Chapter Text
There is many things one can say about Lord Commander Cidolfus Telamon. That his vices are many and his luck is fickle were truths he’s come to be resigned over, as is his misfortune of being stuck with the ornery old sod that was Ramuh. That he was heartless…
Perhaps to his enemies. But then again, it is not everyday one sees flames scorch the skies, or that the Phoenix itself rises from the mysterious Phoenix Gate, clearly warring with a being greater than they, given the carnage that touched small townships even five days’ walk from the mysterious location. Stranger still was how Ramuh had become insistent of seeing what had transpired. Ramuh had little love for shite that was not books and a raging good storm, and as such, when Ramuh showed something aside from his typical apathy, he tended to listen. And while the locals might be skittish of him, Cidolfus was nothing if not opportunistic, and he’s heard much about these famed Shields of Rosaria from his intelligencer. Perhaps one would be grateful enough to see him as their saviour, and accompany him home, ever more loyal for his assistance.
At least, that’s the logic Cid would tell his King and that godsbedamned Egi of his should they inquire. Blasted nosy fucks, he thinks sourly, looking over the scorched landscape with a dark scowl. It wasn’t likely there were much in the way of survivors — out here, in the bit of land known as the Dim, Cid doubted there was anyone at all to stand between victory and whatever battle had been engaged upon in this place.
Even so, he consults the scrap of torn parchment a younger woman had scribbled on for directions — Hanna, was that the name? — and given to him, before shooing him off, her home was full of the ailing soldiers that had survived much of Phoenix Gate. The brightness of a head of blond hair among the masses of men made him briefly wonder if the Phoenix had aged a few decades before she’d successfully sent him on his way, door snapped shut behind them both to discuss outside. He’d planned on merely passing as a traveller, but the sharp-eyed woman had caught sight of his worn leathers and his swords and thought him a sellsword — not inaccurate — or an imperial soldier. The violent shudder of which racked his body at the second option had been visceral enough to make the woman laugh in amused surprise, and so he had been granted a stay of execution.
Dramatic, perhaps, but the woman had looked far too determined and willing to lop his head off with the rather wicked-looking blade she’d gotten from a passing Rosarian soldier for him to risk it. Cid wonders if it says something that he found her behaviour charming rather than upsetting. She’d also handed him a rather nice-looking pin, informing him that if he wished to collect his prize, then he need only present it to her or the mayor.
For every live soldier he recovered, the lady Hanna had told him, she would graciously provide him a thousand Gil. Hardly the most lavish of sums for one or two men recovered, but ten soldiers would make him ten thousand Gil, and such coinage would ensure he was well fed and cared for during his trips to various inns and taverns as he returned home.
The ascent to Phoenix Gate had seen him in luck — he’d recovered a total of five live soldiers, two of whom were badly injured but grateful for his aid, and the other three lacking true field medicine skills with which to assist their comrades. They’d been hostile at first, but a flash of the pin and they were placid — it appeared that the lady Hanna was well known to the finest Rosaria had to offer. However fruitful his endeavour to assist was, it was sadly short of the ten he aspired to, but five thousand Gil could stretch. He’s since passed the Dim and had begun the ascent up to the lands of Phoenix Gate, which, he supposes, might have been a comely sight had the flame and ashes of battle not been present. In fact, Cid thinks thoughtfully, it appears as though whatever had caused this battle had moved away from the keep proper. Odd, but perhaps the Phoenix had required fuel to fight and sought it from the abundant, lush forests. Little else explained why they would move from a relatively clear field to the greenery surrounding it.
He’s stopped on his curious inspection by a sudden screech and a wark — the man jumps back, levin crackling under his glove to just stop shy of blasting the chocobo in the beak with as much lightning as he dares gather. She’s a handsome chocobo — the gleaming white of her feathers matted with blood and dirt, her beak bloody and scratched. The saddle that is still upon her is a tell of her origins — she’s a Rosarian breed, born and bred, likely seeking aid for her master. When her head turns, he can see the ugly gash over an eye, and Cid winces — for a bird like her to suffer such severe injury, her master likely fared little better.
Wark! The bird squawks, tiny wings flapping violently at him, and he brings his palms up to soothe her. She doesn’t wish to be calmed, however, warking violently again and flapping her wings harder.
“Alright, alright, calm down sweet girl,” he tries, and the bird stamps a foot in avian annoyance. Finally, he’s able to catch her head in his palms, presses his forehead to hers, and the bird stills and quiets, well trained by her master, no doubt. Tiny wings rustle, and deeper within, Ramuh stirs, curiosity and intrigue. The place his Eikon occupies within him is not one Cid tends to dwell on, but it feels as though Ramuh is reaching through him, asking the bird where her master is. It’s a distinctly odd and uncomfortable thought to have, so he shakes his head after he parts, and gently takes the lead of the chocobo.
Whatever bout of temper the bird had initially approached him with is gone, nothing but a placidity that reminds him of the steadiest of war birds left. She does not resist when he takes his place upon her saddle, notes that it was built more for a youth than a man — a little too high, much narrower than his comfort deemed, but those thoughts are but background observation as he snaps the reins, the pretty chocobo breaking into a ground eating sprint without direction from him. She’s sleek and swift, and he gives her as much slack as his paranoia allows, ready to pull the bird up short at the slightest hint of danger. However, to his own surprise — and perhaps admiration — this pretty girl is well-seasoned. Swift of foot and fearless, even, darting past all manner of beasts without flinching despite them trailing after her talons.
The distance she travels would have taken hours to make by an ordinary pack chocobo, and he wonders if she’d been bred as a racer before finding her place in the front lines of war. Perhaps, were he so lucky as to rescue her owner, he could ask the lucky soldier himself.
The area they stop at last is — unsurprising. When all but heaven has crumbled, the Fallen Ruins would still be left, Cid thinks, pats the sweet girl’s flank as the chocobo takes a moment to recover.
“Good girl,” he murmurs lightly to her, and she preens happily enough, before he picks his way down the tumbled hillside. He can see a pack of chocobos all bunked down, and his lip curls at the sight of a bag.
Branding supplies.
They looked to be unused, at the moment, and Cid’s hand twitches in disgust, before he focuses himself upon the task at hand — locating the chocobo pack’s owners and rescuing the pretty bird’s master from their dangerous whims.
He wonders how many soldiers are here to be rescued — slavers usually move in packs, like feral mutts, but there’s more than the average here.
“This one sure took a beating, didn’t he?” There’s a nasally whine in the man’s words, and Cid hides behind a tree, amusedly noting that the pretty chocobo had followed him and was now also hunkered behind a bush, her eyes focused on the sound as she swivels her head back and forth. “How many lashes did it take before he started screaming?”
“More than some other pretty things we’ve had our fun with,” a second voice says, smug bragging. “You know, those lordly types usually shriek at the first touch of a whip, but he held on until that fifteenth lash like a whore trying not to get caught with a priest in church!” the man laughs, and Cid can’t help the way levin crackles under his skin, hatred boiling deep in his veins as he struggles to compose himself. Cid had no love of slavers, that was true. But these ones were reprehensible, talking about their captured victim like some kind of entertainment. He makes a note to murder them both in the most painful way he can imagine, before sneaking further into the ruin once their voices have faded.
For brutes, they’d chosen well. Even with felled trees and ashes aplenty from the blaze, it would only take one attentive man to see Cid and his poorly hidden chocobo companion in the sparse cover that the ruin and forest combined provided.
Luck favours him — and not — at once, the sun setting and allowing Cid to ignore the rowdy group of men with deliberate practice, their lax attitudes clearly showing how secure they felt in this territory. He wonders how many they have Branded here, and his empty stomach lurches in protest at the disgusting thought.
He makes it to the atrium before he claps eyes upon the mysterious boy they’d attacked, and his heart catches in his throat at the sight.
Only one youth is here, his arms outstretched and pulled taut by the restraints that leave him hanging — given the location, Cid suspects that below him is some form of torture — even if he escaped — that would kill him if the fall did not. The boy’s chest rises and falls intermittently, an occasional wheeze for air heard as an almost rattling death-knell. Somehow, the boy was clinging to life by a thread, skin visibly clammy even at this remove.
Cid wonders if it would be cruel of him to light them up with enough levin to fry their skin like a fish to open flame. Before he can make his move, one of the slavers takes action, cupping a hand under his chin.
“Shame we can’t sell him to a brothel, keep him all chained and lovely for us after we’ve branded him. That noblewoman who sold him off wouldn’t be pleased if we don’t do as she says. Still… if his chastity isn’t for sale, then surely she won’t notice that bit on the bill for sale, no?” The hatred that stokes flames under his breast is not insignificant, Cid thinks, biting at his lower lip hard enough for the pain to register, though the levin under his skin has come crawling up his throat to press against the prison of his clenched teeth.
He can’t fry them, not when one of their unworthy, filthy number is caressing the lad’s face, their thumb wedging his mouth open. Cid doesn’t need to see to know what is coming, and he snarls quietly, standing up. He doesn’t have to worry about stealth, not with the others hooting and hollering, laughing at how they can’t wait to see the show they will be given.
At least, until a bright flare of blue shines in the boy’s eyes — too bright to be anything other than something Eikonic — and he bites the man’s thumb clean off. The man flails backwards with a howl, and Cid takes that as his cue to move.
Two fall to his lightning before he’s even touched ground, rage flickering over his skin like a cloudburst, rolling over his skin in a hurricane’s temper. Of the five he’d seen, only three were within his immediate range to deal with.
The lad smartly spat out what he’d bitten, a weak, desperate wheeze leaving the boy’s throat as he hangs from his arms. A cough brings up blood, his fragile form shaking in violent reflex as his body registers what he’s done and rejects the already expelled flesh.
All that is nothing to the enraged way the slaver lunges for the boy, an experienced hand cutting him free in two swift slashes of his blade and pulling the boy so he’s captive, blade held against his throat.
“Move and I put a knife through his throat, Bearer.” The man spits, and Cid sighs softly in annoyance, venting his anger as hissing levin. He did hate it when they proved themselves to be slightly on the smarter side. The lad’s in no state to further defend himself from an already horrendous ordeal, eyes drooping from weakness of the body as the abuse he’d already been given takes the last of his strength, those uncannily bright blues closing, though their vivid blue colouration can be seen behind his lids. A mystery — and one Cid will gladly look into the moment he has the time. After all, Leviathan’s Dominant in a boy wouldn’t be a plausible explanation for what had happened — even if it would make more sense than Phoenix being felled by lowly humans would be.
He curls his upper lip in disgust, irritated. The boy’s already fragile — whatever Eikon had granted the lad strength had long since burned to cinders, and he would be of no aid during the endeavour. It’s perhaps a touch cruel of him to desire the sight of that boy in that fierce, pretty moment of desperation once again, but such luck wouldn’t come twice — not with his accursed lack of good fortune. For now, he would satisfy himself with getting the boy out alive. And he would consider it a blessing if he could return the boy safely to his chocobo.
Alive would be an unfortunate difficulty, he was afraid.
“Set the boy down,” Cid says calmly, levin crackling over his skin in his ire. “I've got quite the tidy sum waiting for me if I recover him,” Cid says, mouth curling into a smirk. “A Dominant is always worthy of the expense, and you… well. You'll be lucky to return to your master intact if they realise your folly.” The man pales, and Cid doesn't allow his smirk to widen, instead tracking the limp boy in the slaver's arms. His breathing is getting shallower by the minute, and what little colour he has left is draining.
Best to deal with it quickly. A twitch, and his fingers twirl around the short dagger in his hand.
“You think this boy is a Dominant? Ha! This useless Rosfield?” Oh. Cid's mouth keeps to an even line, brow inching up in amusement as the man carelessly tosses the information he'd been hoping to get out like so much rubbish.
Clive Rosfield, the eldest of the Rosfield brothers, the First Shield and the pride of his people — disdain of his mother aside.
A most worthy prize to rescue, Cid thinks, before stomping down on the cold, calculating part of him that is already evaluating the lad's usefulness. He could commit himself to a proper asset recovery later.
A sweep of his hand, and the dagger thuds perfectly between the slaver's eyes, sparking dangerously with his rage.
Luck — for once in his godsbedamned life — favours him, and the slaver tips backwards from the force, the boy tumbling with him away from whatever was in that pit. Cid bolts up the steps at speed, sliding to a stop before the lad. A touch, and he sighs in relief, the faintest fluttering of a pulse.
Hauling the boy up into his arms, Cid whistles. A moment of silence, and the smug sounding kweh follows, the pretty bird trotting into smug view, a bandit dangling from her beak as she trots over, claws bloody.
A bird after his own heart, Cid thinks with pleased amusement. Though he does mourn the loss of his chance to vent his rage.
“Let's get your master to a proper physicker now, hmm?” Cid says, and the bird warks quickly, trotting closer as she dumps the useless body and lets him arrange the pale-skinned boy gently upon her saddle. He doesn't so much as murmur, that Eikonic blue fading slowly from behind closed lids, but Cid can feel the way his pulse jumps.
Deeper still, Ramuh stirs, an unhappy rumble of thunder over his head and dancing up his spine.
Don't you dare start a storm here, he tells the Eikon as the anger reaches his heart, levin crawling up his throat in greed. I have no desire to get this lad soaked to the bone. Another unhappy rumble, and Ramuh retreats back into his designated spot, annoyed at the inconvenience.
Now, if one was to find a proper physicker, where would he go? After all, he could get the lad back to his people, but something — Ramuh, his mind supplies, which is not at all alarming — resists, wants to tuck the boy safely within his space, put him back together on his own.
The thought is deeply unsettling.
Well. He supposes he ought to kiss those five thousand Gil farewell. Shame, that.
◇
Tarja's hair is damp on the back of her neck as she collapses into her seat, exhausted. Since her arrival, she'd not been without patients; the fall of Phoenix Gate had seen a steady trickle of people in dire need of a skilled physicker's aid. To her great fortune, the few Shields who had patrolled the area had barely blinked at her Brand, instead directing her to a habitable place in return for her willingness to treat the injured without question as to the reasons why.
One had even been so kind as to offer her knowledge of a plant resin that would allow her to plaster her hair in place, cover the godsbedamned brand temporarily.
It's why she thinks nothing of the next knock upon her door, and with a groan, Tarja heaves herself to her feet. She suspects someone of higher standing is demanding her service, for them to be at her door rather than at the inn where she had operated the triage station, but even so — a patient was a patient.
“I've heard you were treating any who request your aid,” the man hauling a younger, lighter companion says shortly, eyes fixed upon her in blooms of poisonous green. Tarja finds herself stepping back, stunned. The boy is as pale as a corpse, hanging limply from the man's grasp as he gives a restless noise. Red froths from his lips, a trail sliding down his cheek and chin.
Whipped badly, by the looks of things. And by the red line against his throat, it was clear whoever did this meant to drive him to an early grave.
“I — come in,” Tarja says in stunned disbelief, the two entering. A chocobo warks sullenly, and Tarja doesn't protest as the beast of burden squeezes in, the bird taking a seat in the corner. There are herbs in a pouch, and she divests them from her, opening it to see a wealth of supplies. All of which she would need to tend to this patient, as well as a single crystal, the shape unusually designed. It holds a crisp, clean edge better seen in knives than a tool for everyday use.
Her table is cleared, the older of the two laying him down for her review on the stone. Whoever did this to him had been both sadistic and meticulous — the tight whipping had been left in a cross hatch, maximising the damage so as to break the young man. Tarja touches the back of his neck, almost recoils at the clamminess and chill flesh.
“I do not wish to upset you,” Tarja says, quietly awkward, “but I don't think I will be able to heal this much damage,” she says. Her skill was formidable, but the boy was already half of the way into his grave, if not further.
“Heal him regardless.” There is no inflection in the man’s voice of upset. Merely crisp fact and intent. “You'll be well compensated for the trouble.” Tarja frowns at him; the best that would do is make the boy pretty for a funeral, even if she was — she meets those poisonous eyes again and flinches in spite of herself. “Argue and I will break something. Heal him.” The sharp-edged tone is terrifying, combined with the blank way the man speaks. To say nothing for the levin that dances over his skin and singes the edge of his shirtsleeves.
It was a waste of her life force, but at the way his eyes glow at the hint of rejection, she swallows her pride and begins to work. The older man takes one of the younger’s in hand, and does not seem deterred by the lack of response in the slightest.
Were they partners? The older man looks far too battle weary to be partnered with this soft slip of a lad, but she can't imagine him as a personal guard, try as she might. Passing her hands over the flesh, she's surprised to see how smoothly it begins to reverse the subtle signs of rot and decay. There is still no blood, and when Tarja checks for a pulse, she finds none.
The man is muttering to himself, and while normally she would snap at him to cease his useless chatter, his eyes kept shifting in colour from green to a sickeningly bright purple, as though he was using some kind of forsaken magic on the boy’s corpse. However, the bright levin dancing over his skin wasn’t exactly something she was willing to test for conductivity, and as such, she grits her teeth and puts up with it, ready to whisk the boy away from the man as soon as she could. His eyes flick up to her with a slight scowl painted on his affable-seeming expression. When the last of the most serious injuries have recovered from the rot and whatever hells the boy had been put through, she finds herself pushed away, the man’s hands moving to the healed gash in his throat, and the base of the child’s spine. (When she finds the bastards who whipped the boy more than thirty times, she would kill them, healer’s oath be damned.)
“Forgive me, lad,” the stranger murmurs, leans over to press a kiss to his forehead, a tender action that makes her suspicions deepen as to what in Greagor’s name those two were to the other.
She barely makes a step towards them before the hairs on her body stand on end.
The levin that she’d seen flickering in his eyes makes itself home in the corpse of a boy, blazing scars of purple tracing where the Dominant’s hands touch. She opens her mouth — but nothing comes out as she finds herself strangled of air, the crackling snap of levin forming and leaving a distinct taste and tang in the air she’s able to suck in. The boy in the Dominant’s grasp seizes; hands scrabble over the stone of her table, back arching up that the Dominant pauses to press him flat. Through it all, the vicious snarls of the storm taunt and light flesh ablaze from where his hands touch, the leather of his gloves having been shredded apart during the act and his sleeves now notably torn.
The roar of thunder and lightning in the cabin is deafening, and Tarja scrambles even further back, the chocobo that had accompanied them in snatching her up and hunkering down over her, a beak preening her hair soothingly as she watches her master work.
Finally, the noise dies down, levin crackling over the pale-coloured boy and letting him slump into the Dominant’s hold. His eyes are open; they glow the same hue of levin as the Dominant had wielded, shock-white hair framing the delicate features of the youth. His breath rattles like a cage with a terrified bird, but he is — undoubtedly, impossibly — alive. She can hardly hear herself think in the resounding silence, her own heart pounding in her chest.
His eyes slide closed at last, and the eerie glow is dimmed, the man hefting her patient up into his arms.
“...otion?” the words come fuzzily to her senses, and she frowns at him; gestures to her ears. The man sighs; annoyance personified, before he digs in his pouch and hands her a potion. She takes a sip and the world stops ringing in her ears like bells in a church. “There. This is for you.” The man hands her something, and she takes it, frowning at the sigil. “You’ll head to Eastpool, about two day’s walk from here, and present this to a lady Hanna or the mayor. Inform her that you are collecting on services rendered, and that the man that gave it to you is a sellsword with two blades. She’ll recognise the description and pay you accordingly.” The chocobo frees her from the fluffy prison, deeming her hair meticulously preened, and she startles; realises they’re leaving.
“You can’t take him! He’s in no fit state to travel –” Her tongue shrivels at the look he gives her, blistering heat in it.
“Do I look a fool?” He snaps; the politely genial tone he’d used is long gone, the man glaring at her for impudence. “I godsbedamned know that he isn’t fit to fucking be moved, but I can’t dally here lass, he and I need to leave, before the bastards that tried to kill him find out he lived.” The snarl makes her shrink back, hands clutching her apron desperately. He looks at her fright, and clicks his tongue off of the roof of his mouth in disdain. “Take the damn pin to Lady Hanna and not another argument from you.” He hauls the boy to his hip and pulls out another bag. “This should keep you flush with Gil,” he says bluntly, pressing the heavy bag of coins into her hand. “Keep your lips sealed lass, and pretend you never met us after this, am I understood?” His voice is a dark rumble of thunder, and she swallows, nods out of sheer terror — should she argue, she suspected he would make a smear of her upon the dirt floor of her temporary, humble abode. “And hide that Brand of yours better. There are many opportunistic Imperials willing to risk the wrath of the remaining Shields of Rosaria for a good coin or two.” She lifts her hand up; feeling at her face tells her that she had sweated enough for the resin to have unstuck from her skin and exposed her.
Given Tarja intended to cut it off, that would be an acceptable precaution. She could only hope that whoever this man was sending her to would be sympathetic to her plight. The man puts the boy on the saddle once he’s outside, murmuring soothing words to the half conscious boy as he does so — while the pretty steed looks like she was capable of carrying two passengers, the strange, Dominant sellsword and his — apprentice, perhaps — were settled as they were. It was, she supposed, a good sign that the man cared for his steed and his apprentice, and she watches them until they’re gone.
Once they are, Tarja sinks to the ground, hand over her breast.
Were she ever to encounter those two men again, it would hopefully only be to interrogate the sellsword as to his method of rescue.
Her heart was not stable enough for this shite to witness it twice.
◇
It’s late — the night reaches the midnight toll before Cid dares call a stop at a relatively defensible location with which to put his newfound treasure to rest. What was left of his own coin bought himself, the pretty chocobo, and the lordling a place to stay for the night in the stables of Audhyll, and while the man who had given him the space had wondered why he had not taken to the inn, he did not question it with coin in hand. The hay was as soft as he could hope for, and the blanket that the man’s wife had insisted on giving him would help his little lordling regain his warmth — what little the fussy mother hen of a chocobo did not insist on crowding her human with.
He himself had settled down, no intent of traipsing off elsewhere, when his stomach protested the action with a dull roar, clearly starved after he’d poured such energy into little Rosfield.
… Perhaps a repast was in order. Should he be lucky, the lad might even wake for a meal, though he would have to find something for the pretty lordling that would not require him to move from where his chocobo had firmly wedged him into a safe corner. Hesitantly, Cid lays the hood of his tattered cloak over the boy’s head to protect him from harm, before venturing back out.
A sigh, and Cid is alone for a moment, gathering his thoughts. There’s a prickle against his heart that feels distinctly like Ramuh calling his attention, and he hisses under his breath.
Can a man feed himself before you insist upon calling yourself into my memory, you fucking sod? Cid snaps, catching a glint of his luminous green eyes in the reflection of a window. Ramuh doesn’t even seem fazed, Cid’s eyes reflecting purple next.
Your curiosity stalls in regards to what I did, little scholar? I recall you often enjoyed my impromptu lessons. Ramuh’s voice is dry as dust, and Cid grits his teeth in annoyance.
And if someone mistakes me for a Bearer, then we’ll all pay for it. Wait until I get my blasted food and bother me after, Cid snaps back. Ramuh seems vaguely displeased, and that calls to an older memory of his youth — his instructor who had given him the finer points of manipulating the weather to his whims. Just as ornery and frustrating to deal with, Cid grumbles internally, ignoring how a spark of levin warningly dances up his spine.
However, the blasted Eikon does stay quiet, allowing him to grab a hearty bowl of thick, rich soup for himself, and a small bag of apples for the pretty chocobo. He’d noticed how the bird would often peck at discarded apple cores on their journey here, and — given his suspicions of her owner choosing to spoil her rotten — had as such acquired a small variety of the fruit to allow her to sample.
… and so he could attempt to pluck the little lordling out of her clutches. He’d gone for the finest selections on offer, glad for the nearby orchard. After all, there was no chance that the lordling that cared for the proud, pretty chocobo would have fed her a pauper’s diet of simply gysahl greens, even if almost all the birds went wild for the things.
The pretty girl gives him a little kweh in greeting, feathers ruffling as he sets the soup nearby. Then, he carefully rolls out the prime apples onto the ground before her. A plumping of her feathers, and the bird peers at the lot, before taking one in beak to sample. Cid tries not to sweat, watching the bird until she gives him a happy little wark and digs in, clearly enjoying herself. One bird safely distracted, and he enters the side where the boy lays, half hidden under her voluminous plumage. It’s touch and go to extricate the boy, but success is his, and he drags the soup closer once the boy is propped up against his chest, Cid cracks the soup open from the wax lid that had kept it safe from spilling, the wooden spoon he’d paid for enough to help him spoon it into the lad’s mouth.
Little Rosfield is resistant — his body is so, so cold, and his body racks with shivers — not unlike how Cid had, when he had first learned to control Ramuh’s power.
Faint purple glows under closed lids, the colour seeping through those long, dark lashes as the lad wakes, bit by bit, hazy eyes staring at him in confusion.
“Come now,” Cid encourages softly, the boy’s mouth parting in confusion to accept the spoonful. “That’s a good lad, eat up now,” he croons, and the boy whines faintly, but accepts the soup in small spoonfuls, pained whines leaving his throat as he tries to question him. “None of that,” Cid scolds when he breaks into a coughing fit, his pretty chocobo’s head swivelling around dangerously. “And you, if you knock the soup over I’ll be most displeased that you’ve spoiled your master’s dinner.” The pretty bird freezes in place; eventually, she hunkers down and makes deeply distressed kwaa noises in response.
Poor thing. She just wanted to take care of her master — it was obvious that the bird had been treating the lad like he was her chickabo for some time. Spoonful by spoonful, he coaxes the meal down the boy’s throat, stopping at the halfway point and sealing the soup off. He’ll get a meal once he’s sure the lad’ll keep his own down. The boy moves restlessly — the shocking white of his hair spills from his shoulders like white ink, and Cid feels a little bad.
Now, he supposes, he ought to talk to –
Red flares in his sight, a clawed hand grasping at him and shoving him back against the barn wall. The air rushes out of his lungs in a heavy thud, and he finds himself pinned, the slip of a lad staring at him with brilliantly blue eyes. An attempt to struggle, and he can see a shift behind little Rosfield, the faintest heat-shimmer as something moves into sight. It’s a tail, ink dark but for the levin that crackles over it in mimicry of flames. The hand moves from his throat to press against his forehead, pinning him in place.
Do not struggle, Dominant of Ramuh, the voice that husks from the boy is dissonant to the youth that speaks it — much more like the roar of a dying forge, of cracking coals as a fire settles in to burn what little is left of it, the vocal intonation a rasp of an already ruined throat. I do not mean to harm you, but the fuel you have given my Dominant will soon burn out. There are a lot of things Cid could say to that, words strangled up in his throat, but none come out. The Eikon’s brilliant blue gaze observes him with intrigue and amusement, as though examining him. When it’s clear he’s not going to speak, the Eikon huffs. I will take your silence as acquiescence, Dominant of Ramuh, the being says, vague amusement. I will spare you the trouble of digging through archives for my name. I am Ifrit, the Eikon of the Primordial Flame. Cid has a lot to ask about that, but Ifrit ploughs onward, ignoring his startled jump. I would ask you finish what you started with my Dominant, and feed him your power as you did. My Dominant’s heart is fragile, and his will is weaker for the abuse heaped upon him. There is a sense of grief in the being’s voice as it continues, ever more rueful, I had not awakened under ideal conditions — had I been faster, perhaps — Ifrit snarls a breath, the sound of it crashing together like a hammer on steel. A cough, and red touches pale lips. Never you mind. I request of you to take my Dominant within your influence, Dominant of Ramuh.
The continued use of his title irritates Cid, and the man manages to gather his wits enough to grit out, “It’s Cid.” The possessing Eikon tilts their head, stares at him.
Cid, then. Ifrit regards him with the same amusement a parent might find in a child, before they speak again. I plead with you to finish what you started. Cid’s incomprehension must be painted on his face bolder than the makeup of a courtesan learning to paint themselves, as Ifrit’s eyes flicker a worried hue of blue and purple. From how you made use of your power, were you not aware of how one makes an Egi of the dying? Cid’s bewildered expression must make it clear he has no idea what the Eikon is talking about, and it sighs. Never you mind. Do you speak with Ramuh to any coherent capacity? He can guide you through it. Another cough, and Cid can see how the lordling’s throat works in an aborted move of panic. Instinctively, he settles his hands on slim hips, the boy steadying under his touch as he does so. Give Ramuh the chance to guide you through it. The art of an Egi to save a dying loved one is old, but you’ve already done the bulk of the work — and he will not survive without it. I beseech you, finish what you’ve started. Ifrit’s eyes are starting to dim, and Cid watches the Eikon draw back, hand dropping from his forehead as the boy begins to cough violently.
Am I allowed to talk yet? Ramuh asks sarcastically, and Cid calmly bites back.
When we discussed this, at no fucking point did we talk about Egi, you bastard, Cid snipes. Make it quick, this lad doesn’t have much left in him now that you started the godsbedamned process. Ramuh bristles along his spine again, a touch of indignance, before the Eikon settles.
It would take too long, and you wasted too much time feeding the boy, Ramuh mutters eventually, and Cid shifts the boy more securely in his lap. Give me your permission, and you can bear witness to what I will do instead. Cid grits his teeth, but in his grasp, Rosfield gives a hacking wheeze, blood bubbling along the seams of his lips.
“Don’t make me regret it, you shitty Eikon,” Cid mutters sourly, and he can feel the way the levin takes him, crawling from his spine to fill his throat and heart, the sound roaring like a thunderstorm trapped in a cave. It’s frightening, to suddenly lose control of his own faculties, hand moving like in a dream to caress against the flesh of the rapidly weakening boy in his grasp. It’s an oddly tender touch, this gentle caress, hardly seems the time and place for it. Levin does not answer his command when he seeks it — when Ramuh seeks it, the hue of it the darker storms — the violent ones. He tips the boy’s head up, little Rosfield’s mouth parting on a gasp for air.
Like this, Cid can see how the sea of levin that makes up the boy, how it connects fragile skin to heartbeats and how his skin pebbles up gooseflesh at the shock to his system. A last, desperate gasp, and Cid’s lips part, crackling levin climbing free from his heart, up his throat, and finding the empty body in need of his care. The storm of the boy’s body seizes; Clive himself doesn’t even have the ability to speak, a broken noise leaving a ruined throat as his back arches up. The levin that takes to the boy is curious — young sparks, barely more than the stirrings of a summer rain, their newness reflected in the sweetness of pale lightning — barely visible even to his gaze.
Clive’s breath is lost in a soundless wail, the bright purple of his eyes taking the storm even deeper into their depths, the heartbeat of an endless storm curling up contently within the slow-beating heart of the boy he’s taken into his care. The world is suspended briefly in free fall, and Cid can feel how Ramuh sizzles in the space between heartbeats, slipping further and further away, Cid stepping into those empty spaces to catch the fragile storm in hand.
The world whispers and sings the storms within as he carefully tugs the boy from the edge of existence, coaxing him from the grasp of what lays beyond the veil of death. As he focuses on the lad, Ramuh returns to his spine, and Cid’s control of levin is his own again. He peels it meticulously away, blinking at last now that he is able to freely move his body. Rosfield’s mouth closes around the last of his freely offered lightning, the boy shivering as though cold. Tugging the boy closer, Cid can feel how his body slumps, the storm of him slowly finding a sense of order in the chaos, something thumping in the background like a pleased cat. Cid blinks away tears — and when did those come out without permission — to look over, seeing levin crackle merrily away from the tail, and a glance over shock-white hair shows that small horns peek out from the pale strands.
Please tell me the horns and tail aren’t going to stay, Cid thinks numbly. The boy makes a soft noise — something not-quite-human — and burrows closer, shivering. He’s far too chill for Cid’s comfort, and he tucks the cloak he’d found in the boy’s saddlebags around him to provide extra warmth.
Ah. In all likelihood… yes. Ramuh’s voice is a touch amused as the Eikon listens to him groan. And eat, my Dominant. You’re likely going to be ravenous in the morning.
Oh yes, and whose fault is that? Cid bitches back, before finding the hunkered form of the terrified Chocobo waiting for him. She’s shaking in her plumage, and clearly torn between flight or fight.
“C’mere sweet lass,” Cid clucks his tongue gently, and the bird inches closer. When no levin makes itself visible to display the light show, she inches closer, practically settling on top of them both with a frightened kwaa of distress. “Your master will be all right now, pretty girl. Go on. Keep him warm, eh?” A hesitant wark, and she does exactly that, Cid carefully detangling enough to grab his food.
If every godsbedamned day with Clive Rosfield was even a quarter as interesting as these last two nights had been, Cid would never lack in novelty. Wincing as a clawed foot pokes at his knee, Cid can only hope that the old Waloedian curse wouldn’t befall him. Benedikta was handful enough that he didn’t need another wilful apprentice. With the boy and bird safely in reach, Cid touches his fingertips to the damaged beak, makes a note to find her something to tend to that.
“Thank you sweet girl,” He says soothingly, gets a sullen little kwaa for his troubles. Cid reaches for the soup, the previous pangs of hunger even more prevalent now that the immediate danger has passed, and Cid takes spoonfuls of the soup while the pretty chocobo preens Rosfield’s hair.
Tomorrow, Cid thinks drowsily, he’ll need to ensure the lad has a different name to be called by, one that the lad would respond to. He’d take him home to Waloed, shelter him until he’s regained his bearings, and perhaps…
Perhaps he’d consider more of the unsettling implications of having made an Egi of a dying boy.
◇
He dreams.
Restless dreams, angry dreams. The whining despair of loss and misery feature prominently in these, in the memory of his depravities.
He had killed his brother. He had killed his brother.
The screams of Phoenix, the rumbling roar of fury as he — no, Ifrit — had ripped apart his most dearly beloved –
Clive falls. He tumbles through an endless misery, a darkened pit, blood and hellfire. He dreams of being whipped, the words of his mother as she cast him away like so much rubbish. He did this… it was him and Ifrit that had killed Joshua, but his mother had invited an aevis to their domain, her conniving words, her choice of betrayal a cruel, personal one.
He knew she only loved Joshua. But to hear her so coldly dismiss the rest of them, to call their deaths acceptable… She was his mother, she should have been loyal to the family she’d married into. He’d watched as the two servants were slaughtered despite their loyalty to her on the off chance they would speak.
They told him he would be a soldier with a smug avarice, only for the supposed elites to be slaughtered by footpads. The irony would have made him laugh if he had air with which to breathe. They’d chosen to continue on, make him a Branded and sell him off to the Imperials, but the bastards had wanted to have fun with him first.
The lashes hurt, but nowhere near so much as what had been done to his brother, the beating he’d received at hands of slavers who had been given him by his mother. She had hired them to kill the Imperial soldiers, to further muddy the trail of his disappearance.
Clive slowly begins to register other things. Other memories. Ifrit, talking to someone — his rescuer — in desperation. How his lungs had laboured desperately, heaving a breath and trying so hard to speak, to tell the man — Cid — to just not let this thing, this monster fool him. To hear and feel Ifrit’s anger was a strange, foreign thing. Why would Ifrit have such rage towards what transpired? It took him over, what gives it the right to do this? To pretend it cared?!
But green eyes — so bright — were sympathetic, gentle. They looked at him like he wasn’t a monster, like he didn’t deserve the punishment he was inflicted. His touch is warm without gloves, reminds him of the rare naps he could take in front of the hearth.
Your master will be okay now, had been the last thing he’d heard, and since, he’s only heard the soft chirps of his beloved Ambrosia to accompany him through the nightmare. The man by his side is a heavy weight, slightly damp warmth in the spring thaw of Rosaria’s dockyards. Audhyll, if he didn’t miss his guess, from the salt and the lapping of the waves. Ambrosia is half-settled on him like she had done when he was young, her chirping trills carrying a tune of safe, safe, protected, which is both a calming and odd thing to hear.
He’s been stuck in this odd half-state for a while, unsure of what to do, how to move — surely the man who had taken him had plans for him. Clive was well aware he was what one would consider pretty.
But the night — what is left of it, at least — passes in the whispers of breath, the rough sound of the man’s breathing oddly soothing. This close to his saviour, Clive can hear the faintest rumbling of a snore, the thump and crackle of levin that accompanies the man’s heartbeat. He’s surrounded on all sides by warmth, and he can’t help but shiver — Joshua had too, when he died.
It wasn’t fair that he lived. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair!
He can’t really move well — clumsy under the weights around him, and disoriented aside. His aborted attempt to sit brings a wave of nausea, and he whines, quiet restlessness. The noise he makes awakens Cid — the man shifts gently, looks down at him. Or so he thinks — his entire body is not exactly cooperating with him.
“G’morning lad,” Cid’s voice is rough, but gentle as the man helps sit him up, Clive burying his head into the tender junction of shoulder and head, gets a startled laugh. “Not ready to wake? I know, I know. It’s a bit early for me too, but the owner was pretty clear lad — we can’t be having a kip too long, and my transport is scheduled to be passing through Audhyll today — or maybe tomorrow.” Something touches his head — he thinks — gently running through his hair after a moment. “It’s not your fault lad. None of this is.” Of course it was — the man must have been gentle-hearted, or stupid. If he’d never awakened this damn Ifrit — a tap to his skull, and Clive whimpers, startled. “Listen to me. I mean it, lad.” The touch slides comfortingly down his head and chases down his spine in a fizzling of comforting levin — which makes less sense than if it had been heat of some kind. “I don’t know all of the details of what happened to you, and you’re in no shape to be telling me, even if you were able to. Just know I’ll be doing my damnedest to help you.” A soft shush stills him, his whine of protest aborted before it could be voiced. “I know, lad. There’s no reason to believe me, not after all this, but let me make it clear — I’m not the fool that thick-headed mother of yours is. You’re mine to take care of now, lad, and were your mother even half as smart as you, she would have kept you in her ungrateful clutches.” Clive gives a low whine of distress, and Cid’s voice rumbles against his chest in a chuckle of fond affection. “I know, I know, you must be wondering why I’m helping you.” A hand through his hair, and the man muses, “your death would do shite-all, you know. Because you, your brother, and your father would all be dead, and your mother would be alive.”
Mother.
A crackle of levin sounds, and Clive can feel the cold shock of those words.
Mother is alive. She was still out there. There’s a swelling of rage in his breast at the cold realisation, the sheer indignities of her depraved actions. The rage makes his heart beat faster, but Cid’s hand gently runs over his back again.
“Calm yourself, lad. I know you’re pissed,” the voice says, softly. “But don’t let it get the better of you. You want your mother to pay for what she did to those you love, don’t you?” Clive makes a slightly desperate noise, manages a small nod against where he’s settled. “Then you just need to trust me, lad. I’ve invested a significant amount in you now, so I won’t be letting you go so easily.” As he speaks, Cid’s words get smoother, the richness of his voice the sound of velvet promises and sweet nothings. Clive couldn’t even imagine this man telling him a lie in that voice. “I’ll make sure that you get your chance, but for now, you’re mine. And I’ll get you that revenge against your mother, make her rue the day she even dared cross you.” A shiver chases Clive's spine at the words, the thought of it — of revenge, of taking apart the monster who touched what was his to protect — finer than any wine or ale. “Aye, there’s a good lad,” Cid’s voice murmurs, hand cupping the side of his face. “Up you get now. I’ll bring us both a meal, and then we’ll chat a bit.”
Clive blearily blinks his eyes open, staring up into amused green. It’s no longer the vicious hue of verdant leaves, having shifted to something a touch more lush and delicate. He makes a distressed noise, but Cid takes a moment to shush him, a gentle touch that caresses his skin, leaving him wanting.
“Shh, lad,” Cid’s voice is a soft, chiding thing. “Don’t try to speak. Stay with this pretty girl of yours — I’ll be back soon.” Clive obligingly wraps his arms around Ambrosia’s neck and whines into her feathers, annoyed. Ambrosia bends her head down to preen him, her chirps soothing him. It’s as though she’s assuring him he’ll be safe with Cid and herself. He still feels a little numb, and his back is sore like he slept on cobblestone.
When you’re injured but don’t fully know the extent of your troubles, always take stock of yourself, the words of the Lord Commander ring in his head, and he shifts up, starts by wiggling his fingers. They move easily, though when he shifts his shoulders, there’s a faint ache that builds in his hips and thighs. Carefully, he curls his toes, can feel something else respond, and Clive hisses as pain flares up his back and makes itself home in his tailbone. It hurts, and he manages to reach back, fingers questing to find what had been so bothersome for him. Midway on his back, he can feel raised ridges — it feels a little like bone — or some sort of cross between bone and fingernails. They branch out over his skin in little branches of hardened flesh, reminding him of the marks of lightning over stone he’s seen now and again. It’s a strange thing, and he resolves to find out what exactly happened there. Questing lower, the raised bone/nail… things begin to widen, and he can feel ridges flaring out down the last quarter of his spine, and he swallows. A gentle touch, and his hand can feel proper scales, the new appendage twitching in his grasp as he feels the foreign pressure in his palm and on the tail.
He has a tail.
Founder’s Grace, Clive thinks, lets the tail go abruptly in disbelief. It thumps to the hay, the sensation sending another phantom tingle of pain up his spine. What did Ifrit do to me? Lost in his shock, Clive only just hears the barn door open and close, the steady crunch of boots on hard-packed dirt making him look up desperately towards Cid, mouth parting on a small, desperate whimper. Cid abandons his tray next to Ambrosia, the man kneeling and providing him the cold comfort of his arms, a hug so gentle he hiccups on a sob. It’s delicate, the way his levin crackles and caresses him, soothing away the pain of his crumbling world. It invites him in, the desire to become nothing more than Cid’s. No need to think, in the endless flow of levin and the curiosity of the world, his instincts hum. Only a need to sate the restless hunger for knowledge, the pursuit of all Ramuh’s Dominant could ask for.
“Lad.” Cid’s voice is softer now, the man adjusting him into a comfortable spot. “Come, eat with me.” Clive obliges, allows the older man to settle them and feels the warmth of Ambrosia as the large Chocobo fluffs her feathers up and provides her warmth without question. He nibbles on the offered bread and heady pumpkin soup without complaint; it is hearty and warm, fills up the chill inside with its weight. “We’ll be setting sail from Rosaria soon.” Clive looks up at him in silent incomprehension. “You want revenge, don’t you?” He reminds Clive, finally taking to his own meal once he’s sure Clive is sated. Clive nods, silent. He wants to know where this is going. “You’ll need a secure place to heal, and you’ll not find it here,” Cid says bluntly, and while Clive aches, he knows it to be true. Not with his Mother having betrayed them. “We can plan for the inevitable retaking of Rosaria, but you will not recover here, not with your grief.”
Clive does not argue, simply sighs, weary and sore. It is not like he could, either. His throat hurts dearly, a throbbing ache against the tender flesh from where the footpad had nearly cut his throat open with his carelessness.
Cid either does not notice or does not mind his silence, continuing after a bite of bread. “We’ll need a place to signal out to some friends, if you have a small spot that might be clear.” Clive gives a little nod against Cid’s throat; for all his aches and pains, he wants to help Cid, the strange crackling within him demanding he be useful to his saviour.
Nothing less would be acceptable, not if Clive wishes to see his vengeance to the end. And oh.
He so dearly wishes for his mother’s head.