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Perhaps not the most suitable vessel of all, but it had been the one easiest to snatch up in that very spur-of-the-moment decision. He twirled this body’s mid-length hair that was too short to pull into a proper ponytail but just long enough that it got into its face when blown about by the brisk sea breeze with a huff. The port was bustling at this time of the day, several huge commerce vessels anchored beside ferries from the island to the main land and the other continents, even. The transport system had only but recently been expanded to airships—blueprints stolen away from Emet-Selch’s rising empire by people fleeing from the regime. Young men and women who saw the technology shared and an ancient tale from yet another of Emet-Selch’s previous empires restored. Commercial flights.
He let out a huff as he stared at the vessel anchored in front of him. He was in the midst of an excitedly chattering crowd of adventurers, one of whose bodies he had taken over the other night. A waste of energy, the others would sneer if they knew what was on his mind, but he had to know.
On the Source, most remnants of their home had been ground to dust. When he had heard the fishermen speak of a surge of energy that had suddenly lit the seas aglow, his heart had skipped a beat.
A masterwork of two different schools of creation meant to supply the city in case of catastrophic agricultural failure for some reason or another.
Spectral currents, they had called it; as if to signify the impressive weave of phantom creation and aetherological manipulation. The shared pride of the Words of Lahabrea and the Words of Mitron, something that was ingrained into the very aether of the oceans surrounding Amaurot yet unable to be tapped into unless catastrophe was sung of on the aetheric currents. A ghastly creation by all means.
Mitron shook this body’s head slightly and the woman’s soul protested weakly when he walked to the pier with a grimly determined frown on this face. A La Noscean beauty she was not, though several heads turned to look at this strange woman with blue hair and a body that more suited a farmer from Middle La Noscea rather than the fisher her get-up claimed she was.
Posing as an adventurer was not hard. There were no licenses, the guilds were hardly organised at this point in time, and thanks to the disaster on the wind there had been many people leaving their homes to find work elsewhere. The war was heavy on everyone’s mind, what with the new airship that would see the infamous Black Wolf to Eorzea to support the White Raven. If one asked Mitron then Emet-Selch ad Lahabrea in particular were laying a most interesting groundwork for a Calamity, even if all their minds were on the shard they were trying to rejoin. If the slightest thing went wrong they would have another void on their hands—but he was going to put his trust into Deudalaphon and Fandaniel for the time being.
He shot the fisherman a blindingly brilliant smile; while not a beauty there was a certain allure to women like this body. How base—and indeed, the man was soon convinced with a bit of work, a handful of gil, and more brilliant smiles and promises that made the soul inside quiver in both indignation and disgust. Mitron reached out to the woman’s soul for a moment to all but figuratively hold up her chin, then promised her if she behaved he would get her what she wanted since she had been a child. A way to leave La Noscea, to travel as an adventurer. Perhaps see the Near East and the Far East Both, to behold Baelsar’s Wall with her own two eyes and to see what New Sharlayan had become in absence of its masters. He could get her off this island if she behaved, and that made her fall silent in contemplation.
No longer contested for control of this body, Mitron instead turned his attention to the ship. Truly, nothing impressive. A small fishing vessel as there were countless here in Limsa Lominsa and across all of the shore-bound regions of Aldenard. Sturdy enough to withstand the rough sea but not enough to ensure survival in a storm situation. But as much as mortals baffled and confused him, they at least seemed to have some understanding of the sea. Some.
He had managed to secure a trip on this. Perhaps he would be able to see if spectral currents indeed still remained.
It had taken three bloody centuries to get Lahabrea to even agree to look at the concept outlines, another six centuries on top of that before he said it had merit and would offer his support to it as soon as everything else he had on his desk was done, and another two hundred before that. Over a millennium of waiting and bettering other concepts until finally, finally, the master of phantom creation deigned to leave his office and sit down at the same table as Mitron to discuss what they needed to do individually and what together.
In a rather embarrassing moment of indignation Mitron had even gone as far as throwing himself over the desk at Loghrif’s suggestion to get Lahabrea’s attention properly—to which the Speaker had responded with nothing. Not even one of his typical small snorts of annoyance. But in the end they had worked together, side by side and some would even say hand in hand. The first and most important of these collaborations, though Lahabrea rebuffed every attempt at friendship from Mitron afterwards. Their creations still existed on other shards and perhaps somewhere on the Source if evolution saw fit to grant these some staying merit. Selkies were gone, kelpies might still exist somewhere, and most of the flora created together with Halmarut had evolved way past its initial use and gone feral in the meanwhile.
Mitron stood at the helm of the boat quietly and judging from the way the rest of the fishermen stared, like some sort of unapproachable amazon. He was, in a sense—an Ancient, as those mortals would likely call them, by all means a different species altogether now that he had been freed from Hydaelyn’s cycle of rebirth. Part of him at least. For now.
In the past a day of fishing would have been a day off. Now it felt like a chore when the vessel settled on a location and the people on board threw out their rods. Commercial fishing on a rejoined shard had started using huge nets they left in the water for ages to the point of the oceans starting to die out little by little. Entire swathes of marine species were lost and while they were looking to imbalance the stability of the shard, part of Mitron’s soul had been raw and offended by that very notion.
At least the Source had not gone to that level of folly yet, though that could change easily. It would have to change easily, for that was what the star was supposed to do. Change when change was necessary, a will to seek change rather than embrace the rigidity of set rules. That was what His will still did, shattered and bound as He was; the Source remained His domain even when Her claws were hooked into it and separated the shards from where they belonged.
He huffed once again—a voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like Loghrif trying to chastise the Chastiser for forgetting the time once again warned him to exercise caution. Mortals only tolerated the oddballs for so long. Thus he struck up a casual conversation about the weather and the conditions, about the boat and whatever nonsense about the war that felt relevant. The oceans might turn into a battlefield sooner or later, one of the fishermen grumbled and Mitron hummed a displeased agreement.
Time slowly trickled by, the baskets and barrels slowly but steadily filled with more and more fish. Mitron abandoned his rod once to help another reel in a frankly massive shark that had chosen to attempt swallowing whatever else the man had had hooked whole. Part of him, the part that had grown up a mortal on another shard, quite enjoyed the simplicities of hard work with fellow-minded workers. Though he was a Paragon there was no denying that he had been raised a mortal once.
The shard had been swallowed in the last Calamity. He did not even remember what he had been called there before Elidibus had appeared as if out of thin air with a starshower at his back and his hands on Mitron’s ears. But only Unsundered hands choked out the voice of Hydaelyn that normally claimed those who beheld starshowers like that, and between the three of them Elidibus was the one who worked the most efficiently. Emet-Selch’s hands were gentler and the process slower as he almost begged them to remember who they were—Lahabrea may as well have driven hot knives into their souls to carve out enough space for their resurfacing memories in those moments. All Elidibus left was the agony of beholding what had near driven them to extinction and the yearning for a home that was no longer there.
But between those ancient memories of stalking through halls with Loghrif’s good-natured soft laugh following him and staring into skies ablaze and blood on his hands, he vaguely held memories of that long-gone mortal life. A fisherman’s child—oh, the irony. Hydaelyn had humour, that much he had to grant Her.
By the time that afternoon came around, the wind had turned cold and slightly rougher, a tinge of thunder aether tickling his senses when he zoned out for but a moment. A thunderstorm, though not before sunset, the sea breeze whispered with its sudden coldness. Mitron had the hands of this body clutched around the rod, patiently waiting. The tug was soft, gentle—a lesser fisher would have missed it. The very moment he started pulling, however, the creature that had taken the bait turned almost violent, and a surprised yelp escaped him as he jumped to this body’s feet and started pulling back with all might. Soon he was joined by other fishermen abandoning their rods, murmurs of yet another shark unused to fishers trying to catch easy prey as whatever was on the hook violently pulled and pulled back. Mitron near went over the railing before someone else forwent mortal propriety and slung his arms around this body’s waist—a spur-of-the-moment decision just as Mitron’s spontaneous decision had been, but one that wound up with him in the arms of three Roegadyn fishermen while a Miqo’te fisherwoman squeaked something about impropriety and whatever they were reeling in likely being massive.
When finally, after what felt like a mortal age, they managed to pull the fish out of the seas, for a split moment the disappointment hung heavy in the air. Mitron on the other hand was stunned silent as he stared at this barely notable little creature, shining and shimmering in an odd blue—it was not enough to feed even one person, but it was enough to make the yearning for home turn into a yawning chasm of homesickness. But before he could even remotely lament the fact that he had killed one of his own creations that had miraculously survived in the depths of the seas on the Source, he felt a sudden change in the aether around them. The other people on board of this vessel also felt it; it was a tumultuous shift in the aetheric balance surrounding them, then.
Mitron realised he had been holding his breath for too long when the body reacted automatically and gasped for air just as the shift occurred properly; the clear seas seemed to sparkle with a whorl of colours around them. Everyone paused for a moment longer.
Then, the Miqo’te fisherwoman broke the silence with a “Seven ‘ells, th’lassie went ‘n got kissed by Lady Luck ‘erself… Stop standin’ ‘round gawkin’, ye daft sods, back to yer rods”.
Spectral current.
In the end, the concept had been buried by the very earth breaking apart. Lahabrea and Mitron had lamented that when they realised what had happened and lamented it even more once famine set in for the survivors walking scorched dead earth. Neither of them had spent even a moment considering that Zodiark may have restored spectral currents when He breathed life back into flora and fauna. Until recently these fishing grounds had not been visited much due to others being much more plentiful, but the war situation was driving fishers out further and further.
Mitron choked back tears as he watched an entire school of glimmering fish pass the boat, joined in with the cheers when one of the Roegadyn hauled in a rather impressive specimen. He noticed the distant glint of one of the protectors of the current that Lahabrea had suggested; protectors called for the surge and called it off after a certain amount of time to preserve population numbers without letting the fishers go empty-handed. One of the marvels of aetherologic research doubled with phantom creation; these spectral protectors were not living beings by any means. They had been soulless then, though Mitron did not doubt that Hydaelyn had bestowed some sort of mangled soul upon them by now.
The seas were warm and plentiful now, the ship still loudly cheering even as their energy waned thanks to the sheer amount of fish they were reeling in.
Mitron tasted the chill of an oncoming thunderstorm after what felt like yet another eternity on the winds once more, and the sparkle started to dim. The bites slowed down suddenly, and the deluge became a drought as the shine faded entirely. Mitron saw one last glitter in the depths; the protector once again seeking eye contact. Perhaps even through his mortal vessel it knew that one of its creators was present, its creator was still alive and watching.
What the fishermen mistook for a prayer to the Twelve that were hailed on the Source, Mitron knew was a small prayer of thanks to Zodiark Himself for letting these creatures continue existing without upsetting the balance. Hells, he felt as if He had intervened with them just as He had with the Unsundered.
He did keep the small fish he had reeled up with the help of the mortals—the rest of his comparatively modest catch he left to the rest of the crew, shooting them a brilliant smile and saying that perhaps that could be used instead of the other payment he had offered.
The captain let him go, and the woman’s soul let out a relieved sigh when he muttered that he was going to uphold his end of the bargain now.
Perhaps Emet-Selch could use some La Noscean spy for the empire. She was adventurous enough for it, and when their own life was involved, mortals were foolish enough to even sell their home to the enemy. Yes, perhaps this mortal was best left in the hands of the Garlean Empire.