Archive of Our Own

The first thing Dion hears about the new healer is that he has magic hands.

It catches his attention; he's not aware of any new Bearers joining the camp. After some subtle questioning, he determines that the description is metaphorical, and refers rather to the man's skill at working sore muscles and easing the aches and cramps of battle.

A few of the dragoons compare him – not unflatteringly – to courtesans of their acquaintance, which alarms Dion until he is able to establish that no, there is nothing untoward going on. The new healer is staunchly professional, compassionate but brisk, and very, very good at what he does.

By that point, Dion can't help being a little curious, but he dismisses any thought of pursuing it further. He has no time to indulge either his curiosity or his body, not when Belenus Tor still hangs in the balance. His days are a blur of tactics and reports; his nights are restless and over too soon.

The shoulder wound he takes from Odin does not – cannot – slow him down. The slightest weakness will see the Waloeders press the attack. He's back on his feet within a day, assuring the healers that he is in no pain.

He has no trouble lying to them. Terence is another matter. They've been friends too long, and Terence knows him too well. They've been lovers, off and on over the years, but here in the camp Dion dares not indulge that particular avenue of relief. Unfortunately, it means Terence is also familiar with his scars.

"You must allow the healers to do more for you," Terence tells him, low and fierce in a snatched moment alone between strategy meetings. "I know Odin's sword reopened that old wound. I do not care for the way you favour your arm."

"It is only the strain put on muscle and sinew during the battle. I would not waste crystals nor demand more of our Bearers, not when it will pass in due time."

Terence knows when Dion will not be moved. He sighs.

"Then at least pay a visit to Margrace. They say he can work miracles without touching a crystal."

Dion, in turn, knows when Terence doesn't intend to let something go. And the truth is, his shoulder aches so badly he must constantly remind himself not to grit his teeth against it. The simpler medicines do nothing for the pain, and the stronger ones would cloud his thoughts.

"Very well," he concedes. "I'll make time tonight."

He cannot, alas, say that he's never lied to Terence, but he does try not to make a habit of it, so once the sun is down and his duties can be put aside for a spell, Dion makes his way to the healers' encampment. They usually come to him, but he isn't averse to an opportunity to walk through the camp without a formal escort, to get a sense of the mood of his men.

Tolerable, he decides: not as optimistic as he would like, but he can't fault them for it. This clash with Waloed has turned into a bitter stalemate. At best, they may hold this territory for a few more weeks or months. At worst, they will be forced to retreat. In his most private thoughts, Dion believes it would be better to pull back before they are driven, to spare lives and reconsider their strategy.

But he has his orders. He will endure, even with his heart heavy at the thought of the bloodshed to come. Even if he must fight as Bahamut again, and again, and again.

Margrace has a small tent of his own, separate from the makeshift hospital and not quite of the same design as the rest of the healer corps. Dion frowns, trying to make out more details in the darkness. He tries to remember if he saw Margrace's name on the most recent batch of transfer papers, tries to remember where the man is from and why he might be afforded such unusual privacy, but he cannot recall. He has signed and stamped so very many of those papers in recent months.

One can't exactly knock at the door of a tent, but there are various conventions to announce one's presence, including simply shouting through the canvas. Dion opts for a brisk clap of his hands instead.

A dark-haired woman appears at the entrance. She takes one look at him and says, in a slightly strangled voice, "Your Highness! Please wait just a moment."

She disappears back into the tent. There is a flurry of hushed whispering. Dion is not accustomed to being kept waiting on the doorstep, but he finds the novelty of it amusing rather than offensive. Even from that glimpse of the attendant he doubts that she is Sanbrequois; perhaps Margrace has come from the Crystalline Dominion to lend aid, and is not wholly acquainted with Imperial customs.

The attendant pulls aside the tent flap before the delay becomes an insult, and bows deeply as she ushers him inside. She remains outside like a guard, letting the flap fall closed behind him.

To Dion's surprise, Margrace's tent is in almost complete darkness, and far warmer than it has any right to be. The heat seeps into him like water into a dry sponge; the days have been cold and wet of late, and he's not sure when he was last entirely warm.

Margrace – Dion presumes – is standing in the middle of the tent. He presumes, first because he's never met the man, and second because the healer wears a robe and cowl much like his attendant's, with the hood drawn up to shadow his face. It gives Dion pause, but before he can remark on it, Margrace bows and murmurs, "Your Highness."

The bow is not quite the bow of a servant. It has the poise and grace Dion would expect at the Imperial Court, the self-assurance of one born to nobility. And his voice is…

His voice makes something in Dion's chest jump, though he cannot for the life of him explain why. It unmoors him further. He falls back on the habits of courtesy to cover his confusion.

"Forgive me for calling upon you unannounced. My men speak highly of you. They say you have a way of soothing hurts without recourse to crystals, and I hope I may avail myself of your skills."

"That is so, your Highness," Margrace replies, with neither especial modesty nor any particular arrogance. "But – forgive me – if you are in need of healing, surely the crystals can be spared?"

"I should prefer to husband our resources against greater hurts to come. As I have no doubt they will."

He doesn't mean to say the second part aloud. He's not sure why it slips out. Something about the strangeness of this situation, the warmth and darkness pressing in on him; something about the way Margrace has shown no disrespect, yet Dion feels keenly the absence of overt deference.

He should perhaps be affronted, but finds himself only more intrigued.

"I—" Margrace hesitates. For a strange and wondrous moment, Dion thinks the man might refuse him. But he takes a step back, gestures Dion forward. "Of course, your Highness. I would be honoured to do whatever I can for you."

He leads Dion beyond a dividing curtain, into a recess lit by one or two small candles and smelling faintly of something musky and resinous. Most of the space is taken up by a slightly raised platform; it looks like not much more than a few planks lying over a couple of sturdy logs, but it has been covered with a thick blanket, and on top of it is a thin mattress with room to stretch out. Dion is almost envious; his own cot is slightly too narrow and too short, though he would never complain.

"What troubles you?" Margrace asks as he guides Dion to sit on the edge of the platform. A medicine chest is open next to it, bottles and jars catching glints of candlelight. "Your shoulder?"

Dion grimaces, chagrined that Margrace has so easily seen through him. But then, he supposes, the man is a healer. It is reassuring that he knows his craft.

"Yes. The wound is healed, but…"

"But you scarce gave yourself time to rest." The tone is reproving, but does not scold. "The flesh may be knit, but the muscle and sinew are no doubt still recovering from the insult."

Margrace removes his dark gloves as he speaks, then slips off his shoes and steps onto the platform. From this angle, Dion catches the barest glimpse of the lower half of his face: he is young, and has light-coloured hair, and he is not branded as a Bearer. That is all Dion can be sure of before Margrace moves to kneel behind him.

"May I?"

He waits for Dion's nod before he lays his hand on the injured shoulder. Dion startles despite himself. Margrace's hand is so warm, even through Dion's shirt.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No. Please, continue."

Margrace presses and prods carefully; despite his caution, Dion winces more than once. Margrace tests his other shoulder in a similar fashion, perhaps to compare the two, then rests both hands on Dion's back, as if considering.

By chance, his palms exactly cover the places where Dion's wings join his shoulders when he semi-primes. Dion shivers. He doesn't have scars, not exactly; though it always feels like Bahamut's wings burst from his back, in truth his whole form shifts enough to protect his flesh. But there is a lingering ache there, especially since he's primed or semi-primed so often of late. It feels like a stiff neck in the wrong place, a tenderness and coiled tension he cannot ease.

"I can do something for it, I think," Margrace says. There is the smallest hesitation in his voice, but he continues briskly before Dion can reflect on it overmuch: "If you please, remove your shirt and lie down."

His hands leave Dion's back. Dion misses the warmth of them instantly. He busies himself with disrobing as instructed. A lifetime of tailors and valets should have robbed him of any self-consciousness in this, but for some reason he catches himself wondering if Margrace is watching, or has averted his eyes.

He doesn't get to find out: Margrace moves when he does, drawing back to give Dion space to stretch out. Dion assumes he is to lie face-down, and discovers that indeed, a rolled towel has been arranged to keep him from smothering himself.

It feels more vulnerable than he expects, to lie prone, spine exposed, waiting to be touched. Not that he has never been in this position, of course, but… such intimacy is expected, with a lover. Margrace is a stranger.

And yet, Dion finds himself at ease with him.

Margrace shuffles around to kneel on the edge of the platform. He combs Dion's hair aside with nimble fingers, a touch that makes Dion's eyes flutter closed in surprised pleasure. Then, rather than reaching at once for the bad shoulder, Margrace grips the back of his neck, gentle but firm, and squeezes the muscles there.

Dion chokes back a startled groan. Margrace maintains his hold for a few more seconds, then slowly eases off, flexing his fingertips into the flesh as he relents. A breath later, he does it again, rolling the tendons carefully under his palm. The heat and steadiness of his grip half-melt Dion into the cushions.

"Is this too much?" Margrace asks, voice low. He doesn't sound like he truly has doubts; the question is a courtesy. "I can use a lighter touch if you prefer."

"No," Dion manages.

Don't you dare, he catches himself thinking.

Margrace's hands slide down his spine, pressing firmly, sliding easily over the skin. The warmth of them is as pleasant as a hot bath, comforting in their strength and confidence. He does not touch Dion gingerly: his hands map skin and muscle as if they have a right to every inch of it.

To his embarrassment, Dion feels a surge of arousal. He cuts it off with practised ease. He spends most of his life unable to act on such desires, and has long learned the trick of redirecting his attention.

In this case, he tries to think if anyone but a lover has ever touched him so freely. Perhaps his mother might have, but Dion can barely remember her. His father has never been one for such displays. Terence has been by his side since they were both hip-high, but their shared affection has been constrained by Dion's status since the day the Emperor decided to claim him as heir. And the attendants, nurses, and tutors who moulded Dion into the Prince of Sanbreque have always treated him like spun glass: a costly treasure to be spared any but the lightest of touches.

There is only one person who springs to mind, long lost in a childhood too short. A hand seizing his, gripping conspiratorially, dragging him away from the endless ceremonial pageantry that surrounded them. Later, arms around him in a fond hug, his new friend unselfconscious in his affection, eager to offer comfort and support. The warmth of him, the light in him - so different from Bahamut's blinding radiance, all golds and reds and fiery curiosity.

It's been almost fifteen years, and still the memory of Joshua Rosfield fills Dion with a sad, sweet ache. Even now, he wonders what might have been, if the Dominant of Fire had lived. If they had kept their promise to meet again, if they had grown into their power together…

Margrace's thumbs dig under his shoulder blade, and Dion sucks in breath at the jolt of pain. Margrace eases the pressure at once, exploring with careful concentration, mapping out the boundaries of the tenderness like he can feel it through his own fingertips.

"Perhaps some of your discomfort is the consequence of other muscles attempting to ease this one," Margrace muses. His voice is as warm and self-assured as his hands; Dion thinks he would like to hear more of it. "I believe I can loosen them and grant you some relief without aggravating the more painful area. Are you content for me to do so?"

Dion is entirely content, if he's honest, to lie here and let Margrace do what he will for as long as he sees fit. It's not just the pleasant touch; there is a deep, unlooked-for relief in letting someone else take control. Dion spends his every waking moment on guard, his movements always tempered, his mind alert to the slightest betrayal of nerve or reflex. The relaxation he is beginning to feel goes deeper than muscle and sinew: it is the quiet laying down of responsibility for his own body.

"Please," he murmurs. "I place myself entirely in your hands."

Does Margrace shiver at the words? Of course not; he is simply shifting position, reaching down to the medicine chest.

"I've an oil I like to use… it is infused with a particular extract to soothe pain and tension without overly reducing sensation."

The chink of the stopper being removed is followed by a medicinal, not unpleasant scent. It is vaguely familiar; Dion is about to ask about the extract, but all thoughts leave his head as Margrace's oiled hands return to glide across his back.

This is very different from before: slick and sweeping, firm but measured. Dion shudders in pleasure. The oil could be from the kitchens for all he cares about its other properties now; just this luxurious sensation is enough to lift the weight of the world from his weary shoulders. The bottle must have been kept by a brazier, he thinks foggily as those skilled fingers curl and press and knead: he can't otherwise account for the heat that spreads gloriously from Margrace's hands.

"Are you often wounded, your Highness?" Margrace speaks in low tones, as soft as the thumbs he runs up either side of Dion's spine. "I have seen Bahamut take to the skies more and more of late - yet I had hoped you beyond harm's reach."

The question is impertinent, but Dion finds he does not mind it. Margrace's lovely voice is threaded with concern and chagrin, as if he has thought of Dion often and holds himself somehow accountable for his oversight.

"Odin has a way of finding the chinks in one's armour," Dion admits, sighing as Margrace lightly kneads the nape of his neck. "He will not suffer me to prime uncontested, so if I am to keep the enemy at bay, sooner or later I must taste his blade."

"Surely it doesn't fall only to you to withstand the Waloeder army? The Empire has legions at its command; can it not spare you more men, that your burden be lessened?"

Impertinent, and touching on subjects Dion has been well-trained not to discuss outside the war room. He believes Margrace has no ill-intent, but even as unguarded as he feels in this moment, he will not speak of the letters he has sent to Oriflamme pleading for reinforcements, nor of the silence he has received in return.

"It is a burden I gladly bear. My wounds can be mended. The dead cannot be restored to life."

Margrace's hands drift down his back, pressing his palms once more over phantom wing joints. Dion's eyelids flutter, lips parting on something more a gasp than a sigh.

"You are as noble as they say, your Highness." Margrace presses down harder, curls his thumbs to stroke under where the first pinions would sprout, the motion almost absentminded. "I'd feared perhaps the ballads embellished on their theme."

"I am certain they do," Dion mutters. He's heard some of them. Flattering, but they ascribe to him a god-like serenity and unfaltering courage he cannot pretend to have in truth. "No-one wishes to hear the bards sing of the dreary necessity of it all."

"No," Margrace murmurs, spreading his fingers across the back of Dion's ribs, leaning in with the heels of his hands to soften the taut spine. "I suppose they don't."

He falls silent for a time then, working deftly up and down Dion's back, his touch remaining as hot as a hearthstone, permeating the flesh with a deep and soothing warmth. Dion wonders, with the small fraction of his mind not melted into contented bliss, how Margrace does it without magic: no-one's skin runs so hot except in fever, and even oil should not remain so perfectly heated once removed from its place by the fire.

In this moment, he cannot pretend to care. This touch is everything he didn't know he needed, everything he's missed for as long as he can remember.

He finds his thoughts drifting again, a bittersweet longing rising up in his chest at the recollection of that day the Phoenix took his hand and promised him they would be friends always. He hasn't felt the loss this keenly in years. Why does Joshua haunt him so, here in this dark, quiet space where he has been granted such an unexpected moment of escape? Why can he not simply empty his mind?

Perhaps Bahamut is to blame. Dion has always, privately, conceived of the dragon as a separate entity to himself, both a steed he must master and the rider who sets the spur. Though the Eikon usually lies quiescent in his soul outside of battle, there are times when he stirs, times when he seems to have his own desires and whims.

Dion can feel Bahamut now beneath his skin, reacting to Margrace's touch: the dragon is not soothed by the heat, but rather seems roused to a strange and breathless anticipation.

Or perhaps that is only Dion's own weakness again. Margrace's fingers trail up his spine, as if for a moment they have forgotten what they are doing; the faintest scrape of short fingernails sends a shiver of desire flaring to the tips of Dion's toes.

He reaches swiftly for distraction.

"And where do you hail from?" he asks. "I am certain you are not of Sanbreque."

"Are you?" Amusement tinges Margrace's voice warm gold. "For what reason?"

Dion blames that hint of laughter - and Margrace's skilled hands gliding over his shoulders and settling in to work the place where his neck joins his back - for the honesty that comes tumbling from his lips.

"You speak to me as though we are equals, and I have no equals here: only those who command me, and those who serve."

Margrace goes still, his fingers tightening briefly on Dion's shoulders before he forces them to relax.

"Forgive me if I have given offence, your Highness."

Dion silently curses himself.

"You have not. I only meant - you do not strike me as one whose life has been spent in the Imperial army. How came you to this place?"

It's an inelegant recovery, but Margrace allows it, pausing for only a moment before resuming his work on Dion's neck.

"I… have no fixed abode," he replies. "I have travelled the realm for many years… you might call me something of a scholar, with an… esoteric… area of study. But knowledge seldom comes easily or without cost, and there is suffering enough throughout Valisthea that a healer can always ply his trade."

"What scholarship do you expect to accomplish here on the battlefield? I'd think you more at home in the Grand Library at Oriflamme."

Margrace catches his breath in something like a laugh. Dion hears the faint swish of cloth as he changes position. He places both hands on Dion's good shoulder and begins to work it as though kneading dough. If he intends it as a distraction, it's certainly effective; Dion rapidly melts into the sheets. He would have no wherewithal to insist on a reply if Margrace chose to demur.

But Margrace answers, voice soft and threaded through with some suppressed emotion Dion cannot name.

"I have sought for many years the solution to a complex and vexing problem, and for all I've learned, I've lately come to fear that my progress is too slow. I looked to find someone here who might aid me in my cause."

"And have you?"

"I am yet uncertain," Margrace murmurs, an odd catch to the words, "but I have reason to hope."

He shifts again, switches his hands to Dion's bad shoulder. The work he's done on Dion's back and neck has done wonders for the overall stiffness, but as soon as Margrace tries gently to knead the shoulder itself, Dion flinches.

"I'm sorry." Margrace's touch goes feather-light in an instant. He reaches for the oil; Dion feels a generous amount of it trickled onto the painful area. "Let me see if I can coax it out of spasm."

He's so careful, so considerate, massaging the oil into Dion's skin with a practised delicacy, and yet pain still flares in quick lightning-strikes somewhere deep inside the muscle. Dion grits his teeth against any sound of discomfort, but somehow Margrace knows. Once again those hands retreat, drifting back to the place where Dion's wings aren't, urging warmth and comfort into his soul.

"Are you certain the wound is fully healed?"

Dion hesitates.

"I was attended by one of the healers directly after the battle."

Margrace doesn't miss the lack of a firm answer.

"But?"

"… the curse had begun to take its toll on her," Dion admits. "The tips of her fingers were already stone. I did not wish her to overextend herself, once the pain was gone."

Margrace sighs.

"Chivalrous as ever. Perhaps… there is one more thing I might try."

He leans away to rummage in the medicine chest. Dion hears him pull out a jar of some sort and pause as if considering it. After a few moments, Margrace seems to make up his mind. There is the scrape of the lid being removed, and then a waft of pleasant aroma. Sandalwood, with notes of other warm and woody scents, and a hint of something musky.

"I suppose this will do," Margrace murmurs, more to himself than to Dion.

Then, with a boldness that astounds Dion, Margrace moves to straddle his back, knees planted on either side of his ribs. Dion instinctively starts to rear up to avoid being pinned; a hand between his shoulder blades pushes him firmly back down.

There is no denying the want that shudders through him then. He drowns in it long enough for Margrace to open his new concoction and apply it to Dion's shoulder. This one is a balm of some sort, less liquid than the oil. Heated hands on Dion's skin almost draw a helpless groan. He swallows it and fights fiercely to rein in his base urges.

"This will hurt," Margrace warns him as he presses down.

It does, but Dion is grateful for it. It clears his head and gives him the will to push aside desire. And it isn't just pain. Dion feels as if fire is pouring into his body, warming him beyond anything he's ever experienced. Bahamut growls: not a threat, but a glad rumble of invitation and welcome. Dion has never known his Eikon respond so to another person, but he can't think straight, lost in the rush and relief of it.

Whatever Margrace's salve contains, its effect is transient; after curling through every corner of Dion's body, the fire slowly fades. It is all Dion can do not to cry out for it to stay. It takes him a moment to realise that the pain in his shoulder has gone with it, fading like ink left too long in the sun.

"There." Margrace's voice has dropped low, taken on a hint of husk that threatens to undo Dion's hard-won self-control. "That should do it."

He runs his hands soothingly down Dion's spine, lingering for a heartbeat at the wing joints that are not there. Then he lifts himself off Dion, turns away, and dismounts the platform.

"I grieve that I cannot do more, but I hope you will notice some improvement." Margrace is returning his oil and salve to the chest, dipping a cloth into water to clean his hands. He is only a shadowy outline in the dim tent, his hood still pulled up to hide his face. "And if it troubles you further, please return so I may give you what relief I can."

Dion slowly rolls onto his side, pushes himself up on one elbow. He tests his shoulder cautiously; he cannot feel any discomfort at all. If he didn't know better, he would be sure magic was involved - but there is no sign of a crystal anywhere about Margrace's person, and without a brand he cannot be a Bearer.

"Thank you," Dion says, perhaps more heartfelt than he intended. He reaches for his shirt, hesitates for a moment before putting it on, wondering if the oil on his skin will stain it. "It feels much better already. What is that salve? I have never encountered its like before."

"It is a formula of my own devising. It is unfortunately… costly to use, else I would share it freely."

"Then I am all the more in your debt. If you need gil to obtain more ingredients—"

"No," Margrace says quickly, half-turning so that Dion catches a fleeting glimpse of his mouth, twisted at the corner in what might be self-recrimination. "Ah— I thank you, your Highness, but it is not a matter of coin."

"Very well."

Dion finishes dressing and stands up. He still can't quite believe in the lack of pain; he catches himself flexing and rolling his shoulder, trying to find the ache again. He shakes his head, runs a brisk hand through his hair to neaten it, and follows Margrace back out into the main part of the tent.

"I cannot thank you enough."

"It has been my honour, your Highness."

Margrace bows. As he straightens, Dion sees that his hands - once more hidden in leather gloves - are fidgeting with his sleeves, as if trying to decide whether to continue. Whatever his hesitation, he overcomes it - or perhaps loses the fight to suppress himself.

"I… suppose I should not hope to see you again," Margrace says, a wry smile in his voice. "I would prefer it if you had no further need for my skills. But if you should require them… please find me, day or night."

There's an odd earnestness in his voice, an undercurrent of some deep emotion that takes Dion by surprise.

"I shall," he promises. "Farewell."

Margrace pulls aside the canvas flap so he can depart. It almost seems bright outside in comparison to the darkness in the tent. The crystal-charged lanterns strung throughout the camp cast a subtle glow even into the depths of Margrace's hood. Dion glimpses a lock of tousled red-gold hair, glimmering soft as candlelight.

His heart twists like he has just heard a familiar note from a song he used to know well. But maybe that's just the night air, even colder than he remembers, making him shiver.

Margrace bows again, as does his attendant, who is waiting outside. In an instant, they're both gone, disappearing back into their tent.

Dion walks slowly back through the camp. This time his mind is not on the soldiers around him, instead quite preoccupied with thoughts of strong, warm hands and a low laugh like simmering water.

Dion lasts almost a week before he goes back.

He has taken no new injury, and his shoulder no longer pains him as it did, but he finds himself more conscious now of all the aches and stiffness that come from long hours in the saddle or in the air. On top of that, the Waloeders have gained ground slowly but steadily, and still there is no word from the capital about reinforcements.

He tells himself he has no good reason to visit Margrace. Indeed, he can think of several reasons why he should not, including the guilty desires stoked by the man's hands on him. Unfortunately, Terence has noted the change wrought by even such a brief respite, and urges him none-too-subtly to repeat it as bad news piles up on Dion's desk.

"I cannot waste time on unnecessary indulgence," Dion insists.

"Is it unnecessary to oil and maintain your armour? To hone your lance?" Terence counters. "You have primed three days in a row. If you are to continue so in the coming battles, you must treat your body with the same care as your equipment. You cannot rust, but you may certainly grow brittle."

It's hard to argue with such pragmatism, which is why Terence falls back on it; he knows Dion will not be swayed simply by his concern.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," Dion agrees, not as begrudgingly as he should.

Finding time is another matter, but there comes a night when Dion cannot sleep, and when his scouts are certain that all will remain quiet. He takes Margrace at his word - find me, day or night - but when he approaches the healer's tent close to midnight, he sees lantern light from within it, so he hopes he is at least not disturbing the other's rest.

His clap is answered by the same dark-haired attendant as before. She does not seem so flustered by his presence this time, although she casts a glance over her shoulder before stepping aside to let him pass. As before, she remains outside.

Margrace must have been sitting at his small desk, writing or reading something in a leather-bound book that barely fits between heaps of others; he is newly on his feet when Dion ducks through the entrance. He has clearly just raised his hood, and as Dion pauses to get his bearings, Margrace reaches for the lantern and turns down its wick until the tent is once again dim and lit only by candles.

Dion wonders at Margrace's reluctance to show his face. By all accounts, no-one in the camp has seen it. He seldom leaves his tent in daylight, and is never without his cowl and hood. Dion presumes he wishes to avoid recognition by some person or persons, whether within the camp or in search of him elsewhere. It might signify some past ill-deed, but Dion finds he doesn't believe that, and he doesn't wish to do anything that might put Margrace in jeopardy, so he lets the mystery lie for now.

"Your Highness." Margrace's voice is a little rough, as though he is tired, or has not spoken in some time. He coughs briefly to clear it. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Alas, to the toils of war," Dion replies with a wry smile. "I hope I might prevail upon you to tend to me once again."

"You are hurt?"

Again that note of concern in Margrace's voice, as if Dion is a friend whose wellbeing he cares about greatly. He has moved closer and now casts a critical look over Dion from head to toe. Dion swallows down a shiver in response.

"Only by the consequences of my own exertion. I have flown leagues these past days, and since I expect to do so again, I thought…"

He hesitates, abruptly unsure what it is he's even asking. Margrace seems to understand, though; he bows and beckons Dion towards the private area at the back of the tent.

"I am glad to know I can offer you some reprieve. Please lie down whilst I collect my tools."

Dion follows him beyond the curtain, already feeling his tension ease just from the warm darkness and the scent of oils. It takes bare moments to remove his shirt and stretch out on the sheets.

Margrace moves quietly, only the occasional clink of glass or shuffle of cloth revealing his location. Dion doesn't realise he's counting the seconds before Margrace's hands are on him, not until the healer kneels on the platform at his side and he finds himself holding his breath in anticipation.

Those hands are as warm as he remembers. Dion sighs long and low into the sheets, relaxing into that sure touch as it maps out the length of his spine and then glides back up his back. Margrace cautiously explores the site of the now-healed wound, seems satisfied when Dion does not flinch.

He is less satisfied by the overall state of Dion's shoulders and neck.

"Chainmail is quite ruinous to the sinew here," Margrace observes, curving his fingers around and under the shoulders to test the spreading wings of Dion's collarbones. "Not to mention those pauldrons the dragoons all wear. I have long wondered who was responsible for their design."

Dion huffs a laugh.

"Some long-ago commander who felt inadequate in that area," he suggests.

"Hmm. Not something you have to worry about." Margrace's hands smooth out across Dion's shoulders, which are admittedly broad. "Perhaps you might consider ordering a change."

"I shall give it my full attention once I have dealt with a few trifling matters that occupy me at present."

It's Margrace's turn to laugh. He squeezes Dion's shoulders in a friendly way, before reaching for one of his jars.

"I pray you will set aside those matters for a time," Margrace says. "The mind craves rest as sorely as the body."

It's rueful, and gives the impression that he knows the truth of it too well. Dion thinks of that desk with its burden of books.

"Yet you sit late into the night in pursuit of your studies."

"I never claimed to have the good sense to follow my own advice."

Margrace begins to rub oil into Dion's skin. Without the lingering pain in his shoulder, Dion can luxuriate fully in the sensations. It is not often he gets to experience simple pleasure with no other demands made upon him, and the way Margrace touches him makes him feel… cared-for, he supposes.

He reminds himself quickly that it is the healer's job to care for his patients, that he should not take Margrace's solicitude as anything other than duty.

"What work so consumes you?" Dion asks. "Do you seek some new curative?"

The question seems to take Margrace by surprise. His hands falter for a moment, though he quickly recovers.

"I… suppose that isn't far from the truth. Though I find myself more often sifting through the writings of the past, trying to glean what has been lost to time."

That sparks Dion's curiosity. He would never call himself a scholar, but he grew up with all Oriflamme's books at his fingertips, and a tutor who encouraged all manner of interests.

"Such as?"

"I…"

Margrace hesitates for long enough that Dion begins to regret the question.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to pry—"

"No, it is— I don't mind speaking of it. I simply don't wish to bore you, your Highness."

"I doubt I'd find any subject tiresome that compels you so."

Margrace delays a moment longer, shifting his position so he can work his palms across the small of Dion's back, just grazing the tops of his hip bones. Dion shivers pleasantly.

"At present I am engaged in a search for the roots of certain religions throughout Valisthea," Margrace replies finally. "There are… commonalities that interest me, themes that recur within different belief systems. Imagery, names, even the words of hymns… many go back further than the gods they represent."

Dion frowns into the sheets, reminded of a long-ago lesson with Harpocrates.

"Such as the saviour cults that may have given rise to the Church of Greagor?"

Margrace stutters, loses his rhythm, then laughs softly. His hands gravitate to Dion's non-existent wing joints, as they always seem to when he is distracted.

"I rather thought it might be impolite to mention that theory to the son of His Imperial Radiance Greagor Reborn." Margrace's voice is brimming with amusement and delight. Dion enjoys his approval more than he should. "I am surprised you know of it."

"I had an excellent tutor. Among other things, thankfully, he ensured I learned more of the Church than its sermons and parables. Whatever the truth of Greagor Herself, it is plain that the forms of worship we follow have their roots in an older source."

"Exactly," Margrace replies eagerly. His hands begin moving again, but there is a restless energy to them now that makes the touch feel somehow more intimate. Dion sighs under it. "It's that source I must uncover. There are truths hidden in the old ways that may yet prove invaluable to the future of the Twins. But there are so many false leads - and worse, so many histories and accounts that have been altered to better fit the needs of later custodians."

"It is always the way."

"Indeed." Margrace sighs. "Still, there are one or two avenues that hold promise. Ruins left to the ravages of time rather than restored, fragments of text overlooked in forgotten collections… and of course, the tales passed down by word of mouth, though they are often so garbled as to be nearly useless. It is like trying to find the grains of gold in a saucer of sand."

His frustration rings like a bell through the words, but there is an echo of something grimmer, something more than just a scholar's pursuit of knowledge: if not fear, then a close cousin. It's familiar, like the way Dion's stomach clenches when he's reviewing uncertain troop positions and inadequate resources, or the swooping sense of unease that comes each day that passes without a response from the capital.

"What do you hope to fashion from such scant treasure?" Dion asks softly. "What lies in the past that you deem so crucial to our future?"

Margrace's hands fall still again. He takes a breath, but does not speak. Then another breath, and finally, words, measured as careful as a tincture.

"There are truths about this world that we have lost, if we ever knew them at all. The Mothercrystals, the Blight… the Eikons and their Dominants. I believe we are not helpless to change the path we are on, but without knowing where it began and where it leads… how can we choose wisely when we strike out on our own?"

How indeed? Dion wonders, suddenly aware that his heart is beating faster, responding to the passion in Margrace's voice, to the undercurrent he recognises as kin to his own deepest fears. He aches to reassure the man, almost as much as he longs for someone to ease his doubts in return.

"Such burdens are not yours to bear," Dion says, all his instincts as a prince and a Dominant rearing protectively. "I pray you will not lose further sleep for trying. Have faith that the Holy Empire works tirelessly to secure our future, and to protect the lands still untouched by Blight."

Margrace… laughs. Almost. It's a bitter little gasp, a rush of air more than sound, and Dion knows at once that he has made some grave misstep.

"Protect, or claim, your Highness?"

Before Dion can reply, Margrace shifts position, leans his weight more fully on his hands, finds tender places under Dion's shoulder blades and presses them with exquisite strength. Dion barely stifles a moan into the sheets; it's the good kind of pain, and when Margrace releases his hold after long seconds, it leaves a wonderful euphoria in its wake.

"Forgive me my ramblings," Margrace continues. "I intended you to put aside your troubles, not listen to mine."

He is opening a jar as he speaks; the scent of sandalwood tells Dion that it is the same salve as before.

"There is work I can do here to loosen the muscles and soothe your aches." Margrace begins to spread the balm with a series of slow, deep strokes up and over Dion's shoulders. Dion tries not to moan at the heat that surges from his hands. "I shall apply myself to it without further distraction."

Dion knows when a conversation has been declared over, and he can hardly complain when Margrace is as good as his word, dedicating his full attention to Dion's shoulders and back, swiftly reducing him to a melted puddle of relief. All the same, he regrets his mistake, wishes he could take it back. He meant only to offer comfort, but now his own reassurance rings hollow in his ears, all too much like the way his father has taken to dismissing his concerns.

He still has not found the right words by the time Margrace finishes with him and bids him dress. Perhaps there are none. It is Dion's duty, after all, to serve as the Empire's champion, to prop up the doubts of others, to bear his people's burdens. He cannot allow anyone else to share his doubts.

"Thank you," is all he says, in the end, as Margrace leads him towards the exit. "I hope that I may visit you again?"

It isn't simple courtesy; he lets the question hold true weight. If Margrace would prefer him not to return, he has no doubt the healer will say so, propriety be damned.

It's clear he catches Margrace by surprise, clear from the way the man turns to him, how Dion glimpses dismay in the set of his mouth before he ducks his head and reaches out - impulsively, it seems - to lay a gloved hand on Dion's arm.

"I hope that you will do so soon, your Highness."

There's a fervour in the words that brings a pleasant warmth to Dion's chest. He knows it is a little too close to the rush of mutual attraction, knows he must be careful, knows he probably should stay away despite Margrace's invitation.

But as he slips out of the tent and into the chill night air, he also knows that he will not.

Visiting Margrace becomes a habit. More than a habit: before long, it is his lifeline.

Dion is still constrained by his obligations, but he finds whatever time he can, and Margrace never denies him. Indeed, he seems well-appraised of the comings and goings in the camp, and often welcomes Dion as if he were expecting him.

Terence is delighted that he has found a way to relax, though after a while he begins to give Dion a certain knowing look when he mentions the healer.

"Stop that," Dion snaps under his breath on one such occasion, glancing first towards the entrance to check the guards are not listening. "I'm not bedding him. I have never even seen his face."

"Some prefer it that way," Terence murmurs back with a smirk. At Dion's glare, it softens into a smile. "You know I jest. But it is clear how much you enjoy his company."

That, Dion cannot deny.

It is not just the physicality of it, though he can't deceive himself into thinking that plays no part. He craves Margrace's touch, and though he strives to keep his thoughts decent, his dreams of late have no such compunctions: he has woken more than once gasping and needy from the imaginary grip of bold hands.

He also rouses from sleep some mornings with the scent of sandalwood clinging to his nightshirt and a bittersweet longing to lie skin-to-skin in another's arms, which is almost worse.

But it's not just the physicality of it, and maybe that's why it is so impossible for him to resist.

Margrace is careful, after their second encounter, never to let conversation predominate, and to steer what words they do exchange towards lighter topics. At least, he tries to: Dion recognises in him the irrepressible need to express his thoughts, the inability to fully hold his tongue. Dion is careful too: he does not try to lead Margrace astray, but he delights in hearing the man's voice fill with feeling when he forgets himself.

They find a balance, like two winged creatures learning to share a breeze without tipping each other off course. When they talk, they talk of books they've read, or places they've seen, or strange and amusing people they have met. Margrace has travelled just as much as he claims, more even than Dion. He has plenty of tales of the side of life a prince rarely sees, the trials and triumphs of ordinary people. Dion thinks his own stories of trivial machinations within the Imperial Court dull in comparison, but Margrace seems to find them endlessly fascinating.

"It is strange, isn't it, that those with the leisure and means to avoid strife should go to such lengths to create it instead," Margrace comments once. "I have never understood it."

"It's a game to them, I suppose," Dion replies, sighing into the heat and pressure of hands on the back of his neck. Margrace's salve may be costly, but he does not stint to use it on Dion's aches, and Dion cannot find it in himself to protest. "A way to occupy their days."

"I can think of better uses of their time."

"As can I." Dion pauses, considering. "Though, given the sheer ignorance and spite of some I've met, perhaps it is for the best that they are kept busy with their posturing."

Margrace laughs.

"Indeed." He sighs. His voice turns sombre. "Alas that their games all too often rely on the sacrifice of pawns elsewhere on the board."

"Indeed," Dion echoes softly.

When word from Oriflamme arrives at last, Dion can hardly believe what he is reading. There will be no reinforcements. He is not to retreat, despite his losses. If opportunity presents, he must press the attack. Were the Emperor here in person, Dion would be demanding an explanation; as it is, all he can do is search the terse missive for some hidden secret.

He finds none, and he doesn't have the luxury of expressing his own dismay; the letter arrives in the middle of a strategy meeting. He must share its contents at once, with all the confidence his lieutenants expect, and none of the doubt and frustration that surges treacherously in his heart.

The meeting stretches late into the night as a result. By the time Dion dismisses his officers, he wants nothing more than to drop into his bed and wallow in his own thoughts.

He finds himself heading for the healers' encampment instead.

For once, it is Margrace himself who responds to Dion's clap; he murmurs that his attendant is away on an errand as he escorts Dion inside.

Dion follows the usual routine, crossing to the curtained-off area, sitting on the platform, removing his shirt, but Margrace does not move at once to make his habitual preparations.

"What's wrong?" The healer's face is deep in shadow, but Dion can hear the frown in his voice. "Has something happened?"

Great Greagor, is Dion so easy to read? Or - perhaps even more alarming - has Margrace already learned him so well?

"Orders from the capital," Dion replies brusquely, lying down so his face is hidden. "I have much to do in the coming days."

Much to do, and much for Bahamut to do. He will take to the skies as often as he must, if that is what his Emperor wills.

He will do what he can to lessen the toll on his men.

Margrace is silent as he kneels at Dion's side. The familiar fragrance hits Dion as Margrace opens the jar of salve; his body has learned to associate this scent with relaxation, and despite all his worries, he feels his muscles loosen in anticipation.

Margrace is usually adept at recognising when he should not pursue a topic, so Dion is surprised when he speaks again.

"You dislike these orders?"

His hands curl over Dion's shoulders, squeezing and testing the tension there.

"Does it matter? I must obey."

"Yet you are troubled."

He grips the back of Dion's neck, that almost-too-forceful squeeze that makes Dion go limp and succumb for a moment to unworthy thoughts. Dion groans near-silently into the sheets, of half a mind to beg Margrace to simply do this, over and over: hold him down and so sweetly render him compliant.

"I cannot speak of it," Dion manages. "Forgive me."

"Forgive you for your discretion? No, I commend you for it." Margrace rubs soothing circles over Dion's shoulder blades, digging in the heels of his hands right into phantom wing joints. "I would not ask you to share the Empire's secrets with me. Only your own."

It's a bold demand, but Margrace's voice is so soft with concern - and so fierce with something tantalisingly close to tenderness - that Dion cannot mind it. He wavers, all his frustrations and doubts surging so forcefully in his chest, he thinks surely Margrace must feel the rising tide under his fingertips.

"I dislike these orders exceedingly," Dion admits finally. "I cannot see… I do not understand the Emperor's mind." He takes a shaky breath. "So many will die. I cannot prevent it, no matter how far I spread my wings."

"Oh, your Highness," Margrace murmurs. "Would that you knew how well-acquainted I am with such heartache. Would that I knew a balm for it."

His hands start moving again, but not with their usual precision. He is simply running them up and down Dion's back, stroking more than pressing, sending delightful sensations dancing across every inch of skin. The warmth of him reaches further than his touch, enveloping Dion in a cocoon of comfort. Dion wants to pull it even closer around himself, wants to bury his face in it and fill his hands with it and hold onto it forever.

Or maybe it is simply the man Dion wants, with a longing so sudden and ferocious he is helpless before it. Wants to sit up and turn to him, push back the hood, see his eyes at last, taste his mouth and tangle needy fingers in that bright hair he's glimpsed in the shadows.

"You are a better man than the Empire deserves," Margrace whispers. "Better than I dared hope."

Margrace's nails scrape lightly over Dion's skin, catching for just a moment with an exquisite little jolt of pleasure. Dion all but moans into the sheets, barely keeping the sound breathy instead of wanton. He thinks Margrace hears it, but instead of pulling back, the healer does the same thing again, lets his fingers curl and his nails dig in just enough to send Dion's eyes rolling back in his head.

He realises two things then.

First, that he's half-hard, his swelling dick thankfully trapped beneath him, but a warning nonetheless that his control is slipping.

Second, that Margrace's breathing is as rapid as his own; there's a faint tremor in his fingertips, and the heat he lavishes on Dion's skin seems more intense, less soothing now than it is enticing, a promise of being set aflame. His hands on Dion's body move like a lover's, like someone aching for permission to strip him bare and touch every inch of him.

Dion is abruptly certain that if he abandons decorum, if he rolls over and hauls Margrace down to kiss him, Margrace will let him - no, that Margrace will kiss back with fervour and fire, pin Dion to the sheets and take everything he has to give.

And Dion would give him everything. Anything. He wants it with the ferocity of a starving man tempted by a banquet. He wants…

"Your Highness!"

Terence's voice is loud and urgent outside the tent. Margrace freezes; Dion's heart almost stops.

"Your Highness, our scouts report that Waloed is on the move," Terence continues. "They believe the king means to attack at dawn!"

"Greagor's wounds," Dion snarls, surging upright as Margrace scrambles out of the way. "Call the officers to my tent, I will be there at once."

"Yes, my Prince!"

Terence's armour clatters as he salutes, then again as he hurriedly departs. Dion is already groping for his shirt; Margrace presses it into his hands without a word. Dion pulls the garment savagely over his head and fastens it carelessly as he jumps to his feet.

"I will alert the hospital," Margrace says. "Is there anything else I can do?"

The need to kiss him surges again through Dion, spurred this time less by lust than by gratitude. Dion forces himself towards the exit instead.

"Whatever you can. This will be bloody."

"Your Highness—"

He catches Dion's arm as he is about to duck out of the tent. Margrace struggles for a moment with the words, perhaps wanting to say more than he knows he should.

"Be safe," is what the healer settles for.

Dion places his hand over Margrace's for a moment, clasps it tightly. He has not had time to replace his gloves; Dion does not have time to relish that fact.

"And you."

It is, indeed, bloody.

Dion seldom wishes to fight any battle, truly; not if it can be avoided. But this engagement - this ugly clash on poor terrain, his men robbed of sleep and caught off-guard - this is he would have given anything to avoid.

He curses the timing of that message from Oriflamme. Had it arrived a day sooner, the troop movements begun in response would be complete by now. Had it been delayed, Dion's forces would have been in the positions they have occupied for weeks, and whilst it would have given them no advantage, at least they would have been at full readiness. Instead, they are caught between the two: camps half-struck, units separated from their brigades, all in disarray and vulnerable to a sudden strike.

Indeed, it is such a particular stroke of misfortune that Dion fears it is not chance at all, and that is a thought that chills him to the bone, for if Waloeder spies have such insight into the Empire's plans…

He primes just before sunrise, as much for moral support as for tactical considerations. Even Bahamut's light cannot match the sun, but it brings some relief to the pre-dawn gloom, proves to the men on the ground that their prince is with them in this darkest hour.

The battle drags on until the sun sets again.

Dion alternates between the sky and the ground. He spars with Odin, then returns to his dragoons to fight on foot with his lance and his magic. He has seldom drawn so deep on his aether; his right arm throbs, and he is grimly certain that when next he disrobes, he will find that the reddened patches there have turned ashen grey. Worse, each time he primes it takes a greater effort, his flesh resisting the flow of power it knows will eventually destroy it.

The toll catches up to him in the worst possible way.

It is not Odin who lands the blow this time; Dion is fighting hand to hand on the ground, urging his dragoons on. Some enemy archer, lucky or unusually skilled, looses an arrow that finds its mark in his thigh.

It's a dangerous wound, one that threatens to kill him swiftly from blood loss. Fortunately, Terence is close by his side, attentive even in the heat of battle; he hauls Dion over his shoulders and has him halfway to a healer almost before the pain can even register.

There is no time for proper care. Dion insists the healer simply remove the arrow, staunch the wound, and give him something for the pain. He is back in the fray within the hour, and remains there until the sun finally sinks below the horizon.

It's only when the Waloeders finally give ground that Dion can depart from the battlefield. Perhaps his focus on the engagement has shielded him until then; regardless, a wave of pain and dizziness seizes him when he attempts to mount his chocobo. He cannot vault into the saddle; he is forced to grab onto the harness for support, face pressed into soft feathers as he struggles to find his balance.

"Your Highness!" Terence is quick and as circumspect as always; he steps in close not just to offer Dion his arm, but to shield his moment of weakness from view. "Can you ride?"

He keeps his voice low, but Dion still dares not respond with anything other than a brisk, "Of course."

With Terence's help, he makes it onto the chocobo's back. Dion spends the ride back to camp with his teeth locked until his jaw aches, holding on grimly to the reins and trying to spare his injured leg as much as possible. By the time he dismounts, he's drenched in sweat, with a queasiness roiling in his stomach.

He's not fool enough to deny he needs care, but the healers are stretched to their limits. There are so many soldiers on the brink of death; Dion cannot, will not put his own comfort before their lives.

He retreats to his tent despite Terence's attempts to dissuade him. There is strategy that must be discussed, but half his lieutenants are too wounded to report, and he is at least sure that Waloed will not lightly regroup. He will snatch what sleep he can, then, and have someone look at his leg properly tomorrow.

"You are in pain," Terence argues when Dion informs him of his intentions. "You won't sleep - at least let me bring you an elixir—"

"Our stocks are too low already, and besides, I need to wake at a moment's notice if anything happens."

"Dion," Terence protests, a rare slip from him. He grabs Dion's arm, refusing to let him slip away. Low and intense, he goes on, "You must not martyr yourself like this. You had your orders—"

Dion pulls roughly free. Terence knows him too well, and speaks too plainly, and right now Dion cannot bear another second of his company because of it.

"Good night, Terence," Dion says stiffly. "Get some rest."

He crosses the tent and ducks past the curtain to his sleeping area. Behind him, he hears Terence draw breath to argue, but whatever words are on his tongue, he breathes them out again unsaid. Dion hears him leave, pausing to speak with the guards outside, then striding off into the camp.

A tired flicker of guilt joins the self-recrimination today's battle has already left in Dion's heart. He feels abysmal. His leg is a welter of agony, he's drowning in heat and sweat, and his head is beginning to pound. Clumsily, he strips, makes a cursory effort to wash the grime and blood from his skin, gives up halfway and simply tumbles into his bed.

Terence is wrong about one thing: Dion cannot keep his eyes open even for a second once his head hits the pillow. Sleep - or some uneasy, feverish cousin - drags him under with malicious glee.

Dion is startled to wakefulness by the sound of someone entering the tent. For a confused moment, he wonders if it's morning already - but no, all is dark. His head is foggy and hurts like hell, and he feels so parched he could drink the river dry.

He expects Terence to announce himself, but instead, soft footsteps approach Dion's sleeping quarters and the curtain sighs as it is pushed aside. Dion sits up, or tries to: dizziness assails him and he finds himself floundering onto one elbow instead.

"Be easy, your Highness. Sir Terence sent for me."

Margrace. Dion tries to speak, finds his throat clogged. He coughs to clear it, croaks, "Are there not others in more need of you?"

"I have done what I can. Without the use of magic, I must leave those more sorely wounded to the care of others. Besides… I shall be my own judge of whose need for me is greatest."

Dion's heart thuds uncomfortably loud. He should protest, he thinks; he should tell Margrace the same things he told Terence.

But Margrace has already moved close enough to bring a hint of sandalwood scent, and his tone brooks no argument, and Dion hurts, and he is so very tired.

"… very well," he mumbles, defeated.

Margrace finds a candle and lights it. He is oddly clumsy with the flint and steel, as if he has had little practice. The light reveals him cloaked and hooded as always, a satchel slung over his shoulder. This he places down by Dion's bed. It clinks.

"Let me see your leg."

Dion wordlessly tucks the blanket to preserve his modesty before hitching the rest of it out of the way. The arrow pierced him cleanly halfway between hip and knee; the healer's magic stopped the bleeding and closed the wound, but his thigh is a mass of bruises and angry red heat, his knee swollen from shifting his weight to spare the injury.

Margrace makes a soft, unhappy sound that surprises Dion; surely the healer has seen much worse.

"I'll do what I can," is all he says, kneeling by Dion's bed and reaching for his bag. "Lie down, your Highness."

It's the first time Dion has been on his back for this. It makes him feel more exposed than being face-down; Dion worries about what his expression might reveal, even though Margrace is bent over his leg and the light is very dim.

"A curse on healing magic cast in haste," Margrace mutters. "It takes time to properly knit flesh and restore function. Would that they had brought you back here instead of letting you aggravate it for hours more."

"Terence tried," Dion is forced to admit. "I could not be spared from the field."

He expects Margrace to scold him then. Instead, the healer sighs. He has retrieved one of his jars from his bag, but instead of opening it, he places one hand over Dion's ankle, squeezing gently.

"Too much is asked of you," Margrace says softly. "Your father should know better."

Dion has no business letting such disrespect go unchallenged. He would not accept it even from Terence. It is his duty to champion the Emperor's cause. He has spent so many hours pretending confidence, spilled so many words reassuring his lieutenants that their men will not die in vain, until he feels as two-faced as the scheming ministers back in Oriflamme.

Perhaps that is why he cannot find it in him to rebuke Margrace. Or perhaps it is the quiet understanding in his voice, the compassion that leaves Dion swallowing hard and blinking up at the canvas above him, too unmoored to speak at all.

He hears Margrace open the jar, smells the familiar scent of the salve. The hand on Dion's thigh is feather-light, but Dion hisses in pain despite himself. The skin itself is sensitive and sore like a burn, exacerbating the throbbing pain deeper in.

"You're hot as a furnace." Alarm is suddenly stark in Margrace's voice. "If I didn't know better, I'd think it infected…"

Dion flinches from his next touch, has to gulp down a groan of protest.

"Hold still. I'll try to dull the surface pain enough to examine it properly."

Dion does his best to obey. Margrace uses his free hand to take hold of Dion's ankle again, squeezing gently as he works. It's grounding, comforting, and almost as beneficial as the ointment, which works its usual magic and eases the superficial soreness.

Once Margrace has finished, he sets aside the jar and lays his hands on Dion's thigh. Even with such light pressure, it hurts like hell. Dion bears it, gritting his teeth once again despite the worsening headache and the spots dancing before his eyes.

Then, Margrace does something - Dion isn't exactly sure what. It feels like he digs his fingers deep into the muscle, but Dion is certain his hand doesn't move. Either way, it's agony; Dion shouts before he can stop himself. The pain is followed by a sick, shivery wash of heat through his whole body, a ringing in his ears; he suddenly feels alarmingly unwell.

"Oh, I don't like this at all," Margrace mutters. Dion wholeheartedly echoes the sentiment. He's clammy with sweat, a faint tremor rippling through his limbs. "That was no ordinary arrow."

"What—" Dion's voice scrapes like gravel; he has to suck in a breath to soothe it. "What do you mean? Was there poison?"

"Of a sort." Margrace fumbles in his satchel and pulls out a small bottle. He unstoppers it and holds it out, turning just enough that Dion can see the grim set of his mouth. "I must move quickly. Drink this."

Dion does not take it from him.

"What is it?"

"The strongest analgesic I have to hand. I dare not delay to find something better. This should dull your senses enough to take the edge off."

"I cannot afford to be drugged into insensibility."

Margrace lets out a frustrated noise.

"And I cannot set this right without causing you a great deal of pain. Which do you prefer?"

Deliberately, Dion reaches above his head, takes hold of the bed frame there and tests his grip.

"I will take the pain."

"Founder!" Margrace hisses, roughly re-stoppering the bottle and tossing it into his bag. "You are so stubborn. I suppose now I know how Jote feels."

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind."

Margrace casts him another glance, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Dion realises with a jolt that the angle of the light is such that he can almost - almost - see the man's face. Not quite: the eyes are shadowed, but he can make out the delicacy of the features within the hood, sharp outlines softened by the natural curve of Margrace's cheeks. His red-gold hair tumbles messily past his chin, the ends showing just the hint of a curl. Dion aches to push the hood back and see him properly.

"Here." Margrace reaches for his bag again, this time pulls out a soft, clean cloth, which he rolls tightly. "Bite down on this, at least. I don't want your guards to think I am murdering you."

Perhaps it's the fever, but Dion barely holds back a remark that murder will not be the first thing they think of, hearing him cry out in the night with an attractive man in his tent.

He decides that it would indeed be wise to take measures to silence himself. He lets go of the bed frame long enough to take the cloth and wedge it between his teeth.

"And… close your eyes," Margrace adds quietly.

Dion isn't sure what that is supposed to accomplish, but he does as he's told. As he hears Margrace shift and lean forward over his leg, he thinks that perhaps he doesn't want to watch whatever is about to happen, anyway.

He can't help listening intently, half-dreading the clink of a surgeon's tools, but he hears nothing except Margrace taking a slow, deep breath, and then another.

And then he grabs Dion's thigh with a grip like an iron vise heated white-hot.

The gag muffles Dion's yell into an agonised moan. He thrashes, barely remembering to keep his hands locked on the bed frame, instinctively trying to kick Margrace away. Margrace holds him down with that awful, crushing grip; after a moment, he swings himself onto the bed, onto Dion's lower legs, pinning him all the more firmly.

Heat floods unbearably through the wound. It's like when Margrace mended his shoulder, only the burn is far hotter, far deeper, far less kind. Dion can hear his own pathetic whimpers as he heaves for air. He reaches inside himself frantically to keep control of Bahamut, expecting his Eikon to react with fury to the assault.

Bahamut… does not. The dragon lashes and howls, but does not shy away from the flames. In fact, just like the first time, Dion almost thinks that his Eikon welcomes them despite the pain.

"I have you," Margrace grits out. There's strain in his voice. "I have you, Dion. Almost there."

Dion doesn't mean to open his eyes, but he's past remembering why he shouldn't, and his name falling with such unconscious tenderness from Margrace's lips undoes him.

He doesn't see much, all the same. Light dazzles him; he gets only the briefest impression of Margrace's hands on his leg, radiance threaded through his fingers like ribbons of flame, pulsing with what can only be magic. Dion's eyes snap closed again in self-defence, and in that instant, the heat begins to ebb.

"Got it," Margrace pants, his grip finally slackening. "That bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing."

Dion turns his head, spits out the cloth, blinks his eyes rapidly to try and clear them of stinging tears. His arms are numb above his head; he clumsily releases the bed frame and cradles them to his chest.

"You're a Bearer," he chokes out, as shocked as if Margrace had confessed to some grisly crime. "A Bearer, without a brand!" The very notion is an affront to decency. "How dare you?"

The last of the light vanishes. Somehow, it takes the candle flame with it, plunging the tent into darkness.

Dion hears Margrace bite back a curse. There is a too-long pause. Margrace lets out a shaky sigh.

"Will you have me clapped in irons, then? Send for the needle and ink?"

He is still sitting on Dion's legs, but Dion is too shaken in mind and body to try and throw him off.

"I should," he replies harshly. "To evade the brand is treason in every corner of the Twins. You have lied to me and everyone about who you truly are—"

Margrace makes a choked sound.

"I cannot deny it, though I'd say I have good cause."

His voice hardens.

"Tell me, though, what is it save tradition and expedience that has promised you a throne while Bearers toil and die as slaves? Will you have them mark your own face when they are done with mine, Warden of Light?"

"It is not the same thing—"

"No, I suppose not." The scathing tone cannot hide the weariness in Margrace's voice. "There are other, more subtle ways to chain a Dominant. Some will even build their own cages."

He swings himself off Dion's bed, scoops up his bag so heedlessly that glass clatters on glass within it, and is pushing aside the curtain before Dion can get his scrambled thoughts together.

"Wait—"

"For what? Imperial knights to drag me away? I avoided that fate once already; I'm not about to submit to it now."

"Margrace—"

"Goodbye, your Highness."

Dion hears him stride to the exit, the rustle of canvas, a question murmured by one of the guards. If Dion shouted now, they'd seize Margrace easily; if the healer resorted to his magic, a dozen more soldiers would be on him before he could escape. It is an insult and an outrage for a Bearer to evade the brand. No matter how many times the peoples of Valisthea have made war on one another, in this they are all agreed.

He hears Margrace walk away. He cannot seem to make a sound, as surely as if he still had the cloth in his mouth.

Margrace and his attendant are gone by morning.

So are all traces of Dion's injury. Not even bruising remains. The burgeoning fever and sickness are only a memory.

Dion wonders wretchedly what would have happened if Margrace hadn't come to him. Would he have been incapacitated by dawn? Would he have even survived the night? He doesn't know exactly what poison the healer extracted, but it smacks of Odin's handiwork. His darkness is anathema to Bahamut's light; it is why they so often cancel each other out on the battlefield.

Dion does not order his guards to look for Margrace when they report his absence. Nor does he issue the requisite alert to Imperial authorities to be on the lookout for a Bearer on the run.

He tells Terence, because he has to offer some explanation for both his state of mind and Margrace's disappearance.

"I cannot say I will easily forgive his deception," Terence admits. "But to risk all by using his magic to save you… for that, I must consider myself in his debt."

"Forgive him?" Dion closes his eyes for a hopeless moment, rubs the bridge of his nose with fingers still sore from clutching at the bed frame. "What right have we to speak of forgiveness? Who would choose the brand if they had any means of denying it? Who would choose magic, the curse, any of this?"

He turns away quickly from the worry he sees in Terence's face.

He is wrung out from two nights of scant sleep, but he drags himself through the day's planning, constantly turning his thoughts away from Margrace, from yesterday's battle, from anything but the next duty he must perform.

He is so successful that when darkness falls again, though he is unbearably weary, he catches himself about to walk over to the healers' encampment as usual. He stops halfway across his tent, staring blankly at the closed canvas door.

A cold and terrible certainty seeps into him that he will never see Margrace again.

I didn't even thank him, Dion realises. He may well have saved my life, and all I did was call him traitor.

There is nothing else he can do, so he goes to bed. The sheets and blankets are fresh, his night shirt laundered; there are no reminders of his suffering the night before.

None except the jar of Margrace's salve, forgotten in his haste to depart. A servant has placed it neatly on Dion's nightstand, presuming it to be some trifle of the prince's.

Dion cradles it in his hand. Finds himself unscrewing the lid, raising the jar to his nose. The familiar smell of sandalwood makes his heart shudder even as his muscles instinctively relax. He feels pathetic, but he scoops a little onto his fingers anyway, rubs it into the sore spots above his collarbone, where the scent will linger.

It provides no particular relief from the pain, and cools as quickly on his skin as any other ointment. Dion closes his eyes against a rush of abject misery. Of course. It was never the source of that glorious warmth - that healing touch - in the first place.

The matter of the arrow cannot be ignored. Dion has the battlefield searched, but no trace of it is found.

He doubts it was loosed by Barnabas Tharmr's own hand - the King of Waloed is master of the blade, not the bow - but nor can he believe it came from some rank-and-file archer. For one thing, if Tharmr could imbue the power of Odin into his soldiers' weapons on a whim, Dion is certain he would have done so before now.

For another, it runs counter to everything Dion knows of the man. His prowess and ferocity in battle are practically legend. They say he won his kingdom by his skill with a sword alone, and no-one has ever seemed entirely clear whether he awakened to Odin's power before or after he took the throne.

No, Dion doubts that Barnabas Tharmr would strike with a poisoned arrow from afar.

But what, then, is its provenance, and by whose skill did it find its mark? More pressingly, are there more of its kind? Even a handful might deny Dion the skies; he is no coward, but were such a bolt of darkness to pierce his heart, even semi-primed, he cannot be sure he would live long enough to hit the ground.

He dares not even speak too candidly with his advisers, dares not send word to Oriflamme requesting aid from the scholars there. Just as Bahamut must be seen strong overhead to give hope and courage to the men below, Dion cannot risk the slightest rumour that Waloed has devised a means to slay Sanbreque's prince with a single shot.

He wishes he could ask Margrace.

He wishes, with a fierce longing that leaves him shaken, that he could simply hear Margrace's voice again.

He does not know how to fathom the depths of his grief and regret. It is too powerful, surely, for such a tenuous and brief connection as the one they shared. It has the force of his Eikon behind it, the wild fury of beating wings, the scream of Bahamut denied. It feels like loss, it feels like despair, it feels like a door slamming closed in his face before he even had time to understand what awaited him on the other side.

It feels like that grey day in Oriflamme all over again, when messengers brought news of the fall of Phoenix Gate, the death of the Archduke and the Dominant of Fire.

Except this time, Dion can assign the blame to no-one but himself.

Waloed makes no move for over a week, even though the Imperial forces are still scrambling to recover from the battle. Dion's officers hope that the Waloeders have taken enough losses of their own to give them pause. Dion reads every scout report a half dozen times, and comes to the grim conclusion that Tharmr has plenty of soldiers remaining.

No, Dion thinks this looks like waiting and watching, and he has an uneasy feeling he knows what for: confirmation that Bahamut's Dominant has been neutralised, or otherwise.

Well, if Tharmr wants an answer on that score, Dion will gladly give it to him. Waloed's hesitation is an opening, one he cannot ignore despite the risks. He has had another letter from the Emperor, re-confirming his orders to advance if possible, but this one also simmers with rumours of saboteurs and traitors in the capital. It stokes alarm in Dion's heart: his father talks as though Oriflamme is all but lost, and that is unthinkable.

Maybe, just maybe, a swift and brutal strike can knock the Waloeders back. Maybe it will be enough to break the stalemate. And maybe it will grant sufficient breathing space for Dion to return to Oriflamme and find out what in hell is going on.

If they are to succeed, they must throw caution to the winds. Dion hands out his orders, marshals his officers, and gives the signal for a full-strength charge.

Crucially, Bahamut does not fly ahead of the front line as he usually does. Nor does Dion ride into battle with his dragoons. It is an unfamiliar, almost unbearable experience, doing nothing whilst others go into danger, but Dion grits his teeth and holds his nerve.

He waits until battle is joined. Waits until it is plain the Waloeders think that Bahamut will not - cannot - take to the skies. Waits until runners confirm what Dion hoped: that the enemy has bunched together, intending to form a deadly wall of steel for the Imperial Army to break itself upon.

Then, and only then, does he prime.

It isn't a short engagement, but Dion knows early on that they will win it. Bahamut cuts such a swathe through the Waloeder forces that Tharmr must have lost half his best troops, and that's before taking into account the damage done by the dragoons, who fall on their foes with fury and vengeance.

Dion is never complacent, but perhaps his sheer relief makes him less cautious than he should be. He stays aloft even after the Waloeder front line breaks, even though he cannot risk unleashing his fury on the ground now occupied by his troops. He expects Odin to take the field; he could watch just as readily from below, but he finds he is loath to give up his supremacy in the sky. Let Bahamut be a beacon, then, to those fighting in the Empire's name; let there be left no doubt that Dion's earlier absence was strategy, not cowardice. He is far too high for any arrow to reach him.

And yet, it does.

The blow is impossibly forceful and takes him right in the chest, right below the pulsing glow that is Bahamut's thunderous heart. Dion roars with the dragon's voice as he spins from the impact.

Even in that instant, all he can think is, they must not see me fall from the sky.

He twists and dives like a griffin going in for the kill, turns his fall into something that looks intentional. His chest is agony, a thousand times worse than the wound in his leg, but he forces his wings to hold him, to control his descent. Even through his shock and disbelief, he scans the terrain below him, searching for the source of the attack. There - a glint of metal on a high stone outcropping, a figure tossing aside a longbow with casual finality.

Dion cannot draw breath to howl his defiance, cannot think past the pain to channel his aether, but what need has the king of dragons for aught but his claws and teeth? His target waits, brazenly unconcerned by the doom hurtling towards him. White hair, the stink of Odin on him… Sleipnir Harbard, of course: the Lord Commander of Waloed's forces.

It seems certain that in another instant Bahamut's jaws will crush the life from him. Dion is so close he can see the man's face.

Can see his smile as he vaults backwards and plummets from the crag with all the confidence of a dragoon.

They are already miles from the battlefield, and the terrain below is broken and hostile, crammed with dark evergreens in the narrow valleys, barren and stark above the treeline. Harbard plunges like a swan into the heart of a valley so deep it might rather be called a ravine.

Bahamut follows him down.

It's over in seconds. Dion doesn't even see whether Harbard survives the fall, whether he has time to recover or raise a weapon. He is nothing in that moment but Bahamut's rage, nothing but the predator who will not suffer his prey to escape.

He hits the ground talons first, the impact flattening the trees around him and echoing off the mountains like distant thunder. His wings beat once, forcing him viciously down onto the limp body with a satisfying crunch. He bends his head, ready to taste blood.

And falters.

His chest - the pain - in his fury he almost forgot - his wings beat again, this time in a desperate bid for the sky - but the strength is already gone from them, his aether pouring from the wound.

Dion falls, now only a man again, crashing to the devastated ground beside Harbard's corpse. He grabs at his chest, feels the arrow impaled there between his ribs, fights for breath. It has not struck heart or lungs, but already he can feel the same dark poison as before, Odin's shadow creeping into the core of his self.

He forces himself to stand. He must get help, or die. He staggers into the trees with no thought of direction.

Before long the world tilts, and slips away from him.

The return to consciousness is a slow struggle, less like waking up than like fighting his way out of tar. Dion would give it up as hopeless, except that there's an urgency in the back of his mind, a certainty that he must not succumb.

He opens his eyes. It's dark, and cold, and he cannot hear the sounds of the camp. A fire must be burning somewhere nearby: Dion can see its red glow on the tree branches shielding him from the sky.

His chest feels like it has been cracked open and then hammered back together with red-hot nails. He tries to speak, and is only able to produce a low rasp.

"Dion?"

He knows that voice, wants to weep for how much he has missed it.

"Oh, thank the Founder."

A hand cups his cheek, brushes his hair aside and runs a thumb lightly along his jaw. Dion knows the touch as surely as he knows the voice. Something inside him keens. He tries to turn his head towards Margrace.

"Shh, don't move. I have you."

The heat in his chest subsides a little. He realises that his armour has been cut off him, his shirt torn open; Margrace's other hand is planted on his sternum, and the flames reflected on the branches above are not from a campfire after all. Dion can feel the aether now, Margrace's fire flooding him with the promise of life, of hope, of restoration.

Dion has never felt such power from a crystal or a Bearer. He has never heard of a healer whose magic took the form of flames. None, except…

A twig cracks like breaking bone somewhere off to the right. Margrace hisses a curse, the hand on Dion's chest pressing down for an instant more before he leaps to his feet. The warmth and light both vanish; Dion gasps at the sudden chill.

"Not another step," Margrace snarls.

Dion's body feels like it doesn't belong to him, but somehow he flounders his way onto his side. It's very dark in this forest, but there is a gap in the trees a short distance away, a sliver of moonlight striking true. It's enough to show him the dark silhouette of Margrace in his robes, poised between him and the approaching threat.

Enough to show Dion the face of that threat, a face that he knows he crushed to pulp. His head spins. It's impossible. He remembers bone staving in beneath his claws…

"This… cannot be…" Dion rasps, trying to push himself up on his elbow.

"Save your strength, your Highness—"

"I killed him!"

"Ah." Margrace does not seem as taken aback by this detail as he should be. "Then my suspicions were correct."

"As were my lord's," replies Sleipnir Harbard, prowling closer. His clothes are so soaked with mud and gore that they look black, but his pale hair and skin are pristine, almost glowing in the moonlight. The sword in his hand glints wickedly sharp. "An alliance of fire and light against the darkness. Quite unexpected, with such bad blood between your houses."

Dion digs his fingers into the muddy ground, sucks in a painful breath to try and clear his head. He cannot grasp Harbard's meaning, but some rising urgency in the back of his mind tells him that he must.

"Do not speak to me of bad blood." Margrace's voice drops low, threaded with steely resolve. "And do not take another step."

Fire leaps from his hands, a wild thing with beating wings. Harbard moves faster than any man should, springing back out of reach in an instant.

"Is this how you will spend your strength, Ifrit?" There is a note of genuine curiosity in Harbard's voice. "Defending the Empire that took everything from you?"

Margrace sucks in a breath… and laughs. The sound is bold and bright and strikes a wrenching chord in Dion's memory.

"I'm afraid you have mistaken me for another."

He raises his hands to his hood, throws it back, steps forward into the moonlight. Dion cannot see his face, but Harbard surely does. The pale man's sword dips, his demeanor disconcerted for the first time.

"Do you know me now, pawn of darkness?" Margrace demands. A glow begins around him, sparks dancing from his fingertips, the ends of his hair. "Or must I make myself abundantly clear?"

He catches fire.

It wreathes his hands, his arms, his whole body. Molten embers course through his hair, across his skin. And from his back unfold wings of pure flame, red and gold and white and blue; wings Dion has never seen for himself, though he's heard them described in stories, gazed at their likeness in history books with an ache that will not subside.

Dion knows him.

Dion should have known him from the moment Bahamut stirred to his touch.

But perhaps he can be forgiven. Who expects to cross paths with a ghost?

The Phoenix does not rush his foe as Bahamut might. Even in the throes of semi-priming, his movements are precise, as deliberate as a dancer. He steps forward, but not to close the distance; he is only shifting his weight to better sling two torrents of fire out in wide arcs to either side. Harbard is expecting a frontal assault; he is caught by surprise when the flames meet behind him, cutting off his escape.

"How can this be?" Harbard hisses, backing up as far as he's able. The firelight at his back gleams on his blood-soaked garments, turning them rich and red. "You were the sacrifice on Mythos's altar! The Vessel ripped out your fire - Ifrit now wields your flame!"

The words mean nothing to Dion, but the Phoenix stills.

"Oh," he breathes. "Of course."

He stalks forward, cloak billowing around him.

"Waloed is with him. Odin serves another master now."

The ground at his feet is catching alight, mud and wet leaves burning as readily as tinder.

"And you… I know I cannot truly kill you, but even an egi will not lightly rise again from ash and cinders. Not until Barnabas Tharmr can remake you."

The ring of fire draws in like a net with every step he closes the distance. Harbard's sword lashes out, but the Phoenix sweeps it carelessly aside with one powerful stroke of his wings. The flames seize greedily on Harbard's clothes, lapping at the crimson stains like they crave the taste of blood. Harbard staggers back.

"Now," the Phoenix snarls, raising a hand, "I would see you burn."

The fire pulses so bright it sears Dion's eyes, forces him to duck his head and shove his face into the crook of his arm. Harbard doesn't scream, as one might expect from a man immolated where he stands, but Dion hears a trailing cry, like a beast wailing to the moon, cut off by a roar of flame. Scorching heat washes over his exposed skin.

Then everything goes quiet and chill.

Dion raises his head, blinking away the spots dancing in front of his eyes. He can see nothing in the darkness. He hears a couple of painful, laboured breaths, then a horrible wet cough. Dion strains and scrabbles in the mud, pushes himself weakly into a sitting position.

"Phoenix," he chokes. "Joshua."

Staggering footsteps, then someone dropping clumsily to kneel at his side. Breathing still too ragged and harsh, but no more coughing, at least. Dion gropes for him, finds a handful of robes and the warmth of flesh underneath. Proof, if he needed it, that this ghost is no ghost at all.

A little flame curls itself into existence just above their heads, floats there like a candle without wax or wick, lets them see each other.

Joshua's eyes are still so very blue.

"I'm sorry," Joshua manages hoarsely. He pauses to clear his throat. "I didn't mean to— when I came here, I thought— I never intended to deceive you—"

Dion pulls Joshua bodily into his arms. Clings to him fiercely, the warmth of him so blessedly familiar and so brand new at the same time. Joshua sags into the embrace, presses his forehead to Dion's shoulder, wraps his arms around Dion's waist. He lets out a ragged sigh. Dion clutches him tighter, still half afraid he will vanish like a dream.

"I should have known you from the first," he whispers.

Joshua huffs laughter into his shirt.

"I made every effort that you did not. I never even intended to speak with you until I was sure of you… and then you came barging into my tent."

Dion breathes him in. He smells mostly of smoke and sweat now, but traces of sandalwood still cling to him.

"I wouldn't call it barging in," Dion protests. He frowns into Joshua's hair. "Sure of me?"

Joshua squeezes him hard, then gently eases them apart.

"I have quite the tale to tell you," he says, with the sideways smile that Dion remembers so well. "But first, let's get out of these woods."

Getting out of the woods is easier said than done when Dion can barely walk, let alone fly. As they pick their way down-slope through the trees, Dion's arm slung over Joshua's shoulders, Joshua admits that he has already primed today.

"We were camped in the hills. I saw you take down Harbard," he explains. "I didn't see the arrow, but I had a terrible feeling… and when you did not rise again from behind the ridge, I knew I must search for you from the air without delay. I barely got to you in time."

It was an awful risk, Dion understands at once. A single glimpse of the Phoenix in the night sky would announce Joshua's survival to half of Storm, not to mention drawing Odin's wrath.

"Why have you hidden yourself away all these years?" Dion asks. He intends to keep the question neutral, but a rush of feeling claws its way out of his chest. "I have mourned you half my life."

"Forgive me," Joshua whispers. "If I could have eased your sorrow, I… but it was imperative I remain hidden for as long as possible. From the Empire, and from another whose shadow grows long across Valisthea."

"The King of Waloed?"

"No, though it seems Tharmr is allied with the one I speak of." Joshua sighs. "I will tell you all, I swear, but it is a long and meandering road I have travelled."

The conversation pauses while they awkwardly ford a small stream. Dion doesn't relish the prospect of walking in wet boots, but Joshua waves a hand and dries their feet with a playful flicker of flame. It reminds Dion painfully of the boy he met so many years ago, mischief lurking beneath his solemn veneer, so much light and warmth so freely given.

"From the Empire?" Dion echoes finally. His heart is heavy with understanding. "Then… the rumours were true. It was not the Ironblood who sacked Phoenix Gate that night."

"No," Joshua confirms quietly, "it was not. Imperial Knights slew my father and his loyal men, and they did so at the behest of his wife."

Dion closes his eyes for a moment, relying wholly on Joshua to steer him through the underbrush.

"I am so sorry. At the time, I didn't know… I believed my father when he blamed the Crusaders. Later, when I heard the whispers, I began to suspect, but…"

"I have never held you responsible." Joshua reaches up to grasp Dion's hand, squeezing it against his shoulder. "My own mother betrayed me, betrayed us all."

Dion grimaces, opens his eyes again to stare blankly into the darkness ahead.

"And now she sits at my father's side, with her pet and puppet on her knee."

Joshua flinches, so slight it would have escaped notice if Dion were not pressed against him. Dion curses himself for an insensitive fool.

"I'm sorry—"

"No, I… know enough of her now to see her plain. I only pity the child."

Dion thinks of Olivier, the blank-eyed half-brother he cannot bring himself to love. There is something about him that has always been wrong, some emptiness in his core that fills Dion with revulsion.

He says nothing. He has never been certain that it is not simply his own shameful resentment that makes him unable to pity or pardon that child.

It takes them most of the night, with periodic rests, to reach the foot of the valley where the trees begin to thin out. It is miles still to the camp, but as the sky begins to lighten, fortune favours them in the shape of Terence at the head of a mounted search party.

"When you did not return, I…" Terence cuts himself off, voice rough with emotion as he slings Dion's other arm over his shoulders and helps Joshua carry him to a spot where he may sit down. "Thank Greagor for Lady Jote. She knew the direction we should take."

Joshua's attendant bows, her eyes locked on her lord. As soon as Dion is seated, Joshua goes to her and hugs her briefly. Dion recognises the careful way they touch, is familiar with the restraint that keeps them both from expressing their relief and affection as they might wish.

He glances at Terence, offers him a quick, tired smile. Terence takes his hand for a moment, squeezes it, then jumps to his feet to marshal his men for the journey back.

Dion can ride, barely, and so is spared the indignity of a litter. The sun creeps above the horizon as they pick their way down from the broken hill country. The sunrise catches Joshua's hair, sets it aflame almost as vividly as when he was semi-primed, and it is only then that Dion realises he has not raised his hood to hide his face again.

Joshua catches his gaze, seems to read in his eyes the unspoken question. He tilts his chin up boldly in answer, a declaration and a promise.

Dion's heart flutters as though some feathered thing has made its roost there.

Dion sleeps most of the day and all of the next night, largely because neither Terence nor Joshua will allow him to turn down the strongest healing elixirs this time. Dion is half-terrified that Joshua will vanish if he lets him out of his sight, but Joshua presses his hand before he leaves, murmurs a promise that he will come back once they've all had a chance to rest.

He keeps his word, arriving with Jote just after Dion and Terence have broken their fast the next morning. When Joshua steps into the tent, Dion almost chokes on the tea he is still sipping.

Gone are the dark, indistinct robes that have swathed him until now. He wears the red and black of House Rosfield, contrasted with blue and white accents that evoke the Phoenix's wings, but make Dion's heart stutter for how close they are to Sanbrequois colours. He even has - and this time Dion's heart turns quite over in his chest - a familiar set of turquoise beads strung at his belt.

Dion remembers those beads very well. He has worn their like many times at formal balls and Imperial ceremonies. This particular set, however, he has not seen in fifteen years. Not since he took them impulsively from around his own neck and pressed them into the hands of his new friend the Phoenix, promising they would see each other again soon.

A promise Dion could not keep, though not of his own will. He wonders dizzily how Joshua has kept hold of them all these years, how they have not been lost or destroyed or forgotten.

The man who wears them now is a lifetime away from the delighted, blushing boy who took them from Dion's hands. Joshua has grown up tall and lanky, his legs neverending, his frame sparse and underfed. The softness of childhood has left his face, but his hair is still that beguiling riot of red-gold, his eyes still as blue as the summer sky over Oriflamme, and his smile still tempers its sweetness with the promise of striking a spark.

"Good morning, your Highness," Joshua says. He bows with exactly the right amount of deference a Duke should show a Prince, easy and instinctive. No wonder he never could get it quite right as Margrace. "Are you well?"

"Well enough," Dion replies faintly, still scrambling for composure in the face of Joshua's… everything. "And you?"

"Well enough," Joshua echoes.

"Please, join us - sit down."

As Joshua and Jote take their seats, Dion realises that Terence is trying to catch his eye, a thousand questions in his furrowed brow. Dion looks at Joshua. He doesn't need to say anything; Joshua's gaze flicks between Dion and Terence, and he nods permission.

"Sir Terence," Dion begins, feeling strangely lightheaded, "may I present his Grace, Archduke Joshua Rosfield: Warden of Fire and Dominant of the Phoenix."

Joshua huffs laughter, glancing away.

"It's been a long time since anyone threw all those titles at me at once."

Terence's eyes have gone very wide. Jote seems similarly disconcerted.

"Your Grace?"

"It is time I stepped out of the shadows," Joshua reassures her. "We have much to discuss."

"Your Grace, we thought you dead these past ten years and more!" Terence blurts out, still staring at Joshua. "How did you survive?"

"Luck, and loyal friends, and perhaps a touch of fate," Joshua replies with a shrug of one shoulder. Dion has the sense that he has long dreaded this exact moment, when he must revisit that night to satisfy the curiosity of others. No wonder he hurries on: "It matters less than what came after. And what came before."

Dion frowns.

"Before?"

Joshua leans forward, elbows on his knees, locking gazes with Dion.

"Tell me, your Highness, have you ever heard of two Eikons commanding the same element?"

"Of course not!"

"And yet, thirteen years ago a second Dominant of Fire awakened before my eyes."

Dion draws in breath to deny the possibility, is stopped by the intensity in Joshua's face. There were rumours… but they were put down as blasphemy, malicious scaremongering to spread doubt and discontent. Even when Dion came to believe that the Empire had betrayed Rosaria that night, he never gave credence to the fanciful tale that in the wake of the attack, two Eikons battled for the mastery of flame.

"Ifrit," Dion remembers. "That is what Harbard called you, before he recognised the Phoenix."

Joshua smiles, a wry tilt of his lips.

"Yes. He mistook me for my brother, whom it seems the Waloeders have a keen interest in meeting."

Dion sits up straight in renewed shock.

"The Marquess also lives?"

"He does, thank the flames." Joshua glances aside, the weight of guilt in the way he ducks his head. "Our mother had him branded as a Bearer and pressed into the Imperial Army. It is my understanding that he has only recently won his freedom."

A dozen more questions crowd Dion's tongue, but he keeps them behind his teeth. A long and meandering road, Joshua had called the years since that fateful night. Well, Dion is ready to walk that road with him, even if he must hurry to catch up.

"Tell me your tale," Dion says.

Joshua talks the morning away. His voice grows hoarse with it, but there's an eagerness, a sense of relief in the way he spills the words, like they have been kept too long inside him.

It is a lot to take in.

And it changes… everything. Not just the world as Dion has understood it until now, but his fundamental part in it.

He would gladly keep Joshua there all day, as much for his company as for the answers Dion still seeks, but he does not have that luxury. The world may have changed within this tent, but outside the business of an army rumbles on, and Dion must turn his attention to the duties of command.

Joshua and Jote take their leave just past noon. Dion tries not to feel bereft. He wants badly to ask Joshua for a promise to return when the day's duties are done. He wants to say that he will resume his habit of visiting the healers' encampment at nightfall. He wants to be certain that he will see Joshua again before he sleeps.

He swallows each impulse as it arises, knowing he cannot reveal himself so recklessly before witnesses; not just Terence and Jote, but the guards, the attendants arriving with luncheon and papers for his attention.

"We will speak again soon," is all he can afford to say as Joshua rises to depart.

"Of course, your Highness," Joshua replies.

"Dion, please."

"Dion," Joshua repeats, soft as a prayer. "And I hope I may ask that you address me in kind."

Joshua seems about to say more, but stops. His throat works, as if for all his words this day, he still has more, but doesn't trust himself to speak them. Instead, he bows, and is gone before Dion can lose the battle with his own tongue.

Dion stares after him for slightly too long. Terence coughs lightly into his hand. Dion takes one look at his exasperated expression and knows that, despite his efforts, he has hidden nothing from his oldest friend.

The rest of the day is a long blur of reports and planning. The strike on the Waloeders has broken the back of Tharmr's army beyond Dion's wildest hopes. He suspects the loss of Lord Commander Harbard has played no small part. Joshua believes that recreating the egi - one more complex and independent of will than any other recorded - after the total destruction of its corporeal form will require considerable effort and aether. Tharmr will be without his general for some time to come.

For the first time in a long time Dion has unequivocally good news to send back to Oriflamme, and yet, writing of his victory does not leave him with any sense of pride, only the relief of getting an irksome duty out of the way.

At long last, night falls, and Dion finds himself alone with his thoughts. He needs to spend time with them, he knows; needs to mull over everything Joshua has told him, consider it from all angles. He always thinks best with something in his hands, so he occupies himself with rearranging the tokens on the strategic map, playing out historical engagements he knows by heart.

Or at least, he tries to. He keeps forgetting which battle he is setting up, keeps sweeping the pieces aside to start again, and still he cannot seem to focus. His mind jumps between plans for the future of this campaign, to worries about what is happening in Oriflamme, to the awful truth of the Mothercrystals, to the threat of Ultima and the mystery of what he seeks from his Mythos, and always, back to Joshua.

Frustrated with himself and his weaknesses, Dion decides perhaps what his scattered thoughts need is simply sleep, that they may organise themselves without his direct oversight. He is certainly tired, despite his long rest. His back aches from bending over the map table, his eyes don't want to focus, and there is a lingering tenderness in and around his chest, even after all the healing magic and elixirs.

As he steps into his sleeping area, his eye falls on the jar of salve by his bed. Despite knowing now that it has no real potency, he has fallen into the habit of using a little on his skin whenever he is in search of comfort. He picks it up and removes the lid with practised ease.

The sandalwood scent of it hits him like a hurricane of memory and longing and need.

Dion's adamantine self-control snaps like a rope that has borne too much strain for too long.

He doesn't even stop to put the jar down before striding out of his tent.

Joshua is alone when Dion arrives.

"I have sent Jote to Northreach to speak with a contact there," Joshua explains, unprompted, as he jumps up from his desk. "I must know if Clive and his new allies have made any move since last I received word."

Dion believes him. He's seen the fervour of Joshua's determination to protect the brother who was once his sworn Shield.

He also sees the flush staining Joshua's cheeks, the nervous way he searches Dion's face, and is acutely aware that the journey to Northreach is a matter of days, not hours.

"I… thought I should return this to you," Dion says, proffering the jar of salve. The words are patently ridiculous as soon as they leave his lips, but he plunges on. "You left it behind, when…"

He falters into uncertain silence. Joshua's gaze drops to the jar. He reaches out as if to take it, but draws his hand back before it reaches Dion's.

"You… are most welcome to keep it, if you wish."

"You said it was costly."

Joshua chokes on something halfway between a laugh and a snort.

"It's scarce more than oil and beeswax with some scent to make it pleasant," Joshua replies with a rueful grin. "I simply could not risk working magic on you without the charade."

"Why did you risk it at all? Not just Odin's poison, but - before?"

Joshua swallows.

"You were in pain," he replies after a moment. He takes a deep breath and meets Dion's eyes. "You… were always in pain."

A protest rises to Dion's lips, dies there when he realises that Joshua is not talking about his injured leg, nor any of the minor aches that plagued him before it. Realises that he can't deny it: the toll of war, of doubt, of duty. He cannot say, in truth, that his heart has been free from hurt in the decade and more since he was informed that the Phoenix would never take him by the hand again.

Dion all but tosses the salve aside, reaches out to grasp Joshua's hands in his. Dion knows how they feel on his skin, yet this is the first time he has really seen them ungloved.

Joshua's fingers are long, and as skinny as the rest of him. The first nail on his left hand is bitten too short; he had that anxious habit as a child, too. There are traces of ink in the grooves of his knuckles, a long-standing callous on the right middle finger from holding a pen. None on his palm from the sword, that Dion can tell, but then, the gloves would prevent it. Dion does not think that Joshua is unpractised with the blade that hung at his side earlier.

"I…"

Greagor help him, Dion does not know what to say. He's been called charming too many times to count; he knows how to use a smile and a meaningful word or two, knows the rhythm of courtly flirtation and measured flattery, and yet he's floundering like a tongue-tied teenager.

Joshua's fingers close around his.

"I am going to kiss you now," Joshua tells him, with a wonderful, reckless certainty.

He does.

Joshua pulls Dion's hands to his chest, steps forward - a hand on Dion's shoulder, for balance or for permission - they are almost exactly the same height, Dion realises - a glimpse of those blue eyes and their long lashes - and then Joshua's mouth collides with Dion's with enough force to bruise.

There is no trepidation, nothing shy about it; Joshua doesn't hesitate, and Dion folds into him as helplessly as if struck in the solar plexus. He grasps frantically at the back of Joshua's shirt, digs his fingers into the cloth to feel the flesh beneath, opens his mouth in supplication. Joshua kisses him like a wild thing, like he's starving for it, like he's intending to devour Dion body and soul.

Dion wants nothing more than to be so consumed.

"Joshua," he gasps when their mouths part for a bare second. Joshua might have been intending to say something, but if so, the sound of his name dashes it from his lips, which crash back into Dion's all the harder. His right hand grips the back of Dion's neck, the left seizing a handful of Dion's shirt at the waist.

Dion has had his share of lovers. Always short affairs, always discreet, always poisoned from the start by deference, if not outright awe. Even when dallying with Terence - even with the playful affection they share, the ease of their long friendship - Dion has always found himself holding back.

He has never let himself want with the ferocity he wants Joshua now. He can't get close enough to him, he can't get enough of the taste and smell of him. Dion wants to climb inside him somehow, or surrender entirely to his beckoning flames.

For now, he settles for getting his tongue in Joshua's mouth. Joshua's hand slides into Dion's hair and tilts his head to urge him deeper; the sharp tug on his scalp makes Dion gasp, turns the kiss messy and open as he pants for breath.

Joshua pulls his hair again, harder. When Dion moans, Joshua uses the opportunity to bite down on his lower lip, just enough to really sting.

Dion isn't proud of the sound he makes then, but it seems to please Joshua immensely. Dion can feel his smile as Joshua takes his turn licking heatedly into Dion's mouth. Dion lets him have control, lets him have whatever he wants. His hands slide from Joshua's back to his hipbones, jutting starkly even beneath clothes and skin; Dion grabs on with the fervour of a drowning man seizing a lifeline.

Joshua groans into his mouth, bucking his hips once urgently against Dion, enough to make it apparent just how hard they both are. He finally breaks the kiss, laughing breathlessly when Dion tries to chase it, holding him back with a hard, warning tug on Dion's hair. Dion's eyes roll back in his skull briefly at the sensation.

"Flames," Joshua breathes, the hand at Dion's waist pulling the fabric so tight it feels like it might tear. "I… have a bed."

Dion snorts a shaky laugh, resting their foreheads together.

"I am aware—"

"Not that one. A real bed. Mine. I would have you in it, preferably with fewer clothes."

His eyes, his eyes. They're the blue of the hottest flames, the bright azure glimpsed at the heart of the furnace. Dion wants to drown in them. He also wants to see them closed tight in ecstasy, wants to kiss the lids as he makes Joshua come. He doesn't particularly care if it's on a bed or the ground or over that desk, but if Joshua wants him somewhere specific, he will crawl through the Velkroy Desert to get there.

Fortunately, they only need to take a few steps. The curtain that masks the sleeping area is wider than the one that leads to the treatment platform, revealing two beds when Joshua pulls it aside. Dion doesn't have to ask which bed is Joshua's: though both are neatly made up, one has acquired a bulwark of books, scrolls, glass jars, and assorted trinkets, like some studious magpie's nest.

Joshua has clearly been paying more attention than he let on, all those times Dion disrobed in his presence. His hands find the fastenings of Dion's shirt like he knows their position by heart; he has it open and is tugging it impatiently out of Dion's belt before Dion can even puzzle out how to unfasten that layered cowl he wears about his shoulders.

"You… you cannot know," Joshua mutters, further thwarting attempts to undress him by leaning in to mouth at Dion's collarbone. "How much I've wanted—"

Dion arches into him as Joshua licks and sucks at the place where his neck joins his shoulder.

"I believe I have some inkling," Dion gasps, hand flying to the back of Joshua's head, tangling his fingers in that feather-soft hair for a moment, wanting nothing more than to urge him on. Joshua responds by biting down on his pulse point. "Great Greagor— you will send me mad, Joshua, let me touch you—"

Dion finally discovers the pin that holds Joshua's cowl in place and yanks it out like a thorn that has had the discourtesy to lodge in his skin. The layers of fabric fall away like moulting feathers. Dion is so eager to get his mouth on Joshua's neck that he all but licks his way up it. Joshua throws his head back with a thready moan.

"I've had my hands all over you and yet it's never been enough," Joshua confesses, dragging Dion's shirt off his shoulders with greedy tugs. He spreads his hands over Dion's chest, pausing at the unmarked skin where the arrow struck. "Founder, Dion, I— when I found you in the forest you looked already dead—"

The ardour in his voice edges into distress, a tremor going through him. Dion grabs handfuls of his shirt and holds him so tight they both struggle to breathe. Neither tries to loosen the embrace. Joshua presses his face to Dion's shoulder. Dion buries his nose in Joshua's hair, inhaling the scent of him, clean and warm and laced with sandalwood. Their hearts are like rolling thunder.

"When you left, I thought I would never see you again," Dion whispers. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Even if you had been a Bearer, I had no right—"

Joshua sighs shakily into his shoulder.

"It is hard to change what we've been taught is immutable, within ourselves or without," Joshua murmurs, an absolution Dion knows he does not deserve. "And… it was true that I had deceived you."

Joshua lifts his head, pressing a kiss to Dion's cheek before leaning back far enough to meet his eyes. His hands creep up to cradle Dion's face; he looks at Dion like he can't believe that he's real, that he's here.

He looks at Dion the way Dion has been looking at him since he unfurled his wings.

"I missed you, all these years," Joshua admits, hesitant and half-laughing and heartfelt. "Isn't that foolish of me? We only met that once. Everything I lost, everything that came after, and yet I'd think of you…"

"You've haunted me," Dion replies. "The first time you touched me as Margrace, I— I thought of you."

It borders on nonsense, but Joshua understands. Joshua kisses him with a sweetness that makes tears sting Dion's eyes.

He pushes them apart just enough to get at the laces of Joshua's shirt. Joshua eagerly colludes, laughing as he's briefly trapped inside the garment when Dion pulls it up over his head. His hair is tousled when he emerges, eyes sparkling. He tries to steal a kiss, but Dion fends him off, determined not to be distracted from his own priorities this time.

He goes to unfasten Joshua's belt, pauses when those turquoise beads catch his eye again. He presses a thumb wonderingly over the largest, takes in the nicks and scrapes in the silver surround, notes that the original chain has been lost and replaced with cord.

Joshua's breath catches.

"How?" Dion asks.

"Luck, and loyal friends, and perhaps a touch of fate," Joshua replies, as he did earlier in the day. This time there's a tremble in his voice. "I had broken it, you see. A few days before… before. Not a small break, either - it caught in my clothes when I was undressing - the chain snapped in three places, the pieces went everywhere. I was heartbroken. Father promised to have it repaired as soon as we returned, but I couldn't bear to be without it. So Clive hunted down every last bead and threaded them onto a piece of string so none would get lost - and Jill lent me one of her pockets to tie under my shirt. I still had it with me when I was rescued."

And you kept it all these years, Dion thinks, overwhelmed with feeling.

"I had nothing to remember you by," he blurts out, feeling the ache of it suddenly, the long absence of something he'd never truly had time to call his own. "So - in truth - I tried to forget you."

The guilt of it burns him, but Joshua only smiles softly, sets a hand on Dion's waist and squeezes.

"Well, I was dead," he says lightly.

Then, swift as a stooping hawk, he ducks to mouth at Dion's neck again, scraping his teeth over the skin until Dion gasps from it.

"But now," Joshua continues, voice gone husky and hot against Dion's pulse, "I intend to give you much to remember me by."

The brazen promise of it undoes Dion so utterly that the next few minutes are a blur of shaking hands and frantic kisses, both of them so impatient they can hardly remember how to loosen bootlaces or buckles, and Dion catches himself thinking seriously about using Joshua's dagger to cut through every damn belt he has cinched about his thighs.

It's worth it, though. Worth it to have Joshua spread out beneath him fully naked, worth it to see him finally uncloaked, to covet every inch of him. He's so tall, but there's so little flesh on him, as if he shot up like a weed seeking sunlight but never quite got enough of it to thrive. Maybe that's why he wears so many layers: to give some impression of bulk where there is none.

Joshua sees him looking; for the first time his boldness wavers into self-consciousness. He blushes, glancing away; Dion is enamoured of how the colour goes all the way to the tips of his ears and down his neck.

"I'm aware I don't measure up to the average dragoon," Joshua says, trying to make a joke of it, giving himself away with how hard his throat bobs when he swallows. "My time in your camp has been… enlightening. Tell me, do you only recruit the ones with shoulders already like behemoths, or do you feed them up with dragon's blood or something to—"

"Joshua." Dion leans down to cover Joshua's own narrow shoulders with messy kisses. "You have driven me to distraction with no more than the touch of your hands, the sound of your voice… and now I see all of you, I find myself grateful for that damned cloak and hood, that I did not have to fight off half my army to even get near you."

Joshua makes a choked noise. Dion noses against his neck, finds the hot pulse point with his lips, bites and sucks until Joshua arches under him and his breathing turns ragged. Dion has always taken care to leave no marks on his lovers, as much for discretion as courtesy, but he is almost frantic with the need to ensure Joshua carries proof of his words after this night.

"Fuck," Joshua gasps, lovely voice breaking on the obscenity, giving it a filthy intensity that sends a shudder down Dion's spine to the tips of his toes. "Dion. I need you, please."

"Anything," Dion promises against Joshua's skin, finding a new spot to suck and lave with his tongue. Joshua is making the sweetest sounds under him. Dion could almost come like this. "Anything you want."

"That's— ah! That's a dangerous thing to say."

"Anything," Dion repeats, hearing his own voice waver. Not just a promise: a plea to be commanded. "Tell me."

Joshua surges against him, grappling with Dion's arms to roll him over onto his back. Dion lets himself be toppled, groans when Joshua straddles his hips, unabashed by pressing their hard cocks together.

Joshua's hands come to rest on Dion's shoulders, thumbs stroking up his collarbones.

"I always wanted you to lie like this," Joshua confesses. "But I couldn't risk you seeing my face. And I couldn't pretend it wasn't for base, selfish reasons."

His hands swoop lower, palms finding Dion's nipples. They're not particularly sensitive, but the way Joshua uses his whole hand to press and squeeze the surrounding flesh sends ripples of pleasure straight to Dion's already-aching dick.

"Not that I was ever unselfish, truly." Joshua's hands sweep and stroke, exploring Dion's chest, his ribs, as if checking once more that there is no trace left of a wound. "I should have told you who I was, or turned you away. Instead, I… I just wanted to keep touching you."

His hands drift lower, smoothing across Dion's stomach; Dion catches his breath, eyes falling half-closed as Joshua's fingers trace purposefully down his body.

When he takes hold of Dion's cock, Dion moans so loudly it would be embarrassing, if there were room in his thoughts for anything but the expression on Joshua's face: the half-lidded eyes, the way he's biting his lip. The touch is too dry, but Dion can't stop himself bucking up into it, the discomfort nothing to the heat of Joshua's grip. Joshua squeezes him lightly - Dion makes another humiliating noise - and leans over to grab one of the glass vials from the assortment by the bed. He is kind enough to keep a firm grip on Dion as he does so. The pressure is maddeningly close to exactly what Dion needs.

Dion half-expects to smell sandalwood when Joshua thumbs the stopper out, but the oil is unscented. Of course it is; no young man of certain inclinations goes long without learning that such perfumes and extracts are best kept away from sensitive areas. Dion has a heated moment to imagine Joshua keeping this vial close by to use on himself, but the enticing fantasy dissolves into incoherent pleasure when a newly-slick hand replaces the dry one on Dion's cock and begins to move.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of this, dreamed of this. Joshua's hand is just the right side of too warm, his fingers as skilful as they were on Dion's back, his grip firm and confident: he knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how he wants to take Dion apart.

"Take hold of the bedframe," Joshua instructs, tongue wetting his lips as he watches Dion writhe. "Keep your hands there for me."

Dion stretches his arms above his head and hangs onto the frame for dear life. He is rewarded with a particularly intense squeeze and twist of the wrist, with Joshua's small, pleased smile. Dion tries to buck up into it, is prevented by Joshua's weight on his legs. Joshua leans forward, plants his free hand possessively over Dion's heart, holds him down more firmly.

Dion throws his head back, hearing his own breath coming in pants and gasps, his voice catching on little ah and oh sounds. He feels… on display, with his arms stretched taut, his throat exposed, his chest heaving helplessly under Joshua's palm. It's doing something strange and spectacular behind his eyes, in the pit of his stomach. He isn't being asked to do anything but lie here, hold onto the bed, experience pleasure, and it's already urging him towards one of the most intense orgasms of his life.

"Can I make you come like this?" Joshua asks huskily, pressing down on Dion's ribs like he's keeping his heart from flying out of his chest. "Will you let me?"

"Yes, yes, Joshua, please—"

"Fuck, the way you look right now…" Heat pulses from Joshua's palm, a surge of magic he can't seem to control. His eyes glow. "Dion, I have you, come for me, come on, come on—"

Dion does as he's told.

He is not quiet about it, but Joshua silences everything after the first shout by kissing him, swallowing every sound Dion makes and licking the whimpers from his mouth. He's still kissing Dion as he lets his hand slow down, as Dion begins to go lax in the aftermath of ecstasy. Dion can feel that Joshua is still drawn tight as a bowstring, hips now canting down, grinding himself into the top of Dion's thigh.

"I want to touch you," Dion croaks between kisses.

"Yes," Joshua pants, mouthing haphazardly at his jaw. "Yes."

Dion lets go of the bedframe, doesn't wait for his arms to regain full feeling before reaching clumsily between them. Though Joshua has gone untouched all this time, it takes only a few strokes for him to spill through Dion's fingers, hot spend mingling with the mess already on Dion's still-trembling stomach.

"Dion," Joshua moans, quiet but so heated that Dion shudders and has to jam their mouths together, trying to lick the sparks from behind Joshua's teeth.

Joshua's knees give out. He sinks on top of Dion, skin to skin with his barely-there moans muffled in Dion's chest. Dion sighs under the weight and warmth of him, holds him close, too undone to speak or move. Joshua seems just as content to remain in exhausted, somewhat sticky bliss, listening to each other's heartbeats gradually slow their frantic thunder.

Joshua is the first to stir, lifting his tousled head to glance searchingly at Dion's face, smiling at whatever he sees there. He pushes himself up on one elbow, glances down at the mess they've made between them with a satisfied little huff.

"Next time," Joshua murmurs, voice just on the edge of hoarse, "I want to come inside you."

"Fuck," Dion groans. He almost feels like he could get hard again at the thought. "Yes."

Joshua cradles Dion's cheek with his hand, runs his thumb along Dion's lower lip.

"Though I might have to gag you first."

Dion is fairly certain he can feel his pupils dilate. Joshua smirks, delighted with himself. Delighted with Dion, leaning down to press soft kisses to his jaw and the corner of his mouth, stroking his other cheek with tender fingers. Dion never wants to let him go, never wants to wake up another morning without this warmth and light in his bed.

He has already resigned himself that he must.

"Will you leave now?" Dion asks after a moment. "I cannot travel so freely as you, and if there is as much to do as you say…"

Joshua's mouth twists unhappily.

"I will have to, though I pray not for so very long. The game board as I thought I knew it has been significantly rearranged, now that it is clear Waloed is in the thrall of Ultima."

Dion nods. He expected as much, even if it throbs like dull pain in his chest. Joshua dips to kiss him, soft and open-mouthed, sweet and full of promise.

"We have a few nights yet," Joshua continues when they pause for air. "I must wait for Jote's report."

A few nights, and the rest of this one. It's more than Dion expected or hoped for.

"Then I shall not waste them," he murmurs.

He reaches up to catch Joshua's hand with his own, cradles the fingers and brings them to his mouth. He kisses the back of Joshua's knuckles. He's always wanted to. Before he knew more of love or lust than the faintest fairytale outlines, before they told him that Joshua was dead, he'd daydreamed endlessly of greeting the Phoenix thus when they next met.

"I will come back," Joshua promises. "I will always come back to you."

His certainty burns like a beacon and eases Dion's ache.

"My Prince," Terence says.

He has a remarkable gift: a very specific intonation applied to a respectful address that gives it quite the opposite nuance. Dion wrenches his attention guiltily back to the troop reports they are reviewing.

Supposedly reviewing, in his case. It is difficult to keep his mind on equipment and supplies when he still has Joshua's fingerprints on his skin, a secret tucked away only for him.

Just as it is difficult not to remember that Jote is expected back today.

"Forgive me," Dion says. "I am… distracted."

"I am aware," Terence mutters fondly. "But alas, the chocobos will not feed themselves."

True enough, and though Waloed seems likely to retreat fully to the coast, Dion cannot assume this lull in the conflict will last.

"Any word yet from my father?" he asks, reaching for the next page of figures. He shifts in his seat to relieve the stiffness that has crept into his back, doesn't think about asking Joshua to work it loose for him.

"I would have told you."

"I know, I know." Dion sighs. "I simply… do not like this silence. Good news is seldom greeted with such apathy. It speaks to other matters distracting the Council. Other concerns in the capital."

"I will speak with the brigade quartermasters," Terence promises. "Perhaps they may have some news from their latest delivery of supplies."

"I wonder if I ought not go to Oriflamme," Dion says, rubbing briefly at the space between his brows. "I do not like to chance Odin's retaliation in my absence, but… I am troubled. By this silence, and more."

He need not elaborate. They have talked much, these past few days, of the shadows lengthening across the land. Dion knows he cannot drop everything to join Joshua's quest, no matter how much he wants to; knows he must put his people's safety first. Terence is a counterbalance to the part of him that wishes simply to leap into action.

So he is surprised when Terence says, "Perhaps you ought."

Dion glances a question at him.

"If it is true that the Mothercrystals are beacons to the Blight," Terence goes on, keeping his voice low. "If Oriflamme is restless for fear of its approach… perhaps it would not go amiss for the people to have their prince at hand."

It's as close as Terence will come to voicing aloud the same anxiety lurking in the pit of Dion's stomach: the fear that the Emperor and the Council of Elders can no longer be trusted to do what is in the best interests of anyone but themselves.

Dion fidgets with his quill. He hates to doubt Sylvestre so, and yet he cannot pretend it is a sudden affliction. Little by little, over the years, he's watched the father who seemed to him so wise and noble dwindle into an arrogant sovereign consumed by ambition. He wonders now if his father was ever the man Dion thought he was, or if that was only childish faith, now finally outgrown.

"Perhaps, then—"

He is interrupted by a disturbance outside the tent. Before he or Terence can react, Joshua bursts in, Jote hot on his heels. One look at both their faces sets Dion's heart hammering. He leaps to his feet.

"At ease," Terence snaps at the guards who have floundered in the wake of the unannounced visitors. "Return to your posts."

Dion barely holds his tongue until they've retreated back outside.

"What is it?"

"Things are moving faster than I could have foreseen," Joshua blurts out, striding to meet Dion halfway across the tent. He's as agitated as the crow that has seen the buzzard circling its nest in search of chicks. "I must leave at once - I do not even know if we will reach Oriflamme in time—"

"Oriflamme?" Dion seizes him by the forearm, mouth dry. "What has happened?"

Joshua laughs mirthlessly.

"My brother," he replies, "has apparently learned the truth of the Mothercrystals, and is on his way to Drake's Head with his allies."

Terence gasps. Dion grips Joshua even tighter.

"They mean to attack the capital?"

"No!" Joshua puts his hand over Dion's, squeezes reassuringly. "Of course not. But I suspect they seek to destroy the Mothercrystal - and between them, they have the power to do it."

Dion remembers then that according to Joshua, his brother's allies include both Shiva and Ramuh, in addition to whatever strange power Ifrit himself represents.

"If the crystal falls—"

"There will be chaos," Joshua finishes for him. "But even worse - I believe Ultima has finally learned of Clive's whereabouts. I fear he will seize the opportunity—"

Joshua's voice cracks. It's not just the threat posed by whatever Ultima wants with his Mythos; there is terror plain in Joshua's eyes that he will lose his beloved brother all over again.

"Then we depart for Oriflamme at once," Dion says.

Joshua blinks, lips parting in endearing surprise. Has he really been so long alone that he expects no-one to fight at his side?

"Your duties here—"

"Must wait. I cannot stand idle if the fiend may be in the heart of the Empire."

"I will send for your armour," Terence puts in, striding quickly past them. If Dion had any doubts of his own decision, they are settled by Terence's unquestioning support. "We will hold position until your return."

He sweeps aside the tent flap and is gone.

"Dion—" Joshua starts.

Dion lets go of Joshua's arm and turns his own hand palm-up to interlace their fingers.

"Besides," Dion interrupts him softly, "Your wings might carry you the distance, but you would be exhausted when you arrive - and the Phoenix in the skies of Oriflamme would not go unremarked. Bahamut, on the other hand…"

"There will still be questions," Joshua replies, but the protest is weak. The turmoil in him has quieted, resolve settling into his face. "From the Emperor, from the Council—"

"Let them ask their questions," Dion says grimly. Outside, he can hear Terence shouting orders. "I have some of my own to ask in turn."

Joshua searches his eyes, squeezes his hand.

"Dion… are you sure?"

To his own surprise, Dion finds himself smiling, feels his heart lift when Joshua's furrowed brow smooths out at the sight.

"For the first time in a long time," Dion says, "I am."