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In the Year of the Realm 865, nothing happens. It is unremarkable by many metrics, the slow war between Sanbreque and Waloed; Dhalmekia’s attempts at rousing more trade, Kanver forcefully continuing to establish itself. Twinside glitters, as it does, and the blight grows ominously, as it does. Nothing includes a branded imperial soldier waking up in the middle of a night, and then vanishing. It is starkly unremarkable. Soldiers go missing and die all the time, of course, especially the branded, who are thrown at the front lines or impossible tasks by their superiors with glee. It is forgotten before the week is over.
In the Year of the Realm 866, Drake’s Breath disintegrates in a fiery explosion. It may be related.
The Year of the Realm 870, the Blighted lands, Central Storm
Byron’s invitation to Waloed’s trading hub in Storm takes him by surprise. It’s an exclusive venue: invitations are hard to come by, especially to those under imperial rule, and it was addressed to him by name. He could not have refused it even had he wanted to, and he did not. Oh, he was glad to have a good excuse to be out of Anabella’s sight for several weeks.
So here he was, guided through the deadlands by a young blond man by the name of Gav. Talkative, and too honest, is Byron’s consideration of him. They’re walking along the edge of the blighted Lake Bennumere. Fallen ruins dot the landscape and the waters, but Byron can’t see any signs of a trading hub just yet.
“The Lake Hideaway is just within Rosaria’s borders, my King says. Or it would’ve been, had the blight not taken it, and Sanbreque given a shit about the old borders. My King says he’ll probably just leave it to ‘is brother, when his brother finally takes his crown.” Gav rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t know Waloed’s King had a brother,” Byron asks without asking.
“They’ven’t talked in ages, as far as I know,” Gav says. “Some mishap when their father was murdered, and the both of them were assumed dead, and kept separate. They’ve hardly had a chance to meet up. Too busy with politics. And...” Gav rolls his eyes again. “The King doesn’t want to be far from ‘is husband and daughter, neither.”
Byron almost misses his step. Since when did Waloed have a King Consort or Princess? He hadn’t even heard rumours of that sort. To have missed something that politically impactful, even for a King on Ash, rather than on Storm, is blind-siding. How had he not heard it? Who hadn’t told him, and why?
It takes longer than Byron would like to formulate a response. “I can understand that, had I a family I shouldn’t like to be far from them.”
“My King is real big on the family thing,” Gav says. “It’s kind’ve his only thing, really. All ‘we must build a university so my daughter can study here’ and ‘we need a robust economy so my daughter can afford to study’. The King Consort is just as bad: he says he ain’t starting any wars because he doesn’t want Princess Midadol to have to clean them up when she’s grown.”
“The King Consort can start wars on Waloed’s behalf?”
“Oh yes,” Gav agrees. “Cid was the former King’s Lord Commander, and still - technically -” (Gav hisses that through his teeth) “is Lord Commander. But King Consort is the higher title, so that’s the one he uses. And also because it reminds everyone that they’re married. They’re that sort of couple.”
“You sound familiar with them,” Byron notes, struggling to take in all the information he’s just been handed on a platter. Waloed has a new King? When? It must have been before they started building their schools, which was a few years back.
“That I am, aye. Before the King and his Consort did away with the old regime, they were travelers, and they saved my life. They took me in. Somewhere along the ways, they convinced me to join them. So here I am: a displaced orphan, self-made royalist scout, and a friend of the Kings.”
Byron has little he can say to that. A personal friend to Waloed’s royalty, sent out on a month-long trip to guide him to a trading hub.
It’s barely ten minutes later when Byron sees what Gav is leading him towards: a small dock, on the edge of the black waters. He stops walking just to stare at the dock. It doesn’t take more than a second for Gav to notice and turn around. Whatever expression is on Byron’s face must be funny, because Gav starts chuckling.
“Everyone feels that way when they first see it,” Gav says.
There is a boatsman waiting for them by the time they reach the docks, which Byron can now see are made mostly of fallen ruins underneath, and have only the wooden planks as decking. A clever way to prevent the blight from eating what they build – and it must be how the lake Hideaway is built too.
The sail across the lake is calm. The lake is dark and flat, and the ruins begin to tower over them as they travel. From the shores, the ruins appeared small, but now that they are in their shadow, it is starting to make sense how one could conceive a safe place like this. He starts to see wooden platforms aloft in the ruins, walkways and rooms, and people busying around.
Disembarking is of little note. He is greeted with a lift, and an entrance way to what appears to be a main hall.
“Through here,” Gav says. There is a kitchen and bar ahead of them, and hanging above a doorway and some steps to his right, is a sign declaring a library. Gav leads him to the left, where a stall is settled beside the kitchen, and a blacksmith in a walkway beside that.
At the end of the hall is a set of stairs leading upwards and in to what appears to be a large room.
“The lake solar,” Gav says. “Joshua planned to be in when you got here.” He opens the door, and announces to the room: “Lord Byron Rosfield to see you, Joshua.”
“Thank you, Gav,” comes a soft voice. He looks. He looks like the dead. He looks alive, and it feels like sunlight on Byron’s skin after a cold day: his hairs are prickling, his sight is straining and the warmth is soaking in slowly. It feels like ice melting off his heart.
Byron collapses to his knees, and Joshua is there, holding him steady. “I thought you were dead,” he says. “I thought you were dead...”
Joshua is smiling. “Hello, uncle. I’m sorry it took me so long to get you here.”
The door taps closed. Gav has stepped out, it seems.
Byron can barely see through his tears, holding Joshua’s face in his hands to stare as close as he can. “Joshua.”
Joshua has his hands on Byron’s, soothing. He shuffles his legs under him, and settles on the floor in front of Byron. Byron is trembling.
Joshua whispers: “You need to know: Clive’s alive too. He wanted to see you.”
Byron lets out a sob.
---
Later, they have a drink (or two). Later, they talk about trade. About what Rosaria can offer Waloed, and what Waloed can offer in return. They talk about the idea of Joshua coming home. That maybe, the empire can be stopped.
And then Joshua warns him: “Clive has a bearer’s brand, now. His husband won’t take kindly if you stare at it when you see him.”
That surprises Byron. “And Waloed still accepts him as their King?”
Joshua just shrugs. “Clive asked to duel King Barnabas in public, and so the former King made it a very public event. There were people from all across Ash in attendance, or so I’m told.” Joshua huffed. “When Clive won, it was just accepted: that is how Waloed’s crown is inherited, after all. Either King Barnabas chose to die by Clive’s hands, or Clive won by rights. The crown was taken off King Barnabas’s body and placed on his head then and there.”
“My nephew. Dueled Odin , and won.” Byron lets out a breath. He’s so glad they’re alive, but they’ve grown up and he’s missed it. He looks across at Joshua, who is a man now. “The greatest swordsman in Valisthea, lost to Clive.”
Joshua nods, like it’s an obvious fact. “Clive is a strong fighter. He deserves that crown.”
“And he’s married?”
“To one Cidolfus Telamon, yes. And they have a daughter. Midadol. I’m quite sure they will invite you to visit some time soon. I know Mid has heard many stories about her great uncle Byron.”
Byron has no tears left to cry. He just sucks in a breath. He chokes a little, and then tries to make a joke. “Not starring myself as the Evil Sorcerer Madu, I should hope?”
“The Saint and the Sectary is one story Clive refuses to play for her. She begged me to play it out with her last time I was in Waloed, then she told me that Clive was waiting for you to visit.”
Byron can hardly breathe.
“He’s just finishing up one last thing, and then I know he’ll make sure he has time to show you around his home when you visit.”
The Year of the Realm 869, Northeast of Belenus Tor, The Holy Empire of Sanbreque
Waloed’s soldiers have fled back to their ships, but the ships themselves linger ominously not far from the beaches. It’s nerve-wracking. It has resulted in Dion being posted by the shores for nigh on half a year doing painfully nothing, while the fleet patrols back and forth.
The waiting is terrible. Terrence tries to keep him from his thoughts, but Terrence has his own, and the dark misty shroud that rolls off the water is disquieting. Or rather, it was disquieting, but Dion has grown used to the darkness, and something about it has changed since Waloed retreated to the water: Bahamut no longer snarls in its presence. Instead, he is content, like a sun-baked cat full of cream.
Ever roiling Bahamut, who is so opposite of the darkness that he shudders at the setting of the sun, is calm in the face of these mists. Dion struggles to remain objective in the face of that: it makes him want to curl up like the cat he was imagining.
And Terrence, oh Terrence is offering everything Dion so desperately wants.
If Bahamut is not being tricked, then it would be safe. Safer than usual, even: the darkness would offer that security too.
The moons are out and half-bright this night. He wanders the beach, staring out at the dark waters. But tonight, as he stares, Odin appears before him. No weapon drawn, but full in his armour; he looks like an apparition, not a real being.
“Prince Lesage?” Odin asks. And it’s not the voice that haunts Dion’s memories, but another familiar voice he can’t place. A different accent than King Barnabus entirely. “Might we talk in private?”
Bahamut is purring in his chest. It is the only reason Dion agrees. “My tent is ahead, we can speak there.”
“I apologise for keeping my soldiers on your shores for this extended time, but I’m afraid I cannot withdraw them, or your emperor would take that as a sign he has room to extend his empire, and I cannot abide that.” It’s Rosarian, the accent he’s hearing. Strange. Odin’s armour isn’t making a sound as they walk, as though the shadows are soaking up every sound. Even his voice sounds somewhat muted without an echo.
Dion grimaces. It’s a wild political move for Odin to announce his military plans to him, but it does make sense, and it’s also a reason Dion agrees with. As it stands, Odin’s strategy has prevented the deaths of any of their soldiers for many months in addition to preventing his father from looking to Twinside. Dion has heard rumours he doesn’t like about his father’s ambitions.
When they reach his tent, Terrence greets them with wide eyes. “My Prince,” is all he says.
“Peace, Sir Terrence,” Odin says gently. Dion was unaware Odin could be gentle. It is as frightening as seeing him fully primed. “I am here only to talk.” The darkness and the fog has hidden Odin well, and Terrence is the only of his dragoons to have seen Odin.
Terrence follows them into the tent, and the fabric falls closed behind him. Odin waves a hand, and the candles light up around the room, revealing Dion’s desk, a pair of chairs, and a soldier’s cot. Terrence posts himself by the doorway, and Odin takes a seat without waiting for leave. Dion takes the other, opposite the Warden of Darkness.
“I would tell you a story, Prince Dion, if you would permit me.”
Dion dips his head in acquiescence. “I will listen. You have already shown good faith in holding your fleet as you have.”
Odin peers at him carefully, apparently capable of seeing him well through his faceplate. When he is satisfied, the shadows start to fall away from him.
The first thing Dion sees is the iron crown of Waloed on dark hair, and he might have mistaken this man for King Barnabus if not for the second thing. The second thing Dion sees on the King of Waloed’s face is a bearer’s brand. He recoils in shock.
It’s hard to see the man’s eyes in the dim candlelight, but Dion knows this face. The man’s leathers emerge as Odin’s armour fades. And Dion recognises them.
“You look like your father,” Dion says faintly.
Clive Rosfield, for he can be no other, softens slightly. “That is a compliment I will accept.”
Terrance looks between them, confused.
Clive looks up at Terrance, and then introduces himself. “Clive Rosfield,” which is enough for Terrance to start to understand. “King of Waloed. Brother of the Phoenix. Among potential friends, inheritor of Odin, the Warden of Darkness, and the Twin Flame, Dominant of Ifrit, Warden of the Inferno.”
Silence greets that proclamation.
“Ifrit,” Dion says weakly. Bahamut is peering through Dion’s eyes, and by the pleased roar in Dion’s chest, he likes what he sees. Warm .
“Ifrit. The phoenix’s twin. Hellfire to her cleansing flame.”
Terrance chooses that moment to sit himself on the ground.
Clive shakes himself a little, and continues. “I am pleased to see you well, Dion. I know Joshua will be pleased too, when I pass that along.”
“Joshua is alive too?”
“Yes, he was spirited away from the Night of Flames by a cult that seeks only to protect the Phoenix. I was... found after that night by my mother, your step mother. She had me branded and thrown to the soldiers. To the Bastards.”
Dion sucks in a breath. “She would. That’s our assassin squad, is it not? I almost hoped they weren’t real.”
Clive smiles. “You’re far too honourable for your father to tell you that much.”
Dion’s hands twist. Clive is right about that. Dion often sees his father biting his tongue in front of him, and it worries him. Anabella in the background of those memories, always lingers, always smug and satisfied.
“My mother must die. Rosaria isn’t her only conquest: she would bring ruin to not only Sanbreque, but also all of the Twins, and even all of Valisthea, for her blood.” Clive spits that last word like it tastes of ash. “She would deserve a traitor’s death for merely my father’s death, but I have no need of vengeance. No, she must die because of the harm she is trying to do now.”
Dion says nothing.
“Our youngest brother,” Clive says, and that lingers for a moment, connecting them in a way that makes Dion ache. He has no brothers. Warm , says Bahamut. Safe. “Our youngest brother was born dead. My mother prayed, apparently, and was answered by a creature who might as well be a god. He granted Olivier the appearance of life, by way of aether. You will find that our youngest brother is akashic, and made only of the will of my mother and the god she prayed to. Her perfect creation: she would have him rule.”
Dion still says nothing. He leans forward and rests his head in his hands. Bahamut wants to curl up in Clive’s lap, and Dion is not sure what to think of that. Warm , Bahamut thinks. Safe . Bahamut is a big, cold-blooded lizard. He would wish to be warm. Dion can feel Bahamut’s amusement at his thoughts.
“My prince, forgive me: are we conspiring the death of the Empress? And the second in line?”
“The first in line,” Clive interjects, “If I know my mother. And I do.”
Dion tugs at his hair. “She would.”
Clive’s face twists a little. “She can’t have liked you much more than she did me. You may have Bahamut, but your blood will never be pure enough for her.”
Dion knows. She’s been his step mother for ten years. He’d wanted a mother, once. He hasn’t wanted one in a long, long time.
“You really believe this, Dion?”
Dion exhales slowly, then shrugs. “Bahamut does.”
That has Terrence raising his eyebrows, which is fair, as Bahamut does not often have things to say.
Dion steals himself. “We’re in.” He closes his eyes. “We’ll help.”
The Year of the Realm 868, Stonhyrr, The Kingdom of Waloed
Benedikta is sitting in her office when Sleipnir flicks the door open and rests in the doorway to announce, with all of the drama he possibly could: “Mythos has arrived!”
When her response is nothing more than staring for a heartbeat and then returning to her notes, Sleipnir changes tack.
“My king agreed to duel when Mythos asked. My king is arranging it as we speak.” That gets her attention.
She blinks. “He agreed to a duel and is making it public?” For Barnabas to not simply cut someone down where they stand for even asking so much shows that this Mythos, whoever they are, has his interest.
“Of course! This is Mythos, after all.” Sleipnir leans back into the wall and sighs as though he is in love. “He claimed to be nearly ready to become our god’s vessel. He claimed he just needed Odin.”
That has Benedikta alarmed, Garuda swirling uneasily in her chest, and she remembers where she has heard the name Mythos before: from the rants she has been increasingly tuning out from Barnabas. The ones about the cleansing of Valisthea, the restoration of the world, and the return of his god, and his mother. Mythos, the breaker of worlds.
Mythos, who she had thought could never exist. And yet, Mythos has not only arrived on their shores, but claimed the name and is doing as her king assumed? This is a fae story come to life.
She must know what is going on. “Is there any way I can help arrange the duel?”
“Only with the invitations, I should think. My king is already having the pastures between here and Ravenwit cleared out. Mythos requested that Waloed’s population should be safe during the duel, and suggested that people should gather in Ravenwit or on Stonhyrr’s bridges.” Sleipnir sounds baffled by the idea that this Mythos could care about their citizens. It is not, Benedikta thinks, a good look for their Lord Commander. “In two weeks, it shall be done,” and Sleipnir is beaming. He turns to leave. “Oh!” he adds. “Cidolfus is returned for this duel too.” And then he is out into the hallway, having shaken her more than she wants to admit.
Cid was right to leave, she thinks, if Barnabas is this convinced of his god. She needs to speak with him. She needs someone who can think without being told to do so.
She is out of her seat and through the door before she can think further.
“Sleipnir!” she calls out to stop him. “Where is Cidolfus?”
Sleipnir’s sharp teeth are visible when he grins at her. “Probably killing every slaver he can see in the south east of Vidagares. He does like killing, that one, and there’s a decent collection of slavers there for him to work his way through.”
She’s off running to the stables. She needs some breathing room, but she’ll have time on the ride out there. As soon as she is out of the walls, she can hear the thunder rolling in the distance, and hear the storm. Most of the chocobos in the stable are ruffled, but her favourite is calm. With shaking hands, she guides the ‘bo out of the stable and mounts up.
Why did you leave me here? She wonders. Was I too ensnared already for you to convince me? Was I not worth it? Was I not worth the risk? Where did you go? What kept you away, and why come back? If I wasn’t worth the risk, what is?
There’s a man standing on the pathway into the forest, watching the lightning. He turns when she approaches.
Dark hair, a broadsword on his back, tall and broad like any warrior, a brand on his cheek, and as he sees her, a gentle smile washes his face and reveals to her that he’s likely just as young as she is.
“He’s working out his anger. Give him a few more minutes and he’ll wear himself out soon.”
The brand would be enough to spit in his face – but. He knows Cid. He seems to know her, too. She dismounts.
“Do I know you?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light. She does want to speak with Cid, and poorly greeting someone he seems to know and like would not facilitate that.
“You’ve heard of me, I’m sure, but no, we’ve not met. I know you because Cid speaks of you often.” He holds out a hand to her. “Clive Rosfield, Ifrit, Mythos, Logos. My friends call me Clive.”
Mythos. She stills entirely for half a moment, and Garuda takes that time to settle back down, returning to her usual resting place. She gathers her wits, reaches forward and shakes his hand. “Benedikta Harman,” she says softly. She has thoughts.
A bright flash turns their attention back to the forest path. The thunder rolls over them, loud and foreboding.
“That’s my call.” Clive starts striding into the trees. He pauses for a moment to ask, “Are you coming?”
She follows.
They arrive at the conservatory in short time, and the smell hits them before the sight does: electrified flesh. The bodies of a number of adults are rendered horrifically around Cid as he sits in the muddied ground, his shoulders shaking in what appears to be sobs.
Clive just strides right through the mess, seemingly uncaring of the dead, to kneel before Cid, where he grabs Cid’s face, and - kisses him softly.
Benedikta blinks.
Cid is unmoving for too long. And then his arms reach up Clive’s back, and he clings . Like Clive is the only thing holding him together, and that he would drown without him. Benedikta is not sure she has ever seen an embrace like this before. Desperate and intimate. Soothing and gentle. When they part, and she can see Cid’s face, he looks more wrecked than she has imagined he could be.
Clive stands, and reaches out a hand to help Cid up, and then she hears Cid say: “Otto’s son was supposed to be here.”
She can see Clive stiffen, and then slump. Very quietly, Clive says, “Yeah.” He’s still holding out his hand. Cid takes it, and doesn’t let go when he’s on his feet. “Reinhard is okay. He’s never seen these walls. He never will.” Clive looks around at the bodies at his feet. “Judgement,” he murmurs. He sounds almost pleased.
“Aye,” Cid says, matching Clive’s lack of volume. “I was thinking of Reinhard. I was thinking of Mid. I was thinking of you .”
Clive lifts their hands, and kisses Cid’s bloodied knuckles.
Benedikta has never seen Cid look as soft as he does now, covered in blood and mud, swords splayed on the ground with death all around him. And as he stays caught in Clive’s eyes, he does look soft. Like his heart is full, calm and quieted in the midst of a storm.
It’s a long time before Cid seems to become aware of her. “Benna,” he says, surprised. Pleased. As if the sight of her is something good, and not the threat that it should be given his status as defector. He’s sheathing his swords, and pulling out a cigar, which Clive interrupts his task of dragging the bodies into a pile to light with a curl of his hand.
“You came all this way to talk to me, and you can’t find the words?”
Benedikta almost sneers, but holds herself back. “I wanted your counsel.”
“You have it, if you wish it.”
“How long has Barnabas been obsessed with this god and the concept of the new world?”
Cid sighs. “Always, if you would believe it. But it became worse when he received that scar on his chest.”
Clive adds, “He used his own heart to summon and speak with Ultima, and wake him.”
“It corrupted him even more, the bloody fool,” Cid concludes.
“Ultima is real, then?” Benedikta asks. Clive called himself Mythos, and yet it doesn’t sound real. She doesn’t want to believe it. She already believes it.
“Not for long,” Clive says. He looks up at her and their eyes connect briefly, and it’s long enough for Benedikta to see a vicious, wrathful smile spread across his face. It’s unsettling, but honest. She thinks maybe she can see why Cid would follow this bearer around. She thinks maybe she could be convinced too.
“Oh,” Benedikta says.
Clive turns back to the pile he’s been making. “Perhaps we should move on to somewhere more pleasant to finish this discussion.”
And then, Clive flicks a hand, and the whole collection of bodies alights with dark, hot flames. Hellfire. That’s not something that just any bearer can do. Though, maybe being of the Phoenix’s line has something to do with it? Garuda nudges her in such a way that she’s sure that’s not quite right.
---
Clive stares down into his mug of wine. “Barnabas promised them a saviour, come to deliver them to a utopia. I don’t mean to deny them; but I will do it not as a god, I will do it as a human.”
Cid raises his eyebrows. “As a human king, lad, with all the divine rights that entails.”
Clive huffs in response.
Benedikta taps her fingernails on the wooden table. “That argument isn’t going to get easier after you kill Odin, either. Who can kill a god but another god?”
Clive slumps into his seat. “Do the people of Waloed truly see him as a god?”
“His full title has included God’s Voice ,” Benedikta says. “The local priests aren’t the only ones to call him that.”
“That, aye. So no, but also yes. Eikons, all of us, are considered gods to some extent. I have no following, but most of us do, and some of us more so than others: your brother has a cult nearly a millennia old that worships at his feet. Shiva’s cult is broken, but it was so recent that I have no doubts that sections of it still survive. Bahamut is second only to Greagor herself in their doctrine. You already have a following of one, and your Eikon hasn’t even been announced.”
---
“I have one concern,” Benedikta says, a thoughtful finger on the rim of her mug. “Are you that confident you can kill him?”
Clive reaches his hand out above the table, and shadows begin to coalesce in a long line. He grasps the shadow and its form is instantly recognisable, writhing in darkness, as Zantetsuken.
He places it quietly on the table, before her wide eyes. “I don’t think I’ll have much issue winning this duel, no.”
---
The day was bright. The loud ringing of Clive and Barnabas trading hits on each other’s swords echoed through the valley, and small waves of aether were shedding into the land around them.
The sunlight makes Clive look like he’s glowing, though maybe he is: Barnabas is already semi-primed, folding darkness into his skin and dark armour encasing him, and making him stand taller.
“The truth, if you would hear it, is that your god does not care for you. He will not save you, he will not grant you peace or freedom, the new world he would raise is for himself alone.”
It’s surprising to Benna how much Clive looks like he’s playing. It’s more than any human could do, but it looks almost like Clive has forgotten that. He shifts exactly enough to dodge the strikes coming his way, and no more. He replies with a thrust that Barnabas has the perfect time to parry. He ducks under a wide swing, and uses a flame to melt a hole in the faceplate of Barnabas’s helmet.
Clive is dancing, fire streaming up his legs, winding around his chest, slinking down his arms and on to his sword. His hair is alight and his eyes are bright.
He gets his sword in Barnabas’s neck, and Barnabas stops moving for a moment, before he jumps backwards and starts to pull aether into himself, sucking the light away.
In no time at all, the dark Eikon is before them, towering above them. Odin is always terrifying. Mounted on horseback, black, black shadows forming in their wake, clad in heavier armour and a crueler pose, Odin reigns this land easily.
And then, there is a ball of hellfire at their feet. Sleipnir rears back, and Odin raises his sword to the skies.
Benna has never seen Ifrit before. She doesn’t need to, to know who she’s looking at. The demon is hellfire. He looks almost delicate, next to Odin, but she can feel the aether. That is no small being: that is exactly what Barnabas described when he called Mythos the vessel of God.
The fight gets faster, louder. And messier. Clive was right to call for an evacuation. The land around them is gouged by Odin’s sword, great chunks having been slashed and thrown malms. It’s burned and scorched by thrown flames, and by Ifrit’s presence.
The ground shakes. She sees Odin channeling Zantetsuken fully, arm raised and sword coalescing. Ifrit jumps towards the sword, and grabs it. Benna gasps and when Ifrit squeezes his claws around it and yanks, she nearly falls over. Just as the sword finishes forming, it snaps right where Ifrit is holding it, and Ifrit spins it in mid air, and slices right through Sleipnir’s back and Odin’s leg.
Sleipnir holds his form for less than a breath, and then he shatters into dark aether and falls like ash to the ground. Odin, missing his horse and one foot, screams, stumbles. He pulls harder at the aether around them, the scorched land under his feet becoming blighted instantly, and his metal armour regrows. He stands upright again, facing a monster he underestimated, who is still holding a blade that cuts armour like it’s butter.
Ifrit roars, and charges. He swings the blade upward across Odin’s breastplate before Odin can defend himself. Odin sways, and then falls backward, aether weeping off his shoulders, and he is human-sized before he hits the ground.
Ifrit stares for a beat, then releases the blade into the air, where it dissipates, and lets himself collapse into his human form.
Benna rushes forward, Cid at her side. She is close enough to hear an exchange between the former King and the new King.
Barnabas is on the ground, crown fallen to one side, lying uncomfortably across some burnt rocks.
“I don’t know what comes next. Neither of us do,” Clive says, and stabs his sword into the ground to lean on.
Breathy and pained, “I just want to see my mother.”
Clive, gently and kindly, though it’s unearned on the man before him, says, “I hope you do.”
There’s a final rattle of breath, and any tension there had been in his body falls away. And then, slowly, more alike to a bearer who has turned to stone than an akashic human, his body turns to aether and crumbles.
“Well that’s that, then,” says Cid. He steps forward and grabs the crown off the ground, turns it in his hands. “This isn’t a very pretty piece of metal. Not very fit for a King.” The edges are hard, and the crown itself is a solid ring of metal, with spikes rising from it like thorns.
Clive snorts. “It’ll do me just fine, the last time I thought I might wear a delicate crown was before Joshua was born.”
Cid nods. Carefully, he stands in front of Clive, who straightens his shoulders and stands upright. He gently reaches up and places the iron crown on Clive’s head.
“My king,” Cid breathes out, and kneels. Benna kneels too: it feels appropriate.
Clive’s eyes brighten with promises for the future. “Rise, the two of you. We’re friends, are we not?”
Cid and Benna both stand up, only to be interrupted by Gav sprinting up to them on chocobo back.
“The King is dead!” Gav yells. “Long live the King!” And then he’s off again, to spread the news to all those watching from a distance.
The Year of the Realm 866, Mt Drustanus, The Iron Kingdom
There is crashing and banging and explosions and screams in the night, and then someone comes to take off her tethers. She’s surprised it took them this long.
The priest is angry, and demands that she prime.
He has forgotten something: a hostage. So she does nothing. He drags her out of the cell.
She can see fires all around her, but she still can’t see any of the kids whose lives he might threaten to get her to prime.
He shoves her roughly.
She lets it happen, still half on the ground.
And there is a different man standing behind the priest. Leathers she recognises. A beard that she doesn’t. But eyes that she knows.
He swings his broadsword at her captor’s neck. The priest goes down in two pieces.
“Jill,” the man says. “Jill, I’ve come to rescue you.” He pauses. “And everyone else, of course. But mostly you.”
She blinks. It feels like a dream.
“Clive…?”
A wolf appears at his side. Massive, and more than a little dangerous judging by the blood around his muzzle.
Clive gives a quick rub to the top of the wolf’s head, flicking its ears back and forth a little. The wolf nudges forward to push his wet nose into her face, and he licks roughly in a massive swipe from her jaw to her hair.
Some lightning goes off nearby. Some more screams.
“If you want to evacuate, the boat is to the north,” he says.
“Clive!” A rough voice calls. “Reinforcements! I might need a hand soon!”
Clive looks at her. “But if you want to help fight…”
She looks at her brother. He looks back at her. She looks at the dead idiot at her feet. She grabs the priest’s rapier.
“It’s a little different than what I’m used to,” she says. “But it’ll do.”
“Clive!”
“Right,” Clive says. “C’mon. We have work to do. People to save, people to hunt.” He reaches out to her. She accepts his hand, and stands up.
“What’s the plan?”
“Well… we were just getting all you potential hostages out of the way, and then the plan was something like ‘slaughter everyone else’, I think. Cid is a fan of improvising. In any case, we’re done with step one.”
Jill bares her teeth.
Clive throws a hand at the wooden building behind him. Jill doesn’t have time to be surprised that it collapses in a strange mix of the foundations caving in and the walls blowing over, because he’s jumping over it and so is the wolf, and she’s following them.
A flash of lightning hits in front of them, and Clive leaps toward it.
“Better late than bloody never,” the thunder growls, and then looks up at them, purple shimmering all over, white hair and the electric blue eyes of a controlled semi-prime. He quickly fades back into a regular man. Middle aged, short dirty hair, a pair of swords, and a smirk is all she can see in the low light of the fires and crescent moon.
“Jill, this is Cid. He’s… a friend.”
Jill might not have seen Clive in six years, but she knows her brother.
“Just a friend?” She turns her newly acquired weapon toward the latest wave of ironblood soldiers who are running down from the upper streets.
Clive, to her surprise, isn’t shy at all when he replies “No, not just friends. I asked him to marry me.” He flares out an arm as the soldiers start to get close, burning a couple of them to a crisp. They smell like a bad day in the kitchens. “He agreed.”
Cid lops off an arm, and stomps the owner of said arm into the ground by their neck. He points the shortsword in his left hand at her, and the roguish grin he sets on his face tells her that he’s about to say something stupid. “He just had to make sure it was possible for you to attend the ceremony, lass. That’s why we’re here.”
Jill feels light. She feels like she’s walking on stars. She laughs, freely, loudly, for what might be the first time in six years. This could be a dream, but she knows it’s not. She can feel Shiva reacting to her strong emotions. The chill wraps around her, soothing, but she doesn’t need to be soothed today. She is elated. She might as well be dancing in the air as she gleefully exacts her vengeance.
“I can’t wait,” she says.
---
Somewhere between a small garrison of soldiers and the smaller collection of priests who interchangeably call them all abominations and scream for their gods to save them, Clive says, “Step three is we shatter the Mothercrystal.”
Jill almost misses a step. “What!?”
“They’re bleeding the aether from the land. It’s what causes the blight.”
“You’re certain.” Jill shudders.
“Very. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and Cid has several years of study on the matter.”
Jill turns her eyes on Cid, who nods.
“Aye. Could barely believe my bloody eyes when I first started putting it together,” he says. “Felt like my world dropped from under me for a few days. The mothers? That they were destroying Valisthea? But then things clicked.”
“Sanbreque knows,” Clive adds. “We don’t know how long they’ve known, but long enough for them to have serious ambitions on Twinside. Not that they’re planning on destroying them. They’re just aware that Drake’s Head can’t hold much more aether. It’s about to start having floods.”
Jill worries her lip between her teeth. “This will fix the blight? Destroying them?”
Clive and Cid exchange a glance.
“No,” says Clive lowly. “It’s not going to be as easy as that.”
“The damage is done. Destroying the Mothers won’t fix what’s broken, it’ll just stop them from pulling more aether than they already have.”
Jill eyes them shrewdly. “You have a plan.”
“Something like that,” Clive says, and reaches out to shove Cid lightly. Cid leans into it in a clearly practiced motion.
“What?” Cid says grinning. “It’s almost like you don’t trust me.”
“Your plans are as bad as your shortcuts.”
“Oh, please. You love my shortcuts.”
Clive doesn’t say anything for long enough that it’s an answer in itself. “The first time he took me on one of his shortcuts,” Clive says, “we almost got eaten alive by bloodflies, and then we ran into a fafnir. In the Greatwood.”
Cid groans. “Once. One time my shortcut found us a fafnir, and you’ve never let me forget it.”
“That is - absurd,” Jill says, because it is. A fafnir that far south? That’s terrible luck.
“We did make it to where we were going,” Clive says optimistically. “So there’s that. The shortcut worked. It’s why I keep letting him take me on his other shortcuts.”
They’re interrupted by another squad of soldiers. Jill flicks a hand and they freeze. Clive leaps forward and twists his sword in a broad arc that hits every one of them in flames that vaporise the ice. One of them lasts long enough to scream, and Cid cuts that short with a perfect shot of lightning.
“Is the Patriarch likely to be at the altar within the Mothercrystal?” Clive asks.
Jill is both surprised and unsurprised that Clive knows enough to ask that. Her eyes narrow. “Yes,” she hisses.
Clive eyes her as they continue their march toward the Mother’s inner sanctum. “We’ll be there, but that kill is all yours, if you want it,” he says it like it’s a gift. It is.
---
Ifrit crackles with fire and lightning while he chews up the Mothercrystal and whatever it is that tries to emerge from it.
Jill is much too busy to care. Ice might not be made of wrath in the way that hellfire is, but tonight it comes close.
The Year of the Realm 866, East of Port Isolde, The Imperial Province of Rosaria
“I could do it, you know, if you wanted me to,” Clive is quiet, and sleepy, and at least half out of his mind lying on the bedroll beside him underneath the stars. They’re holding hands under the blanket. Cid rubs his thumb over Clive’s, slowly, soothingly.
“Do what?” Cid asks cautiously.
“Fix everything.” Clive sighs. “I could just-” he pulls his empty hand out from the blankets, and snaps his fingers. “- and change everything.”
Ramuh offers no insight, no wisdom; just echoes of an emptiness so deep that it makes Cid’s teeth ache. “You could?”
“I don’t want to,” Clive murmurs. “I chose to come back so I could have you. I wanted more things than my duties allowed me. I could save everyone. I could. But I didn’t want to. I don’t want to. I gave everything I had, and now this time, I want everything for myself. Living on my own terms.” Clive’s speech is slowing down, and it’s clear he’s falling asleep. “I want you. I want a life with you. There is nothing else. I could have saved you from - everything. But I’m being selfish. Just this one lifetime, I want you as you are. I hope you don’t mind.”
Cid squeezes their hands, and there’s no response. Clive is out for the night.
Cid stares up at the endless stars above him. “I don’t mind at all.”