Days passed and Jill bore them in silence. The sun had risen over a new world, but hers had ended.
Dion, Joshua, and.. Clive had flown off, never to return.
The hideaway was a mix of emotion. There had been such a silence that following morning when they looked up at the clear sky, sun shining bright and realized its cost.
He had lied to her. Promised her he would return, and he'd lied.
She had collapsed to the deck shortly after Métia had faded, and laid there with Torgal. She had stayed there, through the day and into the night. The others had given her space, let her grieve. So she'd stared at the moon once it rose until she'd fallen asleep. Part of her wishing, wondering if somewhere out there, whatever part of Clive was left wandering the cosmos was looking at the moon too. And so she'd stared at it, tears streaming or gushing until exhaustion took her.
When she woke, it was in Clive's chambers. In his bed. Someone had carried her there. Gav or Otto probably. For a breath she thought it all a bad dream as she awoke surrounded by his scent. Until she remembered and the grief began anew.
It would be another two days before she left the bed. Torgal was an ever vigilant guard at her side. Gav had stopped in at some point. He had merely sat on Clive's couch staring at his desk for what seemed like an eternity like he was picturing Clive there during their countless meetings pouring over messages and maps. Like he needed to contemplate what it meant that he now bore Cid's name, and bore their legacy. So they had endured the silence together.
Tarja stopped in too, to remind her to eat, to drink a tankard of water.
"You have to eat, Jill. If not for yourself then..." Tarja didn't finish the thought. Not as the words brought fresh tears to Jill's eyes as she thought of that last goodbye, and the words she'd left unspoken. She hadn't wanted to add to the burden on his shoulders, to have him distracted as he fought for his life and their world.
But she had regretted it. Regretted it the moment he'd leapt off the landing and had risen on Bahamut's wings to fly away, never to know what he'd left behind or for whose future he was now fighting for.
Joshua had been right that she'd been different for a while, but it wasn't the loss of her Eikon that had her stirring from sleep every night, clinging to Clive's warm slumbering form as she fought back the dreams that haunted her. The nightmares. Visions of Clive holding their child, looking down at the sleeping babe, with eyes that weren't his own. Glowing violet eyes. Ultima's eyes.
Jill managed to get the food down. The water too. Then she'd made Tarja promise not to say anything to the other's. Not yet. Part of her never wanted to speak the words aloud. How could she tell anyone else when she'd never told the one person who mattered the most? It felt like a betrayal. One she wasn't ready to face.
So Tarja left, her silence promised, despite that reproachful look in her eyes.
On the third day, Charon slipped through the door. The person perhaps she least expected.
Jill had managed to get herself to a sitting position at this point, but the roaring silence in her head still carried on. Her clothes were wrinkled and tear stained. Her hair a dull tangled mess. Torgal still a steady presence at the foot of the bed.
Charon approached slowly, but with sure footing, and she motioned towards the edge of the bed seeking permission to sit. Jill managed a half nod. Charon groaned as she sat, rolling her neck from side to side. She reached down to run a hand through Torgal's fur, and the hound nuzzled into her, tail thumping slightly. She slipped a bone from wherever she'd been hiding it in her cloak and gave it to the hound. His tail thumped in earnest then.
Jill's throat tightened as she recalled the day they'd hunted those elder antelope together. Clive hadn't loved the idea of slaughtering beasts who'd done no harm. Yet he would do anything for those he loved. Especially Torgal.
"Ya know, when Clive first came here," Charon started, in that gravelly tone of hers, "I thought Cid was out of his mind placin' such high hopes on such a young las. A broody sad sop, in desperate need of a haircut, that's all I saw."
Jill's lips twitched at that and she couldn't believe the small spark of emotion she felt, the first she'd felt since that night.
"But then, a certain snowflake woke up, healed from her wounds and the sad sop seemed to wake up too. I watched the two of yins fight tooth and nail, willing to give up owt for a shot at Cid's vision." Charon's good eye locked on hers, and it was lined with silver. Indeed, weariness haunted her face. Grief and sorrow.
"But what Clive didn't know, was that when he took it all over, it weren't just Cid's vision. It was his own. He took Cid's dreams and built a foundation for this new world we got comin."
Jill only nodded. She knew this. Knew that Clive took Cid's vision to heart, but in a way, it had always been his own. She remembered that day at the castle, the last day before everything went to hell, when that bearer had dropped an apple. How Clive had smiled at him, bid him to rise and reminded his sniveling master to ensure his well-being. Clive had been but a boy then. The same boy she saw shining through him now every time they traveled to help an ally, or free a bearer.
Charon looked at her again, gaze piercing. "But it was you dear who got him there. That boy was resigned to his fate before you reminded him that there was somethin' worth livin' for."
Tears streamed down Jill's cheeks. Warm, when once they were cold, an echo of Shiva. "He was always trying to save the world Charon… but he was meant to save himself."
"Aye, but I'd wager he didn't think twice about it. Savin' himself, or savin' the world? Bloody hero types." Charon rolled her one eye, a half smile on her face.
But Jill didn't smile. She couldn't.
"Oh Jill, don't ya see? He saved the world, because of you. For you. For all of us, sure, but for you most of all." Charon reached for Jill's hand then and clasped it right, her grip stronger than Jill expected.
"What I'm sayin, what I'm tryin to say, is that he'd want you to greet this new world. Not just exist in it, but live in it. So shed your tears. Rage at the damn world. Miss him with your whole heart but don't you dare forget to live. On your own terms."
Jill looked at Charon then, at that weary, fierce eye. She squeezed her hand back.
Charon's gaze drifted downwards then, to where Jill's other hand now rested on her stomach. Jill hadn't realized she'd moved it. A knowing smile ghosted Charon's face then, and silver lined her eyes once again. "Promise me Jill, that ya won't forget to live."
"I promise." Jill breathed and she felt that promise settle in her, wrapping around her heart and she could have sworn a flicker of flame answered within her. Like a light that would not go out, would never go out, so long as she carried it.
……….
Death was agony. As his chest had opened, as he laid dying in his brother's arms, it had been utter agony. But then, so was living.
Living when he knew what his brother had done. What it had cost him.
Joshua Rosfield, rightful Archduke of Rosaria, Dominant of the Phoenix… was a Dominant no more.
He ran a hand over the smooth skin of his chest. Felt his own heartbeat beneath his hand, though it was wrong somehow. Steady and smooth, where it had once raged with the flames of the Phoenix. The Phoenix was gone, truly gone now.
He had woken in the fields of Rosaria, just outside the castle like his brother could only think of home when he transported him with Ultima's magic before the last Crystal shattered in the sky. Joshua had seen it as he roused awake and heard the end of his brother's speech.
Bearers, Dominants, Crystals, Magic… consigned to the flames.
Even if it means the end of me.
He had tried to rise, to yell, to reach his brother and remind him of the promise he made to Jill, to save himself. But then the air around him changed and where his body had met the unforgiving cold of the stone in the arc, he suddenly found himself cushioned instead by lush green grass.
And when Joshua had rose to his knees, it was effortless. For the first time in all his life, he felt strong. Whole and healed. He hated it. Hated that the cost of his life, this now healing world, was his brother.
It was Clive who deserved to live. Clive who had a people awaiting his return. Gav and Otto and Mid. Torgal. Jill. All waiting for a man who would never return.
And so as Joshua knelt in the fields of Rosaria, gazing upon the battered castle of Rosalith, the sun rising behind its peaks, skies clear at last, the Archduke wept and wept.
……….
The world was in chaos. The market stalls picked bare as scores of people rushed to buy what they could now that magic was gone.
But the Merchant had peddled his wares without magic for years now since the first crystal fell, and so he began his morning walk to the nets to retrieve his daily catch and to pick shells from the beach that often caught the eye of the women who perused his wares.
But when the Merchant strolled down the beach, sand crunching softly beneath his feet, he stopped in his tracks. A man lay on his beach, not fifteen feet from his hidden nets. The Merchant thought to flee, his first thoughts of bandits that had taken advantage of the chaos this past week.
And wasn't a man feigning sleep or injury, waiting for a good citizen to pass by and come a little closer the perfect trap?
So the Merchant stopped. Hesitated.
He needed to check his nets, needed to gather what he could and get to his stall. Steeling his nerve, he pulled the rusted knife he'd kept on his side for years and clutched it tightly. He crept forward on near silent feet and slowly neared the sleeping stranger.
The Merchant's eyebrows bunched together, confusion marring his face as he gazed down at the sleeping figure. This was no mere bandit or beggar. He wore finely stitched clothes and gleaming armor. A fine sword lay discarded beside him, the blade as deadly looking as the jeweled hilt was beautiful. The Merchant couldn't help the errant thought that escaped, of just how much a sword like that would fetch should he just grab it and leave. Far more than his clams and shells.
But then a rattling breath sounded from the stranger. It cleared the Merchant's head. No, he was not a thief. He would not join those bandits and their chaos. So instead, he knelt beside the man and looked at him. His head was a dark mop of hair, his face covered by a dark beard, both crusted in sand. He was covered in a litany of bruises all of varying color and size from what he could see of the skin exposed.
Then his eyes fell upon the stranger's hand. It was… it was stone.
A bearer.
Though, he supposed, a bearer no longer. Indeed he'd witnessed first hand the disappearance of their magic. Some had cried out, terrified from the neighboring stalls. Others had wept silent tears of what looked like gratitude. Many had been beaten and whipped by their masters as things had descended into chaos, as the Masters demanded that they use their gift and ignored the pleas of their servants who insisted they couldn't.
His bearer, Michael, had died years ago. He remembered how he too, had slowly turned to stone, his body wrecked from the near constant use of magic. His fellow merchants had scoffed when he'd grieved the man. So he'd moved on, pretended their plight didn't matter. But he had never bought another.
"Sir, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes, sir?" He shook the man slightly, pushing on that armored shoulder. Another rattling breath.
"Can you tell me your name good sir?" He shook the man again. He roused slightly, eyes squinting open slightly in the awakening dawn before squeezing shut again.
"Can you tell me your Master's name? See if we can't get you back to them?" A slight groan then from the stranger, and then he coughed, a small drop of red forming at the corner of his pale, dry lips.
"Sir, please, a name, anything. Who can I get you home to?" The Merchant pleaded, suddenly so afraid of witnessing another bearer turn to stone and fade away. He knew he would need help, need someone to carry him to the nearest physicker. Though, he didn't know where he'd find one now that the magic was gone. Perhaps one of those cursebreakers would know. He'd met one just before Michael had died when he'd gone searching for a cure, and had attracted the attention of someone through his questioning.
The man had cornered him in a back alley of Northreach, demanding to know why he asked such questions, what his purpose was. He had been to afraid to lie, and slowly the man had retreated, and then he'd told them of their cause to help bearers. Of the outlaw, Cid, and his people- his cursebreakers.
He had told him there was no cure, but had offered to take Michael somewhere safe where he could pass in peace. Michael had refused. He didn't want to leave his home, his Master.
"Sir! Sir wake up!" He shoved one last time, beseeching this man to live. To live and see this new world where bearers were cursed no longer.
The strangers eyes opened fully then, just for a moment. His body lurched slightly, hand reaching out and grasping the arm of the Merchant's cloak with a sudden burst of life, and one word, one name escaped his lips.
"Jill."
Then the bearer collapsed back to the shore, and his eyes closed once more. The Merchant ran for help as fast as his feet could carry him.