A/N: HI~! HELLO~! AND WELCOME~! BACK~~~~!
you know the drill: beta-reader AkaiSafire on AO3 is a goddess.
all errors are mine, per usual.
it's a bit unorthodox, but i hope you like it, anyway :D pay attention, huh? ;)

here we are!
here we are :D
love you
enjoy
oxy

XxXxXxXxX

I

The report was unremarkable, all things considered; another Imperial soldier jumping ship and fleeing their homeland for greener pastures. It was odd that they decided to flee to Rosaria and entreat the Archduke for mercy, but it wasn't unheard of. What was strange, however, was—

"An officer?" Joshua raised a brow.

"He claims to have been a commander, Your Grace," one of the younger attendants, Tomas, said with a nod.

"And his request, in full, was…?"

"An audience. He offered his unconditional surrender and submission to Your Grace's judgment," Tomas recited while examining the parchment. He offered the document to Joshua, who peered at the text upon it briefly before gesturing for Tomas to take it back.

"And this is the last matter requiring my immediate attention this morning, correct?"

"Well…"

"'Will the nation survive until after I've had midday meal?' was my meaning, Tomas."

Tomas coughed once to mask a laugh. "Ah. Yes, Your Grace; Rosaria will not fall while you dine."

"Excellent," Joshua smiled. "Have this 'Commander Welch' brought to me. I will pass judgment upon him, and then I shall join the others in the dining room."

"Your Grace." Tomas bowed easily and retreated from the Archduke's side, presumably to inform the guards that the Imperial deserter was to face trial early.

Joshua sighed a little and examined another report as he settled in to wait. No response from Dhalmekia, still, regarding the presence of the Men of the Fist at the border, nor their association with the Waloeder intelligencers that the Shields had captured. Perhaps the Dhalmeks would respond if Rosaria began withholding crystal shards? Drake's Fang was the most minuscule of the Mothercrystals, after all, and the Parliament of Ministers had long been reluctant to mine further if there was no need.

It wouldn't be for very long - Joshua just needed them to engage in a dialogue. He nodded to himself and took down the order on a fresh sheet of parchment. All deliveries of crystal shards to Dhalmekia were to halt immediately. They would restart as soon as Joshua had answers. And if the Dhalmeks wanted the Waloeders released from Rosalith's dungeons, as well, they would need to ask.

His father and Lord Murdoch were still embroiled in a tense debate regarding what to do about Dion Lesage and his First Lieutenant. Joshua would discuss with them their arguments after midday meal.

The wide wooden doors creaked open and in walked a Shield pulling along the man who was, presumably, Commander Welch. He was unbound, for there was no true need, and he knelt easily when the Shield urged him down.

"Your Grace, the prisoner, as requested," the guard saluted and stood by, prepared to intervene if needed.

The prisoner was of formidable height and build, clad in plain clothing, and had borne no Imperial sigils but the stamped silver coin of an Imperial officer. His hair was dark and shaggy, his skin lightly tanned, and his eyes a clear cobalt blue.

A lance of familiarity pierced straight through Joshua's soul. It could be explained away with logic, surely—the man simply bore significant resemblance to his father in his youth. For a brief moment, Joshua felt like he was staring at a portrait of a twenty-year-old Elwin Rosfield.

Simple.

And yet.

The Phoenix shifted about, restless and urgent. Its talons dug into Joshua's shoulders as though trying to spur him forward. Warmth skittered up Joshua's spine and tingled at the crown of his head. It sank into his stomach, poured through his veins.

Look there, the Phoenix crooned, pay attention!

And pay attention Joshua did.

The prisoner spoke.

..

The very first thing that Joshua could recall - he was unsure of the date, as such precise things were easily lost to the thick soup of childhood memory, but it was sometime during his third summer - was not his mother, nor was it his father. Joshua's very first memory, the farthest back in his mind, was Clive.

It was a simple thing, nothing dramatic; a walk through the Down Gardens in summer, when the air was kinder to Joshua's throat and lungs. Joshua was late to walk on his own when compared to other children, likely because he was sickly and his caretakers were reluctant to exacerbate it. Running around and playing were activities for healthy, non-crown-prince children. Simple things like taking a walk in the garden were often restricted, saved for when a multitude of minders and caretakers could be there to whisk him back inside when he grew slightly out of breath.

But that day, he walked.

Butterflies and dragonflies pushed their wings through sunshine-drenched afternoon air. Roses in every color sprung from the soft earth. The whole place was a riot of hues and organic splendor, painted syrupy sweet and gold and slow by all the gentle kindness of childhood.

Clive was so tall back then - he was always so tall, in Joshua's memory. He told Joshua about all the plants and bugs he knew. They made laps around the garden planters, taking short breaks in the shade of trees when Joshua's lungs strained. Clive didn't make him go back inside, and instead asked him if he wanted to keep walking around. When Joshua replied with "outside!" consonants softer than they should be with the lisp his etiquette teacher was trying to train out of him, Clive just smiled. Joshua took off onto the path overgrown with ferns, and Clive let him run and followed after. He was patient like that.

Joshua wobbled here and there when he got tired, wobbled a little in general, but Clive was there. He offered a hand. Sometimes Joshua took it, but sometimes he didn't.

When Clive eventually bribed Joshua back inside, it was done tactfully.

"It's so late. If we don't go back inside soon, there might not be any cakes left for tea!" Clive exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead.

Looking back, there was actually very little tact.

Clive's acting skills had always been somewhat poor, and being a child himself only made that more apparent. But, the over-exaggerated facial expressions and the threat of not having cakes with tea were more than enough for Joshua.

Joshua gasped. "No!"

He reached out for Clive's hand and used all his might to drag his brother back to the grand doors. When they reached the threshold, the guards at the doors were hard-pressed to maintain their stern expressions at Joshua leading his big brother around by the hand, the older of the two trying very hard to stifle his giggles and the younger of the two just repeating the word "cakes" whenever someone asked him what he was so worked up about.

It was soft, that memory. It was easy. So few of Joshua's memories were gentle, and so few of them were kind; Clive was disproportionately featured in those ones. But Joshua had to be careful when engaging in recollection; he had to be in the right mood. If he wasn't cautious, unwelcome intrusions—

"I'm counting on you, Joshua" and massive double doors being pulled shut, but Joshua kept his eyes on Clive until the last—

Then roaring, screaming. Crumbling stone, curling smoke, and he would never see his brother again. Entombed forever beneath a felled fortress.

—splintered the delicate softness apart like fracturing glass.

..

It was as though memory had poured out and sprang to life right before Joshua's eyes in the vast chamber of the throne room.

The same voice, but a measure deeper. The same eyes, but a shade colder. The same face, but without the bowed softness of youth. And all of it, all of it together, it meant something.

Pay attention!

Joshua paid attention.

"I know you," Joshua said and was shocked because he did, he did know this man. Not rotting beneath the remnants of Phoenix Gate, he was here - here in the throne room, he was here.

Hot wind tousled his hair and the Phoenix leaned over his shoulder, admiring and observing, wings shuffling-stirring-sifting closer. Move closer. We've missed him, but he's here!

"We know you," Joshua said with every voice the Phoenix ever had.

XxXxX

Joshua sat the throne – of course he did, it was his right, and Clive was pleased beyond measure to see him where he belonged. It had been news, especially in the barracks in Oriflamme, that Joshua Rosfield had ascended as the Archduke of Rosaria - the Dominant of the Phoenix taking his rightful place after more than twenty years of a non-Dominant occupied throne. As with most things, though, knowing something and seeing that thing for himself were completely different.

Archduke Joshua Rosfield, Dominant of the Phoenix and Warden of Fire. And Clive was so, so, so proud of him.

Clive stared at his brother's face as long as he dared and then cast his gaze down to the harsh stone lines of the throne, instead. He looked healthy. He looked well.

That was enough.

Founder, he's grown.

"Your Grace," Clive said as he knelt, and he felt very much as though he would be contented with being struck down there and then. He was home and his brother had ascended to his rightful place. It would be fine, truly, if everything came to an end, now. "It is beyond my rights to expect mercy—"

But he was interrupted.

"I know you…" the Archduke breathed. He leaned forward and spoke with the voice of a thousand. "We know you."

Joshua left his seat.

The Phoenix's steps were slow and purposeful as he walked toward Clive. Heavy red robes shuffled and chainmail tinkled softly in the quiet.

"Raise your head," Joshua commanded, "look at me."

Clive steeled himself against what he would see when he did so. Disappointment? Hatred?

…Sorrow?

But Clive did as his Archduke bade him, and lifted his gaze to meet his brother's.

Joshua's eyes never could keep the secret of his emotions, and now was no exception – there was no anger, there was no hatred, and there was no disappointment; Clive saw only relief, disbelief, cautious happiness.

"...Clive?" Joshua whispered on an exhale.

"Joshua," Clive said. "I—"

Joshua's grip was like iron. He hauled Clive off the ground and to his feet and into his arms and held.

And any dread Clive had felt dissolved - swept cleanly out of his heart. He marveled, almost ashamed at how relieved he felt. How long had he spent doing exactly what Cid had warned him against?

How long had he spent making a monster out of his brother?

"My brother," Joshua muttered. His hands clenched in Clive's shirt. He trembled.

Ten years. Ten years Clive had spent away, and ten years his family had spent in mourning.

"I'm sorry," Clive choked, unsure, truly, what else he could really say. "I'm so, so sorry."

Tears welled in his eyes and brimmed over, dripping hot down his face and onto Joshua's shoulder.

"You're alive," Joshua said faintly. "I never—how… ?"

Warmth enfolded Clive in slow layers, soft, as though he were drawn into the wings of a great bird. At once he was twelve again, reading Joshua to sleep with verses from the Saint and the Sectary.

Ifrit was silent, but a confused, contended happiness crept through Clive's very bones.

Clive pulled away from the embrace and looked upon Joshua.

"You've—you're so tall!" Clive exclaimed, but it was slightly strangled.

Joshua's answering laugh was a shocked, hysterical thing halfway between mirth and sobbing. He bowed his head until it rested heavy against Clive's chest and cried.

xXxXx

It was unlike Torgal to misbehave so boldly.

The hound would snort his disapproval, more often than not, as when he was refused table scraps. Occasionally, he would woof very softly when he felt it was warranted, as when the stablemaster refused to allow him into Ambrosia's pen.

The minders of Rosalith Castle did not know, because Torgal was very clever and very sneaky, but he also would take small bundles of candy from the kitchen and deliver them to the little children who gathered around the fountain in the marketplace. That the bundles were pre-made and easy to carry in his mouth was certainly just a coincidence, and definitely not the castle staff entertaining Torgal's activities. He was very sneaky, after all.

This was not sneaky, it was not subtle, and it definitely had an air of boldness that his other acts assuredly did not.

"Heel, Torgal!" Jill cried as she dashed down the corridor after him, but she was summarily ignored.

Torgal did not usually push open doors and run wild through hallways of Rosalith Castle - it just was not something he did. Except for today, because today was different. Because he needed to get to the throne room.

It had been shaping up to be a normal midday meal in the dining room - stew and freshly-baked bread with butter, one of Torgal's favorite meals to obtain table scraps from. Jill and Rodney and Elwin would surely indulge Torgal, as usual, and then mock each other for how weak they all were against his "puppy eyes." (Offensive. Torgal had not been a puppy for many, many seasons. He was big, now.) So Torgal had prepared for a typical afternoon of gazing longingly at the bounty upon the table and receiving chunks of meat from the hands of his all-too-sympathetic pack members.

The easiest scheme in the hound's repertoire, surely.

They were awaiting Joshua's attendance to begin the meal, so Torgal was languishing morosely on the floor under the table. Then, he caught a scent he'd not smelled in so many seasons he'd nearly forgotten to whom it belonged. And he needed to leave.

Go now.

Run fast, so he could get there quickly.

Torgal might be scolded later for knocking over the guard at the dining room door, but that didn't matter for now. He'd thrown his entire weight against the door at speed and took off down the cold stone flooring of the corridor when it finally gave way under the force.

"Torgal, here!" Elwin Rosfield commanded, following behind Torgal some distance after Jill.

A whistle. "Torgal, here, boy!" Rodney Murdoch attempted, bringing up the rear of the small party scrambling through the castle.

Unimportant, for now. Torgal ignored them.

He came to the back doors to the throne room, but they were shut. He needed them open.

"Torgal?" Asked a guard, and, "What're you doing, boy?"

The door handle went between his teeth and he prepared to pull backward to open the doors, but—

"Torgal!" A hand seized the scruff of Torgal's neck, right above his shoulder blades. His mouth was pried off the door handle and he whined.

It seemed his pursuers had caught up to him. He scratched at the door and looked at Jill, trying to appear pathetic; if there were a time for his "puppy eyes" to work, it would be now! In the room. He needed in the room. He needed the door open! He scratched at the wood again.

"Elwin, would you hold him?" Rodney Murdoch asked, and control of Torgal's scruff was passed to Joshua's sire. Torgal huffed.

Jill drew her blade and pushed her way between the door and Torgal and Murdoch and Elwin. If there was a danger in the room, Jill would be the first to meet it. And Torgal admired her bravery but he wanted in the room first!

A nod, and the guards at the entrance pulled open the doors to the throne room.

xXxXx

It had been a swelteringly hot summer day in the year 845 that Elwin Rosfield had become a father. That was an oversimplification, of course, as the day's events had been longer and messier than Elwin had ever expected—

("Is this normal?" Elwin had asked frantically, seeing dark red blood coating the bedclothes and the pallid skin of his wife. He had been assured that bringing life into the world is messy, Your Grace, and if you truly have so weak a stomach you may exit the room, Your Grace. )

—but the ends had justified the means: Elwin Rosfield had a son.

Perfect, Anabella had said, exhausted and drenched in sweat and all the gore of birth, gazing at her son's tiny toes and dark blue eyes and tuft of black hair, he is perfect.

And Elwin was in complete agreement: Clive Rosfield was perfect. If his cries upon entering the world were any indication, he was strong. According to the midwife, he was of a healthy weight and would be of even temperament.

Clive's face - still ruddy from being born - had scrunched up as though he were deciding whether to loudly make himself known, again. But his hand found Elwin's pinkie finger, and apparently that was enough to settle him for the time being.

A healthy weight, Elwin had mused as he held his son in his arms like the midwife had shown him. How could being so small possibly be healthy? Barely the weight of a housecat. So small. Clive's tiny hand couldn't even close around Elwin's littlest finger, though not for lack of trying. He had a lot of growing to do if he was to fill the shoes of Elwin's father, Archduke Elric.

But, Founder, Elwin's son was perfect.

Elwin did not tremble. He was the Archduke, and he could not be nervous - such things were beneath him. Elwin's breath did not stutter. And certainly, Elwin Rosfield did not cry. His vision blurred and he sniffled.

Certainly.

A Scribe of the Undying would attend the following morning to confirm what Elwin could already tell - that Clive was the Dominant of the Phoenix. Warmth bubbled beneath the babe's skin, and he practically glowed in the low light of Elwin's chambers. There was no doubt in Elwin's mind. There would be ceremonies planned and parties thrown, and Clive's name would be taken down in every book and scroll and tapestry in Rosaria, and Elwin would need to exude stoic pride, like the Archduke should. In those sleeping hours before then, however, he had been free to marvel and gawk at the newest addition to the Rosfield family.

"Hello," he had whispered to the tiny, tiny face of his son while the night wrapped them both gently in its cool quiet curtain. "Hello, Clive."

A toothless yawn. Eyes the same shade as the storm-roiled sea at dusk peered up at Elwin.

..

And it could not be so - for it was impossible, because Clive Rosfield died ten years ago when a monstrosity ravaged Phoenix Gate - but beyond the suddenly-motionless Jill and over Joshua's shoulder and widening in shock were those same eyes.

Eyes that Elwin would know anywhere.

Rodney was stock-still at his side. "That's…that couldn't be…"

Elwin's grip on Torgal's scruff slackened without his notice.

The doors opened fully and the hound bounded into the room, leapt down the staircase in a single jump, took several more sprinting steps across the marble floor, and crashed into the pair of men where they stood.

xXxXx

The year was 854, and Rodney Murdoch made a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Within the Grand Duchy of Rosaria, a young person could enter Shield training at twelve and become a full Shield at fourteen. The same age requirements persisted in the standard military force; the youngest one could start training was twelve, and the youngest a person could join the combat force proper was fourteen. Entering training so young was exceptionally rare, of course. After all, who would want a child fighting in their army, or indeed Shielding the crown from threats?

Children were supposed to be children; they were supposed to run outside and play pretend with friends until they were covered in dirt and breathless with laughter. Children were supposed to have stupid fights over candy or who really kicked the ball the farthest or—well. Rodney couldn't think of anything else off the top of his head. But a child was not supposed to be in Rodney's bailey, lined up with the other Shield hopefuls, hefting a wooden training sword much too heavy for him (it was the lightest one available, and his skinny arms still trembled).

Three years too early for even the most basic of Shield training, Clive Rosfield wobbled and wavered with the sword in hand.

"Again!" Rodney barked at the line of young men.

They stepped forward, training blades in hand, slashed downwards, and held their final position so Rodney could critique their forms. Again.

"Feet shoulder-width," Rodney demanded, and, "If you don't bend your knees, you'll pass out!" and, "Alright, reset! Again!"

Rodney did not want to reach the end of the line where Clive stood. He did not want to watch the boy struggle to assume the forms he would be able to do easily if only he would wait the bloody time he needed to grow. But Rodney's willful avoidance did not go unnoticed.

"Sure," muttered one of the boys in the line whose stance Rodney had critiqued rather harshly, "we get torn apart and his lordship gets to watch."

Rodney cut the boy a glare and he quieted very quickly.

"Reset," Rodney demanded of the line again, and received myriad groaned complaints. "Again!"

At the end of the line, the young Clive Rosfield dropped his blade, his arms shaking. He retrieved the sword from the dirt and was back in line with the rest of the trainees less than a minute later.

.

Everyone else had left as soon as they were dismissed, sweat-soaked and brow-beaten, but Clive remained behind in the training ring. He stared very seriously and determinedly up at Rodney while the Lord Commander placed the remaining training swords into their wooden storage crate.

"I need to get better," said the Lord Marquess, "Can you teach me?"

"I am teaching you. Against my better judgment, might I add," Rodney replied, the last part an irritated grumble. Had it only been Clive making the request, Rodney would've had the authority to deny him outright. But it wasn't just Clive making the request - Elwin had taken him aside privately and asked if Rodney would start allowing Clive to get used to Shield training.

Nine years old. By the flames.

But Clive just shook his head. "Not just drills. I need you to teach me proper swordplay - I'm not getting better fast enough."

Rodney quirked a brow. "Fast enough for what?"

Clive drew himself to his full height - chest-high to a chocobo - and said very importantly, "I'm to be Joshua's Shield."

"You are, are you?" Rodney asked, and Clive nodded resolutely. And even though Rodney knew without a shadow of a doubt who had done it, he asked, "And who told you that?"

"Fath—His Grace told me!" Clive declared, and Rodney loathed the way the boy had flinched and corrected himself.

Clive wasn't even comfortable referring to Elwin as his father. Anabella Rosfield should count her blessings that she was married to Elwin. She should count her blessings that she was the mother of the Phoenix. She should count her blessings that Rodney Murdoch was a man of principles, that Rodney Murdoch was decent and honorable. A man quicker to anger than he would storm into Rosaltih Castle proper and do something regretful.

But instead, Rodney just nodded and leaned against the fencing of the training ring.

"You know, First Shields have a very important job. They get a lot of extra training and spend a lot of time dedicated to their charge," Rodney said. "Keeping the Archduke safe isn't something that just anyone can do." His hope that the threat of additional work would deter Clive was doused immediately.

"Which is why I need to start now," Clive stressed, and Rodney could see that this was one task to which Clive felt like he'd been set.

Even at nine summers, Clive Rosfield with a task was tenacious as a behemoth on a hunt and twice as ferocious. Determination was painted all over the boy's face - it burned in his eyes and kept his spine straight and his chin up high.

And damn him, but Rodney far preferred that look to the quiet dejection that followed Anabella's scorn. He might live to regret it, but…

"Tell you what," Rodney said, "if you're set on being the First Shield, spar with me. If you can touch me with a sparring sword, I'll train you using the previous First Shield's regimen."

It was stunning; how quickly the serious determination was subsumed by joy.

"Really, Uncle Rodney?!" Clive threw his arms around Rodney's middle and squeezed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He hasn't called me that in years, Rodney would say later that evening to Hanna Murdoch while they shared supper by a crackling hearth. I haven't seen him smile like that in years.

.

I left him, Rodney would sob into Hanna's shoulder in the year 860 on the darkest and coldest day he could remember even though it was the middle of summer, I left him there. He trusted me and I left him.

..

The guards slowly opened the double doors to the throne room in the year 870, and Rodney found himself staring at a ghost.

His jaw was stiff. "That's…that couldn't be…"

And then, of course, Elwin lost his grip on Torgal and the hound knocked both Joshua Rosfield and the unexpected visitor to the ground.

xXxXx

Jill Warrick became a hostage of Rosaria when she was six years old. This both was and was not an oversimplification of her circumstance.

The Archduke's party returned to Rosalith late one rainy afternoon in 854, victorious over the rebellious Northern Territories at long last. Sheets of rain slammed into the white stone walls and the late autumn chill leeched the heat from the travelers' bones.

Foul weather had found the travelers halfway through the journey to Rosalith and had not let up. Jill thought it was like the sky was crying.

She was urged out of the relative safety of a chocobo-drawn carriage and into the courtyard by the tall soldier who had guarded her during the trip. He was blonde and broad and clad in red, like so many of the others, but his smile was kinder and less sharp. That smile reminded Jill of her father, a little bit.

As soon as her feet touched the rain-soaked stone, Jill took up the edges of the soldier's cloak and held on tightly.

The courtyard was dreary and dark, even though it was not yet night. A severe-looking blonde woman in a dark red dress sauntered her way over to the returners.

"Lord Murdoch!" The woman greeted, but it did not sound like a greeting at all.

Jill hid as completely behind the soldier's leg as she could.

"Your Grace," Lord Murdoch returned with a dip of his head.

"Where is my husband?" The woman demanded.

"The Archduke will be along shortly, Your Grace…"

The two of them kept speaking, but it was the kind of speaking with raised voices that Jill did not like.

She looked up at the tumultuous gray sky, hands still clenched in Lord Murdoch's long cloak. She looked around at the courtyard and the muted reds of soldiers' clothes. The woman and Lord Murdoch engaged each other angrily.

She didn't cry. She couldn't cry. She promised Dad that she wouldn't cry. She promised.

Jill was led inside, out of the rain and the wind and the cold, and her hands were pried gently from Lord Murdoch's cloak.

"Go on with Marleigh, now," Lord Murdoch said and pushed Jill toward a brunette woman in a long dress and apron. "She'll see you well looked-after."

Lord Murdoch was gone, after that, in a rush of red fabric and gleaming plate mail, and Jill was left alone in a corridor with Marleigh and the stern woman.

The stern woman looked down her nose at Jill. Her lip curled and she addressed Marleigh without looking at her. "See her dried off and dressed in something…appropriate. Do not allow her near Joshua. Outsiders bring disease, and I'll not have him ill again. And burn those rags."

Jill's traveling clothes were a soft Northern blue, trimmed warmly against the season's chill with furs and hide. What rags?

Marleigh curtsied. "Your Grace."

The stern woman turned and prowled down the hall in the opposite direction without another word.

Marleigh held out a hand to Jill, and what choice did Jill have but to take it?

.

The braids had been taken out of her hair.

Mom had spent hours carefully doing her braids and adding beads and ribbons, and all that work had been undone. It didn't seem like anybody here cared to re-do them, either. Jill didn't know how to replicate them on her own.

There was a scuffle over Jill's traveling coat when Marleigh went to take it away, but Jill didn't cry. At least she didn't cry.

They dressed her in red. When she looked at herself in the mirror in the washroom, Jill thought she looked ill.

They put her in cavernous chambers with a big bed, an empty wardrobe, and not much else. As soon as the last candle was snuffed out, Jill waited fifty breaths thrice and pulled open the door. Her door, now.

From the balcony she'd passed earlier, the moon was visible since the rain had passed. The moon was the same. The stars were the same. Metia burned bright and comforting.

Her eyes scrunched shut and she wished as hard as she could.

I want Dad, Jill's hands clenched and she shook a little. Her hair was loose and long, and she didn't know where any of her beads or ribbons were. I want Mom. Her clothes were red and there was white stone all around.

I want to go home!

She cracked one eye open and then the other, and she found herself still standing on the balcony in Rosalith Castle. Jill sniffled and a few tears spilled over, but if she wiped them away before they fell then it didn't count, right? Right?

"Are you alright?"

Jill jumped and took a few stumbling steps away from the balcony entrance. There was a boy. Older than Jill, probably by a couple of years.

He had dark hair and blue eyes, and there was a red cloak thrown over his shoulders like Lord Murdoch had had.

"Sorry," said the boy, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"'M not scared," Jill lied in a mumble.

"You're shaking," the boy pointed out. "Are you cold, then? Here—"

The boy pulled off his cloak and held it out, wiggling his hand once when Jill made no motion to take it.

Jill took the heavy fabric and swept it about herself. It was warm.

The boy sat on the ground. "I'm Clive," he said. "The Archduke said you're a princess. Did you live in a tower?"

"A…tower?" Jill asked. She followed his lead and sat on the ground, happy for the cloak between her sleeping clothes and the cold stone.

"Like the north tower!" Clive gestured with his arm at a column of white with a tall, pointy roof.

Jill shook her head. "Why would I?"

"Because that's where princesses live till they get saved by knights!" Clive said, matter-of-fact, nodding to himself.

"Never saw a tower, before," Jill said. "What's a knight?"

"Big, strong men in shining armor!" Clive declared. "With big silver swords!"

Jill shook her head again. "Never saw them, either, till a bunch of them took me here."

Clive frowned. He looked from Jill to the tower and back again. He frowned some more.

Jill looked at the tower, too, and down to the borrowed red cloak. Lord Murdoch was a knight, then? Because of his armor and sword?

Clive had the same kind of cloak…

"Are…you a knight?" Jill asked. "Can you save me?"

"Not yet, but I will be!" Clive said. "I'm in training so I'll get strong! And when I'm done training, I'll be the First Shield and I'll save everybody!" He nodded once to himself and stood up. He held out his hand. "Can you wait till then, My Lady?"

"I s'pose," Jill said. She reached up her own hand and took it.

Jill let Clive lead her back to the room she'd snuck out of, and when he bid her goodnight it was with a bow so ridiculous she almost laughed.

She definitely smiled, though.

..

When she entered the throne room sixteen years later, Jill's knees wobbled and threatened to give out on her.

"That's…that couldn't be…" Lord Murdoch whispered out, and Jill agreed.

Because it couldn't be; there was simply no way.

Torgal's mass sped past in a blur of gray and white and excitement, and he bowled over Joshua and—and—

There was loud, shocked laughter. "Torgal!? How big you've gotten!" A voice that couldn't—

Because he was—Clive was…

Jill pressed a gloved hand over her mouth. When tears rolled over the leather, she didn't notice them.

Elwin and Rodney leaned heavily on each other as they descended the stairs to the audience chamber proper. There were loud, shocked gasps and Joshua quietly reassuring yes, it's—it's really him, Father. Clive is—

Happy tears. They must've been.

Disbelief and happiness - she must've been in disbelief and she must've been crying because she was just so happy. Alive. Clive was alive, and Jill must've been happy.

But if she was happy—if she was happy, truly, then—

Then why did she turn on her heel and leave?

xXxXx

Torgal was very fast and very strong - it had been that way since he grew to his full size. He was also very large; the wolf was easily twice the size of the largest hound in Rosaria. He wasn't prideful of this.

Not one bit.

His mass was more than enough to send both Joshua and Clive crashing to the marble floor. All three of them fell in an awkward mess of limbs and fur, and Clive's sudden exclamations and laughter were happy.

"Torgal!? How big you've gotten!"

Torgal's snout pushed close. Clive smelled the same - fire smoke, ash, aether. The piece that had been missing from the pack for so many seasons Torgal had lost count.

When Torgal had last seen Clive, Torgal had been very small. Now, Torgal was large enough to keep Joshua and Clive safe.

There was some commotion after Torgal made his jump onto Clive, but it was easily pushed aside by Clive's fingers raking warm and solid through his fur.

xXxXx

Elwin Rosfield nearly fell down the stairs when he was struck with the realization of who exactly was embracing Joshua in the audience chamber. Rodney discovered this because he had to catch his friend about the waist and ease him step by step down the treacherous marble stairs and into the room proper. The former Archduke was pale and paid Rodney little heed during the arduous process, though Rodney certainly couldn't blame him.

Each footfall took a hundred years to complete. At least, that was how it felt. Rodney at least had that amount of time to think through what he could even say - if that even was Clive Rosfield and not some—some imposter.

Though Rodney didn't believe anyone could fool Torgal's sharp nose, and the hound completely ignored Joshua in favor of harassing this—this…

Elwin's voice wasn't louder than a whisper when he finally addressed Joshua. "Joshua…that's…is that—?"

"Yes, it's…it's really him, Father," Joshua said.

And Joshua would know, wouldn't he, because Rodney remembered Clive receiving the Blessing of the Phoenix and the red-gold feathers winking in and out of existence - remembered watching Clive flash into and out of nothingness across the training ground of the bailey and the terror of suddenly seeing the impossible before his own eyes - and Joshua would know that it was Clive who stood before them.

Clive. The boy that Rodney had gotten killed.

"Clive is alive," said Joshua, in direct contradiction to everything Rodney knew to be true.

Elwin Rosfield's knees wobbled and threatened to give out, and Rodney knew this because he performed his duty as a glorified walking stick excellently. The Lord Commander only managed to stay standing because without his support, Elwin may have fallen.

Joshua and Rodney managed to wrangle Torgal away from Clive with significant effort, though the hound whined out a wounded sound and stared with huge eyes up at his captors.

"Father," Clive said with his gaze on the ground, still sitting where he'd fallen when Torgal tackled him.

The former Archduke stood for a moment and simply looked upon his son. His jaw worked as though he was about to speak, but no words emerged. Elwin was white as a sheet and his eyes were huge.

The silence stretched far too long, cut only by Torgal's panting and the sliding of his nails on the floor when he tried, unsuccessfully, to wriggle away from the very undignified entire-body hold Joshua had managed to corral him into. What ordinarily would've been something quite funny became painfully awkward.

On the floor, Clive's hands clenched into fists and his head bowed further. "...Your Grace," Clive corrected himself and there was only the slightest shake in his voice. "Please forgive my lack of decorum. I—"

Elwin did somewhat fall to the floor without Rodney there to keep him propped up, but at least it seemed purposeful. The eldest Rosfield reached out and pulled his firstborn into his arms.

Ten years of grief shook them both.

For the first time in a decade, Rodney saw Elwin cry.

XxXxXxXxX

A/N: readers will notice that this chapter has a "Part I" in the chapter title - that's because the original chapter 13 draft is around 13k and still only getting longer :|
there will be at least one more part, possibly two(?) I'm working on it, will have it up as soon as i can.
important stuff is still coming, too :D
i very much hope you enjoyed!