Chapter Text
Cid had often said that he’d have plenty of time for quiet contemplation once he was dead. He certainly didn’t have time for it while he was alive, what with Bearers to free, Hideaway to run, fate to escape and a world to save. He also didn’t think that’s what death would actually be like though. Not that he obviously had time to consider it, but at the very least, he had assumed it would be something like going to sleep and never waking up again. Now wouldn’t that be peaceful?
The last thing of note is his hand landing on the cool, stone floor. He searches for one last puff of his cigar and fails to find it. Sounds drift off, Clive’s pained sobs and Jill’s soft cries but a distant echo. A terrible final memory, if he’s to be honest. Then it’s par for the course, so he assumes, floating into dark nothingness. He had expected it would be colder, lighter, like a sense of relief at the burden of life being lifted from his old bones. Instead, there’s an oppressive weight, almost like he’s got some earthly tethers keeping him tied down.
But then there’s an unexpected wave of warmth. Can the dead feel warmth?
He knows better than to think that the afterlife would make a lick of sense. If that’s what he can call this darkness he keeps fading in and out of. Could’ve been any other element but Greagor or that damned Ultima or maybe the Founder has a twisted sense of humor and decided death begets darkness. As if he didn’t have enough of the bloody thing while beside Barnabas. Perhaps that’s the point though, the punishment for his sins. A few notable transgressions cross his mind, like defying a supposed god and upending society as everyone knew it. Not to mention all the killing, whether it be as Lord Commander of Waloed or Cid the Outlaw, he doesn’t think that matters to a god or whoever it is that passes judgement.
A hollowness has replaced the laden weight, though he’s not sure if that’s a particularly good sign or not. Phantom feelings grope at his senses, like he’s being carried, grabbed, embraced. What a bloody tease this afterlife is. It’s all an unnerving puzzle to him. One he can’t rightly solve, but well, that’s death, isn’t it? There’s nothing left to solve, nobody to save, no way out, just a dead end.
So why won’t it bloody end already?
Death is toying with him, he’s certain of it.
Sometimes there’s flashes of dizzying light before he’s plunged back into the dark depths. He swears he smells tobacco and yearns to get a taste himself, but just as soon as he catches a whiff, it’s gone. Other times he thinks he hears voices, muffled and indistinguishable. It stirs hope in what would be his chest, if he still had a body. But there’s no sense in hoping. Hope is for the living.
And yet, does it make a plaything of him. How he wishes to succumb to the shadows, to meet some kind of finality. Not this. This is bloody torture. He’s convinced that hell does exist and this is his personalized version. Never did he believe that his offenses in life would sentence him to this piss poor excuse of an afterlife. Unimaginable, eternal pain, be it by flames or flogging? He’d found it plausible, if not likely. An unquenchable thirst? There’s many tales of that or something akin to it, stuck wandering an infinite desert and forced to endure starvation and dehydration, but never death. Bound and subjected to unending physical labor? Aye, that one has also made the rounds. But this vague dance of uncertainty within a void?
Somebody kill him again. Maybe it’ll push him along.
Salt.
Greagor’s tits, he swears he tastes salt. Briney and bitter, it has him wanting to smack his lips together. Another ploy of Death. Stubborn even as a dead man, Cid refuses to give Death the satisfaction of getting his hopes up again . Oh, how his heart ached when he thought he heard Mid’s voice. He would have sobbed the fattest tears if he could. Begged and pleaded with the abyss to take him already. Of course, he was met with nothing but silence.
So he sits in his grief. No more wit or sarcasm to keep the emotions at bay or deny the mistakes he made while alive.
First things first, he wasn’t ready to die. What a fool he was.
You’re not that old.
Clive used to remind him of that. Even as a Dominant, his clock ticked just as fast as the average Bearer’s. The slow, steady petrification that spread across his left arm was a daily reminder that he had limited time. And so he thought that he’d make the most of it, dedicate what time he had left to fighting for a just and noble cause. At least that’s what he had told himself back then. Flippant dismissals of Tarja’s demands that he “ not be so careless with your aether or if you’re so incapable of self-restraint that you could at least take the goddamned medicine.”
He wishes he would have listened to her, that he wouldn’t have been so quick to throw his own life away. He was a bloody hypocrite, tellin’ Clive to escape his fate and save himself, when Cid ran towards his death like a prize. So much for being the wise leader of the Hideaway or Ramuh’s supposed deeper understanding of the true nature of the world.
He hates himself for abandoning Mid. A firebrand in her own right, she’ll find her way (or better yet, create her own), of that he has no doubt. Still, wasn’t he fighting for a better life for all? Shouldn’t that have extended first and foremost to his daughter? Although not a Bearer herself, she had no other family. What was the point of saving her as a babe if only to die on her before she reached adulthood?
A good death.
Ah, another half-baked belief. And what did his so-called good death get him or anybody else for that matter? Suffering, loss, pain.
“You’re a shite dad, you know that, Da?” He hears Mid’s voice as if she were right next to him, but he’s leagues away. He never did much to curb her language while he was alive, there was no sense taking issue with it now.
Her admission is sharp and painful, but it’s true. He thinks he gets what Death is doing now. Making him face all the truths he avoided in life through humor and deflection. If he’s lucky, once he accepts his failings, he’ll be able to rest once and for all.
“Clive told me what ‘appened, all doom and gloom, y’know how he is… What in the bloody hell were you thinkin’ Da?” she pauses, “you weren’t! That’s the problem.”
On the contrary, Cid had spent far too much time thinking, just about all the wrong things. He considered the world, morality, magick, systems and powers that be. So hellbent he was on beating the world into a version of it he found acceptable, that he neglected the simple, but intimate realities of life. He had indulged in adventure, status, and pleasure, but kept his heart well guarded behind a wall of bravado and levity.
There were no additional words from Mid. A nasty tactic, Death letting him hear only the bits and pieces that’ll really twist the proverbial knife in his gut. Fragmentary and disjointed, he’s half-inclined to believe that some of it is real, that he’s spying on the living’s private words from the beyond. And that half of him wails in agony as he’s subjected to the grief of his loved ones.
Anybody ever told their family that they’d better cry at their funeral were downright mad.
Cid can’t bear another wrecked sob or hushed cry.
He’s gotten used to a rotation of people’s voices coming and going. He’s not sure if he’s doing the coming and going or if it’s the voices themselves. He can’t always hear them clearly. Other sounds get mixed in and it becomes a cacophony that he can’t decipher. One thing that has him aggravated is that he hasn’t heard Clive.
Not once.
He gets forced platitudes from Gav, sad attempts to soothe his loss. Sardonic one-liners in a gruff voice he recognizes as Otto. The frustrated mutterings of Tarja as she takes care of the sick, the injured, and the cursed. A level, calm tone that was unmistakably Jill scolding him for his recklessness. Even Blackthorne and Charon bitch about his untimely demise. Tomes acts like he's reading to Cid, as if he could hear the old scholar.
But never Clive.
A tension builds to snapping, but never quite makes it all the way. He doesn't blame Clive, the lad did keep these sorts of things close to his chest. If anyone were to hear of his grief it’d likely be Jill. He might speak the words in the company of others with nothing more than a solemn expression, but Jill would be the one to sit with him while he wept. Poor lass.
Gods, those two deserved better than to be dragged into his madness. The nerve he had, convincing them to take on a damned Mothercrystal. Just when they were both startin’ to heal and move forward with their lives, in comes one Cidolfus Telamon to muck it all up.
Some damn savior he is.
Cid's trying to recall why he was so fixated on finding a damn shortcut all the time. What was the bloody rush? Why was he in such a hurry to die? There's no answer. Well, not a meaningful one anyway.
Looking back, he now sees how he was driven by fear. Fear of those with more power than him, of Barnabas, of Ultima, of not being in control of his own fate. So afraid of it all that he played right into Ultima’s machinations and got himself killed.
He initially thought his former king’s beliefs to be nothing more than that. A bit mad, but what religion isn't? Over time, he observed the unexplainable in Barnabas. How Cid grew into a man beside him and yet Barnabas didn’t look a wink older than forty. And despite decades of wielding Odin’s powers, not a speck of petrification on his skin. He heard the whispers from the shadows and saw the statues erected in the god’s image. Then came talk of his plan to build a new world in honor of his god. A land of salvation to be shaped by one known as Mythos. A being who would supposedly unite all the Dominants and bring about this great change.
It wasn't long after that Cid fled Waloed.
Fled in fear. As if him leaving Ash would've allowed him to escape a mad god’s plan.
“How long do you plan on hiding in here?”
Something in him swells hearing Clive's voice for the first time since he died. But his query only brings confusion for Cid. What in the bloody hells did he mean by that? Maybe these words weren't meant for Cid. Or maybe it's Death playing with him again. Make him think he's hearin’ Clive, aye, that seems more likely than the former.
“I ain't hiding! I was looking for something.” Mid’s voice is a harsh snap back at Clive.
“In the infirmary?” Clive asks her and Cid can almost imagine the subtle smirk on his face.
But then the initially fond warmth shifts into a simmering vexation, demanding to know why she’s in the infirmary. Mid had always been a healthy kid, but she was a right pain in the arse at the slightest bit of a cold. She'd refuse food, water and even fight sleeping. It dawns on him that he could've set a better example for her.
“Yes, I know what room I'm in Clive, I left one of me books here and I can't bloody find it!”
Clive sighs, the smile still evident in his voice. “I'll help you look for it then.”
Oh.
The anger is washed away by a mixture of relief and embarrassment. Relief that Mid was okay and that she wasn't alone like he feared. Embarrassment at how quick he was to become defensive over her. He can still hear their voices, hushed now and unable to understand what they are saying. The relief builds into something profound as he listens to the murmurs of their voices, even if he can’t make out the words, a regret is eased knowing that Clive is there for Mid. He's overcome by an aching flurry of longing and affection, so deep he wishes he was able to cry.
Clive Rosfield, the man he never deserved. Not in life and not in death.
“You could never be a villain,” Jill’s even keeled voice drifts in.
You wound me, my lady. He recalls saying the very same to her in Oriflamme on that fateful night. The irony of calling it “ that fateful night” is not lost on him. He hears metal clinking together, the sound of water sloshing in a container, followed by loud, repetitive banging on wood. Where in the world is the lass with all this noise?
“Sorry, construction is in full swing now.” Her voice has an amused lilt to it.
Wait, did she just… respond to him? If he had a heart, surely it would skip a beat at this.
He tries again. Jill, where are you?
She only hums to herself. Another delusion. He deflates, disappointed in himself for not knowing better at this point, doomed to repeat the same damned mistake of hoping. When will he learn that it’s over for him?
“He needs you… you know that, right?” Despite the noise, he hears her clearly, the pang in her voice like that of a fresh wound.
Not only did that miraculously fail, it was also the last thing he was expecting. He knows she speaks of Clive and yet he refuses to believe it. He can’t give in to the pointless yearning that Clive saw him as something more than a mentor, someone who left him with more burdens than when they met. He’s nothing more than another person for Clive to grieve. Because like the stubborn fool he is, he realized it far too late that Clive was more to him than just a protege.
Jill may not see it, but he’s his own villain.
Memories torment him when Death isn’t having him spy on the living. Replaying his regrets and his mistakes. It makes him relive his worst moments while he can do nothing to change them. He assumes this time is no different. How wrong he is.
“Oh Cidolfus, how you disappoint me,” Benedikta’s artificially sweet voice fills his head and so does the sight of her. Whether it be true memory or fabrication, he isn’t sure anymore. “If you would have just returned with me, it needn’t have ended this way.” A soft hand caresses his cheek and if he had control of this illusion, he would wrench away in disgust. She speaks as though his death was avoidable, as if she is there with him now. Maybe he has joined her in this bloody afterlife. Or perhaps she speaks of her own death. Either way, the guilt and shame bubble up inside of him, threatening to morph into something savage and volatile.
Another soul he failed. Benna had trusted him to lead her to safety and all he did was pull her from one cage and master only to trap her inside another, albeit a much fancier one. Gilded cage and all that. Why didn’t she believe him when he asked her to flee with him? For a woman who spoke so highly of loyalty, where was her faith in him? He nearly raised the lass for half her life, but when push came to shove, she chose power and authority over freedom and humanity.
“Coward.” She spits the word like venom.
Aye, running and hiding and sneaking. The ways of an outlaw.
Expand, contract, expand, contract.
Something fills him, holds, and then empties back out. An unfamiliar sensation that has him wary of Death's games. It repeats over and over and yet he remains vigilant in his disbelief, unwilling to cave in, to submit.
A brief hesitation trips him up though. What if fighting it is what's keeping him stuck here in this horrid in-between? What if he needs to give up in order to move on, to meet his true end? An epiphany follows, striking like lightning; he hasn't accepted it, not fully. A part of him still clings to this cruel dream for a life that is no more. But if Death wishes to break him, make him suffer so horribly that he surrenders, then why give him this fantasy? Why give him any hope at all?
The darkness starts to shift and gives way to a new picture. A dim, grainy brown develops before him. In one corner, a faint, orange glow flickers, drawing his attention. When he focuses on it, the vision before him clarifies. He's in a small, strange room and below him is a weakened body wrapped and bandaged. A deep soreness spreads across him and he winces. Before he can question if any of this is real or not, a voice stirs beside him.
“Cid?”
He turns towards the voice from his left and is met with a sight he thought he would never see again, stealing breath from lungs he was certain were long gone. Ocean eyes fill with tears and solace and he wishes to wipe them away but he's too weak, his petrified arm doesn't even lift. He parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out.
Clive quickly smothers his tears before speaking in a hushed whisper, “easy, let me get you some water.”
He's afraid to close his eyes, to fall back into that wretched darkness, so he watches with rapt attention as Clive crosses the room and fetches a waterskin. Upon his return, Cid attempts to sit himself up and finds he's barely able to lift his head, grunting in frustration.
“Still stubborn, I see,” Clive's voice is a wet laugh, tears mixed with humor. The lad actually smiles at him, sapphire eyes crinkling at the corners, and Cid can't help but note that it’s a face that Clive wears well, better than that damned kicked puppy look.
Clive props his head up with one hand while the other brings the waterskin to his lips, carefully dripping the liquid into his mouth. Mere water is like the fountain of youth as it rehydrates Cid's lips, his tongue and throat.
“Thank you kindly,” he rasps out. His voice is foreign in his ears. How strange it is to forget the sound of your own voice.
Clive nods as he stands and adds, “I should get Tarja, she'll want to know that you've come to.”
His eyes widen as panic courses through him at the thought of Clive stepping out of his sight, his presence real and tangible and affirming. Cid rushes to speak only to end up in a coughing fit. Clive eases him through it, firm hands bracing his shoulders as he patiently waits for him to settle once more.
“Just give me a moment lad,” he tries to force his cavalier confidence but senses that he fails with the way Clive looks at him, full of worry and hurt and if Cid was willing to believe it, something more profound. Those infinite blue eyes knew more than they had any right to.
“Alright, we can have a moment.” There’s a certainty in Clive’s voice that Cid doesn’t remember being there, but he finds that he quite likes it.
A moment passes in the stillness of the room that Cid doesn’t recognize. He suspends all his questions, all his confusion, because in this moment, Clive’s gaze doesn’t leave him once. He rolls his hand palm up, for it is all he can manage, but Clive’s ever perceptiveness reads it for what it is and grabs hold of it. A bone deep warmth spreads and Cid lets out a heavy sigh as he gives in to hope despite knowing better. Even if it’s not real, he reasons that he’d rather have this than not have it at all. Tears bead at the corners of his eyes and quickly break free to trail into his hairline. Concern flares in Clive’s eyes, warring between staying at Cid’s side or fetching Tarja finally.
“It’s alright lad… must be gettin’ sensitive in my old age,” he jests with a low rumble. Internally, he smacks himself for falling right back into familiar behaviors. Before Clive can remind him that he’s not that old , he adds, “aye, I take that back… told myself if I had another chance, that I wouldn’t hide behind all that bloody bullshit.”
“Cid…” Clive squeezes his hand and waits for him to go on.
He takes a deep breath, as deep as he can anyway. His lungs have seen better days and that’s saying something with his penchant for cigars. He winces as a wave of pain washes over him, gritting his teeth until it passes. Clive watches him closely, his gaze shifting at even the slightest change in Cid’s affect. He knows that Clive can tell that just talking is taking a toll on him.
“I’m going to grab Tarja… she is only just next door, I won’t be but a moment,” Clive assures, another squeeze to his hand an extra comfort.
He takes another breath and concedes, “aye, only a moment.”