Chapter Text
To say that Odin was a formidable opponent was like saying the Mothercrystals played a part in the economy of Valisthea. Both were true statements, and yet drastically underemphasized how true they were.
Even for Bahamut, one slip of concentration, one moment of distraction, one tiny mistake was all it might require for Odin to win the day. That was how Dion's predecessor had fallen, and King Barnabas only grew more powerful in his Eikon with more decades of battle experience under his belt.
It took everything Dion had to face Odin and hold the bastard off, and sometimes, even his absolute best wasn't enough. Odin landed a blow with that damnable blade, slicing off Bahamut's wing and sending him tumbling from the skies in an uncontrolled dive.
Heart thundering in his mighty chest, Bahamut struggled to draw enough aether to regenerate the wing ere he splattered himself across the terrain far below. Rushed and under stress, he then pulled too much and had to fight to absorb it without going berserk or doing further damage to himself instead.
At the last possible moment he flapped both massive wings hard. His fall slowed enough that when he slammed into the towering redwoods below, he didn't end up impaled upon the tall, thin treetops like an offering to Odin. Instead Bahamut's wings and flanks were merely ripped and torn as he crashed through the formerly majestic trunks.
Impact with the ground drove the last of the air from lungs each as big as a chocobo, leaving him floundering. Dion released the Priming, hoping the shock might help him breathe again more easily, or at least make him a smaller target for Odin's follow-up attack.
Sadly, he continued to wheeze as he fought to breathe past the solid knot in his chest and belly. He could also feel blood pouring from the lacerations on his back, sides, and arms where Bahamut had taken damage from the trees.
Worse, un-Primed he didn't have access to the greater part of Bahamut's rapid healing. And now Dion was too dazed by pain, lack of air, and blood loss to Prime again.
Was this to be his end? Bleeding out on the forest floor, miles from the nearest Sanbrequois troops, so broken that Odin apparently couldn't even be bothered to chase him down and land the killing blow? How ignominious.
"Greagor's ghost!"
The exclamation seemed incongruously out of place in the depths of a lonely forest, enough to pull Dion's attention despite the agony in his chest. With great effort Dion turned his head and saw a little cluster of Sanbrequois soldiers nearby. Their armour was shabby and dirty, badly cared for, and they looked starved.
A unit that had been separated from their legion by the enemy and gotten lost? Or deserters?
Then one turned to peer at him with a frightened expression, and Dion saw the ugly black mark spreading across the left side of the man's face.
Branded.
"That's fuckin' Bahamut," the man staring at him squeaked out, as if too scared to speak. "That's the fuckin' prince! What do we do? If we touch a noble, they'll cut off our hands. If we let him bleed out, they'll fuckin' cut off our heads!"
"Salamander!" Someone Dion couldn't see shoved at a man who stood not as part of the knot of frightened Branded, but beside them. They pushed with enough force to stagger the man in question forward a step. "What are you waiting for? Go heal him, asshole!"
Though his expression was mutinous, Salamander reluctantly approached the place where Dion still lay gasping on the ground. He'd gotten his wind back, at least, but the dizziness and lethargy of rapid blood loss kept him down. His vision was starting to dim, a very bad sign, and he hoped this Branded truly could heal him.
Salamander knelt beside him and reached out, lip curled as if he found Dion repulsive. Beneath the filth that darkened his hair and dirtied his skin, the man was nearly as fair as Dion himself. His eyes were such a pale blue they should have looked icy, but instead made Dion think of the blue that burned at the center of the hottest flames, bright with anger and something that might have been hatred.
To Dion’s surprise, it was not light aether that poured from the Bearer's outstretched hands, but a stream of fire. Dion tensed, wondering if he'd been played for a fool and they'd only claimed to be healing him so he wouldn't fight while they killed him, but the flames settled over his skin with gentle warmth, not a searing burn.
A gentle healing warmth, in fact. Dion felt it wrap him up and cherish him, like a mother swaddling an infant with love and care, and the pain began to ease.
"What is this?" Dion rasped, lifting one shaking hand as if he could touch the sparkling orange power that enveloped him. It was the arm that regenerated, and he was relieved to see all the fingers back in place. "Fire Branded can heal?"
"I'm not a fire Bearer," the man replied. His voice was nearly as hoarse as Dion's, as if he wasn't used to speaking. The statement seemed to make no sense; Dion had been healed by Branded before, and light did not convey a sense of heat like this.
"Salamander," hissed the man who'd ordered the healer towards Dion. "Don't go spewing your nonsense at him. Don’t talk to him at all, dolt!"
Salamander's lips compressed, and he went from mutinous to murderous. He had much more spirit and defiance than most slaves. Usually Branded were far more cowed, keeping their heads bowed, never speaking above a whisper, and that only when an answer was demanded of them by their masters.
"Were you not identified as a Bearer until later in life?" Dion wondered, easing himself gingerly into a sitting position. Whatever its aspect, the Branded's healing power was potent; Dion already felt incredibly much better.
"I was ten when this bedamned brand was inked onto my face," Salamander replied, defiant of his commander’s order to remain silent. "Fevered and injured nigh unto death, but the first concern of the constables was apparently making certain everyone knew not to waste medicine on me."
Despite the roughness of his voice, his diction was perfect, with a Rosarian accent. A cultured Rosarian accent, as if the man was educated and high class, mayhap even of noble birth.
Nobles could produce Bearer offspring like anyone else; the difference was that they had the money to hush it up when it happened, make the babe disappear and ensure it would never come back to haunt them. But usually those children didn't get a chance to believe themselves a legitimate heir to the family before that happened. Small wonder this Bearer was bitter about his lot in life.
A coughing fit overtook Salamander, and the power faded. He clutched at his chest with one hand, the other clamped over his mouth to muffle the sound - and possibly to catch any blood that might come forth, judging by the wracking wetness of the cough.
The curse, doubtless. Dion felt faintly guilty that the man had been pushed into an episode because of him, but at the same time, he marvelled at his own much improved condition. There was scarcely any pain remaining, no hint of open wounds pulling as he moved, even when he stood.
"Remarkable," Dion murmured, truly in awe of the Bearer's power. "Why are you all the way out here? A healer of your strength is wasted in battle, let alone so far from the rest of the army."
Recovering from his coughing fit, Salamander looked up at Dion. His eyes remained defiant, but something else crept in beneath the anger. Despair? "You don't recognize me at all, do you?"
Recognize him? Frowning, Dion opened his mouth to say that of course he didn't, but the words stuck in his throat. He had the oddest sense that he should know the man, which was ridiculous. "I'm not in the habit of spending time among Branded," he replied instead.
"Salamander, enough," snapped the same man who'd shoved Salamander out of the group, finally emerging from the knot himself and letting Dion get a good look at him. Another Branded, but his uniform armour was of slightly better quality, indicating he was probably the leader of the unit.
Striding forward, the man grabbed a handful of Salamander's hair and shoved his head down, at the same time bowing to Dion himself. "My sincerest apologies, Your Highness," the man gritted out as if through clenched teeth. "I beg you pay no heed to this man's ramblings. He is a simpleton, but extremely valuable for his power, as you noted. Pray, forgive us for his inappropriate behaviour."
"Fuck you, Scorpion," Salamander muttered, quiet but vicious. Judging by the whiteness of Scorpion' knuckles, his grip on Salamander's hair must be painfully tight.
"I shall overlook it," Dion agreed, feeling magnanimous. Salamander hadn't seemed feeble-minded to him, but likely it was only an excuse. "It seems the least I can do in return for saving my life. I apologize for nearly crushing you. I'll let you get back to whatever your mission is."
"Yes, Your Highness. We shall pray to Greagor for your victory against Odin," Scorpion declared, still holding the deep bow. It looked like he was leaning his whole weight into Salamander to keep the kneeling man's head down.
As Dion moved away to give himself room to Prime, he heard Salamander call after him, "Tell me, Bahamut. Do you wear those earrings as a memorial, or a trophy?"
Halting, Dion spun back to face the Branded, hands on his hips. "I beg your pardon?" It was one thing for the man to be understandably bitter about his lot in life, but quite another for him to question Dion.
"Fuck's sake, Salamander, shut your damn trap!" Scorpion growled. The two men scuffled briefly, Scorpion trying to subdue his subordinate, but there was a burst of fire and Scorpion yelped as he released the other Branded.
Salamander surged to his feet, flames wreathing his clenched hands as he glared at Dion. "I asked if you wear Phoenix's gift to celebrate your honourless occupation of my country," he snarled. "The victory you gained by sending your men to sneak in and slaughter your allies in their beds like thieves in the night!"
Ice ran through Dion's veins. Only a handful of people would remember that the silver feathers set with amber which hung from Dion's ears had been gifted to him by Rosaria’s Dominant long ago. An even smaller number knew the truth of what had happened at Phoenix Gate some thirteen years prior.
Not one of the people on either list should be a Branded slave.
Again struck the niggling feeling that Dion should know the man before him, and he stared harder. That pale hair beneath the grime, was there a hint of red in it? Those striking blue eyes, such a distinctive colour...
"Impossible," Dion whispered, feeling as though he addressed a ghost. "Joshua Rosfield is dead."
"So they kept telling me," Salamander replied grimly. "Every time I tried to protest what they'd made of me." Then he grunted as Scorpion stomped on his knee from behind, buckling Salamander's leg and forcing him to kneel once more.
His other two teammates promptly pounced the man, grabbing him by the shoulders and head and holding him down. Fire rose again, but was countered by ice and water from the other two before Salamander could win free, creating a cloud of steam that briefly obscured the group.
Scorpion stepped in front of the cloud and bowed deeper still, sweating hard. "Again, Your Highness, I beg your forgiveness. Salamander suffers the kind of madness that makes a man believe himself to be someone else. Obviously he's not a Dominant, and I pray you pay his insanity no heed."
Dion had heard of such madness. If Sanbreque had a Dominant for every man and woman who sincerely believed themselves to be Greagor born into flesh, for example, they'd have won the war against Waloed ages ago.
Of course this man could not be Phoenix. If he were, he’d need only Prime to prove his claim. For that matter, Dion should be able to sense the near presence of another Dominant, just as he'd once detected Ramuh trying to sneak into the capital through the crystal mines below.
And yet... how had the man known of the origin of Dion's earrings, or the truth of Phoenix Gate?
"Stand down," Dion ordered. "Let him go, all of you."
Surprised, Scorpion glanced up. Whatever he saw on Dion's face made him blanch so pale, he looked about to faint. He stepped to the side, kicking one of his subordinates as he passed, and the two released the man called Salamander at last.
Considerably the worse for wear, rimed with frost and soaked to the skin, Salamander staggered back up to his feet. Still he was not cowed, meeting Dion gaze for gaze with head held high.
"Prove your claim," Dion challenged him. "Prime. Let me see Phoenix for myself."
Flinching, Salamander looked away for the first time. "I cannot," he admitted roughly. "I haven't been able to even semi-Prime since that horrible night."
"There, you see?" Scorpion declared. "He speaks only nonsense, not truth."
Salamander's shoulders hunched, and a tremor ran through him. "Every time I try, I hear the screams of my Shields as my flames immolate them. I panicked and lost control when I stood bathed in my father's blood, and my people paid the price. My brother paid the price."
The depth of grief that reverberated in his voice was so stark and powerful, it nigh brought tears to Dion's eyes in response. There could be no doubt that Salamander truly believed his words, at least. He mourned the deaths of Elwin and Clive Rosfield as his beloved family members.
Touching his chest, Dion considered the wounds that now barely made themselves felt. Fire was not a healing aspect... with the sole exception of the Blessing of the Phoenix.
"What gift did I give in return for the earrings?" Dion asked, scarce able to believe he was going along with this insanity.
Salamander's eyes widened. "A silver belt chain decorated with turquoise," he replied, the words slow as if he suspected a trap but couldn't find the trigger. "Presented in a casket carved with the image of a wyvern's tail flower."
Shaken to the core, Dion almost forgot to breathe. It was the box that sold him on the man's wild tale. All the people of Rosaria had likely heard about the gift given to the duchy's heir by the prince of Sanbreque at the Remembrance Ceremony. But who would care enough to remember the box it came in, no matter how pretty?
"Greagor be good," Dion whispered, and strode forward. "It's really you." Reaching out, he clasped the other man's shoulders in a greeting of equals.
Beneath his hands, Salamander - Joshua - was taut as an overtuned harp string, quivering with tension. He made no effort to return the embrace, but neither did he fight it. "You... you believe me?" he asked, blue eyes dazed, as if he could not countenance the idea.
"I do," Dion assured him solemnly. He heard shocked muttering from the other Branded, but ignored the three men as irrelevant to this moment. Since Joshua hadn't rejected his touch, Dion pulled him into a tight embrace. "I can't believe you're alive."
Slowly Joshua's hands crept up to grip the back of Dion's scalemail, and the other man bowed his neck until his forehead touched Dion's shoulder. "I'd given up hope that anyone would ever listen," he admitted, choked with emotion as he shuddered in Dion's embrace.
"I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you at first," Dion said, lifting one hand to cup the back of Joshua's head. Now he couldn't unsee it, the features of the boy he'd once known in the man who stood before him, and could hardly imagine how he'd failed to identify Joshua.
"You didn't look past the brand," Joshua muttered, bitter again. "Nobody ever does."
What would it be like if Dion woke from a fever to find his father dead, his country occupied by betraying allies, and his face branded so that nobody would ever see him as a person again? The shock would be extreme. Not to mention the desperation of trying to find someone, anyone who would listen to his outlandish story.
As awful as Dion felt to think it, part of him was very grateful for whatever block caused Joshua not to be able to Prime. Else Phoenix might have burnt the entirety of the Sanbrequois army to the ground in his righteous wrath.
"I'm looking now," Dion declared. "I will fix this. I don't know how yet, but I will find a way. You're safe."
Shuddering, Joshua sagged against him as if he could no longer hold himself upright. An ugly sound tore free of him, a sob so ragged it was almost a scream, and the proud, defiant Branded became a grieving, agonized wretch in Dion's arms.
"I've got you," Dion promised, holding Joshua close. "It's all right. I won't leave you alone again."
Now he just needed to figure out how to solve the absolute clusterfuck of a political problem that had dropped itself into his lap.