I know you. Teary-eyed and shudder-breathed, you grasp at the void and find only me. Your ritual components are laid out before you. You expected this to be harder. I can tell because your eyes widened as I clawed my way into your world. I can hear your breath catch. Perhaps you're afraid. Maybe the image of my exposed sinew, pulsing and grey, startled you. It might have frightened you when I smiled- wide and uncanny. I have so many of mankind's teeth. You do not call me beautiful when you compose yourself. Not like the flatterers who ask me for pacts to cure their puppy's plugged nostrils or bring back their lost child or whatever vain, flimsy things men lean on to pretend their ambitions are different than ours.
You ask me my name, and I give it. I am Marettia. You, I already know, are Mel. I have been watching since you breathed your resolve in the frigid Sharlayan air. You would kill Lakoth, you decided. Your cheeks were flush with the chill, lips pouting and quivering like a frightened child. You'd kill him for what he did to you, to your love. It's not fair that it's fallen to you.
You breathe out a chuckle as you scramble to fetch your reagents. An athame wet with your own blood, a crystal that glints black in the purple candlelight. The candles smell like small, bunchy purple flowers whose name I've long forgotten. There are no pretty purple flowers that grow in home's enduring darkness. Your room is bright to me, even in its shadowiest parts, and warm like the sun. I barely remember the sun.
"I'm Mel," you tell me, and I can hear your inexperience. That's not how these conversations start, little one. It makes me think, for a moment, how lucky you are that I have use for you. You don't know I know.
"I know," I say. And now you do. Your grey eyes squint behind your spectacles. I had spectacles once. "I've been watching."
"Watching? Why?" Oh, you're so dull.
"Lakoth," I hiss. His name is odiously sour in my mouth. My tongue revolts at the prospect of speaking his name. But I must, I must. And I do. You wince when I lean forward. I'm looming over you. I'm as powerful as three of you.
"I'll kill him," you tell me. You're kneeling on the ground in your sleeping clothes. Pink little catlike creatures dot your white cotton shirt. Your bare knees are red on your wooden floor. You look so small, but your eyes are steely. Your face sets with anger, and you work your jaw. I could -feast- on the aether your hatred could pull out of you. I can see your rage. Your balled fists and stiff shoulders. To drink deep of your aetheric wellspring would be so sweet. So sweet. So sweet. But I cannot taste. If I taste, then the deal is done. There is nothing special about you. But I see the rage in your face, and I do not doubt
you when you say you will kill him.
"I will too," I tell you. And I will, I will. For all he has stripped from me. For all he has stripped from us. We will kill him. I can taste his flesh already. I ache to rip him apart. I yearn to feel his flesh split beneath my teeth like leather pulled taut beneath a blade's point. I will drip the aether from the marrow of his bones and let him watch me grow with his stolen power. I will devour him. He will fight me for control, and I will subjugate him. I will hear him beg. The thought waters my mouth.
"What do you want from me in return for your aid?" You ask. I frown.
"Rend and tear the bodies of him and his disciples. Let me taste the blood of the sycophant and the flesh of their master. Let me destroy him. And then we will be done."
And you understand that. You know me. And I know you. You look upon my face, and you smile. You see my suffering as I can see yours. Revenge-maddened, livid, and yearning for blood between our claws and teeth. We will find peace only in the aftermath of the slaughter.
Max turned the vial between her fingers, its contents casting a faint, crimson glow. The shop was dark and dusty, lined with a layer of comforting silence. Tobacco smoke hung thick in the air. She felt at home among the oddities, rarities, and antiquities of Grimorium Verum. Or as close to home as she would allow.
“You’re awfully quiet, Bato.” Max’s fingers closed around the vial, sealing away its light and ethereal warmth. “Gil for your thoughts?”
She stole a fox-quick glance over her shoulder. And there, framed by towers of decrepit books and obelisks of junk she found the greatest antique inside Grimorium Verum. A raisin of a lalafell hunched over the sandstone counter, milky gaze narrowed through a thick veil of smoke. Grey hair hung limp over his shoulders, left to grow wild and unruly. A black coeurl made fat and lazy laid on the counter next to him. Chirped when the man gave its belly an absent pat. His lips shriveled into a deeper scowl. The pipe hanging from them bobbed when he muttered.
“Nothin’ important.”
“Same as usual, then.”
Max’s laughter died prematurely when Bato remained quiet. Not even a twitch to hint that she’d been heard. She cleared her throat, gaze flitting to the curio cabinet. A mental note was made: whenever the opportunity presented itself, she’d drag that old sense of humor under the table and smother it.
“Anyroad- I have something for you.” The vial was returned to its home on the rack. A placard beneath it labeled the vials in thick, black letters - Voidsent Blood. Max reached into her jacket, procuring from its folds a velveteen pouch. She hovered uncertainly. Then tossed the pouch onto the counter. “Happy Starlight.”
Bato’s eyes flicked down to the pouch. Smoke rolled over his lips as he barked a humorless laugh. “Starlight?” - withered fingers curled into the plush fabric- “Heh. Ain’t ya’ just sweet.” He slid the pouch into a drawer, then returned his attention to Max. Stared at her through wire-thin brows. She knew that look very well. It was a look that demanded no nonsense.
Rules: Please repost, don’t reblog! Bold what applies/appeals to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies/is situational. Tag if you do this, I’d love to see it! 💖
JOY: easy smiles, fighting back grins, suppressed laughter, loud laughter, giggles, chuckling, smirks, whole body laughs, covers mouth when laughing/giggling, throws head back when laughing, slaps leg, touches people around them when laughing, looks down when laughing, looks for eye contact when laughing, sparkling eyes, bubbly happiness, quiet subtle happiness, obnoxious happiness, wants to spread joy, quietly savors joy
SADNESS: crying, bottling it up, seeks distractions, wallows, meditates and processes, avoidance, seeks out comfort, withdraws, talks it out, internalizes it, sad smiles, depression naps, uses alcohol, uses drugs, seeks out sources of joy, fidgets with sentimental item, sits in silence, broods, gets moody, wants someone to share the misery, tries to hide negative emotions, nurtures others to make themselves feel better
EMBARRASSMENT/SHAME: blushing, looking away, rubbing at back of head, covering face, laughing nervously, laughs it off, overthinks, lets it go, self deprecating humor, deflects, gets irritated, smiles, withdraws, crossing arms over stomach, crossing arms over chest, hands in pockets, shoulders sinking, shrugs, falling into silence until comfortable again, talking a lot to compensate
GUILT: avoiding eye contact, shoulders sinking low, head hanging down, crying, chest aches, lashes out, internalizes, apologizes, deflects, communicates, withdraws, grand gestures for forgiveness, accepts fault easily, punishes themselves, martyrdom, victim complex, guilt complex, healthy conscience, internalizes even after forgiveness, seeking redemption, moves on easily, denial, lack of guilt/conscience, sorry they got caught more than caused harm, can’t handle knowing they hurt others
FEAR/ANXIETY: trembling, crying, sarcasm/sass to cope, rambles, goes silent, gets angry, fidgeting, clenching jaw, picking at nails, chewing at lip, pulling at clothes, adjusting jewelry/clothing, swallowing thickly, eyes widening, over-reacts, under-reacts, calm, logical, panic, irrational, overthinks, carefully analyses, talks to themselves, breathing exercises, flight, fight, freeze, withdraw, fawn
A man carries only what is necessary in his pockets, and what he deems necessary speaks volumes about his character. Pockets lined with lint and malcontent may house the itchy palms of a thief. Those trimmed in gold and stitched with silver duplicity cradle the unscathed hands of a noble. Leaves plucked from an autumnal wind go in the pockets of romantics, and losing Cactpot tickets go in those of cynics. Optimists carry trinkets to mark each memory. Nihilists have cigarettes to count down the days.
And inside the pockets of a Miqo'te named A’gust Tia were: a few pieces of taffy, a faded photo, and a stone that burned cold.
The stone was smooth like glass. Unblemished by nick or scratch save for the thumb-size indentation in its center. An insatiable chill permeated from its heart; a single rhythmic hum that hinted at a heartbeat set deep in the obsidian marbling. It breathed alongside A’gust. Silent and steady as the Miqo’te’s thumb drew worrying circles into the indentation. He wondered if those around him knew of the soul stone in his pocket.
The hair on the back of Auggie’s neck tingled as he wove through the Gilded City’s streets. A weight upon his shoulders followed him around every corner and bend. It made him breathe deeper, listen closer, and see clearer. He paused his idle wandering, foot traffic flowing past him like a steam, and focused. Slowly, he peered over his shoulder. Expecting to meet the gaze of a person, creature, or even a shadow, he was left with nothing. Nothing but a lingering knowing. The city had eyes for him and the dark secrets hidden in his pockets.
A’gust swallowed hard, adjusted the scythe strapped to his back, and dipped his head low as he skulked past the throng of pedestrians and into an alleyway. It was darker there. Quieter. Away from the cacophonous roar of a city newly awakened for the long night. He pressed himself against the wall, fumbling with the strap buckle. He unslung the scythe with unfound grace. Leaned it against the sandstone wall. And backed away with upheld palms. It glowered at him, lantern light dancing along its crescent blade.
A’gust didn’t blame a soul for casting him auspicious glances. The scythe he carried was a dangerous beauty. It stood a full fulm taller than him. Crafted from dark steel and etched with arcane runes, it was a weapon made for a man cut from a different fabric. A man that danced with danger and spoke from his chest. Not he who hid in shadows and spoke in whispers. Yet the woman from Pearl Lane saw it as a perfect match for him. The woman Bato Cheto recommended he see; the one who would help him manage his predicament. She had sized him up with no small degree of amusement when he stepped through her door. A laugh already starting at the curl of her lips as he sputtered through his story. He said he didn’t wish for power or vengeance. Just to simply manage. And to that she scoffed. Told him that he had such a weak, little heart.
Then, she gave him a stone and the scythe.
“I can’t do this…” A’gust whispered.
A slow, steady match burned beneath his ribs, sending his heart into a gallop. Each palpitation he felt from his skull all the way down to his finger tips. The tick of a clock made different. He stole a fox-quick glance down the alley’s length. Only him and his shadow. Yet he knew he was far from being alone. His gaze lifted to the scythe. And the scythe looked back at him with his own eyes reflected along the blade. There was a deep-rooted hunger in them. He shied away, ears pinned back and tail curled around his waist.
“I can’t do this.”
The shadow sewn to his feet stirred. And a chill danced down Auggie’s spine. Like tendrils of smoke, deriding laughter crept from the crevices of his mind. The dark thread caressed his thoughts and came to linger at the very foreground. It brought a grimace to Auggie’s lips.
“Go ahead,” he grumbled, casting his shadow a rueful glare, “Laugh all you like.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and slid down the wall’s length. Either knee was drawn to his chest as his gaze drifted to the stream of people that passed by the alley’s entrance. “Makes no difference to me.”
The laughter ceased.
And the shadowed thread flitted across his thoughts- as if to occupy a new part of his mind. Its whisper was soft and lyrical in his ear.
“Hey… I’m hungry.”
A’gust hummed as he fished a taffy from his pocket. “I know you are,” - he took his time unwrapping the candy - “But give me a little more time.” He chewed thoughtfully. Honey sweet with a touch of salt. A disquiet smile touched his lips. At least this could stay the same.
“It’s been forever. I’m tired of waiting.”
“Here.” A’gust offered a candy down to his shadow, forcing his smile to reach his eyes. Yet the shade said nothing as the gathering quiet grew dense and thick. Worry gnawed at his stomach. “They’re sweets,” he tried, “Surely you’ll like them.”
Not a whisper emerged from the dark.
“Calcifer…” The name was more breath than word as it escaped from Auggie’s chest. Did he sound as tired as he felt? “Please. This is all I have-”
"Come to the woods," the note said. The paper was stained with red wine, the print was rickety and youthful. The childlike penmanship of a man just learning to hold pen in grip. Fedya's writing, Fedya's spilled wine, Fedya's call. He rarely called upon Mel, but she oft called upon him. Eager to, for once, return the favor; Mel ventured out into the snowy hills of Coerthas.
Her boots crunched over the fresh fall from the night before, her cloaked form bathed in rolling fog and the blue shades of the morning twilight. The snow absorbed the sounds of life, and so Mel made her peregrination in precious peace. Her red cloak stood out as a pop of blood against the serenity, hem dragging along fresh powder. It left a wispy, wavering trail behind her, light as anything; visible to the trained eye.
And it was the trained eye that found Mel that morning. Ringed in a halo of hair that draped against his wiry shoulders, fog of his breath pluming outwards from his parted lips. Green eyes pierced the fog from above, staring at Mel just before the leather soles of his boots scraped against the bark of the branches he stood upon, and Fedya plopped into the snow with hardly a crunch. He carried two weapons upon his back, axes that appeared far too big for one person to carry on their own, but Fedya did so. He managed.
Mel squeaked in surprise when he landed in front of her, stumbling back a step or two rather jerkily. Her glasses askew, she looked down at Fedya rather accusingly, planting one booted foot down indignantly.
"You scared me!" Came her protest, followed shortly by Fedya's low and warm chuckle.
"I did?" He asked. An impish smile crept slowly across his cherubic features as he rose languidly to his full height. Still several ilms shorter than Mel, but no longer hunched over. He reached around behind himself, unhooking one wicked axe as he spoke.
Mel sputtered, watching him. "...Yes!"
"Mmh. Good. I can work with that." Fedya answered. And suddenly, out of nowhere, that massive axe was flying through the air, sailing in a graceful arc toward a frozen Mel. She couldn't move, couldn't react. Until the very last instant, when seemingly out of a will of their own, her hands rose to clutch at the long handle. The heft sent Mel another step back, grunting under the force of the assault. But she had it safely in her grip. The shriek came a moment delayed, as the danger she had been in slowly dawned upon her. It was shrill and shaky, but blissfully short, and Mel looked up accusingly at Fedya.
Fedya, for his part, only smiled; wide, toothy, and lopsided. His pale hands planted onto his hips as he scoffed. His thick eyebrows knitted together in exasperation.
"Well, you have some survival instinct, eh?" He asked.
Mel gawked. "You threw an axe at me!"
Fedya shushed her, one hand lifting off his hip to waggle a finger at Mel. "No, no," he soothed. "I threw YOUR axe at you. Is big difference."
Mel stared, veridian eyes blinking a few times in confusion. This, of course, prompted a taunting groan out of Fedya, who rolled back his shoulders and threw up his hands. "Your axe! To use! You play allllll day with your arkanimal, and magic is wonderful…But it is subject to Mist's whims. A weapon is subject to you, and to you alone. Makes you master, eh?"
Mel, who had barely heard anything in her frantic attempts to figure out what arkanimal was, frowned. She tightened her soft grip around the axe handle, and smiled. "...Arcanima," she reminded softly.
"Yes yes, Arcanima is what I said." Came Fedya's scoff. He ran his fingers through his pointed little beard. "ANYWAY. I saw the captive you took. Your work, eh? You like the blood, like me! But you are scared to take it. Let us fix that for you."
Mel was immediately filled with horror. The bartender from Heirad's employ had faced months of Mel's pent-up wrath. Loss and anger and frustration had bubbled over in an instant, and Mel had unleashed it all upon the first target that it was excusable to. Mel cleared her throat, grimacing, ruminating for a moment. "I didn't enjoy that," she lied. In truth, she had. More than she should have. It had felt good to come out on top, and to keep control.
Fedya shrugged. "Oh. Then we will not try. I just thought perhaps you would like to try. I figured that maybe Sul could aid you…"
"Okay," came Mel's instant reply. He knew how to win her over. It was a weakness like what lies beneath a turtle shell. Something soft and fleshy to poke at.
Fedya smiled, knowing all of this. And so, he took his own axe off his back with a long and languid movement. "Good girl. Let's begin."
I got the story from a man at home. As his voice rasped and his blood stained the winter snows the same crimson as the Garlean’s did. It was all the same, to me, for blood taints the snow no matter who sheds it. He wrapped his shaking hands around mine, the one whose arrow pierced his heart, and whispered to me. He told a story, breath so close to my ear that it tickled like the cloying whispers of a new lover. And then he died. He slipped into the Mist between my fingers. But I remembered the story. Ten years have passed, and I remember the story.
When I saw her, it shook me how much more he looked like her. Thick brown hair and soft green eyes. Round cheeks that tapered into a soft point of a chin… It was hard to believe that this woman had been born to a mother, as there was little trace of her in the woman’s features. But the freckles that spattered her cheeks, those were all hers. Perhaps her mother’s. I wouldn’t know.
I know that when I told her the story, she believed me. Perhaps it was naivety, perhaps it was hope. Lonely hearts make easy prey, I knew then. I know it now, too. She’s built me a life. Taught me a new language, brought me into her home. Fed me. Sheltered me. Because I am her father. Three hundred years old, I say. You look young for your age, she replies. I worry soon she’ll discover that the story isn’t mine. That the man she believes me to be was fed to the animals of the Skatay Range ten summers past. He was picked clean by wolves and vultures and the weakened scavengers amongst the straggling wanderers that our weapons had failed to pick off.
She stands in my doorway after a long night, nose reddened and eyes bleary with tears. She has suffered a loss that shook her very being, and I don’t know what to tell her. I tell her that her lover will be hers again, and she protests. I tell her all will be fine, and she cries out for comfort.
“Papa,” she whispers as I wrap my arms around her. She doesn’t mind that I’ve settled too well into the life she’s given me. She doesn’t mind that I smell now like smoke and vice. My hair is up in fixtures to curl it, a cigar hangs from my lips. “I’m hurt.”
And if she were mine, perhaps I would have comfort for her. Perhaps something that stirred within me would let me soothe my aching child with the right words, the right embraces. But mine are the comforts of an imposter. A charlatan who has pretended his way into parenthood. Because of a story I heard.
Her father’s words sometimes cross my mind.
“Fifteen years I’ve searched for her,” He whispered. “And I’ve found her upon an isle of kidnappers. Stolen by scholars to research upon. Someone must save my daughter, bring her home. To Kisne. For Kisne.”
Kisne will not take her. Not their village. Too close to the border. Too close to risk infiltration. Even if I were inclined to, I could never take her back. And why would I, with all she’s provided for me? That was why I sought her out. His daughter was on an isle of scholars, I needed somewhere to stay. I searched for her. I found her. I got what I wanted. Yet I feel no satisfaction for my treachery. I feel only the uncertain agony of endless guilt, knowing that it’ll never be a good time to tell her. It’ll never be alright. What began as a scheme to secure myself a safe future has ended in regret that turns my stomach.
Her lover patrols the deck endlessly. Skulking in the dark as we’re trained to do. Perhaps, when he was at home, he was good at what he did. Perhaps this man, unlike who he used to be, is good at resisting Mel’s warmth. But she’s like the springtime sun, melting away ice and thawing the frozen ground that the same Warders who find their way to her are taught to trod upon always. She’s stirred my heart to regret, she brought Atvir to love. We’ll see what the future holds for Sul, when he steps into her warmth.
Perhaps that’s how I’ll gauge his worth, one day. As her father, that’s my job, isn’t it? I’ll tell him, one day, of my big lie. Of the fact that Mel was born from another. Of how I betrayed her. And if he tells her the truth, and relieves me of my burden, perhaps I could find it deep in my wretched soul to give my blessing. For as much as such a thing matters.
Would that there were gods of mercy in the heavens above, and that Menphina heard the agonized cries of my wounded heart and took pity on me. Would that the stars could be moved to compassion the way a softened heart can be moved to love. If the gods could feel a tenth the agony that wraps frozen fingers around my throat, would they let me suffer so? And that is how I know that the Twelve are not merciful, and how I know that any higher power is as cold and as uncaring as the edge of a sharpened blade.
You only ever promised me that you would remember. Not wanting to make promises you couldn’t keep, you never promised me what I wanted you to. You never took any oath that I wouldn’t lose you young. You never promised we could stay where we belonged, side-by-side. Only that you would remember. That was the one indomitable promise. No matter what happened, you could remember me. And now what? Now a stranger sits in your flesh, and you’re gone.
There’s nothing to bury, Atvir. I begged you not to force me to bury you. Now I wish you had, because I am going to bed alone all the same, but I will never get a proper goodbye. Dagasi says it’s just like you to leave without a goodbye. I don’t care about that, I just want you to remember me.
You don’t have to love me anymore. You don’t have to like me. I failed you. I promised I’d help you. I promised I’d fix this with you, and that I’d devote every second of myself to freeing you. And I almost did. Until the final two nights. I stopped. You asked me to stop. To just rest. Atvir, I shouldn’t have rested. I should have kept searching, maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe I could have saved you.
Maybe if I hadn’t struck the voidsent you summoned with the orb so soon. Maybe if I’d managed to drag you away when you fell to the sand. If I had just done better, tried harder, been smarter and stronger, I could have saved you. It couldn’t have been hopeless. If I were worth more, I could have saved you. Please come back, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.
We found your journal, the stranger and I. He was merciful enough to let me read your final entry. Your last words. You have always, alway, deserved my kindness and more. I’ve never loved anything better than I love you. I never will. I have another three hundred years left, and not one of them will be shared with a love as potent as mine for you.
But you don’t have to love me back anymore. Not if you remember how I failed you. I just want you back. I just want to say goodbye, please. Let me say goodbye.
-Mel.
The paper ignited at the edges, fire crackling as it devoured the parchment, carrying wisps of smoke to the unfeeling, heartless heavens above. A tapestry of stars covered the land in the shroud of night. Mel’s hand retreated back into the sleeve of the midnight blue sweater. Its scent was already fading and being replaced by her own, but she clung desperately to what was left. And she found almost nothing to cling to. For nothing remained.
Saucy sat in an antique chair, upholstered in deep green, that squeaked whenever he moved. The desk before him was also an antique, passed down through generations of shrewd lalafellin women who ran the Poma family business, and though it had been refinished several times over it still retained the markings of old Belah’dia. A testament to the line’s longevity.
The office around them was sandstone draped in thick tapestry, dark red and green and blue; the open glass windows carrying the scent of sweet jasmine to mask the funk of sweat that settled into the foundation of the city long ago. Popoma on the other side of the desk wore the same flowers in her hair, sweetly braided into a cord that circled her fair hair.
“It’s not that I dislike you, obviously.” Ice-blue eyes drank in his form without shame. “Have I not taken good care of you for the whole of our friendship? I taught you how to act and how to speak and how to spend your money. That coat was a gift from me once upon a time, if my memory serves me well.”
It always did. The millicorn yellow jacket had seen its fair share of weather now, with its frayed hems and patches on the elbows, but it was thick and smart and fit him expertly; perfect for a new captain of an old airship. Even the red cravat pinned to the collar of his shirt found its way around his neck here in the sprawling Poma estate. Saucy bowed his head with demure humility.
“And yet I find myself tired of all this! You really have no idea how costly it was for me to get the Porta Ciela here and out of the hands of those horrible Yellowjackets. A Lominsan registered vessel, can you imagine? You really couldn’t. I told you to dock her in the Goblet and you didn’t listen, and now it’s cost me more gil than you undoubtedly see in a decade. No, don’t say anything: I don’t need to know how much coin passes through your hands out of sight. In fact, it would upset me to hear it.”
Popoma hopped down from her chair and rounded the side of the desk, motioning for her miqo’te companion to join her. They left the office through solid bronze doors, guarded on either side by a pair of Roegdayn who did not look at them. The sandstone walkway beyond was open on one side to an inner garden, lush with hanging vines that dripped with fat grapes and a fountain in the center, each cardinal direction carved into the likeness of a siren spitting water into the pool below. Colourful little birds like jewels flit from one flower to the next, humming over the distant din of the city.
The situation wasn’t their fault; not really. A madman fueled by revenge wasted the lives of his crew, destroyed his ship, and ultimately lost himself at a shot at taking them down. He failed, but only just. And where the Porta Ciela saw victory, it also saw the loss of confidence from gilded hands, retreating back into their deep pockets, unable or unwilling to share.
Saucy let out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Pompom. I never meant to have caused you any trouble.”
The lalafell reached up to pat his hip with fond familiarity, even smiling as the fluff end of his tail gently tapped her back. “I know, F’shra.” She turned to survey her garden, hands clasped behind her back. Every nail, he noticed, was painted the same cerulean colour of her hair. “But think of it this way: My purse has been to you like a flower, dripping with nectar with its blooms open, waiting for a little bird like you to come and drink. And now it is growing dark, the petals are closing in on themselves, and you, fat with drink and covered in pollen, must find another place to fill your belly. Besides, I hear miqo’te always land on their feet.”
“Aye.” Saucy smiled at that. “That we do.”
She left him in the early evening to meet someone far more important, wrapped in a kaftan of blood red embroidered in gold and green. He could hear the soft jingle of her electrum anklets echoing down the hall before she disappeared behind another heavy door, trailed by pleasant jasmine and the lingering thoughts of an airship captain on the verge of a new adventure.
Saucy stretched, more than a little aware of the eyes of her roegadyn guards now fixated solely upon him. “At ease, lads.” He doffed his leather cap. “You won’t get trouble from me.”
Dry desert air whipped at the tail of his jacket, carrying a thin layer of red dust across the cobblestones of Ul’dah’s city streets. The city was alive with a different sort now; respectable merchants emptying their stalls and piling up carts, locking things away as the bar lights flickered on and dancing girls came like moths to flit around them.
The airship docks were quiet now, though the ferry to Gold Saucer ran through the night, and only the footsteps of a single miqo’te could be heard, and the soft pap of a solid gold paperweight tossed between his hands, lifted from the estate of his former patron.
The sky was a widow’s sky, bedarkened and empty, dressed in an ebon gown whose hem trailed along the fringes of eternity. A vastness that swathed him in momentary quiet broken only by the drill of his heart; a hummingbird cupped in the hands of a god. Shadows writhed at his feet and churned in the mist. Shades dulled by the ambiguity of time manifested in them. Their long, slender fingers caressing the crevices of his soul as they whispered in nearly forgotten voices. Bittersweet and soft. They spoke of fear. And they spoke of hate. He closed his eyes. Allowed the great gouts of hurt poured from their amphora to settle at the bottom of the glass. Then, armed with the faintest of smiles, he extended a hand out to the darkness.
“What are you,” -his voice flickered, straining to be heard- “Afraid of?”
The silence which answered him coaxed his eyes open. The whispers and the shadows stilled. Somewhere in the near distance were footsteps falling over the darkness like the hush of rain. A strange light flickered in the veil; someone had pricked the black, releasing a slow trickle of crimson warmth. The shadows receded from his feet as the light grew and a figure took shape. He drew in a sharp breath - the flame in his chest leapt from its wick.
She was a picture of the past. Hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of fire, fathomless eyes piercing the shadows, and a smile that hinted at the secrets stashed in her pockets; she was exactly as he remembered. His sister stood before him, shades clawing at the halo of warmth cast by the candle in her hand. Beckoned by fire. Tempered by smoke. She held the candle in one hand, and in the opposite, a book- either’s fingers stained with crimson down to the knuckle. Her gaze drifted with unhurried ease until it met his.
“The rain is speaking quietly…” she whispered, lips curled in a disquiet smile, “You can sleep, now, Little Brother.”
Then, she blew out the candle.
And the dark was silent and empty once more.
The crackle of parchment against his cheek.
Patter of rain against the window pane.
Then quiet- but a strange quiet, a different quality of quiet.
A’gust opened his eyes just a sliver, still clinging to a dream that was already starting to fade. The details, diluted and dull, drained away like water. The memory was all but gone when he tried to scoop it up in his palms. Reluctantly, he peeled his cheek from the desk and blinked into the gloom of dust and waning light. The floor of his meager space was made into a minefield of discarded notes and empty mugs still rimmed with coffee. Books ranging in study -from Aetheric Theory to Horticulture, Astrology to Bio-organic Decomposition, and everything in between- lay in a sprawling heap at his feet. And what space wasn’t occupied by a still-born brew abandoned on its burner was filled by fresh parchment yet to be christened with more cluttered thoughts. With a tired sigh, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
The night had been a long one. Or, so he assumed. He wasn’t quite sure how long he slept. It somehow felt like both an instant and an eternity. Carefully, A’gust rose from his chair and made his way to the window. Fingers stained with alchemical residue curled into dense, velveteen fabric. Lingered as he listened to the flutter of his heart. Slow. Wavering. Touch uneasy. The why to it escaped him; he was never a fan of storms, so he figured the rain was to blame. A quick flick of the wrists and he cast the curtains aside, ushering it a thin channel of grey light. He winced at the sudden onslaught, pupils drawn into thin slits. Morning, after all.
Sharlayan woke just as the rain eased into a gentle mist, droves of scholars passing under A’gust’s window as they made for the Studium. Idle chattered carried on the wind like gossamer thread and hid beneath a distant growl of thunder. He watched them pass -weighed down with their school books and heavy cloaks- with a wistful smile. While they toiled away in their lecture halls, he’d be here. Free to sift through documents and tomes at his leisure. Such was the benefit of being an alchemist of independent study. Though, for every onze of reward came an equal measure of hardship.
A’gust turned from the window and cast his gaze about the room. Much of the night had been spent chasing threads to their fruitless ends. Misguided tangents and off-topic fixations. He flitted from topic to topic only to find himself running around in circles. A torrent of chaos kicked up by his own thoughts and curiosities. And when all was said and done, he ended up searching the same place he started from- the black paged volumes of his father’s research. A’gust pursed his lip as he found the stack of books still waiting for him on the desk’s corner. Their pages darker than the room’s shadows.
“A penchant for theatrics,” was what he said to Serai when she asked about the ominous color. Not a lie. Not entirely.
The chair groaned with protest and age as he deflated into it. A fresh piece of parchment was drawn from the stack, placed next to the inkwell. Then he stole another glance at the black books. And once again felt his heart quiver inside his chest. In truth, the black pages were due to their alchemical composition. The parchment enchanted twice over, leaving behind a glossy film that only a certain aetherically infused ink could penetrate. An ink invisible to the naked eye lest paired with a blend of sulfuric powder, bomb-ash, and a pinch of lime. Such precautions made A’gust wonder why Father felt a need to guard these secrets.
From the desk drawer, he procured a straw-string pouch. A translucent powder glimmered without the aid of light from inside when he worked it open. Only a pinch was needed.
The first volume he knew intimately well, the initial read possessed of optimistic vigor that devoured the breadth in a matter of hours. Thus his reflection cast along the dark pages when dusted with powder came as little surprise to him. Father was man before his time; an ingenuitive mind unabashed to break a few rules for the greater good. His research began with an idea; it began with a seed of hope.
A’gust fished a matchbook out of his vest pocket. Struck a single stick. Watched tender flame lick at the air before setting it to the page’s edge. Crimson letters crept from its dark depths. Eddied by the warm brush of fire, words of a now dead man followed after the match’s head:
Dagasi arrived at the familiar house in the middle of the night. The lights were low inside, just barely illuminating the windows. Shadows shifted within, figures walking about on the inside. Still, it seemed off. Devoid of the energy that often buzzed around the place. There was no laughter heard from within. No fighting, even. It was dark, and it was quiet, and the figures within paced back and forth as if patrolling. For a moment, Dagasi thought someone had met their end. But surely someone would have told her, yes? Someone would have said something… Unless, of course, it had occurred in the time after her linkpearl met its unfortunate end in the ocean spray on her way here.
Still. Something troubled Dagasi. And a lifetime upon the Steppe had honed her trust in herself and her instincts. And so, the au ra crept to the side of the house. She slunk low along the outside, creeping as low as her sore knee would allow. She was naught but one glowing limbal ring in the shroud of midnight, looking for a window that had no lamplight shining behind it. And when she did, Dagasi reached her hard, lean arms up to push it open with the tips of her fingers. Ilm by ilm the window came, luckily unlocked by either providence or carelessness. And perhaps even more fortunately, it made no loud creaking or screeching. Ilm by ilm, until the space between window and frame was just high enough for Dagasi to squeeze herself through. And so she did just that. Two small bounces on her toes earned her the momentum she needed to push up on her hands, landing belly-down on the edge of the window frame with a soft wheeze. Her toes scrambled against the siding, pushing herself up so that she could sling one leg over. And then the other, contorting and scrunching her body in a way most unnatural to those who lacked her diverse background in such flexibility.
Her boots landed upon the hardwood with a soft click of her heels, and the au ra slowly righted herself so that she could turn, looking around into the space. The only light was the pale of the moon, illuminating a chamber that was especially familiar to her. The same bed where she had sorted Auggie’s goodbye letters sat in front of her, neatly made. A letter she had sent sat on the little nightstand. She recognized it from the seal. It had the warm feel of home, despite the unsettling feeling that smothered the rest of the house. There was no sound. No sound at all. And so Dagasi, content in her aloneness, began to slink over to the door into the hallway, straining her horns to hear anything that might have made noise on the other side.
A shuffle. A high, feminine voice whispering to a comrade in a language Dagasi had never heard before. And a much lower, more gravelly voice whispering back. She was about to open the door to peek when Dagasi heard scuffing upon the house’s siding. Whoever was on the other side grunted as their pale fingers gripped at the edge of the open window frame. Dagasi tiptoed closer, taking up the small blade tucked into her pocket…
She squeaked rather inelegantly as two long, sleek rabbit ears poked over the edge just in time for a man with hair like sunlight to tumble onto the ground near her feet. He was fresh-faced and pretty, with vivid green eyes and features soft like the petals of baby’s breath. Dagasi didn’t like baby’s breath. Nor did she appreciate the coy smile and wink the man gave her, with his hair splayed out around his head like a halo of gold. He almost purred his lone word, a heavily accented:
“Hello.”
Dagasi didn’t say hello back, instead looking to the window as the sound of struggle resurfaced. Again, pale fingers hung over the edge, followed by two pointed ears. And then a clumsy entrance by a long-limbed viera woman who, upon her attempt, tripped over the first viera, and went sprawling with a soft, barely contained yelp. She landed hard upon her back, grumbling as she looked up. With hair like the color of oak bark and eyes as vivid as the springtime meadows, Mel was recognizable anywhere. Her nose twitched, causing the splash of freckles along her face to jump with the movement as her face split into a friendly grin.
“DAG-” She started, stopping only when her voice echoed. She whispered, now. “Dagasi!”
Dagasi sheepishly, and subtly, put the knife away. “Mel. Welcome back.”
“And the same to you~” Mel chirped. She sat up, wiggling to disentangled herself from the fallen viera man, and the pair of them slowly clambered to their feet. Standing side by side, Mel was a good deal taller, and yet they bore a striking resemblance. “You met Fedya. My um… My father.”
She turned then, repeating the phrase in obviously broken, childlike terms in the other language, which Dagasi supposed now was the language spoke upon the Range. With Mel being removed very young, it made sense that her terms might be less advanced. And so Dagasi waited while the pair spoke. And frowned. And spoke again to clarify. Mel’s hands waved as she talked, while Fedya’s nose wriggled just like hers did. After a minute or two, Mel looked back to Dagasi. “What are you doing in here?”
“It is my bedroom,” Dagasi answered flatly. Idly, she lifted her clawlike nails to the moonlight to pick at any dirt underneath. “And besides. I felt something strange. I opted to come in the back. The front felt… Dangerous.”
Mel frowned, tilting her head to one side. “Oh. For you too, then. Something’s odd. It’s like the life got sucked right out of it in here! I can’t even hear Saucy. Fedya was concerned about an ambush…”
“An ambush?”
Mel nodded, ears bouncing with the movement. She was dressed finely, no doubt in clothing directly from Sharlayan. A white suit jacket hugged her body, with the sigil of the sages pinned to her lapel. Her hips were hugged tight in a black skirt that Dagasi herself might wear. She climbed in that? Dagasi quietly noted her own admiration while Mel gathered her thoughts. “An ambush,” Mel repeated. “Weird, right? I have mine, but I honestly wasn’t listening to the chatter I heard tonight… But I heard what happened to yours as it happened… It’s better safe than sorry, right?”
In this time, Fedya seemed to grow tired of all of this talk he couldn’t understand, and so her waltzed over to sit upon the bed, earning a stern glance from Dagasi. He either ignored this or didn’t see it, as he lingered there for a moment, bouncing in his seated position experimentally before slinging his legs over to lay own. Then, restless, the bizarrely handsome viera stood and began to make his way around the room, snooping while the others spoke.
Dagasi nodded to Mel, sighing softly. “Right,” she agreed. “That is why we are both here… I was listening, before I went out. But I heard naught. But the figures seemed to be pacing, as if on patrols. I saw from outside.”
Mel’s pinky tapped at her lips, face screwing up in thought. “Really? Strange. That’s not normal. I wonder if it might be worth trying to go-”
She was cut off by a loud creaking. When the pair of women turned their faces to the door, they saw a flash of blond hair slink out of the bedchambers, and promptly, a booming voice shouted. “HEY!”
They ran after Fedya, bursting through the door to a chaotic scene that, honestly, couldn’t have been replicated in anyone’s imagination no matter how vivid their description. Fedya dangled from the hands of a fat-bodied roegadyn in admiral's garb, a clear member of law enforcement. He cursed gutturally, spit flying from his lips as he thrashed. And then, as Dagasi and Mel watched, Fedya lunged forward to bite. Like a feral dog, he let out a bestial growl as his teeth clamped down upon his captor’s nose. Blood flowed and a howl pierced the air as Fedya jerked his head back, taking flesh with it. He dropped nimbly to the floor, and paused only to lift his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and pick a flap of flesh from between his teeth. He looked at Mel, then, and smiled.
“Ég mun koma með dauða milljón harðstjóra áður en ég leyfi mér að litast af snertingu þeirra.”
Dagasi hadn’t the faintest what the phrase meant, but Mel blinked before responding.
“Vel. Farðu þá á undan.”
Fedya nodded at his daughter and sprung himself, in much the same way a squirrel might fling itself at a hapless pedestrian, at another Roegadyn guard. The pair grappled, with the guard trying to avoid Fedya’s teeth and pounding fists. The smaller viera had his legs locked firmly around the man's waist, unrelenting. Dagasi thought she may have seen foamy spittle fly. Mel began to run, crying out for Dagasi, who did her best to keep up. She was shorter, and therefore slower to begin with. But the shooting aches up her knee from exertion left Dagasi limping behind Mel’s sprightly steps as the latter ran up the stairs to attempt a better vantage point. Her nouliths flew, dancing nimbly around her head and torso before leveling themselves at the cluster of guards down below.
One raised his weapon, and before either woman could react, there was a brutally loud BANG.
Dagasi had never been shot directly. A few grazes here and there, but never directly. She had always assumed the victim would fall immediately. That they would scream and squirm as soon as lead made contact. But Mel didn’t. Mel froze, letting out a sharp gasp that died on her lips as shock strangled the noise. Slowly, slowly, her hand drifted to her gut as her knees began to wobble and buckle, and the doctor turned doe-like eyes to Dagasi for one agonizing, eternal second. Her gaze lowered to her hand, the palm coming away scarlet as she did. And then, Mel’s knees gave out, just in time for Dagasi’s legs to spring her forward, up the stairs with both arms outstretched. She caught the bulk of Mel’s weight, only staggering backward a step as she took on the force of her fall. But Mel was floppy and weak, and as she slumped, the poor viera’s forehead smacked against the banister with a sickening CRACK. Her glasses fell, skittering on the floor below before being crushed by a boot in the altercation.
More came now, one from upstairs, another joining the fray below. Dagasi, for her own part, had a heartbeat like the pounding of drums. Her eye flitted about wildly, looking for escape and looking for refuge, and finding only the front door. And so, as this roegadyn strode forth with a grin across his cinderblock of a face that looked more insidious than anything else, Dagasi shuffled back, holding Mel’s weight awkwardly as she did. Blood dripped in a little trail in their path, the only reconciliation being that there wasn’t more. And then, the man lunged, reaching out. His fat hand clamped around Dagasi’s upper arm, yanking her so that poor Mel dropped limply from the second to last step to the base floor below. He wrenched Dagasi’s arm behind her back abruptly, shoving her against the banister so that it struck her sideways across the stomach, knocking the breath out of her.
Dagasi gasped for breath, and, seeing Fedya as he was swarmed with foes and gradually overtaken, buried beneath a pile of bodies, she knew what she had to do. Her wrist grabbed until her fingers found purchase against the man’s forearm.
The bitter scent of burning hair gave way quickly to the scent of meat upon a hearth. Like throwing a meal into the pan and listening to it sizzle as the aroma filled the kitchen. A high, keening howl pierced the air, and the man stumbled back. As Dagasi turned, filling her lungs freshly, she noticed she could see the black, charred outline of her own fingers on the man’s seafoam skin.
A voice echoed in her mind. Like a memory that had sprung to mind, but entirely knew and unknown to her. It was familiar in the same way a long-lost rival might be Neither friend nor foe, but definitely known. If distantly and almost-forgotten.
“Kill him! Kill all of them! Let their blood and guts stain this ugly-ass flooring RED!”
Dagasi paused, blinking once as she thought a reply. “...Beck?”
The voice sputtered indignantly. “Who the- Wha-? No! Stupid…” It trailed off, and in Dagasi’s pocket, she momentarily felt the crystal she had killed for flare hot. Not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt. But not felt more strongly than the glee that bubbled in her chest when she watched her wounded quarry tumble backwards off the stairs, falling into the common area with a THUMP.
This allowed Dagasi her opening. She stumbled forward, stooping to gather Mel halfway onto her shoulders, letting her feet drag. Fedya, in the background, let out a cry like a dying animal, but upon Dagasi’s startled turning, she saw that he was unharmed. Pinned to the floor and being bound for arrest, but unharmed. Dagasi flashed him a sympathetic stare, but she made no move to save him. Fedya, with his hands wrenched behind his back and a stare as violent as wildfire, was unflinching as he looked back at her. Blood trickled down his chin and his nose was skewed as if broken, but Mel was injured worse. Mel would die if she didn’t flee, and Dagasi’s injured friend mattered more than her strange father. And so, Dagasi turned her back on him, fleeing through the front door and into the cool night. Gently, she reached up to pluck Mel’s linkpearl from her ear, calling into it.
“This is Dagasi. I am at the house with Mel. She is badly wounded and I cannot treat her. We are fleeing from the Admiralty Forces.”
She awaited a response, panting as she dragged the injured doctor along. She only hoped she could find safety quickly. Only hoped she could find home quickly.
How long had he traveled the world? How long had he walked? A fraction of his life, but more malms than he had ever walked. He had weathered and burnt under a sun more brutal than any he’d encountered in the brutal tundra of his birth. Still, Sharlayan’s climate proved much more favorable for his paper-birch skin. He stepped off the boat with a soft scuff of worn leather on wood. His straw-like hair, billowing in wisps and curls like a lion’s mane in the seaside breeze, tangled down to his shoulders. His knuckles were scarred and abused from years of hunting and patrolling. But perhaps the first thing the woman at the Customs desk noticed was the rosy tint to his round cheeks, as if he’d just finished some sort of strenuous activity, despite only walking off the boat.
Beneath the myriad of stars, Atvir gazed back at their glittering countenance, gentle breeze embracing him as he rested upon a bench in the yard of the dock house. Silence had become a presence upon his mind once more, esoteric whispers and ominous musings were absent since opening the second gate. The accession of the firmament’s power was months ago, a drop in an ocean of memories, but the recollection was as clear as the calming waters that resided close by.
The bog of the Southern Shroud was an uncomfortable affair. During his travels, the familiarity of musty mires was lacking, however insignificant to what became of him. A glint of emerald in the heavens guided him to the heart of the place. The viera kneeled as the glowing eye glowered at his presence, followed by a viridian lance that dug through his chest. The stream into unconsciousness was sudden as his proffering body slumped over.
The eyes opened to a chamber of ceaseless darkness. Ever since being sequestered to the nothingness in his dreams, trepidation crept upon his very soul, and the sensation was brought back like a crashing wave. The mask hid any air of dread that he held, but he knew in his heart that it would not matter. If it was who he anticipated, it would not matter.
A wound in the emptiness above began to bleed a frigid white, eventually forming a perfect circle. Illumination was born as the scar wept, truth made form. The place Atvir stood was not a prison of any sort, a hollowness with no shell, the non-lands boundless. The ring-blood crawled from the source of the opening, coursing downward in uniformity until it reached the featureless floor. The viera moved forward, each stride with his boots resonating a tune upon the waters of the void. The masked visage stared upward, pacing becoming rhythmic to the music. Every time he advanced, the scarred star would retreat as if a mockery of his attempt to approach it.
Desperation to grasp familiarity was evident as the pacing turned into a frantic run. The wound would not heed his pleas, maintaining the precise distance it initially had. The luminous blood seeped with greater emphasis, a dazzling contrast of the empty confines Atvir found himself in. The anomaly above was shrouded as a tall, grey spire towered in front of the viera. The surface was befuddling, edges reflecting with the sheen of metal but ornamented in the imperfect form of bark. The protruding roots were colossal, dwarfing the greatest trees back in the Skatay Range.
Absorbing the majesty in silence was short-lived, as a cacophony of screeching metal and snapping bark overwhelmed the ear. The screams of metal and tree were a prelude to its surface opening and shifting back, revealing a pupil of shadow with a singular iris of an icy blue. A brief reprieve in quiet was broken with the shifting of metal. The eye blinked, yet the iris was unmoving, quivering with futility as it deigned to look down at him.
The voice did not have the neutrality from before. It was slow, resonant, and metallic. An anger crept in the back of the metaphorical throat.
“With the interpretation and my blade, you have created the second wound. The stars bend to your will. It is now easier. My understanding expands once more.”
Atvir blinked, taking a long, shuddered sigh. “Yes. The second gate is open.” Endless questions danced on the tip of his tongue, and the lack of response presented opportunity.
“Where am I?”
“You are here and where you sleep. The darkness between the stars. The exactness is unknown. This is the house of the gardener. What stands before you is me, the same as what you met in dreams”, the voice echoed.
The astrologian looked towards the gnarls, his head following it up until his stare met the dark pupil.
“What do you want?”
“I wish to know what has happened in my absence, what happened to me. We forget. I do not know how I got here.”
An eyelid lowered slightly, metal grinding against itself. “The garden has granted me insight to teach. My reach is limited. You are an agent of my designs, application of my prior learnings. To wound the heavens twice is more than others. Six are the limits of man from our pact. The seventh is death. Your demise would be wasteful.”
“There is more”, the viera responded.
“Of course. I cannot reveal my intent on this path you walk. You have the choice to leave. That was always there since the first dream, yet you continue. You wish to learn, and I present such a thing. You have taken it and have done what I asked. The only way to have answers is to seek more. The harvest grows with each strand of knowledge woven into the tapestry.”
The gardener’s words clamored in echoes, dying after mere moments. As silence consumed the space, an iris of green formed in the pupil, taking the opposite corner of its frozen counterpart.
“The second eye opens, and we achieve a greater understanding.”
With no time to utter a word, Atvir awakened in the South Shroud.
Soft-soled sandals gently trod upon the sands. A figure, dressed in red with hair like cascading rivers of spilled ink that pooled at the base of her spine. Dagasi’s dark skin reflected the gentle glow of moonlight along her curves and edges. Her neck, shoulders, and face highlighted with pale moonbeams. One gray eye peered into the black of night and saw only old ruin and stone jutting out from the ghostly-pale dunes. The wind blew softly, rustling the surface of the sand with a soft skittering sound.
Dagasi’s dreams had led her here. They grew more and more gruesome and threatening by the day, worse still since the old man began to follow her. And harm to herself was manageable. Dagasi could suffer feeling scale tear away from skin, feeling warmth that pulsed scarlet on the ground. Dagasi was good at dying, that didn’t frighten her. What crossed the line was the moment the dreams began to target Ren. Twice now, Dagasi had watched Ren fall in her sleep. And this time, it had been here. This very spot. Her toes kicked into the sand as she peered into the night, and spoke the same words she’d heard so many times by now.
“Illumination in ruination,” She declared. “I am here.”
Dagasi was met only with the gentle caresses of the wind upon her face, and the weight of the staff slung over her shoulder. Still, the air grew tense and ominous, with a bone-chilling aura that traveled up her spine and raised the baby hairs on the back of her neck. It was an oppressive aura, like being gripped by the neck with skeletal fingers that dug ice-cold into her flesh. In the corner of her eye, Dagasi watched the shadows shift. Below the wind, she heard a single footstep upon sands. An elderly man, a miqo’te clothed in dark robes, stepped out from between the ruined structures. His hat hung low over his face, but even in her peripheral Dagasi could make out the veil that blocked off his right eye, and the gnarled and knotted walking stick that stood just as tall as he.
Her breath caught in her throat as he stepped out, though he refused to turn her face to him. Instead, Dagasi stood stiff, eye trained upon the horizon, watching him from her periphery. He had followed her for all of her time in Ul’dah. He was around the corners she walked. He was lurking films away in the markets when she shopped. He invaded her dreams and her privacy over and over again. And now he stood before her, plain as anything beneath Nhaama herself.
Silently, the old man took his place to Dagasi’s right, walking stick thumping into the ground as he walked. And for a moment, they stood without a word. The air between them grew thick and strained, and Dagasi’s fingers flexed as she watched the rise and fall of his shoulders. The lopsidedness to his gait. He was broken on his right side. His eye was missing, and his right leg dragged slightly behind him. Scars licked across the leathery skin of his hand and neck, as if he’d been immolated on that side by something that had burned out too quickly to kill him alongside the flames. If it came down to it, Dagasi could take advantage of his weakness, and lay him low in the deserts of Thanalan. She would do it if she had to. She would do it if she must.
U’leki Tia was a man of sense, sensibility, and the sensational. Aged seventy and five, he approached life with a measured coldness. He held that which would not squirm under his thumb, and held that which would at arm’s length. Which was, perhaps, why he made such fast friends with the monsters he found in that Mhachi ruin. He had, of course, been younger then. Strong and fit, with a flash of lighting-bright blonde hair and eyes with the depth of the lochs of Ala Mhigo. He had stood proud and strong as he took step and step down a path that should not have been trod. He had squared his shoulders and set his jaw as he gave up everything. Everything. His mind, his eye, his health… All casualties to the power that burned as a growing conflagration within him.
Rarely did he see his father. Tano’sae visited their village once a year to see his children, all born to one woman in one family. There were four total from him and only one son among them, and not a single one could be mistaken for anyone but his. Sanjura Sinai liked the look of him, and was pleased the children they made together bore his resemblance so strongly.
He seemed a giant to their son in those days, though in truth he was hardly taller than average. His hands were weathered from travel and trapping and the use of a bow, and only when he was made to wash did he not have dirt beneath his fingernails. Violet, changing eyes were framed by crow’s feet and he smiled often, rose pink hair tied back in braids at the back of his head. Tano’sae carried his son on his shoulder as if he were the lightest thing in the world.
But he was gone most days, and that was normal. How many Miqo’te kept to one village, one tribe, when there was a great wide wood to explore? A great wide world? Some of them stayed for weeks. Another family in their village, his mother said, behaved like Gridanians. Their father stayed with them always, only leaving to hunt and trade. He was an oddity to the rest of them, and the love he bore for his partner was worn like a second skin. It took Sanjura’s son a long time to realize the edge to her words was contempt.
Death followed Dagasi where she trod. Her footprints took the form of deadened grass that burnt still in her wake, smoke curling in elegant wisps from the char and ash. The earth squelched with blood that bubbled beneath each step. The air smelled of ash and iron; the world echoed with agony. And still Dagasi walked to nowhere. A slow and funerary march as she passed by worlds before the world. Soldiers clad in black and white fought each other around her, slinging spells that drew the life from the world around her. Raspberry-painted lips pursed together. Her eye, gray as the feathers of the mourning doves that would one day cry out over this very battlefield, remained dry. Her heart did not stir for the ruin around her. Dagasi had seen worse.
Volleys of flame and clods of earth passed in front of her face, stirred by the mages as they fought. Voidsent served man and master, wreaking devastation before them in the form of magics unseen to Dagasi before this moment. This vision. An echo of things that had occurred long before Dagasi or her forebears were even a hint of a thought. Before the world as she knew it. Before her, men lived and died. Before her, men learned the strife that their magic and their warring had sown. And she watched as they paid the price of blood. Pestilence and death echoed in their words. Soldiers in the back lines asked if the others had heard of the Green Death. Of those at Nym whose ears and nose had dissolved from their heads in a victory for Mhach.
“The Black shall prevail,” men said. “Mhach shall prevail.”
Whirlwinds of air and crystals of ice passed at Dagasi’s back. Stone golems crushed Mhachi mages between massive fists. Bone crunched and blood ran. The elements used in brutal form. A far cry from the more modern and gentle touches of conjury and white magic. At the back lines, men spoke of Diabolos. Of the voidsent chained deep below Amdapor. Of their city where the elementals reigned king and their magic communed with nature. The same nature they used now to break men under its fist. The same nature that the battlefield bled dry with each passing moment.
“The White cannot fail,” they prayed. “Amdapor cannot fail.”
