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Chapter Text

Bragi had bade him to visit the Wandering Stairs, this unwalled tavern nestled at the top of flights of stairs it was aptly named after, and so he did — Welcoming the free drinks and the euphoric mood in the air, several dozens of patrons cheerfully prattling about while exchanging hopes and gazing up at the night sky.

Barely more than a moon had passed since Mikela had first woken up in this world, the glaring skies and the voices in his head and the aching down to his bones, but already there was a familiarity to it, an attachment, the hope and the love in these people's heart that could only be born at the cusp of the end of their world, and in watching them smile and laugh and cherish the tears in their eyes, his own pains and fears seem to subside (or it might be the third pint he empties into his dry throat, but the former seems more uplifting).

Amongst the civilians, a select few stood out of the crowd by way of the weapons at their back, at their hip — Bounty hunters, he had been told — And he figures the white blood staining his coat and the gilded guts barely wiped off his sword would pose him as one of them, rather than the one harboring the newly fallen lightwarden within him.

A young mystel approaches him first, strong perfume and seemingly luxurious fabrics, claiming him perfect and pulling the map of Lakeland out of his pack to mark a spot on it, Mikela too stunned to protest when the mystel shoves the map back at him, the paper crumpling against his chest a little in the process while he smiles widely. "See you there tomorrow!"

Mikela watches him leave, soon turning his attention to the map, placing it down on the table to straighten it out before accepting a fourth pint of ale from the elven waitress, a faint ache in his chest when she smiles at him. He doesn't remember ordering another drink, but it was far from unwelcome.

"Feels a bit cheap when the drinks're on the house already, but I'm hoping you'll agree it's the thought that counts, yeah?"

The generous stranger walks by him before leaning on the standing table Mikela had been occupying, the weight of his armor making it shift.

"Can't say I've chatted with you before. Think I'd remember if I had." His crimson eyes peer down into his, a face that makes Mikela wish he meant that in ways unrelated to his combat experience. "Seen your fair share of fighting, have you?"

Mikela brings the drink to his lips, eyes the man for a moment before answering. "Why're you asking?"

"Rest assured I've no secret designs. Name's Granson. Bounty hunter by trade, mostly sin eaters."

He extends his hand, and Mikela sets aside the drink to take it.

"When I first laid eyes on you, I had a feeling you were a tough bastard." His eyes scout down Mikela's torso as he says so, and Mikela is only slightly disenchanted when he follows his gaze to note that it was the milky splatters of blood that caught the man's attention. "The sort that might get mistaken for that Warrior of Darkness folks've been talking about all night. That right?"

"No..." Mikela's voice is groggy from exhaustion, but he soon realizes how unconvincing it has him sound. "I don't know what you're talking about. Well, I do, I know who the Warrior of Darkness is, or, I don't, but I'm just... I'm just travelling, and—"

"Easy, killer." Granson leans up, the glasses clattering on the table as it's freed from his weight. He brings his hand to Mikela's shoulder, patting it vigorously. "I couldn't care less who you are or what you've done."

His hand lingers for a moment before he turns his attention to the map spread out on the table, standing beside Mikela, inches taller and subdued scents of smoke and steel, detailing his particular quarry.

He speaks of the name the sin eater once bore — Branden — And Mikela tries to ignore the tightness in his throat, attempting to shrug off pain that felt like another's, anchoring himself into his body even if it meant keeping his eyes on the older man's lips, watching more than listening.

"You've heard the pitch, so what's the answer? You interested in hunting Dikaiosyne with me?" Granson looks at him expectantly, his hair tousling enough for a deep scar at his brow to peer out from underneath.

"Yeah." Mikela straightens himself, thinks of this knight he might once have known, ivory gushing from every orifice. "I'm with you."

"Not a whit of hesitation." Granson steps away from the table, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he gives a stout tap to Mikela's back. "I like you, sinner."

Mikela tries to keep his expression as straight as possible as the skin of his cheeks burn, shifting in his sollerets.

"I've heard reports of stray eaters drifting close to the Crystarium." He points at the eastern edge of the map before walking away. "Meet me at the Exarch Gate in the morning. Put my mind at ease."

Mikela manages to find his way back to his room at the Pendants while he could still admire the sea of stars, pushing the shutters open to feel the cold air on his skin. His sullied armor and leathers now rest on a dresser, hastily replaced by light pants and a sleeveless top he had brought over from the Source, hints of Tural in the fabrics grazing his bruised skin, a home he needed to cling unto here more than anywhere.

He knew sleep would be unlikely to come to him and his half gallon of ale, content in simply watching the stars. Memories of sneaking out of the village's carved caverns to catch a glimpse of the night sky find him, his sister insisting they couldn't stay long yet carrying a rroneek fleece blanket to shield them from the cold night of the desert, huddling under it, the countless stars and the two moons.

Barely more than a moon within this reflection, yet Mikela had yearned to see said remaining moon again. How could he shoulder the pain of all of these people, cheering and chatting in the distance, who had never known the stars? How did Alphinaud and Alisaie find such strength without a single moon to watch over them for the past year?

Thancred's count stands at five.

His stomach twists as it did when he first heard the Exarch's words. Five moons for him. Five summers for Thancred. He could still feel his fingertips at his jaw, his lips against his neck — But could Thancred even remember his voice?

Stupid. There's more serious things to be concerned about, as Thancred would always tell him. Or even better, distractions to forget any and all of his concerns.

He knew slipping out of his room to find work would only worry his young friends and the Exarch, assuming anyone in town even had their mind on work, and so he only has himself and this room and these lingering thoughts of a tall dark near-stranger standing just a bit too close, sounding just a bit too attractive.

He walks over to his bed, letting those thoughts guide him down on his sheets, Granson's obviously platonic chummy pats on his shoulder and back turning to hands on his hips and thighs, good-natured nicknames now breathed into his ear, against his throat. The images that cloud Mikela's mind with a spark of pleasure are engraved into reality by his own fingers as they slip into his pants...

"So it's your lot's turn to be the Warriors of Darkness, is it?" Ardbert walks through the locked door unceremoniously, the specter soon visible as he walks beyond the room divider. "It's funny how things work out."

Mikela sits up so quickly his stomach churns, too flustered to worry about the nausea nestling itself in him. "These are my private quarters!"

"Aye, I know. Just the place." Ardbert watches him as he throws his legs over the bed, sitting on the edge of it while brushing bedraggled bangs out of his face. "In case you've forgotten, you're the only one who can see me."

Ardbert walks towards the armoire, looks at the discarded clothes. He didn't seem to care about having been privy to Mikela's budding attempts at pleasuring himself — Somehow, Mikela thinks he would have known if he felt otherwise.

"If we had one of our little chats in public, people might start thinking you'd lost your wits." Ardbert continues, his translucent hand grazing over the tossed clothes, unable to grasp them.

"I know." Mikela wants to believe Alphinaud and Alisaie would have understood had he received a visit during his time with them in Kholusia and Amh Araeng, but they carried so much already — That their friend is haunted seemed a selfish notion to share. "I'm happy to see you again."

Ardbert snorts. "That's not what people typically say to the spirits watching their every move."

Mikela shrugs, smiles. A companion in this newfound night was the best distraction he could have asked for. "I've been wondering what you looked like smiling."

"Well?" Ardbert walks up to the bed, crosses his arms. The ocean of his eyes seemed so clear even as light poured out of his sheer form, his smile not fading, because Mikela's didn't.

"It's a real good smile." Mikela had thought of it since his time in Eulmore.

Between the shared sights, the whispered thoughts and the aching in the depth of his guts from memories that weren't quite his, he could also hear Ardbert's words on stagnant winds — And his laugh, too — In the midst of the buzzing crowd of the Beehive, a free citizen urging Mikela to climb on stage, not for his voice or his guitar, no, but a dance, and all Mikela could conjure was clumsy footwork pulled from fading memories of the tumbleclaw dance his uncles had taught him.

"Those white-haired twins who were with you... I remember them from our battle in the Source." Ardbert's tone shifts, likely spurred by the melancholy in Mikela's own thoughts for his first home, his first family. "Are they your friends, then? Through thick and thin?"

Mikela's melancholy is soon gauzed by warmth as he thinks of an answer — Of Alphinaud's own words a dozen suns ago — We are family in all but name. "Yeah. More than friends."

"Aye..." Ardbert's gaze lingers in the silence, but they both know he's thinking of the titles, of the names they heard at the Wandering Stairs earlier. The Cardinal Virtues. The Warriors of Light. Branden. Renda-Rae. Nyelbert. Lamitt. "Then I suggest you keep them close. It's when you charge ahead trying to save someone else that you end up losing those you love."

His words seep into healing wounds and Mikela sees himself on the Steps of Faith, ax in hand and dragon blood on his tongue, cheering for a victory in a war he had yet to understand while a lover's guts spilled into Urth's Fount, swamp water swelling insides until...

"Not that you need telling. I'll bet you've lost plenty." Ardbert must have sensed the distress growing at the pit of his stomach, putting a stop to his spiral with stout words but a gentle voice. "But I wonder... What will it cost you this time?"

Chapter Text

Mikela tries to sneak back into his room as quietly as possible, unsure if he did it to not disturb any of the neighboring residents of the Pendants or because he foolishly thought he could avoid drawing the attention of his ghostly companion and of the Exarch and his all-seeing mirror.

But his feet drag on the tiles, and he lets his forehead press against the planks of the door when his vision blurs, begging his legs to hold him up while another fit of nausea grates his insides. His fingers spasm against the knob, not responding to any sensory signal, not feeling the night turn the handle cold nor the smoothness of the metal that shaped it.

All he can do is wait, focusing on his lungs, on making sure they still responded to him, breathing in, breathing out, staring at the patterns of the wood grain when his eyes decide to talk to his brain again.

A sigh of relief slips out of his lips when he steps into his room and closes the door behind him — He wouldn't draw as much attention if he collapsed in here.

But of course, considering the lack of privacy of his current living situation, it wouldn't go entirely unnoticed. He sees Ardbert walk up to him, his furrowed brow obvious even in the blurred, transparent edges of his spectral form.

"Hello." Mikela realizes his attempt at sounding normal failed the moment the unnatural greeting left his mouth.

"How much did you drink?" Ardbert cuts to the chase, the concern he feels bleeding into Mikela's own heart.

"Enough." Mikela wants to smile — Reassuringly or teasingly, either would work — but the signal doesn't reach his mouth. "I'll go sleep."

"Sure, if you want to curse a headache all day." Ardbert walks over to the dining table, looks over the dishware spread on it. "They freshened up that jug of water a few bells ago. You really ought to make use of it."

Whether it was because of their abnormally attuned souls or because he had gotten to know the man better over these past few moons immersed in one another's feelings, he could tell Ardbert wished he could be the one to pour the water into a cup for him, were his fingers able to find anchor onto anything.

Mikela slips out of his shoes before joining Ardbert and doing as asked, picking a cup out of a stack — As if he had any guests that could actually drink from them these days  — and filling it with fresh water. He feels relief from seeing his body accomplish the task safely, soothed further by Ardbert's own ease now that Mikela had taken his advice.

He guzzles down the whole cup, feeling the water caress his parched throat, yet unable to tell if ice had kept it cold, or if it had become lukewarm since.

"Do you think you can eat something?" Ardbert crosses his arms while watching him, his voice calmer now.

Mikela looks over the various baskets of fruits and breads that brought their colors to the table while pouring himself a second cup, drinking it just as fast as the first — As if the water could wash down the queasiness growing in his guts at the thought of having to digest anything, wash down whatever was left of the stranger he had taken in his mouth, stupid and desperate to feel someone near him, to feel like this body was still his, to feel anything. "No. I don't think so."

"Right. In the morning, then." Ardbert walks towards the bed, not pressing further, likely privy to Mikela's agitation.

Mikela fills a third cup before following Ardbert, placing the water on the bedside table and letting himself drop down to the bed, thankful to no longer have to worry about whether or not his legs would hold him up. His hands reach back to untie his sleeveless vest, slipping it off before carefully taking to folding it.

Ardbert never seemed to mind seeing him in a state of undress, being the one to intrude on his privacy in the first place, so Mikela is surprised to feel him slightly ill at ease, looking up as he sets aside his folded clothes.

Blue eyes are fixed on his neck, that frown back on his brow, and Mikela sees a bit of the Ardbert he saw through the eyes of the ones now known as the cardinal virtues, the Ardbert who could do anything — Absolutely anything — for the ones he loved.

"When did that happen?" Ardbert seems concerned and upset both, although Mikela couldn't tell if the anger was directed towards him or towards something, someone else.

"What?" Mikela presses his fingers to the side of his neck, trying to feel if there was anything there.

"You're bruised." Ardbert takes a step forward, but they both knew he couldn't touch him. "It looks bad."

Oh. Mikela presses his fingertips into the area Ardbert had been looking at, a faint ache finally getting through to his atrophied nerves the harder he pushes.

He sees himself under the stranger he had left the tavern with, a hand at his throat, his legs spread to welcome the man, taken by someone whose name he'll never know rather than pushed away by those he wanted to love, Back off, Mike! I won't let anyone stand between me and her murderer!

"It doesn't hurt." It wasn't a lie.

Mikela moves into the covers, habit more than anything else, his body unable to feel the caresses of the fabric, unable to be bothered by the chill of the night.

He closes his eyes to end the conversation, but soon feels Ardbert's soul grazing his. In all of the physical sensations he had lost, having someone who could touch him beyond this useless layer of skin was a blessing, but one he didn't know how to receive.

He sees Ardbert sitting — Or rather, purposefully floating in a seated position, for the bed doesn't shift under his weight — at the edge of his bed, looking over him, and Mikela can't deny the affection that flows into him. He feels him just an inch from his hip, the edges of their souls unraveling to try and sew themselves back together.

They stare at each other, at themselves through the eyes of the other, silent, Mikela running his hand along the bedsheets, crumpling the fabric between his fingers, anchored in the physical world Ardbert had lost his place in.

"Do I snore when I sleep?" Mikela croaks the question sleepily.

"What?" Ardbert snorts, that gorgeous smile back on his face. "Is that what you're worried about?"

"Heard your drunk snoring could wake up entire towns." Mikela smiles, successfully this time, his face half pressed into his pillow.

"Now who would tell you such a fib?" Ardbert crosses his arms, but Mikela could tell he was amused.

"Branden." Mikela answers a bit too candidly, feels his own heart grow heavy as Ardbert's does. "The echo. Sorry."

"'s fine." Ardbert looks away for a moment, but a small smile still accents his lips. "Did your gift impart you with any other dark secret regarding me I should know about?"

"No. Well, nothing you should be embarrassed about, at least." Mikela examines Ardbert's face, his handsome profile belying a thousand emotions he surely could have recognized even without all of the tenderness pouring into him, allowing him to know just how much Ardbert loved, missed his friends.

There's a warmth that makes itself known in the depth of Mikela's chest as he watches Ardbert, and he wonders if it's born from having seen him through their eyes, in having known him through their hearts, if only for the time of an adventure — Or if he would have felt the same had the echo never allowed him to live as the late Warriors of Light.

"They really loved you." Mikela says, sinking into Ardbert's eyes when he turns back to him.

"Aye. I know." Ardbert smiles, lowering his arms, his translucent hands hovering over the covers, one set close to Mikela, the tips of his fingers blurring as his soul reaches for Mikela's. "And your companions love you all the same."

"I know." Mikela answers instinctively, but his vision starts blurring — Not alcohol, not the light atrophying his sensory nerves, but tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.

"Good." Ardbert's voice grows quiet, even if Mikela was the only one who could ever hear him. "So do whatever you think you have to do to wake up the next morning. But remember that they would be happy to be there for you. That they would be happy for you to rely on them."

"I know." Mikela's voice is choked up, the words straining to leave his throat. "Thanks for being there in the meantime."

"I don't have much else to do." Ardbert shrugs, but his amusement bleeds through — And something else, too, his eyes so gentle as they watch over Mikela.

Mikela looks down to Ardbert's hand near him, his vision clearer now that his tears dampened his pillow rather than his eyes. He moves his left arm out from under the blankets, placing his hand down besides Ardbert's, keeping a safe distance between their souls, just close enough to feel a tingle at the tip of his fingers.

Ardbert looks down at their hands, his stillness not worrying to Mikela because he felt no judgement, no reluctance, no rejection coming from his blue eyes. 

Mikela feels sleep tugging at his eyelids when Ardbert moves, nestling each of his fingers between Mikela's, translucent digits settling between ones of flesh, weaving themselves into each other, feeling the same pain and the same love flowing freely between them.

Chapter Text

Weary wanderer — You've no fight left to fight! No life left to live!

Whichever words Emet-Selch says next are muted by the increasing ringing in Mikela's ears, his gestures and the motion of his lips lost to a blur that soon turns his vision white.

He barely registers the way his body convulses on the ground, the smell of bile and blood speaking of the way the light had no more use for all that made him a person, Emet-Selch's barely discernible voice dubbing him a monster as ivory cleans everything out of his guts and spills it all out his throat.

A dull thud at the edge of his senses informs him that someone had fallen next to him while his heart slows, the discolored blood in his veins growing stagnant, his lungs choking out every last hint of air within before joining the remainder of his insides in atrophy.

He watches himself grow limp through another's eyes, unexpectedly calm, an unshakable feeling that it couldn't end, not like this, not when he still had someone whose dearest wish he needed to make reality.

"If you had the strength to take another step, could you do it?" He hears Ardbert's voice, each word resounding throughout his soul as clearly as his own thoughts. "Could you save our worlds?"

Mikela looks up at him, knowing it's Ardbert's own resolve that makes him believe his broken body could afford to crawl yet another step. "What, all by myself?" 

The answer comes easily in this space between body and soul, untethered to withered vocal chords, and he sees Ardbert turn to him, their expressions mirroring one another in a smile.

"Take it." He extends his ax, and in it, Mikela sees all of Ardbert's journey, but his, too — The weapon he left Tural with, a lifetime ago, now — The first life he took, the first life he saved. "We fight as one!"

Mikela reaches for the haft, the resulting surge of aether making him wince, but Ardbert soon reaches for his hand, pulling him up despite the immediate reaction between their souls, warmth washing over Mikela as he watches their hands tighten around each other in a way they never could have in the physical world, in the world that still needed him.

He understands what Ardbert means to do, his thoughts, his heart speaking for him. Two souls that were once one, unmistakable in their hue.

Even as Ardbert's determination washes over him, he thinks of the possibilities he would be taking from him, of the next lives he would never be allowed to live on the First, melded as were their seven brethren from the rejoined reflections — But Ardbert doesn't falter, waiting for all of Mikela's concerns to pour out before talking.

"Spending one lifetime with you will be worth just as much as all the lives I could've known if I stayed here." Ardbert walks forward, slowly releasing Mikela's fingers from his grip, yet still feeling one another within their palms. "Besides, I know you'll take me places I could never see without you."

"I'll miss you." Mikela moves his hand from the handle of the ax to cover Ardbert's own, soon understanding how much he aches to be near him, to be made whole, Ardbert's desire becoming his own.

"Oh, I won't be far." Ardbert teases, but his hand moves near simultaneously, his palm soon settling against Mikela's scarred cheek.

He doesn't feel the fabric of his gloves against his skin, nor does he feel the distance their gauntlets should create around the haft — He feels him, rather, Ardbert's thoughts and emotions and sense of self. His dreams weave themselves into his own with ease, made of the same thread, his hopes patching over each of Mikela's fears into a tapestry that makes him want to live as much as Ardbert needs him to.

Aether flows freely into him, and something else, too, love were it tangible, seeing himself through Ardbert's eyes, in this moment but in the depths of the Tempest, too, back in the Crystarium, on the Source, his first step onto Eorzea, Tuliyollal's coast fading into the horizon, his family's songs and laughs and he knows Ardbert knows him, knows all of him — Because he knows him, too.

Those blue eyes are his now, memories Mikela would cherish amongst his own, cities and people for him to remember, Ardbert's friends and loved ones becoming his to love, those who were long gone and those he could still fight for, gentle feathers and a thousand maws.

Mikela echoes Ardbert's touch, reaching for his jaw, looking up at his calm expression, etching his traits unto his heart, unwilling to forget a single wrinkle at the corner of his eyes, a single freckle at the bridge of his nose. He sees Ardbert with such clarity as he receives of his soul, no longer a specter but a reflection, even if he's taller and darker-haired and leaning his head forward before Mikela can move. 

Akin to a puzzle finding its missing piece, Mikela welcomes Ardbert's forehead pressing down against his own, their souls aligning as harmoniously as they project their bodies would. Their thoughts tell of how they would feel against one another, and even knowing the impossibility of it, Mikela urges his body to be more than a vessel for light, wishing himself able to partake in all of the touches, warmth and breaths Ardbert had been kept from in a century of solitude.

There's something else, too, in the depth of their shared souls, memories that didn't quite belong to either of them, but to both of them. Dimmed dreams gain color and scent, people they once knew, people they once loved — Voices and words indiscernible, still, fourteen chairs surrounded by windows offering an idyllic view of an impossible city, long silver hair following the winds as they play a song they didn't quite remember the lyrics to, dancing with her and laughing with them, voices they might have heard not too long ago, vestiges of old friends in the depths of the ruins of Amaurot now whole.

The ax dissolves then, the promises it held entrusted into Mikela's care. He hurriedly places his hand to Ardbert's other cheek, anticipating what would come next, not ready to let go quite yet.

"I don't want to forget anything about you." His eyes, his voice, he didn't want any of it to fade.

"You won't." Ardbert's fingers reach for his wrist, the certainty in his words fostering the illusion that he was holding onto Mikela tightly with one hand and caressing his cheek with the other. "You won't."

Still, he runs his thumbs along Ardbert's cheekbones, tracing his features to commit them to memory, eyes unwavering even if he could see past them, forehead and nose nestled against one another as their souls would soon be, wholly and truly.

"Thanks for taking care of me." Mikela sees himself on his knees, looking out at the blazing skies, holding doom and salvation both in his numb hands. But rather than fear, it's comfort that he remembers — Ardbert, ever by his side, words when gestures couldn't reach him, one presence to remind him that his burdens should never be his to bear alone.

"Well, you'll be the one taking care of me now, so..." Ardbert's voice starts feeling like his own, each word he says seemingly slipping out of his own mouth. "I want you to be kind to yourself."

Mikela smiles even as he feels his fingers struggle to find anchor on Ardbert's face, the unraveled remains of his soul soon to be weaved into his.

He takes in the gentle blue of his eyes one last time, a reminder of the skies they fought for, knowing Ardbert would close his eyes as he does, their lips meeting.

In all of its unlikelihood, he tastes Ardbert on his tongue, his scent, meadows and salty breezes, the warmth of his hands, the pressure of their chests nestling into each other a little deeper with each breath, his voice in his ears even if their lips are inseparable, I'll be right there with you.

They feel everyone they've ever loved in their kiss, with each other, with themselves, at the heart of it all.

As surely as Mikela knows he wouldn't be greeted by Ardbert's smile when he would open his eyes next, he knows he would never again need to shoulder any weight all by himself.

Never alone, forever loved.