Old Emotions
Sep. 24th, 2025 05:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: Old Emotions
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Byron & Dion
Rating: gen
Word Count: 554
Notes: Written last year for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
no_true_pair 's 2024 autumn challenge, for September 25th, 1 & 4 with the title "old emotions."
-
Byron avoids saying the bad-luck greeting, though Eugen shies away from nothing and with military precision gets to the heart of the matter; I don’t believe it, he says, but the truth is snaking through the room with gleaming swords and dropping bags caked with dirt. The dragoons show no offense and no servility either. They are good men with clear eyes who know their strength and where to point themselves. Beneath their helms they must be smiling grimly at the relief they’ve brought. It makes Byron glad to know that the stories that pricked his ears across Storm stemmed from truth. The eldest son of the Lesage line is generous. The eldest son of the Lesage line goes where he’s needed most.
The prince, when he returns from the hall, looks ashen. A soldier spills into the entry way with a flask of water to halt him. He raises his head.
“Your Highness, before you depart.” Dion’s thanks falls from his mouth as a croak, then the prince is seeking Byron out with tight eyes. He’s not the man who appeared at the door only minutes before.
“Lord Rosfield, my services are now yours and my tasks here complete. If there’s no more talk that requires you, are we set to depart?”
Byron reels. “Will you not rest? Aren’t you still wounded?” he stutters.
“No,” Dion snaps, face contorting. It levels out to plain condescension, then a stillness like a pond. “No, I’ll rest in transport. Forgive me, I was almost too late coming here.”
“You’re the only one who did! Time does seem to be of the essence,” Byron casts his gaze at Eugen. “Very well! I’ll send you off to meet the Invincible. Last I heard from Clive Jill’s fogged the waters. Nice trick, that.”
“Ifrit — he means to infiltrate Waloed?”
“Clive means to destroy the mothercrystal,” Byron says, pride swelling in his chest. “And end this madness with the King.”
“Then let us not delay,” Dion urges, smiling painfully. Byron thinks he wants to say more — that he should, he grieves — but refrains, mouth tight. He does not know enough. He is not his to know.
The skid coasts into dark, stained waters toward Ran’dellah’s shore and Byron replays Dion’s heroic arrival as his eyes grow tired watching the small sails flicker against the twilight; had Dion joined them earlier all of this business may have been less miserable, or he’d share their collective grief and the burden of his own. There is no relieving that from the lad, only lending courage.
Byron tries to picture the boy who’s hands had grasped his and promised Rosalith Bahamut’s strength in times of strife; it’s a promise eighteen years in the making and followed up by a man that reminds him of his nephew. Dion steps into the light of the sconces and collects his kit and spear, frowning all the while at enemies invisible to him, seeing a future that’s not yet arrived. Clive was all business these days too.
Clive shares pieces with him of everything; Dion says very little, only that his place was with them if he was wanted.
Why would you not be welcome among us? Byron ponders. You’re already forgiven. You’re a terrific outcast.
Dion simply looks out at the dark water, waiting, out of reach.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Byron & Dion
Rating: gen
Word Count: 554
Notes: Written last year for
no_true_pair 's 2024 autumn challenge, for September 25th, 1 & 4 with the title "old emotions."-
Byron avoids saying the bad-luck greeting, though Eugen shies away from nothing and with military precision gets to the heart of the matter; I don’t believe it, he says, but the truth is snaking through the room with gleaming swords and dropping bags caked with dirt. The dragoons show no offense and no servility either. They are good men with clear eyes who know their strength and where to point themselves. Beneath their helms they must be smiling grimly at the relief they’ve brought. It makes Byron glad to know that the stories that pricked his ears across Storm stemmed from truth. The eldest son of the Lesage line is generous. The eldest son of the Lesage line goes where he’s needed most.
The prince, when he returns from the hall, looks ashen. A soldier spills into the entry way with a flask of water to halt him. He raises his head.
“Your Highness, before you depart.” Dion’s thanks falls from his mouth as a croak, then the prince is seeking Byron out with tight eyes. He’s not the man who appeared at the door only minutes before.
“Lord Rosfield, my services are now yours and my tasks here complete. If there’s no more talk that requires you, are we set to depart?”
Byron reels. “Will you not rest? Aren’t you still wounded?” he stutters.
“No,” Dion snaps, face contorting. It levels out to plain condescension, then a stillness like a pond. “No, I’ll rest in transport. Forgive me, I was almost too late coming here.”
“You’re the only one who did! Time does seem to be of the essence,” Byron casts his gaze at Eugen. “Very well! I’ll send you off to meet the Invincible. Last I heard from Clive Jill’s fogged the waters. Nice trick, that.”
“Ifrit — he means to infiltrate Waloed?”
“Clive means to destroy the mothercrystal,” Byron says, pride swelling in his chest. “And end this madness with the King.”
“Then let us not delay,” Dion urges, smiling painfully. Byron thinks he wants to say more — that he should, he grieves — but refrains, mouth tight. He does not know enough. He is not his to know.
The skid coasts into dark, stained waters toward Ran’dellah’s shore and Byron replays Dion’s heroic arrival as his eyes grow tired watching the small sails flicker against the twilight; had Dion joined them earlier all of this business may have been less miserable, or he’d share their collective grief and the burden of his own. There is no relieving that from the lad, only lending courage.
Byron tries to picture the boy who’s hands had grasped his and promised Rosalith Bahamut’s strength in times of strife; it’s a promise eighteen years in the making and followed up by a man that reminds him of his nephew. Dion steps into the light of the sconces and collects his kit and spear, frowning all the while at enemies invisible to him, seeing a future that’s not yet arrived. Clive was all business these days too.
Clive shares pieces with him of everything; Dion says very little, only that his place was with them if he was wanted.
Why would you not be welcome among us? Byron ponders. You’re already forgiven. You’re a terrific outcast.
Dion simply looks out at the dark water, waiting, out of reach.
(no subject)
Date: 2025-11-11 05:24 am (UTC)gosh really love the way you paint the portrait of Dion here. understated yet vivid, and that last line was really beautiful & built-up-to.
i'm surprised you haven't crossposted this one to ao3! but thank you for sharing here <3
(no subject)
Date: 2025-11-13 12:53 am (UTC)i'm not very satisfied with this drabble despite its completion haha, so i just stuck it here in my journal fridge for archiving's sake XD