Chapter Text
The staff of the Burning Rose House of Indulgence referred to the boy as “The Mistake.” Mistakes, in an establishment of the Burning Rose’s nature, were not uncommon, but Cerise’s child, they all agreed, was of a greater magnitude than most.
After all, it wasn’t every day that a Cardinal, let alone a Cardinal with a deathly ill and publicly adored wife, left one of the staff with child. The average mistake entailed mild financial inconvenience and, if the mother so chose, a quiet retirement, but a mistake of this kind might draw attention of a sort that the Rose could not afford.
Sanbreque, after all, was a pious nation, and brothels were easier to punish than clergymen.
And sure enough, before the boy’s third month, attention arrived, of a magnitude nobody expected.
Cardinal Sylvestre Lesage appeared on the doorstep hooded and dressed in mourning black, during a sunrise at the end of winter, with three of his household guards. None barred his entry. None dared.
Some of the more inquisitive girls listened at Cerise’s door when it locked behind him.
They didn’t gather much. Voices were raised. Harsh words were exchanged, largely on Cerise’s side—“You think you can just waltz in here and take my boy from me, do you, you utter prick.” And then coins, largely on Sylvestre’s.
The final terms of the bargain, the girls never learned. But the Cardinal left the Rose that day with a golden-haired bundle in his arms, and three nights later, Cerise vanished, with a pouch of coin at her hip and tears in her eyes, never to be seen by anybody in Oriflamme again.
Within a fortnight, word came down from the palace that Cardinal Lesage’s wife had died, in giving birth to his son—a boy the astrologers all confirmed was the new Dominant of Bahamut, Warden of Light.
“Crafty bastard,” the girls whispered amongst themselves. “Can you believe the nerve?”
Four years later, the bells rang out, as His Radiance Sylvestre Lesage was crowned Holy Emperor.
Dion tried not to look at his feet, or at the heavy jeweled necklace he carried between his hands. It was so heavy it made his arms shake. Father was very strong, for agreeing to wear it forever. He kept his eyes on the altar of Greagor before him and hoped that the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows would not blind him. When he and Father had practiced this alone, Dion had stumbled a time or two.
It had been all right, because Father had helped him up and ruffled his hair and assured Dion that he would do it perfectly when the big day came, but now the big day was here, and the cathedral rang with the sound of four-hundred people keeping holy silence, and falling felt much scarier.
Dion shivered, and the links of the necklace clinked against each other. It was the loudest sound in the world. Oh, he was making a muddle of this, wasn’t he? He looked up to where Father stood with his back to the altar, and when their eyes met, Father smiled and gave Dion a small nod.
Dion smiled back, and his hands stopped shaking. Right. Father believed he could do this, and so Dion could. He finished the walk up the polished marble aisle of the church, taking care not to trip on the carpeted steps that led up to the altar as Father sank to one knee.
“All right?” Dion mouthed, now that he and Father were face to face, safe in the shadow of Greagor’s statue, where the crowd couldn’t see his face.
Father nodded, pride shining in his eyes, and with a smile, Dion raised the necklace and called out the words he’d practiced over and over, until they stopped meaning anything but noise and rhythm.
“In the name of Greagor, and as Warden of Light, this day I name you the Holy Emperor of Sanbreque, and the protector of the realm.”
With those words, he set the chain around Father’s neck, and Father, without seeming to feel the weight at all, rose to his feet and rested his hands on Dion’s shoulders, turning him to face the crowd.
For a moment, the silence endured, the nobles arrayed in the pews as shining and motionlessly beautiful as the paintings in the council antechamber that Dion looked at while Father was in meetings. Then overhead, the great bells of the Cathedral of Greagor shattered the silence, their peals of joy so achingly loud that Dion fought not to cover his ears.
In the pews, the nobles rose, their hands crashing together in applause and their still faces breaking into smiles.
The air was thick with petals, and Greagor’s love shone down on him in the burn of sunlight across his cheek.
The world She had built was beautiful, and so was Dion’s place in it.
Dion got to stay up until after sundown on the night of the coronation, watching knights and ladies dance in the great hall of Whitewyrm Castle while the nobles waited their turns to congratulate Father. Dion shook hands with as many as he could, and smiled at them, too, like a prince ought to, when he wasn’t too distracted by the swaying patterns of the dancers, the way they twisted and twirled like ribbons caught in the wind.
He wasn’t sure when he started nodding off—his blinks growing longer and his head starting to dip toward his chest until he startled back up. He forced his eyes open and dug his fingers into the arms of his chair, managed another handshake, another smile, until he blinked and felt the world turn while it was still black.
He stirred only for a moment as Father tucked him into bed and smoothed his hair, and then sleep—soft and deep and dreamless—drew him under.
When Dion awoke, it took him a moment to remember where he was. The bed was massive and downy, and the ornate mirror on the far wall was new, and so was the crystalline window set beyond the chaise lounge.
For the first time, the room he awoke in wasn’t the room of a Cardinal’s son but the room of the Crown Prince.
Feeling strangely like a burglar, Dion slid from the bed, a few beaded pillows toppling to the floor in his wake, and padded across the thickly carpeted floor. Father had shown him this room before, had asked Dion if he liked it, but this was the first chance he’d had to explore.
He moved to the mirror first, tracing the whorls and edges of its gilded frame and then leaning left and right to try and hide from himself in the glass. When he grew tired of failing, he paced all the way around the room, keeping a hand on the wall and crawling over any furniture that got in his way, so that he could feel the shape of the place.
He was most excited, though, to look at the desk.
It sat in the corner, its closed drawers brimming with promise. Already, parchment rested on its surface. Dion knew most of his letters, and he could pen his own name now without too much trouble. As the prince, he’d have lots of important letters to write, and even though his hands were still too awkward to hold a quill for very long, the thought of being able to help Father bear the weight of that heavy necklace made him feel giddy and light.
Nicole came bustling in to help him dress scarcely a minute after he’d rung for her, her new uniform a pristine white. Dion had worried, when Father had been named Emperor, that she might not be able to stay with them when he ascended, but Nicole had risen right along with them, and Dion was glad of it. He had no siblings of his own, and wasn’t likely to have any with Mother dead, so sometimes he pretended, in his own head, that Nicole was his big sister. Her hair was gold like his, after all, even if it was curly.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, and Dion returned the smile she gave him. “It’s good to see you up and about. I got half a scarf of knitting done waiting about for you—I was starting to worry you’d sleep forever.”
Dion liked the way Nicole talked—breezy and upbeat, her big round eyes bugging out whenever she was trying to be shocking.
Dion laughed. “I suppose I was a little tired. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long?”
“Psh.” Nicole helped him pull his tunic over his head. “Winter’s coming up, and my fellow’ll have need of it when the winds turn. I’ve been needing to work on it anyway.”
Nicole’s eyes always turned shiny when she mentioned her “fellow”, and a smile dimpled her face. All Dion knew of what it meant to be in love was that it made a smile like that, so he supposed it must be wonderful.
“I’m glad,” he told her, as she helped him tug on his boots and laced them up for him. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
Nicole just laughed and rose to her feet. “You fret too much for a boy your age. Now come along, your father’s waiting for you in the tearoom.”
She took Dion by the hand and led him down the marble hall beyond his bedroom. With each step she took, a soft clicking sound caught Dion’s ear, and he glanced upward to see a pair of knitting needles poking from her pocket, a glimpse of soft-looking red scarf accompanying them.
“Would you ever knit something for me?” he asked.
Nicole laughed, but it was higher and shorter than usual. “I don’t know about that Your Grace. With all the fine silks the imperial tailors weave for you, I doubt my homespun would do you much good.”
“Oh. Okay.” Dion supposed that made sense, even if he thought that Nicole’s scarf was as nice as his tunic. It hadn’t been fair of him to ask her, when he already had so much. “Thank you anyway.”
“‘Course, your Grace.”
Breakfast was lovely—scones and jams and flowery tasting tea. Dion nearly burned his fingers trying to trace the flowing teal patterns on the porcelain. Father told him that it was all right that he’d fallen asleep while shaking hands with the Minister of Agriculture.
“A growing boy like you needs rest,” he said. “You can save your sleepless nights for when this belongs to you.” Father pressed a hand to the chain on his collar.
Dion blinked, a swell of nerves making the scones turn over funny in his stomach. Father must have seen it, because he rose and offered Dion his hand.
“Come, Dion. I have something I would like to show you.”
Dion took his hand (and kept a scone in the other, promising himself he wouldn’t get crumbs on the floor), and followed him. Father led him upward, through the twists and turns of Castle Whitewyrm’s stairways, until his legs ached and he’d run out of scone, and then the whole world seemed to open up.
They emerged onto a balcony, gabled and walled with clear glass, so that the whole room seemed to shine like the Mothercrystal itself. Catching the light on their iridescent petals were hundreds upon hundreds of flawless white flowers.
Dion had to catch his breath. The sunlight nearly blinded him, and his chest lit up with a vast, blazing feeling—the light of the sun and the petals calling to the light that had made a home for itself in Dion’s body.
“Bahamut,” Dion whispered, and his hand went to his chest.
“These are his sacred blossoms,” said Father. “Wyvern tails—the flower of Sanbreque.”
“They’re beautiful,” said Dion, tilting his head to get a closer look at the bloom nearest to him.
“They are.” Father smiled, and his eyes turned sad. “Your mother always was fond of them.”
Dion went silent. He couldn’t remember Mother at all, which didn’t seem fair. She’d died bringing him into the world. She at least deserved for him to remember her.
Father shook himself before Dion could speak. “Their roots are strong. Strong, and venomous. They keep order, and they strike down those who would harm the beauty they have created.”
Dion nodded, even though he wasn’t sure he understood.
“The people of Sanbreque, and the walls of this castle, and the light of the Mothercrystal,” Father said, plucking a flower from one of the dozens of vases that lined the walls. “They are all the petals. It is the charge of the Emperor, the Dominant, and the armies they command, to be the roots.”
The light in Dion’s chest turned cold, but he raised his chin. “I can be it, Father. I promise.”
“I know you can.” Father smiled and tucked the flower into the collar of Dion’s tunic. “You’re my son, after all. And I promise you that I will do everything in my power to lay strong roots for you.”
Dion smiled so widely it hurt, his eyes pressing shut. Of course Father would. He would be such a good teacher that Dion wouldn’t be able to help being as good an Emperor as Father.
If Dion only did as Father taught him, he would bloom, and the Empire with him.