FFXIVWrite 2025 Prompt #30: Two Heads are Better than One
Galool Ja Ja raised a hand above his head, palm slightly up, and waved it once, "That will do! You've shown me more than enough!"
Surrender befitting the Dawnservant.
Xiao stopped casting and sheathed her rapier. Her arcane focus did a little twirl as it found its way back to her waist. She then unceremoniously sat down hard on the floor and took her hat off her head to fan herself with it.
"Ye had me hard pressed, but was that the full might of the Dawnservant?"
Galool Ja Ja chuckled and also unceremoniously dropped on his rump. He pressed a hand on the Head of Resolve.
"You too! I had heard the Warrior of Light wielded a colossal slab of a sword and survived impossible to defend attacks by sheer force of will. What's with this thinblade and casting?"
Xiao threw her hands up in an expression of lackadaisical defeat,
Somewhen, somewhere, if those two things actually exist in the oops-all-dynamis landscape that was Ultima Thule, Xiao settled down with a fishing rod. Ostensibly, it was to help out the Omnicrons, but fishing was fishing. For Xiao, it meant that you plunked a line with a hook and maybe bait at the end and waited for something to pop up. Generally it was a quiet and passive, if boring, way to reliably obtain sustenance. Rarely it was weirder.
Xiao knew of several folks who were very serious about the weirder bits to the sport and did a lot of trophy fishing. They were all about the way the Calamity surely affected the trout population and speculated about the ways that the deep ocean and undersea aether currents could change fish. They strove to find the perfect conditions to fish up monsters and rarities. She appreciated and respected the passion. She just didn't have the patience or headspace for it.
At least out here, all fishing was weird fishing. She'd bring back everything she could catch to the Omnicrons and see if they could make use of it, with only test bites in a few of the "fish" to test their edibility. Sometimes the ones that still looked like fish looked somewhat appealing.
After hooking up some thorny multifooted segmented worm and chucking it into her bucket with the rest, she wondered if Zenos might have enjoyed this. Perhaps it would have struck too close to the ennui that he was afflicted by to be entertainment, but he certainly had the passion, the obsession, to be a big game fisher.
Speaking of headspace and not having it...
"...That's not just in here, is it," Ardbert said, looking up into nothingness. He was also sitting in nothingness. This didn't really exist. Well, to be fair, nothing out there really existed either, in a manner of speaking, so who could say really.
Esteem flicked a lazy eye open from where she was leaning against, well, you get the idea, "Nope. Xiao wouldn't be able to remember the lyrics that well, nor carry the tune, even with her bucket."
He groaned, "How is that still going?"
"Considering that there's a landscape made out of sacrificed Scion aether still here when the Scions, former Scions, are all aetherically hearty and hale back on Etheirys, I would hazard that things simply continue without rhyme or reason out here."
"...I tried for a little rhyme."
Esteem sat up, sort of, "I for one at least believe you did very well for someone who hardly exists anymore."
"It really is like that, huh. How much of us is dynamis?
"Us? I, for one, am a manifestation comprised of much 'repurposed' aether, excuse you."
"Come now. You absolutely aren't manifesting at the moment."
Esteem shrugged her nonexistent shoulders, and smiled.
Ardbert looked back up, conceptually, "I suppose the borders between real and unreal are weak here. 'Twould explain much, like how sometimes the fish that Xiao catches don't exist until she reels them up."
"Perhaps one of the Sharlayans, say Xiao's darling, would have insightful commentary on the horseshoe nature of aetherically dense creation magic versus aetherically thin dynamis horseshite. But that is beyond our speculation."
They both sat for a moment with the song.
"...It's looping."
"Does it really bother you so? It's not like anyone else has the means to come all the way out here, if here even quite exists. The Sharlayans certainly aren't giving guided tours."
"Fine. But the dragons and Omnicrons and the lot certainly exist somewhat, and surely they all hear this. All the time. Constantly."
"And?"
"...Haven't they suffered enough while they lived?"
"Do you see them suffering? I believe them grateful to still exist, even if their existence is so marred by this song."
Ardbert did as close to a full body cringe as he could manage without a full body, "It was just supposed to be a little encouragement for Xiao! In her time of greatest need. I couldn't just pop up to walk alongside her like you could!"
Esteem shrugged again, comfortably smug with the knowledge that she was the superior nonexistent manifestation of Xiao's aether, or whatever category it was that both she and Ardbert barely existed in.
She looked over to where Ardbert was, well Ardbert wasn't, and she couldn't look, but regardless, "...Look, at the least, Xiao doesn't mind it. She's even humming along to it."
"I never trained as a bard! If I had known it would be permanent, I'd have just kept quiet."
Esteem sighed, "I'm sure all present, for a given amount of 'present' and 'presence,' all appreciate the song. 'Tis as much of a sign of your love and devotion as the aether sacrificed by the Scions."
"...You really think so?"
"Aye, and look how it transcends time and space and the very definitions of existence themselves."
Ardbert turned his head back up, or at least if he had a head— you know the drill, "I suppose that's not so bad."
They both watched on while Xiao hook in another oddity as the chorus surged. Impeccable timing, or just how the place worked?
"...Once it's begun, it's too late. All you can do is await death... like me." Eutrope grit her teeth and put a hand on her chest.
Xiao flicked her ears and tail, something about this was bothering her.
"This... this can't be true!" Yaana stomped her foot half in protest, half in disbelief, "I knew there were risks, but isn't that why fighters are immortalized? So we can get out before it's too late?"
Xiao tilted her head, right. There was that, what about the whole immortalization business bothered her?
Eutrope looked at her sister, "Yaana, have you ever met one of the immortalized?" She continued as a flash of realization hit her sister's face, "The life of comfort promised at retirement is just a lie woven to exploit us and cover up our deaths."
Neyuni spoke up, finally, but not to add into the conversation, rather, "Xiao? Are you all right?"
"Immortalizing, an' all, happens when yer twenty, aye?"
Now, to be perfectly clear, returning to the Star and all that, that was for those in the heart of Amaurotine society. People died all the time. Hells, the capital even still recognized the results of duels, though they were considered uncouth and were rarely to the death. But now and then it would regrettably happen.
So by his own standards, he was put in his place rightfully.
And he hated that! Hated it!
What was worse, his aether was so incredibly dense for the shard, he would have to sit and wait for an incredibly long time to finally dissolve into the oblivion that was the Aetherial Sea.
Well.
Might as well see what the buffoons he got bested by were getting up to—
Like some sort of intense sleep paralysis demon nightmare version of l'esprit de l'escalier, it was at that moment that the hold Kairos had on his memories was finally released.
There was the initial sense of violation and revulsion from the fact that this horrific sort of manipulation was done to him, entirely against his will. There was the secondary sense of utter horror and mortification when he started to recount what exactly happened, what was exactly erased, who was present at the time, and how dramatically the erasure would shape the rest of his actions for the rest of his godsdamned existence. And there was a lingering, tertiary sense of dread when he started to consider what Azem, Halcyone, must have planned out. There was no way this was all to chance, right? His beloved and be-loathed betrothed with such utterly potent fate magicks surely would have...
But then... how far did she plan ahead? How far did she know? How far had he been simply living out the story she had written for him? How far back did it extend?
And... by their Twelve, the Rejoining, the Ardor, their lives' work, and for the sundered among them, their unending duty... all of it would end up a waste, an eon-long exercise in futility. They would bring all of their loved ones back to be annihilated by a force they both barely understood and barely could interact with. They hadn't fixed the root of the cause. Oh yes, Lord Zodiark could, after a fashion, forestall the disaster perhaps in perpetuity, but would ultimately, at the end of everything, still succumb to whatever horror of dynamis that Meteion became to inflict the Final Days in the first place. The bitter irony of having done so much for such futility and having almost no way to communicate any of this to anyone from his current position utterly vexed him in the worst ways.
But he was left with the burning question, did she know?
There was no feasible way that Halcyone would have known all of that, to have planned for all of that, surely? Surely she would not have written herself out so utterly as to become sundered. And even if she did, surely she would have done so with a careful plan moving forward. But to write this sort of cruelly ironic and fruitless end for her beloveds...
Every extent to which Halcyone could have known, too little, too much, all of it was abhorrent. All of it was wrong in the worst sort of way. Hades set his mind to it. He would happily prefer that Halcyone had no idea, and that all of her fate weaving had been lost, than to imagine her capable of inflicting these fates upon those around her. Even Hydaelyn, Venat, having opposed he and his for so long, fighting the good fight in a manner that now sickened him to have fought against (she had known all along, hadn't she?), was not a fate that he could imagine Halcyone writing in for her.
Then how? When did this Xiao Longbao go back, and more importantly, how did she go back? And then how did Halcyone weave her in? Did she weave Xiao in? Did Halcyone know?
All of his once faith in Halcyone was returning to the fore, pushing past his grief, and crumbling into despair.
But Halcyone was gone. He had only one person left that he could count on to do something with the knowledge that she had.
That she will have?
Emet turned his gaze back up. For the first time in his existence, at least as far back as he could remember, he truly felt the trepidation of not knowing what would happen next and the powerlessness of having no ability to directly influence the next steps.
Everything powered down and all the electrope went dark. The beautiful landscape that was the Windspath Gardens was rendered a desolate, lifeless place. Almost all of its lushness and conservation proved to be no more than a simulated shell, no more real than the lava or rides or waterways of the previous sections.
Erenville did not look back to watch Cahciua disappear, so when he turned around, she was already gone. A hundred regrets arose unbidden from Erenville's gut and caught in his throat. Everyone else took a somber moment of reflection.
Everyone else save Xiao, who had already spun on her heel and was headed back before she snapped her fingers, "Right, zip lines won't work no more. Damn shame."
Something in Erenville cracked, "I just lost my mother, and all you can think of is the zip lines?"
Xiao turned, but didn't say anything. Wuk Lamat opened her mouth but got cut off.
"Look, I know you might not give two shites about your own mother, but for pity's sake—"
With a single bound, Xiao covered the distance between her and Erenville, corps-a-corps, but without the rapier. She took him by the collar and fluidly, handily, easily lifted him with a single arm. Wuk Lamat gasped and shouted and G'raha moved as if to separate the two, but both stopped as they saw Xiao's expression. It was not fury written on her face, but a look of discipline and gravity.
"Pity? Aye. More's the pity ye spent all but the last half bell saying nary a whit to the thing that resembled yer mother."
"Excuse me?"
Xiao shook him lightly, "Aye, the thing that resembled yer mother. The one that's been influencin' us to help it die since it noticed our presence in Heritage Found."
Erenville struggled against Xiao's arm to little effect, "Stop calling my mother a thing!" He was no stranger to tests of strength and endurance, but Xiao's arm was like a bar of iron.
"Oh? The stored and resurrected memories of your mother, the same ones that knew it was an artificial construct hardly different from a mammet, hardly different from the tasteless food, hardly different than the single sided facades they have instead o' buildings, was still your mother? Understand the need to say goodbyes, but 'tis a road too far when e'ery single thing we've seen and interacted with in Living Memory has been made from the same damn hollowness."
She set Erenville down, "We've not the time for yer hang ups, but if it's got ye so fooled even after interactin' with the lot o' them things that all work and act the same save the tidbits of information they spout about themselves, let this be a wake-up call."
Erenville patted himself down while looking for something to say, "...They're hollow?"
Xiao nodded at Wuk Lamat, "Namikka seem off to ye here?"
She looked to the others as if they could help her, "...Wellll, it was a little strange she seemed to keen to focus on my lot despite having lived the last third of her life making many new memories. I would hate to think she was only happiest while she was still caring for me."
Xiao turned to Krile, "And yer parents, ain't it strange they just happened to be around for ye?"
Krile frowned, disliking the implication greatly, "We're aware that Living Memory will unite people who had loose ends in life for a semblance of closure in death... It's not impossible the 'system' that must be monitoring us mistook us for the same, scanned our thoughts somehow, and staged similar reunions..."
G'raha rubbed his stomach, soothing a mixture of discomfort from the ice cream, and a sense of unease, "I remember the comment made about the play of Alexandrian history one of the children had made, that Otis had put on the play before, mayhap even constantly as they had all seen it several times. 'Twas only the novelty of Xiao and Wuk Lamat performing that drew a larger crowd. The rides were almost all empty in Yesterland. And though the children seemed to be greatly enjoying one another's company, they were playing the same games nearly on loop."
Krile nodded, "I noticed that too, the emptiness of the stadium and the zoo and the quiz exhibit, all of it spoke to how little anyone truly cared for Asyle Volcane, but I had put it down to the lack of aether, however what thrill is there to seek in all of that? Even the hot springs, which turned out to be no more than heated baths, were nearly lukewarm. Mayhap on the first go around there is something of interest to be had, but an unending and unchanging eternity of this?"
"Even the dustiest museums in Sharlayan change their exhibits every few years." Erenville said, his hands on his hips, his head tilted, "And yet that Milala exhibit seemed to be the only one that they've had in there with how affixed everything was, 'tis indeed quite strange."
Wuk Lamat hugged herself, "Even that moment with Namikka, I was able to say the words I didn't get to say when she was taken away, but in all honesty, I said them because I wanted to have those words said, no matter how Namikka would have taken them." She looked at Xiao with hardened eyes, "Those words could have been said to a grave, all the same."
Xiao nodded to all this, "Been thinking, despite the amount of Endless, despite their endless days, where is the conflict? Where are the grudges? Why is everyone pleasant?"
Erenville clenched his fists, "Because they're made to be, just as Sphene is made to care for the Endless. Otherwise, they're hollow. They're empty. The closest to a real person with how unpleasant she was was my mother, who seemed to have had her way addling and modifying the constructs, so 'tis not unlikely she modified herself."
"...Wasn't gonna say she was unpleasant."
"My mother always had that kind of pushy energy, but she did contain multitudes, nuances that this simulacrum lacked."
Xiao punched her palm, "So, we on the level?"
Erenville punched Xiao in the shoulder none too gently. He was pretty sure he hurt his hand more than he hurt Xiao any.
Everyone in Sharlayan knew of the Last Stand, and, depending on how joyless and efficient they thought nutritional sustenance ought to be, celebrated it or tolerated it.
What was much more of a secret, or at least an open secret, was Sharlayan's only speakeasy, run every year by a new and enterprising group of Studium graduates handpicked by the previous year's graduates for their skullduggery. It was imperative that such a thing existed in this covert manner. Students needed to blow off steam, but many students were underaged, or at least unsuited to drink, and many graduates aged into becoming the very enforcers of the rules that would ban the existence of the speakeasy, despite even the original symposium being a venue of public discussion, debate, and drink.
Therefore, out of necessity, ownership changed each year, the location changed each year, and the alum generally turned a blind eye to the Kapeleion for the benefit of all.
So naturally, Thancred was able to bring Xiao there, where Y'shtola and Urianger were already.
It was some point in investigating the Fell Court of Troia that Y'shtola felt something weird build up. She placed a hand on her breast and experimentally tried to clear her throat and cough.
What came up was a giggle. Her heart was palpitating. The muscles on her chest half seized. Her head spun.
She was momentarily taken by the suspicion that she had contracted something from the miasma of Scarmiglione, or perhaps that the warding scales were flawed and the void had begun to seep in, but then the feeling clicked into recognition with some relief.
Ah, she was giddy. She was so excited she could scream. She needed to burst from these wretched halls and sing and dance.
After all, was this not the Thirteenth? Was this not another Shard?
All that work, all those sleepless nights!
And now she was here!
Oh she recognized full well that it was not just she and hers that got them to the Thirteenth, she would be remiss to not effusively laud Garlond Ironworks and the alchemists of both the High Crucible and The Great Work who all put in so much effort over the last moon, but that was secondary to the sensation of being here.
The Void!
Y'shtola reined herself in, grounding herself in the here and now. She focused in on her senses. The air had a burnt, acrid metallic scent to it, curiously similar to that which most voidgates emitted. The aether around her teemed with energy that she wasn't used to seeing, even the stone-and-mortar walls lurched and stretched with chaotic stresses and strains. And, not unlike the persistent too-still almost tinnitus finger-on-glass ringing that the First had under Everlasting Light, the Vacuity had a hollow, weird deadening, as if she could shout on one side of a room and someone on the other side may not be able to hear it. The stillness here was not a lack of movement or change, but a void of movement or change, because everything seemed to want to move away or pull apart.
The strange qualities to the very air she breathed could explain how riled up she was. Yes, there was a strange electricity that adorned everything that kept the hair at her nape standing on end and quickened her heart and breath. She was giddy perhaps, but it was not completely of her own make. She was absolutely not a Studium First Year on her first foray into Labyrinthos or the Isle of Haam.
Beyond all of that, she had to temper her excitement further, the voidgate was controlled through the artificial Atomos, but it did not mean she had a viable method with which to peer into other shards, let alone visit them. There were no "Empty"-gates for her to traverse to the First after all, and neither was she willing to tip the First into such disarray as to make them possible, the question of if they would form at all aside.
Alas, all of this pent up energy still roiled within her, no matter her grounding or her reality checks. Mayhaps it was in part what adrenaline was leftover from the sprint into and conquering of the Fell Court. Action after moons worth of research and experimentation was quite the stimulation. She needed a sit down and a spot of tea. She needed a comfortable chair and a breather. She needed... She needed...
She needed a release.
She scurried (genuine scurrying!) through the rooms until she happened upon Xiao failing to negotiate any useful information from a loitering Voidsent, and pulled upon the wide brim of Xiao's jaunty red hat to twist the taller Miqo'te's head around and down, to meet their lips. She pulled Xiao deeper into the kiss with a hand to Xiao's shoulder, and, finding Xiao receptive and eager, slipped her fingers down the front of Xiao's doublet, undoing the fastenings.
Xiao pulled away slightly, her breath hitching, "What's gotten into you, Shtola?"
"Truth be told, I'm not quite sure, but you must needs extract it."
"Oh? And how to go about it?"
Y'shtola smiled mischievously, her lips brushing Xiao's as she cracked the expression.
"Must I spell it out for you? Why, with your fingers, lips, and tongue."
Said fingers immediately started dancing upon Y'shtola's sides, then back, searching blindly but delicately for the ties on Y'shtola's dress. Said lips rejoined their respective sparring partners upon Y'shtola's face, and said tongue pushed ahead with such force as to make Y'shtola step backwards to brace herself.
Y'shtola pushed the hat off Xiao's head so as to have better access to Xiao's ears for mussing while she pushed her other hand into Xiao's shirt, running a finger through the ring that pierced Xiao's nipple, eliciting a gasp of a whine. Xiao's lips moved more fervently, her tongue probed more needily. Y'shtola felt the dress loosen from her shoulders and slip forward; fingers that had groped at her back now moved under the loosened fabric to her breasts. She found the breath-stealing kiss and those needy and kneading hands guiding her to lean against the edge of an ancient table.
Xiao's knee pushed up against the fabric of Y'shtola's dress to hitch it up past the thigh high boots Y'shtola wore whenever she expected combat, parting them slightly, enough. Xiao's hands parted as well, more asymmetrically; one slid towards Y'shtola's back and up her spine, danced past her shoulder blades, and then settled on her nape in a firm but gentle grip; the other slipped out of Y'shtola's dress completely downwards, glided down Y'shtola's side and thigh, detoured across the raised hem of Y'shtola's dress, and skulked underneath into the heat and humidity. Almost immediately, Xiao jerked her hand back, breaking the kiss to look down, her fingers glistening.
Y'shtola chuckled mischieviously, unthreading her hand from Xiao's chest and retrieving from the opposite sleeve her smalls, warm and damp, which she unceremoniously stuffed into Xiao's shirt for safekeeping.
"...How? When?"
She chuckled again, a bit more theatrically, "Am I not the Witch of Rak'tika Greatwood? The Sorceress of the Night's Blessed? I have magicks beyond your ken."
Xiao took those fingers and stuck them in her mouth, then, making a show of it, extracted them with a wet pop. She carefully licked clean each one, keeping eye contact as her tongue worked between her digits.
"Aye, there's sickly sweet poison in yer humors. Must work quickly before the Void corruption overcomes you."
"Perchance I'll be overcome another way?"
"Perchance." Xiao leaned forward for a quick kiss on the lips, then subsequent kisses moved downward, down Y'shtola's neck, guided by her collarbones, lightly on her breasts, then further... further...
Y'shtola's heart fluttered expectantly. She placed a hand on Xiao's head, between the ears, and another on the table for support. She felt the heat building up in her dress be wicked away with sudden exposure, then be replaced with another heat, Xiao's breath, that made the whole mess below tingle. Xiao blew slightly, causing Y'shtola's oversensitive body to shudder, before planting a wet kiss on Y'shtola's needy clit. That kiss grew into a wide yawn as Xiao lapped up the slick between Y'shtola's thighs and drew more from her, her tongue tracing folds and delving deep. Y'shtola threw her head back, her own mouth open and stretched for a half stifled moan. She leveraged her hold on Xiao's hair and the table to grind herself against Xiao's mouth, bucking forwards. By the gods, there must have been something about the thinness or chaos of the aether because she was already so close...
She took full advantage of Xiao's ability to breath underwater.
The Voidsent that Xiao had been questioning burst from the room, terrified by the mortals suddenly turning on one another. It nearly barreled over a clever Voidsent that had wandered up from the unlocked dungeons. This clever Voidsent sniffed out hints of such delectable aether in the air... And let her curiosity overtake her caution. She wandered into the room that the loitering Voidsent had escaped from...
She did not know mortals could consume each other's aether in such a manner.
When Xiao turned back, writ in hand, Hythlodaeus, or the aetheric equivalent or whatever, was gone. It left her with the odd sensation that maybe her Light-addled brain had simply dreamt up the entire encounter.
But Hythlodaeus's story was far too fanciful for anything that Xiao could have come up with herself. Also too long winded. And who was this "she" that he had expected such a fate? Who was this "her" that Emet-Selch undoubtedly recognized the hint of?
She was loathe to give Emet-Selch any more sympathy. That her story entwined with his so much as it already did churned her stomach. That G'raha Tia had spent more than a century struggling to alter her fate, that she was now acknowledged to be so tied with Ardbert, that undoubtedly even now Zenos moved somewhere to set the stage for their next climatic encounter, that so many on the Source and on Norvrandt both struggled to influence her because they all saw her to be something, something that she barely recognized herself as, it was all too much. It was as if she were bound from all sides, tangled in the rigging after a slipped foothold, and all of the ropes started pulling taut, pulling her apart. It was enough to make her short of breath, enough to make her head spin.
...Actually that might be the Light poisoning.
She unsteadily made her way over to the long bench again. She just needed a moment to rest her head...
When she awoke, whiteness encroached from the edges of her vision, and she could barely make out the ceiling with how blurry it was. Xiao shut her eyes again, unable to process or think about anything.
A comforting hand with familiar warmth and a reassuring weight mussed with her hair, stroking between her ears.
"There, there, rest a while longer, my sweet."
She was resting her head on someone's thigh. Had she the strength, she would have jerked up and apologized for the intrusion, the forced intimacy. It was embarrassing.
But for whatever reason, she was quite sure that whoever it was that she was lying on, didn't mind. The soothing hand on her head said as much. She still couldn't shake the feeling, the instinct, that this was nostalgic.
My sweet?
"Haurchefant?"
She forced her eyes to focus in on the face above her, not quite as high above as Hythlodaeus had been, but still.
He looked back down at her, smiling the same way he had always smiled when looking at her. That genuine affection, the way he could project such delicate intimacy into the crinkles around his eyes, the moments between blinks in which he looked like he could cry...
Xiao turned her head away, unable to bear it.
"What's wrong, my dear?"
"You're not real."
Haurchefant chuckled, "Am I not? Whose thigh are you resting your precious head on then?"
"You, you shouldn't be here."
"But I am. I'm here. I'm always here for you."
The tears that leaked from her eyes down onto the thigh she rested on were stained white.
"Don't."
"Don't comfort you while you ail? Don't hold you while you hurt? Xiao, my love, what's gotten into you?"
She covered her eyes with an arm as she sobbed, "Don't look at me. Not like this. Not when 'm like this."
She was clearly ill, desaturated, deflated, her hair brittle and dry, her skin chafed and flaking, her spittle bleached and thickened. She was more Light than person, her body a tattered barrel of ceruleum with thinning walls and rusting loops, held together only by a sealant of prayer and more Light magicks.
Haurchefant looked at her no differently than he usually did, "Xiao, is there another you would rather look after you when you're like this?"
No. Not even Y'shtola. Especially not Y'shtola.
"But you're, you're... y-you're..."
"Not right now." He reached over to hold Xiao's hand, "And despair not, for we have borne worse weather together, and I have nursed you back from a much more miserable state."
That's right. They had. He did. In all of this she wasn't alone, that she knew, but she also had to be strong. There was no one else there to be strong for her. She had to hold it in, much like the Light that was almost too much to bear. But with Haurchefant, with Haurchefant, she could be vulnerable. He was, after all, all too happy to be her support, to be her shield.
Xiao rolled over and curled up, she cried large and ugly tears into Haurchefant's lap, sobbing as hard as her lungs would allow.
"M-miss you. M-miss you so much."
Haurchefant squeezed Xiao's hand and didn't stop stroking her hair, "You've accomplished so much while I was gone, I'm so proud."
"You're still gone. You're still dead."
"Am I? Do I not still live and reside in your heart, burrowed deep as a worm? Do I not still hold you tight around the waist and protect you from blows through your dress?"
For what was grief if not love that abided long after the lover was gone? The final form that love took after all over vestiges were lost or rotted away. She was clad in grief, in a phantom city built with grief, sent by proxy to relieve those that would grieve for her, to undo the despair so wrought with hope beyond hope.
She took her time and finally let out the tears that she had been holding back for far too long. She grieved for what she had left behind, for what she had become. What of Haurchefant's beloved still remained in her? She grieved for what was to come to pass. They had followed Emet-Selch's trail down to these depths, but what salvation could they find here? No one had made any plans, prepared any contingencies, found any solutions. There was no salvation. Emet-Selch would offer no balms or panaceas, and he certainly would offer no mercy. She would become the most terrible Lightwarden to wreck havoc in Norvrandt, kickstarting the Eighth Umbral Calamity.
She would kill the Scions, undoubtedly. If not through proximity of her Radiance, then by claw and tooth.
"...And yet, there is still hope, is there not? Your allies have not abandoned you, and all of Norvrandt awaits your return. Are they wrong? Will you tell them it was all for naught? All this time, clinging to life, not waiting to die, but truly clinging and attempting to thrive... Would you be so cruel, so selfish as to deny them your best?"
Feeling sorry for herself, feeling sorry for her lot, her fate, all of that was fine. Haurchefant never denied her tears or her other darker emotions. Haurchefant held her while she wept for Y'shtola. No doubt, had she given her the chance, Y'shtola would hold Xiao as well as she wept for Haurchefant.
But Haurchefant, and undoubtedly Y'shtola, would not settle for that. There was grief, but then there was action spurred on by that grief, or by anger resulting from that grief. Targeted action. There would be something to do, there would be a way out, no matter how slim the chance. There was still hope, even if it was hope beyond hope.
Xiao dried her tears. She braced against the back of the bench and hauled herself upright. She wondered idly if Emet-Selch had these sorts of little crying session in Hythlodaeus's lap as well. She reached up to kiss Haurchefant on the cheek.
"Thank you. Don't have to wear his face though."
Esteem scoffed, "You, no, we needed his face."
"Aye. That we did."
"'Twas in a roundabout way, but, I'm glad you called upon me."
In the darkest hour, in the blackest night...
"Heh, but where else could you go?"
Still wearing Haurchefant's face, Esteem smirked in an extremely out of character way, "And indeed, who else could I love, but you?"
"Now let's move on. We continue."
Xiao Longbao left the Bureau of the Administrator without looking back at the empty bench.
Seto, a dark haired and tan complexioned Seeker Miqo’te spat out his drink in sudden realization, lightly misting his surroundings with his liquor.
“Oh gods, I know where I know her from, she’s the bloody Warrior of Light.”
An I-clan Miqo’te with black hair with white highlights and pale skin next to him raised an eyebrow as he wiped the side of his face, “Huh. Really? What’s the Warrior of Light doing in the Wolves’ Den?”
A gray haired and dusky skinned Keeper of the Moon Miqo’te across from him speared her layered coffee soaked ladyfinger cream cake, “...If she’s the Warrior of Light, why is she so shite at fighting?”
A Raen Au Ra, only known as the Laughing One, chuckled, as was his wont.
A strawberry blonde Lalafell put down her tea, “Oh. Her. She’s actually associated with one of the sister free companies to mine own. Does a bit of work anonymously there too, or rather, it would seem she avoids making it known that she’s some realm or Star saving whatever. Most of the folks there don’t know, and quite frankly, probably don’t care.” She picked her tea up to sip again, “Save, I hear that her crafting skills are substandard.”
An A-tribe Miqo'te grumbled into her beer, “Not the only skills of hers that are substandard.” She gestured with her tankard, “Seto. You go get her to piss off.”
Seto made a face, “Me? Why me?”
“You’re her biggest fan here. It’s not like anyone else recognized her, so you’ll be the most courteous.”
The I-clan Miqo’te scratched his chin, “To be fair she’s usually depicted with a hulking blade as long as she is tall. It’s not like a Miqo’te would stand out otherwise.” He gestured at the people at the table.
The Laughing One threw his head back and tapped the table repeatedly.
The Lalafell, the only other non-Miqo’te, shrugged, “...I suppose, ‘tis true I’ve only seen her sketched in a dress. The pantaloons, coat, and hat cut quite the masculine air to her.”
The Keeper of the Moon rolled her eyes, “Polite way of saying she’d be mistaken for a man from the back and the front. Look, Seto, if you’re not up for telling her to leave completely, at least tell her to leave the fighting to people who actually understand small scale skirmishes and not… Godslaying or what have you.”
The old question of “How does getting rid of Primals save Eorzea from more than just the Beast Tribes” returning to the fore. Oh sure, the Warrior of Light did fight off the Garleans as well, but most people would reckon that was a group effort spearheaded by the Grand Companies and the armies that overran the Castrums. And, not to discount the effort expended, but it had been years since Eorzea had really seen any action, what with the cure for tempering and Garleans cleared from Ala Mhigo.
Perhaps that was why the Warrior of Light found herself in the Wolves’ Den to begin with. Even with rumors of going to the Moon and all, she had as much of a need to keep her skills honed as everyone else. But then why switch combat styles completely?
Seto grumbled, “I’ll do it, but it better not be my funeral.”
The A-tribe Miqo’te waved a dismissive hand at him, “If she tried, she’d probably miss and hit a hapless bystander.”
Seto approached the Warrior of Light with all of the deference she deserved.
“Heyyy, Xiao, was it?”
She looked up from where she was nursing a drink and repairing her arcane focus, pushing it aside to float on its own. It had developed a wobble from the last fight after she had been tossed into the air by a Tatami Twist.
“Hullo, Seto, right?”
Seto nodded. He would never admit it openly, but there was a part of him that was pleased that he could drag to victory as unwilling a teammate as she was. He had pumped so much healing into her that he could sense his own handiwork lingering like an aura around her still after the last fight, “Just filling my own curiosity… What’s the Warrior of Light doing in the Wolves’ Den?”
Xiao’s eyes opened wide and she blinked several times. She then sheepishly looked away, “Ah, didn’t expect t’be recognized.”
“You had us all guessing in your—” Disguise? It wasn’t really a disguise, “New outfit.”
“‘Tis garb befitting a Red Mage, a dueling style I picked up in Ala Mhigo.”
Seto gave Xiao’s entirely scarlet outfit a once over, “You don’t say.” He thought a bit about his A-tribe friend, who also used the duelist style but didn’t wear a scrap of red, “So you’re here to… practice your dueling style?”
Xiao looked into the distance, “Had a fight… at the end of everything, one on one. Was… something else, y’know? Freeing. Felt alive fer the first time, aware of every breath, every muscle, could feel the aether coursing through my body, crackling like lightning.”
“...Oh?” These were certainly things that a perfectly normal and sane person would say.
“Won the fight, nearly died. Been on the mend e’er since, but it ain’t the same. ‘Tis hard knowing what’s possible and returning t’normalcy.”
Seto steepled his hands and then put them on his chin and lower lip, “So you’re in the Wolves’ Den… chasing the feeling that nearly killed you?”
She put a hand on her cheek, “Well, the feeling before that one, a pleasure sought for its own sake, and no other reason. But when ye put it that way, ‘tis a bit concerning, yes.”
“Would nowhere else be as fitting? An adventurer such as yourself surely has no end of places to go… seek death. Not that you should seek death.” It probably was some kind of violation of a healer’s ethics to recommend such a thing, even only implicitly, but these were queer circumstances.
“The thrill just isn’t the same, but duelin’ and fightin’ in these parts, ‘tis a close approximation.”
Seto sighed, “As a healer, I cannot recommend that you continue to seek self destruction in such a manner, but as a duelist and appreciator of small scale tactics and skirmish management, I understand. There is something intensely satisfying about skillfully outplaying your opponents in otherwise evenly matched combat.”
Xiao nodded, “You get it! Fending off two opponents so that yer teammates can win the crystal fight, catching an opponent unawares because they thought yer back was turned, baiting attacks to exhaust aether while shielding, ‘tis the interplay of risk an’ reward.”
Seto held his tongue. These were not things that Xiao did competently. Attempted, sure, but it was… generous to say any more than that.
In truth as well, these were not things that adventurers would encounter while braving dungeons or fighting Primals. No wonder she was so taken by these skirmishes.
But also it meant that there was no bleeding way they could make her stop coming to the Wolves’ Den. It wasn’t even that she wasn’t a competent fighter, she had the aether to outmuscle much of the incompetent fighters. It was that her lack of experience and willingness to put herself in dire situations for some self-perceived-or-deluded team gain made her often simple work to brush aside, a constant weakness in team cohesion. The few and far between blowouts in which her risks taken were rewarded did not make up for her self-inflicted defeats. The difficulty of coordinating and shouting orders in the chaos and din of combat also meant there was little anyone who would care to direct the skirmish could do when Xiao went off… Save to have her learn through lumps and hard knocks, something that the experienced fighters who had been skirmishing since before the Feast disbanded had little patience for, especially as the Warrior of Light tanked their Crystalline Combat Ratings to do so.
Seto grit his teeth and forced a smile, “Well, it’s certainly… interesting to have someone as… esteemed as yourself join our ranks. Please feel free to come and go as you’d like, surely there’ll be world ending scenarios that force your hand. You can attend to them as you need, and the Wolves’ Den will still be here.”
Xiao tipped her hat in acknowledgement, “Appreciate the welcome. Probably be off for a bit with exploring the Void in a few moons.”
“Ah, yes, that sounds quite pressing. Surely there’s preparations to be had?”
“Y’shtola won’t let me muddle with her research.”
Seto wrinkled his nose, aware of Sharlayan politics as he was, “Master Matoya’s apprentice? You do keep such interesting company.”
“...Should perhaps go see how things are going on her end.” Xiao picked up her things and finished off her drink. She tapped the brim of her hat in a farewell and then turned in place to teleport away.
The Sun Seeker Miqo’te sighed and let his body slump. Well, he might have bought the crew a few days of peace at least.
Themis knocked briefly on Azem's front door before trying the handle. Of course it was unlocked.
The idea of petty theft or burglary in Amaurot was practically unthinkable, but most citizens still locked and sometimes warded their doors for the sake of privacy. In the case of the Convocation, it was also that they could get at least a sense of secure respite against the onslaught of the demands placed upon them by their ceaseless work. No wonder so many of their number chose to return to the Star so immediately after handing off their seat.
But the current Azem... she was different in a somewhat disconcerting manner.
Themis found her at the loom again, after letting himself in. Ah, that would be it. Her other work. Outside of her Convocation duties, she also kept this loom busy and clacking well into the night until her two lovers dragged her to bed. Or at least, that was what was once said. Nowadays, with the other ascended to the Seat of Emet-Selch, it was said that Hythlodaeus mostly slept alone.
The spinning wheel was also in the room, slowly turning and twisting the raw aetheric matter. In another time, Azem might have been three: one to gather, one to spin, one to weave. But with the advances made with aetheric manipulation, the only bit that needed actual work was the weaving part. The gathering part was even so lost to time, it never attained a modern term. There was no equivalent to "Fategathering" as there were for Fatespinning and Fateweaving.
But of course, anyone who knew, anyone who cared, anyone who had any reason to doubt Azem's disposition, anyone who did not believe wholeheartedly that Azem would have the best intentions for them, would be guarded at best. There were many things that Azem could not influence, there was no way she could break causality over her knee. But the placement of events, the bend of the narrative, the incidents between, these were her domain.
He first learned of her abilities when he became Elidibus, and it occurred to him that no one took pains to hide what Azem could do from him, nor did anyone really seek to influence him to pursue the Seat of Elidibus as far as he could tell.
And yet, once he knew of what Azem did on the side, he was sure that she had, in a very literal way, pulled the strings. He was sure that the other candidates, some of whom that he had considered his betters, were aware of what Azem could do, and thus were in a sense disadvantaged by their knowledge. Perhaps more importantly, Azem was aware that they were aware.
As Emissary, he was naturally the Azem-botherer, the one that would keep her in line with the Convocation even as her role was to be the loyal opposition. Of course she was quite invested in who the next Elidibus would be. And Themis could not bring himself to be fully wary of her. He knew her well as the firebrand and the champion of the smallfolk. He could not help but admire the selfless way that she went about her duties. Not once at any meetings of the Convocation did he find her to be in the wrong. Reckless? Often. Out of line? Sometimes. Unreasonable? Here and there. But wrong? Never.
But perhaps that was why, after all considerations were done, he was the one chosen to assume the Seat. Azem needed someone like-minded, or perhaps someone easily susceptible to her machinations. After all, the less she needed to fight with the warp and weft, the more elaborate the schemes she could weave.
So there was this matter of a fallen star, this "familiar" of Azem's. Why did she keep her a surprise? Why was it necessary to make such cryptic statements? For what it was worth, there was nothing about the familiar that seemed strange to Themis's eye. Oh she was clad in the most outlandish of outfits of a brilliant red, and a foppish hat that would have looked silly upon his head but was rather fetching on hers. He even recognized that she had an eye of the same tint as Azem's.
Why the feline features though? And why dress her so... provocatively? Themis's proclivities aside, the familiar seemed all too fond of unbuttoned shirts and loosened belts that hung on the hips just so. It lent her an androgynous, nay, masculine air that, when viewed from behind, would easily mistaken her for a man, especially with the wide shoulders and pinched waist of her overcoat. And the way she leaped and bounded as she spellcasted and thrust with her rapier, why, were she better endowed, the physical activity would leave her quite exposed! But she wasn't.
He didn't dwell on the sexualities or preferences of his colleagues but this familiar left him absolutely puzzled. Azem's relationship with the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect and Emet-Selch was, if not public knowledge, an unspoken axiom. Yet neither really held himself with the same kind of masculinity. Oh, they had their masculine sides of course, but Emet-Selch was just much more formal and prim while Hythlodaeus was much more pretty and sophisticated. Neither gave the sort of rugged, unrefined individualism that the familiar had. Was it something that Azem wished for or found wanting in her partners?
And why was the familiar such a miserable spellcaster? This "red magery" was a poor approximation of the spellweaving that was the basis for much of Azem's magicks. It was recognizably akin to Azem's own weavings but done with the articulation and mastery of a child. It would seem the familiar was much more comfortable with the sword aspect of her magery than the actual spellcraft. Was it just a half finished experiment of Azem's? Was the lack of refinement in the familiar's attitude and presence a reflection of her work-in-progress state? But then why let it roam?
And if that was a work-in-progress, what kind of power would the finished product wield? As unimpressed as Themis was with the actual spellwork, the familiar still had deadly efficacy. Was the round about way that Azem brought up the familiar a matter of trying to get Themis's unbiased opinion on the work-in-progress? Was she trying to get a rise out of him by making the familiar so... unconventionally attractive? No, no, she had been so obviously of Azem's upon first meeting that he was almost sure Azem was able to peer through the familiar's scarred eye. There must have been another reason...
It suddenly struck Themis that Azem never mentioned the familiar, only a chance encounter.
With the autonomy that the familiar worked, with the way that she also did little to identify herself as related to Azem, almost as if she didn't know or didn't care for the connection, she might very really have been something that wasn't Azem's. Suddenly a lot of things made more sense. The dress, the lack of refinement, the piss poor spellweaving, all of it. Azem wasn't aware of the familiar. It wasn't her work. There was a strange kind of relief involved.
But how? How could something that was so clearly wrought by her be so unknown to her? How could something that clearly took many sleepless nights to get into the rough state it was in, and would require many more sleepless nights to continue to hone and polish be something that Azem was so unaware of, she needed Themis to go and incidentally investigate while uncovering the strange circumstances revolving around Pandæmonium.
So Themis decided to do his job as Elidibus, and put a check to Azem's shenanigans until he could understand the shape of the scheme better. Had Azem split herself as some were rumored to have done in order to be able to do more at once, and this was something a rogue portion of Azem had done without the core being's knowledge? Was the "familiar" actually a portion of Azem that was split from the whole that manifested in quite the queer way?
Whatever the case, Elidibus would take the time to regale the incident at Pandæmonium so Azem could take note of it properly for her weave, and then report the overall incident to the Convocation for their judgement.
In neither instance would he mention the "familiar." That would remain a secret between he and Erichthonios, at least until he could figure out what Azem was plotting.
Xiao sighed and turned in place. She reached through the aether streams to find the correct Aetheryte, Horizon, and expended the necessary anima to send herself over.
Raya-O-Senna blinked. How did she know where to go already?
Xiao popped out of the aetherial stream with her normal grace and instantly summoned her chocobo, Dakgangjeong, and left in a wake of dust and rust red feathers.
Westward down through the tunnel of the Sunset Gate, past the Silent King and Cresent Cove to the Footfalls and the tunnel into Vesper Bay, past the stupid stupid statue of Lolorito which she spat at, and into the nondescript building that housed the Waking Sands. She passed Tataru with a wave that also indicated she was in a hurry, descended the steps, ran through the hallway into the Solar, and barged through the doors, practically sliding herself into the room. She started to give her report when she noticed something odd.
The room was empty.
Several things occurred to Xiao almost together. First off, the Scions were all very likely still currently in Gridania, where Xiao left them. If she had to report to Minfilia, which only half made sense since Raya-O-Senna was the one asking her to go pray return or whatnot, surely she would report to Minfilia in Gridania. Secondly, they had all but moved their operations to Mor Dhona, had this been but a half-fortnight later, there wouldn't be anyone here to greet her regardless. And thirdly, she had been given tickets to Vesper Bay, why did she feel the need to teleport over to Horizon and take the long, almost thirty minute, trek over?
It occurred to Xiao that now she was roughly thirty chimes absent without leave. The Scions weren't military enough that they'd issue her a penalty, and there were definitely some days where she would disappear off into side quests or would explore old dungeons once more for hours at a time, but it was still probably concerning. Certainly there was no reason that she'd take more than a half bell to work her way through the Twelveswood. If anything, they'd only begin to worry about her disappearance about now.
She looked around the Solar. She was definitely sick of being debriefed every time by Minfilia (truth be told, it wasn't like anyone else could really debrief her, since no one else had the Echo), and then sent off again from the Waking Sands not a bell later like some glorified errand girl. But at the same time, she couldn't help but feel melancholy, this was perhaps the last time she would be have returned here under orders, as mistaken as she was in what those orders entailed, meaning the last time she heard that turn of phrase in full was actually the last time she'd ever be asked to pray return to the Waking Sands. And this little section of her life had come to a close.
Onwards to bigger and better things perhaps.
Alisaie, much relieved to be out of the Second Coil, soaked her sleeve with sweat from her brow. Perspiration like precipitation to go with the roil that occurred within the head of hers. So much about Nael van Darnus and Dalamud and their implications on what happened to her grandfather... Though she bid Xiao leave, and that she'd catch up after a brief rest, the Warrior of Light lingered.
"Xiao, you need not worry about me, pray return to the Waking S— Xiao? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
The din of war raging on and the roar of man and dragon both registered in Xiao’s ears before her eyes snapped open.
She gasped and made to rise, had it not been the firm hand on her bad shoulder.
“Welcome back, you had us worried a bit there.” Thancred kept her still as Y’shtola poured all of her magicks into Xiao.
The battle! Every breath was a knife to the side, but she was at least still alive. She had been desperately seeking a weakness in Vishap’s scales when she was snatched out of the air by a mortally wounded dragon in a dive bomb from behind her left, her bad eye, her blind spot. The last thing she remembered as she tumbled towards the ravine was a bright cord of golden light catching her arm…
She looked down at the claw marks over her abdomen, Y’shtola’s arms wet with blood and poultice, staining her robes even as the sleeves were rolled up past the elbow. It took Xiao a moment to register that that was her blood. Gods be good, why did lady dragoons have such a gaping hole in their armor? And in this freezing clime?
“With conjury, a wound that would take a fortnight to mend can heal within bells, but Y’shtola must needs time and aether to treat it. Do not shake me off with your ‘abdominalble’ strength lest you wish your entrails to find their way free.” Thancred smirked.
That smirk immediately lessened as Xiao missed the joke and Y’shtola simply rolled her eyes, “Do not exaggerate her injuries for effect. Though bloody, her battle wounds are thankfully largely superficial. ‘Tis the windburn and frostbite that concerns me most. We nearly had to fish you out of that abyss,” she then continued incantations under her breath while keeping her hands pressed firmly against Xiao’s torso.
Xiao looked around, knowing better than to shake off either of them, she was amongst the triage behind one of the magical barriers, the sound of fighting was close, but no dragons wheeled overhead. “W-ward?”
“First one’s breached, second one is likely to fall in but a moment.” The smirk on Thancred’s face melted away completely, “If we had but more soldiers afield we could perhaps turn the tide, but as of now, it seems as if things will be quite dicey.”
There was a change in air pressure, an aetheric charge, and with a downwards gust Estinien fell to earth with a cat's grace, lightly landing on the balls of his feet and the knuckles of one gauntlet.
“Dicey as it mayhap be, we shall take those chances.”
He arose, his blackened armor gleaming in the midday sun. Behind him, the Knights Dragoon landed in near unison, the clatter sounding more like a unit of soldiers standing to sharp attention than the landing of a half dozen heavily armored knights jumping from ludicrous distances.
“The Azure Dragoon makes his appearance, not a moment too soon. Good to see that Ishgard leaves none in reserve while marshaling her to defense.” Thancred’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Indeed, it was only deemed necessary that we be brought to the fore when the other Azure Dragoon was reported a casualty.” Estinien either missed or ignored Thancred’s slight and looked down at Xiao, “But it would seem the reports were misinformed.”
Xiao looked down at herself, her exposed midriff was completely healed, save a few red marks and the traces of an old bruise.
“I don’t know how you manage it,” Y’shtola said, “Magical healing is oft so swift as to nearly reverse the damage caused by injury, but it is beyond my skill to knit wounds to the point that not even the slightest scar remains.” She wiped her forehead with the none-too-clean back of her hand, “We’ll have to examine your aether more closely in the future. Now is hardly the time.”
Xiao nodded and kipped up without even a grimace. Her side was still a bit sore, but it was more the shadow of the injury than fresh pain. She took her lance from Estinien’s outstretched hand.
“The Lord Commander does not lightly withdraw dragoons from their posts, even under the direct threat of breach of Ishgard’s wards. A vigil left unattended is an avenue ripe for draconian attack, especially in these days with so few dragoons left to man such posts.”
“Right. I suppose it does not matter how the dragons get in, once they’ve overrun the city,” Thancred flashed a smile, “Good to have you with us regardless.”
“Aye, but since we have both Azure Dragoons on premise, the odds are now stacked in our favor, are they not? Let us make the most of this, and quickly.”
Y’shtola tilted her head, “Forgive me, I have not been briefed on the specifics, but you keep referring to Xiao as Azure Dragoon. Is that not a unique title? Would you not first need renounce the title or, gods forfend, die before Xiao would be granted the title?”
Estinien shrugged, “The Eye recognizes her, that’s good enough for me. Whether the Holy See will…” he pulled his mouth into a bit of a grimace recognizing what he was about to say, “...See eye to eye with the… Eye, that is another matter completely.”
The second ward made a sound akin to glass skating on ice, and, without any further notice, cracked and shattered under the brunt of Vishap’s dragonfire.
“A matter we shall table until later, to arms!”
Lucia took to the field to face down the draconian siege. She stood alone. Though some moved to rally behind her, most were retreating with casualties in tow. Many of her temple knights had already gone to meet Halone, their bodies broke before their spirits did against the onslaught of the horde. Adventurers that had volunteered to join in Ishgard’s defense lay scattered with them. She had ordered the remaining of her personal retinue to prepare for siege and the fall of the third ward. Ishgard would not go gently into hellfire. They would make the dragons pay for every inch that they took. They had already made many pay; their bodies lay slain among the men or were pitched into the howling abyss below.
The first wave approached. Though Lucia had been afield the entire siege, there was renewed vigor, or perhaps awakened desperation, in her blade arm. She weaved in and out of the range of dragon claw, parrying snapping jaws, and dodging fiery breath. A few adventurers and knights yet stood, and they also moved with the same grim efficiency. But all in all, they did precious little to slow down the horde.
And then Vishap landed once more, and posed to belch up another horrid conflagration.
The last ward would not hold. Lucia turned to direct her men to prepare, only to see that there were so few remaining. Right. She had to buy Ishgard more time to prepare. Every extra chime was perhaps bells worth of siege that they would survive. If this was where she would die, it would be enough. To give her life for her city was all that she could want, to serve, to protect, to sacrifice.
There was no greater calling.
She dropped to one knee and braced her shield, calling forth her Passage of Arms.
Vishap breathed out.
The heat and light was immense, and Lucia thought she would be bowled over, ending everything about this pathetic last stand immediately. No. She could not yield so immediately.
But her strength wavered, the dragon’s lungs still did not empty, and the flames crept ever further into the enchantments on her shield, her Passage of Arms would not last…
There was a cry from behind her, and above, twin bolts of lighting struck at the smaller circling dragons. They downed one each and jumped to the next. They were then followed by a half dozen more. The Dragoon corps was afield!
Behind her the cry drew into clarity as “Ishgard! Ishgard! Ishgard!” and “To Lucia! To our Captain!”
Suddenly her own Passage of Arms was bolstered. The weight and pain and pressure of the dragonfire lessened, nay, was shared. She looked around her to see the same knights she had ordered to go bolster defenses now back, violating orders, but there to aid her.
And far beyond, behind the sieging dragons, there were three blasts of a ram’s horn. It was distant but unmistakable, the unicorn that adorned the banner of House Fortemps flew above the incoming rush of knights on the backs of black chocobos. The siege at Camp Dragonhead must have broken, and Lord Haurchefant coming to the aid of the city.
The twin lighting bolts that danced between dragons to drop them now both landed heavily on Vishap’s back, a sickening crunch echoed against the walls of the city as the wings of the wyrm collapsed. But even so mortally injured, Vishap’s dragonfire did not relent. It was only after a short eternity, or perhaps the longest moment, that all eight dragoons’ repeated attacks were able to put an end to Vishap, and the dragon’s body fell heavily to the steps, its breath finally petering out only as the life drained from its eyes.
The final ward did not fall. The siege was broken. Ishgard’s streets would not run with blood today. Between the Knights Dragoon and the House Fortemps reinforcements, every single remaining dragon was slain.
Y’shtola awoke to agony. Every breath was tight burning, like her lungs were too small and filled with acid. Her head pulsed in time with her heart, her ears rang like the inside of a bell, and it tasted like something had crawled into her mouth and died a week ago. Her eyes… well of course they didn’t work, but they throbbed. She wanted to be sick, but there wasn’t strength in her body to lift herself to hurl over the side of the bed, not that her left arm could move at any rate, with the way it was folded over her chest. She groaned and searched her mind for recollection…
Right. The last thing she could remember was bleeding out in the mud and ash of Rhalgr’s Reach. The clean, or at least it was clean before she had lain on it for gods know how long, bedding would imply that she was no longer there. The weight of her mortal coil heavily insisted that it was not yet shuffled off. Other than that, she couldn’t say.
Why did her head pulse in the way it did? She knew the symptoms of aether drain and severe blood loss, but it felt like there was *too much* aether in her right now, it was practically aether sickness, which didn’t make any sense in someone who had lived in Eorzea nearly ten years.
She groggily expanded her awareness from just her body, imagining herself raising her lamp of aethersight to cast light on her surroundings. She had a room to herself in a ward that was distinctly of Garlean make… it must have been Castrum Oriens. The lack of dividing curtains told her she had this ward to herself, which was quite frankly ludicrous with the attack on Rhalgr’s Reach and the amount of casualties that the skirmishes all throughout Gyr Abania ought to produce…
Ah, not completely to herself.
Xiao sat at the foot of her bed holding a book. The ink on it was just faintly aetherically charged enough to make out some of the words; Xiao’s muttering as she struggled to sound out words every so often just confirmed it. She was attempting to learn more conjury.
Well that explained it. Some of it.
“I am no primal seeking to gorge upon aether, why do I feel so overstuffed?”
She watched Xiao’s ears go from a flattened determination to a perked up attentiveness. Xiao turned around completely. Haggard, worried lines on her face, a disturbingly pale complexion, and salt lined trails down her cheeks betrayed the anguish that she had gone through. She almost rushed onto the bed to collapse onto Y’shtola in a bear hug of relief, but stopped herself, thinking better of it as Y’shtola winced simply from the shifting of the mattress by her feet.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Xiao arched an eyebrow, “Meanin’ o’ which?”
Y’shtola gestured with her right arm, finding the strength to at least bend her elbow to gesture around the room, “Why am I in a ward alone? Where is everyone else? Why are you practicing your conjury on me?”
Xiao’s face trembled and broke up like the way it always did when she was about to cry. Y’shtola saw it quite often before the events in Ul’dah. She had only seen it once since.
“‘M-m so glad yer awake!” Fresh hot tears raced down Xiao’s cheeks, retracing the salt-laid path of their predecessors, “W-was so, so w-worried th-that—”
“Please, Xiao. Answers. Also, I know you do not mean to, but you are sickening me with the amount of aether you’re attempting to channel into me. That I have not popped like a bomb is simply a testament of how poorly you channel your aether.”
Xiao withdrew as if Y’shtola had slapped her across the face, “B-but yer personal aether—”
“It would have naturally replenished with time and sustenance. If I were capable of reviving from nothing but channeled aether and piss poor conjury, I would have preferred access to crystals instead. Now. Answers. Why isn’t the ward filled with other wounded?”
“I-I-I re-requested that ye—”
“That I be given a room of my own? What makes me so important as to deny soldiers the space? The other wards must be as overstuffed as I.”
“B-but—”
“And the others, the Scions, are they all packed in like sardines?”
“N-no they’ve re-returned to L-limsa an' leavin' fer Doma—”
“And why aren’t you with them? Why are you here spellcasting with a tome so old it uses the term Cura?”
“Decided to stay be-behind, t’ ‘elp ye—”
“No. Leave.”
“W-why—”
“Because any plan that the Scions have will only benefit from your presence and the prowess you would lend. The world dearly needs a Warrior of Light, and I ill-need a nursemaid with third-rate conjury." She looked away, purposefully averting her gaze from Xiao, "Now go fetch someone who can repopulate this ward, and then leave. Let me convalesce in peace.”
The nausea that arose in her throat the moment that Xiao left the room was not of Xiao's making, nor of her wound's, but fully of her own. Self-loathing churned her stomach, inflamed the long gash that ran diagonally from her shoulder to her hip, and threatened to spill from her mouth.
But what could she have done? How could she have otherwise made Xiao leave her side? They never finished the argument they had, that Y'shtola was avoiding. No doubt, when she had recovered some, Xiao wanted to be able to continue it. Of course she would avoid a moons long journey to the other side of the Star to be with her injured lover. But it was exactly why the argument would go nowhere, that Y'shtola could not bear to be with Xiao even a moment more.
She saw clearly that Xiao would prioritize her over everything else. If Haurchefant had survived his mortal wound, Xiao likely would not have pursued the Archbishop, and who knows what horrors would have been wrought had Thordan VII been given free reign in Azys Lla. And what she would have done for Haurchefant, she would also do for Y'shtola. If it came to it, if the entire Star fell to ruin around them, Xiao would prop up just enough sky to be with her.
Y'shtola couldn't handle that. She couldn't handle knowing that Xiao would doom the Star for her, that it was a worthwhile trade in Xiao's eyes.
Not when Y'shtola was a third-rate lover who could barley be honest about her own feelings, let alone commit to them.
Within the scope of an Aetherometer, the world was remarkably different, as one would imagine of course, but it wasn’t just a matter of colors and the like. Smoke and steam were almost completely opaque, and elements that would be imperceptible or invisible to the naked eye could be easily identified and observed.
Moreover, reflections do not show up in the Aetherometer, as no aether is produced by these reflections. The reflective body instead just seems oddly dull, or would radiate its own aether strongly instead. It was simple enough to take the Aetherometer off one’s face if one needed to look at a reflection, albeit it did mean that indirect observation of aether was difficult.
But for Y’shtola, what this meant was that she had spent the last five years without a mirror. Longer if her perceived time on the First were taken into consideration.
Oh, it hardly mattered, she had her glamours memorized, and it was trivial to apply and reapply them as necessary. As long as she kept up her hygiene, there would be no perceptible difference in her looks day in and day out. Not that they truly mattered, the Night’s Blessed would follow her even if she actually looked like Master Matoya.
But Y’shtola wasn’t getting any younger. She also wasn’t getting any older, having locked her appearance to that of her twenty-three year old self. But even if she didn’t seem it, or at least she was pretty sure she didn’t seem it, she still felt it. Her youthful chipper and energy were fading, she tired more quickly, and her wrists and back cracked and popped far more than they had before.
And, perhaps worse of all, Xiao also had some ability to use aethersight. Her scarred eye had a slightly paler tint and crystalline fragments still embedded in the iris. The accident that gave her the injury also awoke her Echo and gave her the ability to see channeled aether, letting her read opponents and their next actions before they were performed. This meant that Xiao saw an overlay on Y’shtola’s face as the aether of her glamour and the aether of her actual skin would both be visible to her, at least in one eye.
So of course that meant she had to ask Xiao.
“How do I look?”
Xiao put a gentle palm on Y’shtola’s cheek and tilted her face into the sunbeam.
“Beautiful as always.”
“Really? All these years we’ve been together, and you only have these simple pleasantries?”
Y’shtola felt Xiao trace a laugh line with her thumb as she spoke, “Not about to cross the Sorceress of the Greatwood, don’t want the tip of my tail singed off.”
“I shall cast no spells in retaliation for the truth.”
Xiao chuckled and kissed Y’shtola’s forehead, “Little tired, shouldn’t have kept you up so late last night.”
“Xiao, please.” It was fairly obvious what she was doing.
“Yer the splitting image of Master Matoya all right?”
That earned her a rough push back into the pillows.
“If I knew you so lusted over that centenarian, I could surely have arranged something.”
“Ye gods, ‘twas but a joke.” Xiao feigned horror and squirmed as if she were uncomfortably imagining Matoya in the all together.
“Indeed you would be a joke, I don’t know if you could meet my mentor’s exacting standards.” She lay back into the pillows herself, half resting on Xiao, enjoying the way her chin seemed to fit quite perfectly into the crook of the younger Miqo’te’s neck, “Now really, how do I look?”
“Think the venture into the Rokan ruins took more of a toll on ye than expected. Eyes are a bit puffy.” Xiao gently rubbed the bag under one of Y’shtola’s eyes. “Also think the time cooped up doing scholarly work instead of field work has left ye a bit soft.” She gave Y’shtola’s stomach a slight nudge. “Also ‘tis well that you wear that choker, lest the Night’s Blessed ask questions.” She lightly prodded one of the hickies she had left on Y’shtola’s neck just south of her Archon mark.
“But truly, how beautiful you are, Y’shtola.”
So, Xiao did see the way age settled in on her. Mayhaps it was all the same, they weren’t twenty-somethings with something to prove anymore, and it wasn’t as if Xiao hadn’t been vulnerable and ugly with her in the recent past.
The Warrior of Darkness’s skin remained weirdly unscarred despite all of the damage she withstood, but Y’shtola could see the aetherial traces of those wounds. They were oddly reminiscent of the lines and cracks from which light aether had seeped from Xiao’s body even after Ryne had done her sealing. Perhaps they were one and the same. Y’shtola also recognized how tightly Xiao’s skin seemed to sit on her body. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the light poisoning, maybe it was just age catching up to her, but Xiao seemed just that much less supple, more stretched thin. Y’shtola wasn’t sure what moon it would be on the Source, but surely Xiao would have celebrated her thirtieth—
“Oh, by the by, happy nameday, Y’shtola.”
“Pardon? What makes you say it’s my nameday?” Really, what were the days when she had spent three years under everlasting light?
“Not that I’m aware what date it truly be on the First, but ‘tis only on your nameday that ye fret over these sorts of things.”
And it really would be just the sort of thing she’d get ornery about once a year when aging was on her mind, wasn’t it? It would be quite Y’shtola to have kept track of the days simply so she knew exactly what day it was that she should be ornery on.
But there was one thing for certain, even as Xiao poked at Y’shtola’s body, Y’shtola felt beautiful and cared for. They had kept each other up for more than half the night and made a right tangled mess of Y’shtola’s sheets after all, and Xiao’s reverence for Y’shtola’s body was evident in every intimate moment. Through Xiao’s eyes and touch, she was that much more beautiful in her own perspective.
It was almost enough for one to let go of the silly vanities and do away with the glamours.
The bridge to Xak Tural seemed to stretch on ever into the horizon from the other side of the Skygate, with the roar of the falls crashing to their left and an even more endless expanse of ocean to their right, the atmosphere was perfect for newfound adventure.
Despite the fact that none of this was new to him, Erenville still got into the swing of things, possibly because of his traveling companion.
How many could say that they were the sole guide to the Warrior of Light?
Well, after the whole thing with the Aetherial Sea, the teeny tiny toy boat, and then the very literal edge of the universe, she insisted that she was no longer the Warrior of Light, since that Light had passed on, and therefore was just an adventurer. To Erenville, whatever the case, it was a strange feeling indeed to know that the person who fought (not alone, mind, but still) off the Ultimate Despair at the End of All Things (or at least that’s how the classified Sharlayan reports described it) was still able to get giddy about seeing new things on the star. Moreover, would be giddy to see his hometown, which he thought was very much a humble affair. Perhaps it was humble because he was used to it.
Unfortunately for him, he could never tell when Xiao was joking.
“So have you heard anything of Shaaloani? Are you looking forward to seeing anything?” He was a bit hesitant to make conversation, not knowing what to talk about, but it would be better than walking in silence. To be fair, it had been a comfortable, thoughtful silence, but he was just beset with nervous energy for some reason.
Xiao tilted her head slightly in thought, “Heard there were buttes.”
“...Pardon?”
“Beautiful buttes, great buttes.”
Erenville squinted at Xiao. So often did it feel like to him that Xiao had an unreadable poker face. Not that she didn’t show emotion, genuine emotion at that, just that she was able to say things so out of pocket without even a hint in her expression that she was aware of it. She could say something that ridiculous with her old wry smile, the same one that she used to say nice things to Wuk Lamat. And, as far as he could tell, Xiao never used sarcasm while saying superficially nice things to Wuk Lamat, which he couldn’t say for himself.
“...Forgive me, I’m not familiar with the term.”
“Butte? ‘Tis a land formation.” She gestured with her hands in a suggestive manner, “Flat on top, vertical slopes, but taller than wide.”
Were it Wuk Lamat or even Koana, he would expect a certain glint in the eye and a change in expression that made it clear that they were making a joke. Xiao was definitely smiling more now than before the whole End of All Things and What Have You, but he still couldn’t tell.
“...I think I know what you’re talking about, but the term?”
“Learned it in Gyr Albania. Got pretty buttes out there, most are pretty scraggly though.”
“Do they now?”
“Nyunkrepf’s Hope’s on one.”
Erenville had seen Nyunkrepf’s Hope. It certainly rested on a flat topped hill with very steep slopes. He couldn’t recall if it was taller than it was wide.
“...What if it’s wider than it is tall?”
“Think it’s called a mesa.”
Mesa was a term that didn’t feel right or wrong, and thus didn’t shed any light on the other term. And he still couldn’t make heads or tails of Xiao’s look of positive determination facing north.
“You’re not pulling my ears, are you?”
Xiao tilted her head like she didn’t understand completely, “One of the merchants mentioned ‘em in passing, so I hope they’re grand.”
“The… buttes?”
“Aye.”
Erenville couldn’t. This was beyond his paygrade. He wasn’t even being paid for this, technically, he was taking a sabbatical from gleaner work with the explicit agreement that he would be given full compensation for his expenses for this trip via the Tuliyollal treasury, as long as he kept his expenses itemized. He didn’t know how to itemize the half anxiety attack he had going on with overthinking this conversation.
He didn’t know Xiao too well, despite the almost year since they first became acquaintances. Xiao’s line of work was always so much more violently demanding than even the most dicey situations that Erenville would ever find himself in, and he had patience and endurance that Xiao likely could never train up. So it wasn’t really that they had too much in common or much to talk about. (In their one conversation about fishing, Erenville quickly learned that Xiao had no concept of fishing beyond fishing for sustenance and occasionally for a formal bounty. She had no desire to catch a rare fish simply for the joy of fishing or compilation.)
Knowing that she was likely headed to Xak Tural, he only considered the incredible amount of food that she ate, her ability to unleash incredible violence within a moment’s notice, her ability to understand every language, and her lack of several social stigmas and taboos. Assets and things that weren’t necessarily deal breakers throughout their travels in Tural so far. So he had offered to travel with the adventurer formerly known as the Warrior of Light simply out of convenience.
He was prepared for seeing a little bit too much of Xiao while roughing it. He was prepared for Xiao to immediately leap into action if there was any funny business in Shaaloani (and, knowing Xiao, not so much their luck, it was inevitable). He was prepared to watch Xiao eat the larders empty and perhaps drink the resident alcoholic under the table. But he wasn’t prepared to speak with Xiao as the only conversational partner. Even when he discussed fishing, it was in a conversation that Wuk Lamat and Alphinaud were both also in, the conversation had simply meandered to the topic.
In truth, he expected her to have conversation with someone else the entire time: Alphinaud to be scandalized and berate Xiao over emerging from her tent in only her smalls, Krile to lead an examination of qualia and the Echo and how she and Xiao experienced things similarly yet so differently, Alisaie to spar with and participate in chatter about lethal force, and Wuk Lamat for conversation on anything else but especially the topic of large quantities of food. He would chime in once in a while, but not serve as the only conversational partner. He did not consider what leaving behind all other companions on this trip would entail.
All of this was to say: How was he supposed to ask the Warrior of Light, the adventurer formerly known as the Warrior of Light, if she was making a highly immature joke? Did she actually know enough geography to know these names of land formations that Erenville had never heard of or considered? Would she really be there to sightsee for the landscape’s features and vistas? Or was this some sort of social warfare? Was she testing his mettle? Was this some sort of prank, like the rumors that the richest man in Ul’dah went incognito to get unsuspecting passers-by to oil him down? Or like stories of how Kan-E-Senna apparently went around the Twelvewoods tripping up adventurers with her staff and then leaning over their prone forms to tell them that “No one would ever believe you?”
Without anyone else to look at for direction or answers save Xiao herself, Erenville was at a mental checkmate, and he didn’t know what game he was playing.
There was an incredibly high chance that his opponent wasn’t even trying to play games with him, and that made all of this even worse.
“Erenville, are you quite all right?”
Xiao’s question snapped him back into the present; he had at some point stopped walking, and Xiao was now a good distance ahead and had turned back.
“Oh? Sorry, I was just… lost in my thoughts. I was unaware you were interested in… such landscape features.” He double timed it to catch up.
“Only when they’re pretty. The lads who taught me about them, they were really into them, y’know?”
“...I bet they were.”
“Yeah, so after they died in the Garlean attack on Rhalgr's Reach, I started paying a bit more attention, in their memory.”
Erenville sighed, a little louder than he expected to. So Xiao wasn’t actually trying to throw him for a loop. There was good reason for her interest in buttes.
Xiao leaned in, as if confiding a secret, “...Does it sound like the term for someone’s rear end to you too?”
The sound that emitted from Erenville’s mouth, and perhaps soul, was inhuman.
Some of my cousins once roamed the countryside together with their hounds and magitek and guns to chase after a singular white deer. They claimed that hunting was a real man’s sport, that it got the blood coursing properly through the veins. They offered to bring me along, so I could feel the thrill.
What means does a deer, only possessed of antlers of bone and swiftness in its prance, have to thrill if one is in possession of machined rifling, sped on by unyielding steel, and led by baying hounds? What glory exists in a chase that ends in an exhausted wounded animal lying lifeless in the dirt, blindly shot by terrible marksmen, terrified by tireless machines, and hounded not through skill and resolve but through the instincts of another?
To be in the cold, stripped of armor, of arms; to brace against a charge; to wrestle with antlers aiming to gore the chest, the face; to overpower the might of a beast twice your size; to sink your teeth into and rip from its throat the life essence that desperately struggles against your own; to part skin, tear flesh, break bone and grasp that still beating heart as its life fades…
That is the thrill of the hunt, no less.
I’ve never liked the term prey. I’ve used it, of course, because predation is all about prey. But there’s the implication of being inferior, of being a victim. I despise that. What sport is there to hunting something that serves little threat? Where is this true hunt that I desire, where predator and prey are equally matched? That is the game of which I desire to hunt.
To play.
And yet, languages seem to lack any words that would match my meaning. It would seem even nature has this absence, as wolves and tigers both avoid fights to the death whenever possible, preying on the young, the injured, the weak, the frail, the sick. Even when predators come to blows, no matter how equal, they would inevitably back off without mortal wounds, and it would never be for the sake of fighting, but rather for territory, a meal, a mate. Only when cornered, with nothing left, do beasts reveal their full ferocity.
In truth, quite the unnatural state. No wonder I lacked a purpose. No wonder, I could not find happiness. What I sought didn’t exist. No predator goes hunting for its equal.
I was alone, desperate, and hungry.
This hunger that gnawed at me, I had resigned myself to never seeing it sated. The world grayed and colors paled. Oh, I barely understood these feelings of mine, all I was sure of was that life was dulled without a sharp implement in my hands. And even then, my heart barely pumped with the usual challenge, or lack thereof, that I was met with.
But then I met you. You understand. You’ve killed gods, wyrms, men who considered you beneath them. Always you look to fight your way upwards, further and further, barely giving a thought to those you don’t consider worthy of the fight. I’ve seen you beat my soldiers, my men. You only leave them battered and bruised not because you wish them dead, though death still trails behind you, but because you need them out of the fight long enough for you to move on to your real objectives. You understand there is no sport in slitting the throats of helpless wounded animals. There is no need to mount their corpses to wooden stands or their stuffed heads to walls.
And thus, I called you friend in that I assumed we were fellow travelers. I recognize now that you’ve never considered me anything close to a friend. And in truth, perhaps I just don’t understand companionship. Perhaps it is because I have not grown up with the notion of people who are my equals. None have equaled me. They have either momentarily been my better because of my own ignorance and inexperience and thus quickly surpassed, or, they’ve always been lesser. Neither have I ever chosen those that gather around me. Either they were chosen for me due to birthright, or they gathered to me without my say. I have always simply allowed it to happen, or they fall away at their own accord, I will not miss them.
But, from what I could tell, you were in similar circumstances, you were more or less put into situations where those around you cared not who you were necessarily, but more of what you represented. That you decided to play along, to favor those around you despite their inability to keep apace and endured their trailing behind, even to offer them a hand to keep up…
I finally pieced it together in Garlemald. That red twin spoke plain. My circumstances may have left me alone, but it is because I embraced this loneliness and made it my truth, I named it my freedom. I could not understand why you so embraced what I say was excess and weakness. Why would you shoulder the burdens of the many, to champion their cause, to fight for those whom you owe nothing? Why do you so willingly lash yourself to the chains of those that would hold you back? Because they did not hold you back, but instead kept you aloft. You turned, again and again, from the freedom that I revel in, that I would offer you, not because you rejected it, but because you had no desire for it.
Shaping myself into the perfect monster that you wished to defeat as I had done in Ala Mhigo would never have worked, in the long run. Demanding that you rise to the challenge as I had in Doma was just as wrongheaded. I should have freed those polities myself, clearing the way, leaving you without duties and oaths to fulfill. Once everything is said and done, when there is no cause left, no followers left, nothing that would stand in your way…
In a manner of speaking, I needed to find a situation in which I could coax out the beast without any corners to be forced into, without territory, meal, or mate to fight for. Even if I needed to go the lengths of the void and traverse the rift between stars to find those circumstances.
Because, don’t you still desire someone who can keep apace with you? Who would not need you to lead them nor expect you to follow? Would you not want a match? An equal? Someone who does not wish to lash you with chains at all? Someone who is there simply for you? Don’t you wish to truly part with that loneliness you must feel underneath your sense of duty, your honor, your relationships that you use to keep that loneliness at bay?
Don’t you want to sate this hunger? Don’t you feel the same way?
Let it not be said that the Warrior of Light, Xiao Longbao, has two left feet.
To be fair, in many ways placing the feet for dance steps was reminiscent of combat drills, just less obviously purposeful and a lot less follow-through with the arms and torso. By the end of the third practice song, she stepped through each section with confidence, or at least as close to confidence as she could be with just her feet as her head was full of such doubt.
“They say ‘m no lady. Can’t become neither.”
Edmont de Fortemps paused, but only so slightly as to not miss a step, “Oh? And who is this 'they'?”
“‘Eard it in the Crozier. Say ‘m a sign ‘Ouse Fortemps is close to ‘eretical.”
“Ah, the old rumor that we would betray the Holy See and open the gates to our enemies while Ishgard slept.” He smiled and winked, “The ol’ song and dance.”
“...This song and dance?”
The Count chuckled and twirled Xiao, the dress she had on for this practice billowing beautifully as she spun, “Nay, ‘tis merely an expression. House Fortemps is accused of being unreasonably trusting of external forces, and therefore more susceptible to undue influence. Guillaime, or at least the original Guillaime, was not the first inquisitor to come investigate the environs of Camp Dragonhead or other Fortemps holdings under rumors and circumstances. You see, we have gained much of our considerable power as a High House from the use of non-Isgardian resources and peoples. Resources that the other High Houses see as beneath them or borderline heretical, though they lack any ties to dragons or heretics, simply due to the potential of draconian influence. And so, because our House yet prospers, despite generations of hearsay and predictions of ruin, the rumors have begun to swing back the other direction yet again. That Fortemps is already infiltrated and we are bent to the will of the dragons who clearly fund our self-sustained and lucrative operations from the shadows."
Xiao tilted her head to indicate that she understood the words, but not all of the meaning.
"Worry you not, my dear. 'Tis just the idle observations of a long suffering count under the scrutiny of gossiping lords and ladies. Envy is most unbefitting of nobility, but alas noblesse oblige has suffered so in recent years. Instead, I ask you this: whose position would suffer if anyone could be made a lord by a House that would grant him peerage?”
They made it a full three sets of steps before Xiao responded with a hesitant, “...No one’s?”
“Precisely. Positions would remain as they were. A title does not grant by necessity land or power. But these jealous types see it differently, as if their own status would be lessened by someone without the 'right' sort of blood entering the peerage in any fashion, as if their own blood would become less blue.” Edmont waggled a rather inappropriate for his position eyebrow, “Unless you would be that fecund, Xiao? Would your lineage infiltrate as many houses as it can? Will Ishgard be covered in purple hair ere the end of the 7th Astral Era?”
“Not interested.”
He pushed his head back in laughter, “Fair enough! I know too well where your interest truly lies." After all, the premise of these dance lessons were to allow her something to do if she were present at a gala or other social event, something that would leave her visible to the many who would needs learn to accept her.
That, and of course eventually this would be for Haurchefant. If she were ever to court him traditionally, if they were to be properly Lord and Lady as to best fit Ishgard's rigidity. it was necessary to prepare her in such particulars.
Edmont reined in his smile to something more fond, "But tell me, why do these doubts about your expected ladyship crop up now?”
“‘S ‘cause this dance’s for the Lord an’ ‘is Lady.”
And so the pieces were put together for the Count. Ah.
“Oh? And what good would it be to go through all the trouble to have you adopted and then immediately marry you off? And who would take you? A Fortemps married off to a lesser House? Scandal! And what of your chances with the other High Houses?” He took his hand from Xiao’s waist and dramatically swung it to lie limp on his forehead, as if he were ready to swoon, “Alas! None would have my new daughter to wed!”
Xiao giggled, half in relief.
“Take my wishes to have you adopted as seriously as I take them. My clerks are perusing the laws surrounding peerage for a favorable interpretation. There have been many an orphan or bastard of high status who has found another home in Ishgard’s history. Some of which were lauded, and even are celebrated still to this day. The High Houses are loath to ‘dilute’ their blood but are always more hungry for glory and prestige. That you were officially named Azure Dragoon despite your origins proves that much: they could not bear the thought that they would have to record dragooning kills of notorious wyrms credited to an outsider! In truth, if they could, they would likely wish to resurrect those wyrms simply to take the title back, but now these things cannot be undone.”
He could see that that was far too much for Xiao’s current ability to express herself in Eorzean and signaled to pause both the dance and the music performed, “To be more vulnerable, I’ve always wished to have a daughter or granddaughter so that I could teach her some of the fineries in noble life, like ballroom dancing. Until another such arrives by other, dare I say legitimate, means, would you oblige me and grant me the favor of having you in her stead?”
Xiao never knew her father. It simply wasn’t culturally important. In Eorzea, where the families were much more tightly defined among most of the Spoken, especially in Ishgard where everyone seemed to have their family trees completely memorized in case of dragon blood accusations or sudden peerage, they put so much more emphasis on paternal lineage and responsibility. She had many such analogous experiences of familial bonding and learning with aunties, sisters, and cousins, but nothing quite like this. Nothing quite so doting or patronizing, but in the best way.
But it felt right, it felt good, to be cared for by the Count in this manner. Maybe it was flattery and insidious means to an end. She knew of the plot to legitimize Haurchefant without betraying the wishes of the late Countess. But why show such deep kindness? Why teach her how to dance if she would be tossed aside the moment it was convenient? Why not have a retainer or a servant teach her? Why would Edmont de Fortemps, with all of his power and status, personally go through the motions and the steps if it did not interest him? If he did not have a personal investment to see Xiao succeed in this manner?
Xiao wrapped her arms around the Count and lifted him slightly, to no undue protest.
