Over the Rainbow.
((Best read with this music to accompany! ))
Sunlight streamed in through the windows of the Advent Infirmary. It was bright, white, and pure. The colours of the sheets and curtains fair sang to its brilliance, though the glare of it presented a haze to the eyes. The thin, brown skinned individual sitting up in bed amongst comfortable pillows and linens didn’t seem to mind. They held a book in front of them, their warm, brown eyes absolutely absorbed in the story. Their frizzy hair exploded behind their head, forming yet another comfortable pillow.
As they read, their vision began to swim -- the onset of dizziness and nausea was sudden and reeling. It came with a sharp wracking pain throughout their body that caused a severe degree of trembling. After several ticks it passed, leaving them panting as sweat began to bead on their brow. They put the book down, sure to mark the page as a slim hand massaged their chest. That was the way of it, then. Without the suffusion of prismatic aether throughout their body, the sickness was back -- the pain was back. They hadn’t been healed, after all. The suffering that made the thought of death so easy had returned. Nevertheless, they smiled a sorrowful, yet hopeful smile. Perhaps it needn’t be for the rest of their life. Death was a definite end, but with life, there was hope for a cure, for an end to the suffering without cessation to everything else. With that thought in mind, they picked the book back up again. They needed to know how the story ended.
Malms away in Gyr Abania an identical pair of Highlander women dressed in smooth, flowing garments approached the recruitment tent for the Ala Mhigan Resistance. They both were encumbered by heavy backpacks that they carried without complaint. The recruitment officer attended them patiently, but seemed surprised at their request. They did not wish to join the resistance itself -- at least not directly. They wished to be directed toward the monks, so that they would begin work toward becoming members of the new Fist of Rhalgr. While the officer seemed a little disappointed, it was not at all an unhappy affair -- the twins were given the information they needed to begin their lives anew.
In the Firmament of Ishgard, a middle-aged Midlander man entered a warm cottage. He shut the door behind him, shutting out the most part of frigid festivities. The loud thumping of music still made it through the walls. He didn’t mind, the crackling fire in the hearth and the elezen woman seated at an easel melted away any and all discomfort. The woman painted dutifully, adding the last strokes to an exquisite portrait of a tall hyuran man with strong features. He wore gleaming white armour and bore a sword and shield. His helmet was cradled in his hands, allowing long golden hair to flow down onto his pauldrons. Despite his powerful stance and stature, he was smiling -- all teeth and jovial grey eyes. “Oh, you painted him smiling,” The Midlander observed. The Elezen woman nodded. “Of course. He was always smiling. Did you place the order for the frame?” Her Hyuran companion nodded. “I did. There were several artisans willing to take the commission, all of whom were interested in hearing the tale of Mads Sturdevant, Champion of the Ivory Shield.”
Upon a craggy mountain pass along Abalathia’s spine, a thickly muscled Midlander dressed in furs dragged the carcass of a pantera. It laid tied to a sheet of leather for simpler travel, but there was no way to make it an entirely easy task. Sweat drenched him, but blood, dirt and dust marked his body regardless. An axe was strapped to his back. For malms he went, determined to reach his destination. The sun had begun to sink behind the mighty mountains when he approached a village. Two burly Hellsguard women served as sentries to the road entranced and watched him warily until he was but a few fulms away. They too wore furs and axes -- though their armour was quite more involved. The Midlander staggered a fulm closer and regarded them with a haggard smile. “...I made it.” He then collapsed forward onto his face.
In the slums of Limsa Lominsa, Berrod stood at the doorway of a particularly dilapidated house -- the Highlander man in the doorway seemed to live in squalor. It did not stop him from berating the armoured paladin who had just given him news of his son’s demise in the Burn. As usual, condolences and apologies never seemed enough, especially since there wasn’t even a body to bring back. All Berrod could offer was a box of the adventurer’s possessions. That box was swatted out of his hands as the elderly Highlander cursed and shouted at him -- he had disowned his son long ago; an apparent good for nothing who refused to carry on the family business and left him in decline. He cared not for the man, nor his death, he said, the bastard got what he deserved. Berrod stood there in silence, resisting the urge to strike the man in meteoric fury. It wasn’t long before the rickety door slammed in his face, leaving him to navigate his way out of the cutthroat alley. For all the ire and sorrow he radiated, he was left alone.
Once Berrod had left him, the old man opened his door. Quietly, he picked up the box and replaced the scattered items in it. Once he was inside again, he took a look. It was just a few odds and ends, some clothing and books -- three of them were dirty novels. Within it all was a small blanket -- a baby blanket that he recognised. It was old, so old, threadbare now, ready to come apart. The old man dropped all else and held that blanket close to his chest as if it would soothe the sharp pain that had suddenly lanced through him. His wail carried all the way to the edge of the slums -- even to Berrod, whose jaw was set as stone as tears silently streamed down his face.
Across the Strait of Merlthor -- in the Goblet of Thanalan, specifically, a green Sea Wolf dressed in a Scholar’s garb arrived home at last. He entered the Lominsan Styled house and greeted his staff -- though he immediately made his way to his Husband’s office. The grey-skinned Sea Wolf was at his desk, writing in solemn peace. Vivid green eyes looked up from his work to almost look beyond the man who had arrived.
“It is done, then, my Mountain?” The Grey Sea Wolf asked.
“It is done, my Shadow. I walk a road anew and unencumbered -- though there is one small matter left. A souvenir for your collection.”
The Green Sea Wolf reached into his coat and withdrew a glimmering prismatic shard. It was tiny -- the size of a coin, but it glittered with all its facets, colours and power. “Enjoy.”
The Grey Sea Wolf smiled.
