Storm And Ash

His father was a difficult man to deal with even on the best of days.

His resolve was firm. As it should be. He was the Dominant of Bahamut, and he needed to be the strong, powerful protector of Sanbreque. Had he slipped up, then it would have been clear he was not worthy of the power he wielded.

That did not mean that Sylvestre intended to simply go gentle on Dion now.

"If you insist." He was relenting, but Dion should know better than to breath easily.

Life as a bearer wasn't easy, especially on the continent of Ash.

When Mateo had managed to break free, a fire had been lit in him, one that was only fed by seeing the mistreatment that bearers undergo on a daily basis, even outside of Ash.

Even though he'd fallen into the hands of others as their Bearers, he waited, and stewed in the anger he felt. He suffered the way Bearers did and witnessed others suffering too.

Now he found himself leading a small band of bearers, formerly under the command of a man Mateo had cared a lot about. He'd used his powers to help free other bearers and because of that, he turned to crystal, passing the mantle on. Mateo swore he'd uphold the man's mission and he wouldn't rest until he'd freed every bearer, or he'd turn to crystal doing so, and he'd pass the mantle on to someone else.

Now here Mateo stood, locking weapons with the second in command of the dragoons, bruises littering his face and a scowl on his lips. He'd expected the dragoons to interfere, but he hadn't expected Terence himself to show up.

'Sanbreque property' the very notion made him sick, that others could look at these people and see only property.

Around him, he could hear the sounds of his fighters clashing weapons with the other dragoons. Mateo didn't want to kill anyone if they could help it. The mission was just to get the bearers and get out, but there were always complications.

Mateo locked eyes with Terence. Behind him, two kids huddled together, a little girl and a boy who looked a little older. Mateo knew they were scared of what might happen next.

He'd protect them with everything he had. Bearer children had their whole lives ahead of them, they were the ones that could truly know freedom.

"If you want these people you'll have to go through me, and I'm not backing down without a fight."

He knew he was outmatched in skill by the Dragoon, but Mateo had the kind of toughness people only get by having them beaten into them, and he was trained in the art of swordsmanship by the previous leader. He wasn't afraid of fighting dirty either, something he couldn't see his opponent doing.

Part of Terence was screaming for himself to stop. Even as he moved, spear swiping low before a leg kicked out to either sweep the man's feet out from under him or to knock him back, there was a part of him that felt sick and frozen over what he was doing. What he was saying. He knew bearers were people better than most. He didn't want to treat them like disposable tools that were used and then tossed aside.

That was what had happened to his sister and had led to her death. He had held her as her body crumbled into ash in his arms, and the pain and rage from that day both still lurked beneath his skin. He would never forgive them, not those who had done that to her nor those who made this treatment institutionalized.

But nothing would change if he rebelled now. Prince Dion's own efforts would be hamstrung and it would be Terence's fault, and he would never forgive himself for that.

"If this is what I must do, then I will." He didn't know the man in front of him. It had to be simply business between them. Still, as Terence's gaze fell to the two children huddled behind the man, he found himself hesitating as his grip tightened on his spear. A boy and a girl. Siblings, no doubt.

He slept for an unknown amount of time, but when he awoken his first instinct was to reach for a lance that he had lost sight of in the chaos. He didn't know where he was, or if that strange figure of light was still around, but trying to move was a bit much at the moment.

The sound of his voice had her turning. Greagor had not gone far, and it was only a few short steps for her to return to his side. She knelt down again before reaching out to place a hand against one of his own in hopes that the gesture would be viewed as comforting, and not as a strange foreboding threat.

Perhaps duty had kept him from acting out in the ways a teenager should have been allowed to. It was a little sad to dwell on, so he chose not to think too deeply about it.

"You think it'd be better to live out your days in sin with him instead? That's so shameful. He was a proper Knight once. Sir Terence. Now he has to lay down in sin every time he beds you."

She was a child, yes, but one who had been raised in the slums of whatever city her path led her to. She wasn't innocent in the sense that she lacked the knowledge of what happened between two people behind closed doors, be it man and woman or man and man or... even woman and woman. Kihel also knew that this had to've been happening long before now as well - but she'd still tease him.

Terence looked upset, and he had good reason to be. Terence made it clear that this was the fate that had befallen his sister, and one that could have befallen him had Dion chosen another, less kind path.

"Ten." In two weeks? The number for such a small village felt outrageous. Why would they even need that many. "And none of them have been found so far?"

Or were they found... dead.

In a twisted way, Terence hoped it would be the latter. At least then they wouldn't have to suffer under the rule of another any further. Their lives would have been cut short, but they would be free. If they were just missing, it was likely that someone else was making use of them.

Their accommodations should have been an inn but, after being directed to a small and dirty stable that they could use to house their wyverns, the message became clear to Terence. Here, in the filth, that was where they could sleep for the night.

There was an art form to resisting clenching one's jaw without actually clenching ones jaw; to bottling the agitation and all the words one wanted to say to instead offer a smile and words of flattery.

"No, your highness. We employ no bearers here at all. Everything handled and made is done so by skilled hands." Hands, in fact, that had studied just as long and as hard as Vaux himself; some had even been trained by him. Young though Vaux was, he had been determined - and with perfectly good skill came such pure intent that he had reached the heights he had always wanted. And now - - he had royalty within. Either way, once word got around that the Emperor had entered Vaux's store, business would grow tenfold.

The actual discussion of what he was looking for came and went. Sylvestre could hardly say he was any sort of pioneer of fashion, but when the future Emperor of Sanbreque was born he could only be wearing an outfit worthy of the occasion.

The outfit needed to be completed in a day's time. The payment being offered was - in his opinion - more than sufficient to ensure that.

It was rare for her to meet an existence like her own. This one was one who truly understood the pain of watching the people she so desperately loved brought to ruin time and time again

It was not your decision to make. Perhaps, but it was the decision she had made all the same.

"They will never understand." They could never understand. Their lives were a fleeting fragment of a moment compared to the endless existence that divinity had given them. They could see so little and could only think of themselves and what they felt, not of how the world and the universe would continue on long after they had passed.

"They worship me, but only in the name of ensuring there is a man who retains power. At times I wish I could appear before them and speak the truth, but I know it wouldn't be worth even the moment of joy I would feel."

@stormandash | continued from here [x]

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃? His question echoed in her skull in unison with the rapid beat of her heart. When she had teased him, she had not expected Barnabas to prove her wrong and instead merely glare at her before leaving the room. His kiss lingered on her lips even after he had pulled away way too quickly for her taste and despite her best efforts to hide it by covering her lower half of her face with her hand, the crimson shimmer on her nose and her cheeks could hardly be concealed. Her heart burnt and something she had never felt before started moving within her stomach. Was she satisfied now that he had kissed her?

Perhaps there was something he had missed. If so, he was not sure if he was meant to try to... study in order to appease Anabella.

Anabella herself was a woman of great pride. She rarely let a moment go by where she was not reminding him of just who she was. Barnabas did not mind it; those who held power had no reason not to assert it, and she had done more than enough to prove herself worthy of the titles she claimed. She had always seemed to be beyond the needs of the flesh, and in turn Barnabas had ensured his gaze did not linger and his thoughts did not wander. She was the mother of Mythos. She was no common whore and he would not stand to have her treated as such.

And yet here she was, both demanding to be kissed before kissing him in turn.

@stormandash

It was all for nothing…..

Each labor, each plan, and each task meant nothing in the end. The collective was gone, merging into one to face Mythos with full strength, sacrificing their consciousness to keep the earth from the mortals that dared try to steal it but in the end it was for naught. Pain raged inside as the deity began to fade away, staring daggers at his vessel that bested him, who had surpassed him.

It was the end…the thing he feared, the thing that ruined his home and consumed his people. Those memories never eroded with time, steadfast in the god’s mind, to keep him focused on the goal. Humanity was his tool, he created them and they in turn rebelled against him like a rowdy child. It was all too much. It was too bitter and Ultima didn’t want to die.

Death wouldn’t claim him that day.

—

Ultima awoke with a shock. Senses he never had or forgot rushed him. He felt restricted and contained in a body that wasn’t his nor the form he was used to. The first thing he noticed was the loud beating in his head. A heartbeat? A heart? There wasn’t one in his body so why did he feel one now? Out of a strange sense of instinct, he felt his arm rise into his line of sight and there was indeed his arm but it was that of a mortal hand, pink and flesh and with a sense of touch. Mortal senses were intense and overwhelming.

The second thing the felled deity noticed was the temperature of the room. Before, he never felt it, he didn’t have a nervous system like a mortal but it was painful and his body shivered. It was cold but not just cold, it was freezing. There was mist as he breathed, it felt like winter. Despite the bitter cold he felt he managed to sit up and gather his surroundings. It was a familiar place.

Stained glass windows of blues and greens lit the room in a dull light of dancing colors. From what he could tell, the sky was gray. There was an all too familiar altar by those windows and memories of speaking with Odin flashed into his mind. Ultima realized he was in the cathedral in Barnabas’s castle. The question was how did he obtain a mortal form? It wasn’t his doing nor intention.

The cathedral looked unused and Ultima managed to stand and began to walk awkwardly towards the window. Mortal bodies were so inconvenient, so sluggish and slow. A part of him missed the ability to float instead of walking but he sensed little to no power within him. Not that a mortal could wield such divine magic to begin with. The man looked through a clear piece of stained glass and indeed he was in Odin’s castle. The sky was gray and it was snowing lightly.

It was the winter months now? That gave Ultima some idea how much time passed since his defeat at the hands of Mythos. The deity turned mortal stepped away and moved awkwardly still towards a side chamber. If he recalled, it was a storage room, there had to be something there to cover up with and get warm.

After rummaging through the room he managed to find a blanket and a small mirror. Moving back into the main chamber where the light was the brightest, Ultima finally gazed into the mirror to see a mortal’s reflection. A fair looking man with white hair that reached just passed his shoulders and with light blue eyes. It was both odd and infuriating that he was trapped in such a body that barely reflected his own features. How did this happen? Why did it happen?

Nothing would be answered by lingering in a freezing cathedral, he thought. So he walked towards the exit and headed towards the main part of the castle. He would seek out Barnabas’s chambers to find proper clothing and light a fire. The man was dead after all. It wasn’t like he was going to use them now.

It would have come as a surprise to many. Perhaps even himself. That was the power of humanity, was it not? The power of belief, of the strength of will? The ability to truly convince oneself of a truth that simply was not real. To be able to buy into a reality that was false, no matter how much one would wish it to be otherwise.

He had believed himself to be unfeeling, and so his emotions had started to melt into a twisting, muddled miasma. He had believed himself to be King of Ash and so he had become so - the King of nothing, the King of a broken, scattered people. He had believed in the vision of Ultima and the prophecy of Mythos and so he had thrown everything on that altar in the hopes of seeing it come true.

Whether or not it had, there would never be a way for him to know. Because in the quest for his belief, Barnabas Tharmr had... died.

And then he had... not.

The act of breathing came without thought, as did the act of opening his eyes. Both came with sensation, of cold air and soft sheets and of an ache in his body from where the curse of the crystal had finally overtaken him and tried to swallow him whole. All it took was a simple glance to confirm that there was naught amiss with his form; even the scars that should have littered his form were gone. It was if he had been reborn anew, and while others might have felt joy at this, Barnabas felt a strange twist in his stomach. It was a familiar one that he had learned to ignore long ago, but the missing fervor of his belief made it harder to ignore now.

Barnabas would have dwelled on the pit of anxiety twisting at his stomach longer if the doors to his chamber were not opened. The King (could he be a King without a people?) stood, uncaring to his nude form. A hand moved to grasp at - nothing, fingers closing around air where a hilt should have been.

The man that entered his room was unfamiliar and someone he knew intimately, and Barnabas could not place him.

Even he wasn't immune to the bone deep chill and he held his body tightly tense to stop it from shaking.

The only comfort that could be offered was that none of this was done on purpose. He did not spend time sitting and thinking and plotting how to make Sleipnir's life miserable. He simply acted, he simply did, and the pieces of him that used to be kind and caring had been worn away over the years.

"Magic." He repeated the word, disdain heavy in his voice. "I thought you were better than that, Sleipnir. Have you grown so slow to allow the weakest Rosfield to be able to lay a hand on you?"

The question received a bold, hearty laugh from the other, strong enough that he actually threw his head back. Gripping the pouch tightly, Hanekoma began undoing the string that barred the way between the gil and his potions.

"Nah, I've no mind'a doin' that," he lilted as he was released from his laughture. "See, I've seen a fair hand of ailments and injuries. I get hurt a lot. An' I can right tell ya that the merchants I pass on the roads and in towns are always charging me more'n'at for this kinda ware. 1000 is a discount, trust me. 'Sides..."

As he counted out the coin Hanekoma turned an eye back to Kihel, a gaze teetering between sharp and compassionate, sympathy entwined with keen knowing. As if he could see something in her that no one else could. He held out the gil towards her, trying to keep eye contact as he smiled softly.

It was so close. All it would take was her reaching out and snatching it and then-- what? She would have to run. She was good at running. It wouldn't be that hard to disappear into the crowds, to melt and blend in with all the people milling about them.

The man would know what she looked like thought and could always call the guards on her. His word against hers, and even if she managed to find a safe place to stash and hide it, they would always believe the respectable looking man over gutter-trash like herself. And he was already paying her more than she was asking for.

At the mention of Jote Hanekoma chuckled softly. That one he was proud of. The deliberate devotion that Jote provided Joshua was something only he himself could rival, and she was someone that he knew he could trust to do her job well... Even if he was envious of her.

"Make no mistake, my role isn't likened to Jote's. My sister is Joshua's one true retainer. I could never dre-- I could dare t' get so close. I'm only here so's she can get a night'a restful sleep for once. On the morn I wager she'll be up and ready to go. To think I would ever be chosen by him! Heh, not likely, boss. Unlike you, I'm far from the Phoenix's right hand man. He'd like as not have no idea if I died."

The sharp comment made him bristle, just a bit. He didn't understand why Terence was still being so hostile when he'd offered peace between them. He knew he'd likely be very unhappy with the bond between their respective masters, but was it really so bad as to start gnawing on the Undying's throat like a wolf?

Terence found himself feeling... something odd with the realization that the other man had a sister. It wasn't some sudden burst of trust or feeling calmed; rather, it was almost a feeling of guilt that twisted in his belly. The mention of a sibling had the memories of his own suddenly spark in his mind, and the memory of just how deeply and badly he had failed his sister.

It wasn't your fault. You were a child. You never had a chance to save her. That was the constant refrain that circled his mind, and Terence did his best to try to cling to it, but even his desperation couldn't fully drown out the horrible whispers that his own mind liked to spark.

He wasn't fool enough to believe he was solely responsible for her death, at least. Just that he was still complicit by the mere nature of his decision to continue to hide just what he truly was from the world. Even now he kept it a secret, knowing exactly how the world would react if the truth of Dion's Second in Command was ever revealed.

"Jote is your sister?" He spoke again, mostly to try to focus himself and pull his mind away from the dark thoughts that were threatening to overtake him. "I fear I cannot see the resemblance." Physically, at least. Mentally, the two were clearly cut from the same cloth.

To think I'd ever be chosen by him. The two of them had that in common, and they both equally couldn't have been more transparent about the cause of their aches. It was pathetic - and that thought was not aimed at Hanekoma.

"I am the Second in Command of the Holy Dragoons. Wherever Prince Dion goes, I will follow." Even if that meant being on guard duty while he fawned over the Phoenix.