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According to all known laws of aetherology, primals do not bleed. For some reason, that bit of knowledge stuck with them, in the same stoic tone Urianger had first delivered it with.
That meant the blood smeared on the ground was solely theirs, splatters of deep red reminding them of the pain nestled between their ribs. A sword through the lung is wont to do that, they think dryly between gasping breaths. Their own labored breathing is grating over the singing shards of crystal around them, but are no other sounds in this silent worship.
They are on one bruised knee, in perverse prayer before a stoic god bearing stained steel. The edge of the blade that ran them through is pointed towards them like a cold mercy - unwavering, poised to relieve them of their burden. And when they finally lift their still-throbbing head, they find themselves transfixed by its holy visage.
It is their own face, frozen in a mask of calm and framed by a radiant halo. They have to squint in the presence of its blinding light, a mockery of what their own brilliant conviction might look like manifested. A true Warrior of Light, exalted to divinity.
How did it come to this, they wonder, to find an eikon in their image summoned from the hearts of those they tried to protect. The innocently soft glow of crystal clusters in their periphery holds no answers.
They prayed for light in their darkest hour. This is their deliverance. Fray’s voice is grim amidst the taste of metal blooming over their tongue. Focus.
They grit their teeth, grasping the weapon that's fallen from their hands and dodging the fatal swing. The edge of the blade misses their neck by mere ilms - they shudder at the thought, then tap into another soul crystal and let it guide them.
Their armory is on full display for this god to see, their aether swirling and pulsing in unpredictable patterns as they recount every technique in their arsenal. A piercing arrow, a rain of fire, the savage swing of a lance - none of it is enough. The eikon matches them and is their better, fueled by desperate wishes for salvation and a bountiful offering of pure life. The memories teeming under each soul crystal burn brightly as they reach deep into the aether, but naught could prepare them for something like this.
One would think dying often enough would have provided ample opportunity to acclimate to the pain, but it is always as fresh and raw as the first time. A bitter indication of being alive, perhaps, to have every one of your nerves shrieking that something is wrong and your mind holding onto the single thought of Seven Hells, this fucking hurts. The sharpened katana finds a home in their abdomen, snug in their viscera for an awful moment of clarity before it’s ripped out with a practiced flick of the wrist.
Blood flows between them and their god in sacred communion. They are kneeling in prayer once more.
Hydaelyn does not let the quiet earth swallow them when they fall. Go forth, my champion, my dear child - a curse in the chimes of broken crystal, said so gently.
Surely a curse, they think as they rise again. Reincarnated. Reborn.
-
The ticking of the chronometer in the room keeps them awake in the infirmary, the tempo close to their heartbeat as they sit on the side of one bed. They hover somewhere simultaneously above and below the threshold of lucidity, far away yet keenly aware of where they are. Hear. Feel. Think.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to think about anything other than the distorted mirror they traded blows with just bells prior. The ghost of blood lingers in the room under the wan lanterns, a scent that muddles their thoughts and keeps them in the odd space they’ve taken to dwelling on.
You will heal, Y’shtola said as she tended to them after the battle. The aether from her spells was a salve of cool water mending their cuts and bruises. Nothing at all like skin and bone forcibly welded together by a flash of damnably benevolent light, as if they were tossed into a hungry hearth and forged anew.
Of course they would. She refuses to let me die, they almost said. Peace was far-off for them; the warm silence was always replaced with the deafening roar of love telling them to live.
It had been jarring the first time, to say the least. Some said the Echo was akin to aether sickness, and that was true of the flood of nausea when the visions came. The other part of their Mother’s blessing, however, was far from a kindness. They learned how to stop vomiting afterwards because they didn’t want to concern the Scions, even as their body held new scars with each memory of death. The new tissue looked like they had been healed for weeks rather than fresh like their other wounds, as if mortality was but a minor inconvenience that could be sewn shut with enough aether.
They can't fathom what sight their own aether must be to their companion’s pale eyes, a deep spring of crystalline blue overflowing with a Mother’s cruel gift.
The warrior is alone in the room, because who could survive such a monstrous deity? Between being tempered and its overwhelming strength, there was no choice but to send the Warrior of Light alone. Their only hope, their only casualty - they've become used to it by now. They’ve had to. It’s not as if they have the choice to turn craven and flee. The bitterness has long left them, but they allow themselves an indulgence, letting it fester before immediately quelling the feeling.
That fraction of a second turns out to be a mistake; there’s a phantom of their own making in one corner now, obscured like night incarnate. Fray is there, dripping with tainted pitch. They’ve long shed their fear of their darkside, but a prickle of panic jolts up their spine. They hadn’t felt the aether coalesce like it usually does, hadn’t felt the swell of viscous black that usually accompanied their appearance.
Bile rises in their throat, searing it. Maybe Fray was right - that they weren’t suited for this vessel and mantle, and they’d take the reins, leaving them sinking in the merciless nadir. They stop before the warrior, intently watching them in pale gold while their form holds the shifting semblance of a dead knight.
“You know what I want.” Their tone is sharp and commanding as they loom over the warrior, but it softens immediately after they let out a sigh. “Breathe in through your nose. Then out, let the breath pass your lips.”
The familiar instruction is a sliver of comfort the warrior clings to, lessening the anxious vise on their thoughts. They do as Fray asks, keeping their breathing steady. They shiver when their other half’s aether weaves between their own. Fray makes themselves solid, casting a true shadow over them where they stand.
“Good, just like that. You're doing well.” The world comes back into focus, and they register the touch of cool metal grasping their palms. Fray holds their trembling hands, tracing over newly formed scar tissue with their thumbs. The grip is firm and grounding, with the aether flowing between them calming. The warrior can finally speak after what feels like a near eternity.
“I’m sorry.” Their voice feels sore and terribly weak. Tired, that's what they are. With nerves frayed and limbs heavy.
“And just what are you sorry for?” Fray’s question is clear, despite the faceplate covering their mouth. “You carried the day and came away the hero, didn't you?”
“I hesitated. ” They spit the word in disgust. “When I saw its face, I couldn’t move.”
They remember the harsh pressure on their temples that set their head pounding in its mere presence. Though they are blessed with a resistance to being tempered, they could feel it compressing and piercing their thoughts - Stand down, for I am the all-consuming light. It was their own voice, unnaturally composed, ringing through their flesh and bones without a hint of emotion.
“It felt... nothing. ” Silent, scorching, divine retribution. When Fray had worn their face, they had shown resentment, anger, pain. A reflection that made them seem less than perfect. This showed the flawless mask they bore, what they were supposed to be to the star. “...Why would they summon something like that?”
“Do not fault them for it.” Fray says quietly, devoid of the righteous rage they expected them to bear. “You know only too well what drives men to seek a god’s intervention.”
“I know, I... was trying to find reasons to be angry, but… is that truly how I seem? So bright?” They’ve few people to speak of this with, the ever-present fear hanging over them of being not enough yet too much all at once. How they could be an infallible Warrior of Light, gutting god and man alike yet unable to save those they wanted to protect most. “Is this the hero they wanted?”
“They wanted a weapon. ” Fray swiftly refutes them. “One to carry out their declaration of blood with a heroic reprise sung over it all. You're mortal.”
“Am I still? With crystal light in my veins and behind my eyelids? With a Mother who denies me death? Can you call that being mortal?” The warrior’s grip tightens with each damning question, scraping nails against the steel of Fray’s gauntlets.
Remnants of the battle surface at that, their countless deaths each accented by stars bursting around them until they were whole again. The clashes of steel and magic, the knowledge of what their blessed strength has inflicted unto their enemies. And when they dealt the final strike, it seemed at peace dissipating into the air, a glimpse of what has been withheld from them. They don't know what unsettles them more, the sight of their own form vanquished, or the twinge of jealousy at that came with it.
Fray calls them by their name - their real name - and they're nearly repulsed at themselves for not recognizing the syllables. Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light - the epithet echoes through their skull still, in fervent chants and death throes.
“That was not you. That was never you.” Their golden gaze bores through the warrior, intent on burning the words into their aether. They can’t meet Fray’s eyes, turning their own away.
“Look to your soul crystal.” The aether underneath the surface of the small stone seems to churn at that. “You've seen them, haven't you? Knights who've been slain when they partook too deeply of the abyss, consumed by naught save for their own grief and rage. They became no better than beasts intoxicated by the power within their grasp.”
They always saw those memories swimming about in the nadir and tried to put them out of their mind. Soul crystals being passed between corpses was not unusual, but the manner in which their holders died varied greatly. Some perished valiantly, defending the weak with the only shield they had left, or were put before the Twelve’s judgement, unflinching as they stood firm by their vows. Others succumbed to the darkness and turned into something worse than the monsters they walked the path to slay. They shudder to think what would become of them if they surrendered to the light in the same way.
“But then there was me and my master. There is Sidurgu, there is you. There are no absolutes in light and darkness - only how you choose to wield them.” Fray finishes sagely. The warrior supposes that, sometimes, they are not merely bluffing when proclaiming themselves the embodiment of good sense and pragmatism.
“When the time comes, let me help you.” Fray holds concentrated aether in their palm, taken from their hollowed, fragmented heart. It is but a taste of what lies in the deepest part of the abyss - the darkest shadows cast by the flame. “Take what is mine, if you need to fend against the light. It has ever been yours.”
They press the pure pitch into their palm, and the warrior can feel the depth of their devotion, how they intend to make good on that promise in their hour of need. Fray brings their hand closer, letting the back of it brush their faceplate in a most knightly gesture. It makes the warrior’s lips involuntarily twitch into a smile despite it all.
“Become what you must.” Fray’s voice is soft when they let go at last. “And should you ever forget who you are… I will be there with you. Always.”
-
No fight left to fight, the gremlin sneers as they’re crushed underfoot by the feathered guardian. The scent of dirt fills their nose and they grimace. No life left to live.
Not for a hero of light, perhaps. Fray scoffs. You know what you must do.
They hold out an offering for them to partake. Darkness surges through their veins, replacing the waning crystal light, and consumes them. It is strangely freeing to watch the familiar bright blue turn into tendrils of black.
The sword upon their back doesn't shatter like the rest, fortified by the vicious violet aether dancing about its length. The guardian takes up its arms again, its stony visage contorted into a snarl.
What are you waiting for? They can feel Fray’s pride at the sight. It's time to play the hero.
They cleave through the light with ease, now harnessing the abyss. Become what you must, they said - whether it be a bringer of light or a bringer of shadow.