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Chapter Text

I.

Wade stared in disbelief at the chocobo who had come crashing through the brush and found both him and his injured charges. Ambrosia nudged at the Lord Marquess’s back with her broad beak and crooned softly when he did not stir.

“Ambrosia…” Wade breathed and let the head of his axe hit the soft earth. What were the chances? Where had she been when the fortress was destroyed?

The steed appeared unharmed, if a little dirtied, and seemed insistent on waking the Lord Rosfield from his slumber if the persistent pecking meant anything.

“Kweh!” Ambrosia cried loudly and fluttered her wings. The bird took two small steps toward Wade and angled her head back down to peer at Clive, then back to Wade.

“I haven’t tried to wake him, yet!” Wade defended. “What if he does…whatever that was, again?”

Ambrosia flapped her wings a few times and chirped at him…indignantly?

“Look, we need to get them somewhere safe,” Wade said. “Can I…?”

Ambrosia was very tolerant during the process of awkwardly maneuvering two unconscious men onto her back – she even knelt to make it easier for Wade to accomplish his task.

She was rather less tolerant when Wade tried to lead her east out of the thicket and away from the crimson-clad patrols he had seen cropping up around the ruined castle.

“No!” Wade scolded when Ambrosia made a few heavy steps in the opposite direction. She jerked her head to the side and he nearly lost his grip on her reigns. “The Lord Commander said there were traitors among the Shields!”

“Kweh!” Ambrosia responded. She allowed Wade to lead her a few more steps and then stopped with her full weight and the weight of both her passengers behind her denial. Her massive talons dug into the dirt.

Wade pulled and pulled, but he could not manage to make Ambrosia move one more inch.

Panting from exertion and frustrated desperation, Wade dropped Ambrosia’s reigns and braced his hands on his knees.

“You’re—you’re quite stubborn, aren’t you?” Wade asked while he tried to catch his breath. “Like your master, I should think.”

The bird wiggled victoriously and started at a sedate pace southwest with Clive and Tyler still draped across her back. Wade scrambled to follow after them. He tugged uselessly at Ambrosia’s tack; he just could not manage to force her to stop.

Wade dreaded what they would find along their journey, but resigned himself to lying or fighting or tricking his way out of whatever manner of trouble would befall them. The traitors who once he had considered part of his family, Imperial soldiers come to do them harm, or any combination of the two. Or something worse.

He held his axe and trudged alongside Ambrosia as she walked, grimly readying himself for a fight and warily keeping watch.

Ambrosia had decided that they were going back to Rosalith Castle, what Wade wanted be damned.

II.

Fire. There had been fire, and Torgal had run when his pack was in danger. Too much fire.

And when finally the fire had faded and Torgal could attempt his search, unfamiliar men smelling of threat came swarming about the castle.

He waited and he watched, and eventually the men left.

Torgal was about to make his move to search the ruins when the wind shifted and—

—the bird. There, on the air just then. The bird, two of the friendly men, and…

And…

Torgal took off running.

III.

The setting sun painted the horizon in gentle hues of yellow, orange, and pink. Jill sighed and bent forward until her forehead rested against the wide balcony railing. Her skin grew pleasantly chilled against the white stone.

Gods. How had it all gone so wrong?

She recalled Joshua’s tears and winced. She felt so much sympathy for her friend, and so much empathy, and she, herself…

How much loss would Jill be forced to experience? How much more would be taken from her? She took hold of the railing with both hands and gripped it so tightly her knuckles went white. She breathed and the air fogged, but certainly it must simply have been a cooler evening than she had initially thought.

Joshua had finally managed to fall back asleep, and the Archduke was still off making strategies with the Lord Commander. Jill wished he had been with Joshua while he was experiencing so much grief, but…

Jill could count on one hand the number of times she had been comforted by her father when she was afraid or sad or just needed someone around. There was a supreme loneliness in being the child of the Silvermane; the people had to come first. It appeared that was true in Rosaria, as well.

She lifted her head and stared off to the distance where the moon had just risen above the furthest castle wall. It had been full the night before, and now just the barest sliver was missing.

Metia had just appeared in its place beneath the moon when a commotion rose at the gates of the castle. Jill startled and watched a harried page sprint through the gates, through the Down Gardens, and into the audience chamber as though pursued by a horrible beast.

A shrill, familiar yipping just managed to reach Jill’s ears and she picked up the hem of her dress so it would not hinder her while she ran off to find from where it originated.

IV.

Portraits and tapestries and sconces and chamber doors passed by in a blur. Elwin would not have been able to recount anything he saw on his path, anyway, so single-minded was he in his quest.

Alive. Alive. Alive? Truly?

Could Elwin hope? Did he dare?

Rodney ran right at his side with all the same desperation, all the same need to know. Elwin’s dear friend was silent, for there was nothing to say. The two of them would see with their own eyes the truth of the matter.

They were not to be disturbed in their strategizing unless it was an emergency – a true emergency, and four Shields had pursued the young page through the castle doggedly until he had erupted into the audience chamber declaring that the Lord Marquess’s mount had returned to Rosalith Castle. And not only that – she was attended by a Shield, the pup Torgal, and she bore two injured men upon her back.

And one of them was Elwin’s son.

Alive?

How?

Elwin had divested himself of hope after the first scouts returned from Phoenix Gate earlier in the day, resigned himself only to the cold comfort of being able to lay his son to his final rest.

The exhaustion of the day had dragged at Elwin’s shoulders for hours, but as he raced through the corridors and to the gates, he felt only light.

Founder, let it be true.

They pressed on through the castle and drew ever closer to discovering with certainty the veracity of the page’s claim.

V.

“My deepest apologies, My Prince, but I have been instructed to prevent anyone from entering,” the Knight said and bowed deeply.

Joshua frowned.

The Knight was denying him entry. But just beyond the door guarded by the Knight of the Undying was…

Joshua did not know how he knew, but he knew. The knowledge had woken him from a sound sleep. Just beyond that door…

Warm air shuffled and stirred and lifted the edges of his clothing, tossed his hair about. Joshua needed to enter the room, which meant the Knight was only a barrier between him and his goal. Wings extending, invisible in the stuffy corridor air.

Obstacle. In our way.

“Allow me entry,” Joshua demanded. “That is an order. I am the Phoenix, and you will obey me.”

“We have been advised that this room contains a potential threat,” the Knight replied, though he did appear apprehensive of denying Joshua’s command.

Not a threat. Never a threat.

“You will allow us through,” Joshua said calmly, though it sounded as though two hundred spoke at once. The shadows in the corridor grew long, and the flames in wall sconces flickered and elongated. Cast on the wall behind him - the towering, threatening, menacing silhouette. “Or we will end the Undying before the sun is risen on the morrow.”

The Knight paled, bowed again, and stepped away from the door without meeting Joshua’s eyes.

Joshua pushed open the door.

VI.

noʎ punoⅎ ǝʌɐɥ ǝϺ

He dreamed of being three stories tall and reducing to cinders all unfortunate enough to cross his path.

He dreamed of wreaking havoc untold upon the halls his ancestors had built and which had endured centuries of wear, until he came along.

He dreamed of stone crumbling in his grasp and hungry flames and curling smoke that choked the light of the moon.

He dreamed.

Until, of course, he didn’t.

He was returned to consciousness between one breath and the next – a scratchy, dry thing that ached in his throat and nose like he had spent a day breathing campfire smoke. By the flames, he hurt all over and his eyes felt swollen and itchy.

Clive’s too-heavy eyelids finally opened, and he wondered if he still was dreaming, for what first he saw was not the fortress of Phoenix Gate but the healing rooms in Rosalith Castle.

How had he come to arrive home?

The sun had long set if the darkness outside the window was any indication, and the room was lit with soft lanterns that cast gentle yellow and orange about the furnishings.

A weight upon his left foot had him looking down, and he saw Torgal’s tiny head pillowed on his instep with the rest of his body curled up next to his ankle. The pup slumbered on, little paws twitching minutely in his rest.

A shifting across the room snatched Clive’s attention and he looked up to see a child curled up in an armchair. Clive’s copy of the Saint and the Sectary rested loosely in what once would have been a desperate grip, but one which had relaxed when the boy had fallen asleep.

Clive spied his brother’s golden hair. The silver cuff on his left ear glinted in the flickering lamplight.

“Joshua…” Clive breathed quietly. Joshua was alright! He and Clive both were, and they were back in Rosalith.

“He has scarcely left your side.”

Clive cast his gaze to his right and stuttered out a hushed greeting. “Fath—Your Grace!”

To Clive’s eye, the Archduke appeared tired. Deep shadows had made themselves at home beneath red eyes. Disheveled. Upset.

“Your Grace, what’s happened?” Clive asked urgently.

Elwin Rosfield simply shook his head, drew Clive into his arms, and held him tightly.

“It matters not,” Elwin said. “You are safe. Joshua is safe.”

˙˙˙ssǝusnoᴉɔsuoɔun uᴉ uǝʌƎ

What was that?

Clive drew back from his father and looked about the room. He found nothing, but when he turned back to Elwin the man appeared deeply saddened.

“Father?” Clive asked.

“It’s time to wake now, my son,” Elwin said.

VII.

“Commander!”

Incessant knocking at the door of his office. Of course, the strategy meeting for the newest cohort of Bearers being sent to the front at the Rift – he would need to be present for that.

When Clive opened his eyes, he found himself staring down at the carefully coded missives he would need to send off to Wade and Tyler on the morrow.  

“A moment!” Clive snapped at the door-knocker and was pleased when the thudding stopped.

He rubbed the grit from the corners of his eyes and stood from the desk. He must have fallen asleep, he mused as he drew the formal jacket about his shoulders and returned his broadsword to its place on his hip.

Clive had dreamed, most likely, and from how completely alright he felt, it must not have been a nightmare. It might even have been a nice dream.

He made his way to the door.

He wondered what his dream had been about.

˙ʇuǝɹǝɟɟᴉp ou ǝq plnoʍ uoᴉsnlɔuoɔ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɥʇ 'ʎluᴉɐʇɹǝɔ 'ǝʌᴉʇɐuɹǝʇlɐ u∀

Chapter Text

YEAR OF THE REALM 860

It was strange, how events seemed to rhyme with one another.

For the second time in as many moons, Elwin Rosfield tucked Joshua into bed and loathed the circumstances that had resulted in his having to do so. Despite his best efforts, Joshua still carried the astringent aroma of smoke about him. A high-pitched whine from the bedside had Elwin casting his gaze to the floor.

Torgal's bright yellow eyes stared back up at Elwin, and he scooped up the pup without a second thought and settled him next to Joshua's sleeping form. The hound shoved his head beneath Joshua's hand and curled into a tight ball, watching Elwin with that same piercing gaze.

Elwin sighed.

Well-behaved and loyal to a fault - that was the pup Clive had trained and for which he had cared. The boy had been so taken aback when Elwin presented him with the dog and so hesitant to accept the responsibility of his care that Elwin thought he may have made a mistake. But Torgal had taken to Clive so quickly and life in the castle with little incident, and the quiet joy on Clive's face when he thought no-one was watching assured Elwin that he had chosen correctly.

"Watch over him for me, hmm?" An echo of the same request he had made when handing the pup off to Clive for the first time. Elwin swallowed against the tightening in his throat. He rubbed a thumb over the soft fur of Torgal's head. "He needs you."

Torgal snuffled a little at the attention but soon closed his eyes.

Joshua twitched minutely in his sleep and Elwin laid a hand on his youngest son's forehead.

Would that Sylvestre had not betrayed Rosaria. Would that Joshua had not been chosen by the Phoenix. Would that Clive had not perished that night…

But alas.

Elwin ensured the bedclothes were securely tucked about his son before exiting as quietly as possible. The cavernous corridors of Rosalith Castle were silent so late in the evening; attendants, servants, and Knights alike had settled their duties for the day and a sort of peace had bled into the white stone walls. It was the sort of peace like the pause between one exhale and the next inhale, but it was a peace, nonetheless.

The Archduke of Rosaria took his time meandering back to his quarters, taking in tapestries made dull in the glow of wall sconces. When he passed Clive's chambers, he did not look at the door.

,

“Rodney,” Elwin greeted, slightly surprised.

The Lord Commander was awaiting Elwin's arrival just outside the doors to the archduke's chambers, his expression unreadable.

“Your Grace,” Rodney replied shortly. “My apologies for the intrusion, but I would address with you a matter most important.”

“Speak, Rodney,” Elwin invited with a gesture to indicate that Rodney should follow him inside the room.

Once inside, Elwin motioned to the chairs beside the writing table, but his Lord Commander remained standing, tense.

“You knew,” Rodney accused, and in his voice was something harder than diamond.

“I do not take your meaning,” Elwin said warily, guarded. “And I do not much favor your tone.”

Rodney paused for several moments and breathed.

“Joshua’s disregard for his orders,” Rodney said, “you knew he would not be able to control himself. You did not want him to. You knew he would continue to Ironholm and destroy the city. You were counting on him removing the Iron Kingdom as a threat.”

Through muddled tiredness and pain and mourning, a bitter lash rose in Elwin's throat. This, now? After all things, this? And from his dearest friend, no less?

“I did nothing of the sort,” Elwin retorted, knife-sharp, “and the accusation borders on treason—”

“I know your heart, Elwin Rosfield,” Rodney spat, cutting off his sovereign, “and I know it is heavy with grief, but you have already lost one son—”

Pain, redoubled. His eldest son's cold corpse somewhere in a ruined fortress. Elwin nearly staggered, but he braced himself on the writing table and leveled Rodney with a glare.

“—and you may consider taking greater care with the one you have left!” Rodney continued. “He is but a boy, and his actions will haunt him till the end of his days!”

“War will be shortly upon us, Rodney, and Rosaria shall avail itself of all its assets. I cannot ignore the strategic might of the Phoenix. Not even when he is my own son,” Elwin said and gritted his teeth against the revelation that haunted his heart: “I cannot spare him from the horrors of war – I cannot spare him from his fate any more than I could forestall the fate of my father!”

Taken before his time was not the most accurate way of describing the demise of the previous Archduke Rosfield, but it was the gentlest. It was the easiest. It hurt the least. Joshua was doomed to the same conflict, the same tribulations, the same pain. Whether his fate came by the point of a spear or the slow creeping of a body turned into stone…

There was nothing Elwin could have done to save his father.

There would be nothing Elwin could do to save Joshua.

Joshua would do his duty for Rosaria, that much was blindingly clear. And unless war claimed Elwin first, Elwin may have to bury…

Elwin may have to…

The anger dripped out of his heart. His eyes stung. He cleared his throat, all but slumped into the closest chair.

Rodney was silent.

“Would that I could take the burden of the Phoenix’s might upon myself. Would that I could keep him safe from those who mean to do him harm,” Elwin muttered. “I believed us safe within Rosaria. I believed us safe within our own ranks. My complacency was our undoing. Were I not so arrogant, Clive may not have…” His voice went weak and cracked.

At the mention of Elwin’s eldest son, Rodney cast his eyes to the floor.

The Lord Commander spoke: “Forgive me. I did not intend to—” 

Elwin held up a hand to cut Rodney off. “I know.”

Rodney sat heavily in the chair beside Elwin, and there was a measure of silence.

“He was brilliant, that boy,” Rodney offered. “Took to the blade like nothing I have ever seen.”

Elwin’s smile was wavering. “Better than me?”

“Oh, by far. Unlike his father, he never stumbled over uneven tread in the bailey or cried over a splinter,” Rodney cast a pointed look at Elwin and was rewarded with a huff of almost-laughter. Rodney nodded. “Something else, he was. Brave. Honorable. Gracious in victory and in defeat. Your pride is warranted.”

“He—” Elwin’s throat seized, and when he continued it was fast and strangled, “He knew—Clive knew, right? He knew that I was proud of him?”

Founder, what Elwin would not give to have one more moment that night. One more instant before it all went wrong. Time for one more phrase. 

Rodney’s hand found a place on Elwin’s shoulder. “Of course he knew.” 

Breath passed in and out of Elwin’s lungs and he did not feel it. 

“There was nothing we could have done. That, we must believe,” Rodney said quietly and met Elwin’s eyes resolutely, “else guilt’s knife will carve us to our bones.”

And indeed there was little place for guilt in war. 

Elwin steadied himself and returned to Rodney’s earlier accusation.

“I did not predict that Joshua would disregard my command,” Elwin said truthfully, “but that he did is…It is one less problem to consider. Our focus can be wholly on the Empire, now.”

The Lord Commander stared at his friend.

“What Joshua did - it was cruel,” Rodney stated. 

“Is a sword cruel?” Elwin asked.

Rodney balked. “Your son is not a blade for you to brandish at your enemies!”

Elwin nodded. Poured himself a finger of the strongest alcohol in reach.

The child who always heeded his parents, who had beheld chocobo chicks with bright eyes, who had only ever wanted the approval and admiration of his older brother. No, that boy was not a blade. But then, mere boys could not do what Joshua had done at Ironholm.

For all that it felt like sacrilege, Elwin cursed the Phoenix - cursed the Eikonic might in the blood of House Rosfield. Joshua should have been able to grow up without the burden of its fate. He should have been allowed normalcy. He should have been allowed happiness and peace; he and Clive, both.

Yet Rosaria’s enemies were numerous, and they meant to kill and take and burn the land that the Phoenix protected. Joshua was a boy of ten years, but he was chosen by the unassessably ancient firebird.

“He should not be,” Elwin agreed, “but I fear a blade is what he must become.”

Chapter Text

YEAR OF THE REALM 861

To the northeast of Rosalith Castle, Sanbrequois and Rosarian soldiers slumbered in slapdash war camps, awaiting the light of dawn to signal the start of the battles once more. The narrow, fragile land bridges spanning the length of the Rift were beginning to crumble from repeated use. 

In Rosalith proper, however, it was difficult to tell that there was a war on, at all.

The gentle light of the waxing half-moon shone down on the balcony where Jill Warrick sat and waited. The night was cool, bordering on cold, but Jill was unbothered. 

Joshua had retired earlier at his bedtime. Jill, however…

“You wished to speak with me, Jill?” Lord Commander Murdoch said as he found Jill on the balcony.

“I do. I…” 

Jill could not force out more words. 

Thankfully, the Lord Commander was understanding. 

“Take your time,” Rodney said and leaned against the balcony railing to stare at the darkened Down Gardens below.

It took several moments before Jill worked up the courage.

“What is to be done with me?” Jill asked quietly, proud that her voice did not tremble.

“I don’t take your meaning,” Lord Murdoch replied. 

“I…” Jill closed her eyes and saw only the terrible spires of ice scraping the blue sky. Blood. Ash. 

Death.

Settle yourself, child.

Jill flinched. Stay out of my head!

“The marketplace,” Jill managed to say, “what I did there…”

Rodney made a contemplative sound and, to Jill’s surprise, lowered himself to the ground and tipped his head back until it rested against the balcony railing.

“I see,” Rodney acknowledged. “You feel guilty.”

“How could I not?!” Jill cried, the wave of anger and sadness finally cresting, “I killed—they were—!”

Artisans, probably, if they lived in the market quarter. She imagined they crafted fine pottery, wove graceful patterns out of wool, bent and molded metal around sparkling gemstones. And everything beautiful they could ever make with their hands, all the mastery of their trade—gone. 

Because of me.

They had families. They had to have families. People who loved them and would miss them; people who would never be able to speak with them, again. 

Jill often went walking in the quarter when her heart felt restless, with and without Joshua. She might’ve met them, might’ve smiled at them. 

“Please, just tell me,” Jill entreated Lord Murdoch, “Please, just—I’ll be beheaded, won’t I? They wouldn’t…I won’t be hanged, right? Or burned?”

Because for this to go unpunished would truly be unjust, in Jill’s eye, but she hoped that it would be quick. She’d seen hangings. She’d seen burnings. Beheading was the way to go, surely. Surely.

As though I would allow that to happen.

Stop it!

Jill’s hands clenched into fists and her tears froze into perfect, sparkling drops on her cheeks.

Across from her on the ground, Rodney sighed. He stared up at the night sky, still. “I assume you weren’t told of Archduke Elric’s first priming?”

She was a little caught off guard by the sudden change in subject. What did Joshua’s grandfather have to do with this? 

The Lord Commander looked over at Jill expectantly.

“...no,” Jill muttered after several moments.

“It was before I was born. Before Elwin was born, too, of course. But my father was there,” Rodney said, “and he told me about it. I couldn’t believe it, really; Archduke Elric was so kind to me, after all. Elric’s first priming was an accident. He was five summers old, and his parents had taken him to a play at the theater in the city.”

Jill shook her head, for she knew the city inside and out and, “There is no theater in Rosalith,” she said. 

Rodney nodded and the set of his brow was grim. “Exactly.”

“Oh.”

“It was hard to imagine, you understand. A little boy wreaking so much havoc. Especially since the man he became was strong, wise, and caring. He loved his family and his people. How could that child do such a thing?” Rodney asked.

“But it wasn’t him, it was the Phoenix!” Jill retorted, and at Rodney’s raised brow she said again, “Oh.”

“Jill Warrick. You fought for your life when it was in danger. Regardless of the totality of the outcome, you will not be blamed for it,” Rodney said. “It will be difficult to understand, for a while, but the laws of mortal men no longer fully apply to you. You are something else, now—something divine.”

Divinity. Perhaps someone divine would not blink at the cost of destroying her enemies. Someone divine would not feel cursed by the frigid stare of Winter’s Guardian. Someone divine would feel as though the old northern gods had bundled her up in a cloak of their icy might and blessed her with Shiva’s companionship.

Jill certainly did not feel blessed.

“I don’t feel divine,” Jill expressed at a whisper to the stars in the sky beyond the balcony, “I don’t feel divine at all.”

More tears brimmed over and dripped down her face, but at least they dripped this time instead of freezing.

Something soft brushed against her hand, and Jill looked down to see Rodney extending a handkerchief her way. The embroidery upon it was very fine, Jill noted after she accepted the soft fabric square. It must have been crafted by Lady Hanna.

“Have you spoken with Joshua about this?” Rodney asked while Jill dried her tears gingerly.

“I tried,” Jill admitted, “but…”

“I do my duty.”

She winced. He’d sounded so cold and matter-of-fact. And Joshua was two entire summers younger than Jill, too. It was clear that Joshua had discovered and accepted his role unquestioningly. To Joshua, his duty was a solid thing to hold onto; a niche to fill and a place to be.

Jill said as much to Lord Murdoch, who hummed in contemplation.

“It does help,” Rodney said, and something in his tone told Jill that he had significant experience in feeling this way, “having a role to perform. Sometimes. Not always, but sometimes.”

The Lord Commander’s face was somewhat haunted - darkened sorrow and pain dragged at his brow and the corners of his mouth.

But still. If having a duty could restore even a modicum of peace…

“What’s my role?” Jill asked.

Rodney shrugged. “What do you want your role to be? You were not born into the role of Rosaria’s protector, unlike the Phoenix. Far be it from us to force the mighty Shiva to bend to our will. I would imagine it would be more difficult than forcing the sun not to rise in the morning.”

An intelligent man.

I said stop!   

“My role…” Jill thought aloud.

“You could leave Rosaria and travel the realm,” Rodney offered quietly. He smiled a little at Jill, a small, hopeful thing. “You could go anywhere and do anything. Who could stop you?”

Jill could almost imagine it; leaving and going off to see where the wind could take her. Mayhap she would see Dzemekys, set her eyes upon Drake’s Tail, or explore the ruin of the Northern Territories for herself. She could imagine leaving behind any obligation put upon her in Rosaria. 

She was a Dominant. And though the Twins would attempt to corral her, what she did was up to her. 

But all the imagining of it was bitter, for if she left, what would become of Joshua?

She had full confidence in her friend’s ability to fend off Sanbreque, especially if he had the help of Titan, but Jill knew what happened to Dominants who overused their abilities. It was no secret, after all. Using aether took its toll on the body, no matter if the user was a Dominant or a Bearer.

While Jill would be far afield exploring and enjoying Valisthea - or even beyond it, if she had her way - Joshua would be suffering. What if he fell in battle, or grew too ill to defend Rosalith? 

Joshua was her friend. Jill wanted him to live a long, happy life. Not only that, though - defending Joshua had been Clive’s last act. If Jill could keep that effort from being in vain…

Something like resolve straightened her spine.

“My role…” Jill breathed out and cold vapor curled up into the night sky.

YEAR OF THE REALM 870

Jill had been planning to return to Rosalith Castle to resupply and inform Joshua of the needs of the Rosarian soldiers stationed along the border. Bahamut had been sighted on the Sanbrequois side of the Rift not a fortnight before, and as always it put the men on edge and burning through supplies more quickly.

Nothing came of it, of course - Sylvestre was either too stupid to use his most powerful weapon to its full effect, or he was planning something. Jill honestly did not know which case it was.

It must have been luck that kept Jill near enough to the Rosaria-Dhalmekia border; good luck for Jill, and bad luck for this Waloeder scum.

“Don’t move,” Jill growled, “unless you’d like to lose your ear.”

She kept her boot firmly planted on the man’s chest, and frost slowly crept along his leather jerkin where she touched him. The shining silvery edge of her rapier was tainted with his blood where it sliced through soft flesh and cartilage.

He hadn’t had the chance to draw either of his blades before Jill had knocked him to the dew-damp earth and buried the tip of her sword in the ground beside his head.

“Aye, lass,” the man chuckled - chuckled! - “Whatever you say.”

Jill scowled, offended, and opened her mouth to snap at him, but—

A spark, like Jill had taken one too many dragging steps across a rug and touched a copper sconce, but fifty times over. 

Aether swelled in the air, more like the taste of a gathering storm than anything else.

Ramuh.

Jill shifted her grip on her sword before she knew what she was even doing, angled the razor edge toward the man’s skull, bared her teeth as she glared down at him. 

“Explain yourself,” she commanded.

“Well, I was hoping to meet with the Phoenix to tell my story, proper,” the man said in good humor, despite his position, “but I s’pose I can tell it more than once. Cidolfus Telamon, at your, eh…service.”

Telamon. The Waloeder deserter?

Jill, despite the warning rocking through her soul, withdrew her blade and removed her foot from Cidolfus’s chest, allowing the man to stand.

Cidolfus straightened his clothing and lit up a cigar before extending his right hand in greeting. His eyes were mirthful and knowing. Blood dripped from his ear down to his shoulder, but he didn't seem to care.

“And you. General Warrick, I presume?”

Chapter Text

YEAR OF THE REALM 863

“A Commander of the Sanbrequois Imperial Army,” Wade shook his head even as he applauded the awarding of the first medallion for the officers on the stage. Clive was second-to-last due to his increase in rank, so they had a while. “Rather young, isn’t he?”

“Times of war make men desperate,” Tyler said quietly as the applause died down and the next round of speeches began. “And desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Clive was only eighteen and still growing in both height and knowledge. Not that Wade didn’t expect him to be an exemplary leader - he already had evidence that Clive was excellent in a command role - but that Sanbreque had truly become willing to employ one so young in so important a station…

Wade applauded again in time with the rest of the audience. They had moved on to the Captains by that point, and the speeches between awardees had grown even longer as many of the men held titles aplenty. 

“Does it have anything to do with Shiva, d’you think?” Wade asked.

If the tales of the bards could be trusted, and they usually could to an extent, the Warden of Ice had appeared in the middle of Rosalith only two years before. She’d done considerable damage to structures in the city and killed many, though her identity remained largely a secret and there was no news of the Duchy bringing any charges against the Dominant.

She’d made her first appearance on the battlefield one year before, in the spring of 862, and upended a great many preconceptions and assumptions about her power and skillset.

“Undoubtedly.” Tyler replied. “Even though we had some forewarning about her potential as a combatant, the army was not prepared at all for her abilities. Clive’s own predecessor was killed in the Battle of the Kingsfall - word has it that he fell from one of the waterfalls and was frozen in it.” 

“Your company was at that battle, right?” Wade asked. 

Tyler nodded grimly. “I’ve never seen anything like it, before. The ones closest to the frost perished nigh instantly, but those even slightly further away…” he shuddered. “The cold confused them so thoroughly they believed they were on fire. Then, of course, there were the frostbitten. I’ve no sympathy for…our enemy,” Tyler said under his breath, mindful always of his surroundings, “but such a sight nearly changed my mind.”

The Battle of the Kingsfall had long since concluded when Wade’s company arrived from the east, but he remembered keenly the aftermath. In the end, it was kinder for many of the injured to simply end their suffering there in the frozen mud. Great spires of ice had touched the skies, bloodied and dirtied. 

Clive stepped forward on the stage, and Wade turned his attention back to the goings-on of the medallion ceremony.

“...and in keeping with the highest standards of service to the Holy Empire of Sanbreque,” said the Imperial Prince Dion Lesage, “Captain Callum Welch shall be promoted to Commander. Hereafter he shall have the Sixteenth Bearer Infantry in his charge, with all rights and duties appertaining. Congratulations, Commander.” 

Tyler and Wade applauded once more as Clive was presented with a medal. The former lord marquess had to bend quite low to allow the Prince to drape the ribbon loop about his neck.

It made sense, Wade reasoned, that Prince Dion would be the one to present the medals - it was to be his empire one day, after all, and Wade wagered the boy needed practice. But still - only thirteen years old; the same age as Joshua Rosfield. 

Up on the ampitheater’s stage, Clive bowed formally and saluted the Prince in the Sanbrequois style stoically, though Wade privately thought Clive looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

“His acting skills have gotten better,” Tyler noted quietly beneath the din of the applause. “Even if only barely.”

“To the tavern again tonight, then?” Wade asked.

On the stage, Dion Lesage drew himself up to every centimeter of his thirteen-year-old stature and addressed the crowd. “By the grace of the Great Goddess, these exemplary few shall lead your comrades, your fellows, your brothers, to victory!”

More applause. Wade’s ears started to ring.

Clive’s jaw flexed minutely, only really visible to those who were searching for it. The dark blue of his eyes was iced over with a quiet, cold rage.

“To the tavern, again,” Tyler confirmed.

YEAR OF THE REALM 864

Joshua’s coronation was set to take place just days after his fourteenth birthday, in the dead of winter. The date of the event had been set long ago - war or no war, Joshua would ascend the throne as was the duty of the Dominant of the Phoenix. He had known this day was coming for a very long time.

It must have been incredibly unexpected, then, the scene that Jill stumbled upon when she came to collect Joshua from his chambers ahead of the ceremony.

When the door to his room opened, Joshua had a bag slung over his shoulder and one leg already out his window. He froze and turned to the unannounced guest in his room. He said nothing in greeting.

“I assume there is an excellent reason for this,” Jill said slowly. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

“Of course there is,” Joshua replied, “if you’ll but give me a moment to think of one. And as I do my best thinking outside, I’ll just—”

Jill’s tone was reminiscent of the manner with which someone would speak to a frightened chocobo, “Joshua, please put down the bag and step away from the window.”

“And abandon my sacred task of examining the…” Joshua paused and pursed his lips in thought, “...inspecting the façade of the palace for—”

“Joshua.”

Joshua sighed and withdrew his leg from his open window. Snow fell from the leg of his trousers to the floor, but some flakes stubbornly clung to the fabric and melted where they’d stuck. 

“I’ll help you unpack that,” Jill nodded to the bag still hanging off of Joshua’s arm, “and we can talk for a while. There’s a few bells yet before the ceremony begins. Would that be alright?”

The satchel slipped from his shoulder and fell heavily - more heavily than would a bag containing just clothing and a coin purse. It was loud in the quiet of the room, and Joshua flinched.

He breathed in and out but could barely feel it. His hands shook and he hid them behind his back.

“Perhaps not,” Jill pondered slowly while she examined Joshua’s face. “No. I shall fetch the Archduke; his counsel would do you far more service than mine.”

Jill was out the door before Joshua could even voice his protests. He did not want to see his father at that moment; not when he had just been caught trying to run from his responsibility. 

Joshua trembled slightly as he unpacked the satchel - the clothing he flung across his bedspread, the coin purse he set atop the bedside table, and the heavy book he placed gingerly on his own writing table. Gold embossed letters shone almost silver in the weak, snowy afternoon sunlight through the window. He was struck momentarily with the humor of it all - the book would have been so impractical to take with him, what with how unwieldy and bulky it was.

But he simply couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind.

Joshua sat heavily on his bed alongside the discarded clothing and waited for doom to alight upon his chambers. He didn’t have to wait very long at all.

Elwin Rosfield, Archduke for only a few precious remaining hours at that point, appeared in the doorway with a hesitant knock upon the ajar wood panels.

Joshua sighed and asked several questions with one word: “Jill?”

“Jill,” Elwin said and nodded once. He approached Joshua slowly and cautiously. “We don’t need to speak, if you would prefer not to. However, I would be honored if you would tell me what ills stalk your heart.”

Joshua didn’t trust his voice in that moment, so he simply gestured for Elwin to sit. The Archduke did so silently and patiently, which was somehow worse than fevered accusation.

It took Joshua several minutes to find the words that he could use, for how could he possibly explain? 

In the end, he didn’t really explain at all.

“I can’t do this,” Joshua said and his voice trembled. The weight of all the things he couldn’t express hung about his shoulders and neck. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. “I’m not ready, I’m…I’m sorry.”

Elwin hummed a little. “I believe I’ve told you tales of my own coronation, but I may have done you a disservice in leaving out some important details. If I may?”

“Please,” Joshua nodded and gestured for Elwin to proceed.

Elwin Rosfield took a deep breath and cast his gaze to the ceiling. 

“My father - your grandfather Archduke Elric - passed when I was all of nineteen summers old. The Undying moved to ensure that my ascension to the throne was the very next day. We’d not even buried my father, yet, and already I was Archduke and a wife was being selected for me. The importance of Rosaria’s future was too great for either the throne to remain empty or the Rosfield line to remain insecure.

“All the while I was desperately sad and afraid, for my father was gone and I would have to live the rest of my life without him. Your grandfather was the strongest man I ever knew. I believed him invincible, I think, in my heart. If death could take someone so mighty, how easily could it take someone like me? I’ve not the strength of a Dominant, not the might of the divine; I’m an ordinary man.

“With the new responsibility of the crown, everything that needed to be done, all the complexities of ruling, I…was terrified. And I was five years older than you are now,” Elwin said wistfully. 

Joshua toyed with the embroidered hem of his sleeve for want of something to keep his hands occupied. 

“How did you manage it?” Joshua asked.

“I was not alone,” Elwin replied. “I learned long ago that grief and fear are cunning beasts. They design always to rip you away from those who would help heal your heart; to make you feel small and helpless and alone. But I was not alone. And you, my son, are not alone, either.”

Elwin had had the counsel of Rodney Murdoch, the companionship of his brother Byron Rosfield, and the wisdom of the Undying, though there had been precious little other advising. Joshua would have the knowledge of the previous Archduke, his Lord Commander, all of the Undying, and his dear friend, Jill. When he concentrated very hard, he could feel the wisdom and might of the Phoenix thrum in his veins.

If anything, Joshua was in a more favorable position than his father had been.

So why did it still feel so insurmountable?

He wasn’t strong enough. He felt just as helpless and unsure as he’d felt the night everything changed, sitting in the courtyard at Phoenix Gate and staring up at the moon. Back then, though, he’d had the reassurance of his brother’s protection, the stability of the throne, and the solidity of his family. His family had had its own problems, of course, but the predictability it brought could be relied upon.

The future had been solid. Now, it was a shapeless, horrible thing made menacing and vague by the shroud of an ongoing conflict.

Rosaria would be victorious, of course; Joshua believed that. Joshua had to believe that, else the ashes of Ironholm meant nothing.

“Every man has his duty,” said Joshua, echoing the phrase Clive had said only four years earlier, but the words emerged wooden and hollow.

“All too true,” Elwin said.

The duty of the Rosfield family was to protect Rosaria by blood and fire. Archduke Elric had done that. And Elwin had followed right after, though the end of his reign would occur in only a few hours.

“What will you do,” Joshua asked, “now that your duty as Archduke has ended?”

“I intend to assist the Undying in the search for the Second Eikon of Fire. I intend to lend you my knowledge and experience whenever you require it. And I intend to finally return to a duty I have neglected for far too long — being your father,” Elwin replied.

Neglected? The Phoenix bristled and Joshua bristled, too.

Had Joshua been a boy of lesser self-control, he may have allowed the bitterness to rise in the back of his throat and spill out venomous across the space between himself and Elwin.

Neglected was too kind a term to refer to the dereliction of duty Elwin had committed, and yet it was the only word that fit. Joshua’s father had been the Archduke for years before Joshua had even been born, and though he had done his best to be there for Joshua, his first duty was to the people of Rosaria and the preservation of the duchy. 

The myriad responsibilities of Elwin the Archduke superseded the obligations of Elwin the father. Joshua’s role in the fall of the Iron Kingdom was proof enough of this inequality. The horrors he saw there...the horrors he wrought there...

On his best days, Joshua felt the Phoenix warm and comforting, draped about his shoulders like an impressive, living mantle. 

On his worst days, every touch of Phoenix fire only recalled smoke and soot - ruinous in the shadow of Drake’s Breath, bathed in blood red. He remembered feeling only as though he were falling through a never-ending sky.

Where Elwin had failed as a father, he had succeeded as a sovereign; it was a choice that Joshua did not envy his father in making, but that did not make anything any better.

Did Joshua say or explain any of this in this moment?

No.

Instead, he offered his father a wavering smile. "I hope you find your new endeavors successful and fulfilling," he said.

There was time for little other conversation or introspection; Joshua had a coronation to attend.

YEAR OF THE REALM 866

There was a truly stunning amount of fanfare to go around in times of war. Far, far too much fanfare. This was a fact that bothered Jill Warrick greatly.

She would prefer her promotion to General to be attended by only a few: Joshua Rosfield, Elwin Rosfield, and Rodney Murdoch. The Archduke would perform the swearing-in, and Elwin and Rodney would serve as the two witnesses required under Rosarian law. Little fanfare, indeed, would be just as Jill liked it. She would prefer no ceremony, no title, and no celebration, besides; the promotion was just one more accolade she’d reached on her way.

Jill would rather have the defeat of Sanbreque than a title. She would rather have a lot of things, with the Emperor’s head on a pike chief among them. The accomplishment of the rank of General was just that - an accomplishment. It was gilding the snow daisy, as it were.

Instead, her swearing-in as General was attended by as many would fit within the throne room and more - men and women spilled out the door and into the entryway, at least. The room was packed with well-meaning citizens, the men belonging to Jill’s company, and as many ranked commanders as could be spared from the front.

Jill should not have underestimated the morale boost associated with the Dominant of Shiva being promoted to General.

She knelt before the throne as so many had done before, bowed her head, and affirmed her dedication to the home she’d come to love.

“Do you solemnly vow to discharge your duties faithfully, impartially, and with nobility befitting your station?”

“I do so vow,” Jill answered.

“Do you solemnly vow to protect the innocent and act in such a manner as to maintain the peace of Rosaria?”

“I do so vow.”

“Do you solemnly vow to defend the Crown from its enemies?”

“I do so vow.”

And so on went the pledges for service, faith, and diligence, until they came to their end. 

“By my power and authority as the Archduke of the Grand Duchy of Rosaria, I promote to the rank of General the Lady Jill Warrick, Dominant of Shiva,” Joshua intoned. “Rise, General.”

The room erupted in raucous applause and cheers, and Jill couldn’t fight her wince at the sudden, harsh noise.

Jill rose and offered Joshua a bow, and he, in turn, approached and pinned a brooch to the lapel of her long, blue coat. 

“Congratulations,” Joshua said, almost inaudible beneath the din of the applause, with a wry and knowing smile.

The Archduke Emeritus and the Lord Commander approached next, each offering her their own congratulations in sequence. Jill endured the handshakes and shoulder-pats. She waved indulgently to the expectant crowd and allowed herself to be led from the ceremony to the vast dining hall for the reception.

.

Jill was in the process of gulping her first of many cups of wine when Rodney Murdoch approached with Lady Hanna resplendent in soft yellow on his arm.

"Lord Murdoch," Jill nodded and shot Hanna a warm smile, "Good evening, Lady Hanna."

"It has been far too long!" Hanna exclaimed and reached out to grasp Jill's hands. "You've been well?"

"Well enough," Jill said, and gamely did not mention that Hanna's grip on her hands was equally healing and torturous. When the woman squeezed Jill's palms one last time and then released them, Jill struggled to not sigh in relief.

Across the grand space, a dropped goblet shattered on the floor. There was a great deal of loud ribbing and mocking applause - someone had clearly been drinking even before the ceremony earlier.

"It's quite the party, General," Hanna teased, "if only you would mingle and enjoy it instead of standing in the corner!"

"If only the gathered crowd did not make the corner seem so appealing!" Jill bemoaned with as much good humor as she could manage.

"I can't imagine you've eaten anything yet?" Hanna asked, to which Jill shook her head. The Lady Murdoch brightened and declared, "Then I shall collect you a plate and return!"

Hanna pressed a kiss to Rodney's cheek and curtsied shortly in Jill's general direction before making a beeline through the crowd.

Jill loved Lady Hanna, she truly did, though she would be hard-pressed to deny that she sagged at least minutely when the attention of the good Lady Murdoch finally left her. Jill certainly did not wish to trouble Hanna with her own burdens and struggles. Not on this evening, leastaways...

“Quite the path you’ve chosen, General,” Lord Commander Murdoch mentioned easily.

His tone conferred no judgement, and yet Jill tiredly explained in response, “It was the only role that fit, My Lord.”

Lord Murdoch nodded understandingly and said no more.

It would not be forever - Jill merely needed to claim victory for Rosaria in the war, and then she could claim any role she desired.

With a deep, fortifying breath, Jill threw back the rest of her wine, drew up a smile, and braced herself for the evening’s festivities.