Chapter Text
Dion Lesage, Crown Prince of the Sanbreque Empire and Captain of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon, was not used to having someone dress him.
It was common practice in the army camps to help another with the straps and buckles of mithril plate, each dragoon in his unit personally ensuring the other was secure. That was one thing. But here, within the confines of the imperial palace —
He kept his gaze trained on the dragon figurehead that crowned the distant Mother of Mothers, the grand cathedral only a pedestal atop which the Goddess Herself stood in silent repose over Oriflamme. The skies were as azure as the light of Drake’s Breath beyond, the familiar sight a cold comfort as the attendant took special relish in tightening the laces of his doublet. Only the flare of his nostrils betrayed any annoyance. He could have sworn the attendant might be ready to brace one boot to the floor to continue tying the rest of the laces.
A muffled snort brought his attention to the high-backed chair a few strides away. Ser Terence was not here as his second-in-command, but as his best man, and always would he hold Dion’s confidence.
“I suppose you’re enjoying my discomfort.”
“Not at all, your Highness,” Terence said, the smile in his voice. He coughed and composed himself, pretending to be absorbed in whatever book he had brought with him.
The attendant was savvy enough not to react, but Dion felt his rising displeasure anyway. “Leave us.”
With nary a noise, the attendant bowed low and turned sharply on his heel. Once Dion heard the doors to the chamber latch closed, he let out a long, drawn out sigh, and gingerly pinched the bridge of his nose with a roughworn hand. Terrence sagged into the chair, the back of his hand over his mouth, though that did nothing to stifle his breathy laugh. He bounded onto his feet with a light step and circled around his captain the way a master-at-arms inspected his soldiers at muster. Dion’s furrowed brow only cut deeper.
The armor he wore was purely ornamental despite being crafted from mithril, which seemed entirely unnecessary. It was a piece of art in itself, from the finely molded details depicting the history of the Empire, a glorious dedication to the Platinum Dragon and the Great Mother Herself. Better to be displayed on an armor rack in a cathedral than on himself, but he wasn’t the one to decide. Beneath the intricately decorated breastplate was a white surcoat that shimmered with a metallic sheen and was embroidered with silver thread, its filigree matching that on his gauntlets and greaves. All that remained to be placed on his shoulders was a scaled overcoat and the dragon-talon circlet that marked his status as both Dominant and Crown Prince.
Terence gave a nod of approval. “Who would have have ever guessed the royal wedding raiments had more layers of cloth and armor than our heavy infantry?”
It was excess. Dion frowned and strode towards the balcony. Perhaps that was the reasoning for the breastplate being forged from the precious metal — the weight of the heavy fabric alone was like donning conventional plate. He rubbed at his wrists. The dragonskin leather, supple as it was, had been crafted just for the occasion and had yet to be broken in.
“You won’t have to suffer my presence any longer after the morrow.” Terence joined him, leaning over the banisters. The Patio of the Silent Steps must have been a dizzying distance below, but both men had lived and fought in greater heights still that it didn’t bother them. Dion looked up sharply at his second, but Terence waved him off. “This isn’t camp, your Highness. You’ll be having a new partner at the court, if I’m to understand this all correctly. I don’t envy you for that.”
Dion inhaled deeply, let the breeze play with the strands of blond hair across his cheek. It was a privilege to partake in the skies as he did, he knew. Yet earthbound duties awaited. “It’s unbecoming of me to show such anxiety for what should be a joyous occasion.” He turned his gaze south and west. Even from this distance he could see banners of Sanbreque azure blue and white, and further, Rosarian crimson and black.
“At least you’ve met your groom-to-be before.”
“Eighteen turns have passed since. Who knows how history has conspired to change us since those halycon days?”
Terence followed his gaze. The Rosarian procession was a shadowed line slowly trickling down the thoroughfare. “Ever since the engagement was announced, the company’s been tittering about the Duchy. Wise beyond his years, they say of the Phoenix. That he’s Archduke in all but name.”
“They say plenty about the Dominant, aye. But what of the man?”
“I thought you considered them one and the same.”
Dion shook his head. “We are but containers saddled with the responsibility to heed the call.” He craned his neck, looking at the infinite vastness above him. Wisps of clouds were scattered like puffs of dandelion seeds on the wind. “My father may have arranged this union, but was it the Archduke who agreed, or the Phoenix that compelled him to, if he should be acting in his father’s stead already? I trust my father knows that what he’s doing is right. Yet I must wonder who suggested this course of action to him in the first place.”
He touched the backing of one of his earrings, silver teardrops inlaid with a brilliant cut of ruby each. An exchange of gifts; a memento of that single visit. He’d worn them ever since.
He remembered a pale-faced boy with bright eyes, excitedly showing him page after page of tiny-scripted text, of the wonders of nature in their walk through the Duchy’s courtyard, a gray-furred direwolf pup nipping at his heels. He remembered, vividly, that boy’s mother apoplectic with rage at her first son, and giving Dion the same withering look.
Could that same boy truly have become he who had finally brought the fanaticism of the Iron Kingdom to heel? The man who brokered acceptable terms between the Free Cities and Dhalmekia, both nations for whom would rather siege one another than concede favorable terms to the other?
Would he recognize Joshua?
Would Joshua recognize him?
-
If there was one thing Dion had learned in his years of formal education before it had been cut short by martial training, it was that royalty and the church lived and died by their rituals. His father, Emperor Sylvestre Lesage, and the Council of Cardinals had their words, but Dion was only giving them the attention of courtesy. They stood in arrangement in the courtyard that marked the entrance to the Crown of Towers, the imperial palace.
For the better part of his life, Dion believed his place was on the borders of the Empire. The Third Eye of Bahamut was more than a symbol. It meant that he was the ward against the Empire’s adversaries. The darkness of Waloed, the duplicity of Dhalmekia, the neutrality of Twinside, the undying loyalties of Rosaria — some more threatening than others, but the might of Sanbreque commanded equal upkeep. It was a peculiarity, then, when the sealed missive informed him that not only was he to be recalled, but that he was to stay in Oriflamme for the foreseeable future.
Dion swept his gaze from spire to spire, to the ironclad gates and the governing body behind him, to the white limestone paved road before him. The whole of the city mingled about the streets, even more leaning from high windows. He felt like he was surveying a battlefield, but he did not know who was friend or foe. What sort of field commander engaged without knowing either?
As he continued to brood, his ears pricked, fingers twitching at his side. Regal as he appeared to be be, his instincts, honed well over the past decade of violence and negotiation, knew the sudden inhale of breath in a crowd.
The Rosarian envoy had arrived.
As Sanbreque had tamed the dragons as decreed by the Goddess, the Duchy was well-known for the quality of their chocobo breeds, a blessing of the Phoenix, as the apocrypha went. A handsome white chocobo whose feathers were as pale as the firmament Oriflamme was built upon led the caravan, her rider’s face severe as he pulled on the reins. The First Shield — the firstborn son, Dion recalled. Behind him, on another pale steed, wearing a tabard of scarlet and a simple helm of black iron: the Archduke Rosfield.
Behind the Archduke was another middle-aged man dressed in a similar tabard dyed black, a man who looked like he wielded laughter as a vicious weapon. He slapped the First Shield on the back, then grasped the elbow of the Archduke before pulling away and trotting alongside the carriage behind them, leaning in as if he were speaking to someone. There was a mighty irony that the Phoenix should be riding in the back of a carriage. How curious.
Smiles flickered between father and son, the warmth between them unexpectedly making Dion’s chest prickle. He ignored it. At that moment, with the set of his jaw and the vaguely disapproving look in his eyes, Dion was the spitting image of the Emperor in his youth.
When was the last time Father had ever smiled at him like that?
He pushed the thought down.
The procession drew to a halt. The First Shield locked gazes with him, the warmth long gone, stormy blue eyes narrowing as he guided the carriage to the front and center. Suspicious as he was back then as he was now.
A bannerman cleared his throat. “May I present to you, your Imperial Majesty, the Archduke Elwin Rosfield of the Duchy of Rosaria, and the Phoenix, Joshua Rosfield.” The bannerman said a few more names and titles, but Dion had stopped listening.
Now that the head of the procession was closer, Dion saw that the man in black had a familial resemblance to the Archduke. His brother, perhaps. He dismounted easily and opened the door to the carriage. White and gold-flecked marble marked the last steps before the gates to the palace, and it was on this keystone that the Phoenix stepped down.
He was wreathed in scarlet, and Dion would have sworn to Greagor Herself that even in broad daylight, the Phoenix glowed brighter than everyone around him. He was slender as a halberd, a figure in carmine interwoven with iridescent green; every step he took he shimmered like a mirage, as fire itself. A circlet of feathers finely wrought in gold crowned his head, blond curls outlined in a warm halo of light despite the blue shadows cast by the walls of the city.
Dion saw that the Phoenix’s eyes were the color of a calm sea. When their gazes met, the Phoenix smiled. His eyes were kind.
For breathless heartbeats, the world itself faded away to white noise. Dion realized he could not move, could not speak. On the battlefield, that was certain death. But here, he did not mind.
The Phoenix took a measured step, then another, and he offered a graceful hand clad in scarlet to the prince. Dion found himself reaching for him. He felt the warmth of the other’s hand despite the layers of cloth and leather between them.
“Well met, my liege.” His smile never left him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He took one last lingering look back at his family, then grasped Dion’s other hand from his side, folding them over his. “Shall we?”
—
Watching the Phoenix was mesmerizing. He seemed at ease despite the days of travel, his stride confident, eyes quickly flitting over each nook and cranny of the palace as they ventured to the other side. He greeted all they passed — guard, servant, priest, astrologer, knight. Terence gave a low bow as they strode together, the Phoenix’s hand having slipped into the inside of Dion’s forearm. Though they were being followed by a handful of retainers, this brief respite was a courtesy for them both — a few moments of privacy before the wedding procession and the ceremony.
“I do believe you’ve quite possibly greeted more attendants here than I’ve run into in all my visits here.” Dion’s dry tone belied his amazement. Bewitchment? Of a sort, he supposed.
The Phoenix stopped in his tracks, his face dropping. “My liege, if I’ve overstepped my bounds —“
“Not at all. Continue,” Dion said. The other man visibly relaxed. They’d stopped in front of one of the tall windows, a shaft of sunlight illuminating the hallway, dust motes lazily floating in the air. The Phoenix stopped for a moment, seeming to luxuriate in the warmth, though Dion was certain he hardly needed it. Reflected red light from the silk of his surcoat danced beneath his chin and painted glimmers of green in his eyes. He noticed the belt of turquoise around the other man’s waist; the silver chain meticulously polished, an accent of ostentation, the cut of his surcoat meant to complement it. That had been Dion's gift, all those years ago. It was a sight better than the tapestries and sculptures lining the walls that the Phoenix asked after, as poor a guide Dion made.
It was uncanny, the way that eighteen turns had passed and not at all.
“If we continue on like this, we’ll be late to our own bonding ceremony.” Despite his apprehension from before, Dion found the workings of a smile begin to creep into his voice. The Phoenix’s hand was clasped around his wrist, as if he were being led through the gardens again.
“I’m sure my mother might like that,” the Phoenix said, though his tone suggested anything but. A flicker of worry passed over his brow, and he gave a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Nevermind that. The ceremony won’t start without us in attendance.
But for all their lack of pretense, Dion noticed the Phoenix’s gaze linger in the shadowed recesses of the corners of the chambers, the hallways. Dion placed what he hoped would be a reassuring weight on the center of his back, which seemed to burn hotter than himself. The Phoenix’s gaze snapped up, holding his, and he gave him an uncertain smile that reached no further.