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The gentle knocking roused the Warrior of Light from his stupor, sitting up in his bed as the weight of the day set in. “It’s unlocked,” he bid, standing up. Every bone in his body ached, every muscle bruised and battered from the days prior encounter. His armor lay strewn across the room in various states of quality. It would need to be repaired, to be certain. In the interim he wore just a shirt and slops, little more than casual clothes.
Hinges squeaked as the door opened and shut, closing behind the visitor as he turned to see who stood in the doorway. White cat ears flicked as the woman crossed her arms, a light smile on her face. “I had expected you to be training at this point, in all honesty, but it’s a pleasant change to see you resting instead,” Y’shtola teased. Her eyes wandered around the room, her aether sight picking up tinges. Most notable of the group was his shield: Dark aether swirled around it from his encounter.
“I’m…alright,” he said, looking down at the floor as he gripped the side of his bed.
Y’shtola nodded, still lingering on the shield. Even now she could feel the vestiges of Zodiark’s power, the weakened state as it was still more than enough to lay almost anyone low. Save for the Scion’s champion, of course. “Well, that’s heartening to hear then. In truth I worry for you but I should know better by now, yet I still lay sleepless considering the threats that could befall you.”
She heard it before she saw it. Her sensitive ears picked up the soft drip of water onto the stone floor of the Baldesion Annex room. “Y’shtola,” he whispered. As he turned to her, Y’shtola’s eyes saw the traces of aether. It was minimal but beyond her friend’s normal, almost blinding, aether? There were faint traces of water-aspected aether upon his face. “I’m— I’m not ok.”
Her breath was caught in her throat. She had seen him weather all sorts of pain and strife with not so much as a whimper. The death of friends, foes who would sunder the world, ageless beings who sought to end reality itself. Yet here, after what was simultaneously their greatest triumph and most fearsome trial, her friend was shedding tears. Without another word, Y’shtola turned. There was the gentle click of the door locking as she set her staff on the wall.
The warrior of light watched as she walked over to the bed he sat on, her shoes clicking on the stone floor as the miqo’te woman moved to sit next to him. He wasn’t sure what she would do so he continued to speak; “It was always easy: Just defeat the primal. Nothing to think about, nothing to question.” His whispers continued, gripping the bed tighter. “But was I right to do so this time? If one of you had been there to stop him. If I was different, I— I might have caused the final days. I know we can beat it but how many will suffer for what I’ve done? How many will be lost because—”
A hand came to the back of his head, forcing him to look at Y’shtola. His eyes locked with the blind white of hers, a gentle smile spreading across her face. “Sssh,” she bid, fingers combing through the back of his hair. “No more of that.” With that she’d pull his head down. For all his unbridled strength and unbreakable fortitude, he sank down as she pulled. His head came to rest against her chest, Y’shtola’s other arm wrapping around his side.
For a moment he was going to speak out against her, attempting to once more don the brave mask of the stoic hero. He found himself wanting. One hand came to her shoulder, gripping tightly as he buried himself deeper into her tan skin. “I’m trying, Y’shtola. I’m trying to be the one who can shoulder any burden.”
“I know,” she whispered, fingers running through his hair.
“It’s selfish to say so, I know, but I find no succor in this. I find no peace in my actions. I’ve been the tool for others before but to see that I could be the spark that ignites the end of all things,” he continued. Warm tears ran down his face and Y’shtola’s chest.
“Not at all.” Y’shtola continued to comb his hair, leaning down to rest her cheek atop his head. “For all your legendary strength, you are still human. You live and breathe as we do. You celebrate and mourn as any other. Even the vaunted chosen of Hydaelyn deserves compassion when the world bears down upon him.”
A calloused hand ran along Y’shtola’s shoulder, the other one wrapping around her waist. “Though I face world’s end,” he whispered, still letting his sorrow and tears flow freely. “I am glad I face it with you.”
She opened her mouth to reaffirm their friendship, to tell him how she would always be at his back, until it clicked in her mind. Despite how much of a scholar and seeker of wisdom she had been, Y’shtola now realized how she had failed to see a star so bright in the sky.
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“And this is?” Y’shtola asked, looking at the newcomer in the Scion’s room. It was a lifetime ago, her eyes taking in every detail of the hyur’s face. Both of them are only a few years younger in age, yet this was ten lifetimes ago.
Thancred would throw an arm around his fellow hyur. “Minfilia says he has the blessing, apparently! An honest-to-goodness adventurer,” he’d wink, smirking to Y’shtola. Thancred would then look to the other hyur. “Try not to steal her away from me, aye?”
With a pat, Thancred pushed the hyur forward, the young man chuckling. He’d offer a hand to Y’shtola, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to working with you.”
A gentle purr rumbled from Y’shtola’s throat as she smirked. “Manners, unlike dear Thancred, and a polite handshake at that.” Her own hand reached forward, locking with the man who would become the savior of Eorzea and beyond. “May we seek a brighter tomorrow together.”
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In the waterways beneath Ul’dah, he called out to her. “Y’shtola!” he said, the ax on his back stained with blood. His fingers clenched, Minfilia right behind him. Thancred was in front of her, daggers at the ready as the sounds of Brass Blades echoed in the distance.
“There’s no time,” she bid, raising her wand as she held her shield aloft. “Go, Thancred and I will hold them off while you two abscond.”
She turned. It would be one of the last things she saw before losing her sight. His face, contorted in pain, enraged that for all his power he couldn’t stop this. With his teeth grit, turning away, he shook his head. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, turning to take Minfilia’s hand and charging off.
It should have been obvious then to her but at the time, Y’shtola was more concerned with protecting her friends than the subtle signs she had missed.
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From the primordial light, Y’shtola fell into unending blackness. It was a dark blur as her world spun around her, able to perceive with her muted senses. When her eyes would reopen, perceiving the world through the auras of aether that clung to those around her, her sight took in the first figure in front of her: A blinding light yet filled with warmth and compassion. In an instant, she knew it was him.
Spear on his back, the warrior of light knelt down to be at eye level with Y’shtola as she lay in bed. “Welcome back to Eorzea,” he spoke. Though she couldn’t make out his features, she knew in a moment his heart was overflowing with ease now that she was safe.
“Thank you, my friend,” she whispered, eyes shutting as she adjusted to once more having a corporeal body.
The reunion was cut short as Alphinaud spoke up. “Aye, I don’t think I’ll soon be forgetting seeing you as naked as your name day.” It would be a comment that would haunt Alphinaud til the end of his days but that moment of levity was needed amongst the final flames of the Dragonsong war.
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“Y’shtola!”
Her eyes opened. That familiar light, reaching down to grasp her hand. The other light, Krile, was right next to her, the miqo’te holding on to consciousness. She attempted to speak, her words not forming in her mouth as she attempted to reach her friend. “I’ve got her,” Krile spoke, looking to Eorzea’s savior.
In that moment she saw his aether flare, her friend consumed with blinding rage. As he stood from Y’shtola’s prone body, the last thing she remembered before succumbing to the fading darkness was that of her friend, fists clenched in fury, as he approached the looming body of one of their greatest enemies: Zenos yae Galvus.
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Standing before the scions she recognized, “Master Matoya” glared down at the blinding aetherial force before her. “And who is this?” she demanded, staff held high. Her fellow Night’s Blessed looked to her, unsure of what to say or do.
“I know I must seem different because of my new armor and weapons,” a familiar voice spoke from the blinding sun. “But it’s me. It took me some time to get here…but I’m here,” he called out.
Her eyes went wide as she shook her head. “I suppose that would explain how you were with Thancred and Urianger then. But let’s figure out why you’re here, no?” Had she been more focused on his voice and not his aether, she might have noticed the shift in tone when the two had seen each other.
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As the ground crumbled before them, Y’shtola could see his body in action: The Warrior of Darkness ready to leap in after the falling emissary and Ran’jit. It didn’t take a fool to know that in his heavy plate with a greatsword, there was no way he’d survive the fall. As his legs began to move forward, the miqo’te mage made her decision.
He would watch as she jumped in front of him. She couldn’t make out his expression but she knew right away that it was one of sheer terror. “Wait!” he cried, reaching out to grab her as she lept. A clawed gauntlet would catch nothing, the nimble magus darting from his hand as Y’shtola fell into the pit. Her hand wrapped around the antidote, clutching it tight before throwing it back. There, as she fell into the darkness, her lips parted as she summoned the aether to bring forth a spell she had not cast since she could see: Flow.
Darkness.
“Ah. There you are.”
What felt like the hand of one of the twelve wrapped around what she could describe as her body in a bundle of threads, clenching her so tight her corporeal form seemed to snap back together. From that darkness she was dredged back into the First, on the ground as she collected herself.
As she opened her eyes, she came face-to-face with that same familiar sight: Her friend, one hand on each side of her face as he looked down at her with that same warmth. “I was— I’m glad you're ok,” he whispered, the other scions behind him as Y’shtola smiled up at the group.
“Must we continue with the melodrama?” Emet-Selch whined, waving a hand. “Now come along, we’re wasting time and I have such sights to show you.”
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As those memories flooded back to her, she looked down. For once, the situation was reversed: He was below her, battered and broken, while she was atop him. As her hand ran along his back, she whispered: “How long?”
“Wha—”
“How long have you felt this way?” she asked.
For a moment he didn’t understand the question, though he was faster in piecing her intentions together than she had been. “I was going to tell you during the banquet in Ul’dah,” he whispered, clutching her tight. “I— We haven’t had a moment since then. The Dragonsong War, the Liberation of Doma and Ala Mhigo, our sojourn to the First.”
With a soft chuckle, Y’shtola shook her head. “If nothing else, I admire how you’ve held off on using your confession for an eleventh-hour reveal.”
“I’m sorry,” he spoke. “I shouldn’t bring up such feelings now, it feels manipulative to do so when we have so many other cataclysmic—”
One finger pulled his face up by his chin, Y’shtola locking eyes with him. Despite all his pain and uncertainty, his tears dried up as she held him there. “No more of the outside world,” she whispered. The miqo’te leaned in, eyes shutting as her lips locked around his, sharing a gentle kiss with him. It was brief, Y’shtola pulling back as she continued to speak: “No Garlemald. No Final Days. No Zodiark or Zenos. Tonight it is nothing but you and I.”
He tried to protest, lips parting. Y’shtola would seal them with a kiss before he could react. He’d melt into her embrace and her touch once more before breaking the kiss. “I can’t. That’s too selfish. It’s too—”
This time a finger came to his lips. “You’ve borne the entire world upon your shoulders for countless years. You’ve bled and struggled. Now, in a moment when your body is breaking apart when you try to stand and your heart shatters like glass? You above all others deserve to have someone else shoulder your burden.” Her hand pushed his head back down to her chest, the one arm wrapping around his back. “Now rest, my darling. For tonight I will hold up the sky so you may sink beneath the waves.”
Not one soul on the star could compare with his might save perhaps Zenos. Not even his fellow Scions could follow him into the darkest depths he oft had to traverse. Never once had he considered that anyone could face what he does. Yet this evening, he believed Y’shtola could fight any foe, overcome any obstacle. All for him. As his hands ran along Y’shtola’s back, he buried himself deeper into her embrace. “Y’shtola…” he whispered, fingers trailing over her body.
Her chest grew hot as he stroked her back in return, a small smile spreading across her face. “A conundrum, I suppose. I bid you to rest yet now I’ve emboldened you, no?”
As he looked up, the Scion’s champion's eyes still inflamed from his tears, Y’shtola dragged her nails down his shirt, moving beneath to press her palm to his bare lower back. “Perhaps then I can afford you a different kind of rest.”
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She was the first to awake, eyes opening as the sun shone bright over Sharlyan. The sky was clear, birds sung to the morning dawn and her ears flicked at the distant sounds of others awakening to go about their day. Y’shtola looked up, seeing her sleeping companion still resting. Her tail was wrapped around one leg half-heartedly, looking down towards his bare body.
The curious thing many do not know of white magic is that while it heals with no scars, it does not mean there are no traces. Y’shtola’s eyes picked up all manner of marks across his body, each one a wound that had to be mended via magic. Her finger reached up, tracing one that ran from his pectoral to his ribs. Idle in thought her mind went back to their foes: Had this been by a primal, raging with elemental fury? Perhaps an ascian, using magics long since gone from the world. Mayhap it was something mundane, a young bandit back when the world was simple and the greatest of threats was a man with a knife who wanted your coin purse?
A low groan ran from his throat as his eyes opened, combing his hair back. While Y’shtola was fine, the agony of his most recent legendary duel wracked his body with pain. Seething, the Warrior of Light sat up…just to realize that Y’shtola lay upon his chest. He looked down, the pain melting away as he smiled. “Good morning.”
“And one to you as well,” Y’shtola said. Her fingernail traced over his chest. “I’ll leave first, you take your time. Best not to raise suspicion. The Scions are not a business but I do believe we would raise some eyebrows if they knew what had transpired.”
With a chuckle, he’d run a hand along her head, thumb brushing over her ear. “And what of Urianger and Moenbryda?”
“A sore subject but I believe they were always on the fringes, never confessing,” she replied. “Which I am glad you did. Pray forgive my ineptitude: I feel a bit lacking in wisdom having missed all the signs over the years.”
He would shake his head. “Come now, I can’t fault you for having more pressing matters than the aching heart of a foolish hyur.”
“Who is also the Azure Dragoon, the Savior of Eorzea, the Unbreakable Fist, the—”
“Ugh, I get it,” he chuckled. As he looked down at her, his expression turned somber, Y’shtola’s tail tapping against his leg as they lay together. “When this is over— all of it —I want to talk about this. About us.”
Y’shtola gave a curt nod. “As far as I understand, there’s little to talk of. Just another title to add to your legend.”
“And that title is?” he questioned.
“Y’shtola’s lover.”
The heat on his face was plain to see, looking away to hide his embarrassment. “That’s a cruel move.”
With a smirk Y’shtola pulled the covers off, standing up to collect her things. “Never doubt me, dear. I may not be able to fight primals as you can but that doesn’t mean I cannot land a barb strong enough to fell even the mightiest warrior. Remember Magnai?”
“Twelve, do you know Sadu still calls him Little Sun?” he responded. Y’shtola set about collecting her things, dressing in front of him. What shame was there to be had? After the prior night and how they had both poured their hearts to one another, the idea of changing an outfit in front of each other was little more than formality. “I need to get my armor repaired and I imagine you have more things to study in the archive on the final days.”
“Aye,” Y’shtola said. “But I’ll return ere long. For now, perhaps get yourself a wink or two more. You of all people have earned it.” As she fastened her straps over her chest, locking her attire into place, she walked over to her staff. Surprisingly, the weapon had fallen to the ground during the eve, the miqo’te woman bending to pick it from the floor. “I’ll see you soon, dearest, when you are ready.”
“And I you…dearest.”
With a smile, Y’shtola shut the door. While there was an infinite number of things to do and take on, for this brief moment he could give himself time to rest. Y’shtola waited in a quiet moment before she resumed walking down the hall, passing by a familiar face along the way. “G’raha,” she bid. “A pleasant morning to you.”
“And…and one to you as well,” he muttered sheepishly.
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The Prior Evening…
Between the three men walking down the hall, it was a venerable company of heroes. Leading the charge was the former Azure Dragoon, Estinean. “We must hurry, friends, for I fear time is of the essence in saving our comrade.”
With a gunblade upon his shoulder, Thancred raised an eyebrow. “You heard—”
“A terrible groan from his room, aye. I fear perhaps Zodiark sunk his claws deep into him with his final breath. Worse yet, some unknown Ascian or wicked creature may have snuck into his room while we were unguarded and torments him as we speak. I dread what creature can bring him to make such awful noises!”
G’raha’s staff tapped on the ground as they approached the room. “And you said it was locked?”
The trio arrived just around the corner, the Warrior of Light’s room awaiting them in the distance. “Aye. Dare I say they hope for a quick assassination. No foul evil shall find purchase this day, however.” Reaching behind his back, the elezen spun his lance forward, holding it at the ready. “Thancred, as the most durable of us, I bid you lead the charge.”
“Well, I think this whole situation is rather silly,” Thancred chided, thumb resting upon his chin. “But far be it from me to underestimate an ascian.” Onward he walked to the door, Estinean and G’raha close behind.
The trio sat just outside the door, the dragoon’s eyes ablaze. “Let us be about it then. Whatever lies behind that door, it will wish it never sunk its claws in our companion!”
Red ears flicked as voices rang out in G’raha’s ears…along with other sounds. Thancred pulled back his gunblade before G’raha rushed over, grasping his arm. “Wait!” the former exarch whispered in a hushed, terrified tone. “You cannot open that door!”
Thancred turned, brow furrowed in frustration. “Are you ill!? Why—” Thancred’s annoyed words fell silent as he saw G’raha’s face: For once, his eyes and hair were not the most scarlet of his features. His face was so crimson one could liken it to a fresh-picked tomato. “Alright, what’s got you upset now? I swear, this is no normal night.”
“I— I cannot say, my friend. Just—” G’raha looked to the locked door, the wood that barred their way more ominous than any primal they had faced. “Heed my words: If you open that door, all of us shall meet a fate worse than death.”
“Where are your stones, boy!? You would abandon our comrade with such haste!?” Estinean seethed.
“Even my bravery has limits!” G’raha whispered in frustration, glaring at the dragoon.
Thancred, for his part, narrowed his eyes upon G’raha. Setting his gunblade down, he adopted the other set of skills the archon was well-versed in: Stealth. Thancred leaned in, one ear to the door as he bid the other two men to shush. His expression of cold, stern determination melted as he listened in, eyes growing wider by the second. His mouth hung agape as one hand came to cover it, shaking his head. “No, G’raha is right. We’re leaving.”
Estinean’s growl could have made even a dragon retreat. “Then both of you move. I shall fend off this beast myself.”
One hand was placed on each of Estinien’s shoulders. Estinean looked to G’raha, his eyes almost sunken into his head from terror. “I cannot let you throw away your life so uselessly, Estinean. Should you open that door, none of us would be spared the wrath of a darkness no Ascian could scant describe.”
Estinean’s features contorted before looking to Thancred, the same erstwhile look of horror upon his features. “And if not for your life, for both of ours. I would sooner cut you down than let you open the door. My friend, there are not seven hells: There are eight. And the eighth is right behind that door.”
Looking between the two men, Estinean grit his teeth. He tried to force himself to action but for whatever reason, the sheer aura of malice that rested just beyond that door prevented him from continuing. With a grunt, the dragoon set his lance upon his back. “If he is dead tomorrow, I shall have both your heads,” he snarled, stomping away in anger.
In the quiet hallway, G’raha placed a hand on each ear, trying to drown out the noises he still heard. “We shall never speak of this evening so long as we both draw breath,” he whispered, eyes wide.
“Agreed,” Thancred murmured, tugging at his collar. “Good night G’raha.”
“Good night, Thancred.” And with that, both men retired to their rooms. Though neither would sleep this eve.