In my defense, I was left unsupervised. Also, I had a terrible dream very close to the very first scene here.
I'll probably come back and write more, but for now...have some firestorm angst. Currently, there is no happy ending written. Use your imagination if you need one.
You were warned.
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“It's time to let the fairytale end.”
His fingers slip from between Clive's, and the distance between them becomes a canyon, “I'm an outlaw, I don't get a happy ending.”
“Cid–”
“It's alright, Clive. It was a nice dream,” His smile doesn't reach his eyes, cracked along his sharp edges, “but it's time we wake up.”
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He wakes to an achingly familiar ceiling, chasing the dream before it fully escapes him. Tries to remember the sound of Cid's voice. He pretends to feel the weight and heat of another person in bed beside him.
Beyond his closed door, the Keep is coming to life. A life he didn't think could exist again. A world he doesn't quite fit into like he had before. He misses the weight of the blade on his back, the feel of a breeze racing through a Fallen ruin, the adrenaline of a life that's been left behind.
He misses it all. But someone had to take control when the crystals fell and magicks died. There was no one who could lead this country back to its former glory, other than the Rosfield sons. And he wasn't letting Joshua do this alone.
He loves, misses, mourns Cid. Wonders where he is, what he's doing, who he's with. It's been months, and Clive still feels the ache. A hollow hole behind his heart, with fingers reaching from beyond, trying to claw out of his chest.
He allows himself these few minutes, disconnected from the world. He grieves for the future he could have had, and laments the choices and past he'd walked away from.
Too soon, there's a knock on the door, stirring him into movement. He leaves the past with his pillows, dreams to return to later.
The maid that enters smiles at him, wrinkles over the scar on her cheek. It's a reminder of everything he's worked for, everything they fought, suffered, died for. The sacrifices he's made were worth it, he tells himself, almost not a lie.
The fairytale is over and there is plenty of work to do. The future stretches to the horizon, and doesn't wait for him or anyone else.
°•°•☆•°•°
The cigar burns down to nothing between his fingers. He sits and stares out at the ocean, feels himself burning out with it.
The house is quiet, simple, nice. It's a good place for an ending. Not his, but someone's. He sits on the stairs, drops the remains of the cigar into the tray beside him, and stretches.
His left arm is sore, but it's a different kind than what he'd been used to. The cursed patches are now tender, red and warm to the touch. A wonder, a miracle, a gift from a God made flesh. He smiles at the scars, drops his arms again.
He doesn't think about Clive Rosfield, until he realizes he hasn't thought about him. And then he spirals, and it's a long way down.
It's like the bolts that broke holes in his chest, like falling from the sky and losing Ramuh and dying all over again. Like losing Clive all over again.
So, he doesn't think about him.
A storm is rumbling in from over the water. Dark clouds and lightning he can't feel in his bones anymore. He should go inside. Instead, he closes his eyes and feels the wind picking up. Benedikta would probably laugh at seeing how far he's fallen.
His failures spread out and laid bare, and he can't even feel guilty over them anymore. Outlaw. Villain. Criminal. Titles he's carried so others wouldn't have to.
These days he's just tired.
He lights another cigar, pushes himself to his feet and walks down into the tall grass. He turns to look back at the house, hesitates like he never has before. It's small, warm, welcoming.
It's a good place for an ending.
He turns and walks away, down towards the beach to greet the storm.
He doesn't deserve good things.