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Chapter Text

The coronation for His Lordship Archduke Joshua Rosfield was a grand affair in Rosaria. The streets were adorned with colourful decorations, the taverns were abundant with hot food and ale, and the people danced with merriment to songs of the Phoenix. The excitement of the festivities was heightened by the fact that the nation’s beloved Eikon, having been absent from the throne for more than two decades, was finally rising to its rightful position. Despite the actual ceremony only lasting a day, the celebrations extended throughout the Duchy for nearly a fortnight.

In honour of their new leader, Rosaria received bountiful gifts from the other nations of Valisthea—some delivered by hand from the representatives present during the event, and the rest sent carefully via shipment. As such, the rulers and advisors of Rosaria decided to send some of their treasuries in return, as a symbol of their gratitude and willingness to preserve harmony between their countries.

There was, however, the matter of selecting a delegate to deliver the goods.

“I think it’d be wise to have our Lord Marquess go,” said Elwin.

“Clive?” Joshua exclaimed. “Absolutely not. He is my Shield, and therefore must be by my side at all times.”

Elwin exhaled a long, suffering sigh, as if he expected this reaction. “You have many competent Shields here at Rosaria that willingly serve. Sir Wade, Sir Tyler and your Lord Commander, Lady Warrick. Should it ever be necessary, I’m sure even Lord Murdoch would come out of retirement to aid us. It’s about time you allowed your poor brother to go on his own excursions every once in a while.” Joshua’s mouth was already open to protest when Elwin added, “Plus, he is the best candidate for the job.”

Joshua narrowed his eyes sceptically. “What? Why?”

“Because, dearest Archduke Joshua,” Elwin drawled, like he was addressing a child, “the matter is of great import. And to show our trusted allies that we deal with it as such, who best to send than our very own First Shield and Lord Marquess?”

“Surely there are others we can send,” Joshua sniffed, unconvinced.

“You know how much our status as Rosarian royalty helps with political matters. And, should things somehow go awry, Clive is someone we can trust to fulfil his mission and his duty. He is one of our best soldiers for a reason. Or do you doubt his abilities?”

Joshua recoiled at the very suggestion. “Of course not! Clive isn’t one of our best, but the best. It’s just…” There was a stretch of silence as he worried his lip in deep contemplation. “Fine,” he eventually acquiesced. “But I expect regular reports.”

Elwin leaned back into his chair, shoulders relaxing. He looked relieved. “Can we count on you for this, Lord Marquess?”

Clive, who had been listening to the discussion in polite silence, moved forward to bow in subservience. “Of course, Father.”

“And Joshua?” 

“Yes, Father?” 

Elwin shot him a knowing look. “I need you to promise me that you won’t do anything to prevent Clive’s journey.”

Joshua frowned, crossing his arms. Whatever he said in response came out as an incoherent grumble.

Elwin just lifted a brow. “Joshua?” There was a warning edge to his voice this time.

“Alright!” Joshua yelled, throwing his hands up. “I promise not to hinder my brother’s extremely important journey.”

At least, that’s what Joshua said to Elwin, not a week ago. 

At present, Clive’s got a lapful of younger brother, and he won’t be going anywhere till he’s free of it. He mentally pleads to the Founder to grant him patience before he tries, for the umpteenth time, to persuade Joshua to let him go. 

“Joshua,” he says slowly, “This sort of behaviour is unbecoming of the Archduke of Rosaria.” 

Said Archduke harrumphs indignantly. “Is that so? Who died and made you ruler, brother? Last I remember, I make the rules, not you.” The words come out muffled as he talks into Clive’s shoulder, but Clive can make them out nonetheless.

Clive sighs at his brother’s clear display of a tantrum. “If you say so.” It’s apparent that words won’t appease him, so he instead draws circles into Joshua’s back with his thumbs in an attempt to soothe.

Over time, the tension in Joshua’s body recedes. “I can't believe you’re abandoning me,” he whines. “This is mutiny.”

Clive rolls his eyes. “I’m going for you. So you don’t have to go through the stuffy meetings you hate so much.”

“You hate them too.”

“I do,” Clive agrees, and then more gently, “but I’ll gladly attend them to take some of the burdens off your shoulders.”

Joshua is quiet for a moment. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I wish you didn’t have to.” 

“It’s my duty as your shield. And as your brother, I am more than happy to help.” Clive lifts a hand higher and cards it through Joshua’s soft, blond locks. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Promise me you’ll write? I want a Stolas a day.”

“We don’t have that many Stolases,” Clive chuckles, shaking his head. “And even if we did, you’d be working the poor birds to the bone.”

“Then a letter a day,” Joshua insists. “There are carrier pigeons at every city and port.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll write to you, I promise.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. They both jolt to attention, and the tenderness in the moment dissipates.

“Clive, are you in there?” It’s Jill’s voice.

“I’m here,” he calls out. “Come on in.”

“It’s my room,” Joshua mumbles disapprovingly as Jill opens the door. Clive chooses to ignore him.

“There you are,” Jill exhales, leaning against the doorframe. She doesn’t even bat an eyelid at the sight of Clive sitting on the edge of Joshua’s bed, the Archduke wrapping around him like a second skin. “The carriage is waiting for you. The staff are getting restless.” 

Torgal, having padded in together with Jill, barks in affirmation.

Clive gives them a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I’ve had my hands full.”

“I can see that,” Jill says, eyes alight with humour. “And how fares our fabled Protector, the Phoenix?”

“Horrible,” Joshua moans dramatically, waving an arm over his head. “I’m being cast aside by my very own brother! It’s so cruel! Callous! I’ll never love again!”

Jill laughs into her fist while Clive hangs his head back in exasperation. “That is quite the predicament,” she acknowledges. “Perhaps we should send him to the dungeons for this offence.” 

Clive lets out an affronted noise. “Jill! You cannot encourage him.” 

Joshua is already straightening, eyes sparkling at the idea. “Should we truly?”

Thankfully, Jill shuts him down. “No. He really does need to leave soon. It will be harder to travel after sundown.” Joshua deflates, sinking into his brother’s arms. 

Clive takes the opportunity to nudge his boneless body away before he gets comfortable again. “You heard her. Now get off, you big baby! I need to go!”

Joshua, naturally, doesn’t listen. “No!” he cries as he sprawls himself on top of Clive instead. 

Jill ends up having to take matters into her own hands. “Get him, Torgal!”

Torgal barks at her command, then charges headlong into their Archduke. Joshua squawks disgracefully as Torgal pulls him by his collar onto the bed and away from Clive.

“Insubordination! Betrayed by my Lord Commander and trusted hound!” Joshua wails even as he turns to clutch at Torgal’s torso. 

Torgal huffs through his nose, unimpressed by Joshua’s theatrics.

“Technically he’s my hound,” Jill points out as she ushers Clive through the door. The dying noise Joshua makes in response is stifled by wolf fur. 

Thanks to Jill and Torgal’s intervention, Clive finally makes his way to the carriages. He apologises profusely to the servants and footmen waiting on him, checks up on the cargo and supplies, and then wraps up his preparations for the journey. 

Once he’s sure that everything is secure and in place, he makes his way over to Ambrosia. Jill is tending to her, waiting to see him off. 

“You won’t be riding the carriage?” she asks. 

“No, they’re filled with gifts for the other nations. I’m more accustomed to travelling on Ambrosia’s back anyways. Too many monsters lurking about.”

Jill nods in understanding. As soldiers, both of them often travel on their chocobos instead of carriages, needing to scan the area for potential dangers. It’s also faster to dismount from them to dispatch beasts and enemies alike.

“I’d best be off then,” Clive says, reaching out for Ambrosia’s reins.

“Wait, Clive, I—” Jill seems to hesitate for a second, before looking up at him with determination. “I have something for you.” 

Clive tilts his head in curiosity as she procures a piece of cloth from her pocket and hands it to him. It appears to be a red-coloured handkerchief, likely handwoven judging by the crooked lacing at the edges. His initials C.R. are embroidered in the bottom right corner, slightly slanted. He stares at it in awe. “Jill, this…”

“Sewing isn’t my strong point, as you can see,” she says in a way that almost seems shy. “I’m definitely more adept with a blade. But I’ve read that in some places, it’s a custom to gift a handkerchief to those you care for, especially as a sign of, um, well,” she ducks her head abruptly, cheeks colouring, “…it doesn’t matter, I just want you to have it.”

Clive glances at the taping on Jill’s fingers. She brushed off his worries when he asked about them a few days ago, and now he understands why. It warms his heart to know that her efforts had been for him. “It’s lovely, Jill. Thank you.”

Her eyes soften with fondness, and something else that Clive can’t quite discern. “Come back safe,” she pleads.

“I will. Can I count on you to take care of Father and Joshua for me while I’m gone?” 

The smile Jill gives him is kind and genuine. “Always.”

Chapter Text

Clive’s trip to the Holy Empire of Sanbreque is mostly uneventful other than the occasional skirmish with hornets, goblins and moving plants intent on eating him alive.

He gets to Oriflamme in the early afternoon, the city bustling with life under daylight. Merchants and citizens weave haphazardly throughout the streets, trying to get to their intended destinations, whilst guards patrol the area via their assigned routes and designated viewpoints. Clive bypasses most of the activity, wanting to get to his errand done as soon as possible.

When he arrives at Whitewyrm Castle, he’s greeted with all the pomp and splendor that the Imperialists are known for. The Lord Steward makes arrangements to transfer Rosaria’s offerings from the wagons to their coffers, and then a house servant leads him to a separate room to await an audience.

He takes the opportunity to take in his surroundings while he waits. It appears to be a meeting room of sorts, decorated with curtains, carpets, and furniture in different shades of blue, white, and gold, customary to Sanbreque’s national colours. Sunlight filters in through large window panels that stretch from floor to ceiling, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. He meanders over to them and discovers that he’s higher up than he thought he was. There’s a panoramic view of capital and the lands beyond its walls, and he can even see the coast to the side, the ocean shimmering beneath blue skies. It’s a spectacular sight. He can't help but feel a twinge of envy for the Sanbrequois nobles who get to see it regularly.

His train of thought is broken by a rap at the door. A servant announces the arrival of His Highness Dion Lesage, and the crown prince steps in shortly after. 

Clive’s met Dion perhaps a little more than a handful of times, but like every prior occasion, he finds his breath taken away when he sees him.

Dion is, to put plainly, an extremely charming man. He carries himself with an air of confidence and determination, speaks eloquently with a charisma that effortlessly captivates his audience, and moves with all the grace befitting the Holy Empire’s royalty. He’s the sort of person that comes to mind when reading tales of knights on silver-feathered chocobos sweeping damsels off their feet, or heroes in shining armor slaying demons and dragons (Greagor forbid) that threaten the land.

Dion walks over to Clive in long, assertive strides, stopping short just shy of an arm’s length away. He places a hand over his heart and bows in greeting. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. It is good to see you again, Lord Marquess.” 

Clive bows in return. “And you, Your Highness.”

“Please, sit,” says Dion, gesturing to one of the couches nearby. “I’ve asked the maids to prepare some refreshments. They’ll be here anon. I hope they will be to your liking.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you.” Clive makes his way over as Dion seats himself on the couch across from him. 

“I’ve been told that the gifts that you brought were sent to the Imperial treasuries. His Radiance and the Council thank Rosaria for their generosity.”

“Rosaria sends their thanks in kind. It was a pleasure to see you at Jo–” Clive catches the slip of his tongue and clears his throat, “the Archduke’s coronation.”

“It was an honour to be there. I trust he has been well?”

“As well as can be,” Clive affirms, holding back a snort. Although Joshua and Dion seem close, it wouldn’t be proper to tell the prince about his brother’s tantrum or exaggeratedly despondent letters in response to Clive’s travels.

“That’s good.” Dion smiles at him. “I must confess, I’ve always wanted to get to know you better, but you are not an easy man to approach with the Phoenix constantly hovering close by.” 

Clive’s eyebrows raise in surprise. It’s true that he’s had little interaction with Dion over the years, but Joshua always herded him away when the Prince came by. He’d taken the hint and steered clear, not wanting to interrupt the short moments that the two had together whenever they met, infrequent as they were already. He didn’t think that Dion would take notice. “Joshu–The Archduke cherishes the friendship that you both have. It does not surprise me that he would demand your attention.”

“I don’t think it’s my attention that he demands,” Dion says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Also, you’re more than welcome to call the Phoenix by his name rather than title in my presence. It would not offend me.”

Clive flushes a little at his constant slip ups of Joshua’s name. “Thank you. I’m so used to calling him by name that it’s almost strange to address him by title at times.”

“I understand. You two are close, it is not unusual.  In fact…” Dion pauses, his eyes flicking away briefly before returning to Clive’s. “If I could be so bold, might I ask a favour of you?”

“I, uh,” Clive flounders at the sudden request. “Of course. If it’s in my power to provide.”

“Would you do me the honour of calling me Dion?”

That takes him aback. The royals and nobles of Sanbreque are notorious for upholding rigid class systems and formalities, and Clive’s had it instilled in him since young to keep propriety in front of dignitaries. Surely speaking to the heir to the nation’s throne requires him to be all the more so. “I… I don’t know if—”

“It would just be between us,” Dion assures. “And—if you would allow it, I would call you by name in return. It would please me greatly.” 

Clive hesitates. As someone who isn’t a fan of strict etiquette, he understands the desire to break away from protocols every once in a while. He’s always had the freedom to behave casually with his brother and Jill, but as far as he’s aware Dion doesn’t have many peers to do so with. 

It must be lonely.

He steels himself before giving a firm nod. “Well… If you’re sure, Dion.”

Dion’s expression softens, pleased by the utterance of his name. “Thank you, Clive.”

There’s another knock at the door, the Imperial maidservants signaling their return with a light spread. They lay out some cutlery onto the table, followed by a pot of tea and a four-tiered stand filled with slices of sandwiches, an assortment of fruits, and colourful desserts. He doesn’t recognise the type of cakes presented—they must be Sanbreque specific delicacies. Everything looks delicious and is arranged beautifully. He can’t help but think of how Joshua and Jill would delight at the decor and dishes, both of them far better at appreciating intricate designs and flavour combinations than he.

Once they’ve each taken a plateful of food and had a few sips of tea, Dion speaks again.

“I hope it doesn’t come as an offence that I’ve come in place of the Emperor. He sends his sincerest apologies for not being able to see you today.”

“There is no apology needed. Is His Radiance unwell?”

“No, his health isn’t an issue. He is whole and hale. I assure there is nothing to worry about. It’s just…” Dion trails off, averting his gaze. “He has been off sorts as of late.” 

A shadow falls over Dion’s face as he lapses into quiet rumination. His gaze turns distant and somewhat forlorn. It reminds Clive of the way Joshua used to look when their mother was still around and had burdened him with expectations far too heavy for one man—let alone a child—to carry. His heart clenches at the sight, feeling the need to remedy it somehow.

“Well, if you’ll pardon my saying so,” Clive says carefully, “I find you to be preferable company.”

(And he means it. From the rare opportunities that Clive’s seen His Radiance in person, he’s come to view Emperor Sylvestre Lesage as a cold and distant ruler. The sovereign’s demeanour is stony and oppressive, his presence alone enough to make the people around him uncomfortable and on edge. Whenever he stands before the Emperor, Clive can’t help but feel belittled. The man looks at him like he’s nothing more than the ants beneath his boot—small, useless and unworthy of his time or attention. In a lot of ways, it reminds Clive of the way his late mother viewed him.)

Clive adds a cheeky little wink to show that his words are said in jest, and it rewards him with a startled laugh from Dion.

“That is… kind of you to say. Thank you.” Dion’s attention refocuses on Clive, intrigued. “You truly are something,” he marvels. “I can see why the Phoenix covets you so.”

“I’m sorry, he what?”

Dion doesn’t hear him or ignores his question altogether, pressing on with a query of his own instead. “Tell me, what are your thoughts on wyrms?”

Clive blinks owlishly. “Wyrms? They’re—” he catches himself before saying something offensive like okay or alright, remembering that the people of the Empire revere the dragons. “—uh, mighty…creatures,” he finishes lamely. 

Despite his uninspiring description, Dion’s expression brightens. “More so than birds?”

Clive thinks back to the carrier pigeon he sent off just in the morning—a white-feathered bird that was small and delicate but otherwise unimpressive—and compares it to the huge, menacing-looking wyvern that he’d seen when passing by the Imperial barracks. As far as mightiness goes… “Um, yes?”

The prince lets out an exhale that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “I shall have to tell the Archduke you said so. He will be most amused.” 

Clive feels like he’s missing something. Perhaps there’s a running inside joke between the younger two. “If it pleases you,” he eventually allows. He won’t be the one to stop them from having their fun. 

The edge of Dion’s lips twitch upwards into a hint of a smirk. “Did you know that other than being mighty creatures, wyrms are known for being fiercely loyal? They are most possessive of their treasures, and therefore you’ll find that whatever they treasure,” his voice dips to a softer tone, as if sharing a secret, “they will guard with their lives.”

Clive listens, enraptured. “That is impressive. The dragoons must be lucky to have them.” 

There’s a glint in Dion’s eye when he says, “Something tells me that should you wish it, one would gladly come to your aid.”

It takes Clive a moment to catch the insinuation. “You would lend me a dragon?”

“Of a sort,” he confirms with a mischievous grin. “But, should our nations one day unite in a stronger alliance,” Dion murmurs, leaning in closer and lifting a hand to Clive’s face to tuck a tuft of dark hair behind his ear, “for example, matrimony…” Dion’s fingertips trace the line of his jaw and then linger at the edge of his chin, touch feather-light. “You may consider him yours.”

All of a sudden Clive’s throat goes dry. The intense stare he’s under makes him feel like prey before predator, which is obviously a silly notion, but Dion’s pupils are blown wide and it gives off the impression that he’s being looked at with some sort of hunger. It almost fools him into believing that he’s the one being propositioned, but that in itself is an impossibility. Dion is the Crown Prince of Sanbreque, leader of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon and Dominant of Bahamut, King of Dragons. And Clive is just… Clive. He knows better than to think Dion would propose to him of all people.

Dion looks at him expectantly, waiting. 

Clive swallows, worried that his voice may croak, and sees Dion’s eyes track the movement. His face heats under the scrutiny. “As tempting as the offer is,” he says thickly, “I wouldn’t dare presume to answer on behalf of anyone. Joshua and Jill—that is, the Archduke and Lady Warrick, speak for themselves alone. They would be flattered, I’m sure.” He hopes that his answer will suffice until such time that the prince gets the chance to ask for his brother’s, or the famed Princess of the North’s, hand in person.

Except, Dion isn’t the least bit satisfied, as far as Clive can tell. The dragoon seems bewildered more than anything, his mouth agape and brows raised to his hairline. For the first time since their meeting, he appears completely lost. “You—You’re… serious?” 

Again, Clive feels like he’s missing a part of the conversation somehow. He internally backtracks over what’s been said, but can’t seem to find anything he potentially overlooked. “Well, yes,” he tries cautiously. “Anyone would be honoured to receive a proposal from you, Your Highn—Dion. Though I cannot be sure of how they would respond, I know that my brother and Jill think highly of you. There would be no harm in asking. And while a dragon would certainly bolster Rosaria’s defences, what is most important is their choice in the matter. I would never take it from them.” 

Dion still looks a bit stunned. His eyebrows slowly furrow as he studies Clive’s face, like he’s searching for something.

For a second Clive is worried he has upset him, but then Dion throws his head back with laughter. “Oh dear. Clive, you truly are… as humble as they say.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I suppose that’s what makes you all the more endearing though.”

Clive is baffled in turn, because for one, he has no idea what the prince is talking about, and secondly he never imagined he’d see someone so prim and proper laugh so animatedly. It’s… a good look on Dion. It makes him look younger and more boyish. He truly is quite a beautiful man.

Dion lets out an exaggerated sigh, drawing Clive out of his musing. “It seems it was not the Phoenix’s defences that I should’ve been worried about, but your own. Though I’m sure I’ll find a way through them yet.”

Clive’s more than a little confused, but nevertheless bristles at what sounds to be a question of his power. “My defences are impenetrable.”

“We shall see,” Dion hums with a teasing smile.

And that just won’t do. Clive is proud to be Rosaria’s First Shield and his brother’s right-hand man, and he will not have anyone deny his abilities. The urge to prove himself rouses from within, bubbling quickly to the surface. “Is that a challenge, Dion?” he goads. “I’ll admit I’ve always wanted to try sparring against the leader of the elite dragoons.”

Dion huffs exasperatedly but there’s a roguish smile dancing on his lips. “A spar isn’t quite what I had in mind, but I suppose there are many ways for a man to play with his sword.”

Clive makes an enquiring noise. “Don’t you use a spear?”

“That’s—” Dion chuckles, hopelessly amused. “Yes. Yes I do. A halberd, actually.”

“Polearms are not within my area of expertise… Would it be possible for me to study your form after our spar?”

“Of course. I’d be happy to teach you.” His expression turns a little devilish when he warns, “You may be a guest, but I’ll have you know that I won’t go easy on you as an opponent or tutor.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Clive agrees.

Dion grins. “It’s a date.”

Chapter Text

Unlike his visit to Oriflamme, Clive’s trip to Ran’dellah doesn’t come with the privilege of greeting a familiar face and having a chat over tea time. He’s sent straight to the Parliament building where he’s seated at a round table with multiple members of their council. His meeting is meant to be a short one—just pleasantries and a passing of gifts—but the government officials have clearly decided to take the opportunity of his attendance to discuss business and politics.

Clive doesn’t have a problem with it, really. Though he wasn’t heir to the throne, he was still brought up as royalty and therefore received the education and training required to handle such matters. And despite his goals of becoming the Duchy’s First Shield, he took these studies seriously, hoping to better assist his brother with issues that weren’t exclusively of the military sort. So the sudden bombardment of market negotiations and fortifying trade routes aren’t at all a problem to him.

What is a problem, however, is the fact that no one seems to be acknowledging the elephant in the room that is Hugo Kupka. (Pun not intended)

Hugo Kupka—Dominant of Titan, Permanent Economic Advisor to the Dhalmekian Parliament and Commander of The Men of the Rock—is also present for the meeting, and he sits by the window in the far corner of the room, watching. 

Clive understands why Kupka is here, in theory. As one of the Dhalmekian Republic’s most influential men, he’s most likely around to fulfil his position as advisor and perhaps as insurance should negotiations go awry.

What Clive doesn’t understand is why the man hasn’t participated in any of the proceedings and seems hell bent on staring a hole through his head instead. 

It’s unnerving, to say the least.

As one of the most powerful soldiers Rosaria has to offer, and one blessed by the Phoenix at that, Clive is no lesser man. But even he cannot deny that Hugo Kupka is intimidating. 

From physical appearances alone, Kupka practically embodies the name of his Dominant. The man is huge. He’s a Titan through and through, a hulk of a man with a body the size of a house, his stature and frame easily twice as large as anyone else in the room. He looks like he’s built purely with bone and muscle, all sharp edges and solid fibre. He could probably crush Clive’s skull in the palm of his hand if he wanted to.

Clive very much does not want to test this theory out.

He’s not sure what he’s done to earn Kupka’s ire, but he hopes to make a better impression so that they can be civil with each other by the end of the day. Maybe cordial, even. 

As it stands, however, he hasn’t had the chance to greet the man. The Dhalmekian councils had Clive seated quickly at the start of their congregation, mentioned offhand that Kupka may or may not be joining them soon, then proceeded to start discussions without him. When Kupka had announced his presence with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, (booming footsteps on marble tiles, harsh slams of doors being opened, grating screeches of a chair being dragged to the corner) the officials had given a terse nod his way and then ignored his presence altogether.

Whatever strange sentiment the Dhalmekian parties have of each other seems to be mutual, judging by Kupka’s disregard of etiquette and respect towards the parliament members. It also indicates that he’s the type who marches to the beat of his own drum.

That… Doesn’t necessarily bode well. 

Clive just hopes that the hall full of witnesses will be enough to deter Kupka from doing anything violent or untoward. Being under the baleful gaze of the Titan’s Dominant for so long is starting to make him sweat. And conjure unpleasant thoughts. Like being pummelled by fists the size of boulders. Being flattened into pancakes. Squished like a bug. Made into pulp.

…

He really wishes Kupka would stop staring.

Fortunately, the meeting comes to an end. Clive says a brief farewell that’s formal and lengthy enough not to be rude before making a beeline for the exit. He flees the building, all but dragging the manservant that’s been tasked with seeing him to his lodgings along. 

Once they’re in the city and blending in with the crowds, Clive lets out a sigh of relief. His guide seems a bit disgruntled at having been yanked through the streets without warning, but nevertheless starts leading him towards his accommodations.

It’s all good. He’ll be okay. He’ll rest for the night, leave on the morrow, and he’ll never have to deal with Titan’s Dominant again.

Clive’s almost lulled into believing he’s safe till they round a corner into a smaller street, and there stands the giant himself, blocking their way.

Kupka instantly hones in on Clive, scowling like he wants him dead. “You.”

Fuck.

Clive straightens himself and tries to look casual. ”Greetings, Your Lordship.”

“Who are you,” says Kupka.

Is this guy for real? The man you stared daggers at for the entirety of the meeting, is what Clive is tempted to say. “I’m… Clive… Clive Rosfield.”

“Rosfield,” Kupka parrots, as if testing the name aloud. 

“Um, yes,” he says stiffly. “I’m the Rosarian delegate… I was uh, at the Parliament?”

“No. Who are you to Titan?”

“Titan?” Clive exclaims. “Surely you’re not referring to your Eikon?”

Kupka squints at him like he’s stupid. “There is only one Titan. Who are you to him?”

“No one! I’ve never even met Titan. I’ve only met you today.”

Kupka thunders, “Lies! Why else would he…” the man trails off, frown deepening. “This is getting nowhere. We must speak. But my Queen is waiting and I will not be late to see her.”

Clive has absolutely no idea who this Queen is, and he’s not particularly interested in finding out. “That’s a shame. Perhaps we can talk another time then,” he says, purely out of courtesy. He can’t wait for Kupka to leave so he can finally rest in the safety of his quarters. 

“You shall come with,” Kupka announces.

“What? Uh, no I—can’t. I’m… Busy. Terribly busy.”

Kupka looks completely unimpressed. Even the servant beside Clive who’s been quaking in his boots this whole time turns to look pitifully at him. Clive’s never been the best fibber, but he’s made his bed and by the Founder will he lie in it. 

“I shall take my leave here.” Clive squares his shoulders in feigned confidence and makes his way to manoeuvre past Kupka’s large body. “I bid you good da—”

And then yelps when he’s hauled off the ground. 

Clive’s torso is swung onto Kupka’s shoulder, his arms and legs draping over a large back and an even larger chest. He’s being carried like a sack of potatoes. 

“You are coming with,” Kupka repeats, and starts walking with him in tow.

“What the fuck!” Clive shouts. “Let me go!”

“Struggle if you wish. Delay us and I’ll knock your lights out. Whether you're conscious during the journey makes no difference to me.” 

That snaps Clive’s mouth shut. He stares forwards in disbelief, shocked that any of this is happening. He happens to catch the gaze of the Dhalmekian guide who was with him, and the man flinches when they make eye contact. Before he’s able to even open his mouth to ask for help, the servant ducks into an alternative pathway and scampers off in a hurry.

Great. Just great.

Clive can’t even bring himself to resent the guide because under most circumstances he, too, would prefer not to go against a man who can literally transform into a mountain. He just wishes the guy would have at least tried to assist him, even if it was just out of respect for Clive’s already waning dignity.

A voice in his head (that sounds suspiciously like Joshua’s) chides him for not being careful enough.

Which... Yeah. Yeah.

Joshua had warned him about this sort of thing before he left. Said that he’d have to be careful and watch himself of large, horrible men, as men were uncouth beasts who would have their wicked way with him should he show an ounce of weakness. He’d scoffed at his younger brother then, insisting he knew how to take care of himself just fine. Now, dangling over the shoulder of Hugo Kupka like a sad old burlap sack, he thinks he gets it. 

Clive distantly wonders where Kupka’s taking him. Wherever it is there’s no way he’ll go down without a fight, but he really hopes his brother’s not going to have to peel his remains off the cobblestone of some dingy Dhalmekian alleyway. 

Thankfully, Kupka doesn’t lead him down a shoddy back street. He’s instead brought to a mansion in a wealthy-looking suburban area not too far from the city, where the roads and pavements are pristine and lined beautifully with desert foliage. The house staff rush out to greet Kupka and open the doors to let him in.

When they’re inside, Clive is dropped unceremoniously onto the tiled floors and he falls disgracefully onto his arse. He groans and rubs at his sore backside before shooting a glare at the menace who brought him here. Kupka’s not even paying attention. 

“Kept me waiting, you cock,” someone calls from above.

Kupka turns towards the owner of the voice, face softening. “Benedikta, my Queen,” he says, voice dripping with adoration.

A blonde lady (Benedikta, Clive presumes) stands on the landing of an ornate bifurcated staircase in an elegant black dress, looking regal and very much the picture of a queen, as Kupka claimed her to be.

Tall, proud and graceful.

That is, until Benedikta curls her lip into a smirk and runs down the steps, hurtling herself towards them. Without missing a beat, Kupka catches her midair and pulls her flush against him into a passionate kiss. The two of them meld their mouths together in a sloppy show of tongue and wanton moans, completely unheeding of the others in the room.

Clive turns away from their shameless display of affection, his face and ears ablaze. In comparison, the servants in the room are completely unfazed by the scene, seemingly used to it already. He finds the thought boggling, having been brought up in a household where such acts were considered obscene and forbidden in public.

He’s got half a mind to sneak away whilst they’re occupied, but he isn’t fast enough. The two are already pulling apart. 

Benedikta addresses him first. “And what have we here?” 

Kupka reluctantly takes his besotted gaze off her and turns to Clive, frowning. He looks like he’s just now recalling his existence and deciding what to do with him. 

Benedikta’s gaze, on the other hand, looks downright predatory. She extracts herself from Kupka’s arms and saunters over to stand in front of Clive. She looks up and down, assessing. “Hugo darling, did you bring a pet home with you?” 

The corner of Kupka’s lips pull downwards into a grimace. “No. Just wanted to check something. Brought him with me because I didn’t want to make you wait.”

Benedikta hums. “Here I thought you caught another hare… yet all I see is a puppy.” She crouches down and reaches out to curl her fingers under Clive’s chin. He goes rigid at the touch. “A very pretty puppy.”

“Uh,” says Clive, stupidly.

“A man shouldn’t be so pretty,” Kupka grouses. “It isn’t right.”

“Now, now, Hugo. There’s nothing wrong with a man being pretty,” Benedikta says soothingly. She takes Clive’s hands to pull him up with her as she stands. “I like this one. We should keep him.”

“What,” Clive wheezes at the same time Kupka yells “No!”

Benedikta crosses her arms, clearly unhappy. “And why not.”

Surprisingly, Kupka lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “This one is no good, Benedikta. Titan behaves weirdly around him.”

She cocks her head to the side. “How so?”

Kupka glances warily at Clive, almost as if he’s worried to speak in front of him. His demeanour is such a far cry from how he carried himself earlier, all meek instead of bullish, that it takes Clive aback. “Titan keeps saying he likes him,” Kupka hisses. “Titan doesn’t like anyone!”

“Titan likes me,” Benedikta argues.

Kupka winces. “You’re… An exception. But that’s not what I mean. Titan really likes him. Says he wants to pick him up and play with him, the way a child would with a doll.”

Clive blanches. “What?!”

Benedikta turns to Clive, considering. “Hm. I can’t blame him,” she says approvingly. “Or Garuda, even.”

“Garuda wants to make a doll out of Rosfield too?” Kupka asks, aghast.

Benedikta laughs. “Hugo, please. Look at him, he’s already a doll. But no, she suggests dressing him up in pretty clothing. And lots of feathers. I think it’s a great idea.”

Kupka abruptly rounds on Clive. “What have you done,” he accuses. “What sorcery have you bewitched us with?!”

“What are you talking about?” Clive cries, borderline hysterical. “In case you haven’t noticed, you brought me here! Abducted me, even! Against my will! I don’t even want to be here! And if there’s anyone doing some weird witchcraft, or spell craft, or, or voodoo nonsense, it’s definitely not me! I’m not the one trying to make a person into an Eikon’s plaything !” 

Both Benedikta and Kupka look startled by his outburst. Clive’s feeling rather shaken, his skin buzzing, breathing heavy and eyes wild. A sudden explosion of emotions may not be the best course of action now that he’s certain he’s surrounded by two extremely powerful Dominants, but he really can’t help it at this point. 

Clive’s going to die today. He’s going to die.

These crazy fuckers are going to kill him and then play dressup and dollhouse with his corpse.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Benedikta murmurs comfortingly. “Did Hugo rough you up on your way here? He can be a bit of a brute at times.”

“Hey,” Kupka grumps, defensive. “I barely even touched him. Isn’t that right, Rosfield?”

Benedikta swats at him and pulls him aside so that he’s no longer towering directly over Clive. “Stop that, Hugo, you’re scaring him.” 

“I didn’t do anything!”

She ignores Kupka and turns to Clive with a disarming smile. She hovers for a moment before approaching closer with tentative steps, as if she’s trying not to spook him. A part of Clive tells him that he should find the gesture demeaning, but he’s too frazzled to care. 

“How about we start over, handsome? Hugo may seem like a mean, vicious lion, but I promise you—to those he cares about, he’s just a sweet, loving teddy bear at heart.”

“Who’re you calling a teddy —” 

Benedikta elbows Kupka in the ribs without turning, cutting him off with a grunt. “As for me, I’m absolutely precious to those I fancy,” she continues in an alluring voice. “And I certainly fancy you. Won’t you let us treat you right, dearest? Give us a chance.”

When Clive doesn’t answer, Benedikta softens her tone to sound more reassuring.

“Don’t worry, we don’t bite.” And then, with a wink, “Not unless you ask nicely.”

Oh boy.

Alarm bells are ringing in Clive’s head, but still he asks, “What would you have me do?”

“Nothing in particular,” Benedikta guarantees. “Just spend some time with us first. We’ll take it slow. How about… a simple wine and dine tonight? That would be agreeable, wouldn’t it, Hugo?”

Kupka doesn’t seem particularly pleased, but he grumbles an affirmance. 

Clive glances back and forth between them. In his head, the pieces start falling into place. He sees what they’re doing. They’re trying to fool him into dropping his guard so that they can then murder him in his sleep. Like sirens luring sailors to their deaths. 

Well, it’s not going to happen. 

Clive may not be able to overpower or outrun them in battle, but if this is how they’re going to go about it, he can very well bide his time to increase his chances of escape. It’s time to play for the long haul.

“… Fine,” he grits out. 

And then braces himself for the worst.

***

The worst doesn’t come. True to their word, Benedikta and Kupka share a meal with him during dinner (a tasty feast of all sorts of Dhalmekian dishes that Clive’s never tried before, cooked up by Kupka’s personal chef and served on high-quality silver trays and cutlery), and exchange multiple glasses of wine after.

Now, the three of them are lounging about in Kupka’s living room by the fire. They’re stacked on top of one another with Kupka at the very bottom, Clive on his lap, and Benedikta subsequently on his own. Kupka’s reading a book with one arm curled around Clive’s waist, and Benedikta’s got her legs wrapped around the both of them as she braids Clive’s hair with a happy hum.

It’s all quite bizarre, really. Clive feels like he’s in a fever dream.

He watches the events go by in a daze and the next thing he knows he’s being tucked into bed in one of Kupka’s guest bedrooms. Benedikta kisses him goodnight on the cheek and even Kupka gives his head an affectionate tousle.

“Don’t worry darling, you’re more than welcome to join our bed whenever you’re ready,” Benedikta says before departing with Kupka behind her.

The door clicks shut. Clive stares at the ceiling for a good while, uncomprehending.

When his brain finally jolts back to life, Clive jumps out of bed in a haste. He feels… quite bamboozled, but he reminds himself that it’s all a ploy. They spoke of turning him into a doll earlier, and he’s not staying around to find out what that entails.

He escapes through the window and sneaks off into the night. 

Clive’s well on his way to his next destination when strange stories reach his ears–Titan’s been wandering aimlessly around the desert like a lost soul, in search of something. Some say it’s for a doll. Some say it’s for a lover. Clive shuts his eyes and pretends to not listen.

It has nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with him at all.