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I did everything right. Everything that was asked of me. And still it came to this.
The blinding pain has subsided, leaving a frigid numbness in its wake. Light smothers my senses, and I am graciously deaf to the squelching of my end, spared the feeling of skin sloughing away to reveal the blank porcelain beneath.
The weight of my failure sinks in. Weary wanderer, led at long last to her doom by her friends. How utterly foolish I was to think I could save the world merely by finding the biggest bad and killing it. The Lightwardens of Norvrandt had certainly been the biggest around, and five times over I had killed them, ignorant to the true purpose of my fight. I walked right into the trap; she who defeats a Lightwarden becomes a Lightwarden, and I’d gone and defeated them all.
The great white wings that burst through my skin moments ago now curl around me in somber embrace, before that feeling too is buried under the Light. Tears fail to reach my eyes. Silence, broken by a voice reverberating in my mind.
THY SORROW IS FORGIVEN.
Sin eater. Lightwarden. Divine names given to the creatures consumed by umbral aether. Forgiven Sorrow, that will be my title. The last Lightwarden to doom the worlds. I imagine myself balling up, despite the pointlessness of such a gesture in this cold, lifeless limbo.
My stomach grumbles, in whatever form it has now. Hazy shadows float in and out of the Light, and new instincts take over.
WE ARE THE WILL OF LIGHT. WE SHALL CONSUME ALL.
Gravity shifts, I must be moving. Those shadows continue to aimlessly drift in what’s left of my vision, and my void shakes under muffled impacts.
You know, I thought being alone for a hundred years was boring, but this is truly something else.
A different voice rings clear somewhere nearby. That wasn’t the Light.
You mean you don’t remember? I’m hurt.
What a surprise. Another failure I can add to the pile. Maybe this voice will keep me company anyway.
What? Of course I will, I’ve been with you since you arrived here.
A dozen questions fizzle away, all meaningless to ask. Where is here? Who is this? What does it matter?
Somewhere the Lightwarden is drawing on my aether for magick. Whatever it’s casting must be devastating. I wish I could draw it away, send it to the bottom of the sea where it can’t hurt anyone.
You tried that.
Wisps of memory float just out of reach. The voice is right, I did. I ran away when the world needed me most. To the bottom of the sea, to an impossible city beneath the waves, far away from the ones I love. Somewhere I could transform and die with some dignity. Alone. A coward.
Oh don’t you dare say that. A coward wouldn’t have made a fraction of the difference you have.
A FOOL, THEN. The Lightwarden continues its faint battle.
The other voice is silent for a time.
So you fled from your friends to protect them from the Light. Which didn’t work, mind you, since they found you down here. And now you’re just a bundle of despair floating in nothingness, while your body wages war on the world you came to save. Is that about it?
If I could nod. What Vauthry had achieved through bliss, I am achieving through despair.
Right. Well, I for one think that’s a load of shite. The Marina I knew would have fought to the last.
Sounds like a real hero.
Are you– are you joking?
SILENCE, commands the Light. The embrace of my wings returns with uncomfortable pressure. Heat washes over me with a dull thud. Was that the Warden’s spell or something else? I try counting the ephemeral shadows to pass the time, but give up after fifteen. The voice was right, being the vessel for a Lightwarden is unexpectedly boring. And what did he say his name was?
I didn’t, but since you’re aware enough to ask, it’s Ardbert. I don’t blame you for not remembering. You have enough to worry about.
To my surprise, the man himself saunters clearly into view. The same armor, the same battleaxe, that stubble on his chin, how does a ghost even grow facial hair?
He grins and kneels, taking my hand (which I suddenly realize I have) into his own. Now we’re getting somewhere. My hands are bleached, claws flecked with gold, and sharper than I would like. Beyond the Light, I feel aether flowing up and down my arms in the Warden’s control. I’m hurting someone.
Just focus on me, Marina. That name again. If you had the strength to take another step, would you do it?
SILENCE, INTERLOPER. My wings squeeze, blurring Ardbert’s form. He winces, and grabs onto my faint shoulders to look me in the eye.
Could you save our worlds?
You know I would!
No sound escapes my throat – the Light has been choking it for some time – but Ardbert smiles all the same.
Do you remember what that ancient said about the color of our souls? That we were once the same?
Hythlodaeus. He was watching over me while I waited to die in the city. I can almost hear the soothing, airy drone of his voice describing the final days, the sacrifice of the Amaurotines, Ardbert’s soul similar to my own.
Right. And what about what Emet-Selch said regarding you and the Light?
If I could contain the combined aether of the Lightwardens, then Emet-Selch would have been satisfied with the incomplete state of my sundered soul. Seven times the reflections had been rejoined to the Source, and that would have been enough for the Ascian to spare our worlds had I not so completely failed in the end.
Yes yes, woe is you. But the point is, you held this off for days, long enough to travel halfway across the First to the bottom of the ocean, long enough for your friends to catch up. Twice! Hell, you’re still fighting it now! If you could do that with seven of our shards–
What could I do with eight?
THY DUTY IS ABSOLUTE. OUR LIGHT SHALL NOT BE DENIED.
Ardbert vanishes, and the sense of my body ripples under the force of the Light. There are fewer and fewer shadows in the haze, revealing the inaccuracy of my previous estimate.
Seven shadows. The Warden is physically engaged with two, three bombard it with magicks, and two cast spells on the rest. It’s attacking seven people, almost certainly people Marina loves.
People I love.
ENOUGH.
The Warden sends a burst of my aether against the shadows, knocking them all back some distance. Despite its efforts, their hazy forms are becoming more distinct. The sword I hold raises on its own. It is thin, and delicate, made for channeling aether from a focal object, the bulb held in my other hand.
One by one, the shadows struggle to stand, with aether swirling in and out of their injuries.
A calamity on the Source pierces the veil between worlds, allowing a shard to rejoin its aether. How do you do that with a soul?
These shades are familiar, scraping the fringes of my memory. They return to their defensive stance.
But I felt my soul breaking down under the Light. Is that not enough to rejoin? What more could I possibly do?
The Light clenches harder in irritation. The shadows are gathering around one of their number with indistinct murmurs. I’m writhing in the furious aether, silently yelping in its binds.
What could pierce a soul?
BREAK.
My perception claws at the edges. My skin, cold, blank, and stiff. Wings angrily shuddering with my restraint. I feel them for an instant. Beneath the immense pressure of the Light, the rage of the Warden, I strain my arms open.
I can still see a lone figure in the blaze. It’s crouched, shaking. I cast a prayer over the tempest.
Please.
The figure lunges. Snowy white locks, a blur amidst the all-consuming glare. Distant shouts drowned by a flurry of sharp swipes. It slams against my chest, staggering me under its weight. A trembling whisper. Something moist hits my cheek, and then–
Pain cascades through me, billowing from a spear of aether that has punctured my heart. The shadow pushes off, hard, and a tremendous wave of aether smashes down.
WHAT IS THIS?
The dim sensations of combat have stopped. White magicks pour from my bottomless reserves, hastily attempting to close the gash. For a moment, the Light relaxes its suffocating grip. I can feel my heartbeat again. I can feel my breath again, slow and thready. The shadows pause.
Marina, focus! Where are you right now?
I am in the ancient city of Amaurot. Ruined buildings tower over me. Flames nudge the edges of my sight, all around, save the great courtyard in which I and these seven heroes stand. The blossoming wound in my chest has splattered a cone of radiance across the smooth stones.
And what are you?
WE ARE THE ANSWER TO THY SINS. I am a Warden of Light, Forgiven Sorrow. My duty is to bring about a great rejoining of the shards by overwhelming this world with umbral aether.
No, I am a Warrior of Light. Marina Valenheart of Eorzea. And I fight against that rejoining, for the salvation of all, to protect my family.
And what exactly are you fighting?
MALFORMED CREATURES. WE SHALL EXPUNGE THEIR STAIN FROM THIS STAR.
A miqo'te woman. A skilled sorceress, her aura bathed in the astral dark, with flaming arcane figures carving the stone upon which she stands alongside–
A miqo'te man, unusually dense aura connected to a deep reserve of aether, slowing the Warden’s movements, supported by a staff and–
A tall elezen man, his aura shrouded, drawing upon sources beyond the Warden’s comprehension. Aether flows between him and the miqo'tes. He towers over–
A hyur girl at his side, awash in Light, coiled with blades drawn to protect–
A hyur man, a strange blade pointed at me. No aura accompanies him at all. His free arm is holding back–
A shorter elezen, a dark animal at his side, familiar, healing aether streaming from his hands to–
An elezen woman, who looks rather like him. She is charged with astral aether, yet I sense she has but recently expended a great deal of the umbral.
Curious, unlike the others she is not poised to fight, instead folded on her knees, unarmed. She looks up, her face contorted and bloody, as she calls out for something. For someone.
A rapier lies discarded nearby, stained with Light.
Alisaie.
IMPOSSIBLE.
She calls for me.
The Light roars, and fresh searing pangs spray from the wound Alisaie left in my chest. Aether rushes down my arm to my own rapier, pulling in the space around me. The Warden rears, then hesitates. My hand twitches, refusing its command to strike.
KILL THEM . FEAST UPON THEIR AETHER. WE DEMAND IT.
No, focus.
Alisaie hit me with Verholy, that’s what the impact was, so while she might have some black mana saved up it won’t be much.
That’s it!
Alphinaud, bless him, is burning through healing spells. Y’shtola likely dropped a fireball or three; she’ll be recovering with aetherial ice soon. Urianger draws from the stars, but there are less here on the First, and he’s busy healing the others besides. Thancred has no use for aether anymore, and Ryne’s not quite up to Minfilia’s power yet. Which leaves G’raha Tia, the Crystal Exarch, with his reserves tied to the Tower far away in Lakeland.
Not much of a feast. In fact, surely there isn’t enough aether between them all to slake a Lightwarden’s thirst.
THEN WE SHALL CLEANSE THE STAR, UNTIL OUR LIGHT CONSUMES ALL. DARKNESS MUST BE PURGED.
Oh? So it’s the astral dark you seek to conquer? And who brought so much of it here, I wonder?
The rapier lowers.
Turn around.
The Warden obeys, and before me, glaring with righteous fury, stands the architect of the First’s plight: Emet-Selch, the Ascian, unsundered survivor of Amaurot, surrounded with an unfathomably dark aura.
“How?” he barks. “How can you hope to stand against me? You are but a broken husk, a ghastly mockery of the true world.”
Hunger overcomes the Light. Its pressure releases, and I can feel my limbs again. The rapier of light is comfortable, balanced. The Warden is entirely distracted, straining against my control, aching to gorge itself upon the darkness. My voice returns to me, so we might deliver my reply.
This world is not yours to end.
Emet-Selch bares his teeth, and a red mask shimmers onto his face.
“Very well,” says he, “let us proceed to your final judgment.” Shadows unfurl around him, blocking Amaurot from my sight. “Show me your vaunted strength, and I shall expose the lie of your fragmented existence. I am Hades, he who shall awaken our brethren from their dark slumber!” The shadows retreat, revealing thousands of Amaurotine masks flooding into Hades’ monstrous form.
Ardbert huffs, and the image of him smirking in triumph warms my soul.
We fight as one, he says, his voice fading. Go get him.
Our souls rejoin. The Light shrinks in the expanded well of aether, and at last I can perceive myself unhindered. My wings flutter and return to their gentle embrace about my shoulders. Aether laps at my fingertips, a kaleidoscope of aspects seeking the perfect spell from my repertoire.
And a cavernous roar announces the advance of the biggest bad I’ve ever seen.
Ah, I know what to do with those.
Her rapier strikes true, directly through its heart, earning a piercing shriek from the Lightwarden. Alisaie displaces herself to unleash Verholy and lands at her brother’s feet in an uncharacteristic heap, blind with tears. Thancred leaps between Alphinaud and the monster, with Ryne close at his side, ignoring its agonized wails.
And then the din fades. Alphinaud hooks an arm under Alisaie to retreat, and she lets herself meet her foe’s gaze one last time.
That achingly familiar hair, blazing white and gold. The particular curve of its waist. Beautiful wings wrapped tight around it like a cloak, golden tail curled around one leg. The way it holds a shining replica of Alisaie’s rapier. Those black voids where its eyes should be.
It blinks. Those gentle turquoise and hazel pools where its eyes should be. Alisaie’s heart skips a beat.
“Marina?”
The Lightwarden flinches, and the color leaves its eyes. Alisaie calls again, and again.
Tension builds around the Lightwarden, the sign of aether being drawn into a spell. Urianger prepares a shield against the coming blast as it raises its sword and–
Freezes. The arm stutters downward. It turns around.
Alisaie picks her rapier and focus off the ground. Emet-Selch, who had been hovering near the courtyard to witness their defeat, is now shouting at the creature, transforming himself into an equally terrible being. Aether distorts around the two monsters, and the Scions feel their very bones quiver with its decree.
This world is not yours to end.
Marina Valenheart, the Warrior of Darkness, the Lightwarden, charges at the Ascian horror.
The battle is joined. For a time, Alisaie settles into the routine of combat, white and black magicks flowing freely from her rapier at Hades. Y’shtola plants her leylines and releases a shower of fire. The Exarch wields an aetherial broadsword, landing blow after blow with Thancred to hold the fiend’s attention. Ryne and the Lightwarden cut through every illusion and spell Hades throws at them. And Urianger and Alphinaud continue bathing the Scions in healing warmth.
Shadows erupt from the Ascian, suffocating their arena until the world consists only of the chaos of battle. The Exarch retreats behind Urianger. Alisaie’s mana saturates again, and as she dashes forward to thrust it into Hades, she pauses to assess her Warrior. The Lightwarden’s face, previously a mask of despair, is now cracked and twisted, determination mixed with the sorrowful facade. Its horrible porcelain skin is likewise littered with a mite’s web of fractures. The elezen wrestles her stare from the creature’s lack of armor and arcs back from Hades, dropping Verflare in her wake.
After what feels like hours, the Scions finally drive Hades beyond the veil surrounding the courtyard, and steel themselves for the next fight. The Lightwarden is bent in the center of the arena, supporting itself with its rapier like a cane. Before Alisaie can reach out to it, a booming shout hammers the air.
I. WILL. NOT. YIELD!
Dozens, hundreds, thousands of Amaurotine masks appear in the mist.
IF I SURRENDER THIS FIGHT, WHAT WILL BECOME OF IT ALL?
The Exarch is imbuing Thancred’s gunblade.
WHAT OF THIS ANGUISH THAT YET BURNS IN MY BREAST, EVEN AFTER THE PASSING OF EONS?
Alphinaud is helping Alisaie to her feet.
NO! I WILL NOT LET IT ALL BE FOR NAUGHT!
Space itself rips apart as Hades looms out of the darkness.
Thancred launches onto one of the colossal wings, bearing a gleaming container. Several strikes later the crystal within explodes, peppering the monster with white auracite. Without hesitation the Scions channel their aether into the array. Wave after wave of shadow crashes into them.
The ritual is complete. The auracite collapses into a single, titanic spear of light, impaling the beast with a deafening roar. Two of its great limbs grab onto the spear, intending to pull it apart, and two more slam into the Lightwarden, crushing it in their grip.
Alisaie cries out. Someone is holding her back.
Shadow crackles all around them.
The beautiful, terrible creature turns its head to face her.
And smiles.
Hades destroys the spear of auracite.
The very sight of the arena is extinguished with his approach.
Then a point of light, then a flood.
The Warrior of Darkness, her Marina, floats before Alisaie.
Wings outstretched and radiant.
Wielding a massive axe.
Screaming.
Blinding.
A cataclysmic impact.
All goes white.
Then silence.
When Alisaie can see again, the flames of the Final Days of Amaurot have gone, and the quiet gloom of the city has returned. She and the Scions are in various states of injury, having been thrown back by the Ascian’s demise. As they lumber to their feet, their eyes widen at the figure before them.
Emet-Selch, the man, stands stunned, a glittering hole shattered through his chest. The aetherial battleaxe lies behind him, proudly embedded into the smooth rock. He sighs, standing fully upright for the first time since they met, and regards the sundered souls. His face softens.
“Remember us,” he says.
The hole widens, his form collapsing from within. He casts his eyes across the whole of Amaurot, then back to the Scions.
“Remember that we once lived.”
With a proper smile, Emet-Selch dissolves, carried away on the aether, and the Scions are alone.
Alisaie’s heart sinks. Fresh tears dribble down her cheek, oblivious to her brother’s curative spell. How foolish, how childish, how desperate to hope she survived. Of course she’s gone. Alisaie should be grateful the catastrophic amount of aether Marina absorbed had gone with her.
She balls her fists, digging her nails into her palms. Had she only been sharper, known sooner the Warrior might flee to protect them from the Light, been faster to find her in the city, been stronger, then her dearest friend wouldn’t be–
“There!” Y’shtola’s arm flies out, pointing toward the far end of the courtyard.
Some distance away lies a crumpled miqo’te, revealed by the smoky mist the Ascian left behind.
Alisaie is already halfway across by the time the Scions hear her rapier clatter to the ground. She skids to a halt at the Warrior’s side, fumbling with the clasp of her cardigan when she realizes her heroine’s attire is still missing. After bundling the fabric into her lap, she raises Marina into a tender cradle to assess her miraculous restoration.
Marina’s skin is freezing, festooned with cuts and scrapes and bruises. Her ears and hair are still brilliant white, with the faintest trace of her natural pine peeking through, no longer shining. Her breast rises but an ilm, and falls in a reassuring pattern. Alisaie’s gaze falls over the blemish at Marina’s heart, and she silently curses herself for burying the blade so deep.
She snaps her fingers at the footsteps behind her – Thancred hands her his overcoat without a word. Alisaie flings it over Marina’s naked body, and brushes Alphinaud away to continue her ministrations.
Vercure trickles from her fingers, closing the worst of the scratches as she works her way to the back. Marina’s wings have gone, but in their place stretch a pair of gnarled, angry scars. The miqo’te inhales with a whine. Everywhere Alisaie’s gentle healing passes over, her skin regains some warmth, some color, no longer marble white. Impossibly soft.
Up one arm, down the other, delicate hands linger to allow the aether to pool where it’s needed. A tail flicks under the coat, tickling Alisaie’s thigh. With the worst of the injuries addressed, she lets her hand come to rest beneath Marina’s head.
The Warrior of Darkness stirs, taking a long, shaky breath, and finally opens her eyes. Beautiful, turquoise and hazel, just the way they should be.
“Are you alright?” she mumbles.
Alisaie balks, idly stroking Marina’s cheek. “Of all the possible concerns you could have, yes I’m alright. More importantly, how do you fare?”
Marina shifts and winces at the effort. Ryne circles around to her other side, the rest of the Scions gather in.
Y’shtola covers her eyes and stares. “Her aether… is as it used to be.” She relaxes, prompting similar relief in the others. “As a disciple of Zodiark, the Ascian was the Darkness to your Light. I can but assume that when you set your strength against his, the Light within you was spent.”
Ryne shakes her head, her hand wandering over Marina’s form. “No, it’s more than that. Under the strain of that incredible flood of aether, your soul had begun to break apart. We saw you turn.” Alisaie grimaces, the sickening noise far too recent a memory. “Yet here you are whole again. I tried to help when we found you, but Emet-Selch stole you away. So how did you– exactly what did you– can you tell us how–”
Thancred puts a hand on Ryne’s shoulder to quiet her. “She can explain later.”
Marina smiles weakly and nods, her signature gesture of understanding. Her ears flick at the clunk of the Exarch’s staff, and she turns her head to find him behind the twins.
“G’raha Tia,” she breathes, sinking into Alisaie’s arms. His ears perk in response. “Tis good to see you awake.” Her smile widens, tired but bright, and the Exarch chokes back tears.
“Well,” he says, sniffling, “tis good to be awake. I suppose I owe you all an apology, you most of all.”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, still beaming at him. Only when he regains his composure does she turn away.
The Scions relax for a time, gazing upward at the absence of the infernal Light above the sea. Between long pauses to measure her breath, Marina recounts her part of their adventure, how she met a hero of the First, how his insight guided her along the journey. The time she spent chasing the Cardinal Virtues, laying his old friends to rest. When she comes to the manner in which Ardbert freed her from the Light, she falls quiet.
Ryne frowns. “I still don’t understand. Your soul was already failing, how could you have possibly rejoined?”
Marina’s hand presses against her heart with a sigh. “Alisaie stabbed me.”
Alisaie seizes up. “It– You– I certainly wasn’t about to let anyone else do it! I merely saw an opening and had to take it.”
“I know, I opened it,” she says. “I knew I could trust you, and–” Her breath catches and her ears flatten. “Forgive me, Alisaie.”
The elezen bristles, haunted by the last time she’d honored that request.
“I did exactly what he said I would. Gave into my despair.” Marina shivers, her eyes watering. “I nearly lost you again, and I made you– made you–”
“You made her kill you,” chirps Thancred. “Unsuccessfully, I might add.” They shoot him a look, and he raises his hands with a wry grin. Ryne stares agape at the man. The miqo’te stifles a laugh, ears relax, and she presses deeper into her embrace.
“I made her try, and that was the key. Calamities poke holes in the Source to let a shard flow in. What else can poke holes in one’s soul but–“
Marina trails off, staring into Alisaie’s face. Snowy white locks, a blur amidst her tears. The way her ears and nose and chin point just so. The softness of her embrace. Eyes of perilously deep blue. She doesn’t want to look away.
Neither does Alisaie. Years of pent-up feeling are racing through her mind, unlocking doors she’d forgotten she had. Songs for their band of adventurers deep under Dalamud. Their quest to defend Eorzea from Ardbert and his doomed friends. Their quiet night under the stars. The campaign in Doma, how much they came to rely on each other. The Ghimlyt Dark, the First, and the Light.
That Alisaie should find the subject of her distant affections cradled in her arms, laying her own heart bare for everyone else to see, she could hardly believe.
What else indeed?
Alisaie’s ears flush red. Her mind struggles to assemble the words she’s longed to say.
Marina beats her to it.
Y’shtola coaxes Ryne away from her patient. Thancred pries Alphinaud from his sister. Urianger and G’raha Tia smile and discuss contacting the fae to bring Marina some proper attire.
Emet-Selch had dismissed the Scions as half-broken mistakes, unworthy of the legacy left by his people. And yet, he had insisted he genuinely wanted to take them on as allies. If Marina had held together under the Light atop Mount Gulg, did he hope for an end to the cycle of destruction?
“I love you.”
The Source and the First may not have lived up to his lofty ideals, but they define their own worth. To insist they be measured against immortals, Emet-Selch had been chasing an impossible goal from the start. Their lives, their love, their hopes are no less meaningful than the ancients he had lost. Perhaps, at the end, he realized his mistake, clinging so blindly to his past that he could no longer see the present.
The way they had.
“I love you.”
They stay that way for a long time, foreheads pressed together, tears mixing freely, repeating their love again and again.
A pair of pixies arrive with a bundle of clothing, delivered all the way from Marina’s suite at the Crystarium. Soon after, a host of excitable fae arrive with the great whale Bismarck, come to ferry them all back to the surface.
Alphinaud and G’raha Tia occupy them with the tale of their victory over the Light, allowing the others some rest. Thancred and Ryne discuss the possible secrets of the wastes beyond Norvrandt. Urianger and Y’shtola idly speculate about the continued presence of Amaurot, whether something unseen yet sustains it.
The Warrior of Darkness stares warily at the receding city, aware of how her travails will burn the place into her memories. Alisaie, too, shakes the ordeal from her thoughts, her arm fixed around the miqo’te’s shoulders. Too long have they been content to bear their troubles alone. The time left to them is too precious.
As they slump into each other, Alisaie whispers a prayer Tesleen had taught her once, for the souls of the lost to be safely carried into the lifestream, for those they could yet save. Marina’s purring lulls them both into their first real sleep in days.
And somewhere, beyond the aether, the scattered fragments of Hades forgive them.