Wyvern’s Tale: A Collection of Ballads, Verses, and Laments for Dion the Bold, the Mad Prince
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They will say his birth had been foretold by holy augurs, and priests alike. The dates and times prophesied, and as the moon phases changed, an eclipse marked the arrival of Bahamut’s Dominant. A prince born to one of the high houses of Sanbreque, elevating the noble Sylvestre Lesage from his status as a second born son whose future had been within the Church or the ranks of Dragoons to that of Emperor.
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of knights and dragons, and princes fair by klytaemnestra (klytae) for solitaria
Fandoms: Final Fantasy XVI
26 Jan 2026
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Joshua goes still and quiet. He’s never met another dominant before, and certainly not one who is of a similar age.
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‘I wish to serve Bahamut, perhaps my future is written in steel and not the cloth. Sir Terence, Champion of Bahamut.’ The smile he offers Dion is sad. He shall follow in his forefathers’ steps to fight and die so that his prince is not alone in this world. He swears himself there beneath the light of the Mothercrystal, and leaning down makes sacred his vow with a kiss.
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In the hours spent apart, the pair has taken to writing to the other. Words of verse and script, and old stories of myth and legend used to convey their true feelings so that few might understand the nature of this correspondence. Dion reads the flowing script and the request only that he meet Terence at the stables dressed for riding within the hour.
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Dion wants for little, but on these summer days he is selfish, covetous of the hours spent as they quietly stroll the halls of Whitewyrm, and then stealing away into the shelter of stones, kissing Terence with soft lips that sigh and promise how they shall be friends forever. But forever is a very long time. Terence asks only that he promise him now.
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Night stretches before Dion black and tenebrous. He does not pause until he is past the waters where he and Terence swam some two days ago, nor does he dare cast a final look back to the warm lights of Whitewyrm. Were there not stories of great warriors or knights beguiled by some fleeting last glance and forever lost? He rides on further past fields of lavender and salvia with a determination, his heart beating like the call to war. He rides until the first pale light of dawn streaks across the horizon, and the nightsong of crickets gives way to the gentle warble of birds that dot about the grasses in search of insects. Dion slows his drake to look across the expanse before him. There is a farmhouse some distance away where perhaps a kind soul might offer him respite and a meal. He looks to his gloved hands and thinks of how he’d not considered how he needed rations or supplies. He’d thought only of flight, and then how easy it might be to extend his wings.
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Dion is aware of the rituals within the Greagorian faith, but many have fallen out of practice or deemed heretical by Emperors. He does not ask which this one is. If his father’s Church sees it fit, he will submit.
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There are days when the Emperor questions if the boy is his at all. Those whores had sworn it so; Sylvestre Lesage had been the only noble to lie with that beautiful harlot some nine moons before his birth. The babe had been fully formed, and nearly perfect, and no commoner might sire such a holy and blessed son. Still, as he watches that child sixteen winters passed, he questions if the boy is truly his, or a pretender. It is a gilded gift to be given Bahamut, and has ensured Sylvestre his rightful sacred claim to the throne, but he doubts. Dion is too kind, too gentle. And he looks too much like his whore of a mother, with those large doe-like eyes, and golden locks. Too soft and beautiful to be such a weapon of the Empire.
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There is no moon this night. The starlit sky hangs over Whitewyrm as if it were a funeral shroud. And all through the halls there is a hush, disarming in its quiet. There had been no screams, no wails of a newborn babe, and the blood that should have flown forth from birth had been the blackest ichor. Or so the midwife’s novice had sworn in the hours before she’d been carted away under suspicion of being a witch, or worse yet, a Bearer. There will be feasting and revelry as a celebration marks the birth of the Emperor’s second son. But tonight, the air is still.
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the helpless ecstasy of longing by klytaemnestra (klytae) for solitaria
Fandoms: Final Fantasy XVI
19 Dec 2025
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Dion stands when Terence at last takes the field. His is a feat of combat, with swords and armoured plate. He kneels before his emperor, but his eyes meet Dion’s. He lifts his head and asks, ‘May I have the prince’s favour this day?’
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They will love in another time, another place, if Greagor deems it so.
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He remembers that final kiss that night Dion had run off, given with the request that Terence find him and so he had, petitioning the Lord Commander to allow him to follow in his own father’s path to glorious death in the service of Bahamut, so that he too might find rank among his blessed soul somewhere in the hereafter. If he was unable to love Dion in this life, he would do so in the next, and however more that followed.
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It’s been a three day journey and then some from Whitewyrm. Dion is not homesick, for those halls have ceased to feel like home, but he is young. For the first time he realizes how very alone he is to be in this world of Eikons and men who make war.
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He has studied the liturgical prayers for those to follow who give themselves in the service of Bahamut. Hourly devotions of carnal pleasures.
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A Sanbrequois Winter Holiday. Overhead, a star falls, then another. On these freezing nights when the snow clouds part, the galaxy stretches on forever.
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Terence assures him he is not mad. But he fears Terence’s love has blinded him.
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To be an Eikon is a lonely existence, to be a prince lonelier still. He renounces any claim to the imperial throne for his place is among the army and not within the comfort and security of these white stone walls.
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The night air has gone still, and billowing clouds of ash linger below the sickle of the moon. They steal away onto the alure. Below the crowds have grown in revelry, but up here there is a strange peace, like the night before a siege, or a storm. Terence says as much, and then reaching a hand over, takes Dion’s within his own. His thumb traces along the jewel of a ring that bears the heraldry of his father.
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according to greagor's holy ordinance by klytaemnestra (klytae)
Fandoms: Final Fantasy XVI
27 Oct 2023
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Dion confesses he has little need of a priest to sanctify their love some weeks ago as he and Terence stroll the fields. ‘I would marry you here among the grass, with only the clouds and what wyverns soar as witness.’ But he falls to his knees then, and asks Terence to have him.
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Overhead there’s the cry of a wyvern. Dion lifts his head and thinks of what it feels like up there in the clouds, how in gentler times perhaps Eikons soared not above the smouldering wreck of a battlefield, but ones of grass and wildflowers, where wyvern tails once grew. In those days long before his father, or his father’s father, if times without war ever existed.
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