Chapter Text
The humidity in the Shroud always felt like a gentle companion, holding her hand in all her wanderings. Even now, as the child approached the cottage, the heavy cloud cover felt more inviting than the golden light flooding from the windows and the warm fire that she knew awaited her inside.
"Nophica preserve, where have you been?" The cottage door opened as if on cue and gentle hands guided her inside. "You are drenched!"
The child let her father take her to the hearth; she started stripping her soaked clothes while he fetched a blanket.
"I was just..."
A woman's voice interrupted from the kitchen. "Just what? You cannot simply leave and wander around like some... like some waif!"
The small grey hands clenched into little fists. She knew what her mother actually wanted to say: "like some Duskwight cave rat."
Her mother put a bowl of steaming liquid in her hands—her skin was almost the exact shade as hers; her father's was even darker, pure grey where hers had her mother's blue tinge. She didn't understand what was so bad about living in a cave. Wasn't that where the ancestors came from? And the rats of the forest were usually nice—she imagined them as co-conspirators in her little adventures.
After Nanamo announced her as Ul'dah's champion, Leana had hoped to retreat to a quiet corner of the glittering banquet room, uncomfortable as she felt in her leathers among Ul'dah's finest citizens. It shouldn't have been difficult—though the banquet is ostensibly in her honor, she knows full well the guests are here to celebrate themselves, to see and be seen. She has no use for them, nor they for her; but the Flame General manages to find her anyway—and before she can make her excuses, he offers an impassioned speech on the ills of the city. As if she didn't know. And when he argues for more power to the Crown as the solution, she feels a sour taste on her tongue—how could a man who dragged himself up from the fighting pits be so naive?
She's barely able to get a word in edgewise—should have grabbed a drink, seven hells—when he notices the shine of her crystal and starts talking about the Warriors of Light; he waxes on about losing them at Carteneau and she wonders if he gives any thought to the others there, the nobodies, the ones who died for him, the ones who survived. She's about to throw out a caustic reply—against even her better judgment—when she feels the headache coming on: the light of the gilded chandeliers strains her vision, the scents of food and perfumed guests fill her with nausea, the cacophony of clinking crystal and silver threatens to drown her; and then edges of her world darken, and she is back at Carteneau.
It is a familiar enough place—five years has not been enough to stop the nightmares of the red sky, the deafening noise. But this time, she is on an outcrop with the Alliance leaders: a vision, then. She tries to relax through it—the pain a spike behind her eyes—but her Carteneau, the real Carteneau keeps coming back on top of the vision, and she feels wrenched in twain.
She had joined a detachment from the Gladiators' Guild at the last minute; she was on her way out of Ul'dah by then, but even she could see that there may not be anywhere to go to if the Garlean Empire had its way.
Leana wakes with the smell of smoke still in her nose and it takes her a moment to realize she's back at the Hourglass. She tries to ground herself in the present: the feel of the linens, spring of the mattress, the carpet under her feet, the familiar smell of her room. Back then the smells lingered for weeks—blood, ceruleum, burning hair perhaps the worst of them—as she made her way, the slow progress its own torture, back to the Black Shroud.
She half-listens as Momodi comes in to check on her and deliver a message. The Lalafell pauses a moment, leveling a pensive gaze at her.
"I wasn't sure you were the same person," she says, producing a small box, "but I reckon this is yours."
Leana sits on the edge of the bed staring at the object, a thin copper case crafted with the uncertain touch of a new goldsmith apprentice. She doesn't even notice when Momodi leaves; she remains seated, holding the box as if it might detonate at any moment. She runs her hands over her handiwork, registering a too-rough corner, a lid that doesn't quite fit, uneven engraving. Holding her breath, she carefully slides the lid open, knowing exactly what she will find inside: letters with familiar handwriting, untouched, seals unbroken. A choked sound forms in the back of her throat, and a sob escapes her for the first time in five years.
"They will never respect you," her mother said, standing in the threshold to the small room. "You will be just another Duskwight brigand, another Duskwight whore to them."
She scoffed, not daring to turn around lest her anger overwhelm her, concentrating on filling her pack. She'd grown to be taller than her mother and father both, and though now a woman, some of the gangly awkwardness of youth remained in her movements.
"Look at me when I speak," her mother demanded.
She paused, holding a heavy pair of leather boots, and turned around slowly.
"Fury's tits," she muttered, not quietly enough to escape notice.
"And that language! How can you expect anyone to take you seriously when you sound like a Lominsan drunkard?"
She put the boots down on her bed and took a slow breath.
"Very well, Mother, let me tell you about respect. They will never let you into Gridania. We will never be more than cave rats to them. It matters not how much you try to be like them. It matters not how much you tip-toe around their beloved elementals," she snarled, and felt the warmth of her anger rising to the long ears. "Those pious whoresons—excuse my language—will never respect you."
Her mother gasped as if slapped, and her father approached from behind, laying a soft hand on his wife's shoulder.
"We but want what is best for you," he finally spoke.
"The world is enormous! There is so much to see even in the Shroud!" Her voice softened a little. "Why chain yourself here, attempting to convince people who already hate you?"
She finished her travel pack by adding her bedroll and walked past her mother into the larger room. She put her own hand on her father's shoulder, and a faint smile lit her face.
"I will be fine," she said, lifting the hand after a moment and walking to the cottage door. She grabbed one of the two bows resting there and paused, turning back again. "I will write," she said, and the moment the words left her she knew it would become a lie. "Thank you," she added, forcing a smile, and walked out of the cottage.