#levinstrike

[elyontheeorzean]

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[darksteelreign-archive]

@levinstrike

She has been crying for a long time now.

He could hear the little babe wail faintly from across the hall for the better part of the evening. Not loud enough to be a proper disturbance and with brief intermissions of silence inbetween, but still a constant sound of distress that has him wonder if he should go and address the issue himself, yet deciding against it time and time again. She is not his concern, he thinks, not his responsibility, and least of all someone he should care about. Nothing matters except his masters wishes.

She is still crying when he leaves whatever missives lay on his desk for the next day. He's tired, weary, bored most of all. He figures he could go and eat, or sleep. Were he here, Cidolfus would likely pester him to do the former at least once today, or perhaps he wouldn't, not with how things have been as of late.

It doesn't matter.

While he makes his way across the hall his steps, as always, lead him past Cidolfus' chambers. He turns his head when he finds the door ajar, a bit of light pooling at his feet, but it is not Cid he sees standing there. Not as surprising as one moght think, seeing as the Lord Commander headed out on a mission the night before and would likely not return before the early morning.

Dark eyes find those of a young woman walking up and down the room, holding a bundle against her chest, gently bouncing the small child within. Midadol. The king thinks, Mid, Cidolfus calls her. Barnabas hasn't seen much of her since Cidolfus brought her here a few weeks ago, since Cid introduced her to him.

Barnabas kept his distance from her afterwards, seeing no reason to darken Cid's doorway with his presence when things grow ever more tense between them as of late. He had not even held her when Cid asked him to. The child is of no interest to him. She's no Dominant. No asset to his master's plans. Although, he supposes she is another reason added for Cid's imminent desertion. Any day now.

Barnabas knows he'll leave soon. He has seen the signs and he knows his master plans for this. Plans to rid Waloed of her Lord Commander for a reason beyond the king's current understanding. He doesn't dare dwell too long on it, doesn't dare consider the way he feels about it either. It doesn't matter.

With Cidolfus out on a mission it makes sense to see the servant woman here. The king doesn't recognize her, but that is true for nearly all his subjects. She must be tasked to keep an eye on Midadol while Cidolfus is away, and yet the child is still crying, despite her best efforts to soothe her.

The king draws closer, pushing the door open. He raises a hand to silence the servant ere she can speak, not wanting to waste any time with her excuses. She immediately closes her mouth again, looking at him wide-eyed and afraid. They always do.

"What ails her?" He asks, indicating the little bundle the woman holds in her arms, not bothering to look up at the servant's face again just yet.

He doesn't see her expression change to reflect proper helplessness as he looks down at the distressed babe. The woman coos at her and shushes her a few more times before answering. "I do not know, your majesty. She's had a fever all day, and it finally broke an hour ago, yet she does not want to settle down." Barnabas in turn watches the babe cry, her red cheeks stained with tears, her mouth open to let out hoarse yet highpitched noises.

He hesitates, although his own face betrays nothing of the sort, his expression contemplative, yet unreadable. "Give her here," he says at last, offering out one hand.

He senses the reluctance in the woman long before he looks up to meet her eyes again with an unyielding gaze. It is admirable that her first instinct is to defy him, protect the little one from him and his darkness. Something old and painful twists inside him at that thought. The care and protectiveness that reminds him so starkly of his own mother stirring an age old sorrow that cuts even through the heavy veil of apathy that has befallen him of late.

But when he looks up she falters and moves immediately to carefully offer out the little girl still wailing as if in pain. He catches the scent of linen as the woman steps closer, a faint hint of spices, perhaps she works in the kitchen. Barnabas wouldn't know. It seems somewhat likely, for all the time Cid spends either eating or trying to convince him to do the same, that a woman he'd trust with his chosen daughter would be found working there.

She steps back immediately after he cradles the babe in his arms. "Leave us," he orders and she curtsies and with one last look over her shoulder rushes to do just that.

The king's attention has already settled on the girl again. She's still crying, although be it a little quieter, confused perhaps by the sudden change in rhythm with which she is carried across the floor, the king's pace equally slow, but the weight of his steps wholly different than that of the frantic servant.

He cannot quite fathom why Midadol would be soothed by his presence. There are few that don't fear him, few that would not choose to cower before him. Yet, he doesn't think what the babe is feeling amounts to fear at all. It is but a deep longing for her father.

"You miss him, little one, do you not?" He asks her, knowing full well she is not able to answer him. Barnabas smiles down at her as she blinks her eyes open at him only to quickly begin crying anew. He shushes her anew, still walking slow circles around the room. "I will, too, after he leaves." He tells her. It is a truth spoken from deep within him, one he has accepted as he has many others, but this one still feels the heaviest of them all. "But worry not. He will come back for you first, and then he will take you far away from here." Held to his chest and shoulder the little girl is now sniffling, no longer sobbing violently, but still unhappy, still crying.

It is not until after Midadol's sobs have faded into small hiccups that the king realizes he's been humming a tune under his breath. A melody he has not heard in ages. He falls silent suddenly, taken aback by his own unconscious decision to hum this song. It is one his mother used to sing for him when he was still but a boy. It's been so long since he's thought of it, so long since his mind conjured up a proper memory of her at all.

He feels the song fading into the back of his mind and he startles, startles the little girl, too. She starts crying once more, and the king has to wrestle his own selfcontrol back into place in order to try and get her to quiet down again.

He grasps at the notes of the tune in his mind, pulling it back from the haze of his consciousness where it threatens to dissipate into nothingness. But he does find it again at last, finds the words to it in the language of his homeland too, and relief unlike any other floods him.

He starts the song again, from the beginning this time, the words more mumbled than they are sung, they come back to him bit by bit, verse by verse. It's almost soothing him in the same way that it does the babe to speak the old tongue. The familiarity of it so all-encompassing and warm it nearly takes him out at the knees. He keeps his tune throughout the entirety of the song, faltering on occassion, his memory failing him, but he picks back up time and time again, his voice low and rumbling as it curls around a language this little girl has never heard before.

At last Midadol's crying eases entirely, the tension leaving her face and tiny body as she settles in his arms and into sleep. Barnabas cradles her against his chest, looking down at her lashes, her cheeks where moisture still clings. She's so small, so fragile. He sees why Cidolfus would want to keep her from harm. In all their time together Barnabas has understood one thing about him very quickly: Cidolfus would always be drawn to people unable to save themselves and do all he could to try and do it for them instead. Barnabas has seen it before with Benedikta, and now with Midadol as well. He figures in a way with himself, too.

He finds himself hoping that this time Cidolfus would succeed, for her sake as much as his own.

[secondflame-archive]

Lets out a puff of smoke and shuts his eyes as he takes in the rich flavors of his cigarillo's smoke, before noticing Clive staring at him and taking it out of his mouth, offering it to him. "Want to try taking a pull?"

Clive only realizes he has been staring at Cid's mouth when his voice pulls him from it. He blinks, his own lips parting. The sweet scent of Cid's cigarillos fills his nose, by now a familiar one, a comforting one even.

For all his attention to the smaller motions tied to this, he has not yet thought about asking for a smoke himself and he isn't entirely certain that his fairly new habit of staring at Cid while he is smoking has anything to do with Clive's curiosity about the taste, or if it is footed in an entirely different kind of desire.

His gaze shifts to the offered cigarillo, and he leans in before he can find a reason not to, lips fitting around the end of it in a way that he thinks similar to what he has seen Cid do countless times. He doesn't even think to take it from him, simply lets Cid hold it still as he steps into his space. Clive breathes in and—

—immediately starts coughing. "By the Flames..." he croaks after and coughs again, more quietly, puffs of smoke escaping his mouth. It happens a few more times behind a raised hand and he has to turn his head away, cheeks turning red with embarrassment at his rather violent reaction.

He shudders after calming down, face scrunching up, finding the taste decidedly less pleasant than the smell. Clive shakes his head then, nose twitching still. "I think I'm better off watching you—"

His mouth clicks shut. He clears his throat.

Uh...

[soulsalight]

@levinstrike

She has been crying for a long time now.

He could hear the little babe wail faintly from across the hall for the better part of the evening. Not loud enough to be a proper disturbance and with brief intermissions of silence inbetween, but still a constant sound of distress that has him wonder if he should go and address the issue himself, yet deciding against it time and time again. She is not his concern, he thinks, not his responsibility, and least of all someone he should care about. Nothing matters except his masters wishes.

She is still crying when he leaves whatever missives lay on his desk for the next day. He's tired, weary, bored most of all. He figures he could go and eat, or sleep. Were he here, Cidolfus would likely pester him to do the former at least once today, or perhaps he wouldn't, not with how things have been as of late.

It doesn't matter.

While he makes his way across the hall his steps, as always, lead him past Cidolfus' chambers. He turns his head when he finds the door ajar, a bit of light pooling at his feet, but it is not Cid he sees standing there. Not as surprising as one moght think, seeing as the Lord Commander headed out on a mission the night before and would likely not return before the early morning.

Dark eyes find those of a young woman walking up and down the room, holding a bundle against her chest, gently bouncing the small child within. Midadol. The king thinks, Mid, Cidolfus calls her. Barnabas hasn't seen much of her since Cidolfus brought her here a few weeks ago, since Cid introduced her to him.

Barnabas kept his distance from her afterwards, seeing no reason to darken Cid's doorway with his presence when things grow ever more tense between them as of late. He had not even held her when Cid asked him to. The child is of no interest to him. She's no Dominant. No asset to his master's plans. Although, he supposes she is another reason added for Cid's imminent desertion. Any day now.

Barnabas knows he'll leave soon. He has seen the signs and he knows his master plans for this. Plans to rid Waloed of her Lord Commander for a reason beyond the king's current understanding. He doesn't dare dwell too long on it, doesn't dare consider the way he feels about it either. It doesn't matter.

With Cidolfus out on a mission it makes sense to see the servant woman here. The king doesn't recognize her, but that is true for nearly all his subjects. She must be tasked to keep an eye on Midadol while Cidolfus is away, and yet the child is still crying, despite her best efforts to soothe her.

The king draws closer, pushing the door open. He raises a hand to silence the servant ere she can speak, not wanting to waste any time with her excuses. She immediately closes her mouth again, looking at him wide-eyed and afraid. They always do.

"What ails her?" He asks, indicating the little bundle the woman holds in her arms, not bothering to look up at the servant's face again just yet.

He doesn't see her expression change to reflect proper helplessness as he looks down at the distressed babe. The woman coos at her and shushes her a few more times before answering. "I do not know, your majesty. She's had a fever all day, and it finally broke an hour ago, yet she does not want to settle down." Barnabas in turn watches the babe cry, her red cheeks stained with tears, her mouth open to let out hoarse yet highpitched noises.

He hesitates, although his own face betrays nothing of the sort, his expression contemplative, yet unreadable. "Give her here," he says at last, offering out one hand.

He senses the reluctance in the woman long before he looks up to meet her eyes again with an unyielding gaze. It is admirable that her first instinct is to defy him, protect the little one from him and his darkness. Something old and painful twists inside him at that thought. The care and protectiveness that reminds him so starkly of his own mother stirring an age old sorrow that cuts even through the heavy veil of apathy that has befallen him of late.

But when he looks up she falters and moves immediately to carefully offer out the little girl still wailing as if in pain. He catches the scent of linen as the woman steps closer, a faint hint of spices, perhaps she works in the kitchen. Barnabas wouldn't know. It seems somewhat likely, for all the time Cid spends either eating or trying to convince him to do the same, that a woman he'd trust with his chosen daughter would be found working there.

She steps back immediately after he cradles the babe in his arms. "Leave us," he orders and she curtsies and with one last look over her shoulder rushes to do just that.

The king's attention has already settled on the girl again. She's still crying, although be it a little quieter, confused perhaps by the sudden change in rhythm with which she is carried across the floor, the king's pace equally slow, but the weight of his steps wholly different than that of the frantic servant.

He cannot quite fathom why Midadol would be soothed by his presence. There are few that don't fear him, few that would not choose to cower before him. Yet, he doesn't think what the babe is feeling amounts to fear at all. It is but a deep longing for her father.

"You miss him, little one, do you not?" He asks her, knowing full well she is not able to answer him. Barnabas smiles down at her as she blinks her eyes open at him only to quickly begin crying anew. He shushes her anew, still walking slow circles around the room. "I will, too, after he leaves." He tells her. It is a truth spoken from deep within him, one he has accepted as he has many others, but this one still feels the heaviest of them all. "But worry not. He will come back for you first, and then he will take you far away from here." Held to his chest and shoulder the little girl is now sniffling, no longer sobbing violently, but still unhappy, still crying.

It is not until after Midadol's sobs have faded into small hiccups that the king realizes he's been humming a tune under his breath. A melody he has not heard in ages. He falls silent suddenly, taken aback by his own unconscious decision to hum this song. It is one his mother used to sing for him when he was still but a boy. It's been so long since he's thought of it, so long since his mind conjured up a proper memory of her at all.

He feels the song fading into the back of his mind and he startles, startles the little girl, too. She starts crying once more, and the king has to wrestle his own selfcontrol back into place in order to try and get her to quiet down again.

He grasps at the notes of the tune in his mind, pulling it back from the haze of his consciousness where it threatens to dissipate into nothingness. But he does find it again at last, finds the words to it in the language of his homeland too, and relief unlike any other floods him.

He starts the song again, from the beginning this time, the words more mumbled than they are sung, they come back to him bit by bit, verse by verse. It's almost soothing him in the same way that it does the babe to speak the old tongue. The familiarity of it so all-encompassing and warm it nearly takes him out at the knees. He keeps his tune throughout the entirety of the song, faltering on occassion, his memory failing him, but he picks back up time and time again, his voice low and rumbling as it curls around a language this little girl has never heard before.

At last Midadol's crying eases entirely, the tension leaving her face and tiny body as she settles in his arms and into sleep. Barnabas cradles her against his chest, looking down at her lashes, her cheeks where moisture still clings. She's so small, so fragile. He sees why Cidolfus would want to keep her from harm. In all their time together Barnabas has understood one thing about him very quickly: Cidolfus would always be drawn to people unable to save themselves and do all he could to try and do it for them instead. Barnabas has seen it before with Benedikta, and now with Midadol as well. He figures in a way with himself, too.

He finds himself hoping that this time Cidolfus would succeed, for her sake as much as his own.

[soulsalight]

HEADCANON

@levinstrike smiles into his wine, looking amused. “Don’t hurt yourself thinking too hard about it, lad.”

“…But it shouldn’t be that hard,” he says, brows furrowing, expression one of almost solemn frustration.

“I used to be good at this. Memorizing things and such… Believe it or not I was a good student when I was younger. I used to read a lot when I was a boy, I—”

He trails off, then sighs and decides that it doesn’t matter and that Cid certainly doesn’t want to hear about how Clive couldn’t remember the last time he sat down to read anything that wasn’t a missive or a report. How he sometimes wonders whatever brightness he supposedly possessed as a boy was completely lost to him now that he spent decades being nothing but a tool, a weapon.

Clive folds, averting his gaze. “Forget I said anything. But thank you for the …lesson.”

[tripleflames]

" Apologies, I nearly didn't see you there, " Dion shuffles a few ungainly steps sidewards, narrowly avoiding collision with the man afore him, hidden behind the pile of boxes he was carrying up the stairs while Dion had been going down too lost in thought to pay much attention. Even after some weeks of staying on the Invincible in preparation of meeting Ultima in battle, he's still not quite used to the Hideaway's twisting and turning walkways and stairs; nor to its people. Craftsmen, bearers, former sellswords, botanists and peddlers, both bearers and non-bearers seemingly living together in perfect harmony, each as equal as the other.

Not even Ifrit━ or Clive, as Dion should remember calling him━ the de facto leader of the place is treated any different than the others. In fact, from the errands he's seen the man being sent on by various others he's perfectly content being used as a packmule and weapon both.

Or mayhap used is not the correct term. Not here, in any case.

He himself has not quite found a connection to anyone but Joshua and his attendant and maybe Tarja. The others watch him either with open curiosity or wariness. Some even hostility, which is of little surprise considering the amount of former imperial bearers finding their sanctuary here.

The man he almost ran into peers from behind his mount of boxes, however and rather than look at him with any of the aforementioned, there lurks a spark of recognition in green hues that speaks of more than merely knowing Dion by reputation. The odd thing, despite Dion being sure he's never actually met or even seen this man, is that he somehow feels the same.

Do you need help? He wishes to ask. Instead, what comes out is: " Do I━ know you from somewhere? " / @levinstrike

[tripleflames]

"Got our first batch of wine from the new wine press I made." He holds up a goblet in offering. "Barely fermented at all, but it's passable in my opinion. Want to give it a taste? And before you say it- yes, the cup is clean." @levinstrike ft clive

" Ah, I uh━, " Clive's gaze is drawn downwards to the wine cup pushed into his hands ere he could offer any thought of protest. He's hesitant, in truth, not even because of the idea of having to drink from Cid's unwashed goblet ( though he'll admit that too adds to the trepidation ), but due to the fact that the only grapes he is aware they have in their stores are the ones grown by their own botanists and, much like the inception of Martelle's apples, they are yet far too sour for any human being to safely consume without completely locking up one's jaw.

Unless, of course, your name is Cid for whom the definition of passable seems to be on another level entirely.

Nevertheless, Clive supposes he can bear to take a sip to indulge the man in his newest hobby. Years into their friendship and he still has a remarkably hard time telling Cid no to anything he asks or offers, dodgy short-cuts and half-assed plans and all. Never mind that the acid, alcoholic scent of the drink is already sticking to the back of his throat ere he's even brought it to his lips. " Thank you, Cid. I'm sure it'll be...., " He tries for a smile, stilted as it may be, " Delightful. "

Where's Gav to interrupt the moment when Clive needs him to?

[tripleflames]

It's a damn shame that these days, Cid can't do much more than help Jill out in the aftermath of her battles rather than get into the thick of the fray alongside her, but that doesn't mean he minds tending to her. If anything, Cid's own prolonged clinic stay had made him appreciate his visitors all the more, and since Jill is bedbound because of her wounds, he may as well give her the pleasure of his company, and a little more effort thrown in on his end besides.

He approaches with a kettle and a metal cup, setting it down on the nightstand with a metallic clank before he sits down beside her bed with a grunt. "Feeling alright? I heard you had it rough out there this time." Then he takes the metal cup, the liquid inside still steaming from the inside, and offers it to her with a little smile. "Normally I'd be offering you alcohol, but seeing as you're injured, you might want to settle for tea this time around. Don't worry, I made sure it's the kind that won't interfere with Tarja's treatments, so she won't have your hide for drinking this. Go on and give it a taste." Surely she'll like it, or at least tolerate it enough to finish the cup. Water and leaves, how hard could it be to mess that up?

(As it turns out, not as hard as he thinks, because he'd been too impatient to let it steep and it's watery as all shit. Cut him some slack, he's a soldier, not a bloody butler.) / @levinstrike ft jill

" Cid! " Her face lights up at her unexpected guest, the curl of her lips serving to soften the haggard, exhausted look lining her features. As far as surprises went, this is a very pleasant one indeed: For even when no longer carrying the title as the de-facto leader of their merry band of outlaws, Cid has no shortage of tasks or projects to keep himself busy and Jill wouldn't have blamed him for the lack of time to visit. Yet here he is none the less. Bearing a kettle and a cup of tea, no less, she notes with a swell of raw affection, her smile widening at his jesting words and her spirits greatly improved already; enough so she can jest back in kind. " Hah, had you come in here bearing alcohol, I don't think it'd be my hide Tarja would after. But thank you all the same. "

She pushes herself up from her prone position with a wince as the movement pulls at her stitches, shaking her head in protest when Cid moves as if to help her. " I'm fine, no need to worry. Just found myself on the wrong end of a drake's claw━ It's nothing I haven't weathered before. " The fact that said claw had been poisonous and she hadn't helped her overall health by needing to call 'pon Shiva's powers to fight off the fiend are details she wisely doesn't mention. The look of horror on both Clive and Joshua's faces when she fell had been stark and raw enough she'd only put on a token protest at being relegated to the infirmary while they continued their hunt yet again, but she doesn't want for Cid's pity or added concern on top of it all too.

Flames know she already feels useless enough as is.

Accepting the cup with a grateful smile in return, Jill settles back against her pillows and brings the hot beverage to her lips to take a sip under Cid's watchful and slightly eager gaze. Her hand stills after, rim of the cup pressed to her lips while she swallows, a small furrow appearing 'twixt her brow. She'd been hoping for something to wash away the taste and scent of the bitter potions and poultices Tarja's been giving her to improve healing, but for Cid's claim of having her brought tea the contents of the cup don't taste of more than heated water with the mildest hint of a chamomile aftertaste.

Has he somehow forgotten to add the leaves to the kettle? Mayhap let them steep for less than a second?

She wants to ask, but the look on Cid's face after she took that first sip is so pleased Jill somehow can't find it in herself to disappoint him. It at least still tastes better than Tarja's potions, no matter how low that bar and she supposes it's the gesture that counts; and a gesture she appreciates like none other at that.

She drains the cup ere setting it aside, amusement flickering 'neath her breast. " Thank you, Cid. It's━ very warming. " And that's the truth too; regardless of its watery taste, it serves to chase away the chill in her bones and relax her sore muscles either way. " Won't you stay a while? " With his task done, Jill doesn't doubt Cid will become too restless to sit ere long, but her own longing for some company beyond the physickers and healers have her reach for one of his hands, pulling it into her lap to hold between her own, the gentle plea falling from her lips ere she can stop it. " Tell me of what you've been up to. With everything else, I feel we've hardly spoken lately. I━ miss you. "