An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: SoulSilvershipping, Kotone | Lyra/Silver
Characters: Silver (Pokemon), Kotone | Lyra
Additional Tags: JUST FLUFF REALLY, for the holidays hooray!, here comes another masq comeback
Summary:
Sometimes Silver finds that pissing Kotone off is one of the highlights of his day.
Their remaining free time evaporates in the blink of an eye. Leves and innocuous adventures become something of a luxury as they're sent across Eorzea on a seemingly endless list of tasks.
On some days the mantle of 'hero' still feels novel. The weight of responsibility is nothing new and while the title doesn't particularly bother him, it was never something he thought about chasing. Sure, it keeps them both busy and offers a steady stream of challenges, but sometimes in the quiet moments he's afforded he wonders if he's finally bitten off more than he can chew.
He eyes the looming figure of the Agrius with dread pooling deep in his stomach. The old, dilapidated airship looks stable enough from across the water, propped up by crystal and debris both, but something about it sets his teeth on edge. It may be linked to his piss poor experiences with delving into imperial structures. It may be the winding, massive corpse of Midgardsormr. Chances are it’s probably both.
“Ready to set off?” Mihren asks, checking her satchel one last time. “I’ve been told we can take the boat across. Less attention and all that.”
The longer he stares the higher his hair stands on end. The great wyrm has been dead for years, he reminds himself. The biggest threat will be from whatever has decided to make a home in the ruins—and whatever forces Castrum Centri sent for scavenging.
“Meteor?”
He shakes off the unease. “Let’s go.”
The swim across the lake is subdued, marked only by the quiet slosh of water. There’s no activity to be seen from the imperial base nearby and only the faint murmur of civilization heard from Revenant’s Toll. All signs point to a quiet, uneventful night. Perfect for an investigation into Lucia’s claims of the wyrm awakening.
It does nothing to soothe the sense of danger prickling at his senses. Something about the stillness in the air reminds him far too much of the suspended moments before a battle.
Finding a place to disembark at the base of the ruins, at least, is easier than expected. He holds the boat steady while Mihren leans out to grab at a piece of wreckage. Watching her tip dangerously close to the edge has him shaking his head.
“Got the rope ready?” she asks over her shoulder.
“I’ll do it.”
“You sure?”
“Quite,” he drolls, remembering the last time he had her moor something. “Move over.”
She snickers and raises her hands in defense, but carefully slips past him as they switch positions. He makes quick work of securing the boat, firmly tugging on the rope to test, before slipping out and onto some protruding crystal. A cursory glance reveals the coast to be clear.
Mihren hops out behind him, using his offered arm for balance. “Thanks.”
“Will you be able to focus?”
At her questioning look, he gestures upwards. The air above rolls in on itself in incandescent waves, teeming with aether. The pressure of it is easy enough for him to ignore. She, however, had previously complained of the headaches it caused.
“The density is particularly bad tonight, I’ll say that much. But—” she smiles up at him, “—ignoring it has gotten much easier. I’ll be just fine.”
He gives a curt nod. “Let me know if that changes.”
“Will do,” she agrees easily, keeping pace as he sets off for what looks to be a way up. “But on that note: are you all right? You’ve been tense ever since we left the Rising Stones.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Just a bad feeling.”
“Of this place? Or in general?”
He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t say.
Bits of scattered crystal crunch under their feet as they ascend into the wreckage of the airship. He grips the handle of his greatsword as unease gnaws at his nerves. He still can’t pinpoint the cause, can’t put his finger on what’s got him so on edge, and the inability to recognize the threat alone is almost enough for him to turn and send Mihren back to the Rising Stones.
But he’d promised. And if Lucia’s claims are true, then all of Eorzea would be in trouble.
They make short work of imperial magitek and soldiers both, pausing only when their path forward becomes the carcass of Midgardsormr himself.
Mihren lingers at the edge of the platform, toeing the hardened scales. “Is there no other way up? Walking on a corpse feels… in poor taste.”
He’s inclined to agree. “None that I saw.”
"Right." She exhales and sets her shoulders. "Up we go, then."
Wyverns block their path in numbers on the ascent, and after he cuts down a seventh he begins to think the astrologians in Ishgard may have spoken true. The creatures snap at them as though frenzied, invigorated by reasons unknown.
Mihren slows as the corpses of two large dragons greet them at the top. “Mm. You know that bad feeling you mentioned? I didn't say it then, but my stomach started turning about halfway through the Garlean’s makeshift base. Worsened when we started walking up here. I think—”
“Who treadeth now upon my bones and waketh me from slumber sweet?”
“—...that this may have been a bad idea."
He wishes, not for the first time, that his instincts would be wrong for once.
Battling the twin dragons—reinvigorated with life from their ghostly sire—turns out to be an unremarkable encounter. He swings and dodges in a repetition of familiar motions, reflexes honed by the incessant trill of danger in his head.
The real enemy is the hulking shade of Midgardsormr. Meteor's nerves fray further when the wyrm doesn't directly participate, instead content to merely watch. He keeps an eye out for unsuspecting attacks, keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop as he parries away gnashing teeth, but nothing happens. Midgardsormr listens to their words as a parent would a misbehaving child—claiming that Ishgard is as good as gone—and it isn’t until a brilliant light appears above them that Meteor finally keys in on the threat.
He twists to find Mihren already reaching for him. “Don't—!”
A flare goes off behind his eyes. Crystal shatters in his ears, reminding him of the gravel they’d crushed underfoot to get here. Then, nothing. A muffled silence.
When the world sharply clicks back into place, he finds Mihren staring back at him with the same wide-eyed shock he feels.
She fusses.
He’s learned this fact well. As much as she pokes fun at Minfilia for being a mother hen, he sometimes thinks Mihren can be worse—particularly when she thinks he’s injured. Minfilia’s worry at least stops at the doors of the Solar. Mihren hounds him until he relents.
“I’m fine,” he repeats, trying to step around her.
Her hands press more firmly against his chest in protest, nudging him back.
“I’m—”
“Hold still.”
He sighs and resigns himself to wait. The warmth of her aether prodding at him is a familiar sensation. Still, he doesn’t need her to confirm that which he already knows: Hydaelyn’s blessing is gone. He can feel it. A nothingness sharpened by the sense that something had once been there.
Mihren’s mouth presses into a grim line as her hands fall away. "You didn't tell me your side was bruised."
He ducks his head. That explains the dull throb he'd felt. "I didn't notice."
She gives him an exasperated look.
"Sorry," he adds wryly. “I swear I didn’t.”
"Your ongoing lack of self preservation aside, everything else appears to be fine. Hale and whole as can be, the both of us." Her shoulders slump. "Which is not the verdict I was expecting to reach."
Things could have gone worse. Much worse, if he cares to consider what would've happened to them had they lacked the blessing to begin with.
Mihren’s expression turns as solemn as his thoughts. "Her blessing isn't the sole source of our strength," she murmurs, brows furrowed in determination. “We'll be just fine without it, won’t we?"
He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t say.
That which follows, when he thinks back on it, is a domino sequence of events which could have been avoided. If only he had the foresight.
Splitting in Northern Thanalan is a pragmatic approach to yet another imperial threat. They're both formidable even without Hydaelyn's divine intervention and the dredges of soldiers left behind are an enemy they can afford to divide their strength on. They've done it before and with the Crystal Braves spread thin it makes sense to do so again.
But—
He should have waited before setting out to find Moenbryda. Should have waited for Mihren to return with the rest of the Scions.
But how could he have known?
Nabriales falls on them with the severity of an executioner's axe and Meteor has no time to wait. He and Moenbryda throw themselves towards the Rising Stones, and then he throws himself into the rift after Minfilia.
Cold creeps in through the cracks of his armor. The dimensional rift compresses around him, closing in until his ears pop. His body feels heavy, sluggish and unresponsive as though his very existence is clashing with whatever laws govern this space.
The one boon he's given is that Nabriales, like Lahabrea before him, likes the sound of his voice. He gloats over Meteor’s lack of Light and throws spells about with the air of someone already assured of their victory. The blatant disregard and smug attitude is easy to ignore. The amount of effort it takes to so much as land a hit on the Ascian isn’t.
We’ll be just fine without it, won’t we?
Meteor spits the blood from his mouth. There are no cure spells coming to reinforce him. He’s alone in this rift, and if he fails, Minfilia is as good as gone.
He should have waited.
By the skin of his teeth, he succeeds. The Ascian is dead—a momentous achievement in itself—and Minfilia is safe.
No one blames him for Moenbryda.
Her funeral is a quiet affair far at the edges of Mor Dhona. Part of him thinks it too dangerous for everyone to venture so close to Castrum Centri. The other part yearns for a distraction as his mind buzzes like a beehive, loud and incessant. Battles force him to filter everything out, to leave space for naught but himself and the threat before him.
He lingers in the back while Minfilia and Yda deliver an eulogy. Papalymo spares some words. Urianger speaks, too, voice thick with grief.
Meteor says nothing. He’d only known the Sharlayan woman for mere days.
No one blames him because there is no blame to give—how could any of them have known?—but he feels it all the same.
Later, Mihren finds him on the western terrace staring out at the sharp figure of the Crystal Tower. Her footfalls hesitate at the base of the stairs for but a moment before he feels a hand come to rest against his back. Like clockwork her spells wash over him, soothing the lingering scrapes and aches left behind from a marathon of battles.
You are my pillar of strength, Minfilia had confided in him. The declaration comes as no surprise; he’s used to being the last man standing. And yet—
The hand against his back is soon joined by another and before he knows it, her arms are wrapped around him. "Next time will be different," Mihren mumbles, cheek pressed against his back. “You won't be alone, and we'll do better.”
Tension drains from his shoulders like water down a stream. He can't help but sag as the events of the past few days finally catch up with him. I’m fine, he wants to say.
call it fate, call it karma (1/?)
(WoL/default!WoL bc a girl is thirsty)
The first time she meets the Warrior of Light, he doesn’t hold the title.
He doesn’t appear to hold much of anything for the matter and resembles a drowned dog more than a man. From the brown mop of wet hair plastered to his forehead to the nondescript pack slung over his shoulder—and the dull, but well used sword on his back—he looks like every other freelancing adventurer she’s come across.
But there’s a certainty to his steps that belies what she usually sees. No hesitation. No urgency, either, so whatever cards life dealt that led to him trudging into The Drowning Wench looking as though he just fell off a ship—he seems to be content with.
She’s not sure why he snags her attention out of everyone currently packed into the pub. Perhaps it’s boredom. Perhaps it’s a gut feeling that he doesn’t quite fit. Either way, she gingerly sips at her cider and watches him stride towards the leve counter over the rim of her cup, zeroing in on his presence despite the din of the room.
He leaves puddles all over the wooden floor, shoes squelching with every step. Baderon doesn’t seem to care. Several of the miqo’te waitresses, however, give him the stink eye. They’d be the ones cleaning up later.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
There’s only a handful of leves left on the roster. She knows this because she looked over them fifteen minutes ago and decided they weren’t worth the headache. She suspects this adventurer isn’t familiar with who the requester is, else he’d have hesitated for longer than fifteen seconds before accepting them.
She sets her cup down as he passes her table. “Going to Costa del Sol?”
He takes a few more steps before stopping, as though he’d just realized she was speaking to him. The glance he gives over his shoulder is flat. Guarded. “Yes.” His eyes flick back forward. “I’m not looking for company. Sorry.”
Her lips twitch. She’s not sure whether to be insulted or amused. “I wasn’t offering. But,” she continues lightly when he takes a step, “I’m feeling magnanimous today and figured I’d save another adventurer a headache. You can thank the cider.”
His stare is blank.
Undeterred, she points and wiggles her finger at him. “Those two leves you picked up. They’re for Master Gegeruju. Are you familiar with him?” When he shakes his head, she rests her chin in her hand. “No? Then I’d suggest reconsidering how much you actually want the coin. He pays well, yes—but he’s a pain in the arse to deal with. Just know that if you succeed at doing whatever it is he wants now, you can expect to be called on for increasingly ridiculous requests in the future.”
That earns her a raised brow. “Speaking from experience?”
“Maybe. How do you feel about donning a swimsuit and fanning a lalafell with a giant palm leaf?” She pauses and takes in his form, eyes lingering on the way his trousers hug his thighs. “Not that you wouldn’t look good doing it.”
The eyebrow arches higher. She just shrugs and gives a sly smile. “What? Just saying what’s true.”
He stares at her a moment longer before shaking his head. She catches the faint flicker of amusement cross his eyes before he turns on his heel.
Ah, well.
She goes back to sipping at her cider. Can’t say she didn’t warn him.
The next time she meets him, it’s in a ditch. (And, to be fair, she doesn’t know it’s him at first.)
She hesitates at the edge of the drop-off, mindful of the loose rocks, and crouches. “Hey, you. Still alive down there?”
No response. No movement, either. She straightens out, plants her hands on her hips, and solemnly considers if she wants to risk breaking her neck today.
On one hand, she was the one who let the hunt billmaster know about the overgrown mite wreaking havoc around Fallgourd Float. (Which lays very still and very dead by the maybe-dead adventurer. Good on him.)
On the other hand, she doesn’t want to meet her own untimely demise in an attempt to reach the poor sod. She doesn’t even know how he got there to begin with. A cursory glance at the surroundings doesn’t suggest much of a struggle. Certainly no footprints or skid marks to suggest it dragged the unfortunate idiot down there.
Her eyes slide back to the unmoving body. She slowly arches a brow. Did he fight it in the pit to begin with? There was absolutely no room to maneuver.
“Geez,” she mumbles, mildly impressed. “Talk about bold. I guess you really wanted to ensure you got it, huh?”
He doesn’t respond.
She smacks her lips together and dusts off her legs. “Right. I took an oath, so consider this your lucky day. Though if I break anything on the way down, I’m going to kill you.”
Had he been awake, she suspects he would’ve rolled his eyes. Had he been awake, she suspects he would’ve had a good laugh at watching her try to shimmy down the edge. Probably snickered at the nonsensical string of curses flying from her lips as she missteps and slides on her arse all the way down. But by the time she manages to make it to him—in one piece, at that—he still hasn’t moved an inch.
She mutters grumpily and vaults over the dead mark. “Thal’s balls. Do you know how long it took me to clean these before? Probably more than—oh.”
It’s the shaggy adventurer she’d seen at the Drowning Wench. A frown pulls on her lips as she glances him over again. There’s no blood soaking the dirt beneath him, which is good. His chest still rises with shallow breaths—also good.
The fact he didn’t regain consciousness at all the noise she made on the way down? Not good.
She shuffles over to kneel by him, hands already glowing green with warm, healing aether. It’s easy enough to coax it into his chest, to have it slip underneath the metal cuirass—which is dented enough that it strikes a series of unpleasant thoughts in her head. The feedback she receives solidifies her assumptions: his body is a mess. Bruised and battered it’s a miracle nothing’s broken.
“Guess Gegeruju didn’t pay you quite enough, did he?” She mutters, brows knitted in focus. “Why else would you face this thing alone?”
“...I didn’t want to fan anyone with palm leaves.”
She nearly flies out of her skin. “By the f—you’re awake?!”
“Hard not to be,” he mumbles. “You’re loud.”
“I thought you were dead!”
“...You’re healing me.”
“Almost dead,” she corrects and glares when he cracks open both eyes, then tries to prop himself up on one elbow. “Which you will be if you don’t stop moving. What did you even do? Weather its attacks without a thought for defense?”
His gaze slides to the hunt mark behind her. “Something like that.”
“I can’t tell if you’re brave or stupid. And—what did I just say? Hold still.”
“I’m fine.”
“Like hells you are. Hey—” She stubbornly keeps her hands glued to his chest as he pulls himself up, palms pressed flat against the cold cuirass, determined to pump enough aether that he won’t crumble like a house of cards the moment he takes a step.
Which, if his grimace is anything to go by, nearly happens once he’s upright. She huffs when he purses his lips and straightens out, armor clacking together, clearly determined to make his own way. Her exasperation climbs when he purposefully strides past her to retrieve his sword—still buried in one of the mite's legs.
Her eyes bore into his back. “Do you often turn away free healing, or are you late for something?”
He ignores her, intent on finding a way out of the pit. With not even a limp, she curiously notes, despite the state she knows his body is in.
“If you’re seeking to report back about the hunt mark then you needn't push yourself so hard.”
He strides over to the edge of the pit and reaches for a protruding rock. She rubs her forehead when he grunts and hauls himself up, one knee already braced against the earth, his course up and out fully charted.
She breathes out noisily through her nose. “Oh, for the love of—I posted the mark. And if you don’t get back down here right now and let me heal you, so help me I’m going to revive this thing out of spite.”
He freezes. Then, ever so slowly, turns to glare at her over his shoulder.
She holds his accusing gaze and threateningly hovers one hand over the dead corpse to her left. Her palm glows white.
He puts his foot down.
The third time, she finally learns his name. On the outskirts of the upper La Noscea, perched on the log of a fallen tree.
“Meteor, hm? I suppose that’s easy enough to remember.”
His expression is unremarkably passive as he watches her work. But his eyes remain sharp, tracking her movements even as his posture remains loose and compliant.
“Mine’s Mihren,” she tells him cheerily, hands carefully gliding over his offered arm. Healing, again—and thankfully, without the fuss he put up before. “Nice to finally put a name to a face, right? Since we keep running into each other like this.”
“Guess so.”
She’s quickly learning that he’s a man of few words. Quiet and reserved enough to reflect the stillness of Silvertear Lake. It’d be poetic if it didn’t raise the hair on the back of her neck for a reason she still can’t put her finger on. The air around him always felt just a step to the left.
Whatever it is, it’s the same sense of other that snagged her attention at the start.
“And… done!” She taps his hand with finality. “Your arm might be sore tomorrow but the worst of the damage is gone. Take it easy for a few days, all right?”
He curls his arm and flexes his fingers. She spies more than one faded, thin scar spanning his skin.
“Do you visit city-state infirmaries when you return to town?”
“No.”
“You should,” she says, sitting back with a disapproving scowl. “Especially if you go out adventuring alone like this. Momoji at the Quicksand recently invested more funds in the inn’s healing supplies. Lots more folks coming back with injuries nowadays. I don’t know if it’s the creatures growing fiercer or the adventurers growing reckless...”
When he goes about slipping his bracers back on without comment, she thinks she’s hit another wall with him. But he would’ve up and left if he was truly done—as he had before—instead of stalling like this. The meticulous fastening of leather straps is enough to tell her he’s biding his time. So she leans back on her palms to wait out his decision and lets her eyes roam over the ruins of Nym in the meantime.
“The infirmaries aren’t helpful,” he finally murmurs when it becomes clear she isn’t going to move. “I’ve gone before. They don’t....”
“They don’t…?” She prompts when he purses his lips.
He idly raises the hand she’d just healed and shrugs. “They would’ve given bandages and sent me on my way.”
“They would’ve healed you.”
“No.” His brows knit as he gazes out at the calm lake. “Not… as thoroughly, at least.”
She frowns at the implications and shifts so she’s facing him once more, knees nearly touching. “Do you at least have a friend versed in healing magic? Who can patch you up or do a monthly check-up of some sort?”
“No.”
She stares at his profile, at how the faint breeze ruffles his messy hair. At how his armor is most definitely not up to par for solo adventuring—not with how close she is to truly inspect it. At how the scars she’d spied on his skin and the feedback she’d gotten from her aether reflected deeper, older injuries.
And, finally, at how he seems entirely unaffected by his answer.
Okay. Maybe she should’ve expected the response given everything she’s learned about him thus far. But to hear about an adventurer who not only travels solo, who not only faces down hunt marks alone, but also has no companions versed in healing magics? At all?
“How are you still alive?” she blurts out, blinking incredulously. “After the encounter with the hunt mark I figured it was a one-off occurrence. But now? I truly have no idea. If it wasn’t for your aether—which is absolutely ridiculous, mind you, I’ve never come across someone with so much—” She clamps her mouth shut. He doesn’t need to know that. “All of which is to say: you’re absurd. And make no sense.”
His lips twitch. “Is that your official diagnosis?”
“Unofficial.” She sniffs and glances past him at the shimmering water. “I’m not your healer—though heavens know you need one. Sooner rather than later, too. Preferably before you end up in another godsforsaken ditch.”
He hums low in his throat. “Is this you offering?”
“...No,” she drawls out, squinting at him. “But there doesn’t seem to be anyone else lining up for the honor, so...” She exhales, long and slow, then gives a comically resolute nod. “I suppose it’ll just have to be me. Especially since we keep running into each other. After all, it’d be remiss of me to let you keep on like this, right?”
“...Right.”
She slowly grins at the amusement and curiosity playing in his gaze. It widens when he ducks his head, a wry smile threatening to pull on the corner of his mouth.
“Right,” she echoes. Her eyes gleam with mischief. “So, then. For my first official task as your healer... I say it’s time for that check-up.”
She quickly learns that he ends up in the most absurd situations. From running halfway across Eorzea and back to gather some ingredients, to chasing down wayward chocobos and fending off mischievous sylphs, there’s always some wild request waiting for them whenever they return to any city-state.
“Remind me again how we got talked into this?”
“We accepted the request for it.”
“You did.” She sighs and readjusts the bag slung across her shoulder, particularly mindful of how it tilts her balance and keeps her attention on the gnarled roots beneath her feet. “And we finished that one. It doesn’t explain why we’re here.”
He glances over his shoulder as she emphatically waves at the misty forest before them, air thick with sylph magic. “I can finish this myself if you’d rather return.”
“You were this close to becoming a toad not five minutes ago.”
He mumbles something under his breath and she catches the light blush cross his cheeks as he twists back around.
Cute.
“To be fair," she hums, "it was a very convincing pumpkin. And you would’ve made for a cute toad.”
A faint breeze wafts by and raises the hair on the back of her neck. Goosebumps prickle all along her arms as the infused magic sets off dull alarms in her head.
She deliberately ignores the chorus of giggles in the air around them.
Meteor’s hands, meanwhile, twitch at his side. And when his steps falter as the low groan of moving trees surrounds them, she loops one arm through his and continues trudging forward, keeping to the path.
“Don’t mind them,” she murmurs into his shoulder. “The less attention you give the less effective their magic is.”
His lips thin, ready to stage a protest about the danger they pose. “It’s not them. There are Garlean soldiers nearby.”
She doesn’t ask how he knows even as faint wisps of suspicion begin to form. It’s not the first time he’s caught on to a threat before her. The Garlean presence isn’t surprising given how close they are to the border—but she hadn’t sensed anything. Moreover, she’s fairly certain her sensitivity to changes in the aether is more heightened than his.
She files the strangeness as something to ponder later.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, she tugs him to a stop. “In that case... what a shame we won’t be able to join them! Which direction did you say they were at again?”
“...East?”
“East!” She repeats in mock surprise. “Why, we’d have to completely go back the way we came. But with such a large group it certainly would be worth it, don’t you think? We’d be able to stage a surprise. You know how much the Garleans enjoy those.”
Meteor stares at her like she’s lost it.
Lips curved into a mischievous smile, she rocks back on her heels and folds her palms behind her back. And waits.
He opens his mouth, hesitates a beat, then fixates his gaze on a spot over her shoulder. The prickling feeling at the back of her neck fades in the same moment they hear faint yelps of surprise echo through the woods.
“And that’s two less headaches to worry over,” she says, satisfied. “Shall we?”
Meteor breathes out a quiet sigh, trailing behind her as she strides further into the forest with a pep in her step. “What happened to the earlier reluctance?”
“Gone for the time being—just like the sylphs. The tricks get tiring rather quick, you know? Their magic eventually passes, yes, but I don’t fancy being turned into an opo-opo for half a bell.”
That earns her a faint snort. "You’d make for a cute one, at least.”
She nearly missteps. Then his words register, and a delighted grin spreads across her face as she spins on her heel to walks backwards. “Oh? So he can flirt back. Here I was starting to think all my attempts were bouncing off a wall.”
“You’re…a bit much.”
“Just a bit?”
With the way his shoulders drop and he shakes his head in exasperation, she wonders if she’s going overboard.
But then he says, “It’s this way,” and she relaxes at the smile he’s trying to suppress in his voice. “We should hurry before they return.”
She gives a grand flourish. “Lead on.”
It isn’t until they’re on the road back to Old Gridania—until she catches the longing in his gaze as a caravan passes them—that she comes to a startling conclusion.
She chews on her lip before hedging, “Hey, Meteor?”
“Hm?”
“Do you own a chocobo?”
He blinks at the sudden question. “No. The aetheryte network is enough.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Usually enough,” he amends with a wry smile, cutting her a glance. “Though I don’t mind travelling on foot when needed.”
“Uh-huh,” she echoes, unconvinced, squinting up at him. “But given the choice, would you want a chocobo?”
“Would you?”
“Truthfully? They kind of stink. All of our packs would end up smelling like them.” She scrunches her nose while he huffs out a soft laugh. “But they’re great companions—or so I hear.”
“They are,” he confirms with a gentle smile, eyes crinkling. “Steadfast, too. They don’t run from battles.”
“Ha. Because you need so much help with those.”
“No,” he allows, “But the companionship is… nice.”
She kicks up a rock and watches it bounce off a faded tree trunk. “Says the man insistent on travelling alone?”
At that, the mirth steadily seeps from him. She mentally shakes herself as the metaphorical walls spring right back up in full-force. And she’d made such great progress at coaxing him to loosen up, too.
It’s taken some time to learn about his pressure points, to learn just what she could and couldn’t push with him, and for whatever reason when it came to companions he always went tight-lipped and determined to take on everything alone. Which, to his credit, he very well could—she wasn’t lying about his ability and potential—but she’s yet to get to the bottom of why. And despite accepting her as a healer, despite the scowls and worried lectures she’s given, she’s still caught him returning from levequests and hunts without her. If she didn’t make it a point to wake up before him and ensure she was by the inn’s door when he left, she suspects he would continue on with the trend.
“I think we could do with a few more travelling companions,” she says lightly, mindful of the heavy air hanging around him. “You certainly seem to like having me around.”
“You keep following me.” It’s mumbled under his breath, but it holds no bite.
“Something you haven’t put up much argument against.”
He gives her a droll look. She returns it with her standard impish smile, though it slowly fades into an uncertain frown as she searches his face.
Given his straightforward nature thus far, she figures he’d simply tell her if she was truly annoying him or if he didn’t want her company. He’s been remarkably blunt in answering her questions—the one he chooses to answer, anyway—and she knows enough that he is both comfortable and confident in expressing his opinions.
That said, he isn’t a boor like some of the other companions she’s travelled with before. There’s always an undercurrent of consideration in everything he does, reflecting just how attentive he is despite his few words.
Still. He would tell her if he want didn’t her around.
Right?
Something in his gaze thaws as her frown deepens. “We should keep moving,” he says, eyes lingering on her a second longer before flicking away. “It will be night before long.”
“We?” she parrots, sparing a distracted glance at the sky.
“Unless you’d rather stay and fend with the vampire bats…”
The simple way he nods at the well-worn path before them has her ducking her head. “No, uh. I’d rather not. Lead the way?”
More companions, she thinks as she trails behind him, would have to wait until she comes to understand the source of his hesitation.
call it fate, call it karma (4/?) | pt 3 | pt 2 | pt 1
"Never thought I’d miss the blazing heat of Thanalan," Mihren grumbles behind him, leather rustling as she rubs her hands together in an attempt to warm them. “Slip and fall there and the worst you’ll get is sand in your underclothes. Though I suppose the fire ants—”
He offers a distracted nod, eyes sharp as she drones on. The icy passages of Snowcloak are not the place to lose focus. They’ve already encountered a handful of goobbues and wolves in the shadowed caverns, and he's on edge in anticipating what other surprises Iceheart’s got prepared for them.
“—icicle above you,” Mihren quips, yanking the back of his shirt seconds before his Echo warns him of the impact. He braces one hand before his face and squints against the fragments as ice shatters barely an arm's length from his feet.
She pats his back before sliding into the empty space beside him, head craned at the frozen ceiling. “Sorry. I thought that one would’ve fallen much sooner. Looks like the traps are staggered throughout.”
He notes how her gaze flickers to and from as though following a line he cannot see.
(No, if he focuses, narrows in on the faint currents, he can see, but only just.)
“There are also glyphs etched into the floor, though you’ve avoided those well enough.”
He blinks. What?
Mihren sniffles, nose tinged red in the cold, then arches a brow at his bemused expression. “The glyphs?” She points at the bend in the path ahead of them. “Like that one. It… hm. It looks akin to a slow spell. Likely meant to pair with the rigged icicle right nearby. Clever, if a bit gruesome.”
He barely sees the outline of it. Faint wisps of red, flickering just above the ground. He turns on his heel and glances back at the path they’ve taken, and sure enough, spots the near-translucent tendrils of aether playing along the ice.
Mihren’s gaze darts between him and the distant glyphs. “Did you not notice them?”
He shakes his head.
“Then how did…?”
"Echo," he mumbles out, because it's as good of a reason as any.
She quiets at that, leaving only the sound of their muffled footsteps and the howling gales beyond.
Still, he notes how she keeps closer to his side now. He still gets the sense that he’s leading, yet every now and then he’ll notice her peel off closer to the wall—and finds himself following.
The battle with Iceheart leaves him feeling numb, chilled to the bone as though he’d been dunked in the icy waters throughout Coerthas.
Fools, fighting another’s false war.
“Hydaelyn speaks to us both,” Mihren muses, gaze distant as they return to Mor Dhona. “Just as She does to Minfilia. Would it be so far-fetched to believe She speaks to others, too?”
It comes as no surprise that she mistakes his silence as unease towards the recent revelation—or frustration with Moenbryda, besides. Outside of himself and Minfilia, Mihren likely knew of no others blessed with the Echo. And none besides him gifted with the Blessing of Light.
He knows better. Four other figures swim in his thoughts, muddled as though peering at him through murky water. Nameless and faceless as ever before. At times he wonders if he’d dreamed it all.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He eyes the purplish bruise blossoming on the underside of her jaw. An attack he'd missed and one she failed to dodge. He still remembers the way his stomach dropped when the block of ice smacked into her. The blunt force of it alone was enough for concern; he suspects there’s another nasty bruise to be found on her side.
"Oh." Her fingers graze along her neck. "Right. I should heal up, lest Minfilia notices and turns into a mother hen..." Aether flows from her hands, and he watches from the corner of his eye as the injury vanishes into smooth skin.
"I'm not made of glass, you know, so you can stop looking at me like that."
Though they’ve now faced a handful of primals together—Ramuh, Leviathan, the absurdly large moogle—he still struggles to shake off the urge in asking her to stay behind. He knows he can handle matters well on his own even if it pushes him to his limits. No matter how many times Mihren makes it a point to tell him he doesn’t have to face it all alone, the reluctance sticks to him like glue.
Mor Dhona isn't the most welcoming of places. There’s little to complain about, however, nor has he ever been one to grumble over that which is freely offered. A roof over his head, a warm meal, and somewhere safe to sleep is enough.
The reprieve from the heat of Thanalan is welcome, in the least—he agrees with Mihren on that. Although the Waking Sands’ remoteness offered a degree of safety and anonymity, he’s also thankful for the aetheryte here and its convenience. The Scions could have chosen a worse location.
As for the inhabitants…
He doesn’t know what to make of the Crystal Braves. Even now he finds himself ambivalent towards the group. On one hand, Alphinaud certainly believes in their necessity so Meteor offers his support. On the other—
—Mihren peers at Ilberd as though he’s a puzzle she can’t sort out. She’s courteous enough, accommodating enough, light-hearted enough with her usual jests—
The strain in her smile isn’t something he’s used to seeing.
He finds himself scrutinizing the man more than is considered polite, yet no matter how many times he reruns their past encounters in his head, can’t figure out why she looks at him like that.
“Do you know him?” he asks as they pass under the town’s gates once more, sent out on another task by Minfilia.
Mihren digs around in her satchel, distracted. Likely counting their supply of ethers—she was most particular about them. “Who?”
“Ilberd.”
“No? Not outside of the meetings we’ve all had.”
There it is again: the strange lilt in her tone, the nervous tick where she grabs the bottom of her sleeves and digs her nails in. He turns over her reluctance like a fine coin in his head and decides to press.
"Mihren."
"Hm?"
At his pointed glance, she sighs and lets her bag settle across her hip. "I know, I know. I was going to tell you eventually, I promise. I don’t want to worry anyone over what could be nothing."
"It worries you."
"Because I had the stupid dream.”
"A dream?"
She spares an exasperated look at his insistence, shoulders hunching. "Yes, a dream. Of Ilberd. Standing tall on van Baelsar's Wall, covered in blood with a manic gleam to his eye."
Well. He can imagine how that might skewer her perception of the man. "An odd dream to have," he allows. "You're certain you've never met?"
"I think I'd remember a scene like that,” she says, tone turning remarkably dry. “But yes, I’m certain we’ve never met and I’ve never been beyond the border, besides. Not so close to it, in any case."
Hesitation continues to linger in the air around her like a shroud even after they teleport to Eastern Thanalan. It thickens when they’re bid to work with Ilberd on locating a spy, so much so that he finds himself filling the gaps of conversation that she typically handles. The entire operation ends up leaving a sour taste in the back of his mouth, particularly when it all goes tits up and the alleged multitude of wayward weapon crates turns out to be only one.
Meteor eyes the shadowed alley in which Riol disappeared into with more ire than usual, and wonders when, exactly, the trivial errands he’d once run turned into him being knee-deep in the plots and schemes of others.
The Quicksand in Ul'Dah is a welcome return to his roots—the one he cares to remember, anyway. Adventurers fill the tables to their left and right, throwing back tankards and scarfing down meals. Meteor finds himself relaxing in the din of it for the first time in days, near melting into his seat as the familiar atmosphere of the guild settles his nerves.
It's not that he doesn't enjoy helping the Scions. He is invested in the safety and prosperity of Eorzea. Rather, the politics of it all leave him feeling out of his depth.
"Here."
He leans back just enough for a tankard and meal to be placed before him. The savory aroma of pan-baked fish and herbs is enough to make his mouth water.
Mihren settles into the seat beside him with a plate of her own. "Careful," she warns just as he’s about to dig in. "Still hot."
The remark comes a moment too late and he winces as his tongue burns in protest. Not to be bested, he keeps chewing with the same sort of stubbornness he brings into battle.
Mihren snickers. Unlike him, she bides her time. The prim nature with which she divides her food reflects her upbringing, made all the more obvious now that he has some insight to her personal history.
On the fourth bite, he recognizes just what sort of fish he’s eating. "This is native to Limsa Lominsa.”
She hums, slicing another piece. “Well spotted.”
At his questioning look, her smile turns sly behind her fork. “I used to sneak in as a child. Momoji spoils me now just as much as she did then. Don’t let anyone know she has favorites, though, else she’ll give us nothing but boiled eggs for moons."
His lips twitch. It wouldn’t be the worst he’s had, but he’d rather not tempt fate.
More adventurers stream into the Quicksand as they finish their meal. Meteor figures it’s nearing sundown; the rowdiness of the Guild is often a good reflection of the time. He’s more than content to linger and people-watch and simply be for a moment, and a sidelong glance at Mihren tells him she’s of the same mind. She catches him looking and arches a brow in askance; he merely shakes his head in response.
Then her gaze drops to her hands and his attention sharpens at once.
There’s something endearing at how expressive she is with her feelings. There’s no effort to hide them, no reason to guess at hidden meanings in her words. He waits patiently as she fiddles with a jaded, turquoise ring they’d found in the Sunken Temple of Qarn. A silly keepsake.
“My Echo,” she finally reveals, eyes unfocused as she stares at her fingers. “It bleeds into my dreams. Gives me visions, premonitions, whatever term you want to coin them. Given the medium in which they appear, though… I struggle to know what’s worth worrying over and what isn’t.”
The implication is clear enough. He spares a curt glance across the room and finds everyone too wrapped up in their own affairs. “You believe Riol, then. About Ilberd.”
“That there’s something else at play here? Mm. As to what…” She shakes her head and rests her chin in one hand, brows knit in annoyance. “Only the Twelve know. We should be more mindful in what we do and where we go."
At that, he agrees. There’s been an itch in the back of his head for days. His own warrior’s senses, struggling to pinpoint the danger.
She sighs again and follows his line of sight at the leve counter. Her fingers tap a steady pattern against the table. "Interested in picking up a few?"
His eyes gleam with mirth. "You want to run more errands?" After the week they’ve had?
“I could be convinced—so long as they don’t involve sabotenders. I think I still have needles to pull out…”
“I did warn you to stay back,” he repeats with a snort, already getting up.
She points an accusing finger, but her tone betrays her amusement. “One, they were projectiles—I did stay back. Two, you angered them with all that noise you made.”
“One of us has to wear armor.”
“For all the good it does!”
He can’t help it; he grabs two pest extermination requests and one delivery that specifically takes them through Southern Thanalan—where sabotenders are known to roam.
When he first learns that she, too, possesses the Echo—not to mention the Blessing of Light—it’s on the heels of a crippling wave of gut-sinking dread that freezes his limbs and turns his blood to ice.
It was a mistake to bring her to the Praetorium. It was a mistake to bring anyone to the Praetorium, and he’s got only a brief moment to be absolutely furious with himself for falling for the same delusion yet again when Ultima unleashes a teeth-rattling attack that sends him skidding harshly across the metal floor.
Bodies of the adventurers who’d offered to venture into the imperial’s territory lay scattered by his feet, each burned and battered to various degrees. Evidence of the ever-yawning gulf between himself and everyone else.
He should’ve known better; it’s why he’s always done everything alone. Even Mihren, who had boldly matched him step for step up until mere moments ago, wasn’t capable of it. No other adventurer has been able to keep up with him—not for years. Not since the sky rained fire and seared gaps into his memory.
The air sizzles like liquid on Ul’dahn stones on a hot summer day, prickling his skin with levin and scorching his eyes with such heat they water. He forces his gaze away from the blackened mark tainting the floor.
Gaius drones on about something relating to Garlean superiority once more, but Meteor hears none of it. It’s hard to hear anything over the shrill crescendoing in his ears. Something cold shrivels in his chest, gripping his lungs and threatening to claw its way out of his throat.
He doesn’t have time for grief. Not here, not now.
“You will meet your end here, Hero of Eorzea.”
Meteor sets his jaw and adjusts his footing as Gaius pilots Ultima into position once more. He’s so damn tired of this man’s voice.
Then—a wince reaches his ears. The faint rustle of clothes as someone straightens out. "That sure smarted... remind me not to stand in one of those beams again.”
Her voice doesn’t register over the shrill of machinery, not at first. Only when familiar wisps of blonde hair enter his field of vision does his greatsword nearly slips from his fingers. He snaps his head left so quick he hears his neck crack.
Mihren stands posted at his side as though she’s always been there, brushing soot off her arms with an irritated scowl. She raises a brow at his incredulous look. “What? Did you think you’re the only one with tricks up your sleeve?”
He stares and stares until the white noise in his ears dulls out all else.
“Hm.” Her smile turns strained, borderline a grimace, as if reading the flurry of emotions flashing across his eyes. “Well, come on, let’s not keep the high and mighty imperial waiting. And I can feel Lahabrea still lurking nearby, so be on your guard.”
At the mention of the Ascian, his mouth slams shut.
He shoves down everything but the simmering anger. At this point, he can no longer differentiate who it’s directed towards. He takes a deep breath, reels in the whirlwind in his head, and lets it sharpen his focus to a razor-fine point.
It isn't until half a moon later—after Thancred has been seen to, after the Scions are called upon to address another fire—and after the anger has bubbled into a steady boil that he finally voices the discontent that’s been festering in his chest.
In the middle of Coerthas of all places.
"You never told me.”
She doesn’t react to his low, pointed accusation. Her eyes remain fixed straight ahead, braving the windchill without hesitation even when her cheeks and nose have both long since turned red.
She says, "You never asked."
Twin flares of anger and frustration zing through him with such force he nearly slips on a patch of ice. How juvenile did she think he was?
"You never asked me to fight primals with you," she tells him, trudging forward when he lags behind in incredulity. "Not Titan. Not Garuda. I only found out days after the fact from Tataru that you faced them at all—in passing, at that. And at first I thought that the matter was too pressing for you to call on me, but you know I can navigate the aetheryte network in my sleep—so distance is of no consequence."
Her footsteps grow more forceful until she's practically stomping ahead of him, crunching snow underfoot. "Then I thought you may have believed I was otherwise preoccupied. And yet, you know you can reach me at any moment through the linkpearl, for anything—therefore, time is of no consequence. So I finally came to the conclusion that you simply didn't want me there."
The heated irritation he'd felt steadily melts in the Coerthan chill. His lips press into a white line as silence stretches taut between them, and lingering wisps of bitterness keeps him from speaking first. He’s entitled to this—this frustration. He's lost enough companions for a lifetime. Just the thought of it happening again—
Mihren continues to charge ahead until she eventually runs out of steam. Fists clenched at her sides, she frowns heavily at the crushed snow by her boots.
“Or am I misreading things?” she asks the ground. “Because I thought we were a duo. A team. Partners in adventuring, in whatever adventure that may be."
Partners share with each other, he wants to bite out, but the loaded look she gives him keeps his mouth clamped shut.
It’s not that he doesn’t recognize the hypocrisy—he does. He knows full well that he, too, is guilty of keeping cards close to his chest and guarding his own secrets. To ask of her that which he is unwilling to do himself is unfair. The feeling of resentment and frustration at being kept in the dark, however, makes it difficult to see past the fact.
Cold air nips at his skin as he inhales deeply and tries to sort through his thoughts. Part of him is tempted to say that they should go their separate ways; it’s what he’s done before.
Mihren sighs as if reading his mind. “Do you want me to go?”
Something in him shrivels at the thought. Alone, again. “Do you?”
“I’d rather like to avoid a repeat of this.” Her brows furrow once more as she looks him over. She must not find what she’s looking for in his guarded expression, because her shoulders eventually drop. “Do you trust me?”
His hesitation speaks for him.
In true Mihren fashion, she presses past it. “Well, I trust you. And I’d like to keep traveling with you because despite the heroics—which I don’t think either of us signed up for, really—being around you is fun. There’s never a dull moment, and—and I think you enjoy that, too.”
Snow crunches beneath her feet as she hazards two steps forward. “Which is to say: I’d like to stay… on the condition that we both agree to put a little more effort into talking to each other. I’m willing to try if you are.”
It’s a reasonable enough request. Even so, he doesn’t understand why everything is off a step to the left this time around—and why he’s hesitating to begin with.
Part ways, some quiet part of his mind whispers. It will be better in the long run. Safer. One less life to weigh heavy on your shoulders.
Instead, he offers a stiff nod.
The small, relieved smile she gives soothes some of the fight in him. It’s going to take time to build out that trust—hells, he still keeps the Scions at arm’s length despite everything—but it’s a start.
He knows that Coerthas wasn’t always cold and unforgiving, that it once had lush trees and rolling grass. Sunshine and warmth and trickling rivers ripe for fishing. It once had a welcoming sense of home—a notion that he now struggles to imagine.
The memories are jagged and incomplete, chafing against each other like a puzzle missing too many pieces. It’s hard to miss that which is barely remembered, yet every now and then his heart gives a dull pang in longing.
“Cold weather not to your liking?” Mihren lightly prods, knocking her knee against his.
He blinks the room back to focus before hunching forward, hands curled around the steaming mug before him.
Haurchefaunt always had some sort of drink ready for them no matter the hour. Meteor decided early on that he liked the elezen. Liked the honesty and earnestness, liked that his was always a friendly face among the Coerthan snow and harsh, stone fortresses of the Ishgardians.
Mihren hums at his silence before leaning inwards, brushing against his shoulder to peer into his cup. “Not the weather, then. Is it the drink? Because I think Haurchefaunt outdid himself this time. It’s very sweet.”
“No,” Meteor says, because he knows if he doesn’t she’ll keep guessing. “Neither. I was lost in thought.”
“I gathered as much, though I couldn’t pinpoint as to what.”
It’s said casually but he picks up the gentle invitation there and remembers their conversation on the road. A furtive glance at her from the corner of his eye confirms it; she busies herself with swirling her mug and sloshing the liquid inside, all deceptively nonchalant in a way he knows she isn’t.
It’s enough to bring a small smile to his lips.
“Coerthas wasn’t always like this,” he mumbles, mindful of how their voices echo off the stones. “There was warmth, once. Before the calamity.”
Mihren stills beside him.
“I lived here. Or I think I did.” He gestures at his head. “Dalamud—the meteor…”
“Meteor,” she repeats softly, and he can’t help but tense at the uncharacteristic seriousness in her voice. At how her eyes seem to pierce right through him, alight with sudden understanding. “That isn't your birth name.”
He shrugs, half-hearted, unable to squash the rare flare of vulnerability as his smile turns wry. “Serves as good of a name as any.”
She twists back around, elbows on the table, fingers flexing around her mug. He counts the seconds as they pass, content to watch flames lick at the fireplace Haurchefant granted them.
She gingerly takes another sip of hot cocoa. “Carteneau?”
“Carteneau,” he confirms quietly, lifting his own mug.
Another silence settles between them—more subdued this time, weighing on them both—interrupted only by the crackling logs. Relief floods through him when he realizes that he doesn’t have to explain more than what’s already been said.
Mihren sighs again—a deep, weary exhale that doesn’t fit her at all—and leans back in her seat. She chews on her lip. “I was in Ul’dah when it happened.”
And before he can tell her that she needn’t tell him, that his offering wasn’t meant to be transactional, she quietly recounts her own tale of survival. He listens as her voice fills the space around them and learns about the series of events that put her on the path of an adventurer.
“I’ve always felt… something,” she says, pensive. “A slight change in the aether, a low whisper over my shoulder. A figure I could never make sense of at the corner of my eye… but it was you, wasn't it? It’s always been you.” [Ao3 Link]
