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“She’s done it again!” Minfillia had cheered.
A round of applause followed not long after, mixing in sounds of cheering and stomping boots upon Serane Brandhart’s return to the waking sands. “Our warrior of light…” Minfilia soothed, her voice a notch quieter and warmer offering a heartfelt smile alongside prideful eyes.
Serane had returned triumphant, raising her axe high as another primal fell to her blade. Her people were saved, her heart alight with gleaming fire that could’ve warmed even the coldest Ishgardian night.
The waking sands felt alive with frivolity, almost all of the scions were present alongside so many more of her friends who had made the journey to the waking sands in the name of celebration.
“I can’t believe you’ve done it!” Yda cheered, practically enveloping her in a crush that had felt as if it could break her ribs.
“Aye, you’ve done well!” Thancred followed, clapping her across her back with a saucy grin. He moved through the hearty crowd with practiced ease, most likely towards the bar.
“I’m glad you’re back safe…” Y’shtola smiled, the slightest hint of color to her cheeks as her hand rested upon Serane’s breastplate; the hefty armor feeling as light as a feather despite the screaming ache of her muscles and the exhaustion that lingered around every corner.
“Aye, I think Thancred has the right idea of it, a toast to our friend! Our warrior of light!” Papalymo had announced mere moments before Serane found a glass put in her hand that was near spilling over the brim with wine.
The memory of her lonely days, scavenging for whatever thin pickings had been left by the higher ups of the Marauder’s guild, felt as if they were a thousand years away as she lifted the glass skyward; scarcely caring as some of the wine spilled over her. She grinned, beaming as music erupted from one corner of the waking sands and the party officially begun.
Serane took a hearty swig from the glass, finding herself celebrating among her closest friends. They danced and sang until the stars hung heavy in the night sky, swinging across the horizon in fluid motions. Only hours later did she find the wine nearing its end, most likely constantly refilled by Thancred’s ever dulling sight of hand.
Yet as the night started to draw to a close she happily gulped the last of it away, finding her reflection in the bottom of the glass.
Dead eyes stared back.
Serane’s golden eyes were sunken, devoid of any light.
Blood splattered her tired face, drowning out the screams that rattled through her mind over and over again.
She remembered charging Balesar’s wall, with every mind to convince The Griffin to redraw or cut him down.
She remembered every face she slaughtered on the way up. The men and women of the Garlean empire had fallen to her blade; a great-sword born of darkness that ripped and tore until fear and strife were all that was left. Blood had soaked her armor, slowly being washed away by the rains of the black shroud.
The Griffin, Illberd, flashed through her mind; a legendary dual that she would’ve once cherished; yet this time fought in the name of staving the wrath of the indomitable empire. Serane had decided long before she’d breached the top of the wall that she’d cut him down like the others; knowing somewhere in his heart that he’d never listen to reason… nor would she.
Yet….
She had been too late.
Born of her failures, of her brutality a new primal had rose.
A Papalymo paid the price.
The faces of the fallen ran through Serane’s mind again; men and woman serving another banner or fighting to free their home. Barely any different from her own self.
The warrior of light.
The name reeked of hatred in her heart; words crawling up her throat like vomit. Her hands were coated a messy crimson, shaking under their own weight as she tried to reach down to the pond that showed her the darkened reflection. Tears threatened to fall, but so many had been spent all that remained was a frozen terror; basking in the ancient ruins of what was once her warm heart.
The warrior of light.
The name, the title, the embodiment of which she sold her very soul to achieve the greatness of.
Serane hated it.
Somewhere nearby she could hear Yda’s cries; consoled by the other members of the scions of the seventh dawn. Serane’s feet, threatening to give out beneath her, had dragged her bloody and bruised body through the rain soaked mud and grass to the pond where she’d collapsed; unable to bear the heavy armor that felt as if it were crushing her.
Minfillia was gone.
Haurchefant was gone.
Papalymo was gone.
Serane could’ve screamed, could’ve cried out for penance against the heavens themselves that had opened upon this dark day; hallowed in the ghastly shadows of death.
Yet there was nothing…
Silence.
The broken pieces of what was left of Serane fell, shattering in a place devoid of sound or light; where the warmth of her heart was extinguished to the cold, icy winds that haunted her since the day she’d stepped foot in Ishgard. Her weak hands formed fists, pulling at her hair desperately searching for something other than torment to feel.
Nothing.
The buried.
The dead.
Rotting hands reaching out to drag her away, to summon Serane to the other side for her bloody sins; crawling like maggots atop her soul. She’d killed, drowned it all out in the name of what she believed was righteous, what Hydalen had told her was her holy duty.
Snap.
Serane screamed.
Guttural, deafening. Until her heart stopped crying she screamed, slamming her fists into the ground as her body doubled over; every part of body alight with white hot pain and drowning in exhaustion.
A hand on her shoulder.
A flash of white, before arms embraced her tightly. Familiar hands found purchase in her hair, pulling Serane’s head into the bed of a neck and shoulder. Warm breath found her cold skin, forcing tears Serane didn’t know she could cry to her eyes.
Y’shtola.
Then, more footsteps. A strong hand, graced by calluses, rested upon her opposite shoulder. She could almost imagine the half crooked smile that it belonged to, framed by bright eyes.
Thancred.
Then, a weight against her back. A small frame, sat behind her. Despite it, the touch was gentle, a little unsure but devout with soul and bathed in warmth.
Alphinaud.
More footsteps around her, ones that touched the ground with the same spirituality of the crystal god herself; basking the dark knight in a crystalline kindness of those who would walk a similar path to dedicate their heart to defence of Eorzea.
Yda, Krile.
There was a tranquil sadness about them all; undeniable by a loss one of the pillars that had held up their belief. Yet, they remained stout. Formed by bonds so unbreakable that even in the face of failure and defeat they could stand; defiant of the enemies that faced them at every corner.
“You’re not alone…”