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Chapter Text

'It was the Veil that took us in. That fed us, clothed us, and healed our hurts. Those that could be healed, at least.

My love was already too far gone.'

The first day she first passed through the threshold of the Veil, gray skies had opened up with rain. Slick torrents hammered upon cobblestone streets, and had it not been for the keen focus on her companion's part to find shelter, Isabelle was sure she would've succumbed right then and there with him in the street.

Perhaps in hindsight the Veil would've made a strange choice for shelter. But weeks on the run sleeping in abandoned structures that were all but rotting boards and soft earth rich in moss and mushrooms had left them in such disarray as Isabelle struggled to scrounge for herbs and food that would hopefully nourish her love back to strength. As they stumbled upon Northreach she had half a mind to deviate a sharp turn that would lead them off a cliff into the ocean below, if it meant the promise of a sweet release from their predicament.

Death was growing apparent as the only freedom they'd be granted, if it weren't for the soldier who took pity on them sleeping huddled together against gate.

“Look to the Veil,” he told her when he approached them, apparently not taking note of her love's brand as his feverish cheek was rested against her shoulder out of the soldier's view. “The madame may take you in, depending on your circumstances.” He kindly moved to assist her in pulling her love upwards to brace him so that he could walk, but Isabelle refused him, defiant and desperate for her love's identity as a bearer to go unnoticed for as long as possible here, for their state of disheveled desperation would surely reveal him as an escaped slave, and she, his liberator. The soldier was taken aback, but willingly gave her directions instead as she braced her love's larger frame against her body, thanking him.

She felt nothing but despair as she pounded on the door firmly, absentmindedly whispering assurance in her love's ear as she held an arm over shoulders by one of her own, the opposite wrapped about his waist. Such words she'd uttered countless times over the past weeks, often accompanied by the tucking of his auburn hair behind his ear or her lips to his cheek, willing him to keep walking. If his balance waned at any point, they would surely both drop to the ground.

The door was opened by a young courtesan, no older than she. The girl's face contorted at the side of them, nervously looking to the elderly, yet stately madame seated in the parlor behind her for guidance.

It was there that Isabelle felt peace for the first time, despite catching her love as he collapsed, long since ill from red streaks that had stemmed from the wounds of his lashing he'd endured for her that was followed by weeks of living in filth as they fled.

Within the Veil she was greeted by a warm hearth in a building solid in it's wood and stone, a testament to a legacy that had lasted and always would. The courtesans within it did not hesitate to brace her love along with her as his knees failed him there in the front parlor, his skin hot with affliction despite being soaked through from the rain.

Isabelle was drenched too, but that didn't keep her from crying out for assistance. The man she loved was a wounded bearer, but he was once a soldier of imposing stature for an associate of the prestigious pleasure house in which she worked, and the series of events that he'd endured as a result of their coupling was quite literally killing him.

“Take him to a room.” The madame spoke after what seemed to be the most harrowing few moments of Isabelle's life. Her voice was firm and her tone polished, like one of the educated highborn ladies of Oriflamme. The courtesans scrambled in response, shouting to one another the fetch this and that, and two girls had taken him from Isabelle's arms, placing either of his over their shoulders and stood, urging him to move his legs to help them lift him up the staircase.

A warm hand graced her shoulder. Isabelle looked up at the madame from where she crouched on the floor, helpless and desperate. Her hairs once immaculately swept back in twists and plaits adorned with jeweled combs that her former admirers had gifted her, was now but a tangled matted mess, plastered to her cheeks with rainwater, sweat, and tears.

“Please help him.” Isabelle sobbed up at the madame. She had expected the need to beg. Weeks of living on the streets with her lover she'd grown so accustomed to people making cruel remarks and threatening him, commenting on the means of their appearance or speculating on their predicament. She worried that though this place had been hospitable up to that point, that her love might be discarded like waste the way she'd seen bearers discarded before.

She herself witnessed it most of her life without much thought, until she fell in love with one.

“My girls will see to it.” The madame replied, her face aged but not lost by the beauty of high cheekbones and sincere brown eyes framed by dark eyelashes and immaculately plucked eyebrows, testifying of a precise kind of beauty from a former age.

There was not even a question, nor a doubtful consideration over the brand he clearly had as the girls hoisted his body past.

“And I will see to you.” The madame pulled Isabelle up by the elbow. “I take it you have it in you to stand child, so stand.” She urged. Isabelle obeyed reluctantly, wiping tears from her eyes by the back of her forearm not in the grasp of the madame.

The madame's eyes moved over her in measured appraisal from her head to her boots. “I think a change in clothes and a hot meal is in order so that you may be of assistance to my girls as they tend to your companion, hm?”

Days later, still weakened by his state, but appearing to fare far better after many good meals, he sat with her on a stone bench in the garden just outside the Veil. The summer rains had stopped, and it was the first day of full sunshine on her face that she'd felt since the morning after they'd first lain together, back before they were discovered, when she walked freely through the streets of Oriflamme with an effortless smile upon her face.

What followed was anything but that, yet she wouldn't take it back.

Not ever.

One of the courtesans passed, greeting them in passing on her way to what they'd learned was her usual spot by the pond. Isabelle returned the greeting, and her love only forced a weak smile, the color on his complexion seemingly returning, but the circles under his deep blue eyes wore heavy still.

He pulled an arm over her shoulders, wordlessly pulling her against him, and she gleefully curled up to him. Never in her life had she known such affection before him. She looked up, basking in the handsome warmth of his expression after being accustomed to him being to sickly for so long.

She'd known the pleasures and desires of many men- far more than she ever cared to, and it made her a master of sorts of reading people; from the moment the master presented his newly purchased bodyguard in tow, she saw nothing but genuine kindness.

Being in his presence and not acknowledging him on the basis of a brand on his face didn't sit well with her, and Isabelle had never been one to shy away from flirtation especially when it suited her. It didn't take much for him to indulge her in secret, telling her such sweet things that would make her blush in a manner she'd never been capable, and when she pulled him into her bed he was the first man who cared so much for her pleasure.

“We did it, 'Belle. We're free.” He told her there in the garden. A soft breeze lifted the collar of her new dress and gently rustled the leaves and blossoms of a nearby tree. She smiled. She was content, and above all grateful for the new family they'd seemed to have found in the courtesans of the Veil that appeared to delight in their joy and indulge their sorrows.

She knew enough of the inner workings of pleasure houses enough to know of the nuances and conflicts that could occur when that many women lived and worked among one another for the attentions of men. No matter the camaraderie, there was always a sense of competition. Isabelle was highly sought after for her beauty, grace, and intellect, and at times she felt that make her a target for jealousy and gossip.

But there was no sense of that here.

Despite looking better that day, her love passed away in the night when she was asleep and oblivious, with his arm about her like it always was.

Isabelle dismounted her chocobo in Northreach with a heavy heart. Days of travel from the hideaway were preceded by a farewell to Clive alongside his brother and the Prince of Dion of Sanbreque, which was followed by the eerily quietest night that left her restless in the bunk that she had been afforded, causing her to instead opt to wander out to the ale house in the hall of the hideaway where other inhabitants drank in near silence, keeping mostly to themselves.

It had been a bittersweet farewell. She found her heart warmed by the embrace of allies she hadn't seen in years, if at all, for a majority of their correspondence was done in secretive exchanges via a stolas or cryptic exchanges between trusted messengers.

The silence was welcome, for she herself was all too quiet on the inside. Anything more than silence would surely lead to tension, which she knew could easily crescendo to full on panic in such times. No one knew what to expect- if the Rosfield brothers and the Prince were successful, what would be the cost? And how would they know?

And darkly, secretly, Isabelle wondered to herself: Were their efforts leading to this point ever worthwhile in the first place? She pushed the thought aside so that it was no more than a brief flicker of doubt. There was no room for that now.

She slid into a seat alongside Otto, who had a mug in front of him but seemed more apt to stare straight down at it than drink it.

“What can I get for you?” A bright eyed barmaid asked her.

Isabelle signed. She wasn't much of an ale drinker, but on this night she would have anything that might put her to sleep- she planned to leave first thing in the morning to return to Northreach. She lifted a finger, indicating she wanted a drink, but then a single brow raised when she spotted a familiar cask by the wall with a seal from the wine made from the grapes of Orabelle Downs. Her eyes narrowed. It's been a spell since she had such a fine beverage.

“Is that a vintage from Lostwing?” She asked, already knowing the answer as the barmaid turned behind her shoulder and nodded in confirmation.

“Aye, it is.”

“I'll have a glass.”

The barmaid frowned. “We don't have glasses.”

“A mug, then.”

“Alright then,” The barmaid quickly unscrewed the port at the tap, filling a mug from the shelf. “It'll be sure to get you smattered.”

Isabelle smiled wryly, despite her mood. “That sounds perfect, then.”

“Never knew the Dame to be a drinker. Didn't you have a rule about that?” Otto acknowledged her at last.

“My rules only applies to my girls while on the job.” Isabelle replied, before quickly adding, “And to Cid, when he indulged at the Veil.”

The barmaid slid the mug across the counter, filled with a lovely aromatic red. Isabelle reached into her coin purse and slid several pieces back to the barmaid, despite knowing full well she'd been a party responsible for funding a significant part of the operations in the hideway. But that wasn't a consideration she'd ever made, for none of this was a means for her to profit.

Somewhere overhead, a shrill cry of a newborn child echoed about the hall, causing the occupants of the ale house to look up in mild interest.

“Well, I'll be damned.” Otto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar counter, rubbing at his temples with his hands. “To be born on tonight, of all nights.”

Isabelle hummed in agreement, sipping from her mug and setting it back down before her. “I wonder where they are right now.”

Otto grunted, finally drinking from his own mug. “Surely they made it to that shiny block in the sky by now.”

“Surely.” Isabelle sipped again. “I'd been tossing and turning in my bunk because I simply couldn't stop thinking about it.” Her thumb rubbed nervously at the handle of her mug in her grasp.

Otto's chin nodded to the hall. “You and everyone else.”

Isabelle's eyes scanned the room over her shoulder, for a place so quiet now, it sure was full, and understandably so.

In that moment, Jill emerged, rounding the corner of the hall with tears streaming down her face and audible sobs as she sprinted up the stairs just past them to swing open a door at the far end with Clive's wolf keeping stride on her heels. Those sobs muffled behind the slamming of the door and then echoed from somewhere else, indicating that the grey eyed beauty had resuming her mourning elsewhere outside.

The silence of even more heavy when littered with stray whispers. Isabelle could only watch, as anyone else did.

“That's no good.” Otto noted dryly, though Isabelle know his blunt words often sounded more callous than what he actually felt.

Isabelle's breath hitched, staring straight down in a pool of red in her mug. She knew those tears, she knew those sobs.

Her mind flashed to a sunny morning all those years ago, waking to find her lover's arm limp, stiff, and cold, only to speak his name and realizing his breath had long left in the night. It was she who wept and screamed, causing courtesans to rush into the room at the Veil and hold her as she cried into their arms.

“What do you suppose-” Isabelle murmured, only to be cut off by a voice in the hall, scrambling from the outdoors.

“-Metia is gone! Vanished! Just a minute ago!”

The hum in the room went from whispers about Jill to voices exclaiming about the red star, and Isabelle turned her head to the window and cursed to herself. “What do you suppose this means?” She wondered aloud to Otto.

She watched him ponder a moment, running his tongue over his teeth while gripping his ale in tight contemplation “I'd say they found themselves a god, at the very least.”

His tone wasn't ominous, nor was it hopeful. In their years of collaboration they'd both seen so much strife, so much death, that the possibility of it coming to a resolution or collapsing in utter failure in a single night was too much to be swayed either way.

Clive's hound howled from outside, and Isabelle proceeded to drink her wine beside Otto in utter silence.

There were many crazed speculations that she'd encountered on the roads and villages back to Northreach, people ruminating about Metia, crystals dulling or shattering into dust and people at a loss for how to forage and hunt for food, how to light and heat their homes, how to do anything. Stolases no longer functioned, but were simply white owls with no ability to transfer messages like they once could.

Some people were so desperate to retrieve old prayers of old and others exchanged superstitions- burning a dog's corpse or a bearer's hand would surely bring back function to the crystals.

It was unsettling, to say the least. Though she knew this was just the beginning and was already determined by Cid to be the darkest pages of the book, it it seemed that the world was suspended into chaos, and Isabelle would be naught but a witness.

But there was no akashic, and bearers now had no significant function like way they had in the days before. Soon, people would realize there no way for bearers to be identified outside of those already branded. Children would simply be children, without any measures to identify 'us' and 'them.'

That was the silver lining in these coming chaotic times.

Isabelle sighed with relief when she saw the silhouette of the marketplace on the hill overhead and urged her chocobo forward. The creature approached with a tangible relief she could feel even within herself, taking the last several strides with lengthy vigor.

She dismounted her steed at the gate, nodding and offering a stablehand the reins.

“Welcome back, madame.” He greeted her as she passed several gil to him. “How was you visit to your friend?”

“It was well worthwhile, Tomas.” She smiled, offering him a nod. “Though I've heard such perilous times are upon us, it seems.”

“Aye.” Tomas nodded, and he turned to walk her chocobo back to the stables. “Stay safe, madame.”

She returned the sentiment and walked through the marketplace, greeting the familiar inhabitants as she walked.

“Take this for the girls, madame!” a young lad ran out from the stall where his parents worked, stripping and smoking meat over a fire. He handed her a neatly wrapped parcel of dried meats, something that was surely worth more that ever before in such uncertain times. While it seemed the outside world was simply beside itself at the sudden relinquishment of magick, the people of Northreach were quick to adapt and aid one another.

As they had ever been.

Isabelle smiled warmly, accepting the parcel and assured him she would as she continued on through the crowd, the mud of the ground dampening her cloak as it swung about her heels while she strolled through the gate and down the cobblestone streets, narrowly avoiding and group of young boys chasing one another and kicking a broken kettle about. She clicked her teeth and shook her head.

On the path to the Veil, she heard the roll of thunder in the distance, followed by a brilliant flash of light and a sudden prickle of cold raindrops against her hood. She crossed her arms, grateful for the cover of her cloak to protect the contents of her parcel from spoiling. She didn't mind getting a little wet this close to home, but was grateful this weather had set in after she was finished with her travels.

Isabelle was anxious to see her courtesans- she'd left the oftentimes overzealous Selene in charge in her absence, and though the girl was more than competent, she could be quick to get her nerves in a knot. Isabelle wanted to know what whispers the clients had to offer the girls, and if they had the same chaos and doom about them as the outside world or if they were simply as confident as the other inhabitants of Northreach.

“Madame!” Selene's shrill voice cried out when she was ascending the hill within view of the establishment. Isabelle frowned. Perhaps this was an indication that she had done wrong in choosing Selene to oversee things in her stead. The courtesans had to be looked after as one would look after a sister, accounts had to be settled, and at times, the indulgants had to be dealt with. If business was slow, tasks must be dealt for the courtesans' means of self improvement. It wasn't a small task and she feared she'd chosen for the worst.

The younger girl ran from the house, calling to Isabelle with words that she couldn't decipher over the now blowing torrents of the rain now assaulting her ears.

“Inside!” Isabelle bellowed back, now noting that a scout stood beside the pillar in front of the front door. Just what were they calling out to her about that couldn't wait until she walked inside?

She rushed toward the entrance to get out of the rain, standing under the cover of the front of the Veil to greet Selene face to face. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, both hands absentmindedly checking her updo for stray hairs.

“What sort of greeting is this, Selene? I-” Her scolding was cut short by Selene's frantic interjection.

“You've returned just in precise time, madame! The scouts have retrieved a man in most dire condition from the shores of south of Dragon's Aery!”

Isabelle's eyes narrowed. They'd had their share of wounded to care for in the day of the akashic raids upon their lands, but that was surely over now. And even if it wasn't, the girls were no strangers to tending to the wounded as of late.

“Well, did you get him settled in a bed?” Isabelle questioned dismissively, pushing past the girl to enter the threshold of the establishment, walking with calm poise across the front parlor to place the parcel within her clutch on a table before the hearth.

“We did, Madame, just now! Ana left to fetch the healer!” Selene followed her, urging the scout indoors to do the same.

The scout said called something from out the door as he passed through it that Isabelle couldn't hear over the rush of the rain, and she only heard the second part of his sentence when he entered the parlor, when his voice was undiminished by the heavy rush of the rain outdoors.

“-s looks like Clive Rosfield, madame!”

Isabelle spun on her heels, now looking Selene directly in the eye.

“Clive Rosfield?”

Selene nodded. “He's alive, but he looks bad! His wounds are...” She shook her head. “He looks like death, madame! And his hand looked as though it succumbed to the bearer's curse! Absolutely awful! Never have I seen anything like it!” The girl was on the verge of tears, and just by the looks of her and the scout's expressions Isabelle knew that this wasn't a wounded man that looked like Clive.

He was a wounded man that was Clive Rosfield, days after she bid him farewell to Origin.

She had always been a calculated woman, and knew the circumstances were too well stacked to be coincidence.

Isabelle's focus sharpened, and suddenly the circumstances of her return made sense. Selene wasn't being belligerent- she was acting exactly as the situation permitted.

“And you say the healer is coming?” Isabelle spoke calmly, but firmly. She unbuckled her cloak and cast it on a chair as a client in passerby eyed her curiously on his way out the door.

“Yes, madame, Ana is fetching her.”

“Good.” Isabelle breathed for a moment. Her years had trained her to be precise and coolheaded in any circumstance, and the recent clashes with the akashic and Sanbrequian order had been no exception. She wouldn't lose that now.

“Do we have an adequate supply of water?” Isabelle questioned.

“T-That is a good question.” Selene stammered. “Recently crystals have been failing, if not crumbling to dust and the women having been trekking to fetch and boil their own. I suspect it's only a bad shipment, but in the meantime we've had to resort to extreme measures for water.”

The scout pointed over his shoulder towards the door. “I'll check with the friar on the matter! I know the townspeople have been compiling a supply in the well in town, perhaps we could-”

“-You know where Cid's hideout is, yes?” Isabelle interrupted him firmly with a finger pointed his way.

“Y-Yes, madam. I've run errands for them before.” The scout replied, confused at what her point was.

“Excellent. The stolases have been dysfunctional as of late. So, you will go to Cid's hideout as fast as you can, and fetch the woman by the name of Jill Warrick. Bring her back here with you.” Isabelle paused, adding, “Where are the other men who came with you?”

“Only I rode for the sake of haste to bring him here, madame, my steed is the quickest. The others stayed back to further comb the beaches.”

Isabelle nodded with approval. “Alright then, get to it!” She waved her hand at him.

“Yes madame!” The scout, young and eager, rushed out the door they'd just entered with.

“And you will speak with the friar.” Isabelle gestured to Selene. “If there are extensive wounds we will need extensive amounts of water, particularly if he was recovered from a beach. Tell the friar how the one who saved us from the raids is now in jeopardy at the Veil, and we need access to the well the townspeople have been collecting for.”

“Yes madame.” Selene nodded, and rushed to fetch her own cloak from her room upstairs.

Isabelle stood, fists clenched and her heart hammering, and her eyes wandering to the closest room up the stairs where all the commotion was happening.

It was the same room that her love was dragged to upon his arrival, and the same room where they'd slept for those few blissful days until the morning she'd awoken to the realization that he was gone.

She'd long since felt his absence every day, up until the day a young bearer lad approached her in the market several years ago, eyes the most earnest blue eyes she'd seen since him.

Isabelle breathed in deeply and walked to the stairs, stepping each step up toward the room firmly so that the dark wood creaked slightly under her weight.

For her lover's safe haven and last few days of undisturbed peace and safety, she had a debt to repay.

Chapter Text

'He passed away?'

'He did. Not long after we arrived. But at least we were able to share a few moments of peace before the end. It was the greatest gift I have ever received. But the generosity of this town and her people did not end there.'

His eyes opened, though out of focus. There was a ringing in his ears and he grimaced, twisting his head this way and that in a futile attempt to alleviate it.

Then the pain set in. A sharp stab to his chest every time he breathed made his breaths rapid and shallow, and when he begun to writhe the awareness spread to his limbs that told him of a rigid heaviness in one hand.

“He's waking!” a woman's voice announced.

The other voices in the room were muffled and indistinct, and the disorientation of being abruptly jerked from looking up to the moon in the night sky to a dimly lit room with the smell of blood in the air was just enough to push him over the edge.

He stilled as he heard muffled steps walk towards him, the surface underneath him sinking as someone sat beside him.

“Shhh. There, now. It's all right.”

The voice was smooth and husky and so familiar, yet his quivering lips couldn't seem to assign it a name. Gentle fingers combed soothingly through his hair, relaxing him and coaxing him aloud with a pipe to his lips, urging him gently to comply and he did.

A warm rush rolled through him, making his pain melt to the mattress and the ringing in his ears to silence as he slipped to unconsciousness, eyes rolling upward in stupefied euphoria with the only thought in his mind being the sheer pleasure of how perfectly his hand fit on the bony prominence of Jill's bare hip.

Sunlight glared on her eyelids, forcing her to enough consciousness to groan, rolling her body out of it's reach in Clive's bed. Her arm fell about what felt to be a steadily breathing and warm pile of fur.

Jill opened her eyes and lifted her head from the pillow, still too tired to open them fully. She squinted at the slumbering frost wolf that lay in bed with her as if this arrangement were nothing out of the norm. Torgal always curled up on the floor at their feet. Or, when traveling, strategically positioned so that his back rested against a tree or a rock while facing them. But he'd never once attempted to climb into bed with either her nor Clive.

Jill allowed herself a small smile- the first of the sort she'd had since Clive, Joshua, and Dion departed.

“You miss him too, don't you.” She whispered and the pointed grey ears twitched at the sound of her voice.

She inched closer to him, burying her face in grey fur. Every morning since the departure greeted her with a sinking feeling. Metia, the star she'd tethered her faith in Clive to shone no longer. She no longer felt Ifrit. Yet, she no longer felt Shiva either. And the markings of the curse on her body stayed persistent, yet they did quite feel the way they once did.

There'd been a myriad of rumors floating about the inhabitants of the Hideaway- some from those traveling from the outside and those living within. What to make of it all, it was still too soon to tell. And she was so numb from her grief she didn't much desire expending the energy into investigating them for herself.

She simply found solace for a moment, matching the length and the rate of her breaths with Torgal's as he slept under her arm and her thoughts absentmindedly drifting to a time when Joshua had wanted to sleep with the pup so badly he snuck him to bed, only to wreak chaos in the middle of the night when Torgal escaped from Joshua's clutches and scratched and howled at his chamber door, alerting everyone within the manor of his presence.

“How goes it?” Isabelle stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.

The healer perched at the edge of the bed. “Well,” She replied, setting down the bowl of wet bandages down beside her. “Much better, now that he's back down. I thought he would surely buck us and undo all of my work like those soldier types tend to do.” The healer nodded her chin to the pipe at the bedside. “What was that, anyway?”

Isabelle crossed her arms, watching Clive's face, utterly oblivious and peaceful. She shrugged slightly. “A ship captain gifted it to one of my girls.” She recalled. “He said it can be smoked for relaxation and sleep. She brought it to me because she was concerned with just how well he slept, if you catch my drift. It worried her.”

“Well it works, I'd say that much.” the healer chuckled, adding with a hint of sass as she wiped her hands clean, “And we see he can wake up with it still, s'always reassuring.”

“Do you think he will live?” Isabelle asked, her voice more level than she felt. She brought the knuckles of one hand to her chin in contemplation.

The healer sighed. “I don't know what he got himself entangled with to end up this way, but...” Her head cocked to the side as she appraised the sleeping man before them. The skin on his face and lips partially cracked and burned from the blighted beach's sun, fractured ribs, cuts and bruises on a body already marred with scars.

But reassuringly, his skin wasn't quite as pale from blood loss as he was when he was dragged in. He had also arrived dusted from head to toe in dried sand and soot, and was now properly cleaned and redressed in a donor villager's clothes. The courtesans had already throughly washed his armor that was now was neatly stacked in the far corner of the room “I think he'll be all right, so long as he stays down for now. I've spent the last of my silk on those sutures and I won't have him tearing 'em out.”

Isabelle inhaled sharply, unable to suppress a smile at the reassurance. “Thank you. Your efforts will not go uncompensated.”

Jill yawned as she moved sluggishly through the Hall, rubbing at the corners of her eyes to remove the crust from them. She knew they were swollen and bloodshot from tears that accumulated in the dark since Clive's departure nearly a week before. The operation of the Hideaway more or less resumed as it ever did, but the dark cloud of uncertainty was there still, and some days she felt like nothing more than a small girl taking a deep breath to hold underwater for some indeterminate amount of time.

It was while she passed the ale house that she heard voices raised in a full-blown argument: Otto's baritone versus Gav's tenor, and several others mixed in as Mauve called to them from beyond the counter to settle down, which was countered by an uncharacteristically sharp retort from Byron who stood tense with his fingers absentmindedly drumming at his weapon he'd planted on the ground before him as if he stood ready to do battle.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jill deviated from her path to the mess to address them. The Hideaway was rare for such bitter conflicts- there was always enough of that in the outside world to suffice.

They fell silent immediately as she approached, her eyes now sharp with suspision, no longer holding the glaze of sleep deprivation.

“Well? Tell her.” Gav slapped a younger lad dressed in armor she'd recognized from Northreach, it was stained and well worn, telling her of days of hasty and hazardous travel.

“Y-You are the Lady Jill Warrick?” The lad stammered, the circles under his eyes heavier than her own.

Jill nodded, eyes flickering to the other men in her presence that had been bickering so profusely one moment and now stood silent, watching her with such intensity that she knew the news wouldn't be of casual importance.

“I am a scout from Northreach, I report to the Dame.”

Jill stood still, unaware of the stiff intensity of her gaze as she fixed upon him.

“Several days ago we recovered a man from the blighted beaches south of Dragon's Aery...”

His words fed through her ears and fixed upon her heart, its hammering now so loud in her ears that if it weren't for her desperation she wouldn't have taken any of them in. There were three men who departed that day, and even just the possibility of finding one could only mean...

“... We believed him to be Clive Rosfield, so I made haste to bring him to the Dame, that the Veil might recover him, should it be possible.”

“Recover him?” Jill said flatly, “So, he lives then?” Her words were pressured now, and her stiff countenance was cracking at the surface.The levelness of her voice did nothing to reveal the churning in her chest, making her breath tight and her limbs tremble. Metia had disappeared and she could no longer feel Ifrit the way she normally could when she searched for him, but she realised then that in her devastation she'd never considered that since Ifrit was no longer as was Shiva, and Clive could remain.

“Now, I cannot say, milady,” The scout shook his head, “But when I departed from the Veil he was, albeit in dire condition. I've come here under orders from the Dame to send for you.”

“I see.” Jill's voice faltered a little, her knees and fingertips trembling, threatening to make her balance fail her.

Gav noticed, and he stepped forward several paces to grab her by the arm to steady her, squeezing it and looking down at her reassuringly. “I'll go with you.” He said softly.

“Don't think I'd let you greet my nephew with a hero's welcome without me.” Byron added gruffly.

Their voices rose again, lacking the same heat they had before her approach in the ale house, but intense all the same- who was doing what, who should be doing what, who should be where. Her mind felt as if it swimming, fluid and moving at an unspeakable pace, yet her limbs were as heavy as stiff as twigs in the mud.

Jill rose her shaking voice again, and the men fell silent for a second time. “Thank you, lad.”

She took a deep breath, blinking back tears in an effort to keep her voice steady. “Your urgency to bring me this news all the way from Northreach is...” She shook her head as she failed to finish the sentence and swallowed again. “You are welcome to stay and rest here awhile before you depart. I expect you need it.”

She turned to the eldest man present, who had appeared ready to do battle for the entire exchange “I will leave for Northreach at once with Lord Byron.”

“-And Gav.” Gav squeezed her arm again, his hold never fully leaving it as he braced her.

“You should remain here.” She told him softly.

Gav face contorted, obviously hurt. “Like hell I will!”

“Clive told me of his succession plan before he left,” Jill replied calmly, “He wanted you to be Cid next, and he told you this, did he not?”

“Aye,” Gav paused for a moment, his brow still furrowed in defiance “but that don' mean-”

“-She's right.” Otto cut him off, “We have a report of one of our men returned to us, what of the others? With stolases not functioning, it it now more imperative than ever that we retain more of us at the Hideaway to deliver messages if need be, particularly in the event that have another messenger show up here. Alive or dead, Clive's absence leaves the need for another Cid here.”

Gav shuffled uncomfortably for a moment, the way he always did when someone made a sound case against his own.

“I'm sorry, Gav.” Jill spoke in barely above a whisper, her eyes looking up at him, silently pleading with him to comprehend her gratitude.

“Ah, I s'pose he would want to see you before me.” Gav scratched the back of his neck, offering her a reluctant sheepish look, “Strange as that is, I'll accept it for this time around. Jus' give him a big kiss from me and hurry him back here, right?”

Jill cracked a small smile, nodding as he relinquished his hold her arm. Her limbs were still shaking with adrenaline, and it was Byron who steadied her next, grabbing her opposite arm gently and pulling her to him for a deep hug as the others scattered about, Otto barking orders to ready supplies for them.

The embrace was so unexpected. She initially simply kept her arms limp at her side and passively allowed him to wrap his long arms about her. The emotions ricocheting within her from such abrupt news now bubbling to the surface as her facade ruptured completely and her breath hitched and quickened as tears surged to her eyes. She curled her faced inward to Byron's shoulder as if an attempt to hide them and her arms curled at his sides to at least in part return his embrace.

She felt like such a child, but she didn't care in that moment. After days of tears of despair, she now cried tears of shock, hope, and possibly joy. She didn't fully understand how she felt in that moment, but she was so tired of crying. Byron only stood with her as she wept.

A large hand stroked the back of her head gently, like a tender father soothing a weeping child and a deep chuckle sounded, causing her to let a single brief roll of laughter back while simultaneously sobbing.

“He promised you, didn't he.” Byron's low voice spoke to her lightly so that only she could hear as curious passerby in the Hideaway watched them, spreading the hopeful rumor that Cid was alive in Northreach. Byron's cheek rested atop her head now, and the scent of cigar smoke and sweat and spice was lulling her, calming her to the point where she could stand on her own.

Jill nodded, turning her head away from him to the side so that she could speak without being muffled by his tunic. “I just hope he's all right still.” She sighed before adding wistfully, “What I'd give to be able to fly today.”

Byron gently grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back away from him with her feet still planted directly in front of his. She wiped her eyes with her palms, silently cursing whatever it was in the Rosfield line that so generously endowed them with comforting embraces, bright eyes, and warm smiles. She looked up into his eyes to see his bright eyes were made brighter with a few tears of his own.

“Thank you for that.” Jill sighed after a moment.

“My girl,” Byron spoke with unfathomable tenderness, raising a knuckle to her cheek, “If my brother were alive to see his eldest son so freely loved by a woman such as you, he'd have done the same. I know it.”

She mulled his words over, biting her bottom lip at the memory of the Archduke.

Byron winked, clapping her on the shoulder as he stepped back. “Shall we go? Before the girls at the Veil get any creative ideas with our boy?” He laughed at his own joke with such mirth she could only curl her lips at the exasperation that would play across Clive's face had he been there to hear it.

As if on command, Torgal rose from where he'd curled in the corner of the ale house and trotted to her side.

They stopped well into the first night on the edges of the badlands, opting to skip a fire and eat part of the dried rations Otto had packed on their chocobos. Never one to leave a silence be, Byron filled her ears with story after story of an old memory, or some other fellow that the old memory had reminded him of, and another that she'd heard at least half a dozen times in the time that she'd known him of Clive inadvertently exposing his little brother's mischief due to his well known status as a terrible liar.

She listened to them all- some being easy to follow, some not, until finally the older man succumbed to sleep on a bedroll beside her, his back facing her and his snores giving some life to the perfect silent night.

Jill rolled onto her back, her thoughts swimming with anticipation, anxiety, despair, and happiness all in one place. She stared up at the moon, remembering a night not long ago, when she and Clive were spared a night on their bedrolls for a room at Martha's inn. The simple and sweet peace that four walls and a roof where enough to encourage them to strip each other bare in a fit of impulse mixed with glee and desperation. Clive being so tactile with her slightest touch, she could stoke him into a chaotic procession with the slightest instigation. However, the volume of their passion wasn't apparent until the next morning when they emerged in the tavern below their room for a meal and drink before setting back on the road and the barmaids exchanged knowing giggles and teasing remarks their way.

She'd turned bright red with embarrassment then.

But now?

She missed him, and how much he'd relied on his touch to convey how much he loved her. Calloused palms that frequented the back of her thighs or the swell of her breasts with warm breath in her ear and over her shoulder, his eyes widened in confusion and excitement as he allowed her to leverage her hips to roll him over so that she straddled him that night at Martha's rest, looking up at her in such a way she'd found so strange then.

Like he'd never seen her before.

Jill sighed and rolled to her side, knowing full well she wasn't going to sleep well at all with the anxiety that knawed at her.

A knock sounded at the heavy oaken door.

“Enter.” Isabelle commanded, not looking up from where she hurriedly scratched at parchment with her quill.

“Madame!” Selene entered, closing the door behind her for discretion. “We've company in the parlor. Lady Warrick has arrived.”

Isabelle immediately stopped, calmly lowering her quill to an inkwell as if it were something she'd intended to do in that moment all along. She rose from her seat, briskly walking around Selene as the younger woman followed her.

She descended the first flight of stairs, and while descending the second one, Jill Warrick came into view below, pacing impatiently in front of the staircase as Byron Rosfield sat upon a sofa, his arm draped over one side while feigning indifference about the situation, though Isabelle was wise enough to know he was anything but.

“Lady Warrick and Lord Byron, it is my honor to welcome you to the Veil.” Isabelle announced herself, ascending the stairs as Jill's gaze shot up at her. Jill had only previously looked at her with a certain heightened coldness- which was understandable, considering how much the older woman playfully derived pleasure in making Clive blush. That is, until he grew to understand her well enough to see that. Jill on the other had, didn't harbor much humor from it.

Yet, regardless, the way she looked up at Isabelle now- tired and desperate, stirred a memory within her from another life.

“Is Clive-” Jill started, words faltering as moans of a courtesan's pleasure emitted from a room across the stairwell. Isabelle stopped in front of a door at the stairs' first landing, just above where the pair below watched her.

“Don't worry,” Isabelle flashed them a bemused smile, “He's in here, not there.” She motioned to the door in front of her gestured for them ascend the stairs to the landing where she stood. “He was in incredibly bad condition when he came to us, but our healer assures me he'll recover, so long as we let him rest a while.” She spoke the last few words with emphasis towards Jill directly, looking at her intently in the eye.

“Well, I cannot think of anything more restful than my company.” Byron boomed, his voice clearly raising an octave with relief at Isabelle's news.

Isabelle brought her hand to the door latch to guard it from Jill's clutch, only a second away from claiming it. The younger woman's hand only hovered over hers, eyes looking down to Isabelle in puzzlement.

Isabelle said nothing, only bringing a finger to her lips in silence to emphasis her previous statement.

“Of course.” Jill nodded impatiently in acknowledgment. Isabelle was satisfied with that enough to release her hold on the door latch, relinquishing it for Jill to grasp.

Jill did, and the heaviness of the wood made the hinges creak as she pushed it open, Byron following close behind her as the pair entered the room.

The eve before Joshua's name day the boy had been whisked away by his caretakers at Annabella's behest.

Clive strode along the outskirts of Rosalith on his own, where the setting sun made wheat fields glow like gold. It was an escape tactic, as every inch of the manor was surely being scrubbed and set for the celebration of the following day, and he'd spent the previous few years of Joshua's life being caught in the chaos of it to know it wasn't a place he'd like to be.

It wasn't even a place Joshua wanted to be, though he had no say in the matter.

Crisp air bade tidings of the close of summer an an impending autumn with earlier sunsets such as this and chillier nights. Jill skipped along somewhere off in his periphery, in part for play and in part out of necessity to maintain pace with his considerably longer strides from an impending growth spurt.

He halted at the field's edge, where the wheat dissipated along the shores of a lake, and in the treeline he could hear the hum of what was the start of a chorus of cicadas at a day's end.

Jill called for him, her voice somewhat in distress as it came from somewhere closer to the treeline. She'd veered so far from his path as she reveled in her own personal child's play and had lost track of him completely.

He leaned against a boulder at the water's edge and called back to her while finding himself a comfortable seated perch where the bottom of the rock protruded from the ground.

Jill emerged moments later, her silvery locks that fell from her braid sticking to her face, the skin of her face and neck flushed, her mouth breathless as she clearly had been looking for him in urgency.

The sun settled just above the treeline, it's light reflecting from the hues of the wheat and the water's surface on the lake in a magnificent display of reds, oranges, and yellows. Contrary to his home, it contained all the warmth he'd ever wanted.

Until, a small hand reached for his.

He looked down at the small girl beside him. Her grey eyes had always reflected whatever color she looked to in perfect symmetry, and when she looked upon the same view as he, he knew it was the same for her that it was for him.

He didn't know it then, but she was by every means his match right down to a freckle.

She squeezed his hand.

Somewhere, somehow, he'd felt it miles away, years in the future when his broken body lay in a bed as her voice, much older and though equally breathless as that moment many years before caused his eyes to dart about under closed lids.

“I'm here, Clive.”

Chapter Text

'The men and the women of The Veil supported me through my grief. Shared in it. Though I was still a stranger to them, they treated me like a sister. And so I swore I would always do the same. That I would return the kindness that Northreach showed me. That I would repay my debt to The Veil.'

The days passed, and Jill had spent so much time nodding off in a chair at the bedside that the courtesans had collected a small cot for her from the townspeople, and she spent the nights curled up on it instead. Lord Byron had since checked himself into an inn in town, diligently dropping in on Clive and Jill daily, and tactfully utilizing his skill in negotiation to usher Jill out of the room to eat or bathe as he took her place in watching over Clive at the bedside.

There was no word from the Hideaway regarding the whereabouts of Joshua or Prince Dion. Jill had sent Gav a short letter with a scout during their first night in Northreach to let them know that they had arrived safely and that they did indeed identify that the rumored man was Clive and the Hideaway was undoubtedly in full celebrations with loud men and copious drinking by then; in contrast to that, Jill, Torgal, and Byron waited on Clive in quiet repose.

Clive was looking more lively by the day, and the when the healer arrived she declared it now a reasonable point of recovery to allow him to wake up, so long as her work on him remained intact. The worst of the pain was surely healed, and the extent of wounds that remained were likely none different than any other he'd sustained before. Jill assisted the courtesans in moving him to change his wound dressings, noting that the draining was lessening from when she'd first arrived- it wasn't Tarja's work, but it was decent work all the same.

On one such evening when Lord Byron sent her to the tavern to fetch a meal. She ate in silence as she always did, and finally exited it with a nod and some coin for the barmaid just as the sun had set. She passed the townsfolk of the square in silence as they scurried about, packing up shops and stalls for the night before resetting everything the following morning. Jill was becoming all too familiar with the rhythm of the town, though she didn't think much of the fact as the familiar hum bustled around her.

She approached the Veil to find that the busiest time of the night was upon them, just as the soldiers of Northreach finished their drills and the scouts changed their patrol and it always seemed like all of them would come through the doors to find company with a courtesan of their buying. It was uncomfortable at first, but Jill was beginning to get accustomed to it as long as no one paid her any mind when she came and went, and they didn't- they merely greeted her like another friend and asked about Clive's wellness while seemingly being genuinely invested in it. It was a welcome warmth after living in such despair as she did.

Jill didn't have it in her to harbor any resentment to people capable of that; courtesan or no.

Her eyes rose to a window on the top floor of the establishment that she'd learned to be the Dame's generously sized working and living quarters. She'd never been past Clive's room, but she found that the Dame commonly came and went from there in between checking on them, identifying when supplies were needed and fetching a girl to collect them. Jill knew this was no small task in addition to the Dame's other existing responsibilities, and she'd been so attached to Clive's bedside since arriving she'd never once considered expressing her gratitude.

Jill halted in front of the Veil's door and hesitated, calculating what she wanted to do: to return to Clive's side as soon as possible, and what she ought to do: pay a visit to the Dame in her chambers to give thanks. She mulled it over as she pulled back the door to where she was greeted by two courtesans in the parlor, both seated on the laps on armored comrades in arms.

Jill greeted them in return and climbed the stairs, tempted to make a last minute beeline like straight to the room where Clive would soon be certain to wake if he hadn't already, but resisted, marching past it and continuing to ascend, passing both vacant and vocally occupied rooms along the way to the chamber at the very top of the stairs.

Jill knocked on the heavy set of doors- their size in comparison to all the others emphasizing the weight of the responsibility of the one who dwelled beyond them.

“Enter.” She heard the Dame's soft voice from within. Jill complied, pulling the door with practically her entire bodyweight to open it.

“Lady Jill Warrick.” The Dame dropped her quill in the inkwell and leaned back in her leather seat behind a great desk. She crossed her arms as if completely beside herself, despite a warm smile gracing her flawless features. “I daresay I was not expecting you up here.”

Never the one to acknowledge the Dame's charm, Jill simply closed the door behind her before turning to stand before the desk. “I wanted to offer you my gratitude,” Jill sighed, “It's long overdue, considering my time here. And, with how many resources you've invested into Clive's recovery and my comfort.

A moment of silence passed as the two women looked to one another. The Dame's smile persisted, though Jill could've sworn she saw the tinge of the smallest amount of sadness or something like it twitch at the light creases at the corner of the Dame's doe like eyes. She appeared to be silently ruminating over something, and though Jill often found herself more comfortable in silence than most, she shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“You're quite welcome.” The Dame responded at last, her long, darkly painted eyelashes blinking slowly as she looked downward and back up at Jill. “Though, I find myself hesitant to say. You see... I hadn't quite expected this visit from you, and I feel inclined to tell you that while Clive is a dear friend and that I back his cause strongly, there is more to it than that.”

Jill cocked her head slightly, her expression blank as she struggled to catch the Dame's meaning.

“Do you have a moment to sit?” The Dame asked after another pause.

Jill nodded, deciding that if Clive should wake in the meantime, Lord Byron would surely be moving heaven and hell to locate her. Jill moved to a plush velvet seat by the fireplace where the Dame indicated for her as she rose to cross the room to a set of glass wine decanters on a cart beside it. Taking two goblets from a shelf below it, she gracefully poured the dark savory red contents from a decanter into each cup.

“Thank you,” The Dame offered her an effortless enchanting smile. “I know your time here lessens your time with him.”

Jill said nothing, only offering a muted sound and tired smile in thanks as the Dame passed her a cup. The wine within carried the faintest aroma of Gautland Gold- a vintage Jill knew Clive to be rather fond of from the rare occasions where he'd spare a bottle to share with her in his chambers.

Intrusive thoughts invited a tinge of jealousy as Jill briefly pondered if the Dame knew this and how- but she pushed it immediately from her mind, for Clive was clear time and time again that he was entirely hers- body and spirit, forever. She chewed her bottom lip before noting the Dame's appraising gaze upon her in the seat across from hers, prompting her to sip from the cup so as to not give the impression she was rejecting anything- jealousy had no place here.

The Dame spoke again, and Jill listened to her with stoicism as she drank from her glass. It was a tale of a courtesan in Oriflamme who fell in love with a bearer, and both were struck by betrayal, then tragedy. Then despair. And lastly, hope.

It wasn't far into the story when Jill concluded that the Dame was telling her own experience, and by the ending, when she told of waking with her love dead in her arms, the Dame's narration had fluctuated from third person to first.

Jill felt a rush of tears to her eyes, but blinked them back- it wasn't her place to shed tears, not now. This wasn't her tragedy, but the Dame's. But the emotions within were all too recent and fresh, still whirling within as she waited in anticipation for Clive to wake, so a single warm tear overflowed and ran to her cheek, and Jill lifted a knuckle from her free hand to brush it away.

The Dame offered a soft smile and cocked her head slightly, her shoulders back in a poised manner, legs crossed with her hand holding her goblet rested atop her knee.

“Now, don't.” The Dame commanded gently.

Jill blinked fiercely and returned the Dame's gaze with a neutral expression. Everyone had been so focused on her lately in her despair, and she wasn't going to make this offering of gratitude for the hospitality of the Dame about her in addition to it all. “I'm sorry. I just...”

“...It wasn't all bad.” The Dame reassured her. “You see, I was heartbroken initially. I cried day and night.”

“I can't imagine that if I tried.” Jill's eyes cast down toward her drink, swirling it absentmindedly.

The Dame chuckled. “Well believe it.” She rose from her seat, taking Jill's cup without a word despite it not being near empty, and crossing the room to refill both their cups to the brim with the same beverage. It wasn't particularly what Jill wanted in that moment, but she didn't have it in her to protest either.

“As a result of the tragedy, I built a life here- with Cid's help of course. I became better connected than I ever could have in Oriflamme, because the people in Northreach saw something in me that I would never have seen in myself. And I became a courtesan of the Veil.”

The Dame crossed the room again and passed Jill her goblet before settling back into her own seat. “When the old Madame passed, it seemed like a natural progression that I take her place. And alongside Cid, I found my calling. I utilized the eyes and the ears of our most eager clientele, and assisted in funding the operations of the Hideaway. The operations of which... led to your rescue, if I remember correctly.”

Jill's brow furrowed. “You mean to say...”

“Oh yes,” The Dame told her, “It was my intel that provided the movements of Shiva's Dominant for that fated battle.”

Jill said nothing, not clear on the Dame's intentions in telling her all of this.

“I've worked in this trade all my life, my lady. There is a reason it makes men willingly spill their deepest secrets.” The Dame was cross legged again, her skirts raised in showing perfectly smooth olive skin about the older woman's calves. She leaned forward, closing some of the space between them. “And I've come to know quite well the concept of love, even beyond my own experience. What it looks like. What it does to people. How to make one feel it, even when you don't reciprocate. How to break it. How to earn it.”

Jill sipped from her cup again, eyes wandering to the window adjacent to the fireplace. Being in the tallest of buildings in Northreach aside from the citadel, she could well see some of the town below them lit with torches as people braced for the night.

“... And I've come to the conclusion that reciprocated love, when it matures, it comes one of two things: a transition or a destination. And we so often mistakenly believe it to be only the latter.”

The Dame put a hand on her own chest. “My love was the former. Because I loved him I was forced to break from what would've been my prison, though I had not seen that at the time. Because of him I was lead here, to the Veil, and in my grief for him I molded myself into a woman of Northreach. And every time I saw a branded, I thought of him, and thus I was motivated in participating in Cid's dream. Because of him I've helped countless others, and I will continue to do so until my dying day.”

“That is such...” Jill paused for a moment, pondering how to properly phrase her thoughts. “A lovely way to interpret it. And while I don't disagree,” Jill spoke motioning to herself, “I'm just not sure that I would have the strength to process losing Clive quite like that.”

The Dame blinked at her plainly. “It's not that you lack the strength, Lady Warrick.” She leaned backwards with a full smile, her back now resting on the back of her seat. “It's that Clive is the latter, he is your destination, indeed he probably always has been, and you know it in your bones, therefore to lose that would be unfathomable for anyone. Even me.”

Jill's breath hitched, the clarity of the Dame's words soothing her and tickling her soul to know that another saw her so accurately where even she did not.No doubt a priceless skill for a seasoned courtesan and madame, as much as she disliked the trade.

“When I saw him the first time in the market, your love, he reminded me so strongly of mine, and I would be dishonest to tell you other than his eyes were the same.” The Dame sighed, “And I knew that he wasn't, so I've always a soft spot for him because he reminds me of those happy times with mine. Which brings me back to what brought you to my chamber while your love sleeps downstairs.” The Dame told her, “And to your gratitude- I'll accept it gladly, but you should know that the Veil has a longstanding tradition of this sort of thing, and as it's current warden I only do what I can with the life that my love gave me.”

Byron paced in front of the window as Clive slept. Jill was taking longer than usual, and he was beginning to worry. He knew the most sensible option that evening would be for the both of them to eat dinner together, but Jill would have never agreed to that, even with Torgal curled up at Clives bedside.

Arms folded behind his back in impatience, his eyes fell on his sleeping nephew. The dim light of evening and flickering candles about the room cast a soft hue on relaxed sleeping features. His chest rose and feel evenly under the covers, and the sunburn that had plagued his face had faded leaving a darkened complexion under dark stubble and a scar. With the exception of an overgrown beard, Clive looked like that young boy all over again, fresh from an engagement in the sun.

With relief, he heard the latch on the door being pushed from the outside, and Jill emerged as the door was pushed open softly. “Sorry I'm so late,” She told him, “It dawned on me to offer gratitude to the Dame.” Her eyes shifted to the sleeping man. “How is he?”

“The same,” Byron shrugged at her with a smile. “But I daresay his sleep has been lightening. Perhaps he will wake tonight.”

Jill smiled, relieved at the realization. She curled into Byron's brief one-armed embrace about her shoulders and soft kiss atop her head. “Perhaps.”

“I'll see you in the morning, when you will be departing for a meal, I expect?” Byron eyed down at her with a raised brow for emphasis, referencing the times she'd refused to leave to eat.

“Alright then.” Jill accepted the invitation, and the older man nodded in satisfaction.

“I'm off to the inn then, if you should need to find me.” He departed, and Jill crossed the room to where Clive slept, pausing on the the way to remove her boots and again to scratch behind Torgal's ears in greeting. The wolf only sighed and flickered his ears in response.

Clive was far enough over that she could kneel on the bed beside him, taking his petrified hand and pulling it into her lap. She reached out to brush the hair from his face and then to the bedside where a rag was kept in a bowl of water, changed out several times daily by the courtesans. She gently wrung the excess water from the rag and held it just over Clive's lips, squeezing it again lightly so that water dribbled from it to moisten his mouth.

His lips parted, and with the rise and fall of the Adam's apple at his throat, his brow furrowed and he swallowed.

Jill stiffened. He hadn't been doing that amid all the sedation. She initially would have brushed it off, already knowing he was getting closer to waking had Torgal not shot up, his ears perked upright in recognition of a cue she could not see.

Clives breathing was different- no longer carefree, slow, and even, it was quicker and harsher.

“Clive.”Jill whispered as she squeezed his arm closest to her, leaning over his to kiss his brow.

His eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly as she leaned over him, his injuries the only thing that kept her from curling herself on top of his completely. She watched in awe as he focused on her.

“Wha-” His voice was hoarse from lack of use, he grimaced at the realization of the pain in his body and sucked in air through his teeth.

“It's alright.” Jill's heart pounded in her chest and she bit back a fit of laughter out of sheer glee. At the foot of the bed, Torgal's snout had found it's way under the blanket, licking furiously at Clive's feet.

Clive looked up at her, puzzled, reaching up to her face with his petrified hand, only to freeze and hold it before his face, and she watched as the realization washed over him.

“Fuck.” He groaned, his opposite hand bracing the injuries about his torso.

“It's alright.” Jill reminded him again, pushing his accursed hand from his view and grabbing his dominant one, bringing it to her lips and gently kissing a knuckle so that he would perhaps focus on her instead.

And it worked- she adjusted herself so that she lay alongside him instead, her limber body nearly falling off the edge of the mattress, but she paid no mind. She lay on her side beside him, her nose just inches from his on a pillow.

“Jill.” He rasped, dark blue eyes boring into hers, as if she were on the verge of disappearing before him completely.

“I'm here.” She told him, “Like I said I would be.” She ran her fingers over his scalp, then the stubble of his cheek not pressed to the pillow, down his neck and over his shoulder to soothe him and he accepted the ministration, long dark eyelashes closing shut for a moment before he opened them again, his gaze narrow and fixed on her.

“Where...” He drawled slowly, exposing the haze that still plagued his mind.

“The Veil in Northreach.” Jill answered him, without need for him to finish the question. Her fingers trailed back to his cheek, her eyes fixed to his, so close that his breath tickled the tip of her nose. “Just what were you doing on the blighted shores out here, hm?”

Clive's eyes were sharper now, the haze of the last two weeks clearing with every second and every breath, and he looked a bit like he was on the verge of coming undone. Clive was tethered to her touch as he ever was in their most intimate moments, and while neither of them had any desire to make love in that moment, he needed to by anchored by her still- she could tell.

“Jill, I... I did it.” Though in part his hoarseness was making his voice gruff, she could hear a darkness in his tone. “I killed Ultima.”

Jill exhaled slowly, her eyes sliding shut for a moment as he watched her silence. She opened them, meeting him with a smile. “I knew you would, I was just never sure about what it would cost.” She admitted.

He did not smile back. “Dion and Joshua are...” Clive hesitated, his furrowed brow, “Joshua... he died in my arms.” The last few words were strained and his voice faltered amidst a burst of tears. The long period of having his mind dulled now making the bite of reality all the more bitter.”

The sharpness of grief struck her too, like a blade through her heart. She hadn't known Prince Dion for long, but she knew he was a kind and honorable man, and Joshua-

Jill felt a lump in her throat as she watched the features of the man laying before her contort in heartbreak, reliving the realization for a second time. And her own heart broke right along with his. Joshua had long been her brother, accepting her as such even before Clive warmed up to her. How many times had she woken her in the night with a dainty knock on her chambers, inviting her to sneak to the kitchens with him for treats? And had it not been that long ago that they laughed together at the docks of the Hideaway about that very memory? Not knowing what to say, and overwhelmed with grief herself, Jill pulled herself closer, gently embracing him with an arm while tucking her forehead into the crook of Clive's neck as they wept together in silence.

They said nothing for a long time, sharing in the darkness of the chamber for what seemed to be hours and simply holding one another while mourning their brother they'd lost for a second time.

Though her heart was heavy, Jill broke the silence at last, sounding much steadier than she'd felt inside. “He knew this would happen, you know.”

“You're right,” Clive replied, bringing his right hand down the front of his face, lingering for a while over his eyes, as if shielding her from them. “But that doesn't make it acceptable. Joshua looked after me my entire life.” He bent his elbow to raise his good hand in a fist from the mattress in punctuation of his words. “The whole time it was I who was to look after him and he threw himself in between me and everything else time and time again.”

“Perhaps he simply loved you as much as you did him, duty and honor aside.” Jill withdrew from the crook of his neck, propping her head up on her hand supported by her elbow to look down at him. “And you both looked after one another, the way brothers do.”

Her stray hand danced across the edges of the bandages across his chest, and he relinquished his fist to capture her hand with his own. “The way he acted towards the end,” Clive stared straight up at the ceiling as he spoke, “It was rather like he knew he was on borrowed time, wasn't it?”

Jill hummed, her thoughts straying to the sentimentality that Joshua displayed, bringing up old memories that she'd mistaken for gleeful reminiscence; when in reality he was simply ensuring she'd remember their happiest times together for after he passed on.

“He asked me about my plans for you, after it was all said and done.” Clive told her, “I thought he was only curious, pulling for information from me on a response that he wanted to hear, but now, perhaps, he simply wanted to know what it was he was sacrificing himself for.”

Jill sighed shakingly. “That does sound like Joshua. He always was the smartest one, despite being the youngest.” She thought for a moment, before curiously adding, “What did you tell him?”

Clive's eyes snapped to hers in a playful, narrow stare. “I'll never say.”

“Clive Rosfield!”Jill snapped, smacking him lightly on his chest. “If you weren't in such a state, I would-”

“-You would what?” Clive challenged playfully, immediately wincing at the sudden movement of fractured ribs.

“I would do more than this,” Jill lightly smacked again, and his hand snapped from his ribcage to her wrist, clutching it tightly.

She yanked her hand from his mocking grasp and cupped it about his chin and neck, smiling down at him. Her sweet Clive had returned to her as he promised, though at a great cost. And for that, she would always be grateful for the ones who aided in bringing him back to her.

In truth she already knew what Clive's response to Joshua was, because he'd already told her:“Then that's what you'll have.”

And if Joshua's final efforts were to realize this, then perhaps she'd take note from the Dame's inspiration and channel her efforts into making more reunions like this one possible for others. Somehow. Over time, she thought, perhaps exactly what her role would be would fall into place, so that Joshua's legacy would never be lost on the world.

She lowered her lips slowly, hovering them just above his for a breath until he impatiently rose to claim her in a soul tickling kiss- the first they'd shared since the last he departed for Origin.

The Dame had seen them off in the tavern with a breakfast supplied by the people of Northreach, and one would never know of the chaos and uncertainty whirling in the outside world from the warmth of the smiles of the people who brought him whatever they had so freely.

Clive accepted what was offered with sincere gratitude alongside Uncle Byron and Jill, but not without the curiosity of wondering just what Isabelle had told the people of Northreach about what he did, as the truth surely would've been far too controversial.

Jill sat beside him beaming, oblivious to just how much her smile pulled at his heart in all the most pleasant of ways. Her hair that cascaded on her back spilled over her shoulder as she leaned to fork a bite from her plate and he lifted his hand to tuck it behind her ear and pushed it back over her shoulder. He was once so hesitant to reach out and touch her, and now it was an impulse he satiated as quickly as it came.

Later that morning, Clive sat with Jill on a stone bench in the garden just outside the Veil. His movements were still slow from fractures and sutures that littered his body, but he was more or less whole. Despite this, he slid his arm across her back, pulling him against her. She curled into him, resting the side of her head on his shoulder.

There was certainly something about this place he couldn't quite put his finger on. Isabelle had spoken of the Veil as a pillar of sorts of order and continuity in Northreach, and he couldn't quite say he ever understood her meaning fully. Until now.

It was where he'd awoken from his dreamlike daze in the aftermath of Origin and Ultima's legacy to find the woman who had been a part of him since the summers of childhood. His adolescence was wrenched from him the same it was for her, and both had endured over a decade of enslavement and abuse, only for him to draw his sword to her in a fit of vengeance.

Hindsight is always clearer, but he now found it strange to think he hadn't seen her as clearly then as he did now, back when they sat side by side, knees drawn to their chests to wait out the rain on a faulty trek to Mann's Hill. She had every reason to be miserable, yet she only looked up at him, her damp hair plastered to her chin and neck, and laugh as the thunder rolled all around him which only caused him to do the same.

And even now, at their journey's end, he found them to be on the precipice of something new yet again. There was no thunder; there was no rain. There was no Ifrit, no Shiva. There was only them.

How many moments had they spent fantasizing of this moment?

Clive sighed, leaning to press his lips to the crown of her head, his arm squeezing her as tightly as he could bear. He was getting lost in his thoughts again- because the beauty of being in Jill's company meant you didn't always have to know what to say, or if you had to say anything at all.

Being silent with Jill was easy.

“Everyone will be so glad to see you.” Jill spoke against his shoulder, and he could feel those stone grey eyes looking up at him. “Gav was particularly resistant to staying behind.”

“Mm.” A smile crept across Clive's features. “I wonder what's kept him from making an expedition of his own.”

“We told him he was the next Cid in line. That, and the recent fallout of magic and eikons has the Hideaway particularly busy at the moment. I do not think he could get away if he wanted to. For the time being, at least.” Jill replied.

Clive moved to curl his fingers over her arm, only to be reminded that the lack of dexterity no longer allowed for that. Instead, his hand hung stiff and petrified with the slight rise and fall of his wrist. He winced at the reminder of the price of his actions. Luckily, it wasn't his sword arm, although, it would be some time before he could wield one again properly.

Jill paid it no mind, shifting so that she could face him more directly, her hand resting at the side of his thigh. “I expect there will be celebrations in order when you return.”

“And after that?” Clive prodded.

“Well, I cannot see Tarja allowing you to leave until your wounds heal further.” Jill pondered, her eyes scanning him appraisingly, “But we can utilize that time to think of the most appropriate way to honor Joshua. And... perhaps await further news on Prince Dion.”

Grief swelled within him yet again at the mention of his brother's name. Jill spoke of a memorial of sorts, and no doubt the undying were already on the case. If Uncle Byron had his way, there would be a grand statue of the last Phoenix in a rebuilt Rosalith, which he was certain Joshua would have despised the idea of. But then perhaps, Clive wouldn't deny his uncle to see to it, in a final and single act of betrayal to his brother. After all, Joshua would've done exactly the same to him.

“And then?” Clive lifted his hand opposite her to cradle her head and back of her neck under the spanse of his fingers, his thumb resting at the edge of her chin.

Jill thought for a moment, her eyes raising to the sky above them for a moment before flickering back to his. “Then...” She chewed the inside of her bottom lip for a moment. “Then, I'd like to have you to myself.”

Clive's eyebrows raised slightly. “You don't want to take to the seas? Spread your wings a little?”

“I do want to spread my wings.” Jill replied, “I just... am deciding on what that means.”

Her eyes bore into his in fierce determination. “I once believed it was Metia that brought you back to me, all those times I prayed. But now I see, it was all you, Clive. I think, somewhere along the way, we've become one another's destination. One another's home.”

He inhaled deeply, pressing his forehead to hers. Be it spoken aloud or written in immaculate script to be laid upon his desk, Jill was never one to shy away from sweet words, even with all the cruelty that she'd been subjected to.

He closed the gap between his lips and hers, his thumb on her chin grazing the softness of her cheek. His stubble was longer than usual, and he knew it must've felt abrasive against such soft flesh, but Jill wrapped her arms around his neck regardless, parting her lips in a delicate invitation for him to deepen the kiss.

Clive silently vowed, then, he would devote his life to simply living, and finding ways to honor all those that helped him come to that conclusion- be it a statue in Rosalith, a mission, a story, or a name.

Isabelle watched from the window of her quarters as they pulled one another in for a kiss in the garden below, goblet of wine swirling in her hand as the other laid across her chest. She stepped back and away from the window, lips curling into a smile.

Cid's kindness had made her life what it was, and before that, her lover's sacrifice. And now, the legacy of those acts of selflessness made her capable to passing the same onto others. Such acts were not always without dire consequence, but when they were executed with a resolution that she'd intended, it was quite satisfying.

In a world that had known so much cruelty, it was only the legacy of kindness that would bring the hope of a better future.

She crossed the room to her desk and sat, pulling open a drawer and pausing for a moment- perhaps had her love ever owned a memento, she'd store it here. But there was no such thing.

Instead, Isabelle pulled a piece of parchment. There was much business to attend to that day, and because of the efforts being focused on Clive's recovery, she'd fallen slightly behind. It wasn't the first time her work had gotten behind her; it surely wouldn't be the last.

Sweeping a lock of hair across her forehead and tucking it delicately behind her ear, she picked up her quill from an inkwell, and continued her work.