A/N: bonjour mes amies
ça va?
once again, BIG thank to the lovely AkaiSafire on AO3 who beta-read this chapter! she is powerful and unstoppable and wonderful
love you
enjoy
oxy
****IMPORTANT TO NOTE: I have put a list of potential triggers for this chapter at the very end of the chapter. Please check it out before proceeding.
~XxX~
"And you've put them on so tightly—why?" Cid asked, strain clear in his voice as he shifted to find a comfortable way to hold his arms.
Perhaps Clive had not left Cid enough room in the manacles, but he certainly did not care enough to adjust the fit of them. For all that Cid had put him through and all the threat Cid represented, Clive reasoned the man deserved some discomfort, temporary though it was.
"Realism," Clive said brusquely and roughly took hold of Cid's elbow to drag the man out of the sparse treeline and towards the Penitent's Gate.
They strode past the bridge's main guard and the lines of refugees who were fleeing Northreach and hoping for entrance to Oriflamme.
Soldiers dotted along the impressive bridge saluted in the Sanbrequois style as Clive passed, clad in his fatigues and obviously transporting some captured brigand or footpad.
For all that it was an uncommon sight – Commander Welch hauling in a miscreant – it was not so far outside of the realm of possibility that Clive worried about it becoming a topic of gossip. They passed into the city appearing relatively normal for their fabricated circumstances, though Clive could've done without the expletives that spilled from Cid's mouth when he stumbled.
"Keep moving!" Clive snapped when they breached the entrance of the market square, drawing many eyes even through the chaos.
"Alright—Alright!" Cid exclaimed when Clive yanked at his shoulder, "Point made, Commander!"
The pair of them continued to the grand entryway of Whitewyrm Castle, and Clive nodded at a few familiar faces who greeted him in turn. None questioned his presence and none questioned his behavior - precisely as Clive had expected, much to his own relief.
Only a few halls from the foyer the construction began to change from brilliant white marble to much more neutral and utilitarian light gray stone. There were fewer tall and wide windows down this path.
The entrance to the dungeons was only a few meters away and down a flight of stairs to Clive's left when he spied a dragoon at the end of the corridor speaking with a squire. Clive halted his and Cid's progression briefly to listen as closely as he dared.
"You, personally, will ensure that the path is clear for His Highness," the dragoon commanded, "His schedule is far too cluttered to be waylaid by such obstacles."
The squire looked nervous. "But, Sir, the floods—"
Afraid of lingering in the hall any longer, Clive pulled Cid through the door and the two of them descended into the dungeons.
~xXx~
The dungeons beneath Whitewyrm Castle were extensive and labyrinthine in nature – a measure meant to confuse and exhaust would-be escapees. Cells and corridors had been hewn from impenetrable bedrock, and the air was damp and cold.
Prisoners charged with less serious crimes were placed in the cells closest to the dungeon entrance while alleged murderers, rapists, traitors, and the like were located deeper within the twisting maze of hallways. Few guards were needed in the dungeons – there was only one entrance and only one exit.
Unless, of course, one knew where to look.
Cid and Clive's route would lead them deep into the dungeons, and past the most dangerous criminals, to a grate that provided easy access to the sewer tunnels.
"No guards?" Cid asked when Clive finally deigned to remove the manacles. He winced a little as his voice bounced off the walls a mite too well. "Thought you said these men were criminals."
"They are," Clive replied grimly. "Mostly, they're thrown in the cells so the Empire can forget they exist at all. They get food and water, I think, but none of these men will see the light of day again. Chances are, they'll die down here—if they haven't already," The former Lord Marquess approached the closest cell on his left side and pointed at the lock. "Look."
Cid drifted closer warily and sighed in resignation.
The state of this unit was much the same as many others: the cell's lock was rusted shut, and the cell's occupant…
"Rest his soul," Cid muttered.
"It takes effort to keep someone who's trapped like this alive," Clive said, "and it's effort the Empire isn't willing to expend. They likely were never willing to, but especially now."
They resumed their walk down the corridor; the crystal lamps grew fewer and farther in between until the atmosphere became one of strange twilight. Even Cid's usual bids for witty banter were absent beneath the crush of human lives ending within cages.
Clive itched to conjure a lamp, but he was reluctant to show his hand so soon. No reason to give Cid ammunition if he didn't have it already. Instead, he sighed and resigned himself to straining his eyes in the darkness. It would not be long before they arrived at their exit from the dungeons, and Clive could put up with this until then.
There were several minutes of advancement through the cell blocks without a word passed between them. On occasion, inhabitants of the cells would notice their presence and approach the bars to cry out or to demand more comforts. More than one man expressed confusion regarding his imprisonment.
They rounded another corner and proceeded until there was silence once more.
"Oi," said Cid suddenly, "why the lamps there?"
Some distance further down the hall, there were two crystal lamps glowing brightly on either side of a lone cell.
"I don't know," Clive said, "but there must be a good reason."
Clive was not certain what drew him to the cell, in the end. He was only a few turns away from the exit into the sewers and he needed to see the mission through to the end, preferably as quickly as possible.
But he slowed to a stop next to the cell, anyway, and peered through the bars.
As it was with all other cells in the dungeons, the furnishings were bare if one was being generous with their wording. There was a stone platform which served as a bed – barely enough to keep its occupant from freezing to death on the ground.
The occupant of this cell was alive, evidently, and shifting about on the pitiful stone bed. A slow turn towards the weak light threw facial features into relief and Clive recoiled as though he had been struck.
From Clive's side, Cid asked, "You alright, lad? Something the matter?"
Clive's head shook automatically.
"Just discovered the answer to a mystery I never thought I'd solve."
"And that is?"
Clive nodded his head towards the figure in the cell – tattered vestments, bones visible through skin, and blue eyes full of poisonous hatred.
"What became of Anabella Rosfield. My mother."
~XxX~
YEAR OF THE REALM 857
Later, the two of them would surely argue about who had started the water fight at the fountain in the main square. For now, though, Clive watched Jill and Joshua haul themselves out of the water and they were laughing hysterically, the childish battle forgotten. Passers-by shared in the pure mirth of the youngsters and many of them smiled or chuckled at the sight.
"Perhaps you'll have more care from now on?" Clive was barely able to keep from laughing himself as he spoke.
Joshua and Jill both quieted for a moment before looking at each other and dissolving into peals of helpless giggles once more. They were both sopping wet and clinging to one another, and they appeared to be only moments away from collapsing on the summer-warm pavement.
Clive sighed fondly and approached while unclasping the long red cape from his epaulets.
"Here," said the young Lord Marquess. He wrapped the heavy fabric around Joshua and Jill. "Let's go get you two dried off, hmm?" Clive began gently trying to herd them in the direction of the castle gates.
"Cliiiiiiive," Joshua whined and dug in his heels, "I don't want to go back inside yet!"
"Yes, please can't we play outside a little longer?" Jill asked.
Clive looked back and forth between their pleading expressions and would have given in if not for how long a simple cough would have put Joshua abed. Even in the summer…
He looked around furtively and said conspiratorially, "Tell you what, if we go back to the castle now and get you two cleaned up, I'll speak to Lady Marleigh and see about extra cakes with tea this afternoon."
Joshua and Jill shared a glance before nodding excitedly.
"Alright, then off we go!" Clive grinned victoriously.
Joshua grabbed Clive's hand in his own and practically dragged him and Jill back to the castle. The Crown Prince babbled the entire way about his favorite flavor of cake (chocolate, of course) and his favorite flavor of icing ("Pink!" "Pink isn't a flavor, Joshua!" "But then why does it taste different from the white icing, Jill?") and that the tea would need to have cream and sugar, please.
And so light was the mood that the grim look on Lady Marleigh's face when she met the trio at Rosalith Castle's grand entryway was distinctly out of place.
"The Duchess has been asking after the Prince and Lady Warrick," Lady Marleigh said in lieu of a greeting, and ice dropped into Clive's stomach.
Joshua and Jill stopped their argument about icing flavors and looked up at Clive.
"Very well," Clive said and nodded. "I shall go and explain their absence—would you please take these two and get them dried off?"
Lady Marleigh's hands twisted in her pristine white apron, and Clive noted the tension in her shoulders and jaw.
"Regretfully, My Lord, I have been charged with delivering them immediately," Lady Marleigh said.
Clive's teeth clenched.
~xXx~
"Mother, it was an accident," said Joshua, "We didn't mean to fall in the fountain – I slipped and pulled Jill in!" He shivered slightly, still sopping wet from the tumble into the water.
Anabella Rosfield's face was severe, and nervous anticipation crept up Clive's back. The Duchess cast a glare at Jill, who had said not a single word since entering the room.
Jill had been a ward of the Rosfield family long enough by this point to know that it was better to remain silent in the face of the Duchess's rage than to attempt to defend herself. She stared down at the floor with her hands clasped behind her back, wincing whenever her silver hair dripped water on the rugs.
Clive's first instinct was to try and not be noticed as much as possible, lest his presence enrage Anabella further.
It seemed that today the duchess was in a less than charitable mood.
"This is but one of the many recent instances where you have behaved with far less decorum than is expected of you. It has become obvious to me that our stray from the Northern Territories has been a negative influence on you, Joshua," Anabella said. "You will no longer be allowed to spend time in her company."
Joshua gasped and Jill started shaking with quiet sobs.
"Mother, please—!" Joshua exclaimed and tears started dripping down his face.
And Founder, did Clive hate seeing his brother cry.
Clive stepped forward to cut Joshua off, "Mother," he said quietly, and then flinched at the venom in her glare. "Your Grace. I was the one who allowed Joshua and Jill to play in the square, and I did not stop them when they climbed onto the fountain. I should have been more responsible. It's my fault."
"Clive?" Joshua asked, but he was ignored.
Clive steeled himself and risked looking at his mother directly.
There was only hate there, in Anabella's eyes. She regarded him with the same countenance she would deliver unto a particularly annoying insect—Clive was not welcome here, he did not belong here, and his continued presence was not only deeply irritating but also not conducive to his prolonged life.
Clive had decided years earlier that that was okay - not good, but okay - and that he didn't need Anabella's regard. He tried his best to stay out of her way, normally, but he would not allow her to shove the blame onto Jill.
And he would not allow her to make Joshua cry.
"Marleigh," Anabella snapped while still staring Clive down, "take the children and have them made presentable."
Lady Marleigh surged forward from her place near the door. "Yes, Your Grace, right away," she confirmed, and the look she directed at Clive was deeply worried.
The maid was practiced and efficient in herding Jill and Joshua towards the door, and while both went willingly they craned their necks around to look at Clive.
The smile Clive offered to them was confident (he hoped) and he shot a wink in their direction before the door closed with a ringing finality behind them.
And he was left alone with a steaming mad Anabella Rosfield.
~xXx~
Clive did not knock on Joshua's door for obvious reasons, but he did push it open and quietly ease his way inside with the book in hand, just in case.
"Clive!" Joshua exclaimed happily. He was dressed and ready for bed, tucked into his bedsheets, and his face screamed relief. "You weren't at tea or at dinner – Jill and I were worried!"
"Nevermind that," Clive said and gestured with the book, "did you want more reading tonight?"
"Oh, yes, please!" Joshua smiled. "And you'll do the voices?"
Clive rolled his eyes. "Would it be me if I didn't do the voices? Budge over."
Joshua was quick to settle against Clive while he read, as it was every night Clive came in to read to him.
Joshua was typically very receptive to the comedy in many childrens' parables, but this evening a particularly silly joke in a funny accent did not stir him, and Clive looked down at his brother in askance.
"Your hand," Joshua said in horror and snatched the book from Clive's grip to grab at his wrists. "Both of your hands!"
He referred, of course, to the raised red welts decorating the backs of Clive's hands. The skin had split in some places and initially had bled, though they had started to scab over several hours before.
Clive had not even the time to speak before the specific gold warmth of the Phoenix's healing fire was washing over his wounds. He sighed as the persistent sting receded and his skin was undamaged once more.
"You shouldn't waste the Phoenix's flames on me," Clive said and he patted Joshua's head with one newly-healed hand, "but thank you, Joshua; that feels much better. Shall we return to the story?"
But Joshua's face was one of upset concentration.
"What happened, Clive? Where were you at dinner? How did you get hurt?" He demanded.
Clive closed his eyes and his face scrunched up a little before he could stop it. In an instant, though, the moment had passed and he was back to the same peaceful calm he always felt when reading to Joshua.
"You shouldn't worry about those sorts of things," Clive said, "and I'm better now, thanks to you." He nudged his brother gently with his shoulder. "You're quite impressive, you know!"
Joshua looked away bashfully at the praise and he stopped pressing the issue, which was another relief in itself.
"Now, shall we get back to the story? I want to finish this chapter before you fall asleep on me."
And Clive read the chapter, with all the voices as requested, and just as Joshua fell asleep Clive was left with the fleeting feeling of being drawn into the warm wings of a great bird.
~XxX~
After a brief flash of surprise, Anabella Rosfield's expression morphed into the familiar hatred she always directed towards Clive, though this was tinged with bitter misery.
Captivity had not been kind to Clive's mother. The former duchess was thin, her hair stringy and dirty – she had been imprisoned for a decade, and in that time, it appeared she had aged twenty years. She made to stand from the stone platform on weak legs but was unable to.
She opened her mouth as though to spit barbed vitriol at Clive once more, the same as she always would, but the sounds that emerged were clumsily unformed, and it seemed only to fuel her ire.
Clive realized quickly that Anabella had suffered one of the more popular punishments for criminals who managed to irritate the Emperor.
When her words would have fallen upon him more sharply than the switch she often took to his hands, now she was bereft of all tools she once could have used against him. Without her best weapon, it was as though Clive's mother had been defanged – made lesser. Clive should pity her and what she had become. He should feel some measure of sorrow for this woman.
And yet…
If what had been said about Phoenix Gate was true, then she was responsible for the Imperial attack. She was responsible for the danger Joshua and Elwin and Lord Murdoch had been in that night.
In a roundabout way, Anabella Rosfield was the cause of the war and the separation and the death.
"Steady, lad," Cid said at his side.
"Hmm?"
"Steady," Cid said again, and he nodded at Clive's white-knuckled grip on the bars of the cell door.
Clive breathed out smoke and unclenched his hands. The metal glowed somewhat when he stepped away.
"We need to move. She might manage to attract the attention of a guard and then we'll be in trouble," Clive said hollowly and started down the corridor again. The horrible malformed sounds of his mother's voice bounced off the stone and followed them.
"You alright?"
"Does it matter? We have a mission to complete." Clive squinted a bit to peer at the numbers above a nearby cell and made a sharp right.
Cid quickened his stride to keep up with Clive's new pace. "Well. Prison, eh?"
Clive suppressed the hysterical laughter that threatened to escape him. "Prison, apparently."
"Couldn't have happened to a better person, if I may be so bold."
"I knew her status as a Rosarian was involved in the negotiations during the early years of the war. Something about peace talks. It was before I was an officer," Clive said. "There were rumors all through the barracks that she'd had something to do with the attack at Phoenix Gate. I never knew what became of her. It didn't particularly matter to me."
"No love lost there, hmm?"
"She was awful to me. She was awful to my dear friend Jill. And though he didn't know it at the time, she was awful to Joshua, too, just in a different way."
At the dead end of the corridor, there was a wrought iron grate over the entrance to the sewers. Not the kind of thing that could be easily lifted by a prisoner weakened by years of captivity, but easy enough for two physically fit men to lift up and replace once they had fit their way through.
The sewer tunnels were pitch black – darker even than the corridors of the dungeon – and as Clive figured he'd shown his hand already he conjured a small fire lantern to allow him to guide the way through.
They walked for several minutes before Cid decided to pipe up again.
"Interesting magic you have there, Clive," Cid started. "And back at your mother's cell."
Clive's stride stuttered a little.
"If you truly know about my past, then you know I received the Blessing of the Phoenix," Clive said, "that's what this is."
"Oh, certainly," Cid agreed. "Of course. The Phoenix's Blessing—it could've been nothing else." The man glanced sideways at Clive. "C'mon, then. I'd prefer to not spend a moment longer in this hole than I need to."
From within one of his many pockets, Cid withdrew a map folded many times. He considered it briefly in the light of Clive's lamp, turned his back on Clive, and continued down the dank tunnel.
But Clive stood stock-still with his hand poised above the grip of his broadsword.
Cid knew. Clive didn't know how, but Cid knew. Clarity struck straight through him as might an arrow loosed from a bow. There was something more at work here, beyond Clive being the lost First Shield, beyond Clive's high position in Sanbreque's military. It felt far more dangerous than he'd initially believed. He wished he had listened to Wade and Tyler's caution in the tavern.
Cid's back was turned temptingly. He could just...
"Clive?" Cid asked suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"You said 'Jill' earlier," Cid said. "You didn't mean Jill Warrick, did you?"
Clive shook himself out of his thoughts. "I did, yes."
"Small world," Cid grumbled. "Ran across her when I visited Rosaria."
"Is she alright?" Clive asked.
"Aye, the lass is well. Sharp as a rapier, that one, and twice as deadly," Cid said. He rubbed at his ear with one hand as though remembering a past pain. "Caught me sneaking past the guards across the border into Rosaria and almost killed me herself."
Clive made a small noise of surprise. Jill had always been quick and observant; she'd needed to be, as essentially a political prisoner in Rosalith. For all that Clive and Joshua had done to make her feel comfortable, there was no escaping the fact that Jill Warrick's true home, title, and family had been stolen from her as a result of war.
But she was always kind, and she always seemed willing to give others the benefit of the doubt. Clive imagined that she would have stayed that way, but just as with Joshua, there were ten long years and an unimaginable amount of wartime strain between who Jill had been and who she had become.
Mayhap Jill had become the kind of person who was capable of killing.
"Took me prisoner and dragged me before your brother," Cid continued. "Ironically, the lad seemed to have a cooler head."
Cid's tone implied rather more irony than Clive thought the statement warranted, but he had not the time to consider what it might be.
Clive hummed.
At least Jill was still in Rosalith and, from the sound of it, still on good terms with Joshua. They had each other, and that was a positive even if little else was.
"I'm sure she'd be glad of your return, too, you know," Cid continued. "So would your father, your uncle, your chocobo, your dog–"
"That's enough," Clive interrupted, though his mind raced.
So Ambrosia and Torgal had survived, and both of them had returned to Rosalith. Founder, and Torgal had been just a pup when Clive saw him last; at least Ambrosia had been fully grown and capable.
"I'll come back for you. I promise."
He winced as guilt threatened to choke him. He had promised her, hadn't he?
"If your scheme works, I shall be able to return to Rosalith in short order once this war is at an end. I'll hear no more of this," Clive added with finality. He regarded the map in Cid's hands. "This way, and then we'll be where we need to go to intersect with the mine."
The next grate they approached had bent and warped over time, and would not come away from the wall it was set into easily.
"This will be loud," Clive warned, "but I see no other way than to kick it in."
"If we must," Cid replied, and set about helping Clive break through into one of the many mining tunnels.
When they emerged in the tunnel, Clive extinguished the lantern of flame and pulled out his copy of the mine map to reorient himself.
The caverns were awash with the gentle light radiating from mine carts full of crystal shards, casting everything in soft blue. Piles of broken equipment laid scattered about the tunnel floor. The air was eerily silent.
"Quiet, eh?" Cid asked.
"I was just thinking the same thing. You'd think they would have miners here day and night…" Clive reasoned.
Nothing. There was nothing but Cid and Clive's breathing in the earthen cavern.
"I don't like this; stay on your guard," Cid advised.
Clive nodded and the two of them maneuvered through the twisting mining tunnels of Drake's Head. There was no resistance - no miners, no foreman, no supervisors, and Clive could see little reason for their absence.
Still, they approached a branching mining tunnel and Clive considered the map once more.
Clive tapped the wall, "Here. The heart of the Mothercrystal is just on the other side."
Cid rolled his shoulders a few times.
"Alright. Stand back."
With a sudden clap of thunder, lightning arced from Cid's left hand to the wall and the stone shattered to pieces. Blue light spilled through the opening, beckoning the men into the inner sanctum of Drake's Head.
~XxX~
"Grant me the strength to keep Your people safe," Dion prayed, head bowed. "Bestow upon me the grace to lead Your warriors. Allow me the honor of restoring peace to Your land."
He knelt there at the altar, begging the Great Goddess for her guidance and mercy, for his parlays with the Emperor had not settled his spirit in the slightest. Dion knew not what had changed in his long absences from the capitol, but Sylvestre Lesage was different. He had aged, Dion knew, but that was not all.
He had heard second-hand from one of the more verbose Cardinals that his father planned to order Bahamut to do away with the Rosarian capital of Rosalith. Dion had requested a meeting with his father forthwith, but he had been soundly denied an audience. He could ascertain nothing further about his father or his forthcoming plans. What had become of the man Dion once knew?
Sylvestre would have ash instead of ally - he would broker slaughter instead of peace. He would risk the retaliation of not only the Phoenix, but of Shiva and Titan as well. Dion could not obey such an order; obeisance may bring the wrath of three Eikons upon the Holy Capitol. But the Emperor was his father, his master, and the executor of the Great Goddess's will in the realm of mortals. If this truly was the will of the Goddess…
What was Dion to do?
What could Dion do?
"Please. Deliver unto me Your wisdom, courage, and power that I might lead Your people to the Light," Dion said solemnly.
He was met with silence, as he ever was when he offered his prayers, and at last he allowed himself to raise his head and open his eyes. The sight of it, as usual, made his breath stutter; though he never truly felt holy in what was the holiest place in Sanbreque, he could not deny that the Mothercrystal's heart was beautiful.
Not holiness, really, though awash in the blue glow of the Mothercrystal he certainly felt a serenity not afforded elsewhere.
Serenity which broke in an instant when a concussive shattering dissolved the silence Dion had been sitting in. It was followed by a deep, rolling sound that felt particularly out of place though Dion could not put his finger on why.
He started, stood, and hurried on sure feet to the wide bridge separating the Inner Sanctum from the impressive entryway.
Dion reached the edge of the walkway and set his eyes on the source of the sound just as two men dropped out of a smoking hole in the sanctum wall. Both wore armor and carried weapons, and Dion felt significantly underdressed in his linen and cloth clothing.
None were meant to disturb him - none were meant to enter the Inner Sanctum while Dion prayed. This was meant to be private, and there was not to be any threat here.
The men approached and Dion was struck with the realization that one of them bore the sigils and rank bars of a commander. Dion had seen him before - he was in charge of most of the Bearers at work in the Imperial army. The other man was clad in leather, and his left hand rested on the pommel of one of his two swords.
As Dion watched, electricity raced across the back of the man's hand and Dion tensed.
That was what the rolling sound had been - thunder.
The men paused at the other side of the walkway and appeared surprised to Dion's eye, as though they had not expected to encounter anyone within the Sanctum.
Bahamut's power stirred beneath Dion's skin, deep in his chest and arcing up his spine. But not yet, no - he would not kill here, not if he could avoid it. He clasped his hands behind his back and spoke to the man he recognized.
"What news, Commander?"
The commander started slightly. "News?"
"I assume it must be pressing if you needed to break through the Sanctum wall," Dion started, daring the man to deny it, "Unless, of course, your presence in this chamber has a different purpose?"
The commander cast his gaze about helplessly, and Dion knew with certainty that these men had entered the Sanctum for less-than-savory purposes.
"Enough of this," the other man rasped, "We both know where this is going. Get back, lad!" He placed his hand against the commander's chest and shoved him hard backwards.
Aether swirled about the man in a vortex full of crackling and branching lightning.
Every hair on Dion's body stood straight up and he watched the Lord of Levin appear in Sanbreque's holiest place. More massive than a building, enrobed in deep purple vestments, brandishing a scepter designed to smite - the Eikon Ramuh was here to do harm, here to destroy.
When Bahamut's light began suffusing Dion's blood and leaking through his teeth, he did not resist its call.
~XxX~
Bahamut's roar shook the entirety of the mountain. Crystalline dust cascaded down from the ceiling and walls like stars falling from the night sky. Thunder crashed somewhere else.
How could there be a thunderstorm when the air was so clear Clive could see stars?
Focus. Help – Cid needed help. Clive needed to help. If they failed here, if they fell here—tragedy, only tragedy, only death.
It seemed an insurmountable task; pulling himself to his feet. But he managed, anyway, and stood swaying even while leaning against the waist-high stone railing. Something wet and warm dripped through his hair and down the back of his neck.
What had hit him?
Ash sat acrid and dry on the back of his tongue. Ringing in his ears. A flame sparking to life in his chest. No, he couldn't.
uǝʞɐʍ∀
(Stop)
This was not the gentle warmth of the Phoenix's Blessing. He couldn't use this – he would not. His head throbbed and he half-remembered the hooded man in the courtyard, the garbled speech skittering in his ears strange and unfamiliar, yet perfectly understood.
˙˙˙uǝʞɐʍ∀
(No)
He'd spent years forcing down this parasite, suppressing it. Ten years running from that night at Phoenix Gate. Ten years embedding himself in the structure of the Sanbrequois military, and all of it would come crashing down if he failed to place a lid on the sparking embers now—
˙˙˙ǝʇɐℲ ɟo plᴉɥƆ˙˙˙
(Please don't)
The striking of a match and air feeding its merry dance. Clive had nothing to douse it. It bloomed, consumed, grew. His hold on the fire slipped and he could feel it eating the aether the crystal discarded in waves. The flood of aether was kindling; dry brush before a firestorm. Each breath ached and his pulse was a physical thudding in his neck. Clive's blood was too hot in his veins, like it might boil through his skin.
Bahamut and Ramuh - Cid, Cid was Ramuh - battled somewhere else, beyond the curtain of agony fluttering across Clive's head. The Lord of Levin was pinned beneath Bahamut's great claws and a blinding blue-white light bloomed around the obstacle of the dragon's wings.
Keep it inside. Don't let it out. It'll ruin everything.
Flames seethed and sputtered, seeking an exit. Seeking release from the prison of his chest. Smoke and embers spilled from between his teeth. He could just let go, let it happen, let it out. End the pain.
But what would that mean?
Then, more clearly than he'd heard in a decade, the voice of the creature that stalked him:
Be not afraid. We are perfect.
The Eikon was an ancient thing with scales and claws and horns dogging his every step, breathing his every breath. A flawless mirror. One that would stand with him, always—one that had stood with him, before; before Clive started shoving down and rejecting its power.
Our adversaries shall fall to nothing. Be not afraid.
Great, clawed hands on his shoulders, steadying and grounding. Noxious fumes became soothing steam. Let go. The fire would help him. It was not the end of all things—this fire cleansed. This fire purified.
How had he never noticed? How long had he lived in fear?
(You'll help me?)
We will emerge victorious. We will emerge whole.
The fire was stronger than Clive, but perhaps that was a good thing; the strength was sorely needed in the battle yet to come. Help Cid. Destroy the Mothercrystal.
˙˙˙uǝʞɐʍ∀
Whatever hold he'd managed faltered, tongues of flame lashed from his skin. The Eikon hissed and growled and purred.
There was a towering burst of scorching air and light.
¡ʇᴉɹɟI˙˙˙
~XxX~
A/N: *TW: Physical child abuse. It does not occur "onscreen" but descriptions of the injuries resulting from it do feature in a scene.
**TW: Fictional religion and prayer. Probably also religious iconography? (Just trying to cover all my bases).
~x~
In 857, Clive is 12, Joshua is 7, and Jill is 9.
I hope you enjoyed my loves :D see you when i see you next