Archive of Our Own ^beta

Clive Rosfield had been many things in his life: a son, a shield, a soldier, a slave, and, most recently, a silvered thorn in the side of the Holy Empire. The bounty on his head, alongside Cid’s, increased near daily, with nary an end to the manhunt in sight. Even Hugo Kupka’s mad destruction of the Hideaway, devastating and crippling all in one, hadn’t been enough to sate the bloodlust of the emperor and his wicked empress.

But there were many worse things to be, then an enemy of the empire, Clive reasoned. It had been a mere few months, hardly the passing of an entire season, since the band of outlaws, branded, and misfits had made their way from the bloodied ruins of their sanctuary to their new roost in the Fallen airship that lay hidden among the fog, mist, and rot of Bennumere Lake. It would be foolish to assume they would forget the destruction of their Mothercrystal so quickly, and even more idiotic to presume they would allow the perpetrators to keep their freedom. And yet, they had persevered, though not without hardship.

In the immediate aftermath of shattering the crystal, getting Cid to a physicker had been nigh impossible and yet, somehow, he and Jill had managed to drag their fearless leader to a sympathetic soul lodged not far from the twisting streets of Oriflamme, and the woman had had enough skill and sheer bloody luck to keep the man from bleeding out from his wounds.

But still, Clive reflected, Ultima had exacted a price. Cid would never be as he once was, the mobility in his left arm inexplicably limited, but he had regained enough of his strength and agility to be out in the field once again, much to his delight and Tarja’s chagrin. The loss and subsequent gain of Ramuh still sat heavily with Clive, though Cid seemed not to dwell on it. The old man had settled in well between Ifrit and Garuda, though he hesitated to use the lightning too hastily lest he catch the attention of those looking for Cid in particular. The brand on his cheek caused enough trouble, as had been so recently demonstrated for him.

⋆⋆⋆

Clive was careful what missions he undertook while Cid was convalescing. Jill had her own interests and responsibilities and wasn’t always able to go with him, and Dorys rarely had enough Cursebreakers in general, let alone enough to spare one to pose as his “master.” But still, some things could not be avoided, and could not wait for a more opportune time.

His current mission was once such occasion, and it was with trepidation that he darted through the darkened streets of Northreach, moving from shadow to shadow through the faint glow cast by feeble lanterns. It had been a personal request from Isabelle herself, concerned with a sudden contingent of bearers that were being hustled through Northreach from the remains of the capital. Alongside it were their keepers - imperial troops who cared not for the Dame’s reach nor her influence over the watch of the city. They would be in the city for only two nights, drinking its taverns dry and hounding the courtesans like the uncouth dogs they were. The troops garrisoned at the city were powerless to interfere, and left their visitors to their own devices, much to Isabelle’s discontent.

The Dame had managed to purchase a select few of the bearers from the troops; mostly those ailing from disease or nearly wasted to disuse from the curse - the ones they could reasonably report as having died during the march and pocket the coin they made from their sale, though who they were reporting to, Clive didn’t know. Isabelle had requested the help of the Hideaway in relocating some of the lot - The Veil couldn’t afford to house them, especially the poor sods afflicted with the curse. And Isabelle had to be careful how sympathetic she appeared to be to the plight of bearers, particularly amongst the current company of her city.

Clive had been in contact with Quentin and had planned to move relocate most of the bearers to Lostwing, particularly those who were worse off, and perhaps later those who retained what they could of their help and mobility would be able to make the journey to the Hideaway, or Martha’s Rest, if they so choose. But his current mission? Posing as a branded “out on the orders of his master” was perhaps the most dangerous part of the whole ordeal.

He was mere blocks away from The Veil, taking a more winding route to stick to the darkest parts of the town, when his luck ran out.

Stumbling steps alerted him to a contingent of three soldiers up ahead. They were a rowdy lot, swinging wineskins and wooden mugs of ale with abandon. Their rough laughter rang freely through the deserted cobblestone streets, the slurring of their words loud and unharried. Clive had halted some feet back, staring warily as they clattered their way around the block from the adjoining path, heading right towards the raven-haired man.

Taking a step back, he made to hurry away, trying to look for all the world like a simple citizen wandering back to his hovel after his own night-time revelling, when one of the soldiers caught sight of the brand on his cheek as he turned.

“Look ‘ere, boys. See what the rat’s dragged in?” slurred one of the soldiers, stepping forward and reaching out an unsteady hand to snag Clive’s shoulder, preventing him from moving further without violence. “What’s a branded like you doing without a master at this ‘our?”

Clive tensed, uncomfortable with the unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, with the way the soldier’s brutish fingers dug into his muscles and the leer of his eyes traced the opening of his jerkin. He had not changed out of his father’s old clothing, hoping to be in and out of the city before unwanted eyes could be drawn to him, and he feared it left him all the more questionable in the eyes of the soldiers, small and clouded by drink they may be.
“I’m running an errand for my master,” he answered, finally, attempting to keep his tone level and deferential. His betters did not care for his cheek, as his time in the imperial army, and before that, his own mother, had taught him.

“That so?” drawled a new voice, a second man sauntering up to him. This one was tall and lanky, and looked as though he wouldn’t even be able to heft a broadsword, let alone swing one. But his eyes were keener then the rest, and there was a cruel certainty in the way he stepped up to Clive, looking for all the world as though he had found dog shit smeared on his boots as he peered down his nose at him. “And who would your master be, exactly? Perhaps I’d like a word with him about letting his property wander around so late at night. It’s dangerous out here, you know.”

The man smiled at him, his teeth glinting cruel and yellow in the lantern’s light. This one wasn’t muscular, but he was smarter than his three compatriots, Clive reckoned. Weak men did not survive long in the army, but you could be strong in more ways than just physical, and there were plenty of boarish oafs in the infantry that were susceptible to a wiser mind. It was just his luck to run into such a man, when others might have lost interest or been content to spit on him and continue on with their revelry.

“The Dame, sir,” Clive demurred, casting his gaze down at the men’s feet, hoping his clear deference to the men would earn him some credibility. He had been only been a soldier as a branded and some of the intricacies of “domestic” brandeds was beyond him, though he had certainly had enough lessons whipped into him as a soldier, too. Submission did not come easily to him, especially not to men he knew he could kill with nothing more than his fists. But he could not afford to have their entire legion descend on him, nor bring undue suspicion upon Isabelle.

“That broad? Why, we told her to keep her whores in their chambers where they belong, didn’t we, Jaque?” sneered the third man, who had been silent until now, leering at Clive and undressing him with his eyes. He licked his lips eagerly, dropping his empty mug on the streets as he stepped shoulder to shoulder with his taller companion - in other words, much, much closer than Clive was comfortable with.

“I do recall our sergeant ordering the Dame,” the man sneered, as though it was unconscionable to him that a woman could have a title, “to keep her little pets in her….establishment, while we were passing through. We wouldn’t want anything to get misplaced or hurt in an accident, would we?” The tall man, Jaque, Clive supposed, simpered.

“No, sir,” Clive agreed quietly. A hint of violence was in the air, now, and his hopes of getting out of this without any issues were dwindling. He should have known better than to hope the men would let him go with no trouble. Soldiers, particularly unremarkable ones like these three, enjoyed having someone to play with. Bearers were not people to them, and they would not treat him as such, even if he wasn’t technically their property. They did not live in Northreach and cared not for the influence of the Dame. Invoking her name would not be enough to spare him, and causing her further trouble would only lead to issues down the line.
“Well then, branded. It seems we’ll have to teach her a lesson about obeying the imperial army. Wouldn’t you agree, Troy, Leif?” Jaque said magnanimously, turning to his fellow soldiers with a grin on his face that seemed all the more monstrous for the shadow it cast.

Clive wasn’t prepared, then, for the first hit. The lecherous one, Troy, he thought, had taken advantage of his lowered gaze and socked him right in the flank, sending him to his knees with little trouble. Clive was broad and strong, more muscle than skin, really, but even he could not brace against a blow he hadn’t known was coming. He allowed a gasping, wheezing breath to escape his lungs, blinking the surprised tears out of his eyes at the unexpected pain in his ribs.

The other two wasted little time. In mere seconds Clive was curled on his side in a shoddy attempt to protect the most vulnerable parts of his flesh. The men were uncoordinated but strong enough to make the blows painful, goaded on by the alcohol in their blood and the heady sensation of presumed power. The pain was bearable but wholly uncomfortable, and he seized with choking coughs as the onslaught continued, gasping at the bright flashes of light as an errant kick knocked off his skull, sending it bouncing down onto the cobblestones below.

The beating seemed to endure for an age, but time had lost all meaning to Clive after such a hit. He groaned as they assaulted his torso and his extremities without remorse, and cried out when he felt the fingers on his left hand ground beneath a boot suddenly. He yanked desperately to free them but could not free them even as the man pressed harder, feeling one and then another of the brittle bones in his hand snap beneath the weight. The tears in his eyes couldn’t be kept at bay any longer, and he gasped for what little air he could force into his lungs, blinking rapidly and praying desperately for it to be over.

Ifrit rumbled unhappily in his chest, all ashen smoke and pumice stone and flares of lava. They were strong enough to turn these men to ash, to dust, to the very stone they forced bearers to be reduced to so that they might entertain a few creature comforts. But the fiery Eikon was tempered by Ramuh, the wizened old man understanding the intricacies of humans in a way Ifrit did not care to. But still, Clive could pay his passengers no mind, no longer able to form a coherent thought aside from stop, please, Founder, stop, it’s enough, it’s enough, it’s enough…

Being brutally and systematically beaten was so utterly different from being injured in the midst of battle, and Clive was unable to distance himself from the pain as he would in the adrenaline of a fight. But finally, mercifully, eons later, it was over.

“‘right, lads, that’s enough,” Jaque called, reaching out and grabbing one of the other men’s arms as he raised it again. “Let’s drag this welp back to his master and get back to the barracks, aye? Perhaps the sergeant will be pleased to hear how we’ve treated the property of the Dame,” he sneered again, gesturing the other two forward to each grab one of Clive’s legs.

He groaned pitifully as they dragged him through the streets, his shrieking head enraptured and intensified as it bounced along the stone streets, leaving a thin trail of crimson in his wake. He could not see much for the blood crusting over his eyes, but could make out the lightening sky as the dawn began to tease its coming. He could only tell when they entered the courtyard of The Veil by the gasps of some of the courtesans who lingered in the predawn light, and by the stairs the soldiers heaved him down.

Clive thunked pitifully on the ground and stayed down, wheezily drawing in what air he could while his bones, his muscles, and his very nerves screeched at him in a discordant symphony of suffering.

“Madam! Madam!” He could hear one of the ladies calling, her rapid steps clicking on the stone and then the wooden floor of the entryway to the pleasure house. The soldiers loitered on the steps, grinning at the glares of the courtesans and leering at those in less concealing outfits.

“What, exactly, is the meaning of this, gentlemen?” came Isabelle’s steady voice as she appeared from the doorway to the house. She set a leisurely pace as she approached Clive’s limp figure, but her gaze was critical as she parsed through his injuries, and those who knew her well would hear the contempt lacing her voice.

“Said he was your branded, madam. Thought you could use a reminder to keep your property where the sergeant told you to,” Jaque drawled, waving with a merry hand as he turned to make his way back up the stairs. The two other oafs moved to follow him without another word, though not without pausing to spit on Clive. Their bawdy laughter rang through the streets as they stumbled away, once again faceless soldiers amongst the hundreds currently occupying Northreach.

“Damn dogs,” Isabelle cursed, increasing her pace until she could kneel next to Clive, employing the help of a few other girls to turn him over onto his back. He groaned, the movement exacerbating the ricocheting pain through his spine, torso, head, and hand.

“Clive! Clive, can you hear me?” came the urgent call, but it was all but lost in the murk of his thoughts now. His eyes were swelling as the bruising set in and he could scarcely see Isabelle leaning over him, tapping gently against his cheek in an attempt to rouse him. He flinched when she pressed over his brand, the skin poisoned by the wyvern tail’s ink ever sensitive to touch or sensation.

“Come, girls, help me move him inside. Somebody send for the physicker, and somebody get me a stolas!” were the last words he heard before the darkness finally, blessedly, took him and pulled him under, and Clive knew no more.

⋆⋆⋆

It had been a fortnight since that incident, and Cid still hesitated to let Clive out his sight, he reflected. The other man, alongside Jill, had been anguished at his wounds and frustrated that they hadn’t been there to help him. It had taken agonizing days for his wounds to heal enough to be moved from The Veil, and even upon his arrival back at the Hideaway, he had been swept away to Tarja’s clutches, remaining in the infirmary as his body slowly pieced itself back together. The Blessing of the Phoenix helped speed his recovery, but the shattered bones in his fingers and hand needed the careful attention of Tarja to ensure they healed properly; Clive could not bear to be unable to grip a weapon or block a blow properly.

Still, despite Cid’s upset and Jill’s quiet worry, his recovery had its boons. It gave him time to consult Tarja on an idea that had quietly been brewing. He hadn’t given it much consideration, considering the difficulties of moving into the new Hideaway, of caring for their injured and burying their dead, of bringing in fresh blood and ensuring they had shelter, had food, had freedom.

And still there was Cid to worry about. The man had only recently gotten back on his feet, and was still firmly limited to the Hideaway per Tarja’s orders. Clive had been an integral part in his rehabilitation, helping Tarja attend to his wounds and ensuring he was kept up to date on the bustle of activity that surrounded them.

But now, in the light of his most recent mishap, and the ever increasing demands on his time and that of the Cursebreakers, Clive could deny the thought no longer. Tarja had been kind, in her roughish, brutally honest manner. She would not refuse him, but neither would she charm him with falsehoods.

“The surgery is painful, Clive. And your plight is worse the most.” she sighed, finishing her latest exam on his healing wounds, and taking the time to inspect the brand on his cheek in the same manner. “There’s a reason bearers are branded as young as possible. The brand grows with them, but only up to a point. You were halfway to adulthood when they put you to the knife, and yours is larger than most. The ink looks deeply sunken in, and you’re lucky the scribe who branded you didn’t hit your bloodstream in the first place with how heavy-handed they were. You’re certainly not the ideal candidate for the surgery,” she sighed, as she moved away and began to grind up a paste to mix into his wounds.

“But you still want it anyway, don’t you?” she asked, the same dry resignation she often used when dealing with Cid in her tone.

“I do,” Clive said quietly, “I’ve lived almost as many years with this brand as I have without. I remember what it is to be a free man, Tarja, and I refuse to live the rest of my life, however long or short it might be, risking death when I’m alone, or always forced into the company of someone to be my master. I can do more good without the brand than I can with.”

“What ever did I do to deserve being surrounded by such stubborn Dominants?” The fiery-haired woman murmured, but there was a wry grin on her face all the same. She finished her task and approached again, applying the paste to bandages and rewrapping the bruising on his ribs and the cut on his head from where he hit it on the cobbled streets of Northreach.

“There’s another problem, though, Clive. We used the last of our antalgics on the wounded from Kupka’s rampage. We won’t have enough for the surgery for at least a season, if not longer. The ingredients don’t grow well in this weather, and Greagor knows they’ll be harder to get now, with the empire’s soldiers running scared and the merchants worried only about their crystals.”

“Then we’ll have to do it without,” he said simply.

“Clive, you can’t be serious-” Tarja began.

“But I am. I refuse to wait longer than I have to. I could be healed and back in the field by the next season, Tarja. Destroying Drake’s Head is only one piece of Cid’s plan, and the time we spend delaying will only allow our enemies time to move.”

“You’ll have to be restrained,” she warned, “and the surgery is dangerous. I’ve had more losses than I have successes. And you’ll have to talk to Jill. And Cid.” she threatened, narrowing her piercing eyes at him as she finished with his bandages, “you’ll need their support, and they deserve to know the danger you’re undertaking.”

“Alright,” Clive agreed reluctantly. Jill, the closest thing he had left to family, and Cid, his newly minted lover, were not likely to react well to the news. But he knew Tarja had a point, and they deserved better from him then to undergo a dangerous procedure with them none the wiser. “I’ll do it as soon as my wounds have healed.”

“Then we’ll schedule the surgery for next week,” Tarja sighed. “Better to get it over with than to let it hang over their heads.” She turned to scribble in her log book, but paused before setting the quill to the page. “Clive,” she said seriously, “be honest with them. There is a not insignificant chance that you’ll die. Best to undergo the knife with as few regrets as possible. At least, those you can still change.”

With that, he was summarily dismissed, and he made his way out of the infirmary to Cid’s, and now his, too, solar. He had some difficult conversations in front of him.

⋆⋆⋆

Cid was, unsurprisingly, against it from the start. But the stubborn bastard had also freed many bearers in his years as an outlaw, and he refused to try to tell Clive what he could and could not do. He knew the cruelty of taking away everything that made a human being a conscionable creature, and it started by taking their free will, their autonomy. Men more intelligent than him had decreed it the death of society to place oneself above their fellow man, and he could not help but agree.

But damn it all, if it didn’t rankle that he couldn’t tell Clive not to undergo the knife. The surgery was needlessly dangerous and hopelessly complicated, especially in someone who was marked as old as Clive was. The former Dominant was a selfish man, he believed, at the end of the day, and he abhorred the thought of anything or anyone taking his lover from him. Jill, he knew, had felt similarly, if only for different reasons.

Shiva’s Dominant had very little in the way of family, of confidants. She was a quiet girl made all the more wary and cold by her years of forced servitude to the Ironbloods, and none could reach her quite like Clive, her brother in all but blood, could. She followed him around the Hideaway like a lost chocobo chick in the days leading up to his surgery, stopping only when he retreated to the solar, to Cid, in the evening.

Even Torgal, the fine hound, had sensed something amiss, and had taken to badgering his way into their chambers in the evening, laying his handsome head at the foot of their bed until they took pity on him and invited him to lay on the cushioned surface, where he could ensure no harm came to his master.

Cid could do nothing but ensure Clive knew of his devotion.

But still, the preparations continued, and the day for Clive’s surgery dawned cold and bright, the other inhabitants of the Hideaway none the wiser as Clive, Cid, Jill, and Torgal gathered in the infirmary.

Clive held a pair of crystal fetters in his hands, clenching and unclenching his fingers as the nerves finally started to get the best of him. They were a necessary precaution, they feared, as the best Tarja could offer was some slight calming herbs, and the rest would be up to Clive to endure. They feared the damage he could do if Ifrit was disturbed enough to prime, or if Garuda’s claws or Ramuh’s lightning emerged to strike. Cid himself had suggested them as a solution, but he wasn’t particularly happy about it, a slight scowl on his handsome features as he took in the unassuming cuffs.

Tarja stepped up to the small group, Rodrigue hovering nervously behind her. “It’s time, Clive,” she said softly, gesturing to the bed in the corner covered with a sterile white sheet, a small table of instruments and glasses of water sitting next to it.

“Right,” Clive replied, taking in a deep breath before turning to his visitors. He gave Cid a quick peck on the lips, refusing to linger in the tempting warmth of his beloved, for he knew the other man would never let him go if he had the choice. He turned to Jill, next, allowing her to sweep him into her arms in a quick embrace, and kindly pretending he didn’t notice the glimmer of tears in her eyes. Finally, he turned to Torgal, the loyal hound wagging his tail as Clive pet softly over his ears, but a mournful whine left his maw when Clive turned to face Tarja.

“Right, you lot, clear out. Rodrigue will find you when we’re finished,” Tarja said sharply, turning to face her patient and blocking him from their view.

“Come on, lass,” Cid whispered to Jill, setting a calming hand on her shoulder and guiding her towards the door, casting one last lingering look at Clive before he allowed Rodrigue to push them out of the room, Torgal dragging his paws behind them.

“Alright, Clive. Drink this, please, and then lay down. We’ll give the tincture a few minutes to take effect, and then we’ll fasten the cuffs. Is that alright?” Tarja spoke briskly, but Clive could read the careful concern in her tone, the hesitancy she had about essentially imprisoning one of her patients, but they both knew there was no other option,

Clive held his silence, merely nodding his head and downing the gray-purple liquid she handed him, grimacing at the taste but holding his complaints. He lowered himself slowly to the bed, allowing his gaze to drift up to the wooden ceiling and the barely brightening patches of the sky he could see in the few small holes that had yet to be patched. The minutes passed quietly, with Tarja and Rodrigue muttering to each other and checking their supplies, and Clive attempting to keep his breathing deep and even, flexing his fingers nervously when the urge could not be contained.

He wasn’t sure quite when the calming potion took effect, but he would recall the softening of his thoughts, the haze that descended over his gaze and the relaxing of his muscles. He could hear Tarja approaching, attempting to ask him something, but he could only hum in response, his ability to pay attention and comprehend her words lost in the gentle sway that held him. He heard the faint clicking of the cuffs as she picked them up, could feel the cold metal as it touched his skin, but even that was not enough to tense his muscles.

No, it wasn’t until she snapped the cuffs closed around his wrists that he had a reaction. The sudden cut-off from his Eikons was startling, and painful, and he groaned and flexed his hands in an attempt to draw back into himself.

“No, Clive, it’s alright. It’s for the surgery, remember?” Tarja chided him, but her tone was gentler than normal, and she wound a cold hand with his for a brief moment. The comfort was enough to settle him for now, the pain starting to fade as his body adjusted to the lack of aether running through it, though he missed the comforting rumble of Ifrit’s hellfire in his chest, the warmth of the Phoenix’s Blessing running through his lifeblood.

“We’re going to begin now, Clive. Brace yourself,” Tarja warned, but it was as though her words were coming through a haze, and he still couldn’t quite catch their meaning. Still, he was content to remain as he was, until he felt the cold brush of metal against his branded cheek. He flinched on instinct, the sensation akin to burning and the fear that was automatically acquainted with anyone or anything touching him there.

But unlike before the sensation did not stop. And then, Tarja cut, and the agony began.

The pain was unique, just as the pain of being branded was unique. It was a slow slide through layers of skin, a gentle tug as they were separated, and the rush of it was nearly unbearable. Clive keened, attempting to reel his head away as a second pair of hands appeared to hold him firmly in place, a frail voice asking him to hold still even as it quivered at his cries. Tarja had no such qualms, however, and continued to make her careful way through the layers of skin holding his brand, moving slowly and evenly in her attempt to cut the skin in one even patch to prevent the ink from spilling into his bloodstream.

It continued in this manner, Clive’s cries increasing in volume and desperation. In his addled state, Clive wavered, his certainty of where he was and who, exactly, was hurting him, lost to the recesses of his mind as memories washed over him.

Being branded was a particular horror. Most of the time, it was children, usually infants but sometimes toddlers and, on rare occasions, teenagers and adults whose magic had awakened later, or whose families had hidden them at birth until they were caught later in life. Branding infants was relatively easy. They required more finesse, as the skin was soft and easily broken, but the surface area was smaller, and easier to finish quickly. For infants, an actual brand, similar to one used to mark domestic antelope or bighorn herds was used. A slight metal thing with sharpened points, dipped into the wyvern’s tail ink and then pressed to the babe’s cheek, held in place for a matter of seconds to a minute, and then removed.

But for older bearers? A scribe was required, as the babe’s brand was too small to apply to older children, teenagers, or adults. Scribes were a fickle lot, sadistic and hedonistic all in one, requiring a soldier’s grit and a perverse interest in the scalpel and the suffering of one’s fellow man. Clive still remembered the stinking breath of the man who had inscribed his brand on his cheek. The gross, cruel smile on his bearded face. The way he was forced onto a wooden table with straps fastened all up and down his body, including one right over his neck and another over his forehead.

There was no one to hold him still. The Scribe did not care if he lived or died, and neither did the soldiers who had been charged by his mother to drag him here. But still, it was not often a Scribe was employed, and the man seemed determined to enjoy every minute of it.

“Careful now, boy. The knife doesn’t care if it hits skin or vein and neither do I,” the man chuckled, sitting on a low stool next to him and leaning over the shaking Clive, doing his best to clear the tears attempting to cloud his vision.

The branding was painful, moreso then perhaps anything else Clive had yet experienced in his young life. He had taken blows in the training yard, before, and of course his mother had never been kind in her touches to him - before the branding, he was used to the sting of her palm on his cheek, or the pinch of her nails on the sensitive parts of his skin. But still, none could compare to the agony of the ink being scratched into his cheek.

He moaned weakly but attempted to hold still. He had little to live for, at this point, but for the ember of revenge that burned faintly in his chest. Joshua was dead but he would not go unavenged, not as long as Clive still drew breath in his lungs. But the burning was agonizing and slow and soon Clive could not contain his tears and they flowed freely down his cheeks, mixing with the extra ink bleeding off the scalpel and running down the skin of his nape, leaving slightly stinging trails in its wake.

The Scribe was methodical in his inscription but purposefully slow, allowing Clive to feel every mark the scalpel in his flesh made as the brand took shape on his cheek. His keening cries did nothing to endear the soldiers surrounding him and they jeered at him from the sides of the room, laughing at the tears staining his skin and the weakness in his strains against the bindings that held him.

Finally, mercifully, the man was finished, and he leaned back with a sigh of his fettering breath across Clive’s skin, a boarish hand raising to fist in Clive’s ragged hair and tug sharply, causing the boy to groan in pain. “It’s always a shame when they don’t succumb, but at least this one will do some good for the Empire, eh, lads?” The man laughed sharply. “Not too shabby to look at, either, this one,” he commented as he undid the straps holding Clive to the table.

“Stand up, Branded, and let your betters have a look at you.” The Scribe sneered, a rough hand pulling Clive off the table and leaving him to stagger to his feet, fighting the tears still falling from his eyes and the insatiable burning in his face.

He had to get up. They’d drag him if they didn’t, like they’d dragged him from Phoenix’s Gate. He groaned and jerked his head wildly, surprising the hands he could still feel holding him, and suddenly the pain in his cheek flared, and he howled, thrashing harder than he had before. He could hear a feminine voice, suddenly, cursing wildly above him, and a trembling “Oh, Greagor!” from behind him, but the rest was lost as he felt like liquid ash and blood were pouring into his bloodstream, the very micros of his being set alight as he threw his head back and wailed.

⋆⋆⋆

The surgery had been going relatively well, all things considered, Tarja thought. That was her mistake, truly.

Being optimistic was hardly ever worth it in her line of work.

Rodrigue had been doing his job admirably. The soft-hearted man still struggled with some of the sterner parts of a physiker’s job, and this was the first brand removal surgery he was assisting in, but he was holding Clive still well, despite the man’s whining groans and faint struggles against the crystal fetters shackling his hands.

Tarja could not afford to be distracted by Clive’s discomfort, nor by his paltry struggles. Navigating the scalpel in such a way that each layer of skin she sliced off came off in complete, whole sheets in the shape of the brand was delicate, exhausting work, made even worse by the expanse of Clive’s brand. His was one of the largest she’d seen, and one of the most difficult she’d ever tried to remove.

Still, despite her lack of anesthetics, it was going relatively well, until the moment Clive started to cry. Tarja paid it little heed; tears were a common comorbidity of the pain response, something she figured Clive was feeling quite terribly right now, and especially in as sensitive a place as the cheek, and with nerves that had already been blighted by a scalpel once.

But still, she was wildly unprepared for his next move, moments later, in which he damn near tried to throw his body off the operation table. Rodrigue lost his delicate grip on the man’s skull, and the scalpel in Tarja’s hand slipped precariously, turning from it’s simple, straightforward line to a downward angle, and slicing directly into the man’s cheek.

A spray of blood darkened the air, and Tarja let every curse she’d ever had the misfortune to hear escape her mouth, Rodrigue crying out to Great Greagor next to her.

Immediately, a piercing wail split the air, and Clive burned.

⋆⋆⋆

Cid lingered by the newly opened Tub and Crown, loitering by the bar and watching his people move to and fro. Otto had sent him away after growing tired of his relentless pacing, and Jill had departed from his side then, as well, taking Torgal down to the Backyard for some slightly fresher air. They were both desperate in their attempts to keep their minds off of what was happening to Clive, right now, though Cid knew nothing would be enough to distract him.

Still, though, it was nice to see the Hideaway so lively. Watching his people laugh and linger with one another, or hustle on their way to complete various tasks, was a sight he had taken for granted before Kupka’s attack, before the destruction of the Mothercrystal, before his own debilitating injuries. He drank it in, now, thinking of how nice it would be to sit with Clive in the warm, sunlit halls when he was healed from his surgery.

He stayed this way, pondering, watching, waiting, for an impossible length of time. It wasn’t until he heard a sudden clatter from the hall that he rose from his reverie, blinking rapidly and glancing up at the main entrance to the innards of the airship. It was Rodrigue, running like the hounds of hell were chasing him. The frail man was even paler than normal, his eyes wide and ringed by white. His clothes were askew and his ashy blonde hair was awry, but worst of all was the spray of dark crimson that lined the left side of his face and the formerly white linen of his shirt.

It was as if all the oxygen in Valisthea had suddenly vanished from the air, and Cid could scarcely feel his heart beat in his chest. Time slowed and the world became dim and pinpricked as Rodrigue locked eyes with him, tears glimmering in the apprentice physiker’s gaze. It was then that he knew that something had gone horribly, immediately wrong, in all the ways Clive had tried to assure him it wouldn’t.

“Cid, please, you must hurry,” the man began, breathless and gasping. “The-the surgery, it went…wrong. The ink is in his blood, Tarja thinks. She wants,” he paused, swallowing, the tears finally leaving his eyes and trailing down his face, “she wants you to be able to say goodbye,” he finished in a whisper, hanging his head low in defeat.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth was Cid flying off, sprinting, running, practically flying as he moved through the Hideaway. People jumped out of his way and exclaimed in surprise as he pushed past them, breath wheezing in his lungs. This couldn’t be happening, not to strong, insurmountable Clive, could it? He knew, he knew, the surgery had a high fatality rate. But Clive had been so calm, so self-assured, so steadfast in the face of a difficult, painful procedure that Cid hadn’t dared to consider a different outcome.

The door to the infirmary could have been blasted to pieces by his levin for all he noticed it; one moment, he was charging up the stairs to the infirmary and the next he was through the wooden door and through the partition, gaze searching desperately for his lover.

Tarja was bent over the sterilized cot in the left corner of the room, the side closest to the sky. She was desperately attempting to hold Clive down as the larger man writhed and cried out, a steady stream of crimson and ink linking from his left cheek. Despite the crystal fetters he still wore on his wrists, he was thrashing desperately, wailing cries screeching from his throat and smoke trailing from his arms.

“Cid!” Tarja snapped, barely sparing him a glance, “hold him down. I need to get the fetters off his wrists.”

In a haze he stumbled forward, reaching forward with shaking hands to press down on Clive’s shoulders. The heat radiating off the man could have melted even Shiva’s ice, alongside the noxious scent of the wyvern’s tail ink - a revoltingly sickly-sweet smell, like overripe fruit and Deadland’s ash - and the iron tang of fresh blood.

Tarja broke away immediately, whirling and reaching for the desk behind her. She had the keys in hand and was unlocking the crystal fetters before Cid even felt like he had blinked. He couldn’t blink, really, or breath, honestly. He felt like the world had paused from the moment he laid eyes on Clive, and he couldn’t seem to draw his gaze away, to do anything other than hold onto him desperately, praying to any god he could, new and old, in the vain hope that this would be nothing more than a dream, and he would wake soon.

The cuffs released, Tarja threw them aside and then straightened slowly, turning to face Cid and gaze down at her patient. Her fiery hair stood out harshly against her pale skin, the tremble in her hand prominent as she raised it to feel for Clive’s temperature, and the other lifted to check the pulse in his now uncovered wrist, her mouth drawn tight and skin taut.

“I didn’t want him to be cut off from the aether,” she said quietly, unable to raise her eyes to meet Cid’s. “He’s….he moved, and I cut straight into the brand and through his cheek,” she admitted quietly, the promise of grit and tears in her normally level voice. “He has minutes before he succumbs to the poison. I thought,” her voice broke, “I thought it might comfort him, if he could feel Ifrit and his brother’s blessing when he comes for him.”*

“There’s nothing you can do?” he choked out, finally managing to tear his gaze away for the man below him to meet Tarja’s eyes. Tarja was the best healer this side of the belt, if not one of the best in Valisthea. There had to be something, anything she could do. Clive couldn’t die, not now. Not when he was so close to being truly free, when he was finally coming into his own. He was becoming the kind of man he might have been if Rosaria had never fallen in the first place, and it had been one of the great pleasures of Cid’s life to see it happening. Clive reminded him why he fought so hard, why they persevered even amongst the rubble of the old Hideaway, through so much loss, through so much pain - so that even one bearer, one person, could have a chance at the life they had always deserved.

“No,” Tarja answered him readily, defeat written in every line in her body. “I don’t even have antalgics or Tears of Mercy to ease his way.”

It was then that Jill burst through the door, stumbling over her long skirts as she flew towards Cid, towards Clive. The normally icy woman already had tears flowing down her pale cheeks, and she reached forward to gently grasp one of Clive’s twitching hands, holding it tenderly between both of hers as she looked at the man she considered a brother.

“Hold onto him, both of you,” Tarja ordered, some of her usual stern iron returning to her tone. “It will do him good to know you’re here for him. Speak to him, gently, and let him thrash if he must. There’s nothing that can hurt him more than the poison at this point,” she sighed, trying to regain her composure.

Cid felt as though he were in a fugue, in a fog. This couldn’t possibly be happening, not to Clive. Clive, who was bold in the face of any danger. Clive, who was fleeter than wildfire. Clive, who’s kindness knew no bounds, whose hands refused no task, whose warmth permeated the depths of the Hideaway and its inhabitants until everyone felt it in the very marrow of their bones. He knew the risks of the surgery - they all did, even those who never intended to undergo it - but Clive was….invulnerable. Unmovable. Unshakable.

Dying.

Clive’s skin burned under his hands where he still held his shoulders loosely. His tremors were becoming more prominent, an uncharacteristic shake in his normally steady form. The inky blood leaking from the laceration on his face wasn’t slowing, the ink preventing the clotting and healing the Phoenix’s Blessing might normally grant him. Smoke and sparks spat from his skin, snarling into curling tendrils in the air before petering out. The tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief as the muscles in Clive’s body tensed, the pain of the poison in his veins finally making itself known, it seemed.

Cid had heard of death by wyvern tail ink before. Had seen it, even, when attempting to rescue enslaved Bearers. Some slave traders preferred to kill their stock rather than allow it to fall into other hands, and a quick slit along the apple of their cheek and the ink that stained it was more than enough to get the job done. He knew that Clive would writhe, would cry, might even seize, and that the pain would be agonizing, enduring, and would not cease until the breath left his lungs for the final time. But still, it was not something he could comprehend.

He bent his head, praying to Ramuh and Ifrit and even Great Greagor that Clive’s way would be eased, just a little. The man had suffered so much in life, and it seemed even the end would be a trial greater than any mortal man should be asked to face.

And then, much like Jill, Cid cried.

⋆⋆⋆

Clive burned.

The world was fire and flame, smoke and ash. The fire was in his blood, in his bones, and please, please, wouldn’t anyone put it out? It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

He could hardly breathe for the depths of it, the persistent stabbing and burning in every vein in his body driving him to madness, shattering any conscious thought before it could form. His throat was dry and parched, the wailing keens tearing from his ravaged vocal cords only exacerbating his every discomfort, and yet he could not cease. He was not strong enough to do more than writhe and cry. Every muscle in his body seemed to have taken a leave of absence, and it was all he could do to thrash weekly in an attempt to free himself of the pain as he could not ascertain its cause, its use.

He had been in pain, before. Many, many times, in fact. As a child, lonely and bruised and slapped and neglected. As a Shield, walloped in the training yards or run ragged until he dropped. As a slave in the Imperial army, especially. He had not forgotten his ‘indoctrination’ into becoming a branded, the scalpel and the darkness and the lash and the beatings. But nothing could compare to the suffering singing in his body, its screaming so loud he could barely feel the echoes of the Phoenix’s Blessing, fainter than he felt it since the day it had been bequeathed to him.

He needed air, he needed relief, he needed it to end. The roar of flames only he could hear grew louder, and he could taste cinders on his tongue next to the metallic tang of blood as it began to leak from his nostrils. There was lava in his throat, ash in his eyes, Blight in his lungs.

Oh, Founder, let it end, let it end, let it end…

Fire scorched through his esophagus, and Clive knew nothing more than pain.

⋆⋆⋆

Cid was no stranger to agony; no stranger to loss. But watching Clive die was a pain like no other.

His lover writhed on his sickbed, skin sticky with sweat and blood. The cries that wretched from his throat were only silenced by the bile that bubbled up without ceasing, forcing Tarja to turn him as much as possible onto his side, though the convulsions certainly didn’t make her task any easier. Blood leaked from his nostrils and his eyes, twin crimson rivers that coursed down his cheeks and over the bloodied gash that still reigned over his left.

But still, he couldn’t help but think that this didn’t look right. He had seen his people die from wyvern tail ink before, though not quite so often nowadays. The symptoms were all there: the agony, the blood, the screeching cries for a relief that would never come. But death by wyvern tail was, above almost all else except pain, quick. It normally took less than ten minutes for an afflicted individual to succumb, and less depending on the severity of the wound and the composition of the victim it was inflicted upon.

It had been nearly twenty, for Clive.

“Tarja?” he spoke, voice rough and bogged with tears and phlegm.

“I don’t know,” she snapped back, pausing from where she was once again attempting to keep Clive from choking on his own vomit. “I…I thought he would succumb immediately. You know how quickly the ink takes effect, once it enters the bloodstream. But I wonder if Ifrit, or the Blessing of the Phoenix, or both, is keeping the poison from killing him?”

“So you think he might have a chance?” Jill spoke up for the first time, the silver-haired girl’s voice as desperate as the hand that gripped Clive’s calf, one of the only parts of him that could be touched without causing him further stress.

“I don’t know,” Tarja repeated, “there’s no known cases of a Dominant being infected with wyvern’s tail, let alone a Dominant that also has the Blessing.

“All we can do is wait and pray it ends for him soon, one way or another.”

⋆⋆⋆

Clive didn’t know where he was, or when he was, or particularly who he was, for that matter, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in what felt like eons, the burning pain he had been feeling was muffled. It remained, but he could block it out for the moment, adrift as he was.

A low crooning sound split the air, and a warm, sinuous form curled around him. It felt like pumice stone against his sensitive skin, but it was warm, and the vibrating purrs the creature let out were a welcome comfort in the face of the agony that had become his existence. He settled slightly, inclining his head to rest against the creature, letting the tense muscles in his body relax as he tried to force air through his nose.

He wasn’t sure how long he floated there, letting the pain ebb and flow, singe and burn. The creature, he thought, was attempting to shield him from it, like a stone against the flow of lava from an eruption. But even the mysterious animal was not enough to fully enshroud him, especially as time went on. The pain sharpened into crystallized daggers against his nerves, his very bone marrow alight with the overwhelming discomfort.

Perhaps the creature would have mercy on him and put him out of his misery, he thought, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to look the animal in the eyes, much less open his mouth to ask. Still, even as the lava flow rose to take him once more, he thought he could see the faintest specks of violet light flashing behind the blacks of his eyes. In the distance, the boom of thunder and the smell of levin.

But Clive knew no more.

⋆⋆⋆

Two days, it had been.

Two days of tears, of grief, of gritted teeth and clenched fists.

Word had spread through the rest of the Hideaway, now, and it had never been more subdued, except perhaps in the direct aftermath of Kupka’s attack.

Clive was beloved in the Hideaway; cherished for his willingness to help anyone, with absolutely any task, regardless of how many other demands he already had on his time. He was quiet and kind, and heartachingly gentle with the things he could be like Tomes’ books or the children in their lessons or with Martelle’s apples. The Hideaway was a community that valued every member regardless of their abilities to contribute to the cause, but Clive? Clive was adored.

Cid had often told him, in fits of teasing, that he could see why he was named the Lord Marquess of Rosaria. His mother may not have cared for him, but it was clear to Cid that Elwin Rosfield and Rodney Murdoch had been able to see the potential that lay in Clive’s generous soul and genuine demeanor. The warmth he exuded may have been a result of Ifrit or a latent effect of his brother’s blessing, but it drew everyone in nonetheless.

The Hideaway was attached to their own, and to lose one in such a way would leave a wound near impossible to heal.

But still, even as Cid and Jill and Tarja and Gav and every sentient soul that inhabited the fallen airship prepared themselves to grieve, Clive refused to die. He spent his time roiling in agony, seizing and vomiting bile and ash and blood in fits, and merely whimpering in others. Tarja regularly reopened the gash in his cheek to bleed more of the ink out in the hopes that lancing the rest of the wound would stop Clive’s precarious condition from worsening. But nothing seemed to help the poor man, and as the days drew on, it seemed the hallucinogens contained within the depths of the ink bled from his nightmares to the waking world.

⋆⋆⋆

Annabella had been systematic in conditioning Clive to the life of an imperial branded. She would never dirty her own hands, of course, but the Emperor had many, many individuals more than willing to do the work for her. She could have simply thrown him into the imperial army and let the whip and the soldiers teach him. But she wanted him to live, to suffer, surely, and the soldiers of the imperial troops often beat branded to death for nothing more than the smallest of infractions and their own amusement. And so first, she would break him, and then he would enter servitude.

Clive had never feared the dark, before. Perhaps as a child he had been hesitant about the deep shadows that grew inside Rosaslith Castle in the depths of the night, as any young child might be. But he had long since banished any such childish inclinations and had indeed not minded the dark for nearly ten springs.

But the damp, dark cell Annabella had him chained in was a hell unto itself. It was devoid of light, of comfort, of any sort of softness or humane sense the feeble mind would seek to latch on to. His hands, fettered as they had been since the day he was dragged from Phoenix’s Gate, were strung to the wall with steel manacles, though they left his ankles free. It mattered little, as he barely had enough room to sit down, his shoulders always strained in some way regardless of what angle he rested in.

The entire cell, a measly few feet wide and with nearly the same amount of depth, was made of a cruel stone that bespoke the depths of Whitewyrm Castle. The small door was comprised of iron bars, much like any gaol or prison he had seen before, but there were no torches or crystals that lit the hallway outside. Any guards were stationed at the staircase that led to the dungeon; none resided or patrolled the hallways within except for when they brought the prisoners water, once every day and a half or so.

Clive had endured many things in his short life, especially during his training as a shield. He may have lived a life of luxury and relative comfort when at Rosalith, but when he was out in the field with the other Shields-in-Training, he was expected to sleep rough and make do with what he was given, just like the rest of them. But never before had he been so bone-chillingly cold, so uniquely uncomfortable that it permeated every fiber and sinew in his being until he felt it in the marrow of his bones.

But the worst was the dark. It was all-encompassing, all-consuming. He could perceive nothing, could hardly even tell if his eyes were open or closed. It made his other senses painfully sharp, and he flinched every time he heard the scurry of rats or the faint moaning of another unlucky prisoner. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what one would have to do to be thrown in the emperor’s deepest and darkest dungeon, but he imagined it had a lot to do with pissing off Annabella, much like his very existence seemed to.

The lack of other stimulation made the burning of his brand particularly vibrant, and the constant irritation drove him almost as mad as his own mind seemed to, torturing him day and night, waking or sleeping, with images of Phoenix Gate; of Rodney Murdock burning, of Joshua being struck down by that infernal creature, of the howling of his fellow shields as they were killed, be it by flame, debris, or blade. He even imagined little Torgal, his brave little hound, desperately trapped somewhere and unable to escape the tumult that surrounded him. How was he expected to continue, when everyone he held dear died horrible, bloody, screaming deaths?

The days, the weeks, in the dark, haunted him. The guards, when they came, were cruel and taunting, and threw his sustenance across the floor, so that Clive would have to scrabble on his knees to scrape up what the chains would allow him to before the rats beat him to it. The infernal creatures gnawed on him when he tried to sleep, believing him a corpse if he stopped moving and thrashing at them long enough.

He wondered how many they had eaten, before him. How many they would eat after.

By the time Annabella saw fit to conscript him into the ranks of the enslaved within the Imperial Army, Clive was half-feral and wholly uncivilized. His fellow bearers did their best to help him integrate into his new unit, but many had never dealt with someone who had been “reconditioned” in the emperor’s cells. When the Bastards finally found him, Clive had managed to dull his teeth a bit, but he still slept hunched in a strange position, as though his wrists were still bound together, and never without the light of a lantern or a crystal shard - whatever he could get his hands on - right by his side.

The dark haunted him.

⋆⋆⋆

Cid sighed as he finished his cigar, leaning on the railing next to Otto and tossing the remains of his smoke into the murky waters of the lake below. “I’ll be off to the infirmary, then,” he said simply, clapping the other man on the shoulder and turning to make his way up the staircase.

He and Jill had taken to sitting with Clive in increments. As much as he wanted to stay by his bedside, the Hideaway had things that demanded doing and tasks that needed management. As Clive remained…not well, but relatively stable, Tarja was confident that, as long as they remained on the fallen airship, that should anything change, there would be ample time to summon them, regardless of what it was.
His heart ached as he thought about Clive. Gentle, vibrant Clive, who was normally always moving, as tense and fleeting as the fire he wielded. He stubbornly refused to wake, merely convulsing and crying out as his body fought valiantly to subdue the poison in his veins. Cid knocked gently on the door to the infirmary as he entered and ducked quickly to the right to enter Clive’s secluded alcove that Tarja had sectioned off with sheets to provide the normally austere man with a sense of privacy, even if he wasn’t conscious enough to appreciate it.

Jill reclined in a chair set next to Clive’s sickbed, and looked up from the book she had been quietly reading aloud as Cid entered. She rose and set the book on Clive’s bedside table, leaning down to place a soft kiss on his unmarked cheek before stepping towards Cid.

“Any changes?” he asked quietly, skimming over Clive’s seemingly still form, noting his pale skin and the sheen of sweat that never seemed to dissipate regardless of Tarja’s efforts.

“Nothing. I think he’s been dreaming, again, but nothing else,” Jill sighed. “I’ll be back in a few hours?”

“No worries, lass,” Cid waved her off, “I’m planning on staying the rest of the night. Go eat and find some rest; running ourselves ragged won’t make him any better.”

Jill gave him a shrewd look, one he saw often in her piercing gaze, before nodding and turning away, opening the door and stepping out, but not before allowing Torgal to shoulder his way into the infirmary behind her. She let him with a soft pat on his head, before continuing on her way and allowing the door to close behind her.

“‘ello, you mangy mutt,” Cid rumbled affectionately, stealing Jill’s chair and stretching out his hand to beckon Torgal forward. The loyal hound whined, stepping gingerly close enough to allow Cid to scratch behind his ears, though the wolfhound’s gaze did not waver from his ailing master. “Tarja’s doing the best she can, you know. But your master’s right stubborn, isn’t he?” Cid laughed, turning his own eyes onto his restless lover, and setting in for a long night as Torgal lay down at his feet with a small huff.

Still, Clive seemed to grow more restless as the evening drew on. Tarja flitted in and out, checking on her other patients throughout the Hideaway and ducking in to check Clive’s pulse and temperature. It wasn’t until the last rays of the sun had faded from the sky that, for the first time in almost two weeks, Clive’s eyes fought to open, slim cracks of milky blue opening to the light.

“Clive!” Cid breathed, shooting to his feet and leaning over the man, reaching out to grip one clammy hand as he did so.

“No,” Clive moaned weakly, his voice crackly and weak from minimal hydration and lack of use. “Please, please, not the dark,” he begged, scrabbling at his bedding with weak hands.

“Clive, love, there’s no dark,” Cid spoke gently, “It’s just you, me, and ‘ol Torgal here. The sun’s just gone down, lad. It’s only night-time.”

“Please, please,” he whispered again, his hazy gaze roving ceaselessly over what little of the room he could see. Cid could see the sweat running down his forehead again, and could feel the uptick in his pulse from where he cradled Clive’s hand and wrist. This couldn’t possibly be good, whatever hallucination or fever dream the man was caught up in, but still, it was such a relief to have the lad actually conscious and talking that Cid wasn’t sure he cared.

His words seemed to do nothing but agitate Clive, and he began attempting to push himself up and away from Cid, though his body was too weak to do more than feebly twitch it seemed. The man was working himself into a panic; breathing growing faster and more ragged as he became truly aware of how fragile his body was, though it didn’t seem he recognized Cid in any capacity.

“You’ve got to calm down, Clive. It’s just me, it’s just Cid. I’m right here. There’s no dark. You’re at the Hideaway, in the infirmary, don’t you remember?” he pleaded, speaking softly in an attempt to placate Clive.

But nothing he did seemed to help, and Clive let out a ragged moan as he threw his head back against his pillow, his agitated movements finally pulling on the massive gash that lined his left cheek and the side of his neck, causing the faint scabbing to tense and strain.

It was then that Torgal, that loyal hound, finally rose to his feet and padded closer to his master, pushing his large snout into the palm of one of Clive’s scrabbling hands, letting the man’s weak fingers grip onto the thick ruffs of fur that lined his head and neck. Here Clive stilled, confused by the feeling of soft and familiar fur under his fingertips, but unable to assimilate the association with where he thought he was: back in Oriflamme, in the emperor’s detestable dungeons, fighting the dark and the rats and the paranoia that ate at him day after day.

Togral huffed loudly, nudging closer to Clive before tipping his head back and letting out a gentle howl. Cid startled, the soft sound filling the small space regardless of the dog’s attempt to be quiet. Torgal couldn’t heal the wound Clive’s botched brand removal had created - he could heal only recent, surface level hurts at best - but the hound’s healing often had a warm, bright, soothing feeling that came along with it, particularly if one wasn’t in the heat of battle.

“T-Torgal?” Clive breathed, clenching his fingers tighter in his hound’s fur as the feeling finally reached him, a single spark of clarity in the wildfire of his fear. Torgal uttered a low whine, the gentle beast moving to sit by his master’s head, laying his large snout next to Clive’s face and letting those luminous golden eyes meet clouded blue.

“Clive,” Cid spoke softly, afraid to disturb the shocked peace that Clive had seemingly found, “do you remember where you are, now?”

His head lolled on his pillow as those eyes turned to regard Cid, his hand never leaving the comforting confines of Torgal’s ruff. “...Cid?” Clive rasped weakly.

“Aye, love, it’s me. How’re you feeling?” Cid moved closer to his lover, reaching out a second hand to run it gently through Clive’s greased and limp hair.

Clive didn’t answer for several heartbeats, his gaze ceaselessly roaming the room around him, pausing on Torgal and Cid for brief intervals in turns, as though he had already forgotten they were there and was constantly surprised to see them still in place. “Hurts,” he grated out eventually, grimacing at the strain it seemed to put on his wounded face.

Cid gently set Clive’s hand on top of the man’s chest and rose to his feet, mouth twisted into a frown. “Just a moment, then. Tarja’s been preparing some draughts for if….for, when, you woke up.” He hurried outside the curtain’s that surrounded the dominant’s sickbed to the physicker’s workstation just outside. Tarja, in her infinite wisdom, had left many concoctions and draughts behind as she headed out into the Hideaway proper to treat some of her more regular or reluctant patents. They had not known, of course, if Clive could or would wake, but the healer had prepared for all possibilities, and had been attempting to force-feed the unconscious Clive some of her draughts anyway in an attempt to control his pain. A cursebreaker had finally been freed to be sent off to obtain the various herbs and ingredients she needed to make such things, much to the relief of everyone in the Hideaway.

Selecting one of the various pitchers, Cid strode back to his lover’s side, setting his prize on the low table next to the bed and reaching out to take Clive gently by the shoulders. “Just have to sit up a bit now, love, there’s a lad. Tarja’s got a nice, disgusting tasting tincture with your name on it, I’d wager.” Carefully leveraging the man up, Cid slipped into place behind him until Clive was half-reclining on his chest before reaching out for the pitcher. “Just a few slow sips, yeah?”

Clive moaned gently as he was moved, but allowed Cid to do as he pleased, barely opening his lips to accept the hopeful relief of Tarja’s potion. The man took several slow, deep sips, before turning his head away, his pain at swallowing beckoning too great.

Cid stretched to put the pitcher back into its place but retained his position behind Clive. Firmly in the present and as lucid as he had been in nearly two weeks, the man seemed to relax as he lay across Cid’s chest, his free hand still reaching out to touch Torgal as the hound settled down to lay by the low bed. “This alright, love?”

“Aye,” Clive breathed, letting his eyes begin to flutter shut. “It’s….not so dark now,” he murmured, letting his heavy lids finally win the battle they had been waging as he slipped back towards the ebb and flow of unconsciousness, finally at rest for the first time since the infernal surgery had commenced.

Cid breathed a sigh of relief, clutching Clive harder to his chest as the man drifted off. It was a balm unlike any other, to see the man he loved awake and speaking again, regardless of how uncomfortable and confused he’d been. He knew little of Clive’s time in the imperial army, or in the days surrounding the aftermath and subsequent fallout of Phoenix Gate, but he had the disquieting feeling that he had just caught a glimpse, and that Clive had barely scratched the surface in his panic-induced delirium. But still, it seemed Clive was on the mend, and that made the hard days ahead all the more bearable, as far as Cid was concerned.

“Thank you, for not taking him,” he murmured gently, lowering his cheek to rest atop Clive’s head as he settled back against the headboard of the sickbed. He wasn’t sure, exactly, who he was talking to - Greagor, or some other god, or maybe even Ultima, that scum of a beast, but really he thought it might be Ifrit himself. Clive’s temperature had run rampantly hot despite their best effort, and Cid could not help but wonder if the eikon somehow burned the poison, or at least what it could, out of Clive’s veins.

A single spark, red-orange and cool enough to cradle, draped from Clive’s fingertips. Cid watched it float gently into the air before it landed on Torgal’s nose, prompting him to stir from his slumber, even if only for a moment.. It seemed the infernal eikon had heard him, regardless of Clive’s insistence that the eikon remained distant in the waking world, if nowhere else. The eikon retreated, then, likely to rest as he rightfully deserved to.

Cid sighed and closed his own eyes, allowing the sweet embrace of sleep to lap gently at him from where he lay, half-laying and half-reclining, with Clive clutched in his arms. Right where he was meant to be. Right where he wanted to be. Safe in the home they had built together through their own blood, sweat, and tears for the people around them. Cid slept, with the sweet promise of later on his tongue.

Later, Cid would wake up. Later, Clive would be in pain again; would toss and turn and moan as the draughts reached varying levels of effectiveness. Later, Jill would cry over seeing him awake again. Later, Clive would finally see his own reflection for the first time in a fortnight; would come to terms with the massive scar dominating his face but would be able to see it for the first time in decades without a brand on.

Later, Clive would learn to live as the free man he had always deserved to be, and Cid could think of no sweeter taste than that.