Chapter Text
What a great fucking mess we’ve made of this one, Cid thought, staring at the devastation in front of them.
Clive’s, or, rather, his eikon’s battle with Benedikta had spared no thought nor mercy for the landscape it took place in. The once peaceful, green reaches of Dragon’s Aerie were now charred and smoking, marked with gaping craters and smoking rock. Even as he watched from his place atop a hill, Torgal at his side, ground continued to crack and minerals shifted, throwing clouds of dust up into the air to mix with the ash and smog that permeated the area.
“Well, Torgal, what’s say we see if he’s still kicking, hmm?” He spoke gamely to the wolf, pausing to cough blood into his jacket as sparks of levin from priming continued to shudder through him.
Torgal, that loyal hound, barked softly at him, his golden eyes gleaming with intelligence and hesitation. A smart creature, he was, and wary of approaching what his instincts told him was a larger, more dangerous predator than even he. But, Cid knew, his loyalty to his first friend, his true master, would overrule even his wild instincts, and guide him to Clive’s side in due time.
Much like Cid himself, he supposed.
Sighing, he began the arduous task of pulling his creaking and protesting bones down from his perch, glaring balefully at Torgal as the hound bounced past him. “Oh, aye, mock the old man, would ya? Just like the rest of the lot, you are,” he muttered, groaning as the rock crumbled beneath his grip and threatened to give way as he skidded and climbed his way down, heading for the very center of the largest crater. The smog was heavier, here, weighing down the air and underlining every breath with the bitter tang of ash, of blight. Still, Cid and Torgal forged on, the man relying on the dog to lead him towards his destination, unable to see much in the density around them.
Torgal gave a sudden woofing grrowr! and took off, the wolf’s magnanimous tail wagging ferociously as they chanced upon a limp form splayed on the cracked ground. Cid picked himself up into a reluctant jog until he reached the dog and his master, bending low upon his knees to get a better look at the unconscious man. “Oh, Clive. What’ve you done to yourself now?”
Clive was beat to hell and back. Purple and black bruises ranged up and down his muscular arms and the curvature of his back, trailing across his rib cage and down his legs. Gouges that stretched across his chest and shoulder bled sluggish, and Cid would be willing to be there were some on his back, too. Garuda was a merciless opponent, no matter the odds, though he would think that Clive and his eikon had given just as good as they got, based on how Benna’s body had looked.. Though, he would certainly prefer to think of other things than the cooling corpse what had once been of a member of his pack, someone he had cared a great deal about, and still did, in many ways. Even though he would never be able to do right by her again, he supposed.
No time to be a sentimental old fool, he sighed to himself, reaching out to rest a hand on Clive’s jugular to take his pulse. Tarja hadn’t managed to cram much medical knowledge into the thick and overflowing skull he already obtained, but checking the man’s pulse and feeling his temperature were well within his admittedly limited skillset. Here, Cid frowned. Even unconscious Clive’s pulse was fast and thready, fluttering weakly in his throat as heat absolutely radiated from his skin. Maybe not so uncommon for a dominant of fire, but certainly different from his normal baseline temperature, and doubly so strange for a man so deeply unconscious.
Even stranger was the scent radiating from the man. Clive was a beta as far as Cid knew; unmovable and unconcerned by scents, and possessing nothing but the faint clean scent of a beta. Cid had a strong nose even amongst alphas, and he had never smelled anything like what Clive was letting off, particularly from a beta. But, still, he supposed there were bigger problems to deal with; it wasn’t as though he could do much for the man out here, in the ass-crack of Imperial territory. It would have to wait until he could get the man into Tarja’s clutches. Which, as it seemed, posed his biggest challenge.
How in Greagor’s bloody name was he supposed to get Clive, a hulking caricature of muscle, brawn, and reticence, back to the Hideaway all by his lonesome? Cid was strong, but he was nothing compared to the pure muscle Clive had been shaped into. And that wasn’t accounting for the weakness in his lungs and limbs and half-petrified arm; priming exacted a toll on him, no matter how dire and demanding the situation had been. Still, he couldn’t find it within himself to regret it. Clive’s eikon had been entirely in control of the poor lad and was obviously frightened, forced to throw itself face-to-face with Garuda’s fury and unable to tell friend from foe after the fact. Ramuh’s…electrifying presence had been a necessary evil to ensure he, Clive, and the bloody dog survived the clash if nothing else.
With a sigh he bent to scoop the man into his arms, groaning softly as his knees popped and his spine cracked. Clive may have been half-starved under all that armor - the Imperial Army was not known for providing any of its fodder, even its elite assassins with adequate provisions - but what weight he did have was pure muscle, and Cid could feel every inch of it weighing him down.
“C’mon, Torgal. Let’s go home, boy,” he sighed, turning to follow the hound as he barked once again and loped off in the general direction of the Hideaway, Cid following slowly and laboriously behind with Clive’s unconscious form held securely in the cradle of his arms.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Cid stood in the darkened reaches of the Hideaway’s gaol, staring down at the limp man that lay spread across the flimsy bed available in the cell. A torch flickered faintly just outside the bars, giving just enough light for Cid to see the frown lines on Clive’s face, his eyes fluttering unsteadily below closed lids even as it seemed his body was making a valiant attempt to wake him.
He had been tempted to chain the man. Clive was a walking paragon of contrition and guilt, of sonder and anguish. Cid worried what his reaction would be when he awoke, outraged and out of control as he had been during his battle with Benedikta and later Garuda. He had a duty to the people of the Hideaway, to keep them safe, to provide them shelter and home and hearth. Clive’s eikon was startlingly powerful and could level the place in minutes, he was certain.
But it felt wrong to confine Clive. The man had suffered long and well in the Imperial army, and Cid knew from how he normally avoided the gaol at all costs that Clive had likely had many, many run-ins with chains and imprisonment and all manner of internment. It left a bitter tang on Cid’s tongue and a slough of anxiety down his throat. It made him feel as though he had never changed from the man he had been under Barnabas’ thumb, the austere and cold Lord Commander who cared for nothing but himself and the thrum of adrenaline and levin in his veins.
Still, warred between duty and his own feelings, Cid left the chains off for now. Clive showed no signs of waking, and it would be easier for Tarja to examine him without them. He could always shock the man unconscious again if he awoke violent and furious; Ramuh had had little trouble knocking the fire eikon on its ass once Cid had fully primed. Despite being fueled by rage and confusion, the eikon had still seemed like a bumbling pup compared to the many years Cid had spent mastering Ramuh’s power and deepening his connection to the eikon.
Cid turned and left the dark cell, striding quickly up the creaking stairs and nodding to the bailer standing at the top of them where he had requested the man to go after hauling Clive in. “Mind to keep an ear out for him while I fetch Tarja? I doubt he’ll stir, but you’d do best to stay up here and give me a shout if you hear anything strange.”
The wiry man gave him a disgruntled nod, seemingly dissatisfied at being uprooted from his normal haunt but too respectful of Cid to do aught about it. “Aye, sir. I’ll keep my ears sharp.”
“Good man,” Cid clapped him on the shoulder and made his way to the longer staircase that would take him up to Tarja’s kingdom, ignoring the curious eyes he could feel on him from the other residents. Cid the Outlaw, the illustrious leader of the Hideaway, rescuer of bearers, dragging on unconscious, singed, bloodied branded man into the gaol just mere days after bringing the fellow into the settlement? It had certainly caused some unrest. Otto would not thank him for that later.
Stopping outside the wooden door that led to the infirmary, he was surprised to hear the low murmur of voices from within. A perfunctory knock on the door and he was opening it, stepping into the darkened room and letting the door bang shut behind him. A low lantern flickered over Tarja’s desk, but the woman was nowhere to be seen upon first look. “Tarja?” Cid rumbled, unwilling to risk the healer’s wrath by venturing further into the room without permission.
“Cid?” she called back, the tense line of irritation already present in her voice. “I’m with a patient right now. It’ll have to wait.”
“Afraid it can’t, love. Not unless we want to risk the roof coming down on us,” he sighed, aching, suddenly, for a cigar and the peace and quiet of his solar.
“He can come around,” a sudden voice broke the air, unfamiliar but clear and crisp and accented. Cid raised an eyebrow, surprised. He wasn’t aware the lass, Jill, Clive had called her, had awoken, though it had perhaps not been long, based on the way Tarja was acting. “I don’t mind.”
“As long as you’re sure, lass,” Cid said, striding towards the curtained off beds and around the cloth hanging before Tarja could utter another word, stepping to rest against the wall and looking to the side at the bed where Jill lay, his absent physiker standing next to her with a myriad of potions and poultices arrayed on the low table next to the bed.
The girl looked worse for wear, still, certainly. She seemed naturally pale, like many folks of the Northern Realm, but in the dim light of the infirmary she was almost ghastly. Mottled bruises stretched down her arms and a bright red welt was visible on her right cheek, ostensibly from being struck by one of those Ironblood barbarians, Cid was sure. Any other wounds were hidden by the blanket covering her, and Cid made careful point to look relaxed and uninterested. The last thing the lass needed was to think he was ogling her; Gregor knew what kind of trauma she had experienced in her captivity and he dreaded to trigger any of it for her.
He took a gentle whiff of the air, trying to parse through the bitter flavor of herbs in the air, the faint metallic tang of blood, and the dull fragrance of Tarja’s clean, inoffensive beta scent. The sharp bite of ice bled onto his tongue, accompanied by the airiness of mountain fog and the simple flower of jasmine. It was a nice scent, all told, but overlaid by the pungency of alpha above all else. A bit surprising he hadn’t detected it earlier, to be fair, but the battlefield in the Velkroy had been a desecrated landscape of bodies, gore, and dust, and had hidden practically everything else behind its musk.
“Cid the Outlaw, at your service, lass,” he dipped his head briefly, crossing his arms to resume his relaxed lean against the wall as the regal woman peered at him with discerning blue eyes.
“Jill,” she said, “but you already knew that.”
“Aye, he acknowledged, “but still nice to hear it from the source. Your…friend, told us.”
“Tarja tells me Clive’s here?” she spoke quietly, but he could hear the thread of hope, of disbelief, within. He wagered it would seem nothing short of a miracle, hearing a man she had thought was dead for 13 long years had helped to beat her unconscious and then subsequently rescued her, and was here in the Hideaway to boot.
“He is. Unconscious, at the moment, mind you. And not particularly well besides,” he admitted. “That’s why I’ve come to borrow our esteemed physiker, if she’ll spare me a bit of her time?” he flashed a wide smile at Tarja, despite the nerves prickling at him. Every moment he left Clive to himself he grew more concerned with the state of the man himself and his precious Hideaway, though he was unreasonably anxious, if he would admit it to himself. His instincts were stirred, and he could feel them snapping away at his normally iron self-control.
“Unconscious? What’ve you done to the poor boy now, Cid?” Tarja groaned, straightening from where she was securing some bandages over a gash on Jill’s arm. “Will you be alright if I go check on that idiot, Jill?”
“I think so, thank you, Tarja,” she flashed the physiker a polite smile, every inch the proper noble she was before being taken prisoner. “But what’s wrong with him exactly?”
“I, ah, well, if I didn’t know any better, lass, I’d say he was presenting,” Cid admitted. All the symptoms matched up a little too well; the raging fever, the strange scent, the absolute discomfort the man was in despite being unconscious. Presenting was hardly comfortable at any age, mind, but the older the individual, the larger the toll it took on the body. “But he’s apparently also a dominant of fire, so that could have a lot to do with it, as well.”
“He’s a what?” Tarja asked incredulously as Jill let out a sharp gasp of surprise.
“Clive’s the second dominant of fire that appeared at Phoenix Gate?” Jill whispered. “Then that means he’s the one who….oh, Clive,” she sighed, closing her eyes tightly. Cid did not begrudge them their disbelief. He would be hard-pressed to believe it himself had he not seen it in front of his own gods-be-damned eyes.
“Aye, that he is. Watched him tear Garuda apart with my own eyes,” he admitted. “Though I don’t think he was in control then anymore than he probably was at Phoenix Gate, lass. I think he was just scared and his eikon was finally awake enough to react again. Though we saw some strange figure that seemed to trigger it in him, too. Something to look into later, perhaps.”
“He’s…presenting, you said? Do you know what he is?” Jill asked desperately.
“I’m not even sure that’s what it is. It might just be the result of using that damned eikon of his. But he did smell a little strange, and he’s never had any sort of scent before this at all, not to me, at least. And I’ve got a pretty sharp nose, meself,” he tapped himself on the nose, getting a slight smile from Jill before her expression settled into a more serious one.
“You’ll let me know, though? When you find out?”
“Of course, Jill. Not to worry.” he assured the girl, though he couldn’t help but find her desperation odd. Clive would surely make a fine alpha or an interesting omega. Perhaps the girl was simply interested in him herself, though Cid hid a pang of disappointment at the thought. Alpha-alpha relationships were difficult though doable, and he was certain she would have an easier time of it if Clive ended up an omega.
“Well then, Lady Tarja, if you would?”
“Alright, alright. Let me grab some supplies. Greagor only know how he’s managed to fuck himself up now,” the fiery-haired woman sighed, leaving Jill’s side to cross to her desk and amass a sizable pile of bandages, potions, and a small pouch Cid knew to contain the needles and thread she used to stitch her patients back together.
“I’ll get along to check-in with Otto, then. Come fetch me from The Fat Chocobo when you’re ready?” And at Tarja’s nod he turned to stride toward the door, tossing a, “Don’t worry, lass, we’ll get him sorted. You just get some rest,” over his shoulder as he threw a jaunty wave good-bye at Jill over his shoulder. He didn’t wait for her response before he was out the door and down the staircase, eager to finish his conversation with Otto and get back to the gaol.
He found the man in his customary position near the counter, looking over the ledger with Gaunte and pointing out some thing or another to the poor man as he attempted to teach him how to properly manage their finances. “Otto, my good man. A moment of your time, if you would?”
“What now, you old codger?” the man groused, turning to follow Cid to a more secluded corner of the eatery and valiantly ignoring the relieved sigh Gaute let out as he walked away. “As if you haven’t stirred up enough trouble for me today. There’s been quite some unrest,” he lowered his voice, “ever since you brought that soldier back bloody and unconscious. Ever since you brought him back at all, to be honest.”
“The people will have to learn to deal. I know they’ve had bad experiences with the imperial army, but it’s not like Clive’s service was voluntary. He was no less a slave than any of them, even if he wasn’t kept as a domestic branded.”
“I know that, Cid. But they’re a suspicious lot, and the lad’s not the friendliest looking worgen in the pack, now is he? Give them some time and they might warm up to him eventually if he decides to stick around.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there, at the moment. He’s not got a choice in it right now and won’t for the foreseeable future, not until Tarja’s through with him. That’s what I’ve to talk to you about. I’ll need you to scout out the bunks, see if there might be a free one in either the omega or the alpha sections that’ll suit him. Or find him one by himself. Tarja and I think he might be presenting late and gods know how that’ll affect him. Lad had enough problems as it was.”
Otto whistled low between his teeth, crossing his burly arms and drawing his brows together. “Poor bloody sod. Hasn’t even had time to recover from the army before being dragged into all this shite. I’ll see what I can do.”
Cid clapped a grateful hand on his shoulder. “Thanks. Keep it on the quiet side, though, would you? The lad’s had his privacy invaded enough.” And Clive struck him as a particularly private person; Cid doubted he would appreciate the current upheaval and even he and Tarja bearing witness to his weakness, let alone the nosy lot that comprised the hideaway. A bunch of gossipers and fear-mongers, his lot. Greagor, how he loved them.
Tarja chose her moment to appear at the entrance to the tavern, gesturing impatiently at Cid with her free hand, the other juggling her various oddities that she deemed necessary to treat Clive. Cid gave Otto one last terse smile and made his way over to the physiker.
“Took you long enough. Let’s get on with it then,” she sighed, and together he crossed the main hall of the Hideaway with her, heading for the back corner where the stairs down to the gaol rested. The bailer maintained his post next to the entryway, the man’s arms crossed and a sallow expression on his face.
“‘e’s mutterin’ down there, Cid. Ain’t know what he’s on about, but it ain’t seem right,” he said, glancing behind him and down the stairs, though Clive’s cell couldn’t be seen from here.
“Not to worry, my good man. Tarja’ll set him to rights, I’m sure. Thanks for your help, though - you’ve done me a great service. If you’d give us just a bit of space, though, Tarja likes her patients to have privacy. Kenneth’s just finished whipping up a new pot of stew, and I’m sure he’d be pleased to have you try it,” he smiled winningly at the man, and with a mere grumble and a hrmph, he trudged off towards the tavern.
Cid and Tarja made their way down the stairs, Cid sparing a moment to grab a lantern that was left hanging by the entryway. Tarja would need more than the dull light of the torch to examine Clive, he was certain. The door to the cell was unlocked, and Cid pulled it open to allow the physiker in, and shut it carefully behind him, setting the lantern down on the floor and peering over Tarja’s shoulder at the man on the bed.
Clive had not moved much from the position Cid left him in. He had shifted a little on the narrow cot, sweat staining his brow and soaking into the sheets beneath him as he twisted and murmured, his brow furrowed and face drawn taut. Faint stains of red were beginning to show through the shoddy bandages Cid had applied on their way back from central Sanbreque, and the lad was clad in little else except his smallclothes.
Tarja stepped forward, setting her supplies on an inch of space not occupied by Clive and the cot and beginning her examination. She poked and prodded the lad, lingering over his ribs and the cruel gashes left across his torso and legs from Garuda’s vicious claws. She felt over the bruising that dominated his abdomen and prodded the lump that was present in his skull, lingering overlong on his collarbones and shoulders, though Cid could not parse what she was looking for.
“Well, he’s certainly got himself in some kind of shape, hasn’t he? And look at this, on his neck.” Tarja gestured Cid closer and he stepped in, leaning in with her to peer at the man’s neck. “There’s a slight swelling there,” she gently pressed her fingers over it, “and it looks, honest to Greagor, like scent glands coming in.”
“Bloody fuck,” Cid sighed, leaning back. “Of course he’s actually presenting. The lad’s got to be almost thirty, Tarja. Isn’t that too late?”
“It’s the latest I’ve ever heard,” she agreed, “but not the first time I’ve heard of a bearer presenting late. Sometimes trauma prevents the body from doing things as they’re normally done.” She turned back, pulling out her stitching needle and beginning to run thread through it. “More importantly, I can’t smell much of him; you know how dull my nose is. You’ll have to tell me what he’s presenting as.”
Cid leaned in close, nearly putting his nose into the man’s neck and inhaled long and deep. Clive’s scent was still forming, his scent glands newly emerged, but already he smelled different. Clive smelled like sunlight on water; like woodsmoke; like pine; like home and hearth and warmth and the burning of the stars in the sky and the cataclysm of meteors and, and, and…
He was, unquestionably, the best thing Cid had ever tasted.
His eyes fluttered and he leaned back, pulling fresh air desperately into his lungs and trying to get his bearings. Tarja was watching him curiously, her green eyes sharp, but she said nothing, allowing him the time to pull himself together without comment. “He’s an omega.” Clive smelled spectacular, to Cid. Like nothing he had ever had the pleasure of scenting before. But the spring scent of omega was strong, and he was surprised he hadn’t been able to smell it on the man earlier. Now that he knew it was there, it was like Clive’s scent was everywhere, filling the cell and sticking to everything within it.
“Interesting, well, I’ll get on with treating his wounds and we’ll get one of the omegas to visit him when he’s-” Tarja broke off suddenly to stare at Clive’s face and Cid turned to look, too, drawing in a sharp breath of surprise.
Clive’s eyes were open, blinking rapidly as he stared up at the ceiling. His pupils were huge, black dominating the blue as the man shuddered once, twice, and his arms twitched, fingers clenching in the thin sheet that covered his bed. He turned his neck slowly to look at Tarja and Cid, blinking at them uncomprehendingly.
“Good to see you awake, lad. Tarja’s just taking a look at your wounds,” Cid spoke jovially, flashing a less than honest grin at the lad. He was disquieted by the man’s behavior, rattled by his silence and staring.
Clive blinked at his words, before taking a deep inhale through his nose. Cid thought nothing of it until the lad convulsed suddenly and flung himself off the cot, nearly crushing Tarja beneath his bulk before Cid reached out and tugged her out of the way. The lad thunked to the floor, Cid wincing as his knees and knobbly bits banged heavily into the stone floor, before scrambling away from the pair of them, driving himself into the farthest corner of the cell and curling up as tight as a man his size could.
As amusing as Cid wanted to find the sight, he could do nothing but stare as Clive worked himself into a state, seemingly over nothing. The dark-haired man was heaving, gasping, and then choking his own breaths off as he clawed his own hands and nails into his arms, rocking slightly and shuddering. Tears were brimming in his eyes, pupils shrunk to pinpricks now where before they had been heavily dilated, and sweat was beading from his temple. Small trails of blood were flowing from his wounds, his movements no doubt breaking whatever scabbing and clotting had begun and soaking the ratty bandages Cid had haphazardly tied to them.
“Clive, what’s the problem, lad? It’s just me a Tarja here,” Cid soothed, stepping forward slightly with his arms spread and his hands open, doing his best to look nonthreatening. “You’ve got some nasty wounds there. Tarja would very much like to take a look at them and help you, if you’d let her.” The woman in question wisely kept her silence, edging backwards and behind Cid to try and give Clive some space.
Clive thrust himself even further into the corner, desperate breaths gasping through his mouth as his bare shoulders collided again and again with the rock wall of the cell, scraping thin red lines onto his skin in his attempt to get away. A low rumble started in his throat, a subvocal warning that screamed danger, danger, get AWAY to anyone in the vicinity.
“Where’s-where’s the, the,” the man gasped, his voice thin and growly, his vocal cords working strangely to keep his warning growl steady as he spoke.
“Where’s what, Clive? What can we get for you?” Tarja broke in, leaning around Cid to blink at the branded man with a concerned gaze, her brow furrowed as she followed the trails of blood down to the thin puddles he was making in the floor.
“The omega,” Clive gasped, baring his sharpened teeth as he gave the word form.
Cid exchanged a worried glance with Tarja, his confusion at Clive’s question warring with his concern for the man’s well-being. Clive had been fairly reticent, during the short time Cid had known him, but he had seemed steady and infallible, solid and sturdy in the face of any of the challenges they had come across and unconcerned with the people around them in the towns and villages they had passed through in Sanbreque. Thought, he supposed, if Clive had been unpresented then, his nose wouldn't have been sensitive enough to smell the dynamics of anyone around him, much like a regular beta.
“It’s you, Clive. The omega’s you. You’ve had a delayed presentation, lad, and it’s happening now, we think.” Cid spoke gently, hesitatingly. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, Clive was so scared of, but the man was halfway to feral, his teeth bared and his growl growing louder and unceasing.
Clive gawked at Cid, his breath stalling as they stared at each other for several beats of Cid’s heart. He couldn’t tell, exactly, what the man was thinking, but everything had stopped. His rocking, his growling, his breathing. Tears tracked slowly down the man’s cheeks, blood still dripped down to fill divots in the stone floor, but it seemed as if the whole Hideaway was holding its breath.
“Me? I’m an omega?” Clive breathed, staring at Cid and Tarja as though seeing them from a great distance, his chest fluttering up and down as he asked.
“Aye, Clive.” Cid affirmed, stepping forward again and stopping as Clive cringed further into his corner. He ached to reach out a hand to the lad, to help him off the floor and settle him onto the cot. To take him out of this dark cell and into the sunlight where he could walk amongst free men. But he couldn’t make heads nor tails of Clive’s discomfort, of his panic and terror.
Clive trembled for another long minute, his gaze darting between Tarja and Cid, before he seemed to come to a decision. He raised a quivering hand up to his neck, prodding at the swelling of the scent glands that were just starting to emerge there. The man began gasping again as his scent became more fragrant, the stimulation of the glands causing them to produce more oil, more musk, filling the cell again and becoming almost cloying in Clive’s terror. He raised his other hand to mirror his grip on the other gland.
Then, to Cid’s horror, Clive dug his nails in and began to tear.