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The first emperor of Garlemald lay on his deadbed. Everyone knew it. The chirurgeon administering medicine knew it; the attendant in charge of changing the emperor's clothes and bedding knew it; the emperor's progeny knew it, and had gone to war over who would get to inherit the throne.
If the emperor himself knew it, he had not bothered doing anything to prepare for his demise. Even after the war of succession had been reported to him, he had remained silent when asked if he wished to name an heir.
The ministers had not brought it up again, for fear of facing his ire. Even as an old man, the emperor commanded no small amount of respect and, as it were, fear.
It was for this reason that none of them dared to bat an eye when the emperor sat up straight one day and demanded a scribe to dictate one final edict. Some of them had to try very hard to retain control over their features when they heard what it was, however.
Afterwards, hushed debates well away from the emperor's bedchambers erupted over the question of whether his mental faculties had finally succumbed to old age. But of course, the ministers implemented the edict anyroad.
Who would possibly disobey the founder of the Garlean Empire?
A short but otherwise indeterminate amount of time later, a courier clad in carefully chosen neutral clothing arrived in Revenant's Toll, Mor Dhona, bearing an unassuming satchel that nonetheless contained a very important missive. She had been told where the Rising Stones building was located, and thus strode confidently through the streets, past the Aetheryte and then into the bar whose backdoor lead into the headquarters of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.
The question whether to simply barge in and deliver her message or to wait and make a more polite entrance lingered on her mind. She had no delusions about how welcome she, a messenger straight from the Garlean Empire, was in this place. If she entered without invitation or preparation, she would likely not be allowed or able to leave once they'd read her missive.
On the other hand, she had been instructed to deliver it as soon as she possibly could. There was no saying when one of the Scions would show up for her to speak to. Was it alright to wait?
The decision was taken out of her hand by the backdoor opening and revealing a Xaela accompanied by an Elezen youth. The vaunted Warrior of Light; no other possibility. Au Ra were rare enough in Eorzea that the odds of another being part of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were astronomically low.
A bead of sweat trickled down the messenger's forehead. Like everyone else in the Empire's capital, she'd heard the stories of what the Warrior of Light had done to the Black Wolf's troops. Some of it was almost certainly embellished, but still: If he wanted to, he could reduce her to ashes with nothing more than a few words.
He didn't, of course. The bar was filled with patrons. To him, she wouldn't appear as anything other than one of them, at least until she stepped into his path.
“Can we help you?“ the Elezen youths said.
“I have a message for the Warrior of Light.“
The Xaela raised an eyebrow, but took the missive anyway, opened it, read it once, looked up, then down again before reading it a second time, then finally handed the paper to his companion. His reaction looked much the same.
“I think you should come inside and explain,“ the Warrior of Light said at last.
“Let me get this straight,“ Papalymo said. “The Emperor of Garlemald has transferred ownership of the royal palace to Sorkhatu. The Warrior of Light.“
“Yes,“ the messenger said.
“Effective immediately.“
“Yes.“
“With no regards that the empire and Eorzea presently remain at war.“
“Apparently so.“
Papalymo leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What kind of ridiculous trap is this?“
The Scions had gathered at the large table in the main room of the Rising Stones. The courier sat in front of them, visibly uncomfortable but nonetheless answering their questions dutifully. The Scions, for their part, had varying reactions to the matter at hand. While Y'shtola had retained a composed face, Thancred's eyebrows had climbed higher and higher the more the courier spoke. Yda, predictably, had cracked a joke about upstaging the newly crowned emperor Varis zos Galvus, a notion the messenger had responded to with a wide-eyed headshake. Urianger had said nothing, and what little of his face was visible betrayed naught of what he thought. Minfilia, for her part, simply looked worried, while Alphinaud seemed to be staring at the table as if deep in thought, finger on his chin.
The Warrior of Light himself gave no outward sign as to what he was feeling.
“The pronouncement was legitimate,“ the courier said. “I won't claim to understand what His Radiance the late emperor, bless his name, was thinking, but the palace does legally belong to the Warrior of Light now.“
“And why would the new emperor not simply declare that he does not?“ Y'shtola asked. “If it was within the previous emperor's power to simply sign the palace away to someone else, surely he can do the same in his favour.“
The courier nodded. “He could attempt that, yes. However, you may be unaware of the particular status His Radiance the late emperor holds within Garlemald. To go against his will, even after his death, would be tantamount to treason.“
Silence settled over the room as the Scions processed that piece of information.
Thancred was the one to speak up first. “Well, what could he be planning, then? If this is a trap, he must think little of our mental faculties. If it is not, I could not begin to guess his aims.“
“The Alliance's intelligence suggesteth that the emperor doth perchance not feel much love for his progeny. The civil war plaguing the empire until very recently hath come about due to his refusing to name his successor.“
All eyes turned to Urianger.
“I would not claim to know his will anymore than thee, Master Thancred. However, in absence of all other explanations, might we not consider that he wished to spite his heirs in the twilight years of his life? That he cared not for what happened to the empire itself after his passing?“
“The fact remains,“ Y'shtola said, “that our Warrior of Light has been granted an invitation into the enemy's heartlands, genuine or not. We must needs decide what to do with that.“
“We could use this to our advantage,“ Alphinaud said.
“We cannot risk it,“ Minfilia said at the same time.
They looked at each other.
“We—“ Alphinaud started, before looking over at the courier. “Perhaps you should wait outside for a while. I'm sure we can find someone to supervise you for a time.“
Once the courier had left, the Scions resumed their conversation. Alphinaud cleared his throat. “Though we have scored a decisive victory against the empire in vanquishing Gaius van Baelsar, I think I speak for all of us when I say this is no time to rest on our laurels. We have been given the opportunity to gather intel we could not have dreamt of, intel that may well decide the outcome of this war.“
“As will losing the Warrior of Light, but not in our favour.“ Papalymo crossed his arms. “'Tis far too clearly a trap, and I for one don't plan on walking into it.“
Minfilia slowly nodded. “I'm afraid I agree with Papalymo. It is too risky.“
The debate raged back and forth for a while, covering topics such as the kind of secrets they might learned, what exactly the loss of the Warrior of Light would do to morale and the protection of Eorzea, how they would deal with the primal threat in his absence—
Sorkhatu—Warrior of Light, Saviour of Eorzea, Slayer of Primals and a host of other titles he did not care much for—listened to them speak silently.
Perhaps in a different timeline, he would have stayed silent. He'd slid into this role more by coincidence than desire, and had so far deferred to what the others had thought best, as long as it left him with enough time to conduct his research on magicks. What compelled him to speak up now, he couldn't quite tell. Maybe it was the way they talked about him as if he wasn't even there. Maybe it was the desire to learn more about the Garleans—his curiosity extended beyond magic, after all.
Either way, during a brief lull in the discussion, he leaned forward and said: “I'll go,“ altering the course of fate forever.
It took some more negotiating and planning, in the end. An honour guard was assembled from the Alliance's soldiers. Alphinaud had requested to come, but his own responsibilities with regards to the Crystal Braves kept him tied up in Eorzea and opened the spot up to someone else. After much heated discussion, a decision had still not been reached as to which Scion would abdicate their responsibilities and accompany Sorkhatu.
“Then just stay here,“ Sorkhatu eventually said. “If my strength isn't enough, then there isn't anything you will be able to do either.“
The comment prompted more debates, but eventually even Minfilia withdrew her objections and assented to allowing Sorkhatu to go alone.
Hasty negotiations with the empire followed, arranging a temporary peace treaty to allow Eorzea's new official ambassador entry to the empire's heartlands, thereby removing the last barrier to Sorkhatu's departure for Garlemald. The Alliance wanted information; what the empire wanted was anybody's guess. The Scions, for their part, mainly wanted their champion to return safely.
And Sorkhatu? Sorkhatu wanted to sate his curiosity.
The reception awaiting him in Garlemald was spectacular indeed. Rows upon rows of soldiers clad in gala uniforms, though most of them were unarmed, a gesture of goodwill Sorkhatu had not expected. They formed a half-circle around the airship dock. The emperor had personally come out to greet them. He stood in front of his soldiers, head held high beneath a crown that spiked up towards the ceiling.
He also looked as if he had been forced to swallow a restaurant's supply's worth of lemons, Sorkhatu noted as he approached, his own honour guard in tow. Not particularly surprising, given the circumstances.
“Your Radiance,“ Sorkhatu said. Cid had instructed him to use the title before he'd departed, lest he offend his host right off the bat. Or was Sorkhatu the host, now that he apparently owned the palace? What a strange situation.
“Warrior of Light,“ emperor Varis responded. An awkward moment of silence descended upon them before he continued, “Allow me to show you… your palace.“
“By all means,“ Sorkhatu said. It was his now, after all, and there was nothing to be gained from standing out here; neither the information the Alliance wanted, nor the knowledge he was after.
The march to the palace from the airship provided him with an up-close and personal look of Garlemald's streets, not that they were much to look at. Steel buildings, steel lanterns, steel walkways; it was as monotonous as it looked cold. Of more interest were the people who came to watch… but he did not have the leisure to stop and examine them in detail, much less speak to them.
Perhaps later. Or perhaps not; it all depended on what would transpire in the palace.
The ominous spires of said palace loomed in the distance, stark against the red sky of a setting sun. This far north, it grew dark early, especially in this time of year. Pitch black spikes extending out from the bulk of the palace seemed to pierce the very heavens themselves.
Someone else might have been intimidated. Sorkhatu, knowing he could level the structure if he really wanted to, was not.
Emperor Varis remained silent the entire way; a breach of hospitality, surely, but Sorkhatu preferred it. Making nice with someone he knew loathed his existence was hardly his idea of a fun pastime. If they could drop the pretenses and speak frankly once they had sufficient privacy, perhaps they'd actually get somewhere in figuring out just what the late emperor had been plotting.
The palace gates fell shut behind him with a resounding clang. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the steel floor, an unpleasant noise that seemed to make his horns vibrate on their own. They ought to consider installing carpets…
...hm. Could he order that? He shelved the idea for later, when the lines had been drawn and the situation clarified.
“I've prepared a sitting room,“ Varis said, the first words he had spoken since his greeting. “Surely I speak for both of us when I say we have much to discuss.“
“I dare say that's an understatement.“ Sorkhatu craned his head to look at him. His face expression hadn't changed one bit. If anything, his frown had deepened even further. How bitter it must be for him to have clawed his way to the throne, only for his late grandfather to pull the rug out from under him.
Sorkhatu wasn't inclined to feel very sorry for him. Intel had indicated that his ascension to the throne would not mark a change in the empire's foreign policy, and if that was the case, any wrench thrown into his operations were a boon.
A number of corridors and staircases later, Sorkhatu did not think he'd be able to find his way back and Varis unceremoniously opened an unassuming door and waved Sorkhatu inside. The room was, as everything else in this place, clad in steel; even the furniture was made of it, though at least it had proper upholstery. It had the same grey hue as the metal, but still.
The magitek light illuminating the room seemed unnaturally bright after the gloomy dusk and the equally gloomy inside of the palace. Emperor Varis sat down and beckoned for Sorkhatu to do the same.
Sorkhatu decided not to call him out on still acting as if he owned the place. As he settled in on the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, he asked, “So? What was it your grandfather wanted to achieve with this stunt?“
“I had hoped you would enlighten me as to what he was plotting.“
Sorkhatu shrugged. “You'll walk away from here disappointed, I'm afraid. I know less than you, by all accounts.“ Not only had he never met the man, he also wasn't exactly well-educated on matters of Garlean royalty. Urianger's guess had been as good as any he would make, but it wasn't something he was keen on saying to Varis' face.
The scowl spreading over Varis' face was impressive, but before he could answer, the door burst open again. A man with long blonde hair and clad in bulky Garlean armor barged in and reached their seating arrangement with two long strides.
“Zenos?“ Varis said. “I did not give you permission to—“
“You are the Warrior of Light?“ the man called Zenos said. He towered over Sorkhatu head and shoulders. There was a sort of… hunger on his face, eagerness tempered with a deep need for something. His cold blue eyes seemed to be lit by an unseen flame, almost…
“Yes,“ Sorkhatu confirmed. Varis sputtered in the background, but for now he paid him no mind.
Zenos grabbed ahold of his wrist and pulled him up to his feet. “Then come with me. I shall see for yourself how far your vaunted strength goes.“
“Zenos!“ Varis' voice echoed through the room like a whip cracking against flesh, but Zenos paid it no mind as he dragged Sorkhatu off towards the door with such overwhelming strength and enthusiasm that there seemed to be little point in resisting.
“I suppose we'll be continuing this conversation later,“ Sorkhatu said. Varis half-stood up, then shook his head with a disgusted look on his face and plopped back down on the armchair instead of following them. Just as well. One Galvus was enough to deal with.
His honour guard, stationed outside, stepped forward as if to stop Zenos, but he waved them off. If what he had heard of the new emperor's son was true, there was little point in even having them try.
“You have bested the Black Wolf and his so-called Ultima Weapon,“ Zenos said as he pulled Sorkhatu through the corridors. He walked quickly—too much so for Sorkhatu on his shorter legs, who had to jog to keep up.
“So I have.“
Zenos' expression was difficult to read. The glance he cast at Sorkhatu was perhaps curiosity, or perhaps something else entirely. Maybe in the coming weeks before his return to Eorzea he would learn to decypher him a little.
For reasons he couldn't quite unravel, Sorkhatu found himself looking forward to it.
“Your specialty is magic, as I hear,“ Zenos drawled. “Tell me, then. What manner of spells did you bring to bear against van Baelsar?“
Somehow, he was the first person to ask. Knowledge of what exactly black magic entailed had trickled through to the public following the battle for Castrum Meridianum, which had been witnessed by enough Alliance soldiers that it would not have been possible to keep it a secret. The details had unsettled people enough that they had not bothered inquiring.
As he hurried down a flight of stairs a step behing Zenos, he answered, “The kind that eats through steel just as easily as it does through skin.“ The flames he commanded went far beyond those of the thaumaturges of Ul'dah. Theirs burned only as bright as any mundane flame, and no more. Lesser magic, if the measuring stick was sheer destruction.
Zenos' lips stretched into a feral grin. “I should like to witness that with my own eyes, and my own flesh.“
“It isn't a very pleasant feeling.“
“I shall be the judge of that.“
“Is that so,“ Sorkhatu said. Either Varis, who exuded stiff angry politician energy, had managed to raise a son very unlike himself, or he had gravely misjudged the man. Time would tell which one it was.
Zenos threw open a door and dragged him through, into an indoor training court. Overhead magitek light flickered on automatically, revealing racks with swords lining one wall, partly dismembered target dummies another. As with every other room in the castle, both walls and floor were made of steel; unlike the other rooms and corridors, however, they were chipped and charred. This was a well used place.
“You will show me what you are capable of here and now,“ Zenos said as he let go and walked over to the racks to retrieve a sword. It gleamed in the magitek light, and didn't at all look like a blunted practice blade.
“I'd rather refrain from causing a diplomatic incident over the Eorzean ambassador maiming the Garlean crown prince.“
“You have confidence,“ Zenos said. “But words are cheap. Prove yourself, Champion of Eorzea, or you will no longer need to worry about such trifles when I take off your head.“
“You realise such threats are a breach of our temporary treaty,“ Sorkhatu said.
“What do I care? I will have my prize, and none shall bar my path.“
How… refreshing. Sorkhatu found himself mirroring the feral smile Zenos still sported. It was a simple outlook on life, where the politics of entire nations and continents mattered little, and all importance lay on the struggle between life and death.
It was reminiscent of the Azim Steppe, in a way.
He reached for his staff. “Who am I to decline, then?“
Zenos did not grace him with a response before brandishing the sword and charging at him.
Despite his alarming speed, Sorkhatu stayed where he was as he reached out to the entity that floated between here and there, as he had always conceptualised it. It strained against him, as it always did. The slightest moment of weakness or inattention would spell his doom.
So would taking too long, in this situation.
A mere second before Zenos' sword reached his throat, the voidsent's aether flooded into his self. Forming it into a shield was difficult; it wanted to rend, tear, destroy, not protect, but he had more than enough experience to make it do what he needed.
Instead of connecting with soft skin and harder scales, the sword met with a nigh-impenetrable barrier and bounced off of it with a resounding clang. Zenos did not hesitate before changing the angle and trying again. Sorkhatu dispelled the shield, which would not have lasted another blow, and danced out of the way.
The voidsent aether surged of its own volition when he fanned its flames. If he let it, it would slip from his grasp and consume him and everything around himself. Instead, he directed it at Zenos. Flames exploded in every direction, and while Zenos adeptly dodged out of the centre of the explosion, stray sparks nonetheless collided with his armor. They sizzled on impact, eating deep into the alloy before sputtering out.
Not quite enough. The larger part of the flames had latched onto a spot on the floor and was uselessly burning a hole into it.
“You are… different,“ Zenos said in lieu of striking again, though he did not relax from his battle stance. He raised his free hand and examined the small craters on his gauntlet. “'Tis but cosmetic damage, but it is more than anyone else has managed in a long time...“
Sorkhatu didn't give him the time to muse. The second explosion went off where Zenos had stood but a moment ago, as if he had felt the oncoming aether.
“Let me show you the extent of my strength then!“ Zenos slashed at the air. Sorkhatu had about half a second to frown before he had to scramble out of the way of… a spell. It was the only way he had to describe the vertical blade of energy cutting through the empty space.
The second one caught him in the chest.
It tore through his clothing as if it wasn't even there and sliced deep into his flesh. The pain stole all breath from his longs. He fell backwards, pressing a hand on the bleeding gash in vain, and crashed to the ground. Somehow he managed to dispel the voidsent aether back to where it had come from before it could grow out of control. Nhaama… it felt as if he had been cleaved in two.
For a moment, the only sounds in the room were his wheezing breaths and Zenos' heavy footsteps. As Zenos grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked him up by it, Sorkhatu managed to choke out one single word.
“How?“
When Zenos didn't answer, he reached up with a trembling hand and grasped Zenos' gauntlet. “Tell me,“ he gasped, “how you did that.“ It had to have been a form of magic, but how? He was a fullblooded Garlean, he couldn't do that…
“Do you think you deserve an answer after that pitiful show?“
“If that wasn't enough for you,“ Sorkhatu said, then paused to wheeze another shallow breath. “Then I'll be sure to burn you to cinders next time, just as long as you tell me.“
Zenos peered down on him, face unreadable. An eternity seemed to pass before he spoke. “You are different. Weak, still, but different. I welcome you to try.“ He dropped Sorkhatu to the ground. “I will call the chirurgeons. See to it that you are better prepared next time.“
With that, he walked away.
True to his word, the chirurgeons soon came to treat his wound. After talking down his guard and preventing them from reporting the incident back to Eorzea and thus averting a major diplomatic crisis that would almost certainly have ended in all-out war, then enduring Varis' teeth-clenched apology and promise to discipline Zenos for his misdeeds, he could finally settle back in bed and breathe. The empire's healers were competent, but no magic could remove the painful ache deep in his chest that always came from wounds healing far too quickly for the body to cope with.
Approximately five minutes after he laid his head to rest on the pillow and closed his eyes, the door slammed open and Zenos marched into the room. He'd shed his armor in favour of what looked to be a parade uniform, though of a far finer make than the soldiers greeting him had worn.
“I'm not ready for a rematch yet,“ Sorkhatu said. “You'll have to wait a little longer.“ And he had to know it, so why had he come?
Instead of answering immediately, Zenos settled down on the bedside chair. His blonde locks swayed with the movement, cascading down his shoulders and back like threads of spun gold. He was really rather attractive.
And that was a thought he should not be having about the crown prince of Garlemald.
“I've had time to research the brand of magic you are said to have,“ Zenos finally responded, “and it hardly matches what I have witnessed. Whence does your power spring forth?“
“Figured that much out, didn't you?“
Zenos pulled out one of the gauntlets he'd worn during their battle. The little indentations where the sparks had eaten away at the metal were stark against the otherwise spotless surface. “Garlean armor is fortified against the use of magic. I went to see whether the records on thaumaturgy explained it—“
“It isn't thaumaturgy,“ Sorkhatu said. “You've got an error on your files if that is what you thought I was doing, though the disciplines look so similar to the casual observer that I'm not surprised.“
“What is it, then?“ There was a glimmer in Zenos' eyes which did not at all fit the reports of the apathetic, emotionless prince Sorkhatu had been given. Maybe Garlemald wasn't the only one with wrong files on the key players.
He smiled at Zenos. “Why should I tell you anything? So you can prepare counter strategies ahead of time? I think not.“
“I could make you talk.“
“Yes, and you would rob yourself of your rematch.“ Sorkhatu paused. “That being said, if you're willing to agree to a little quid pro quo, I wouldn't be averse to telling you more...“
“You want to know the source of my strength,“ Zenos said.
“Of course I do.“ With a stifled groan, Sorkhatu said up. Nhaama, that ached badly. “By all accounts, Garleans should not be able to use magic, which begs the question: Are the accounts wrong, or are you an aberration?“ That wasn't even getting into the rumours of experiments being conducted within Garlemald's laboratories, some of which had been corroborated by Cid. Had they tinkered with their own prince to turn him into the killing machine he was reputed to be?
Zenos observed him in silence for a moment before speaking. “Very well. You shall have the knowledge you seek, and in return you will tell me of these infernal flames you command.“
Infernal. That was a good way to describe it. It didn't feel particularly appropriate to tell Zenos of these things; black mages had ever been secretive, sticking to their own and forming secret orders, rather than disseminating their knowledge far and wide. The sheer scale of destruction they could wreak had ever been deemed too dangerous in the wrong hands, and had in turn often turned public opinion against them. Though being burned at stake lost some of its risks when one was able to command ice to smother any mundane flame, the risk of being overwhelmed by irate mobs remained too real to open up to the general public.
But then, he'd never exactly cared about doing what other black mages did, and he had ruined his reputation with them by becoming as visible a public figure as the Warrior of Light with his black magic anyroad.
“The secret is employing voidsent fiends,“ he said.
Once again, no reaction from Zenos. That in itself was unusual. Even the Scions had been somewhere between bewildered, disgusted and shocked when hearing about the source of his powers.
“By forming a pact with one of them—loosely speaking, it's rather more complicated than that in practice—one can gain access to their aether, which has destructive capabilities far beyond any energy source found in this world.“ It came at a price, of course; nothing of value ever did not. Loss of control remained a recurring nightmare for most black mages, and those who lacked the strength to extract what they needed without making too many concessions to the voidsent tended to meet with a terrible fate sooner or later.
“You build your power on servitude, then?“
“Not exactly,“ Sorkhatu said. “Not I. I used to, before, but my strength has grown enough that I no longer need to grovel to attain the power I need. My pact entails forced servitude for the voidsent rather than me.“ It was a thin line. The voidsent under his control had every reason and desire to see him perish in the most agonising way possible. However, that was still preferable to being forced to do a voidsent's bidding. Now more than ever. The Warrior of Light had too much responsible to be roped into their schemes.
Zenos hummed to himself. “And this voidsent aether is capable of bypassing the alloy our armor is coated in, I see… most interesting. And how vexing, that I cannot find out for myself what kind of strength such a pact brings...“
“So you can't just use magic,“ Sorkhatu said. “The limitations on your species persist.“
“Yes and no.“ Zenos pulled off the dress glove and tossed it aside. A scar covered his otherwise blemish-free skin—marred, some would have said. Sorkhatu did not think it distracted from his beauty. It did make him wonder where else he might sport scars.
“Watch,“ Zenos said as he withdrew a lightning-aspected crystal shard from his pocket and pushed it through the scar tissue. The aether around him hummed in its usual inaudible way as drops of blood trickled down his palm. When he grabbed a sword from the massive holster standing to his side, a faint glow enveloped the edge.
Sorkhatu inched away as far as he could without rising from the bed. Just in case something exploded. “I see you're either a genius or you have a death wish. Or perhaps both.“ How was he controlling it? His body should have been expelling aether uncontrollably, but somehow he appeared to be channelling it… did the Garleans' inability to control aether not extend to the aether that made up their bodies? But if that was the case, what stopped them from using ambient aether? Expelled like this, corporeal aether didn't differ much from that.
Whatever information he had wanted to find here could wait until he had unravelled the mystery that was Zenos yae Galvus.
“I've not yet felt any averse side effects,“ Zenos said. “Even if I had, I am not inclined to relinquish the sole method I have found thus far to mitigate our vexing biological deficiency.“
Reckless and irresponsible and indicative of a severe lack of self-preservation instinct.
Apparently, Zenos was more like him than he had thought.
“How do you control it?“
Zenos plucked the crystal from his hand and returned it to his pocket after wiping the blood off. “Instinct, I presume. I needed no instructions to learn it.“
“And you still can't control the aether around you? Can't feel it? Perceive it at all?“ Sorkhatu asked.
“I can not.“
How in the name of all sacred beings above had he not blown himself up already, if he did this on the regular? Sorkhatu grabbed his injured hand and pulled it close to examine the wound. Wisps of aether still remained, a faint lightning-aspected aura that he might not have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it. It was dispersing more slowly than it should be, but no more aether was leaking from the injury. He had not completely destabilised the aetheric composition of his body, at least.
“Does it tingle, or burn?“ he asked, poking at his fingers. Firm as flesh should be. No sign of disintegration, just callused, rough skin. What a large hand, too…
“The pain is negligible.“ Despite his dismissive tone, Zenos did not pull his hand away. A brief look at his face revealed that he was examining their joint hands just as intently as Sorkhatu was.
Would that he had the abilities of a healer. It was an area of magic Sorkhatu had always lagged behind so far that he had eventually given up and resigned himself to being an instrument of destruction and naught else. Now he lacked the expertise to do a more thorough examinations. If there were subtle instabilities in his blood, he would never be able to tell.
“Did you at least have your chirurgeons take a look?“
Amusement tinged Zenos' voice when he answered. “What cause do you have to show such concern? Any weakness on my end will work in your favour. Perhaps if I do damage my body, you will be able to put a scratch on me.“
“Rub it in, why don't you,“ Sorkhatu muttered. It had been embarrassing to lose like that. He'd underestimated Zenos and been caught off guard. It wouldn't happen again, if he had any say in the matter. “More importantly, I'd rather you stick around at least until I figured out how exactly you're doing this.“
Besides, his stay here in the imperial palace would be more interesting for Zenos' continued presence.
Despite his terrifying prowess with the sword, Zenos performed his sword drills with an almost religious dedication.
More importantly, however, he performed them shirtless.
Sorkhatu had settled down on a bench to the side of the training room; a different one, as workers were still trying to figure out how to restore the floor he had ruined with his spells. Zenos stood in the centre, eyes closed as he went through the exercises at an inhuman speed, the motions akin to something between a dance and a full-on sprint.
It was an appealing sight, to say the least. A handful of faded scars ran over his torso, which only added to his attractiveness.
“If you have time to stare,“ Zenos said without opening his eyes, “surely you have time to prepare for our rematch.“
“I'm not supposed to exercise just yet.“ The injury had healed, but it was wise to let the body rest a while after such intensive healing spells. That didn't mean he couldn't do anything, but at the same time, it wasn't all that likely that he'd find more refined black magic techniques in the public palace library, and they'd hardly let him enter the secret one they almost certainly maintained.
Zenos scoffed. “It is because you coddle yourself that you lost. If you had pushed yourself farther, mayhap you would have been able to dodge properly.“
Maybe. He had always preferred pursuits of the mind over training of the body. He didn't slack on the latter, exactly; living with the Buduga and their fondness for wrestling matches had laid the groundwork for it, and as the Warrior of Light even he couldn't solely rely on his spells. But in the end, it was true. He wasn't as strong or as fast as he possibly could be. Previously, he hadn't cared much about changing that. There were only so many hours in a day, and refining his spellwork would yield greater results… but perhaps he'd been wrong about that.
Perhaps it was time to change his routine a little.
Zenos turned the sword over in his hands and started a new exercise, a series of lightning-fast sword slashes that would shred the imaginary opponent in front of him to ribbons. With this much fine control over his body, he would make an excellent dancer.
“You could teach me the exercises you do,“ Sorkhatu said.
“What compels you to think I would do such a thing?“ Zenos briefly glanced at him before returning to his work.
“You want me to be strong. If I'm reading you correctly, the outcome of our next match means more to you than it does to me. In that case, why not speed the process up? I'll grow stronger for it.“ It would also give him added insight into the style Zenos used, which was wholly unfamiliar to Sorkhatu, and grant him an excuse to watch Zenos closely. A win-win situation, really.
Zenos, however, seemed less than enthused by the idea. “Do you expect me to stand around and tell you how to hold a sword? Walk you through the steps one by one? I had thought better of you than that. If you need such crutches, perhaps I was wrong in my assessment about you.“
How flattering to know he'd thought of him at least somewhat highly. “You caught me,“ Sorkhatu said. “What I really wanted was to gather data on how you battle, and ogle you some more.“
Somehow, that caught Zenos' attention. He lowered his sword and turned his head to to look at Sorkhatu. “And what would you do with that data?“
“As trite a saying as it is, knowledge really is power. The more I know about how you fight, the better I can counter it… or emulate it where it will benefit me.“ Whatever mystery lay under Zenos' strange rudimentary control of aether may well end up revealing new secrets and techniques to him. Unravel, understand, assimilate. The art of black magic was often also one of thievery.
Zenos regarded him in silence for a while. “I am not a merciful teacher.“
“I wasn't expecting you to be.“ In fact, it would have greatly surprised him. Part of him wondered if he was about to make a huge mistake, but he'd made the request and he wouldn't take it back.
“Meet me here when you are ready to stop coddling yourself.“
And it seemed that Zenos wouldn't let him even if he wanted to, anyroad.
And so it was that Sorkhatu found himself standing in the middle of the training room but a few days later, armed with a sword and the knowledge that he was likely about to enter a world of pain. This time they did use blunted practice blades, but Zenos was, without a doubt, capable of inflicting significant injury with those as well.
Warily, he shifted his grip on the sword. Zenos hadn't moved yet. That in itself was somewhat worrying. What was he waiting for?
Maybe for him to start. Or maybe not, but he was growing impatient.
Sword in hand, he advanced on Zenos; slowly, methodically. He wasn't one for rushing.
Zenos struck out abruptly. The compressed aether blew past Sorkhatu's face closely enough that he could feel it on his horns. The second and third he dodged as well. The fourth clipped his shoulder, though it didn't cut, and while he was trying to regain his balance, the fifth struck him right in the chest.
It didn't cut either. But it did steal the breath from his lungs and threw him backwards to the ground.
Zenos didn't follow up on the hit.
Coughing, Sorkhatu struggled back to his feet. “You're… agh… quiet today. Is aught amiss?“ Not that he had expected in-depth instructions or anything, but he hadn't said a single word since Sorkhatu had entered the room.
“You came here to learn, not to talk.“
“We can d—“ Sorkhatu scrambled out of the way of another attack. His ribs still ached from the last blow, but there was no time to stop and catch his breath. Zenos' onslaught was relentless, strike after strike that he often could only barely dodge, or not at all. It hardly gave him any time to observe what Zenos was doing with the aether.
A particularly forceful blow landed him flat on his back again eventually. He groaned. Oh, the bruises he would have from this tomorrow.
“Is this the extent of your abilities, then?“ Zenos asked. “How… disappointing. You did not even come close to landing a blow on me.“
“Did you expect me to? I'm not here to learn how to fight with the sword. I'm here to learn about you.“ Sorkhatu held out a hand. “Help me up?“
Zenos gazed at his hand. “The dead do not learn, and they have no need to rise. They sleep.“
There was an odd tone in his voice, something almost like… wistfulness? Another piece of the puzzle that was Zenos yae Galvus. Time to poke a little, maybe.
“Was this how you were trained?“ Sorkhatu asked. It seemed unlikely; this 'training method' wasn't well suited to teaching anyone who didn't already excel. On the other hand, he knew little and less about how Garlemald trained their own. He'd never thought to ask Cid.
“Yes,“ Zenos said.
“That explains a lot.“ Sorkhatu shook his head. Not that he had no experience with harsh teachers; the Steppe wasn't merciful either, and children were made to learn quickly. Still, this kind of beatdown was no way to learn. That wasn't a discussion he felt like having, however.
Zenos still made no move to help him up. Miser. Sorkhatu lowered his hand and got to his feet himself. “How about we turn the tables?“ he asked. “You're at the advantage if I try fighting with a sword. Throw yours away and see what happens when we go magic against magic.“
“Hardly a fair battle, as I cannot use magic without my swords.“ Zenos tossed the practice blade to the ground anyway. “Let us see what you can do. Perhaps you will put on a less embarrassing show.“
Sorkhatu followed suit and discarded his own sword, then grabbed his staff. Amazing what a confidence booster a more familiar weapon could provide.
He didn't call on the voidsent this time. Zenos had held back from dealing lethal blows, and so would he. The ambient aether would suffice.
In fact, it would do better than the voidsent aether for the trick he had in mind.
Flickering flames drove Zenos away temporarily, giving him enough time to coat the training room floor in slippery ice. Zenos slid to a halt and examined the ground under his feet.
“You're the one who has to move,“ Sorkhatu said.
“And you are forgetting that I grew up in the icy wasteland that is Garlemald.“
With his range so greatly restricted to the reach of his fists, Zenos certainly had a harder time closing in. The ice didn't seem to impede him much, but Sorkhatu had ever been a quick caster. Without the ability to make him interrupt his casts to dodge, Zenos could not close in as easily as he otherwise would have.
Still, he dodged the flames skillfully enough that he came closer bit by bit. Time for part two of his plan.
The aether that filled the ice reacted easily. Beneath Zenos, a spire of ice jutted upwards. He leapt out of the way and then somehow reacted quickly enough to also dance out of the way of another fireball. However, now faced with another attack Sorkhatu could conjur up quickly, he struggled to close the remaining distance.
At least until he broke off an icicle and threw it at Sorkhatu.
He'd expected some manner of attack and ducked out of the way, but the brief disruption in his concentration was enough. Zenos was on him before he could come up with anything to keep him out.
Zenos grabbed ahold of his wrist and twisted it until he had to relinquish his staff, then pulled him up by his collar. “You,“ he said, “are vexing. Utterly worthless in one regard, and yet possessing of untold potential in another. Why did you hold back?“
“You didn't use lethal force either. Will you let me go? This isn't what I meant when I asked you to pull me up.“
“I do not recall the last time anyone has been able to make me dance for so long,“ Zenos mused, without acknowledging Sorkhatu had even said anything. “But you have grown sloppy, too secure in your abilities. Had you lived up to your potential, such a transparent move would not have defeated you.“ He finally let go of his collar. “We will be repeating this every day until you have learned.“
“Fine by me,“ Sorkhatu said, “provided you give me your hand right now.“
“My—“
Sorkhatu grabbed his right hand and turned it over to examine the palm. The crystal was still jammed into it. Aether freely streamed past it, far more than such a tiny shard could ever have produced. His corporeal aether, leaking into the world.
“How do you feel?“ Sorkhatu asked. “Dizzy? Disoriented? Is your mind foggy?“
When he looked up, there was a spark in Zenos' eyes, and the corners of his lips were upturned. “I would have my chirurgeons disciplined and demoted for this behaviour. It is rare to find one with the courage to act like this towards me.“
Zenos had really warm hands. While he didn't seem the type to care about such things, his nails were well-cared for. Something that looked like a papercut (a type of minor injury Sorkhatu was exceedingly well acquainted with) ran along his index finger. What, if anything, was Zenos reading that had given him that?
“If you were bothered by it,“ he answered absentmindedly, trying to squash the distraction to get more of a feel for Zenos' aether, “you wouldn't let me hold your hand for so long. Besides, unlike your chirurgeons, I'm not your subordinate.“
“I could kill you with my bare hands.“
“And you won't, because you want something from me. Are you going to answer my question?“
“I am well,“ Zenos said after a moment. “It is as I said. I have not discovered any averse side effects in the years since I have first employed this technique. Did you not believe me the first time I said so?“
Sorkhatu had not yet found any irregularities within his aether either, beyond the steady stream emerging from the wound, but that wasn't nearly heavy enough to cause actual longterm damage. “I do find it hard to believe, but in the absence of any evidence to the contrary...“
He turned Zenos' hand over again. Still no irregularities. The back of his hand was smooth, unnmarked by scars or other imperfections. He had such long fingers…
“How long do you plan to keep looking, then?“
“Maybe just a little longer,“ Sorkhatu murmured. It wouldn't do any harm. He had no particular duties to attend to today, and though the Alliance would be expecting him to spend his hours trying to find information that would aid Eorzea against the Empire, well… they weren't here, were they?
The door barged open and a harried imperial staggered into the room. “L-Lord Zenos! I've been looking for you everywhere—“
The slight smile drained from Zenos' face. He turned around, in the process pulling his hand out of Sorkhatu's. “Speak, and I will judge whether you have a good enough reason to justify disturbing me.“
“Your Lord Father wanted to speak to you.“ The imperial warily eyed the swords laying on the ground, as if worried that Zenos would snatch one up and cut him down where he stood.
Zenos glanced at Sorkhatu. “I am busy.“
“Pardon—Pardon me, my lord, but your father said that there are to be no excuses...“
Was he going to obey? The tension between him and his father was plain to anyone who had ever laid eyes on them. But would Zenos go far enough to disobey the reigning emperor? How would Varis respond, if he did?
The answer to that would probably be as illuminating as it would be unpleasant to witness.
The silence stretched a little further than was comfortable before Zenos answered. “Hmph. Fine, if his lack of mental faculties once more requires my presence, then so be it. Now get out of my sight.“
The imperial scrambled to get out of his way as he headed for the exit, without so much as a word of goodbye to Sorkhatu.
For a moment, Sorkhatu stood and looked after Zenos. Then he shrugged and took a different turn to head to the library. There would be more opportunities for study and perhaps even handholding later.
Why was it that Zenos, out of all people, had sparked such curiosity and, dare he say it, even fondness in him? He didn't know, but he intended to find out.
It became something of a routine for them, after that day. Sorkhatu's conversations with Varis remained fruitless, as neither of them could figure out what exactly the previous emperor's aims had been. Any attempts at negotiating peace between Eorzea and Garlemald was equally doomed to fail; Varis seemed to have no intention of relinquishing his wrongheaded claims on other lands, and Sorkhatu was ill-equipped for such discussions.
By contrast, Sorkhatu had somehow grown to look forward to his daily beating at Zenos' hands. Partly it was because he could feel his body grow stronger from it; every day it appeared to grow a little easier to try and keep up with Zenos' unnatural speed. If nothing else, he would return to Eorzea more powerful than he had been.
The greater part of it, however, was what came after.
Sorkhatu had managed to talk him into eating lunch together one day; they had started later than on the other days, sparring well into the afternoon, and they had both needed the sustenance. Why not have it together? Zenos hadn't cared either way, but had agreed to order lunch for two into his suite.
Which was a rather interesting place, for a given definition of the word interesting.
“Throw them on the floor,“ Zenos had said when Sorkhatu had eyed the chairs which had been used as makeshift sword holders. “I've had them delivered for inspection, but they are worthless, each and every one of them.“
They weren't the only swords on display. Wall hangers, floor stands, some of them simply scattered about. They filled the entire suite, probably even the bedroom which Sorkhatu had not seen yet—everywhere but a small space surrounding the bookshelves lining half of a wall next to the large, south-facing windows.
Sorkhatu hadn't bothered giving an excuse before wandering over to study the titles. An entire section of the shelves was dedicated to nonfiction regarding swords; smithing, maintenance, usage, history, all well-represented.
The other section was a little less expected.
Rows upon rows of legends, myths, historical fiction, the great epics of nations—even some contemporary belles-lettres, though all concerned with heroes, from the sounds of it.
“I didn't take you for the type,“ Sorkhatu said. It did explain the papercut on his hand, if he spent his spare time reading through these.
“They're all pointless.“
Sorkhatu looked up. Zenos had remained seated where they had eaten, and now eyed the bookshelf with a dark look on his face.
“What do you mean?“
“What good are these stories?“ Zenos said. “Fancy stories that are naught more than lies...“
And yet, he still kept them. Sorkhatu looked at the book spines. They were clearly well-read while kept in good condition, the look of an old favourite one reread when the mood struck. Whence did such bitterness come?
“Do you have a particular favourite?“ he asked, instead of giving voice to his thoughts.
“I already said they are pointless. None of them are worth reading.“
“I disagree.“ Sorkhatu traced a finger across the spines and stopped at a compilation of old Garlean stories. Even more than the rest, it had clearly been read often. For a moment he lingered, wondering if he needed to ask permission first, then simply pulled it out of the shelf and let it fall open where it would.
Zenos didn't stop him, though Sorkhatu heard him scoff.
It was quite a tome, holding many stories. There would be no time to read all of it today, so he picked the one with the most interesting title: The Hunter on the Plains. Flipping through the pages, it appeared to be the story of a young man who had set out to hunt a great and terrible beast plaguing the Garlean lands, pursuing it tirelessly until he had it cornered and then finally vanquished it in an epic struggle, upon which he was finally able to return home, where he was received as a hero.
It was a classic tale, the likes of which could be found in almost any culture. This particular rendition of it was quite well-written, too.
“Do you see now?“ Zenos asked when Sorkhatu put the book down. “Meaningless drivel.“
“What makes you say so?“
“The heroes of eld, and the great tales told of them—and what do they amount to? Nothing. Even the stories purported to be true are nothing but fakes.“
Nothing but fakes? Hm… something of a picture was beginning to come together.
“Why do I even tell you this?“ Zenos continued. “If you cannot see it for yourself, then you are hopeless.“
Sorkhatu took the book back to the table and laid it down next to yet another sword. “Do you mind if I borrow this, then?“
“Keep it, for all I care.“
Maybe it was just Sorkhatu's own love for books speaking; maybe he was simply projecting. Either way, he didn't believe Zenos really meant it. If he truly thought these books were worthless, he would not have given them such a prominent spot in his bookshelves and taken such good care of them. He'd return it before it was time to leave.
That said, Zenos in a foul mood wasn't fun to be around. Time to change the subject to something else…
However, Zenos spoke up before he could. “What is your interest in these dusty old stories?“ he asked. “You—someone who has stood upon the battlefield time and again—should know better.“
“What does me having stood on the battlefield have to do with that?“
“Don't you see?“ There was an edge of frustration lacing Zenos' voice. “All of those promises these stories made are falsehoods. Empty words on the wind.“ He rose, began pacing. “I labour to believe that someone who has shown as much potential as you have, even if you still fail at living up to it, would not understand that.“
Promises, hm? Sorkhatu remained silent. He seemed in the mood for ranting. No need to interrupt, was there? Not when he was revealing so many intriguing facets.
“What could possibly compel you, the first person I have met to even begin to stand a chance, to show any interest in them?“
A chance at defeating him? Maybe one day. He certainly still had a ways to go, though with Zenos now training… or 'training' him, he had perhaps found a shortcut. Despite knowing that he power he commanded was substantial, however, the admission that he had been the first surprised him. So… had he been looking for his quarry all this time, then? Like the young man in the story, only to find that such a worthy foe did not seem to exist?
The picture that formed was that of a little boy who had pored over the ancient epics and imagined his life would turn out to be that grandiose… only to be disappointed upon finding out that that wasn't how the world worked.
Or maybe Sorkhatu was simply projecting.
“What made you read them before, then?“ he asked. Unwise to pry, perhaps… but Zenos was doing it too, after all.
“For someone so fond of demanding answers, you are quite reticent of providing them yourself.“
“In general? I don't know,“ Sorkhatu said. “I find them entertaining, I suppose. In this case, it is an attempt to learn more about you, beyond what you can do with a sword.“
“You make no sense to me,“ Zenos said bluntly.
“That makes two of us.“ Sorkhatu shrugged. “I've been trying to make sense of you ever since the day of my arrival. Nhaama knows why. We're enemies, and in the near future I will return to Eorzea and probably never come back here until it's time to take up arms against the empire. I had better improve enough until then, I suppose.“
That brought a ghost of a smile back to Zenos' face. He did seem to look forward to a proper battle to the death more than anything else. If only Sorkhatu could take him home to the Azim Steppe and introduce him to the Dotharl. He'd have a field day with them.
They continued talking for a little while afterwards, until they both went about their way, with the promise of meeting once again on the morrow.
“I see you have been getting along exceedingly well with my son,“ Varis said. He didn't look pleased with it, but then, he never seemed to look pleased with anything. It was hard to blame him. If Sorkhatu were in his position—duped by his own grandfather as part of what still seemed to be nothing more than a spiteful prank and saddled with a son who could not be anything other than exhausting from his perspective—he would have felt the same.
Since he wasn't in Varis' position, however, he had felt free to spend his free time with Zenos during the past two weeks.
“What can I say?“ Sorkhatu said to Varis. “The last thing I expected to find here in Garlemald was a friend, or some approximation thereof, but sometimes even I am wrong.“
“The feeling isn't mutual, I assure you.“
Sorkhatu raised an eyebrow at Varis.
“Zenos does not make friends,“ Varis said. “He never has. I doubt he ever will. What manner of interest he has in you I do not know; given the result of your 'sparring match', I would have expected him to lose interest immediately. He did not, but don't expect it to last.“
That didn't particularly match Sorkhatu's impression of a man who had increasingly grown excited over their sparring matches as Sorkhatu's skills grew in leaps and bounds. There had been one particular day just a few days ago when he had needed healer assistance; a minor scald that would have healed on its own, given time, but severe enough that waiting for that would have taken too long. He'd been ecstatic, afterwards, rambling at length about the fights they would have. It had almost been enough to call cute. Their sessions afterwards had also become commonplace. He'd coaxed more details out of Zenos, and had shared some about himself as well. It was the kind of relationship Sorkhatu would call friendship; a strange one, yes, one predicated on crossing blades (or magic, as it were), but a friendship nonetheless. There was no indication of Zenos losing interest anytime soon. If anything, his interest had only grown over the past days.
Sorkhatu leaned back and examined Varis. He'd seemed so very secure in his assumptions. Did he know something Sorkhatu didn't, or was he simply wrong? Either was possible. It wasn't as if Sorkhatu knew Zenos that well, but at the same time, father and son clearly got along like oil and water.
And why was he even saying any of this? Surely not because he held any love for Sorkhatu and wanted to protect him from disappointment.
“Are you sure?“ was the only thing he said in the end.
“I've watched him for over two decades, Warrior of Light,“ Varis snapped. “I dare say I have some experience in predicting what he will do, despite not knowing why it is he turned out that way. I have used naught but the same parenting methods used to raise me.“
Sorkhatu did not know what exactly these parenting methods entailed, but his time in Garlemald had given him something of a hunch. If he was right, that explained a lot about this entire family—and it sparked the tiniest hint of pity for Varis. But that was neither here nor there, and he doubted Varis would want such sentiments anyroad.
“I see. I'll be sure to keep your words in mind when we meet tomorrow.“
Varis pursed his lips. “And have you made any progress at all in between playing at friendship with my son?“
“No. I've never met your grandfather, and your countrymen are hardly reliable sources about him.“ They mostly praised his leadership bringing Garlemald into a new golden age. Zenos was of no help either; he just rambled about the man being a wretched fool. If any ideas on what had landed them in this absurd situation were to be brought up, it would have to be by Varis.
“I'm starting to think you coming here was entirely pointless.“ Varis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nor are you receptive to negotiating. This is a waste of time.“
Negotiations that started with one party demanding surrender of the other were rarely ever fruitful, but Sorkhatu refrained from pointing that out. “You won't have to waste your time much longer, then. My negotiated time here is almost up, after all.“
“At least there's that. Run along, then. Play some more with my fool of a son. If nothing else, you've kept him out of my hair for a while...“
Sorkhatu obliged. He could tell when he wasn't wanted, and in this particular case he had no intention of imposing.
“Say,“ Sorkhatu asked after swallowing another mouthful of a stew that was apparently a Garlean staple. “What happened between you and your father that he dislikes you so much? And you him?“
“He is a fool,“ Zenos said. “Plain and simple. I have grown weary of his antics over the years.“ His stew remained untouched. There were days when he didn't eat much during their shared lunch. Today was one of them, it seemed, and as always, it correlated with a low mood on Zenos' part.
“I can tell you are going to pester me with more questions.“ Despite the harsh words, Zenos' voice held no venom. “He is an irritant, nothing more. A fool whose aspirations for the empire distract me from my own, more important pursuits.“
“So what you're saying is, he makes you do your duties as crown prince.“ Not that Sorkhatu couldn't relate. He took his own duties more seriously than Zenos ever had, but the requests and occasional thinly veiled demands from the Alliance kept him from his studies more often than he liked. In an ideal world, he could devote himself to finding new methods to shackle voidsent, or to employ their aether, or to come up with devious new spells to throw at his enemies, if they so happened to seek him out.
But he didn't live in an ideal world. No matter how much the wanderlust might hit, no matter how much he didn't enjoy being a public figure, a celebrity even, he was needed and he would not run from that.
“Bah. Pointless busywork, all of it. I don't care about the empire, or Eorzea, or the far east.“
Sorkhatu raised an eyebrow. Odd words, from one slated to inherit the former and with it vast ambitions to rule the latter. Odd, but not unexpected. Zenos had visibly dragged his feet whenever called upon to do something as crown prince. There was an opportunity there…
“He tried to order me to stay away from you—something about not distracting you from your duties, as if you even have any of note.“
“Hey, I'm at least supposed to have some, even if they aren't exactly panning out.“
Zenos ignored him. “He gave up eventually, of course, and told me that I was at least keeping you distracted from wreaking havoc on the palace...“
“I'm not a treaty-breaker,“ Sorkhatu said. “Should I find it insulting that he thinks I am one?“
“Don't bother concerning yourself with his useless opinions.“ The look of boredom and annoyance left Zenos' eyes, replaced with the now-familiar spark of interest and hunger. “What was that spell you used earlier?“
It had been an experimental spell, the kind black magic acolytes were strongly warned never to employ due to the possibility of unforeseen side effects. Not that it had worked; though the singular ice shard he'd shot at Zenos had indeed exploded into uncountable others, the ones large enough to injure had not behaved properly, allowing Zenos to easily dodge them.
“A new creation,“ Sorkhatu said. “I'll tell you how I did it. Maybe it'll inspire something in your own rudimentary aether control, and maybe that will help me figure out just how you are doing this...“
Days passed, until the end of Sorkhatu's stay in Garlemald fast approached. He surprised himself by realising he hardly wanted to leave. Now that Varis had stopped insisting on meetings that led nowhere, the palace was actually astonishingly pleasant environment; the servants and soldiers left him alone, and Zenos had become increasingly amenable to his presence.
Sorkhatu wanted to think he felt at least a little ambiguous about having to separate soon. But with the excitement he displayed over meeting Sorkhatu on the battlefield proper one day, who knew?
The day before his scheduled departure, they convened in Zenos' suite to have breakfast (something they had only recently transitioned to). It would be their final sparring match. The airship was scheduled to depart at dawn, and though that came late this far north, there simply wouldn't be enough time.
“You're not eating.“
“You're one to talk,“ Sorkhatu muttered. Not that he was wrong. He'd been picking at his breads and porridge. He probably should, so as to avoid falling over during their sparring match, but the appetite just wasn't there. How silly, to feel like that over leaving someone he'd only known for a few weeks.
He ate a spoonful of porridge, then put his spoon down again. It wasn't that he didn't want to go back to Eorzea. This sunless icy wasteland wasn't to his taste, and he missed being able to go outside and sit in the sun for a while. It had been… nice… to stop being the Warrior of Light for a while, though. Zenos cared little for any of that; he was interested in his strength and skills, not the position he held, related though they were. Spending his days solely concerned with furthering his black magic skills… he'd enjoyed it.
“You should—“ Zenos started, but a knock on the door interrupted him. He glanced over in annoyance, then said, “Come in.“
A liveried servant ambled into the room, rubbing his hands and bowing profusely. “My sincere apologies, my lord, but His Radiance urgently requests your presence.“
“Again?“ Zenos scowled. “Is he incapable of doing things on his own? Fine. Let him know I will come, if he is that incompetent...“
How deeply disappointing. Sorkhatu watched the servant leave, then turned his attention back to his food. Previous instances of Varis needing Zenos for something had generally taken up the entire day. What an anticlimactic ending…
“No,“ Zenos said a few moments later, after the door had closed behind the servant. “He can wait. I will not squander our final opportunity for whatever nonsense he finds himself unable to deal with today.“ He shoved the remainer of his bread into his mouth. “Let us not dally.“
“Don't speak with your mouth full,“ Sorkhatu said with a smile. For all his grouching about his duties, Zenos hadn't actually refused any of them during his stay here in Garlemald. This was a first, and it felt good to know that it had been because of him. He attacked his food with slightly more enthusiasm, and once done, followed Zenos over to the now-familiar training room. After closing the door behind himself, he turned to Zenos. “I've got a surprise for you, for our final sparring match.“
“How I look forward to...“ Zenos coughed. “How I look forward to seeing it.“
They took up positions in the middle of the hall, the distance between them carefully calculated that neither of them had too much of an advantage. Zenos began advancing on him, and Sorkhatu gathered up the aether to cast a spell—but it hardly responded. It felt like yanking at rigid shapes, rather than taking in the smooth flow of aether he was accustomed to.
“Is aught amiss?“ Zenos asked when he frowned.
“I don't know. This is strange. It's like the aether is solidifying...“ Sorkhatu coughed, once. His throat was so scratchy all of a sudden. Why?
Zenos shook his head, as if to clear his mind. “Solidifying…?“
“It's as if… I don't know.“ Sorkhatu tried again. It was even less responsive now, hardly budging at all when he reached out to it. What was going on? He'd never felt anything like this.
He coughed again, and then his legs gave way under him. He caught himself before he could slam into the ground face first, but attempting to get up again proved fruitless. And still that scratch in his throat… was he falling ill?
But Zenos had coughed as well, even though he had seemed fine before.
They seemed to have the idea at the same time.
“Poison,“ Sorkhatu croaked just as Zenos dragged him up to his feet and over to the door, which he simply yanked out of the frame when it didn't open.
Once outside of the training room, breathing grew easier, and feeling returned quickly to Sorkhatu's legs. The creeping weakness, however, remained, and the way Zenos slid down the wall to rest next to him indicated he felt much the same.
“I will disembowel him and string him up by his entrails,“ Zenos growled.
“Who?“
“My father.“ The look on Zenos' face was one of raw fury, the likes of which Sorkhatu had not thought him capable of feeling. “He must have tried to use the chance to rob Eorzea of its champion… ordering me to leave you, knowing that you used the training room every day I could not spend with you...“
And Varis had had the nerve of insinuating Sorkhatu would break the treaty. How ironic that the event the Alliance had feared had come to pass, only to be averted by the Garlean crown prince himself. Sorkhatu would not have had the physical strength to tear that door out of its hinges.
“I will have his head for this.“ But even as he said it, Zenos had to steady himself against the wall to stand up.
“Don't,“ Sorkhatu said. “You're in no state to be fending off, oh, the entire capital.“
“Then what do you propose?“
“My airship is loaded and ready to go.“ It had been the entire time, in case a hurried departure was needed. He'd already had his guards load his few personal effects into the airship, to avoid any hassle tomorrow. “I will pretend I received an urgent linkpearl call from the Alliance requiring my presence. I doubt he will want to detain us openly.“
Even as he said it, a million different ways in which this was a terrible idea flashed through his mind, but what was the alternative? He couldn't stay here, and if he left Zenos behind, he would murder his own father and then… heavens forbid… quite possibly become emperor himself. It would bode ill for absolutely everyone involved if that came to pass. What he would do with the Garlean crown prince once they'd absconded together he didn't know, but a solution would present itself.
Zenos didn't look enthused about the idea. “You suggest to let him live, despite his transgressions?“
“I suggest not throwing away our lives. Look at you. You're struggling to walk in a straight line.“ So would Sorkhatu, if he were to try. The wooziness hadn't entirely left.
“He is a coward,“ Zenos spat. “Resorting to experimental poison gas...“
Was that what it had been? Just what was the empire developing that made aether so… inert? It was unsettling to think about. But that was only another reason to take Zenos back with him. If he could supply them with intel on such developments, he'd quickly become an invaluable asset.
He cared little enough about the empire that it might just work.
“I understand if you don't want to leave your home, but—“
“My home?“ Zenos shook his head. “What nonsense. I don't care for this place.“ He hesitated for a moment. “How it rankles that he will get away with his cowardice—but I cannot disagree with you. Shamefully though it would be, in my current state his guard would quite possibly get the better of me, and I do not know how long it will take to recover. Nor will I stay with someone who would deprive me of my sport. I will come with you.“
And so they went. After briefly stopping by Sorkhatu's quarters to pick up his guards, just in case, they made their way over to Zenos' suite to grab his personal effects. Zenos had insisted on not needing anything, but if they were going to do this, Sorkhatu wanted it to be without regrets. While Zenos grabbed the few swords he had any real attachment to, Sorkhatu picked out the most well-read books in his possession. Zenos might say he didn't care for them, but Sorkhatu knew well the regret of having left treasured childhood possessions behind. The book he had borrowed would have already been taken to the ship with his things.
Maybe one day Zenos would change his mind, and then they would be there for him.
Surprisingly, Varis made no attempt at stopping them, though by now he surely had to be aware that his attempt on Sorkhatu's life had been unsuccessful. What kind of excuse had he had prepared to explain how Sorkhatu had perished from causes entirely outside of his control? He'd probably never know. Whatever. It wasn't important.
If Sorkhatu's guard were bewildered by the sudden departure, they didn't show it; they did give Zenos no shortage of confused and wary looks when he entered the airship along with them. It was testament to their discipline that they didn't ask Sorkhatu, their commander on this trip, what in the seven hells he was doing.
The airship took off. Nothing shot them out of the sky. Soon, Garlemald grew smaller and smaller on the horizon and then vanished entirely.
Sorkhatu glanced at Zenos. He seemed entirely unfazed by leaving his old life behind and departing into an unknown future, but it had all happened so quickly. Stoic though he might seem, there was a chance he simply hadn't processed everything that had occurred, from his father's accidental attempt on his life to this.
Silently, Sorkhatu slipped his hand into Zenos'. Didn't matter if the Alliance soldiers saw; they had noticed how much time he was spending with Zenos already, and he wasn't going to play hide and seek about whatever their relationship was.
Zenos gave him a puzzled look. “Another examination?“
“I'm no healer. I can't examine something like the effects of that gas.“ Speaking of, that was something the healer assigned to his guard should probably do soon.
“Then why?“
“I just like holding your hand, dummy.“
“Is that so,“ Zenos said after a moment. Despite the lukewarm response, though, his hand closed around Sorkhatu's, intertwining their fingers.
No, Sorkhatu didn't live in an ideal world. But maybe with Zenos here, he'd come a little bit closer to it.