Chapter Text
Kihel entered the study, steaming tray of herbal tea in hand, to find the emperor reclined on the chaise with a book open across his chest, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes, nursing a tension headache as he so often did these days. She set the tray down on the low table with a soft clink, the fragrant steam rising from the teapot as she poured a cup for each of them. "Another long day of imperial decrees?" she asked, her tone light but laced with concern.
Dion groaned from behind his forearm, body arranged across the chaise like a tragic figure in a classical painting, "If I must endure yet another noble's complaint about the aqueducts impeding their sight lines, I may just declare a national holiday of silence," he muttered, Kihel set the teacup on the low table beside him. He sighed as the scent of chamomile and lavender filled the air.
Kihel chuckled, settling into the chair opposite him. "You'd think they'd be grateful for the ease of access," she said, blowing gently on her own tea. "Then again, I suppose change is always met with resistance." The words were pointed, bordering on accusatory.
Kihel sat across from him, setting her teacup down in favor of her sewing project. Her favorite skirt had snagged in the gardens the other day, causing a sizeable pick in the fabric. She snapped the embroidery hoop around it, pulling the material tight.
The seamstress had advised her to donate it for repurposing, but it seemed a waste. And it was her favorite. She glanced at Dee's prone form. She'd arranged the tea tray with an assortment of his favorite confectioneries to better ply him with, but he'd yet to take the bait. It would have been much preferred to broach the topic when he wasn't nursing a great storm within his skull, but alas, it seemed a rare occasion when his days did not end as such.
She cleared her throat and pressed on. "So, Dee," she started again, fingers deftly working the needle and embroidery floss through fabric, "I've been thinking. Perhaps you were right about young Lord Caelan, he did seem rather…uncertain of himself."
Dion's arm shifted slightly, revealing one amber eye regarding her with immediate suspicion.
"Hm?" She paused her stitching. "Whats the matter?"
"You're being agreeable." He didn't move otherwise, but his voice carried that particular note of wariness—the same one he used when rival diplomats opened negotiations with unexpected concessions.
"Can't a daughter simply acknowledge her father's wisdom?" She looped the needle through again, creating a neat row of stitches along the tear, forming the first petal of a delicate white blossom.
"No." The word was flat, certain. He lowered his arm fully now, regarding her with narrowed eyes. "What are you plotting?"
Kihel sighed and stayed her needle, "I'm not plotting anything." She balanced the hoop on her knee and reached for her teacup. "I'm merely wondering—what manner of man would meet your standards?"
Dion sat up slowly, setting the book to the side, his headache quickly becoming secondary to this development.
"None." He answered decisively, leaving little room for argument.
"That's not a type." Kihel persisted, she'd learned long ago not to let herself be intimidated by the emperor's histrionics.
He sighed, rubbing at his temple. "Must we do this now?"
Kihel's gave him a look that was far too innocent for the mischief in her eyes. "You're the one who said you'd help me ‘navigate the complexities of courtship.' Your words, not mine."
Dion groaned, dragging his arm down his face as if the weight of the conversation alone would crush him. "Very well," he said, clearly wishing he was anywhere else. "If you insist, I suppose I can offer some…guidance."
Dion took a careful sip from the teacup, the warmth soothing his frayed nerves.
"Please do tell. What's the first rule of Emperor Lesage's guide to courtship?" She grinned, not expecting him to participate so easily, "Since you're such an expert on the subject."
His expression turned serious, lips turning downward in contemplation. Dion straightened, his posture regal even in his perturbance, "First and foremost," he began, his tone as if he were delivering a royal decree, "he must be honorable. A man without integrity is not worth your time."
"All right," Kihel raised an eyebrow. "Honorable. What else?"
"Someone with discipline. Decorum. Intelligence. No affectations. Well read, but no questionable poetry."
Kihel resumed her sewing once more.
"Humility is essential," Dion continued, adopting a lecturing tone, "Not trying to climb the ranks by marriage. Strong moral backbone. Not just charisma—integrity. He must be loyal to a fault. Earnest. Someone who sees through flattery. Kind to animals. Respectful of the staff. A mind for strategy. He must be capable of vulnerability, but never show it. He should be able to anticipate your every need and desire and strive to fulfill them without expectation of recognition or reward."
"Mm." She nodded solemnly. "And?"
"He should take an interest in your pass-times," Dion went on, gesturing vaguely. "But not in that way that makes him seem overbearing. Kind. Protective. Restrained, quiet when it counts. Doesn't make a scene."
"Of course."
Dion sat up a little. "He has to understand that family is sacred. That parenting is more than legacy—it's responsibility. He should respect you. Fully. Not try to shape you into something you're not. It goes without saying, but he must love you more than life itself."
Kihel looked up at him, lips twitching. "Anything else?"
"Clean cut," Dion said flatly. "A knight, perhaps—no more of these overindulgent nobles who've never held a weapon outside of a fencing lesson. Although he should be an accomplished foilist as well."
She put the needle down and rested her chin in her hand. "So…Terence?"
Dion wavered.
"You just described Terence."
There was a long pause.
"I…did no such thing," he scoffed, with the brittle defensiveness of a man who had absolutely done such a thing.
"You literally listed his entire personality and then added clean-shaven knight."
Dion turned back to his book with great and wounded dignity. "I'm allowed to have standards."
"Your standards are just one person," she said teasingly. "Which is actually very sweet."
Before Dion could muster a retort, the door creaked open, and Terence stepped in, carrying with him a small stack of reports. His presence lightened the room immediately, his easy smile and calm demeanor a stark contrast to Dion's melodrama.
"Am I interrupting?" Terence asked, setting the tray down on the low table between them.
"Not at all," Kihel said, her grin widening. "We were just discussing matters of courtship."
Terence raised an eyebrow, glancing at Dion, who was now studiously avoiding eye contact. "Oh? Should I be worried?"
"Only if you're planning to grow a beard. Or an ego," Kihel teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Dee's got a very specific list of qualifications."
Terence chuckled. "Is that so? Perhaps I should be taking notes then instead."
"No, we've just concluded" Dion said resolutely.
"Oh, come," Terence coaxed, taking the arm chair between them, "I've been made curious. What is on this list of yours?"
Kihel leaned forward, her grin practically splitting her face. "Honor, discipline, intelligence, humility, a strong moral backbone, kindness to animals, respect for the staff—"
"Kihel," Dion interrupted, his voice a mix of exasperation and warning.
"Clean-cut, a knight preferably," she continued, ignoring him.
Terence's lips twitched as he handed Kihel her tea. "Sounds like a very specific type."
"It's not a type," Dion said quickly, his tone defensive. "It's merely… reasonable standards."
"Reasonable," Terence repeated, settling back in his chair with barely contained amusement.
"Yes. Reasonable." Dion sat up straighter, clearly feeling attacked. "And since you're both so interested, I should clarify—the additional requirements I have not yet mentioned."
"Oh no," Kihel muttered.
"Exceptional situational awareness," Dion began, ticking off on his fingers. "Quick reflexes. The ability to remain calm under extreme pressure. Superior tactical thinking—"
"Thats still Terence," Kihel said.
"—Skilled in multiple forms of combat," Dion continued, ignoring her. "Superior riding ability. Perfect posture—"
"Perfect posture?" Kihel interrupted.
"It demonstrates discipline and self-respect," Dion said defensively. Terence unconsciously straightened in his chair.
"Well-versed in history, philosophy, and the natural sciences," Dion went on, fully warming to his theme. "Fluent in at least three languages. Skilled in celestial navigation. Able to survive in hostile environments with minimal resources—"
"Are you describing a suitor or recruiting for an elite military unit?" Terence asked.
Dion considered the question for a moment longer than Kihel found comfortable.
"Both require discernment," he said finally, "which brings me to my next point—the physical requirements, of course."
"The physical requirements…?" Kihel asked, equal parts intrigued and resigned.
"Yes. It is imperative that he possess the fortitude required to not only mitigate but outmatch divine authority made manifest. Unarmed. In single combat."
The study went very quiet.
Kihel blinked. "I'm sorry—did you just…are you saying you want him to fight Bahamut? King of Dragons? With his bare hands? By himself?"
"Ideally, yes."
"Dee," Kihel said slowly, "Magic collapsed six years ago."
"Hm. Yes. Unfortunate timing, that." He frowned into his teacup. "Which does present a logistical challenge."
"A logistical—"
"Given there is no proper method of assessment in Bahamut's absence, I suppose we'll simply have to postpone any courtship considerations indefinitely." He sighed heavily, as if it were a great personal burden. It was Kihel's turn to nurse the ache brewing between her temples.
"That's—" Kihel struggled for words. "That's impossible. That's literally, physically impossible. Even if Bahamut could answer your call. You're being entirely unreasonable!"
"On the contrary, I'm being perfectly logical," Dion said, setting his cup down to gesture emphatically. "If a man cannot defeat the most powerful entity known to mankind, then how, precisely, can he be trusted to protect you from common burglars and bandits?"
Dead silence.
"That…" Kihel started.
"…is the worst logic I've ever heard," Terence finished, looking at Dion with something between admiration and concern.
"It's flawless logic," Dion insisted. "We're talking about graduated threat assessment. If he fails at the highest level of combat prowess, then clearly he's inadequate at all lower levels as well."
"That's not how anything works," Kihel said.
"Isn't it?" Dion challenged. "You wouldn't hire a physician who failed to remedy a simple lesion to perform surgery, would you?"
"That's the complete inverse of what you're saying!"
"The principle is the same. Competency must be demonstrated before it can be trusted."
There was another long pause and Kihel envisioned her future as an unmarried spinster with house full of cats. She let out a weary sigh and slumped into the settee.
"Even if it were possibility, unarmed combat against an Eikon is an unreasonable expectation." Terence argued.
"Yes!" Kihel agreed readily, glad that they were on the same page.
"Perhaps, a compromise," Terence offered.
Kihel paused to study him with a skeptical eye. Dion did the same.
Terence's lips twisted thoughtfully and he put hand to his chin, "A smaller dragon perhaps?"
Both Dion and Kihel stared at him.
"A…smaller dragon?" Kihel repeated. "You're not seriously entertaining this senselessness are you?"
"It could serve well as an alternative," Terence said, warming to the idea with earnest helpfulness, "Not Bahamut specifically. A drake perhaps? Or a wyvern? Something more…manageable."
"Manageable," Kihel said.
"Bahamut himself is admittedly an extreme requirement—" Terence explained.
"Yes, that is rather the point." Dion interjected.
"—although a smaller dragon would still demonstrate combat prowess and threat assessment capability without being, strictly speaking, impossible."
Kihel looked between them in abject disbelief. "Do you hear yourselves? Oh, we can not expect him to fight the God of Light, that's unreasonable—let's have him fight a slightly smaller divine creature instead!"
"When you put it like that, it does sound a bit excessive," Terence admitted.
"Does it?" Kihel's voice pitched higher.
"But consider," Dion said, pointing at Terence with approval, "a wyvern is a perfectly reasonable benchmark. They're native to the region, frequently encountered by travelers—"
"Only if you're traveling in unpatrolled territory—"
Terence nodded thoughtfully. "A young wyvern, perhaps. Nothing too large. We could even provide the venue—somewhere controlled. The training grounds, possibly."
"Oh, perfect!" Kihel threw up her hands. "We'll just set up spectator seating! Make it a whole event! ‘Come watch Kihel's suitors get mauled by ferocious winged reptiles!' We can charge for admittance!"
"That's not a bad idea, actually," Dion mused, steepling his fingers in careful consideration. "It would demonstrate his composure under public scrutiny as well."
"I was jesting!"
"I know, but you've raised a valid point about transparency in the evaluation process—"
Kihel grabbed her embroidery hoop and headed for the door. "I'm leaving. I'm going to my room. I'm going to scream into a cushion until I lose consciousness, and then I'm going to join a nunnery, because at least the Sisters of Saint Gwenaëlle wouldn't subject me to this madness!"
"Shall I send for the literature on their agricultural programs?" Dion called after her helpfully. "They have a fascinating crop rotation system—"
The door slammed with impressive force.
Dion sat back, looking pleased with himself. "Well. That was rather productive. I think she's really considering her options now."
Terence slowly lowered his hand from his face to stare at his husband. "You cannot be serious."
"I'm simply being supportive of her choices."
"I'll check on her later," Terence murmured, though he made no move to rise, "before she actually does join a convent out of spite."
/ / /
Kihel only made it three doors down the corridor when she realized she'd forgotten her embroidery in the study. She paused, weighing whether the abandoned floss was worth the indignity of return. With a resigned sigh, she doubled back.
She reached for the door handle, then hesitated. Voices drifted through the heavy wood—muffled, but audible. She should knock. Announce herself. But something in the quiet warmth of their tone made her pause, hand hovering near the latch.
She pressed her ear closer to the door.
"I'm quite certain she gets that theatrical fury from you, Your Radiance."
"Combined with your tenacity, I fear we've facilitated our own reckoning in her."
A soft huff of amusement. "Perhaps we are both to blame."
Kihel rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a slight smile. Of course they were congratulating themselves.
The comfortable silence stretched, and Kihel was just about to knock when Terence spoke again, his voice taking on a warmer note.
"You know, I find myself most flattered."
"By what, pray tell?"
"Your theoretical list. Of suitable qualities."
Kihel's hand froze on the door handle.
"You ought not be," Dion replied, his words low and tender as a confession. "It was merely a theoretical catalogue."
"A theoretical catalogue of virtues you hold dear in me."
There was a pause, weighted with something Kihel could feel even through the door.
"Has there ever been mystery in it?" Dion's voice had gone soft, almost vulnerable—so different from the imperious tone he'd used during poor Caelan's interrogation. "Have I not made plain the regard in which I hold you?"
Then, quieter still, scarcely more than a whisper, "You are the compass by which my heart finds its way. My whole soul, and more besides."
Kihel softened, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She didn't hear the next bit—just murmur then a rustle, a low chuckle, and the sound of Dion exhaling through his nose, like the last of his tension was finally melting away.
And then—
"Terence," Dion breathed, his voice catching in a way that made Kihel's eyes widen, "we have only just taken tea. You are utterly without restraint."
"The fault lies not with me," came the utterly shameless reply. "You were disposed upon that chaise like some manner of siren's lure."
"Sirens do not typically suffer from headaches."
"Then perhaps such temptations ought to rest more frequently." Then a pause, heavy with intent. "Shall I assist you in getting more…comfortable?"
Kihel's fond smile crystallized into dawning horror.
Dion released a startled sound—half-laugh, half-gasp. "Terence, that is hardly—we cannot—"
"Mm. Yet I find myself with a singular purpose in mind." There was a soft sound. "Now then. I believe I shall—"
Kihel backed away from the door as though it had caught flame, eyes wide and face twisted in a grimace of pure mortification. She tip-toed away as quickly as possible before bolting the rest of the way down the hall, sewing in hand and thread long forgotten.