fetteredcrystals | Post-Origin Waking

His shoulder slumps beneath Ifrit's hand. He had not known how badly he'd needed to hear of it; the demon gone, his plots not only in ruin, but ended. No longer would they be subject to such grand schemes and manipulations.

Dion presses a steadying hand to Ifrit's midsection, keen to the distress bleeding through his brother's name. "I've not seen him yet, but I have thought him dead once before. Certainly I should be."

“You fell before Bahamut was wiped from the world,” he murmurs.

He wishes he could feel relief, but Joshua has been ripped from him too many times. He opens his eyes once more and looks up at the stars, still hanging onto the Prince’s shoulder, as if it were a tether to the waking world. Everything hurts, but it doesn’t feel like it matters. He’s grounded, as much by Dion’s hand as anything.

But he needs to get up.

“Can you help me to my feet?”

Edited 2025-07-16 03:53 (UTC)

Wiped.

It's well he has a moment to simply sit in frozen silence. For all the beast had been near-silent after Twinside, he had not been truly lost. And now that he has turned his focus inward, he finds there is nothing- not even aether. It's troubling and he means to ask further, but there are more pressing matters.

Dion breathes through the rising tide of uncertainty and worry, and shifts to stand. "Of course."

After a moment's recollection wherein his right arm resists his will, he offers out his left hand. His knees brace in anticipation of Ifrit's weight.

"As much as I am able."

Clive groans as he sits up, his aching body protesting the inconvenience of having to be alive at all. He’s not sure how either of them manage it one-handed, but they do.

“At least if we go down, we’ll go down together,” he breathes, trying to bear as much of his own weight as he can. “I’m sorry.”

Dion shifts and grunts for the effort. He has borne Terence's weight enough to be familiar- though he'd had two functioning arms then. But they are both of them standing in the end, and Dion flashes a breathless smile. Such exertion should not have ordinarily been enough to wind him, but it has been a rather harrowing day.

"No apologies," he sighs, casting another glance to the sun as it relates to their surroundings. Greagor, but they are leagues from Bennumere and have not even chocobos. "Shall we search for your brother?"

Founder, would it ever be nice to just lay back down, and let his flesh and bones sink into the hard sand until they were one, but Joshua is a north star, a singular reason to persist in this very moment. Even if he drops dead from exhaustion a moment later, it will have been worth this effort.

He nods, just a hasty jerk of his chin.

"Yes," he says. "The sooner we find him, the better. If we can't..." He can't even think of what that'd feel like, but there has to be some semblance of a plan. "We camp. Recover some strength."

They die of exposure. Sounds better than exhaustion, as if the two of them had fought decades just to fall short of expectations.

Dion bends to retrieve his halberd, comforted for the weight of it. The loss of his right arm had been a known inevitability, and thus he had gained reasonable proficiency with his left. With fortune however, they would not run into aught that would press their new disadvantages.

The beach seems clear enough for now. Dion nods ahead.

"It seems unwise to split forces as we are now. Pray lead on, and I shall follow."

Clive takes a step, but he doesn’t veer far from Dion; either of them could collapse from exertion, and he isn’t sure he could do much about it if Dion went first, but it soothes the anxiety thrumming in his chest to think he could. Even turning his head feels like a great feat, let alone putting one foot in front of the other, but he manages, somehow.

“If one of us falls, at least the other can carry on and make it a little further,” he says, barely above a murmur.

Post-Origin Waking

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