A shipweek challenge featuring Dion and Terence from Final Fantasy XVI. Running from July 6-13th. All Dion and Terence works tagged #tdshipweek will be reshared here. See sidebar for welcome, rules, and prompts.
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For all the participants and enjoyers of #tdshipweek: Thank you! βοΈπ
I hope you enjoyed! You may find more work on Twitter and Bsky, as well as the AO3 collection. Peruse, comment, and celebrate with fellow fans.
Amnesty begins now and will be *indefinite*.
I will be actively looking for any additional work(s) for the next few weeks. Following that, on an as spotted basis. The AO3 collection will remain open. If the prompts spark inspiration, do feel free to contribute and share at any time.
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Dion thinks he must have died during the fall. He never feels the impact of the hard ground catching him, or his bones shattering until they look like tiny crystals embedded in the dirt. It occurs to him that there might not be anything left of him to feel. All his resolve had gone into his last action against Ultima. The only things left of him are two thoughts he struggles to hold: Now, father, it is done, and I'm sorry, Terence.
How wonderful it would have been to fight by Terence's side one last time. Dion didn't want Terence to see him die, or worse, fail. And he couldn't bear to witness Terence's death, had he allowed them to stay together.
As your soldier and lover, I will die for you. Terence had whispered those words one night, years ago, when he believed Dion was deep asleep. The sentiment both enthralled and deeply saddened Dion. It was spoken as if that had always been the purpose of Terence's role since they were youngβto die for Dion, no matter what.
"Why would my words sadden you?'
Dion's eyelids slowly peel open, fighting against the blood caked on them. Above him, studying him like an angel sent to retrieve a corpse, is Terence.
"I never wanted anyone to die for me," Dion says, but he can't feel his mouth moving. "Why are you here?" He thinks he's still falling, but it feels like Terence is cradling him. He can't see their bodies or where they are. He can only see Terence's serene face and a murky light above him that might be the last remnants of Ultima's essence.
A hand wipes blood off his face, then curls itself around the back of his neck. "I saw you fall. I had to catch you," Terence answers. Dion's chest rumbles like he's laughing, but no sounds of laughter are heard.
"I told you not to follow me." Another hand grasps Dion's gloved one, tight enough to convince him that Terence must be here, wherever they are, and not a dying manifestation of his memories.
"I've always followed your orders." Terence's voice has been straight, with little emotion; now a fissure is forming, and his words are filling with water. "I, I wanted to disobey you just this once."
You're stubborn, Dion wants to say. You're more stubborn than I am.
The hold on him squeezes and pushes Dion into Terence's chest. He smells clean and like a home Dion wishes they could have had together. He smells like promises Dion quietly made to himself because he didn't want to disappoint Terence if he broke them.
Are you real? Am I dying? Am I dead? Dion thinks, and he knows Terence must hear them, but he doesn't respond until Dion says, "I'm sorry."
"You've nothing to apologize for, my prince." There's no point, no reason, to feel apologetic anymore.
Dion goes without speaking for a long time. He wonders if he'll notice when he transcends to the other realm. Or if this nothingnessβwhere he can feel Terence's touch and feel his heartbeat against his cheekβis the last stop.
He still has more to say. "I wish I could see you again."
Something cool and soft presses against his forehead. "I'm right here. We're going together."
Dion doesn't ask where they're going. It doesn't matter, as long as he's with Terence.
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Not on the battlefield, as his enemies hoped. No, where Odin had failed, winter prevailed. He would freeze in his bed, an ignoble end to the tale of Dion the Bold. Even the bards would be hard pressed to put it in a better light.
He lay unmoving, staring at heavy curtains drawn against the harsh demands of the late morning sun. Strangely, this did little to provide the warmth he sought.
"Terence," he said, in hope. He threw an arm behind his head.
His wrist was caught up in a sure grip. But a moment later and he would have smacked the man squarely on the nose. Terence, half-asleep (or doing a fine job of pretending it), grunted.
Dion looked over his shoulder and found his condition improved immediately. Terence had, indeed, lingered. He lay, rumpled, his body bent gently toward Dion's. His boots were at the foot of the bed, his responsibilities with them, and Dion was pierced through yet again. It happened each time he looked upon Terence, softer and yet more enduring than any wound from a blade. A year on, and the feeling only seemed to build upon itself.
He looked well, though the long nights of the season had left him pale. That suited Dion just fine. For the moment, he didn't care to share him with the sun, nor with any other thing beneath it. He watched as Terence shifted to accommodate him, observing with interest the play of tendon and muscle beneath his skin.
Terence watched him, too. He let go, returning Dion's hand to him, but not without first tracing the turn of Dion's forearm. Even his fingers were warm, Dion thought.
Something very wyvern-like roared to life inside of his ribcage. Dion seized upon it, or it seized upon himβmoderation was not a natural talent, regardless.
"I am collecting tribute," he told Terence seriously. As seriously as one could, cocooned in cloth and furs. "I am your liege lord, and there are certain honors I am dueβ"
"What else is there for you to ransom from me?" Terence interrupted him, his voice little more than a whisper. His cheeks lifted with amusement, his eyes glittered, and Dion's heart beat harder in his chest.
"You've already taken all the blankets."
"I am certain you will work something out."
"Tyrant," Terence accused. He lifted an arm.
"If you knew the truth," said Dion, greedily accepting the heat of his body, "you would not breathe such poison to me."
"Oh?"
"Indeed." He threw a thick fur over them both, a gesture of his good will. "I sue for peace, Terence. I have only ever wished for peace."
"Hm."
"You will see." He sighed mightily, settling into Terence's embrace. "I am not the villain you suppose."
Doubt was writ plain on Terence's brow. His head was tipped in obvious thought.
"What are you plotting?" he wondered, touching the very tips of his fingers to the curve of Dion's cheek.
What he thought to discover there, Dion could only guess. But his attention was, for the moment, undivided. Dion held the advantage. He pressed his toes to Terence's calves, and the muted cry of indignation drawn from him was as much a triumph as the look on his lover's face.
"Are you certain you are not the Dominant of Shiva?" Terence complained, pitching his voice to be heard over Dion's laughter.
Dion, still laughing, did not answer.
"Your Highness," he accused him.
That would not do. Dion put Terence on his back, framing his love's face between his hands.
"Don't be cold," he begged piteously. His mouth would not quit its smiling, but that was to be expected. He had already accounted for such things in this campaign. "Not when I suffer so already. Besidesβ¦"
"Hm?"
"There is something other than peace we might make," he suggested, bringing their lips close.
"I might have known." Terence shifted beneath him. "Very well. We are in agreement, my prince."
Smiling, Dion bent in earnest.
"War," Terence declared.
With one sharp tug, he ripped the quilt and furs from Dion's back. The momentum sent him tumbling gracelessly from the bed. He was gone so quickly it seemed to Dion a trick picture. When all was quiet, and it appeared that the dust had settled, Dion moved to peer down at the wreckage. A sprawl of limbs and blankets greeted him.
"Is this victory, Captain?" Dion mused. βSir Terence, do you believe youβve won?"
"It hardly matters," said the pile of cloth. "You have lost."
The air was still cold, but his heart was full enough now to stand it.
"'One more victory such as this'," he recited, with his chin held high, and then he clambered down to join Terence upon the floor, free, for the moment, from all cares save sentiment. One more, always, if good Greagor allowed it.
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