"Do you remember what you asked me," Ariane asked, "when we'd just arrived?"
The flush that crept out to Urianger's ears said he did indeed remember. "…Forsooth. Thou must have thought me the very picture of vanity."
"Only a little," Ariane said, with great fondness. "I only wonder how things might have gone, had I said just then what I wished to."
A smile crept over his face. "Thou must not tease me so, save if thou meanest to indulge me."
Ariane stepped closer, and reached up to touch the adornments at the shoulder of his chiton. "I should have liked to say, 'You look beautiful.'" Toying with the points of a golden star, she grinned. "I do love this on you. But the truth is, you'd have been a beautiful sight to me in a burlap sack, my dear. I'd missed you so…"
Urianger's hands came to her waist, and Ariane laid her head against his other shoulder, felt his lips brush her hair. "And I thee…" he said softly. "And I thee."
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Spoilers for ARR and the late Heavensward patches
Relationships: Lyse Hext & Y'shtola Rhul
Characters: Y'shtola Rhul, Lyse Hext, Iliud
Additional Tags: Garlean Attack on the Waking Sands, Gap Filler
Series: With Lilies and With Laurel
Length: 4,399 words
Summary:
Y'shtola returns from a solo mission to find the Waking Sands ransacked, and a comrade in distress.
Notes:
This is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes and is not intended to be instructional with regard to espionage, grief and mourning, operational security, or anything else.
AO3 | dreamwidth
---
Y'shtola had not meant to be away so long.
'Twas not unlike her, she could admit, to become overly-engrossed in her work, such that time scarcely seemed to pass at all, until some interruption or bodily need chanced to disturb her concentration. She had had good cause, in this case, to be so engrossed. The Warrior of Light's defeat of Titan was cause for celebration indeed… yet with this victory had come a revelation Y'shtola could not ignore. Ascians and imperials, working together…
Mayhap it had been unwise to undertake an investigation without first consulting the others… alas, after days of receiving the runaround from the Company of Heroes, Y'shtola's patience for collaborative work had been all but spent. She bore no resentment for the Warrior of Light, of course. Adventurers could have their peculiarities, to be sure, but Ariane Clairière was one of the most agreeable Y'shtola had known. Mayhap too agreeable, if Y'shtola were honest. She herself might have had sharper words for Whiskeiat, and sooner, if the Elezen healer's courtesy and patience for running all up and down the coast of Vylbrand from sunup to sundown on menial errands had not put Y'shtola to shame. Nonetheless they had been delayed from the vital task of facing the primal for far longer than they ought to have been, and with that matter dealt with…
Well, there were times when it was simply more expedient to work alone.
-
She had thought little of the linkpearl silence. True, it had been a few days. Ariane would have borne word of their victory to Maelstrom Command, and then to Minfilia. Thancred and Papalymo would be busy with their own work. Were her presence urgently required, the Antecedent would have called to inform her.
She had picked up the trail of the imperial engineer in Mor Dhona easily enough. The man was not subtle in his movements. Tailing him, however, proved a futile exercise. If Y'shtola had hoped to witness a second meeting 'twixt the engineer and his Ascian accomplice, it was not to be. What she had managed to glean, however, confirmed what she had overheard at the Navel: the Garleans, or at least this engineer, had an interest in eikons.
To follow the engineer into Castrum Centri was riskier still. Thancred would have had an easier time of it, and for such a vital matter, even Y'shtola found herself willing to call for aid. Her friend did not answer his linkpearl when Y'shtola rang, however, and presuming him to be engaged in a covert operation of his own, she did not try again.
She did not go far in, remaining where there was ample cover, knowing that all too soon the engineer would pass where she dared not follow.
Yet she would be glad she had done so, for 'twas there she overheard talk of a group of prisoners brought to the castrum, one of whom was even now under interrogation by the tribunus—and at this, Y'shtola's very blood ran cold—for this captive was possessed of the Echo.
-
She flew now from the castrum with all haste, and made for Thanalan by aetheryte.
There was no certainty that the imperials had captured a member of the Scions. The gifted were many, after all, even if no small number of them understood little of their gift. If it be such a one, however, their chances of having drawn the attention of the Empire were slim. Far more likely it were one of their own—even, Twelve forfend, the Warrior of Light.
The Antecedent was not answering her linkpearl.
Dread swelled in Y'shtola's breast, even as she arrived at the aetheryte in Horizon and saw naught amiss—naught that would suggest an imperial force had recently passed through. This did little to reassure her—there yet remained every chance the imperials had apprehended one of their own in their travels. And if that be the case, the Antecedent must know at once.
-
Naught appeared amiss as Y'shtola emerged from the Footfalls into the late afternoon sun in Vesper Bay. Merchants plied their trade from tents and stalls, locals and adventurers bustled about the sandy square. A familiar salt breeze blew in from the harbor, and with it the murmur of voices, the creak of vessels docking or putting out to sea, cargo being loaded and unloaded, punctuated with the occasional shout. All appeared as it ought to be.
All, save this: the lobby of the Waking Sands lay empty. There was no sign of Tataru at the table where she customarily sat—her ledger, too, was nowhere to be found. What that might signify, Y'shtola could not say.
She hastened down the stairs, and pushed open the doors.
There was a sharp and smokey smell in the air, a smell Y'shtola knew acutely from the Battle of Carteneau. Garlean firearms had been discharged within this building.
Gods be good.
And beneath it, the copper smell of blood.
-
Amongst the Scions ranks were warriors aplenty. The greater part of their number, after all, were adventurers—those possessed of both the blessing of Hydaelyn and skill in battle, that they might face primals without fear of tempering, and send them back to the aether from whence they had come. They were far from defenseless, even caught unawares.
Yet surveying her surroundings, wand in hand, even now gathering aether that she might swiftly offer healing to any survivors, Y'shtola knew not whether she ought to cling to hope. She saw no one, living or dead, yet the signs of battle were plain. Here and there the sandstone walls bore the damage of stray gunfire, shattered bits of stone fallen from scorched indentations. Broad, deep stains marred the stone floor. Much blood had been spilled here.
Yet no bodies. Was that yet cause for hope?
She must make a thorough search of the building, in any case, looking first for survivors. She must also be on her guard. T’was not out of the question that the imperials might have left an ambush behind. She must needs be prepared to defend her own life.
Approaching the Solar, however, she was arrested by a peculiar sound. She could not put her finger upon it. Only as she drew closer, wary, did Y'shtola recognize the sound of someone weeping.
-
Swiftly Y'shtola threw open the door to the Solar, wand at the ready, for Stone or for Cure she knew not. There was yet the chance it might be a trap.
"Oh—" Y'shtola uttered, lowering her wand as the sobbing figure crumpled on the floor looked up at her in shock. "Oh."
-
Privately, Y'shtola had never approved of Papalymo's indulging the girl so.
That he had made a promise to Yda, she understood. Certainly they should not have turned their dear friend's sister out in the streets; she would ever have been welcome among the Circle, and later the Scions. That Papalymo had wished to accommodate young Lyse's… peculiar way of grieving, she had allowed, foreign as it was to the manner of Y'shtola's own upbringing. You shall walk this path with your eyes open, or not at all. Master Matoya had never suffered her pupil to face anything less than the brutal truth of the world, from the first day of her apprenticeship to the day Y'shtola, then of age, had left to become a disciple of her mentor's bitterest rival. Needless to say, they had not parted on the best of terms…yet the lessons her master had imparted remained with her nonetheless.
'Twas not as though any of them would be fooled by the sight of young Lyse, masked and playacting as an Archon a decade older, their colleague and friend of many years… and yet, at Papalymo's urging, the others of the Circle had agreed to grieve their fallen comrade in secret, and to play along until such a time as Lyse was ready to unmask herself and face her sister's death. Y'shtola had wondered at Papalymo's willingness to accept the charade, but even more at Master Louisoix's doing so. Were it not for his acquiescence, she might have pressed the matter further. In any case, she had expected to keep up the pretense perhaps for a moon or two… certainly not for six years. More than once, she had approached Papalymo, asking whether it wasn't about time to have a talk with the girl and put an end to this. If nothing else, the falsifying of an Archon mark was a serious offense, one which put Papalymo himself at risk of censure should his actions be discovered by the Forum. Papalymo had not disagreed, but bade her leave the matter to him. I shall speak with her… when the time is right. Whether he had, or had not, Y'shtola knew not, but in any case nothing had ever come of it, and they had all carried on as before.
And so she continued to call the girl "Yda," and to pretend, though her heart knew the lie, and misliked it.
-
Yda's black eyemask was fallen beside Lyse where she sat on her knees. Her turban had come loose, letting her long hair spill messily over her shoulders. And when her wide, reddened eyes looked up at Y'shtola, there was fear in them. Fear of what had become of their comrades, certainly.
Mayhap too, a fear that she would have to explain herself.
Y'shtola knew not. And at this moment, it mattered not.
"Yda," she said, gentle but firm, and knelt beside her. "Are you hurt?"
Lyse's face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled over her cheeks.
"I can't find him," she wailed at last, wiping futilely at her eyes, only for them to well anew. "I can't find Papalymo. He won't answer his linkpearl… I've looked everywhere…"
"You've searched the building," Y'shtola said, relieved. She would repeat it herself, of course, but 'twas good to know that much had been done. "Did you find anyone else?"
Lyse hiccuped, and shook her head. "No one. Just… all the blood…"
Y'shtola took a deep breath, gathering her own thoughts. Above all, she wished to act. 'Twas tempting to press Lyse for further information. What else did you see? Any clues as to what happened? When did you last speak with Papalymo? Why were you apart? When did you arrive here? When did you last hear from Minfilia—
She restrained herself. 'Twas plain that Lyse was in no shape to be interrogated, and 'twould be ungentle to treat her so. She had had a shock, and was in great distress. Much as Y’shtola might wish to spring into action, Lyse's wellbeing must needs be her primary concern, for now.
"Are you hurt?" she asked again, and Lyse shook her head. Good. No need for physical healing. Y'shtola's magicks could not heal the turmoil of heart and mind, but other things might. A cup of tea, for one, would not go amiss.
She made to rise, and Lyse grabbed at her wrist. "Please—don't leave."
"I have no intention of leaving you," Y'shtola reassured her. "Pray, accompany me, if you will."
Lyse blinked, and then scrambled to her feet, collecting her mask as she did. "I—yes. Of course!" That this simple request seemed to have rallied her spirits was encouraging.
Y'shtola noticed only then that she had put her foot in some sticky, colorless substance—not blood—which had soaked the rug. As she stepped back from it, examining the sole of her boot, Lyse followed her gaze, and said quietly, "Sylph-blood… it's like tree sap. Not red like ours…"
Noraxia. The sylph ambassador.
Y'shtola said nothing, but closed her eyes briefly in acknowledgment.
-
She had every intention of tending to her companion's wellbeing as best she could, but of primary import was ensuring, insofar as she was able, that their environs were secure. To this end she led them in a sweep of the building.
The common room was utterly ransacked. Whatever the imperials had sought, they had not been delicate in their search. Crates and barrels lay cast asunder, tables and chairs overturned, some of the furniture outright smashed to bits. And of course, more blood. A bitten-back sob told Y'shtola that her companion would prefer to be anywhere else, yet it was a moment before she could tear her eyes from the scene, tail swishing back and forth in consternation.
Here would have been gathered the greatest of their numbers, when the assault had come. Some—those with the skill and weapons to hand—would have rushed to meet their attackers in the corridor. To defend the researchers, the Antecedent… those who could not defend themselves.
Here they would have been forced back before the numbers and the firepower of an imperial legion. Here they would have made their last stand.
This was all, of course, conjecture. With no bodies, it was impossible for Y'shtola to be certain of what had transpired. She could say with confidence only that the room now lay empty; neither friend nor foe remained.
Wordlessly she turned, and led her companion back the way they had come.
-
On the far side of the building lay the Scions' library, and beyond it a little kitchen and the wing of private quarters where some of their number lived. Urianger, for one. A part of Y'shtola had hoped she might find him there; alas, 'twas not to be. His bed was unmade, his desk piled with various tomes, a quill and ink, a cup of tea half-drunk. Y'shtola was loathe to invade the privacy of her comrades, and peered into each chamber only long enough to assure herself that none remained within.
Satisfied at last, she led them back to the library, the one common space not soaked in the blood of their comrades, for a mercy. Urging Lyse to sit, she withdraw briefly to the kitchen. Water on the boil for tea. A cup for Lyse, with honey. A cup for Y'shtola as well. She could do with something bracing at the moment.
As she waited for the pot to boil, she considered. What was to be done? There were none left to decide but Y'shtola, and so it must be she.
It was not for a certainty that the others had all perished. No, she would not accept such a thing without proof. The absence of any bodies was mystifying, given the quantity of blood spilled here, yet it offered hope as well. Some might yet have survived. And surely Y'shtola had not been the only one out in the field at the time of the attack.
She would succumb neither to panic, nor to despair. Should any have survived, they would have need of her.
As Yda's sister had need of her now.
-
By the time she returned with the tea, Lyse had set her mask back in place, and bound her hair back up beneath her turban. She took the proffered cup, but then sat staring at it a moment, unmoving.
"Pray drink it," Y'shtola directed gently. "It will help."
"Shouldn't we…?" Lyse trailed off, helpless. Plainly, she had no idea what they ought to be be doing. And yet, Y'shtola understood the impatience, the desire to act.
Good. They would need that later.
"Drink it first," she urged, and Lyse took a sip, offering no further protest.
Bringing her own cup to her lips, Y'shtola found herself standing before the portrait of their late master which hung on the library wall. The candles Urianger kept ever-burning on the table beneath had burnt out, the rings of remaining wax long since cooled.
She looked up at their master's gentle smile, and it struck her like a kick to the stomach that Alphinaud might have been here as well, when the attack occurred.
Gods be merciful. She could only pray Louisoix's grandson had been spared.
Pray watch over him, if he yet lives. Pray watch over us all.
Turning back to Lyse, she said, "Pray give me your linkpearl."
Lyse did. Y'shtola plucked her own from her ear, and stepped to the edge of the room, where the rug did not cover the stone floor, before setting the two pearls on the stone and crushing them beneath her boot.
She heard a gasp issue from behind her. "What are you doing? What if he tries to call me?"
"He will not, not if he knows what we face. The Scions are under attack by the Empire. Signals may be traced." Mayhap this was how they were discovered in the first place, Y'shtola thought grimly. They had made every effort to secure their channels, to conceal their location, but there were no guarantees… Scholar's quill. How could this have happened?
Kneeling, she swept the fragments into one hand, and cast them into the rubbish bin. "I'm afraid we cannot stay here. There is a chance those who attacked may return. We must seek safe harbor elsewhere."
Lyse nodded. "Oh—of course. Father Iliud!"
"Indeed." It pleased her that Lyse remembered. Father Iliud of the Church of St. Adama Landama was an old friend, and any member of the Circle of Knowing would know to shelter there in a storm.
-
The journey would be faster by chocobo, and Y'shtola had ample funds in her purse to hire a porter. It would be best, however, that they not be recognized. She had no chamber at the Waking Sands herself, nor had Lyse, as both of them worked primarily in the cities and dwelt in inn rooms when not on the move. Nonetheless, they found some spare changes of clothes among the Scions' stores. Y'shtola found for herself an unadorned mage's robe, with a hood that would keep her Archon marks suitably covered. For Lyse, she found a rough linen shirt and trousers. Rifling through the lost-and-found bin, full to overflowing with the misplaced effects of adventurers, she found a nondescript linen scarf as well, and tossed it to her companion. "This ought to do."
Lyse gazed blankly at the scarf a moment. "…Oh! The marks! Of course." She wound the scarf round her neck. "Sometimes I forget I have them."
Y'shtola could only let out a chuckle of fond exasperation.
-
Thus attired, they might travel to Camp Drybone by way of Black Brush Station, in the guise of simple pilgrims. At Drybone they relinquished their birds to the chocobokeep, and took a brief rest, before setting north for the church on foot.
It was evening, the day's light fading and the desert heat beginning to abate, as they climbed the steep path through the lichyard. Even now, Y'shtola dared not lower her hood, not until she could be assured of their safety. She prayed Father Illiud had not yet retired for the night.
Her prayers were answered. The good father came out from the sacristy when Y'shtola inquired, and by his greeting, their disguises had proved effective. "Welcome, good pilgrims, to our humble sanctuary. How may we serve you this evening?"
"We come seeking shelter," Y'shtola said, "and to inquire whether the wild roses yet bloom here."
Understanding registered upon the good father's face. "Thal be praised, that He has not yet seen fit to call you. Be at ease, for you are among friends here. Y'shtola, is it, and Yda? It has been some time. I regret that we must meet again under such circumstances. Yes, your companions have been here. Your Warrior of Light came first, but she is here no longer. She departed not long ago, with Master Alphinaud. He spoke of…" Here Father Iliud lowered his voice. "He spoke of the Ixal… and of Garuda."
"Then Alphinaud is safe." This alone was a great relief. That the Warrior of Light yet lived was a mercy as well. "Full glad am I to hear it."
"What about Papalymo?" Lyse asked urgently.
"Your thaumaturgical friend, yes? I'm afraid he has not been here. However…" Father Illiud brought a book from behind the lectern, and Y'shtola recognized it at once as Tataru's ledger. "Yes, I thought not. According to what Ariane was able to discern, Papalymo was not among the dead."
The dead. Y'shtola had known, of course. With what they had seen, the quantity of blood… it had been all but a certainty. All the same, the words landed heavy upon her heart.
-
The list of names was long.
Somberly, she and Lyse walked the rows of the lichyard, lit by a soft green glow from Y'shtola's wand. Father Iliud had assured them that proper rites had been performed for the fallen, though there were not yet stones for most. Though the sun was fully down now, and night deepening all about them, neither could think of sleep until they had paid their respects.
Notably missing from those marked deceased were Tataru, Urianger, Papalymo, Thancred, and Minfilia. None of these the Warrior of Light could have failed to recognize, having worked closely with all of them. Bitter as it was to rejoice with so many others fallen, Y’shtola could not help but feel some relief.
Lyse wept openly as they stood before the fresh mounds, the stones not yet laid. Y'shtola stood solemn at her side. Master Matoya had misliked it when she cried, as a child, and Y'shtola now found it difficult to summon up tears, even when mayhap she ought to have done. She was not without sentiment, nor without grief. Those interred here had been both friends and comrades-in-arms. Even now, she called to mind their faces, their names: A'aba, Aulie, Liavinne, Percevains, Satzfloh, Una—as if to assure herself she could yet remember, even as she reconciled herself to the reality of their deaths.
Walk this path with eyes full open, or not at all.
She could remember. Small comfort, and yet… in the days following the Calamity, she and her comrades had found some portion of their memories shrouded in an impenetrable fog. For those myriad adventurers, among them no small number of Minfilia’s Path of the Twelve, had vanished at Carteneau without a trace, and they had soon discovered that none the realm over could call to mind either their names or their faces—only the certainty that they had, indeed, existed, and fought beside the Grand Companies.
Many a time had Y'shtola discussed it with her friends, most frequently Urianger, and with no small frustration. No answers had they found. Yet years later, certain adventurers had come to the Waking Sands, insisting that they had friends among the Scions, that they had worked and fought at their side. Y'shtola, it's me, Una! Blast it all, don't any of ye know who I am?
Una Tayuun, now laid to rest for good at such a tender age.
“They’ll pay for this,” Lyse hissed, hands clenched to fists, even as tears streamed from beneath the mask. “By Rhalgr’s fists, someone will pay for this, I swear it. I swear…”
"We shall avenge them, every one," Y'shtola said quietly. "We shall not forget."
-
"What now?" Lyse asked, haltingly, as they made their way back to the sanctuary at last. So familiar, those words—the selfsame words she had spoken when, bereft of their master, they had gathered in the wake of Calamity in a small room in Ul'dah. "We should—We should go find Alphinaud, and the Warrior of Light, right? Alphinaud will know what to do… Maybe Papalymo is even with them!"
Plainly, Lyse was eager to be about it. Y'shtola could scarcely fault her, though there was no chance of them departing tonight. The good Father had offered them supper, and shelter for the night. They would avail themselves of these gifts, ere they set out again.
"Father Iliud said they went in pursuit of Garuda," she said. "If that is the case, then Alphinaud must have known of a summoning, and judged it most urgent. You and I are powerless against primals, I'm afraid. No, we would achieve naught in pursuing them. The Warrior of Light will do what must be done."
"But—" Lyse stammered, hands curling to fists once again in frustration. "But we can't just sit here and do nothing!"
"Certainly not."
"Then what…?"
"I have reason to believe that Minfilia, and mayhap others, have been taken captive—that even now, they may be held at Castrum Centri."
"What?" Lyse exclaimed. "But—why didn't you say so?"
Because I could not trust you not to fly there at once with naught but your fists, and promptly be captured or killed yourself, Y'shtola thought. Instead, she said, "I could not be certain… until I saw the ledger. And I had first to ascertain who else had escaped, and to ensure our safety."
She expected further protest. Instead. Lyse drew herself up tall. "I—I understand. We need a plan, then—we need intelligence, yes? But we'll do it—we'll rescue them! We will!"
For a long moment Y'shtola regarded her companion. Yda’s sister was impulsive, and stubborn, and Y'shtola could not deny that she had on many occasions questioned her judgment. The false marks Papalymo had so boldly laid upon her skin belied an impetuous heart and an immature mind.
Yet there was in her as well an admirable courage and strength of spirit. Aye, Lyse Hext would make a fine Scion in her own right… if she would only let drop the pretense, and claim her own name once again.
Y'shtola thought too of Yda—the real Yda, she who had given her own life to save those she could—Yda who must be on Lyse's mind even now. Y'shtola might have liked to offer some word of comfort.
But Lyse had chosen to pretend, and they had all agreed, for better or worse, to respect that choice. When Lyse was one day ready to speak of her sister's death, to bear her own name, Y'shtola would welcome it.
'Twas not her place to force it. Certainly not now, with more pressing matters at hand. (Was this indeed what Master Louisoix had thought, six years ago?) Y'shtola could no more storm an imperial castrum alone than could her young companion. She would require aid—and if that aid came under the name of Yda, and wearing her mask, Y'shtola would not refuse it.
"Aye," she replied, resolute. "We who remain shall strike back, and bring our comrades home."
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Family member death
Relationships: Warrior of Light & Gridania, Warrior of Light & Miounne
Characters: Warrior of Light, Miounne
Additional Tags: Gridania, Elezen Warrior of Light, Rejection, Call to Adventure, XIV Heatwave Festival 2026
Series: With Lilies and With Laurel
Length: 1692 words
Summary: An Elezen wanderer finds her way to Gridania in hopes of finding family.
Notes:
For the FFXIV Heatwave Festival 2026, for the prompt "wander," and with many thanks to @fourteenthz for hosting this lovely event with writer-friendly prompts and timeframes!
Many thanks to @farfromdaylight for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
The song Ariane's mother used to sing is inspired by "The Jug of Punch," specifically Altan's version, which also inspired Ariane's nameday! and which you can listen to here!
This is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes and is not intended to be instructional with regard to grief and mourning, travel, survival skills, locating distant relatives, or anything else.
AO3 | dreamwidth
---
"Do you perchance know anyone by the name of Clairière?"
The prospect of asking questions of strangers was far and away the worst thing about coming to Gridania… and mayhap one reason Ariane Clairière had avoided it for nigh on five winters.
She ought to have come sooner. What if, after all, the answer was Yes, of course, they live just down the hill or over the brook? Suppose she did have relations here, as Mother had always said, and she had kept them waiting, all this time?
Each time she screwed up her courage and asked, however, the answer would be No.
-
"I do know the name," Mother Miounne said thoughtfully. The Wood Wailer at the Blue Badger Gate by which she'd come had directed her first to the Carline Canopy, and Ariane was not one to disobey an order. "Yes, of course, a very Gridanian name—I've seen it in the old census records. I haven't known of any living Clairières, though, since before my time. And you say it's your mother's name?"
"It was," Ariane agreed, and saw Miounne's face soften at that. "Annette was her given name. But she was born in Mor Dhona. As was I."
"Not forestborn, then."
Forestborn. Mother had used the term, now and again. We're Gridanian, you know—my parents were forestborn, and you girls are of their lineage, children of the Glade. Ariane had known little of her grandparents—both had passed when she was very young. Mother had taken great pride, however, in that lineage, and taught Ariane and her sister in the ways of the forest: respect for nature, and for the elementals, the spirits of pure aether that dwelt therein. As the children of Nophica the Matron, the elementals were strongest and most numerous in Her holy forest, the Twelveswood.
Ariane was not forestborn. Of this, the people of Gridania would be swift to remind her.
-
We've family in Gridania, Mother had always said. One day, we'll take you girls to see them and the city. Such remarks had been commonplace, when Ariane and her sister Gratienne were small, in their home by the shores of Silvertear Lake. What family precisely, they did not know, only that Mother's parents had come from there, and others yet remained, so far as she knew.
It was no small thing, however, to visit Gridania. The city lay at the heart of the Black Shroud, surrounded by dense forest, and neither the girls nor Father were attuned to the aetheryte. Passage by carriage was costly, and Ariane's family had their little farm to tend. Going to Gridania glimmered in the far-distant future, a promise of one day, never now.
After Silvertear Skies, after they been driven from their home and forced to start anew, that promise had dwindled. Even on the outskirts of the Black Shroud, Gridania had seemed far away, ever out of reach, passage through the forest more costly and difficult to secure than ever. Even when they had been summoned to Quarrymill to stand before the Hearers, where it had been determined that they would be allow to remain on the outskirts, they had been been barred from moving to the city itself.
And in the moons following the Calamity, the Wood Wailers had forbidden nearly all passage through the Twelveswood, stating that the aetherial shifts had greatly disturbed the elementals, and no outsiders could be permitted beyond the Hedge at this time. When the borders would reopen, none could say.
So Ariane had turned back from the forest, and set out a wanderer with all that remained of her life carried on her back. One day, she would go to Gridania. But not today.
And days had become moons, and winter turned to summer and then to winter again, until near on five years had passed.
-
Mother Miounne bid her register with the guild as an adventurer. Ariane declined, of course. She was no adventurer. A wanderer, certainly; she had known no home since the Calamity had taken it from her, and her family with it. But she was no sellsword, slaying beasts and bandits and seeking fortune and reknown. Just an itinerant herbalist, one who could forage for medicinal plants and craft tonics and tinctures and salves for any who had need. In exchange, she might have a meal, a roof for the night, perhaps a weathered tunic or patched pair of trousers to replace her own threadbare garments. On rare occasion, a coin or two, though few in the rural parts of the realm had gil to spare.
Two personal items had she kept with her since the Calamity: her mother's signet ring, and her round silver spectacles. (Truly a mercy from the gods that she had managed to keep from losing or breaking them these five years, as she could see little without them.) Apart from these, Ariane's prized possession was a green wool cloak only a little worn and stained along the bottom, received as thanks for brewing medicine for a sick child with no promise of payment. Briefly she had thought to refuse—the family was far from wealthy. But the girl's mother had insisted, and Ariane, knowing acutely the pain of cold nights on hard ground, had at last accepted.
She was glad, in hindsight. It would have been foolish to do otherwise. Now if only she could find someone who would trade her a sturdy pair of boots. The ones she wore scarcely had soles left, and the stitching was precarious and let in the wet. What gil she had managed to save, these last five winters, had been much depleted by the carriage-ride through the Black Shroud.
Adventurers carried swords or spears, and clad themselves in bright steel and bold colors. Adventurers boasted of their deeds in taverns, and stood around the aetherytes displaying their shining weapons for all to see. Ariane Clairière was no adventurer.
Just a farm girl from Mor Dhona, whose home was no more.
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Mother Miounne, at least, was easy enough to talk to—the most welcoming by far that Ariane would meet in the green city. This, perhaps, afforded her a false sense of confidence in commencing her inquiries—a confidence which was quickly shattered.
She asked about for days before finding herself properly exhausted from approaching unfriendly strangers. One or two knew the name. The kindest of them simply directed her back to Mother Miounne. More declared they'd never heard the name, and even more simply waved her off, saying they'd have no truck with adventurers. Ariane's protests that she was not an adventurer fell on deaf ears. In one case, a Wailer outright accused of lying about her family connection in order to seek residence.
"I—it's—it's not a lie, I swear it. It's my name… I-I have this ring that was my mother's—"
"Your name is of no concern to us, nor are your trinkets. You are an outsider. See that you remember it."
Ariane stammered out some manner of apology before hastily retreating. Her eyes stung and her ears burned with a peculiar shame as she fled over the footbridge back toward the aetheryte.
Had this all been a mistake, after all?
Now she sat in the Carline Canopy, a cup of tea before her as she attempted to clear her head. The tea was sweet with wildflower honey, and the afternoon sunlight slanting through the tall windows was bright and warm. It was a lovely day, really, with summer coming upon the Twelveswood. She could just hear the great waterwheel ever-turning, and the sound of it was soothing.
It was also Ariane's nameday. Seven and twenty summers she was. The twenty-third day of the Third Umbral Moon, O as I sat down to weave at my loom… An old song Mother used to sing, that happened to name the day of Ariane's birth.
How her heart ached for the little cottage with its thatched roof, the scent of herbs drying high in the rafters, Mother's voice singing, Ariane joining in as she tended the hearth and set the kettle to boil, Gratienne's complaints about chores, and the scratch of Father's quill at his desk.
It had been a slim hope from the first. If Mother Miounne said no Clairières yet lived here… it was safe to say none did. Bothering anyone further seemed a futile exercise, one more like to see her turned out of the city than welcomed at some distant relative's hearth.
She was just thinking of retiring to her inn room for a good cry when she was startled out of her miseries by a familiar voice.
"The offer stands, you know." It was Mother Miounne, teapot in hand, who refilled her cup without Ariane's asking. "Adventurers are the very salve Gridania needs."
"I'm no adventurer."
"You needn't fight with a sword to be one, you know. Any skill with a bow?"
"A little," said Ariane without confidence. She had had skill enough to scare beasts away from the family farm, once, but it had been years since she drew an arrow.
Miounne regarded her thoughtfully. "You're more the healer type, aren’t you? You ought at least to stop by the Botanists' Guild. And, if you've a mind, the Conjurers' Guild at Stillglade Fane."
A conjurer? Ariane thought. Me?
But if she wasn't to make herself useful here, she would have to move on, or find other work. Here in the city, she might earn some real coin. Two nights at the inn had already drained most of her gil. (She suspected the innkeeper was overcharging her, but there was naught to be done for it). And she could really stand to get that new pair of boots. Perhaps even buy a pair, if no one would trade…
What was the harm in it, after all? It wasn't as though putting her name down in the book would force her to stay, or to take any job she didn't fancy. Adventurers were free agents.
"All right," she said, and she rose from her seat, and took up the quill, and signed her name in the ledger.
no, i actually don’t know why the gang hits the slopes keeps starting at the end of the episode instead of restarting which implies i watch it repeatedly without finishing, that’s so weird.
In fair Il Mheg, of blossoms bright
And hills of verdant green,
Resideth there upon the lake
My love, the Faerie Queen.
Unto her Kingdom she is bound,
And set apart are we.
And yet some lonesome nights, in dreams
She cometh unto me
And whisp'reth sweet unto mine ear,
“Fret not, my mortal love.
When time hath made thee frail, and thou
Hast labored long enough,
"I pray, lay down thy duty
And hearken unto me,
And here upon the crystal lake
We’ll live eternally.
"No longer needst thou languish,
Nor thy weary body strive.
There’s milk upon my table,
And honey from the hive.
"From thine own world, in mortal flesh
Thou never canst be free.
But loose the fetters of thy soul,
And I shall carry thee.”
I left mine heart beside that lake,
As sure as I yet breathe.
Yet duty bindeth me to life;
I cannot yet be free.
Steadfastly shall I labor
For those we may yet save,
And I’ll not forsake my duty
Ere I’m neighbor to the grave.
Though e'en now my light is dimming
Shall I count my duty o'er?
Shall I go unto Titania
Upon that crystal shore?
Shall I at length accept the gift
My Queen would fain bestow—
Forsaking the aetherial sea
Where dear departed go—
Forsaking those who've gone before
And there beyond await,
For life eternal with my love
At Lyhe Ghiah's gate—
From rebirth, ever sundered,
Transfigurèd my soul
Unto unchanging umbral thing
Forever there to dwell?
Where fallen kingdoms sleep beneath
And stars preside above,
Resideth there upon the lake
The Faerie Queen, my love.
--Excerpted from The Faerie Queen, an epic poem penned by Archon Urianger Augurelt in his last days and found in the Bookman's Shelves among his other writings.
Following the Warrior of Darkness's transformation into Titania, her companions were unable to return to their star, and at length, one by one they perished, their souls apparently dissipating into the aetherial sea as the connection to their distant bodies disintegrated. Only the Astrologian's fate remains unknown, as none were with him in his final hours. Whether he chose to pass unto the aetherial sea, or to accept the Faerie Queen's offer, remains a mystery.
This epic poem contains many verses, some complete and some fragmentary, suggesting that the Archon was not able to complete the work before he vanished from us. Nonetheless, The Faerie Queen remains a significant and beloved work across Norvrandt, the original manuscript archived in the Crystarium's Cabinet of Curiosity.
