A/N: hi hello~! welcome back~!
it's been a minute, so thank you for your patience 3
beta-read by the magnificent AkaiSafire over on AO3! she keeps the worst and weirdest of my mistakes from harming your delicate eyes!
any remaining mistakes are my own because i dont know when to stop futzing with content
love you
enjoy
oxy
±XxXxX±
The camp northeast of Rosalith was situated as close to the edge of the Rift as possible without risking projectile fire from the Sanbreque side. Trebuchet and ballista ammunition could be found a few leagues away, though the Sanbrequois war machine had yet to discover a way to fashion a version of either weapon which could strike the Rosarian military installment. The place was raucous and filthy in a way only war camps could be, but acclimating to the conditions was a fast process, at least.
Within the boundaries of the camp and beside the waterskin she had just dropped, Jill Warrick flexed her hands and scowled at the tightness in her muscles and joints. Leather creaked as she attempted to massage the ache out, but to little effect. She gently shook out her hands and cursed when one of her tendons protested sharply.
Of course, she was willing to help however she could – and she would deny it if asked, especially by Joshua – but in recent moons…
It had gotten worse.
She considered the bottomless chasm in the distance and at once cursed and thanked its existence. It had certainly kept Rosaria safe from a large-scale Sanbrequois incursion, but it had also caused her no small measure of consternation. Moving men across the Rift was not the most mentally challenging task for which Jill was responsible, but its physical toll…
"Shit," Jill hissed when her hand twinged again.
"My Lady!"
Jill turned to see a soldier hurrying his way through the chaotic camp forum towards her.
"Captain," Jill greeted easily and clasped her hands behind her back, suppressing pain with a short clenching of teeth.
The captain saluted in the standard Rosarian style and Jill nodded once in return. He dropped the pose and continued, "Urgent news from our scouts!"
"Proceed."
The captain took a deep breath before reporting somewhat haltingly: "Drake's Head has been destroyed!"
Jill allowed herself a fraction of a moment to churn the news in her mind before she lurched into motion.
So, Telamon had managed it, after all.
"Send for Hugo Kupka, and send word to Rosalith," Jill commanded. She started for her tent and the captain trailed after her, hanging on her every word. "Every pair of eyes we have must be fixed upon the horizon. Every watchtower, every inn, every homestead. If anyone sees hide or hair of Bahamut or Dion Lesage, I will be notified immediately. This and all other camps are to be placed on high alert. Dismissed."
"My Lady," acknowledged the captain and he saluted once more before dashing off to complete his tasks.
Once inside her tent, Jill pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and took a deep breath. On her exhale, the air clouded with vapor, and lazily swirling frost began creeping up her gloves from the tips of her fingers. She rolled her shoulders back and tried to reign it in, but the anticipation had seized her heart and seemed reluctant to let it go. Jill was almost dizzy with it:
An end.
Suddenly there was an end in sight.
Jill had had her own reservations about trusting the word of Cidolfus Telamon, or indeed his true chances of managing to destroy the heart of Sanbreque – Dominant of Ramuh or not. It seemed the old man had prevailed, somehow. Jill recalled the ease with which she had ambushed him and drawn blood before he even knew she was there and scoffed a little; that same man had apparently infiltrated the Empire and crushed the seat of their power.
Would wonders never cease?
In any case, the Holy Empire of Sanbreque had lost their Mothercrystal, and certainly they had enough sense to lay blame in the correct location. For this, though, Rosaria had prepared. When Bahamut appeared to lay waste to Rosaria or Rosalith proper – and he would, because indeed he must – Phoenix, Shiva, and Titan would engage him. And, when they defeated him, the Holy Empire would have lost their Mothercrystal and their greatest champion. Surrender would be the only option left to the treacherous Sylvestre Lesage—surrender or die.
Jill nodded to herself, straightened her back, and wrenched the soles of her boots from the ice that had bloomed about them. She turned to exit the tent and check on the stolases which needed to be sent out. She walked through the war camp and to the rookery, and snowflakes fell all about her and caught in her hair - a glittering winter crown beneath the Rosarian summer sun.
Shiva made each step along with her, as always, and the fluttering of her icy vestments burned cold wherever they brushed Jill's skin, but she paid the pain little mind. There was only one task remaining.
One final task, then the end of the war. At last, the quest for revenge would be over; Jill simply needed to kill Bahamut, first.
±X±
Life in Rosalith had been tense for a decade. This was to be expected, of course, as the nation to which the city belonged was engaged in warfare with a once-ally which had offered betrayal of the highest order. However, even in wartime the people of the city of Rosalith had found a new normal; peace was the typical ambience of the winding streets. And, indeed, peace had been the condition in which the Archduke and his retinue had left the capitol when they made their journey to Phoenix Gate only the day before.
Joshua's return to Rosalith found the air in the city much changed.
His return to Rosalith Castle was marked with chaotic motion and an unerring atmosphere of dread. The great city of Rosalith was seemingly preparing for the end of days—merchants offered products at steep discounts, families appeared prepared to flee for the less populated towns and countrysides. Truly, it seemed fear had nested in the hearts of the citizens of Rosaria's capitol.
Rosalith Castle, however, maintained the same air of steadfast precision it had been operating on for the past decade. There were a fair few missives and messages awaiting the Archduke when he was again able to attend to his duties, though one was particularly pressing and was delivered with all speed:
Sanbreque's Mothercrystal had been destroyed.
With this, Joshua knew why the city had been in such disarray when he returned; the news had spread through the city by word of mouth just as news was wont to, and the panic that followed such news had taken root in the minds of Rosaria's citizens.
In the throne room, Joshua Rosfield sat in his grand seat and received word of the fall of Drake's Head. He did not shout nor curse; he only nodded once and sighed.
It was time, then.
"Send word to Port Isolde and to Drake's Breath," Joshua ordered shortly, and an attendant scrambled to take down his dictation. "The garrisons stationed there should be placed on alert. When Bahamut attacks, we expect him to come from the northeast and make for Rosaria. However, it is possible that he will make an attempt on Drake's Breath, first. If he does, none are to engage him; they are to escape as quickly as possible and send a stolas here."
"Have an attendant retrieve my father and the Lord Commander," Joshua continued, "I require their counsel."
Joshua did not worry in excess about Drake's Breath – having the crystal was a boon for the war effort, but now that Sanbreque's own Mothercrystal had been destroyed he had few doubts about Rosaria's victory. Rosaria had been preparing for an existence without the crystal for years, anyway.
Only one uncertainty remained: how many souls Bahamut would claim when he made for Rosalith. How high a price would Rosaria pay?
Jill remained at the front, Joshua knew, and would be the first prong of defense against Bahamut if Hugo Kupka did not attend with all speed. Joshua would join the fray as soon as possible when Bahamut appeared, but even still…
Joshua worried for his friend. He would prefer the two of them hold together and face the threat when it appeared, but he could not abandon Rosalith just as Jill could not abandon the front. When at last the attendant fled to deliver instructions and messages to the rookery, Joshua slumped slightly in his seat and plucked absently at the hem of his shirt.
Torgal huffed from his place beside the throne and Joshua peered over the arm at him. The wolf cocked his head to one side and stared back at Joshua intently, his tail wagging lazily.
"Soon," Joshua quietly informed Torgal and reached out a hand to scratch at the hound's ears. Torgal leaned into the touch and Joshua continued at a whisper, "Soon, boy. It'll all be over soon. They shall receive their just deserts."
Vengeance crooned the Phoenix. A keen beak preened Joshua's hair, and Joshua nodded.
"Soon," Joshua said both to the wolf and to the ancient firebird.
Warm flight feathers brushed the back of Joshua's neck. Steel poured down his spine.
Bahamut would die, Sanbreque would fall, and it would be an empty comfort but a comfort nonetheless to know the composers of his brother's demise had received their comeuppance.
Joshua sat in the grand room and awaited the arrival of his father and Lord Commander.
±X±
It was during noonday meal in the chaotic mess hall of Caer Norvent that Wade and Tyler were approached by a hesitant Imperial infantryman.
"Sergeant Reeves, Sergeant Burns, sirs!" The soldier greeted and saluted crisply.
Tyler raised a brow. It was not rare that members of the infantry would approach him, but this visit seemed strangely timed. He braced himself for potentially needing to mediate another petty squabble over which table in the hall belonged to whom.
"Yes, soldier?" Tyler invited.
"The company and myself wanted to express our condolences, Sirs."
Condolences? Tyler and Wade shared a brief look.
"Explain yourself, Private," Wade ordered.
The infantryman seemed confused but proceeded: "Well…about Commander Welch, Sirs. The lads and I all know you three were friends. Sergeant Novil said we shouldn't bother you about it, but we thought it'd be strange if we didn't acknowledge it at all."
Wade went stock-still and simply stared at the infantryman, who paled a measure and saluted again.
"We certainly appreciate your concern, Private," Tyler replied evenly. "Thank you."
Wade wisely remained silent until the soldier was out of earshot and he turned to speak as quietly to Tyler as he could: "What did he mean?"
"I haven't the faintest," Tyler said through stiff lips. He stared straight ahead where the soldier had been moments before, as he did not think to look at Wade over the thoughts racing in his head, "Meet me in the correspondence room in a half-bell."
It was later, under a single crystal lamp in an otherwise dismally dark room, that Wade and Tyler searched through all of the recent records in the correspondence received by Caer Norvent.
"Here," Tyler said and smoothed down the curled corner of a letter. "In the report after Drake's Head fell: 'Casualties and Injuries…Lost to aether: Jean Marle, Squire to Sir Velde…Missing: Callum Welch, Commander of the XVI Bearer Infantry of the Holy Empire of Sanbreque.'"
"Missing… " Wade repeated breathily and nearly fell into the chair at the table. "Is there aught else?"
"He was apparently last sighted leading a miscreant to the Whitewyrm Castle dungeons," Tyler said dryly. He overturned the parchment to hide the writing from his eyes.
"So Telamon got his man on the inside for his plan and once he was in, he killed him," Wade said.
"We cannot make any assumptions," Tyler insisted, though his jaw and fists were similarly clenched. "We have so little information…"
Wade picked up the report and scanned it over a few times.
"What do we do?" Wade asked when the report bore no new information.
"After the collapse of the crystal, he obviously didn't report back to his post," Tyler reasoned slowly. "If Telamon killed him, his corpse could be in Whitewyrm Castle or in the crystal mines, perhaps. If he survived and abandoned his post, there's little chance he remained in Oriflamme."
"Little chance he would've remained in Sanbreque at all," Wade corrected. "His face is too well known to the garrisons – he'd be hanged as a deserter."
Tyler stared at the ceiling. "We didn't tell him where we would be stationed, so he wouldn't have come close to the caer. And he couldn't have crossed the Rift except in the Deadlands to the northwest or at Titan's Crossing."
"He'd've gone southeast," Wade concluded, "to Titan's Crossing, so he could get back to Rosaria."
"Are you certain?" Tyler asked.
"Certain enough," said Wade.
"Certain enough to try to find him?" Tyler hedged. He started rolling up letters and reports to replace them in their designated containers.
Wade raised a brow in surprise. "It's less to go on than I'd like, but…"
"If there's a chance that Clive is alive…" Tyler's jaw clenched. The long-healed scar stretching across his stomach twinged in half-remembered pain.
He stared down at the grain of the reading table, but his mind's eye conjured up the teenaged Clive Rosfield of a decade before - indignantly and steadfastly refusing to leave Tyler behind in the Sanbrequois countryside.
"...I don't expect you to join me," Tyler told Wade slowly, "but I'm going to look for him."
"I'm going with you," Wade said, and Tyler looked to see a quiet determination settled on his friend's face. "He promised he would survive, did he not? If he did, we shall find him and take up our mission to protect him once more. If he did not…"
It was clear by the waver in his voice that Wade didn't enjoy the thought of it in the slightest.
"If he did not, then we shall deliver to Rosaria news of his true fate," Tyler finished with a nod. "And of the sacrifices he made, the good he did these past ten years."
And Wade shook a bit but still he said, "And it would be an honor to recount his deeds."
"Indeed, it would." Tyler stood and collected his sword. "It's settled, then. We leave posthaste and discover the truth for ourselves."
The corridors of the caer were crowded, per usual, though the fall of Drake's Head had made strange the mood of the company stationed there. No longer would soldiers offer lighthearted stories or tales of their exploits in Northreach; there was a peculiar grimness about most of the men, and the ranks were thinning.
So preoccupied was every remaining officer with staying the mass desertion and boosting morale that none would notice Wade and Tyler's absence until they were too far gone to catch.
The two Rosarian Shields waited until nightfall enfolded Caer Norvent and escaped into the countryside — they had a Lord Marquess to find.
±X±
The makeshift camp was certainly not the roughest place Clive had ever slept, though he found himself missing the solitude and privacy of his quarters in Oriflamme. Two men and one chocobo sitting around a small fire with only a few boulders to block the wind was neither comfortable nor private. There was also the small matter of Clive still being at Cid's mercy - he'd found nothing to pick the lock of the crystal fetters so far, and Cid certainly had the magical advantage.
Clive glared across the crackling campfire at Cid, who fed greens slowly to a soft yellow chocobo. Clive liked to consider himself a man of adequate patience, though he had to admit that being bound by crystal fetters was becoming tiresome very quickly. If he'd had access to his aether, the cold air of the desert nighttime would be no concern at all. As it was, he edged closer to the fire and just glowered at his captor.
Cid, the bastard, was unbothered per usual.
"Why are we here?" Clive asked not for the first time, referring to the desert wastes.
Clive had never been dispatched to Dhalmekia during the war, and his last true memories of the place came from his childhood, but the sun and sand seemed as unforgiving as it ever was and the night chill was twice as brutal.
"Persistent bugger, en't ya?"
Clive was supremely unimpressed by Cid's question.
"We'll be meeting an acquaintance of mine at an inn," Cid answered dryly. "Not far to travel, now."
"Have a fair few acquaintances, do you?" Clive asked.
Cid smiled like he was enjoying a private joke. "From a certain point of view."
Cid finished feeding the chocobo his handful of greens and adjusted a few of the bird's wing feathers. His voice was so quiet when he spoke next that Clive almost missed it over the popping of wood in the fire.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
Cid looked back over at Clive. There was a steely undercurrent to his tone when he asked again: "Why can't you go back?"
"Explain."
"Back in Oriflamme, you said 'can't.' You can't go back to Rosaria. But we both know that's not true – you've had the means and the power for years. So. What's keeping you, Clive Rosfield?"
"You mean besides you?" Clive jangled the chain of the fetters to punctuate his question.
Cid grinned. "Yes. Besides me."
Clive rolled his eyes. "Why do you care?"
"Call it casual curiosity," Cid replied.
"I've learned my lesson, Cid; there's nothing casual about you, no matter how you try to make it seem that way," Clive said. "I only regret I learned that too late."
Cid shrugged. "Why not assume the worst about me, and my intentions, then? What have you to lose by indulging my question?"
"I would lose nothing," said Clive with a smirk, "but I would apparently gain the pleasure of seeing you frustrated about not getting your way, for all you're insisting about it."
"Fine, then – I'll keep my timeless wisdom to myself."
Clive scoffed; timeless wisdom, indeed. What 'wisdom' the man had was on loan from Ramuh, surely, and even that appeared faultily applied—
A log snapped in half in the fire - exceptionally loud in the small globe of light amid the desert darkness. He watched half crumble to cinder while the flames hungrily set upon the newly-exposed fibers.
Clive decided to try his luck again.
"Why Dhalmekia?"
"I've business across the Rift, which means we have business across the Rift. Bloody chasm is too wide," Cid complained. "I've not the time nor means to engineer a way across, and it's not as though I could fly."
"You could fly," Clive protested.
"Too many eyes," Cid retorted. He continued, "Only two land crossings in all of Storm. One of those is a month's journey up and through the dead, frozen north. The other is…" Cid trailed off with a flourish of his arm.
"…Titan's Crossing," Clive finished.
"Give the lad a prize!" Cid grinned. He leaned back against the boulder. "And as you are now, and as the realm is now, trying to make the Crossing will earn you a blade to the throat, I reckon."
"And your acquaintance will keep the blades from my throat, will they?"
"They'll have a sight better the means for it than I do, at least," Cid corrected. "Won't have a problem if I slit your throat myself, though."
Air huffed out of Clive in what was almost a laugh.
"And all your hard work will have gone to waste," Clive tipped his head back to stare at the stars. Metia burned red beneath a waning half-moon. "So much effort to bring me here, just to kill me now?"
"All that effort's already been made, hasn't it? Killing you now would keep me from wasting more effort, and maybe that's worth it," Cid threatened. A beat, and then he sighed. "No. You're a frustrating little shit, but I won't kill you for it."
Clive shifted a bit to situate himself closer to the bubble of warmth emanating from the fire and he pondered.
Business across the Rift…the Free Cities, perhaps? Kanver had managed to maintain its neutrality in the Sanbreque-Rosaria war and traded freely with any nation in the Twins willing to pay the steep price of transportation from the southernmost point of Storm. Kanver was home to docks aplenty, and there Cid would have his pick of vessels to make the return trip to Waloed.
Waloed was the only destination Clive believed that Cid could have in mind — home, as Cid had said before. Mayhap the ex-Lord Commander wished to return to his liege lord's good graces with an offer of the mythical Second Eikon of Fire. Mayhap Cid's desertion had been a ruse from the first, and he had truly been charged with retrieving Ifrit from Storm.
His Majesty would be hard-pressed to wring any value out of the imprisonment of Ifrit save for the removal of his potential from the battlefield, though. Ifrit would indeed be a poor gift for King Barnabas, with how little control Clive had over the monster when he primed.
But, if Clive's fate was to languish in captivity in Ash, anyway…
Clive cast his eyes back at Cid across the fire.
"It was me," Clive admitted aloud, and Cid's eyes met his immediately over the haze of wavering, orange light. "I was the one who burned Phoenix Gate to the ground. I became the Second Eikon of Fire all those years ago for the first time – I don't even know how it happened, and I didn't know it was possible. It shouldn't've been possible…" Clive shook his head slowly. "I couldn't control it. It was killing people and destroying the fortress and I could do nothing to stop it."
What endured of that night had long faded in its potency, though the unholy fire and ash and smoke sat heavy on Clive's shoulders, always. The death. The loss.
Following what had happened at Drake's Head - the fight with Bahamut...Clive could recall only snippets of the battle, though it felt like the blood of the great dragon sat sticky beneath his own fingernails.
"You saw it, at Drake's Head. I lost my grip on it, again," Clive whispered. "You stopped it before I could kill anyone, this time, but my hands are still stained from ten years ago. If I were to go back home…" I'd have to face it, Clive did not say, but he did wince and trail off into silence.
"And no-one back home knows." It was not a question; Cid spoke with certainty. He had been there, of course he would have done his due diligence about the Second Eikon of Fire.
Of course he had.
Clive shook his head. "No," he confirmed.
The two of them sat in the quiet.
And Cid asked a very simple question: "What if they'd forgive you?"
"What?"
"What if - you went and saw them again and you laid it all out, and they forgave you?"
The imagining of it was tantalizing; home in Rosalith Castle, Joshua offering a pardon, the sort of welcome Clive had only dreamt of in the wake of all that had happened. The sort of welcome that could only ever be a dream.
Clive shook his head.
"Not after what I did. Not after what I've done these past ten years," Clive said and he hoped that Cid would allow the subject to drop.
But Cid plowed onward: "They might be upset. But do you really think anything you could've done would be more important than what you'd be giving back to them?"
Clive just frowned, confused.
"You love your homeland, don't you?" Cid asked.
"Of course I do."
"And you love your family?"
"What sort of a question is that?"
"Then why is it so hard for you to believe that they might just love you, back?" Cid lit a cigar with the tip of his finger and considered Clive's countenance with a raised brow. "You've been dead ten years, Lord Rosfield. I didn't lie when I said you were sorely missed."
Founder, and Clive missed Rosalith. He missed the white stone edifices and the winding streets. He missed Ambrosia. He missed Torgal. He missed quiet conversations with his father. He missed picnics in the Down Gardens with his brother and Jill.
And he couldn't help but feel a measure of hatred for Cid for reminding him of it all, and for the absurd proposal. Just go back and be forgiven for his crimes? Ridiculous.
"It couldn't possibly be that simple." Even though Clive wished it so with a desperation that clung to his heart and twisted.
Cid took a drag from his cigar and said nonchalantly on the exhale, "It could be, if you let it."
Clive couldn't muster a response, so he busied himself tracing constellations with his eyes.
"I'll let you in on a secret, lad: Sometimes, the monsters we make in our own minds are nastier than the ones you'll find out there." Cid gestured to the expanse of the desert all around them, "You might not be able to stop your mind from making a monster of you, but at least don't let it make monsters of your family. If you can manage that, you may yet escape your fate."
"My fate?"
"I was worried at first, you know. Thought you were some kind of villain with aspirations of grandeur and an unquenchable thirst for power," Cid said. He cast his gaze back at Clive. "But then, I realized you were just a man longing for home but too afraid to go back."
"Will you stop being cryptic for a moment and explain what you mean?" Clive bit out. "My 'fate'?"
Cid waved him off and Clive's blood boiled. "Tomorrow, if I feel like it. Now, you should rest. We've more distance to cover and we should move before the sun gets too high."
Clive briefly considered strangling the man in his sleep.
.
Whitewyrm Castle was in chaos.
The corridors of the imposing structure played host to a tangle of servants, attendants, guards, and the occasional frightened member of the court. The collapse of the Mothercrystal had resulted in the weakening of the bedrock upon which the palace was built, and the north wings had been deemed unsafe after three floors crumbled beneath the feet of their occupants.
In the bedlam contained by the residential areas of the palace, dragoons of the Holy Order took up guard outside their commander's chambers. The prince had been transported there after being found deeply unconscious within the empty Inner Sanctum, feverish and pale. The knights denied entry to all, save for the Imperial Prince's most trusted.
When Dion woke it was with a shudder and a startled curse. Something deep in his bones felt strange. Nausea curled in his gut. He coughed.
"Lie still, Your Highness." Terence laid his hand on Dion's forehead and Dion allowed the warmth of it to ground him.
An odd soreness plagued his entire being from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He was far too warm and far too cold all at once. The fresco on the ceiling blurred, warped, and bowed – he squeezed his eyes shut and took in breaths slowly.
All Dion could do was lay back and endure the gentle pressure of Terence dabbing a wet cloth across his face.
"My Prince, if you might allow me…what happened?" Terence asked the question as though he were picking his way across particularly unstable rubble.
Dion blinked slowly and attempted to assemble the pieces of the past.
"The Dominant of Ramuh," Dion recalled aloud, and in his mind's eye he could see the lightning that had rent the air. His tongue felt clumsy and heavy as he spoke further, "He appeared in the Inner Sanctum along with one of our commanders – I know not his name, I would need a list of all of them…And I am unsure, but I believe…the Second Eikon of Fire."
"They destroyed the Mothercrystal?" Terence asked. He dipped the cloth into a bowl of water and wrung it back out before returning to his task.
Dion hummed wordlessly. Drake's Head had shattered apart into millions of brilliant blue shards, sparkling like diamonds beneath sunlight. It would have been beautiful, really, if not for the deleterious effect of it all.
"Ramuh destroyed the heart while the Second Eikon of Fire engaged Bahamut," Dion clarified. His hands curled into fists in the bedclothes until his fingertips ached as fiercely as the rest of him.
Dion would need to speak with the Emperor at once; precious little had ever been divined about the Second Eikon of Fire, and Dion found himself now with a bounty of intelligence. He would need to apprise the astrologers, speak with the cardinals, and his dragoons would need to be made aware, as well. As soon as the world stopped spinning around him, he would also need to train more vigorously as Bahamut to ensure he would never again be bested—
His stomach dropped when he felt it, and he sat up suddenly enough that he knocked Terence off balance.
Where was…?
"My Prince?" Terence asked in concern. He held the cloth in one hand and gripped at Dion's shoulder with the other.
"Bahamut…" Dion pressed a hand to his chest and felt a yawning void. Nothing. Nothing? How could that be?
Dion's eyes closed and he focused, searching more desperately than he could recall ever having searched for anything. Panic shook his fingers and he nearly wished he could press hard enough that his hand would punch through his skin and let him search his own ribs. Where was Bahamut? Where was he?
There was a tense step of anxiety where each breath was arduous and his teeth started to chatter. The pressure lessened somewhat when the low, low, low rumble of the Warden of Light vibrated through Dion's jaw unheard.
Bahamut was with him, still, but changed. Where once the great wyrm towered and guarded over his very being, his every breath, now it coiled tight beneath his ribs, diminutive and defeated. What Dion could feel of the dragon recoiled when he reached for him.
Whyever would Bahamut withdraw?
An eternity passed before Dion perceived an answer - an echoing, twisting, barely-there reminder of being bested, being defeated. The shame of being laid low in spite of all their might, all their power. A gnashing of massive teeth. Enfolding within huge wings to shield their visage from view.
The great wyrm spoke only once at an inaudible hiss.
We failed.
The gravity of it all pulled at Dion's skin and thinned him out, sat astringent on his tongue – shame? Mighty and great Bahamut was ashamed? Had the loss of the battle in the Inner Sanctum truly affected Bahamut so?
Sanbreque had lost her Mothercrystal, and Bahamut had been broken.
"Your Highness?" Terence's voice was strained with panic, but Dion had not the heart to reassure him.
For better or worse, Dion's concerns reached far beyond Terence. What would become of the Holy Empire without her Mothercrystal, and now without Bahamut's strength?
And indeed what had they done to lose the favor of Great Greagor? What sin had finally damned the great nation that sheltered and raised Dion, his countrymen, his family?
It was all the Sanbrequois blood that watered the Rift, or perhaps the war-torn battlefield at Belanus Tor. It was the starvation and fear set upon the citizenry by a decade of terror and tension. Truly, the strife had visited torture upon the average man in the Holy Empire in more ways than one, Dion thought, and this must be the reason the Goddess had abandoned them.
Though something darker and more horrifying began to gnaw at the fragments of thought racing in his mind.
The Dominants had appeared suddenly and without warning in the Inner Sanctum with designs on destroying Drake's Head, that much was true, but they had appeared when still Dion sat with doubt. Doubt of his father's will—the will of Great Greagor herself, of course—doubt of the ongoing war. Doubt of his purpose. Doubt, uncertainty, heresy. The greatest weapon of the Goddess believing the will of his sovereign was anything but holy doctrine. Blasphemy.
Something darker and more horrifying, indeed. Could Dion have been the catalyst of the destruction of Drake's Head?
Did the Goddess now punish the entirety of Sanbreque for Dion's transgressions?
Bahamut was silent.
"What are we to do?" Dion asked quietly, tremulously. "Without Greagor's blessing, we will…Sanbreque will…" He could not breathe.
Terence set aside the soiled cloth and reached out for Dion's hands.
Dion, before he could stop it, recoiled from the warm and familiar grasp of his closest confidant and first lieutenant. He winced and curled into himself, shaking his head at the surprised apologies Terence stuttered out.
Ashamed.
±X±
A/N: I got a private message about it from someone who was concerned - please don't pay any attention to the strange review that was left on this fic a while ago. It was a situation which has since been resolved, but I can't actually remove the review itself because it was left by someone who has an account. I did report it for spam/abuse, but nothing's happened, so I think the review is just there to stay. Don't worry about it, it's all good.
In better, happier news, I passed my qualifying exam! So that's one hurdle out of the way and a load of stress off my shoulders!
See you when I see you o7
oxy