Chapter Text
Dion opens his eyes. And the sun hits him. He winces, then a shadow passes over before he sidesteps the landing halbert that hits the ground instead.
“My prince?”
A voice. A familiar voice that he has known ever since they met at that grand ball. A ball that he never quite forgot for he kept that close in mind and heart. After all, it was where his life and Terrence’s intertwined. A good eighteen years ago. And yet as he stands in the field with small hands that just start to bruise with the wooden practice sword, Dion glances to the dark haired boy not more than nine summers young. It is Terrence and not. A memory and a reality that clash in the sudden concept he is thrown in.
“My prince?” Terrence’s voice floats to him.
Dion blinks. His teacher stares at him, a fraction too long, perhaps out of confusion rather than disappointment of failing the most basic of attacks. He had always been a perfect student. Has. His mind is still spinning.
“I believe we shall put a stop for today, Your Grace,” the man says with a sigh and a watchful eye that tells of a promise of the day after for a remedial. “Do not stand too long under the sun when you sway too much.”
Dion takes that advice quickly, crossing the mud and the dirt towards the shade Terrence is standing under. It aches something deep in how he hands him a glass of water and makes room for him to sit. The bench is freshly painted. Dion remembers the wood had been succumbing to the peeling and dampness from the rain in the past. In the future.
“Are you alright?” Terrence half-whispers and this Dion knows to be for his ears only. No title. Just mere worry. A genuine one for a friend.
“I am alright. Perchance a bit under the weather.” It isn’t truly a lie. “I will be well after a small rest.”
Terrence isn’t good at hiding his curled lips yet. This reminds Dion how much he didn’t much change in his regard towards him.
“Then, at least, let’s leave the training grounds. I’m sure you shall feel better walking in the garden.”
The servants bow when they pass before hurrying along their chores. Terrence nods at them back and Dion gives the scullery maids a tiny half-tilted smile. The path narrows as they circle around the back, entering the lush ground through the back gate. Terrence’s shoulder bumps into his and it is a soft contact he leans against. The tree they sit under has its branches swaying by the gentle breeze. A few leaves settle on top of his head and lap when he finally sits. They ground him, tickle him to the point where he touches his own skin and whips his hair about.
This is not a dream. It can not be a dream. He feels everything. The leaves are still green and smooth, the dirt is hard and staining his pants, and Terrence is warm beside him.
This is not a dream. For Dion is breathing and the hum of Bahamut’s flare is alight in his veins. He hears the scale and beating of wings like heartbeat. The dragon is there, young and small yet not less regal in his mind’s eye.
This is not a dream.
Dion Lesage is alive.
Even when the last of his memories is of the sky and ocean that is chasing at his falling body.
It is done, father.
That may be. But it matters not now. Dion Lesage did not die. Rather than meeting the Founder or Greagor herself, he is here. Blood and flesh and eikonic powers between his fingertips.
He has survived...
… The magic worked.
---
Whitewyrm Castle is an old, sturdy thing with stones as white as sands along the imperial shores. High and proud, quiet and regal. For most, it is a symbol of the emperor’s sacred seat, undeterred and unyielding. For Dion, despite everything, it was his home. Is his home.
This is where he grew up. Grows up. And he knows the passages like he was the architect of the place. It gives him an edge to be able to get away when he needs to. Only Terrence knows his secret places and he swears to keep it silent with all the assuredness a little noble can yield.
The moon glows in the sky, the sky is quiet, the quietness is what Metia watches over. Dion uncrosses his legs, hanging them over the ledge of a window at the one of the towers. Terrence had just returned to his family the moment the sun set, and Dion lingered by the gate as the carriage took them away for their own estate. Terrence peeked behind the curtain to see him, brows still etched in faint worry from how Dion had seemed pale and almost listless. But Terrence is always a good listener and his trust in Dion equals nothing else, in that he won’t stumble or fall over in a fainting spell if he still can stand and walk. Dion stayed until not even the outline of the carriage could be seen between the trees before he stepped back and made his way to his chambers, waiting until the lights were mostly snuffed out then slinking out of his balcony.
It is as silent as it can be now – he can hear the whirls of his thoughts and for the first time, his vision finally clears on the edges. The tower overlooks the lusher part of the palace, granting him rows of dark green and the horizon.
Dion closes his eyes.
Gloved hands held onto his hands. Searing hot fires underneath. It grounded Dion to look at him. The yawning darkness was encroaching, the looming figure with their many limbs floating closer. There was blood but it wasn’t Dion’s.
“He said it could work,” the man was so tired, blue eyes dimming and tears flowing. “But I have not the power to do it,” he gritted his teeth like an aborted laugh. Dion gripped him back, blood seeped into his own sleeve. It was as if his exhaustion also followed. “Please,” and he had never heard Ifrit to be both desperate yet still hopeful. Stubborn. Persevering. Still fighting and rebelling against his fate. “Do this one gamble for me. For him,” his lips trembled and Dion couldn’t help tightening his grip around the other’s hands. “For the world.”
What else could he do except nodding?
Words would fail him. It was enough for the man. He forced a fractured smile. It was the only softest thing in this battle to Dion. Born out of regret and failure.
“Please.”
“Leave this to me. I swear to you I will see through it.”
He pushed his flame against him.
It did not burn.
The scratch of the stone wall jerks him back upright and Dion hisses at the scrape. Rubbing his elbow, he glances back to the moon. It is brighter than that time. Dion drinks the sight all in, eventually standing up when the night yawns more.
He has much to think about.
But for tonight, he’ll sleep in his bed and doesn’t let the old scent of his childhood stopping him from slumber.
Tonight. He will just be a child. Eleven summers young. That is for tonight.
---
Comes morning, all his plan goes out of the window the moment he stirs with too warm head and chills wrecking his body. The maids quickly fetch the physician and Dion doesn’t refuse the soothing concoction, much to the older man’s sigh and nod. Not too long ago, he had been a soldier in the battlefield – even the tang of blood was familiar and bitter herbals cloying a constant presence each time he returned from priming.
He is to be advised to bedrest for three days and porridge for meals. Dion takes it in stride, once again gaining a pleased relief from the man. The cool towel is nice on his forehead. Dion sees the brand on the girl’s cheek as she holds the bowl, a piece of furniture that comes with from the way the maids flip and drip new towels like she is just wood. She is no older than him, but her face is weathered by labor and her eyes are too ancient. There were children her age in the Hideaway, children who laughed and played with the wolf-hound that always tagged along Shiva and would crowd to listen to the man they called Cid.
“Thank you,” he says it before he blinks. To the Branded. To the Bearer girl with petrified fingers and gaunt neck. She startles and there is fear painted all over her before he raises his hand. Placating. “For cooling the water. You did well.”
She doesn’t reply, merely stares at him before she is pushed out of the room when the maids are done. Dion catches her still staring seconds until the door closes. He leans back onto his pillow, touches the cold towel, then drifts off. His headache manages to calm down that when the Emperor visits, he can stop himself from lurching to the side of the bed for the pot. Sylvestre stands by the foot of the bed in less ornamented clothes, and Dion catches the sun is setting outside. His father must have had an uneventful day. His father. Whom he had killed in his anger towards that fiend. His head twinges again.
“Do not rise,” Sylvester stops him, rounding the bed to his side. “I was told that you are abed with more than the common cold.”
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Dion says, half bowing. “I must have ignored my well being for too long.”
Sylvester regards him with calmness, the kind that Dion now notices to be both calculating and appraising. It is interesting how much more he can see now the second time around. He notices the Wyvern’s Tails before his father puts them on the nightstand. The flower of Sanbreque. With all its beauty and use. Dion remembers how fond Sylvester is of it and his habit of putting it on his armor. Almost like a constant reminder. And later on, a warning.
Dion hides his sigh and soft wince.
“You are the prince and the Dominant of Bahamut, serving the empire is your duty but so does looking after yourself. You must be strong for you are Greagor’s and the empire’s champion,” Sylvester puts his hand on his shoulder. It is a heavy weight that has its own gravity. “Build your strength and rest well, Dion. The Emperor commands you so.”
“Yes, Your.. Yes, father.”
“Good,” a pat and then Sylvester steps back. He looks him up and down one last time, then walks back to the door.
Dion watches him until he disappears.
His fingers dig into the covers and he folds over to bury his face into them. The Emperor still lives, Father is alive. He has the chance to never commit patricide. He has all the chances to not let that witch and her spawn-
He takes a breath.
One by one. Patience. He must be collected. Take a breath and release it.
He is Dion Lesage. Imperial Prince and the Dominant of Bahamut. He is now eleven summers young. A child with knowledge of the future, whose body is currently trying to house himself after the magic used upon him. He may know most of his hands, but he does not possess all the cards.
Where should he start, then?
He isn’t sure. But staying in bed won’t be one of them, thus when during the second day he is left alone once more, he slips out of his bed and takes his usual clothes from the wardrobe. With lightness on his feet, he heads for the library at the end of a massive hall in the empty wing. Inside is sprawling with shelves and scrolls. Hundreds of works penned by scribes and painstakingly maintained by the head librarian. Dion loves the nooks and crannies of it, quickly turning left and then take the stairs to the second floor where rustling and muttering are heard.
“Master,” he calls out and has to stifle his chuckle when Hippocrates jolts. His teacher is old but he has not yet the wrinkles and the full whiteness of his beard.
“My prince!” The man dusts off his hands and pushes the quill aside. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting in bed?”
Dion smiles and puts his hands behind his back. “I find myself to be quiet bored of merely laying on bed. Spending several hours here seem to be better use of my time.”
“But your fever.”
“It is calming down. Besides, I will just be reading and listening to you, Master. I think I can handle that, at least.”
Happocrates teeters in between closing his book and pulling a chair for him, and in the end, the latter wins out because he is partial to him. Dion had meant what he said – there was no better teacher than him. Perhaps in this new chance, he can have him to stay for far much longer. He just needs to make a good enough reason to convince him and his father to let him.
Dion takes the seat with a move that earns him another headache that he ignores.
“What would you like to know, my prince?”
He takes a moment to answer. A prince’s education is vast yet not quiet so much as to delve deeper unless necessary. Dion is no politician and he rather spends his time amongst his dragoons and the field. But there is nothing wrong in refreshing his lessons, just as it is useful to practice basic weaponry.
“Let’s start at the history of Valisthea. From the beginning if you can, master.”
The surprise is there on Hippocrates’ face. To his knowing, this is the first for him to focus on such subject more. Hippocrates brightens up and gone is the worry of his sickness for pulling tomes and opening them up for Dion to parse.
It goes for the whole day. Hippocrates explaining the subjects Dion asks and Dion writing down what he believes to be important. History is as important ad remembering the names of the nobles in his father’s court, after all, and if there is one thing Dion understands is that any single detail can be used, though in truth, he does enjoy learning it from his teacher. Hippocrates has a way to make you enraptured in his gentle, old voice, and forces you to carefully pick up the things he says.
They are just finishing on the borders formation in Storm when Rosaria is eventually mentioned.
“Could we focus more on the grand duchy?” Dion asks as he brushes the name on the book. And because of Hippocrates pausing, he then adds. “The empire and the duchy have an alliance, I believe it is due time I know more about our own ally in that regard. Small as they can be, I believe they are powerful in their own right.”
“Well,” his teacher rubs his chin, “that certainly is true, but you have to wait for a moment, my prince, because I need to fetch different books for this. May I assume is it partially because of the coming date at Crystalline Dominion?”
An event? What is…
Oh.
Oh, of course.
Many things had happened that he forgot about it. The day where Sanbreque, Rosaria and Dhalmekia were – are – to meet as a show of their alliance. The day that Joshua had mentioned and banked on for Dion’s good grace and time.
“Yes,” he says.
“Very well.”
They go over the texts about Rosaria. It is as simple as it can get when talking about formation of a nation. Provinces in western Valisthea unified under the banner of the Grand Duchy and the Archduke is the Phoenix’s Dominant, and ever since the first archduke, the Rosfields always occupy the throne with the Phoenix passed down only in their bloodline. It is a persevering nation – prosperous and hardy with many of its people loyal to their ruler. They draw aether from Drake’s Breath, a hulking mothercrystal sitting on a volcanic island off their coast. Their biggest enemy it seems, has always been the Iron Kingdom to the north, but they have reached a prolonged stalemate for the moment. And hopefully, with Sanbreque to support them, they can keep holding onto their territory against the savage kingdom.
It is common knowledge that the current Archduke is no dominant. Dion has heard the whispers at court about this – how Elwin Rosfield is merely a seat warmer for not his firstborn son and instead to the youngest that is not yet eight summers old. This fact has furthered the veiled jeers and jokes amongst those in the empire, but Dion ignores the ones made at the Duchess’ expenses, and listens to the ones regarding the sons. How that is embarrassing for the eldest to be rejected by the Phoenix, their familial eikon, and has to play soldier for the sickly sibling that is much too pale. How it is ridiculous and spells of their decline when a whole duchy depends on a child to lead them all.
Dion does not remember much about his first meeting with the Rosfields except the formal introduction between him as Bahamut and Joshua as Phoenix. It is a blurry memory, pushed to the back for years until Joshua himself, a man rather than a ghost, came to him in his war camp.
He reads well into the evening that the maids hurriedly have to fetch him lest he misses dinner. The texts follow him to his chambers, stewing in his head as he processes them one by one. Dion dreams about the maps and the lands painted in the pages, about the image of the Phoenix and Rosaria’s banner.
And before he truly goes to sleep for his fever rises again, he dreams of the sons that had stood beside him – the one who fell for his brother and the one who was still standing for their sake in the end.
---
His body is slowly but surely reacquaints itself with him. Over the next few days, he sleeps, eats his meals and drinks the herbs, and slips into the library like clockwork. It is almost boring if not for the fact he is much, much older that being sick and not having to do his duties are a luxury. He may have forgotten how spoiled a young prince could be in this regard.
Terrence is allowed to see him on the fifth day, and they practically jump at the chance to just be left alone in the garden. His friend brings with him a couple of flowers from his family greenhouse and a secreted pouch of honeyed nuts. They laugh at eating them underneath everyone’s noses. It is easy to just be himself with Terrence, secret be damned and all that. In his heart of hearts, he knows he will believe him in a blink, but imparting such knowledge can be double edged. On one hand, he would have help yet on the other, if whatever plan he would form fail, if he wasn’t prepared and the end came to them nevertheless, Dion couldn’t protect him from the oncoming waves of darkness. Dion had sent Terrence away from the battlefield once, he will do it again in a heartbeat to protect him and ensure the subject of his heart survives, and perhaps to find that girl again, so she can live somewhere safer and treat others to her heart’s content.
Where is she now, though? The name Kiehl is common enough. She can be anywhere-
“Dion?”
He coughs. “Apologies,” he takes the proffered cup of water. “It seems I am a bit more tired than expected.”
“Should we go back?”
“No,” Dion stops him by his hand. “No, no need. Just… stay here. I haven’t heard how your week have been. You must tell me,” he smiles.
That has Terrence rolling his eyes and plopping back to the grass. He starts to vent about this aunt and that uncle, about his tutors, and the suitors that are already sending letters poking about his marriage. Dion leans on the tree as Terrence chatters about, missing the proper etiquette and just snorting or chuckling that surely would have earned them a slap on the hand from the duchess.
It is nice. To just breath the air and hangs about with Terrence.
“When will you be off to the Crystalline Dominion?”
Dion stretches, then hums. “Within a fortnight,” he answers. “Hopefully I will be well by then.”
“You will,” Terrence rolls onto his stomach. “You are the dominant of Bahamut, you must be there to meet the Phoenix. I’ll pray for your health and ask for Greagor’s Breath to fill your wings.”
At that, Dion only smiles again and bumps his shoulder against his.
“As expected of a knight in training,” he teases and earns a pout from Terrence.
“Father wants me to be a knight. I rather be a dragoon,” he traces circle in the dirt.
“Then train and pass the test. I believe on you.”
He had seen how Terrence rose to the second in command, how he doggedly climbed the ranks to not only fulfill his own dream but to be with him. It aches something deep in Dion. Founder, he must find a way where to start to prevent that future to be true once again.
“Thank you,” Terrence grins. “You are the only one who believes I can do it.”
“That is because you can and you will.”
It warms Dion when Terrence looks up with bashfulness and pride.
---
A fortnight means nothing when Dion busies himself with remedial over his lessons with his teachers as he recuperates. Apparently, being sent back in time does not mean he can breeze through his practices and tests. What he has are muscle memories and repeated knowledge, what his teachers want are detailed and perfect iterations. Only Hippocrates is the one who doesn’t demand much which makes him always to stay awake and aptly listen to him the most.
Sylvester visits him more than once, nodding and grunting in approval at the renewed drive his son seems to have after his sudden spell of bad health. His big, warm hand on his shoulder is branding. And on the day the imperial retinue is to set towards Crystalline Dominion, Sylvester, much to everyone’s shock and Dion’s own, waits for him right by the hall before they each enter their own carriage.
It is interesting how Dion can’t find comfort in the plush seats, too used to the rough grounds despite his better camp in the frontline. The sight that passes them distracts him well enough though, and he sees the areas, the country side outside Oriflamme to be richer and lusher through new eyes.
People bustle near the carriage and there are carts and horses and crates being brought about with their hands. The retinue must pass the outside of a market where the crowds part for them and Dion frowns as he sees a raised platform where Bearers stand or slump as their would-be masters bargain their prizes. He closes the window and leans away from it. One of the Bearers has hair the color of wheat, an echo of the one living in the Hideaway who offered him a drink after he stepped out of the infirmary with all the confidence of a free man.
The carriage keeps on going and soon, the dense populace pitters out into forests and river banks, before opening up to wide lands of grasses and pines. Dion nods off for the better part of the journey, and stirs when the retinue shifts from full gallop to a steady pace on a paved path.
It is already sundown by now, the golden hue of the sun drenching everything in its color. Dion’s own earrings glint from it. He alights with one hand holding one of the knights, still a bit unsteady on his feet but he’ll be damned if he misses this important summit with the Phoenix. He must see him, see them together and start from there. They are the beginning of what that god wants, the ones that god needs.
There was blood, there was tears, and there was so much grief. Dion will never be able to understand those broken eyes that beg him to do the gamble.
“Please.”
Ifrit begs. No eikon ever begged a mortal, even when they are another eikon’s dominant.
The servants show him where he stays for the remainder of the week. From the boys who bring a tub and the table of oil and cloths, he knows the empire has arrived first and far earlier. The weather is in their favor and there have been no monsters in their way – just what the astrologers had told the Emperor. Sylvester does not like to be late and comes unprepared, it doesn’t grant him an edge that he can use from staking the land first. (Dion tries to put the sneering voice down – his father had turned complacent under that witch’s lies and manipulation that he hadn’t even thought twice to hand his throne to that fiend possessed being.)
As it is with needing to be presentable in front of an ally, the hours where Dion isn’t reading in his room has him surrounded by well-meaning tailors and fussing maids that keep brushing his hair and keeps him standing on the stool to make sure not even a thread on his well-cut clothes to be out of place.
By the time the ducal retinue and later on, the republic also arrived, and everyone is in a buzz to prepare for the feast at the ballroom, Dion is growing bored of the presence of the doublet and shirt that he wears with the breeches to be more constricting as they go. His boots are polished to the point of candlelight can be reflected on its surface while his hair feels both stiff and stuffy from whatever that they did to it.
Music filters through the cracks of the wide wooden door and Dion glances at the oncoming group of men walking towards him and his father and their own men. Elwin Rosfield makes for a cutting figure, sharp brows and midnight hair that frames his face. He has a humble countenance despite his sharp calmness and Dion knows under the layers of clothing lies a core of a soldier. In the hallway, his father and him exchange greetings and pleasantries, baritone voices filling the charged space where two sovereigns occupy it. Dion, too, introduces himself, and when Elwin regards him, he steps to the side to give the light to his youngest son.
Joshua Rosfield is a rosy and shy boy, obviously trembling if not for the fact he hides it well between bitten lips and twisting fingers. He is round around the cheeks with kind eyes that crinkle when he smiles and he never truly loses any of his cheeked charm as he grows older. His voice is soft but determined and they bow to each other in tandem. Dion’s own voice is high, not yet breaking into the lower tone of a man. How young they all are – boys not much younger than nine and eleven with eikons slumbering within their small bodies. Terrifying thing, Dion distantly realizes, to have so much power to be wielded.
His musing stops the second the duchess makes to stand beside Joshua, dainty hands folded in front of her with a saccharine smile that Sylvester falls for in how he nods. Dion sours at her presence. Annabella is the literal definition of pure blooded noble – tall, incredibly dressed and modestly fashioned except for the fact her simple hair would have taken hours and her jewelries are mined from the best depths of Valisthea. He can smell her rottenness from underneath her perfumed sleeves.
He replies to her curtsy with the bare politeness of his station and she just has to deal with that. Dion waits for a second before catching himself that the three Rosfields are the only ones he needs to know. If he is right, the eldest has already taken up the training of a Shield which means he won’t be with them until the feast starts. It is odd to see Joshua without his older brother after what he saw of them when he was awake. They were close, incredibly so, and would not part no matter what – jagged and scarred yet managed to be together in the end. Dion would be lying if he never felt intimidated nor jealous of their loyalty and heart to each other.
The empty space is palpable to him and Dion keeps glancing well after they enter the room and take their seats. A feast is feast, complete with the pageantry of nobilities and the exchange of gifts by the dominants which are met with adoring smiles and thinly veiled grins. It is only that when this little show is done that Dion can leave the table at the front to slink to the back, shaking off the stares that has been with him from the moment the first course is served. The white and blue of Sanbreque melds with the thick curtains and the banners of the dominion and the two nations, as soon as the music rises and the floor is filled with dancing, Dion breathes a bit easier.
He just watches the room. Back still straight and hands clasped behind but with a looser face that does not need to hold a smile. The seat at Elwin’s right is empty now and Dion seeks blond head, then clocking Joshua not too far from him. But he doesn’t focus on the boy, for there is another person right by him.
Clive Rosfield is a different feather amongst the sea of colorful flocks. He wears more black than the full redness of his brother, more leather and straps, and he is far taller but hunches a little that makes him smaller in the crowd. He keeps tapping his foot, opening and closing his grip around his glass that is just water. His fringe hides his gaze but Dion can guess they are darting for the closest corner.
He is incredibly different than the man Dion had come to know. Just a child in the cusps of being a bit older and stuck between boyishness and young adult.
And yet the moment Joshua approaches him, small fingers tugging his arm, Clive breaks into a soft smile and leans down to listen to Joshua’s whispers. Gone is the anxiousness and unsurety, replaced with a certain gentleness in how his hand pats Joshua’s back and offers his brother his glass of water.
This is the person who had stood in front of him with all the weight of the world, with blood stained skin, and with broken voice.
This is the person, the man, who had pushed his flames in a prayer and sent him back with nothing but spec of hope and trust in a comrade.
This is Ifrit’s Dominant.
A boy that everyone merely knows as the failure and the rejected son. That fought against a god so that he could build a better world.
“Clive Rosfield.”
The teen turns to him and his face shutters into primness. Joshua stands between him and Dion, a short wall of feathery fire.
Calm yourself, Phoenix. His own eikon seems to rumble in a sigh like a parent to a petulant child. I wish neither of you harm.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, the older brother of Phoenix’s Dominant. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Dion Lesage, Dominant of Bahamut and the Imperial Prince of Sanbreque,” he does a full bow and looks at Clive in the eyes. There is surprise reflected there, surprised and confusion. “I believe it will be most fortuitous to have the chance to make your acquaintance.”
This is the boy will one day grow up to be the man Dion knows. These are the brothers that will one day be the instruments of a god that they hated.
Where should he start?
This. This is where Dion should start.
With the young Phoenix and far more importantly, with the one who had defied time itself to save him from annihilation.
Clive Rosfield.
I shall start with you.