Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
The four year old boy stopped at the sound of the flustered voices in the hallway, peeking around the corner cautiously. Everyone was acting strangely as of late, and for whatever reason, it gave him a sinking feeling.
"They're saying Lord Clive should have showed signs of it by now..." The servant spoke above a whisper, leaning in closely to a second servant, who was often the maid to clean his bedroom. The maid murmured something back, but her voice was too hushed and it didn't travel far enough for the boy to pick up on it."Yeah, I heard that the Archduke and Archduchess are trying for another..."
More incoherent chatter.
"Yes, may Phoenix bless this one."
At the familiar term, the four year old Clive walked closer – peering up at them innocently. "...Is that why everything changed?"
Young Clive couldn't keep from announcing himself, a sad curiosity bubbling to life within him. His father had stopped showing him how to use a sword. They were some of his earliest, and most loved memories. So why had things changed? Now, he would wander to the barracks. There were plenty members of the guard who were pleased to play along with him. And why wouldn't his mom meet his eyes anymore?
"L-Lord Clive!" the servant cried out, voice tinged with panic. "W-we meant no disrespect!"
“Please forgive us,” the maid curtsied.
He didn't understand what there was to forgive.
“It's okay,” he cocked his head, “Is it that bird's fault? why mommy and daddy don't love me anymore?”
The maid furrowed her eyebrows, kneeling down to his level as she carefully placed a gentle hand against his shoulder. “That's not true, young Lord. I'm sure they love you very much.” She looked up and down the hall, paranoid that perhaps one of the said parents were nearby. “Why don't we get you back to your bedroom? You shouldn't wander the halls alone.”
- - -
(July 8th)
Just before Clive turned five, his baby brother was born.
His mother had grown large over the months, and Clive had tried to tend to her in the only ways that a young child could. He would have the maids brew tea for her; nap with her; press his hand to her stomach and talk to the baby inside.
So when the day came that his mother was to give birth, young Clive wanted nothing more then to be by her side. But he wasn't allowed. Only the wet-nurse was. So he paced up and down the halls impatiently, sick with dread each time he could hear his mom's screams and cries echo throughout them.
It went on for hours and hours.
Longer then he'd ever waited for anything.
He wanted to ensure that his mother was alright. And even more so, he wanted desperately to finally meet his younger sibling. So when the servants finally allowed him inside, he flew to his mother's bedside – climbing up the rim so that he could stare at the little bundle cradled within his mother's arms.
He peered into the newborn baby's sleeping face, carefully placing a hand to their head - as if ensuring that they were real.
“Is he a boy?” Clive asked.
His mother nodded tiredly.
Clive's eyes grew tender.
"I love him..."
"So you should," his mother said, "This is your younger brother - Joshua. He's meant for great things, Clive. I can feel it."
"...Josh," Clive said fondly.
The connection he felt to the baby was immediate. His mother was right. Joshua would be special. But he didn't need to achieve greatness in order to prove that. No, Clive already loved him just the way he was. He'd look out for him. Play with him. Love him.
Their bond would be irreplaceable.
That was what he could feel.
- - -
"Did you hear? My Lady has hired a nanny. Between the realm and Lord Joshua's studies, they haven't the time to spare. Lord Clive locked himself away in his room, and says he won't come out until his mother or father go to him...the poor thing."
“He'll come out sooner or later – once he's hungry, I bet.”
“Maybe...”
“Last time, his parents told me to get him up and dressed. It was a nightmare. Threw stuff at me and made a mess of his room – yelling that he wanted his dad instead. I tell ya, I hope he grows out of this bratty phase sooner rather then later. I sure hope Lord Joshua won't share the same attitude...”
“I guess so...”
- - -
“That's amazing, Lord Clive!” one of the many knights whom often indulged the young boy's antics clapped at the child's strong display of skill. “For someone so young, your sword hand is majestic and impressively beautiful! I reckon you'll be as strong as the Archduke himself someday. Tis' in your blood, after all.”
The eight year old Clive beamed. “You think so!?”
He'd handled the sword in his hand gracefully, twirling it in ways to show off his nimbleness and utmost swordsmanship. Would his father be impressed, he wondered? He left the bustling barracks, returning to the castle in the hope of perhaps catching his father. He peered around the corners of each hallway, catching a glimpse of his three year old brother as his mother chastised him over something trivial. Clive waved at him silently when Joshua's eyes brightened upon catching sight of him. The toddler waved back excitedly, earning himself another sharp “Joshua, are you even listening!?” from his mother.
She followed Joshua's gaze, and before Clive had a chance to try and hide behind the wall, she frowned. “Clive, what have I said about interrupting Joshua's studies?” Her eyes fell to the sword in his hand, and she sighed. “And what have I told you about waving swords around in the house...”
Clive pouted. Joshua was only three. Why the heck did he have to partake in something dull likes 'studies' anyway? Would he even remember any of it once he grew up?
“I'm sorry, mother...but...” he tried to change the subject, “Umm, have you seen father?”
“He's very busy, Clive. As am I. If you need something, go find your nanny. We've been over this.”
Melancholy, blue eyes fell to his feet, his hands tightening around his sword. One was gripping the hilt, while he didn't realize that another had pressed itself to the gleaming blade. “...Sorry. I, ah-!” he gasped in pain, his sword clacking to the ground with a heavy thud as his hand shot away from it. His palm had a decent gash in it which oozed with bright, fresh blood.
“For heaven's sakes-!” his mother exhaled irritably.
While the young Joshua shot up from where he'd been seated, green orbs wide with both worry for his older brother, as well as horror at the vivid shade of blood that had begun running wildly down his hand and wrist. “Clive!” he cried.
“He'll be fine, Joshua. The family doctor can handle it...”
Yet Joshua refused to withdraw. With an utmost tenderness, the toddler reached up – as if trying to access Clive's wound for himself. Clive knelt down, murmuring quiet assurances. “I'm alright, Josh. It's just a cut. You really don't want to look at it. Blood can be scary.”
Again, the child remained attentive. He carefully took hold of Clive's bleeding hand – pressing his hand against it and smothering his own smaller fingers into the thick substance himself.
“Joshua!” their mother stood from her chair, “Stop it! That's dirty!”
Her protests hardly lasted. Not once Joshua's tiny hand emitted a warm, soft light. It felt soothing, like holding your hands up against a controlled campfire so that you could soak up it's tender warmth.
Clive's cut didn't hurt anymore underneath it's light, and their mother had frozen – dazzled at the sight of it. It wasn't until the light faded, and Clive blinked down at the cut on his hand to see that it no longer remained, when their mother happily ran over to the toddler – dropping to her knees and grasping his tiny frame into her arms.
“Joshua!” she cried ecstatically, “You've been blessed! The Phoenix accepted you, my son! I knew you were destined for greatness!”
Clive had never seen their mother cry nor display such elation before...
He could only look between his healed hand and his baby brother, emotions that he didn't understand settling their way into his stomach. He felt happy for him. Truly he did. Joshua had healed him. Joshua cared about him... Yet, he couldn't deny the heavy, sluggish sensation that sat at the pit of it all. Like he'd eaten something he shouldn't have.
“Oh, we must go find your father!” she chirped, scooping Joshua up into her arms, “He'll be absolutely thrilled.”
As she hurried off, Joshua peering over her shoulder to stare at the brother they left behind, Clive couldn't keep from muttering under his breath.
“...But you said he was busy.”
- - -
“Oh, Clive! It's beautiful! I adore it!”
Joshua beamed upon opening the gift, carefully taking the gleaming, silver earring between his fingers so that he could inspect it more closely.
“Well, it's not everyday my baby brother turns 8 now, is it?” Clive grinned at the thoughtful way Joshua happily admired it. He pointed a thumb to his own ear, which was still a bit tender from being newly pierced. “Besides, look – they're a set. We match.”
Joshua's eyes somehow brightened further, the sentimental value reflecting upon his facial features.
“You're the best, Clive! I can't wait to wear it!”
Even if he couldn't manage to draw the attention of his mother or father, so long as Joshua continued to look at him like that, Clive knew that he'd be okay.
Joshua's love and admiration of him was so raw and pure. It was capable of making his lonely heart sing.
- - -
“You've proven that you're the most mighty warrior within our realm, Clive. Many others were desperate to attain the honour of becoming Joshua's shield, and yet you managed to fell each and every one of them.”
When Archduke Rosfield's firm grip clapped down onto Clive's shoulder, the 15 year old couldn't keep from holding his breath. Would his father praise him? Had he finally managed to make him proud despite holding the title of 'family disappointment' since the very day of his birth?
He eagerly awaited it as his father continued.
“To mark this grand victory, I have bestowed upon you a gift.” Clive blinked up at him. No. He needn't anything of physical form nor nothing of questionable value. All that he wanted was for the Archduke to finally say the words Clive had been striving to make him say for as long as he could remember... “If you are to be Joshua's shield, I implore you – you are a child no longer. It is time for you to become a man, Clive Rosfield – champion of this most esteemed house.”
“Your Grace...” Clive searched for words, wishing that even just this once, his father would have referred to him as his 'son.' Shouldn't that have come first? Shouldn't have being his 'son' come before his so-called title of 'champion?' “I'm lost for words. I don't know what to say...”
Clive tried to swallow the discouragement that must have lingered in his speech.
He hardly even understood what it was his father had intended.
It wasn't until the Archduke pushed the nearby door open, inviting Clive to step inside. When Clive's blue gaze followed, his father's words abruptly dawned upon him.
Within the chambers offered to him by his father, there was a woman. She was tucked into the blankets of the majestic bed only fit for aristocracy, her body bare. When Clive's flustered eyes met hers, she daintily waved.
“F-father-!” through his shock, Clive couldn't help but utter those words in disbelief, “You don't possibly mean-” he trailed off, his breath caught in his chest as he looked between the Archduke and the woman.
Maybe because they were alone, the Archduke let the slip of the tongue slide. His fingers dug into Clive's shoulder as if to encourage him before he took his hand back and made his leave. “Do as you like with the brothel wench. She will most certainly obey. You have her for the entirety of the night. Be sure to make good company. You're a boy no longer.”
With that, he was gone, and Clive was stunned into silence in the doorway.
At 15, and having sworn himself to his duties, Clive had rarely thought about what it might be like to lose his virginity. He'd imagined that he might fall in love someday and give it up to somebody who he could say he was mad for. In reality, he understood that, as a Rosfield, he was still useful to his parents as a political piece for arranged marriages with other prestigious families. Of course, Joshua's engagement would be the ultimate prize for any family, but that would only satisfy but one of several. After that fuss, Clive could be married off, merely the leftovers in the grand scheme of political family drama. Yet, there would still be many eager to do so, if only so they could wear the Rosfield name like armour and flaunt their close proximity to the Dominant of Rosaria's realm – Phoenix.
Such would be worth it to many, even if it meant marrying the disgraced, elder son of the household.
Even so, Clive has persuaded himself that he might still be capable of falling in love with whomever was unlucky enough to win his hand. So, now, as the lady from the brothel rose from where she'd been nestled in the sheets, their silk slipping from her and revealing the dazzling skin underneath, Clive's mind couldn't keep from racing that this wasn't how he was supposed to give away his innocence.
She was completely bared to him, and Clive couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes. He swallowed thickly as she delicately pressed her hand to his, slipping her slender fingers in-between his own and guiding him into the room, hips swaying gracefully. And though he couldn't meet them, he could feel her smouldering stare searing into him.
He practically jumped when they neared the bed, her hand leaving him only so that her fingertips could trace his shoulders. Then his upper back muscles, his spine, until winding around to teasingly outline the rim of his leather pants. He choked on nothing, a whimper coming from him as he could feel her hot breath against his earlobe. “You're far younger then I imagined you'd be, love,” Clive's frame froze up as he felt her hand slip into the rim of his pants, her hand feeling him out through the thin fabric of his underwear. He could feel himself flush, his eyes beginning to flutter. The faintest whine managed to escape from his lips as he couldn't keep from focusing on the way that her palm massaged the aching bulge between his legs. “You're practically still a boy.”
“I-I'm not,” Clive couldn't keep his tone from trembling breathily.
“Is that so?” her lips turned up into a seductive smirk, her hand leaving him as she pushed him down onto the mattress. She forced herself on top of him, hands circling his solid chest as she murmured, “Then show me. Show me how much of a man you are, Sir Shield.”
His mouth parted in an attempt to protest, but all that could leave him was a muffled whine as her lips crashed upon his own unprepared ones. He refused to kiss back, instead flailing like an idiot, no doubt. But there was no way he could reciprocate, not when her fingers felt so wrong as they tried to sneak their way up his shirt, nor when they brushed the surface of his pants' zipper. Did it feel a little bit nice? Sure. But that couldn't change the overall aversion that bubbled madly within him. He didn't wish for this. Not as some prize given to him by his father. Clive was proud of his accomplishments. All he needed from that was for his family to feel the same way...
He didn't fight battles nor participate in the tournament that faced him against Rosaria's greatest for this. He'd merely followed his own path, opposed to the thought of feeling sorry for himself and accomplishing nothing with his life simply because he hadn't been capable of inheriting Phoenix when Joshua could.
That, and he would be given the opportunity to spend more time with his little brother, too. As the one who would take over for their father, Joshua was often occupied with several different duties of his own. As his own personal shield, he and Clive would be spending much of their time together from then on.
Clive's obvious disinterest quickly had the woman lift herself from him, a frown tugging at her crimson lips. “What's your problem?” she snapped, furrowing an eyebrow crossly, “You're making it awfully difficult to pleasure you, you know.”
Clive finally took the chance to catch his breath, his wild gaze searching up into her face apologetically. “I'm sorry,” he began desperately, “B-but I can't. I can't do this.”
The anger instantly drained from her facial features, replaced with a concerned curiosity as she reluctantly asked, “Wait... Are you telling me that this entire time you haven't been just playing 'hard to get' or trying to fulfill some sort of kink that you have?”
Clive could only exchange a confused look with the woman, his brows scrunching up and his breathes freezing up inside of him yet again.
The woman couldn't keep from releasing a scoff, carefully peeling herself from the stunned boy and throwing herself down beside him. Her head hit the pillow, which she craned around to smile at him slyly. “Hmm, so you don't just look the part. You really are just a kid, aren't you?”
Clive slowly sat up a bit, still unable to look at her. Even if she no longer made contact with him, she was still entirely naked. The thought still made his cheeks flush, and he couldn't help but clear his throat before answering a bit defensively, “S-stop calling me that.”
“Well, how old are you then?”
Clive hesitated, combing a hand through the dark hair that had become dishevelled through the woman's earlier actions. “...I'm fifteen.”
“Hate to break it to you, but that makes you a kid...” she sighed quite audibly, running a hand along her temple as she mumbled to herself, “Gods, I truly almost just fucked a kid, didn't I...?”
Clive was too embarrassed to even respond to that.
“But you know... your dad did pay me a pretty impressive sum. I'd hate to accept that without doing anything for you. So c'mon, Sir Shield, there's gotta be something you'd want me to do for you, hm?”
There was a pause as Clive stared into his lap, thinking before quietly suggesting, “...can we just talk?”
She laughed again. This time, it was softer and not so mocking. “That's fine, kid.”
“Clive,” he corrected, “...and would you please put some clothes on? I can't talk to you like this. I-it's a bit hard to concentrate when I know you're next to me, completely b-bared...”
She giggled. “Of course... Clive.”