Work Text:
There was a certain pride in being chosen to deliver a package to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. After all the world-saving and war-ending and nation-liberating and surely other heroic deeds that simply haven't yet passed N'teya's ears, they'd garnered a certain reputation. Sure, being a delivery girl isn't exactly glamorous or lifesaving work, but nonetheless being the hands to carry a package onto the Scions' doorstep was something to be excited about.
Strange, then, that when Villenoix hands the ostentatious box to her, he seems all too glad to be rid of it.
"Gods above, please." The passion is out of place for a man usually so nonchalant about his work. "I can't stand the smell any longer."
"The smell?" N'teya dares to sound incredulous, but then it hits her. Decay. Rot. Rancid meat, like when she and her siblings accidentally let some dodo go bad before preserving it. It's all she can do to not double over and throw up her lunch. She slaps a hand over her mouth on instinct, and she must look truly ill, because Villenoix looks pained.
"I do not envy you and your Miqo'te nose."
"What on Hydaelyn is—," she turns the box over, inspecting it. It's much too pretty for its horrid stench, with deep red wood, gold inlays, and shining black stone. Attached is a little red ribbon and a note. When she checks it, all it says is, 'To my friend.' "For the Scions? Are you sure? Did they order rotting steaks?"
All Villenoix can offer is a shrug. "Fuck if I know. I don't think anyone does. No one could even answer when I asked who sent the thing."
Well, N'teya doesn't like that. But she has a job to do.
The trip from the Black Shroud to Mor Dhona is mercifully short, so if nothing else she does not have to suffer this burden for long. She keeps it as far back on her chocobo as physically possible, but even still the fetid scent wafts towards her accursed sensitive nose—and digs its claws deeper in her curiosity in the process.
No. Gods above, no! Opening packages that aren't hers can get her fired, not to mention opening the Rotting Flesh Box is, by all accounts, a horrible idea.
But...
She turns to look at the ornate package.
What kind of person wraps up something that smells dead like that? Almost like a gift. The dissonance makes her head spin. There are flowers that smell like corpses, right...? But even then, why send those as a gift? There are better-smelling and probably looking flowers. Maybe they're someone's favorite?
...Who sends flowers to their friend?
The mystery eats at her. With each languid step of her chocobo, the urge to crack open the box and take a peek at its contents grows ever stronger as her sense-making inner voice grows quieter. She has to know. She simply has to know.
As she dismounts to prepare for the trek across the Coerthas Central Highlands, donning her fur-lined coat and wrapping her seasons-old scarf 'round her neck, she keeps peering at the box sitting pretty in its secure traveling crate.
Just a peek. Just a little peek.
Looking around to ensure not a soul can see her, N'teya buries her nose deep in her scarf and approaches. It hardly does a thing. Still, she persists—the box's latch is clean and opens easily, as if its sender wanted no obstacles to stand in the way of its proper delivery.
The hinges are smooth and silent as she pulls it upwards. She leans in close to peer inside, and...
The box is lined with a rich purple velvet, cushioning what seems to be a neatly folded letter, upon which is... something. Something that seems fragile and withered, and from which that stench is definitely emanating—N'teya once again has to swallow the compulsion to retch.
But what is it? She squints, looks closer—then stumbles quickly backwards when she realizes, retreating to a safety that does not exist.
It's a finger. One long, rotting finger, drained of blood and severed at the knuckle. Pale blue, skin taut, desperate to disintegrate and reveal dehydrated muscle, allow the flies and maggots to feast and swarm and gorge on the body, on the human body, on a living person that used to be alive and no longer is and now has their body parts dismembered and mailed like petty trinkets to all corners of Eorzea—
N'teya yanks her scarf down and vomits into the bushes. When she rights herself, she mounts her chocobo and rides it full tilt into Coerthas.
-
As good as a companion the Exarch had tried to be on the First, the void that fills the Warrior of Light is malms wide and deeper still. Since Zenos' neck was severed to the bone, so too was her joy—how else was she to feel, having had the other half of her soul ripped from her? To meet someone—the first person ever—to see her for who she is, what she is, and then choose the edge of a blade instead of a life of revelry. A rare and searing pain.
And to then be stuck with people who hate you to save a world you do not care for. Little wonder that she is pained.
Even now, as she offers to ferry the Scions' souls back from the First—not by choice—she moves as if within a thick fog. When Krile asks her how they are faring, once she's returned to the Rising Stones, Solkansa considers not even deigning to respond. But before she would have been able to open her mouth, a panicked Miqo'te woman bursts through the doors carrying an ornate box under her arm.
"Package delivery." She holds it at arm's length, breathing heavily though a scarf pulled tight in an effort to create a makeshift mask. It's a pretty, handcrafted thing, with obsidian and gold, but she carries it like a cursed object. When, after a few moments, no one moves to retrieve it, she says in a small voice, "please take it."
Tataru and Krile exchange a glance. "May I ask who sent it?" says Tataru.
The Miqo'te shakes her head vigorously. "I don't know. I don't know. It's just—it's for the Scions. Please—please let me get rid of it."
"Well," says Tataru, her voice dripping with hesitance. "All right."
A waterfall of thanks pours out of the Miqo'te's mouth as she approaches to take it, but before it can exchange hands, Tataru recoils.
"Ugh!" She slaps both hands over her nose. "What is that smell?"
"I know, that's why I—," The Miqo'te seems to swallow a retch. "Don't make me say it, please. Don't...,"
Solkansa sighs a leaden sigh. It seems even the trivial task of accepting a package must be dropped onto her overburdened shoulders. Silently, she walks forward and snatches the box out of the Miqo'te's hands, who stammers thanks and runs back out the door.
The odious stench hits her nose, and she recognizes it immediately. Rotting flesh. Her eye narrows. A threat? She checks the note and inhales sharply at its three words.
'To my friend.'
Could it be...?
With trembling fingers, she opens it. A single, decaying finger sits daintily atop a folded letter, from which the reek stems. A perfect piece of putrid flesh—she smiles at the thought of Zenos butchering a body. She picks it up as it were a precious gem. Dare she let herself believe it is actually from him, and not an imitator...?
Quickly, she sets it down to read the letter beneath.
My dearest friend,
It is my greatest joy to send notice of my return to my own flesh. Loathe have I been to keep you waiting—I assure you each moment is as torturous for you as it is for me. In an effort to show the depths of my gratitude for your patience, I have enclosed a gift that I hope is as precious as I believe it is: my father's left index finger, butchered by my own hand. You were right when you told me patricide is among the greatest thrills.
My deepest apologies for my absence in the delivery; much work must be done in preparation for next we meet.
Your dearest enemy,
Zenos yae Galvus
Solkansa's blood sings. She feels lighter than she ever has; a warmth surges through every limb, pours out each pore. She's never smiled so hard her face hurts, and yet she finds herself doing it now. Fury, her eyes even sting with joyful tears.
"Solkansa," hazards Krile from behind her. "What is it?"
She turns, and her expression must be truly horrifying, for both of them seem taken aback. With her golden eye shining and a grin no one else has ever seen, she says, "He's alive. Zenos is alive."