Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun sinks.

Filtering through the window of the inn room, a warm orange light comes to tease at his eyes, tearing them from the journal on his desk. He takes a moment to reflect, a pause in the rumbling mess of his thoughts—before putting his quill to rest. Yes, perhaps it was time to stop. After all, he had been shut in here for hours now, as putting his feelings into words wasn’t really something he was very good at.

This journal was something he had been working on for a long time now, and yet he still couldn’t get used to it. He had always been better at showing what he felt, through attention and smiles and affectionate gestures, or in the heat of battle where his knuckles and his scythe did the talking in his stead. His emotions were always so vivid, so sharp, the slice of a knife on bare skin; but when came the time to confide in others, everything seemed to escape him, like sand through his fingers. That is why he mostly kept to himself. Even the Scions, who were by now his closest allies, didn’t know what was going on inside of his head. It didn’t stop them from trying of course, in spite of how bloody stubborn he was. Had he still been on the First, he would have been mere seconds away from a certain red-haired pixie appearing out of thin air to scold him for not asking for help when he needed to.

But here and now, back on the Source, he was simply alone with his thoughts, with no one to keep him in check. No one to slow him down when he would once again throw himself on the frontlines, as everyone expected the Warrior of Light—and the Warrior of Darkness—to do.

There was someone who could, once.

Without even him realizing, a bitter smile comes to tug at his lips. It’s still...a bit hard to come to terms with this. It had been so long since it all began, since he first came across the left-behind corpse in the Brume. With a Soul Crystal in hand, and a voice who wanted nothing more than to be heard echoing in the depths of his mind. With the clashing of swords, and a hand reaching out in acceptance. Then it continued, with inerasable guilt, and a sin he could never atone for. With a compromise; and, ultimately, forgiveness. It had been so long, but each and every moment they had been together was carved deep inside his heart.

So it should be alright, shouldn’t it? Because you said so—because we said so, Rhem’ir. This was their closure, their final farewell to each other, a flower offered in memory of a memory; one soul mended, able to finally move forward.

So why was he still feeling this empty…?

He breathes out, trying to make sense of this haze of oh-so-familiar doubt. Maybe a slight twinge of anger, too. Emotions he had pushed away for too long. He now knows not to ignore them, to accept them as they are—because they were always part of him. Just like the both of them were. And yet, it feels so hard to face all of this now without the warm, comforting darkness inside of his heart. One that had always understood him better than anyone else—because of course it would. Of course he would.

There is, however, something he can still do.

It’s foolish. Nothing but a sleight of hand, a “little trick he learned” to put it in his own words, written in shakily scribbled words on one page of his journal, but it is more than enough to his eyes. Without a word, he grabs in the palm of his hand the heart-shaped Soul Crystal resting upon his desk. Hold the crystal close. His eyelids fall shut—and, as if tearing his own heart out of his chest, he reaches in. Calls out. And soon enough, around his hand swirls a familiar darkness. Black, red and violet enveloping him like a warm embrace, though not quite the one he is looking for. The darkness seeps at his feet, draws sigils and runes upon the floor; then finally, coils in a circle, from which emerges a well-known shape, clad in black.

The living shadow does not move, merely staring at him, a yellow stare piercing right through his silver eyes. On the battlefield, he would fight by his side, mirroring his every move, as if their hearts were beating as one. But here and now...it’s different. It’s always been different, hasn’t it? When the Scions had questioned him about this strange shadow, he had given them a name—Esteem—to reason it as but a battle skill, so they wouldn’t inquire too much. He wasn’t sure they could understand. Even his fellow Dark Knight did not manage to, though he did not bear any judgment. He was grateful to him for this, though.

But in his heart, it always was another.

The name flies off his lips, but nothing happens. A spark in the Warrior of Light’s eyes seems to fade a little, and his gaze falls to the floor. He was expecting this result. Snap out of it, Rhem’ir. It was as his other self said. I don’t know if we’ll do this again—if we ever do this again. So, perhaps, it was a bit childish to put so much hope in such a comforting, fleeting belief. After all, he knew, more than anyone, that they had reached their closure.

And yet.

Yet, the sound of clinking metal plates reaches his ears, as he feels something upon his chest. A hand, shrouded in darkness, placed upon it. And maybe, just maybe, the hint of a smile, and the kind flicker of a yellow gaze. He nearly chokes on his own breath: this is something he had never seen the shadow do, despite having fought alongside him for so long. This is something...that shouldn’t be happening. But—

Ah, but now, he understands. No—he knew, all along. This is exactly what Sidurgu told him.

“Who he was to you, though… Well. You’d know better than me.”

A smile lights up his face.

It won’t change what we had.

Chapter Text

His breath comes out in ragged whispers, lungs rattling against his ribcage with every swing of his scythe. There is no other moment where he—where they feel more alive, blood boiling in their veins with each strike they deal, with every cut, every gash inflicted on their target. It may just be training, but to their eyes, training ought to be taken as seriously as a true battle. After all, who would they be if they did not put their all into combat—into protecting those they held dear?

Well, they surely would not be Dark Knights, wouldn’t they?

Another slash drawing an arc above his head, and the striking dummy gives out with the sound of tinkling metal and creaking bark. It, however, does not break, and he has to feel grateful for these things being so sturdy. Living targets sometimes did not last as long when you needed them to. A shame, truly.

One step back, and he lays down his weapon next to him, blade against the ground. This seemed the right moment to take a break: as much as they enjoyed fighting, they couldn’t let themselves overdo it either. This was, after all, the very first reason why he was here. To keep an eye on the self-sacrificing idiot that was the Warrior of Light. Hadn’t he been there to hold him back from saying yes to every single ridiculous request he had been approached for, he probably would have died a long time ago.

But though he was a self-sacrificing idiot, he was his self-sacrificing idiot.

He closes his eyes, and breathes in. Both Rhem’ir and Myste were reckless fools, and they certainly deserved a good slap on the head most of the time, but in the end, they wouldn’t be complete without one another. The blue-haired boy had put it best: where else would they go?

Who else could they love.

Lost in thought, the knight doesn’t notice the screeching sound of a door opening, and of hesitant yet curious footsteps heading in his direction. It’s only a few seconds before the intruder reaches their destination that something finally clicks—how could he let his guard down; and with a simple flick of the wrist, eyes sharp, he swings the scythe by his side in their direction, ready to strike if the situation demanded it.

However, said intruder definitely wasn’t someone he needed to defend himself against.

He meets with the youthful face of a young Miqo’te, visibly bewildered by how one of his “friends” suddenly attacked him, given how red his cheeks were. Confusion is clear in his eyes—or at least, the one eye not concealed behind the black eyepatch he was wearing at all times.

“Ah, haha, hello, mister Fray–”

The Keeper throws him a nervous smile, which he gauges to be an attempt at making the situation...less awkward. Which, really, made it so even more. The knight sighs, before lowering his weapon.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be around at this hour. How did you guess it was me?”

The youth soon returns to a more composed posture, tail slowly swinging back and forth, though he is not quite sure why.

“It’s your eyes—well, both the color and the look in them.”

The Dark Knight sighs. He was right: his eyes suddenly turning gold when he was in control of their body wasn’t exactly very subtle. Yet, few were those in Rhem’ir’s acquaintances who actually knew—that, or they were aware, and chose not to snoop around, which he was grateful for. He didn’t need any more troublemakers asking what was going on; though he guessed it was their way of caring for him. All in all, the only one who was fully familiar with the Warrior of Light’s darkside—who had seen him when he was one, and when he was two—was the Miqo’te in front of him.

“...Fair. Sorry for earlier, Ihsa’to.”
“Oh, uh, it’s alright! It counts as, um, self-defense I guess?” he reasons, perhaps a bit too optimistically.

When Rhem’ir wasn’t busy liberating countries or saving parallel worlds, he had found respite away from his usual activities with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn in a small guild of adventurers who had rapidly welcomed him, as he was doing quick and efficient work. Sure, they had been a bit startled when they realized that the Warrior of Light himself was part of their free company; but this had not changed the way they were treating him at all. Of this, Fray was appreciative: he did not need more people to feed his other self’s stupid hero complex. Ihsa’to was one of the company’s newest and youngest recruits: a young Dragoon clearly inexperienced, and still unused to the battlefield. And as it happened, he and Rhem’ir had quickly become good friends—which made the Warrior really happy. Fray, a bit less so.

Mostly because the two Miqo’tes were so stupidly similar it hurt.

Both were way too gentle—or dumb, depends on the point of view—for their own good, and had this Twelveforsaken habit of rushing to help everyone in need at the cost of their own health and safety. He had given enough with Rhem’ir, before coming to the conclusion that it was in his very nature, and he couldn’t stop him from...being himself, really. And yet, he couldn’t help but care, if only a little, about the young Miqo’te—specifically because of this resemblance. That, and Rhem’ir wouldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to him. So he wouldn’t forgive himself, either.

Thinking back on it, it’s this exact feeling that revealed his existence to the Keeper, one day when his desire to help had led him into trouble, and nearly left him gravely wounded. When Fray, in control that time to let his other self rest after coming back from the First, suddenly exploded in anger, chiding him for putting his life in danger for the sake of good-for-nothings who wouldn’t even do their own jobs. Thankfully, he had been alone with Ihsa’to that time, as this behavior was...extremely out of character, to put it lightly. And though Fray attempted to brush it away, the youth still seemed worried—so his other self didn’t have it in him to leave him without answers.

Strangely enough, he had been very comprehensive—though he couldn’t exactly wrap his head around it all, but this was enough for the both of them. A tad heartwarming, too. Fray had to admit: he was glad that Ihsa’to was the one to enter earlier, and not anyone else from the guild. It was less to explain, and pretending to mimic Rhem’ir’s behavior and personality was something infinitely tiring. Mainly because he wouldn’t bear with half the bullshite the Warrior of Light was dealing with.

“Is there anything wrong?”

The Dark Knight puts his thoughts to rest and turns around, noticing the younger Miqo’te fiddling around with his spear, ears twitching on top of his head. At the call, he looks up, his face lighting up with a confused, but warm smile.

“No, no, everything’s okay! I was just wondering if I was bothering you. I...thought I wouldn’t see you again, after what Rem told me.”

He pauses, and Fray once again loses himself in his reflections. That’s right. It was supposed to be their closure, wasn’t it? He wasn’t expecting to ever manifest again, especially not in his usual way. And yet, stubborn as he was, his other self had found a way to be at peace with his feelings, while not wanting to forget everything they had gone through together. This compromise led to him sometimes giving the reins of his body to Fray—willingly—for a short while, usually when he was alone, so he could rest a little. One could call it self-indulgent, but he guessed that sometimes, such was alright.

“It’s...complicated. Sometimes, he just needs it, so I show up. Though really we’re the same, so I’m always here in a way. But there’s no need to overthink this—and you’re not bothering.”

A small spark dashes through the Miqo’te’s visible eye, his glance landing on the training dummy in front of them as his tail starts wagging behind him.

“You were training, right? I came here to do that too, so… Would you want to spar together?”

Heh. He expected that question. Both Keepers often practiced together, after Ihsa’to asked his senior to help him get better. Rhem’ir could obviously never refuse a demand for help, especially if it involved fighting. And while Fray was a bit different when it came to guidance—sparring was definitely in his strongest points.

Now, there is no need to reply, is it? He doesn’t waste a second, and takes a few steps back, readying his scythe. A slight grin flashes over his face when he notices the youth’s grip around his spear getting tighter.

“Don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

A pale shade of pink tints the Miqo’te’s cheeks, and his tail wags faster. As soft as he looks, this kid can show himself to be surprisingly battle-hungry, doesn’t he? It’s far from being surprising at this point, but it is small things such as these that made he and Rhem’ir so close.

“Got it!”

His stance swiftly changes as he clutches his lance tight—and he rushes forward.

Fray barely has the time to blink and back off that already the Dragoon lands in front of him, his blade striking the floor with unexpected strength. Yet, all this does is rip a smirk from the Dark Knight: he seems to have learned well. His strikes weren’t as bold the last time they fought, he recalls. This is good. The more intense their fight is, the stronger he’ll become...and the more alive he and Rem will feel. There is no time for more contemplations however, as his opponent continues his charge, each blow fiercer than the first. Albeit having only seen and felt them through his other self’s eyes, he recognizes each attack Ihsa’to throws at him, making it slightly easier for him to dodge them. A split second is all he needs to sidestep a blow directly aimed at his stomach, which gives him space to retaliate and send a stream of shadow in his unvoluntary pupil’s direction. Though dodged, Fray doesn’t let up and, drinking from the dark aura permeating his body, infuses his scythe with swirling darkness and leaps in the air, intent on knocking him down.

Metal collides with metal, scythe clashes against spear as the younger Keeper winces when darkness burns around him but blocks his blow, then the next, then the next; and it repeats, resonates louder and louder in a storm of cherry blossom petals, until he leaps backwards. Ready to chase, the knight gets in position to plunge ahead, but something catches his eye. A quick glance at his foe’s stance gives away his next attack—and he realizes that this is the perfect opportunity to end it.

The Dragoon leaps—touches down so close their gazes cross, and smiles as his blow lands, ready to bounce back to return to his initial position.

And Fray strikes, sweeping his legs with a swing of his weapon.

Ihsa’to falls at once, his back brutally hitting the ground, and he lets out a yelp of pain. His hands reach towards the floor, in a desperate attempt to get back on his feet. Fray, however, doesn’t give him the time to do so—

—and the blade of his scythe strikes ilms away from his cheek, coming to nest on the wooden flooring, leaving a visible dent in the planks.

The young Miqo’te’s face instantly flushes red.

“It’s my win,” the Dark Knight declares, grinning.

His pupil stares at him in disbelief, blinking once, twice; before a bright, yet slightly saddened smile comes to draw itself upon his lips. He attempts to get back up—only to stop at the sight of Fray’s outstretched hand.

“Get up. You’ve fought well enough. Let’s take a break.”

***

“You really are strong, mister Fray. I guess that’s what a Dark Knight is supposed to be like.”
“Depends. Most of the work comes from Rem, but you’re...not exactly wrong.”

Fray turns towards his unwilling companion, and takes a moment to observe him. His breathing is rough, and he still has troubles to regain his composure. It’s clear that he’s not used to fighting this intensely, but this is good. He’ll get used to it soon enough—just like they did, eventually. And to be entirely fair, the kid wouldn’t make that bad of a Dark Knight. He has what it takes, after all. To drink deep of the darkness in the abyss to protect those you hold dear.

“I take it that it’s the same for...uh, the other one...”
“Myste.”
“Yes, sorry–”
“No need to apologize. He isn’t much of a fighter, but he...did cause his fair share of trouble. But in the end...he’s still a part of Rem, and a part of me. I—we couldn’t bring ourselves to hate him for it...not entirely.”

The young Dragoon chuckles, for a reason that seems to escape him.

“It’s still a bit hard to understand, but...you’re kinda like family, in a way.”

He pauses. Family...was still a notion rather foreign, to him. He knows vaguely of it, through warmth and memories he has seen through Rhemir’s eyes, through the days he spent in the depths of his heart as he traveled alongside the Scions, through the hardships of Sidurgu and Rielle, and the moments shared with the guild. There...maybe, is more—but it is something he would rather not touch upon. Memories that are better left behind.

“I suppose you could say this. It’s not quite the same, but both Myste and Rem certainly are akin to troublesome younger brothers.”

And he surely isn’t the only one—he nearly spills out loud, staring at the Miqo’te next to him, who was currently busy looking outside the window, eerily distressed.

“Ah, I didn’t notice the hour—I should get going. Thank you for training with me, mister Fray! I’ll, uh, repay you for your kindness the next time I see you!” he stammers, already making his way towards the exit of the training room.

“Ihsa’to.”

The youth looks back, ears instantly perking up at the sound of his name.

“Take care of Rem for me, won’t you? ...You’re family too, after all.”

He stops in his tracks, a mixture of confusion and gratefulness showing on his traits.

“I definitely will!”

And so he leaves, the spark in his eyes shining as brightly as ever. Left alone in the training room, Fray sighs. Family, huh.

They may be fools, but—they are his fools.

He wouldn’t trade them for anyone else.