Chapter Text
When Dion is four years old, his Father ascends as emperor of Sanbreque, and brings himself, his son, and his wife to the imperial palace, and Dion spends the next four years of his life in the largest, shiniest place he has ever known. The man who his mother loves, his Father, pays more attention to him, where before he paid very little; but he is young, and knows no better, and accepts this affection with the innocence of the child that he is. By the time he is eight, his Father deems him old enough to begin accompanying him to meetings with his advisors.
Thus, Dion is forced to leave the safety of the library and Harpocrates, of his mother’s warm sickrooms that smell of the plants that grow in the lower gardens, and climb the long stairs every fifth day to the peristyle in which his Father meets his advisors. The first time he does this is at his Father’s side, holding his large hand and trying his hardest to look presentable to the ring of men at their high-backed chairs as the Crown Prince Dion Lesage. His Father had smiled at him and winked once it was all over, and Dion had felt warmth suffuse all through him.
Years later, Dion will acknowledge that this was a way for Sylvestre to remind them of his power as the confirmed Dominant of Light, of his Father’s power as the one responsible of siring him, and a subtle reminder to agree to his demands and authority. An effective way of solidifying his influence and giving face to the future. The very fact that it is not until he reaches an age to join his Father above that Sylvestre began to spend time on him does not register until much later, after the rumors and truths of his existence are revealed. But for now, it is just another way in which Sylvestre is agreeing to spend time with him; and Dion, often a little nervous and stressed, takes strength from his Father’s presence, and is bolstered by the way he shows his vigor in commanding his advisors. Here is an adult who pays him attention, and is strong, and healthy, and won’t leave him. But there is only so long the squabbling of adults can keep the attention of a young child, and since his Father does not like him seeking attention while the advisors are present, Dion learns to entertain himself during these meetings of powerful men. The next two years follow, and he learns to amuse himself quietly with books, writing, or drawing but always listening to his Father make decisions for the good of the empire and its people.
The Throne Garden is a bright open circular space, wyvern’s tails growing in large sprawling beds, constructed to surround a large round table under an ornate awning where the advisor’s sit and discuss commerce, crystals and the cost of expansion. The whole space is white marble and delicate gold and silver embellishments to set off the green of the garden, and matches with the white of the flower of the empire. His Father’s throne sits on a dais that allows him to oversee the proceedings, but apart so that the Emperor may exclude himself if he so wishes, maintaining the correct level to suit his divine station above theirs. The smell of the flower beds is often overwhelming to Dion’s small nose, but he otherwise does not mind the location. It is open, and airy, so unlike his mother’s sick rooms, where he spends the majority of his time when not with Harpocrates or the Lady Barreau. The sky feels so close in this garden, and he often daydreams of stepping into the sky and flying away in to the clouds. The advisor’s bickering under their awning that shields them from the strength of the sun fading in to the background as a gentle wind ruffles his hair and the burbling of the water running through the beds slips past on its way to the fountains on a layer below of the castle.
On one clear day, after listening to the advisors discuss recent news from within the Duchy of Rosaria, he sits quietly at his Father’s side reading the latest tome he was given by Harpocrates after their latest lesson, a book on the myths and legends of gallant Knights of the Dragoon Order. The assignment of this book by his tutor was a reward for reading “By the Light of the Phoenix, a history of Rosaria,” a rather long dry text detailing the foundation of the Duchy of Rosaria and their relationship with the dominant Phoenix. He cannot truthfully say that the tome was that much of a bother. While it was long, and had many large words he had to ask Harpocrates about, he has always enjoyed reading, and anything that helps prepare him for his role as Prince and future regent he has decided is worth paying attention to for the sake of his Father; this new book is simply a more enjoyable read. He is already a third of the way through, despite starting only that morning, and his attention is wholly engrossed in tales of Bahamut’s prowess on the battlefield. The sound of wings beats faintly in his ears as he buries himself in the text. Would Bahamut or the Phoenix prove a better flier? Which dominant was larger? Can all the dominants fly? Anything that has to do with airborne combat or flight in general has a great interest with him. Sometimes the sight of the sky fills him with a strange kind of longing, and he finds himself lost in gazing at it, which used to annoy his teachers, until Harpocrates came, and proved more interesting than the rest.
An Excerpt from On Winged Lance, “—and the Dominant Sir Berneux, in the year 3— led the campaign against the Silvershard tribe for four full seasons before pushing them back to their lairs in the north. The decisive battle raged in the skies above the water off the coast and was visible from the very capital. Shiva’s dominant fell to the seasoned warrior but evidence of their clash can still be visible hundreds of years later if the form of the frozen light that still remains on the shores in the northern province. This everlasting frozen light is evidence of Berneux’s power as one of the first Dominants of Bahamut; his manifestation as the dragon was his final recorded appearance in battle. After this battle and the routing of the northern forces, the Northern Province Cardinal Simeon de Laval negotiated for peace with the southernmost tribe in the Northern Territories, which formed the basis of the Shard Treaty of 3—, which provided an avenue for trade and expansion. This of course was violated by Silvermane’s expansion into the Duchy of Rosaria in 6—“
Gradually, he becomes aware that his Father is signaling for his attention, a cleared throat and the looming presence of a servant that has come closer with a platter for the flower his Father had been contemplating and has now cast aside.
“Attentive to your studies I see.” Sylvestre rises from his seat, waving away the servant, and beckons for him to stand. He closes his book and takes his Father’s hand, alighting from the slightly too tall chair that was placed near his Father’s throne for his use and giving an affirmative answer. “And what has Harpocrates been teaching you this day?”
“I finished a book on the history of Rosaria, so Harpocrates has allowed me a book on the Dragoon Order.” He tries to maintain a straight back and smooth gait, projecting confidence in similar way to how his Father walks as much as possible. Father often reminds him that the way one presents themselves is vital for those of the royal house. He often practices walking alone by himself after his lessons, holding a long broom as if it was a lance. There is a small room in his chambers with a window that has a distant view of the Dragoon training grounds. Its hard to see from such a distance, but he is still able to watch those already bound to wyvern practicing their jumps and coordinated attacks. The elegance and ease of their partnership entrances him. Sylvestre takes a moment to glance at the title of the book under his arm.
“Ah yes, a favorite text of myself as a child, are you reading it for the first time?” Dion nods firmly just once, giving a happy noise of agreement, as Sylvestre continues. “The tales of our dragoons are very important to the empire as our fiercest warriors.” The rings on his Fathers’s hand are warm against the skin of his palm, and Dion looks up rapt with attention as the emperor expounds upon the knightly order, emphasizing out one or two of the most important of dragoons from their history, and taking care to point out if they were dominants. His Father believes that Bahamut’s dominants make the best of dragoons, and so Dion keeps quiet on his own favorites he has discovered from the book in question.
“From the way I have seen you practicing with the lance, I am sure you will too join the halls of the most exalted of our heroes.” While his Father was speaking, they had made their way inside and down a long staircase out of the administration areas of the castle. A group of advisors was following at a respectful distance and he did his best as always to ignore them and focus solely on his Father. “But for now, we must both take a rest, you from your studies and I from my duties, and partake in the midday meal.” Dion cannot help but beam a little with pride at this praise, and agrees that he will do his best to improve his skills. Praise! From his Father! Such a rare thing indeed, but it proves that his worth is increasing, as his Father so often reminds him to take care of.
Sylvestre leads him by the hand through the castle halls towards the chambers where they sometimes take sustenance together. This time they have together is precious to Dion, his Father is so often busy running the empire and protecting its people that he is happy when they can eat together. When they enter the chambers, a long table has been set with platters of decadent food, cut meats, mounds of fruit, steaming fresh breads and glossy pastries. The main dish is a large fish fresh from the ocean that borders the palace, gleaming a brilliant scarlet from its place of honor in the center as they seat themselves, Sylvestre at the head, Dion on his right side. While the servants are in the room, he knows to listen attentively to his Father’s interactions with the advisors that had followed them, vying for one last audience with the emperor before he ends all discourse for the next hour. His Father does not like being interrupted when eating, and rarely partakes in the discussion of his advisors during the meal.
The servants leave or take their places in the wings waiting for instructions; the advisors are glared into silence and take their places at the table; the chair to his Father’s left is empty. As the doors close behind the last of the kitchen staff, his Father takes a moment of silence, keeping the other men in attendance in suspense, before reaching for his spoon and tucking in to his lunch. The others are allowed to do the same. Gentle conversation follows, Dion eats slowly, maintaining the decorum that has begun to be drilled into him. The reminders of his mentors taking up most of his focus as he concentrates on eating the correct way. Soup, fish, pasta, salad, fruit, pastry, all disappear over the course of the meal. The rare sound of his Father’s voice during the meal breaks his concentration and he has to pause and save his blueberry from falling off the tart he is currently biting into. It would not due for it to drop and roll under the table or some other such indecorous instance. He puts the half eaten pastry down to give his full attention.
“—prove to be a good opportunity for diplomatic relations, yes. With the tensions between Rosaria and the Northern Kingdoms intensifying, and the blight spreading, a display of support could prove useful in the future.” His Father wipes his mouth clean with a napkin before signaling to the nearest servant for his wine to be refilled. Once the man has stepped away, he continues. “The Rosarians are a proud people, and despite their dominant’s recent passing, I foresee them triumphing over the Northern Kingdom soon even if we did not pledge a measure of support. And we all know when this conflict is resolved that they will turn their eye upon the Iron Kingdom soon afterward. It is the only logical conclusion.” A look comes over his face, before he turns to level a heavy stare at Dion. “And I believe this may be a good chance for my son to see how other kingdoms live and function. How would you like that my son?”
Dion can see that this is not really a request, as his Father often looks at him in this way when he wants Dion to agree without questioning his reasons. Its the same look he sees sometimes when he is forced to come to meetings with the advisors, or when he is pulled from practicing his swordsmanship and lancework with Terence, as he is sometimes allowed in the mornings. At such a heavy look, he sits up straighter.
“I have been learning about our allies during my lessons this month, this would surely be beneficial to my education.” Said with as much confidence and clarity as possible, he hopes it is enough for his Father’s standards. A small smile lights over Sylvestre’s face and Dion can feel himself losing some of the tension of being called upon in that room full of advisors. His Father looks back at the gathered men.
“And there you have it, make preparations for such a diplomatic visit at once.” And with that, the meal continues. Desserts are brought out and the adults are once again distracted by ice cold dishes and sweet treats, not unlike children. Dion takes a moment, sees that it is safe to continue his meal, and picks up the half eaten tart from the table. With the break in eating his mouth has had a rest from all the flavors it was partaking in, and thus the tart is all the sweeter for having been set briefly to the side. He hums quietly in pleasure, the unconscious noise the only signifier of his pleasure.
~
“You’re going to Rosaria?”
The clouds paint wild wispy streaks of white over the sky as Dion pants out quiet breaths, stabbing his practice lance into the earth. He takes a moment to wipe his brows with the back of his grey gloved left hand, before lifting his gaze to look at Terence’s awed face. They have been spending time out on the practice grounds of the royal barracks every day after the midday meal, his Father releasing him from his studies for the past two days as he discusses the change to Dion’s lessons with Harpocrates in the wake of the decision to include him in the upcoming diplomatic visit. He has been excused from accompanying his Father to court, and his lessons with Harpocrates have been paused, while his etiquette lessons have become particularly intense. The only thing that keeps him from missing the library is the fact that their weapons lessons have been increased, as the prowess of the prince should be suitably impressive. His and Terence’s practice weapons have are light, to suit their young forms, and blunt, so that they do not hurt themselves. But more importantly they are of a proportion so that they can practice the forms of the weapons they will eventually choose to master. Terence’s sword is barely the length of the sword master’s favorite knife, but as they grow, the weapons will grow with them. He has barely begun the forms of the dragoon, he is not even old or skilled enough for squirehood, but he is expected to learn fast. Dion’s Father told him as such.
The news in the castle must have spread beyond the dining room and advisory chambers, finally reaching the rest of the nobles for Terence to have heard. He certainly has been too focused on their increased basic lance lessons to remember to remark on it himself.
“Ah, Father asked if I wanted to and I said yes.” He takes one of the water skeins they packed for after their training and quenches his thirst before retrieving his practice lance. Whenever Terrence started asking questions, it was hard to get him to concentrate again until he knew all the information. It was good that at least he waited until their practice time was up.
A yell for attention from the overseer of the ring momentarily distracted them, and by mutual agreement they made themselves scarce from the training fields, a group of established squires taking over the space immediately. They gave their thanks to the most senior dragoon overlooking the training grounds, bowing and staying to receive the constructive criticism that was their due. Practice weapons relinquished and flanked by royal guard, they make the short trek from the royal barracks, Dion making sure to greet those dragoons they meet on the journey back to the castle.
Its a beautiful clear day, and his eyes are on the skies as they make their way past soldiers, squires, and dragoons alike. The shouts and squacks and sounds of clashing steel ring throughout the sprawling compound that is the royal barracks and training grounds. The building that houses and feeds the soldiers and dragoons living there is large and utilitarian, but surrounded by various training fields, sparring rings, and burned flats. The ring they had been using to practice beginner forms had several training dummies to test their strikes against, as they are not trusted to spar with living opponents yet. The aery calls for his attention, but aware as he is of the burn of Terence’s curiosity at his back, he pulls away from the calls of dragons in their nests. However he cannot resist stopping to admire a brilliant green wyvern as it wings close overhead, watching as it dives down and makes its way to a tall white-haired man in dark leathers waiting with lance in hand in the tall grass of a field beyond the aery’s perimeter.
“I wonder when we will be able to get our wyverns.” Terence has stopped with him, and they both gaze in amazement at the man’s gentle yet firm direction of his companion, sending the wyvern once more skyward before leaping into the air himself in an impressive show of the dragoon form. It is like he is taking flight, and Dion is momentarily speechless.
“Recruits get their dragon eggs upon acceptance into the squirehood of an existing knight.” He recalls, scarcely able to remove his eyes from the man and dragon’s skillful display. “For most, that is around 12 to 15 years of age. Then we must hatch and care for them until they are of an age to join us in battle.” An slight movement out of the corner of his eye, one of the guards shifting, breaks his concentration. He reluctantly forces his eyes away from the mans training and, tugging gently on Terence’s sleeve, he turns, taking one final glance behind him before urging them both towards their intended destination.
“I’m sure we’ll get them early!” is Terence’s determined response. The boy’s hands are drawn up to his sides in excited fists, his eyes clear and bright with excitement, face open and happy. He cannot help the smile that breaks free in agreement of that sentiment. Oh, to have a wyvern. He sighs to himself with the longing of a child that wishes it was just a few years older. The two of them are in high spirits as they return to the castle walls, and make their way to Dion’s chambers.
As they walk, Dion fills him in on what little he knows about the current plans for their meeting with Rosaria. He admits that he doesn’t really know all that much. He hasn’t been required to go to the advisor’s chambers since the lunch in question where the topic was broached. But the fact that his lessons have changed to reflect the “desired image we wish to present” (his Father’s words) does give him something of news to share with his friend. Being left alone in the safety of his rooms with just Terence allows him space to relax a little, and finally complain about his time with Harpocrates being cut short. His etiquette lessons are now relentless, the topics boring, the teacher strict. Terence’s family has not been invited, so his time remains unchanged, playing with his siblings, practicing the lance with his older brothers, or reading what he likes from the library outside his lessons.
“I hope they let you back in the library soon.” Terence slides off the couch they have been lounging on. Their midday meal, having proceeded them into the room, is left devoured on the table between them. As they ate, Terence’s daily tale of whatever hijinks his siblings got up to recently had left Dion with an awful pull in his lower stomach. He knows what it is, a bit of envy for all the warmth and bustle of Terence’s daily life. He has encountered no family more warm and vibrant than that of Terence, in his admittedly short 6 years of age, and he pouts for half a second, before schooling his face into passivity.
“I know how much you hate being left without a book, and they’ve made you go two whole weeks without Harpocrates!” Dion groans in agreement.
“Father says that when snooty Lady Barreau thinks I’m ready that I can go back to my regular studies, but I don’t know when that will be.” He collects the crumbs off his lap onto his napkin, folds the edges over each other, and places the whole bundle on the table before sliding off the chair as well. Terence makes a gagging noise of commiseration.
It is almost time for his afternoon lessons, and if he keeps the Lady Barreau waiting, that will mostly likely push his future time with Harpocrates back even further.
“I don’t envy you in the slightest. I only have to take etiquette lessons with mama, but its so rowdy with my younger sisters we hardly ever get anything done.” They abandon the plates, work for a servant that would be along soon to fetch them.
He takes a moment to glance in the large mirror by his door, careful to check for creases or any such disturbances to his appearance like he was taught, and then follows Terence out into the hallway. They part at the door. He waves goodbye and hurries as fast as he can without running through the hallways. As he passes a window, a flash of green makes him hesitate, and he sees once more the emerald green dragon and its white haired partner dive from the sky in the distance. He takes one long wistful look, lets out a soft barely audible sigh, and then turns and continues on his way.
~
The Lady Barreau is a woman of thirty-eight summers, olive-skinned with long straight dark hair pulled severely back into a high ponytail, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Dion had only ever seen her in dark dress, with shapes and lengths very similar to the ladies of court that he occasionally witnessed, but with very little of the frills or bustles. When Dion had first met her, she had seemed the most intimidating person he had ever encountered. She had a commanding force and for the most part reminded him nothing of his mother. Every chair upon which she decided to sit brought to mind his Father’s throne. In contrast, Dion’s mother had to be placed into any chair in which she desired to rest, and so often ended up appearing as if swallowed up by them. In the sick rooms she was but a small figure in a large bed, surrounded by dense blankets. This sharp and darkly clothed woman became his etiquette teacher upon his arrival to the palace at 4 years of age, and had been instilling in him the correct way of building the individual parts of himself, through his habits, mannerisms, and way of thinking by the order of his Father ever since.
Under her tutelage he learned how to present himself as a young heir should. How to speak, how to walk, how to enter a room, to introduce himself to the Lords, to introduce himself to their Ladies, to be silent as a child should, to eat using the correct utensils in the correct order, to never sully his clothes outside of the training yard, to curb his enthusiasm where others could see it, to think and do for the good of the empire first and foremost, and most importantly to value the will of the emperor over even his own soul—because that is what is expected of him, and he will embody that will. He is the firstborn son of the emperor after all. This last one he always hears when his Father comes to visit. The Lady always has an odd look on her face when his Father comes to visit. She is most strict at those times, unyielding, demanding perfection on the first order, where normally she is more patient with his mistakes.
After three months of relentless focus on etiquette lessons, where his Father frequently visited to the anxiety of himself and unknowingly also his teacher, the day his lessons with Harpocrates resume feels like one of the happiest of his young life. It took nearly an entire month before his Father stops finding fault with his every move, and it had reached the 2 month mark before he stopped feeling the need to drop in unannounced. He supposes he should have been happy for Sylvestre’s attention, it was the most time he had spent with him in his entire life. But he was so stressed over appearing as he ought, that it merely increased the awful persistent clenching ache that would linger in his belly before, during, and after each lesson. His appetite had suffered because of it, and even Terrence had commented on his lack of enthusiasm, telling him he looked dull in comparison to his usual self. He had been on his best behavior and running on instinct, repetition, and muscle memory by the time his Father had expressed approval and declared his intent to cease supervising said lessons. The day after said declaration, the Lady Barreau had allowed him an entire meeting in silence, where they had a meal consisting only of his preferred foods. It was calming. As the ache in his stomach slowly dissolved his appetite had reluctantly returned. His previous harsh thoughts on the general snootiness of his teacher had melted away into something like gratitude. And then came relief, a final checkin by his Father announced the return of his regular lessons with Harpocrates, and the reduction of the etiquette ones to only twice a week.
If skipping and running in the palace had not been against nearly everything his teacher had instilled in him during the aforementioned time period, he would have been sprinting down the halls to the library to meet with Harpocrates. As it was, he felt as if he was floating, near breathless with excitement as he made his way through the shelves to the space he knew Harpocrates would be waiting. The smell of the paper and the rasp of the carved patterns on the marble bookshelves under his fingertips as he passed through the maze-like layout of the high library were indulgences he was happy to partake in where no one could see him, and he couldn’t help but smile broadly as he rounded the shelves of the history section and approached to see the man bent over a book, several large stacks of texts, six books high or so on the table surrounding him. He walked on silent feet until he was right at Harpocrates side.
“What are you reading?”
The scholar startled visibly, bumping his leg against the underside of the table and setting the towers of books to shift precariously. For one moment Dion feared they may fall, but nothing of the consequence occurred, and Harpocrates paid the danger no mind, turning to him with obvious delight on his face. Dion was pulled into a hug before he knew what was happening.
“My boy! You’ve been missed!” He was released in short order, but the man’s hand remained on his shoulder, a touch filled with geniality. Dion blushed under the warmth of such a welcome. He felt bashful for a moment, but the feeling passed quickly, and he couldn’t help the wide smile he gave in return.
“Father finally let me out of my lessons with Lady Barreau.” He climbed into the comfy chair at his teachers side, legs dangling a bit as he relaxed into the back of it. Harpocrates didn’t care if he sat back causing his feet to now touch the ground. He didn’t care much about etiquette at all really, and only scolded Dion if he laid the books face down open on the table, or folded the corners of the pages. “I finished the book you lent me ages ago!”
A soft chuckle was the man’s response. “Then tell me all about what you thought of it.”
Being back in the library after so long felt like coming home.
He spent the rest of the week in the library with Harpocrates as much as he could, making up for lost time, and discussing the books they read. It was now Harpocrates’ job to teach him as much about Rosaria as possible, as the fast approaching diplomatic visit loomed large. It was only three short weeks away and Dion felt that as much as he knew about the founding of the Grand Duchy from his previous readings, it taught him more on its history rather than its present circumstances. He needed to know more about Rosaria’s present instead, or he would surely make a mistake and offend their neighbors. He would be expected to address the ruling family directly, instead of just being presented to them. Dion had met them before, during a large event about 2 years prior, but remembered little about the occasion, except a fondness for their son Joshua, who he had primarily interacted with. But Dion suspected that his encounter would not be of significant use, especially on their own soil, so learning as much as he could in the mean time was beneficial.
Two weeks before their departure, after spending the entire day reading a text on the differences in Bearer policy between the Dominion, Sanbreque, and Rosaria, an interruption came with the arrival of twilight. Long shadows stretched across the corridors and between the tall bookshelves created by the illumination in their reading area. Dion had summoned some of the small white drakelights he sometimes used at night for them to read by. Three bearers came in silently, the warning sign of their existence being the increasing warm light that slowly grew in the library as they lit the hearths, candles, and lanterns that drowned out the cool light of the combined ascending moon and Dion’s drakelight. Dion was momentarily distracted as one approached them with a large covered tray, kept warm by the heat of softly glowing hands. It was set on an elevated section of the table to prevent harming any surrounding books, before being uncovered to reveal their dinner, a rich braised fish with vegetables in a red sauce. Without saying a word, plates were distributed, bread was cut, utensils placed, and with a quick bow, the bearer retreated.
Dion thought only of the smell wafting towards him and the sudden emptiness of his stomach, until he happened to glance up and see a strange look on Harpocrates’ face. The man thanked the bearer for their food, and gave a soft huff when he received only nervous bowing in reply. The strange look seemed to be in response to such behavior. It was not the normal look he saw on people’s faces when they chose not to ignore or had to address the bearers in their midst. Those looks reminded him of his Father sometimes, when Dion made mistakes or said the wrong thing. This look was more similar to the looks his mother sometimes gave him, when he asked about his Father, or when he could tell she was feeling particularly weak. It wasn’t the same, but it did shift his focus.
He wondered if he should say anything. Normally, he would ask his mother if she was alright. Then she would smile widely at him, beckon him close, and give him a warm hug before directing his attention to other subjects, asking about books he’d read or topics discussed with Harpocrates. This was generally a good attempt at being very reassuring and had early on succeeded in distracting him from his previous inquiry, but increasingly this response simply made him reluctant to bring it up again; especially as time went on and the look became almost permanently etched on the sallow lines of her face. It only left when she noticed him looking at her.
He looked at the old man’s face. He seemed distracted as he watched the bearers leave, lost in his head a bit. Dion waited a moment longer, unsure if he should make the effort. Mother never answered, but maybe Harpocrates would be different.
“Are you…alright…” The words, when they were spoken, were soft. Hesitant. Harpocrates hummed a little as he was drawn out of his thoughts, before blinking and realizing what he had been asked. He pulled his gaze from the retreating bearers to Dion.
“Ah yes, why do you ask?” This at least was more than his mother ever answered, an invitation for further discussion. Placing his spoon to the side of his bowl, careful not to get any food on a nearby book, he turned and looked at Harpocrates.
“You had a funny look on your face, when those bearers were here. But not the same look Father makes when he sees them.” He looked to the side as a he tried to figure out the best way to describe the difference. “More like the face mother makes sometimes when she isn’t feeling so good and doesn’t want me to go to my studies.” He blushed a little, that was more than he meant to admit.
With his averted eyes, he didn’t catch the soft look spreading over Harpocrates’ face. Or the troubled one that came thereafter. ‘What ideas are best to reveal’, the man wondered, ‘to the crown prince of such a nation. One who can enact great change for those lowest among them, but is also chained to expectation.’ He had grown quite fond of his young student, with his open mind and earnest desire to learn more. He had not yet started to question his upbringing, sheltered as he was, but he hoped that once the boy was allowed to see more of the world, that could change. ‘However, cultivating the boy’s mind to allow for critical thinking…’ Harpocrates also set down his cutlery, some things were more important than hot food.
“As you know, I come from outside of Valisthea, but have studied its people and problems all my life.” He leaned back in his chair as he began speaking, resting his hands on his stomach. Dion looked up with rapt attention, Harpocrates always assumed such a pose when he was prepared to give a lengthy explanation to one of Dion’s questions, and having him do so to answer a personal one rather than academic struck him. “In my home country, there are no such people as bearers. As such, the plight of the bearers has always fascinated me.”
“No bearers?” Dion interjected, surprised. ‘Whole kingdoms, without bearers to serve them?’ The very thought was puzzling.
“Indeed!” Harpocrates seemed gratified for the attention, and continued enthusiastically. “How can such gifted people be used in such a manner? A whole group of people, children, sons and daughters born of those without, being judged and enslaved solely because they can naturally use magic. And yet magic itself is not regarded as evil, but largely relied upon in all aspects of life. The prevailing theories say it is a product of the Fallen’s hubris, for surely a nation lead by bearers that met such a tragic end deserves to have its leaders positions’ toppled and forced to serve. They relied too heavily on magic and contested the gods themselves. But is this not what the current people are also saying and doing through such rampant use and reliance upon magic?” His voice was more impassioned as he went on, his hands busy and eyes not paying Dion any attention. It was clear that rather than a teaching moment, this was his teacher speaking about something that he really cared about. Dion’s eyes widened at his teacher in wonder.
“Its also curious that other blatant consequences are being ignored, such as the crystal’s curse and the blight we have begun to hear so much about. To use people in such a way as to condemn them at birth to a slow agonizing death through petrifaction, the so called Crystal’s Curse, without a care.” This last reference was said with such a depth of emotion that Dion would normally associate with the throwing of a slur.
The Crystal’s Curse was known to him. His Father always chastised him for using his magic on “small frivolous things” like lighting the room after dark to read or making the drakelights dance for his mothers delight on days she was feeling particularly bad. Father had pointed out an older bearer woman, servant in the house who sat next to the hearth in the main hall endlessly tending the fire. Her legs were wrapped in a thin blanket that didn’t quite reach to cover her stark white ankles. She had never gotten up and moved to his knowledge, despite all the other bearers retreating to the servants halls after serving the meals. He had been curious and his Father explained that her usefulness was limited.
‘She used her magic quite frivolously, instead of just for her duties and invoked the Crystal’s Curse. The only thing she is good for now is fueling the fire.'
“All the nations in Storm seem to execute this practice with impunity. The leaders of all the nations of Storm seem not to include the bearers as people in those they deem worth their consideration, and Sanbreque is the worst in this regard, tattooing marks of slavery on their face for all too judge—“ He stopped, and seemed almost to deflate, the passion and vigor both leaving him as fast as they had filled him. Harpocrates realized, a little belatedly, that the subject was a tad dangerous to be discussing in a part of the library where they could not be assured of their solitude and the argument of the content itself may be above his student’s current degree of critical comprehension.
“All that is to say child,” he turned a sad smile on Dion, who was still looking and listening with his whole soul, “that the plight of bearers is a subject often on my mind since coming to Valisthea, and causes me a great deal of sadness and anger when I witness innocent people being subjected to such treatment.”
Sadness was the emotion he was witnessing, Dion realized. Anger was mixed in as well, but the main feeling was sadness and frustration over a situation that could not be changed. His mother was sick, and could not leave her rooms, and got weaker as time passed, but still tried to make him happy during his visits. Harpocrates felt sadness over people being mistreated without being able to do anything to make their lives better. His Father was not sad when he looked at bearers, but neither were most of the adults that looked at bearers in his life. Bearers are tools to be used, he had heard an advisor say once, when the discussion had turned to the birth and submission of bearer infants in the different regions, municipalities, and territories of the empire. How to house, raise, and distribute these people, these resources to the greatest advantage of the empire was as frequent a topic as the acquisition and distribution of the crystals lying under their feet. But they are people not crystals, he realized. But for a circumstance of their birth, their fate was sealed forever.
“If I wasn’t the dominant of Bahamut, but could still use the power of light, they would have branded me a bearer too, wouldn’t they.” It was not a question.
Harpocrates said nothing, but the look on his face said all Dion needed to hear.
Dion said nothing in return, just took one last look at the door where the bearers had left and then turned back to his food, picked up his spoon, and then haltingly, began eating. Harpocrates looked at the boy in silence for a moment, wondering at what was going through his mind, before doing the same. They finished their meal in silence, returned their plates and utensils to the platter on which they had been delivered, and took up their respective books and study materials: Harpocrates looking over the report Dion had written about the last text he was assigned and Dion attempting to finish his latest text on Rosarian customs for the rapidly upcoming trip. They worked mostly in silence, Dion occasionally asking for help with definitions but otherwise silent. When the clock struck to mark the end of their time together, he gently closed his tome, and began attempting to tidy the space. Harpocrates stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. ”Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He said, and handed Dion the old book on Dragoon history. “In case you feel like reading for pleasure.” Dion nodded in thanks and bowed, wishing him a good night before sliding off his chair and beginning the walk back to his rooms, tome in tow. He paused before he rounded a bookshelf that would take him out of sight of Harpocrates on his way to the far exit.
“It’s not fair.”
Harpocrates picked up his head, and saw that Dion had a resolute look on his face, as if he had been working over the issue in his head the whole time he had been silent, but now came to a conclusion on his own. The boy was staring into the nearby fireplace with an anxious look to his face.
“It’s not fair that just because I have magic, I’m going to turn to stone and die. That we will turn to stone and die.”
“No,” Harpocrates couldn’t help the subdued tone to his voice. “No it isn’t.”
Dion met his eyes, before nodding once and bowed again, thanked him for the discussion of the day, and left, slipping away on silent feet. Harpocrates worried for a moment that he had exposed his student to a harsh reality of life too soon, but the world they lived in was cruel, and the fate of a Dominant was perhaps the most tragic of all.
~
On the way back to his room, Dion’s head swirled with conflicting emotions. The previously established facts of his life did not add up the way they had before Harpocrates’ impassioned speech during dinner. His Father had instilled in him some basic truths that he was struggling to reconcile with this new information. Everything they do, as members of the royal family, is in service to the people of Sanbreque, their protection, succor, and advancement. But not bearers. They may be born of us, but they are not us. He clutched his book closer to him, his feet refusing to speed up in view of others in the path between him and the relative safety of his rooms. The gentle orbs of light he summoned to accompany him floated around him as he walked, catching his eye and thoughts. He passes bearer guards and bearer servants, and though he wants to stop desperately, and ask them if its true, if this is what they live and know, he does no such thing. The royal family must hold itself apart from the rest, so he continues on until he reaches his bed chambers. He has to wait at his door for the night guard to open the door for him, feeling more and more agitated, like he is about to vibrate out of his skin.
He recounts the lessons Lady Barreau had him recite endlessly as the door is closed behind him shutting out the rest of the world. His vision blurs. He wishes desperately for his mother in that moment. The room feels so large, like when he first started sleeping here one year earlier. The space between the door and his bed feels vast and uncrossable. The light from his drakelights drifts past, blurred and distracting. He shuts his eyes against the sight, water slips down his cheeks and he clutches his book closer to his chest. He makes no noise as he stands there. Eventually, his feet carry him to his bed, and he climbs in without shedding his clothes for the day, curling around the book his arms refuse to relinquish.
The lights blink out one by one as he tries not to think, lying there with his wet face until the pressure in his head becomes too much. He breathes deep before letting out a shuddering breath and succumbs to sleep.
He doesn’t feel much better the next day. The headache has gone, soothed by the bliss of oblivion, but he is still stressed and groggy. His eyes are sore, his stomach is uneasy, and his arms ache, one having gone numb overnight. The book he was clutching trapped said arm at an awkward angle and he groaned as he released it and placed it aside immediately losing it amongst his blankets. Today he was meant to visit his mother, so he pulled himself out of bed, grumbled as he realized he still had yesterday’s clothes on, and went to make himself presentable.
After washing and changing he was still in no mood to talk, but put on his best imitation of Lady Barreau’s blank face for traversing the halls. He eats breakfast in silence, the platter delivered by blank faced bearers, their hands glowing softly to keep his food warm. He can’t bring himself to look too closely at them, but he is powerless against the urge to thank them softly as they bow and exit. He picks his way through the food, which thankfully settles in his upset stomach with little issue, but lack of appetite means he cannot bear to eat much of it. Once he is finished he approaches the door, check himself in the mirror, smoothes any creases and then departs for his mother's rooms.
Empress Jolantha Lesage’s wing of the castle is separate from her husband’s and close to the staircase that leads down to the chirurgeon’s sector due to her ill health. The rooms are no less opulent as his however, but airy with large windows and far less frequently traversed, due to being out of the way to anyone but the sick. She is the only sick royal at present, so she resides there alone, away from all others. He likes visiting his mother most days, its quiet and he rarely sees anyone but a passing chirurgeon or the same few bearers around to light her fires, so he does not have to be so on guard as normal. The chirurgeon’s were always too stressed to take notice of him, and he had never had cause to take notice of the bearers. He notices them now, and by the time he gets to his mother’s room his headache from last night has returned. Jolantha is awake and humming a soft tune when he arrives. When she notices his approach a smile lights up her face, but something of his distress must have been apparent because it drops immediately in favor of a look of concern, her arms already open and reaching for him.
“Oh my love,” gentle hands cup his face as he silently sheds his shoes and coat jacket and climbs into her bed. “What troubles you so?” She is warm, and soft, and he curls his face into her stomach, tired already by the manners he had to display just to get here. She rubs her hand down his back and the curtain of her dark hair shields him from the light of the windows as it drapes around him. A comfortable cocoon of warmth and comfort. She is humming a simple tune, waiting patiently for him to speak. He slowly relaxes into her embrace, and once he gathers the courage and collects his thoughts, his reply is muffled by the blankets covering her abdomen.
“Am I a bearer?” The hand on his back pauses, the humming stops.
“What do you mean?” He leans back on to his knees, sitting up so he can look at her face when they talk. His eyes are sore again. His mother has gone more pale than usual.
“Am I going to turn to stone?” His mother tilts his face up to look at her, wiping at his cheeks at the same time.
“No you aren’t a bearer my drakeling, you are a dominant!” She gives him a bright smile, but as he gazes into her face he can see the edges are faintly trembling. His unchanging expression causes hers to soften in kind. Her hands run gently through his hair. “Dominants are special my love, chosen as the Goddess’ favored. Bahamut is the blessing bestowed to Sanbreque. As Bahamut you have been chosen to be its protector. Your Father works for peace inside our realm, and with our neighbors. You will not be called to—” Her voice quavered and she seemed to be holding back tears as she continued. “—to spend your aether in service to the kingdom so frivolously that you would come under the crystal’s curse. Your Father will protect you. So I don’t want to hear anything more about this nonsense of turning to stone or about being a bearer you understand?” He nods and buries his head back into her abdomen, her arms curl back around him as he relaxes and goes quiet. This is the safest place in the world, he feels, as he drifts off to an untroubled sleep.
Unbeknownst to the slumbering Dion, his mother was wavering. She felt that there was something she owed to Dion and herself to do before the sickness that plagued her grew stronger. Her increasing days of malaise were proving harder and harder to ignore. She was not sure she trusted her husband to do what was right on this matter, but her conscience had pricked and needled at her ever since the boy had called her mother in his own voice for the first time. The insidious feeling of guilt had grown within her over time, and she felt it could only be relieved through telling him the truth of his existence.
She brushed her fingers gently through his hair, laying a stray few strands of the blond strands in line with the rest. He was so soft in sleep, warm and comforting, everything she had ever wanted. Bolstered by her love for him, she gathered courage to do what she felt was right.