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pendants, the crystarium.
Memories flood in slowly. They always do. Like the rising tides of the Kholusian waves, they push back against the shore until all the sand disappears under the water, leaving only the cold, rocky beach.
Ardbert removes his arm-guards and digs both palms into the sand, reaching for nothing in particular. His fingers find purchase among sharp, jagged shells, and though they cut the tips of his fingers, he does not bleed.
Not but a few fulms away, several unconscious bodies wash up along the shore. The Warrior of Darkness comes first, they sputter a bit, coughing. Their sleek, black armor is soaking wet and their lungs are heavy from saltwater. Soon after, Alisaie and Alphinaud follow, the former having to drag the latter back onto his feet. Their soaking feet leave a trail across the beach. One after another, bodies wash up. The rest of the Scions are caught by the tides, each taking pause to wipe the sand from their faces.
Most of all, however, it is the Crystal Exarch that catches Ardbert’s gaze. Seeing his face now, uncovered, disheveled and dried blood at the corners of his mouth. A face to a title. A name to a title. G'raha Tia. Crystal Exarch. It's odd seeing a young-looking and bright-eyed Mystel underneath the cloak of a leader.
Ardbert submerges his face in the water. His new existence is that of a nothingness that, somehow, feels too cramped, too full. Maybe because the aether is denser here, a collection of fragments belonging to two souls. Sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish the Warrior of Darkness from himself. Where do Ardbert’s memories end and theirs begin? At what point does a memory belong to them both?
Ardbert watches carefully through their eyes. The Warrior of Darkness. An idol, a hero. If he pretends for long enough, he can feel the rise and fall of their chest with every breath. He can feel the heat in their fingertips, white hot knuckles tense around the grip of a greatsword. He can taste the blood in their mouth. Or, better yet, he can feel it pulsing in their veins. If Ardbert pretends for long enough, he too could be alive. Flesh and all, if only for a fleeting moment.
Their shared soul comes for better or for worse. For better, Ardbert tells himself, for the Warrior of Darkness's solace spares him from loneliness. And yet for worse, he feels, as a silent infinity of longing threatens to eat him whole.
A quiet breeze lulls through the Pendents. The Warrior of Darkness leans against the open windowsill. They look towards the night sky with a sigh, though not necessarily of relief. To the far wall, on a small nightstand by their bed, a journal covered in wet ink is left to dry overnight.
The Warrior of Darkness narrows their eyes and bites the inside of their lip.
Worried about Elidibus?
Ardbert already knows the answer but he needs to hear it for himself.
As if I couldn’t be.
Aye. To what end he plans on using his new 'Warriors of Light' has yet to be seen.
A moment of pause between them.
Whatever it is, it's nothing good.
They have these short exchanges often. The Warrior of Darkness’ mind is a constant torrent of thoughts. And now, the image of Elidibus parading around dressed in Ardbert’s corpse seems to occupy them day to day.
Ardbert is always a pawn in the end, isn’t he? Tonight, Ardbert has no comfort left to provide the Warrior of Darkness, only silent understanding.
***
xande’s throne, the crystal tower.
Everything is filtered through a looking-glass, through the eyes of someone else. That gaze is similar to his own and yet never quite the same. Ardbert has no right—no claim at all—over the memories of another. He has no right over their love.
And yet that love, by extension, feels like it belongs to them both. Ardbert's guilty about it either way, whether he deserves it or not. It's not as though the Warrior of Darkness minds his intrusion, but it remains an intrusion nonetheless. He latches onto them, feeling every rupture of their chest as they cry hunched over the Exarch's body.
What Ardbert cannot do, he imagines. One hand reaches out to cup the Exarch's cheek and the other runs over his body made of frail, crystalline glass. What a sin it is to yearn through the eyes of another.
The Warrior of Darkness and the Exarch exchange words that ring like thunder in Ardbert's mind. He hears them speak so clearly and yet part of it remains clouded. Break free, Ardbert tells himself, pierce through. There are words that are his own, though will remain unsaid, time and time again. He's still submerged in that nothingness, wading through the shallow echoes of his consciousness. But if Ardbert pretends for long enough, he too could be speaking, finding purchase among the Crystal Exarch's soul, just as the Exarch had to him. Indulging an idiot's heart into believing that he will be heard again.
***
the inn at journey’s head, amh araeng.
Theirs is a conversation that should not exist. Ardbert, who is long dead, and the Crystal Exarch who is given the promise of a new life. A conversation caught on wandering winds between two displaced souls. Or, maybe, Ardbert simply finds himself at the right place at the right time.
As does the Exarch. The Warrior of Darkness carries the Exarch's entire essence with them. His soul and his memories. Ardbert can sense his aether close to his own.
In that regard, the two of them are more similar than expected.
It begins anew in Amh Araeng, as the Warrior of Darkness smiles warmly upon growing twilight. A thin blanket of stars illuminates the heavens above.
Both Ardbert and the Exarch become two illusory forms dancing among the heat and sand. Ardbert and the Exarch onlook the ruins of Nabaath Araeng and, a little further beyond that, the boundary of the Empty. The Empty that, despite its namesake, is slowly coming to life once more. Nabaath Araeng, though half consumed, may become something beautiful one more. At least a little after a hundred years of undoing the damages that Ardbert wrought with his own hands.
Despite the cool air, the Warrior of Darkness brushes back sweat from their forehead. With their left hand, they retrieve the Exarch's spirit vessel. They take a pause and study it carefully from every angle, a focused gaze looking back at them in red and blue.
Though the Warrior of Darkness journeys on the Exarch's behalf, Ardbert lets himself be carried along by sweeping tides of fate. From one place to the next, gradually retracing their steps upon Vrandtic soil. That, and Ardbert's not one to refuse the beauty of the night's sky.
Theirs is a conversation that does not exist, and yet begins all the same with an apology. "I'm sorry," the Exarch said, though of all the things he could possibly be sorry about, Ardbert wasn't sure how it pertained to him.
He's sorry about Elidibus, perhaps. Ardbert pictures him in front of Xande's Throne, a legend born from the prayers granted by his flesh. The Exarch's sorry about how Ardbert's corpse became that of a puppet, a toy, or a vessel for destruction. The Exarch begins and ends with an apology, as if he is sorry for so much more yet does not even know himself where that sorrow comes from.
"It was a fitting end for us both," Ardbert says.
The Exarch bites his lip. "That notwithstanding, you didn't deserve to have your legacy reduced to some pawn as part of his ploy," he says. "Elidibus had used other's good faith and hope in service of himself. He exploited your sacrifice."
Ardbert knows that well enough, yet it stings all the same. The finality of it all is what stings the most. Unlike the Exarch, there's no going back for him. Ardbert has no body to return to, no younger self waiting for him in a saved timeline. There are moments like this, however, where death has granted Ardbert a second chance. A meeting displaced across time. A meeting displaced among the Shards.
"Perhaps there exists, somewhere, a small fragment of fate where we met under different circumstances," the Exarch says. "That I could have thanked you properly for all you've done."
The Exarch’s eyes soften, accompanied by a slight smile. How is it that one can look at the man responsible for the Flood with such earnest eyes and tell him that he deserves thanks? Ardbert being the very reason that the Exarch had suffered so much to save a dying Shard.
Ardbert had grown so used to cruelty in a way that the Exarch’s kindness is foreign to him. The disdain is almost easier—at least with disdain Ardbert can appear apathetic, shrug it off, just as he has for years. His self-deprecation, his guilt: they're a permanent miasma inside him. You get used to those feelings thriving after being fed the hatred of all of Norvrandt for so long.
But kindness is difficult. Kindness means accepting that there is something inside him worth loving.
Ardbert does not respond. He chuckles to himself. There are moments like this where it’s for the best that the two of them remain as spirits. Even just the thought of the Exarch's affection is too much to bear.
***
wolekdorf, il mheg.
Ardbert is looking at the reflection of his body’s last remains. It takes the form of a small, slightly translucent crystal. The inside of Urianger's study is clustered and low-lit, though the Warrior of Darkness can see all angles of the crystal clearly. No longer glowing and scuffed on every side.
Urianger hands the Warrior of Darkness the crystal. In his eyes, the crystal has not yet found it's final resting place. Ardbert is briefly washed over with relief. He too has old friends he wants to visit once more. One such friend has been waiting to see Ardbert for years.
A beautiful forest clearing sits in Il Mheg, protected by the remnant corpse of Voeburt. In ages past, decaying stonework would have belonged to the proud churches of Voeburt. As the Warrior of Darkness passes by, they run two fingers across the masonry, observing every groove and dent. Ardbert likens it to himself, a piece of antiquity still standing despite being long destroyed and, in the face of the pixie folk, long forgotten.
For the first time along their pilgrimage, the Exarch does not say a word. He looks towards Lyhe Ghiah, lost in thought.
Voeburt, however, is not of Ardbert's concern. Not right now. Seto rests as peaceful as ever and, gods be damned, is he a sight for sore eyes. He's grown far beyond the small amaro Ardbert knew. The Warrior of Darkness had visited Seto once before, the amaro in his grown form. Yet it's different even now. It's different seeing him as if it were with Ardbert's own two eyes.
In those moments, Ardbert had no power to reach him. This time, however, a vessel is at his disposal. What a selfish desire, Ardbert tells himself. And yet, he can afford a little selfishness in his current state, could he not?
You want to see Seto one more time, don’t you?
He thanks the Warrior of Darkness for their kindness. A silent answer is shared between the two of them. For a brief moment, Ardbert is granted some control from the Warrior of Darkness. He feels them shudder. Ardbert hopes that their body is shaken, moved to tears, in place of what he cannot be afforded.
Seto’s feathers furl underneath his touch, letting out a cry in equal parts mourning and relief. A borrowed body, Ardbert cups both hands around Seto's face. He presses his forehead against Seto and nuzzles him close. Though the voice inside him tells him to pull away sooner, Ardbert can’t bring himself to let go. He doesn’t want to.
A few feet away, The Warrior of Darkness stands with the crystal resting at their feet. However dull it is, it feels just a touch brighter in Seto's care.
‘I see. His journey continues. Then I will not yet bid him rest. With you, he will look forward to many more adventures.’
Seeing Seto, Ardbert wonders if a piece of the Exarch understands him better than before. Ardbert will not be bid to rest. Not yet.
***
slitherbough, rak’tika.
“Due to my relative confinement in regards to the Crystal Tower,” the Exarch says. “I haven’t truly seen as much as Norvrandt as I would have wished.”
Perhaps this is what occupied his mind at the sight of Lyhe Ghiah. A sense of wonderment mixed with unfamiliarity. It's hard not to be taken aback by the sight.
Rak'tika's, too, is wonderous, though different from Il Mheg and certainly far flung from the urban sprawl of the Crystarium. It comes with the smell of deep earth and fresh rains, colossal roots that connect the Greatwoods' veins to its two hearts, Slitherbough and Fanow. Scattered among them, the bones of Ronka observe.
The Exarch turns to Ardbert. “It’s silly, isn’t it? Fighting for the future of a world you hardly belong to, let alone know. And yet I felt so compelled to all the same.”
A small speckled smattering of light makes it way from beyond the canopy. The residents of Slitherbough go about their daily business, an elven woman carrying a delivery basket of vegetables that the Warrior of Darkness promises to ferry back to Hopl’s Stopple. Several members of the Night's Blessed are deep in conversation. Rak’tika's life beats like a steady drum, an everlasting rhythm that never dampens. Ardbert hears it’s rhythm persist among the footsteps of the Night’s Blessed.
"And yet you know this world's people. You know them plenty well, I'd say," Ardbert says. His eyes meet that of the Warrior of Darkness as they take the basket from the elven woman. "Through the people, you've become a part of Norvrandt. A part of the world and all its culture."
The Exarch is flustered. Does something about Ardbert's words catch him by surprise?
"Yes, of course," the Exarch says. "Norvrandt is nothing if not for its people. This is what we've fought long and hard to protect."
And that alone is worth saving, is it not? Despite everything the Flood stole, it could not steal the will of Norvrandt's people. It could not steal their hopes and dreams.
***
twine, amh araeng.
From dusk until dawn, the heat of Amh Araeng endures.
One thing Ardbert notices is that the illusory Exarch leaps with measures of youth unlike anything Ardbert has ever seen. He’s certainly more playful than Ardbert expected. While the Warrior of Darkness is off running errands, Ardbert and the Exarch play like children behind their parent’s back.
The Exarch isn’t afraid of heights. He leads the two of them along the elevated mine railway that travels outside of Twine. While the Exarch dances fast across the railway, Ardbert is cautious in his every step. He tries his best to keep up, even teasing the Exarch among huffed breaths that an ‘old man’ should not move as nimbly as he.
Ardbert takes pause for a second to look down. He doesn’t know how high in the air they are. All he can see below is the sand. In the sunset, such brown and copper rubble have turned to a bright ruby color. True to their name, the Hills of Amber glint like a polished gemstone. It’s not unlike the red of the Exarch’s hair, the kind of beautiful rust red, or his eyes, cracked star rubies with a black slit in the center.
One foot catches on the tracks and Ardbert slips.
A tight palm grips around the fur lining of Ardbert’s gauntlets. Ardbert looks back to see the Exarch catch him with his left hand and pulls Ardbert back onto the scaffolding beams. He lands pressed close to the Exarch’s body, one hand in his and the other resting on his chest.
“Careful now,” the Exarch says. “Death made you reckless has it?”
Ardbert coughs. “Aye, it really has, hasn’t it?” he says, smirking. “Come on, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt anyways. You’re just teasing me.”
The Exarch laughs. “I will admit, perhaps this was not my best of ideas.”
Now Ardbert’s laughing too. They laugh until he wants to double over if his stomach and face were aching.
The Exarch gestures for Ardbert to follow him. “Come now,” he says. “We’ve not reached the end yet.”
When this is all over, it will be forgotten in a feverish haze. Ardbert is sure to remind himself that his friendship with the Exarch is a temporary fixture. A tether exists between the two of them, though it is frail and will not survive once the Exarch and the Warrior of Darkness cross back over the rift.
A sinking feeling sits in Ardbert’s gut. He’s made the same mistake before, not saying his goodbyes when he had the chance. There’s so much he has left to say. For now, he sits and holds his tongue.
He really is an idiot, through and through.
***
the crystarium, for the last time.
The light of the Crystal Tower above shines against the Warrior of Darkness's thick metal breastplate, a piercing blue matched only by the sky above. The beacon that connects two worlds together.
"Though I no longer have any choice in the matter," the Exarch begins. "A part of myself is unwilling to leave Norvrandt behind."
"Especially not after seeing how far it's come, I imagine," Ardbert says.
Ardbert and the Exarch perch themselves just below the Dossal Gate, among its gilded steps. They deem it a familiar path, having been treaded over and over again by the Warrior of Darkness. The Warrior of Darkness, who has not entered the Crystal Tower since their fateful fight with Elidibus, looks towards the Ocular with bittersweetness.
The Warrior of Darkness and the Scions gather in the Exedra below. From afar the Exarch and Ardbert exchange a knowing glance. This is the act of saying goodbye for the last time.
Ryne approaches sheepishly behind the Scions, with red, puffy eyes and not yet a single tear. Both her hands are clasped tightly to her chest, as though her heart would spill out were she not to hold it in place. Ryne's holding on with all her might. So different than she once was, the young Oracle speaks with the words of a young woman, words that are her own and no one else’s.
Ardbert and the Exarch see the rest of the Crystarium approaching the Dossal Gate from their perch. It catches the Warrior of Darkness and the rest of the Scions by surprise, so enamored with Ryne's heartfelt words that they could not envision a chorus transforming into a choir.
The Scions turn to see Lyna, holding her arms in the usual Crystarium salute. Lyna bows her head in acknowledgement. Her professional demeanor does well to mask her sadness. At least, to most untrained eyes. The Exarch knows better than that.
Ardbert wonders how it feels to bear witness to one's own eulogy. Here is the Exarch's spirit, just as Ardbert, an illusion unable to reach anyone in his sight. Unable to comfort them, correct them, console them.
But the Exarch is silent, his head tilted to his chest. The Exarch’s eyes grow teary, though he tries to contain himself as if the citizens of the Crystarium can see right through to his soul. This is the act of saying goodbye for the last time, even if that goodbye the Exarch could not deliver himself.
Ardbert lifts the Exarch's chin and turns his face towards his own, wiping the stray tears from his cheeks. The Exarch’s lips purse for a second, ready to whisper a ‘thank you’, before losing the words in his throat. He’s taken aback. Ardbert too. Gods forsaken, what's gotten into him anyways? Has he fooled himself into thinking this means anything? Has he fooled himself into thinking this will last? He can't substitute whatever closeness this is for something real.
As Ardbert pulls away, the Exarch dries the rest of his tears himself. "My apologies," he says. "Truly I should not worry for them. Nor Lyna, most of all. She will carry forward, strong on her own."
That she will. Alongside all of the Crystarium under the Exarch's legacy.
Ardbert looks back at his hand like it's been sullied. He wonders if the Warrior of Darkness too is privy to his and the Exarch's musings.
Silently, he hopes that they aren't, that they can't hear him. He only asks for so much, that one part of his feelings remain a secret. That he has one last thing to make him truly feel alone.
Spare him the embarrassment otherwise.
***
revenant’s toll, mor dhona.
If encounters can indeed be one-sided, Ardbert finds the Exarch again on the Source.
He has never seen the younger Exarch—G'raha Tia, Ardbert corrects himself—before. Shades of G'raha exist in the Warrior of Darkness's memories. The Warrior of Darkness would ramble stories to Ardbert late into the night, on the nights that they could not sleep. They always spoke fondly of their memories from the Crystal Tower, the young G'raha sealed away in its depths. Those images are not of a valiant leader, but rather a reckless child. Someone who tried to be bigger than himself, only to fall back down after every step he took upwards. Loathe he is to admit it, Ardbert was no different. Even now, he can't stop falling.
This G'raha is both and neither at the same time. Despite the relative sameness, there is something about his younger self that's alluring. He smiles without the weight of two worlds bearing down on him. He moves without the bindings of the Crystal Tower around his body. It wasn't that long ago that Ardbert remembers G'raha's body encased in crystal, a statue preserved on the First for eternity.
Softer, gentler, warmer now. G'raha restored to his full self, not confined to an existence of being half-alive.
Maybe part of Ardbert's love is jealousy too? Jealousy for a second chance that he could not be afforded.
The Warrior of Darkness's heart—or is it his own heart—flutters again as they call G'raha by his name. G’raha blushes, his ears twitching from excitement and tail swishing as if he were a child, overjoyed. Not that Ardbert can blame him. The Warrior of Darkness held G'raha to his promises. Even mere days after being restored and returned to the Source, the call for adventure can’t wait. The Warrior of Darkness and G’raha look at each other, a greatsword in one hand and a staff in the other, sprinting towards the markets.
As evening falls, a familiar purple haze envelopes Mor Dhona. The sky, though different from home, collapses towards a central point of light, that which is all too familiar to Ardbert now. The Crystal Tower, where it begins and ends and begins again.