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Cid straightened his dagger, squaring it on his thigh. He was agitated, but in the way of anticipation, feeling an almost tingling sensation in his hands. Already his breath was coming shallower, his feet almost tapping against the ground. But carefully, oh so carefully, he melded in with the crowd, sweeping through the streets of Oriflamme.
It was sunset, the city painted over with a deep, golden glow. And he couldn’t deny it was beautiful, even with Whitewyrm looming ominously in the background. The people weren’t so blunt as in Stonhyrr either, offering him a friendly slap on the back, even the occasional flagon of ale. He accepted it all with a warm smile, a cheerful word. He was nothing if not adept at blending in.
The crowd was dressed in Sanbreqois colors, celebrating their recent victories over Dhalmekia. Cid didn’t blame them, he’d be celebrating too. It was rather impressive how fast their latest war was progressing. No doubt it wouldn’t be long before the coalition forces were on Ran’dellah’s door, breaking through towards Drake’s Fang.
Such a thing might rouse Kupka from his stupor, but Cid had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough to save his floundering country. Because although it was an allied army–Sanbreque and Rosaria fighting hand in hand–their victories truly belonged to one man, and one man only. The Lord Marquess of Rosaria, First Shield of the Phoenix, and at twenty one… the most formidable man on the continent.
Dominants excepted, of course.
Cid slipped into an alleyway, passing back a few drunk revelers. He tugged up his hood as he went, making his footsteps quieter, letting the smile drop off his face. Someone asked him for money as he rounded a corner, face souring as he slipped away without a word. But he had no time for beggars or cutpurses anymore, what with his business so close at hand.
Unfortunately for Cid, the King was growing tired of Rosaria, Clive Rosfield most of all. The Duchy was steadily gaining in power, it had been for years. The country was no longer a backwater, but a military powerhouse, strong, well-armed. And it probably wouldn’t be long before they turned on Sanbreque, true war consuming the whole continent.
The King wished to avoid such a ruckus–not because he feared the destabilization, allegedly, but because of what might happen if Rosaria won. The Lord Marquess had a way of recruiting people to his side, and a unified army sailing on Ash…
So Cid had been dispatched to deal with the situation, stowing away on a ship across the straight, working his way to Oriflamme slowly. It was vital he aroused no suspicion, that Waloed’s meddling in Storm’s affairs remained as secret as possible. All and all, a rather boring mission. And he still wasn’t quite sure he understood the King’s reasoning, even after multiple explanations.
Delicately, he worked his way deeper into Oriflamme, heading for the castle. Along the way, he had to use Ramuh’s power to avoid detection, teleporting to rooftops or open windows. It was a waste of his Eikon–he could almost hear the King’s admonishments. But in this case, it was necessary. And just one more back alley, one more shortcut, and he’d be at Whitewyrm itself.
Waiting for a patrol to pass by, Cid felt for his dagger again. He never much liked being unarmed, feeling more than slightly naked without his swords. But they were hardly stealthy, and a dagger could still kill a man. Even a man with the Blessing of the Phoenix.
Rumors sometimes spoke of Lord Rosfield as if he was a monster, a beast. They whispered that he didn’t just wield a broadsword, but flames and claws. Cid had never put much stock in such things though. The truth of the Phoenix’s power was rather straightforward. And if Rosfield himself was a strong fighter, well…
It wasn’t going to save him. Not tonight.
Cid finally approached the guest wing of the castle, moving with increased care. But the guards were bored, gambling carelessly, and he made it inside the building without arousing their attention. From that point on, Ramuh’s power was reserved as a last resort. With Phoenix and Bahamut in the area, he could ill-afford to be detected.
Eventually, he slipped into a small, unused room, waiting patiently for night to fall. And fall it did, the sun setting at its usual pace, the world turning quietly on.
He stole out of his hiding place, acting on instinct rather than real information, searching. But he had a feeling he was getting closer and closer to the Lord Marquess, almost smelling blood in the air. At some point he became convinced Ramuh was moving his footsteps forward, guiding him in the correct direction.
Cid trailed to a stop in front of a lonely door, unguarded, unlocked. It was the largest room on the floor, Phoenix housed somewhere above. He slowly pushed inside, finally calming his breathing, letting his senses sharpen. When the door closed soundlessly behind him, he unsheathed his dagger, padding carefully for the bed.
The Lord Marquess looked to be asleep, and the room looked to be empty. But the closer Cid got, the more he felt a wrongness, stealing over the back of his neck. It was like pinpricks down his spine, static that only intensified with each breath. He kept moving, lifting his blade, acting as if nothing was amiss. But at the same time he was waiting, anticipating something he couldn’t name.
A second later, it came, a fiery slash forcing him to teleport back to the door. But his assailant was just as fast, appearing in front of him with a bright flash.
It was Rosfield. It had to be.
Cid was forced to block the next slash with his dagger, feet almost slipping under the force of the blow. The hit after that wasn’t quite as fast, giving him an opportunity to dance towards the open window. But the Lord Marquess was relentless, following him, swinging his sword with enough power to rival Waloed’s King.
They battled across the room until Cid’s left arm was screaming, his dagger threatening to shatter. He blocked as best he could, dodging pathetically when he couldn’t. And occasionally, Rosfield would even glow, fire ripping down his blade. Cid couldn’t deny he made an attractive picture, body outlined through his sleep clothes, all raw power and hard muscle.
But Cid didn’t have time to dwell on such things, the vast majority of his attention focused on staying alive. And there was still a chance he could turn this around, since the Lord Marquess was apparently too arrogant to call for his guards.
They exchanged another rough volley of blows, the thought of potential victory the only thing keeping Cid going, kept him blocking and dodging and waiting for his chance instead of running away.
He knew–Rosfield knew–that priming would end the fight in a flash. Likewise, if Cid used Ramuh’s powers in any serious capacity. But such a move would also call Bahamut and Phoenix and half the castle down on his head. Not to mention, it would make Waloed’s involvement in the assassination attempt obvious.
Hard to put your enemies at each other’s throats if they both saw you doing it.
Rosfield knocked against his shoulder, sending him careering into a dresser. It snapped under the force, wood cracking. No sooner had it happened then Cid had to duck, another powerful slash slicing towards him. He managed it just in time, fire whooshing over his head, nearly singing his hair. Afterwards, he was forced to jump up awkwardly, the other man going for his shins just as he found his footing.
Unfortunately for Cid, his movement was cleanly predicted, Rosfield almost grinning as he changed the direction of that unfairly heavy sword. It was too dangerous to block, and Cid had to teleport out, smashing against the door when he misjudged the distance. The Lord Marquess followed him, slashing down, forcing him to block above his head with his puny dagger.
“Is that all you’ve got, assassin?” the man growled, eyes boring into the shadows under his hood.
Cid’s hand shook, trying to content with the weight of the broadsword. Above him, Rosfield hardly appeared to be sweating. Desperate, he kicked out, connecting hard. The ploy succeeded, briefly, and he was able to use the momentary advantage to twist his wrist and disarm the other man. It worked a little too well though, as he also lost his grip on his dagger, sending it clattering to the ground.
Clive Rosfield suddenly smiled at him, eyes almost luminous in the moonlight. He charged before Cid could go for his lost weapon, picking him up and slamming him into a wardrobe. They brawled furiously after that, each punching and grappling for the upper hand. Cid took a hit on his nose, Clive on his jaw. It was bloody, getting bloodier by the second.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Clive shouted, tackling him roughly to the ground.
In that moment, Cid found himself wishing he had his swords. In fact, he was wishing it so hard he forgot to think about his mission, or the King, or anything but the man on top of him. It was like his mind was consumed with thoughts of a proper duel–how fun it might be to fight with Clive on even footing.
Batting away the idea, he reached for his thigh, pulling out a second, smaller dagger. Without thinking, he stabbed blindly over his shoulder. Rosfield hissed, recoiling, trying to remove the blade.
Cid didn’t hesitate, he flipped their positions rapidly, rolling so he was on top. Clive grunted, the knife knocked out of his hand, blood dripping from his bicep. They were face to face now, Cid’s hood dropping off his head, his thighs straddling the other man’s narrow waist.
“It really is you,” Clive said suddenly, going lax underneath him.
Frowning, Cid stared down. He lifted his hand, intending to land a heavy punch, but Clive’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“You’re the one who killed my mother. At Phoenix Gate.”
Cid froze, shocked.
It was true, of course it was true. But no one alive could know such a thing. Least of all Clive, who’d been passed out when it happened, when Anabella had died. Cid’s mind immediately went to that moment, that fateful moment six years ago. It was just another mission, another order from the King. He hadn’t even thought about it–
Clive used his surprise against him, throwing almost carelessly aside. Cid ended up slamming against the bed, hitting the frame hard, feeling the impact all the way down his back.
“Joshua was in a coma for years afterwards,” Clive collected himself to his feet, hand curling into a fist. “I had to pull Rosaria out of hell, no thanks to you.”
A heavy boot landed on his ribs, shooting pain down his side as he tried and failed to get out of the way in time.
Reeling, he tried to figure out what was going on. Everyone knew the story of Phoenix Gate, or the official one, anyway. That Elwin and Anabella had died to the Ironblood, that the intruders had nearly killed Joshua too. That Clive had pulled Rosaria out of ruin, leading the successful campaign to recapture Drake’s Breath–avenging his father’s still warm corpse.
The real story… Anabella’s betrayal, Elwin’s hubris–even the dragoons–was all lost to history. Along with Cid’s role in the situation, the way his meddling changed the fate of the country.
These days, Joshua was a mere figurehead, barely awake and politically weak. He might be the Phoenix, but he wasn’t the real ruler in Rosaria. Clive was running the country, plain and simple. There were even rumors he’d plucked Shiva from the Iron Kingdom, his bride to be–
A foot stamped at Cid’s head, forcing him to teleport to avoid cracking his skull. But he didn’t put enough power in the action, and he was rudely yanked out of the air as he rematerialized early, Clive slamming him into a wall.
“Fuck,” he wheezed without thinking, feeling one of his ribs crack.
In front of him, blue eyes flashed.
“Is this Tharmr’s will, then–my demise?” Clive asked him, sounding oddly… curious.
Cid wheezed again, ignoring the question in favor of thinking about how badly he’d fucked up. Underestimating Rosfield’s strength, assuming this was going to be easy… he needed to change tactics or he was going to die. So much for stealth, so much for the mission. So much for all of it.
With a weak roar, he semi-primed. Ramuh’s power rushed through his body, easing his wounds, sharpening his sight. Rosfield stepped back in response, but he didn’t look surprised.
Suddenly, a wave of fire consumed Cid’s vision. It was hot, eerily hot. And a second later, Clive was semi-primed as well, burning with yellow-orange flame. Cid hardly even had time to be shocked, mouth agape, before the other man was throwing him out the window, sending him hurtling towards the ground. Air flapped around him for one moment, another, and he had the oddest feeling of butterflies in his stomach.
He hit the dirt hard, left arm aching. Clive was on him almost immediately, dropping out of the sky like a stone. What followed was a brutal battle, the two of them crashing through Whitewyrm’s walls, flames and levin and all manner of power going flying. No doubt it would alert Bahamut shortly, but Cid couldn’t find it in himself to care. Because the more Clive attacked him, the more he attacked Clive, the more his heart sang. Until suddenly he wasn’t fighting to survive, or to escape, or even to kill. He was fighting for the joy of it, for the pure heady power running through his body.
A second Eikon of fire–he couldn’t put together how it was possible, but a larger part of him didn’t even care, just accepted the situation.
Teleporting through the air, he jumped, intending to crash down hard. Clive mirrored his movement, slamming into him with a brutal punch. Fire and lightning collided, painting the darkness over with bright light.
Cid landed hard, immediately turning to look at Clive. And Clive…
Clive was staring at him, a decidedly new look in his eye. Blood rushing in his ears, Cid threw levin at the sky, letting it rain down in multiple sizzling arcs. But the other man just dodged through the maze, shifting closer and closer and closer.
“Tired already?” Clive shouted at him, coming in from the side with a fistfull of flame.
“Hardly!” Cid shouted back, teleporting through the fireball, summoning Ramuh’s staff as he went.
With a weapon in hand, he lunged forward, forcing Clive to catch it or be impaled. And catch it Clive did, grinning at him with a wild expression. Surprised, he struggled for a second, fighting to press forward, the tip of the staff brushing over the other man’s heart. It was a battle of pure strength, and just when he thought he’d done it, Clive dug his heels in.
There was a loud roar, spitting the quiet night. A second later, Clive was lifting the staff, lifting Cid, sending him hurtling towards a nearby wall. He lost his grip as he flew through the air, the other man jumping up after him in a shower of flame. They hit the wall together, crashing through several smaller rooms before sliding to a stop in a wide audience hall.
Before Cid could even breathe–before he could even think–Clive kissed him, their lips smashing roughly together. It was like fire, like heat and power and everything all at once, an inferno meeting a thunderstorm. Hands tore at his clothes, burning them, and he didn’t even care. He reached up in return, turning Clive’s shirt to cinders with a flurry of sparks.
They shouldn’t have been doing it, they really shouldn’t have been doing it. But somehow that just made Cid’s pulse quicken, his hands roving all around the expanse of Clive’s chest. It felt perfect under his palms, pillowy and soft–
Clive suddenly dipped down, flames brushing a trail of blazing heat over his skin. And Cid gasped, breathless, as the other man’s mouth closed over his cock. There was nothing to do but let it happen, his hands snapping down against the stone floor hard enough to crack it.
There was a pleased rumble between his legs, almost a purr, when his cock began to straighten at the attention. Clive’s mouth was hot, but semi-primed as Cid was, the feeling was more blissful than painful. He threw his head back, sinking into the sensations, into the wet heat. Pleasure spiked at the feeling, at the view, at the way the other man was practically attacking his length.
There was a shift, and Clive’s hand joined his mouth, pumping at Cid’s now erect cock. It only lasted for a short while though, fingers gathering saliva, gathering and gathering until suddenly Clive pulled them away.
“Fuck,” Cid gasped, tilting his head to watch the other man reach behind himself.
Clive’s hand was on fire, but he didn’t seem to mind, arching his back and burning away the fabric of his trousers. Cid was treated to a vision, a perfect glimpse of him preparing himself. And he didn’t seem to mind the flames, still bobbing his head while working diligently at his ass.
Cid trembled with arousal, levin sparking over the ground unconstrained. This couldn’t be happening, it was really happening–
Clive pulled off his cock, rocking up onto his knees. He was still reaching behind his back, arched so his chest was puffed out. Cid could only watch, erection waving in the air, as he panted and groaned.
“Did you not come here to kill me?” Clive suddenly asked. His voice was like the crackle of embers, burning through the air.
“I’m working on it,” Cid choked out in reply, his eyes finding Clive’s own erection, prominent between his legs.
Clive finally removed his hand, red-orange aether licking over his face. With a thump, he pushed Cid down onto his back, straddling his hips. For his part, Cid could only curl his fingers against the stones, levin snapping between the two of them like thread.
With a grin, Clive angled Cid’s cock, sheathing himself on it in one smooth motion.
It was heat overwhelming, almost unimaginable, and Cid bucked wildly. He barely even noticed as Clive leaned down, licking into his mouth, sucking on his tongue. And when the other man moved the situation only got worse, pleasure threatening to burn him from the inside out.
Cid could only lay there, feeling, experiencing. All thoughts of resisting had left his head. And he’d never felt so hard before, never felt so absolutely consumed by what was happening to him. No previous encounter could compare, not to that heat, not to the pace Clive was setting. And certainly not the way he looked, powerful and masculine both.
As Cid’s arousal grew, he moaned, bucking up with his hips.
“Please,” he groaned helplessly into Clive’s mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and already seeing stars.
Levin crackled, reaching out to the ceiling. He felt hot, so hot. And he was sweating, gasping, more pleasure than he’d ever known looping through his veins. Clive–burning, tight, perfect Clive–just took him in stride, working his way up to a furious pace.
“Rosfield,” Cid moaned again, arousal spiking hard and fast.
Clive seemed well accustomed to what he was doing, mysterious flames easing any sting, riding Cid with almost wild abandon. Their skin slapped together, fire and levin swirling around them both. The stone below Cid started to shatter under the force of his hands, lightning turning the shards to ash. Suddenly lacking in purchase, he propped himself up on an elbow, squeezing a hand between their bodies.
With a growl, Clive separated from his lips, halting their kiss. But when Cid’s hand closed around his erection, his eyelids fluttered, and he made another pleased purr.
Ramuh rattled in Cid’s chest, the strain of his lengthy semi-prime suddenly apparent. But he couldn’t drop it just yet, working furiously at Clive’s erection, watching as the man jerked and moved over his own length. And a sudden spark of levin darted towards the tip of Clive’s cock, jolting him, sending his eyes rolling back in his head.
“Beautiful,” Cid breathed unconsciously, the truth of the statement filling his mouth before he could stop it.
Clive shuddered, clamping down on his cock. Cid moaned at the sudden tightness, a hairbreadth away from coming.
Blue eyes shot open, boring into his own. And Cid watched as Clive’s orgasm broke over his face, expression turning into one of pure pleasure. It was enough to make him throb, then throb again, then his own orgasm was crashing over his body in a sudden, profound wave.
Fire blasted out from where they were connected, scorching the very corners of the room, incinerating tapestries and furniture. Cid felt the heat, sweating furiously, levin shooting towards the ceiling at the same moment. By the time he came down from his high, he realized he was staring up at a circular hole, one he’d carved all the way to the night sky.
Surprised, hazy from the threads of his orgasm, he could only blink slowly. Ramuh’s power slipped away, leaving him naked, the de facto ruler of Rosaria perched on his lap, and still on fire.
Before Cid could marvel that he wasn’t burning to death, a hand shot out, grabbing firmly at his neck.
“Ah,” he said quietly, realization seeping through his tired limbs.
He’d lost. Allowed himself to get swept up in Rosfield’s body, a mistake that was no doubt fatal. But before the other man could say anything, he hurriedly spoke.
“I have a daughter.”
“I’m aware,” Clive replied, voice booming and echoing.
“Her name is Midadol,” Cid continued.
Clive squeezed his neck, trying to silence him, forcing him to rasp out the rest.
“Please, spare her,” he grated, desperate that these be his final words. Desperate that Rosfield’s rage be quenched. “It’s all I ask.”
Abruptly, Clive let go of his neck, still straddling him, still naked. His face was contemplative all of the sudden, taking in the words about Mid, taking in Cid’s own expression. And for a while, there was silence between them, seconds ticking by into minutes.
For once in his life, Cid didn’t speak, just let the quiet hang above him like a weight.
“Why are you here, Cidolfus Telamon?” Clive finally asked him, gaze discerning.
Cid coughed, but corrected automatically, “Cid.”
“Answer me,” Clive boomed, tone brokering no argument.
“The King sent me,” Cid said, shrugging.
It was an obvious enough fact, there was no point in lying about it. Who else would he take his orders from? Everyone knew he held allegiance to Odin. Even if that allegiance was a rather tenuous thing of late, certain decisions giving him reason to question, to probe, for the first time in a very long time.
Suddenly, Clive laughed.
“Tharmr would never be so careless, not with my life.”
Cid blinked up at him in confusion, almost squinting against the orange glow of his aether.
“Did he forget to mention?” Clive leaned forward, staring into his eyes. “Mythos walks among you.”
Cid didn’t know any Mythos. And so he just lay there helplessly, unsure of how to respond.
“If this was a test, it was poorly conceived indeed,” Clive continued, almost to himself.
Abruptly, the other man dropped his semi-prime, expression clearing like clouds, sunlight finally showing through.
“I will protect your daughter,” he said firmly.
“What?” Cid almost sputtered, shocked that he was still alive.
“I will protect you, as well,” Clive added.
“Hold on a moment–”
Rosfield turned, firing a small fireball over his shoulder, out through the hole they’d made to get into the room. And Cid felt other Dominants, lurking, shifting just beyond the fringes of his awareness. Bahamut, Phoenix–and was that Shiva?–they all suddenly faded away on Clive’s apparent signal.
A finger landed on his neck, petting gently over the swell of his throat. Cid froze, understanding washing over him in a wave. That whatever Clive was, whatever Mythos was, it was far more powerful than him.
“You can't run away, Cid.”
Cid swallowed, heart thudding in his chest.
“You belong to me now.”
And the way Clive was looking at him, the darkness in his gaze… The way he was starting to move his hips again, threatening to drag them both towards another orgasm…
Cid had a feeling that this new arrangement… wasn't likely to end anytime soon.
But maybe, maybe he was alright with that.