A/N: hi hello~! and welcome back~!
a thank you now more than ever to the magnificent AkaiSafire on Ao3 for beta-reading this chapter and for her keen eyes, huge brain, and penchant for encouragement!
happy early birthday to Approximation, which will be turning one year old on August 19th!
all mistakes are mine because i have no self-control :)
(this chapter contains one of my favorite scenes i've written for the work so far, so i doubly hope you enjoy this time :))
love you
enjoy
oxy

XxX

Cid whistled a bright, bouncy tune and carved at a small piece of wood with a short knife. Wood shavings cascaded to the floor like blossoms falling in late spring.

The hour was fast approaching midday, and Cid was awaiting the return of Gav with news about the Crossing. Clive alternated between watching the pile of wood shavings on the floor grow and trying to place the tune that Cid was whistling. It sounded slightly familiar, but Cid was either managing to get all the notes of the melody wrong, or it was a tune he'd just made up.

Clive had learned two distinct things about Cid during his time with the man. The first was that Cid could not stand keeping his hands still. If the man wasn't smoking, he was fiddling with something. He often whittled. He made small flutes that could only play three notes. He made spoons. He carved wood down to fine tips just to abandon them as soon as their sharpness pleased him. When he had the materials, he sketched complicated designs on parchment. Really, the man was in constant motion. Clive peered at the drawings sometimes and could make neither heads nor tails of what the man was designing, but it looked like the sort of thing that would decorate the writing table of a mad inventor, not the Lord Commander of Waloed.

The second thing Clive learned about Cid was that the man loved the sound of his own voice. He sang, he mumbled, he complained about the desert heat. The only thing he didn't do was answer any of Clive's questions in a meaningful way.

"I'll tell you a tale," Cid offered when Clive asked, again, what the man's ultimate goal was in Clive's kidnapping. "Trust me," Cid said with a trickster's grin, "this one'll be worth it."

"I've given you far too much of my trust already," Clive deadpanned.

"The best audience is a captive one," Cid winked. He launched into his story without waiting for Clive's response, "Years ago, there was a young man born in a little fishing village on a faraway continent south of Valisthea. They hadn't much, in that village, but they had enough. It wasn't easy, but it was nice. The folk were ordinary. But this young man wasn't satisfied with enough, wasn't satisfied with nice or ordinary. He wanted more, wanted to drain the ocean dry to see what was at the bottom. Wanted to pull down the sky and hold a star in his hands."

Cid cupped his hands together and stared at the void between them like he could see it, like it was burning just right there in his grasp. His gaze flickered to Clive and he grinned a grin that was there and then wasn't in the blink of an eye.

"So!" Cid continued, broad and boisterous, "he left the little fishing village and he sailed north. He'd heard tell of a place of crystals and magic, with beasts and monsters and everything in between, and he wanted to see what it had to offer. Imagine his surprise and wonder when he set foot on the dark sands of Ash and everything he'd been grasping for his entire life was suddenly possible. A land awash with aether, just lousy with it, honestly. The power right at his very fingertips—he became as tall as a house and brought the heavens crashing down right there on the beach. Turned half the sand to glass!

"In the aftermath, a man calling himself King turned up on the beach and made the young man an offer—a place in the King's army, a hearth, a home. All he wanted was loyalty and the young man's power in return. What d'you think the young man did? He laughed in the King's face!" Cid exclaimed, throwing his arms wide like he could embrace the wanderlust of youth. "The young man hadn't left the trappings of his old home just to be trapped somewhere else! He wanted to explore this world of magic and see its wonders for himself! So he left, again, and he went off to see it!"

Cid paused, there, and there was a tightening of his mouth and a furrowing of his brow.

"Now imagine his disappointment," Cid grumbled, "when he discovered that the people in this new land of magic were just like people everywhere else. They had magic, but they still fought wars. They had the very essence of life blooming in the palms of their hands, but they feared those who wielded it. They were on the brink of something so beautiful, but they enslaved it!" Cid's voice rose to a shout and Clive jerked backwards in shock.

A beat, and then Cid continued, "The young man was so tired. Tired of it all. He could catch lightning in his hands, but people weren't in awe, they cowered in fear. Babies born with miracles in their blood were taken from their mothers and branded. Brothers sold each other out for secretly making plants grow to feed their families better. There was a girl—" Cid cleared his throat, but still his voice came out hoarse, "—enslaved for all the reasons magic-users are enslaved, and a few more that they aren't. The young man just couldn't stand it anymore."

Cid was lost for a moment, a shadow passed over his face and deadened his eyes. "He killed everyone who'd touched her. He has a lot of regrets, but that's not one of them."

When at last the shadow passed and Cid continued with his tale, bitterness tinged his every word.

"And back to the King he went, in search of that hearth and home he'd been promised, with the girl in tow. The King was overjoyed—welcomed them both with open arms! Gave them a place to be, and they stayed because they were just so grateful. Wasn't until years and years and years later that the man - no longer young - realized he'd had to chip away pieces of himself to fit in the boxes the King wanted to put him in. The seams of the King's plans started showing, and the man pulled at a thread until it all unraveled. He kept the truth to himself until the time seemed right, tried to be subtle when he brought it up to the girl he'd saved. Maybe…" Cid sighed, "maybe he shouldn't have been so subtle. Maybe he shouldn't've kept it to himself for so long. Maybe then, she…well."

The pause was long enough this time that Clive felt comfortable asking a question. "What happened to the girl, Cid?"

Cid cast his eyes to the ceiling. "Two moons ago, I'd say nothing. By now, though, I'd wager she feels a mite betrayed. She wouldn't've come after us if she didn't."

Clive blinked. "Come after us?"

The Warden of Thunder nodded once. His voice was sad; wistful. "Benedikta Harman. Learned quite a bit in her time in service to the King. Sneakier than a coeurl on the hunt. She's in Dhalmekia somewhere, looking for us. I suspected it for a while, but Gav let me know for sure yesterday. No doubt it's on the order of ol' Barny. Heh."

Cid didn't seem to know what to say, from there. He sat and stared down at his hands, examining scar and rough callous alike.

And there was a pang in Clive's chest.

Sympathy? How? And better yet, why? How could Clive feel anything but contempt for Cid? Cid had betrayed him, kidnapped him, and up until recently had kept everything about him and Clive's circumstances a frustrating secret. Knowing how Cid had come to be in Valisthea should not have mattered - he was just another man who found himself disillusioned and jaded after experiencing life. Clive had dealt with that, too, and seen it so many times.

Perhaps it was the look in Cid's eyes; wounded and bleeding, like a man expecting an embrace and receiving a knife in the back. Clive had to wonder just how many knives the world had stuck in him.

But, since Cid seemed in a question-answering mood, even if it was fairly roundabout…

"Did you ever tell her?" Clive asked.

"Tell her what?"

Clive threw his best unimpressed look at Cid, drawing from the man a sigh so full of suffering it could've brought Greagor to tears.

"I told her," Cid said eventually.

"And?"

"And nothing. It was… I was too late. Barnabas is persuasive," Cid offered a wry smile that belied a grief untold.

Clive only barely stopped himself from offering his condolences. For what, he couldn't say; a love that never was, the years of wasted youth in the grasp of a cruel King, or the idealism that had been pressed out of a young man in the crush of the Twins. All of it, perhaps.

The air in the inn room was quiet and honest, somehow.

"Cid. I need some answers," Clive said slowly. "You owe me answers."

Cid sighed. "S'ppose I do," the man replied. He took up his knife and a stick from his dwindling pile of carvable materials and set to work, again.

Wood shavings fell once more - a facsimile of dying leaves abandoning their hosts in the autumn.

Outside in the town square, the bells began to toll the hour.

A sharp, patterned knock at the door and a musical whistle, and when Cid pulled the door open, Gav came crashing inside.

Sweat dripped down Gav's neck and his skin was a bright red from the harsh desert sun. He offered no greeting and cut straight to business, turning to face Cid with a frown dragging at his face.

"Guard's been doubled on the Crossing," Gav warned, "twice as many sentries. New boys looked sharp, too."

"Local?" Cid asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Not a chance. Ashen boys, by my eye," Gav said and Cid groaned. "And, Cid, there's a bottleneck. Travel card checks are strict."

"Fuckin' fantastic," Cid drawled and flopped down onto his back on the bed.

"Haven't you thought your way around this one, yet?" Clive sassed.

"I was a little busy regaling you with my magnificent tale, Your Lordship," Cid mocked aloud to the ceiling, for he had not deigned to raise his head. "They're lookin' for both of us. If there's guards at the Crossing looking for us, you can bet they'll be scattered through the city and at all the exits, too. They shouldn't know your face," Cid said thoughtfully, "but they know mine."

There was the barest rumbling of the inn room floor beneath Clive's feet. A sharp splintering crack split the air when the mirror on the wall fell and shattered on the floor. Cid made a sound closer to a growl than a groan and he clapped both hands over his face.

"She got him. Dunno how, but she got him. Dammit, Kupka," Cid groused, muffled, into his gloves.

Gav threw an urgent glance at Clive, who shrugged somewhat helplessly. The former Lord Marquess could hazard a guess, maybe, but he truly felt lost.

"Uh, Cid? Now would be a good time for a plan!" Gav hissed, drawing the curtains on the windows to keep any eyes away from the room's occupants.

Just before it disappeared from view, Clive saw a veritable tornado of dust and sand that had kicked up suddenly outside, a reaching column stretching into the placid blue.

"Oh, I have a plan. It's just not one I like," Cid sat up and stared directly at Clive. Dull resignation overtook his face almost at once. "C'mere, lad."

Cid grasped at Clive's crystal fetters and, in one smooth movement, wrenched the cuffs apart hard enough that the chain snapped. The First Shield of Rosaria was too shocked to make good on any of the threats against Cid's person he'd made since being abducted.

"Why?" Clive asked incredulously.

Cid pressed the key to the fetters into Clive's left hand.

"Keep those on till you're over the Crossing and away from the guards - they'll keep you from being sensed at range," Cid explained, not answering Clive at all. He unbuckled his sword belt and turned to Gav, "Get him across and wait for nightfall to move proper; new moon'll keep you from most eyes. And go west as far and as fast as you can." He gestured for Gav to take the swords.

Gav's usual cheer was replaced with something quite serious and low. He eyed the two blades that Cid held out to him. "Are you sure?"

Cid's shoulders rose and fell with a massive breath and he closed his eyes.

"I'm sure," said the Dominant of Ramuh. He delivered the swords into Gav's reluctant hands. "Get Clive out of here. I'll keep Garuda occupied."

The Warden of Wind. It all shifted, all clicked at once - Benedikta Harman, the Dominant of Garuda, Warden of the Wind.

The girl Cid had saved and the one hunting the both of them down.

"Cid?" Clive asked warily. "What are you going to do?"

"Going to put on a show," Cid said. Violet lightning skittered along the sharp edges of Cid's clothing, and his hair bled a stark white. He spoke next with thunder crashing behind his words. "Clive. Go get some of that forgiveness I was talking about, yeah?"

Cid was…letting him go? Helping him escape?

Another rumble of the earth through the floor, rolling like the deck of a sailboat on the sea. Clive hadn't felt tremors like this in a very, very long time. It was unnerving, to say the least.

"We need to leave," Gav insisted, hefting the swords with one hand and pawing at Clive's shoulder to get his attention with the other, "we need to leave now!"

Clive looked over at Cid once more before following Gav out the door of the inn room. The former Lord Commander of Waloed wore an expression that Clive had only ever seen on men being dragged to the gallows.

..

Once outside, Gav trusted Clive to follow him and remain close to the shade cast by building awnings. Clive felt a slight novelty in having the trust of another once more.

Beyond being an 'acquaintance' of Cid, Clive had no idea who Gav was or what his typical day of work looked like, though the man seemed quick and clever enough that Clive thought he might suit any profession. Through the streets of the tiny city they marched, stopping only twice in their progression toward the Crossing. Even as the sand and stone trembled underfoot, Gav snatched a hooded cloak from an unmonitored clothesline and tossed it at Clive, who dutifully threw it about his shoulders and drew up the hood.

Gav then weaved his way toward a leatherworks with an open workshop, threw a bag of jingling coins at a man who was busy fashioning a belt, and took up two small, thick pieces of parchment from the workbench. Before the parchment disappeared into one of Gav's many pockets, Clive caught a flash of official-looking scrawl declaring that the parchment were travel cards.

The end of the final street leading to the Crossing was chaotic - a confusing mishmash of travelers, Men of the Fist, peddlers hawking their wares, and harried sentries blocking the way onto the land bridge. Clive, freshly invisible due to the pitch-black mark stretching from his neck to his left eye, dodged easily out of the way of an elderly woman with a baby who appeared to be selling curatives.

Pottery rattled on stall counters and a small child stumbled, scraping her knee, when the earth rolled again. A sudden gust kicked up dirt and sand and debris alike, much to the dismay of the gathered people. Roiling, ominous clouds coalesced in the otherwise cloudless sky, just over the inn they had come from.

As Clive watched, a bolt of lightning arced from the heavens and crashed into the earth, so bright his sight was full of the ghost of it each time he blinked. Thunder slammed through his ears and vibrated in his chest. Several citizens in the marketplace let out startled screams and gave up on all pretense of waiting for their turn to make Titan's Crossing.

It was a mess.

"This is a mess," Gav complained and cast his eyes over to Clive. "Stay close to me. And—sorry. For, uh—whatever I need to say to get us across."

Clive offered a wry grin. "I can't imagine the experience will be much worse than what's happened so far."

Gav made a helpless noise and turned to face the crowd gathered around the Crossing sentries. He was a single line of tension from the crown of his head to his heels, and he didn't seem to know what to do with his arms now that he had two swords at his left hip - he made an attempt at resting his left arm on the sword grips like Cid often did and decided against it an instant later. His hand flopped awkwardly back to his side.

"Then again," Clive muttered to himself as he followed after Gav, "I've been wrong before…"

XxXxX

Pushing his luck was something Cid did more than he'd like to, but it wasn't like it didn't always work out in the end.

And sure, "always" typically meant "usually," and "work out" typically meant "narrowly escaped without significant bodily harm," but that was more than sufficient for Cid's purposes. His success rate for escaping sticky situations? Ninety percent. Getting himself stuck in a position of leadership for Waloed all those years ago was one datapoint that dragged that average down significantly, in Cid's professional opinion.

And that specific misstep continued to drag the average down with its long-reaching consequences.

"Fuck," Cid observed intelligently when crystal fetters closed around his wrists.

At least the town had survived unscathed, despite the three semi-primed Dominants who had fought within. The bell tower in the town center crumbled in a cacophony of ringing and stone crashing, and Cid winced.

Well. Relatively unscathed.

He coughed miserably a few times and spat a gritty mixture of sand and blood onto the torn-up ground. Stars above and fires below, he was sore.

"That was easier than I expected," Benedikta declared as she sauntered her way over to Cid. None the worse for wear - a few tears in the leathers she wore despite the desert heat. She still glowed a sickly green from the aether of semi-priming. Her wings slowly dissolved into the afternoon air.

"You forgot to play fair," Cid replied and winced. His lower lip was split open.

"I wasn't playing."

"Then why am I still breathing?"

"His Majesty's orders - you and the boy, alive," clarified the Dominant of Garuda. She rolled her shoulders and the last visible feathers shattered into wisps of chartreuse light. "I'm certain you remember. They were the same as your orders, Cidolfus," she accused with a narrowing of her eyes.

Cid just shrugged.

"Orders, suggestions - I don't see much difference."

The look Benedikta threw his way was supremely unimpressed.

"So, this is your traitor?" Hugo Kupka asked as he lumbered over. "You didn't mention that he was the Dominant of Ramuh."

"It never became relevant," Benedikta drawled. Her eyes tightened a little at Kupka's answering laugh.

"If the ability to toss about levin bolts like javelins fails to qualify," Kupka brandished the scorched stretch of his right arm - blackened skin splintering about in macabre branches, a dead tree bisecting his flesh, "then forgive me if I believe your judgements of relevance are in need of recalibration."

Ah, so Cid had tagged Kupka at least once during the scrap. Good. And it appeared Benedikta had committed the fatal error of withholding the truth from her ally. Cid smirked.

"Lord Kupka, Warden of Earth! I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I would bow, but, eh—" Cid gestured with his head to indicate his kneeling position and being surrounded by Men of the Fist and the crystal fetters and, well—all of his predicament, really. "How did someone like you fall in with a lot like hers?"

Benedikta crossed her arms over her chest and smiled smugly.

Kupka sounded downright amicable when he replied, "What else? Rumors of fire and ruin."

Cid nodded thoughtfully. "Enough to move any sensible ruler to act. Tell me, though, what did Benedikta divulge about her prey?"

The emphasis in Cid's voice was clear. What did she actually tell you?

"Enough," Kupka echoed with less good humor, "to want you out of my country." It was evident the Dominant of Titan did not appreciate the implication that he was missing important information.

And Kupka's conviction seemed sturdy, but, well, Cid was familiar with shaking mountains when he needed to.

"I see. Remind me, Dhalmekia is still allied with Rosaria, is it not?" Cid asked.

For Cidolfus Telamon had been sent to destroy Drake's Head with the blessing of Joshua Rosfield, himself. It had been kept secret, of course, from anyone not involved intimately in the affairs of the Rosfield family - it wouldn't do to learn that Rosaria was sending an agent to destroy a Mothercrystal. Such deeds were far too clandestine for the shining, honorable reputation of the Rosfields. The whole thing had really been Cid's idea, anyway, and he'd had to do more than a little convincing of the necessity of the action in the first place.

However, Cid was technically an ally of Rosaria. If the young Archduke were to learn that Dhalmekia had allowed Waloed to take one of Rosaria's agents into custody…

The Southwestern Alliance could grow just a mite shaky.

Cid cocked his head to the side and awaited the expected response, the confirmation of the alliance and the resulting opening for his reply about his own status...

But it didn't come.

Benedikta retained her self-satisfied smile, her posture loose and easy. Kupka chortled robustly enough to fell a few more stones from the ruined bell tower.

"That is certainly what Rosaria believes!" Kupka exclaimed. "Though my homeland finds itself drawn to more beneficial relationships."

Cid attempted to formulate a reply, but he came up short. What in the world could Benedikta have promised this man that he would abandon a decade-long alliance?

"My Lady!" An Ashen intelligencer - Gerald, Geralt? Gerulf! His name was Gerulf, Cid remembered - marched up to their little conversation. "The Second Dominant of Fire is not within the city. Your orders?"

Cid suppressed a sigh of relief at that - Gav and Clive managed to escape the city during the confusion and had made the Crossing. If Gav had any sense, if Clive had any sense, they would avoid major cities and stick to the wastes. And they would stick together. Benedikta and her men would be searching for the Second Eikon of Fire, not the Second Eikon of Fire and his scout friend.

Benedikta glared down at Cid for a moment before directing her attention to Kupka. "Do we still have your support?"

"The Men of the Fist will aid you," Kupka said, sounding terribly amused at this new development.

"Cross the Rift. Every man of your company should have a guide familiar with the landscape," Benedikta ordered Gerulf. "Begin searching at the southern edge of the Rift, fold into local settlements, inquire after sightings of unfamiliar individuals. Make every effort to find him."

Benedikta stepped a few paces back from the gathering and adopted a sturdy stance. Dust rose about her feet in a swirling vortex, carried by updrafts of aether.

Even with the fetters firmly about his wrists, Cid could feel the aether bunching up in the air, rippling. Pressurizing and depressurizing with increasing rapidity.

"My Lady?" Gerulf asked in confusion.

"Worry not, Gerulf," said Benedikta with green light leaking through her lips, her eyes searing blue, wings unfurling emerald brilliant pinions behind her, "I'll join you overmorrow. I've a delivery to make, first."

Shit.

Cid's success rate for escaping sticky situations? Eighty-four percent.

xXxXx

It had been nearly a half-bell since Terence had been deposited in the empty room and instructed to await the arrival of Archduke Rosfield, and he was loathe to admit that the wellspring of his patience had started to run dry.

The cool, dark dim of Rosalith Castle's audience chamber was a welcome reprieve from the blistering summer sun, it was true, though he had long shaken the fatigue of the heat and the cooling, drying sweat on his skin rose gooseflesh along his arms. And in spite of all his preparation, his stomach was a pit of dread.

That dread only amplified when the room grew even colder with the arrival of its second occupant.

Jill Warrick, the Dominant of Shiva, descended the grand stairway behind the throne and he could nearly taste the cold on the air.

She was beautiful, of course.

She wore her silver hair long and plaited in a complicated braid, and her eyes were a piercing blue. Light blue leathers, white linen, and shining silver mail made a striking figure of the Lady Warrick. She kept a rapier with an intricate ivory grip at her left hip and a wicked, curved dagger at her right.

Terence watched as she came to a stop gracefully a respectable distance away from the right hand side of the empty throne. He had thought her occupied at the Rift's south side, but apparently the fates had conspired to bring her home to Rosalith. Terence hoped his miscalculation would not hinder him too badly.

"I hope you can forgive my candor," spoke the Lady Warrick with a tone like the ice she so effortlessly hurled from her fingertips at whim, "but if you truly are who you claim, I find it difficult to fathom why you have entreated the good Archduke for a private audience."

The Dominant of Shiva.

Terence had seen her primed more than once on the battlefields littering both sides of the Rift. He'd also seen grown men impaled on dizzyingly tall spears of ice - seen his comrades crushed beneath transparent glacial boulders. Their bodies were so far out of reach it was laughable to make attempts to bring them home. It was rare that battlefields touched by Shiva held any retrievable remains.

"And I hope you can forgive my candor," Terence replied with a confidence he did not feel, "when I say I recall requesting a meeting with Archduke Rosfield, not his attack dog."

Lady Warrick smiled a stiff smile that did not bring any light to her eyes, and Terence was struck suddenly with the knowledge that he had just made a grave error.

"A common misunderstanding that I will forgive on this occasion. Torgal." Her gaze slid over Terence's shoulder to the back corner of the audience chamber.

From the shadows prowled a hound.

No, not a hound. A wolf.

It was massive and silent as it moved, easily twice as large as any wolf Terence had seen in the wild - a hulking gray and white figure thrown into relief by the weak light of the wall sconces. Its eyes shone a sinister, reflective yellow.

The wolf moved on its huge paws past Terence and sat at Lady Warrick's left, just in front of the Archduke's empty throne.

"This is the Archduke's attack dog. You'll notice he has no leash," Lady Warrick declared with a glance down at the wolf. She smirked at Terence's palpable fear. "You'll notice that neither do I. But it is not Torgal's name which makes men shrivel in terror, now is it?"

The Warden of Ice waited patiently, but Terence failed to conjure an answer. His breath fogged in the frigid, silent air.

"Well. Sir Terence of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon, First Lieutenant to the recently departed Imperial Prince Dion Lesage - for what purpose do you crave the attention of Archduke Joshua Rosfield?" Lady Warrick asked. She folded her hands behind her back elegantly.

"I come to offer the surrender of the Holy Empire of Sanbreque. I come to end the decade-long feud between our nations."

Blue eyes blinked, startled. Terence felt a thrill of victory in that he had, at least briefly, put Lady Warrick on her back foot.

However, the good lady recovered quickly from the shock. "You would offer that which is not within your power to give? You would waste my time and that of my sovereign?" Warrick asked impatiently.

"His Radiance the Emperor is no longer of sound mind. Madness has set upon him as rot upon a tree; he is changed, and not for the better. Our nations have both lost much to this war, and at least some of the bloodshed is the fault of a man bereft of reason," Terence said.

He smartly made no comment about the man who had declared war in the first place, certain that criticizing the former Archduke would only make worse his chances of success.

"You truly believe it within your authority to propose an end to the war?"

"His Radiance has taken leave of his senses, and His Highness the Prince is—" dead, Terence did not say, though he did purposefully cast his gaze to the marble floor.

"Ah," Lady Warrick expressed as they alighted on the topic, "another matter I thought to discuss with you before allowing you anywhere near the Archduke: How long did you believe you could keep the reality of your prince's…miraculous preservation…from our intelligencers? A day? A moon? Half a season?"

Terence winced. Damn it all.

"His Highness has…temporarily abdicated his responsibilities as he recovers from a grievous wound. I command the Holy Order, and we now represent the authority of the Empire as the Cardinals still support the Emperor. The concealment of His Highness's survival was necessary, you understand, for our prompt exodus from Sanbreque."

"So am I to assume that the remainder of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon and the Dominant of Bahamut now lay in wait in Rosaria, prepared to follow their commander to the bloody end?" Lady Warrick asked. She canted her head to one side and a chilly smile played on her lips. "Have you brought assassins to the doorstep of Rosaria's sovereign?"

Terence shook his head in a negative. "No, My Lady. The rest of the Holy Order remained behind in Oriflamme after assisting with His Highness's escape from the city. They lay in wait, yes, but only to overthrow the Emperor when they receive word that aggressions have ceased."

"What reason have I to believe you?" Lady Warrick asked.

"What reason have I to lie?" Terence shot back.

"You already lied, Sir Terence, when you entered these halls and attempted to bargain for a ceasefire under false pretenses," a new voice responded.

Terence's head whipped to the right and his eyes quickly found a figure standing in the balcony overlooking the throne room.

Leaning against the stone railing with a bemused smile, glowing somehow even in the dim dark of the chamber, was Archduke Joshua Rosfield.

"What reason have you to lie, indeed," Archduke Rosfield mocked. He spoke only quietly, though each word rang and carried easily in the grand room.

The Dominant of the Phoenix was dressed all in red and black finery. His hair shone a lustrous gold, his eyes a jewel blue. And, indeed, just as told in the stories, his very presence smacked of oppressive warmth.

Terence swallowed thickly. He had seen what Shiva could do on the battlefield to men and armaments, alike. Her strength was a known quantity. A terrifying one, but a known one.

The Phoenix, on the other hand…

There were only tales of the Phoenix. Warden of Fire, the ruler over life and death; a destroyer as much as a savior. What bards Terence had listened to in Rosaria weaved masterful stories of the Phoenix slaying ten thousand soldiers with one swipe of its talons. They sang of the Phoenix's breath raising men from the dead. There were whispers that the reason for Rosaria's continued stability was the fertile land sustained by the Phoenix's grace.

Over and above any of that, though, the Phoenix had razed Ironholm to the ground in one evening, when its Dominant was only ten summers old. Terence had been allowed to read the reports of the incident years afterward. Those few survivors reported a storm of flames - a vengeful demon come to sow chaos and disaster.

The Phoenix inspired awe and terror in their purest forms, and he now stared down at Terence, who was an enemy intruding in his home.

The fear was choking.

Lady Warrick sketched an easy bow and the wolf rose to his full height at her side. "Your Grace."

"Good afternoon, Jill, Torgal," Archduke Rosfield greeted. His keen blue eyes focused on Terence again and narrowed marginally. "Sir Terence."

"...Your Grace," Terence managed tremulously. The manners that had been as well as engraved in his bones failed him for the first time in years. He neither bowed nor knelt - he simply stood.

"My father declared war ten years ago," Rosfield mentioned lightly, conversationally, "against a nation that had debased itself in its betrayal of our alliance. War against the nation that killed his firstborn - my brother. Soldiers of Sanbreque, dragoons especially, have seldom been given quarter in this conflict, 'Sir Terence' - Interim Commander of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon. My father believes anyone who aligns with traitors and murderers should share in their fate. A dragoon in my audience chamber," the Archduke laughed but there was no humor in it, "…were Elwin Rosfield still the Archduke of Rosaria…"

Joshua Rosfield meandered his way unhurriedly across the balcony to the staircase Shiva's Dominant had descended earlier.

Terence had thought Shiva to be a paragon of grace - with the same patience as frost creeping across fallen leaves in the forest. The Phoenix's was a terrible elegance that put in mind only that same forest crumbling to ash; consumption with naught but stillness and silence in its wake.

Terence had to actively fight the urge to run. Leave. Flee. He said nothing. His hands twitched. Between blinks, the Archduke's shadow flickered on the wall into something larger.

Winged.

Sweat dripped down the back of Terence's neck.

"I am much like my father," Rosfield added calmly and it cleaved through Terence as might an executioner's axe.

The wolf - Torgal - padded over to greet Archduke Rosfield as he descended the stairs, and the sovereign offered several pats and scratches with a small smile.

"Though, I am curious," Archduke Rosfield admitted as he drifted over to his throne, "about a great many things. To start, you will explain in detail why the Imperial Prince's most trusted now darkens my door. Do hope I find your answer satisfactory."

Torgal settled beside the throne's left arm, and Lady Warrick beside the throne's right. The Dominant of the Phoenix stared down at Terence from the grand seat.

Terence wished very fervently to go back in time and stop himself from requesting the audience at all.

Still, he gathered himself and began to explain.

..

For reasons of supposed divine insight, Emperor Sylvestre Lesage wished to see his only son, Dion Lesage, dead. He believed through the revelations gifted him by a beautiful woman glowing with holy light that Dion Lesage would see the nation of Sanbreque - and all of Her people - bleed to death. And, as Bahamut's Dominant was a mighty being on his own, Sylvestre was required to resort to subversive methods like assassination via poison.

How truly unfortunate it would be for the Emperor to lay the task of assassination upon a man who would never raise an untoward hand at Dion Lesage. How truly, truly unfortunate, indeed.

The situation was thus: Sir Terence of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon had received an order from the Emperor to kill his commanding officer. And while, technically, the Emperor did not need to explain himself at all, the explanation he had given was stunningly inadequate for an assassination, in Terence's humble opinion. He wouldn't have carried out such a mission, anyway, even if the reason had been adequate, but still.

He departed the audience chamber rather more quickly than was polite, perhaps, but his care for the finer aspects of decorum had decayed the moment he'd been ordered to kill the Prince. The long walk back to His Highness's chambers was useful, at least, for drawing together the first scraps of a plan.

Terence had an inkling of how to get the Prince out of these dire circumstances by the time he wrenched open the door to the Prince's chambers and found him sitting, downtrodden, upon his bed.

"Your Highness!" Terence greeted without a salute.

Dion rose somewhat unsteadily to greet him. "Terence?"

"We haven't an abundance of time," Terence rushed out. He surged forward to clasp his hands about Dion's forearms when it appeared as if he would fall forward. Was the Prince still so unsteady?

"What's the matter?" Dion asked after a few uneven breaths.

"His Radiance has—he has gone mad," Terence said, with no gentler way to explain.

"Mad? Surely you must be mistaken."

"My Prince, the Emperor instructed me to—to…" Terence's voice petered out. He shook his head and withdrew the vial from the pocket at his hip. It gleamed an innocent clear in the sunlight, but Terence was only cold.

Dion's eyes flicked back and forth from the vial to Terence, for surely there must have been some mistake. And how Terence wished that were the case.

Terence swallowed hard. Would the Prince even believe that the Emperor assigned this task? "He says the Great Goddess has been gifting him foresight. He claims you mean to usurp him."

The Prince adopted an expression suitable for a man thrown from his chocobo.

"I would never!" Dion burst out.

Terence held out a placating hand. "I know."

"Whyever would he…?" Dion stumbled backwards until his knees hit the edge of his bed. He more collapsed than sat on the quilt. "What manner of trickery is this? Who poisons the mind of my father? Who whispers lies in the ears of the Emperor?"

"He was insistent that the Great Goddess spoke to him," Terence said helplessly. "Every claim he made, he said that She was guiding his knowledge; that She was almighty and the ultimate."

Dion tensed where he sat and stared straight at Terence, gold eyes wide.

"Repeat yourself, please. My father's words – what were they, exactly?"

"He said 'She is the Almighty. The Ultimate, above all else.'" Terence dutifully recalled.

The Prince pressed a hand to his own chest and grimaced. His countenance spoke of vague nausea. But still, Dion pressed on:

"What am I to do, Terence? Whether a product of his own mind or not, my father has ordered me to die. And not at the end of a blade or a spear, not in noble combat – but by poison. And by your hand."

Terence shook his head. "I would never harm you, Your Highness."

"That title may not be mine, anymore," Dion chuckled humorlessly. His hands clenched into fists on his thighs and he stared down at the floor.

The Prince was still recovering from his tilt with Ramuh and the Second Eikon of Fire, Terence knew - by the light, the man was hardly able to walk down the hallway without stopping to rest. But Terence had been devising a plan for a reason. They would need to work quickly, and Terence would need to drag more people into the knowing of it, but he thought there was a solid chance for it to work.

Before all of that, however, Terence needed to calm the Prince.

He knelt on one knee just before where Dion sat. Looked up at him as steadily as possible. Took up both of Dion's hands in his own.

Terence asked very seriously, "Do you trust me, Dion?"

The reply was immediate: "Of course - with anything. Always."

..

"Endearing," Archduke Rosfield said shortly, cutting off Terence's recounting of events. "So the Emperor devised a scheme to murder his son and you devised a scheme for the two of you to escape the city. How did you cross the Rift, and why is Dion Lesage being reported deceased if he's simply missing?"

Terence frowned, more than a little irritated to have been interrupted but far from willing to voice his frustration.

Instead, he explained, "I engaged the assistance of the Holy Order to find a corpse resembling His Highness. One of the Knights allowed us to cross the Rift with her tamed dragon. As soon as we landed, we sent the beast off back in the direction of Oriflamme."

Archduke Rosfield gave a sardonic smile. "So the Dominant of Bahamut does indeed lay in wait in Rosaria."

A sharp, metallic sliding sound.

Lady Warrick drew her rapier and took several quick steps in Terence's direction. He stumbled backwards, wishing more than anything that he had never come to this damned castle—

"Hold, Jill," Rosfield ordered and Warrick halted mid-stride. "We must be thoughtful in this. Were we to execute Sir Terence, we may draw the wrath of Bahamut upon Rosaria."

Warrick sniffed. "As though that is not already their plan?"

"I've already divulged our plan!" Terence exclaimed petulantly, and then he remembered and added hastily, "Er—Your Grace. My Lady."

Rosfield leaned against one arm of his throne and propped his jaw up on one hand. Lounging. Terence hated him just a little for it, if he were being honest.

The archduke was silent for a long while, considering. Eventually, he hummed and stood from his throne.

"I'll consider your offer. A ceasefire, you said?" Rosfield asked.

"Your Grace?" Lady Warrick asked in surprise.

Terence nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. Halting all hostilities."

"Hmm. We'll have conditions, of course," Rosfield said.

"That's," not ideal, really, Terence thought, "only reasonable, Your Grace."

"And," Rosfield mentioned offhandedly as he turned and began ascending the stairs beside the throne, "you will bring Dion Lesage to Rosalith Castle, where he will formally surrender."

What?

"I—" Terence choked out, but the other parties in the room ignored him.

Archduke Rosfield ascended the stairs, followed by Lady Jill Warrick who tossed Terence one more frosty look. Torgal padded his way up the stairs shortly after.

A door slammed shut, somewhere.

Terence was left alone in the audience chamber once more.

Not ideal at all.

xXxXx

Stonhyrr played host to myriad stately and palatial rooms, and many among those would be suitable for such an occasion. Barnabas Tharmr decided to receive Cidolfus Telamon in the grand dining room. The space was large, enough to seat two companies of soldiers comfortably should the need arise. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Aside from the weak lamps dangling off wrought-iron beams in the ceiling, the fire was the only other source of light.

Such a homely and comfortable space, truly, for the Dominant of Odin.

Precious moments slipped by as he awaited the arrival of his former Lord Commander, but he was patient.

He held up a hand and watched firelight flicker across his palm. Shadow threaded through his knuckles, weaved through his fingers. It did not so much dance as writhe, did not so much play as seethe and boil. Ichor-black and dripping, the shadow raced. Needle-sharp and cutting, the shadow sliced. He frowned and raised a brow at the blood beading on his fingertips.

Displeasure burned in his ribs, but it was muted and far away. Barnabas hummed.

Patience, he reminded himself. The shadow sunk back into his skin, but the displeasure remained. Temperance and patience.

Patience was an easy companion of Barnabas Tharmr. After all, the best things in life were the things that took the longest time to accomplish; a delicious and decadent meal, the trust and respect of one's underlings, the satisfaction of a plan come to fruition…

Patience was a virtue, and Barnabas was a virtuous man. How enjoyable when the promise of patience delivered such results. The joy of a wayward lamb returning to the flock.

The tall wooden doors split wide and Cid was pushed through the opening rather unceremoniously. He stumbled, but he did not fall. Behind him, the doors swung shut once more.

"Ah, Ramuh," Barnabas greeted smoothly. "Welcome home."

The Dominant of Ramuh was resolutely silent, but his jaw flexed. He appeared tired. Though the journey from Storm to Ash was a quick one, it likely had not been very comfortable in the brig of the Black Galleon.

How unfortunate that such measures had been necessary to restore Ramuh to Waloed.

"Benedikta informed me that your quest bore fruit," Barnabas started, indicating the parchment on the grand dining table. He made slow steps in Cid's direction. "And yet, you do not share this bounty with your family? I did not think you so selfish."

Cid did not answer, yet again, but Barnabas's enthusiasm did not diminish in the slightest.

"What was Mythos like, Ramuh? Describe him," Barnabas ordered.

"Exactly how you'd expect," Cid said sarcastically, "Power-mad and ready to surrender his body and soul to a god he's never known!" When Barnabas only raised a brow at Cid's declaration, Cid continued wearily, "Did some reading up when I escaped. I know what you've been keeping from us. You should know I'm not very impressed."

Barnabas imagined that the great works of the Almighty would appear a sight less impressive, indeed, when told from the perspective of mere mortals. He would need to assess the magnitude of Cidolfus's misconception.

"So you believe you have learned a truth?"

"I've learned the truth," Cid insisted, and Barnabas barely contained a laugh.

"A truth," Barnabas corrected, as gently as the sea waring upon the cliffside, "We cannot know the truth; to us, it would be incomprehensible."

The truth, the revelation - it was not meant to be known by simple creatures of flesh and bone, regardless of the gifts they had been given.

Cid made a face and shook his head, so Barnabas decided to change the subject.

"You spent so long in the presence of Mythos, and yet your strength remains intact," Barnabas observed. And it was true - despite the crystal fetters, when he was so close to Cid he was able to sense the might of Ramuh crackling in the air. It whipped at his skin, angry, but muted and easily contained.

"Just when were you gonna tell us that this—this boy would just—" Cid bit out, indignant, "take our powers like that?"

"Ah!" Barnabas exclaimed happily. "So you saw him feast, did you? Tell me, was it glorious?"

"Glorious? It was terrifying! The boy had no idea what was going on!"

How unfortunate for Cidolfus, truly, to confuse awe with terror. Barnabas resolved to correct this confusion at the earliest possible opportunity. That was later, however. Now…

"Mythos supped upon the strength of Bahamut, did he not?" Barnabas asked, barely containing his glee.

Shock bloomed on Cid's face. "How did you…?"

"The Dominant would not perish unless his usefulness had faded," Barnabas explained. The Almighty simply would not allow such a thing to come to pass - not when the promise of rebirth was so near.

A pause while Cid allowed Barnabas's words to roll through his mind.

"Dion Lesage is dead?" Cid asked, and Barnabas nodded.

"The news arrived just last week," Barnabas said. "How unfortunate for the Emperor. How comforted he would be to learn that his son had served a higher purpose."

"A 'higher purpose,' eh?" Cid's voice was lower.

"The same purpose you will serve, Dominant of Ramuh," Barnabas informed. "The only purpose that matters, and the only truth that matters. You will be consumed by Mythos and he will bring about a world born anew."

"It'll be a bit difficult to, ah, serve my purpose in a Waloeder prison cell," Cid said.

"For now," Barnabas acknowledged, "but worry not, Cidolfus. Mythos will come to Waloed. He will gorge himself on your being and on mine."

Cid went white and lightly green in the face before he regained his composure.

"You think I'd give him the chance?" Cid asked, scowling, though fear shook in his voice. "No. This—this burden stays right here, with me."

The back of Barnabas's skull prickled. The corners of the room darkened.

A burden. Barnabas frowned. A burden. The glory of God - a burden? The grace of the Almighty pouring through his blood, holy and bright, a burden?

It seemed Cid was having a difficult time understanding his role.

"I am afraid you will not have a choice."

Sleipnir melted into being from Barnabas's shadow and seized Cid by the throat, smiling serenely.

The Egi turned and dragged Cid bodily from the room, ignoring the wheezing choking and coughing from the man in his grasp.

Barnabas nodded once to himself and turned to stare at the fire dying in the massive stone fireplace. They would do their best to scrub whatever nonsense Cid had poisoned himself with during his time abroad from his mind. And if they could not, well, it would be of no true loss.

After all, for Mythos to feast, the Dominant only needed to be alive.

xXx

********Hi there - serious Oxy time:

I'm not looking for constructive criticism on this work. I'm really, really not.

Fanfic is a labor of love, and some authors appreciate having readers tell them about things that they could do better/improve. I'm not one of those authors. I have a beta reader for the purpose of finding errors and correcting them.

If you aren't jamming with something or multiple somethings that I'm doing in the work, I politely invite you to keep it to yourself and just click away. It's not worth your time to tell me about it, because I'm not going to change anything about the work as it stands or in the future in response. I'm going to continue telling the story the way that I want to tell it.

If that angers or otherwise upsets you, I politely invite you to click away and find something to read that will make you happy. I want you to be happy. I don't want you to spend your time analyzing my work in dissatisfaction. You should spend your time reading a work that makes you happy, and if that isn't this one, please don't tell me about it, just leave.

All of that being said, thank you for your time and attention. The next update will happen when it happens, and you can expect bubbly, happy Oxy back when it eventually comes.

All my best,

Oxy.