with the questions he could not yet speak. The thought of Clive forced into such conditions sickened him. The thought of the Empire’s culpability in it all sickened him further.
Perhaps it was this potent mixture of emotions that spurred him to finally interrupt when Clive mentioned his father and step-mother.
”I had no love for that woman,” he scowled almost before he had realized it. Then he sat straight, trying his best to collect himself after such an egregious breach of etiquette. Clive spoke of his mistaken judgments of his character. He said that he was happy to see him alive. That was enough in itself.
”Thank you,” Dion responded, for it was truly touching that Clive thought of him in such a way. ”I regret that I did not take the time to know you better when I had the chance.”
He paused, uncertain what else to say. What would be prudent for him to say? As the seconds passed, Dion became aware of the tropical birds chittering outside the window. Mid’s muffled voice breached the silence, no doubt shouting her orders like a captain at the helm of a ship. He looked down at his folded hands, frowning for a moment, before a thought came to him and he looked up at Clive once more.
”You know,” he said, ”I’ve only just realized that we are technically step-brothers.” A strange smile tugged at his lips – half genuine and half ironic. He certainly had never considered Anabella a mother of any kind, but by law at least, he and Clive were linked.
”I always longed for a brother to share in the solitude of Whitewyrm Castle. Once I had one, I was at war and the child was demon possessed.” Dion gave a short breath of humorless laughter as he shook his head. ”Perhaps it was fate that the three of us should join against Ultima. All of us brothers in one way or another.”
It was then that the woman at the desk, Tomoe he believed, returned. She looked annoyed and slightly harried, particularly as she glanced at the frost wolf snoring on the couch which had, admittedly, begun to sag under the beast’s immense weight. Still, she had the drinks as requested, handing Dion a glass of water while she placed a cup of something stronger on the table. Dion thanked her kindly, and she returned to her desk and whatever work awaited her there.
Dion looked down thoughtfully at the water in his hands. If only his mind could be quite so clear and still. Instead, it was awry with grief and confusion and questions he could not answer. He took a moment to sort through his thoughts and form a response.
”I would like to apologize,” he said without raising his head. ”For all that you have suffered at the Empire’s hands. For all that your friends and colleagues have suffered. I was only a child during Rosaria’s annexation, and I have had little say in Sanbreque’s governance since, but as its prince, I would like to apologize on my nation’s behalf.”
His grip tightened on the glass, and he raised it to his lips, drinking slowly. He had not realized until that moment how much he had needed it. The water’s cool touch was a welcome relief, and he relished it.
When he lowered it, his resolve was stronger than ever.
”If we should find ourselves on Valisthinean soil once more, I hope to face my sins in order to protect and unite my people. I would hope to join hands with you and your cohorts so that you might assure that this new Sanbreque does not stray from its righteous path and repeat the cruelties of my father’s rule.”
[attr=class,bulk] The healer was, as ever, kind. She spoke with patience and sympathy, answering each of his questions with an almost motherly compassion. She was truly gifted in her craft. If he allowed his mind to still and simply listened to the cadence and warmth of her voice, he might find himself lulled into a peace he had never known. Between the pain and the confusion, it was a strong temptation, but he found that he could not. A lifetime of expectation and purpose would not allow it.
”I must return,” Dion half-breathed, his voice cracking with the effort. ”While I still draw breath…” But he could not finish the sentence, not while his head spun with its proximity to death.
His body urged him to drift into the quiet peace of oblivion. He would wake again, healed to the best of this woman’s abilities, or he would not. Even the act of speech had exhausted him. But his sense of duty kept him from that temptation.
”Even if Ultima has been slain…Even if my comrades defeated him, the realm was in chaos. I must take responsibility for its people. For my people!” His stomach turned at the thought of the empire’s territories, fractured and abandoned with neither armies nor leadership to defend them. Even he had chosen to lead his men to Dhalmekia where they might defend Storm’s last remaining city rather than rallying the people of Sanbreque. He had not been able to face them as their failed prince, as their corrupted Bahamut, as the slayer of his bloodline.
”There must be a way. Whether this be the work of gods or men, there must be…!” Dion trailed off, fighting to catch his breath. ”Until that time, I cannot rest.”
[attr=class,bulk] It was clear in an instant that this was the outcome the man had sought. He wished not for the physicality of combat, but for the clash of rivals hellbent on blood. His words had been mere bait – bait which Dion had taken easily by choice. Even knowing this, Dion would not have taken a different path. This man, this monster, would not know peace until he had sated himself on violence. Dion, he thought, was a more capable opponent than most others.
His resolve only strengthened at the man’s next words.
”You would boast of patricide?” Dion replied, his lips edging towards a snarl. There was no fouler a crime, no greater stain on one’s honor than this. Dion had committed it himself in his rage. No matter his intentions, no matter the darker schemes at play, his crime still haunted him with the blood he had spilled.
And this man would boast of it?
If the warrior truly sought his rage then he would have it. Dion’s eyes burned with his fury. For a moment, it seemed the world had tinted blue, the ghost of Bahamut’s light rising within him, proud and terrible. But that light had been taken, a fitting punishment for his crimes, and he knew that it could only be his own rage which drove him.
The stranger moved first, charging towards him like a wild aevis. Combat, Dion had learned, was nothing like the songs and legends told. It was a matter of strict brutality, half ruled by instinct and the other by intellect. Though he was unused to his rival’s strange choice of weaponry, its path became clear a moment before he struck, and Dion’s halbard was at the ready to clash against it. The man’s raw strength grated against his steel, and the sheer effort of Dion’s counter almost blinded him to his opponent’s true intentions. But dragoons were famously light of foot, and he managed to disengage, hopping to the side in time to avoid the brunt of the man’s kick.
Though aimed at his abdomen, clearly intended to stun him, the man’s boot instead collided with the side of Dion’s ribs. His newly healed ribs. Dion grit his teeth against the pain, but allowed the force of the blow to spin him rather than send him sprawling, his own footwork fast and graceful as a dancer’s as he circled to his opponent’s side, twirling his halberd towards its pointed end – the dragoon’s lance which he jutted towards the man’s leg, hoping to incapacitate him or at least slow him down.
His opponent had the advantage in size, strength, and sheer brutality. Dion visualized himself facing the infamous dominant of Titan. In this fight, speed and dexterity were of utmost importance.
[attr=class,bulk] It was clear to Dion in an instant that he had caused offense. He couldn’t understand why. He had been certain to argue his case in detail exactly how he’d been taught, but however Clive Rosfield may have felt of him, it seemed he was, at least, willing to give him a chance.
”I understand,” Clive said with a long and tired sigh before his gaze caught on Dion’s own, a kind of warning in them.
Clive chastised him for his lack of respect towards the young engineer who was, at the moment, still busy outside with her machinery. Dion felt his confidence falter at Clive’s words before he finally gave a sigh of his own and bowed his head respectfully.
”Forgive me,” he said, a hint of his own exhaustion breaking through the cracks of his composure. ”I meant Miss Midadol no disrespect. She found me in her travels and kindly brought me to your doorstep. I owe her a debt indeed, but it has been a long journey, and while I admire her passion, I find myself run slightly ragged.”
At the mention of Cidolfus Telamon, he couldn’t help a wince. Perhaps he would owe Ramuh’s daughter an apology before long. Dion, blinded by his duties, had never allowed the dominant of thunder the benefit of doubt.
”I will keep that in mind,” he replied. He would have been a fool to anger the girl, as he well knew. He had already learned the extent of her temper and spirit.
Whatever his grievances, Clive soon moved on, offering Dion a seat which he took, accepting the fellow dominant’s courtesy as Clive asked the woman at the desk to bring him a drink. It seemed that whatever Clive Rosfield’s rougher mannerisms, he had not forgotten the roots of his noble upbringing. Dion appreciated the gesture of welcome for what it was, feeling slightly more at ease under these more familiar circumstances.
Clive joined him shortly, sitting across from Dion in a roughly carved stool after depositing the wolf onto the couch angled between them. The wolf, for its part, gave a snort and rested its head upon its massive paws. The sight made Dion yearn for the days in which he himself had fought alongside a tamed wyvern of his own. He could, if nothing else, understand Clive’s affections for the beast.
Dion met Clive’s eye as he began his tale. He started with Ultima’s plotting, and the revelations he shared shook Dion to the core. He had already been made aware that the Mothercrystals, symbols of hope and power as they were, had parasitized Valisthea’s aether, but to hear that it had all been a part of Ultima’s schemes…
Dion felt his fist tighten in his lap. He did not dare interrupt. He knew what would come next before Clive spoke of it as the eldest Rosfield’s eyes clouded with pain and darted away.
Dion closed his own eyes as he listened. A pain of his own rose within him, finding its way to his throat where it held fast. Joshua…The Phoenix had made clear that he knew his life would soon come to an end. Dion had thought it madness to seal that dark force inside of himself, but he had also understood it to be an act of both desperation and love. It did not surprise him that Joshua had given Clive his power and his life willingly.
”The Phoenix…was nothing if not self-sacrificing.” Dion opened his eyes, training them on his knees. He had lost many comrades in his time to the throes of battle. He could not say he had grown accustomed to it, but merely that he had learned to contain his grief. This felt different. Despite his primal power, Joshua was no soldier. He had been kind and trusting – naive perhaps, but always acting with the strength of his heart.
Dion had admired him deeply.
”He came to me for aid,” he went on slowly. ”Though I was the prince of a nation he should have considered his enemy, he came with trust and hope in his heart. The both of you had every right to forfeit my life once you had quelled Bahamut’s wrath, and yet you spared it instead. That kindness…has not been forgotten.”
His pain found its way through the stranglehold it held on his throat as he went on, ”You have my condolences. Your brother…deserved far better than this.”
He was silent for a moment, simply focusing upon his breathing. He would allow himself to feel the full force of his grief in private, once they had parted. He knew that the pain he felt must only be a fraction of Clive’s own agony.
”Forgive me,” he said, his gaze still downcast. ”It was selfish to demand such a retelling. I only wished…to know.”
A hint of guilt crept within him, past the grief and his own urgency and confusion. ”It is good to see you well. Truly.” He swallowed hard enough to free his throat from its painful prison. ”I have not forgotten what you have done for me nor for the people of Valisthea.”
[attr=class,bulk] The stranger did not, as it happened, agree to his terms.
Dion saw the swing of his scythe and readied himself for battle, shifting his stance and raising his spear defensively. However, as the scythe slashed before him, it brought with it a shockwave of magic. Almost on instinct, Dion launched himself skyward, watching that magic as he shifted and twisted himself through the air. It was like a shadow made manifest, sparking and crackling with aether. As Dion landed nimbly in the branches of a nearby tree, he realized that he had been mistaken. The magical shockwave had not been meant as an attack, but merely an emphasis on the man’s uncontrollable rage.
This stranger, this warrior, this feral beast howled his offense into the wind. Dion’s eyes hardened as he watched the display. It was unbecoming of the man’s noble garments and his own humanity. What had brought him to such a state? Grief? Loss? Or was there something slightly askew in his mind, a monster from birth?
Dion’s stance shifted as he stepped from the branch, landing easily back upon the forest floor, and straightened to face the unnamed stranger, back straight, head held high. ”Those bandits would be fools,” he replied, his tone every bit as cold as his opponent’s. ”Forgive me. I have grown accustomed to military life where one would rather take one’s own life than spill the blood of a man one does not consider an enemy.”
He readied himself, knees slightly bent, lance at the ready, halberd side first to deflect a strike from close range. He tilted his head, smirking slightly with his own confidence born from countless battles and the strength of an empire beneath him.
”Come then. Let us see how high the wings of sheer bloodlust may take you.”
[attr=class,bulk] Dion saw a struggle in the stranger’s eyes. There was confusion, disappointment, and finally satisfaction.
He accepted Dion’s terms.
Somehow, from the way that he said it, Dion doubted very much that this stranger’s bloodlust would be curbed by a mere spar, but that was why Dion had accepted. It was much better, he thought, that he be the one to take the brunt of this man’s madness than someone else far more valuable and more loved than himself.
The thought brought an ache to his chest, but he found it rang true. Here, lost in this strange realm without his crew or his countrymen, he was no one to be missed.
The stranger straightened, his eyes burning with hunger as they angled downwards to meet Dion’s own. He left the details of their duel to the prince’s judgment.
”There is an outskirt of the woodlands outside the city's east gate where its citizenry dare not tread. I shall meet you within the hour. I shan’t need longer than that.”
With that sorted, the man simply turned and left, wandering eastward with a purpose to his step. Dion shook himself once they had parted, letting the anxiety of the man’s presence settle over him now that the stranger could not see his weakness.
The stranger’s size and eagerness were enough to set any man on edge, but Dion had sensed a darkness within him which he had scarcely faced before. Soldiers did their duty for the sake of honor, their homeland, or merely for their oath. It was rare that one should seek bloodshed in earnest, and in battle that hunger drove them quickly to the grave. But that a man should crave it so outside the bonds of war…
Dion wondered if King Barnabas Tharmr had resembled this man as he had laid waste to the tribes of Ash. Those tales set into the books of recent history were Dion’s only points of comparison.
Dion allowed himself the indulgence of his nerves for only a moment before he started inside, heading up to the room which he now permanently occupied. The thought struck him that he could, perhaps, alert Healer Yuna or Healer Monori of his predicament should they wish to be on site to aid him, but he quickly dismissed the notion. They had real work, the work of saving lives, to which he would not dare interfere. Instead, he set quietly towards his room and pulled from beneath the bed a neatly folded set of chainmail armor.
It slid smoothly over his shoulders as it had a hundred times before. He fastened the familiar buckles, embossed with draconic emblems, and attached his gauntlets with only minor difficulty. As he set his pauldrons into place, however, he felt another pang of loss overcome him. How many times had Terence buckled these pauldrons upon his shoulders in his stead? How many times had those nimble fingers readied him for battle first as his squire and then as his knight? Now Dion was left to attend to the buckles himself, clumsily and with great difficulty for the task was not meant for one man alone.
When, finally, he was satisfied, he took his spear from where it had been carefully propped against the opposite wall and started as quietly as he could manage back down to the clinic entrance. It wasn’t that he wished to keep his actions a secret, per say, but that he knew the healers would not agree with it. Though he had more than his share of apprehensions in his promised encounter, another part of him longed to once again wield his lance and take to the sky.
The stranger may have been quite mad, but he had been correct in one thing. While Dion could find no pleasure in spilling blood, he could find quite a bit of it in the physicality of combat.
Armed as he was, he found himself the target of far more eyes as he made his way to the city’s eastern gate. A short walk later, and he found himself at the aforementioned woodland clearing where the stranger predictably stood waiting for him.
Dion spun his lance through his fingertips, testing its weight on his newly recovered body. His muscles felt stiffer than usual – his reflexes slightly slowed. How long had it been since he had last taken such time away from his spear? Since before his lessons with Sir Killian in Castle Whitewyrm, at least. When he was satisfied with his own performance, he stuck his spear decisively into the ground.
”We shall limit ourselves to light wounds only. Anything which cannot be easily healed can be considered out of bounds,” he began. ”We shall fight to the yield. Do you accept these terms?”
