Tomorrow's Tears
Oct. 29th, 2023 04:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: Tomorrow's Tears
Fandom: FFXVI
Characters/pairing: Dion + Clive
Rating: gen
Word Count: 1551
Notes: Written for the "ghost" prompt over atspook_me. As I was writing this I realized this was more inline with my big Dion character study project and decided to cut this story down to a sweeter size. This could be a companion fic to Visiting Statues. Post-game.
-
“I saw my dead father,” Clive says to Dion.
The prince looks up from his cups, brow raising.
“At his grave,” Clive elaborates. “Joshua and I had business in Rosaria. I didn’t think his corpse had been recovered during the massacre. Turns out I was wrong about a lot of things. He had a grave, and it was well-marked.”
Dion is a quiet and thoughtful companion. It’s what makes this conversation pour from his mouth uninvited. Had it not been late, had they not been drinking in the evening to stave off the exhaustion of the day, and had Dion turned away at his approach with the same self-loathing that often restricted him from speaking his mind — Clive would have retired to his room, and Jill would have touched the ends of her fingers to his while she listened, picturing ghosts of her own. It would have been a fine conversation; Clive would recline into the security of her arms and been safe at sleep — but Dion would continue to stare monotonously off into the deep black of Bennumere, and Clive would forever wonder how often he considered sinking into those depths, never to return.
But Dion — he is much of one himself these days, low and weak and short-tempered with himself, eyes swollen and body betraying him endlessly; half an arm he has, to the dull stump of Clive’s severed wrist. That likeness calls to Clive, perhaps piteously, embarrassingly like he’s trying to direct the duties of a life of repose to an accomplice he’s never seen suffer so transparently — someone he used to be. Someone in desperate need of an ear or two, to purge the poisonous thoughts from his mind.
There are rumors of imperial men across the countryside, calling for their leaders. Dion has confessed that while Byron has frequently written him with reports of the livelihood of his dragoons and their excellent hardiness in Ran’dellah, their second in command has not reappeared before them. Dion had folded that missive delicately and slid it back across Clive’s desk with a weak voice — they are no longer mine to command and who's business is it either for me to know any of this.
What missives Clive finds himself possessed with he redirects to Dion with little invitation; despite his words, he reads them all anyway, eyes scrolling fast across the page, searching — for something. It’s ultimately how they end up in this forged silence, pushing tankards of ale around with two good hands between them. The paper is held under a plate covered in crumbs, less the open air brush them to the floor.
And Dion is no less open than he has been, obsessed with death, searching for it in every corner of their lives.
“Ghosts,” Dion says, softly. His voice carries light. “That’s not an uncommon thing.”
“No,” Clive confirms. And waits.
“I have seen mine,” Dion confesses thickly. He swallows, eyes low on the table. “Did the late Lord Rosfield — did he speak to you?” Clive shakes his head. Dion refills his drink. The night is late, and the sky hazy and thin and dark with bolts of blue. The veil, as Charon so kindly calls it when Clive finds her smoking over the southern deck — everything seems obvious when the world is one color. “Mine did not either. Or I spoke to him — but he only held my gaze, and said nothing at all.”
“You reached for him,” Clive says. “In Twinside. You called out to him.”
Dion’s laugh is short and startling. “Like a child would. And I believed he reached back. I am certain it did not happen at all.”
“There’s plenty of mysteries in this world…”
“You need not comfort me,” Dion says. “I killed him. Of course he would not deign to speak with me.”
Clive winces. “You were manipulated into it.”
“And yet my father and I were both of sound mind when I threw my spear. Taunted by Ultima, or no,” Dion whispers. His eyes are wet when he looks up, turning in his chair to face Clive directly. “And now that God is dead. But I still see things, sometimes, and I wonder if he actually is…”
Clive takes a long drink. “He is. I made sure of it.”
Dion’s smile is so small Clive wonders if it’s there at all.
“Why bring this up, with me?” Dion asks.
“I used to see other ghosts, after Phoenix Gate. My brothers. My family. But mostly Joshua. And now I am seeing him again. Jill knows. I had wondered, since you were there with us…”
“I see. No, I have not.”
Dion’s a long line of silver and white in the chair, still bandaged head to thigh with linen wraps up to his neck. His clothes are from Hortense, made to fit comfortably for his new body and status — but he still carries himself the same anyway. Clive cannot put it past him that Dion will prove to not be hindered by any of it. Just as they found each other on the shore, after, combing through sand and debris for a hint of the living, and search parties discovered them in turn, white and prunish from ocean salt and tears both — Dion continues to move forward, however sedately. Clive can consider what weights he carries — he saw it for himself, he remembers — but his father at least had never hung the promise of his love over his head and out of reach. Clive does not think he can say the same of Dion’s. But what actions drive him, much less anyone to make it this far, and have the will to sit and subject himself to painful conversations — Clive can speculate, easily, what people are willing to do for love they still harbor.
“Do you sleep?” Dion asks. His voice is too quiet.
“Yes. Somehow. You?”
“Intermittently.”
“Tarja can help, if you mention it.”
“I am afraid I have tested even her patience.”
Clive doesn’t try to fight his smile.
Dion rolls his neck, then sighs, looking past him. “I am not much for superstition, but I have known someone… who was greatly invested in all manners of this world.” Dion draws his drink in close. Behind them, Maeve flips up the bar counter for the evening and slides past them, settling a hand briefly on Clive’s shoulder in passing. Goodnight, Clive mouths, their words ghosting past each other, and Dion nods, briefly pausing his talk at their exchange. “—If we are seeing those we have lost, it is not the lost who are ill at peace, but the living,” he murmurs.
“It sounds like your friend has seen a lot.” Clive drags his palm across his chin.
“So it seems,” Dion confirms. He looks ill, briefly, mouth twisting. Clive waits. Dion wearily meets his gaze. “However strange it may seem that we are still here, I do not think it unfair to assume a great deal of our luck could be attributed to your brother.”
Clive swallows. “Of course. Your friend… Did they also counsel you on a solution?”
Dion’s mouth twists and his head bows. His laugh is weak and signals the end of the evening as he rises with his drink, suddenly retreating. Clive leans back. He pushed too far. “How I would like to ask him his thoughts right now.”
“Dion.”
“Hmm.”
“We should reach out to contacts in Northreach. Whatever remains of Sanbreque’s order that you did not give to my Uncle will surely have found safe passage there. I do not doubt that the Duke or the Dame would spare you time to lay your family to peace and help find those out of immediate reach.”
“Do with me what you will,” Dion says. “But do not waste your time on charity on my behalf. I won’t take your resources away from those who need it most.” He downs the rest of his drink and collects Clive’s empty tankard, but then hesitates at the counter as the poor cook finishes the last of her scrubbing. He turns around, unsure, and Clive rises to face him. Above, the dark canopy of stars are starting to shine, even with the torch light lining the great corridor. Dion looks wan under the moonlight, not unlike Joshua when the Phoenix’s wings reflected for the first and last time in his eyes.
“Sleep on it,” Clive insists. “I’ll help you. There’s no debt between friends. As long as you’re here, these resources extend to you.”
“Friends,” Dion says. “That is what Lady Jill said too.” His laugh is wry, still pitched low, more like the sound of a wounded animal than a man. “Very well. I will try. It was not so bad, when you took me to Harpocrates.” His voice quiets even more, but his eyes are sharp, holding Clive in place. “I believe you have good judgment. I will listen.”
“Thank you,” Clive says. “Now off with you, Your Highness. Get some rest.”
Dion bows out, the metallic thud of his studded boots on the Hideaway’s floor boards little more than soft clicks of iron on a bedrock of grief.
Clive waits for the silence. Then, with a nod to the lone dish washer, makes for the stairs across the room.
Fandom: FFXVI
Characters/pairing: Dion + Clive
Rating: gen
Word Count: 1551
Notes: Written for the "ghost" prompt over at
spook_me. As I was writing this I realized this was more inline with my big Dion character study project and decided to cut this story down to a sweeter size. This could be a companion fic to Visiting Statues. Post-game.-
“I saw my dead father,” Clive says to Dion.
The prince looks up from his cups, brow raising.
“At his grave,” Clive elaborates. “Joshua and I had business in Rosaria. I didn’t think his corpse had been recovered during the massacre. Turns out I was wrong about a lot of things. He had a grave, and it was well-marked.”
Dion is a quiet and thoughtful companion. It’s what makes this conversation pour from his mouth uninvited. Had it not been late, had they not been drinking in the evening to stave off the exhaustion of the day, and had Dion turned away at his approach with the same self-loathing that often restricted him from speaking his mind — Clive would have retired to his room, and Jill would have touched the ends of her fingers to his while she listened, picturing ghosts of her own. It would have been a fine conversation; Clive would recline into the security of her arms and been safe at sleep — but Dion would continue to stare monotonously off into the deep black of Bennumere, and Clive would forever wonder how often he considered sinking into those depths, never to return.
But Dion — he is much of one himself these days, low and weak and short-tempered with himself, eyes swollen and body betraying him endlessly; half an arm he has, to the dull stump of Clive’s severed wrist. That likeness calls to Clive, perhaps piteously, embarrassingly like he’s trying to direct the duties of a life of repose to an accomplice he’s never seen suffer so transparently — someone he used to be. Someone in desperate need of an ear or two, to purge the poisonous thoughts from his mind.
There are rumors of imperial men across the countryside, calling for their leaders. Dion has confessed that while Byron has frequently written him with reports of the livelihood of his dragoons and their excellent hardiness in Ran’dellah, their second in command has not reappeared before them. Dion had folded that missive delicately and slid it back across Clive’s desk with a weak voice — they are no longer mine to command and who's business is it either for me to know any of this.
What missives Clive finds himself possessed with he redirects to Dion with little invitation; despite his words, he reads them all anyway, eyes scrolling fast across the page, searching — for something. It’s ultimately how they end up in this forged silence, pushing tankards of ale around with two good hands between them. The paper is held under a plate covered in crumbs, less the open air brush them to the floor.
And Dion is no less open than he has been, obsessed with death, searching for it in every corner of their lives.
“Ghosts,” Dion says, softly. His voice carries light. “That’s not an uncommon thing.”
“No,” Clive confirms. And waits.
“I have seen mine,” Dion confesses thickly. He swallows, eyes low on the table. “Did the late Lord Rosfield — did he speak to you?” Clive shakes his head. Dion refills his drink. The night is late, and the sky hazy and thin and dark with bolts of blue. The veil, as Charon so kindly calls it when Clive finds her smoking over the southern deck — everything seems obvious when the world is one color. “Mine did not either. Or I spoke to him — but he only held my gaze, and said nothing at all.”
“You reached for him,” Clive says. “In Twinside. You called out to him.”
Dion’s laugh is short and startling. “Like a child would. And I believed he reached back. I am certain it did not happen at all.”
“There’s plenty of mysteries in this world…”
“You need not comfort me,” Dion says. “I killed him. Of course he would not deign to speak with me.”
Clive winces. “You were manipulated into it.”
“And yet my father and I were both of sound mind when I threw my spear. Taunted by Ultima, or no,” Dion whispers. His eyes are wet when he looks up, turning in his chair to face Clive directly. “And now that God is dead. But I still see things, sometimes, and I wonder if he actually is…”
Clive takes a long drink. “He is. I made sure of it.”
Dion’s smile is so small Clive wonders if it’s there at all.
“Why bring this up, with me?” Dion asks.
“I used to see other ghosts, after Phoenix Gate. My brothers. My family. But mostly Joshua. And now I am seeing him again. Jill knows. I had wondered, since you were there with us…”
“I see. No, I have not.”
Dion’s a long line of silver and white in the chair, still bandaged head to thigh with linen wraps up to his neck. His clothes are from Hortense, made to fit comfortably for his new body and status — but he still carries himself the same anyway. Clive cannot put it past him that Dion will prove to not be hindered by any of it. Just as they found each other on the shore, after, combing through sand and debris for a hint of the living, and search parties discovered them in turn, white and prunish from ocean salt and tears both — Dion continues to move forward, however sedately. Clive can consider what weights he carries — he saw it for himself, he remembers — but his father at least had never hung the promise of his love over his head and out of reach. Clive does not think he can say the same of Dion’s. But what actions drive him, much less anyone to make it this far, and have the will to sit and subject himself to painful conversations — Clive can speculate, easily, what people are willing to do for love they still harbor.
“Do you sleep?” Dion asks. His voice is too quiet.
“Yes. Somehow. You?”
“Intermittently.”
“Tarja can help, if you mention it.”
“I am afraid I have tested even her patience.”
Clive doesn’t try to fight his smile.
Dion rolls his neck, then sighs, looking past him. “I am not much for superstition, but I have known someone… who was greatly invested in all manners of this world.” Dion draws his drink in close. Behind them, Maeve flips up the bar counter for the evening and slides past them, settling a hand briefly on Clive’s shoulder in passing. Goodnight, Clive mouths, their words ghosting past each other, and Dion nods, briefly pausing his talk at their exchange. “—If we are seeing those we have lost, it is not the lost who are ill at peace, but the living,” he murmurs.
“It sounds like your friend has seen a lot.” Clive drags his palm across his chin.
“So it seems,” Dion confirms. He looks ill, briefly, mouth twisting. Clive waits. Dion wearily meets his gaze. “However strange it may seem that we are still here, I do not think it unfair to assume a great deal of our luck could be attributed to your brother.”
Clive swallows. “Of course. Your friend… Did they also counsel you on a solution?”
Dion’s mouth twists and his head bows. His laugh is weak and signals the end of the evening as he rises with his drink, suddenly retreating. Clive leans back. He pushed too far. “How I would like to ask him his thoughts right now.”
“Dion.”
“Hmm.”
“We should reach out to contacts in Northreach. Whatever remains of Sanbreque’s order that you did not give to my Uncle will surely have found safe passage there. I do not doubt that the Duke or the Dame would spare you time to lay your family to peace and help find those out of immediate reach.”
“Do with me what you will,” Dion says. “But do not waste your time on charity on my behalf. I won’t take your resources away from those who need it most.” He downs the rest of his drink and collects Clive’s empty tankard, but then hesitates at the counter as the poor cook finishes the last of her scrubbing. He turns around, unsure, and Clive rises to face him. Above, the dark canopy of stars are starting to shine, even with the torch light lining the great corridor. Dion looks wan under the moonlight, not unlike Joshua when the Phoenix’s wings reflected for the first and last time in his eyes.
“Sleep on it,” Clive insists. “I’ll help you. There’s no debt between friends. As long as you’re here, these resources extend to you.”
“Friends,” Dion says. “That is what Lady Jill said too.” His laugh is wry, still pitched low, more like the sound of a wounded animal than a man. “Very well. I will try. It was not so bad, when you took me to Harpocrates.” His voice quiets even more, but his eyes are sharp, holding Clive in place. “I believe you have good judgment. I will listen.”
“Thank you,” Clive says. “Now off with you, Your Highness. Get some rest.”
Dion bows out, the metallic thud of his studded boots on the Hideaway’s floor boards little more than soft clicks of iron on a bedrock of grief.
Clive waits for the silence. Then, with a nod to the lone dish washer, makes for the stairs across the room.
