A/N: hi hello and welcome back! :D
you already know~ AkaiSafire on AO3 is magnificent and unstoppable 3
all mistakes are mine because i prune these babies like a rose bush
here we go again~!
love you
enjoy
oxy
XxXxXxX
II
Clive stared around his familiar (too familiar, and yet so very, very unfamiliar) bedroom while he waited for enough time to pass that he could reasonably say it was time for supper. He would rejoin his father and brother there. Until then, though, he had some time to kill.
He'd been deposited in his old chambers by his brother, who had admitted he needed a few moments to collect himself after their tearful reunion in the audience chamber. It was more than understandable; Clive felt he needed some time to process everything, as well.
True to Joshua's word, the room was the same as Clive had left it a decade before. The bedclothes were the same, his writing table and chair were the same, and all of his books were either neatly shelved or open on the tabletop.
Joshua assured him, unnecessarily, that the sheets and bedspread would be replaced before Clive retired for the evening. He'd also apologized that the copy of the Saint and the Sectary on the desk had more wear than the rest of Clive's books, but he'd offered no explanation. He didn't have to.
At the very bottom of Clive's wardrobe, there was a small pile of shirts he'd long outgrown with a depression in the middle that called to mind the size and shape of the puppy Clive had met so many years before. Torgal, now fully-grown, lounged atop Clive's bed in a sliver of late afternoon sunlight. When Clive's gaze fell upon him, the hound's tail wagged slowly.
Torgal rose and stretched deeply before hopping off Clive's bed and padding over to the door. He circled in front of the door several times and huffed at Clive once.
There was plenty of time before supper, and perhaps following Torgal around would provide some much-needed distraction. There was also the fringe benefit of reacquainting himself with Rosalith Castle.
"Do we need to go off on an adventure, boy?" Clive asked. Torgal sneezed and Clive chuckled. "Very well; lead on."
It was a slight surprise when Clive opened the door to the hallway, preparing to leave, and found Rodney Murdoch with his fist raised to knock.
Torgal slipped out into the corridor and past the Lord Commander, but he paused and sat patiently when he noticed that Clive didn't follow.
"Clive!" Rodney exclaimed softly.
"Lord Murdoch," Clive greeted.
There was a measure of silence, for how one is meant to start a conversation with the charge they thought long dead was not a lesson taught to the Lord Commander. The blonde man hesitated for several seconds before bracing himself and clenching his jaw.
"...I am sorry," Rodney said. He looked everywhere but at the Lord Marquess. "For Phoenix Gate. I am…I do not blame you if you can never forgive me."
The man was a veritable portrait of guilt; the bow of his head, the furrow of his brow, the tremor of his sword hand. The Lord Commander felt guilty.
Naught but confusion kindled in Clive.
"My Lord, I fail to take your meaning," Clive said gently. "You speak of forgiveness. What is there to forgive?"
It was disturbing, to see his words have a physical impact on a man who stood so tall. Rodney Murdoch flinched. His gaze was haunted when he finally looked at Clive, like he could see that fateful night play out right in front of him.
"I…" Rodney cleared his throat. "...I should have returned to your side with more speed. I was about to. I saw the false Shields and ran off to Elwin, instead. Had I…had I rejoined you, perhaps…"
Clive recalled the burning courtyard and a contingent of murderers stalking towards him. He'd been tired and in pain, but he'd refused to fall there. He'd refused to let fate be written there.
Untangling his own thoughts from those of Ifrit in the ensuing moments was an arduous thing; the Night of the Flames was a hazy, smoke-soaked nightmare the likes of which Clive hesitated to recall if he could at all avoid it. However, there were sensations he could not forget - fragmented perceptions of stimuli that churned the stomach and tore the nerves:
Charred bones breaking underfoot, falling to hot, black dust.
That had been the fate of the men who had come to claim Clive's life in the courtyard. And if he had rejoined Clive, indeed if he had been anywhere within range of Ifrit's grasping claws and hellish flames, that would have been the fate of Rodney Murdoch, as well.
But the secret of Ifrit's might still sat about Clive's neck - one of the heaviest burdens now remaining. It was not the sort of thing to be revealed during a conversation in a corridor.
"You did your duty," Clive said, "and for that, I'm grateful."
Rodney shook his head slightly. "Clive—"
"A moment, please," Clive interrupted and Rodney relented. The Lord Marquess continued, "Had you not left and attended my father…I shudder to think what might've come to pass. Do you know what became of the men who attacked me that night?" At Rodney's negative answer, Clive met his gaze as seriously as he dared. "They burned to death."
Silence fell again, save for the minute sounds of breath entering and leaving lungs at an even cadence.
"I've no doubt in my mind that you spared my father and Joshua the same fate," Clive said after a time. "So, I don't feel as though there is anything to forgive. But you do have my forgiveness, if you need it."
The breath that left Rodney next was a heavy, shaking one. His shoulders lost some of their tension.
"...thank you," Rodney said simply, though the words seemed far heavier than simple gratitude. "Thank you."
Clive nodded, for it didn't seem appropriate to say "you're welcome."
"Do you plan to attend supper later?" Clive asked, instead.
"No," said Rodney, and a tiny smile caught his mouth when he continued, "I'll be dining with Hanna this evening. I've some excellent news to share with her, after all."
Clive opened his mouth to ask Rodney what the "excellent news" could be before the realization struck him. He blinked, suddenly unsteady and unsure how to respond.
The Lord Commander rested a heavy hand on Clive's shoulder and considered him for a long while. "Thank you, Clive, for coming back to us," Rodney patted Clive's shoulder a few times and turned to leave. His next words were so quiet Clive could barely catch them. "...Have to tell Hanna this mess was worth it…"
And while Clive was definitely glad to have helped unburden the Lord Commander of some of his lingering guilt, that last phrase troubled him. "This mess was worth it…"
Worth it?
He rejoined Torgal and the hound led the way through the castle with Clive following in a daze. What could the Lord Commander have possibly meant?
.
When Clive hesitated at the front gates, Torgal took his shirtsleeve between his teeth and urged him outside of the castle.
It was with no small amount of dread that Clive realized Torgal was leading him to the chocobo stables. He knew Ambrosia still lived; Cid had let that slip during their trek beneath Drake's Head. But was Clive ready to face her? It had been ten years since he'd made his promise to return…
The stablehand who greeted Clive was fairly young and seemed confused both by Clive's appearance (he'd been provided with some of Elwin's old clothing after his traveling garb had been disposed of) and the fact that Clive asked after Ambrosia by name.
"She's not the most cooperative bird in the stable, milord," the young stablehand said nervously as he led the way to the chocobo pens, "And by 'uncooperative', I mean that her usual way of saying 'hello' has a tendency to draw blood."
"Trust me," Clive reassured, "if she decides to tear my guts out, I wager I deserve it."
The stablehand looked very much not reassured.
Torgal took off in the direction of the row of chocobo pens, his tail whipping through the air and stirring up straw and dust as he went. The hound skidded to a halt before one wooden door in particular; the handle was marked with a bright red handkerchief. He reared up on his hind legs and peered over the door of the pen, woofing once. Still, his tail wagged. Yellow eyes cast over to Clive expectantly, like he was waiting for the Lord Marquess to come and see.
Clive squeezed his eyes shut and steadied himself with a deep breath before approaching the pen with no small amount of trepidation dragging his feet. He patted Torgal on the head once and turned his eyes to the interior of the pen and—
By the flames, Ambrosia hadn't changed at all.
The bird was still massive, still white-feathered, still of proud bearing.
"Wark!" The chocobo cried indignantly, shuffling back and forth in the space and flapping her wings angrily. Blue eyes peered at Clive warily from a head bowed more for attack than out of any form of respect; a razor-sharp beak was aimed directly at him.
Torgal woofed again once.
The change that came over the chocobo was nothing short of miraculous: she straightened up, her feathers flattened to their correct positions, and she cocked her head to one side curiously as she took in the visitors at her stall.
"Hello, Ambrosia," Clive said softly.
Ambrosia trilled and rushed the pen's door. With a fluttering of her wings, she cleared the door in one jump. The bird stopped right in front of Clive and simply stared at him for a while, angling her head back and forth to better see him with both eyes. She shifted her weight back and forth on her massive talons.
The stablehand was horrified and made a choked noise behind Clive. "Milord—!"
Clive threw his hand out in the direction of the stablehand and kept his eyes on Ambrosia. "It's alright," he said to one or both of them, "just need to make good on a promise."
"Kweh!" Ambrosia exclaimed when she had finished her examination of her former master.
"Sorry it took me so long," Clive said. "Think you can forgive me?"
The bird crooned in response, and in the next moment she approached Clive and bumped her massive beak against his chest. The force of it nearly knocked him over and onto Torgal, who huffed.
Clive reached a hesitant hand up. The feathers of Ambrosia's crest were as silky and impressive as they had been ten years ago. She leaned her head into his hand.
"Kweh." It was so quiet that it was barely audible, but Clive took it for a response.
"I'm back," Clive muttered and leaned his forehead against Ambrosia's. Torgal's wagging tail thwacked against his leg with almost bruising force, and Clive laughed.
xXx
It was still too early to leave for supper when Clive returned to his chambers, and instead of joining him within, Torgal darted off down the hallway in the opposite direction. Clive shook his head at the hound and resolved himself to perusing the belongings he'd long forgotten.
If the room had changed in some small way during Clive's long term abroad, he would not have known. However, to Clive's eye, the room was a perfect portrait of the morning of the departure for Phoenix Gate. He was struck suddenly with how much he had changed while the room had remained the same.
There were shirts and trousers in the wardrobe that Clive wore when he was a teenager that he would never wear again - he'd outgrown them in his absence. A few pairs of boots sat just off to the wardrobe's right side, lined up neatly but covered in a fine layer of dust. Everything would need to be replaced, of course, but that would come later.
A worn copy of the Saint and the Sectary laid spread open on the writing table beside an anthology of the playwright's other works and the three other volumes that a much younger Clive had determined were friendly enough to precede his brother's dreams. The writing table had been cleaned regularly; there was no dust on the surface or any of its contents. He traced a tentative finger across the divots embossed in the leather covers, admired the way the lamplight bounced off of the gold leaf decorations.
He eased the small collection of books closed one by one and stacked them in a pile; he could sort through them later.
..
When Clive arrived at the dining room, he did so early for supper by a half-bell, at least. To his relief, though, his father and Joshua were already seated and engaged in quiet discussion over tea. His father had a notebook open and there was a map nearby - the two were obviously talking about the war in some capacity.
"Clive!" Joshua said brightly in greeting when Clive came through the door. "We were just—"
A deep huff and a scrambling shuffle-turned-bang emerged from beneath the table, rattling the silverware slightly. Joshua steadied a long-stemmed glass to keep it from falling over and winced when a second bang followed the first. Elwin sighed a sigh that turned into a reluctant laugh.
Clive realized at once just where Torgal had got to when the two of them returned to the castle from the stables earlier.
Torgal shook himself when he finally cleared the edge of the dark wood tabletop and padded his way over to Clive with his tail swishing back and forth. The hound sat heavily on the rug-covered stone and Clive obligingly scratched at his ears.
When Torgal was finally appeased, Clive rounded the table to sit at Joshua's left side, across from his father who sat at Joshua's right.
"Are your chambers still to your liking?" Joshua asked when Clive settled himself in his chair. "We can have anything changed - just let me know."
There were no simple words to describe the strange, melancholy sensation Clive had felt upon examining his old room.
"They're good," Clive said.
Nobody at the table seemed to know what to say next. Torgal started snoring as soon as he laid back down amongst the table legs, so he wasn't even around to serve as a decent distraction.
Clive steeled his nerves. He decided he must address it, else it would gnaw at him without end:
"I spoke with Lord Murdoch. He…welcomed me home," Clive began, leaving out several of the less flattering details of the conversation, "but he also implied something rather troubling."
Joshua raised a brow and gestured for Clive to continue.
"His phrasing—" Clive broke off, rather unsure how to organize his thoughts. He looked between his father and Joshua for a moment and decided to say, "The war. When the Lord Commander welcomed me home, he said 'this mess was worth it.'"
"Indeed, it was," Elwin said easily, as though he were making a statement of fact.
And to Clive, it was absurd.
"You cannot possibly mean…" Clive lost his words for a moment, but his father and brother patiently waited for him to continue, "I was simply one of many you believed lost to you that night."
"Not so," Elwin replied, "as you are my son."
There was a decade of grief weighing down Elwin's words. The tone was heavy in Clive's ears and heart.
He struggled to speak once more. "But… war, Father?"
Elwin nodded. "I waged war, yes. And when I passed the throne to Joshua, he followed in my footsteps."
Helplessly, Clive looked to Joshua.
"Peace ceased to be an option the moment we believed you dead by the Empire's hand," Joshua confirmed. His gaze was sharp, hawklike. In a glance, he dared Clive to speak against him.
"We are not glad of the consequences of war," Elwin clarified. "However, had I known that these events would lead you home, even when also knowing the cost…Given the chance, I would repeat all of my actions again. Mayhap I was a poor leader, to put my people in such peril."
Love.
Disbelief.
"Clive," said Joshua, and he waited for Clive to meet his eyes before he asked, "What do you imagine you would have done, were you to discover that I had been taken from Rosalith Castle?"
"I would have…" burnt cities to the ground, is what Clive wished to say. And it was the truth. And the Eikonic might prickling at the crown of his head told him that it certainly would have been possible for him to do so.
From the moment Clive laid eyes upon his baby brother, small and helpless in his crib, the instant that Joshua's hand had wrapped around Clive's littlest finger, Clive would raze Valisthea to a pile of ash and despair for him. With the power of the Eikon within him, he could accomplish just that.
The destruction the Phoenix had wrought at Creag Loisgte? Ifrit could replicate it anywhere.
Everywhere.
Ifrit purred agreement deep in Clive's ears - it practically rattled his jaw.
How frightening to go to such lengths; how horrifying to want to.
The look Joshua fixed upon Clive contained far too much understanding, though Clive had said nothing.
"Then why are you so surprised to know that I would do the same?" Joshua asked.
"If you knew of my crimes, perhaps you would not have waged war, at all," Clive said and the words felt bitter on his tongue.
"Your… crimes?" Joshua asked incredulously.
"The Night of the Flames," Clive said, stumbling slightly. "I was—it was—me."
It wasn't supposed to come out that way - it was supposed to be couched in apologies and sincere pleas for mercy. It wasn't supposed to be revealed just before supper - it was supposed to be revealed in the audience chamber Clive had been led into, but he had been so shocked at seeing Joshua and Torgal and his father and the Lord Commander. So happy at seeing his family once more; how relieving to see that they were alive, that they were well.
How quickly plans fell apart in practice.
Thankfully, it didn't seem as though Joshua minded very much.
Joshua blinked a few times. Cocked his head to the side. "You?"
"The Second Eikon of Fire, it—its name is Ifrit. And its power lives in—in me," Clive admitted. "The villain responsible for the tragedy that night… it was me."
Elwin blinked and reeled back in his seat but otherwise did not react. The room fell silent save for Torgal's continued snoring.
"I thought there was something different about you," Joshua acknowledged slowly. "Fire lives in you, still, though it burns less like a torch and more like a wildfire. You do host an Eikon…"
The Eikon - the one which destroyed a strategic fortress, killed tens of Shields. Clive's father hastily scribbled "Ifrit" down on the parchment sat upon the table, in five different spellings just in case. Clive only had a glance, but all of them looked incorrect, to his eye.
"My brother - a villain and a fiend," Joshua mused. He reheated his tea with a wave of his fingers. "Impossible, though I do admire how your acting has improved."
Clive blinked a few times. "I don't follow."
"Clive Rosfield, the First Shield of Rosaria and the Lord Marquess to the Grand Duchy of the same did not know of the excursion to Phoenix Gate until the day before it occurred," Joshua declared. "One evening is hardly enough time to form an alliance with an empire and arrange an ambush at a castle, unsuccessful though it was. Phoenix Gate was not your fault, no matter what…'Ifrit' did there."
Clive became acutely aware of the fact that his face had gone slack with shock. His teeth clashed together when he finally shut his mouth. Joshua serenely sipped from the filigree lip of his teacup.
"I—I killed our countrymen," Clive protested, "I destroyed the castle!"
There was a rumble in Clive's ear. Displeased, like Ifrit was upset at having his credit stolen.
Joshua made a thoughtful noise and tapped his fingers rhythmically on the tabletop. Clive thought he heard a sound like the trilling of a bird, but the dining room was empty except for himself, Joshua, Elwin, and Torgal.
"…could you have stopped it?" Joshua asked.
"What?"
Joshua stared down at his own hands where they rested atop the glossy wooden table.
"When the Phoenix rises in my mind, I can rely upon its wisdom and instincts. When I prime, I—we," Joshua corrected himself, "both maintain a hand on the reins, so to speak. I always have some control over what we do and where we go. Perhaps…even when I should not." Joshua's voice cut down to a whisper and his eyes squeezed shut.
Elwin's face was resigned and grim across the table.
"Joshua?" Clive asked. He nearly reached out to lay a hand on his brother's shoulder but stopped himself at the last moment.
"Could you have stopped it? Did you have any control over Ifrit?" Joshua repeated.
"No," Clive answered.
No, there had been no control. The great beast had gone where it pleased, done what it pleased, blazed a path of devastation through the fortress, and Clive had been unable to do anything to stop it. Death and unholy fire.
Another deep, deep rumble, smug. Clive's jaw flexed.
"I believe you." Joshua nodded and looked to Elwin. "Do you believe him, Father?"
"I do," Elwin said.
"Then the matter is settled," Joshua declared. "Clive Rosfield, First Shield of Rosaria and Dominant of Ifrit, has returned to the duchy after ten years far afield. The capitol celebrates not only recent decisive victories against the Empire, but also the return of the Lord Marquess."
"Wait!" Clive exclaimed, "It cannot be so simple!" And he was struck with the strange familiarity of having said the same thing to Cid not a moon earlier.
"Can it not?" Joshua raised a brow. "Do you wish for me to execute you? Detain you? Exile you?"
Clive's jaw worked but no words could be found.
Joshua continued, contemplative, "I feel you have tasted enough of exile in the last decade, so that is not a viable option. Execution and detention, well…" Joshua crossed his arms and sighed. "It would be rather difficult for you to perform your duties from within a cell or a grave, wouldn't you say?"
"My duties?"
"You swore me an oath," Joshua reminded. "You promised to keep me safe. I Blessed you. Unless you intend to break your word?"
"Of course not!" Clive exclaimed loudly in offense.
Joshua nodded and his satisfied smile was quickly hidden behind his teacup. Their father cleared his throat, drawing Clive's attention to the other side of the table.
"Then it is as simple as it sounds, I'm afraid; you are returned and we are glad of it. There is little else to say," Elwin said brusquely. "All else matters not. You are safe, Joshua is safe. The Rosfields are whole once more."
Joshua threw Elwin a withering look and offered to Clive, "If mayhap demons stalk your mind, we would share in them. However, we see no reason to increase your burden – you'll find no sanction nor punishment save for whatever you have elected to inflict upon yourself."
Elwin nodded and, after a small pause, withdrew a small cloth pouch from his pocket. He offered it to Clive without a word.
When Clive shook the contents of the pouch out into his palm, breath caught in his throat. There, gleaming a bright silver in the dining room lamplight, was a small ear cuff bearing the Rosfield crest. It was identical to the one Clive had cast off so many years before, when its discovery would've meant death.
Clive raised his eyes to Elwin's face and found his father simply staring. The ghost of disbelief still played on his face, as though he was still uncertain that what he saw before him was real.
"Thank you," Clive said roughly. "I…don't know what to say."
"It is as simple as it sounds," Elwin reminded quietly, "You are returned. I am…grateful beyond words."
And then the conversation just…moved on.
They discussed Clive's duties, planned out meetings with the seamstress and the quartermaster. After a time, supper was delivered to the dining room and Torgal bullied his way onto an empty chair just to put his head on the table and stare soulfully at its occupants. This, of course, netted the wolf so hefty a portion of Clive's steak that Joshua called for second helpings to be delivered.
It was…
Well. It was supper. Supper with his brother, his father, and his hound. His family. The sort of thing Clive had only imagined for the past decade.
"It couldn't possibly be so simple," Clive had said, staring Cid down in the frigid Dhalmekian nighttime.
"It could be, if you let it," Cid had replied.
Forgiveness. Clive had returned home to find it, at Cid's behest and with Gav's help. And it seemed he had found it - been given it, as a gift.
Joshua, his father, Torgal, Ambrosia; forgiveness from his family. He would still need to break the news to Lord Murdoch if Elwin didn't do it first, but he held some hope that the Lord Commander would not hate him, at the very least. Being not hated was enough to count as forgiveness, in Clive's mind. And then it would be settled: forgiveness from those who mattered most.
Well, Clive winced as he recalled a blur of silver and blue dashing from the audience chamber, those who matter most except for one.
XxXxXxX
Nearly a fortnight passed since Clive had arrived home, and the weather's dip into autumnal winds and rains, shorter days, and noticeably longer evenings drew a peaceable air into Rosalith Castle. He should have been enjoying the cooler weather, but he found himself distracted by the remaining person from whom he sought forgiveness.
The last proper conversation Clive had had with Jill Warrick was ten years prior on a darkened balcony beneath the moon. Time and circumstance had separated the two of them, but even now that Clive's status was known and the two of them inhabited the same castle once more…
She was avoiding him.
The first few instances could have been passed off as coincidence; leaving the room as soon as Clive entered, being too busy to attend meals with the rest of them in the family dining room, and otherwise conducting her business only in her office. These all could be explained away - Jill was a busy woman with important tasks to complete. But that she never could spare a moment to talk? That she could never attend meals when Clive was also in attendance?
…That she had fled the audience chamber as soon as she realized Clive had returned to Rosaria...?
Thrice was a pattern, after all.
Clive woke that morning with a grim determination burning in his throat. He needed to know, one way or the other; lingering in uncertainty was only doing harm.
He went about preparing for the day mechanically, dressing and making himself presentable quickly, and forgoing formal breakfast for pilfering fruit from the kitchen. Clive caught the Lord Commander as he was wandering toward the dining room and decided to ask after Jill.
"Lord Murdoch! I've not had the chance to speak with J—Lady Warrick," Clive corrected his familiarity at the last moment, unsure if he was still permitted. He'd wager he wasn't. "Do you know where she might be at this hour?"
Rodney scratched at his beard for a moment before answering, "When she resides in the castle, she often takes advantage of the bailey for training at this time of morning."
"To the bailey, then," Clive said with a nod. "Thank you, Lord Murdoch."
"Er—Clive," Rodney said before Clive could slip away, "she might—Jill doesn't much like to be disturbed when she trains. I would recommend against it, actually."
"I shall…take that under advisement," Clive replied, fully intending on ignoring the advice outright.
Rodney sighed and shook his head, and Clive took his leave.
His route led him through the large double doors of Rosalith Castle and past the stables where the chocobos slept. The Lord Marquess dallied only slightly when he noticed that Ambrosia was awake and pecking at the greens in her feeder.
"Good morning, girl," Clive greeted quietly.
"Kweh!" Ambrosia greeted back.
The chocobo stuck her massive head over the stable door in an explicit demand for scratches, and Clive was powerless to deny her. Her feathers were soft and gleamed their comforting, brilliant white in the gentle cloud-filtered sunlight. Clive needed to be on his way, though, so he spent a much shorter time lavishing Ambrosia with attention than she would prefer.
In the bailey, Jill Warrick trained alone. Her silver hair was tamed into complicated braids close to her scalp. Her leathers were Northern blue instead of Rosarian red, and were so well worn they creaked only minutely when she landed strikes against a wooden training dummy with a rapier. She moved slowly, purposefully, focusing on the power and form of her motions instead of the speed of them.
The instant Jill noticed Clive standing awkwardly at the fence surrounding the training area, her expression shuttered and she turned to leave.
"A moment of your time, My Lady?" Clive asked urgently and Jill stopped, her shoulders going tense. Clive stepped toward the fence and placed his hand on the top railing. "Please?"
Jill turned and cast her gaze over her shoulder. "I'll not sacrifice my time training to entertain you," she said bluntly, the first words she had said to him in a decade. "So if you wish to speak, it will be with a sword in hand."
"As you say," Clive acquiesced.
Clive recalled the Jill of his childhood. She had been quiet, polite, and kind. Far more polite and kind than any of them deserved, really, given the gravity of her circumstances. She'd been a good friend to Clive and to Joshua. No matter how Anabella Rosfield had scolded or punished her, Jill had never lost that kindness. They were a decade removed from the last time Clive had spoken to that Jill, and it seemed he would never have the opportunity again.
Lady Jill Warrick, daughter of the Silvermane, Dominant of Shiva, the Warden of Ice — that's who stood across from Clive in the bailey, battle-hardened and cold. She tossed Clive a wooden training sword and sunk into a ready stance, herself, with her very sharp, metal rapier in hand.
Clive whipped the wooden blade through the air a few times to acquaint himself with its weight and balance. Poor, of course, but that was to be expected from a training weapon.
"Are you ready, My Lord?" Jill asked impatiently.
"By your leave, My Lady," Clive responded, preparing himself for the spar.
He was wholly unprepared.
Jill lunged with blinding speed, feinted to the left, and swept Clive's feet from under him when he stepped to block.
Clive landed hard on his back and stared breathlessly up at the autumnal gray-blue sky. The point of a blade stabbed into the soft earth just beside his left ear.
Slightly hysterically, he recalled Cid admitting that Jill had captured and nearly killed him before bringing him before Joshua. Not that Clive hadn't believed him, but believing and experiencing were two very different things.
"On your feet, My Lord!" Jill cried, ripping her blade from the soil and stepping away from Clive's prone form. "Unless you wish to defend yourself from the dirt?"
"...hardly," Clive wheezed, hauling himself off the ground.
Jill paced back and forth across the space like a restless coeurl, focus narrowing her eyes.
The Guardian of Winter was far more fearsome than any adversary Clive had faced during his time as a commander, and he kicked himself for underestimating her simply because the two of them had once been friends.
"Come at me!" Jill barked, flourishing her blade in elegant arcs through the air. It flashed silver and deadly.
"As you wish," Clive huffed out when he regained his breath.
He burst forward and gathered the aether deep in his lungs. It had been a decade since he'd pulled it off the last time, but…
A flash of fire, a shift forward faster than the eye could perceive, the wings of the Phoenix urging with speed unknowable. Clive closed five meters in a single blink and thrust the shoddy wooden blade at his opponent. It clashed harshly with Jill's rapier; she'd blocked, but she was off-balance from Clive's movement speed. If he could just—!
Clive went in for another hit, but Jill blocked in time again. She swiped at him once with her blade, and he dodged backward just in time to avoid the threatening metal edge.
The Lord Marquess shuffled back further, just to put some distance between them. He could close it easily enough, now, if he wanted to. A pleased rumble and a fire-like crackle of aether.
"Is this all the might Commander Callum Welch can conjure?" Jill mocked as she and Clive circled each other. Clive's false name sounded like an insult when she spat it at him. "I suppose I should not have expected much from a soldier of Sanbreque. You had better form at fifteen summers as a Shield, My Lord!"
"And as my form has suffered, yours has only improved! You are a force to be reckoned with, indeed," Clive complimented. "Now that I am a Shield of the Flame once more, I will strive to better myself, My Lady."
It seemed that was the wrong thing to say, for Jill bared her teeth and lunged once more. She struck out at Clive with her sword and he raised his wooden blade to block.
Her words were punctuated by sharp strikes of metal against wood that rattled Clive's teeth with their force.
"My men—" strike, block, reset, "—call me 'Lady.'" Strike, block, reset. "The citizens—" strike, block, strike, block, dodge, "—call me 'Lady.'"
The practice blade began to splinter in Clive's grip, and each footfall he made drove him further back toward the fence of the training area. He was running out of room…!
"You—" strike, block, "—will call me—" strike, block, dodge—strike! —
The wooden blade shattered when Jill's rapier clashed with it next. Jill's boot flashed out like a lunging snake and caught Clive in the middle of his chest. He stumbled backwards against the fence, breathing hard. Cold metal, cold like it'd been buried in snow, touched the hollow of his throat and he raised his eyes to see Jill staring him down.
"—'General,'" Jill finished.
It couldn't have been easy, being Jill Warrick - awakening as a Dominant in the middle of the capital city of what was technically an enemy of her homeland. It couldn't have been easy, being thrown headfirst into another war. But she had overcome so much, and it was plain that she had taken up so many of the duties of the First Shield when Clive was off playing soldier in Sanbreque. And now Clive was back in Rosaria to take her place? Clive would be upset, too.
"It would be my honor, General," Clive said meekly, almost desperate in his desire to right his wrongs.
Jill spent a long moment standing there with the tip of her sword pressed to Clive's neck. Her eyes, icy blue and flinty, bore into his.
Clive failed whatever examination Jill had been conducting. She scoffed at him, withdrew her rapier, and stalked away.
xXx
"I heard you had a slight disaster this morning," Joshua observed, bemused, when he and Jill took their tea in Joshua's private sitting room. "I do thank you for not killing my Shield when I've just found him, again."
"I didn't think it would be this hard," Jill griped in lieu of an explanation. She groaned and let her head thunk on the tabletop. The little teacups rattled on their saucers. "Just—how are you not furious with him?"
"You think I'm not?" Joshua raised a brow and took up his cup to save it from Jill's miniature earthquake. "My brother spent a decade allowing me to believe he was dead. I mourned him. We mourned him, the Phoenix and I." And what a long decade it had been.
"Then how…?" Jill asked.
Joshua smiled ruefully. "You weren't there in the throne room when the guards brought him in."
The familiar stranger who had been pulled through the doors by the castle guards was supposed to be just another nameless, faceless deserter of the Imperial army. An officer - slightly more important than the standard. He would plead for mercy, Joshua would either grant it or not depending on his mood, and Joshua would go on with his day. Routine, since the Empire began collapsing.
But the Phoenix on Joshua's shoulder had stirred and the man had spoken, and by the flames it was Clive. Clive, who Joshua thought had been lost forever.
And when Clive finally looked up at Joshua and Joshua saw his brother for the first time in ten years, Joshua saw the resignation of a condemned man. Clive had entered the throne room expecting to die.
There was no amount of anger or disappointment or hurt that Joshua could direct toward his brother that could ever compare to what Clive felt toward himself. Moreover, he didn't think he could stand making Clive feel worse than he already did.
He explained all of this to Jill, whose head remained firmly planted on the tabletop. She frowned at the small plate of immaculately-decorated cakes. Stewed apples and cranberries were organized on their tops like miniature flowers.
"Of course," Joshua added, "that's just me. I'm sure you have your own reasons for being angry at him - ones that won't be solved by me telling you how I got over it."
"Hm," Jill poked a cranberry, and both she and Joshua watched it crust with frost.
Joshua coughed to stifle a laugh. "It might behoove you to have an actual conversation with him."
"Hm."
"Without the swords, perhaps, this time."
"...Hm."
xXx
When Clive arrived at the balcony that evening, in desperate need of the time and space to think about his failure to reach out to Jil, he found it already occupied.
They'd never added any furniture to that balcony, as odd as it seemed; Jill had never requested any, and it never seemed to be a priority. She sat on the ground against the railing on the left side of the space with her knees pulled up to her chest.
"My apologies, General," Clive said with a short nod, "I'll just—"
Jill sighed at him and held up a hand to cut Clive off.
"You're already here. You might as well join me," Jill said. She shoved her hair - out of the braids now - over one shoulder and nodded at the open space across from herself.
She didn't want to watch Clive awkwardly sit on the ground and settle himself against the railing on the opposite side of the balcony, so she turned her eyes to the sky.
The night was cloudy, but it wasn't hard to imagine the waning quarter-moon quietly watching the world turn beneath it. She imagined Metia hanging there and burning accusingly down at her and she frowned.
"If I may speak freely?"
"If you must."
"We stood here ten years ago," Clive mentioned and nodded to the balcony, "You prayed for my safe return from Phoenix Gate. Now that that's happened, though, you seem…upset."
"I'm not upset," Jill denied automatically, because being upset that someone was actually alive instead of dead was both rude and not how Jill would describe her feelings.
Clive blinked at her. "Respectfully, General, you beat the shit out of me this morning."
"You interrupted my training, so you took the place of the training dummy. Not that that was much use to me - it put up a better fight than you did," she finished at an angry mutter.
"That's—!" Clive started accusingly and then clenched his teeth. He took a breath. "That's what I mean. I've upset you."
"And you want to fix it, do you?" Jill asked.
"Yes."
"You wanted a word this morning. Let's have it, now," Jill decided. She turned her upper body until she was angled entirely toward Clive. "Why didn't you come back? Why let us believe you were dead?"
"I took up a place in Sanbreque's military structure where I could damage their war effort without giving myself away, and it would have been risky to send a missive or stolas to anyone who knew me," Clive said woodenly, as if by rote.
Jill raised a brow. "And this was more important to you than your duty to Joshua as his Shield? I know you, Clive Rosfield. Try again."
Clive's jaw popped. "The journey through Sanbrequois territory was treacherous as the war was new, and the Rift was as yet uncharted. I could've been caught and hanged as a deserter."
"And when it wasn't?"
"Hmm?"
"When it was no longer treacherous, when the war was no longer new, when the Rift had been charted. When you could return, but you didn't," Jill stressed. "Why?"
"I was afraid," Clive admitted, as he had when asked something very similar only weeks prior.
"Afraid?"
"I'm certain Joshua has told you about Ifrit," Clive said.
Jill nodded steadily. "He has. But even if he hadn't, sitting even this close to you is like sitting in a furnace."
"I'm certain you know what Ifrit did to Phoenix Gate on the Night of the Flames," Clive said.
"I visited your memorial several times," Jill bit out.
Clive winced and toyed with the edge of his shirt. Trimmed in bright Rosarian red.
"So. You see, then. Why I was afraid to return."
Keen eyes like a glacier at sunrise fixed directly on Clive. He wanted to hide.
"...Phoenix Gate is a pit of cold rubble and graves," Jill said slowly, "hardly the sort of thing one would fear. Which means what you feared was…us?"
Clive was silent, and it was enough confirmation for Jill.
"You truly thought so little of us, of me," Jill accused and it was bitter and awful in Clive's ears, "And not just of me, but of your brother? Your father?"
"No!" Clive exclaimed. "I never—that's not…"
"You didn't trust me?"
"I didn't deserve it!" Clive shouted and squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see Jill's disappointment. "I never deserved it! Your trust, your forgiveness—I—"
He needed to breathe. Suddenly he felt as though there was precious little air available.
"I thought—and think—the world of you. And Joshua. And my father. All of you. And I tried so hard to be—worth it, I suppose. I tried so hard to be worth all the effort and time and… love, and I failed," Clive spat. "You've been there - you've seen what my failure caused."
"...you find failure in strange places," Jill said, matter-of-fact and cool. But when she continued, her voice rose with each sentence. "You decided on your own that we would hate you. You decided on your own that we would cast you out. You decided on your own that you failed, and that you didn't deserve our regard. You decided that we were hateful, and shallow, and awful — how dare you?"
"That's not what I meant!" Clive denied. "It's just—"
"Not pleasant when someone else tells you what you're thinking and feeling, is it?" Jill interrupted.
And Founder, Clive did not have any meaningful response to that.
"For your information, I don't blame you for Phoenix Gate. Or the war. Or anything else you've decided is your fault. You didn't come home even when you could because you didn't trust me - I'm hurt," Jill said. She stared up at the sky where the moon should've been and then down at the stitching on her shoes.
"...I was an idiot," Clive said softly. "But you knew that, already. I'm sorry I hurt you. All I can do is assure you I didn't mean to, and try to not repeat my mistake in the future."
"You are an idiot," Jill corrected, but something in her tone had eased. She stood from her seated position in an unfolding of blue and silver and white linen, and she took several steps toward the balcony entrance. Even her stride seemed lighter. "You'll have to work on that if you're going to fight at my side."
It wouldn't have read as forgiveness, but to Clive it felt as relieving as a blessing.
"Yes, General."
"And, Clive?" Jill paused before disappearing into the corridor. She cast her ice-blue gaze over her shoulder. "'Lady' is fine for now."
xXxXxXx
All the efforts made to locate the 'Second Eikon of Fire' failed. And, quite apparently, Cidolfus Telamon was unwilling to provide answers as to the Dominant's physical appearance or travel plans. It seemed the second Dominant of Fire was more ghost than man; he had slipped through the grasp of his pursuers so easily. Many Men of the Fist had been captured by Rosaria alongside their Royalist Intelligencer charges, as well.
It was the combination of these facts that stirred such a negative mood in the guest alighting the chair next to Hugo Kupka's writing table.
"You seem perturbed, Miss Harman," Hugo observed as he flicked through the small mound of papers adorning his desk.
Benedikta said nothing, but she crossed her arms tightly and sniffed. She threw glances at him every so often even as he skimmed the newest tales of Oriflamme. Hugo fancied himself a man of average patience, but the continued sighing and angry grumbling eventually ate at his nerves.
The Dominant of Titan set aside the most recent missive from the Parliament of Ministers and allowed Benedikta the honor of his full attention. "What do you propose I do about this problem of yours?" Hugo asked.
Benedikta's eyes narrowed to slivers and she said through clenched teeth, "I propose you take this matter seriously."
"I find there is precious little I am able to influence at the moment without further damaging Dhalmekia's reputation," Hugo replied mildly. "At present, your escaped prisoner has managed to flee the country, else I would upend each and every grain of sand till I recovered his corpse. Would you have me prime and attempt an incursion upon my neighbor to the west?"
There was a moment that contemplation bloomed on Benedikta's face, and Hugo felt an immediate need to quash such a notion.
"After so long of stilted contact and suspicious movement, the Rosarians expect hostility of some flavor to arrive from their eastern border. While such a thing would pose no risk to me, I expect retaliation to befall Dhalmekia," he said, "And that is…unacceptable."
"'Unacceptable,'" Benedikta scoffed. "'Unacceptable' is my men in a Rosarian dungeon!"
"A number of the Men of the Fist have also been detained," Hugo reminded. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. "And you hardly see me whinging about it."
The Warden of Wind pressed her lips into a thin line and exhaled sharply through her nose. Hugo restrained a chuckle - Benedikta still seemed especially sore about the detention of her lieutenant. Though a great many of the Royalist intelligencers had been taken captive, her only visible reaction had been at news of the man with the braided hair. 'Geralt' or 'Gerald' or something similar, if Hugo recalled correctly.
"Such concern for your men," Hugo mocked with a raised brow and a knowing look, "when the quarry you so relentlessly pursued has escaped you entirely. Have you no thought for the supposed danger the people of Storm now find themselves confronting?"
"And no such concern for yourself?" Benedikta shot back. "You seem unwisely unaffected, Lord Kupka."
Hugo shrugged. "What real damage can a trembling flame inflict upon a mountain?"
Benedikta only glared, and Hugo returned his focus to the stack of reports.
Several moments passed in silence; Hugo thoughtfully reading and signing what parchment required his attention and Benedikta stewing angrily.
Hugo nearly forgot that Benedikta was in the room - quite apparently, the Rosfields would soon be naming a new Lord Marquess. That was certainly curious, as Hugo honestly believed the Rosfields far too focused and embroiled in the present to consider the future in such a manner. What with the way Archduke Rosfield spoke of his late older brother, Clive, it indeed seemed unlikely that the Archduke would name an heir…
Finally, Benedikta spoke once more.
"I require your vast tactical knowledge, Lord Kupka," Benedikta admitted, and the Rosarian news was easily set off to the side for favor of returning his focus to the Warden of Wind.
Ah, a new manipulation for Harman to lay upon him. Hugo mused for a moment on whether he should entertain her words; he had knowingly indulged in her last trap and found the consequence rather too high for his liking.
"Do you, now?" Hugo finally asked in amusement. "Very well. Proceed."
"My experience with other Dominants is as yet limited," said Benedikta. "Do you believe the Second Dominant of Fire would have been able to hide within - or even pass through - Rosaria without being sensed and engaged by the Phoenix?"
It was a question to which there was no answer - the ability to sense another Dominant was fickle at best and nonexistent at worst, regardless of the elemental alignment involved. Hugo himself was unable to sense Jill Warrick even when the woman would stand directly in front of him, and sensing Joshua Rosfield was guesswork akin to sensing the position of the sun in the sky from underground. Though if Hugo had been told true, then Barnabas Tharmr had sensed Cidolfus Telamon the moment the man set foot on Ash for the first time, hundreds of kilometers away. Some individuals - Constables, mostly - could easily sense Dominants and Bearers alike, but they were rarities.
However, even if there were a reliable way to know if the Second Eikon of Fire could be perceived in such a way…
"As a second Dominant of Fire has never existed before, even my 'vast tactical knowledge' is at a great disadvantage. His capabilities are as yet unknown."
"If his capabilities are unknown, is it possible he escaped back across the Rift?" Benedikta asked, seizing immediately upon the lack of information.
"I suppose if we know nothing about this Second Eikon of Fire, he could have the ability to cross the Rift without the need for a land bridge, yes."
"The Rift remains quite the difficult obstacle for the remainder of my forces," Benedikta said. "And I happen to know that Dhalmekia has not received the typical shipments of crystal shards from Rosaria, likely due to Dhalmekia's non-response to their requests for Titan's attendance."
"You know much, it seems," Hugo acknowledged mildly.
"I also know that Dhalmekia has long envied the might and power of Drake's Tail…" Benedikta trailed off. She lit her pipe with a glowing index finger and took a long drag. "Imagine the fawning of the people over whosoever manages to stabilize their access to crystal shards…"
Imagine. The Crystalline Dominion enjoyed not only the might of the largest remaining Mothercrystal within continental Storm, but also had not been touched by the Blight even in the slightest. Tempting though it was...
"My people already hold me in the highest regard," Hugo said.
"Your people love you, it is true, but love is fickle. If Dhalmekia could seize the Crystalline Dominion…" Benedikta said.
"You propose that I make an incursion upon a neutral nation with whom I have only ever engaged in amiable trade," Hugo summarized flatly.
"I propose you make a move that will speed the end of the Rosaria-Sanbreque war, return free travel to Storm, and provide an opportunity for such an incursion if ever you decide you are dissatisfied with your neighbor to the north," Benedikta said in a tone entirely too blasé for her meaning.
He could not deny how attractive the idea was, however; Rosaria would busy itself with taking down the remaining Sanbrequois forces, trade would return to the same cadence it had enjoyed in 860, and indeed if ever Hugo wished to take the Crystalline Dominion he would find it far easier to do so...
"Such a move would constitute an open declaration of war against Rosaria," Hugo warned. It would also throw the entirety of the realm into chaos in the process. And, besides any analysis Hugo could conduct regarding the costs and benefits to the realm or Dhalmekia itself, would he be able to contend with the price it would exact upon his body…?
"And? You've long touted your combat prowess and strength - does the mighty Titan now fear two battle-weary children and their toy soldiers?" Benedikta taunted.
"You imply far too much," Hugo ground out, "You ask far too much."
Benedikta tipped her head to the side, pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense, and her next words felt like a dare. "If such a task is beyond your capabilities, you may say so, My Lord."
Hugo's stone writing table cracked in half.
.
.
.
.
Aether pulled, pushed, shoved—
Amidst panicked shouts, scrambling to remain standing upright, and the sort of terror that only came from witnessing an untameable force of nature, there was a bone-deep rumbling. Every town and settlement and camp and land-bound creature on the continent of Storm felt something. The furthest from the site felt a tremor while the closest were knocked from their feet to the ground, and tossed about more, besides.
From the silence of the dead Northern Territories buried beneath the Blight's black shroud, to the busy township that had sprung up near the jagged cliffs on the Dhalmekian coast, there was a cataclysmic trembling and quake.
An Imperial Prince, his closest confidant, and the helpful scout they had encountered at Martha's Rest all stumbled on the road to the Rosarian capitol of Rosalith.
A learned scholar who had just retaken her former residence in the Crystalline Dominion hurriedly snatched up her most precious tomes to protect them from the aftershocks.
Beneath the swinging of dwindling crystal shard chandeliers, a brain-addled emperor raved about the end of times to his few remaining advisors.
Amidst the shifting sands of Dhalmekia's western desert, a pair of soldiers bound for home struggled to stay upright.
The very air burned and glowed orange, there was one more undulation of aether, and beneath the purposeful crash of Titan's gargantuan step—
The Rift snapped shut.
XxXxXxXxX
A/N: i hope it was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write!
so much family, so much reunion, wow
i think if this fic were a TV show, this would be like the season 1 finale? i think?
i need to take a break from Approximation for a while for both brain and school reasons - gotta do some pretty important shit for my degree, and unfortunately my degree takes precedence
I'm not sure how long the break will be, but i swear this will not be abandoned - i have way too many cool fun interesting ideas for Approximation that i need to write!
please be well, and I'll see you when i see you o7
love you
oxy