Chapter Text
Regula awoke with a start.
The pained groan was swallowed down as a sharp twinge raced down his neck, stiff and aching from sleeping with his head tilted back for far too long. He was slow to tip his chin down towards his chest, shoulders and spine curling as he reached to press his hands through the fabric of his hood and into the bony vertebrae and sensitive muscle. It was rare of him to fall asleep at his desk, but there had been a rare time or two after days of fighting where he’d finally sat down for the first time since hitting the field and the mere motion of being off his feet had sent him dozing instead of writing his post-battle reports. Every single time he’d awake to stiff neck and a pinch in his spine that took several stretches and cracks to alleviate.
It never felt this bad before, though. The pain was needling down his spine to the very tips of his toes. There was an accompanying stitch in his side that he could feel flexing with every breath, and the muscles in his arms were quivering on their own for some unfathomable reason.
Maybe he was getting a little old.
Perish the thought.
“…-yer been moaning in yer sleep-“
Regula stopped pressing down onto his neck as the voice finally registered, every muscle in his body tensing instinctively before he forced himself to relax. He hadn’t realized he was with company… but now that he was more aware, he could feel the floor under him bounce and rock in rhythmic time to the plod of feet and the creaking of wood and rope and clasps swaying. A hot- almost too hot- arid breeze curled against his skin, sweat prickling at the clothing he wore.
This wasn’t his desk. Or the officers’ quarters on board the Gration. Hells, this wasn’t even Garlean territory.
He was on a chocobo carriage, he noted, once he straightened back up with slow and precisely false ease. Outside the carriage, cacti and dessert brush past them by, spots of green against the overwhelming swaths of brown and yellow. Inside the vehicle was a scruffy man in a turban he immediately pegged as some sort of peddler judging by the amount of luggage he was leaning against. He could only see the top of the driver’s head- a Lalafell no doubt- and the other two passengers were two young Elezen teens wearing dusty traveling clothes and hair tied in a mirrored fashion who seemed content in ignoring the one-sided exchange between the other passengers.
It was the one in dusty blue that made him pause, something just out of reach in his mind and on the tip of his tongue. He was… familiar to Regula, but what-?
Alphinaud Leveilleur. Grandson of Louisoix Leveilleur. Twin sister, Alisaie Leveilleur. Member of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Healer-
He’d met him before. Alphinaud. High up in the Sea of Clouds at that Beast Tribe’s encampment, and later in Azys Lla.
But Regula died in Azys Llla, he remembered with sudden, clear clarity. Cut down by the Eikon Zurvan in order to protect the boy with the Echo, whose name slipped from his fingertips like the wind. The aether eating away at his flesh and bone burned when he’d drew his last breath- and the stitch in his side was now in a very suspicious placement, but that was a later investigation. Right now he wanted to know why Alphinaud was here and what Regula was certain was his sister, dressed like uninteresting travelers and riding on a chocobo cart, because he was with great certainty neither of them were dead. But he couldn’t see any other Scion in sight- not in the carriage, nor riding on their own chocobos along the road.
The Hero of Eorzea was also uncharacteristically absent.
Unless he was in some sort of hallucination in some deep pit in the hells, there was no logic to any of his current findings- although being stuck in a personal hellscape would explain the unbearable heat.
“-Going to join up with the Adventurer’s Guild?” The scruffy merchant was still talking, gesturing his head towards Regula’s right. His eyes followed the motion without thought, coming to rest his gaze on a familiar gunblade with a small sweep of relief.
…Well, even if he was in one of the seven hells, at least he had The Bastard with him.
“…I’m thinking about it,” Regula finally spoke, the lie falling easy off his tongue and dry lips. It wasn’t a yes or a no, and it kept the merchant yapping, allowing Regula to sit back and try to organize his thoughts and his general position.
From context clues from the weather and geography around him, he was in Thanalan, heading towards Ul’dah judging by how the city in the distance was only getting larger. From the peddler, the Adventurer’s Guild was alive and well, the Flames and the Brass Blades were still teeming with corruption, and the refugees still clung to the outermost skirts of society. In other words, a true hive of savagery.
Next was taking mental inventory. The Bastard to his right, which was a boon all on its own and made everything else pale in comparison. A weapon he had on hand was a weapon he didn’t have to source, and while the military trained all their recruits on a variety of weaponry and machinery for efficiency, his training in swordart from a technique as ancient as the once-respected Reapers, he was quite picky in what he wanted his main arms. If the reports he’d read on Ul’dah were accurate, then he doubted he could afford a blade that met his criteria- if he could find one at all.
On his person was armor- not his Legatus one either, but a simpler make and design that fit comfortably on his body without drawing attention with all the sharp edges and curved helm of his previous Garlean-forged attire. He wasn’t wearing a helm now, which would explain how he could feel the irritating, hot wind on his skin. He wore some assortment of crimson cape that had been draped and wrapped loosely over his head and shoulders in a makeshift hood- deep enough to hide his third eye as well as protect himself further from the terribly bright sun that slipped its dreadful fingers underneath the carriage’s canvas cover as the angle shifted during travel.
There was also a small leather bag at his feet that he assumed was his, but its contents were beyond his knowledge. It didn’t seem particularly bulky, which meant while he may have some supplies, he would need to assess what he had on hand and what he needed to buy. If there was gil in there, he would be lucky, but he never put stock in anything less than tangible. Just another thing he needed to thoroughly inspect before making any decisions.
It had been many, many years since Regula had done any sort of solo mission. After Varis got promoted to Legatus, Regula had been elected as his Tribunus, and ever since then he’d been managing a great part of the legion, and then what felt like half the Empire’s total military when Varis rose further to High Legatus. Even his early teenage years of tutelage under his Blademaster prior to his recruitment into the military he rarely was alone, not when Varis insisted on keeping linkpearls between them so he could have “someone sensible to converse with”, or so the older man- then a teenager- had claimed.
It made the absence of familiarity and comradery all the more keen.
But Regula knew to keep his wits about him. He may not know what was going on or why he was here, especially since he knew he’d died the last he’d checked, but going mental over it wasn’t going to help him. No, he needed to keep his head down and come up with a coherent plan while scrounging up whatever scraps of information he could get from this den of uncivilized cutthroats. No matter how much he yearned to march right back to Garlemald- on foot if he must- he didn’t think they’d appreciate a dead man showing up at their doorsteps after abandoning his entire Legion in contested territory, even if it was unintentional
Alphinaud’s sister was watching him. Her head was tipped towards her brother’s shoulder, arms crossed and leaning away from the merchant sharing the bench almost as if she was trying to sleep. But her eyes were open and she was observing him from under her eyelashes with an unreadable expression, trying to piece him together as if he were a puzzle left for bored children to try their hands on before something far more interesting passed them by.
Alisaie’s dossier had less information than her more publicized brother. She seemingly drifted off the edge of the map for a little while as Alphinaud soared into the Scion’s roost- the only notable tabs being of her exploration through Dalamud’s ruins. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be of any less trouble- Regula knew better than to believe otherwise.
Anyone with that surname was bound to be trouble. Just look at what happened at Carteneau.
He took this chance to observe the twins in turn, unapologetic if it was noticed. He couldn’t say much for Alisaie, having never met her, but Alphinaud looked… younger than when he’d last seen him. His cheeks were a touch rounder, eyes a little larger and long Elezen ears a smidge too large for his head. His face didn’t hold the weight of guilt and responsibility that the fall of the Crystal Braves and the troubles of the Dragonsong War bore onto him. He looked… he looked like a child, and not the teenager he should be.
Just what was going on?
He could feel the headache pressing down along the inside of his skull as the carriage rumbled to a stop in the walls’ long shadow. Dust puffed up in a small cloud as he swung himself onto solid ground in the wake of Alphinaud and Alisaie’s quick exit (were they supposed to be that small?), caking his boots in a fine layer that he knew would become a Thanalan standard he would just have to get used to.
Even in the shade it was horrendously hot, sweat making the bunching of the cloth under his armor all the more noticeable and uncomfortable. The heat had long since dried out the inside of his mouth and was clawing at his lips, the very weather itself trying to wick every last bit of moisture out of his body. How did people live in this willingly? The Garleans didn’t have a choice when they settled the far reaches of Ilsabard, but at least the bitter cold didn’t make him want to tear his own skin off to avoid the sensation of being baked alive. And judging from the position of the sun, it was barely mid-morning, which meant it was only going to get hotter.
Regula hadn’t stepped one foot into the city yet and he already hated this place. It was worse than Gyr Abania. At least there was higher elevation with the mountain winds cooling off many parts of the region. This? This was a special hell made specifically for him.
“Ye best get to the Guild, friend,” the merchant had made his way beside him, clapping a hand on Regula’s back in a genial gesture. Unfortunately he hit the muscles that hadn’t ceased aching since he woke up, shattering sharp pinpricks of glass up along his nerves that took all his willpower not to react to. “Just follow the main street here an’ look for all the adventurer lookin’ types. Can’t miss it.”
Breathe in, release the pain-
“Will do,” Regula managed to say without baring his teeth, although his tone was a touch short. “Thank you for your… assistance.”
Leaving the merchant waving farewell. Regula marched through the city gate, bag on one shoulder and the Bastard on the other and dutifully ignoring the Brass Blades eyeballing him from their positions at the gate. The twin Elezens were long gone, but he forewent the idea of following after them. For one, it would be creepy for a grown man to all but stalk literal children around, and two, Regula didn’t want to be any part of the trouble they were bound to get themselves into. Instead, he grasped onto what little information he did have and went straight to finding the Adventurer’s Guild.
It was as good of a place to start as any.
Ul’dah was an old city, and it was clearly defined by the winding roads and narrow alleys cluttered with varying architectural buildings, merchant carts, and debris from the thousands that call this city home. Miqo’te girls in scanty clothes danced on street corners, pop-up shops and food carts harked their wares. The poor and Ala Mhigan refugees clung to the shadows begging for scraps or waiting for an ill-tended coin purse to wander them by. Many of the streets were jammed with people, congested by narrow crossroads or manmade obstacles. Several racing chocobos escaped their tethers and the resident guards were lending assistance in trying to wrangle the birds up before someone got trampled.
It was most poorly planned city Regula had ever set eyes on. It was appalling. It was a disgrace. It was too fucking hot.
By the time Regula elbowed his way into part of the city that was teeming with men and women in various getups more outlandish than the last, he wasn’t sure he was sweating anymore. He could almost hear his Tribunus curse him out about heat exhaustion despite Ursa usually being the one spending hours in the hot engine rooms cursing at those instead while in the final stages of the Gration’s construction, but she nor her brother nor Varis was here to help him remember the specifics between heat exhaustion and heat stroke and he didn’t particularly care which was which right now either.
Who knew hypothermia and frostbite were so much easier to parse.
The Quicksand, as the place was called, was- by the Emperor’s Grace- shaded and several degrees cooler than the outside air, with several ice crystals wafting fog down on him with the gust of the doors opening and closing. The place itself wasn’t quite as crowded as the outside- several occupants eating breakfast or reading at the tables- or asleep slumped over with a few of their comrades building a towering house out of Triple Triad cards over their sleeping form.
“Good morning!” A Lalafell woman greeted him as he somehow made his way to the counter without stumbling like an idiot. “What can I- oh dear, are you alright?”
“Been stuck on a chocobo carriage,” he explained numbly- if he didn’t physically trip, then his words were desperately trying to make up for it. “It’s… hot.”
“From the north, are you?” The Lalafell at least looked sympathetic. “Wouldn’t be the first one to drop from the heat. Were you planning on joining the Adventurer’s Guild?” At his nod she tapped her chin in quick thought before nodding to herself. “Well, in that case, I’ll let you take a room to rest up and cool down before you fill out the paperwork- just this once though!”
A different Lalafell appeared out of nowhere beside him, nearly sending Regula jumping if he hadn’t an ounce of self-control beaten into him from his training. There weren’t too many of the people within the Imperial Military, and there were none at all in his Legion. He had forgotten how… tiny they were, but he’d seen one drop nearly half a mountain on top of their heads once in one of his earliest skirmishes and knew better than most of his Legati peers than to underestimate an Eorzean with nothing to lose.
…Not that this Lalafell was going to drop a mountain on his head. He hoped.
He let himself be led away, around the tables and up a flight of stairs. He had enough wits about him to memorize the room number in the hot haze that was taking resident within his head before he was ushered inside and then left alone to his devices.
His bag hit the floor with a thump as soon as the door closed behind him, followed by- with slightly more care- his gunblade. The cloth helping to hood his features was ripped away and tossed to the side as his heavy footfalls thumped straight for the dresser with the pitcher of water and a small washing bowl he’d immediately spotted upon entering. Alone, he could let himself go in proper decorum as he took several large gulps of water directly from the pitcher before dumping the rest of it over his head and into the bowl with the singlemindedness of a green Private.
The tepid water was a near blessing in every sense of the heretical definition, dripping through his sweaty hair, down over his face and the point of his nose. Even his headache, which had turned into a bruised throb keeping time with his heartbeat, had aught but disappeared in this moment, hunched over a washbowl as savage as any other being that lived and breathed in this wretched city.
But reality had to return, and Regula lifted his head with a pained sigh, wiping his hands over his face and pushing back his hair.
And then he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Regula stopped. Stared. Water dripped lazily off his chin and soaked into the collar of the tunic hiding underneath his armor, but the cool relief was so suddenly far away from his thoughts it could’ve been on a distant Star.
“What-?” he whispered to himself, disbelief on his breathless exhale as he moved his hands from his hair to his ears.
His very Elezen ears.
The rest of him looked the same- the black-green hair, the cold blue eyes, his thin and sharp features, and his third eye on his forehead. But the ears… those were new.
They weren’t the longest he’d seen, shapely but short as they stuck out from either side of his head. The drape of his hood must’ve hidden them, because no one had mentioned them prior and the tickle of the cloth hadn’t driven him to insanity.
They were also very real, and not some sort of horrible twist in this after-death nightmare as his fingertips brushed against the shell. An unfamiliar sensation raced down his neck that made him shiver and shudder, instantly jerking his hands away as his face in the reflection scrunched in a grimace.
He had normal ears for a Garlean last he checked. Just what in the hells is happening?
Closing his eyes to blot out visual cues, he cast out his senses through his third eye to check its sensitivity. His perception through that was still normal as ever. But now, not only could he discern the distances between the floorboards, how thick the door was, how sturdy the walls were, he could hear the distant giggling of a woman from a nearby room, the droning of voices from outside the window beyond the closed curtain, count how many wheels were turning on the cart rolling by on the street below-
A sense of- not panic, but close to it- coursed through his veins. It was sudden and sharp like Levin, and he was ripping off his chest armor before he realized what his hands were doing, forcing his arms out of the sleeves of the tunic underneath and baring his torso to the terrible truth he’d been grasping for since awakening on that rickety carriage.
Zurvan’s blade had nearly bisected him, he’d been aware of that much through the pain in his final moments. The wound was still there on his flesh- a jagged, jarring mess of flesh from between hip and low curve of his ribcage to a handful few ilms past center of his belly. But instead of being a gaping hole in his side, it was as if the aetheric burn had melded into his flesh, smoothing over like an old scar. The furious blue of aetheric corruption had faded, leaving the surface of the scar almost a grey.
He pressed a hand against it, feeling the dull ache sharpen under the pressure. The aetheric damage left behind felt more like rough glass than skin, cool to the touch and almost rigid as his fingers slid over its surface. He traced it over his belly and around his ribs, twisting to view the back portion of the injury in the mirror. It… it wasn’t pretty, nor did it look or feel natural. A tiny splotch of pale blue rippled across the greyed flesh as a droplet of water dripped from his hair and down his back onto it, fading quickly into the dull abyss, only cementing in his mind how unnatural it was.
His lungs rose and fell with every breath. His heart thrummed under his palm as he shifted his hand from his hip to press against his chest. The air was still too warm, the drying water and remaining sweat tacky on his skin, and he was, inexplicably, impossibly, unfathomably, alive.
A newspaper caught the corner of his eye in the mirror behind him. In a daze, he turned towards it, his feet heavy in an invisible mire as he went to go pick it up. There were a stack of a handful of various publishing houses, but Regula’s hands were too shaky to even think of inspecting anything other than the top paper.
And there it was, in bold inky print, the date.
He found himself sinking to sit down on the floor, sabatons thumping noisily against the wood as he stared unseeing at the newspaper now draped loosely across his knee. This… this had to be some sort of twisted dream. A nightmare, even. Because the date suggested he was almost well over two years prior to his death on that wretched Allagan isle while saving two Echo users at the cost of his own. Three years, if he rounded up the days.
The Domans hadn’t rebelled yet. Van Baelsar hadn’t conducted his stupid quasi-invasion of Eorzea yet either. Hells, even Emperor Solus wasn’t dead yet. Not for at least a handful of months in any case.
He knew Allagan machinery and Aetheric magic could do all sorts of terrible and wonderful things, and he knew the Echo was a powerful tool that made them resistant against Primals. He didn’t think any of that translates to… what? Time travel? A hiccup in the cosmos? Do gods actually exist and they thought it would be funny to see him flounder? Did he end up on a parallel Star? Did he replace his younger self? Had he even existed in this world? Did any of this have something to do with the fact he had Elezen ears now?
Regula laid himself fully on the floor, staring up the ceiling as his head throbbed something terrible. The cool planks against his back aided him in focusing in reality and not in the what-ifs and scenarios his brain was trying to jump hurdles through. The bitter truth of it all was that it didn’t matter how he got here. It was what he was going to do about it was his primary concern, and coming up with battle strategies was one of the well-honed skills that saw him promoted to Legatus- and not because he was Varis’ friend and confidant, no matter what the busybodies liked to claim.
He breathed in- long and slow and deep, feeling the ache in his aetheric scarring and drum against his skull. He breathed out, deeper and slower as he forced his hands to unclench and lay flat against the floor. Fine grains of sand unable to be fully swept away clung to his skin. Distant voices muffled by the floorboards tickled his ears. An orchestrion in a nearby room playing soft strings. A door slamming reverberated through the wood.
He breathed in- and he plotted.