[ There's much that Cid could argue about the point, but this particular question has been sitting at the back of his mind since Jill first mentioned Dion: ]
Am I to understand that you think the same of Clive?
[ He doesn't doubt that Dion has some personal affection or sense of duty toward Clive — even Cid can see that the two of them aren't so very different — but Clive is an easy man to take a liking to. In a place like this, he has to wonder if Dion has chosen to ignore the duty that Clive has taken up in his stead.
He puts himself to work, rather than standing around waiting for the answer to arrive. It's only when he feels a presence enter his domain that Cid leaves off what he's doing, wiping his hands as he goes. The front door rolls open for him. He's still smeared with grease here and there, dressed down to his shirtsleeves.
Dion, by contrast, looks as if he's standing guard at a ceremony or perhaps awaiting his own execution. Some part of him feels a traitorous twinge of empathy, the taste of wine lingering somewhere at the back of his tongue.
Cid's gaze drops briefly to the tiny wyvern head sticking out of Dion's bag, but he doesn't comment on that for the moment. He leans against the door frame and raises an eyebrow. ] Coming inside, Your Highness? If you keep sulking out here you're like to wilt the flowers.
[ This Hideaway is different from the one Dion might know; Cid has recreated only his own solar, the doorway tucked against a vibrant green hillside, surrounded by wildflowers and a few scattered fruit trees, with a footpath to lead the way. Inside, it's much the same as it was, though he's drawn the curtain that separates Midadol's room from the rest of the space and locked the door to his workshop in the far corner. ]
We are all inherently arrogant for attempting to defy a god.
[He does not delude himself into thinking otherwise. It is hardly as if he considers himself apart from them. It is not difficult to understand, setting his status of Mythos aside, why Clive was the one among them who had the best chance at besting Ultima.
And forgoing even the actions of the Dominants in Valisthea... he knows well now what a god is capable of doing to those that attempt do defy him. There are plenty of mortal corpses somewhere in a future he does not occupy that attest to it.
While Cid's gaze lingers on his dragon, Dion's linger on Cid's hands -- before he walks past, into what he can only assume was the first Hideaway. This one is far less ostentatious than the other, yet it somehow feels far more guarded.
Not that he ever visited it. Nor would he have visited its sister, were Joshua not the one who bid he be saved, despite that night. Were it not that he had nowhere else to go.]
I did not come to quarrel with you. [As instinctual as it may be. Even now, he feels his hackles raised, Bahamut churning inside him. An enemy, once, of everything his father ever stood for. There was one time that Dion would have taken Ramuh's head, if the Dominant could have been overthrown alone. And now, what does he see? A cutthroat, a brigand, a pirate. Attempted destroyer of Drake's Head. Traitor to his own nation.
Seducer, he thinks, even though that is mere lie. Seduction was not necessary. Not for his physicality, and not for Clive's ideals.
Now that the Singularity bid him live, and his own people forever lost to him, to now have commonalities could be some boon.] Only to define, exactly, where we stand. Despite our past... conflicts, we ended life on a common side.
[ God had taken from him first, as far as Cid is concerned. God had used Valisthea and the suffering of her people for its own ends. God that had severed Barnabas of his hopes an dreams and desires, had hollowed him out into the monster he had become. God had tried to take Clive for an empty vessel. God that had taken not just his life, but the chance to see his daughter grow into a bright young woman.
There are few people whom Cid truly resents, but it had given him no small satisfaction to see god bleed.
God must have taken a hell of a lot from Dion even before it had seen fit to take his life, and yet here he is — guilty, resentful.
He turns, following Dion inside, and the door slides shut behind them. The sunlight is replaced by the candelit dim of the solar.
The dream had been an unusual thing; true in some ways and deceptive in others. Yet, this much seems to have remained the same: there's fury simmering in Dion that fills the room like the heat of the midday sun. Ramuh stirs in his blood, restless. ]
Didn't you? Well, the day is young yet. [ He sits on the edge of his desk, folding his arms across his chest. For another guest, he might offer a seat, a drink, an invitation for them to feel at home... Dion, he pins with his gaze as if he expects him to continue standing at attention.
The man doesn't need to be coddled. He needs a direction for all of that unspent fury, before it takes some unfortunate collateral. Cid has yet to decide if he's about to be the poor fool who tries to give that to him. ] Jill spared me the details of your little change of heart, so I'll hear it from you: why is it that you're with us now, exactly? What's driven the former prince of Sanbreque to mortal sin?
[And Dion does. The dragon at his side rustles restlessly in her bag, but she knows, whether by Dion's sharp tone or the roiling, restless beast in him, to not leave her abode.]
Do not condescend to me. I am the prince of Sanbreque still.
[Such a statement is both truth and lie; it sizzles on his tongue like an acid. He is the only true prince of Sanbreque; Olivier was nothing more than a marionette for his master to occupy, given life by god's treasured witch. And yet he is loathe to declare allegiance to the empire he devastated, and the empire he crumbled, and the empire he burned that began the moment his lance struck his father. He was a fool to think he and the dragoons could fix the mistake his father built. He was a fool to think he was better.
Dion's fists curl at his side. Any thought of Sylvestre boils his blood from the inside out, and being in this cramped, dark room makes him feel trapped.] So unwittingly I come to be interrogated like a common thief. [Is it the tone, or Ramuh's words? Or is it that he should face his crimes again, when he once attempted to escape them?] Know I do not care for your trust, even should we reach consensus. But also know this: I will not be treated like a feral child with a stolen sword in his hands.
[Like a ticking time bomb. In Ramuh's expression does he see the same that was in Thancred's: something like bitter pity, waiting for him to lose control of himself, to take his next victim. A child who does not know his own circumstances. Contemptible.
Great Greagor. Patience. Great Greagor, how I do not wish to be him. Or is that my destiny, in any time, in any world? He releases the tight hold of his hands, one finger at a time.]
The Phoenix informed me some time ago of Ultima's machinations on the Empire. [On my father. But he wavers here, and he does not speak it. Because some part of him is not sure, to this day, whether that is where Ultima's hand truly reached.] Machinations that would devastate its people. I cannot prove that I loved my people, yet I can say that everything I did, I did to protect them.
[And like some common thief, he tries to maintain his sense of morality. As if he has any left to lay claim to.] Is it not enough to oppose God because of love? Or do you prefer hate? For I have both, in equal measure.
[ Cid lets the silence ring out after that first statement. He lets Dion finish what it is he means to say in its entirety.
Dion spoke true, back in the dream. He's not any good at hiding what he truly feels. All the accusations he hurls are pointed inward, barbs of the very collar that's held him all his life.
Cid isn't so sentimental that he thinks Dion blameless in the horrors his empire has perpetuated. He's seen far too many of them first hand. Dion's gilded armor was bought with no small quantity of blood and pain, and the death of his own beloved people.
But then, the same could be said of Cid. ]
Is that what you want to be? Prince of Sanbreque, god among men. Did you love the dream so dearly that you'd like to have it back? [ Cid exhales sharply, shaking his head. ]
You're right, you've no need of my trust or esteem. But if you'd count yourself among us, know this: you're far worse than a common thief in the eyes of your beloved empire. That love you've given all for — are you truly willing to extend it, even to our kind? Outlaws and thieves, and those citizens who your empire has branded as beneath even them? [ Cid drops his arms to his sides, pushing himself to stand. He closes the distance between them with slow steps. ] Love and hate aren't enough by far, though we might wish them to be. What does justice look like?
[ He tilts his head to the side. ] If you're so sure that it's your blade at my throat, have at it.
[There is a snarl that comes to his face, if only for a moment, perfectly mirroring the dragon he had turned into; the fierce Bahamut, pulled from slumber, forced to live another day.] I do not wish to be a god.
[This is a greater insult than forgoing his title. This insult digs itself underneath his skin like maggots, festering his flesh. Rattling the fear inside him, the experience and memories, that prove he will become his father, become like Ultima, detached from humanity and lording above it... not through distaste or desire for more, but for a desire for death that never sates and never comes.
He cannot imagine the gall it takes a man who has been dead for years to pretend to know him. They met in battle only; he does not take it to mean he understands this outlaw, or the insanity he dragged himself into. Even with the knowledge from Odin's own lips. Even if he was right... at least about Ultima.]
You think because my father became a tyrant, I am destined to become one as well. [Dion does not justify himself. He does not have to, not with words to an outlaw. His coup, though successful, changed nothing. He was still as much a puppet to Ultima as was Anabella. He still played his part perfectly.
And he would have died that day, had Joshua not saved him, exiting his place on the stage as only a monster. In soothe, he is convinced that dying in a last bid against Ultima did nothing to cleanse his soul.
Dion watches him with narrowed eyes, but he does not move. As pretty as Ramuh's blood might be spilled against his floor, he does not yet live to be a weapon in someone else's hand. His blade was never his own... even if he allowed it to be guided.
Justice is unknowable to him. Justice would have left him dead once Clive took the power from him he needed. Or Justice would have had a Bearer cut him down, years ago, along with his father.] I am criminal in the eyes of the Empire as much as you already. I have betrayed them. I have committed sins greater than allying myself with peccant fugitives. Does that thrill you to know, Ramuh? Sanbreque needed no help from the likes of you to crumble to the sands.
[ That's a start, Cid thinks. They had gotten on as gods, but Cid doesn't want to be that person, passively settled into a life that serves him. If Dion feels the same, perhaps there's hope yet that they might one day get on as people as well.
Ramuh's ancient patience seems to settle itself under his skin, a counterpoint to Dion's sharp fury.
Even Clive hadn't come to him with such a breadth anger living under his skin. At the least, he hadn't seen Cid as little more than a surface to reflect all of his self-hatred back at him. Dion isn't wrong: Cid does think he would be a terrible king, but not in the same way as Sylvestre, and not for the same reasons. Dion wants to be a good man, or he wouldn't be the way he is now, but it's difficult to be a good man and a good king.
Dion doesn't seem to be in a sharing mood, so Cid files that comment away for later — if there is a later. ]
Who truly suffers when an empire falls, do you think? Not you, or Sylvestre, or his spineless court. Do you think it thrills me to imagine, whether it came by your hand or mine? [ Cid shakes his head. ] I ought to throw you out of my bloody solar, but you didn't come here to pick a fight with the likes of me. You came to pick a fight with yourself, and to interpret everything I say as if it's the litany that's been echoing in that thick head of yours.
[ He meets Dion's eyes, less than a hands' breadth of space between them. ] Let me clarify something for you: I don't like you. I don't want to like you, either. Pity would be wasted on you, because you've plenty of that for yourself... Yet even despite all of that, I'm forced to find your determination admirable. If you were any less than the man you are, you would have thrown yourself from a cliff rather than live with the guilt of what you've done. You're angry because you want to do what's right, and you haven't yet sorted out what that means. That's hardly the mark of a tyrant, if you ask me.
Edited (DO NOT PERCEIVE ME) 2024-06-01 17:51 (UTC)
[There had been a point before stepping into Ramuh's domain where he may have maintained their differences, monumental as they were, were maintained by their circumstances. The Mothercrystal was the heart of Sanbreque, and what as Bahamut if not the Empire's guardian? He would have killed Ramuh in that instance and thought nothing of it, if the clashes of Eikons had been anything more than stalemates. Another threat to the empire that could not be allowed to survive.
And yet, his lack of a victory had only been seen as another failure. No different than Belenus Tor.
How it sickens him to think that in this man's eyes, the death of his father would have been a victory.
Dion's fingers curl so tight, the claws that end his fingers tear into skin. His lance calls to him. The light that fills his every vein calls to him.
Bahamut is coldly silent, going still, like a butterfly once it accepts the pin impaling it. That cold fills his body, leeching out from his core. Burning out the light.
He is not even what man Ramuh sees in him. Another cold, freezing twist, deciding between disgust or hatred.]
To this day, I wondered what it was in you that could inspire such loyalty. Even the quietest man of the Hideway spoke of you as the pious nun speaks of Greagor. [An underhanded outlaw could hardly have such fathoms of honour. Sneaking around like a beast, destroying that which was not his. Threatening those people he proposed to care so much for. A piece that removed itself from the chessboard out of fear, or something equally laced in cowardice.
He crosses his arms over his chest, an uncurling of his fingers. He does not step back, but he does not cast his gaze down from meeting Ramuh's, either. While his anger threatens him to violence, he has long grown weary of spilling blood. And here, he has no forces that extend his hand. The choice would be his alone.] I see it now. Silver-tongued, quick-witted... ensconced entirely in your ideals. Someone who sees and appeals to the hearts of men. [And so did Dion try to hold a flag to his own ideals, only to betray them by the same anger that betrays him now. This violent, lashing thing. No, he does not expect an outlaw to like him. Even to this day, he is perplexed by Joshua's and Clive's offerings to him. (And now how the loss of the former strikes even deeper. The loss of him is just another flame that stokes the anger that lies barely beneath his surface... the loss of a man he believes may have understood him completely, in time.)
But Joshua, he thinks, pitied him, too. For his position, or his father, or for another half-sibling who lived under Anabella's rule... he could not say, and he shall not know. In the end, it does not matter. Ramuh is not wrong, and Dion well knows it.] I am like to think you would have rebelled against death itself, while I eagerly greeted it with open arms.
[He does not wish to be thought of anything more than he is. Even if, in Ramuh's estimation, he is barely a man.] We are not the same. We never shall be. And for the sake of your people, and what your name did for Valisthea, I am glad for it.
[Because though Dion tried, he could not have led his people the same. Was he not content to fall right into Ultima's plans, in the end? A rebellion, uncompleted, changes nothing.]
Edited (gonna end in a war with who edits more) 2024-06-01 23:26 (UTC)
[ Cid's head tilts up, just a fraction of a movement, betraying his surprise at Dion's response. Whatever he had expected — it wasn't that. As venomously as he speaks the words, they aren't unkind ones. More importantly, they speak to Dion's own willingness to be moved — perhaps a dragon can yet change his scales. ]
Liked it better when you were insulting me. [ Cid exhales sharply, almost a laugh, and pats Dion's shoulder as he steps past him. He walks over to where his jacket is hung to rifle through the pockets for a cigar, his back to Dion as he speaks. ] It's easy for a dead man's reputation to be beyond reproach, but there was a time not so long ago when a good death was the best future I could imagine for any of us. If I seem ornery about it now, it's only because of our mutual friend.
[ Clive, that is.
He lights the end of his cigar in the hearth fire and brings it to his lips, finally turning to face Dion again. Cid exhales smoke. ] Harpocrates spoke of you fondly. Still does, I'd wager. I'm not the only one whose name is remembered well, even despite the worst of my deeds. Seems as if it hardly matters if we've earned it: we can make liars of those good people, or we can try to behave in a way that's worthy of their esteem.
[ He shrugs, the cigar poised just before his lips, his eyes still fixed on Dion's. ] All this to say, if you want my advice, you should get off that fine arse of yours and try to give a shit about someone else for a change.
Edited (joining the war on edits on the side of the edits) 2024-06-02 22:38 (UTC)
[Whether the words strike true or not, Dion means them nonetheless. He had not been of a mind to talk to many of the Hideaway's peoples, and had very little in him to care for more than taking his revenge against Ultima... paltry thing it was. While he did not speak, he could not help but listen. And even after these years, the name was spoken with reverence.
He sees a man who always thinks himself right, because his belief is unwavering. An upstart bordering zealotry... if he had not encountered real zealotry, and the sickness it brings.]
It comes far easier, in truth. [The prince stiffens at the touch, not merely because it is another Dominant's, not only because he recalls those hands elsewhere, but because here, in this time, he is still so unused to it. In all his years, it was only Terence... and his father, tucking a wyvern tail into his armor. They are far from anything approaching companions, but there is a new understanding. The solar shall survive another day, rather than suffer the destruction of one -- or two -- Eikons.
Dion's eyes go sharply from the movements of the smoke to Ramuh's face at the name. A precious name, spoken from the mouth of a man who still raises his hackles... yet what would he not do, to see his tutor again? Despite himself, his hand comes over his heart; those memories are few, but they are precious. To think he had once forgotten them --]
Master Harpocrates is... [He goes silent, for a moment, even cracking under his surface to hear the name.] I would not be the same man without having grown under his tutelage. [His tone is quiet, in full reverence. If there were ever a man who thought better of him than he was... even at his end. And yet, the world Harpocrates opened to him, beyond his gilded cage, may be the reason he even stands here with any measure of understanding for Ramuh, or his words, or his deeds.
Thinking on it, Dion realizes now that there would have been opportunity for the two to meet, once Harpocrates left the Empire, but to find him at this Hideaway... which was sister to the first...
Had Ramuh given him asylum?
Dion's shoulders slowly lower, a distinct unwinding of his body. The roots of the wyvern tail. How these roots do not define you. Blackened, poisoned things, giving rise to the purple blooms that flood his domain. As much as the darkness that has rode with him since Twinside rebels against such proclamations, there is no ounce of soul in him that would call Master Harpocrates a liar.
Some flooded measure of gratefulness warms the cold from before. If Harpocrates had not lived to that day, Dion would not have had a final chance to see him. Even if... even if he was hardly any measure of the man he wished to be.]
Your advice? I did not ask for it. [His advice, or his remarks upon -- other things. Perhaps it says something of how the air has shifted that Dion does not stiffen again, nor immediately walk from the solar. The smell of his smoke is enough cause for it. It may only be Dion's wish of the Horizon that the man isn't stinking of it.] Yet I was well taught to bend ear to the words of my elders.
[He steps towards the desk, the tomes that litter it. Dion plucks up an empty goblet -- unadorned, and simply crafted -- and spins its slender neck between two fingers. To the topic of those he cares for... well, had he not attempted so? And the Phoenix is gone again, as unreachable as Terence.] If I cared naught for anyone, I would not be here in the first place.
Edited (the edits are winning) 2024-06-04 05:29 (UTC)
[ The first retort earns Dion an amused chuckle, for better or worse. He doesn't doubt that the prince would be much happier calling him all manner of names. Cid can't pretend that Dion is the only one who'd enjoy a good tussle more than this... But instead, here they are, trying to lay the foundations of something else entirely.
He takes a pull of his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth. Bit by bit, Dion's guard seems to fall away like armor. That reverence, too, is somewhat reassuring. Harpocrates was a wise man, and he'd chosen to share that wisdom with those he deemed most in need of it — people who Dion had despised not so long ago. It remains yet to be seen if he thinks of these people: Harpocrates, Clive, Jill... as exceptions of a sort. Not sullied by the Branded they've allied themselves with.
Cid starts exhaling smoke — then almost chokes. ] Your 'elders'? I'm not— [ He glares at Dion, eyes narrowed. ] Sure, fine. If that's what it takes for you to hear anything.
[ He's left some of his books out; physics, for a formula he'd needed to confirm earlier in the day, but nothing he expects Dion to take an interest in. The lone leather-bound diary that he keeps on his desk remains shut, and he doesn't expect Dion to be quite so bold.
Still, something prickles at his spine, seeing him play with the stem of an empty goblet. He doesn't belong here, in Cid's solar. Is the wine for now, or after?
Cid shakes his head. ] And what of those who haven't made themselves your allies? Do you care for them? I don't expect you'll answer much, but answer you'll me this: after all you've seen, do you still believe Bearers to be worthy of your brand? Do you still believe that an accident of birth should make it so that some men's lives are worth more or less than others?
[He looks over his shoulder to see Ramuh has not taken the comment well. He notes, silently, that he is not a fan of jests related to his age. (Perhaps understandable, when they were destined to live for so short a time.)
Dion sets the goblet back down, carefully. Being in a place that bears down on him, entirely foreign, surrounded by things he has no right to touch; no, he is bold enough only being here in the first place. Even in his short time in the Hideaway, he was an interloper. A stranger. He was never meant to stay.
He can only wonder if it is his father's reputation that makes Ramuh assume him a callous man, or the one he crafted for himself; that he allowed himself to make as he followed every order. Does he even know of Twinside? Could such opinions sink any lower?
Likely not, if Ramuh already sees him as someone willing to uphold what his father believed.]
If you know Master Harpocrates, you know well the sort of man he is. And you know well what he thinks of his fellow man. [Dion pauses here, if only to give a silent prayer to Greagor that Harpocrates yet lives in the world that Valisthea has become. That he thrives. Dion would never claim to be anything like his master, but...]
Before we departed for Origin, Ifrit ensured we had one final meeting. There, he offered me a wyvern tail. One with petals of lilac, rather than white; a wild variety, he said. [The words are sacred to him now, especially, now that he sees some... perhaps not hope, not for himself, but a desperation to avoid that which he could become.] I had never seen it before. [Only grown in the wild, while Sanbreque cultivated the stainless white petaled tail. How heavy it often felt.] And though he said the roots of this wild flower are just as poisonous, that its roots do not define it. He said he believed the same of me.
[Perhaps his words are wasted. There is little power in words when one's actions have far more meaning.] Master Harpocrates believed things of me even I do not, for the man I am now is not the child I once was. Yet, if you must trust anything of me... trust that I hold him in the highest esteem. I would live to bring truth to his words, even if it should cost me the rest of my life.
[The answer is circuitous, in a way, but so are his thoughts. The topic is not an easy one, and it brings weight against his heart. What of the Bearers of the Empire now? Without an emperor, without a successor, and without magic, as well?] I know you look at me and see my father, and what he has done. Every brand he has perpetuated. [Every step Bahamut took in his name to gain him that power.] The men who died under my flames in his name. As the son of such tainted blood, I would be hypocrite to claim any life is worth more than another. That any man should spend his life under a master's yoke.
[With a sigh, he places what he had been working on in his hands on Ramuh's desk: a single purple wyvern tail. He may burn it, or dissolve it, but Dion hopes that it represents something other than the Empire: a promise.] What I meant to say is, I understand you will not believe me, yet... this world has offered me a second chance to spend the rest of my years proving you wrong, and Master Harpocrates right. I did not go to Origin because I only believed in revenge. I believe in the world Ifrit wanted for his people.
[ Why does he feel as if he's just kicked a puppy? And here he was thinking that Clive had the market cornered on the biggest, saddest eyes a man could have.
Even so, his expression remains stern as Dion speaks, searching for any sign of duplicity or arrogance. Time was, he couldn't pass through a tavern anywhere near Sanbreque without hearing some song of the prince's bravery, how honorable he was to do as he did. Though he'd been Lord Commander for so much of his life, Cid had never faced Dion as an Eikon until the day they crossed paths at Drake's Head. At that time, he'd seen only riotous fury; a young man with an anger that bordered on desperation burning deep in his heart.
What a difference the years have made in both of them.
It isn't pity that he finds himself feeling, as Dion speaks. He's eloquent, and though he talks around the point, Cid understands what it is he's trying to say. A dragon can change its scales, a flower can change its petals. Were not all of them once made monsters by that which would call them monstrous?
When he finishes, Cid exhales and tosses his cigar into the hearth fire. ] Don't expect that you'll be leaving that on my desk.
[ He steps forward. Though Dion is too close to his desk for him to stand before the man again, he comes to a stop at his side and offers a hand where he can see it. ] It's Cid, not bloody Ramuh.
If I am to be wrong about something, I'll be glad for it to be you. [ He inclines his head toward the wyvern tail that Dion has left him. ] And as for that — I'll not see it die in the dark after its traveled all this way. Plant it in the sun. Let's see what it grows to become.
[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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[ He doesn't doubt that Dion has some personal affection or sense of duty toward Clive — even Cid can see that the two of them aren't so very different — but Clive is an easy man to take a liking to. In a place like this, he has to wonder if Dion has chosen to ignore the duty that Clive has taken up in his stead.
He puts himself to work, rather than standing around waiting for the answer to arrive. It's only when he feels a presence enter his domain that Cid leaves off what he's doing, wiping his hands as he goes. The front door rolls open for him. He's still smeared with grease here and there, dressed down to his shirtsleeves.
Dion, by contrast, looks as if he's standing guard at a ceremony or perhaps awaiting his own execution. Some part of him feels a traitorous twinge of empathy, the taste of wine lingering somewhere at the back of his tongue.
Cid's gaze drops briefly to the tiny wyvern head sticking out of Dion's bag, but he doesn't comment on that for the moment. He leans against the door frame and raises an eyebrow. ] Coming inside, Your Highness? If you keep sulking out here you're like to wilt the flowers.
[ This Hideaway is different from the one Dion might know; Cid has recreated only his own solar, the doorway tucked against a vibrant green hillside, surrounded by wildflowers and a few scattered fruit trees, with a footpath to lead the way. Inside, it's much the same as it was, though he's drawn the curtain that separates Midadol's room from the rest of the space and locked the door to his workshop in the far corner. ]
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[He does not delude himself into thinking otherwise. It is hardly as if he considers himself apart from them. It is not difficult to understand, setting his status of Mythos aside, why Clive was the one among them who had the best chance at besting Ultima.
And forgoing even the actions of the Dominants in Valisthea... he knows well now what a god is capable of doing to those that attempt do defy him. There are plenty of mortal corpses somewhere in a future he does not occupy that attest to it.
While Cid's gaze lingers on his dragon, Dion's linger on Cid's hands -- before he walks past, into what he can only assume was the first Hideaway. This one is far less ostentatious than the other, yet it somehow feels far more guarded.
Not that he ever visited it. Nor would he have visited its sister, were Joshua not the one who bid he be saved, despite that night. Were it not that he had nowhere else to go.]
I did not come to quarrel with you. [As instinctual as it may be. Even now, he feels his hackles raised, Bahamut churning inside him. An enemy, once, of everything his father ever stood for. There was one time that Dion would have taken Ramuh's head, if the Dominant could have been overthrown alone. And now, what does he see? A cutthroat, a brigand, a pirate. Attempted destroyer of Drake's Head. Traitor to his own nation.
Seducer, he thinks, even though that is mere lie. Seduction was not necessary. Not for his physicality, and not for Clive's ideals.
Now that the Singularity bid him live, and his own people forever lost to him, to now have commonalities could be some boon.] Only to define, exactly, where we stand. Despite our past... conflicts, we ended life on a common side.
[At least, here, he can be frank about it.]
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There are few people whom Cid truly resents, but it had given him no small satisfaction to see god bleed.
God must have taken a hell of a lot from Dion even before it had seen fit to take his life, and yet here he is — guilty, resentful.
He turns, following Dion inside, and the door slides shut behind them. The sunlight is replaced by the candelit dim of the solar.
The dream had been an unusual thing; true in some ways and deceptive in others. Yet, this much seems to have remained the same: there's fury simmering in Dion that fills the room like the heat of the midday sun. Ramuh stirs in his blood, restless. ]
Didn't you? Well, the day is young yet. [ He sits on the edge of his desk, folding his arms across his chest. For another guest, he might offer a seat, a drink, an invitation for them to feel at home... Dion, he pins with his gaze as if he expects him to continue standing at attention.
The man doesn't need to be coddled. He needs a direction for all of that unspent fury, before it takes some unfortunate collateral. Cid has yet to decide if he's about to be the poor fool who tries to give that to him. ] Jill spared me the details of your little change of heart, so I'll hear it from you: why is it that you're with us now, exactly? What's driven the former prince of Sanbreque to mortal sin?
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Do not condescend to me. I am the prince of Sanbreque still.
[Such a statement is both truth and lie; it sizzles on his tongue like an acid. He is the only true prince of Sanbreque; Olivier was nothing more than a marionette for his master to occupy, given life by god's treasured witch. And yet he is loathe to declare allegiance to the empire he devastated, and the empire he crumbled, and the empire he burned that began the moment his lance struck his father. He was a fool to think he and the dragoons could fix the mistake his father built. He was a fool to think he was better.
Dion's fists curl at his side. Any thought of Sylvestre boils his blood from the inside out, and being in this cramped, dark room makes him feel trapped.] So unwittingly I come to be interrogated like a common thief. [Is it the tone, or Ramuh's words? Or is it that he should face his crimes again, when he once attempted to escape them?] Know I do not care for your trust, even should we reach consensus. But also know this: I will not be treated like a feral child with a stolen sword in his hands.
[Like a ticking time bomb. In Ramuh's expression does he see the same that was in Thancred's: something like bitter pity, waiting for him to lose control of himself, to take his next victim. A child who does not know his own circumstances. Contemptible.
Great Greagor. Patience. Great Greagor, how I do not wish to be him. Or is that my destiny, in any time, in any world? He releases the tight hold of his hands, one finger at a time.]
The Phoenix informed me some time ago of Ultima's machinations on the Empire. [On my father. But he wavers here, and he does not speak it. Because some part of him is not sure, to this day, whether that is where Ultima's hand truly reached.] Machinations that would devastate its people. I cannot prove that I loved my people, yet I can say that everything I did, I did to protect them.
[And like some common thief, he tries to maintain his sense of morality. As if he has any left to lay claim to.] Is it not enough to oppose God because of love? Or do you prefer hate? For I have both, in equal measure.
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Dion spoke true, back in the dream. He's not any good at hiding what he truly feels. All the accusations he hurls are pointed inward, barbs of the very collar that's held him all his life.
Cid isn't so sentimental that he thinks Dion blameless in the horrors his empire has perpetuated. He's seen far too many of them first hand. Dion's gilded armor was bought with no small quantity of blood and pain, and the death of his own beloved people.
But then, the same could be said of Cid. ]
Is that what you want to be? Prince of Sanbreque, god among men. Did you love the dream so dearly that you'd like to have it back? [ Cid exhales sharply, shaking his head. ]
You're right, you've no need of my trust or esteem. But if you'd count yourself among us, know this: you're far worse than a common thief in the eyes of your beloved empire. That love you've given all for — are you truly willing to extend it, even to our kind? Outlaws and thieves, and those citizens who your empire has branded as beneath even them? [ Cid drops his arms to his sides, pushing himself to stand. He closes the distance between them with slow steps. ] Love and hate aren't enough by far, though we might wish them to be. What does justice look like?
[ He tilts his head to the side. ] If you're so sure that it's your blade at my throat, have at it.
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[This is a greater insult than forgoing his title. This insult digs itself underneath his skin like maggots, festering his flesh. Rattling the fear inside him, the experience and memories, that prove he will become his father, become like Ultima, detached from humanity and lording above it... not through distaste or desire for more, but for a desire for death that never sates and never comes.
He cannot imagine the gall it takes a man who has been dead for years to pretend to know him. They met in battle only; he does not take it to mean he understands this outlaw, or the insanity he dragged himself into. Even with the knowledge from Odin's own lips. Even if he was right... at least about Ultima.]
You think because my father became a tyrant, I am destined to become one as well. [Dion does not justify himself. He does not have to, not with words to an outlaw. His coup, though successful, changed nothing. He was still as much a puppet to Ultima as was Anabella. He still played his part perfectly.
And he would have died that day, had Joshua not saved him, exiting his place on the stage as only a monster. In soothe, he is convinced that dying in a last bid against Ultima did nothing to cleanse his soul.
Dion watches him with narrowed eyes, but he does not move. As pretty as Ramuh's blood might be spilled against his floor, he does not yet live to be a weapon in someone else's hand. His blade was never his own... even if he allowed it to be guided.
Justice is unknowable to him. Justice would have left him dead once Clive took the power from him he needed. Or Justice would have had a Bearer cut him down, years ago, along with his father.] I am criminal in the eyes of the Empire as much as you already. I have betrayed them. I have committed sins greater than allying myself with peccant fugitives. Does that thrill you to know, Ramuh? Sanbreque needed no help from the likes of you to crumble to the sands.
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Ramuh's ancient patience seems to settle itself under his skin, a counterpoint to Dion's sharp fury.
Even Clive hadn't come to him with such a breadth anger living under his skin. At the least, he hadn't seen Cid as little more than a surface to reflect all of his self-hatred back at him. Dion isn't wrong: Cid does think he would be a terrible king, but not in the same way as Sylvestre, and not for the same reasons. Dion wants to be a good man, or he wouldn't be the way he is now, but it's difficult to be a good man and a good king.
Dion doesn't seem to be in a sharing mood, so Cid files that comment away for later — if there is a later. ]
Who truly suffers when an empire falls, do you think? Not you, or Sylvestre, or his spineless court. Do you think it thrills me to imagine, whether it came by your hand or mine? [ Cid shakes his head. ] I ought to throw you out of my bloody solar, but you didn't come here to pick a fight with the likes of me. You came to pick a fight with yourself, and to interpret everything I say as if it's the litany that's been echoing in that thick head of yours.
[ He meets Dion's eyes, less than a hands' breadth of space between them. ] Let me clarify something for you: I don't like you. I don't want to like you, either. Pity would be wasted on you, because you've plenty of that for yourself... Yet even despite all of that, I'm forced to find your determination admirable. If you were any less than the man you are, you would have thrown yourself from a cliff rather than live with the guilt of what you've done. You're angry because you want to do what's right, and you haven't yet sorted out what that means. That's hardly the mark of a tyrant, if you ask me.
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And yet, his lack of a victory had only been seen as another failure. No different than Belenus Tor.
How it sickens him to think that in this man's eyes, the death of his father would have been a victory.
Dion's fingers curl so tight, the claws that end his fingers tear into skin. His lance calls to him. The light that fills his every vein calls to him.
Bahamut is coldly silent, going still, like a butterfly once it accepts the pin impaling it. That cold fills his body, leeching out from his core. Burning out the light.
He is not even what man Ramuh sees in him. Another cold, freezing twist, deciding between disgust or hatred.]
To this day, I wondered what it was in you that could inspire such loyalty. Even the quietest man of the Hideway spoke of you as the pious nun speaks of Greagor. [An underhanded outlaw could hardly have such fathoms of honour. Sneaking around like a beast, destroying that which was not his. Threatening those people he proposed to care so much for. A piece that removed itself from the chessboard out of fear, or something equally laced in cowardice.
He crosses his arms over his chest, an uncurling of his fingers. He does not step back, but he does not cast his gaze down from meeting Ramuh's, either. While his anger threatens him to violence, he has long grown weary of spilling blood. And here, he has no forces that extend his hand. The choice would be his alone.] I see it now. Silver-tongued, quick-witted... ensconced entirely in your ideals. Someone who sees and appeals to the hearts of men. [And so did Dion try to hold a flag to his own ideals, only to betray them by the same anger that betrays him now. This violent, lashing thing. No, he does not expect an outlaw to like him. Even to this day, he is perplexed by Joshua's and Clive's offerings to him. (And now how the loss of the former strikes even deeper. The loss of him is just another flame that stokes the anger that lies barely beneath his surface... the loss of a man he believes may have understood him completely, in time.)
But Joshua, he thinks, pitied him, too. For his position, or his father, or for another half-sibling who lived under Anabella's rule... he could not say, and he shall not know. In the end, it does not matter. Ramuh is not wrong, and Dion well knows it.] I am like to think you would have rebelled against death itself, while I eagerly greeted it with open arms.
[He does not wish to be thought of anything more than he is. Even if, in Ramuh's estimation, he is barely a man.] We are not the same. We never shall be. And for the sake of your people, and what your name did for Valisthea, I am glad for it.
[Because though Dion tried, he could not have led his people the same. Was he not content to fall right into Ultima's plans, in the end? A rebellion, uncompleted, changes nothing.]
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Liked it better when you were insulting me. [ Cid exhales sharply, almost a laugh, and pats Dion's shoulder as he steps past him. He walks over to where his jacket is hung to rifle through the pockets for a cigar, his back to Dion as he speaks. ] It's easy for a dead man's reputation to be beyond reproach, but there was a time not so long ago when a good death was the best future I could imagine for any of us. If I seem ornery about it now, it's only because of our mutual friend.
[ Clive, that is.
He lights the end of his cigar in the hearth fire and brings it to his lips, finally turning to face Dion again. Cid exhales smoke. ] Harpocrates spoke of you fondly. Still does, I'd wager. I'm not the only one whose name is remembered well, even despite the worst of my deeds. Seems as if it hardly matters if we've earned it: we can make liars of those good people, or we can try to behave in a way that's worthy of their esteem.
[ He shrugs, the cigar poised just before his lips, his eyes still fixed on Dion's. ] All this to say, if you want my advice, you should get off that fine arse of yours and try to give a shit about someone else for a change.
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He sees a man who always thinks himself right, because his belief is unwavering. An upstart bordering zealotry... if he had not encountered real zealotry, and the sickness it brings.]
It comes far easier, in truth. [The prince stiffens at the touch, not merely because it is another Dominant's, not only because he recalls those hands elsewhere, but because here, in this time, he is still so unused to it. In all his years, it was only Terence... and his father, tucking a wyvern tail into his armor. They are far from anything approaching companions, but there is a new understanding. The solar shall survive another day, rather than suffer the destruction of one -- or two -- Eikons.
Dion's eyes go sharply from the movements of the smoke to Ramuh's face at the name. A precious name, spoken from the mouth of a man who still raises his hackles... yet what would he not do, to see his tutor again? Despite himself, his hand comes over his heart; those memories are few, but they are precious. To think he had once forgotten them --]
Master Harpocrates is... [He goes silent, for a moment, even cracking under his surface to hear the name.] I would not be the same man without having grown under his tutelage. [His tone is quiet, in full reverence. If there were ever a man who thought better of him than he was... even at his end. And yet, the world Harpocrates opened to him, beyond his gilded cage, may be the reason he even stands here with any measure of understanding for Ramuh, or his words, or his deeds.
Thinking on it, Dion realizes now that there would have been opportunity for the two to meet, once Harpocrates left the Empire, but to find him at this Hideaway... which was sister to the first...
Had Ramuh given him asylum?
Dion's shoulders slowly lower, a distinct unwinding of his body. The roots of the wyvern tail. How these roots do not define you. Blackened, poisoned things, giving rise to the purple blooms that flood his domain. As much as the darkness that has rode with him since Twinside rebels against such proclamations, there is no ounce of soul in him that would call Master Harpocrates a liar.
Some flooded measure of gratefulness warms the cold from before. If Harpocrates had not lived to that day, Dion would not have had a final chance to see him. Even if... even if he was hardly any measure of the man he wished to be.]
Your advice? I did not ask for it. [His advice, or his remarks upon -- other things. Perhaps it says something of how the air has shifted that Dion does not stiffen again, nor immediately walk from the solar. The smell of his smoke is enough cause for it. It may only be Dion's wish of the Horizon that the man isn't stinking of it.] Yet I was well taught to bend ear to the words of my elders.
[He steps towards the desk, the tomes that litter it. Dion plucks up an empty goblet -- unadorned, and simply crafted -- and spins its slender neck between two fingers. To the topic of those he cares for... well, had he not attempted so? And the Phoenix is gone again, as unreachable as Terence.] If I cared naught for anyone, I would not be here in the first place.
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He takes a pull of his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth. Bit by bit, Dion's guard seems to fall away like armor. That reverence, too, is somewhat reassuring. Harpocrates was a wise man, and he'd chosen to share that wisdom with those he deemed most in need of it — people who Dion had despised not so long ago. It remains yet to be seen if he thinks of these people: Harpocrates, Clive, Jill... as exceptions of a sort. Not sullied by the Branded they've allied themselves with.
Cid starts exhaling smoke — then almost chokes. ] Your 'elders'? I'm not— [ He glares at Dion, eyes narrowed. ] Sure, fine. If that's what it takes for you to hear anything.
[ He's left some of his books out; physics, for a formula he'd needed to confirm earlier in the day, but nothing he expects Dion to take an interest in. The lone leather-bound diary that he keeps on his desk remains shut, and he doesn't expect Dion to be quite so bold.
Still, something prickles at his spine, seeing him play with the stem of an empty goblet. He doesn't belong here, in Cid's solar. Is the wine for now, or after?
Cid shakes his head. ] And what of those who haven't made themselves your allies? Do you care for them? I don't expect you'll answer much, but answer you'll me this: after all you've seen, do you still believe Bearers to be worthy of your brand? Do you still believe that an accident of birth should make it so that some men's lives are worth more or less than others?
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Dion sets the goblet back down, carefully. Being in a place that bears down on him, entirely foreign, surrounded by things he has no right to touch; no, he is bold enough only being here in the first place. Even in his short time in the Hideaway, he was an interloper. A stranger. He was never meant to stay.
He can only wonder if it is his father's reputation that makes Ramuh assume him a callous man, or the one he crafted for himself; that he allowed himself to make as he followed every order. Does he even know of Twinside? Could such opinions sink any lower?
Likely not, if Ramuh already sees him as someone willing to uphold what his father believed.]
If you know Master Harpocrates, you know well the sort of man he is. And you know well what he thinks of his fellow man. [Dion pauses here, if only to give a silent prayer to Greagor that Harpocrates yet lives in the world that Valisthea has become. That he thrives. Dion would never claim to be anything like his master, but...]
Before we departed for Origin, Ifrit ensured we had one final meeting. There, he offered me a wyvern tail. One with petals of lilac, rather than white; a wild variety, he said. [The words are sacred to him now, especially, now that he sees some... perhaps not hope, not for himself, but a desperation to avoid that which he could become.] I had never seen it before. [Only grown in the wild, while Sanbreque cultivated the stainless white petaled tail. How heavy it often felt.] And though he said the roots of this wild flower are just as poisonous, that its roots do not define it. He said he believed the same of me.
[Perhaps his words are wasted. There is little power in words when one's actions have far more meaning.] Master Harpocrates believed things of me even I do not, for the man I am now is not the child I once was. Yet, if you must trust anything of me... trust that I hold him in the highest esteem. I would live to bring truth to his words, even if it should cost me the rest of my life.
[The answer is circuitous, in a way, but so are his thoughts. The topic is not an easy one, and it brings weight against his heart. What of the Bearers of the Empire now? Without an emperor, without a successor, and without magic, as well?] I know you look at me and see my father, and what he has done. Every brand he has perpetuated. [Every step Bahamut took in his name to gain him that power.] The men who died under my flames in his name. As the son of such tainted blood, I would be hypocrite to claim any life is worth more than another. That any man should spend his life under a master's yoke.
[With a sigh, he places what he had been working on in his hands on Ramuh's desk: a single purple wyvern tail. He may burn it, or dissolve it, but Dion hopes that it represents something other than the Empire: a promise.] What I meant to say is, I understand you will not believe me, yet... this world has offered me a second chance to spend the rest of my years proving you wrong, and Master Harpocrates right. I did not go to Origin because I only believed in revenge. I believe in the world Ifrit wanted for his people.
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Even so, his expression remains stern as Dion speaks, searching for any sign of duplicity or arrogance. Time was, he couldn't pass through a tavern anywhere near Sanbreque without hearing some song of the prince's bravery, how honorable he was to do as he did. Though he'd been Lord Commander for so much of his life, Cid had never faced Dion as an Eikon until the day they crossed paths at Drake's Head. At that time, he'd seen only riotous fury; a young man with an anger that bordered on desperation burning deep in his heart.
What a difference the years have made in both of them.
It isn't pity that he finds himself feeling, as Dion speaks. He's eloquent, and though he talks around the point, Cid understands what it is he's trying to say. A dragon can change its scales, a flower can change its petals. Were not all of them once made monsters by that which would call them monstrous?
When he finishes, Cid exhales and tosses his cigar into the hearth fire. ] Don't expect that you'll be leaving that on my desk.
[ He steps forward. Though Dion is too close to his desk for him to stand before the man again, he comes to a stop at his side and offers a hand where he can see it. ] It's Cid, not bloody Ramuh.
If I am to be wrong about something, I'll be glad for it to be you. [ He inclines his head toward the wyvern tail that Dion has left him. ] And as for that — I'll not see it die in the dark after its traveled all this way. Plant it in the sun. Let's see what it grows to become.
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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.]