Work Text:
Cold metal latches around his wrists and suddenly everything is wrong; the world tilts on its side and the reality slides out from the middle of it. Archon gasps, emerald eyes flying wide, the missingness of it taking his breath away. He's pulled by the wrists and it jerks his shoulders but he barely notices against the pins and needles prickling across his skin and the overwhelming feeling of terrible lack. Something closes around his neck and it's so much, too much, too little.
"What—" he breathes, but he's being shepherded toward some sort of crate. Enough of his mind kicks in to begin struggling and he writhes in the grip that holds him. "No—"
He can't reach it. He can't reach his power, he can't reach anything, he can barely even reach the ground as he's all but hauled off his feet to kick uselessly in the air. Panic is bubbling over in his mind, the sheer terror of the wrongness of reality and everything he feels and doesn't feel, the sharp pull against his shoulders, the way he can't move his captured wrists, the shouting of the soldiers-not-soldiers around him, the ever-closer monolith of the cart they plan to lock him in. "No—no! Please!"
He gets a couple chuckles for that, though it does little to spare his fate. He manages to catch his foot on the edge of the doorframe as he's tossed in the little cell, but all it buys him is a sore ankle as the door slams against it before he's shoved fully inside and it closes. "Let me out!"
There are small slits of windows along the top edges of the cell that stream thin beams of light across the opposite walls. Along one wall is a shallow bench, but Archon curls up on the floor and moans, pressing his fists to his forehead. It's as if the entire world is shifting, dizzy and uncertain, and it doesn't get better as the cart begins moving.
It's hard to tell the passage of time through the small slits of windows near the top of the cage. The thin beams of light make their way across the walls as the cart turns this way and that. Archon doesn't know what to make of it. He's made it vertical, at least, sitting against one of the walls and leaning back to feel the cart bump along the road as if that would tell him where it's going. Or when it stops, at least. It hasn't stopped yet.
The cell is too warm in the desert sun, a humid, sweaty sauna of a box slowly baking him alive, and he's thirsty. They'll need to give him water soon, won't they? If they are dominant hunters, he's not much good to them dead. Unless they intend to use it as a bargaining chip to get him to play nice. Archon swallows, his tongue thick and unpleasantly tacky in his mouth. At this point, he might oblige.
Archon is obstinately refusing to consider the idea that perhaps the Syndicate was right, and he should have returned to Ul'dah. That's not to say it's not hovering around him, batting at his resolve every chance it gets, but he'll be damned if he admits that to himself.
Even on top of the painful itch of disconnection from aether, it's the ambient luck, the absence of it, he thinks, that's so incredibly off-putting. A sixth sense that helped him balance, place each foot in front of the other, suddenly ripped away. The rest of it is also awful—he should be able to tell what area he's in by what precious stones they pass over, should be able to glean something of the intentions of the hunters outside his little carriage—but he's alone and it's so, so quiet. Nald's presence is smothered, choked out, and Archon can't hear a whisper.
They might ransom him back to Ul'dah for a payout, but it would make them a target for the Flames. Possibly keep Archon to work for them, though that would mean putting in the work to break him first. More likely they'll try to sell him. What were the options? Some collector who wanted a trophy, or maybe a military group—those were always looking for more power. One of the mining concerns, or another company or rich asshole who wanted Archon to make him richer? If he's incredibly unlucky, these hunters will have a Garlean contact. Archon had heard rumors that some Garleans didn't just kill Dominants, but performed tests on them like lab rats, though that seemed unlikely to him. More likely the Garleans would just pay up to put him down like a dog.
He hugs his knees to his chest and tries to drift off.
He doesn't realize what wakes him up at first, and assumes it's the continual, buzzing pain of his aether being cut off. Archon had decided the narrow bench along one wall was a better place to sleep than the floor, and half-stretched across it, one knee bent up as the box is too short for him to lie down properly and the other hanging off the bench to rest his foot on the floor. But blinking and rubbing his eyes in the darkness, he realizes the carriage has finally stopped moving. He can hear voices from outside and stills to listen.
Murmurs, too quiet to hear the words, then a snort. The sound of footsteps.
Archon scrambles up off the bench just in time to hear the lock scraping and readies himself to launch out of the carriage. He'd heard at least two voices, so he had numbers against him, but perhaps surprise on his side. Then again, he was slow and stupid with dehydration and exhaustion and without Nald's power. Either way, there weren't many other options he could take.
Then the door opens and Archon throws himself through. He hits a wall of a man and tries to reorient, dodge to the side. He stumbles a step as he takes in his surroundings: rock walls surround him; light comes from lanterns set into the stone. Archon doesn't really care which way he's going, though, so long as it's away. He just has time to decide which way he's going to run when levin courses through him.
A scream rips from his throat and he falls hard to the stone floor as his legs seize. Archon is left wheezing, gasping open-mouthed, trying to make sense of what's happened when a hand fists in his hair and drags his head back. A pained noise escapes him and his eyes fall over one of his capturers holding a small metal baton with levin crackling at its end.
"Too energetic. Let's tire you out a bit, hm?"
The baton is pressed into his side and he screams again, the inhuman sound bouncing off the bare rocky walls in a horrible cacophony. When it stops, Archon is on the floor with muscles twitching under his skin. He focuses on breathing instead.
"—can't you get them in a cell without making so much godsdamn noise?" a new voice asks. Footsteps tap against the stone as they approach.
"Not our fault, boss, he keeps struggling."
Their leader, now standing with them, looks down at Archon and nudges him with his shoe. "I'd recommend you stay down. It'll be less painful in the long run." He turns to one of Archon's captors. "Go on, put it in a cell. We'll deal with it tomorrow."
Archon makes a small, nervous sound as he's hauled off, dragged across the stone by his shoulders.
He's dropped in a cell carved from the stone and inset with metal bars. Scattered hay and scant dust cover the floor. His captors disconnect the short connector between the cuffs before they leave him, at least, so he's able to move his hands as he pleases. The relief is underwhelming compared to the sting of the limiters and the other various hurts he's accumulated. He curls into the wall in a corner of the cell and lets his mind go blank.
Archon isn't sure how much time has passed when the seeming leader of this operation deigns to visit him, but it's at least long enough that the more immediate pain has faded. Archon turns his attention to the man on the other side of the bars and tries to pull himself together. If he's going to get out of here, he needs to glean what information he can.
"My lads say you made a decent showing against the lord of the inferno." The man tucks his hands into his pockets. "Impressive."
Archon doesn't respond. He's not sure whether confirming or denying it would be a better move right now—if either could do anything at all.
"Seems you've got yourself a bit of power. A Dominant who can put down a primal is no joke. Lots of people interested in that kind of power."
Archon just watches him, a furrow now in his brow.
"Not going to talk? That's fine. We know who you are. Ul'dah will pay well for its favored Dominant back… Or Garlemald will, for your head. We'll see who's willing to win the bidding war."
Fuck. Archon clenches his teeth. This is perhaps the worst situation to have fallen into—at least if they had been Garlean hunters, he would already be dead, and if they had been any less informed he might have been able to get away with pretending he had less power than he did. "You're very cordial about auctioning me off to possible death," Archon finally says flatly.
"It's just business. You're a tool to be used, no matter the wielder." The man shrugs. "Bad luck. Hah—kind of unusual for you, huh?"
Archon simply glares. His captor tuts and waves off the anger. "Cheer up, little prince. You get fed tomorrow." Archon's expression shifts minutely. Tomorrow...? His jailer chuckles dryly. "Can't have you getting too active on us. Sleep tight and don't try anything. We can still make your stay less pleasant." He turns and gives a vague wave, walking away and leaving Archon alone in his cell.
The fucking limiters are driving him insane. A constant pain of deprived aether, like a stitch in the side, a breath that wouldn't come, impossible to ignore and impossible to escape. It's still dizzying when he moves too much, his sixth sense ripped from him. The quiet in his head is getting to him as well. In Ul'dah, even when he was cooped up alone in the palace, Nald accompanied him, but here, he feels utterly alone.
They must think him unable to get past the bars or the rock, at least while the damn cuffs and collar are still on. If he could find a loose stone, or break them against the wall…? He can see scratches and scuffs covering the cuffs already.
Archon taps one cuff against the wall. It shouldn't be so hard. The noise would be the problem. He hesitates, then smacks the cuffs hard against the stone.
The cuffs light up with levin that shoots through him. He bites a scream back between his teeth and locks up momentarily, sliding into the cool stone wall and panting. "Shit." Well. The scratches make sense now. Even if he could manage to get the cuffs off, there was no way in the hells he could manage the collar.
Archon slips down along the wall to sit on the dusty straw on the floor. Alright. Alright. Okay. Maybe he can appeal to their greed? Tell them he can find them jewels, bring them wealth? They would need to take off the cuffs and collar for him to do that. Could he escape then? They'd be expecting it. Maybe if he found something particularly valuable, they might be distracted—
"Shit." It was no use trying to figure it out now. He had no information; no connections, physical or deific; nothing. Archon curls his arms around himself against the chill of the stone and lays down. At least he isn't in the hotbox of a cart anymore, but the desert is cold at night.
The hours stretch; it's impossible to tell the time, especially as he has no idea how often they bring food to his little cell. He ends up curled on the floor or against the wall most of the time, fading in and out of sleep. What more is there to do? He can't break his way out; the guards ignore him when he speaks. He is a bargaining chip, nothing more. There is no need to talk to the gem in your pocket to sell it. He has never felt more like a thing, an object, a pawn to be traded for money and power and goods. At least the Syndicate did him the respect of pretending his opinion mattered.
He has had six meals, a few tossed crusts, and and five additional cups of water when his fate is decided. It is the only measure of time he has.
Archon is half-asleep, daydreaming, when the bang of metal on metal jolts him awake. He scans wildly and finds his captor at the bars, the dark baton in hand with the same levin sparking at its tip. "Get up! Finally time to get out of here," he says.
It takes a moment for Archon to remember to use his voice. "Who?" he croaks. Who is he being sold to? Where is he going?
"Don't you worry about that. It's all arranged. C'mon, up. I won't ask again. Gotta get you cleaned up before we go."
He's loaded into the same cart that brought him to this little hideout. There is a new stain on the floor. Archon would prefer not to know what made it. Instead he sits on the bench, stomach rolling, and watches a sliver of sky appear out the slit window in the top of the wall as the cart bumps down the road. It's dark out; it must be very late or very early. Unless the sun stopped working while he was imprisoned. Who knows. Archon isn't bothered; last time the sun baked him inside the cart, so the dark is good, as far as he's concerned.
They do not travel nearly as long as they did to bring Archon to their hideout. The cart stops, and he can hear the murmured voices of his captors outside, then the rattle of the lock on the cart.
He does not bother to try to escape, to run out of the cart as it opens and past the waiting grip that holds him tight. There's not really a point.
His stomach drops, though, when his eyes adjust to the moonlight and do not see anyone he recognizes from the palace waiting for him. The two that wait for him wear goggles over their foreheads, but the level of technological weaponry they carry makes their allegiance obvious.
He is going to his death.
Archon wishes Nald were here. Or anyone, really. He wishes he weren't so alone. At least he'd like to say goodbye to someone before his corpse is left cooling in the desert.
"As promised." Archon's captor is still too damn chipper. "Whole and in one piece."
"That matters not." One of the Garleans nods to their fellow, who paces back to another cart a ways away. "We will retrieve the payment."
The second Garlean disappears behind the cart and they all wait. And wait. It really should not take this long to do a hand-off, not that Archon is complaining. Just the principal of the thing, really, bad business form. He ignores his racing heartbeat and takes the opportunity to appreciate the stars, which are brighter than he remembers. His captor, however, is less patient. "He counting it a third time?"
The first Garlean frowns and makes his way back to the cart as well. This time he takes a more circuitous route to his cart, wary. As he does, Archon feels the tight hold on his arms loosen. He looks back just in time to find his guard toppling backward onto the sand, and he, his captor, and the second guard stare blankly for a moment.
And then an invisible hand pushes Archon hard to the side, and everything goes to hell.
The Garlean shouts, having found his compatriot slumped dead along the back of their own cart. Archon's captor and secondary guard begin yelling over each other, heading toward Archon, who is still stumbling forward. The guard trips over nothing, falling face-first into the path of his boss. The Garlean rounds his cart again, weapon drawn, shouting about a double-cross, and begins firing. Both Archon and his captor yelp and duck, and another, new voice swears.
Not a new voice to Archon. He recognizes that voice. The man who would visit him in the palace. Thancred.
"What—" Archon starts, but Thancred's voice cuts him off in a low hiss.
"Run!"
Archon doesn't need a second prompting. He takes off, away from his captor and these Garleans, no plan in mind except escape. The desert does not have many hiding places, though, and he will still be visible until he finds something to duck behind. He's not sure how far the Garleans' weapons reach, and would not like to find out.
He zig-zags his way across a dune, half-sliding, half-tripping down the other side and using its height as cover until he can find better. There, an outcropping of stone—an obvious hiding spot, but at least it's shelter. He makes for it and ducks behind as he hears the shouts of those following come up the dune.
Alright. Think. Where can he go? He can't teleport, not until he gets these damn limiters off, and even then, the only place he could teleport would be back into Ul'dah. Better than here, at any rate— He jumps and turns as something touches his arm, ready to fight, but finds only Thancred, standing there with his palms up to show he's unarmed. "What the hell—!"
Thancred doesn't bother to explain and instead pulls a chocobo whistle from a pocket. A sharp tweet, and two birds come speeding across the desert, just outpacing Archon's pursuers. "Time to get out of here," Thancred says. "You take the bigger bird. Go south."
"What-" Historically, wandering off into the desert had not been his best idea. What if he was captured again?
"Trust me. I'll be right behind you."
Archon hesitates for only a moment. There aren't a lot of options and this is, most likely, the least terrible one. The chocobos reach them just before the angry mob; Archon swings up into the saddle and kicks the bird into a gallop. A glance back tells him Thancred is also mounted, now using his newfound height to harry their pursuers. Another shot from the Garlean's weapon sounds and Archon flinches. He's not sure what might have been hit, or even if it's him, with the amount of adrenaline coursing through him, but south. He can go south.
He's riding for perhaps a quarter hour before he slows down, and another quarter hour before Thancred catches up with him. Archon looks him over. There are a few scrapes and cuts and a bit of blood—impossible to tell whose. "Thancred. What—where—how did—" There's are too many questions; they're piling up in his mouth and unable to make it out.
"They're not following us anymore," Thancred says, "I've been trying to find you since you disappeared after fighting Iftrit. And I've got a few more skills than I let on. I hope you'll forgive me the secrecy; the palace would never have let me near you if they knew I was handy with a knife." He offers a wry smile. "We're heading to see some friends of mine. You'll be safe there, and we'll get those cuffs off. No cells, no debts, just getting you safe and comfortable."
"Who are these friends?" Archon asks. He's suspicious—Thancred has been kind to him, and he appreciates that he's been rescued from imminent death, but he's loathe to trade one captor for another.
"They're a group that supports Dominants, called the Scions. They believe Dominants should be able to live like anyone else, free to make their own choices, not killed or locked up or used by anyone. The head of the organization is a Dominant, in fact."
"Mm." Archon isn't convinced, but he doubts nearly anything could convince him to trust it on spec at this point. Thancred did save his life, and has been trustworthy so far. He'll indulge the man by at least going and getting the damn shackles off, Archon decides, and if anything about the place is dubious, he'll leave immediately.