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When Clive was younger, around eight or nine years old, he saw a man die for the first time. The man was no soldier who fell in battle, nor a bandit put down by the Shields—he was a Bearer. One of the many who served at Rosalith Castle.
It was sunny that day, with clear, blue skies overhead and packed dirt under Clive's feet as he practiced his drills with a wooden training sword, more enthusiasm than skill at that age. The soldiers humored him, or perhaps they pitied him, the unlucky firstborn son of the Archduke who was passed over by the Phoenix for his younger brother, leaving Clive at loose ends. They didn't understand. He wasn't throwing himself into training to vent his frustration. But he was a child, and so no one took him seriously when he said that he wanted to become Joshua's First Shield—no one except Father, whose tacit approval was a stark contrast to Mother's blanketing disdain.
Clive paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, the sun beating down on him, and started to make his way towards the well when he heard the commotion. It came from where the laundry was being dried, a small crowd gathering in front of the rows of linen that swayed under a magicked breeze. One by one the lengths of cloth stilled as the Bearers all ceased their work. No one paid them much mind. Clive soon saw why, although the agonized, guttural groans were the first hint.
The man was on the ground, body stiff and tense all over even though he was still mostly flesh instead of stone. His limbs twitched and spasmed. His open mouth gasped. A thin red line, nearly unnoticeable, interrupted the pattern of the brand tattooed upon his cheek. Seeing his face start to rapidly discolor, Clive realized, "He can't breathe! Someone—"
"Someone remove this eyesore at once." One of Mother's handmaids stood over the man, frowning as she wiped her hand with a handkerchief before letting the delicate silk flutter to the ground. She clicked her tongue. "How unlucky. He had a few more years left in him, too. Now I'll have to explain this to Her Grace."
A soldier went to the man, not to help, but to drag his seizing body away. The man's eyes bulged helplessly. Clive started to follow, a protest on his lips, only for a stablehand to grab him by the arm.
"It's no use, lad. The poison's got him." The stablehand tapped his sun-weathered bare cheek. "Accidents happen. A scratch is all it takes sometimes." Lowering his voice, he added with a glint of humor in his eye, "Still, those were some Garuda-sized talons on that lass. Wouldn't want to get on her bad side, eh?”
Young Clive stared at the well-meaning man, at a loss. Someone was dying. Suffocating. He thought of Joshua laid up in bed, how the coughing fits were sometimes so bad they would wrack his frail body, how his voice would rasp and his breath would wheeze. Unable to stand it anymore, Clive mumbled a curt, "Excuse me," and then took off running.
He didn't have to go far, finding the Bearer behind one of the tents. He'd been left there, out of sight, gasping faintly like a fish someone had hooked out of the water but didn't bother to cook or put back. His face was mottled and swollen. Before Clive could take another step, though, the man finally went still with a hoarse, whispering breath that dissipated into the merciless summer haze.
The brand was still fresh on Clive's cheek when the imperial soldier singled him out. Clive assumed that he was being called to perform some menial task around the barracks—lighting a lamp or warming a meal that had gone cold, for example. It was common to use Bearers for such things whenever a crystal wasn't on hand. Clive was no true Bearer, though, and rather limited in what he could do. The Blessing of the Phoenix wouldn't help him fill a cup with water or call up a breeze to keep the heat off, so if that was the expectation, then someone was going to be disappointed.
As it turned out, the soldier didn't need water or wind or even fire. What he needed—demanded—was initially conveyed with a fist to Clive's jaw followed by another slamming into his ribs.
"On your knees, Branded." The blows sent Clive crashing to the ground.
Lessons on how to fall, how to recover, and how to get back in the fray pulled Clive partway to his feet again before he could even think about it. All those years of training were too deeply embedded. His body was still Joshua's Shield and didn't know any other way to be.
He faltered only when mind and memory caught up, and the enormity of his failure shackled him to the spot. A shield with no one to protect was a useless piece of scrap metal, and so here he was, branded and conscripted and slowly decaying to rust and ruin. It was fine if he fell apart. He only needed a single sharp edge to cut open the unknown Dominant's heart and offer it to Joshua as recompense.
Clive barely registered the hand gripping his hair, shoving and dragging him into position. A few more hits wouldn't have mattered. He saw but didn't immediately understand why the soldier's other hand went to the front of his trousers, and only when they were unfastened and a semi-stiff cock flopped out did Clive flinch.
This shouldn't have mattered either. He was already branded, already discarded, and already had no more use for pride. He was prepared to be used as fodder in the empire's war. He was prepared to be trampled on, to suffer indignities, and to die.
But somehow, he wasn't prepared to surrender such... personal use of his body, which had only ever been dedicated to one person, for one purpose.
Clive attempted to wrest himself free, seized by a newfound indignation that sparked through him like levin, energizing his despondent shell. The Blessing of the Phoenix answered in kind, its golden-red flame flowing through his veins to unfurl in his palm.
A heavy hand clapped the side of Clive's face. The ensuing sting wasn't much of a punishment, but the hard fingertips that dug into his cheek served as a very effective deterrent. Clive's new brand throbbed, swollen and tender under the threat of the hand squeezing his flesh, acutely aware of the deadly wyvern tail poison seeped into the thin barrier of his skin.
He was prepared to die, but not like this. Not yet.
Glaring, Clive snuffed the flame out. He got cuffed across the side of his head for his temerity, and with that hand still latched onto his face, fingers pried open his less than cooperative mouth.
The soldier sneered, lining up his cock and shoving it inside. "Mind your teeth if you know what's good for you." Clive didn't know how to mind his teeth, nor did he care to, not with his mouth suddenly overcrowded and his jaw aching and a sick, disgusted sensation bubbling up from the pit of his gut.
But he could bear it. This stifling, suffocating treatment was nothing compared to that night when Clive choked on fire and brimstone and the scorching taste of blood filling his mouth, and he ripped himself open with each shattered scream. The soldier before him was just an ordinary man, and Clive's ire was reserved for something much more monstrous. The heat of the hand on Clive's face was merely lukewarm. The insults spat at him were meaningless.
All meaningless, save for one.
The back of Clive's throat was being rubbed raw and tears stung at the corners of his eyes, but none of that affected him until he heard the soldier say:
"Your master's long gone, not even a trace to be found in the rubble from what I hear. You were the only survivor. How's that feel, Rosarian dog? But not to worry, you serve the Holy Empire now. Just like this."
Somehow, Clive's heart could still bleed when he thought it had already blackened to char. Gone—the word squeezed out what little blood he had left to give, scalding inside his chest. Everyone was gone. Joshua was gone. In that awful absence, some part of Clive was still screaming himself ragged. Anything to occupy the unbearable emptiness. He twisted, turned, and searched blindly in the dark for the faintest hint of ember, but all that remained was ash.
In reality, he gagged, mouth filling. His cheek was pawed at in some sort of demand or threat, but he barely noticed, swallowing some of the bitterness and sputtering out the rest.
Joshua, he thought, but dared not put the name to his lips, fouled as they were. A booted foot to his midsection shoved him to the ground where he was left coughing and retching into the dirt. His lungs and throat burned. His ribs and jaw ached.
Joshua, where are you?
Clive closed his eyes, hand curled over his heart, and almost like an answer, the Blessing of the Phoenix pulsed to life. He reached for its soothing fire to send away the minor pains. He wasn't very good at it, had never quite mastered the other half of the Phoenix's dual-natured flames, but like this, cradling that warmth close, he could just about feel his brother's healing touch.
Clive discovered that he could find traces of Joshua in the heat of battle; in the swirl of the Phoenix's flames, in the bright-hot burn that he summoned into the palm of his hand, casting it into the face of a careless enemy. The fire bloomed and scattered golden-red embers that fluttered in the air and glinted in the sun. Clive's outstretched hand passed through them, seeking the gleam of light, curling hair, soft as featherdown, and the faint, sweet scent that would cling to his fingers afterward.
Instead, his gloved hand came away bloody. He had waded a bit too far into the enemy ranks. They surrounded him, and Clive called upon the blessing once more. Scarlet, feathered wings burst out around him, protecting him in their encirclement and burning all others who touched them into screaming piles of cooked meat. The sheen and stench of human grease coated Clive's face. Far from the lush wetlands of Rosaria, the strip of beach on the empire's eastern coastline was scorched and pitted from Bearer magic and Waloeder cannonfire, and the sand drank deep of the blood of both sides.
Clive cleared the area around him, but that was only the first wave. More boats would be landing soon. From a distance, a volley of arrows were launched, arcing high into the air before their sharp points came hurtling downward. With no available cover on the beach, the remaining imperial infantrymen retreated.
Clive stood his ground. Once upon a time, he might have been called brave, but bravery only meant something in the face of fear and he had nothing left to be afraid of. When death eventually came for him, he would welcome it. But he would not die here, unfulfilled. Not yet.
A wall of flame rose up before him, and in its flickering heat, he could almost catch sight of a small, frail silhouette. Red, the color of Rosaria's banners, swaying and then vanishing in the brief flash of fire that reflected the arrows' attack.
He'd brought Joshua with him to the battlefield and bloodied him with each burst of magic that fired from his hand. Using him instead of shielding him. What a failure of a First Shield Clive was. He despised himself for it, but he could not stop.
Sometimes, when he set an enemy aflame and that wasn't enough to finish them off, he saw the hateful shadow of an Eikon lurking within the blazing figure. He saw charcoal skin and flame-wreathed mane, and the baleful glare of sulfurous eyes. Clive would rush at that shade and sink his blade into it, savoring the give of flesh and the warmth of blood spilling over his hands. He relished the choked, dying gurgle in his ears.
For you, Clive would think each time, tarnished and uncaring. His recklessness almost got him killed more than once. He reduced himself to tatters and then threw himself on the Phoenix's mercy to mend his broken body, just barely enough to stay standing, all so that he could do it over and over again. For you, for you. Forgive me. For you.
When circumstances allowed, most imperials would rather spend coin on a proper whore than lower themselves to have a go with a Bearer. Whores, after all, were still human. But the average soldier was not flush with gil, and the frontlines were noticeably lacking in brothels, so whenever the urge struck or a thirst needed to be slaked, many would make do with what was available.
Clive was already used to it. The fresh brand marked him in more ways than one. At Clive's age, it was assumed that he had escaped testing and gone unbranded until now, and a Bearer that didn't yet know their place was a favored target for venting one's frustrations under the guise of harsh lessons. Once he was considered as broken down as the rest, Clive became invisible until his fire was needed to roast an army or until someone needed a hole to fuck. It wasn't unusual for those services to be required in that order.
The blood-rushing, physical relief of having survived another battle was a strange feeling; a joyless, worthless consequence to be suffered, but at the same time it imbued him with a superficial sense of being alive. The Phoenix's flames smoldered inside him, heating his body. His muscles ached, not knowing the difference between a long day of training and a long day spent killing faceless multitudes. He was covered in sweat and mud all the same. The stickiness of blood on his skin wasn't worth paying attention to.
Neither was the cock driving into him from behind. It hurt, but so did the long cut that had sliced open his arm courtesy of Waloed's tricky fencing techniques. He'd been careless. It was rare to encounter a swordsman of notable skill amidst the cannon fodder of the frontlines. Clive was accustomed to brute forcing his way through the enemy ranks, disgracing the traditional Rosarian sword style with his savagery. The reminder of what true skill looked like, and the memory of admiration shining on his brother's face, shamed him far more than being bent over a stack of crates in a supply tent.
The Phoenix had patched what it could, but the rough bandage on his arm was already stained through and coming loose with each shove against the supplies he was braced on, rattling their contents. Crystal rations, from the sound of the delicate chimes. They made for an eerie musical accompaniment to the low grunts coming from behind him, a mocking juxtaposition of clean, crystalline notes and the vulgar slapping of flesh.
Clive couldn't stand the sound. It dragged him into the present, into the dissonance of his body flush with warmth and the misplaced satisfaction of survival that made his blood pound. He recoiled at this awful side of himself. The guilt squeezed at him. Even his own breathing was offensive, ragged and heavy under the assault, and despite everything he was half hard, adding one more tally to his count of unforgivable sins. The degradation twisted something inside him and it couldn't be called pleasure, but he squirmed in response nonetheless. He was being warped into something unrecognizable.
But if that was the case, then so be it. Clive was already living for the sake of a ghost. He couldn't be expected to remain human.
It was a relief—truly a relief—to accept that and let go. He slumped in defeat and shuddered. He was a humiliating wreck. Closing his eyes, Clive blocked out the dim of the tent and reached for the only thing that mattered.
Sunlight was too much to imagine, but firelight was achingly familiar, the way its glow would caress the shape of a round cheek and dart shadows through burnished, flame-kissed hair. Joshua's lashes were a darker shade, as if they'd been made to catch the cast-off soot from the Phoenix's wings. His eyes, the gentlest blue, curved slightly when he smiled.
Clive's breathing grew deeper and steadier. He swallowed the soft, yearning sound that tried to escape while the noise around him continued, making his ears burn and his skin blaze. He was distantly aware of the hands on his hips and the messy thrusting into his arse. It ended unceremoniously with one last squelch and a splash of viscous warmth that dripped down his heated backside.
Finally free from the unpleasant task, Clive could have walked away then. He should have, if he was still a decent person. Instead, once he was alone in the tent, and not caring if someone else entered, he wrapped his hand around his stiff cock.
The initial motions were jerky and awkward and not particularly enjoyable. He felt sore and disgusting. The stained, sticky leather of his glove was rough on his sensitive skin, but he didn't bother removing it. The nicety of a softer touch would be wasted on him.
Joshua's hands had been soft and free of hard calluses, though not for lack of trying. He'd have trained more with the sword if he could, but his sickly body and their overbearing mother didn't allow it, limiting him to light exercises that were strictly supervised within the white, austere halls of the castle, more of an extension of his etiquette lessons than proper training.
Meanwhile, Clive got flung into the dirt outside on the regular—at least until he learned how to dodge—and afterwards Joshua would be there to reach for him with a clean, pale hand lit up in flame. No matter how many times Clive told him not to waste his gift, Joshua would always insist. Clive never had the heart to actually stop him. It had been difficult enough not to lean into that warm, welcoming presence, so readily accepting of him no matter what anyone said or what state he was in.
Even now, like this, covered in sweat and blood and some other man's semen, Clive longed for his brother. For his comforting touch and his sweet voice and his full-hearted forgiveness that Clive didn't deserve, but he wanted it with a desperation that burned the back of his throat.
He fisted his cock, shame-faced, dredging up a semblance of pleasure that did away with what scraps of his dignity remained. A whimper finally leaked past his tightly pressed lips. "Joshua," he said into the condemning silence of the hot, enclosed tent, and then there was no holding back.
Clive repeated his brother's name as if that could summon him into existence, Joshua's small hand grasped in his own, his slim shoulders easily folded into the curve of Clive's arm, never to let go again. Clive would fall to his knees before him, a filthy, bloody mess, and bury his tattooed face in the wool and lace of his tunic. He would breathe in the nostalgic scent of him: flowers blooming in the castle gardens, the underlying bittersweetness of herbal tonic, and the hint of burnt sugar whenever the Phoenix was called upon.
He would hold onto him and weep. He would beg for forgiveness, like this.
"I'm sorry," Clive gasped, barely audible. His hand worked over himself with a grip that was outright punishing. He shuddered under the weight of his guilt. "For failing you, I'm so, so sorry. Please... please..."
"Help me... Help me, Clive..."
He came pitifully with a broken, wrung-out sob, the strength draining from him and leaving him crumpled on the ground, finally exhausted. A hollow numbness spread inside him. Clive thought that it would be a relief to feel nothing, but it was worse in a way.
"Please don't leave me," he said to the one who was already gone.
"What've we got here?"
Clive's face, already uncomfortably angled and pulled close against the soldier's groin, mouth stretched around his cock, was tilted to better allow fingers to fumble at his ear. They tugged on the metal hugging the lobe.
"This here's fine work. Wasted on a Bearer, that's for sure. I'll just—"
Clive made a sound of protest and lifted a hand to bat away the greedy, offending touch, defiant for the first time in a while. They'd tried to take the earcuff from him when he was being branded, too, but his fetters hadn't been crystal so he burned anyone who tried. Presumably, only the duchess's orders to make a useful example of him prevented them from killing him on the spot.
He was dragged off the man's cock and slapped across his marked cheek, hard enough to whip his head to the side but hopefully sparing him from the poison. In battle or around the camp, Clive had seen Bearers doomed by a fist to the face before. Accidents happened. A scratch was all it took sometimes. He was spat on, cursed at, and Clive would submit to any abuse without complaint so long as he could live to see his vengeance fulfilled, but when those grasping fingers reached for the silver Phoenix emblem again, Clive growled.
It was more warning than the man deserved, and he didn't heed it. Clive was more animal than human at this point, hackles rising instinctively as he snatched the man's wrist right before he could lay a single unworthy finger on one of the few remaining fragments of Joshua in the world. There were no remains, no more Grand Duchy, and no more of the Phoenix save for the blessing that Clive cradled deep in his heart.
No one could take the symbol of his brother from him, but Clive was willing to give others a taste of the flames. Coming from him, they lacked the Phoenix's majestic beauty. His fire was rage-fueled and blistering and bloody. He scorched the man's arm, branded him in burns instead of ink, and the screams soon brought a whole platoon of imperials down on him.
"Kill that Branded cur!" Froth and spittle flew from the man's mouth as he attempted to unsheathe his sword wrong-handed, but the pain and the position hampered him.
Someone else brought their steel out, cold and unfeeling. Clive watched it arc through the air. He was numb on the outside but burning unbearably hot from within, and a familiar ringing noise pierced through his ears as if to split his head. A roar sounded from somewhere. He couldn't tell if it was memory or somehow real, but everything in him constricted, enraged, and he was going to have to survive somehow even if it meant slaughtering his way out of the imperial army and being hunted for the rest of his life, all so that he could someday find that fucking Dominant—
"Hold!"
The blade hung above Clive's head and didn't come down. He almost thought that time was standing still, balanced on a precipice as he was, but then a captain pushed through the crowd and cast a look of disdain upon the scene before him. "All this fuss over a mere Branded. This is the one, Sergeant?" The rank was spoken with a sneer for the soldier accompanying the captain was a Bearer. A rare sight, but Clive had heard rumors. The situation was changing and the fires threatening to overtake him started to dwindle.
"Aye," said the sergeant, staring hard at Clive with unblinking intensity. "And he'll come quietly if he still wants to live."
"For a bit longer, at any rate."
"No!" Clutching his bleeding, blackened arm, the wild-eyed man stumbled forward. "Look what he did! A Branded turning on his betters! I'll see him put to the sword if it's the last thing I do!"
"Fine," the captain said. "Then be quick about it, and you can transfer to the Bastards instead. The ranks need filling and I for one don't care whose bodies do the job."
The sergeant said nothing and a minute tightening around his mouth was the only sign of his displeasure.
"The Bastards? Me?" The injured man shook in outrage. "To hell with that! But he ought to be punished at the very least!"
"Fair enough. Fifty lashes should suffice. After that, he's all yours, Sergeant."
The captain took his leave, and most of the soldiers dispersed with him. Only a few remained to haul Clive to his feet and take him to the whipping post. He went willingly now that his life wasn't in immediate danger. He was even relaxed. The Bastards weren't tied down with the rest of the army and were often sent behind enemy lines; they died a lot because of it, but Clive's chances of finding his brother's murderer were significantly improved.
He let himself be stripped and secured to the post. The sergeant, standing to the side, spoke up. "Can I trust that a mere fifty lashes won't be enough to kill you?"
Clive turned his face so that his brand wouldn't be exposed to a stray flick of the whip. "I'm not dying here." Not like this. Not yet.
"See that you don't."
The first crack through the air left a searing stripe of pain crosswise along his back. Then another joined it, and another. His skin opened and he bled fire. Clive closed his eyes and saw darkness offset by a bright orange glow, he smelled and tasted the blood in his mouth, the smoke and ash in the air. The lash tore into him like the claws of an Eikon and all his tightly wrapped grief and fury tried to rip themselves out of the cage of his body.
He cried out. Screamed himself hoarse. He hoped that somewhere, the Dominant that killed his brother would hear him, and know that Clive was alive. If he could not be a shield, shattered as he was with no one left to protect, then he could at least be a blade. And he would do his duty.