Oxeia hums in acknowledgement, but doesn't turn from her perch.
The City is quiet. In mourning. It almost fell apart into so many memories and so much nothing. One of the Convocation has stepped down, and the other has become a part of something greater. And nobody knows whether replacements will be chosen, whether the seats shall remain empty...whether there are any replacements to pick, with so many dead.
Helike crosses her arms over her chest, scuffing her feet on the stone flooring. There's rubble there; scorch marks. They'll have to clean things, in time. But there are larger priorities.
"Why are you telling me?" Oxeia speaks. Her voice is pained and broken, cracking in a way it never has before.
And for once, Helike flounders. She's normally one for speaking so much, so openly. For sharing every little thought that passes through her mind, and letting others see the joy she feels.
But there is no joy to be found here.
"I thought...you would want to know that we're recovering. That..." she bites her lip, and looks down at the city below them. The city they so nearly lost. "...that we can rebuild."
The lights throughout the city flicker on, one tower block at a time. It had been difficult to work with the arcane circuitry and to rebuild all that was broken, and in truth she'd been a little more reluctant to use Creation magic than normal. Her reticence was understandable, given what had so nearly befallen them all. Given what had befallen so many.
It's almost worse, with the lights on. In the dark you could almost pretend the city was whole. But with the lights, you could see gaps in the skyline where skyscrapers used to stand. You could see sections of darkness, where great chunks of rock and stone and metal and magic have been torn away by colossal impacts. And you could see the bodies that had not yet been recovered.
So much death; before and after the calamity. The sickness and the cure both.
It makes Helike feel sick.
"No," Oxeia says. She turns, slipping from her perch and dropping in front of her friend. She's not wearing her mask. A petty refusal she's had since she stepped down. If she is not to be a part of polite Amaurotine society, why should she wear their masks? Why shouldn't her face be seen? Her eyes are a bright green, defiant even now. But now...now, the scarring across her face is on clear display. A burn, running from one eye all the way to her neck. The crack in her voice. "We can't."
Helike closes her eyes, looking down at the floor in shame.
The night in Amaurot is clear, and crisp, and cold.
Normally, conditions would be kept pleasantly warm through total mastery over Creation itself. Weather is a minor feat, in comparison to reality. The Akademia Meteorologika can shift the clouds and bring rain in mere minutes.
Igeyorhm breathes out, watches her exhalation curl in the air. She likes it. Normally, she'd have to put a request at the Academy in for colder, more winterish conditions like this.
But nothing is exactly normal at the moment.
The figure ahead of her shifts - making her presence obvious for those who might not have noticed her there.
That would be why.
She approaches, never one to sit back and wait for the perfect opening to strike. "Nice night," she says, because she has nothing deeper to say.
The woman next to her laughs, dry and low. She doesn't move, staying leaned against the railing of the Capitol. Overlooking the city. "You would say that."
"Too cold for your liking?" Igeyorhm joins her, leaning over the railing. But she doesn't look at the long drop, nor out to the city. Her eyes remain focused on the woman next to her.
"Never liked the cold much."
"You liked me."
It's blunt. Too blunt, too forward. Lahabrea would chide her for her fumbling, obvious gambit. For making her motivations too obvious, when they should remain unclear until your point has already been made. A discovery your debate partner comes to on their own, rather than a blunt instrument swung at your opponent's head.
Igeyorhm has never much liked that approach.
"I still like you, Igeyorhm." Her companion looks over from the view for the first time since she arrived. She smiles, so softly.
"Oxeia," she says, the name heavy and unfamiliar on her tongue. Because that's it, isn't it? That's the difference between them, now. Her words choke into nothing, as the enormity of the gulf between them seems to grow.
One of them is Whisperer Igeyorhm, Ninth of the Convocation of Fourteen. (Thirteen, now.)
The other is Oxeia.
Just Oxeia.
No longer of the Convocation.
No longer their Fourteenth.
Oxeia seems aware of the weight, too, and looks away again.
"Your title never really suited you anyway," Igeyorhm says, an attempt at levity in her voice. "You were always happier undergoing your real work than in our endless meetings."
Oxeia shrugs, thinking over her next words.
That's the difference between them.
Igeyorhm fills silences with words that occur to her. She acts, rather than observing. Pushes forwards, without fear or reservation. Always on the move, the others say. She doesn't understand why that's a bad thing. She just never really saw the appeal of standing still.
Until she met Oxeia.
Quiet, and calm, and measured Oxeia.
Not measured like Lahabrea, or Emet-Selch. Not an orator whose every word is chosen for the largest possible effect on its audience. Not a storyteller, whose words are designed to evoke meaning more than truth.
Measured because...she wants each one of her words to mean something. She wants each and every syllable to inform the listener of her intent. To matter.
Where the rest of Amaurotine society is content to use their gifts freely, creating things simply because they can, Oxeia has always been...frugal.
Igeyorhm supposes that's just one more way that she never quite fit in.
"Feel like I did good work there, though."
The words shake Igeyorhm from her musings, and she smiles, lips curling up to meet her mask. "You did. You have." She reaches out, broaching the gap between them, and places a hand on her friend's wrist. "You could still come back, you know. Do more good work."
It's a desperate request, despite the softness of her tone. She knows it; they both do.
Don't do this, she pleads, silently. Stand with us.
Oxeia sighs, breath fogging the air in front of her. Shakes her head.
Igeyorhm feels that tiniest piece of hope in her chest freeze and die. She lowers her hand, flexing her fingertips against the cold air.
"Already did my big leaving speech. Nabriales'd mock me forever if I came back now."
That's not what she means, and they both know it.
Igeyorhm looks away, out across Amaurot. Across their city. The blue-green lights shimmer and shine, lending an ethereal, timeless glow to it all. Even the sky seems alight with it.
"Have you ever noticed," she begins, knowing her next words will tear her open to say, "how your eyes are the same colour as the city?"
It's not what she means. They both seem to be saying a lot of things like that, tonight.
Oxeia tilts her head, regarding the view before her. She pulls out a mirror from her robe's pocket, examining herself. After a moment's hesitation, she reaches up to her mask and pulls it from her face.
Igeyorhm freezes at the gesture, breath catching in her throat.
"You're right," Oxeia says, as if she were noting the weather again. "Never really noticed before."
"You hold this city in your eyes." Igeyorhm tilts Oxeia's face towards her, stroking her fingers over the woman's bare cheek. It's intimate - too intimate. "Are you truly going to let it fade away into nothing?"
"Don't do this." Oxeia's voice breaks, as she allows all pretence to fall away. Without the mask, there is nothing to disguise her grief. "Don't summon Him."
And there it is.
Why she left.
Why one of them is Whisperer of the Convocation, and the other simply...is.
"It's the only way," she says, and does her best to believe the words Elidibus and the others stated with such certainty.
Oxeia laughs again, but there's no humour in it. There's just sadness in her eyes as she steps away, pulling from Igeyorhm's reach. The fulm between then may as well have been the oceans she knows Oxeia has traversed.
Oxeia shakes her head.
"No, it isn't. It's just the easiest."
Defector Oxeia turns, and walks away.
Igeyorhm remains. And tries not to believe that she's right.
_ _ _
The night in Amaurot is clear, and crisp, and cold.
It's less humid than one would expect for a haven hidden far beneath the waves. The cold, though, is something unavoidable this far from the surface.
Alisaie breathes out, and watches her exhalation curl in the air. She likes it. It reminds her of the 'nights' in Amh Araeng, when the caregivers at the Inn at Journey's Head would sit together, close to a fire, and talk. Just to pass the time. Just because they couldn't sleep. Just because she couldn't sleep, and one or other of them chose to remain with her until she nodded off.
A figure sitting atop one of the railings shifts, alerting Alisaie to her presence.
Ah. There she is.
She approaches, never one to sit back and wait for the perfect opening to strike. "Alphinaud's worried, you know. You've been gone a while."
The woman next to her laughs, dry and low. She doesn't move, staying leaned against the railing. Looking towards the Capitol. Toward their destination. "When is he not?"
"That..." Alisaie leaps up to grab the top of the railing, climbing her way up to join her companion with a degree of difficulty. Damned Ancients with their damned twelve-fulm-tall-selves. "...is an excellent point." She swings her legs over the edge, looking down at the drop below her.
"He the only one worried?"
"No."
It's blunt. Too blunt, too forward. Her tutors at the Studium would reprimand her for it. Father would reprimand her for it.
Alisaie finds that she doesn't much care.
"I'm holding together, Alisaie." Her companion looks over from the view for the first time since she arrived. She smiles, so softly, and Alisaie finds herself so lost in it that she wishes that it hadn't taken this for her to finally start taking her mask off for more than five minutes at a time.
"Max," she says, the name heavy on her tongue. Her next words choke into nothingness, as the enormity of that name occurs to her.
She's supposed to be Maxima Sawyer, Saviour of Eorzea. Warrior of Light, and now of Darkness.
But the woman before her now - the girl before her now - is...Max.
Just Max.
Max seems aware of the weight, too, and looks away again.
"How are you, really?"
Max shrugs, thinking over her next words.
That's the difference between them.
Alisaie acts, rather than observing. Pushes forwards, without fear or reservation. Always on the move, the others say. She doesn't understand why that's a bad thing. She just never really saw the appeal of standing still.
Until she met Maxima.
Quiet, and calm, and measured Max.
Not measured like Urianger, or Y'shtola. Not an augur with floral words to stir the hearts and minds of those who listen. Not a teacher, trying to share her knowledge with the world in the way that suits her (usually-unruly) students best.
Measured because...she wants each thing she does to make a difference. She wants each and every word and each deed to count for something. To matter.
"If you'd asked me a couple bells ago, I'd have said I was angry," Max says. The words shake Alisaie from her musings. "But here, though? Here I'm just...sad."
"No matter what happens, I'm not leaving your side." Alisaie reaches out, broaching the gap between them, and rests a hand on her friend's wrist. "I made you promise, remember?"
Max lets out a quiet laugh, and looks over at Alisaie with such a fond look on her face. "You remember a promise you had me make a year ago, in your time?"
Alisaie grins and bumps her shoulder against Max's. "Oh, of course. It's not every day one manages to wheedle a promise out of an adventurer. It's useful if I ever need an errand done."
Max's blue-green eyes shimmer with unshed tears. The sky (or, Alisaie, supposes, the sea) seems alight with the same colour - and even the streets and windows are filled with it.
"Have you noticed," Alisaie begins, to try and distract them both, "that your eyes are the same colour as the city?"
Max looks away. Stares at Amaurot. She tilts her head, regarding the view before her with the same keen eyes Alisaie has seen track targets through forests or follow the every move of flittering magitek bits.
Alisaie's breath catches as she stares at her friend. At her hero.
"Yeah," Max says, eventually. There's a weight of loss behind the word. Something neither of them have a name for. "I know."
They both fall silent, then. Content to watch the city in her eyes for just a little while longer.
This has been one of my favorite songs since first hearing it on a mixtape mailed to me by a random internet person back in 1995. (The internet had real people on it back in those days.) In terms of early 90s Danceable Romantic Euro Goth® (DREG), nothing much else sounds like this, and I love it completely, almost in spite of myself.
