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What a dreary swamp…
And it wasn’t even about the scenery—the monotonous gray-green rocks and the same greenish haze held no particular weight for a mage raised in Ishgard. The apathy reigning among the local inhabitants was almost physically palpable, threatening to drag one down.
But they had to keep moving. Thancred hadn’t sacrificed himself for them to get stuck at the very first step.
The group, gathered at the rendezvous point after a quick scouting mission, was in similarly somber spirits, contemplating their situation.
— If it's indeed emotion that governs this island, perhaps it is not Meteion’s, but the dragons' that holds us here — Y’shtola broke the gloomy silence first. — They are tire of conflict, and have chosen a path of oblivion to escape it.
— Simply put, they chose to go nowhere, — Veraylis snorted, crossing his arms. — And now there’s no way out for the dragons themselves, or for anyone else on this island. Like us.
The other Scions exchanged glances.
— A sound theory, disheartening though it may be, — G’raha intoned.
— If that is the case, what recourse do we have? — Alphinaud inclined his head thoughtfully. — They are not like to be persuaded to help us. Their reasoning is built on a history of turmoil and strife. Without irrefutable proof the future is not as bleak as they believe it to be...
"Oh, you just don’t know how to persuade properly," the interrogator’s lips twitched in an unpleasant smirk as he listened to one companion’s musings. "Sometimes only brute force is understood."
But aloud, he phrased it differently:
— I think persuasion and reasoning aren’t the solution we seek. That damned bird intended to destroy us back on the ship, and if not for Thancred, she would have succeeded.
— She conceded it was strong enough to overpower the despair that otherwise rules Ultima Thule, and reshape it to a degree, — Y’shtola nodded, agreeing with the mage’s train of thought. — Perhaps it can be done again in like manner by overpowering the prevailing emotions.
A brief pause hung in the air as the Scions digested their friends’ reasoning. Urianger was the first to speak, drawing a conclusion:
— 'Twas Ultima Thule’s architect, Meteion herself, against whom Thancred did pit himself in a clash of wills. Though I marked no leader among them, as such, I did chance to encounter a dragon possessed of despair far more potent than most. Potent enough, mayhap, to dictate the course for others and thus, their domain, to follow. He spoke but few words, carefully chosen, their tone and timber alone threatening to rend my heart in twain. Challenging his desire to remain may allow us to alter the island upon which we stand. Alas, I fear my vaunted rhetoric availed me naught against his calcifying heart. But mayhap one of you will fare better...?
He spread his hands helplessly and looked at his friends.
— That’s surely better than standing around waiting for the impossible, — Olfort declared, his tone dripping with characteristic self-assurance, voicing the group’s consensus.
— Then I shall guide thee. AI End, they call him, in the dragon tongue. Thou wilt find him nearby, eyes fixed upon the water, — the Astrologian gestured towards the lakeshore and, to match words with deeds, set off in that direction first. The others had little choice but to follow the Elezen.
Lis watched the departing group and frowned slightly at his thoughts.
"If emotions rule here, we need to stir these lizards up. And what stirs apathy best? Probably..."
— Yeah, we won’t be waiting for the impossible, but for two Ishgardians hatching cunning plans on the fly, no doubt, — an ironic chuckle from the side snapped him out of his thoughts.
— Well, no one’s forcing you to wait, — the mage retorted coolly, tearing his gaze from the stone at his feet and looking up at Olf.
— Oh please, so I can run all over the island looking for you two later? How tedious.
— Your concern is tremendously touching, precious! — the interrogator gave his companion a mocking bow, heavy with sarcasm, before heading after the group. — Do try to keep up.
However, the Azure Dragoon was only about fifteen paces ahead, having clearly also lingered before catching up to the other Scions.
Was he plotting something too?
Over years of dealing with the straightforward, white-haired thorn named Estinien, Veraylis had learned that their trains of thought often coincided. This seemed to be one such moment.
— Ungrateful bastards, — the diplomat muttered, a flicker of annoyance crossing his refined features as he hurried after Lis – walking alone in this atmosphere wasn’t appealing.
***
— "Nearby" my arse, traipsing halfway across the island... — Olf muttered under his breath, clearly worn out but maintaining his usual air of weary superiority. — Utterly inefficient.
— As if you haven’t gotten used to the good Astrologian’s tendency for understatement, — Lis remarked with a hint of wryness in his tone. He teased his companion: — Come now, a few extra hundred meters won’t diminish your splendor.
— If you find it so invigorating, you rack up the mileage! — Olf snapped back, a flash of genuine irritation in his eyes beneath the polished facade. He knew he had to go, but couldn’t resist the retort.
— If the esteemed diplomat hadn’t noticed, I am walking right beside him, — came the sardonic reply.
— Didn’t notice, you were remarkably subdued! Plotting world domination, or just feeling your age?
— Figuring out how to kick this stagnant swamp awake, naturally, — the mage replied, a trace of weary determination in his voice as he pulled a cigarette case from his jacket pocket.
— That’s your grand scheme? How... pedestrian. You’re losing your edge.
Lis gave a noncommittal shrug, either dismissing the jab or silently asserting that direct methods had their timeless merit, and took a measured drag from the lit cigarette.
During the journey, the interrogator’s resolve in the chosen course of action had hardened, yet a deep melancholy settled over him. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down, a familiar, grim ache in his chest.
"Yes. The best way to stir this swamp of despair is pain. Works every time."
He wouldn’t dream of sharing the plan with Olf. The diplomat could never accept such a sacrifice, least of all from him. The very thought of Olf’s reaction – the futile rage, the disbelief – was almost worse than the act itself. Interference was unthinkable.
"Protect and help him at any cost," had once been the order from Aymeric.
The problem was that Olf’s definition of ‘cost’ rarely extended to personal sacrifice, especially Veraylis’s own.
— Oh, finally. Praise the Twelve for small mercies, — the diplomat drawled, glancing sideways at his unusually quiet companion.
The others were only waiting for the lagging Elezen, but no one reproached them for the delay.
— He remalneth as he was when l first approached. Entombed in melancholy, — the Astrologian nodded towards an alabaster figure silently gazing out over the lake waters.
The mage didn’t know if the others felt it, but he perceived a kind of dark aura surrounding the enormous lizard.
"Well, seems we weren’t mistaken."
— I see... Perhaps I could... — Alphinaud, ever the diplomat, began to approach the reclining dragon, his posture radiating practiced confidence.
But a gauntleted hand barred his way.
— I’ll handle this.
The interrogator shot a sharp, knowing look at his old friend. Estinien, catching it, gave the faintest nod.
Yes, they’d reached the same conclusion again. Brutal, effective. A play for two.
"Your lead, old friend. I’ll follow," Lis took a final drag, watching the scene unfold, his expression guarded but focused.
The dragoon approached the still motionless dragon, making no move to draw his weapon, and posed a blunt question:
— So. Waiting to die like all the others, are you?
The lizard slowly turned its head towards the intruder:
— Aye. Our pride is crushed, and our souls corrupted. The winds are stilled, and the heavens offer no comfort. There Is nothing left for our kind. Our long lives a curse as we await the end. Still as stone we shall become...
— So you say that, yet your kind has found a new beginning on our star. One of you braved the expanse, bearing with him a clutch of eggs. They and their children now rule our skies, their song heard by all.
The alabaster shadow finally showed some interest in the conversation, lifting its head incredulously and fixing Estinien with an intense stare:
— Our kin... on another star?
"There it is. The pressure point. Gotcha. Hooked you now, lizard."
Time to join the performance.
Veraylis flicked away his cigarette butt. He turned his head slightly and gave Olfort a long, appraising look. Resigned. Determined. Memorizing.
"Forgive me. For the unsaid. For the undone."
Green eyes narrowed, studying the tall, fair-haired figure:
— And yet... upon thee do I smell the blood of my bretheren. Were they drawn into discord and war on their new home?
— Hm? — Olf, feeling the gaze, looked questioningly at the mage, a flicker of unease breaking through his composed mask. He sensed trouble.
Before he could speak, the interrogator gripped his shoulder briefly. The smile that touched Veraylis’s lips was familiar, sharp, and held an unsettling finality.
— Be sensible. They still need you. Here.
Before the ginger-haired Elezen could react, Lis deftly slipped between the other Scions and approached the dragoon.
— They were, — the mage answered for his friend, his voice low and heavy with grim conviction. — They suffered much and repaid their suffering in kind.
He didn’t see Olf, who had lunged after him, stopped by Urianger’s firm grip, earning a furious, impotent hiss from the diplomat.
The dragon lowered its head again, the spark of hope dimming:
— It mattereth not whither we fly. Ever will a sanguine ocean await us. Ever will retribution's wheel turn. And so, on the last of my pride as a dragon, I break free of this wheel. I renounce conflict! Exile myself from the other, never again to be touched the flames of hatred!
"Oh no you don't. You won't get away that easy!"
— Had your bretheren made the selfsame choice, my family might still be alive, — Estinien stated flatly, the weight of Ishgard in his words. — But lasting peace does not come to those who simply retreat from conflict.
— No, you must be willing to confront it. To stare into the face of your foe... and see yourself in him, — Veraylis challenged the lizard, his Ishgardian accent crisp.
— Only then can you break the cycle of torment and tragedy. This lesson, a dear friend taught me at the risk of his life. There is no nobilily in your 'penance.' You wallow in self-pity, — the dragoon drew his lance with a grim smirk, resting it on his shoulder, the movement a clear provocation. The mage raised a hand, dark energy coalescing with chilling focus into his palm, his expression tight with resolve:
— And after everything we've endured, we will not let you stop us!
Now the dragon was roused. Surging to its full height, it roared deafeningly, spreading its wings wide... and suddenly transformed into a small, black songbird. Immediately after, a dark vortex erupted around the three of them.
— No!! — came a cry from the group.
— Stay back! — both Ishgardians commanded in unison, their voices like steel. The vortex raged around them, within which a mournful chorus of voices could clearly be discerned:
We tire of war... We tire of turmoil...... Dignity tarnished, crimson stained… Our misery, our shame... Too much to bear... Release us, from war... From life...
— I see... Their emotions that bars our way, — Estinien observed, a grim satisfaction in his tone.
And Veraylis half-turned towards the Scions, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips – weary, but resolute:
— The rest is up to you.
For a couple of seconds, his gaze locked with Olf’s. The diplomat strained against Urianger’s hold, his usual composure shattered into raw, furious panic. He wasn’t trying to help; he was trying to stop Veraylis.
Alas.
"I brought you this far, Olf. Make it count. Make sure it wasn’t wasted."
And the next second, the vortex imploded violently into a single point and vanished, swallowing everyone within it. A moment later, a gust of wind swept across the now-still shore and slammed into the wall of thick fog at the island’s far edge with a resounding crack, forcing it to part and dissolve into the air.
The path forward was open.