Work Text:
Pain lanced through his chest. His arm, brittle yet unbreaking, now felt as if it would shatter.
Simon choked out a breath, sitting up with a wheezing sound, phlegm lodged in his throat. Flames blazed overhead- no, a crystalline lantern. A dark room, and a growling exhale that cut through the ringing in his ears.
"Ratha..?" He barely managed to get the word out. The wyvern's bound gaze bore into his own, and he looked down before he couldn't stand it, gripping his wounds. He was far too aware of it, too cognizant of the searing nothingness in his crystallized arm to entertain the idea of a post-death delirium.
Why was he alive?
"You're welcome."
A voice resonated from beyond a door Simon couldn't even make out in the dark of the nearly empty room.
"I'll have you know that Her Majesty had no intention of retrieving you. Your little spat was entirely genuine. It's my foresight that's kept you breathing, so I expect some compliance to what comes next."
Just waking up from the brink, and Fiero was already going on in that conniving tone of his. Simon let himself fall backwards, wincing as his back met the rough surface of the medical bed.
"You know that our resources are particularly limited, so we have just cause to rescind them if you should act up again. Do keep this in mind."
Simon glared towards the voice, trying to get his own to work. "Didn't... act up. Promised... promised me..."
A sigh, then a pause. "Yes, the arrangement. Once again, Her Majesty had a lapse that I advised her to correct. Her decision is final all the same; clearly you performed a lapse of your own. Keep your behavior in check going forwards."
"I..." Simon began, then sank back down. There was no point in arguing. He wondered if it was safe to let his eyes flutter shut.
He supposed he'd shown ample weakness, because it was then that the door clicked open. Fiero walked in, staring down at Simon with something like contempt.
"I don't believe there's been any advancement. I'm surprised," he mused, giving Simon's arm a once-over. The flat disdain didn't leave his eyes for even a second. "But that's a good thing. You still have time for your cure, don't you?"
Simon's eyes widened.
"Oh, yes. Don't think we've called that off, now. One little hiccup doesn't change what we can do for each other, does it?"
Another strangely labored breath filled the room. Both pairs of eyes turned to Ratha V. Fiero muttered something under his breath that Simon couldn't hope to make out, then looked back to him.
"More formal matters can be settled when you've recovered. All the same, Her Majesty commands a full survey of the Sacrosancrum and information on Aenshin's whereabouts. Recon in the city of Galyad is currently underway; you'll be sufficiently healed and prepared before you're needed."
Simon made an affirmative sound, nodding as best he could. Fiero crossed his arms, glancing away.
"You'll be delighted to know that all intel reports that the Prince of Azuria is more than thriving. Quite the change of heart he's had, barreling towards the Sacrosanctum."
"Don't... don't you da-"
"Settle down. We just discussed the arrangement. No one will be touching foot at the Sacrosanctum before you, and no hands will be laid upon the Prince. I'd rather not spend all day reassuring you, so why don't we continue on?"
Simon said nothing still, gritting his teeth as pain shot up his body. His broken sounds were met with a sigh.
"So worked up over so little. If you say you understand, I can get you some more medication."
"I... hgck... I understand," Simon rasped out.
Fiero did not move.
"I understand... m-my obligations to Vermeil," Simon tried again. Fiero seemed more satisfied this time, giving him a small nod and making his way out of the room.
The door closed with a soft thud, and Simon was left to stare up at the dull crystal lighting the room. He wasn't quite sure if he was cold; he felt like shivering, but his body stayed locked in place as if in fear of hurting itself. Or maybe it was just his nerves?
He took a deep breath in, holding it for just a moment before slowly letting it out. Even that sent an ache through his ribs. He tried once more, slower, and thought he heard another breath syncing with his own. But he paid it no mind, too focused on trying to find the rhythm of in and out that wouldn't send shocks of pain through his chest.
It didn't matter. It was fine. The Prince was safe, would stay safe. It would have been easy to kill him after Simon had gone down. So it was okay. They were back on track. Vermeil was good to him. It was okay.
He just needed Aenshin. The violence he faced was a good thing, if he really thought about it. It confirmed the desperation. It meant they wouldn't mind. Wouldn't mind a bit when he flew up to Aenshin and burned it and tore those crystals off its body and made those eyes go cold and watched it crash into the earth and no one had to be so scared anymore.
All he had to do. Was kill Aenshin. Sacrifices were expected. They were okay. It was okay to hurt. Okay to feel lost and lied to. Okay to be a weapon. It meant that Aenshin would die.
His chest hurt. He stared up at the orange light above, clenching his unmarred hand. He didn't flinch when the door opened again.
"Standard pain alleviation. Just a pill," Fiero said curtly. It took a few moments for Simon's attention to flicker back over to him, and a few moments more for him to sit up. He went into the best gracious bow he could, almost sighing in relief when he felt the pill drop into his hand. This was routine enough; he'd done it for a decade. Without another word, Fiero turned and left him alone once more.
The bowing motion had hurt, but it hardly mattered. Simon lifted the pill to his lips, letting saliva gather in his mouth before swallowing it down. Then he settled back once more, unable to do anything else but stare up silently. Walking still felt out of the question, and there was little point in doing so. He was more than certain that the door was locked from the outside, and the idea of wandering around shirtless exposed to the cold of Vermeil's Deathdrift certainly didn't appeal anyways.
All he had were his thoughts. He let his eyes close again, almost expecting another interruption. He was always thinking about it, really. Even when he was laying under the shade of the loop's golden tree or soaring the clear Azurian skies with Fawn, he was always tensed for another summons, another lead, the lingering mantra of how he'd finally get Ratha's talons into Aenshin and end the nightmare that loomed over everything.
He tried not to think about Fawn. He tried not to think about the warm sun on his skin, about the man who'd sit with him under that shade and smile down at him, reaching for his hand and being subtly, painfully guided to hold Simon's right, never his left. He tried not to think about how that smile, unwavering, would never turn to questions, to suspicions, to demands for compliance and intel.
He just tried to think about Aenshin. About how that smile would finally falter when he heard everything it had done, how he'd take Simon's hand once more and help him. He had to. He wouldn't let the Prince linger on his fall, he couldn't afford to see that smile fade for long. He'd listened to Simon's last request; Simon hoped with everything he had that the Prince would listen to just one more.
Because the Prince was kind. Too understanding, too naïve. His heart so open to forgiveness. Would he forgive Aenshin? Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe that horror, that betrayal to nature would finally be enough to sway his mind.
...Would he forgive Simon?
He didn't want to think about it. He just had to think about Aenshin. About a cure. Nothing else. Nothing else for now, Vermeil didn't want him thinking of anything else. Vermeil wanted him to focus on that power, on battle-binding, on his own betrayal to nature and the Prince would surely understand, he'd understand every sin that went into that armor and exactly what Simon had done and told them, but he had to he had to kill Aenshin and finally end this and nothing would be wrong if Aenshin hadn't ruined everything he wouldn't be here he wouldn't be thinking about this she wouldn't be gone he wouldn't have had to hurt-
He pressed his hand against his face, an agonized sound escaping him. Anything else, he had to think of anything else. It was so quiet in here, no sun, only that orange light above, staring down at him like that mindless eye. How much time had passed? Had he fallen asleep? He didn't know.
His body felt better, at least he thought so. His bandages had been undone. Was he recovering? Someone had asked about keeping food down. He couldn't remember eating much of anything, but he'd stood up, maybe? Or had he just gone back to sleep? What had he been doing? Would he give results? Would he provide proper service to Vermeil this time, just as he owed?
"Of course," he said, and only at the slight rasp in his throat did he realize that he'd responded to a question, not thought it.
He really must have lost track of himself, then. He turned his attention down to the armor in his hands, slowly beginning to put it on. Gloves that ended themselves in sharp metal claws. Countless belts and straps, tight against his frame. Not a hint of Vermeilian gold anywhere, just a voidlike ebony with silver bolts wedged into scale-like plating. He clasped his hand shut, expression darkening as Ratha V moved closer. He didn't want to think too hard about what he looked like in something like this, bound as he was.
The sound of shifting stone filled the room as a larger gate opened, fit for Ratha V to exit through. Simon didn't give a glance to the Vermeilian soldiers at the sides, merely taking his place on Ratha V. The moment he felt a gust of wind on his face, Ratha V took off. A grey and crystalline haze hung in the air as always, parting as Ratha V's wings cut through the stagnant drift.
He didn't bother looking up to the sky. It'd be some time before he got to see the sun.