Pact Commander Siggi Vilodsdottir woke up at her usual early morning time, but the light peeking through the flap of her tent was - different. Wait, of course. Sun's Refuge. The exhaustion of actually getting the damn place up, or just leftover grogginess from her first night of decent sleep in ages, had momentarily made her forget, to expect the sun outside her tent flap.
No, these were caves, and it would be cave living for a while. As they formulated a way to take care of Kralkatorrik, they had made the subterranian lair their home - The massive Elder Dragon could never dig this deep, and even his smaller minions would find themselves hard pressed to pass through the narrow redoubts and defeat the magical defenses left by Sunspears past - now reactivated in service of Sunspears present - so here they remained, for the moment. The light from the giant braziers, reflected off the crystals, natural and brand alike, embedded in the walls, certainly made for adequate light, but it wasn't quite the same as the wide, wild sun.
Still, If anyone knew how to live without the sun, it was the Norn.
Pulling on a Jerkin, Siggi stood and threw back the flap of her tent, eager to find something to break her fast - perhaps the foragers had found some good venison - when she nearly tripped over it. A wreath.
A wild grin broke across her face. That dork. He was really going to do this proper, wasnt he? She reached down, ready to pluck it off the ground, but about halfway there, she hesitated as something caught her attention, a quick movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked up. Yes. There, behind that rock column. Trying VERY hard, and failing nearly as hard, to look inconspicious, was Braham Eirrson himself.
She hesitated, not out of second thoughts, but just because the boy could probably stand to sweat a bit. Good for his humility. Wasn't right for a Norn to hold a grudge long as he did.
Then again, she was Norn too, huh? And there was another way to handle this...
Finally, she turned back into her tent - but only for a moment, snatching up her best travelling stein. As she exited again, she saw Braham, who had been hunched over, suddenly straight again, looking desperately, wildly at her.
She plunked the stein down in the center of the wreath, crossed her arms, and raised an eyebrow at him. Braham coughed, nodded, and slunk off.
***
A few hours later, after she'd had a chance to eat and answer about 1000 different questions from various Pact Officers and Sunspears, help out a few Refugees, and discuss possible dragon tracking measures with Taimi and her boys, she finally came to the Vigil tents, where everyone had pooled what alcohol they had for a kind of tavern of sorts, a place to go to take a break, relax, and, if needed get just a bit drunk, to take the edge off. Braham was sitting at the end of one of the longer, less populated benches, and Siggi stopped at the the makeshift bar just long enough to grab their first round - Iron Legion Ale, Charr Beer. Almost as good as Ice Ale from the Wayfarer Foothills, in a pinch. As She walked up to Braham, Steins balanced in hand, he had just finished glaring down a poor Vigil soldier who looked like they were coming to sit across from him. Siggi chuckled, more at Braham's seriousness than the poor Soldier's misfortune, and easily slipped in across from the other Norn.
"Hey Kid. Shake off the Spiders yet?"
"What!? N- I mean Yes- I mean, it's fine why would I care about Spiders? We killed them all! Er, we did kill them all, right?"
Siggi couldn't help herself, breaking into an uproarius laugh at Braham's attempts to keep a slight panic under control, "I'm sorry Braham, I just teasing! If there's any spiders left, I'd imagine they're staying hidden for good, after the drubbing we gave their queen."
Braham nodded, blushing slightly with embarassment, "Oh. Yeah, It's fine. Spiders are gone."
Siggi pushed one of the steins toward Braham, "Iron Legion Ale. Not as good as a good Wayfarer Ice Brew, but beggars can't be choosers."
Braham took the Stein gratefully and took a huge gulp straight away. Siggi smirked again and followed suit.
As they set their mugs down, Braham cleared his throat, "So. How many mugs of these do you think we'll need to put this behind us?"
"Eh," Siggi waved a hand dismissively, "It's all snowmelt, far as I'm concerned. I forgave you a long time ago, just needed you to come around."
Poor Braham made a confused face, "Then Why not take the wreath in?"
"Listen," Siggi continued, with a small smile, "I gave you the Stein in the wreath for a couple reasons. One, I wanted an excuse to drink, and two, it's been way too long since we just sat down and TALKED, you know?"
"Oh. Yeah. I guess it has, huh?"
So they talked, avoiding the subject of their fight for the moment, speaking of Braham's adventures in the High Shiverpeaks, of Siggi's own adventures combating Balthazar - most of it he had heard second hand, but he wanted to hear it from Siggi. Ale after Ale appeared before them, and by the time conversation wound down, Siggi could confidently declare herself pleasantly tipsy, warm and buzzing down to her toes, and judging by Braham swaying on the bench across from her, he was somewhere in the same steading.
"Huh," he chuckled, "Imagine if I hadn't been such a Dolyak's ass. Could have helped you take down a human God. That would have been something to see."
Siggi chuckled, "Maybe. Then again, I did have to die to do it."
Braham frowned, "And maybe if I was there, I could have stopped him from killing you. I AM sorry, Commander..."
"Hey." Siggi set down her stein again for a moment, staring seriously across the table, "Already forgiven, remember? Wreath-sworn. Besides, Losing a parent affects a lot of us pretty badly."
"Hell. Losing my Mom probably affected you, huh?" Braham murmured, staring at the table, "I've been thinking about that, lately. She was your mentor. You two hunted together, built a legend together, she even sponsored you into the Pact."
Siggi nodded, "Yeah. She was... special, to me."
"And you kept on anyway."
"I did. I had a lot of people to save. If I had stopped to mourn her, how many more would have been lost?"
Braham took an especially long swig of ale after that, stared off into the middle distance.
"I... wonder if maybe the real problem was... I was jealous of you. You were closer to her than I was. Eir handpicked you as a champion of the great hunt. She recommended you to the orders, sheparded you until you were a force to defeat an elder dragon on your own. Hell, she was almost more of a Mom to you than she was to me."
Siggi raised an eyebrow, "C'mon, I'm not THAT much younger than her. Eir was more like..."
Siggi paused for a moment. Her mind flitted back, as it often did, to a certain night by a campfire, a night in while the bitter cold of the Shiverpeaks pierced even the hardy hides of the norn, and they found it prudent to share a bedroll for warmth. But then, prudency gave way to an awareness of bare skin touching skin, of a desire that no longer seemed worth hiding. No, Braham wasn't ready for that story. She wasn't sure she'd ever share that with anyone else anyway.
"...Let's just say, cool older sister?"
Braham chuckled, "Huh. yeah, that makes sense. And I guess I'd describe you the same way."
"That's me, cool older sister to thousands of squabbling pact children." Siggi raised her stein one last time and drained the current contents, a far-too-weak human brew. Really had to strengthen the supply lines here if they were already down to the human-brewed stuff, she thought absent-mindedly.
Anya and Becky are the couple that no-one saw coming, but most of their classmates and teachers would have to agree it makes all the sense in the world when, after the graduation ceremony for their final year at Eden, Anya runs over to Becky and dips her into a kiss. Even Henry Henderson (Retired, but still spry and often in attendance at graduations and other ceremonies to honor his old students) has to admit, between the impeccable form of the dip and the classic leg pop from Becky, that the whole thing was surprisingly elegant.
As they muddle through college together, they eventually marry. The Blackbell side of the family insists on a massive ceremony at the Cathedral in central Berlint. Anya gladly goes through with it because she knows that pomp and circumstance is important to Becky, or at least her family, and she DOES like feeling like a princess sometimes, but she felt married the second they admitted their feelings to each other, and the only ceremony she really needed was when the two sat in the Forger living room and showed off their rings to Anya’s parents, and Loid and Yor hugged Becky and welcomed their second daughter into their family with tears of joy in their eyes.
Anya’s not necessarily a stranger to the glitz and glamour of the upper class. She navigated Eden, after all, and she was Becky’s best friend for over a decade before they got married, and beyond that, helping Papa with his secret mission often meant rubbing elbows with the upper crust. Still, at heart, she’s still a rowdy little low(er) class urchin, and that doesn’t go away just because she’s married into one of the richest families in Ostania. Luckily, Becky is fully supportive of her gremlin wife. She knows enough sometimes the snobs of the world need to be put in their place. Sometimes they even learn their lesson and become better for it, like Damian and his boyfriends.
So, When Becky and Anya show up to a high society ball together, resplendent in their fancy gowns, the upper crust of Ostania may be subject to strangeness including, but not limited to:
-Becky and Anya dancing the Tango and other lower class dances together, to the horror of half the guests and the delight of the other half
-Anya absolutely charming the help and sneaking plates of hors d'oeuvres - caviar on toast points, crudites, stuff like that - out to their smoke break area.
-Anya, horror of horrors, using her DINNER Fork to eat the SALAD Course!
-Anya encountering a snooty noble disgusted at her commoner manners, asking Anya what family she's even from, and Anya proudly announcing, "Oh, I'm just Rebecca Blackwell's trophy wife!"
-This is generally the point at which Becky swoops and wraps an arm around Anya, smiling sweetly at the noble, "Ah, Baron Franz, how lovely to see you! Is the Baronness here? I havent seen her since the party at Chateau Orleans!"
-Becky says this knowing full well the Baron and Baronness are going through an acrimonious patch thanks to the Baron being caught in a closet at said Chateau with a lady who was very much not the Baronness. Anya is in awe of her wife's sass and quickly demands a high five.
-As the Baron sputters red faced, Becky serenely leads her wife back toward the dance floor, where they once again dominate, waltzing together as if they were made to dance with each other and only each other, the only two people in the room.
-Anya, in the meantime, is thinking fondly of her wife, who always keeps that promise she made on their first day at Eden College, to protect her, no matter what.
Becky enjoys the class and glitz and glamour of their life, but one thing Anya's taught her is that sometimes its nice to get away from the inflated egos and the inflated sense of propriety and expectation and just cut loose. So it is that some nights, instead of going to a fancy ball, they sneak away into the city and head for the Discos.
Becky usually wears a 3 piece suit - partially as a disguise so no-one recognizes her as the heiress of the Blackbell fortune, partially as a tribute to her dear Martha, and partially because both she and Anya really like how she looks in it.
Anya insists on using code names at the Disco - She's Starlight, and dubs Becky Sinatra. Becky indulges her wife.
Whatever their names, they have a rep as one of the best dressed, best dancing couples on the club scene, and when they really get going, half the other dancers on the floor inevitably stop to watch - and cheer them on raucously. They, on the other hand, are only caught up in the music and each other.
When the music dies down, sometimes they don't feel like going home to their big old estate. So instead, they grab a taxi back to a little old hotel. It's a warm summer night, so Anya opens a window and sits down on the couch to let the summer breeze caress her face, and Becky sheds her jacket and rolls up her shirt sleeves and comes over to lie on the couch, her head in Anya's lap.
Sometimes they switch on the TV. Maybe there's a football match, and they reminisce fondly of the time Anya nearly beat Bill, and the Stella Star that was never actually on the line. Maybe it's an episode of Berlint in Love, and Anya giggles as Becky hangs on every word, providing a running commentary on why every romance on the show is doomed to failure.
Sometimes they just sit and enjoy each others' company, speaking in hushed tones from time to time, planning new outings and escapades together, or speaking of the night, of old times, of love.
The Morning after, they leave the hotel and head over to a little apartment just a short walk away, and enter to Anya's Papa in the kitchen, flipping a fresh batch of pancakes from a griddle onto a waiting plate. He smiles softly at them, but it's Anya's Mama who rushes over and envelops both of her babies in a crushing bear hug, the same hug she gives them every time she sees them, that she's always given Anya every day she can since the day she realized Anya was, and always had been, her real daughter.
Loid comes out from the kitchen with a platter loaded down with breakfast food, and sets it down on the table to give out hugs of his own - a little softer, but no less loving. Yor pours coffee - with a dash of milk for Loid (he doesnt really need it for his stomach anymore, but he’s come to like it), and plenty of sugar and cream for her girls - and the little family sits down to eat and laugh and talk together, each of them never taking for granted that after all those years of doubt and pain, they really were a real family all along, and every day, making the most of it.
V’s been having a bad day. Maybe they didn’t get much sleep. Maybe a gig didn’t go as smooth as it could have and the fixer is riding their ass. Maybe they’ve taken too many gigs in a row and they’re just exhausted, tired down to their bones.
Times like this, they go to one place. It’s not even conscious, it’s just where their feet lead them: Viktor’s Clinic.
Characters: Captain Jifuya, Male Xaela Aura Dark Knight Warrior of Light, Yotsuyu goe Brutus (mentioned)
Rating/Warnings: Mature (Mentions of past Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, and Slavery, Slight Gore, Minor Character Death)
Summary: Hien refuses to judge Jifuya, and the Warrior of Light decides to take matters into his own hands. It is not the first time the Dark Knights have had to punish crimes that weak little lordlings would not, and it will not be the last.
Also on Ao3
It was with slowly dawning horror that Enkhjargal heard Jifuya unfold his story - of buying Yotsuyu from her abusive parents, of using her as a doll for his lecherous customers, of his eagerness, even, to specifically exploit her trauma, a story he told not with regret, but simply with fear that he might finally face consequences. Enkhjargal cast a look at Gosetsu. It was Gosetsu's choice, first, but surely, he'd understand this man could be no part of-
"...I see," Said Gosetsu, as Jifuya still cringed before him, "Then I shall recommend that you be assigned to a new post."
Enkhjargal took a step backward, a look of shock at Gosetsu that he quickly stifled. The practice of taking prisoners in war or camp raids was one thing, but this type of slavery, buying and selling of a person? He had seen Gosetsu's code in action, respected it. Did the code truly stop here? With allowing this buyer and seller of unwilling young women to continue as if his sin had been nothing?
Perhaps he only meant to leave the judgement to his lord. Yes. That must be it. Certainly, Hien would have the wisdom to deal with this properly. It was... not the best way to deal with it, frankly, in Enkhjargal's mind, but perhaps allowing Hien to serve justice would make Doma stronger in the long run, even it delayed the justice Jifuya so clearly deserved by a few hours.
---
"I would not presume to defend the life Jifuya led before he joined the Front," Said Hien, "Nor will I condemn it. Frankly, it is not my place to judge. I will only say this: the Jifuya I know has ever been a man of courage. That he should feel driven to flee bespeaks the depth of his terror. Even now, Yotsuyu casts a shadow over the realm..."
Enkhjargal narrowed his eyes. Had Hien just suggested that he would not condemn or judge bloody slavery-
No. Not here. Not like this. Confronting Hien right now is unlikely to change his mind.
But we must do something.
It won't be the first time we must dispense justice because some pampered noble lordling either couldn't or wouldn't.
And it certainly won't be the last.
He will be alone at some point. We only need to find out when, and where, and be there when he is.
Bide your time until then.
---
Enkhjargal kept his body language as casual as possible as walked out of the House of the Fierce - to get some fresh air, he had told his comrades. It wasn't even completely a lie, although mostly he meant to put as much space between him and Hien as possible, before he said something he might regret.
But before he did, he spoke to the sentry at the entrance of house of the Fierce, where it lead out to the fields of Doma once again.
"Have you seen Jifuya since he got back?"
"Oh! He stepped out again. Don't worry though, sir, he ensured me he was coming back this time. He's only off duty for a bit, at Lady Yugiri's suggestion."
"Hm. Do you know where'd go at times like this?"
"Well. I know he sometimes likes to head out past Monzen, to gaze at the Castle. Even though it's in ruins, it's still a grand view."
Enkjarghal nodded, "Very well. Carry on, Sentry."
The Sentry bowed as Enkhjargal strode past him, out of the House of the Fierce.
When he rounded the bend, he pulled out his whistle and blew a short blast. A few moments later, his Yol swept down the sky. Enkhjargal leapt upon her, and pointed her west.
---
Not his place to judge? By the twelve, it is EXACTLY his place to judge! What is the bloody point of having lords and kings if they will not judge the sins of the common folk and ensure their kingdoms protect the weak and prevent the strong from abusing their power? What in the Seven Hells is Hien thinking? Why are we freeing Doma if it will only perpetuate the sins of the Empire against the poor and orphaned and destitute? Will he create a hundred, a thousand new Yotsuyus, poor young folk, orphans and destitute, driven to hatred and desperation by their treatment of the hand of rich old lechers and greedy landlords and cocky soldiers, because he refuses to do his bloody duty?
The voice screamed at the back of Enkhjargal's mind as he flew his Yol toward the river, and Enkhjargal let it. It was right, as usual. Whether Imperial or not, Eorzean or Hingan or Xaela or otherwise, too many of these nobles and monarchs and generals were such selfish, shortsighted fools, interested in the path of least resistance, or their own comfort, and as always, it fell to the bloody warrior of light to fix it.
And fix it he would, one way or another.
His black-scaled tail twitched restlessly, angrily behind him as he flew on.
---
A few moments more, and he landed his Yol, patting it gratefully on the neck before taking a bit of Dzo jerky from his pack, holding it out letting the Yol nibble it from his hand.
"Wait here, my friend," he murmured, "I shall not be long."
He walked toward the river bank, and soon spotted Jifuya, staring out toward the ruins of the castle as the lookout had suggested. The man did not notice him. Enkhjargal's hand went to the spare dagger at his waist. He could end it now, with a well-aimed throw, or a shove of the dagger at just the right point on his spinal column-
No. Jifuya should KNOW. He should see it coming. He should face the weight of his sins, as we have. As all should.
So Enkhjargal walked closer, drawing his sword, ensuring the sound of scraping metal was just loud enough to be heard.
Jifuya leapt with a start and turned around.
"Oh!" He said, breathing a sigh of relief, "Hello, Lord Enkhjargal. I didn't expect to see you out here. I come here sometimes. Staring at the castle helps center me when I'm feeling a bit out of sorts."
"I know. I heard one of your comrades mentioning it. I had hoped to find you here."
"You... You hoped?" Jifuya said, his face confused.
"Yes. You and I have something to discuss."
"Oh! Of course! Anything for the hero of Doma," Jifuya said, smiling graciously, simperingly, "B... But what could you have to discuss with me?"
"Your Profession."
"My-"
"Before you joined the resistance. Was Yotsuyu your only victim? Did you kidnap your other girls? Buy some of them from slave markets? Seduce a few of them off streets, convincing them their only option to avoid homelessness was to work in your dens? Or did you simply buy them all from lecherous, greedy old monsters eager to pawn a daughter or a wife to pay off gambling debts, or just to move on to their next pretty plaything?"
"Wha- What?"
"ANSWER ME," Enkhjargal said, his voice rising in volume just a bit, infused with the dark anger of his other half, as he stepped closer, now towering over Jifuya.
"I-I- I was a legitimate businessman, I had the full sanction of the Em- I mean- I... I got my girls from a variety of places! But I- It was Imperial times! We all had to survive, one way or another-"
Jifuya stopped, cringed, looked up at Enkhjargal. Enkhjargal stared back.
"S-Some of them were there by choice..." Jifuya continued, whimpering.
"SOME of them," Enkhjargal repeated his words, stone-faced, monotone, putting just enough emphasis on the first to remind Jifuya of what it implied, that even more were there against their will.
If the man means to dig his own grave, who are we stop him?
"I. I know what I did to Yotsuyu was... not my best moment," Jifuya said, "But- But- I have heard what you've done! You fought her! Rumors say you can even stare into the past of your enemies! You've seen her sins firsthand! You KNOW she's a monster!"
"I am not here to judge her, Jifuya. I am here to judge you. But how, I wonder, did she become a monster? I have seen enough of her past to know she was not born that way."
He took yet another step closer to the Doman. Jifuya tried to step backward, but his foot nearly slipped off the enbankment. He looked back at the water, and Enkhjargal wondered for a moment if he was planning to try his luck in the swift current. Yet still, he turned back to look up at Enkhjargal, cringing.
"No, she was made a monster," Enkhjargal continued, "By neglectful, hateful parents. By a cruel, callous slavemaster who saw her pain and saw in it a way to put more gil in his pocket."
"I...I already said I felt shame-" Jifuya began to stammer.
"No you didn't," Enkhjargal said, his voice a low hiss, simmering with rising fury, "You said you were afraid of your past, not sorry for it."
"I-I- I'm saying it now! I'm sorry! I swear!"
"Remorse given at the last possible second out of fear is no remorse at all."
"P-Please! Hien already passed judgement! HE forgave me, sh-shouldn't you?"
"He is not my lord," Enkhjargal said, "And thus I have no reason to be bound by his judgement."
"It's a shame, really," Enkhjargal continued, "Maybe if he had done what a king should and put you on trial for your crimes, you could have gotten something softer, something that still served some sort of justice. Maybe exile, or a prison cell, or hard labor. Or restitution paid to Tsuyu and any other of your living victims. Some sort of thing to ensure that craven, beastly men like you will not be tolerated in his new kingdom. But instead, he'll let you go free."
"B... But he DID let me go, right? I'm free. He said so..." Jifuya's voice barely sounded as if it came from a human now, broken and whining as it was.
"Yes. He did. But Doma wouldn't be the first nation I've travelled in where the upper class are either too cowardly or too complicit to reign in the wicked and corrupt. And you know what I've done in those countries?"
"W-What's that?"
"This."
Enkhjargal raised his weapon, and as he did, dark crackles and swirls of aether played around every inch of his body, around his massive sword, as his inner flame finally unleashed, fueled by the anger and rage he'd being feeling every since he found out Jifuya's crime, ever since Hien refused to judge him.
"Oh Kami!" Jifuya cringed back, "Warrior! Please! Show Mercy!"
"The same mercy you showed Yotsuyu? Your other victims?" Enkhjargal answered, coldly, as he swung his sword downward.
Jifuya opened his mouth to scream, but Enkhjargal gave him no chance to sound the alarm.
The pieces of the former slaver's body fell silently into the River, the swift current carrying them out of sight in an instant.
---
"They might find out, you know," His Dark Double, Sometimes called Fray, sometimes Esteem, murmured at his shoulder, as Enkhjargal stood at the edge of the riverbank, still staring into its churning waters.
"No," Enkhjargal said, his mouth set in a grim line, "They'll never suspect me, I'm a hero, a bloody icon. Surely I would never harm as innocent a soul as the brave Jifuya, decorated Captain of the Great and Noble Doman Godsdamned Resistance. Besides. He already tried to run once, who says he didn't do it again? He must have slipped off into the night, too afraid of Yotsuyu - or feeling too guilty at a reminder of the weight of his sins."
"You have a point," Esteem said, with a dark chuckle.
"Besides, if they do find any part of his body," Enkhjargal continued, "They'll likely assume it was someone who died in the assault on Doma Castle. Even if the fish don't eat it first, the water should wear down the meat enough that no-one could tell for sure that it was him - or that he died quite some time after the end of that bloody battle."
"So that's one problem taken care of. But there's one left. How do we deal with Hien?"
"We watch, and we wait, like we always do," Enkhjargal answered, "I thought he had the strength to lead, but if he was too cowardly to judge Jifuya properly, perhaps I erred. So we watch. And if need be, we take action."
"Yugiri will not be happy, if it comes to that," Esteem noted.
"She won't," Enkhjargal said with a nod, "But I have hopes she won't let her love for her lord blind her should he continue to allow such gross oppression, and for all her loyalty, Yugiri's always been a friend of the oppressed. A Lord can only rule as long as they have the consent of their people."
"Hmph. We both know people consent to some messed up things. In exchange for a peaceful life, many would simply ignore the corruption which festers beneath the surface. Cast aside that which is dirty and broken. Speak not of things which would disrupt their dreary little lives."
"Many. But not all."
Enkhjargal could feel Esteem's smile at his shoulder, bemused, slightly bitter, but warm and genuine all the same.
"That we still have that optimism after all this time," Esteem said with a note of wonder, before switching thoughts, "Very well. As always, I shall follow your lead. But if the truth of the matter comes out as I suspect it will, and if you need help..."
"I shall clutch my crystal to my breast, and remember,” Enkhjargal said, fiercely, every word the truth.
"Good."
And with that, he felt Esteem simmering no longer. He turned from the riverbank, and strode back toward his waiting Yol.
---
NOTE: Text in italics is meant to be the words of Esteem in Enkhjargal’s mind, ala Dark Knight job quest text in-game.
Rating/Warnings: General (Scenes of Battle and Violence)
Summary: Ysayle Dangoulain resigned herself to her fate when she leapt from the dragon’s back in the skies of Azys Lla, but Shiva did not. Major spoilers for the Heavensward MSQ and minor spoilers for Stormblood and Shadowbringers.
With one final blast of the Garleans' cannon, not even the power of her faith could shield her.
And so she fell.
Pain coursed down every inch of her bones, for not even the power of (Not-)Shiva cloaked her completely from the onslaught of those dread weapons.
And yet, as her shattered body fell, her soul, finally, felt at peace.
She had lived a misguided life.
So convinced of her righteousness, she had bought so much destruction.
So convinced of her faithfulness, she had bought forth a lie and called it truth.
But now, she had given the Warrior of Light the time they needed. They would pursue Thordan, bring him justice, and finally, perhaps, establish the peace she should have worked for all along.
With that knowledge, that peace, she closed her eyes, content to embrace whatever came next.
"No."
The word rang through her head, a clarion call. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked around, but still she fell, soundless and alone, through the endless skies.
"You are my prophetess, my creator. I will not let it end like this."
This... was the voice of her Shiva?
"How are you still with me?"
"I saved my power. Enough to save you. I could not defeat that airship, but I could save you."
"But... Why? How? You should have no identity apart from me, you were never the true Shiva, only A strange, twisted part of me, convinced of my righteousness!"
"Thou art me and I am thee," the voice answered in agreement, "But your faith has given me form. I will not let your light fail."
"It has failed," Ysayle answered, serene, but with a small edge of bitterness underneath, "I cannot survive this fall. If the winds do not suffocate me, or the cold freeze the life from me, I shall die when the ground rises up to meet me. It is the end I deserve. I have finished my task. The Warrior of Light will carry on, better than I ever could."
"Have faith, my lady," Shiva answered. Whether faith in her power to save her, faith in her own self, she did not elaborate, but the air grew even chiller, and as Ysayle opened her eyes once more, she found a blizzard whipping around her.
The cold pierced her heart, but it dulled the pain of broken bones. The winds ceased, and she fell into darkness.
And in the lower reaches of Dravania, deep among a forest of trees pierced through by crystals of ice-aspected aether, one crystal, larger than the rest, perfectly formed and faceted, carried on a blizzard wind, touched down gently to earth.
And, Encased inside it, an Elezen Woman, sleeping deeply, battered and bruised.
But maybe, just maybe, still alive.
---
She slept there, as her primal guardian, weak but present, tended her wounds, slowly mended soul and body.
She dreamt only in fits and starts.
Once, she rode upon Hraesvelgr's back once more, free, unburdened, to touch the clouds.
Another time, she felt the pull of her friend, her only friend, begging her help to save that damnable dragoon. But whatever differences she had with Estinien, she loved the Warrior of Light all the same, and so, she came, and dispelled the rancor of Nidhogg. She could not speak, only gaze longingly at her comrades one last time, before darkness swallowed her again.
She saw a cleansing flame sweep across the earth, from a twisted dragon, not of the Horde, but of belief and anger and aether, with a breath to melt steel. She saw armies marching across desert battlefields, upon high grass steppes.
City streets, choked with debris as soldiers marched, then scattered.
She found no rhyme or reason to these visions, and yet they came.
Then, one final vision. The tall crystal tower that she had sometimes seen rising over the mountains from the neighboring lands of Mor Dhona.
A voice cried then, "Throw Wide The Gates!"
A tug not at her body, but her soul, a deep, keening longness, to go... somewhere? Do something? To Travel, to move.
But the crystal held her fast.
The yearning felt as if it would split her in twain anew, to wrack her body with heaving sobs, mourning for adventures would never know, friendships that should have been strengthened, tempered, forged. But instead, the crystal held her fast. Once again, Darkness fell over her like a veil again, and she knew no more.
---
Bahamut's great Calamity had sundered the seasons in the north of Eorzea, but nonetheless, in Dravania at least, a spring of a sort still existed, and it still came. Thus it was, that as spring sprung forth, the crystal began to melt, at first slightly, then at once. As it melted, it gently lowered its precious cargo to the ground - the sleeping woman.
When it had melted completely, the last of its aether sparkling in the morning sun, it left behind two other things as well: A massive sword, whose blade seemed to be fashioned of purest ice even as it refused to melt in the warm spring sun, and a small blue crystal, small enough to be easily held in the palm of one's hand, shaped like a heart.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Merry Brandybuck/Éowyn, Merry Brandybuck & Éowyn
Characters: Merry Brandybuck, Éowyn (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig
Additional Tags: written in the style of the books, Slight AU/Rewrite of Return of the King, Kinda Hurt/Comfortish I think?, Domestic Fluff eventually
Summary:
Merry Brandybuck finds that he cannot stay abed at the Houses of Healing, and instead seeks out the company of Lady Éowyn. Dismayed at the pall that has fallen over her, he attempts to comfort her as best he can.
Characters: Pyotyr Ilych (Male Duskwight Elezen WoL OC), Other minor OCs.
Rating/Warnings: M (Swearing, Intense Violence, Death)
Summary: Over 20 years before he comes the Warrior of Light, young Pyotyr Ilych is forced to make a desperate decision regarding the payment of an unexpected Debt.
Author's Note: The song the bard at the start of this fic is singing is Good Riddance, from the game Hades, written by Darren Korb. The Song and the Game are both amazing, and I recommend checking them out.
---
Farewell
To all the earthly remains
No burdens
No further debts to be paid
Goodbye
To all the plans that we made
No contracts
I'm free to do as I may
No hunger
No sleep except to dream
Mild and warm
Safe from all harm
Calm
No matter the time of day, it seemed there was always at least some bard plying their trade in the plazas and alleys of Limsa Lominsa. With the Yellowjackets strong enough to keep people safe from strong-arm robbers, if not the odd pickpocket, the Aetheryte Plaza and the Hawker's alley was often filled with their song. This particular singer, a tall, lithe, Elezen woman, was singing an old funeral hymn, less a dirge or song of sorrow, then a fond wish, the wish of the sailor - to fall gently into the loving arms of the sea, the warm waters off Vylbrand's coasts, free of beastmen and garleans, free of press gangs and captains alike, cradled in the arms of Llymlaen.
Still, Pyotyr took no time to stop and listen, Instead slipping back into the crowds of Hawker's Market, heading towards Mealvaan's Gate. In his hand, a slip of parchment: A bill posted in one of the taverns he haunted, sometimes to drink, sometimes to relieve drunken fools of their purses unawares: A ship called the Pomona, looking for hands. Just the place to disappear for a few years, if he could get there before any other number of prospective tars who might be looking to go to sea, for money, for pleasure, to escape...
So focused he was on reaching his destination, that he wasn't watching as he passed near the small alleys - one of the manly small outlets to the marketplaces, the kind you never went down unless you were well-armed or headstrong. A pair of arms darted towards the unprepared Pyotyr, one coming to cover his mouth before he could cry out, before dragging him down into a nearby sewer grate. If anyone noticed him disappear Into the dark depths, they told not a soul.
The hands carried him deeper into the sewers.
---
"Seven Hells, what are you doing?" He struggled as 3 masked figures surrounded him, pushing him toward a sewer opening - a large pipe that ended in a small drop into the deep blue seas lapping at the walls of Limsa Lominsa.
"Hold him steady," A thin reedy voice from one figure, but full of hate and anger. The largest of the 3, Roegadyn by their stature. grabbed Pyotyr's arms, roughly twisting them behind his back. The reedy voiced one removed their mask. It was a Hyur, light skinned, blonde haired, blue eyes just as stormy and dark as his voice implied.
"Audric," Pyotyr said, as his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, "What a pleasant surprise! I hadn't hoped to see you again for a very, very long time..."
Audric glared at him. "I bet, Pyotyr Ilych. But not as long as my brother, right?"
"It was a shame what happened to him," Pyotyr tried to pick his next words very carefully, "He was a friend, Audric. You know that. We'd been running jobs together for a year. It's a tragedy! But there's no way I could have saved him."
"You could have DONE something," The Hyur said, a glob of spittle flying from his mouth to hit Pyotyr's cheek, "You should have known it was a bad idea! Raiding an East Aldenard Company Warehouse? How could you let him do it?"
Pyotyr sighed, "I... I'm sorry. But you know Audren. When he got an idea into his head, he could never be swayed. He said that if we pulled that heist off, we'd be set for life, and he might even have been right. The things we saw in there-"
"Weren't worth his LIFE, you idiot!" Audric said, cutting Pyotyr off with his words and a fist to his solar plexus. Pyotyr doubled over in the arms of Audric's comrade, robbed for his breath for a moment. He coughed a bit, wincing, as the aftershocks of the pain screamed through his body. Finally, they ceased, and he straightened himself again, still held fast by the Roegadyn.
"Audric, I know you're angry," Pyotyr said once he had his breath back, "I would be too if my own brother died like that. But it's the East Aldenard company you should be angry at, not me! They're the ones who killed your brother just because he needed a few extra coins!"
"I don't care who pays for my brother's death. I just want someone to pay," Audric said coldly, glaring at Pyotyr, "You owe me a debt, Pyotyr Ilych, and it's time you paid up."
Pyotyr sighed, "What do you want, Audric? I dont have much gil, but I'm about to head to sea. I'll earn plenty there, I'm sure, and I'll send you a share, I promi-"
"No, that would be too easy, Ilych," Audric answered, "You know what a life debt entails. A life for a life. And since Audren's already lost his..."
"Audric...?" Pyotyr found his words escaping him. Was he really going to die here, ilms from the sea that would have granted him his freedom?
"Jean. Bind his feet," Audric ignored him and nodded to the taller figure beside him, a fellow Elezen, Pyotyr judged by the name and stature. Jean, still masked, leaned down and took a coil of rope they must have had at their waist, winding it around his lower thighs. Pyotyr tried to widen his stance just a bit, but found them pushed roughly together by the street tough.
"And his hands," Audric spoke his next order. Pyotyr took a deep breath. If he was going to survive this, it had to be now. The Roegadyn had loosened his grip when Pyotyr had his coughing fit and hadn't tighted it again, so if he just...
"Oof!" The Roegadyn let out a grunt of surprise as Pyotyr's elbow caught him the chest, and staggered back a few steps as his hands dropped from Pyotyr's wrists.
His hands free, Pyotyr gropped at his belt. There is was, a boning knife tucked into his belt. The fools hadnt frisked him. Amateurs. As the Roegadyn hovered over him again, he gripped the handle of the knife tightly in one hand and drove backward. It easily pierced the fabric of his gauzy silk shirt to pierce the flesh beneath. Pyotyr yanked it back sideways, cutting a wicked red line across his captor's belly. The Roegadyn gasped in surprise and shock, stumbling back another few steps, and pitching over the edge of the pipe to splash into the deep water below.
"Dove!" The one called Jean cried.
A pet name? A Hellguard Name? Why think about that when you're fighting for your life, Pyotyr, he admonished himself, and as Jean rushed him with a scream of rage, he flipped the knife in his hand forward and slashed it at the Elezen, who, consumed in grief or rage at the wound done to their friend, hadnt even tried to approach on the defensive. The knife caught them across the forearm they had tried to swing at his head, and as they lost control of the swing and stumbled forward, Pyotyr stabbed them again in the side and leaned forward, hoisting them onto his shoulder, and then over it. They too fell over the side of the city without a sound.
"You... You..." Audric alone now stood a few feet from him, face twisted in a rictus of rage, tears now flowing down his face. Pyotyr in the meaning held his knife out defensively, desperately trying to wriggle out of the bonds around his feet without falling.
"Audric, be reasonable, I didn't want to do it, but I had to defend myself, enough people have died tonight-" Pyotyr's brain was racing at a thousand miles per hour as he tried to hold off his remaining attacker by any means possible, but Audric was beyond reason. With a scream, he rushed at Pyotyr, grabbing his knife arm, forcing Pyotyr to raise it above his head to protec the only defense he had left. His other arm, he hooked around Audric, trying to use him as an anchor, insurance to keep from pitching over the side.
The two men stood, struggling, poised that way on the lip of the pipe for a moment, before Audric screamed and pushed. Pyotyr yelled in return, tightened his own grip, and two fell together, down into the cold dark water.
Adrenaline, shock, call it what you will, but Pyotyr barely registered the feeling his body hitting the water, but he and Audric still sank together, Audric's eyes still flashing with anger as he now pushed down on Pyotyr, likely hoping to ensure his descent to a watery grave before he, free of binding, swam back to the surface.
Unfortunately, for Audric, he and Audren had only come from Ul'dah a few years prior, whereas Pyotyr had lived in Limsa Lominsa his whole life - and like most children of Limsa, his affinity for water was second only to the fish themselves. As Audric struggled to move, he quickly freed his knife arm, and just as quickly, bought it around to stab Audric in the back, once, twice, thrice. Audric's eyes widened in pain, as his strength quickly waved, quickly enough for Pyotyr to push him off. As they rapidly drifted apart, he felt his lungs burning, and with one final burst of energy, he managed to bring his legs up to his chest, close enough for his knife to cut through one rope, two - and the rest fell off his legs as the motion of his feet and the gentle current pulled them apart. Whoever Audric's friends were, they'd never learned to tie a good sailor's knot, or were too full of nervous energy to do so tonight. His legs free, he kicked his way back to the surface, taking in a deep gasping breath before quickly paddling to the nearest "shore," the small bit of rock and dirt barely a few feet across that seperated a few parts of the city walls from the sea itself.
As he pulled himself onto them and collapsed against the wall, the adrenaline wore off enough to bring the situation crashing down upon him.
He'd been kidnapped. Beaten up. Nearly killed. And he'd killed 3 people. There they were, their bodies floating in the harbor, blessedly hidden by the swiftly approaching dusk as they slowly but surely drifted out to sea.
"Fuck. FUCK," Pyotyr could only curse and shiver as the full weight came down on him. He shoulders been to shiver as he took large, heaving gulps of air, and the feel of great gouts of fire seemed to travel over his arms and his chest.
"Calm down, Pyotyr," he murmured to himself, "It was self defense. You tried... You tried to talk them down... You tried."
He stuck the knife back in his belt. Patted himself down. Winced as he touched his side, his legs. He'd have a few bruises tomoorow, but he didnt feel any sprains, any breaks. Llymlaen... or Rhalgr, or Halone, or someone... had been with him tonight. There'd probably be stairs or a ramp back up to the city somewhere nearby. If he hurried, he could catch the Pomona before it weighed anchor. If he hurried...
How long would it take? How many years out at sea? Escaping the notice of the East Aldenard company for a botched robbery was one thing, but killing 3 people? Would the Yellowjackets find the bodies? Would they see him sneaking about? Would they believe it was self-defense? Even if they did, would they hand him over to the Uldahns for robbery anyway? What if he threw himself on the mercy of the courts? Maybe they'd let him off with a few years of hard labor. Surely, surely they'd show mercy on a son of Limsa Lominsa, right?
As he sat against the wall, head in his hands, a voice wafted down from the streets above.
Good riddance
To all the thieves
To all the fools that stifled me
They've come and gone
And passed me by
It was the voice of a bard, maybe even the same one from earlier. Singing the last verse of the song.
Maybe that was it. Audric, the fool. Audren, the thief. They were gone, and he remained. They were gone, and he remained.
That meant something. That meant something.
Shakily, he pulled himself to his feet,and crept along the side of the walls.
---
An hour later, he stood at one of the docks outside Mealvaan's gate, a dock occupied by a proud-looking brigantine, her figurehead a Roegadyn woman in a flowing robe carrying a bunch of grapes in one hand, a drinking horn in the other.
At the gangplank stood a tall, grizzled Roegadyn Woman with short white hair, face covered in scars.
"Halt there, Lad. Declare yourself," She spoke, gruffly.
"Pyotyr Ilych, of Limsa Lominsa," He answered, coming to attention. Was this the captain? Would she even be impressed by a skinny, wastrel Elezen in sea-soaked peasants clothes? He wondered, but suppressed the nervous voice in his head for a moment, "I heard about your posting from the recruiter you sent to the Tipsy Sahagin. I'm here to join up."
The Roe woman now looked him up and down with a more appraising eye, "Alright, Ilych. You're a little damp, but otherwise, you look the part. So do ye act the part?"
Pyotyr nodded, "I used to go out on the fishing boats. I can rig a sail and tie a knot with the best of them. I can shimmy up a rope too, or over a wall. I can scrap with my fists or an axe if it comes to it. Even picked up a few cantrips from an arcanist mate I used to run with. I know my letters. I've cooked a little bit with my mother if you need someone for galley duty."
"Can ye abide by the wishes of the ship's assembly, and take orders from the captain or me to keep the ship yar in battle or harsh weather? Can ye learn to load a cannon and keep the powder safe and dry, and run it out to the gunners, hearty-like, if there comes need for it?"
"Aye, I swear, I can do all of that, I promise," Pyotyr answered, eagerly.
"And what about battle itself? Can you board an enemy ship, or repel boarders, with a stiff back and a courageous heart? If it comes down it, can you cut a man down to save your crewmate, or yourself?"
Pyotyr found himself freezing for just a moment. Again. He might have to do it again. Could he do it again? Did it matter?
"Y-Yes," He stammered, "I'll do whatever it takes. For gil, and for freedom."
The Roe raised one of her eyebrows slightly, but after a moment she nodded, "Alright. If you can do all that, you'll fit in here. I'm First Mate Slafsryswyn. It's late, so I'll just show ye to a spare hammock tonight, and you can meet the captain at first light. And I mean first light, we leave soon as the sun shows her pretty little face."
"Aye, Ma'am!" Pyotyr answered, trying to suppress a giddy giggle of relief, "Thank you Ma'am! I won't let you down!"
He'd made it. He could start over. He could escape. He could. Couldn't he?
"Welcome aboard the Pomona, Ilych," Slafsryswyn leaned over to slap him on the back and guide him up the gangplank.
Characters: Pyotyr Ilych (Male Duskwight Elezen WoL OC), Enkhjargal Qalli (Male Au Ra OC).
Rating/Warnings: PG (Violence and Kidnapping mentions)
Summary: Many years before he became the Warrior of Light, Pyotyr was a simple assessor of the Arcanist’s Guild. One day, a Visit from a member of a Rogue’s Guild gets him much more than he bargained for. Semi-sequel to the fic Unexpected, also on this blog.
---
Arcanist's Guild assessor Pyoyr Ilych, as was common on afternoons, found himself inside one of the warehouses near Mealvaan's Gate on the docks of Limsa Lominsa, staring down a rather sizable pile of crates. He opened his book, and flipped tg the day's itinirary.
"Hm," He said, murmuring to no-one in particular, "Teagan's Folly, merchant ship, Ul'dahn ownership, claims 500 lots of Thavnarian Silk."
He flipped the book one more page, and scribbled a small line to complete a link with a flourish. In a flash of aetherial energy, his companion, a small blue carbuncle, appeared before him.
"There you are, Master Sparkles!" he said, favoring his partner with a smile, "Shall we get to work?"
Pyotyr took his work even more seriously than usual these days, after a rash of hazardous smuggling - mostly Pluto and Dreamweed, but a few Allagan artifacts as well. As an Ex-Pirate, he could let a bit of smuggling pass, but when you were smuggling powerful ancient weaponry or performance-enhancing drugs, well. That just wasn't sporting, to say nothing of the vastly heightened possibility of getting innocents caught in the crossfire when some great dodo fired a weapon she had no idea how to operate, or completely lost his mind to the effects of a Pluto overdose. Thus, he was only about halfway done with his inspections when he felt a presence behind him.
"May I help you?" He said, if only to let the person know they were not undetected, and turned around to see a black-scaled, blue-skinned Au Ra perched on the pile of crates behind him.
"Pyotyr Ilych, assessor, arcanist, whom I see," he sang, a simple but unfamiliar tune in a strong baritone, "If you can lay your work aside, I'd have you speak to me."
Ah, of course, the Qalli. While some of the Xaela who'd immigrated to Eorzea had left behind the ways of their homeland, many more still kept to the traditions of their people and their particular tribes in one way or another. For the Qalli, that meant that all spoken communication was instead sung or chanted in a tone that might be a simple chant, a noisome battle hymn, or a funerous dirge, among other things, depending on the content of the missive and the personality and emotions of the speaker. For Pyotyr's part, he rather liked it. It reminded him of the rythm of the sea shanties out on the Ocean, the crew singing in harmony to work in harmony.
Unfortunately, his trepedation of this person came from a different angle altogether. The intruder wore baggy, loose-fitting green canvas pants and sandals, with a belt full of pouches and tools and a pair of sheathed daggers slung low across his hips. His hands were wrapped in cloth bandages, fingers free for gripping and touch, another length of green cloth wrapped across his chest, and a bandanna held his hair and the sweat of his brow in place, keeping it from falling in his eyes, with only a single braid of white escaping to run down his back a short ways - the classic uniform of a swabbie, yes, but also of anothe group only spoken of in whispers among pirates and dockworkers alike - and since they weren't on the deck of a ship, nor were shiphands generally allowed in the warehouses while the assessors worked, Pyotyr had to assume this person was, indeed, a member of the Rogue's Guild, the enforcers of the old code.
"Master Qalli, I'd wager?" Pyotyr bowed and smiled slightly, guarded, eyes probing. With a gesture from his hand, Master Sparkles, who had been sniffing at a crate at the top of the pile, bounded down the containers and came to heel at his side, "I shall not insult either of our intelligences by asking who you work for, but I am at your service. What brings you to call on a poor assessor such as I?"
"Enkhjargal Qalli is my name, I gainsay not your words," the Rogue sang in reply, "But questions must I ask of you, ere my quest be fulfilled."
Pyotyr shut his book. He felt still a bit on edge, but if the Rogue was going to execute him, chances are he wouldn't have gotten his attention first.
"A pleasure to meet you, Master Qalli," he answered, not quite truthfully, "It's my last inspection of the day, but I'd prefer not to be kept too long, if possible. I need to stop at the markets before my girls get home from school, if you please," he said.
"Tell me then, of Drystelakwyn," He sang, "Captain Mhardraga of the Pomona, Scourge of Garleans, Mother of your Children, for this have I come unto your door."
At that, the vitality drained from Pyotyr's face for a moment. If a Rogue was saying a Pirate's name, it was not often for good tidings. They were most likely to be marked, wanted, or at best a victim of the Rogue's true prey. He steeled himself, said a quick prayer to the Navigator that Enkhjargal had not marked his moment of fear, and that Mhar was alright, stood up straight, and spoke.
"Captain Mhardraga Drystelakwyn," He spoke, "Is an Honorable Privateer. She has a Letter of Marque to waylay Garlean ships, and never waylays a ship under the protection of the Eorzean Alliance. Only Salvages and plunders wrecks and islands she has a fair claim to. She sends me a share of the ship's haul every so often under our charter, and to fulfill her duties as mother of our children. She sometimes sends the girls letters and gifts, especially on their namedays. I ask nothing more of her, and I consider her a friend still. She sometimes visits when she's docked in Limsa, but I havent seen her for six months, which is certainly not the longest she's been at sea by far. Regardless, I will gladly vouch for her character. She's the best sailor I've ever known, and as honorable a swashbuckler as ever sailed the seas. Does that answer your question?"
Enkhjargal smiled at that, looked almost amused. Meanwhile, Pyotyrs heart felt as if it was beating between his ears. The crew of the Pomona were dear to him. Mhar, Slaf, Doc, and many of the others who had trod the decks in his day still sailed under the flag, and he still drank a pint with them if he could steal away while they were docked in town. Sure, they'd played fast and loose with their letter of marque everyone once in a while, but they really were one of the more honorable crews on the waves. Whatever could they have done to gain the eye of the Rogue's Guild?
"I mean them no harm, friend," Enkhjargal sang, "Their charter is safe, their honor intact, yet worrying words carry on the wind now, I fear this letter, may shine more on that."
And indeed Enkhjargal produced a folded piece of paper from one of the pouches on his belt, handing it to Pyotyr, who unfolded it.
Pyotyr Ilych,
The Bounty isn't complete unless we bring you in too, and we're willing to do whatever it takes. If you aren't on Moonglow Isle within a fortnight, we'll find your children, and take them in your stead.
Jeantiel Estellieur
Captain of the Bloody Hand
"Seven Hells, why didn't you show this to me earlier? How did you get this? I have to go, now, I have to make sure Svetlana and Anastasia are safe-" He turned to run for the warehouse door, but before he took more than a few steps, Enkhjargal sang out.
"They are safe, even now, let your mind rest, Ser Ilych, Spirited to safehouse, guarded by our finest," He sang, "This letter we took from the street tough that bore it, who lifted a purse 'fore he came to your door."
Pyotyr turned back to the man, "By the Gods, couldn't you have let one pickpocket pass? How long ago was it? Where have you taken my girls? Are you sure they're safe?"
Enkhjargal nodded, "I give you my word, as Qalli and Rogue, your daughters are taken to a place they won't know of. But now our concern lies in the Bloody Hand, this Bounty they speak of, the fate of your friends."
"By the Twelve," Pyotyr said, "I will hold you to that, Enkhjargal. But for now, you are right, I must gather my thoughts. This bounty, I do not know of it. Surely if we were wanted in Eorzea, I would never have been able to make a life as I have in Limsa!"
"Not by Eorzea, your reputation is spotless," Enkhjargal sang, "Or at least enough not to be clapped in cold iron. Yet old enemies may hold grudges long, and the Garleans have heard your plundering song."
"Wait, the Garleans? I thought they just sent armies after their targets! Are you saying they sicced another group of pirates on us?"
"The Rogues' guild believes this, our sources suggest that the truth of the matter is as you have said," Enkhjargal chanted, gravely.
"Damn me," Pyotyr murmured, "If I was on that bounty still, they must have Slaf and Mhar at the very least. Where did they want me to go, Moonglow? Damn me, that's one of the Umbral Isles!"
"The Graveyard of ships, of privateer corpses," Enkhjargal sang, "But for the bold sailor, a hideaway and haven."
Pyotyr growled, "Damn it, Mhar. How did they get to you anyway?"
Enkhjargal put a hand on Pyotyr's shoulder, "The rogue's guild sets sail for bold Moonglow Island, you and your daughters will now be protected. Garlean Tyranny will not be stood for, not within the confines of Vylbrand's brave seas."
Pyotyr sighed, "Enkhjargal, I appreciate it, but you have no idea how powerful the Bloody Hand is. What if the Garleans gave them weapons to go along with the bounty offer? Or worse yet, Magitek! If they take you down on that island, and I'm not there, they'll just keep coming until they have me or my daughters, and I can't let that happen. Besides, The Pomona's crew is still important to me. I went ashore to raise my girls but they're still my mates."
"Your speech is commendable, your face is determined," Enkhjargal sang in return, "Yet consider the words that next spring to your lips. Your Privateer days are a decade behind you, and the swords of the swashers are sharp as before."
Pyotyr shook his head, "I spent the first quarter of a century of my life fighting. You don't forget all that in a few years. And I havent completely fallen out of practice. Mhar and Doc and Slaf and the rest need me. And my daughters won't be safe until this Bloody Hand is taken down."
Enkhjargal nodded, "Your daughters we'll protect, our watch will not waver, til Bloody Hand's wiped out or gives up their suit. But if you won't join them, with us then, do travel, and with your help mayhap, the Hand will be cleaned."
Pyotyr smiled queasily, reassured by the Rogue's support, yet still worried, for his daughters, for the Pomona, for his own life.
"Alright. I'll pack a few things and meet you wherever I need to. But before we leave... could I see my daughters?"
"Of course," Enkhjargal sang, shortly, sweetly, a reassuring smile on his face.
---
Thus it was, a few hours later, that Pyotyr and Enkhjargal ducked into a certain warehouse thought by some to be a convent of nuns of a strangely named and unknown order. Enkhjargal lead him down a side hallway, and opened a door into a room. While no windows stood on the walls, a fire crackled cheerily in a nearby fireplace, and a small couch, some chairs, and a table lent an air of homeliness to the room. Two young girls, Roegadyn by their stature, but with slightly pointed ears, leapt from the couch and looked at the door, immediately breaking into a run when they saw who entered.
"Papa!" They shouted in Unison, and Pyotyr knelt down and gathered them into his arms.
"Oh! Svetlana! Anastasia! How glad I am to see you," He murmured, trying not to let his voice be choked too much by the tears of relief that rose to his eyes.
"Papa, why are you crying?" Svetlana, younger than her sister by a few minutes, asked meekly.
"I am crying because I am so relieved to see you and your sister again, my dear," He answered.
"We're happy to see you too, Papa," Anastasia said in her turn, "Even if you couldn't make us Clam Chowder tonight after all!"
Pyotyr chuckled at that, despite himself. Anastasia was nearly as forward as her mother, sometimes.
"I am sorry for that, both of you," he said. "but I promise. I'll make it for you as soon as I get back."
"But you ARE back, Papa!" Anastasia insisted.
"For now, yes," Pyotyr said, and now he held them both before him, at arm's length, a hand on each of their shoulders.
"But I'm going to have to go away for a while. No longer than a week, if I'm lucky."
"Why, Papa?" Svetlana was the first to ask, eyes wide.
"Well, you know the stories I tell you, of when Papa and Mama used to sail togther?" Pyotyr said, waiting for the girls to nod before continuing, "There's a few people who didn't like some of the adventures we had back then, and they've been chasing your mother and me. We think they might have kidnapped your Mama, and they want to kidnap me. So I'm going to go make sure we're all safe from them."
"Oh!" said Anatasia, "Are you gonna fight them to save Mama?"
Pyotyr sighed, "It may come to that, yes. But don't worry. I'm coming back, alright?"
"Fear not children, And Sleep in Peace," Enkhjargal sang from the behind Pyotyr in the doorway, "For Enkhjargal Qalli shall sail with him! I will protect both him and your mother, and return to Lominsa safely and sound."
Svetlana's eyes were brimming with tears, but she looked up at Enkhjargal with a small smile, "Thank you, Mister Enkhjargal," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I like Mister Enkhjargal, Papa," Anastasia said matter-of-factly, "His voice is really pretty. Maybe I should start singing everything I say too!"
Pyotyr chuckled, "Well, we can discuss that when I get back. Maybe I can teach you a few more Sea Shanties."
Anastasia beamed at that.
"And what about you, Svetlana?" Pyotyr said, turning his gaze to his quieter daughter, more prone to introspection, her heart more tender than her sister's, "What do you want to do when I come home?"
"I-I-" she whispered, then threw her arms around her father, "I want to go home, Papa."
"And we will, Svetlana," Pyotyr said, feeling his heart breaking into pieces, wrapping his arms around her in return, "We will, I swear it. My sweet Svetlana."
After a moment, he disengaged from the poor girl slightly, to reach into the satchel at his waist, producing two small dolls, dressed as proper swashbuckler queens, "Here, darlings. I stopped by the house and got you a few things. I'm leaving this pack here, but I wanted to make sure you got them."
"Priscilla!" Anastasia shrieked happily, and snatched up the doll in blue, hugging it happily. The doll dressed in a red jacket, Svetlana took more properly, but she hugged it just tight.
"There, you see girls? You have Priscilla and Merlwyb to keep you company, just like at home. I know it's going to be tough, but you're both brave and I'm so proud of you. I'll be back as soon as I can to take you home, and I swear, we'll have nothing but your favorite meals for at least a week!"
Anastasia and Svetlana both nodded at that, and Svetlana leaned in to hug her father tightly one last time, followed by Anastasia.
"I love you girls," He whispered, "I'll be back."
"We love you too Papa," they said, and Pyotyr stood up, and with one final smile, walked back out the door, knowing that if he stayed another moment, he wouldn't be able to leave.
Enkhjargal and Pyotyr walked back down the hallway in silence for a moment.
"I swear to you, on all my honor," Enkhjargal sang, "Your daughters will be kept safe and well fed. Maggie McGee, one of our number, a mother herself, will watch night and day."
"Thank you," Pyotyr spoke, his voice husky, "I... thank you. Svetlana's such a dear sensitive little girl, she'll be heartbroken for days. Anastasia is good at looking after her, but they're both in such an unfamiliar place, and she might be frightened too. We've lived in our apartment above the fish market since they were three years old, you know? I havent spent more than a night away from them since they've been born."
"You are acting bravely, to secure their future," he sang, "In that there is no shame, though sadness you feel. They will be safe here, while we journey to Moonglow, to save their mother, and stop cold the Hand."
Pyotyr nodded, and on his lips murmured a small prayer, "Navigator, Blessed Llymlaen, if ever you answered one of my prayers, let it be this. Keep my family safe, and let me be reunited with my daughters, all of us hearty and whole. I pray!"
And so Pyotyr and Enkhjargal exited the small warehouse side door, to embark on an Unexpected Journey, the fate of his family hanging in the balance.
Characters: Pyotyr Ilych (Male Duskwight Elezen WoL OC), Aymeric de Borel. Aymeric/Male WoL.
Rating/Warnings: T (Sexual Situations)
Summary: The Warrior of Light settles into domestic life at his husband's mansion in Ishgard. Set in an imagined peaceful era post-Shadowbringers, but spoilers only really apply up through the end of Heavensward. Written for Prompt #18 of FFXIV Write 2020.
---
The first time Pyotyr had insisted on cooking for himself at the Borel Mansion, his husband was slightly confused, but supportive and intrigued, and his husband's servants ran the gamut from scandalized to absolutely beside themselves with laughter to very excited to have an evening off. Pyotyr however, insisted he was serious to any doubters, saying, "Noble by Adoption and Marriage or not, I'm still just a common country doctor at heart! I've cooked my own meals, done my own laundry, and made my own way for decades, and I can't just quit all that right off, now, can I?"
Thus, on this particular day, for far from the first time, Pyotyr Ilych had once again shooed his husband's servants from the kitchen, and immediately taken to bustling about, stoking a fire, and gathering various spices and foodstuffs from various cabinets and cupboards. And thus, by the time Aymeric returned from the House of Lords, he found him there. Apparently content to watch, he leaned against the doorframe to see the cook in action.
Pyotyr, in the meantime, flitted from place to place, absorbed in his culinary dance. After chopping up a few stalks of celery and a large, yellow onion, he leaned up over the counter to pluck a few springs of thyme and a few bay leaves from the herb rack overhead, before finally turning to the cauldron hanging over the stove to fish out some browned meat and dump in the onions and a few bulbs of garlic into the pot instead.
From helping his mother prepare dinner at their old seaside shack, to mess duty on board the Pomona, to scrounging dinner for himself and his daughters almost every night for years, Pyotyr had found that he enjoyed the rhythm of the kitchen, and the poetry of the product of the labor: disparate ingredients, mixed just right, to create something predictable,yet slightly different every time, a wonder of taste and discovery, the ultimate alchemy.
As the wondrous smell of garlic and onion began to fill the kitchen, he finished his preparation: Meat went back in the pot, a bowl of tomatoes he'd crushed earlier poured on top of that, the rest of the vegetables and a bit of water and a pour from a jug of cooking wine after that, then the thyme and bay leaves (He'd already added salt and pepper to the meat earlier, of course - Ishgard might prefer their salt in rocks, but Limsa knew to add it to the dish!), check the fire, lean back against the counter, wipe your brow, and await the fruit of your labors.
It was only then, as Pyotyr beamed at the bubbling pot in satisfaction, that Aymeric rose off the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen. Pyotyr looked over, eyes slightly wide in surprise, and quickly strode the length of the kitchen to wrap his arms around Aymeric and bestow a kiss on his cheek.
"Aymeric," he said, warmth and happiness in his voice and his face alike, "I'm sorry I didn't see you there earlier! Welcome home, my dear."
"'Tis good to be home, Pyotyr," Aymeric said in return, arms around his husband's waist, forehead pressed to his forehead for a moment, "And think nothing of it. 'Twas I who hung back to watch you work rather than announce myself. Whether on the Battlefield or in the Kitchen, I am always awestruck and transfixed to watch you in your element."
"Flatterer..." Pyotyr answered, his voice a murmur, his cheeks blushing as he wrapped his arms around his husband's neck. They stayed like that for a few moments, enjoying being close to each other again after a long day.
"So," Aymeric broke the silence first, "How was the Scholasticate?"
"Oh!" Pyotyr said, lighting up with a smile, "It was wonderful! There was a young lady from the Brume who came to sign up today. She attended my first lecture, and she had so many interesting, piercing questions about Arcane Rune theory! I've already given her a reading list and she sounded so eager to dive into it. I am so glad you expanded the scholasticate and opened it up to everyone. There are so many bright minds among the common folk that will get chances they might never have had."
Aymeric smiled back, "I'm glad to hear it. These years of peace will only last if we allow all of Ishgard's children to partake of its fruits. The noble houses have hoarded too much for too long."
"It always cheers me to hear you speak so, my ravishing revolutionary," Pyotyr laid his head on Aymeric's shoulder for a moment, "And speaking of, the House of Lords didn't given you too much trouble today, I hope?"
"Dzemael is up to their usual complaints," Aymeric said, "but it is nothing I can't handle. I think even Durendaire is finally coming around to the new ways, and the reconstruction bill the Commons put forth is so airtight, I don't think even Dzemael will be able to vote against it in good faith."
Pyotyr chuckled, "Hm. I'm sure they received some wonderful guidance and advice, to write such an airtight document."
Aymeric looked innocent, "Well, if the common machinists at Skysteel Manufactory heard some things from Sir Stephanivien, and Hilda happened to overhear my discussion with Lucia regarding the Dzmael's complaints regarding the taxes on Falcon's Nest, I can't say what they might have done with that information..."
Pyotyr blinked innocently, "Oh, the things people will do with idle chatter indeed."
After another beat, Pyotyr kissed his husband's cheek one more time,
"Thank you," He murmured into his ear, softly, lowly.
"Thank you? For what?"
"For this. For everything. After so many years of struggle, to think that I'm here, in the arms of the man I love, in the house we live in together, with nothing spread out before us but lives to build together and a hard fought peace to enjoy. I do not know what the future may bring, but right now, I cannot imagine a more perfect world."
"I am glad," Aymeric said, "For I feel the same. But come, am I right in thinking the stew will keep on its own for a while?"
"It will," Pyotyr said, his voice a murmur as he hung happily off his husband, "Why?"
Aymeric began to walk, his steps guiding Pyotyr back toward a nearby table, then, leaning back, back over the table. Finally, Aymeric answered him.;
"Because," he said, "That just means I shall have to sate my hunger in other ways for now."
Pyotyr blushed and chuckled, reaching up to undo the first button on his shirt collar, "I take it back, what I said earlier. NOW it's perfect."
Characters: Pyotyr Ilych (Male Duskwight Elezen WoL OC), Mhardraga Drystelakwyn (Roegadyn Sea Wolf OC)
Rating/Warnings: T (Sexual Situations, Implied Violence)
Summary: Around 20 years before he joins the Scions and gains the title of Warrior of Light, a young privateer gets some news that will change the course of his life forever
---
"Oi! Ilych! Cap'n wants to see ye!"
The first mate's rough voice echoed through the hold, to the corner where Pyotyr was currently involved in the rather delicate operation of mixing up a fresh batch of gunpowder. He startled, nearly dropping a rather potent mixture, and only barely catching it at the last minute, he laid it aside very carefully before he turned to answer.
"Seven Hells, Slafsryswyn! Ye could have made me blow up half the ship!"
"But you didn't now, did ye, pretty boy?" The Sea Wolf grinned at him.
"Bah, I guess not. I'll be there soon as I stow this shite."
Slaf raised a hand in acknowledgement and climbed back to the upper decks as Pyotyr busied himself with tucking away the fresh batch. They weren't expecting any more combat until they docked back in Limsa, but they'd nearly depleted their stock taking on that fat Garlean transport, and you never knew when one of their magitek contraptions would show up looking for revenge.
Still, that was a worry for later. With everything put away, he stopped by the rainwater barrel, scooped up a cup, splashed a bit to clean the powder from his hands and face, and reached up to undo the bandanna around his head, letting his long, luxurious hair fall around his shoulders. It was admittedly harder to keep it looking good out at sea, but damned if he didn't try, putting aside part of his share of every haul for special Uldahn oils, keeping a fine bone comb and brush in his personal belongings. And came close enough to succeeding to earn the moniker pretty boy, at that.
With his toilette attended to, he grabbed the ladder out of the hold, bounded up the stairs to the upper decks, and soon stood to knock smartly on the door of the captain's cabin.
"Enter!" her voice barked from behind the thick red door, and Pyotyr opened it, stepping in quickly and closing it behind before turning to grin and fire a casual salute at the captain, "You wanted to see me, Captain?"
The captain sat behind her dining room table, fingers steepled in front of her face as if deep in thought. She broke the pose to gesture to the chair across from her, "Ilych. Sit down, we need to talk."
Pyotyr's face fell a bit, noticing the somber, sober look on his captain's face, a look she rarely put on even in the depths of battle, "Everything alright, Captain?"
"Seven Hells, Darlin, I ain't even sure how to put it." She slumped a bit in the chair, now letting one hand fall to the table as the other cradled her forehead for a moment.
At the sound one of her pet names for him, Pyotyr's stance loosened a bit, and he leaned over to clasp her free hand in his own, "Whatever it is, Mhar, I'm here. You tell me who's throat I gotta slit or who's boat I gotta sink, and I'm on it."
Captain Mhardraga Drystelakwyn raised her head to smirk at Pyotyr at that, "Damn it, Pet. You know I like to do that shite myself. Anyway, it ain't about someone else, not really. It's about us."
"Oh, don't give me those Dodo eyes, Darling, it ain't even about that. It's... Well, Gods damn me, I'm pregnant."
"Oh, well, that's not too bad, I'm sure we can-" Pyotyr's mouth ran full speed ahead for a few seconds before his brain caught up, "Wait. Pregnant?"
Mhardraga sighed, "Aye. I've had my suspicions fer a few days, but I had Doc come by and check a few things. Ain't many other explanations fit the signs."
"Well. Blow me down. That's. Unexpected..." Pyotyr leaned back in his chair now, his eyes widening as he stared at her.
Mhardraga shook her head, crossed her arms, "Ain't that the understatement of the century."
A Moment of silence, Pyotyr scratched the back of his head, then spoke, "So. What do you want to do?"
"You mean after I keelhaul the Chemist what sold me that bum batch of lambsbane?" She chuckled, "Well. That's the rub, ain't it? Ye know me better than almost anyone on this ship, sides from maybe Slaf. Ye know I ain't the mothering type. I like my freedom. I like to go where I will, do what I want, plunder and explore to my hearts content. Only thing I've ever wanted. A Kid wouldn't really do well with that, y'know?"
"So. After ye visit the chemist, ye visit the hedge witches?"
"Ugh. Maybe, but Doc thinks I might be too far long to just flush em out safely too. Hard to say. Maybe I need to carry the kid out, and if they come out alright, I'll see I can find an orphange on shore to take 'em in."
Pyotyr frowned.
"I know that look, Ilych," Mhardraga reverted to his "serious" on deck name, but his voice was full of fondness, "What're ye thinking?"
"I don't know Mhar, I ran with a few Orphans, back in the day. I saw what their lives were like, heard some pretty bad stories bout some of them orphanages, bad food, bad beds, angry old asses for caretakers, an' everything. I'd have a hard time, knowing my flesh was being put through that."
Mhardraga sighed, "Maybe, but what choice do we have?"
"Well. I could go ashore. Raise the kid meself."
"Ilych?"
"Listen, Mhar. I know it sounds knee-jerk an all, but... I love this ship. You and Slafs and Doc and the Powder Monkeys and everyone. You've been the best bunch of mates a tar could ask for. An' in some other world, I coulda stayed on this ship til it sunk or I lost my sea legs. But it ain't my life, not like it is fer you. I came out here to lose some heat and 'cuz just about every Limsan street rat tries their hand at it sooner or later. You're out here because this is what ye were born to do. You deserve to be out here. You're the best sailor, the best captain, the best skirmisher, the best carouser, the best, well, damn near everything a pirate should be! And you don't deserve to have to give that up just because some crooked Chemist decided to give you a bum lambsbane order to save himself a few gil! So. Let me go ashore and raise the kid. I'll do right by it."
"You sure about this, Pet? It'll be a lonelier sea without you."
"And I'll miss you, Mhar. I will. But Limsa Lominsa always was my home. I still remember every inch of her back alley. I still know every dive bar and fighting ring. I still miss sitting on the docks next to the fisherman's guild and watching the boats come back in with their catches, or picking pockets down at the Bismarck. Maybe it's about time I went back anyway."
"And how will you feed the brat? Hell, how will you feed yerself? You know if you stay with me I'll keep you rollin' in treasure til your dying day."
Pyotyr chuckled slightly, "Aye, you would, I know. But I ain't helpless either. I've kept the ships books for a few years, and between mixing gunpowder and helpin' Doc out with poultices, I know my way around a chemist's lab alright. I could probably get a job with the Arcanist's guild without too much trouble."
"Ugh. I suppose you're right. You always were too smart for your own good."
"Aaaaaand. If I get enough pull in the guild, and you needed to get something through customs..."
"Pah, where's the fun it that? There's no challenge in just finding some crooked inspector! 'Sides, it'll be my kid you're raising too. I may not be interested in being a mother, but I'm not gonna beggar my own kid by getting their father clapped in irons. I'll smuggle it in the old fashioned way."
"Fine, fine. But the option will be there. You can take the pirate out of the sea, but you can't take- wait, you can't- Um. Hm, that metaphor made more sense in my head. Anyhow, I'll still be a Privateer. Til Death."
Mhar chuckled, "Seven Hells, I'm gonna miss you, Ilych. You were a good lay and a better crewmate, and I won't let no-one say different."
Pyotyr grinned, "Luckily, I've had no complaints in either department."
"Ass."
Pyotyr laughed at that one, raising his hands in surrender, "Okay, okay. I deserved that one. But you still got a few months before the kid comes, right? And you got me til then, if you want me."
"Course I want you, Pet. Don't be silly. We'll take these months then, and we'll squeeze everything we can out of 'em. We'll remind the Garleans why they fear the name of Pomona's Privateers. I might need a few months to recover after popping this baby out, and I don't want them to forget in the meantime."
Pyotyr smiled, "Aye, Captain."
A beat,then Mhardraga spoke again, "You got any duties right now, Ilych?"
"Nothing to speak of Captain. I should brew up a few more onzes of Gunpowder, though..."
"Oh, Hang the Gunpowder. We ain't gonna see any action between here and Vylbrand anyway," She said, and leaned back in her chair, one hand reaching lazily up to undo the buckles on her waistcoat, "So. Why don't you stay here, for now? I could use the company."
Pyotyr smiled again, softly, and rising from the table, he gave a mock salute before coming round it to the other side, "Aye, Captain."
Rating/Warnings: PG (Mentions of Violence and Death)
Summary: Pyotyr considers the ramifications of the battle for the fate of the First, and the marks it has left upon his soul. Written for ffxiv write 2020 prompt #14. Spoilers for the Shadowbringers MSQ.
---
Pyotyr Ilych, Warrior of Darkness, had much to consider. The identity of the Crystal Exarch. The strange and wondrous sight of the ancient city of Amarout, and the combination of fear and of longing, and of mourning for something lost, or stolen, or forgotten, that suffused his chest when he remembered those tall spires. The last words of Hades, of Emet-Selch.
But for now, he focused on his hand, held above him, fingers splayed, as he leaned back in a chair at his kitchen table, in his quarters at the pendants. For a long moment, he held it there, staring at the back of those long, delicate, fingers as if the pattern of scrunched skin on his knuckles might unlock the secrets of creation.
He was only barely roused from his reverie by a knock at the door.
"Come In!" he called, still looking at his hand. The door opened to admit his fellow Scion, Y'shtola Rhul, lately known as Master Matoya of the Night's Blessed.
She looked at the Elezen splayed out on the chair before her, hand in the air, and cleared her throat delicately, "Are... you quite alright, Pyotyr?"
"Oh!" Pyotyr shook his head, as if snapped out of a dream into waking, he lowered his hand quickly, tugging his garments into places as he rose from his chair, "Y'shtola! Come in, Come in! What a pleasant surprise, I thought you were on your way back to Slitherbough!"
"I was planning to be," Y'shtola said, taking the proffered invitation and sweeping into the room, "But I decided I'd best stock up on certain reagents and research materials before I returned, and the markets won't have all of them ready until the morrow."
Pyotyr smiled, "So, one more day in the Crystarium, and you choose to spend a part of it with me? You honor me."
Y'shtola smiled back, with a bit of a sigh, "None of that, now, Pyotyr. You're one of my dearest friends, and I hadn't seen you in years, and only days ago, I thought we might lose you forever."
Pyotyr grinned, "But I am here, and feeling better than ever. Available to brew a potion, heal a wound, slay a monster, or discuss aetheric theory with a dear friend over a cup of tea. Shall I pour you one?" He walked breezily over to the stove, where a kettle had indeed just begun to pipe, and began bustling about grabbing a pair of cups and a small tin of tea leaves from a nearby cupboard.
"Tea sounds wonderful," Y'shtola said tentatively, sitting down at one of the small but sturdy wooden chairs at the kitchen table, smoothing her skirts, "but are you sure?"
"What, sure I want tea?" Pyotyr said, without looking back, focused on packing the leaves into their tea balls, "Of course I am. We've spent too many nights at the Rising Stones poring over old tomes together over a cup for you to doubt that, haven't we?"
"No," She said with a sigh, "Are you sure you're alright? You looked rather distracted when you came in."
Pyotyr turned, now carrying two cups of steaming hot beverage on a small platter, and he smiled a small sad smile as he bought them to the kitchen table, setting one in front of Y’shtola, taking the other in his hands as he sat down beside her.
"Hm," he mused, "I suppose that is a fair question. And a hard one to answer. I feel... physically fine. Without the weight of that extra aether, I feel as light as feather. Yet, I feel more solid, more real, than I ever have before. It... sounds strange, but I feel like there is more of me."
Y'shtola took a sip of her tea, a thoughtful look on her face, "More? Yes, your aether looks repaired, but also... stronger. More solid. I suppose in some ways, you are... more."
"But," she continued, "I have a feeling that isn't all there is to it, is there?"
Pyotyr took his own sip of tea, then nodded at her, "Your instincts have always been sharp, my dear Miss Y'shtola."
He let out a long breath, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment before continuing, "When I say I feel like there is more of me, I find myself... somewhat terrified at what that might mean."
"Terrified? You have always been one the bravest, most steadfast persons I know. I know people change, but I cannot forsee that changing about you too soon."
Pyotyr smiled softly, "You flatter me, Y'shtola. But.... no, for whatever I am, I will continue to be loyal to the Scions, a defender of Eorzea as long as people of good will inhabit her land. But... I am, or thought I was, Pyotyr Ilych, Son of Vylbrand, Scholar, Scion, Alchemist, Doctor, and Friend. It was all I ever aspired to be, even if the tides of war and fate have swept me up into larger things than I ever dreamed of as a Limsan street rat."
"Emet-Selch," he continued, after another sip of tea, "seemed to recognize me as someone. I'm still not sure if he wanted me to desperately be his old friend, or hated with all his might that I might be his old friend."
"The possibility of reincarnation has been considered by scholars and believed in by many societies over the years," Y'shtola said, "But most of them believe you are who you are in the present. No matter how you reincarnated, or if you reincarnted, you are still you."
"Perhaps," Pyotyr said, "But It is strange to know who else you might have been... who else you might be, when you never expected to be anyone else... and beyond that. Ardbert."
"He was a part of you," Y'shtola said, a small acknowledgement, a nod of the head.
"Yes. My shard, my counterpart, here on the First. Whoever Emet-Selch recognized, we were both parts of him. And now Ardbert is part of me. Our souls are rejoined, parts of the person who Emet-Selch used to know."
Pyotyr drained the rest of his teacup before continuing, "And now I wonder. Where does he end and I begin? Shall I find myself possessed of that bravado? Of that desperation? Shall memories and thoughts of Braden and Lamitt and Renda-Rae and Nyelbert crowd out memories of Alphinaud and Y'shtola and Thancred and Urianger and Alisaie? And what of the person Emet-Selch knew? Now that I am closer to that person, now that I have come closer to what the Ancients were, what the Ascians are... shall I find myself forgetting myself and Ardbert alike? Will I be seized with a dangerous nostalgia for a past world? Shall I find myself wandering ruins of the past in anger and lust? Emet-Selch asked me to remember, Ardbert and his comrades deserve to be remembered as the heroes they were, and I want to. I want to remember them. I want to remember them. But I want to remember ME, too. How can I make sure I still remember me, that I am still Pyotyr, when I have had so many other people thrust upon me now?"
His hands dropped to his knees, and his face dropped with them, just a bit, as if he might be trying to hide his eyes, and he fell silent again.
Y'shtola closed her eyes for a moment, sighed, then opened then. She leaned across the space between them, and placed a hand over Pyotyr's right hand, then scooped it up gently with the other, cradling it between her palms.
"I have watched your aether closely ever since we reunited," she said, "And I watched it even back on Eorzea, before the Exarch's summons took me. I know you, Pyotyr Ilych, not just as a beloved friend, but on a very elemental level. Ever since you were able to harness the light against Hades, you have been exactly as I remember from Eorzea, only more so."
"More so...?" Pyotyr raised his chin a bit, to look at her with shining eyes.
"Your pattern shines bright against the gaps, but it always has. And it has always been your pattern. Whoever you used to be, whoever you have been joined to. Your journey has tempered you in its own way. You have gained strength. You have gained comrades. You have gained wounds and healed wounds alike. But you have always shown the qualities that shine brightest in you, the compassion, the bravery, the will to fight to protect the weak. In all those ways, You are still the man I met so long ago, in the Grotto near Summerford Farms."
Pyotyr chuckled at that, "I remember it well. Your little history lesson on the Sailor's Requiem made me feel like I was back in school, then helped me defeat that poor goobbue, then handed me a knife, spoke a few cryptic words, and left me standing there, mouth agape."
Y'shtola smiled back, "See? Just as a sweet and sassy as you ever were, Pyotyr Ilych. And in my defense, I did come back for you."
Pyotyr chuckled, "And swept me up into a world I never imagined. All because I wanted to know why some of my old shipmates had been kidnapped. Despite such strange beginnings, I can't say I would have traded any of it for the world. Thank you, My Mysterious Cultured Conjurer, for noticing such an unlikely adventurer."
Y'shtola chuckled herself at that, and squeezed Pyotyr's hand, "Unlikely or no, I can't imagine anything up until now would have gone as well as it has without you. Whatever else happens, you are still a Scion. We will be besides you, and we will always remind you of who you are: Our hero, our exemplar, and most importantly, our Beloved friend."
Pyotyr now smiled, a true, unguarded grin, as he squeezed Y'shtola's hand back in return, "Alright. You've convinced me. I'll put aside my worries, at least for now. But... I think it will be a few hours before I feel like going to bed. Would you perhaps, stay with me, My dear Miss Y'shtola? We can talk of old times, or you can tell me stories of your time here in the First."
"I can think of no better way to pass the time, my dear old friend," Y'shtola answered back.
And so they sat, the two friends, the two veterans, speaking of all the adventures they had been a part of, past and present, and even into the future, long into the night.
Summary: Pyotyr helps out around the Crystarium and enjoys the fruits of his labors. Written for ffxiv write 2020 prompt #13, as catchup for prompt #9. Spoilers for up through patch 5.2.
___
"Careful... Careful..." Pyotyr murmured to himself. He was sitting on a bench in a Gazebo in the Crystarium's extensive gardens, a beaker in one hand, trying very carefully to add just a few drops of grape extract into a beaker, the finishing touches on a rather finicky potion he'd been brewing using his travelling alchemist's kit - not that he couldn't have had the run of the facilities over in the Spagyrics, but he wanted the fresh air, the lush greenery of the gardens, and the relative lack of interruption.
"There you are!" a voice called out just as he had - blessedly, finished his mixing, and he corked the bottle before looking up to see the young Alisaie Leveilleur running toward him.
"Alisaie," he beamed amiably, "what brings you out to see an old man in this heat?"
She scrunched her face up, "Must you call yourself an old man? You're barely middle aged."
Pyotyr chuckled, "Pah, I'm older than I look. Besides, I've always wanted to be an old man. They always did look like they had more fun. So I'll take the title a few years earlier regardless, thank you."
Alisaie sighed, "Fine. I just wanted to find you in case we needed you. The Exarch and Beq Lugg are still working on our crystals, but they might find a breakthrough any minute now."
Pyotyr nodded, "All in good time, I'm sure." He busied himself with writing a label for his new batch of potions.
"So..." Alisaie leaned down after a moment, "What are you working on?"
"Oh!" Pyotyr looked up at her, "Spagyrics needed some help brewing up some healing potions, and I just happened to be an alchemist with Idle hands! And speaking of Idle hands, now I just need someone to deliver them back to Spagyrics!"
"Wha-" Alisaie began, but before she could complete her question, Pyotyr stood up and shoved a crate of potions into her hands.
"Here! You can save an old man a bit of a walk!"
"You're not OLD, Pyotyr, stop saying- wait, are you offering me a quest?"
Pyotyr nodded sagely, "Of course! Just because we're waiting around doesn't mean we let our adventuring muscles atrophy."
Alisaie's face scrunched up again, skeptically, "Don't quests usually have payment?"
Pyotyr scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment, "Hm, You're right."
He patted down his frock for just a moment, and then, "Aha!"
He let out a shout of triumph as his long fingers darted into a pocket and removed two sizable packages of waxed paper. He opened one just enough to reveal the contents.
"Are those... sandwiches?" Alisaie looked up at him in disbelief.
"Not just ANY sandwiches," Pyotyr grinned triumphantly, "They're Dzo Meat and Sheep's Cheese! Fresh from the Source!"
"Wait, you went back to the Source for sandwiches?"
Pyotyr nodded, a smug grin on his face, "Of course I did! Listen, I love the First. It's a wonderful place. But Nothing they have here tastes quite like fresh sheep's cheese and Dzo Meat prepared by my loyal subjects in the Azim Steppes. And I am prepared to offer you one whole sandwich of your own if you deliver that crate of potions to Spagyrics and come right back!"
Alisaie blinked, once, twice, "You went through the effort of teleportation BETWEEN WORLDS, with all the dangers thereof, for a sandwich-"
Whatever rant she was building up died on her lips, "You know what? Fine. I could use some lunch. But on one condition!"
Pyotyr, who had already re-wrapped and tucked away the sandwiches for safekeeping, looked down at Alisaie, hands clasped behind his back, "And what would that be, my dear Miss Leveilleur?"
"Let's have Lunch together?"
Pyotyr chuckled, "Alright, Alright. But hurry back. Old men get grumpy when they have to delay lunchtime too long."
Alisaie opened her mouth one more time, then closed it, then shook her head and smiled fondly, "Alright. I'll be right back. You'd better wait!"
Pyotyr waved at her swiftly retreating form and sat back down on the bench, looking up at the mid-day sky through the transparent glass that topped the structure with one closed eye, "Ah, good. That should buy me enough time for a short nap..."
And thus he closed his eyes, there among the greenery, singing softly as he dozed off,
"I wish I was in Limsa Lominsa... only for nights in Vylbrand..."
Characters: Pyotyr Ilych (Male Duskwight Elezen Warrior of Light), ifrit, Y’shtola, Krile, Urianger. Vaguely implied WoL/Y’shtola and WoL/Aymeric.
Rating/Warning: T (Mild adult situations, Violence and serious injury)
Summary: Pyotyr has always had to fight. But he’s always had good reasons. Still, reasons may not be enough to save him when Ifrit is summoned with a particularly large amount of fire crystals. Written for ffxiv write 2020 prompt #12.
Ifrit Growled, a deep rumble, as heated as his element, and it shook Pyotyr Ilych, Warrior of Light or no, Echo-Blessed or no, to the bone.
Still, it wasn't the first time he'd faced down this Primal, and it likely would not be the last. With practiced fingers, he flipped through the pages of his arcane tome, finger nails tracing the lines of the spells, releasing the power trapped within - Bio and Miasma to weaken and poison, Broil to boil blood so hot not even ifrit could stand it.
The Primal reared back and roared at the barrage of magical energy, and Pyotyr took it as a sign to press the attack. Bolt after Bolt of magic, disrupting Ifrit's aether, keeping him off-balance, close to dispersing him, and then-
He hadn't seen the claw coming, and it crashed into his right side, cutting through his magical shields as if they were naught more than spun sugar. His body flew through air, to come crashing to the edge of the ring of fire, and his book flew out of his hand the opposite way.
He scrambled, shook his head, trying to fight off a sudden bout of double vision, and leapt to his feet, running toward the book where it had fallen, nearly on the opposite side of the arena.
But ifrit stepped in front of him first.
With a howl of rage, the primal bought down his toward Pyotyr, a killing blow. He wouldn't have time to dodge, he wouldn't have time to cast a shielding spell, all he could do was -
"No," the Duskwight Murmured.
His hands came up, setting his feet against the ground, and as the fist came down, he caught it in both hands!
Screamed as his knees nearly buckled, as pain shot up his legs.
But he was still standing.
"You... blocked it?" Ifrit said, the shock in his voice echoing off the canyon walls, "You are weak! Nothing more than a Bespectacled Scholar! Where is this strength from?"
He groaned again as another lance of pain shot through his body. Whatever he was doing, his body couldn't take much more.
Gods. Ifrit was right, though. He might not have always been a Scholar, but he was one now. Had been for many years. His physical strength wasn’t what it used to be.
Scenes flashed unbidden before his eyes.
A back alley in Limsa Lominsa, fists in front of his face in a sloppy boxer's stance, standing between a shuddering miqote boy and a large, angry Roegadyn man.
A fighting ring out in the La Noscean countryside, fists held above his head, his latest opponent face-down in the dirt.
The smell of sea spray and cry of gulls and he climbed the rigging of his old ship, and looked down to see his captain locked in combat with a Garlean officer, sword-to-sword. Quickly, he raised his axe, took aim, and threw it, and it the officer square in the head, sending him tumbling over the railing and into the churning ocean. His captain looked up and threw back a wild grin and a playful wink.
Long hours in the Arcanist's guild, frantically writing notes in a small notebook with one hand, scanning the lines of a book with the other as his candle nub threatened to flicker out.
Fighting, again and again.
In a jungle, ducking wildly behind a rock just in time to avoid sickly green flames from the mouth of a great green dragon.
In a deep, dark tunnel, wrestling with an ochu vine as it squeezed tighter and tighter round his waist.
In the tunnels under Ul'dah, stealing one last desperate look at Y'shtola as she yelled at him to run before turning to face the soldiers who had betrayed them, who called them traitors.
In a small sunlit room in the capital of Ishgard, grasping the cold hand of his beloved Ser Aymeric, staring with trepidation at his pained, sleeping face, at the wound in his belly.
He was shaken from his reveries by the sound of crackling, the pain of flames washing over his body, and he let out a scream.
Ifrit laughed.
"You see? You can't hope to defeat me! What are you but weak? What are you but mortal?"
"I am... still fighting..." he said through gritted teeth, and with one final yell, he pushed, with all his might. Ifrit let a yell of surprise of his own as the force sent him staggering back.
"I will always keep fighting..." Pyotyr murmured as he dropped to one knee, "Tooth and nail. Until there's peace again."
Ifrit climbed to his feet, snarling, back on his haunches, preparing one last strike.
But Pyotyr scratched at the dirt with his nails now, drawing the lines of the arcanist's symbols from memory. It might not work as well without the specially prepared paper and ink of his book, but he'd never reach the book in time. But with this.
Ifrit leapt at him with a mighty roar, claws set to rip him apart without hesitation or fear.
But now, Pyotyr let out a shout, pressing his hand in the center of his hastily prepared runes, channeling his own aether to complete the circuit. Energy leapt from it, strong and certain. bolts of great, explosive energy slammed into the Primal's chest even as he dove toward Pyotyr, claws now inches from his face-
-and then, non-existent, as the power of Pyotyr's last attack pierced Ifrit's heart, immediately scattering his aether back to the lifestream, to await the next time the Amal'jaa prepared an offering.
Now Pyotyr collapsed to the ground, on his back, breathing heavily. He vision swam, and he wondered if, after all, this would be the last fight.
Then, footsteps in the dirt. Running.
Familiar faces appeared above him.
"My... apologies for the poor greeting, my friends," he murmured, smiling weakly up at them, "I fear you've caught me at a bad time..."
Y'shtola's expression was one he had seen more than once, as she shook her head, "If you weren't already on death's door, Pyotyr..."
Krile's look was a little softer, but not by much. She raised her hands, and they began to glow, "Not only are your legs and arms both broken, but if your aether was any lower, you'd be in danger of discorporating altogether..."
Pyotyr chuckled, "It will come back. It always does."
"Until it doesn't," Y'shtola said, flatly.
Pyotyr's face softened, "I... am sorry to have worried you. This Ifrit was powerful, I couldn’t risk waiting for backup, and I couldn't risk anyone without the echo getting tempered. I thought I could take him on my own..."
Urianger, who had been looking around the area, rised his goggles and stared down at Pyotyr with a nod.
"In truth, thou didst," he said, "For I canst find nary a sign of the beast's aether. Truly, thy prowess is to be commended."
"Don't ENCOURAGE him," Y'shtola looked up at Urianger, and Pyotyr felt himself grateful that she had a new target, for a moment.
But she pressed the matter no further, and instead busied herself with assisting Krile, binding some of the wounds her magic couldn't heal completely.
"Thank you," Pyotyr said, "All of you. I promise you. No matter how hard I fight, it's always so I can see you all again."
He liked to think he saw Y'shtola's cheeks redden just a bit at that. It was enough. He let himself be carried off by sensations of Krile's healing magics, and for a moment, he had peace again after all.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age)
Characters: Solas (Dragon Age), Inquisitor (Dragon Age)
Additional Tags: Gay yearning, Comfort Food, Food, Wine, Alcohol, Solas did nothing wrong, Ok Solas did a lot of things wrong but you forgot one important fact which is I love him
Summary:
Aius Lavellan found his sleep plagued by dreams again, and unable to find an antidote, he left his room to seek out his dearest friend in Skyhold, the Apostate Solas.
Summary: Hanzo does not warm to people easily, but Lucio’s personality is a bit contagious.
Hanzo sat in the drop seat, eyes closed, hands clasped in front of him. It was not his prefered way to meditate before battle, but as the armored vehicle rumbled through the streets of Dorado, it was the best he could do. The diminutive young man across from him was a bit more active, humming something under his breath and tapping his fingers against his leg armor.
Hanzo opened one eye.
"You should take this time to prepare for battle." Hanzo said.
"Oh! I totally am, Man," The other man answered, "Music. There's no better place to find yourself. Haven't you ever just given yourself to the rhythm?"
Hanzo frowned, "Not before battle."
"Come on, not even to get pumped up?"
"I do not... pump up."
"Alright, fair enough. You ever change your mind, lemme know. My collection is your collection."
***
"Listen, Man, I know what we we’re doing here. Keeping Military hardware out of the hands of the bad guys. And that's like, good and all. Yeah, I'm down with that," Lucio said.
Hanzo raised an eyebrow, "I sense a but coming."
Lucio grinned, "Hey, I know my ass is pretty cute, but stay on topic here."
Hanzo groaned.
"Listen, all I'm saying is, if you wanna go take your winnings and drown yourself in Sake or whatever, I can recommend a few good bars, but what we really need to do... is put on a concert."
"A... Concert?" Hanzo sighed.
"The people here, man. They GOT power. They just need a little help letting it loose."
"And, of course, your music will do that."
"Well. I mean, not exactly? It's more like... They're burdened, man. They're poor and terrified. Even the gangs are just a response to that. They don't have a future, and none of these corporations or governments seem to care, so they band together on their own. But... what they need is a break. An Oasis, man. Just a way to be themselves."
"And... You want me to give up my paycheck for... a break."
"Nah, I want you to give up your paycheck to give people some hope."
Hanzo grunted, "Fine. But you owe me a drink."
***
Lucio whooped in joy as he ducked backstage. Sweat shown across his shoulders and back, his tanktop clinging close enough to practically show the lines of the muscles underneath. Hanzo ducked in right after him, and crossed his arms, casting an appraising eye on the other man. Well Defined Abs, thick, well developed thighs, the result of all that wall-riding- Hanzo shook his head. Not something to dwell on. Lucio turned to him with a wide, tired grin.
"So, what did you think?"
"I think you look tired. And dehydrated. You should sit. And drink."
"Nah, The Music, Man, the Music! Come on, Hanzo, you gotta admit, it was pretty good, right?"
"You were... correct. It seemed to lift the spirits of the people, as you suggested. I hope they found some solace."
"But how did it make YOU feel?"
"It was... Acceptable."
"Acceptable?" Lucio frowned a bit and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, "Psh. Damn. Glad to know where I stand."
Hanzo blinked, his eyes wide, "No! No! I did not mean... It is... It was good. It is simply not what I am used to."
"Well. Guess I better drag you to my gigs until you GET used to it."
"I... would not be against that. You are enjoyable company."
Now it was Lucio's turned to blink a bit. A blush spread to his cheeks, and his mouth opened and closed a few times before he found breath to speak again.
"So. Uh. What kind of music ARE you interested in?"
"In another life... I used to play the Shamisen."
"Oh man! The Shamisen's such an awesome instrument. I got a few tracks by the Yoshida brothers on my inspiration playlist."
"Inspiration... playlist?"
"Yeah man, you make new music best when you're listening and learning from other people. More people I listen to, the better my music is. Come on, you wanna listen?"
Hanzo looked at Lucio for a long moment, then nodded.
"I would like that."
***
"Are you certain it is wise, to hold so many concerts?" The two had been sitting together, silently listening to one of Lucio's more mellow playlists when Hanzo, quite suddenly, asked the question. Lucio looked up from Hanzo's bicep with a wrinkled brow and a frown.
"What do you mean by that?" He asked in return, his voice full of trepidation.
"You have enemies." Hanzo said, a slight note of confusion creeping into his voice as he looked down and saw the other man's eyes narrow a bit.
"Enemies??"
"Vishkar. Lumerico. Los Muertos. Your list of enemies grows by the day."
"And I'm proud of every one of them. They're trying to keep the people down, and I'm helping the people fight back. I got enemies 'cuz I'm doing the right thing."
"Is it worth your life?"
"My Life? What's that- Hanzo, you're being kind of weird, dude."
"As long as you are a public figure, saying what you do, these corporations will keep trying to silence you. And soon, they may send thugs to scare you - perhaps assassins to silence you permanently."
Lucio scoffed and crossed his arms, "Hanzo. You ain't talking sense. That's stuff out of a comic book. Even Vishkar has its limits. They ain't gonna just walk into a dance hall and start shooting."
"You say that now, but your pride will be the death of you."
"The death of me? My PRIDE? Hanzo, what the fuck?"
"You haven't seen the things I've seen. You don't know what people molded in darkness will do to keep their power-"
"Oh yeah, I guess that's my bad, growing up poor and learning to rely on my friends instead of being born a damned spoiled rich boy mobster."
"You DARE-"
"Yeah, I dare. Fuck you, Hanzo, I am not stopping because YOU'RE afraid!"
"Then I wash my hands of this."
"...Fine."
***
If there was one thing Lucio knew how to do, it was to lose himself in music when nothing else in the world made sense. With hundreds of bodies packing the warehouse floor, he stood on the raised platform, spinning his holodiscs.
"Give yourself to the Rhythm," He shouted, and the crowd responded. The music almost tangible as it washed over the room in a massive wave of energy and unity. In unity, he could get lost. In unity, he didn't have to think about that man. His arrogance, his wrath, his presumption... His strong arms, his chest, those hard abs he had once accidentally brushed his fingers over, sending a chill down his spine, his intensity, his protectiveness, that hidden warmth you could tease out with just a little-
Lucio shook his head lightly and crossfaded to the next track.
***
In the darkness at the edge of the warehouse, they blended into the crowd. A sandled, Hawaiian shirt wearing young man hid a handgun in cargo shorts. An Omnic readied its wrist cannon for deployment as it closed on the stage. Two big, beefy men who, in another warehouse, might have been in a ring wrestling for the pleasure of a more bloodthirsty crowd, circled around toward the back.
***
"Thank you! Thank you everybody! Power to the People!" As he finished his last track, Lucio raised his arms in triumph, and behind his back, they framed the lithe omnic that sailed through the air, arms outstretched toward Lucio's neck.
"LET THE DRAGON CONSUME YOU!" A voice rang out over the bass beat and the roar of the crowd, and in a flash of white, the omnic tumbled to the floor, and whirred piteously before its headlights winked out.
This seemed to be taken as a symbol, and a variety of thugs and creeps pushed forward out of the crowd. A thin, sallow faced man rushed the stage and drew a knife, but Lucio whipped around, fire in his eyes and his sound cannon in the his hand.
"Push Off," Lucio muttered darkly as the would-be-attacker flew back from the force of the sound wave, knife dropping from his hand to clatter harmlessly on the platform.
***
From his perch on the rafters, Hanzo scanned the crowd. At least 3. 4. 5. 6 more who looked like they were converging on the stage. Had to take them out. But he couldn't harm any of the crowd in the process. Lucio would never forgive him if he did - Lucio would never forgive him anyway - but he had to protect him.
"Great Dragon," a small, whispered prayer slipped unbidden from his lips, "if I have lost this man’s regard, at least let me preserve his life. At least let the world not lose such a gift."
He nocked another arrow. Fragmentation, but he had to aim precisely. Aim, steady, and loose. The two massive hulking brutes fell as one as the arrow split in twain, the remainder flying off to embed in the rafters. Then - there, another one below him. He could see Lucio pump another wave of sound into a man wielding a daibo. The man dropped it and clutched his ears as he crumpled to the floor. Hanzo turned his attention back to the man below him, and leapt off the roof and onto the back of his prey.
"If you wish to live, you will stay down, and you will NOT move," he snarled into the thug's ear.
He looked up again, and... Oh no. No. Great Dragon, NO.
***
Lucio blinked, reflexively scrabbing back against his turntables. This last one, the biggest yet of the group, had managed to slap away his cannon, and now held a handgun aimed straight at his temple.
"Say your prayers, kid," The man said, and cocked the hammer.
As his finger moved toward the trigger, Lucio shut his eyes. Hanzo. Hanzo had been right. Hanzo was here. Hanzo. Did they get Hanzo? Mother of God, please, let Hanzo be alright-
"Hey! Asshole! Who said you could break up the party?"
Lucio opened one eye. The voice hadn't come from Hanzo. Instead, a tall, heavyset lady, hair in a bun, had stepped between him and the gunman.
"Step out the way, lady, or you're next."
"Don't 'You're Next' Me, young man! We were all having a very nice time here, and we didn't ask you to ruin it! Now put down the gun and go home."
The gunman blinked, and perhaps reflexively, dropped his arm, gun now hanging at his side. Still, he hadn't lost all his fire, his face turning read as he started to talk again, "Ok, what the FU-"
Now a teenager with an afro pick in his hair and a hockey jersey hanging off a too-thin frame stepped up to punch the gunman lightly on the shoulder.
"Come on, this ain't cool, man," He said, "This is our neighborhood. We don't need guns and violence messing up our vibe."
A younger lady in a headscarf stepped up on the other side of the gunman, "Seriously, can we LIVE?"
"What is wrong with you PEO-" The gunman started, but before he could continue, the press of people on the stage surrounded him, and little by little, with gentle pushing, they began to carry him back away from the stage, until he was out of sight.
From the other side, a commotion in the crowd. Lucio turned, and there he stood, pushing his way past the last few people, and, despite his usual grace, practically stumbling over to stand in front.
Hanzo stood in front of Lucio, breathing heavily, hands on his kneecaps.
"Uh... You OK dude?" Lucio murmured after a few moments, one hand scratching the back of his neck nervously.
"I am-" Hanzo looked up, "Are you?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine. I'm... I'm fine."
Hanzo straightened up and looked down at Lucio. He looked back.
After a moment of silence, both spoke up at once, "I'm Sorry!"
"You're Sorry? But I-"
"Listen, Hanzo. Maybe you were right. These guys could have hurt someone tonight. If you weren't here, they definitely would have. I... maybe I should think about what I'm doing. A little."
"No."
"No?"
"Look at what happened tonight, Lucio. You were right. You gave these people hope. They even had the power to stand up to a man with a gun. Because you told them they had that power, they stood up and took that. It would be wrong to deprive others of that chance because of a few common thugs."
"So... You think I should keep going?"
"I think you should. Well. Perhaps with some extra security. And... If you need a head of security, someone who could assemble a small silent squad to turn away intruders and ensure that your concerts are free and open to those in need all the same, I might be amenable to taking... such a position. If you wish."
Lucio grinned and drooped his eyelids a bit, "Oh, I can think of a few positions I'd like you in."
"what." Hanzo blinked like a sleepy owl, expression flat.
"what." Lucio answered, his gaze wide-eyed, somehow both impish and innocent all at once. Still, he broke first, and coughed slightly.
"Uh, anyway," Lucio continued, "Maybe we could discuss the security job over dinner?"
"I'd like that."
The crowded parted for them, and the two men walked arm-in-arm for the door.
Summary: Myala Everstar, Queen of the Aurin, is concerned for her doctor, Victor Lazarin.
Rating/Warnings: PG (Mention of Character Death)
Characters/Pairings: Victor Lazarin, Queen Myala Everstar, Myalazarin
***
My Lady,
I shall be headed to Grimvault, to corral what may be the final cure for our cursed condition. If am successful, I shall report to you that my people’s avarice of primal life shall no longer be source of acrimony between our peoples. In the meantime, please know that I leave you in most capable hands. My lieutenants shall continue your treatments with the greatest of care. I have made sure of it.
I have the honor to be your obedient servant,
Victor Lazarin
---
As Myala raised a hand and traced over the words on the paper once again, a strange and wondrous lance of heat coursed through her body. He had sent her this letter weeks ago, and yet every time she read it, she felt as if he stood by her side. The words, in Lazarin’s own style, said so much with so little.
She had forgiven him for Celestion long ago, and yet she knew it still weighed heavily on his mind. The Godwood tree, crying out for relief. She knew that he dreamed of it, sometimes, for he had confessed it once, when he was giving her one of his checkups. He told her, over and over again, that he wished he could go back, find a way to undo the wrong, or at least, find a gentler and more humane way to tap the tree. He was, she had discovered, an impulsive man, but a gentle one, and when he believe he had done wrong, he would never consider any penance adequate to make up for his misstep. So his lifelong quest, the thing that had consumed him for nearly a century, he did not frame in terms of his own triumph, but as mending a tear between their peoples, to make penance.
He worried about her. Even as he pursued his passion, his mission, to cure his people of the horrid fate placed on them, he still worried that he was leaving her behind. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she was being stubborn. That all she had to do was cut her ties to Arboria, and suddenly she would be so much less of a burden on him. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, and he never complained about it. He treated her with nothing but respect and concern, and felt guilty if he had to leave her, as if he was letting her down, as if he was shirking from an important duty, even if he was leaving for something as essential as healing his entire race.
Even the method - black ink on yellowed, ivory parchment - spoke to his consideration and refinement. He remember that they both came from humble roots - both content to stay on their home planet, keeping to old ways, caring for their people, seeking a better way. Both cleaving to a level of technology far below what most of the galaxy saw fit to use.
She placed the letter back on a side table, and looked at the small chest placed on it. Inside, every letter he had sent her, not only the business correspondence, the polite words between dignitaries and the advice of doctor to patient, but the secret ones, too - the love letters he had sent unsigned. It saddened her and thrilled her. He had the soul of a poet, but he shared it with no-one… except her. She was the one so honored. And thus the lanced up again.
She had waited for so long for him to come forth, not wishing to scare him away by confronting him. Until he was ready, she would wait. He had so many burdens, she didn’t wish to add to them. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, she still imagined those arms around her, that deep, rumbling voice whispering the words on the paper into her ear…
She drifted off to sleep with those thoughts in her mind.
***
The next morning, in her throne room, she found herself poring over the more modern reports that made up much of her job - battle reports from fronts in Galeras and Malgrave, petitions from various Aurin settlements for more hunters or watchers, or others such things. She tried to give each report the respect and consideration in reserved. Her duty as Queen demanded no less.
Still, when she saw the report from Grimvault, where Victor said he was going, her heart skipped a beat, she sat up a bit straighter, and began to scan the words with special consideration.
They’d found a glade, full of creatures resistant to the strain.
An Eldan lab, perfect for their experiments.
But…
“Oh no,” her mouth formed the words, but she could barely find the breath to make them real. Lucy. Dear sweet, Lucy. Lucy, so fiercely devoted to her father’s work. Lucy, who loved her animals as if they were her own children - even if some of the experiments she performed made Myala squirm. Sometimes, when she came to Lazarin’s labs for her checkups, she would sit with Lucy until Victor could see her, and they spoke, of tea, and animals, and home.
And now, the poor girl was gone. Killed by her own father after being subsumed by the Strain.
And Victor…
She tapped a button on the Datachron. Where was Victor?
Her inquiry was answered by a young FCON traffic controller, “Yer Majesty, Doctor Lazarin will be returnin’ on the next transport inta Thayd. He’s set up transport straight to his lab. Says he ain’t to be disturbed.”
“Thank you, young lady,” Myala murmured. She took a deep breath, and pressed her button to dial Lazarin.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
“My Queen!”
As she went to try again, one of her guard came up to her with another petition, and she found herself once against swept up in the matters of statecraft.
***
Victor did not show up the weekly round table of Exile leadership. Avra Darkos, as was her wont, strode quickly toward the exit when the meeting was over, but Myala scampered after her.
“Lady Darkos!” She called. At first, it appeared the Mordesh would ignore her, but finally, as she reached the exit of the Secret Ops HQ, she turned and stared down at the Queen, face unreadable behind her opaque faceplate.
“I noticed,” Myala began, careful to choose her words to remain as neutral as possible, so as not to set off one of Avra’s more mercurial moods, “That Doctor Lazarin was absent from today’s meeting. I was hoping to talk to him about my ah… medical treatment, and I’m having a hard time reaching him on his datachron…”
“He is occupied, Queen Myala.” She said, shortly, “With the one thing he is useful for. With any luck, we won’t have to see him again until he finally has a cure for our cursed condition.”
“He’s-” Myala, for a minute, sputtered, taken aback even after so many years by Avra’s complete lack of tact, “He’s useful for more than that, Lady Darkos. He’s done so much for everyone, shouldn’t we have more respect for him-”
But Avra was gone.
---
Myala took a deep breath. She had sent her guards away and ventured into the lair of the Alchemist’s Guild. The other Alchemists, quite used to her presence, when she came for her treatments, had either ignored her or given her respectful nods before returning to their business, and so she came with little trouble to her expected place. A small, unassuming door, grey metal, unmarked that she knew lead into Victor Lazarin’s personal lab.
She knocked.
No Answer.
She knocked again.
No Answer. She let out a frustrated breath. A full week since Victor had returned, and she had heard nothing from him. She knew he would need time, but she feared to think of what he would do. Losing a child… Myala didn’t know that exact experience, but she knew what it was to lose subjects, people dear to her. And she hoped, at least, it meant she could sympathize with how much he had lost. And, if all else failed, she knew how much… how much she missed him. How much she wanted to comfort him.
She steeled herself, raised her hand, and made to knock again - Only to hear the sound of a lock unclicking. She reached up and turned the handle, and entered the lab. As she peered in, her eyes blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. Lazarin often kept his lab low light, but she didn’t see even a lamp lit. Finally, she spotted him, hunched over a lab table, surrounded by vials of multicolored fluids. She walked up behind him, and murmured, hesitantly at first, “Doctor Lazarin?”
He turned in his chair, his body still somewhat slumped and hunched over. She couldn’t make out his face as well as she would have liked, between the darkness and his ever-present mask, but as she squinted, she fancied she could make out those two bright eyes, heavy lidded, and small trails of vitalus, dried, but outlined quite evidently on his cheeks.
“Queen Myala,” Lazarin said quietly, hoarsely, “I… apologize that I have not resumed your treatments. I asked my assistants to continue for a short time while I… catalogue these results. We… did not craft a cure as I had hoped, but there is still desirable data to be derived, if I...only focus, for a time…”
“That’s not why I came, Doctor Lazarin,” She said.
“What is it then? Have my assistants been unkind? Has the treatment worsened? I can-”
As Lazarin spoke on, Myala closed the distance between them, and with two swift steps, hopped into his lap and flung her arms around his chest, burying her face in his neck as much as she able to with the bulky hazmat suit separating them.
“Victor,” she said, “I am so sorry about Lucy. She was such a sweet girl.”
“I… I am sorry, Queen Myala,” Victor said, “I should have the strength to disperse my debts, to the Exiles, and to you. But… I have lost the last person who cared about me-”
“She wasn’t the last, Victor,” Myala said. Her fierceness surprised even herself. Still, she couldn’t stop herself. Victor needed her. That silly, brave, magnificent man was going to work himself to death unless she stopped him.
“I know she cared, Victor,” She said, “And I’m sure she’s still caring for you from the Lifestream,” She continued, citing the old Mordesh belief she knew Victor still secretly clung to, that she secretly believed might be the Weave, visiting them in another form, “But she’s not the only one.”
Lazarin did not respond, but slowly, his body relaxed into Myala’s, and he bought up his arms to return her hug, lightly.
“When you didn’t respond to me, I was worried,” She said, “I know… I know you have your work. I don’t mind if you need to stop treating me. I’d miss our appointments, but… You have so much on your shoulders, Victor. I just want to ease your load. Just a little. I’m here. And… if you want me to leave, I will. But… I’m here for you.”
“Here for me?” Victor murmured, “Queen Myala, you have a kingdom to run. I am only a fallen, failed alchemist. You need not concern yourself with this nattering nitwit.”
“You are more than that, Victor,” she said, “You have stood by me, you have worked with me, you have indulged my concerns and worked around my wants. Without you, I might be dead. You are my doctor, and my friend. You are always so gentle to me. And you are always so passionate. Even when we disagree, I can… respect that passion. And your drive to help your people. It is the same as mine. I draw strength from that. When I doubt if I made the right decision, coming from Arboria, I remember that you’re working too, and it helps it… Victor, you are very dear to me and I wish you wouldn’t doubt it…”
Victor looked down at her, his eyes flashing through the hood. Then, he nodded slowly.
“Myala,” he said, “I… believe I need to lie down for a bit. Would you… like to join me? Only to lie down. These battered bones need… a bit of rest.”
Myala nodded, and Lazarin rose from his chair, arms still around her, and walked into an adjoining room, a small, cozy, woodpaneled office, where a small cot lay against one wall and a holofire roared against another. Slowly, he sunk down into the cot, until he was spread out upon it, with Myala laying on top of him. She laid her head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, and for sometime, they lay in silence, arms around each other, remembering each others’ presence after a long way aways.
After some time, Myala spoke again, “I keep all your letters, you know,” She said.
“All of them, Myala?”
“Yes. I read them often. I… I was reading the first one you sent me on Nexus earlier today, you know.”
“The first one? As I recall, that was a rather standard requisition request to use some of your shuttles to see the surface of Nexus-”
“No. The real first one, Victor. The love poem.”
“The real…?”
“I was never afraid of you.”
“Myala, I did not sign it. I made sure no-one saw when I delivered it. How did you know?”
“I knew it was you, Victor. I’d recognize that voice anywhere, even written on paper. You have the soul of a poet, you know.”
“I… I apologize, my dear. I… found myself apprehensive. After all, I’d advocated methods of mining primal life you found… murderous at best. I knew you might not accept my missive if I signed it, as I so longed.”
“I… don’t agree with every thing you do, Victor. But I understand. You are so passionate about saving your people. How could I be angry at that?”
“Myala…”
Myala sat rose from his chest, her eyes looking to meet his.
“Victor,” She spoke to him hesitantly at first, then stronger, “Could you take off your helmet? I’d like to rest on your shoulder, and… it’s a little uncomfortable, that helmet being there.”
He nodded, and reached up with one hand to undo a latch. Myala helped with another, and one, two, it sat beside them on the floor. She scooted up, and rested her head more fully in the crook of his neck. He began to hum softly, a low, pleased rumble, and she purred in return, and their symphony closed the night.
