POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective
((I don’t…actually have any ‘current projects’, so to speak, but honestly the closest thing to it is the FFXIV PCfic I have, because I kinda stopped writing at the beginning of patch 2.1 and I need to pick it up again (and I will!) so I’m going to use that. Which will be awesome.))
from part 3/chapter 1; aka the attack on the Waking Sands (new POV; Urianger).
The afternoon had been normal enough; well, as normal as afternoons were for the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. News had arrived earlier from Y’shtola of their adventurer — of A’khemi’s success in felling the primal Titan. Y’shtola was on her way, after speaking to the Admiral, with A’khemi herself to follow.
It was quiet — abnormally so, perhaps, with the absence of both Yda (who had gone to Gridania to take care of things) and Thancred (once again absent on his nameless mission) — but he did not mind so much, the murmur of conversation in the storage room a pleasant backdrop to his work. Their sylphic ambassador, Noraxia, had happily complied with his request, and now he had a rather nice stack of papers in Old High Sylphic in regards to Ramuh to translate and add to his records.
The speaker — Clive, one of the Scholars of Baldesion that had arrived recently to assist — had stopped in his quiet words with his sister, staring at the doorway. “I heard something, it sounded like…a Teleport spell.”
Urianger stood, and he and the others in the room waited. Some, like A’aba and Liavinne, drew their weapons, while others, like himself and Una, waited with held breaths. He exchanged a quiet glance with Papalymo, whose hand was on his staff, and both of them somehow knew what was about to happen before it did.
The doors crashed open as they heard Tataru scream above them, Imperial soldiers near-pouring into the room. The fight began almost immediately, the Scions fighting back viciously against the invaders to their home. Urianger could not summon Viola here, he knew — too many witnesses, too much chance for trouble — but he summoned his carbuncle, loosing the sparkling beast upon the soldiers as he attempted to keep his compatriots well. There was so much chaos in such a small room; it was hard to keep his eyes on everyone who needed aid, and he cast his spells as fast as he could, but he was frightened, caught off guard — they all were. How had this happened?
"Get out of the room!" Came a cry from Papalymo. "Spread out the battles!"
He watched some move — the siblings, Una and her duo of companions, the Miqo’te grinning at him (as she was wont to do, the Scholar having been the sole person to remember them from before the Calamity, and they the only Scions to recall his days as ‘prophet’) as she darted by, and a few others — leaving A’aba, Liavinne, Aulie, and Haribehrt in the room with himself and Papalymo.
The room thus cleared, Papalymo was fully able to unleash his magics upon the Garleans, and the others were able to move more freely. But the Imperials just seemed to keep coming, as if they were endless.
The cry from the arms mender, hiding behind crates, came too late — and he was unable to move in time, the flat of an Imperial’s axe slamming into the back of his head, and he fell like a dropped book, his carbuncle blinking out into nothing as he lost consciousness.
He woke slowly, the throb of the blow to his head making it hard, his vision swaying and blurred — and then small hands were helping quickly, a weak Cure spell easing the pain…and for the second time in his life, he wished his head had stayed fogged.
It was no oncoming wave of green amid a ruined city this time; no, the horror was smaller, but more personal. More painful. A’aba, Liavinne, Haribehrt, Aulie, even the arms mender…sprawled limply upon the floor, blood still pooling under still forms. It was only him and Papalymo that remained, the little thaumaturge bloodied and bruised himself as he stood next to the still-sitting Urianger, hands on his shoulder…and both of them stared up at the Imperial soldiers that surrounded them.
"No…" Urianger said hoarsely. They had fought smart — they had laid the healer low, so he could not mend wounds. So he could not aid his companions. And now they were dead. He did not know what had happened in the halls outside, but he had a feeling that it was the same. I failed…
"Lady Minfilia?" He croaked, and Papalymo shook his head.
"I think she’s well," he said softly. "They would not kill her, anyway — she has the Echo. They want her alive, in all likelihood."
One of the soldiers hauled him to his feet, and upon standing he could see another soldier, this one holding the bound Tataru by the shoulder, the clerk pale and shaking, tears streaming down her face. Biggs and Wedge too stood bound, just as pale, the Lalafell biting his lip.
"Move, elezen," the Imperial said harshly, and shoved him forward, pulling his hands behind him to bind them with cord. They were led out of the storage room, and Urianger’s fears were confirmed. All the Scions that had left the room to fight, and the guards that stood in the hall…dead. Una and her companions, the twins…they were all dead.
His eyes glanced over the Imperials’ heads, to the solar doors — wide open, he could see Minfilia alive and whole, being bound by a soldier, and a Garlean clad in white armor — a Tribunus, most like. Satisfied, though, that she was alive, he allowed the Imperials to steer him down the hall.
A figure stood at the doorway that made both Archons’ eyes widen — a dark cloak, a mask, and a thin smirk upon his lips…an Ascian. He waved a hand, and it seemed he was assisting with the assault, for by his magic they were teleported back out of the Sands.
Urianger and Papalymo were the last to be escorted by the Ascian, and he held up a hand, making the Imperials pause. Smirk widening further, he stepped forward, looking from Elezen to Lalafell, and laughed.
"My apologies for the unexpected intrusion, gentlemen Archons," he said smoothly. "But my Imperial companions had business with your Antecedent. Quite a shame about the bloodshed — but such is life."
He paused, his voice lowering, and grin almost savage. “Look at it this way — at the very least, at least this time your precious leader will still be alive at the end of the day.”
Both he and Papalymo beside him flinched at that — Urianger swallowing back the wave of sorrow that the words brought forth, as did any mention of Louisoix. How dare that Ascian…
Before either could retaliate, the magic teleported them away, the last thing in their ears the wicked laughter of the masked man.
As they reappeared in the metal walls of a Castrum, Urianger and Papalymo exchanged a final look of worry. What would happen to them now? And what would happen to those that had not been there? To young Arenvald, to Yda and Y’shtola?
And what would happen to A’khemi?
((This is like. The saddest prompt ever and I AM NOT SORRY CACKLES INTO THE SUN.))
