[Later, he will recognize where he may have gotten his penchant for speeches. It is not the desire to hear himself speak, as he hardly needs words to make his intentions clear, but the desire to... be understood. It is that simple.
Dion turns to him, looking from his face to his hand. The surprise is not hidden on his face. He came here for a certain reason, but it was not to convince Ramuh of anything. He would have thought himself far to weary to try. The pause before he moves is too long to be polite, born of disbelief more than anything.
He would not have even imagined such a thing nary five -- no, nearly six -- years ago.
Dion takes his hand, shaking it.
Glad for it. Another surprise. Is that true, he wonders? He sees no reason to say it otherwise. It is only -- clearly, not what he expects. Nor does he fully understand the feeling it elicits in him. Whatever it is, he feels Bahamut's eyes open, an uncoiling with the unmistakable sound of scales sliding against scales.
He releases their hands, looking to the flower. The change in his expression is minute, but there's something in it, like hope. To ally himself with an outlaw... an impossibility, he would have thought.]
Your solar could use a little more light, to be sure. [That could be a smile on his face, but he turns and walks past Cid's desk soon enough it's hidden behind his back. He knows well what it may grow into. What it may already have sprouted.] But you will find the wild variety is much hardier than those coddled in Empire greenhouses. [The impossibility of it is more intriguing. These wyvern tails Dion has created have all the light they shall need inside them. It will not wilt, nor fade, nor die.] If the colour does not suit your sensibilities, Cid, I'm sure they burn just as easily.
[He has a feeling its fate is not to meet the fire.]
[ For a moment, Cid is struck by how very much Dion reminds him of Clive. They carry the same simmering anger, and the same ashes left in its wake; fertile ground for something new to grow, should they desire it. Hope, even within that deep despair.
He nods, letting Dion's hand slip from his own.
If he didn't know any better, he might think that remark was a joke. Cid doesn't follow him. He sits on the edge of his desk again, his back to the dragoon, and picks up the Wyvern's Tail that Dion has left for him.
The flower is still poison, regardless of its shade, but he's willing to see what Dion will make of it. If a chance is all he asks, then a chance is what Cid will give him. He would be a hypocrite to do any less. ]
Hardy, eh? I'll be the judge of that. [ The challenge is unmistakable, but there's something almost warm underneath it — a hope that Dion will in fact succeed. He inclines his head. ] Go on then, before you start wilting. I'll expect to see you again in a few weeks' time.
[Now his attentions are not on trying to keep himself human, to keep himself from burning both solar and Dominant to the ground -- to not smother such roiling anger in the presence of the Empire's enemy and Clive's mentor in the first place -- Dion allows himself a look.
It is only the one, and it does not linger long. But there is a shape to him, his weight against the desk, in a space that has crafted itself out of memory and nostalgia. A place, Dion imagines, where he feels safe, even in the ruins of a fellow race of victims to their arrogance. The irony is not lost upon him. Ramuh does not dream of the lands they left behind, of throne rooms or battlefields or a wide stretch of untouched, unBlighted land. It is an office, a hole in a wall, and a home.
And in it: two dead men who speak of life. The growth one can find in it. Is this hope?
Or is it the taste of lightning on his tongue? Scales against skin? Riding a storm the way he rode the winds?]
I would expect nothing less than your judgement. [Now, maybe, he does laugh -- a muted sound that may pass as something akin to it. It is a mad world he finds himself living in once again. A mad world of impossibilities. His dragon, ever at his side, finally peeks from her bag, having noted the change in the air.] I shall not miss our next appointment. [If he means to make one... Dion steps towards the path that shall lead him out of the ruins once more, but pauses.] As my reason for coming in the first place, I request we keep such memories to ourselves.
[It is enough to say it, but as he does, it betrays what may have been on his mind. With that, the door rolls open to release him, and the sound of stone on stone rumbles behind as it closes once more. He does not yet take to the skies -- a part of him hesitates upon it, even now -- but he feels intrigue unravel in him instead of once-expected anger, and that itself is worth noting.]
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Dion turns to him, looking from his face to his hand. The surprise is not hidden on his face. He came here for a certain reason, but it was not to convince Ramuh of anything. He would have thought himself far to weary to try. The pause before he moves is too long to be polite, born of disbelief more than anything.
He would not have even imagined such a thing nary five -- no, nearly six -- years ago.
Dion takes his hand, shaking it.
Glad for it. Another surprise. Is that true, he wonders? He sees no reason to say it otherwise. It is only -- clearly, not what he expects. Nor does he fully understand the feeling it elicits in him. Whatever it is, he feels Bahamut's eyes open, an uncoiling with the unmistakable sound of scales sliding against scales.
He releases their hands, looking to the flower. The change in his expression is minute, but there's something in it, like hope. To ally himself with an outlaw... an impossibility, he would have thought.]
Your solar could use a little more light, to be sure. [That could be a smile on his face, but he turns and walks past Cid's desk soon enough it's hidden behind his back. He knows well what it may grow into. What it may already have sprouted.] But you will find the wild variety is much hardier than those coddled in Empire greenhouses. [The impossibility of it is more intriguing. These wyvern tails Dion has created have all the light they shall need inside them. It will not wilt, nor fade, nor die.] If the colour does not suit your sensibilities, Cid, I'm sure they burn just as easily.
[He has a feeling its fate is not to meet the fire.]
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He nods, letting Dion's hand slip from his own.
If he didn't know any better, he might think that remark was a joke. Cid doesn't follow him. He sits on the edge of his desk again, his back to the dragoon, and picks up the Wyvern's Tail that Dion has left for him.
The flower is still poison, regardless of its shade, but he's willing to see what Dion will make of it. If a chance is all he asks, then a chance is what Cid will give him. He would be a hypocrite to do any less. ]
Hardy, eh? I'll be the judge of that. [ The challenge is unmistakable, but there's something almost warm underneath it — a hope that Dion will in fact succeed. He inclines his head. ] Go on then, before you start wilting. I'll expect to see you again in a few weeks' time.
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It is only the one, and it does not linger long. But there is a shape to him, his weight against the desk, in a space that has crafted itself out of memory and nostalgia. A place, Dion imagines, where he feels safe, even in the ruins of a fellow race of victims to their arrogance. The irony is not lost upon him. Ramuh does not dream of the lands they left behind, of throne rooms or battlefields or a wide stretch of untouched, unBlighted land. It is an office, a hole in a wall, and a home.
And in it: two dead men who speak of life. The growth one can find in it. Is this hope?
Or is it the taste of lightning on his tongue? Scales against skin? Riding a storm the way he rode the winds?]
I would expect nothing less than your judgement. [Now, maybe, he does laugh -- a muted sound that may pass as something akin to it. It is a mad world he finds himself living in once again. A mad world of impossibilities. His dragon, ever at his side, finally peeks from her bag, having noted the change in the air.] I shall not miss our next appointment. [If he means to make one... Dion steps towards the path that shall lead him out of the ruins once more, but pauses.] As my reason for coming in the first place, I request we keep such memories to ourselves.
[It is enough to say it, but as he does, it betrays what may have been on his mind. With that, the door rolls open to release him, and the sound of stone on stone rumbles behind as it closes once more. He does not yet take to the skies -- a part of him hesitates upon it, even now -- but he feels intrigue unravel in him instead of once-expected anger, and that itself is worth noting.]