Found Something Better
Mirror and Image
Now, some people might have had words about Cid when he first stepped off the boat: runaway, maybe. Stowaway, definitely, but to Cid's mind the best word was "adventurer." Sixteen and determined to have a life, thank you, rather than stay in the prison that was his childhood, every sight and sound and smell was new and therefore exciting. He imagined himself a famous sellsword, in cognito before his next contract and swaggering down the streets and making eyes at every pretty thing that turned his head.
The air was different here. The Twins, they called it, twin continents filled with countries and cultures and adventures. Storm and Ash - pretty average words to name continents in Cid's mind, but as he wandered the streets he started to understand the weight the names had: Storm was always at war, a great place to make a name for himself, and Ash was damn near conquered by the Blight. Maybe not the best place to start but he couldn't help where he landed. He constantly smelled an oncoming storm, felt the tingle of charged air along his skin.
Imagine his surprise, then, when a bandit tried to have his way with him and lightning shot out of his hand.
"Fuck," he'd muttered, "Never done that before."
"It's a bearer!"
What the hell? He wasn't an it!
That first scrap he'd managed to escape, but he'd lasted maaaaaaaaybe a month before he was rounded up. He'd no idea what the hell a bearer was but he learned quick enough what it meant. Made a terrible slave, he did, kept mouthing off and demanding fair treatment, left him bloody and broken more than once, and finally he just got so mad that the lightning came again, stronger than anything he thought possible.
That was when he learned that there was an old man haunting him.
He'd escaped then, and hid in the bluffs and the rocks, panting and trying to figure out what any of this was. Words occurred to him in half remembered dreams or insights: Ramuh. Eikon. Dominant. Priming.
A hunting party had scouted him out, and there were men with staves there, and they could do a hell of a lot more than him. Cid reached out to the old man, demanding help, and there was a deep, beleaguered sigh before something shifted, everything changed, there was lightning in his veins and a staff in his hand and air under his feet and an understanding that this was an utter waste of what he was capable of.
"You wanted better, old man? Is that it?" Cid asked when it was done, sparks jittering up his arms still. "I'll see what I can do about that, eh?"
A year later he met Odin.
Just turned eighteen, having blown through battalion after battalion as he tested himself, and finally met by a man in black and blue, asking if Cid would be a worthy challenge.
The fight had lasted three hours, and Barnabus Tharmr had laughed at finally enjoying a battle. Cid had been trounced of course, and by that point he'd figured he'd had a good run of it. It was an adventure like no other, but if he was some fucking bearer, well. There was no surviving the havoc he had wrecked.
"Is that what you think you are?" Barnabus had asked. "Oh, my boy, you're no bearer. You, Ramuh, are special."
For over twenty years Cid was by the king's side. He learned all about Waloed and Sanbreque and Rosaria and the Dalmek and the Dominion and the Iron Blood and the Northern Territories. He found another dominant, thought to be a slave like he was, a child half his age that he tried to take under his wing. The three of them lorded over Ash: King, Lord Commander, and High Intelligencer. It was a much higher adventure than being a sellsword - Cid swept over battlefields as Ramuh and owned every engagement he entered. It was considered a treat when Odin joined in, usually it meant some other Dominant was on the field and the man was trying to test himself.
Barnabas was a prickly sort - so often bored and only really alive on the field. At best he was philosophical: deeply religious of a god that Cid never entirely understood. Oh, he listened and he learned, mind, but all this talk of the second coming, of Mythos and the new world, was little more than a laugh by his standards. Benne didn't really understand it either, but the poor lass had been a slave much longer than Cid, and been hurt much deeper.
Cid would still think about that time, chained and whipped and beaten. He'd never grown up in a world of slavery, not the way Benne did, and his acceptance of it was… He would catch himself on the field sometimes, seeing the bearers at the front, or the Branded of Sanbreque. The only thing that prevented him from being in that sorry lot was Ramuh, and he never really understood how the old man made him special enough to be held above it all, as a Lord Commander.
And as he got older…
He didn't notice the curse at first. Days came where he woke up stiff. Magic always prickled up his arms when he cast it but sometimes the tingle hardened to an itch, and it wouldn't leave. The change was so gradual he didn't even notice it. Oh, he'd seen cursed bearers, of course, they were usually front of the line and first to be mowed down. White patches no matter the skin tone, and such a limited range of motion you'd think they were turning to stone. He'd heard they did turn to stone, but believing it was a different matter entirely. Or, it was til he woke up one morning and saw the same white patch at his elbow. He'd stared at it for a long, long time, recontextualizing so many things, it felt like his entire life to that point was finally brought to focus.
He denied if of course, he was still a cheery, contrarian cad, and he wasn't yet ready to face what was actually happening to him. If he woke up stiff, it was because more often than not he was sleeping on the ground on the front lines. If the aether itched to the point of pain after a fight, it meant Sanbreque had pulled a lot out of him. When the pain went from sporadic to frequent and the curse spread up to his shoulder, he just figured he needed to be more economical with his usage. Laughed at the Dalmeks and said they weren't worth a full prime. When the pain went from frequent to chronic, though, he really started to look at himself.
Woke up one morning so stiff he couldn't get out of bed - they'd just taken the Strait back from Sanbreque and Bahamut had taken the field. Odin stepped in because of course he did when another Dominant engaged, and then they'd been surprised by Ironhold and the new Shiva. Benne was in the Dalmekian Republic on assignment, and Cid had no choice but to fully prime. The fight had lasted three hours and by the end Bahamut had won, taken the keep and forced the Walooders back. Cid and Barnabas were on the Einherjar, Cid exhausted and Barnabas smiling like he'd had the time of his life. Next morning Cid was stuck in bed, unable to move and terrified he had finally crossed the line and was going to turn to stone. He lay there in bed for hours, too weak to even cry for help until a sergeant was sent for him and found him.
Barnabas visited him as the physikers looked him over. Stone had spread to his chest overnight and a new patch was on his hip. He could hardly move his arm, his days of dual-wielding were well and truly done. The king stared at him as the physickers gave their diagnosis, bored as he so often was, and dismissed everyone in the room.
Cid tried to read the king, his bitterness had grown with the curse, and now he was no longer an asset on the field. What would Barnabas do?
"Oh, Ramuh," he lilted, bending forward slightly and lifting a hand, caressing Cid's cheek with the back of his knuckles. "Your will, your consciousness, has created this curse in you. If only you let go, then you would be cured as I have."
"I've told you before Barnie, I'm not the believing type."
"Truth does not require belief," Barnabas said, moving to sit on the bed and Cid too stiff to give the man space. The king sat at his hip, leaning forward more still, filling all of Cid's vision, consuming his sight. "Let go of your will, submit to God, and you will live as long as I."
Faith was not something that lived in Cid, he was a man of the world he was. He believed in the people around him; not in the goddess Greagor or the Founder of the Flames of the sanctity of the Mothercrystals or the four-armed Ultima or whoever else people prayed to. Barnabas had tried more than once to convert him, but Cid couldn't believe in something that couldn't be seen - and of all the gods, Ultima didn't exactly extol a happy tale even if it were real. Cid did what he always did, he offered a dashing smile. "Sorry mate," he said, "Too much of a contrarian."
The disappointment was palpable but quickly packed away, and Barnabas stood.
"Now that Ironhold has Shiva, we'll have to liberate her. You'll depart once we've made port to open negotiations. Say yes to whatever deal they offer so long as it gets you to talk to her. Convince her like you did Garuda, that we will give her the freedom the Ironblood never will."
"Just like that?" Cid asked, keeping his voice jovial and hiding the revelation he was experiencing. "I can barely sit up and I'm off to another assignment?"
"Of course," Barnabas said. "If you refuse to let go your consciousness and submit to God, then we have to use the time you have left wisely and maximize how much you can do while you still can."
The cold, detached efficiency of that sentence killed Cid in that moment. Over twenty years he had given that man, and this was all he was to the king: a thing to be used.
He was laid up for a week on the Einherjar, the entire sail back to Stonehyrr, before he could move enough to get up and walk around. The physikers said these bouts of stiffness would go longer and longer, and happen faster and faster the more he primed. He sought out Benne as soon as he could, he needed a comforting ear, someone who knew what it was like.
He found her writing a letter. "The new Titan," she said proudly. "We finally met, and I've begun sealing an alliance." Her eyes were tight, though, and she had the look she sometimes got when something was bothering her. Cid leaned in, put a hand on her shoulder, and she shrugged it off, turning.
"... how'd you seal the alliance?" Cid asked, because he'd seen that reaction on her when he first found her, and he knew, he knew but he didn't want to believe.
Her frail, young silhouette shifted, back straightening and confidence filling her frame. She turned with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "What I had to," she said simply, and oh, Benne, that's not how it's supposed to happen.
"Oh, lass," he said, reaching up and holding her cheek. Her eyes sparkled when he did that, and he knew what she wanted but it wasn't in him to give, not to a child like her. "You're letting him use you."
"No," she corrected, "I'm keeping us safe. The more Dominants we have on our side the more power we have, and the more power we have the safer we'll be."
She was still a child, in some respects, even now ten years on. Desperately clinging to those that were kind to her and wanting to feel safe and doing whatever it took to feel it. This is what slavery did, Cid realized, and so many pieces of his world were breaking but this, this broke his heart. "Power isn't safety," he said, voice low. "And Barnie isn't looking out for our best interests like I thought he was."
Everything in her tensed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what I said: he's using us."
Benne pulled away then, leaving his hand floating in air and backing up three steps. "Don't be stupid," she said, "That's not like you. No one's touched me since Garuda - everyone does what I say and I can control everything around me."
"Except the orders you're given," Cid countered, keeping his voice soft and taking one step closer. "Benne, you have to see that. Don't tell me you wanted to bed that big oaf Hugo Kupka."
"Does it matter?" she countered, pulling out her thin pipe. "I'll have him wrapped around my finger in a year's time, and he'll do whatever we want."
"No, he'll do whatever Barnie wants," Cid said. "We don't have equal footing here. And I'm starting to realize we don't even know what that man wants."
"Yes we do, he wants all the Dominants together, a united front so we can all be safe."
"Safe to do what," Cid asked, "Wait for his precious Mythos to reshape the world? I'm not all that fond of the idea myself, and I'm starting to realize what he wants and what I want are two different things."
"How could they possibly be different?"
"He wants all of us bending the knee at his Ultima, Benne. He wants us to give up everything, even our wills, to his God. I want all of us to be equal, on a level playing ground, live on our own terms."
"That's what we're doing, isn't it?"
"No, Benne, it's not." Cid realized the truth of it as he said it, and his arm throbbed, right where the stone met the skin and he shifted his weight, putting the bad arm on the hilt of his swords. "We're not on level ground if there's a god above us commanding us, commanding Barnie, to do what we're doing. It should be our choice, our own wants, that make us do what we do." He took another step forward, Benne lighting her pipe and rolling her eyes. "You want to be safe, yeah? You want to know no one's ever going to hurt you again, to be loved like you deserve. I want to be free, Benne - that's all I've ever wanted. I came here to be free, I followed Barnie to be free, I took you in to help free you. But look where we are, thrown around on the battlefield to be used up 'til we're little more than statues and then discarded for the next Dominant. Barnie isn't freeing us, he's controlling us in any way he can. He promised me a grand adventure, he promised you safety, he's forced you to promise love with Kupka, and now he's sending me off to drag in Shiva."
"You are?" she asked, interest stoking and eyes lighting up. "It'll be nice to have another sister. I can't even imagine what it's like to be a Dominant in Ironhold."
Cid pursed his lips, stepping forward again. She wasn't listening, and she wasn't going to listen, but he had to try. He had to make her see.
"How do I make you see?" he asked. "That the king is fine with working us to an early grave?"
Her eyes changed again, something he couldn't immediately read, and she froze, mouth slightly open. Her eyes shined bright, and she blinked once, twice, before audibly breathing in and shutting down. "We're all going to die, Cid. It's a question of when."
"Not when, Benne. How." He lifted his arm, the itch still there but subsided, and moved to start rolling up his sleeve.
"Stop," she said, closing the distance and grabbing his elbow. "Don't show me," she said, voice tight, "I don't want to see it."
"Oh, lass," Cid responded, so full of empathy, having had that thought himself when he first saw his elbow. He let her stop him, but he pressed forward regardless. "Has it started for you, too?" he asked. "Does drawing the aether burn a little, after you use it? Does a part of you itch for no reason?"
"Shut up."
"Benne, he's going to use you up, too. Just like he is me."
"That's not what he's doing. I'm an Intelligencer, I use aether less than anyone, he's keeping me safe. He knows how valuable I am-"
"He knows how valuable Garuda is. That's all he sees you as. You're not Benedikta Harman, you're Garuda, and that's the only thing he sees in you."
"No it's not! Why are you talking like this? What's come over you?"
"What's come over me is that I'm leaving, Benne," he said, voice soft as a raindrop. "I want you to come with me. Somewhere. Anywhere. Where we can be free."
"We're free here! You're talking nonsense!"
"Benne-"
She slapped him, hard across his cheek, and both of them froze at the gesture, surprised that it had happened. Cid recovered first, using his bad arm to rub at the sharp sting as it flared. Benne's nostrils flared, eyes wide. "Stay," she whispered. "Don't leave me."
"Then come with me," Cid said, also a whisper. He reached up with his free hand to grab the one that had struck him. "Learn how to be free on your own terms."
"... it doesn't exist," she confessed, so quiet Cid almost didn't hear her.
"Don't settle, lass," Cid tried again. "Not when you deserve-"
She kissed him, then, pressing her lithe body up against him and making him stumble back. She was aggressive, grabbing at his head and hopping up, always light as a feather and wrapping her legs around him, pinning an arm and leaving the other forced to try and hold her weight. She moaned, low in her throat as she tried to explore and Cid tried to back up until his back was against the wall. She broke off with a gasp of air, eyes dilated and lips swollen. "All I need is you," she said, throaty. She leaned in again for another taste and Cid had the chance to turn his face away.
"No," he said. Not with a girl young enough to be his daughter, not with someone unwilling to admit how broken they were, unwilling to work on themselves to be better. Not with someone who was happy with the shackles of their life. Cid had bed many a person, yes, he was a cad through and through, but he had a type: strong willed, willing to fight, full of dreams and hope and belief that things could change. Benne was none of those things, a frightened child desperate for someone to protect her and unwilling to learn how to protect herself.
The rejection dawned slowly, hurt blooming to a single tear falling down a cheek and then…
Rage.
The wind buffeted him so suddenly he was breathless, and the old man was in his ear telling him to run the fuck away but Cid was never one to listen. "Benne!" he shouted over the gale, "Please! Listen!"
But wings had erupted from her back, she had already semi primed, and the blast that followed shoved him through the wall and out into open air - he had no choice but to prime to survive the fall from the tower. That little fight would have been the stuff of legends on Storm, wind and lightning battling back and forth, everyone giving it their all, Cid dead certain he was on a ticking clock until Odin was risen from his boredom.
In the end he rode the lightning, disappearing into the levin and disappearing into the storm they had created. Lightning traveled faster than wind had any hope to, and Cid jolted from storm to storm, something he didn't even know he could do but the old man encouraged until he was spent. He fell from the sky in a marsh, water splaying everywhere and him damn near drowning until he could find the strength to roll over. Ramuh was in his ear, pushing him to move and hide.
"I… know that… old… man…" he panted, struggling to crawl up to his feet, soaked through. Everything burned, he was so stiff, so sore, he could hardly move. He didn't dare risk a smoke, and for four days he froze his ass off hiding in the roots of an upended tree, unable to move further and terrified he was going to get caught. It was two weeks before he could make it to a port, any port, and book passage under his old name across the Strait to Sanbreque.
In some ways, Sanbreque was more dangerous than Ash. His face brought him safety on his home continent, here he was nobody; and if he wasn't careful, he'd be branded.
On the bright side, he mused, he wanted to never use aether again, so he could try actually living for a change. No Waloed armor, only leathers and his two swords, traveling merrily to Oriflamme and the University. He was too old to be a student and too dumb to be a teacher, but the libraries were public to anyone who wasn't branded and he cut a fine enough figure to pass as a minor noble. He believed everything Barnie had ever told him, and now that he knew it was all a grand manipulation, he wanted to see what the world was really like.
An old loresmen helped him the most between his lessons with the royals, happy to have someone with such varied interests as Bearers and Histories and Dominants. "You remind me of one of my pupils," he said with a smirk and a wry twinkle of the eye, "But the Crystalline Dominion and the Free Cities of Kanver have more books to your liking, your Lordship."
"Whatever you say, Happy," Cid said with a wink, taking his findings and moving south.
It took a year to learn as much about the truth as he could. Bearers, Dominants, aether slowly grew to crystals, Mothercrystals, how they worked, the science of aether and theories on how Bearers could wield it compared to Dominants. He also looked up books of the old country, the shitstain he was born to with no magic and how they managed without it. Blessings, Curses, the intermarried lineage of the Rosefields and the complicated nobility of Sanbreque and the matrilineal tribes of the Northern Territories and the Crystal Orthodoxy and the "mystery" of Waloed. Everything had gaps, everything had holes or wild theories, but Cid was a Lord Commander for a reason, and the old man that haunted him always approved when he had a thought that was truer than society might perceive.
He didn't have a plan, necessarily, but he had a goal: get rid of the aether. If he got rid of the aether, then the plight of the Bearers were null and void, and the Dominants would disappear, and maybe by then his successors could die on their own terms. Cid wasn't going to die on his own terms - his terms had been whittled and chipped away by the King, moving his arm was a coin toss some days, and his was going to be a slow, painful, bitter end instead of a blaze of glory for a worthy cause.
He'd hit the point where he needed a friendly ear. That was how he met up with Otto.
Otto, now. That man he'd known since he was thirty, chartering a ship off to the next little war and drowning in each other's cups. Man was solid as a mountain, grounded and down to earth in a way Cid liked and often needed.
He'd lost twenty pounds in his intellectual excursion. He was no less a fighter - duel-wielding once a month now notwithstanding - but the lack of income had taken its toll. So had the revelations. So had… well, suffice to say he was happy to see the portsman.
Otto had also had a time of it - they hadn't seen each other in a good seven years - not since Sanbreque had taken back Benelus Tor and the reason to port had been lost. Cid knew the man had finally taken to port, had a sweetheart and the man had so proudly said he had a kid on the way. Cid had expected to find a small house with a little skallywag running about. Instead he found a one-room shack of a place over a bar. There was a darkness in his eyes and lines in his face that had nothing to do with age. The two of them smiled to see each other, but it was a grim, depressing thing, and Cid put his life on pause to learn what had happened to such a good man.
They both got drunk together first, before anything else, to remind themselves that good things still happened. Otto said he had a son - fine strapping little bugger, lungs that would put Cid's thunder to shame. Eyes just like his mum, and a dark fuzz of hair, and a smile that would light up a whole room. Had him a whole year - nameday had the wife's whole family over, swaddling clothes, linen dolls, congratulations all around.
"A week later they tested him," Otto slurred, bent over their table, and voice almost invisible. "Found out he was a Bearer." He took a long, throaty draw from his drink, wincing at the burn. "Tried to tell them it didn't matter, he was still our son first. We could go somewhere, anywhere. Rosaria, Kanver, didn't matter. They summoned the constable. Held me down while they took him away. You could hear the screams as they Branded him. He was only one…"
Cid cried then, two fat tears rolling down his cheek as his heart bled for his best friend. More followed, one after the other, and Otto looked up as he realized what Cid was doing, and he pulled the old codger into a tight hug. "That wasn't right," he said, gripping Otto. "None of this is right."
His revelation - if possible - was even greater than on the ship, laid up and his King telling him he was nothing but a thing to be used. He saw it all - all his reading and research having coalesced into a truth that was so profound the old man haunting his ear damn near spoke to him, his approval was so strong: Aether, Bearers, Dominants - none of it mattered. It wasn't worth a damn to anyone, it was all created, constructed as a means of using people. Bearers were slaves, yes, but so were Dominants. Hell, they were called Dominants because they had to wrest control of the Eikon from the very Eikon themselves. It was all one long chain of control and subjugation, and now that he saw it for what it was he was overcome with emotion. All those years wasted, serving Barnabas thinking he was consolidating power to the winning side when in reality he was actually gathering an expendable army of tools instead of soldiers for a man who openly admitted his servitude to someone else. It wasn't just people who controlled them: kings and emperors and dukes, it was an entire system, and it was created to control them from the start. It all made a terrible sense and Cid cried until there were no tears left in him.
Otto had slowly shifted from being held by Cid to holding Cid.
"Bugger me," he cursed when he could finally get words out around his sobs. "None of this is right…"
"Cid…"
He looked up, grabbing Otto's shoulder. "We're gonna fix it," he said. "All of it. Bearers should… we've got to make a safe space for them, Otto, somewhere they aren't slaves, where they can die on their own terms and not worked to death only to be replaced by another. We'll carve it out of stone if we have to."
"But… Cid… you're a Lord Commander."
"No, Otto," he confessed. "Not anymore. I can't serve a man who'd use Bearers like your son and use Dominants like…" he cut the thought off, not ready yet to admit what had happened to him, and between the drink and the crying his head was utterly throbbing, and sentences were getting a might hard for him to figure out. That was the last real moment he could remember, and barely that, before he woke the next morning - afternoon, rather - and cursed for his hangover.
He glared at himself in a small hand mirror, looked at the heavy lines and the dark circles under his eyes. He was a right mess he was, and he sighed as he pulled off his doublet to clean up.
Otto arrived as he did, already with a bucket in hand but it fell to the floor as he stared.
Cid almost asked what he was on about before remembering the curse and grabbing his doublet. "Fuck me," he muttered. All color had drained from Otto's face.
"You mean to tell me Dominants suffer the Curse, too?" Otto demanded, later, when Cid had cleaned up and covered up, back down in the bar and sitting at the same table from last night. Cid wondered if he had lost time with the surreality of it.
"Aye," he said, casual as you like, grabbing a smoke and lighting it with a crystal. The first drag did wonders for his headache, and he watched Otto's eyes double in size. "We're no different from Bearers. We draw aether, same as them, we're cursed, same as them. Only difference as I reckon are the Eikons themselves - and barely that I'd wager." He took another draw, watching on the exhale the plumes of smoke waft in the air. "Otto, I meant what I said last night. We're going to find a place for Bearers where they can be free. Where they don't have to work. Where they can breathe, and die on their own terms."
Otto's eyes welled, but nothing spilled over as Cid's proposal settled over him.
"What, just like that?"
Cid nodded. "Just like that."
A year later they had a couple of other members of this little club, a Hideaway, and a tiny tyke running around and getting into everything she could get her hands on. Little Midadol was blonde and blue-eyed - the resemblance to Benne was not lost on Cid, and he hoped this time he did it better.
He'd told Otto everything by then, the King, the break, the escape; his theories on the systems controlling them, aether being the source of all their problems.
And he told him about his plan.
Well, plan might be a bit of a strong word, to be sure, but sneaking into Drake's Head at the very least meant he had access to the mines and the chance to free a few Bearers if things went tits up, and if he happened to destroy the Mothercrystal, well, it was bob's your uncle, that. Otto had a long, long list of ways this was all going to go wrong, sent him to Charon three separate times to get him outfitted, and then gripped his shoulder and wished him good luck.
Of all the capitals on the Twins, Oriflamme was the most ostentatious. Stonehyrr had the coast, the reef, and rocks for days as defenses went. Rosalith was practical to its bones, surrounded by marshes and coastline and vulnerable from almost all directions if it didn't maximize its defenses. Ran'della was opulent of course, but nestled in a narrow valley that was easily walled off for security and gave great aerial defense with patrols on the ridges, and so on. Oriflamme, now, that was the crown jewel of the empire - its very city built up a ridgeline and then up into the sky to match the profile of their Mothercrystal. Cid had been to the city more than once, part of the king's entourage when one of them sued for peace. He knew about the Glass Gate, where the mined crystals were loaded and transported. That was the public entrance, of course, but he knew there were going to be other ways in, he just had to find it.
The Dame's recommendation had put him in a brothel in the pleasure quarter, where he had a good view of the streets and a great view of the castle and the Mothercyrstal behind it. He moved about for almost a month, probing for a way in, posing as a courtesan and sleeping with whomever he could at the brothel to ask questions, and stalking the perimeter of the castle. Every Mothercyrstal had sacred structures inside - Stonehyrr had Barnabas' private chapel to his god, Drake's Breath was rumored to be a shrine to the Founder of the Flames before the Orthodoxy took it, etc. He tried the various Gregor churches, even donned the vestments a few times saying he was a transplant from the Rosarian border. The pastors all said only the castle chapel was powerful enough to go to the Source, and Cid was starting to think this was going to get annoying. Well, opportunity to learn and grow, and all that.
He was staring out over the Glass Gate, feeling a might petulant, when Ramuh rumbled deep inside him, and his eyes drifted to the upper levels and ramparts.
Right… The gate itself would have all the focus because that's where the crystals were exiting - but there must be other side entrances around the gate of the mine that would have less scrutiny because of that focus.
"Right. Thanks, old man," he muttered, pulling back and going back to the brothel to change into his normal clothes. Shift change would be the best time to sneak in.
The mines were just like in Stonehyrr, and seeing them again hurt something in Cid's heart. He'd talked to Barnabas more than once, trying to get the man - a Dominant, just like him, Cursed just like them - to have a care. He'd left the old country to get away from work like this, back breaking and paid pittance - here they weren't even paid. They didn't go home to family dead tired, they slept here for a "generous" four hours before getting up and working more. The aether was thick here, Cid could smell it in the air, and he knew for a cold fact that every person underground was a Bearer, the guards prodding them with spears and changing shifts every few hours so they weren't overcome.
He sighed, eyes darting here and there to decide how to bring the whole thing down once the heart was taken care of.
Maps were at guard stations, and nicking them was a test of skill, but he managed, and he already knew the layout of the palace from his multiple trips there. He knew where the royal chapel was and had a good idea how it would line up with the map he studied… so… there. He rolled it up and tucked it away in case he got lost. The passage he was looking for was the opposite end he had ended up, and he carefully shocked a few irons to free some bearers, hoping for a few runaways.
To his disappointment they carried on regardless, too beaten down to recognize the freedom he'd subtly given them. He sighed again. What he wouldn't give for enough safety to smoke.
The passage led up to a brick wall, and he knew he had the right of it. He'd had to semi-prime to get through the brick. He waited, ready to bolt if anyone heard that ruckus, but nothing came, and he was able to breach the wall and enter the Mothercrystal's Heart. The blue light shed everything in shades of azure and gray, he looked out over the rail and saw the temple built into the crystal - given the Emperor was a reincarnation of Gregor herself, he wondered if this was used in rituals with the five Cardinals and the High Cardinal. Likely only the royal family would have access to it, meaning in all likelihood it would be deserted.
He smiled to himself once the old man approved.
Best not take any chances though, and so he moved very carefully down the stairs, one landing after the next, crouching low in case there were any surprises. The aether was thick in the air, if he needed it to take out the crystal he had plenty to draw from. He could see the main landing, now, colossally massive doors most likely to the royal chapel. He froze to see one of them open, two silhouettes moving in and stopping at the gate, adrenaline flooding his senses before he could find an outcropping of the natural cavern to hide behind.
"My Prince," he heard.
"Dion, please, lest I start calling you Lord l'Inébranlable."
A soft exhale, full of mirth. "As you wish, Dion."
"Thank you, Terence."
"Is this it then? Greagor's Birth?"
"Yes. Greagor herself was born here, born of herself and by herself, alone and yet together."
"I'm… surprised," one of them said, moving forward to look through the gate. Cid marked him as the Terence l'Inébranlable. Terrible last name but the first was easier to remember. The slightly taller one was Dion, then, Bahamut himself, and Cid blinked to realize the lad was so young. Couldn't have been more than seventeen, and he'd been fighting the lad for at least five years. What a bloody fucking business it was - all of it, and his heart bled again.
"Why are you surprised?"
"Surprised that you would bring me down here, My Pr-Dion."
"I was told that only truths could be said in this place," Dion said, joining the other boy and placing a hand on the gate. "This is the only place I could think of to speak… freely…"
"Is this about your promotion?"
"No. Yes. In a way…" Dion shook his head, pressing it against the gate before turning, back to Cid, to better face the boy Terence. "Much is on my mind as of late, and almost none of it can be spoken of inside the palace. But here I thought…" The prince looked at the gate, and beyond to the heart.
Terence - lad was as young as Dion, they were fucking kids - leaned in to the crown prince's space, and Cid watched him place a chaste kiss on the prince's cheek. "Speak your mind," the boy said, "and know I'll speak to none."
A gentle sigh. "I know nought what I've done to earn such steadfast loyalty, Terence." He returned the kiss and pressed his back to the gate, turning from legend. The light from the ajar entryway doors highlighted the blond head, making it and the royal whites glow gold and warming the cool blue shadows of the Mothercrystal's heart.
"Yes, I've been promoted - but what you do not know is how much of a promotion it is."
"We've been in the Dragoons for a year," Terence said, frowning, hand still on the metal gate. "Surely you could not have been promoted as far as you're implying."
"They made me a lieutenant colonel."
"... what?"
Dion nodded, looking up to the golden light.
"That's four ranks…! Lieutenant colonels need a least a decade on the field and-"
"And Bahamut has taken back the Strait and reclaimed Benelus Tor and has pushed thirty cliques into Dalmekia," the prince replied. "A hero among heroes, too grand to be left to go fallow in the rank of captain. They would have made me general, were I not so young."
"But… you entered the Dragoons as captain," Terence said slowly, now turning to better face Dion. Cid ducked further back to prevent being seen. "I've only just made captain myself. I thought…"
Dion nodded. "Bahamut is the beacon of Sanbreque. He brings light and hope to its people, and deserves a station of respect. That's what my father said when we met. Hearing that I am a lowly captain is ill-fitting Bahamut's importance, and so I am promoted, the Warden of Light climbing the ranks quickly to better serve the people of Sanbreque."
The prince's back was to Cid, but he could see Terence clear as day, and the boy understood as well as Cid did.
"Do you think it right?" the lad asked.
Dion's response was long in coming, eyes up to the light on the other side of the gate, up the stairs to the royal chapel before he took a slow, audible breath. "If the people of Sanbreque need hope, and I can give it, then I shall. I have been gifted the strength to protect our people, and that is exactly what I will do."
Terence's face collapsed on itself, head dipping down and Cid saw heartbreak everywhere before the lad lifted his head again, trying to smile. "Then I will have to work that much harder," he said, "so as to be by your side. My Prince."
"Terence…"
"No," he answered, shaking his head. "Surely you remember? When I was sworn to be your squire, I vowed to be by your side. Time and age and rank have little to do with those vows, they are held cherished in my heart at all times. I will be by your side, Dion, and if I must rise up the ranks to do so, I will."
"Terence, I will make General before I am twenty."
"Then I know how fast I have to prove myself."
"No, do not push yourself for my account, I would not-"
"I know, Dion, and thus I must."
Cid held in a scoff, that was too sappy for words, and he was a little afraid he was about to be an unwanted witness to a clandestine tryst instead of a happenstance conversation. The two were making eyes at each other like the Blight was upon them and he did not relish the idea of listening to all that while waiting for them to take their leave. He preferred doing the act, not watching it - especially without consent or knowledge.
"... There is more," Cid heard, and he felt nothing but relief. He risked glancing out of his hidespot and saw one of the lads, Terence, stiffen.
"Of the meeting?"
"The Lady Rosefield has asked that I renounce my title as crown prince and abdicate my right to the throne."
"... what?!"
Cid agreed: what?
"She has informed me that she is with child, and as the woman who birthed the Phoenix it would only be right that a child of such royal lineage inherit the throne instead of…" his voice trailed off, the prince looking up to the light, and even at a distance Cid could see a mountain of conflict on the lad's face. "I refused, if Bahamut is to be the light of Sanbreque, is to be promoted to a rank deserving, then to renounce the crown would be in direct contradiction to that goal. But… His Eminence made it very clear that it would happen."
"But… His Eminence… surely there is a misunderstanding. You are his son."
"No, Terence, I am Bahamut above all else, and my duty is to the people."
Cid's mind was going about a mile a minute by then, eyes darting back and forth as he realized he pieced together his haphazard observations of Sanbreque policy and linked it back to Sylvestre Lesage, putting together an image of a man he'd never met but had felt on the battle field through tactical decisions, choice of leadership, and putting a fucking kid on the field as a weapon. Ramuh was in his ear again, muddled but loud in following the trail of thought.
"... and all that is understood," he heard Terence saying, "but what I fail to understand is how the Lady has commanded such weight over His Eminence's thoughts. Duchess of Rosaria, yes, and worthy of high standing, but she is still of Rosaria, she is not related even distantly to Sanbreque."
"I myself asked a similar question," Dion replied. "I will confess to you and none else: I did not comport myself well in that moment, but…" He looked up, again facing the light of the royal chapel above them. "The Night of Flames. We were but children then, what do you remember?"
Terence frowned. "There were rumors of an Orthodoxy attack, my father said. The Army of Wings were sent to the border to give reassurances only to find Waloed forces somehow in Central Storm. When they arrived it was already too late."
"Yes," Dion said, looking up but eyes downcast. "We were all told that, weren't we?"
It crashed together in Cid's head before it did Terence's - they'd always wondered why Sanbreque had made their first attempt on the Strait right after the Night of Flames - the fighting for that war had been especially bitter, even Ramuh had not been enough and Odin himself had been forced to take the field. Waloed had been a scapegoat, and Cid could easily construct the pieces of what had happened. The question was how - It was a four month trip on a racing chocobo to go from Rosaria to Oriflamme and-
The Day of Remembrance. All of them had been there, Rosaira, Sanbreque, Dalmekia, Waloed just barely, even the free Cities of Kanver. Oh, this had been years in the making, and the old man was nodding deep in his head, proving he was right. This had been a years-long plan, a years-long coup, with Sanbreque as the bloody knife and crown both. The systems of control that choked Valisthea had reared its ugly head again, and Cid leaned out, looking at Dion as the lad - and he was still a child, Cid's eyes could not forget - explained the sordid business to Terence in small, pained sentences. Terence in turn was agape, eyes and mouth widening with every revelation before a hand tried to cover it.
"I do not understand it, Terence," Dion said at last, voice as strained as his face. "My father is a man of honor, his first act as Emperor was to give relief to veteran soldiers who could no longer serve. He declared that all should be honored who served His Eminence, even if their work was done. He granted protection to bordellos until it was overturned by the High Clergy. He… he is a good man, Terence. I know this like I know my beating heart or your love. And yet… and yet…"
"And yet now you're being confronted with the fact that he isn't actually perfect."
Both boys startled, Terence jumping in front of Dion and putting a hand on his sword, and Cid grunted as he stood, so very sore after sitting for so long. Ramuh was yelling in his ear, but Cid had a goal and that meant he was going to offer freedom to everyone, even stripling boys who didn't yet understand the lengths a man would go to gain power over others. Damn him and his soft heart, but Cid couldn't let it go. His eyes glanced at the Mothercrystal, but maybe here he'd found something better.
He used the shadows to even out his steps until his stiffness was invisible, and he placed his bad arm on the hilt of his swords, pulling out a smoke and lighting it to give away his location. "I seem to have gotten a bit turned around, boys," he said with his most charming smile. "Care to help a man out?"
"Trespasser!" Terence growled, spreading his feet. "You'll not live til morning!"
"Easy there, lad," Cid said, lifting his hands up and talking around his smoke. "No need to draw steel yet."
But Terence did just that, drawing his sword, and Dion's own hand was on his hilt. That was not how he wanted to start this conversation, and Cid put on his Lord Commander voice.
"Stand down, soldier," he growled, his rich bass voice reverberating throughout the chamber and stilling the boys - both still used to following orders rather than giving them. Cid gave his full gaze to Dion. "I've not drawn my sword yet, Your Highness," he said in slow, measured tones, "and I'll not do that unless I absolutely have to. But rest assured if I do then the two of us drawing aether will either completely destroy this place or cause an aether flood. Either way the young noble here will die, and I can say I don't want that but I know you don't. Tell him to stand down."
The prince was staring, brow furrowed and a deep frown on his young face. Cid was still mostly in shadow, he didn't want to give the game away just yet - cat and mouse and all that, but he didn't want a brawl, either. Tarja would kill him.
"Terence," Dion finally said, "Stand at the door. If there is any hint of skullduggery, make for the general and tell him what has transpired."
"But… my prince…"
"I'll need your memory for when this is over, lest I miss something in the recounting."
That was clever, Cid thought, keeping a witness for everything that was steadfastly loyal to the prince himself, but also of high enough standing to be taken seriously if the prince was doubted. The lad was at least thinking. He cast his gaze to Terence, and the conflict on the boy's face was profound, but he eventually nodded his head and moved to the gate. He did not sheathe his sword, but he was not in a battle ready stance, either. Instead he stood at attention, ready to bolt one way or the other depending on how this all went. That lad was smart, too. There just might be hope here.
Cid took another step down, a little further into the light but not yet completely revealing himself, and he took another draw from his smoke.
"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," Dion said, stiff and ready for anything.
Cid opted for disarming charm, shaking his head and smiling. "Now that hurts my feelings, Your Highness, given how many times we've met. Then again, I've been off the field for a few years, so maybe you just forgot."
"... a Branded on the field… were you in the Aether Corps?"
A scoff and a laugh escaped his lips, and he took another step down. "Fuck no," he said brightly, "no brand to be had here - though you are right to think I was a slave. That took me a long time to realize, and even longer to free myself." He finally entered the light as he drew again from his smoke, exhaling in a simple plume and feeling the pleasant burn in his lungs. "Besides," he said, "what I was doesn't really matter anymore. It's what I am now: and that's lost."
Dion was frowning again, turning his mind to the conversation and trying to find an angle. Cid gave him the time, only glancing at the lad Terence and his purported good memory. If he had perfect recall he was going to have to be careful in this cat and mouse game, but then again careful wasn't really in his personal dictionary - if it was he'd have never started this conversation.
"Why are you here?" Dion settled on.
"That's a bit of a story," Cid said easily, gesturing vaguely. "But the short version is I was in the mines, looking for some people to liberate, before I took a wrong turn and ended up in this ostentatious pile of self-importance. Been wandering around for twenty minutes trying to find my way back. Figured his Royal Highness and all the songs about him would be kind enough to point me in the right direction."
"Thief," he heard Terence muttered. "Trying to steal Branded for his own nefarious purposes."
Cid took a long breath through his nose and turned to the boy again. "It's a nice word, Branded," he said, shifting his weight on his hip to keep Dion in his line of sight. "Dehumanizes the people that are called it, doesn't it? If people who can draw aether are called something - anything - less than human, it makes what happens to them easier: the chains, the brands, the testing, the Curse. It's fine that Branded are hunted for sport, it's not like they're human, they're just livestock. Whipping to get better work, overloading them because you're short that day, twenty-four hour shifts during harvest - you'd do that for any livestock, why not a Branded? Shove them to the front lines for fodder to buffer the troops? Perfectly acceptable. You know," he added, gesturing with his smoke again, "it was a few years ago that I realized Branded wasn't the only word that dehumanizes people. Bearers do the same thing - it's just a little softer. Dominants, too," and here he turned to Dion, "they get dehumanized, too, don't they?"
Dion had cued in several sentences earlier, to a point. "You are not Shiva," he said slowly. "Has Titan at last been reborn?"
"All these questions about who I am," Cid said, keeping his tone light and airy, "But really the question is: who are you, Your Highness? Dion Sylvestre blah-blah-blah Lesage, yes. But who you are, first and foremost, is Dominant."
He could hear Terence muttering Dion's full name under his breath for spite, and that was cute, but more interestingly was the frown on Dion's face. Cid had been expecting wide-eyed revelation, the poor lad had referred to himself as Bahamut enough times, but instead there was a long, drawn out thought, searching for something. Cid tried to press.
"We're all tested on our first nameday, aren't we? Most of them go on about their miserable lives, none the wiser. Some are Branded and enslaved for the rest of their lives. And some of us, we get called Dominant - and like the Bearer's we no longer belong to ourselves." He took a longer draw from his smoke, holding it in his lungs before exhaling and stamping it out. His bad arm was still on his hilts, stiff. "The words are different, I'll grant you that: almost as pretty as you, Your Highness, but it's still bondage even if the cuffs have some fur on it. I stopped being me the minute the world realized what I was - all I was, was the old man up here." He tapped his head.
"You would consider us the same as the Br-the Bearers," Dion said.
"Well," Cid countered. "Does it itch yet?"
Dion, already perfect posture, stiffened.
"Started at the elbow for me," Cid offered, finally lifting his bad arm and gesturing to it. "Didn't even notice it at first, thought it was the aether - it always tingles for me - it still itches, too. Right where the stone meets the skin."
"What?!" That was Terence.
"They don't tell you that, do they, lad?" Cid said, turning to the young noble again. "Dominants and Bearers, we're not all that different. We still die of the Cyrstal's Curse, still turn to stone as we're slowly squeezed for all we're worth, still forgotten about as they wait for the new stock to be delivered."
"Lies," Terence said, taking two steps forward, not menacing but emotional. "My Prince, tell him that's not true."
Dion was silent, again his eyes wide and mind racing.
"He can't," Cid said, and he took another chance. Ramuh was growling in his head again, but he pulled at a cuff and rolled up a sleeve almost to his shoulder.
The stone had started at the elbow, yes, and mostly it moved up. His entire bicep was dusty white, always a little red where it met the skin and itched. If he completely stripped the lad would see it worked around his shoulder and crept ever closer to his chest. The young noble stared, horrified, as if seeing the curse for the first time. Cid wondered, but the lad's eyes kept breaking to Dion, and associated the curse with his lover was what was humanizing Cid in the boy's eyes. Poor sod had taken several steps forward involuntarily, was once again at Dion's side, sword forgotten about as he reeled in revelation.
Satisfied with the lad, Cid held his gaze back to the prince. Dion had been mostly quiet for this little chat, let Cid do all the talking but that didn't mean the lad was sitting idle. Indeed, the furrow of his brow and intense frown practically shouted his mind was working at full speed, searching for what Cid wasn't sure. Those eyes were locked on the stone, now, wide and unable to turn away. Cid would give quite a bit to know what was going on in the lad's head, but he'd said enough by this point to let the man think.
Then, all at once, Dion shut down. His eyes closed, and his frame relaxed, and he shook his head as if breaking a spell. He exhaled, and when his eyes opened again he was perfectly composed.
Fucking damn it.
"I am sorry your King has used you so ill," he said gently, "But please understand, not all men are as he. However, with due respect, you do not know my father."
Cid had a choice then: press his point or accept the lad's answer. Cid would have been more than happy to do the former - he'd already talked more than he ever planned today, and he did hate doing something for nothing. However, he'd learned the hard way that people had breaking points, and if he pushed a Dominant it would be a fight. That he didn't want.
He'd lost the gamble, but he might not have lost the night. He sighed, rolling down his sleeve. "No," he conceded. "I don't. But I'd lay money you don't either. Not like you think. I served him for twenty years, would have sworn up and down we were blood brothers. I loved that man, and I thought he loved me. But that's the point, then, isn't it? All we are is what we prime to, and we - you and I - we're just vessels. Tools that make their designs easier to attain."
"You do not know my father, Ramuh," Dion repeated, having finally figured out who Cid was.
Cid gave a loud, gusty sigh to indicate the end of this little conversation, lifting his arms over his head and stretching. Fuck he was sore, but he didn't show it, swinging his arms down and playfully rolling his shoulders. "Well," he drawled, "That's that, I suppose. Anyway, Your Highness, it's been a lovely game of cat and mouse, but now that I'm found it's time I seek my leave. It's been a pleasant chat."
"You truly intend to leave?" Dion asked, his stance shifting but still not aggressive.
"It was never my intention to prattle on," Cid said, swinging his arms a bit and turning, taking a few steps up the way he had come. "Like I said, I was looking to free some Bearers. Thought I'd found something better, but as usual my luck's run out. Like I said, lovely chat. Be seeing you."
"My Prince," he heard the young lord, Terence, say. "If he's Waloed's Lord Commander…"
"He isn't," Dion replied, just as softly, "Not anymore. He hasn't been on the field in almost two years."
"Aye, he speaks truly," Cid drawled, over his shoulder, slowing to a stop. "Do us a favor, then, and keep all your little eyes on the Glass Gate - that'll leave my little way in nice and quiet."
"You cannot be serious!"
Cid shrugged, casual as you like, and pulled out another smoke. "Have it your way," he said brightly. I'll get out one way or another." He lit the crystal and took a long, satisfying draw. "One last thing," he added, fully knowing he couldn't leave well enough alone. "Give it a few years, Bahamut. Get some seasoning on you, some life under your belt, and then ask yourself why you're always at war with someone, and what does that gain the people of Sanbreque. Ask yourself where your loyalty lies - 'cause the day will come when Sanbreque and your old man are two opposite corners. Ta, lads!"
He moved up the stairs, feeling the eyes on his back. He kept a brisk, jaunty step and whistled tunelessly for added effect before he was certain he was high enough up they couldn't see him. Then he skulked to his entrance and backtracked to the mines. His exit was infinitely more careful than his entrance, he didn't know what those two were going to do and between the choice of beating or running the clock, he chose to run it: moving slowly, doubling back, swerving as soon as he heard sound, until he found his exit. Even then he waited over an hour, trying to figure out the time and shift change, before he risked sneaking through and then returned to his brisk, jaunty step and whistle.
He was disappointed when he went back to the Hideaway, a dozen Bearers in tow, a Mothercrystal still in one piece, and no Warden of Light at his side.
Six months later heads turned to see Dion Lesage visit the Aether Corps on the next campaign. Sanbreque's greatest dragon shook hands and nodded to every Branded.
"You are the forefront of the battle," he said gently, generals and commanders looking on in shock. "We would not be where we are, without you. When I next join you in battle, I will do my best to keep you all safe, as it is my burden as prince to keep all of Sanbreque safe. You are vital members in this: both of Sanbreque and her defense."
He touched every brand, a gentle caress, and his squire followed religiously, eyeing the Bearer's with an intensity that nobody quite understood.
"Be at ease," Dion said, "I will be your shield."
One Bearer snorted, eyes downcast under a thick bob of black hair. Dion gripped the man's - the boy's - shoulder and squeezed. "Perhaps none have spoken as such to you all prior," he said, trying to catch the solider's eyes. "But rest assured when I take to the field I will protect everyone, including you."
"... A broken shield…"
Dion frowned. "What's your name?"
"Wyvern, My Prince," an officer said. "He's just been transferred to my squad. He'll learn to mind his tongue soon."
"On the contrary, Sergeant…"
"Tiamat, My Prince."
"Let him speak his mind. All of you have value for more than just the aether you draw, and I welcome all thoughts you might have in the next battle."
Terence's eyes lingered on the sullen soldier as Dion moved on, eyes sweeping over him and everyone else, looking for signs of the curse. He knew he would visit several times, and learn how to treat it when and if it manifested.
End
Author's Notes: Not much to see here, just a pair of twins enjoying a game. Though we love the brother's Rosefield dearly their story is very complete and we don't have a lot to add. Cid and Dion, meanwhile, a different pair of favorites - have on meeting that is casually thrown out in the game but never shown, and the idea of Cid having more influence that he realizes tickles us dearly. Dion had to start (kinda) questioning the system at some point, but the only way he could was if he was primed (oooo accidental pun) for it. Hence this.
Hope you enjoy!