Chapter Text
A cat has seated itself upon Ysayle’s chest. It should not hurt as much as it does, nor should her breaths be so laboured. She tries to push it off, and fails to even move her arms.
“Off.” Her voice surprises her for all that it is barely a wisp. The creature does not budge. She's not even sure it's a cat. "You should not be this heavy. I have held moogles lighter than you."
Her next wriggle sends pain shooting up and down her spine. It is like dragonfire, turning her body to charred earth. When it finally subsides and the spots stop dancing in her vision, she takes a deep gasp for breath and stares skyward.
It's not the sky that greets her back—rather, a sturdy ceiling, instead, constructed in an older Ishgardian fashion that went out of style three hundred years ago. Few buildings in Foundation remain of this style. She must be in the Pillars, in some manor or house or whatever fashion of fortress the aristocracy sought to embellish themselves with.
The question, then, remains: why?
The last Ysayle remembers is the missile that caught her in the stomach. Not hers, no—it was Shiva, or at least her Shiva, her false goddess in the flesh. The primal had faded from her as she tumbled out of the sky, feeling her limbs turn to thin snow but the resolve in her heart remain eternally frozen there. She'd taken down the Garlean warship. Her allies—her friends— were safe. It was a fitting last hurrah for the woman who claimed so many lives as forfeit.
By all means, she should be dead.
But Hydaelyn looks after Her own in the cruelest of ways, and Hydaelyn's voice echoes to her even now: it is not thy time, child. The suggestion that she has more story to tell seems preposterous. She was ready to die there, shattering across the sky over Azys Lla like stardust. Hraesvelgr knew she was ready; else, he surely would not have borne her there.
Before her thoughts can turn any more poisonous than they already have, the door opens, and the cat scrambles off her chest. "Cosette, what have I said about being in here?" says the elderly matron, approaching. She scoops the cat off the floor, to which the cat expresses general discomfort, and then stops when she sees Ysayle.
Ysayle blinks back at her owlishly.
"You're awake, milady," says the matron, looking a little stunned herself. "Oh, goodness, I will be right back."
She ambles out with the cat still purring angrily in her arms, calling "Master Alphinaud! Archon Rhul! She is awake!"
And then there are familiar faces in the room, and Ysayle finds that she does have the strength to run a shaking hand through Alphinaud's hair as he kneels at her bedside and immediately breaks out sobbing. "I had thought you might never wake up!" he chokes, and part of Ysayle wants to laugh at how quickly the confident front of his falls behind the scenes. "Oh, Ysayle!"
Beside him, Y'shtola Rhul looks almost as amused as Ysayle feels, though the serenity of her expression is underset by the light furrow in her brow. "You have been out for a while now, Lady Iceheart," she says, not unkindly. "Two weeks since we returned from Azys Lla."
"Just Ysayle is alright." Her voice is getting stronger, now, and so is her mind; the words aren't slipping by so quickly that she cannot speak them to life. "How am I alive? Where am I?"
"Ah, I do believe the latter has a much shorter answer. You are in Borel Manor, and until you are fully recovered you are a ward of Ser Aymeric de Borel." Y'shtola says. "As for the former… The timely machinations of Master Cid Garlond. He executed quite the aerial move to catch you on the deck of the Excelsior. I'm afraid most of your aches are a consequence of your landing, rather than the battle. I treated you the best I could before leaving you with the Ironworks team, but it seems your body will need time to recuperate regardless."
"Then I owe you and Master Garlond my thanks," Ysayle rasps, "as well as Ser Aymeric. I cannot imagine it is easy for a man in a position such as his to shelter the former leader of the heretics."
Y'shtola's smile twists. "As of the passing of the Archbishop," and man, Ysayle really does need to be brought up to speed on all the recent happenings, "Ser Aymeric has taken executive control over Ishgard, though the political structure is undergoing no small amount of change. Though that hasn't stopped people from trying to dissuade him. There have been a number of, ah, upsets throughout the city."
"Oh."
"Not because of you," Y'shtola adds quickly. "Ser Aymeric has revealed the truth to the people of Ishgard. The whole truth. And that has not come without… dissent."
Something akin to relief starts to flood Ysayle's whole body, followed by the inevitable crash of guilt. She’s done it. The people of Ishgard know the history that brought them to where they are. She should be happy—this was her goal, and it has been achieved.
But not like this, not at the expense of one of the few good men left in Ishgard. Of course there was going to be dissent, there was always going to be dissent because Ishgard prays in the church of a goddess who bathes in blood, but to see the proud city turn on herself at the first sight of the truth is disheartening. She’s heard stories of Ser Aymeric de Borel from her fellow heretics; when he fights, it is not for Halone or the faith or anything but the people of Ishgard. She would see him as an equal in the quest for justice, not dead on the cold stones outside.
And speaking of the dead…
“After I fell.” She swallows. “Did… is the Warrior of Light…”
Alphinaud sniffles. “Quelling unrest across the city with First Commander Lucia, as befitting the Warrior of Light.”
“As befitting the Warrior of Light,” she echoes. “I am glad to hear that she and the First Commander are both alive and well. But there was another with you on the airship. Where is Estinien?”
A moment passes in tormentous silence. “Alphinaud,” Ysayle says, a little desperate, and then the boy breaks into fresh tears, grasping her hand with coarse, spell-worn fingers. She looks up to Y’shtola for some sliver of explanation, of anything to assuage her, and finds nothing as the other woman inhales as though trying to find the words to make up for her falling smile.
(Hearts of ice, after all, are prone to shattering.)