wordsworn | #FFXIVWrite2022 30 Day Challenge

#FFXIVWrite2022 30 Day Challenge

Master post for all my entries into the FFXIVWrite challenge over on twitter/tumblr!

(Anything explicit or requiring cw: will be marked as such; everything else should be SFW.)

Prompt #1: Cross | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + G'raha Tia ✧ | ShB spoilers
[Just a snapshot of my wholesome catship LOL]

Prompt #2: Bolt | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + Emet-Selch + Hermes (+ mention of Hythlodaeus) ✧ | EW spoilers
[Total crack, written in an hour-long flurry of feverish writing, as usual if I don't feel super inspired by the prompt things get dumb, fight me, but it's still fun/funny to ME, CATTE IS CATTE, KNOCKING THINGS OFF TABLES, SIZHU GETS THE ZOOMIES LMAO, I might want to expand this one later idk LOL]

Prompt #3: Temper | ✧ Warrior of Light + Minfilia + Thancred ✧ | EARLY ARR spoilers ~~and maybe hints at some other spoilers but nothing obvious unless you Know Things already~~
[What if Thancred hadn't been late to the fight when you faced down Ifrit for the first time? AU, written to make Phase scream. CW: Tempering, brief violence, implied impending major character death]

Prompt #4: Free Prompt - θάρρος (Thárros); Courage | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) x G'raha Tia ✧ | Spoilers up through 6.1
[More wholesome catship; on her return from another trip to Aglaia, G'raha is taken by surprise at Sizhu's attire.]

Prompt #5: Cutting Corners | ✧ Hades + Hythlodaeus (implied Hades -> Azem) ✧ | EW spoilers
[After assisting Azem with saving that island and its grapes, Hades confronts Hythlodaeus about the indisputable part he'd played in the whole fiasco--but their conversation does not go at all the way Hades had planned.]

Prompt #6: Onerous | ✧ Mikh'a Jakkya (non-WoL adventurer, WoL's twin brother) ✧ | SB spoilers
[What happened to Sizhu's twin brother when she was snatched away to the First? Mikh'a tells of it in his own words.]

Prompt #7: Pawn | ✧ Emet-Selch (Hades) -> WoL (& Azem) ✧ | ShB spoilers
[Emet-Selch always plays the long game. Musings on chess pieces and the Warrior of Light.]

Prompt #8: Tepid | ✧ Cres Shatterheart (non-WoL adventurer) ✧ | ...no spoilers really? stuff from a minor sidequest is mentioned
[The reasons vary from person to person, but most adventurers are somewhat the same, deep down. No matter how arduous or tedious, sometimes the task itself is its own reward.]

Prompt #9: Yawn | ✧ Talys Shatterheart (WoL) ✧ | EW Spoilers
[In this timeline, the WoL is a f!Viera Sharlayan scholar with zero battle experience, who is doing a Forum-funded field study about adventurers for her thesis...and who is pulled into being Very Personally Involved in everything when she realizes two facts: 1) she's actually pretty badass at this fighting stuff, and 2) somehow, the whole world needs her.]

Prompt #10: Channel | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | EW SPOILERS ALL THE WAY DOWN
[He wants her, even though he knows that he should not. But she’s the only one he’s ever met who truly understands how he feels...and his emotions have always proven difficult for him to tame. Why should these sorts of feelings be any different? EW spoilers, takes place during the Elpis questline. CW: depression (it's Hermes), slight dom contemplations/mild sexuality (no actual sex tho)]

Prompt #11: Free Prompt - Embrace | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | EW SPOILERS FOR DAYS, YO
[I enjoyed that last drabble so much, I picked up right where that one left off and did another. c:]

Prompt #12: Miss the Boat | ✧ Sarhnai Dotharl + Koharu Sumeragi (WoLs) + Scions ✧ | EW spoilers OF COURSE
[FINALLY wrote some Dargon Girls AU! In which there are TWO WoLs who are both shards of Azem, who both ended up on the Source--soul-sisters, if you will. c: Koharu is mine and Sarhnai belongs to my friend, the wonderful

incontrast. <3]

Prompt #13: Confluence | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + Ardbert ✧ | ShB Spoilers
[Phase gave me this idea, so these feels are her fault.]

Prompt #14: Attrition | ✧ Crystal Exarch (-> WoL) ✧ | Shadowbringers Spoilers LIKE WHOA man

Prompt #15: Row | ✧ Emet-Selch (Hades) + Azem (Persephone) ✧ | All The Endwalker Spoilers

Prompt #16: Deiform | ✧ Koharu (WoL) x Hien ✧ | EW role quest spoilers
[My soft dargon-girl has dokis for Hien pretty bad, and finds a way to show him a very small bit of just how badly. I still think it's kinda "eh" but Phase likes it, so it can't be terrible.]

Prompt #17: Novel | ✧ Koharu (WoL) x Hien (continued from previous prompt) ✧ | Spoilers for a Stormblood Dungeon, I Guess?
[Continued from the previous drabble, very short but my head is killing me, so. This will do. :c]

Prompt #18: Free Prompt - Fruit | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers OBVIOUSLY
[I wanted to keep writing more for that same Hermes idea...and it's a free prompt, so I did.]

Prompt #19: Turn a Blind Eye | ✧ Elidibus (Themis) + Azem ✧ | All The Spoilers, Especially for Pandæmonium
[Themis is concerned about Azem's censure, only to find that he needn't be. Pandæmonium spoilers, plus a hint of my own predictions about where that questline might go...]

Prompt #20: Anon | ✧ Aymeric x/+ unnamed F!WoL ✧ | ARR Spoilers, oh noes
[...Yeah, I hate this one. But, sucky prompt, sucky drabble. Only makes sense.]

Prompt #21: Solution | ✧ Talys Shatterheart (WoL) ✧ | No Spoilers, Lots of Anti-Garlean Feels

Prompt #22: Veracity | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + Emet-Selch (Hades) ✧ | ShB & EW Spoilers
[I don't much like this one either, but it's there.]

Prompt #23: Pitch | ✧ Fandaniel (+ hints of current one-sided and possible future-life Fandaniel/WoL) ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers FOREVER
[Get ready for a feels-punch, that is all]

Prompt #24: Vicissitudes | ✧ Thancred + Urianger + CATBABIES ✧ | No Spoilers, Just Headcanons
[This is really bad and really dumb, but these two catbabies are headcanon for me now...]

Prompt #25: Free Prompt - Halcyon | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers
[Con't from the previous free prompt~]

Prompt #26: Break A Leg | ✧ Koharu Sumeragi (WoL) + Sarhnai Dotharl (WoL) vs Zenos yae Galvus ✧ | SB spoilers
[COLLAB WITH PHASE \o/]

Prompt #27: Hail | ✧ Koharu Sumeragi (WoL) + Sarhnai Dotharl (WoL) ✧ | SB spoilers
[Con't from yesterday's. Koharu has a mad, and Zenos is 100% it.]

Prompt #28: Vainglory | ✧ Emet-Selch (Hades) i.e. "Solus zos Galvus" ✧ | All Spoilers, All The Time
[PHASE AND I PLAY CATCH WITH THE GARLEAN HATE BALL AGAIN. Uhhhh, I mean...Emet musings RE: building the ~~stupid bull$h!t that is the~~ Garlean Empire.]

Prompt #29: Fuse | ✧ Hythlodaeus (-> Azem) ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers
[Mehhhh this one is so unfocused...but oh well, it's done. Might revisit and turn it into something else later.]

Prompt #30: Sojourn | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + Venat ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers ;_;
[A good place to end. :c]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“Come now, G’raha--surely you aren’t afraid to cross swords with me?”

It was a lightly-issued challenge, almost teasing, but there was a definite curiosity in Sizhu’s eyes alongside the playful sparkle of mischief. When the Warrior of Light had casually mentioned the idea of sparring to G’raha, half-jokingly saying that it was nice to finally have someone else who fought with a sword and shield in the Scions, she hadn’t expected the wide-eyed look of something nearly approaching panic that he’d given her, much less the way he’d cringed backwards in surprise. He was still cringing a little now, though when he noticed how concerned her expression was becoming, he straightened up, moving forward the quick step he’d taken backwards and waving his hands placatingly.

“N-no, of course not! Afraid isn’t...the word for it at all,” he ended weakly, fidgeting with the leather bracers on his arms, as Sizhu had noticed the other Miqo’te was wont to do when he was nervous, shy, or in any way unsettled.

She tilted her head at him inquisitively, waiting for G’raha to explain himself, giving him time to sort out his thoughts and put them into words. But when he still hesitated, even when she could almost read what he was thinking as clearly as if it were written across his face in actual, literal letters, that was when she pressed him again.

“...I know that you trust me not to harm you, even by accident...and I’m just as certain that you believe me capable of holding my own against you, regardless of which weapons we use.” She was an all-rounder like he was, after all--even more so, rather. “So, then...what reason is there for you to hesitate?”

G’raha’s hands had gone still, one simply gripping his opposite wrist tight as he gazed steadily at Sizhu, his expression both conflicted and...bashful?

“...Forgive me, my friend. I was simply...startled by that invitation. So long have I dreamed of sharing all sorts of adventures with you...”

Sizhu found herself releasing a soft chuckle as her worry fell away, the relief of that almost physical weight being banished leaving her light and buoyant and even a little giddy. “I’m not sure I’d call sword drills and sparring an adventure, but...I’d be glad of your company during them nonetheless, G’raha.”

He likely didn’t even realize that he was doing so, but ever since she’d first learned the truth of his identity, Sizhu hadn’t been able to help but notice how G’raha brightened just noticeably whenever she called him by name--and so she did it a fair amount, for the simple satisfaction of seeing him perk up over something so seemingly small and simple, something that she had done. Even now, when they were back on the Source and he’d been made an official member of the Scions, that hadn’t changed, and it went a long way towards reassuring her that the Crystal Exarch and G’raha Tia were indeed one and the same.

The calm, steady smile he was giving her now underlined that reassurance, as did the even tone of his reply:

“Whenever you desire my company, you need only ask, my friend. Regardless of the adventure...er, or even the lack thereof...I shall be more than content to simply be by your side.”

...After all...being with you is the grandest adventure I could ever dream of.

Edited 2022-09-05 22:48 (UTC)

Sizhu burst through the door in Emet-Selch’s temporary quarters in Elpis, giving the Convocation member a start as he looked up from a stack of paperwork regarding past and present concepts that he’d requested from Hermes.

“What-” -exactly do you think you’re doing? was what he intended to say, but he only got so far as the first word before she was in motion again--one small hand darting out to slap a candlestick off the nearest table.

Though most of the room was bare and austere, as were most of the Ancients’ living spaces, flames immediately licked up a nearby cloth draped over a table. With a low curse, Emet-Selch lunged across the room, scooping up a vase full of gratuitous flowers, a brief cascade of water and unfortunate plants dousing the burgeoning flames before they could grow out of control.

Head snapping sideways to shoot the Warrior of Light a glare over his shoulder, he was brought up short by just how dilated her pupils were--even for a Keeper of the Moon they were far too wide, nearly swallowing her irises entirely, only the barest fingernail of pale violet ringing those dark, slightly-glazed seeming pools.

Without a word, she cast him a sidelong glance that was decidedly feline, and decidedly not typical or particularly self-aware and sentient, and bolted from the room as abruptly as she’d entered.

Emet-Selch simply stared after her aghast; he was still gaping at the empty door frame half a moment later, dripping vase in hand, when a breathless Hermes stumbled into view.

“Azem’s familiar,” the dark-haired man panted, “she shielded me from a rogue concept’s toxic tail-stinger and-”

“Never mind that!” Emet-Selch snapped, setting the vase down firmly with a hollow clunk before stalking past Elpis’s breathless overseer. “Your excuses can wait until the matter is resolved. I will track her aether for you, if only to prevent any more unnecessary mayhem. ‘Tis my duty, and no less, seeing as she belongs to another member of the Convocation.”

Were Hythlodaeus present, he would have given his friend an oblique glance, chuckling behind a hand as he teased Hades about being worried about their curious little tagalong; as it was, there was no one there to point out the anxious furrow in Emet-Selch’s brow as his golden eyes scanned their surroundings, focusing in on their quarry with little effort.

“Let’s get this over with,” he sighed, then flicked a sharp glance up at Hermes, who did his best not to flinch obviously at the hostility in the other man’s gaze. “And don’t think that I won’t be including this little mishap in my report to the Convocation.”

Hermes swallowed hard at that, then bowed his head in something like shamefaced submission. “I...of course not. You have my deepest apologies-”

“Come on, then,” Emet-Selch cut him off impatiently, turning his back on the other man and striding down the hallway, already returning his attention to the matter--or rather, the minor crisis--at hand. “Make yourself useful, overseer.”

Edited 2022-09-05 22:48 (UTC)

The skirmish had actually been going well in your opinion, at least as well as any ambush turned around on the other party could be. You had expected as much, really--Ungust had been shifty from the start, and more slimy than a prison pudding--but everyone else seemed shocked that this greedy merchant would betray you, that he could buy off Flame soldiers. Even so, you believed the fight far from impossible to win, and with you at the front purposefully, methodically taking down the oncoming waves of enemies, you started to see an end in sight.

...But then one of your Flames had gone and gotten himself bloody captured, and the rest of them had already been knocked down, or else had thrown down their swords to save the life of their fellow--understandable, yes, but you knew better. Your instincts warned you this was folly, your tactical mind easily recognizing that in circumstances like this, surrender meant that all would be sacrificed and none, not even that one, would be saved. Honestly, you had been considering fighting on anyway, in the hopes that you’d be able to rescue at least a few of them.

Of course, then you’d been hit with a Sleep spell from behind, and that choice had been taken from you.

Now, as you wake up, you aren’t surprised to find that you and what remains of your group are being held captive, sacrifices to be given over to the Lord of the Inferno, the primal of the Amalj'aa, Ifrit.

The men with you have already given up, a hopelessness in their eyes that nothing you say can shake; they hardly seem to listen to you, in fact. It’s almost a relief when the Amalj'aa come for you, shoving all of you, bound hands behind you, into the Bowl of Embers.

You’ve been told a little bit about primals, about the dangers they present, but you’ve never encountered one before, so far as you know. And judging by what the stories you’ve heard have to say...you’re pretty sure that you’d remember something like that.

Amalj’aa start to chant, calling to their Lord of the Inferno, and the one who seems to be in charge, a being with a name that you think is something like ‘Temugg Zoh’, begins what you realize must be the summoning, though it just sounds like a lot of nonsense to you-

You catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye, and turn your head just in time to see the guard standing beside you--the one gripping your arm to hold you here in place--choke on his own blood as a knife suddenly lodges in his throat, sprouting from tender flesh like a deadly flower. The guard’s hand drops away from you as his body collapses in the sand at your feet, gurgling weakly.

“Pray forgive my lateness!”

A familiar figure suddenly darts into view from a nearby rocky outcropping, and with a silvery flash of a knife-blade, your hands are free, as are those of the Flames beside you.

“Thancred!”

You call out his name on reflex, surprised and relieved in equal measures that another Scion, someone who knows more about all this primal business than you, is actually present. Your weapons were taken from you, but you still have your feet and fists, and you turn sharply, intending to put them to good use, even as Thancred unleashes a flurry of blades, taking out two more of the zealots, cutting off whatever nonsense they’re chanting mid-word-

Too late, though, because Temugg Zoh finishes the summoning, and in a rush of flame, a great creature unlike any you’ve ever seen before all but explodes into view. The remaining Amalj’aa rally and cheer, even as the Flames quail back in fear and dread. You shoot a quick look over at Thancred, hoping for orders, reassurance, some sort of plan, and your breath catches on finding that his eyes are wide with alarm. You only glimpse it for a moment, however; he flashes you a lopsided grin, smoothing over his panic so quickly that you almost think you’d imagined it.

“Apologies, things seem to have gone a bit off-script. Quickly now, we’d best make a run for it-”

“Pitiful children of man! By my breath I claim you!”

An ear-shattering screech followed by a voice that sounds like the crackling of a hundred fires shakes the very ground you’re standing on, making both you and Thancred stagger. He catches himself quickly, grabbing at one of your arms and turning to run all in one smooth, fluid motion, clearly intending to haul you out of there if need be. Not that it is, since you’d recovered your balance quickly as well, and though you’ve only taken three paces, you’re already falling into stride with him easily, confident in your speed, certain that you’re not holding him back, that soon it will be you hauling him along-

But neither of you are quick enough to outrun the rush of eerie blue flames that wash over you, or the words that rumble through the ground, shaking their way through your very bones.

“Arise once more as my loyal minions! Feed my flames with your faith, and all who stand against us shall burn!”

You expect to feel--something. More than what you do feel, anyway, which is just a strange sort of vague tingling as the fire snaps and billows around you...but then it fades, and you’re left staring at your hands, turning them over wonderingly, glancing down at the rest of yourself, because you don’t feel any different. The Flame soldiers, traitorous and otherwise, and even that dirtbag merchant are all gazing up at the primal with reverence, murmuring droning words of devotion...and you are not. Your mind is yet your own, fully so.

“Impossible!” Temugg Zoh snarls, giving you a start; you’d already all but forgotten that he was still here. “By what sorcery do you resist my master’s will!? Could it be...? Your soul already belongs to another!? Yes, that is the only explanation!”

And then Ifrit, Lord of the Inferno addresses you directly. You’re not sure what you’d expected when you’d set out on this latest adventure, but conversing with gods (albeit ones of a lesser nature) isn’t even in the top fifty things you’d ever expected to experience.

“Forsooth, thy frail mortal frame can serve as vessel to the blessing of but One. Yet I smell not the taint of another upon thee... The truth of thine allegiance waxeth clear─thou art of the godless blessed's number. The Paragons warned of thine abhorrent kind. Thine existence is not to be suffered…though thine companion, far more fortunate and blessed, shall be spared...”

With an uneasy jolt, you suddenly register the absence of Thancred’s grip on your arm, and fear--though not for yourself--lances through you as you jerk your head to the side, alarm pulsing through every ilm of your body...and to your dismay, you find Thancred gazing up at the primal with the same blank expression of adoration.

Some part of you hopes that it’s a ruse, that he’s faking, that it’s all an act, that he’s going to snap out of it with a smirk and a wink and invite you out for a drink (again) once you’ve taken care of this primal and its thralls. But he doesn’t, and your chest goes tight, your blood running cold as ice despite the sweat dripping down your back from the lingering desert heat as well as the leaping ring of flames you’re standing in, an arena fit for a trial by literal fire.

Thancred’s lips part, and for an instant, you dare to hope-

“...Lord Ifrit...your words are my bread...”

Gritting your teeth, you turn away from your vacant-eyed companion, darting over to the dead guards and retrieving your weapon before turning your gaze on the huge monster crouching across the ring. An anger like none you’ve ever known flares to life in your chest, a fury that’s simultaneously cold and hot, and you’re finished holding back, done controlling your temper.

You don’t hold back, and within mere minutes, you’ve slain your first primal.

Satisfying as it is to watch the creature bellow and scream, writhing with rage and pain before exploding into a shower of embers, it’s not enough. The men claimed by the primal don’t blink and come back to themselves as you’d hoped they might, though the more cynical part of you hadn’t truly expected it. Even if they had, you’re not certain that would satisfy you.

You’re still angry. Whoever these ‘Paragons’ are, you’re going to stop them. And if it means killing more of these primal things while you’re at it? All the better.

It’s a dour meeting in the Solar with Minfilia this time; it’s just the two of you, but the absence of the third party in the room, someone who should be there, weighs heavy on you both.

By now your anger has faded to a dull simmer, and you’re simply left wondering why. How. If perhaps there might’ve been something you could have done differently. If you could have done anything to prevent this from happening. Her usual smile entirely absent, Minfilia takes a verbal and mental step back, calmly explaining how the recent kidnappings, the stolen crystals, and the primals are all interconnected. It’s news to you, but you’re only half paying attention, still preoccupied as you are with what had happened to your fellow Scion just a few bells ago.

Thancred had been delirious, still murmuring worshipful supplications to the Lord of the Inferno, though he’d come along quietly with both you and the Bloodsworn escort that had shown up. You’d reluctantly left him in a cell in Ul’dah until a group of Scion escorts had arrived to take both him and you back to Vesper Bay. It had taken a bit of time, during which you’d cooled your heels in the Quicksand, surprisingly without any interruptions. You’d expected Minfilia to contact you over the linkpearl like usual, telling you pray return to the Waking Sands, but she was uncharacteristically silent.

Not that you can blame her, all things considered.

You find your attention snapping back to the woman in question as she says your name--repeats it, you realize, a little ashamed of your lapse in concentration.

“Are you all right?” she asks, and at first you nod automatically, then pause, going still before slowly shaking your head instead.

“I’m not hurt,” you reassure her, hesitating only briefly before asking the obvious question outright. “I’m just worried about Thancred. How long will he be...like that?” The Amalj’aa zealots had said a lot of magical--religious?--mumbo-jumbo, all that gibberish about heathen souls and cleansing flames and being marked, being claimed by Ifrit’s breath...but gibberish was all that it was, surely? There’s no way it could be...surely it isn’t...permanent...

By now you’re certain that you’re far too concerned to keep the evidence of it out of your expression, and you turn an anxious, imploring gaze on the Antecedent, hoping--praying, even, if that isn’t too ironic--for reassurance, for good news.

“There is only one cure for victims of tempering,” Minfilia says in her quiet, prim tones, and for a moment you’re slow to catch on, curious as to why she sounds so sad and so grim if there’s a cure for this gods-awful state.

Then you notice how her hand has come to rest on the long-knife at her waist, subtle but meaningful, and your stomach gives a sharp lurch as you understand what she means.

She must be able to read the startled question, the dawning horror on your face, because she continues on, explaining herself fully.

“Such knowledge cannot be spread to the public at this time. But you see…once a man is tempered, he is tempered for life. His very existence lends strength to the primal whom he cannot help but worship. We would not do this if there were any other recourse...”

Of course you wouldn’t, the words are there on your tongue, but your throat has gone far too tight to give them voice. You’ve not been a Scion for long, but you’ve seen how different Thancred is--was, gods--around Minfilia, treating her something like a precious younger sister. For her part, Minfilia is kind and gentle to everyone, all of the Scions at least; but there’s a warmth in her eyes when she speaks of Thancred, and you can tell that she thinks of him the same way: as family.

You don’t know the story behind it, but then again, you’re not particularly close to either of them. You’d met them both for the first time fairly recently--a different Scion had invited you to join, not Thancred, since you hadn’t started your new adventure in Ul’dah, which was apparently his area of responsibility. Thancred had struck you as more of a character than a real person, the classic silver-tongued lady-killer. Indeed, you’d caught him casting a few flirtatious looks your way, though you’d remained aloof, amused and perhaps even a little flattered but not particularly interested in jumping into anything with a new colleague.

Once you’d taken this job with him, you had soon realized that at least part of that archetypal skirt-chasing behavior was a mask--no, more like a front, a cover story to make him seem harmless and foolish and unthreatening. He was street smart, clever and quick on the uptake when it came to dealing with people, a cunning shadow sliding through the darkness.

You remember the way he’d suddenly burst into existence there in the Bowl of Embers, blades flashing, there to back you up, to help you, to save you.

Biting your lip, you drop your eyes, unable to meet Minfilia’s understanding, forgiving, and completely unaccusing gaze.

It isn’t your fault. It isn’t. You know that.

And yet...and yet.

“I hope you will continue to stand with us, as we Scions continue our fight, that no more innocents need be sacrificed,” she murmurs, turning towards the door and making her way out of the room. She reaches out to briefly rest a hand on your shoulder as she passes you, and as she pulls away, turns her face away, you see her expression shift into something resolute and deeply sorrowful, her other hand still gripping at the hilt of that long, curved hunting knife at her side.

You don’t need the Echo to show you what she’s planning to do next--though thus far it’s only shown you the past, so you’re not certain if it’s even possible for it to show you the future--and that awful knowledge settles in your chest and midriff, weighing you down, the sensation not at all unlike what you imagine you’d feel like if you’d spent all afternoon swallowing stones. A lump rises to lodge in your throat, but you force it down, shoving a ragged statement past it as you take a hesitant step after her, reaching out a hand towards her:

“...Wait. Let me come with you. I stand by the Scions--by you.” You swallow hard, but it does nothing to make the rest of the raw, painful words you’re straining to speak any easier to say. You don’t really want to say them in the first place, wish that you didn’t need to.

But you do need to. So you say those horrible words.

Clenching and unclenching your jaw, your hands that have balled into fists at your sides, you raise your eyes to meet Minfilia’s as you make an offer that’s really more of a statement, one that you won’t let her refuse. If she’d let you, you’d take on this burden, this ghastly task alone, but you suspect that this is something she cannot--will not--allow. So instead, you make the only offer you can, coming alongside her to rest your hand on the hilt of the knife beside and a little bit on top of hers:

“...We’ll do this together.”

Edited 2022-09-04 16:06 (UTC)

The main hall of the Baldesion Annex was piled high with books, as usual; the unusual bit was where the stack sitting front and center was from: the restricted section of the Noumenon. Those volumes had been obtained with special permission from Scholarch Montichaigne--and likely also thanks to the considerable clout the Scions in general and the Warrior of Light in particular had earned from the whole saving-the-world thing--and G’raha Tia was not going to let the chance to absorb every bit of knowledge they contained pass him by.

So deeply absorbed was he in this reading, standing there at one side of the room next to one of the tables, that he failed to notice when the door opened, or when a familiar face peered inside, a bright smile lighting up that face as her eyes came to rest on him.

Sizhu Jakkya, the Warrior of Light, now just another humble adventurer once more for the time being, stepped into the room, letting the door fall closed behind her. Long, fluffy white tail swishing thoughtfully behind her, she noted the books heaped upon the tables, as well as how preoccupied her fellow (former) Scion was with said books, and her smile grew softer still. She herself had been known to get lost in her reading at times, but G’raha took that quirk to an entirely new level, which she honestly found rather endearing. Not that it couldn’t also be a little frustrating…but she knew there were ways to wrest his mind back from his studies, if need be. A gentle touch on the arm was usually enough to do it, a determined nudging at his shoulders her secondary and not uncommon recourse. Once, and only once, she had been exasperated enough by his utter lack of response that feline instincts had taken over, and she’d taken full advantage of the fact that he was sitting on a bench outside, leaning over and giving one of his ears a sharp, brief nip. That had brought him back to the present immediately, with a jump and a yelp and a great deal of flustered flailing. Her face had been nearly as red as his, but she’d stubbornly refused to either look away or apologize…and honestly, his reaction had been more than a little satisfying, the way he blushed so alluringly cute that she had been tempted to do it again, to brace herself over him, caging him with her arms, and go for his other ear...

She hadn’t, but it had been a near thing. If Alphinaud hadn’t shown up at just that moment to invite them both to dinner at the Last Stand, she likely would have, regardless of the fact that it was a public location. That moment was something she thought about every so often, that missed opportunity, and every time she did, the little Miqo’te told herself that if another chance like that presented itself, she wouldn’t waver. She would be bold, brave, and honest with him, a dear friend who had laid claim to far more of her heart than he knew.

None of that was anywhere near the forefront of her mind just now, however. At present, she and G’raha were doing further research into the phantom realm and the true nature of the Twelve, and while he was doing what he could in his capacity as a Student, Sizhu had taken it upon herself to do several more thorough investigations of Aglaia, hoping she might learn something more from further exploration and combat with the four gods therein. Disappointingly, she hadn’t found much of note, so she had decided to return to Sharlayan to do what she could in helping G’raha sift through the small mountain of tomes he’d doubtless procured.

Much as she wanted to speak with him, to exchange greetings and revel in his smile and enjoy the way his eyes brightened when they met hers, she had been raised as a hunter in a wild, untamed woodland; she could be patient, content to wait for the proper moment. After all, she had found nothing pressing, nothing helpful or important that needed to be reported right away. Better to leave him to his work, to simply come alongside him and pick up a book herself and let herself be happy that they could work together on a project like this.

Even so, she still murmured a low, polite greeting as she brushed past him, her soft voice causing his ears to give a visible twitch, though his gaze was still intent on the tome before him, his expression intensely focused as scarlet eyes darted back and forth across the page.

Just as expected, Sizhu thought with an inward chuckle, tilting her head to make it easier to read the spines of the nearest stack of books. Selecting one, she began to page through it, absently wondering in the back of her mind how long G’raha had been at this, and if he might not be amenable to sharing a meal with her once he’d finished his current volume.

The book she’d picked up proved to be interesting, but irrelevant to their current area of interest, and Sizhu carefully set it aside, returning her attention to the profusion of other tomes on offer, sorting through them with steady, unhurried purpose.

Engrossed in that task as she was, Sizhu was unaware that her movement, in conjunction with that greeting from before, had managed to draw G’raha halfway back to the present--just enough for him to absently glance up from the book in his hand, crimson eyes reflexively drawn to the flickers of motion in his peripheral vision, his subconscious urging him to focus on the presence of a person decidedly dear to him rather than the dry, dusty tome he’d been submerged in.

That hazy, half-focused gaze snapped into sharp focus, however, as he took in not only who was there in front of him, but also her current attire. Specifically the back of her attire--or the decided lack thereof, for the gracefully sweeping dress she wore was largely backless, leaving a considerable expanse of smooth, pale skin exposed.

For a long moment, G’raha could only stare, his eyes gradually going wide and his mouth falling open as he very nearly choked on a sharply-drawn breath, the book in his typically-dexterous archer’s hands nearly dropping from stiff, nerveless fingers as he all but gasped out:

“S-Sizhu! Wh-wh-what are you wearing...?”

The little Keeper of the Moon gave a start--she hadn’t expected the other Miqo’te to finish his studies for at least another bell or so--then twisted to look over her shoulder at him, blinking as she registered both his strangled tone and his awkward stammering. A curious tilt of her head soon shifted into a bright, knowing smile instead. Spreading her arms slightly, she gave a little spin, setting her skirts swirling, billowing out about her, her smile even wider once she came to a stop, all but glowing with obvious satisfaction as she looked down at her current outfit.

The dress in question was the sort of pure, perfect white that seemed almost vibrant in the way it reflected the light, the material flowing but not flimsy, a decent weight to it while still maintaining a certain airy quality. The bodice itself was close-cut, flatteringly fitted to her slight but curving frame, while the skirt was folded and draped in such a way that it flared out strikingly. Golden accents and ornamentation edged the garment, dangling bangles glinting and tinkling musically with her every movement, and matching golden armlets gave it even more of an exotic feel.

And, of course, there was the aforementioned largely-absent back. A high gilded collar swept downwards, then twin golden clasps gathered the fall of the material, pinning it aside to reveal the graceful curve of her spine from a spot between her shoulder blades very nearly down to the small of her back. It was tasteful, well-designed, and decidedly modest--her sides were still well-covered, and there was little to no chance of anything slipping uncomfortably or embarrassingly regardless of how hard she was pressed during combat--and yet… Perhaps it was the unexpected conjoinment of chastity and sensuality that made his heart hammer in his breast, that her attire looked so primly modest from the front, only to reveal something unexpected when she turned around...

“It’s a Patheon Robe of Healing!” Sizhu said in answer to his initial outburst of a question. “I went back to Aglaia to have another look around, and I found it in between fighting the gods again. Surely you know by now that I collect interesting clothing from all the places I visit…” Her attention suddenly shifted from her outfit over to her companion instead, her expression bemused and mildly anxious. “I...thought it looked nice...?” she ventured, offering him a tentative half-smile.

“Y-YES!” G’raha blurted out, then his already-flushed face reddened even further as he scrambled to amend that strident agreement. He hadn’t meant to sound so forceful, so overexcited, as if he were--as if he were panting after her like some mindless beast in heat. Not that he didn’t find her attractive, of course, but--no, surely it was inappropriate to look at her in such a way. He had to explain himself, had to really clarify what he’d meant--

“I-I mean! I wasn't trying to say that--I didn't mean--it--it does look--v-very nice!"

--Had to try to dig himself out of the hole that only seemed to grow ever deeper, the more he spoke. Clearing his throat and reaching for that inner calm that had served him so well in his time as the Exarch, G’raha closed his eyes and raised a hand to his chest, taking a steadying breath before looking up with a soft smile and making another, much more collected attempt at a suitable compliment:

“...Well can I believe that such a garment would come from a place like the Seventh Heaven, for there is indeed something of the divine about it…and you, were I to be entirely honest.” Thanks to the book still clutched in one hand, he couldn’t fidget with his bracers as he normally would when he was feeling bashful or nervous or a combination of both; instead, he simply had to be content with rubbing at the cover of the book, tracing its lower edge with the pad of his thumb as he struggled to maintain that inner serenity. “It suits you,” he added softly, cheeks pink as he averted his gaze.

Absolutely adorable, Sizhu thought, her heart fluttering, but she found herself playing it off, giving a light chuckle and a playful grin at the other Miqo’te as she quipped, “Are you saying I might be something of a deity myself? I daresay I’ve certainly bested enough gods for that to be a remote possibility...” Sternly reminding herself to be bold, she angled a thoroughly impish expression his way, favoring G’raha with a flirtatious wink. “Though I’ve yet to receive any real worship. Compliments and admiration, yes, but...well.” She gave an overly-careless shrug, though her eyes lingered tellingly on her fellow adventurer, the faintest smolder in her gaze and the lightest teasingly suggestive tone in her voice. “Mm...perhaps someday.”

With that she turned her back on him again, leaving him gaping at her--and once again his eyes were presented with that all-too-tempting expanse of soft, pale skin.

His fingertips tingled as he continued to look, hands longing to reach out, to brush against that enticing span of skin, to settle on her body, molding themselves to her curves--and quite suddenly, G’raha was reminded of part of his conversation with M-017 on Ultima Thule.

I too have struggled to find the courage to express and embrace my wants.

He’d meant those words then, and still meant them now--perhaps even more now than ever before. And…judging by the way Sizhu’s head was turned ever so slightly, just enough for her to watch him out of the corner of her eye…she had turned her back on him like this on purpose. Which likely meant...no, certainly that could only mean...

Before he could think further, much less overthink, G’raha took a half-step forward and, as he had wanted and waited to do for so long, reached out his hand. The tips of his fingers lightly grazed that unspeakably soft skin as he briefly traced the curve of her spine downwards, letting his gentle touch pause there, lingering low on her back.

“...Forgive me if this is not the case, but...I do not think I have misread you,” he murmured, his voice sounding lower, more husky than usual. Sizhu had gone still when he’d made contact, a light shiver going through her as his fingertips slipped downward; she’d started to turn her head to catch his eye, then stopped herself, though the way she just noticeably arched into that gentle touch spoke silent volumes.

“...On Ultima Thule, after we made our promise, I made many a serious admission. Spoke of things that I have struggled with, as well as things that I have come to accept.” His thumb stroked steadily against her skin, tracing along the lower edge of the hole in her robe, followed by another, longer caress with the backs of his fingers; the unsteadiness in her next breath was audible to both of them, but she very pointedly didn’t move away, and G’raha continued, “I must confess that one thing I do yet struggle with is...finding the courage to properly express...my wants.”

He hesitated there, his hand suddenly withdrawing as his aforementioned courage abruptly failed; but Sizhu would have none of that, swiftly turning in place and reaching out herself, gently catching hold of his hand before it could fall back to his side. Her eyes were bright, shining with happiness and perhaps even a hint of unshed tears, and G’raha found that he couldn’t look away from her, basking in the relaxing warmth of her smile.

To his sight, in that moment she did truly look like a goddess.

Giving his hand a squeeze, she spoke, her voice soft but steady and strong, as always and ever:

“...I hope someday you do find courage enough of your own to reach for what you want, G’raha…though I can think of numerous instances already when I found your selfless, reflexive bravery deeply inspiring. Still, if...if you like...”

G’raha watched her swallow, eyes drawn to that subtle movement in the graceful column of her throat. Her face had grown visibly pink, but her smile remained firmly in place, her voice stayed steady and certain, and her gentle grip on his hand was equally steadfast as she took another half-step closer to him.

“...Until that day, perhaps I’ll simply have to have courage enough for both of us.”

Edited 2022-09-05 18:38 (UTC)

“I must confess that I see no cause for finding you in such ill temper over this, most eminent Emet-Selch. Is there truly any harm in cutting a few corners, when it’s done for the betterment of the star?”

“Yes,” was Hades’s immediate, peevish answer as he angled a fierce sideways glare at the violet-haired man pacing along the streets at his side. “There is oft a reason for doing things a certain way. And while the fulfillment of our duty is of the utmost importance, how we go about doing so remains relevant, regardless of the circumstances.”

They walked in silence for a time before Hythlodaeus mildly pointed out, “She saved a village with that ‘outrageous stunt’, you know.”

“I know.” I was there, if you’ll recall.

“A village that the Convocation had already given up as lost, if I remember rightly?”

“You do not,” Hades retorted, snappishly biting out each word, turning his masked face forward once again and striding on with purpose, though truly he had no chosen destination in mind at this moment. “The Convocation intended to discuss the matter, and had yet to reach a verdict, when one of our number took matters into her own hands. Indeed, she made use of a very particular concept from the Bureau of the Architect...one that cannot be readily procured for personal use.”

“Most curious,” Hythlodaeus commented, his tone light as ever, and utterly devoid of any trace of guilt--though not quite devoid of any trace of laughter.

Irrepressible personality aside, Hades settled the blame for this squarely on Azem’s shoulders. It was entirely her influence that had their mutual friend behaving every bit as incorrigibly as she was wont to do.

“The only thing that’s curious about it is that you seem to think that I don’t know precisely how she got hold of that concept,” he growled, his irritation only increased by the unmistakable sound of a poorly-muffled chuckle from the man at his side. “Perhaps there truly is need to discuss your suitability for your office at the Hall of Rhetoric--particularly if you’ve become so short-sighted as to believe your involvement wouldn’t be recognized.” He felt his brow furrowing deeply, his lips going thin as he leveled that familiar threat at his old friend--still idle, as they both knew, but this time he at least halfway meant it.

Hythlodaeus’s silence indicated that he’d noted that hint of seriousness as well, and he was taking a moment to ruminate on that. Yet, as ever, in the end his irrepressible nature caused him to simply laugh once again, his grin wide enough for Hades to see it from the corner of his vision.

“Ah, I see, your reason for taking such deep offense must be a personal one. After all, you were pulled into the matter as well. Your help was likely what prevented things from getting out of hand, thus also preventing Azem from being censured again.”

Hades felt his shoulders tensing at that gentle accusation, for Hythlodaeus was very close to the truth, as well they both knew. All that remained was for the other man to speak the words aloud, to give one final verbal nudge.

Hythlodaeus will know, the errant thought wandered through Hades’s mind as he cursed himself for a fool. Such keen sight was not a thing to be trifled with, or so easily dismissed, after all.

“You care about her a great deal, don’t you?” mused the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, a sly note in his tone that Hades immediately misliked, and indeed took offense to. Beneath his mask, his scowl deepened, and he resolutely refused to either pause or turn his head to meet Hythlodaeus’s eye.

“It is my duty-” he began stiffly, only to have his words cut off with a laugh that was, for all its soft placidity, implacable and unrelenting as the steady shifting of the sun through the sky.

“It has nothing to do with your duty, my friend. Indeed, you were wont to fly to her side at a word well before you accepted your current seat amongst the Convocation of Fourteen...”

That brought Hades up short, turning sharply to face his companion head-on, the intensity of his glare obvious even through his mask.

“If you have a point to make in all of this, which I highly doubt, I should take it as a kindness if you would make it already, and leave me to enjoy what remains of my night in peace.”

Hythlodaeus had drifted to a stop as well, and seemed not the least bit daunted by his friend’s overt hostility, not that he ever was. He lingered a telling moment before answering, unruffled and unhurried by his friend’s simmering vexation, which his knowing, slow-growing smile only served to inflame further--perhaps intentionally so, perhaps not.

“I believe my point has already been made,” he observed with that mellow smugness that Hades found so insufferable, if only because he was so often right--as he was in this case, of which the pleased sideways pull of his smirk indicated that he was well aware. “Don’t you, Hades?”

Edited 2022-09-05 22:26 (UTC)

“...What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“Just precisely that. Your sister, Sizhu Jakkya, Serpent Captain of the Order of the Twin Adder--otherwise widely known as the Warrior of Light--is gone.”

...Ah. That’s likely not the best place for me to begin this story, is it. I would extend an apology, but I wouldn’t mean it and you aren’t really deserving of it, since I haven’t done anything wrong, so instead, I’ll backtrack a bit.

My name is Mikh’a Jakkya. Twin brother to Sizhu Jakkya--I’m sure you know who that is already, if you paid attention to what I’ve already written. We came to Eorzea together, looking for adventure and a new start--that’s why she came here, anyway.

Me, I’m just here for the food.

As you can probably already tell, we’re really nothing alike. While she always wants to wander and explore, to get involved and help people, I think all of that stuff is just too troublesome. Most people probably don’t want to be saved, even if they need it, and why should I stop nature from taking its due course? Life flows into death flows into life, an endless wheel. Shoving a stick through the spokes is only going to cause problems, and probably get you a hand stuck full of splinters for your trouble.

...Ah, that isn’t really relevant to what I was first telling you about, is it. All you need to know about me and my sister is that we’re all the family we have left--having left behind the rest of our family, particularly our mother, for personal reasons. We care about each other--enough to respect that we want different things, and to accept that the paths we walk lie at angles that are practically perpendicular to each other.

I care about my sister. Don’t ever doubt that.

Just like I haven’t ever doubted that she cares about me--which is why she’s left me alone to live my own life.

Most of the time, anyway.

...Ah, but now I’m getting ahead of myself again. I’ll try once more, starting at a point in time that would make more sense.

Limsa Lominsa is my home port of choice. That makes sense, if you know anything about the crafting guilds--like I told you, I’m here for the food. It was the only choice for me, really. The food in Ul’dah is savory and spicy, but there’s sand everywhere, and I don’t much relish the idea of finding a knife in my ribs in the middle of a meal, just because someone felt like helping themselves to the contents of my coin purse. Anyway, all that ‘for coin and country’ nonsense is too fiery for my blood. Exhausting, just thinking about it. And as for Gridania, the food is comfortingly homey but entirely lacking any sort of spice with heat to it. As for the people, the ones dedicated to their grand company are just a little too earnest for me--serpentSWORN is no joke--and I don’t much care for the general population’s view on outsiders and Miqo’te alike. Sizhu started her journey in Gridania, and she told me how they said at near every turn that she wasn’t ‘forestborn’--but they’re wrong. We are. We just weren’t born in their forest, which makes us somehow less in their eyes. Then again, those same individuals also consider the Miqo’te who’ve lived there in that forest for generations to be poachers and thieves, so maybe their opinions really just aren’t worth gobbue spit. And by maybe I mean definitely. Limsa, on the other hand, despite all its cutpurses and pirates, was just the sort of place where I felt at home--maybe because of that, really. Everyone there is out for themselves, but not on the same level as the people of Ul’dah, who--as the saying goes, would sell their granny for a handful of copper coins. Rather, it’s more that everyone wants to be free to follow their own path, which is something that certainly resonates strongly with me.

...Ah, that’s another outward-spiraling circle of thought. My sister tells me my mind works like wheels within wheels, and that it’s hard for most people to understand how the things I say and think connect, that I’ll jump back to something we were speaking about before and they’ll wonder how I got back to that point they thought was settled and done with. But it’s all connected for me, the here and now and then and later.

Anyway, I spend most of my time in Limsa Lominsa. You would think that, much as I love food, I would be a member of the Culinarians’ guild, but no. I like to eat food, not prepare it. Following a recipe step by step, word by word, is just way too onerous. Combine that with having to worry about side dishes at the same time, not to mention sauces and the actual plating…what a pain. If I have to do all that, by the end I’ll be too tired to properly enjoy the meal. Instead, I craft things like armor and weapons to earn my gil, though I do moonlight as an adventurer if the pay is good and the job doesn’t seem like anything too troublesome. Full member of the Arcanists’ guild, though I pay respects to the Dutiful Sisters of the Edelweiss from time to time as well.

It was in Limsa that they found me. I’m not particularly hard to find, I suppose, but I don’t exactly make it easy either. Supposing I don’t want to be found, you likely won’t. But they caught me while I was enjoying my fourth plate of grilled dodo--I told you, I’m here for the food--and you don’t skip out on a bill at the Bismarck. Not if you want to be a return customer, and I assure you, I do.

“Are you Mikh’a Jakkya?”

It was a momentary lapse, though not an usual one. When I’m eating something delicious, that’s where the entirety of my attention is turned. And I defy you to find anything prepared by Guildmaster Lyngsath Doesfalksyn, or one of his people, that isn’t delicious. That said, it took me a moment to draw my consciousness back from that world full of light char and tender meat and savory juiciness. Once I had, I found myself looking at…some member of the Twin Adders, by the look of her.

I have no business with the Adders. I’ve visited the Twelveswood a few times to try my hand at Leatherworking and Carpentry, and also to eat at the Carline Canopy. But I’ve never lingered, never gone out into their precious woodlands any further than necessary to obtain whatever crafting materials I was told to fetch, never so much as traded words with any Adders aside from my sister. And at that moment, I was perfectly content for things to remain that way. Except this uniformed woman was speaking directly to me, asking for me by name. There’s a fair number of Miqo’te males around the city, bustling port that it is; someone must have sent her my way, if she found me so easily.

What a pain, I thought, then immediately after, all those wheels in my head spun rapidly, and one certainty locked into place.

“This is about my sister.” It wasn’t a question, because I was certain. The Adder woman looked slightly startled though, so even though it was a bother to explain how I knew, I added, “There’s no other possible reason for a member of another Grand Company to show up inside another’s jurisdiction. If I’d committed some crime in Gridania, you’d doubtless work with the Maelstrom, since this is their city and I’ve been inducted into their ranks. Not sure what the procedure is for extraditing Maelstrom officers, but that’s a moot point, because you’re not here for that.” I paused to take a drink, savoring the wine only briefly before continuing, now without looking at her, “...There’s mud on your boots, blood on your uniform, and gunpowder on your face. You’ve come from the frontlines, the recent clash with Garlemald--straight from there, judging by the circles under your eyes and the weary pallor to your skin, not to mention the visible windburn on your cheeks from riding in an airship traveling at high speed.”

I still had a quarter of my grilled dodo left, but I knew anything I put in my mouth now would taste only of ash and blood, the bitter salt of tears and sweat.

What a waste.

The woman was silent, perhaps trying to understand me, but having my meals interrupted puts me in a foul mood, and I had no patience to spare for this stranger. I leveled a flat stare at her, and I saw the way she flinched in surprise--which only made me all the more certain that this was about my sister. That’s the one thing we share, after all: our eyes are the exact same color, a pale but striking silvery violet. Not the most common color, and more than a little memorable.

“Stop wasting my time and tell me what’s happened to Sizhu,” I said--more of a hiss, actually. I’m normally calm to a fault, or so Sizhu says. Though the word she uses is ‘taciturn,’ mostly. Sometimes ‘bland.’

Not particularly kind, but also not incorrect.

Even so, my temper slipped slightly in that moment--the first time it had done so since I’d come to Eorzea. The Adder-woman showed another flicker of surprise--and maybe a flash of fear, too--then composed herself and said gravely, “I am Serpent Lieutenant Scarlet of the Twin Adders, and I need you to accompany me to the Adder’s Nest. As you say, it is a matter concerning your sister, and it is not something that should be spoken of publicly...or by myself.”

I sat there for a long moment, looking down at my unfinished meal. When was the last time I hadn’t finished a meal? Not since the night Sizhu and I left home, I think. Since then, my appetite has been more than healthy, making up for all those missed meals throughout our childhood.

More important than that, I wanted to know what was wrong. Something was, certainly, or this Serpent Lieutenant wouldn’t have come all the way here. But it couldn’t be something as serious as my sister being dead. I think if that happened, I’d probably just get a letter. Or maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t want anyone to know. Maybe they’d be afraid that it might cause widespread panic, if the Champion of Eorzea had been killed. Maybe they’d try to cover it up-

My face back in its usual bland mask, I blinked placidly up at Scarlet, and said in my usual deadpan tone, “All right, I’ll come with you. But only if you buy me an eel pie from the Carline Canopy once we get there.”

...Ah, I suppose I should let you know that I have a terrible sense of humor, too. Twisted, some might say, but considering our upbringing, who could blame me.

Also, those eel pies are damn delicious. And since I wasn’t finishing this meal, I’d doubtless be hungry by the time we reached Gridania. Maybe my appetite would have returned by then. Maybe not. Bad news makes for poor digestion, and impending bad news is even worse.

Maybe I’d make Scarlet buy me the pie after this meeting or whatever it was that she wanted me to attend. I hadn’t pressed her on that point, on who exactly wanted to see me, because it didn’t really matter to me. Whoever it was, they’d give me the news. And if they didn’t, I’d drag and twist it out of them, one way or another.

I’m not the fighter that my sister is, but I can look after myself. And when I do decide that a fight is worth the trouble, I fight nasty. The ends justify the means, at least for me. Casualties are to be weighed carefully, but are often acceptable. You don’t win without losing something, and anyone who thinks you can is a fool or an idealist, and either way, they’re wrong.

...Ah, that probably sounds cynical, doesn’t it. That’s because it is, but it’s also not untrue. Even easy victories cost something--effort, if nothing else, which is still something. And not something that everyone is willing to give. Not something that I’m willing to give, most of the time.

But in case, that brings us back where this started, more or less. To make a long story short, Scarlet brought me to Gridania, and I met with the Elder Seedseer, a higher-ranking Adder than Scarlet whose name I didn’t bother to remember, a Bowlord Some-such, and the head of the Conjurer’s guild, another of those Padjals, Brother E-something. Sizhu mentioned him, but it’s been a while, and I wasn’t really paying attention to all the names she mentioned back then. Once all of those people as well as a few more were assembled at the Lotus Stand, they gave me the news, which was more or less what I’d expected. Which was when I said:

Edited 2022-09-07 02:21 (UTC)

“...What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“Just precisely that. Your sister, Sizhu Jakkya, Serpent Captain of the Order of the Twin Adder--otherwise widely known as the Warrior of Light--is gone.”

I blinked at them all for a moment, reading each of their faces in turn, then focused my attention on the Elder Seedseer.

“ ‘Gone,’ you say. Not dead, then?”

Her hands tightened on her staff, and her lips went thin--with worry, she was clearly concerned about my sister on a personal level, perhaps even thought of her as a friend--before she spoke. “We do not believe so, no.”

“There was no body, then.”

...Ah, perhaps I should have warned you that I can be very straightforward at times, almost to the point of abrasiveness. And perhaps far beyond it, at other times. Then was one of those times. I wanted the truth, plain and simple, with no games or nonsense. If they wouldn’t give that to me, I would demand it of them on my own terms.

“No,” the Elder Seedseer admitted quietly. “We found no body. She simply seems to have disappeared entirely.”

The rest of that conversation was a blur. I absorbed all the information, but I didn’t say anything more. They were searching for her, still combing the battlefield as well as sending agents into Garlemald, on the off chance she’d been captured. (Unlikely--as if any of those bastards could stand up to my sister.) There was a messenger enroute to Mor Dhona and the Scions’ headquarters there, to see if they’d had any news, and countless other avenues of inquiry were being pursued as well, but at that moment, they had no further intelligence to share. All they could do was offer me a linkpearl, with the promise of contacting me as soon as they heard anything.

But that wasn’t the only purpose of that meeting. If that had been all it was, again, a simple letter likely would have sufficed. But no. They wanted something from me. Something else other than my thoughts about where my sister might have gone. I could tell. I’m good at reading that sort of thing--I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so why wouldn’t I be--and I could read it in them there at that moment.

And with a little thought, it was obvious, really.

They wanted me to step into her role. To become their steadfast defender, someone they could all hide behind. A weapon they could point at their enemies, a protective charm whose simple existence could help keep the peace…out of fear, or something like it.

But I am not my sister. I do not possess her strength. Not in combat, or otherwise.

I cannot do this thing for them.

...Ah, but maybe I should tell you something they don’t know. I said before that my sister respected my choices enough to leave me alone, to let me live my own life, “most of the time”. I said that because there have been times that she’s come to me to ask for help. The time she stormed Castrum Meridianum, for example. A few other dungeons here and there. But after she was forced to flee to Ishgard after being accused of a crime she didn’t commit, she largely stopped doing that. She would still come to visit me (twice a month like clockwork, she knows I’m more comfortable with a steady routine), but she wouldn’t ask for my help. We had grown apart--and it had begun long before her exile to Coerthas. Perhaps it should have been obvious, but I hadn’t thought to put forth the effort to look for it, so I hadn’t noticed. But ever since she found so many of the Scions dead in the Waking Sands, she had kept things from me in a way that she never had before. Without me even knowing, she had held me at a careful distance--her way of protecting me, I know, and it’s easy to understand why. If I had been more involved, if we hadn’t followed our own paths, maybe I would have been one of the bodies she found in the Waking Sands.

“Maybe” doesn’t matter for much, though. It’s all projected possibilities of things that have already happened--and unless you find some manner of bending time to your very will, things that you cannot change. Nothing but another waste of time.

...Ah, you might remember that I said that I could not do what the Adders--indeed, likely all of the leaders of Eorzea--wanted me to do. And I meant it. Unlike my sister, a skilled all-rounder who can fill any role necessary, my own combat prowess is decidedly more limited. I prefer to stand back and observe, to cast from afar; any sort of rough-and-tumble melee-oriented combat, with the brunt of the force being directed my way, would certainly end with me on the ground in a heap.

Still, my refusal to fulfill that role was heavy on my mind as I wandered through Gridania afterwards, and I lay the blame for what followed on my distracted mind:

I accepted a quest from one of the God’s Quiver.

It was straightforward-sounding enough, something about bandits accosting travelers in the Twelveswood, and I told myself that had accepted the job because I was frustrated at my sister’s disappearance, that I simply wanted to work out my anger and aggression by unleashing it on those deserving of it, though part of me knew that was untrue. For I was angry, yes, but I was angry at myself most of all.

...Ah, I told you that she used to ask me for help. That she’d stopped doing it. That wasn’t entirely true. Really, she’d come to me again just days ago, before the battle in the Ghimlyt Dark, asking for my help once again at long last. Telling me of a deathless prince whose only thoughts were of combat and slaughter, of the measured but inexorable loss of her fellow Scions, of her concerns about what might happen here were she to be the next to succumb. Telling me that she didn’t want to ask, but she didn’t have anywhere left to turn. Telling me that it was time for me to take action. To put down knife and fork, and to fight for this world that we loved--at her side or on my own, in my own way, either was all right, so long as I acted. So long as I didn’t continue to sit idly by while the world burned.

I turned her down. I was angry, though I didn’t show it outwardly, and I’m more than certain she knew it. The words I leveled at her were nothing short of a slap in the face, and I had no call to say them--Sizhu is nothing like our mother, and has never wished for me to be what she wants. She did nothing but speak a heavy truth which she knew I did not want to hear, but that I still needed to, and I lashed out at her in return. I refused to aid her…perhaps when she needed it most.

Perhaps, had I been there, she might not have vanished.

But now, she’s gone. And I have no way of knowing if I’ll see her again. If I’ll be able to apologize. If I’ll be able to even attempt to make it up to her. I can’t take those words back, and I know she’ll carry their heavy memory for the rest of her life; and for further burdening a brave woman who already carries so much pain, so much grief, the weight of so many expectations...of that sin, I am undeniably guilty. And I must atone for my crime.

Which is why, when I found the bandits, and saved two travelers in the process, I accepted the offer one of them made to me. I have no interest in being a bodyguard, but…they do possess a set of skills of which I could certainly make use.

That way, if--when, I should like to say, but there is no place in these writings for baselessly hopeful conjecture--my sister returns to us some day, I can stand by her side, instead of allowing her to forge ahead alone.

...Ah, you likely don’t know it, but that’s how we used to be. Growing up, hunting together, we always watched each other’s backs.

A return to something like the harmony we shared during those simpler childhood days, a renewal of the trust that bound us together so tightly...yes. I should very much enjoy that...no matter how troublesome it might be.

Edited 2022-09-07 02:22 (UTC)

Flippant as it might have sounded, the business of bringing about all the necessary rejoinings was not wholly unlike a game, at least as far as Emet-Selch was concerned. Though it was not like unto the primitive, unrefined game so disgustingly prevalent on the Source, the one played with cards of varying values with the singular intent of turning your opponent’s cards into your own (though there was at least a nice tinge of conquest to that game, wasn’t there?); nor was it like unto the vaguely incomprehensible game played with tiles of varying meanings and values. No, it was like neither of those. Rather, it was very much like that vaunted, ageless king of all games, chess. There was careful strategy involved, the planning of moves long in advance, the painstaking manipulation of your opponent into the proper location…yes, it could be properly compared to nothing else. Which suited the Ascians well, as it allowed for either swift, crushing defeats or drawn-out, intricate matches, whichever suited their purpose at the time.

When he had the luxury of choice, Emet-Selch always played the long game. He could afford to, after all; he had all the time in all the worlds, and he was nothing if not patient. If one plan on one reflection failed, all he need do was simply shift his attention to the next, and wait for things to change. For the heroes to grow old, to grow weak. For their tales of grandeur--and their words of warning--to fade into legend, until they became naught but fodder for storybooks and, perhaps, the odd haunting fireside myth.

But in truth, after thousands of years, he had grown bored of the game.

Sleep was a far more tempting idea than to set himself against yet another set of would-be heroes, who always seemed to come to the table unarmed for their battle of wits. It inevitably led to their downfall, and while there had been a delicious sort of satisfaction to it the first half-dozen times or so...what entertainment could be found when there was naught to look forward to but the same foregone conclusion?

Perhaps he had remained in the guise of Solus zos Galvus too long, he mused. Had he always placed such weight and worth in a tale well-told, or was that simply due to the love of theatre and the arts that he’d cultivated over his years as emperor of the Garlean Empire? It had been naught but an idle pass-time, of course; and yet, he’d come to relish it, that minor, temporary escape into another world, another life.

It was certainly that melodramatic impulse that caused him to behave as he did regarding the situation on the First. Very inconvenient, that. As if he’d had the board set up just-so, naught but a few simple moves away from a solid, inescapable checkmate, when the entire table had been unceremoniously upended, leaving him to scrabble in the dust for the proper pieces.

But, rather than set them all in their usual places, this time he decided to simply...stand back and observe for a time. His carefully-constructed plans were a shambles, but that was no matter. The pieces had fallen as they would, and he would play on...if only out of a strange sudden interest in his newest opponent.

This one, he had thought with a flicker of hungrily real, true interest, has promise. Unlike all the others who had come before, there was yet a brightness to her...a strange, unusual sort of spark. Even so, he still considered her little more than a pawn, a puppet on a set of strings dancing to the piper’s tune--or so he thought at first.

But as he watched her, as he studied the way that she played the game, he saw that she did more than simply move forwards, never going back, taking out enemies to the sides as she went. Rather, he saw her leap across worlds--akin to the behavior of the far more powerful rook, with its far bolder forward, backwards, and sideways mobility--and even through time itself, which indicated something even more complex, a diagonal skating movement. Yes, limited as she was by her misshapen mortal frame, perhaps she was a bishop instead.

And yet, she still found ways to surprise him, making great, awkward-seeming but very effective leaps. To move forward and yet sideways, defeating opponents as she moved...yes, that was knightly. Without a doubt, that was what she had to be, a knight. It had always been his least favorite piece--so limited and strange in its movement, so utterly useless at long distances yet brutal and deadly in close quarters--and why else did something about her irritate him so?

It was reminiscent of another certain someone whom he had also found irritating at every turn...but why should he think of her at a time like this? It was only because they both effected within him the same sort of exasperation--no, not the same, to say such would be giving this pathetically incomplete creature far too much credit. It would be unforgivable, an outright insult to the memory of another he yet held painfully dear.

No, this newest hero was nothing like her.

And yet, that wasn’t true, and Emet-Selch knew it, no matter how he fought it or even denied it outright.

It was only when it was too late, when they were staring each other down in preparation of their final, inevitable confrontation, that he remembered, and understood. The color of her soul--yes, that was it. That was what he had seen all this time, the reason he saw her shadow outlining this latest hero’s every move.

...It had been so long. So wretchedly, exceptionally long since he had seen that shade, that precise color. Surely he could be forgiven for not immediately recognizing this far paler tint of that wonderful, unspeakably beautiful hue.

But knowing that changed the game entirely.

He knew then, too late, that what he stood across from was not a simple pawn, but the most powerful piece on the board: the queen.

...Or perhaps it wasn’t too late at all. Perhaps, he thought as he passed along that final message, laid the weight of their legacy squarely on her shoulders (“Remember that we once lived”), the game had ended precisely as it should have. Perhaps in finally losing, at long last, he had truly won.

“Thank you, adventurer,” said the old woman in a voice so slow and creaky, it reminded Cres of the shifting of the trees of the Wood back home on particularly windy nights. “These sabotender fruits are necessary to make an old remedy from back home...just what my granddaughter needs. She took ill nearly a week past, and we’ve tried everything else to break the fever...but I know a cup of my cactus tea will set her to rights.”

The Viera naturalist gave a silent nod--he hadn’t examined the girl himself, but he knew enough about the flora (and fauna) of this area to know that the fruit in question possessed several powerful medicinal properties. Steeped in hot water, it should work as an antipyretic, and also strengthen the body in other ways as well.

Without waiting for payment, Cres Shatterheart gave a polite bow, murmuring a quiet farewell and telling the old woman that he could fetch more fruit if needed, just let him know--he would be in the area for a while yet, another day or two at least.

“Wait,” the old woman called after him, “your payment-”

“I need it far less than you, avoa.” He had taken the task as a chance to study the strange desert seedkin up close, after all, and had filled three whole pages in his journal with various sketches and notes as to their physiology and behavior; he’d even learned a new Blue Mage spell in the bargain. That alone had made her request worth fulfilling. In any case, he had little enough interest in or need for gil. “Please keep-”

“In that case...let me give you something truly valuable,” the old woman interjected with a rusty-iron squeaky chuckle. She ducked into the ramshackle tent behind her, and once again, Cres absently wondered how a people as proud as the Ala Mhighans could choose to live in such destitute conditions. Surely they could carve out something for themselves that was more comfortable in the city of Ul’dah itself...

The old woman emerged from her tent with a battered-looking tin mug, gesturing for Cres to seat himself on the rough woven blanket spread before the mouth of her tent. As he settled down obediently, he watched her dip that mug into a nearby covered jar with painstaking care, scooping out-

Water. A precious resource in the arid climes of South Thanalan. Worth far more than gil--and not something he could refuse, judging by the set and determined look on that grandmother’s face as she turned back to him, offering the cup with visible mindfulness, cautious so as not to waste so much as a single drop. Now that he thought about it, after an afternoon beneath the hot sun, he was pretty thirsty, his own waterskin long emptied.

He accepted the half-full cup with another nod and a grateful smile. The smile she gave him in return was satisfied, and held shades of that Ala Mhigan pride--and he suddenly thought that perhaps he understood after all, why they would choose to survive in a wasteland, living rough, rather than on the scraps of the Syndicate’s charity.

The water was tepid and gritty with sand, and Cres thought that he had never tasted anything sweeter.

Edited 2022-09-09 19:27 (UTC)

Talys gave a low groan as she stretched her arms over her head. She’d lost track of time here in the Noumenon again, and considering how many levels down she was, no natural light filtered its way this far even when the sun was blazingly high outside. A glance at a nearby wall chronometer gave her the information she sought, however, and she blinked at it owlishly for a moment, freezing mid-stretch as she processed said information.

...Wait. Surely that isn’t right...?

Had she really missed dinner by three bells already? But it had still been well over one before the appointed time when last she’d looked-

Hastily she dropped her arms back to her sides and shoved herself to her feet, frantically scooping up the minor avalanche of tomes she’d accumulated during her study session. Under normal circumstances, she was neither messy or absent-minded, but when she focused in on academics, the Viera student’s attention tunneled rather dreadfully--she’d snapped out of reading particularly interesting passages dozens of times before to find someone red-faced from quite literally yelling at her in a bid to wrest her mind away from her current preoccupation. During those times, she was even prone to unknowingly walk about as she read, gathering books with similar topics to cross-reference her sources, moving as if in a dream.

Like many Sharlayan scholars, Talys didn’t generally mind about being late to meals, or even missing them entirely. But tonight was special. Her adoptive guardian, none other than Scholarch Montichaigne himself (though she simply called him ‘grandfather’, as per his request a score and a half years ago when she’d first been brought to Sharlayan as a wide-eyed foundling who was little more than a babe--a habit she’d never outgrown), had requested that she join him for a meal, and she’d happily agreed. They’d eaten together often, close to always when she’d still been a child, but once he’d become scholarch and she’d gotten into the Studium and delved deep into her studies, their traditional breakfasts and suppers had grown increasingly infrequent; over the last year in particular, she could’ve counted the number of meals they’d shared on two hands.

Thinking of that sent a sharp pang of guilt lancing through her, a sickening twist in her gut that was only worsened by the going-on-eleven hours it had been since she’d last eaten. Cursing herself silently, she doubled her efforts to quickly return books to their proper locations on nearby shelves, packing up the rest to borrow and return later--more than she was usually wont to take from the libraries at one time, but it was faster to check them out than put them all away, and she was already late enough.

Too late, most likely. Montichaigne had a busy schedule, of course, and as scholarch, his days started early. By this time of night, he was likely already abed, or at least well on his way there. Even so, Talys raced down the winding pathways, skidding over paving stones and leaping down stairways, arriving at the sizable yet modest (especially compared to the Leveilleur estate) Montichaigne house.

It was dark, both outside and in, though it was clear that they’d kept the lamps lit for her--not that she hadn’t spent entire nights buried in the stacks, unintentionally or no; but still, it both warmed her heart and sent another jab of remorse through her, that even after missing this agreed-upon shared meal, her guardian--grandfather, even--didn’t hold it against her.

Still out of breath from her run, Talys closed the grand front doors behind her and, with a sigh that segued smoothly into a yawn, made her weary way towards the dining room.

I’m certain he’s gone to bed by now, as have the servants, but perhaps they left me a plate at least-

That thought cut itself off as she stepped into the stately but tasteful dining room…only to find Scholarch Montichaigne seated at the table, dressed in an elegant, fur-trimmed house coat and calmly reading by the light of an admirably-bright lantern. A closed luncheon coffer sat on the table beside him, pushed a little off to the side to make room for the oversized book he was perusing, but as Talys came to a stunned stop in the doorway, he looked up from his reading with a welcoming smile.

“Ah, well now. Not so late as I had thought, after all.”

Talys was so started that the strap of her satchel slipped off her shoulder, the bulging bag dropping to the marble floor with an ungraceful thump--testament to just how taken aback she was. Normally, she never would’ve treated books so roughly, but at the moment, the entirety of her attention was focused on the elderly Elezen man beaming down the long table at her.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted, dropping her head and hunching her shoulders, almost feeling tempted to grovel on the floor. The fact that he wasn’t angry, that he didn’t seem the least bit upset at her only made her guilt increase tenfold, until it was so heavy she wasn’t certain she could bear it-

“There’s a luncheon coffer here for you as well, Talys. Fantastic invention, that--our dinners should still be perfectly warm. Come now, sit and eat. If I know my granddaughter, you haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Talys nodded on reflex, her feet moving obediently almost without her say-so to bring her to the seat at Montichaigne’s right hand, her usual place, where there was indeed a second luncheon coffer waiting for her.

“Grandfather...it’s so late,” she murmured as she sank into her chair; Montichaigne didn’t look up from calmly pouring her a cup of aromatic-smelling tea, then shifting a nearby jar of honey into easier reach. “Is this...really all right?”

At that, he did look up, a mischievous smile on his face that belied his septuagenarian status. “Well, am I scholarch, or am I scholarch? I can be a bit late in the morning if need be. It’s not as though they have me giving lectures any more, you know.”

“Their loss,” Talys couldn’t help but quip as she hungrily dug into her meal--some sort of savory onion soup with crispy cheese on top, paired with a nice crusty bread and a light salad, with a little peach tart for dessert. After swallowing down the first few welcomingly warm mouthfuls, however, the Viera student suddenly found her eyes brimming with tears. “I didn’t mean to be so late,” she murmured, struggling not to blubber into her soup. “I’m really sorry, Grandfather...” She sniffed hard, fighting back those tears, then gave him a watery smile. “I was so pleased that you wanted to have dinner with me again...it’s been so long...too long.”

“Yes indeed,” he agreed, expression sad, “far too long. For that, you have my apologies as well. We’ve both allowed our busy schedules to take us away from these family meals--a mistake, in my opinion.” Though she didn’t speak up, Talys was nodding in adamant agreement, and he continued on. “In any case, I’ve decided that I should very much like to enjoy a meal with my granddaughter at least once a week. Busy schedules notwithstanding, do you think we could manage that, perhaps?”

The tears were still lingering, blurring her vision just slightly, but now it was happiness, not shame or sadness that was behind them as Talys gave another emphatic nod. “Yes, of course! I should like that very much as well.”

Montichaigne gave a warm chuckle at that, tucking into his own meal with a nod of both approval and appreciation. For a time, the only sound was the clink of their silverware and the hiss and crackle of the fire in the room’s large fireplace; then the scholarch spoke again, lifting his glass and punctuating his words with a drink as he spoke:

“So now, tell me, my dear...what’s this I hear about your thesis proposal? Something about a field study, which you hope to fund with backing from the Forum?”

Edited 2022-09-10 16:47 (UTC)

Though it had been a long day, meeting with the Convocation representative and such, when the time comes to retire for the night, Hermes finds himself almost painfully restless. Perhaps it has something to do with what Meteion and Azem’s familiar had shown him...no. No, not perhaps. It is most certainly that. The day’s events had worn on him, particularly his discussions with Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus. Had reminded him in myriad ways just how different he was, how strange. How...broken. For surely he must be, if no one else understood the things he felt.

...But...that was no longer true. There was someone who understood. Who truly understood. Not yet another who gave him the same kind, empty words as everyone else, or who simply presumed to understand when they did not.

It was...a comfort, knowing that he was not alone. A welcome balm for the many hairline fractures that laced their way throughout his weary soul. It didn’t change anything, didn’t lessen his misery, his anguish...but there was still a sort of consolation in learning that his suffering was not entirely unique.

It had invigorated him, somehow. Had made his entire body tremble to think of it, to recall the words she’d spoken (“Oh, I could tell you all about suffering--but let’s have no more brooding, eh? Glad I could be of service”), the way her eyes had widened when he’d taken off his mask and revealed his face. But Meteion had already revealed his true face to her; it was no use attempting to hide anything from Azem’s familiar any longer. He had been stripped bare before her eyes...and she had not turned away. Nay, if anything, she had...

It was those thoughts that had rousted him from his room, that had sent him wandering across the fields of Elpis again, despite the late hour.

Now, as he paces through the soft, aromatic grasses, he finds that he still cannot stop thinking of her, that leaving his bed did not leave the thoughts--the feelings--plaguing him behind at all.

It is dangerous to be out and about this late, what with all the concepts and creatures still roaming about in the darkness, but Hermes can’t bring himself to care, not about that. His only thought is to keep moving, to find a way to occupy his body in an attempt to keep his mind from lingering on her and spinning down paths that are doubtless best left untread.

And yet even in this, he finds himself thwarted, for soon he realizes that there is already another figure gliding through the dusk ahead of him, moving with the sort of unhurried aimlessness that speaks of wandering for its own sake, for the simple joy of the journey itself. It’s her, of course--with that slight figure and those curious features, those ears and that tail, Azem’s familiar is unmistakable. There are no researchers here her size, and no other familiars with her design--if that truly is what she is, complex as her thoughts and emotions clearly are.

She’s following a downwards sweep of the ground and, as would any life-long researcher, Hermes finds himself using his vantage point to pause and study her, taking her in by the warm golden light of the fireflies...and finding himself further shaken by his observations.

She had been wearing the same robes they all did earlier, but now she’s clad in...something else. Garments the like of which he’s never seen. It’s...so form-fitting, all her curves plainly on display, and so much bare, soft-looking skin as well... He finds his gaze lingering on her legs, shapely and graceful and perfect. Her whole frame is much the same, so small and delicate compared to his own lanky, towering figure.

How easy it would be, to encircle both her wrists with one hand. How tempting, to test her strength, to feel her struggle beneath his grip-

No. These are such terrible, twisted thoughts, things he’s never considered before, that he’s never been even slightly tempted to do.

But she brings out something different in him. For here, at last, is someone who understands. Someone who has felt the same sort of pain, the grief and anger, and yet…she bears up under it. She makes it look effortless, but surely that is not the case. The Elpis flowers do not lie; if she did not suffer as he did, they would not be colored so.

Lest you misunderstand, I derive no pleasure from your pain.

He had spoken those words to her before, and at that time, he had thought he’d meant them.

Now, as his imagination presents to him a vision of her face, cheeks flushed and throat straining, those lovely eyes vague and glazed, her expression twisted in a pleasure so intense that it approaches pain, he is not so certain. After all, such a thing would be a mercy for both her and himself, would it not? A brief escape from their suffering, a channeling of all that pain into passion. Temporary as the feelings of pleasure might be, the aftereffects of such actions might yet persist, and could very well linger on far longer. Yes…such a thing could work as an outlet of sorts, a viable way to release a considerable amount of that pent-up frustration. It could very well be a hypothesis worth testing.

The true variable being her. Intercourse did not necessarily equate to intimacy, and without the latter, the former could provide him with no relief...though he supposes that he has no proof that even with the latter, any sort of relief might be found.

...Even so...he simply can’t forget the way that her lips had parted, her mouth falling open to reveal a flash of sharp canines, her already-wide pupils dilating noticeably as she took in his face for the first time...and quite clearly found him attractive. A being worthy of desire, even.

That particular sentiment is mutual as well, though he’s almost certain that it shouldn’t be. To have such...feelings for a familiar...to want to gather her to him, to hold her close enough to feel her warmth, to mark the surging thrum of the blood singing through her veins with his thumb pressed lightly to throat or wrist...

...To hold her down, to press himself against her, fully sink himself into her-

No. He cannot. He shouldn’t even be thinking of such things. It is no matter that she does not behave like any other familiar he’s ever encountered, that she seems so much more independent, as if she’s possessed of her own free will--enough of that for two, truly. She is not his to want, nor can she be. He should stop thinking of this foolishness, abandon these idle flights of fancy, and return to his bed--alone. Tomorrow will be another busy day, and he had spoken in earnest when he’d said that it would not do for the two of them both to be sleep-deprived on the morrow.

...And yet, as Hermes turns to go, something catches at the corner of his eye: another patch of Elpis flowers, blooming very nearly right at his feet...and instead of that dread-inducing darkness, the color their blossoms so proudly shine in the twilight is...red.

Red. The color of passion, love...lust. He cannot deny it, for although he himself might attempt to do so, the Elpis flowers do not lie. And what he feels...what he feels for her is somehow enough to drown out the darkness and suffering that usually cloud his emotions, so thick that they choke out that steady white light, pale and white and pristine.

And so it must be true. He must be in love.

Swallowing hard, he stares down at those tellingly, impossibly scarlet-tinted flowers, and once more he wants to scream, because what is he to do with this knowledge? Surely there is no use for it, no practical application-

“Hermes?”

It’s her voice that wrests him from the whirlwind of his inner thoughts, like an arrow of hope and light piercing through the uncertainty, the fierce shame, the aching longing and the bittersweet happiness and the looming threat of wretched melancholy, for regardless of how attractive she might find him, surely she would not--could not--return his feelings...

And yet, as he shifts his attention from his mental turmoil and the flowers at his feet, gazing down the incline at her instead, Hermes finds that there is another bunch of Elpis flowers there, that she is standing in their midst as she returns his steady regard, her head tipped back to look up at him...and the blossoms clustered around her feet are also glowing a burning, ardent crimson.

Edited 2022-09-11 16:13 (UTC)

Hermes realizes after what feels like a small eternity that he had never responded to her calling his name; rather, his heart had responded, fairly leaping in his chest as all the feelings he’d been trying to push aside had swelled up all around him, sweeping him away on their fierce current, temporarily robbing him of the ability to speak.

When concern begins to shade the curiosity on her face, he struggles for an instant and then finally finds his voice. Just as she had, he says only one word: her name. However, while hers had been a question, uncertainty and slight surprise edging those two short syllables as she looked up at him, his is a statement, fixed and definite. Shaking his head at himself, he reaches up to remove his mask, and his hand goes still, then curls in on itself as it hovers beside one cheek on finding that, in his haste to escape his thoughts of the very person he’s now facing down, he must have left it in his room--a thoughtless oversight, the sort of which he is not often prone to. Swallowing hard, he forces more words out, feeling terribly, wonderfully exposed as he offers her a tentative smile.

“...May we talk a moment? Again? I...am sorry, to take advantage of your kindness thus, but…”

She gives him a smile in return along with a nod of agreement; but Hermes feels his own smile falter and fade as his eyes are once again drawn to the flowers at her feet, then his own, to the mutual truths they represent. He sinks to one knee before the scarlet-hued blossoms, marveling a bit at how steadfastly they retain their color--not even the uncertainty and self-loathing he feels are strong enough to blot out the other emotions these plants can read in his heart.

Quiet footsteps approach, but he doesn’t look up, knowing that it’s her, watching her out of the corners of his eyes, a glimpse that only whets his appetite further rather than sating it. Again he marvels at her strength, at her confidence and poise: had he not seen the flowers glowing at her feet, never would he have guessed at her feelings. She doesn’t say anything--overall, she’s very quiet. It’s a typical mannerism of hers that he’s noticed, the way she spends the majority of her time watching and listening, though she’s also plainly not afraid to speak up when it suits her, so bold even as to make playful jabs at the honorable but often-testy Emet-Selch himself. Still, for the most part actions seem to speak louder than words where she’s concerned, and that’s what she chooses for the moment, glancing over at Hermes before kneeling alongside him, examining the flowers herself before angling an inquisitive look his way.

...She is so beautiful, and feeling those large, lovely eyes rest on him both steadies and shakes him to his core in turns. He lets his eyes fall closed, shutting out the sight of her kneeling there within easy arm’s reach, so trustingly close. If she seems bothered or in any way ruffled by his proximity, she does not show it, though by now he doesn’t expect otherwise.

She is patient as well as kind, for she does not press him, seemingly content to simply crouch there at his side, enjoying the night breeze, the gentle scent of the Elpis flowers, and, presumably, his company. He feels something akin to contentment himself, though there is an ache beneath it, a yearning for something else, something more. He longs to move closer to her, and at the same time, to pull away, to maintain a careful distance between, lest he...overstep.

He swallows hard again and then speaks, hoping that the conversation he’d requested of her might divert him from such impure thoughts.

“I told you earlier that my meeting with Emet-Selch was done, and that we had come to a decision. It was decided that I should accept the position, though I had agreed only reluctantly…at least until afterwards. When you and Meteion showed me that I am not alone.”

Easing his eyes open, he turns his head slightly, offering her a small smile that he can sense is burdened with far more sadness than he’d intended. But what does that matter, really? There is no mask to shield him from her sight any longer, neither the literal mask that he’d left in his room, nor the metaphysical one that he wears for everyone else.

“For if you were created by Azem...then perhaps Azem herself might understand me as well.”

She meets his gaze evenly, though closely as he’s watching, he can read the flicker of--something in her calm expression. Is it...uncertainty? Guilt? But what does a familiar have to feel guilty about?

After taking a moment to weigh her words, she murmurs a reply, the pair of questions she lays before him tentative yet ambiguous.

“...And what if I wasn’t created by Azem, exactly? What then?”

It isn’t the sort of question one asks unless it’s actually true; intelligent as he is, Hermes knows that immediately. But, then...if she is not Azem’s familiar, then to whom does she belong? Or is she really even a familiar at all? Thin as her aether is, she must be, surely...and yet...

“Then I will still accept the post, and still hope to find understanding in some form from Azem. It is clear from Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch’s behavior that you are linked to her in some way...though if not as a familiar, then I know not how.”

She doesn’t explain herself, as he’d hoped she would, though the way she bites her lip and looks down suggests that she dearly wishes to, but cannot for some outside reason that is not fully her own. He wants to know, wants to understand her the same way that she had granted him understanding; but he also recalls the gentleness in the way she didn’t press him at the start of this conversation, and his heart tells him that gentleness is the correct approach at this time. As much apprehension and dread as his heart gives him, he cannot seem to help following it, regardless of where it leads.

To do anything else would be to be untrue to himself. And while Hermes can and will lie to others, mostly for their own sake, he cannot lie to himself. Not now, not in regards to this, to her.

“...The--the Elpis flowers,” he finds himself stammering, an awkward attempt to shift the conversation elsewhere, to ease this strange guilt she carries--though he’d been grasping at straws, and this topic of conversation is not truly one he wants to explore. “Have you ever known them to turn such a color before?”

He sees her look up, studying the flowers once again, then shake her head before looking to him expectantly for an answer.

“Neither have I,” he admits, which isn’t untrue, though it’s also not telling her everything he knows. “As for what it means, I...I think sharing that particular knowledge would only make things...complicated.”

The smile she gives him is impish and captivating, her tone so light and playful that he nearly wonders why he’s worried about how she might react to the truth. “That bad, is it?”

He huffs out a laugh that’s mingled with a sigh, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders, because she is so bright, so warm and close, and it is so very hard not to reach for her hand. “No, not...in as much. I simply do not think that I possess the strength to...”

To bear up under those eyes, if they shone with the same sort of desire as they had before, when she’d first seen his face. To stop himself from giving in, if she said that she wanted him as well.

Initially, he had knelt to examine the flowers more closely--but it was also an attempt to control himself, to keep him from noticing yet again how small she was compared to him, how very easy it would be to-

He stiffens slightly when she pushes back up onto her feet, wondering if he’s somehow offended her with this lack of clarification, or if perhaps she’s simply grown weary and wishes to return to her room.

Before he can draw breath to ask, she’s moved closer, and as if watching it happen in slow motion, he sees her arms come up to wrap around his shoulders in a careful embrace. She leaves him plenty of time to object or flinch away; but he does neither, honestly too taken aback by her impulsive action to react in any appreciable way--if individuality is frowned upon by his society, public displays of affection are nearly unheard of...though that is plainly not the case in hers, wherever she might be from. At first, there’s tension running through every muscle of his large frame, but there is no one here to see and disapprove, and before long Hermes finds himself relaxing into the warmth and compassion in her touch, like ice melting in the sun’s heat.

She’s definitely taking advantage of his current kneeling position--had he been standing, she never could have reached his shoulders--but he can’t remember the last time anyone had simply held him like this, and he can’t bring himself to do anything but rest the side of his head against her chest and soak in the scent and heat of her, the feel of her arms around him solid and safe.

...Now that he thinks on it, Meteion had done something like this before. In an attempt to comfort him, she had stroked his hair until it was thoroughly disheveled...but this is like, and yet entirely unlike that experience.

Like, and yet entirely unlike, particularly when he feels her shift slightly, his eyes coming open (he hadn’t even realized that he’d closed them) to catch part of the movement as she leans forward, leans down, and...presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head.

It is too much to bear, and yet at the same time, it is not nearly enough to satisfy him, and the ragged, shuddering breath he draws in through his mouth is loud as a thunderclap in the otherwise silent and peaceful night. He feels her go still, hesitating, then she starts to pull away, and he can’t help it, can’t help reflexively catching at one of her arms, grasping at her like a man drowning.

“No,” he gasps, not caring how rough, how raw, how tremulous his voice sounds. “Please...just for a little while longer...”

She subsides at that--if anything, she holds him closer, and he lets his eyes slide shut again, his chest feeling so tight that Hermes struggles to breathe, even as his heart soars as high as the avian concepts in which he takes such joy. The hand on her arm loosens but lingers, the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips tantalizing, and he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“Take as long as you need,” she murmurs, and his fingers contract around her arm ever so slightly in response, a detail she certainly doesn’t miss. “You’re not alone.”

The way she pauses then is almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and they both notice; then she adds even more quietly, with a return of that previous guilt and something like contrition:

“I’m here.”

It was Thancred’s idea to play a drinking game, unsurprisingly. It was nearly a week following their triumphant return from Ultima Thule, and both Sarhnai and Koharu had finally recovered enough from their (hopefully) final battle with Zenos to properly celebrate. The other Scions had only grudgingly agreed to play few rounds of “I Wish I Had,” an old Limsa favorite, and that had only occurred after a bit of playful pushing by Thancred had ended with Sarhnai locking eyes with him and all but growling that after all the fights she’d won, she wasn’t going to back down from a challenge as weak as his.

“Right then,” Thancred had chirped with a sly wink that made Sarhnai’s eyes narrow farther, and Koharu silently noted that he had wisely placed both the table and Y’shtola between himself and the fierce Dotharl warrior. “Since you’re not afraid of this challenge, dear Lady Disdain, perhaps you’ll be so gracious as to go first? What’s something that you wish you’d done when you’d had the chance, and can no longer do?”

“Guess that means ripping your slimy skirt-chaser’s tongue out of your head with my bare hands wouldn’t count,” was Sarhnai’s immediate answer, and if Thancred’s laugh seemed a little nervous or strained, none of them really could blame him.

“Ah, haha, yes, that it would,” was his lighthearted-sounding reply, but none of them missed the way he eased himself down into his chair, trying to make himself less conspicuous. Sarhnai’s eyes remained on him for a long moment, her expression distinctly considering; only when Koharu gave her a gentle nudge with her shoulder did she finally break off leveling that death-stare at the unfortunate Scion.

Sarhnai took a moment to consider the question, sliding her mug closer and taking a pull, rules of the game be damned, before stating decisively, “I wish I’d torn that goat-humping bastard Varis into pieces myself. Would’ve saved us all a lot of trouble with those damned towers.”

That settled, she took another swig of her drink, then turned her gaze across the table to G’raha, who was looking both excited and anxious to be involved in a game like this with his heroes, the Scions.

“What about you, smart guy? What do you wish you’d done that you can’t any more?”

G’raha’s eyes flickered briefly towards Koharu in a very telling manner, though his expression wasn’t one of lovelorn heartache, but instead a different sort of regret. The blue-haired Au Ra girl missed it completely however, momentarily distracted by dishing up another generous helping of the latest of Puddingway’s creations for herself, and the Miqo’te had swiftly, forcefully pulled his gaze back to his hands and the mug they encircled by the time she looked up, plainly curious as to his answer.

“I have many regrets, I fear,” he murmured, a self-deprecating smile spreading across his face, “though I suppose one of the foremost would be...keeping my identity a secret, when you came to the First at my calling. I wish very much that I could have been honest with you from the start...and yet, I cannot truly say that it is something I would change, given the chance. For while I do truly wish that I could have shared that truth sooner...I cannot see how it would have been in your best interest.”

Sarhnai’s expression made it very clear where he could stick his concerns for her supposed ‘best interests’; but Koharu favored him with one of her soft, gentle smiles, this one even more warm and compassionate than most.

“You did it to spare us the pain of losing you again, not because you wanted to hide the truth. I...appreciate that, G’raha...even if I also wish that you would have told us from the start. Not for our sakes...but for yours. You carried so much responsibility, so many secrets, for so long...”

Beside her, Sarhnai looked to the heavens and narrowly resisted the urge to heave an annoyed, scoffing sigh--and only because Koharu was the one speaking did she hold herself back. Koharu might’ve appreciated all that, but she certainly didn’t--a lie was a lie, regardless of the reason it was told, and the steppe warrior heartily disliked being presented with any sort of falsehood, regardless of the reasoning behind it.

G’raha, however, had a hint of pink in his cheeks as he looked across the table at Koharu (and with a sort of overwhelming adoration that made Sarhnai want to vomit--preferably on Thancred’s boots, if she had her choice), though the red-haired Miqo’te scholar soon flustered, looking around skittishly before stammering out, “Oh--ah--E-Estinien! What, ah, what past opportunity would you have seized while you had the chance, had you been armed with the knowledge you now possess?”

The former Azure Dragoon looked up from his already half-empty tankard, his expression rather blank, though also slightly irritated. “I don’t see much purpose to this ‘game,’ if it can be called that,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that managed to look both standoffish and speculative. “We all have regrets. I find no enjoyment in returning my thoughts to mine.” He paused then, tilting his head to the side in contemplation before adding almost as an afterthought, “But very well: I regret not bringing more dried squid along on our recent journeys. I was out long before we reached Ultima Thule, and it turns out that fighting for the future of the star is hungry work.”

The silver-haired Elezen’s gaze suddenly shifted over to Koharu, and he asked, “What about you, princess? Any regrets you’re willing to share?”

Koharu blinked several times rapidly, looking startled at being addressed, much less asked such a question, then she bowed her head for a moment, clearly thinking it over. “Well...I suppose...” she began hesitantly, then fell silent again, biting her lip and staring down at her empty dessert plate with a sudden tremulousness.

Immediately, Sarhnai’s attention focused on her fellow Warrior of Light, a protective sort of concern flashing across her face, because she instantly understood. She was perhaps the only one who really could, the only person who would suspect that her soul-sister’s thoughts had flown back to Elpis and its gentle, immeasurably sad, far too tender-hearted overseer. That Hermes and Koharu had felt a deep, resonant connection had been disgustingly obvious to the Dotharl warrior--in part because she could, at times, sense what the other woman was feeling, though thankfully she didn’t actually have to feel those emotions. Even if she hadn’t been able to sense things that way, the lingering eyes, the longing looks, the sheer number of times that she saw Koharu start to reach out towards the green-eyed Ancient, only to pull her hand back before making contact…all of that would have been more than enough for Sarhnai to figure out what was going on.

...And considering her own tempestuous relationship with Fandaniel...well, mayhap it made a certain amount of sense, that Koharu would be so intensely drawn to Hermes, while she herself would be pulled in by one of his shards thousands of years later.

She and Koharu were themselves shards of the same soul, after all.

But even if they weren’t, Sarhnai would like to think that she could follow the other woman’s line of thought--particularly now, when it was obvious (to her, at least) that Koharu was on the verge of tears.

I wish I had reached out to him. I wish I had comforted him more, in whatever small way I could. I wish I had...been born as far more brave, more bold of a person.

“Bet I know something you regret not doing--or should I say who? Though I think we all know that you’ve had your eye on Lord Hien for some time now,” Sarhnai said loudly, an intentionally rough, strident interjection--one calculated to shock, to jar the other Au Ra out of her misery, to prevent her from (gods forbid) crying. If it took embarrassing her to knock Koharu out of that weepy mindset, then so be it--there was far less shame in simple mortification than there was in something so useless and grating as melancholy. But truly, was what there to be mortified about? The Doman prince was a good man, strong of arm and and stout of heart and pure of spirit, not to mention solidly-built and pleasingly muscled; and though she had her doubts that any man was truly deserving of her soul-sister’s affections, Hien Rijin stood head and shoulders above nearly all the rest.

He was...acceptable.

But she would still break both his legs in ten places if he ever even so much as thought of hurting Koharu in any way.

Koharu’s face had gone redder than a sunset on the Ruby Sea, though of the Scions, only G’raha and Estinien seemed at all curious about her very telling reaction. Clearing her throat and drawing herself up with a stately sort of poise that only lifelong royalty could manage, Koharu turned a reproving look Sarhnai’s way.

“Wrong,” she said primly, and Sarhnai found herself grinning, wide and toothy and approving of the resolute and decidedly wicked gleam in her soul-sister’s eyes as Koharu added with a sudden boldness that likely had something to do with all the alcohol in her system, “It has to be something I can no longer do...and I assure you that I have every intention...of doing that.” As gracefully as if she were sipping from a teacup rather than a tankard of spirits, Koharu drank, then placed her empty mug down before looking around at the rest of the table’s occupants and declaring, “In fact, I leave for Doma first thing tomorrow morning.”

Multi-talented all-rounder that she was, Sizhu had never really seriously picked up a battle axe until after her time in the First.

She was strong, but the little Miqo’te favored finesse and quick wits to brute strength and dumb luck, and the battle axe was a weapon that very much relied on brute strength. It was an unwieldy weapon, heavy and awkward in unskilled hands: it required the use of its own momentum to really be effective, which meant that a fair amount of both skill and practice were necessary. Much preferring a one-handed blade and shield, not to mention the dash of her usual healing magicks that the paladin class provided, Sizhu hadn’t spent enough time doing the latter to have gained much of the former.

…That was, not until after Ardbert.

She could still almost feel him walking beside her sometimes, or a much larger gloved hand grasping the hilt of a weapon alongside her or else resting at the small of her back in a steadying manner. She couldn’t speak to him any more, not like before, and he didn’t feel...it didn’t feel as though he could see everything she did, as it often had on the First. Which honestly, for someone as private as Sizhu, was something of a relief, bittersweet as that feeling was.

Then again, at times he felt so present that she could swear that she felt his heart beating in time with hers, the rise and fall of his chest, and the rumble of a quiet, dry chuckle vibrating through her ribcage.

And then, after Sizhu returned from the First and absently picked up a battle axe...something about it felt different. Felt...right in a way that it never had before. It felt like coming home, which felt very strange at the same time.

Perhaps it was some sort of aftereffect of Ardbert joining himself with her, the confluence of their souls; perhaps she’d simply never given the job a fair trial. But while she still didn’t really get along very well with the two brothers who were part of her warrior training, still didn’t really understand or “feel” the whole “inner beast” struggle...the weapon itself felt good in her hands.

No longer unwieldy, or too heavy for her to bear.

Now whenever she picked it up, she truly felt that she wasn’t alone--that there really was someone there behind her, just waiting to give her that push, whenever she might need it.

Edited 2022-09-14 06:08 (UTC)

After waking up in that dark future, G’raha Tia had agreed to a desperate plan to prevent that same future from ever happening:

Use the Crystal Tower, go back in time, journey to another world, and save the Warrior of Light.

After years of study, he was certain of it. She was the thread that held everything together and kept the tapestry of their star from collapsing. If her light was protected, like a candle caged about with careful fingers, then the Eighth Umbral Calamity might be prevented--if not for that timeline, then perhaps another. Saving her in even one reality would be more than G’raha Tia had thought he could ever hope for.

And so he had embraced Cid’s plan, to travel back to the First before the rejoining that had claimed the lives of so many, hers included. That he had arrived one hundred years too early was of no matter: the Tower and its magicks would sustain him until the proper time, when he could summon his hero, that she might save both the First and the Source.

At first, he can only think of it all as a grand adventure. What a marvelous tale it will make, what a glorious, sweeping narrative spanning years, continents, worlds even, lives saved and lost, blood and tears shed. An epic of unforgettable, unimaginable proportions. To see her in action again after so long will be a joy to behold; to know that he is her patron, her sponsor, the one who will present her with the opportunity to save them all--that is enough for him.

It will have to be enough, he realizes as the years trickle by like sand in an hourglass, so slow and yet so quick; look away and blink once and half the glass is suddenly empty, a score of years gone in a handful of heartbeats. His own life is like the sand in that hourglass, slipping away from him little by little: for the longer he is merged with the Tower, the more of his body the eternal crystal consumes, and with that and with the passage of time, the memories of who he’d once been slip away from him day by day, year by year.

No longer is he that same brash youth who’d flirted with a pretty girl, who had set a ridiculous challenge simply for his own amusement. Whose blood had quickened whenever he’d had the pleasure of watching her fight, and even more so whenever she’d moved closer to him or looked up to meet his gaze, steady, strong, head-on, and (he hoped, or perhaps dreamed) affectionate, her own gaze smoldering appreciatively as her eyes roved his body lustfully.

...Perhaps that last fragment of memory is no more than an idle fancy. As time continues to slip away, he isn’t certain any more, what she might have felt for him, though his own feelings remain strong and steady, as if they are every bit as immortalized in ancient crystal as is his body.

Even his name is lost to him, though the people of the Crystarium say Crystal Exarch with such warmth and pride and respect, he finds that he does not mind so much. He is still himself, after all, regardless of what name he goes by--isn’t he?

For though the years have been prevented from ravaging his body, time continues to erode his memories and his sense of self; even the strongest and thickest of stones might be worn away by water or wind after a century’s worth of time.

Though it had bothered him at first, he comes to accept it--he has little enough choice, after all, and as he becomes less and less G’raha Tia and more and more the Crystal Exarch, he finds a certain numbness and resignation trickling in to take the place of the anxious or troubled feelings that had once plagued him.

He wonders if that should trouble him too, for surely it is not a good sign; and yet, there is naught to be done. As he had decided so long ago, he will play his part to the end and then leave the stage, a sweeping, graceful exit that surely she will have no choice but to admire, much as he knows she would hate it, should she realize that he was once again making a sacrifice of himself.

As the sands of his remaining time slow to a steady trickle, the Exarch cares for his people, watches and waits for her, and believes himself to be content.

It is so much harder to accept it all when he finally sees her again.

The way the gleaming fire of hope in her eyes gutters, yet doesn't quite die as he gives his answer when she asks after G'raha Tia, that name that he hasn’t used in more than a century, much less heard spoken aloud, makes something in his chest constrict, heart and lungs seizing up, leaving him breathless as if he'd been punched in the gut by a fully-functioning talos.

He was a fool, for thinking this would be so simple. For not taking into account how different it was to be part of the story, rather than simply the one reading it.

But no, the part of him that had longed for more adventures with her and that craved further journeys together is gone now, crumbled into dust, weathered away by the years or else swallowed up by eternal crystal, by the knowledge of what he must do to save her.

It must be gone. It must.

And yet...and yet he is old now, and has grown wise, and he is no longer so foolish as to think that he can lie to himself. Whether he is the Crystal Exarch or G’raha Tia or both or even neither, he cannot fully let go of three things: his unshakeable faith in his hero, a bittersweet hope that she will somehow defy the odds and find a way to save him, and the secret wish of his innermost heart.

He longs to be by her side.

He cannot be by her side. It cannot last, and it will only cause the both of them further pain should he stop holding her at a careful arm’s-length.

And so he closes himself up in the Umbilicus, forcing himself to be content to watch her journey from afar, drawing more and more on the magicks of the Tower, despite (or perhaps even because of) knowing what the eventual price paid for that will be. Of course, even this self-imposed exile cannot last forever, and when they venture out into the fields of Kholusia together and fall back into the same easy sort of rhythm they’d shared during their previous partnership, it feels so incredibly and wonderfully right that it makes his heart sing, flesh and crystal alike vibrating, resonating with her as if they’d been working together for years.

But it cannot go on, and even as he spins out the frothy fancy of his dreams for her ears only, he has not forgotten that he is there for a reason: because he needs to be close when the last Light Warden falls, to enact the last step of his personal part of the plan.

Even after his attempt to play the thief and villain, to unburden her of a strain that even she surely cannot bear alone, to cast himself and all the Light she’d absorbed into the Rift and die with the knowledge that he’d played a pivotal part in saving the worlds, in saving her--even after that fails and his life is no longer forfeit, still he cannot allow himself to believe that his wish might become reality with any sort of permanence. He cannot lose himself in impossible hope, cannot grow accustomed to being with her--cannot stop his heart from leaping every time she calls him by name, despite knowing that it cannot last.

It is a dream, nothing more.

But then they fight their way through the Grand Cosmos together, and that upends everything all over again, his heart and mind left in shambles. The way she keeps her eyes on him so steadily, the light and thrill of excitement in every look she turns his way, is nothing short of captivating. How completely and utterly she places her trust in him, relying on his sword and shield-arm to keep their enemies’ attention on himself and to deflect any errant, glancing blows that end up headed her way--it’s addictive, and it stirs something within him that he’d thought long dead and gone and withered into dust alongside all other thoughts of his high-spirited youth:

Desire.

For the first time in nearly a century, G’raha Tia finds himself looking at another with longing.

It’s a feeling so overwhelmingly powerful that he very nearly resolves to do something about it--even if that something is naught but admitting what he feels to her. Telling her that he has loved her for over a century, that he has tried to set aside those feelings, tried to smother and deny and conceal them, and yet still they remain, glowing bright and hot and high in his chest like a signal fire.

He is in love with her, and even after a hundred years of sand pouring down over him, through him, still he burns with that passion.

Of course, fate is not so kind as to give him the chance to say those words. Such irony that he, of all people, should run out of time.

Instead, he does as he always has, and gives of himself until there is nothing more left to give, with no thought for his own welfare. And as the crystal begins to glow and inexorably swallow him up, he knows that his time is severely limited, and there is not enough left to tell her both what she needs to hear and everything that he wants to say.

Perhaps there was not truly time enough in any world for that.

Even so, he smiles and passes on the spirit-vessel, forced to acknowledge that his time with her in this world, in this form is finished, and that he has lost this battle of attrition…yet, perhaps not the war.

Edited 2022-09-15 15:05 (UTC)

“Azem!”

The slight, black-robed figure making her way down the dark, fire-lit street ahead of him doesn’t so much as pause, much less look back. Hades lets out a low growl of annoyance and tries again, louder:

“Azem!”

The figure ahead of him still doesn’t react, dodging around a group of anxiously-clustered citizens hurriedly making their way through the city, doubtless trying to avoid run-ins with any of the horrible creatures that often run wild in the streets of Amaurot these days, and for a moment Hades loses sight of her. For a moment, he loses control of his temper as well, a spike of anger shooting through him. Instead of going around the group ahead, he simply wades through them, his imposing figure and unmistakable mask of office enough to send them scattering, like waves breaking on a cliff-face. This time when he calls after the receding figure, his voice is very nearly a shout; this time, he uses the name he’d known for ages and yet had always hesitated to use, thinking it too personal, too familiar: her true name.

“Persephone!”

That, at last, brings her to a lurching halt, abrupt and jerky as cutting the strings of a puppet, the sound of her true name wresting her out of a dark reverie. Even so, Persephone doesn’t immediately turn around to face her pursuer, knowing full well who it is that had called out to her, knowing equally well why he is following her and that he will demand answers from her. Something more than what she’d given the Convocation just now. And while she has her reasons, and while she is, as ever, fully prepared to defend those reasons...she also knows that this conversation will be neither pleasant nor peaceful.

It’s tempting to just start walking again, and this time keep walking regardless of what he says, or how he shouts. And yet, they are...friends, and had been long before they were both members of the Convocation of Fourteen. He is dear to her in ways even she perhaps does not fully appreciate or understand, and in any case, Hades deserves to ask his questions and to hear her answers, and she deserves the chance to speak them.

And so although her feet still urge her forward, she merely closes her eyes briefly, steeling herself before turning about to face him, unsurprised to find his mouth, the only visible part of his face, drawn downwards in a fairly typical scowl.

“Why didn’t you stop before?” he asks peevishly as he comes to a halt just outside of arm’s reach, and his scowl deepens as he adds, “We are both well aware that you heard me calling after you--the first time, most likely, never mind the second.”

Persephone, who is wearing no mask to hide her face behind and who seems not the least bit bothered by bucking this familiar convention even here in the middle of the city, stares up at Hades unwaveringly, her response instant and evenly matter-of-fact.

“Because, as we are also both well aware, that is no longer my name. And as you both saw and heard, I have vacated my position as Azem.” Her hand rises, first to lightly tap her cheekbone, then falls to rest over her breastbone--the two most common locations of the ubiquitous masks worn near-constantly in their society. “I left the mask behind...quite literally. Now, I am once again merely a simple traveler who seeks to aid those in need.”

Hades’s lip curls at that, and for once he doesn’t seem at all bothered or flustered by her bare face.

“We need you,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at her pointedly. “And despite that, you have chosen to withdraw, deserting all of us in our time of need-”

On reflex, Persephone reaches out and slaps his hand down and away, and in spite of herself, her response comes out snappish-sounding as well. “I’m not deserting anyone. Quite the opposite, in fact. I want to find a way to save our world--without having to sacrifice Themis and half the remaining population to do it.”

Hades only scoffs at that.

“We have had countless researchers tasked with this very problem, and from their data, the Convocation has determined the cause to be stagnated aether within the currents of our star, causing it to rot. Further investigation has led us to believe that the aether flow must be restored--and the surest way to do so is the proposed summoning.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he tips his head back slightly, looking down his nose at her--something he knows she dislikes--as he lays out his challenge. “Do you truly believe that you, one single individual, can find another, better answer? Do you truly believe that your own wisdom so far outweighs that of the other thirteen members of the Convocation, all of us experts in our fields?”

Persephone’s eyes flash at that, and she raises her chin pugnaciously. “I have made no such claims, nor will I. What I truly believe is that the Convocation’s decision is wrong, and I will not be party to it.”

For a moment Hades sputters unintelligibly, clearly too angry to properly form words; when he finally does manage, it’s only to sling a familiar insult.

“You--you and your incorrigible, troublemaking behavior--tch! One day you’re going to bite off more than you can chew, and find yourself with a headache that even you won’t be able to properly handle.”

Persephone just gives a weak, mirthless laugh at that. “It’s hard to imagine a worse trouble than what we’re already dealing with.”

“Precisely. Which is why you should-”

“I won’t, Hades.” The firmness, the shade of melancholy but utterly lack of regret in her tone, cut him off, bringing him up short. “I won’t change my mind on this. I won’t agree with the Convocation’s decision--and I won’t return to reclaim my seat as Azem.”

Hades’s breath leaves him as a hissing sigh, and he brings one hand up to his face, rubbing at the upper edge of his mask, as if longing to massage away the tension growing beneath it.

“And what if you cannot find another way?”

“I have to. There must be.” Persephone shakes her head, determined, stalwart…and this time, there’s a hint of heat, of anger in her words. “There must be a way that doesn’t require the sacrifice of so many of our friends...like Hythlodaeus.”

Hades’s mouth goes thin at the mention of their mutual friend, and they can both hear how little he believes in his own words as he says, “ ‘Tis only a temporary sacrifice, as you know. Once the summoning is complete, we will find a way to restore those lost souls.”

Now it’s her turn to give a low scoff, though she follows it not with a scornful barb, but with something else entirely:

“Still, it would be far better to never lose him in the first place, wouldn’t it?”

“That should go without saying.”

“In that case--come with me.”

It’s an offer that he didn’t expect to hear, and that she didn’t fully expect to make. The idea had crossed her mind of course, but she had thought herself too certain of him and his choice to even make the attempt; and yet here she is, standing there before him bold as a ktiseos leon, one small hand outstretched invitingly, held towards him palm-up.

For the space of several heartbeats, Hades simply stares at her, utterly stunned, his mouth having fallen open in startlement. Even through his mask, she can read his astonishment--and his consternation. When he speaks, his voice is two parts shock and one part steadily growing anger as he chokes out as single, strangled word:

“...What?”

But Persephone stands resolute, and neither her hand nor her gaze wavers as she repeats herself, expanding on her offer. “Come with me, lend me your strength once again…and together we will undoubtedly find another way to stop this.” Her voice shakes with emotion at that last, but she pushes onwards. “Never have we been bested while working together, you and I. I had thought to go alone, but...I would be honored, and fortunate indeed, to have you by my side. At any time, truly, but even more so in such times as these.”

She knows his answer already. Had known it even before she asked. And yet, some part of her had...hoped. Hoped that she might be wrong. Hoped that her trust in him hadn’t been misplaced.

...Hoped that he would choose her, rather than his duty.

But even as he draws breath to give his answer, she knows that she was a fool to hold on to any such hope.

“So...not only do you choose to turn your back on your former allies, but you also ask that I do the same? I, Emet-Selch? Keeper of the aetherial realm?”

She can feel the heat of his glare even through his mask, and it’s difficult not to flinch at the vehemence with which he speaks; but she knows that she is in the right, and that she had not truly asked anything so terrible of him, so Persephone stands firm and bears up beneath his feverish ranting as, for the first time ever, Hades refuses to answer her call for aid.

“I am insulted that you would even suggest such a thing--friendship and all our prior history be damned! Unlike certain others in present company, I will not shirk my duty to our people. Whether you agree with our decision or not is of no matter: we will complete the summoning. We will save our star. And we will reclaim those brave souls that gave themselves over to the cause, whatever the cost.”

She seems smaller now, somehow; she feels smaller as well, now that the last threads of hope she’d clung to have unraveled, whispering away into nothing. But although diminished, she is not defeated, nor will she change her stance on this matter. Although at last her outstretched hand drops back to her side, she gives no ground, no quarter, and looks Hades--or perhaps Emet-Selch--straight in the eyes as she continues to dispute him.

“Hythlodaeus told me you said something very different once, you know, and not so very long ago. That there is a reason for doing things a certain way. That while fulfilling our duty is indeed of the utmost importance, how we do that matters too--regardless of the circumstances.”

Hades feels his temper slip once again, another flicker of deep, simmering anger--this time aimed at not only the friend standing before him, but the very one they’re discussing. Of course Hythlodaeus would have told her of their conversation, likely laughing behind his hand the entire time at how he’d backed Hades into a verbal corner. The idea is maddening, enough so that it stings him into giving a poorly-couched retort.

“Yes, and the Convocation has deemed this method the best means of preserving our star--the most likely to succeed.”

“And what if it fails? What if you cannot reclaim the souls that were sacrificed?” What if we lose Hythlodaeus forever? is the question in her pained gaze, and it is that question rather than any of the others that Hades answers.

“Then he will have given his life for a worthy cause, of his own free will, and so be it!”

For the first time, Persephone recoils, breath hissing in through clenched teeth at how harshly Hades had spoken, and as she takes an involuntary half-step back, he takes a long, full stride forward, moving into her personal space, pressing his advantage as he lashes out with one final statement, a decisive stroke which he delivers with a cruel, falsely-polite smile that’s as sharp as a blade:

“If you dislike my decision, you have only yourself to blame--after all, had you not involved me in all your impetuous escapades time and again, I would never have been given this office in the first place.”

Hades regrets the words the instant they leave his mouth--but no, that isn’t true. Rather, he regrets them when he sees the stricken look that hearing them puts on Azem--no--Persephone’s face, her eyes going wide and then inexpressibly sad. She bites her lip and for the first time, she looks away, those lovely, luminous silver-violet eyes lowering briefly before flicking back up to focus on him, steady and steadfast as always. Her mouth firms, but still he sees that anguish in her eyes, and he hates himself more than just a little for putting it there. There is already so much pain, so much sorrow in their lives, in their entire world right now; he didn’t need to cause her, of all people, another sort of suffering.

Regardless of that anguished look, he’s still waiting for her to snap at him, to fight fire with fire. To snap back with the perfect sharp rejoinder, sparks flying in the usual delightful way, the one shard of normalcy he can count on in this mixed-up mess they’ve found themselves embroiled in.

What he actually gets is unexpected enough that it staggers him, and very nearly sets him reeling. Because what she does is swallow visibly, bow her head slightly...and apologize.

“...I...am sorry to have laid so heavy a burden upon you, Hades. I know how serious you are about your duty, and I also know that you must truly believe that this is best, elsewise you would never have agreed to it.”

Her words are soft and there is no hint of untruth in them; her eyes are lowered and stay that way, and his chest tightens with something like panic when he sees a glassy sheen to them, indicative of tears, but already his jaw is so tightly clenched that he can’t force it open, can’t get even so much as a syllable out from between his gritted teeth. That tightness, that panic only increase tenfold as she raises her gaze to meet his, and gives him a smile that he can only describe as wholly and utterly heartbroken.

“...I pray that one day, you might find a way to forgive me for placing so heavy a weight on your shoulders, and for asking so much of you. For asking of you that which you cannot give.”

As she speaks, she takes another half-step back, then another, then a full stride, slowly easing away from him, and Hades finds his body has gone just as still and stiff as his jaw, as if every muscle in his body has turned to stone.

“We will not meet again, I think. The world is too wide, and our chosen paths too disparate. But know that I am grateful to you, for all that you have done. Thank you for everything, Hades.”

Well out of reach now, she turns to go, angling one last wistful smile at him over her shoulder, leaving him with words that are gentle and kind and unspeakably cruel:

“No matter where our roads take us, I promise that my memories of you--your loyalty, your trustworthiness, your compassion--will never fade.”

Hades stands there, still as a statue, long after any glimpse of Persephone has long vanished into the shadows of the city, the last thing she said before disappearing into the smoke and gloom resonating, playing over and over in his head:

“Goodbye, my dearest friend.”

Edited 2022-09-18 01:49 (UTC)

“I have gathered you here today not to speak of the future, but to reflect on the past. To pay respects to loved ones fallen on the field of battle. In honor of their sacrifices, these sons and daughters of Doma shall be given a place here, at the Swallow's Compass. Though they no longer walk with us in life, they walk with us in spirit. Pray never forget their bravery, that the memories of their legacy give you comfort and strength...”

It is a good speech, Koharu thinks, and Lord Hien is delivering it well. Yet, as he delves into the list of names and the stories that go along with them, the Warrior of Light finds her mind wandering. So many lives cut short, with so much potential yet in them. What sorts of unspoken dreams did those people have, things that will not be remembered, because they were held close to their hearts and never shared?

As she watches the ruler of Doma continue to read the tribute to the lost, she feels that familiar flame of pride and happiness in her chest, so hot and bright that she’s almost surprised that it isn’t visible to the entire crowd. And yet, as she listens to Hien’s voice, how steady and clear it is, that strong, masculine tenor with its slight rasp and rumble...that heat shifts somewhere decidedly lower.

It isn’t right, she knows, to feel this way during so serious and sorrowful a ceremony--it isn’t right to feel this way here, in the Swallow’s Compass, a royal mausoleum of all places.

...She isn’t certain what Sarhnai would say about it, if she were here, if Koharu admitted how she felt. It would likely either be something along the lines of so? Why are you telling ME this? Although...there is also a chance, perhaps a much higher chance, that her soul-sister would flash her that fierce, familiar grin full of bright, sharp teeth and say so what? Their bodies may rest here, but they are merely dust. The souls of the dead themselves are gone, reborn, and even if they weren’t, why would they care what you do here? Go, sister, and claim what is yours.

Those words, imaginary as the conversation they’re from is, still bring a slight flush to the au ra girl’s delicately pale skin, and she shakes her head at herself and forces her attention back to Lord Hien’s eulogy just in time to hear the end of it:

“...Let your hearts swell not with sorrow, but with joy for their memory. Know that proof of their mark left on this world shall remain here, enshrined within the Swallow's Compass for all eternity. Let us still our voices, and in silence pray for their souls. That they may share in the peace we have found.”

Koharu closes her eyes and bows her head, saying a silent prayer for Lord Hien’s parents, for while she had never met them, it’s clear that they are much beloved by their son even now. She slips in a quick prayer for that son as well, asking for happiness, for peace, for favor in the eyes of his people.

So focused is she on that prayer that she loses track of the time, and her eyes only come open at a soft, brief touch on her shoulder...and she can’t help drawing in a quick, quiet breath on finding none other than Hien himself standing there, smiling down at her in his usual warm, friendly manner.

“Please forgive me for disturbing you, Koharu-san, but the hour has grown late, and the ceremony is over.”

Blinking in startlement, Koharu sweeps a look around the room, shocked to find herself alone with Hien, the sky outside a rosy peach fading down into rich indigo, with deep cobalt clouds tinted with gold sweeping across it in thin patches. The candles have mostly burned down, and the large room is growing dim; a breeze whispers across her skin, chilly but not quite cold, though she gives a shiver in response anyway.

At that, Hien’s smile immediately shifts into concern, expressive hazel eyes studying her slight figure, though not quite in the way she really wants them to.

So far just about everything that has passed between them has been very proper, nearly courtly--he is not shy about holding her hand, regardless of where they are and what company they might be in; when they believe they are alone, he places gentle kisses on her knuckles and the back of her hand, on her cheek or her forehead. When they are in private, closed off to any watchful eyes, that is the only time he’s kissed her, and while there was always passion behind it, a heavy sort of meaning and serious intent in the pressure of his lips moving against her own, he had never pressed things any further. Those large hands had always rested respectfully on her slim waist, or else cupped and cradled her face, never seeking to wander, and while it had been flattering to know that he treasured her so, that he thought so highly of her and had no desire to simply use her...it was also a little frustrating.

She wanted him to explore, to touch her, and she wanted to do the same in return-

“Koharu-san? Is something amiss?”

“No, my lord, nothing,” she manages to say, but though she struggles to hold his gaze, she soon looks down and away, increasingly ashamed of her thoughts. There is a place and a time for such things, she tells herself sternly, and it is not here and now.

He tilts his head, still eyeing her consideringly.

“You seem...cold. The night air here does have teeth, and as I said before, the hour is growing late. Shall we head back to the Kienkan? I shall make certain they stoke the fires in the baths-”

“No--th-that is--I...I want-” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, marshaling herself before continuing, her voice quiet but steady as she reaches out to boldly slip her hand into his, “...I want to stay by your side for a while longer. If you don’t mind, of course.”

This isn’t the first time she’s taken his hand, but as he always has before, Hien brightens slightly when she does, his smile growing wider and softer, his whole body seeming to relax as he lets down his defenses.

“Do I mind? On the contrary, nothing would give me more pleasure.”

It’s an unfortunate choice of words, at least for Koharu, but they are spoken lightly, without any hint of flirtation or innuendo; instead, he really seems to mean them, and quite genuinely at that. The gentle squeeze he gives her hand only underlines his honesty, and she can’t help but smile up at him, squeezing back lightly in response.

Another time, she tells herself with an inward sigh as together, hand in hand, they make their way slowly through the mountainous mausoleum. Since they are alone, she allows herself to be a little more clingy and forward, reaching across herself to wrap her other arm around his, pulling it tight against her. That heat from before still lingers low in her belly, stoked by the warm press of his skin against her own, and she can’t help the feeling of wanting to be closer to him, to all but worship him--a feeling that even being here, in this sacred place dedicated to his honorable ancestors, does nothing to relieve.

...In fact, if anything, it only makes the impulse stronger. Koharu isn’t certain if she’s truly ashamed of that feeling, though she thinks she should be.

But as they continue to make their meandering way through the still half-ruined vaults and passageways, the little au ra lets her head come to rest against his upper arm, sometimes even briefly closing her eyes and trusting in him to guide her along; and she finds that she is both happy and content, for just being with him at all is wonderful.

It is very nearly startling when Hien speaks, an even rougher than usual edge to his voice, no doubt thanks to the lengthy silence they had shared.

“As you no doubt remember, Kisei-san said that only the kami are deserving of our adoration.”

Koharu finds that they have drifted to a stop in one of the empty hallways on one of the lower levels, and she looks up at Doma’s leader inquisitively. Hien angles a reassuring smile down at her and continues:

“I myself take issue with such claims, for I find there are many who I believe deserving of my admiration, and no little gratitude as well.”

The hand she isn’t holding comes up as he turns to face her directly, brushing an errant strand of pale blue hair back out of her face before tenderly caressing her cheek.

“Chief among them being yourself, of course.”

His hand shifts, his fingers lightly catching her chin, tipping her face upwards towards his, a question in his eyes--one that she answers immediately by going up on her toes to kiss him soundly.

Edited 2022-11-19 20:44 (UTC)

Although this kiss starts off like the majority of their others--chaste but with obvious feeling behind it--it soon shifts into something else entirely, a hungry sort of urgency to it that only a few of the other kisses they’ve shared have displayed. Koharu lets go of his hand to loop both her arms around his neck, and as he’s nearly a fulm taller than she is, Hien has to lean down a bit for her to be able to reach him at all, and throughout it all, his lips never really leave hers. When she eases back just enough to give his lower lip a gentle nip that’s both shy and incredibly bold for her, Hien lets out a low, rumbling groan and opens his mouth to her, their kiss deepening, growing even more messy and desperate.

His hands had settled on her waist, polite and proper as ever; but as she continues to kiss him like that, his grip tightens, crumpling the smooth fabric of her robe--she’d wanted to dress nicely for the ceremony, a detail he’d appreciated at the time. When they break away for a moment to breathe, it’s brief, and she’s already taking another half-step closer, intending to kiss him again just as passionately, when Hien suddenly grasps at her hips, lifting her slight weight easily and stepping quickly into the shadow of one of the many pillars lining the long hallway, pressing her close against the wall, covering her with his own body.

At first, Koharu thrills at that abrupt, just slightly rough movement, thinking that perhaps he’s finally going to make a move on an entirely new front--but he doesn’t resume kissing her right away, his head turned to gaze sideways in a watchful manner. That’s when she hears it: the clank of armor, a roaming kiyofusa approaching. She freezes in place at that, her heart still racing, and it only speeds up further when she realizes the rather novel new position she’s in: in his haste to protect her, Hien has all but pinned her to the wall.

They stay there, carefully unmoving, until the geomantic automata passes them by; but as she feels him begin to relax, Koharu tightens her grip on the Doman prince instead, drawing his gaze to her--and his attention to the rather suggestive position they’d ended up in. Hazel eyes slowly go wide at that realization, chiefly the way one of his thighs is firmly caught between hers, and he starts to draw a breath to apologize--when she presses another kiss to his lips, soft and lingering, effectively silencing him.

For now, her expression says quite clearly, though she does not speak the words aloud.

But for Hermes, now is enough. It is enough to lean against her and let her slight, deceptively strong frame support him. It is enough to close his eyes again and lose himself in the comfort and warmth her very presence provides.

Even if none of it is truly enough, he knows that it will have to be.

Again, she is quiet for a lengthy space of time, once more giving of herself so freely, despite the fact that they had only met earlier that day. It feels like so much longer, as if he’s known her for ages, and yet he knows that is only wishful thinking, an illusion of familiarity brought about by how intense and volatile his emotions had been today. And yet, as she moves the arm he isn’t still loosely grasping at, raising her hand to gently stroke his hair, he cannot convince himself that it is an illusion. Not with her touching him like this, casual but meaningful, as would a parent--or a lover.

That thought sends a shiver of awareness through him, his entire body tingling, his skin feeling hot where they are pressed together, despite the clothing still separating them. He aches--oh, how he aches--to turn and wrap his arms around her as well, to hold her close and give her as much or as little of himself as she will accept.

He can feel his resolve, his self-control slipping away from him like sand hissing through his fingers, and Hermes knows that he must put an end to this now, if ever he is going to. Now, before it is too late, and his longing is too strong to deny.

“...My thanks,” he finally murmurs, “but I can ask no more of you. It would seem that your kindness truly knows no bounds...”

“You have yet to ask me for much of anything,” she replies, and he wonders if there’s a suggestive thread of meaning woven throughout her words or if he’s only imagining it. She is hard to read, and her hand hasn’t paused in its self-appointed task of stroking his hair, which is infinitely distracting; but he pushes both confusion and comfort aside, still struggling to behave as is proper, as he knows he must.

“Perhaps, but...I cannot. Already I have asked for far more than I should. I...I should go. And you...you should also return to your room. It is not safe, to be out and about at night.”

But his words contradict his actions, for although he knows that he should, still he cannot bring himself to pull away from her just yet. Thus, he feels the delightful vibration of her low chuckle as she says, her voice all amusement and easy laughter, “If safe was what I was most concerned about, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

Something in her voice hints at a secret, and he wonders if it’s tied to the guilt from before or not: both are things it seems she cannot share.

“Still, you’re right. We should get inside--it’s late, and it’s getting cold.”

He swallows hard, bracing himself for the loss of comfort and warmth as they pull away from each other--only, one of her hands still rests on his shoulder, and his hand still lingers on her arm, and she does not step away completely, remaining close. With him still on his knees, they are nearly of a height, and she takes advantage of that too, looking at him with a smile that is so sincere it makes his breath catch in his chest, as does the knowledge that all he need do is lean forward ever so slightly to find her lips with his.

She must be thinking something similar, or is at least finally aware of their proximity: her gaze briefly dips down to his mouth, but she looks up to meet his eyes again so quickly that he almost thinks he was mistaken. The darkness is reason enough for her wide pupils, and easy enough for him to explain away, though the flick of her tongue as she wets her lips and the delicate movement in her throat as she swallows are far less so, and Hermes finds them mesmerizing.

“Meteion,” she suddenly says just as he’s decided to kiss her and have done with it, and Hermes pauses immediately, blinking at her in curiosity. “Meteion said that you like apples. Apples...covered in sugar?”

It’s such a strange thing to bring up that it allows Hermes to master himself, to regain control and push aside that longing impulse to kiss her, though even still he can feel it tugging at the back of his mind. The mention of Meteion, however, brings a small, fond smile to his face in spite of everything.

“Meteion truly has shared much with you. Even something so small as that...”

At that she does finally step back, though the hand on his shoulder doesn’t simply fall away, but instead slips down his arm, coming to rest in the crook of his elbow and staying there. “In that case...let me make you something. Something warm to eat, to ward off the night’s chill.” Her smile widens, a gleam of something like mischief in her eyes when he blinks at her in bewilderment, so she adds, “Something from back home that we make with apples.”

He blinks yet again, this time in curiosity and something like wonderment, then gives a nod of acquiescence and rises to his feet. She’s forced back a step as he does so, and at last he lets his hand fall away from her arm, though the feel of her smooth skin still lingers in his memory, hums in his fingertips.

And then, as the weight of his acceptance settles on him, he realizes the problem he’s made for himself: where are they to go? To return with her to her room, to bring her to his own...neither is a wise decision, of that he is entirely too certain. Nor does he wish for them to remain anywhere too public, at the risk of anyone seeing and asking questions that he has no idea how to answer.

Which leaves only one possible place that he can think of, ill-suited as perhaps it is.

“Come, then. I will take us somewhere out of the wind.”

The Cthonic Horns is a small facility somewhat outside the rest of Elpis; but it is private and, at this hour of night, empty and peaceful. It is a modest building, though not unlike the others in style and substance: weathered red brick with gray stone accents with a decidedly art deco flair. The inside is relatively bare as well: a few bookcases, a workbench with an empty cage on top of it, a neat pile of boxes in a corner, a single table with two chairs. And upon that table, a basket of ripe, red apples.

She looks around curiously as they enter, and Hermes finds himself telling her the purpose of this building, still in the mindset of playing tour guide earlier.

“The researchers who work here are unlike the rest, in that they seek to manifest new creations without the aid of creation magicks.” She looks up from examining the basket of apples that he’d slid her way, tilting her head questioningly, so he continues without thinking, “They make use of a natural breeding program, to pair creatures with differing characteristics, relying purely on chance to conceive heretofore...unimagined...possibilities...”

A faint pink tint comes to her cheeks as he speaks, slowing the final few words of his explanation, and only then does he realize what he’s done, how this might look, or rather how it could easily be taken, that he’d brought her here. For he and she could certainly be described thus, ‘creatures with differing characteristics,’ could they not? Though as to whether or not a familiar might conceive-

Hermes clears his throat, his own face flushed as well as he looks away from her, embarrassed at what his subconscious mind must have brought about. He scrambles to clarify things, to find a way to ease the awkward tension that’s suddenly settled here between them, to reassure her that he has no such designs upon her--though in fact, he does.

“I--no, I did not mean... It is only that...I study here as well, at times, when I wish for peace and quiet, and the other researchers also enjoy apples. I knew there would doubtless be a suitable supply here, for whatever you intend.”

It’s a weak excuse even in his ears, but though the color remains in her cheeks, she doesn’t challenge his words, simply scooping up the basket of apples and retreating to a corner of the room, delving into her bag and withdrawing a startling amount of items: a pan, some sort of makeshift but very detailed looking workstation, as well as half a dozen or more ingredients. He finds himself transfixed by how quick and sure her hands move, measuring and adding things to a bowl that seemingly appeared out of nowhere with a confidence that speaks of hours of practice.

“This isn’t really an official recipe that I was taught or anything,” she says conversationally as she begins to peel the apples, and he settles himself in one of room’s two chairs to watch in wonder as she works, “but even using an ice cluster or two, I don’t think I could chill a pie crust as reliably as I’d like...so I’m going with something easier: an apple crumble. It tastes just as good as an apple tart or apple pie, and without all the troubles of pie crust.”

It’s the most he’s heard her talk all at once, and Hermes finds himself bemused by how little of it he understands, either her words or her actions. Some sort of creation magicks are clearly at work, but she’s using a lot more materials and...crystals, of some sort, to fuel the transformation--which makes sense, come to think of it, considering how thin her aether is.

The researcher in him wants to flood her with questions, wants to take notes, to poke and prod and perhaps...even experiment. No, he’s wanted to do the latter ever since the idea came to him before, though in truth, he is far more interested in the relief such a thing might provide than the science of it. Perhaps-

A scent like none other he had ever smelled wrests his attention from hungry thoughts, clearly wafting over from whatever it was she’s preparing. It smells of apples, heated sugar, and cinnamon--all familiar scents, but now they mix together in a way he’s never experienced. He finds his mouth watering slightly in spite of himself, though whether that’s due to the smell or at the sight of her kneeling there across the room, just a few arm-spans away, he can’t be entirely certain.

“Finished,” she announces, sounding quite pleased with herself, and as Hermes watches (just a bit too closely, perhaps, his eyes unconsciously tracking her movement), she dips a spoon into the pan, bringing it up to her mouth for a quick taste--then humming out a low, appreciative noise that gives him a start, sending a jolt of arousal through his whole body. Before he has time to process it, much less push it away, she’s standing there beside him, placing the steaming pan of...apple crumble, she’d said?...on the table in front of him.

She offers him a spoon--not the same one she’d used--then goes to drag the other chair around, perching on the edge and giving him a bright smile and an eager, “Help yourself!” before suiting action to words and taking another spoonful herself.

Hermes hesitates only a moment before taking a careful spoonful, trying to ignore how avidly she’s watching for his reaction as he places it in his mouth--and he very nearly drops the spoon as the explosion of sensations hits him hard. The apples are sweet and soft, baked to perfection such that they nearly melt in his mouth, and the hint of warm spices and syrupy sugar are smooth, while the crumble on top adds a slight coarse texture that meshes well with the entire dish. Something else adds a hint of tartness, another a hint of creaminess and salt, but despite everything, the taste of the apples remains clear and unmistakable above all.

It is, without a doubt, the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, and he’s startled to find a sudden thickness in his throat, a faint burning at the backs of his eyes.

And still she watches him, expectant, hopeful, ever so slightly concerned, so he lets out a soft sigh of contentment and gives her a wide smile and an approving nod--the best he can manage at the moment. Her eyes scan his face, catching and lingering on his eyes for a half second too long, letting him know that she sees that faint glassiness there, that she can tell that he’s been moved somehow by this simple thing--not by the food itself, but by this thoughtfulness and consideration that no other has attempted to show him. Her only response, however, is to return both his smile and nod, and help herself to more of her delightful creation.

They eat in silence, unhurried, and Hermes savors every bite. Neither does he miss the fact that she takes only one small spoonful for every two or three of his, subtly making certain that he gets the majority of it; and while part of him wants to protest, she is not his to reprimand, nor would it be gracious to object to her generosity.

It is her clear intent that he enjoy the fruit of her labors; and so Hermes remains quiet and does just that, and together, they clear the pan.

Edited 2022-09-19 04:56 (UTC)

“Although we recognize that you felt the need to take immediate action under these circumstances, the Council cannot turn a blind eye to the recklessness of your methods. Therefore, while we do not think it fitting to ask that you step down, nor seek your removal from the office you hold, a majority of members have agreed that a formal censure is in order.”

Azem stood at the center of the sweepingly large and elegant circular room, the Convocation’s council chamber, located at the heart of Amaurot’s capitol building. Though she was alone, clearly being subjected to both the scrutiny and criticism of her peers, Themis observed--and indeed rather admired--the easy composure with which she held herself. There was no hint of shame or contrition in the way her shoulders were thrown back, no trace of remorse in her straight spine, not the slightest sign of an embarrassed cringe or shamefully bowed head. On the contrary, the emissary observed to himself, a mingling of pride and respect flooding through him as he too looked down from his elevated seat at his colleague. Judging by the tilt of her chin and the set of her jaw, she would do nothing differently, despite knowing this to be the outcome.

Pashtarot, the Convocation’s preserver of discipline and order, was the member presiding today, and he began to read from a sheet of elegant-looking parchment paper:

“ ‘Whereas the Traveler, Azem, assumed the exercise of a power not granted her by the Convocation’s laws, by way of initiating the investigation of the facility beneath Elpis, hereby referred to as Pandæmonium;’

“ ‘Whereas, the investigation of Pandæmonium was carried out without the full knowledge or approval of the Convocation;’

“ ‘Whereas the assistance of the emissary, Elidibus, was informally requested to facilitate this investigation, again without the full knowledge or approval of the Convocation;’

“ ‘Whereas a mysterious, untried, and undocumented being assumed to be a new form of familiar was entrusted by Azem with the protection of the emissary and sundry other individuals;’

“ ‘Whereas the decision was made, going directly against Chief Keyward Lahabrea’s own advice, to attempt the rescue of the remaining keywards and wardens within Pandæmonium, rather than expeditiously destroying it to prevent both the escape of dangerous beings at work therein, and the enactment of their plans, which would result in dire consequences for the star;’

“ ‘Whereas this decision needlessly endangered the lives of countless innocents, extant in both the present day and far in the future;’

“ ‘Whereas the outcome of said investigation resulted in the imperative and immediate removal of a member of the Convocation, as well as a costly, laborious, and intrusive examination of the near entirety of the aforementioned member’s various activities over the course of his tenure;’

“ ‘Whereas the outcome of said investigation also resulted in an unauthorized replacement of the member holding the office of Lahabrea, of which no reference is ever to be made of outside of this council chamber, and any mention of which is to be formally struck from the record;’

“ ‘Whereas said investigation terminated in the eventual loss of the entirety of Pandæmonium, as well as many valuable and unique concepts contained therein;’

“ ‘Whereas the Traveler, Azem, acted throughout the whole of the investigation in a manner deemed unnecessarily reckless, undiplomatic in the extreme, and overwhelmingly contemptuous of the Convocation’s by-laws and expectations;’

“ ‘Therefore, as per a majority vote, the Convocation of Fourteen hereby formally censures the one known by the title of Azem for her behavior, which has negatively influenced public opinion regarding the Convocation as a whole, has been destructive to the Council’s reputation, and is inconsistent with the position of the Convocation.’ ”

Lowering the sheet of parchment, he leveled an impassive stare on the woman standing before them all.

“Do you have anything to say, either in response to these charges or in your own defense, Azem?”

Something like the faintest of smiles briefly played over her mouth, but it was gone in an instant, and Azem merely shook her head, her voice clear and calm, almost atypically grave.

“Nothing. I accept the Council’s formal censure, and will strive further to be seen as deserving of the office I hold.”

Not exactly an admission of guilt, Themis noted with interest, nor truly any sort of assurance that she would seek to mend her ways--or rather, attempt to conform more closely to the Convocation’s standards of behavior. As one who must present himself as being entirely even-handed, listening to all but showing no favoritism to any, Themis appreciated others who also possessed a certain skill at weaving their words just-so, and the current Azem was certainly one of them. Regardless of how divisive a figure she might be, he couldn’t help but hold her in high esteem and feel pleased that she counted him among her friends.

“Very well. In that case, you are dismissed, and this meeting is adjourned.”

Azem gave a polite tilt of her head in acknowledgement and respect, then promptly turned on her heel and, without waiting to speak with anyone, made her way through the ornate double doors and out into the halls of the Capitol beyond.

Themis couldn’t help the way his eyes trailed after her, observing the speed of her departure...and thus he quickly left the room as well, following after her.

“Azem!”

The emissary's clear voice rang out in the crowded foyer of the Capitol, and despite the clamor, the woman in question obviously heard, for she stopped and turned to look back, waiting for him to catch up. Themis was a little breathless by the time he reached her, and Azem watched him pant for a moment with a fond smile.

She left so quickly...I had wondered if she were angry, or upset. But looking at her now...

Looking at her now, she was just as collected and unconcerned as she’d been back in the council chamber. Now that he stopped to reflect on it, her gait on leaving the room had been purposeful yet unhurried, indicating that she was not running away, but indeed hastening towards something else.

“Be careful, Emissary. You might not wish to be seen speaking with a troublemaker like me at present,” she said lightly as he recovered himself, and from her easy smile and the total lack of tension in her frame, Themis could tell that she truly was every bit as unbothered by the censure as she seemed. In fact, she almost sounded like she was...teasing him.

“You left so quickly after the meeting. I was concerned.” When her smile widened slightly and she shifted her weight, rocking on the balls of her feet with something like eagerness, he added on impulse, “Where are you going?”

That question earned him a genuine laugh, bright and ringing clear as a bell, and he could almost imagine that he saw her eyes sparkle with excitement behind her mask.

“I’ve heard some interesting news, and I want to go investigate.”

It was a vague answer, but entirely fitting for her and also not an untruth; Themis supposed that he couldn’t give away information that he didn’t have, should any seek to press him on Azem’s current plans, and thus decided to simply accept that evasive answer for now. In any case, there was still the matter for which he’d called out to her in the first place. He cast a careful glance about to ensure that no other Convocation members nor any of their direct staff were nearby, then took another half-step forward and dropped his voice to a cautious murmur.

“Azem...I wanted to apologize. I know that it was your idea to accept the responsibility for what took place in Pandæmonium, but--in truth, it still does not sit well with me. That you should receive the entirety of the blame, while I am exonerated entirely...” He shook his head, grimacing slightly as his eyes slid away from her, from that constant and radiant smile she wore so often. “Where is the balance in that?”

His only warning was a soft chuckle, and then he gave a start as her hand settled itself on his head, ruffling his hair affectionately. It wasn’t unpleasant, nor was it the first time she had done it--ever since he’d given her permission on a prior occasion, she didn’t seem able to resist the temptation at times--but though the sensation was in truth rather enjoyable, at times it did feel as if she were treating him as a younger sibling rather than an equal. And yet, perhaps the familiarity in her touch made such a thing worth it...even if it was oddly frustrating as well, as was the fact that, although they were similar in height, she still stood just slightly taller.

Strange indeed, and most curious that he should be concerned with such a thing.

“Don’t worry so much, Themis,” she said, bringing his focus back to the matter at hand, rather than the feeling of her hand atop his head, casually carding itself through his fluffy silver-white locks. “I truly don’t mind accepting the blame for this--it was my idea to do so in the first place. After all, it cannot be known that the emissary did not act with total impartiality, regardless of the reasons behind such actions. Meanwhile, I myself am already often at odds with the Convocation, widely known as something of a rogue element--an ‘incorrigible troublemaker’, according to some--so it simply made the most sense for me to take on that role yet again, and spare you the inconvenience.”

Her hand fell away from his hair, leaving it rather mussed, but Themis didn’t seem to either mind or care; instead, he wore a bemused expression, his mouth pulling sideways in a manner that indicated that he still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“But if something like this should happen again, and you were forced to step down as a result-”

Azem held up a hand, and Themis cut himself off reflexively, lips parted but tongue stilled by her request for his silence. Only the faintest trace of her previous smile yet lingered about her mouth, but it was a contented expression, not at all one of sorrow or regret.

“I do enjoy holding the office of Azem, certainly. It is a tremendous honor, and it grants me far more influence and authority than I would otherwise possess, which I can make use of to have a say in how things are to be done, to speak for the many people of this world. But even if, in the future, I am forced to leave the Convocation for some reason, I will still act however and whenever I deem it necessary to best assist and protect the precious, myriad lives and cultures of this star.”

As was the case fairly often when he listened to Azem speak, Themis found himself left speechless, able only to gaze at her with overt admiration, his mouth still hanging open slightly. She gave another soft chuckle and reached out to gently nudge at his chin, guiding his mouth closed with a quiet clack of teeth, then paused, her smile going somewhat softer even as it widened again.

“You should come with me on a journey sometime. I think you could learn much while traveling out and about in the world--things that no book contains, and which can only be taught by the feel of the road unwinding beneath your feet, a fair wind at your back and the sun shining warm on your face.”

Her smile, her entire being, was as brilliant and radiant as the sun itself when she spoke thus, Themis thought, enraptured by the sight of her, the sheer joy with which she overflowed when her constant travels were involved, leaving him feeling rather like a flower that could not help but constantly seek to turn its face towards the glorious sun.

Azem gave a sudden laugh, her tone pure mischief as she added, “...And as the honorable Emet-Selch himself knows, I am wont to call on my friends for aid when circumstances demand such. Bringing you along from the outset shouldn’t be seen as all that different, surely.”

“...Go on a journey with you...?”

Who could ever refuse such an offer? Themis wondered, feeling vaguely dazed, very nearly drunk on her overwhelming, incandescent energy. His face felt peculiarly warm, but like the sensation of her hand ruffling his hair, it was not unpleasant; indeed, he found that he felt quite pleased as he smiled back at her and gave a firm nod.

“Yes...yes, I think I should enjoy that a great deal.”

Edited 2022-09-20 17:42 (UTC)

“Pray let us meet anon that I might express my thanks with the proper courtesy.”

They are words that he had said so very long ago, when she, the Warrior of Light, had stood upon the Steps of Faith and faced the Dravanian Horde...which had broken upon her like waves upon the rocks. While they are perhaps not where everything that existed between them had begun, they are most certainly part of the catalyst that caused things to change and shift between them.

After her easy victory at the Steps of Faith, she had been called away, back to the Rising Stones, and then to Ul’dah...to the ill-fated feast that he himself had briefly attended before being called away, an event that had scattered the Scions to the winds and seen the Warrior of Light and two of her companions forced to flee, to seek refuge in Ishgard.

There had been pressing matters to attend to, and it was only after she and the other two Scions had been given a tour of Ishgard itself that she’d had time to slip away, to come seek him out at the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly. There, Lucia had taken one look at her, at her wan smile and pale face, eyes wide and full of an expression that the former Imperial spy knew all too well, and had ordered the guard to stand aside and permit the other woman passage to the Lord Commander’s Seat.

Aymeric had looked up from his paperwork with a startled blink when she had entered his office--he had heard a few rumors already, but he hadn’t known that she would be coming here--and quickly rose to his feet, an eager smile curving along his mouth...only to go still, smile fading into concern as he watched her lean back against the door.

“...I’m...I’m sorry, but...I didn’t know where else to go,” she’d murmured, sounding almost in a daze, and Aymeric had been around the desk and at her side, quick as blinking. He, too, read the same sort of battle-shock on her face as had Lucia, and he gestured towards his own chair, the only seat in the room, and not for the first time, he wished that his office had a fireplace.

She was shivering--shaking, perhaps--and he couldn’t tell if it was the cold or nerves or both; either way, when she hesitated, he gently took hold of her arm, resting his other hand lightly between her shoulder blades, and guided her over to that single chair. Setting aside the candelabra, he tugged the decorative draping off of the shelf behind his desk, draping the thick fabric over and around her.

“I haven’t much in the way of drinks, I fear--though I believe there is some wine in the cabinet-”

He didn’t miss the way she’d flinched visibly when he’d mentioned the wine, her eyes easing closed as she shook her head, a small but emphatic motion. Only later would he learn that the Sultana had been poisoned from her wine-glass, and the blame laid upon the shoulders of the very woman seated before him, hunched and shaking.

For a time, there was no sound but their breathing, the whistle of the wind outside, and the tap of snowflakes against the glass.

“I’m sorry,” she had said again at last, opening her eyes to look up at him, her expression thoroughly miserable...and yet even so, she attempted a smile, though it came out decidedly pained, far more like a grimace than anything else. “I needed to get away for a moment, somewhere Alphinaud or Tataru wouldn’t...happen upon me.” She had swallowed hard, looking as though she wanted to vomit up everything that was troubling her, and at the same time, to swallow it down forever, to lock it away eternally.

He had acted on impulse then, kneeling before her to meet her eyes gravely as he boldly reached out to take hold of her hand.

“Regardless of what is troubling you, you may speak of it here safely, and know that it will go no further. After what you did on the Steps of Faith, Ishgard owes you a not inconsiderable debt...and I should be honored if you trusted me enough to consider me a friend. No matter what you have seen, I swear to you that I shall not think any less of you for being shaken by it; and if there is aught that I might do to ease your burdens, you have only to speak, and it will be done.”

Her hand had trembled in his, but she hadn’t flinched again, nor had she looked away from his steadfast sapphire gaze, even as great, wavering tears welled up in her own.

He had listened then to her tragic tale of betrayal, of friends lost and foes triumphant, of loss and of leaving the land that she had come to love behind; and for well over a bell, perhaps two, he had simply stayed there, content to remain on his knees before her and tenderly hold her hand for as long as she needed him to.

It had not been at all what he’d had in mind when he’d stated his intention to express his thanks with the proper courtesy, and in truth, he did not count this clandestine meeting as any sort of fitting recompense for her bravery and valor; but it was a starting point, at least, and he had been both pleased and honored that she had sought him out specifically, that she trusted him that much, at the very least.

In time, he hoped that perhaps she would come to trust him with even more.

Edited 2022-11-28 06:18 (UTC)

In order for there to be a solution to something, logic dictated that there must, by rights, be a problem. And yet, the reverse could not be so easily said to be true: problems without solutions existed in many places, in many eras...and yet, Talys found that very concept to be puzzling. Surely there were solutions to all the world’s many problems; the true issue was only whether or not those solutions were practical, acceptable, or both.

Garlemald was a problem. The penchant for conquest and the over-zealous warmongering itself--which had practically ascended to some sort of religion whether the Garleans would admit such or not--would’ve been troublesome enough; but even worse was the treatment of said conquered nations. Although the Garleans claimed that any could join their ranks, that theirs was a meritocracy by which one was elevated in direct association with one’s deeds, the fact remained that this was not wholly true. For to join their ranks was to become Garlean, to leave one’s culture and people behind and swear allegiance to that blood-smeared banner and the very chains it depicted. And yet, even that was not enough; only the native Garleans were truly given equal opportunity to rise within their organization, and it was impossible to break into the higher ranks save for those overwhelmingly, incontestably gifted few--and still the prejudice against them lingered, resentment simmering beneath the surface of acceptance, to be tamped down and hidden away only so long as the individual in question remained useful.

Even worse was the Garlean’s treatment of those conquered people who did not wish to become Garlean, who only wished to live in peace and continue to uphold their customs and traditions. Brutality was a common sight, as were disappearances and the impressment of the youth, never mind the destruction and desecration of important or even hallowed places.

Only Garlemald’s culture, only Garlemald’s people mattered; anyone else was an enemy, to be overwritten into a lesser version of themselves or else stamped down and wiped out entirely.

And this, Talys had determined easily at the tender of six or seven, made them a problem.

She had always liked solving problems. Balancing complicated equations, improving errors or weak points in magical theories, locating something or someone that was lost, correcting a misspelled word or incorrect answer on the professor’s grading key--all of that and more had come to her naturally, as easy as breathing. After reading something once, she knew it, easily absorbing the information and filing it all away for use at some later time; reading over spells and magical incantations was much the same. Gifted, her professors had said; but while she was not particularly awkward or socially inept, she was quiet and rather retiring, living largely in her own head, it did her no favors amongst her peers. Strange, they would say. Too quiet. Shy. A little creepy. Intense. A total pushover.

That was merely another problem, however, though Talys didn’t see it as such enough to seek a solution.

But when she found herself carrying out her field study for her thesis, she was brought face to face with the very problem she’d picked out more than twenty years ago: the Garlean Empire, and its rapacious grab for Aldenard, the only region yet to fall entirely under its control.

And as, for the first time, she brought true violence to bear on another obviously-humanoid being, unhesitantly gutting an entire group of soldiers with her spear when they attacked her unprovoked in the Eastern Shroud, between Little Solace and the Hawthorn hut...something clicked neatly within her mind, even as her heart thundered in her ears, her very pulse baying for the blood of those who carried the insignia of the country had robbed her of all traces of her family and childhood. She felt only grim satisfaction and a thrill of excitement as she surveyed the broken bodies she’d left in her wake, followed by a wash of something like pleasure, the same feeling she got when she figured out a particularly tricky puzzle or mathematical proof.

And that was it. Case closed, the final word in the final sentence of a book read, the last number added to balance an equation.

Talys Shatterheart had found her solution to the Garlean problem.

Edited 2022-09-21 23:32 (UTC)

When they’d first met, with the Ascian sweeping in theatrically, presenting himself as if he were a player on the stage rather than an enemy with whom they were at odds, Sizhu hadn’t trusted Emet-Selch in the slightest.

His every word weighed heavy with meanings that she couldn’t understand--that he knew she couldn’t understand, that some part of him plainly despised her for not understanding. And yet the sound of those words was light, at times even flippant, as if he cared for nothing and no one.

At first, she didn’t trust a single word that came out of those smirking lips, remembering the other Ascians she’d encountered before, rejecting them all outright.

And yet, as time went on and they couldn’t be rid of him, as he continued to waltz in whenever he pleased, tell them a tale or drop some hints about something they were looking into or reveal some sort of otherwise shocking information, and then make his dramatic exit...Sizhu started to listen. Grudgingly at first, but she was nothing if not damnedly curious, and Ascian or not, Emet-Selch was an incredibly deep well of information.

By the time he brought Y’shtola back to them, she was not only listening, but intrigued by what she heard. She could not be certain that anything he said was true, of course, but...it did make certain pieces fall into place, and for all the further questions that his answers spawned, having anything answered at all was still progress in her book. He also claimed that he had no reason to lie, that the truth was damning enough for his purposes--and he had a point there as well.

In any case, any liar who stated that he had no reason to lie was either insane, or just insanely bold to the point of idiocy. She couldn’t really say that only someone who was being truthful would use such a ploy, and yet...somehow, something about his words rang true. It wasn’t as if she already knew what he was saying...and yet...there was, at times, a strange feeling of familiarity, and if she had glimpsed snatches of something like it in a long-forgotten dream.

Perhaps that was why Emet-Selch himself also felt oddly familiar at times. Not quite as if they’d met before, not really...but something in his eyes caught at her in a way that she couldn’t understand, much less explain, making her heart leap strangely even as she felt her blood freeze beneath that piercing stare--as if he could see all of her, right down to her very soul, and he was not impressed by what he saw.

Long before she summoned Emet-Selch--no, Hades--and Hythlodaeus to her with Azem’s stone out in Ultima Thule, she had come to realize that he really had been telling the truth. That he’d guided her along, giving her answers enough to bait her further, to keep her pushing forwards. Perhaps it had been unintentional; or perhaps he had simply grown tired, tired of the struggle, tired of grasping in vain for a past that grew increasingly faded as the millennia slipped past.

Perhaps he had wanted to lose.

...Perhaps he had wanted to lose to her...or perhaps he had known that his heart would not permit him to do otherwise: not when faced with even a fragment of the one he’d once called my dearest friend.

As to what the truth was...she had a feeling that this was one question that Hades would never give her, though perhaps that refusal itself would have been answer enough.

Regardless of how flippant and frenzied he might act, much of the time Fandaniel truly feels nothing. He pushes himself and those around him to ever-further extremes, seeking to feel something, to drink in their emotions vicariously, if he cannot taste them himself. Rage, joy, fear, all of those emotions and more flicker to life in his breast only briefly before being swallowed by the emptiness, the numbness, the weary desolation that sits at the core of his being, like a once-lush woodland after the heat and unyielding destruction of an uncontrolled wildfire has passed. There is naught in him but ash and smoke, a yawning pit of destitution and isolation. Even hatred is too much to ask, for there is no fuel to burn to permit that spark any sort of extended life; like every other emotion, it flares up briefly, then gutters and dies.

He had struggled enough as Hermes, when yet his soul was whole. How much more did he grapple with his own mental demons once that “perfect” and “complete” soul was sundered, torn into pieces and scattered like so many others? And when he had been reborn millennia later, found by the Unsundered and given his memories back…he found them empty. There was no meaning in his past life--rather, his past self had no more idea about what the purpose of it all, all the suffering and pain, could possibly be.

At first, he thinks himself far superior to that shadowed figure in those hollow memories. As Amon, he had a purpose. His scientific research was fascinating, the various experiments he came up with even more so, and they were often quite entertaining besides. He was popular, with a marvelous slew of enemies to keep his wits sharp, and he would bring back the glory days of the Allagan Empire. He would resurrect their greatest emperor, and Xande would answer his most pressing of questions, all about life and the afterlife and what it all meant. Having been dead for so long, surely Xande would have the answers Amon--and Hermes--had sought. He, Amon, would succeed where this previous “perfect” version of himself had failed, a thought that gives him no little satisfaction, that makes his chest swell with pride.

But the answer he receives is not at all the answer he’s looking for, and hearing it shatters him--an uncanny echo of what had also happened to his former, unsundered self, though he’s in no state to really appreciate that little detail.

Very well then, he decides, that terrible knowledge now deeply engraved on his soul, if nothing matters and there is no deeper purpose or meaning for us all, then mine shall be the hand of mercy. I will consign every soul to death, including my own, and spare us all the pain of continued existence.

And so, once he is no longer constrained by the will of the Unsundered, that is the end he works towards. As ever, he puts on a good show, laughter and tricks and entertainment, enthusiastically playing the court jester, the strange and empty-headed motley’d fool--though it’s all an act, a mask that slips away every so often, revealing his true nature if not his true face, the cold, cunning, calculating villain that lies beneath.

He was not always that way, he knows. He has the memories of the man whose heart was too tender to bear up under the weight of his own compassion, but they still mean nothing to him. There is no connection to that past self--perhaps a different shard of Hermes’s sundered soul had received such emotions, but he himself has none of them, feels none of them, wants none of them. For he is so much stronger now than that weak, pathetically sad man; and while he is still in pain, fairly crazed with it and its constancy, he has the power of will to do something about it, to scream and thrash and make himself heard, where Hermes had merely swallowed down his rage and misery, mild and meek.

Fandaniel wants no part of that. He accepts the memories, because he must, but he does not consider them to be his own.

Then the Warrior of Light foils his schemes--only not really, because he’d set the game up perfectly, the result heads I win, tails you lose. If she could not strike him down when he became Zodiark’s heart, then he would use the elder primal’s power to destroy the world; yet if she did destroy Zodiark, the song of oblivion would begin again, dooming the star once more.

Either way, he won. Either way lay death for all.

...And yet, she struggled on. He could not understand why. Why did she fight so hard for a life that held no intrinsic purpose? What could possibly keep her going through all the pain and heartache, the sorrow and rage, the Elpis flowers turning dark with her own mortal dread?

How could anyone find the strength, the courage, to always, always take one more step?

And yet she does. She fights on, determined to reach the ends of the universe, to find his former self’s own erstwhile experiment and quell that song. Now that his soul has returned to the aetherial sea, he remembers her so clearly now: their meeting in Elpis, the way she carried herself with grace and confidence, the overwhelming kindness and consideration she showed him. It still feels halfway as though it was someone else’s life, someone else’s memories, as though he cannot fully grasp it...but only halfway. It no longer feels quite so distant and displaced, and when he looks at her, there is so much regret, so many lingering feelings that tangle and twist through him, a snarled thicket of thorns that squeeze the heart he’d forgotten he had.

And yet, he has made his choices. He cannot go back now and do things differently, even if he wanted to...and regardless of everything he knows now, he is still not certain that he does, that he is not still ultimately in the right. And so he fights her again there in the Aitiascope, seeking to bar her way, to keep her trapped here forever, once again playing the cackling clown, the spectacular and over-the-top masked villain...and unsurprisingly, she is the one who emerges victorious yet again.

But once she does, she pauses, seemingly uncertain about what it is she should do with him...though another roving, resentful soul takes that decision out of her hands, and she does nothing to stop it.

As fragmented and disjointed as Fandaniel’s soul is now, being sucked down through that pool of tarry pitch into whatever greater hell lay below by the vengeful spirit whose body he’d most recently stolen...is really almost a relief. And as he’s pulled down into that roiling, oily purple puddle, the last thing he sees and hears before the darkness closes in over his head is her, and her voice:

“Next time, we will find the answer together.”

It is a promise, a curious one, and certainly not one that he deserves. As he resigns himself to oblivion, he wonders if, despite his own parting words to her...

“Even here. Even now... You have every right to hate me. For the fool I was, for the monster I became. But I will not beg forgiveness. The tale of Hermes--the man who knew so much, but understood so little--ends here.”

...If, even though Hermes’s tale has ended, perhaps he himself, this bitter and broken shard, might indeed be reborn some day. To a fresh start. To another chance. To a life spent alongside her rather than set against her, where they can search for and find that answer together...perhaps even in each other.

But perhaps not. After all, the darkness here is endless, and it is so much easier to finally stop trying so hard to keep his head above the proverbial water, to cease fighting and simply let himself sink.

Edited 2022-10-02 14:45 (UTC)

“Urianger? Have you seen Ruhri recently?”

The gray-haired Elezen looked up from the tiny form of the peacefully-slumbering Miqo’te boy in his arms, angling an inquisitive look up at Thancred. The other Scion was standing in the doorway to the nursery, a (non-frilly) apron atop one of his more casual outfits; he had clearly been seeing to preparing the children’s dinner, while Urianger had taken it upon himself to rock G’sohra, the previously tiredly-blubbering two-year-old Miqu-kitten, to sleep.

G’sohra (Sohra for short) and his twin sister G’ruhri were (thus far, at least) the only children born to the Warrior of Light and her husband (who was such a proud father, Urianger at times had concerns that the other man might very well burst with the force of that emotion). Once she’d grown so heavy with child that she had to temporarily hang up her adventurer’s gear, the Warrior of Light had decided to settle in Sharlayan for the time being--it was a very safe environment for children, and the promise of a solid education was alluring as well--and her husband had supported the idea whole-heartedly. It came with the additional bonus of the other Scions being regular visitors, as had been the case today. Having already been in town, Thancred had dropped by, and with Urianger temporarily staying just two houses down, the four Scions had decided to make a day of it and enjoy a meal together.

They were halfway through dessert when Krile had burst in with an urgent message sent to the Students of Baldesion, and both the Warrior of Light and her husband had been on their feet immediately.

“Is it very dangerous, Krile? Or just urgent?” the Warrior of Light had asked, exchanging a meaningful look with her mate.

They had discussed this previously: that while they would continue to journey together, they would take no unnecessary risks, and if there was unavoidable danger, only one of them would be allowed to take that chance. Mutual lovers of adventure or not, and irregardless of the fact that they could rest easy knowing that their friends would give their children an overwhelming amount of love and care, they would not leave behind any orphans.

“Just urgent, I should think--for now. I can’t say what might happen if we delay any longer, however.” Here, her attention had shifted to Thancred, then Urianger, at which point she’d given both men a wide smile. “What good fortune that you already have two willing and capable volunteers to look after the children while you’re gone.”

Thancred and Urianger had both stiffened, then exchanged wide-eyed looks, the former more startled, the latter slightly more anxious. There was a half-beat of silence as they did so, at which point Thancred flashed the whole room one of his confident smiles, gesturing to the two other Scions.

“You heard her, it’s urgent. You can leave the babes to us--we’ll not burn the house down in a few nights, I should think. And in the direst of situations, there’s always our Linkpearls.”

The Warrior of Light hesitated, doubt visible on her face. She had yet to leave the twins for more than a night, and found she didn’t much like the idea, despite knowing that it was just her mothering instinct dialed up to eleven. She bit her lip, about to ask if Krile really needed the both of them, when she caught her husband’s eye from across the table. He gave her a reassuring smile and a calm nod, and she could practically hear him thinking, They’ll be fine, especially with Thancred and Urianger to look after them. Besides, it’s about time we had a night or two alone...don’t you agree, my love?

She quirked an eyebrow at him, and the tiny smirk she got in response let her know that she’d followed his line of thinking very accurately.

“All right, then. We’ll get the twins settled in for the night, show you where a few important things are, and then we’ll be off.” She gave each of the men a grateful nod as she added, “You have our thanks, truly.”

“Indeed! I’m certain they couldn’t be in better hands,” her husband added, shades of his boyishly exuberant pre-Towers self showing, as it sometimes did even now that he was a father of two.

Urianger had yet to say anything, and everyone glanced his way with varying levels of concern and curiosity.

“Aye,” he managed after a long moment. “Fear not, and neither shouldst thou tarry. Thine offspring shalt be safeguarded with the utmost care by Thancred and mineself.”

It had been slightly more than a day and a half since then, and things had been fairly smooth thus far. Both Ruhri and Sohra knew them, and had been around them enough (Urianger in particular) that most of the time, they didn’t seem too distressed by their parents’ absence. They ate well, played with all the usual energy of two-year-olds, and often simply laid their heads down and took a nap right there on the floor, curled up with their sibling in the middle of a huge pile of toy blocks as if they were actual kittens rather than Miqo’te. That wasn’t to say there weren’t tears and tantrums, but by and large those could be soothed and solved with a comforting embrace or a calming conversation.

...And of course, considering the personalities of both of their parents...both Ruhri and Sohra managed to get into an impressive amount of trouble, or failing that, mischief. For example, Urianger had caught Sohra up to his elbows in the flour canister in the pantry, and Ruhri had managed to wedge herself between the couch and the wall, which would have been fine except her ankle got caught beneath the bottom edge of the couch and the floor when she tried to leave her hiding place, prompting a long space of silent tears followed by the heartbreaking little wail that finally brought Thancred running to rescue her. Both twins had gotten themselves trapped up atop a high bookcase (how they’d gotten up there in the first place, neither Thancred nor Urianger could’ve said), and both were constantly knocking things over, getting into things they shouldn’t, and even briefly disappearing--which always meant trouble.

Thancred had retired to the kitchen, intent on prepping a decent meal for his friends’ growing children, leaving an overtired and overstimulated Sohra with Urianger, and bringing Ruhri with him to quietly play on the floor nearby with a wooden puzzle…or so he’d thought. The girl had been contentedly slotting pieces into place, and Thancred had been careful to listen for that quiet sound of friction, the soft clink the carved wood made when knocked together.

...And yet, once he’d gotten more involved in his cooking, he’d lost track of that very important sound; by the time he turned around from setting the pot of thick, flavorful antelope stew on to simmer for a while…the girl was gone, though the puzzle had been perfectly assembled.

Which had prompted Thancred to do a quick sweep of the house, including the nearby nursery, where he’d asked that very pressing question:

“Urianger? Have you seen Ruhri recently?”

The Elezen man shook his head, keeping his voice low as he replied, “Nay, t’was my belief that she was with thee.”

“She was, yes. But at some point, she must’ve wandered off. Considering how long it took us to find Sohra when he went missing this morning, I’d appreciate a hand in looking for her...that is, if you think you can set him down without waking him?”

Urianger paused, turning a considering eye down on the slumbering child he held, then gave a cautious nod. “Aye, I shouldst be able to place him upon yonder bed, provided I take great pains not to jar him overmuch.”

Thancred gave a nod of acknowledgement, answering with a quiet, “I’ll search the rooms down here, if you’ll start upstairs.”

He’d left himself with the most arduous task, of course: considering how much both husband and wife loved books and reading, never mind the way they could impulse-buy a whole stack of books, the library (located downstairs) was quite large and extensive for their otherwise modestly-sized house.

And (after a good ten minutes of searching) it was there, sprawled in a dark corner with a pile of picture books spread all about her, that Thancred found the Warrior of Light’s daughter.

“Ruhri,” he said with a sigh of relief, kneeling side her and resting a gentle hand across her upper back. “What say you come back to the kitchen with me for a bit, hm? We can bring a few of these books along if you like.”

Ruhri blinked up at him with large, owlish violet-silver eyes that were very like her mother’s, then gave a small nod, holding her arms up for him to lift her…then suddenly dropping them and pressing her hands to her tiny little tummy instead.

“...Ruhri? Are you all right?”

The little Miqo’te girl’s face had scrunched up into a strange expression, uncomfortable and yet focused; a moment later her mouth popped open, and she hiccoughed out...only a small amount of air, but a considerably long word:

“Vicissitudes!”

That brought Thancred up short, for it was one of the last things he could’ve expected. A hiccough or even a burp was one thing, but that sort of word...surely they weren’t old enough and hadn’t been around Urianger long enough to have picked up his complicated vocabulary...

“Onerous,” she hiccoughed, looking as startled by her current circumstances as he did. “Confluence!”

Pushing back to his feet, Thancred bent over to scoop her up--and only then did he notice the crumpled pages scattered about the room, several with significant bites out of them. In the dim light, it was difficult to make out precisely what-

“Deiform,” Ruhri chirped, and she was starting to look concerned by the words popping out of her like kernels of corn heated in a pot uncovered too soon. It was at nearly that very moment that Urianger rounded the nearest row of shelves, Sohra tucked under one arm, and a book in his other hand that had a few quite conspicuously-ripped pages--at his eyes went from the book he held, to the crumpled pages on the floor, to Ruhri, who was rather clinging to Thancred now as she hiccoughed out another word.

“Veracity!”

“...By the Twelve,” Urianger murmured, looking deeply perturbed, “she hath swallowed pages from yon thesaurus. ‘Tis a magickal tome, with pages that taste of whatsoever thy wishest them to...and consuming them bestoweth upon that individual knowledge of the words contained therein. However...should too large a number be consumed by a single person all at once, strange reactions like these hath been known to occur.”

“Setting aside why anyone would create such a thing in the first place--how do we put her to rights? She’s looking a bit...ah...fragile.”

Urianger gave a nod, answering as he struggled to keep his grip on both book and two-year-old boy, one of which had decided that they didn’t want to be held any longer. “ ‘Tis simple enough. To reverse the ill-effects of this tome, one need only consume whatever repast thou didst long for the pages to taste like.”

Both men looked at Ruhri, then back to each other…because if they’d learned anything by now, getting a straight answer out of a two-year-old could be challenging indeed.

“Right then,” Thancred stated, determined but not quite grim. “In that case, I recommend that we adjourn to the kitchen. Surely whatever it is Ruhri wanted is somewhere in there...”

It was over two bells later that the hiccoughs finally stopped, silenced by the very stew Thancred had been working on when she’d been working on her puzzle there in the kitchen.

It had been a last-ditch effort, a stroke of genius from Urianger, to try the stew--then again, they’d already been through the pantry and all the cupboards twice. Next, working both together and at odds, and with the help of half a dozen Lopporits, they’d baked three different kinds of biscuits (gingerbread, oatmeal raisin, and chocolate chip), a cherry tart, a passable version of the Warrior of Light’s fantastic apple crumble, blueberry muffins, and a large helping of Puddingway’s special pudding.

Both the half-dozen Lopporits and the twins had collapsed in a very fuzzy pile on the overstuffed couch, tiny tummies full of all sorts of sugar and sweetness…leaving the two Scions to clean up the mess.

“This might very well be worse than all the chores in all the different countries over all these years...” Thancred mused to himself as he scrubbed a bowl clean; Urianger, who had been consigned to drying and organization duty, could only silently agree.

After that shared confection is gone, there’s a perfect halcyon moment that stretches between them, a peace and contentment that wraps around them, soft and comforting and comfortable. Hermes can’t help but wish it could last forever. They are seated so close now, heads leaning together at one corner of the table, and all he need do for one of his knees to bump hers is to shift in his chair ever so slightly.

It’s a temptation that he can’t resist, despite the flicker of guilt mingled with excitement that the very idea precipitates, and he doesn’t quite manage to be either casual or subtle about the way his knee nudges against hers. He can feel heat in his cheeks, and he watches for her reaction in his peripheral vision rather than doing so directly. Even so, he easily notes her blink of surprise when he makes contact, as well as the initial resistance his knee meets as it presses against hers--which then suddenly, abruptly falls away as she relaxes her legs, allowing his to slide between hers. It is in no way truly indecent, as they aren’t seated nearly close enough for his leg to press up against anything too terribly interesting; in truth, he’s only just past the bony part of her leg, his knee resting in the gentle curve directly before the soft flesh of her sleekly lush thighs begins. Even so, it’s clearly permission, of a sort, and judging by the dark wash of sudden color staining her face, paired with a shy smile and her own inability to make eye contact with him...she is not at all unreceptive to any potential advances he might make.

They linger thus for what feels like both an eternity and only a few brief moments, just long enough for Hermes to wonder if he could get away with shifting his leg a bit higher, or perhaps reaching for one of her hands-

Before he can do either, she’s moving away, pushing the chair back to stand up even as she leans in to gather up the pan and both the spoons they’d used. Her expression is flustered, but other than a slight wobble at the start, her words stay calm, composed and companionable.

“I-I should clean up. If I let it sit for too long, it becomes a real mess--and not the sort that’s fun to deal with either.”

He notes the way she turns her back on him fully as she crosses the room, returning to her workstation--a level of trust that flatters him, even as it sends a concerningly dark thrill through him...for she does not truly know him, and cannot know if he is really deserving of that trust. Not after only one short day spent together, no matter how soul-bearing and intimate their talks might have been.

Something about the vulnerable sight of her back, or perhaps the bared nape of her neck that’s visible over the collar of her shirt, has him on his feet and striding after her across the room, for once not allowing himself to think and overthink everything even as he moves towards her with a very definite sort of intent.

She must hear the scuff of the sole of one of his shoes against the flagstones beneath their feet, because she manages to half-turn before he reaches her, her eyes going wide and startled as he leans down, his arms coming up and reaching out to cage her in, his hands grasping at the workstation at her back, the one holding the empty birdcage.

It would be simplicity itself to lean in further and cover those lips with his own. She is gazing up at him, her face tipped up towards him invitingly, and she does not protest her current situation, nor does she attempt any kind of escape from that slight fragment of space between his arms and the workstation behind her. Instead, she blinks slowly, one hand coming up to lightly rest on his arm--and yet, Hermes is suddenly awash with doubt.

After everything that she has already done for him--the reassuring embrace earlier, that tender kiss to the top of his head, this fantastically sweet repast, giving him hope for the first time in ages by showing her understanding and acceptance of him in the first place--is he truly going to be so ungrateful and insatiate as to try to get something more out of her?

His gaze is steady on her mouth, and he ducks his head even further, until he can feel the feather-light sensation of the quick, excited heat of her breath against his face...and yet, still he freezes, lingering perhaps half a handspan away. What he wants, wants so deeply that it burns, is at war with how he knows he should behave--honored guests of Elpis are not to be treated thus, much less familiars, particularly those that belong to a member of the Convocation of Fourteen. He truly is an aberration after all, he must be, far more wanton and shameless than even he himself had realized. What right does he have-

That dark, intensely self-loathing thought stutters to a halt then fades away like mist before the morning sun as she unexpectedly (or perhaps not) makes the next move, her lips light and lingering as they brush against one of his cheekbones. Hermes releases an audibly-shaking breath as she repeats the action on the other side of his face, then dips her head to press her lips against his jawbone. He draws in a breath every bit as unsteady as the one he’d just let out when he feels a brief scrape of teeth against his neck, followed by an equally quick flicker of a warm, wet tongue dragging over the pulse in his throat. Writing such things off as his overactive imagination wouldn’t be difficult, would likely be for the best; but next, she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth--and the Chief Overseer of Elpis abruptly finds his nerve again, pulling away just enough to turn his head, facing her straight-on as he leans in to kiss her properly.

Edited 2022-09-25 22:12 (UTC)

[Continuation from part one, a collab with Phase! <3]

It’s the fact that she doesn’t scream that tells Koharu that Sarhnai is truly and terribly injured.

The other Au Ra constantly snarls and growls and yells her way through fights, intimidation tactics that work the majority of the time; but when the resounding, gut-wrenching crack of the Dotharl warrior’s femur being snapped in twain is followed only by a sharp, hissing intake of air, Koharu’s head snaps up and around from the Ala Mhigan soldier she’s healing in time to see Zenos toss Sarhnai aside like a ragdoll.

“SARHNAI!”

It’s the loudest sound that’s ever left Koharu’s body, her soul-sister’s name tearing its way up her throat and out of her chest so hard and harsh that it burns.

Then her blood runs cold as she sees Zenos pause, then slowly turn his head to look towards Sarhnai’s crumpled form consideringly, watching with cool detachment as the steppe warrior gives a low growl, struggling in vain to push through the pain and regain her feet.

Zenos takes but one step towards her before Koharu’s body is reacting without any pause for consideration, without any conscious thought, instinct taking over entirely as she hurls herself forward, placing her own tiny, shaking frame between Sarhnai and the towering, hulking figure of Garlemald’s unbloodied crown prince.

She throws down Sacred Soil and follows it with a quick Adloquium, then lashes out with a Bio II, watching with grim satisfaction as it makes impact, secure in the desperate knowledge that she’s going to do some sort of damage to this monster, at least, regardless of how little it might be. She loses track of her spellcasting for a moment, throwing up barriers and hurling out an offensive spell or two and even landing a debuff on him--but then Zenos is there, his sword a fluid blur of quicksilver, and within seconds her barriers are down. With a speed born of desperation and adrenaline, she throws up another, another and another and another, only barely managing to finish casting the next before he’s broken through the one she’s just finished. The edges of her vision start to go black as her mana reserves run dangerously low, and even Aetherflow and Lucid Dreaming aren’t enough to replenish it in time, but no, she cannot give ground, will not give in, will not move from standing here protectively over her soul-sister, whose life means more to Koharu than even her own. She’ll strike at the brute with her tome itself, if she has no more mana-

But then she falters, her heart sinking as she realizes breathlessly that she doesn’t have the energy to cast another spell-

And then that implacable sword slashes downwards once more, breaking through the last of her protective wards.

In truth, Koharu is lucky: her wards still manage to deflect the blow enough that it isn’t mortal, isn’t the intended bisection of her body, isn’t a slash running from left shoulder to right hip so deep that it grazes her spine, as it would have been otherwise.

She heals herself with a Lustrate, one of her few abilities that doesn’t require mana--and then she makes good on that almost atypically fierce promise to herself, using the surge of energy coursing through her to snap her codex closed and lunge forward. Then, with both hands and as much of her negligible weight as she can get behind the blow, she slams that sharp corner of the spine upward, aiming for the bend in his elbow, surely a weak spot in his armor, if there are any--and on the off chance her aim is off, perhaps she’ll manage to force the joint to hyperextend a bit. If she can just leave the tiniest scratch on him, can give Sarhnai even the smallest advantage, then--then surely-

Her blow hits home with a satisfyingly solid sound, though Zenos takes it impassively, without flinching even slightly, and Koharu’s blood runs cold again. His eyes burn down at her even through his ugly imperial mask, and she feels herself being weighed, considered-

And then, too quickly for her eyes to follow, his hand suddenly snaps out to grasp her by the throat. His hand is so large, his fingers so long, and her neck is so delicate and slender that his fingertips easily meet at the base of her skull, and her eyes fly wide with sheer animal panic. Her codex drops to the ground at her feet, forgotten, both of her hands coming up to claw at his wrist--a futile effort, her nails meeting only cold steel, scrabbling at his heavy gauntlets helplessly then clutching hard to relieve some of the pressure on her throat as he effortlessly lifts her high into the air, his grip firm and inescapable but not tight--not yet, at least.

And through it all, he continues to simply stare at her, waves of boredom rolling off of him...though with perhaps the smallest, vaguest spark of interest buried somewhere deep down.

Eos flits about his head, pouring healing magicks into Koharu’s body even as she darts and swoops, battering herself against his armor and doing as much damage as would a butterfly. Zenos doesn’t even look away as his hand snaps out to the side, another impossibly quick movement, catching the little fairy in a cage of his fingers--then crushing her into shimmering dust motes of aether. As he loosens his grasp enough to let that dust trickle through the cracks between his fingers, Koharu gives a squeak of mingled outrage and fear, attempting to swing her body forward and bring one booted foot up high enough to slam her heel into his throat, a move savage enough to make Sarhnai proud.

But once again, though the blow lands and she hits her mark squarely, Zenos scarcely reacts. His breathing doesn’t even falter as the hand wrapped around her throat tightens, enough so that she chokes, gurgling with the effort of dragging air into her lungs through a painfully constricted windpipe, her already-blackened vision beginning to swim. Her eyes are open only the slightest bit as he draws her in perhaps half a fulm closer, studying her as one might an insect pinned to a card before surmising in a voice thick with ennui:

“Better...but lacking nevertheless...”

His hand constricts even further around her throat, vice-like, and Koharu struggles weakly, the black spots in her vision nearly all she can see. With how tight his grip is, not to mention the way the edges of his metal gauntlets are digging into her tender flesh, she knows that her skin will be a massive mess of welts and bruises--that is, if Zenos doesn’t simply snap her neck with this horrible, slowly-growing pressure, as he seems intent on doing. Her mouth comes open, but she has no air left in her lungs to bring forth any sound; half-crushed as her throat is already, perhaps she wouldn’t be able to cry out even if she wasn’t being strangled.

...Sorry...Sarhnai...

That’s the thought that spins around and around in her head like it’s caught in a whirlpool as the blackness starts to swallow her up, her whole body suddenly going light, oddly weightless, the pressure at her throat abruptly gone as a soothing wind whistles around her-

Then she slams into the ground a good fifteen yalms away from Zenos--a careless toss without much real power behind it on his part, though she is light enough and he is strong enough that she’d gone a considerable distance anyway.

Koharu hits the rocky ground hard, hard enough to make her head spin and her chest and back ache, hard enough that for a long, awful moment her body seemingly forgets how to breathe. When she does manage to cough and drag in a ragged breath, it sends an almost searing pain through her throat, and she convulses a little, nerves jangling and head reeling. Letting her eyes slide closed, she brings her hands up to her abused throat, weaving a loose, protective basket around it with her fingers...and once she feels the mana trickling back into her body, she sets to work healing herself.

The unmistakable jangle of Zenos’s slow, relentless footsteps is what jars her out of that healing fugue, eyes snapping open as panic jolts through her, making her scramble backwards on her hands out of reflex--but when her eyes take in the tableau in front of her, she freezes in place.

Somehow, likely out of sheer willpower, Sarhnai is back on her feet, despite the obvious compound fracture tracing a steady hatchwork of crimson down her bare leg...and she’s facing off with Zenos again.

Koharu’s mouth comes open, her hand coming up, reaching out towards her soul-sister--but no sound leaves her mouth, only the barest rasping croak. Scrambling through the dirt, she crawls painfully over to her codex, which Zenos must’ve carelessly kicked aside, resummoning Eos--no, Selene this time--and throwing every healing and shielding spell she can manage at the other Au Ra adventurer until her body is numb from how much of her aether she’s expended.

It’s not much, but right now, it’s all she can do.

And if Sarhnai can’t beat Zenos...then Koharu knows that she herself doesn’t stand even the slightest chance.

[Part three here!]

Edited 2022-12-06 05:46 (UTC)

For Koharu, watching what Zenos does to Sarhnai is even worse than going through what he’d done to Koharu herself.

She is shaking too hard to move, her battered body protesting even the slightest movement, but even so, at her heart she wants to push herself back up onto her feet, wants to do exactly what she did before and place herself between the crown prince and her soul-sister, wants to make a shield of her body if the ones she weaves with her magicks aren’t strong enough.

But she knows that she is too weak for that. That her body would offer even less protection than her shields do, that Zenos could simply smash her out of his way with one casual, backhanded blow. He is unstoppable, implacable.

She hates him.

She has never felt such a dark, strong emotion towards anyone. She has been angry, of course, and she has not faltered while facing down beings like Livia, Thordan, the Heavens’ Ward, and Lahabrea, determined to make certain that they can harm no one else with their cruel, careless actions, even if that means she has to get her hands dirty and wrest the life out of them ilm by ilm.

But what she feels for Zenos is beyond anything so simple and clear-cut as anger. She doesn’t simply want him dead to keep him from harming anyone else; she wants him to suffer as he dies. She wants him to be repaid for every hurt he’s inflicting on Sarhnai right now--repaid tenfold, no, a hundredfold, no, even that might not be enough. She wants to cause him pain. She wants to break every bone in his body then grind her heel down on each one until he’s choking on blood.

She has never felt like this before, never been awash in bloodlust so intense that she finds herself biting her lip so hard that the taste of copper floods her mouth again, fresh and hot.

She wonders if this is what Sarhnai feels like most of the time.

Sarhnai. It’s terrible to watch, the way the other Au Ra is beaten down relentlessly. Up until this point, Koharu had thought that Sarhnai was the unstoppable one, the greatest warrior in any land.

She doesn’t like seeing that disproved.

When Sarhnai charges forward again as best she can, Koharu tries again to cry out to her, to call her back--but in vain. Her throat aches with the effort, despite very little sound being produced, so instead she grits her teeth and forces herself to focus, throwing out a few more spells despite her lack of mana, one more, just one more, surely she can manage that...

She eventually can’t manage it, and while she doesn’t completely black out, her vision goes dim and she finds herself sprawled out on her bruised, throbbing back with no memory of telling herself to lie down again. The dark, smoke-filled sky overhead looks like it’s spinning ever so slightly, the ground beneath her feels as if it’s rising and falling, as if she were in a boat on the sea-

Then Sarhnai letting out a shout grounds Koharu in the present moment again. It takes everything in her simply to turn her head...and then her eyes go wide with unconcealed horror as Zenos lashes out to break another bone and her soul-sister crumples to the ground nearby, so close and yet so far. But even that isn’t enough to stop Sarhnai. Once again she gets back up and hurls herself at him, despite how obviously futile such a thing is, and keeps fighting, struggling and thrashing like a fish in a net, with about as much effect on Garlemald’s savage crown prince.

Within seconds, she’s been smashed down by another blow from one of those swords, and this time, she does not get up.

Koharu lies there, motionless but for her own shallow breathing, wanting more than anything to roll onto her side and crawl towards her soul-sister but knowing on an instinctive level that staying still is the smart play here. She is a rabbit and Zenos is a wolf, already glutted on fresh prey, and so long as she remains still, she can survive this; if she runs, he will give chase and tear out her throat simply on instinct.

It is a different sort of agony, to simply lie there as Sarhnai pushes herself far beyond what she should, clearly attempting not to attack, but to reach Koharu’s side; but only once Zenos has vanished back into the gloom, wreathed and then concealed by licking, snapping flames and thick, acrid smoke, does Koharu follow suit, pushing herself up into a sitting position despite how much her muscles object to it. Then she crawls across the rocky, uneven ground as quickly as she can (something in one of her arms protests this in a way the speaks of a sprain, and there’s a pain in her hip where she’d first hit the ground after being thrown that hampers her efforts to move at all, much less move quickly, and she won’t be surprised later when she learns that her leg is dislocated, the ball joint popped right out of its socket; but right now that pain is shunted aside as, dragging that leg, she finally makes it to Sarhnai’s side.

Koharu reaches out to gently turn her over, to give herself a better view of the many injuries--and she chokes on a sob as she takes in the ruin that is Sarhnai’s once-strong, healthy body. That sob doesn’t come out right--again, it comes out all but silent--but the blue-haired girl is too intent on the far more important matter of healing her soul-sister to notice or care that her voice, always quiet in the first place, isn’t working at all right now.

Settling in for what she knows will be a long job, Koharu carefully hauls the upper part of Sarhnai’s body into her lap, curling herself around the other Au Ra protectively as she gathers up the tattered shreds of her aether and begins to heal the unconscious warrior.

Her legs are already a mottled mass of bruises, and Koharu gives a low scoff of disgust that only a healer could make--how much worse did Sarhnai make her injuries by forcing herself back to her feet? How much longer will she have to simply sit in bed and recover? Koharu is careful in directing her healing magicks--the last thing she wants is for Sarhnai's femur to heal this way--twisted and broken, not at all lined up the way it should be. There’s nothing more she can do for those injuries out here; she needs a splint, and also a pulley system, to use to pull Sarhnai's leg straight and then keep it that way, to ensure that it heals properly. Even so, she can see to the other injuries--the one on her hand, the ragged slash across her upper chest, half a dozen (or is it an actual dozen?) others both internal and external.

It’s only once she’s mended as much as she can, enough to be certain that her soul-sister will live through the night, at least, that Koharu lets her weary head fall back against the ground, the soft glow of healing magicks fading as she thinks back to that last exchange. How Zenos’s blade had snapped after striking Sarhnai down. She can see the broken blade lying there out of the corner of her eye, and as she allows her eyes to drift closed, dozing lightly while waiting for an incoming rescue squad to help them to some sort of medical facilities, she decides that, once someone lifts Sarhnai off of her, she’s going to collect both pieces of that broken sword.

It could be fitting, perhaps even satisfying, to see it reforged. To make use of it, once it has been melted down, tempered, the metal folded countless times until it is stronger than ever it was. She knows of a man in Kugane who could do such a thing, a swordsmith who is an undisputed master of his craft. If she tells him who she truly is, and that she means to quench the blade with the blood of the Garlean crown prince, he might even agree to take the job.

Even if he doesn’t...perhaps it’s time she learned from another school of combat. She will never be able to best Zenos in sheer brute strength; but coupled with her shinobi training…that speed and a high-quality blade in her hands might get her somewhere.

Opening her eyes, Koharu looks down into Sarhnai’s face once again, noting how drawn and pained her expression is even while unconscious...and that hot anger, that seething hatred she’d felt towards Zenos before goes absolutely cold and solidifies, the usual warm, gentle rain in her heart freezing itself into sharp shards of hail.

Whether it gets her somewhere or not, she is most certainly going to try.

Edited 2022-09-28 13:04 (UTC)

It’s all very calculated, the way that Emet-Selch builds the Garlean Empire.

He’s played this game before, setting up an empire that is overwhelmingly powerful, with the fire of conquest in their hearts and greed in their eyes as they look out over all the world--and even beyond, up to the moon and stars--and determine that it shall be theirs. Plenty of Allagan technology is still operating today, literally thousands of years later, which speaks more for that society’s strength than any amount of hollow boasting ever could. And yet, while in some ways it could be said that ancient Allag had been Emet-Selch’s magnum opus, he had yet been dissatisfied with it in certain ways. There are certain things that he is most certainly going to do differently this time, as he creates the Garlean Empire.

Placing himself in a leadership role, for one, rather than being the puppeteer skulking in the shadows--what great fun that promises to be, taking a far more active role for once. In part, he is curious--it has been so long since he dwelt in a vessel of flesh, and though he still scorns these imperfect shades of the magnificent beings who came before, his people, he is willing to give them a fair trial. He will live among them, break bread with them, marry, sire children, and set up another glorious empire. He will stir the embers among this displaced and bitterly downtrodden people, fanning them into a furious blaze that will engulf the world...and as he is the one laying the foundations, he can and will ensure that it is built to his exacting specifications.

It’s all very calculated, and designed to fail.

One such pivotal point will be their pride. How laughable it is, that these magickless echoes of true people should think themselves somehow better, superior to all the rest of the equally-sundered, identically-incomplete beings who now populate the Source and its reflections. He cares for them not a whit more than he cares for any of these lives--they are so fleeting, so imperfect, that Emet does not even consider them to be truly alive. Their worth is no more or less to him than that of the insects populating an anthill. And yet, that misplaced sense of pride and deeply-ingrained vainglory is easy to instill in the breasts of men who have been persecuted for their very existence. They were always afraid of you, always jealous of your true, overwhelming potential. You are destined for something more. You are stronger for having been forged and tempered in the fires of their hate. You will rule over them, as is your right, and grind them down beneath your iron-shod heel, a just recompense for the scorn they once showed you.

Another equally important point is the line of succession. For all that they are equal in strength of will and intellect, on the whole men have always had more warlike hearts than women, the desire to seize power and maintain that chokehold, the hunger to be in control and not only know it, but feel it. Again, perhaps it all traces back to pride, and how weak the hearts of men truly can be, how uncertain and wavering, in need of constant praise and reassurance.

Women, in Emet’s experience, tend to be far less proud and far more purposeful. And as he thinks of Venat--as he thinks of Azem--he tells himself no, no chances. He will not, cannot take the risk that one of her shards might be reborn only to take control of his empire and ruin everything. It’s precisely the sort of thing she would do, exactly the sort of controlled chaos she embodied, and it gives him a headache just thinking about the very possibility. Thus, his decision regarding the laws of inheritance: female heirs shall have no claim upon the throne. Being less of a mind for war and tactics, they shall be granted power only equal to that which they prove themselves capable of wielding; and their primary importance will be to ensure the line of succession continues unbroken, theirs the critical duty of guaranteeing that the bloodline of the true rulers runs strong, straight, and true.

Venat would mock him for such a thing, Emet knows, but there is some dark part of him that is deeply satisfied with this petty sort of revenge. That woman, that wretched Light, split the world and everything in it; if he causes her children, these pitiful beings who are scarcely even living to begin with, suffering and pain, he knows that she will feel it. The peoples of the nations oppressed by this internally and intentionally frail juggernaut of a civilization that he’s built will call on their various gods, and the strain will tell on Hydaelyn, sapping her of strength little by little, every summoning a bloodletting, a death (or perhaps doom) by inches.

...He doesn’t want to think about what she would say, were she here to see him drafting the laws of the Garlean Empire. Azem always did have quite a lot to say, often acting with her heart rather than her head and speaking the same way. Not to say that she wasn’t intelligent or capable of planning; she was simply a woman of action, inclined to leap before she looked so long as she believed the potential reward to be worth the risk. She trusted in her own overwhelming strength, and perhaps trusted even more in the strength of others, those she called friends-

No, Emet-Selch--or Solus, rather--tells himself decisively. It matters not what she might have thought. Should he and the other Ascians achieve their ends, should they manage to bring about all the necessary rejoinings, then...perhaps then, her soul might be made whole again. Whatever she might think of him then, however deeply she might loathe the actions he’s taken and the stains on his hands and soul...if it brings her back, he will count it worth every moment of the thousands of years of loneliness and suffering he’s endured. Even if she will never look at him the same way, will never trust him and call out to him again, warm and bright and playfully teasing; even if she will never be his, so long as she exists, he will be satisfied. Perhaps then his duty will be done, and he will simply return to the star, rather than ruin the idyllic memories of all the times spent together with his two dearest friends. Surely the two of them could manage to get along well enough without him. Surely they would understand how very weary he was, how much he longed for a rest, an ending.

And so as he looks over the laws he’s drafted for his latest machination of a country, Emet-Selch does not waver as he signs off on it, in that instant turning it from simple ink on a page into a way of life, a dogma, an entire nation’s creed. A seemingly-strong but intentionally flawed and fragile framework, one destined to come cascading down in a rush of blood and fire, as had the Allagan Empire of eld. These Garleans are but a pale imitation of that great empire, as washed out and faded in comparison as Ancient Allag was compared to that of his true people, the ancients; but weak and disgusting as their bodies may be, they will serve his ends, and to Emet-Selch, that is all that matters.

Though generally good-natured and playful, Azem is yet possessed of something of a mercurial temperament. She can go from smirking to serious in the blink of an eye, and shift back just as quickly, and she can also be protective, selfless, reckless, and restless to a fault at any given moment.

That said, Hythlodaeus thinks that he can probably count them on one hand, the number of times he's seen her really and truly angry. Right now, she isn’t there quite yet, but should things continue as they have been...well. Someone would be in for a veritable firestorm.

Things had begun calmly and simply enough, the two of them chatting over tea as they often did. She’d told him about her latest journey across the face of Etheirys, and he’d jokingly groaned about the newest concepts he’d been looking over...and then he’d happened to offhandedly mention that he was certain that Lahabrea would lay claim to at least one of them, when Azem had gone suddenly, breathlessly still. She’d asked, very quietly, what Lahabrea had to do with any of that, and Hythlodaeus had told her what he knew. At which point-

“Wait--the Words of Lahabrea requisitioned and then seized all the concepts that you had deemed too dangerous to be used? When?”

Hythlodaeus had blinked at her over the rim of his cup, bemused but curious. “They do it periodically--and have for quite a while.”

Azem’s mouth had gone thin, her lips pressing together briefly, and Hythlodaeus had wondered at that unusual expression as well. “Define ‘quite a while’.”

“Years. More than a decade, certainly-”

In an instant she had been on her feet, swiftly setting down her unfinished, still-steaming tea and striding off towards the door--and there was a definite edge to her every movement.

“Azem? Where are you going?”

As she stopped at the door, she turned a look back at him over her shoulder, the curve of her mouth wry and yet also fierce, promising swift action and very likely some pain (physical or otherwise) for her fellow convocation member.

“To get to the bottom of this.”

“Why-”

“Hyth, I don’t have time to answer your questions right now. Suffice to say, some people have disappeared lately, and I’ve heard some very serious rumors regarding Pandaemonium…first and foremost that it’s gone quiet. Too quiet.”

“Well, if you would like some company-”

But Azem was already shaking her head, so the lilac-haired soulseer let the rest of his offer die unspoken.

“Sorry, I’d love to have you along, your keen sight would be very useful, but--it’s Convocation business, something to be settled amongst ourselves. Even I can’t flaunt the rules quite that much...” She suddenly paused, tilting her head consideringly. “...And yet, perhaps...”

Hythlodaeus knew better than to interrupt her when she got that expression on her face, the one that meant that she was plotting, planning out something unconventional and likely complicated, balancing rewards, risks, and results in her mind via some unfathomable equation. He hadn’t the slightest idea how she did it, and yet her calculations, however she made them, tended to come out right in the end nearly every time--a level of success that was quite convincing of it (and her own) efficacy.

Only once her silver-violet eyes refocused and she was looking at him again did he give her a smile and a cheery wave. “Well then, you’d best be off. I would love to hear all about it over tea afterwards, if you think it permissible to share the tale.” He found that he couldn’t quite help giving her a cheeky wink as he added, “And should you find that you do have need of me, as ever, you need only call, and I shall hasten to your side.”

That offer earned him a flicker of the usual warm, companionable smile she turned his way, and she gave a silent nod of agreement before disappearing out the door, off on her next quest.

The Chief of the Bureau of the Architect watched her go, then as the doors closed behind her, sat back in his chair to sip at his tea, feeling quite satisfied. He had wondered about those requisitions for ages, but although his was quite an influential position, it paled in comparison to that of one who held a seat in the Convocation of Fourteen; he had no way of asking that wouldn’t earn him more attention from likely unfriendly eyes than he was comfortable with. Which made this current arrangement rather perfect: Azem would solve this mystery for him, he was sure.

It was not until recently, however, that his keen sight had perceived that something had shifted, that there was something troubling about those requisitions--but seeing it and being able to do something about it were two very different things. Hythlodaeus was very good at one of those things all of the time, and he was passable at the other thing some of the time, although not always. Far better to leave it in much more capable hands--though he’d meant what he’d said, of course:

If she called for him, he would be at her side in an instant, ready to offer whatever aid he could manage, eager to give of himself whatever she might ask of him.

Edited 2022-09-30 14:17 (UTC)

“You, who are our future... Tell me this and tell me true. Has your journey been good? Has it been worthwhile?”

Sizhu supposed it was just as well that their conversation had been interrupted at that moment, before she could give her answer. She wasn’t certain that even she herself knew the ‘true’ response to those questions. Because she had loved the journeys she had taken--loved seeing new parts of the world, places that she had only read or daydreamed about--and she had learned much, and gained much. But she had also lost much due to her travels, or else somewhere along the way. Friends, comrades in arms, family. What little was left of her innocence. Even something so small as the simple ability to drink from a cup without any hesitance or fear of being drugged yet again had been taken from her.

Moenbryda.

Minfilia.

Haurchefant.

Papalymo.

G’raha Tia, though she’d managed to get him back again (and permanently, she dearly hoped).

Even Emet-Selch had been a loss of sorts, a piece of a past that she felt resonating in her soul even though she couldn’t recall it, a long-ago dear friend and comprehensible, at times even sympathetic antagonist who had been torn away from her, placed out of easy reach.

There were so many more, an overwhelming wealth of other people, the edges of whose lives had brushed against her own, sometimes fleetingly, sometimes overlapping for a more considerable period, long enough to leave more of a mark on her. So much happiness shared, good times and warmth and laughter; so much sorrow shared as well, tears and pain and a chill that cut to the bone. But that was not only true of journeys; that was life in general, which if she thought about it was always a journey, even if you never left home, never so much as set foot outside the town you were born in. Your world would be small, but it was still your world, and though it was modest, that made it no less real or important.

As for her own journey...Sizhu had seen so much beauty, so many breathtaking sights, and the wanderlust she’d felt all her life had only been fed and kindled further by all she’d seen. She’d never forget the long hours spent exploring the Twelveswood, wandering along the sun-dappled dirt paths with no goal in mind save to breathe in the fresh scent of life and greenery, to draw in the peacefulness of the forest and learn its secret places. It was remarkable how deeply its roots had buried themselves in her heart; but then, she had known it first and best, and at the center of her soul, she knew that it would always be the place she would return to, at journey’s end.

The salty tang of the sea and the lively air of Limsa Lominsa, those white rock cliffs and the sweet oranges grown in the orchards were important to her as well, as was the cool stone and hot sand of Ul’dah, with the mingling scents of spices, sweat, and steel always in the air.

Then there was Ishgard, frigid and unwelcoming once, though even then a few noble souls had thrown wide their gates to welcome her in, to shelter her. It was almost unrecognizable now, as both man and dragon let go of hatred and bloodlust to embrace peace and compassion instead, as the highborn not only reached out but stepped down off their apparently ill-gotten ancient pedestals to pull their countrymen up out of the mire, that all might know happiness, warmth, and comfort.

Ala Mhigo, Doma, Kugane, Old Sharlayan, and Thavnair, all of them glorious and gorgeous in their own vastly different ways. Even Garlemald held a sort of grim promise, the gutted ruins of its capital city impressive enough to permit her imagination to run wild, to rebuild it to its former glory in her mind’s eye.

She had enjoyed visiting (nearly) all of those places, that she couldn’t deny, but often the reason behind her sojourns to those locales was less than optimal. Often she went out of necessity, to fight an enemy, to search for something that had been lost, to defend the lives of those living there. Those were good reasons, more than valid ones…and yet, the pain she both caused and experienced in the course of such journeys...it was difficult to consider that good.

In contrast, Venat’s second question was easy enough for Sizhu to answer--a resounding yes, it has been worthwhile. There would be sadness and loss, pain and hardships regardless of what sort of life you lived; and so Sizhu chose to live hers to the fullest, to open her arms wide and embrace whatever life brought her way, to grasp onto the people and things she found and held most dear for as long as she could, until her strength failed or they asked her to let them go.

She had gained so much over the course of her journey. Yes, there had been loss, and yes, at times it had been a struggle, but even so, its worth was undeniable. She had found a second family, one that she had chosen, and that had chosen her in return--a pair of younger siblings, in particular, being especially dear to her. She had found friendships the likes of which she had never before known, where she knew that if her strength ever failed her, they would be at her side to support her if she stumbled, or behind her to give her a push forward.

She had found love, a devotion that was honest and brave and true, strong enough that she could trust and believe that their promises would always connect them, beyond space and time and all boundaries of life and logic.

And she had found herself, had learned who she had once been part of and had confirmed that shades of her former self, of Azem, resided in her even now. She had grown stronger, quicker, smarter and more skilled than ever before, too brave by half and relentlessly determined even in the face of overwhelming odds. She had tasted the thrill of the hunt, tested her mettle in countless battles, run a thousand and one errands for near-total strangers for a pittance of payment, and through it all she had been tempered and refined into a better version of herself--someone whom she was proud to have become.

For such priceless treasures as those that she had found--or that she had been given, or that she had seized for herself--she would yet choose to make the journey all over again, even knowing of all the bitterness and heartache that she would find as well.

It would have taken her hours to really explain all of that, to give her true answer to Venat, Sizhu realized that night, lying in bed in her guest quarters in Elpis and thinking over the events of the day. Tomorrow was certain to be busy, but perhaps she might find the time to share at least a portion of her thoughts and her answer with this incredible woman who she couldn’t seem to look away from. Perhaps it was Venat’s nurturing warmth and her obvious affection for both the current Azem and for Sizhu herself, the latter of whom was naught but a curious vagabond from the future carrying an outlandish tale of doom and gloom. Truthfully, Sizhu already felt far closer to Venat than she ever had to her own strict and standoffish birth-mother; even more truthfully, there was a part of her that was jealous of Azem for having been able to travel with Venat. Perhaps most truthfully of all, there was a not insignificant part of the little Miqo’te that dearly, direly wished that their time here together in Elpis might never end.

I’ll give her my answer tomorrow, Sizhu decided, rolling onto her side and curling up in a half-catlike ball. No matter what happens, I’ll find the time--or else make it.

But tomorrow, there was no time--just scarcely enough to do what was necessary, what had to be done to ensure that her future would still come to pass, that they might have some sort of hope. There was no time to spare, certainly not enough to be spent over another pot of tea or even simply taking in the sights together. There was much to be done, and Sizhu knew that she needed to return to the present with the information that she’d gathered as quickly as possible.

Even so, she was fairly certain that she would regret not saying anything, not giving Venat her answer anyway.

It was only after she and the rest of the Scions fought their way through to the Aitiascope, only after defeating Hydaelyn herself, that Sizhu finally found the time. Just as she’d known that she would, she had regretted not saying everything she wanted to say back in Elpis, timelines and deadlines be damned...and she knew that, if ever she was going to say it, if ever Venat was going to hear her answers...she had to speak now. Because for Hydaelyn--Venat--there would be no later.

Even as Her body started to glow, gradually shattering into bright motes of pure, radiant Light, Sizhu suddenly stepped forward, close enough that only the two of them might speak and hear each other.

“Venat! You asked me a question, back in Elpis--two of them, actually.”

Hydaelyn’s expression was one of wide-eyed surprise, soon easing into a smile and a nod. “Yes. I remember.”

“I didn’t get a chance to answer then, but--I have to tell you, I have to give you that answer now. And my answer to both your questions is yes!”

Sizhu could feel herself smiling so wide that already her cheeks ached, even as warm, wet tears started to trace their silvery paths down her face.

“Yes, the journey has been good! And yes, it has been worthwhile. I would do it all again, without hesitance or holding back. No amount of pain or suffering can change how wide and beautiful the world still is, or how wonderful the people in my life are. Even if I were given the chance to do it all over with the promise of endless joys and no sorrow, if it meant losing or never meeting the ones I love...I wouldn’t. To me, they are worth every moment of heartache. Now, and always.”

Hydaelyn’s eyes drifted closed as she absorbed that answer, a small, content smile curving along her mouth; when she opened her eyes once more, Sizhu wasn’t certain if she was crying as well, or if it was merely the light glistening off particles of crystal. “Full glad am I to hear that, my little spark. I thank you...for your Answer.”

She gave a quiet sigh, eyes drifting closed again as her form started to fade even more quickly--but Sizhu still wasn’t quite through. She took another, even more desperate step forward, reflexively reaching out a hand, either in supplication or a request for her to stay yet a moment longer.

“Wait! Please...! One more thing...do you remember when I told you of my adventures there on the terrace?”

“I...still treasure...every word.”

“You also said--you said, ‘Would that I could have been there to see it!’ ”

Sniffling hard and swiping the end of her sleeve across her face to smear away the tears that were blinding her, Sizhu took another step forward.

“But--you know this now--you were! You were there! You were there with me, watching over me and protecting me...every step of the way. You were there.”

Hydaelyn’s--no, Venat’s, she was and would always be Venat to Sizhu now--eyes widened again slightly, then softened, her smile spreading into that now-familiar broad grin as she gave a silent nod of agreement, acknowledgement...and gratitude.

Sizhu’s voice dropped to a whisper as she added, “Thank you, Venat...for sending me on the most incredible journey I could have possibly imagined.” The little Miqo’te reached out, reached up as if to brush her hand against some part of that motherly face...but her fingers passed through naught but empty air, still thick and glittering with the last lingering shards of the Mothercrystal.

The rest of the Scions watched from a respectful distance, heads bowed in reverence and sorrow, as Sizhu pulled back that empty, grasping hand, pressing that closed fist tight against her chest. She stood there a moment, eyes closed as if in prayer, cheeks still wet with tears...but still with a smile upon her face.

Bitter as eventual partings were, it did naught to change the weight or worth, nor overwhelming happiness of having known so incredible a person, of having been an important part of their lives...and of having been someone whom they truly and deeply loved.

That sort of love, just like life itself, was well worth the pain.

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#FFXIVWrite2022 30 Day Challenge

Prompt #1: Cross | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + G'raha Tia ✧ | ShB spoilers

Prompt #2: Bolt | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL)+Emet-Selch+Hermes (+Hythlodaeus mention) ✧ | EW spoilers

Prompt #3: Temper | ✧ Warrior of Light + Minfilia + Thancred ✧ | EARLY ARR spoilers

Prompt #4: Free Prompt (Courage) | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) x G'raha Tia ✧ | Spoilers up through 6.1

Prompt #5: Cutting Corners | ✧ Hades + Hythlodaeus (implied Hades -> Azem) ✧ | EW spoilers

Prompt #6: Onerous | ✧ Mikh'a Jakkya ✧ | SB spoilers

Prompt #6: Onerous [con't]

Prompt #7: Pawn | ✧ Emet-Selch (Hades) -> WoL (& Azem) ✧ | ShB spoilers

Prompt #8: Tepid | ✧ Cres Shatterheart (non-WoL adventurer) ✧ | no spoilers rly

Prompt #9: Yawn | ✧ Talys Shatterheart (WoL) ✧ | EW Spoilers

Prompt #10: Channel | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | EW SPOILERS ALL THE WAY DOWN

Prompt #11: Free Prompt - Embrace | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | EW SPOILERS FOR DAYS, YO

Prompt #12: Miss the Boat | ✧ Sarhnai Dotharl + Koharu Sumeragi (WoLs) + Scions ✧ | EW spoilers

Prompt #13: Confluence | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + Ardbert ✧ | ShB Spoilers

Prompt #14: Attrition | ✧ Crystal Exarch (-> WoL) ✧ | Shadowbringers Spoilers LIKE WHOA man

Prompt #15: Row | ✧ Emet-Selch (Hades) + Azem (Persephone) ✧ | All the Endwalker Spoilers

Prompt #16: Deiform | ✧ Koharu (WoL) x Hien ✧ | EW role quest spoilers

Prompt #17: Novel | ✧ Koharu (WoL) x Hien (con't from previous prompt) ✧ | SB Dungeon spoiler?

Prompt #18: Free Prompt - Fruit [con't] | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers OBVS

Prompt #19: Turn a Blind Eye | ✧ Elidibus (Themis)+Azem ✧ | All The Spoilers, Esp. Pandæmonium

Prompt #20: Anon | ✧ Aymeric x/+ unnamed F!WoL ✧ | ARR Spoilers, oh noes

Prompt #21: Solution | ✧ Talys Shatterheart (WoL) ✧ | No Spoilers, Lots of Anti-Garlean Feels

Prompt #22: Veracity | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + Emet-Selch (Hades) ✧ | ShB & EW Spoilers

Prompt #23: Pitch | ✧ Fandaniel (+hints of one-sided FandWoL) ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers FOREVER

Prompt #24: Vicissitudes | ✧ Thancred+Urianger+CATBABIES ✧ | No Spoilers, Just Headcanons

Prompt #25: Free Prompt - Halcyon | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers

Prompt #26: Break A Leg | ✧ Koharu Sumeragi (WoL) + Sarhnai Dotharl (WoL) vs Zenos yae Galvus ✧

Prompt #27: Hail | ✧ Koharu Sumeragi (WoL) + Sarhnai Dotharl (WoL) ✧ | SB spoilers

Prompt #28: Vainglory | ✧ Emet-Selch (Hades) i.e. "Solus zos Galvus" ✧ | All Spoilers, All The T

Prompt #29: Fuse | ✧ Hythlodaeus (-> Azem) ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers

Prompt #30: Sojourn | ✧ Sizhu Jakkya (WoL) + Venat ✧ | Endwalker Spoilers ;_;