(WARNING: contains minor descriptions of a burn wound and implications of past and current abuse.)
Under the red glow of his little floating fireball, Arden stared at his reflection in the mirror and the ring of patchy, blistery, and raw-red flesh wrapped around his neck.
With a flick of his fingers, he cast the ointment-stained bandages that’d been covering it just moments before away into one of the many darkened corners of his cabin. The firelight from his little fireball didn’t extend far, and the moonlight shimmering through the cracked window nearby wasn’t any help for this nightly ritual. Several weeks now of cleaning the burn wound, applying the salve, and re-wrapping it gently made his motions rote and thoughtless - something he’d normally appreciate for a little while, then hate and strive for something else to engage his brain, but…
Well, he can’t get away from this, and the mindlessness of this routine forced him to contemplate his new reality.
__________________________________________
The verdict had been cast, and he’d been brought before a high-ranking Maelstrom sergeant he’d soon become very familiar with, flanked by two soldiers several ranks higher than himself. The Elezen man seated behind the desk had his feet up on said desk, on top of papers that were surely important, and was spinning a dull silver band in his hands the size of a small salad plate.
“So, Private Reis,” the sergeant drawled, pinning his golden stare on him. “You’re not fighting your sentence?”
Was he expecting rebellion? Fury and rage and spit? Arden inwardly scoffed. “I’m not, Sergeant.”
“What a surprise. I heard you were full of fire and vim and vigor!” A low chuckle rolled through the man, and something deep in Arden’s gut recoiled at it. “Why, I was expecting you to slash and burn your way through headquarters! It certainly would’ve been an exciting prospect, fighting for my life against you. The ‘you’ of the reports I’ve read, at least.”
Arden tilted his head very slightly. Ah. He can guess what those reports were about. “Regardless of my…history, Sergeant, I’m a soldier through and through. I take responsibility fer my actions and don’t fight my due punishment. I could’ve been dropped from the force and thrown out onto the streets.”
The Sergeant gave him a sly grin. “Oh, you could’ve, yes. And you still can.” Uncrossing his spindly legs, he rose from his seat, still spinning that band in his hands like a toy as he stepped out from behind his desk. “Buuut, I can’t deny that I’m sad I won’t have an Ala Mhigan firecracker on my team. I was looking forward to succeeding where the others couldn’t, and breaking you.”
As the man came to tower over him, Arden tried his best to force his expression to remain blank and ‘polite’. Kept it still and placid as he crouched down to meet his eyes, even as he reached up with one hand to brush the strands of red hair back and away from his neck.
Yet, as soon as the cold metal of silver band wrapped around his neck, he felt something in his expression shift -
And the man smiled. “But you’re already broken, aren’t you?”
__________________________________________
Arden stared at the burned band of flesh around his neck and grimaced.
That…thing was supposed to be temporary. Prove his worth and loyalty to the Maelstrom, do whatever they needed him to do, then get it taken off when they felt they could trust him again. But now, thanks to his ingenious brainlessness, that collar was practically branded on him for life now.
Wonderful, Arden. Perfect. Not only did his famous impulsivity get him stuck in this mess in the first place, it also nearly shocked him to death by having him join the fight against a Dalamud-corrupted lightning sprite in nothing but a cloth spellweaver’s gown and a shite ton of metal accessories. He’s lucky the collar didn’t get fused to his skin outright.
He gnawed on his lower lip and tasted blood.
He really needed to stop doing that.
Needed to stop…all of this.
But he couldn’t, could he? It was simply his nature.
Pressing his lips together, Arden dipping two fingers into the burn salve jar and began his nightly routine anew. With enough dedication, he had to hope the patchy, seared skin would eventually disappear.
Click! The modified locking mechanism inside Dalamud Inquisition's front door sounded, and the turret mounted to the wall beside his head finally aimed its sights away from him. With all the ease in the world, R’thipra turned the doorknob and headed inside, already bracing himself for the onslaught of aether he was about to walk into.
Thankfully, he prepared himself more than what was apparently necessary. Dalamud’s lobby always felt like a veritable sauna of aether and magic, and that was what he was expecting. His concern truly lay with the stacks upon stacks of rune-sealed crates and boxes all but choking the little available space reserved for walkways. The ever-twisting nature of the shop forced them to do construction and repairs around it, and, well…in their original vision for Dalamud, no one needed to stay here for long. Anywhere but here would’ve been an ideal place to store everything.
Not that he could risk that anymore, not with what happened to Alys and Leigh the other day. But at least the crates were doing their jobs and not dropping the floor out from underneath him.
R’thipra lifted his head and locked eyes with the camera watching the front door. “Initiate lockdown mode.”
“Lockdown mode has not been lifted since last session. Door lockdown was only temporarily bypassed via lockdown owner’s command.”
“So, the building is completely secure?”
“Correct. Door lock has been re-engaged and defenses are back online.”
An uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of his stomach, but he only nodded. If only he could disable the turret too… but Alys had already declared she had no interest in coming back here. If Suki ever came knocking without his invitation, hopefully she’d recognize the turret for what it was. As for Leigh… he could only hope it would slow them down as they tried to dodge.
Carefully weaving and winding his way through the stacks of relics, he made his way to the backroom door, staring into the swirling mass of aether beyond the wooden door for his target. Then, he stepped inside.
The remains of what used to be their medical bay lay blanketed by darkness until he flipped the light switch on. Once-gentle blue light reflected off the polished marble walls of the labyrinthine room, once full of magitek equipment, medical cots, and enough medical supplies to keep them healthy in a true lockdown situation for years. Now, all of those were gone, and the lack of anything to absorb the light turned it harsh, blinding, and nearly garish.
R’thipra carefully navigated to the computer in the back of the room and sat down in its chair, poking the screen with one hand and reaching for the thick manual with the other. One emergency bypass code later, and the screen began to fill with charts and graphs -
“Show me the security camera footage for Rheya’s office, ((March 6th, 2024, 7:00pm)).”
The screen went dark, save for the purple icon of a lotus flower in the corner. Then, it shifted to a different kind of darkness, and he squinted, leaning in close to try to see it better-
CRRRRRRRRRASH!
“UUUUUUUUGH!”
R’thipra let out a startled gasp and flinched at the past Alys’ sudden screech, jerking back away from the screen. Shit, that sounded like it hurt. Was she okay?
“I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this,” the past Alys ranted. “Oh, it'll be fine, Alys! It's perfectly safe, just don't touch any of the portals and it'll be fiiiine. I'm going to yank his non-existent tail when I see him next…”
“...Yeah, she’s fine,” he muttered to himself, the guilt easing its grip on his heart just a touch. He pressed the fast-forward button.
More Alys’ ranting followed, voice made squeaky and unrecognizable by the fast-forward, yet the screen remained dark. Until Alys seemed to make one fatal mistake, and the recognizable red glow of the turret’s sights landed on the frazzled, frustrated Miqo’te.
So much for the guilt easing up. It just regained its vice-grip on his heart in a split second.
Yet another CRRRRRRRRRASH! made him jump, but rather than bowling the seat over, R’thipra’s hands clenched tightly around the chair’s armrests. He did his best to ignore the ominous crack and listened close.
“…Gods damn- ..Alys?! Miss Alys, where- Ow. Shite. Where the hells is this?”
“Turn on night-vision,” R’thipra directed the computer.
“Night-vision is unavailable for this room,” the computer replied just was calmly as ever.
R’thipra swore under his breath. Fine. He’ll just have to rely on what little light the turret gave him.
It gave him nearly nothing. Indications that Alys was moving around in the room, yes, but never once what was happening beyond her. Until it got stuck on the back of Rheya’s chair, and -
Ah. In the halo of red light, he saw the dim shine of the wall safe’s door swing open. Then, Leigh’s arm cutting through the light to pick at the sales log on the desk. Murmured words were exchanged between the two of them, a mention of ‘runes’, and the wall safe’s door swung shut.
R’thipra exhaled slowly. Alys had admitted to going through the safe - he had to assume she read the recent records. And Leigh might know about Flamescorn and his practice runes, too, now.
Just as he recognizes the end of the situation - the runed box flying up through the portal to the him of the past - he then hears something -
“...Miss Alys, I did not see you writing something down from the safe, nor did I see you open it, and you did not see me take something from the desk. It is very dark in here, after all.”
“Of course. I couldn't see a thing. It's nearly impossible to navigate this room without bumping into anything, reading and writing is nigh impossible.”
R’thipra looked over the trove of relic crates infesting Dalamud’s lobby with a frown so heavy, he could feel it carving out wrinkles in his skin.
He suddenly had much, much less time than he thought he did. If they weren’t being honest with him, if they were pretending that everything was fine, what would be preventing them from working together? Talking about him behind his back, thinking what he was doing was wrong, planning ways to prevent him from doing what was necessary and ultimately to their benefit?
These thoughts would normally be racing circles in his mind. He’d normally be forced to isolate himself, sit down, and force his attention on breathing. Either travel inward to escape the panic wracking his body, or force himself to confront the reality of his environment and escape it that way. Do his best to ignore the itch in the back of his mind and how it always seemed to snag his attention when he was at his lowest.
His mind was always a terrible creature, hells-bent on tormenting him and refusing to settle for logic. And yet, now, just like it’d been since the start of the new year…
It was at peace. It was serene. The thoughts and concerns still flitted about in his mind, yes, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Like smoke gathering outside the windows of a bunker, it was so, so easy to acknowledge them, then turn away.
Everything was going to be fine. He would make it so.
They had to act that way out of concern for his well-being, right? Because they were his friends, or at least Alys was. Leigh had proven themselves to be harmful lately, and he needed to be careful around them. But Alys always had his best interests in heart and wanted good for the both of them, and Suki was his first ever friend.
He just needed to prove to them that he was okay, everything would continue to be okay, and that everything will get better. He just needed to use this time wisely.
R’thipra hefted one of the larger crates up, grunting at the effort. Then, slowly, careful as to not break the precious relics inside, he approached the backrooms door, found the portal he was looking for, and stepped inside. And when he returned to Dalamud, he did so empty-handed.
“Ser Reis, I assure you, your food has not been poisoned.”
Arden peered at Overton over the top of his dodo drumstick. In the dim light of the eatery the retainer had invited him to - some sort of pirate’s bar and fighting ring, he had to guess from the decor and the raucous laughter he knew well from Limsa’s streets -, the boy’s expression was somewhat veiled in shadows. Yet where he couldn’t see if he had a twinkle in his eye, he could see his stupidly normal smile.
Of course he could. He almost missed the brief moments where it wasn’t plastered to his face, when Leigh was threatening his life and refusing to let him run away.
“Can’t a guy be cautious?” he replied back instead of voicing those thoughts, baring his teeth in a lopsided grin. “If ya and yer Lord were plannin’ t’ kidnap or kill me, this’d be the place.”
Overton hummed to himself, his fork tines tapping lightly on the small section of his ceramic plate that wasn’t drowned in butter or occupied by lobster tails. “You think we would pay off the chefs and waiters to do such a thing?”
“Or ya own the place and ya haven’t said anythin’.”
“Make no mistake, I would love to eat here every day during my lunch breaks.” The retainer seemed more amused than anything at the accusation. Not that Arden could blame him - he’d act the same way. “Unfortunately for us, Milord’s power and wealth does not come from the restaurant business. Like any other wealthy man, he saw opportunity in providing funds for our meal tonight.”
Arden had seen opportunity as well. There was far more food on his side of the table than Overton’s: a copy of the other’s buttered lobster tail, a basket of dodo wings to accompany the drumstick in his hand, a bucket of crab legs from who-knew-where, an 8onze bison steak he was waiting to cool down to edible temperature, buttered biscuits and bacon bread pushing up against the unopened bottle of champagne they were meant to share…
Would he be able to eat all of this tonight? Of course not. But if Overton’s lord was paying for whatever he wanted to order, why not order delicious food to last him the week?
But Leigh had also told him to ‘draw him to him’. Would Overton’s lord scream at the bill at refuse to ever let his retainer see him again?
Huh. Maybe he should’ve thought this through more.
“Besides,” Overton continued when the silence stretched on a bit too long, “Milord bade me to observe you. Observing you as an unconscious body or a corpse would not be in the spirit of his request. I think both of us would prefer you to stay in good health, yes?”
Well, that was a good point. Arden gave the drumstick one last cautionary sniff, then bit down.
Chewy, flavorful, and practically dripping with juices. Yep, that was normal meat. Great meat, actually. He hadn’t had such a massive hunk of meat to sink his teeth into in a long time.
Overton watched on with a half-smile, half-grin. “...I can practically see you salivating. It must be good?”
Was he? Arden quickly wiped at his lips, and they came back wet and greasy. The urge to snap and bare his teeth in a wild grin, another chance to see that smile be wiped off the boy’s face in a fraction of a second, surged forward -
No, no, no. He can’t mess this up. Calm, Arden. Stay focused.
With great reluctance, he reached for a napkin to pat his lips dry. Faint black smears from his lipstick stained the cloth as he pulled it away. “Aye, it’s...good. Very good. What’s this place t’ ya again?”
“Oh, it is simply the place where I first met Mx Leigh. As I said, Milord bears no connection to this place. I only picked it for our dinner tonight due to familiarity.”
That couldn’t just be it. Without moving his head, Arden looked out at what parts of the restaurant their booth allowed him to see. Dim lights that created a cozy atmosphere, yet veiled secret smiles and dealings. Tables and barstools spaced just far enough apart, and booths divided by just thick enough barriers, to appear normal, yet provide privacy for their occupants. And while there were tables in the far back corners of the restaurant, Overton had picked a booth relatively in the middle of the space, in the bartender’s line of sight and near enough to the entry stairwell.
Overton wanted an escape route, maybe? And the pressure of the public view? Whatever conversation he wanted to have, he wasn’t interested in secrecy.
Interesting. Just a minor touch of interesting to retainer so stuffy and seemingly obsessed enough with him to stalk him.
But he’d need to show more than that over the course of the dinner. Satisfy his curiosity. Impress him with something he wasn’t expecting. Scratch the itch in his mind that made him wonder why him.
A sudden pop! jerked his attention back to the table. Opened champagne bottle in his hands, Overton gave him an apologetic smile and poured some into his empty wine glass. “Do you drink, Ser Reis?”
“Naaaaah, I’m too much of a lightweight. Spiced tea makes me drunk, apparently.” Arden settled back into his seat, allowing himself to be swallowed up by the cushions. Let Overton set the pace of the night and see what he wanted from him. No reason to waste the opportunity to laze about in decadence in the meantime, right? “Why d’ya ask?”
Overton chuckled softly, setting the bottle back in the back of their table without complaint. In its place, he lifted his wine glass. “I was going to offer a toast. To the start of a great evening with a great companion.”
Oh? This time, Arden let his immediate grin show through as he reached for his water glass. “Oh, ya could do with a lot better of a companion. If ya were hopin’ fer an easy night tonight, I’m not yer guy. Unless ya like trouble?”
A bat of his eyelashes, an uncharacteristic snort from Overton, and a clink! of their glasses started off what would end up being a very interesting series of events.
Overton glanced up from the chunk of lobster speared on his fork, taking a moment to consider. “...I was given no information other than that directive. I have to assume Milord believes me up to the task of determining exactly what he wants me to observe.”
Well, he’d been expecting a longer answer than that. Was he really going to have to prompt him? Arden had just taken a big bite of dodo, and now he had no chance to savor it. “Which is…? I hate t’ break it t’ ya, Overton,” he didn’t, not really, “but yer not gonna catch me in any illicit schemes or anythin’. If yer lord’s lookin’ t’ blackmail a Maelstrom soldier, there’s a lot more fattier fish in the sea t’ pick from.”
“Oh, I agree. If Milord’s intention was blackmail, he would ask me to observe someone in a position of power. It would need to be someone useful, yes?”
“Oi. Don’t talk about me like I ain’t useful.”
The retainer laughed under his breath, raising a soothing hand. “Peace, Ser Reis. I did not mean it as a jab. I was merely…well. From my observations of you thus far, is it not fair to say you have less power in the Maelstrom than your peers?”
Ah. That was an extremely nice way to say it. “I’m movin’ up in the ranks now, though.” Slowly but surely, as they learned to work with him rather than against him. The transfer to the stealth and reconnaissance unit was working out great for him! He almost didn’t have to think about Lieutenant Tanne anymore.
“Really? Congratulations, then.” Overton put up yet another smile. With so much of his time spent smiling, Arden couldn’t tell what smiles were genuine and which were fake. “But, to return to your question...Milord has been upfront with me before about intentions to blackmail certain individuals. As he has said nothing about his intentions for you, I assume he wants me to observe you simply to patch a hole in his knowledge.”
Arden raised an eyebrow. “Really now.” He almost had to laugh. The supposed master of knowledge that knew things that no one should know about Leigh and Alys didn’t know a thing about him? That was hard to believe.
“It is speculation on my side, of course.” Finally, Overton lifted that chunk of lobster up to his mouth and bit down. Fancy retainer as he was, he had to chew thoroughly and swallow before he continued. “So, I see my task as to learn everything possible about you. Anything that Milord already knows, he can ignore. What is new to him, he can keep, and I can keep my job. Simple, yes?”
“And ya thought that stalkin’ me was the best way t’ get that information?”
The retainer hesitated…then breathed out slowly through his nose. “...I will admit, my ability to sneak undetected was…less than I expected it to be.”
Arden grinned, twirling the remnant of the massive dodo drumstick in hand. “Yeah, ya were shite at it. I caught ya day one.”
“...Really?”
“Yup. Take it from a career sneak: ya sucked. A baby could’ve pointed ya out. I bet if they were around, my old unit would’ve spotted ya, too. And they had less than half a workin’ brain from all the cheap swill they kept drinkin’!”
For just a moment, Overton looked almost hurt, with his furrowed brow and frown. His jaw worked, and Arden waited with bated breath for the no-doubt upset and frustrated spiel he was surely about to spew.
But instead, he took a deep breath and reached down to the seat beside him. A worn, purple-dyed, leatherbacked journal landed on the table with a gentle thud, a quill and inkpot following it. Still with that furrowed brow, Overton wet his quilltip and flipped to the first non-paintstained page in the journal.
“...Let’s start with that,” he grumbled. “Likes to rub failure into people’s faces.”
One bell into their dinner, and Arden had to conclude that Overton was boring.
Who knew that being the center of conversation would be something he learned to despise? Overton seemed to have an endless amount of questions for him, and he should be reveling in the attention! That was how it normally went: someone would decide to take interest in him for some reason, he’d respond as his usual self - truthful, sharp, maybe a little goading if he was feeling particularly stimulation-starved that night -, and their reaction would be a catalyst to keep the engine of a good night rolling.
But Overton, as he and Limsa Lominsa’s combined military force had learned, was nothing. He was simply smiles and empty air. The moments when Arden gave into his impulses and fished for a reaction cracked those never-ending smiles, and he could almost see something else on the other side; but like clockwork, the retainer simply patched up the holes and continued on as if nothing had ever happened.
The mission to ‘keep him around’ was important, yeah, but he also needed to stay sane.
Even his current topic of interest, his abilities as a thaumaturge, was utterly dry. Novice-like, but without the true desire to learn anything. Every response prompted more notes written in his journal, and he wouldn’t be surprised of those notes were as dry as he was.
So. He needed to make his own fun.
“I don’t know where yer gettin’ yer information, but yer plain wrong about a lotta things. Ya wouldn’t survive a single introductory class.” Without moving an inch, Arden extended the invisible tendrils of his own aether toward Overton’s across the table, all while responding to the retainer’s latest inquiry.
The feedback was…odd. Before he could reach any aether, his senses brushed up against something smooth and obscuring, yet fragile, like fogged-glass on a shower door, extending as far as he could feel. A barrier, maybe, or a containment spell, but a horribly ineffective one; who would make a defense like this as thin as paper? It was oh-so-easy to slip through the porosity of the ‘glass’ -
And immediately drop into what felt like a volcano’s funnel. Overpoweringly fire-aspected aether seared at his senses from all sides, threatened to scramble and melt them by submerging them in the simmer, bubbling pot of lava below. Not a single other element in sight, at least at the surface level. It was a wholly inhospitable place that would set off the fight or flight reflexes of just about anyone, save himself.
99% of people were at least a mixture of two elements. Even he himself was a part of that group. If Overton wasn’t…
“What do you mean?” Overton replied as if nothing was wrong at all.
He’d need to dig a little deeper to see if there was anything else. Arden crossed his arms over his chest and hummed audibly, putting on a show of thinking. All the while, his aether pressed further forward, searching and probing for -
There. A small, barely perceptible stream of earth aether, existing just beneath the sea of fire. Yet even particles in the stream were ‘waterlogged’ with fire-aspect, clinging to their surfaces like a tick to wolf fur. A parasite.
It wouldn’t stay as earth aether for long. With enough heat and time, they would rise and join the flow. If the fiery heat continued to melt and steam everything in its vicinity, nothing would replace it.
Was there a source of this heat? Or was Overton shifting to be like him, continually burning in the core of planet, only with no escape?
Overton was looking at him expectantly. Right, this was a conversation, not a diagnosis on potential aetherical corruption.
“Traditional guilds of magic exist,” Arden began, claws clicking on the wooden table. “They teach specific spellcasters specific elements. Conjurer’s guild teaches wind, water, and earth; Thaumaturge’s teaches fire, ice, and lightnin’. Everythin’ else is unaspected.”
Overton nodded, scratching down yet more notes into his journal. “So…you only know half of the elements, then. And can only do things within those elements?”
“If I stuck t’ only traditional thaumaturgy, aye. But why cut myself off from everythin’ else? Once I learn the rest of the elements, I can do whatever I want.”
The retainer paused his scribbling, slowly lifting his head to look at him once more. “...What do you mean?”
“Think of it like this.” Arden lifted his hand, turning it palm up. Overton stared at him with rapt attempt, quill hanging in the air above his journal page. “Everythin’s based in one or more of those elements. By usin’ them in different ratios and in different ways…shouldn’t ya be able t’ do anythin’ ya wanted? By itself, fire’s just fire.” Purple smoked up from his tail’s chain-focus, and in a rush of heat, fire gathered in his empty palm -
Immediately across the way, he felt a wave of fire surge through Overton’s aether, alien in signature and yet somehow familiar.
And then another.
And another.
And another.
Like the pulsing signal of a Garlean radio, the waves continued to wash over the boy’s aether. In front of him, Overton simply watched the flame flicker and bounce in his hand.
Now this was interesting. Narrowing his eyes, Arden focused his mind entirely on the sensation and pressed his senses onward, cutting through fiery wave after fiery wave, eventually arriving at their source:
A singular, brightly-burning ember, buried deep in that sea of fire that was Overton’s melted aether. An old, dusty mote of flame that was so dwarfed by its surroundings that it was no wonder he missed it. With the fire in his hand serving as its fuel, the rhythmic waves it unleashed into its surroundings mirrored his experiences of Gyr Abania in the summer months: suffocatingly superheated air that melted the vision, the body, and the mind without reprieve, and the whisper of heatstroke urging all trapped in the labyrinth of fire to close their eyes and rest.
“...Are you alright, Ser Reis?” he heard Overton question distantly, looking at him over the flame with polite concern. As if his melted aether itself wasn’t a concern.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he replied just as distantly, trying to focus on that ember and figure out why it felt so familiar. As not a piece of Overton’s natural aether, it was technically a corruption - but where did the corruption come from?
And is this why he was the way he was? He seemed to be perfectly ignorant to it all, simply waiting for him to continue his lecture.
“...fire tornado, was what I was gonna say. Fire and wind.” Arden closed his fist around the conjured flame and smothered it. All at once, the waves of heat stopped running rampant through Overton’s aether, and the red-hot ember began to darken and cool. Something in his mind urged that he needed to keep talking, keep Overton’s attention diverted away from his aether or else he might lose this chance. “...Or, uh, true invisibility.”
“‘True invisibility’?” Overton echoed, his quilltip touching paper once more. “The type that shinobi utilize in their missions?”
“Yeah, the…” Perhaps he was putting too much of his attention on Overton’s aether. Even he could tell his verbosity was slipping. But it was much more interesting to investigate this corrupt aether. Like a surgeon with their fancy tools, Arden carefully plucked a strand of the melted aether from the lava and watched how liquid fire sloughed off of it like decayed skin. “The real kind. Making that work would make my work life a lot easier.”
Overton hummed amicably, fingers tapping against the back of his journal. “I imagine it would. You work as a reconnaissance unit, correct? Being able to turn invisible would certainly make infiltrating enemy encampments a lot easier.”
If the fire aether fell apart so easily, then maybe it hadn’t actually corrupted everything. Maybe a core of Overton’s original aether remained, simply covered in lava-like sludge. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, the steady molasses-like flow continued unabated.
Was there really this much corruption?
“Ser Reis…?”
“Uh,” Arden stammered, blinking back into reality for just a moment. Overton looked at him expectantly over the top of his journal, that pleasant smile still in place.
Well, if the corruption was so saturating, it was time to see if it was solid. “...Repeat what ya said again.”
“...I had said that surely, true invisibility would be a great boon to your work, because of your work as a reconnaissance unit, correct?”
Ducking his tail under the table, Arden focused on the fiery sludge coating the ‘melted’ aether and pressed it very lightly in the direction of lightning.
It refused to budge. If Overton noticed anything, he didn’t show it.
He pressed harder, molding it under his metaphorical fingers like a glob of fatty, nerve-ridden tissue. Turn to lightning, he commanded.
…It shifted, ever so slightly.
“...Have I said something wrong, Ser-”
“No, yer fine,” he snapped more aggressively than he intended. Keep him distracted, Arden. If he hasn’t noticed anything yet, you might be able to get away with this. “It’s, uh…more than that. If I can turn other things invisible, that’d help too. Got a big aethernet shard I gotta, uh, sneak into a Sahagin lair.”
If he were paying attention at all, he’d notice how Overton’s eyebrows almost shot into his hairline. “...an aethernet shard? Why?”
However, all he noticed was that Overton wasn’t screaming at him to stop. Behind closed lips, Arden grit his teeth and dug his metaphorical fingers in, squeezing it into every last crevice of the mold of lightning, forcing it to change shape.
As soon as he felt the snap of the aether complying with his demands and the zing of lightning-aspected aether touch his’, Overton suddenly stilled, the pleasant smile altogether dropping from his face as a hand came up to the back of his head. “...What’re you-”
A brilliant red light gleamed from under the table, illuminating the retainer in haunting shades of fire -
And Arden choked as a wave of old, musty, rotten, hadn’t-seen-the-light-of-day-in-years fire-aspected aether slammed into him and his extended, vulnerable senses like a tidal wave, nearly bowling him over in his seat -
A rush of blinding, dizzying-superheated desert air filled his lungs and burned the air he struggled to gasp in -
The acid taste of smoke clung to his tongue and globs of soot and ash imprinted themselves onto his skin, sunk through his skin into his flesh and bones -
The echoes of claws and teeth from a beast much larger than him rested their points against his shoulders and neck, bloodlust and superiority driving them to rip through his jugular and string him up by the shoulderblades -
And then, they were gone, and it was just him and his retainer stalker, seated at their table in the middle of a pirate-themed tavern.
Overton’s frown cut a deep groove in his otherwise-pleasant face, his quill dropping on the table and his hand reaching for his side. “...Ser Reis, are you…feeling alright?”
All Arden could manage was to grab the edge of their table with shaking hands, his body trembling as he hauled himself out of his chair. “I’ll…be right back.”
That was it. That was the where he recognized the ember from.
The pulse of fire-aspected aether that’d slammed all of them the first time they’d met Overton outside of Limsa Lominsa had felt odd. It hadn’t dropped him to the ground back then, but now?
Several minutes later, Arden still kept a hand on the wall outside the restrooms, just in case. The level of sheer overstimulation his nerves got in one blast of that aether rivaled the total sum of lightning aether he’d shocked himself with while testing his Manaward capabilities over the course of a week. If this were any other situation, he’d call on a chocobo porter to deliver him to an inn before he even thought about teleporting.
Lesson learned: don’t make yourself vulnerable to aetheric blasts around Overton.
But was was it? Overton hadn’t looked like he’d casted any spell: he didn’t appear to have any spell foci, including the dagger from before. Neither did his expression after the blast look like one of vengeance of smug justification, a retaliation against messing with his aether. And no spell cast using either that ‘melty’ personal aether or the aether of their current environment would feel old.
A bottled fire sprite hidden on his person wouldn’t make it feel like a beast was breathing down his neck. Unless sealed tightly with a spell or some kind of mechanism, the aether of a fire-aspected beast, whether alive or dead, would dissipate quickly into the environment. And if Overton did have the sealed aether of a beast, it certainly wasn’t sealed anymore. If that much aether was being blasted out with each breach of the seal, there wouldn’t be much aether left in it at all after long.
And nothing explained why Overton, polite and harmless retainer as he portrayed himself to be, who was now on Limsa Lominsa’s watch list partially because of these aetherical blasts, would keep the source of the aetherical blasts on his person where he could easily get caught.
He was so lucky he was suddenly more interesting to him free than he was behind bars.
Below Arden’s overstimulated nerves sat a buzzing feeling of another kind. To dig deeper, to infiltrate the retainer’s aether once again, throw all caution into the wind and investigate to sate his own curiosities. Overton certainly wasn’t going to be forthcoming with the information, if he knew anything at all - the fire corruption was layered so thick over his aether that there was a chance he was ignorant to the utter abnormality of those pulses.
But, no. He couldn’t risk getting actually knocked off his feet by another pulse. If he extended his aether further, and a stronger pulse went out, it could affect him much more severely to the point of health complications. Leigh seemed to bear the brunt of that when they were cornered by the Yellowjacket and his hirelings.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get other information from Overton. Information that he didn’t have to ask for, and information that Overton didn’t need to know he knew.
Arden grimaced as his shot aether roiled against his magic, but he forced the nausea down and focused his surroundings. The fire aether that Overton had unleashed still flitted intangibly and invisibly about the room, so he’d need to factor that into his ratio, but there was no speck of aether in this tavern that he couldn’t read. Just because he couldn’t cast spells of all the other elements didn’t mean he needed to, at least in this moment.
He specialized in twisting aether to whatever aspect and polarity he desired more than he specialized in what the rest of the world called ‘thaumaturgy’ these days. A little bit of missing information wouldn’t hurt Overton.
As quick as he could, Arden fine-tuned every particle of aether in his body to match the particles making up the dimly-lit tavern. There was no telling when Overton would pulse again, and his invisibility didn’t need to perfectly match his surroundings this time. All he needed was just enough invisibility to get close. Only when he couldn’t see the hair lying across his face anymore did he creep forward, balancing on the balls of his feet and doing his best to muffle the sound of his heeled boots on the rickety wooden floorboards.
Still seated at their table, Overton looked perfectly at peace despite the explosion of aether just a few minutes ago. Had he really taken the opportunity to finish off his lobster while he was struggling to not throw up? No matter what would end up happening with him, Arden had to respect that at least. Now that there was no bulky buttery plate in the way (someone must have come to take it while he was gone), the boy’s journal was laid out across it. And of course, he was still writing in it.
Not that that was a bad thing. It gave him time to snoop.
Arden hovered just behind the retainer’s chair, peering at the pages visible past Overton’s bent head. Fairly neat handwriting - though not as neat as his own, he declared with pride! - covered a majority of each page, and the cycle of his thought process was clear. Start a list of notes and observations, embellish far too much and start disrupting the flow of the notes, add additional notes in a diagonal scrawl around each item, add notes on top of those additional notes to the point that a page became a cluster of words all smashing into each other, then finally go to a new page. Rinse and repeat, and Overton had a journal full of detailed notes he’d have to spend days to decode before he could actually use them.
Oh, but there were little doodles interspersed throughout the jumble of words! Little doodles of little things, like each piece of gold jewelry he wore tonight and the shape of his hands down to the perfect points of his claws. How cute.
If Overton hadn’t sought him out purely because of his aetheric corruption, maybeLeigh’s, Suki’s, and Alys’ theory that the boy had a crush on him bore some weight. Boy was he going to be disappointed when he learned the truth.
Everything else about the journal felt very mundane, though. As far as he could tell, for how complex Overton’s scattered notetaking ‘style’ made it look, all the written notes were just about the various conversations they’d had tonight. Nothing in particular stood out, aside from the confirmation that the retainer was a complete novice when it came to magic.
Except when Overton turned to the last page, and both he and Arden were faced with two things: a rather detailed sketch of Arden himself (again, cute), and a page dedicated to a different kind of notetaking altogether:
It was a code, obviously. He only had minimal codebreaking experience; this was far beyond what he knew how to solve. But why code language in his own journal in the first place? Unless he was meant to hand it over to his Lord - but why would he write his secrets in the book he was giving away?
Interesting. The more and more he looked past Overton’s normal exterior, the more interesting he got.
Slipping his hand into his pocket, Arden pulled out his tomestone and activated the aetherograph, snapping a picture of the code array -
Just in time for Overton’s shoulders to hunch protectively, and his head to turn to look directly at him. Arden froze on instinct, looking down at the rest of where his body should’ve been.
Still invisible, thankfully, but maybe not forever. Overton’s gaze may’ve been looking through him now, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t realize he’d been snooped on if his just enough invisibility chose to out him.
Arden cautioned a step backward, doing his best to muffle the sound. The wood flooring forced a low thunk out of the motion anyway, and this time Overton turned his whole side to follow the sound, eyebrows furrowing together.
Shite. He was going to have to take off his boots, wasn’t he? Arden began to bend low, but paused as a glimmer of gold caught his eye.
The lapel of Overton’s jacket hung open in the way the retainer had twisted to stare right through him. Pinned to his undershirt and glinting faintly in the tavern light were two pieces of jewelry: the intricate, fragile-looking gold…no, bronze? timepiece that caught his eye, and a thumb-sized silver brooch framed in tiny emerald jewels. And now that he was close enough, he could spy a silver necklace chain looping around his neck before disappearing below his undershirt’s neckline.
Odd that he would hide jewelry. If either the timepiece, brooch, or apparent amulet were aetherically treated, they could serve as magical foci. But just looking at Overton's journal proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a complete and utter novice to magic. And if they were magical artifacts gifted to him, like that dagger…Arden wouldn’t be able to prove that without putting himself at risk of a fire aether pulse to the heart.
As if feeling the curiosity roiling off him, Overton called out, “...Ser Reis, are you there?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Arden caught a glimpse of chain-adorned red fur streaking briefly into view. Any moment, he could get caught.
Yet, underneath the eustress that made him hold his breath tight, he also felt…something else. A trickle of sensation that wended and wound itself around and around his mind like a coiling snake, pulling his attention toward the center of Overton’s chest, where the amulet’s chain seemed to end.
Where despite a reason he could find, he felt an absence, a void.
The call of that void.
He needed to figure out what it was. Slowly, Arden stood back up to his full height and chanced to lean forward, peering down the small gap between the undershirt’s neckline and his skin.
As if swallowed by the darkness beyond, the dim light of the tavern didn’t penetrate far. But it did show him…
Deep, dark purple crystal, a starless twilight sky captured for eternity.
Grooves and facets that, when put together, produced the shape of a flame.
The familiar sign of a meteor carved into its front, only visible by the remnants of light catching in the groove.
Arden’s hand snapped forward to grab the necklace’s chain, claws tangling in its links -
“What,” Overton hissed angrily, “were you thinking.”
Try as he might, the bone-deep ache in Arden’s wrist from where the retainer had grabbed him refused to be ignored. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be questioning why a scrawny kid had that much strength, and why all of it would be funneled into the instinct to break his wrist. Maybe he’d circle around to those thoughts later.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. His mind was thumming with other thoughts rushing through his head, fueled by the overwhelming desire that drove him to such a reckless attempt at claiming that hidden prize. Until he got his hands on it, would he even have a mind for anything else?
“Why’d have a Black Mage soul stone,” he hissed back in return.
“Does it matter why I have one?” Overton waved him off as if it wasn’t important. As if he didn’t care. “You attacked me, Ser Reis.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So?!”
“Yeah, ‘so’!” Arden jabbed a claw in the direction of his stupid scowling face. “What ya have there is what I’ve been lookin’ fer fer years! Any smart guy would try t’ get it off ya, whether yer alive fer it or not.”
“Ser Reis, I have done nothing to warrant this kind of behavior -”
“Ya were stalkin’ me fer two sennights, and ya what ya did t’ Leigh -”
Overton’s face pinched together, and he cast a sidelong glance to the rest of the tavern. The security guard that’d pulled Arden off of him and nearly kicked them out was still watching from near the stairwell. “...I did not do anything intentional horrible to Leigh,” he said with a lowered voice. “All of my intentions with you, Mx Leigh, Miss Alys, and Miss Suki have been well-intentioned.”
Arden raised a brow. “Really now.” Oh, he wished he hadn’t eaten all of the bacon bread earlier. It’d make a great, chewy substitute for popcorn, and he needed to either get his hands on that Soul Stone soon, or else need to bite down on something to contain all this buzzy energy.
Overton nodded. “I swear it. Milord bade me observe you, and nothing more. My inclination was that you would rather not be approached by a random stranger asking to observe you like a statue at a museum -”
“So ya thought that stalkin’ me was better?”
Overton breathed out slowly through his nose at the reminder. He looked so silly when he was mad - it was as if his face was never meant to display anything other than a smile and polite happiness. “...We already discussed that, yes? But I thought it best to not impede your life, out of respect for your life as a working man. As for Mx Leigh, my warning was so that they did not waste the effects of their gift.”
His advice that night did fall in line with that, yes, but… “Are ya still not gonna say where yer lord got that information from?”
What did it take for Leigh to reveal that information to Arden willingly? Several months of getting to know them, and a few dangerous escapades along the way? It was something they’d never dare speak carelessly about, for some random lord to overhear.
This was getting away from the big point that he had a Black Mage soul stone, why was he even engaging in this -
“No, because I do not know.” Overton gave him a steely look. “I would appreciate it if you told Mx Leigh this, and encourage them to accept my request to never cross paths with them again. Lest we get derailed, what I am trying to say is that all of my actions thus far have been done out of kindness, but…my ability to continue this kindness depends on how I am treated.”
Arden gave him a flat look to compliment his steely one. “Whaddya mean?”
“Simply put: I am as kind as you allow me to be.” For this first time in quite a while, Overton smiled. “I am what you make me to be. If you make room for me to remain being kind, I shall continue being so. But if you view me as an enemy, or attack me in any way like you just did…then that is the role I shall play.
“Does that make sense?”
His tail thump, thumped hard on the cushion beside him, the chain rattling erratically. Overton was trying to threaten him?
Really?
Well, that made things easier for him. He felt his face split into a grin.
The retainer stared at him with an echo of disgust in his expression. “...Even saying that, you look like you will stop at nothing to take it from me. Whether I am dead or alive. Am I right?”
Arden simply smiled a predator’s smile. “I can’t control what my mind wants, Overton.” What he wanted, truly, but a less savage creature would surely have more elegant ways of going about it. Kill Overton, and get the soul stone that rightfully belonged to him and score some points with the retainer’s gift targets. Win-win.
For as tired as he looked of the conversation, and for as buzzy as his own mind was, Arden could almost see the gears of the retainer’s mind turn.
“...Well, I would like to continue living.” Overton said after a lengthy pause, straightening up in his seat and ooking the part of the proper retainer once more. Except for the frown replacing his usual smile, of course. “...If you are not the sadist I think you are, then I would like to propose a deal.”
Oh? He thought he was a sadist? Quite an odd observation given that he hadn’t shown any of the signs most people would point to as ‘proof’. He would’ve understood if the man called him a beast, but ‘sadist’? “Ye’ll find that I’m a far more agreeable and peaceful person than the stories make me out t’ be…”
But a deal…?
The buzz of infecting his mind and every ilm of his body intensified, and the claws of his right hand dug into the table to steady himself. “...Especially if mutual gain’s involved. I’m a team player, believe it or not. But yer gonna have t’ make the deal real enticin’.”
Overton’s head tilted very slightly. “Oh, I have no reason to believe you would refuse, Ser Reis.”
“Aye? Why’s that?”
“Because…all you would have to do is simply wait.”
The next morning, Arden trudged his way into Maelstrom Command with the darkest circles under his eyes yet. There was no way he could sleep after all that.
The door guard spared him and let him through easily, raising an eyebrow. The soldiers he passed in the hallway did the same, and he heard murmurs and smothered snickering in his wake.
He ignored them as always, dragging himself to the storage room rather than following the voices floating out of the mess hall. His claws rapped on the doorframe. “Hey, lemme in.”
The storage manager, a Miqo’te man who’s only trait he only knew was that he was exceptionally sleepy, only slowly blinked over the novel he was reading. “...What, you forgot something?”
Arden slowly blinked at him in turn. “Uh…yeah? I guess.”
“You only had one job, man.”
“...I still do…?”
The storage manager only stared at him with nary an expression on his face. Arden stared back.
Then, the storage manager yawned and plopped his book down, reaching for the key around his neck. “...Fine. Make sure you get all you need this time.”
Something ticked in his sluggish, yet still-buzzing brain, but he shook it off and grimaced as the world spun. Maybe he did need the mess hall after all. Coffee sounded good right now, especially if he was supposed to sneak this aetheryte in…
With a click of the lock, the storage room’s door was open, and Arden stepped into the darkness beyond. With the snap of his fingers and a light pull on his aether, a small flame lit on the surface of his palm -
And as warm light spilled across the room, he spotted something dart back into the shadows behind the aetherytes.
Even in his sleeplessness, Arden’s attention snapped forward. Now what was that? Not one of the usual rats, that was for sure. That was much too large, even for the rat lords the size of small wolves that prowled the streets at midnight.
No, that was a person.
Flame now floating gently beside him, he took staff in hand and carefully took one step forward, then another. In his wake, light flowed forward, illuminating the dark that the person dared to hide in. “C’mon out,” he called out, though quiet enough to not alert the sleepy guard outside. Maybe he was already asleep again. Maybe it didn’t matter.
When he took the third step, he felt something pull against the flame, and he paused.
Then, his flame suddenly streaked forward, against his control -
Arden snarled, charging forward after it, brandishing his staff and striking forward -
For a split second, the flame illuminated an extended, dark-skinned hand. Arden aimed the spearpoint head of his past it -
Just as the flame, aether and all, was consumed by that extended hand and the storage room plunged into darkness. The darkness didn’t stop the improvised lance, though. Arden felt a shudder rip through his staff as it made contact with -
Rock. The rock wall behind the person, behind the clump of aetherytes now separating them. In the dim light they cast off, he saw…
A pair of green eyes, identical to his own, alight with a secret fire of their own.
Arden stared down at the intruder, mind quickly putting the pieces together.
((WARNING: this story contains major depictions of xenophobia, fictional racism, major character injury and in-universe disability, anxiety, and dysphoria. Read at your own risk and take care of yourself.))
What struck R’thipra Halusyn the most upon making landfall was not the heat, but the sheer number of people in the town square.
He knew of Thanalan’s heat; notes taken while eavesdropping on other, more experienced adventurers recorded instances of native Limsans and Gridanians fainting under the blazing sun. Those that didn’t survive the harsh conditions served as warnings to stay clothed in light material; to drink from waterskins as often as needed instead of worrying about finding the next source; to never travel alone unless you knew the land like the palm of your hand. Vesper Bay was often lauded as one of the best ports to begin acclimatization, following the principles of why Vylbrand rarely saw cases of extreme heat or cold: much heat radiating from the sun sank into the ocean, and the seaborn breezes prevented stagnation of temperatures. Even as the passenger ship blocked many of the breezes from reaching him directly, the air surrounding him was rarely still, flowing in from other directions.
Likewise, he knew that a caravan such as large as his’ would attract much attention, but not to this degree. As he worked to get legs used to walking on land once more, he’d stumbled upon a new release of the Mythril Eye; and though he was loath to give them any attention or coin, the headline on the article was not one he could ignore.
“The Seventh Astral Era has begun! The new Warrior of Light is crowned as the leaders of Eorzea’s city-states declare the Seventh Umbral Era concluded, and the Garlean army repelled.”
The article stated that this new Warrior of Light had started as an adventurer, and one of their first laudable feats occurred here in Thanalan several moons ago. It seemed that during his week-long trip, they’d completed their ascension into the annals of history.
No wonder there were so many fresh-faced, would-be adventurers striving for similar glory in Vesper Bay now.
They were easy to spot, unprepared as they were from their snap decisions. Some stood in the square conversing with others, their unstained battle armor glinting in the sunlight while baking their owners alive. Others huddled under the shade of merchant’s tents and stripped their shirts, their pleas for the heat to spare them only attracting the attention of those happy to steal away their coin in terrible trades. Those that’d quickly realized that this lifestyle didn’t suit them either harassed the caravan guards for seats, or gazed longingly up at the ship that brought him here, their coinpurses already sucked dry.
R’thipra held no sympathy for them. They hadn’t prepared and were facing the consequences. He only hoped that those seeking a way out of Vesper Bay were ignorant of the Lalafellin caravan master hidden amongst his guards, now handing him his paperwork and directing him to his assigned carriage.
To his surprise, though, he wasn’t the first to be assigned to this carriage. Hidden away behind the hempen back flap sat two people, covered head to toe in light cotton gear, rummaging through the large packs they’d brought with them. A mother and daughter pair, judging by their sizes and by how the mother instinctively leapt to her feet to guard her child.
They had to have known how hot Thanalan would get - so why cover their faces and every inch of their skin?
“O-Oh,” R’thipra stammered, holding his hands up placatingly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you two.”
Even if he couldn’t see her eyes, he could feel the judging gaze of the mother assessing him, staring him down. The child was likewise guarded, but without the years of experience the mother had: the knowledge of a stranger appearing, and strangers heralding danger, but not understanding all that it entailed.
“I’m R’thipra Tia. The caravan master told me to come here. Are you assigned here as well?”
The mother and child said nothing. The silence was unnerving - if this is what he could expect for the entire trip to Gridania, he knew he’d be leaping at any chance he could to escape into fresh air, away from their stares.
“...May I ask what your names are?”
“...Khulan,” the mother eventually answered, her voice muffled by the cloth covering her face. “And my daughter, Temelun.”
From behind her mother, Temelun bowed at the waist. From how she flinched immediately afterward, it was more habit than proper greetings.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Khulan and Temelun.” R’thipra swallowed down the unease building in his throat and sat on the bench furthest away from them, carefully setting his bag down at his feet. “...It looks like it’s going to be a long trip to Gridania. Are you prepared?”
“It won’t be as bad as from Kugane to here.”
His eyebrows raised. They were from Kugane? Given that and their clothing, a part of him wondered if they were fugitives. Another part of him seethed that that was his first thought.
“Traveling over an entire ocean to get to Vesper Bay, then boarding a caravan and continuing on…I hope you’ve gotten a chance to rest and recover, at least?”
“...Some rest, yes. At least until our feet were steady again.”
“Why the quick turnaround?”
Khulan was quiet for so long, he wondered if she wasn’t going to answer at all. But with how her arms crossed after her chest, gloved fingers tap-tapping on her forearm, it was clear she was thinking.
“...We’re reuniting with my partner. He made this journey moons ago.”
Clearly, that wasn’t the whole answer. But he wasn’t going to push - if they had other reasons they were keeping secret, it was best to leave them.
“Oh! Well, then, congratulations on your soon-to-be reunion,” is all R’thipra replied, with a put-on smile and warm tone.
As he expected, Khulan and Temelun were an odd pair.
Whenever he spoke to them, Khulan was always the one to answer in short, curt responses; that is, if she deigned to respond at all. Temelun, meanwhile, remained stubbornly - fearfully? - silent. If he hadn’t seen her kicking her feet once or twice while she thought he wasn’t looking, he was sure he would’ve thought she was a statue. With both of them dressed like they were reusing popoto sacks, he couldn’t get a good reading on them.
Aside from the little information Khulan had offered up, all he could tell was that they were watching him like a hawk, as if they expected him to suddenly attack them. Was Kugane such a heel-turn culture?
When their stares became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself for fresh air. As they moved further and further away from Vesper Bay, the hot Thanalan air became more and more stifling, but it was better than being trapped in the pressure oven that the caravan became at times. It became more bearable as time passed; both in his body adapting, and distracting himself from it all by watching the landscape go by and talking with other passengers.
It was surprisingly pleasant, interacting with the other passengers. Without the shadow of Rhylsoemr looming over him, they seemed to see R’thipra as just another one of them: a simple adventurer-to-be, seeking fame and fortune in the quest to rebuild the realm from the Calamity. Some of the passengers had histories of thievery and unpleasant work during the worst of the Calamity, yes, but there was little judgment rained down upon them. In fact, he often heard them swapping stories of how they survived over mugs of cheap cactus piss liquor.
They’d likely change their tune if they knew about Rhylsoemr. The thought soured his stomach some even as he laughed along with them; tasted bitter on his tongue as he thought on his feet and spun up fake, elaborate stories to make R’thipra appear to have a past.
But it was better than the alternative. And at least these good men and women were comfortable enough to be around that when Khulan not-so-subtly ‘encouraged’ him to leave the caravan during meal times, he found himself sitting with them, eating and drinking and chatting the day away with them.
Five days into their journey, they finally arrived at Ul’dah.
Standing before the Jewel of the Desert was a marvel in of itself. The paintings didn’t do it justice - the sandstone walls stood impossibly tall and imposing amongst the small shrubs and trees, and the metal-capped spires within the city glowed white-hot under the harsh sun. Beyond the massive entrance gate, he could hear chatter filtering out; too many voices with their sources so far away made it impossible for him to understand anything, yet the chatter itself was exciting and livening to hear.
However, neither did the paintings portray well the refugee camps hugging said sandstone walls and sprawling into the desert proper.
“Don’t mind the homeless,” the caravan master called out over the din of shuffling feet as he guided them to the city entrance. “Remnants of the Calamity, they are. The poor and weak Ul’dahns who can’t make a name for themselves, and Ala Mhigans mixed in with the bunch. Stay away, and watch your coinpurses.”
Why the caravan master felt he had to specify, R’thipra didn’t know, but it did spoil the grandiose image of the city and its inhabitants. Perhaps it was good the caravan was only stopping at Ul’dah for a day.
The Thanalan heat seemed to magnify once he was inside the city walls, but he hardly noticed it for long. His instincts as Rhylsoemr screamed at him to keep to the sides of the streets and to be invisible, to not draw any more attention to himself than he already got. Yet, swept up in the crowd of passengers heading to the Sapphire Exchange Avenue, he had little choice but to go along with them into where the calls of hawkers and buyers drowned out everything else.
He didn’t stay long. While the gleam of gold, silver, and jewels were enticing, and a few of the silky garments for sale caught his eye, there was simply…too much. Too many people crowded in such a small alley; too much noise as passengers and Ul’dahn regulars alike yelled over each other to compete for wares; too much ambient excitement in the air at the prospect of deals and fine goods. And so when it all became too much for comfort, he let his feet and instincts guide him to safety.
He found himself outside the city walls once more, back with the now-empty caravans, watching the refugees. A group of kids were playing a ball-kicking game, dashing about, laughing and screaming, as adult figures watched them from the shade.
But not just adults were watching them. Temelun was, too.
Still wrapped up in her cloths, she was almost invisible, camouflaged so well against the bare tree bark. If she hadn’t have been following the ball game, he doubted he would’ve ever spied her. And yet, for all her watching, she hadn’t made a single move to join them.
He remembered watching on similarly as Rhylsoemr: wanting to join the other children in exploration and fun without a care in the world, only for reality to hold him in place instead. He knew his reason for not joining the explorations; why wasn’t Temelun joining them?
As he stepped out of the shade of the caravans, he immediately felt eyes land on him, scrutinizing and chastising. Protective parents without much money to their name, yet protective of their children and what little they did have; the children that weren’t playing the ball game, trying to peel back the layers that made him up in an attempt to know who he was; Khulan, likely, hiding somewhere out of sight, watching over her daughter and already having made judgment on him.
In, out.
Standing in the sunlight a fulms away from the tree Temelun chose, for all to witness and judge him, R’thipra asked, “Is something wrong, Temelun?”
Temelun stared at him, not speaking a word.
“Do you want to join them? It’s okay if you do, you know.”
He spied her head twitch under the fabric. Somehow, he knew that she was no longer looking at him, but past him, at the game.
“It’s okay if you just want to watch, too. But if you do want to join them…is something stopping you?”
Almost imperceptibly, Temelun nodded.
“Can you tell me what’s stopping you?”
“...I miss my family.”
“Your family? Besides your mother?”
“My family. We’d play like that. But they -” she pointed a gloved finger in the direction of the playing children, “ - aren’t family.”
Family. She made it sound like Khulan only took one of her daughters with her and left the remaining children back in Kugane. That couldn’t be true. He’d have to get clarification later, if Khulan would humor him.
But for now, there was something more important to do.
“...Do you want a ball?” R’thipra ventured cautiously, tentatively. “I can get you one. Then, you can invite whoever you want to play - even your mother.”
Finding something as simple as a ball was surprisingly difficult. With all the opulence and elegance of the goods on display at the Sapphire Exchange Avenue, simpler items were tucked away on row-end stalls, or crushed under piles upon piles of more marketable stock. When he finally found one - a patchwork of haphazardly-cut triangles stitched together with uneven lines - he almost forgot to barter for it, so tired he was.
And upon delivering it to a perked-up Temelun, he simply smiled, turned around, and walked away. It was her decision on how she wanted to play and who to play with, after all. If she wanted him there, she would say so - and the name she called out was her mother’s, not his.
The next time R’thipra saw them, it was sunset. Lying on his self-assigned bench away from Khulan and Temelun’s one, staring up at the top of the caravan and willing himself to fall asleep, he heard the shuffle of feet on the dirt outside. And soon, the mother and daughter pair were seated on their own bench, trying in vain to wipe and beat the dirt and dust out of their clothes as they chattered in a harsh-sounding language.
Just as his eyes drifted shut, he heard Eorzean for the first time in several bells. “Temelun. What did you want to say to him?”
He cracked an eye open, just in time to see Temelun freeze.
“Go on,” her mother urged, nudging her with her elbow. “Speak it.”
After a long silence, Temelun finally spoke. “...Thank you. I had fun.”
“Really? I’m glad. Was it just you and your mother playing?”
“Yeah, but it was still fun. She’s good.”
“She’s got a lot of height on you - are you sure she wasn’t out of your league?” He hadn’t expected to tease her, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Khulan snorted, but he heard the faintest sliver of a chuckle on the edge of her voice. “Better me than anyone. I taught her. You would make poor sport.”
“Hey, I’m perfectly capable of kicking and throwing balls. You’ve never seen me play, is all.”
Soon, the caravan lapsed into comfortable quiet as the mother and daughter accepted their dust-covered fates and settled down. As Khulan pulled the hempen door flap closed, they were all cast in darkness; and as he prepared once more to sleep, he heard Khulan whisper near him.
“...I’ve not heard her laugh that much in a long time.”
“Hm?”
“Ever since we left our tribe and came to Kugane. We haven’t had time to play - we would always be working, eating, or sleeping. She needed this.”
So, they weren’t from Kugane, but rather a…tribe. Even though it was too dark to see, R’thipra opened his eyes anyway, to look in the direction of Khulan’s voice.
“You two are from a tribe, then?”
He heard the shift and rustle of cloth. “Malaguld, in the Azim Steppe. We left two years ago, to follow my partner who left before us.”
The Malaguld tribe. It wasn’t a name he was familiar with; he would have to research tribes of the Azim Steppe when he arrived in Gridania. “Why did you leave, if I may ask?”
“...Oppression. We saw it coming, and left before we could be trapped there.”
More than at any other time, he wished he could see under her and Temelun’s hoods. What did they look like? Were the types of oppression in the Far East different than in Eorzea, or…?
“It was the Garlean Empire.” She must’ve taken his silence for encouragement to continue, and he dared not interrupt her now. “Our tribe welcomed refugees from Doma - the few that were lucky to escape their country as it was taken over. The strongest and most worthy tribes rule the Steppe, but the most bloodthirsty of tribes are kept in check and rarely rule for long. In Doma, however…there is no such check, and I have been told the Empire is ambitious.”
“How great is the risk of them conquering the Steppe?”
“I do not know. But, no matter how small the chance, I will not allow myself to be debased before them.” There was a low growl to her voice, rough-cut and ruthless, promising carnage should danger approach. “They called our Doman refugees ‘savages’ and refused to see their humanity. They looked down on them and saw no worth in their existence, save to fuel their superiority and their war machines.”
Ah. This was familiar territory. At his sides, R’thipra’s fingers fisted into his traveler’s vest.
Khulan stared him down from behind her hood.“Call me a coward if you must - I will ensure that Malaguld will live on, should the worst come to pass.”
For once, under that glare, R’thipra didn’t feel the raking urge to shrink back, nor the learned instinct of rearing up himself. Instead, it was the feeling of a cool stream bubbling gently through his limbs; not the flow of gold that’d spurred him to action and decision as he’d come to expect, but rather something soothing and refreshing, a tending of hurts long since struck.
“I don’t think it’s cowardice, no,” he quietly replied after a moment, when the stream had cleared away the thoughts buzzing in his mind. “You care about your tribe, yes, but you’re protecting your daughter. Your partner thought the same, too, right? If you can’t defeat an evil, it’s better to conserve your strength to retreat, rather than fight a meaningless battle and lose everything.”
For a long few ticks, the shadowy corner of the caravan was silent. Then, he heard a low chuckle.
“You are the first to say that.”
“I also believe that if a tyrant believes their prey has escaped, they’ll chase after them to get back their sense of ‘power’.”
Somehow, he could feel Khulan’s smile. “Indeed. Pride is easily damaged in that way.” But said smile only lasted a few ticks before dropping into a frown. “But these are lessons you should not need to know, given what I have been told of Eorzea.”
The gentle stream bade him speak the thoughts that rushed to the forefront of his mind then, but R’thipra held his tongue. There was no need to poison the small glimmer of camaraderie achieved that night.
Instead, he turned over on his back once more, staring up at the darkened caravan roof. Injected some charisma into his voice, and started off his words with a chuckle to reset the mood. “...It’s already quite late, and that’s a long story. You’ll need whatever rest you can get, now that Temelun has some energy back.”
“Hm. You’re right about that.” He couldn’t tell if she caught his misdirection; her voice was too quiet, with hardly any inflection. Regardless, he heard the shuffling of cloth once more behind him, followed by a soft sigh. “Rest well.”
The more days that passed, the further Ul’dah fell behind them; and when its spires were a but a faint shadow towering over the land, the caravans rounded a bend, and it disappeared entirely.
He hadn’t noticed that the caravan guards and chocobos had been flagging before they’d stopped in Ul’dah. But now that there’d been a few hours of respite in the city and their supplies had been restocked, he could almost measure the spring in their steps now. The cookfire gatherings, too, had seemed to pick up on the energy: several of the travelers who made for ill-behaved drunks seemed to make it their personal mission to expend as much of the guard’s energy as possible in the most creative ways imaginable. It made for good fun, even if he pitied the guards that were simply trying to do their job.
On one such night, three days out from Ul’dah, R’thipra spied Khulan glancing furtively between him and her and Temelun’s belongings. He’d gotten used to the routine by now, and simply dipped his head and slipped out of the back of their caravan.
The night sky shone bright with stars, and the moon cast a pale glow over the landscape. Several cookfires had already been constructed, the smell of spice and meat and herbs wafting over their temporary campsite. Whether attracted by flame or smell, the travelers from the other caravans were already gathering around, filling the air with their sounds of storytelling and laughter. Even half of the guards stood around the fires, stances relaxed, enjoying their well-deserved meal.
But R’thipra couldn’t focus on the scene of peace unfolding in front of him. Not when he could feel the gaze of something digging in his back.
No one had turned to greet him as he’d leapt out of the caravan. There was a solid hempen drape between him and Khulan and Temelun now. And while he would expect wild animals to salivate at the smell of the meat stewing in front of him, he knew what those stares felt like; this was not it.
Cold calculation and intention. Watching with intelligence to plan. Thinking.
As he stepped away from the fires and laughter, their warmth faded rapidly, replaced by the brisk, windswept chill of a desert at nighttime. To his dismay, the gaze followed.
Where was it coming from? Who or what was it coming from?
His eyes couldn’t properly adjust to darkness like a Keeper’s could. If he went beyond the ring of torches held by the guards still on duty, he’d be close to blind. From what he could see, the guards at the perimeter of the caravans were alert, but none had drawn their weapons.
Boots crunching through dry grass and taking on sand, he approached one guard. “Excuse me. Is something out there?”
“There always is,” the woman simply grunted, not taking her eyes off the landscape. “Moles, peistes, axebeaks, antlings. Get back to camp.”
Some of those species names were familiar, but only vaguely so; nothing more than words briefly spelled out of the page of caravan threats. “Are any of them sentient…?”
She hesitated for one moment, tilting her head just so. “…You could argue the antlings are, with how coordinated they are. Why?”
He wasn’t sure if she could see it, but he put on a smile anyway. “I was a hunter back home, so I know what it feels like to be watched.”
“As I said, there’s always something out there. Hiding in the brush or sand, or watching you from a malm away.” A wry grin slowly spread across her lips. “You’re tall and lanky; maybe a sabotender’s taken a liking to you.”
He was quick to shut down the expression that threatened to show on his face, of imagining all the needles. He wasn’t quick enough; the guard barked a rough laugh. “We’ll cut the bastard down. Get back to camp.”
“I will, but what I’m feeling isn’t that. It’s something cunning, like a person who’s-”
Immediately, the guard’s face soured. “Did all of what I just said go in one ear right through the other? We’ll take care of it if it comes. It’s better for you to go back to camp and forget about it.”
“But-”
“Go on, get out of here. I’ve already told you, it’s fine. If you’re not going to trust us, why did you pay us? If my answer’s bothering you so much, you can always leave us and go explore on your own. We won’t be waiting for you, though!”
The superiority in her voice was lopsided, bravado, a face to hide behind. Her stance, stiff and unyielding, bordered on the edge of defensiveness. She knew what was happening, and was refusing to tell him.
She held the power here. There’d be no convincing her.
So, he raised his hands into the air and forced his expression downward into meekness. Bowed into the persona she wanted from him, of a person cowed into submission. “Alright, alright. You make a good point; you know Thanalan more than I do. Yes, if I went out there, I’d be dead in a day.”
“…Right.”
“Sorry to have bothered you. Forget anything I said.”
As he bowed low and turned away, he heard her huff a breath. “I will. Go enjoy dinner, and make sure there’s enough left for us.”
R’thipra hardly paid any mind to his immediate surroundings; the sound of his shoes crushing and shifting sand was whisked away on the nighttime winds, the heat of the cookfire on his face when he eventually reached it barely registered. The warmth of the dinner on his lap didn’t pierce his skin, and neither did the stew as he ate it. The gaze on his back stole his attention away from everything, save for the shadowed silhouettes of the other perimeter guards.
Why wouldn’t the guard say anything? If it was an attempt to save face, it was a horrible one. If any other experienced hunters or adventurers were on this caravan, surely they would’ve noticed it. He couldn’t be the only one.
And yet, as he forced himself to look away from the guards in the distance, he found that no one else was concerned. No one else sat alone, hunched over their dinner, staring out into the darkness beyond the guards’ torches. No one else was alone, even.
R’thipra forced himself to breathe. In, out. In, out.
And shoveled the stew in his mouth as fast as he could, so that he could hide away in the caravan from the prying eyes.
Every day, he felt the eyes land on him as soon as he stepped foot out of the caravan.
Every day, he watched for any difference in the guards: any stance change, any change in the rounds, any change in behavior, any sign of worry. There were none.
Ul’dah was long behind them, and there was only a single paved path for them to follow to Gridania; there would be no switchbacks, no way for them to lose the gaze should it be intent to follow. Perhaps the guard was right and it was simply a pack of beasts watching them, one which would have to turn back eventually.
But what if it wasn’t? There was no way to tell - he wasn’t as familiar with the land, and those that were weren’t as helpful as they could’ve been. And there was no use in worrying about it, but…
He had to find a way to preoccupy himself, to not lose himself in the madness of suspicion and self-imposed isolation within the caravan.
The solution, as always, were his canvas and paints. The space in his new backpack was precious; only a few small canvases and a miniature paint set fit amongst all of his clothes, papers, and traveling items. Originally, his intention was to paint the landscapes of his travels for posterity, but he hadn’t drawn a single stroke the entire trip.
His unpacking didn’t go unnoticed. As Temelun slept in the backmost bench of the caravan, tucked into her mother’s side, Khulan spoke in a quiet voice. “You paint?”
“I do, occasionally,” he replied, unwrapping the canvases from their bundle. One tumbled from the stack, but he caught it with his foot before it could clatter against wood and wake Temelun. “I’ve found it to be very useful. Do you?”
“No. I always left art to those who were better at it.” Her voice was, at first, tinged with dismissiveness; behind her hood, he would’ve guessed there was a frown growing on her face. However, soon after she spoke, he heard her snort some, as if recalling a funny memory. “I was never the most…agile with a brush.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. When I was much younger, I broke my sister’s prized brush, and I was banned to painting with my fingers. Not that I had any time to grow my skills, anyway. My duties kept me far from any paint.”
He set aside the canvases, reaching into his bag for bundled jars of paints. “What do you mean? I learned to paint while away from home – as long as you’ve got a surface and some flowers, anything can be a canvas.”
“I was a hunter, R’thipra. On the Steppe, you do not rest until the day’s duties have been taken care of – for me, that meant every belly had to be full, and that was rare.”
R’thipra finally looked up from his bag. Khulan wasn’t facing him; she was facing out the back of the caravan, through the flap that protected them from the wind and sand. Her baggy clothing suggested she was reclined and relaxed, but he knew a tense posture when he saw it. One of her hands was on Temelun’s back.
Was she, too, feeling those foreign eyes on her?
Through the mask, he felt her eyes find his’.
“…I understand,” he quietly responded.
Khulan said nothing.
“…Well, perhaps by moving to Gridania, you’ll have plenty of days of rest ahead of you. If you wanted to learn how to paint, now’s the best time, right?”
“Hm?”
Plucking the fallen canvas for himself, he held out a fresh, unbent one to her. “I don’t have the best selection with me, but there’s still enough paint to share. I even have two brushes.”
As she took the canvas from him slowly, he took the opportunity to slide a pot of black paint to her. The smaller brush, sized for R’thipra’s hand, soon joined it as well.
Taking up the Rhylsoemr-sized brush in his hand, he offered her a kind, knowing smile. “To me, painting is one of the best ways to relieve stress. When you get into the flow of it, bells can pass without you knowing, and those are bells spent not thinking about the stressful things in life. Maybe it can be for you, too?”
Perhaps he was being unsubtle, but subtlety wasn’t needed here. Perhaps it wasn’t his place to offer a stranger his kind of help and expect it to be taken, but if she was feeling as he felt, then it was important to attempt to make a connection.
They didn’t need to speak of their thoughts on the eyes outside. There wasn’t anything to say, other than repeat their feelings. The guard’s insistence on leaving it be, he could speak of another day, when the tension wasn’t so palpable and noticeable in the air. It was better to cope first, then plan.
Paint pots traded sides, hushed words floated about as they worked. Between sharing his experience and tricks with Khulan and answering her questions, R’thipra drew on his own canvas the silhouette of Thanalan’s plains and mountains from memory: the sand, a muddy anxiety that sucked down at the ankles of travelers; the sky, a hazy tension that promised a storm on the horizon; the sun, the dark eye of anticipation bearing down on the land, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
No matter what was watching them, he at least knew he wasn’t alone.
But paints could only do so much when he felt those calculating stares on his back every time he stepped out of the caravan.
He knew he wasn’t crazy. Khulan had proved to him that she, too, felt being watched by predators. No matter how many times Temelun asked to leave the caravan, Khulan’s answer never strayed from a ‘no’. Eventually, she’d caught onto the futility of it all and stopped asking - but there was a tension in the air that promised that she’d resume asking eventually, and he was unsure if Khulan knew what else she could say without causing a panic.
The guards were no help, either. Every day, R’thipra ventured out of the caravan to wind through the crowd of hungry travelers to reach the edge of their encampment. Every day, the same guard who surely knew what was happening greeted him before he could think to venture beyond the perimeter, shooing him away with increasingly hostile words and tone.
Every time, he bowed his head and retreated, the defeat tasting bitter on his tongue. He would have to push for the truth eventually - but how could he guarantee his safety if he did?
Fortunately, that was not a choice he had to plan out. Five days after first feeling those raking eyes on his back, as he retreated from yet another unsuccessful attempt with the normal guard, he spied the caravan master’s approach.
“What’s the matter, kid? I hear you keep distracting my guards. They have jobs to do, y’know?”
This would be the best chance he’d get. R’thipra took a deep breath, plastered on his smile, and bowed his head to the Lalafell. “I’m sorry to have been an inconvenience, ser. I just kept spying something watching us from outside the perimeter, and wanted answers.”
For the briefest of moments, he saw the caravan master’s eyebrows raise under his mop of hair; but soon, his eyes narrowed. “...Let’s move somewhere more private.”
In the case of a traveling caravan with dozens of passengers, ‘private’ meant behind the head of the van, where there was only the threat of draught chocobos overhearing them. Their smell was overpowering, and the sounds of huge talons thumping all around them nerve wracking, but it was the price they had to pay.
“Alright, kid,” the Lalafell said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “How many did you see? How were they grouped up? Give me everything you’ve got.”
His white lie was exposed. He pretended to cough on the sand being kicked up to afford himself some time to think - and eventually settled on forming a sheepish expression on his face. “A-Actually, ser…I’m sorry, I didn’t see anything. I figured my case would be stronger that way, instead of saying I felt something was off.”
Instantly, the caravan master’s expression transformed into a snarl, and he couldn’t help the instinct to flinch. “You shite-eating bastard. Did it ever occur to you that you shouldn’t lie about something like that? Here I was, thinking you finally had some concrete information for us to go off of!”
R’thipra raised his hands placatingly, bowing his head again. “I- I’m truly sorry. But something is happening, yes? Can you at least tell me what you know?”
“No, I can’t.” The words were hissed through clenched teeth, his hands closed into tight fists. “Because for all I know, you could blab to a person who’s one of them, or be one yourself. We’ve know Tempered aren’t restricted to one land - just because you, ‘R’thipra Tia’, came over from Aleport doesn’t mean you weren’t in Thanalan getting Tempered before.”
“H-Hold on a moment, ser. I’ve lived in Aleport all my life - you can ask -” no, he shouldn’t be directing him to speak with ‘anyone’, “ - my family if you really wanted to. I paid for a spot on this caravan because I’ve never been to Thanalan -”
With a groan, the caravan master threw back his head and waved his hand. “Seven hells, calm down. It was an example. You’ve looked like such a tourist this entire time - I’d be impressed if anyone could fake that sort of awe and wonder. All your fellow travelers, though? You can never know.”
That was not the behavior of someone who truly didn’t suspect him. He carefully kept his face as blank as possible, refusing to give his annoyance any chance to bleed out in his expression.
In, out. In, out.
“...Alright, I understand,” he finally replied when he could trust his voice once more, lowering his hands. “But can we start at the beginning, please? I heard that the Warrior of Light traveled throughout Eorzea to rid us of primals, but you’re talking as if -”
“Woah there. Before you say anything about primals, you have to realize that saying anything to anyone’s gonna cause a panic that we won’t be able to control. So you have to swear that you’re going to keep your mouth shut, okay?”
Even with his heart pounding loud in his ears, he managed a nod.
The caravan master stared up at him for a long few ticks. Just as his gaze was about to make him fidget, he finally sighed. “...there haven’t been any reports of stolen crystals or travelers being attacked. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn would be up our arse otherwise, canceling our trip and leaving you and everyone stranded in Vesper Bay. So, the reason for why we’re being stalked by Amalj’aa? We aren’t sure. All we know is, it’s happening, and we’re watching them right back.”
Amalj’aa. The name rang a bell: giant scaled beastmen native to the desert and plains, who often engaged in raiding parties on Spoken settlements. Massive warriors heads taller than any Roegadyn, using spears, iron knuckles, and fire magic to lay waste to buildings and people throughout Thanalan. Worshippers of the primal Ifrit who populate their ranks with Tempered Ul’dahn prisoners, in a bid to drive everyone out of what they saw were their lands. His research on what he could expect from Thanalan was proving fruitful, if for all the wrong reasons.
R’thipra swallowed back his trepidation. “...Are you expecting them to strike, then?”
“Again, we don’t know. Like you said, their primal god is long dead. They’ve been hunkering down in their camps for moons now, and their normal streams of crystals have dried up. They have no reason to attack us, unless they want our food supplies and weapons. But would they be waiting this long for something like that? Not a chance.”
“Unless they’re desperate? If they had no other options, a starving animal would take on risky catches.”
With a snort, the caravan master waved him off.“They’d really be putting their lives on the line, then. They may be beastmen, but they’re smarter than that. Take it from me.”
How many times had his caravan run afoul of Amalj’aa raids? How many times did it take for a person to feel so confident? He knew that anything could happen while traveling - the waiver he had to sign to get his seat said as such - but this was more than he’d expected.
“So…” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. In spite of the desert winds rushing against them, he felt the glamour reform his chosen hairstyle mere ticks later. Perfect R’thipra. “In the event that we do get attacked, what should I do as a passenger? Just wait around in my carriage to reduce casualties?”
He should’ve known better than to ask. Because in the next moment, the caravan master laughed as if he’d told a funny joke. “Hah! Don’t think you’re getting off so easily, kid.”
His heart dropped into his stomach, a bitter cold rising in its stead. “You expect me to fight? I’m not one of your guards. I didn’t sign up for guard duty!”
“Correct, you didn’t. Good thing, or else I’d be having to pay you a salary. The boss wouldn’t be happy with additional costs.”
“That isn’t what matters.” He could feel his teeth grinding together, bits of grit and sand caught between them. He spit it out on the ground. “You think I can take on an Amalj’aa? I’m a hunter, ser. I’ve never fought something like them before. If you’re going to tell everyone else to fight, you’re only going to deliver carriages full of dead men.”
“You think I don’t know that? Let. Me. Finish.” Under the Thanalan sun, something glinted and shined at the Lalafell’s feet; a moment later, R’thipra had sidestepped the steel-toed boot aimed at his shin, his heart skipping a beat.
“H-hey, please don’t -”
“I’m not telling everyone, I’m telling you,” he continued as if he hadn’t made a move at all. “You registered a weapon when you signed on for this trip. You’ve got to have some experience with it, right? Enough to defend yourself if you absolutely needed to?”
If this man thought he could appease him into fighting for him, into putting his own life on the line for him, it would be a hard sell. What had he done for him, other than offer his business’ services? Merchants, businessmen, and now leaders of caravans all came from the same cloth, it seemed: demanding kindness and favors from anyone that didn’t immediately bite back.
Who was to say that he would be kind if his glamour broke in such a fight, anyway?
R’thipra sighed. This was the consequence of the life he’d chosen for himself.
“...I won’t be lying before them and waiting for them to kill me, if that’s what you’re asking. But I won’t be acting alongside your guards.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” The caravan master grumbled in the tone of someone trying to reason with a child. R’thipra breathed in deep through his nose and sealed his mouth shut. “My guards are experts in handling Amalj’aa - they shouldn’t reach any of the carriages, if they did attack. All I’m asking you to do is to use that axe to defend yourself and your carriage mate should the worst happen.”
Khulan was a hunter, too. Surely she’d brought a weapon with her. If either of them or Temelun were to be threatened, at least he wouldn’t be facing the threat alone.
Instead of saying that, though, he argued, “You think Khulan wouldn’t defend herself? She has her child with her! Of course she’d fight to her dying breath.”
“Gods, kid, do you have to take everything I say negatively?” For a mercy, the caravan master didn’t kick at him again - but from the sour expression forming on his face, it seemed to take every onze of willpower to hold himself back.
In response, R’thipra finally allowed himself to change his expression. He hardly needed to remember his practice in front of the mirror; his annoyance flowed out naturally, and all he needed to focus on was maintaining and stabilizing it, to send his message loud and clear.
The caravan master’s eyebrows raised, eyes widened. “Don’t do anything stupid and make me call my guards on you. You want to face the Amalj’aa by yourself? Go ahead.”
“I am not going to yell or strike at you.” His voice was as calm and clear as a placid lake; his tone unaffected, belying the frigid depths that waited for careless beings to stumble into and drown. “Please do not speak to me that way. That’s all I ask of you.”
The Lalafell stared up at him with hard, daring eyes. R’thipra stared down at him with icy, calm ones.
“...F-fine,” the caravan master eventually conceded, glancing away. “Just stop looking at me that way, alright? Let’s not get hasty here and do things we regret.”
In an instant, R’thipra wiped the expression off his face. Returned it to the neutral expression with a placid, peaceable smile that R’thipra always wore otherwise. “Thank you, ser.” As much as the sudden desire to taunt and prod an irritated person in a position of would-be power was tempting, he refused to say anything more.
Until, with fortuitous timing, the lunch bell rang out over the caravans. The chocobos all around them slowed to a stop, the handlers rose from their seats to tend to them, and passengers began spilling out of the carriages behind them. Privacy was no longer guaranteed.
He, of course, told Khulan and Temelun as night fell over Thanalan. There was too much risk in keeping it a secret; there was little risk of them telling anyone else. As the other passengers of the caravans drifted blissfully ignorant into sleep, they worked over a candle set in the intersection of their benches, looking over their weapons and his own map of Thanalan.
“I would not go anywhere without my dagger,” Khulan stated simply. “You will not need to defend me.”
“I can untie the birds,” Temelun added quietly. Though she was still shrunken into her corner of the carriage, and her voice still soft and barely-there, her attention to their planning was commendable.
“And I have my axe,” R’thipra finally added to round them out. “Remember, we don’t need to rush out and kill them - we only need to fight if any Amalj’aa break the guards’ line and come looking for us. And if we need to flee, we’ll go to Camp Drybone.”
One day passed. The caravan master met with him again to talk strategy.
“If the Amalj’aa break the line, the worst thing you can do is grovel and surrender to them. The moment you do, you may as well be dead. Better to go out in battle with your mind intact, right? Or if you can, fend off attacks as you run to the nearest settlement - but don’t let them chase you until you die from the heat.”
It was a grim reminder of how fragile life was outside the cities. They could only hope that the Amalj’aa decided they weren’t the risk.
A second day passed. The Unholy Heir loomed ahead of them.
Despite the stares clawing down his back, he spent the majority of the day walking alongside the caravan, watching the plateaus and cliffs for dark shapes.
There were none. Unsuccessful, he withdrew into the caravan for the night.
Another canvas was soon in his hands. Midnight skies fraught with suspense for what lay beyond, punctured with stars like the eyes watching over them with sick cruelty and delight. A cavern shielding them from those stares, but in return, promising they would never to view a sunrise of hope ever again; the choices of whether to brave the night or continue cowering painting the walls in ugly smears, turned dark by the lack of light.
A third day, then a fourth. The Unholy Heir was long behind them now, but it still felt as if its shade obscured all around them.
He only left the caravan to gather each of them a bowl of stew at mealtime. Between the calls of the bells, he painted more and more. The stone walls of the Tidegates back in La Noscea, fortresses of strength beating back wave upon endless wave of relentless Sahagin drenched in saltwater of ocean and tears of drowned Q Miqo’te alike; the coral-strewn rock both friend and foe in a clash between forces only wishing to protect those dear to them. Another of the ocean itself, pristine in its simplicity, teeming with life abundant and abundant and free; far below the surface, in inky black unknowns ruled great beasts that knew naught of men’s struggles and woes and were better for it.
“You look as though you could benefit from a run or a hunt,” Khulan commented idly once, as he was finishing his third painting of the trip. There was only one canvas left.
“It’s not safe to venture out past the caravan train,” is all he said, even as the anxiety in his breast fluttered and seeked escape.
“One of my guards spotted an Amalj’aa watching us,” the caravan master declared to him as he exited the caravan. “Up on the ridge to our left. It was a massive one - a leader, no doubt.”
The ridge to their left was supposed to be overseen by the guard that’d shooed him away so many times before. Perhaps she would finally take the threat seriously.
“It looks like they were expecting us to go toward Camp Drybone. Instead, we’re going to pass through Halatali and go straight toward the Shroud. With any luck, they’ll get engaged by the Flames stationed at Camp Drybone as we slip through. They need to earn their salary if they’re paid off of our taxes!”
The end of the nightmare was in sight. That night, he took up his brush for the final time of the trip and thought of home: the golden grassed plains of peace with winds rippling in time with the sound of calm; the dirt path that led to Oakwood and its treasures hidden beneath refreshing dewy grass and within its myriad pools, sparking wonder in the eyes of forsaken youth.
Everything would turn out okay. He could buy more canvases once he was safe and sound in Gridania.
On the sixth day, a hunting horn sounded, and a tidal wave of black descended upon them.
Huddled inside their enclosed caravan as they were, they couldn’t dare to look outside. But they could hear; the reverberation of pounding, heavyset footsteps echoed in time with his heartbeat, the blood rushing through his ears drowning out the sound of screaming and yelling just a few yalms away.
Where were the guards? They were supposed to protect them, be sharp enough of both sword and mind to drive them away and ensure their safety. What happened to them?
“Calm, R’thipra,” Khulan whispered, shifting in her stance behind him. Temelun huddled close to her side, silent as the grave. “Steady your breathing.”
Right. She was right. They had a plan, had prepared for this chance for as many days as they were allowed. All they needed was an opening, a chance -
And it would come soon, in the worst way possible.
Just as it felt as though the whole caravan would rattle apart from the reverberations, the footsteps stopped. A deep snort interrupted heavy breathing. Something was growled in a language he couldn’t understand, a host of raucous approval following it.
Then, the sinister, cruel, cold gaze they’d been feeling on them nearly the entire trip stared them down from the other side of the hempen flap; a hulking, shadowy figure illuminated by rampaging firelight, dwarfed by an even larger spear.
R’thipra grabbed by his fingernails of whatever courage he had in his system to prevent himself from shrinking back on instinct. Clutched it close to his breast so that it couldn’t escape, tightened his grip on axe, and forced himself to breathe.
In, out.
The shadow took one step forward, one step closer, then another. And another. With each step, it grew in size.
In, out.
He could smell its rancid breath through the flap. See how its chest was heaving in exertion, imagined the saliva running down its lips and evaporating in the dizzying, frightful heat.
In, out.
One final thundering step, and it towered over them like a black mountain, readying itself to deliver the full force of a thousand years of simmering fury and flame.
He lifted his axe, knuckles white with tension.
In…
The beast took its spear in its nondominant hand, reaching toward them to grab at the caravan’s frame -
The exhale tore out of R’thipra’s throat as a snarl, ripping through the air just as his axe did, swinging with all his might -
And what responded was a howl.
The splatter of blood burned hot against his shirt, his arms throbbing from the impact of metal against scale and wood beyond it. But he squeezed his eyes shut against the image of the beastman’s pulverized wrist swinging from its owner's arm and yanked his axe back across, striking hard something solid yet undeniably organic. The monstrous shadow reeled back, shrieks still ringing in the night air, and he saw his chance.
“Go!” he roared back at Khulan. “Get the chocobos!”
He could only trust her to see sense, letting the momentum of his swing pull him out of the caravan and into the carnage beyond.
If not for the fires consuming the other caravans, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything. He was simultaneously thankful and unthankful for the light: thankful, so that he wouldn’t have to defend himself, Khulan, and Temelun in pitch black darkness against the horde of Amalj’aa swarming their camp; and not thankful to have to watch eerily feverish-eyed plain clothed people hack at their own and drag weakened bodies away into the darkness beyond. For every guard that slew a Tempered minion, another two would replace them, slinking out of the darkness like waves crashing on the beach in a storm. And for every five Tempered, an Amalj’aa slavekeeper, cutting down guard after guard and burning down every conceivable hiding spot for the unarmed and innocent. Between sounds of ringing steel clashing against hardened scales and blade cutting through flesh, scream after scream of terror and pain and anguish rang in his ears; the smell of blood and sizzling flesh coated his nose and choked his breath with every inhale.
The Amalj’aa that’d tried to attack their caravan looked different than the others, even as he was doubled over in pain clutching his mangled wrist. A heavy red and gold mask hid his face, rising high like a crown over his head; hanging on his hips were scalekin hides layered in gold chains, extending far back to covered his lashing serpentine tail. The spear, once proudly towering over its owner, hung by the loosest of grasps at his side, but the weakened posture didn’t declare its silvered edges and curved hook as any less dangerous.
R’thipra heard the telltale thumps of Khulan and Temelun leaping out of the caravan behind him. As he turned to follow, he caught sight of the Amalj’aa lifting his head, piercing his gaze with narrowed red eyes.
“There you are. You’re the one that would flinch in fear whenever we’d look upon you.”
Anger simmered hot in the pit of his stomach, but he swallowed it down and hefted his axe. Hardened his voice and projected it with as much force as he could. “Signal the retreat, now. Or else you and your people will be rotting in the sun tomorrow.”
A low, rumbling chuckle rolled out of the beastman. The face that looked too stiff and hard for emotion produced an off-kilter smile. “You think to order us? When all your ambush could do was this?”
Slowly, his massive form uncurled, until he was standing three heads taller than him. He extended his wounded arm, bringing the tip of his guisarme to the dangling scrap of flesh that still bound his pulverized wrist to its arm. And, with nary a grimace, he sliced cleanly through it, letting it fall to the dirt at his feet.
“You have potential, for not being like the scraps here that think to call themselves ‘travelers’. You didn’t see them cower for their lives, all but throwing themselves at our feet begging for mercy! Lord Ifrit has created a world where only the strong survive, and for all the conviction you have, you’ve forfeited your life for not aiming a killing blow.”
“You have strength, but not the ferocity to survive in this merciless world He has created. You will learn.”
His grip on the bloodied lance tightened. Slowly he lifted it, staring him down the long tip, his reflection distorting and melting wildly in the flickering firelight. “But before you do, I, Slatescathe Dakujj Zoh, will cauterize myself on the wounds I leave you with!”
He’d gripped his axe tightly, prepared himself for the beastman’s charge, but his reading hardly prepared him for how fast he moved. His natural bulk and the lumbering, intimidating advance from earlier betrayed his speed. Legs spread in a lancer’s stance to distribute his weight evenly and not sink in the sand, clawed feet gripping the earth to launch himself forward, and keenly-honed warrior’s and hunter’s instincts: his was a body born and shaped to kill and maim, seemingly breaking the laws of nature to have no weakness. For as much as he’d hoped removing one of his hands would help him, it seemed to hardly affect him - the guisarme flashed bright like lightning in the darkness and chaos, weaving and stabbing and striking the air as if its weight didn’t matter.
And it was all R’thipra could do to keep up.
Instead of clearing his mind and making it sharp, adrenaline threw his brain into a drunken, frazzled haze. Arms still shaking from his ambush made him struggle to lift his axe, let alone aim his swings. And for every one of his missed swings, the Amalj’aa struck at him five, and it was only his avoidance training that saved him from being skewered and left to bleed out on the sands. Every silvery glint in the night forewarned a merciless steel spike aimed at his chest; every barely-dodged blow and the rush of wind that followed reminded him that he was still alive, for now.
But he knew he wouldn’t last forever. Something had to change.
He swinged and missed, the Amalj’aa struck forward and caught only sand where he once was.
While he choked on churning smoke and kicked-up sand, the Amalj’aa never stopped staring at him with the same cold and calculating eyes that’d stalked him for so long.
But what could change? It was a bloodbath elsewhere - no help would come.
They were running out of time.
His mind spun in circles, ducking and weaving through stab after stab.
What could he do? What could anyone do?
He couldn’t think straight.
He couldn’t think at all.
Stab, stab, slice.
Dodge, dodge, dodge, swing and miss and realize he was running out of air to fuel his lungs and body.
Stab, stab, slice, skewer what would’ve been his foot if he hadn’t leapt out of the way milliseconds earlier.
Dodge, dodge, dodge, leap back and feel the sweat gluing his shirt to his back, feel how it pulled and tugged and made his movements more lethargic.
Stab, stab -
Out of eyeshot, the hook of the guisarme swung out and caught on the shaft of his axe. And when it began to pull with inexorable strength behind him, in a haze of desperation and exhaustion, R’thipra swung with it, and watched as its blunted edge smashed into the Amalj’aa’s forehead before flying with the guisarme into the darkness beyond.
By the time he’d finally realized what he’d done, R’thipra was already running, the howling groan of the Amalj’aa echoing behind him. Pain shot through his abused feet and ankles, and sand threatened to trip him, but he didn’t dare stop, not with the knowledge that the Amalj’aa could be behind him at any moment.
“Khulan?! Temelun?!”
“Help!” called Temelun’s tiny voice back from somewhere ahead.
Through the haze of ash and smoke, he found them: Temelun struggling with untying a massive draught chocobo from its carriage, Khulan bearing her skinner’s knife against a familiar figure in her defense, surrounded by a field of Tempered groaning wounded and dying. A casual flick of the figure’s curved sword spat something wet and dark on the sand, and rattling it once against her buckler, she swung.
She never reached her mark. R’thipra wrenched her arm back, twisted the sword from her grasp, and struck instead. The guard who’d shooed him for nights on end choked, desperate for air and only getting blood for her troubles, glaring at him with such vengeance in crazed eyes once hidden from him.
His first Spoken kill. If only he would remember it later on.
Because that crucial moment between dropping the guard’s sword and taking a breath was a mistake. Instead of getting air, a massive, scaled hand curled around R’thipra’s throat, wrenched him back so fast that his spine shrieked, and squeezed.
His hands leapt at the Amalj’aa’s on pure instinct, legs lashing out behind him with what force he could muster. Though he felt scales prise up under his fingernails and his feet throbbed from hitting his mark, the crushing grip on his neck didn’t change.
He couldn’t breathe-!
Terror flooded his veins, his mind slipped into thoughtless panic; blood rushed agonizingly loud through his ears, mixing with the short, ugly gasps bubbling from his throat in place of air. He saw Temelun scream, and saw Khulan brandish her knife and rush toward him-
But in that same moment, he also saw the chocobo break free of its restraints in a fit of panic, and in the next, Khulan and Temelun were consumed in a haze of yellow sand kicked up by its fleeing feet.
“You struck the first blow, and yet you’re the first to flee? Have you no shame?”
The Amalj’aa’s hot breath fanned down the back of his head, his claws digging into the fragile skin of his neck. Between his wheezes and panicked flailing, between the tears that were starting to cloud his vision, he saw white sparks dancing down his arms.
No, no, he couldn’t think about his glamour now-
But he’d be a sitting duck if it broke-
He still couldn’t breathe-!
His lungs burned, his mind was going blank, he couldn’t think or speak or fight or -
“Answer me! Have you no shame!”
Suddenly, he was airborne, winds rushing through his ears and world smearing with color and brain heaving with the sudden realization that the hand around his neck was neck was gone, he could breathe again -
And then he felt his head and back crash into something solid and jagged and unyielding, and he choked. Pain screamed through his body, caught his lungs in place and tore a cry out of his ragged throat that it struggled to replace -
The world went white just as Rhylsoemr’s mind went blank.
He felt the Amalj’aa’s footsteps thunder close to him. Felt without seeing how he stared down at him, picking him apart piece by piece, trying to solve a puzzle with no solution he could ever understand, as he seized on the ground.
“Why do you hide your strength?”
Hateful icy thorns dug into his mind, clinging tightly to escape the heat pressing down on him from all sides. He couldn’t think, he needed air -
“It’s all you have, along with your conviction. You refuse to show it, yet when the time came to strike, you hesitated. What good does it do you in this state? Why have you not tempered it?”
He gasped a raspy, ugly sound and choked on the dust settling all around him. It wasn’t enough.
“The few gifts you do have, you waste! You might as well be nothing at all! Why do you exist if you contribute nothing?”
Freezing tendrils wrapped around his lungs and heart and clenched painfully. Shock forced his eyes open; all he could see was the hulking shadow of the Amalj’aa on a backdrop of red and yellow fiery smears.
“It matters little in the end. I told you, you will learn. But before you submit to our Lord, I will take what you owe me.”
Rhylsoemr watched the Amalj’aa look over the stump where his hand once was. The hateful intent seethed out of him like a miasma. The deliberation slowed time to a crawl.
After several agonizing ticks had passed, he cast aside his guisarme. Then, he lifted his leg - but instead of being kicked in the face, it struck his shoulder, rolling him onto his back.
“A personal tribute,” the Amalj’aa simply said, the smile oozing out in his voice. “There is no damage I can inflict that Lord of the Inferno can’t cauterize.”
The shadow lowered itself to his knees at his side, raised his good hand high into the air, and slammed it down on his chest.
Whatever air he’d managed to breathe in was immediately crushed out of his lungs, tearing out of Rhylsoemr’s throat as a mangled, strangled wheeze. Pain screamed at him, nerves firing white-hot and -
The Amalj’aa’s fist raised again, and slammed down again -
And again -
And again -
And again -
With a sharp crack!, he heard a rib snap more than felt it, the pain mixing in with everything else and distorting -
And again -
And again -
Another snap, another rib -
And again -
And again -
Another -
And again -
And again -
Fragments of bone being pounded like nails into his flesh -
And again -
And again -
And again -
Screams mixed with sobs and begging for it to stop -
And again -
And again -
And again -
The corners of his vision going dark, sounds muffling in his ears -
And again -
And again -
And again -
He couldn’t hear himself screaming anymore -
And again -
And again -
And again -
Couldn’t feel any more pain -
And again -
And again -
And again -
And again -
And again -
And again -
Until everything went black, and the last thing he heard was -
“L…of the Inferno, he…t…our plea! Lor…of the Inf…no, d…er us fr…our mis…y!”
“O…mig…y Ifrit, L…of the Inferno! Your…mble s…rvant…b…ech You! Gr…ce us w…Your divine pre…!”
A shift in the wind, stifling and
sooty, something alien and powerful
His head was lifted up but he
couldn’t open his eyes.
Just let him sleep
A god stared down at him with
jaws wide and teeth sharp, power in every breath
Would it put him to rest?
“O m…ty Ifrit! We bri…g…for You ign…nt s…vages who…not Your g…ood!
If i…plea…You, Lord, sc…ch …heathen s…ls with Y…clea…ing …ame, and m…k th… as Your own!”
The god stepped forward
Watching
Appraising
Hungry
“Pitiful child of man.”
the god said in a voice that would not be denied
“By my breathe, I claim you!”
“Arise once more as my loyal minion.”
“Feed my flames with your faith, and all who stand against us shall burn!”
His eyes opened to look upon the god that
would put his suffering at and end
to thank Him
And
the
world
burned
blue
Red-hot stake shoving
through his brain and searing
away all that was him
Molten gold pouring into his veins
to fix the cracks of
his broken body
Smoke suffocating and
smothering all thought
Preserving for eternity
Fixing all that was wrong with him
The screams and wails a product of the forge
And he would become
worthy.
Worthy of life,
worthy of love,
worthy of the world,
a life with a purpose
and the faith to carry it out.
A feeble creature left to die,
where few would mourn him,
his prayers for death attracting the god
that would give him a second chance.
Rhylsoemr opened his eyes
And looked upon Him for the first time
And wept at His glorious visage,
The flame of salvation that chose him.
The Lord of the Inferno, his Lord
Now christened, and his sole desire:
Burn away undeserving life with
His Primal Judgment,
And he, as His tempered steel,
Would see it done.
They were all hateful people anyway.
They all deserved judgment, to face
The consequences of their actions,
And what sweet retribution it would be
To break them like they’d broken him.
If they had ruined his chance at
A happy life, he would ruin theirs;
The simplest of Judgments.
And here, before him, His god,
The incarnation of life and power,
Had reminded him of that purpose,
Stoked the flames of a barely-thawed
Heart and forged him into something
Harder, stronger, unbreakable.
And it felt great.
Rhylsoemr’s vision cleared
and from far away, he saw the beast
that rose “men” in his image
and fed on the lives of everyone else.
The Lord of the Inferno, fake god
brought to life, and his sole desire:
burn away all life for his people,
Primal Judgment,
and he, drifting soul watching,
would simply watch.
Most were uncaring people anyway.
Most deserved judgment, to face
the consequences of their actions,
but there was no reason to be the
arbiter of justice. He wanted away.
They had ruined his chance at
a happy life, so there was no reason
to stay and risk what little he had.
The commands of the beast rang dull
around him in this empty space
devoid of life and power;
had severed the tie between himself
and sentenced him to a short life,
brittle, weaker, death looming closer.
And he could feel nothing.
The beginnings of sound returned,
the flickers of embers prickling skin
and heralding a scaled hand
lifting his head.
The mufflings of sound reverberated,
The echo of warmth still absent;
the faintest echo of pressures
taking his body by the neck.
“Take him to Rodegg Chah. When he is able to stand, he shall fight.”
He was not to be healed by
his Lord’s flame alone?
Smoke smothered the question
forming in his fevered mind.
Listen to his new masters.
His life was not his own.
A shared purpose did not
raise him from his station;
he did not compare.
Would his body last that long?
Did they not see what they did?
It had never mattered his whole life,
the state of his body.
The alien other, he who inherited
the legacies of two different lives.
A broken body did not
change how the others viewed him;
he did not compare.
The hand at his head pulled
him away from His Lord’s warmth;
limbs heavy and mind putty,
he consigned himself to sleep -
He watched his body be dragged
across broken earth and jagged stone.
Watched the spark of adrenaline
from pain and faith fade away -
Until the ground shook behind him,
war cries meeting snarls
bursts of magic and sparks of steel
and the god roaring at the defiance
“Cohort of thine abhorrent kin! Thine existence shall not be suffered.”
“My flames shall consume thy flesh and soul both!”
He was released, head falling
to the fireblessed earth.
His Amalj’aa escort turned
and fell to sharp steel swung
by a defiant masked Hyur.
He saw the beastman let go,
head hitting superheated earth.
The Amalj’aa captor turned
and fell to sharp steel swung
by a heroic masked Hyur.
Who dared to invade this sacred
place, the cradle of the his god,
almighty Lord of the Inferno?
Why would they take pleasure
in seeing Him and his chosen
in this nest? Why?
He knew the reason:
to maintain the status quo,
to prevent His righteousness
from striking them down.
Of course; selfish beings.
Though he could not stand yet,
he could not forsake His cause.
Whatever he must do, he would;
whether he lived past the day,
it mattered not.
His Lord must live.
Who would come to such a place,
risking life and limb, sanity and
longevity, for someone like him?
Why would they think to travel to
this hopeless place to kill the primal
tn his nest? Why?
He did not know the reason;
perhaps they had come for the others
that had traveled all this way, to save
‘innocents’, and they found him, too.
Too late; thoughtless beings.
Though his body could not stand,
it still clung to life, barely.
What it could do, it would try;
whether it lived past the day,
he could not know.
It could do no else.
He lifted his head from the earth
and saw one defiant before him:
a Roegadyn, a book in hand
as he tended to the wounded.
And though he could not stand yet,
he could crawl, drag himself;
undignified, taxing, paining,
but he must. He must.
One hand in front of the other,
chest pressed to ground
so that he would not die yet,
sight flickering and hazed with
smoke and firelight and magic,
he clung to each pebble and
grit of ash and pulled himself
ilm by longest of ilm.
He watched his head lift an ilm
and saw one hero before him:
a Roegadyn, a book in half
as he tended to the wounded.
And though it could not stand,
his body could crawl, drag itself,
desperate, taxing, paining,
but it could try. It could try.
One hand in front of the other,
chest dragging across the ground
so that it did not die on the spot,
sight flickering and hazed with
smoke and firelight and exhaustion,
his body clung to each pebble and
grit of ash and pulled itself
ilm by longest of ilm.
And as he crawled closer,
his vision cleared,
and he saw that it was no defiant.
And as his body crawled further,
its vision cleared,
and he saw that it was a hero indeed.
It was Bryn.
He should not be here.
Why would he be here, aiding
those who hurt them both?
He was a gentle soul;
had he been coerced into
fighting against his own tyrants?
It could not be Bryn.
He should not be here.
Why would he be here, away from
his studies and passion?
He was a gentle soul;
but he was not prepared for battle,
and he would die just like him.
His hands grabbed at Bryn’s legs,
bade him look down at him.
“Bryn, what are ye doin’ ‘ere?
‘elp me, Bryn. ‘elp me.
I’ll get ye out of ‘ere, I swear.
Yer good, ye don’t deserve this.”
His hands grabbed at not Bryn’s legs,
bade him look down at him.
The words gasped from his mangled
throat made no sense, only gurgles.
Tears streaming down his cheeks
and streaking through ash and soot.
Bryn looked down at him
with wide eyes and horror.
Fell to his knees and held him.
Not Bryn looked down at him
with wide eyes and horror.
Fell to his knees and held his body.
“You’re…you’re alive? I thought -”
“H-Hang on, I’ve got you. Don’t you worry. You’re safe now.”
Healing light shone far too bright,
felt as if he were being dunked
in a bath full of ice water;
but though he cried out and
squeezed his eyes shut, he stayed,
hugged Bryn close and wept.
He was marked by flame now,
but Bryn would never hurt him
intentionally, right?
Healing light shone cool and calm,
sank into his body and tried to knit
muscle and bone back together;
but though it cried out and
squeezed its eyes shut, it held on,
even as little healed in the end.
What little energy it regained
turned on him, blind hands reaching
for Not Bryn’s throat to crush whole.
“W-What are you-?!”
Then, Bryn was gone, and he
fell to the earth once more alone.
Eyes refused to open, strength.
exhausted; all that remained
was a prayer on his lips to
his Lord, primordial flame manifest,
that He might wreath the defiant
in flames of Judgment and free.
Bryn from their tyrants.
Not Bryn leapt away from those
encroaching hands, left his body
to collapse once more alone.
It remained still, spent of everything,
save enough breath to babble
sounds that still made no sense
to anything but its feverish,
melted mind sterilized by purest fire.
A rabid creature suffering, dying.
“Hey now, I know you’re scared, but it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m…just going to put you to sleep for a bit, okay? My team needs me.”
He felt the almighty gaze of his
Lord fall upon him. Had He
truly answered his prayers?
Blessed, sacred fire pooled
and writhed in His maw;
the ground cracked near him -
The fake god swatted away the hero
distracting him, and turned his
attention to Not Bryn.
Scorching, red-hot fire pooled
and writhed in his maw;
the ground cracked under Not Bryn -
“I’ll be back for you as soon as it’s safe, I swear -”
And just as alien magic settled
over his mind and sent all into
darkness, he heard Bryn scream
and heat scorch the earth.
And just as the Sleep spell settled
over his mind and sent all into
darkness, Not Bryn was engulfed
in flame.
_________________________________________
He drifted from magical slumber
to magical slumber, time passed
measured in brief moments of
lucidity and the voices of those
surrounding him
:
He drifted from magical slumber
to magical slumber, time passed
measured in brief moments of
lucidity and the voices of those
surrounding him:
“All those ribs, destroyed…”
“Look around you - does it look like we can perform that kind of surgery?”
“If all you can do is remove the shards, then do it. We’ll get him replacements later.”
“Goddamned kid doesn’t know we’re saving his life! Strap him down.”
“It’s the pain talking, ser. Can you spare any more potions?”
“He’s eating through our entire stock as it is. Knock him out even harder.”
For every sound he heard and
conversation spied on, he knew
there were bells upon bells he
hadn’t woken up to; did not
know what they were doing
to him.
For every sound he heard and
conversation spied on, he knew
there were bells upon bells he
hadn’t woken up to; did not
know what they were doing
to him.
“Get this fecking chocobo out of this room before it kicks another one of my men!”
“W-We keep trying, but she won’t leave him for long…”
“The Scion that saved him has been moved to the Rising Stones. They said we’d be promised more supplies if we kept the kid here.”
“‘Too fragile to travel by chocobo cart’, my arse. I bet they’re just delegating us as his nannies.”
Something covered his eyes, and
he could not lift his hand to
remove it. The days were warm;
the nights, cool and comforting.
Something covered his eyes, and
his body could not lift its hand to
remove it. The days were balmy;
the nights, frigid beyond compare.
“You will do whatever is necessary to see that he lives.”
“We’d’ve been bled dry twice over now if it wasn’t for the Scion’s supplies. If you want any more from us, you need to pitch in.”
“Of course. My wounds are healed enough. Do you require a hunter?”
Beyond those senses, he could
only tell one thing:
his God was gone.
The rift His connection had left
behind felt as a gaping wound,
a hole pierced through his
left-unguarded chest.
What was left for him now?
With every awakening, he felt
weaker and weaker.
Beyond those senses, he could
only tell one thing:
the fake god was dead.
The puppeteer of his body and
mind was gone, but its remnants
remained; embers buried under sand
and rock, flickering and dying.
How long until they went dormant?
With every awakening, he felt
less and less distant.
“...Why does he look different now?”
“Perhaps he was trying to protect himself, like us.”
“But why did he need protection? He’s strong.”
He could only wait and see.
He could only wait and see.
_________________________________________
Three months after leaving Aleport, Rhylsoemr awoke in Little Ala Mhigo, strapped to a medical cot and bound in a corset-like binder, with a black-scaled woman and daughter at his side and a draught chocobo curled up in the corner, with no memory of how he’d gotten there.
Between bells of rest, he began putting together the fragments of what’d happened to him. Some pieces were told to him directly, through the woman and child he’d soon learn were Khulan and Temelun. Others indirectly, from overhearing conversations between chirurgeons and guards fulms away from his cot.
The Amalj’aa had tricked them into isolating themselves in Halatali’s canyon. The rude guard had been in on it, Tempered from a previous incarnation of Ifrit and tasked with luring in new victims. As soon as all of the caravans were well within the canyon, they had been surrounded. Most of the passengers had immediately surrendered - the ones that didn’t, as well as the true guards, were beaten into submission. The caravan master was their first, and only, kill.
He, too, had been beaten into submission, but far worse than the others. “A reward for striking the leader in a way that he would never truly heal from”, Khulan theorized one evening as she cleaned beast blood off her knife. Though, the ‘reward’ was hardly a mark of prestige or experience, like an old scar or mark.
Every single one of his ribs had been broken.
Broken, snapped, pulverized; the chirurgeons used the words interchangeably. Floating pieces of fractured bone slicing through muscle and fat with both every heartbeat and every shift in position. The Amalj’aa had decided to carry him over their shoulders like a sack of popotos all the way to Zahar’ak, if only to keep his innards from spilling out and killing him for just a little while longer. A blessing that, while sparing his life, deteriorated it further by crush injury.
Then, after the forced march to Zahar’ak, he was the first one taken away…and he was later found clinging to the legs of a Scion of the Seventh Dawn healer as he and his team were battling Ifrit, begging for help. And he was only extricated to Little Ala Mhigo once the primal had been defeated and the Amalj’aa routed, along with the Scion that bore the brunt of an Eruption for him.
He hadn’t been Tempered, they said - or else the Scion would’ve killed him immediately. If there was anything he could be thankful for, it was that.
“The horse bird saved us,” Temelun finally spoke, once Khulan had finished retelling the story the first time. She was curled up against the chocobo in the corner, carefully staying still so as to not disturb its slumber. “I untied her, and she got help. She doesn’t want to leave you.”
“Protective bird…” he mumbled, recovering voice hoarse and gurgly.
When the official report was given to him to read, penned by hands that were never involved, he flipped to the CONCLUSIONS section -
“CONCLUSIONS: caravan suffered one mortality and several casualties. Extraction efforts were successful in returning the passengers and workers to Ul’dahn territory. All members are to be released to their respective city-states and destinations pending wellness checkups. Future consequences are expected to be limited; for the uninjured, avoidance of Thanalan and nightmares; for the injured, continued mending with appropriate personnel; and for the dead, the inheritance of the company to any heirs and the instability that comes with a transfer of power. Heirs will be notified of the owner's death and advised to meet with titling officials to seek proper transfer of company and…”
Two weeks passed, and Rhylsoemr was deemed fit for travel by chocobo cart.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he would be arriving in Gridania.
A cart set out from Camp Drybone to meet them in Little Ala Mhigo, bearing Flames soldiers as an escort. When it came time to board the cart, his first difficulty, sitting up from his cot, was resolved by Khulan bracing his back. Then, standing happened by leaning his weight on a Roegadyn and willing his weakened legs to shuffle along as best he could.
By the time he was in the cart, lying at the bottom only cushioned by a blanket, he was drenched in sweat from the exertion. The low-grade headache that had been formerly just barely noticeable under the indomitable pain in his chest was now pounding like a drum. But, in spite of this…there was an odd restlessness in his mind, one that bade him leap from the cart and leave all of them behind, to travel the land on foot regardless of his condition.
To distract himself from that impossibly foolish thought, he did his best to focus on Khulan and Temelun’s many little conversations. And when they gradually died down, from the embers came a new question, directed to him.
“So…would you still like us to call you R’thipra?” Khulan asked above him.
Ah. Right. It was scary, how quick he was to forget that his glamour had shattered when his days were preoccupied with medical checkups and rest.
Temelun shifted nearby. “But that’s his name.”
“It is a name, yes. I want to know what he would prefer.”
How close were the guards? Could they hear them? An odd shudder of anxiety ran through him, all nerves alighting like a heated wire. If they were anywhere remotely close to them, they would overhear. What would they do if they learned he had a Miqo’te name? That it was ‘a’ name?
Did they ever see his eyes? How could he have forgotten that one important detail? What would they do if they saw it? What were they doing, now?
“Are we goin’ t’ Gridania…?” he mumbled back instead, as quiet as he could manage.
He heard another shift of cloth above him, a moment before Khulan replied. “It appears so. They have no reason to lie. They are guards hired by Ul’dah itself.”
They had every reason to lie. He thought Khulan would’ve learned that on her travels. If there was profit to be had, gil or otherwise, anyone could do anything.
No. Where had all these thoughts come from? Khulan was more traveled than him, older than him. She knew how to wield a dagger and would likely stab anything that came close to harming her or Temelun. There was no reason not to trust her on this.
Though, if he could trust her with his name was another story. Surely she had seen his eyes. If he gave her more information, that would be more information that could be used to hurt him. But she and Temelun had also stayed behind to help him, while the other passengers had moved on to their destinations.
His mind was sputtering, spinning in place, feeling as if it were running on fumes. He couldn’t tire himself out further by spinning what-ifs forever.
“Rhylsoemr,” he eventually responded, still mindful of his volume. “...When…other people are around, call me Rhylsoemr. R’thipra is for the glamour.”
“I understand,” Khulan said with a smile he could hear. “Will you tell us why you…’glamoured’ yourself?”
She was talking in a normal volume. Did she not understand the gravity of the situation? “Lower yer voice. I don’t want anyone else overhearin’.”
“...Of course. My apologies.”
Better. “...Thank ye.”
Now how was he to talk about his glamour? Khulan had started small when discussing her and Temelun’s situation. Perhaps he should do the same.
“...Ye two ‘id yer faces with those clothes,” he started slowly. “I do the same with magic. It’s, um…not ‘idin’’, it’s…comfort. Because I’m tryin’ t’ get away from oppression, too.”
In return, he felt mother and daughter’s twin gazes narrow.
“Tell us what you mean, R’t…Rhylsoemr,” Khulan quietly pressed.
And so he did. He whispered of his childhood, of Aleport and Limsa Lominsa, of the invisible, unconscious thoughts that turned eyes toward himself. Of the axe he commissioned to defend himself after blows rained on his back, of Oakwood and its sanctuary, of the coeurl that plastered his grisly visage all over the Mythril Eye, and the cutting ice that encircled him like barbed wire. Of the chance discovery of how he viewed himself, of Ezeane, and the first glamour plate he’d ever constructed.
Of the way it felt to be surrounded by that magic, to feel comfortable in his own skin; how he could move about the world invisibly for a time, how he put innumerable hours into perfecting his expressions and reactions, and how it began to crumble from underneath him when eyes finally looked upon him once more. How a chance viewing of an Adventurer’s Guild advertisement appeared to solve his issues, and how it led to this very moment.
He had done his best to survive, and all his actions and thoughts led to a near-death scenario and the aftermath of picking up the pieces. There was no going back to the before times.
As he spoke, sand gave way to rock and bushes, and rock and bushes gave way to trees enveloping them in cool shade. And as they officially crossed the boundary into the Black Shroud, he noticed that his headache had gone away.
Upon arriving in Gridania, the Flames whisked the draught chocobo away to the stables, and he himself away to the Conjurer’s Guild for inspection. Laid out under the tree boughs, he made sure his eyes were closed as he felt the conjurer weave aether into his body.
“Hm…They took care of you well in Little Ala Mhigo, in spite of their circumstances,” the conjurer said. “With more consistent healing and medicine, you should be able to start getting used to walking again soon. You’ll want to consult a chirurgeon specializing in replacement parts, though - your organs are defenseless without ribs, and armor can only do so much.”
He read between the lines. He was a dead man walking; one good strike to the chest could kill him. It should’ve been obvious to him, that armor only took so many blows as it could be supported, and yet…the electric bolt of surprise terror stunned him so hard, he could barely hear her continue her report.
“You have minor aether corruption, tilting you slightly toward a fire aspect. Given that you were near a fire-aspected primal, that’s not uncommon. That should fade with time and healing. Whoever tends to you should know how to treat it.”
What was he supposed to do, then? His family chirurgeon surely didn’t know how to replace an entire set of ribs. He couldn’t trust any other chirurgeon to, either, even with recommendations. Who knew what they would do while he was asleep? If there was a slip before going under, where they would see his eye or otherwise know of his history…
“You will not be tending to him?” he distantly heard Khulan ask.
“He is well enough to go home at this point,” he simply replied. The flow of aether around him abated, and he had to force himself to remain still. “That, and the fact that he is a non-resident of Gridania means that the Conjurer’s Guild cannot tend to his full recovery. There are those within our borders that need our help as well; our hands are full.”
And if he couldn’t receive replacements, he would be eternally vulnerable. He could wear the thickest of plate armor, but so long as one weapon could pierce it or go around it, they would have him. It didn’t matter how good he was at fighting, or how fast he was. One strike was all it took.
Amidst those thoughts churning wildly in his head, he could feel Khulan’s frustration rise, could tell that an outburst of cold voice and piercing words was coming. It broke him out of that spell, only just so.
“Khulan, it’s…okay. I’ll figure out somethin’.”
He would have to, or else he would not be living very long.
A cadre of Wood Wailers were kind enough to escort them to the main aetheryte. A small part of him wondered if they were trying to get rid of Khulan before she acted on her frustrations.
Another part of him dourly pointed out that they were likely trying to get rid of him, too. Pass him off back ‘home.’ To Aleport.
The thought both churned his stomach and brought a small sense of relief. At least while he was in convalescence, he would hopefully not have to deal with Aleport itself. He would get to be with his family again, be able to see Sylbgeim again, to know that the people around him loved him.
He…missed it.
But he couldn’t return so soon. Not without saying goodbye to the two people that’d accompanied him all this way.
Tucked away in a small corner of the aetheryte plaza, he grunted as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Ignored the grotesque slushing feeling of his chest followed his movements. “...Yer partner, Khulan - e’s supposed to be ‘ere, right?”
“He told me he would be traveling here, yes,” Khulan replied. For the first time, she looked unsure of herself. “We do not have any easy means of contacting each other, so it may be some time before we meet again.”
“Even so, ye two will find each other, I’m sure.” He did his best to put on a smile. “Yer a ‘unter - yer job is to track things down. If he looks anythin’ like ye two, ‘e’ll stick out.”
Temelun grinned slightly. Under the hood and around strangers, she had been so quiet; but now, it was hard to ignore her brilliance. “Father is big and strong. Like you, but with scales. And a tail, like us.”
Khulan chuckled lightly, looking down at her fondly. “You may find him before I do, Temelun. You have such sharp eyes for your age.”
“If I find him first, we get to eat Warrior Stew! Okay?”
“Of course, of course. We will have to see if he knows who supplies dzo here. I did not see much big game on our way into the city, and Warrior Stew we need will require the largest chuck we can find.”
He had no idea what they were talking about, but it sounded nice. “Ye should start yer search soon, then, before it gets dark.”
Khulan turned back to him. “Yes, of course. We will also need to find lodgings for the night. But…will you be alright returning home?”
An instinctual grimace formed on his face; he quickly wiped it off. Think of family and comfort, Rhylsoemr. “Aye, I’ll be okay. Ye don’t need t’ worry about me.”
“You say that as if you were not harassed by your people.”
“...I’ll find a way to deal with them.”
Khulan gave him a doubtful look. But before she could say anything, one of their Wood Wailer escorts coughed into her hand.
“Good luck on yer search,” Rhylsoemr quickly said, before Khulan could say anything more. “...If things ‘appen like I think they will, I’ll be comin’ back.”
She smiled a bit in return. “If you do, we would be happy to host you. You are a good man, Rhylsoemr.”
“I want to see you again,” Temelun agreed. “We can play together next time. Father, too.”
A little flutter of warm spread in his breast, and he couldn’t help smiling, either. “Thank ye fer the invite. I’d love t’.”
And keeping hold of that smile, he waved goodbye to them, pressed his hand to the aetheryte, and was whisked away on its currents.
The sea vista and white stone walkways outside his window felt familiar, yet foreign. His room was untouched from when he last left it, and remained that way even as he settled into bed; he had nothing to bring back with him, after all. The swarm of his family coming to greet, comfort, and help him settle in was warming; the swarm of eyes landing on him as he was whisked away, uncomforting.
There were times when he was alone and he felt relaxed and safe enough to sleep. Then there were other times, and he could feel the heartbeat drumming loud in his ears as he waited for something to happen. Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night, overheated and sweating.
Ever since waking up in Little Ala Mhigo, truly restful moments were few and far between. Leaving Thanalan and hoping that they didn’t catch the eye of Amalj’aa, recounting his experiences as quietly as he could to not attract attention, arriving into a new foreign land, the unfortunate and terrifying truth of his frailty, saying goodbye to Khulan and Temelun, and arriving back in Aleport.
He was in the care of people who loved him, yet there was still a sense of unease looming over him.
He had tried to escape Aleport, only to return to Aleport worse than he was before.
He had tried to escape targeted pain and suffering, only to return with a destroyed chest for daring to step out of line.
He had tried to defend himself in Aleport and was chastised; he tried to defend himself in Thanalan and was broken over the knee.
What could he do about any of it? Would he forever be required to take blow upon blow, to live unhappy and uneasy just to avoid a worse outcome? He had tried that, long ago - it did not work.
What, then, was he supposed to do? Aleport, its people, its culture; it was like a specter, haunting him and cursing everything it touched to harm him as well. Dictating that he was an outlier that must be crushed under foot, and spitting him out more unsure of what he was supposed to do and be.
When these thoughts took hold of his mind, swirling upon themselves in a vortex that threatened to take him down with it, there was little Rhylsoemr could do more than open his window for fresh, cool air and breathe.
In, out.
But this time, it didn’t work. Because voices floated up from the central walkway below and hooked into his mind.
“...’ow did ‘e end up that way, anyway? ‘e just appeared ‘ere?”
“Yeah! And ‘e came in in a cart. Lyin’ down, like ‘e couldn’t stand.”
Those voices. He remembered those voices.
Against his better judgment, almost like a magnetic pull, he drew closer to the window and looked out.
The group of children that had grown up with him hovered around the aetheryte outside his family mansion. They had hardly aged since when he last saw them, but what had changed was their expressions. Gone was the Calamity-born fatigue and despair that used to weigh down their shoulders and feet; in their place, matured, decisive, movements and faces that their lives, too, had changed drastically in the past four months. No more was this evident than in the armor they wore: padded actons, mages’ robes, plated chestpieces; barbutes and helmets and hats of all styles; traveler’s moccasins and iron boots. Greatest of all, the array of weapons stored on their hips and slung across their backs: swords and shields, bows and quivers, lances, and daggers were what he could spot a glance.
Adventurers. True-blooded adventurers, their weapons and armor and demeanor spoke.
While they formed a tight circle, the broken boy, once the leader, now hung around the outer ring, a conjurer’s staff on his back. Unlike the others, who looked like they had matured, his was a rocky, cold expression and stance. From his angle, Rhylsoemr couldn’t look through his robe’s sleeves to see the conditions of his arms.
He tried anyway. His reward was for the broken boy to look up at that exact moment. Though he shrunk back out of view, the damage was done.
“‘e’s up there alright,” the broken boy muttered, pointing his finger at the window.
The rest followed suit, turning to look up at him. Through thick granite walls and paned glass, he could feel their narrow-eyed stares.
“...So ‘e is,” one of them replied. “Good eye, Cyn.”
“‘ey, beast!” another yelled, waving his arms. “Won’t ye tell us what ‘appened t’ ye? Or what, are ye plannin’ on cowerin’ up in yer tower for the rest of yer life?”
No, he didn’t want to stay here forever, but -
One of the younger ones gasped, grabbing at the yelling one. “Shh! ‘e might actually come down!”
“Let ‘im come! We aren’t defenseless this time. ‘e thinks ‘e can get through solid metal? I bet megolocrabs would do better!”
They would; even a wharf rat would do better than him right now -
“Well, I for one would rather wait and see what ‘e does. If ‘e’s just going to disappear again, that’s the best outcome for us,” a fourth spoke.
“But if ‘e sticks around, and threatens more people again?”
“Then we stick ‘im and get ‘im t’ leave. Let another town take care of ‘im. Heck, maybe ‘e’ll appear on a Hunt Board sometime”
They could perceive anything he did as a threat, just like before -
And as the final nail in the coffin, the broken boy finally spoke.
“If we engage ‘im, I want revenge. My life’s been ruined because of ‘im. I wonder if ‘e even remembers.”
How dare he think that he didn’t remember? They were the impetus for him trying to leave. They, and all of Aleport, and all of Limsa Lominsa, who thought of him as some sort of aberrant that deserved punishment for living. Who then tricked his own mind to turn against him, to believe them and make him hate his body and all that came with it, to destroy the small happiness and comfort he’d spent years building with the people that did love him.
These were the people that, even when he changed his life to R’thipra, only accepted him conditionally; and when he distanced himself from they who hurt him so deeply in the past, started to resent him for an entirely different reason. He sought other places to live because of them; he was ready to give up his easy access to Oakwood because of them.
And now, because of them, he returned battered and broken, bearing scarring and nightmares of a time that he couldn’t remember. Despite all the healing and respite he received, he still would never be fully healed unless he put his life in the hands of someone that could so easily kill him if they found a reason to. And until that time came, or if it never came at all, he had to live every day knowing that a single blow in the wrong area could kill him; that even the most ‘trustworthy’ people could turn on a dime and do the deed for whatever reason, especially if they found him appalling after learning the truth;
And now he is returned to home, to a safe place that is ruled by his family and friend’s love, where he should rightfully be able to relax…but cannot, for the unease that plagued his mind ever since Little Ala Mhigo followed him here, and now he was being actively threatened with death should he step a single toe out of line or dare to show his face.
They wielded power over his life and death, more than ever before. Anyone in the world did, but they especially, who had excessive hatred for him due to an event that they had started.
And the thought terrified him.
His mind spun and churned faster than ever before, so many thoughts and worried conflicting and crashing against one another, a supernova of anxiety and terror exploding into a heat wave that ruptured any rational thought.
He could feel his mind melt under the weight of it all, feel fire streaking through his veins like the hell rained down by the Calamity. The urge to grab something, to do something, twitched his fingers - but there was no weapon to grab onto.
He had no weapon. He was defenseless, utterly and entirely. If they came for him, all he had was his fists and the binder that held himself together. Anything was better than something, though - he needed someone to go to the markets for him, to get him some sturdy armor and a weapon. A guisarme had plenty of reach, enough to left him bob and weave around attacks as he struck back. That way, armor wasn’t his only defense; he could strike deathblows before they could reach him, and if not that, cut off their hands so they couldn’t wield weapons at all. Bring them down to his level.
The thoughts were whirling around his mind too fast for him to note down.
This was all too much - he’d never had this much anxiety before.
It felt like his room was a sweltering furnace. His mind an inferno.
Calm down, he has to calm down.
But would they ever allow him that? Not while they still saw him as a threat. They’d chase him to the ends of Hydaelyn if they needed to. He was the elder dragon in their story of heroism, when in reality, he was just a whelping casting too big of a shadow.
What could he even do to them? Nothing, except -
Hide? He could hide, that was what R’thipra did. But what if he were exposed?
Fight back? With what weapon and armor? How could he stand against all of them? He’d be dead even quicker.
Ask for help? They could do easily turn his help against him by stating the truth. Then he would truly be dead.
There was one option. One that he refused to entertain. One that sickened him to the core.
One that was not him.
One that he shut his eyes and ears to, but could not cast the thought once it’d been formed and taken hostage his mind in thorns so hot, it burned as a brand that would never heal -
One that would burn his mind to cinders and reforge it into something new and dauntless -
What if you killed all them before they could kill you?
Deliver judgment upon them in turn for how they have judged you?
((WARNING: this story contains a character throwing up and discussions of bullying/abuse.))
A hotspring near the peak of a snowy mountain, even if artificially made, was a beautiful thing. Rhylsoemr would be hard-pressed to pass on the opportunity to soak in any sort of warm bath, truth be told, but after week after week of training, it was impossible to resist.
He clearly wasn’t the only one. The small pond of ice water turned hotspring was practically filled to capacity with an entire ship crew’s number of people, mostly Roegadyn. Sweaty, dirty, and competitive to a fault Roegadyn, of course - and to all of them, he was just another trainee, just one of the few not participating in the splashing and horsing around.
Well, not all of them. Even hidden amongst the crowd, he knew Cynric would be able to spot him in a second. Traumatic memories did do that, and he had to wonder if it was the reason he hadn’t seen him since they’d ‘met’ again for the first time in years, but certainly felt his gaze raking down his back.
Or, maybe it was his ‘trainers’ keeping them separate? Summer felt himself sink further down into the water at the thought of the one he’d been ‘assigned’. Curious Gorge was a…interesting man. Energetic, loud, having the tendency to not know when it was best to be quiet. He was far from the first of this type he’d met, and certainly not the last, but he couldn’t deny the thought that he’d be making more progress under his brother. Gorge’s energy and enthusiasm for…well, just about anything was energizing, yes, but in the way that kept his energy too full - the type of buzz that kept you on edge, and the type that charged his startle reflex a bit too much. Broken Mountain’s, on the other hand, was a calm, grounding energy; enthusiastic and encouraging, just like his brother, but tempered for a more even flow.
Maybe he was allowed to call himself old now, if this is how he was feeling? Rheya would laugh at him if he ever said that.
Regardless. He knew he could ask the brothers to switch, but would it be possible for them to? If Mountain was keeping Cynric away from him, and Gorge tasked himself with his training, they had to have had a good reason for their arrangement. Maybe Cynric did better around Mountain. Maybe they thought Gorge would be best suited to a seemingly-grumpy ‘Roegadyn’ like himself.
Well, if he wasn’t going to be able to spend much time around Mountain, he’d savor those chances all he could get. Like right now. Mountain had been the one to melt the ice water with his fire spell, and he was one of the few that had excused himself to the ‘calm side’ of the pool, so to speak. Even if he was talking with another trainee, he was the quiet to contrast the yelling and crashing of water at the other side of the spring. That was fine by him.
Until he had to get up to reheat the pool, of course. Then things turned odd, as they usually did.
Mountain tended to leave his spellcasting tome on a cleared-off rock near the pool, out of the splashing zone. So, Summer knew exactly when to look away from anyone as soon as he heard his hand reach out of the water. He could feel when the man began casting the spell - that awareness felt like it’d never be trained out of his mind, so engrained as it was - and he knew that the spell had to end eventually. He just needed to hold out for that long.
The problem was, Mountain had reheated the ‘hotspring’ seven times now. The sweat of straining to not look at the fire magic only grew with each consecutive cast, and muscle fatigue from the who-knows-how-many-bells-long training from earlier that day paled in comparison to the mental exhaustion clouding his mind.
At least it was progress in his ‘training’, in an odd sense. He’d asked Jim to do much the same, just in shorter spurts closer together. He may be exhausted, but at least he hadn’t caved into the siren’s song of the magic. It was solid improvement - he just had to…tidy up the exhaustion, he supposed.
Just one more round, Summer told himself, turning his head away as he heard Mountain reach for the tome. One more round, and another five minutes of soaking. Then he’d be free to crawl into his bedroll with some sort of achievement.
“Clear out the center!” he heard the man’s voice call out nearby. “This is the last one. After this, it’s going back to an ice bath. Stick around if you want, but don’t complain in the morning if you’re too cold to stretch.”
Laughter sounded all around him, but Summer closed his eyes and kept his mind focused.
Even without seeing it, he could feel it the moment Mountain started his fire spell. The itch in the back of his mind was quick to react ever since he’d started this training; a prodding feeling at the very edges of his consciousness, with just enough rhythm and discomfort to never leave his awareness. One that, given enough time and lack of attention on his part, would increase its nagging until it forced its way to the center of his attention.
Please, Mountain, he internally begged. Make this spell quick. The longer he held it, the worse it would get.
But of course he couldn’t do it quick, right? That would be an explosion, or if not that extreme, it’d boil all the water around them. Surely he knew how to control his spell so that it wouldn’t be that devastating, but if he could intensify the spell just a little more without giving them all third degree burns…
It didn’t even have to be third degree to cause damage, his traitorous mind supplied. The itch in the back of his mind prodded at him a bit more insistently, a bit more irregularly. Even though he knew he shouldn’t be able to feel the spell growing in strength in Mountain’s hands, he could: the air growing just that more heated and dense, his lungs working harder to breathe through it, the faintest sensation of being able to reach out and touch the flame. It should’ve been just a minor fire spell; it shouldn’t have been powerful enough to be a threat, yet his body and mind treated it as one all the same.
Any sort of magic could become dangerous and uncontrollable at any moment. Any adjustments to magic could make it unstable. He’d only just begun his journey into understanding fire magic, but that understanding of magic was how he’d operated all this time. Maybe there was a way to make spells more stable, something that Mountain knew and was using to protect all of them from their skin sloughing off like the casing of cattail pods, but -
No, he had to trust in him. Breathe, Summer. Focus away from the sensation of fire.
In, out.
In, out.
Even with his attention focused squarely on his breathing, he could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead once again. The headache that was quickly forming muddled together with exhaustion from mental strain.
Everything would be okay.
Everything had to be okay.
…how much longer was this going to take?
Should he test the waters and open his eyes?
Make sure that the spell was going smoothly?
When was it safe to stop? It couldn’t be now, but perhaps -
One moment of misplaced concentration was all it took for the awareness to hit Summer like a brick to the head. The breath he’d been taking stalled in his throat and he choked on it, coughing and wheezing. Above him, the ‘glow’ of the fire spell shown through his eyelids, that tether he felt to it tempering to steel.
It felt just within his reach. Like he could pluck it right out of Mountain’s hands and cradle it himself.
He just had to -
“Soemr? Hey, are you doing okay?”
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he flinched and reflexively opened his eyes -
It was just the perfect size, about the size of his own head,
And it glowed so bright and warm, invitingly,
The heat flowing out from it like a comfort, safe
There was nothing to be afraid of about it. And yet
The itch still itched fierce and hard, clawing his mind
And his breath stilled in his lungs and burned
And was replaced by smothering smoke
Why? All he needed to do was
And then Mountain dispelled the spell, and Summer was left retching and gasping for breath.
_______________________
“Feeling any better now, Soemr?”
Summer didn’t dare to raise his head. In the rush of hands grasping at him to pull him out of the spring, no one tried to lift it either, and he wasn’t about to tempt his headache to return now. If another rush of disorientation and breathlessness hit him again now, he couldn’t trust himself to not hurl again. So, for now, he’d just have to deal with the simultaneous feelings of depersonalization and his head being stuffed in an underwater jar. One familiar, and the other new. At least he was suffering in the relative privacy of their unofficial ‘medical tent’, where the tough canvas both mitigated the wind chill and muffled the sounds of the outside world.
Mountain’s words came through clearly this time. However long it’d been since the other man last spoke, everything had sounded distant and garbled, like he was at the other end of some dark, dank tunnel. Now, at least, it only sounded like he was trying to talk to him from the other side of a pane of glass, underwater - still somewhat garbled, but manageable if he concentrated a little.
“...aye,” Summer mumbled back. To his own ears, it was more of a soundless hum, but the sharp, prickling pain in his throat told him that, yes, he’d actually responded.
“Good, good. Do you think you can manage some water? Small sips.”
Was that even a good idea? His throat begged him to wash down the leftover acid, but his stomach curdled at the thought. He gave what he hoped was a negative-sounding hum.
Distantly, he heard the vague shift of cloth to his side as Mountain moved away. More cloth rustling soon followed, accompanied by occasional soft clink!s of glass on glass. “Where are Cyn’s tonics when we need them…?” Then, he heard a sigh. “We’ll need to ask him to make more when he’s doing better.”
Just as he’d been about to open his eyes, Summer froze. Cynric. In the whirlwind of sickness and blurred vision, he’d forgotten about him. Had he been watching?
If he learned that fire magic was able to incapacitate him…
“...Uh oh. Hang on, I’ll get the bucket-”
“...m’fine,” Summer managed, fighting to suppress the sickly heat rising up toward the back of his skull. He took a gulp of cold, crisp mountain air. “...W-what do y’mean, ‘better’...?
He heard a grunt, then Mountain’s boots scuffing the bare rock under their feet as he moved back to his seat. “He’s recovered enough from that bird landing on him to resume training, if that’s what you’re asking. The kid can throw some mean spells, but his curative magic is what he’s really known for around here. That, and how good at controlling his Inner Beast he’s been…at least until you showed up, that is.”
Mountain’s scrutinizing gaze fell on him, and Summer felt himself instinctively shrink back.
“It’s not my place to dig into private quarrels, but considering you’re both here, we need to know everything we can about your Inner Beast triggers. Cyn’s triggers seemed more generalized until now, and you’ve described yours as ‘fear of death’. Now we know that there’s more to Cyn’s - you, specifically -, we need to know if there’s more to yours’.”
Summer bit his lip. “The fear’s… all I know. ‘ow am I supposed t’ know everythin’...?”
“You might not, but the body does.”
Something cold and hard was pressed into his hand. Summer cracked open an eye to look down at the third-full bottle of red liquid Mountain had handed him.
“I found an old bottle of warmwine. Ever had any? It soothes the body and mind. Drink up, if you can. It can’t make anything worse.”
He had had it before, yes, and knew that the name was accurate. But was it really that potent in a medical sense?
Well, the prickling feeling in his throat wasn’t going away, and the little conversation they’d been making proved that his head wasn’t as sensitive as it felt. Very, very slowly, Summer lifted his head, just until he was certain that the warmwine wouldn’t spill out of his mouth, then hesitantly took a sip.
“Unless we’re able to pry the secrets out of the body, we can only go by trial and error,” Mountain continued, as a warm trickling sensation covered his tongue. Not quite similar to numbness, but adjacent to it. “Or, in Cyn’s case, having unexpected things happen. He’s not the first to have it happen, but it’s safest if we don’t have to rely on that. He’s been…more open about talking about it ever since it happened. Thanks to that, we know that it’s safer to keep you two apart for now.”
Summer lowered his head again, just to be safe. Nausea hadn’t immediately reared its head with the first sip, but he couldn’t be too careful. “...what did ‘e say…?”
Mountain didn’t immediately answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man cross his arms over his chest and cant his head. “...Considering you two are within striking distance, I can’t tell you that. We don’t need a fight starting again.”
“Did ‘e say I…mangled ‘im?”
“Hm?”
“That’s…what ‘e said, w-when ‘e attacked me.” He couldn’t be sure if the heat he felt was from the warmwine acting quicker than usual, or his own…whatever feelings they were. But he felt it nonetheless, and Summer swallowed. “...Ruined ‘is life. But ‘e was the one…‘urtin’ me before. After, ‘e and his friends stopped, and I ‘ad…a little more peace.”
He saw Mountain lean forward in interest. “What do you mean by that? He was the one to strike first?”
“...Ye and everyone else would c…call them bullies. ‘arassin’ me, then…becomin’ violent when my reactions weren’t good enough. N-Nothin’ that my family did seemed t’ ‘elp against them, and I didn’t deserve any of it, so…”
“...Mangling is more than just ‘stopping’ them, though.”
Summer inhaled a sharp breath. “I didn’t mean to ‘mangle’. I…just fought back, a-and ‘e tried t’ block. I was just stronger.”
Surprisingly, Mountain half-laughed, half-snorted. “Normally, I’d say breaking someone’s arms so bad that they don’t heal properly is a good way for them to learn to stop. But considering that he’s unleashed an Inner Beast because of it, our work’s cut out for us.”
Before he could reply, he flinched as Mountain’s hand clapped on his shoulder. “Thank you for telling us. We can work with Cyn better now that we have both sides of the story.”
Summer shrugged the other man’s hand off with a scowl. “...W-What do ye mean? I just slandered yer student.”
“Well, he’d been telling us he was someone who stood up and defended his friends. That might be true in his mind, but when dealing with the Inner Beast, objectivity can help break through the emotions fueling it.” Now that his hand was free, Mountain reached back behind him to grab at something he couldn’t see. “We’d be careful in telling him anything you said, and he might be very resistant at first, but I think we’ll wear him down.”
“Y-You can’t just-”
“We can, yes, and we will. I’ll tell you how. From your previous training, do you remember what the Inner Beast truly is?”
He couldn’t be sure if it was the thought of Cynric figuring out he’d told on him that was making his head spin, or if it was the warmwine hitting him. It was true that warmth had started to flood throughout his body, but the characteristic ‘head floating’ property of warmwine hadn’t felt quite like this. Either way, it took Summer a few moments to calm his mind and collect his thoughts. “It’s…a protective instinct?”
“Somewhat, yes. It’s an instinct to draw upon as much strength as your body can muster to survive whatever you’re dealing with.” Mountain’s hand came back with a water flask, which he took a moment to sip from. “Gorge, Dorgene, and I have learned that the strength is controllable if you channel it to protect your loved ones. However, instincts can treat anything it wants as a threat to survival. Even something that harms your wellbeing in general can be considered that. It’s a protective instinct in the way that it tries to protect your overall well-being.”
The implication wasn’t lost on him. “...So, because I ‘ruined ‘is life’, ‘is Will of Karash is triggered on seein’ me as a threat.”
Mountain nodded. “Not just that, but he’s been building resentment toward you all this time. As we all know, anger makes the Inner Beast more unpredictable and wild. It’s no longer just about protecting yourself, it can turn you to want revenge or superiority. So, because you came here looking for help, and he was already here -”
“But I shouldn’t be responsible for ‘is feelin’s.” Even though the warmwine had parched his torn, dry throat, Summer’s words came out unexpectedly raw. “‘e was an asshole as a kid, and I…I defended myself. ‘e’s ‘ere to get better, ye said. Fine. I didn’t want t’ interact with ‘im ever again, but we’re ‘ere now, so I’m stayin’ away for my sake and I’m doin’ okay.”
Mountain’s placating hand fell back on his shoulder. This time, Summer didn’t shrug it off. “Easy, Soemr. I wasn’t blaming you. Each person’s Inner Beast starts and is treated differently. All I’m saying is that with you being here, you both enlightening us on Cyn’s Inner Beast.”
“And bein’ a trigger.”
“And being a trigger, yes,” he conceded. “But now that we know about it, we can work with it. Hydaelyn’s a vast world, but he can’t expect to never run into you, and neither can you. Gorge and I are going to work with both of you on that, now that we know about it. It’ll be better for you both overall.”
It made sense. Any job either of them took could lead them in the same direction, and he wasn’t about to be blamed for any rampage Cynric did. He’d be the one behind bars next time.
Summer only snorted and chanced another sip of the warmwine. This time, it burned against the rough patches in his throat and sent him into a coughing fit. Mountain’s hand quickly shifted to pat him on the back.
“..T-Thanks, but-”
“Besides, you’ve got plenty of work to do yourself. You’ve been with us a few weeks now, and neither Gorge nor I like to compare students, but you haven’t been progressing as much as we’d like.”
He averted his eyes. That was the elephant in the room, wasn’t it? Not here in the medical tent, but everywhere else on this mountaintop. Strength training was something he was used to. Lessons on emotional regulation were things he’d attend even if he wasn’t being required to. Teambuilding exercises and joint training sessions with people he hardly knew was new, but he’d been adapting fairly well. And yet…
Mountain must’ve sensed the shame curdling in his gut. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “You’ve told us your Inner Beast’s main trigger was fear of death. You know that we’d never attempt to kill you. Even when counting Cyn, when he fell to his Inner Beast and attacked you, you didn’t succumb to your Inner Beast. We’ve been teaching you skills to protect yourself, and you’ve been taking well to them. But every assessment we’ve done so far has had you succumb to it.”
He was doing his best. He was giving everything he had to it all. Every night, he’d all but collapse into his bedroll. Every morning, he’d wake up sore and tired, but he’d get up anyway and give everything he had yet again. Effort was all he had to give; he’d had more than enough experiences to know that few things came naturally to him, least of all aether manipulation, emotion dampening, and placing trust into people he barely knew.
“...I know,” he replied, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know why.”
“Before you start worrying, we’ve seen the effort you’ve put into every aspect of your training.” Mountain gave him a smile and a final pat on the back, leaning away again. “Since your dedication is true, it’s led Gorge and I to wonder about the nuances of your Inner Beast. Like Cyn’s, it might not be as simple as it appears on the surface.”
As he felt Mountain peer at him, his fingers reflexively tightened their grip around the bottle of warmwine. He knew what a distrustful gaze looked like, and this wasn’t it, yet his instincts rose up all the same, in defiance to the warmwine’s attempts to mitigate it. What a life he’d lived, when a specialized brew couldn’t calm down his instincts. “...I’ve told ye all I know about it. Short of writin’ an autobiography of meself, I don’t know what t’ tell ye.”
“Gorge and I don’t go prying into what isn’t necessary to know. Even as trainees looking for help, you’re all entitled to your privacy. If you think giving us all that information will help, go ahead and share it. If you don’t, keep it close to your chest for your comfort.”
There was only one real solution to that conundrum, though. If anyone should’ve been safe to talk with about his parentage, it was Mountain. Even if he’d only known the man for a few sennights, he’d proven himself to be a reliable leader and teacher, with the demeanor to make even people like him comfortable. Yet, any information that would go through Mountain would inevitably reach Gorge, and would he keep it private? As teachers of a sensitive population, hopefully - but he couldn’t trust that.
Given his silence, Mountain could only take it one way. At least his smile didn’t drop. “Alright then, I won’t push. Let’s think about what things we do know. You said fire magic was another potential trigger.”
Summer hesitated. It was true, he did say that at the beginning of his training. “Aye, I did,” he began cautiously. “But I knew fire magic itself wasn’t a trigger from before I came ‘ere, and we’ve proved that since. Else I would’ve lost control in the ‘otspring.”
“Speaking of the hotspring, how’s your stomach?”
For the first time in what felt like bells, he had to manually check, and he wasn’t sure if he caught his feeling of surprise before it showed on his face. Had he really been so wrapped up in the conversation? He’d expected his stomach to be achingly sour and unavoidable for the rest of the evening, but it felt surprisingly decent - still on the road to full recovery, but the warm, tingling sensation from the warmwine was ample distraction.
“...If ye ever need more tonic, ye could just bring flasks of warmwine instead,” he replied back with the slightest of grins.
“Good. Now we know we have a backup solution, unless we have to train a lightweight!” Mountain’s raucous laughter boomed throughout the tent, so loud that the following pause to catch his breath was deafening. “Cyn’s not going to be around forever, but we might have to ask him for the recipe before he goes on his way.”
“But, uh, about the fire magic…” Cynric wasn’t a topic they needed to talk about again. “We’ve also tested it. Me dissociatin’ and feelin’ unwell from it is somethin’ I’m tryin’ t’ fix, but fire magic itself isn’t a trigger.”
It seemed plain and simple enough, but something made Mountain bring a hand to his chin. “...You mentioned that before, ‘trying to fix it’. You’re learning fire magic to figure out why it’s affecting you, right? How’s that training going for you?”
Summer nodded. Just because he was doing physical Warrior training, didn’t mean he could slack on his other training. It was a chance afforded to him by Jim and Rheya - only a fool would squander it. Each night, in the safety and privacy of his tent, he would withdraw Flamescorn from its sheath and begin his practice. Even thinking about using the red-jeweled dagger a first was nervewracking, given its origin from the Cursed Carbuncle; but with its official documentation claiming it’d been tested for curses and Rheya’s prowess in magical artifacts, when a normal spell focus failed him, what was originally his last resort became the tool that enabled practice to happen in the first place. Its fire-aspect lent well to it easily channeling flame from a person both inexperienced in magic and nervous about fire magic: casts that originally resulted in tiny embers or explosive bursts became softer, longer-lasting flames like those found in a fireplace.
It was still nerve-wracking, and still very hard to resist the itch in the back of his mind and the anxiety that bade him to look at the flame, but his practice was obviously paying off. The next time he sparred with a magic-user, he wasn’t going to be tripped up.
“...Well, ye did fire magic right next t’ me eight times tonight, and I only dissociated on the last one,” he slowly replied. “Before practicin’, I could barely stand one cast. I ‘aven’t been able t’ look at the magic without dissosicatin’ yet, but I’m resistin’ better.”
Mountain made a thoughtful sound, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mm, that’s good news. You’re progressing pretty fast if that’s the case. Does it tire you out?”
“It does, aye, but I pace meself. I’m not pushin’ meself past my limits.”
“Soemr, from what I know of you, you’re a man dedicated to pushing yourself to your limits for the sake of ‘progress’ and ‘growth’. Are you sure you’re not going too hard?”
Summer knew he was being a concerned teacher, but something about the way he said it made his skin itch. It was on the border of chastisement and it was very familiar. “I know me limits, Mountain.”
“Easy, Soemr. I didn’t mean to upset you or imply anything.” Mountain wasn’t looking at him, at least - instead, he was looking over the collection of bottles where the warmwine once was. For a moment, Summer wondered if he’d driven the man to drink, but the the Roegadyn reached over the half-drunken ale bottles and set his now-empty water flask down. “No one knows your body and mind better than you. I may be one of your teachers, but you’re allowed to disagree with my assessment. That being said, given what I know of you, it sounds like you often don’t allow yourself rest.”
That was true, he supposed. He had to be active and away from Aleport during his childhood, and once he moved to the Black Shroud, he had to earn his way into the minds and hearts of its citizens - a neverending task for a foreigner such as him. Combine that with his job duties and his extra tasks, he did go to bed tired most evenings and woke up early to do it all over again.
“If your don’t allow your mind and body rest, you can start to overestimate its capabilities,” Mountain continued. “It’s stamina and resilience, among other things. You become used to working at what’s technically your body’s ‘limit’, but what feels to you as ‘normal’. Yes, you only become stronger by pushing to and past your limits, but our training is designed to hold you there for a brief amount of time. Physical strength is from your muscles tearing slightly and repairing themselves stronger over time.”
Mountain wasn’t saying all that he was thinking, Summer knew. “....Yeah, I know that. I try t’ get meself rest, but me lifestyle doesn’t allow that too much.”
“Well, here’s your chance to rest.” Mountain shot him a grin. “We as Warriors train every day to get stronger, but there’s no shame in needing a break between exercises. Even if you need a break from physical training for the day, you can always focus on meditation or other mental exercises. Just because we wield weapons and armor to protect our loved ones, doesn’t mean we don’t need strong minds to withstand our power and responsibilities. Progress happens in different ways.”
“But I’m getting away from what I really meant to say,” he continued before Summer could reply. “Most people will separate the limit of the body from the limit of the mind. That’s not true in general, but with us Warriors and our Inner Beast, that line is even more blurred. The training that Gorge made for you is assuming you’re not training in anything else at the same time - and if you’re someone who already pushes their body and mind to their limits every day, that could be causing these issues.”
He had to concede he made a good point. If he heard any of his friends were doing the same, he’d caution restraint as well. Looking at himself objectively, he should make the same choice. He knew that joining the Warrior’s Guild in Abalanthia’s Spine would keep him away for a long time; he’d accepted it, and was ready to do whatever it took to control his Will of Karash.
Even still, the implication that Mountain was making ruffled his non-existent fur and scratched uncomfortably at his brain. He didn’t know when he’d grow so attached to his fire magic practice with Flamescorn, but the thought of stopping now, after he’d made so much progress…
It felt wrong. More than just the potential of losing progress, it felt wrong, like a betrayal to his soul.
Maybe the warmwine was affecting him too much.
“I’m not goin’ t’ stop my fire magic trainin’,” Summer ground out more harshly than he’d expected. “Can’t I do both? I’m goin’ t’ ‘ave ‘t fix them anyway. It’s better t’ learn t’ deal with them at the same time.”
“Gorge is the one in charge of your training, not me. You’ll have to ask him and tell him everything you’ve told me.” Even with that fact, though, Mountain sounded unsure. “If doing both trainings at the same time is what’s preventing your progress with taming your Inner Beast, your fire magic might have to wait. But if Gorge sees value in honing both, aside from adjusting your Warrior training, I see no issue with it.”
Who knew that Mountain would be easy to convince? Maybe he’d risen his hackles over nothing. Then again, there was no telling how Gorge would react, especially as the hot-headed one of the brothers. He might have to prepare more arguments to counter his emotionally-passionate ones.
“However, if he thinks your magic training is worthwhile, it might be for the best that you have supervision. Practicing fire magic in a flammable tent is neither safe nor subtle, and if you were to dissociate, it’s best for someone to be with you.”
There was something to Mountain’s tone that made Summer raise a brow. It didn’t sound negative, but it was pointed. “...Are ye offerin’?”
Mountain nodded, a slight grin on his lips. “Gorge and Dorgene aren’t as well-versed in magic as I am, so I’d be your trainer by default. All of this assumes Gorge agrees with your idea, of course.”
Finally, it looked like there was a chance he’d be paired with the teacher he preferred. Now it was more important than ever to convince Gorge. Summer cracked a hint of a smile, dipping his head. “Aye. Thank ye, Mountain.”
“Don’t thank me. I was trying to make your life easier by only focusing on one training, but you continue to prove yourself as a powerhouse,” Mountain snorted, but there was still a good-natured look on his face. “A lot of our trainees have unique needs beyond learning to wield an axe and learning to control their Inner Beast. I’m not a registered magic teacher, but those I have taught report decent progress.”
For the first time in what felt like a long time, Summer chuckled. “Any trainin’s better than no trainin’. If yer comin’ ‘ighly rated and willin’ t’ teach, I’ll take ye up on it.”
With a final pat to his shoulder, Mountain stood with a grin. “Then it’s settled. Go work on talking with Gorge. For now, if you’re feeling well enough to get yourself back to your tent, I should check on the rest of our trainees.”
He did feel remarkably better, yes. His stomach wasn’t too sour, there was no headache to speak of anymore, and his throat no longer felt like it’d been scraped raw by a cheesegrater. “Aye, of course. Thank ye fer the ‘elp, Mountain.”
With a smile and a nod, Mountain pulled open the tent flap, slipped past the chilly night mountain air flooding through the opening, and disappeared, leaving Summer to his thoughts.
There was a rhythm to Wyrnzoen’s days, ever since he became Axemaster of the Marauder's Guild: wake up before the sun rose over the ocean, limber his muscles and his mind with stretching, see to new recruits of the guild, train and dispense wisdom and break boulders with his trainees, and retire for the evening comfortable with his work.
Recently, a wrench had been thrown into his daily rhythm, however. A small, yet stubborn, wrench by the name of Overton.
A small Hyuran boy barely 18 summers old shouldn’t have been such an issue – given his slim build and the lack of callouses on his hands, he clearly had no aspirations of joining the guild. With his simple appearance and lack of recognizable features, he would scarcely be a presence on any battlefield. Yet, here he was, taking time out of his morning for several moons now to visit and ask his singular question.
“Wyrnzoen, do you have any news about where the Warrior’s Guild is now?”
At least they’d met enough times that Wyrnzoen had managed to convince him to drop the ‘ser’. What he hadn’t managed to change, though, was the pleasantly neutral smile on the boy’s face every time he spoke. No matter what response he gave him, it never went away.
Some would find his mannerisms professional and courteous, never showing his disappointment to those who couldn’t solve it. Others would find his expression disturbing, too similar to a doll. Wyrnzoen just found it frustrating.
“My answer has been the same ever since you started asking, Overton, and yet you still ask every day.”
“It’s something I can’t afford to not ask, unfortunately. I hope you understand?”
“I do,” Wyrnzoen grumbles. “If your friend is having trouble controlling his Inner Beast –“
Was that a flinch he spied from Overton? His expression adjusted back to the smile too fast to tell.
“- he needs help. But my hands are tied while Curious Gorge and Broken Mountain are gone.”
Overton peered at him. “And you really don’t know when they’ll be back?”
“I know as much as I knew yesterday, which is nothing. This is some secret Warrior ritual, and before they left, they told me they would be gone for a while.”
“…They knew they would be gone for a while, yet left no Warriors to help those struggling with their…”
“The ritual was for all of their current trainees.” Wyrnzoen crossed his arms over his bare chest, eyeing the boy with furrowed brow. “I’m afraid the Warrior’s Guild won’t be able to help your friend for a while, Overton. However, there are other people who’ve conquered their Inner Beast –“ flinch “ – who could help you as well. Have you searched for them?”
“I have,” Overton spoke with a hint of an uneven tone, the pleasant smile gritting just a bit, “and none of them have been suitable for him.”
“You think the Warrior’s Guild will be, then? You speak of him as if he’s soft.”
“The Warrior’s Guild has accountability. Guidelines. Rules in place that would allow him to know the boundaries of what he can and can’t do. He needs that kind of stability.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to get through to him. Wrynzoen sighed. He needed to change tactics.
“Then if he must train under the Warrior’s Guild, he will need to wait until they get back. Your time would better be used helping him understand where his anger is coming from, not spending time here every day asking questions. Won’t you give me your linkpearl address so I can tell you when Curious Gorge or Broken Mountain contact me?”
Overton shook his head. “I apologize, but that presents a security issue. Linkpearl networks are notoriously easy to intercept, and this is a…private matter.”
Given that they were speaking in the guild headquarters itself, privacy clearly wasn’t the issue. Wyrnzoen doubted Overton was even the man’s name. Whatever linkpearl address he gave would either link to the man’s true identity, or a throwaway likely not to be picked up.
“…Then it looks like there’s nothing left for you here today. Until I hear from the guild, you and your friend will have to find your own solutions.”
Finally, there was a shift in that pleasant smile – a small one, just a hint of sadness mixed with frustration, but a change nonetheless.
“…I see.” And as soon as it’d come, the smile reverted back to the usual professionalism he’d come to expect every morning. It was only more vexing now. “Thank you for your help as always, Wrynzoen. I apologize for bothering you every day as I have.”
Then why was he so committed to this task? Wrynzoen wondered. Every day, moon after moon, he came and asked the question. Every day, moon after moon, the answer was the same. If only he’d been smart and switched tactics, he would’ve found a solution to tide his friend over until the Guild’s return. Instead, they’d been left with no leads, no plans, and no way to prevent yet another awakened Warrior from rampaging.
What a life Curious Gorge and Broken Mountain had set out to live: to bring peace to troubled souls that only wanted to live a normal life, without the fear of snapping and dipping into powers beyond their control.
“I can only hope that your friend will find guidance and peace soon, whatever way he achieves it.” He meant it. For as odd and covert as Overton was, his dedication and loyalty to this friend was clear. Very few people would spend their mornings on an endeavor others would quickly call futile. “And may the rest of your day be more fruitful.”
The one good thing about Overton’s apparent upbringing was that he understood a dismissal when he heard one. With a bow, he turned on his heel and left through the double doors, disappearing into the blinding Limsan sunlight reflected off the stone walkway with nary a sound but his footsteps.
He’d be back by the next morning, he was sure of it.
“Persistent bugger, ain’t ‘e?” Blauthota piped up from behind her desk. Wrynzoen turned away from the doors as they clattered shut, looking to her. “It’s real unfortunate timin’ for him an’ his friend.”
“Mhm. The brothers would want to train his friend, I’m sure. Overton’s stubbornness would be endearing to them.”
“Heh, maybe they’d want to take him in, too! That sort o’ dedication he has could be turned into somethin’ mighty powerful. If they made a way to make Broken Mountain a true Warrior again, they could try it out on the pipsqueak and make him into somethin’ great.”
“Perhaps. But he would need to strengthen himself first before he could do any Warrior training. The first time he entered the Guild, I knew he didn’t come to enroll. His hands and arms spoke before he himself could.”
Blauthota snorted with a grin. “Ye never did like the stuffy businessmen, Axemaster. I’m surprised ye let him in.”
“You never know who’s going to come through looking for the type of help only we could provide, Blauthota.” His gaze landed on doors for just a moment. “…Another boy could be in need of saving from a legendary auroch.”
Wrynzoen smiled for a just a moment, then stepped away. “I’m going to prepare the trainees for their missions today. Try not to get bored by your lonesome.”
“Ah, Axemaster, wait! About that request ye had the other day.”
The request? He turned back to her, approaching her desk and eyeing the papers scattered about. “Ah, you have something to report?”
“Aye, I do.” Blauthota reached for one of the drawers of her desk, pulling out a single piece of paper and handing it to him. “I did as ye asked an’ looked into Overton. As ye expected, no one registered in Limsa Lominsa’s got ‘Overton’ as a family name. It’s a cover name for sure.”
He carefully took the piece of paper, scanning it as she spoke. A report on a person’s family history, record, and known associations was hardly ever this thin, unless they were involved in criminal activity.
But she seemed to know that would be his next question. “The Maelstrom also said that there aren’t any known criminals goin’ by that moniker, either. As far as anyone knows, ‘Overton’s a new name on the block.”
“A new name, operating here for at least seven moons now.” Wyrnzoen hummed. “Are you sure that no merchants in Limsa Lominsa know this name? Surely he’s interacted with someone aside from me.”
“I spoke the merchants of Hawker’s Alley meself, Axemaster. I even asked Carvallain. He said he’s seen someone each mornin’ resemblin’ Overton near the Seventh Sage, but nowhere else.”
“The Seventh Sage is outside our doorstep; of course he’d see him every morning,” Wyrnzoen waved her off. “This means that no one knows anything about Overton, except that he visits our Guild every morning asking about the Warrior’s Guild for his friend. Short of obtaining a license to question him, we can’t know more.”
“Unless we hear about a person rampagin’ an’ needin’ Warrior trainin’, of course,” Blauthota grumbled. “Overton’s friend needs help if he’s been like this for so long.”
“…Let’s not hope it comes to that.” Wyrnzoen sighed long, handing the report back to her. “Keep it, for safe-keeping. As we learn more, we can add to it.”
“Aye, Axemaster.”
Something foul was brewing in the pit of his stomach as he turned and stepped down into the barracks. Over the sounds of clashing steel and wood, his thoughts spoke loud and clear.
Who was Overton? Why go to such lengths to find the Warrior’s Guild? Was he truly searching on behalf of his friend, or did he have more insidious goals? If such a friend existed, who was it? If not, why create such a lie?
So many questions with so few answers. Wrynzoen preferred the simplicity of before Overton barged into his life.
“…there, Axemaster…?”
He furrowed his brows. A linkpearl call, now? Stepping to the side of the hallway, he touched his pearl. “Axemaster Wyrnzoen here.”
“Hey, Wyrnzoen! Finally, we can reach you! Gahaha, Abalanthia’s Spine doesn’t have much in the way of linkpearl reception!”
Wait, that was…
“Curious Gorge,” he spoke with carefully hidden surprise. “Are you done with your training in the peaks above the clouds, then?”
“It wasn’t training, it was –“
“We were forging Warrior’s armor for our seasoned trainees. Since they may only be forged in the volcanoes of our ancestral homeland, the trip was necessary.”
Broken Mountain too? They must be sharing a linkpearl. “I see. Was your forging successful? You’ve been gone for moons.”
A pause. Wrynzoen could picture the two brothers looking at each other.“Well, see, we ran into some trouble…”
“Trouble?”
“We found that our instructions for creating Warrior armor weren’t complete,” Broken Mountain spoke after a moment. “The forging itself is one component; the leathercrafting and runecarving are equally as important, and we sought the help of our tribe to learn. Our trip took us longer than expected.”
“I know we said we’d be gone for two sennights at most, Axemaster,” Curious Gorge piped up. “But now, we have more knowledge about taming the Inner Beast. Now that we can create the armor and the runes ourselves, we can train many more people to harness the beast for the good of the world.”
“Not to mention, save themselves from the beast consuming them entirely.”
“You two are doing noble work. From uncovering the mysteries of the Inner Beast to reviving your tribe’s armor techniques, you’re raising the first generation of Eorzean Warriors and saving otherwise good men and women from themselves.”
Hmm.
“…You’ve gained yourself a fan, you know.”
“A fan?”
Wrynzoen glanced down the hall. The sounds of sparring continued unabated, his trainees surely waiting for him. No one was coming down the hall past him. He would have to make this quick.
“While you and your trainees have been gone, a man has visited the Marauder’s Guild every morning asking for you. His friend is in need of your training.”
“…He’s been waiting for us specifically?” Broken Mountain echoed. “Why?”
“As a Guild, you have the stability he believes his friend needs. Overton’s quite stubborn about that – he’s been waiting for you two to return for moons now.”
“Moons?! If his friend has awakened to the beast, he could be in serious trouble! Without proper training, it could consume him entirely should he fuel it with anger!”
Wrynzoen hummed in agreement. “Will you take his friend on, then?”
“Of course! We started the Guild to find and train other Warriors, after all. Warriors may now be used in battle with proper training, but our foundation of understanding and learning to control the beast is the same. If they fall under the force of the beast, they becomes a threat to himself and everyone around them – and our job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Exactly as Gorge says, Axemaster. Tell Overton we’ll return to Vylbrand as soon as possible.”
“You’ve just missed his morning visit,” Wyrnzoen said dryly, “but when he comes tomorrow, I’ll deliver the news.”
He glanced up toward the Guild entrance, to where Blauthota sat and penned that sad report.
“…Another thing. Overton is an unknown to us – it’s a cover name. He refuses to say what his friend is like, and we have no knowledge if his goal truly is to help his friend. If you take his friend on as a member of the Guild, if such a friend exists, you may be in danger.”
“I respect your concern for our safety, Axemaster,” Broken Mountain chuckled, “but we live dangerous lives. Not only from the Inner Beast, but from others who think we are mindless brutes, or those who think our strength is our weakness. We’ll be wary, but we’ll be fine.”
“He’s right. If anything funny happens, I’ll be sure to pound Overton into the dirt!”
“To protect us, not out of anger, right Gorge?”
“Yes, to protect. You’ve seen how I’ve been improving!”
Ah, brothers. Wyrnzoen couldn’t hold back a chuckle. They sure were something.
“Did you say something, Axemaster?”
“No, I didn’t. Safe travels home, Gorge, Mountain. You’ll have to tell me good stories about your trip when you’re rested.”
“Of course. See you then, Axemaster.”
Click.
Lowering his hand from his linkpearl, he breathed out, long and slow. At least the brothers were in signal range now, and on their way back to civilization. Overton would soon stop visiting him each morning, and his simple daily routine would be back to normal.
Before he could tell Overton the news, however, he had recruits to train. Thinking of how to deliver the message could wait. For now, he had a job to do.
With a slight smile, he stepped out into the hallway again and went to go meet with his trainees.
((WARNING: this story contains major depictions of bullying, xenophobia, fictional racism, anxiety, and dysphoria. Read at your own risk and take care of yourself.))
Young R’thipra Halusyn was once a curious boy, filled with desire and curiosity and wonder of what the world held. Up until he first stepped foot outside his family’s mansion, he’d held tight on the belief that he would be able to talk with the children his age throwing rocks into the ocean, sit on the ledge of the great wall and dangle his feet over the empty air, to live and be free. Time and experience, however, taught him painful lessons of how prejudice and disgust could live in the hearts of even the most inconspicuous people. To be forgotten in mind but not in heart, to be acted upon when no solution to their instinctive confusion presented itself, to be built upon as a foundation for how to understand their neighbors.
So, when he stepped out of the great oaken door on his own for the first time, eyes immediately adjusting to the harsh sunlight, his battle-scarred mind conjured endless possibilities. The glamour that coated his body and transformed him into how he truly saw himself was at the top of his mind.
None but his family, Sylbgeim, and Ezeane knew who he was beneath that glamour. Surely that would mean that he would be left alone, as long as he kept the secret contained. He was Rhylsoemr Halusyn, but without the obvious marks of his heritage, Aleport would have no reason to set him upon the path that they did. What would they see him as, then?
He soon realized that a better question to ask was, would they even see him? Because, for the first time in his short life, there were no looks of confusion, of disgust, or pity. He neither felt stares rake across his back, nor hurried glances to and away from his form. Discomfort and unease were nowhere to be found on the faces of Aleport’s citizens in his presence – in fact, hardly any seemed to notice him at all. And of those that did look at him, they were short, simple affairs: with some, he could feel their minute curiosity; with others, it was simple acknowledgment of his existence.
It was a form of invisibility that he’d not dared think he’d ever be allowed when he was a child. To simply be able to exist without being bothered, to be acknowledged as a presence but otherwise be left alone, with back straight and voice unmuted.
It was so sweet a relief that R’thipra nearly cried on the doorstep.
The next day, the childhood curiosity long abandoned dragged him out onto the streets.
There were no dreams of being adopted by the children of Aleport this time. He now knew what lay beneath their visage of innocence; where they could fool their parents that they had never done evil in their life, he knew different. Simply better to exist in this odd invisibility, to walk confidently and freely as he never could before, unburdened by the myriad stares that used to follow him.
And it was with this mindset that R’thipra finally let himself bask in the other, safer childhood fantasies. The ledge of the great wall made for an interesting bird’s eye view of the city – from the safety of the highest point in town, he took note of all the alleys between the buildings, the nooks and crannies in the stone the city was built upon, the way the sunlight reflected off stone and made the streets glow bright white like the heavens. The sunsets were luscious and bright as always, but the open view of the wall versus the enclosed secret spot let him watch the oranges and pinks and purples filling the sky all the more easier.
It was odd, to sudden think of the city he’d long learned to despite as something that could be beautiful. Not as beautiful as the secret spot, though. The wind here was harsher, tossing the strands of hair not caught in the braid all over his face, unceasing and refusing his glamour the time to return the strands to their otherwise immutable position. Unlike outside the city walls, the smells of the city flowed upward and showered him in the stink of fish and sweat. And, of course, the waters in the port were so far away and so churned that they didn’t shimmer in the sunlight.
And when he ventured onto the streets themselves, he found himself thanking that he’d adopted Father’s eyes. The brightest parts of the day always left anyone unfortunate enough to have normal eyes squinting and stumbling as the floor grew blindingly bright, and all R’thipra could do was make sure no one was around to hear his laughs or see his smirks. It was his favorite part of the day, where all the sailors and merchants were forced into hiding under the awnings and inside the various shops and left the streets all to himself.
It was an unfortunate coincidence, really, that led him to consider something he hadn’t realized.
One of those days where the sun was out and the streets were blinding, he’d noticed just too late that the sky was darkening earlier than expected. The streets were due to be full of merchants soon, and the swell of the crowd surging to the dimming sun was something to behold from afar, not be in himself. And so R’thipra ducked into a nearby alley to escape the tide, only to bump into a woman leaving the same way.
She stumbled, but didn’t fall. Under the clamor of voices steading growing outside, he could hear her mutter something under her breath, but couldn’t make it out.
“’Scuse us, kid.”
R’thipra squinted at the shape of another person in the darkness of the alley. That voice was familiar. That woman was familiar, too, somehow.
It was only when the woman looked up at him and when the man stepped out of the darkness that R’thipra realized who they were.
The fishmongers had changed quite a bit in the years since he’d last seen her. There was an odd tilt to woman’s hips, combining with bowed knees to make her the picture of an aging working woman. The man had obviously suffered a debilitating injury sometime years ago, with his leg being replaced by a wooden strut. Both wife and husbands wore gray hair and adorned themselves with large spectacles that magnified their eyes to bloated proportions.
R’thipra’s heart caught in his throat.
“Sorry t’ ‘ave bumped into ye, kiddo,” the woman said with the barest hint of a wobbly smile. “These glasses ain’t workin’ for me anymore, plus all of the hells-damned light…Ye know ‘ow it is.”
He mutely nodded.
“But…hm.” He felt more than saw the woman look him over. “…Ye’re the new one in town, ain’t ye? The one that walks around like a dodo with its ‘ead cut off, lookin’ around but never doin’ anythin’ with it.”
How could he even say anything to them? They’d never listened to him before, had labeled him immediately as a thief and attacked his heritage. And yet, here they were, interacting with him unwittingly once more.
The man was peering closely at him, too. “…Yer right, dear. Are ye lost, kid? Lookin’ for somethin’? I didn’t see ye get off any of the boats, but ye’ve been wanderin’ around town long enough that it makes me worried for ye.”
“Aye, aye,” the woman nodded sagely. “Did ye come ‘ere lookin’ for someone? Everyone knows everyone in this town; tell me a name, and I can get ye t’ them.”
There was an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that no one save family and friends would recognize him; the neutral looks he’d attracted when first stepping out into the sun as R’thipra guaranteed him neutral attention. Yet, he was unprepared for this kindness, this truly opposite behavior.
They were looking at him expectantly, much like concerned parents asking a child to tell them what was on their mind.
He had to say something. But what?
“I…” R’thipra cleared his throat. Forced himself to breath out and relax his tense muscles and the tall stance he’d unconsciously made. “I’m visitin’, aye. My Father.”
“Yer father?” the man echoed. “What’s ‘is name?”
“R’halu.”
He could see the moment their mind recognized the name, the odd expression crossing their faces. Before they could say anything, R’thipra’s mind worked in overdrive, searching for the words to halt their advance.
“I ‘aven’t seen ‘im since he left t’ live ‘ere. Didn’t really get a chance t’ get t’ know ‘im, y’know? And ‘e’s lettin’ me stay with ‘im while we catch up.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “So, yer from ‘is tribe then, huh?”
R’thipra quietly nodded…then hesitated. “…I am, but I didn’t grow up with the tribe. I just grew up without ‘im or any of his family, over in…Wineport. I’m not used t’ bein’ in a place like this.”
It was an entirely scuffed story, scrambled together on the fly. The fishmongers were old enough to have witnessed Father coming down from the tribe to live in Aleport. Wineport was on the other side of Vylbrand. There was no reason why Father would travel such a way to have a child unknown to everyone until now.
But, miraculously, they bought it. The expression settling on the woman’s face said as much. “…’e never told us ‘e ‘ad a third child,” she murmured in wonder, eyes wandering to the mansion.
He grunted. “I mean, ‘avin’ a child as a Tia? ‘e was just tryin’ t’ keep him and me safe.”
“Huh.” The man furrowed his brows. “I wasn’t aware Seeker culture was that strict.”
R’thipra faked a shrug, ignoring how his heart hammered in his chest. “Not strict. Tradition exists for a reason. Ye wouldn’t understand it.”
Every second they kept him in his conversation, the more he could feel his story unravel at the seams, the more the discomfort of a conversation with people who hated him caused uncomfortable prickles along his skin. He prayed his glamour hid them.
After a period of disconcerting silence, the woman finally spoke. “Well, kiddo, if yer gonna be ‘ere for a bit, I’ve got a bit of advice for ye: wander around aimlessly any more, and the Yellowjackets are gonna want t’ ‘ave a talk with ye.”
“Aye, they’re always on the lookout for thieves. Yer skulkin’ about might land ye some unwanted attention,” the man added. “So be careful out there, alright?”
“…I will.”
The fishmongers looked at him oddly. Did he miss something?
“…Thanks…?”
“There ye go, kiddo!” The woman laughed brightly, and as she stepped forward, R’thipra had to step out of her way. Dimmed as the sun was, her and her husband could finally step out into the street. “I know our ancestors came from rough seas, but there’s nothin’ a ‘thank ye’ can’t make better.”
He watched silently, feet planted in place, as the fishmongers walked back over to their stall and relit their grill. The man waved a hand over to him. “Come over ‘ere. How about some of the best smoked tuna ye can find on this side of Vylbrand? We can’t give ye much of a discount, unfortunately, but we guarantee ye’ll like it.”
R’thipra’s eyes roved over the fish. They still smelled just as good as they did years ago, when he’d actually wanted one. The uncomfortable prickles turned into little stabbing needles on his skin, striking his nerves and making him feel sick from stress.
A part of him wanted to spit on their offer, the part whose wounds were still fresh and salted. The other part of him just wanted out, now.
“No. Ye can keep yer fish. I…need t’ go.”
As he spun on his heel and stalked back toward the mansion, he could feel their confused gazes on his back.
R’thipra Halusyn simultaneously existed and didn’t. He existed in flesh and body, but there was no evidence of it. There was no story to explain his sudden appearance, nor where he had been all this time.
At the same time, he didn’t know how to talk to people; to live and behave as people would expect of a citizen of civilization, to hide away his feelings about the people he might encounter one day, to say his proper ‘hello’s and ‘thank ye’s and ‘goodbye’s with true and genuine intent.
He glamoured because he saw himself as a member of Father’s sept. He had no desire to interact with Aleport any more than what was necessary. He’d had his fill of exploring the city he’d been denied all his life. There was nothing that stopped him from living out in Oakwood, living off the land as he had been for so long, only emerging from the once-wood to spend time with his family.
And yet…
Emerging to replace that urge to roam the city streets to his heart’s delight was a sense of wonder far different than what he’d experienced before. He knew of Aleport and Limsa Lominsa and Oakwood, but what else? Unversed in living in the city as he was, he had only heard mention of the Black Shroud and Thanalan a few times in his life, more in talks of trade than what the regions were like. Coerthas and the Far East were name spoken even fewer times, and only once did he hear of a Near East, a Thavnair, a Sharlayan.
What were they like, he wondered. What were their people like, he wondered still.
Soemr wasn’t fit to travel. Father and Mother’s business spanned far and wide – if there was a chance his name and face spread, he would only be inviting trouble.
R’thipra was fit to travel, but he hardly existed at all.
It seemed like Father’s work schedule became busier and busier with each moon that passed. Some nights, he was fast asleep before he awoke to the sound of the front door opening, followed by an exhausted, ragged sigh. Other times, Father didn’t return at all until the evening of the next day.
Despite his duties, however, he had always made time for his children when they needed him. Thus, when R’thipra asked to speak with his privately, he canceled everything for that evening and took him to the most secluded place he knew.
The salt-laden wind blew over them as they made camp near the smallshell pond in Oakwood, disturbing the fire they’d built to keep them warm. And over the sound of crackling fire and accompanied by the smell of roasting meat, R’thipra spoke his thoughts.
“You are correct. R’thipra Halusyn does not exist, as far as Limsan records would say,” Father mused. “To legally change your name from Rhylsoemr to R’thipra would require time and, likely, gil paid out to the right people. Corruption exists far past the streets in this nation.”
R’thipra’s heart sank. “But it can be done, right? Otherwise, if people try t’ look too deep…”
“Mhm. They will find that R’thipra is a cover name and make further assumptions about you.”
If there was one thing that he could learn with absolute truth about the world, it would be why people always felt the need to focus on things, to dig deep and unravel mysteries that were none of their business. Why they could not accept the things clear as day in front of their eyes and leave them to their own devices. His life would be so radically different if others learned not to care.
As the moon rose in the sky and stars illuminated the darkness, he and Father spoke quietly over the bright flames of how to convince others to defy that nature. And as the night wore on, his frustrations mounted and mounted, as they realized how far they would need to go to make R’thipra Halusyn exist.
“I have already broken my sept’s traditions by having you and Rhylbryn. It would be of no consequence for you to have been born to another Miqo’te woman before meeting your mother.”
Why did he have to pretend that his Mother wasn’t his family, but a stranger he hardly knew?
“…Then, Bryn wouldn’t be me brother…”
Why would he have to tell others that Bryn was his stepsibling, or worse, just a friend?
“Mhm. If you were born and grew up elsewhere, we also would not know each other, nor would you know anyone in Aleport.”
Why would he have to smile while he re-arranged his life and his relationships with his family and Aleport, just so that people wouldn’t dig deep enough to find the problem they caused in the first place?
By the time they had an outline of their new connections, R’thipra couldn’t tell if his exhaustion was due to frustration or the hour of the day. Their journey back to Aleport was a slow one, the gravity of his situation weighing heavily on both of their shoulders. With flickering torchlight in sight, he breathed his final thoughts into the still air.
“…I froze up when I talked t’ some of them, though.”
Father slowed to a stop, inclining his head; a gesture for him to continue.
“…’ow did ye do it, Father?” R’thipra questioned. “’ow did ye learn t’ talk the way ye do, t’ talk with people who didn’t like ye and when ye didn’t like them?”
Father hummed quietly, gathering his thoughts.
“People are people, and they are chiefly concerned with their own affairs,” he eventually said. “When they approach me, it is for a purpose. By fulfilling that purpose quickly, they leave me to my own devices. Even as the head of a company, that principle works. It works better as I learn to anticipate their needs, work around them, and limit our contact.
But that is not something you can learn in one or two interactions. It is something honed over time and with much practice. And you will need to learn fast, R’thipra.”
Would he ever be free of Aleport and people, he grumbled to himself. Father only gave him the smallest of sympathetic smiles.
Setting up that opportunity was going to take time, Father said. Much like legally changing his name, there was nothing that could be done immediately. All he could do was simply wait and bide his time, wait for Father to push his pieces into place and see how they fell.
That left R’thipra with plenty of time of spend by himself. With Aleport once again proving to be inhospitable, though in an entirely different way than he was used to, he did as he always did: escaped past the city walls.
Oakwood under the daylight felt so right now with his glamour. When the plague had descended upon Soemr’s mind, the once-wood made him feel infinitesimally small, a bumble beetle hiding in the shadows of the cliffs. The waterfalls had stood as towers in the distance, presiding over the terrors that he’d learned about first-hand; they sent the clear message that he was never to return, or else forfeit his life in return for his curiosity.
But now, the land seemed to transform entirely. The features were familiar and muscle memory still took him down the paths he’d traveled for years, and yet his new perspective breathed new life into the land. His height shorter, he now saw small lines of crystal embedded into rock, tiny hideaways for prey, and the secret lives of insects in migration, among others, all because he was now eye-level with so many fine details. While his tail and ears were simply cloaked extensions of his aether, they sometimes brushed against grass and bush alike as he walked, and it was more grounding than he realized it ever could be. And when he caught sight of his reflection in the waters of the smallshell pond, all he saw was a young Miqo’te man enjoying his time in the sunlight and smiling into the wind.
There were no thoughts of anger against Aleport, no icy tendrils warping his mind into seeing himself as Aleport did, no fears of his ability to do harm and break fragile things. It was simply a return to form, to existing in a space that loved him as much as he loved it, without a care in the world; but now it sparkled and shone under the sunlight, glistening with its new coat of paint.
Once again, it was peace, it was tranquility, and it was what made him feel alive.
His axe was sized for Soemr’s hands; and while R’thipra was still strong enough to wield it, his hands were smaller, and each swing threatened to topple him forward into his prey. One two many instances of him falling atop a bloodied animal carcass taught him that he needed to be much more careful with his strikes, to hold back his strength. Crushing his prey with overwhelming force would no longer be an option.
He found that the smallshells were perfect to practice on. While their shells were tough and reflected light batterings, there was a thin margin between breaking through the shell and pulverizing it entirely – he knew it existed, and all he needed to do was find where it was and test his balance and reflexes. It would take some time to find the line, and, unless he wanted the smallshell population to go extinct, it would take time to allow them to recuperate.
It was on one such venture that R’thipra gained a lesson in awareness. Lying in wait in the bush surrounding the lake, he spied upon the small congregation of smallshell feeding on a bounty of small fish washed inland by the high tide. With how tightly they were compacted, one or two of them were bound to wander away in search of uncontested food – and as one made signs of breaking away from the pack, his grip on his axe tightened. Mentally, he counted each step the smallshell took, measured the eyesight of its companions, and waited with bated breath for the opportunity to strike it when it was truly alone.
The smallshell took its first step out of the water, alighting upon muddy grass. He felt the muscles in his legs tighten like a coiled spring, ready to launch out of the bush and test his strength –
Pain, red and sharp, struck his ankle so quick and unexpected that he gasped. With the pain came something bright flashing in the center of his chest, and with the flash came a strong wave of disorientation and nausea and dizziness. The assault on his senses overrode everything, and through the haze of adrenaline and pain and disorientation, he yanked back his leg and lashed out behind him with the axe held tight in his hands.
The impact trembled through his axe, the familiar feeling of crushing through hard shell and meat and brain. But it was far overshadowed by the slice of gripping, sharp, barnacle-edged claw through thin skin –
And in the span of a single tick, the world exploded into light.
The unraveling of compressed aether, the dissolution of form and substance. The flaying of color from his being and his entire identity. The sensation of a piece of rubber being stretched too far and tearing itself apart, rebounding and striking sensitive flesh. A sickening feeling instantly brewing at the pit of his stomach, that something very, very wrong had just occurred.
When the light dimmed and faded, he opened his eyes to see the green skin of his hands, the brown hair thrown wild across his face, the swell of muscle along the arms that gripped the axe suddenly fit right for his hands.
Soemr looked down to his ankle, where pain continued to radiate. Though his mind was still reeling from the sensation of his glamour snapping, he saw that the wound there was hardly deep, more than a scratch but less than a wound. The smallshell that’d snuck up on him was a broken pile of mush and shattered shell next to it, his blunted blade of his axe dripping ichor on his pants.
Dimly, he was aware of the sounds of splashing coming toward him, the angry sounds of smallshells disturbed from their feast. But something was ringing loud in his ears, drowning it out.
“Your aether is an array protected by flesh and armor. Your glamour is an array, too, but much more fragile. It will lay atop your skin like clothing, but it can be torn apart just as easy as paper if the skin is wet. If the base array is damaged, the array relying on it for structure will fail, too.”
Ezeane had emphasized how fragile his glamour really would be, but he’d failed to realize the severity of it. Barely more than a bleeding scratch on one area of his body would completely shatter the array.
A gray claw speared through the bush he was hiding behind. Instinct drove Soemr to pull back, the claw missing his shoulder, and he used the momentum to scramble back away from the bush. Breathing hard as if he’d just run the length of a cliffside, he gripped the stone wall behind him and clambered to his feet. Legs shaking under the strain of disorientation were joined by a sudden surge of vertigo and renewed nausea as the environment swelled large like a fishbowl around him.
The smallshells were much smaller than him now, smaller than he’d ever realized they were. Memories of fighting them had been altered to fit the perception of his Seeker self. Did he really swing so low with his axe to defeat them? Fighting through the vertigo and attempting to imagine it made it feel impossible, unreal, making his mind spin even more as they advanced toward him with claws raised.
Soemr did as he always did since first entering Oakwood: fight. Savage downward swings of his axe missed, carving deep grooves into mud and sprinkling him with dirt. His attempts at dancing around the smallshells were clumsy at best, a far cry from his previous triumphant battles, and only earned him more scratches on his ankles. Rather than alighting his senses, the pain combined with the disorientation and vertigo to blur everything until he was left blindly swinging below him.
But even though they outnumbered him, smallshells were smallshells. Inelegant strikes occasionally found their mark, and the unbarred strength of his strikes caved in their defenses. One by one, they fell, their bodies creating barricades for future smallshells to conquer. And eventually, his axe demolished the last one standing, and the pond fell silent.
This was not a victory, Soemr thought. This was not a hunt. This was a pathetic, hasty defense against smallshells. Frustration simmered in his veins as his legs shook, his mind only settling into place once the fight was over.
He couldn’t glamour while he was injured. This, he’d expected from major wounds, from deep slashes to broken bones to coeurl claws. The slice inflicted by the smallshell’s sharp claws were nuisances and bade him rest, but they collectively weren’t a major wound. Why, then, was his glamour refusing to form?
Soemr stared down at the little pink glass square and questioned why it was so powerful, yet so fragile. Strong enough to let him live the way he wanted, to banish the insidious doubts clinging to his mind and open the endless world of possibilities of his life, and yet all of that could be stolen away from him by the snapping of a smallshell’s claws.
Such a fragile existence, R’thipra was. An image of a lean-muscled son of a tribal Miqo’te that could be torn apart so easily.
It was okay. It was okay, Soemr thought to himself, as he watched the wounds on his ankles slowly heal. He knew that R’thipra would be a tradeoff: now, in addition to having immovable, unnatural ears and tail, he would have to be careful with wounds. He would just have to learn to be impossible to hit. Many years were spent thriving in Oakwood and hunting his meals; he knew the capabilities of the animals there, so it was simply a matter of putting that information to use.
There were other things as well: environmental awareness, so that he wouldn’t stumble into a bed of thorns; wearing clothes more suitable to fighting, so that any strikes would have to carve through leather and dense cloth first; fighting strategy, so that the swings of his axe wouldn’t carry him into his preys’ jaws. So many things he would have to consider, so many training plans to implement during his recovery.
Soemr wrote down every thought, every plan, in black ink. In the time between planning, resting, and daydreaming of glamouring once more, he picked up his new paintbrush in too big hands and painted lush landscapes of challenge and success and life. And when he felt the tell-tale pricklings of ice forming at the edge of his mind, heard his voice begin its whispers once more, he grit his teeth and struck down doubt and weakness before they could reach the canvas.
He could do this. He would do this. He had triumphed over the near-impossibility of making his glamour, and he would not let that work go to waste.
Time, as always, wore on. The wounds from the smallshells healed, new wounds were gained from training, and Soemr stockpiled furs and meats and claws from his practice targets for sale. This time, he would buy his own armor himself, he promised – and as R’thipra made his final trade of animal parts for gil, then traded that gil for thick cotton garb, his mind breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t had to steal from his family once more.
He got better at controlling his swings, learning to keep his hands high on the axe’s shaft to how much he had to swing out of balance. He learned to always keep his eyes peeled, ears open, senses on high alert during his hunts – the blood of his ancestors knew how to sense danger before he would ever know of it, Father commented one day, and so he opened his mind and heeded the advice of his instincts as well.
“Ye know Soemr,” Bryn spoke up one evening over family dinner, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with alcohol, nudging R’thipra with his shoulder, “I’ve been… *hic!* lookin’ into apprenticeships l-lately, and I keep *hic!* h-hearin’ people talkin’ about…s-sewin’ those prisms ye use into *hic!* their clothin’. Y-Ye ever thought about that…?”
His own mind, while softened by the ale he’d been drinking, clung onto the idea even through the throes of hangover and sickness. When next R’thipra appeared in Aleport, it was in its shadows, listening in on conversation from craftsmen and merchants before fleeing to the safety of the mansion with new prisms in hand. In the bright light of Bryn’s workroom, he fumbled with needle and thread over his favorite black shirt; in the dim light of Mother’s workshop, he grappled with tiny drills and screws over his axe. Sun after sun after sun was spent hunkered over his glamour dresser, making anchor point after anchor point, tying the sequence of aether running through the prisms together into a network that could be manipulated, and through sheer grit and determination, his shirt and axe shrunk before his eyes into comfortable forms.
When next he stepped beyond Aleport’s walls, the axe swung effortlessly through the air. His stance remained solid and his grip on the shaft perfect.
Injuries became less and less frequent. R’thipra walked the halls of the mansion more often than Soemr did. One day injury free became two, then three, then five, then ten. The ice retreated back to the darkest corners of his mind, falling silent once more.
With the challenge conquered and faith in himself proven, his mind was freed up to focus on the other things that made him feel happy. Glamour had freed him to live his life as he wanted to twice now – what else could it do for him, he wondered.
He sewed more prisms into clothes and converted them to his new size. The sounds of drilling echoed throughout the mansion, a byproduct of his many attempts – and eventual success – at creating a paintbrush he could resize. By sennight’s end, there was nothing he couldn’t resize within the bell.
Ezeane had also spoken of glamour as transformation, however. The glamour of R’thipra was akin to the example of the woman turning into a frog; but what of invisibility? Of changing the appearance of one item to another, unbound by his own personal aether like his Miqo’te glamour was?
The joy of discovery ran golden through his veins, washing away exhaustion and hunger. For every prism that exploded in his hands from being overloaded, three more would be placed on the dresser, ready for trial. Hunchbacked, staring into the glassy mirror that showed the aether frozen inside each prism, he carefully spun a delicate web of anchor points and arrays to correlate with the structures of his clothing. When the first successful trial made a pair of socks disappear within a prism, he was abuzz with excitement; and when that prism was set within the dresser, when the socks overlaid his images’ bare feet in the mirror and his updated glamour plate projected those socks over the pair he was wearing in reality, he nearly wept with joy. One by one, each item in his wardrobe reduced into prisms that he could hold in his hand, and the glamour dresser soon sat alone in it.
Invisibility was a much larger issue, one soon found he could not tackle on his own. A glamour prism could reflect the appearance of something that already existed, could enlargen or shrink items when it was tied to other prisms with the code to resize. Experiments with the prisms yielded little; without a proper grasp on the magic and manipulation occurring within the glamour dresser, there was little he could do beyond theorize and shatter more prisms.
Until several months later, when he strode through Limsa Lominsa’s markets by Bryn’s side, when he spied a stall laden with glamour prisms of all colors of the rainbow, cushioned in the folds of red velvet. Standard prisms he’d been using all this while; hollow prisms that allowed one to transfer the paint and ink stored within to color the item to be glamoured; stacks of plates promising to widen the possibilities of fast wardrobe changes. In the center of the display rest a small wooden chest lined with black velvet, full of prisms of sparkling gray.
“Emperor’s New prisms, they’re called!” spoke the salesman over the clamor of the street, urging him closer. “A new type of prism made fer those wantin’ t’ prove somethin’. Apply them t’ yer gloves and they disappear! T’ yer shirt, ye get a chance t’ show off all those muscles without getting’ cold! T’ yer pants…well, do I need t’ say more?”
The raunchy grin the salesman was giving both him and Bryn sent a shudder down R’thipra’s spine. The slide of his eyes between the two of them meant he wasn’t hitting on them. The inability for the man to perceive who he really was was as encouraging as the insinuation was revolting.
“We’re friends,” R’thipra spat, the lie bitter on his tongue. But he was faced with little choice but to buy from the man, and once again, he found himself hunched over the glamour dresser once more. Hollow prisms inserted into the dresser’s dais to empty out over plain linen shirts and pants to dazzle in bright and unusual colors, then refilled with bottled paint and emptied all over again in test after test. An Emperor’s prism soon joined the dais, and in the test that turned a belt invisible, he could feel it still lashed around his waist even as his fingers seemed to skim over nothing. Once more the drill appeared in his hands, biting a new slot for the prism under the last, and once more did he return to the dresser to manipulate the array into accepting it. The next morning, R’thipra stepped outside onto Aleport’s bright streets empty-handed, the comforting weight of the glamoured axe on his back soothing the nerves that would have assailed him otherwise.
The trashcan next to his dresser may have been full of exploded prisms, paint may have stained his fingers deeper than a single wash could clean, and his mind may have been flagging from exhaustion while his heart continued to beat with excitement. But the remnants of his work told a story of how his dedication to his cause could make what would otherwise be metaphorical examples come true.
“The preparations are complete, R’thipra,” Father spoke over family breakfast, one perfectly average morning. “When you are finished eating, wait for me by the door.”
He couldn’t recall eating food as fast as he did that morning. Perfectly cooked dodo eggs over easy went down tasteless and half-chewed and seared scallop and buttered biscuit were inhaled so recklessly that he nearly choked, all guzzled down with fresh juice from the oranges of Cedarwood’s orchards. He always took the time to savor Bryn’s cooking, but his Father calling for him meant only one thing. Father would never lead him astray.
Mind abuzz with thoughts, he found himself pacing in front of the door as he awaited him, boots scuffing negligently against marble. It felt as though an eternity passed before Father stepped into view at the top of the stairs, straightening the collar of the tuxedo that still looked far too small for him.
Dagger-sharp, blazing, intense eyes peered down at him, scrutinizing and investigative. But R’thipra knew no fear; knew that he would never exploit what he saw in him that caused him to chuff lightly.
Swift chocobos carried them toward the glittering spires of Limsa Lominsa, so far in the distance. And no sooner than he set foot in the city was he spirited away to a private studio hidden amongst said spires, whirlwinds of measuring tape and cloth and pins and hands surrounding him, touching him without warning while chatter and numbers flew in the air around him. Surreal and unbelievable as the display of skill and artistry was, he couldn’t help feeling the uncomfortable lump growing in his throat at being manhandled so casually, Ezeane’s warnings echoing in his mind.
And yet, even as his arms were guided into the sleeves of a sleek black suit, comfortable pants and shoes replaced by foreign slacks and dress shoes, and itchy jabot tied to his neck, Father looked on at him with an approving nod.
“We will get you a properly-fitted suit soon. I apologize; I should have gotten you fitted sooner.”
Properly-fitted suit? He should’ve been fitted sooner? R’thipra’s mind was spinning. Someone was trying to tug a comb through his hair, but no matter how many times it was pulled through, the glamour remained stubborn. Father simply waved them off.
The next thing he knew, they was walking down a walkway suspended over the bustling streets of the city. Between catching snippets of conversations floating up, he heard Father coaching him to stand straight, to hold his head high and confident, to take his hands out of his pockets and look ahead to the door at the end of the walkway.
Fathered opened the door and stepped inside. R’thipra followed. As La Noscean sunlight spilled into the lamplit room, the eyes of every well-dressed man and woman fell on him.
The lump grew in his throat. He looked to Father.
Father was watching him closely. Was he waiting for him to do something? He swallowed nervously, looking back out to the crowd of seated businesspeople, trying to sort out his thoughts while his heart beat loudly in his chest –
Father cleared his throat to break the silence. “Good morning, everyone. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to join us today. I assure you, this will not take long.”
For as large of a man was he was, Father’s footsteps were light and tactful. If R’thipra had not seen him out of the corner of his eye, he surely would’ve missed the silent steps he took to the empty pair of chairs at the head of the table.
“Before we begin, however. I would like to make an announcement.”
Half of the eyes in the room turned to look to him. The other half remained pinned on R’thipra. He forced himself to breathe.
“While I currently have no plans for retirement, we all know the importance of planning. ‘There is no better time to act than now’, many of us would say.”
Finally, Father turned his attention to him again. “As my son and potential inheritor of Halu and Hollstyrwyn Construction & Prospecting, R’thipra will be joining these meetings and more from now on. By shadowing us now, he will be better equipped to handle these affairs in the future.
His official duties were simply ‘take meeting minutes’, ‘form working relationships with adjacent companies’, and ‘learn the roles and responsibilities of leading Halu and Hollstyrwyn Construction & Prospecting’, according to the contract he signed after the meeting. Even if his mind wasn’t dizzy and exhausted from sitting in that meeting, the technical words would’ve made no sense to him.
“Simply put,” Father explained when they were alone in his office, “you will be accompanying me to my meetings and writing notes on what is said. In addition, you will be listening and watching me talk with people of various walks of life.”
It was an unspoken contract between him and Father: take potentially inheriting the family business seriously, and learn how to navigate people in the process. He could understand that. A favor such as this wouldn’t have been easy to set up, even as the co-owner of the family company. Father and Mother weren’t the only employees, after all.
“You will not be expected to interact with these people until I deem you able to. As you watch me during these meetings, I expect you to learn and practice what you observe. I will be sharing with you my insights as well, with the belief that you will not repeat the mistakes I once made while learning.”
He wouldn’t be safe from the inquisitive eyes of the business people, but would receive protection from having to field their questions. It was as safe as it would get.
It was the best opportunity R’thipra would ever get. Simultaneously, it was the best way to exhaust him to the very core.
In that first meeting, full of stares boring into him and silent expectations and wonders whispered to the air, he held no illusions that this would be an easy task. He would conquer it, do whatever it took to ensure R’thipra Halusyn would properly exist, whether that mean wade through the muck of interaction and prying eyes or dragging himself down to the level of their thought processes. He would do it even if it meant complete and utter exhaustion, physically and mentally, because it would be worth it in the end. He would exist in their minds.
Trudging through Limsa Lominsa all day, day after day after day, blurring bells together until he couldn’t make sense of them anymore. His only glimpses of sunlight being the rays that streaked through the window of Father’s office, since he and Father would leave for the city before the sun rose. Resisting the siren song of his bed to speak with Father about what he had noticed and learned that day, and further resisting by standing in front of the mirror of his bathroom, clutching the replacement of the porcelain sink he’d broken what felt like an eternity ago, and practicing facial expressions in the mirror.
To make a friendly smile, pull up at the corners of his mouth, and shut the eyes like he was laughing. To make a polite smile, do nothing with the eyes, pull more on the corners of the mouth, and perhaps show some of his front teeth. To make a smile to show no mercy, only pull up on one corner of the mouth, and raise the eyebrows some to show more whites of his eyes.
To feign surprise, raise the eyebrows to open the eyelids, and stretch the brow horizontally. To feign fear, open the mouth and tense the lips, raise and draw the eyebrows together, and raise the upper eyelid but tense the lower eyelid. To feign anger, lower and draw the eyebrows together, tense the lips, and stare hard at the subject.
“If you control the way you appear, you are the one in power. In that position of power, you may lead, or you may follow – the role you play does not matter. As a leader, you may steer the conversation and the emotions of the followers; as a follower, you may lend credence to the leader or reject them.”
Appearance, and how it was interpreted, was powerful. He’d learned this lesson very thoroughly when he was younger, when he was Soemr, curling into himself in hopes of blunting the cutting words and beliefs thrown at him from Aleport. When he finally cast of his shield and stood tall and undaunted, he was seen as a beast; when he fended off the coeurl in Oakwood and triumphed over the silent battlefield of Aleport, they bastardized him into something terrifyingly, immovably strong. Even his own mind surrendered to its power, as icy chains and thorns ripped and teared at his love for himself, borrowing Aleport’s voice first before mocking him with his own. The chains were only cast off when he embraced his ancestry fully and dedicated his mind, body, and soul to changing his appearance to fit his dreams of love and community.
It was no different in the world of business, it seemed. He was very familiar with the power he was meant to wield.
There was one more aspect, however, that his opponents had the advantage in. The appearance and its power to sway the hearts and minds of others was one half of the solution. The other half was the power of the voice to introduce ideas and desires.
Father’s business associates came from all the corners of Hydaelyn and spoke with the language of their home cities. The Gridanians invoked law and tradition; the Ul’dahns sweetened honeyed words of mutually beneficial deals; the Lominsans a mixture of sly double-speak and swaggered bravery; the Far Easterners revolved around the topic and assured mutual agreement before going for the throat.
“If you demote yourself entirely to play their game, they will always outplay you. No one will have as much experience playing their game than themselves and their cohort. Respect their game and wade into it to gain their trust, but never lose sight of your goal and yourself. Any partner worth working with is one that will work with you and your game.”
But he was not looking to enter the realm of business, as much as Father plied him to. He had no desire to manipulate nor steal. Business relationships followed much the same rules underlying rules as other relationships. If R’thipra Halusyn was to exist, he would need to make his own game.
He was born in bred in Lominsan society. As much as it had harmed him, as much as he loathed it and wished to be free of its influence, it had shaped him and his voice. Accented and choppy as it was, he couldn’t muster the brash and the swagger, nor the charm that belied doublespeak. There would be no reason to try either; he would be called out before he could speak his first word, and he refused to play that game anyway. No, he would play a different game.
Father had been living in Lominsan society for decades, and yet his voice remained unaffected by Lominsan influences. He stood strong against the demands of other games and played just enough to ensure cooperation rather than domination. His words were chosen with care and spoken with attention to the other nations’ games while preserving the sanctity of his own.
It was a voice rightfully bared by R’halu Tia, once nurtured from birth by a strong community and birthright. Even in his frustration and rebellion against the norms of the tribe, he gave back to them when it was needed, and held them still in deep regard.
Confidence born of love for family, stubbornness born of a wanting to make things better, and belief that things could change. Rejecting the influences of evil societies wanting you to submit and ask for nothing more.
That was Father’s voice, and that would be R’thipra’s voice as well.
Now, it was simply a matter of if the sum of his life’s experiences, and his determination to be heard, would triumph over his opponents.
He quickly learned that there no breaks given in Father’s line of work.
Shadowing his footsteps led him to realized that his dedication to his work knew no bounds. Meetings were organized by him nearly every day and concerned any topic possible, ranging from the fiscal to the personal. Time spent outside the meeting room involved stacks of parchment, books as thick as his unglamoured arm, and a quill inkwell that required replacing every bell. And in the scarce moments where people nor paperwork called his attention, he spoke his thoughts aloud in brainstorming sessions that led to uneven, hurried, messy, real-time training scrawling across blank parchment. At every waking moment of his work duties, his mind was split between business work and training himself. Every waking moment he was off-duty was spent on practicing his lessons.
There was simply too much to do in too little time. For every project finished, two would start. And as the sun set and he was relinquished from his Father’s shadow, there was still no end to his personal work.
A sennight passed. He drifted on longing dreams of golden fields and cool breezes.
Then, two. The imprint of his face and the way it stretched under his command remained visible in the corner of his eye.
A moon passed. He felt as though he was suffocating under the weight of paper and gray.
Then, another. When was the last time he could truly think?
He knew all too well the limitations of the mind, what burdens it could bear before the foundation began to crack. This was just another trying test of its tenacity. This was not the fault of the jeering ice lancing at his mind, of the voices of Aleport continuing to dig at his vulnerabilities.
He was in control. This was an investment into his future as R’thipra Tia. He could do this.
In brief moments of lucidity, he caught snippets of conversation not related to their work. Discussion held over stacks of the Mythril Eye, its pages flipped to articles about the Grand Companies desperate for new recruits to fight against the Garlean Empire. Hushed whispers of the red moon Dalamud waxing and waning in brightness, of how it seemed to grow in size against the stars in the sky.
Recruitment drives and the glow of the heavens mattered little in comparison to his future.
So, exhausted as he was, he bent his head and got back to work.
Three days of respite. Finally, a break. It had apparently been planned for quite a while; before he would officially start meetings the day before, the room was abuzz with lighthearted and relieved chatter for the break Father afforded them.
It was his first time back in his sanctuary of peace and tranquility. A day of near-comatose rest stole his first free day, but he wasn’t going to ignore the calls of golden fields outside Aleport’s walls and the cool respite of Oakwood’s any more. Even if their voices were faint, barely a whisper on the wind flitting about the noise of schedules and paperwork and lessons occupying his mind, who knew when next he’d have the time to simply exist in peace?
And yet, for all his tired mind conjured up task lists of enjoyment and fun – of plunging himself into the rush and joy of hunting, of retreating to the shade to spread paint on canvas and relieve the stress of his new day-to-day life, of simply closing his eyes and sleeping -, his mind and body wouldn’t cooperate, save on one thing. Thus, he found himself sitting in the secret spot, staring listlessly out at the shimmering sea that once filled him with peace and wonder, that now only served to give his eyes a reprieve from people and paperwork.
He knew everything had dulled, but to not notice that Sylbgeim followed him? He was losing his edge.
“…Yeah, I’m alright.” It had took R’thipra several moments to realize that turning his gaze to her wasn’t a true response. “I’m just…takin’ a break.”
Her scoff wasn’t unkind, but neither was it kind. She took a seat beside him, her legs dangling off the cliffside. “’Taking a break’ really just means you’re doing nothing. Your father’s working you down to the bone, of course your brain hasn’t had a chance to have some downtime!”
R’thipra could only grunt an affirmative, closing his eyes.
“Why are you subjecting yourself to this, anyway? You obviously hate it. Bryn and I miss seeing you around, too.”
Right. The last time he’d spent a significant amount of time with Sylbgeim was before Father had offered him his work-based solution. Bryn, of course, was a regular attendee of family dinner nights, but said dinners were hazy in his memory.
“…It’s all goin’ –“
‘Going’. It’s ‘going’, don’t drop the ‘g’, R’thipra.
“…going t…o be worth it in the end. It’s…just a lot of work right now.”
“It’s a lot of work, alright.” She snorted loud. “You look like a walking corpse.”
“I do…?”
“Gods, Summer, yes you do! If I hadn’t have spoken up, I’m sure you would’ve passed out and fallen into the ocean!”
“…I’m not that tired,” he mumbled.
“The last time you mumbled like that, it was when we were first meeting as kids.”
“But at least I’m not shying away from y…ou right now.”
He heard her scoff beside him, imagined her brushing her hair out of her face in agitation. “Yes, you aren’t, but I’m thinking that’s more because we’ve known each other for so long. The whole town knows you as the Miqo’te slinking around the shadows, you know.”
His face felt a little odd. Why? It felt too good to keep his eyes closed, though. “Mm. I know.”
“Not that you’ve been around very much, with your job and –”
Something smacked him hard in the chest, startling a wheeze out of him. Eyes flying open, he saw staring him with a stern glare.
“Yep, you absolutely were going to fall off the cliff. You almost did just now!”
Did he really almost just fall off? Maybe it was more than just his senses and thoughts that were dulled. He could tell he was trying to form words, but in that moment, all that came out was a nonsensical grumble.
“Come on, we’re moving away from edge.”
Sylbgeim was tugging at his arm, yet both of them knew it was futile. Neither of them could expect her to be able to budge him, let alone drag or carry him. He simply weighed too much; his glamour wouldn’t change that.
So, it was with a perilous feeling of heaviness that he drug himself over to the cavern wall, where everything was doused in shade and the sea hidden from view. Perhaps the view could go to someone who could appreciate it more than him at the current moment.
“…Now do you understand my worry?”
R’thipra raised a hand to rub at his eyes. Absently, he wondered how bad he looked if he was this tired. “Aye.”
“How long are you expecting to do all of this, Summer? It’s only been a moon, and you’re already like this.”
That was a good question. How long was he intending to do this? Two moons had passed already, yet there was still much more work to be done. No one would say that he wasn’t a diligent student – yet for all of the countless bells he put into studying and practicing his expressions and words and tone, he knew he was far from master at it. Hardly more than an apprentice, really.
“You can’t keep doing this. It’s not healthy for you.”
“But I ‘ave t’.” Shit, he’d slipped again. His mouth was speaking the words before he could think about them. “If I don’t, I can’t exist.”
“Are you really going to be existing if you’re constantly burnt out and unable to enjoy life?”
“It’s…only goin’ t’ be temporary.”
“You’re certainly not acting like it’s going to be temporary! You’re practically killing yourself. When’s the last time you painted, huh? Did any hunting, stayed the night out in Oakwood?”
Too long, his mind whispered. He chose to remain silent.
Sylbgeim sighed long beside him. “There’s a lot going on right now, Summer. You’ve been watching Dalamud, right? Have you been approached by any Maelstrom or Yellowjacket soldiers about recruitment?”
The expression that twisted itself on his face must’ve been appalling. He could feel it sit wrong on his face, could hear Sylbgeim’s intake of breath. It took conscious effort to wipe it away.
“…Sorry, that was wrong of me to say. Even with your glamour, I think they’d figure out that you aren’t interested in fighting their battles.”
“No, I’m not,” he simply grumbled.
“The point I’m trying to make,” she continued after a moment, “is that there’s a lot of concerning developments going on right now. This isn’t the time to waste away bent over paperwork and worrying about making yourself exist to other people. They’re saying that if the Grand Companies fall, the Empire will be subjugating us.”
“Good luck with…that…”
He was startled awake by the sound of snapping fingers too close to his face. Had he nearly fallen asleep again?
“Summer, please. Pay attention to what I’m saying. Everyone’s feeling stress right now, and it’s going to be a while before it lets up. You shouldn’t be adding to your stress by working yourself to the bone. This could be your only chance to rest and recover.”
R’thipra blearily blinked his eyes. “Father’s not stoppin’…though. Everyone’s stayin’ workin’. I need to…”
“Fine then.”
Suddenly, the warmth of her hand disappeared. He craned his neck to watch Sylbgeim leap to her feet, hands were clenched by her side. Her mouth a scowl.
“I’m going to talk with your Father.”
“W-What…?”
“I said, I’m going to talk with your Father. If you aren’t going to listen to me and get your rest, I’m going to make you. Starting with talking with him and giving everyone, and especially you, more breaks.”
Legs that were thankful for the reprieve refused to let him stand at first, instead nearly pitching him back down into the ground. Bracing himself against the rock wall behind him worked better, even if they still felt like they were ready to collapse under his weight once more.
“’e’s busy, Sylbgeim. Ye…ye can’t just talk t’ ‘im like that.”
“Oh yes I can,” she called back. “I’ll just bring it up the next time I’m invited over for dinner.”
Sylbgeim turned her back to him, staring up at the rock wall at the back of the secret spot. Fingers had engraved a climbing path up the wall over the years, evidence of their need for reprieve from the difficulties of their lives.
Once a sanctuary to escape Aleport and its people, now a temporary place of refuge for him to scurry back to when had the time to spare.
When thinking of it like that, something intangible weighed heavy on R’thipra’s heart.
“Fine, I’ll…talk t’ ‘im. Try t’…be more balanced with it.”
She turned back to him slowly, eyes searching him.
He swallowed thickly, trying to meet her eyes. It was more difficult than expected. “…I’m sorry. I…wasn’t tryin’ t’ blow ye off or…anythin’. Yer right about everythin’. I’m just…not thinkin’ straight.”
For just a moment, there was a tenuous silence between them. He was ready to flinch when the peace shattered.
Then, Sylbgeim smiled, strode up to him, and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Unexpected warmth blossomed in his breast, chasing away the exhaustion clinging to his body.
It felt nice.
“Apology accepted, Summer. I know you’re trying the best you can to make everything work out. I just don’t want you to destroy yourself in the process.”
Slowly, he felt himself hug her back. Glamoured as R’thipra, she was too big for him to hug properly. Glamoured as R’thipra, she practically enveloped him.
He wouldn’t get the chance to tell his Father. For the very next day, the realm would change forever.
The very next time he saw him, when he finally returned from his break, he spoke only one thing to his family:
“Pack what’s important to you. We’re going away for the day.”
His tone was grave, warning, knowing something that they didn’t. They had no choice but to obey the fear.
At noon, their small contingent left through Aleport’s open gates and strode into Oakwood. There was no birdsong, nor sound of creatures scuttling around. The breeze rolling in front the sea felt stale and bitter all at once.
R’thipra’s hackles raised. Something was horribly, terrifyingly wrong. And yet, Father hardly spoke a word the entire way, expression as stoic as the cliffs around them.
It was only after he led them into the rock tunnel, already cleared of the yarzon that normally inhabited it, as the sun began to descend beneath the horizon, that he spoke.
“I was with my sept until this morning. It was meant to be a normal visit, but our Warden’s Word caught my attention.”
The seer of the sept, R’thipra recalled from one of his conversations with his Father. One who reads both the sky and the ground to heal and divine the future.
“Like us, he has been watching Dalamud. Starting two days ago, he said he saw the spark of life within the moon. It has only grown brighter since.”
The meaning was clear. The dark tunnel was meant to be a shelter, away from the world as they dealt with Dalamud’s descent and the life it held. Let the people of Aleport deal with the destruction it would wrought, Father’s intent said, while he would focus on keeping his family safe.
And he and the Word would be proven right. As the darkness descended upon the sky and sleep took them, they were shaken awake by the trembling of the ground. Nighttime burned as bright as daytime as fire rained down from the heavens, accompanied by the piercing roar of the Elder Primal.
They could hear the screams of Aleport rise above the city walls as well, as their world was forever changed.
R’thipra squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fall asleep.
When morning truthfully came and they finally stepped out of Oakwood, Aleport was a shadow of its former self.
What walls that still stood, once pristine white granite, were soot-stained and scorched and cracked in irreparable ways. So too were the stone pavers lining the ground, uneven ground no longer safe to walk blindly and easily on. They ended abruptly the further they went into the town, sidewalks rather than paths leading to the wooden piers that lay in shambles in the ocean along with the planks that once made up the merchant ships tied to them. Amidst all the still chaos, the stink of fish boiled and roasted alive in the sea hung in the air like a miasma, clinging to the people shuffling through the wreckage of their lives with blank faces and red eyes.
R’thipra’s nose was well-trained and knew the underlying scent of blood and char was not from fish. Without conscious thought, he turned away at the sight of red and black staining the ground under fallen bricks and ship debris.
It was clear that his family was fortunate: reports from Limsa Lominsa and other cities spoke of total destruction in some areas and major damage in others, let alone catastrophic loss of life. The dragon that had rampaged across Eorzea and ushered in the Seventh Umbral Calamity had shown no bias to the other city-states either. From the elementals of the Twelveswood falling quiet, to the refugee crisis in Ul’dah, to the dramatic transformation of Coerthas into a hell of frost, there was no end in sight to the new troubles plaguing Eorzea.
It was simply another stroke of fortune that Mother and Father already worked in the industry of dredging fresh stone from the land and creating homes and buildings from them. There were endless clients, endless projects to work on and endless lives to repair. As an employee of their company and member of their family, it was only natural that R’thipra would be asked to help.
If the work before had exhausted him to his core, the thought of more demanding work now, and for people who were begging his help now but couldn’t care less about his life before, sickened him. It was a simple and agreeable deal between him and Father: less hours of work at the company and less practice, in exchange for spending his free time feeding and taking care of everyone else in the family.
Less time for practice, more time for spending in Oakwood and doing what he did best. No longer an activity by himself and serving only himself, but supporting Bryn and his parents and avoiding the skyrocketing prices of goods burning away the profits of the family company.
In a period of crisis, it was much safer to become self-reliant. Work with others when it’s advantageous, but don’t become dependent.
And if there was anything R’thipra would leap at, it would be becoming less dependent on Aleport and the people of Limsa Lominsa. They never had his best interests in mind, after all.
There was one issue with his plan: he was no longer invisible.
He was the only one not mourning the loss of life or way of life, after all. Where the citizens of Aleport shambled through the streets with blank gazes or used what little energy they had to pick up the pieces of their life, he remained unaffected, untouched, strong. An outsider to their lives, simply sharing the same space as them for his own goals.
Sluggish as they were at first, he felt their gazes sweep over his back, watch him from where they were huddled in corners trying to put their minds back together. Even with years blunting their sting, he was acutely aware of it. Experience taught him well that once they began, they never stopped; they only changed their intention.
As the moons passed into years, as Father and Mother disappeared more and more often into their work and reaped the rewards, as R’thipra was allowed to meet alone with Father’s business partners between hunting days, Aleport’s walls were gradually rebuilt and as its people gained light in there eyes once more. And finally, the day came for it all to change.
“’ey, kiddo! Give us a ‘and over ‘ere, why don’t ye?”
The fishmonger woman waved at him from the beginnings of the new dock, large crates stacked tall and imposing beside her. The intention was clear; he no longer had the courtesy of their voices being silenced.
The prickle of anxiety returned as it had when he’d first encountered them as R’thipra. When would he ever be free of it? Not as soon as he’d hoped. Perhaps interacting with the town in such a casual manner would always unsettle him.
Even if she wouldn’t be able to lift the boxes herself, there were plenty of people around to help. There was no reason to bow and help and be consumed by the fervor of a town trying to rebuild.
So, he put on his best, most polite, most apologetic smile. Curved his eyebrows in to enhance the look, wished that his ears would aid him when they couldn’t, and spoke as best he could with his chosen voice. “I apologize, I can’t delay in preparing this,” he replied lightly, motioning to the sack of herbs and fruits he’d harvested that morning. “I hope someone else can help you though.”
He didn’t wait to hear her response, turning away. Made himself not look back to gauge her reaction, or to see if she did receive help. There was no reason to see if her eyebrows knit in confusion, if her lips turned down into a frown, or if she heaved a long sigh. There was no reason for him to help the reaction stick in the back of his mind, to nag and pull at his attention until he caved and overanalyzed it for bells and bells. Her problem would be solved by the time the sun rose, anyway, by someone else taking pity on her.
And while the number of eyes on him rose in Aleport, it happened again far from town, another set of moons later. As the newly-replaced streetlamps illuminated the darkening streets of Limsa Lominsa one evening, he could feel a pair of prying eyes fall on his back. From the meeting room behind him, one of Father’s associates called out to him.
“Hey, R’thipra! Come here a second, will you?”
An arm wound around his shoulders, belonging to the man’s subordinate, a shrew-faced mole who he’d often heard snarking about his Father behind his back. The ooze of his touch remained even as R’thipra jerked away, away from the room and toward the Lominsan skybridges.
Faux politeness would not work on these men, like it had for the fishmonger. They were masters of the arena of pretense; he was still a novice in comparison, and his bells of practice would never beat experience. And yet, it was a similar case to the fishmonger in terms of his visibility. Father never lacked for business anymore, and ransom was a sound business choice for many struggling in this city.
He took a deep, slow breath, hand hovering over the pocket of his glamour plate. Made sure he was just behind one of the hanging overhead lights before pulling on the aether within. Watched as the men’s eyes traveled up and beside his head, to where even he could see the shine of his axe out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m being expected,” is all he said, staring them in the eyes. “Though I’ll be sure to tell my Father you wanted to speak with me.” He made sure not to turn his back as he stepped away, smothered his expression to blankness as he watched them until there was a wall between them. Only when there was no way for him to agitate them into action did he loosen his breath and teleport back to Aleport, slamming shut the front door and locking it thrice.
The final piece of proof to his sudden visibility came not with a polite smile and a request, nor a slimy smile and an attempt at coercion, but a simple look of confusion.
The gaggle of once-children, now the same age as him, had never stopped wandering the streets of Aleport even throughout the slow recovery. Glassy-eyed and faces aging with time and stress far surpassing what their physical age declared, they were likewise ghosts in the crowd, shuffling soleless-shoed feet along the ground with heads bowed. Their hands were always occupied with stones and logs and nets and sacks of all manner of goods, the weight made their movements slow and unsteady, the load far too large for their rapidly changing bodies.
Only a sennight after he’d dissuaded his would-be kidnappers with a glint of steel, as he took to the streets cast in the shadow of the skeleton of a new ship, R’thipra passed the broken child as he clumsily bore his heavy cargo toward the pier. Amid the sounds of hammers cracking on wood and shouts from rusty throats coming from above them, there was no reason for an encounter to happen.
And yet, as he continued up the street and toward his home, he felt the boy lift his head and stare at his back. His gaze was neither stabbing nor tearing nor raking, but rather muddled and confused, as if he were struggling to see through a haze.
The dissonance R’thipra felt behind him was terrifying in its innocence, asking only a single question.
“Who are ye…?”
Despite his best efforts, his body turned to the voice. The broken boy’s eyebrows were furrowed, his expression the same as if he was trying to wake up. Even when R’thipra spoke his name, the broken boy remained quiet, still staring with that odd expression. Then, almost imperceptive, there was a shift: the barest hint of his eyes focusing, narrowing, the sign that he’d captured a thought.
“Ye…live with ‘alu and Rhylbryn, then.”
The hairs stood on the back of his neck, and not because of the coastal winds blowing off the sea. For once, he couldn’t pull up his polite, disarming smile, nor anything resembling even a neutral expression. There was no way he’d be able to respond to that.
The conclusion he eventually arrived at was to distract and disarm. “Don’t ye ‘ave t’ deliver that soon…?” he fumbled instead, gesturing to the cargo in his hands. “Ye’d better get goin’.”
He watched as those hazy, scrying eyes widened in shock, then deadened once more. Became the one staring at the broken boy’s retreating back, frozen in place until he rounded the corner and he was safe once more.
Clearly, the shock of the Calamity had passed, enough for even those affected most to look outward to the people that passed them by. To question them, to experience them as something more than shadows passing by while they dealt with their grief. His existence drew their attention more than anything else, it seemed.
“The Adventurer’s Guild of Limsa Lominsa welcomes any who want to walk the path of wanderer and adventurer! Journey past the horizon and become the savior people need in these dark times. If you dream of broadening your experience and line your pockets with gil while doing so, speak with Baderon in the Drowning Wench.”
There was no way he could sign up for the Limsa Lominsa Adventurer’s Guild, no way to guarantee he wouldn’t be subjected to wandering the island and spreading his infamy among those who could hear tales about himself in Aleport. Halu and Hollstyrwyn Construction & Prospecting operated in the other city-states, but their headquarters on Vylbrand made for a vulnerability should bad word of R’thipra Halusyn spread.
But should there be Adventurer’s Guilds in the other city-states, existing outside the gossip of Aleport and Limsa Lominsa? It would be a chance to make his dreams come true: to learn about and explore the lands and cultures beyond the Vylbrand shores, and to escape Aleport’s circle of influence once and for all. There would be no better opportunity.
Before lofty dreams could be realized, a plan had to be put in place. Routes researched and sketched, tools to procure, and partnerships to be thought out. He read through and took notes on a stolen schedule of passenger ships sailing into and out of Limsan ports between casts of his fishing pole; listened in on chatter between other adventurers about their experiences in other lands and noted them on his growing collection of maps; organized his belongings into what could be taken with him when injury or bad weather kept him indoors.
He waited, and waited, and waited, until the stars aligned.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and R’thipra packed his notes away in the fleeting light, his Father stared across at him over his desk. “You have been keeping yourself quite busy lately.” His tone was quiet, idle, the start of something conversational but not quite making it there – the difficult transition between his business side and his fatherly side. “What are you planning?”
Even as one of his sheafs of notes stubbornly refused to slide smoothly into his bag, R’thipra lifted his head. There hadn’t been a reason to hide his ideas and plans; it was only natural that someone would catch on eventually, and Father was never one to let things slip by unnoticed and uncommented on. Now, he was left to consider how to frame his desires.
“I’ve…been considering what I want to do with my life, Father.”
Father’s gaze was neither critical nor demeaning, but it was questioning and expectant. “…What paths have you considered?”
“…I assume I can’t go up and live with the rest of the sept, like you used to?”
Father simply shook his head, his gaze almost mournful. “It is not safe up there.”
When would he tell him why? The waterfalls below the sept served as the spawning ground for the coeurls, yes, and the rocky path leading above them swarmed with kobolds from a hostile order. Yet, R’thipra doubted these were the dangers Father spoke of.
He couldn’t ask. Father wouldn’t elaborate. A standstill was all that awaited that potential conversation, his desire of meeting his sept a distant one. This was not the time to fight that hopeless battle, as much as the possibility of never achieving that dream curdled his stomach.
This conversation was to start his other dream, the dream of venturing across the lands of Hydaelyn. He needed to stay focused.
“Until the time is right for me to meet them,” R’thipra sidestepped the topic politely, watching that mournful darkness lift from Father’s eyes, “I’ve decided to become an adventurer. I’ve been planning routes and lodgings – in places far away from you and everyone else, it’s better to not go in blind.”
Father’s expression remained silent and neutral at first. To those not well-versed in his company, his silence would be deafening, demanding them to cobble together and present more information for his judgment. R’thipra knew it was simply his face of contemplation and pondering; to not show affection or disaffection should they sway the outcome before he presented his thoughts.
Soon, however, the space around Father’s eyes crinkled into a strange smile of their own. “To plan and research the journey ahead of you will lead you to success, R’thipra. Will you share them with me?”
The desk that had been two papers away from being cleared for the evening was soon covered once more. The lanterns that had almost escaped being relit were lit once more, and as their hunched over the desk and motioned from one map to another, their shadows cast dances on the walls behind them. Quiet conversation gave way to experienced advice and warnings and recommendations; quill pens dipped in ink to cross out and rewrite lists of who to trust, what routes to take, and what towns were most likely in need of his services.
Neither of them got much sleep that evening, but it prepared R’thipra well enough to announce his plans the next time his family gathered. Under the warm light of the chandelier and surrounded by the intoxicating aroma of their feast, he cleared his voice and spoke in the expectant silence that followed.
“I’ve decided that I want to become an adventurer, away from Vylbrand. Starting in a moon’s time, I’ll be heading to the Black Shroud to register for the Adventurer’s Guild and begin my life there.”
The evening of his announcement was one that R’thipra would never forget.
He met Mother and Bryn’s shock with smiles and reasons. Platters of food lovingly baked and broiled weren’t forgotten, though they were gently pushed aside in favor for all of the documents he and Father had marked on. Between traces of his finger on crinkled papers and reassurances spoken aloud, he carved into salt cod and offered still-warm biscuits around the table. When all of the documents had finally been explained, he continued to talk and talk with soft voice and warm tone, watching the worry gradually melt away into contentedness and pride.
Lit bright by the chandelier hanging above them, Bryn broke custom and stood first, pulling him out of his chair and into an embrace fitting for such a gentle soul as he was.
“Ye know we’ll miss ye,” he murmured softly, to be heard only by his ears. “But we know ye ‘ave all the reasons in the world t’ go out there. Whatever ‘appens out there, know ye’ve always got a safe place ‘ere.”
R’thipra normally wasn’t one for long hugs. Yet, for the first time in his life, he never wanted the hug to end.
Soon, Mother had stood and stepped forward, hugging him as well. Being sandwiched between two Roegadyn meant that he could hardly see, but he could hear Mother’s muffled voice above him calling for Father to join as well. And not even a moment later, he felt another pressure on his side, rough stonelike skin catching on the fabric of his shirt.
Time dictated that they had to eventually split apart, but he carried those feelings with him into the following morning, where he called Sylbgeim to the secret spot. As they and Bryn gathered under the shade of rock and basked in the cool saltwind breeze flitting about them, he announced his plans. And she, too, embraced him; not as gentle as Bryn had, but with similar warmth and fondness, wrapped in package that was simultaneously tight and comforting.
Her voice, normally so strong and confident, seemed to catch in her throat. “…I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Summer. But you’re going to have a wonderful time in the Shroud, I just know it. You’re going to be able to live wherever you want, talk with whoever you want…and you’re going to be free.”
So warm. So loved. The two embraces, one from his blood family and one from someone he considered family besides, filled him with such strong emotions that he felt as though he could burst into tears at any moment. For their sakes, he held them in.
A moon was a moon, but it passed by shockingly quick. Preparation dominated his days: deciding what he could and couldn’t bring from the collection of items in his room; studying and practicing techniques that would prove useful to him on his journey; double- and triple-checking his plans and documents were up-to-date and reliable. The irony that his journey would begin on a ship departing from Aleport wasn’t lost on him, and it required a special type of preparation on its own. What time he would leave the mansion for the boat, where would be a safe place to stay if he had to wait, what he would do if Aleport residents boarded the boat as well, among so many other variables.
And between everything, his modified glamour dresser was open, his reflection barely reflecting in the foggy mirror as he applied everything Ezeane had taught him those few years ago into creating a glamour that could protect him should everything about his departure go wrong.
It all culminated on the eve before his departure. The belongings chosen to accompany him on his trip lay spread out across his desk and bed in their appropriate groups, his important travel documents and plans bound in folder at the forefront, the modified glamour dresser seated tall above them all. A knock sounded on his door, and as he opened it, everyone he’d known and loved stood on the other side with arms full.
“The Thanalan sun’s brutal, from what I ‘ear,” Bryn spoke first, striding into his room with a smile and setting his bundle on the bed. “So, I made ye some clothes fer the weather. Lightweight ‘empen shirts and pants that’ll cover ye up from the sun, and the shirt’s reversible, too. There’s goin’ t’ be thieves, so wear the gray side out fer them, and the white embossed side out when ye finally get t’ Gridania.”
Sylbgeim was next, setting her load down next to Bryn’s. “And Bryn couldn’t make a hat in time, so I made that! Well, it’s made of reed instead of cloth, but it’ll keep you well-shaded, I swear. If you’re going to be starting a new life overseas, you’ve got to have a good backpack to carry everything too. Trust me, the last thing you want while traveling is for your pack to break, so I got you a big leather one.”
“If yer goin’ t’ be doin’ a lot of adventurin’, yer not leavin’ without these.” Mother placed a small, but heavy-looking, leather sack beside the backpack. “Sharpenin’ stones made by me, fer when ye’ve got t’ sharpen yer axe. On yer way through Thanalan, see if ye can stop by Mutamex’s workshop – goblin’s free t’ teachin’ people ‘ow t’ meld materia t’ their weapons, and yer first set of materia’s in there. Ye’ve got t’ stay safe out there.”
Last but not least, Father stood before him, placing a sizeable, hefty coinpurse in his hands with the slightest of smiles. “You have been saving your gil, but the traveler’s road is more expensive than you know. Inside this wallet is 20,000 gil; enough to afford any essentials you may need, and more to spare settling into Gridania. Use it wisely, and it will save you.”
His room was more cluttered now, the total sum of his belongings growing heavier by the tick, and there was even more work to be done now: ensuring the clothes fit him well, adjusting the backpack to ensure his back wouldn’t hurt, mapping more locations, and budgeting the generous sum to his needs. On the eve before his departure, where his actions now would dictate how much sleep he could get before boarding the ship and remaining alert until it made landfall, he now had much more work to do.
And yet, R’thipra couldn’t do anything but smile and finally shed the tears that he’d been holding back, that’d been gathering more and more as each gift was presented.
“Thank you,” he eventually managed, clearing his throat and gathering his voice. “Thank you so much. I…know it’s going to be a long road, and it’s not going to be easy. I’m going to get through it, thanks to all of you. I’m going to make it through Thanalan, get the whole of Gridania to trust me, and then I’m going to settle in and build my life from the ground up.”
“Exactly! And you’d better not forget to keep in touch,” Sylbgeim grinned, thumping him gently on the back. “Linkpearls and Moogle mail. We want to hear all about it, as well as make sure you’re doing okay. It’s a big world out there.”
“You know I will,” he responded with a good-natured smile. “I’ll probably get homesick pretty quickly, being away from you all. Be sure to pick up the pearl when I call, okay?”
A chorus of ‘yeah!’s and nods resounded through the room, each person with a smile lighting their faces.
“Now, let’s ‘elp ‘im get packed, yeah?” Bryn’s voice spoke over the chorus, and they responded once more, spreading across his room. “Summer, ye tell us where t’ put things, and we’ll do it.”
The next morning, as the seafog rolled in and the sun started to peek over the horizon, a young Hyuran man with purple eyes left his family’s mansion for the last time in a long, long time. Backpack comfortably settled on his back and the hood of his jacket pulled over his head, he waited beside the side of the passenger vessel tied to the furthest most dock down the lane.
A bell later, he stood aboard the ship, facing Aleport in all its glory. The fragile rays of sunlight warming the stone walls made it look almost beautiful for once; the morning calls of the birds beyond its walls, enticing. Standing atop the highest wall of the city, his family and Sylbgeim stood to see him off, waving.
“We’re off!” called the captain further down the ship’s length. “Next stop: Vesper Bay!”
With a bright smile on his face, the Hyur waved back to them. And waved and waved, until they became as dark smudges atop the wall, then eventually, nothing.
The sun had truly risen above the horizon, casting bright light over Aleport. It stuck out as a brilliantly gleaming white burr on the otherwise gray cliffsides and yellow-grass plains atop them.
He’d long ago said his goodbyes to the city, back when he’d forsaken the life and the people within those walls for the plains and once-wood outside. There was no reason to say them again.
He turned away and descended into the ship’s hull.
The clothing Bryn had so lovingly made for him wouldn’t survive the trip. It was made to endure the sun, not the brutality he would face.
The hat and bag Sylbgeim had gifted him wouldn’t either – one would be forgotten to float atop the desert winds, and the other would be ripped apart and its contents stolen.
The sharpening stones would never see a use, and Mutamex would never lay eyes on the materia Mother had gathered for him.
Father’s money would be half-spent on necessities that wouldn’t matter in the end, and the other half would be stolen as well.
R’thipra Halusyn as he was would not survive the journey. The R’thipra Halusyn that would return would be a broken and fragile thing, his mind consumed by a level of anxiety and paranoia he’d never experienced before and wouldn’t know how to work with.
Months later, years later, he would wish he’d never departed Aleport the day he did, traveled the way he did, acted the way he did. There would be no going back to his life before.
Fate had never been a kind mistress to him, and it had no reason to change its ways.
(WARNING: this story contains implications of past character death and gender dysphoria.)
It was halfway through the annual Valentione’s Day celebrations, and Arden was in a mood.
Not any of his usual moods, anyway, the kind that would make him scramble for his ideas list and find something to sate his mind. Not a mood where he felt on the verge of exploding, or at least approaching it, and preparing himself for the fallout that would inevitably ensue.
No, it was a particular mood, one that he hadn’t felt since June of the previous year.
It was Valentione’s Day. An inescapable tidal wave of red hearts, lovey-dovey couples, and romantic marriage proposals happening in front of aetherytes for all to see.
He was here, in Gridania, at the heart of the celebrations, strapped to the side of a veritable child to promote the event, because he sucked at money management and he was promised a nice sum to be warm and excited to random people on the street.
Why did he even come here in the first place? He knew what celebration was going on at the amphitheater, yet in this mood of his, his feet took him here anyway.
And it really, really was not helping him at all.
“Valentione’s Day celebrations are being held at Mih Khetto’s Amphitheatre! There will be costumes and merrymaking and a special congregation wherein participants profess their love! Please join us if you have the time.”
The little Elezen girl, Emilie, at his side was a chatterbox once he’d shown her how to hawk something confidently. Why was he like this? Why was he seen as a good person to do this kind of job? Just because he spoke loud and brashly and was easy to grin, didn’t mean he had passion.
And certainly not passion for this. He was just here for a paycheck. As soon as the gil was in his hands, he was ready to teleport back to his sad little cottage on the edge of the cliff and deal with all these squirming, writhing feelings of frustration (and sadness?) that were threatening to burst out of his chest.
“There’s no shortage of Valentione’s gifts to choose from at the markets. By all accounts, the most popular chocolate is from the Bismarck.”
Because why wouldn’t those feelings take a break for the season? They were always there, fluctuating in strength day by day, and they just had to notice the decorations and clamour all around. Hiroc was never far from his mind, and likely never wouldn’t be.
Would Hiroc have liked chocolate? He didn’t know. He liked savory things, with lots of spices, but that was hard to come by. Maybe chocolate would’ve been too sweet for his diet of hardtack and soldierly rations. Why was Arden, of the two of them, gifted the blessing to even have the chance to know what chocolate tasted like?
And could his mind please give him a break from thinking about him this time of year?
“Are you planning to give a special someone a gift, too? Assuming you have the skills, they say nothing conveys your feelings quite like chocolate you made yourself. And if you’re thinking flowers, a red Azeyma rose never fails to please!”
Apparently not for as long as he stayed in this suffocatingly sweet place, on this job he shouldn’t have taken.
The hilarious thing about how his mind turned over and over the thought was that who was to say what they’d had was love? It wasn’t, at least not to Arden. One lonely rainy night, he’d opened up his tomestone and searched for what is love. Besides the great music that’d turned up (he’d found himself humming along with ‘baby don’t hurt me’ for a few days after that, thinking of all the people like Hrudolf that he’d - well, he didn’t need to think of that, either, and open that can of worms), he’d read through the numerous sites that came up to help poor saps figure out if they were in love or not.
Do you feel charged and euphoric around them? Check.
Do you feel like you can’t wait to see them again? Check.
Do you always make time for them? Check.
Do you idealize them? Check.
Do you mind making sacrifices for them? Check of all checks.
Yet, deep down, he knew he didn’t love Hiroc. Even if all the words were right. Love implied something…else that he didn’t know, and Hiroc and him weren’t that.
“Um…are you okay?”
Love, at least, implied that there’d be a wholehearted attempt at making chocolates and getting special roses. He’d tried, yet everything he cooked comes out as inedible cinders and burnt pans, and all of his Azeyma roses turn out black and dry, never getting the chance to bloom. If he even had the mind to make chocolates to set out at Hiroc’s grave, or gave enough care and attention to grow even a single flower right for someone, maybe that would be considered something, but he never ever had thoughts like that, so that meant -
“Arden…?”
Arden snapped out of his rumination, grunting a single “Aye” and refusing to look down at Emilie. “Let’s get this job done.”
He could practically feel the girl’s nerves return, and all that was doing was rattling around the already-jumbled thoughts in his head. Good Emperor grant him strength and resolve, he was going to have to convince her now that he wasn’t some loveless lunatic stray she’d had the misfortune of picking up off the street.
“A very good day to you, miss! Do you not simply adore this sweet season of ardor and affection?”
Arden recognized that he was a horrible liar. But in place of that, he was a terrific performer, and he was putting on an award-worthy showing of an excitable Valentione’s emissary.
“It only comes around once a year, aye, but it’s such a wonderful time. When else can ya let loose the flames of passion in front of a crowd and not get gaoled fer - ow!”
Emilie’s surprisingly sharp elbow jabbed him in the side, her happy smile dropping into a disgruntled scowl for a moment. “Ignore him,” she said, picking back up her expression for the woman in front of htem. “He’s new to being an emissary assistant, and can get a little lost in the fun himself!”
“Hey, I was doin’ great,” he hiss-whispered, just as the woman laughed, “It’s quite alright! It’s great to see young ones like yourselves having a good time. Now, tell me, are you here about the Valentione’s celebrations?”
“Indeed we are!” Emilie brightened, the chance of reading from the script seeming to smooth over her annoyances. “Over at Mih Khetto’s Amphitheatre, we are hosting a delightful event with gorgeous costumes to try on and an opportunity to speak of love to your heart’s content!”
The thoughts that threatened to rampage all around his mind again, he shoved away into the farthest recesses of his mind as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Be a brat, be an annoyance, do whatever it takes to keep his mind in the now - with any luck, the woman would be offended and threaten him, and he’d be able to preoccupy himself with trying to de-escalate her before she called the Wood Wailers on him.
Unfortunately, the woman was a sprightly one, only waving him off and snickering. “Well now, what passionate, dashing, and daring emissaries you are! Thank you for the invitation - and good luck with the festivities!” And then she wandered off, leaving just the two of them.
Where Emilie previously was dragging him about too and fro, a little stammer in her voice as she announced their next target, she was now still and staring off into the distance.
Maybe all of this was done, and she was going to announce that they were done, and Arden could take his pay and leave. If that were the case, maybe he’d actually start believing in miracles and gods watching over people.
Instead, all he got was disappointment. “...Dashing?” she murmured under her breath, sighing long.
“What’s the matter?” he drawled out. “We’ve hawked t’ everyone all around. Ye’ve earned the compliment.”
Emilie turned to him, startled. Did she think that he couldn’t hear her? “I…I know it was said in kindness, but I just…” She shook her head. “No. This is no time to complain - not when Astrid’s trying so hard to do her sister proud.”
He raised a brow. Did she not like it?
“She was hesitant about the dress - said that such attire doesn’t become her - but she donned it anyway in order to be like Lisette. And she positively shines in it, don’t you think?” The girl smiled almost wistfully, picking at the cuffs of her tuxedo jacket. “It was to help her shine even brighter that I decided to wear this suit. I believed it would serve to provide contrast when we’re side by side onstage.”
Ah. He had an idea of where this was going. Something unpleasant prickled at the back of his mind, but he shoved it away.
“But this - this simply isn’t me. I’ve always preferred to look ladylike. Adorable. And being called ‘handsome’ and ‘dashing’ reminds me of how far from myself I am right now. I need to persevere, I know this. It isn’t the time to be selfish. And yet -”
Ah, there is was. Of all the times for dysphoria to rear its ugly head, it had to be now, too? Not only a big festival dedicated to love, but now gender presentation was a thing he had to deal with.
This was the worst holiday. And the worst part was that he couldn’t just leave her like this, as much as he wanted to leave and deal with his mind suddenly remembering oh yeah, you have a problem with that too!
“Yer allowed t’ wear whatever ya want, y’know? If it feels better t’ wear a dress, wear it. Hells, go swap with what’s-her-face - I’d bet she’d be thankful.”
Emilie blinked slowly, staring up at him. “You…think so? But what about our roles? It’s always been a ladylike lead, and a gentlemanly assistant. Lisette created Valentione’s in the image of herself and her partner.”
“People aren’t gonna get excited about a holiday if the leads are sufferin’,” Arden snorted. Would logic appeal to her? “Just go and offer t’ swap. I know I’d be excited t’ swap on my bad days.”
“...you too?”
Shite. That is not what he wanted her to say. He knew he was a master of digging himself into holes on purpose, but this was not the time to enjoy climbing out of it. The only way this could be worse is if he saw his reflection in a pond on the way out and see himself looking like this, instead of what he really looked like in the past and in his mind’s eye, and, ah hells, now he was intimately aware of the fact that he wasn’t feminine enough for his tastes switching at just that moment.
If only she could just go home and change into something that would feel right and get him the right type of attention. People would just see him as some stray, feral guy right now, and people like Emilie would see him as some stray, feral guy that preferred feminine to masculine, and neither would be right in this moment because nothing could ever settle down in his brain, could it? Always hungry for ideas and stimulation, always thinking about Hiroc and what could’ve been, always jumping around between different presentation styles as if it had to matter. It didn’t have to matter, if only his body actually performed right and did what he wanted it to do. It didn’t have to betray him, now did it? And it didn’t have to betray him in such a simple, way, no - it had to be extra, just like he himself.
He often wondered if this was his ultimate punishment. Never knowing what to expect and never feeling comfortable, always looking at the past for the comfort he’d never have again. It popped up in all sorts of unexpected ways - first Hiroc and this stupid festival filled with red hearts and people feeling passionate about each other, now being reminded by a tiny Elezen girl of what he lost and what she still could have, if only she would just take it.
“Yeah,” is all he said in a clipped tone, crossing his arms. “I ain’t talkin’ about it with ya, though. Go talk it out with her. I’m goin’ fer a walk.”
Without waiting for Emilie to reply, he turned on his heel and stalked away. He needed to vent some steam, quickly, before he boiled over.
When Arden returned to Mih Khetto Amphitheatre a bell later, sweaty and undignified with thunder still tingling his fingertips, he saw that something had changed.
Obviously, the two Elezen girls had swapped clothing. At least, he thought so - even if he couldn’t remember which was which, they both looked happier, which he doubted would be the case if Emilie didn’t speak up. But there was also a different vibe around the stage, an expectant one.
Of course, the expectant vibe was pointed directly at him. He saw it in the ways both girls locked eyes before waving him over. Well, the good thing is that he’d be out of here soon, whether they liked it or not.
“I’m here fer my pay,” he said before they could say anything first.
“Arden, you’ve returned!” said the one he thought was Emilie, now dressed in an adorable suede leather dress. “We were worried about you, you know.
“Haw? Nah, ya don’t have t’ be worried about me. I take care of myself plenty fine.”
“Do we need to be worried for the Hearers?” the black-suited one said, eyeing his still-crackling fingers. He quickly shook them out. “I hope you didn’t disturb any of the elementals.”
Arden rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m a thaumaturge doesn’t mean I go around destroyin’ things, kid. I was just tossin’ a lightnin’ ball around.” They didn’t need to know that the ball was ready to explode at the slightest touch, and that he was flinging it around trees and beasts to keep his mind occupied.
Emilie coughed into her hand at the resulting silence, offering him a small sack. “W-Well…we’ve got your pay right here. Thank you for all your help! I wouldn’t have learned to talk like an emissary if you weren’t there. Were it not for your encouragement, Astrid and I might have continued to be miserable, trying to be someone we’re not. You helped us be true to ourselves.”
“Good, good,” he replied without much thought, reaching for the bag. It felt like a nice sum, more than he’d been promised. They’d thought he’d done a good job, then, which was fine by him; that just meant he could save more for that nice ring he’d found -
“...Actually, before you go, we’d like to propose something.”
Arden stopped his motion to pocket the bag, raising an eyebrow at the girl called Astrid. “...Ya’d better not be askin’ me t’ do more.”
“We were, in fact!”
Oh, for the love of - Would this day ever end?
“Why?”
“Because I told Astrid what you told me,” Emilie declared. The traitor. “About how you felt similar to us. You didn’t say how you felt, but your words inspired us to have a conversation. As emissaries of love, our duty is to help people embrace their hearts - but how were we to do that if we didn’t embrace our own, and didn’t love ourselves and pursue our own happiness? That is what led us to swap clothes, in the end. But do you love yourself and pursue your own happiness?”
“I can’t fit into yer tiny clothes, kid, so I don’t know what yer talkin’ about -”
Emilie continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “I wasn’t blind to your frustration while we worked together. First it was the festivities itself that you clenched your teeth at, especially when I asked you if you had someone special in mind. Then, you got frustrated with my nerves about asking Astrid to change, saying that you felt similar.”
“We aren’t asking you to make you madder,” Astrid placated with arms outstretched. “We’re asking because the best way to learn about and understand something is to work with it, rather than hide away from it. You’ve lost someone special to you, haven’t you? And you still struggle with feeling comfortable in your own appearance?”
He could feel all that frustrated energy he’d spent time working out building back up, writhing and seething. More than that, though, a memory was bubbling to the surface, one that he unashamedly clung to as soon as it appeared:
“Yer not gonna get any better if ya don’t try, Hiroc,” she said, towering over him lying on the ground. “Don’t ya wanna be a hero? Get up - they won’t accept ya as one unless yer good.”
Hiroc closed his eyes, heaving a slow sigh. “I want t’, aye. But we’ll have t’ hurt them. I know I signed up fer this, but…”
“They’ll learn. As long as yer gentle and let them learn, they won’t see ya like they see the Garleans. Ye’ll be the bridge between Ala Mhigo and Garlemald, and they’ll thank ya! And ye’ll be famous!”
“We’ll be famous, Arden. I’m not taking the title all for myself.” Hiroc’s eyes snapped open, and as he went to sit up, she backed up. “If I’m going to be a hero, ye’ll be right up there with me.”
“Aye, aye. Fine.” Though she rolled her eyes, she was grinning. “I’ll be the sidekick. Happy?”
And Hiroc smiled right back at her. “More than ye’d ever know.”
“Valentione’s isn’t all about being a festival of romantic love. While it can be, and it can be very passionate and bold, it’s about all forms of love. Romantic, platonic, and anywhere in-between, a love for life or something you’re passionate about…and as we’ve just remembered, a love for yourself. By working our festival and talking with our guests, we think that you could benefit.”
Which of the girls was speaking? He couldn’t tell. As he shook off the memory, his vision was a little blurred. All of that pent-up energy was suddenly gone, leaving him feeling drained.
“Not to mention, you wouldn’t go empty-handed! You’d earn a nice sum each day, plus have access to our wardrobe. You could wear whatever style you’d feel comfortable in, and switch whenever you want. You’d have time to explore that part of yourself, too, in a comfortable environment. You already know you aren’t the only one who’s felt that way!”
It was all ridiculous. A week-long event filled with red hearts and passionate professions of love everywhere was affecting him more than an entire month and a flag he’d hidden under the broken couch at his cottage, and certainly more than the technical research he’d done about himself.
Why? Why was it this way?
“O-Of course, we wouldn’t want to pressure you into making a decision now,” said the one in the dress. Emilie. Right. “You’re welcome to think it over, or even decline outright. We won’t think less of you.”
Arden sighed long and heavy. “...Gimmie time t’ think.”
The next day, as the sun was just beginning to rise over the Shroud treetops, Arden returned with bitten-up lips and a sobering look. Astrid and Emilie watched as he made his way to the stage.
“I would expect better manners from one as old as you.”
“And someone as young as you should know their place.”
“Have you forgotten that we are the same age?”
“You puppet my age as if you have lived it yourself.”
“I am a piece of you. I know your experiences and your decisions. My corporeal age matters not.”
“If it matters not, tell me why we have made such different decisions.”
“I have made the decisions I have because I am what you forgot. The duty that drives me to act is one you have long abandoned. If you had continued to commit yourself to your charge, we would not need to have this conversation now.”
“Because you would not exist.”
“Indeed.”
“Hah! If I had abandoned my duty, and I was still whole, I would not have done what you have. Have you once stopped and thought about the consequences of your actions?”
“Do you take me for being unthinking and unfeeling? That is the behavior I would expect from you, Ame no Shiro.”
“Answer me, seer.”
“Yes, I have considered the consequences. I gladly bear the burden and responsibility.”
“Child! You are weak of mind and experience after all! You do not understand your circumstances at all. What you are doing to them is no kindness.”
“I work to give them a future beyond this curse. You think that is wrong?”
“They have no future to save, seer. You are prolonging the inevitable, and for what reason? Ego?”
“Why would you believe that fulfilling the duty that was given to us is egotistical? You have such little faith in Ōyamatsumi-sama?”
“Do not speak that name to me! He abandoned our people long before the time you would accuse me of the same!”
“Calm yourself. Have you no control over your emotions? Dare not speak to me of experience and manners if you conduct yourself in this way.”
“I will conduct myself in any way I want! Dare to speak His name again - being my ikiryō will not save you from my jaws.”
“You know that will not kill me in a way that matters. You will still be alive. Until you redeem yourself and return to your duty, I will live as I am now.”
“Do not taunt me, seer. I know what you are. Preaching to me as if I were some peasant led astray will do nothing to convince me that your ‘kindness’ is their suffering.”
“What will convince you, then? We both do not want them to suffer, this I know.”
“All that awaits them is the release of death. Allow me to grant them that and relieve them of their pain.”
“I will not allow that, as long as I live. A future lies beyond this curse for them, and I will not deny them the happiness of a long and full life. Just as the forebears that you yourself protected from harm, they will live.”
“Then you are toothless.”
“If I am ‘toothless’ by following my duty to protect the people we have been entrusted to, then so be it. As kamuy, you know that we would not exist without the patronage of our creator. We have only been blessed with life to serve the lives of His people - you deny your very reason for existence by-”
“Enough! I will hear no more of your prattling. Do not return here again, ikiryō. You may hold tightly onto your ‘duty’ and ‘kindness’, but it will not save us, nor our people. If you refuse to see the truth of our circumstances, you will deserve watching the minds and bodies of our people rot from the inside out. And when this curse, too, destroys me from within, I will be glad to rid the world of your presence.”
“...Then our communion is at an end.”
“Indeed.”
“Then I will leave you to your slumber, Ame no Shiro. Do not forget that you have caused this, however. They will come for you for recompense eventually, and I faithfully serve as their arbiter.”
(A clean version of this story can be found here.)
“…Ah, he iš finally awakening.”
R’thipra felt like a drop in a bucket of water. Ephemeral, a single unit among the mass, barely aware of its own existence.
It was a familiar sensation. Waking up from having passed out, eerily similar to when he would awaken stained in blood and surrounded by cross-sections of what were once people. Feeling the scratch and itch of something in the back of his mind.
The only difference was that, when the Inner Beast took ahold of him, he was usually alone. Alone in the Shroud, with simultaneously more and less time to grab ahold of that droplet of consciousness and climb the ladder to true awakeness.
But now, it felt as though there was even less of himself than usual. Why?
He could hear the voice of someone speaking beneath the water, voice choppy and odd.
Was he in the care of someone?
Who?
The more he strained to awaken, the more sensation he felt. A blanket covering his body, another blanket with gritty sand below him, the musty smell of old boxes around him…
And the all-too-familiar feeling of his lifeblood, his aether, being wrenched from his very being. His dim consciousness was awake enough to recognize the danger, but not awake enough to do little more than whimper and tense up.
“R…R’pahfu…”
“I am šorry. Juš† a momen†.”
He heard the sounds of footsteps displacing sand retreating. In tandem, the tearing, pulling sensation melted away, and he could breathe easier.
R’thipra was ready to open his eyes, but he knew one more thing must be done.
Ah. So he hadn’t been rid of his predicament after all. It would help explain why he felt especially odd.
R’thipra slowly opened his eyes. He was in a red tent of some sort. The rugs and blankets on the ground did little to ward off the sand scratching at his clothes, but at least it was cool. R’pahfu sat among the blankets in the opposite side of the tent, watching him with a little smile.
He didn’t need to ask where he was. Everything bad happened to him in Thanalan, of course.
“A…Alright. Just…go as fast as you can, okay?” The memories of after his surgery were foggy and faint at best, but he did remember how careful R’pahfu was with Rhylsoemr.
There would be no better medic to help him. Such was who he was.
His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest as well. R’thipra forced himself to breathe in, out. In, out.
“†o begin…” He couldn’t see much of the Word moving around, lying down as he was, but he heard the soft clinking and clacking of gemstones being gathered. “Do you know †he quali†y of your baše energy?”
“It’s…earth, right? But you’ve…mentioned fire before.”
In, out. In, out. He slowly nodded, trying to force himself to relax. “…Yeah.”
R’pahfu took a step closer, then another. With each step, he could feel the Word’s aether tug at his own, attempting to feed the vortex within his pallid body.
It was impossible to tell how much of the dread spreading thick through his veins was because of R’pahfu himself, and how much was because of that description. “Wh…What does that even mean? What does that mean for me? You’re talking like my aether is…corrupted.”
“I† iš, in defini†ion. I† iš no† na†ural þhenomenon.”
This shouldn’t have happened. His method of glamouring was meant to be safe, tailored specifically to his magical capabilities. How could his low capacity for spellwork and glamour lead to corruption? Was it his fault, or was it the tools he was using?
R’pahfu had been standing still for quite some time, looking ahead at the tent wall. For a moment, the only sounds that came from him were the gentle clicks of the rocks in his hands rubbing together.
“Will you †ell me how †hiš š†ar†ed, R’†hiþra?”
Of course. It was only natural to start from the beginning in a medical situation. But there was so much to say, so much background information and technicalities that needed to be explained. So long ago, Ezeane had explained it all to him over the course of sennights, due to the intricacies and his inexperience. How was he to explain it thoroughly enough to be of help?
It was all R’thipra could do to try.
“…My glamour works different than usual glamour,” he began with a slow sigh. “My teacher said that I had trouble sensing aether and spells, and for me to try to cast my own magic without being able to feel it would be…hard. Instead of teaching me normal glamour, she gave me a modified glamour dresser that would handle all the spellwork for me. I just had to direct it.
“I…don’t really want to get into why I glamour.” It was hard, suddenly, to look R’pahfu in the eyes. The care and attention coming from him weighed heavy, almost sour. “But my teacher described it as…similar to transformation magic. The glamour dresser, under my instructions, modifies a piece of my aether and molds it into what I want. Once the ‘mold’ is done, more layers of glamour are laid on top of it, until I get my desired look. Most of the time, the layers are related to clothing – I just need to reduce the clothing into glamour prisms, then layer their images on top of the ‘mold’. When my glamour is finished, all I have to do is extract my aether from the glamour plate I bound it to. My aether returns to me modified, and it sort of ‘spreads’ the instructions I made for it all over my body.
“But, um…no matter how many layers of glamour I add, it’s all supported by that ‘mold’ of my own aether. When I apply my glamour and the instructions ‘spread’ over me, all of my personal aether is its foundation, not just that original piece of my aether. It makes it…very fragile. Anything that affects the ‘mold’ affects the rest of the glamour, and if the ‘mold’ – my body - is damaged, it…can’t support the layers on top of it. So, it all crumbles, and I can’t put it back on until I’m not hurt anymore.
“Does…any of that make sense?”
R’pahfu was quiet, wordlessly placing a purpleish-yellow stone on R’thipra’s neck. Though small, it was easy to feel the chill permeating it.
“It makes it so I don’t have to keep creating infinite glamour plates. I have two copies of plates with the ‘mold’, and to make a new outfit or look, I don’t have to erase them. I just add layers on top of them to customize them, rather than changing them entirely. It’s just simpler that way.”
He knew exactly how long he’d been doing this, down to the number of days, in fact. But he dared not tell him that.
In, out. In, out.
“…Yes. This is the first time I attempted to modify the ‘mold’, and…I guess I messed up. I…should’ve started from scratch and made a new one, I know that. I just didn’t have the time to.”
“’†ime’?”
“Mhm. It was a last-minute decision, spur of the moment…If I knew I’d be risking corruption just to make some silly event, I wouldn’t have even considered it.”
R’thipra grunted, turning his head away. He hoped desperately that the other didn’t see the warmth he felt on his cheeks.
“Won’† you †ell me wha† i† waš?”
“It…doesn’t really matter. All you need to know is that I was stupid and modified the ‘mold’ because of it,” he grunted.
“†ha† iš †rue. Bu† I would š†ill like †o hear.”
R’thipra cracked an eye open to stare at him. The Word was still smiling his warm, kind smile, though there was a hint of levity in it as well.
“I don’t even know if you’d understand it. You haven’t been in Eorzea for long, right? This was all new to me, and I’ve been here all my life.”
“Your Fa†her haš †old me you were a hermi† for moš† of your life, you know.” There was a twinkle in the older man’s eye, the smile slipping into a grin. “Our underš†anding šhould be þarallel †hen, yeš?”
He groaned, covering his face with his hands. The embarrassment was stronger than the tingling feeling of faux-claws phasing through his forehead. Stupid stuck-in-place glamour. “Why did he have to say it like that?”
“Oh, he did no†. †ha† waš my addi†ion. Forgivenešš.”
R’thipra spread his fingers just enough to glare up at R’pahfu through them. The other man simply laughed. “I am š†ill wai†ing †o hear wha† i† waš!”
He grumbled. He wasn’t getting out of this, was he? “…Fine. But you’d better not laugh, alright?”
R’thipra heaved a long sigh, letting his eyes close. “…I want you to imagine a large building. Loud and high-energy music is blaring from every corner in a language you half-understand at the best of times, and there’s people packed in everywhere. They’re all shouting over said music to buy yaoi and other odd things you normally wouldn’t be caught dead reading in public.”
“Yaoi?”
No, no, no. He was not going to go into that. He wasn’t going to explain to his older cousin what yaoi was. “N-nevermind that. The important thing is, it’s a…chaotic environment I could hardly understand. It was…similar to a party, but everyone in all of Eorzea was invited to dress up in strange outfits. It was…very weird.”
“It was weird,” R’thipra mumbled. “Maybe it’s because I’m not ‘into’ the things they were celebrating. I went mostly to support my friends who were working the event.”
“It wasn’t strictly required, but…it was a cultural thing.” He hesitated. “…I made one at the last moment, using prisms I’d already been collecting. My outfit was turning out well, and I could’ve just left it at that and have avoided all of…this.”
The Word hummed something under his breath. “In †he language you were ušing before…you made a layer over your glamour šafely. †ha† iš wha† you have †riumþhed in doing for šo long. Bu†, you šaid you had al†ered †he ‘mold’ aš well.”
R’thipra swallowed. “I…did, yes. I thought it would make the costume better, and wanted to confuse my friends. As part of a joke, of course. Nothing more.”
“No, no! Twelve above, no.” R’thipra nearly bolted up from the blanket as a horrified expression dawned on the man. “I-I’d never hurt myself like that. I’m still perfectly intact, I swear.”
“B-Bu†…you šaid you removed your †ail. Wha†-”
“I removed the tail from my glamour,” he spoke quickly. “It was a part of the ‘mold’. What I add or remove from the ‘mold’ doesn’t reflect on my actu- well, um…’unglamoured’ body. Only the ‘mold’ of the glamour that got stuck on me has no tail. It’s just a…”
Well, no. He can’t just say ‘it’s just an illusion’ now that he’s explained how his glamour works. Saying that would only lead to more worried questions.
R’pahfu took his quiet as an opportunity to speak. “…Bu† why would you have your †ail aš a þar† of †he ‘mold’? You have never al†ered i† before. †here iš no need †o have i† †here.”
That was precisely the question he didn’t want to answer. Quick, R’thipra, think of a lie.
“It’s…Well, I’ve never modified the ‘mold’ before this, but I have modified a layer that sits on top of it. With the layer, I can, um…easily change my hair and fur color for a little while, instead of having to dye it and wait for it to fade ou…”
R’thipra fell silent.
Even if he meant it as a way to avoid telling R’pahfu the complete truth, it wasn’t a complete lie. A simple hair color change automatically applied the color to his tail with how he programmed that part of the glamour.
But, he was sure he modified the ‘mold’ correctly. He built it from the ground up – he knew how to add and remove features properly. Right?
Right…?
“…R’pahfu. Are you able to look at where my tail would be?”
The Word lifted his head. Had he been thinking the same thing? “Roll over and I will, yeš.”
As pallid fingers plucked the stones resting on his shoulders and neck, he rolled over onto his stomach. As he turned his head to watch the other man, he caught him right as he closed his eyes.
He was quiet for a long, long time, even as his brow furrowed and his hands clenched around the stones. He watched for several ticks longer than he had before, past the point of headache and the start of shaking. Only when he exhaled a loud hiss did he open his eyes, a free hand coming up to massage his forehead.
R’thipra reached for the waterflask on his hip, offering it over to him. R’pahfu snatched it out of his hands and greedily sucked it dry.
“Hey, um…are you alright?”
Slowly, R’pahfu lowered his hand. “I…believe I may be underš†anding wha† iš going on. You šaid you uše ‘þrišmš’ and ‘þla†eš’, yeš? Do you have †hem?”
With a nod, R’thipra sat up, digging into the pockets hidden by the corrupted glamour. It only took him a moment to unhook the two plates from their belt chain and set them on the least sandy portion of the blanket, along with an unused prism. “Here. The one on the left is the one that caused all of…this.”
So, he hadn’t removed the tail properly, it seemed.
In, out. In, out.
“But…I feel fine, for the most part. If I was leaking aether, I’d feel like something was horribly wrong, right? Ever since this happened, I’ve sometimes felt a bit…tingly, but that’s it.”
He tried not to think about how odd it’d felt to wake up in R’pahfu’s care. Clinging to the ladder rungs, trying to reach consciousness, feeling just that little bit less of himself.
He stepped away for a moment, returning with an unlit candle.
“W-Wait, I…don’t do well with fire magic.”
“You don’†? You aþþear like you would have a škill for i†.”
R’thipra wanted to shake his head, but dared not risk dislodging the stone on his forehead. His neck twitched regardless. “Just…don’t. Please.”
R’pahfu’s head tilted slightly, watching him for a moment through closed eyes. Eventually, however, he nodded. “†hen I will no†. You are good wi†h fire from flin†, hoþefully?”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Ignored the phantom sensation of claws resting against his jugular. “…Yeah. Flint is fine.”
“†hen, a momen†.”
The unlit candle returned to wherever he’d gotten it from. To his left, R’thipra heard the sound of metal striking on metal. Soon, the Word returned with a lit lantern, flames swaying comfortably in glass.
Though the gentle flame in the lantern appeared harmless, he didn’t take his eyes off of it. “Yes?”
Then, suddenly, his view of the flame fractaled as the prism blocked his line of sight. Gentle light became harsh and bright, bouncing off the polished planes of glass. R’thipra flinched back with a grimace.
There was another part of him that was brown, though.
In, out. In, out.
“…Did you ever say if the markings under my eyes were red or pink, R’pahfu?”
“†hey are more red, bu† †here iš þink, †oo.”
Fuck.
R’thipra took a deep breath, closing his eyes. The magnified, fractaled flame still burned against the backs of his eyelids. “…So…what do I do, then? How do I…’unfuse’ myself?”
R’thipra peeled his eyes open. The tent was too dark for his liking, too dark to see R’pahfu properly. Hopefully his pupils would adjust soon. “…The difficulty comes from actually separating the aether, I’m guessing.”
R’thipra leveled a hard stare at him. “It’s a health concern. It’s…more important that I get uncorrupted, right?”
The Word glanced away, fingers knotting into the lapel of his robes.
In, out. In, out.
“R’pahfu, please. I…give you permission to do whatever you need.”
Silence.
It lasted worringly long, long enough for him to ready another argument. But then, R’pahfu sighed long, turning back to him. “…Alrigh†. I will do my beš† no† †o do i†, bu†…†hank you.”
Even as his heart thundered in his chest, R’thipra smiled warm and kind to him. “I should be the one thanking you for this.”
Once again, the man’s head ducked away, this time trying to hide a chuckle. “I† iš my job, R’†hiþra. You are family, bešideš!”
R’thipra prayed to Azeyma that stayed the case, if push came to shove.
Then, he paused as he withdrew a gleaming blue crystal from his robes. Even with the dulled senses he apparently had, R’thipra could feel energy spike in the air from it. It was cool, cleansing, refreshing, soothing.
Powerful, yet not something to fear.
The twinkle in R’pahfu’s eye, however, was something to be feared. “If you hoþe †o †hank me, †ell me wha† yaoi iš.”
R’thipra grimaced. “Not a chance.”
“You will agree even†ually!”
Even as a low grumble built in his throat, as the Word set the crystal beside his head, he could feel the tension in his face fade. The stones placed across his upper body basked in the energy, beginning to spread it down the rest of his body.
“…We’ll talk about repayment after this is all done.”
(The original version of this story can be found here.)
“…Ah, he is finally awakening.”
R’thipra felt like a drop in a bucket of water. Ephemeral, a single unit among the mass, barely aware of its own existence.
It was a familiar sensation. Waking up from having passed out, eerily similar to when he would awaken stained in blood and surrounded by cross-sections of what were once people. Feeling the scratch and itch of something in the back of his mind.
The only difference was that, when the Inner Beast took ahold of him, he was usually alone. Alone in the Shroud, with simultaneously more and less time to grab ahold of that droplet of consciousness and climb the ladder to true awakeness.
But now, it felt as though there was even less of himself than usual. Why?
He could hear the voice of someone speaking beneath the water, voice choppy and odd.
Was he in the care of someone?
Who?
The more he strained to awaken, the more sensation he felt. A blanket covering his body, another blanket with gritty sand below him, the musty smell of old boxes around him…
And the all-too-familiar feeling of his lifeblood, his aether, being wrenched from his very being. His dim consciousness was awake enough to recognize the danger, but not awake enough to do little more than whimper and tense up.
“R…R’pahfu…”
“I am sorry. Just a moment.”
He heard the sounds of footsteps displacing sand retreating. In tandem, the tearing, pulling sensation melted away, and he could breathe easier.
R’thipra was ready to open his eyes, but he knew one more thing must be done.
“…Glasses?”
“There is none here, R’thipra. You did not own any when I found you, and I do not know if you could have dressed in them…considering your state.”
Ah. So he hadn’t been rid of his predicament after all. It would help explain why he felt especially odd.
R’thipra slowly opened his eyes. He was in a red tent of some sort. The rugs and blankets on the ground did little to ward off the sand scratching at his clothes, but at least it was cool. R’pahfu sat among the blankets in the opposite side of the tent, watching him with a little smile.
He didn’t need to ask where he was. Everything bad happened to him in Thanalan, of course.
“I have patched up your wounds. Why were you fighting the bees? You do not seem that desperate for work.”
Because maybe, just maybe, breaking his glamour would rid him of this curse?
“I was helping someone…being attacked. It seems they left me for dead.”
R’pahfu smiled a bit more. “Your coin is still with you. I know these people, the ones near the bees. You are fortunate they left it on your person.”
His tone was so light, R’thipra couldn’t tell if his lie was bought or called out. But before he could respond, the Warden’s Word spoke once more.
“What has happened to you, R’thipra?”
What indeed. He could almost laugh at how his accident was simultaneously a boon and unfortunate. Cosplay was meant to have you embody a character.
He had gone a step further, apparently.
“…What do I look like, first of all…?”
“I have been able to cleanse the helmet on your face. The last time we met, you had purple hair and purple brands under your eyes. Now, you have brown hair and red brands.”
“Brown…and red?” Yet another thing he didn’t dictate when making this glamour.
Wait. Was it pulling from…?
“Are you sure it’s red? Not…pink?”
In the corner, R’pahfu squinted at him and canted his head. “I would need to come there to make sure.”
“T-Then, it’s okay-“
“It is fine, R’thipra. I know how my body is. Truthfully, I must come there to start healing you anyway.”
R’thipra held back a whine that was building in his throat. He could feel himself tensing up all over again. “Is it necessary…?”
The look that the Word gave him was as apologetic as it was sweet. “It is how I cleansed the helmet, R’thipra. Would you like me to put you to sleep as I work? I know I am…uncomfortable, especially to someone of fire as you.”
No. No, no, no. The mere idea of the forced helplessness sent a shiver down his spine.
R’pahfu must’ve read his thoughts on his face. “…Some find that distraction helps. I can speak of your condition while I work, if you prefer.”
Was this the only option he’d be allowed? He knew that the other only had the intention to help, but…
“Rhylbryn and Rhylsoemr have seen the benefit of my care. I will not intrude on your comfort, R’thipra, but-”
“A…Alright. Just…go as fast as you can, okay?” The memories of after his surgery were foggy and faint at best, but he did remember how careful R’pahfu was with Rhylsoemr.
There would be no better medic to help him. Such was who he was.
R’pahfu dipped his head, once again giving him a smile. “Thank you. You are breathing quite hard, though. Please, focus on yourself as I gather my supplies.”
His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest as well. R’thipra forced himself to breathe in, out. In, out.
“To begin…” He couldn’t see much of the Word moving around, lying down as he was, but he heard the soft clinking and clacking of gemstones being gathered. “Do you know the quality of your base energy?”
“It’s…earth, right? But you’ve…mentioned fire before.”
“Mhm. It is faint, but it is there. People are rarely exactly one elemental alignment, so it is not cause for concern. Such is the result of exchanging your energy with the world.”
Was it, though? He felt the echo of the itch in the back of his mind.
“Your energy is very similar to that of Rhylsoemr,” he continued. “The difference is that, while his’ is clear, yours is dulled. He is present, you are seated behind a window.”
R’thipra squinted. “What…does that mean?”
“It is the result of glamouring. It will always appear and feel duller than those who do not cloak themselves.”
R’thipra froze, feeling the blood drain from his face. Shit.
R’pahfu came into view, arms full of crystals of various sizes and colors, then stopped to look at him. “Is something wrong, R’thipra?”
R’thipra swallowed thickly. “Can…other people see that I’m glamoured?”
The Word shook his head. “I possess sensitivity that most others do not. If they do not know to search for it, they may not know.”
Was there anyone with similar sensitivity that he knew? He racked his brain.
“…It is important to you, then?”
R’thipra mutely nodded.
“Then I will maintain it as I untangle what is affecting you,” R’pahfu replied with an easy-going smile. “And I will not speak it to anyone. The privacy of my patients is of utmost importance.”
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. That was uncomfortably close to becoming something worse. “…Thank you.”
“Of course. Are you ready for me?”
In, out. In, out. He slowly nodded, trying to force himself to relax. “…Yeah.”
R’pahfu took a step closer, then another. With each step, he could feel the Word’s aether tug at his own, attempting to feed the vortex within his pallid body.
In, out. In, out.
“I had no concerns with you when we first met.” R’pahfu stood over him now, handling a small translucent green gemstone carefully. He gently set it atop R’thipra’s chest. “Now, it is…odd. You are blindingly bright.”
“…Bright?”
“Bright,” he nodded. As he set a red gemstone down above his head, the Word closed his eyes. “When I first see you, I see earth and fire…but the longer I look, the more facets glow, brighter and brighter, until…”
His teeth grit together then, and he opened his eyes, cringing as if from a migraine. “I can no longer bear to look. Like light reflecting off polished mirror surfaces. You appear as a white sun, an intangible light shell mixed with sediment. Cold light with warm light mixed throughout. Two forces not meant to be together, forced anyway.”
It was impossible to tell how much of the dread spreading thick through his veins was because of R’pahfu himself, and how much was because of that description. “Wh…What does that even mean? What does that mean for me? You’re talking like my aether is…corrupted.”
“It is, in definition. It is not natural phenomenon.”
This shouldn’t have happened. His method of glamouring was meant to be safe, tailored specifically to his magical capabilities. How could his low capacity for spellwork and glamour lead to corruption? Was it his fault, or was it the tools he was using?
What had gone so, so wrong?
In, out. In, out.
“It is fortunate that my time in Eorzea has let me experience corruption in others. Your corruption…it is not unfixable.”
Wait. “It…it isn’t? How do you…?”
R’pahfu had been standing still for quite some time, looking ahead at the tent wall. For a moment, the only sounds that came from him were the gentle clicks of the rocks in his hands rubbing together.
“Will you tell me how this started, R’thipra?”
Of course. It was only natural to start from the beginning in a medical situation. But there was so much to say, so much background information and technicalities that needed to be explained. So long ago, Ezeane had explained it all to him over the course of sennights, due to the intricacies and his inexperience. How was he to explain it thoroughly enough to be of help?
It was all R’thipra could do to try.
“…My glamour works different than usual glamour,” he began with a slow sigh. “My teacher said that I had trouble sensing aether and spells, and for me to try to cast my own magic without being able to feel it would be…hard. Instead of teaching me normal glamour, she gave me a modified glamour dresser that would handle all the spellwork for me. I just had to direct it.
“I…don’t really want to get into why I glamour.” It was hard, suddenly, to look R’pahfu in the eyes. The care and attention coming from him weighed heavy, almost sour. “But my teacher described it as…similar to transformation magic. The glamour dresser, under my instructions, modifies a piece of my aether and molds it into what I want. Once the ‘mold’ is done, more layers of glamour are laid on top of it, until I get my desired look. Most of the time, the layers are related to clothing – I just need to reduce the clothing into glamour prisms, then layer their images on top of the ‘mold’. When my glamour is finished, all I have to do is extract my aether from the glamour plate I bound it to. My aether returns to me modified, and it sort of ‘spreads’ the instructions I made for it all over my body.
“But, um…no matter how many layers of glamour I add, it’s all supported by that ‘mold’ of my own aether. When I apply my glamour and the instructions ‘spread’ over me, all of my personal aether is its foundation, not just that original piece of my aether. It makes it…very fragile. Anything that affects the ‘mold’ affects the rest of the glamour, and if the ‘mold’ – my body - is damaged, it…can’t support the layers on top of it. So, it all crumbles, and I can’t put it back on until I’m not hurt anymore.
“Does…any of that make sense?”
R’pahfu was quiet, wordlessly placing a purpleish-yellow stone on R’thipra’s neck. Though small, it was easy to feel the chill permeating it.
“Your explanation is thankful. But, why do you create layers?”
“It makes it so I don’t have to keep creating infinite glamour plates. I have two copies of plates with the ‘mold’, and to make a new outfit or look, I don’t have to erase them. I just add layers on top of them to customize them, rather than changing them entirely. It’s just simpler that way.”
A reddish stone was set on his shoulder. “You have been doing this for a long time, then. This is the first corruption you’ve had?”
He knew exactly how long he’d been doing this, down to the number of days, in fact. But he dared not tell him that.
In, out. In, out.
“…Yes. This is the first time I attempted to modify the ‘mold’, and…I guess I messed up. I…should’ve started from scratch and made a new one, I know that. I just didn’t have the time to.”
“’Time’?”
“Mhm. It was a last-minute decision, spur of the moment…If I knew I’d be risking corruption just to make some silly event, I wouldn’t have even considered it.”
R’pahfu chuckled lightly, placing a yellowish-green stone on his other shoulder. “If you were to reach as far as modifying the base of your glamour, would it really be a ‘silly event’?”
R’thipra grunted, turning his head away. He hoped desperately that the other didn’t see the warmth he felt on his cheeks.
“Won’t you tell me what it was?”
“It…doesn’t really matter. All you need to know is that I was stupid and modified the ‘mold’ because of it,” he grunted.
“That is true. But I would still like to hear.”
R’thipra cracked an eye open to stare at him. The Word was still smiling his warm, kind smile, though there was a hint of levity in it as well.
“I don’t even know if you’d understand it. You haven’t been in Eorzea for long, right? This was all new to me, and I’ve been here all my life.”
“Your Father has told me you were a hermit for most of your life, you know.” There was a twinkle in the older man’s eye, the smile slipping into a grin. “Our understanding should be parallel then, yes?”
He groaned, covering his face with his hands. The embarrassment was stronger than the tingling feeling of faux-claws phasing through his forehead. Stupid stuck-in-place glamour. “Why did he have to say it like that?”
“Oh, he did not. That was my addition, apologies.”
R’thipra spread his fingers just enough to glare up at R’pahfu through them. The other man simply laughed. “I am still waiting to hear what it was!”
He grumbled. He wasn’t getting out of this, was he? “…Fine. But you’d better not laugh, alright?”
R’pahfu huffed, reaching up to unwrap the long necklace chain from around his neck. It and its three stone pendants were soon placed above R’thipra’s head. “I have heard and seen many things in my short time here in Eorzea, R’thipra. Some wonderful, some strange, and some I could not grab. I will not laugh, but please know you do not have to worry in the first place.”
R’thipra heaved a long sigh, letting his eyes close. “…I want you to imagine a large building. Loud and high-energy music is blaring from every corner in a language you half-understand at the best of times, and there’s people packed in everywhere. They’re all shouting over said music to buy yaoi and other odd things you normally wouldn’t be caught dead reading in public.”
“Yaoi?”
No, no, no. He was not going to go into that. He wasn’t going to explain to his older cousin what yaoi was. “N-nevermind that. The important thing is, it’s a…chaotic environment I could hardly understand. It was…similar to a party, but everyone in all of Eorzea was invited to dress up in strange outfits. It was…very weird.”
R’pahfu’s hands clapped together. “It was a celebration and a market together, then? That sounds delightful!”
“It was weird,” R’thipra mumbled. “Maybe it’s because I’m not ‘into’ the things they were celebrating. I went mostly to support my friends who were working the event.”
“…Ah. And in order to attend the event, you had to make a costume, yes?”
“It wasn’t strictly required, but…it was a cultural thing.” He hesitated. “…I made one at the last moment, using prisms I’d already been collecting. My outfit was turning out well, and I could’ve just left it at that and have avoided all of…this.”
The Word hummed something under his breath. “In the language you were using before…you made a layer over your glamour safely. That is what you have triumphed in doing for so long. But, you said you had altered the ‘mold’ as well.”
R’thipra swallowed. “I…did, yes. I thought it would make the costume better, and wanted to confuse my friends. As part of a joke, of course. Nothing more.”
“What did you alter about it, then?”
In, out. In, out.
“I, um…removed my tail.”
R’pahfu stared. “You…cut off your tail?”
“No, no! Twelve above, no.” R’thipra nearly bolted up from the blanket as a horrified expression dawned on the man. “I-I’d never hurt myself like that. I’m still perfectly intact, I swear.”
“B-But…you said you removed your tail. What-”
“I removed the tail from my glamour,” he spoke quickly. “It was a part of the ‘mold’. What I add or remove from the ‘mold’ doesn’t reflect on my actu- well, um…’unglamoured’ body. Only the ‘mold’ of the glamour that got stuck on me has no tail. It’s just a…”
Well, no. He can’t just say ‘it’s just an illusion’ now that he’s explained how his glamour works. Saying that would only lead to more worried questions.
R’pahfu took his quiet as an opportunity to speak. “…But why would you have your tail as a part of the ‘mold’? You have never altered it before. There is no need to have it there.”
That was precisely the question he didn’t want to answer. Quick, R’thipra, think of a lie.
“It’s…Well, I’ve never modified the ‘mold’ before this, but I have modified a layer that sits on top of it. With the layer, I can, um…easily change my hair and fur color for a little while, instead of having to dye it and wait for it to fade ou…”
R’thipra fell silent.
Even if he meant it as a way to avoid telling R’pahfu the complete truth, it wasn’t a complete lie. A simple hair color change automatically applied the color to his tail with how he programmed that part of the glamour.
But, he was sure he modified the ‘mold’ correctly. He built it from the ground up – he knew how to add and remove features properly. Right?
Right…?
“…R’pahfu. Are you able to look at where my tail would be?”
The Word lifted his head. Had he been thinking the same thing? “Roll over and I will, yes.”
As pallid fingers plucked the stones resting on his shoulders and neck, he rolled over onto his stomach. As he turned his head to watch the other man, he caught him right as he closed his eyes.
He was quiet for a long, long time, even as his brow furrowed and his hands clenched around the stones. He watched for several ticks longer than he had before, past the point of headache and the start of shaking. Only when he exhaled a loud hiss did he open his eyes, a free hand coming up to massage his forehead.
R’thipra reached for the waterflask on his hip, offering it over to him. R’pahfu snatched it out of his hands and greedily sucked it dry.
“Hey, um…are you alright?”
Slowly, R’pahfu lowered his hand. “I…believe I may be understanding what is going on. You said you use ‘prisms’ and ‘plates’, yes? Do you have them?”
With a nod, R’thipra sat up, digging into the pockets hidden by the corrupted glamour. It only took him a moment to unhook the two plates from their belt chain and set them on the least sandy portion of the blanket, along with an unused prism. “Here. The one on the left is the one that caused all of…this.”
Gently, the Word picked up the prism and the corrupted plate, turning them over in his hands. Once with eyes open, then again with eyes closed. He hummed low. “…Yes. These are confirmation.”
“Confirmation of…?”
R’pahfu carefully set the objects down, then reached for the stones he’d picked out earlier. “Turn over and I will tell you. It is important to get started fixing you, yes? It is not a quick answer.”
R’thipra furrowed his brow, but complied.
Once more, the Word began placing the stones in their original places, the cold seeping through his skin and the material of his clothes. “Where the tail was is a…drain, of sorts. Hungry, empty, wanting to be complete. It is the only place where your energy behaves that way, open like a wound. The skin has been torn off and it wants to heal.”
So, he hadn’t removed the tail properly, it seemed.
In, out. In, out.
“But…I feel fine, for the most part. If I was leaking aether, I’d feel like something was horribly wrong, right? Ever since this happened, I’ve sometimes felt a bit…tingly, but that’s it.”
He tried not to think about how odd it’d felt to wake up in R’pahfu’s care. Clinging to the ladder rungs, trying to reach consciousness, feeling just that little bit less of himself.
“You are not leaking, no,” R’pahfu shook his head. He gave a small, wry smile. “Else I would be becoming like you. That is my condition.”
“Then…it’s feeding off something.”
“You said that you placed a part of yourself in the plate when creating it, yes?” Even if he couldn’t turn his head, R’thipra heard the light tap of the Word’s fingernail on the glamour plate. “Your self recognizes your self as safe. Therefore, it tried to repair itself using what you stored in there, but it took everything.”
He stepped away for a moment, returning with an unlit candle.
“W-Wait, I…don’t do well with fire magic.”
“You don’t? You appear like you would have a skill for it.”
R’thipra wanted to shake his head, but dared not risk dislodging the stone on his forehead. His neck twitched regardless. “Just…don’t. Please.”
R’pahfu’s head tilted slightly, watching him for a moment through closed eyes. Eventually, however, he nodded. “Then I will not. You are good with fire from flint, hopefully?”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Ignored the phantom sensation of claws resting against his jugular. “…Yeah. Flint is fine.”
“Then, a moment.”
The unlit candle returned to wherever he’d gotten it from. To his left, R’thipra heard the sound of metal striking on metal. Soon, the Word returned with a lit lantern, flames swaying comfortably in glass.
“These prisms and plates you use look like glass, magicked to store small amounts of energy,” R’pahfu began. One hand held the lantern above R’thipra’s chest, and the other reached for the prism. “The energy it stores is either your own, for the plate, or that of clothes, jewelry, and coloring, for the prism, yes?”
Though the gentle flame in the lantern appeared harmless, he didn’t take his eyes off of it. “Yes?”
Then, suddenly, his view of the flame fractaled as the prism blocked his line of sight. Gentle light became harsh and bright, bouncing off the polished planes of glass. R’thipra flinched back with a grimace.
R’pahfu’s Seeker pupils had shrunk dramatically as he stared through the prism, thin black lines against blue-green. “The wound you made took everything. The self you placed in the plate, naturally drawn back to itself, spread the ‘mold’ over you. The wound wanted more, so it ate the prisms whole, contents and all. The contents became a part of the ‘mold’, dressing you in forever armor and drowning your energy in cold light. If you did not remove the ability of the hair color to paint your tail, it would have been eaten as well, though its effects on the ‘mold’, I cannot say. No other part than your hair is brown.”
There was another part of him that was brown, though.
In, out. In, out.
“…Did you ever say if the markings under my eyes were red or pink, R’pahfu?”
“They are more red, but there is pink, too.”
Fuck.
R’thipra took a deep breath, closing his eyes. The magnified, fractaled flame still burned against the backs of his eyelids. “…So…what do I do, then? How do I…’unfuse’ myself?”
“The answer is simple, the technique is not.” Suddenly, the harsh light in front of his face disappeared, replaced by gentle warmth again. Then, it was all dark, and he heard the soft ‘clink!’ of the lantern being set on the ground to his left. “We must untangle the corrupt aether from your self, then seal the wound.”
R’thipra peeled his eyes open. The tent was too dark for his liking, too dark to see R’pahfu properly. Hopefully his pupils would adjust soon. “…The difficulty comes from actually separating the aether, I’m guessing.”
“And, maintaining the glamour you placed on before.” Though he couldn’t see the whole thing, he could see the corners of the other man’s smile.
He’d remembered that? Something pulled at his heart, rendering him silent.
R’pahfu seemed to not notice, reaching for the other glamour plate. “This one is intact, yes? I will identify the edges of your original glamour through this. Any energy that is not earth and fire or in this shape, I will cleanse from you. It will take time, patience…”
The Word had trailed off, but R’thipra knew what he meant to say. He was too kind.
In, out. In, out.
“If…if for some reason, you need to strip all of the glamour…you can.”
R’pahfu’s eyebrows raised. “I will not risk your comfort.”
R’thipra leveled a hard stare at him. “It’s a health concern. It’s…more important that I get uncorrupted, right?”
The Word glanced away, fingers knotting into the lapel of his robes.
In, out. In, out.
“R’pahfu, please. I…give you permission to do whatever you need.”
Silence.
It lasted worringly long, long enough for him to ready another argument. But then, R’pahfu sighed long, turning back to him. “…Alright. I will do my best not to do it, but…thank you.”
Even as his heart thundered in his chest, R’thipra smiled warm and kind to him. “I should be the one thanking you for this.”
Once again, the man’s head ducked away, this time trying to hide a chuckle. “It is my job, R’thipra. You are family, besides!”
R’thipra prayed to Azeyma that stayed the case, if push came to shove.
Then, he paused as he withdrew a gleaming blue crystal from his robes. Even with the dulled senses he apparently had, R’thipra could feel energy spike in the air from it. It was cool, cleansing, refreshing, soothing.
Powerful, yet not something to fear.
The twinkle in R’pahfu’s eye, however, was something to be feared. “If you hope to thank me, tell me what yaoi is.”
R’thipra grimaced. “Not a chance.”
“You will agree eventually!”
Even as a low grumble built in his throat, as the Word set the crystal beside his head, he could feel the tension in his face fade. The stones placed across his upper body basked in the energy, beginning to spread it down the rest of his body.
“…We’ll talk about repayment after this is all done.”
The festivities had been going on for bells now. R’thipra didn’t know how long the Pride parade was scheduled to last, but he knew that people were gathering and celebrating far before the doors opened for them to flood in. And flood in, they did: no matter where he looked, no matter where he went, there was never a dull moment of interactions between guests and shopkeepers, nor silence and seclusion away from noise they made.
Oh, but there was one place that came close. An exposed air walkway, running between the two townlike sections of Shirogane’s housing district. While the festivities were technically confined to one of those sections, it naturally spilled out over to the other section. Naturally, the walkway was one of the main thoroughfares, which meant that it wasn’t immune to the celebrations. But, given how most of the attendees felt comfortable in the main section, it was…quieter.
It was the main reason he’d fled there at this very same event two years ago, when all the noise and crowds and celebration became too much for his mind to handle. And it was the simple kindness and patience of a Raen and a Sahagin, that allowed him to recover in privacy.
It was only when the sky began to darken that the festivities began to die down. For as much as he’d gotten used to being amongst crowds of people over the past two years, it was still…exhausting. For the times he’d attended this Pride parade, the walkway had become a getaway from everything about it.
Having space away from the festivities, looking on from a distance…It’d become a ritual for him. This time, he’d intended to do the same.
But there was an issue this time.
A Miqo’te woman, dressed in deep blacks and vibrant golds, sat leaning against the walkway’s fence. She didn’t appear sickly, but the hunch in her back, shoulders, and neck wasn’t normal; the fact that she was sitting crosslegged, hands in her lap, staring down at whatever she was holding, less so. It was the posture of someone deeply uncomfortable and taking shelter in their mind.
He’d know, of course.
Had she come up to the walkway for the same reason he had? She didn’t appear to be having a panic attack, but there was something definitely weighing on her mind.
Perhaps it was time to pay what the Raen and Sahagin had given him forward.
“Hey. Are you okay…?”
Upon hearing his voice, the Miqo’te woman gasped, clutching whatever it was in her hand and holding it tight to her chest. Ears pinned back against her skull in embarrassment, she glared at him from over her shoulder. “What. Ain’t it rude t’ sneak up on a lady?”
R’thipra hastily lifted his hands up, stopping in his tracks. “Sorry, I…shouldn’t have snuck up on you. You just…didn’t look okay, is all.”
“Really.”
“Well, yeah.” He gestured to the buildings on either side of the bridge. Illuminated by lamplight, the flags painted in rainbow colors danced on the evening breeze. Remnants of laughter and lighthearted conversation from the remaining attendees echoed off the building walls toward them. “It is a festival, after all. Even though it’s winding down, it’s meant to be a happy occasion.”
The woman snorted. “Yeah? What are ya, the happy police? Saw that I wasn’t havin’ the time of my life and came t’ put a smile on my face?”
Her bitterness hit him like a ton of bricks and nearly knocked the wind out of him. A part of him was wondering why he even tried; it was clear even before he approached that she’d wanted to be alone. But, still…
“No, I’m not. If it matters to you at all, I’m just a regular attendee.” A little white lie couldn’t hurt, right? He was far less drunk on excitement and cheer to considered a ‘regular attendee’. “I just know that, even if Pride is meant to be happy, it isn’t always for everyone.”
“Ya better not be tryin’ t’ warm up t’ me by statin’ the obvious,” she sneered. “What d’ya think I am, an idiot? Of course not everyone’s gonna be happy just because a party’s goin’ on.”
Yes, he knew and lived that already. He resisted the urge to huff. Here he was, trying to be polite and help a stranger, and all it got him was vitriol spit in his face.
Breathe, R’thipra. Try some more. “Do you have any idea why you’re upset…?”
“I ain’t gonna spill t’ some random stranger walkin’ up t’ me.”
So she did know, and it was probably related to whatever it was she has hiding against her chest. “I’m not going to ask for any details. I just…wanted to know if you knew.”
Slowly, the woman’s shoulders hunched as she curled in on herself. He could hear a hiss building in her throat. “Of course I know. It’s starin’ at me every day. If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t be here tryin’ t’ find answers, wouldn’t I?”
“Answers?” he echoed.
“Aye, answers. And ya wanna know what I learned?”
The woman was curled as tight as a cannonball ready to tear through a battleship. Her voice was just as tight, too, as if she were trying to prevent herself from screaming her thoughts aloud. Her ears were unpinned, standing high and aggressive pointed out at the waving flags below her, tail thumping hard and fast against the pavement.
This was going to bad. R’thipra knew that, no matter how he answered, she was fit to explode. Maybe she just needed to let it out.
“What did you learn?”
Slowly, the woman uncurled. Whatever it was that she was hiding in her chest, she tucked away into her pocket. Manicured claws scraped loud against the ground as she pushed herself to her feet, glaring up at him.
He spied the wooden stick of a miniature pride flag sticking out of her pocket.
Unshed tears glistened in her eyes.
“Nothin’. Absolutely nothin’.”
“…Nothing?”
“Nothin’. Nihil, nada, zip, zilch, whatever else ya Eorzeans say,” she hissed low through clenched teeth. “I asked all around, and no one had any answers fer me. Nothin’ about why, or how. I was told this time of year was meant t’ be for education and freedom, but there was nothin’.
“Ya wanna know what I did hear?” Her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, tight enough that he was worried she’d draw blood. “’Yer valid’, ‘yer valid’. Over and over and over again. Why would I feel valid if the people sayin’ so don’t even know what I am? Just sayin’ things like ‘yer valid’ rings hollow after the fiftieth time – and believe me, I counted.”
She whipped her arm out, gesturing grandly at the waving flags and snarling, “It’s called ‘Pride’, but I ain’t proud of who I am! Why would I, when all I get are medicuses feckin’ around with me and my supposed allies just keep repeatin’ worthless phrases at me? I don’t get the point of this at all!”
Out of the corner of his eye, R’thipra spied a happy couple holding hands, laughing and smiling. A stark contrast to the frustrated woman trying desperately to catch her breath while holding tears in.
Alright. The obvious thing to do would be to calm her down, get her to breathe easier. How would he do that?
He’d meant to reach into his pocket to check the time, but his hand brushed against the wrapper of the chocolate bar he’d purchased earlier that evening. At the sound of crinkling plastic, the woman’s ears honed in, eyes zeroing on his pocket.
In the midst of the silence between them, her stomach rumbled.
“Here.” Pulling the chocolate bar out of his pocket, he offered it to her. He tried his best to put on a smile, but even he could feel that it was wobbly at the corners. “You, uh…sound like you could use it.”
This time, the woman’s glare was miserable. “I don’t want food. I wanna get sloshed.”
He hesitated. “I don’t want to police whatever you drink, but…Are you sure you want to get drunk in a city you may not know well? Is there anyone you can call on for help if you –”
“I don’t care what happens t’ me. I wanna get so sloshed I forget about all of this.”
With one last grumble under her breath, she turned and stalked down the bridge, away from all the laughter and flying flags. “I’m gonna put a reminder in my notes t’ never come t’ one of these things again. Although, who the feck knows if I’ll listen t’ it? I never listen t’ myself. All of this was so much easier when Hiroc was here…”
As the woman’s mutterings faded into the background of his mind, R’thipra sighed. He knew what needed to be done. He wasn’t expecting to play counselor and designated supervisor for a woman he hardly knew tonight, but…
Well, Pride always brought out the strong emotions in people, good and bad. So it was par for the course.
A bell later, R’thipra was sitting on the beach, watching the woman kick the ocean waves as they rolled in.
Why was she kicking at the waves? Maybe it was her expression of frustration at the world, or maybe it was her attempt at dancing after downing her drink. Bright blue with sugar crystals and berries lining the top tried, but failed, to distract from the fact that he could smell the gin underneath the sugar of the martini. It was something that he’d order if he, Limsan born and bred, was looking to get tipsy, and not something he’d recommend to the waif of a woman now erratically spinning in the water.
“Hey, be careful! You don’t want to fall,” he called out to her.
“Yer not my dad!” she shouted back.
When she promptly tripped and faceplanted into the wet sand, he simply sipped at his ice water.
Fortunately for him, she was at least aware enough to pull herself up and out of the water before he really needed to step in. Good. That meant that he wouldn’t need to drag her to the Bokario Inn to get her somewhere safe for the night.
“Feeling any better…?”
With a huff, she plopped down on the sand beside him, wiping away at the sand rapidly drying on her face with a dour expression. “My makeup’s ruined.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not wearing waterproof makeup?”
“Why would I? I wasn’t plannin’ t’ get wet.”
That was true. The clothes she’d been wearing all night were the sort you’d wear to an upscale party, only not made with upscale materials. Surely there’d be a way to get saltwater out of them safely.
“…Why are ya still here?” The woman was peering at him strangely.
Wasn’t it obvious? Even if she’d been lashing out at him all evening, it was better that than any alternative of her being alone this way. “Well,” he started slowly, “you were distressed earlier, and now you’re drunk.”
“Haw? Ya think I can’t take care of myself?”
Yes, he wanted to say. She obviously wasn’t a Hingan native. Who knew if she’d even been to Kugane before today? Did she even know what could happen to her at night?
But, he’d resigned himself to playing the role of counselor and supervisor for the evening. He resisted the urge to sigh. “No, but it’s always good to have someone looking out for you when you’re drunk and upset, right? It’s a safety reason.”
“It is?”
“Yes…?”
She squinted at him for a few more moments, then grunted and looked back out at the ocean.
Her response, or lack of it, suggested what he’d been wondering. A woman in despair, not caring what happened to her, wanting to get blackout drunk in the company of a man she didn’t know? Something roiled in the pit of R’thipra’s stomach, but he forced himself to ignore it. It was best to confirm before his mind flew wild with the theory. “So, I’m assuming you didn’t come here with anyone...?”
“I want that chocolate now.”
“Can you answer my question first?”
She rounded on him, eyes narrowed. “What, are ya gonna let a poor little girl starve? After she spent all her money on useless merchandise that’s gonna get trashed as soon as she gets home? Ya really want that on your conscience?”
Titan preserve him. For as much as she made him worry, she was equally adept at getting under his skin.
“Fine,” he acquiesced, reaching into his pocket. As soon as the chocolate bar was in his hand, manicured claws snatched it away, and he had to yank his fingers out of the way before they made contact. “H-Hey!”
The woman said nothing in response, tearing open the foil with ease and biting down aggressively. Was she even swallowing between bites? He couldn’t even tell.
“Be careful, you don’t want to choke.”
“Yer not my –“
“Yes, I know I’m not your dad,” R’thipra said with a roll of his eyes. “I can show concern for people other than my family members, you know.”
She simply rolled her eyes back at him and continued eating like she hadn’t been fed in days. In turn, he turned away and sipped more at his water.
By the time she finished with the chocolate bar, it looked like half of had just smeared onto her lips. He wordlessly offered the cocktail napkin that’d come with her drink before she could make an even worse mess with her sandy hands.
“So, are you going to answer me?” he asked as she was wiping up the remaining chocolate stains. “If you came here with anyone, we should let them know where you are.”
“Is it normal t’ bring people t’ this sorta thing?”
He shrugged. “A lot of people do. If your friend group is full of LGBT people, it becomes a fun outing.”
“But yer alone, aren’t ya?”
Well, that was one way of saying it. ‘Friends’ was a complicated term for him, one reserved for very few people in his life. How many people did he hang out with today would he consider ‘friends’?
“…I was with other people earlier, but now I’m alone, yes,” he says after a moment. Best not to think too much about it for now.
She snorted. “What, did they abandon ya? Or did ya abandon them?”
“What? No, it wasn’t either of those things.” You were an ‘regular attendee’, R’thipra, he reminds himself. Even though she was significantly calmer now, he still didn’t know what kind of reaction she’d have if he’d admitted to not being ‘normal’ at this event. “They were tired, so they left. I don’t blame them – Pride is surprisingly exhausting.”
He heard a muffled huff beside him. The woman was now sitting with her knees close to her chest, arms stacked atop them and face hidden in them.
But, even with her closed-off appearance, he knew the question she was wanting to ask. “I stayed behind because…well, I wasn’t done for the evening. I like to see people happy. For this sort of thing, something as personal as Pride, I wanted to be alone for that. It’s as simple as that.”
“…Well, so-rry for ruinin’ yer fun evening,” the woman drawled out. She didn’t sound very sorry.
But, R’thipra didn’t mind it too much right now. “Well, you broke me out of a cycle my mind was going through. So…that does deserve thanks.”
He could feel her eyes boring into his side, judging and questioning. He swallowed down the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “Pride isn’t always about happiness and, well…feeling ‘proud’ of who you are. Sometimes, things interfere with that. You are…your thing,” he gestured vaguely to her. He wasn’t going to ask her what exactly it was. “And me and my thing.”
“Yer ‘thing’?”
He fell quiet. This was getting personal. Uncomfortably personal. Suddenly, he wished for the time where he was on the receiving end of the woman’s emotions. Closing himself off, putting on the air of counselor and face of a kind stranger – that was something he was used to. He’d trained to do that.
But this? This was something he hadn’t even told his closest friends. Rheya may’ve been able to guess it by now. Why was he even thinking of telling a complete stranger?
He could really use a drink right now. Maybe he should get one of those blue drinks the woman got. He could just shake his head, laugh it off, and take a breather getting his drink -
“Helllooooooooo? Anyone in there?”
The woman had leaned in close, staring at him with big, slightly-glazed over eyes. R’thipra jerked back in surprise. “W-What-?”
“Ya can’t just leave off on a cliffhanger! Tell me the story!”
He had, hadn’t he? He cleared his throat, leaning just a bit more away. Her breath stunk of alcohol. “I…just realized, it’s best that I don’t say anything.”
“What? After I bared my heart and soul t’ ya?” She pouted, cheeks puffing. “That ain’t fair!”
“You were obviously upset! And I wasn’t going to dig deeper than what you were offering. I was just trying to be a sounding board.”
“Fine, fine! Here, since yer bein’ such a big baby.”
Before he could snap back at her, she laid back out on the sand, an arm covering her eyes.
“What…are you doing?” R’thipra peered down at her.
“Listen up, because I’m only doin’ this once.”
There was a flash of a grin on her face, before it contorted into something faux-pained. “Oh, look at me, I’m such a drunken idiot!” she sang out. “I’m passin’ out! I ain’t gonna remember this in the mornin’!”
Shit, was she shouting loud enough for the remnants of the Pride crowd to hear? “Keep your voice down!” he hissed sharply. “There’s still people here. Don’t give people the wrong idea!”
But she continued unabated, voice rising in octave, free arm rising into the air. “Ohh, woe is me! Who’s gonna be my knight in shinin’ caligae t’ serenade me and keep me safe tonight?”
R’thipra’s head swiveled around, trying to catch any glimpse of nearby parade-goers in the gloom of nighttime. “Okay, you can shut up now…!” Just because people weren’t coming now, didn’t mean that they wouldn’t come soon. “You’ve made your point!”
“Here I go! Passin’ out!” Her hand made a grabbing motion for the stars above, before a rattling groan escaped her and the hand fell back to her chest with a thump. “Bleugh.”
All fell silent and still between them. R’thipra held his breath unconsciously, squinting his eyes, trying his damnedest to see or hear anything that could be signs of people running over to ‘save’ the damsel in distress.
But there was nothing at all. Either there was no one left at the Pride afterparty, or this woman just happened to shout at just the right volume to not attract anyone.
He released his breath as a long sigh, glaring down at her ‘sleeping’ form. “You are so lucky no one was nearby.”
The woman remained silent and still.
“…Alright, fine. I’ll talk. Just…roll over on your side. Drunk people can throw up when they’re passed out and choke if they’re on their backs.”
“Are ya gonna roll me over?” she faux-whispered, much too loudly.
“No.” He was very aware he sounded grumpy and annoyed, but he wasn’t in the mood to police himself. “I don’t touch people.”
The woman grumbled some under her breath. Then she finally obeyed, facing him with eyes closed.
Well. He was committed to it now. How was he going to start this?
“…Have you ever known something would hurt you, but you did it anyway, just because?”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. Shit. That was a bad place to start.
“I-I’m not meaning something dangerous or, y’know, actively and physically harming yourself,” he quickly corrected himself. “What I’m talking about is…You know an environment isn’t good for you, but you keep going into it anyway. Not for any hope of things changing magically, but…”
“…fer a greater goal?” the woman supplied helpfully via whisper.
R’thipra narrowed his eyes. “You’re supposed to be passed out right now.”
With a light shrug of her shoulders, her mouth clicked shut.
“…No, not for a greater goal,” he replied, after a moment. “It’s…more to see if it still hurts as much as it did before, or if you can learn how to live with the pain. That’s what Pride is for me.”
The woman stayed silent, but he could see her staring up at him blindly. He lifted his water to his lips, hoping that it’d block her from seeing him. What he must look like right now, being vulnerable, he wondered.
“I’ve been to a few celebrations, ever since I started being around people. I knew I liked people of all types – would’ve wanted to date men, women, anything between or beyond those points, if I had the opportunity. I knew I liked these people romantically, but not…anythin’ more. But, I either viewed it as a thing for ‘future me’, or something that would never happen at all.
I was, technically, invited to the celebrations of Pride. I belonged in it, just as much as other people. But I always felt outside of it, that I’d never be able to participate in it myself. I would go to these Pride parades to celebrate and feel validated in how I felt about people, but I would see other people celebrating with their friends and loved ones in ways I…felt like I wouldn’t be able to. And that hurt.”
He spied that the woman’s eye had cracked open, and that she was watching him, but he took a deep breath and tried to ignore it.
“I felt like I couldn’t truly connect with people at Pride, because I couldn’t love as easily as they could. I mean, I could, but I couldn’t act on it. Loving someone deeply requires a…a lot of trust, and I couldn’t place that trust in people. People at Pride would say my love was valid, but they didn’t understand how I could feel so disconnected. Most people wouldn’t have to deal with my ‘problem’. That’s not to say they didn’t have obstacles to loving who they loved – I bet they had plenty of them – but…it’s all different and relative, right? What hurts one person may not affect another. This just…hurt me so, so deeply.”
R’thipra tried his best to put on a smile as he looked down to her. “Basically, what I’m saying is…while our ‘problems’ may be very different, I…understand and sympathize with your feelings about Pride.”
The woman was silent for a moment. Then, when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “…Did it ever change?”
He scratched his chin. That…was a difficult question to answer. “…It did, though it…ebbed and flowed. Some days, I felt strong and good enough about myself that I felt alright with loving from afar. I’d be able to survive on my own. Other days, it felt like I was drowning, feeling like I could never achieve what other people seemed to be able to so easily. I would be forever alone.”
“…That’s what I feel like, too.”
He felt one of his eyebrows raise unbidden. “…Is it?”
“…Aye.” Lying on the ground, still curled up on her side, she looked almost deflated. There was no trace of the previous animosity, nor the previous grin, on her face. “…I’ve been dealin’ with it fer years now, even before comin’ t’ Eorzea. When I started livin’ here, I…tried t’ accept it. That nothin’ was gonna change. It’s up and down fer me, too. Some days, I feel okay and acceptin’ that this is my life now. I’d try t’ change a few things if I could, but I was content fer the most part, right?
But then there’s other days where it hurts so bad, I feel like I can’t look at myself without hurtin’. Without thinkin’ that I’ve lost myself, that I ain’t the me I used t’ be and I can’t get it back no matter how hard I try. And the place I thought would help…”
“…turned out to hurt more?” R’thipra finished quietly.
The woman simply nodded.
He heaved a long sigh. This…had turned into a difficult situation. He hadn’t meant for things to turn so negative, so quick. He was the one meant to be uplifting, the rock for a stranger to metaphorically lean against. Now, it was all dour and depressing.
What could he do to make things better…?
He heard a little sniffle below him. The woman was shaking just a little, tears gathering in her eyes. “I…I want t’ like this. I want t’ be able t’ parade down the streets and be happy. Why can’t I? Why is everythin’ gettin’ in the way of me bein’ happy with all of this…?”
He had to fix this, quick.
“I, uh…was able to find happiness with Pride eventually.”
The sniffling stopped, just for a moment, before a weak voice replaced it. “What, did ya accept it or somethin’…?”
“Well…acceptance was part of it, yes. But it was more of a case of breaking through, uh…how my mind spiraled around it.”
He didn’t know if she was looking at him again, but he hid his face behind his cup once more. There wasn’t much water left in it. “…I thought that I couldn’t trust someone enough to love them at the level other people do, or even trust people, period. Not only did I learn that I could trust some people, but said people also introduced me to even more people I learned to trust…and I did fall in love with one of them.”
R’thipra paused for a moment, trying to figure out the next words he’d say. The cup was still in front of his face. Why? He’d already said so much, it wasn’t helping anything at all…
Past habits to keep himself safe died hard, he guessed. He drank down the rest of the water and forced himself to set the cup down.
“I acknowledge that finding love is harder for me than a lot of people, and that, well…that ends up meaning that many of the people I’m attracted to are on a ‘look, but don’t get your hopes up’ level. But, I do know that I can find love; I’m not destined to be unloved forever, or even in the future. So, it’s made being at Pride…easier. Not wholly easy, but…it’s progress.”
The woman was suspiciously quiet. Likely, she was holding her tongue.
“I, um…don’t know what exact issue you’re facing.” His words were quiet. Gentle. “They’re obviously private and personal, so –”
“I already said, I ain’t gonna tell ya,” she weakly snapped.
He held his hands up. “And I wasn’t about to ask. You haven’t asked me what my ‘problem’ is, and I’m not going to tell a random stranger even if you did. It’s better if things remain private, right? All I was going to say was…your ‘problem’ could be entirely different than mine, but you may be able to find a solution, too, just like I was.”
Even as her fur bristled, the growl in her voice was weedy. “By makin’ friends? Bein’ a jolly Good Samaritan t’ make people like me? I ain’t gonna put on a show fer people who’d soon as toss me in the trash when I stop actin’ fer even a moment.”
“No, I’m not saying that! What worked for me might no work as well for you. I get that.” It was only by the grace of the Twelve that it worked for him, anyway. Well, no. ‘Grace’ wasn’t the word. He was actively cursing the people that started him on this path under Their very eyes at the time. “All I’m saying is that things may not be as hopeless and isolating as they seem. There may be some sort of…solution.”
“’Solution’.”
“Well, you sound like your ‘problem’ is complicated. I…didn’t want to say ‘may be some sort of way to feel more comfortable’ because, well…” R’thipra waved a hand toward the darkened buildings in the distance, where the flags were surely still waving in the wind. “This is Pride, after all. ‘Comfort with your current situation’ might not be the outcome you’re looking for.
Something flashed across the woman’s face so fast, he couldn’t see what it was. Judging by the way her brows furrowed and her ears drooped, she didn’t know what it was, either.
“…Yer quite the optimist,” she grumbled after a moment.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I just believe things can get better if you work on it. That’s been my experience, anyway.”
“Haw.”
With a grunt of effort, the woman rolled over onto her stomach, then slowly pushed herself up to her feet. When her feet proved unsteady, R’thipra went to stand, but she waved him off. “’m fine. Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
The woman stared at him with a gaze that was simultaneously piercing, glazed over, and exhausted. “Ya were gonna, though, weren’t ya?”
Well, he couldn’t deny that. He simply remained where he was. The woman sighed long and loud.
With a loud clap, her hand slapped against her forehead. “Uggggggggghhhh, I’ve got such a headache! Why’d ya convince me t’ drink all that? I’m gonna be so dead in the mornin’….”
“You were the one that said you wanted to forget tonight,” he commented, though he figured it was a futile effort to say anything at all.
“Shut up, I’m havin’ a moment here! Quit bein’ such a downer.”
There was that familiar tinge of annoyance again. This was the thanks he was going to get for helping her? He rolled his eyes. “It must be quite hard being you.”
“Ya don’t even know the half of it.” The tone of her voice was something else familiar to him – a way of saying ‘fuck you’ without explicitly saying it. A signal that no more emotional vulnerability was going to happen tonight.
Message received loud and clear. As much as she’d needed the help earlier, she had a rather unique way of getting on his nerves. “…Well then, if you’ve got such a bad headache, maybe it’s time to sleep the alcohol off?”
“Thank ya, past me, fer getting’ the day off tomorrow! Else I’d be huggin’ the toilet so much, a whole new set of rumors’d go around. ‘Arden Reis looooooooves t’ make sweet love t’ inanimate objects!’ or somesuch. Feh. Better that than them thinkin’ I’m layin’ with voidsent. Y’ed think the Maelstrom was full of shite-eatin’ kids sneakin’ into their parents’ rum stores and gigglin’ about how they’re sooooo cool and…”
Her grumblings continued as she clumsily brushed dried sand off her face and clothes, but R’thipra didn’t hear any of it.
This was Arden Reis? This was the person that attacked – and tried to kill! – Suki and Lance? Suki had said he was harmless; aside from spitting fire, this woman had seemed harmless, but who knew truly what was going on in her mind? It was even more important that she stay safe tonight, then, if he was going to figure out what she was really up to.
“Yes, it’s…probably for the best that you get some rest,” he said, uncaring that he’d interrupted her ramblings. Alcohol had a unique way of making thoughts circle around each other; he knew he hadn’t missed much. “Do you have someplace to stay…?”
Arden froze for a moment, staring at him. Then, a slow, devious, sultry grin spread across her face. “Ohh? What, are ya proposin’ I come back with ya? I didn’t know ya had it in ya, R’thipra! Is that how ya bagged yer girl? Bein’ an angel on the streets and a devil in the –”
Heat bloomed across his cheeks, his mind reeling. What the hells had she just said to him…?! A raucous laugh broke out of her, and he found himself raising his voice over it. “A-Asshole, it’s not like that! I’m asking because –”
Wait. She’d said his name.
He hadn’t introduced himself this entire evening. In fact, neither of them had exchanged names.
Something icy ran down his spine, washing away all embarrassment. “How did you know my name?”
Arden’s look, in return, was a mixture of curiosity and confusion. “…Yer friends have open lips,” was her eventual response, accompanied by a casual shrug. Then, suddenly, then drunken levity was back on her face as she giggled. “Anyways! Unfortunately fer ya, but I only like women. Yer gonna have t’ swoop up someone else fer the night! Maybe some of the parade people are still around. Good luck!”
She gave him a wink and a cheeky grin, raising her hand into the air –
“Wait!” R’thipra stumbled out of his seated position, reaching a hand out. “Answer me! How did you know my name?”
And with a flash of purple light and smoke, she was gone.
After a bell of searching high and low for wherever Arden could’ve gone, R’thipra didn’t find her anywhere. He just had to hope she’d checked herself into the Bokario Inn; there was no way she should’ve Teleported all the way back to Limsa Lominsa in her state.
Carrying the complimentary water glass and martini glass with him, he found himself on the same walkway he’d encountered her at. The late hour finally meant that the streetlights had been lit; under the flickering yellow lamplight, he could once again see the Pride flags hanging from the building walls. Even fewer voices were present around him, and those that remained were tiring out.
It was, unequivocally, the end of the Pride parade held there that day.
But, this was just one of many celebrations happening during the moon. A large one, yes, but only one. The celebration had quieted here, but it’d continue on the following day, and the day after that. Some would even say that Pride never ended after the moon.
R’thipra hummed as he mulled over his thoughts. What a long, strange journey it’d been. Reaching out to people, and being accepted and trusted in turn, had eventually lead to him feeling somewhat comfortable at these celebrations. From being reclusive, never showing anyone more than the smiles and politeness they expected from strangers, to meeting Suki and asking to be her friend, to meeting and forging a relationship with Rheya, to the Onsen and becoming something more than just himself, to creating such strong friendships with Jimbo and Golo…
All of that led him here, today, millions of malms away from his home in Gridania, actively working for a parade that used to confuse and hurt him. It hadn’t felt like it’d only been two years; it felt like it’d been at least five.
It’d also led him to meeting a woman that shared those sentiments, albeit for different reasons.
He stared out across the rooftops, falling silent. This was a very different person than what Suki and Lance had described. Aside from the mischief near the end of their conversation, the Arden Reis he’d met tonight was frustrated, bitter, and hopeless. So deep in despair, he wasn’t sure if his words and story had reached her.
Did she have any glimmer of hope that things could change? That they could get better for her, and that she’d be able to live her ideal life?
He hoped so. He couldn’t trust her – not after she’d tried to kill Suki and Lance, no matter what they said – but he wasn’t cruel enough to actively wish for her suffering. That hatred was reserved for other people.
Of course, his hopes of her gaining some sense of hope required that she actually remember their conversation. He didn’t blame her for wanting to get blackout drunk to forget. Some things were better off forgotten, to alleviate yourself of future pain. Twelve knew that he’d want to forget a certain few things he’d experienced; surely the mess of confusion and feeling of being haunted would be preferable.
But, there was a small, selfish part of him that hoped that she did remember their conversation, at the very least. Enough to know that she wasn’t alone in feeling alone, and that there could be a way to change things. The belief and knowledge that he wasn’t stuck in his predicament gave him the determination, and later power, to change his life for the better. Maybe it’d be the same for her?
Hopefully, she’d be able to feel like she could celebrate Pride, too. Maybe not fully, maybe not as excitedly as other people did, but…to be able to celebrate even just a little.
And if she didn’t remember, he would, and he’d be there to remind her.
((WARNING: this story contains major depictions of bullying, xenophobia, fictional racism, anxiety, and dysphoria. Read at your own risk and take care of yourself.))
Little young Rhylsoemr Halusyn was once a curious boy, venturing outside his family’s mansion as soon as he was able to run confidently and play. Up until then, he had only spent his days with his Father, Mother, and brother Rhylbryn – and even though he didn’t quite know his social manners, a part of him yearned to step out into the bright sunlit streets of Aleport he’d only seen from his bedroom window. To talk with the children his age throwing rocks into the ocean, sit on the ledge of the great wall and dangle his feet over the empty air, to live and be free.
So, when he stepped out of that great oaken door on his own for the first time, eyes immediately adjusting to the harsh sunlight, his childhood mind conjured endless possibilities. The children greeting him on the doorstep asking flurries of questions was at the top of his mind.
And yet, no children came. The streets were full as ever, with adults taller than him twiceover chattering amongst themselves without a care for his presence, and yet the children were nowhere in sight.
Perhaps he’d just missed them. Excitement flowing gold through his veins faltered, then grew strong again. If he had missed them, he would just come out another time. For now, he could explore other things. The streets would be first.
Warmth and peace enveloped him as he trotted throughout the streets, wonder in his eyes. There was no rhyme or reason for his chosen path: he simply followed where his mind led him, even if that meant traveling up and down the same street for however long he liked.
Until a woman tapped him on the back, that was. “Hey. Are ya lost, kid?”
“Huh?” He began to turn around-
“Yer wanderin’ around a lot. Are ya lookin’ fer somethin’-”
As soon as Soemr had turned around, the woman froze. The expression on her face was not one ordinarily belonging to a rough-spoken, though well-intentioned, person. Confusion had marred her features as he felt, more than watched, her eyes scan his face.
(When he was older, he would recognize her for what she was: someone exposed to something spoken of only in hushed whispers, something she had never expected to encounter in her entire life. A historical moment never meant for her, something that she would never have been a part of should she had not approached him that day.)
With the knit of her eyebrows came the wrinkle of her nose, as if she’d smelled something foul. And yet, the words she spoke were long delayed; not of an attempt to be polite in the face of something discomforting and off-putting, but something else. The inability to put feelings to words; to understand the subtle currents flowing furiously through her mind.
“…Yer ‘alu and Swarrael’s kid, aren’t ye?”
Were his parents so well known? A small shiver of anxiety ran through him under the woman’s focused, searching stare, but he swallowed it down. She was awaiting a response – if he gave her one, surely she would stop giving him this odd feeling of being in the spotlight. “…Aye, I am. ‘ow did ya-”
“Ye ‘ave yer father’s eyes.”
“Yeah! I like them.”
“…Really.” The woman’s voice was quiet, unsure, questioning herself.
Soemr nodded. “They’re me eyes, right? Why shouldn’t I like them?”
The woman made a noncommittal sound. She was still scrutinizing him closely. Why? It was uncomfortable.
Just as he was about to ask, she spoke first. “…It’s getting’ late out, isn’t it? Ye should be ‘eadin’ ‘ome, kid.”
The sun was still in the sky, casting white-yellow glare off of the polished stone walkways and walls. The air lacked the chill wind that would come with night. Soemr blinked. “But I just got out ‘ere,” he argued. “And it’s not dark yet.”
“Still, growin’ kids like ye need proper supper and bedtime, right? So go along.”
“But-”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest. Another emotion had mixed in with her confusion: the frustration that came with not understanding a concept, that came with discomfort. “Or am I goin’ t’ ‘ave t’ call yer parents? Tell them ye were talkin’ back t’ someone?”
Soemr winced. He lowered his head. Even if he wanted to stay out longer, his parents were keen on keeping others happy.
As he mumbled his goodbyes and thank-yous and turned to leave, he swore he heard a hushed whisper from the woman to someone else.
Duties in the house kept him off the streets for quite some time after. There was always something to be done: cookware to be cleaned, conversations to be had, lessons to be learned. And while Soemr’s heart yearned to step out into the golden light of the streets again, to be free and to explore and to make friends with others, the woman’s confusion echoed in his daydreams.
Perhaps it would be better to watch her, he thought. So he opened the blinds of his room, ignoring the sunlight spilling into his room to look out the window once more, to watch and to learn.
The woman was an infrequent visitor at first. Bells had passed before she came into view, walking alongside another woman her age. No confusion marred her face; sunny smiles and laughter had erased it from face, mind, and memory.
Until suddenly, she stopped. Her feet had rooted in the spot where she had talked with him, and as he watched the confusion return to her in real time, her companion asked what was wrong. Soemr pressed his face to the glass, begging to hear their hushed voices through it and over such a distance; but he heard nothing.
The woman’s gaze turned to his house. A finger was pointed to the door. Her companion tilted her head as she followed her line of sight, as if she didn’t understand.
Then, her eyes raised to meet Soemr’s, and the odd look on the woman’s face spread to her, mixed with pity. He could see their mouths moving as they spoke, shoulders scrunched as if they were whispering secrets to each other, all while they watched him in his window.
Two of those searching faces watching him, trying to prise the answer for their discomfort from his eyes. His hands trembled where they clutched the windowsill, but he lifted one anyway in a wave. A polite, friendly, weak smile broke out on his lips.
They turned away from him. A man approached them, concern written on his face. The woman turned just enough to point at his window; the man’s eyes followed, and he, too, succumbed to the confusion, the pity, the frustration.
Soemr withdrew from the window and drew his blinds shut, wondering if he’d done something wrong. And as tremble in his hands spread to his body, he had a feeling they would not tell him what.
It was a sennight before he stepped out onto the streets again, only to find his world was very different.
The stares first came from the adults.
They didn’t care whether he was turned away or staring straight at him. They didn’t care if they were alone, with their children, or in a crowd. As long as he was in sight, and even for a long while after, he could feel their gazes pinned on him, even if it meant staring straight through rock. They would whisper to each other, and though he couldn’t hear the words, he just knew it was about him.
‘Why does he ‘ave t’ be ‘ere?’
‘What good are these kids gonna be if they ain’t contributin’ anythin’ now?’
‘What were Swarrael and R’halu thinkin’? I know ‘alu ain’t from around ‘ere, but I expected better of Swarrael.’
One time, he gathered the courage to approach them. “What’re ye talkin’ about?” he asked a couple who’d been watching with for several ticks. The delicious smell of smoked tuna at their stall had drawn him there, but he’d been stuck contemplating whether it was worth the hassle of dealing with them.
The man and the woman looked to each other with a grimace. “Nothin’. Go on, kid,” the man eventually replied.
“But ye’ve been watchin’ me for a while now…’ave I done somethin’ wrong?” he questioned back.
“Yer loiterin’ outside a shop. Why wouldn’t we be watchin’ ye?”
It was Soemr’s turn to grimace. “…But I’ve never stolen anythin’ before. Why would I steal now?”
“Ye never know,” the man answered evasively. “Even the most pure-hearted blook’ll become a thief if the opportunity arises. We ain’t takin’ that chance.”
‘With you’ was unspoken. His heart squeezed in his chest. He reached into his pocket for his coins, pleading, “But I-I ‘ave gil right ‘ere, I was just thinkin’ about-”
“Ye wanna know why?” the woman snapped. “Yer father was consortin’ with beastmen his whole life, and bless yer mother, but she was a fool fer ‘avin’ kids! The wars between our kinds are still livin’ in our families, yet yer parents spit in the face of their sacrifices by creatin’ abominations that go against our natural order.”
“Hon,” the man pleaded, his hands raising to placate her. “Ye’ve said enough, ye don’t want t’ get on Swarrael or ‘alu’s bad side-”
But the women refused to acknowledge him, striding right out from their stall to stab Soemr in the chest with her finger. Even though he knew he’d be taller than her soon, the intensity of her glare made him flinch back.
“Ye ever wonder why there aren’t many of ye around? Most have the common sense t’ stick with their proper kind. Those that don’t, the Twelve dictate they ain’t fit fer ‘avin’ kids.
“Best be sayin’ yer prayers that ye live up t’ whatever the gods thought yer worth would be. Ye won’t last long otherwise, especially with that attitude of yers’.”
That night, Father and Mother would assure him that he hadn’t done anything wrong, and that their world was brighter with him around. Mother even stormed to the couple’s house and threatened to drag them under a merchant ship for how they treated him.
The next time he felt their stares on his back, he didn’t sense the frustration, the annoyance, the pity.
Instead, their anger bored holes into his back. And for his own safety and cowardice, he never turned to face them again.
Even though he couldn’t stand up in defense of himself, his brother could.
Rhylbryn’s soft-spoken and mild-mannered demeanor would’ve seemed like a detriment in their situation, especially with his appearance. The Sea Wolves they were used to dealing with were grizzled folk, hardened by rough lives on the sea and with arms as big as tree trunks. And while Bryn was none of these things – a scholar at heart, interested in the needle rather than the axe -, the way in which he spoke finally got people to listen.
“Me brother and I just tryin’ t’ get out of yer hair,” he’d say with a calm, placating smile with his hands raised. “We ain’t gonna try t’ talk t’ ye or bug ye for anything. So ye don’t ‘ave t’ worry about us; we’re just passin’ though.”
It was calming, soothing, and polite. But more than that, it was an admission of guilt of their existence.
Unlike the adults, the children were incessant. Very rarely would they watch from afar and whisper amongst themselves like their parents. Rather, most of the time, they would follow him around, poke at him, question him.
‘Why do my parents say yer weird?’
‘Is it true the gods don’t like ye?’
‘Why are ye even ‘ere if no one likes ye?’
And unlike the adults, Soemr couldn’t remain quiet and ignore them forever. That just made them angry at him, and that led to harsher questions and jeers.
“Please, I just want t’ be left alone,” he’d try, in a pale imitation of his brother’s words. “I don’t want t’ bother ye.”
But no matter how many times he tried, they wouldn’t leave him alone. The more questions they asked, the more they piled on him, and his head bowed under the weight of it all. His voice became a whisper on the wind, unheard and unheeded.
The adults preferred his silence, but the children only became more restless with it. The longer their questions went unanswered, the more they were replaced by jeers. Simple curiosity turned into annoyance, then to frustration, especially as their parents finally voiced their discomfort with him and his brother.
‘ Why are ye so quiet all the time?’
‘What, are ye too scared t’ talk? What kinda Limsan are ye?’
‘Yer mam’s a Roegadyn and yer dad’s a Miqo’te, but ye didn’t get anythin’ good outta either of them, huh?’
His family meant more to him than the world, yet his voice no longer existed to protest. Even though the children couldn’t see his eyes anymore, even though he was practically invisible to them now, he couldn’t get away.
He learned that if he set his alarm to early in the morning, as the Yellowjackets changed their shifts at the gate, he could slip out of Aleport quite easily. All he had to do was bring some food with him to eat and something to occupy him during the day.
It was exhilarating, crouching low in the underbrush to avoid detection as he made his way to his favorite spot. Freeing, even. During his escapades, he found a small cove hidden away in the rocky cliffs of the Brewer’s Beacon. Facing toward the ocean, it was the perfect spot to see the sunrise and enjoy his breakfast. Sometimes Bryn would join him, too, though the climb made him nervous.
It was a reprieve from all the stares he’d get in Aleport, a chance to simply be himself.
It just made returning to Aleport every day even worse. The more he slipped out of the house, the more intense the stares and the jeers he’d get upon returning. It eventually became unbearable – so numerous and cutting they were that he could hardly get anything done.
“Father, Mother…I don’t like it in Aleport. Can we move?”
It was a topic he broached often. Mother and Father were always supportive of him, and were his biggest defenders. Mother would leap down the throats of the adults who thought to tear him down. Father would have quieter conversations with the leaders of Aleport. But their responses were always…
“People like this exist everywhere,” Mother would respond with a resigned sigh. “It’s engrained in them – even in those that won’t ever say they disagree with ye bein’ yer father’s kid. They can feel when someone’s different. Shite fer brains can’t see that they’re kissin’ the feet of hundred years old conflict that don’t mean a thing today, even when I shove the facts in their faces.”
“…I do not like it either,” Father would add on, moments later. He spoke slowly, as if thinking of the right words to say. “This nation is founded on violence and deceit. Stained with it. I…do not understand how they can live like this. It is…deplorable, and I would not be interacting with them unless I had to.”
It wasn’t a problem of individuals, they explained. It was a plague on Limsan – no, almost every nation’s – society, of their bloody history. Nothing could be done by them; moving would not solve the issue. All that would be awaiting them was an unfamiliar culture with familiar harassment.
But this time when he asked, Father pulled him aside into his workshop. On the main anvil sat two pairs of glasses, one black-rimmed, one gold. Both had lenses so dark, he couldn’t see his fingers through the other side when he picked the black-rimmed pair up.
“Put them on,” Father urged, and so he did. The workshop’s lights dimmed, the shadows grew deeper, but he could still see well.
“Your mother and I have business in Limsa Lominsa today. You and your brother will be coming with us.”
The trip to the city took a bell by chocobo-drawn cart. The wares weighing down the cart needed to be delivered to their buyers, Mother explained, and he and Bryn would be accompanying them. It was no secret that she and Father expected them to take over their business when they were older, just as it was no secret that neither him nor Bryn wanted to manage it.
It seemed a simple enough job, but as they split into groups to deliver orders, switching off who they were traveling with, a pattern emerged. Even though his eyes were covered, there was a palpable difference to the way people watched him.
When it was the four of them together, the stares were just as intense as they were in Aleport. Even more so with all the wares they were carrying, to the point he felt the urge to hide in Bryn’s shadow. Anyone who witnessed them travel as a pack would continue to stare no matter where they went through the city, but when he wound through the packed streets only with his Mother, those that hadn’t seen them travel as a group of four hardly reacted to them at all. The odd looks returned when he traveled alone with Father, but they weren’t near the severity of when it was the four of them traveling together.
Without physical confirmation of his parentage, the presence of both of his parents – one Roegadyn woman, one Miqo’te man – with two Roegadyn children was enough to make the connection between them. Being alongside Father drew suspicion, but the connection was a leap in logic. It didn’t matter if they saw his eyes, his mixed heritage.
There was empty confusion mixed with the suspicion in the peoples’ eyes, yet none stepped forward to speak against their presence. He wondered if, if he had talked with them, they would reply as the fishmongers had back in Aleport, or if they would express confusion and discomfort at being called out for feelings they didn’t know they had.
His head hurt from it all. Even though he knew it was dangerous, he had to get some air. A quiet excuse to his family about finding them a table for dinner drew him out of the Bismarck, and he found himself leaning against a stone column overlooking the ocean. The noise was fainter, the air clearer, yet the black glasses hiding his eyes from the world also blocked him from seeing the shimmer of the setting sun on the waves.
It was all so tiring, having to hide away to get a modicum of peace.
How much time passed while he rested against the column, he didn’t know. Over time, the passage of footsteps behind him grew fainter and fainter. None stopped for him; their eyes didn’t rake across his back. For however long this peace lasted, he was just as invisible as he was to the children of Aleport, just…a different type of invisibility.
Until the silence, peace, and pain of invisibility was shattered.
“What’cha doin’?”
Soemr turned his head. The high voice belonged to a Highlander girl across the way.
Please go away, he wanted to say.
“Huh? What was that?”
The girl approached him, and he turned his head away. He’d said it aloud by mistake, mumbling his words over ragged, stress-bitten lips.
“Hey! Don’t ignore me! What did you say?”
“Please, go away,” he repeated, just a bit louder. Her inquisitive gaze burned into the side of his head; he kept his attention on the shimmer-less sea in front of him.
“Why? Did you run away from your parents, too?”
Why would he run from them? He shook his head, burying it in his arms and hoping she’d get the hint.
“You know, you look kinda like a girl I met once. Said the other girls and boys were saying mean things and hurting her, so she became a turtle. Kinda like you, but you’re actually green and brown like one!”
He remained silent, his brow furrowed.
“Are people being mean to you? Do I need to talk to them?”
She thought that she could fix it? Before he knew it, he’d snorted. The stare intensified, her voice hot with anger.
“What was that for?! I’m trying to help!”
“…Ye can’t do anythin’,” he whispered after a long period of silence.
“’Course I can! Just you watch! Where are they?”
If he’d been in the opposite situation once, him being the comforter, he knew he would’ve had the same zeal and spunk in her voice. It drove him long ago to confront the fishmongers, and it would’ve carried him to continue to do so had it not turned out as it did.
It was like listening to a mirror of himself. He didn’t know how to feel.
Anger?
Shame?
Hope?
“Aleport.”
“Aleport?” There was an odd sense of surprise in her tone.
“Aleport,” he repeated softly. “…where I live. No one likes me or me brother.”
“Why not?”
He shook his head. If she learned why, would she join them? If there was even the slightest chance the answer was ‘yes’, he wasn’t going to risk it.
There was quiet for a long time.
“What’s your name?”
“…Rhylsoemr.”
“‘Real Summer’? I can’t really hear you. Can you look at me?”
She’d been nice this whole time. If he made sure his glasses were on, it…could be alright, right?
Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her. The smile that greeted him was almost blinding.
“Guess what, Summer? Me and my family are moving to Aleport!”
The confusion he felt must’ve shown in his face, because the girl giggled. “So I can talk to them! And even if they don’t change, I’ll be your friend.”
Her name was Silver Gem. And just like she’d said, a moon after their meeting in Limsa Lominsa, he spied her and her family pulling carts of luggage to a house in Aleport from his window.
He didn’t have to brave the public to talk to her. As if she knew his struggles, she ventured outside the city walls herself, in awe of how the wind raced through the yellowing grass, how the land refreshed and invigorated the soul, how quiet and freeing it felt compared to the cramped city interior.
They met by the Brewer’s Beacon. He taught her how to safely climb down the cliff to the secret spot, and as she looked across the beautiful sea with stars in her eyes, the ghost of a smile hinted across his lips.
He didn’t know why he brought her to this place. It was dangerous. Any day, someone in Aleport could tell her who he was, and she would know exactly how to stab him in the back and steal his peace away.
When she turned back to him, he hid away the smile on his face and prayed his glasses would protect him when the time came.
Most times he prepared to sneak out of Aleport now, Silver was there waiting for him. Whether crouched in the shadows cast by the imposing city walls, hidden behind crates offloaded from the previous day’s ships, or simply sat on his family’s porch on her braver days, she always greeted him with a warm, if sleepy, smile. She was much more committed to staying with him than he’d thought.
Could she really want to be his friend so much? Why would she?
She was clearly sacrificing sleep – every sennight that passed, the grooves under her eyes dug themselves deeper and deeper. And what of her family? A quiet trill of worry and shame wound through him at the thought of her sacrificing time with her parents. Yet when he asked, she just barked a laugh, smacking him on the back.
“You don’t have to worry, Summer! I pulled all sorts of stunts like this in all the places I’ve been. They know I’m not content to stay inside city walls, wasting my days away. As long as in contact –“ a finger reached up to tap the linkpearl cuffed on her ear, “- I can do whatever I want.”
His response was a quiet nod and grunt. But now that worry was replaced with something odd and foreign to him.
Summer. She had been calling him that all this time. His parents explained when he was much younger the translation of his name – Plentiful Summer, son of Halu –, yet she was the only one to use that name.
Silver was looking at him curiously, a question on her tongue. Mercifully, she held her concern back, letting the space between them to fall silent with anticipation for him to voice his thoughts.
So, he allowed himself to breathe. “…Why d’ye call me that? My name is Rhylsoemr.”
“It is?”
The sudden whiplash of confusion made his mind go blank. Silver must have realized her misstep, stammering out a halting laugh. “Y-You were practically talking into your sleeves when I first met you. Sorry!”
Embarrassment flooded his cheeks. “O-Oh.”
As if she never noticed, she prattled on, glee in her voice. “Well, even if your name is Rhylsoemr, Summer fits you better. Warm summer breezes are calming and refreshing, right? You’re like…a big, comforting presence. I can’t help but feel relaxed around you.”
He turned his head away, sure as the sky above him that his cheeks were as red as apples. “Y…Ye can’t just say that.”
“Of course I can! And after saying that, I’m going to keep calling you Summer, no matter what you say.”
A deep breath willed away the fog of mortification clouding his thoughts. When the other children would call him different names, words wilted in his throat before he could whisper them. They would make no difference in the crushing wave of their disapproval and pity.
Here, however, with Silver…something about her laughter, her joy, her shamelessness suffused him with radiant strength, pushing away the memories and instincts of sad acceptance. Emboldened, he spoke words in a voice he did not recognize.
“If yer goin’ to call me that, I’m goin’ to start callin’ ye somethin’, too.”
“Oh yeah?” A daring, challenging smirk crossed her face, and she leaned closer – but careful not to intrude on his space. “Like what?”
His mind raced to translate the words, startling him with its speed, no longer weighed down by shame and disappointment.
“Sylbgeim. If…if yer goin’ to call me by that, I get to call ye by yer traditional name.”
“Sylbgeim?” she echoed, turning the word over with her tongue, tasting and testing it. “Sylbgeim…”
The laugh that erupted from her was pure and free, startlingly so. For a moment, Soemr flinched back, whatever golden confidence that had overcome him dissolving.
“I-I, um…I mean, if ye don’t want to –”
“I like it! So, from now on, you’re Summer, and I’m Sylbgeim. No takebacks – a deal’s a deal. Alright?”
Silver – Sylbgeim – was smiling at him with such warmth and openness that he could feel it settling into his bones, soothing his heart and pulling his attention away from the aches of his bent-low head and weak voice.
Bryn’s unexpected arrival at the secret place one day made their little duo a trio.
What had started as a lonely cove carved out of whitewashed rock, a hideaway from the horrors of Aleport, had turned into a place of warmth and comfort. In his little world, Sylbgeim’s kind teasing gradually encouraged him to venture outside his shell, to speak instead of whisper, to stand tall and smile and laugh. She and Bryn became as two peas in a pod, his quiet yet respectful and caring nature complimenting her adventurous and daring spirit in a way he never thought would be so refreshing. It came as a surprise that no one discovered their secret place, with their laughter and joy reflecting bright off the stone walls.
Bryn would not be at the secret place as often as Soemr and Sylbgeim were. A reward for his tenacious spirit in the face of adversity and torment, he was able to attend the small gathering of children learning their letters and basic concepts from the business-savvy parents of Aleport. And, like the kind-hearted soul that he was, his visits to the cove would grace them with lessons of their own, delivered in his soothing voice and directed by his gentle hand. Under his tutelage, Soemr gradually began to learned the knowledge forbidden to him otherwise, the trespasser in the quaint and peaceful lives of town as he was.
Except, something was wrong. The numbers and letters on his page were legible, shaky though his untrained hand was, and his mind grasped only their basic importance. Yet, the more he practiced them, the more odd they felt. Something was missing. Something was blocking him.
Why was it, when he wrote the letter ‘a’, did the black ink of his quill jar in his mind? Why did it not with the letter ‘x’, and barely so with ‘z’? Why was the letters ‘s’ and ‘u’ close cousins in his mind, where he had to concentrate to spell right? ‘0’ and ‘c’ were similar, and ‘h’ was impossible – it had no permanence at all, barely a ghost upon his page.
He found himself crushing the petals of a daisy one day, smearing yellow and white on the page with his finger. The incongruence in his mind only settled when ‘u’ was written over and over on the page in pure yellow. ‘S’ was a mixture heavy on yellow. ‘0’ was pure white, ‘c’ resulted from white mixed with the gray dust of the cove walls. ‘H’ was a trace of a clean finger on the page – nothing at all.
Bryn had been watching over his shoulder. The next day, a package of artists’ paint was nestled in his corner of the cove, along with a cotton canvas and a brush large enough for his hands.
“Why don’t ye try writin’ with that, Soemr?” Bryn had suggested, settling into his spot next to him. “We can replant the flowers after.”
It would been an understatement to say that he took to the paints like a fish to water. He painted a chart on his canvas, suffering through the unsettlingly wrong blackness of the letters for a final time. Stroke upon stroke fell upon it, capturing the memory of flashes of light and color in eternity.
As he gazed on the final stroke, the all the pieces of his mind finally settled in place. This was right, this was right, it whispered to him, and he finally understood why it had taken him so long to grasp Bryn’s teachings.
From then on, he suffered no more mental roadblocks in his learning. His canvases and paints were mysteriously supplied whenever he ran low, but his mind never turned to consider who was funding his supplies.
All he knew was the joy of learning – of learning alongside friends and family that wished for his success, of their support and determination to help him achieve his goals. And for the first time in his life, his cheeks hurt from smiling.
On one of the few days where he was alone at the secret spot, his routine of quiet peace outside the city walls was interrupted one day, when he chanced to spot Father emerging from the gates with a pickaxe and scythe in hand and bag strapped to his back.
Curiosity drove him to abandon his post at the cliffside. He knew he wouldn’t be able to follow him in secret for long; Father’s senses would detect before long. So, when he approached, he called out to him.
The corner of Father’s lip curled into an amused, expectant smile. “There you are. Would you like to join me, Soemr?”
“Join ye…?” he asked. “What’re ye doin’, Father?”
“If you expect to spend all your time outside, you should learn how to take care of yourself, yes?”
Father took him up the path past Sastasha into the lush green scape of Oakwood. He had heard tales of Oakwood being home to packs of vicious wolves and coeurl, advised to stay away…and yet the fresh greenery dripping with morning dew, the call of unfamiliar birds, the life coursing in the land stole his breath away.
The faintest of smirks was on Father’s lips. “It is quite different from outside Aleport, is it not? Would that you could have seen it when it was a grand forest.”
Indeed, for a place called Oakwood, there were hardly any trees. The ones that periodically dotted the landscape were thin things, bowing in the salt-laden breeze.
Sharp pink Seeker eyes, corners wrinkled with age and stress, scanned the landscape. As he spotted his first target of many, he looked back to him with the pride of a mentor to student, father to son.
“Follow me.”
It was a quiet, serene tour Father took him on throughout Oakwood.
“Wild rice,” Father murmured, admiring yellowing stalks standing tall amongst the grass. “Do you see how tall these are? They are mature, and ready for you to cut. Touch your blade just below where the yellow starts, and cut down and to the side. The seeds are your food, but the stalks are your fuel for fire.”
Their next stop was a patch of tiny white flowers. “Chamomile is for medicine. Pinch the flowers off early and often, and store them to dry. When you have scrapes or sores, discomfort in your stomach, or need calm, boil them in water for a time and drink the tea. You may make the tea with fresh flowers if you need, but…” A quiet chuckle escaped him. “I prefer mine less bitter, and I imagine you would as well.”
Then they stood before pink flowering tree, brilliant against the greenery surrounding it and carrying surplus of fruit. “My Mother, your Grandmother, believed that long ago, one of our line ate an entire plum tree, branches and fruit and all. So large and bountiful was the tree that it was enough to stain our eyes with their juices, and curse us with a taste and hunger for more. Pick the ones that are soft, sweet, and not green.”
Soon, his pickaxe was carving deep gouges into the rock of the cliffside, exposing deposits of stone radiating energy and bright crystalline shards. “This land is blessed by Titan, and he and his children have given us the gift of magic. Crystals to release energy, and stone to magnify and bless energy. I will teach you how to make a brand, so that you can cook your meals and purify your water.”
On and on they went, treading footpaths through the vibrant grass, speaking in soft tones so as to not disturb the serenity of the once-wood. Father showed him small alcoves in cliffsides to take shelter in pouring rain; how to angle a knife into a smallshell for a quick and merciful; the territory of the coeurl that had lived there for centuries and how far he must stay away from the beautiful waterfalls.
Sunset was staining the clouds hues of orange and red by the time he and Father sat on the store of the small pond, rough fishing poles in their hands and bait eyed temptingly by the green fish nearby. And while Soemr had been content to remain quiet amidst the lessons, a question had been burning the back of his throat the entire day.
“Father, why’re ye teachin’ me all of this? Wouldn’t ye want me to be like Bryn, ignorin’ all of them and makin’ ye proud…?”
“’Make me proud’?” Father echoed, a curious noise sounding from him.
Soemr lowered his head. “…I’m not like ye, or Mother, or Bryn. I’m not strong, smart, or proud. I can’t do what ye guys do and…shrug off everyone.”
Father breathed a silent sigh, gazing out across the pond.
“Did I ever tell you I was a rebel in my youth?”
Soemr blinked slowly, looking up to him.
“I was, yes. A rebel different than you, in that my defiance was to what was expected of boys like me. Not the hierarchy of the sept or roles, but who they believed I ought to be.” The bait on his pole wriggled, creating ripples in the glassy expanse of the water’s surface. His eyes focused on it. “The position of Nunh is an honor, one of the greatest a man can hold in a sept. It is a declaration of balance, competence, and ultimate trust. You are chosen to work with your sept to ensure the continued progress and survival of the sept, and are entrusted with the greatest duty of guiding and being a father to all - not just your children, but all people of the sept. Boys like me were expected to strive for the position.
“I refused it. Why chase for a dream when you know your option is to win or leave your family and try again elsewhere? I found it better to excel in what I was gifted at, to serve my people in the ways that I could. For refusing the dream, I was scorned by my friends, ridiculed, and ignored. My Mother was confused and believed something was wrong.”
Soemr’s voice was a whisper as he spoke. “…What did ye do to fix it?”
“Fix it? I did not strive to fix a problem of their perception. What I did was flee, much like you.”
His confusion must have shown plain on his face. Father chuckled. “Yes, I fled. Like you, I spent my days away from the eyes of my sept, learning the land on my own terms and time. There was no reason to spend time arguing my decisions when I could instead be furthering my skills and feeling at peace. I ensured enough contact that they did not assume me a lost child, but otherwise found myself here.”
“But…ye did go back, yeah? Ye talk so highly of them.”
“When my skills were worth more than their comments, yes.” Two pairs of pink eyes followed a fish that was curiously inspecting the bait at the end of Soemr’s line. “…Get ready, Soemr. When the fish takes hold, pull up and back with your shoulders and back.”
Soemr leaned forward, his gaze pinned on the fish, his posture as still and rigid.
“Breathe and relax. You will not be catching any fish if you forget to breathe.”
In, out. In, out. Oxygen flooding his lungs and disseminating into his muscles forced them to relax. The fish wandered close to the bait; his grip on his fishing pole grew tight.
In, out.
The fish hesitated, as if aware of its fate should it bite.
In, out.
Its small mouth gaped open, closed, eyes darting every which way.
In, out.
Without warning, the fish bite down on the bait and clung –
Soemr wrenched his arm back with a speed and power not known to him. One moment, the fish was serene under the glassy surface of the pond. The next, it was hurtling through the air at cutting speeds, and should it have been able to make noise, it would surely have been screaming at the violence.
Whether by force or by reflex, the fish loosened its bite at the top of the arc. The disgusting splat it made as it collided with a nearby rock seemed to echo throughout Oakwood, staining the silence and tranquility with its immediate death.
Father, however, seemed unbothered by it all. Soemr’s overzealotry upon first bite, the brutal death of being scored against unforgiving rock, the way his son seemed frozen in time – Father simply stood and retrieved the battered remains. Where it had taken the brunt of the collision, the green hue of its scales had been scraped away, flattened oblong like a cake.
“Less force is needed next time,” was all his Father commented. “There will be plenty opportunities for practice. One more will suffice for dinner.”
Night had fallen by the time Father had fully explained and guided him through how to debone their prizes, to make his own fire brand, to use just enough of its energy to light their leftover rice stalks. Over their meals of tenderized fish and rice, Father spoke once more.
“My sept never understood my desire to live simply, to not chase the honor of Nunh. Even after honing my skills in peace and returning to them a skilled worker, I would often feel their confused stares upon my back. My work was celebrated and what I produced was rewarded; they could understand them. They could not understand me. And so I found myself here quite often.
“Their sept was set in tradition, and so their minds followed. They were good people at heart, but they could not understand me. I…see Eorzea similarly, in how they treat us. In how they treat you and your brother. It is not your burden to shoulder their discomfort and allow them to exist as they do. You are allowed to be as free as they are, and as I was back in my youth. I only ask,” his lips stretched into a warm smile, “that you stay safe and remember those who love you for who you are.”
By the time Father returned to Aleport, Soemr returned with him, with warmth spread in his breast and a relaxed smile on his lips.
Soemr enjoyed the freedom and relief of the grasslands outside the walls of Aleport, enjoyed the quiet stillness and birdcalls of Oakwood. But there had been a place he’d been missing, without realizing it. Father’s words awoke him to that fact.
His family’s house was much like a mansion, far bigger in scale and depth than any of the other houses in Aleport. It was a privilege to live in such a house, he knew – but living his first years in such a place stripped it of glitter and sparkle, and his hunger for peace turned outward instead. Now, enough time had passed that the stone castle’s walls shimmered under the sunlight once again, golden rays filtering in through the windows and illuminating shining hardwood. Fresh air and time revitalized plush rugs and couch cushions, sweeping dust and dirt tracks away and making curtains and appliances look like new.
On his first day spent entirely in the house since his younger years, he found rooms that he’d forgotten about, as well as rooms he’d never realized existed. A sense of wonder filled him as he wandered down the halls, tracing his hand along walls that didn’t know him.
It was unexpectedly comfortable and warm. So much so that he didn’t venture outside the next day either, prompting a worried knock at his door by Sylbgeim. Soon, Bryn had joined them in the house, and they spent the day lounging on the couches and practicing reading. When Father arrived home from his meetings, he sat down with them and quietly instructed them on math and formulas. Cooking that evening’s dinner was a group effort, and while their large kitchen felt like it could hardly fit them all, bumping into each other and laughing at spilled flour and broken eggs made the meal taste much richer.
He practiced his painting, too. There was a storage room near the back of the house he’d found one day, with a window facing out into the plains outside the city walls. As the golden grass bent and settled under the wind, he set up his easel – a gift found outside his room one morning – and canvas and got to work. Letters became easy, so he turned to words; when words became easy, he turned to feelings. Paint and color became the vessel for emotion: rolling green hills of peace atop foundations of quiet , towers of happiness reaching the sky painted with streaks of sunsets of family and hope . And in the center of his paintings was always Rhylsoemr Halusyn himself, basking in the life and energy of the world, hidden away from the pestilence of people.
It was truly a time of bliss, of relaxation and relief.
He messed up one evening. Under the guise of darkness, he let caution slip away from him as he made his way back to the Aleport gates.
It was the first, and last, time he would ever make that mistake.
One moment, the children were circled around him, snarling scathing words with sharp and twisted grins on their faces.
The next, one of them was rushing forward, fist extended, shouting something he couldn’t understand over the rushing of blood in his ears. Pain bloomed in his stomach as he doubled over, curling in on himself. The others fell upon him, raining kicks and punches against his back and legs, laughing as if it were the greatest game in the world.
Reveling in the desire to harm another person, craving more and more power over the life of others – this is what the good, pure, moral, normal people of Aleport were?
Then what was he, who just wanted to remove himself from their blight, to find peace and joy and love elsewhere? Who did everything in his power to maintain their illusion of their perfect little town, to stay out of their way so they didn’t have to remember he existed?
He was so sick of it. He haven’t done anything wrong.
His fist met one of the children’s cheeks with a meaty thwack, and they cried out, stumbling back. The fist that was once beating down on his back unfurled to touch their reddening cheek, their smirk morphing into pained shock.
Slowly, Soemr stood, back sloughing off the weight of years of stares. Though some of the pureblooded children had grown taller than him, under the fury of his tired glare, they took a step back, then two, uncertainty crossing their faces.
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
The first child’s hand lowered from his cheek, and rose into a balled up fist. “What in the ‘ells are ye doin’?!” he shouted to his friends. “There’s just one of ‘im! Beat ‘im into the ground, grind ‘im t’ dust!” A sickening grin stretched his cheeks uncomfortably, uncannily wide. “Bet ‘e don’t even know ‘ow t’ fight.”
The life and vigor returned to the faces of the children, sharing smiles and grins and laughter as they readied their fists and feet.
They were right. Soemr had never learned how to fight or how to defend himself. All he knew was –
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
Their punches took his breath away and promised bruises and aches; their nails dug deep groves into his skin and bled fiercely; and their kicks made his ankles shriek in agony and legs quiver. So many of their fists pounded against his straightened back, his weak and untrained spine threatening to bow again under their judgment. But still, he remained tall and strong.
He hadn’t done anything wrong!
Cold exhaustion drove him to be relentless, to rain blow upon blow upon blow on their heads and arms and chests. The sweet release of it all sang loud and bright in his ears, chasing away the pain as soon as it bloomed all over his body, and he found himself reveling and delighting in how the mantle of his shame, his anguish, his desire to be free of all of them once and for all fell away from his shoulders.
He hadn’t done anything wrong!
Despite how fiercely their limbs were shaking from fatigue and pain, the children pressed on and on and one, shouting amongst each other, cackling when their blows landed true and ripped cries from his throat. Wild insanity filled and brightened their eyes. The sneers that previously ripped through his flesh and lungs transformed into jeers amongst each other to leap on his back, aim for his unnatural eyes, to push further and further.
He hadn’t done anything wrong!
Soemr refused to stop, to give in. In a mocking facsimile of his tormentors, he felt a wild grin of his own take shape, ripping across his cheeks and pulling fiercely on his cuts. The adrenaline of the fight, the rush of standing on his own two feet numbed his mind and senses. And as they fell to the ground, one by one, under his onslaught, tears in their eyes and limbs shaking from exhaustion and pain, his satisfaction only grew. From the corners of his eyes, he saw them crawling away from him as best they could, their gleeful cries turning to shouts for help.
HE HADN’T DONE ANYTHING WRONG!
In the midst of his defense, he saw the first child raise his arms to defend himself. His bloody, bruised, battered fists crashed down on him, the strength gained from scaling cliffs every day to deliver himself away from pain and suffering bearing down on him like a landslide – and he felt more than heard the sickening snaps.
Shouts turned to screams. Yellowjacket whistles pierced the air. Strong arms, stronger than his own laced with freedom wrapped around him, hauling him away from his tormentors. His snarl wrenched its way out of his ragged throat, hoarse from screaming at them.
“I ‘AVEN’T DONE ANYTHIN’ WRONG!”
“I ‘AVEN’T DONE ANYTHIN’ WRONG!”
“I ‘AVEN’T DONE ANYTHIN’ WRONG!”
A hand snapped shut over his mouth. Copper coated his tongue as he bit down, and yet the hand remained, muffling his cries. So he bit down again and again and again, tearing into the flesh of Yellowjacket’s palm and ignoring his own cries.
The hand was removed, and what replaced it was a cotton strap caught between his jaws. His body collided with the chilly stone docks, and this time, his strength availed him naught as irons clapped his wrists behind his back and his ankles together.
Chained and gagged as he was, Soemr refused to let himself be silenced. Even as parents rushed to tend to their children, his muffled screams tainted the nighttime silence and peace of Aleport, hanging heavy and thick over the town and its inhabitants long after he was carried away.
Thanalan was known as the land where money ruled all, but La Noscea followed in its footsteps. A hefty sum passed to the right person under the Halu and Hollstyrwyn Construction & Prospecting name was all it took. The shackles around Soemr’s wrists to were removed, the public-facing cell door was opened, and he was shoved back onto the pristine white streets of Aleport with little more than a harsh grunt from the keyholder.
‘House arrest’ was the official term for his transition. Not free, but not trapped in a cell with other ne’er-do-wells who refused to look at him. It was a welcome change; he had spent his days detesting the thought of his assailants or their families visiting and screaming at him through the cell bars, and now he could turn his mind to other things.
But he could not leave his house. He was surrounded by family and comfort and kindness, but his soul ached for his special spot in the cliffside. His heart yearned for the peace and freedom Sylbgeim brought. All he could do was open the window blinds and stare out to the uncaring city.
Boredom and restlessness took him to even more unexplored parts of the house. In his time away, Bryn had commandeered the arts room, filling the empty space with bright swatches of fabric and yarn and thread that mystified and enchanted him. The storage room held so many varieties of ores and crystals that sparkled in the lamplight, and Father’s teachings helped him identify the local varieties. Even the library had expanded since he last saw it, bookshelves lining the walls and comfortable plush chairs always within reach.
All of these delights, and yet his curiosity took his feet toward Father and Mother’s bedroom while they were out at work one day. Snooping wasn’t his goal; looking back after the fact, he could not find a reason he went there at all that day. Hidden atop the dresser cabinet, though, was something that lead him down a path he never thought possible.
A well-worn journal, wrapped in rough hide and full of yellowing pages. Faded words on the pages described a paradise. Rough sketchlines painted a picture of heaven. Something he had never witnessed.
Communal meals with friends and neighbors after a long days’ work, accompanied by song and laughter.
Stories of hard won victories with teammates, elation and excitement and relief bleeding through the pages.
Tender moments of acceptance of differences between a tribal Miqo’te sept and Kobolds.
There were no stories of conflict. Of aggression among children, of shame and disappointment in youth. There was only happiness. Peace. Love.
Community.
Why couldn’t he have that? Whenever he looked out the windows, all he saw was the same sights of people wishing he and his brother weren’t around. The less injured children from the fight, bearing bruises and scars from his blows, would spy him looking down on them and scurry into the shadows, hiding away from his gaze with their tails tucked between their legs.
The echoes of adrenaline still sang in his blood. His mind looked down on them from high with smug righteousness. If they feared him, they would leave him to his peace. They would continue their lives with a painful lesson learned, and his quality of life would only rise from here.
Yet, he couldn’t let go of the images burned into his brain in Father’s journal. Those scenes of tranquility, success, and joy with others haunted him. Muddied the justice flowing through his veins, corroded the success and safety of that night.
He quickly replaced the journal on the top of the dresser and left. That night, the canvas in his room was smeared ugly with frustration and longing , painted in crude streaks across his dreams of a better life.
It was near the end of his house arrest that he saw the child with the broken arms again.
Surrounded by wood slats and wrapped in heavy bandaging, the arms looked as if they’d been replaced by a club. Regardless of their weight and the pain they caused him, though, the broken boy stood tall among his friends cowering in the shadows. As the days passed, more and more of them stepped out into the light of the town, fueled by the broken child’s resolve.
And then, close to the end of his house arrest, Soemr peeked through the blinds and saw weapons strapped to their belts. His blood turned to ice. Their day jobs were being assistant dockhands. There was no normal reason for them to carry weapons and group around his family’s house.
He spent the dwindling hours of that day searching the ore storehouse, learning the various properties of the ores and stones Father supplied for their business. Guilt shredded his mind, but it had to be done. He needed to stay safe.
Under the cover of night, making sure his glasses were firmly on his face, he braved the aethernet and teleported to Limsa Lominsa with a heavy burden over one shoulder and a heavy heart. The Blacksmith’s Guild’s fires acted as his waypoint, and as he set the weighted bag of ores on the ground, he spoke his desires to the guildmaster.
On the last day of his house arrest, a large wooden box arrived to the Halusyn household. He only dared to open it when he was in the privacy of his own room: a massive battleaxe, crafted from the materials he’d brought, seared red and black and inlaid with gold.
Intimidation as its foremost concern, exactly as he’d asked. Its weight was unwieldy when he practiced a swing. Strapped to his back, it was as a looming shadow of a guardian. Its edge was dulled, not even able to slice through butter before crushing it. With luck, this would knock sense into the children that gathered at his front door.
The children leapt back as he opened the front door. Eyes that were once strong, emboldened by the broken child’s determination, turned fearful as the sun reflected off red and black metal. The broken child was stunned into silence.
The Yellowjackets came, of course. Soemr claimed the axe was a family relic. Once he heard of the news, Father and Mother stood beside him. He knew he would be watched even more closely now – but all he had to do was sneak out, and the axe afforded him more safety than any Yellowjacket would.
“Ye can keep it, Soemr. But ye ain’t allowed t’ swing unless they swing first, got that?” Mother spoke with narrowed eyes.
“I just want them to stop,” he replied in a quiet voice. “They won’t come after me with this. Even…even though I feel good when I fight, I don’t want to hurt them. I just want them to stop.”
He could walk Aleport now that the townspeople watched him with shock rather than disgust. Shock weighed less on his back than disgust and pity; his head rose, and as he looked back to them, they learned to avert their eyes. They were a trade-off for the intense gazes of the Yellowjackets. It was a different sort of freedom than the wilds outside the gates. It was a freedom of refusal and rebellion; that he would no longer be cowed under their gazes and slink around the shadows to the safety of the grasslands.
But it also did not.
As he passed throughout the town, Soemr felt shocked gazes turned to disapproval and fear, sharp and cutting as ever. The Yellowjackets refused to take their eyes off him; he saw their stances change to something more guarded, their hands never leaving the hilts of their weapons. The children kept their distance, but openly glared at his back when he was turned away; when he watched them, the sun and lamplight glinted off their yet-undrawn steel. Scattered in the streets were papers from the Mythril Eye claiming he’d attacked with the intent to maim, complete with an illustration of a face much older than his own filled with bloodlust.
And all the while, the old whispers began anew, carrying a different tune.
‘Don’t stare at ‘im! Who knows what ‘e’ll do…?’
‘What kinda monster goes around town, glarin’ at people with a weapon like that? The Yellowjackets need to do somethin’…’
‘That child is going to rampage one day, I swear it. ‘e’s a beast waitin’ t’ go wild…’
A monster?
A beast?
This is what they thought of him, doing as the other children did?
He’d armed himself to prevent confrontation, but spawned a different kind instead. United in their fear and anger, their gazes burned him like they’d tossed him into a bonfire. Born to be their sacrifice, to burn for their sins and claim themselves virtuous; he saw their plan too late.
His head refused to bow this time. Aleport was no longer the star’s harshest penitentiary, where one wrong look or misstep could be interpreted as disobedience and worthy of punishment. Through his own hand, it had transformed into a silent battlefield; him versus the town, each side waiting for the other to slip to strike back in full satisfaction of their justice.
His body became as rigid and unyielding as stone, his eyes searching the shadows for any signs of the first attack. And amidst the frustration and fury, fear, his constant companion, thrummed in his heart.
The glare and searing heat in the air of Aleport made him wish for the cool shade of Oakwood even more. Discomfort prickling at his skin could always be soothed by blessedly cool breezes, after all.
Fishing was a quiet, peaceful pastime, fulfilling a craving forced upon him by most people in his life. But what of his own desires? When he desired something other than the silence of the once-wood, what would he do?
With his new axe came new opportunities: hunting, in particular. Dinners with his family had widened his palette past Oakwood’s fish, and to fill that gap, he experimented. Puk flesh was light and easy to roast; moles gamey; yarzon legs crunchy. Soon, he was making stews in the shells of the crabs and miq’ababs of puk and plum skewered on yarzon, mixing different textures and flavors that made an explosion of flavor on his tongue.
What surprised him more than the variety of the land, however, was how he enjoyed the hunt. Not the stalking and chasing down of prey – most of the animals on the plains and in the grass knew of his presence, he was there so often – but the takedown. The edges of his axe were so blunt, they couldn’t cut the wild rice stalks; but it was heavy, and he made up for its lack of cutting with raw strength. One swing was always enough to break the bones of his prey.
And the dance leading to that final blow was the best part. His blood sang, his mind turned alive. The adrenaline rushing through his veins felt like sparks reigniting his sluggish, beaten-down body. The puks’ fire breath threatened his enough to keep him on his toes; the moles and their spines were as fast as levin and required concentration; the yarzon had to be lured away from their nest and be cut limb from limb.
Yes, the peace is what he craved as a respite; but fighting was what truly made him feel alive.
Like a beast, Aleport would have sneered at him if they’d known. Who else but an animal takes pleasure in killing?
The children had done exactly that – aimed to hurt him and reveled in it. This was him hunting for pleasure in addition to food. And yet, the niggling voice in the back of his mind, the harsh voice of Aleport’s, rang cacophonous.
To take his mind off it, he would sit and watch the wind roll by, take in the smell of the salty sea and focus on the chirping of birds. Envision the Miqo’te of Father’s sept dominating this land, dashing between now-fallen trees and hunting alongside him as the land’s apex predators. Basking in the warmth of community and good food once the hunt was over, singing songs and dancing dances in the company of peaceful firelight, looking him in the eyes without prejudice or anger as they laughed and smiled.
He wasn’t doing anything different. This lifestyle suited him far more than performing invisibility and weakness for people that enjoyed his suffering.
The day that Bryn and Syblgeim asked him to show them Oakwood, it was bright and sunny with plenty of fluffy clouds dotting the sky. Warm but not humid, the air humming with life and birdsong.
Years ago, Father had brought him here for the first time and taught him of all the bounties the land provided. Yet, even after all this time, the words were still as fresh and clear in Soemr’s mind as when he’d first heard them – perhaps even more so. Enchanted by stories of the past, sketched in a beaten journal hidden at the top of a dresser, they took on an almost magical expanse in his memory now, fantasy seamlessly intermingling with real life. The plums he picked for his midday snacks became the descendants of the same trees Father’s sept relied on; the earth seeded with the rice and grapes they cultivated. The trees were no longer there, but he could see them in his minds’ eye, providing shade and comfort to the people of the land as they worked. And as he spoke to his brother and friend of them, he could hear how his voice rose with excitement, became breathless when they came upon particular landmarks.
Their faces were full of smiles and enjoyment, but even in his happiness, he could tell they didn’t quite understand. That was alright – no one had to understand, not even the two people he was closest with. All that mattered was that they were happy for him; he wouldn’t dare give that up for the world.
In the shadows cast by the abandoned mill, they rested for lunch. It was one of the few times he had a meal in this place he hadn’t hunted or fished for himself, and the company of Bryn and Sylbgeim made the homemade molasses bread and orange slices taste even better. As the sweet and citrus flavors danced on his tongue, Sylbgeim spoke.
“You really like it out here, huh, Summer?”
“Mmh?” came his muffled reply.
She laughed as he forced himself to chew faster. “Don’t go choking now! We’re not medics, you know. If you start choking, what would we be able to do, hmm? Punch you in the chest ‘till you horked it up?”
Soemr furiously waved a hand. Pleadingly. He wasn’t going to choke if it meant that.
Bryn snorted a chuckle, leaning back against the mill’s wall, careful of how it creaked loudly in response. “She’s right, though. I ‘aven’t seen ye this excited since ye started showin’ us yer art.”
A swig of his water flask finally helped him swallow down the remnants of his meal. Soemr breathed a sigh of content. “…Yeah, I do.” Setting aside his flask for now, he leaned back on his hands, his fingertips brushing against the handle of his axe. Even in the relative safety of the mill and the comfort of companionship, he’d be a fool to stray far from it. “It’s…quiet up here. Aside from the birds, I mean. Since no one’s up ‘ere, I get t’ do whatever I want.”
“Hunting and exploring, you mean.” Sylbgeim had raised an eyebrow. “You’re practically a naturalist, you know? Ever since I met you, you’ve enjoyed being out here in the wilderness.”
“It was…mostly to get away from people, back then.” And it still was. But now, he was truly thriving – in the yellowing grass, in the dirt and greenery, on the cliff-faces and oceans. His own little corner of the world where he could find peace and excitement as he craved them. “It feels like…a second ‘ome. A place where I belong.”
“Aye, it seems t’ be a safer place fer ye than Aleport.”
Soemr turned his head to look to Bryn. His brother was smiling at him, though there was an almost sadness to his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
What? Why was he apologizing? Bryn had never done anything wrong, ever. There wasn’t a bad bone in his body; in his eyes, his brother could do no wrong. Such was his nature.
“…I couldn’t protect ye. I’m sorry.”
Sylbgeim lowered her head. Even the birdsong stilled.
Soemr shook his head. Lowered his voice. “Ye’ve done nothin’ wrong, Bryn. What could ye even have done? They’re…set in their ways.”
Even as he spoke, there was a pang of pain in his heart. His heart would never break for Aleport, he knew it. And yet…something hurt, thinking about it. About never knowing love from the people around him, save for family and a close friend. Of not being afforded the privilege of other peoples’ care and concern.
He knew Bryn hadn’t ever felt it, too. The expression in his eyes was an admission of that.
“Even so, I feel like I could’ve done more. I saw ye were strugglin’, and did what I thought was best by showin’ ye my methods. But, I should’ve known what works fer me might not work fer ye.
“D’ye know that they talk about ye, all the time?” His brother gave him a solemn smile. “It’s not good talk. They ask me what ye’ve been doin’, where ye’ve been. When I try t’ direct their attention away, they start spinnin’ all sorts of theories about what trouble yer getting’ into. All fiction, of course – I never say anythin’ about ye but good things. Whenever they start with all of that, I can only think about ye, enjoyin’ life out ‘ere, or paintin’ at ‘ome, or nappin’ at the special spot…and I don’t say a word about it.”
Soemr remained quiet. Even he didn’t know what his expression was.
“I’ve been thinkin’ I should change that. So that one day, ye and other people like us can feel comfortable wherever and whoever we find ourselves around.”
Bryn reached a hand up for his glasses -
Before he even knew what he was doing, Soemr’s hand was grasping his’, pulling it away. What was he doing? Did he even know?
Did Sylbgeim even know what were under those darkened lenses?
“I-I…” His breath stalled in his throat.
Bryn watched him patiently, waiting for him. As he always did.
“…I tried standin’ up t’ them,” Soemr spoke once he’d gathered his resolve. It was easy, with him and Sylbgeim…but he could feel the shakiness in his voice still “Y-Ye know where that got me. What if they treat ye the same way?”
Bryn didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve anything but the best this world had to offer. He didn’t deserve to have a little voice nagging him in the back of his mind, criticizing his every move. Even now, he could feel the stare of something hungry at his back.
“Aleport’s views of both of us are different. They saw ye break free of fear and fight back and labeled ye somethin’ out of control. Meanwhile, they see me and think I don’t belong in a classroom, but they feel like can’t kick me out because I keep polite and respectful. I would get pushback, aye…but I wouldn’t be labeled like ye.”
“But-”
“Soemr. Will ye let me protect ye? Please?”
Soemr closed his eyes. Forced himself to take a deep breath of the still air of Oakwood, hoping that it would calm his shaking nerves. It didn’t.
“…I don’t want ye t’ get hurt tryin’ t’ protect me.”
His voice was barely above a whisper. Even without the breeze, he wasn’t sure if Bryn would have heard it at all.
Bryn’s little smile told him that he did. His less-calloused hand turned in Soemr’s grasp, gently prising itself loose after giving a light squeeze. Then, his smaller arms were him, enveloping him in a warm hug.
Another hand alighted on Soemr’s shoulder. When he craned his head back, Sylbgeim was smiling at both of them. “And if anyone messes with him, we can protect him in turn, right? None of us are gonna be left behind.”
In that moment, he felt the stress of the voice and the gaze flood out of him. Shoulders sagged in relief of the burden lifted, and he could feel the warmth of Bryn and Sylbgeim’s love fill him instead.
He didn’t know how long the hug ended up lasting for. Time didn’t matter anymore. Here, he was surrounded by the care of friends and family and the peace and silence of the once-wood.
…Silence?
It was never silent in Oakwood. Quiet, yes, but not silent.
Where was the birdsong? All he could hear was the rushing and pounding of the waterfalls nearby.
…He wasn’t supposed to be near waterfalls.
Father showed him small alcoves in cliffsides to take shelter in pouring rain; how to angle a knife into a smallshell for a quick and merciful; the territory of the coeurl that had lived there for centuries and how far he must stay away from the beautiful waterfalls.
Slowly, Soemr lifted his head from Bryn’s shoulder.
“Are ye feelin’ better now, Soemr? If ye wanna show us any of your other favorite places out here, I’m d-”
Right as Bryn moved away, Soemr spotted the gleaming eyes of a hunter in the bush.
And it was at that moment that it struck.
With speed unknown to him, Soemr had grabbed his axe and swung at the massive blur of yellow and brown that hurtled toward Bryn’s back. It was so fast, so out of his league, that he was sure he’d been too late, until he felt the impact of smashing into solid muscle.
The coeurl, the lord of the waterfalls, landed heavily on all fours. One leg was bent oddly at the shoulder, white underbelly fur scraped off with the force of his blow. Yet, even with its injury, the beast snarled with unkempt rage and indignation, long serrated claws flexing deep cuts into the earth they’d just been standing on.
In that moment, Soemr realized he was not the apex predator of Oakwood. He had been the predator to all of his hunts and meals, but he was as but prey to the coeurl twice his size. And he was the prey that dared to strike back and deny it.
Bryn and Sylbgeim were hidden behind him, eyes wide with terror. They were unarmed. Defenseless.
They couldn’t stay here.
“Go!” The intensity of his snarl matched the beast’s. His limbs trembled with anxiety, of the fear of not making it out alive, but he had to protect them. He would.
“But-”
“Don’t argue with me! Go!” His hiss stunned Bryn into fearful silence. “Get ‘elp! I’ll try t’ keep it away from ye and get away when I can, but ye need t’ get out of ‘ere!”
“Soemr-!”
A startled yelp sounded out from behind him as Sylbgeim grabbed Bryn by the wrist and wrenched him back. “Don’t ya dare fight it, Soemr! Get outta there as soon as ya can!”
The only reply he managed was a grunt before the coeurl was on him.
To say that fending off the beast was different than all of his previous fights was an understatement of the highest order. The coeurl’s lashes of claws ghosting against his skin brought no exhilaration of successfully avoiding maiming; his own lashing out with his axe yielded no joy of battle. The adrenaline pumping through his veins gave no heady sensation of power and life; it only made his grip slick and his arms shake like he’d already been electrocuted. There was no feeling of freedom, only stress and fear for his life.
This was not a willing dance, but one with no escape and full of taunting. When will you be eviscerated? the coeurl seemed to ask with every swipe of its claws. How long can you avoid me catching you? sang the eyes of the apex predator.
Exhaustion bled the energy from his arms and legs. For every strike he managed to block with his axe, five more were avoided by stumbling and ducking like a drunken fool. Sweat blinded his eyes and fogged up his glasses, forced himself to throw them away so he could stand a chance at avoiding the next set of teeth baring down on his throat. Levin humming in the air crumbled any composure and mental processing he had to bits. In the end, he was left swinging wildly and blindly, deteriorating sensation barely allowing him to dodge.
There was no running away from this, he eventually realized. This was a fight to the death. The coeurl didn’t see him as something worth running away from. The blows it’d sustained were only glancing; its stamina far exceeded his own. Fighting and killing prey was its life; his own experiences paled in comparison.
After what seemed like an eternity, the tides changed, but not in his favor. The coeurl reared up on hind legs and beared its full weight down on top of Soemr; his axe held in guard position was the only thing that kept him from the beast striping the ground with his guts, blood, and bone. Massive paws pressed against the unyielding steel of its axe, serrated and chipped claws scrabbling against the metal as if to claim the weapon for itself, missing his hands by mere ilms. The coeurl’s jaws were trapped around the shaft as well, fangs only stayed their course by the shaft refusing it to move any further. Fetid breath, the smell of rotten and long-dead meat and blood, flooded his face and made him gag.
His back was to the rotted wall of the mill. He was pinned. Stuck. And the coeurl’s whiskers were charging purple with a lethal shot of levin.
He…he couldn’t give in. He had to stay alive. He had to protect Bryn and Sylbgeim and his whole family.
He couldn’t die here.
Instinct overrode his cobbled-together thoughts. His left hand yanked down on the axe’s shaft, tilting the beast sideways, loosening its grip on that side of the axe and freeing the paw –
Sensing its chance, the coeurl’s paw lashed out at its closest target, claws spread wide –
Agony and hot blood splashed against his face, blinding one eye with red –
Soemr tucked and rolled out of the corner, wrenching his axe back with him –
The pointed bottom of the axehead, dull as it was, slammed into the side of the coeurl’s head and he felt it drive into something squishy –
Its visceral shriek was loud enough to rattle the rotted oaken walls around them. It rang loud and painful in his ears, and he felt a ragged shriek of his own tear up through his throat in response.
As its bloodied paw came up to the bloodied hole that once contained its eye, wiping and frenzied that it could no longer see from that side, he heard it. The screams of other coeurl, furious and responding to the call for aid.
Soemr ran like his life depended on it – because now more than ever, it did.
He was fortunate that his muscle memory was so well trained in Oakwood and outside Aleport. Blinded as he was by blood and desperation, he’d otherwise not be able to find his way out of the coeurl’s territory.
If that was fortune, then, it was misfortune that the only available hands to send into coeurl territory were Aleport’s Yellowjackets.
They met him outside the city walls, just past the Sastasha Seagrot entrance. In their eyes, he must have looked pitiful, blood flowing free and plentiful from the jagged stripes cut through his face and expression twisted with agony. And although the last vestiges of his mind screamed at him to be careful, that they were the enemy, his traitorous legs collapsed under him as soon as they spotted him.
His mind wavered. Rough were touching him, grabbing him, dragging him through the golden fields back to the city, leaving a trail of flattened grass stained red in his wake. Through the haze of blood and matted hair, he saw their faces staring down at him.
Confusion. Pity. Frustration.
Fear. Anger.
And now uneasiness had joined the fray, dominating all the rest.
‘’e took on a full-grown coeurl by himself, without any trainin’…and survived?’
‘What in the seven ‘ells is this kid made of? ’e’s gonna be a monster of a man…’
‘Boy’s got a body t’ match the personality, by the Twelve…there ain’t gonna be much that can stop ‘im if…’
He heard terrified shouting. Sylbgeim shoved a Yellowjacket out of her way when they blocked her. Bryn abandoned his placid ways and demanded that the Yellowjackets leave. Father held his head still and put pressure on the wounds canvassing his face, and Mother spoke into her linkpearl with no regard for how others would see her panic, the facade of a former Sanguine Siren torn away.
A medic arrived soon after, one that would soon become his family’s on-call personal chirurgeon, and Soemr was brought into the safety of his house’s walls, protected from the unsettled aura shrouding Aleport’s citizenry.
“You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye,” was all the medic said, unphased, as his needle deftly stitched sliced flesh together.
Bandages, rest, and silence were prescribed along with bitter-tasting concoctions and pulpy ointments. His shaking limbs with muscles torn from exertion and strain ached while his mind wandered to a period of his life without pain. Rest was stolen away from him when the draught to induce sleep wore thin and brought pain to the awareness of his mind in the middle of the night. The patches and gauze around his left eye blocked his vision better than any eyepatch, all while retaining the illusion that everything would heal and life would return to normal.
He was no fool. He knew it wouldn’t. Once again, the dynamic of Aleport had changed.
The silent battlefield was no longer tense with awaiting the conflict fated to eventually happen. A different sort of tension had replaced it, one that traded anger for the discomfort of having to live with something that’d proven it was more capable and dangerous than expected. A few children who deserved their bruises and broken bones hardly compared to a coeurl, after all.
No longer was Aleport the town of two competing sides preparing to fight a war. In his ventures and in his confrontation with the apex predator of Oakwood, he’d brought the wilds with him; and he was not the prey of this new wilderness he had to navigate.
Even as the painful echo of the coeurl’s claws shuddered through his body, had him grasping for fresh bandages and soothing balm, even as he spat at the distaste of still not attaining the community and love he so desired…
Simultaneously, there was a sensation of victory bubbling up in his chest. He was the victor of the silent battlefield. They truly feared him now, therefore they wouldn’t dare bother him anymore.
Fortunately, his mind wasn’t left alone to stew in his thoughts for long during his recovery. His family was there, of course. Bryn periodically throughout the days when he wasn’t learning, Father and Mother when they returned home from work.
But none spent as much time with him as Sylbgeim. Whether she pinged pebbles against his window and waited for him to let her in, or she was already in the living room awaiting his awakening, she was a near-constant presence during his recovery.
With a friendship spanning so much of their lives, they’d long since learned how to read one another, how to determine what was desired and what wasn’t. Some days were spent in lazy peace, him dozing in bed and her reading at the desk in his rooms. Other days, they wiled the day away in quiet conversation as they worked on Bryn’s and Father’s latest assignments. And still others were spent shaking the foundation of the house with their roars of laughter and play.
Time had proven again and again that Sylbgeim’s presence meant that a day would never be boring, and that was no different even when he was consigned to rest.
On one of those quiet days, he’d found himself in his art room, paintbrush in hand as he put thoughts to canvas as he always had. The forecast of the day was almost done: hurt stretched far and wide across the page, a reflection of the pull and sting when he talked and ate, with quiet dotting the landscape and springing life into the image. Yet, it was also cut with odd anticipation , painted swathes through and over the quiet, the excess energy born of too much rest rising in his bones and demanding that he do something, anything.
And just as he lifted his brush for the final stroke, to recreate the harmony of feelings buzzing about his mind, Sylbgeim spoke for the first time in a bell.
“Hey, Summer. I’ve got a question for you.”
He halted his movement midway through, turning his hidden eyes to her. “Go ahead.”
“Why do you still wear those sunglasses?”
Time froze. Soemr felt his heart skip a beat as an imaginary chill rushed over him, raising goosebumps on his arms. Why was she asking this?
She must’ve seen the panic on his face and realized what she’d sounded like. Quickly, she rose her hands in a soothing motion. “Sorry, that…that came out wrong. Let me try again.”
He stared, unblinking.
Sylbgeim cleared her throat, lowering her hands. “You’ve been wearing those glasses ever since I met you. I don’t understand why, but they’re important to you, obviously.”
He slowly nodded.
“So, as your friend, I’m going to be honest with you. When you came out of Oakwood, you didn’t have them on.”
He felt his eyes widen, his mouth gape. When had he lost them? How many people saw? His mind raced back, dredging up memories stained in pain and adrenaline, fueled by determination to find out why-
Sweat blinded his eyes and fogged up his glasses, forced himself to throw them away so he could stand a chance at avoiding the next set of teeth baring down on his throat.
One of Mother’s choice curses tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Sylbgeim suddenly looked like she was trying to hold in laughter.
Soemr quickly swallowed down his embarrassment. He needed to know. “Did…ye see?”
“Yeah.”
“…But yer still ‘ere.”
Sylbgeim gave him an incredulous look. “Of course I am! You think I’d leave you or stop calling you my friend because you have your Father’s eyes?”
“But-”
“I don’t care what everyone else in Aleport thinks.” She huffed, snapping her book shut and placing her hands on her hips. “I said I’d be your friend, didn’t I? Nothing’s going to change that, especially since I’ve learned that people were treating you wrong when we first met because they were upset over your eyes being different.
“So, I’ll repeat my question: why are you still wearing your glasses?”
Odd relief mixed with the vestiges of panic in his reeling mind. Relief that Sylbgeim was accepting of his heritage and his eyes, but reeling from sudden revelation and the choice of the reveal being ripped away from him. “I-I…I didn’t know ye knew.”
“Well, if you want to take them off, you can. I bet it’s dark and dull, seeing through those all the time.” Sylbgeim grinned, motioning to the canvas. “You need to make sure the colors work properly, too.”
Why was it always Sylbgeim who was able to trigger the flood of golden confidence, the rush of pride and happiness overtaking his head? Warm and bright, it poured out of his heart and crashed over him like a tidal wave, nearly staggering him off his feet at the strength of which it slammed into him.
One moment, his hand was holding his paintbrush aloft in the air. The next, paint-stained fingers grasped at the frames of his blackout glasses, pulling them free from his long hair and exposing his eyes to the light of the world.
It was bright in the room, overly bright, but he knew his eyes would adjust soon. His attention was pulled away from the light by Sylbgeim crouching down to look him in the eye.
Sylbgeim’s grin softened into a smile. “Your eyes are beautiful.”
Even though it hurt to, Soemr’s smile in return stretched wide. He let his glasses drop into his lap, and his hand found hers’.
“…Thank you.”
The colors of his painting were indeed off; several shades darker than what he’d seen in his mind, twisted by the shade of his glasses. He would have to fix this painting, eventually.
But not now. His free hand set the painted canvas aside and reached for a new, pristine, blank one.
Just as life had its moments of blessings and happiness, so too did it bend to the whims of fate. The mind, as Soemr soon learned, was a fragile thing that did not handle such change well.
For most of his short-lived life, it had held strong against the onslaught of stares waging a silent war against his existence. A bastion of the truth of himself and the keeper of belief, it had always been something he could lean on when his aching heart yielded under pressure. Sparking with golden confidence and safety with Sylbgeim; unlocking and enchanting the world of knowledge at his fingertips under Bryn’s tutelage; thriving in the world of Father’s childhood and the fantasizing an idyllic life. Aleport’s sickness drove too close to him and threatened to overwhelm him, his mind was one of the few places he could take sanctuary in.
Why was it, then, that when he spied the Mythril Eye’s new report on his battle with the coeurl, that the foundation of that impenetrable fortress was shaken to its core?
A single wide, slit-pupiled eye staring right at him with the haunted expression of someone driven half-mad from isolation and pain. Ragged tangled dark hair extended past his shoulders, falling over the rivers of blood flowing down his face like an iron curtain. A scowl flashing a hint of teeth in warning, the corner of his lip curled up in a wild snarl. The illustration was monochrome, yet he could see the gleam of polished cheekbone exposed by the coeurl’s claws.
He was portrayed laying face-up, surrounded by Yellowjackets grabbing at his arms and holding him down as if he were to lunge for their throats with reckless abandon. Limbs and muscles engorged by artistic creativity strained against the Yellowjacket’s aid, showing no signs of weakness that came from enduring the long battle with the coeurl.
It was feral, it was animalistic, and, most importantly, it was strong. An iron will matched by an iron body, a refusal to back down or bend knee to civilization.
The Mythril Eye had painted him as a bloodthirsty delinquent before. Aleport had called him a beast and a monster ever since he rightfully defended himself from the precious children who wanted him bloody and beaten. As much as knowing their opinions of him pained him, as much as their criticisms and lashings took the place of the self-doubts in his mind, they had been talking about him. A bastardized version of him that stripped the exhaustion and shame from his triumphant moment of breaking free and that radicalized the success of a fight, but he was the base that they built from.
This was not him.
Entreating their hubris and pride of their civilization led to an image that he couldn’t recognize. He had been shaking, weak, and wounded leaving Oakwood; he couldn’t have mustered the strength to fight back even if they’d rushed him with their axes. He was still growing; he couldn’t be as large or strong as they’d portrayed him.
But what if they were right? the voice of Aleport questioned him. For once, his mind didn’t rise to his defense. From the cracks leaked anxiety that flooded his mind.
He found himself standing in front of the mirror of his bathroom, desperate to know. Was this what he really looked like to them?
In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as he did when he was younger. Always focusing on his eyes first; bright pink, overwhelmingly intense like enchanted lava, with a safe zone within the blinding color in the form of slitted pupils. Deep brown hair that brushed his shoulders, styled just enough so that they would hide the small flaps of skin and fur set atop his head. A youthful face set in neutral, light freckles scattered across his nose like cinnamon dust, not unfriendly but not unburdened either. His face was mark of his heritage, something he viewed with pride and love, something the people of Aleport couldn’t ever understand; were proof of a life he would never give up, of the great lengths, love, and hardship he and his family endured because of his existence. Even if the traces of his heritage could be erased and guarantee him a safe life, he would refuse the offer.
But now, when he looked into the mirror all he saw was…exhaustion. Scars of battle and turmoil both etched into his face and aged his skin. Those pink eyes had been dulled through stress and fear, sunken into their sockets and rimmed in darkened skin. A face surrounded by hair so dark it was almost gray or black, in desperate need of a good wash, cut, and brush to hide away, even just for a moment, the quiet days he’d spent out in the wilderness. His lips defaulted to a neutral expression, but the sheer weight of his experience curved the corners down, just enough to be mistaken for a scowl. The raised lines from the coeurl’s claws bisected the beginnings of stress lines around his mouth and only accentuated the movements of his lips as he checked them for abnormalities.
Who was this other person in the mirror? What happened to his life? Why did he look like a boy who’d gone through personal hell?
The Mythril Eye hadn’t been exaggerating as much as he’d thought.
And just like that, the cracked foundation of his mind shattered to pieces and went into freefall.
It started small, almost inconsequentially. Only when looking back years later would he realize that it was the start of the downfall of Rhylsoemr Halusyn.
Intrusive thoughts flitted about his mind like flies about rotted fish. That, he was used to – from the time where his head bowed like Oakwood’s wispy trees in the wind and under the weight of eyes, to when he looked forward and met every furious and fearful state with a glare – it had always been with him in some form. A nebulous thought with no voice whispering, then the grunts of disapproval and frustration of Aleport. Both were voices he was used to combating by now, and young as he was, he thought himself adept at separating those voices from his own. They would pester and annoy him, attempt to swarm him, but he would swat them away at every turn.
It should’ve been alarming to him, then, that the character of his doubts began to shift ever so slightly. Over the course of moons, the voice of Aleport’s anger and fear began to cool. Its voice began to slow and deepen, weighed down by the chill of the emotions feeding it. Sometimes, he could barely understand its garbled and muffled language. But, when its voice was clear, it was as sharp as ice.
‘What are ye even doin’ with yerself? All that strength and skill, used t’ go into hidin’.’
‘Ye can’t blame them for thinkin’ yer a beast when yer never showin’ any signs of civility.’
‘They say somethin’. Ye get angry and blow up. They only get more evidence with which t’ treat ye this way. Yer yer own worst enemy, Soemr.’
On instinct, his mind reached out to swat the flies away as it’d learned to. Its foundation, however, was broken; it couldn’t stand on its own two legs, let alone swipe at and defend its owner from the hornets the flies had become. The rifts in the fortress provided an easy route for the swarm to infiltrate, to feast and grow fat on whatever remains they could find amidst the rubble.
Their preferred prey was positivity in himself. There were only so many aspects of himself that it could attack.
He noticed, one day, when reaching for his paintbrush, that it no longer fit in his hand. A single finger was as wide as it was, and he was keenly aware of how fragile wood could be; how a tree could withstand the blows of an axe if not struck with the intent of destruction, but a paintbrush was as a stick to be broken over knee. Somehow, a package was laid out before his bedroom door the next day, but none of the brushes inside were larger than his current one. Each brush in his hand felt as fragile as glass.
His return to Oakwood was not triumphant; he spent the day huddled in one of the few coves that offered shelter from the sharp sea breeze, watching the waterfalls in the distance and feeling oh so small. But when he returned home early that evening, the archways and furniture felt much too small for him, as if someone had replaced everything without his knowledge. The ceilings felt too close and claustrophobic, while the cliffs outside the city walls towered high above his head. He struggled to fit comfortably in his bed, and when his dreams starred him gathering wild rice with Father’s sept, the scenes full of contentment and peace in community were shot off-kilter.
He became increasingly aware of the feeling of his clothes against his skin; how the fabric stretched to cross the span of his barrel-chest, how his arms felt impossibly compressed in loose cloth. The bathroom mirror reflected a distorted image of someone else, a boy with a strong jaw and a cold look in his eyes, with knots of scar tissue warping sunburned skin. When he traced those jagged scars to his jaw, he saw strong fingers large enough to wrap around a person’s throat.
This was not him, his mind weakly cried. This was not him.
‘Who else would ‘ave a coeurl’s eyes?’
‘Who else would ‘ave those scars?’
‘Who else would look at their fingers, and their first thought would be ‘ow easy it would be t’ ‘arm someone?’
His hands gripped the basin of the sink tight, and his eyes squeezed shut. It was intrusive thoughts, those hornets that swarmed in his mind – it couldn’t be him. He forced himself to breathe deep and long, willing the image out of his mind. And when he opened his eyes again, the distorted image was gone – but his hands were bloodied from shattered porcelain.
Another call to the private medic, another round of ointment and bitter smells and orders of inactivity. Bandages binding his hands prevented him from doing anything save lay on a bed that felt too small for him and stare out at the golden plains that felt so vast. When the bandages finally came off and his hands deemed fully recovered, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, something felt like it’d been lost.
Forcing himself to focus on other things only made it worse. Spending days outside Aleport’s walls only heightened the feeling of being in the presence of giants; the quiet and tranquility only made the slithering cold voice more adept at coiling around his mind. The shimmering sea outside the secret place felt immense and expansive, too large to ever explore in any one lifetime. When his stomach grumbled and it was time to hunt his midday meal, his muscles burned swing after swing; a moment passed where he thought he’d been weakened by his rest and recovery, but it was soon replaced by chilling realization that he’d pulverized the bones and skulls and flesh of his prey and flooded the golden fields with sharp, painful red.
Every waking moment of his days had become incongruent and insane, heralded by the cutting, suffocating, glacial voice. A fog was closing in on his mind; there was no escaping it. Cold and gray and bleak, it flowed through the broken foundation and walls of his mind and blanketed everything in sight in colorless confusion and despair.
Why was all of this happening? What did he do to deserve this? Why did everything wonderful and positive in his life have to be torn away from him and be replaced with crushing distortion?
‘Are ye surprised? Confused? Do ye finally understand?’
‘This is who ye are. What everyone else ‘as been seein’.’
‘No wonder everyone’s treated ye differently.’
Laying in his too-small bed and staring up at his too-high ceiling, Soemr heard it at the edges of his perception. The fog gave way to it.
‘Ye can’t hide it from yerself anymore. It’s about time.’
‘What good ‘as it ever done fer ye anyway? Killin’ and stainin’ the fields? Let ye isolate yerself in the cliffs?’
‘Attackin’ the scum of the earth when they strike first and ensurin’ they don’t come back? Gorgin’ yerself on their anger and fear and standin’ tall?’
His eyes drifted shut.
‘A brutalizer?’
‘A tyrant?’
‘A beast?’
As the slithering cold voice leaned in to whisper in his ear, Soemr finally recognized what it was.
As always, it was Bryn, he who took the vow of defender, who noticed first.
It was a pleasant day outside: the sea-breeze rolling in invigorating the soul, whistling through the grass outside Aleport’s walls, tousling hair and drawing laughter and peace from those who welcomed it. The last vestiges of spring clung to the earth, tipping the plant life with green that would soon fade into gold with summer on the horizon. The distant call of buzzards served as the bards spinning tales of the day, of the quiet stillness of peace and the day-to-day survival of the animals surrounding them.
A year ago, this would’ve been a near-perfectly blessed day, spent in the shade of the secret place in quiet contentment, only held back by Sylbgeim being called away for other duties. To outsiders, the day would be unremarkable as they went about their daily jobs, moving from place to place, focused on the tasks at hand so that they could no worries in the evenings. There were no rainclouds heralding a downpour, no levin arcing through the sky signaling a storm.
And yet, Soemr couldn’t relax. His grip on his tiny paintbrush was as if he were brushing a coeurl’s whisker, intimately aware of every movement, every shock against his nerves running up his bloated arm and burying deep and shocking into the crevasses of his mind. His mind was abuzz with tension, a bird sensing a storm that wasn’t there, a feeling of absolute wrongness at the forefront of his consciousness. Wrongness, yet the fog cloaking his mind clouded his understanding, shrouded all senses other than the sharp spike of ‘me ‘and is too big for this, and I’ll splinter it into a million pieces should I do anythin’ wrong’.
‘But ye don’t want that, do ye? Ye want t’ fight yer nature.’
‘Ye just want t’ live out yer days in peace and love, even if that means isolatin’ yerself from everyone.’
‘But ye can’t ‘ave that. Somethin’ always ‘appens, and ye swing yer fists or yer axe and cause ‘urt and fear and anger. Because that’s who ye are.’
Every nerve in his hands and fingers were aware when the grip on his paintbrush tightened ever so slightly. How the thin wood bent in tandem, how much more it could take before it’d –
A light hand fell on his too big shoulder. Soemr opened his eyes to find Bryn looking down at him. “Are ye alright, Summer?”
“Uh,” he distantly heard himself grunt. The fog weighed heavily, his voice trailing cold streams around his mind, encircling it like prey.
“Ye’ve just been starin’ at yer canvas fer so long. Normally, ye would’ve done somethin’ with it by now.”
His lagging mind scrambled for an appropriate response. How could he even describe it? That his inner voice had turned against him and sought to tear him down from the inside out? That he couldn’t see himself as himself anymore? That nothing he could do would turn his attention away from the physical existence of his body?
The longer he remained silent, the more concern weighed heavy on Bryn’s face. He had to say something.
“I…don’t know,” Soemr breathed at last.
“What don’t ye know?”
“I…can’t think of anythin’.”
Bryn hummed thoughtfully. “Do ye think ye’ve got creative burnout? Is yer mind not comin’ up with anythin’? Maybe it just wants some rest.”
No, that wasn’t it. He picked up the paintbrush and set up his easel for a reason.
“Do ye…not want t’ do art? Is there somethin’ else ye want t’ do today?”
Wild hair flew as he shook his head. “No, I want t’ do art. I…”
He racked the ravaged ruins of his mind for the right word.
“It’s like…I can’t focus on what I want t’ do. Every time I try t’ do somethin’…somethin’ else blocks me.”
Bryn was quiet for a moment. Then, he lowered himself into a cross-legged position across from him, knee bumping against the easel.
“…Are ye stressed about somethin’?”
The coil of frost tightened around his mind. Soemr nodded slowly.
“What’s on yer mind, Summer? If it’s botherin’ ye this badly, I can ‘elp ye. Ye just need t’ tell me.”
“…I don’t know if ye can ‘elp me,” he whispered. “It’s all…”
He tapped his forehead, right where the coil lay. It paused to consider him.
“…in yer ‘ead?” Bryn questioned. “Are people makin’ ye anxious again?”
“It was originally them. I…know ‘ow they saw me. See me now. But now…”
Tearing him apart.
Making his body betray his mind.
Making everything impossible.
“…I can’t get away from it,” Soemr eventually conceded.
Bryn breathed a quiet sigh. “So…the world’s livin’ in yer ‘ead now.”
“Speakin’ in me voice.”
“…What do ye mean by that?”
“It’s sayin’ eveythin’ Aleport’s sayin’ about me,” he murmured under his breath. “That I’m a monster of a person. A beast. Livin’ wild and hurtin’ and breakin’ everythin’ I touch. That I can try t’ do different, but I always come back t’ it.”
His eyes drifted to the fragile paintbrush held in his precarious grip. Forced himself to breathe in slow and deep, so that his grip wouldn’t tighten anymore.
The ice watched with curiosity.
“They always saw that in me. Now…I can’t ‘elp but see it, too. No matter where I go or what I do, I can’t get away from it. Not while it’s speakin’ in me voice.”
Bryn reached forward to rest a hand on his knee. It was smooth, small. Soemr could see all the callouses on his own hand, the difference in muscle between Bryn’s studious habits and his own.
“But…ye know that’s not true at all, don’t ye?” Bryn asked quietly. “Yer as good as ye’ve ever been, Summer. Yer the best brother I could ever ‘ope t’ ‘ave.”
Soemr swallowed. Nodded. “…I know.”
“But it’s still there?”
Another nod.
“Tell me what it’s tellin’ ye right now.”
Soemr took a deep breath and lifted his head. “For the past bell, it’s been tellin’ me that I need t’ be careful, or else I’ll break my brush in half without tryin’. That it’s too small for my ‘and, but there isn’t any bigger brushes available anywhere.”
“This is the brush ye’ve been usin’ fine fer the past year, though.”
“Mhm.”
“What else is it sayin’?” Bryn gently prodded.
“…That I’m too big and too small. Strong and weak. I feel claustrophobic in me own clothin’, but small out ‘ere. My body suits me fer what I do, but it’s also too much and too little. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. I…”
“…Besides the scars on yer face, nothin’s changed,” Bryn quietly noted.
“That’s right.” He could feel frustration seeping into his voice. “Nothin’s changed. This all started after I took ye and Sylbgeim into Oakwood. I was able t’ deal with what everyone was sayin’ fine before, but now it’s all stuck up in me brain and-”
His voice dropped into a low hiss. The live wires in his fingers felt the shudder of the paintbrush under pressure. “It won’t go away! It’s criticizin’ everythin’ about me and it won’t shut up. It’s makin’ me life a livin’ ‘ell, and I don’t know ‘ow t’ make it go away.”
“I know. I know what Aleport says about me isn’t true. It’s masqueradin’ and usin’ me voice t’ make me confused, but I know that I’m more than what they’re sayin’. It’s just…it’s just repeatin’ everythin’ over and over again, and I’m forced t’ listen t’ it-”
The hand on his knee squeezed, just as his own hand squeezed. A snap shuddered up his strong arm.
Soemr breathed in ragged pants. His face felt hot and wet. So did his hand. His gaze drifted down –
“Keep yer eyes on me, Summer. It’s okay. Breathe with me.”
The breath that Bryn drew was exaggerated in its slowness, but Soemr followed it anyway.
Breathe in through the nose, breathe out through the barrel trunk of his chest. In, icy lash, out. In, icy lash, out.
Bryn gave him a gentle smile. “Are ye feelin’ better now, Summer?”
Soemr nodded mutely. In, icy lash, out. He needed to breathe. If he just kept breathing, no matter how much it stung, it was good for him.
“Good.” Bryn’s hand lightly patted his knee. “So…ye know nothin’s changed, but yer mind – or rather, this doubt usin’ yer voice and repeatin’ what people say about ye – is sayin’ otherwise. It’s changin’ yer perception of yerself and yer surroundin’s. Is that right?”
“…Yeah.”
“Can ye do somethin’ for me? I want ye t’ close yer eyes.”
Breathing in and out one last time, Soemr dipped his head and closed his eyes.
“If ye could be anywhere right now, doin’ anythin’ ye wanted, where and what would that be? If yer mind starts t’ mess with ye, try t’ push past it. Focus on the question.”
With his eyes closed, his senses stretched out on instinct. The salt-sweet breeze flowing up and around his too big body, the distant call of buzzards only barely grazing his ears now that dusk was approaching, the dimming of light behind his eyelids as the sun floated atop the ocean waves. Without sight, sensations felt sharper, more solid: Bryn’s hand on his knee, the fragmented pieces of wood digging into his hand, how claustrophobic the secret place felt compared to the expansive plains above.
Focus, Soemr, he chided himself. Focus on the question. If he could be anywhere doing whatever he wanted…
He wanted comfort. Security. Quiet, but not lonely. To regain the feeling of life that he’d had before, unburdened by Aleport and the corruption of his mind. Love and community and care.
His mind turned to the green springscapes of Oakwood, of the sketches in Father’s journal of his tribe. Father said they were kind, but set in their ways; he had lived a different life than them and was misunderstood, but they still accepted him as part of the sept. There were times when Soemr had revisited the journal and found newer and newer sketches in the backmost pages, each one continuing to depict scenes of love and comfort with others different than yourself.
In the back of his shattered mind, he knew they were daydreams. What-ifs, fragments of imagination accompanying him on his daily escapes from Aleport. But…
“…I’d be in Oakwood,” he heard himself murmur. “With ye everyone else, livin’ away from Aleport. We’d ‘ave our own little community up there with Father’s tribe.”
The hand on his knee left. The remnants of the paintbrush were dusted off his hand, replaced soon by the warmth of Bryn’s hand. “Why would ye want t’ be there and doin’ that? Why would Father’s tribe be there?”
That had an obvious answer. “Because Aleport poisoned me mind. Why would I want t’ be around them, if I know ye all and Sylbgeim love me? We could live up there and be safe from them. Father’s tribe takes care of their own, too. They wouldn’t let Aleport come after us.”
“Why do ye think that?”
“They live alongside kobolds, right? We’re Father’s family – they wouldn’t reject us, even if we’re-”
Thorny, icy tendrils wrapped around his mind and squeezed.
“Soemr…?”
Why? Why was it attacking him now? He hadn’t even done anything…
Bryn’s tiny hand squeezed his own. “Soemr, say somethin’. What ‘appened?”
On instinct, Soemr squeezed back. “I’m…okay. I’m okay. It’s just…” His free hand motioned blindly to his head.
He felt the relief in Bryn’s sigh. “Alright. That’s good it wasn’t worse. If somethin’ about what ye were thinkin’ triggered it…can ye tell me what that was?”
Soemr took a deep breath and steeled himself against the impending cold.
“I was about t’ say…they wouldn’t reject us, even if we’re different from them.”
‘Ye know ‘ow t’ live off the land like them, but why would ye, when ye can live in civilization?’
‘Face the facts. Ye spend all yer time out in the wild because it calls t’ ye.’
‘It isn’t because of the peace and the freedom. It’s because of yer nature.’
“…With us lookin’ like Roegadyn?” Bryn gently prodded.
Focus on Bryn’s voice. Focus on the glimmer of that thought. Focus on what made the cold flare up.
“That, and, well…I’m not so different from their lifestyle. Father taught me everythin’ I know about bein’ out in Oakwood and out here.”
‘Yer Father may have taught ye, but ye were already survivin’ well out there by yerself before then.’
‘It wasn’t glamorous, but ye survived all the same. And ye preferred that meager lifestyle t’ bein’ around people and convenience.’
‘Yer brother prefers the quiet too, but even he walks the streets every day while ye ‘ide away. Yer the odd one.’
It was on the tip of his tongue. Focus, Soemr!
“’ells, I’m practically a Miqo’te already. They’d be proud of me.”
In that instant, the slithering voice of cold doubt scattered. The fog drew back from his mind, illuminated by gold epiphany. Time came to a screeching halt.
His mind had been so preoccupied by daydreams during his time in Oakwood that he hadn’t considered what he was. Factually, he was a Roegadyn-Miqo’te hybrid, shorter than his pureblooded Roegadyn brethren but two heads taller than the tallest Miqo’te. His strength had developed as a tool for escaping Aleport, of scaling the cliffs to the secret spot, later used to make up for his axe’s shortcomings while hunting. These were the facts of himself as Rhylsoemr Halusyn.
But if this were him, why would the Miqo’te in his dreams be the same height as him, able to look him in the eye? Why would he be able to keep up with them as they raced through the once-wood, when even he could recognize how his body was built for stamina rather than speed?
His self-doubt had replaced the voice of Aleport, but reused its old lines. A monster that lived out in the wild and occasionally ventured into the city, a beast that attacked and had to be subdued for the safety of everyone – but would they be able to subdue a person that took on a coeurl and lived with only scars on his face for his troubles? Aleport saw him as an imposing figure that would lash out with strength that could very well kill a man, someone who wouldn’t hold back the desire to harm if he thought of it.
A person such as that would have no need for painting or sleeping in a bed. All he would live for is to hunt and stalk in the grass and sleep in the dirt. A paintbrush would be as a toothpick in his calloused hands; a dulled axe would turn into a maul for simple crushing rather than cutting.
And yet, that image of a large, lethal man couldn’t fit him. His doubts told him it was what he was, but his damaged mind knew better. Because…
In all the time he had felt small, in the fields and along Oakwood’s cliffs and staring out into the sea, he had never felt uncomfortable, had never felt scared. It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time; a distortion caused by conflict within his head. Outside Aleport’s gates was as comfortable and inviting as ever.
If he felt smaller, and was comfortable with it…
Soemr breathed in deep. Focused.
The image in his mind, the focus of his daydreams. If he zoomed out on it, saw it as others would see it…
Long hair tangled by the breeze, but not matted nor ruined. It simply was.
Father’s ears standing tall, possessing an awareness far beyond that of a Roegadyn, in service of safety and survival.
A figure coated with lean muscle that let him speed through the once-wood faster than any other race.
A long furred tail trailing behind him, allowing him to balance on rocky terrain and make the impressive leaps of his forebearers.
His eyes remained as they were, slit pupil catching him glimpses of the creatures who dared think they could slip by him. Shining with confidence and pride in the light of day, unburdened by tinted glass.
“…That’s it. That’s what’s goin’ on!”
Soemr’s eyes snapped open. Bryn was looking at curiously, though with an encouraging smile on his face.
For his 15th nameday, Soemr received a letter in the mail.
“Rhylsoemr Halusyn,
My name is Ezeane Dreauhieu, and I have been apprised of your need for advanced glamouring. Your father has made me aware of the limitations of your household and your end goal, and we have both surmised that you would be in need of one-on-one teaching.
I will be arriving in Aleport in one sennight’s time. Your training will begin as soon as make landfall.
Do not keep me here for long.”
It was short, simple, and written in an uncharacteristically fancy script. Who this person was, he didn’t know. But if Father had spoken with them, surely he could trust them.
But what was ‘glamouring’? Why would he require ‘advanced glamouring’? What were his ‘limitations’, and why would he need ‘training’?
Even though confusion swirled in his mind, he found himself able to keep his head above the water. He only needed to wait a sennight – all of his questions would be answered soon. Seven days in which he would have to battle back the ice and fog that had foreseen its demise and struck at his mind with determination and desperation.
‘Changin’ yer form isn’t goin’ t’ change anythin’ about ‘ow ye behave and think.’
‘A fresh coat of paint can’t hide the rubble of a ruined buildin’. Rotten t’ the core, ye are.’
‘Do ye think people aren’t goin’ t’ see through yer disguise? Yer easy t’ find – they just ‘ave t’ follow the trail of pain and destruction.’
This isn’t a disguise, he shouted back at his own voice. Being a Miqo’te wouldn’t mean that he wasn’t Rhylsoemr Halusyn, son of Halu and Swarrael, brother of Rhylbryn, friend of Sylbgeim. Being a Miqo’te would only mean he would be comfortable in his own skin, the body and mind that had been poisoned by Aleport, and that he would be loved.
A sennight passed, and a large ship docked in Aleport. As merchants and their underlings scrambled to unload cargo and hawk their wares to the gathering crowd, a single Duskwight strode past them with luggage in tow. From his bedroom window, Soemr watched her make her way to the front door of his house, and soon, quiet conversation traveled up the stairs to his ears.
And even sooner, he was sitting on the couch in front of Ezeane and her luggage. Even without looking, he could feel her eyes searching him, prying him for information as to why he would want such a transformation.
“Glamour,” she began, “is changing the appearance of one thing to another. In its simplest form, you can change the appearance of one shirt into another, or making a shirt fit you better. In its most complex, it can be described as ‘transformation’. Women turning into frogs to spy on their enemies, a man able to wield an invisible weapon and bypass guards…Magical in nature, yet only illusion in the end.
She eyed him with scrutiny. “You want the ability to take on the form of a Miqo’te, yet your Father said that you’ve never cast a single spell before.”
“I ‘aven’t, no,” Soemr replied. Father had decreed long ago that no magic would be cast in the house – and where would he learn otherwise? “I know ‘ow t’ use aetherytes, and I can pull fire out of a kind of rock, but I’ve never done anythin’ else.”
“Do you know how to use your own aether?”
“…No?”
“How to use the aether of the land?”
Soemr stared at her blankly. Ezeane grumbled something under her breath in a tongue he didn’t recognize. Deft hands dived into her bag, and soon a too small rod of twisted wood was thrust into his hands.
“Do you feel anything when you hold this?”
He focused his attention on the wand, ran his thumb along the grooves and notches of the wood and felt absolutely nothing.
Before he could even lift his gaze and speak, he heard her grunt of frustration. Dissatisfaction. “Of course I get a student with aetheric levels the size of…”
His heart sank. He could feel the cold tendrils closing in around his mind, eager and taunting. “…Does this mean I can’t-”
“Shut up, boy. One more test, then we’ll see if you’re salvageable or not.”
Soemr winced. Salvageable? That was her word for him?
Ezeane snatched the rod from his hands and gripped it tight. An odd green and white sparkle shone in her clasped hands, sinking into the splits in the wood.
“W-Wait, yer not allowed t’ use magic in the ‘ouse-”
Sharp yellow eyes pierced his. “Didn’t I tell you to be quiet? I told your father I’d be gauging your skill here today. Whatever reason he doesn’t want magic in the house, he’s allowed it for now. So keep your mouth shut when I tell you to, or I’ll be leaving and taking my paycheck with me.”
Frustration boiled in the pit of Soemr’s stomach, but his mouth clicked shut regardless. He needed this. He needed this.
He could deal with one more person being uncaring and angry toward him if this promised to make everything better.
The wand was once against shoved into his hands, and Ezeane’s hands forced his fingers to curl tight around the wood. “Focus now. Do you feel anything at all?”
The wood wasn’t sparkling or changing color, yet he’d watched her infuse it with some sort of magic. It still had to be in there; he just had to sense it. Closing his eyes, he took a breath and focused on the feeling of the grain on his too big fingers, scoured every ilm of it searching for the something she’d imbued it with.
There it was: a feeling like a small breath of air, the scent of a deep dark forest, of wet soil and hard rock. Soemr opened his eyes and gave Ezeane a nod.
“Finally. Good to know you’re not incapable of sensing magic, just very dense to it unless you’re actively searching for it.”
He narrowed his eyes. Ezeane narrowed hers right back. “Don’t give me that look. Everyone’s got their own aetheric levels. You being able to use aetherytes is a different form of magic than standard glamour. Aetherytes operate on you being able to follow a trail of magic from a powerful source; glamour requires you to cast actual magic and sense it later.”
“But I didn’t cast any magic.”
She grunted. “You didn’t, no. Try casting it now.”
Soemr looked down at the wand. “How…?”
“Grab that feeling and throw it out of the wand. Like picking a chestnut and throwing it at a Wood Wailer’s head. If you can sense it, you can do it.”
He closed his eyes again. Focused, strained to find that small pinprick of magic infused into the wood. When he finally did, he held tight onto that feeling and shoved.
The kernel of magic didn’t budge an ilm. It slipped through his fingers like fine sand.
Ezeane hummed.
Taking a deep breath once more, he focused and found the magic once more.
‘Perhaps it needs a gentler touch. Something ye can’t do.’
“Shut up,” he grumbled out loud.
“I didn’t say anything,” she grumbled right back.
“No, not you.”
But his voice was right. Maybe he just needed to be gentler, pluck it instead of force it up? It was worth a try. Once again, he grasped the magic and envisioned picking a plum grown in Oakwood.
He felt it then: a tiny movement, not even an ilm, but it was movement regardless. He could do this; he just needed time and practice-
“Okay, okay, that’s enough. Give me the wand.”
Soemr’s eyes snapped open. Ezeane was staring at him with a raised eyebrow, hand outstretched. “But I can do this. It moved-”
“Not enough to cast magic by yourself, at this rate. That’s all I need to know. Give me the wand.”
Disappointment chilled him to his bones, his own voice laughing in his head. He silently held out the wand for her to take. Soon, the wood rod was stuffed back into Ezeane’s luggage, and she regarded him with a look he couldn’t quite understand.
“You’re not incapable of magic. You’d need a dedicated teacher or process to follow, some help from a device meant to channel aether and make it stronger, but in time, you’d be able to make a glamour for yourself…with some restrictions.”
Ezeane pushed herself to her feet and looked down at him. “We’re done for now. We’ll pick this up tomorrow, after I make some…adjustments. Your father needs to pay me more for this.”
As she strode out of the house, robe drifting in her wake, the chill of disappointment still clung to his body. A feeling of uncharacteristic weakness weighed down his legs, and he remained where he was for a long, long time.
This was going to take a long time, he realized. The solution to his troubles, the infection in his mind wouldn’t come easy to him; Ezeane had all but promised this would be a long, winding road to achieve his dream.
But at the same time, hope swelled in his breast, because she hadn’t said it was impossible. He would be able to do this. He would be able to become a Miqo’te, how he saw himself in his mind.
And he would work however hard he needed to achieve that.
The next day, Soemr was presented with a small chest made of dark wood.
“A modified glamour dresser,” she explained, as she flipped open the top. The pane of dark glass on the underside of the lid was glossy and deep, reflecting his misted, muted visage. “It’ll do the heavy lifting of glamor magic for you. All you need to know is how to work with it.”
When he turned his head to look to her, he spied his reflection following him. He was aware of how his long tangled hair cascaded over his glasses, how disheveled he looked boxed in by sleek wood.
Breathe in, out. He could do this. He would do this.
“Tell me ‘ow.”
Even with the dresser’s help, he soon found that making glamour was easier said than done. Pulling fire from fire rock and using aetherytes were his only experiences in magic, and as Ezeane had said, glamour was far different. To access his own aether to infuse into the strange glass plates she’d brought him was a struggle on its own – after all, how was he supposed to carve out a piece of what made him him and place it in something so fragile?
It was only after much trial and error, sweat and tears that the plate finally glowed white with aether. It was so small in his hands, so precious, so fragile…a testament of his willpower and determination, encased in pink glass that shimmered under the lights of his room.
“Put it in the glamour dresser already,” Ezeane groaned. “The more time you take, the more it’s going to cost your father.”
The central dais of the dresser seemed to glow as he carefully placed it in. And all at once, the dark glass of the mirror shimmered to life, fog lightening to thin whisps of mist floating atop his full-body reflection.
“Here’s where the hard part begins. Now you get to shape that image of yourself into what you want. But you aren’t just going to be making your arms thinner and your height smaller, aren’t you? Because you want a tail and ears, of course.
Each speck of aether making up your entire body has a purpose. You can’t just be moving them around without a care in the world, otherwise you’re going to be moving your ear when you move your finger and you’ll be hearing out of your toes. So, you have some work to do.”
There was an almost twisted, sardonic smirk on the Duskwight’s face as she lectured. And Soemr quickly learned that this was only the beginning.
Anchor points to which senses are based, maintaining the functions of limbs when condensing their aether, moving the position of other aether and shaping them to his desire – as a Miqo’te’s body was so different to his own mixed body, the transition of glamour between the two required precision and dedication to detail.
“Your aether is an array protected by flesh and armor. Your glamour is an array, too, but much more fragile. It will lay atop your skin like clothing, but it can be torn apart just as easy as paper if the skin is wet. If the base array is damaged, the array relying on it for structure will fail, too.”
The strength and spells imbued in the glamour would make it resist attempts to scramble the array, but it came at the cost of fragility of the self. A fatal flaw in his identity, the result of making the glamour completely and wholly unique to him and his aether: body and plate needed to match, and damage to one would result in an incompatible pairing.
“You have ears, but you can’t move them like a Miqo’te, can you? You don’t have a tail, either. You can make them by shaping your own aether, but they’ll never truly behave like a natural-born Miqo’te’s. Move the aether of your ears to your head and stretch them tall – as for your tail, you’ll just have to make a fake.”
A fake, an approximation, not truly like a natural-born Miqo’te’s. It was fine. It was a tradeoff for the life he wanted; he’d learn to work with it. Still, it didn’t stop him from experimentation when Ezeane turned her back, attempts to connection emotion and stimuli to ear movements in hopes of making it closer to perfection. It was a failure at every turn save one; and when it came time to finalize his glamour plate, after sennight after sennight of tireless work, he settled on connecting hearing to the top of his head and extending the aether of his lower back into a smooth tail. Once the initial glamour was finalized and he had a workable version, he’d have all the time to experiment.
“Once the base model is done, you’ll have to add detail. A plain, undetailed glamour won’t get you anywhere. People have more senses than they know, and they know what other people are supposed to look like; fail to pass the test, and you’ll wind up attracting bad attention. A glamour is a disguise, and a disguise needs to have a story and background.”
This wasn’t a disguise. The words were poised on the tip of his tongue, ready to spit, but he swallowed it down. He knew the true meaning of those words: appear uncanny and unreal, and Aleport’s stares would haunt him for the rest of his life. To not stick out, then, and to maintain his internal vision of himself, he weaved a story in his head and matched the glamour to it. The son of wealthy businessman R’halu Tia wouldn’t need more than lean muscle, wouldn’t need rough callouses on his palms, and wouldn’t be scarred by a duel with a coeurl. Miqo’te men were short, but he was used to being tall, so a compromise was made. Long, rough hair was made smooth and braided back save for bangs to shadow his face; tribal markings, the mark of the legacy he inherited, rounded out his eyes.
It was several sennights before a complete initial model shone in the mirror of the glamour dresser. Soemr could hardly look away from it, enchanting as it was. This was his creation; his future.
“Calm down, boy,” Ezeane grumbled. “You haven’t even colored it yet.”
The glamour’s skin color would be Father’s, of course: lightly tanned under the La Noscean sun, with a healthy glow and shine to it. The hair and eyes would match his own, dark brown and pink. With every step completed, the closer the glamour came to becoming a reality.
And when he lay in his too-small bed that night, all he could think about was how few people would have the same opportunity as him. How often would someone be able to modify the way they appeared before the world and declare that this is me, and be safe in the knowledge that no one could take it away from them?
That was a thought indeed. Aleport wouldn’t be able to break this glamour, wouldn’t be able to weaponize his body and his mannerisms against himself again. He could do whatever he wanted with this body, so why not speak himself aloud: his thoughts, his feelings, his elation?
In the dead of night, he snuck down to the glamour dresser and replaced brown with just how happy and lucky he felt. And in the morning, when Ezeane arrived, she took note of the change with a raised eyebrow.
“These colors mean somethin’ important t’ me,” Soemr answered the unspoken question.
“You think I was worried about that?” Ezeane snorted. “The fact that you did this on your own without my instruction means that you’re just about done. You won’t have to pearl me for any more help, too.”
Ever the grump, Ezeane was. But Soemr couldn’t stop smiling.
When at long last, his glamour was done and applied, he stood at the top of the stairs with unusual nervous energy.
There was no reason to be nervous. At the bottom of the stairs lay the living room, and in the living room were his family and Sylbgeim. No one would object to his glamour, and Ezeane had already left with her paycheck. There would be nothing but love and acceptance when he joined the people who truly cared for him.
It was odd, how his mind still needed to adjust to how his new body operated. He’d carefully calculated his height and frame to match his internal image of himself, yet he still needed to adjust to it. Longer legs meant he should be taking longer steps; the roominess of his sleeves made every brush of cloth against skin feel alien.
Yet he wouldn’t trade anything in the world for this feeling of freedom and peace. The whispering cold of his doubts had all but faded, the fog retreating with it. Never had he felt so clearminded and right with himself.
A sudden shock of laughter downstairs turned his attention back to the task at him. Right. It was time. Deep breaths, he reminded himself. In, out. In, out. Step out when you’re ready.
One step.
Two step.
Three –
The chandelier in the living room cast a warm glow on everyone present. Mother and Father sharing one sofa, Bryn and Sylbgeim sharing the other. An array of freshly-baked goods and smoked fish laid out on the rosewood table, filling the air with a delicious aroma. Lively chatter and bright laughter bounced off the marble walls as they ate their fill and awaited the main event.
Sylbgeim was the first to notice. Shock was plain on her face, but it soon morphed into elation. “Summer! Look at ye – ye look amazin’!”
Soon, all other heads had turned to him, and bashful under their gazes, he took in their compliments and excitement and sheer happiness for him with averted eyes and reddened cheeks. A rightly-sized hand came to rub at the back of his neck.
Arms were thrown over his shoulders, embraces given, pats on the back and words of encouragement shared. Soon, he was guided to a sofa, wedged between Bryn and Sylbgeim and feeling rightly small for the first time in his life.
Amidst all the chattering, Father cleared his throat and signaled for silence. Bright pink eyes pierced his own, sharpness softened by love and pride.
“Well, Soemr. Have you thought of a name?”
Yes, he had. In the farthest reaches of the mansion, a small journal had guided him to his answer. The frontmost pages detailed sketches of Father’s life with his sept, but the backmost pages held lists upon lists of names and relationships. He was unfamiliar with all of them, and wouldn’t dare steal any of their names; but they did guide him on how to choose his own.
He smiled, nodded, and turned green and gold eyes to his Father.
Arden knew it was risky, coming back to Ala Mhigo at a time like this. Where reminiscence and pain was in the air, firelight bouncing high off the walls of the city and spilling into the graveyard below, where packs of people were moving from grave to grave with hushed whispers of mourning.
But he had to, right? It wasn't everyday where a holiday of mass remembrance was held, especially for those who once sided with the Empire. It wouldn't feel right being here, despite his reservations.
The throng of people he walked with were chattering quietly amongst themselves. Arden pulled his hood low over his head, stifling his ears to silence so that he could focus.
The path through the graveyard split off into two. The group took the left path.
He took the right, down into the lightless, scarcely-remembered patch of dirt where a small gathering of coffins lay. His footsteps stirred up dirt and dust long since settled, stopping before the only disturbed coffin in the circle.
"Hey, Hiroc! Happy first Ala Mhigo Remembrance Day," he said with a grin on his lips, plopping down on the lid of the coffin. "They've all been loud and crazy today until now - hope that hasn't disturbed ya, or whatever's left of ya."
The blackened, dried out flowers in his hands fell onto the coffin lid. "Hope ya don't mind I only got ya two flowers. I know that tradition ain't a thing here, but what else was I supposed t' do? We didn't learn shite about anythin'. I wanted t' get ya a whole bouquet, but flowers are hard t' grow! I swear, I'll get ya some better ones next time I come by. Just ya wait fer me."
"The world's a weird place, ain't it Hiroc?" Some would call it desecration, sitting on top of the grave of your only friend and kicking your legs like you were a bored child on a bench, but Arden knew Hiroc wouldn't mind. He'd get a light reprimand at most, but there'd still be a grin on the other man's face. "Just a year ago, all of them were either cursin' yer name or desperately tryin' t' ignore ya existed. But now, they're all sayin' that ya were just tryin' t' protect yer folks. I mean, ya were, but they're forgettin' the important part about ya wantin' t' pull Ala Mhigo from the dirt and be a hero. It's a shame they're all just lumpin' ya together."
"And what's t' say about the survivors? Fordola's a dog on a leash workin' fer the Alliance, I saw Hrudolf workin' on the street earlier, and-"
Footsteps crunched behind him, and without warning, torchlight blazed across the circle of coffins. Arden hissed, leaping off the coffin and squinting into the burning light.
A tall Highlander man stared out at him from behind the torch, eyes wide. Flanked by a gaggle of citizens, he almost looked the part of one himself, but Arden knew for a fact Hrudolf was a prisoner.
"Arden...?"
Feck. Exactly what he didn’t want to happen. Why did he have to come here first? He’d gambled on having peace and quiet while everyone else was mourning their loved ones...and for Hrudolf to come here alone, long after everyone else fell asleep.
He had to get away, before the man opened his mouth and ruined everything. Quick as a flash, Arden crouched low, letting the invisibility technique taught by his new unit overtake him.
((Warning for minor descriptions of past animal injury.))
When he'd first found this abandoned shack, Arden's mind was abuzz. There was so much work to do to make it habitable: patch the holes in the roof, clear out as much of the mold as possible, make room for the various tomes and relics he'd claimed. It became a veritable studium, hidden away from prying eyes, and Arden was content.
Then, one by one, the animals came. The tanuki, the gaelicat, the sparrow, and the kitten, among others came to enjoy the privacy of his little studium shack, safe from the world that tried to profit from their suffering. And over time, the shack turned into something...else.
Arden's routine no longer consisted of reading and studying day in and day out. He couldn't lay on the ratty couch and try to make sense from the pitter-patter of the rain for bells on end, and as much as he'd say otherwise, he certainly couldn't leave the shack for sennights on end.
A change was in order. For the better? For the worst? He didn't know.
The routine became thus:
Wake up before the sun rises. Shove all the animals off of him so he can get started.
Go down the stairs to the kitchen. Give the tanuki the little handful of berries he'd managed to scrounge up. Promise that he'll do better, but never live up to it.
Open the can of worms and grab the old medicine applicator. Chew up the worms himself and stuff the paste into the applicator, carefully feeding the sparrow perched on his finger. Massage the bare spot on her throat where the mass of scarred flesh took away her ability to speak and swallow properly.
Listen to the gaelicat hiss and snarl at the rats in the walls, and watch as she nearly rebreaks her wing and paw slamming into the wood. Caution her against it, only to receive a sputtering hiss; but notice that she's ramming herself into the wall a little less hard now.
Go back upstairs, uncover the little ahmiran in the cage, and draw its blood. Open the cage, and watch the gaelicat bully the ahmiran into silencing the rats through the wall. Hope the kitten slips into the crack of the wall before they decompose, again.
And finally, get all their attention with a sharp whistle and announce the morning hunt. The kitten is gone as soon as the door is opened. The gaelicat next, herding the ahriman out with claws extended. The sparrow leaves his finger to cling to her jacket, not wanting her out of sight. The tanuki sits down by the open door, looking up at him with big, soulful eyes.
Arden sighs and raises his hood over his head. Grabs the staff with the pointed head and wonders how long he can keep this going.
Before going through the door, he takes one last look at the studium. Books he hadn't opened in moons, relics gathering dust, all overtaken by the odor of burnt food and never-ending rain.
He'd had plans for this place once; it was to become his rise back to power and society. It was now just as forgotten as the original shack.
No longer a studium, but a place for animals. People didn't belong here.
All Saint's Wake at 'The Golden Whisker' Casino and Bar
__Special Event__
Join the haunted cast and crew of 'The Golden Whisker' casino for a night of tricks and treats!
Stay wary though; it seems not all is cobwebs, curtains, and festive spirit. Someone or something has been stalking the halls, leaving threats and mystery in it's wake. Despite the potential dangers, festivities will continue undisturbed.
Our classic game floor has been decked out in seasonal décor, and we are proud to unveil our updated main floors, and upper level; in which guests will be able to find classic games hosted by our talented dealers, see what the stars have in store, and a selection of new arcade games!
If you prefer to play it safe, you're more than welcome to enjoy some games and have a drink at our bar.
((WARNING: there’s a section of this story that contains a discussion of NSFW topics, body shaming, and a very small suggestion of animal cruelty. There’s also one animal death at the very end of this story. THERE ARE NO EXPLICIT OR ANIMAL CRUELTY SCENES IN THIS STORY. The NSFW topic/body shaming/animal cruelty section is marked with a “ -------------o0o-------------o0o------------- “ section break, and the animal death occurs on the last line of the story, so please skip them if you feel like you need to. I’ve provided a TL;DR at the bottom of the story for the marked section.))
For the first time in a long time, Arden was practically on cloud nine as he entered Maelstrom Command.
He knew he was getting odd stares for doing so. He must’ve looked possessed, looking so happy with his destroyed nose and the pained hunch in his back, but he’d long ago learned to ignore the stares of others. After all, who were they to chastise him for the bubbling feeling in his chest, the racing of his mind, the ecstatic feeling of finding gold?
Suki Kotaro and Lancelot Martialis…they sure were gold, the Miqo’te thought to himself as he limped through the halls. Ornamental. Potentially useful. Interesting. He hadn’t yet seen them fight together, but, having faced them one-on-one, he wondered…
Suki was a fast learner. Outside the Whispered Wish, he’d indulged her in a brief lesson on the magical elements; how they created one another, how they reacted to one another, the change in their behavior depending on their polarity…A lesson that was only half a bell long, so many sennights ago. So he had to wonder if she’d studied the subject after they parted ways, or if she was a natural at it, because when they met again, she was able to keep up – and outsmart! – him. When he threw lightning, she tore at his back with earthen claws. When he threw fire, she responded with wind. It was a reminder to him that he needed to stop by the Conjurer’s Guild, to learn about the three elements he had no experience in, so he’d at least have a counter to her. But even if he were to counter her magic, her speed and martial prowess were mighty weapons on their own, and he’d have to devise a plan around them. Perhaps it was time to pick up the sword and shield once again, polish off the rust and become a fighter his once-teammates could be finally proud of.
And Lancelot…he was surprisingly not as hotblooded as he’d expect. Even when he’d told him he didn’t kill Suki after their duel because he knew her, Lance didn’t rush him, like he was expecting him to. For all the emotions the man expressed during prior meetups, he was coolheaded during their fight, even throwing in some banter at times. Arden had proposed the fight as a non-lethal one, so perhaps that was where the bouts of lightheartedness came in, but his control of himself was impressive. Was he able to keep his head during his fights with his family? Similarly, he wondered if he took his opponent’s suggestions and goads seriously; after all, their fight likely wouldn’t have devolved into a fistfight if he hadn’t jeered him into abandoning his gunblade. The weapon had been crafted very well, resisting his attempts to short it out and dull it, and the aetherial bullet wound in his side could attest for its power. His broken nose, inability to take a full breath, and ultimate loss were the consequences of his goading, but he didn’t mind. Because this fight, and the conversation after, gave him more information to work with, new options to exploit. Perhaps it wasn’t in his best interest to break that coolheaded demeanor of Lance’s, but if he could separate the man from his weapon, and prevent him from getting close…
His mind sang with possibilities, of theories to craft and test, and even though the environment in which he fought Suki and Lance hadn’t been ideal, he was ultimately better for the experience. After all, it wasn’t often he had to craft a strategy to defeat an enemy, and he was getting tired of being able to brute-force his way through fights.
And Arden knew that, if Suki and Lance learned of who he really was…the next time they fought, it likely wouldn’t be just a spar. He had plans, goals, obligations; he needed to stay alive, if only for a little while longer.
The wooden flooring creaked under his weight and uneven stride, and the rough, bleached stone walls gave him purchase when he stumbled. Gaggles of chattering Maelstrom soldiers, bright splashes of red and tan, punctuated the white corridors ahead of him, and as he stumbled past, each conversation stilled and eyes turned to him. Half-stuck in his reverie, Arden only flashed them smiles before turning into the barracks belonging to his unit.
As soon as he opened the door, the hushed conversation a Hyur man in the corner of the room was having over his linkpearl quieted. Paying him no mind and humming a jaunty tune to himself, the Miqo’te made his way over to his bunk and storage chest, rifling through it to find his Maelstrom uniform. As he pulled his shirt over his head, the cloth pulled on his broken nose, and he couldn’t hide the hiss that escaped him.
From across the room, the Hyur man took this as an opportunity to whistle at him. “Damn, Reis! ‘ad another fun night, did ye?”
He ignored him, reaching up to carefully touch his nose. It was throbbing even more now, and he grimaced, digging through his storage chest to find his hand mirror. Yep. Still very broken, and still very angry.
His ears picked up the sound of the man’s boots before his reflection appeared in the mirror. “Ye know, if yer such a glutton fer punishment, ye just need t’ ask around. I’m sure more than enough people here would want t’ take a swing at ye.”
Arden’s eyes flicked to man’s reflection. It was always curious to see how their wild theories evolved. There was a cycle to it all, he’d noticed: they’d behold some ‘new’ behavior or attitude, try to rationalize it within the leading theory they’d developed about him, realize it couldn’t fit perfectly, then force themselves to develop a new theory of how to hate him even more. Their attempts to rationalize created irrational theories, that all things must be connected, when the only true connection between all the evidence was, well…
He, Arden, was not the same as them. And they would rather conspire and create unfathomably incorrect theories because they did not want to know him. It was a war tactic: the enemy is different from you, the enemy is a monster, and it’s not worth truly understanding the enemy unless it was to take it down.
It’s not as if these stories led to entirely negative things, though; after all, it was only because he was seen as a sadist that his wonderful comrades told him to ‘take care of’ the ‘unsalvageable’ animals from their recent illegal pet farm raid. Oh, he was taking care of them alright…though not in the way they’d expected of him.
Even if he couldn’t get anything tangible out of their stories, they were, at the very least, very entertaining. A smirk pulled at his lips. Some of them were so outlandish, he had to indulge them simply from the absurdity of it all. And in this case, he knew exactly what the man was implying.
“Haw? None of ya would come close t’ satisfyin’ me. Get yer head outta yer ass.”
“Really now?” The Hyur leaned over him, and the Miqo’te deigned to actually look up at him now. With how arrogant the man was, it was best to keep an eye on him when he was this close. “And why d’ye think that, hm?”
Previously, the leading theory was that he was a sadist. For the past three moons, however, his behavior didn’t fit that reputation. It all started with the slashes on his inner thighs from one particularly rough voidsent-wrangling and the consequences of his different work ethic …and now, it looked like even simple combat injuries were being added to the pile.
“Because if ya knew anythin’ about me, ye’d know that I don’t chase pain fer pain’s sake.” The Miqo’te rolled his eyes, storing the hand mirror away and abruptly standing up. The Hyur had to backpedal to not be clipped by his shoulder. “All of ya seem t’ think I’m some sort of masochist, which…” He turned to him, baring his teeth in a grin. “I find hilarious.”
“Feh,” the man spit. “Ye expect us t’ believe otherwise when ye always come in battered and bruised?” His eyes traced his broken nose and the bandages wrapped around his side. “Fer how often ye boast and crow that women can’t seem t’ take their eyes off ye after ye batt yer eyelashes at them? Fer how often ye don’t show up fer trainin’ and do even the simplest tasks right? Yer askin’ fer punishment all the time! What ‘ave ye got t’ give in return, though? Nothin’.”
Another piece of evidence. The fact that he was attractive and liked the attention was a sign of deviancy? They were really stretching this theory far.
“Nothin’?” Arden echoed curiously. Seeing as how this conversation wasn’t going to end anytime soon, he leaned against the pillar of his bunk. The metal was cold against his bare back, but he restrained his hiss. “Why d’ya think that?”
“Aye, nothin’.” The Hyur’s eyes were sizing him up; he could feel it. Arden flexed his fingers at his sides, and the glint of the light on his painted nails served as a reminder to the man that he was far from defenseless. “Bet ye can’t even please all the ladies ye woo with that tiny dick of yers’, freak. I bet all those injuries are from them and their men, hm? Yer so scared t’ admit that yer worth nothin’ that ye make up stories of getting’ into fights with robbers t’ sate yer own ego.”
The primal disgust revulsion alien feelings conjured by the man’s words nearly knocked Arden off his feet, so intense it was. He had to bite down on his tongue so that he wouldn’t say something he would truly regret. That…that was going too far, and he knew the man knew it. Given that crass jokes were the norm here, he’d come under fire more than once. He…should’ve been used to this by now, knew that they would use anything they could to attack him, and yet…
Even as the taste of copper coated his tongue, the Hyur kept going. “Yer not even useful as a guard. Ye can’t even stand in one spot fer a bell without pissin’ off Hydaelyn-knows where, without a care fer what ‘appens t’ us while yer gone.”
The man suddenly leaned forward, his nose nearly brushing Arden’s broken one. Though clenched teeth, the man snarled, “We’re all bein’ dragged down with ye, and ye’d be doin’ all of us a favor if ye’d crawl back into the hole ye came from.”
Arden locked eyes with him. The Miqo’te said not a single word, slowly raising his hand toward the man’s face. The Hyur narrowed his eyes, tensing up, preparing for the strike…
The door to the barracks burst open with a ‘bang!’, and Arden and the Hyur flinched.
There, in the doorway, stood Lieutenant Engelise Tanne. She wasn’t a naturally intimidating figure – just about as tall as he was, and he wasn’t very tall at all. But dressed in the rich reds of a First Storm Lieutenant and with the tone and expertise to match, even he didn’t want to cross her.
Those steely eyes came to rest on Arden and the Hyur. “I want you two separate.”
The Hyur slowly looked back to Arden. Arden gestured at the pillar he was leaning against; he couldn’t move any more back. With a huff, the man stepped back to give him some breathing room.
Lieutenant Tanne crossed her arms over her chest. “Private Reis.”
On instinct, his body stood at attention. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Get dressed. You’d better be in my office in two clicks.”
And with that, the spun around and slammed the door behind her.
The bleached white of Lieutenant Tanne’s office was already hurting Arden’s eyes, and he’d only been here for a few clicks now. Perhaps it was because, upon closing the door, she’d told him in no uncertain terms that he was to remain right where he was and remain silent. Silence reigned the room, the lack of anything happening besides the scritch of her quill on paper until she spoke, and as she bit out those words, he almost felt relief.
Arden hesitated, trying to think of a way to blur the details just enough to have things make sense to the Lieutenant’s persecuting mind. “The same as the time before, Lieutenant. Had a robber come into my house, and I had t’ defend it.”
“Really now.”
“As honest as I can be.”
Lieutenant Tanne eyed him critically. “And how honest is that?”
He leveled an unaffected stare right back at her. “Ya know I ain’t a liar.”
“Mhm,” The Lieutenant grunted in a tone that clearly showed she didn’t believe him. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I know you to be secretive. You hide the details of your life from everyone. You don’t even talk with your unit about your life outside of your shift.”
Not for the first time in his life, he wished other people would take the hint. “I just like my privacy, Lieutenant.”
“Privacy to the point of seclusion, you mean.” She took her steely gaze off him, and he had to stand there watching her as she dug around through her desk for a rolled cigar. Placing it between her lips, she grumbled, “Give me a light.”
A brief flash of purple from the head of his staff and light pull on his personal aether, and a moment later, a little flame light the tip of her cigarette. Taking a long drag from it, she pulled it from her lips, exhaling smoke in his direction. “Good to know you’re good for something, Reis.”
Oh, he was good at something alright. Some things that she hadn’t, and never would, bear witness to. Just like water rolling right off a dodo’s back, Arden only smiled at her, doing his hardest to not let the pride of a well-kept secret seep into it. “I’m happy t’ be helpful, Lieutenant. Was there anythin’ else you wished to speak with me about, or may I be dismissed t’ take care of my wounds?”
“Now hold on there. You’re not leaving so soon.” She took a moment to lightly tap out the ashes of her cigarette into a nearby porcelain bowl. “You’ve got, what, a broken nose and some burns? That isn’t life-threatening. We’ve got some things to talk about.”
He kept his silence, giving Lieutenant Tanne an incline of his head for her to continue. He only had to hope that this would be quick; there were a million things he could be doing right now, instead of having the Lieutenant berate him for fifth time this quarter. Millions of things that could be benefitting him and the world more by just keeping his mind busy.
“Now, there’s nothing wrong with defending yourself and your home. I want to make that clear.” The Lieutenant leaned back in her chair, the cigar gently pinched between her fingers. “The Maelstrom was founded by former pirates who did far worse things, after all. Some of our critics say that we’re still pirates, just playing by a slightly different set of rules, and I’m inclined to agree with them to an extent.”
“Tell me, Reis…what do you think makes a pirate crew work?”
Hmmm. Proper pirate crews require a lot of people, right? Just like any sort of military, and if his military experience taught him anything, it was... “A shared vision of the future, dependent on their goal – treasure, glory, claimin’ land, or somethin’ else.”
Lieutenant Tanne tilted her head. “…That’s one thing, yes. But run a crew only based on that, and as soon as you find that treasure, glory, or land, your crew will be slitting each other’s throats. The hard part of maintaining a crew is keeping them together, not accomplishing the goal you set out to reach. You do that by building relationships and trust in one another. You have to know that someone’s not going to stab you in the back for a shiny piece of gil.”
“Just like in the military, you’ve got to be able to trust the person guarding your back. Not just their morality, either – their skill, their awareness, and their desire to keep you alive, among other things. Guess how many of your unit would trust you to watch their back.”
Was this supposed to be her attempt at shaming him? He could almost laugh. He knew this already. Didn’t his earlier conversation prove that? “None, Lieutenant?”
“Correct. None. Especially after disappearing for two suns and coming back with all sorts of injuries, making the excuse of defending yourself from ‘robbers’ two times in a row. All your actions have proven yourself untrustworthy, not only of watching your comrades’ backs, but of everything. Why would they want you on their crew?” Her steely gaze pierced right into him. “How long have you been with the Maelstrom in total? And how many different units have you belonged to?”
“Three years, and…six units, Lieutenant.”
“Three years, six units, and yet you’re still a Private Third Class.” Hissing, her gaze snapped right back to him. “Do you want to know why? Because your previous unit leaders were so fed up with your behavior that they didn’t want anything to do with you. Every time they contemplated giving you a dishonorable discharge, someone else would get it in their heads that they could break you, myself included. Frankly, I wish I’d stayed with the smart ones and never got involved with you.”
Well, that stung a little, even if it was true. They thought they could break him? Did he really present himself that weak? That was something he had to add to the research list later, to make sure no one would make that mistake again. But in the meantime, he had to play the part of a respectful subordinate being berated because no one in Maelstrom leadership had a brain, apparently. Ugh. “Are my contributions unsatisfactory, Lieutenant?”
“You mean the contributions you make in between not following orders, randomly missing your shifts, and leaving your post without permission on multiple occasions, among other things? Seven hells, Reis, we’ve had multiple conversations about your behavior, and yet you do nothing to change it! It’s like you don’t even want to be here, and you’re trying to get yourself kicked out!”
Arden tilted his head. “If I didn’t want t’ be here, I would’ve quit long ago, Lieutenant.”
“Then why are you even here?” Clamping down on the cigar between her teeth, she leaned forward, hands in fists on the desk. “Yes, you’ve contributed quite a bit. Your random unauthorized scouting missions led to us thwarting Sahagin and pirate threats before they became a problem. You’re the first person on the scene of an incident with a citizen. You’ve tried to coach some of your struggling comrades on sword and shield, even if it just sounded like you were reciting whatever your own teacher taught you instead of working with them. You’ve even engaged with the rest of the unit and raised morale and camaraderie with your insane stories from time to time. If we were to look at those behaviors in isolation, yeah, I can see that you’re not unwilling to be a soldier. In fact, you could be a great soldier, if you applied yourself.
“But as your unit leader, I have to look at everything else. And everything else points at you being a soldier that’s unwilling to learn and truly be a part of a unit. I can’t have you being the anchor that drags everyone down, or worse, gets people injured or killed.” She narrowed her eyes at him, then began to rifle through her desk. Arden’s ears twitched as he heard the rustling of paper coming from her chosen drawer.
A moment later, two pieces of paper were slapped onto the desk, facing him. One was an enveloped, sealed with red wax emblazoned with the Maelstrom logo. The other was a letter, immediately recognizable by the neat, tight, swirling cursive that took up the entire front and back of the page. Pulling deep from her cigar and plucking it from her lips, Lieutenant Tanne once again faced him and exhaled the smoke. Even though his eyes burned from the ash, all Arden could do was blink furiously and try to mentally map out the path to the nearest water station he could use once he was dismissed.
“And it seems that you recognize that you’re not willing to improve yourself, because you’ve asked me to transfer you to one of our stealth units.” Bringing her cigar hand down, she rapped the letter with a knuckle. The cigar dangled perilously over the paper. “What, do you think you wouldn’t have responsibilities in that unit? That you wouldn’t have to shape up and learn?”
“I believe it would better fit my natural skillset. Wouldn’t that make me a better soldier?”
“What, your natural skillset to go off to who-knows-where on a whim just to satisfy your curiosity?” the Lieutenant snorted. “That’s not how scouting works, Reis. You have orders you must adhere to, and failure means that you put all the lives of the Maelstrom and the innocents of our nation into jeopardy. When you can’t even follow a simple an order as ‘stand guard’ without running off and getting into trouble, and when the units you’ve served with don’t trust you to watch their backs or to tell the truth of why you’ve really disappeared for suns without contact, how am I supposed to put in a good word about you to the stealth unit leadership? Huh?”
Arden frowned a little, not responding, because she was making the exact same mistake all but one person in his life made with him. Even when his scouting mission so many years ago weren’t authorized, and he’d come back to base to punishment after punishment, he’d go out and do it again and again. Because otherwise, he would explode. Just as he was close to doing now, in this lackluster, boring position as soldier-in-waiting, playing with children swinging sticks and believing themselves heroes.
If only they knew how much he was working to save them from himself.
As he remained silent, the Lieutenant sighed in exasperation. “When you first requested the transfer, I made you swear to me that you’d be on model behavior for three solid moons. Not one slip up, random disappearance, or disobeyed order. Difficult for someone like you, I know. And yet…You actually succeeded in curbing your behavior, for a while. You showed up to your shifts on time. You didn’t complain about training. You stayed where you were assigned, and you represented the Maelstrom proudly. You were such a changed man that, when you first arrived at the barracks claiming to have defended yourself from a robber, I was inclined to believe you, somewhat.”
Arden followed her gaze down to the envelope and his written request. The hand with the cigar remained right where it was, just an ilm away from setting it aflame. “But now, just one sun away from three moons, you’ve done it again. I was standing outside the barracks, Reis. I heard that conversation. I have to make a decision. Do I take what you’ve shown me, assumed your good intent and believe that you really were defending yourself and your property, and submit a referral to the stealth units? Or do I look back on your checkered history with your past and current units, assume you were lying about the source of your injuries, and submit my recommendation for your dishonorable discharge?”
Two trains of thought ran through Arden’s mind. One was reviewing what he remembered from the napkin budget in his pocket, trying to determine how much he had in savings. It wasn’t a lot, he knew that for sure. Probably not enough to get by until he could get a new job without resorting to begging on the streets. And the jobs that would be open to him and his experience would be dealing in shady underground business, joining a random venue as underpaid waitstaff, or becoming a bunny at the Gold Saucer... And there was no way he was compromising his part of the Ten Year Plan, not when it was so close to the time of judging.
The other…it was seething at the Lieutenant. This rush of heat and anger wasn’t something he experienced often; he rarely cared what other people thought of him, because they didn’t ever know him. But here was his Lieutenant, threatening to destroy his stability and comfort in life and to ruin his chance at winning the Plan, all because she thought he was lying. His morals were skewed, he knew that, but he always did his best to be honest. “I may not have my head in the right place all the time, Lieutenant, but…I ain’t a liar. I’m tellin’ the truth, I really was defendin’ myself -”
“I don’t want to hear anything more, Reis. Shut your mouth and listen up.”
Arden fell silent, lifting his gaze to look at her.
“As of this moment, you’re on medical leave for one…no, two sennights. Your job is to recover from your injuries on your own. Before, I thought that letting them heal on their own would teach you the value of healers and why their resources shouldn’t be spent on such trivial things, but clearly that didn’t teach you anything. So, your punishment is to suffer for two sennights, or to use your own pay to find treatment. I don’t care which, I’m tired of dealing with you.
In the meantime, I’ll be speaking with your former unit leaders and the stealth unit leaders to determine whether I should honor your request and pass you off to your seventh unit, or if I should process your dishonorable discharge. I expect you to be in my office two sennights from now in better shape than you are now, ready to receive my verdict. Whatever that verdict is, you won’t argue with it. It’ll be done, and one way or another, you’re going to be out of my hair, and I won’t have to deal with you anymore. Do you understand?”
As soon as he was free of the Lieutenant’s office and his wallet was full of the week’s gil earnings, Arden led his company chocobo out of the stables, affixed an aetheryte transporter to her chestpiece, and teleported all the way to Ala Mhigo. A short confirmation that all of his body survived the trip later, the bird was taking him out to the small graveyard outside the city gates. At this time of night, it was so dark he had to light a flame in his palm to see around them, but he much preferred it this way than visiting in the daylight hours. It all but guaranteed that no one would disturb him.
The bird was well practiced; he knew exactly which coffin to stop at. Carved of the same red stone as the spires surrounding them, it was indistinguishable from the coffins surrounding it, and Arden only knew this was the one he was looking for because he’d personally witnessed it’s the final rites for the person inside.
“I’m back, Hiroc!”
Dismounting his chocobo, his footsteps stirred up clouds of dirt and dust as he approached the coffin. Of course, no one ever answered his greeting, but even he knew it was rude not extend them in the first place. With a wave of his hand, the chocobo chirped and wandered off to patrol the perimeter of the graveyard, leaving Arden and the coffin to their solitude.
After a few seconds of silence, he cleared his throat, offering a lopsided grin. “Ya haven’t been slackin’ on the Plan, right? It was yer idea, after all. I ain’t gonna let ya make death or yer sympathy fer me yer excuse fer not tryin’.”
Crouching beside the coffin, he brought his head in close to inspect the cemented seam between the container and lid. Bringing the firelight closer, he traced his fingers along the seam, feeling around. This was going to be hell on his painted nails, he knew. “I don’t know if ye’ve become one of the spirit amalgamations that haunt the land, or if yer aether’s returned to the Lifestream, but either way! If ya don’t do anythin’, I’m gonna win this little contest of ours’. And who wants that?”
It took him longer than usual to find the slit in the fake section of the seam, manufactured by him to be so small as to be nigh-imperceptible. Only once one of his nails caught in it did he let out a little “aha!”, pressing his nail as far into the gap as possible. Ignoring the stinging sensation of rough sandstone against his skin, he extinguished the flame in his other hand, plunging the graveyard into darkness once more. “And don’t ya say that ya want me t’ win. We both know ye’d win this hands-down if ya really tried. Yer the type that draws all sorts of folk t’ ya, while I’m the one that pushes them away.”
Feeling around his belt, he grasped his water pouch and pulled it free, bringing it over to the fake seam and pouring the water into the split. Withdrawing his nail, Arden whispered words of ice, and in an instant the water froze and expanded. Loud cracks and snaps accompanied the destruction of the fake seam, allowing him to pull away a fake section of the coffin wall. The stench of rot and decay flooded out of it as always, and he coughed and wheezed, withdrawing his head and waving his hand in front of his face. “Solus’ bollocks, Hiroc! Ya never did catch on t’ the hygiene lessons I taught ya.”
He lit the flame in his hand once more. Hiroc, as always, looked worse every time he came to see him. Protected from the elements as it was, it had stayed relatively intact, though the bugs and fungi feasting off his body were gradually breaking it down. The once-white burial shroud blocked most of that from Arden’s vision right now, but one time long ago, he’d gotten curious and pulled the shroud off. He’d seen death and decay before – wasn’t affected by it, really –, but something about looking at Hiroc’s rotting corpse and the killing blow that shattered his skull was more…uncomfortable than he’d expected. From that day on, the shroud remained right where it was, disturbed only by the bugs crawling over it.
The area surrounding Hiroc’s corpse, however, was a regular sight. Thousands of gil coins glittered under the firelight, reflecting the warped visages of Arden and the corpse they accompanied. Some were old and dented, others new and with nary a scratch, but one thing they held in common: none of them had be touched by a living hand since being carefully placed in their offering stacks around Hiroc.
“Last I counted,” Arden hummed to himself, reaching for his gil wallet and cracking it open with a soft ‘pop!’, “ya were at nearly two hundred thousand. Well, it looks like ya finally hit that milestone! It’s hard t’ believe ye’ve been savin’ up fer so many years now, isn’t it? Can ya imagine havin’ this kind of money when we were kids?”
With great care, he carefully began stacking the gil coins from his month’s pay in the coffin, making sure it was evenly spread out. Some places he couldn’t reach anymore, the stacks were too high. He’d probably have to create another opening in the other side of the coffin soon; there was quite a bit of unused space back there, and Hiroc was going to need all the space he could get.
“And me? Well…I’ve been bad, Hiroc. Ya know I’m no good at stickin’ t’ goals.” As he reached back to his wallet for more coins, a little cream-colored lizard darted up to his hand. With a curious noise, Arden pulled out a single gil coin and set it out for the lizard to inspect before returning to his duties. “Not fer a lack of tryin’, of course. Ya know I take the Plan as seriously as ya do. It’s just…” A gil piece hovered in the air for a moment as he thought how to explain it. Soon, however, it ‘clink’ed onto the stack, joining its brethren. “Ya know me. I’ve always been loose with my money, even when we didn’t have much of it.”
Arden watched as the lizard grew bored of the coin and approached Hiroc’s coffin to inspect it. Picking up the abandoned gil coin, he danced it along his fingers, watching the firelight glint and sparkle off it with a smile. “Which is funny, ain’t it? Before the Empire came, our families didn’t want fer anythin’. ‘Course, that came with servin’ the Mad King directly, but it kept them safe, secure, and alive. I understand why they took the path they did.”
“But then, by the time we were born, that legacy had been stripped away from us. Brought down t’ the level of all the others playin’ around in the dirt.” Abruptly, he caught the coin in one swift movement, and reached above the lizard to place it on top of a stack. “Well…the Garleans took interest in our families, so that was a bit different, I suppose. Whether it was because our families were related t’ the Corpse Brigade or because they cooperated easily, I don’t know. Sure, we lost all the gil, but we got teachin’ and favors in exchange. And knowledge, as Olcinia always said, is power, worth more than any amount of coin.”
Arden paused a few moments to count the remaining coins in his wallet. “Two thousand…three thousand…” Was that going to be enough to cover his own side of the Plan, and all his living expenses? It’d be cutting it close, that’s for sure. With a furrowed brow, he looked back to the glittering stacks of gil inside the coffin. It’d be so easy to take a coin from Hiroc’s stack, and with anyone else he wouldn’t be hesitating, but…taking from Hiroc would be crossing a line, even for the standards of their relationship. With a sigh, he snapped his wallet shut. “I think I gave ya one or three too many coins. Looks like I’m gonna have t’ hold myself back from buyin’ that one shirt fer another month.”
The lizard seemed to be happy crawling around the stacks of gil, exploring the nooks and crannies that he couldn’t fit his hand in, but all good things had to come to an end. Gently grasping it by the abdomen, he set it on the cool dirt beside him, then picked up the section of fake wall. “Sorry, little guy. Yer time fer curiosity’s over.” Carefully placing it back in its proper spot, he grabbed a handful of red dirt from besides the lizard, soaked it with the remaining water in his flask, and molded the paste to fit into the gap where the fake seam once laid. A quick score of his nail created the slit once more, and to the undiscerning eye, the coffin would be intact and whole once more by midday as the paste dried.
With the most important task out of the way, Arden finally allowed himself to relax, leaning against the side of the coffin with a sigh. The Lochs was deceptively chilly at night to foreigners, but having lived in the region for most of his life, he had nary a goosebump. “…Ya know, we made this whole Ten Year Plan, laid out all the details and conditions…but we never made an endgame fer it. What are we supposed t’ do with all the gil, power, and prestige we’ve earned by the end?” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the lizard lapping up a few droplets of water. “Are we supposed t’ live off it? Donate it t’ the poor and hungry? Or is it up t’ ya t’ choose?”
“Well, I mean, ya ain’t gonna be chosin’ anythin’. Yer dead.” He shrugged his shoulders lightly, tossing a look back at the coffin. “Ya didn’t tell me what ya wanted t’ do with yer part. Specula Imperatoris bashed yer skull in before ya could.”
Why did Fordola do what she did that day? So much death and destruction on both sides with no explanation he, nor the surviving Resistance members, could find. Given that she was working with the Alliance on the front lines now, it was likely an answer he, regrettably, likely won’t ever get.
…Unless he ranked high enough in the Maelstrom to be sent to the front lines, that is.
“…Ya always talked about wantin’ t’ be a hero of Ala Mhigo, right? When the game ends, I’ll donate yer money t’ the government coffers, and make sure they know yer name. How’s that sound?” Arden turned his head back to the coffin with a cheery smile. “I’ll make sure they know that Hiroc Boulderclap of the Crania Lupi was lookin’ out fer his nation all this time, even in death.”
“As fer me…” Slowly, he turned his gaze out across the dark graveyard. A lonely place at night, but perfect for him and this little lizard who served as his audience. It was gazing up at him expectantly. “…Who knows. As I said, I ain’t good with stickin’ t’ goals. I’ll try my hand at usin’ it wisely and humanely, but likely, it’ll all get spent on good food and clothes. Supplies fer the animals. Maybe an actual house, too. But I’ve got t’ travel light. After all…”
His crooked, stained teeth flashed in a grin in the darkness. “It’s high time I get t’ chasin’ down the opportunities that led me down this path. My current lifestyle’s startin’ t’ get borin’, and ya know I ain’t as noble as ya.”
The lizard tilted its head questioningly.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean I ain’t noble when I want t’ be. While I do that…I’m gonna go track down Fordola fer ya, and get the answers straight from her about why ya had t’ die.”
With his mind set, Arden stood up with a whirl, gently patting the lid of Hiroc’s coffin. “Don’t ya worry, Hiroc. I’ll do whatever it takes t’ set the record straight. I’m swearin’ this as yer friend.”
As always, there was no response. He clicked his teeth, raising his chocobo’s whistle to his lips and blowing a shrill note into the still night air. Only a few moments later, his chocobo was racing to his side, the lizard darting to the relative safety of Hiroc’s coffin to avoid getting stomped.
Arden climbed aboard his bird, looking down at Hiroc’s coffin for the final time that night with a faint smile. Slowly, he raised his right arm…
“Good night, Hiroc.”
…and crossed it over his chest, thumping his shoulder for good measure.
The lizard raced out of its safety spot, darting toward the chocobo and rider as if to join them –
But was crushed underfoot as the Arden sped off into the night, now thoughtless to its existence.
((TL;DR of the NSFW/body shaming/animal cruelty section: Arden is so disliked by his unit that they refuse to try to get to know him, so they create hurtful, untrue theories about him using his behavior and attitude as examples. One theory had them labeling him as a sadist who liked to torture animals. Now, their current theory is that he’s a promiscuous masochist, and one of his unit members tries to shame him based on that as well, as tries to body shame him.))
