#my ffxivwrite

[worldoshaking]

FFXIVWrite Day 28: Deleterious

’I thought I should find you here, slinking about in the shadows,’ I said, sliding out of the aforesaid shadows myself.

I thought I glimpsed a flash of surprise in Emet-Selch’s eyes, but he recovered quickly. ’How delightfully ironic for you to accuse me of slinking around,’ he said. ’Did you abandon those companions of yours?’

’They can get on without me for a little while.’

’Didn’t one of them just fall down a well?’

’Y’shtola can look after herself, and if she can’t I certainly couldn’t help. It seems to me it’s you who can’t let them alone.’

Unlike most people, I found Emet-Selch immune to the force of my gaze. ’There’s no need to sound so accusing, dear boy,’ he said, quite imperturbably. ’I simply like to know what’s going on. It’s hard to plot and scheme effectively without that.’

I quite agreed with that, though I wouldn’t let him see it. ’And I presume it’s no good asking you what it is you’re plotting and scheming,’ I said. I didn’t think it very likely he would answer, but not entirely preposterous either; one of the few things I had succeeded in learning about him was that he liked to surprise people.

’Quite right. How quickly you learn! And I suppose that if I, in turn, were to pose you the same question, I’d get no answer either.’

I smiled, and truly meant it. ’You suppose right.’

’It was worth a try,’ said Emet-Selch, with perfect equanimity. ’And now that that’s all out of the way, perhaps we can dispense with this sniping, and enjoy the respite of this shade. Though even here, the light is quite scorching. But I suppose you enjoy that, being a Warrior of Light and all.’

’You’re not having much luck in your guesses today,’ I said, and derived no small satisfaction from the start he couldn’t quite conceal.

’Now there’s a surprise. I thought you quite the immaculate Warrior of Light.’

I turned my eyes to the great, cool canopy, and the splinters of light that had inevitably struck through. ’Oh, you have no idea.’

[worldoshaking]

’Take better care next time, do you hear?’ said Estinien, with as severe a look as he could manage while flying through the air faster than the wind. ’You must learn to judge your distances better.’

Fyfnar smiled charmingly at him. He was dangling by the scruff of his robes from the end of Estinien’s spear, which did not trouble him in the slightest. Compared to some of his mounts, it was both comfortable and convenient.

The art of pictomancy posed some unique challenges, but having Estinien swoop down and carry him through the air every time he fell from a high place was nothing but an advantage.

’I’ll remember that,’ he said. ’And in the meantime, I’m most grateful that I have so trusty a friend to rescue me every time.’

’Every time, indeed,’ said Estinien. ’Do your moogles and hammers do nothing to keep you aloft? Or are their gifts limited to uncontrolled rushing about?’

’Isn’t a gigantic hammer a gift in itself?’

’Hardly a gift for one who can wield a lance. Do you never take up the lance any more?’

Fyfnar flushed guiltily. He had been neglecting the lance; there were so many things that demanded his attention, and the art of pictomancy was so remarkably absorbing. But he had loved the dragoon arts, with their speed and audacity, and the preposterous scale of their daring.

And he had loved fighting with Estinien, and the sensation of their synchrony. In truth, his lance had increasingly fallen to the side on his trip to the First, because Estinien was no longer by. And though they were reunited now, it was not the same. No more was the breathless resonance of their younger souls, the fierce flame of ardour that had consumed and united them. Estinien had grown into someone joyful and splendid, a comrade to glory in and a friend to trust. But all the same, he was more a stranger than he had been then, and Fyfnar had not known how to bridge that gulf. (Besides the pictomantic art of bridging, or falling into, gulfs.)

They had been to the end of the universe together, and yet sometimes it was harder still to speak.

’I promise I’ll take up the lance more often,’ Fyfnar said, ’if you’ll sometimes train with me.’

’My lance is yours,’ said Estinien, and in his voice was the ringing certainty that made Fyfnar’s heart beat quick. ’Especially if it means no more falling from high places.’

’It’s a promise,’ said Fyfnar.

Sometimes things were so much clearer up here in the air.

[worldoshaking]

Buscarron set down the glass he was polishing with a frown. ’Back again, Alainaux Revient? Did I not say you were barred for good from Buscarron’s Druthers?’

Alainaux seated himself at the bar. ’I did not know the hospitable Buscarron was in the habit of turning away his patrons.’

’My friend, you are no habit, but a phenomenon all your own.’

’Now there’s a compliment. What have I done to be thus singled out?’

’You know well of what I speak. We are even yet repairing the furniture after the quarrel your last visit occasioned.’

A faint smile touched Alainaux’s lips. ’I was not even present for the brawl you speak of.’

’Nay, you set the whole room a-brawling, and paid your bill and took off into the air again, as cool as you please. Just as you do every time you visit.’

’Their depradations had naught to do with me,’ said Alainaux. ’I’m hardly to blame for the rest of your clientele.’

Buscarron snorted, and set to polishing the bar with great energy. ’A likely story! We’re accustomed to rows and such out here, but I’ve never seen the like of what you stirred up.’

’Be that as it may,’ said Alainaux, ’the night is young, and I see no-one here yet. I have travelled long malms and my throat is parched. Would the Buscarron I know turn a thirsty traveller out into the woods?’

’Very well,’ said Buscarron, in a resigned tone. ’But we’ll have none of your wranglings and philosophisings, do you hear?’

Alainaux looked amused. ’I give you my word.’

Buscarron set down his polishing-cloth and seated himself. ’At any rate,’ he said, ’not once other people come in. I’ll not deny I’ve had a hankering to hear your tales again myself.’

’And I, to tell them to an old friend.’

[worldoshaking]

FFXIVWrite Day 23: On Cloud Nine

’Good-day to you, old friend,’ said the Wandering Minstrel. ’Anyone would think you were ill-pleased to see me.’

’Hardly,’ said Alainaux. ’I have been expecting it, from the odd flavour that the speech of the plains has taken on of late. Coined a new phrase, have you?’ 

’I take it you disapprove,’ said the Wandering Minstrel, ’as you do of all invention.’

’Not in the slightest,’ said Alainaux. ’A fascinating phrase, that succeeds admirably in expressing precisely nothing at all. And here I thought you disdained prevarication.’ 

The Wandering Minstrel grinned. ’High praise from you; of course you know better than poets and Skywatchers alike. It must torment you that the folk of the plains have taken with such enthusiasm to the phrase.’

’The folk of the plains may speak as they wish,’ said Alainaux. ’Fashions of speech come and go, and sometimes they are inflicted, like plague.’

’And yet words and songs have a way of persevering,’ said the Minstrel, ’though rocks and mountains crumble. It would be a pretty thing if folk still spoke of cloud nine, a hundred years hence.’

’You inflict your whims on their language with no compunction,’ said Alainaux. ’I would not believe such a thing of the plainsfolk. ’Twas a pretty thing to blame it on that Skywatcher you spoke with. She was not accustomed to the ways of poets; to how they break apart an utterance and discard its meaning, and weave it again into a phantasm that has no substance but sound, yet affects with a most slanderous solicitude to be science.’

’Careful,’ said the Wandering Minstrel, with great amusement. ’You’ll offend every musician in Eorzea.’

Alainaux snorted, and his chair soared up into the sky, disappearing from view amidst the aforementioned clouds. Despite the distance, his voice boomed down to the Wandering Minstrel with improbable clarity. ’I speak not of musicians, but of dabbling charlatans. I see the clouds from up here, and they are not as you describe.’

’Of course not,’ said the Wandering Minstrel, not troubling to raise his voice, for he knew Alainaux would hear. ’I sing of the clouds as seen from the land, which the townsfolk know but you could hardly comprehend, for you never pause so long as to admire them.’ 

’Fine words, from a man who flits like an ill wind  from predicament to contingency, stealing fame and evading notoriety, and always a little ahead of fate. What would you know of views from the land?’

’Fate does not trouble with poets like me,’ said the Minstrel, ’for you keep it most conveniently preoccupied. Now, as lofty as your station is, you might wish to come down before the tea grows cold.’

’The tea is not yet done steeping,’ said Alainaux, descending with great majesty and circumstance, ’nor will it be for another minute.’ His chair set down with beautiful precision at the table. ’Now it is done.’ 

The Minstrel waved a hand to the heavens with a proprietary air. ’A perfect interlude to admire those clouds you know so much of.’

Alainaux sipped his tea. ’Fine clouds, quite undeserving of a poet’s slander. And what, by your dictionary, do these clouds express?’

’Great happiness, of course.’

’Of course.’

[worldoshaking]

FFXIVWrite Day 20: Duel

‘...Or rather I would, though I doubt any of your latest exploits will suffice. Not to belittle them, but what I seek are stories of only the greatest and grandest battles. Even the most skilled minstrel will struggle to entertain an audience with tales of everyday do-goodery,’ said the Minstreling Wanderer, as he insisted on calling himself, with great complacency. Despite his protestations, he evidently suffered from no lack of eloquence on the subject. 

Alainaux snorted. ‘Is that so, stranger? You presume I’ve been doing good, do you?’ 

‘What could a hero do but good?’ said the Minstreling Wanderer, looking charmingly ingenuous.

‘Many things,’ said Alainaux. ‘With such a limited imagination, I suspect your struggle to entertain your audiences might not be the fault of your subjects, or even of your rhymes.’

‘Oh, but I haven’t been struggling,’ said the Minstreling Wanderer. ‘My song of your last duel met with a most gratifying reception, and is still being sung across the length and breadth of Norvrandt.’

‘More’s the pity, given those rhymes,’ said Alainaux. ‘But I see the fame has not sufficed, for here you are, seeking me out again at ever shorter intervals.’

‘A minstrel may not rest on his successes, my friend,’ said the Minstreling Wanderer, though Alainaux could think of no reason he would address him as such. ‘I cannot live on the echoes of past glory, on songs that have long left their maker’s name behind.’ He smirked. ‘Minstrels are rather like heroes in that respect.’ 

Alainaux snorted again. Even when he was pretending to be someone else, the Minstrel could not refrain from his dreadful attempts at wit. ‘How fortunate, then, that I am a sinner,’ he said, ‘for sins live forever, I’m told.’

He had no objection to this Minstrel’s insistence that they were strangers, even if it was an unoriginal pretence. It amused him considerably to observe that the Minstrel was borrowing his stratagems as well as his stories. And it was an entertaining turn of events; under the circumstances, the Minstrel could hardly act wise and knowing about his, Alainaux’s, past. (That the Minstrel should succeed in entertaining him was certainly no frequent occurrence.)

They smiled at each other, alone in the middle of the city, with their eyes sharp and their secrets sheathed.

[worldoshaking]

A second fill for FFXIVWrite Day 19: Taken

He’s still asleep, but no matter. After a thousand thousand lifetimes, I can wait the time it takes for a man to open his eyes. 

I don’t doubt my other quarry will be here soon enough. I can only imagine the deplorable state he’s in by now, the light leaking out of every seam and crevasse. It would almost move me to pity, if I hadn’t left that behind me eons ago. 

I do find it all rather unsavoury. Serviceable as the light has been to me, I’ll never like it, or anything else of her making. Some might hold that with my victory, I have no further need to bear grudges. I hold that victory entitles me to all the grudges I like, and a few more. She is no less irksome in defeat. 

Oh, I’ll be magnanimous enough. In the hour of my triumph, I hardly need to gloat, least of all over her hopeless little champion. I promised him rest and dignity, and both he shall have in plenty, here beneath the sea. He’ll be my honoured guest, with all the treats and comforts that imagination and aether can devise. I bear him no particular malice, even if he did disappoint me rather spectacularly. I’m accustomed to that. 

And he’ll have the joy of my company, of course. Why, the dear boy might even find he likes things better this way. 

This one’s stirring now, I see. Well, well, he’ll soon wish he hadn’t. Perhaps this day has its bright spots after all. 

[worldoshaking]

FFXIVWrite Day 19: Taken

Every night we wake beneath the waters, and open our eyes to salt. There is smoke beneath the waters, and it flowers green and bright.  

She is not here tonight: the moon is gone, and my heart is hollow. These halls are bereft of song and sorrow, and no footsteps sound. We are not hers tonight; we are no-one’s, not even the sea’s.  

She is not here tonight. Instead, the adventurer is. 

*

Who are you, adventurer who walks these salty halls? Who are you, to step into our dreams with your eyes wide open and your blade aloft? Where have you come from, with your clear footsteps and your saltless dreams, and your bullets that light up the night?

Have you come to force us back into the deep, where you have never been? Unquiet dreams are not so easily stilled, and ghosts do not die. But all the same, we will fight you tonight, for the ring of your voice and the echo of your bullets. We will let you touch us, with your shining eyes and living hands. We will drag you beneath the waters, where your voice and bullets fall still, and when you rise up to the surface gasping, you will be alone. 

*

Each night he walks further into our dreams, stepping sure over ruined floors and gaping chasms. But tonight, for the first time, he sings. 

It is not the siren’s song. 

The waters are rising in these halls; everything on this island is sinking into the sea, rot flowering in the walls. Every time the moon comes, she steals something: a pinch of salt, a brick, a memory, a hand forgotten, a life lost long ago. 

But tonight, the adventurer’s song fills the caverns, and holds the shadows at bay. He comes like a storm, wrapped in gunsmoke and lost moonlight, and the seas grow restless at his passing. He is not the moon, and he takes nothing from Pharos Sirius, not even dreams. He walks in our dreams, but we have never wondered what he dreams of. He offers us a song instead, deeper than sorrow and starlight, woven of seafoam and things unremembered and unseen. 

The smoke beneath the waters is blooming. When it sinks back into the sea we will go with it, and leave the adventurer to the silence and the sun. 

[worldoshaking]

FFXIVWrite Day 18: Hackneyed

It had been an age—or at any rate, it had been wearisome enough for several ages—when a new sound broke through the mist. Thancred lifted his head to listen. Sight and sound might play tricks on him here, but those were indubitably footsteps. 

The footsteps were coming closer, and Thancred almost thought he glimpsed a figure through the mist, in dark flowing robes. They were tall—an elf, perhaps, as they were called here. He could have sworn he’d heard an odd jingling as they walked, glimpsed a glimmer around them that came and went. The most disconcerting thing about them was that they seemed entirely at ease, in this land where all things were strange and bewildering. 

Well, he supposed it was enough that they weren’t a pixie. Thancred had been walking a long time in this land of mists and mysteries. He had ignored the whirling lights and the mocking laughter, and trod doggedly on, though his legs were weary and his senses satiated with the colours and the sounds and the endless, all-consuming mist. He was sick to death of the society and the solitude alike. 

‘Halt!’ he called out, in his sharpest, most stentorian voice. He did not know who he was calling out to; they might be friend or foe, or something more fey and mysterious still, some phantom who would lure him into the woods or the waters and consign him to bewilderment and torment forever. Just then, he cared not. He had had enough of solitude, and he would take his chances.

The footsteps had stopped. Thancred got to his feet, and scowled into the mist, for all the good it did. ’Hands up,’ he said, cocking his gunblade in what he hoped was a suitably imposing gesture, from what little of it was visible. 

The figure appeared to be complying; there was another round of the peculiar jingling, and then a pair of hands loomed in the mist. ’A hackneyed, yet nonetheless serviceable, phrase,’ said a familiar voice.

Thancred nearly dropped his gunblade. ‘Urianger? When did you arrive?’