Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Death had always been a finality. He had ingrained it that when one meets their end, that is it—no afterlife, no lingering soul. Just nothingness. He had witnessed death countless times, particularly during the decades of the Gommage. To him, death was no quicker than snuffing out a candle.

And yet, here he was—thinking. Even though he was certain he had left his thoughts behind.

He felt weary. As weary as the days he’d spent hunched over his workshop, tinkering with raw ideas and inspirations that burned long into the night. And when he woke the next morning, he would find himself wrapped in a warm blanket left behind by her.

Her?

He couldn’t remember, there was a gap in his memories. A hole he couldn’t fill. The more he tried, the more it spilled out of him—like an inkwell accidentally toppled in a rush to scribble down ideas.

The weariness tugged him deeper, pulling him toward a slumber that made his entire being ache with anticipation. But there are things that needs to be done. He couldn’t rest… just yet…

Run… Please run.

He heard a voice.

You Promised…

He heard it again, but this time he replied.

“Maelle?”

He eventually surrendered to the yawning void. Yet before he dissolve, a frustrated voice cut through the darkness:

“What’s this? A trick of the light?”

Deep within the sleeping forest of Rak’tika Greatwood, beyond the boundaries of Slitherbough, lay the village of Fanow, home of the Viis.

The residents had yet to fully return; only a handful roamed about, gathering supplies and medicinal herbs to treat their wounded kin, who trickled in one at a time.

The battle was over. Eulmore’s forces had retreated once word spread that their general had fallen. The danger had passed, and the Warrior of Light let out a heavy sigh.

He sat on the edge of a platform overlooking the forest, quietly counting as the Viis made their way back, ascending the steps formed by the roots and limbs of ancient trees. Some carried the people of the Night’s Blessed—outsiders, despite the village’s rule forbidding their presence here.

Behind him stood Urianger, tending to the wounds sustained by the unconscious Ronso, Runar. The antidote used to cleanse the poison had already been administered. For now, Urianger could only weave his healing magic, hastening the Ronso’s recovery in hopes to stir him awake.

They came only to defeat the Lightwarden of this land—to restore the balance of night and day to the First. Yet with every step, danger shadowed their path. It had followed them here, into the forest where the next Lightwarden waited.

But here too, another obstacle barred the way.

The Night’s Blessed had long been at odds with the Children of the Dark. Now, the Eulmorans had allied with the latter when the Warrior of Light entered the forest, deeming them a threat to the Lightwarden they protected dearly so. In their attempts to slow them down, they poisoned and attacked the home of the Night’s Blessed. It was no ordinary poison too, restorative magicks proved useless; only a specific antidote could purge the toxin completely. And that cure had been seized by an Eulmoran lackey—wielded as a bargaining chip. Then…

“Chide thyself not, Meteor. Our companion’s valor hath won the Night’s Blessed their cure,” spoke Urianger, turning a fraction of his head to regard his despondent friend. “Would that the saying made it easier borne...”

Meteor could only nod. In his hand was the vial of antidote Y’shtola had sacrificed her life for. It had been used, yet he could not bring himself to discard the empty glass. He held onto it instead, staring at his own reflection within the faint shimmer. His mind was then brought back to the final look Y’shtola had given him before she fell to her doom.

Do not fail.

His thought were cut short when Thancred and Minfilia joined them.

“Runar. Thank goodness,” said Minfilia as she watched Runar bathed in the healing light of Urianger’s spell.

“We delivered a share of the antidote to Slitherbough, and from what we can gather on the way here, the Eulmorans have had the good manners to withdraw,” said Thancred, casting a knowing look at Meteor. He then crossed his arms. “Thank the gods they did, or we would never have made it here in time. I’m told we have Runar and his comrades to thank for keeping the soldiers occupied prior to their retreat.”

That explained his wounds. He must have rallied the villagers and driven the soldiers out of Slitherbough. Meteor shook his head at the thought of the Night’s Blessed, armed with nothing but destructive spells to chase off the Eulmoran forces.

There was a stir, then a murmur. Runar was slowly coming to.

“I must… I—I must…” he whispered before his eyes snapped open.

Urianger immediately ceased his spell and stepped back as Runar rose from his hammock.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Runar groggily turned to those gathered around him. Urianger assured the larger man that his wounds were mended, that they were safe among the Viis, and urged him to rest a while longer. But Runar gently refused. His gaze swept over the room, searching for someone Meteor knew was no longer there.

Meteor’s grip on the empty potion vial tightened. He braced himself for the inevitable question.

“I… I do not see Master Matoya. She was with you, yes?” Runar’s eyes locked onto Meteor’s. “What happened to her?”

She saved the Night’s Blessed—though at a cost…

If only it were so simple—that those who gave freely of themselves would be rewarded. But the world was no such place. Every mercy, every kindness demanded its price. Y’shtola had chosen her path.

And now, before Meteor stood Runar—his eyes shifting, the hope in his eyes already surrendering to despair.

“No…no… No, that cannot be…” Runar finally spoke. “Why would she do such a thing?”
Urianger looked away. Minfilia stood frozen, torn between reaching out and standing back.

“Was there no other way? I…I cannot believe that she… that she…” Runar’s voice broke, only to flare with sudden hope. “We must begin the search immediately! I must come with you!”

Meteor’s heart sank. He knew the truth.

The temple they ventured had been a maze of riddles and traps, one they barely survived. And when Ran’jit, the Eulmoran general, ambushed them, a fight was inevitable. However, an Eulmoran lackey triggered a hidden trap—a bottomless pit yawning in the center. Then, trapped, an attempted deal was made by the lackey for safe passage, but the general cast the man into the pit without hesitation alongside the antidote, and before anyone could act, Y’shtola leapt after him.

One instant she was there, the next she was gone. All Meteor had left was the vial she hurled to him.

Do not fail…

“What are you waiting for? We must find her! She could be trapped or hurt or…” Then, just as quickly as it came, his hope twisted into sorrow. “She is alive. She is alive, damn you!”

…If he gripped the glass any tighter, it would shatter in his hand. He averted his gaze when Runar’s tears began to fall.

But movement caught his eye. Someone was approaching—Almet, a proud hunter of the Viis that welcomed them to Fanow.

“Forgive me for interrupting, but our scouts have apprehended an intruder. We thought perhaps he might be an associate of yours,” she said, before stepping aside. Her younger sisters, Uimet and Cymet, appeared, leading the intruder into view.

Thancred crossed his arms at the sight of the so-called ‘intruder’.

Emet Selch grumbled and sighed, murmuring something about the Viis beside him being tenacious. He then cleared his throat and turned to the group, ready to throw a snark, only to then notice their pitiful looks.

After a long pause, he spoke, “So—what trouble have you gotten yourselves into this time?”

Meteor was angry—truly—but Thancred was fuming, his hand already gripping the hilt of his blade, as if ready to lop off Emet’s head then and there. Who could have expected that even death would not stir a shred of empathy in the Ascian? Of course, he would make light of their grief in his usual, demoralizing way.

Runar, too, had gathered enough resolve to swing a fist, but Urianger was quick to hold him back. Minfilia shrank beneath the suffocating tension, while the Viis sisters wisely kept to themselves.

Yet before the moment could boil over, Emet’s words lingered in Meteor’s mind:
“Well, she is dead, isn’t she? Wishing it were otherwise will not make it so.”

Was Y’shtola truly dead?

She had fallen—from that height, any mortal would perish. And yet, even the dead released a trace of aether before returning to the Lifestream. Y’shtola’s aether had simply… vanished the instant she disappeared from sight.

Was it the nature of this reflection? Had death here somehow returned her to the Source?

A pair of blue eyes settled on him—Minfilia, her face drawn with concern.
“You’ve something on your mind. What is it?” she asked softly.

“I am beginning to wonder what really happened when she fell,” said Meteor.

He must have spoken louder than intended, assuming Thancred and Runar were still quarreling with Emet, for suddenly every gaze turned to him.

Urianger loosened his grip on Runar and faced Meteor squarely.
“Pray recount that which thou didst witness in the ruins—omitting not the slightest detail.”

And so he did. Meteor explained again what he had seen, this time including the strange detail of Y’shtola’s aether vanishing. The revelation struck a chord in Thancred, dredging up a memory he wished he had forgotten—an identical spell: Flow. An ancient spell, Flow formed the very foundation of teleportation. Yet without an aetheryte to anchor the soul, the spell would strand them within the Lifestream, where body and soul alike would erode until nothing remained.

She had used it once before—during the bloody banquet—as a desperate attempt to escape their pursuers. That ill-fated casting comes with a great cost. The prolonged drift within the Lifestream robbed Y’shtola of her sight, and only through the mercy of the elementals and the tireless efforts of Gridania’s White Mages had her life been spared.

“Interesting,” said Emet, tilting his head. “I thought I sensed a brief disturbance in the Lifestream. How reassuring to know it wasn’t my imagination.”

Runar and Thancred both turned sharply toward him, their gazes narrowing. The older man looked faintly startled by their renewed hostility, though he quickly masked it.

“…I felt it only once, I should mention,” he continued, tone almost clinical. “Which would suggest she is still adrift on its currents.”

Runar slumped back onto the hammock, his ears drooping. Minfilia looked ready to cry, and Thancred muttered a bitter curse under his breath.

Emet gave a long, drawn sigh, as though their despair inconvenienced him. “Oh, very well. I’ll go and fetch her.”

“Fetch her?” Thancred’s voice dripped with skepticism.

“Perhaps,” Emet replied, smoothing his coat with a theatrical flair, “a clear and unambiguous act of kindness will serve to win the trust you seem so determined to deny me.”

And—begrudgingly, hesitantly—hope returned.

Meteor had expected a long, arduous task. The last time Y’shtola had been stranded in the Lifestream, it had taken a ritual performed by the White Mages—alongside one of her living kin, who happened to be Meteor’s own mentor in the arts of summoning. Even then, it had been grueling, with success far from assured. And yet, against all odds, it had worked.

So when Emet-Selch merely handed Meteor a lamp conjured out of thin air and told him to find a place where the Lifestream flowed strongest, he almost scoffed. Could it truly be so simple? Could Emet really bring her back?

Still, he did as instructed. It took only a short walk from the village before the lamp blazed bright in his hand. There was nothing particularly special about this area. It was merely full of trees and fiends in the distance. When he called the others, Emet appeared at the site with the rest of the group in tow.

Emet scanned the surroundings, then gave a single nod.
“Ah… yes. This should serve well enough.”

His gaze shifted to Meteor, standing at the patch of grass most steeped in the Lifestream’s current.
“Might I have a little space? I need to concentrate.”

Meteor rolled his eyes but obeyed. The lamp vanished from his grip, no doubt returned to its owner. Emet stepped forward, tilting his head skyward as he traced the air in front of him with one long finger. The others could only stand back and watch the Ascian.

“Now then…” he murmured. “What color was her soul again?”

Aether gathered in large quantities, swirling around them in torrents that did not so much as graze their skin. The trees rustled. The wind whispered. And with no more effort than a casual gesture, Emet tore open a seam to the Lifestream.

“Ah… there you are,” he said, his finger stopped.

But his expression suddenly twisted, all composure unraveling.
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice dropped to a cold edge.

“W-What is the matter? Did you find her?” Runar asked anxiously.

Emet did not answer. He lifted his hand higher.

“A trick of the light? Hmph. Very well… if you must be so difficult.”

With a snap of his fingers, the spell completed.

There was a person suspended in the air. It was not Y’shtola as they had hoped, but someone else entirely.

And in their confusion, the body drops to the grass with a thud.

Chapter Text

Twelve hours went by, and the man before them were still sleeping, as if dead. Which wouldn’t be an exaggeration as the moment he appeared, his clothes were tattered and he was soaked in dried blood.

A peculiar thing that caught their attention was a large hole on the fabric to his lower chest, and it was consistent to the hole on the back too, as if he was impaled by something. Urianger assured them that the man is perfectly healthy—his healing magic detects no such injuries. There were so many questions, and the man who had all the answers is taking an unusually long time to wake.

Meteor watched the minutes pass by. It was his turn to watch over the man, who is slumbering on the hammock Runar occupied before. Looking over at him, Meteor couldn’t place a finger on his aether. It seemed as though this man was hollow, but the ambient aether slowly seeps into him. Perhaps when it is sufficient, he will wake. Urianger had depleted his strength from treating the wounded, any more and he might suffer from necrosis.

Meteor wanted to help with the healing, but the aether within him was unstable, brimming with the corrupted light of two fallen Lightwardens. He could not be certain that any attempt to heal would not bring harm instead. He bade Feo Ul (who is ecstatic to be called.) to carry word of their situation to both Alphinaud and Alisaie at Kholusia and Amh Araeng respectively. They needed to know. They needed to know that Y’shtola was gone.

…Y’shtola is gone. It was a strange thing to process.

After the Ascian’s failure in retrieving their friend from the Lifestream, instead dragging someone else entirely into the First with them, the man was vehement in admitting it was his fault, despite Runar and Thancred’s very vocal threats.

“If you must find someone to blame, then blame that man. If he weren’t so desperate enough to intercept, your friend would have already been here.” Was the last he said before vanishing in his usual way, no doubt sulking.

He should have known that the Ascian, however powerful they are, are still capable of mistakes, no mortal can avoid that. But he did got into thinking about what he said. In the short time he have known Emet, Meteor can tell that the man is at least genuine. If that were so, what would it mean that this man was ‘desperate’ to intercept?

Meteor watched at the man once more. Unshaven, despite a tidy beard. Slightly sunken cheeks and a lightly pale skin, all pointing to the fact that he might be an adventurer.

Meteor knew the life well. Before joining the Scions proper, he had gone hungry more often than he cared to remember, wandering between cities, scraping by on wild meat when he could find it, or settling for fruits and berries when he could not.

This man must be starving. Maybe he should ask the kitchen to save some portion for this man when he wakes.

“Meteor, there you are. Care for a helping?” asked Minfilia with a bowl and a ladle in hand. “I wanted to be of some help, so Almet allowed me to assist in distributing the meals.”

Meteor cracked a smile at how gentle she looked. He took a peek at the claypot, and a bubbling rich and red stew is inside. When he pulled away, Minfilia offered the man a bowl of the stew.

“Here, it’s very good.”

“Thank you, Minfilia.” He accepts and held the bowl with both hands, appreciating the heat warming his hands. He didn’t realize how cold he was. Barely a wind, but the temperature dropped quite quickly despite the everlasting day. The shades from the tall trees and dense leaves must’ve contributed to it.

“Our guest has yet to open his eyes, has he?” she asked before putting away the utensils, seeing as no one is queuing for a meal.

Meteor shook his head and ate his meal. It warmed him up and filled his belly. “He will take a while.” He said.

Minfillia suppressed a chuckle, when Meteor shot her a look, she merely waved her hand. “I just remembered something…”, she then took a seat next to Meteor. “After Thancred whisked me away from Eulmore, he spent half a day repelling their pursuit. I was dead weight, so he had to fight harder to protect me.”

Her expressions turns sad, before softens again. “That night, he went out like a light. He started mumbling in his sleep, names or things I’ve yet to know. And then, my name—or rather, the name of the Minfilia he knows.”

Meteor’s gaze lowered at the thought. The empty bowl on his hand. When Minfilia saw this, she immediately perked up again.

“—What I mean is, Thancred can be an awfully heavy sleeper. That night he slept for eighteen whole hours! Eighteen! He didn’t stir until the sun was nearly setting again.”

They talked for a while longer, Meteor even recounts an old tale of Thancred once drinking himself senseless and passing out before an important meeting with the Scions. Papalymo and Y’shtola had been most displeased with him.

Moments like this always reminded him of the friends he had lost. Minfilia laughed brightly at the story, and though it warmed him to hear it, his smile was heavy. The girl before him might not be their Minfilia, yet he hoped she would return to them someday…

“Here, please bring this to Urianger. He needs all the rest he can get now that the wounded have been taken care of.”

Meteor nodded and excused himself before carefully made his way across the suspended walkways, reminding himself that even he would be no match for gravity should he misstep. Beneath the shade of a broad tree, he found Urianger seated on his own.

“Urianger,” Meteor called softly, holding out the bowl. “A meal for you.”

The Elezen’s eyes opened, calm and steady as they turned toward him. A faint smile crossed his lips as he accepted the offering.

“My thanks, my friend,” he said, inclining his head before lifting the bowl. He ate in small bites—though Meteor quickly noticed how quickly the stew was vanishing. In scarcely a minute, Urianger had drained the last of it, setting the empty bowl neatly by his side.

“If thou dost fret over my aether, set thy mind at ease,” Urianger said, brushing his hands clean. “The pixies, capricious though they be, are possessed of no small wisdom in matters arcane. By their guidance have I contrived to hasten mine own recovery, without undue cost.”

Meteor folded his arms, leaning against the wooden wall of a nearby hut. “That isn’t what surprised me,” he remarked. “I’m more impressed at how quickly you managed to eat.”

Urianger blinked, then coughed discreetly into his hand—though the faintest flush betrayed him. “Pray forgive me. ’Twas not mine intent to appear… overhasty. Yet certain habits prove difficult to unlearn.”

Meteor tilted his head curiously.

“I am, as thou knowest, a scholar ere all else. In Sharlayan, whence I hail, ’twas my wont to partake of Archon’s Loaf—such being our sustenance of choice. By its aid might I sate my hunger and thus devote long hours to study unbroken. Moreover, it leaveth no untoward crumbs nor stains upon the tomes.”

“Archon’s Loaf?”

“A meal consisting of a loaf of bread,” Urianger continued, “fashioned from fishmeal and vegetable flour, eaten plain. Though wanting in flavor, it doth furnish all manner of nourishment, such that a man may want for naught else. Hence is it beloved not only of Archons, but of commonfolk besides.”

Meteor gave him a wary look. “Wait—does that mean Alphinaud, Alisaie, Y’shtola, even Krile…?”

Urianger’s lips curved in a faint smile as he inclined his head.

Bread made with vegetable and fish flour sounded repulsive, he struggles to believe it was beloved. Knowing Urianger, he might well be exaggerating its virtues. Perhaps he would ask the twins about it when time allowed.

“I do hope our comrades in the Source fare well,” Urianger said softly. “And when at last we find means to return, let us pray it is as a company whole. Y’shtola must needs be restored to us…”

“Emet will have to answer for this,” Meteor muttered.

Urianger nodded. “Indeed. Though he vanished after stranding yon unfortunate soul, he did confess intent to attempt the spell anew. Yet such magicks tear rifts unto the Lifestream. Should he persist unchecked, the boundary may fray, and its waters spill into this realm.”

“But the man isn’t dead,” said Meteor.

“Just so. He is of flesh and blood, not shade. The very garments upon him attest he is no wraith. I do not deem him cast adrift in the Lifestream—else he should have passed beyond the veil entire. ’Tis more likely mere chance saw him plucked into the First.”

Silence hung between them until Meteor ventured, “Could it be… the Exarch?”

Urianger caught on to Meteor’s implication.

“Perhaps,” Meteor went on, “when he first summoned us, the Exarch’s spell missed its target. This man may have been a victim too, as you and the other Scions.”

“Thy reasoning is not without merit,” Urianger admitted, though his brow furrowed. “Yet I spy dissonance. This man was not near thee, as the Exarch wanted thy to be whisked here, nor doth this man’s bearing speak of Eorzea. His frame is unlike the Hyur native to thine own land. Still… ’tis a theory worth the testing. Mayhap, when he wakes, thou shouldst seek the Exarch’s counsel.”

Meteor gave a small nod—only for Cymet to jog up to them.

“There you are. The sleeping hume has stirred. Please, come with me.”

Urianger and Meteor exchanged a brief glance. Then Urianger set aside his bowl, rising to his feet with calm resolve.

“Come, then,” he said. “Let us extend our greetings—and perchance glean whence he came.”