Chapter Text
The hold of the ship is dark, but it isn’t quiet. There’s shouting up above, unfamiliar sing-song calls and commands. Waves beat against the hull, a steady rhythm occasionally punctuated by a particularly strong surge. Rope and wood creak and groan with each shift. Every so often a seabird cries out, sharp and longing.
Much closer are the sounds of the two guards outside the cell. They’re too well trained to talk while on duty, but their armor and weapons clink as they shift their bodies to match the swaying of the ship beneath them.
Ifrit does not bother to move. He lies on the planks and feels the dull pulse of his heartbeat against the edge of the crystal fetters. He can picture the way the light must change with each beat, only perceptible in the deepest gloom. He keeps his eyes closed.
The thump of his heart is joined by the thump of boots. The guards shift, two more thumps in sync.
“At ease, gentlemen,” says the new arrival. His voice is deep. “How fares our guest?”
“No change, my lord. He has yet to move.”
The new arrival hums. “Is that so.” The bootsteps move closer. “Not moving doesn’t mean not awake, though. Does it, lad?”
The latter words are spoken louder, directed into the brig. Ifrit considers what will happen if he doesn’t respond. He opens his eyes.
The new arrival is silhouetted by the crystal lantern behind him, leaving his face shadowed and indistinct. Ifrit can only see the pale flash of teeth as the man smiles. The edges of his dark jacket bleed into the light like ink in water. It isn’t the uniform of the guards.
“And lo, he awakens.” The man nods to one of the guards and gestures over his shoulder with one hand. The two men salute and move down the narrow corridor without looking towards the cell.
Ifrit sits up slowly, motions made awkward by the fetters and the lingering tenderness in his muscles. Upright, the sway of the ship is stronger. He doesn’t try to stand.
“The Demon of Sanbreque in the flesh,” the man drawls. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Hope the accommodations are to your liking.”
Ifrit doesn’t bother with a response. Men like this rarely need one.
The man watches him quietly for a moment. He fishes into his jacket and pulls out a long pouch, movements casual and unhurried. He unfolds it, plucks out a cigarillo, and stashes the whole affair away again. As smoothly as he moves, he doesn’t stop watching Ifrit the whole time, not even when he calls an arc of lightning between his fingertips to light the end.
Ifrit clenches his hands in his lap. The line of his back aches.
“No need to be shy,” Ramuh says after his first exhale. “You smoke?”
Ifrit watches as he takes in another mouthful, the tip of the cigarillo burning starkly against the gloom. The smell of tobacco fills the brig. Ramuh slowly lets out a stream of smoke and flashes his teeth again.
“Suppose you’re too young.” He casually taps the ash off against the bars. “Who’d have thought the Demon was a lad of, what, twelve summers? Thirteen?”
Ifrit doesn’t rise to the bait. He stares at the tip of the cigarillo, the bright burn that he cannot feel at all.
Ramuh laughs quietly. “You’re a cold one, aren’t you? Wouldn’t have thought it, given how hot you burn. Guess I’ll go first, then.” He places his empty hand on his chest, the one with the cigarillo resting loosely on his sword hilt. “Commander Cidolfus Telamon. Dominant of Ramuh, in case you don’t recognize me in my fairer form.”
This last remark is accompanied by what Ramuh probably intends to be a winning grin. Ifrit can’t really see his eyes, but he knows the smile won’t reach them. The casual manner and banter show that this is all just a game to him, one that Ramuh knows he’s already won.
It’ll be better if Ifrit lets him keep winning. So he moves his dry tongue and rasps quietly, “Ifrit.”
The pale slash of Ramuh’s mouth widens. “Ifrit,” he repeats, savoring the sound like his cigarillo. “That your name or your eikon’s?”
Speaking has made Ifrit aware of how parched he is. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.
Ramuh hums. The tip of his cigarillo flashes brighter for a moment, catching brief sparks in his eyes.
“All right. Ifrit.” He taps his ashes off again. “Allow me to welcome you aboard the Nautilus. I’d apologize for the poor reception, but we can’t have you burning her out from underneath us. Mind you, I’m sure you’d drown just the same as the rest of us if you did. Fire and water don’t exactly mix.”
For some reason, Ramuh pauses, as if this inane comment is worthy of a response. He seems disappointed when it receives none.
“Chatty,” he mutters. “To business, then. As you can see, you’ll be our guest for the time being – and I do mean guest. I’ve orders from the king himself to see you safely to Stonhyrr. If you try to run, we’ll have to stop you, of course, but no one’s to lay a hand on you otherwise. If they do, you’re to refer them to me. Understand?”
A cool feeling runs through Ifrit’s chest. His throat tightens. He knew, when he awoke on a ship, that they’d try to take him from Sanbreque. The thought makes his heart thump heavily, dread settling leaden in his stomach. He has to get back.
The silence has stretched too long. Ifrit nods.
Ramuh returns the gesture. “Good lad. I’ll be keeping you company until we’re under way. No hard feelings, eh?”
Ifrit looks away. The crystal fetters are fastened in the front and have been adjusted properly to sit flush against his forearms without cutting off circulation. They’re skin-warm by now. He forces his hands to unclench and feels the tender underside of his wrist chafe against the metal.
“Good lad,” Ramuh says again.
And finally, with that, it seems he’s run out of words. He smokes his cigarillo in silence, gaze never shifting. Ifrit likewise watches him from the corner of his eye and listens to the men up above. The smell of tobacco sinks heavily into his nostrils, winding nauseously past his scratchy throat to coat his lungs and stomach.
As Ramuh nears the end of his cigarillo, a loud thump reverberates through the floor. A call goes out, rising and falling. The ship lurches, and lurches again, and the sound of the waves beating against the hull begins to change.
Ifrit swallows against the tightness in his throat. There are more cries up above. The motion of the ship changes again. He closes his eyes.
“There now,” Ramuh says an eternity later. “Chin up, lad. I’ll send my men back with some grub, eh? Remember what I said.”
There are two sharp taps to the bars. Ifrit doesn’t move. After a moment, Ramuh huffs a breath and leaves. Ifrit listens to his bootsteps grow further and further away, and he listens as two new sets come closer and closer.
He doesn’t open his eyes for a long time.
===
Some time later, Ramuh returns. Ifrit sits up when he hears his bootsteps, which seems to please the man. Once again, the guards are dismissed. Ifrit would question Ramuh’s sanity, but the man bested him even before the fetters. With them, Ifrit doesn’t have any delusions about his chances.
“Captain says we’ll arrive on schedule.” Ramuh pulls his tobacco pouch from his jacket, then pauses. The silhouette of his head shifts. He replaces the pouch without removing anything. “Thought we might have a little chat. Get to know each other, like.”
Ifrit’s eyes are very dry. He wonders how long it will take for Ramuh to run out of words on his own this time. The thought makes him feel even drier.
He takes a breath. “What do you want?”
Ramuh stands taller and flashes his teeth. “Like I said. Thought we could have a little chat. The Nautilus is a fine ship, but the cabins are stuffier than the damn brig.”
Ifrit lets out the breath.
“You meant the bigger picture, I’m sure,” Ramuh continues. “I’m afraid it’s not my place to say. You’ll have to hear it from the king yourself. No hard feelings on your part, I hope.”
Ifrit rubs his fingers against his calf. The skin beneath his breeches tingles. He breathes out again and shakes his head.
“Glad to hear it.” Ramuh props his left hand on the hilt of his sword. He’s quiet for a long moment. “You’re not really the chatting type, are you, lad.”
Maybe Ramuh is insane after all.
Ramuh huffs a laugh. “Well then. How’s about we get to know each other the fun way?”
Ifrit watches warily as Ramuh lowers himself to the floor and sits tailor style. His hand dips into his jacket again, but this time he pulls out a box about the size of his palm. “You ever played Dhalmekian pick up?”
Ramuh taps out a stack of cards and begins to shuffle. He curses. “Dark as a behemoth’s – well.” He summons lightning to his right hand, a tight controlled ball that for the first time casts light on his face. Then he pauses, looking from the deck of cards to his hand. “Ah.”
He snuffs the lightning, boxes the cards, and rises with a grunt. Hands on his hips, he surveys the brig. Then he goes to pry one of the crystal lanterns out of its sconce, muttering curses the entire time.
The whole show is needlessly overacted. It cannot be that Ramuh is actually this stupid. Ifrit doesn’t bother watching directly. Eventually, Ramuh settles back down. The crystal is of course placed on his side of the bars. It casts long, sharp shadows into the cell.
“There we go.” Ramuh begins to shuffle the cards again. “Come a little closer, lad. Can’t imagine you can see much from over there, light or no.”
Ifrit hesitates. There isn’t any point to refusing except spite, and spite will make them wary. He shuffles closer. As it turns out, Ramuh is quite handsome when he smiles. He almost makes it look real.
“Normally I prefer dice, but rolling the bloody things on a ship like this is a good a way as any to lose your whole damn set.” Ramuh lays out two piles of seven cards face down on either side of the bars, then places the deck on Ifrit’s side and flips one card face up. The suit is unfamiliar to him. “Now, I’m going to show you my hand while I explain how it works, but you really ought to keep it to yourself. I’ll go first, shall I?”
His hands move deftly as he flips his cards over and spreads them out. He explains the rules as he goes, pointing out the number and picture cards, then playing out a turn with all his cards showing. Ifrit follows only about half of it.
“It’s easier to learn by playing. Go on then, lad. Have a look at your hand.”
Ifrit picks up the cards. The pasteboard is cool and smooth. After a moment of hesitation, he spreads them out in front of him face up, the way Ramuh did.
“Good thinking. Now, you’ve got a six and seven of crowns. All you need is a five or eight to make a set, so you’ll want to keep those. Same with the mandragoras…”
The explanation continues. After a few hands, Ramuh declares, “Right. I think you’ve got the hang. Let’s have a real one, eh?”
Ifrit loses the first game naturally. The rules aren’t complicated, but Ramuh’s explanation was long and rambling, and it’s difficult to handle the cards with the fetters. Ramuh pretends he can’t see every time Ifrit flashes his hand at him, even going so far as to discard something that Ifrit can actually use. But after a while, Ramuh’s side of the bars is full of sets, while Ifrit only has two.
“Not bad,” Ramuh declares. “Let’s have another one.”
They have another one. Ifrit doesn’t try very hard, but it’s closer. On the third round, he realizes that he’s going to have to start losing on purpose.
Ramuh doesn’t make it easy for him. The man is careless and not a very good liar. He often forgets what he’s already discarded and what Ifrit’s picked up. And he keeps talking the whole time, commenting on Ifrit’s moves and asking questions that Ifrit doesn’t answer. His voice is deep and rough, likely from all the smoking, and it grates on Ifrit’s nerves.
By the time the third game comes to a close, Ifrit has just barely scraped a loss. He begins to wonder what the point is. Is this an obscure form of revenge? Ifrit knows he’s killed a good number of Ramuh’s men. That’s what he’s for. All of this, then, must be because Ramuh has been ordered not to harm him and can only resort to petty annoyance.
The cool pasteboard flutters in his fingers. Odin wanting him alive isn’t so surprising. Ifrit knows his own value, and Odin is certainly enough of a warmonger. Unharmed, though. That doesn’t make sense. They can’t know that Ifrit won’t break for them, not without – but they also can’t think he’ll be easy. Surely they’d want to start early.
Something warm touches his fingers. Ifrit holds still. Ramuh tugs the cards from his hand, and the warmth vanishes.
“That’s enough of that,” he says. His gaze is sharp and heavy. “Best I go and make sure the captain’s not going to steer us into a reef. Hand me your sets, there’s a good lad.”
Ramuh cleans up the cards and replaces the crystal lantern. He watches Ifrit for several long heartbeats after he has, face once more cast in shadow.
“Try and get some rest,” he commands. “We’ll talk again on the morrow.”
Ifrit waits for Ramuh to leave. Then he backs away from the bars and lies down facing the hull.
He needs to get out of here.
===
The rhythm of the waves changes sometime while Ifrit is asleep. Or maybe it’s the tossing of the boards beneath him that wakes him. With each lurch, his body slides a little, back and forth, back and forth, until a particularly strong surge sends him slamming headfirst into the bulkhead. One of the guards turns to look at the noise, and Ifrit turns his head away, blinking stars from his vision. He sits up then, using his legs to brace himself in the corner, bound arms stretched awkwardly down between them.
The ship is still heaving when Ramuh next comes to visit. His sea legs are better than Ifrit’s. He sways with the motion, timing his steps to match each surge of the waves. This time, he doesn’t dismiss the guards.
“All right there, lad?” he says by way of greeting. He grips the bars to steady himself, making even this motion seem natural. “First time on a ship in a squall, is it?”
Ifrit considers ignoring him. Instead, he nods, hair tickling his cheek. He jerks his head to clear it.
Ramuh’s silhouette shifts, then straightens, head snapping towards one of the guards. “Why’s he bleeding?”
Both men jump nervously. “Sir?” The one Ramuh’s glaring at turns to look into the cell.
The other stands even straighter and nearly unbalances as the ship heaves again. “He slid in a surge, sir. Must have hit his head.”
“Hm. That true, lad?”
Ifrit wonders what might happen if he lies. It won’t get him any closer to being off this ship. He nods.
Ramuh considers him for a long time. Ifrit’s stomach, already tender from the waves, flips uncomfortably. Then the man reaches into his jacket and pulls out something metal that clinks – a keyring. Ifrit forces himself not to tense.
But Ramuh doesn’t immediately open the cell. “I’d like to look you over, lad, but if you try anything, I’ll have to put you out again. Storm like this, Ramuh’s a little too eager. It won’t be gentle. Do you understand?”
Ifrit’s wrists are sore against the fetters. He nods.
The click of the key in the lock is loud. Ifrit tries not to be obvious about watching where Ramuh stows the keyring and holds as still as he can as Ramuh kneels next to him. He keeps his gaze fixed on his hands, fingertips pale where they press into the floorboards. This close, Ifrit can smell the lingering odor of stale tobacco that hangs about Ramuh like a cloud, mingling unpleasantly with the scent of sweat and ozone. It turns his stomach further.
Ramuh’s hands on his head are firm and warm. He prods at Ifrit’s skull until he finds a spot near the top that is tender. Ifrit doesn’t flinch. One hand stays on his crown, holding the hair back. He hears the crackle of lightning for several heartbeats before it’s extinguished. Ifrit keeps his head bowed, even when the touch is removed.
Ramuh leans back on his heels. “Just a scratch. Look at me, lad.”
Ifrit swallows and obeys. Ramuh pushes Ifrit’s hair out of his eyes, then lights another orb of lightning. Ifrit holds still. Then this light too is extinguished.
“Any headache? Blurry vision? Nausea?”
It’s a baffling question. Ifrit doesn’t understand what Ramuh wants. A bump like this won’t compromise him or affect his magic. Ramuh is a Dominant. Surely he knows this.
Ramuh tilts his head to try and catch his gaze. “Lad?”
Ifrit shakes his head. The motion hurts and makes his stomach turn.
Ramuh hums. Finally, he removes his hand, leaving a cool spot on Ifrit’s forehead. His hair falls back into his eyes. He lets it lie there.
“Here.” Ramuh pulls a white handkerchief from one of his many jacket pockets. “Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
He wets the cloth with a tip of the waterskin. Ifrit doesn’t move. Rather than holding Ifrit still to do it himself, however, Ramuh presses the damp cloth into Ifrit’s hands. He takes it carefully. The white fabric is cold and seems to glow in the gloom of the cell. Ramuh’s eyes are the same.
Ifrit closes his eyes. He can’t see his face anyway. He can feel where the blood dried on his forehead and face, though, so he wipes at it until the itchy flakes are gone. His hair will be a lost cause, but he doesn’t care. There was probably already blood in it anyway.
Ramuh takes back the soiled handkerchief and claps him on the shoulder before rising and swaying with the ship once more. “Storm’ll pass by morning. Try to avoid any more knocks, eh?”
The cell door closes with a sharp clang of metal. Ramuh speaks quietly to the guards for a moment, then gives a two fingered salute and sways off and out of sight.
One of the guards is still looking inside the cell. Ifrit shifts so that he’s wedged more firmly in the corner and watches his braced hands.
===
The storm passes. In its wake, the ship feels almost motionless, even though it still rocks back and forth as it sails across the waves. Ramuh returns twice more to poke around in the brig, speaking with the guards and asking Ifrit inane questions until he gives some sign of life. Then the man swans off again, boots thumping carelessly back down the passage.
Each visit brings them closer to arriving in Stonhyrr. Ifrit is no closer to having a plan. He can fight with his hands bound or without magic, can take down men who are larger and stronger than him or groups with superior numbers. Doing all of these things at once, though, is beyond him. The need to get back to Storm presses against his chest, making his heart thump and lungs tight.
Irritating as the man is, Ramuh’s visits are a welcome reminder. Ramuh is here, and Odin is in Stonhyrr. There’s no need for a Dominant of Fire in Sanbreque. Not yet. As long as the pair remain in Ash, he has time.
He has time. As long as the Iron Kingdom doesn’t mount an attack. As long as Dhalmekia keeps to the treaty. As long as the Emperor doesn’t decide to make another bid for another Mothercrystal.
One of the soldiers arrives with hardtack and a fresh waterskin. Ifrit makes himself eat with the methodical determination of a soldier even as his stomach roils and writhes like the sea beneath them. It’s his third meal on the ship. They must be close.
They aren’t close, though. Ramuh arrives some time later, after the guards have changed shifts. He has a wrapped bundle under one arm. Once again, he dismisses the guards.
“If I have to listen to the captain tell his Ultros story one more time, I’ll blow this whole damn ship to smithereens,” Ramuh says as he prizes the crystal lantern from the wall. “Figured you’d be better company. Less likely to talk my ear off.”
Ramuh grins at him. Then he sits down outside the bars and begins to unwrap the bundle, revealing two clay jars and several smaller bundles. He pries the lid off one of the jars, and a pungent, fishy smell fills the space. “Can’t say I’m a great lover of herring myself, but it’s better than the bloody rocks they keep on these ships. Courtesy of the captain’s stores, of course.”
He winks. Ifrit watches as he pulls a long, flat cracker from one of the smaller bundles and scoops pale purplish lumps of fish onto it. “C’mon over here, lad. Guests first.”
It takes Ifrit several heartbeats to realize what Ramuh means. It’s baffling, but that seems to be Ramuh’s entire personality. Ifrit considers the smell. His stomach moves, something between interest and nausea. He shifts along the bulkhead away from the corner and settles within arm’s reach of the bars.
“Here.” Ramuh passes the cracker through the bars. Ifrit takes it carefully and watches as the man makes up a second one. Ramuh bites into it with seeming relish, the cracker giving way with a sharp snap. Halfway through chewing, he says, “Not bad. Tastes better than it smells.”
Ramuh pops the other half of his cracker into his mouth. Ifrit’s fingers are wet with brine. He lifts the cracker and sets the corner of it between his teeth.
The cracker is tough and basically just hardtack in a different shape. In contrast, the fish is almost mushy. It does taste better than it smells, not just fishy but also vinegary and slightly sweet beneath the brine. He chews until the whole mess is soft, then swallows. It slides easily down into his stomach. He’s less cautious about the second bite.
“Good?” Ramuh asks.
Ifrit nods.
Ramuh has already moved on to the second jar. Its contents are bright red and lumpy. He spreads it over a cracker, then opens another bundle to reveal a knob of cheese and adds some of that too. When Ifrit has finished his fish, he passes a second copy of this new creation through the bars. The red spread proves to be a sweet jam that mixes strangely with the sharp cheese.
“Another?”
Ifrit shrugs, and Ramuh reaches for the fish.
It seems that the key to getting Ramuh to stop talking is food. They share the meal in near silence, with only occasional questions from Ramuh to determine what to pass through the bars. Ifrit focuses on chewing and tries not to think about the keys in Ramuh’s pocket, just out of his reach.
By the time the cheese is gone and the jars near empty, Ifrit feels full and almost sleepy. Based on the pattern of their interactions so far, he expects that Ramuh will pack up and leave with some pointless comment.
“Nothing like a real meal after all that army shite,” Ramuh says, right on schedule, except instead of getting up, he pulls out his tobacco pouch and lights a cigarillo with a spark. He leans back against the bulkhead on his side of the bars and lets out the first mouthful with a sigh. “Nothing like a good smoke to cleanse the palate, either. Want to try?”
The smell is less nauseating this time, but the thought of replacing the taste of food with tobacco is deeply unpleasant. Ifrit shakes his head.
“Suit yourself.” The tip of his cigarillo glows. “Are rations in Sanbreque as shite as they are on our side? I’ve always wondered.”
Ifrit shrugs. He’s never wondered before. He imagines they’re more or less the same.
Ramuh hums. “Speaking of wondering. I know this fellow who swears up and down they eat aevis across the strait. Won’t shut up about how dragonets are a delicacy fit for a nobleman’s table. I’d swear he’s full of it, but the man’s so serious I can never tell. He pulling my leg, lad?”
Maybe it’s because he’s so tired, or maybe it’s because Ramuh’s leaned back, entirely focused on his cigarillo. Ifrit finds himself saying, “Not a delicacy.”
“No?” Ramuh’s eyes flick his way, but he soon returns his attention to his ashes. “I should’ve known he was pulling my leg. Man has a poker face good enough to cheat you right out of your britches.” He lifts his cigarillo then pauses halfway. “Hold on. You saying it like that makes it sound like people do eat them, though.”
Ifrit nods.
“Huh.” Ramuh finishes lifting his tobacco. “Have you had it? What’s it like?”
Ifrit breathes in and doesn’t let himself reconsider. He doesn’t want to feel so tense and strangled. It wasn’t helping anyway. He clears his throat. “Tough and bitter.”
Ramuh blows out more smoke and nods. “Sounds about right. You ever see one of the big ones up close? Outside of battle?”
Ifrit nods.
“They really tame?”
He considers. “Enough.”
Ramuh hums. “In Ash, every so often some daft sod gets it in his head to try and collar a behemoth. Never ends well.”
“A behemoth,” Ifrit repeats. The name niggles some memory, but it escapes him.
“Sure. Never seen one?” Ramuh asks. When Ifrit shakes his head, he gestures with his cigarillo and continues, “All right. Imagine a coeurl – you ever seen a coeurl? Not up close, I hope. It’s like that, except it’s twice as big and twice as bulky, and instead of whiskers it’s got horns as long as a man is tall all over. And not only does it fight with claw and fang, it can use magic to boot.”
Ifrit eyes him dubiously.
“It’s true,” Ramuh insists. “I’ve faced one myself. Had to semi-prime to take it down, and even then, it near squashed me flat in its death throes. How anyone thinks they can tame one is beyond me.”
He taps his ash off again and takes another mouthful of smoke. After he lets it out slowly, he says, “I often wonder the same thing about us. Dominants, I mean.”
The remains of their meal are still scattered about. The crystal lantern casts the outlines of jars and wrappers into strange figures, none of them as stark as the lines the bars draw upon the floor. Outside, the waves are rocking the boat gently along. Inside, the shadows don’t move.
“The way I see it,” Ramuh says, “the difference between a Dominant and a behemoth is choice. Strong as it is, a behemoth’s just an animal. The poor brutes are slaves to instinct. But even when every option’s shite, we’re still men.”
Ramuh smokes his cigarillo down to a nub in silence. The thick smell of tobacco is inescapable.
“Just something to think about, lad,” he says.
Notes:
I currently have three chapters fully written and will post as I have time to edit and upload. This fic is my attempt at getting back into writing as part of a community despite my chronic inability to finish things. Twelve years ago I swore I'd only start posting after fully finishing a story, and twelve years later I have posted... absolutely nothing! Some of my favorite fics are unfinished and will likely remain that way, so I figured even if I never do get to the end, someone out there might enjoy it anyway. I am currently working on my PhD, so I make no promises about update schedules.
Leave a comment if there was something in particular you enjoyed, or if you just want to talk about Final Fantasy XVI!
Chapter Text
The sky is overcast, but the light above deck is blinding. Ifrit squints and focuses on not stumbling. His legs feel weak as a foal’s. Every time he sways, one of the four soldiers escorting him grips his elbow with bruising strength.
Stonhyrr is both impressive and unremarkable. The city sits hunched in the distance like a crouched animal, open gate and portcullis a gaping, fanged maw. Everything is unrelentingly gray, from the planks on the docks to the stone of the keep to the sky up above. The only spot of color in the scene is the stormy purple of the Mothercrystal, which looms on the horizon like a thunderhead.
The docks themselves are bustling with people who speak in lilting Waloedi accents. Ifrit scans the crowd as his entourage of guards leads him along the deck, hunting for a weak spot. This is his moment, perhaps the last one he will have before he’s shut up behind unrelenting stone.
Ramuh stands at the foot of the gangplank. Ifrit’s heart thumps. The man is turned away and distracted, bent towards a teenaged girl with windswept blond hair and a mulish expression. He lifts a hand to touch her shoulder, and she leans away with a sharp motion.
Now, Ifrit thinks. Then the girl turns her head, and her eyes catch on his. His heart thumps again. She scowls and says something he can almost hear, and then Ramuh is turning around, and the moment evaporates.
The boards on the deck are weathered just as gray as the rest of Stonhyrr. The phantom smell of tobacco lingers in the back of Ifrit’s throat. The soldier to his right grabs his elbow again, and they come to a halt. Ifrit risks a look and sees that Ramuh has his hands on the girl’s shoulders now. This time she nods, then turns to look directly at Ifrit for another piercing instant before turning on her heel and storming away down the dock.
Ramuh’s watching him now. He gestures, and the soldiers herd Ifrit down the gangplank and off the ship. The dock is just as unsteady beneath him. Ifrit grits his teeth and focuses with all his might, determined not to fall.
“All right there, lad?” Ramuh asks cheerfully. He lifts one hand, pauses, then rests it on his sword hilt. “Got your sea legs, I see. You know how to ride?”
Ifrit doesn’t respond. He fixes his eyes on the left shoulder of Ramuh’s jacket, above where he knows Ramuh keeps his keys. In the clouded sunlight, he can see that the garment is not black but a deep, bluish purple.
The silence doesn’t seem to dampen Ramuh’s spirits. “Guess we’ll find out. Shall we?”
He extends an arm and bows slightly. The soldiers hustle Ifrit down the dock, and Ramuh falls in just a few steps behind, close enough that Ifrit can hear his bootsteps but out of sight. The back of his neck itches. He wonders whether he missed a spot of blood.
Another soldier waits at the end of the dock with a number of chocobos. Ifrit is led to one without reins that’s tied between two other birds. One brown eye watches Ifrit, probably wary of his smell, but the chocobo is too well trained to do anything but shuffle its wings briefly.
“Need a,” Ramuh begins to say, but Ifrit is already swinging himself easily into the saddle. His muscles remember this much, at least. “Guess not. Well done, then.”
One of the soldiers mounts the chocobo leading Ifrit’s. Ramuh takes one of the free birds and settles to Ifrit’s left, far too close.
Ramuh begins talking as the chocobos set out, but Ifrit ignores him. It’s been a long time since he’s ridden a chocobo. He focuses on staying in the saddle.
As they enter the city, Ramuh rides taller and gazes coolly out at the crowd. The streets brim with people, too tight and too close. Their progress is slow. Ifrit’s eyes catch on every dark alley, every untended corner. He needs to move. He can’t wait any longer. He has to.
He grips the saddlehorn, chafed wrists stinging with each step of the chocobo beneath him. Civilians watch them go by, faces curious and scowling and excited and confused and wary. Ramuh is at his left elbow, another soldier at his right. The bird beneath him follows the one before it placidly, unconcerned with its rider’s mood.
Ifrit’s knuckles are white by the time they leave the crowded streets behind and pass into the keep. The soldiers on guard salute, and they dismount. The portcullis begins to close behind them, each click of the winch deafening. He has to – He had to –
“This way, lad,” Ramuh says. His hand touches Ifrit’s elbow, and Ifrit has no choice but to step away from the chocobo and support his own weight. He doesn’t fall.
The walk is unremarkable. Stone walls. Long, winding corridors. Soldiers who salute to Ramuh as they pass.
Ifrit follows dizzily. He knows with clear certainty that he could prime right now were it not for the fetters, eikon to fight or no. He waits for the flames to take over, to blur everything into a haze of heat where Ifrit doesn’t have to feel anything but hunger.
He just feels cold.
They arrive at their destination, and it isn’t another cell. It’s a large set of doors with two men outside, who salute and push the heavy wood and metal apart and stand at attention. Ifrit watches from a distance as he’s ushered inside by Ramuh and Ramuh alone. The doors are pulled closed behind them.
Odin stands at the far end of the high-ceilinged hall. Ifrit has never seen his face, but he knows him instinctively. The Dominant of Darkness is not necessarily a large man. He has the broad shoulders of a swordsman, but he does not loom physically. It’s his presence that fills the hall, a distant, supreme confidence, clinging to every shadow in a way that has nothing to do with aether.
When Odin’s gaze falls on Ifrit, a powerful pressure begins to build in his chest. Pain bleeds into his muscles, his limbs, bringing with it the aching need to set his teeth against Odin’s throat and tear. It’s a moment of crystal clarity, one that stretches across a heartbeat and eternity.
Then Odin turns to look at Ramuh, and the haze of madness falls away. Odin steps forward, his black riding boots somehow almost soundless. “Cidolfus. I must admit that you have exceeded my expectations.”
“I’m a man of many talents, Your Majesty,” Ramuh says brightly. He places a hand over his heart and sketches a bow. “As requested, may I present to you the second Dominant of Fire, Ifrit.”
“Ifrit,” Odin repeats. His boots pass Ramuh and stop not a foot away. “It is an honor to meet you.”
Ifrit watches Odin’s hand rise and doesn’t resist when cool fingers touch his chin and lift. This close, Ifrit can see a scar that peeks out from the wide opening of Odin’s high collared shirt. So close to his heart. Ifrit never got that close.
The cool touch moves to his left cheek.
“I see that Sanbreque has failed to recognize your value.” Odin’s hand lingers. “Tell me, do you serve willingly at the feet of their so-called holy emperor?”
The silence stretches. Ifrit watches Odin’s pulse beat inches from his face.
Odin’s hand is warming against his skin. “Nothing to say? Or is it perhaps that you serve without purpose?”
Several heartbeats later, Ramuh clears his throat. “He doesn’t talk much, my king. Barely said more than a dozen words on the way over.”
“Is that so.” Odin’s hand shifts and brushes Ifrit’s hair away from his eyes. His fingers settle once more on his chin, tilting his face back up. “There is no need to fear reprisal here. You may speak freely.”
Ifrit takes a breath. Then he scrapes out the words, “What do you want?”
“I seek a better path for mankind.” Odin says the words simply, as though they are plain fact, a clear and achievable goal. “Here and now, I seek only to take your measure and see whether you will have the strength for what is to come.”
Ifrit doesn’t reply. There isn’t any point. What Odin wants is obvious, and Ifrit won’t give it to him.
Ramuh is watching the scene without saying anything, one hand resting on a sword, one tucked into his jacket. Odin glances his way, then finally, finally drops his hand. Ifrit watches it fall.
“I see that the path before you will be long and treacherous.” Odin steps away. “Very well. For now, know that you are a welcome guest here in Waloed… though full courtesy shall have to wait until you are sufficiently prepared.”
Ifrit feels a shiver of anticipation. He lets it pass through him and waits.
Odin nods to Ramuh, who steps forward. “See to it that he is secure but comfortable. We shall begin on the morrow.”
“Of course.” Ramuh gives another little bow, then takes careful hold of Ifrit’s elbow again. “Off we go, lad. Watch your step.”
Ifrit does not stumble. Nor does he pay any particular attention to the path they take. He’s peripherally aware of the guards falling in around them, of Ramuh stopping to speak with a pale-haired man partway through the journey, but it all seems pointless when Ramuh is right there and Odin is barely a hallway behind. He won’t get anywhere. He’s failed.
===
This time, Ramuh does lead him to a cell. The cellblock itself is empty and eerily quiet, making their destination obvious. There are already two fresh guards standing outside the door, who salute to Ramuh as they approach.
The cell itself is better appointed than the brig on the ship. There’s an actual bed, with a deep blue quilt that looks starkly out of place next to the dimly lit stone walls. The stand and pewter pitcher are of similarly good quality. A thick rug covers half of the stone floor, and the rest has been swept clean.
Ramuh opens the door himself, key turning with a heavy clunk. “Here we are then. Home sweet home – for now, anyway.”
Ifrit steps inside without prompting. He hopes that Ramuh will just leave, but the man doesn’t close the door immediately.
“I know this is difficult for you, lad,” Ramuh says. “I’d like to make it a mite easier, but I’ve the safety of my men to think about. You know that I’m here, and the king as well. You aren’t going to get anywhere, but I think you’re going to try anyway. Am I wrong?”
If Ifrit were smarter, he would look Ramuh in the eyes and tell him he’s wrong. He’s never been a good liar. He stares at the pattern of the rug, a geometric design worked in blue and brown.
Ramuh nods, as if this is what he was expecting. “Just the chain then. Come here, lad.”
Ifrit obeys, and Ramuh selects a small key from his ring. This is inserted into the second hole on the left fetter, and the ring holding the chain between them comes loose without the fetters themselves loosening at all. His wrists come apart once Ramuh has taken the chain away, but even after his arms fall to his sides he can feel them creeping closer together. It will take at least a few hours for the sensation to fade.
“There now.” Ramuh tucks the keyring back into his jacket. “Take some time to rest and think about things, eh, lad? I’ll see you on the morrow.”
Ifrit doesn’t move. Ramuh considers him for a long moment. Then he claps him on the shoulder and turns away.
The cell door closes with a heavy clank. Ifrit stands motionless until the swaying of the ground threatens to topple him. He looks briefly at the bed. His skin itches. He settles on the rug instead and leans against the wall, knees up and arms around his middle. His back aches. He closes his eyes and does not move for a long time.
===
Some time after Ifrit opens his eyes, a new contingent of soldiers arrives. Two wear the uniform common to the soldiers of the keep, but the third wears different finery in white and gray, with only a single pauldron and the blade at his hip to mark him as a warrior. There’s something familiar about him. It takes Ifrit too long to remember – this is the man Ramuh stopped to speak with the day before.
“Ah, I see you are alert and ready this morning,” the man says with a smile. His pale eyes are cool. “I am Sleipnir of House Harbard. My liege has bid you join him for his morning practice. I shall be your escort.”
Ifrit considers whether he should make them drag him. He’s already failed. Nothing he does now will change that. He stands up and follows obediently.
Sleipnir leads him up the stairs and through the corridors with two of the other soldiers trailing behind. Eventually, they emerge out into bright morning sunlight. Ifrit squints, but it isn’t difficult to recognize the location – a bailey.
Odin stands at the edge of the cleared dirt, examining a shortsword. Under a blue sky in the same dark ensemble as the day before, the man looks somehow out of place. When he looks up, Ifrit is briefly surprised to see that his eyes are actually blue as well.
“Sleipnir,” Odin says by way of greeting. His blue gaze settles on Ifrit. “And Ifrit. Come.”
Ifrit follows Odin to a rack of weapons, where Odin sheathes the shortsword and leans it in an empty slot. He stands aside and gestures carelessly towards the rack.
“Cidolfus informs me that you carried a sword.” Odin draws his own blade from his hip, a longsword that gleams brightly in the morning sun. “I would take your measure with the blade. I have found it to be a more honest judge of character than anything as impotent as words.”
Ifrit looks from Odin to the rack, then steps forward. Odin’s cool gaze doesn’t move.
It’s immediately clear that the weapons are all live steel, with not a single practice sword among them. There are perhaps a dozen blades, ranging from the shortsword Odin was examining to a greatsword almost as long as Ifrit is tall.
Ifrit feels a cool shiver run from the back of his neck along his spine and down to his fingertips. He had thought Ramuh was insane, but he sees now that Odin is the source of this madness. Sparring with a comrade with live steel is the height of foolishness. Handing your prisoner a blade is the depths of madness.
As if reading his thoughts, Odin says, “There is no need to hesitate. If you can strike me down, then you shall have earned it.”
There’s a gleam in his blue eyes, sharp and mocking and utterly mad.
Ifrit doesn’t care. A hot ember has kindled in his chest, something other than aether that nevertheless isn’t dissimilar to the feeling before a prime. It burns like hellfire, growing between his ribs until it feels like his breath should steam the air.
He wants to kill Odin.
He selects a bastard sword and tests its weight. It’s serviceable. Ifrit wonders briefly what happened to his own sword. It wasn’t a particularly good blade, but at least its heft was familiar. This thought is swept away as Odin moves to the center of the bailey, back turned carelessly towards Ifrit. The sight stokes the heat in his breast even hotter, and Ifrit strides forward.
Neither of them bother with anything as formal as a bow or salute. Ifrit catches Odin’s gaze, and he can see that Odin knows exactly what Ifrit wants to do. The thought makes his blood pulse under his skin, a chained beast stirring at the smell of battle.
With a sharp exhalation of air, Ifrit launches himself forward, blade swinging towards Odin’s neck. Odin moves smoothly away from the strike. When Ifrit tries to redirect his momentum into a thrust at Odin’s middle, Odin almost casually steps into his guard and slams the pommel of his longsword into Ifrit’s gut. The air leaves Ifrit’s lungs, and his legs are knocked out from underneath him. His skull cracks against the ground, and for a breathless instant he sees Odin’s shadow looming above him and knows that Odin is going to drive the point of his sword into his heart.
Odin steps back.
“Again,” he says.
Ifrit heaves himself up and does not pause. Odin lets him attempt three strikes this time, all easily sidestepped, then sends Ifrit’s blade into the dirt and presses his own against his throat. His expression is one of placid boredom.
“Again.”
Ifrit retrieves the sword and fights again.
Fighting is all he has ever been able to do. It’s the one pathetic thing he has ever been good for, the only value he has left. In the face of Odin’s honed blade, he might as well be a rusty kitchen knife. He draws on everything he has ever learned, every lesson too painful to recall, and fights with all the skill he can muster.
It isn’t enough. With each exchange, he grows clumsier and more worthless. Over and over Odin knocks him down, strikes his blade from his hands, lands blows on his limbs, back, abdomen, always with the flat of his blade or pommel, each strike a reminder of how pointless Ifrit is. There isn’t anything he can do now to change that. Ifrit moves anyway, gets up, fights, again and again, until at last he bends to retrieve his blade and finds the dirt rushing up to meet him.
He comes to when a wave of frigid water hits him square in the face. His muscles jolt, trying to ready for a fight and failing to lift him past his elbows. He calls for fire, and – grasps nothing but cold.
“It’s a start,” Sleipnir says cheerfully. Odin scoffs, and Sleipnir looks down at Ifrit with a half-smile before tossing the bucket casually aside. “I meant, of course, his hair.”
Ifrit struggles to his feet, ready to lunge, but the blade he was using is nowhere to be seen.
Odin is examining his longsword, turning it in the light to look for knicks or scratches. “Fighting as an eikon may give the impression that battles can be won through raw force alone, but such strength is an illusion. It has left you clumsy, reckless, and unrefined. Such a shame that the work of whoever trained you has been wasted.”
Water drips down Ifrit’s neck and leaves cold trails on his back. Damp strands cling to his brow and cheeks, a maddening itch that makes his whole body tremble.
Odin sighs and sheathes his blade. He turns and begins to walk away without a glance back. “Sleipnir. Handle it.”
Sleipnir places a hand over his heart and bows, even though there is no way Odin can see him. “As you command, my king.”
===
“You know, lad, I didn’t have my men bring that bed down here for fun,” Ramuh says some time later.
Ifrit doesn’t move.
After a while, Ramuh says, “He been like that long?”
“Since Lord Harbard returned him this morning, sir.”
“Figures.” There’s the metal clank of the door being opened, then the sound of Ramuh’s boots. The boots stop in front of Ifrit. “I see his majesty gave you the full workout.”
Ramuh kneels down. Ifrit watches his knees and doesn’t look at his face. Ramuh’s warm hand touches his neck. “Bollocks, you’re freezing. All right, lad, come on. Up you get.”
Every part of Ifrit hurts. He lets Ramuh pull him up and stands where the man puts him. Ramuh plucks at the collar of his shirt and brushes the hair out of his eyes. Ifrit watches the way his jacket shifts as he moves.
“Right.” Ramuh nods. “Change of plans. Follow me.”
Ramuh takes him by the arm and begins to walk. Ifrit follows. The two guards also move to follow, but Ramuh waves them off.
The halls are quiet. There are moments when Ifrit is totally alone with Ramuh. The hand on his arm doesn’t shift. Ifrit is too useless to do anything about it.
Eventually, Ramuh leads Ifrit through a door into a room where a man in the livery of the castle servants stands next to a wall of cabinets.
“Lord Telamon.” The man bows. “How may I serve you today?”
“I need one of the private chambers,” Ramuh starts to say.
Ifrit decides he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes. Ramuh’s hand is still on his upper arm, not tight but still painful. He focuses on the point of pain until, suddenly, it shifts and lands on his shoulder.
“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” Ramuh warns. Ifrit opens his eyes. “Here, hold this, there’s a good lad.”
He thrusts a basket into Ifrit’s hands. Ifrit’s fingers close automatically around the rough straw handle. The contents clink as Ramuh leads him along behind the servant. The air is humid. When the servant stops at a door and bows them inside, Ifrit understands why.
The room isn’t large. The gently steaming wooden tub takes up most of the space. There’s a wooden bench along one wall with a basket underneath and a grate in the corner. The servant places two folded towels on the bench, then bows and leaves.
“Figured I’d spare you the communal area.” Ramuh sits on the bench and leans back, crossing his arms. “Afraid I can’t leave you alone in here, sorry to say. Don’t mind me. I’ll stay right over here.”
Ifrit breathes in the warm, humid air. He sets the basket down on the wooden shelf next to the tub. The jars are soaps, he realizes. Each one is labelled with writing in a different colored paint. He opens one carefully and is met with a clean, herbal smell.
Ramuh’s gaze is turned towards the ceiling with feigned nonchalance. “Forgot to ask, lad. Can you read?”
Ifrit’s fingers tighten painfully on the jar. For a moment, the smell of the herbal soap blends into something heavier that stings the back of his throat.
Ramuh doesn’t move, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Finally, Ifrit says, “Yes.”
“Glad to hear it.” Ramuh leans forward and fishes the basket out from under the bench. He kicks it towards Ifrit before leaning back again. “Almost forgot. Toss your clothes in there, will you? Seb’s going to bring something clean, but we can get those laundered. Or burn them, if you prefer.”
Ifrit touches the cuff of his shirt where it sits tied above the fetters. Then, without further consideration, he kicks off his boots and begins to strip. He drops the shirt in the basket last. The black fabric sits stiffly. Were it any other color, it would likely be beyond salvage. Ifrit doesn’t care either way. Ramuh will decide to do with it as he likes, just like Ifrit himself.
He enters the tub with his back to Ramuh. The water is shockingly hot, considering the tub is large enough that he barely has to pull up his knees, and stings the chafed edges of his wrists. He wonders briefly whether they had Bearers fill it. He stops wondering and dunks his head. The heat sinks into his body, and for a moment he feels almost-but-not-quite right. Then he emerges, and the sensation of dripping water on his skin makes him shiver again.
Ifrit starts with his hair. The spot on the crown of his head is still tender. He scrubs with merciless, single-minded intensity, fingers catching and pulling with sharp bursts of pain. When he pulls his hands away, the suds are a rusty reddish color. He dips them into the water and keeps scrubbing.
The water is already dark by the time he moves on. The washcloth doesn’t last much longer than the water. Ifrit was on the front for a long time. His clean skin is paler than he remembers, though it’s already darkening in blotches where it was graced with the flat of Odin’s blade and the merciless ground. The uneven patches of skin on his forearms and wrists where the fetters lie are dark in comparison.
Someone knocks on the door. Ramuh rises with a grunt to answer it. Ifrit focuses on the sole of his foot long past when the door closes again.
The water has gone lukewarm by the time he stands. He steps out of the tub carefully. The stone floor feels colder now that he remembers what it is to be warm.
Ramuh is back on the bench with a pile of clothing in his lap. He glances briefly at Ifrit, then away. After Ifrit has thoroughly ruined one of the towels, Ramuh hands him the pile of clothing without one of his usual comments.
The clothes themselves are all a little too big and clearly once belonged to someone else, but they’re clean and soft against his skin. First is a dove-gray linen shirt with ties at the cuffs and collar. Ifrit secures the cuffs above the fetters but leaves the collar loose. The shirt is followed by woolen breeches of a darker gray and thick socks which stick uncomfortably to his damp feet. Last is a sleeveless doublet in a brown-toned black, and then his own boots, whose dark leather has been wiped clean.
“Not bad,” Ramuh says. He’s been silent for long enough that the sound of his deep voice startles Ifrit. He stands and gestures to the bench. “Sit down for a moment.”
Ifrit obeys. Ramuh digs in the basket and emerges with a comb and a bottle of oil. He wraps the clean towel around Ifrit’s shoulders and says, “You’ve got some tangles in the back. Lean forward a smidge – good lad.”
Ifrit braces his elbows on his knees and stares at the loose tangle of his fingers. Something cool touches his scalp, and an earthy, almost fruity smell fills the room. Ramuh’s fingers are just as careful on his head now as they were on the ship. He starts at the nape of Ifrit’s neck and works slowly upwards. Now and then there’s a sharp tug, but mostly Ifrit just feels motion and the warmth of Ramuh’s hands.
He’s absorbed enough in the sensation that Ramuh’s voice startles him again. “You know, the first time I sparred with Barnabas, I really thought he was going to kill me.”
The comb makes quiet snapping sounds as it begins to unwork a particularly thick knot. Ifrit laces his fingers more tightly together.
“I was around your age. A little older, I reckon,” Ramuh continues. “It was barely two months after Ramuh first awakened, but I was already a cocky little shite. Barnabas didn’t waste any time beating it right out of me and into the dirt. When he was done, I could barely stand, and he looked so damn cold, I thought he was going to just put me down for good.”
The motion of the comb pauses, and a little more of the cool oil tickles on his scalp before it resumes.
“He didn’t, obviously.” Ramuh laughs quietly. “I almost wished he would. He gave me a whole lecture about strength and recklessness, and damn if he wasn’t right. I wanted Ramuh to strike me down on the spot. I don’t suppose he gave you the same speech?”
Ramuh’s hands still. Ifrit dips his chin a centimeter.
Ramuh laughs again and resumes combing. “He can be a self-righteous arsehole, but he’s right. Most of us Dominants go through a phase where we think we’re invincible. I’m sure Barnabas did too, but the lucky bastard got over it before either of us were born.”
Ramuh’s fingers run through the now smooth section of hair. The comb moves to the next tangle.
“What I’m trying to say is that he’s a cold man, not a cruel one. If he went as hard on you as it seems he did, it was because he was trying to teach you something, and if he was trying to teach you something, it’s because he thinks you’re worth something. He wouldn’t take the time otherwise. His methods might leave a lot to be desired, but the lesson’s an important one. Best that you don’t forget it.”
Ifrit’s fingers ache. He’s seized by a sudden vision of himself, older, standing where Ramuh is, hands tangled in thin strands of hair like copper wires, and the emotion it elicits expands in his chest until his lungs are crushed against his ribs.
Ramuh continues his work for a long time. Even after the comb stops catching on knots and tangles, he slowly and methodically pulls it through Ifrit’s hair, top to bottom, top to bottom. Inch by inch, Ifrit’s breath is released from the vice grip of his ribs. His fingers begin to tremble.
Eventually, Ramuh stops. He rubs the towel over Ifrit’s hair, then sets it aside. “There. That should do it.”
Ifrit keeps his head lowered. He can see the thin lines of his hair, slightly curved and tapered into fine points. His scalp tingles. He lets out a long, slow breath.
Ramuh’s hand falls on his shoulder, disproportionately heavy. “Shall we, lad?”
Ifrit doesn’t know what that means. The space between his ribs is hollowed out and empty. He nods. Then he stands on aching legs and lets Ramuh lead him out of the room.
Notes:
I recently learned about myself that I can't write outlines - it tricks my brain into thinking I've already written the story, and then I lose all motivation. I've been going at this one with just a mental roadmap of an ending and some important beats I want to hit, so I've been enjoying making a lot of discoveries along the way. The last scene of this chapter was one of them. I asked myself, "Hey, doesn't Clive still have blood in his hair?" and it went very quickly from there. It also ended up including my favorite line of this story so far, so I think this method's working. Here's to enjoying the journey! Drop a comment if there was anything you also enjoyed.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and left kudos!! I'm so happy to see that people are enjoying this. I've been rubbing my hands together and giggling like a schoolgirl because some of your comments hit on exactly the things I'm trying to get across. Hope you all continue to enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ramuh takes Ifrit far across the keep and up several staircases. Their destination is a heavy wooden door which Ramuh opens with a key off his ring. He pulls Ifrit in after him, then shuts the door, leaving them in darkness. A moment later, he calls lightning to his hand, revealing a wide space full of strange shadows that smells of old tobacco.
“Forgot to uncover the damn lamps,” Ramuh mutters. He strides over to a set of doors on the left side of the room and throws them open. The space is filled with warm afternoon sunlight.
Half the room is taken up by a large wooden desk and several imposing bookshelves. There’s a stand for a stolas between the desk and the small balcony. The other half of the room is a sitting area with furniture of dark wood arranged over a deep green rug. A door on the far wall is half open, the space beyond cast in deep shadow.
“Welcome to my solar,” Ramuh says. “Don’t mind the mess. Go on, have a seat over there.”
He jerks his chin at a plush couch in the sitting area. Ifrit drifts towards it and sits. The space is full of too many things to look at. He settles his gaze on the low table before him.
Ramuh moves around the desk, shuffling papers and muttering to himself. There are papers on the table as well, arcane drawings with cramped writing scrawled in the margins. Ifrit doesn’t bother trying to make sense of them. His body is heavy, but the inside of his head feels very light.
He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until the door opens. Before the sound fully registers, he’s on his feet, nearly unbalancing, hand closing on air. The light has changed. Ramuh is at the doorway, and behind him is the girl from the docks.
“Easy there, lad. Sit back down, will you?” His voice has an edge to it that Ifrit can’t identify.
Ifrit obeys quickly. He can feel his pulse against the edges of the fetters. His fingers tremble. He threads them together and looks back at the papers on the table, except the papers are gone. He squeezes his hands more tightly.
“Cid?” The girl’s voice is quiet. It drums into Ifrit’s ears. “Should I come back later?”
After a long moment, Cid says, “Nah. Come on in, Benna.”
The door closes again. Footsteps. Eventually, the girl says, “Well? Are you going to introduce us?”
Her words are demanding, but her tone is uneasy. Ifrit risks raising his head. The girl is standing with her arms crossed, shoulders stiff. She glances between Ifrit and Ramuh, who is looking right at him, face devoid of any expression.
Then he chuckles, one hand coming up to rest on the girl’s shoulder. Ifrit doesn’t miss the way she tenses and then relaxes. “My apologies for shirking my duties, lass. Benna, this is Ifrit, the mysterious second Dominant of Fire. Ifrit, may I introduce to you my ward, Benedikta Harman.”
“Hello,” Benedikta says. She uncrosses her arms and bows, motion somewhat clumsy. She’s wearing dark breeches and a plain white shirt buttoned up to her neck, with her hair tied back in a short ponytail. A few blond strands have escaped and fall into her face when she lowers her head. She brushes them quickly away and stands taller. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ifrit sits stiffly, looking between her and Ramuh. The man is still watching him, smile on his lips belied by his sharp eyes. After a moment of hesitation, Ifrit slowly stands and gives a rusty bow. “My lady.”
Benedikta’s face breaks into a smile. “Cid didn’t say you were charming.”
“The lad’s full of surprises.” Ramuh’s expression is too intense. Ifrit’s gaze skitters away, and he sits back down, hands carefully visible on his knees. “I suppose I lost track of time. What say I call for supper now?”
“I already did.” Benedikta sits down on the chair on the far side of the couch to Ifrit. “Sara said she’d bring it up soon.”
Ramuh sighs. “Benna…”
“I was waiting for you to come get me, but you didn’t,” Benedikta continues. She’s sitting very straight. “So I thought it would be better if I told her before I came over, because you said this morning that we’d eat here.”
“I did, didn’t I,” Ramuh mutters. He hooks a thumb into his belt, then almost immediately removes it and moves to sit down next to Ifrit on the couch, across from Benedikta. “Right. How was your day?”
For some reason, Benedikta looks at Ifrit before answering. He only half-listens to her talk about her lessons. His palms are damp where they’re pressed against his knees. His wrists itch. He doesn’t understand why he’s here. What does Ramuh want?
He’s lost the thread of the conversation when Benedikta suddenly addresses him. “You’re from Storm, right?”
Ifrit glances at Ramuh, but the coldness from before is fully hidden. He nods.
“What’s it like?”
Her curiosity seems real. Ifrit considers her question honestly, but he doesn’t know where to begin. Finally, he asks, “Which part?”
“Oh.” She hesitates. “Wherever you’re from?”
He doesn’t know how to begin there, either.
“How about Oriflamme?” Ramuh suggests. “Ever been there?”
Ifrit nods. But here, too, he stumbles. Finally, he comes up with, “The Mothercrystal is beautiful.”
“Sanbreque has Drake’s Head,” Benedikta says, not quite a question. She glances at Ramuh, who nods. “What does it look like?”
“It’s white.” She’s still watching him expectantly. “And it rises up on one side. Like a wave.”
Even with this paltry explanation, Benedikta seems enthused. “Then it’s totally different than Drake’s Spine. Did you see it, when you came into the city?” Ifrit nods. “Which is bigger, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he says eventually. She seems to wilt a little. “It’s closer. Drake’s Head.”
She perks up again. “To the city?”
He nods.
“It must be very bright at night.”
“Yes.”
“What about the city?” Benedikta almost demands. She’s leaning forward a bit. “Is it as big as Stonhyrr?”
Ifrit hesitates again. This time, Ramuh steps in. “I reckon the lad hasn’t seen enough of the city to say.”
“Oh.” Benedikta’s eyes flicker from his wrists to his face and back again. She sits up a bit straighter and clasps her hands together. “Well, we’ll just have to go out sometime, and then you can tell me.”
Her heart-shaped face is open and earnest. He’s saved from having to puzzle out her intentions when there is a knock on the door and Benedikta rises to answer it.
Ramuh is watching him. Ifrit doesn’t look at him directly, but he can feel it. He doesn’t look at Benedikta, either, when she returns with a tray. He just sits and looks at his hands. At his freshly pale skin, and the place where it begins to turn dark and uneven at the edge of the fetters. It’s still wet beneath the metal. It itches.
He doesn’t understand.
He continues to not understand as Benedikta uncovers the tray and reveals an array of food. There’s bread, freshly sliced and so dark it’s almost black, and a dish of soft cheese, and other dishes of stewed vegetables that fill the room with a fragrant aroma. Ifrit’s stomach clenches. He hasn’t eaten since before Sleipnir came for him.
But Ifrit isn’t looking at the tray. He’s looking at his hands.
Then Ramuh puts a plate with bread and cheese and vegetables in his hands, and he’s looking at that.
He doesn’t understand, but he didn’t understand on the ship, either, and he moved past it then. There’s no reason he can’t move past it now. So he eats the things Ramuh puts on his plate, and he listens to the cadence of Ramuh’s conversation with Benedikta – with his ward, who he has put in the same room as Ifrit, who is bright and bold and frightened by turns. Ifrit doesn’t think about any of these things, though. He doesn’t. He eats the food he’s given and doesn’t speak.
Eventually, the food is gone. Eventually, Benedikta leaves. Eventually, Ramuh guides him up by his elbow, speaking in his low, deep voice. Eventually, Ramuh takes him back to the cell.
The cell makes sense. Except it doesn’t, when he looks at it too long. Ramuh leads him right up to the bed and pulls back the quilt. Ifrit closes his eyes and doesn’t move. Ramuh’s hand is between his shoulderblades, warm and heavy. He’s saying something. Ifrit doesn’t respond.
Eventually, Ramuh leaves.
===
Ifrit stands in silence for a long time after Ramuh leaves. When he opens his eyes again, the cell is still full of too many things to look at. He sits up against the washstand, with his back to everything and the stone wall in front of him, and that makes sense. Finally, that makes sense.
He sits there and watches the stone. Then he closes his eyes. When he opens them, nothing has changed. Nothing has changed because nothing will change down here. The cell block is lit by fading crystals. The sun can’t go down and turn everything golden when he isn’t looking. The only things that might change are the guards, and Ifrit doesn’t look at their faces.
His eyes are closed again when new footsteps come down the hall, too many to be the guard change. It takes a lot of effort to force himself to look. It isn’t Ramuh, though. It’s Sleipnir.
Sleipnir sweeps his pale eyes over the cell before settling on Ifrit. He smiles. “I see that Ramuh is making his best effort. I must admit that his bullheadedness is charming… On this occasion, at least.”
Ifrit waits. The man will have to state his intentions eventually.
Sure enough, after just a brief moment Sleipnir says, “Come. We have work to do.”
Every part of Ifrit is sore. He forces his stiff muscles to cooperate and stands. He doesn’t stumble.
Sleipnir takes him to the same bailey as the day before. Odin is nowhere to be seen. The sky is overcast once again, with just a few patches of pale blue peeking through the ashen clouds. Sleipnir gestures to the guards, and they take a post at either side of the entrance.
“My liege has ordered that your skills be polished to something more worthy of the name,” Sleipnir says with a half-smile.
Ifrit considers just lying down right there in the dirt. If he can’t get away, and if Odin wants to wield him, then he should do everything in his power to remain dull and useless.
He’s too stubborn. He’s been beaten by Ramuh and Odin every time they’ve fought. He’s still cold down to his core, the fetters a familiar weight again. But even if he can’t get away, even if he knows deep down it’s pointless, he can’t give up. Not yet.
Ifrit remains standing and waits for Sleipnir’s command.
“Let’s start with the basics, shall we?” Sleipnir says. “Show me how you would begin a training session.”
Ifrit casts his gaze about the bailey. The weapons rack is stocked with training swords now, several of which appear to be the right length. He moves towards it.
“Stop.” Sleipnir’s voice is almost lazy. Ifrit stops. “This is training, not a battle. My liege has already taken your measure. We will begin by warming the muscles so that you don’t damage yourself further. Surely you know how to do as much?”
Ifrit hesitates, then feels stupid for hesitating. Then he feels rather like punching Sleipnir’s smirking face.
“How interesting,” Sleipnir says, and the feeling increases. “Follow my lead, then.”
This statement is apparently entirely literal. Sleipnir begins by leading Ifrit in a light jog around the edge of the bailey, gradually increasing the pace to a brisk trot. Neither of them are breathless when they stop, but Sleipnir somehow seems completely cool, even though Ifrit’s blood has warmed from the movement. After that comes a series of stretches, the pull on his muscles not unfamiliar. The stiffness from the day before fades. The soreness remains.
Ifrit focuses very hard on the movement. Sweat gathers underneath the fetters, making his arms itch. His body has warmed as much as it can despite the unnatural lack of aether, but something cold and tender burns in the pit of his stomach.
That feeling expands when Sleipnir hands him a training sword and says, “Sufficient. Now, show me what forms you were taught.”
Ifrit’s grip on the weapon is too tight. He loosens it, and even that sends a shiver through him. The practice weapon is similar to the blade he chose the day before, of a size and weight to mimic a hand-and-a-half sword. He settles into a stance. He corrects himself. He holds the position for a moment, and something in his chest tightens. He remembers. His heart beats painfully. Finally, he begins to move.
He goes slowly. Each stretch of muscle reminds him of the sting of Odin’s victory. His throat clenches, and it takes several motions for him to remember how he should be breathing. He focuses on that – on his breath, and on his movement. And he moves.
When he stops, Sleipnir’s pale eyes are so intent that Ifrit wonders whether the man has blinked at all. “Fascinating. One more time, if you would.”
Ifrit obeys. The movement isn’t smoother, exactly, but it’s changed. It doesn’t hurt quite so deeply. He lets himself move more quickly, even though the speed makes each moment of hesitation feel even more jarring.
Sleipnir hums when he’s finished, the sound melodious and grating. Ifrit’s back is soaked with cold sweat that has very little do with exertion. It takes effort to keep his hands steady as Sleipnir picks up a training sword of his own.
“A combat form practiced on its own is worth only what it teaches the muscles.” Sleipnir tilts his head and smiles. “And as I am sure you’ve learned by now, muscle alone is worth very little. Shall we put the lesson into practice?”
Sleipnir twirls the training sword, a fancy, useless motion that shows his complete control of the blade, and Ifrit’s control frays further. He holds his body stiff and still, not trusting himself to not lunge.
“Relax,” Sleipnir says. The word draws the muscles in Ifrit’s shoulders tighter. Sleipnir’s ever present smile doesn’t twitch. “Relax, or there is no point in continuing.”
Ifrit doesn’t want to continue. Except that isn’t true. Is it? He feels dizzy. He forces his shoulders to lower and eases his grip. He breathes, stretching the hollow in his chest. He settles into a stance.
Sleipnir mirrors the position. “Good. Let us begin.”
Ifrit’s sword trembles from the force of remaining calm. He forces it to still. Then he moves.
The first strike is too slow to even be a real attempt at combat. Sleipnir parries easily and returns with an equally slow swing. They settle into a pattern, following the path of the form, moving back and forth across the bailey, slowly, slowly. It should settle Ifrit’s racing heart. It doesn’t. Each time Sleipnir blocks, stikes, deflects, and lunges, Ifrit finds himself moving just a little faster and striking just a little harder.
It isn’t like fighting Odin. There isn’t the same desperate desire to see Sleipnir’s blood on the ground. But his heart is still pounding wildly, a distracting pulse in his throat and temples. It makes him sloppy. He lunges too eagerly, and the training blade goes flying. The wood of Sleipnir’s weapon is cool on his clavicle.
Ifrit freezes, waiting for Sleipnir to tell him to start again.
“No,” Sleipnir says. “Watch.”
He steps back and mimics Ifrit’s form. Then he moves, slowly. “Keep your feet this distance apart. If you need to move further, then both feet must step forward.”
Ifrit watches. His chest hurts. He knows this. He picks up the training sword and adjusts, and adjusts, and adjusts. His thighs ache.
“Good. From the beginning again.”
The cycle repeats. They move. Sleipnir spots a mistake and uses it, then shows Ifrit all the ways in which he’s failed. Ifrit focuses intently on the motion, his breathing, the sweat trickling down his back. He tries to hear Sleipnir’s voice. He holds the training sword steady. He doesn’t think about anything else.
Eventually, Sleipnir calls a halt.
“Enjoying the show?” he calls to the edge of the bailey. The comment isn’t directed at either of the two guards – it’s directed at Ramuh.
Ifrit twitches, hand spasming on the blade’s hilt. He doesn’t know when the man arrived. By Sleipnir’s comment, it was some time ago. The ground feels suddenly unsteady.
Ramuh isn’t looking at him, though. He’s looking at Sleipnir as he leans against the fence bordering the practice area. “Well enough. I knew I had to come take a peek when his majesty told me the great Sleipnir would be helping the lad get back in the saddle.”
Sleipnir tilts his head and gives Ramuh a cool look. “You’ve used that one before, Cidolfus. Don’t tell me your wit is finally running dry?”
“Parched,” Ramuh drawls. “Which is how the lad’s looking, as a matter of fact. Have you been riding him all morning?”
Sleipnir huffs a breath. “And now I see that your wit has evaporated entirely.”
Ramuh grins brightly. “Got you to laugh, though, didn’t I?” He hops the fence with casual grace and saunters right over to them, rolling out his shoulders one at a time. “What say you let me have a go at it?”
“By all means.” Sleipnir flips the training sword and catches it by the wooden blade, offering Ramuh the hilt.
Ifrit holds still as Ramuh approaches. The sweat on his back and in his hair is icy cold.
Ramuh stops next to Ifrit and claps him on the shoulder. “Hand me that, would you, lad? Water bucket’s over there. Just leave some for the rest of us.”
He prizes the training sword from Ifrit’s stiff fingers and gives him a light shove towards the fence. Ifrit stumbles but doesn’t hesitate to move away.
“Oh?” Sleipnir’s smile has changed somehow. Ifrit backs all the way up to the fence without turning around. Sleipnir, meanwhile, flips the training sword again, hilt landing solidly in his palm. “Eager for a beating, are we?”
Ramuh barks a laugh. “You wish. Sword might be a bit bigger than I’m used to, but it won’t be that easy for you to get me on my back.”
“Will it not?” Sleipnir twirls his sword again, still smiling that strange smile. Then he warns, “No aether, Cidolfus.”
“As my lord commands,” Ramuh drawls. He gives a flourishing bow which Sleipnir mirrors, and they each settle into a fighting stance.
Ifrit watches carefully as the two men begin to circle. Then he glances at the guards, who have not moved from their posts. One of them almost catches his eye. He turns and ducks under the fence to find the bucket. His hands tremble on the ladle, and he ends up dropping it when the sound of wood clacking together rings out.
Ifrit gives up on his thirst and sits in the dirt to watch the spar. He’s never seen Ramuh fight in this form. It’s valuable information.
Ramuh is quicker on his feet than he looks in this form, too. It takes him a few exchanges to adjust to the size and shape of the training weapon – it’s larger than either of the blades at his hips, able to be wielded with both hands. Even so, he still manages to avoid all of Sleipnir’s strikes. Once he settles into wielding his weapon two-handed, the fight picks up speed.
Sleipnir matches the new pace with ease. The clouds make it difficult to tell the time, but Ifrit thinks it must be approaching noon or just past it. Sleipnir still seems as fresh as when they began in the early morning. It doesn’t even look like he’s sweating.
Ramuh scores the first touch. Sleipnir soon follows with one of his own. Three more exchanges follow in which neither claim victory, until finally, Sleipnir does something that sends Ramuh’s weapon to the dirt and ends with Ramuh’s wrist in a lock behind him.
“Yield,” Ramuh says immediately, rising up on his toes to relieve the pressure. Sleipnir loosens his hold and murmurs something Ifrit cannot quite catch. Ramuh laughs loudly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Next time we use aether, I’m putting you in the dirt.”
Sleipnir steps away with another little twirl of his sword. “I doubt that would be the advantage you anticipate.”
“Maybe not,” Ramuh admits with a grin. He goes to rack the training sword and turns to look at Ifrit. “Don’t just sit there, lad. You’ll turn to a damn rock.”
Ifrit’s heart tries to kick up again, but the jolt doesn’t last long. He struggles to his feet. His limbs are stiff and heavy. The inside of his head feels dull and cottony.
Sleipnir watches him coolly. “Shall I leave him to you, then?”
“Might as well.” Ramuh stretches out his arm with a grunt. “I’ll take the reins from here.”
“Next time, I am breaking your wrist,” Sleipnir says, smiling calmly. “In the morrow, then, Ifrit.”
Ifrit doesn’t watch him leave. He leans on the fence, trying not to show how unsteady his legs are beneath him.
Ramuh, of course, notices anyway. “Come on then. Have a drink, and we’ll take a little walk.”
Ifrit obeys. The ladle still shakes in his hold, but he manages to get some in his mouth. The coolness on his throat conversely makes him more aware of how thirsty he is. His stomach clenches unpleasantly, and for a moment he thinks he might vomit. The feeling passes. He drinks another ladleful. His hands are steadier. His legs still wobble when he steps away.
Ramuh takes up the ladle himself and drains the whole thing in one gulp, then lets out a gusty sigh. “All right. Shall we?”
Ifrit doesn’t understand why Ramuh keeps asking that. He doesn’t object when Ramuh takes him by the arm and walks away.
===
The feeling of following Ramuh through stone halls and pathways is almost familiar now. Ifrit’s legs grow steadier as they walk. By the time he can smell cooking food, the tremors are fine enough not to make him stumble. He tries to focus on keeping his muscles still and nothing else, but his concentration has been used up. His mind settles to a dull buzz, thoughts rising up and sinking beneath the surface before he can really register their shape. The back of his throat is still sore.
They stop outside of the kitchens. The space is loud and full of motion and strong smells. Ifrit stands just behind Ramuh, moving when he moves and stopping when he stops, gaze fixed on the back of his dark violet jacket. At some point, a bundle of stiff cloth is placed in his hands, and his arms begin to tremble too. He forces them to still and follows Ramuh.
“Here,” Ramuh says at last. They stop at a large courtyard filled with rows of herbs and vegetables. Two women are working among the rows. One of them is a Bearer – the first Ifrit has seen in the keep. She wears clothing in the same colors as the rest of the servants, patched at the elbows and fraying at the hems. Water drips from her glowing hands and darkens the soil. As her head lifts, Ifrit looks away.
Ramuh leads them to a secluded area beneath a cluster of apple trees. The fruits hang in bright red and yellow clusters, almost ready for harvest. Ramuh sets down his basket, takes the cloth from Ifrit, and spreads it out on the ground. He throws himself down with a gusty sigh.
“Getting my arse handed to me always works up an appetite,” he says. He pats the cloth. “Come on, lad, sit down. I’m getting tired just looking at you.”
Ifrit lowers himself to the ground. His legs give out on the way down, and he sits with a thump that reverberates up his aching spine.
“Ouch. Felt that one.” Ramuh drags the basket over and starts digging through it. “You’ll want to stretch when you get up. Sleipnir’s not exactly good at remembering human limits. Did he run you that hard all morning?”
Ifrit shrugs.
Ramuh makes a face. “I’ll talk to him. Here. Best drink some more for now.”
He pulls a bottle of reddish liquid from the basket and two wooden cups. The first is passed to Ifrit. Ramuh doesn’t hesitate to take a swig from the second, and Ifrit follows suit. It’s grape juice. Thirsty as he is, it’s almost too sweet. He drinks it slowly as Ramuh pulls more items from the basket – bread, cheese, dried sausage, apples – and begins to cut and distribute it all across two plates.
It’s peaceful. The gardens are quiet and smell of damp earth and growing things. The juice is sweet on his tongue. Even Ramuh has fallen silent, focused on his task.
Ifrit’s throat tightens. He lowers his cup, unable to imagine swallowing again. He stares at the weave of the cloth for several long heartbeats. Finally, he manages, “What do you want?”
“Huh?” Ramuh moves in the corner of his vision. “What was that, lad?”
Ifrit’s throat is too tight to speak. He puts the cup down.
Ramuh leans towards him. “Something wrong?”
Ifrit’s back is still soaked with sweat. His shirt is cold against his skin. He grips his knees and leaves damp spots there too. He swallows and manages again, “What do you want?”
“Ah.” Ramuh leans back again. “Well, I was hoping to enjoy a peaceful meal outside before getting back to work. But I imagine that’s not what you’re asking, is it?”
Ifrit doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know what will come out if he does. He grips his knees tighter, until his knuckles turn white.
Ramuh sighs and sets his knife aside. “Lad. What do you think I want?”
A wave of dizziness sweeps over him. His fingers ache. His lungs feel too small for all of the breath inside him. Ifrit breathes anyway. It’s not enough. He says, “I won’t serve Odin.”
Ramuh is quiet. Ifrit’s heart beats out the interminable moments, fluttering helplessly against the pressure of his aching lungs. He waits.
“I admire your loyalty,” Ramuh says. “Can’t say I understand it, but it’s admirable.”
Of course he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know anything about Ifrit. Nothing about him makes sense.
Ramuh lets out a short burst of air. “Can’t say that Barnabas isn’t thinking about it, either, or that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. But the way I see it, you shouldn’t be on a battlefield at all.”
Ifrit’s breath stutters.
“So for now, if you need an explanation, that’s as good as any. If you’re here, you’re not fighting my men. That’s all I want from you. All right?”
No.
The inside of Ifrit’s head is perfectly empty. He stares at his fingers. A long chime rings out, high-pitched and unending.
He doesn’t move. There isn’t any point.
He waits.
The wooden cup touches his fingers. “Drink something, lad.”
His fingers twitch. Then they unclench and grip the cup. The wood is smooth. His hand lifts the cup to his mouth. The rim touches his lips. The cup tilts. Cool liquid pours over his tongue.
It’s sweet. Too sweet.
He drinks it all.
Notes:
And thus ends what I had fully written! The good news for all of you is that chapter 4 is fully planned and half-written. The bad news is that spring break is over and I have a mountain of grading to get through, so it might still take a little while. (Or I might, uh, write 3k in a day to avoid my responsibilities. These are both possibilities.)
Leave a comment if there's anything you're particularly enjoying or intrigued by! You can also find me on tumblr under the same name if you want to chat. I mostly reblog memes, but I do occasionally also speculate about games and gush/complain about writing.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Thank you again to everyone who's been reading! If you want to simulate what it was like writing this chapter, you should listen to "Hide, Hideaway" on loop and stare into space for two to three hours before reading. Or, if you're impatient like me, you can just get down to business with some background music.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ifrit comes back to himself some time later. There’s an empty plate next to him and the taste of food on his tongue. Ramuh is talking, a low rumble that slides through Ifrit’s ears without leaving an impression. He tries to stave off the feeling rising in his chest, but it trickles back in despite his efforts, leaving cold trails across his ribs. He’s too tired to shiver.
Somewhere, a bell chimes. Ramuh pauses in his speech and raises his head. “About that time already, is it?”
He slaps his hands down on his knees and rises with a grunt. “Help me get all this squared away, would you, lad?”
Ifrit stands. His legs creak as he rises, and he almost falls.
“Whoa there.” Ramuh grips his elbow, warm and firm. “Stretch first. Like this.”
He starts with a careful lunge. Ifrit copies each motion mechanically. They work their way up, legs to back to shoulders to wrists, pace agonizingly slow. Each pull of muscle hurts, but the release of tension is a relief. Almost as soon as the pain loosens, Ifrit’s stomach clenches. He feels ill.
Ramuh squats down next to the remains of their meal. Ifrit joins him. They pack away the plates and empty bottle into the basket. Ramuh grabs two corners of the cloth, and after a jerk of Ramuh’s chin, Ifrit understands his intent and grabs the other two. They move together to fold it, and Ramuh presses the bundle back into Ifrit’s arms. Then he pauses, sharp eyes moving across Ifrit’s face.
“We’ll give these back to the kitchens,” he says, “but after that, lad, you’ve got a choice.”
Ifrit grips the stiff fabric in his arms and fixes his gaze on the shoulder of Ramuh’s jacket.
“I’ve still got a bloody mountain of correspondence to get through in my solar,” Ramuh continues. “If you’d like, you’re welcome to spend the afternoon there. Probably can scrounge up something for you to read, and the couch is plenty comfortable, as you’ve already found.”
Ifrit pictures it – the scene from the day before, the sun slowly turning the cluttered space of Ramuh’s rooms golden. He imagines reading the arcane scribbles on the papers scattered about, the smooth feeling of paper under his fingers. He thinks about sitting on the soft cushions and closing his eyes.
“Or,” Ramuh says, “I can take you back to your cell. It’s been a hell of a morning, and I know you haven’t been sleeping.”
Ifrit doesn’t reply.
Ramuh is watching him intently. “Your choice either way, lad.”
Ifrit swallows. It feels like his throat should be dry, but it isn’t. His mouth is flooded with saliva.
“Take me back,” he rasps.
Ramuh’s expression is unreadable. It hurts to look at all the same, so Ifrit stops looking.
“All right,” Ramuh says.
He takes Ifrit’s elbow in his warm grip and moves, slowly guiding him out of the garden. The Bearer from before is gone. Everything is quiet, even when they pass through the bustle of the kitchens and hand over the cloth and basket. Ifrit walks in the soft, cottony silence and tries not to think of anything at all.
There are two new guards outside the cell when they arrive. Ifrit wonders how long they’ve been waiting there, and how long they would have continued waiting if he’d chosen differently. At least he isn’t depriving them of purpose.
“Here we are, then.” Ramuh nods to the guards, who salute. He looks into the cell for a long moment before pulling out the key. After the door is open and he’s ushered Ifrit inside, he pauses again. “Lad. Is there something about the bed that’s keeping you from sleeping in it?”
Ifrit looks at the bed. The dark blue quilt is pulled back, revealing the sharp slash of the undyed sheets. They seem too white for the space, too bright next to the stone walls, even in the gloom of the fading crystals.
Ramuh leans forward, hand landing on Ifrit’s shoulder. “Are you listening?”
Ifrit’s heart stutters briefly and quickly gives up. He nods.
“All right then,” Ramuh mutters. Then, a little louder, “Would it be better if – fuck, I dunno, if it were on the floor or something?”
He thinks about what Ramuh said in the garden. About all the ways that he’s failed. About all the ways he will keep failing. About the stretch of his sore muscles. About the couch in the solar. About the sour aftermath of sweetness lingering on his tongue. The thoughts jumble together, an incoherent tangle whose shape he can’t discern.
Ramuh’s grip tightens on his shoulder. He’s waiting for an answer. Ifrit doesn’t remember what he asked.
When Ramuh loses patience, his voice is firmer. “Lad. Do you need me to move it?”
Ifrit shakes his head.
“Is there some other problem with it?”
Another shake.
“Then I want you to sleep,” Ramuh commands. “Take off your damn boots, lie down, and close your eyes for a while. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Ifrit says.
“Good lad.” Ramuh squeezes his shoulder and lets go. His hand touches Ifrit’s back briefly, and then he steps away. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Ifrit doesn’t watch him leave. He listens to Ramuh’s murmured commands to the guards, to the thump of their salutes, to the steady tap of Ramuh’s boots moving further and further down the corridor, all while staring at that bright white stretch of fabric. Then he listens to the silence and the thump of his own heartbeat.
He sits on the edge of the bed. The straw in the mattress crinkles. The sheets are cool under his fingers and warm slowly to his touch. He swallows. Eventually, he leans down and yanks off his boots. They hit the ground with two dusty thumps. He swings his legs up and lies down in one decisive motion, turning to curl on his side facing the wall.
It isn’t comfortable. The mattress is too soft and makes noise every time he moves. The quilt bunches up under his legs, lumpy and strange. His shirt is still damp underneath the doublet, and both garments have twisted uncomfortably around his torso. He doesn’t move to fix them.
The wall here is the same as the wall on the other side of the cell. Ifrit stares at it for a long time.
It isn’t that he doesn’t understand. Or at least, it isn’t only that. What Ramuh said in the garden – it almost makes sense. He’s powerless here, wrapped in crystal fetters, surrounded by armed men, and watched by two Dominants. But if this were about taking a piece off the board, they’d just kill him. So it was a lie in that way, too. This half-life doesn’t make sense. They aren’t killing him, and they aren’t trying to break him. They’re just… keeping him.
Ifrit squeezes his eyes shut. It’s as good as being dead. And he can’t do anything about it. It’s only a matter of time.
Will they kill him? Or will they do the same as they’ve done to Ifrit?
Maybe, he thinks. Maybe –
He knows better. Maybe is a useless thought. But he doesn’t have anything else. And he’s always been so stupid. So just for a moment, he lets himself think: maybe.
His thoughts race, shapes blurred by the speed of their passing. They blend together into a muddy smudge of color.
Ifrit falls asleep.
===
“Oh? Ramuh will be pleased.”
Ifrit opens his eyes and sits up. He hasn’t been asleep for some time, but the motion is disorienting. His scalp itches. Sleipnir looks the same as the day before. He’s already smiling – not the mocking smile or the strange one, but something different.
Ifrit doesn’t need to be told what comes next. He goes to roll off the bed and pull his boots on, except what happens is that his legs go out from under him. He hits the ground with a painful thump.
Sleipnir laughs. “Oh dear. Perhaps he was right.”
Ifrit shakes his head to clear it. Hair tickles his cheeks, leaving itchy trails. He ignores the sensation and sits up again. His muscles protest even these small movements, every inch of him sore and tight. He grits his teeth, pulls on his boots, and stands. He doesn’t fall.
Sleipnir hums, looking him up and down. Then he opens the cell door, and they walk. Ifrit tenses as they approach the bailey, but Odin is still absent. The sky is fully gray, and the air feels heavy.
“I assume you remember how to begin?” Sleipnir says leadingly.
Ifrit starts to run.
The second day with Sleipnir is both easier and harder. He knows what’s coming now, and Sleipnir holds to the pattern of the day before. The only difference is that they break twice so that Ifrit can sip water and try not to vomit while Sleipnir watches with eagle-eyed intensity. But even though the pattern doesn’t change, Ifrit’s body doesn’t want to cooperate. His muscles hurt, and his back aches fiercely. He can move through it, but it makes his chest burn with phantom heat. He’d forgotten what it was like. The fetters chafe against his wrists, purple glow mocking.
It’s difficult enough that he forgets to pay attention again. When his eyes catch on Ramuh by the fence, he has no idea when the man arrived.
Ramuh isn’t alone. Benedikta stands next to him, dressed again in breeches and with a sword at her hip. Her expression is creased with focused intent, but it brightens when Ifrit notices her. He looks away just in time for Sleipnir to dump him on his back in a burst of pain.
Sleipnir looks down at him and tilts his head, training sword resting at the hollow of Ifrit’s throat. Then he turns to the fence and smiles. “Come to claim him again, Cidolfus?”
Ramuh waves a hand carelessly through the air. “Take your time. Benna and I don’t mind watching – right, lass?”
Benedikta shakes her head.
“You and your protégé are welcome to join in, of course.” Sleipnir removes his weapon and steps away. Ifrit sits up carefully. The world tilts, and he allows it a moment to settle before he begins to stand.
Benedikta straightens and looks to Ramuh. “Cid?”
“Not today,” Ramuh says after a pause, his gaze fixed on Ifrit.
Benedikta frowns at Ramuh, lips pressed together. “Why not?”
“Just look at the lad. A stiff breeze’d knock him right over,” Ramuh says with a laugh. He raises a hand towards her shoulder, and she leans away just slightly. After an awkward beat, he rests the hand on his sword instead. “Don’t mind us. Carry on.”
Ifrit forces his legs to stop shaking and bends to retrieve his sword. His limbs still feel icy and heavy, but heat blooms in his chest. Strands of sweat-damp hair stick to his cheeks and neck. The sensation is suddenly unbearable. He brushes them away with clumsy fingers and turns to face Sleipnir.
The man is watching Ifrit. Instead of readying for another round, though, he lowers his weapon with a little flourish.
“I believe that we are finished after all,” he says.
Ifrit waits for a moment, but Sleipnir has yet to rely on that kind of deception. He lowers the training sword.
“Well, if you’re sure,” Ramuh says cheerfully, not hesitating for a moment. “C’mon then, lad. We’re headed for some grub ourselves, and you look about ready to keel over.”
Again. Ifrit gives up.
The sword goes back on the rack. Sleipnir sends him off with a mocking farewell. Ramuh puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him away from the bailey. Benedikta follows next to them, her sharp eyes intent.
It’s only the third day, but Ifrit can sense an air of familiarity hovering overhead, waiting to descend and smother him. The feeling only intensifies as they move to the kitchens and then Ramuh’s rooms. The shadowed darkness once more gives way to well-appointed clutter when Ramuh opens the balcony doors. Benedikta moves to clear the table, while Ifrit stands there with a basket that is gradually making his arms shake. Ramuh takes it from him, and they sit in the same places around the table, and again food is spread out over the dark wood.
The pit of Ifrit’s stomach feels slippery and cold. He swallows against a wave of saliva. This time, it’s Benedikta who hands him a plate. Ifrit registers the contents – bread, cheese, smoked fish, pickled vegetables. The pit in his stomach grows.
The problem is that it’s good. The problem is that Ramuh and Benedikta talk amicably as they eat, the words meaningless yet somehow soothing. The problem is that Benedikta looks at him when they’re done and asks, “Is Sleipnir always like that?”
Ifrit startles slightly at being addressed. He makes the mistake of meeting her eyes and has to quickly look away. He shrugs.
“You don’t have to be polite. He seems like a slave driver,” she says frankly. Ramuh coughs into his hand, and she twitches. Still, she rallies to say, “But it’s true, Cid. Weren’t you watching?”
“Now, I’m not saying I disagree with you, but perhaps you might consider some politeness yourself.” Ramuh pauses. “Unless you’d like me to pass on the message?”
Benedikta’s expression flickers uncertainly. Then she brushes her hair out of her face and sits up straighter, hands folded primly over her knees. “Forgive me, my lord. Please also convey to the esteemed Lord Harbard my sincerest respect and admiration when you tell him that I think he is a merciless nag.”
Ramuh laughs, low and deep, and Benedikta smiles. Ifrit watches them and thinks again, despite himself – maybe.
Then Ramuh suddenly leans forward to stand, and Benedikta flinches. It’s only a hint of motion, but Ifrit remembers all the other little motions, and he knows he’s just being stupid.
“What say we get started?” Ramuh says, seemingly oblivious as he moves towards the desk.
“Right.” Benedikta stands as well and begins cleaning the remains of their meal with efficient motions. Ifrit finds himself rising, too, only to pause uncertainly. Benedikta has already finished her work and is carrying away the basket, while Ramuh is watching him from the desk. He sits back down.
It isn’t enough to lose Ramuh’s attention. Ifrit watches from behind his hair as the man approaches and sets something down on the table. “Here. Why don’t you see if any of those are to your liking?”
Ifrit looks at the objects. They’re books. Ramuh has already turned away and is busily laying out papers and an inkwell on his desk. Ifrit still hesitates before picking up the first volume. It’s small, perhaps half an inch thick and the size of his two hands put together, with simple embossing on its dark leather cover. After wiping his hands carefully on his breeches, Ifrit opens to the first page. The Essentials of Engineering, it reads in unusually neat letters, and then in subtitle, A helpful guide to the basic principles of mechanical engineering, as compiled by Nero Scaeva in Year of the Realm 853, featuring no less than seventeen charts for reference of basic principles and twenty-two elucidating diagrams…
The words continue. Ifrit runs his eyes over them over and over again, trying to understand. He flips slowly past the promised charts and diagrams. He reads the first page again. His eyes catch on the words, starting and stopping. He closes the book and puts it down.
Ifrit sits and stares at the table for a long time. Benedikta has joined Ramuh at the desk. Her head is bent over a piece of paper, quill moving slowly but steadily across the page with quiet scratching sounds. Ramuh leans back in his chair and surveys a paper of his own, a lit cigarillo held carelessly in one hand. He brings it to his lips, and the tip flares a bright red.
Ifrit looks back down. He moves the first book to reveal the next. It’s a little thicker and has a green cover stamped in gold with the words, A Brief History of Valisthea. Ifrit puts it aside and picks up the one below it. This one has a simple cover of red cloth without lettering. He opens the title page.
The Saint and the Sectary, it reads.
The letters are embellished with little flecks of red and blue. The hand is unremarkable. Beneath the words, the scribe has drawn a crossed sword and sceptre. Ifrit looks at the details until the words become an unrecognizable blur. His throat tightens to the point of pain. He doesn’t turn the page. Time passes.
“Ifrit?”
He raises his head. Benedikta is looking at him, quill held aloft. There’s a spot of ink on her cheek. “How do you spell your name?”
He stares at her. It takes a long time for the meaning of her words to register. He hasn’t thought about it before. He’s never seen anyone else write it down.
Benedikta waits patiently. Behind her, Ramuh has looked up from his paper. His cigarillo trails a thin line of smoke. The smell of it makes Ifrit’s mouth feel impossibly dry.
“I don’t know,” he admits.
“Oh.” Her brow crinkles. She turns to look at Ramuh. “Cid, why are you tormenting him with your books if he can’t read?”
Ramuh shrugs and lets out a mouthful of smoke. “Lad says he can.”
“But my name was the first thing you taught me,” Benedikta says. She looks back at Ifrit. “Isn’t that – did you not start with your name?”
Ifrit looks down. The book is still open in his hands. He closes it gently.
“Ifrit,” Benedikta says again. He swallows and forces himself to raise his head. She isn’t looking at him, though. She’s frowning at the page before her, the end of her quill brushing her lips. “Hm. It sounds like an I. And perhaps an E? Two Es?”
“Don’t look at me,” Ramuh says when her gaze turns to him. “Let the lad pick for himself.”
And now they’re both looking at him again.
Outside, it’s started to rain. The sky is dark gray, and a chill breeze stirs the curtains on either side of the balcony. A few droplets have misted the stone floor, but the rain is nothing more than a light drizzle. Inside, Ramuh’s rooms are lit by warm-toned crystal lanterns.
The silence stretches. Ifrit imagines it stretching infinitely, two statues with eagle-eyed gazes fixed on him until the crystal lanterns finally expire. His fingers tremble on the book. He swallows again.
“With an I,” he says.
“I-F-R-I-T?” Benedikta asks. He considers. Then he nods. She diligently scratches it down on the paper, pauses, and continues writing. After a long moment, she puts down the quill. “There.”
“Let’s see then.” Ramuh stubs out his cigarillo and lifts the paper. He scans it for a moment before nodding. “Not bad. Your hand’s fairer than when I left.”
Benedikta sits up taller. “I have been practicing.”
“Aye, and you’re a quick study to boot,” Ramuh says with a laugh.
Benedikta’s face blooms into a smile. Ramuh turns the paper around and leans forward, speaking in his deep voice, and she leans forward as well, expression creasing with concentration.
Ifrit looks at his hands. The book is still there. He doesn’t open it. But he doesn’t put it down, either.
===
Ramuh and Benedikta work at the desk for a long time. Ifrit listens to their conversation without really hearing it. Mostly, he watches the rain and tries to think of nothing at all, focusing on the sound the droplets make on the stones of the keep. The soft hiss seems to fill him up, until there isn’t space for anything other than the gentle fall of water.
Eventually, Benedikta leans back, stretching her arms over her head, and Ramuh looks up from the paper. “Shall we call it here?”
Benedikta hums, then releases her stretch with a sigh. “Can we? I think my knots have knots.”
“Sure we can.” Ramuh pushes away from the desk and rises with a stretch of his own. “You all packed?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll look it over in the morning.”
They move towards the door, exchanging farewells. The door opens, and Benedikta pauses and turns towards Ifrit. He quickly looks away, but not before he catches the beginnings of a smile on her face. “Have a good night, Ifrit.”
After a beat of hesitation, Ifrit rises to his feet and bows. The door closes, and he sits down again.
Once Benedikta has left, Ramuh putters around his desk for some time. The piles don’t look any different to Ifrit, but Ramuh eventually nods as though satisfied. He lifts his half-smoked cigarillo from the ashtray and considers it, then looks at Ifrit, expression unreadable. He gestures at Ifrit with the cigarillo. “You know, you have to open those things to read ‘em.”
Ifrit looks at the book in his hands. Its cover has long since warmed to his touch. He places it carefully on the table.
There’s a sharp crackle. After a moment, the smell of tobacco begins to spread anew. “You don’t have to put it down on my account. Just thought you might want to actually read it.”
Ifrit rests his palms on his knees. The book sits innocently on the table.
“You can take it with you if you want,” Ramuh continues. “It’s not like I don’t got enough of ‘em. Probably would be good for you to do something other than stare at the walls down there.”
After a long moment, Ramuh sets his ashtray on the table with a clack and sits in the chair across from Ifrit. The smell of tobacco grows stronger.
“All right then.” Ramuh taps off his ashes with a practiced motion. “Look. I didn’t want Benna to get the wrong idea, but Ifrit’s your eikon, ain’t it?”
Ifrit’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. He doesn’t reply.
“Lad,” Ramuh starts to say, voice rising. He stops. Then he gusts out a breath. “I’m not asking for nefarious purposes or anything. Sure, I’d love to know where in the bloody hell you came from, just like every other bugger in Valisthea. But right now, I’m asking because I’d prefer to call you by your damn name.”
Ifrit holds still. He waits. The rain is still hissing against the stone outside, but the quality of the sound has changed somehow. It feels as though the water is filling his lungs and choking him.
“Like talking to a bloody wall,” Ramuh says under his breath. He stubs out his cigarillo with a sharp jab and begins to rise.
Ifrit’s heart is beating very quickly. He doesn’t think. He says, “I’m sorry.”
Ramuh stands still for a long time. Then he sits down again. Ifrit can feel his pulse all the way down in his fingertips. He doesn’t move.
“Fuck me,” Ramuh mutters. He raises a hand to his face.
Ifrit keeps his gaze fixed on Ramuh’s knees. He tries to swallow. If Ramuh wants him to speak, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to. He waits.
Eventually, Ramuh lowers his hand. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it, all right, lad? Just – don’t worry about it.”
He rubs a thumb along his chin. Then he nods and stands up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
Ifrit forces his legs to straighten. He doesn’t sway. Everything hurts. Ramuh moves towards the door, and Ifrit follows, but before they leave Ramuh stops. He raises a finger, backs up three steps, and plucks the red-covered book off the table.
“Here.” He taps the book against Ifrit’s chest as he moves past. “Hold on to this, would you?”
Ifrit’s hands come up to grasp the book. Ramuh’s hand shifts to Ifrit’s shoulder, and he steers Ifrit out of the room.
Ramuh is quiet all the way down to the cells. His hand remains a warm, heavy weight throughout the journey. The book in Ifrit’s hands is equally heavy.
Arriving at the cellblock, too, is beginning to feel familiar. He thinks for a moment that he might recognize the face of one of the guards. Something painful squeezes in his chest. He looks at the floor as Ramuh unlocks the door and guides him inside.
The way Ramuh lingers is also familiar. He looks at the bed and nods, then peers into the pitcher on the washstand and crouches to open the cabinet below. He rises again with another nod. Hands on his hips, he surveys Ifrit for a long moment. He lifts a hand to brush the hair out of Ifrit’s eyes before settling it back on his shoulder. Ifrit focuses on Ramuh’s jacket – but that’s familiar, too. He tries not to look at anything at all.
“We’ll work on it,” Ramuh says, giving Ifrit’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “Try not to just stare at the walls, eh, lad? Give the book a chance.”
He steps away with a two-fingered salute and closes the door with a soft clang. Ifrit watches him go. The guard with the familiar face is looking at him. Ifrit avoids his eyes and sits on the edge of the bed. His hands have grown damp on the cover of the book, and there are faint dark marks on the red fabric when he lets go. He rubs at one with a thumb, then gives up. It will fade, or it won’t. It doesn’t matter.
Eventually, he opens the book. The dim light makes it difficult to see the details of the title page. For some reason, it’s easier to look at. He turns the page. The letters are hard to make out, but he can still read, A long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away…
Ifrit’s eyes stop there. He runs his thumb along the edge of the pages. Then he gently closes the book and places it carefully on the washstand.
The cell wall is the same, but it was familiar long before anything else started to change. Ifrit lies on the bed and looks at the stone. It feels like his chest is expanding. He doesn’t know what might rush in to fill the hollow. The thought makes his ribs tremble, threatening to collapse the fragile new space. Ifrit crushes all of it down, until the world consists only of fine-grained flecks of gray granite.
He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.
Notes:
Did you know that The Saint and the Sectary is a goddamn Star Wars reference? These are the kinds of beautiful discoveries you get to make while writing fic. Someone more talented than me needs to draw baby Clive and Byron as Luke and Vader.
The great news for all of you is that I got halfway through writing chapter five before realizing I was actually writing chapter five. The terrible news is I have twenty pages of translation due on Tuesday. Wish me luck on both fronts!
Chapter 5
Notes:
The soundtrack for this one is "The Riddle", so as you might imagine the tone is, uh, just a teensy little bit different. Don't worry about it. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next day, Odin is waiting at the bailey.
Rain is still misting down in a wavering curtain, and the ground of the training yard is pocketed with muddy puddles. Odin should look ridiculous standing in the rain with his hair plastered to his forehead, but somehow he manages to loom even in the damp gloom. His eyes are dark when he sweeps his gaze over Ifrit.
Sleipnir does not hesitate to lead him out into the drizzle, even as the two guards take up their usual posts under the covered corridor. The droplets are fine enough that they register on his skin only as a tickling caress. Ifrit can already feel the cold weight of water building in his hair and on his shoulders. He doesn’t shiver.
“Ifrit.” Odin’s voice is disinterested, but his gaze is keen. “Sleipnir has informed me of your progress. I would see it for myself.”
It’s been two days of Sleipnir running him into the ground. Ifrit cannot imagine any progress at all. His head throbs. He doesn’t say anything as Sleipnir hands him a live blade.
Odin doesn’t have steel at his hip this time. Ifrit wonders, just for a moment, whether he intends to gamble on beating Ifrit barehanded. Then Odin summons a black blade with a wave of aether, and a chill that has nothing to with the rain settles onto Ifrit’s shoulders.
It’s worse than the first time. Ifrit’s limbs are heavy and still littered with dark bruises. The rain saps his strength further and plasters his hair and clothing to his body. Worst of all, no matter how many times he reminds himself that he has to kill Odin, he is unable to kindle even the smallest ember of feeling, let alone the inferno that carried him through the last beating.
Odin knocks him down less than a dozen times before he lets his impossibly cold blade rest on Ifrit’s throat, preventing him from rising again. “Tell me, Ifrit. Why do you fight?”
Ifrit doesn’t answer. He watches Odin’s sword hand and lets the weight of the rain hold him down. Odin presses his blade closer, to the first sting of pain, but still Ifrit does not move. It can’t be any worse if he’s dead.
Odin lifts the blade and lets it dissolve in a sparkle of aether.
“As expected,” he says, lips curled with disdain. “You have been granted a gift more precious than any other, yet you squander it with your lassitude. Do you not still desire the strength to kill me? Have you lost the hunger to whet your blade?”
He crouches down and grips Ifrit’s jaw, tilting Ifrit to face him. Ifrit doesn’t resist and lets his gaze fall on Odin’s chin. An eon passes, marked only by the painful beat of Ifrit’s heart and the steady drizzle of rain.
Odin lets go. He doesn’t rise. Instead, he takes one of Ifrit’s hands in both of his, cradling it almost gently. His calloused fingers are as cold as the rain. They touch the back of Ifrit’s hand, then tilt his wrist to face his palm upward. Ifrit tries not to shiver. The fingers trace the lines of his palm with the barest brush of pressure before moving to the fetters.
“Perhaps…” Odin murmurs. Still holding Ifrit’s wrist with one hand, he reaches into his shirt and pulls out a key.
Ifrit’s heart thumps. When Odin moves to unlock the first fetter, he braces himself. It doesn’t feel like much – not yet. The second will be disorienting. He’ll only have a heartbeat to adjust.
Odin takes his time. He tosses the first fetter to Sleipnir, then returns his hands to Ifrit’s bare wrist. He traces the marks there, expression shadowed. Ifrit wonders if he can feel the frantic beat of Ifrit’s pulse in his wrist. He can see the pale line of Odin’s neck. After a long moment, Odin lays Ifrit’s hand down and reaches for the remaining fetter.
The key turns with a sharp click. The fetter loosens. The metal pulls away from Ifrit’s skin.
The return of aether to his body is like the choked return of breath after too long under water. He can’t control it. He doesn’t care. Flames lick over his skin, his clothes, his hair, and he lunges with a howl.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Odin changes. Dark armor closes over his face and body. One sharp-edged gauntlet grasps Ifrit’s reaching hand, heedless of the flames sputtering there, and yanks him up. The other grabs Ifrit by the hair and slams him face first into the mud. Sparks burst across his vision. A hard edge presses into his back, igniting a point of white hot agony. Ifrit cries out and chokes on mud.
“There you are,” Odin murmurs, voice close and echoing. “Come now, Ifrit. You know that you have not the strength to overcome me with aether alone. Not yet.”
The hunger is right there. It’s everything. Ifrit lets it fill him, empty and aching, and the world begins to burn.
The haze has barely begun to descend before Ifrit is pulled out of it. His chest throbs painfully. He’s curled on his side. The ground steams in patches around him. He tries to rise, but his arms don’t support him. He lands on his back in a shock of agony. Odin stands over him, blade pointed at his heart.
“Power beyond reckoning, and you use it as a crutch,” Odin mocks. “The seed of your strength has truly been stunted by the barren earth of that accursed empire.”
Ifrit coughs weakly. Pain bursts in his lungs. He tastes metal.
Odin releases the semi-prime, his armor dissolving into swirls of aether that are scattered by the rain. Only his blade remains. His expression as he looks down at Ifrit is terrible and unfathomable.
“Your purpose is not to rot in that blighted soil,” he says lowly. “I will not allow it. Get up.”
Every breath burns. Ifrit pushes himself up onto his elbows, then his knees. Odin’s blade follows his progress. Ifrit gets his feet under him. His legs waver, as uncertain as the flames sputtering in his chest. He stands up.
Odin’s gaze never leaves him. Something cold thrills through Ifrit’s guts, untouched by the rekindled heat of aether.
“There,” Odin says softly. He lowers his blade. Ifrit knows better than to think he’s lowered his guard.
Odin begins to circle. Ifrit turns to watch him, trying to breathe, to stoke the embers of his aether without letting fire burn along his skin. The flames struggle in his grasp, sputtering and raging in turns, never what he needs them to be. Despite their scuffle, Odin is untouched by the mud. Ifrit can feel it on his skin and clothing, sliding down his face and neck in itchy clumps. He wipes at his forehead before it can fall into his eyes.
“Magic is no different from swordplay, Ifrit,” Odin says. His footsteps are slow and measured, almost hypnotic. “We Dominants may be possessed of more aether than any other man, but if we cannot control it, its power is meaningless.”
Odin’s measured steps return him to his point of origin. He stops. “As you are now, you can but grasp greedily at that which does not belong to you. The tighter you try to clutch your flames, the more you will smother them. Only when you learn the flow of aether and surrender to it will you know true strength.”
The rain striking Ifrit’s skin sizzles, rising up in clouds of steam. It feels as though he has done nothing but surrender. Here and now. All his life –
But that isn’t true. The flames clutched in his chest sputter. He was forged for a purpose. He has always clung tightly to it, has always struggled for it.
He has never surrendered that purpose. He can’t.
Odin doesn’t know about any of that. Odin is speaking metaphorically. Not about purpose, but about skill – swordplay and magic. Ifrit knows that gripping a blade too tightly makes it difficult to control. Aether doesn’t have a will, but it has movement. It makes sense that what is true for one would be true for the other. That is Odin’s meaning, surely.
Ifrit lets out a long, slow breath. The pain in his ribs has been soothed by the fire in his breast, but the memory remains. He can’t serve his purpose now. But if Odin can hone him – maybe he can serve it again. It doesn’t have to mean that Ifrit will let Odin wield him.
His blade lies in the mud not ten paces away. Ifrit moves to retrieve it, never taking his eyes off Odin. Aether licks at his ribs, hot and hungry. He has never understood it. His value comes from being a Dominant, but that power has always failed him when he needed it most. Except – maybe it was the other way around.
Ifrit lets go of his clutched flames. Warmth fills his whole body, a wave of heat that makes the air before him steam and shimmer. Instead of grasping it, he lets it flow, feeding the fire his own strength until he feels it slip easily out over his skin and solidify.
“Good,” Odin breathes. His eyes flash in the gloom, and he raises his blade. “Now come, Ifrit. Let us sow your strength anew.”
Ifrit loosens his grip on his sword and settles into a battle stance. His body feels light, with not one single hurt. For a single, thundering heartbeat, everything freezes. Then he lets the flames grow and rushes forward in a burst of aether.
===
For the first few glorious moments, Ifrit thinks he can feel what Odin meant. He rides the hot tide of aether, sword just another channel for the flames. It’s like riding a chocobo. The aether has a will of its own, and he moves with it, striking and pulling back as the flow demands. Odin deflects each blow, but it doesn’t feel like Ifrit is two steps behind anymore. It feels right. It feels alive.
His body is warm. Then it’s beyond warm. It’s burning hot. His heart pounds, memory rising up, a hundred different moments of heat, fire and blood and hunger, and everything slips. He isn’t riding the tide – he’s drowning in it. He is the tide. The heat rises up behind his eyes, and the world warps into a twisted mirage. The last clear image he sees is Odin’s face, brow creased as he turns aside Ifrit’s blade, and then conscious thought is lost.
When he comes back to himself, he’s lying on his back again, once more staring down the sharp planes of Odin’s blade. The surrounding training ground has been thoroughly destroyed. The air is hot and thick with steam that twists and rises into the dark gray sky. Patches of the ground have turned to hard-baked earth, refusing to dissolve back into mud despite the rain. On one side of the yard, the fence consists only of burning stumps, and the weapons rack has been reduced to a pile of slag. The two guards are nowhere to be seen. Only Sleipnir remains as witness. He leans against one of the stone walls, completely untouched by either flame or soot.
Odin stares down at Ifrit in unyielding silence. The planes of his face are cast in shadows that deepen between his brows. Were it not for the swirl of his breath in the steamy air, he could be mistaken for a marble statue.
Ifrit feels a choking rise up. It’s always the same. He can’t ever control it. Why is he here? Odin can never hone him. He isn’t a blade. He’s a blunt instrument. No – even a club can be wielded. He can’t even do that right. He’s just a mindless beast. A lesser creature – a second-rate second Dominant. It’s always the same. It always will be the same.
The shadows on Odin’s face lift. For a heartbeat, Ifrit meets the pale flash of his eyes and sees the slight parting of Odin’s lips. Then all expression vanishes, and Odin is impenetrable once more.
“Sleipnir,” Odin says lowly.
Sleipnir steps forward. One half of the crystal fetters dangles carelessly from his hand, and for one nauseating instant, Ifrit wants him to –
He crushes the moment of weakness. His thoughts spin dizzily. He has to fight. He can still – somehow, he can still –
Something cold touches his neck. A hand. Odin is crouched next to him, his cold hand on the hot skin of Ifrit’s neck. Ifrit doesn’t flinch. The hand doesn’t tighten. Odin’s hand is on his neck. Odin’s neck is right there. He imagines lunging forward, hot blood –
He crushes the thought. Crushes everything. All of it. All of it.
“Such pitiful creatures,” Odin says. His voice seems to come down to Ifrit from very far away. His hand is on Ifrit’s neck. It’s warm now. It grips his chin. It tilts, then lets go.
Odin’s hand moves. It fists in Ifrit’s shirt. It pulls. Ifrit obeys the pull. His legs do not. He falls. Everything burns. There are no flames. Odin’s hand moves again, under Ifrit’s arm. His weight shifts. He’s leaning on Odin. His arm is over Odin’s shoulders. Odin’s neck is right there. He imagines –
No.
Odin moves, and Ifrit’s body moves with him. They walk. Ifrit only catches pieces of the journey. It doesn’t matter. It’s just stone. It’s all stone. Always. For the rest of his life.
The floor that Odin lowers Ifrit onto is stone, too. He does it slowly. It hurts. Everything hurts. Ifrit curls into himself. He’s too weak. Even with aether, he’s too weak. Even with Odin right there. His neck was –
The boots that step into Ifrit’s view aren’t Odin’s. The gray-clad legs that kneel next to him and the pale hand that pushes his hair back are Sleipnir’s. It isn’t Odin. But it feels like it’s Odin.
“–undone all of Ramuh’s hard work,” Sleipnir is saying.
“He will recover.” That’s Odin. His voice is distant.
“Which one? Poor Ramuh’s heart is ever so tender, and this one…” Sleipnir’s hand tucks Ifrit’s hair behind his ear. Ifrit turns his face towards the floor. “There is no need for such theatrics. I am trying to help you.”
Ifrit doesn’t move. He remembers the fantasy of just lying down and giving up and thinks – he could do that right now. He could just – refuse to get up ever again. Maybe it would be better that way.
But he can’t.
Something fragile shivers in his chest. That’s right. He remembers. Ifrit squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment. Then he shakes his head and lifts his face from the floor.
“There we are.” Sleipnir is smiling again. It’s dim enough that his eyes are almost colorless. “Come here.”
He slips an arm under Ifrit’s shoulders and levers him up. Ifrit doesn’t know where they are. The room is large and mostly cast in shadow. Watery light trickles in from a half-shuttered window, obscuring the shapes around him. Odin stands among the shadows at the very corner of Ifrit’s vision, unmoving and unmistakable. Ifrit doesn’t look at him. He sits on the hard stone and watches dully as Sleipnir places a pitcher before him and arranges his hands around it.
“It will be more pleasant if you warm this for me,” Sleipnir says.
The ceramic under Ifrit’s fingers is cool and solid. He stares at the ripples in the water.
Sleipnir’s hand rests lightly on his back. “Come now. It needs but a touch of aether.”
Ifrit’s fingers are trembling. Cradled within the cage of his ribs, the fire still burns. It’s always there, hot and hungry. The only time it ever goes out is when Ifrit’s wrists are weighed down by metal and crystal. It would be easy to crack the pitcher with a shock of heat and boil the water to nothing. Shards of pottery, a fountain of steam, blisters on skin. Warming it to the pleasant heat of blood seems almost impossible.
Sleipnir’s hand doesn’t move. The pitcher doesn’t go anywhere.
Just a touch. Ifrit thinks about fire. Just an ember. He calls aether to his fingers.
A thick cloud of steam bursts from the mouth of the pitcher. Ifrit quickly removes his hands.
“Very good.” Sleipnir sounds pleased. He takes the pitcher, seemingly unbothered by the heat, and pours some of the steaming water into a basin.
Ifrit’s hands are shaking. He grips his knees, trying to still the motion. It travels instead up his arms and into his chest, making his heart flutter weakly.
Sleipnir seems not to notice, or at least not to care. He takes one of Ifrit’s trembling hands in his own and begins to rub brusquely at it with a washcloth. The damp cloth is hot, but the trails it leaves behind quickly cool. Ifrit watches as the dried mud of the bailey is steadily wiped away. The washcloth turns dark. Sleipnir wrings it out in the basin and moves to his wrist. It’s too many sensations at once. Hot cloth, abraded skin, cool dampness, patches of numbness. Ifrit holds still.
Sleipnir cleans Ifrit’s skin up to his elbow, then moves to the other hand. The process is repeated. When that arm is clean, too, Sleipnir lays the washcloth over the rim of the basin and grips Ifrit’s left arm, turning it this way and that. He clicks his tongue.
“Such a pity that you cannot yet be trusted.” Sleipnir runs his fingers over a reddish patch of skin. Even the light brush stings. “It is hardly as though you need more scarring.”
The pair of crystal fetters that he produces are not the same pair as before. The metal is darker, the crystals a deeper purple. The bands of steel are connected by a single heavy link rather than a chain.
Odin hasn’t moved. Ifrit holds out his arms.
The first cold metal band closes around his left wrist, and the fire in his chest goes out.
Ifrit sways. He doesn’t feel the second fetter close, but between one heavy blink and the next, his hands are bound together. He forces his eyelids not to shut. His limbs are suddenly leaden. His chest aches. It’s freezing cold.
It will pass. He breathes. It will pass.
Sleipnir looks to Odin. “If you would, my liege?”
Odin steps forward. Sleipnir somehow lifts the impossible weight of Ifrit’s arms, holding them up like an offering. Dark red-black aether gathers at Odin’s fingertips. Ifrit watches, transfixed, as Odin reaches out and touches the link between the fetters. The steel sheers with a quiet snick. Sleipnir lowers Ifrit’s arms, and Ifrit’s whole body follows, spine bending under the new weight. He braces his elbows on his thighs and bows his head. The clink of the severed metal hitting the stone floor is unbearably loud.
A light touch rests on the top of Ifrit’s head. After a dozen heartbeats, it withdraws. “I leave the rest to you, Sleipnir.”
Sleipnir shifts and lowers his head. “Of course, my king.”
Odin’s quiet footsteps move away. There’s the click of a door closing, then silence.
“Well then.” Sleipnir reaches for the washcloth. “Shall we continue?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before raising a hand to hold Ifrit’s chin and bringing the cloth towards his face. Ifrit closes his eyes and doesn’t move. The hot touch makes him shiver more than the cool trails left behind. Sleipnir works efficiently and methodically. Ifrit drifts with the motion, chest brimming with that fragile, shivering thing.
When Sleipnir’s hands withdraw, Ifrit sways. His hair and face are damp and feverishly cold. He opens his eyes.
“Awake, are we?” Sleipnir sets the cloth aside. “Good. It will be easier for you to undress yourself.”
Ifrit watches distantly as Sleipnir rises and carries the basin to the window. Then he pulls off his boots and starts fumbling with the buttons on the doublet. It takes an eternity to undo them all. When he stands, it feels as though he’s left his head behind. He sways and begins to topple, but Sleipnir is suddenly there, gripping his elbow and wrapping an arm over his back.
“Careful now,” Sleipnir says lightly. “We cannot have you breaking open your pretty little head.”
Sleipnir holds Ifrit up until his head returns to his shoulders. When the world no longer threatens to collapse around him, Ifrit clumsily unties his shirtsleeves. Sleipnir guides the fabric over his head, then helps him step out of his breeches, arms as unyielding as steel. He tosses the soiled clothing carelessly aside.
Peeling off the old clothing felt like an insurmountable task. Putting on the new clothing is an insurmountable task. Lifting his arms has become an unbearable chore. Sleipnir pulls the dark blue fabric over his head, dressing him like a young child. Ifrit participates when directed, limbs clumsy and distant, head floating and sinking and floating again.
The clothes are even more oversized than the ones Ramuh provided. Ifrit doesn’t bother with any of the laces. He doesn’t care. Sleipnir grips Ifrit’s arm and presses his other hand to Ifrit’s back, guiding him into a stumbling walk. He speaks in a lilting voice as he does, the words sliding meaninglessly through Ifrit’s ears to drip out onto the floor.
Sleipnir leads him into a new room. Ifrit doesn’t bother to look at it. He looks at the floor. The floor turns into a cushioned surface, and Sleipnir’s unyielding hands guide him down onto it.
He doesn’t want to sleep. The fetters are heavy on his wrists. The thought keeps running through his mind, over and over, that he can’t give up. It tangles with the understanding that he already has, and the weight of it all drags him down into darkness.
===
Ifrit lies between dreams and waking. Everything is heavy. Voices buzz quietly in his ears. A gentle touch combs through his hair, a lingering brush of fingers. He feels his body sinking, deeper and deeper, until it touches upon something impossibly soft.
The softness startles him awake. He jolts up. He doesn’t know where he is. It’s too dark to make sense of the shapes around him. His eyes catch on a tall figure, and his heart begins to beat a staccato rhythm. It’s Odin.
The man stands silhouetted against the abyssal outline of a window, edges barely differentiated from the dark sky outside. His back is to Ifrit. His head shifts slightly, but he doesn’t turn around. “So you are awake.”
Ifrit slowly swings his legs out and sits up. His bare feet land on a soft rug. He doesn’t remember the moment when he fell asleep. He can feel his pulse in his neck, the place where Odin’s cold hand had rested. He presses his toes against the short fibers of the rug and grips the edge of the cushioned surface with both hands. The new fetters dig into the tendons of his wrists.
He waits. Odin seems equally disinclined to speak. Ifrit stares dazedly at his outline. The moments slip by, sinking into the silence without rippling its surface.
Eventually, so slowly that Ifrit can’t tell when it begins, the quality of the light begins to change. The edges of Odin’s shadow grow starker as the sky shades towards a deep blue. Still he does not move. The forms lurking in the room take on the shapes of furniture – candle stands, a table, chairs – and floral patterns bloom across the rug and the chaise where Ifrit is sitting.
When the light shining through the latticed window has turned the gray of early dawn, there’s a knock on the door.
“Enter,” Odin calls.
Ifrit looks at the rug and doesn’t move. He listens to the quiet tread of footsteps and the series of soft clinks without raising his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just see someone moving around the table. The figure bows with a reverent murmur of, “Your Majesty,” then exits.
Finally, Odin turns around. Ifrit can feel his gaze. He doesn’t look up.
“Come,” Odin commands.
Ifrit rises and obeys. His chest still aches, but his body has readjusted to the fetters. He would feel normal if it weren’t for the cold lingering in his fingers and toes. He wonders whether it will be Odin or Sleipnir who reminds him of his limits today.
Odin doesn’t take him to the bailey, though. He directs Ifrit to sit at the table with a careless gesture, then sits himself. The smell of food hits Ifrit’s nose, and his mouth floods with saliva. He breathes shallowly, pushing down the nauseous twisting of his stomach. He doesn’t want to find out what Odin will do if he vomits.
“You need not hesitate,” Odin says. “Eat something.”
He begins serving himself, not even looking at Ifrit. There’s more of that dark bread that seems to be common in Waloed, along with a plate of cold chicken and vegetables. The smell is almost a physical thing. It coats the inside of his nose and creeps down his throat, thick and clinging.
Ifrit hasn’t eaten since the previous morning. The thought of putting food in his mouth is unbearable. He doesn’t move.
When Odin has filled his plate, he says, “If you intend to starve yourself, know that such folly will not be permitted.”
The cold shiver that runs through Ifrit’s stomach does not make the food any more appealing. He can imagine the scenario all too well. Odin’s gaze turns towards him, heavy on his skin.
Ifrit takes a piece of bread. After a moment, he sets it between his teeth. He bites down. It would be easier if it was tasteless, but the dark grain is rich with flavor. Chewing takes all of Ifrit’s concentration. When he swallows, he can feel the mass traveling down to his stomach, which clenches unpleasantly. He sits with his mouth closed for several seconds, breathing shallowly and swallowing against the waves of saliva. Then he puts the bread in his mouth again.
At last, Odin looks away. Ifrit stares at the plate and the delicate designs painted there. He eats the bread, mouthful after mouthful. Slowly, it gets easier. His stomach stops clenching. It’s almost over.
Odin puts more food on the plate in front of him.
Ifrit eats. It feels like he eats forever. Odin is long done, but he makes no move to rise. When Ifrit has swallowed the last torturous bite, the man places a glass of water before him. Ifrit understands the wordless command and drinks that too.
After he sets the glass down, Odin reaches towards him. Ifrit doesn’t resist when the man touches his cheek and turns Ifrit’s face towards him.
“Tell me, Ifrit.” Odin’s voice is low. “Do you wish to die?”
Ifrit’s heart flutters, pressed down by the heavy weight in his abdomen. He can’t die. Not yet. Not for a long, long time.
Odin’s fingers are cool on his skin. This close, his eyes are very blue. They don’t move from Ifrit’s face as he waits for an answer.
Ifrit shakes his head.
“And yet you seek oblivion, throwing yourself into battle against me.” Odin’s fingers tighten, stopping Ifrit from looking away. “Peace. There is no shame in that desire. To wish to be free of the wretchedness of humanity is only natural.”
Ifrit thinks about the feeling of pressing his face to the cold stone. His throat tightens, and the fragile thing in his chest shivers. He cradles it gently, swallowing down the choking feeling.
“If you continue throwing yourself heedlessly forward, the peace you seek shall elude you. You are not yet strong enough to kill me, Ifrit.” The words are spoken calmly and without venom. They still cut like a mortal blade. “I have no desire to deny you that strength. But if you are to claim it, you must cease this pointless struggling.”
Odin shifts, hand cupping Ifrit’s cheek.
“So tell me, Ifrit,” Odin says again. “Do you wish for strength?”
Ifrit finds his gaze falling to the pale, exposed skin of Odin’s neck, but the familiar sickness doesn’t rise up. He doesn’t understand. What he wants – he wants to leave. He wants to be anywhere else. He wants to fulfill his purpose, to hold the weakly shivering thing in his chest tight, to never let it go still again. Is that a desire for strength?
The cool touch of Odin’s hand holds him in place. Ifrit feels the insane desire to reach up and cling to it. His chest aches, a physical reminder of his own weakness.
The answer bubbles up his throat, almost choking him, and escapes as a breathless gasp. “Yes.”
Odin brings his other hand up to cradle Ifrit’s face. His expression is shadowed by an emotion Ifrit cannot identify, so intense it almost burns. “Then you shall have it.”
Ifrit closes his eyes. His skin feels cold and feverish under Odin’s hands. His head is too full, thoughts tumbling over one another in a riotous tangle. Then, like the face of a drowning man breaching between the waves, one clear image rises up: Odin, pressing his blade into Ifrit’s hand, and the sight of the dark edge splitting the pale flesh of Odin’s throat.
Odin’s hands shift. One rests on the frantic pulse of Ifrit’s neck, while the other presses against his fevered brow.
“Again we have reached the limits of your strength,” Odin murmurs, and the image is scattered.
Ifrit opens his eyes to his own weakness. Odin’s face looks back at him, shadowed by the same mask that had descended in the rain of the bailey.
Suddenly, Odin rises to his feet, hands pulling away and leaving behind tingling skin. He looks down at Ifrit, a dark shadow haloed by the watery morning light. “Tomorrow our work continues. Rest and reclaim what strength you yet possess.”
He turns and steps soundlessly away, retreating to an inner door that leads to pure darkness. The click of it shutting behind him is very loud.
Ifrit’s pulse beats where Odin’s hand had lain. Uncontained, it feels as though it will spill out of him entirely. He stares at the door.
He’s alone.
The thought spins dizzily through his head. For the first time since being brought to Waloed, he’s completely and totally alone. There’s no one here who could stop him from walking to the door, from opening it and stepping out into the corridor – and then what?
The fetters are heavy on his wrists. He lets the weight rest on his knees. Then what?
The remains of the meal are still on the table. The smell is overwhelming. His stomach turns heavily. Ifrit stands up. He faces the door, not the one Odin vanished through but the one that must lead to the outside. He sways towards it, but his feet remain nailed to the floor. He leans away, and suddenly he can move again. He steps back. The world shifts, and the door retreats just a little.
Ifrit turns away from it all. The room is laid out before him in the weak morning sunlight. Odin’s door is a dark shadow. The chaise where he woke up is still sitting there, brocade cushion slightly dimpled where he had sat for so long. Ifrit steps forward and nearly collapses back onto that spot. The smell isn’t so strong here.
Ifrit leans forward, feet planted on the ground and elbows braced on his thighs. His back aches, the old pain a dull contrast to the fresh pangs in his chest. It’s always the same. He keeps coming back to the same realization, over and over, too stupid to learn the lesson and just give up. He needs to be stronger. He can’t win. If Odin wants to hand him the blade that Ifrit will use to slit his throat – then Ifrit will take it. He’ll take it.
He doesn’t have a choice.
Notes:
I've been keeping very brief notes on plot beats for each chapter, and for this one the main note was, "Clive gets beat up again. Sorry. 😔." So, uh, I really am sorry! That didn't stop me from writing a bunch of meta and a scene from Barnabas's POV to get into his fucked up head, though, so maybe not that sorry at all. Whoops!
I'm coming up on a major exam in May, so the next chapter probably won't be up within a week... although it probably will be up sooner than May, at least. Hobbies are an important way to keep yourself fresh, after all! That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Thank you again to everyone who has left such kind and thoughtful comments! I'm still giddy about the fact that people have been enjoying this, and I'm really grateful to everyone who's taken the time to drop a note. So thank you!!
Chapter 6
Notes:
I find that I like providing a soundtrack to go with a chapter, and I did listen to "Lovely, Dark, and Deep" for a good portion of writing this. Lately, though, I've mostly been listening to FFXIV trial music and remixes of the Mega Man 2 soundtrack while writing, so do with that information what you will. No matter how you read, I hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ifrit sits hunched in silence for a long time. Odin doesn’t return. The delicate pattern of flowers on the rug blooms and fades as the light changes with each passing cloud. Ifrit lets himself sink deeper and deeper into the shifting patterns, until even his racing thoughts are wrapped in muffled petals. Everything is still.
There’s a quick beat of knocks at the door. Ifrit blinks slowly and sits up. The visitor has already pushed inside without waiting for an answer. It’s Ramuh. He strides easily into the room, but his steps come to a halt when he notices Ifrit. “Lad? What the hell are you doing here?”
Ifrit doesn’t know the answer to that question. He glances at the door at the far end of the room, but Odin doesn’t emerge.
Ramuh follows his gaze and makes a small sound. He looks back at Ifrit. As his eyes move from Ifrit’s head to his feet, his expression clouds into a remote blankness. He turns without another word and continues his stride over to the far door.
This time, he waits after knocking, but only for the first syllable of Odin’s reply. Ifrit can just hear Odin’s low voice say, “Cidolfus,” before Ramuh steps into the room and shuts the door firmly behind him.
Ifrit’s heartbeat thumps against the edge of the fetters. He stares at the door, but he can’t hear more than the faintest suggestion of voices. The calm stillness has been scattered. The angle of the weak sunlight trickling in from the latticed windows is sharp. Gray and white clouds move in broad stripes across the squares, making them stand out in stark bars. Empty as it is, the room feels suddenly too big and too small, the edges pressing down on Ifrit with a heavy weight. He doesn’t move.
Some time later, Ramuh emerges. He closes the door behind him and lets out a slow breath. When he turns to Ifrit, the blankness is swept away by a smile. “Looks like you’re with me, lad. Look alive, would you?”
Ifrit stands up. His limbs are stiff after holding still for so long. He forces himself to move normally anyway, but Ramuh stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Hold on just a moment, lad.” He tugs at the collar of the dark blue shirt to center it and begins tightening the laces. “Where’d your boots get off to?”
Ifrit hasn’t seen them since Sleipnir led him here. He shrugs.
Ramuh’s hands pause for just a moment. He pulls the ties a little tighter. “Did you go in the bedchamber?”
Ifrit shakes his head.
“All right.” Ramuh lets out a quiet sigh. “Best we don’t bother Barnabas, then. We’ll find you a pair.” And then, under his breath, “Somewhere. Fuck.”
Once Ramuh has finished lacing up the shirt, he takes a step back and looks Ifrit up and down. He rubs his thumb across his jaw and tilts his head. Finally, he nods.
“All right,” he says again. “Let’s mosey, eh?”
Ramuh’s touch on Ifrit’s shoulder feels warmer than usual. It makes Ifrit aware of just how cold his feet are. He thinks briefly of the room where Sleipnir helped him change, but he doesn’t know where it is. He stays quiet.
The hallway outside is unfamiliar, as are the two guards who salute to Ramuh. It doesn’t stay that way for long, though, because Ramuh’s rooms aren’t far from Odin’s. Neither, it seems, are Benedikta’s – she emerges from a different door before they’re halfway down the hall. Ramuh stops and swears quietly under his breath.
“Cid?” She looks surprised. She’s dressed in dusty riding clothes, and several hanks of hair have escaped her ponytail. There’s a red mark on her forehead, just above her left eyebrow, and a matching spot of red on her collar. “And – Ifrit. Hello.”
Her tone is subdued. Something cold squirms in Ifrit’s chest. He’s prevented from needing to speak by Ramuh, who squeezes his shoulder once and steps forward between them.
“Benna,” he says. His voice is calm and friendly. “Headed for the baths?”
“I am. Weren’t you going to visit…” She trails off. She’s staring at Ifrit, and her face has gone very pale. Then, in a small voice, she says, “Cid?”
“Nothing to worry about, lass.” Ramuh’s tone doesn’t change. “Lad took a tumble training in the rain yesterday. We’re off to get him something that ain’t a damn tent.”
“Oh.” Benedikta looks at Ifrit for a long moment, her gaze disconcertingly similar to Ramuh’s. The cold stone under his feet feels suddenly unstable. He focuses his attention on Ramuh’s jacket. “Do you – I’ll be near the clothiers. I can try to bring something back.”
Ramuh’s shoulders loosen a little. “Would you? We’ll be in my solar.”
“Of course. It’s no trouble.”
“You’re a good one, Benna,” Ramuh says. His voice is warm.
Benedikta makes a small noise. “Yes, well, one of us has to be sensible.” Her voice is pitched higher than usual. “I mean, really, Cid, people will – really!”
Ramuh laughs, low and deep. “If they give you any trouble, tell them it’s on my account. All right?”
“I will,” Benedikta says firmly. Her voice is still high. “So – I’ll see you soon.”
“There’s no need to rush. Take your time,” Ramuh says easily.
He turns back towards Ifrit. On the front side of his jacket, there’s something splattered on the shoulder. The small speckles are almost invisible against the dark violet leather. It’s blood. Just a few dots, long dried. One is slightly smeared, as though more had been wiped away. Ifrit holds still as Ramuh reaches for his shoulder.
“Come on then, lad.” His heavy hand pushes Ifrit into motion again. Ifrit doesn’t resist. “No use standing around.”
Ramuh’s rooms are somehow different. Very little has changed. There are different papers on the desk and table, and there’s a leather pack lying on its side near the door. But even after Ramuh opens the balcony doors, the space seems smaller than before.
Ifrit doesn’t look closely at any of it. He lets Ramuh steer him to the couch and looks at Ramuh’s knees when the man sits down across from him.
“So.” Ramuh reaches into his jacket and pulls out his tobacco pouch. Ifrit waits. The first tendrils of acrid smoke reach his nose. Finally, Ramuh says, “Barnabas had you go at it with aether, I take it?”
Ifrit nods.
Ramuh hums. More silence, then more smoke. “How’d that go for you?”
Ifrit’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. Surely the answer to that question is obvious. He watches as Ramuh casually rests the hand holding the cigarillo on his knee. The silence stretches.
Finally, Ramuh snorts. “Fair enough. You’re right. That one’s on me for asking.”
He lifts his cigarillo again, and more tobacco smoke fills the room. The thick smell lingers on Ifrit’s tongue, making his stomach clench unpleasantly. It’s not any worse than this morning. Ifrit swallows the sensation down.
“Look, lad…” Ramuh stops. He taps off his ashes almost absently. “It’s normal to get knocked around some when you’re learning,” he says after a pause. Then again, more firmly, “It’s normal. So just…”
He trails off again. The silence stretches. Ifrit risks a glance up. Ramuh’s expression is remote and blank as he stares off into space, head angled slightly downwards. His hand rests on his knee and doesn’t move, forgotten cigarillo trailing a thin thread of smoke.
Then, with sudden vigor, Ramuh shakes his head in a sharp jerk and huffs a breath. “The fuck am I saying? You don’t need to hear this shite.”
He looks up, and Ifrit freezes, caught. But Ramuh just says with a little too much force, “Right then. We’ve got a bit of a wait ahead of us. Let’s not just sit here in silence with our thumbs up our arses, eh?”
Ramuh rises to his feet and paces to his desk. He bangs opens several drawers in turn, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Eventually he emerges, triumphant, with a wooden box.
“Here we are.” He returns to the sitting area. “Help me clear the table, would you, lad?”
Ifrit obeys, stacking the papers neatly and moving them aside. Ramuh nudges the ashtray over and sets the box down. It’s beautifully made, with delicate inlays of different colored wood in geometric patterns on both sides. Ramuh undoes the metal clasp and flattens the box into two trays, each painted with twelve narrow triangles – a game board.
There are several pouches inside. Ifrit sits with his hands on his knees as Ramuh empties each out, revealing dice and a number of smooth, flat disks, half white, half black. These he starts arranging on the board, placing stacks on different triangles in a system that remains opaque.
It’s meaningless to Ifrit, but Ramuh must have something in mind. Once everything is laid out to his satisfaction, he nods. “Right. You ever play Chocobo Hunt?”
Ifrit shakes his head.
Ramuh doesn’t seem deterred. He leans forward and starts pointing at the board. “It’s easy once you get the hang. You’ll be white and I’ll be black…”
===
Ramuh isn’t any better at explaining table games than card games. The first game they play is almost incomprehensible. Ramuh gives up on trying to help Ifrit follow along and switches to something that is supposedly simpler. Even when the mechanisms become clear, though, Ifrit doesn’t really understand the purpose of rolling the dice and moving the black and white pieces around the board.
Somehow, the lack of understanding eases the tension in his shoulders and back. It’s easier to not look at Ramuh’s jacket when the man is being cheerful and incomprehensible. He doesn’t raise his voice, and the lines of his expression remain shallow and smooth even when the dice aren’t in his favor. He just keeps up his easy patter, commenting on the gameplay or whatever inane thing happens to pass through his mind.
“Sometimes I think my men are better gamblers than soldiers,” he says at one point. “If we stop for more than a few minutes, some damn fool breaks out the dice before I’ve even finished calling a halt.”
He shakes his own dice and throws with a flourish. Ifrit looks at the numbers, then the board. He’s not certain, but it doesn’t look good. Sure enough, Ramuh sucks his teeth and laughs, shaking his head.
“Damn.” His voice is perfectly cheerful. “Give me some cold comfort, lad. Tell me the fools in Sanbreque are the same, will you?”
Ifrit glances up. Ramuh isn’t actually looking at him. He’s rubbing a thumb over his chin, gaze focused on the board. The room is wide and bright. Hesitantly, Ifrit asks, “The same?”
“Sure.” Ramuh leans forward and moves one of his pieces. His hand hovers, turn not yet done. “I have to believe that there’s men like that in every command, or I start having doubts about my choice of career.”
Ifrit thinks of the soldiers he’s fought beside. The branded men are often grim and quiet. They’re still preferable to the officers and dragoons, who usually seem at a loss as to how to best put Ifrit to use and never respond well to suggestions. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen any of them stop during a mission to play dice of all things. But then, they all tend to give Ifrit a wide berth. More often than not he’s alone. So maybe it’s just him.
Ramuh glances up, but he returns his attention to the board before Ifrit can actually tense. “That’s a telling silence, lad. It’s just my command then, is it? Everything neat and disciplined in your unit?”
Ifrit’s stomach twists uneasily. Ramuh doesn’t seem offended, but it would be stupid to risk it. Ifrit says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t have a unit.”
Ramuh’s hand pauses over the piece he was about to touch. He stares fiercely at it for a moment, then moves it with a decisive clack. “What, never? Even Barnabas fights with men behind him sometimes.”
“It’s not…” Ifrit doesn’t know how to answer. He thinks of trying to explain and realizes with a sudden lurch that this would probably count as intelligence. He clamps his mouth shut and turns his gaze to the board. The silence stretches. Eventually, Ramuh looks up at him and seems to come to the same realization.
“Relax,” he commands. He turns back to the board. “Just trying to make conversation. Not like it matters much now anyway.”
Ifrit’s throat tightens. He grips his knees and holds still. The fetters press sharply into the tendons of his wrists.
“Your move, lad,” Ramuh prompts.
It’s cold in the solar, even with the plush rug under his bare feet. Or rather, Ifrit feels cold. He can’t tell the difference anymore. He looks at the board, then picks up the dice. The numbers he rolls are meaningless. All of this is meaningless. It’s just Ramuh trying to fill the silence like he always does, because – Ifrit doesn’t know why. He never knows why.
He wishes, suddenly, that he was still with Odin. He knows what Odin wants and what he’ll do to try and get it. It would be easier to be back out in the bailey, throwing himself uselessly at Odin’s blade until his body was too broken to move. It would be so much easier.
Things are never easy for Ifrit. Ramuh is waiting, because that’s what Ramuh does, right up until he loses patience. And suddenly, Ifrit can’t take it anymore. He needs to know. He needs to find that line and cross it, just so he can finally know what’s on the other side. He braces himself, ready to just – wait and see.
Ifrit’s heart beats maybe a dozen times, each thump sharp and painful. Then there’s a knock, and the door opens.
It’s Benedikta.
A cold wave of dizziness runs through Ifrit’s whole body. His stomach lurches, and he has to clamp his mouth closed and breath through his nose. The lingering smell of tobacco almost undoes his control. But he can’t test Ramuh’s patience now. He can’t. He’s so stupid.
“Sorry for the wait,” Benedikta says from somewhere very far away.
“Told you to take your time, didn’t I?” Ramuh stands up and moves towards the door. “Did they give you any trouble?”
Benedikta’s answer is pleasant and meaningless. Ifrit can’t make himself look at her. He doesn’t need to look to remember the mark on her face or the blood on Ramuh’s jacket. He feels as though his selfishness must be written on his face. He looks at the game board and holds perfectly still.
Something heavy lands on his shoulder. Ifrit jolts, and the world slots back into place. It’s Ramuh’s hand. Ramuh is standing right there, bent over so that his face is almost level with Ifrit’s. His expression is blank and unreadable once more. “Are you with me, lad?”
Ifrit jerks his head in a nod.
Ramuh sighs. The sound makes Ifrit’s pulse vibrate in his throat. “Come on then. Up you get.”
His hand shifts to Ifrit’s elbow. Ifrit hastens to obey the command. He doesn’t see Benedikta. He doesn’t look for her. He looks at his feet and lets Ramuh pull him into the other room.
Once the door closes, it’s dark. Ramuh opens a window just a crack, letting in a trickle of gray light. At the edges of his vision, Ifrit can see the wide shape of a bed and the dark forms of other furniture. He doesn’t look at any of it. He tracks Ramuh’s figure and waits for his next command.
Ramuh has a bundle under his arm. He sets it down on the bed and shakes out the first item to reveal a shirt, its color pale and impossible to tell in the gloom. He holds it up near Ifrit and grunts. He shakes out another item, a pair of breeches with reinforced knees in a murky, indeterminate gray. The last wad of fabric proves to be small clothes. These Ramuh leaves where they lie.
“Should fit all right,” Ramuh says after a moment. And then, finally, a clear order: “Go ahead and change. I’ll be over here.”
Ifrit doesn’t wonder why Ramuh wants him to change again so soon. He just reaches for the laces of the shirt. They’re tied very tightly. His fingers fumble for too long before the knot comes loose. He can’t help glancing at Ramuh – but Ramuh isn’t paying attention at all. He’s rifling through his own wardrobe, not looking at Ifrit.
Ifrit keeps moving. He lays the oversized shirt on the bed, then does the same with the too-long breeches. He pulls on the smallclothes, then the new shirt. It fits his frame more closely than the darker shirt, but the sleeves are too long and meant to sit flush against his forearms. He has to roll them up awkwardly to sit above the fetters. The dark breeches fit his hips but don’t quite come down to his ankles, and the pads of fabric sewn onto the knees sit high, slightly off-center.
Ramuh is still digging through the wardrobe. Ifrit doesn’t think about what he’s looking for or why it’s taking so long. He doesn’t need to think. He just needs to wait for orders. So he waits.
He doesn’t wait for long. Soon after he stops moving, Ramuh pulls back from the wardrobe with a small bundle of fabric in his hand. “Here. Boots’d be the wrong size, but these should do for now.”
Ifrit takes the bundle. It’s a pair of socks. He pulls them on. The fabric is rough against his cold toes. He stands and waits again.
Ramuh opens the window fully, and dim light floods the room. The sky outside is the same white and gray as before, but it’s suddenly painful to look at. Ifrit turns his gaze to Ramuh’s jacket. Then Ramuh turns around, and that isn’t any better. Ifrit forces himself to keep looking anyway.
“Hm.” It isn’t a pleased sound. Ifrit holds still as Ramuh approaches, but he only reaches up to start tying the collar of the new shirt closed, just like he did before. “How’s that bruise feeling, lad? Barnabas didn’t cut anything important, did he?”
Ifrit’s hand unconsciously reaches for his chest, but Ramuh’s hands are in the way. It still aches, but the worst of the injury was swept away by the tide of aether. He’d almost forgotten about it until Ramuh asked.
“Lad?” Ramuh’s tone is harsh. Ifrit quickly lowers his hand and shakes his head. “You sure about that? Think carefully now.”
Ifrit swallows. Ramuh isn’t touching him directly, but Ifrit feels sure he must be able to sense the rapid beating of his heart. “Yes, sir.”
“Hm. All right then.” Ramuh finishes tying the shirt closed with a sharp yank. Then he steps back and looks Ifrit up and down. He fusses briefly with the rolled up sleeves, then sighs and mutters, “We need to get you to a bloody tailor.”
Ifrit almost expects Ramuh to grab his elbow and drag him off immediately. Instead, the man looks at the clothes laid out on the bed for a long time. Even after he turns back to Ifrit, he doesn’t speak right away.
“All right then,” he says again. His voice is deep and quiet. He reaches up and brushes some of Ifrit’s hair out of his eyes. “Benna’s gone to get some grub. You up to a meal, lad?”
There are few things less appealing at the moment than food, but frustrating Ramuh is one of them. Ifrit nods.
This earns him a smile. In the dim bedchamber, the lie of it is thinner than usual. “Good. Why don’t we go clean up, then?”
Ifrit follows obediently after Ramuh. The solar has shrunk even further. Ramuh begins to pack away the table game into its ornate box and directs Ifrit to stack the remaining papers on his desk. Ifrit obeys. It’s the work of moments. He stands and waits for another command, but Ramuh doesn’t give him any new orders. He moves to the leather pack and hauls it away. He sorts the papers on his desk. He opens and closes drawers, never pulling anything out for more than a moment, never still.
Eventually, he seems to remember that Ifrit is still there. Ifrit doesn’t move as Ramuh looks him up and down, or as Ramuh steps closer. But Ramuh just gestures to the couch and lowers himself back into the chair.
“No use standing around,” he says, tone as easy as always. Even so, his finger taps a beat on his knee, and his eyes keep drifting towards the door.
Ifrit sits. Ramuh always puts him in the same spot. The room feels different, but the spot is the same. It’s familiar. It shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be letting himself get familiar with this place. His throat is tight, and his chest aches more fiercely than before. But this morning – he accepted it. That he isn’t going anywhere. Not yet. Maybe not – for a long time.
He swallows. The motion is painful. He won’t be able to eat anything, and then – Ramuh will lose patience. And he can’t let that happen. He can’t.
So – Ifrit sits. And he waits. And when Ramuh starts filling the silence, Ifrit makes himself not think about it. Instead, he makes himself think, just for a little while – maybe. Maybe. He listens, and he lets the tight, painful knot in his throat ease, and he doesn’t move at all.
===
When Benedikta returns, Ifrit watches Ramuh’s reaction carefully. There’s still something tense about him, something tightly coiled waiting to spring forth. But Ramuh doesn’t let it go. He smiles at Benedikta and the woman with her, who helps set out the tray of food before leaving with a bow. He sits beside Ifrit and details the contents of some correspondence to Benedikta, who laughs as she dishes out bowls of stew, not seeming to notice the pressure at all. He passes a bowl from Benedikta to Ifrit and hands him a spoon, and the coiled trap doesn’t spring.
Ramuh doesn’t look at Ifrit at all during the meal. It doesn’t make it easier to eat – but it doesn’t make it harder, either. When the bowl is empty, Ramuh doesn’t fill it again. He doesn’t seem to notice when Ifrit carefully sets it on the table and rests his hands back on his knees. Ramuh’s gaze stays fixed on Benedikta as she talks, and his expression stays pleasant. Ifrit keeps careful watch, but the shift he’s waiting for never comes.
Outside, the white slowly leeches from the sky, leaving the outline of the balcony a drab gray rectangle. As the gray begins to take on a purplish cast, Ramuh looks out at the sky, too, and says, “How’re you holding up, Benna? Fancy an early night?”
Benedikta turns her body to look as well, and for a moment, Ifrit can’t see the mark on her brow. “It’s not that late. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten old already, Cid.”
Ifrit holds his breath, but Ramuh just laughs. “No need to sound so eager to start digging my grave. I figured it was a long day for you was all.”
“I’m fine,” Benedikta says coolly. She turns back around, shoulders stiff. “Of course, if you need your beauty sleep, I’m happy to oblige. It would make life easier for the both of us.”
“Ouch.” Ramuh leans back, hand over his heart. Somehow, bafflingly, he seems to have relaxed. “I see how it’s going to be. Would my lady care to humor this old man with a game of cards, then?”
“Well.” Her lips press together, but the cold expression quickly melts into a smile. “I suppose I could be convinced.”
“That’s the spirit.” And then, for the first time since the meal began, he turns to look directly at Ifrit. “How about you, lad? You game?”
Ifrit’s heart thumps, but the cold rush doesn’t last long, even when his eyes catch on the spots on Ramuh’s jacket. The correct answer is obvious. He nods.
Sure enough, Ramuh grins and claps Ifrit on the shoulder. “Good lad. Let me just get my affairs in order before you put me in the ground, eh, lass?”
Benedikta covers her mouth with her hand, but the crinkles at the corners of her eyes give away her smile. Ramuh springs up and strides to his desk, where he uncovers the lamp and begins sorting through the eternal mess of paper. Benedikta, meanwhile, rises and begins to clear the table. This time, Ifrit doesn’t let himself hesitate. He stands and begins to help.
“Oh. You don’t have to…” Benedikta trails off, but her hands don’t stop moving.
Ifrit puts down the stack of bowls and pauses. He glances at Ramuh, but the man isn’t looking at them. Quietly, he asks, “Should I not?”
Benedikta stares at him for a long moment. Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. Then she shakes her head once, a sharp motion. “It’s fine! We’re already done.”
And they are. She carries the tray outside, and they both hesitate for the same handful of heartbeats before sitting again.
Ifrit keeps his hands on his knees and his gaze on the now-empty table. Ramuh is still looking through the papers on his desk. Everything is quiet.
Benedikta’s voice startles him. “Did you work for a household? Before?”
She’s sitting very straight with her fingers laced together on top of her knees. When Ifrit shakes his head, those fingers tighten, knuckles going white. On instinct, he asks, “Did you?”
“Yes,” she says shortly. Her fingers unlace and brush at a speck of lint on her knee. “I did. Before – Cid found me.”
Ifrit considers everything he’s learned about Benedikta. It should be surprising. There’s a part of him that wants to wonder about it – how she got here, and why Ramuh took her in. But there’s another part of him, bigger and older and stronger, that knows it’s better not to wonder. That he won’t like the answer.
“They were awful,” Benedikta says suddenly. Her voice is hard. “I don’t regret – I’m glad that I’m here now. Stonhyrr is better. Much better.”
Ifrit can’t help looking at her face again, eyes catching on the red mark there, but Benedikta doesn’t seem to notice. She’s glaring at the table, face set into fierce scowl. When she looks up at him, Ifrit freezes.
“I hope it can be better for you too,” she says firmly.
Her eyes are hazel. Ifrit finds that he can’t look away, even though he knows he should. His tongue sits thickly in his mouth, the lingering taste of stew sour and cloying. He can feel his pulse in the sharp line on his chest and at the edge of the fetters.
Suddenly, Benedikta shoots to her feet and turns away. “Cid, where’s the deck? You never shuffle right.”
“What, you mean I don’t stack it in your favor enough?” Ramuh drawls. Even as he speaks, he digs into a drawer and tosses a small box her way.
Benedikta snatches it out of the air and turns it over in her hands. Then she returns to the sitting area. Her cheeks are red, almost as dark as the scrape on her forehead. She doesn’t look at Ifrit. She focuses on the cards, tapping out the deck and splitting it in two with deft motions. It’s the same deck that Ramuh had on the ship. The edges of the pasteboard are thick with use. Benedikta bridges the cards easily between her long fingers, brow creased in concentration.
Ifrit makes himself watch the motion, the way the cards bend one way, then another. He listens to the rapid thwpthwpthwp of the pasteboard. He doesn’t think about what Benedikta said, or about the way her face had looked, earnest and hurt. He laces his fingers together and squeezes to the point of pain, and he doesn’t let himself look away.
“What are we playing?” Benedikta’s voice interrupts the rhythm of her shuffling. Her cheeks have faded to a light pink.
Ramuh shuffles his papers into a stack and taps it firmly on the desk. “How about Dhalmekian pick up?”
“All right.” Benedikta begins to deal out the cards, and after a moment, Ramuh returns. He sits down next to Ifrit without looking at him, and he and Benedikta both pick up the cards in front of them.
Ifrit hurries to do the same. The rules are only a vague shape in his mind. He focuses on that shape, the things that he can do with crowns and scepters and swords, the numbers and the pictures on the pasteboard. He doesn’t really understand any of it, just like he doesn’t understand why he’s here. Just like he doesn’t understand why Ramuh is calm and smiling now when he was tense and ready to snap for most of the afternoon. Just like he doesn’t understand what Benedikta said or why.
Ifrit doesn’t have to understand. It’s not his purpose to understand anything at all. It never has been. All he needs to do is stop thinking about it.
“Your turn, lad,” Ramuh says.
Ifrit takes a card from the deck. He adds it to his hand. He considers the pile. None of it makes sense. It doesn’t have to.
Ifrit discards, and the turn passes to Benedikta. Everything is quiet. And they play.
Notes:
There are sooooo many misunderstandings in this chapter, and Clive honestly doesn't even realize the half of it. Writing misunderstandings is like enrichment for an author; I totally get why so many people do it now. It's great!!
I won't say that this will be the last chapter before mid-May, but that is a distinct possibility. There are a few scenes I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to get to, though, so there's a decent chance you'll hear from me again before then. Either way, thank you to everyone who's read this far, and especially to those of you who have stopped by to say hi!
Chapter 7
Notes:
My music taste has been jumping around quite a bit lately... I'm not sure if it really fits the vibe, but I did listen to FFXIV's "Neath Dark Waters" for most of writing this.
More importantly, here's the chapter! Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ramuh takes Ifrit back to his cell long after the sky has gone dark. The inside of Ifrit’s head is full and heavy, an almost pleasant feeling that doesn’t leave room for him to think about anything at all. Even looking at Benedikta when she said good night hadn’t been painful. Not even when she’d smiled at him. It’s the easiest it’s ever been to go where Ramuh’s hand takes him, and Ifrit clings to the feeling, letting the heaviness weigh his head down and keeping his eyes on the floor.
He’s peripherally aware of when they arrive, but not even Ramuh’s exclamation has the power to startle him. “Oh, thank fuck.”
With effort, Ifrit lifts his head. The cell is the same as it’s ever been. Except it isn’t, exactly. Someone has neatened the covers on the bed, and there’s a pile of folded fabric on top of the quilt. And there, next to the bedpost, are his boots.
Ifrit absorbs all of these facts without thinking about them. He lets Ramuh pull him into the cell and stands quietly as the man looks through the pile of fabric.
“Well, that’s one thing off tomorrow’s list,” Ramuh says brightly. “I’m going to put these over here. You watching, lad?”
Ifrit dips his chin. Ramuh opens the cabinet on the washstand and lays the fabric inside. He peers into the pitcher, then taps the cover of the book still sitting on the edge. “Ever get around to reading this?”
“I’ve read it.” The words slip out easily. Ifrit’s throat tightens a little, but there isn’t room for anything more inside him. The emotion skips lightly over his heart, only gently ruffling the surface before sinking into the deep.
“Yeah?” Ramuh smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You like it?”
Ifrit nods.
“Glad to hear it.” Ramuh reaches up and gives Ifrit’s shoulder a squeeze. “We can look for another like it tomorrow. I’m sure I’ve got something kicking around.”
The thought of tomorrow is so distant that he can’t imagine it. He doesn’t have to, though. Ramuh will decide what he wants to do with Ifrit, and then he’ll do it. All Ifrit has to do is wait and obey.
For now, though, Ramuh just pats him on the shoulder. “How’s about you try and get some beauty sleep of your own, eh, lad? You look like you could use it.”
Ifrit nods again, and with one more pat, Ramuh leaves.
With Ramuh gone, it’s quiet. Ifrit’s body is almost too heavy to move. It takes a long time for him to get onto the bed. When he does, it feels as though he’ll sink down through the quilt and the straw, all the way down to the floor. It isn’t that he’s tired, exactly. There just isn’t room inside of him for one single other thing. It’s good. He closes his eyes.
The heat wakes him. But when he opens his eyes to the familiar texture of stone, it’s freezing cold. Nothing has changed, but the world has warped. His heart is pounding, and sweat beads his neck and back. The tips of his fingers and toes feel like ice.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t close his eyes again, either. When he looks closely at the stone, he can see that it’s not just gray but flecked with black and white and brown. There’s a patch that’s tinted purple, too, near where his arm lies. When Ifrit lets his eyes relax, it all blends together into an indistinguishable mass. He stares at that mass for a long time.
Eventually, there’s the sound of a door opening and footsteps on the stairs. Ifrit sits up. The sweat has dried, but his head is still itchy. He keeps his hands in his lap and waits.
The visitor is Sleipnir. Seeing him again feels – strange. The day before, waking to Odin’s dark silhouette and sitting for so long with Ramuh and Benedikta, feels like it happened to someone else. Only the pale blue shirt with its too-long sleeves and the padded breeches remind him that it was real. The heaviness of the night before is gone. In its wake, Ifrit finds that the world around him is cold and sharp-edged.
Especially sharp is Sleipnir’s smile. “Ifrit. I trust that you are ready to continue?”
Ifrit nods and begins to move. He can feel Sleipnir’s eyes on him as he pulls on his boots. Cold as his feet are, the familiar leather makes him feel somehow steadier. He doesn’t stumble when he moves to follow Sleipnir out into the corridor.
As they approach the bailey, Ifrit can hear the sound of clanging metal. Just before they enter the yard, there’s a shout and a sharp crack.
“Oh dear,” Sleipnir murmurs. His words are belied by the little smile on his face. “It seems that we’re missing the excitement.”
The bailey is much as Ifrit left it. He barely notices the charred remains, though. In the center of the cleared dirt under the clear blue sky, Ramuh and Odin are locked in battle.
Even with the fetters, Ifrit can feel the heavy weight of aether. He wouldn’t need to feel it to know its presence. The training area is littered with strange patches of darkness. As they stop at the edge of the yard, Ramuh pushes away from Odin with a shout and gestures with a sword. Thunder booms again, and a dozen small threads of levin strike the ribbons of shadow, vanishing them with a series of sharp little pops.
Odin seems unfazed. He swipes his blade down almost casually, forcing Ramuh to turn his body to the side to narrowly avoid a stripe of red-black aether, which dissipates on the stone behind him without leaving a mark. Ramuh keeps moving, lifting a sword. Levin cracks, a blinding bolt turned aside by Odin’s dark blade, followed eagerly by the ordinary steel of Ramuh’s second sword. As smoothly as though tracing the steps of a rehearsed dance, Odin steps around the blade and into Ramuh’s guard, even as Ramuh clumsily tries to withdraw and gain distance again. Odin seizes this hesitation and in two easy motions knocks one of Ramuh’s swords from his grasp and his legs out from underneath him.
For one unending heartbeat, Odin points his dark blade at Ramuh’s throat. Something frigidly cold grips Ifrit’s heart, and he feels the insane urge to call out rising up in his throat. Then, before he can fully process the feeling, Ramuh rasps, “Yield.”
Odin lifts the blade and lets it dissolve in a shimmer of aether.
“I would have thought your time in the field would sharpen your skills rather than dull them. You have grown careless, Cidolfus.” Odin leans down, holding out his hand.
Ramuh clasps Odin’s arm and is pulled to his feet. “I’m afraid most of us poor sods look careless compared to you, Your Majesty. Spare at least a little pity for us lowly mortals, would you?”
“Even if I were to spare you, our enemies would not.” Odin releases Ramuh’s arm and reaches up to grip his shoulder. “I would not have your carelessness see you taken from us before your time. I expect better of you.”
Ramuh brushes the dirt from his palms and winces, shaking out his left hand. Odin releases him, eyes tracking the motion. Ramuh mutters something that Ifrit can’t hear, then takes a step back and bows, fist pressed over his heart. “I’ll try not to disappoint you, my king.”
“See to it that you do not,” Odin commands. He turns, and his cool gaze lands on Ifrit. “I hope that our guest may learn from this lesson as well.”
Ramuh looks up from stretching his arm and flashes a grin. “Morning, lad. Thought I told you to get some beauty sleep.”
Sleipnir snorts. Ifrit doesn’t know whether a reply is expected of him. Before the silence can stretch too long, he ventures, “Good morning.”
Odin’s expression remains cool and distant, but Ramuh’s grin brightens enough to look real. It’s Odin who steps forward, though, approaching with calm steps. Sleipnir lightly touches Ifrit’s back, and Ifrit obeys the silent command, moving forward to meet him.
They stop with less than an arm’s length between them. Sleipnir withdraws his hand and steps away towards Ramuh, murmuring something that makes the other man scowl and swat at him with the back of his hand. Ifrit isn’t looking at them, though. He’s looking at Odin and the pale slash of his neck. The desire to see it cut is still there, but Ifrit swallows it down with only a thought.
“Ifrit,” Odin says calmly. “You understand that another attempt to kill me will avail you nothing.”
Ifrit’s throat squeezes. He clenches his jaw to forestall the feeling and forces his chin to dip in a nod.
Odin’s placid expression doesn’t shift as he reaches into his shirt and withdraws a key. The small piece of metal glints in the sunlight. He holds out his other hand, and Ifrit offers his left wrist. Odin grips it where the fetter meets his skin, turning it to face palm up in the light. Ifrit breathes deeply, bracing himself. The fetter opens with a click and comes away from his skin with little fanfare, aether still leashed and ribs as cold and hollow as ever.
One of Odin’s hands lingers even as he holds the fetter out to the side. Ramuh steps forward to take it, no longer scowling. He looks at Odin for a long moment, then offers Ifrit a fleeting smile.
Odin releases Ifrit’s wrist. Ifrit breathes. He offers his right arm. He can’t feel the aether, but he can imagine it – the way that it will spark to life. The way that he’ll have to contain the flames before they run wild. He breathes. Odin’s grip is firm. His calloused fingers are cool on Ifrit’s skin. He inserts the key and turns it, and the world shifts.
Ifrit’s breath stutters as hot sparks kindle in his chest once more. He’s suddenly, ravenously hungry, the sensation caught between the familiar haze of heat and material need. He forces his breathing to smooth out, even and deep, until the hunger fades to a purely physical pang.
Odin makes no move to arm him, nor to attack him. He just watches, his hand still lightly gripping Ifrit’s wrist. This close, the scar on his chest almost seems to beckon, begging Ifrit to add a mark of his own, something deep enough that it would never heal.
Ifrit knows better. He holds still and waits.
“So you can learn.” Odin’s voice is as flat as his expression. He displays no satisfaction at his victory. His fingers tighten briefly on Ifrit’s wrist before finally releasing it. He steps away, offering the second fetter and key to Ramuh, who juggles them both and vanishes the little piece of metal into his jacket.
Ifrit watches from behind his hair as Odin murmurs something quietly to Ramuh. They aren’t close enough for him to hear. He looks down, gently touching his bare wrist. The newly exposed skin is sensitive and tingling. On the tender underside where the fetters rub with each stretch of tendon, there’s a new band of red forming, not quite aligned with the older, darker patches of skin. He wonders if Odin will want him to semi-prime, and whether that rush of aether will wipe away the sting. His chest aches at the thought, a reminder of the deeper, more vital hurts that are sure to follow.
When Odin returns, though, he comes carrying not steel but two wooden training swords. Ifrit just barely manages to catch the one thrown to him without fumbling.
“Your previous swordmaster was working you towards using a greatsword,” Odin says. It isn’t a question. Ifrit watches Odin’s hand where it grips the wooden hilt and doesn’t reply. “You do not yet have the build for such a weapon, and your understanding of more common blades is lacking. That is where we shall begin.”
Ifrit looks at the training blade. It’s a facsimile of a longsword, narrower and with a somewhat different balance from the weapons he’s used to. It doesn’t feel quite right in his hand.
“Now attend and move as I do,” Odin commands. He settles into a stance. Ifrit hurries to mimic him, hand awkward on the hilt of the blade. “Relax your grip. Like so…”
===
Odin leads Ifrit through the motions of one technique after another. Ifrit has to focus intently on the unfamiliar movements, trying to learn them as perfectly as possible in preparation for what’s to come. When he fails, Odin corrects him, often by wordlessly moving Ifrit’s limbs to the proper configuration and guiding them through a swing or parry.
Every time Odin approaches, Ifrit’s heart kicks up a staccato beat against his ribs, and he has to press down the rising heat of aether. He keeps waiting for the fight to start – for Odin to cast aside the training sword, form his dark blade, and break Ifrit against it until he can no longer move. But he never calls for aether at all.
Ifrit is still waiting when the sun reaches its zenith and Odin calls a halt.
He appraises Ifrit with the same cool gaze he’s worn the entire time. Ifrit waits. Then, like the imperceptible transition between twilight and true night, something shifts. He can’t point to any one change, but somehow Odin’s expression isn’t cold anymore. He twirls the training blade, a mirror to Sleipnir’s favorite motion, before offering Ifrit the hilt.
“Rack these and stretch,” he commands. Ifrit obediently grips the handle, and Odin reaches out to lightly touch his chin. Ifrit follows the gentle pressure and raises his head.
“You have but taken the first step onto the road to strength,” Odin says quietly. His blue eyes move over Ifrit’s face. For one heart-stopping moment, Ifrit makes the mistake of meeting them. “Do not despair that its terminus is not yet in view, Ifrit. You will reach it in time.”
Ifrit jerks his gaze to Odin’s chin, pulse beating painfully in his throat. He waits. After one last searching look, Odin removes his cool fingers. Then he turns towards where Ramuh and Sleipnir have been going at it and walks away.
Ifrit watches the silhouette of Odin’s broad back, unable to look away. Something rises up in his chest, and his mouth is half-open before he remembers himself. He quickly snaps it shut and turns away. He can’t hesitate for too long. He passes the burnt stubs of the former fence and deposits the two wooden swords on the new rack. The real blades are right there. He could easily take one. The realization that he’s unbound and unwatched should be almost meaningless. Ifrit’s heart kicks up anyway, a rush of heat that he has to fight to contain.
He turns away. Odin and Ramuh are both here. He has time. Odin is speaking with Ramuh and Sleipnir, who have finally come to a halt. As Ifrit watches, Ramuh reaches up to thump the back of his fist against Sleipnir’s chest, who in return smacks his hand away. Both are smiling. Odin lifts a hand and grips Ramuh’s shoulder, and Ramuh nods. Again, Ifrit feels something rise up, a childish tightness that makes him want to call out.
Ifrit turns away from that, too, and begins to stretch. His muscles aren’t even sore. He could fight much harder for much longer than this, even with the hunger. He’s done it before. But it was a command. If he isn’t going to pick up a sword and fight, then he has to obey.
The intent behind the order soon becomes clear. Ramuh approaches with the fetters in hand as Ifrit eases out of a lunge. His jacket is dusty, and there’s a smudge of dirt on one of his cheeks, but his gait is loose and relaxed. “How’re you holding up, lad?”
Ifrit considers what answer Ramuh wants to hear. The truth should suffice. “Fine.”
After a searching look, Ramuh nods and claps Ifrit on the shoulder. Up close, Ifrit can see that his smile doesn’t quite seem to reach his eyes. “All right. Come over here and sit down down for a moment.”
He steers Ifrit to one of the stone benches. The top has been cleaned of soot, and there’s a new bucket of water and ladle waiting next to it. On the other side of the yard, Odin and Sleipnir have paused in their conversation, heads turned in their direction. Ifrit sits and holds out his wrists.
But Ramuh doesn’t close the fetters over them. He sits down next to Ifrit instead, placing one of the fetters on the stone and turning the other over in his hands. “Been a while since I’ve had the chance to spar with Barnabas. Not that much has changed, mind. You’d think in over a decade I’d have bested him just once, but alas.”
Ifrit can imagine. Ramuh is formidable enough – if he weren’t, Ifrit wouldn’t be here. But there’s something different about Odin. Something untouchable.
The bright sun is hot on his skin, and his blood is still warm from movement. He fights down a shiver and lowers his hands, lacing his fingers together instead.
“At least I can still get one over on Sleipnir.” Ramuh huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Some of the time, anyway. Not that you’ve seen as much. I suppose I must be starting to look pretty pathetic, eh?”
The thought hadn’t occurred to Ifrit at all. He can still remember all too clearly the cold instant of realization, when his mouth had closed on nothing and the world had dissolved into blinding pain. The echo of that pain shivers through him. Even unbound as he is, he doesn’t think the result would be much different now. Not when he can’t even keep up with Sleipnir, who isn’t a Dominant at all.
When Ramuh doesn’t start talking again, Ifrit offers quietly, “You beat me.”
Ramuh doesn’t seem pleased by the reminder. His mouth twists, but it isn’t a smile. “I’ve got a decade of experience on you, lad. Not to mention I’ve had training. Real training.” He gestures with the fetter in his hands and huffs a short laugh. “Hell, I’ve done my stint with these things. Not in the same circumstances, mind, but I remember what it’s like. Makes everything feel damn near impossible.”
Ifrit glances at Ramuh’s arms. The sleeves of his jacket are long enough to cover his wrists, but even when they’ve ridden up, Ifrit hasn’t noticed any scars. And Odin seems to trust him completely. Ramuh doesn’t look like he’s lying, though. So it must be that he’s just better than Ifrit. Either a better liar or a better learner.
Ramuh rubs a thumb over one of the crystals on the fetter. Inactive, it lacks the glow of aether and sits dully in the metal, deceptively harmless.
“Barnabas told me that you want this. The training, I mean.” He looks up, and Ifrit quickly focuses on his own hands. Not quickly enough to miss how cold and blank Ramuh’s expression has gone, though. “That true, lad?”
Ifrit nods. It isn’t a matter of want. It’s the only choice he has, other than giving up. And he’s not going to do that. Not ever.
“All right,” Ramuh says after a long pause. He shifts. Ifrit keeps his eyes on the tangle of his fingers and the white of his knuckles. “I imagine this must be pretty different from whatever… training you had before. Although I doubt you’ll tell me about that?”
Ifrit doesn’t move.
Ramuh laughs, a short and entirely humorless sound. “Yeah, I figured as much. Don’t look so stiff, lad. I’m not going to ask. I just want you to know that you can ask, all right? Anything you don’t understand. Hell, even just anything you’re curious about. I can’t promise I’ll have an answer for everything, but I can try. All right?”
For a moment, Ifrit can feel it rising up again. The desire to say something. He doesn’t understand why Ramuh does anything. If he’s offering to explain, then surely – but Ifrit doesn’t think he wants to know. He can’t fully imagine what the answer would be, but he can see the shape of it. Enough to make his heart flutter and his throat tighten painfully.
The tightness strangles the question before it has the chance to form. Ifrit holds still and waits.
“Just think about it, lad,” Ramuh says. His hand lands on Ifrit’s shoulder. “And just give it time, all right? None of us got this shite right away. You’re a hard worker. You’ll figure it out.”
Ifrit squeezes his fingers together until he can feel the pressure in his bones. He wonders if Ramuh would say as much if he knew why Ifrit is working so hard. Surely he must already know. Ifrit has killed so many of his men, and Odin must have told Ramuh about Ifrit’s attempt to kill him, as pathetic as it was. He’s not going to stop. As soon as he’s able, he’ll kill as many of them as he needs to get back to his duty. Even Ramuh himself.
Except when he imagines –
He stops imagining. His pulse is beating in his fingertips. Something is trying to crawl its way out of his throat. He swallows it down, and it settles in his stomach next to the hunger, molten and sickening.
The hand on his shoulder squeezes, a warm, gentle pressure. It hurts. Ifrit feels ill.
“Just think about it,” Ramuh repeats. Then he puts the fetter down and stands up. “All right. No use faffing about. Let me see your wrists – there’s a good lad.”
Ifrit’s fingers are stiff and brittle. He forces them apart and holds out his arms. Ramuh takes one of Ifrit’s wrists between his warm hands, his touch just as gentle as before. The callouses on his palms are still rough on the sensitive skin. After a moment of examination, Ramuh makes a low noise.
“If these start breaking the skin, I want you to tell me,” he orders. Ifrit nods, and Ramuh returns the gesture. Then he neatens the rolled cuff of Ifrit’s sleeve and reaches for the first fetter.
He lines up the cold metal with Ifrit’s wrist and pauses. “Ready, lad?”
It’s impossible to truly brace himself. Ifrit tries anyway. He nods. Ramuh closes the fetter with a decisive click, and once more the fire in Ifrit’s chest goes out.
He lets his eyes close and takes several deep breaths. He can feel Ramuh’s touch on his other arm, a warm contrast to the metal that follows. When this touch withdraws, Ifrit lets the new weight pull his arm down and rests it on his thigh.
The warm touch moves to his shoulder again and squeezes. The pressure seems to travel to Ifrit’s chest, making his heart shudder. “Take a minute and adjust. There’s no rush.”
Ifrit nods without opening his eyes, head bowed. His stomach clenches, but the hunger is gone. All that remains is that sickening, slippery feeling. If there were anything in him but water, it would probably come up again. As it is, he can imagine the taste of bile all too well. He breathes through his nose until the sensation settles, clenching and unclenching his trembling fingers.
The world is steady enough. There’s no point in trying Ramuh’s patience now. Ifrit opens his eyes.
The bailey is empty save for Ramuh. Even the guards have left. Ramuh is moving through a series of stretches of his own. When he notices Ifrit watching, he straightens and rolls out his shoulders. “Shall we?”
Ifrit nods. He doesn’t know what Ramuh means, but he thinks he might be able to imagine. This time, he lets himself. The kitchens. Ramuh’s rooms. The garden. The images settle in his chest, a solid counterweight to the awful sickness rooted there. He stands. His legs take a moment to adjust, but they hold his weight. And with Ramuh’s hand on his arm, warm and grounding, he doesn’t really need to steer anyway.
Notes:
And we’ve climbed over the 30k wall! Hooray! I hope you’ve all been having as much fun as I've been. Thank you again for all of your kudos and comments!! You've all made writing this story even more enjoyable than it was when I started.
This is the stage where I start thinking about all the ways I might have paced things differently, but I’m writing for fun and won’t be engaging with any perfectionism. …That said, I did in fact cut this chapter in half because it was covering too many different beats. Whoops! What would have been the second half is more than half-written already and has a pretty solid trajectory. As does my study schedule, which does not have any room for long stretches of writing time. So I’ll see you all in the back half of May!
Chapter 8
Notes:
This chapter turned into a hefty one! Enjoy this peaceful rendition of "Where the Heart Is" with rain sounds, and enjoy the chapter! :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ifrit’s imagination proves true. They end up back in the courtyard garden with a cloth and a basket of food. The sun is high above them, with only a few clouds floating across the blue sky. Ramuh leads them to the cool shade of the apple trees again. Everything is bright and quiet. It’s peaceful.
This time, Ifrit doesn’t question it. He knows better now. He makes himself eat what Ramuh gives him and focuses on adjusting to the cold. By the time the food is gone, his fingers have steadied, although the chill lingers.
With Ramuh around, the peaceful quiet can only last so long. Not long after they finish, he stretches his arms over his head and lets out a gusty sigh. “Guess I really am out of shape. Don’t know about you, but it feels like my bruises have bruises. How’s a soak sound?”
Ifrit doesn’t understand. Sunlight is filtering down through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on Ramuh’s jacket. The blood is gone. Tentatively, he asks, “What?”
Ramuh smiles despite the question. “A hot bath, lad. So we’re not stiff as boards tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Ifrit considers this. Then he remembers that he doesn’t have to consider. He nods and is rewarded by the corners of Ramuh’s smile lifting.
“Smart lad,” he says brightly.
Ramuh reaches over to clap Ifrit on the shoulder, then springs into action. Ifrit lets himself be pulled along in Ramuh’s wake, obediently carrying and following and moving as directed. The inside of his head is very light, and the hallways seem to narrow to pinpricks as they move through them. Only the tether of Ramuh’s hand keeps him moored and on course.
The entry to the baths is the same as Ifrit remembers. He finds himself looking at the memory as if gazing at a distant painting, lining the image up with the distant present. Ramuh’s hand rests on his arm the same place. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Very little has changed, but the memory feels like a lifetime ago. It was only a few days. Ifrit fights to keep his eyes open this time, fixing his gaze on the countertop and letting the deep burr of Ramuh’s voice wash through him.
Ramuh releases his grip on Ifrit’s arm, and his voice resolves into words. “Hold these, would you?”
He thrusts forward a stack of towels. The white fabric is a little stiff and smells faintly of lavender. They’re surprisingly heavy.
Ramuh takes the basket of jars, hooking an arm through the handle and using the other to steer Ifrit. The door is different this time. It opens into a long, humid room whose walls are lined with hooks and a series of baskets. Two rows of benches run down the middle, leading to a curtained doorway at the far end of the room.
Near this doorway, a man in the keep’s livery is halfway to his feet, not quite having managed to finish standing at the sound of the opening door. He bows hastily, one hand behind his back. “Lord Telamon! How may I be of assistance?”
“Just the usual. I’ve got a few things for safekeeping,” Ramuh says. He sets down the basket and begins fishing into his pockets, pulling out various articles. Ifrit’s eyes catch on his keyring. “Don’t get excited now, lad.”
Ifrit quickly turns his gaze away. The towels are a very bright white that suggests frequent bleaching. The lavender smell mixes strangely with the humid air, making his stomach turn.
“Of course, milord.” There’s a light thump, then footsteps and the sound of clinking metal. “And your Bearer…?”
“What Bearer?” There’s an edge to Ramuh’s voice that wasn’t there before. Ifrit doesn’t move. “Thought you lot were better gossips than that.”
The servant makes a strangled noise. “A-ah. Forgive me, milord, it’s just that Bearers are not…” He hastily clears his throat. “But of course, as you say, milord. As you say. Shall I…?”
“Do the same for him as for me?” Ramuh’s tone is cheerful enough, but Ifrit can hear the tension underneath. “Sounds about right. See about fetching a change of clothes for the both of us, while you’re at it.”
“Right away, milord.” There’s a rustle of cloth, then hurried footsteps and the sound of the door closing.
Ramuh shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on a hook. Then he lifts the towels from Ifrit’s arms and puts them on the bench. “You all right there, lad?”
Ifrit nods. Ramuh looks strange without his jacket. His shirt is a different shade of purple, lighter and edged at the cuffs and collar with dark blue stitching. His shoulders aren’t as broad as Ifrit thought.
“Hm.” Ramuh leans forward a bit, but Ifrit easily avoids catching his eye. “All right. Clothes in the basket, same as last time. You ever been in a public bath before?”
Ifrit shakes his head.
“Figured as much,” Ramuh mutters. He leans back and lowers himself onto the bench, tugging at his boots. “It’s not really complicated. Shouldn’t be busy at this hour, either. Just follow my lead.”
Ifrit nods. He begins by sitting down and tugging off his own boots. Ramuh lines up both pairs next to one of the large baskets, then moves to the ties at his collar. Ifrit does the same. The knot from the day before is tight, and his chilled fingers struggle to pick it loose. Ramuh finishes long before him, even with all of his belts and layers. Underneath it all, he has the leanly muscled body of a soldier. Sure enough, the skin on his arms is smooth and unblemished. He has surprisingly few scars, in fact. Certainly nothing as eye-catching as Odin’s.
The knot finally comes undone. Ifrit hurries to strip out of the rest of his clothing. Ramuh seems unbothered by the wait, merely stretching out one of his wrists, not looking in Ifrit’s direction at all. Ifrit can tell he’s paying attention, though, by how promptly he hands Ifrit a towel when he’s finished. His stomach clenches again at the scent, but he forces the feeling down and follows Ramuh to the doorway.
On the other side of the curtain is a wide room that’s even more humid, with steam visibly hanging over a number of tiled pools that are set into the floor. A handful of men sit around the edges, talking in low Waloedi accents. Two pause in their conversation to watch Ramuh and Ifrit, but the rest ignore them. Their voices echo strangely, blending with the lapping water into indistinguishable murmurs.
Ramuh doesn’t look at any of them. He leads Ifrit over to a row of wooden stools placed before a long, trough-like fountain and sets the basket down on the low shelf running along its length. A number of cups and shallow wooden bowls are perched on the shelf and scattered across the stone floor. The bottom edge of the fountain is lined with narrow grates.
“We’ll wash up over here first,” Ramuh says. He sits on a stool and raps his knuckles on one of the bowls. “Don’t dunk your head. Just use one of the basins. That’s all there is to it.”
Ifrit lowers himself down onto a stool. His knees come up awkwardly high. It’s a strange arrangement. Tentatively, he dips his hand into the water and finds that it’s warm. He wonders briefly whether they use Bearers to maintain it, or else crystals. He can’t imagine it being otherwise.
It doesn’t matter either way. It hasn’t been long enough that Ifrit really needs to wash up, but if Ramuh’s brought him here, he isn’t going to refuse. He puts aside all other thoughts and gets to work.
For a short while, it seems that this will be another place where Ramuh will let the silence lie. Ifrit scrubs his hair in peace and is just reaching for a washcloth when the illusion is shattered.
“Here.” Ramuh offers him a jar with a blue-painted lid. “Makes it easier to get the tangles out. Should be a comb in there, too.”
Ifrit takes the jar and carefully opens the lid. Its contents are oily and smell vaguely earthy. He reaches up to run his fingers through his hair. Sure enough, they catch almost immediately.
The room is very warm. Ifrit finds the comb, then tentatively scoops up some of the oily substance. It’s slippery between his fingers and feels strange against his scalp. When he rinses his fingers off, the oil clings. It makes the comb awkward and difficult to handle, an unfamiliar shape in his hands. The teeth still catch with painful little jerks, but Ifrit ignores the sharp pull and keeps working.
When he’s almost done, Ramuh speaks up. “You like keeping your hair long?”
Ifrit pauses. He risks a glance up, but Ramuh is focused on rinsing his washcloth. Ifrit touches the tips of his hair where they brush his shoulder. “It’s long?”
“Well, not like a lady’s or anything.” Ramuh wrings out the washcloth and reaches for another jar. “Suppose I do keep mine shorter than most. Keeps me from having to think about it much in the field.”
Ifrit doesn’t understand Ramuh’s logic. His hair is longer than Ramuh’s, but not enough to make a difference in battle. Even when it gets in his eyes, it doesn’t really block his vision, and any man who tried to grab it wouldn’t live long enough to touch it. No one who got that close would.
“I could cut it for you if you’d like.” Ramuh glances at him briefly, then returns his attention to the jar. “Or not. Your choice either way.”
The damp strands of Ifrit’s hair tickle his cheeks and neck. The last person to cut it had been a branded soldier. He hadn’t asked. He’d just pulled Ifrit aside after a mission and had the water Bearer in the group wash out the blood and ash before getting to work. His hands had been firm but infinitely careful around Ifrit’s face as he’d used his belt knife to give Ifrit the same short cut he himself sported. It had taken weeks for Ifrit to stop touching the freshly cropped strands, and longer still for his hair to grow to a familiar length. He hasn’t seen that soldier in a long time.
“No need to decide now. Just think about it,” Ramuh says.
Ifrit runs his fingers through his hair. It’s mostly smooth now and slippery from the contents of the jar. The water clings to his fingers in chill droplets. He glances at Ramuh again. His hair obscures his vision a little, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s easier like that. But if Ramuh is bringing it up, it’s because he’s already decided.
Ifrit looks at Ramuh’s hands. They’ve handled his hair twice now. He can’t imagine them being anything other than gentle, even though he knows that’s a failure of his own imagination rather than the truth. He’s seen the evidence of what Ramuh is capable of with his own eyes. He’s felt it himself in the lingering soreness of levin.
He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating. Ramuh clearly wants to cut his hair, and Ramuh will do what he wants with Ifrit. He’ll be happier if Ifrit says yes, and then maybe those hands will stay gentle.
Ifrit braces himself and nods, but Ramuh isn’t looking at him. So he swallows and says, “Yes.”
“Yeah?” Ramuh looks up with a smile, and Ifrit’s shoulders settle. He turns back to his washcloth. “Start thinking about how you want it, eh, lad?”
Ifrit nods. But he doesn’t bother to give it any thought at all. Instead, he focuses on getting out the last of the tangles and wiping the dust from the morning off his skin.
When he’s finished, he lays the washcloth on the rim of the basket and hesitates. He doesn’t have to wait long. Ramuh dumps one last basin of water over his head and stands with a shake that sends cool droplets flying off in arcs. At his gesture, Ifrit rises as well and follows him to the corner of one of the pools, well away from any of the other men. This time, they all ignore them, too.
The water is shockingly warm. There have to be crystals involved, Ifrit decides. The pool is too big for him to want to imagine otherwise. He sinks into the heat and lets it banish the chill clinging to his limbs, as much as it’s possible to banish something that isn’t entirely physical. His wrists sting, but the sensation is difficult to separate from the general feeling of warmth. Even submerged, the dark metal of the fetters stands out starkly against his pale skin, making the glow of the crystals even more obvious.
He closes his eyes.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Ramuh says. “You must be right at home in here, eh, lad?”
Reluctantly, Ifrit opens his eyes. Ramuh isn’t looking at him, though. He’s sitting with almost a full arm’s length between them and leaning back with his arms propped on the rim of the pool, gaze fixed on the far wall.
Ifrit follows his gaze. There’s nothing there. Just the wavering curtain of steam, rising up so that even the air Ifrit breathes is warm.
“It’s different.” The words slip out easily. They’re true. The heat of the water is completely different from the heat of aether. Ifrit couldn’t imagine being less hungry than he is right now.
“Huh. Really?” Ifrit nods, but Ramuh still isn’t looking. “How so?”
Ifrit doesn’t know how to explain. Surely Ramuh should already understand the difference himself. But then again, Ramuh’s element is different. Before he can think about it, he finds himself asking, “Have you touched real levin?”
Ramuh makes a short noise. “Hell no.” He pauses. “You reckon it’d fry me just the same as any other bastard?”
Ifrit thinks about it. It feels like the heat of the water has filled the inside of his head with steam, light and billowing. “I don’t know.”
“Hm.” Ramuh shifts, sending ripples across the surface of the water. “Fuck. I’m never going to stop thinking about it now.” He’s quiet for a moment, but it doesn’t last. “Y’know, there’s this theory about static and magnets that I read the other day…”
Ifrit quickly loses track of what Ramuh is saying. He isn’t sure whether Ramuh is even talking to him at all. His eyelids are very heavy. As Ramuh’s low voice mingles with the sound of the water, he finds it impossible to keep them open. So he doesn’t. The warmth envelops him, and for a time he drifts.
===
After the third time Ifrit’s chin dips below the water, Ramuh laughs and pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the pool. “All right, come on. Let’s get you dry before you go and drown yourself, eh, lad?”
Ifrit doesn’t want to move. He opens his eyes anyway and steps carefully out onto the damp tiles. The sudden transition makes him shiver. He quickly wipes the water from his skin, but it doesn’t make the air feel any warmer.
The attendant has returned to the changing room. He offers Ramuh and Ifrit each a stack fabric with an oddly deep bow. It’s clothing – the same clothing Ramuh gave him the first time he came here, in fact. The mud has been washed clean. If one of the ties on the sleeve wasn’t slightly singed, Ifrit might almost think they were different clothes entirely. When he pulls the shirt over his head, it’s just as soft as before and smells faintly of soap.
Ramuh’s jacket has been wiped clean of dust, as have both of their pairs of boots. Ifrit slips on the familiar leather last and tries not to look too closely as the attendant hands Ramuh his keys. He’s rewarded with a warm hand on his shoulder, which squeezes gently before guiding him out of the room.
He doesn’t need Ramuh to say anything to know they’re returning to the man’s rooms. When they arrive, however, Ramuh doesn’t steer Ifrit to the couch like he usually does. Instead, he pulls back the chair in front of his desk and gestures for Ifrit to sit.
“Best we do this while your hair’s still wet,” he says. He reaches up to touch Ifrit’s hair, taking a few strands between his fingers. “Did you give some thought to how you want it?”
Ifrit waits, but Ramuh doesn’t continue. He realizes with a jolt that Ramuh actually wants an answer. But he has no idea what to say. He doesn’t care about his hair at all.
Eventually, Ramuh says, “I’m not a barber, lad. You’d best give me some direction or else I’m liable to make a mess of things.”
Ifrit’s mouth feels dry. He doesn’t understand why Ramuh is doing this. Ramuh is the one who wants Ifrit to look a certain way, so – he should just do it. Why does he have to keep asking Ifrit?
After a moment, Ramuh prompts him again. “Just give me an idea of length. Short like mine? A little longer? Can’t exactly make it longer than it already is, but I can try to just tidy it up a little if you want to try tying it back. It’s about long enough.”
Ifrit swallows. He’s starting to understand Ramuh’s moods, if not the reasons behind them. He’ll lose patience soon if Ifrit doesn’t answer. So he says, “Not short.”
“All right. Not short it is.” Ramuh pushes Ifrit’s hair aside, hands still gentle. “How about just enough to keep it out of your eyes? Can’t imagine that’s comfortable.”
Finally. Ifrit nods.
“Good lad,” Ramuh says. He pats Ifrit’s shoulder, then vanishes into the back room. Before Ifrit can really wonder what he’s doing, he returns with a cloth slung over one shoulder and a pitcher and basin in his hands. He looks at the desk, which is covered in enough paper to record a full history of Valisthea, and stops short. “Hm. Hold these for a moment, would you?”
Ramuh hands Ifrit the pitcher and basin, which he balances awkwardly in his lap. They are, thankfully, empty. Ramuh turns towards his desk and puts his hands on his hips. He picks up a stack of paper, hesitates, and puts it down again. He pauses, then bangs open a drawer, digging out a crystal. Another drawer, and he sets a pair of shears on the desk. He picks up a different stack of paper and sighs. He sets it down again.
Ifrit sits and watches blankly, fingers curled loosely around the metal of the basin and pitcher. He’s reminded suddenly of when he first met Ramuh. It’s the same act of bumbling incompetence. Watching it again, Ifrit isn’t sure it’s an act. Except it has to be. But instead of feeling annoyed, Ifrit feels – something else. Something almost warm. Just a lingering impression from the hot bath, he thinks, even as his heart beats uneasily.
“Hold that thought,” Ramuh says after a moment. He vanishes into the back room again. This time, he returns carrying his entire washstand, which he sets down next to the desk with a grunt. “There we are. Thank you kindly, lad.”
Ramuh sets the pitcher and basin on the stand and picks up the crystal. A moment later, the sound of trickling water starts up.
Ifrit rests his hands on his knees. He watches Ramuh’s back for a little while before he lets his eyes drift away. The warmth of the bath is gone, but his head still feels full of steam. That’s probably why he stares blankly at the shears for two dozen heartbeats before he realizes the opportunity that’s been presented to him.
His spine straightens with a painful jolt, even as the bottom falls out from his stomach. Ramuh doesn’t turn around. The sound of the water continues unabated.
The shears are right there, in Ifrit’s reach and out of Ramuh’s line of sight. Ifrit isn’t as fast as Ramuh, but he knows how to be perfectly silent. He’s always had a talent for assassination. He wouldn’t be trapped anymore. Ramuh carries the key to the fetters in his pocket. Iftrit could actually –
The image that tries to form freezes him solid, as stiff as the hardback chair he’s glued to. He can’t look away from the shears. The metal is dull, but the blunted point of the blades still seems wickedly sharp. Ifrit has done more with less, even though he hates the mess. But it would still be quick.
Now, he thinks, but the awful, slippery thing in his stomach has slithered out into his muscles and hardened. He can’t move. He tries to imagine the sequence again: the quiet steps forward, the firm grip to keep open the blades, the sharp motion to draw them across Ramuh’s throat. And then – the blood.
Now, he thinks again, desperately. This is what he’s for. But he doesn’t – he needs – he doesn’t want –
The sound of water stops. Ramuh sets the crystal down with a clink that makes Ifrit flinch and turns around.
“Right then,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s start with – lad? What’s wrong?”
Ifrit holds still. He holds so still. He can feel his pulse in every inch of his body, as though his own blood is trapped under his skin and trying to escape. He’s a terrible liar. Ramuh will look at him, and he’ll know what Ifrit was thinking, and it will finally happen. He should have just done it. What’s wrong with him?
Ramuh follows Ifrit’s gaze, then steps forward. His body blocks Ifrit’s view of the shears. Ifrit’s eyes land naturally on the place where the keys are hidden beneath his jacket. Ramuh lifts a hand, and Ifrit’s muscles clench in preparation for the blow.
The hand lands lightly on Ifrit’s shoulder.
“Lad,” Ramuh says quietly. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
The words don’t make sense. It’s already done. He had the thought, and Ramuh noticed, because Ifrit couldn’t – because something is wrong with him. So it’s already done.
Ifrit waits, for the blow or for the reprimand, but Ramuh doesn’t do anything but sigh. “You can tell it to me straight, lad. Do you not want me to cut your hair?”
It takes a moment. Then, with a feeling like cool water rushing through his whole body, Ifrit realizes: Ramuh doesn’t know.
The realization does little to clarify Ramuh’s meaning. It’s all Ramuh’s decision. Until Ifrit is strong enough to free himself, it’s always going to be Ramuh’s decision. Ramuh’s or Odin’s. Which is why he should have –
Ramuh’s looking at him. He didn’t notice, but maybe he will. So Ifrit can’t think about that right now. Ramuh’s waiting for an answer. Ifrit doesn’t remember the question, but – Ramuh will want him to agree. He jerks his head in a nod.
Ramuh’s hand squeezes slightly, and he sighs again. Ifrit’s heart tries to beat even faster. “Lad, I’m going to need you to speak up. Is that a yes, you don’t want to? Or a yes, you do?”
Ifrit’s throat is tight. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He swallows painfully and tries again. “I do.”
His voice comes out too weak. Ramuh’s hand shifts, and he leans over further. Ifrit has to duck his head to keep his eyes on the jacket. “You sure about that? Think hard now.”
Ifrit nods.
“If you’re sure,” Ramuh says after a long moment. “There’s nothing to worry about, lad. My hands are steady as anything. Can’t promise anything fancy, but I won’t slip.”
Ifrit doesn’t understand what Ramuh’s saying. He just nods again and hopes it’s the right response.
Ramuh leans down a little further. Ifrit doesn’t move. Finally, Ramuh says, “Here, how about this?”
He takes Ifrit’s left hand in his warm grip and tugs. Ifrit doesn’t resist, letting Ramuh move his hand so that his own palm is covering his cheek. He adjusts Ifrit’s fingers so they rest right under his eye, then lets go and steps back.
“There. Keep your hand like that, all right?” Ramuh takes the cloth and wraps it around Ifrit’s shoulders, letting his hands rest there and squeezing. “Nothing’s going to happen, so just relax.”
Something is always happening. Ifrit doesn’t think he could relax if he tried, but – he can hold still. So he does.
===
For a while, the only sound is the quiet snick of the shears. Ramuh’s hands move slowly but constantly: combing through Ifrit’s hair, opening and closing the blades, touching lightly against Ifrit’s skull to turn his head this way and that. The whole time, Ifrit’s palm is pressed damply to his cheek. He holds still and only lets himself think about the motion and the sounds and the sensations, trying to empty his head of anything else. His heart slows, beating a steady pulse. Everything is quiet.
But of course, this is Ramuh. It doesn’t last.
“Doing all right there, lad?” Ifrit starts to nod, but the motion is stopped by a warm hand on the crown of his head. “Whoa there. Probably best you don’t do that, less you want another nick on your noggin.”
Ifrit – wants to nod again. He doesn’t. He holds still instead.
A few more clumps of hair fall to Ifrit’s shoulders. Ramuh runs his fingers through Ifrit’s hair and makes a small noise. There’s another series of snips.
“You know, lad,” Ramuh says, “you can speak up whenever you’d like. There’s no rule against it here.”
Ifrit can’t see Ramuh’s face, but his hands are still gentle. Hesitantly, he asks, “About what?”
“Whatever comes to mind.” Ramuh lightly taps the knuckles of his free hand on Ifrit’s skull. “In case it wasn’t obvious, I haven’t the foggiest about what’s going on in this head of yours most of the time.”
The quiet noise of the shears continues. Ifrit lets himself think beyond that for a moment, trying to understand what Ramuh wants. The only thing he can come up with is that Ramuh is fishing for information again. He’s as smooth and gentle with this interrogation as he is with the shears, but Ifrit knows better. What else would be the point to asking?
Ifrit stays silent.
After a while, as if to contradict himself, Ramuh reads Ifrit’s mind and says, “Forget about all of that military shite. I’m not talking about that. You can’t be thinking about fighting all of the time.” His hands pause. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about fighting all of the time.”
Ifrit starts to shake his head, but the motion is stilled again by Ramuh’s hand. He stops moving.
“Right. So when you’re not fighting…” Ramuh trails off leadingly.
Ifrit is a soldier. When he isn’t in a fight, he’s getting ready for the next one, sleeping or eating or taking care of his gear. Sometimes other soldiers might spar with him – the man who cut his hair always wanted to fight. Sometimes they’re on the move, or else holed up to wait out bad weather, but it’s always in service of the next goal. The next battle. The next mission.
Beyond that – Ifrit’s throat tightens. He turns the memory over carefully, red and gold and copper, its edges softened and worn. His purpose. Ifrit’s chest hurts. It’s suddenly so much harder to hold still. How can he just sit here doing nothing? What’s wrong with him?
“How about an example, then?” Ramuh’s voice cuts through Ifrit’s thoughts as easily as the shears. “For me, it’s engineering. How things work, how to make them work better. It keeps my hands and mind busy so I don’t go off and do anything reckless. More than that, though, I just like it.”
His fingers scrape over Ifrit’s scalp, leaving behind tingling trails, and brush against the shell of his ear. The next snip of the shears is very loud.
“It can be anything at all,” Ramuh says. “Anything you like.”
Ifrit’s first thought, again, is of that soft face. But he doesn’t want to tell Ramuh about him. That would be worse than intelligence. The very idea of it scrapes at his lungs, raw and grating.
With the ease of practice, he folds the memory away so that not a trace remains. He takes in a shaky breath, and it doesn’t hurt. Ramuh wants an answer, and not speaking feels somehow wrong. But Ifrit’s mind has gone perfectly blank. What else is there to care about?
Empty as his head is, he surprises himself a little when he opens his mouth and says, “The moon.”
“Yeah?” Ramuh sounds pleased. “What about it?”
What about it indeed. Ifrit isn’t sure what Ramuh wants to know, and no matter how hard he thinks about it, nothing comes to mind. So Ifrit considers the question honestly. He thinks about sitting up at night, on watch or waiting for a signal. His eyes always find the moon first and then its companion. As long as there are no clouds, it’s there. Shining or a dim shadow, it’s always the moon.
“It’s peaceful,” he finally says. “And Metia is always there.”
“Metia.” Ramuh repeats the name as if tasting it for the first time. “The red star?”
Ifrit catches himself before he can nod. “Yes.”
Ramuh hums. “I’ve always wondered about that. How it stays so close to the moon and all. No other star moves the same, not even the wanderers.”
“I don’t know.” Ifrit hesitates, then offers, “It’s said she’s the moon’s attendant.”
Ramuh makes an interested noise. “Yeah? What’s the moon need an attendant for?”
“She carries the moon’s arms and armor,” Ifrit says. Ramuh hums again but doesn’t speak, so he continues, “And she carries messages to the heavens.”
“Aha.” Ramuh closes the shears with a decisive snick. Another clump of hair falls to his shoulders. “I’ve heard that before. People send her wishes, right?”
“Yes.”
“How about it, then? You ever send her anything?”
Ifrit did. A long time ago. But he isn’t a child. He knows that Metia is just a story. Wishing isn’t enough to make something happen.
“No,” he says.
“No?” Ramuh brushes the hair from Ifrit’s shoulders to the floor, then shifts. His hand touches Ifrit’s other ear, and the cutting resumes. “You seem pretty fond of her. I reckon if she were going to listen to anyone, it’d be a nice lad who took a shine to her.”
“It’s a story,” Ifrit says quietly.
“Sure. Doesn’t mean it can’t be important, though.” Ramuh works quietly for a moment. “Maybe I’ll give it a go myself sometime. Is there a specific prayer or something? A rhyme, maybe?”
“No.”
“Hm. A shame, that. Would’ve thought there would be, given how liturgical your people are with their astrology.”
Ifrit isn’t sure what Ramuh means. He doesn’t say anything. Ramuh doesn’t pursue the topic, either. He just keeps working. The rhythmic motion of his hands is still gentle, so – whatever Ifrit said was fine, even though he didn’t understand. It was just Ramuh filling the silence after all.
Eventually, Ramuh comes around to the front of the chair and says, “Last bit. Close your eyes, would you? Good lad.”
Fingers rest against Ifrit’s hairline. Damp strands brush his eyelashes, but he obediently keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t move at the first cool touch of metal to his brow. The shears close, and strands of hair fall against the back of his hand, leaving itchy trails. Ramuh repeats this motion several times, then makes a satisfied noise. He moves to the other side. The hair brushing Ifrit’s eyelashes is gone.
“Almost done,” Ramuh says after a moment. He ruffles his hand through Ifrit’s hair and makes another noise. The shears snip right next to Ifrit’s face several more times. Eventually, there’s a loud clack, and Ramuh says, “Hold still and keep your eyes closed for a moment.”
Ifrit obeys. Ramuh unwinds the cloth from his shoulders and shakes it loudly several times. Then the cloth is on Ifrit’s face, brushing away the itchy hairs clinging there.
Ramuh’s hand claps Ifrit’s shoulder. “There. See? Nothing to it.”
Ifrit opens his eyes. The room is still lit by bright afternoon sunlight. Ramuh leans back on the desk, considering Ifrit with a hand on his chin. Ifrit doesn’t mean to look at him so directly, but the hair that would have fallen in his face is gone. When he tilts his head, the fresh-cut strands scratch against his forehead and neck. The sensation sends a strange shiver through him. He lowers his hand back into his lap. His damp cheek tingles in the cool air.
“Not half bad, if I do say so myself,” Ramuh says cheerfully. He rubs his chin, then holds up a finger. “Hold on a mo.”
He goes around the desk and digs in the drawers, dumping the crystal and shears unceremoniously back in. After a moment, he makes a noise of triumph and pulls out a cloth pouch.
“Here.” He opens the pouch and slides out a small hand mirror, which he offers to Ifrit. “Have a look for yourself.”
Ifrit takes the mirror on reflex. The shape on its surface resolves into a face. At first, there isn’t anything strange about it. It’s just a Bearer. But when Ifrit’s hand rises unconsciously to touch the cool spot on his cheek, the Bearer’s hand rises to touch the black lines on his face. The distance collapses, and Ifrit is pulled into the strange Bearer’s skin with a dizzying lurch.
The face in the reflection doesn’t look like him. He can accept the bruises under his eyes, and the freshly cut hair that just brushes his eyebrows. Even – the ink. He knows where all of that came from. But his face is – too lean, maybe, but also too delicate, not old enough but strangely devoid of any of the roundness he remembers. When he tries to imagine what he should look like, he can’t.
The conflicting impressions tangle into a knot that twines around his lungs, pulling tighter and tighter. He can’t look away.
A hand lands heavily on his shoulder, and another reaches over to tug on the mirror. Ifrit lets it go easily. His hands fall back into his lap. He grips his left wrist tightly, feeling the bite of metal on his palm and pressing his thumb against the raw spot on the underside. It stings.
The hand on his shoulder squeezes. “All right there, lad?”
Ifrit nods.
The pressure releases, and the hand pats firmly once, twice. “Right. Right. Here, come and rinse your face off, eh? C’mon.”
Ifrit stands, and the hand leads him to the washstand. A clean cloth is pressed into his hands, and he dips it into the clear water. He wipes it over his cheeks and brow. His whole face is cool now. For a moment, it feels good. Solid. He runs the cloth over the back of his neck, letting it linger. Even after he puts it down, though, his skin doesn’t warm up again. He wipes away the water with his sleeve and straightens.
Ramuh has one arm crossed over his chest, the other scratching behind his ear. He glances at Ifrit and gives him a smile. “You know, it occurs to me that I don’t actually have a broom.”
Ifrit looks to the chair. There’s… a lot of hair on the floor. Ramuh should have definitely considered this before he started. At the thought, that warm feeling shivers to life in his chest again. He reaches up to feel the freshly cut strands of his hair. They curl just over his ears. A few tickle his neck at the back, but none are long enough to brush his shoulders. The ends are already starting to dry.
“Ah, well.” Ramuh pushes off the desk and flashes Ifrit another grin. “Better go find Sara before she comes by and gives me an earful. C’mon, lad. You can help me plead my case.”
He claps a hand to Ifrit’s shoulder. For a moment, a clawing, smothering dread tries to rise up, threatening to snuff out the flickering candle of feeling. Ifrit’s eyes move involuntarily to the desk. It’s empty of everything but paper. He doesn’t have to think about it again. The moment has already passed. The thought eases the pressure of his ribs, and the little flame holds steady. Ramuh begins to move, and Ifrit steps a little closer so that Ramuh’s warm hand can guide him out into the hall.
Notes:
I really hope Cid appreciates how lucky he is that he’s such a charming guy!!
I was a little hesitant about putting another bathing scene in this fic, but then I remembered we’re all in the fandom of a game where Cid chains up Clive naked (?!?) at literally the lowest point of his life, so I think we can all be cool about some very normal, non-sexual nudity. I was thinking more of sauna culture at first, but I have way more experience with Japanese baths, so that’s how it ended up being lol.
We're coming up very soon on the first "Big Event," and I am so so excited to get there! Next chapter is the set up chapter, though, which is somehow trickier to write than the big emotional beats, so... Well, hopefully it won't take too long. I'm writing to you on the other side of my big exam's written section (submitted like an hour ago lol), and there's only one last hurdle left, so I'm about to have an abundance of free time!
Thank you so much to everyone who's been following along so far! It's so much fun to read your takes on everything. Let me know if you have any thoughts about this one. ;)
Chapter 9
Notes:
This chapter is dedicated to Garuda, AKA the tornado that ripped part of the roof off my apartment building and left me without power for a week! (I’m fine and all my stuff is fine, so don’t worry!) I’m never making fun of wind-powered characters again, because those bricks really were flying. I wrote a good chunk of this by hand while sitting in my car, so if the pacing is weird, no it isn’t.
Anyway, the theme song for this chapter is “Eternal Wind.” (Yes, I do think I’m funny.) Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It takes Ifrit several days to adjust to the new cut of his hair. It isn’t as short as Ramuh’s, but it’s still shorter than it’s been in a long time. Every time he shifts his head and the freshly cut strands brush against his brow and neck, the sensation startles him.
Each touch reminds him of the way Ramuh’s hands felt in his hair, steady and gentle. When Ramuh arrives each day to take Ifrit from the bailey, he finds his eyes drawn to those hands. They always land on his shoulder, or his back, or his arm. They’re always warm. Even when they put the fetters back on his wrists, Ramuh’s hands are somehow warm.
Ifrit doesn’t try to understand. Because – they’re part of Ramuh. He’s incomprehensible, so of course the rest of him is, too. It can just be a fact about him: his hands are warm. Ifrit doesn’t have to think about it beyond that.
He keeps looking, though.
The problem is that it isn’t just Ramuh. Benedikta has never laid so much as a finger on Ifrit, but he can’t help but notice the deft motion of her pale hands, passing out food or shuffling cards or gripping a quill. He thinks they’d be warm like Ramuh’s. He doesn’t know why.
Sleipnir, too. He rarely touches Ifrit directly, but Ifrit finds himself watching the man’s hands anyway. They were firm and unyielding that day in the rain, but they didn’t hurt. In the bailey, his long fingers curl elegantly around the hilt of his blade. They’re just as elegant when from time to time they brush the unbraided portion of his hair to the side.
Even Odin. On the days when the Dominant of Darkness graces the bailey, Ifrit pays careful attention. Odin does touch him often, sometimes lightly to correct a movement, sometimes roughly to demonstrate how devastating that movement can be. His hands are coarse with callouses and always cold. Even so, when they rest on Ifrit’s skin long enough, they’re warm, too.
It doesn’t mean anything. But Ifrit can’t stop thinking about it.
One gray morning, Odin’s hands linger as they remove the crystal fetters. The first loop of metal opens, and Odin passes it off to Sleipnir. But instead of moving to the second, Odin pauses. He grips the back of Ifrit’s arm, turning it to face palm up, and traces the pebbled patch of fine scabs that have begun to form on the underside of his wrist. The cool touch is light enough that it doesn’t hurt. Instead, Ifrit’s skin tingles almost pleasantly.
“Sleipnir,” Odin says lowly.
Odin hasn’t actually given a command, but Sleipnir nevertheless bows. “Right away, Your Majesty.”
Ifrit watches Sleipnir move across the yard with purpose, but only for a moment. Odin’s cool fingers are still on his arm, and they draw his gaze like a lodestone.
“Cidolfus told you to inform him should these begin to cause damage,” Odin says.
Framed by Odin’s fingers, Ifrit’s wrist seems small. The abrasion is still narrow, but the edges are bright red. It’s the natural consequence of wearing hard-edged metal against his skin while training with a sword and occasionally getting tossed around. It only barely stings, and it probably won’t even scar. There’s nothing noteworthy about it.
Odin’s tight grip says otherwise. It tightens further as the silence stretches. Ifrit holds still. “Well? Did he not?”
Ifrit can feel his pulse against the firm line of Odin’s fingers, rabbit-quick and getting quicker. His skin isn’t warm yet, and if Odin doesn’t unlock the second fetter, it won’t be.
Ifrit nods.
For a moment, Odin doesn’t move. Then the grip on Ifrit’s wrist loosens slightly, and Odin’s other hand goes to Ifrit’s chin, tilting his face up.
“Look at me,” Odin commands. Ifrit has no choice but to obey. Odin’s expression is as dark as always, but unlike his fingers, it isn’t cold. “Your body is a precious gift, and you must treasure it. Do you understand?”
Not in the slightest. Odin himself has hurt Ifrit much worse than some insignificant little scrapes. Not only on the battlefield, but here in Stonhyrr. Even now that Odin has tried to lay claim to him. The bruises are almost gone, but Ifrit’s chest aches at the memory.
For all his talk, Odin could easily do it again, worse than before. Ifrit knows what Odin wants to hear. His gaze skitters away to Odin’s shoulder, and he nods.
It’s the wrong answer. Odin scoffs. “Dishonesty ill suits you. You told me you desired strength, Ifrit. Was that likewise a falsehood?”
Ifrit shakes his head as much as Odin’s fingers will allow.
“Then know this,” Odin says. “Your body can be a conduit for power beyond reckoning, but it must needs be maintained. Would you suffer your blade to dull or be stained by rust?”
Again, Ifrit shakes his head slightly.
The hand on Ifrit’s chin moves to settle at the junction of his neck and shoulder. “You must treat your flesh with the same respect. To do otherwise would be to disrespect the lord.”
The slash of Odin’s neck is as exposed as always by the wide cut of his high-collared shirt. Ifrit barely considers how close it is. All he can think about is Odin’s hand on his skin. His thumb rests at the point of Ifrit’s collarbone, right next to the tender hollow of his own throat. When Ifrit nods, he can feel the motion in the shift of his skin against Odin’s palm. Strands of hair brush his brow. His heart beats heavily. With the placement of Odin’s hands, he can surely feel it too.
Those hands tighten, too lightly to be a threat. “Then heed my words. If ever your body is damaged, you are to tell someone. Do you understand?”
Ifrit nods.
“Tell me what it is you understand,” Odin commands.
Ifrit swallows, painfully aware of the motion of his throat. “Tell someone if I’m damaged.”
“Good.” With one final squeeze, Odin releases Ifrit’s wrist and neck. The skin he leaves behind feels cold. He picks up Ifrit’s right wrist and produces the key again, opening the second fetter without ceremony. For once, the flames barely stir under Ifrit’s skin. Even so, he still feels – hungry.
The feeling remains as Odin turns this wrist to examine the underside. The patch of abraded skin is larger on Ifrit’s sword arm, where the metal aligns more closely with the older damage. Ifrit wouldn’t consider it an injury. But Odin must. His expression is shadowed. It occurs to Ifrit that the problem might be that Odin didn’t put it there himself.
Odin is still examining Ifrit’s wrist when Sleipnir returns carrying a small bag.
“Perhaps by the bench, my liege,” he suggests.
Odin nods shortly, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leads Ifrit by the arm to the wide stone bench himself. Sleipnir makes him sit with light pressure on his shoulder and opens the bag. It’s a medical kit. Odin releases Ifrit’s arm to allow Sleipnir space to work, once again leaving behind a cold patch of skin.
Sleipnir’s hands are elegant in this, too. Ifrit watches quietly as the man spreads ointment over each abrasion and wraps his wrists in white linen. His touch isn’t warm or cold, but it leaves the same shivering sensation behind. Ifrit pushes it aside and holds still.
Once the bandages have been secured, Sleipnir checks each with one last tug. “There. Do trouble Ramuh next time. I’m sure he would be more than pleased to play nursemaid.”
Odin lets out a breath, but Sleipnir just smiles slyly. He reaches up to tuck the shortened strands of Ifrit’s hair behind his ear and pats him on the cheek. Then, after a bow to Odin, he saunters back to his usual post against the stone wall.
The lines of Odin’s face are still harsh as he takes in the bandages. Ifrit has never thought of his skin as dark, but the line of the white linen is very stark.
After a long moment of stillness, Odin nods. “Very well. Let us begin.”
===
Training with the bandages on feels strange. They aren’t tight, but they itch more than the fetters. It takes all of Ifrit’s concentration to focus beyond the prickling feeling, which seems to spread across his entire body. The only blessing is that with his aether unbound, Ifrit hardly ever sweats. The linen remains dry and doesn’t chafe.
Odin is no more careful about harming Ifrit than he usually is – but then, he hasn’t done any real damage since that day in the rain when they last fought with aether. A few bruises don’t mean anything. Except they might, under Odin’s new rules. If it’s a test, though, Ifrit will gladly fail before he speaks up.
In the end, Odin doesn’t acknowledge the new bruises he’s left on Ifrit’s elbow and shin. They’re about as damaging as the abrasions on his wrists. So it isn’t about the damage itself. It’s about control. Ifrit understands.
When Ramuh arrives as the sun reaches its peak, Ifrit looks at his hands and wonders whether that’s his concern as well. He hasn’t hurt Ifrit since Belenus Tor, but maybe this will be what makes him decide to leave a mark of his own.
Ifrit tries not to think about it as he moves through the prescribed cooldown stretches. Ramuh exchanges a few quiet words with Odin and bows, then approaches with Sleipnir, who has the fetters in hand. As Ifrit straightens from his lunge, Ramuh pauses, taking in the neat white bandages with a blank expression. He sighs.
Ifrit holds very still as Ramuh takes one of his wrists in his warm hands. “So it’s come to this, has it? How bad?”
Ifrit shrugs. The answer is not very bad at all, but if Odin didn’t accept that, Ramuh surely won’t.
Ramuh looks to Sleipnir.
“Nothing that will not heal with time,” Sleipnir says lightly. “Perhaps you could once again impress the importance of honesty upon him. It appears the lesson has yet to stick.”
Ramuh turns Ifrit’s wrist, as though a new angle might somehow let him see through the linen. Ifrit lets him manipulate his arm as he pleases and doesn’t move. “I’ll handle it. How’s about you go and nag His Majesty or something?”
Sleipnir laughs. “I hardly think he needs me to remind him of your concerns. You’re far too obvious, Cidolfus.”
Ramuh huffs a breath. Sleipnir reaches out to pat his cheek, and Ramuh swats his hand away, quick as lightning even awkwardly one-handed. It only makes Sleipnir laugh harder as he strolls backwards out of Ramuh’s reach.
“Next time, then,” he says with a smile. He bows with a little flourish and spins on his heel, strolling off towards the bench, where he sets down the fetters. Then, without looking back, he lifts a hand in a careless wave and saunters over to where Odin is watching.
“Absolutely insufferable,” Ramuh mutters, except he’s smiling.
For a moment, he turns that smile on Ifrit, and his touch is warmer than ever. Then he looks down at where his hand is still holding Ifrit’s wrist, and the smile fades. The warmth goes with it. “Lad…”
He stops. He looks up at the sky, then at Odin and Sleipnir, and sighs again. Ifrit’s heart beats unsteadily at the sound. Finally, Ramuh says, “You understand the point of these isn’t to hurt you, right? I know they’re bloody awful. We’re not putting you in them for fun. If you’d–”
He stops again. Ifrit risks a glance up. It’s a mistake. Ramuh is looking right at him, his expression displeased. Ifrit quickly turns his gaze to the shoulder of Ramuh’s jacket. It’s not quickly enough. Ramuh sighs for a third time, and Ifrit’s heart begins to truly pound, blood pulsing under his skin in a hot rush. He pushes down the heat before Ramuh can feel it and holds still.
Ramuh lets go of his wrist.
“Nevermind.” His voice is quiet. “Another day.”
Ifrit suppresses a shiver. The words have the sound of a promise. For one moment, he wishes – that Ramuh hadn’t let go. Even though he still looks displeased. Some insane part of Ifrit thinks that – maybe it would be worth it.
Ramuh smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The familiar way he touches Ifrit’s shoulder to guide him over to the bench doesn’t feel right.
Of course it doesn’t. There isn’t a right way for it to feel. Ifrit isn’t supposed to be here. He shouldn’t feel anything about Ramuh at all.
Ifrit crushes all of it down and sits. Odin and Ramuh are right here. None of it matters. Not one bit.
He holds out his wrists.
Ramuh takes one in his hands again, but even though his touch is still warm, it isn’t the same. Ifrit tries to stop noticing. It’s a relief when the first fetter closes. At least he already knows how to feel cold.
Even after his work is done, though, Ramuh keeps his warm hands on Ifrit’s skin, running a finger along the place where the fetters touch the bandages. The pressure is too light to hurt. “They’re not pinching, are they, lad?”
Ifrit shakes his head.
Ramuh tilts his head as though trying to catch his gaze. “Would you tell me if they did, I wonder?”
Ifrit keeps his eyes on Ramuh’s jacket and nods.
“Hm.” Ramuh is still for a moment. Then he straightens. He doesn’t sigh this time. “All right. You ready for some grub, lad?”
Ifrit nods, and Ramuh nods back. Then he places his hand in the middle of Ifrit’s back, and the heavy weight pushes them inexorably forward.
They stop by the kitchens for the usual basket and cloth. When they arrive at the courtyard garden, Benedikta is there. She has her sword today and is moving through a form that Ifrit recognizes from his time with Odin. Her movements are slow but precise. At the end of each strike she pauses, holding the position and adjusting her form. Ifrit finds his eyes drawn to the way her pale fingers shift on the hilt. She’s holding it too tightly.
On her next pause, she notices them and immediately straightens, a smile blooming across her face. “There you are.”
“Here we are,” Ramuh agrees. He looks to Ifrit and tilts his head in Benedkita’s direction. It’s only then that Ifrit realizes he’s stopped. He obediently moves to follow beside Ramuh. “Hope you didn’t wait too long. Though I see you were keeping yourself busy, eh, lass?”
Benedikta straightens further, expression suddenly serious, and quickly sheathes her sword. “No one is here, Cid. I wasn’t in the way.”
“Never said you were.” They’re close enough now that Ramuh can pat her on the shoulder. Ifrit recognizes how she holds carefully still. “It’s good to see you taking your lessons so seriously.”
She relaxes after a beat and frowns at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well…” Ramuh pauses and rubs his chin with his free hand. He laughs. “I’ll admit I don’t remember being quite so diligent at your age. Reckon I was something of a delinquent, as a matter of fact.”
Benedikta brushes a lock of hair out of her face and gives Ramuh a sideways look. “That sounds like a personal failing to me. You’re working hard too, aren’t you, Ifrit?”
Ifrit startles at being addressed. He can’t think of a response, not with Ramuh so close and Benedikta’s words so needling. Except – Benedikta isn’t stupid. This can’t be what sets him off, or else she wouldn’t be doing it, over and over again.
Sure enough, Ramuh is still smiling. “Don’t you go ganging up on me, now. Two on one is hardly fair.”
“Maybe you should have worked harder when you were ‘our age,’ then,” Benedikta says sweetly. She steps forward and takes the cloth from Ifrit. He lets it go easily. “We should train together sometime. Someone needs to keep Cid on his toes, or he’ll become an old man in truth.”
This, of everything she’s said, is what knocks the smile from Ramuh’s face. “Benna, we’ve talked about this.”
“You have,” she says shortly. Her jaw tenses, and for a moment, Ifrit thinks she’s going to argue further. But she must see the way that Ramuh’s expression is clouding over, because she just nods stiffly and turns on her heel.
A pall settles over the garden, the gray light suddenly leaden. Ramuh sighs. He turns his stormy gaze on Ifrit. Without the weight of the cloth, Ifrit’s hands hang uselessly at his sides. Before he can decide what to do with them, Ramuh grips his shoulder again. “Best catch up before she ditches us. C’mon.”
Ifrit hurries to keep up. Benedikta hasn’t left them behind. She must come here with Ramuh, too, because she’s stopped at the same place Ramuh always does. Her expression is blank as she spreads out the cloth. Ifrit moves forward to help, but Ramuh sets down the basket and beats him to it. When they’re done, Ramuh lays a hand on Benedikta’s shoulder. She tenses immediately, but as he murmurs quietly to her, she relaxes again.
Ifrit waits. His heart is beating against his ribs. If Ramuh loses patience – But there isn’t anything he can do. So he waits.
They talk for some time. Finally, Benedikta nods, and Ramuh pats her on the shoulder. Then he turns to Ifrit and smiles. It’s just as fake as before. “C’mon then, lad. You must be starving.”
The thought of food is nauseating. But he doesn’t know how to argue with Ramuh the way Benedikta does. He doesn’t know what’s too much. So he nods and picks up the basket. When he sets it down on the cloth, Benedikta smiles at him, less fake than Ramuh.
It’s enough. They eat their bread and cheese and pickles in peace. By the time they’re done, the sun is beginning to peek through the clouds, and Ifrit can let himself forget that the garden was ever cold and gray.
===
Some time later, afternoon settles quietly over Ramuh’s rooms. The sky brightens as the clouds clear away, and warm sunlight fills the space, banishing the chill in Ifrit’s fingers.
It’s the kind of afternoon that Ifrit has come to expect over the past few days. He sits on the couch with a book in hand – Return to Ivalice, blue cloth cover, half an inch thick. Every fourth page has an illustration, all done in a strange style of thick black lines. Ramuh handed it to him days ago, and every time he’s ended up here since, it’s been waiting.
Ifrit isn’t reading. He’s watching Benedikta write. She’s as slow and precise with her quill as her sword. Every so often she shows something to Ramuh, who’s sitting across the desk from her with a paper and quill of his own, and the two of them confer quietly.
It’s during one of these conferences that Ramuh catches Ifrit looking. Ifrit immediately stops, but it’s too late. He can feel Ramuh’s eyes on him. He looks down at the book. It’s open to one of the illustrated pages, a boy with a ponytail and sword standing in front of a strange monster with segmented limbs. The lines are oddly angular.
Ramuh makes a noise and murmurs something to Benedikta, who replies just as quietly. Then there’s the sound of a chair scraping back, and footsteps move towards Ifrit. “You enjoying that one?”
Ifrit nods. Ramuh’s knees move to the chair across from Ifrit and bend with a grunt. “What’re you up to?”
Ifrit looks back at the page. “Ramza is at the monastery.”
“Almost the end, then. It’s getting tense, eh?” Ifrit nods. After a long pause, Ramuh continues, “I was thinking of coming over here to spread out a little. Work on some diagrams and such. Bigger table and all.” Another long pause. “You wouldn’t be in the way. But if you wanted to sit at the desk, it might be good for you to get a little practice on the other end of things, eh?”
It takes Ifrit several breaths to figure out Ramuh’s meaning. He thinks about how Benedikta looked with a quill in her hand. He tries to imagine holding one of his own and fails.
Ramuh is silent. He’s waiting for an answer. The correct response is obvious, but Ifrit finds himself hesitating anyway. It keeps coming to this. Ramuh knows he can make Ifrit do almost anything he wants. So why does he keep asking these things?
Maybe, Ifrit thinks hesitantly.
He stops. His eyes flicker up slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of Ramuh’s expression. It’s completely and totally blank. Ifrit looks back at the book.
He nods.
“Yeah?” Ramuh’s voice is cheerful. “Right then. Mark your place and I’ll help you get settled, eh?”
Ifrit obeys. When he stands, Ramuh places a warm hand on his shoulder and guides him over to the desk. Benedikta offers him a smile, and then suddenly, ridiculously, Ifrit is sitting where Ramuh was.
The cushion is still warm. It’s in urgent need of restuffing, and it smells strongly of stale tobacco, but it’s warm. The carved back makes it easy to keep good posture. Ifrit sits straight as Ramuh moves his stack of papers to the table and sets out another quill and ink well.
When he’s done, he asks, “Think you can show him the ropes, Benna?”
“Of course.” Benedikta makes a shooing motion. “Go play with your toys. You’ll only be in the way.”
Ramuh laughs and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “No need to twist my arm. I’m going. I leave him to your tender mercies.”
He offers Benedikta a flourishing bow and claps Ifrit on the shoulder one last time before backing away.
“Don’t worry. He’s just being dramatic,” Benedikta says once Ramuh is settled at the table. “It’s only writing practice.”
Ifrit looks at the blank paper before him. Its surface is a smooth, even cream. It isn’t the kind of paper he would expect to be handed for something like this. He picks up the quill. It’s oddly small in his hand. He carefully adjusts his grip.
When he glances up, Benedikta’s face is earnest as ever. Quietly, he asks, “What do I write?”
“Anything you’d like,” she says unhelpfully. “It’s just for practice.”
The pale cream of the paper is stark against the dark wood of the desk. Ifrit holds the quill over the inkwell and tries to imagine what it will look like covered in words.
The cream remains unmarred.
“When I started, Cid had me write about my day,” Benedikta offers. “Right now I’m working on letter writing.”
Ifrit wouldn’t know who to write to even if he thought Ramuh would send it. So he thinks about his day instead. It’s been more or less the same as every day since he was captured. It seems like a waste of paper to write it down. If it’s just for practice – but Ifrit doesn’t need to practice. He can write well enough to pass a message. What does Ramuh want?
Something coils restlessly in his chest, a mounting feeling that makes him want to stand and pace and hit something. Hitting things – that’s something he knows how to do. That’s what he’s for. But he can’t right now. So his sits without moving and breathes.
It’s Ramuh’s paper anyway. What does it matter if he wastes it?
Ifrit dips the quill into the ink. When he lifts it, a dark drop hangs at the tip. He clumsily touches it to the edge of the inkwell. Then he sets the quill to paper and begins to write.
The first stroke makes a thick line. The ink glistens and spreads through the fibers of the paper, a fat, many-legged spider. Ifrit wipes off the tip again. The next line is a normal thickness. It veers crookedly to the left, the point at the top at the wrong angle. Ifrit keeps writing. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.
Woke up. Ifrit pauses. The letters meander across the page, too big and too small and at odd angles. They’re legible. But somehow, he still feels restless. He writes more slowly, slower even than Benedikta. Fought Odin. Met Ramuh.
The tip of the quill is running dry. Ifrit dips it again.
Fingers land on Ifrit’s wrist, right where the bandage meets his skin. He freezes. They’re Benedikta’s. Her middle and ring fingers rest on the bandage, but her pointer finger is touching his skin. He was right. Her hand is warm.
Ifrit is so distracted by this knowledge that he almost doesn’t notice her beckoning with her other hand. Pulse in his throat, he leans forward.
“His Majesty is probably fine, but Cid hates when people call him Ramuh,” Benedikta whispers softly. She lifts her warm hand from his wrist and points to where Ifrit has written Ramuh’s name, finger tapping the crooked R.
Ifrit glances at Ramuh. He seems absorbed in the papers spread across the table, occasionally consulting a book open on his knees. As Ifrit watches, he reaches up to rub his chin with his thumb, and Ifrit thinks for a moment – that Cid does that a lot.
Something unpleasant curdles in Ifrit’s stomach. It’s pointless to pretend. He doesn’t understand why Odin lets Ramuh do it. Unless – Odin himself is pretending.
Suddenly, the inside of Ifrit’s chest feels hollow. The idea is like standing at the edge of a very tall cliff with one foot already in the empty air. He could fall forward at any minute and plummet towards the rocks below. Even the pounding of his heart seems thready and far away.
And then he remembers – Sleipnir called Ramuh by his name just this morning, and Odin didn’t object. Ifrit steps back onto solid ground. He lets out a slow breath. That’s right. Odin is too strong to misunderstand.
Ifrit looks back to the paper. Ink has dripped from the quill, and Benedikta’s finger smudged the already crooked R. Ramuh’s name has been all but blotted out. Ifrit lowers the quill and finishes the job. He can’t afford to upset Ramuh with Benedikta close enough to touch.
“How does he spell it?” Ifrit asks, voice as soft as he can make it.
“C-I-D,” Benedikta replies, equally quiet.
Cid. In Ifrit’s unsteady hand, the word looks sad. He glances at Ramuh again. All of the restless energy has evaporated. In its place is something tight and shivering. Living like that – maybe Ifrit’s penmanship is fitting.
Benedikta is watching him. Ifrit pushes away the thought and nods. “Thank you.” Then, considering what he has to write next, he asks, “How do you spell your name?”
She tells him, and he dutifully writes down, Writing with Benedikta.
He stops there. There isn’t anything else to write. With all of the blotting and bleeding ink and crooked pen strokes, the paper looks a mess, even though only a inch of it has been filled. Ifrit stares at the remaining empty space for a long time.
Eventually, Benedikta puts down her quill and looks at Ifrit’s paper again. She leans forward. “Are you done?”
Ifrit hesitates. He doesn’t think a handful of words counts as practice, so he can’t be done. But he doesn’t know what else to write. “Should I write it again?”
“You could.” Benedikta angles his paper towards her and worries her lip for a moment. Then she nods. “You should add more details.”
“Details,” he repeats softly.
“Anything that made the day different. What you ate, things you saw, how you felt,” Benedikta says. She slides the paper back towards him. “And you should make sure to write in complete sentences. Cid said that’s important.”
Ifrit nods. But he isn’t thinking about sentences. He’s thinking about his day and how he felt. The memory of Odin’s hands on his skin is suddenly so strong that he looks at his wrist and almost expects to see his cool fingers.
He doesn’t want to write that down. He isn’t even sure if he could. It doesn’t make any sense. So he focuses on the other things Benedikta said.
This time, he’s more careful when he dips his quill. The W is at the correct angle. Woke up and ate bread…
He writes for some time. Even going slowly, resting his wrist on the table makes the bandages pull and stretch against the metal of the fetters. The sensation is more itch than pain. It’s still distracting. Every few words, he has to pause and think. It’s difficult. He’s never thought so hard about a single day in his life.
By the time he finishes scratching out, Practised writing with Benedikta’s help, the itch has spread over his entire body. The inside of his head feels very full, but the paper itself is still half empty. Ifrit tries to imagine another sentence. The thought makes him feel hot and dizzy. He puts down the quill.
A little while later, there’s the sound of a book closing, and Ramuh mutters, “Fuck’s sake. That’s enough of that, then.”
Ifrit glances up. Ramuh tosses his book on the table with a loud thump, scattering several papers. Ifrit’s heart makes a similar noise. When Ramuh looks up at him, and it becomes even louder.
Ramuh’s stormy expression smooths out, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move. Eventually, he rises and walks over to the desk, standing next to Ifrit and resting a hand on his shoulder blade. “How are you two doing over here?”
Ifrit’s mind has gone blank of anything but the warmth radiating from that point on his back. His heart hasn’t slowed. Benedikta replies, and her words sink into the mire of Ifrit’s thoughts without leaving any discernible trace. Ramuh’s reply is equally murky.
The hand on Ifrit’s back shifts, and Ramuh’s voice suddenly rises to the surface. “What do you say, lad?”
Ifrit’s heart thumps heavily. He didn’t catch any of what Ramuh said. He shifts his eyes towards Benedikta, but her expression is pleasantly curious and reveals nothing. For a moment, he feels unmoored in a warm sea, no land in sight.
He hedges his bets and jerks his head in a nod.
It’s the right choice. Ramuh smiles slightly and gently squeezes Ifrit’s shoulder. “All right. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Ramuh bends over and pulls the paper towards himself. His eyes move quickly over the few lines, smile not shifting. “Not bad. Looks like you’ve got the hang of managing your ink again. Might not be a bad idea to use some guide lines on your next go-through…”
With all the effort of hauling a runaway chocobo back on course, Ifrit forces himself to listen to what Ramuh is saying. It’s difficult. None of this really matters. Ifrit’s penmanship is completely unimportant. But the way that Ramuh talks – makes it sound like maybe it is. Ifrit can’t imagine why. He never can, with Ramuh. Even without understanding, though, he finds that he wants Ramuh to be right.
“That make sense, lad?” Ramuh asks.
Ifrit nods. It’s a lie, but this time, Ramuh doesn’t catch it. Instead, he smiles, and Ifrit forgets entirely about not understanding.
“Good lad,” Ramuh says. He pats Ifrit on the back, and the sensation travels straight to Ifrit’s heart. He leaves his hand there as he looks to Benedikta. “How about you, lass? Your hand’s just about fairer than mine these days, but I can still take a look if you’d like.”
Benedikta’s cheeks are pink. She lifts a hand to cover her mouth, but the corners of her eyes still crinkle with the hint of a smile. “As long as you promise not to be jealous.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ramuh says.
He leans forward to pull her paper towards him, and the warmth of his hand presses closer. This time, Ifrit doesn’t have to pay attention when he speaks. The low burr of Ramuh’s voice mixes with the feeling of his hand on Ifrit’s back, transmuting into a heavy, blanketing weight. He sounds pleased. When Benedikta replies, she sounds the same. It makes Ifrit’s heart thump painfully. But it’s different from how it hurt before. It’s the difference between a fresh wound and pressing on a bruise. A clean pain.
Just for a moment, Ifrit – lets himself forget. He presses on the feeling, and the clean pain spreads through his whole chest. And for the first time since the fetters closed over his wrists again, Ifrit feels warm.
Notes:
Fun fact for this chapter: Return to Ivalice is the raid series in FFXIV that includes Thunder God Cid, who is also the reason I have younger Cid dual-wielding! If I could give him a third sword, I would.
This chapter was supposed to be a series of vignettes, but I kept thinking of things to add to each scene, so... it looks like we'll have two set-up chapters. Or maybe I'll just write one really long chapter for next time...? Either way, fingers crossed for no more sudden disasters!! I want to write the next part!!! (My priorities are fully in order, of course.)
I hope you've all been enjoying reading even half as much as I've been enjoying writing and reading your comments. Thank you to everyone who's been sticking with this story!
Chapter 10
Notes:
I wanted to stick to Final Fantasy songs here, but I can’t think of a more fitting theme song than Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” for this one, so that’s what we’re going with. Enjoy the chapter! :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Some time after darkness falls, Ramuh stands up from the remains of their meal to step out onto the balcony and peer into the night. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods and says, “Perfect. How about it, then? You two up for a little adventure?”
Ifrit looks to Benedikta, only to find she’s already looking at him. Their eyes meet. Ifrit quickly turns his gaze to her chin, but not before coming to the realization that she doesn’t understand any better than he does.
Benedikta is braver than Ifrit. She stands without hesitation, and Ifrit hurries to copy her. He trails a few steps behind as she steps out onto the balcony, squinting suspiciously as she searches for whatever Ramuh was looking at. “Cid, what are you talking about?”
“If I told you, lass, then it wouldn’t be an adventure,” Ramuh says, tapping the side of his nose.
Benedikta leans on the railing and crosses her arms. “Will it be anything like our last adventure?”
Ifrit watches carefully, but Ramuh just laughs. “One little shortcut and I lose your trust forever, eh? You wound me, Benna.”
Benedikta scoffs. Then, for some reason, she looks at Ifrit again. “What do you think? Do we trust him?”
If Ifrit can trust anything about Ramuh, it’s that he never makes sense. This fits that image perfectly, so Ifrit nods.
Ramuh’s expression goes blank, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he grins, bright and wide, and nudges Benedikta, who goes stiff at the sudden movement. “There, see? That’s a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one. Eh, saw one, that is.”
“Fine,” Benedikta says shortly. “We’re not going far, are we?”
“Not at all. Here, we can go now and be back with plenty of time for you to get your beauty sleep.”
Ramuh vanishes into the bedchamber and emerges with a fat leather pack on his shoulder, a basket in one hand, and a large wooden case with a handle in the other. Before Ifrit can wonder what he’s planning to do with all of this baggage, Ramuh passes the basket off to Benedikta and dumps the pack into Ifrit’s arms. He hurries to adjust his grip before it can slip. Despite its bulk, it isn’t terribly heavy.
Benedikta lifts the lid of the basket to peer inside and gives Ramuh a suspicious look. “What were you going to do if we said no?”
“Eh, I’d figure something out.” Ramuh claps Ifrit on the shoulder. “It’s a backpack, not a baby, lad. You need a hand?”
Before Ifrit can shake his head, Ramuh has already set down the wooden case and lifted the pack from his arms. He holds it out again, and Ifrit slips his arms into the straps, ignoring the familiar twinge of pain as he twists his spine in the wrong direction. Once the pack is settled, Ramuh claps his warm hands on Ifrit’s shoulders, and the pain fades.
Benedikta is watching Ifrit, her head cocked slightly to one side. After a moment, she nods and steps towards the door. Ramuh rubs his hands together, then picks up the wooden case again. “Off we go, then. Stick close to me, eh?”
As promised, they don’t go far. They don’t even leave the keep. Ramuh takes them through the stone hallways to a steep staircase that turns and turns, enough times that Ifrit loses count. Eventually, they come to a heavy wooden door, and Ramuh leads them out into the open night air.
Ifrit hadn’t thought that any part of the keep at Stonhyrr was particularly tall, but as they step out onto the roof, he can see the whole of it laid out below them. Each point and window is marked by the wavering light of torches or the steady light of crystals. None of them can match the towering light of the Mothercrystal. In the dark of night, its shifting purple glow makes it seem almost alive. The water around it shimmers, a halo of dancing lights that wink in and out with each ripple of water. A strip of glinting silver mingles with the purple flecks, leading to the eastern horizon where the moon hangs fat and heavy with Metia twinkling in her usual orbit below. The splendor is matched only by the stars above, which stretch across the sky in a velvet arch of silver and indigo.
Something nudges Ifrit’s shoulder, and he realizes he’s stopped in place. He hurries to move out of the way, stepping closer to the low parapet. He can hear the sound of waves crashing rhythmically against the rocky shore. The wind is stronger this high up. It ruffles his hair and worms its way under his clothing, raising goosebumps along his arms. He suppresses a shiver.
Ramuh closes the door behind them and sets the wooden case down nearby. Unlike the rest of the keep below, this section of roof is dark. The brackets for torches on the raised sections of the parapet are all empty. It must be a lookout tower of some kind, but there aren’t any soldiers on watch, even though Ifrit can see figures on the lower walls patrolling to and fro.
“Perfect,” Ramuh says, looking up at the sky. “Why don’t you two unpack all that while I get this set up?”
Once again, Ifrit accidentally makes eye contact with Benedikta. Even in the darkness, the mutual confusion is evident. Ifrit suppresses another shiver.
Even without knowing the reasoning, the order is clear enough. Ifrit carefully unshoulders the pack and sets it down. Benedikta leans closer as he opens it, and together they pull out a bundle of cloth. Ifrit expects there to be something else below it, but the fabric keeps coming as they tug on it, until he and Benedikta are holding a thick quilted blanket that must be nearly eight feet long. It’s hard to tell the color in the dark, but the light fabric feels soft and plush.
“Cid,” Benedikta calls. Ramuh looks up from… a pile of rods. Benedikta holds her half of the blanket higher. “Where do you want it?”
Ramuh jerks his head towards a clear space at the edge of the roof. “Spread it out over there, would you? Might as well have a seat. I’ll be a mo.”
Benedikta looks at Ifrit and shrugs. They carry the blanket over and spread it out as though getting ready for another picnic. Then, with another brief moment of unspoken communication, they both sit on the blanket and turn to watch Ramuh.
Ramuh has produced a faintly glowing crystal and stuck it in one of the nearby sconces. He hums as he works, somehow both tuneless and off-key, turning the rods this way and that, fixing them together and setting them aside in turn. He holds a particularly wide cylinder up to his face and makes a satisfied noise, then puts it down again. The baffling display is almost comforting.
Ifrit and Benedikta are sitting close enough that he can feel the suggestion of heat radiating from her body. He stops himself from leaning closer. Benedikta doesn’t seem bothered, but between the dark and the wind, it’s cold on the roof. Ifrit draws up his legs to make himself smaller and focuses on not shivering.
He doesn’t succeed. Benedikta looks away from Ramuh to frown at him. “Are you cold?”
Ifrit shrugs. With the fetters, he’s always cold. If he’s a little colder than usual, it doesn’t really matter.
Benedikta’s words attract Ramuh’s attention. He looks up from his work. “Everything all right?”
“I’m fine,” she says. Then, without looking away from Ramuh, she tilts her head towards Ifrit.
For a brief and terrible moment, he feels as though Benedikta has shoved a knife between his ribs. Then Ramuh sets down the rods and walks towards them, and Ifrit can’t feel anything but the pounding of his heart.
Ramuh crouches down. Ifrit forces every muscle in his body not to move. With the moon behind him, Ramuh is nothing but a shadow, just like the first time Ifrit saw him. “Something wrong, lad?”
Ifrit shakes his head.
Benedikta sighs. “Cid, it’s freezing up here.”
“Ah.” Ramuh rises up again. His silhouette turns to Benedikta. “You too, lass?”
“I’m fine,” Benedikta repeats primly. “It gets much colder than this up high.”
Ramuh makes an unhappy noise, and Benedikta stiffens. Ifrit holds as still as possible, heart beating painfully fast. He can feel each thump clearly in the place where the bandages push against the fetters. The rapid pulse makes his fingers tremble. The moment hangs suspended for a handful of those painful heartbeats, shivering with anticipation.
Ramuh starts taking off his jacket.
Ifrit doesn’t move. There isn’t any reason to. There’s nothing he can do.
Except – that’s not true. The thought thrills through him. He feels ill. It’s not his purpose, but – it’s close enough. He can do this much.
Ifrit stands up.
“Perfect. Thank you, lad,” Ramuh says. He reaches towards Ifrit. Good. And –
Something warm and heavy settles over Ifrit’s shoulders.
For a moment, Ifrit can’t understand what’s happening. He waits for the weight to throw him back down to the ground, or for the blinding pain of levin. But it’s just warm.
It’s the smell of sweat and tobacco that makes it click. Ifrit stares at Ramuh. He’s in his shirt, because he took off his jacket. And now he’s put his jacket over Ifrit’s shoulders. Because – that was what Benedikta meant. She noticed he was cold, and she told Ramuh. And now Ramuh’s jacket is over his shoulders.
Ifrit doesn’t understand. His fingers are still vibrating with the force of his pulse. He grips the edges of the jacket. The leather is supple under his fingers. They stop shaking. Then the jacket shifts, and something hard presses against his arm, and Ifrit’s heart tries to leave his chest entirely.
It’s Ramuh’s jacket. Where he keeps his keys.
“Put your arms in the sleeves,” Ramuh says, as though completely oblivious to what he’s just done. “Reckon it’ll be warmer that way.”
Dumbly, Ifrit obeys. He can feel Ramuh’s keys clinking in the inner pocket, the sound muffled by the leather. Ramuh helps him, holding the jacket so that it doesn’t fall from Ifrit’s trembling fingers. The sleeves are wide enough to accommodate the fetters and come down to his thumbs. Ramuh fusses with the leather, then claps his hands on Ifrit’s shoulders.
“There. That should do you.” The shadow of his head tilts. “Lad? Something wrong?”
Ifrit finds his gaze skittering off to where Ramuh’s jacket would be. Except Ifrit is wearing the jacket. He’s wearing it.
He shakes his head.
Ramuh pats his shoulder again. “No need to worry about me, lad. A little night air will do me good. Might even appreciate it more without a smoke in… hand…” He trails off. “Ah.”
Quick as levin, Ramuh’s hand snakes into the jacket and plucks the keys from their pocket. Ifrit doesn’t try to stop him. They vanish to some other place on Ramuh’s person, and Ifrit doesn’t even bother to watch. He doesn’t move at all.
Ramuh doesn’t make one of his usual comments. He just nods at Ifrit and straightens the drape of the leather again, pulling the lapels closed and resting his hands on Ifrit’s shoulders.
“There,” he says quietly. “That a little warmer, lad?”
Ifrit – doesn’t know. The night air isn’t quite as chill anymore. The jacket is still warm from Ramuh’s body. More warmth radiates from the weight of Ramuh’s hands. But the cold is always there.
Still. It should be warmer. So Ifrit nods.
“Good.” Ramuh squeezes gently and lets go, and the world becomes just that little bit colder. “You too, Benna. Tell me if something’s wrong, would you?”
Benedikta smooths her hands over her knees. It’s too dark to really tell, but Ifrit thinks her fingers are trembling. “Obviously. There’s no need to hover. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” Ramuh doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, in a sudden burst of motion, he turns back to his arcane work. “Carry on, then.”
Once Ramuh is gone, Benedikta eyes Ifrit critically. “Are you really fine?”
Ifrit nods.
She doesn’t stop looking at him for a long time. Then she returns the gesture and lies back, hands folded under her head. “Well. At least whatever Cid is up to, the skies are clear tonight.”
Ifrit looks up at the stars. She’s right. The sky itself glows as though scattered with thousands of tiny shards of crystal. He sits on the blanket again. His fingers have stopped trembling. He pulls his legs back up and turns his eyes to the moon, watching it rise slowly higher as Ramuh works. This time, he doesn’t shiver.
===
“Right. That ought to do it.”
Ifrit looks away from the moon, and Benedikta sits up. Ramuh has his sleeves rolled up and is wiping his hands on a cloth. Next to him is… Ifrit doesn’t know what to call it. A contraption, maybe. All of the rods have been pieced together so that they stand independently on three legs. The largest is perched precariously on top, with several smaller bits protruding from along its length. It’s hard to make out the details in the dark, but Ifrit suspects that even in broad daylight, the thing would be just as confounding as its creator.
“What is it?” Benedikta asks, voicing the question for both of them.
Ramuh slings the cloth over one shoulder and makes a beckoning motion. “Come and see for yourself.”
A closer vantage point doesn’t clarify the function of the contraption any further. Benedikta and Ifrit stare uselessly at it for several heartbeats, then glance at each other. Ifrit shrugs slightly.
“It looks very sturdy,” Benedikta says doubtfully.
Ramuh snorts. “It’s not. Don’t go leaning on it, now. Come here.”
He places a hand on Benedikta’s shoulder and draws her closer, directly next to the thing. Then he bends over and puts his face right up against it. He fiddles with the various pieces sticking out for a minute, then leans back with a nod. “Here. Close one eye and line the other up with this bit – like that. Try not to jostle it, if you would.”
Benedikta pushes her hair behind her ears and leans forward. She’s quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a soft, “Oh!”
Ramuh is grinning. “Right?”
“Is that…?”
“Hold on just a minute, lass. Don’t spoil the surprise.”
Ifrit watches warily for several long moments. Ramuh directs Benedikta to adjust some of the projecting bits, and she makes another quiet noise.
Finally, she looks up, head turning towards Ifrit. Her eyes almost shine in the darkness. “Come and look.”
Ifrit obeys. Something has pulled tight in his chest. Benedikta steps back, and Ifrit steps into the space she occupied. His heart begins to beat faster, but it steadies when Ramuh puts a warm hand on his shoulder. Ramuh gently taps one of the pieces, a small cylinder with a piece of glass at the end. “Right here.”
Ifrit leans forward. Hair brushes his brow as he squeezes one eye shut and lines the other up with the glass. At first, it doesn’t look like anything. It’s just a white blur. Then Ramuh guides Ifrit’s hand to one of the many pieces sticking out and says, “Here, turn this bit till it’s clear.”
Ifrit turns the bit. The white becomes somehow blurrier. He tries the other direction. The blur draws inwards, tighter and tighter, until suddenly, he can understand what he’s looking at.
It’s the moon.
Ifrit stares at the image, one eye squinted shut. It’s still not entirely clear. The white seems to bleed from its outline into a delicate halo. But it’s definitely the moon. It’s big. Bigger even than on a harvest night in autumn.
He lifts his face from the contraption. The moon is still there in the sky. It suddenly seems – so small. It’s always been so big, but now –
Ramuh’s warm hand is still on his shoulder. “How about it then? Did you get it clear?”
Ifrit nods. Almost before the motion is finished, he’s lowering his face again. Ramuh laughs. That’s good. It means Ifrit doesn’t have to pay attention to him.
The image still isn’t really clear. But it’s big enough that Ifrit can see more details than he ever has before. The white spot on the right side of the moon’s face is ringed by a darker circle, from which bright lines radiate. They almost look like grooves. So do some of the other spots, the tiny flecks almost too small to see with just his eyes. It’s not that the moon is colored – they’re little divots, as though someone has struck the moon’s surface with a hammer over and over again. And on the left edge, he can see the dark sliver where the moon hasn’t finished reaching her full brightness, a gray band that dimples along the edge where the light is reaching to claim it.
It’s – so strange. It makes Ifrit feel like something in his chest is tightening. But it’s not the same kind of squeezing pressure that blocks his lungs and throat. He can still breathe. It’s as though his ribs themselves are expanding, straining against the boundary of his skin. The feeling travels up his spine and into his skull, making the inside of his head feel light and airy.
When he straightens again, he can see the ghosts of all those little details. The moon is exactly the same as it was just a few moments ago. But it’s different now. It’s completely different.
Ramuh pats Ifrit’s shoulder and withdraws his hand. “How’s that, then?”
Ifrit nods. It’s not the right response. But his head is too dizzy with that airy feeling to think of words.
Ramuh doesn’t seem to mind. He looks extremely pleased. Ifrit has grown used to not understanding, but this is somehow beyond that. It’s not just that he can’t imagine how it works. That doesn’t matter. It’s Ramuh himself. Ifrit can feel the understanding right there, on the edge of his mind, if only he would let everything expand just that little bit more. Like turning the little knob on Ramuh’s contraption until the image became clear. It would be easy. He knows it would.
For a moment, he almost does it. He wants to understand so badly. But when he reaches for that little knob in his mind, some instinct stops him. He looks at the moon again, and suddenly, he feels very small.
A hand lands on his arm. It’s Benedikta. “Can I?”
Ifrit nods and steps back. She looks through the glass circle for some time, turning the little knob back and forth. Ifrit watches the elegant play of her fingers. Then he looks back up at the moon.
When Benedikta straightens again, she asks, “What is it?”
“Haven’t gotten as far as a name yet.” Ramuh rubs the back of his neck. “Finding a good one’s almost trickier than putting the damn thing together, and it’s got more fiddly little bits than I can count. The basic principles are right simple, though, once you stop trying to figure out how to fit crystals in there.”
Benedikta tilts her head. “It doesn’t use magic?”
“Not this version.” Ramuh glances at Ifrit and gives him a strange little smile. “I’ll admit to stealing the idea from our friends across the strait. From what I’ve read, the astrologers in Sanbreque do something similar with light crystals, but the trick to it’s a secret tighter than a – uh, than a sailor’s knot. Don’t suppose you know it, lad?”
Ifrit shakes his head. He’s never even heard of anything like that. It seems impossible that any of the astrologers he’s met could create something so incredible. They’ve all been stern and dour to a man. He can’t imagine them caring about anything like this. There must be another kind of astrologer, one he’s never seen. One that cares about beautiful things more than power.
Benedikta gently touches the largest cylinder. Ifrit almost wants to do the same. He keeps his hands carefully tucked in the sleeves of Ramuh’s jacket.
“If it’s not magic, how does it work?”
Ramuh leans forward, eyes almost as bright as the moon. “Right. It’s the same principle as spectacles, really, only a bit more complicated. You ever seen sunlight go through a glass of water? It moves differently, right? So when light hits the glass, it changes its path…”
Ifrit loses track of Ramuh’s explanation very quickly. It’s a familiar feeling by now. Benedikta has that creased look of concentration she gets, and that’s familiar too. Every so often she stops Ramuh to ask a question, and he answers with renewed vigor, hands making shapes in the air and touching various parts of the contraption.
None of it means anything to Ifrit. He doesn’t try to understand. The idea remains blurred, a vague, colorless shape. Instead, he thinks of the image he saw with his eyes – the dents and divots and lines drawn in light and shadow. Those details were always there. He just didn’t know about them. And now he does. He can see the moon with his own eyes, and he can see it through the glass in the tube. It looks different to see it so large, but that’s just an illusion. No matter how he looks, it’s still the moon.
===
Ramuh and Benedikta talk for a long time. Sometime during their conversation, they start pointing the contraption at other subjects. Each time, they pull Ifrit over to show him, too. First is Metia, which appears as a slightly blurred, luminous disk, bright and iridescent at the edges and darker in the middle. Then they look at a number of other stars. Most don’t seem to change much at all, except for one particularly bright star that almost looks to be two points of light when viewed through the glass.
After that, they move to turning the contraption towards objects on the ground. The Mothercrystal shows particularly well. Once enlarged, the swirls of aether drifting lazily around the crystal are almost hypnotic. From there, they follow the progress of a patrol along the bridge connecting Drake’s Spine to the shore. Benedikta seems to enjoy watching the soldiers walking to and fro below. She gets very good at keeping the glass pointed in the right direction, moving the large tube slowly but steadily to track her targets.
Ifrit leaves her to it. He dutifully looks through the glass each time she pulls him over, nodding and listening as best he can as she explains whatever caught her eye. Mostly, though, he thinks about the moon. He feels the strange urge to turn the tube back to the heavens to see if the lines of light have moved. But he doesn’t dare adjust the contraption on his own.
Eventually, Ramuh wanders away to the basket and begins to rummage through it. When next Benedikta peels herself away from the glass, she looks towards Ramuh and bites her lip.
“I should help him,” she mutters.
Quietly, Ifrit says, “I can go.”
Benedikta tucks her hair behind her ears, glancing sideways at Ifrit as she does. “Are you sure?”
Ifrit nods. She beams at him, and something warm sparks in his chest.
It’s enough that he doesn’t think twice of approaching Ramuh. The man has emptied the basket and spread its contents over the blanket. He has a jug in hand, and an array of differently sized jars, mugs, and spoons are laid out around him. As Ifrit approaches, he looks up with a smile.
“Need something, lad?”
Ifrit shakes his head. Hesitantly, he asks, “Do you?”
Ramuh’s smile widens, a pale slash of teeth in the darkness. “Nah, I think I have it well in hand. Wouldn’t say no to some company, though.” He jerks his head at a patch of the blanket that isn’t occupied. “Have a seat if you’d like.”
Ifrit obeys. The blanket is still soft under his hands.
Ramuh pops the cork out of the jug and lines it up with one of the mugs. The liquid that he pours is pale and opaque. “How’re you holding up? Jacket warm enough?”
Ifrit nods.
“Good.” Ramuh fills the next two mugs, then corks the jug and fishes into the basket again. “Nights are getting chilly again. Figured we could all use a warm drink.”
He emerges with two crystals, each the length of his hand. He squints at them, holding them up in the moonlight. After a moment, he shrugs and holds one out. A lavender glow sparks within, and frost begins to form on the rim of the mug.
“Bollocks,” Ramuh mutters. He chucks that crystal carelessly into the basket and holds out the other one. This time, the frost slowly melts away.
“I suppose this must be frustrating for you,” he says lightly. “Bet you could do this with just a snap of your fingers, eh?”
Ifrit shakes his head.
“No?” Ramuh glances at him, then turns back to channeling aether through the crystal. Steam begins to rise from the mug, and he pulls the crystal away. If Ifrit had done it, the mug probably would have shattered. For this much, a crystal is better.
Ramuh repeats the process twice more, then sets the crystal aside. He hunts through the various jars, finally selecting a particularly fat one. As he struggles with the lid, he says, “You know, lad, I’m not going to be mad if you are unhappy. Reckon most anyone would be in your situation.”
Ifrit doesn’t reply. He watches as the lid of the jar suddenly gives way. The rim is covered in something thick that glistens in the moonlight. Ramuh begins to hunt through the basket again. The spoons are right next to Ifrit’s foot. He picks one up and holds it out towards Ramuh.
It takes Ramuh a moment to notice. In the dark, his expression is even less scrutable than usual. His fingers are warm when he takes the spoon from Ifrit’s hand.
“Cheers,” he says. He’s still looking at Ifrit. After a moment, he smiles and nods towards Benedikta. “So, how about it then? Needs a little polish and some better glass, but I think it’s safe to say I’ve achieved proof of concept, eh?”
Ifrit nods.
“Don’t suppose you have any thoughts on a name?”
Ifrit looks at the contraption. Benedikta is still looking through the glass, the angle of the tube low. Nothing immediately comes to mind. Ramuh waits without filling the silence, oddly patient. Finally, Ifrit ventures, “A looking glass?”
“A fine name,” Ramuh says cheerfully. “Unfortunately, some daft sod’s already stuck it on mirrors. Though there are some reflective bits inside, so it’s not inaccurate.”
The night air is chill, but Ifrit’s face feels hot. Ramuh is scooping something thick and viscous out of the jar into one of the mugs. “Hand me another spoon, would you?”
Ifrit hastens to obey.
“Ta. You like sweets?”
He shrugs.
“Hm.” Ramuh picks up the mug with the spoon in it and places it in front of Ifrit. “Taste that.”
The mug is warm to the touch. Ifrit takes a tentative sip. It’s milk with honey. Too much honey. It’s the sweetest thing Ifrit has tasted in a long time. Just a sip is enough to coat his tongue and make his stomach turn unpleasantly. He tries not to put the mug down too quickly.
Ramuh notices anyway. He tilts his head slightly. “Too sweet?”
Ifrit shrugs.
“Hm.” Ramuh doesn’t say anything further, but he barely dips the spoon into the jar before transferring it to the next mug. “One more, if you please.”
Ifrit hands him another spoon. Ramuh doesn’t talk much after that. He goes from jar to jar, using a little wooden pick to scoop various powders into each mug. Finally, he gives them all one last stir and hands one to Ifrit. “Here. Give it a taste for me, would you?”
Ifrit picks up the mug carefully. It’s just as hot as the other one. He clutches the warm clay and puts the rim to his lips, hesitating long enough for the smell to reach his nose. A wave of saliva builds under his tongue. He swallows it down. Ramuh is watching. Ifrit takes a sip.
It’s warm. Not just the temperature, but the taste. Ifrit – recognizes it. He doesn’t remember what it’s called. He takes another sip, a little bigger. This time, he notices the sweetness a little more. It’s not overpowering, though. It mixes with all of the other flavors and becomes something mellower. It still leaves a strange taste on his tongue when he swallows, but it’s not terrible. If he were even a little bit hungry, he thinks he might like it.
Ramuh is still watching him intently. Even with the moon, it’s too dark to really read him. “No good, huh?”
Ifrit shakes his head. Ramuh doesn’t seem convinced. So he says, “It’s good.”
“Yeah?” Ramuh sounds doubtful.
Ifrit nods firmly. Ramuh keeps looking at him, though. Ifrit doesn’t understand what he wants. He isn’t even lying. He looks away and makes himself take another sip.
Finally, Ramuh turns away and cups a hand next to his mouth. “Benna! Soup’s on!”
Benedikta startles, nearly knocking over the contraption. Ifrit puts the mug down and gets a leg under himself to – he doesn’t know. But nothing happens. The contraption settles. Benedikta stands with her hands on it, then carefully lets go and turns around. Ramuh grabs the sleeve of his own jacket and tugs Ifrit back down.
“Relax,” he commands. He puts the mug back in Ifrit’s hands. Ifrit grips the warm ceramic and holds still.
“Cid, you can’t do that.” Benedikta’s words are chiding, but there’s a trembling edge to her voice. “You’ll wake the whole keep.”
“It’s good to keep ‘em on their toes,” Ramuh says cheerfully. He pats the blanket. “C’mon. Have a nice warm drink before your face freezes that way, eh? Can’t go through life with one eye closed.”
Benedikta sits and accepts the mug Ramuh offers, the first one that was so sweet Ifrit almost couldn’t stomach it. She takes an eager sip and makes a pleased sound. “Are you trying to empty the coffers too?”
Ramuh snorts. “Doesn’t sound like you’re complaining.”
“I’m not,” she says primly. She brushes her hair aside and lifts her mug again.
It – isn’t an argument. As they talk back and forth, Ifrit loosens his grip on the mug. He takes another sip. The liquid is warm traveling to his stomach, too. He can feel it, a strange little heat where there shouldn’t be anything but cold. He keeps drinking, only half listening to Ramuh and Benedikta talk. His eyes drift back to the moon, now hovering nearly overhead. It’s peaceful.
By the time the drink is done, the mug has gone cold. The little kernel of warmth hasn’t. Ifrit cradles it gently even as he sets the cold clay aside.
“The sky really is clear tonight,” Benedikta says. Her voice is soft.
“That it is.” Ramuh leans back, resting on his elbows with his gaze turned towards the heavens. He’s quiet for some time. Just as Ifrit is about to stop listening entirely, he says, “You know, glass and mirrors are all well and good, but sometimes it’s nice to just look at things as they are.”
“Mm.” Benedikta leans back as well, lying out on the blanket with her hands folded over her stomach. After a moment, she lifts one arm to trace some pattern Ifrit can’t see. “That’s Shiva’s Cup, right? And her Jewel?”
Ramuh leans until he’s lying fully on his back, almost shoulder to shoulder with her. “Aye, that’s the one. Though down south we just call it the north star.” He glances over at Ifrit. “You know your navigational stars, lad?”
Ifrit hesitates. He looks up at the sky. It takes him a moment to hunt down Shiva’s Jewel – the moon is bright enough now to wash out some of the stars. But he finds the Cup and follows it to the bright, crystalline point of light that is the Jewel, carefully raising a hand to point.
Ramuh pushes up slightly and leans towards Ifrit. “Think you’ve got it, aye.” He lies back again and pats the blanket next to him. “Why don’t you come over here, eh? Can’t see where you’re pointing if you’re a bloody mile away.”
Ifrit shuffles closer. Ramuh grabs his sleeve and tugs, and then suddenly, Ifrit is lying down too, close enough that his arm is brushing against Ramuh’s.
“Do the stars have different names in the south?” Benedikta asks.
“That they do. There, see that line? You know that one?”
Ramuh lifts his arm, and the fabric of his sleeve brushes Ifrit’s cheek, so close he can feel the warmth of the man’s skin. It takes Ifrit a moment to focus enough to understand where Ramuh is pointing. Scattered in a field of paler stars, three bright points of light make a gentle curve. Ifrit tries to remember their name and fails.
“Obviously I do, Cid.” Benedikta’s tone is scathing. “That’s the Talon.”
“All right,” Ramuh says. It sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “Where I’m from we call it Sabin’s Belt…”
Ramuh keeps talking, his voice low and quiet. Ifrit can feel its vibrations in his own chest. Ramuh knows an astonishing amount about the night sky, more than anyone would ever need just for navigation. But then, Ramuh knows an astonishing amount about a lot of things. More than Ifrit can imagine ever learning. He doesn’t know when Ramuh finds the time.
The litany of stars becomes almost rhythmic, a steady pulse that vibrates in time with Ifrit’s heart. He finds himself looking at the stars themselves, only half listening to Ramuh’s words. They really are bright tonight, even with the light of the moon to put them to shame. Looking up at them from his back gives the impression that he’s floating in a wide, calm sea. His thoughts sink into that sea one by one, until there’s only the sound of the waves and Ramuh’s voice.
At some point, Ramuh sits up. Ifrit blinks slowly at his back. “Wanna learn an old sailor’s trick?”
There’s a shift of fabric. “Is it useful?”
“You’ll like it.” Ramuh leans forward. Ifrit blinks again. His eyes stay closed. He can almost see the stars behind his lids. “Here, so you line your hand up with the horizon – like that, exactly…”
Notes:
Cid, putting together a high-powered, fully articulated telescope from basic principles: What, like it’s hard?
I did a lot of research and had a whole speech prepared about historical telescopes, but then I decided that actually, if Mid can invent a fantasy engine, Cid can invent a telescope. And since Clive doesn't understand how it works, I don't have to explain it! Thanks, Clive! :)
In my notes, this entire chapter was going to be one scene in a series of vignettes, but I got so attached to it that now it's... almost six thousand words. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I want to say that next chapter is three-quarters done, but given how things grow on me, that's probably a lie. I'm so excited for it guys, you have no idea! Can't wait to see you all next time!! ;D
Chapter 11
Notes:
Readers, friends, comrades… I come to you with a confession. I have broken my ironclad rule of “no changes that cannot conceivably be due to [redacted].” It’s only a small detail, but it’s also an emotional linchpin for this chapter, so I hope you’ll all forgive me!
I actually think this chapter is probably best read in silence, but I will permanently associate it with FFXIV's "Fleeting Moment," because that's what I was listening to when I made myself cry while writing for the first time.
Have fun! ;3c
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sky is an even, dusky blue. Ifrit blinks slowly at it for a long time, not really understanding where he is. Waves crash in the distance. With each surge, memory trickles back in unhurried dribs and drabs. The stars, and Ramuh’s low voice, and Benedikta’s quiet questions. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He hadn’t meant to. The thought should be alarming, but it seems somehow distant and unimportant.
Ifrit turns his head slightly. Benedikta is asleep on the blanket an arm’s length away. She’s lying on her back with one hand resting on her stomach and the other thrown over her head, face tilted slightly towards Ifrit. Several hanks of blond hair have spread over her cheek. One flutters with each gentle rise and fall of her chest. Someone ought to tuck it behind her ear. Ifrit’s hands stay folded on his chest. She’s too peaceful to disturb.
Ifrit glances in the other direction. Ramuh sits against the low parapet, head angled to gaze out towards the Mothercrystal. His expression is blank, face free of any lines other than those under his eyes. He hasn’t noticed that Ifrit is awake yet. One leg is propped up, arm resting over his knee. His hand dangles, thumb rubbing against his forefinger in a slow, almost hypnotic motion.
Ifrit watches him for a long time. Other than the sound of the waves, it’s perfectly quiet. When Ramuh looks over and catches Ifrit’s eye, his heart barely flutters.
Ramuh smiles and holds a finger to his lips, motioning with his chin towards where Benedikta is still sleeping. Ifrit nods. Ramuh nods back, then beckons with his other hand.
Ifrit sits up, carefully silent. His neck is stiff, and his spine aches. He doesn’t make a sound as he moves towards Ramuh. In the morning hush, even his heart is quiet.
Ramuh pats the stone next to him, and Ifrit sits down.
With a soft grunt, Ramuh shifts to mirror him and sit tailor style. So quietly that Ifrit almost can’t catch it, he says, “Morning, lad. Trouble you for my pouch?”
Right. Ifrit still has Ramuh’s jacket. He starts to take it off, but Ramuh lays a hand on his shoulder and stops him. Ifrit holds still. Ramuh leans forward and fishes into the inner pocket himself. His hands aren’t as warm as usual, but somehow, Ifrit doesn’t mind. Once Ramuh is done, he straightens the jacket on Ifrit’s shoulders, pulling it firmly closed again, before leaning back against the parapet again.
“Cheers,” he says, raising the pouch with a faint smile. Then he puts a cigarillo between his lips and lights the end with a thread of levin. He sucks in the first mouthful greedily and lets it out slowly, closing his eyes. He looks tired.
They sit quietly while Ramuh smokes through his cigarillo. The smell of tobacco is sharp but not unpleasant. The smoke dissipates into phantom threads, nearly the same color as the dim light of false dawn.
Before long, false dawn becomes true dawn. Ifrit watches as color blooms to the east, first a dusky pink lining for the low-lying grayish blue clouds, then a bright stripe of orange as the sun peeks over the horizon. Degree by degree it shades towards a pale yellow, and the whole sky lightens with it.
Ramuh watches with Ifrit, not saying a word. The light gilds the planes of his face, almost seeming to grant him an internal light of his own. By the time he stubs out his cigarillo on the stone of the keep, the sky is a dome of hazy, whitish blue, trimmed at the bottom edges by pale wisps of cloud.
It isn’t surprising when Ramuh breaks the silence, but Ifrit finds he doesn’t mind. His voice is pitched low enough that it almost blends with the sound of the waves. “Sleipnir’s probably going spare right about now. Wish I could see his face.”
Oh. That’s right. Ifrit should be in the cell right now, waking up to stone. But instead he’s here under the open morning sky. The reason isn’t any clearer in the light of day. He wonders briefly whether the soldiers stood guard all night or if someone bothered to relieve them.
“Maybe I’ll steal you for the day.” Ramuh leans his head back against the parapet and offers Ifrit a sly grin. “Course, then my men’ll be the ones going spare, and that’s a much dicier prospect.”
Ramuh doesn’t seem upset, but Ifrit doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t understand why Ramuh didn’t wake him. Hesitantly, he says, “I’m sorry.”
Ramuh laughs quietly and pats Ifrit’s knee. “Nah, don’t be. They need a little independence now and then, or I’ll end up with grown men tugging on my apron strings.”
He turns to squint at the sun, then looks to where Benedikta is sleeping. He huffs quietly. “She’ll bite my head off if I let her miss lessons, though. Come on then. Up we get.”
Ramuh slaps his knees and rises with a grunt. He sways on the way up, leaning against the stone. Ifrit hurries to stand as well. Without thinking, his hand rises with him and cups Ramuh’s elbow to steady him. For a moment, Ramuh tenses, and Ifrit realizes what a stupid thing he’s done. Before he can snatch his hand back, though, Ramuh laughs quietly and pats it with his own, a brief brush of warm fingers.
“Thank you kindly, lad.” He pats Ifrit’s hand again, then steps back out of Ifrit’s reach, bracing his hands on his hips and leaning back. His spine pops audibly. “Fuck, I’m getting too old for this shite.” He immediately points a finger at Ifrit. “I’ll thank you not to repeat that in Benna’s hearing. There’d never be an end to it.”
Ifrit shakes his head. Ramuh snorts, then straightens fully and stumps over to the blanket. Benedikta is already stirring as he kneels down. When he places a hand on her shoulder, she jolts up immediately. “I’m awake.”
Ramuh huffs a laugh. “I can see that, lass. Take a moment and finish the job properly, eh?”
“Cid.” Benedikta scrubs a hand over her face and shakes her head. “It’s morning?”
“Aye, that it is. Sleep well?”
As they talk quietly, Ifrit looks over to the western horizon. The moon and Metia have almost finished their journey across the sky. In the morning light, they seem somehow pale and washed out. For a moment, Ifrit lets himself imagine that he can see beyond them. Across the sea to Storm and the Mothercrystal there, white and sloping, and the castle beyond that. All the way to the furthest shore. His chest aches.
He looks down at the keep. The shape of it is clearer in the morning light. The soldiers patrolling in pairs seem totally oblivious to their presence up above. It’s as distant as another world.
“Ready, lad?”
Ifrit turns away from the parapet. Ramuh is standing next to a rumpled-looking Benedikta. Each of them have a corner of the blanket in hand. Ifrit nods and move to join them. The quiet morning hush is folded away with the blanket, and another day in Ash begins.
===
There’s a stolas waiting in Ramuh’s rooms.
The bird sits innocently on the perch, unnaturally still. Its eerie blue eyes stare fixedly ahead, but it turns its head and shuffles its wings as Ramuh enters. It’s the first time Ifrit has seen a stolas use the perch. He’d almost forgotten it was there.
“For fuck’s sake, what now?” Ramuh mutters. He herds Ifrit and Benedikta the rest of the way into the room and shuts the door. “Drop that stuff wherever while I take this, eh?”
Ramuh sets down his case and lets the stolas land on his arm. Ifrit glances at Benedikta, who shrugs and tilts her head towards the bedchamber door. Ifrit nods and follows just a step behind. She sets the basket next to the doorway, and he carefully unshoulders the pack to do the same.
Ifrit has just let go of the straps when a sharp bang cracks through the room. Benedikta flinches with her whole body, hands coming up to her chest. Ifrit turns, calling for flames – and stumbles when he finds nothing but cold.
Ramuh is bent over his desk, one hand planted on the wood, the other covering his face. As Ifrit watches, he curls his hand into a fist and slams it onto the desk. The sound travels straight to Ifrit’s heart, which begins to pound with just the same amount of force.
Benedikta flinches again, but – she’s so stupidly brave. She takes a tiny step forward. “Cid? What’s wrong?”
Ramuh jolts up, and Ifrit tenses further, ready to – do nothing. Because there’s nothing he can do. But Ramuh just shakes his head. When he lifts his hand from his face, his expression is blank and unreadable. His voice is just as unnaturally calm. “It’s nothing.”
“Obviously it’s not.” Benedikta’s voice trembles slightly, but – she’s still arguing with him. What is she doing? “What happened?”
“I said it’s nothing,” Ramuh repeats, tone still eerily flat. He looks at Ifrit briefly, then turns his blank expression back on Benedikta. “We’ll talk later.”
“Later.” Benedikta takes another step forward. “You mean when you get back. Because you’re leaving again.”
Ramuh’s nostrils flare, but the perfect, unnatural calm doesn’t break. “I said later, Benna. Why don’t you go get ready before you’re late.”
“I have plenty of time,” Benedikta snaps. Ifrit’s muscles wind tighter notch by notch as she goes on. “Am I supposed to live under a rock forever? Is that why you brought me to Stonhyrr?”
“Benedikta Harman.” Ramuh’s voice cracks like a lightning strike. “Have you gone deaf or daft? What is it about later that you don’t understand?”
Benedikta flinches, shoulders rising. Ifrit is suddenly and terribly aware of the fetters, the weight he’s long grown used to as heavy as the day he first wore them. How could he have forgotten? For the whole morning, he realizes frantically. He stopped thinking about the truth for the whole morning, and the night before, too. And now Benedikta has forgotten herself, or else is so angry as not to care, and Ifrit isn’t ready. A terrible sickness floods through him, a watery feeling that leaves his insides as cold as ice. Surely Benedikta can feel it too. Surely she knows what’s coming. Surely she’ll realize and stop, before it’s too late.
But she doesn’t stop. Ifrit’s breath catches in his chest as she steps forward yet again, her own voice rising to match Ramuh’s. “I understand just fine! Do you think me some meek little lamb? Am I not also–”
“That’s enough.” Ramuh strides forward to meet Benedikta, who shrinks back, finally seeming to realize what she’s done. But it’s too late. It’s too late. Because Ramuh’s face isn’t blank anymore. It’s dark as a stormcloud as he says lowly, “All right. If you want to do this now, we’ll do this now.”
He grips Benedikta’s arm, and she freezes completely. Her face is white as milk. She doesn’t resist as Ramuh pulls her into the other room. Her eyes meet Ifrit’s as she passes, so wide that he can see the whites. Then the door slams closed, and Ifrit can’t see her at all anymore.
Ifrit is alone.
His heart is slamming against his ribs. He’s alone. But before he can consider that thought’s potential, another thought crowds in, even more urgent – Benedikta is alone with Ramuh, and Ramuh is out of patience.
His feet carry him to the door almost before the thought has finished forming. He doesn’t think beyond it. He pushes the door open and steps into Ramuh’s bedchamber.
The room is dim, lit only by pale tendrils of light that creep in through the half-closed shutters and mingle with the shadows clinging in the corners. Ramuh still has his hand on Benedikta’s arm. Her face is turned away from him, set in a mulish scowl. Her eyes widen further when she catches sight of Ifrit, but he can’t afford to look at her. He has to look at Ramuh.
Ramuh, who is out of patience. Whose expression is stormier than Ifrit has ever seen. Who is, right now, turning that expression on Ifrit.
“Lad, now is not the time,” Ramuh says lowly. It makes that cold feeling shiver deep in Ifrit’s guts, but even so – he’s looking at Ifrit now. That’s good.
Ifrit tries to look Ramuh in the face. To present a challenge. But the anger in Ramuh’s eyes makes his throat too tight to speak. He focuses on his chin instead. “It was my fault.”
“Excuse me?” Ramuh’s voice is a deep rumble, thunder on the horizon warning of what’s to come.
Time has all but stopped. Ifrit’s thoughts have stopped with it. He can’t think of anything else to say. He manages to say again, “It was my fault.”
Ramuh’s expression goes terribly and perfectly blank. With all the calm that comes before a storm, he asks, “What do you think is going on here?”
Ifrit doesn’t know what to say. His heart thumps, and suddenly his thoughts are moving again, faster even than his pulse, tripping over each other in their haste to make it to the front of his head. The things that Ramuh is going to do to Benedikta. The things that Ramuh is going to do to him. The memory of that blinding agony. The feeling of those hands in his hair, on his shoulders. The sweat beading on his back and palms. The weight. The warmth. The cold.
The thoughts spin round and round in a maelstrom that creates a physical pressure, filling his head and his chest until he can’t see a single thing or breathe a single breath. Only the one thought at the center is clear: he has to keep Ramuh’s attention on him.
Ifrit opens his mouth to say – something. Something that will guarantee that attention. The moment freezes in place, crystalized by the knowledge of how much it’s going to hurt.
Benedikta pulls away from Ramuh, and the moment breaks.
“Get out,” she snaps. Ifrit flinches, but – she’s looking at Ramuh.
Ramuh jerks back, blankness scattering as his brows descend again. “What?”
“I said get out.” Benedikta yanks her arm out of Ramuh’s grasp. He lets her go, hand hovering open and empty. “You aren’t helping, so get out!”
Ramuh is staring at her. It’s the opposite of what Ifrit wanted. He takes a step forward, but Ramuh doesn’t look away from Benedikta. “What, of my own bedchamber?”
“Yes!” Benedikta shoves Ramuh, and he doesn’t stop her. He takes a tiny step back. “You’re a fool, Cidolfus Telamon, and you’re only going to make things worse.”
Ramuh looks at Ifrit again – good. But it’s only for a moment. “Benna, I can’t–”
Benedikta shoves him again, harder, and his whole body rocks back. “He obviously isn’t going to hurt me, Cid! So get out!”
Ramuh takes a tiny step. He looks at Ifrit again, face clear and open as the morning sky. Even the blankness is gone. In its place is something that makes Ifrit’s heart squeeze painfully, pulse fluttering in his throat.
He doesn’t have time to try and decipher it. Benedikta puts her hands on Ramuh’s arm and pushes, and he doesn’t resist. She marches him out of the room. And he goes.
The door slams closed again.
Ifrit stares at Benedikta. She’s shaking. Her hands are pressed up against the door. One curls into a fist and bangs on the wood, a sharp thump that Ifrit can feel in his chest. Then she whirls around and points at Ifrit.
“And you!” Her voice pierces his lungs. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Ifrit ducks his head and takes a step back. His breath catches in his chest, trapped by the rapid pounding of his heart. He manages, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not supposed to do that,” she says hotly. “No one is supposed to do that! Are you soft in the head?”
Ifrit jerks his head in a nod.
“Don’t agree with me!” Her voice rises to a shriek, then breaks. “What is wrong with you?”
Ifrit drops to his knees. He doesn’t try to apologize again. She hates it when he tries to apologize. She doesn’t want him to speak at all. It’s better to wait silently for whatever she decides. He bows his head and looks at the stone and holds still and waits.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is shaking. It doesn’t sound right. He’s upset her, and he doesn’t – he doesn’t remember what he did, except fail over and over and over again, and he can’t think past the pounding of his heart, the trembling vibration he can’t suppress even though he’s locked every muscle in place, perfectly still. He can’t ever get it right. He’s so stupid. He’s so stupid.
“Get up,” she commands.
Ifrit stands immediately, so fast that he almost falls again. He locks his knees and grips his hands behind his back and keeps his eyes on the stone. He doesn’t speak. He waits.
She moves closer. He doesn’t dare to look at even her boots. He looks at the stone. It’s always stone. Her hands grip his arms, and he can barely feel it through his armor, but the touch is like ice.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. He knows that. She never does it herself. He waits. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she repeats. He waits. “Would you – Look at me, damn you!”
Ifrit looks up. He looks up, and – her face is pale and blotchy, two flags of bright red on her cheeks, short blonde hair in disarray. It’s Benedikta.
A wave of dizziness sweeps through him. He sways, held in place only by her small, firm hands. It’s Benedikta.
“Are you even listening to me?” she demands – Benedikta demands.
Ifrit nods. The motion makes him feel even more unsteady. Her hands withdraw, and suddenly, his legs fold, dropping him back to the floor. His spine shudders with pain. His chest heaves. His chest heaves, but no air reaches his lungs. There’s no air at all. His heart pumps anyway, sending blood spiraling through his veins, his limbs, his skull, heavy and dull and useless. He’s so useless. He can’t breathe.
Benedikta drops to her knees next to him, hands reaching towards him, and Ifrit – Ifrit is so weak. He can’t hold still. He flinches.
Benedikta stops. Her hands drop into her lap. Ifrit breathes. He breathes, and his lungs expand, and air enters them, and his whole body begins to tremble.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Benedikta says again. “You – Don’t you understand that?”
Ifrit jerks his head in a nod. She’s never hurt him before. He can’t even imagine it. But he can’t look at her. And he can’t stop trembling.
Her hands clench in her lap. “Cid isn’t going to hurt you either. And he’s never hurt me. Not even once.”
Ifrit stares at her hands. That – isn’t true. He saw it. He did.
“But–” The word escapes before he can remember himself. He closes his mouth quickly.
“But what?” Benedikta demands.
“Your face,” he says haltingly.
One of her hands rises up. The mark is gone, but he can still see it, the bright red spot above her brow. “My face?”
Ifrit nods. “There was blood on his jacket.”
She takes a sharp breath. “You mean – Cid didn’t do that. Or – he didn’t mean for it to happen.”
A cold shiver runs through Ifrit. He doesn’t reply.
“Not like that,” Benedikta snaps. Ifrit doesn’t move. “He took us out of the city down some stupid shortcut, and there was a camp of beastmen, and – I wasn’t fast enough. All right? It was my fault. Because even now that I’m–”
She stops suddenly. She doesn’t continue, even though Ifrit waits. He tries to imagine it. It isn’t difficult. Ramuh is – careless, sometimes. Like with the hair. Like with his jacket. And he’s strong. He could forget so easily, and then – even if he didn’t mean it, Benedikta would be hurt.
Was it her blood after all, on his jacket? Or leftovers from some beastman?
Benedikta’s hands are clenched so hard they’re shaking. “He had to save me again,” she bites out. “And now you’re trying, too. But I don’t need saving from anything!”
One of her fists slams against her leg, hard enough that it must hurt. Ifrit sits up. His body trembles, but he doesn’t fall over again. His hands hover, and for a moment, he almost reaches out.
Benedikta looks up. Her eyes flash. “And neither do you. Don’t you get it? We’re not going to hurt you!”
Ifrit’s fingers curl in his lap. He stares at the backs of his hands. The white line of the bandages is bright against his skin. It’s even brighter next to the dark metal of the crystal fetters.
“But he did.” The words slip out before he can stop them. He doesn’t want to stop them. So he says to his clenched hands, “Ramuh already hurt me.”
For a moment, Benedikta doesn’t respond. Then she says shakily, “Not in Stonhyrr, though. Right?”
Ifrit – doesn’t know. Has Ramuh hurt him here? Ifrit feels sure that he has, but when he tries to remember, all he can think of is Ramuh’s hands on his shoulders and in his hair. Did that hurt?
Ifrit doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. And as he thinks about it, he has the insane thought again that even if it did hurt, maybe – it would be worth it. And then he thinks – right now. He wishes that Ramuh would – right now. He imagines the feeling of Ramuh’s hands on his shoulders, the good clean pain of it, and he wants it so badly that he can’t breathe.
Benedikta suddenly stands up. Ifrit doesn’t move. She steps past him and yanks the door open.
“Benna.” It’s Ramuh. His voice is quiet. “I’m–”
“Did you hurt him?” Benedikta’s voice is very high. It hasn’t stopped shaking. “Since you brought him home. Did you hurt him?”
“No,” Ramuh says, firm and immediate. “Benna, I would never. You know that I would never, don’t you?”
There’s a sound, like a quick intake of breath. “I know.”
Ramuh makes an unhappy noise. “Benna–”
“Later, Cid.” Benedikta’s voice wavers. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Quick footsteps. Another door slams. Ifrit’s hands twitch. He doesn’t move. He waits.
It’s quiet. The silence presses heavily on Ifrit’s skin, a slippery, physical presence trying to crawl inside of him. He wants to cover his ears and shut it out. His hands stay clenched in his lap.
Eventually, there’s a sigh. Ifrit’s heart beats. Then shifting fabric and bootsteps, moving closer. Right next to Ifrit.
The bootsteps stop. Ifrit holds still. Ramuh crouches down next to him. “Lad?”
His hand rests on Ifrit’s shoulder. It rests right where Ifrit imagined it might. And – it does hurt. It hurts terribly. His throat closes up. He doesn’t move. Because if he moves, Ramuh might move his hand, and then – Ifrit doesn’t want that. Not ever.
The hand shifts closer as Ramuh leans in. “Are you all right?”
Ifrit nods.
“All right,” Ramuh says after a moment. “Can you stand?”
Ifrit nods again. He gets his feet under him, and Ramuh’s other hand comes up as well, cupping Ifrit’s elbow and helping him stand. When Ifrit is steady, that other hand moves away. Ifrit only has a moment to feel bereft before it lands on his other shoulder. The gentle impact shocks through him, and he can’t hold still. He shudders.
“Lad. Look at me.”
It’s an order, but – Ifrit doesn’t have to follow it. Because no matter how angry Ramuh gets, he’s not going to hurt Benedikta. And maybe – maybe he won’t even hurt Ifrit. Because that clean pain – it doesn’t hurt. Not really. So Ifrit doesn’t have to do what Ramuh wants. But Ifrit finds that he wants to obey. He doesn’t want those hands to move. And he’s so close to understanding. If he just looks – maybe, he thinks, if he just looks – maybe he’ll be able to understand without flinching.
Ifrit looks at Ramuh. The expression on Ramuh’s face is also painful to look at. It becomes even more painful when Ramuh offers him a smile and gently squeezes his shoulders. The smile quickly fades, though, and Ramuh’s face settles into serious lines. Ifrit braces himself.
“Lad,” Ramuh says again. “I hope you heard me just now, and that Benedikta set the record straight. But in case she didn’t, I’m going to say it to you myself, all right? You listening?”
Even in the dim light, Ramuh’s eyes are very green. Ifrit can’t look away. He nods.
“I’m not in the business of hurting children,” Ramuh says firmly. “I know that I must seem like a rotten bastard after everything I’ve done, but I don’t want to hurt you. Do you understand?”
Ifrit – doesn’t understand. Ramuh has already hurt him, worse than almost anyone else has managed before. But – it doesn’t feel true, somehow. And that isn’t what Ramuh wants to hear. But he doesn’t understand. Ifrit is a terrible liar. Even if he doesn’t say anything, Ramuh will be able to tell. He can see it on Ramuh’s face already, the way his mouth twists and his brows come together. Ifrit braces himself again. But Ramuh just lets out a slow breath.
“All right.” Ramuh’s voice is quiet and deep. “You don’t have to understand. That’s fine. I know this is hard for you, lad. I just want you to remember what I said. All right? You don’t have to understand it, just – remember it. Can you do that?”
Ifrit doesn’t know. Ramuh is looking at him so earnestly, his hands a warm and heavy weight on Ifrit’s shoulders. He imagines how Ramuh will look if he shakes his head, and the thought makes his heart thump heavily. Ifrit doesn’t want Ramuh to ever look at him like that. He wants Ramuh to look like he did before, on the roof, when the light touched him so gently that he seemed to glow with it. The desire is sudden and terrible, so strong that it makes Ifrit dizzy. He jerks his chin in a nod.
“Good lad.” Ramuh squeezes his shoulders again, and it feels as though he’s squeezing Ifrit’s heart. His mouth lifts into a smile. Ifrit can’t look away. “I really mean that, lad. Thank you for looking out for Benedikta. You’re a good one.”
Something warm bubbles up in Ifrit’s chest. It isn’t aether. It’s something tender and delicate, but touching it almost seems to burn. The warm feeling expands, filling his lungs and crawling up his throat, which is suddenly so tight that Ifrit can’t breathe. But he doesn’t want it to stop. He doesn’t want it to ever stop.
The memory rises up with the warmth, unbidden and unstoppable. A warm garden, and a warm hand on his shoulder, and a warm voice gently explaining how to train a hound. How the key was to be firm but kind. To reward rather than punish. He had put the treat in Ifrit’s hand, and Ifrit had held it out when the pup sat, only to recoil at the feeling of the pup’s warm, wet tongue. He had laughed then, and Ifrit had laughed with him and buried his fingers in the pup’s fur, and that had been warm, too. Everything had been warm. The exact same warmth.
Ifrit understands.
The warmth is too much for him to contain. The old pain transmutes into something new, something molten that burns so deeply it feels as though his heart will be set aflame. He tries to push it down, but it seeps up through the cracks to press against the backs of his eyes before finally spilling forth in a hot rush.
Ramuh’s expression changes. It’s terrible to look at. A wave of cold sweeps through Ifrit, but it doesn’t make the pressure go away. If anything, it makes it even stronger.
“Oh, fuck,” Ramuh says, and his voice is terrible too. “Don’t cry, lad. It’s all right. I’m sorry, all right? Don’t cry.”
Ifrit tries to stop. He tries so hard. He can’t. His body shakes with the force of the effort, but the tears are pouring forth, warm and wet and unstoppable. He’s choking on them. He manages, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Ramuh orders. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Come here.”
His hands shift. One goes around Ifrit’s back, and the other comes up to cradle his head. Then Ramuh pulls Ifrit in close and holds him.
Ifrit can’t help the small animal sound that rises up in his throat. He didn’t want to make it, but he could never have stopped it. Because that’s what he is. He understands.
Ramuh understands, too. He pets Ifrit’s hair gently and makes soothing noises, and Ifrit shakes uncontrollably in his grasp. He can’t help the way he presses his face into Ramuh’s shirt, either, or the way his hands come up to cling at the fabric, or the way more noises burst from his throat. But all of that must be allowed, because Ramuh doesn’t scold him. He just holds Ifrit. And it’s so warm.
Ifrit cries harder.
“It’s all right.” Ramuh’s hand is in his hair, brushing gently through the strands. “You did a good thing, lad. You’re all right. Take your time…”
He keeps talking, the same useless patter he always spouts, except suddenly, it isn’t useless. Ifrit understands it now. The words don’t have to mean anything at all. It’s about the tone. It’s about being kind. Because that’s what you do with a hound. You take it in, and you teach it, and when it does what you want – you treat it kindly.
And Ifrit understands.
Notes:
Finally!! Cid gets to give this boy a hug!! That's comfort, right? This was a comforting chapter??
I've been sitting on this one for so long that I feel kind of bereft posting it! There are so many things I want to say about it, but honestly, I think it's better if I hold back and let it stand on its own. (Of course, if you drop a comment, there's always a chance I'll ramble about it anyway!)
The next chapter is definitely not going to be up so quickly; there are a few moving parts I have to make sure will line up correctly before I can start posting. Things are also quite busy in real life for me right now, so I don't have a ton of time to write other than what I carve out for myself. Hopefully this isn't too mean of a point to be leaving you all on. Sorry! :')
EDIT 7/31/2025: FANART ALERT!!!! Please go feast your eyes and shower the artist, LeatherBatsu, with compliments!!! The comfort... Ough... It's beautiful..... :')
Chapter 12
Notes:
Hello again everyone! I'm very excited to share this one with you!! The theme this time is FFXVI's version of the classic "Prelude." Enjoy! :D
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ramuh holds Ifrit for a long time. He doesn’t tell Ifrit to stop crying again. He waits for Ifrit to stop shaking all on his own, his deep, kind voice rumbling the whole time.
Eventually, Ifrit does stop. His head throbs in time with the slow beat of his heart, but he’s still. He’s suddenly aware of how wet and awful his face is, pressed uncomfortably up against the humid, sticky fabric of Ramuh’s shirt. His damp palms aren’t any better. He doesn’t want to move, though. If he moves, he’ll have to look, and if he looks, he’ll have to think. He’s so tired of thinking anything at all.
Ramuh’s hand lifts from Ifrit’s head, and Ifrit knows that he can’t avoid it forever. So he does what Ramuh wants and leans back. Ramuh’s hands shift to his shoulders, and he isn’t holding Ifrit anymore. The air on Ifrit’s damp face is cold. He opens his eyes anyway. Ramuh’s expression is still kind. It settles Ifrit’s heart before it can begin to flutter.
Ramuh gently squeezes his shoulders. “All right there, lad?”
Ifrit nods.
“All right.” Ramuh brushes some of Ifrit’s sticky hair from his forehead. “Come and sit down, eh? C’mon.”
Ifrit lets Ramuh pull him from the room and put him in the chair across from his desk. Ramuh produces a cloth and begins to pat gently at Ifrit’s face. Ifrit lets his eyes close again. Somehow, the soft touch makes the pressure return. Ramuh wipes these drops away, too.
When Ifrit’s face is dry, Ramuh brushes a hand over his hair again, settling on his shoulder to give a gentle squeeze. Then his touch withdraws. Ifrit opens his eyes. Before he can feel the loss too keenly, Ramuh pulls the other chair around the desk to sit facing him and reaches forward to take Ifrit’s hands in his own.
“Lad,” Ramuh says quietly, “I know you’re tired, but we need to talk.”
Ifrit waits.
Ramuh doesn’t continue right away. He looks tired himself. The lines under his eyes are dark and deep. They grow deeper still as he tilts his head, and Ifrit reflexively looks to the shoulder of his jacket. There’s only the damp patch where his face had been. Ramuh’s jacket isn’t there. It’s still on Ifrit’s shoulders. Ramuh gave it to him to wear, and he let Ifrit keep it all night, even though Ifrit is sure it wasn’t just the fetters that made the night air so cold. Ifrit – doesn’t know what he did right to earn it. He doesn’t think Ramuh understood why he stood up, although he knows now that protecting Benedikta is one of the things the man wants him to do.
He held Ifrit for such a long time. It must be very important to him to protect Benedikta. Ifrit feels stupid for not realizing, but he knows now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind the thought at all. He wants to protect her, too.
Ifrit shivers. He wants to protect Benedikta, but – what about –
“Lad? Are you listening?”
Ifrit jolts. Ramuh was saying something, but Ifrit – wasn’t listening. For a moment, he feels dizzy. But Ramuh is still holding his hands. The rough callouses on his palms rub against those on Ifrit’s own, but the contact doesn’t hurt. It’s still warm.
What he said might have been important. It isn’t always with Ramuh, but if he’s asking – maybe it was. And Ifrit didn’t hear it.
Ifrit holds his breath. Then, the rest of his body held carefully still, he gives a tiny shake of his head.
Ramuh sighs. His eyes close. He looks so tired. Even more than Ifrit feels. But he doesn’t let go of Ifrit’s hands, and Ifrit doesn’t move.
After a dozen long, painful heartbeats, Ramuh opens his eyes and says, “All right. I’m sorry, lad. I’ve already put this off too long, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to put it off a little longer. I have places to be, and you deserve for me to do things properly.”
Ifrit doesn’t understand. The thought makes his throat try to tighten again. He can’t have gotten it wrong. It makes too much sense – what he is, and what Ramuh is trying to do. But he must be missing something still.
Ramuh will help him understand, he thinks suddenly with breathtaking certainty. He might have already, if Ifrit weren’t so slow. Ifrit feels stupid again. No matter how hard he tries, he’s always missing something. He has to try harder. He has to understand.
A gentle increase of pressure from Ramuh’s fingers makes Ifrit realize that he’s being stupid again, right now, even as he’s resolving not to be. He forces himself to pay attention. But Ramuh doesn’t say anything. He just watches Ifrit. It’s strange for him to be so quiet.
Eventually, he says, “C’mon then. Let’s get you back.”
He stands and pulls Ifrit to his feet. For several moments, Ramuh doesn’t move. Then he lets go of Ifrit’s hands. Ifrit expects Ramuh to take him by the arm or shoulder the way he usually does. Instead, he slings his whole arm over Ifrit’s shoulders and gently guides him out of the room.
Ramuh keeps his arm over Ifrit’s shoulders as they walk. He doesn’t press forward to make Ifrit walk faster or push him around to steer. His arm is just… there. Even through the jacket, it’s a warm, heavy weight. Ifrit lets it keep him close and does his best to match Ramuh’s pace.
They’re halfway back to the cellblock when a familiar voice says, “There you are.”
Ramuh stops, and Ifrit stops with him, glancing up from the stone. Sleipnir is walking towards them, gray boots clicking on the masonry. He’s smiling, but he doesn’t look happy. His pale eyes glint, flicking to Ifrit only briefly before turning on Ramuh.
“Here we are,” Ramuh agrees breezily. “Were you looking for me or the lad?”
“Both, much to my surprise.” Sleipnir comes within speaking distance and stops. He looks unruffled as always, white outfit pristine and braid tucked neatly behind his ear. “It’s been some time since you’ve made me hunt you down, Cidolfus. I hardly think now is the time to be returning to your old ways.”
Ramuh snorts. “Trust me, if I were doing it on purpose, we’d both be having a lot more fun. Just been a busy morning is all.”
“Oh?” Sleipnir’s pale eyes linger on the shoulder where Ramuh’s hand rests before returning to Ramuh himself. “Well then. Allow me to take one matter off your hands. Come, Ifrit.”
He holds out a hand. Ifrit begins to move forward, but Ramuh’s grip on his shoulder stops him.
“Hold on a mo, lad.” Ramuh squeezes once and then lets go, leaving Ifrit without the warm weight of his arm. He steps forward closer to Sleipnir. “He’s had a hard morning already, Sleipnir. Cut him some slack and give him the day, would you?”
Sleipnir turns his gaze to Ifrit, expression blank. Ifrit holds still. Eventually, Sleipnir smiles. “Very well. I suppose I can be merciful.” He cuts back to Ramuh and says pointedly, “His Majesty is waiting for you.”
“I figured as much, thanks.” But Ramuh doesn’t turn to leave yet. He puts a hand on Ifrit’s shoulder and leans over the way he does when he wants to look Ifrit in the face. Ifrit makes himself look back. Ramuh rewards him with a slight upturn of his lips. “We’ll talk when I get back, all right?”
Ifrit nods.
Ramuh squeezes his shoulder. “You remember what I said?”
Ifrit nods again.
“Good lad.” He reaches up to brush back Ifrit’s hair one last time. Then he straightens and, with a nod to Sleipnir, turns to walk away. Ifrit watches the line of his shoulders as he goes. Without the jacket, they seem narrow. Something stirs restlessly in his chest, and he has to fight to stay still.
He doesn’t have to fight for long. Sleipnir’s hand replaces Ramuh’s, the touch of his elegant fingers light through the leather of the jacket. “Come, Ifrit.”
Ifrit follows the touch and goes.
===
Ifrit’s cell is unchanged. As Sleipnir leads him inside, Ifrit lets himself feel the relief of it – the solid stone, the unmoving bed, the familiar faces of the guards. He understands this space.
Sleipnir guides Ifrit to the bed and makes him sit with a touch to his shoulders. Ifrit goes without resisting and lets Sleipnir lift his wrist and turn it to face upwards. He runs a finger over the bandages and clicks his tongue.
“Oh, Ramuh. He was supposed to change these, you know.” Sleipnir reaches up to cup Ifrit’s face with his right hand. “I suppose he was concerned with other hurts.”
The pad of his thumb brushes under Ifrit’s eye. His hands are smooth for a swordsman, but the skin there is raw and sensitive. Ifrit shivers at the touch.
Sleipnir stills. Then he smiles. His other hand comes up and combs through Ifrit’s hair. The sensation of his blunt nails scraping lightly over Ifrit’s scalp shudders down his spine. Sleipnir slowly repeats the motion, and again, and again.
Ifrit closes his eyes as the feeling builds into that same terrible pressure. Except it isn’t the same. His head spins. He holds still. But he doesn’t want to. He wants – to feel warm.
“I see,” Sleipnir says softly. His touch withdraws.
Ifrit keeps his eyes closed. If he opens them – he doesn’t know what will happen. He doesn’t move.
Sleipnir’s slender fingers return to Ifrit’s wrist, tugging at the bandages. The linen loosens and pulls free from beneath the fetter. The shivering feeling grows as the fabric rubs over Ifrit’s skin, something between itchiness and pain. Below the bandages, his skin feels cool. It tingles where it touches the metal of the fetters. As the process is repeated on his other wrist, the shivering begins to fill his whole body, until the effort of holding still takes all of his concentration.
There’s a brief sting as Sleipnir touches the abrasion on Ifrit’s wrist. Then his touch withdraws. Ifrit forces his hands to stay in his lap. But he can’t hold still. He opens his eyes.
Sleipnir is still smiling, pale eyes crinkled at the corners.
“We’ll let these breathe for today.” He reaches up and tucks back a hank of Ifrit’s hair. His fingers linger on the tender spot behind Ifrit’s ear. “Rest well, Ifrit. Tomorrow our work begins anew.”
Sleipnir pulls away. Ifrit sways at the sudden absence. Sleipnir’s eyes crinkle further. Then he turns away and leaves, metal door clanging shut behind him.
The guards are watching Ifrit. He looks at the rug and tries to still the sensation vibrating through his chest.
It’s quiet in the cell. The quiet is familiar. Ifrit tries to sink into it and go back to the way he felt on the roof, smooth and easy and peaceful. But even though the cell is quiet, Ifrit’s thoughts refuse to still. It’s as though a layer of his skin has been peeled away, leaving the flesh beneath raw and sensitized. No matter how hard he stares at the pattern of tiny triangles woven into the rug, he can’t stop feeling the sting of the truth.
It took him so long to understand, even though the answer is so simple. Ramuh tried to tell him so many times. He said right away that first day on the ship that no one was going to hurt Ifrit unless they had to. But Ifrit was too stupid to understand why, and he forgot about it. And again in Stonhyrr, when Odin first took the time to show Ifrit his place – Ramuh told Ifrit then, too. His hands were so gentle in Ifrit’s hair. Surely Ifrit should have realized. He came so close, but he had been too stupid for the lesson then.
Even now, he’s still missing something. Even though the rest of it is clear. Thinking about it makes his throat tighten again. What his – what Ifrit had learned in that warm garden. It does work. Here, in the solid quiet, Ifrit wants to shy away from it. Because if he makes himself think about it directly without flinching, the truth is undeniable.
He doesn’t want to kill Ramuh. More than a matter of want, even. He doesn’t think he can. Not even if he were strong enough. He remembers how his limbs stiffened at the idea, and the terrible black pit that had opened up inside of him. Even now, thinking about the sight of Ramuh’s blood again makes his stomach clench.
Did Ramuh actually notice then? It would explain why he took Ifrit’s hand so gently and spoke so kindly, if he knew Ifrit had thought about killing him and hadn’t tried it. Was the whole thing just a test after all?
Ifrit’s shoulders curl forward under the weight of the thought, elbows pressing heavily into his thighs. His chest aches. But it doesn’t change the way he feels. He couldn’t kill Ramuh.
The next thought lurks at the edge of his mind, dark and heavy. He tries to push it away, but the weight of it drapes over him until he has no choice but to register the shape of it.
He doesn’t want to kill Odin, either.
But he has to. The pressure builds again, and Ifrit presses his hands over his aching eyes, trying to keep it inside. He has to. Even if she hadn’t ordered Ifrit to do it – even if there were some other way to see him again – he’ll never be safe as long as Odin is alive. Sanbreque needs a Dominant to counter the threat of Waloed and its king, and if Ifrit can’t do it – if he can’t do it –
If Ifrit can’t do it, they’ll send the Phoenix instead.
Ifrit shudders and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until light bursts across the darkness. His fingers curl against the hair on his brow, tangling in the sweaty, fresh-cut strands. The metal of the crystal fetters presses into his cheeks, an ever-present reminder.
It’s been too long already. The night before the battle, the moon was waning into a fat sliver. Last night it was nearly full again. It’s already too late. By now, word will have reached Oriflamme that Ifrit isn’t coming back.
An icy pit settles in his stomach. He shivers, and shivers again. It’s too much. He tries to stop the thought, but it’s like trying to close a floodgate against a storm. The frigid tide sweeps through him, relentless and unstoppable.
Is he learning this cold right now? While Ifrit sits here, aching over the blood of a man who’s stronger than he’ll ever be, craving a warmth that was never his to begin with, is he somewhere dark and cold, learning his place in the world?
Ifrit shakes uncontrollably once, twice, and wants – just a little bit of warmth. The desire makes him shudder again. It’s not his right to want. Not when he’s somewhere dark and cold, the place where Ifrit should be. He forces the shuddering to stop. The stillness is almost unbearable, worse than before. He doesn’t move. It’s what he deserves.
Worthless.
Only a beast would shy away from his purpose in exchange for a few soft touches. The renewed realization aches, more terribly than even the oldest reminder. Ifrit is always too weak to do what needs to be done. Even for something so important. Compared to that, what need does he have for more softness?
Ifrit carefully unfolds the precious memory. Everything about it is soft. His little hands, holding up the book so that the other boy could see. His copper and gold hair, falling into his eyes as he leaned forward in excitement. His smile, when the boy said something that made him laugh. The sunlight touching his face. The fields of white flowers. The warm, gentle breeze.
It’s the softest thing that Ifrit can remember. Is that not enough? Ifrit curls until the point of pain, fingers digging into the line of his hair. The sharp sting is nothing compared to the aching tightness of his heart beating in his throat. What more could he possibly want?
The image that rises up in response is so clear and vivid that Ifrit’s throat closes entirely. The little figure stands in a different garden, under the apple trees with their heavy red and yellow fruit. Next to him, one hand on his shoulder, one hand pushing back that copper-gold hair to reveal the soft crinkle of his eyes, is Ramuh.
A nauseous pit twists in Ifrit’s stomach. It isn’t possible. It isn’t for him to decide. He tries to crush the image down, to put it where it belongs with the rest of his weakness.
But the image refuses to fade. Instead, it’s joined by the clear green of Ramuh’s eyes, the firm way he’d held Ifrit’s shoulders and said, I don’t want to hurt you.
I don’t want to hurt you. Ifrit promised to remember, and he does. Ramuh wants to protect Benedikta, and he doesn’t want to hurt Ifrit. Maybe he wouldn’t want to hurt him, either. Maybe he’d even want to protect him, the way Ifrit does. Maybe he’d understand why it’s so important.
It’s a shimmering, dazzling thought. But as soon as Ifrit touches it, the idea goes out, leaving nothing but smoke.
There are so many things Ifrit hasn’t wanted to do. He did all of them anyway. What Ramuh wants doesn’t matter. What matters is what he’s already done.
But maybe. Ifrit reaches for the thought again, trying to cradle its light gently in the shield of his hands. Most of the things that Ramuh does – don’t hurt. He understands how to train a Dominant – how to reward rather than punish. It’s – still cold, sometimes. The metal of the fetters is still digging into Ifrit’s skin, but even so – it’s a warmer way to learn than anything before. Ramuh doesn’t have any scars. There are parts of him that are still soft and smooth. So maybe – if Ramuh took him in – maybe he could still be soft.
The thought smolders and expires, too weak to keep burning. To take Ifrit in, Ramuh almost killed him. And Ifrit – he isn’t stupid enough think himself strong, but he remembers how quiet his little voice had been on the bad days, how even in that soft, perfect memory he’d needed to pause to cough and catch his breath. If Ifrit almost died –
If Ramuh tries to take him in, he might –
Ifrit grips his hair and pulls until the pain blots everything else out.
No.
He yanks harder.
No.
He breathes.
There isn’t a way out. Ifrit can’t beat Ramuh or Odin. He can’t go back. He can only leave him to her mercy or to Ramuh’s.
The thought lances through him, and Ifrit’s next breath shudders in his chest. His fingers tighten against his aching scalp. Why couldn’t she have understood, too? Ifrit would have done anything. He would do anything. Anything at all.
But he already has. He loosens his grip. That’s right. His hands fall into his lap, palms shadowed in the dim light of the cell. He’s done everything she’s ever asked. Everything except killing Odin. He tried. He just couldn’t do it. And now he doesn’t even want to try again. So there’s no more use to him. There’s only her or Ramuh.
It isn’t his choice to make. What he wants doesn’t matter. It never has.
He sits in the silence for a long time, looking at the curve of his fingers. The left pinky curls a little more than the right, still crooked after all these years. A thin scar runs down the pad of the thumb. Even marred by callouses and scars, the skin is clean and pale.
The longer he looks, the more certain he becomes that they must be someone else’s hands. He can’t move them. They don’t feel like anything at all. Nothing does. He sinks into the feeling, the familiar distant calm, and everything is swallowed by that black sea.
Time passes.
And then, something on the surface of the waves: a glimmering thought.
Ifrit is still missing something.
His heart thumps, and his fingers twitch. That’s right. There’s something else Ramuh wants to tell him. Sitting in Ramuh’s rooms, feeling the pressure of Ramuh’s fingers on his own, Ifrit was so certain that he would make everything clear. He still isn’t sure why. But it feels true. It feels truer than anything Ifrit can remember.
He curls his hands closed. It’s useless to want. It would be better to sink back down into that empty blackness and never come up again. If there’s no more use to him, then there isn’t any reason to keep struggling.
But Ifrit does want. He closes his eyes, and that image rises up again. The little figure, and Ramuh, and the apple trees.
He can’t give up. Not until he knows for sure that every last bit of his utility is spent. Not until Ramuh explains.
He’s certain of that much. Ramuh is going to explain. He’s done a lot of things, but he hasn’t lied to Ifrit. He’s going to come back, and he’s going to explain everything. And maybe in that explanation – Ifrit will find an answer.
Heart beating in his throat, Ifrit sits in the quiet cell and waits.
===
Ifrit waits for a long time. The silence stretches. His throat tightens and loosens and tightens again. Every time the guards shift, every time the mattress rustles, Ifrit thinks for a moment – that it’s time.
The sound of the door to the cellblock opening almost sends him flying off the bed. He sits bolt upright, hands on his knees, and looks out into the corridor as the footsteps come closer.
It isn’t Ramuh. It’s a servant in the gray and blue livery of the keep, a tray of food in his hands. Ifrit quickly looks back at the rug and holds still.
It’s not the first time Ifrit has received food in the cell. Somehow, though, it feels strange. The guard stands for a moment too long before setting down the tray, then inhales sharply when he does. After a moment, he breathes out and stands some more. Ifrit keeps his hands carefully on his knees and waits for the door to close again. Eventually, it does.
Ifrit doesn’t want to move. He isn’t hungry. He sits on the floor next to the tray, picks up the bowl of pottage, and begins to eat.
After, he doesn’t bother to get up again. He waits. The next time the door opens, he straightens only for a moment. The two sets of bootsteps are heavy and armored. It’s the guard change. It isn’t Ramuh. Ifrit doesn’t look up as the men quietly exchange words. Then the old guards leave, and it’s quiet again.
Ifrit waits.
Eventually, he blinks, and his eyelids almost stick themselves closed. He forces them open again. They’re heavy and impossibly dry. He looks at the bed. He knows now how the straw mattress crinkles. How soft it is. He imagines how it would feel to lie down on it and be cradled by that softness.
Ifrit lies down on the rug and doesn’t move. Tomorrow, he thinks. He curls on his side and ducks his head. The collar of Ramuh’s jacket blocks the dim crystal light. It smells of sweat and leather and stale tobacco. It isn’t a pleasant smell. Ifrit breathes in, slow and deep, then ducks his head further and closes his eyes.
Some time later, he opens his eyes again, scalp tingling and heart pounding in his ears. His tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth. Sweat beads his hair and back. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t think he could move even if he tried. It feels as though molten lead has been poured into every vein and left to solidify into a single cold mass.
Eventually, his fingers twitch, then curl against the rough fibers of the rug. His breathing slows. His ribs ache. For a long time, he blinks blearily at the shape of his fingers and lets the ache fill him. It doesn’t feel out of place. This is how he should feel.
But as the world comes into focus, he realizes that the ache isn’t a feeling at all. The pain radiates from a single point, right below his armpit, where something hard is pressed between his side and the floor.
It’s the inner pocket of Ramuh’s jacket, he realizes dully. He must have forgotten something. Ifrit doesn’t move. It doesn’t hurt very badly.
Slowly, all of these observations coalesce, and a thought pushes itself through the heaviness: there’s something hard in the pocket of Ramuh’s jacket, and it’s on the side where he keeps his keys.
The cold energy thrills through Ifrit against his will. He saw Ramuh take the keyring out of the pocket. And he wants so badly to wait like Ramuh told him to. But he still can’t help thinking, what if –
Ifrit sits up, swaying slightly. For a moment, the release of pressure makes the pain flare brightly. Then it fades, leaving a dull ache that pulses in time with his heart. Ifrit doesn’t move. His back is to the guards. Still, he hesitates to reach into the pocket. When he does slip his hand inside the jacket, it trembles. He touches against his ribs first, tracing the shape of the painful impression with his fingers. He keeps pressing, harder and harder, trying to hold still, until the original shape is lost to the spreading ache.
He digs his fingers into his ribs as hard as he can, breathing through the pain until his heartbeat steadies. Then he loosens his grip and reaches into the pocket.
Smooth wood bumps against his fingers.
Relief washes through him, leeching all of the tension from his muscles. It isn’t the key. He runs his fingers over the shape, throat tight. The smooth bulb of wood tapers off into a thin piece of metal the length of his finger. It’s still warm from being pressed against his body. It isn’t the key. It’s just one of Ramuh’s tools.
Ifrit lets his hand fall back into his lap and breathes. In the dim cellblock, the passage of time is meaningless. His head feels fuzzy and heavy. It’s probably still nighttime. He can’t tell for sure. He doesn’t lie down again.
Ifrit waits.
The door to the cellblock opens again. Ifrit listens to the trod of boots on the stairs. One pair. He stands with forced slowness, trying not to fall over. His shoulder and hip ache along the same side as his ribs, throwing him off balance. He ignores the sensations and looks out into the corridor.
It isn’t Ramuh. It’s Sleipnir. He smiles as he catches sight of Ifrit. Once the cell door is open, he holds out a hand and stands aside. “Come, Ifrit.”
Ifrit goes. As he passes, Sleipnir reaches out, tangling his slender fingers with Ifrit’s and giving a brief squeeze. Ifrit stops, heart thumping, but Sleipnir just slides his hand up to Ifrit’s elbow and guides him into motion again. The guards don’t follow. Ifrit curls his tingling fingers against the sleeve of the jacket and lets himself be led.
They emerge into the gray sunlight of the bailey. It isn’t empty. But neither of the two figures are Ramuh. It’s Odin and Benedikta.
Ifrit – didn’t expect to see Benedikta. She looks the way she usually does. Her face is smooth, and her hair is pulled back neatly again. Her shirt and breeches are fresh and clean. There’s a faint dusting of pink on her cheeks, but that’s – normal. Familiar.
As soon as Ifrit sees her, something slippery twists in his stomach. He upset her. He argued with her. He shouldn’t have done it, but even though he’s sorry, he doesn’t regret it. Because now he understands, and – that’s a good thing. He hopes that Benedikta understands, too. He just wishes he knew how to apologize, or whether she wants him to try at all.
Ifrit swallows against his tightening throat. As he watches, Odin leans forward slightly and touches Benedikta’s face. She stiffens the same way she always does, but – it doesn’t mean anything. It’s the same way she acts near Ramuh, and he hasn’t hurt her.
Sleipnir’s hand squeezes Ifrit’s elbow, and he realizes he’s stopped. He moves forward again, heart beating in his throat.
“…should anything happen,” Odin is saying.
Benedikta’s cheeks pinken further, but she doesn’t look upset. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Odin nods and straightens, hand coming away from her cheek. He turns, and suddenly both Odin and Benedikta are looking at Ifrit.
The dirt of the bailey is covered in a network of fine cracks where the hard-baked earth is finally beginning to crumble. Ifrit follows Sleipnir across it and stops when Odin’s boots are in view.
“Ifrit.” Odin’s cool, familiar fingers touch Ifrit’s chin, guiding it upwards. His expression is impenetrable as always, blue eyes dark in the gray morning light. “Are you well?”
Ifrit nods.
“Glad am I to hear it. I trust that you are ready to continue?”
Ifrit nods again.
“Good.” Odin’s hand shifts, brushing Ifrit’s hair back from his brow. It comes to rest again at the juncture of Ifrit’s neck and shoulder, against Ifrit’s skin in the gap where the collar of the jacket gapes. Ifrit reflexively looks down at the bare expanse of Odin’s throat, the barely visible flutter of his pulse. He thinks of that clear image: the dark blade in Ifrit’s hand, and the blood that would spill forth.
He shivers, feeling the motion in the place where Odin’s hand rests. He could do it. If it were possible – if he were strong enough – he could do it. He feels ill at the thought, but it’s true. He could do it. But he can’t deny that he doesn’t want to. Not at all.
Odin’s hand squeezes once before withdrawing. He nods once to Sleipnir, who bows in return, and walks away.
Ifrit watches him leave, but only for a moment. Sleipnir draws his attention with a pluck to the collar of the jacket.
“I am sure Cidolfus would not be pleased if you were to overheat, either,” he says, eyes crinkling with that strange smile. “Let’s put this aside, shall we?”
Ifrit doesn’t think he could overheat with the fetters. Or maybe it’s just that he wouldn’t be able to tell. He allows Sleipnir to take the jacket from his shoulders, obediently slipping his arms out of the sleeves. The morning air feels chill as always. Sleipnir squeezes his elbow again, fingers firmer without the leather in the way, then walks off towards the bench. And suddenly, there’s only Benedikta.
Her boots are practical and well maintained. The dark, supple leather shifts slightly. Ifrit swallows against the slippery feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t want to get it wrong. He opens his mouth and manages –
“I’m sorry.”
Ifrit reflexively looks up. Benedikta’s eyes are wide. He swallows again, tasting the impression the words left in his mouth. He’s sure he said them, but just now – he’s sure that he heard them, too.
Benedikta shakes her head, and her features settle into a scowl. “What are you apologizing for?”
Ifrit looks at her shoulder. The white fabric of her shirt is very different from Ramuh’s dark jacket, but the motion settles him nonetheless. Hesitantly, he says, “I upset you.”
“You upset me,” she repeats, putting strange emphasis on the words. Her voice rises. “Are you–”
She stops. She takes a deep breath. She crosses her arms. Ifrit doesn’t move. He waits.
“Well, I upset you too,” she says flatly. “So I’m sorry.”
Ifrit shakes his head. She doesn’t need to apologize. She helped him understand. The reminder makes his ribs squeeze painfully, but he pushes down the feeling. He’s grateful.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
She shifts, almost uncrossing her arms before settling them crossed again. “So – you’re all right?”
Ifrit nods. He glances briefly at her face. Her expression is still creased into a frown. On instinct, he asks, “Are you?”
“I’m fine.” Her tone is firm and leaves no room for argument. Ifrit nods again, relieved, and she finally uncrosses her arms. She looks like she’s about to say something more, but before she can open her mouth, Sleipnir returns.
“Precious as this is, we have work to do.” He lightly rests his hand on Ifrit’s arm, then tilts his head and smiles at Benedikta. “I take it you’ll be joining us?”
“Cid said I could.” Benedikta shifts on her feet and glances at Ifrit. “Unless you mind?”
Ifrit shakes his head. He doesn’t mind at all. He glances at the sky. The sun is hidden behind a thick haze of grayish white clouds, but it won’t reach its peak for some time. That’s when Ramuh usually comes. If he has to wait that long, he thinks – it might be nice, for Benedikta to be here too.
Benedikta smiles at him, cheeks pink, and even though the jacket is gone and they haven’t started running yet, something warm sparks in Ifrit’s chest. He gently cradles the feeling and lets himself believe – maybe. Ramuh will explain, and then – he won’t have to let that little warmth go out. Ifrit will have an answer soon. He will.
Ifrit waits.
But Ramuh doesn’t come.
Notes:
Whew, this one took a little while! As it turns out, if you avoid writing a character's internal feelings for over fifty thousand words, when it comes time to write about said feelings it's a little difficult. Weird!
Shout out to those of you who connected the strings on Joshua! Technically, the first hint for that is in chapter one, but I think I was maybe a little mean about it. Does anyone else remember those exercises they made us do in school, where we had to identify what each pronoun in a sentence referred to? Hope you all liked those! Good luck!!
One thing I'd like a little feedback on: savvy readers have already noticed I've refurbished the tags a little. I'm still considering adding/deleting a few, but to be honest, I'm not really used to thinking particularly hard about tags! So I'm currently taking suggestions. I want to give the major themes and general vibe, but despite my tendency to ramble, I prefer to keep things pretty minimal up front. (Hello, two sentence summary!) I have some thoughts about tags as a search feature vs tags as warnings, but I'm not really settled either way, so I'm curious what you all think.
Finally, this is now officially the longest continuous piece I've ever written, and it's in large part thanks to all of you and your lovely feedback. Thank you so much to everyone who's been sticking with it, and thank you as well to all of you who are just now hopping on! I'm so excited to continue to this next bit!! :)
Chapter 13
Notes:
I’m going to be very honest – I got so excited to end on a dramatic line last chapter that I forgot how badly I wanted to write Clive and Benedikta training together. So you get a bit of a longer chapter!
Also!! There has been fanart since last I posted!! Go to the end notes of chapter 11 and check it out!!!
No new warnings apply that aren't already in the tags or the game itself, but this chapter is very much devoted to the first half of the hurt/comfort equation and not so much the second. Soundtrack is "Before the Storm." Good luck out there, folks!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Training with Benedikta is strange. Ifrit has never trained with someone his own age before. He doesn’t know what to do with an opponent who isn’t bigger and stronger and more skilled than him. With Sleipnir and Odin, it’s easy. He just does what he’s told and fights as hard as he can until he can’t anymore. Neither of them ever seem to make mistakes, and there’s never been a chance for him to actually hurt them, even when he’s tried with every ounce of his strength.
Almost as soon as the first spar begins, Ifrit knocks Benedikta to the ground and only narrowly aborts the instinct to go for her throat.
He freezes in place, heart pounding. Benedikta looks up at him with wide eyes, and the sight is so wrong that his sword almost slips from his fingers.
“Oh,” she says, voice tight and breathless.
The sound startles him back to reality. An apology is trapped behind his lips, tongue too thick to force it out. He reaches down, wanting to help her to her feet, but he’s paralyzed again by the memory of all her little flinches and the thought that he might hurt her further. His hand hovers uselessly, fingers trembling slightly.
Benedikta reaches up and grasps his forearm. Ifrit grasps back and helps pull her to her feet. Her eyes are still wide, and her cheeks are flushed. “You’re fast.”
“And you are gripping your blade too tightly,” Sleipnir says. Benedikta startles and lets go of Ifrit’s arm as Sleipnir steps forward. “Retrieve your sword – good. As it is now, your grip is correct, but you must maintain it even in the heat of battle…”
Ifrit watches Sleipnir carefully. The man is focused on adjusting Benedikta’s hands and stance. He doesn’t seem upset that Ifrit knocked her down. Why would he be? That’s the point of training. Ifrit has hit the ground so many times in his life, has taken strikes to his limbs, abdomen, or head, and every blow was a new lesson. A new way of being hurt to learn to avoid, so that when he was faced with real steel he would live on.
That’s just what training is like. But doing the same to Benedikta feels – not right. Even though Ifrit knows it will make her stronger. He wishes there were another way that worked, but he doesn’t know one. If he’s too gentle, she won’t be ready on the day when violence finds her. He knows that lesson all too well.
He wonders, suddenly, what it would be like training with Ramuh. He glances at the sun. It’s barely moved. When Ramuh does come before its peak, he usually just watches. Ifrit has only seen him spar with Sleipnir and Odin. It was – the same as training always is. But that’s how Sleipnir and Odin are. Maybe, on his own, Ramuh would be different.
It’s a stupid thought. But at the same time, Ifrit wants to believe in it. He needs to believe in it, if he’s going to listen to Ramuh. And he still has those words: I don’t want to hurt you.
Ifrit is still thinking about it when he faces Benedikta again. Her expression is set and determined. Ifrit takes a deep breath, lets it out, and waits.
This time, he parries more slowly when she strikes. It’s a little too slowly. She almost gets her blade up under his guard, and instinct takes over again. He turns her blade, steps to the side, grips her wrist, and manages to point his sword gently at her throat without following through.
Her face is bright red. He’s upsetting her again. Ifrit quickly lets go and steps back, gaze turning to her knees. He waits for her to start yelling. She doesn’t.
So – it’s okay then. Sleipnir doesn’t seem bothered, and even though Benedikta looks upset, she hasn’t said anything. She must understand why it’s important, too. He’s not supposed to hurt her, but he’s not supposed to hold back, either. So he doesn’t.
The pattern repeats. Ifrit isn’t perfect. Benedikta manages to land hits on him several times, and once is even able to disarm him. But Ifrit doesn’t stop trying to win, and more often than not, he succeeds.
When Sleipnir calls for a water break, Benedikta takes her drink and then watches intently as Ifrit sips from the ladle. It makes him feel even more nauseous than usual. After he’s set the ladle back in the bucket, she says, “You’ve been in a lot of fights, haven’t you.”
It isn’t really a question. It doesn’t need to be. Dominants are born to fight, and Benedikta surely knows by now that Ifrit is a Dominant. He risks a look at her face. Her cheeks are still pink, and she’s frowning a little.
He nods.
Benedikta shifts her weight and crosses her arms. “How long does it take? To become a skilled fighter.”
Ifrit considers this. “I don’t know.”
“But how long did it take you?”
Ifrit flicks another glance at her face. She’s still a little flushed, but her stare is serious and intent. So maybe it isn’t a joke. “Me?”
She nods. “Yes.”
He can’t help it. He stares at her. She’s watched him spar with Sleipnir several times now. She’s Ramuh’s ward and must surely know how he brought Ifrit to Stonhyrr. He can’t understand how she could get things this wrong.
It takes two swallows before Ifrit can tell her boots, “I’m not.”
“You seem perfectly capable to me,” Benedikta says shortly.
No. He’s just a wild beast, and with the fetters, he doesn’t even have that. Even if Odin and Ramuh and Sleipnir are trying to train him, he knows that his nature won’t change. Even if he wants it to.
His mouth is too dry to contemplate swallowing again. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He glances at the ladle but doesn’t move. No matter how hard Ifrit has worked, he’s never really been able to change anything.
Ifrit shakes his head.
Benedikta makes a noise, but whatever she wants to say is interrupted by Sleipnir’s return. They retrieve their training swords and return to the field. The sun is high over the stone of the keep, still screened by thick clouds. It isn’t time yet. Ifrit adjusts his grip and forces himself to focus. Until Ramuh arrives, nothing else matters anyway.
Ifrit focuses through the whole morning. He focuses while fighting Benedikta, then focuses harder when Sleipnir enters the fray. By the time the sun reaches its peak, Ifrit’s head is buzzing with the effort, and his shirt is soaked with sweat. When Sleipnir at last calls a halt, Ifrit wipes uselessly at his face with his damp sleeve and looks to the fence.
Ramuh isn’t there.
They stretch. They put away the training blades. They loiter by the rack, Sleipnir and Benedikta talking while Ifrit puts the jacket back on. The whole time, Ifrit keeps looking towards the fence, waiting – but it remains empty.
Staring at the fence isn’t going to make Ramuh appear. Ifrit looks back to Sleipnir and Benedikta. Neither of them seem bothered by the strange absence. Sleipnir is looking down at Benedikta with his strange half-smile. “Will you be joining us again?”
“If you’ll have me,” Benedikta says firmly. She’s not looking at Sleipnir, though. She’s looking at Ifrit. After a moment of confusion, he nods. She returns the gesture, cheeks bright red. “Good. I’m going to keep practicing, so you’d better keep up, too.” Finally, she looks to Sleipnir and adds, “Thank you for the lesson.”
“Of course.” Sleipnir smiles. “Tomorrow then. Come, Ifrit.”
Ifrit shoots one last glance at Benedikta, who turns and strides away, short ponytail bouncing at the nape of her neck. Then he allows Sleipnir to pull him from the bailey. He doesn’t know where they’re going. It’s always Ramuh who takes him when the sun is high. Maybe – Sleipnir will take him to Ramuh. It’s never happened that way before, but surely – Ifrit will see him soon.
Sleipnir takes Ifrit back to his cell.
So it isn’t time yet. Ifrit’s heart beats heavily. He waits. He sits on the rug. He lies down. He closes his eyes, and he opens them again. His whole body throbs with the tension of waiting, muscles sore from exercise twitching with each thrum of his pulse. Surely Ramuh will come soon. He isn’t a liar, and he said he’d explain everything to Ifrit when he came back. Ifrit needs him to explain. So that – so maybe – Ifrit can explain, too. And they’ll both understand. And then – maybe. So Ifrit waits.
But no matter how long Ifrit waits, Ramuh doesn’t come.
===
Ramuh doesn’t come the next day, either. Nor the day after that. On the fourth morning that Sleipnir leads Ifrit out to the bailey to find Benedikta and no one else, the terrible realization at last begins to bloom.
Ifrit is out of time.
It’s only Sleipnir’s firm grip on his elbow that prevents him from stopping as his heart trips in his chest. He casts his gaze desperately over the bailey, but Odin doesn’t materialize from the shadows. Ramuh doesn’t step out from behind a column to lean casually on the fence. There’s only Benedikta, stretching her shoulders with her usual look of fierce concentration.
He can’t be out of time. The sun is shining behind the patchy layers of clouds. Benedikta is smiling as she catches sight of him. Sleipnir’s hand is clasped on Ifrit’s elbow, firm but not painful. Ramuh’s jacket is sitting on his shoulders, a comforting reminder of Ramuh’s promise to explain.
But Ramuh isn’t here. And Odin isn’t here. Which means there’s something that needs the attention of two Dominants. Which means another Dominant has taken the field. Which means – Ifrit is out of time.
It can only be him. Titan belongs to Dhalmekia, whose relationship with Waloed is neutral. Shiva hasn’t been seen since – the battle. Garuda hasn’t been reborn yet, or at least hasn’t awakened. Leviathan has been lost for longer than Ifrit has been alive. Only Sanbreque has any Dominants, and they’re the ones at war with Waloed anyway, and after Ifrit the next in line is –
Why, though. Ifrit feels ill. Surely they can’t have prepared him already. It took – a long time. For Ifrit to be ready. It took time. He swallows, then swallows again, trying to push down the rising nausea. He was – the last time Ifrit saw him, he was still so soft. It hasn’t even been a full moon. He can’t be ready.
But that was a long time ago, too. The sick feeling grows, creeping out of his stomach to lodge in his throat. Why. Ifrit did everything he could, followed every order, killed every target –
Except that isn’t true. He didn’t kill Odin. He couldn’t before, and now he doesn’t even want to try, and – she must have known even then that Ifrit was too weak to keep him safe. So – she must have started preparing him while Ifrit was still on the front. And now that Ifrit isn’t there –
“Ifrit?”
The voice pulls Ifrit back to the bailey, where Benedikta is looking at him and Sleipnir is resting his slender fingers on the back of Ifrit’s neck. Ifrit doesn’t remember walking over here or stopping. He doesn’t know if Benedikta said anything before. There’s a rushing sound in his head growing louder and louder, as though he’s drawing closer and closer to a deep, raging river.
The fingers on the back of his neck squeeze, and Ifrit sways. The grip isn’t tight, but for a moment – Ifrit wants it to be. Tight enough to hurt. He tries to focus on the pressure anyway. He can’t –
Benedikta glances briefly at Sleipnir, then asks, “Is something the matter?”
Did Ramuh tell her? Ifrit almost asks, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He can’t form words.
He shakes his head.
Her brow is still creased. “Are you sure?”
He nods.
Sleipnir pushes Ifrit’s hair back and rests a smooth palm against his forehead. Ifrit looks at his pauldron and doesn’t move. Sleipnir would know. He was there when Ramuh left. What did he say? Ifrit can’t remember. He can’t think.
“Drink some water before we begin,” Sleipnir orders.
It’s a command. Ifrit doesn’t have to think. He can just obey. And he does obey. He drinks a ladleful of water, and he takes off the jacket, and he begins to run. But he can’t reach that place where everything is empty and quiet and nothing matters but his orders. His thoughts twist together into a jagged snarl, pulled tight by the singular thread of his purpose: he has to save him. He has to. He has to.
Before, training with Benedikta was a welcome distraction. He has to focus hard to challenge her without hurting her. And – he likes Benedikta. He wants to protect her. The same way he wants to protect –
It isn’t distracting anymore. Ifrit can’t focus on anything. Ramuh isn’t coming. Ramuh isn’t coming, and maybe he won’t be for a long time, and maybe when he does come he’ll have him or maybe he’ll be –
He’ll be –
Benedikta rips the training blade from Ifrit’s grasp and knocks him to the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his chest.
“Oh!” she exclaims, eyes wide.
For a moment, Ifrit doesn’t move. It’s a struggle to get air back into his lungs. The inside of his head is a muddy slurry of shaken thoughts, thick and viscous and suffocating. Benedikta’s hand enters Ifrit’s vision. It takes half a dozen aborted breaths for him to realize her intent, then half a dozen more before he can reach up to grab her arm. Her grip is firm. The motion of being pulled to his feet makes the crystal fetter rub against his skin with a sharp sting. Ifrit relishes the sensation, trying not to think, trying not to imagine –
Benedikta lets go, and the sting stops. It’s difficult to keep his feet under him. Benedikta holds his elbow, but her grip is gentle. It isn’t bruising.
She says something. Ifrit – tries to focus. He can’t. He nods anyway. Her grip on his elbow tightens, but not enough to hurt. Maybe – if he nods again –
She steps away, and suddenly, Sleipnir is there. His hands are firmer. They probe at Ifrit’s skull, then rest on his sweaty forehead, his cheeks, his neck. Each touch pulls Ifrit further back into his flesh, and the world presses against him in a heavy, blanketing weight. He blinks rapidly, trying to push it away, but he doesn’t have the strength. Sleipnir’s face comes into focus, his fine features unusually blank. Ifrit holds still. He can feel his fingers trembling anyway. Sleipnir reaches down to take one of his hands, and surely he must feel it too.
“Do you remember what His Majesty commanded, Ifrit?” he murmurs. One of his hands squeezes Ifrit’s, while the other rests at the tender spot on Ifrit’s wrist right above the fetters. “What are you to do when you are damaged?”
Ifrit’s breath stutters. He’s not damaged. Is he? He feels ill, sweaty and somehow both too cold and too hot, nausea building in his throat. He can’t open his mouth to answer.
Sleipnir’s grip tightens, not painful but dizzyingly solid. Odin cares about control. Ramuh doesn’t want to hurt him. What does Sleipnir want? Ifrit doesn’t know.
Whatever Sleipnir wants, he doesn’t get it. He sighs. Ifrit feels the sound in his chest. He waits for Sleipnir to tighten his grip further to the point of pain, or else for him to pick up the training blade and resume the lesson by showing Ifrit the true extent of his weakness.
Sleipnir doesn’t do either of those things. He lets go of Ifrit’s hand and instead leans down to cup Ifrit’s face between his palms. “What are we going to do with you?”
Ifrit doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what Sleipnir wants. But – it must be similar to Ramuh and Odin, because Sleipnir just gently rubs a thumb over Ifrit’s cheek. That makes sense. Sleipnir serves Odin. So – he must want the same things that Odin wants.
Odin, who isn’t here himself, because he’s –
Ifrit squeezes his eyes shut. His whole body throbs, and for a moment Sleipnir’s light touch is washed away by the memory of pain. He shudders.
“Is he all right?” Benedikta’s voice cuts through the darkness, and Ifrit opens his eyes. Sleipnir’s expression is still unreadable.
After several long heartbeats, he straightens and looks away. His hands remain on Ifrit’s face. “I think it best we stop here for today.”
“I thought he would block.” Benedikta’s voice is very high. “I didn’t think I’d get to hit him that hard.”
“This is not your doing, Benedikta.” Sleipnir smiles at her, but his eyes are clear and cold. His thumb rubs over Ifrit’s cheek again. “There is no need to fret. I will handle it.”
Benedikta is quiet for a moment. Finally, she says, “Here, let me–”
There’s the sound of rapid footsteps as she hurries away. Sleipnir’s left hand shifts from Ifrit’s cheek to his hair, nails scraping lightly over Ifrit’s scalp, and for a moment all the thoughts in his head are scraped away with the motion. But even as the motion continues, Ifrit can’t keep them from surging back in. He doesn’t understand what he did for Sleipnir to touch him like this. What did he do?
Worse, though, is the heartstopping thought – what can he do now? There’s nothing. Nothing at all. He already knew that, but now that he’s out of time, the urgency of it builds into a terrible pressure at the back of his throat and the base of his skull. He can’t do anything at all. Not trapped like this. And while Ifrit is here, he’s going to –
“Here.” A smaller, warmer hand touches his arm, and the pressure of Sleipnir’s hands retreats. For a moment, Ifrit feels unmoored. Then something heavy settles over his shoulders, bringing with it the smell of old sweat and stale tobacco.
Ifrit’s breath catches. Benedikta tugs on the lapels of Ramuh’s jacket, settling it over Ifrit’s shoulders with the same fierce concentration she devotes to her swordplay.
“We can’t count that one,” she says as she pulls sharply on the leather. “Come back when you’re feeling better, and we’ll have a rematch. All right?”
Benedikta squeezes his shoulders, small hands mimicking the familiar motion of Ramuh’s big warm palms, and again, Ifrit almost asks. If anyone would know what Ramuh wanted to say –
But she can’t know. And she can’t do anything, either. Ramuh is already gone. It’s too late. Ifrit was too slow. He’s always too slow. Too stupid. Too useless. And now it’s out of his reach, that fragile, too-perfect image, and there’s nothing he can do. Not like this.
After a brief pause, Benedikta’s hands pull away. Ifrit holds still. They’re quickly replaced by Sleipnir’s firm grip on his elbow. “Come, Ifrit.”
Ifrit follows Sleipnir into the keep, and the heavy weight of the stone corridor presses down on him from every angle.
===
Sleipnir doesn’t take Ifrit back to his cell. His firm grip leads Ifrit to the section of the keep where the baths are, but they don’t stop there, either. They keep going, until the corridors are quiet and empty, where finally Sleipnir leads him into a long room filled with beds – an infirmary.
So Ifrit is damaged. His skin prickles everywhere except where Sleipnir’s hand is clamped over his elbow. What’s wrong with him?
He knows what’s wrong. He shouldn’t be here. He should be –
“Lord Harbard?” There’s an older man standing at a table against the wall. He’s frowning at Sleipnir, hands paused on a large mortar and pestle. “Has something happened?”
Sleipnir’s grip pulls Ifrit forward. “Nothing so dramatic. I have a patient for you.”
The man sets down the pestle and wipes his hands clean on his apron, squinting at Ifrit. “Something wrong with your Bearer?”
“Doubtful,” Sleipnir says lightly. “But perhaps with my Dominant, if you would care to examine him.”
“So that’s him.” The man's expression doesn’t change. He snaps his fingers and points at the stone in front of him. “Come here.”
Sleipnir squeezes Ifrit’s elbow briefly, then lets go to instead place his hand on Ifrit’s back and push him forward. Ifrit obeys the motion. Sleipnir’s hand doesn’t follow. When he stops where the man pointed, he sways unsteadily. He tries to hold still.
The man pulls a pair of spectacles from a pouch and affixes them to his face. Then he grips Ifrit’s chin and turns his head from side to side. The motion makes Ifrit’s vision blur, and he closes his eyes against the growing nausea. “What trouble have you been having with him?”
“He has been out of sorts all morning, and just now he took a tumble in the bailey.”
The man hums. His fingers touch Ifrit’s face, prying at one of his eyelids. “Stop that. Open your eyes.”
Ifrit obeys. The man’s face is close enough for his breath to puff over Ifrit’s cheeks, bringing with it a musty, herbal smell that makes his stomach turn further. He tries not to breathe at all as the man pries one eyelid wide and then the other. By the time the man leans back, Ifrit feels lightheaded and so nauseous that he can’t focus on anything else. He swallows, then swallows again, jaw clamped shut and breathing shallowly through his nose.
“Take this off,” the man commands, tugging sharply on the lapel of Ramuh’s jacket. Ifrit removes the jacket. The man plucks it from his hands and tosses it onto one of the empty beds. “And the shirt.”
Ifrit’s sweat-damp shirt follows the jacket. The air is cool on his bare chest. It doesn’t lessen the sick feeling churning in his guts. The man puts a hand to his neck for a long moment, then presses it up against Ifrit’s breastbone. “Breathe in. Deeper. There. Hm.”
The air of the infirmary smells of the same stale herbs as the man’s breath. Ifrit tries to breathe in through his mouth instead, closing his throat against the smell. When the man pulls away, he tries not to breathe at all. The man circles Ifrit, lifting an arm, pinching the skin above where the fetters lie, tracing a finger across Ifrit’s back. He says something, and Sleipnir replies. Ifrit can’t follow the words. He doesn’t bother to try. He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t be anywhere else. What can he do?
Fingers snap in front of Ifrit’s eyes. He blinks rapidly and doesn’t move. The man and his herb-smelling breath are too close again. He grips Ifrit’s arm and shakes it slightly, enunciating slowly, “How long have you worn these?”
Ifrit looks down. The man is holding the crystal fetter. Ifrit glances at Sleipnir, who is leaning against the wall and watching with bland curiosity. When he notices Ifrit looking, he gestures towards him with one hand.
Ifrit concentrates. The last time Odin took the fetters off feels like a lifetime ago. Finally, he says, “Six days.”
“No,” the man says sharply. “Before that. How long did you wear them?”
Ifrit’s head spins. The math gets muddled up behind his eyes. Waning sliver to almost full – now surely past full –
It’s too long. However much time it’s been, it’s too long. Ifrit shudders. What can he do? He has to do – something. This is his purpose, the only reason he has to justify his existence. He can’t just let him –
The man shakes Ifrit’s arm again, hard enough to scrape the metal against the tender spot on his wrist. The stinging pain helps him focus. “Are you listening?” Ifrit takes an unsteady breath and nods. The man turns towards Sleipnir. “Is he normally this slow?”
“As I said, he is unwell.” Footsteps. Sleipnir’s long fingers pluck the man’s hand off Ifrit’s wrist. His other hand cups Ifrit’s cheek, turning his face upwards to examine him with pale eyes. “Ifrit. The physicker wants to know how long you wore crystal fetters before coming to Waloed.”
The memory tries to rise up in a surge of pressure. Ifrit fights to push it back down into the cold stone box where it belongs. It twists in his grip, warping, the little figure now wrought in copper and gold, too precious and too soft. He shouldn’t be there. It’s all Ifrit’s fault. He isn’t strong enough. What can he do?
A thumb drags over Ifrit’s cheek. His breath hitches. Sleipnir’s face is close. He doesn’t smell of anything at all. “Ifrit? Can you answer the question?”
Ifrit tries to breathe. Tries to focus on the feeling of Sleipnir’s hands. His voice wavers. “I don’t know.”
“Try to remember.” Sleipnir’s voice is coaxing. “When did you first wear them?” When Ifrit doesn’t answer, he asks, “How old were you?”
The question loosens his grip on the memory, and it oozes slickly to the surface. The first frigid shock. The darkness that had followed. The unyielding metal and stone. It had taken Ifrit so long to learn after he had let himself be ruined. Was it really that long ago?
A chill settles into Ifrit’s bones, an even deeper freeze than the lack of aether. He’s the same age now. It seems like he should still be so small, but if he’s already ten summers – maybe it isn’t Ifrit’s fault after all. Maybe that’s just how long a Dominant gets before it’s time to begin serving their purpose. Maybe that’s why he’s ready now, so soon, too soon after Ifrit failed to fulfill his duty.
Maybe, Ifrit thinks desperately, maybe he’s old enough, strong enough –
Maybe isn’t good enough. It’s the most pointless, useless thought in all of existence. Ifrit can’t rely on it.
What can he do?
Sleipnir sighs. Ifrit’s heart is already racing, but it still tries valiantly to escape from his throat. He doesn’t remember what Sleipnir wanted. His hands are on Ifrit’s face, touch light, not cool or warm, just gentle pressure.
“The potion, then,” Sleipnir says quietly.
“It will be wasted on him, milord.”
“Then waste it we shall.” Sleipnir removes his hands, leaving behind two cool patches of skin.
The man goes to the table and rifles through the jars and bottles. He selects one and hands it to Sleipnir, who in turn presses it into Ifrit’s hands.
“Drink,” he commands.
Ifrit’s mouth is slick with saliva. The potion looks and smells the way potions always do, pale green and sharply herbal. The thought of putting it in his mouth and swallowing almost makes him vomit.
He has no choice. What can he do? Nothing at all. He puts the bottle to his lips, closes his eyes, and drinks. The taste is bitter. The liquid tingles as it trickles down his throat, a brief warmth that leaves an even cooler trail when it fades. Ifrit shudders, but despite the awful, sour aftertaste, the potion settles his roiling stomach.
The bottle is taken from his hand. Sleipnir peers into Ifrit’s face. Ifrit lowers his eyes to avoid catching his gaze. “It appears to have had little effect.”
“Give it time,” the man says shortly. “If there’s something to be cured, it will work.”
Sleipnir hums and brushes Ifrit’s hair back from his forehead. “We shall trouble you for one of your beds, then.”
“As milord says.”
Sleipnir tugs on Ifrit’s arm. “Come, Ifrit.”
He doesn’t resist as Sleipnir guides him down onto the bed. What can he do? He curls on his side, trying to hide his face. His whole body shivers with minute tremors. Sleipnir pulls the blanket up over his shoulders. The weight presses him down into the mattress, forcing his body to still, even as his thoughts continue to wind tighter and tighter.
“Hush now,” Sleipnir murmurs. He runs his fingers through Ifrit’s hair, a gentle touch that makes Ifrit feel like he might come apart at the seams. “Nothing is going to happen. Just rest.”
Ifrit closes his eyes and tries to think of nothing at all.
===
Ifrit lies on the bed, but even after Sleipnir’s hand withdraws, he doesn’t sleep. He can’t sleep. How could he sleep while knowing where he is? He lies for a long time on the too-soft mattress under the too-heavy blanket with his eyes closed and his body perfectly still, but his whirling thoughts don’t stop moving for even one instant.
Odin and Ramuh have been gone for three days now. Ifrit isn’t sure how long the voyage took when he was brought to Stonhyrr, but it must have been about that long. They’ll be arriving on Storm soon. How long will it be before they take the field?
Does Waloed still have the advantage? Ifrit knows that with his defeat, Sanbreque would have lost ground. Uncontested, Ramuh could wipe out any number of legions. But if Odin and Ramuh are both gone, it must be because word came of a Dominant taking the field. So he’s already primed once. Maybe he beat them back, and Waloed’s camp is too scattered to push another advance so soon.
Can he control it? He must be able to, if he primed. Ifrit can almost never manage it without another eikon to fight, or else when he’s so desperately close to death that instinct takes over and turns the world to ash around him.
So maybe – maybe he is stronger than Ifrit. Enough to prime, and fight, and survive.
Or maybe he was pushed too far and felt that terrible surge of desperate need and hunger, and when he faces Odin and Ramuh – when he faces them – he’ll –
Ifrit flinches and curls in on himself, unable to hold still. His hand goes to his hair and grips, but even the pain isn’t enough. He can’t stop the thought this time, no matter how tightly he laces his fingers against his scalp.
He’s going to die.
“Ifrit?” A smooth hand touches his, prying his fingers away from his scalp. “Come now. There is no need to damage yourself further.”
Ifrit almost resists. He needs – something else. Anything else. An order. A mission. Pain. Anything.
But there’s nothing. There isn’t any point to fighting it. What can he do? Ifrit lets the hand pull his grip away and opens his eyes. Sleipnir stares down at him. His long fingers run over the sensitized skin of Ifrit’s scalp, tender and delicate. Ifrit shivers, a trembling motion that continues even after Sleipnir pulls his hand away.
“There we are.” Sleipnir smiles slightly. “Did you have a dream?”
Ifrit doesn’t reply. It feels like he’s dreaming right now. The inside of his head is stuffed full of something thick and clinging. It can’t be happening. It can’t. Ifrit can’t let it happen.
But what can he do?
Sleipnir strokes his hand over Ifrit’s hair again, very slowly. He isn’t smiling anymore. He sighs. “Still unwell, I see.”
“If there’s no change, there was nothing for the potion to cure.” Ifrit startles slightly at the man’s voice, but he doesn’t approach.
Sleipnir doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring at Ifrit. Finally, he murmurs, “Perhaps somewhere more familiar. Come, Ifrit.”
He cups a hand under Ifrit’s elbow, and Ifrit is pulled from the bed. He sways, stomach twisting and skin shivering against the cool air. Sleipnir helps Ifrit put his shirt back on and hands him the jacket. Ifrit thinks about what it would feel like to wear it again, the warm, heavy weight and the familiar smell of old tobacco, and a scratchy, prickling sensation sweeps over his whole body. He folds it over his arm instead.
The light coming in through the windows is a deep orange that paints golden squares on the stone floors. When Sleipnir leads Ifrit back out into the corridor, everything is quiet. It’s as though the entire keep is holding its breath. How many soldiers went with Ramuh and Odin back to the front? How many men are trying to kill him? Whatever the number, it’s too many. The keep feels all but empty.
They’re alone in the corridor. There’s no one else here. Odin and Ramuh are somewhere far away.
Pressed against his arm by the leather of Ramuh’s jacket is the hard handle of the tool.
Ifrit knows what he can do.
His thoughts surge in a deafening cacophony. He stumbles, heart beating so hard and fast he can feel it in every inch of his body, the soft, tender flesh of his neck most of all.
Sleipnir stops and bends over slightly, pale eyes searching. One hand rests on Ifrit’s shoulder, while the other pushes Ifrit’s hair back, elegant fingers scraping over Ifrit’s scalp. “Ifrit?”
It’s so easy. Two quick, easy motions. The roar inside his head can’t stop him. His hands know what to do.
Ifrit slips the tool out of Ramuh’s jacket and lodges it in Sleipnir’s neck.
For one slender instant, the infinitesimal pause between one rabbit-quick heartbeat and the next, there’s no blood. Then Ifrit rips the tool back out, as roughly and as messily as he can, and hot liquid splatters across his face.
Sleipnir chokes. It almost sounds like one of his usual laughs. His hands leave Ifrit’s head and shoulder. Before he can clutch at the wound, Ifrit stabs again. The tool jerks in his hand as it punctures the trachea. Sleipnir’s hands reach Ifrit’s. They can’t stop him from pulling the tool out again. The choking gurgles, then whistles. Blood is still spurting, a hearty arterial spray.
Ifrit frees his hand to stab again.
The moment slips.
The tool is gone. The man is on the ground, under him, hands weakly clutching at Ifrit’s wrists, still making that choking, gurgling almost-laughter. Ifrit’s hands are pressed up against his mouth, hot and slippery, as though to stem the sound, while blood still pumps steadily from his neck.
The man’s lips move against Ifrit’s palm. His pale eyes gleam, and squint, and slide away.
The pulse of blood slows.
It stops.
Ifrit pants for breath. He leans back. His hands come away from the body’s skin with a sticky-slick sound. His knees are wet with blood. He stands up, and the damp sensation follows him, sticking the fabric of his breeches to his legs.
Ifrit is alone in the corridor.
He stares at the body. At the long fingers. At the pale hair streaked with blood. At the unseeing eyes, half-lidded as though crinkling to smile.
Gorge rises up in a sudden lurch. Ifrit claps a hand over his mouth to stall it, but the metallic smell of his own hand pushes him over the edge. Warm, tangy bile floods his mouth, and the taste and the smell and the rising thrum of his pulse mingle together until suddenly, he’s back again, looking down at the armored body and the growing pool of blood, hand trembling on the dripping blade, knowing he needs to run and unable to move his feet, little hands tugging on his sleeve and high voice cracking as she begs, Please, —
Ifrit jolts as though slapped. The world comes back into focus with crystal clarity. There are no pounding bootsteps. No clanging metal. No screams. It’s quiet except for the wheeze of his own breath as he gasps for air, bent over with his elbows on his knees. He spits out the rest of the sour taste in a sharp splatter and wipes his hand over his mouth. Then he straightens.
The body is sprawled awkwardly on the stone, all elegance ripped from its limbs. Ifrit squats next to it and works open its belt. His shaking fingers are slow and clumsy on the metal clasp, but eventually it comes free. Rolling the body over is easier. It hardly seems to weigh anything at all. The belt comes free, and Ifrit wraps the sticky leather around his own waist. He pulls the clasp as tight as it goes. He checks the hang of the sheath. He draws the blade.
A longsword. Ifrit tests its weight. He knows how to use a longsword well enough now. Because Odin taught him. Because Sleipnir –
He stops. He puts the thought away. The tip of the blade trembles, then stills. He breathes. He turns the blade down and holds the hilt with both hands.
“On…” His voice cracks. His throat hurts. He swallows and tries again. “On this my sword I swear – to shield the firebird’s flames – forevermore.”
It comes out a whispery rasp. The ritual steadies him. It’s enough. He sheathes the blade and looks down the corridor.
It’s empty. It won’t be that way forever. Ifrit is branded and covered in blood and shackled by crystal fetters and carrying a sword. If anyone sees him, it will be a fight. They won’t try to take him alive. He needs to live. So no one can see him.
He closes his eyes. He remembers how the keep looked from above, the way the men moved across the parapets. He thinks he knows where he is.
Ifrit opens his eyes. The body is still there, once pristine white splattered with fluids. Ramuh’s jacket lies crumpled next to it in the pool of blood. Ifrit’s heart beats steadily. Then he turns away and begins to move.
Notes:
Damn… Maybe Sleipnir should've tried being charming a little sooner… Ah, well, accidents happen. :)
To anyone who thought we’d hit rock bottom when Clive started crying… I apologize! We do still have to dig deeper for a little while! (Sorry, I just love the soundtrack and can’t resist a good pun…) I had maybe a little too much fun giving Clive all the tools he'd need to attempt a breakout over the past chapters, haha. Don't worry, we're just visiting bedrock; Clive will be back to climbing up that recovery hill soon! (Maybe not that soon, though!)
I won't apologize for taking my time, because I'm writing for fun. I will, however, excuse myself by saying I did write a long one-shot in between. (For a completely different AU, alas.) I want to say next chapter will be out faster, since I've already written the last scene. (I got excited!) But I also have at least one major deadline per month from now until the end of the year, so maybe not that fast. Sorry for the cliffhanger! I'll be back! ;3c
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