I Beg Of You To Heed Me...
A drabble for @ghostofnibelheim
No sweeter words would ever be uttered beneath this blanket of sorrow and twilight—nothing sweeter, fateful, melodic, akin to the twittering of the loveliest of songbirds on a warm summer's day.
‘I love you…’ He’d said.
‘I love you…’
Moreover, in the place of the lush, warm green of the Black Shroud’s canopy, only this desolate place's bleak, cold darkness surrounded them. A place of death, and incomprehensible grief; Ultima Thule.
The ever-present ache of battle, the sharp sting of wounds sliced open beneath icy steel, the viscous tang of blood coating the tongue and the thick fog of the mind lifting, albeit slowly - none of this mattered, not in the face of waning hope, of dreams which Khum’a could arguably visualise beginning to crack and disintegrate before his very eyes as his one, his only - love of his life, a destiny realised - slowly slipped into the black.
“No…” An initial whisper while he cradled Sefirah’s head, brushing snowy hair from his tired eyes, watching helplessly as the Viera descended beyond the grasp of consciousness.
“No, no, no… Sefirah…” he whimpered, a gentle rock of the other’s body in a frail attempt to rouse the man from what the Miqo’te knew all too well to be mortal injuries… injuries that he had caused - by design or no… it didn’t matter.
“... stay… stay with me… please… please don’t go, Sefirah!” whimpers now evolved into broken, desperate sobs, what was left of the space surrounding them blurring out of view. They’d come too far, hadn’t they? Defied all odds stacked against them, defied even the Gods and life itself, for it to end this way.
The Dragonsong War.
The liberation of Ala Mhigo and Doma
The seemingly impossible war against the Everlasting Light.
They’d risen above them all, victorious, strong.
Together.
They’d come too far for it to be over now!!
It couldn’t end this way!!
“Sefirah, please!! You can’t!! You can’t leave me! You can’t!! You promised me!! YOU PROMISED!!” A scream, one that did not sound quite like his own, where in this instance he felt so utterly helpless, where all he could do was cry… and beg.
But what good was begging when the one you love beyond all measure was dying in your arms?
Actions speak louder than words. Was that not a sentiment Khum'a himself had always tried to live by?
A fit of desperation would take hold, then, forcing him to lean back only slightly while he knelt there next to his love, tearing away every satchel on his person and spilling their contents right onto the cold, hard floor. Potion bottles, coins, materia, and all other manner of bric-a-brac skittered across this former battlefield, an undefined mess of ‘things’ once revered and hoarded, saved for a rainy day… now beyond worthless. Khum’a did not know for what he searched in that moment, but search through the clutter he did as instinct dictated. A mad frenzy borne of unadulterated reckless desire to fix the unfixable, hands sweeping and slipping through the jumble of meagre possessions to find something, anything… nothing at all. Until that one defining moment…
It lay there amongst the pile, pearlescent and bright against the dark stone of the floor beneath him; a small trinket picked up on a flight of fancy many, many moons prior, a beacon shining, oh, so brightly upon this deep ocean of uncertainty.
The faintest glimmer of hope, albeit one he could see and touch.
An age had passed since he’d last had use of it, and yet here it was now, glittering up at him like a long-lost treasure. A fathomless fortune compacted into one tiny space.
Khum’a wastes no time grasping it from the floor, tearing away his gauntlets, knowing in that moment that he lacked the equipment needed to channel the aether needed to conjure even the weakest spell… not that there was any aether to be harvested here, in this waste made almost entirely of dynamis. Not even the corpse of their fallen adversary beside them could harbour enough now, as foul and corrupted as it may have once been. And so, he sits there for a moment, eyes flickering between Sefirah’s lifeless dying body and the stone betwixt his own quivering fingers, eyes stinging, breaths heavy, the only sounds to be heard being the thunderous beat of his own heart hammering in his chest.
The stone was right here… though not quite the means to use it, and the hope was beginning to die once more, at least until he’s forced to recall a memory, one not spied upon with his mind's eye for what felt like an eternity, and then some.
Of a young conjurer met upon his travels, with the power to extract aether from within; to use their own lifeforce as a means to heal others.
Anything to save him.
To bring him back to them.
His one, his love, his destiny realised.
Gripping the stone in both hands, clasped around it like some precious, priceless thing, bringing it to his brow and squeezing shut both eyes -
Tried with all his might, not certain which parts of himself to tap, to wake, stimulate, but he tried nonetheless. Tried to the point of blind frustration, once, twice, three times… yet still the stone lay lifeless in his hands.
A violent snarl, enough to tear at the throat, bitter tears clearing clean paths over his cheeks, does he raise his sights heavenward, his mouth twisted into a vicious grimace, his jaw clenched, painfully so. They had come too far…
Khum’a refused to lose him now.
‘Where you go, ... I... will stay’
“BY THE TWELVE!!” he called then into the stars, still holding onto the stone, defiant in the face of its refusal to work for him now when he needed it so desperately. His final call, the last resort… was to pray, to beg a higher power for this one small favour… certain that even the Gods would not hear, but he would try anyway.
“You WILL hear me now, that you owe me if nothing else!!” His voice was breaking, hoarse, as he cried out into this Godless, forsaken, and forgotten sky, where voices were never heard, where all feeling, all life… came to die.
But Sefirah would not die today. Death did not have a say, not here, not with him. Khum’a would see Death denied this prize. Sefirah was his… Death could not have him.
“You’ve taken everything from me, already, why take more?! What will more pain and suffering bring to the lives of men?! You would snuff out the Light which saved your damn world, time and time again?! You would have the children of Etheris believe you cruel? WOULD YOU?!”
A low sob, casting those teary eyes upon Sefirah once more. To gaze upon him right then, one would be forgiven for believing that he was merely sleeping, peaceful… But the moment the blond’s palm would caress the man’s cheek, cool to the touch, Khum’a knew better. He was slowly dying, and there was no one here to save him. Khum’a allows his body to curl over the Viera, touching his brow upon the others, the ice of his skin a torture he had prayed to never know.
“I beg of you to heed me…” He whimpers then, eyes closed against the cold of the man beneath him, unable to accept defeat, refusing to allow himself to believe that this was one battle they had already lost.
‘Where you go, I go…’
‘... and I will make a promise of my own to you. Where you go… I… will stay.’
Strength returned to him then, in the wake of that powerful memory, where the Miqo’te had once believed all hope was dead, where Sefirah had once again made himself the beacon of hope, the light shining deep within the black of Khum’a’s eternal night. And he would pull himself back from the cool body on the ground, calling once more into the deep, unforgiving darkness overhead.
“Do not take him from me as well! If a life is owed, then take mine!! Take mine! Or give to me the means to save him! I have the will! You know it! I-HAVE-THE WILL!!
"Grant me the power to do good by you, by him! And I swear, I will never ask anything of you again for as long as I draw breath! Help me return the Light to him! Please! I BESEECH YOU!!”
Of course, no voices would answer. There were none to be heard here, none to sing the songs of Etheris, of the Gods, to bring life to one man who didn’t deserve to die, the Warrior of Light.
But even as he goes unanswered, Khum’a was not ready to let him go.
Not yet.
And so he curls over Sefirah once more, a single palm caressing his cool cheek, turning the face of the Viera towards his own, brows again touching, while the palm of his other hand gripped so tightly at that one little stone still clinging greedily to the answers he needed.
“... please… please… Don’t leave me…I love you, please…”
A moment passed, perhaps even two before - amidst the anguished sobs of a man so violently holding onto the hopes that the most important thing in his life would miraculously wake from this stupor - warmth would pulse into his chest, an immense swell of heat radiating from that one little point held in the palm of his hand.
Eyes flew open to witness the stone’s sigil glowing in the palm of his hand. The shock of that moment was immeasurable, one which would have his own flesh tighten around his bones. And it took a moment longer for the realisation to sink in… that his prayers had actually been answered.
“Thank you…” A hushed whisper as Khum’a scrambled then to secure the stone in a pocket, and prepare himself for the onslaught of conjuring aether into the body of another. A task much easier with the correct channelling tools for the task, but in the here and now, he would have to make do with what he had.
“Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you…!” A chant repeated over and over again, drawing his blade, poising the pommel over Sefirah’s lifeless form - the stone of which had been set there Khum’a would use to focus his aether - and the palm of his free hand hovering over the chest, a bid to keep the heart beating and the blood flowing while his cure did what it could to heal the Viera’s wounds. Fatal as they’d seemed to be in the moment, the God’s surely would not grant him this power if they truly believed he would fail.
They wouldn’t sacrifice their Warrior of Light to a demon born from hatred.
Surely they wouldn’t.
The effort it took to even conjure the spell was tremendous; still weak from the mental battle with Zenos, the insufferable ache was very evident in every fibre of his being. Yet Khum’a would apply his all, everything possible he had left within him to force his own lifes essence into the man he loves, watching as the world around them grew ever darker, his body screaming against the very basic instincts to just survive.
He would give it all for him.
He would die for him.
That fact would never change, not now, not ever.
If he had to die so Sefirah could live, then so be it.
A world without him, was not a world Khum’a wanted to live.
And so he fought on, feeling the aether drain from the deepest and darkest parts of him, watching it manifest within the cooling blaze now encircling Sefirah’s body, the sparks of life beginning to make themselves known; colour returning to pallid skin, the steady knit of damaged flesh.
The process was arduous, slow, painful, the very fringes of Khum’a’s consciousness beginning to fray around the edges, pulling him deeper into the everlasting black. But just as he was beginning to see progress, as the healing magiks were doing their work, the strength to keep going began to ebb and wane.
“... no… Don’t do this… Come on, please!”
A factor the Miqo’te simply hadn’t factored in. For he, too, was severely injured, yet in his moment of despair, physical pain had been but an afterthought.
He felt himself give way, deep within the crevices of himself, an almost physical snap as though his bones were too brittle to continue and the flow of aether suddenly ceased.
“NO! Not now! NOT NOW!” A distressed cry before he brings the pommel of his blade a touch closer, the flat of his palm pressed firmly against Sefirah’s chest, as though this in and of itself would aid in healing him faster. The flesh quickly began to grow cold again under his touch.
He tries again, steeling and focusing what little of himself he had left into conjuring another spell, the pain of which was causing him to growl from the bowels of his throat. For a second, perhaps two, it seems promising; the tell-tale glow of his hand as the aether flows, the agonising drain of his basic senses, the steadily growing warmth of the body beneath as Sefirah clings to those minuscule threads of life.
But again… Khum’a’s strength fails him, the spell dissipates, the sheer weight of his blade now too much to bear as it clatters to the floor, and he all but collapses alongside it. Spent and breathless, the blond merely kneels, head bowed, next to his friend… the one whom he had vowed to protect against all costs, had willingly offered his own life in return… and failed.
“NO!! No, no, no, NO!!” A primal scream, one without even an echo in this desolate tundra, hands yanking at his hair, pulling his head towards the floor in white-hot frustration, before then slapping both palms onto the floor between them.
Story of his life; yet another catastrophe to add to the catalogue of all the others still hanging about his throat like a damn noose.
The Gods had teased him in his hour of crushing need, and the fury was so fast to bring his blood to the boil. Hands flat against the ground, he clenches them both into the tightest fists, so tight in fact that he could feel his nails beginning to pierce the flesh of each palm. The tears flow once more, his cries a savage scream, ripping the throat raw as he lifts a single arm, high, and ready to slam back down into the ground - a common reaction to his own failings, to elicit violence, to hurt himself and feel the pain when things simply don’t go his way.
But instead, he simply held it there, high above his head, the tension of that tightly bound fist making him quiver beneath it, a moment of surreal clarity as the cries died down into a low, quiet sorrowful weeping; a realisation then, that a fit of rage will do nothing to fix what was already broken beyond any reasonable sense of repair. Even turning that anger on the man who had caused all of this, lying dead behind him, would do nothing to ease the agony.
Sefirah was dying… and there was nobody here to save him.
Slowly does the blond draw his hand back down beside the other, raising his head to gaze once more over the visage of his friend and ally. The one who’d given him purpose, a reason to live beyond mere existence.
His one, his love, his destiny realised.
He loved him.
Loved him more than mere words could possibly express.
And he loved him back in return, his final words…
That bare hand once again touched upon Sefirah’s cheek, his thumb gliding over his pale skin, just so desperate to take him in, to gaze upon him just one last time… praying silently that he would just open his eyes and everything would be as it was.
That they would suddenly wake up between crisp, cool sheets back in the Rising Stones.
That all of this would all just… go away.
Childish notions, ones that Sefirah would have scolded him for, were he awake to hear them from Khum’a’s lips.
“I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…” were Khum’a’s final words in that plane as he then resided himself to lie next to the one he considered his soulmate, hand shifting downwards to the Viera’s throat, feeling the ever weakening pulse beneath his skin. Khum’a would not let him go alone, he owed him that much if nothing else at all.
It could have been seconds after the blond had accepted his fate and closed his eyes, it could have been hours - all sense of time had been lost since this nightmare had begun, when he heard the tell-tale clink of something metallic falling onto the cold floor of the clearing. And instinctively, Khum’a raised his head in the general direction of that sound, down near their feet…
… the blinking light of the transportation device he himself had used to save the Scions from the wrath of the Endsinger.
There was no way… how could this even be?
He swings his head skyward… to darkness, to the body of the former Crown Prince behind him… still dead… to Sefirah, breaths shallow but alive. There was no time to waste, no time for questions, if this offering was real, Khum’a had to grab it with both hands, and he had to grab it now! Mere seconds away was it from activating.
Scrabbling to his feet, he takes chase after the device, misjudging the distance initially and kicking it hard across the clearing, sending it skittering along the dark stone. But he catches it up, falling to his knees and all but tackling the small remote with a full body ground slam, before sprinting back to the Viera, skidding across the plane of the clearing on his knees, hard enough that his armour would create bright yellow sparks in his wake. It was Sefirah’s dead weight that brought the Miqo’te to a halt, wrapping himself around his friend's head and holding on for dear life as though he feared that it would leave him behind if he didn’t.
And in the blink of an eye, they were gone.
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