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year 5, quarter 3
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[attr=class,bulk] The man was silent for a long time, those crazed blue eyes set on Dion’s own. In that time, Dion did not falter. He met that silent gaze with a cool composure of his own though as the seconds ticked on, his hand twitched for his spear. This man was dangerous. Perhaps confused. And now that he stood directly before him, Dion was made all the more aware of the sheer size of the unhinged stranger as he craned his neck to meet his eye.
The man’s weapon was…unconventional. A farmer’s scythe, elaborate and pulsing with dark power. Dion was certain that if the man chose to attack, he could dodge away in time to launch himself out of reach. But what was this stranger’s motive, truly?
He did not have to wait much longer to learn the answer.
Dion listened patiently as the stranger went on his mad half-ramble, sometimes speaking his thoughts aloud, sometimes going on as casually about bloodshed as one might the trivial gossip of nobility. The man did not need a fight so much as bedrest and time to organize his thoughts. Still, Dion was prompted to answer. His own principles would not allow otherwise.
”I have spilled much blood in my time,” he said. ”But never once have I found pleasure in it. There is honor in fighting for one’s homeland and one’s people. There is satisfaction in one’s martial prowess, but never in violence for its own sake.”
Every life he took, be it Waloedean or Dhalmekian, had been a life which could not be replaced. Each life was as valuable as his own with dreams and futures and those who loved them. To justify taking such a life, he believed, required extraordinary circumstance. War was not so meaningless as this man claimed.
Still, if Dion refused the man’s proposal, it was clear that he would continue on seeking the violence he so craved. His next target may not prove as capable or discerning as the Warden of Light.
”Do you propose a spar?” he asked. ”I would not accept a duel of any higher stakes. My life and yours are worth more than that.”
[attr=class,bulk] Dion had much to answer for on his return to Provo. He hadn’t left without the blessing of the healers, exactly, but there had been stern instructions not to overexert himself, and he had been stocked with enough potions to take one for every day of his journey to aid in his further healing. He returned exhausted, his body aching, and had once again been assigned to bedrest.
He mostly needed sleep, as it happened, aided by the occasional magicks of Healer Yuna and Healer Monori when they were not busy in the practice of saving lives. After a week’s rest, he was back on his feet, able to dress himself, and had been given leave to explore the city and enjoy the fresh air.
Unfortunately, while Provo was no doubt a city of its own wonders, its exploration was not high on Dion’s list of priorities. While he would occasionally marvel at the canals and the boats that so often drifted by, there was little of interest to him in the marketplaces, lumberyards, and grain mills that composed most of the nation. Thus, he preferred to spend his days outside the clinic, leaning against the building with his arms crossed, chin tilted towards the sky.
It was good to feel the sun on his face. Before his miraculous and perhaps cursed entry to this realm, he had not seen it since before Bahamut’s rampage at Twinside. The summer heat was less pleasant. He caught eyes as he stood there, fully dressed in high boots, long pants, a buttoned up shirt, and gloves which reached halfway up his forearms. He simmered in the heat, but it could not dampen his spirits in the face of that sunlight and the gentle breeze which rustled in his hair. He longed to jump into the sun, to find the highest precipice which he could reach, and feel that wind stronger and wilder than ever before.
Alas, that seemed somehow inappropriate for the occasion. And so he merely stood, enjoying his small pleasures until the summer heat overcame him, and he would inevitably return inside.
That was the plan, at least, until a certain man caught his eye.
The man stood out far, far more than Dion himself. He was armed, for one, which while not uncommon on the streets of Provo did tend to draw eyes. He was also armored though not overly so. What first caught Dion’s attention specifically was the man’s regal garments, clearly hailing from some form of nobility. The second feature which caught Dion’s eye was the sheer size of the man, towering over Dion’s own considerable height by nearly a foot.
Dion’s instincts prickled at the sight of him and he watched the man closely until, unfortunately, the man’s eyes met Dion’s own. The man approached. Dion straightened, certain to keep himself on guard from such a…conspicuous stranger.
”Pardon me,” the man began, and though it was certainly a well-mannered greeting, Dion knew the imperial courts well enough to never trust such things on their appearance alone. There was a fire in the man’s eyes, something which Dion had seen on occasion, but only on occasion. It was a dangerous look, crazed perhaps, and made even more dangerous by the mask of civility barely laid over it.
”You look like a warrior,” the man continued, and Dion stiffened. Dion was unarmed and unarmored. It was true that Dion himself could recognize those who had seen combat well enough, but to do so on sight was…
Disconcerting to say the least.
The stranger went on to explain that Dion had been recognized by his eyes alone – that he had seen many battles and won just as many. His assessment rang true, and that made it all the more untrustworthy. Had someone hired this man to face him? Or was he truly so well versed in such assessments? Finally, the stranger arrived at his point.
”Would you accept to fight me?”
After everything that he had said, the challenge came as little surprise. What did surprise him was the utter civility of the request. For it was a request, at least on the surface. But what kind of madman would approach a man on the street and request a fight?
Dion returned the man’s heated gaze with one of cool composure. ”For what purpose?” Dion answered. ”I have no quarrel with you.”
[attr=class,bulk] Crown Prince Dion Lesage had been taught from a young age to never lose his composure. He had been taught to think before he spoke, to practice conversations before they began, and if needed, to test any given speech with an advisor on etiquette for flaws. It was for this reason that Dion was rarely left speechless or taken aback, and yet, as he heard the clomping footsteps of Clive Rosfield’s approach and turned expectantly to face him, this was one of those few times where he lost his practiced composure and was left at an utter loss.
Clive, a bear of a man in himself, had approached him with his monster of a wolf merely thrown over his shoulder. Dion could hardly see the man’s face over the wolf’s sheer mass, its gray fur obscuring everything but the man’s unkempt hair and cool eyes. It seemed impossible that any man should be able to so easily bear the weight of such an animal, but then, he supposed that Clive Rosfield had spent his life training with a greatsword and had the musculature that came of it. Dion and his dragoons had trained in acrobatics and precision. He had never before been so aware of the differences between them.
Clive spoke first. He greeted Dion with the proper title and with courtesy, but there was something else behind it as well. Though the eldest Rosfield might have been utterly unpredictable and had certainly forgone usual etiquette in their meeting, Dion knew well enough to read between the lines in such formal conversation. Before he could decipher it, he added a short, ”And you,” in answer.
There was a short silence between them as Dion tried to collect himself. He knew what to say. What he had to say, but to actually say it…
’I believe we have much to discuss.’ That was all he needed and then they could begin, but once again, Clive outpaced him.
Dion’s mouth opened in surprise. Clive was so blunt, so bold, that it left Dion momentarily speechless. When he finally regained his composure (it took him nearly twenty seconds – his tutors would have scolded him for it), he simply said, ”That is good to hear.”
He hadn’t disbelieved Mid’s account, exactly, but he had hoped to gain more details from Clive. He had hoped that somewhere in their mutual alliance, they might have formed the comradery at least to share that much with each other. Though Dion was loathe to admit it, a part of him felt somehow betrayed by Clive’s short words and blunt admissions. While he had struggled to identify the hidden message in his greeting, he knew it now.
’I’m glad that you’re not dead. But please leave as soon as possible.’
What other reason could he have for cutting so straight to the point? While Dion was left grasping for any sense of familiarity, lost in this strange world, Clive already had Mid, a kind of adopted daughter, to ground him. What use could he possibly have for the Imperial Prince?
Dion’s grasp tightened on his spear. He had faced many who had wished he simply take his leave. He had faced many who had dismissed him in the Imperial courts. He had resolved himself to face Clive Rosfield and find the answers he so sought. His resolve would not falter.
Dion raised his head, looked Clive in the eyes, and said, ”I believe we have much to discuss.” He said it with more force than he had originally intended, but this had become a battle of wills. Clive did not desire his presence. He did not desire his conversation. Dion, however, desired both deeply for a time, and he would not take no for an answer.
”I fought alongside you to breach the walls of Origin,” he went on. ”I sought to avenge those felled by Ultima at all cost. You must understand. I sacrificed my own life so that your brother could heal your mounting wounds. I know nothing else of what followed except for the base hearsay of an excitable young woman.” He paused. That may have been unfair to Mid. Any secondhand retelling would not have satisfied him. Still, his point stood.
”I must know how it happened. How Ultima fell, how Origin was destroyed, and what became of Valisthea. I must know…of your brother’s fate.” His eyes fell at the mention of Joshua. Mid had told him, almost off hand, that the Phoenix had fallen and even the thought of him pierced his heart like a dragoon’s lance. But that made the story, the knowledge, the confirmation all the more dire.
”I sacrificed myself to spare him,” he said, and he could hear his own pain seeping through the cracks of his composure. ”How is it that I now draw breath while he…?”
Dion took a long breath, closing those cracks as well as he could before he raised his eyes once more. ”Please. I know it must be difficult, but I would hope that I have earned this much in your eyes.”
[attr=class,bulk] Dion’s heart quickened as they entered the city’s walls.
He did not know this place, this city of Torensten within a Dukedom of the same name. He did not know it, and yet despite the pain and weakness within his still broken body, despite his darkened thoughts and his dreaded anticipation of an impending conversation with Clive Rosfield, he could not help himself but to lean over the side of the rattling chocobo-drawn cart and gaze upon the city in wonder.
It was a habit of his, an unending curiosity that stemmed from a childhood locked within the gilded walls of Whitewyrm Castle. It was a likewise childlike awe that he perhaps ought to have grown past when his service among the dragoons had brought him across all the lands of Storm, but this was not Storm. It was not even Valisthea as Healer Yuna had told him, and for the first time, that thought brought him no pain. These were new lands to explore – new people to meet without the ever-present burden of his duty upon his shoulders. Its loss left him feeling giddy and light.
He had felt some shadow of this wonder as their cart had started off into the farms and woodlands outside the likewise foreign city of Provo. It was dampened, however, by his cramped quarters, shoved between the cart’s splintered side and the menagerie of mechanical components that Captain Mid had loaded inside along with them. The conditions of the road had been less than ideal, and every bump and hole had sent the entire cart shuddering and brought a sharp pain in Dion’s side where his ribs had all but shattered only weeks ago. He had not minded Mid’s excitable, sometimes incomprehensible speech at first, but after several days, it had grown somewhat tiresome.
Now, he hardly noticed any of it as he took in the towering spires of the city with all of its noise and the bustling of merchants and mercenaries alike. Overheard, he heard a strange whirring and looked up to see what appeared to be a ship sailing effortlessly through the sky.
What was this place, he could not help but wonder, and for what purpose had he been drawn to it? He had no answers.
The cart stopped in front of a small, multi-story building with a large wooden sign depicting a wyvern in flight crossed with a sword. Mid was out of the cart before they’d come to a stop, already ordering about the nearby men as though she were their military commander, directing each mechanical part towards their proper destinations. Dion slipped away unnoticed in the clamor, and he did not wait for Mid’s business to conclude before he approached the heavy wooden doors to the Wyvern’s Rest and placed a hand upon them.
Inside, he’d been told, he would find Clive Rosfield and the answers he sought. The thought somehow stilled him, and though he had come all this way against his healer’s better judgment, he could not help but hesitate.
Clive Rosfield had been a trusted ally, but never quite a friend. Dion was not unused to such arrangements, but it felt strange, seeking him out with such urgency. He felt like a drowning man grasping at driftwood, lost in this unfamiliar place with only scraps of normalcy scattered around him. Perhaps if this had been nothing more than a social visit, Dion’s hesitation would have lasted longer. As it was, he quickly steeled himself and pushed open the double doors.
What had happened in Origin after Dion’s unsuccessful sacrifice? What had become of Valisthea?
He stepped inside the humble place of business, his boots creaking against the wooden boards. His armor had proven too heavy on his weakened frame and so he had traveled without it, and the humid weather had made him glad of its absence. He carried his spear in one hand, keeping the other free as he gazed about the entrance hall with its breezy open windows and its empty hearth. At the far end was a desk and behind it was a young woman who looked up at him expectantly, greeting him and asking if she could help.
”Ah, yes.” Dion shook away his uncertainty and lifted his head, striding towards her with a practiced confidence. ”I am an acquaintance of Miss Midadol Telamon. I was told that a certain Clive Rosfield was stationed here?”
In truth, he had been told that the well-intentioned outlaw was imprisoned here against his will after a rather eventful night storming the city’s castle. Dion could not help a secret sort of satisfaction at the news as a deep part of him, the part that had never quite forgiven Clive for the destruction of Drake’s Head, found a kind of karmic justice in the arrangement.
The young woman affirmed Clive’s location and asked for a name. Dion gave it, and the woman excused herself, heading down the hallway presumably to inform Clive of his unexpected visitor.
Dion waited by the desk, spear in hand as he cast his eyes about the place, willing his curiosity to suppress the dreadful anticipation that awaited him. The walls were decorated with various draconic motifs. Shields and weaponry were mounted between them, not quite ornamental in their placement.
’It is good to see you well,’ Dion thought, practicing the words so that he would not freeze in place upon Clive’s arrival. ’I believe we have much to discuss.’
They did, or they would, he hoped. If Clive had truly survived. If he had prevailed against the dark power of Ultima. If Origin had fallen and Valisthea had been spared its divine judgment…
Anticipation rattled through him as he knew that it would, and he gripped his spear tighter to keep his composure. Whatever answers he received, he would accept them with grace as any leader ought to. He would move forward, and then…
He knew not what, but that would be a matter for another time. For now, he had but one task before him, and from that task, he would not falter.
[attr=class,bulk] Despite Dion’s careful wording, it was clear that the healer took offense to his implications. Even through the haze of his pain, he could see the insecurity in her eyes and the way that she pushed her hair behind her ear, perhaps subconsciously touching where she might have otherwise been branded. No matter his condition or the earnestness of his admission, he could not help an instant regret in how he must have harmed the woman who had saved his life and whose magic even now worked within him, dulling the pain that should have left him only in death.
Though once again, her words surprised him.
”A…summoner?” His brow furrowed as he tried to piece together her meaning. She stated that she had a duty to her people that overcame all other barriers, but that did not align with Dion’s admissions of confusion, and that single word struck him as of great importance. It was the kind of word that one used self-evidently as though no others were required. A summoner. But that implied a summons of some kind, and what was it that she meant to summon? It was a bizarre phrase, one that he had never in his life heard used, and all the time his confusion mounted as each and every one of his assumptions of social reality crumbled away.
His final questions, for some reason, seemed to cause her alarm. Realization struck her in an instant though what it was she had realized, he could not say. She claimed that he was “new here.” New? He felt his head spinning with the effects of pain and disorientation alike. Before he could ask her to clarify, she pulled a chair from the desk with her potions and returned, sitting with the look of a tutor ready for a lesson of utmost importance.
Dion watched her, his head tilted to the side without raising it. Now that she had ceased her spells, their numbing effects waned, and he found it difficult to concentrate through the persistent ache that spread across his body. He tried nonetheless as she spoke.
Her story was…creative if nothing else. Dion frowned, his brow furrowing further.
”This is not…Valisthea?” he asked slowly. She mentioned a land called Spira, her native continent, it seemed, which was not that which they now occupied. Dion had learned of the outer continents, of course. He knew of its people, and he knew of the many refugees from those lands which were driven to the Twins by the Blight. The names of these places had been left vague at best which had frustrated him when his duties involved socio-political interests, but he knew of them nonetheless.
He knew of King Barnabas Tharmr, Warden of Darkness and dominant of Odin, who was said to have crossed into Ash nearly a century prior. He knew just as well that Lord Cidolfus Telamon was likewise no native to the Twins. He knew all of this, and still…
Even on those outer continents, they had Bearers. They knew of the Curse and its burden. They knew of Valisthea. This woman knew nothing of the sort.
She called their current location a “world.” As opposed to the world he knew? Was she speaking metaphorically or…?
It was too much to ponder, and far too much to make sense of.
”I…” he started with no clear direction in mind. It would have made his tutors in etiquette cringe and slap the back of his hand. But what was there to say to such a claim? Nothing, perhaps. But silence had only hindered him thus far.
”I…fell in a conflict with a false god,” he said slowly. ”I sacrificed myself so that my two remaining allies might defeat him in my stead. That is the last I remember.”
To any Valisthean outside Ifrit’s Hideaway, his claim would have seemed almost nonsensical. They knew nothing of Ultima or the cause of that terrible fortress in the sky formed of the remains of Twinside.
”If this is…truly another realm as you claim. Then could this be the Goddess’ doing?” It was a question for himself, quiet and contemplative. He closed his eyes, his will leaving him once more. ”And is it mercy or a curse…?”
[attr=class,bulk] Dion blinked in surprise as the young engineer commented on the curse’s effects on his arm. Had she felt the bandaging beneath his sleeve during her embrace? Or had the fabric slipped, revealing what he sought so desperately to hide? Had she noticed the Curse’s spread during his time at the Hideaway or perhaps heard of it from the resident physicker? He felt a shame rise within him that was altogether foreign, a sort of self-consciousness that he hadn’t felt since his boyhood in Whitewyrm Castle. ”I…would not count upon such a miracle,” he answered.
He had learned already that magic was a common phenomena here in these foreign lands without personal cost or stigma. It was a matter he had not quite yet accepted, still wary around such blatant displays of magic as he was despite his better knowledge. How could he be assured, however, that the same laws of nature would apply to himself? He supposed it mattered little with the bulk of Bahamut’s light now residing within the eldest Rosfield. But how could he be certain that those forces which had already been set in motion by half a lifetime on the battlefield would be stilled by a change of location alone?
He could not. Either the Curse would spread or it would remain as it was, its own shameful scar. Only time would tell.
Mid enforced her certainty in the skills of Clive Rosfield and in Ultima’s demise before turning her sharp tongue towards him, crossing her arms authoritatively.
’And what am I? Chopped liver?’
”Ah.” Dion’s eyes widened slightly at her accusation. ”I meant no-,” but before he could finish his apology, she’d already moved on, informing him that she’d meant to bring him along with or without his insistence. Dion was left entirely uncertain of himself. Aware that in his desperation for answers, he had discounted her company. Unable to quite keep up with the whirlwind of her thoughts. Taken aback by her harsh and improper demeanor, the kind he had observed during his occasional outings near the common people of Sanbreque, but had never experienced for himself.
He could not parse whether she meant her lack of respect or if this was her way of showing familiarity. But they were not overly familiar with each other. Were they?
The weight of his uncertainty almost distracted him from processing her words. Almost.
”The Phoenix?” he muttered, his heart going cold. ”Joshua Rosfield is…dead?”
But how could that be? How had it come to pass? Dion had fallen in Joshua’s place so that he might spare the life of his brother. They had spoken in the tongue of the Eikons only moments before Dion had met his end.
Had Ultima slain him in the subsequent fight? Had his body finally succumbed to the Phoenix’s power? Dion had known that their chances of survival had been slim, but that he should still draw breath while Joshua had not met with the same good fortune…
Dion had long grown used to the death of his comrades in battle, but this struck a different chord. He took a staggered breath before quietly adding, ”I think I will have much to discuss with Ifrit.”
Mid went on to explain that she had business in the city which was only natural. She asked Dion to secure them transport, and he nodded. ”Of course,” he said though he knew he had nothing in the way of payment for such transport. ”To…Torensten, you said?”
It was a foreign word to him, as foreign as the accents of the people who populated this strange realm. He resolved to study the region’s geography and socio-political climate once he had better grounded himself within it.
[attr=class,bulk] Dion couldn’t help a short and slightly uncomfortable laugh at Mid’s comment about her father’s pride. It was clear from her tone that she was joking with him, but there could be no doubt to its truth. He had no doubts that Lord Cidolfus Telamon would be quite proud indeed that his daughter had managed a blow against Prince Dion Lesage of the Holy Empire of Sanbreque, Warden of Light. He and Ramuh had come to blows before, after all, and it had not ended well for the Waloedean rebel.
Though as to the matter of his injuries…
”Priming takes a great deal of aether,” he answered. ”It’s true that an Eikon’s power can restore the body including the regrowth of limbs, but more often the opposite is true. Every Prime floods a Dominant with more aether than any human was meant to wield. It greatly hastens the spread of the Curse.”
Subconsciously, Dion touched his right arm. That touch, light as it was, caused a tinge of pain and irritation across the limestone patch of skin hidden beneath shirt sleeves and gloves and bandages. It was the only wound that Yuna’s magic had been unable to mend. He had instructed her on its proper care. Anesthetic salves for the pain. Hydrating salves for the irritation of the surrounding skin. Tight bandaging to keep the medication in place. His condition was not one which could ever be cured.
Something of Dion’s story seemed to set Mid’s thoughts in motion. Dion listened patiently as she spoke, not wanting to interrupt even as question after question built on top of each other and his confusion mounted. Still, he could not help a sincere look of regret as she slapped his arm and playfully scolded him for not providing her with more answers.
”My apologies,” he responded. He wished there was more that he could offer, perhaps a detail he had missed in the midst of it all, but there was nothing. He had fallen to Ultima too quickly for that. What came next, he couldn’t guess.
Except…
”Ifrit? He still lives?” For the first time since his awakening, hope fluttered in his chest. ”And Ultima has been defeated? You are certain?” His heart pounded with the news. Fear and relief mixed uncomfortably within him, bringing forth the sensation of light which had, since his birth, made a home for itself in his body. Dion quickly dampened his emotions before they could grow beyond his control.
Her theories had prompted many questions which Dion would have time to ponder when he was once again alone. For now, this was all that mattered. Ifrit had survived. He had struck down Ultima and banished Origin once more. Valisthea was…
His eyes darkened. As she spoke of this new world, unafflicted by Blight or war where some, but not all, may have found their way, Dion could think only of Valisthea. Even if she spoke truth, Ultima had been only the greatest threat of many. The Blight, aetherfloods, Akhashic, chaos. He did not want to consider the state of the realm they had left behind. He did not want to, but he knew that he must. As a prince of Sanbreque, as the Warden of Light, as commander of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon, he had a responsibility for the safety of Valisthea and its people. He could not share in Mid’s joy that the two of them, at least, had been spared.
”I must speak with Ifrit,” he said, his own conviction apparent. ”He is the only witness to the final events at Origin. Though I doubt he will grant me as warm a welcome as you claim.”
If anyone would understand Dion’s sense of urgency, it would be Lord Clive Rosfield. He may have abdicated his station in Rosaria, but he had taken on just as great a responsibility in service of his own cause. Dion could not imagine the rebel leader who had taken Cidolfus’ name and legacy as content to leave Valisthea to its fate.
”I have healed enough for travel so long as we do not go by foot. I must hear these events from his mouth. Perhaps, if we all gather our knowledge as one, we will begin to make sense of this.”
[attr=class,bulk] Dion was no stranger to bedrest. He was no stranger to the work of physickers and those Bearers who wielded their healing magicks. He was no stranger to bloodshed and injury and pain, and yet, the weeks which followed his delivery to Yuna’s clinic were more agonizing than any other he had experienced in his life.
He had much to ponder within the confines of his sick room. Yuna and her staff had worked miracles upon his body, and yet, every part of him ached as the lingering effects of their magic and their potions worked to strengthen the bones he had broken. They checked in regularly in their kindness, but for the most part, he was left largely alone to his thoughts.
In his childhood, he had been attended at all times by the palace staff when he had fallen ill, interspersed with irregular visits from Father when he had the time between his meetings. When recovering from injury on the warfront, Terence had hovered ever by his side, only taking his reluctant leave when his service as a dragoon demanded it. He’d known better than to leave Dion to his thoughts. Now, his thoughts ran rampant.
How was this possible?
At first, he had thought that perhaps Greagor had spared him for his sacrifice, whisking him away to safety across the bounds of worlds rather than let him face inevitable death. This theory was easily dismissed, however. Here, in this strange place, a foreign land of which he knew nothing, he could not fulfill his role as a champion of Her will. He had also considered that it might be a ploy by Ultima, but this theory was likewise absurd. Ultima’s power had sent him falling to his death. That false god had wished to cleanse all of humanity. It would not spare him.
What, then, was the meaning of this? And what was Dion’s driving purpose now?
The question lingered every morning and every night, as he lay in bed with his back propped against a mountain of pillows so that he would not strain his injuries further. Even as he was given leave to walk on his own but not to wander far, the question was ever on his mind. He had taken to exploring the clinic in search of books to occupy his time after carefully dressing himself for the morning, leaving his heavy chain linked armor behind. He would often sit beside the lobby window, examining some medical text or another until his mind began to wander and he would watch the streets of this foreign city, its people passing by in their strange clothes with their strange accents and their strange ideas.
How was this possible?
And what was he to do now, alone, once his wounds had fully healed?
His questions were partially answered one bright summer morning as the bell at the door clanged to announce a visitor, and said visitor’s voice announced herself. He ignored her at first as he stood leaning against a wall, catching his breath as his fatigue overcame him on a short walk from his usual place by the window towards Yuna’s collection of medical texts. Yuna had employed a woman to work the front desk and handle calls such as this, it wasn’t until the visitor’s call turned to address him directly that he remembered that the woman at the front desk (Kaito, he believed to be her name) had taken leave that day which left him in a rather awkward position.
He started to turn, words ready at his lips that while he was not employed at the clinic, he would be happy to take a letter on Yuna’s behalf, but the girl was faster, peering around him as he turned until their eyes met.
His widened. ”You?” he asked, more an exclamation than a question as the young Telamon girl gasped in her surprise and shouted his name.
He’d hardly had a moment to process this new development before she’d thrown herself at him, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, and he gasped again, wincing as the ache of his still-healing ribs turned to sharp pain. He tried to take a reflexive step back, but her grip held him in place until, at long last, she released him. Dion tried for a weak smile back at her, still uncertain what to make of it all, an endeavor unhelped by the protests of his injuries.
Captain Mid? Daughter of the former Lord Commander Telamon? To say that he had not expected his particular reunion would have been an understatement.
Nor would he have ever expected her reaction.
She looked up at him, half-beaming through the haze of her barely contained tears. Her concern startled him. Had she truly worried so for his life? The denizens of Ifrit’s Hideaway had treated him with polite courtesy, but he could never have imagined that any would mourn his passing once he had left to face Ultima. Yet here was indisputable proof from a girl he had interacted with only in passing and on the deck of her miraculous ship, The Enterprise.
It left him truly touched.
His smile turned more genuine, softer, as he beheld her. ”There was no need to worry on my behalf,” he assured her before adding, ”Though perhaps you should refrain from showing your concern in an embrace. Healer Yuna is skilled in her work, but my injuries are far from recovery.”
There was a hint of humor to his voice, one he rarely used. He could not help a certain fondness for the girl, no matter that she was hardly more than a stranger.
Captain Mid was a prodigy in engineering. She was full of life and passion for her work, made all the more evident by the ship of her own design which, somehow, had no need for the wind. He could not help but respect that level of talent, and in one so young…
It did not surprise him that she had theories that she could hardly keep to herself. Even if he frowned at her prospects of raising the dead, he knew she would not take his concerns over the morality of such a thing into account.
He did not understand her meaning, but he was happy to tell his story should it be asked of him.
”I can’t rightfully say,” he said with a short shake of his head. ”I successfully channeled Bahamut’s power and carried the Rosfields towards Origin. The place was sealed like a fortress with Ultima’s thralls guarding the skies, but I was able to break through its walls, and we found Ultima waiting inside.”
Waiting. Anticipating. The memory did not sit well with him, and yet it would not do to keep silent of it.
”The brothers primed, and we fought as one, but our attacks were nothing in the face of a god. Though we battled valiantly, Ultima shattered Ifrit’s Eikon, and then threatened death upon us all. I urged the Phoenix to tend to his brother as I alone held back Ultima’s attack. Bahamut’s power was able to deflect it from the Rosfields, but my Eikon was destroyed in the process, and my wounds were many. The last I remember, I was falling from an infinitesimal height, and then my consciousness left me.”
His eyebrows furrowed at the memory. So certain he had been that there was nothing left for him but death. He had considered his debts paid, and he had left the fate of Valisthea in the hands of the Rosfield brothers, as it had ever belonged. He had paid for his bloodshed in sacrifice, and finally, he could rest.
But that was not the end of his story.
”I was found by a traveling band of merchants, my body broken but still alive. They brought me here, to Healer Yuna’s clinic, and her magic spared my life.” He closed his eyes, recounting the details of those first few, terrible days. ”She said that my injuries were consistent with a fall from a great height. It nearly broke every bone in my body.”
He looked back at Captain Mid. ”That, unfortunately, is all that I know,” he said. His brow furrowed. ”But tell me. What became of Valisthea? Of Ultima? Were they able to end his scheming?”
Or had his sacrifice been in vain? His stomach turned at the thought. ”I must know.”
[attr=class,bulk] The woman scolded him for his impulsivity, and though her tone was sharp, there was genuine care behind it. He deserved this. He should have known better. He did know better, and yet…
Who would not be startled into rising when they heard implications unimaginable?
The woman was silent as she worked her magicks upon him, and Dion was silent in turn, eyes closed, breathing slowly as he felt her spells sink deeply into his body, numbing it as it worked its miracles. He was too tired, too injured, too pained to question her any further, and yet it was her voice that startled him from his stupor. She spoke of the Goddess.
And of his prayers.
”Book Two, Verse Sixteen of the Greagorian Codex,” he muttered almost instinctively. ”Bahamut’s Prayer.”
It occurred to him in some far away part of his mind that this would undoubtedly reveal him as Sanbrequois and devout in his following of Greagor. It might even, to the astute eye, reveal his identity. None of that mattered now. She would heal him even knowing who and what he was or he would finally find mercy in death. Both were equally desirable.
”I spent much of my childhood within the Cathedral of Greagor.” She had been raised within a temple. He, a cathedral. As the Warden of Light, his religious education had been paramount. He had always loved the clamber of the Cathedral’s bells, ringing so achingly loud like the peals of Gregor’s joy. Within those hushed, white marble halls, every stream of sunlight had warmed him with the Goddess’ love. Or so he had imagined at the time.
”I don’t understand,” he went on, voice weak and defeated. ”I have tried to reign in my questions so as not to offend, but my every assumption is proven false and then my next assumption in turn. None of your kind were allowed within any temple I know.” Not in Sanbreque or Dhalmekia or Rosaria or Waloed. Only the brutish and cruel Ironblood brought Bearers within their sacred grounds, and even then, it was only for the purpose of sacrifice.
It was possible, he supposed, that an Unbranded Bearer born within a religious family might, in fact, have been raised within a place of worship, but that was yet another assumption. Not impossible, but even more improbable than all the rest.
”Who are you?” he asked without raising his head. ”And what is this place? Truly?”
[attr=class,bulk] Her answer surprised him. It was so simple and yet it spoke volumes. ’How could I turn away someone in need?’ It sounded like the words of another time, another place, a Valisthea without the corruption of war and distrust. Her kindness shook him from his stupor, and as he turned his head to look at her once more, Dion couldn’t help the slightest of smiles.
It was a smile that faded as she went to a cabinet on the far end of the room, continuing her explanation as she searched it for supplies. She spoke of a home she had left and of her duty to “send the dead.” Was that a kind of death ritual? In all of his religious studies, he had never heard of such a thing. Or, perhaps, did she refer to the practice of euthanasia for those in the final stages of the Curse? It was a common skill among those physickers merciful enough to tend to Bearers when their need was greatest.
The woman’s past seemed shrouded in mystery upon mystery, and yet, each of his questions seemed improper to ask in earnest. Even mentioning the obvious – her magic and what it made her – was a disrespect that he was loath to inflict upon one to whom he owed so much. He had long learned that it was often best to hold his tongue, and so he said nothing as she returned with three potion bottles lined upon the table beside him.
She asked if he had once been a leader, and Dion’s eyebrows raised in surprise. She was perceptive, it seemed, to have noticed such a thing when he had said so little. She continued before he could muster an answer, however, and what she said…troubled him.
”What?” She spoke so nonchalantly about her magic and of her most powerful spells and the exhaustion they would bring that she seemed in that moment entirely foreign to him. It was a bizarre answer, one which had no basis in logic or reason, that he did the very thing she had warned so urgently against, raising his head and shoulders to look at her better as he demanded, ”But what of the-?”
There was a terrible crack and then a burst of pain unimaginable. He gasped and fell back again, struggling not to cry out as the pain overtook him again and again in time with his gasping breaths, and he squeezed his eyes tight, jaw clenched against it. He had learned to bear his pain in silence, no matter how great it might become. He needed only to regain control of his body, to slow his breaths, and wait for the worst to pass.
And so he launched almost instinctively into a mantra muttered in rapid succession through clenched teeth – the only words which would never leave him no matter the circumstance.
”In Her light I walk and on Her wings, I soar,” he recited, tilting his head back and struggling not to writhe as his head spun and light burst behind his closed eyelids. ”To scourge the land of shadow and bless it with Her graces / I accept Her gift and Her love everlasting / Pray, grant me the strength to bear this burden / And the wisdom to use it well in thy name / For the sake of peace and prosperity / For the people chosen in Her mercy / This I swear forevermore.”
The familiar verses brought a sense of peace, and as he finished the final lines, he felt the pain, once overwhelming, dull to an almost manageable ache. His breaths had slowed until they were safe and shallow once more. He was cold with sweat. Exhaustion settled deep within his bones, and he kept his eyes closed, resigned to no longer struggle against it. He was conscious. He would answer questions on the healer’s request, but for now, he would let her do her work until it was safe to speak freely again.
He was too tired to question his circumstances or to ponder hers. He would, as always, bear his burden in silence.
