Chapter Text
Through the whole of the following day, Dion didn’t wake once. Hadn’t so much as moved from what Cid could tell, though he was still breathing whenever he felt compelled to check. The split skin and deep bruising of his back hardly changed.
Overmorrow’s eve, Cid was due to depart for his trip to “Eistla”. It was hard to say how much time the planted misdirection would buy him seeing as he’d reliably gone to Garnick each of the past five years, but all he needed was time enough to have a key forged and talk the kid around. Provided he woke up, of course.
A forceful knock sounded at the door. Cid only had a beat to worry about the apparent depth of Dion’s unconsciousness before King Barnabas himself strode in, face set in a deep frown as his gaze swung swiftly to his prized prisoner.
“Has he not woken?”
Cid leaned back against his desk. “Not since I brought him back here.”
Barnabas moved for Dion and nudged him onto his back. Still unconscious of course, and now with undue pressure on his injuries. Cid’s jaw tightened.
“Not gonna get much out of him while he’s like that,” he managed after a moment. “Physicker said his body’s shut down to heal, so it might be a few days.”
Barnabas sneered, as though Dion’s inability to react was some personal slight and not a direct result of wanton abuse.
“It will be the last he ever rests,” he promised, voice dark. “Once he wakes, he will never again see beyond the bars of his cage.”
Cid’s stomach churned. He thought about how restless Benedikta got whenever she was cooped up in the castle too long. How her eyes invariably strayed toward the sky through the windows, and how she tended to gravitate toward nearby open spaces to talk.
Dion might hate the skies over Stonhyrr, but Cid had often caught him looking to the dark clouds beyond the open window all the same, face a picture of abject resignation. A cage would kill him as surely as it would Benna, even if no one ever hurt him again.
And no matter which way Cid looked at it, his plan was a gamble. With the new, unpredictable element of some manner of demon enthralling Barnabas added to the mix, Cid needed time and information more than he needed anything- and those things could be bought with trust, if he played his cards right. The key in his pocket seemed to press its every groove into his thigh as his weight shifted.
“It was a close call,” he said, reaching to withdraw it. He held it out in offer with fingers he willed not to shake. “Lucky for us, he never got the chance to use it.”
Barnabas stiffened, eyes dark and suspicious.
Cid held his gaze, carefully maintaining his casual sprawl like he wasn’t betting everything on his only ace.
“Did wonder if you might loop me in about how that mysterious figure fits into the plan, though. Said we still needed him, though by the looks of things, seems we might be a bit beyond negotiation at this point.”
Hugo Kupka still marched on Oriflamme, but that would only matter if Dion retained sanity enough to care. And if the king got his way, the kid would wake inside a cage. Not exactly groundwork for cooperation.
Barnabas plucked the key from between Cid’s fingers and stared at it, then closed it beneath his fist. Cid slowly loosed the breath he’d been holding and hoped it would be enough.
“Dominants are chosen by divine will,” Barnabas proclaimed at length. “We are servants to God. In return for our service, we shall be granted salvation.”
And there it was; the final piece of the puzzle, albeit one that corrupted the whole picture into something Cid no longer understood. The demon- a god?
“Paradise,” he surmised, crossing his arms. “For us Dominants. But what service is required of us?”
Barnabas met his eyes, and Cid was struck by the resolve he found there- like the man had never been more certain of anything. To think he’d followed him for that conviction once, where now it unnerved him.
“When Mythos awakens, the Eikons will serve to empower him into a vessel worthy of God.”
Mythos. A shiver crept up Cid’s spine.
The word—name?—had been written in Dion’s journal in the form of a question. Something he’d heard during one of Barnabas’ many attempts to press him into service, no doubt. Kid would never have bothered wasting his voice to ask though, which meant Cid would still only be working from what answers he could glean for himself. He only had about a dozen new questions, but he needed to choose them with care. Whoever Mythos was mattered less than whatever empowering him meant.
“That’s what we need Dion for then?”
Barnabas’ frown returned. “Bahamut is required, and thus his Dominant must be made to surrender his will. It is as banal as all the rest.”
Cid’s brows creased, and he could only hope he looked more puzzled than troubled. Intrigued, rather than alarmed, if he could manage it. Because he might only be grasping at understanding, but it was starting to sound an awful lot like Dion was being punished for refusing to serve Barnabas’ god—a crime the kid was simply the first to commit by way of obvious conflicting loyalties.
Songbirds in mineshafts, or however the saying went.
“So, us Dominants will be saved,” Cid said carefully, no longer certain of what that meant. “Then what happens to the rest of Ash?”
Barnabas gestured dismissively, turning away with clear disinterest. “Those touched by the aetherfloods shall be cleansed of their sin and be made to serve.”
Revulsion burned up Cid’s throat. He’d had no choice but to put Vidar out of his enraged misery some days ago, when nothing he or his brother tried seemed to help. The man hadn’t been cleansed so much as corrupted, lost to his entire family.
Cid’s hands curled to fists beneath his folded arms.
“Convenient,” he said, anger held on a tight leash. “But suppose I’ll be helping with all that when I get back.”
Barnabas moved for the door, then turned his gaze back over his shoulder to Dion. “See that he is well-tended before I come to claim him overmorrow’s eve. There will be much to be done upon your return.”
Cid bowed his head with a silent promise that it would be the last time and willed his voice to steady.
“Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll be glad to be rid of him.”
Barnabas stalked from the room, door slamming closed behind him, and Cid listened for several beats for the man’s steps to fade before sinking, shaken, into his desk chair. His limbs felt nerveless with the new knowledge that Waloed’s king not only served a demonic “god”, but would sooner laud the corruptive power of aetherfloods than caution his people away from them. Their soldiers had seemingly only been spared thus far to better eliminate the threat of the orcs around the mines upon which Waloed was dependent for trade.
He’d have to encrypt a warning to Gunnar- likely the only one who would believe him at this stage. Maybe a few others could be saved if seeds of doubt could be sown, but overplaying his hand would only get him branded as a traitor before he was ready to be.
As if the writing on the wall hadn’t been clear enough, it seemed plain that those Dominants who failed to fall in line when the time came would likely share in Dion’s cruel torment. He’d live in that cage as an example to the rest of them, if nothing else.
But it was also proof that Barnabas’ promises had always been false; it had just taken the torture of a teenager for Cid to see it. And now he’d have to find a way to live with that. To make up for it, how ever he could.
Twenty years of service, and all it amounted to was just enough trust to let him leave with the belief he would be returning. But Mid needed a future, and despite his long-held hopes, none of them would find that freedom on Ash.
There was no telling when Dion would wake, or what state he’d be in when he did. According to his file, the kid had been taught war before negotiation; violence before governance. Didn’t help that Barnabas had incidentally gone out of his way to reinforce those very same lessons through brutality meant to convince Dion that his only worth was as a weapon- that the rest of him must be broken. Only time would tell if he could still unlearn the lessons carved into his skin, if he’d still have sanity enough to grow into a man who might yet grasp compassion.
But all of that could only be seen to if Cid could steal him out of Stonhyrr before Barnabas realized they were gone, and if he could manage to get them all across the Strait to a land not yet irreversibly beset by monsters both real and made.
He’d already decided before Barnabas walked in that he wasn’t waiting until overmorrow’s eve.
There was a caravan leaving to supply the eastern front in the morning. It wasn’t the direction they were heading, but it’d see Dion safely out of Stonhyrr sure enough. If the kid had to sleep in a cart under a pile of foodstuffs, then, well, it was better than the alternative. Cid just had to hope the jostling wouldn’t break any of his wounds back open.
He’d ostensibly spend the day in town buying last-minute supplies himself, then follow the same route at a distance. When the caravan stopped for the night, Cid would just have to retrieve his unwieldy sack of potatoes and make his way to Garnick. By then, Barnabas should only just be discovering Dion was gone.
In theory, anyway.
In practice, getting Dion bundled down to the lower halls and stuffed into said cart came with its own complications, in the form of a shadow cast through the open doorway, shifting closer with every click of heeled boots.
“Leaving already?”
Benedikta.
Cid cursed under his breath and dragged a bit of stray blanket over Dion’s face and neck. The rest of the kid’s ragged, lumpy get-up blended in well enough with baskets and bags to pass first muster at least. Cid straightened up, then hopped down from the cart.
“Not til overmorrow’s eve,” he assured breezily, knocking on the cart’s boarded siding. “This one’s headed east to the front. Might have stashed a bit of wine in there for the lads, though. Good for morale.”
Benna smiled, a sway in her step. “Then there’s still time to see you off properly.”
If he’d been proud of himself for coming prepared with a passable lie, it prickled swiftly to discomfort in the wake of her implications. Suppose she’d never been subtle, but her sense of timing was worse.
He held up a staying hand. “Still not convinced that’s a good idea.”
Her steps paused, a hand going to her hip. She huffed annoyance. “You’ve never given us a chance, Cidolfus.”
Cid sighed, quiet as he could manage. Of all the times to revisit this conversation.
“We’ve been over this, Benna. You were fifteen. Compromised.”
Her face hardened and turned away, displeased as she ever was to be reminded of her roots.
“It’s been seven years since I was that foolish little girl.”
Cid nodded. “And now not only do you have Hugo wrapped around your finger, but I’ve also noticed you seem to enjoy the King’s attention.”
Benedikta tossed her head, an impish, self-satisfied smile beginning to curl at her lips. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type.”
Cid gave her a long look, unable to deny the beauty she’d grown into by any means. If only that attraction didn’t feel like looking at an oncoming cyclone with a scant hope that its most savage winds might pass him by.
“I’m just trying to figure out what it is you want. I thought I knew that once, but now I’m not so sure.”
He didn’t trust the way her face smoothed over then, how she sauntered close- close enough to drift a hand over his chest, to lean up, eyes fixed on his mouth. Voice low, sultry.
“I don’t think I have to explain that to a man who hasn’t had the luxury of much privacy for three whole moons.”
Cid had to give her some credit, because if he hadn’t been in the middle of committing treason, he might have been tempted despite his better sense. Still was, a bit. If only he could trust her.
“Maybe not,” he breathed against her mouth. “But this isn’t about me.”
Benna shoved away from him with a frustrated breath. “Then what is it about, Cidolfus?”
Cid dragged a hand through his hair, then gestured loosely with it. “What it’s always been about: making a safe haven where people like us can die on our own terms.”
She turned on heel and scoffed. “That hasn’t changed.”
“Hasn’t it?” he countered, his own frustration bleeding through. “Since when did we decide that doesn’t include Dion Lesage?”
Her expression soured. “He chose not to cooperate.”
Cid grit his teeth. “Is that all it takes then? Refuse to join us, and we don’t take ‘no’ for an answer?”
Benna jerked like he’d slapped her, and in all fairness, maybe he shouldn’t have aimed quite so low. Cid pinched the bridge of his nose and willed her to understand.
“There’s a cage next to the King’s throne, Benna. That’s where Dion’s going to end up while I’m away.”
Benedtika crossed her arms and fixed him with a cool, assessing stare that prickled over his skin. “And why should that matter to either of us?”
Cid’s shoulders slumped. She really didn’t see it then.
“He’s the youngest of us,” he settled on after a moment, gentling his voice as much as he was able. “Not all that much older than you were. If you’d chosen not to ally yourself, would you have deserved to be tortured for it?”
She frowned and flicked her wrist, dismissive. “It doesn’t matter; I made my choice and have no cause to regret it.”
But for all her apparent certainty, Cid saw the way doubt creased her brows, watched it morph to anger that flashed through her eyes. Her fingers curled to fists.
“You’re the one who can’t make up his mind!”
She turned sharply away and Cid watched her go with a heavy heart. She was more right than she knew, but either she couldn’t see Barnabas for what he was yet, or else refused to. In either case, arguing further with her now could only serve to push her farther away. He’d just have to hope there might be a day he could get through to her before it was too late.
Suppose he’d been that same short-sighted idiot once; someone who thought power meant glory right up until he’d come face-to-face with a problem that couldn’t be solved with it. When he’d realized that not only was his power inadequate, but the source of the problem.
With a bit of luck, he might keep another young Dominant from making those same mistakes. And with a lot of luck-- well, best not to get his hopes up too high just yet.
First he had to make the pair of them into proper fugitives.