I am getting the last of FFXVI out of my system, I tell myself. This is the last, I tell myself. If you're from the future and laughing...well, that's on me.
Updates will be every Sunday until completion. There are 4 chapters total.
Casting the First Stone
Cid wakes up with a nosebleed. This, in and of itself, isn't much to remark on; as the curse slowly but inexorably advances through his body, said body tends to get a bit irritated. What makes it remarkable is that on this morning, every single bearer in the hideaway wakes up with a nosebleed, too.
As Cid waits outside Tarja's infirmary for confirmation that this is some kind of strange bearer-and-dominant-only affliction that they should watch to ensure it doesn't worsen but don't need to panic over, he considers the secondary feeling he would have ignored had the nosebleed not occurred: there is, in the hideaway, in the middle of the deadlands, just the faintest thread of aether. It's not much, and it's fading even as he feels it, but it's there.
He would've dismissed it as fantasy, but again, mass nosebleeds.
If whatever caused the aether disruption was strong enough to make itself felt in the middle of this Founder-forsaken place, then Cid pities the bearers and dominants who would've borne the brunt of it beyond the deadlands' borders.
The whole situation is a head-scratcher the likes of which he hasn't run across in years. He's wondering if he should broach the question to Harpocrates in case this has happened at some point before when the infirmary door opens.
"Well?" he asks.
Tarja leans on the frame and crosses her arms. She, too, suffered a nosebleed, but now shows no signs of it. "None of the afflicted show any other symptoms. Something like this striking out of the blue…I don't like it, Cid."
He sighs, knowing what she's implying. "Look, someone's gotta get Shiva's dominant away from the Ironbloods. I'd much rather do it out in the wastes of Dhalmekia than storming Drake's Breath, and I know you agree."
Scoffing, Tarja waves him off. "Not even you could storm that place on your own. Fine, do what you want, but you had better get back here quick or Charon won't be the only one you have to worry about."
"I worry about everyone here," Cid says magnanimously, earning another scoff.
"Well I'll be damned."
Cid leans forward and rests an arm on his knee while he peers down at the battle playing out in the dusty wastes below. The black-haired bearer is throwing out fire like it's nothing and all but teleporting to his target in bursts of flame. There's only one kind of thing that grants magic like that, and only one person in recent memory who's been blessed by it. "You're quite the bloody survivor, aren't you?"
As fights go, it's not bad. The one Cid now strongly suspects is Clive Rosfield has taken on the dominant while his three companions fight off the rest of the Ironbloods. It's violent, it's chaotic, and it's swift—for the Ironbloods, at least. Shiva's dominant is not going down so easily, and her ice is more than a match for the phoenix's fire. Clive keeps trying to close the distance but she keeps sliding just out of his reach. Curiously, he's not using any ranged spells to wear her down, and his attacks aren't particularly vicious. There's no desperation of a bearer whose life depends on completing his mission in his movements, unlike his companions.
He does eventually herd her towards the rocks lining their little arena. In a burst of fire, he locks blades with her while her back is against the wall.
In that moment, things go quite decisively off the rails of Cid's expectations. Clive leans in close over their swords and says something, and whatever he says must be damn near earth shattering, because Shiva's dominant goes still, drops her sword, and hugs the man.
"Well, fuck me," Cid breathes. Clive Rosfield and Shiva's dominant know each other.
Clive's allies aren't pleased with this development. Clive, still embracing the dominant, is deaf to their yelling. It's only when the blond one gets close with his sword out and threatening that Clive reacts.
That sword goes spinning through the air and sticks point-first into a nearby patch of dirt. Clive's own blade is at his (former now, surely) ally's throat. He still has one arm around the Dominant's shoulders, which seems to be the only thing keeping the battered young woman on her feet.
The hound at Cid's side growls. His fur is all fluffed up, his tail is rigid, and if Cid doesn't do something soon, he's pretty sure his four-legged friend is going to crash the party all on his own, the new contingent of Ironbloods approaching from the far cliff be damned.
"All right," he tells the hound with a conciliatory pat on his head, "let's do some deescalating, shall we?"
That deescalation takes the form of killing a dozen Ironbloods with lightning. They'd already taken out the other imperial bearers before Cid arrived—all save the one whose throat Clive slit, an act of which Clive hadn't looked proud.
Cid emerges from the smoke, loose pebbles crunching under his boots and absently adjusting his left glove as he does so. Clive, the noble once-Shield, stands in front of the dominant with his sword at the ready. The dominant herself has collapsed against the rocks, semiconscious at best. Whatever desperate strength had fueled her fighting is gone.
When Cid returns his gaze to Clive, Clive is looking at him like Cid's just put lightning through him, not the Ironbloods that wanted him dead. In the seconds after their eyes meet, Clive's sword dips until it's two degrees from falling out of his grip. The expression on his face isn't relief or trepidation or any of the hundred other things Cid's seen on cornered bearers' chops.
There's no time to figure it out; there are more Ironbloods on the way and he'd rather not stick around long enough for the other players on this particular board to take an interest in his activities.
"This way," he says, jerking his head back the way he'd come.
Clive swallows, blinks several times, and then, after a glance down at Jill, awkwardly sheathes his sword and goes to pick her up in a bridal carry.
"Uh, Cid?" Goetz calls from beyond the smoke too stubborn to drift away just yet. The lad's already gotten lost thanks to the dust clouds the lightning generated. Cid sighs.
"Bloody wind." He glances back at his two new charges, in whom the wolf has taken a distinct interest. First time for everything, he supposes. "Well, come on then."
They pause by a small cave where Clive sets down the dominant, who has fallen fully unconscious, in the shade. The strain of her priming and subsequent abuse at the hands of the Ironbloods has taken its toll. Clive kneels next to her, his other hand occupied with scratching behind the hound's ears.
"So," Cid says, buying time while Goetz makes his way over, "you two acquainted?"
He can only see a fraction of Clive's face from this angle, but it's enough to catch the way his lips curl into a tired smile. "The three of us, actually. Her name is Jill, and his"—there's a pause as he shifts his scratching to under the hound's chin—"is Torgal."
Cid's eyebrows lift. Them all being familiar would explain Torgal's behavior. "You won't mind taking him off my hands, then. Funny, though. I pictured you as more of the chocobo type…Clive Rosfield."
He expects his knowledge of Clive's identity to land with some impact, but no, the man is entirely unphased. It's enough to have Cid question whether he's got it wrong, so he tilts his head in a cocky challenge. "Unless you happen to know any other fools running around with the blessing of the Phoenix."
Clive inclines his head, a crack in his expression letting Cid glimpse that strange mix of emotions once again. At least it's a sign that Cid's perception isn't going to shit, so he takes a few casual steps away, in part to give Clive some space and in part to make himself more visible to Goetz.
"I'd heard rumors that you'd survived, but I never paid them much heed." He goes to turn around, reassure the man that this isn't some kind of bounty hunt, only to feel arms wrap around him.
"Oof, okay," he wheezes. He'd moved fast enough on reflex to keep his own arms free, but this isn't an attack, it's…a hug. From Clive Rosfield. It takes more effort than he cares to show to speak through the pressure on his ribs. "You're a bit friendlier than I thought you'd be."
Clives stiffens at those words and then, as swiftly as he approached, releases Cid and backs away. There's something in his eyes, in the swirling mix of relief, joy, and resignation, that has every hunter's instinct in Cid is homing in like a dog that's caught a scent. Oh, he wants to know what Clive knows, because clearly, he knows something.
That expression vanishes an instant after Cid sees it, replaced with a calm mask. It's not bad, honestly. Could use some work to make it a little less forced and certainly less desperate, but it gets the job done.
"If I'd known you'd be that grateful for me to come for your handsome mug, I'd have put a bit more stock in those rumors," Cid says, deciding to play the whole thing off for now.
"You came here for Jill," Clive surmises, and Cid adjusts his assessment of Clive's acuity.
"A dominant at the mercy of the Ironbloods this far from home was worth muddying my boots for," Cid admits easily enough. Behind him, Goetz has finally caught up to their merry band, so Cid kneels next to Jill and looks her over with an appraising eye. Exhausted, no doubt, but he can't see anything worth panicking over. "She looks about as good as you'd expect, but probably best to get a second opinion." He signals Goetz. "Pack her up."
If Clive has a problem with Goetz affixing Jill to the stretcher he then lifts onto his back, he doesn't say it. There's no sign of the determined defensiveness that saw him turn his sword on his allies. Cid eyes him throughout the whole process, trying to pick out more instances of those cracks in his mask.
Clive catches him looking and holds his gaze.
"You're welcome to join us, you know," Cid says to play off the staring. "I may have come here for her, but we've got room enough for two. You want to help her, don't you?"
Goetz stands up straight. "Uh, Cid? If we aren't back soon, Nan'll have our heads."
Ah, he's got a point. It won't just be Charon's pointed lecture; Tarja's warning is still fresh in Cid's mind. He winces at the thought of explaining the reasons for his delay to the both of them and follows Goetz, but pauses to tell Clive, "I'll explain everything once we're back at the hideaway. Come on."
He turns and keeps walking. It's an invitation, not an order, so whatever decision Clive makes will be his—
Clive is already following.
Well then.