Chapter Text
'I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.'
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers
********
The plain lay peacefully under a clear sky, soft blades of grass reaching for the gentle spring sun. Wild flowers of every colour had opened their blossoms to enjoy the light, and tiny insects were buzzing back and forth to collect the first rich bounty of the year. The meadows stretched all the way to the horizon, an enchanting sight that invited any weary soul to rest its bones in the soft grass and breathe the sweet air until all worries were forgotten.
An armoured boot landed heavily on a patch of delicate white flowers. The stalks bent and broke, the tiny petals tearing and crumbling. The boot marched on, uncaring. Many more followed - mythril and steel razing the plants and leaving behind bare earth.
The army marched in neat lines, a gigantic beast that once unleashed could not stop until it had eaten its fill. Another of its kind waited on the horizon, slowly drawing nearer. The meadows between them untouched, though birds and butterflies had now fled as if they had sensed the destruction that lay ahead. Both armies stopped, a deep breath - then they charged.
The wind carried the clamour of metal and the sound of hoarse screams all the way to the camp that sprawled on top of a nearby cliff. It bled through the walls of the tents, nothing more than a faint disturbance in the stifling air that filled them. Few of the meticulously arranged structures were still occupied, the command tent among them. It was quiet inside safe for the distant sounds of the battlefield; an unnatural stillness hanging over the table, the maps spread out on it and the lone figure sitting in a chair beside it. Even the dust motes swirling in pale beams of sunlight seemed frozen in time. The white canvas pressed down on the room like a burial shroud.
Dion allowed himself a sardonic smile at the thought. A burial shroud. How very fitting. He wondered whether the real thing would feel just as heavy on his shoulders. Whether he would still be able to hear the screams of his dying men on the other side. He supposed that he would find out soon.
Not long now.
He picked up the glove that rested on the table and pulled it over his right hand. It was difficult to slip his fingers into the tight-fitting leather, frozen in a slightly curled position as they were. The feeling of the supple glove over cold, heavy stone made him nauseous as always, so horribly wrong to the touch. He had to drag the limb off the chair's armrest to pull the glove all the way up his forearm, his elbow no longer able to bend to lift his hand. The weight of the stone pulled at his shoulder once it was no longer supported by the wood of the chair.
Footsteps approached outside and then the tent flap was opened, flooding the tent with bright light. A dragoon in silver armour stepped through the entrance and saluted sharply.
'Terence', Dion greeted him. His voice sounded flat, hollow. Emotions cost energy and energy was the one thing he could not spare. Not if he wanted to at least make it to the enemy side of the battlefield. 'Is it time, then?'
'The forces are stretched thin, Your Highness. They won't be able to hold their ground for long, not without support.'
'Any sign of their Dominants?'
'Not yet.'
'Of course.' Dion's lips curled into a snarl. 'He is a coward. Waiting for me to give away my position and waste my strength. He knows we cannot afford to play a game of patience.'
He gripped the armrest of the chair with his good hand for support as he heaved himself up. He ground his teeth as pain lanced through his left knee, the constant dull ache flaring up with the feeling of an ice cold dagger slowly being pushed into the gaps between bones. If by some miracle he survived the battle to come, at least he would not have to deal with this any longer. The stone would have claimed the bothersome joint completely before the day was done, and he doubted that he would see the day it reached his hip. This at least was the blessing of a warrior - an enemy would take his life long before the curse did.
Terence watched him with a carefully blank expression, but he did not offer aid. He had tried often enough to know that Dion would only send him away. It was just a few staggering steps into the middle of the tent, and then Dion could pause and concentrate simply on remaining upright while Terence settled the familiar weight of the chainmail on his shoulders. He lifted his left arm to allow the dragoon to tighten the laces at the side, then braced himself to do the same with the right.
It did not move.
He clenched his teeth and tried again, but the limb remained stubbornly at his side. Awkwardly bent at the elbow as it had been for months now, the weight of it making his shoulders ache. Yesterday he still had been able to lift it, he was sure of it. Just yesterday.
The muscles in his shoulder spasmed as he fought against the immovable stone. Just this, just now, couldn't he have this one dignity? It wouldn't matter soon, but just one more time... his arm didn't move and he pressed his eyes shut in frustration. In- no. He would not call it despair. He would not.
He only noticed Terence taking a hold of the petrified arm because he felt fingers brush against his side as they closed around the elbow. Dion's shoulder screamed in pain when Terence gently lifted the arm, stone grinding against stone, against bones. The delicate structures of partly lithified tissue crumbling and splintering under his skin, tearing at his flesh. His face remained smooth as a mask through all of it, even while cold sweat gathered at the nape of his neck and his good hand balled into a fist so tight his nails threatened to pierce his skin. His shoulder continued to throb and ache even once Terence had carefully lowered the arm again and started to fasten armour plates over the chainmail.
The last part was the gauntlet on Dions left hand. His right no longer fit into one, but the armour served nothing more than appearances anyway. If he were to meet an enemy outside of a full prime, he would be lost with or without it.
The halberd felt clumsy in his hand; he had trained to wield it with his left almost as well as with his right, but his last battle in human form lay almost a year in the past. He was a liability on the battlefield now. A cripple.
How strangely freeing that world could be for how much he loathed it.
Terence hesitated to step aside once Dion was fully outfitted. There was something in his eyes, his mouth tight as if he could only just keep himself from speaking. He surely knew what Dion felt in his bones - there was no way for him to win this fight. Dion wondered what his friend would say were he to allow himself to voice his thoughts. Would he ask him to be safe? To surrender, to beg for mercy to save his own life? Perhaps. But Dion did not need pity, not from Terence, and certainly not from his foe. He straightened up and pushed past the dragoon, using the halberd more as a crutch than a weapon.
The camp was almost empty, but he still made an effort to walk as tall and even as his petrified ankle allowed. It was not a very convincing display, but it did not matter. Not really.
He was sweaty and shaking by the time they reached the edge of the cliff, planting his halberd firmly on the ground for support against the sharp breeze that tugged at his clothes and hair up here. Below, the armies were still clashing on the plain. The lush meadows had long turned into brown earth, trampled by countless boots and soaked with blood.
Dion leaned back his head and looked up into the flawless blue sky. Maybe it made him a bad person, but he would rather gaze at the beauty of that endless freedom than at the slaughter below. He had seen so much of it. Years and years, battle after battle. And now it would finally end, but not in victory. He hoped that the souls of the fallen could forgive him for failing to make their deaths mean something. He hoped that the living who stayed behind would remember him if not with love, then at least with a spark of respect for giving his life in service to his people.
It was a vain hope, but had he not earned one last happy delusion?
'Your Highness?'
Terence's voice was hesitant, uncharacteristically so. With a sigh, Dion directed his gaze back towards the battle. At the horizon he could see a handful of tents at the top of a hill. That's where he was hiding - Dion's killer. Waiting for him to make the next move.
He pressed his lips into a bitter line. The man who claimed to fight for all - he had heard the propaganda. Fighting to save the world, with no regard for whether it wanted to be saved. Conveniently forgetting that his armies left behind just as much scorched earth and just as many mangled corpses as any other. Hypocrite.
Dion stepped up to the edge of the cliff until his toes almost touched the abyss. A few pebbles broke loose under the clumsy weight of his petrified foot. His body was too heavy, too stiff to jump; too much stone for his one good leg to push into the air. But the cliff was high enough that he would be able to prime before shattering on the ground if he let himself fall. He had enough strength to do that at least, if not to win this battle. Or even put up much of a fight.
One last time.
He did not look at Terence before he stepped over the edge. He did not want to see the expression on his face. He wanted to concentrate on the sky, the air rushing past him, and the anger boiling in his chest when he looked at the tents on the other side of the sea of dying men below him.
The day Sanbreque would fall was a beautiful, mild spring day. A good day to die.
If he had one regret, it was that he would be killed by Joshua fucking Rosfield.
********
Joshua looked out over the plain, the sunlight playing on his windswept hair and warming his back. It would have been a nice day if not for the sounds of battle and the faint smell of blood the breeze carried to the top of the hill. The front lines of both armies had shattered into fragments by now, a heaving mass of bodies where friend was hardly distinguishable from foe. But the silver armour of the Imperials was glinting brightly in the sun where blood and dirt had not soiled it yet, and it was enough to recognize that the Sanbrequois forces were slowly but surely being pushed back.
Bahamut would not wait much longer.
Joshua turned his face towards the sun. It was a good day for flying; the wind refreshing but not sharp enough to hinder more complicated maneuvres. Or to carry stray embers to the closest forest or village.
Clive scoffed next to him.
'They are being slaughtered. What is the Prince thinking?'
Joshua had to agree with the sentiment. Years of fighting both Waloed and Rosaria had weakened the Imperial army considerably, leaving their ranks thin and their men weary. They would have fallen long ago if not for the Prince's military genius - and the fact that King Barnabas had eventually decided to sit back and watch who would gain the upper hand on Storm, doing nothing more than tease the faltering Empire with insect bites lest they forget the enemy lurking at their back. It was enough to keep Bahamut occupied, fighting four Eikons on two fronts. Joshua could not imagine how he managed to keep them all at bay, flying back and forth over the entire length of the country and still having enough strength to fight.
Dion Lesage was a narrow-minded prick, but Joshua could not help but admire his tenacity.
'He is a fanatic', he answered Clive's question bitterly. 'He would rather send his men to their deaths than admit defeat before his precious goddess.'
And how pointless it all felt. The longer the war went on, the more it became apparent that it was a fight Sanbreque could not win. And yet the Prince kept sending his men to the slaugher. Watching them die was almost enough for Joshua to doubt their cause - secretly, in the dead of night. Sometimes. Sometimes he wondered how long it would take to balance the scales once this was over - how long until their actions had saved more lives than they had taken? He shook his head to clear it of these thoughts. The sooner he won, the sooner that day would come.
He noticed Clive looking at him with a strangely wistful expression on his face.
'What is it?', he asked.
His brother hummed quietly, the sound almost swallowed by the whisper of the wind and the clamour of swords. 'Nothing. I just thought about when the two of you first met. You were so taken with each other. Father had so much hope that your friendship might solidify the peace for decades to come.'
Joshua felt a grim frown tug at his brow. 'I was a child', he said curtly.
'I'm sorry. I did not mean to make it sound like I blame you.'
'I know.' Joshua directed his gaze away from the battle below, and towards the white tents that arrogantly rose on top of the cliff beyond. 'Well. He had every opportunity to do the right thing.'
'And yet you always give him another chance.' Joshua sharply glanced at Clive and his brother shrugged. 'You think I haven't noticed how you always leave it up to him to prime first, even if it means giving up an advantage? You still hope that you can somehow avoid an Eikon fight right on top of our people's heads.'
Joshua pressed his lips into a thin line. His frown darkened as he returned to watching the faraway tents. The white cloth glowing in the sun, banners billowing in the wind. He remembered being eight years old, and gazing at a camp just like this. He had been excited, then, to meet the other Dominant he knew was waiting within. 'Maybe I shouldn't', he said in a voice far softer than his expression would suggest. 'But those men will die no matter who deals the first blow. Winning this war is the only way to save them; and so we do whatever we must to get there with our sanity intact.'
'And so we do', Clive echoed quietly.
And so they did. Just as they had done for almost a decade now. Founder. A whole decade of battle and blood. And it could all have been avoided if not for the blindness and arrogance they had been met with whenever they had extended a tentative hand towards their enemy. Such a waste of life.
A warm hand settled heavily on Joshua's shoulder.
'Jill is ready', Clive said. 'She is with Father, but she will come to your aid if you need it.'
There was the faintest reluctance in his voice, and Joshua smiled.
'Don't worry. I will make sure she stays out of danger.'
Clive cleared his throat and quickly averted his gaze. It made Joshua's heart ache with fondness.
'You talk like she is the only one I worry about', Clive grumbled. The hand on Joshua's shoulder squeezed it gently. 'Stay safe out there.'
'I always do. Mostly.'
Only minutes later, a flash of light illuminated the battlefield. Bahamut rose into the sky, roaring a challenge that echoed across the plain. Both armies paused to stare up at the great dragon, at the gigantic wings that were blocking out the sun. Joshua did not wait for them to resume the battle befor he broke into a sprint and jumped, the Phoenix's form enveloping him in familiar heat. He answered Bahamut's challenge with a cry of his own, and then he dove for his enemy with vicious talons outstretched.
He was all too aware of Clive standing on the hilltop, watching him. Fragile in the face of an Eikon's might, powerless. But Joshua would protect him - him, and Jill, and their father. His family. His men. His people. The Phoenix had given him the power to shield, and he would shield them all. Them, and the people suffering in the Empire and everywhere else in the Twins.
He would protect them from the likes of Dion Lesage.
********
Oriflamme was silent as the Rosarian army marched through her gates. There were no fanfares announcing their arrival, no pomp or ceremony. The crowd lining the street was silent as well, worry marring many faces; fear in some, scorn in others. The only sound was the clacking of chocobo claws on the cobblestones, the rythmic pounding of boots, the clatter of armour. Even the sky seemed more silent than usual, a bleak grey that hung over the city like a heavy cloth, unchanging.
It did not feel much like a victory.
Joshua rode at the front of the procession, next to his father. He had expected to be flooded with relief upon the realization that the fighting was finally over. But what he felt instead was a bone deep exhaustion, every single battle of the last decade weighing on him as if he had fought them all in the span of days instead of years. Weariness at the sight of those mistrustful faces looking up at him, promising a very different but no less gruelling battle ahead. The Empire might be defeated, but its people would not bow easily.
He was glad when they were finally behind the walls of the Imperial palace. The courtyard and entrance hall were yet another gauntlet to run, past the eyes of clerics and nobles; but then the heavy doors of the throne room fell shut behind them and it was only Joshua and Clive, their father, Jill and a handful of trusted Shields.
Joshua's form slumped as he let go of a deep breath. He would have liked to sit down, right here on the marble floor, but the occasion demanded at least a modicum of decorum. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he turned around to look at his father's face, the stern mask Elwin had worn before now softening.
'I'm proud of you, son', he said quietly. Joshua accepted the words with a stiff nod. They were not enough to make up for ten years of strife, but they were welcome nonetheless.
As Elwin left him to his thoughts, Joshua let his gaze roam around the hall. Jill was standing close to Clive, looking cool and composed even though her eyes were just as tired as Joshua felt. The corner of her mouth lifted into a faint smile when she caught him looking. They both felt the losses of this war heavy on their shoulders - the men whose lives had been cut short not by an enemy's blade but the wayward power of a battling Eikon. They had been nothing but children when all this had started, frightened children with a power too great for their small hands to hold. Even then he had always tried to keep her out of the fighting as much as possible, ever since she had awakened as a Dominant. It had never felt like enough.
Nothing he had ever done had felt like enough.
The throne room was lavishly decorated, so different from the comfortable simplicity of Rosalith castle. The walls were covered in murals of dragons and Greagor's angels, Bahamut himself looming behind the Emperor's throne. The king of dragons was a splendid sight, even though a painting could never quite do him justice.
For a moment an image flashed in Joshua's mind - the Eikon, majestic and fierce as ever, twisting in the air to evade one of the Phoenix's attacks. Movements too slow, too clumsy to avoid the streak of fire grazing one of its wings. A screech, and the next attack caught the dragon right in the chest. Aether blue eyes closing in defeat even before the gigantic body began to fall. It vanished before it hit the ground, the human form it left behind small and lifeless. The Phoenix hovered over the spot where it lay in the scorched grass like a puppet that had been cast away, no way to tell whether the soot-stained chest was still raising and falling. With a bitter cry, the Phoenix turned away and left the figure behind, a small spot of soiled white fading in the distance.
He didn't even have the decency to put up a real fight.
Joshua tore his eyes away from the mural with clenched teeth. He didn't even know why it irked him so much that his final victory had come so easily. They had won, the battle had been shorter than expected, less men had lost their lives on both sides. It had been a great day; for Rosaria, and for the world.
He was just so tired of it all.
With a deep breath he squared his shoulders and joined his father talking strategy with the Shields. A new day, a new battle.
It was neverending.
Their time of reprieve felt like barely long enough to catch their breaths before the quiet of the throne room was disturbed by the sound of hinges groaning under the weight of ornate doors. The Shield that entered saluted briefly before relaying the first report on the situation in the city. It was hopeful so far - the Rosarian army had encountered little resistance, with the Sanbrequois troops thoroughly demoralized after watching Bahamut fall to the Phoenix's flames.
'The palace wing housing the Imperial family is secured and under guard', the Shield continued. 'The Emperor and the Prince are confined to their quarters.'
Joshua raised his head, spine straightening.
'The Prince survived?'
A lifeless body in the grass, smudges of ash on a pale face. He remembered that face - younger and softer, bright eyes honeyed brown and sparkling with laughter. Both familiar and strange, and so, so alive. When was the last time he had thought of it with fondness?
'You seem relieved.'
He bristled at the gentle surprise in Clive's words.
'Relieved that there is one more life the war has spared? Yes, I am.'
One more life I have spared.
Was that the reason for the sick sense of satisfaction burning in his throat like bile? No... that was caused by a different thought, cold and bitter, somewhere in the back of his head. He can't take responsibility if he is dead.
Responsibility for ten years of suffering. Responsibility for killing the boy with the bright eyes and putting a cruel stranger in his place.
'As much as I agree that any death we can avoid is a win, this could lead to complications in the long run', Elwin said thoughtfully. 'The Prince is well liked by the people of the Empire, and he is a symbol of Greagor's power. If he proves hostile, the populace might rally behind him.' He turned to Joshua. 'I want you to speak to him. Find out what his intentions are, and whether he might prove a threat.'
'Me?'
'Do you think that wise?', Clive asked before Joshua had even finished looking adequately horrified at the notion. 'The last time they spoke face to face, Joshua stabbed him.'
'Since your brother assured me that it was purely on accident, I don't believe this should be an issue.' Elwin raised an eyebrow at his younger son. 'Should it?'
Joshua ground his teeth, but he lowered his head. 'No, Your Grace.'
Elwin nodded, satisfied. 'If these were less turbulent times, you would be sitting on the throne already. I want you to put your diplomatic skills to use as much as you can - they will serve you well in the future. Besides, the presence of another Dominant will hopefully remind the Prince that any attempt to use his power against us would be a foolish undertaking.'
'Yes, Your Grace.'
There was the slightest downturn to Elwin's mouth at the stiff formality of the words. But he just bumped his fist against Joshua's chest and gave him an encouraging nod.
'Then let us jump into the fray once more. There is much to do.'
********
'He refuses?'
Joshua frowned at the hooded figure standing at attention in the middle of the guest suite he was occupying for now. The man bowed his head.
'The Prince insisted he will not leave his quarters to speak with you.'
Joshua's fingers twitched, irritated. He had won - after all this time, he had finally won. And still Dion Lesage insisted to be a thorn in his side. But his father had asked him to be diplomatic, so he took a deep breath and forced the frown on his brow to smooth out.
'What was your read on him?', he asked. 'Do you think he might be a threat?'
The man hesitated, his words slow and thoughtful.
'I do not believe he is well, Your Highness. He might not be able to leave his quarters, though he seemed unwilling to do so even if he were. And to my knowledge, he has not requested a physicker.'
Joshua dismissed him with a nod of thanks and a wave of his hand. Then he leaned heavily on the unfamiliar desk covered in military reports, and chewed on his lip.
It made sense. Their last battle had been rough on Bahamut, the Eikon seeming weakened even before suffering the Phoenix's attacks. It would have been a miracle for the Prince to walk away unscathed.
That doesn't mean he couldn't be politer about it.
Joshua flexed his fingers where they rested on the desk; the fire was a gentle warmth in his veins, the flames sleepily licking at the inside of his skin. Sleepy but strong. The curse had not spared him over the years, but he'd had ample time to recover from his latest battle on their way to Oriflamme. And healing had always come much easier to him than killing.
A show of good will, then.
The Imperial family's living quarters lay all the way on the other side of the palace, but with two of his Shields showing him the way, Joshua soon found himself in front of the right door. It was tall and covered in lavish carvings, set into the flawless white stone of the wall with a sense of grandeur only matched by the throne room itself. Even its handle was shaped as a golden dragon, as if to remind any visitor who would dare step through it that Greagor's chosen was dwelling beyond. Joshua did his best not to scoff, instead straightening his shoulders and putting on his best mask - pleasant, polite, and most of all neutral - before knocking against the dark wood. He did not wait for an answer before pushing open the heavy portal and striding into the room behind it; he would not give the Prince the chance to leave him waiting outside like a servant. The door fell shut behind him with a booming sound and then he was alone with Dion Lesage.
The Prince's living quarters barely looked lived in at all. They were as empty and impersonal as a monk's, the austere contents of the room a jarring contrast to its ornate pillars and window frames. There were no trinkets, no paintings, no books lying open as if they had only just been put aside, no cozy pillows on the settee or a quill out of place on the desk. Even the small altar in the corner looked more like a carefully staged display than a private place of worship, every single candle aligned perfectly with the rest. It made Joshua wonder for just a moment whether the Prince truly had no quirks or interests beyond the art of war, or whether he found some strange virtue in allowing himself no personality to speak of. Then he remembered that he did not care, and he forced his eyes to focus on the reason for his visit.
The Prince was standing by the window. He had grown since the last time Joshua had seen him in person - beyond fleeting glances they had caught of each other across the battlefield, that was. His hair was longer now, the tips brushing against his ridiculously broad shoulders, and his face more defined as even the very last traces of childhood softness had melted away. He was handsome, which annoyed Joshua almost as much as the fact that they were the same height. He had always found a silent satisfaction in being one of the tallest people in any given room ever since he had reached adulthood, and it seemed entirely unfair that the Prince had grown to have both the height and the muscles to impress.
In his irritation Joshua only saw at second glance what his informant had spoken of: the Prince truly did not look well. His jaw was clenched too tightly, his face too pale. He stood stiffly, his weight not even shifting when he turned his head to glance at his visitor. One of his arms rested on the windowsill, gloved hand held still and awkward, as if trying not to aggravate an invisible injury.
Joshua pulled himself together and bowed his head only just deep enough to no longer be considered an insult.
'Your Highness.'
The Prince stayed where he was, not even turning around to face Joshua fully.
'Phoenix’, he said. 'To what do I owe this honour?'
His tone of voice made it abundantly clear that there was no honour to be had.
Joshua stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back and face perfectly smooth and polite, while swallowing the anger at being refused his proper title. Not even the Undying would so brazenly reduce him to nothing but his role as Dominant. He forced down the indignation and stopped a good few steps away from the window, just a smidge too far for proper court decorum. But it was beyond stabbing range, and so he could pride himself that his brother’s concerns were being properly addressed, at least.
'You are wounded?', he asked, and the Prince’s form stiffened impossibly further. ‘I would lend my assistance, if you'll allow me.'
'There is no need. If that is all?'
Joshua suppressed an aggravated twitch of his eyebrows. The hands behind his back tightened.
'You refused my request to speak with you.'
'I did.'
'May I ask why? We would not deny you the opportunity to speak for your people.'
The Prince’s eyes narrowed. They were beautiful eyes - a warm brown like dark honey or polished wood in the sun. Joshua remembered being enchanted by them as a child.
'If you and your father are as benevolent as you claim to be, they won’t need me to speak on their behalf, now won't they?’, the Prince said, each impassionate word dripping bitter sarcasm onto the flawless marble floor.
Joshua felt his temper flare inside of him along with the Phoenix’s flames. But he pushed both down until they were simmering somewhere in his stomach, and took a deep breath. He imagined that any other person were standing in front of him, any dignitary from a foreign nation, and what he would say to assuage their fears. For surely even the Prince felt fear; fear for the fate of his country and his people. He had, once. Narrow shoulders trembling under the weight that threatened to crush them. It had been so very long ago.
'We don't mean your people any harm’, Joshua said as calmly as he was able. ‘We are trying to find a solution that will allow them to return to their peaceful lives as soon as possible; which is why we would hear the voices of those who know them best.'
The Prince laughed. It was an ugly, hollow sound, echoing from the bare walls.
'Peaceful? They have not known peace for a full decade thanks to the Rosarian forces encroaching on their homes.’ The Prince shook his head, his feet still frozen to the ground even as he turned away to stare out of the window. The stained glass warped the city beyond into nonsensical shapes, wisps of colour swirling madly in the distance. ‘Their fate is no longer in my hands’, he said, stiff dismissal.
Joshua felt something in him snap. He had fought this man for ten years - hundreds, thousands of lives lost and the only saving grace he had been willing to grant his foe was that in his own twisted, narrow-minded way he was trying to save his people just as much as Joshua was. But now he stood there, acting like he did not care. Like there had been no reason at all to the slaughter, like all purpose had left him as soon as he had been forced to admit defeat. Like there had never been a purpose to begin with beyond the vain ambition to save face.
'Is that truly all you have to say?’, Joshua spat. ‘You would rather sit here and nurse your bruised ego than do what you can to help your people?'
The Prince did not move, didn’t even have the decency to raise his voice.
'There is no helping them’, he said flatly. ‘You declared war on their faith, their way of life, and now you have won.’ He looked over his shoulder at Joshua and his beautiful eyes were darkened by spite. ‘Do not pretend that you care about my people.'
'If your way of life demands exploitation and suffering in exchange for momentary comforts, then your way of life is wrong’, Joshua snapped. ‘I have tried to open your eyes years ago, but you refused to listen.'
He got nothing but a sardonic smile in response.
'Ah, there it is’, the Prince mocked. ‘The mighty Phoenix - the healer, the compassionate. Do your followers know that this crusade of yours is fuelled by the contempt of a miffed child?'
Joshua took an angry step forward, putting himself squarely into stabbing range. But he was too enraged to even think about the dagger at his belt. A fist to that perfect face would have been far more satisfying.
'Have you seen the people who have fled the Blight?’, he asked heatedly, hands no longer clasped behind his back but claws at his side, grasping at empty air for lack of a throat to close around. For once he wished he was back in the air above the battlefield, able to let his rage reign free. ‘Herded into barns like cattle, because there is no space left anywhere else. And what of the Bearers your people so readily take advantage of? Have you ever watched them slowly suffocate as their lungs turn to stone - if they even make it that far, because their owners refuse them any care at all. You are a Dominant! You of all people should be sympathetic to their plight! Or do you think yourself so far above them that you believe your goddess will not cast you aside as readily as she does them once you are no longer of use? Do you truly think she would care for another miserable cripple just because he is wasting away in a palace instead of a gutter?'
'Get out.’
The Prince’s voice was a hoarse whisper and for a moment all Joshua could feel was grim satisfaction that he had finally gotten a genuine reaction. He opened his mouth to dig his claws into the wound and tear it open, deeper, because there had to be a beating heart somewhere below that cold facade. But before he could utter a single word the Prince whirled around, eyes flashing with rage. He swayed on his feet as they would not quite follow his movement, and Joshua almost, almost stepped forward to steady him.
‘Get out!’, the Prince hissed. ‘Now.’
There was a growl in his voice that was not entirely human and it made Joshua square his shoulders.
‘I hope I don’t need to tell you that any magic you cast will be repaid in kind’, he warned. ‘If you have any regard left for the people of Oriflamme, you won’t risk an Eikon battle in the middle of the city. And if you won’t control yourself for their sake, we will have no choice but to fetter you.’
The Prince only stared at him with light simmering in his eyes. He stood hunched over, as if ready to leap - or as if he was barely able to keep himself upright. In either case, Joshua had to admit to himself that continuing this conversation could only lead to disaster. His own composure was brittle and cracking, and the Prince did not seem to fare any better.
His father would kill him if he and the Dominant of Bahamut came to blows only hours after taking the capital.
‘If you change your mind, do let me know’, he said, and he did not hide the mocking undertone in his words. They both knew nothing of the sort would happen.
The Prince still said nothing when Joshua bowed his head again. This time it was too shallow to be taken for anything but an insult. And then he turned around and marched out of the room, letting the door fall shut behind him with more force than necessary. He took a few deep breaths and as soon as he no longer had the immediate desire to strangle someone, he went to find Clive.
He did not often resort to hitting things, but this time, he would make an exception.
********
Dion counted to twenty in his mind once the door had fallen shut behind the Phoenix. He held his breath so it would not drown out even the softest sound, but there were no new footsteps in the corridor once those of the Phoenix had faded into the distance. No voices or knuckles rapping against the wood, no sign anyone else might enter. Just deafening, choking, blessed silence.
He reached twenty and his knee buckled under him, his body curling up as nausea flooded his stomach. The room blurred before his eyes as the pain hammered away at his consciousness and threatened to tear him under. It left him clinging to the windowsill with a white-knuckled grip while he swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth and simply tried to breathe - a near insurmountable task when his limbs were shaking like leaves and every tremor of his muscles aggravated the screaming agony where the stone pulled at his flesh.
He blindly reached for the backrest of the settee that stood in front of the window, just a step away, just a single, endless step. Lightning bolts of pain shot up his petrified leg as soon as he put weight on it, but he managed to hobble the laughable distance and collapse on the soft seat. His leg remained awkwardly stretched out, the way it had frozen after his most recent prime. He remembered the exact moment the stone had crept past the joint as he had lain in that scorched field, barely conscious. The way he had sobbed behind clenched teeth as he had struggled to extend the leg before it froze, stone crumbling and splinterig under his skin as he had forced the stubborn limb to straighten. One hysterical thought in his mind as soon as he had realized he would not die that day he needed that leg to stand, he had to be able to stand, he had to look strong, he could not let them see, could not be weak, weak broken helpless unworthy…
The memory of his father's disapproving gaze boring into his heart. It should not matter - his failure was already too great to allow for forgiveness. It had grown too great for Sylvestre to even look his son in the eyes the moment the curse had become impossible to hide, the visible proof that Greagor's favour was waning. Unworthy.
With his good hand Dion carefully started to massage his sore thigh, right above where the grey had claimed his skin. Upon even the slightest pressure against tender, swollen flesh he pulled his hand back with a hiss. The outcome of standing for so long had been predictable, but it had not mattered. It never mattered. He could not show weakness in front of the Phoenix of all people.
His lip curled at the mere thought of that deceivingly innocent face - eyes big and clear like those of the child Dion remembered, as if Joshua Rosfield were still as hopefully naive as they had been the day they had first met. As if he had not just spent a decade decimating an entire nation in bloody war. Speaking of Dion’s people, as if Dion himself had not forced himself to look at every single wagon piled high with charred corpses he and his men had carted home over the years. Speaking of Greagor as if he knew her will; as if he, the Phoenix, was not heresy made flesh in his claim to godhood.
The altar stood only a few steps away, in the corner of the room. The south corner, looking towards the sun at its brightest, as was proper. A few steps - near unreachable in Dion’s current condition. It was a heavy wooden thing, shrouded in immaculate white fabric. The goddess’ likeness on top of it stared at him with her familiar, empty gaze.
He wondered if she was pleased with what she saw.
The Phoenix had it all wrong. Dion had never been favoured by her. He had only ever been her weapon, her sacrificial lamb. And did he not love her for giving him the opportunity to make his life mean something?
The empty eyes were watching him. To his mind, they looked much like his father's.
He wondered if she was proud. Despite everything - surely he must have done something in his life to make her proud.
Beneath the white cloth, the wood of the altar was only just visible; a rich brown amongst the white and blue and gold of the room. One of the panels was more worn than the others, and it seemed to stare at Dion just as much as Greagor’s eyes above. Taunting him.
It was a childish sentiment, to try and hide the chest away from intrusive gazes. But he would never be brazen enough to try and hide it from the goddess - maybe that was why he had chosen a place at her very feet. Maybe he was relieved to know that she would judge him in the end, when he himself so often struggled to tell right from wrong.
Maybe it was the desire to be judged that pushed him to stand up on aching legs and take the agonizing steps from the settee to the altar, his good hand clinging to the windowsill for support. He was panting by the time he had reached the corner of the room, nausea burning at the back of his throat once more as the pain threatened to grow unbearable.
‘Is this my punishment?’, he whispered hoarsely, fingers digging into the wood of the altar as he held onto it for fear his legs might betray him. ‘Or is it a final chance? You granted me my life, but for what?’
He squeezed his eyes shut and listened. His leg trembled from the exertion of keeping him upright while the floor heaved under him like an angry sea. But the goddess stayed silent, as she had always done.
He had never learned. Who was he to address her directly and expect an answer? She only ever spoke to him with his father's voice, and his father had been locked away by the heathens that had brought the Empire to its knees. Because he had allowed it.
He wondered if they would let him speak to the Emperor before either of them was executed. If he would be able to give thanks one last time before the voice that had guided him for as long as he could remember was lost to him forever. He doubted it.
He did not deserve this final solace.
Maybe it was resignation that made him bend down and reach for the worn wooden panel. Maybe he was waiting for Greagor to strike him down; maybe he wanted her to. Maybe he just wanted to see the proof of his weakness once more. His wavering heart, locked away in a box.
The panel slid aside and he reached into the hollow space beyond. His fingers had only just grazed the smooth surface of the small chest that was hidden inside when his stiff leg slipped on the stone floor and he lost his balance, a moment of almost pleasant weightlessness before his head crashed against the edge of the altar. Pain bloomed on the side of his skull, blunt and then sharp, and it sent him to the ground with a sickening crack.
The darkness in front of his eyes faded away before he even realized it had been there, leaving him sprawled on the floor with his ears ringing and the air pressing down on him from all sides, seeking to choke him. He blinked against his swimming vision - the room swayed wildly around him, no up or down or anything to hold on to. Helpless.
No.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forced the world to stop spinning around him. Focus. Cold marble against his cheek was down, the pounding in his skull was up, a warm trickle on his temple connecting them both. With a groan he tried to heave himself up from the floor, but as soon as he moved his body even a fraction, a white hot knife seemed to slice into his thigh. With trembling fingers he reached for it, teeth clenched so hard he heard them creak under the force but at least they held back the scream that was stuck in his throat. His fingertips found stone, smooth and cold, and then an imperfection that had not been there before - a crack, the jagged line running up from his knee towards his thigh. He followed it with his fingers until he reached the pain, reached the spot where the fabric of his trousers was soaked through with sticky warmth and clinging to his throbbing leg. He could not touch it without his entire body rebelling against him but he could imagine the way skin and muscle had torn apart where the stone they were fused to had splintered.
He tried to move again, tried to stand; he had to stand, had to dress the wound and change clothes and move on, but the pain paralysed him as soon as he made the attempt.
His breath quickened as realization hit. He was trapped, trapped on the floor, helpless weak broken
... Cast aside.
There were guards out in the corridor, there had to be. He wondered if any other would have called out to them for help. He wondered if the Phoenix in his arrogance would have.
Unworthy.
Dion pressed his lips shut and forced himself to turn his head just far enough to see Greagor’s empty eyes stare down at him.
A punishment it is, then, he thought wryly.
He wondered if she was pleased.