Chapter 1: ESOTERIC (Dorayaki [WoL] & G'raha Tia)
Summary:
"In all this time, I have yet to see the Exarch without his hood pulled low over his face. He thinks I do not know him. An absurdity — I have known him all along. How could I forget?"
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a journal bound in sun-bleached cloth, worn and tattered, its pages held together with a bit of string. When she unbinds it and opens it at random, a page slips out, covered in a black ink scrawl, as though written by someone whose hand raced to keep up with a quick and animated mind.
From the journal of Dorayaki Nendo
Amity, Kholusia, Norvrandt
Some weeks I have been here, I think. It is hard to say. Days and nights run together in a land where the sun never sets. No sooner have we brought the light back to some segment of land than we’re off to another, with another fight to win, another enemy to vanquish, another possible ally to convince. Any time in between that we spend at the Crystarium suffices only to start introducing the rhythm of the hours to my poor confused body, but soon enough I will be sent elsewhere, and it will be ripped away.
In all this time, I have yet to see the Exarch without his hood pulled low over his face. He thinks I do not know him. An absurdity — I have known him all along. How could I forget? I knew his smile, his voice, even the way he lays out his thoughts for consideration in the Sharlayan style, as though he is outlining a formal paper for scholarly consideration. I cannot see his archon marks (the crystal has grown over them) but I can hear them in the way he speaks. This is, I think, a testament to how much I enjoyed his company during my time working alongside N.O.A.H. and our explorations of the Crystal Tower. Does he really think any of us have forgotten him? I suppose I cannot speak for any of the others who were there, but I remember him well. During breaks we often sat together, discussing the finer points of Allagan history and technology, their implications for modern aetherology. It brought me back to my days in Sharlayan, and how much I had missed conversations with the other students.
In those early days of my affiliation with the Scions, G’raha was a cherished friend. The only other person who spoke to me anything like an archon was Moenbryda. There may be no other time I felt more regret at having left Sharlayan before I earned my marks! I do not think the others meant to exclude me, but they did not know me yet. To Moen and to G’raha, it seems that was no impediment. Both of them were so dear to me, and both taken so soon. What might have come of it if G’raha had never disappeared into the Crystal Tower?
It is strange to think how much more alone I was in those days, having not yet proven myself to the Scions. Y’shtola was secretive and condescending, Papalymo was defensive, Urianger was deeply reserved in my presence. Thancred was . . . well, he was Lahabrea, but even setting that aside we were not close. I did not know Chalcedony well then, though we had met; I had no idea that he was my brother. I do not even know whether he was married at that time. Needless to say, I did not know his partners either, nor Ozwyn’s brother and his husband, nor Priya, nor any of the many others I have encountered along my journey who remain left behind in the Source. It is strange to think how much more alone I was then, how set apart. I wonder if that might be an apt description for how G’raha feels now, hiding his identity and history from all who know him.
I see the way he looks at my brother, but I cannot imagine them happy together, even if Chalcedony had been single when he came to the First. Chalcedony is happy to listen to his husband Ozwyn explain his ideas and experiments, knowing he need neither understand nor contribute. Where Ozwyn wants a sounding board, G’raha wants a companion whose ideas he can build upon, and then who can in turn build on his ideas. Ozwyn is pleased to see his lover as a sounding board, but G’raha’s ideal companion is a collaborator.
Earlier today I came upon him sleeping in a field overlooking the sea, and heard him muttering in his sleep. “The future is where my destiny awaits,” he said. I thought to debate the point, as we once did over sandwiches and salt cod puffs in Saint Coinach’s Find. Is there any such thing as destiny? Could our lives have gone any other way? Might he have chosen not to disappear into the Crystal Tower? Might I have remained in Sharlayan and never come to Aldenard at all? And if our fates are fixed, is this the will of the Twelve or merely an outgrowth of personal character? No matter how long and how deeply I study astrology, this is the equation I can never quite solve.
I would love to sit with him and discuss the subject. I had not begun my studies into astrology when we parted, and there is so much I could tell him, so much we could learn from one another. But he insists he has his reasons for keeping himself concealed, and so I am forced to pretend.
I admit, however, that I have begun to fry salt cod puffs and have them sent to his chambers at the midday hour.
Chapter 2: DOUBLE-EDGED (Thordan VII & the Heaven's Ward)
Summary:
"I will not have the strength of my personal guard diluted on the basis of rumours and hearsay concerning the men’s moral character, nor by the whims of Ishgard’s High Houses."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws an envelope made from high-quality vellum, embossed with a golden seal long ago broken. The specific heraldry is unfamiliar, but it is unmistakably Ishgardian. The envelope is lined with golden card. Ornate script across the front, penned in royal blue, directs some long-departed messenger to deliver its contents to ‘Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin’. Within the envelope, a page of tidy calligraphy that ends with a flourishing signature.
From the desk of Archbishop Thordan VII
The Holy See of Ishgard
Attention: Very Reverend Archmandrite Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin
Ser Zephirin,
Having received your acceptance of the position vouchsafed to you in the Heaven’s Ward upon the recommendation of Ser Vellguine de Bourbagne, I hereby commit you to your first task as Very Reverend Archmandrite. From amongst all military ranks within Ishgardian society and the broader Coerthan Highlands, you will select the strongest and most skillful fighters to fill all vacancies in the ranks of the Heaven’s Ward. This will remain foremost amongst your duties for as long as you hold your exalted position.
Although I am sure we are both committed to rewarding men of good character for their uprightness, we must confront the reality that any weight given to considerations other than martial prowess must inevitably result in a weaker guard, as fighters of merit are eschewed in favour of those who have cultivated the right connections or the trappings of Orthodox morality. I will not have the strength of my personal guard diluted on the basis of rumours and hearsay concerning the men’s moral character, nor by the whims of Ishgard’s High Houses. Tradition dictates that the men you select must be unwed, free to devote themselves entirely to their vocation as champions of the Holy See. Beyond this, I must insist that your choices solely reflect a clear appraisal of the subject’s skill at arms.
Presently there are several vacancies which will need to be filled in short order. I strongly recommend taking Ser Vellguine into your confidence as you evaluate potential candidates. He has served admirably as assistant to the previous Very Reverend Archmandrite Ser Vaindreau and will be an invaluable resource in selecting the most able candidates.
Halone’s blessings be upon you as you embark on this critical task to vouchsafe the future glory of Her Church.
Archbishop Thordan VII
[Beneath the signature, a note scrawled hastily in the same hand: not Borel]
A scrap of paper, considerably lower in quality and clearly not amongst the original contents, has been tucked into the envelope alongside the letter:
It is a grim irony to know that Ser Zephirin was known hereafter as Zephirin ‘the Just’. Perhaps this approach to selecting the members of the Heaven’s Ward promoted military strength or meritocracy, but it was a blight upon the very concept of justice. To see Paulecrain de Fanouilley selected without consideration of his crimes against that servant girl might easily be taken as an insult to the moral scruples of House Fortemps (from which he was dismissed some few years prior). He was, granted, a capable fighter, but he was an execrable man. Not one of my sons could have bested him in combat (maybe Haurchefant), but any of them have the required moral fibre to make a superior knight (maybe not Emmanellain). The same could be said of Ser Grinnaux, brainless thug that he was, or Ser Charibert, around whom property and people seem to spontaneously catch fire on a frequent basis.
This is the balance Thordan forswore in his decision to raise martial prowess above all: he would have the strongest fighters in the land, but their lacking moral character would constitute a blight on the Church that shall not be forgotten for a thousand years.
Chapter 3: SQUIDGY (People of Gatetown)
Summary:
"I’m heading to the Crystarium to try and make a life there . . . Even if I’m just sweeping the hallways it’ll be better than staying here once you two get into Eulmore. I believe in you! It won’t be long for you, I know it, but in the meantime you’ll have more use for Mother’s recipes than I will."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a slender collection of recipe cards, bound by a bit of frayed twine. Years have left them faded and splattered with stains, but the hand that wrote them is still legible. Tucked beneath the simple knot, a folded slip of cheap scrap paper. Someone has written a name across it in faded, smudged charcoal.
For Janaelle
I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to say goodbye to you in person. I didn’t want to become a dark stain on your special day. Now that you and Iystal are married and you don’t need me to care for you anymore, there’s nothing keeping me here. I don’t have any special skills that will get me past the gate, not like you two. I’m heading to the Crystarium to try and make a life there. I’ve heard there’s all kinds of work available, so I’m not sure just yet what I’ll be doing: amaro-keeping, maybe, or something to do with plants. Even if I’m just sweeping the hallways it’ll be better than staying here once you two get into Eulmore. I believe in you! It won’t be long for you, I know it, but in the meantime you’ll have more use for Mother’s recipes than I will. Think of me often, and make sure you name your first baby after me if it’s a girl! Even if it’s a boy actually. Make sure all your little ones know Auntie would love them to pieces.
Love forever and ever,
Roshaenne
MEOL FRITTERS
- 2 portion meol - 1 onion (diced) - 1 clove wild garlic - 20a onzes cooked cabbage - a spoon of butter - whatever meat is available (iguana is great!)
Chop meat and meol into bite-size pieces, then mash together. Melt the butter in a frying pan and begin browning it along with onion and garlic. Once those are starting to brown, add the cabbage and cook for about 5 minutes or until cabbage begins to soften is well browned and starting to become crisp (otherwise it turns the meol mushy). Make sure everything is well mixed and then push down on it so it covers the base of the pan, then cook until the underside is golden brown. Flip it over and cook the other side.
Serves 4 unless cousin Jerval is visiting for dinner. Then serves 2.
MUSHROOMS ON MEOL (Iystal loved this!!!!)
- 2 ponzes wild mushrooms (ideally the ones from around the Chisel but NOT the ones that grow around the river, those are POISON) - 2 spoons butter or cooking oil - juice of 1 lemonette - thyme, greens, and wild garlic to taste - cheese if available - 4 portions meol
Slice up mushrooms into think bites. Melt butter in frying pan, then add mushrooms and whatever other spices and greens you have been able to forage recently. I highly recommend the chervil up by Greely bridge but that is quite a hike. Toast meol to golden brown in frying pan, then top with the mushroom mix and cheese if it is available. Sprinkle with lemonette juice to brighten up the flavours! If the cooking oil is tasty you may also want to drizzle a small amount on your meol to go with the mushrooms.
Serves 4 as long as you can get the right amount of mushrooms. They are more abundant during the rainy season.
(NOTE TO SELF: take Janaelle foraging! She seems to really enjoy it!)
WILD PICKLES
- 2 ponzes wild cucumbers, turnips, beets, onions, orr whatever else you can find - 1216 onzes vinegar - 3 spoons each salt and sugar - 1 spoon each cloves, harcot seeds, crushed chilies, and peppercorns (NOTE: pick peppercorns or chilies, not both, or it’s too spicy for Roshae) - 1 spoon minced wild garlic
Layer your pickling vegetables in a bowl with salt on top, then weigh down with a heavy tray. Let sit 4 bells. Meanwhile boil vinegar, sugar, spices, and wild garlic in saucepan. Allow to simmer, stirring occasionally, until sugar has dissolved. Let it cool. Drain and rinse your vegetables. Add them to the vinegar mixture and let them float there for one minute before moving them to pickling jars. Boil the remaining vinegar mix for about 5 minutes more until the texture becomes syrupy, then allow to cool. (Let it get completely cool before adding vegetables. TRUST ME ON THIS.) Pour the cooled vinegar mix over the vegetables to completely fill the jars. Seal and store in a cool, dark place for 3-4 weeks. When ready, it makes a very good complement to the taste and texture of meol, adds crispness.
SUMMER SOUP (Roshaenne's favourite)
- 4 spoons cooking oil - 1 bunch wild greens - 1 summer squash, cubed - 12 onzes harvest beans (visit Shai-Toqq on the outskirts, she always has extra) - 2 spoons shredded mint leaves - 2 toucalibri eggs (if available) - 28 onzes vegetable stock (if meat stock is available, even better!) - 8 onzes gulgnu milk (NOTE: every third moon, Xamott will come by to trade foodstuffs and this is the most useful of all his wares — forage extra to obtain! he loves leeks!)
Heat oil in saucepan and fry greens for 5 minutes. Add stock and simmer 10-15 minutes more. If gulgnu milk is available, add it at this point. Season with whatever spices you have to hand. Great for dipping rolls of meol to add flavour, so long as you don’t mind the soft texture.
Chapter 4: VAPOURS (Carvallain/Rhoswen)
Summary:
"This publication will leave it to the discerning reader to infer what Spence might have witnessed transpiring upon the dark and windswept sands of what the pirates of Limsa Lominsa have taken to calling the Sirensong Sea."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a broadsheet tabloid, crusted stiff in places with sea salt long dried. The masthead introduces it as THE SHIPWRECK AND SPYGLASS, with smaller text below proclaiming it “Vylbrand’s Finest Source for All the News Fit to Print on Limsa’s Piratical Goings-On from the Astalicia to the Lady Infernal to the Misery and Even More”. The date of publication has been smeared beyond recognition, but the headline is clear, and is accompanied by an artist’s (particularly fanciful and exaggerated) rendering of a giant woman in a fluttering gown, towering over a swooning lady pirate with a strategically-torn, gauzy bodice and an uncommonly brawny Elezen man wielding a greataxe.
PIRATE CAPTAINS HEED TREASURE’S CALL ON ABANDONED ISLE
Will they discover the true treasure that awaits in one another’s arms?
by Naweka Roweka, staff correspondant
Upon an island with no name, said to be the province of wandering souls long dead, the captains of Limsa Lominsa’s three primary pirate crews sought fortune and adventure alongside an elite selection of their respective mates and quartermasters . . . and while it’s not clear whether they were able to escape with the anticipated gold and jewels, anonymous sources amongst the questing party report that our long-beloved heroes have once more ensnared each other in the throes of a shared passion that refuses to die.
Longtime readers will need no introduction to the captains in question: Carvallain de Gorgagne, captain of the Kraken’s Arms; Rhoswen Leach, captain of the Sanguine Sirens (known for its policy of admitting only women to its ranks, leading to speculation about sapphic leanings that readers have seen Gorgagne dispel time and again); and Sicard Spence, acting captain of the Bloody Executioners. It was Captain de Gorgagne who proposed the expedition, having encountered the island when blown unexpectedly off course during a voyage to Kugane some months prior. Reportedly, he explored the land alongside a cadre of adventurers who happened to have sought passage on the Misery, affording him the chance to explore its dangerous environs and return with fantastical tales of banshees, sirens, vicious wavekin, and a host of the walking undead straining to be freed from the dank cells of their eternal prison.
Perhaps only a genuine buccaneer could understand the appeal of such a tale, which doubtless lies in the descriptions of precious loot recovered by Gorgagne and his adventuring companions. While we were unable to ascertain details of the previous expedition, we can fairly assume that it bore impressive fruit, since it brought together the leaders of these formerly rival outfits in search of further riches.
It is worth noting that recent collaborations between the three pirate crews suggest a growing acceptance of the alliances long encouraged by Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn, with some going so far as to speculate a third party to the ongoing romance between our esteemed captains, either as a rival for the attentions of fair Rhoswen or possibly as the apex of a romantic triad, if certain currently-unsubstantiated reports are to be believed.
Whatever notions one might entertain about the relationship between its leaders, let us now set them aside to instead consider the spectres and unnatural phenomena our source reports encountering, experiences truly beyond mortal understanding. How can one possibly explain the lightning storm that battered the hull of the Misery upon their arrival, though all reports herald clear and bright seas for malms in every direction? What natural causes can illuminate the mysterious ice-blue void fires crackling up and down the shattered hulls of forgotten wrecks in the ship’s graveyard rotting mere yalms from the dread shore? Who yet lights the beacon in the isle’s long-empty lighthouse, which still illuminates the seas around this accursed place where the dawn’s light dare not show?
Naturally, our heroic captains and their hand-picked cadre of allies were able to swiftly defeat what few unnatural combatants had returned since Captain Gorgagne and his adventuresome crew first cleared the island some months ago. In addition to spectres, they faced many distinctly more natural foes, including giant crabs, a flock of albatross, and some form of unidentifiable canid, which required encouragement from Gorgagne’s greataxe before obeying the classic command to “roll over and play dead”.
During the search, our source reports having lost sight of both Gorgagne and Leach for a time while unearthing a cask of silver alongside Captain Spence. “There was a commotion off behind the dunes and a great deal of screaming, and Captain Spence ran over with musket and cutlass to dance the day,” our source reports. “I thought it was awfully brave of him. But when he came back he looked a little red in the face and he refused to talk about what he saw there. All he would say is Carvallain and Rhoswen had the situation well in hand.” This publication will leave it to the discerning reader to infer what Spence might have witnessed transpiring upon the dark and windswept sands of what the pirates of Limsa Lominsa have taken to calling the Sirensong Sea.
Discerning readers, however, will recollect that this is hardly the first time our heroes have encountered one another under circumstances that could be seen as suggestive. Festivalgoers at the annual Moonfire Faire in Costa del Sol report stumbling upon hidden assignations on the beach, and members of both crews (who shall of necessity remain anonymous, lest they face retaliation) recount several past instances of secret meetings between the two, meetings not attended by the corresponding captain of the Bloody Executioners, nor the leaders of any other pirate bands becoming active in the La Noscea region. What has taken place at such meetings? We can only speculate.
Upon returning from this most recent expedition, Gorgagne refused comment on either the spoils of their journey or any romantic encounters he may have had along the way. Spence, however, was more forthcoming: “I can’t say as I’d even pretend to understand what goes on between them two, so expect no comment from me on the subject. What I can tell you is that island we travelled is no place for civilized people, and while I ain’t exactly that, you’ll not catch me going back there again for anything short of a direct command from the Admiral herself.”
For all that the haunted isle appears to have warded the Bloody Executioners away for good, our sources indicate that the mission was a great financial success. In addition to a respectable quantity of gold pieces and other precious ingots, valued at well over 600,000 gil, the collective booty contained several exquisite pieces of jewelry: bracelets inlaid with peridots and chrysolite, larimar earbobs, turquoise hatpins, gold and ruby chokers, and at least one star sapphire ring, reportedly recovered by the captain himself and espied upon the finger of one Captain Rhoswen Leach. When asked for comment, she called it “a bit of rock and metal what don’t mean a godsdamned thing to me nor anyone else and certainly ain’t your concern” and threw it into the harbour.
Chapter 5: FRINGE (Lucia goe Junius)
Summary:
"I anticipate this to be a mission which changes the course of your career in service to the empire."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a sheet of heavy paper, scorched around the edges. Its cardboard weight and typewritten title suggests it was once the cover page of a formal report of some sort. The cardstock is embossed with the insignia of the Garlean Empire. The page has been detached from the rest of the report, which is lost. However, a hand-scrawled personal note on the cover remains as a minor window into the inner machinations of the Imperial hierarchy.
OPTIMIZING RESOURCE MANAGEMENT IN WESTERN GYR ABANIA
Submitted for the Glory of the Garlean Empire by
LUCIA GOE JUNIUS
(A personal note has been jotted underneath in black ink by a hand that writes in sharp and pointed script)
Junius —
Superlative work. As always your attention to detail is second to none and your investigation thorough. Moreover your successful identification of threats and opportunities within the Fringes betrays a keen tactical mind, and your ability to gather information without betraying your true origins or intentions has proven indispensable. Well done.
I hope to engage you in a mission futher afield, beyond Castrum Oriens in the western region of Coerthas. This area is dominated by a theocratic city-state which we have reason to suspect of concealing Allagan relics within their vaults. I seek a soldier of your skills and talents to assess their culture, infiltrate them in an appropriate disguise based upon your thorough evaluation of their weaknesses, and procure any items of value — Allagan or otherwise — to support our objectives in extending the Empire’s borders.
I anticipate this to be a mission which changes the course of your career in service to the empire. Time, ambition, and successful service could see you rise as high as tribunus or even legatus.
Upon receipt of this note, report to Architectus nan Garlond for technical briefing and Commander rem Vocula for logistical details.
Gaius van Baelsar
Chapter 6: BEYOND THE HORIZON (Sicard/Emmanellain)
Summary:
"Crew manifest hasn’t changed all that much from what we had fore Capn Hyllfyr put me forward for the Contingent, cept the other Contingent rep on board, & that’s Emmanellain Fortemps. No idea who paired us together or what they was thinkin by it."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a large, rectangular object swathed in oilcloth. Peeling back the layers of fabric, she reveals a utilitarian logbook bound in a sturdy, if faded, blue fabric. She sifts through its pages at random, watching an earlier hand — large and bold and increasingly shaky — give way to a lighter, quicker scrawl. At random, she chooses a passage from those later pages to examine.
Weather: fair, a few clouds, moderate breeze
Speed: approx. 12 naut. malms
Destination: Bay of Dah’yuz
Been three days since we left Limsa headin southeast thru Cieldalaes, glad to be back on board. All apologies to Cid & his crew but I don’t specially care for airships.
Ample provisions provided thru auspices of Ilsabard Contingent, along with a selection of Garlean-made goods for showin possible clients. Our aim, broadly: to convince other economies to trade with Garlemald in spite of that whole world domination thing they had goin on for a while, sorry about that chaps, & would you fancy a ceruleum radio? I myself aint convinced, & probably wouldn’t be inclined to participate cept that Admiral Blowfeh Bloeuhwi Bleuf B approved the plan, & I trust her judgment.
Way she put it is this: you want em to stop building their economy on takin resources from others by force, you got to find them a chance to trade for what they need at fair market rates. Makes clear sense as logic, specially since Admiral B says we aint pirates no more. But that don’t make it satisfyin emotionly emotionally. Folk under the yolkyoke of Garlean tyranny won’t find it so easy to forgive & forget.
Crew manifest hasn’t changed all that much from what we had fore Capn Hyllfyr put me forward for the Contingent, cept the other Contingent rep on board, & that’s Emmanellain Fortemps. No idea who paired us together or what they was thinkin by it. He aint been on a boat in his life & moves like he expects it to throw him like a badly bred choco. Water’s a slight bit choppy today & he refused to climb to crows nest for his watch. Near came to blows with Thorymm & Rags for it, & cant hardly blame em as no ship can afford a shirker.
Only I sposed that werent what he was about & figurin he’d respond poorly to threats & bluster I says to him, “how bout we both go up together, mate? & if you fall I’m there & I can catch you” which is bollox bollocks logic coz if I’m holdin the ropes myself how do I catch him? but he didn’t catch on to that. He looks at me like I’m playin a prank on him & I spose that’s fair nuf but he agrees, & starts up the rope with me right beside him. Keeps glancing over like to make sure I’m still there. & I am. I keep my word.
Only one rough moment, big gust blew up at bout two-thirds. He made a sound like a strangled puppy, closed his eyes & stopped movin. “Oi,” I says to him, “almost there. Safest to keep movin.” Wanted to nudge him back into action but sudden movement might scare him so I just reached over & patted his hand, & that seemed enough to get him back going.
Course we get back to the top. He looks at me like he’s challengin me, like he’s darin me to make fun, but I aint like to get nothin outta that cept that he's pretty as a picture when he's angry . Truth is, the rest of us’ve all been livin shipboard all our lives & are used to the rhythm of the sea. He aint. Bein wary when you’re new to her rhythms is smart, & I don’t ever wanna discourage my men from bein smart. Better than if he decided to show off & get hisself killed from ignoranse.
Handed him the spyglass & he took it, & looked out over the water jus to get a feel for it, & I swear . . . Navigator strike me landbound if I ever forget the look on his face jus then. Waves still had him a little off balance, it bein his first time, so I let him lean on me jus nuf to say standin & keep the spyglass steady. His voice gets all quavery in wonder & he says “Look at it all, nothin but water far as the eye can see”.
So I says, “aye, mate, that’s what it’s like on the ocean.” coz that’s Llymlaen’s truth, it hardly catches notice any more. & that’s what made it so amazin watchin him look out on the horizon for the first time. Most men I know caught their first glimpse of the sea as boys, barely walkin without skinnin a knee, don’t even remember. Seems like I’ve always known her. Really somethin to see someone meetin her for the first time.
He asks me “Where’s the nearest land?” & I do some quick reckonin in my head & I tells him, “well back the way we came from, that’s Limsa Lominsa, see? & points beyond it on Vylbrand so La Noscea, O’ Ghomoro, &c.” I put a hand on his shoulder & point to the northeast & I says, “turn that way & we sail up the Strait of Merlthor past Carteno Cartenau & Mor Dhona. Keep goin that way right along the shore & eventually you can see the Coerthan Highlands from shore, might even pick out your Ishgard towers with that spyglass.” Course that’s not the way we’re goin at all this time round so I point southeast & I says, “How we’re headin is thru the Rhotano Sea round Eorzea’s southmost tip. We go past Cape Deadwind, cut thru the Sea of Ash, & if the winds work our way we start north from there, hopefully stop to refuel & trade in the Bay of Dha’yuz.”
Then it ocurred to me I was standin awful close & if I encouraged him to be too familiar it might set folk talkin. So I took my leave, makin sert certain he had all he needed & would be comfortable til time came to climb down. I slid back to the deck & gave the men a look fierce enough not a one thought it best to make some quip about me & the new boy.
Reminders: Charts indicate stormy weather round Cape Deadwind, which has been failin to live up to its name since I been on the seas, & even worse in Sea of Ash. Mind everythin on deck gets lashed down fore we pass, specially the Coerthan prettyboy. If conditions are too trecherous for landin at Dha’yuz we should have rations enough to reach Mazlaya.
Chapter 7: LACE (Dorayaki [WoL]/Aymeric)
Summary:
"I have spent my entire life sharing my mother with the rest of Ishgard, Eorzea, the star, the multiverse. Everyone feels they have some right to claim my mother . . . and perhaps they are right, that Warriors of Light are beacons for everybody. And yet I have always wanted a small piece of her that is all my own."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a glossy picture book with a paper cover. The title, printed in blue ink, reveals it to be a guidebook for a museum exhibit. One particular page has been bookmarked with a folded piece of paper and a scrap of lace, carefully woven by a skilled and practiced hand. It has been delicately cut from a larger work, its edges sealed with wax to prevent fraying, and has been carefully wrapped in conservator’s tissue.
The Museum of Ishgardian History presents
A Century of Change: The Remaking of Ishgardian Religion and Government
Exhibit Guide
Item 271
Wedding regalia worn by Lord Speaker de Borel and Lady Nendo de Borel during their Ceremony of Eternal Bonding
Donated jointly by the couple’s daughters, Lady Luniette de Preliere (née Borel) and Lady Haurchefantine de Reauragoix (née Borel)
This full-skirted bridal gown, astral silk overlaid with dew lace, plus velvet cape lined in ermine, were hand-crafted by the bride herself, Dorayaki Nendo, hero of the Dragonsong War. Her deepgold tiara with star sapphire insets was crafted by her half-brother Chalcedony Vox (née Clay), also a veteran of the Dragonsong War and a master jeweller.
The accompanying men’s formalwear was likely also predominantly Nendo’s handiwork, with Vox exercising his leatherworking skills to provide the dragonskin trousers. The outfit also comprises a royal blue doublet of authentic Far East ruby cotton, worn beneath a royal blue coat of chimerical felt with deepgold and star sapphire clasps, and a silk cravat lined with dew lace matching the bride’s gown.
The marriage of these two politically significant figures, who met in the waning days of Thordan VII’s reign, was historically significant not only because of their respective roles in the Dragonsong War and the democratization of Ishgard’s long-standing theocracy, but because of the symbolic meaning inherent in a prominent Elezen lord’s decision to wed a woman of Auri descent: a race group characterized by draconic features such as horns, scales, and a tale. Ostensibly minor fashion choices — such as a rear vent allowing her tail to escape the garment’s confines, or the scale-baring half-sleeves and sweetheart neckline — made a firm political statement about the future of Ishgard.
Upon the folded paper that accompanies the lace, a few lines of faded ink:
I hope history will forgive me for it, but I could not resist cutting a bit of lace from the back of my mother’s dress. Perhaps it is selfish of me to have wanted a small piece of it all my own. If that is the case, then so be it. I have spent my entire life sharing my mother with the rest of Ishgard, Eorzea, the star, the multiverse. Everyone feels they have some right to claim my mother . . . and perhaps they are right, that Warriors of Light are beacons for everybody.
And yet I have always wanted a small piece of her that is all my own.
— Fantine de Borel
Chapter 8: SUBTERFUGE (Chalcedony [WoL]/Thancred . . . or maybe it's Azem/Lahabrea)
Summary:
"He kept his eyes shut the entire time, and actually it crossed my mind that maybe he was pretending I was someone else. That would explain the intensity, and also why he called me by someone else’s name."
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a faded journal, hand-bound in heavy red-brown leather. With the cover closed, its pages have been painted with an abstract design. A close examination by someone familiar with art history would pick out influences from Thanalan and Thavnair. She leafs through the first few pages, observing the cramped but tidy handwriting of one who is habitually accustomed to making do with less. Judging by the dates, the journal’s keeper wrote in it infrequently, beginning with an account of his departure from Thanalan. She pages forward until she finds something more than words: a pressed, dried campanula flower pasted alongside the written words. It has faded to a light, dusty magenta, but when it was fresh it would have been stunningly vibrant. Alongside it, a note with a glossy black ribbon — once fixed to a bouquet, it appears — reads simply: FIND ME AT QUICKSAND. — T.
From the journal of Chalcedony Clay
Miner's Guild, Ul’dah, Thanalan
Okay, so granted: I knew pretty much the moment I met Thancred we were either gonna fight or fuck. Maybe both.
It was pretty inevitable. You think I don’t know a Thanalan fuckboy when I see one? Like calls to like, they say. (Not sure who, but somebody says it.) He has a reputation among the Scions, bit of a ladies’ man, but I’ve been feeling kind of a bisexual energy from him and I just figured he’d be into it. I’m hot, he’s hot, so the sex would almost certainly be hot. That’s just math. But for a while I’ve been getting these really mixed signals from him. Half the time he’d act interested, even get kind of intensely flirty, and then the rest of the time he was kind of lukewarm and professional. At first I thought maybe he was toning it down for somebody, like maybe he felt weird hitting on someone in front of Tataru or Minfilia. But I could never figure out the pattern. He was totally inconsistent.
Not that it matters now. A bunch of us went out to celebrate taking down Garuda, ended up at Buscarron’s just west of Quarrymill. So I’m hanging out, middle of a conversation with Y’shtola (who it turns out is wicked funny) and I realize Thancred’s disappeared. Okay, fine, that’s his specialty, literally how he got his archon marks. But then this kid comes up to me with a little bouquet of flowers, takes me aside, and he says the man with the white hair in the black tunic gave him 150 gil to slip me the message after he’d gone. I figured he didn’t want the others to know, so I told Y’sh (she says we’re not close enough yet for me to call her ‘shtola) it was a secret admirer. I knew better, though. There was the kid’s description, for one, but also the note was signed T. It wasn’t gonna be Tataru.
Finally. I’ve been hinting long enough, chatting him up every chance I get. No idea why he just decided to pick up on it now; it’s been weeks. Maybe now that we’ve proven we can take down primals, he feels like he can let down his guard a little, focus a little less on business and more on pleasure. I’m not complaining.
He was waiting for me at the Quicksand, exactly where he said he’d be, knocking back a three-barrels bourbon while he waited. He seemed a little bit relieved when I appeared, which isn’t much like the image he projects around other people. I thought that was kind of adorable. As if I wouldn’t show. He has to be aware that he’s gorgeous. Felt like I barely got a chance to order and drink down my ale. That’s not a problem, I’d had a few at Buscarron’s already and I was feeling good, but I’ve seen him try to talk someone into bed before and this wasn’t his usual style. You’d think an expert-trained spy would hesitate to go to bed with a guy he barely knows. I’m definitely not the kind to look sideways at a guy who’s an easy lay (I’m at least that self-aware) but it’s not what I expected exactly.
The sex was good — really good, like this is a night I will never forget. He fucks with this intensity, like you’d swear he’d spent his whole life starving for me to touch him. Swear to Oschon, I’ve had paying clients take it more leisurely. I didn’t expect him to be as bossy and commanding as he was. It was hot, though: sex that leaves a mark. Several, actually: I spent today with my collar pulled up high. If anybody noticed, they didn’t say anything, though I guess they wouldn’t.
He kept his eyes shut the entire time, and actually it crossed my mind that maybe he was pretending I was someone else. That would explain the intensity, and also why he called me by someone else’s name. ‘Orpheus’, I think he said, right as he was coming. Weird name, feels like I’ve heard it before but I can’t think where. Probably another adventurer.
The weirdest thing, though? When I saw him again today he acted like it never happened, like we were basically strangers. I don’t get it. It’s like he’s a completely different person.
Notes:
This chapter is something of a sister work to 'Same As He Ever Was', which I wrote for last year's FFXIV Writes. I'm pretty proud of it, so check it out if you get a chance. (Be aware, though, that it delves a bit more into the messy mutual-dubcon aspects of Lahabrea using Thancred's body to hook up with Chal/Azem.)
Chapter 9: INUNDATE (Chalcedony [WoL] & literally everybody else)
Summary:
"Whatever would we do without you?"
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a small metallic device, possibly Allagan in construction, scarcely tarnished despite its age. She presses a turquoise button inlaid in its surface; its surface lights up — a screen, unexpectedly — and the device plays a series of voice recordings, only slightly distorted and degraded with time. She thinks of old recordings of linkpearl messages, voices of people long passed. Some of the words are difficult to make out, but a transcription appears on the screen in blocky, old-fashioned characters.
VOICE MESSAGES FOR CHALCEDONY VOX
8:17 a.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chalcedony? Are you awake yet? This is G’raha Tia. I have a theory — I’ll spare you the boring details, but to test it, I shall need measurements of the aetheric density around the Skydeep Cenote as compared to other cenotes within the region. Koana should be able to loan you the equipment you’ll need.
10:29 a.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Lyse here. How are you doing? It’s good to hear your voice, even if it’s only a recording. When you get a minute, can you check in on things around Castellum Velodyna? There’s some kind of conflict heating up between the Ananta and the M Tribe. I don’t know all the details, can’t even begin to explain it. Something to do with their history back a few generations, and also the land . . . ? Anyway, I’m sure we can work it out together.
11:01 a.m. Eorzean Standard Time: I fear I must needs prevail once more upon thy generous nature, friend. Ere thou takest thy leave from the vaunted city in which thou keepest thy current abode, hie thee to the market, wherein thou wilt find an apothecary of particular skill, who hath promised unto us a concoction of particular rarity and utility such as could provide manifold benefits to the specimens under our supervision. All accounts have been brought to balance, and our compatriot in the alchemical arts waits only for thy arrival to dispense the requisite items solely to he who speaketh a secret password, which we have set as ‘Rothlyt’. Speakest thou that word, and thou shalt receive the parcel in question with all due discretion and haste. Thereafter, thou must needs — beep! MAXIMUM RECORDING TIME EXCEEDED.
11:46 a.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chalcedony, are we still on for some sparring later? You might know your way around a rapier just fine now, but if you don’t keep practicing, your sister is going to overtake you! Nothing like a little friendly sibling competition to keep one’s skills at their sharpest, don’t you find? Call me.
11:57 a.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chalcedony? It’s G’raha Tia again. There’s a book Koana has promised to loan me that’s highly pertinent to what I’m working on right now, and I was hoping you could bring it to Sharlayan — if you are still in Tuliyollal, that is. Please don’t feel obligated, though — if it’s not convenient for you, I would happily retrieve it myself.
12:11 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chal, it’s your sister. Pick up. (long pause) Pick up, Chalcedony. (long pause) Alright, fine. Look, I hate to trouble you with this, but can you stop by the Twelveswood and see if the sylphs have that one tincture in stock? You know the one. I’d go myself but, gods, I feel awful. Also let me know if you’re free for dinner any time next week.
1:18 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: This is Admiral Bloefhiswyn calling from Limsa Lominsa. I have a problem for you concerning some sort of sea creature. Reports aren’t clear, but it appears to be very serious. I need you to assemble a team of adventurers and proceed to the Cieldalaes, take it down before it gets any closer or interferes with my privateers. I’ll take your report when it’s done.
1:38 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: It’s Midnight Dew calling from Idyllshire. I was just wondering, have you made any progress on that archives project with the forbidden tome and whatnot? Let me know when you have it in hand and I’ll contact my client.
3:50 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chalcedony? I am so sorry to bother you again. It’s G’raha Tia. I was hoping I might prevail upon you to take a short jaunt into the first and see that Lyna is doing well. Perhaps I’m merely over-anxious, but it would put my mind at rest. — Hmm? Oh, Urianger asks that you also check on Ryne and Gaia. And if you could bring back some of those wonderful Rak’tika grapes? I keep telling Erenville that they’re incredible, but I fear he believes I’m overselling them. I’m really not.
4:59 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: How have you been faring? It’s Y’shtola, and I was hoping I might find you free. There have been some interesting new developments in my latest research, but I can’t proceed without a particular set of specimens I was hoping you might be able to find, seeing as how you’re already overseas anyway. They’re called pitcher weeds. I’m told they’re found in the Ja Tiika Heartland. They’re a very particular form of snapweed. Be careful with them, would you? I need them alive, but subdued. As always, I’m very grateful for your help, Chalcedony. Whatever would we do without you?
5:23 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chal! It’s Hien. Can I get you to drop by the Enclave when you get a minute? It’s nothing super serious, it’s just . . . you know how it is. Namazu causing trouble again. They just need a little reminder about who keeps them in line. It’s always more effective coming from you. Somehow you’ve managed to cultivate a very good relationship with the little devils. You’re more patient than I, friend! I’ll fill you in when I see you next.
6:02 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: This is Cid. We’re ready to proceed with the next phase of the Sigma project whenever you are. Let us — would you cut that out, Nero? I’m talking to . . . oh, for Byregot’s sake, put that down, will you? you’ll break it — sorry. Let us know when you’ll be able to drop by. Thanks.
7:15 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chalcedony, are you still in Y’ak Tel? Lamaty’i and I had hoped we could trouble you to assist us in trade negotiations with the Moblins. Also, have you had any luck in procuring the ruthenium I needed? This is Koana, by the way.
8:10 p.m. Eorzean Standard Time: Chalcedony, it’s Aymeric. I was hoping I could prevail upon you to visit soon. We’ve uncovered another nest of those Old Church cultists in a cave in the Highlands. No telling if they’re tempered or not, but you know the odds, and there are few enough of the Temple Knights I can trust to defend the city as it is. Your sister says she’s not yet far enough along for it to stop her fighting, but I don’t like to send her out in her condition. How do you feel about coming down once more to clear things up? Think of it as a favour you’re doing for your little niece or nephew. But then, what am I saying? You love a good battle to keep you from getting too bored out there in Tural, don’t you?
VOICE MESSAGE RECORDING STORAGE LIMITS REACHED.
MISSED CALLS: Alisaie Leveilleur. Thancred Waters. Estinien Varlineau. G’raha Tia. Nanamo ul Namo. Wuk Lamat.
Notes:
Full credit to my awesome boyfriend for immediately coming up with this interpretation of "inundate" in a way that I'm sure has absolutely nothing to do with his job.
Chapter 10: GOSSAMER (Nyelbert & Taynor)
Summary:
"I cannot forget him"
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a scrap of tattered paper. On one side a mundane transaction record, a short list of food items purchased with prices calculated and payment received. On the other side, though, lines etched in the shaky hand of someone whose grasp on reality — on his very self — has begun to grow rather tenuous.
in the farthest reaches beyond time, he calls to me,
plucking out a song on the strings of his own spell-weaving,
the one friend i could never replace
though heroes reached for my hand
yet the thread that connects our two lives, once entwined,
now hangs by a gossamer thread
i must not forget him
i must not forget him
i cannot forget him
though time and death annihilate all that I am,
though every other fibre that weaves together my soul be shredded,
whatever remains of me would search for him
until the last strand whispers away
and fades
Chapter 11: RAMPANT (Erenville/G'raha Tia)
Summary:
"Being no fighter, I had never visited the Arboretum, though I had always wondered what might lie within its walls."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a simple leather pouch, which contains a leatherbound journal. When she opens the pages, she finds it full of notes, written very close together in a small and precise — dare I say fussy? — hand. The interior cover has a name written in it, block capitals: ELENE'SHPYA. Below it, the same hand has written: ERENVILLE.
Field Notes
Saint Mocianne’s Arboretum
Answering Quarter, Dravanian Hinterlands
New Sharlayan
Being no fighter, I had never visited the Arboretum, though I had always wondered what might lie within its walls. I had heard many tales from the other gleaners who hailed from New Sharlayan, but I did not meet anyone who had actually been inside; all was rumours. The interior of the building is said to be quite dangerous, as it houses several species of vicious seedkin. Even the exterior is difficult to access, its flooded courtyard having been reclaimed by several particularly fierce Great Morbol specimens. I had resigned myself to never having the opportunity before I entered into this relationship with G’raha Tia.
We had been seeing one another for several months when I mentioned my interest in the location. Being very well-read, he was able to tell me plenty of interesting information about the site’s history. It is named for a revered figure in Eorzean tradition, a herbologist famed for her compassion in smuggling medicines to the ailing disguised as ordinary decorative flowers. This was necessary because the alchemists of the time were unwilling to charge reasonable prices for needed medication. She is a hero who is tied to their goddess of love, which I understand to mean compassion and mercy rather than just the romantic feelings often described by the same word.
Raha told me that the problem of vicious seedkin and other wildlife within the Arboretum used to be much more severe, before a band of adventurers resolved to enter the building and clear it of its intruders and the more violent elements of its unchecked growth. However, similar to the process of clearing weeds out of a garden, the maintenance of the Arboretum’s safety is a never-ending task, and one can never walk its halls without fear of encountering a stray creature with a mind for violence. I acknowledged my disappointment that I would not be able to investigate and collect specimens. He responded with a sweet smile and swishing tail, explaining that it was unsafe only without a proper guide for protection, and how fortunate I was to be cared for by an accomplished mage and swordsman familiar with spells for protection, healing, and defense alike.
Accordingly, we made plans to visit the place. The building is on the westernmost edge of the Answering Quarter in the ruins of New Sharlayan. It is easily recognized by the tall fir trees growing through the roof. In order to enter the front doors, we were obliged to climb over a set of massive tree roots that interrupted the cobblestone path. Once inside, we found that the roots continue onward to render certain areas of the foyer difficult to access, but we were able to climb up and over or else duck under them in order to explore every corner. These roots, it turned out, belonged to one of the trees which had burst through the glass roof many years ago. We crossed a bridge under which there were several species of moss and water lily growing in an artificial pond, one of which Raha picked and tucked behind my ear. He said this was suitable because the flowers are beautiful and so am I. I do not know if this is a common sentiment to express in Eorzea but he blushed when he said it.
The first hostile creature we encountered was an earth-aspected variety of morbol which the rusted fences along the path were unable to contain. The fences are not tall and seem to exist mostly for the benefit of visitors, to direct them along the path. Perhaps in older times they also served as guidelines for maintenance staff to know when the flora was groiwing beyond its bounds and act accordingly. I do not think it would suffice to stop something as large and vicious as a morbol. Raha instructed me to gather my samples while he handled the intruder, and we were able to successfully complete our respective tasks. Not long thereafter, I climbed upon a rather large rock in pursuit of a vine cutting, only to find that the rock was a living Thavnairian tortoise. Raha was able to subdue it as well, and we continued along our way.
We paused for refreshments before a breathtaking waterfall showcasing succulents and luminous mushrooms similar to varieties I recall seeing in the Ja Tiika Heartland. The sound of the rushing water was incredbly soothing, and we rested together for a while in one another’s embrace. I swore that I would take him to Mamook to see the vegetation that thrives there despite the darkness, since he was not able to visit the region during his prior travels in Tural. I collected samples of some spores being released by the mushrooms as well as clippping some of the mushroom flesh itself to study and perhaps attempt to cultivate in my own garden. Raha has arranged a small plot for me to use when staying at his house in Old Sharlayan.
A note: it is very curious to see such desert plants as succulents and cacti thriving alongside a great waterfall. I can only assume that the plants were kept under more controlled conditions when the Arboretum was being properly maintained. Now that it has been abandoned, the habitat appropriate to these plants has reverted to one that is more natural to the Dravanian Hinterlands. Yet the plants survive. If the opportunity arises, I would like to return to examine the adaptations these plants have made to thrive in an environment so different from the one they have adapted to withstand.
We traversed the area of the Arboretum past hunters have described as “the hive”, certainly the most harrowing part of our journey. I admit I stayed as close as possible to Raha to avoid contact with the sticky walls and the wasps, bees, ants, and other crawlers menacing me with their fiery stings. Raha switched from using his sword to his thaumaturgical staff in order to ensure he did not clip me with his blade, so close I stood. We left the place smelling of scorched honey, which is slightly unpleasant but certainly not worse than the creatures themselves, whose stings are often nearly as long as my head, ears included.
We had both looked forward to reaching the rear chambers of the Arboretum, beyond where the hive has grown up around the building’s midsection. I had hoped to find records of specimens, experiments, and other information I might use to help identify useful species within the area. Raha wanted to see if any monographs remained that he might reclaim for the libraries of Old Sharlayan. But as we attempted to exit the hive, we crossed a brittle piece of honey beneath which the path had crumbled away. The honey cracked under our weight and sent us falling far underground, into the very bedrock of the Dravanian Shield.
I was frightened, and worried that we might never find our way out, for there was scant chance we could climb back up the way we had fallen from the hive, and from there little likelihood that we could find our way back to the front door without becoming hopelessly lost in its many chambers. Raha was very patient with me while I rapidly came to terms with the inevitablility of my death and raced through all the traditional stages of grief. Then he pointed out how interesting it was to see the paths roots have found through crevices in the rock. When they cannot find a way, they use their might to force one. He said he had been in situations more dire than this and encouraged me, saying we would find a way or make one, just like those roots and trees.
Thus calmed, I was able to return my attention to the chambers around us. It was clear to me that this was no unknown territory: the arborists of New Sharlayan used this place, for they had left lights and stone pathways everywhere. Raha has told me tales, passed to him in turn by his friends who are Warriors of Light, of terrible facilities from the Ancient World where the most vicious animals in creation were housed for study. I wonder if the lower reaches of the Arboretum might share a similar grim history. The creatures living this deep into the earth were frightful things. We encountered giants resembling humans in form and structure, but woven together from vines and branches; terrible wind-aspected monsters who fly propellled by the gasses produced within their stomachs as they digest other creatures which they have killed and consumed; bears and other such creatures playing host to plants that have infected and digested them; and an entire range of treants at all stages in their life cycle. Now Raha returned to using his sword to protect me, for the air at these depths was so thick and humid as to make his fire and ice magic unreliable.
We raced down the stairs and across the buckled landings, until eventually he bid me to hide inside a hollow made from a cluster of roots. It was worth my while, for around the cave I found a species of pale blue berries able to glow in dark places by some interior process, and I gathered up many of them for further study while Raha battled our many enemies against a backdrop of cascading water reaching far from the place we had begun. Once he had vanquished our attackers, we found a jutting root that stretched far enough to allow us to stand in the water’s stream and rinse away the honey and soil from our misadventures in the hive — and beyond it, a hidden stair through which we were able to return to the higher level and exit the building. My final task was to gather scrapings from the enormous tree at the centre of the Arboretum, so we might study it and learn about its growth properties. I thought the blend of nutrients it received might impact its growth and perhaps lead to new ways to encourage greater yield. I know this is a concern for some regions of Tural, particularly where there is desert, as well as Eorzean regions where non-ideal conditions affect crop yield, such as Thanalan and Coerthas.
On removing ourselves from the space and its dangers, I found Raha somewhat distressed, and apologizing profusely for putting me in such danger. I reassured him that I had benefited greatly from the excursion and made many observations that will be useful to fellow researchers and gleaners. His lips still tasted like honey from our time in the hive, and I had to pick a few leaves out of his lovely hair, but I believe that we will both be alright.
I must find a way to thank him for this terrifying gift.
Chapter 12: ZENITH (Jannequinard & Carvallain)
Summary:
"Clearly this captain cannot possibly hail from Ishgard, or he would know that not a single Durendaire has set foot on a sailing vessel of any kind since the death of my cousin, nigh twenty years prior to this voyage."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a brocade sack, which contains an ornate and elegant journal. It is bound in black leather, inlaid with gold filigree and small star rubies. The pages within are heavy in weight and limned in gold, and a gold latch holds the book shut. When she opens it, she finds it filled with sketches, astrological diagrams, and notes written in the sort of high-quality ink that has not faded even a bit with the passage of years. She flips past several pages of astrological fundamentals — she knows it, it’s the sort of basic concepts one learns fairly early in one’s education — and finds the remainder of the book devoted to a daily practice of reading and interpreting cards.
Daily Diary and Astrological Compendium of Jannequinard de Durendaire
Sea of Jade, just off the coast of Ala Mhigo, aboard the good ship Misery
Daily Reading
Signifier: The Arrow
Crossing Card: The Balance, inverse
Today marked our first dawn upon the open waters. I have tried to enjoy the ocean scenery, despite its absolutely dreary sameness, but this morning’s reading has nagged at me the whole day through. The Arrow is, naturally, explained easily enough: it heralds travel and discovery, the very purpose of our expedition to the east. No, it is the crossing card that confounds me. The Balance speaks of two forces at cross-purposes, competing needs. Now what in all the heavens could that mean? It cannot refer to Lady Leveva and myself, for we are as united in purpose as any pair could be. Yet who else on this ship would take the slightest interest in the goings-on of a pair of astrologians from up north? It’s not as though sailors are known as a particularly inquisitive and science-minded lot.
They are also, it would seem, quite rude. I had expected the captain of this vessel to invite us to dine with him yesterday eve, knowing that he travels alongside important personages from Ishgard — a scion of House Durendaire, no less! One would imagine he might be more demonstrative of his gratitude, considering that the family’s unfortunate history concerning maritime travel has kept our custom from his ilk for many years. Clearly this captain cannot possibly hail from Ishgard, or he would know that not a single Durendaire has set foot on a sailing vessel of any kind since the death of my cousin, nigh twenty years prior to this voyage. That said, something of the sound of his name seemed familiar to me when it was given by his first mate. Wasn’t there a man called Gorgagne on staff at some point? They mustn’t be related, since he seems so blithely unaware of the family’s significance.
When I complained of this to Lady Leveva, she suggested that it might be he and I who are at cross-purposes. Although she is uncommonly perceptive for a woman of her years, I cannot fathom which of a sailor’s goals might be at cross-purposes with my own. He wishes to see the ship safely into port; I certainly support this goal whole-heartedly! Heavens forfend we should repeat the disaster which befell my unfortunate cousin.
I thought to inquire after the captain’s well-being upon encountering the quartermaster on my evening constitutional, but I quickly abandoned the idea as impractical once I realized how vexing it is, to attempt to walk upon a ship’s deck. I suppose one becomes accustomed to it over enough time, or perhaps it is something inborn in the sorts of people who populate the shipping trades. I doubt anyone like me, born and bred to the highest of Ishgard’s High Houses, could ever learn to move comfortably through a ship like this. It’s well and good for those Limsan types, but it’s simply not in our blood to love the sea.
Chapter 13: OVER THE MOON (Thancred/Urianger)
Summary:
"As ever, thou art surprised to see how ardently thou art adored."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a typed transcript, printed by an unfamiliar machine and placed in a folder made of a material she cannot identify.
Routine Research Surveillance Documents
Room 1439-B
Transcription generated by Scribingway
Subjects: ‘Thancred’ and ‘Urianger’
T: Ah. You’re back. Good.
U: Pray forgive my lateness. Mine arrival was delayed by our hosts’ many eager queries concerning such alterations as might render our lodgings more satisfactory.
T: Not to worry. I suffered the same. Nestingway certainly is dedicated to his cause.
U: As are they all, most diligently so. [sigh] Needst thou aught? Some healing, perhaps, or refreshment?
T: I don’t like to complain, but if you’re offering . . .
U: Full well thou knowest I would not have thee suffer in silence, least of all when it is in my power to provide a cure.
T: Just a bit of a blister on my toe. Lots of walking today — more than usual, it seems.
U: Show me.
[healing sounds from Urianger’s heal-globe]
T: Mmm. Much better. But tell me, how was your day?
U: Most intriguing. By their very existence, our hosts present a fascinating enigma. Whilst they hold a veritable wealth of advanced technology within their diminutive paws, they nevertheless exhibit a simplicity of mind akin to the most innocent child. They are most enchanted by the simplest light illusions conjured by my torquetum, and delight in tales of our past adventures, oft retold.
T: I suppose they’re trying to understand us. We’re not what they expected.
U: And likewise do I labour to comprehend their ways, for in doing so I believe we may come to better comprehend the nature of the Mothercrystal and thus our very star. Scarce can I imagine any loftier ambition. Yet this endeavour remaineth riddled with contradictions, given the paradox at its core: to unveil the vaunted secrets of our cosmos and its architect, we must affix our gaze and bend our comprehension to its weakest and most servile creations.
T: Well, at least they’re cute.
U: Aye, thou speakest truth. They are cute.
T: You’re very good with them. Patient. Understanding.
[short silence]
U: Thinkest thou of Ryne?
T: And Gaia, aye. I wish everything hadn’t been so dire all the time. We never really got a chance to just be . . . as a family. I never really had that growing up, but I rather assume it typically involves fewer Lightwardens and Ascian adversaries. More . . . I don’t know. Lightningday breakfasts, picnics on the beach, that sort of thing.
U: No one path defineth the existence of a family — at least not perforce to the exclusion of all others. Being that any family of ours must needs include the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, it also must needs involve our battle to safeguard our star.
T: Yes, I suppose that’s true.
[short silence]
U: Perhaps at the close of this present chapter of our winding tale, we may quit this life of ceaseless calamity and seek upon fresh horizons an opportunity to live in greater simplicity, as other families may — to enjoy simple pleasures, under circumstances of ease, where one wrong decision imperileth not the fate of the entire star.
T: Imagine that. Choices so simple, the most difficult one is ‘rum or whiskey’? ‘White shirt, or the blue one’?
U: Gold or silver?
T: Top or bottom?
[short silence]
T: I absolutely haven’t the energy to follow through on that. I’m far too exhausted.
U: I as well. But the sentiment is appreciated no less for it.
T: Thank you for understanding.
U: As ever, thou art surprised to see how ardently thou art adored.
T: I am. But so are you.
[long silence, followed by human sleep-sounds]
[Transcription ends]
Chapter 14: PRECIPITATE (Sicard/Emmanellain)
Summary:
"He has the most appallingly casual manners and often drinks to excess and dances like a poorly-trained opo-opo and swears like . . . well, a sailor, I suppose."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws an envelope, marked with an address in Eorzean script. It reads “Count A. de Fortemps & family; House Fortemps, Pillars, Ishgard” and bears a Moogle postage stamp and a crimson seal, long broken, which incorporates the unicorn-shield symbol of House Fortemps. Inside the envelope, she finds a sheaf of papers closely covered in flourishes of black ink, folded tidily in thirds.
My dear father and brother (as well as the rest of the household, of course):
As promised, I write to you once more from our camp in Ilsabard. In my last letters I have described the location and our travels to arrive here, and the first bursts of activity as we began to set up camp. I am delighted to be able to say that conditions have much improved since I last wrote. The last of the ceruleum heaters have been brought back to full capacity, as good as new. The weather remains as cold as it was upon our arrival, but it appears we are moving into the region’s snowy season, and have been for the better part of a fortnight. Our leaders have set up three separate rotations: one patrolling the camp, one hunting for game, and one for clearing snow from the pathways and storage areas. This was upon recommendation from Ser Estinien, who pointed out that accessing supplies can be — his words — “a dreadful pain in the arse” when the snow has been allowed to build up atop the crates and casks.
Earlier today I was on snow-clearing duty with my team, and we split into pairs to cover more ground. To my surprise (or is chagrin perhaps the better word?) I found I was once again paired with Sicard, who you doubtless remember from my previous letter. He has been friendly enough, but has a rather uncouth manner — about what I might expect from a pirate, really. He continues to complain bitterly about the cold, but seems to find the falling snow novel enough to delight him. Perhaps it is he who should return to Ishgard, and I’ll take to a ship and sail the tropics! I jest, of course — you would not be able to stand his incivility. He has the most appallingly casual manners and often drinks to excess and dances like a poorly-trained opo-opo and swears like . . . well, a sailor, I suppose. Perhaps I understand now why that phrase has come into common parlance. He would quite scandalize the ladies of Ishgard — not least because to my understanding he does not enjoy the company of ladies at all, and prefers that of men (if you know what I mean).
Yet for all his faults, he shows all the zest for life of a newborn puppy, and I find I cannot help but enjoy his company. This brings me back to my story about snow-clearing duty today. Alisaie had taught him about the tradition of catching snowflakes on one’s tongue, and he made a great game of it — even made it a competition, I daresay, and soon we had all forgotten our tasks in favour of running from place to place snatching flakes straight from the air. A bit silly perhaps, but all good fun, until he and I came to pursue the same snowflake and collided headlong. We landed in a tangled heap in the deep snow, and it took rather some effort to disentangle and return to standing. By this time he was bent double with laughter, and I thought that would be the end of it.
Then, when I was unguarded, he used the leverage of his lower position to strike me with his hip and send me flying through the air for yalms. He didn’t give up even then, but chased after me and fell atopme in the snow, pinning my arms over my head and absolutely refusing to let me up until I conceded that he had won the snowflake-catching contest. Can you believe him? All this peurile roughhousing, and he was grinning the entire time too! I do not know the Admiral of Limsa Lominsa, but I cannot fathom why she would choose such a childish reprobate to lead the La Noscean forces into this rebuilding effort. Surely the Garleans will know with one glance at his roguish smile that he is absolutely not to be trusted! I grant that I’m no likely choice for Ishgard’s forces either (thanks, Artoirel) but at least I know how to conduct myself with some dignity, plus Lucia is the one truly governing the Temple Knights so my conduct is of lesser import. But I certainly could conduct myself with more dignity than he manages.
That being said, the snow is soft, and I sustained no major injuries in carrying out the remainder of my duties. It was, in its own way, quite thrilling to be flying through the air like a wind sprite, knowing that the drifts would catch me before I sustained any hurt. He does seem inclined towards a rather physical style of cameraderie with his subordinates. Perhaps it is a common affliction for pirates. I try to imagine Ser Aymeric, for instance, engaged in such horseplay with his Temple Knights and honestly the image seems unbearably absurd. Sicard, though, he wears it well. On Sicard, though, it Perhaps Sicard would be pleased to hear that he makes this look good. he’s started to show signs of his worth as a captain, in spite of or perhaps because of his laid-back atitudes. His men would certainly follow him anywhere. I must endeavour to learn the secrets of his success.
Food continues to be somewhere between tolerable and satisfying. I conclude this is because they do not allow Dora to cook more than once a fortnight, saying she is too busy with other important matters. But what could be more important for her to keep us all toasty and happily fed? I jest, of course. You may tell Ser Aymeric that she is saving all her recipes for his enjoyment when she returns! To you, dear family, she likewise asks me to send all her love and affection, which I send along with my own for I remain
Your devoted son and brother,
Emmanellain de Fortemps
Camp Broken Glass
Ilsabard
P.S. Tell Honoroit that I miss him and shall send him some amusing Garlean bauble as soon as I am able to find one small enough to be sent in the mail. Apologies for the tardiness of my promised souvenir, but all around me, there remains nothing but snow!
Chapter 15: PETAL (Estinien/Alphinaud)
Summary:
"The first full-page drawing of this dragoon appears as a labour of love, painstakingly detailed . . .
It shows a greater depth of effort and concentration than anything he has drawn before . . . "
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a hardcover journal, bound in azure wyvern leather, adorned with silver clasps and furnishings, elegantly shaped in a motif reminescent of fleurs-de-lys. A nameplate affixed to the centre bears a little piece of pale cardstock, upon which a youthful but tidy hand has written in royal blue ink.
Property of Alphinaud Leveilleur
PRIVATE! Keep Out
Do Not Open
This Includes You, Alisaie
Even Healers Know Damage Spells
Despite the fierce secrecy with which this ‘Alphinaud’ has protected this notebook, it contains no secret confessions. Indeed, it barely contains any words. Instead, it is filled with art. The first few sketches appear to be floral studies and still life drawings, tasteful arrangements obviously inspired by the trappings of a well-to-do Coerthan household.
Mantel Clock
Flower Arrangement in the Dining Room
Watersday Breakfast
Hyacinths in Vase
The first attempt at drawing a person depicts a Lalafell woman in profile, and is labelled Drawing Practice — Tataru. The technique is passably proficient. Further efforts follow, becoming ever more skillful and expressive: a nervous Hyuran servant girl, an aging manservant with careworn eyes, an Elezen knight with a bright smile and a House Fortemps shield, an Auri woman with a book in her lap, staring dreamily out the window at the snow.
Alice the Chambermaid Stoking the Fires at Dawn
House Fortemps Steward #1
Haurchefant
Dorayaki Thinking of Aymeric
The last of this set is an image of a serious-looking young Elezen man, scarce more than a boy, eyes rather haunted for one so young. It is labeled simply: “Self-Portrait”.
One whole page contains only faces, an assortment of races represented: a Miqo’te woman with a wry, rosy smile; a shaggy-haired Hyur man; an Elezen man with a drawn face and tattooed cheeks; a Hyur woman with braids in her long hair; a Lalafell man with thick glasses. The picture in the top left hand corner bears further examination: it is a mirror of the self-portrait, but its subject wears a confident, playful smile. None of these faces are labelled save for a single, all-encompassing headline across the top of the page:
Drawn From Memory
Several more pages of botanicals follow, labelled to reflect travels around the region.
Mistletoe, Coerthan Highlands
Coriander in Flower
Dravanian Ramie
Coneflower
Periwinkle & Gaelicatnip
A few small sketches of human figures appear around the botanicals, as if an afterthought. These seem little more than doodles of his travelling companions: a pale Elezen woman running, long hair streaming at her back, the same Auri woman wielding a sword and shield or consulting an astrolabe, and — with increasing frequency — an Elezen dragoon captured in an array of dynamic poses.
The first full-page drawing of this dragoon appears as a labour of love, painstakingly detailed, its careful lines and curves protected by a sheet of onionskin paper. It shows a greater depth of effort and concentration than anything he has drawn before. He has captured the intricate filigree of an ornate suit of armour, carefully embellished and shaded. The dragoon wields a similarly ornate lance, sketched with slightly less care. All focus is on the spectacle of the dragoon’s graceful body in motion. The lines of the suit suggests lean, powerful muscle and sinew underneath; clearly the artist has spent some time studying anatomy. The dragoon lunges forward, driving his lance into an unseen target. Where he plants his feet to drive home his spear, flowers spring up from the ground, petals flying as he tramples them underfoot. The play of light around the dragoon’s body is exaggerated; he almost appears to glow. His face is hidden beneath his horned helm, but his identity is revealed by the image’s title:
Estinien
Several more pictures of the same dragoon in action follow — leaping through the air, diving headlong upon an enemy, executing a mid-air somersault — but our artist does not write the man’s name again.
By the landscapes, flora, and fauna that appear alongside these later images, it seems the artist’s travelling party is journeying through the Churning Mists. A few pictures of the dragoon without armour begin to appear. One depicts him at rest, eyes closed, his helm discarded at his side. The image is surrounded by a wreath of oldroses, a symbol of love and loyalty, though curiously they are drawn with a less confident hand than previous botanical sketches. The title, printed doubtfully along the bottom of the sketch, references an alternate symbology for white roses in particular:
I am worthy of you . . .
The next image depicts a camp scene. Firelight plays on the dragoon’s sharp features, which have been drawn with more beauty and tenderness than most historical depictions of the same figure. Flowers rise through the smoke and flames: hyacinths this time, symbols of enduring loyalty against all odds. It is one of the few elements anywhere in the book that incorporate colour: the flames are orange, the petals blue. The piece appears untitled, but its creator has recorded a few lines of verse beneath it, snatches from a traditional Sharlayan ballad.
Futile the flames of fidelity burned
For passion’s an instinct but loyalty’s learned
Chapter 16: QUICKSAND (Dorayaki [WoL]/Koana)
Summary:
"But I knew now that her heart belonged to another, and I did not want to become something she would later regret."
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws mass-market hardcover book, bound and printed by a publishing house called the Waking Sands Press (Tataru Taru, editor-in-chief). The deep crimson cover has a title stamped on it — Morrow’s Might: Memoirs of Tuliyollal’s Vow of Reason — as well as a simple Turali motif that somewhat resembles an ocelot. Maybe. The book has marbled green and red endpapers and a ribbon bookmark. She flips through the pages until her eyes land on her ancestor’s name.
Chapter Fourteen
Fields of Gold
Forget about the girl, Thancred had advised me, and I recognized it for the excellent advice it was. Years ago I had made the decision to put my people first, and watched her walk away from the Studium alone, setting out on her own grand adventure. I had not expected to see her ever again, and I had made peace with that. Now fate had brought us back together, and I must yet again put my people first. I must not allow her presence to distract from the work at hand.
Still, sleep eluded me, and I spent a restless night knowing she was so close by. At dawn I rose and slipped away into the jungle. The early hour kept it relatively cool, and I crossed the stride of the sun to walk by the river at Miyakabek’zu. With the sun only beginning to rise, the flowers were luminous, and I recalled how I had missed their bright colours while studying across the sea. I came to the edge of the river, where fallen branches and heavy palm leaves collected amidst the reeds and shallows.
Imagine my surprise to find her there, similarly restless, kneeling on the sand and soaking a cloth in the river’s endless flow. The early light sparkled on the scales scattered across her face and throat and arms. I could remember how they looked by lantern light, how they felt to the touch. The ends of her long skirt floated in the water. She took up her cloth and held it over her head, and she twisted it to wring out the water. It cascaded over her head, wetting her thick hair, and then disappeared beneath the collar of her shirt.
“Dorayaki,” I said softly, hoping to alert her to my presence before it could become uncomfortable.
I could tell she knew my voice, because she did not turn immediately to see who had spoken. If she had forgotten the sound of my voice, my accent, her instinctive curiosity would have impelled her to turn her head. She stood first, and faced me. “Koana. Second Promise of Tuliyollal.”
“Be careful where you step,” I cautioned her. “Poison frogs live in the undergrowth and the shallow seaweed, and sometimes the beach forms pits of quicksand.”
She looked a little bit alarmed. “I’ll be careful,” she said.
“Walk with me a while,” I said, feeling bold and also a little bit off balance. For all that we had loved one another at the Studium, now she was competition. “I always wanted to show you my home.”
“I’d never have guessed it,” she said. “Three years we were together, Koana. You never found a good time to tell me you were a Turali prince? In three years?” She let me
“You knew I was from Tuliyollal,” I pointed out. “We spoke often of returning here together when we finished our studies.” I thought of things I clearly remembered saying to her over our years together: how much she would enjoy mezcal, and alpacas, and tacos on the beach. I will always feel chagrin that it was with Lamaty’i and not me that she tasted her first taco. We have shared many a taco since, but a newcomer’s first taco is an experience that cannot be repeated.
“Knowing you’re from Tuliyollal is not the same as knowing your father is its king,” she pointed out. “There was so much of yourself you were hiding from me.”
“It is not something I liked for anyone to know,” I said uncomfortably. “I wanted to be treated with respect — or disrespect, if circumstances warranted — based on my intelligence and the value of my ideas, not because I had a powerful father. I could not escape being the Second Promise in Tural, but in Sharlayan it was easily done.”
She looked sad. “I wouldn’t have treated you any different because of who your father was. You didn’t treat me any different because you knew my father was a sleazy gambling addict who fooled around with my mother while his wife was at home with their baby.”
“Yes, your brother. I have also met him. I can only assume good looks run in the family.”
“Don’t change the subject,” she said. “You never could sneak by me with that unsubtle flattery.”
“If ever I did, you wouldn’t know, by definition,” I pointed out.
The once-familiar sound of her laughter crashed over me like the ocean waves. “You haven’t changed. Ever the pedant.”
“You haven’t changed either,” I said to her.
She shook her head. “Oh, Koana. I’ve changed so much.” She didn’t offer to expand on that, but she allowed me to link arms with her and lead her down a worn path along the sandy bank. I had forgotten over the years since we parted the feeling of pride I once got, striding across campus with a woman like her on my arm. Nothing about being Second Promise ever compared.
We walked through the dew of the early morning. She told me of some of her adventures and travels; I spoke of things I had learned in my studies. She seemed content. The sun rose bright, and any creeping venomous things lurking in the underbrush gave us a wide berth.
There was only one moment of unpleasantness, when her foot sank to the calf in an unseen pool of quicksand. She cried out in fear — for all that she was now a vaunted warrior, she could still be frightened, it seemed — and reached for me. It was a simple enough thing to pull her from the mire, and yet in my shock I hesitated. My eye landed on the hand that clutched me, on the finger where Eorzeans wear a ring to denote their marital status. Dorayaki — the woman I had loved and lost, the proverbial ‘one that got away’ — wore a beautiful gold ring inset with a large star sapphire. “Koana, help me!” she cried out, and clung to me. Refocusing my strength, I wrapped an arm around her slender waist and pulled her from the quicksand. She looked at me with clear gratitude, and I noticed her eyes lingering on my mouth.
(Next to that paragraph, a note scrawled in the margins: I DID NOT!)
But I knew now that her heart belonged to another, and I did not want to become something she would later regret. I placed her on steady ground. “Did you know that quicksand is not nearly the danger most anticipate? We fear that it will drag us under, bury us alive, but in fact it does not have that power. It might weigh us down, and for a time we might be stuck, but our bodies lack the density to sink down all the way, as the stories tell. The danger is far exaggerated.”
“Truly?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
“It was demonstrated by a team of aetheric geomancers at the Studium,” I told her. “I believe they won their archon marks for it.” She kept her eyes on me as I explained the methodology, but I knew now that her attentiveness was nothing more than the product of her curious nature. She had truly moved on. And though I had hoped we might rekindle something of what we once had as young scholars in Sharlayan, I found myself undertaking the bittersweet task of renovating the nostalgic place she had occupied in my heart. For truly, I had once imagined making her my queen, ushering in a Turali golden age with our innovative and philosophical rule. I had not been able to help wondering if she had been returned to me for a purpose . . . and I would soon learn that perhaps she had, but it was not the purpose I had imagined.
Like sand sliding through tightly clenched fingers, I had to let her go and hope the experience did not bury me.
Notes:
Don't worry, Koana, I promise my headcanon has good things lined up for you.
That bit of information on quicksand towards the end is apparently true, by the way. Indiana Jones lied to me. You can sink into quicksand, but it won't suck you all the way under.
Chapter 17: STARSTRUCK (Thancred/Urianger)
Summary:
"I trust that the young man you’re courting was suitably impressed by the figure you cut in your new outfit."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a letter, written on serviceable but inexpensive paper, to which someone has affixed a receipt with a blue-tipped straight pin.
Dear M. Augerelt,
On behalf of Doddard Armoury & Fine Textiles, I heartily wish to express our most sincere hope that the quality garments you have purchased during your recent dealings with our company have met with your satisfaction in terms of both form and function. I appreciate your patronage — and, on a more personal note, your faith in my vision. Despite your hesitation, you trusted me to design and create a bold and fashion-forward look that took you out of your comfort zone and introduced an entirely new element to your style. I stand by the advice I gave when first we selected the pattern for your new robes: for a fellow as fine-looking as you to hide in oversized robes and hoods and mask his face is a tremendous waste. A gentleman of your beauty can afford to be a little bit showy!
I trust that the young man you’re courting was suitably impressed by the figure you cut in your new outfit, which I’ll once more remind you I did predict. It seems you are not the only one with a talent for divining the future! I jest, of course: mine was no prophecy, just an observation. It is my job, of course, to identify and highlight your best features: dispense with the sleeves to highlight strong arms and shoulders, tailor the cut to suit your frame, affix beadwork and metal findings to draw the eye. You may accept his thanks on my behalf, and assure him that the pleasure was all mine.
Please find attached an invoice for the balance outstanding on your purchase.
Respectfully and with great affection,
Mme. Varienne Chassonne
Assistant Chief Tailor
Doddard Armoury & Fine Textiles
INVOICE
Astrotheric Robe of Healing, custom tailored — 41,369 gil
Astrotheric Breeches, custom tailored — 41, 369 gil
Golden Dress Vambraces — 24,075 gil
Voidzenith Shoes of Healing — 24,075 gil
Starshield Choker, courtesy of Ania’s Goldsmitherie — 17,590 gil
Scrawled across the original letter in a flourishing Eorzean hand:
Prophecy fulfilled, you look amazing.
You can't ask me to keep my hands off you.
Chapter 18: UNDER THE BOUGHS (Thancred & Ryne)
Summary:
"What could I possibly know about the world besides what Ran’jit wanted me to know?"
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws simple journal, bound in white leather, tied shut with a pale pink ribbon. The name on the cover has been crossed out, another name written in its place: Minfilia Ryne Waters-Augerelt. The handwriting is round and loopy, the ink a beautiful shade of blue-violet.
Slitherbough, Rak’tika Greatwoods, Norvrandt
Today we arrived in the Rak’tika Greatwoods, and I met Y’shtola for the first time — or, as we are expected to call her among the Night’s Blessed, ‘Master Matoya’. Urianger says that is the name of her teacher back in the other life they have left behind. Thancred seems very slightly kinder in her presence . . . which is not exactly to say that he is kind, but it’s still an improvement. It is the same when Urianger is around. Y’shtola Master Matoya is a Mystel woman, very pretty and clearly well-respected by the Night’s Blessed. in fact, I suspect one of the leaders has a bit of a crush on her, though it would be rude for me to reveal their secrets as a guest in their community.
At first I did not think I could possibly find Slitherbough (where she lives) to be a comforting place, with the entire courtyard open at all times to the bright, unforgiving sky, but it’s nice to be able to at least enjoy the shade of those great, ancient trees towering above us. They make Eulmore feel small and temporary. Every problem feels small and temporary under their watch. They have existed since before the tide of light washed over the land, since before the first Minfilia. If one of their boughs broke away and fell into the courtyard, it could crush bone underneath its weight, but even still, I feel safe lying on the grass and watching them above me. If I’m honest, I think I could stay here forever.
Maybe that would be better than following Thancred all over the continent. I know he does not enjoy my presence. He knows I am not his Minfilia. Maybe he would be more willing to overlook that if I could be more useful, or more clever. All of his friends are incredibly smart . . . even the Elvish twins who by the look of them can’t be any older than I am, but they feel so much more capable and useful. Thancred has told me stories about them: Alphinaud, who once commanded an entire company of fighters, who saves lives! and Alisaie, who travelled halfway across her world on peacekeeping missions in faraway lands. They have lived so much, and I feel like I have hardly lived at all.
I do not remember a time before I came to Eulmore, but living there has kept me so sheltered, and it feels unfair. Of course I cannot compete with this other, better, greater Minfilia! What could I possibly know about the world besides what Ran’jit wanted me to know? Every day I learn more from Thancred and from our travels together, but at this rate I would need five hundred years to catch up to her and be good enough! Even then, though, would he really accept me? Or would I still be a cheap copy of the real Minfilia, reminding him of what he’s lost? I know it’s not my job to protect him from the pain of missing her, but I would if I could. I would like to be enough that he could look at me and not just see all the ways I’m not her.
Chapter 19: KEYSTONE (Aymeric & Lucia)
Summary:
"Who else could possibly hold together this fragile peace in his absence? He would deny it, but it is all built upon his legacy."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a simple ledger bound in leather so dark blue it might as well be black, embossed with the insignia of the Temple Knights of Ishgard. The pages are filled with handwritten notes, memorandums, tables, and reports, all pertaining to the day-to-day operation of administering the city’s protective force. Most of the handwriting is elegant, slender, and flowing. But the page marked by the blue ribbon bookmark has been written by an obviously different hand, less tidy, less accustomed to penning with a quill. In addition to some minor blots and ink stains, some of which display the lines and whorls of smudged fingerprints, there are points in the text where drops of salt water have blurred the letters together.
Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly
Lord Commander Aymeric de Borel
Temple Knights
Daily Records
Today’s record is written by Acting Commander Lucia Junius
Efforts continue to heal the Lord Commander following the assassination attempt two days past. Borel Manor has played hosts to a steady rotation of Ishgard’s best chirugeons, as well as foreign healers Alphinaud Leveilleur and Dorayaki Nendo (who has been recently lauded as the Hero of Ishgard for her role in ending the Dragonsong War). Meanwhile Temple Knights have been deployed as a protective measure, guarding all prospective members of the newly-formed House of Lords, with particular emphasis on those most closely aligned with Ser Aymeric’s views.
The general mood of the Temple Knights has been rather troubled since word of the attack reached the Congregation. Timed as it was to coincide with the arson attacks, the situation in general has us all spread rather thin. We embrace what help the Eorzean Alliance is able to send us, directing most of it to maintaining the surrounding environs in order to minimize the appearance of other city-states’ interference in our streets. Camp Dragonhead, Camp Cloudtop, and all the rest care little for the colours under which their allies arrive, but within the city proper we hesitate to further inflame the rage of those who oppose the Alliance.
Will it matter, though, if Aymeric should not survive? The chirugeons have been cagey about his prognosis, which to me seems no good sign. Who else could possibly hold together this fragile peace in his absence? He would deny it, but it is all built upon his legacy: progressive forces in the city see him as a shining exemplar, while conservative forces still reluctant to consider change are somewhat mollified by his noble breeding and his pedigree as the archbishop’s son. (He can say what he likes, but it is an open secret. At this point, everyone knows.) He is the keystone upon which our new Ishgard must be built, and if he should fall, there will be nothing left upon which to build our edifice.
I find myself enduring my own private crisis of faith. I do not regret abandoning everything I had ever known to follow him. A thousand times over, I would do it again. He inspired me with his vision for a better world, for greater equality and a more just society. More than that, he inspired me with his passion for the cause, his unyielding desire to do the right thing even when it was not easy. It would have been easy to let the little Garlean girl-spy rot in a cell beneath the Tribunal until she could be executed for her crimes. No one would have cared about one more dead Imperial. I still do not know what he saw in me that compelled him to offer me a path to survival. I do not know if it is something that can survive if he dies.
In spite of my fears, the administration of the Temple Knights consumes me wholly. Any moment I can manage to slip away, I find myself returning to his bedside, admonishing Alphinaud and Dora to get some rest. Alphinaud fears to leave his bedside because he cannot bear the thought of failing again, as he failed to save Haurchefant. He thinks no one else can see that this is what drives him. Dora refuses to leave because she is love with him. She sleeps sitting at his bedside with her head against the coverlet, holding his hand. In a way, I envy them their freedom. I have stood at his side near constantly since I renounced Garlemald, and his absence feels desperately strange to me. I endure because I know he would want me to do my duty. This is the crisis he has been preparing me for.
But he must live. He cannot die. Ishgard depends upon it. May the Fury have mercy on us all. If she loves Ishgard as dearly as we are all told, she cannot take him from us.
Chapter 20: EFFERVESCE (Carvallain/Rhowen)
Summary:
"I know she’s used to a bitter wine; if I give her something sweet, she’ll only want more."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a satchel lined with waterproof cloth, which contains — among other things — a heavy logbook, bound in leather and embossed with silver lettering that spells out Misery. It seems an unpromising title, but a quick glance through the pages reveals that it is in fact the log for a ship of that name. On the inside cover, the slightly salt-spattered page has been labelled by a sweeping hand: Carvallain de Gorgagne, Captain of the Misery. The same hand has filled every page that follows. She opens the book to a ribbon-marked page fairly early in the logbook's useful life. There are a few heavily crossed-out notations in the margins, but if she holds the lantern close and studies the ink very intently, she thinks she can make out the words.
Weather: brilliantly sunny
Speed: 12 nautical malms
Current Location: Indigo Deep, alongside O’Ghomorran coast
Destination: Isle of Yorn & Bloodbrine Sea
The sky is crystal blue, the waters bright and sparkling, the sails full, and the crew still in high spirits after a wonderful night in Limsa only two days past. It is an absolutely perfect day to be a pirate. My delightful mood has held fast all the way up the coast of Vylbrand and I could not be more thrilled with the life I have made for myself.
Yes, I saw her when last we were on land. I promised I wouldn’t. But it is only a promise I made to myself, and I know I won’t hold myself to account for the breaking of it.
Carvallain and Rhoswen de Gorgagne
Captain Rhoswen de Gorgagne
Carvallain Leach?? (this note is crossed out especially heavily)
Gods, she's got me in a state. In my defense, though, how could I possibly resist her when she dances? When she drinks too much and forgets herself, forgets to pretend she’s so far above me? Or maybe she pretends that I think I’m far above her. I swear I don’t. Whatever she might think, I stopped judging my companions by their suitability at an Ishgardian banquet long ago. Yes, she is classless and trashy and foul-mouthed and bold and often thoughtless and selfish and even a little bit cruel, but gods alive! what more could I want in a woman?
Perhaps I’m too old to still judge the suitability of a lover by how much they’d infuriate my father. Nevertheless, I confess it delights me to know how horribly she’d fit in at a High House dinner, though I confess I do wonder what she’s like with a little bit of Ishgardian sparkling wine in her.
Countess Rhoswen de Durendaire?
Now that, that’s a plan I shall have to enact when we return, heavy-laden with Garlean plunder: to stop in Sharlayan, spend a little of our hard-earned gil on a case of the sweetest Cloudtop bubbly I can manage to find. Return to Limsa triumphant and give her just a taste, part of the celebration. By my estimation, it will be near Starlight when we return, if I need a better excuse. I know she’s used to a bitter wine; if I give her something sweet, she’ll only want more.
It’s the sparkle in the wine that makes the difference, I expect. Fury knows I’ve seen her drunk before, but the bubbles tend to impart a sort of good cheer thoroughly unmatched by other drinks. I’m told Ishgardian girls are warned to curb their intake, lest they become too playful and silly. Imagine the horror! But of course, I know full well what those lemon-faced Ishgardian matrons fear for their daughters, and my girl would hand that to me stone-sober. I’ll give her just enough to keep her spirits high; I want her bright and lively, not so heavily pickled she can’t stand up straight. Where’s the fun in that? Not that standing is generally useful for the recreation we prefer . . .
In short, and bluntly spoken, I don’t need the wine to get her in bed. I can do that quite on my own. I just want to hear her laughter.
Chapter 21: TRUNCATE (Koana/G'raha Tia)
Summary:
"I think my brother has fallen in love!"
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a thick envelope, containing various pieces of correspondence in two different hands. One of them is tiny and cramped; the other is large and bold, as if it belongs to someone with endless reserves of energy. Some of the notes are clipped together, indicating probable proximity in time — letters responding to other letters — although few are dated.
My dear friend Chalcedony,
I hope that your continuing travels and adventures around the continent are going well. I planned to let you have your space and talk to you when you returned to Tuliyollal, but I have palace gossip that is too exciting to wait, so I must send you this letter by special alpaca courier — which is a thing that, as the Vow of Resolve, I totally have the power to do. Ideally it should be reserved for important state functions but I feel like I can be forgiven just this once.
I think my brother has fallen in love! And more exciting, I think he is in love with one of your comrades from overseas! And I think his feelings might be returned! I hope I am right, because my brother’s happiness means the world to me and I think the person he has chosen is someone who can make him very happy.
Do you remember when you first introduced me to Y’shtola? (She’s not the one Koana has fallen for, but I promise this is related.) You told me of a Miqo’te custom where it would be rude to drop the first letter of her name because that’s a privilege reserved for people who are very close. You said you had to learn that the hard way, and you don’t recommend a dressing-down from her in particular.
Well, the other day I was passing one of the strategy chambers in the palace and noticed that Koana and G’raha Tia were inside, having one of their long scholarly conversations I can never follow, aether wells this and voidgate that. I thought about interrupting but something told me I should wait for a just a second, and I noticed that Koana seemed very excited: tail swishing and ears twitching, all the usual signs. I’ve lived with him my whole life; I can read him like a book! Actually probably better than most books!
I thought at first he might just be very interested in the aethero-whatsits they were discussing, but something didn’t quite fit there. He was looking at G’raha Tia in this certain way, more than attentive. Fascinated might be the word for it. Then, as I peeked, G’raha Tia bent over whatever chart or map they were studying to make a notation and a lock of his hair came loose and fell across his face. And Koana, who I never imagined had so much game, reached over and tucked it back in place, and he let his hands linger there for a second before moving away. I could be wrong, but from the angle I was at, it sure looked like he brushed his fingers over the tattoo on G’raha Tia’s neck.
G’raha Tia, of course, turned very red, but looked quite pleased. I did not hear what Koana said next, but he must have used G’raha Tia’s name in the sentence, because G’raha Tia said “Please, I’d rather have you call me Raha, if it’s to your liking.”
I leaned in a little closer to try to hear what my brother would say next, and it was at that point that the door fell the rest of the way open, creaking loudly and dropping me sprawling across the floor. I pretended I hadn’t been spying, just walking by and wanting to have a conversation about some royal thing or another, I honestly don’t remember. I’m not sure if they believed me, as no one said a word about it. I distracted them effectively by asking them to explain what they were working on. Half an hour later I didn’t understand it any better, but Koana had forgotten that I was spying, and I caught G’raha Tia running his hand along his neck where Koana touched him, looking so unguardedly happy it almost hurt my heart.
We can talk in more detail when you return, but give me your honest opinion as my friend: do you think they make a good match? Will he make Koana happy?
Yours always,
Lamaty’i
Tuliyollal
* * * * *
Dear Lamaty’i,
If you’re reading the situation right, then I am so delighted for Koana and Raha both. I think they’d be great together! They’re both nerds. (Meant affectionately, of course.) Raha is a decent guy and I know he’ll take good care of your brother.
Just a little cultural note for the happy sister-in-law: it would be rude to drop the G in G’raha until he specifically invites you, but you don’t have to say the ‘Tia’ part. Tia isn’t really a last name exactly, but it works kind of the same. It’s alright to just call him G’raha.
Love always,
Chal
Chapter 22: INTERGALACTIC (Carvallain/Sicard/Rhoswen)
Summary:
"Rhoswen was truly amazed that with all the incredible technology they had created to build a real spaceship that could fly through the vacuum of space, nobody had ever managed to perfect soundproofing technology."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a five-gil serial printed on cheap paper. The front cover depicts a trio of pirates in futuristic dress: two Hyuran, one Elezen. The Hyuran man is shirtless; the Hyuran woman wears a shirt, but only barely. The Elezen man is dressed in very fancy, very tight clothing and is obviously staring at the woman. Both Hyur are carrying stylized futuristic guns; all three wear visible daggers at their belts. For some reason, the daggers have glowing neon stripes gleaming along their blades. Brightly-coloured Eorzean text on the cover announces the contents: “STARLIGHT SPECIAL! Rhoswen has a BIG SURPRISE for Carvallain and Sicard . . . but SPACE has an even BIGGER SURPRISE for the crew of the Misefernalicia!”
THE CONTINUING INTERGALACTIC ADVENTURES OF THE SEXY SPACE PIRATES OF LIMSA STATION
As written by V. Cutscene
Volume 7, Issue 4
5 gil
Although they had traveled very far away from their original star, the crew of the Starship Misefernalia still celebrated Starlight just as people did back home, with glowing decorations and gifts for one another, though it was harder to come up with something surprising given the limited resources available on an intergalactic voyage. Still, Deputy Commander Rhoswen was pretty sure she had come up with something entirely unique.
She turned over command of the bridge to Lt. Commander A’brohka and made her way through the familiar halls to Deputy Commander Carvallain’s quarters, which she had visited on many occasions. This time, though, when she arrived, she was clearly unexpected. The voices coming from inside made that very plain.
“Gods, yeah, that’s the stuff! Ah, do it jus’ like that! Now tell me in that posh noble voice o’ yours how bad you want it!”
“I beg you, Commander Sicard, pray please put it inside me!”
Rhoswen was truly amazed that with all the incredible technology they had created to build a real spaceship that could fly through the vacuum of space, nobody had ever managed to perfect soundproofing technology. Or maybe they just liked to listen.
But she did not like what she was hearing.
She threw the door open, making a mental note that somebody should probably come around and repair the ship’s faulty locking mechanisms, and exposed the tawdry scene before her: Deputy Commander Carvallain, spread out on his bed with his bare ass in the air, gazing over his shoulder at Commander Sicard, who was stark naked with his turgid love snake in his hand! She gasped in horrified intrigue. “What the hell is going on Here?” she demanded. “Explain yourselves right now!”
Carvallain righted himself and pulled a blanket over his unmentionable areas, which seemed pretty silly to Rhoswen, but she didn’t comment. She was too busy being annoyed that he didn’t say anything to try to mollify her.
Sicard just shrugged. “Seems pretty hard to misinterpret.”
“What is the matter with you?” Rhoswen demanded, mostly of Carvallain.
“I don’t know what else you expect,” he said sullenly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days, and a man has needs, even in space. It isn’t as though we’re married. I can play with whoever I want.”
“Well, that attitude is going to have to change,” she snapped, “because you’re going to be a father.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean?”
Rhoswen placed a protective hand over her as-yet-flat belly. “I’m having your baby, Carvallain.”
Continued on page 5.
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Continued from page 1.
Carvallain and Sicard both stared at Rhoswen in open shock.
“I was surprised too, believe you me,” said Rhoswen. “But I visited the med bay and there’s absolutely no doubt.”
“Unbelievable! The timing couldn’t be worse!” cried out Sicard. “We’re days away from closing in on the planet of the space bunnies. We can’t afford any distractions!”
“Oh, and this what’s happening here, this ain’t a distraction?” said Rhoswen.
“This is just playing around,” said Sicard. “But a baby is serious!”
“I don’t recollect asking your opinion on the matter,” said Carvallain. “In point of fact it has naught to do with you.”
“Bollocks! I’m the commander of this mission! Everything has to do with me!” said Sicard. “We all need this mission to succeed, or the Misefernalicia will end up adrift with no fuel until the Intergalactic Federation catches up with us, and then it’s space prison or worse. We can’t afford any distractions!”
“You know, it does take a little bit of time to brew up a baby,” said Rhoswen. “I’m only a couple of months along. It’ll be a while before it interferes with my job even a little bit.”
“But how can we have a baby on a spaceship?” said Carvallain.
“I wouldn’t worry that much about it,” said Sicard. “Honestly what’s probably going to happen is she’s going to get in a sticky situation and we’ll rescue her, but she’s going to lose the pregnancy so we never have to deal with all the changes an infant on board a pirate ship will bring. There won’t be any emotional ramifications or anything, but she’ll be so grateful for our rescue that there’ll be another steamy scene where she probably conceives another baby that’ll pay off in three or four issues, maybe with a subplot about confused paternity, but it’ll all end off with us in the same situation that it always does, with the three of us in a dramatic love triangle that never changes.”
“That’s true,” said Rhoswen. “I forgot about that.”
“That is because you are a very silly person,” observed Carvallain.
She drew a knife from her spacefarers’ utility belt. “Say that again, why don’t you.”
Carvallain gave her a smoldering look. “You know it always turns me on when you point a weapon at me.”
“You digust me,” said Rhoswen. “I wouldn’t go to bed with you for all the gil in the galactic empire.”
“Very well,” said Carvallain, “but what if I lick my lips and give you a very hungry look?”
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” said Rhoswen, and began to unbutton her shirt.
But before anything too sexy could happen, the lights in the cabin began to flash red and an alarm noise went off. Sicard swore under his breath and reached for the communication device that was pinned to his shirt. It took him a few moments because the shirt had been thrown to the other side of the room. He pressed a button. “Bridge, this is Commander Sicard. Report.”
A tinny voice said, “Commander Sicard, we’ve come into view of the planet of the space bunnies! But we can’t land because we’re under heavy fire. Whatever is protecting them is very strong!”
“What’s protecting them?” said Sicard. “A space base? A ship?”
“I don’t really like to say this, because it sounds crazy,” said the voice from the bridge. “But it looks like they’re being protected by a space dragon!”
WILL THE MISEFERNALICIA SURVIVE THEIR ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPACE DRAGON? HAVE THEY TRULY MANAGED TO FIND THE PLANET WHERE THE SPACE BUNNIES RESIDE? AND HOW WILL OUR HEROES COPE WITH THE NEWS OF YET ANOTHER UNEXPECTED PREGNANCY? FIND OUT NEXT TIME!
Copyright belongs to V. Cutscene and Rowena’s Publishing Emporium. All rights reserved.
Chapter 23: EXPANSION (Fordola/Lyse)
Summary:
"The godsdamned Echo. You couldn’t’ve invented a more effective torture device."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a printed interview transcript, translated from an Ala Mhigan dialect.
Prisoner Interview Transcript
Recorded in the Ala Mhigan Quarter, The Lochs, Gyr Abania
Subject: Fordola rem Lupis
Interviewer: Lyse Hext
Transcriptionist/Translator: Tilda Grandalon
L: How have you been? Is there anything you need?
F: You needn’t pretend like you care. Why would you? I’m just a prisoner here. A traitor. I’m nothing to you, nor anyone else. Now what is it you want?
L: For one, I wanted to thank you for your help with the primal Lakshmi. It meant a great deal to me, and to others.
F: Made a choice, like your friend said. Might as well’ve been nothing as far as anybody else is concerned. Didn’t you hear them in there? What I’ve done can’t be forgiven.
L: One man . . .
F: You think he doesn’t speak for every godsdamned one of ‘em? You’re not a child. You know better. [pause] You think you’d ever forgive the man who killed your friend? The little Lalafell?
L: What did you — how — ? Ah, right. The Echo.
F: Right, the godsdamned Echo. You couldn’t’ve invented a more effective torture device. Every time anybody who got so much as a mean look from an Imperial soldier walks by, there’s every bad memory they ever had, waiting to turn me inside out and make me live out the worst day of their lives like it was happening to me. It’s worse than torture. I’m living in hell.
L: We didn’t give you the Echo.
F: I know you didn’t. Zenos did. And I jumped at the chance, too. Worst decision I ever made in a long, long list of them. Too late to take it back, just like all the others. Now I just gotta live with the consequences, drag all those corpses around every day for the rest of my whole life.
L: We’ve all lost people we love. Some of us even lost them under circumstances where it’s our fault. We blame ourselves, but we have to keep on going. Sometimes it helps to just know we’re not alone.
F: But I am alone, am I not? No matter how long I live, for the rest of my life, I’ll never be anything but alone. And it’s my own fault. I chose it. To impress fucking Zenos! He didn’t even have the balls to stick around once Ala Mhigo fell. Cut his own throat while everyone else fought, I heard. Fucking coward.
L: People will forgive in time. They’ll see you’re not who you were.
F: Oh, am I not? What makes you so certain? I showed up for one fight. Stopped one primal. One that probably wouldn’t’ve even existed if I hadn’t taken the snake girl to begin with. You can’t see into my head the way I can see into yours. What makes you think you know the first thing about me?
L: Tell me I’m wrong, then. Tell me you’re exactly the same woman I threw into this prison cell.
F: (long pause) Fuck off. Wait, no. Don’t. I don’t . . . I mean . . .
L: Yes, that’s pretty much what I thought.
F: Wh— what are you doing? Don’t touch me! Let go of my hand!
Footsteps sound in the hall. Fabric rustles within the cell.
Unknown Guard: The emissaries from the Eorzean Alliance await you in the conference room.
L: Thank you, I’ll be right there. Fordola, are you going to be alright?
F: Looks like I don’t have a choice.
L: I’m very busy, but I’ll come back and see you as soon as I can.
F: But why? You don’t have to.
L: Because I have to choose what kind of person I want to be. Because we both need to believe people can change. Because . . . because however alone you might feel, you’re not. Because sometimes beautiful flowers grow up out of the dry, dead dirt. I’ll see you tomorrow.
End transcript.
Chapter 24: HAPPENSTANCE (Various Leveilleurs)
Summary:
"I can only stand by and laugh as I see them both try to conceal their emotions out of pride and reticence, exactly like their father. On that point, their choices are clearly no coincidence. They are Leveilleurs through and through."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a journal, bound in tawny leather and wrapped in soft white tissue paper. A family crest is embossed upon the cover, along with the accompanying name: LEVEILLEUR.
The Journal of Lady Ameliance Leveilleur
Old Sharlayan
The twins remain so charmingly transparent. Were we ever so young? Doubtless Fourchenault would argue that we weren’t, that even in our youngest days we were wiser and more serious and more respectful of the wisdom of our elders, but he’s wrong and he knows it. His pride gets in the way of admitting as much. The truth is, we were much sillier than the twins in our day, and not half so accomplished. I know he is aware of that, and delights in all they have done; he just can’t quite hold back that curmudgeonly streak of his, that constant drive to become wiser, better, more formidable, and to hold those around him to the same exacting standards.
But just yesterday at dinner, when we asked after the pursuits of the day as we always do, Alisaie mentioned — with very careful casualness, that she had spent the day at the Studium with G’raha Tia. At this Alphinaud raised an eyebrow, for it seemed a whole complement of their Scions had been studying there of late, searching for further information that will help them meet the challenges to come, yet she saw fit to mention G’raha specifically. She protested that, simply by mere happenstance, they were both reading in the gazebo and shared a fruitful exchange, trading books and comparing notes. It was not deliberate, she said (which I believe), and certainly she had only the most platonic of intentions (which is a more dubious proposition).
Then Alphinaud said he heard they had not been studying together, but sleeping together, which caused quite the stir. Poor Fourchenault was quite up in arms, as was Alisaie (though for entirely different reasons). Gods, I cannot remember the last time it was so apparent that they were father and daughter. They both carry the same righteous fire, though hers is far more likely to express itself through a sword. Alisaie insisted that only Krile and Chalcedony had come upon them and she’d certainly make them pay for spreading stories. This inflamed Fourchenault further until Alphinaud realized what he had implied and hastened to assure us that he meant it only in the most literal sense, that they had both fallen asleep poring over texts in the warm sun.
By this point Alisaie’s cheeks were no less red than her jacket, which all but confirmed to me that she has thought of him in such a light before. She demanded to know who had spread the story to Aphinaud, and together they compared facts and managed to reason out that it had been neither Krile nor Chalcedony who had shared the secret, but Y’shtola, who passed by them as they napped and mentioned it offhand to Thancred, who mentioned it to Urianger, who mentioned it to Alphinaud. Alisaie inquired acidly whether anyone had thought to update Tataru, if they might send a missive to Lyse in Gyr Abania, and if Estinien ought to know — “but then,” she continued, “I suppose I am not the twin in whose activities Estinien takes an interest.”
At this my poor dear Alphinaud was taken aback. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, in a tone of voice that suggested he was in fact quite sure what she meant. Indeed, it was not hard to figure out what she meant to imply, especially following Ser Varlineau’s earlier visit. Dear Alphinaud continues to insist he and Estinien are naught but allies and colleagues, but I can’t help noticing that he did not bring any of his other “allies and colleagues” around for a proper luncheon or dinner or tea or what-have-you. As I have already said, we were not any wiser or more serious as adults.
I chose not to discuss it with Fourchenault just yet, but Estinien certainly seems devoted to our son. It is clear that he would prefer to avoid formal settings altogether, being rather feral for an Ishgardian, and yet he put on an admirable performance of social acceptability for Alphinaud’s sake. Although they tried to pretend he had just happened to be in the vicinity with no particular plans, it’s clear he put a great deal of effort into cleaning up his appearance. Alisaie remarked that she had never before seen him in anything but armour. Clearly he was dressed to impress for this occasion, and I cannot believe that could be happenstance.
What can a mother do except hope for the best? The children are grown. Someone who has commanded battallions, who has strategized battles, who has developed miracle cures and changed the face of our star — such a person is able to make their own choices and handle the consequences. I can only stand by and laugh as I see them both try to conceal their emotions out of pride and reticence, exactly like their father. On that point, their choices are clearly no coincidence. They are Leveilleurs through and through.
Chapter 25: BUBBLE (Y'shtola/Runar)
Summary:
"The rustic existence of those living in the Rak’tika Greatwoods apparently does not make room for such luxuries as bubble baths."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a journal that has travelled across worlds and through the barriers between dimensions. In spite of all that, it is deceptively simple: a plain black cover, slightly glossy, with a black ribbon bookmark. The handwriting within comprises sharp slashes and bold curves, the handwriting of a thoughtful and clever woman who must record her thoughts quickly lest they race too far ahead of her quill. Although the ink has faded with time and travel, it was penned so confidently that it is still easy to read.
Daily Notes
‘Master Matoya’
Rak’tika Greatwoods, Norvrandt
Tomorrow we fight on, but tonight we celebrate: the darkness has returned to Rak’tika. I almost neglected to write tonight: I had become reluctant to light so much as a single candle. But my teacher whose name I have taken taught me such a strong sense of discipline, I could not rest without putting pen to page.
The celebration at Slitherbough was exuberant, to say the least. There was a great feast, which consisted mostly of local fare, but Dorayaki made a point of including some recipes she remembered from home, slightly modified in accordance with what was locally available. A group of mostly Ronso musicians made music — Chalcedony and Ozwyn joined in, and MinfiliaRyne contributed a surprisingly strong singing voice, even coaxed a duet out of Urianger, of all people! I haven’t danced so much in years. At first we celebrated together as one, but as the night wore on people tended to drift apart into smaller groups, couples and threesomes.
It was at that point that Runar, who I had hardly seen all night, stepped away from his duties as the leader of his community and offered me a dance. I very much enjoy the way he holds me, as though I’m something precious — not a reaction I am accustomed to eliciting from men who have observed the extent of my power. In fact, I would wager based on his behaviour that he quite likes knowing how powerful I am, and that I would not suffer a single touch I did not want. I believe it makes him feel chosen.
He invited me back to the hollow that serves as his private quarters. There are not too many places for absolute privacy in Slitherbough, but this is one: a small space, enough room for a bed and a small wardrobe as well as a small pool, where he invited me to join him. I may never have had any invitation half as tempting. As I bent to unlace my boots, I remembered a spell I learned as a child under the care of Master Matoya, one I had not thought to practice in years. I raised up my staff, whispering the words far too quietly for Runar to hear, and with the ease of perfect muscle memory managed to lace the water with a frothy, sweet-smelling foam, the likes of which I gathered he had never before seen. The rustic existence of those living in the Rak’tika Greatwoods apparently does not make room for such luxuries as bubble baths. I was most gratified to hear the moan of pleasure he let out as he sank into all that warmth and fragrance. He looked at me as if I had placed the stars, as if I was the one who’d brought night back to the forest.
Things progressed rather quickly from there, because what more was there to be said? I had him help me unlace my bodice from the back, though I didn’t actually need the assistance. When I shed my gown, he told me the stars were the second most beautiful thing he had seen tonight. From any other man, I would have taken it as an obvious line, but Runar spoke it so sincerely, I can only believe he thinks exactly that.
He didn’t need a line in any case. I had already decided that tonight was for enjoying. Whatever may come tomorrow, we had tonight.
Chapter 26: LEPORINE (Dorayaki [WoL]/Koana + Erenville/Koana)
Summary:
"You better pay attention girl! someone’s trying to steal your man!"
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws an oft-folded and ragged-edged piece of paper, torn hastily from a composition book. The conversation played out on it is written in two different hands, obviously passed back and forth during some sort of academic exercise. One half of the conversation is written in a familiar scrawl; she recognizes it easily from her ancestor’s journal, passed down through the family as a relic of their heroic patrimony. The rest of the script is unfamiliar, the identity of its author lost to time.
[unknown] Aetheryte demo @ Confluence tonight, you and Koana going? y/n
[Dorayaki] Not sure yet. Probably yes for him but I have practicum in the a.m.
[unknown] OK but I wouldn’t let him out of my sight too often if I were you
[Dorayaki] ???
[unknown] Koana has a secret admirer.
[Dorayaki] ????? what are you talking about?
[unknown] How can you not have noticed him? very pretty Viera, black hair black skin I mean like BLACK like the colour of charcoal, probably a gleaner, probably spends more time looking at Koana than looking for requested specimens . . .
[Dorayaki] right b/c I’m always paying so much attention to other guys when I’m out with Koana. NO IDEA what you are talking about
[unknown] You better pay attention girl! someone’s trying to steal your man! — good looking guy too, is Koana into guys?
[Dorayaki] I think he goes both ways but I trust him, def not going to lose sleep over some random gleaner
[unknown] Not sure how random it is. I think he’s also from Tural? he tries to hide his accent but there’s a trace of Turali in it, not as much as Koana tho
[Dorayaki] You are paying a lot of attention to this gleaner, anything you want to tell me?
[unknown] Not saying I have a crush on him but you know what they say about Viera
[Dorayaki] ???
[unknown] You study too much if you never heard this. Get a social life. Ever heard the phrase “multiplying like rabbits”?? they. are. insatiable. Heard they’re adventurous too, into some unconventional things. If you haven’t sealed the deal with Koana I would definitely recommend putting out b/c he is for sure going to get offers elsewhere.
[Dorayaki] I’m not concerned, I’m keeping him happy
[unknown] !!!! good for you! is he fun in bed? . . . big? does he make you cum?
[Dorayaki] why are you like this??? yes he’s fun, yes he gets me off, dick size is roughly MYOB
[unknown] Honestly and don’t take this the wrong way, I wouldn’t have thought he was that great in bed, too serious
[Dorayaki] Serious is hot!
[unknown] Maybe you should get with the gleaner then, he seems serious as fuck. Oooh maybe threesome?!?!?!?
[Dorayaki] WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?
Chapter 27: AHEAD OF YOU, LOOKING BEHIND (Azem/Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus)
Summary:
"Azem . . . Orpheus. I am not afraid."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws an accordion folder, tied shut with a slender length of string. A label affixed to it, slightly faded, reads: “Research: Astrological Practice and Prophetic Dreams, by Dorayaki Nendo.” Inside the folder, sheafs of loose-leaf paper have been sorted into separate files, each bearing a name: Urianger Augerelt, Leveva Byrde, Jannequinard de Durendaire, Dorayaki Nendo, Chalcedony Vox, Ozwyn Vox.” If writing style and appearance are anything to go by, the pages have been sorted according to their authors. She selects a page from the file marked “Chalcedony Vox”.
DATE: 9th day of 2nd Astral Moon
LOCATION: Northern Thanalan
WEATHER CONDITIONS: Clear, cool, breezy
NOTEABLE ASTRAL POSITIONS: Arrow in the Vault of Oschon, Bole in the Vault of Menphina
MOON PHASE: on the wane
I wake in a city on fire, surrounded by chaos in the streets.
There are two men in my bed. Both of them are beautiful. I would remember them if I had ever seen them before — I haven’t — but I feel like I’ve known them all my life and longer. There’s a white-haired man with a furrowed, care-worn brow; there’s a violet-haired man with his face turned away, shadowed by strands loosened from his long, perfect braid. I rise from in between them and float to the window, where the dawn sky is orange and haunted.
Behind me I hear one of them stir. He calls out to me. Come back to bed. You’ve scarce rested an hour.
I hear my voice. It sounds like some other man, rich with some other land’s accent. I can save them, Hyth. There has to be a way. There’s always a way.
The Convocation’s proposal —
Not that. The cost is too great.
I can feel him standing behind me, arms wrapping around me. He smells fresh and floral, which is strange: usually I don’t smell things in dreams. This feels more like a memory. I feel his mouth against my temple.
Azem . . . Orpheus. I am not afraid. In the dream, my hair is long; I can feel his fingers running through it. At last I turn, and I see that it is the violet-haired man. His eyes glow violet, the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, but there’s so much pain in them. I know who will survive and who will be sacrificed; we know our destinies. I know that I will live, that the man on the bed will live. I know that the man with the perfect braid, who kisses me with his perfect lips, will die.
I whisper his name, choking on it; it feels like soup bones in my throat. Hythlodaeus.
The dream turns on itself, and time moves in reverse. I stand in a queue in a windowless room, one of many near-identical black-robed figures. On the other side of the room I spot a person in white — man, woman, I can’t be sure — but they disappear before I can approach them.
One at a time, each black-robed person in line reaches into a velvet bag and blindly pulls out a marble. Half are white; half are black. When my turn comes, I reach in and make my selection. I hold it tight in my fist so I do not have to see what colour I have chosen. I pray with all my heart for a white one. I know a black marble is death, and I know that there is still too much of this world to see and to experience; I know I need to survive.
I meet the other men in the hallway. The white-haired one opens his fist to me. His marble matches his hair. I can feel his relief; I share in it. But my fear for myself grows thicker as I recognize that he is waiting to see what I’ve drawn. They both are.
I extend my closed fist between them, and my vision goes dark. I cannot open my fist unless I close my eyes. In that instant I am certain that I have drawn a black marble, that I will end up nothing more than a sacrifice for the continued survival of our star. I spread my palm, but I cannot force my eyes to open. The marble swells to impossible proportions, feels like a three-hundred-ponze weight. Then I feel the weight disappear as someone takes it from my hand. It’s enough of a reprieve to allow me to open up my eyes.
Hythlodaeus holds my marble between thumb and forefinger. It gleams white. I exhale.
Then I snatch that breath back sharply when he opens his other hand, almost apologetically. The marble he drew is black.
I hear fire crackling and explosions in the street, and then I’m there, walking past buildings that are burning in this labyrinth of a city. I feel like I should know it, but the turmoil has made it unrecognizable. I have lost my way. Cinders burn my throat all the way down as I spur myself to run. Rubble crunches and shifts beneath my feet, turns my ankles. Smoke scrapes my eyes like claws.
When I finally find the place where we are to meet, the white-haired man is alone. You’re late. His voice is so granite-hard, pain radiates through my head. Too late. He’s gone.
No. But I know it’s true. He delayed as long as he could, until he could wait no more. I fall to my knees in the street.
Oh, pull yourself together. At least make his sacrifice worth something.
His scorn cuts me like a knife. It’s so familiar. Not just to Orpheus, but to me, to Chalcedony. In my waking life, I’ve heard him speak. I know it. Emet-Selch.
He lied to you. Now that I recognize that cold contempt, it’s unmistakable. In the crackling fire I can hear words he’s spoken in the past: calling me weak and wanting, saying I’m not human enough for it to matter if he kills me. I know he would never say anything like that to Azem, to Orpheus. But what he says is worse. He made me swear not to tell you, but you deserve to live with the knowledge. You deserve to never forget.
I already know what he is going to say before his words bring it into being.
Before you drew your lot, Hythlodaeus showed me what he’d drawn. We celebrated together that we both had drawn white marbles. But when you showed up destined to die, he couldn’t stand it. You were meant to be sacrificed, and he took your place. He went to his death smiling, knowing it meant you could live. And you couldn’t even show up soon enough to say farewell.
Now it’s Hythlodaeus I hear in the flames. Orpheus is the better man. He has so much more to contribute. We’ll need Orpheus to bring back the ones we’ve lost.
Emet-Selch slaps me across the face, and it feels like relief. I stagger back to my feet. The cold haft of a weapon settles into my hands. I prepare to bathe in the blood of abominations so I can forget whose blood is really on my hands.
When I woke, my throat was sore from the screaming. No matter how much tea I swilled back, I couldn’t sing a note for the rest of the day.
Chapter 28: SATURATE (Hyllfyr & Sicard
Summary:
"Keeping the Astalicia safe in harbour wears on me: she deserves the adventure she was made for. It’s time for her to weigh anchor with a new captain at the helm."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a letter, stiff and stained with salt water, folded and unfolded and refolded often.
Dear Sicard,
I suppose this letter has been a long time coming, and maybe as acting captain of the Bloody Executioners you’ve been expecting it — or maybe not. Either way it looks like today’s the day. I’ve finally made my choice: I’m giving it up for good, getting off the seas and starting a new chapter of my life on land. I’ve had it up to here with living halfway, one foot in both worlds, staying on board my ship without truly being a pirate anymore. I’ve saved up enough to retire to Summerford or Moraby, get myself a little house near the water, and find a new trade — growing vegetables, maybe, if I can get a large enough patch of land. I’ve seen some varieties in my travels that could be popular in Limsa if anyone nearby were growing them; maybe that will be my specialty.
Your time away in Ilsabard only made me more confident that I’m making the right decision. I still love the sea: once you fall in love with her, it’s for life. But at my age, and with my health being what it is, I have to accept that I need more stability than the ocean can provide me. Keeping the Astalicia safe in harbour wears on me: she deserves the adventure she was made for. It’s time for her to weigh anchor with a new captain at the helm.
I can only imagine you’ve guessed what this means for you, and you know what I’m about to say. I want to pass the Astalicia on to you, install you as captain permanently. Obviously that will have to be put to a vote amongst the crew, like such things always are, but I’ve got no reason to think it’s any more than a formality. You’ve proven yourself over and again, as a fighter and as a diplomat, and you’ve got a boatload of thugs and rapscallions at your back, like any good captain would. So I hereby declare my title, position, and ship to be yours (pending your acceptance, of course). I hope you will permit me to stay on just long enough to complete the transactions that will secure my new home on land, after which I’ll be clearing out my cabin and turning it over to you. You’ll need a larger and more opulent sleeping quarters, if I’m not mistaken; I expect your young gentleman is accustomed to the finer things.
Till sea swallows all, mate. Safe and prosperous travels.
Hyllfyr Faezmoensyn
Limsa Lominsa
(Dictation taken by bo’sun Y’ombre Tia)
Chapter 29: SLASH (Crystal Exarch/Emet-Selch)
Summary:
“Just take what you came for.”
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a rather plain and practical composition book, simply bound. The cover has a simple label affixed neatly to it, printed in block letters slanted ever so slightly: “Aetherological Research: Statistics and Formulae, Alisaie Leveilleur, Amh Araeng”. Inside, the pages are lined with pale grids. The first several are in fact covered in diagrams, formulae, and scrawled notes. After eight or ten pages of that, however, the contents — still written by the same tidy hand — become rather more . . . lively.
The Exarch had barely enough time to recognize he was no longer in the room alone before the full black-robed force of a monster in the guise of a man pounced on him, launching him hard against the gilded crystal of his secret Ocular.
“What do you think you’re playing at, Exarch?” growled Emet-Selch. “Over and over you cast your net into the sea, and each time you bring up the wrong fish. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to protect your favourite little pet from the Source, bringing everyone else across and keeping him safe and sound.” His hand wrapped around the Exarch’s throat, at the very point where rock gave way to flesh, pressing on his larynx.
“I assure you —” the Exarch coughed.
Emet-Selch released the Miqo’te Mystel’s throat. “Naturally, I do know better. Everything you do is for him. The rest of these small fry are mere inconveniences whose lives you gladly uproot and destroy just to bring your golden boy here. And spare me your tired rhetoric about the salvation of the star. We both know what you really want from him.”
“And what do you want, Emet-Selch?” asked the Exarch. “Why do you haunt this place like a phantom long since forgotten?”
“For the great pleasure of your company, of course!” Emet-Selch pressed him harder against the wall, sliding his knee between the Exarch’s thighs, feeling the hardness there. “Dare I imagine you’re ready and wanting?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” said the Exarch. “Pretend I’m hard for you if you like, but you full well you know that part of me turned to stone near forty years ago.”
“And you still think he’ll want you,” Emet-Selch sneered. “You’re so certain he’ll fall at your feet with gratitude and lust for plucking him and his friends from their very world, dragging him to this sleepless waste of endless light. What will you do, I wonder, when he comes running to me instead? Wanting the comfort of warm flesh and blood, not solid stone.”
The Exarch jerked his face away angrily, but Emet-Selch grasped his jaw and forced him to look straight into his golden eyes. His hood slid back, down ears lying flat with annoyance. “Just take what you came for.”
“Don’t act so put out,” said Emet-Selch, and he began to loosen the pins holding the Exarch’s robes in place. “I know this is the best part of your week.”
Chapter 30: RHAPSODY (Azem/Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus)
Summary:
"For all the time I have spent on lyrical compositions, my words and notes both fail me."
Chapter Text
Imagine, very many years from now, an ancient house: solid stone, richly appointed, eaves creaking in the wintry winds. A young person climbs a narrow set of stairs to the attic, where generations of her family have stored the combined remnants of their lives. She swiftly passes many dusty artefacts to kneel before a sealed chest: chalcocite, studded with polished larimar, with a broken lock that no longer catches quite right. She tips back the lid, shines her lantern upon the contents.
From it she withdraws a preservationist’s envelope. Within it, she finds a fragment of parchment, beyond ancient, bearing text written in a language most people no longer know. The envelope also contains a more modern page, upon which someone has penned a translation, to which they have affixed a note (all flowing and flourishing penmanship) with a golden clip.
Mine esteemed friend,
Pray accept my humble endeavour to discern such rude and narrow reports as I may concerning the enigma of this archaic and doubtless venerable text. Though such inducements as led thee to engage mine assistance in composing this translation lie well beyond my ken, ever do I trust in thy judgment, that thou wilt bring forth thy reasoning in due course. I confess that I had harboured some fragile hope that I might unearth a text of prophecy heretofore unknown to the scholars of this present age, rather it appeareth an account concerning the Ancients’ idylls during their sojourns to sites of harmonious repose, wherein they might enjoy one another’s company — that is, to avail themselves of an occasion for comradely merriment.
Thancred informeth me that mine attempts to convey an environment of platonic fellow-feeling resulteth solely in phrases which, to his ear and therefore likely no less to thine, serve to connote intimate carnal encounters, although this be no intention of mine. Hence, I shall conclude this foreword and present thee with the body of text as requested, and shall furthermore remain
Thy faithful associate,
Urianger Augerelt
Here followeth the text:
THE BOOK OF ORPHEUS
Hythlodaeus and Hades. O how entirely I am undone.
They sent for me last night at our lodging in Elpis, this being our last night there. I had intended to fall into sleep as quickly as possible, having entertained the other guests — both within and outside of our travelling party, as hospitality demands — with rousing song, followed in the darker hours by a series of more brooding ballads to shift the atmosphere. I ended off with my most recent one, which I am currently calling “Heartsblood of Desire” for want of a better title, and received a very warm reception from my audience. Thus did I return to my room, certain I had reached the absolute height of the evening’s delights and naught could possibly get better.
But Hades and Hythlodaeus, having left a note affixed to my door, bidding me visit their own bedchamber, convinced me that it could. Their case was very persuasive.
I hesitate to commit the night’s pleasures to the page. For all the time I have spent on lyrical compositions, my words and notes both fail me. They could produce only pale shadows of what we three shared. How to give words to the masculine beauty of Hades, and the exquisite experience of pressing that ever-present sneer from his lips with a kiss? It would be unforgivably clichéed to write of his leonine eyes like gold coins or the surprising softness of his silver hair. And I do not think he would forgive me for immortalizing the expression of absolute peace and contentment that stole across his features as he came down from the moment of climax. So I will not describe it.
And what can be said of Hythlodaeus? He is perfection. The bright violet of his eyes, ringed with thick dark lashes, the sweep of lilac hair across his brow, the perfect bow of his lips. The hidden grace of his body, laid out for me like a feast, and the sound of his delight when I partake. The waves of hair cascading across his pillow, our vigorous carousing having wrenched it free of its usual braid. How I adore him, how I adore them both.
Calypso gave me a knowing look when she caught me returning to my room this morning. How perceptive she is — as her father I am both discomfited and proud. One wants one’s children to be sharp-witted, but a sharp wit is a blade that can be turned back on a parent’s own contradictions, holding up a mirror to an uncomfortable level of knowledge. No one makes a more careful study of one’s psyche than one’s child, who from birth relies on such knowledge.
It was, it happened, Calypso’s day to choose our destination. Surprising none, she selected the seashore. All her life she has adored the ocean in all its mysteries, and upon reaching her full maturity immediately set about the process of Creation at Metabaseos Thaalassai, researching and designing all manner of aquatic life. As a very small child, she sometimes stared at the skies above Amaurot and, when asked what she observed there, she would say she could see “fishes swimming in the lifestream,” expressing surprise that we did not perceive them as well. Our entire company was, therefore, prepared for a visit to the beach, though Hades pretended to grumble in that way he has, and Hyth cautioned us all concerning some of the more ferocious Creations introduced into the oceans of late.
We made a cheerful little band as we proceeded down to the shore, and I am not proud to admit that I was relieved Lahabrea had declined to join our travelling party. He has become quite cheerless lately, and woe betide the soul who refers to him as Haiphistos within his hearing! It was refreshing to have Themis and (even more so) Hades at liberty to call me by my name rather than my title. (I believe I can trust Erichthonios not to tattle.) Hegemone, and Venat rounded out our party, as well as Calypso’s dear friend Melonyssa, a lively and cheerful girl who has spent much of our sojourn attempting to catch the attention of Erichthonios . . . and I am sure she would be successful if he ever took his eyes off Themis, but he does not.
What can be said of the day except that it was perfect? The sun was bright, the sky nigh cloudless, the waters brisk and inviting, the breeze languid and warm. We spread blankets on the sand, lunched on simple fare. Venat and Calypso found a cave to explore —between Venat’s influence and my own, it would surprise me little to find Calypso in the role of Azem once I am through. Hegemone tagged along with them, hoping to collect some particular floral specimens which thrive on saltwater. Themis and Erichthonios sat close together and engaged in a lively conversation, their voices hushed enough that I could not determine the subject matter. Melonyssa, in the mood for a peaceable day, spread out on the blanket with a book and a fruit drink, though more than once I caught her eyeing Erichthonios and Themis, her expression coolly unreadable.
For my part, I remained with Hades and Hythlodaeus, and as they basked in each other’s company (the way they always do), I began to work out a new composition. It has no lyrics yet, and in fact I suspect it will be completely instrumental, for what words would suffice? The title I have chosen for it — perhaps rather self-indulgent, I grant — is “Rhapsody in Lavender Frost”. Too obvious, perhaps, but I cannot keep myself from singing it to the world. That rare inseparable pair, Hythlodaeus and Hades, has admitted me to their ranks as a third, newly arrived but no less cherished for it.
Our sojourn soon ends, but it will have been worth it. I am fit to burst with the joy of it. I could ask for no more, save that the echoes of this feeling carry me through all the rest of my days, and survives beyond even myself, so that all the world can share in the knowledge: that I was here, that I lived, and that Hades and Hythlodaeus loved me.
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fangirl_45 on Chapter 1 Sun 14 Sep 2025 01:40AM UTC
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Corovera on Chapter 9 Thu 11 Sep 2025 03:28PM UTC
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fangirl_45 on Chapter 9 Sun 14 Sep 2025 02:10AM UTC
Last Edited Sun 14 Sep 2025 01:39PM UTC
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fangirl_45 on Chapter 9 Mon 15 Sep 2025 02:41AM UTC
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