Chapter 2: Shortcuts

Cid fully expects Clive to take some time to explore the hideaway, really get a feel for the place, before coming to see him. He'd been so quiet on the journey through the deadlands, staring mostly at Jill but also at Cid whenever he thought Cid wouldn't notice. And yet, with every overture Cid had made at conversation, Clive hadn't been able to respond in kind. It was like the words were getting stopped up in his throat. Really, the guy couldn't give off stronger signals that he needed some time to himself. With how drastically his circumstances have changed in so short a time, Cid doesn't blame him.

And yet, Clive's striding through the door to Cid's solar less than a minute after Cid sits down. He's barely had time to dip his quill in the ink bottle, much less pen a proper reply to Mid's letter. By the stem Clive discards in the trash bin by Cid's desk, he only stopped to finish eating the apple Cid offered him. He doesn't even comment on the taste.

Perhaps imperial branded rations are simply so awful that even the bitter fruit here is delicious by comparison.

"Just working on a pet project of mine," Cid offers by way of explanation as he sets the quill aside. "Though she's not above biting the hand that feeds her."

He gestures Clive towards the couch. He doesn't expect the man to take up that invitation and for once his expectations about Clive are proven correct. With a slight shrug, Cid crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

"Alright. I was hoping we might try and solve the mystery of poor Clive Rosfield…a bearer of the Sanbrequois Imperial Army sent behind enemy lines with orders to wait until it turned into a brawl, and slit the dominant's throat in the chaos."

Clive says nothing. Cid ticks an eyebrow.

"Instead, you turn your sword on your sergeant and his men, then set your sights on the hills. Conveniently forgetting how the empire deals with deserters. 'Cause with that on your chop, my friend…we both know you won't be getting far."

He grabs his goblet as he says this to prepare a peace offering of sorts for the somewhat hostile words, only to see that his last comment has finally gotten a reaction from Clive: he starts, a little, and reaches a gloved hand up to his face without quite touching. He closes his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, while Cid procures a second goblet and makes for the wine on the end table across the room.

He doesn't move when Cid pauses next to him.

"You've fallen a long way, Lord Rosfield," Cid says, holding out the cleanest goblet to Clive. That finally pulls Clive from his thoughts; he takes the goblet without a word and turns to watch Cid pour himself a glass.

Cid sits on the couch Clive refused and offers the jug. "I'll not have it said that I'm a poor host."

Clive holds out his goblet. Cid pours. The silence stretches.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" Cid says, if only to get a better read on whatever Clive is thinking. He almost regrets the words. Clive fixes his eyes on Cid, and it's like someone's pressing one of Blackthorne's anvils down on Cid's shoulders. Clive isn't looking at him with the face of a newly freed bearer or even a fallen nobleman, no; this is something older. Something different. Something Cid's never seen before.

Those hunting instincts rear up once again. What do you know? But he can't ask that, of course. No one answers those kinds of questions outright.

"I know the secret of the Mothercrystals," Clive says.

Cid chokes on his wine. He recovers quickly and with a minimum amount of coughing, but bloody fucking Founder, he really just said it outright. Wiping his mouth, Cid angles for more information. "And what secret is that, exactly?"

"That they're leeching aether from the land. That they only exist because of Ultima. And that they—and Ultima—must be destroyed if this world is to survive."

The name Ultima sends a spike of adrenaline through Cid's veins and it's by the most tenuous of threads that he maintains his composure. "That's not a common name. Nor is anyone broadcasting that little tidbit about the crystals. How'd someone like you come by it all?"

That age in Clive's expression has hardened his eyes into blue steel. "My brother."

"The Phoenix?" Cid leans forward. Every word out of Clive's mouth just intrigues him more. "I thought he fell at Phoenix Gate. Don't tell me both heirs to House Rosfield live."

Clive nods.

"Well, bugger me. While we're at it, then: all that talk about a second Dominant of Fire?"

Clive's expression pinches. "True."

Ah, there's something more to it than that. Of all the revelations Clive has spouted, though, a second Dominant of Fire is by far the grandest—and the hardest to believe. "So two dominants go head-to-head. You, plucky young bearer that you are at the time, manage to survive that particular apocalypse and get carted off into the loving hands of the empire. Your brother, the Phoenix, also survives…somehow."

The surprisingly enigmatic man before him says nothing—probably because he can't lie for shit, judging by the proceedings so far—and Cid grins. "Right. Now, don't take this the wrong way, but I find it a touch hard to believe your kid brother discovered secrets like that before his apparently ineffective murder. Unless you lot changed your tradition and let him through that gate early."

"What do you know about the gate?"

Cid shrugs. "Not much, but come on. You're not going to tell me you've had texts about the Mothercrystals and Ultima just lying around the Rosfield estate, are you? Limited options, Clive."

Their conversation falls into a lull while Clive considers his drink and Cid lights a cigarette. The first drag eases some of the tension he's built up over the long trip to and from Dhalmekia and lets him separate his thoughts from the excitement of finding someone else who has independently learned about the crystals.

It begs the question, though…if that kind of knowledge has been sitting under Phoenix Gate for generations of Phoenixes, why have none of them said anything? Rosaria's been a black sheep when it comes to bearers and dominants for a while, surely knowledge of the crystals' purpose would have been shared and passed down at least among the royal line to prepare for the worst. But Clive speaks like he only learned it because his brother told him, and that's its own paradox.

"If I told you the full truth," Clive finally says, "it would take days. And I don't think you'd believe me. Not yet."

"And why's that?"

"Because I wouldn't, not without proof. If I were you." Something about those words brings a rare spark of amusement to Clive's face. Cid is finding his own enjoyment in the word yet.

"I suppose you've given me no choice but to accept your judgement on the matter." He speaks with mock graciousness so Clive will take no offense, and then stands and heads back to his desk. "I'm not going to force you. I am, however, going to ask if you'll join us here. Bearers who know one end of a sword from the other are rare enough. Ones who know what you do? Unheard of." He drinks the last of his wine and sets his goblet aside. "Help us keep more bearers from suffering the fate you did and keep those crystals from bleeding all of Valisthea dry."

Clive's expression does a curious thing while Cid extends the invitation. It starts off amused, shifts to wistful, dips into melancholy, and then comes full circle back to amused but now with something brighter and almost joyous behind it. "Sure."

It's too easy. Far too easy.

Clive finishes his drink and holds out the goblet to Cid with a proper smile that floors Cid almost as much as his Mothercrystals reveal.

"Where do we start?"

Cid returns that smile like any good host would and takes the goblet. Seems Clive really meant that yet earlier, which means Cid is going to get his answers one way or another. He sets the goblet aside and leans against his desk.

"Ever hear of a place called Lostwing? Imperial village deep in the forest. One of my scouts sent word there's a group of branded fugitives there, and he seems to think one of them is a Dominant of Fire. Two possibilities: that brother of yours, or your second dominant who tried and failed to kill him. Unless you have ways beyond me, I doubt you were able to keep in touch with your brother once the imperials took you in, so. Care to find out which one it is?"

Once again, Clive's expression shifts. The man's a poor actor; anyone can see he's hiding something. His only saving grace is that Cid has absolutely no idea what he's hiding or why. He can make an inference by that reaction, though.

"Unless revenge on the one who made that attempt on young Joshua Rosfield's life isn't something you feel strongly about." A fact that would be absurd based on everything Cid has observed about the way Clive interacted with Jill.

And yet, Clive hesitates. And sighs. "It's…complicated," he says slowly. "But we should go to Lostwing. We aren't the only ones interested in the dominant rumors."

Still more secrets swirl behind those words. If Clive keeps this up, he's going to drive Cid mad with possibilities. For now, though, Cid can shrug off the vagaries. "Fair enough. Best make ready then."

There are quirks to Clive's fighting style that Cid doesn't notice until he gets to see the man in action up close. The way he wields the Phoenix's fire is aggressive, sure. Experienced, of course. But at times, he makes empty gestures or summons useless flames like he expects something else to happen. More than once, he gets punished by the monsters infesting their path through the Greatwood of the Holy Empire of Sanbreque for those mistakes.

More than once, Cid is very pointed in his lack of commentary on the matter. He'd meant it when he said he wouldn't force anything.

Now, maybe there are more monsters on this trail than he remembers, and maybe he's not in quite the shape he used to be, but they still make it through without any real hiccups. Well, Fafnir of the North aside.

And because Clive cannot do anything the way a nice and normal person would, he's not at all surprised when Cid semi-primes and smites the beast when it tries to go for a second round. No gobsmacked staring, no shocked exclamations about him being a dominant, nothing. The bloodflies show more interest in Cid in the wake of that revelation than Clive and it makes absolutely no bloody sense.

Lostwing is still a ways away, though, and there's a fair bit of silence to fill as they walk, so Cid goes digging. Not forcing, just…poking.

"Clive. What exactly do you plan on doing when we find this Dominant of Fire?"

"I suppose that depends on who it is."

"See, you say that, but I'm getting this strange feeling that you already know. You've a talent for knowing things I wouldn't expect you to."

"Do I?"

"It's one you don't share with your acting."

Clive chuckles. "I've heard that before." He sobers. "I know where the second Dominant of Fire is, and he's not currently in Lostwing." Clive steps carefully down an incline, using a nearby tree for support until he's back on level ground. Cid follows in his footsteps. "I'm confident Joshua is, or was, in Lostwing. He's capable, and I'm pretty sure he can handle himself, provided things haven't changed."

He says the last part to himself and so quietly that Cid nearly misses it.

"What, so you tagged along with me out of the kindness of your heart?" In truth, Cid would've measured Clive's concern for Jill as higher than this apparently blasé attitude about his brother. Odd that he would leave her behind to go on this adventure. Hell, if Cid had known Clive wasn't all that invested in this trip, he would've sent the Cursebreakers out instead of going himself.

Well, no, he wouldn't have. The rumors are about a dominant, after all.

"Something like that. Like I said, it's complicated."

Cid allows a single skeptical huff through before he lets the matter drop.

They follow the river up to Lostwing. Rather, they follow the river for a few minutes and then, when a royal scout crosses their path, they follow him instead—all the way to where Benedikta has a small camp in the forest. The sight of her sends an odd thrill down Cid's spine, and he recalls Clive's words: "We aren't the only ones interested in the dominant rumors." Should've bloody figured that Barnabas would dispatch her of all people to investigate.

While they watch that group break camp—and murder the one who informed them of the branded in Lostwing—from a ledge dipped in shadow, Cid goes to explain who Benedikta is, but Clive says he already knows, because of course he does. They're interrupted by a returning scout spotting them not a second later. The fight that follows is brutal and annoying, thanks to the last opponent's insistence on teleporting all over the clearing.

By the end of it, Cid can't hold back the question anymore. Clive is blasé about his brother, blasé about Benedikta, blasé about Cid, and for a man who watched his brother seemingly die at Phoenix Gate, he's remarkably blasé about the dominant supposedly responsible for that murder. To Cid, only one explanation can justify that last attitude.

So: "For a true Shield of Rosaria, and one blessed by the Phoenix, you seem to have a rather small grudge against the creature that tried to take your brother's life. And before you hit me with that 'it's complicated' nonsense, I know, my memory's not fully gone just yet."

Clive's bemusement is back. It comes and goes, but it seems to come quite often when Cid talks. It's a funny feeling, like Clive is in on some joke that Cid should know but doesn't. "You don't believe there's a second Dominant of Fire."

"'And lo, the Creator did make of the Elements Eight Eikons to serve as keepers of the One Law,'" he quotes while he inspects the bodies of the fallen royalists. "Not that I've ever set too much store by holy doctrine…but on that point it's clear. Fire has always had just the one warden, as have all the rest. A new one can't be born until the previous dies, and even that can take years." He crouches next to the final body and looks over his shoulder at Clive. "The thing is, you don't strike me as a liar."

This soldier actually has some gil to his name, which Cid promptly liberates.

"Cryptic and strange," he finishes, "but not a liar."

And it's damn frustrating, that contradiction. He's been prodding at the manifold contradictions that make up Clive Rosfield all day, but no explanation can make all of the puzzle pieces fit together.

Clive takes a while to absorb Cid's point. Cid can almost see the gears turning in his mind while he considers what to reveal, if anything. He sighs and steps back, finding a clear patch of ground well away from Cid and the other bodies.

And then the bastard semi-primes.

For an instant, Cid mistakes it for more Phoenix flames, but then his brain catches up and he realizes this is not that. The jagged, almost stonelike armor on his arms and legs; the molten red coursing through his hair; the blue blazing in his eyes, and the inferno eating up the air around him—that's a different Eikon altogether.

Clive releases the Eikon's power just as quickly as he summons it, and Cid is left to stare, for once completely and utterly speechless. It takes him several torturous seconds to get his spinning thoughts under control enough to say, weakly, "Complicated."

Far from being sated, his hunger for answers devours itself and emerges doubled in ferocity. He has questions, at least three for every one that Clive's reveal has answered. But—and it's painful to admit—this isn't the time; if they dawdle any longer, they won't make it to Lostwing by nightfall, much less mitigate the damage of the royalists' attack and put a stop to whatever Benedikta's planning. So he instead lights himself a cigarette, takes a deep breath, and lets it all go with the exhale. You wouldn't believe me, Clive had said. Not without proof, he'd said.

Yeah, he'd been right.

"We'll talk about this later."

It's a promise that could easily be mistaken for a threat. Clive nods anyway.

Despite making haste, they don't reach Lostwing before nightfall. Cid is inclined to blame this on the Waloeders they'd encountered on the way for all the good that does him; the end result is the same. He and Clive split up to search the unsettlingly quiet Lostwing for Gav. Clive proposes the tactically questionable method of shouting to signal the man's been found.

Tactically questionable, but exactly what Cid would've proposed. What's an imperial-trained assassin doing, going around practicing a cocky outlaw's methods?

He hadn't even asked what Gav looked like. It works out in the end, since Cid finds Gav first, in no small part thanks to the injured bearer imprisoned with him groaning loud enough to be heard from well outside his cell. Cid dispatches the guard too busy berating Gav for asking for help to watch his back, blasts open the door, and, as a final touch, shouts Clive's name.

Gav meets him halfway across the improvised cell. "Thought you weren't comin'."

"You still alive, Gav?"

"Barely. Been doin' what I can for the villagers, but…"

Hearing footsteps approaching, Cid offers a supportive bump to Gav's chest and turns towards the doorway. Clive appears in all his imperial-armored glory, which of course sets Gav off—until Cid's ready hand lands heavy on his shoulder.

"It's all right, he's with me. Gav, Clive. Clive, Gav."

Clive nods at Gav, and againthere's that glimmer in his eye, not dissimilar from what Cid had seen while extending his offer back at the hideaway. "Pleasure."

"Right," Gav says slowly, before sharing the news of what's gone on.

It isn't great: the uninjured bearers have been taken to Caer Norvent, the suspected Dominant of Fire among them. Clive frowns at this news but doesn't seem disappointed. With how he acts, he probably saw all this coming a mile away. Hell, he may've even let Cid find the prisoners first, omniscient bastard that he pretends to be.

Maybe his Eikon has foresight buried under all that fire.

A door opens behind them. They turn. The Waloeder soldier makes it halfway up the short staircase coming from the tunnel leading out of Lostwing, freezes, and then flees.

"I'll give you one guess where he's going," Cid says. "Clive! After him!"

Clive's moving, Torgal in tow, before Cid finishes speaking. Cid isn't so quick to move; he glances down at the injured bearer.

"One last question for you," Cid says to him. "Had a nosebleed recently?"

Gav furrows his brow but glances at the bearer, who doesn't seem to know how to respond.

"This isn't a test, there's no wrong answer," Cid clarifies. "The bearers I work with all had one. Suffice to say I'm interested in hearing if it's more widespread than just our community."

More nervous looks, until finally the injured bearer speaks up. "I did, a-all of us bearers did, just this morning. Thought we were ill, but…nothing came of it."

Gav looks back at Cid. "What about your new friend? He get one too?"

"You know, I haven't actually asked him."

"There was a surge of aether, too," another villager says. "Almost thought it was a flood, at first."

"Thank the Founder it wasn't," mutters Gav. "No one woulda survived. What're you thinkin', Cid?"

"Nothing, yet. You got things in hand here, Gav?"

"Eh, more or less, so long as more don't show up."

Cid claps him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit. I'll be back as soon as I've made sure Clive hasn't gotten himself into more trouble. He's got as much a knack for finding it as you for getting out of it."

"Uh…thanks?"

Cid heads out after the bearer-turned-dominant as though the trouble won't be falling more on whomever Clive finds at the end of his chase.

A second Dominant of Fire.

Rather exciting.