secondflame
secondflame
independent - semi-selective - mutuals only rp blog for Clive Rosfield from FFXVI written by Stray. multi-ship & multi-verse -- under construction
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FINAL FANTASY XVI (2023) dev. Square Enix
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Questions? Clive huffed out a breath, resigned, of course. They went through the effort of capturing him, he should have known an interrogation would come before the end. He just hoped the man would make it quick and not drag out what they both knew was coming for him. His voice seemed oddly familiar, although Clive couldn't quite place it, his choice of words, his inflections, it all reminded him of someone, but who?
This escaped him like so many things from before. Before Ifrit took over, before the Eikon decided to shield him from his memories, before the hunger took over and Clive began living from fight to fight, from enemy to enemy. He wasn't sure why Ifrit chose to keep parts of his memory locked away, but suspected for the sole reason of not having his vessel succumb to grief and stupor that came with the trauma of killing his own brother.
Clive recoiled from that memory, mentally and physically, the chains rattled as he strained against them with a sudden winding agony settling in his chest. Ifrit remained awfully quiet in the back of his mind.
The other man spoke again and Clive got pulled back to the present by the man's anger, his grief written clearly within the words he spat into the space between them. It seemed personal. This raw edge of pain swinging with his words, like a blade sharpened over the course of an entire decade. Clive knew it well, wielded it himself in a way. Who did he lose that night? How many more people were burned by Ifrit's flame?
"My name?" He growled back. "Does it matter? It doesn't change what I did, nor will it bring back whoever you have lost."
And as for his connection to the Duchess... He wished their wasn't any, wished he could not recall her face or her perpetual scowl in such clarity, the words she uttered dripping with venom each time she addressed him, as if she was punishing him for a crime he didn't know he committed in the first place.
Now, she would be right to treat him with such disdain, would be justified in her hatred for him. Nowadays it was perhaps the one thing they had in common above all else. However, he didn't plan to tell this stranger any of this and so he kept his mouth firmly shut.
As expected, the man wouldn't have as much time as he had hoped. Footsteps drew closer still and soon more men stepped into the dungeon. The clinking of keys reached his ears. The door to his cell was opened. Clive didn't move.
There was hesitation in these people's steps, as if they were approaching a cornered animal and didn't quite know how to best go about it. He didn't care. If this was what form his death would take, so be it. He was tired, of the pain, of the hunger, of fighting for what amounted to nothing.
They took off the chains and dragged him away from the wall, only to push him to his knees a few feet further away. A hand roughly grasped at the hood still drawn deep into his face and pulled it back. Clive snarled on instinct when it also pulled painfully at a few strands of hair, eyes bright with a faint shade of gold as he turned his head, the glow of the torches around them casting dark lines unto his face.
He was a far cry from the boy that lost control over the Eikon of Fire he didn't even know existed back then. Maybe he was closer to the animal these people regarded him as than he was to the boy from back then. No human capable of slaying their own kin should be regarded as anything but a wild beast to be put down. What would his father say if he could see him now?
This is more mercy than you deserve.
Someone hissed at him, or maybe it was just his own mind welcoming the punishment that awaited him at long last. When he felt the familiar cold of steel against his skin he wondered what awaited him after. Would he see Joshua again? His father? Would he be able to apologize? What would he even say?
Would they forgive him?
They took his sword, but let him keep his clothes, his hood, his armor. He doesn't know why, fear perhaps, that he'd manage to shirk the restraints and burn them alive if they dared to touch him or even just remain in his presence for too long. He had had half a mind to when they found him, had fought a good portion of them down even, but belatedly realizing who they were, what they stood for, who they'd sworn servitude to, he simply gave up, gave in, took this as the sign he'd been looking for that this was to be the end of his miserable existence.
He heard footsteps draw nearer and then stop, the sound of leather and metal shifting quietly meeting his ears, as well as a rhythm of breath that seemed so familiar it almost hurt. Must be his imagination. "What do you want?" He growled, but it was a tired, barely there sound. He didn't even raise his head to meet his visitor's eyes, it remained hung low, his arms raised above his head, wrists clasped in shackles, the chain connecting them pulled through a big metal ring fastened to the wall. "I was promised death, have you come to give it to me?"
They told him he'd be put to judgment soon, spat it in his face, justice would be brought upon him for killing the Phoenix, for killing Joshua. A small pained sound escapes him at the thought, at the memory of his baby brother lying broken at his feet the Phoenix' essence leaving him, grief and guilt had persevered over the decade Clive spent wandering, spent running, spent hunting. The burning hunger for aether and years worth of nightmares he had endured the real punishment for his fratricide.
But he was promised relief when they caught him, was promised death. They know who he was, too, or at the very least said they did. They had yet to address him as anything other than Ifrit, the second eikon of fire, or the murderer of Rosaria's crown prince. Clive wasn't sure if they knew he was also Joshua's brother, doubted any of them would recognize him even if they had bothered pulling back the hood. Not with his features so far removed from the boy he once was, taller, his shoulders broader, resembling his father's stature more each day, the lines of his face sharper, his eyes a permanent eikonic golden color and his hair long and unruly.
He didn't care to inform them of the truth, either. It wouldn't change anything. The only thing he cared about was that they would soon put an end to the suffering, to the hunger. He endured a decade's worth of it, but also a decade worth of grief, of anger, and he was tired of it. Tired of running, tired of hunting. Nothing could quench the hunger inside of him, no enemy's aether was enough for him to stay sated for long. He constantly felt like he was starving and even if he wasn't, there was nothing keeping him in this world any longer.
His family was gone, his brother's blood on his hands, his father dead, his home and people swallowed by the Empire, sold out by his mother if he could even call her that now.
But no matter what contempt and hatred he held for her now. He'd never be able to wash himself clean of all he had done. He thought of revenge in the past, before the hunger got unbearable. He watched his home fall to ruin under his mother's rule, helpless to do anything but run from the Empire's forces at first, and then get ever stronger throwing himself at foes far outranking him, hoping for death, only to find Ifrit intervene each time he got close, keeping him alive, keeping his vessel alive. It didn't occur to him to question why the Eikon remained quiet now, had he at last accepted that Clive was not useful? Did Ifrit hope to emerge anew in a more fitting vessel in a few decades, or even centuries? Would the Phoenix do the same?
He abandoned the thought. It wouldn't do him any good to think of anything close to a legacy, any hope of it would die with him and even so he was no longer Clive Rosfield, firstborn son of the Archduke and First Shield of Rosaria and in truth it's been a long time since he's even been Clive.
He closed his eyes, hearing more footsteps in the distance. Probably more members of the Undying wishing to put him to the sword, they'd likely make an event of it, too, unless his visitor would think to do it first.
"Make it quick." He drawled, and closed his eyes. "...before someone else does it for you."
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Clive turns his attention back to Theo, eyes widened in surprise at his words. "You, too?" He asks and the wariness he feels triples in insistency. He still utters a thanks when Theo pulls him to his feet, still rattled from the fall and the fact that none of the other Eikons' powers seem to be available to him right noiw. Ifrit growls low in the back of his mind, but it's not because of anger or even fear.
He almost seems... rueful?
They stand close for a moment after Theo helps him up, Clive too preoccupied with the oppressing but somehow familiar atmosphere around them and Ifrit squirming at the edge of his consciousness to let go of Theo's hand just yet.
"It's the same for me, this place... It feels familiar, but I don't think--" Before he can finish his sentence however, Theo pulls back and he realizes that he held on to him for longer than he likely should have. The apology dies on his tongue when he watches Theo walk away from him as if in a trance.
Water drips somewhere in the distance, clearly an echo of some kind, suggesting the cave to be much larger than they can make out with the little bit of light they have, and yet, it reaches his ears as if it was right next to him, too. It's disorienting and Clive shakes his head.
Voices ring out in the distance, barely above a whisper, but agitated, hissing. Clive's head jerks around to make out their origin. He turns, his hand reaches for the handle of his sword, body readying for a fight. He feels Ifrit curl and coil beneath his skin, itching to take over. He fights him down. What is happeing?
You betrayed me?!
An ache shoots through him and he raises a hand to his temple as a sharp pain pulses there.
No!
Ifrit growls, an odd sense of deja vu grips Clive by the throat and makes it hard to breathe. Anguish, regret, hopelessness not his own sink their claws into his chest.
I trusted you.
I didn't know, please, you have to believe me. His mouth forms the words without him meaning to and it's not his voice that surfaces either. His eyes burn golden for a moment before he at last regains control.
A scream, piercing and furious, and yet so full of emotional pain that it threatens to bring tears to his own eyes rings in his ears. It nearly has his knees buckle.
And then...Silence.
"--What?" His own voice is breathless and rough. After an initial moment of dumbfounded confusion he turns back around and finds Theo standing near an old altar, a shrine? He thinks he sees a figure strung up across a magicked seal, something burried in its chest. But then he blinks and it is gone, replaced by a stone portal. Theo doesn't appear to have heard anything Clive just did, doesn't seem to have seen what may lie beyond the portal either.
They need to leave.
Clive rushes after him. An almost frantic sense of anticipation rings through his consciousness. But it's not his own, it's Ifrit's, and it is distracting enough that it makes him stumble on uneven flooring. "Theo wait!" Clive reaches for him, but to no avail. The stone lights up beneath Theo's fingertips and when Clive's hand closes around his wrist to pull him back his own hand brushes against the stone and just as with Theo it lights up, even brighter than before.
The entire cave begins to illuminate with the symbols they found carved into the stone before them, and just as Clive assessed the cave is indeed far bigger than they initially thought. It seems to stretch on forever into every which way and all of it is flooded with water aside from the stony pedestral on which they stand. Something reverberates in the deep, something ancient, something furious.
"Theo, we need to go." Clive tugs at Theo's arm, already moving, where to he doesn't know, anywhere but here. Yet, it is as if Theo is rooted in place and even with all his strength put into it Clive cannot hope to move him. "Theo!" He turns back around and finds the other man's eyes closed, one hand once again pressed to the stone below. Clive stares, then lets go to step around Theo, half infront of him, grasping his shoulders, shaking him. "Theo!"
The rumbling around them doesn't cease. Ifrit's influence grows ever stronger, too, warning him to be careful, to keep his guard up, but also he seems near hopeful, wanting for something Clive cannot hope to understand.
"Theo!" He calls him by his name again and this time Theo opens his eyes to look at him. They're alight with an eery glow, his features sharp and determined, his skin flickers, his hair gains strands of glowing and somehow, even this is familiar.
Once again, the voice speaking is not is own, but this time he recognizes it, if only for the heat of fire that seems to fill him with it, scorching his throat, burning him from the inside out as it growls in disbelief:
"Leviathan?"
"Don't strain yourself. I can do that myself—"
Except, he can't. The Phoenix won't answer his call, its powers barely a flicker as he reaches for them. Ifrit on the other hand is a constant humming in the back of his mind, near loud enough it is distracting him from all else.
As such he hisses when Theo lays his hands on him, adding pressure to what Clice knows would likely end up being a bruise to end all bruises. While the Phoenix cushioned their fall Clive can still feel the impact throbbing in his back, one of his ribs may even have cracked.
The pain eases when Theo's magic vashes over him, soothing the aches akin to warm water from a pleasant bath. Clive groans at first and then sighs in relief when the pain fades into the background, his hands resting on Theo's hips absentmindedly curling his fingers into the fabric of his clothing.
"Thank you," he says somewhat breathlessly when the glow of healing magic illuminates Theo's features in a way that has his breath stutter with something entirely different from previous discomfort.
A moment passes, but then he shakes himself from his revery when the magic flickers out, plunging them into darkness anew. Clive can see the stars above them, glittering faintly in the distance. Even with the Phoenix' help he's not quite certain how they survived this fall.
Ifrit grows more insistent in the back of his mind, demanding attention, demanding control. Clive shivers as the Eikon basically breathes down his neck and can't help but give in to the urge of conjuring a mage light. He finds that this comes easy enough, even though what follows is most definitely Ifrit's dark flames and not the Phoenix' blessing, just like before.
He lets the flame rise a little higher above them and cranes his neck as best he can to make out more of their surroundings in the dingy light around them, without him knowing his eyes give a breif flicker of gold. These ruins feel familiar somehow.
"What is this place?"
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OOC: <tentative> h-hi
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OOC: I'll continue to not be active here for a while still, between exams, the start of the new semester, work and cosplay things for Fanfest life has been a bit hectic... On top of it all my boss just let me know today that I will be out of a job in november so I'm reeling a little. I'm not sure when I'll be back. I might write to distract myself or I might not. Right now everything feels kind of... overwhelming. Sorry.
I might open up commissions in november depending on how my searching for a new job goes...
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They took his sword, but let him keep his clothes, his hood, his armor. He doesn't know why, fear perhaps, that he'd manage to shirk the restraints and burn them alive if they dared to touch him or even just remain in his presence for too long. He had had half a mind to when they found him, had fought a good portion of them down even, but belatedly realizing who they were, what they stood for, who they'd sworn servitude to, he simply gave up, gave in, took this as the sign he'd been looking for that this was to be the end of his miserable existence.
He heard footsteps draw nearer and then stop, the sound of leather and metal shifting quietly meeting his ears, as well as a rhythm of breath that seemed so familiar it almost hurt. Must be his imagination. "What do you want?" He growled, but it was a tired, barely there sound. He didn't even raise his head to meet his visitor's eyes, it remained hung low, his arms raised above his head, wrists clasped in shackles, the chain connecting them pulled through a big metal ring fastened to the wall. "I was promised death, have you come to give it to me?"
They told him he'd be put to judgment soon, spat it in his face, justice would be brought upon him for killing the Phoenix, for killing Joshua. A small pained sound escapes him at the thought, at the memory of his baby brother lying broken at his feet the Phoenix' essence leaving him, grief and guilt had persevered over the decade Clive spent wandering, spent running, spent hunting. The burning hunger for aether and years worth of nightmares he had endured the real punishment for his fratricide.
But he was promised relief when they caught him, was promised death. They know who he was, too, or at the very least said they did. They had yet to address him as anything other than Ifrit, the second eikon of fire, or the murderer of Rosaria's crown prince. Clive wasn't sure if they knew he was also Joshua's brother, doubted any of them would recognize him even if they had bothered pulling back the hood. Not with his features so far removed from the boy he once was, taller, his shoulders broader, resembling his father's stature more each day, the lines of his face sharper, his eyes a permanent eikonic golden color and his hair long and unruly.
He didn't care to inform them of the truth, either. It wouldn't change anything. The only thing he cared about was that they would soon put an end to the suffering, to the hunger. He endured a decade's worth of it, but also a decade worth of grief, of anger, and he was tired of it. Tired of running, tired of hunting. Nothing could quench the hunger inside of him, no enemy's aether was enough for him to stay sated for long. He constantly felt like he was starving and even if he wasn't, there was nothing keeping him in this world any longer.
His family was gone, his brother's blood on his hands, his father dead, his home and people swallowed by the Empire, sold out by his mother if he could even call her that now.
But no matter what contempt and hatred he held for her now. He'd never be able to wash himself clean of all he had done. He thought of revenge in the past, before the hunger got unbearable. He watched his home fall to ruin under his mother's rule, helpless to do anything but run from the Empire's forces at first, and then get ever stronger throwing himself at foes far outranking him, hoping for death, only to find Ifrit intervene each time he got close, keeping him alive, keeping his vessel alive. It didn't occur to him to question why the Eikon remained quiet now, had he at last accepted that Clive was not useful? Did Ifrit hope to emerge anew in a more fitting vessel in a few decades, or even centuries? Would the Phoenix do the same?
He abandoned the thought. It wouldn't do him any good to think of anything close to a legacy, any hope of it would die with him and even so he was no longer Clive Rosfield, firstborn son of the Archduke and First Shield of Rosaria and in truth it's been a long time since he's even been Clive.
He closed his eyes, hearing more footsteps in the distance. Probably more members of the Undying wishing to put him to the sword, they'd likely make an event of it, too, unless his visitor would think to do it first.
"Make it quick." He drawled, and closed his eyes. "...before someone else does it for you."
Finally. After years spent scouring Storm, the search had at last come to and end, and the Dominant of this second Eikon of Fire had been apprehended by the Undying.
And now that the moment had come to face the murderer of his two beloved sons, Elwin wasn't sure how to feel. Was there supposed to be a sense of relief? Was he meant to gain some small measure of closure from this meeting? No, there was only a deep-rooted emptiness within his heart, as though a void had swallowed it and every bit of love within it, leaving him with nothing left.
Which felt appropriate, given Rosaria's fate -- because he really did have nothing left. Nothing except increasingly bizarre, unsettling, even distressing nightmares, offering him glimpses of things he couldn't understand or identify. Glimpses of things he shouldn't remember, and couldn't have seen from that night, leading to even more questions on top of the questions he'd already yearned for answers to.
Perhaps most of all, questions yet remained that demanded answers. How had this second Eikon of Fire managed to not only lay low the Phoenix, but outright kill him? A feat that had been thought impossible until then. As for the why... That question was self-explanatory: why had this Eikon shown himself then of all times? Was he working with Anabella? The Holy Empire?
Despite knowing that it was purely psychological, the scar around Elwin's neck felt as though it was burning anew, as if urging him to remember well his convictions, to reignite his righteous anger as he traversed the depths of the old abandoned stronghold that had thus far been serving as the Undying's base of operations. His pace was quick, gloved hand ever resting upon the hilt of his sword despite his tempered patience that kept him from drawing it. The members of the cult dedicated to protecting Rosaria's beloved guardian force already had their plans for retribution against the imprisoned man in the form of execution, and while the former Archduke would not interfere with their work, he would also not allow them to carry out their judgment without him first seeing the face of the one partly responsible for the deaths of so many good men during The Night of Flames.
As if to mentally brace himself, fingertips skimmed the twin Phoenix feathers attached to the sheath of his weapon. Then he continued on, passing through the corridors of the dungeon without a word, seeking one particular gaol cell -- and it would be simple enough to spot, considering it was the only one that housed a prisoner. Those green-blue eyes scanned each one in the row until he stopped in front of his destination, gaze immediately falling upon the inhabitant lurking behind the bars.
@secondflame
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cid “i know a shortcut” telamon & clive “sometimes i don’t know why i follow that man” rosfield
#[first shield — second flame].clive#[sound of thunder — scent of home].cid#/gallery#//the way he grasps cid hand#//the way he pulls his hand that little bit closer#//the way Clive's hand lingers in the air#//his lil 🥺#//they did such a good job with showing clive's inner workings and stuff and I have so many thoughts about his microexpressions#q
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Clive took in his friend's expression, he seemed fine, a little more nervous than he was used to perhaps, but unharmed from what he could see. Then, hearing Gav's words, Clive shook his head, soon wishing he hadn't with how it caused the dull throbbing pain inside his skull to intensify. "You did all you could." He rasped at last, moving his hand to be able to squeeze Gav's arm. "And you saved me. I should have been more careful."
Once again, out of habit most of all, he reaches for the Phoenix' blessing, now finding it flicker stronger than before, if still weakened. He breathed a soft sigh of relief regardless. At the very least whatever was on that dart didn't seem to have a permanent effect. But the pain following each attempt at conjuring up any of his powers he could do without.
"I think I may be able to counteract the poison with the Phoenix blessing, if only I could grasp it proper." He let his hand fall, frustrated.
Held like this, with Gav a solid, warm wteight at his back it's tempting to just close his eyes and slip back into unconsciousness, sleep whatever remnants there were of the poison off and try to find the bastard responsible in the morn when back at full strength.
"We should leave," he realized suddenly, groaning as he tried to sit up in the wake of that thought. He managed with some difficulty, blinking as he willed the room to stop spinning around him. "We make an easy target here."
continued from here ft. @sharpnosedscout
Gav had barely gotten half a word out before warm, dyed leather pressed over his mouth. He was led by his jaw and elbow to a narrow alley, made even narrower by an attempt to hide both him and Clive behind stacked crates and sacks of grain.
Were they not on their way back from a mission - well, more of an errand - he might've thought this was another of those pleasant yet embarrassing dreams his brain liked to pester him with. Still, better to focus on what or who they were hiding from, before he blushed too much.
Whatever Clive had spotted had been to Gav's right, which these days meant he'd only heard footsteps before being manhandled. He trusted Clive's instincts so he didn't fuss, but there was questioning expectation in his stare.
Clive pulled Gav even closer against him when someone passed by their hiding place a little too close for comfort. A moment passed and when it was clear no one had spotted them he leaned in, keeping his own breathing shallow as he spoke lowly into his friend's ear. "Look," he whispered, nodding towards a rugged looking man they could just spy from inbetween the storage crates. "It's that slaver." He hissed, gaze sharp and cold as it settled on the man.
A few weeks back they had prevented a group of young bearers from being sold as slaves. They'd been abducted from their homes, treated little better than kettle. When they freed them they'd been dehydrated and malnourished, scared out of their minds, too. Clive felt the anger rise inside of him just thinking about it. Most of them had barely seen their 12th winter. However, the man behind the operation as well as a few of his cronies had given them the slip and managed to stay entirely hidden from their scouts since. Until now.
"We should follow him." Clive said with urgency when the man stepped out of their sight and it was only then that he realized that he still had Gav grabbed by the jaw and pressed to his chest. He let go immediately, pulling back his hands, bringing some distance between them again.
"Sorry—"
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i am that look on cid's face
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OOC: My collector's edition came in today and I'm so happy. 😭
I think despite the figurine being amazing my fav thing are the pins. They're so pretty. 🥺 Also the steelbook with Clive's face on it and the sword on the back and even the packaging is amazing and I'm just 😭
#[mine's bigger].ooc#//i never buy myself things this expensive#//but i'm happy i did in this case#//i love every bit of it
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"Aye, we should." He agrees, but doesn't make a move to get up just yet either. He huffs out a quiet breath at Dion's next words. "Some days I wonder the same thing," he says and knocks their heads together gently in a display of trust and sympathy. "The truth is, most days I run myself rugged just so I pass out from exhaustion as soon as my head hits the pillow. It helps often enough... but not always."
But for all of Clive's restlessness, Dion's company has proven far more calming than anything else has in quite some time and against his better judgement he is reluctant to let this go just yet. He is about to tell Dion this, tell him that he hasn't realized until now that he has missed this, missed him. "I—" Clive hesitates for a moment but then he turns, pulling away far enough to meet Dion's eyes, still he doesn't finish the thought, instead opting to say another thing entirely. "We really shouldn't stay out here for much longer."
The cold is slowly but steadily catching up to him as well, tiredness mingling with the chill, no matter how warm the side against which Dion is pressed still feels. "...But we do not have to end this conversation here, if you still want company, that is."
Clive falls silent, at a loss of what else to suggest. He does not ket go of Dion's arm however, simply holds on as they keep sotting pressed close to eachother's side. A long contemplative but not uncomfortable silence having befallen them after Dion's statement. "I'll ask Tarja if she knows of anything that might help, too... Anything that might ease the aching at the very least." He concludes at last, a deep furrow between his brows. "She treated Cid's symptoms for the longest time before he —" He trails off, the memory of the man who's name and cause he has taken up turning into an ache that robs him of his breath. "...Maybe there is something she can do." He adds then, voice strained, gaze averted, falling silent again soon after, his throat turning tight.
He shakes his head at Dion's question, looking down at his own hand, his thumb still brushing idle circles over Dion's skin. "Not yet." Clive answers, although given time he isn't certain that it will remain that way. Maybe one day, maybe even sometime soon, he'd show signs of it too. He wondered sometimes where it would manifest first, if he'd even realize the beginnings of it were the petrification to start somewhere he could not see. On his back for example, or deep within his body even, or if it would just blend into the aches he already feels each passing day, maybe it has started to manifest and he simply doesn't know.
He fidgets where he sits and his hand withdraws from Dion and finds the small of his own back, the leather of his armor shifts over the old scars spanning its entirety, a reminder of the early days of fighting for the Empire, when the mark on his face still ached with how fresh it was and his superiors beat him bloody for the slightest disgrace or other, or simply because he was a former lordling and they didn't like the way he looked or talked. He doesn't even remember at this point, doesn't remember much from that time, which is likeky a mercy. It was before Tiamat found him and took him under his wing, making his life not necessarily better, but at the very least bearable from then on. And how had he'd thanked him for it? By striking him down in the end.
Clive startles from his thoughts not long after, realizing he's been lost in his head and in past aches for quite some time now. "Sorry," he says. "Maybe I'm more tired than I realized."
#equescaeli#equescaeli thread 01#//clive vc: we can cuddle some more while inside if you want 🥺👉👈 no pressure
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"Bloody thing never works anymore." He curses under his breath as he tries to get his fire crystal to light, to no avail. His plan for the Mothercrystals involves the end of the usage of crystals like these, but he at least wanted to get a few more uses out of it before the aether within finally dimmed to nothing, and he frowns at himself for never finishing that schematic for a new lighter. The heavy thudding of Clive's footsteps entering his Solar draws his attention then, and he brightens. "Ah, Clive! Perfect timing. You mind giving me a light?"
Clive's brows raise at Cid's tone, then narrow for the same reason as he takes in the way Cid smiles around the cigarillo held between his lips. The crystal in one hand completes the picture, Clive is very aware of what he wants him to do before Cid even says anything and he's not exactly thrilled about being used as a human lighter... again.
Still, he draws closer, already preparing to conjure up a small flame. He is grumbling by the time he is close enough to reach for him. "Sometimes I think the only reason you keep me around is shit like this," he says, shoulders rounding, a small twinge of something he'd rather not consider too closely tightening his chest. He ignores it, as he usually does.
He huffs out a breath, focussing. Then, just as he is about to raise his hand higher, his gaze is drawn to Cid's lips, the cigarillo still resting between, the corners of his mouth curled into the beginnings of a smirk. Maybe it's just the fact that Clive has had a long day of people asking him to do all kinds of ridiculous things and that he had hoped to find some respite here at least, only to find Cid wanting one more thing, but it irks him in that moment, to see Cid look so smug.
So, out of pure impulsivity, Clive refrains from using his hands to summon forth a flame, and rather just steps further into Cid's space, eyes turning half-lidded as he keeps his focus on the small object between. Then, with a very gentle exhale through rounded lips a bit of aether leaves his body to light the very tip of Cid's cigarillo, leaving a sweet, yet familiar scent to fill the surrounding air soon after.
"There..." He breathes, looking up to find Cid's eyes after a moment of letting bis gaze linger on the glimming tip. "Is that all?"
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He knows of course, what his own mother thinks of him, even without her telling him. After years and years of this she doesn't have to, she never had to. Her usually quiet disdain chaves, her silence and disregard of all he is, of all he has accomplished is enough to have him grit his teeth on any given day, but this, the coldness in her words, in her eyes, it couldn't hurt more if she had plunged a knife into his chest and twisted.
"You have never tolerated anything from me. Perfection or otherwise." His voice is surprisingly even when he says this, although he can feel his hands tremble with the heavy mixture of emotion coursing through his veins. His fingers curl into his palms at his sides, squashing the flicker of fire that tends to surface when something upsets him to a point where his entire being aches. It's been a while since anything she has done resulted in this, it's not anger, not really. It's the by now instinctual use of the Phoenix' blessing trying to heal a pain it cannot reach.
"All I am, all I've become, all I've done has ever been motivated by the wish to serve this family, to serve Rosaria as a whole, to keep Joshua safe, to keep you safe." He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. His brows furrow, the gaze of his eyes unyielding as it meets his mother's, mirroring her own anger, her own resolve back at her, looking in this moment for all his physical similarities with his father like her son most of all.
"If you'd have me die on the battlefield I will gladly do so. I will readily give my life to protect Joshua, you know this, but I will not help perpetuate this curse that has torn our family apart from the moment he awakened."
It does not escape Clive's notice that the Duchess does not grace him with an answers to his question, instead continueing as if he had not spoken at all. It is frustrating but not uncommon, the norm even where conversations with her are concerned. If they could even be called that when she hardly tolerated any contribution from him at any given time.
The mention of his father has him pause and his expression gets away from him for a moment, gaze snapping up to hers, exasperation and hurt washing over his features ere he manages to rein them back in. The Duke had agreed to this and not thought to talk to Clive about it at all?
Clive blinks, confused, breathing in a little deeper to gather his thoughts. "You'd have me pursue a future wife while there are beastmen at our doorstep and the Northern territories are on the verge of revolt?" None of this makes any sense to him. Is this the true reason behind this farce of a festivity? He had already heard the mumblings of the commonfolk, they weren't pleased with the Duchy for holding a ball without proper seasonal reason.
"Surely my duties as First Shield far outweigh the need for marriage. My place is at Joshua's side." Especially in times of unrest like these. He is tasked to secure his brother's future and not his own. Clive had hardly ever stopped to think that while he wasn't the Phoenix' chosen it would still be considered one of his duties to continue the family line, to ensure the existence of another Phoenix once Joshua was gone.
He feels nauseous at the thought. The Phoenix' blessing did nothing but put strain on his little brother, on their family as a whole and his mother's obsession with it only served to make it worse each day. He wants no part in perpetuating this ... this curse, doesn't want to be the one to inflict it on another generation.
"No," he says. "I will take no part in this."
#creatrix-mea#creatrix mea thread 01#//lookit that clive actually standing up for himself.#//lets see how long that lasts#[no pain — only smooches].masquerade.verse#//except there is lots of pain and no smooches in this thread#//go figure
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"That I don't know," he said, giving Gav a weak smile in light of the gentle touch and reassurance. Admittedly, he didn't know much of the man just yet, but it was clear that he was kind, more so than most of the guests Clive had encountered tonight and if anything, he wanted to keep talking to him just for a little while longer.
"I think my place is on a battlefield rather than in a dance hall." He gave the bard a shrug, then averted his gaze, indicating the man's mask set aside for now, the gesture alluding to everything that is tied to this evening as a whole. "Conversation has never been my strong suit. Ask anyone, they'd agree. So I apologize if this becomes a bit of a dull encounter."
As if on cue he realized he failed to offer his guest anything other than clothes to change into after ruining the ones he arrived in. They've both remained standing, himself rather awkwardly, Gav appearing far more relaxed, but still, as far as hospitality went, Clive was failing to provide anything of worth.
"But please, sit." he gestures at the couch, purposefully keeping his gaze away from the other's bare chest. If they were to take a proper break he should at least make sure his guest was comfortable.
masquerade ball starter for @sharpnosedscout
There are few things Clive actually enjoys during festivities such as this. Usually he finds them too loud, too crowded and the false pleasantries exchanged make him uncomfortable, for he can see the way near all of these other nobles regard him in the same way his mother does, with disdain. By now it is widely knows that interacting with him would not gain them any favour with the Duchess, so they avoid him like the plague, granted that he's not at his brother's side. The ones that don't shun him are mayhap even worse for the pity in their gaze.
Clive sighs, gaze straying out one of the massive windows of the ballroom, wondering how much longer he'd have to endure this before he could sneak away.
For now he has found a hiding place leaning against a wall on the far side of the room, watching the spectacle, listening to the music. At some point his attention turns entirely to the musicians, captivated by the ease with which they coax beautiful melodies from their instruments. Clive isn't able to carry a tune if his life depended on it, so it always fascinated him to see other's do so with ease.
At some point he locks eyes with a bard just as another song fades out, having watched him work his instrument instead of anything or anyone else for what he realizes must have been a good long while. Embarassed to have been caught staring, Clive starts and looks away, hiding his face in the goblet of wine he'd been nursing over the past hour for lack of anything else to do, only to realize that it is empty.
Acting as if he didn't just try to take a sip from a cup devoid of liquid, he makes his way to get something else, mayhap some water would suit him better, his face feels flushed enough as is.
#sharpnosedscout thread 02#sharpnosedscout#//ccome on clive quit it with the selfdeprecating :<#//he's good at other things#//he's just an awkward bean
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Clive flinches and then reaches up to rub at his forehead, chasing the lingering sensation away. There is a slight pout to his lips in the wake of it, but it quickly makes way to surprise as Cid rolls up his sleeves, showing off his scars. He almost reaches out to touch them, wondering how the greyed patches of skin would feel under his touch, but he keeps himself from doing so by averting his gaze to his own hands. Despite a slight tingle to his fingertips the lightning doesn't seem to have had any other effect on him, meaning he got lucky.
He silently vows to keep his focus and then returns his attention to Cid, listening to his instructions. Clive nods when Cid finishes his explanation, scrunching up his nose when the other comments on his looks, but otherwise already trying to regain his focus. He has ever been a quiet but attentive student, and that hasn't changed over the years. Thankfully, Cid — other than some of the teachers he remembers from his youth — doesn't seem to mind the silence while Clive tries to figure things out, although he does get impatient whenever Clive takes too long between repetitions.
And there are a lot of them.
By the end of the next hour Clive feels sweat gathering between his brows, his fingertips numb from practicing to control the smallest arches of lightning between his fingertips over and over, but at the very least the levinbolts didn't blow up in his face again and he does feel more in control of the lightning springing forth from his fingers.
But Founder, he can definitely see Waloed's former Lord Commander in the way Cid teaches him, insisting on one more repitition over and over.
Clive breathes deep, no longer waiting for the cue Cid gives him, but simply conjures up the lightning, letting it weave around his fingers to the best of his abilities, but he can see them now, the pathways, he knows how to make them, how to shift them with his aether, he understands how this works on a level he didn't prior, on a level he doesn't think he was even able to before gaining Ramuh's powers. His wisdom brims beneath the surface, forcing into his mind, willing him to understand. Clive knows he can, the knowledge of how to wield Ramuh's aether is right there but he is just... suddenly so tired, his mind feeling as numb as his fingers.
"Cid...?" He asks while turning his head in his general direction, swaying on his feet, the lightning flickers into nothingness. He raises a hand to rub at his eyes as his vision blurrs. "I think I need —" a break. But that's as far as he gets before he topples over, unsteady legs fighting to keep him standing. Apparently creating paths of aether for the lightning takes more out of him than he realized.
Clive listens intently, previous helplessness slowly making way for quiet determination as he tries to digest Cid's explanations. What he says makes sense to him, now it seems obvious even, he just never thought to approach it from this angle, too busy feeling like he had no right to these powers, no right to even attempt to control them.
He is still reluctant to conjure it up again, the behavior of the lightning so different from what he's used to from other elements that it causes him to doubt. He's staring down at his hands when Cid pats him on the back encouragingly, causing a small surprised breath to escape him in a gasp. Clive looks up, Cid's words and gentle tone loosening the knot in his throat, reassuring him in a way that even serves to have his lips quirk up into a tiny smile.
"Could have fooled me," he says, attempting a lighter tone despite lingering worry. "You sound like a proper teacher." One of the good ones, the patient ones, the ones Clive thinks back on fondly from his youth in Rosaria. He's grateful for the way Cid believes in him still, no trace of spite or anger for taking his gift from him like he half feared.
He pushes those thoughts aside for now and instead focuses on the task Cid just gave him. He holds out two fingers in the same way Cid bid him just now and then furrows his brows in concentration, reaching for the lightning brimming in the back of his consciousness, carefully. A spark lights up on the fingertip of one of his index fingers, flickers out and then another, bigger one starts up. Clive briefly flinches at the crackle that sounds, louder than expected, reminiscent of the moment from before, but he doesn't let it get out of hand this time.
A path, Cid said, so this is what he envisions, from one fingertip to the one of the opposite hand, pouring his aether into that vision. The lightning sparks and then bows over to his other extended finger, winding like a snake of light, flickering, but still steadier than before, easier to control. The element of lightning now a quiet hum in the back of his mind, rather than a cacaphony of noise. Not as volatile, not as scary anymore now that he is calmed by Cid's presence and the gentle pressure of his hand still at his back.
Clive's expression lights up with a proper smile then. Getting more bold, he extends his other fingers, too, letting the small sparks jump between them best he can. His eyes sparkle with the violet light dancing across his hands and then he looks up to grin at Cid briefly.
To not lose concentration he focuses back on the lightning soon after, though. The magic is still unsteady when he isn't concentrating proper, nowhere near the easy familiarity he saw Cid display when he wielded it, and certainly not as impressive as the bolts of lightning that the other man was able to summon with barely more than a flick of his wrist. It never failed to make Clive's mouth go dry with awe at the sheer might displayed, never failed to tighten his gutt with—
His thoughts get away from him, mind stumbling over the memory, the pressure at his back suddenly seeming less calming but rather distracting. The lightning swells, concentration waning. "Shit—" He only just manages to turn his hands and use his aether to create another path away from them, the charge of electricity shooting out and leaving another charred patch of grass in its wake.
Clive blinks at it, then, very slowly, turns to look at Cid, expression sheepish, cheeks slightly flushed.
"Uh...oops?"
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