Work Text:
You would not label yourself as a bad adventurer, no. Green as you might be when you first signed your name in that book, you have your wits and your natural cautiousness that would aid you in your adventuring endeavor.
It starts as every adventurer does: an errand here, an errand there. Diligently you go through your days, aiding anyone who needs help even when the guild gives you no command to do so.
Being in the right place at the right time also helps.
Until in one of the errands, you meet a mysterious robed man capable of summoning creatures from beyond the rift. One of your dangerous encounters yet, though with the help of curious individuals, you’ve dispatched of him.
As the robed man is carted off to authority, you spot a curious gleam by the ground where he had fallen.
A crystal.
You pick it up.
And here, you would look back one day and say that this was when your journey truly began.
(Having visions that cause you to lose consciousness is a first though and you're pretty certain it's not common)
That encounter does not deter you from your adventuring day. With the companion of several equally enthusiastic adventurers, you ventured into several dungeons at the behest of the adventurer guild’s proprietor. All of the time, you did come out alive, bringing with you some knick knacks and a random rare valuable. It doesn’t mean that you come out unschathed, true. Alive with some wounds as a bonus ‘gift’ from said ventures. Be they several cuts that bloom pink on your skin, or some bruises that slowly disappear into the hue of your complexion.
You wear them proudly, as it is a testament to how you survive your journey.
(Few aren't as fortunate)
A journey that leads you to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Who requested your aid in defending the realm, urged you to support their cause, and embarked on even more dangerous ventures. Which you take, of course, a new sense of purpose swelling within you despite the warning of danger.
(The Echo, Minfilia names your Visions. And explain. It's a blessing of the light: for Hydaelyn's chosen champions)
Then the primal strikes you.
It was fast; decisive without room for chance.
Ifrit breathes out and then you feel your skin peels away into ashes, your feet giving away as they too crumble into –
– you blink rapidly; screaming, screeching, the heat stinging your skin as you see the Primal before your eyes. Fear moves you even before the fire is casted and Ifrit roars in fury at your timely dodge. You think of fleeing, but behind you, the roaring wall of fire looms, and in front of you, a monstrous being that breathed fire enough to melt metal stands. You grind your teeth together and turn to face the monster, unsheathing your weapon.
It took every ounce of your courage and wits to survive. To watch for any twitch of the Primal's limbs and move out of harm's way as you desperately fight back with everything in your arsenal. Even the random vial of acid you harvested from a fallen monster is thrown to the Primal's face out of utter panic when he corners you.
As you hit him with a final blow, Ifrit bursts into waves of aether and nothing is left but an ember that soon disperses into nothingness. A crystal rests on the earth as the fire dissipates into the air. Like a reward it sits, waiting for you to compose yourself and claim it as your own.
You pick it up with a shaky hand and the Echo hums agreeingly.
Thancred arrives with a grimace in his lips when you come to. You think you hear a curse whispered in his voice but it could be your own voice loosened from the adrenaline. He immediately switches into a relieved smile if not a tad guilty upon finding your form; healthy and hale.
Are you?
There is no wound on your skin, no telltale mark that had witnessed your encounter with the primal. But when you look at your own body, you see flashes of charred skin and the smell of burnt flesh invading your nostril despite its absence.
You blink and the image disappears. Leaving only the lingering tinge of that infernal heat on your skin. A faint echo of your horrified scream.
Merely an imagination, you convince yourself. However real it is, it's just a grim image your mind conjures as a maybes and what ifs.
Is it?
Fighting Titan goes a whole lot better than Ifrit, now that you know better than to let the monstrous giant make a move first. You are careful in dispatching the Primal of earth, watching every telltale he gives. How he moves his feet and where the ground shakes and trembles before the stone gives.
Once, you nearly fall, hanging on the ledge for what seems to be the longest few seconds of your life before pure fear and adrenaline gives you enough boost to lift yourself back to the safe platform. You pant and wheeze, a yelp escapes your lips as you force your body to roll out of the Earth primal's fist.
You have a nasty bruise the size of a dodo egg as a testament to your valiant effort and welts on your palm for your carelessness.
But you win. Battered and bruised and exhausted beyond belief, yet alive. With another crystal secured as your spoil of battle hard won and another new vision on tow.
Garuda, however, is not as lenient as the Father of Crags.
Or maybe the sudden loss of many faces you call friends that makes your strike weaker.
You’ve never thought how the very air itself can cut through flesh that easily. Small and shallow they might be, but there are numerous. Even with your equipment to keep you from harm, the countless gale from the beat of the Primal’s wings pushes through and you find your body being sliced to ribbons.
Slowly.
You’ve never bathed in blood before but today as you lay in the pool of the pungent liquid, you felt lucky to only feel it once as darkness slowly encroaches your vision and–
– the breath felt like it’s been punched into your lungs. Your skin is raw and– is it pinker than you remember? – sensitive even to the whipping air around you.
You think not of it too much, you can't, not with the Wind primal cackling at your plight. Groggily, you stand back up, your dry hands lifting your weapon as you face the Primal.
Fortunately, the Lady of the Vortex's assault looks slower as time moves on. Her wind is still deadly and fast, yes, but you can see it better, know where the stream of wind is focused on. Good, you think, this means your eyes are getting used to her speed. With a leap, you finally make a clean dodge out of her gale and earn yourself a baffled yelp from your adversary.
She's not pleased, but you've grown used to her movement to be caught off guard by the follow up blast of her wind.
A jump here, a roll there to hide behind the conveniently placed pillar of stones, followed by a counter of your own. You can hear her desperate screech, the way her wings beat harder, faster as if she's in her last attempt to fend you off.
Then, quietness.
Your last attack has silenced the wind, quiets her scream into nothingness. She kneels on the ground; confused and in disbelief.
A beat passes, her countenance melts into rage as she screeches for more prayer, demands her followers to supplicate themselves before her.
Garlean's intervention after is unaccounted for, but at least you come out alive; safe and nearly untouched.
When Alphinaud gives you a pat on the back in the airship, you can clearly feel every ilm he runs across your spine and you flinch visibly in return.
He swiftly removes his touch from your person, his mouth opens as he speaks, "Ah, mine apology, did I upset your wounds?"
Is it only a wound?
You don't think he touched any of your wounds, but you nod anyway.
When next you are allowed a brief respite in the safety of Gridania's inn, you finally examine your body. It takes you half a bell for a thorough check, but you can confidently say now that you are, indeed, mostly unharmed by the encounter. However disbelieving it is, there truly is nothing on your skin that speaks of your latest confrontation. Not even a single cut that needs attention nor any wound that is in the process of healing.
Everything is unblemished.
You wonder if you're that lucky or that you have been underestimating yourself.
It is only when the general from the Empire clearly shoots you through the stomach until you feel every burn the bullet induces to your inside that you realize something is definitely wrong.
You lay on the ground, choking and sputtering as your aether tries desperately to mend the hole made by the heartless weapon. Footsteps turn your attention from your bleeding wound to your foe. Though you know not what face he makes, you know there is not a sliver of hesitation nor mercy on his visage. You did kill his soldiers. And countless more of his people in this war.
Helplessly, you watch him raise a hand, his sword poised to behead you; an executioner without compassion. Not for you, at least.
And he does. You feel the cold, sharp steel landing on your skin and for a moment, there was nothingness but the sharp pain of something piercing your throa-
-ou blink awake, your weapon in hand, your feet on the ground as the general issues his challenge to you. The sense of deja vu rolls over you as you see Rhytathyn raise his left hand and you immediately flee, away from his sword, from that devastating attack.
You know when the bullet is going to strike and sidestep his aim before countering his attack swiftly, earning yourself a surprised grunt from the general. Your head is throbbing, image of a future that had come to be yet not possibility overlapping with your sight as you see his sword raises once more, poised to behead your flimsy neck as you lay dying–
–you shake your head furiously, you see him falter for the briefest of seconds; a chance you never waste.
One swift move of your own and the general falls.
Was it fear that drove you forward? Or was it truly your own experience and capability that managed to contribute to your survival through his encounter? You stare at the dead body of Rhytathyn on the ground, eyes trailing to the sword in his hand.
You gulp, bringing a hand over to the side of your neck where nothing can be felt, not even any raised skin from deep laceration. Your logic works harder to come up with an explanation to the lack of wound as well as your survival. A dream? A vision of what nots? A nightmare manifested from your fear?
There’s not a single explanation you can conjure, not one that doesn’t include: by Hydaelyn’s grace and mercy.
It is a miracle.
Or a dream, you can’t tell either apart now.
You clearly felt that blade slicing through the skin of your throat, you do. Cold, unforgiving steel that sharply robbed you of your life.
It's not a dream. It's not a mere vision like the Echo - as Minfilia told you- gives you. It's not images seen through the eyes of another.
It's your eyes, your body, your skin; everything that can be discerned as you. The one experiencing those deaths was you.
Is this how the Echo does its job?
Fixes your physical body and leaves you to experience it all over again while stealing your memory of it, leaving only echo of what had been undone?
You clench your jaws and shoos the thoughts out of your head. This is no time for assumptions, you have a duty to fulfill and a war to win.
It matters not in what state you will come out in the end. You've come this far after all and you'll be damned not to see your duty through when their hopes are riding upon your shoulders.
This is the burden you bear and it matters not how you feel about it, you will see it through.