Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1 - Steer

Ever the enterprising technician, the Warrior of Light's retainer presents him with an intriguing new transportation option.
(WoL OCs - lighthearted) (Early Stormblood - Castrum Oriens, Gyr Abania)

5 - Stamp

The Warrior of Light sends his heart along the wire, so to speak.
(WoLship: Hien Rijin) (Early Endwalker, mild MSQ spoilers)

9 - Lend an Ear

Y'shtola overhears the moment that the Bard's world comes crashing down.
(TW; death mention, a bit of angst) (Post-HW)

10 - Stable

Oliv'a can't seem to get along with birds.

(TW; death, horror themes) (Post-HW)

Chapter Text

“... This thing is terrifying, Desmond. Where did you even find the parts to get it running?”

“We’re in a war zone, Ollie! Garleans leave their machina lyin’ around, like as they’re too cock-shite to come back and claim it.” The hyur lifted the metal welding mask from his face, brushing back his sunrise orange cowlick. Desmond had been tinkering with this… behemoth of a one-man vehicle for a few days. He’d refitted its ceruleum engine from near-junk and reworked iron platting from the aforementioned Garlean armor left behind across the no-mans-land of Gyr Abania. “They’re all but askin’ to be plundered, and I got the clear from the Vice Marshall to take a look at ‘em.”

“And you pulled together… what is it? A cart?” The cautiously-curious miqo’te surveying him was keeping a few fulms back from the contraption, but was less enthused by his retainer’s decision to work on reverse-engineering magitek, rather than assisting with the scout regiment. Oliv’to hadn’t exactly asked for an official position, but more or less was handed one as soon as he set foot on camp; even if most of his command was delegated back to his brother and his reunited squad of Wood Wailers.

“Better”, Desmond replied, a smirk struck across his face that often activated Oliv’s preservation instinct. The hyur’s brass left fist rapped on the black Garlean steel. “It’s a scout transport. Runs with about as much power as a reaper mech, but light enough to keep pace with a prized racing ‘bo. The forward line said they got flanked by a pair of ‘em over on the lakeside and thought they were some kind of howling voidsent streaking over the banks.” That smirk only seemed to widen as Desmond recounted the report, and Oliv’s expression grew more… concerned. “I’ve taken to calling ‘er the Fenrir , from that old Ishgard fable, yeah?

“And who do you think would be so daft to try and ride this? Aside from whatever lunatics they drafted to learn them in the first place.”

“Oh, I’m thinkin’ someone with better reflexes than I, that’s for sure. Somebody with better senses than your average hyur, keener eyesight… someone with some gods-given skill and…”

“I’m not touching it.”

“Wh– No? Come now, Oliv’to, thrill-seeker, firecracker! You’re the only man I’d trust on the wheel of this beast!”

“And the only beast I’d trust to carry me out there would be one that’s breathing. Not happening.”

“I’m not askin’ you to storm the Castrum gates with her, all she needs is a test drive. A quick run down the path to the lake an’ back! We’ll see how good she runs, then we can see if we can use her for proper scouting.”

“... You’re begging. You’ve really gotten attached to this thing, huh.” 

“I’m pleading .”

Oliv glanced at the two-wheeled mount, his gaze trailed down the sleek side armor and down toward the open gates leading out of the camp.

“If this fucking thing kills me, you’re the new Warrior of Light. And I’m haunting you forever.”

The Fenrir sounded like a living roll of thunder tearing through the path down the hills, and Oliv’s grip on the handles could’ve crushed a man’s wrist. Despite his initial pensive reaction, only minutes later he was howling with delight as the bike launched off a small incline and took several yalms off the dirt before skidding to a landing. Its wide tires provided stability without worry about getting thrown off balance, and still handled like it could turn on a tree-side. Which, true to Desmond’s theory, Oliv was very well-equipped to do - the bard’s reflexes kept him in control of the beast almost too well.

As the miqo’te turned the handles, the tires screeched on the dry clay and stone, sending an echo across the Abanian hills, skidding to a stop and kicking up a fine cloud of dust. Oliv coughed and waved the dust and engine smoke away, his ears laying back with brief annoyance - but a grin widened across his face as his eyes caught Desmond running down the hill after him, pumping a fist in the air.

“ What’d I tell ya?! She’s a keeper!”

Chapter Text

Dearest Hien;

As of writing this, it's been two days since our initial arrival in Sharlayan. A fog across the bay masked much of the city on our approach, but as though welcoming us, it parted to the sight of a colossal statue of Thaliak, our god of knowledge, pouring his ewer into the bay and welcoming us to a city of scholars and learning.

Surely you can imagine my enthusiasm! It didn't take a bell fresh off the boat for us to be questioned and nearly detained - Estinien and I barely made it through customs without Krile's timely intervention. I realize as of writing this that you've not met the two in question - both are worth introducing you to, surely. Krile is a delight to have in our company, and gifted with the selfsame Echo of mine no less - and our primary connection for us in this city. Without her, we'd likely stand to have been kicked out of this town of prudish intellectuals as soon as we set foot on the stone.

Estinien and I share some of that "sense for danger" you've spoken of. He's been in and out of our sight for a few years since Ishgard, but he's finally come around and decided to aid us with the Telophoroi situation. Estinien is the kind of man you can trust through the most dire of situations, be it in a fight or just to tell you that you've gone off the deep end. On the other hand, the way he and Desmond bicker like schoolchildren has its entertainment value.

Sharlayan reminds me of Gridania in some ways. They couldn't be less alike in terms of scenery, but it has that same scent of superiority at every corner and doorstep. It feels like our every move is being scrutinized, even those of the Scions that lived here prior seem to feel the discomfort of judgement. That said... the snow is beautiful here. It stays chilly and flurries like the one I'm watching now are frequent, according to the twins.

I find myself thinking about the clear sky in Doma after the castle siege, when the rain broke and I saw you across the battlement, steeling yourself for what you still had to do. When you had to be the voice of reason, still had to put on that brave and firm face even through your pain and exhaustion and loss. And the clear night that came in later, when you let that mask crumble away in my arms. And we could finally assure each other that everything would be all right.

Even here, you inspire me. Defiance in the face of all odds, great or small.

I miss you dearly.

Our current plans are to assess the situation in Radz-at-Han and attempt to make some sense of the towers. With any luck, we can have this business wrapped up before the Telophoroi spread their influence further east. You've enough to worry about without some Ascian brat threatening to end the world!

Get away from your desk today. Tell Yugiri that I demand you take a day and swim in the Ruby Sea for a while. I hear that the food in Radz-at-Han is heavy on the spices, I'll be on the lookout for something I can bring for us to share.

With you in song;

Oliv'to

Chapter Text

“An urgent missive, ma’am. For the Warrior a’... erm, for Mister Oliv’to Lhenrau. Direct from Adders’ command. I’d like t’ deliver it to ‘im personally, if it’d not be an inconvenience.”

Y’shtola had let him pass into the Rising Stones, and the uniformed Duskwight elezen gave her a straight-postured salute with elbows akimbo, and hurried through the doors into the common area. Passing strange, that a communication arrived strictly for Oliv’to, and not directed to the Scions as a whole. The group had only recently returned from a scuffle in Dravania involving an attempted summoning of Ravana - though Oliv’to was none the worse for wear, many of the others were resting.

She hadn’t meant to overhear as she began making her way back toward her quarters. Oliv’to and the elezen stood in the otherwise empty respite hall, but Y’shtola quietly lingered at the corner as she heard an uncharacteristic crack in the other miqo’te’s voice.

“... How. Where? I… please, tell me anything else that you know.”

The Adder messenger hesitated to respond. There was tension in the pause.

“... T’was an ambush, sir. Ixals came down from th’ mountains as soon as we passed into Coerthas.”

“We?”

“I was part a’ the regiment, sir. They came on us with numbers like which I’ve never seen. The cap’n ordered a retreat straight away, knew we’d not stand against ‘em with our small regiment. But they were…”

“At ease. Take your time.”

“... they ‘ad mongrel wolves. Tore straight for the carriage an’ bulled us through. Like as not goin’ for any crystals we ‘ad. Cap’n was caught up in it, but ‘e told us to run. I saw ‘im fight off a dozen o’ the squawkin’ fanatics single-handed to cover our escape. When we came back to scout the remains, wasn’t naught left but...”

Another pregnant pause. The sound of paper crunching in a balled fist broke the silence, and then a deep, strained breath.

“... I wanted t’ deliver this personally, sir. An’ offer my sincerest condolences. Without him, we’d not’ve gotten out alive.”

“Your name is…?”

“Edifraut, sir. I’ve served wit’ your brother since Carteneau. We’re holding a ceremony for ‘im and the others we lost, in a few days’ time.”

Brother? Oliv’to never spoke of a sibling, but given his name , Y’shtola had assumed as much…

“It’d mean a lot to all of us if you’d be there.”

“... I’ll consider. Thank you, Edifraut. I’ll…”

The crack in Oliv’to’s voice came back, as though he had been struggling to retain his composure. There was silence, then slow footsteps as the elezen approached the doorway. Y’shtola casually moved to the nearby bookshelf, feigning the act of perusing for a tome, as the Duskwight left the building with a brisk pace.

Y’shtola lingered for a few moments longer, hearing a few muffled noises from Oliv’to in the next room, before his footsteps too approached the doorway, stopping mid-stride the moment he saw his fellow Scion.

“... How long have you–”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to eavesdrop.” Y’shtola finally turned, regarding the bard with a soft, sad smile. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine. I don’t know what you think…”

“Oliv’to.”

The miqo’te lad flinched at the stern response, his ears slowly lowering, visible tension in his aether starting to broil… and then calm, as a sudden sob broke from his throat. Y’shtola closed the distance between them and put a hand on Oliv’s shoulder.

“Talk to me,” she repeated, guiding him to the nearest table as she felt him begin to shake. Even with her limited vision, she could hear the tears forming on his face. “Tell me about him, this brother of yours.”

Chapter Text

Oliv’a never once rode a chocobo.

That wasn’t to say that he’d never had an opportunity to do so. His station as a captain, hard-earned with near a decade of service in the Adders, could’ve provided him with his pick of the finest thoroughbred birds that the company had to offer. A number of them had tenure of their own, strong veteran birds who served their masters with the utmost sense of duty one could expect from a chocobo.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have the skill for handling an animal, either. Oliv’a never had an issue with animals, certainly not with the more uncommon mounts that one would see in the Shroud. It was rare to see adventurers saddled on anything but a chocobo, but the rare exceptions always delighted him and would make a point of meeting them just to inquire about the creatures. On the occasions where a mount was necessary for travel, Captain “Ace” had learned to saddle on the more obscure, miqo’te-trained antelope stag.

There were rumors that he just… didn’t like chocobos.

Or maybe they didn’t like him . No one was quite sure when it started, but the birds seemed to grow restless around him, behaving as though they sensed a threat. Ace would laugh it away as though it didn’t bother him, claiming it must’ve been something he’d cooked that they didn’t like the scent of.

He knew the real reason why.

They could sense something wrong with him.

Captain Oliv’a “Ace” Lhenrau’s memorial service was on a rainy evening in Bentbranch. The rain came almost without warning, in fact. But so beloved by his subordinates he was, that many opted to stay and carry out the rites even as thunder clapped through the Shroud. There was no body to bury, only a bloodied spear tip and shreds of a uniform, folded in the Twin Adders’ flag and ritualistically burned under a makeshift canopy. According to some, they had expected the notable sibling, Oliv'to, to make an appearance for the memorial - but others received word that a dire primal situation in Dravania had forced the Warrior of Light to miss the ceremony.

As the last of the contingent retired indoors to drink to their departed friend, a lone conjurer stayed to ensure the embers were put out - when she heard a blood-curdling screech across the settlement. She rushed to her comrades, a pair of the guard stationed at the gates, and the three rushed to the source of the scream… the chocobo stables.

The birds were in a panic, each of the dozen or so confined to their paddocks, but bashing their feet against the ground and gates as though something had spooked them to their core. The conjurer quickly rushed to the pens to attempt to calm the birds with a soothing sleep spell, while the lancers began their search for the disturbance.

One of the paddocks was open. Two unmoving bodies lay within: one stable hand - a middle-aged hyurian woman - and a man whose face had been maimed as though by a wild animal.

It didn’t take the conjurer more than a breath to feel the dry emptiness of the aether in the paddock as she ran to investigate. Something had snuck into the ranch and drained both unlucky souls of their aether.

A voidsent was on the hunt. But it left the birds alone, not a one of them was touched.

Maybe it just… didn’t like chocobos.

Chapter Text

If Desmond was keeping track, this was technically the third war he’d jumped into the front lines of, within the last five years. Give-or-take a few skirmishes. Unless you were to count the Garlean resistance as one united effort, in which case… he didn’t really like thinking about how long he’d been subject to that.

Desmond had never lived in a time without it, not that he could remember. Before they retook Ala Mhigo, it was the Dragonsong. He lost his arm to them when he was barely fifteen. Before that, he only recalled a toddler fleeing from the aforementioned Imperials taking Ala Mhigo. Stephanivien claimed he either had the Fury’s protection or some divine luck for how he’d managed to stay alive, throwing his lot in with the Scions and the Bard, surviving encounters with primals and warlords and still fighting the good fight.

At this point, it just felt like he was doing his job.

Bozja would count as the third, he mused. He wasn’t riding on the coattails of the Scions this time, though - they were still indisposed and the Warrior of Light occupied with an increasingly complex situation on the First. Desmond had to admit that he felt a bit peeved that he’d been left behind by the cosmic clusterfuck that whisked them away to an entirely new world, but someone needed to hold down the fort in their absence - especially with places like this still in need of support.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit like a stand-in. He couldn’t technically call himself a Warrior of Light. But any feelings of insecurity were long trampled by the anticipation stoking in his chest.

“ Ser Antoiniaux - you’ve been requested at the command tent, ser! ”

A fellow skysteel machinist poked his head into Desmond’s allocated tent - a rather cramped space, after he’d gone about setting it up as a makeshift field workshop, never mind agreeing to Gerolt’s wild conditions concerning allocating resources and space. Cramped, but functional; it wasn’t said that Desmond lacked style and functionality in any aspect of his work.

Least of which, his newest toy.

It took no convincing for the machinist to take up a blade like this, after seeing it in action on the field during the first skirmishes at Ghimlyt. But the engineer he was, he had to know exactly how such a thing worked, inside and out. The best way to do that, of course, was building his own from the ground up. Materials for one weren’t terribly hard to come by, and he did admit that he appreciated having Gerolt’s assistance with the forging of a sturdy frame. The challenge, of course, was altering the rest of his kit to accommodate a gunblade.

His magitek arm needed modification. To facilitate the blade’s cartridge system, he needed to modify a charging case to his aetherotransformer, which needed to generate a higher output to charge said cartridges. He had intended to make the process faster by overclocking the transformer, but he certainly didn’t want the box exploding on his hip and costing him another limb. He briefly considered re-incorporating the transformer directly to the brass arm, but… that would take more development time than he had available.

What he ended up with was a fine substitute, though. His arm received a fresh coat of paint and swapped out a utility compartment for backup cartridges. The transformer now directly plugged in through armor adjustment and could more effectively distribute power between his arm and the cartridge charges. He’d finished off the blade itself with a fine rust-red hilt and black cartridge case, eye-catching to say the least. Style was always the other half of efficiency in his designs, and he felt perfectly confident that this look was going to solidify his place here.

It had to. In his experience, if he wasn’t making a scene, standing on his own two feet, he may as well go home.

The tromping of his boots through the muddy camp caught some attention. The largely-Hrothgar contingent watched with no feigned interest as the hyur’s confident stride approached their commander at his tent. Bajsaljen folded his arms with a wide grin.

“I trust we’ve given you ample time to prepare, Blade Desmond?”

“Just enough, aye. I’ll admit, I’m itching to test how Cinder handles through a few dozen Garlean ‘mechs.”

The hrothgar’s laugh echoed across the camp, and a firm nod was enough to convince Desmond that he was , in fact, making this look work.

“Can’t wait to see her in action, lad. We’re glad to have you on board.”