Chapter Text
Joshua wakes up cold and unable to breathe.
It isn’t an unfamiliar state of affairs. He rolls onto his side even as his body shakes with coughs, trying to push himself up to relieve the pressure on his aching lungs. His head is spinning, dizzy and distant, panic at being unable to breathe surging and ebbing as he forgets and remembers the familiar sensation of his lungs refusing to take in air.
“Easy now,” an unfamiliar voice soothes. Hot hands grip his arms, helping him sit, and Joshua gasps in a wheezing breath.
The air is dry on his tongue, too thick and difficult to pull in. He coughs again and remembers to close his mouth, breathing through his nose as slowly and evenly as he can manage, even as his chest spasms at the frigid intrusion of air. It’s so cold.
“Fetch the Lord Commander,” another voice commands, and there’s a rush of clanking metal and rustling fabric.
Joshua forces his eyes open. It’s dark. An unfamiliar soldier is helping him sit. Joshua squints, trying to see his face, only to be stymied by the man’s armor. Another bout of coughing overtakes him, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut again. He tries to raise a hand to cough into his fist so that he won’t splatter the soldier with spittle, but his arm feels impossibly heavy.
The fit subsides, and he slumps weakly in the soldier’s grasp. Metal clinks. He tries again to lift his hand and wipe at his face. This time he feels it stop short. He blinks blearily and looks down.
His hands are bound together.
The soldier holding him shifts, pushing him a little further upright, and asks, “Can you sit up?”
His accent is strange and difficult to understand. It’s enough for memory to finally flood back in. Joshua’s weakened breathing quickens, and he struggles to sit under his own power even as he begins coughing with even more force than before.
By the time he can breathe again, he feels so lightheaded he can’t do anything to resist as the soldier wipes a cloth over his face with surprising gentleness.
“Should I fetch a physicker, milord?” the soldier asks. Joshua is pressed up against him so closely that he can feel the vibrations of the man’s words in his chest. It’s very warm compared to the cold that’s burrowed its way into Joshua’s core.
“Aye, and be quick about it.” This man steps forward and kneels down. “Send someone with water while you’re at it – clean stuff, from a crystal. I’ll take him for now.”
The world slips and slides, and Joshua is peeled away from the warmth. He makes a small noise against his will, even as new arms take hold of him.
The man pushes his hair back off his sweaty brow, a feeling that begins deliciously cool and quickly becomes frigidly cold. “C’mon, lad. You awake?”
Joshua forces his eyes open. The man’s face is hovering too close to his. Joshua doesn’t recognize him.
“Who…” A strange smell tickles the back of his throat, and he has to breathe carefully to not start coughing again. “Where…”
Joshua can’t finish. His chest aches fiercely. If he starts coughing again, he might actually pass out. The thought is even more frightening than not knowing who the man holding him is or where they are.
“So you talk,” the man says lightly. “Best not till my man comes back with some water, eh? Try to relax and keep breathing. There’s a good lad.”
The man has answered neither of Joshua’s questions. Joshua’s eyes fall to the bands of metal and crystal on his wrists. They were stupid questions, anyway. He remembers enough to know the answer.
Joshua isn’t sure what he expected men from Waloed to be like. Mother always makes them sound like barbarians, but she talks that way about most people outside of their family. The books he’d found in the library weren’t much more helpful. They were all too old, from when Waloed was the kingdom of Veldermark, or written by people who had never actually been there. Dion had asked Harpocrates before they’d left, but when Joshua had tried to get him to relay his findings, his brother had only looked troubled and said it wasn’t anything helpful. And when Joshua saw the Waloedi soldiers himself –
He shivers at the memory, tears pricking at his eyes even as he grits his teeth and swallows them down. They had all screamed so terribly – though none had been loud enough to be heard over the cries of the Phoenix.
“Are you cold, lad?” The man adjusts his grip and presses a calloused palm to Joshua’s forehead. “They didn’t send you out there ill, did they?”
Joshue leans away from the man’s touch. To his surprise, the man withdraws his hand without protest, and he doesn’t bother Joshua again until a soldier arrives with a goblet and a carafe of water.
Water won’t help much, but Joshua doesn’t try to object. He drinks it quietly, focused on regaining his strength and his wits. They’re in a tent of some kind, lit only by a slash of late afternoon light from the half-open flap. It’s just him and the man, but he can hear others outside and see the occasional flash of men in armor passing by.
The man himself remains inscrutable. He smells sharply of strange herbs and leather. When Joshua has drunk down the water, the man takes the goblet from his hands and asks, “Do you want some more?”
“No.” The word rasps painfully against Joshua’s sore throat, but he doesn’t start coughing again. He sits carefully forward, away from the hot line of the man’s arm, even though the sudden chill makes him shiver again.
“All right.” The man hovers for a moment, then leans back on his heels when Joshua doesn’t immediately keel over. “Are you feeling any better? Someone’s gone to fetch a physicker, but I can try to help in the meanwhile.”
Joshua doesn’t answer. Instead, he breathes carefully and asks a question of his own. “Who are you?”
“Ah.” The man sits back fully, folding his legs tailor-style and resting his hands on his knees. “Name’s Cidolfus Telamon.” Joshua sits up straighter, and the man smiles slightly, though it seems somehow strained. “So you know who I am. And you’re Joshua Rosfield, so we’re nice and even now, eh?”
Joshua stares at the man who took down the Phoenix. He doesn’t look like much of anything – he doesn’t even have on armor, just a plain leather jacket with Waloed’s crest embroidered on the breast.
But then, Joshua isn’t much of anything himself – he doesn’t have any armor, either. And apparently he doesn’t have the strength to protect anyone at all.
The thought makes his breath catch, and he sits up straighter. He can feel his lungs tightening again, but before they can, he forces out, “What happened – to Dion?”
Telamon tilts his head slightly. “Can’t say for sure. Bahamut damn near lost his mind after you went down, but even after his aether was spent we couldn’t find him.”
Joshua’s heart pangs, a new ache in his already tender chest. Oh, Dion. If only Joshua had been stronger…
He presses his lips together until he’s certain his chin won’t tremble. Then he asks, “Will you be selling me for ransom?”
“That’s going to depend on what His Majesty decides,” Telamon says easily. “Would you want to go back?”
The question startles Joshua so much that he can only say dumbly, “What?”
Telamon’s expression sharpens, and he leans forward slightly. “Lad,” he starts to say, but at the moment the tent flap is pushed all the way open, flooding the space with light. Joshua squints at the sudden brightness, turning his head away, and Telamon changes tracks. “Ah, right on time.”
“My lord.” The new arrival steps forward, and the tent falls dark again. He’s older, with a thick blond beard and a short robe rather than soldier’s garb. The physicker, then. Joshua tenses as Telamon rises, but he only clasps hands with the other man and speaks to him quietly.
From the ground, they both seem impossibly tall. Joshua considers trying to stand himself – but he isn’t sure if he can, and falling over would be worse. He doesn’t move. After a brief exchange, the physicker approaches and kneels next to him.
“The Lord Commander says you have been unwell,” the physicker says. His speech is even more thickly accented than the soldier’s. “Were you ill before the battle?”
Joshua doesn’t want to tell the physicker that he recognizes the tightness of his lungs or the pain that follows – though by now, the fit should have passed in a flood of warmth. Was that always the Phoenix, then? He suppresses a shiver, reminded anew of how unnaturally cold he feels.
“I’m fine,” he says – rasps, really. But he can’t try again, or else he might start coughing again, and he can’t let them see how weak he is.
The physicker has the grace to not comment. “May I examine you?”
What would happen if Joshua said no? He glances at Telamon, but the angle is too low and the tent too dark to read his expression. He lifts his chin, trying to look confident and in control even though he can’t even stand. “Very well.”
The exam is nothing unusual, and it ends quickly. After, the physicker rummages in his bag and produces a bottle. “You don’t appear to be seriously ill, but this will help ease your breathing.”
He pours a dark liquid into a small cup and offers it to Joshua, who eyes it warily. The water was somehow easier to accept – although in truth, he wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. What medicine is this, and what will it do to him? Is it medicine?
“Here.” Telamon reaches forward and takes the cup from the physicker. He brings it up to his nose to sniff, then puts it to his lips and takes a sip. “Hm. Not bad.”
Joshua watches the physicker, who seems totally unalarmed. When Telamon hands him the cup, he hesitates for only a moment before drinking. Immediately, he realizes that Telamon either has no tastebuds or is a very good liar. The concoction is somehow both sweet and bitter, with the tang of strong wine underneath. He almost gags, but it’s hardly the first bitter medicine he’s taken. He swallows it down quickly and has to suppress a surge of gratitude when Telamon immediately hands him the goblet of clear water again. So he is a liar. Joshua makes careful note.
“There.” The physicker takes the empty cup and begins packing his tools away. “That will also help you rest, which is likely what you most need. Is there aught else, my lord?”
“Not likely.” Telamon places a hand on the man’s arm and walks with him out of the tent. “Though I do need to have a chat with you about the physickers’ tents…”
The flap closes, and for a brief moment, Joshua is alone. He stares at the golden outline of the exit. The noise of the camp continues unabated. In the absence of people, a tightness begins to form in his throat. He swallows it down, blinking quickly. He won’t be alone for long. He can’t show weakness here.
Sure enough, the moment is too brief. Telamon returns, and Joshua sits as straight and proper as he can on the ground.
“Feeling any better, lad?” Telamon asks.
“I feel fine.” It isn’t untrue. Whatever the bitter liquid was, it soothed his abraded throat, and sore as they are, his lungs accept the air. But underneath it all, Joshua still feels tired and achy. Little wonder, given what he remembers of the battle. He only barely manages to suppress a flinch, keeping his gaze fixed on Telamon even as he remembers just what power the man commands.
Telamon watches him for a long moment, a tall, looming shadow. Then he nods. “We’ll not see you mistreated, Lord Rosfield. If there’s anything you need, or anything we can do to make you more comfortable, you can ask me or my men, and we’ll do what can be done.”
You could let me go, Joshua thinks, though he isn’t stupid enough to voice the thought aloud. He nods, not wanting to waste breath on such an inane statement.
“That also means that no one here is going to hurt you,” Telamon continues. “My men know that it’ll mean the lash if they do. If any of them are fool enough to try, you let me know, and I’ll see it handled. All right?”
Would he even believe Joshua if one of the soldiers did try to take vengeance? This thought, too, Joshua doesn’t share. He only lifts his chin and says as firmly as he can, “I understand.”
“Good lad.” Telamon’s voice is friendly, but Joshua already knows him for a liar. He doesn’t relax. “Someone will be by with a meal in a little while. We’ll speak again once things are settled, eh?”
With that, Telamon puts two fingers to his brow and lifts them in a lazy salute, then waltzes out of the tent. Almost immediately, two soldiers replace him. With the heavy armor they wear over their faces, Joshua can’t tell if they’re the same men who were present when he awoke. He doesn’t risk getting caught staring, choosing instead to sit straight and focus his gaze on the bright outline of the tent flap.
Perfect posture has never been enough for Joshua to dismiss his anxieties – only to cover them. The physical stillness does nothing to stop his racing thoughts or calm his beating heart. The urge to fidget – to twist his fingers together, to worry his lip, to simply move – is powerful, but Joshua is well-practiced in holding back such easy tells. And here, in this unknown camp surrounded by the enemy, he knows that this fragile defense is all he has.
===
Joshua Rosfield is an odd child, though Cid is beginning to suspect that maybe he hasn’t spent enough time around children to have a solid point of reference. Benedikta is sharper of mind and tongue than most, and Ifrit is… well, certainly not a usual case. Perhaps it’s just that Dominants are destined to be strange. Given the lives they lead, how could they not be?
So maybe it isn’t odd that the little Lord Rosfield is so serious and talks like an adult even though his cheeks are still soft with baby fat. Cid reckons that any child would have to grow up fast when thrust onto a battlefield – even faster still if he was raised for it. Which brings up the question…
“What are we going to do with him, Barnabas?”
The hour is late, and the command tent is empty but for the two of them. Even Sleipnir has run off somewhere, no doubt terrorizing some unsuspecting recruit slacking on watch or some such. Cid is tired down to his bones – he always is, after a prime. Barnabas, meanwhile, looks nearly as fresh as he did this morning. It’s unfair, it is, that Odin is a gentler tenant than Ramuh, even though the Warden of Darkness is possibly the most deadly of all the Eikons. Cid wants nothing more than to sleep, but as long as Barnabas is still going, Cid isn’t going to let himself be caught napping.
Barnabas looks up from the map, expression as cool and tricky to read as always. “Have I not made my intentions clear?”
He has, is the thing. When he decreed that they would return to Sanbreque to fight themselves rather than withdraw, Cid suspected. And when he ordered Cid to take the Phoenix alive and presented him with a set of crystal fetters sized for a child, Cid knew. But that doesn’t mean Cid thinks it’s a good plan. He doesn’t understand what Barnabas is thinking. He never does, not really, but usually he can make sense of his king’s plans, if only in hindsight. Now, though…
“Barnabas,” Cid says helplessly. “If we take Phoenix and Bahamut, we’ll have control of every Eikon save Titan and Shiva.”
“Cidolfus,” Barnabas echoes back, on the edge of mocking. “Surely you are clever enough to understand that this is precisely the point?”
Cid pushes down the reflexive surge of frustration, but the restless energy doesn’t leave him. He crosses his arms and paces along the length of the table, as though physical distance might somehow let him put this problem behind him – but it can’t, of course. He turns back to Barnabas.
“Of course I understand. But do you really think these bastards are going to take that lying down? Much less the rest of the Twins?” He uncrosses his arms, unable to stop himself from gesturing as he runs through the host of problems before them, counting them out on each finger. “The beastmen are knocking at our door, our armies are in shambles, and the Blight is creeping ever faster at our borders. We don’t have the resources to fight a war on both fronts anymore. Not if all of Storm decides they want our heads – and especially not if we’re trying to keep three Dominants contained against their will!”
The last words come out far too loud, all the things Cid has been fretting over since Barnabas started this damned war spilling out at once. Through it all, Barnabas watches him coolly, and Cid feels suddenly – childish. Like he’s a teenager again, reckless with a power he can barely control, too headstrong to put his own cleverness to good use.
Barnabas steps around the table. A thrill runs down Cid’s spine, but his king’s hand is gentle on his cheek. “I understand your concerns, Cidolfus. But without the stolen power of their precious Eikons, all of Storm could not take Waloed. Let them delude themselves with their indignation and send Titan – we will take him as we have the others, and then there will be none left to stand against us.”
Something in Cid’s guts shivers. “And Shiva?”
“If she lives, then we will take her too,” Barnabas murmurs.
Normally, Barnabas’s unshakable confidence is reassuring. He’s more than earned it, after all. But what he’s suggesting now – it’s unheard of for so many Dominants to live at the same time, much less all in fighting condition. No one nation has ever attempted to control all of them at once. The threat they’ll pose won’t go ignored.
“Barnabas…” Cid searches his king’s face for – something. He doesn’t know what. Some reassurance that he hasn’t gone mad, perhaps. “You’re the one who taught me that we aren’t invincible. The curse may not’ve started to take you yet, but you aren’t young anymore. With the way we’ve been going at it…”
Barnabas glances down, and Cid realizes he’s gripped his own arm, right where the joint has been twinging since his clash with Ifrit. He quickly lets go, but the damage is done. Barnabas’s hand drifts down to rest on his elbow. “So it has begun.”
“No,” Cid denies quickly, but one look from his king has him spilling the truth. “Maybe. I don’t know, all right? But even if it hasn’t – it will start for both of us, Barnabas. We can’t fight nature. Not forever.”
Barnabas grips Cid’s elbow, then lifts Cid’s left hand with his own. Cid allows his king to manipulate his arm as he pleases, trying not to wince at the not-quite-pain that zips through his elbow. When Barnabas is done, he squeezes Cid's hand with his cool fingers and murmurs, “No. It is for us to submit to the will of god, in this as in all things.”
Cid bites his tongue, though Barnabas surely knows what he's thinking. Despite his king's best attempts at proselytizing, Cid has never been willing to put his faith in what he can’t see. Believing in Barnabas is easy – his god, not so much. It’s a subject they both know it’s best to avoid.
“The point is, taking control of this many Dominants will divide the Twins, and we won’t be able to repel all of Storm forever.” Cid has to fight the urge to pull away from Barnabas’s grip and begin pacing again. Despite his best efforts, the suppressed tension leaks into his voice again. “Fucking hells, I thought the whole reason we started this war was because the Blight’s practically on our doorstep. How’re we going to make it through a siege like that without grinding ourselves to dust?”
“We won’t,” Barnabas says. His gaze is intense, blue eyes dark and all-consuming as he grips Cid’s hand tightly before suddenly letting go. “That is why we shall be putting an end to this accursed Holy Empire for good.”
“You’re serious,” Cid says dumbly after a moment.
“Am I ever not?” Barnabas asks.
Well, no. But usually Barnabas is a military genius, not a madman. Cid doesn’t even know where to begin. “This is a terrible plan, Barnabas.”
Barnabas regards him dispassionately. “Your opinion on the matter is irrelevant, Cidolfus. It is already decided. You need only play your role.”
For a moment, Cid considers protesting further. There are a hundred reasons why trying for a full-scale invasion of Storm is a terrible idea. But something about Barnabas’s expression stops him. Cid can get away with giving his king a fair bit of lip, but at the end of the day, Barnabas is his king. It may be his job as Lord Commander to advise Barnabas on tactics and try to steer him away from folly, but if his king has already made up his mind, there isn’t much he can do except follow his lead – not unless he wants to abandon the cause entirely.
Cid crushes the thought, much as he’s crushed the doubts that were planted when this campaign began and that have been springing up like weeds since bringing Ifrit to Stonhyrr. “What role is that, then?”
“Escort Phoenix back to Stonhyrr and ensure that he and Ifrit are secure,” Barnabas says simply. “Manage the home front and continue your work preparing your student. I will handle matters here.”
The mention of Benedikta puts Cid’s hackles up. He only just keeps his tone civil as he asks, “And what, exactly, am I preparing her for?”
“A better future.” Barnabas rests a hand on Cid’s shoulder, and it takes real effort not to shrug him off. “Well do I know that this course will not be without bloodshed, yet what lies at its terminus shall be worth more than any drop spilled. You have not balked at such methods in the past – have you lost your mettle, Lord Commander?”
Cid’s spine straightens reflexively. “Not so long as you have yours, Your Majesty.”
“Then it is all but done.” Barnabas squeezes Cid’s shoulder, almost to the point of pain. Then he releases him and steps back, cool gaze sweeping up and down before turning away in clear dismissal. “I have already ordered a ship prepared. I trust that you are capable of handling the rest.”
None of Cid’s doubts have been answered, nor Barnabas’s plans enumerated beyond vague promises. But Cid has a keen instinct for when he’s pushed his luck enough. It’s a traitorous relief to let himself be dismissed and step out into the open night air, a purer sort of darkness than whatever madness has gripped his king.
Cid tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. There’s a note of something sharp and chill – the oncoming autumn and the winter that will follow, perhaps. Cid holds it in his lungs like the smoke from one of his cigarillos, then lets it out in a gusty sigh. Above, the stars are dimmed by the ever-present light of torches and lanterns. Despite the late hour, there are still a number of men moving through the camp with purpose. As Cid heads towards the tent where they’re keeping little Lord Rosfield, he can’t help but wonder how many of those men will survive the war to come.
With effort, Cid pushes these thoughts from his mind. It won’t do to fixate on what is out of his reach. He can only solve the problems that are directly in front of him. And for now, that problem looks a lot like managing the kidnapping of a lad of ten summers – and that, despite everything, for the lad’s own benefit.
“Fucking Sanbreque,” Cid lets himself mutter, just once. Then he turns his thoughts entirely to the care and keeping of Joshua Rosfield and strides out into the night, trying to ignore the feeling that he’s running away.