Intermission, and Flight by Night
(mentions: @neheon-kha, @wasshoingmachine, @gegenji, @its-morphin-time-xiv, @enambris, @the-faceless-ffxiv )
“She lied. To everyone,” the witch muttered, draped on the railing of her apartment balcony. The moon shined down from on high, casting the Gridanian residence in ghostly half-light and reflected off the lake far below, black waters shimmering like the surface of Fiona’s sleepy eyes and the runescribed dragon scale on its chain about her neck.
“I guess that does give her time to leave a mark,” Fiona contested, half to herself, as her wandering gaze met the moon above. “Or maybe remembering that day, seeing Kaito like that- even if that was a lie too- was the mark I needed.”
“Maybe I should just forget about it.”
The witch climbed up onto the railing, bare feet resting on the smoothed and painted cast-iron an holding the little half-elezen aloft. The wind caught at her simple white nightgown and raven-black hair, setting them both to flutter, hugging at her shapelessly slender body in the Shroud-breeze.
“What was wrong with me, that I couldn’t take her reasoning so fully? It needed protecting. It needed make an impact,” Fiona mumbled again, arms spreading wide to help her retain her balance. She lifted one leg, still keeping her balance far above that shimmering lake. “Does it even matter? I’ll outlive them all.”
“They just needed make their time worthwhile. A few little cuts to staunch the wound in the world. I guess that’s the nature of sacrifice,” the witch murmured, voice little more than an ethereal whisper. She always loved the night and didn’t wish to despoil it with noise.
She was Duskwight, on her father’s side. The sun burned her eyes and her porcelain skin, and the moon salved it, kissed it, the cool breeze reminding her of who she was. But since blood and eye, she was more. Duskwight, hyur, Ishgardian, wyrm. And she was so tired of seeing the ones she loved hurt, over and over and over. But it seemed that no act was ever of use. The enemy simply swatted the finest strikes, the strongest defenses, aside like cobwebs. She had to trust Neheon. She did trust Neheon. She’d been to, what Fiona came to call, the Silver Glade. Seen it for herself. The light of hope. She’d heard Enambris’ triumphant song resound across the pearls. It was just a matter of time before they could turn the tide, and the little witch was an impatient one.
And so for now, she needed to act. She needed to do something. She remembered Belladonna’s instructions, the slaving sky-pirates who were marauding about Gyr Abania and Dravania. The Chorus wouldn’t care overmuch of a few stolen Spoken lives, but she still did. She felt the metal underfoot, tucked her other leg behind her knee, and shut her eyes. The night filled her. The chill breeze, the creaks of the settling building, the birdsong and vilekin. She let it wreathe her, comforting, a blanket of stars and comforting darkness.
Ordsormr’s words still rang in her forebrain. The one she thought of as Grandfather, who taught her to walk, fly, and speak again. The one who taught her to save herself, to retain herself, despite the Dying. The one who taught her how to reclaim herself in turn, and to escape those bonds once more. How much of it was just simply letting go of the definition, letting it slip past and away from her and letting her full self spill forth.
The witch stepped off from the railing and exhaled, unbinding restraints she’d woven with utmost care and cinched shut with the Word that described her so. It came out like the breath leaving her lungs. The wind kissed the scars and marks about her porcelain flesh as she fell toward the shimmering lake, even as they all unraveled in the air, spilling out into gleaming scales, sable ribbons and night-cast vapour. There was no splash.
Black-feathered wings spread wide as the fledgling skimmed the lake’s surface, rose sharply to ascend past the treeline. To Dravania. There was work to be done. Slavers to rout. Flowers to plant.
And a black stone house that had swallowed a platoon.
