Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They track the white-robed Ascian north, through the winding old mining tunnels, and out into the smog-drenched valley. Their nose begins to run and their eyes burn, but still they press on. This is little, after all, compared to the fire and noxious smokes of the Praetorium. 

Slowing for a moment, they shake off phantom screams of people burning, taking a breath. And then immediately regretting it, coughing violently at the burning smell of fouled eggs. It hadn’t been a problem last time they'd been here, but that had been before… Ah. Perhaps they really should have listened more to the Chirurgeon, about how their airways were not yet fully healed from said smoke and fire.  They'd always healed fast, but it wasn't like they'd ever faced anything like that before.

The smoke and ash was what they’d told the Immortal Flame's Chirurgeon, at least. They’d left out the part where they’d felt their heart stop beating, ash entering their mouth and nose for one last stuttering breath and no strength for an exhale to push it free. If it hadn't been for the direct intervention of a God, the Warrior supposes that their next life would be opening their infant eyes pretty soon.

They hadn't truly expected to live through the battle with the Ultima Weapon, nor then the fight with Lahabrea. It was simply how it went. They would find a cause worth fighting for, and at a climactic battle…. Would give their all. And then, years or decades later, someone very much like them would dream of the sky falling and…. Remember.

Remember as someone with a whole new life. A whole new land to live in. A new family, or the lack of one.

And to be far, far from anyone their last life had cared about. Never to see them again. Maybe, if lucky- or unlucky- To learn of what fate had eventually befallen them. Sometimes in tales around a campfire. Sometimes in tavern stories. Rarely, to see echoes of them, in the shape of someone's face and eyes, the color of fur or scales or hair. They always made the most of the gift of life, and treasured those echoes, for all that they hurt.

Once, they'd been born into a clan under wide blue skies, upon an endless steppe. Well- They had been born into more than a few clans there, over time. But in this, from the moment they had been born, others had expected them to remember before their birth- like everyone else in the clan. It had been an unexpected comfort, to be around people that understood. In some lives, they find themselves back there, and are jokingly asked where their soul wandered off to this time.

They want to see more of this life, though. More of the land of Eorzea. The forests, the vast plains. The people. The things the Scions wanted to do. They want to hear them with the furry ears they were born with in this life. They like them, much as they like the way that the tail balances their leaps, and how sunbeams promise and deliver the coziest, most relaxing naps. The places they've been through, the tapestry of people that is the Eorzea of now. The way their fingers have learned to hold both weapons and tools, to curl their claws around handles while not scratching their palms.

Rough rock meets their hand, and then their arm, as they lean heavily against it, chest contracting in wheezes. This… this was not the time to falter, they tell themself. Their prey lies just ahead, and the vicinity of an Ascian was no place to show vulnerability. Hand trembling, they fumble for their pocket, where a soul stone of soft white whispers to them of succor. They had thought to strike swiftly, to end any fights before their vulnerability could put them in danger, but strength would do them no good if they could not even make it to their foe…

Out of nowhere, a hand companionably pats them on the back, and they startle, although all it does is sent them further into shallow gasps, dropping heavily to one knee this time. Their breath won’t fill their chest, won’t bring relief, and a seed of animal panic sprouts.

In the state they’re in, they don’t register the hand returning, resting between their shoulder blades. What does grab them, though, is the unexpected stream of cooling aether trickling from it, flowing forward into their chest. As relieving as finding a shaded, refreshing pool on a scorching day, and falling to your knees before it to sink your dry hands in, to bring up to your mouth in cupped palms.

The next breath they gasp in is deep, and- they can breathe. Starving, desperate, they pant heavily. It’s not long before another cough catches in their throat. This time, resulting in an expulsion of slime, dark with old blood as it spatters upon the dusty rock.

The healing flow continues throughout, and at last the heaving of their chest slows, calms, along with the rough pounding of their heart. 

They groan softly, and shift to stand, accepting their savior’s hand that pulls them upwards. And then, they realize the texture of metal claws interlaced with their fingers. The silky gloves, cool against their scratched up palm. 

It’s amusement, in that tilt of the Ascian’s cowled head, in that blood red mask they find themself face to face with. It's…. Why do they keep looking at the mask? Something about it itches at their memory, but they don't think…. Have they seen it before?

The Ascian is taking satisfaction from their reactions, watching them like they're a confused small animal. And yet is so too clearly thinking over something, head tilting like a curious bird. Trying to take their measure.

Hissing roughly, they yank their hand back, in their haste catching their palm upon sharp claws, leaving streaks of blood. Not pausing, with the other hand they lash out. Their strike wobbles through thin air as the form twists and vanishes, rippling back into the world a bare yalm away. 

The Ascian isn't attacking, they realize as they wobble and stumble, having expected a body as with Lahabrea or his lesser peons. A white robed sleeve is raised to its mouth in an charade of polite laugh covering. Infuriating, but a far cry from the harsh retaliation against Minfilia earlier. 

“Come, now.” It says, taunting. “Is that the limit of the Warrior of Light? The one that so wounded Lahabrea?” 

Potent the Ascian’s healing may have been, but their wounds were far from fully mended. Already, the Warrior misses that steadying coolness, with the sulfurous smog burning their throat anew. But they'd live, they tell themselves. They just had to push through. One foot in front of the other.

With effort, and the relentless pounding in their head only growing, they gather their feet under them, and lunge again. They catch the Ascian midsentence, and their swipe would have gored a man in two- if it had hit, and not sent them stumbling through his rippling shape from their ferocious momentum. It’s not like hitting empty air, but rather… Running a hand through water. If water was dark, dark all around them, like falling into the embrace of a new moon night.

They crash into the rocky wall shoulder-first, the leather pads taking most of the force, but twinges of recoil pain still jolting through them. Their hand comes up to slap at the wall, to brace for balance, and to their distant surprise, touching the wall hurts, as their hand leaves bloody streaks. 

A hand grabs their shoulder, spins them to be slammed back against the wall, as cold fingers wrap around their throat and squeeze, smothering their desperate wheeze for breath. Their vision swims, and their hands come up and scrabble at the robed arm holding them, but to no avail. It's a contest of strength, and while they can feel the Ascian weakening, they're still fading faster.

So instead, they grab onto that arm, and using him as purchase, swing their body up to land a fierce, desperate kick upwards, their heel cracking against the underside of what would be his chin. Unlike their previous blows, it lands. It also sends him crashing backwards, and with nothing left holding them up, they fall back against the stone wall, and slump to the ground, gasping for breath.

As if the world itself were conspiring against them, that's when their vision ripples, in what they now know to be the echo. The ringing in their ears spikes, and then it’s sounding so, so far away, as the vision takes them.

The vision is odd. The background is black and white, patchy, like something had taken bites out of it.

There's two figures there, paper cutouts against a patchwork wall. One in black, one in white. Walking side by side. The Warrior watches as the one in black laughs at something, hand gesturing as they talk. Their hood is down, a blurred lump of red hanging at their chest, but where their head should be…. Is another bitten-out patch. Emptiness.

The white one, though. They're hooded, and the Warrior recognizes that blood-red mask upon that face. It and it alone sits in color in this monochrome dream. It and it alone lays in perfect focus.

And yet. For all the cruelty they should be seeing in that sharp beak, there's a soft, fond smile underneath, aimed upwards at the one in black. It makes the Warrior's heart twist, some odd echo of tender longing spearing through them.

For a brief moment, there's a warm, orange glow from their soul, and answering it, the nothingness over the black one's head flickers.

And the world changes.

They blink. It's the same scene. And yet so different.

Now, the scene is overlaid with the same odd, dreamlike tone with which they've dreamed of their past lives. The world around the two is…. whole. No more missing patches, no more black and white splotches.

No longer is the one in white the anchorpoint of the dream. Now, everything revolves around the one in black.

The Warrior stands there, struck still. There is a truth here, in the dual perspectives of the same scene, and they know it as they know the turn of the earth.

It's strange, though. This… This isn't a life they can remember. Why not? Why this life, when all the others are all too clear? The thought turns over in their head as they watch.

The one in black laughs, and turns toward their shorter companion with a warm grin upon their face. They reach casually into his space, tuck first one escaped bunch of white, fluffy hair inside his hood, and then another. Halfway through, they seem to give up, instead lowering his hood, and finger combing his hair until it allows itself to be tamed into a ponytail.

The one in white obligingly stays still for them. It seems that he's used to this. Enjoying it, even, from the fond smile beneath that red mask.

He's also very, very fluffy. The memory is tinged with a fondness, and the Warrior can see why. There's a veiled intensity in the bright eyes that the eye slits can't smother. This is someone who believes in every step he takes.

Hood raised once more, there's no trace of hair to be seen.

The one in black is still smiling. They step back, nod, and with both hands take their own red mask from their chest, setting it upon their face, and pulling up their hood. The hair and eyes that are so similar to the Warrior's are hidden, and yet that warm grin is indomitable.

They turn, the one in white following a moment later, and the two of them head towards a grand doorway. It opens for them, and for a moment, the Warrior can see a sunlit room, other black robed figures turning towards them, calling greetings.

And then they are falling. Falling, falling free, from a vision evoked from their own soul.

As they're falling, falling through void, they see a facet before them. It shimmers, a world of dusty white stretching out forever beneath a black sky. The stars are blinding, brighter than the Warrior had thought they could ever be. And yet… And yet, through this lens, this black and white world seems so dim. So flat. There's no curiosity in the perspective, no wonder at the brilliant stars.

Something about this…. It's lost the tinge of warm orange. They're not looking into their own soul anymore.

There… There was something there, on that landscape. Something immense beyond understanding, malms and malms folded in on itself to fit into a single shape. A night sky in of itself, thousands upon thousands of stars inside its protective veil.

Souls. A life, every one of them. All of them whispering with their own words. Murmuring. Dreaming. Voices upon voices upon voices. Words indistinct, indistinguishable in the quiet cacophony of whispers.

There's a pale shape in front of the mass that hurts their mind. A figure in a white robe. Sitting on a rock, staring forward with longing at the immense abyss. Staying there, unmoving, as the stars turn and whirl overhead.

It's grief that they feel from this memory, so strong it's pouring forth from the mirror-like shard. Grief. Obligation. The sense of having failed someone. Having failed everyone. And the deep, snaking resentment that comes with such a thing. Curling up. Decaying, rotting away at bone and heart.

The manifold voices are so loud. Each of them wanting. Wanting. Wanting him to return to them. Wanting to be saved. Wanting to live.

Before them, it's hard to mind aught else. Hard to think of anything but the outpouring of murmurs and desperation.

And then, for a moment, something immense and dark stirs, looks through the Ascian's soul in a nauseating way. Looks through him as if he were another facet of crystal, and they were the memory looking back at Him.

The Warrior tumbles away from the facet, yell swallowed by the void. Falling away into darkness.

Finally, they come back to themselves, falling back into their body. Their aching body, complete with the wretchedness of their chest and lungs, and an odd tickle of wet at their nose. Oh, and the Ascian looming over them. 

Over them? Oh. Yes. They’re on the ground. Braced upon it, hands flat on the cold stone. And the Ascian is there. Woozily, they blink up at the being they’d now call a him. 

“...-strong is your gift, I wonder.” He’s saying. “Just what did you see, for the cost to be so high...”  With the back of a folded talon, he’s reaching down, drawing it through the wetness now cool and spreading over their lips. For a moment, their woozy eyes slip through focus, catching upon how his claws come away dripping red.

They still lurch forward and, with open jaw, catch and crunch down upon where the meat of a hand should be. 

For a moment, or an eternity. One of those, either of those. There’s stillness. And then a distant, surprised laugh.

“Very well. If you volunteer.” The words are more watery, bubbly than before, as if their translating echo itself is a muscle that they had injured. And then, the mate to the hand between their teeth comes up to their forehead. Dark, cool aether pulses from it, catches their thoughts in a twisting snare they’re in no shape to resist. Peacefully, softly, whispering of rest and relief, it pulls them down through fading thoughts. 

Gently, a hand sweeps over their brow, brushes a lock of hair away from tickling their nose. The touch is not unwelcome- in the enveloping darkness in which they lay, it’s a point of contact with another being, another person. They make a soft, snuffling noise, and upon the upsweep, it pauses, hovering close enough to their skin that their hairs prickle with the altered air movement. 

A gloved hand fists tight in their hair, claws scratching against their scalp. By that grasp, it pulls their slack head back, showing the line of their jaw. There's a moment of pause, of examination, but not content, it keeps tilting their head from side to side, up and down. Rotating it until joints protest. But even that is not enough. Tilting their chin up again, the back of a talon prods at cheekbones, scrapes along the line of their lip. Pokes their nostrils, and tugs at them as if they weren't tender flesh.

It's as slow as moving through deep mud, but after some effort, they groggily get their throat to growl a grumpy complaint.

"How frightening." A distorted voice says, mockingly. "Are you a hero, or a beast to be slain by one? Those of Eorzea may call you the former, but they will turn and devour you the moment you threaten their comfortable cruelties…" The voice trails off, and their head is pulled back again for perusal. "And yet, something of the shape of your face... Why are you…"

Another pause, longer this time. Absent of change, the Warrior starts to sink back down into murky unconsciousness, even in their uncomfortable posture.

There's a new touch, upon their forehead. Were they more cognizant, they would recognize it for a newly de-gloved and bared palm. Giving in to an odd whim, and investigating the feel of their skin, their hair.

Despite everything else… The touch is soft. Forceful, selfish in its careless grip, but soft.

Eventually, there's a distant sigh. "…What am I doing. None of their crystals resonate for you, and keeping you further brings me nowhere… So from whence does this reluctance to leave spring from…? And this hunger for contact…"

There's a disdainful sound, and abruptly they're released. Falling limply and hitting solid floor. Their head at least hits their armored shoulder cheek-first, before meeting the floor as well.

A pained rumble dies in their throat. The haze of sleep round them is thinning, thinning. The world outside growing closer. Splayed upon the floor, their fingers twitch. And then again, with eyes slowly, valiantly fluttering open. It's so hard. But they need to… They need to get up.

Breath rumbling in their chest, they draw their hand closer to them, palm down on the floor to clumsily lever themselves up.

"...No." says a voice, above them. "I find that I am not finished with you."

There's a swift gathering, shaping of aether, and then the world is spinning away again into soft blackness.

There’s a distant sound that they hear as a hum, and then a finger tracing down their forehead. Were they awake, they would recognize the touch as following the subtle markings upon their face, lines that curve along skin and disappear beneath hair, but awake they are not. Instead, their nose wrinkles up and their furred ears twitch. The light touch continues, though, until at last the tickling becomes too much, and a rasping sneeze-cough shakes through them. 

Aftershocks clench their chest, the awareness of pain starting to trickle through the dark, until there’s a hand alighting on their chest, above the pain. Cool flows forth from it, quenching the fire, quieting the disturbance.

Eventually, it fades beyond perception, and the flow of healing aether slows. Slowly, tentatively, the hand returns to their forehead, resting softly upon forehead and hair. When that does not draw protest, it tentatively moves back and down, thumb running pleasantly over rough and messy hair. 

Its movements start jerkily, as if unskilled with the motion, but after a couple passes and their slightest leaning into the touch, it becomes smoother, going with the grain of their hair and dragging the beginnings of a rusty purr out on their next exhale. 

They stay there, floating comfortable and hidden in the dark, a strange feeling of familiarity surrounding them, until at last they sink down, down, deeper into slumber. 

Elidibus's gaze hasn't moved from the mortal's face. It is odd that they do not resonate with the crystals of the Convocation that he holds guardianship over, because their very presence fills him with a calm previously unknown to him. Now that they are not conscious and fearing for their life, at least. That had been… Exciting, was a word for it. They had actually managed to strike him. Had they not been previously damaged, he suspects he would have come away with bruising to his aether.

The world quiets, when he is touching them. The perpetual whispers spilling out from Zodiark lessen, somehow, and his own thoughts grow more clear. Already, he has reconsidered his upcoming agenda for the next meeting, and has rebuffs planned out for the inevitable derailing by their current Nabriales, before their Pashtarot can brashly respond and escalate, and Fandaniel can goad them further.

It is…. Nice, Elidibus thinks. And then, barely a moment later, remembers himself. The importance in this mystery is that the effect is beneficial to him.

Were it not for the use of a Warrior of Light, relevant to the emergent plans of a rejoining of Light, he would consider removing them from the stage. To secure the use of this effect for his own.

Perhaps afterwards, if they survived. Another rejoining could very well break Hydaelyn's weak hold upon them, and allow him to swoop in. As he had done with others before. To have them clad in proper robes, at his side whenever he wished…

There is an odd feeling, in what would be the chest were he in a body. Elidibus promptly abandons the train of thought.

He continues stroking their hair, even as his thoughts turn back to the upcoming meeting.

Later, far later, awareness slowly begins to seep back through them. There’s still a presence at their side, a hand upon their head, and as they rise from the dark, insensate depths, the wispy rumble in their chest starts up in their chest again. 

They’re cozy and safe, upon something soft and with their head supported. Clearly, this means they’re in a den, with someone trusted. This, they feel, and when their head is pet again in that awkward way, sharp claws prickling and pinching at the base of their ears, they merely lean their head away and shake it to brush away the too-much feeling. It's still nice. They stretch out, back curving long and limbs pushing out straight. 

Lazily, their eyes crack open, as they nuzzle down against their cloth pillow, rub their cheek upon it. Relaxed and languid as they are, it takes a fair few moments to process the white cloth in their sight. The white cloth. And, specifically, the gold and purple patterns upon it. Those were pretty, where had they seen them before?

Sudden as the spring of a bear trap, their eyes flare wide, and they erupt from the nest. Horizontal as they are, they hit the ground barely a fulm away, rolling and scrabbling at the floor in their haste to get upright. There's a blanket- Why is there a blanket on them! They're tangled in it, hands and claws lashing and ripping at this secondary opponent, until with a loud tear, they’re finally free to rise into a crouch, at the ready before the Ascian. 

Without the blanket, the chill of the room is a shock, but that's a distant concern. They shift barefoot upon the freezing dark tile, and-

The Warrior blinks. Why are they in a robe.

Utterly befuddled, their tail lashes inside strange dark cloth. It's comfortable, at least, but…

With another lash of their tail, their attention snaps back to the Ascian upon the couch. He's still as the grave, doing naught but watching them. They stare back. Unlike in that vision, there's no eyes to make out beneath the mask, but they know in their bones this is a staredown. And like the seven hells they'll lose.

"Good morning." The Ascian says, pleasantly.

"Where the fuck are my clothes." They say back.

"Does the robe not fit you? I have not had occasion to place clothing upon another in a very long time."

"My clothes. Where are they."

The Ascian sighs in a way that says he's humoring them, and waves a hand towards something out of their field of vision.

They squint at him, and tread cautiously backwards, until they can turn to look at it without fully looking away from him. Indeed, their clothes and armor are there, neatly folded upon a side table. They only allow themselves a quick glance, but it looks like it's all cleaner than they left it? Less gunk and mysterious stains.

"Now that you are free of worry of their status," The Ascian says without the slightest hint of dampened mood, "I would hear what you saw in the vision. How interesting it is, that the echo would take a toll upon you."

The warrior, miffed that their favorite boots and proper pants had been so close all along, glares at him. Ensnared in the robe, their tail lashes further. They suspect that the dark, amorphous shape of the robe looks as if a miniature kraken is caught underneath.

They feel about as ill-tempered as one.

The Ascian continues, "If anyone has a right to hear, it is myself. Or is the Hero of Eorzea a voyeur that peers into people's own minds?"

"Private." They say, despite their caution. Their lips quirk. Ah, yes, the privacy of the memory. There had indeed been only two people in that hall. They're still not sure what to think about that.

Wanting more time to ruminate on the implications, they instead lead with- "You were in a vast land, as white as the sky was black. And the stars were so beautiful."

For a moment, he seems taken aback. "Oh?" He finally replies. Leaving a void for them to fill with words.

"…There was something there. Some giant…. Something."

They get the feeling that Elidibus is smiling. "Ah. And what did you feel when you looked upon Him?"

"It felt pretty bad, honestly." They say.

That doesn't seem to be an answer he's expecting. Nor one that he likes, from the heavy twist in the room's atmosphere.

They tense in response. If the Ascian has taken sufficient offense to finally attack them, they're ready to spring for his throat, swamped in robes or not. They do not think he means to kill them- And how funny that is to think of an Ascian- But if he lashes out, they will respond.

In the blink of an eye, the pressure abates. Not vanishes; they have the disturbing feeling it is simply folded into himself, away from the surface.

"I suppose such an impression cannot be helped." He says, clearly seeing himself as gracious. "If you were one of the souls torn away by Her before they could see Him for themself, then of course in your current state, He would seem intimidating."

They raise their eyebrows, but say nothing as he seems to convince himself with his words. Talking himself away from… Something. Well. They won't complain. And they don't, up until he seems to recall something.

What blurred shape passes for a head turns to look at them. "…That would indeed make this next part easier…"

They blink, the hairs on the back of their neck rising. "Uh."

"I suppose you will want your clothes, for this. It will only be for a few days."

They blink again. And then preemptively lunge at him.

Once again, their strike doesn't hit. Well- It hits the dark couch, because he just barely manages to sink back through it, in the half second of them moving a dozen fulms.

Fucking Ascians.

They snarl, yanking their claws out of the back of the couch, and duck around the side, coming at him from an angle-

Only to see that he has somehow expected their unusual move, and is weaving aether that they're about to crash into.

In the blink of an eye, the air feels different. Muggy. Hot. Blindingly bright upon their eyes. They crouch low, hands curled into claws, as they swivel around, looking for the Ascian. It's a couple heart-pounding moments before they admit that it was a portal, and the Ascian is… Twelve know where.

Another flicker of aether above them, and they twist and spring at it-

Cloth hits their face with a whump. Yowling indignantly, they scrabble at the them-scented cloth, as a brief and distant laugh sounds before the portal closes.

Chapter Text

The Warrior isn't in so much of a hurry to get back that they pass up the street food from wherever this place is. Thankfully, they take gil, although that wasn't a worry until they're handing over coin for a dark-dripping skewer of something that smells of bird. Tearing off sweet chunks with sharp teeth, they wander the street, heading vaguely towards the aetheryte they can sense.

At one point, they duck into a side alley to change. Most people here wear clothes of flowing cloth, but the style is different enough to make them stand out either way. Might as well be comfortable. Holding the robes in their hand, they stare at them. They're dark, like most Ascian robes, but lacking the jagged streaks of purple, the pauldrons of gold or silver. Instead, subtle black embroidery outlines empty patterns similar to the purple streaks. As if the garb had been left half finished, waiting for a new shipment of purple thread.

They narrow their eyes here. There's an implication here, floating distantly at the edge of their thoughts. Just out of reach.

They stare at it, and then shrug, and stuff it into their bag. They'll think on it.

….After they investigate that next delicious smell.

It's a little bit of a stretch to reach towards the aetheryte of Horizon, but perfectly doable. Satisfying, even. They don't know where this busy city is, with its seaside smells, new foods, and grand looming castle, but this feels like the teleporting equivalent of getting a nice walk in. Or a nice morning stretch. Humming in happiness, they touch down upon worn stone, and immediately squint at the dry air- And the sun, now almost setting. A far cry from the morning it had just been.

How strange.

They shrug, and fish a couple gil coins from a side pocket to hand over to the chocobokeep. She leads a tall bird out, they swing up unto its back, and without more ado, it's off upon a clearly much trodden path.

Evening has fallen by the time they finally pass through the entryway where Tataru stands watch- and, much to their surprise, the Lalafell is not only there despite the late hour, but she launches herself at them, vigorously patting down what parts of them she can reach while wiping tears from her eyes. They kneel down obligingly, and quickly find themself with an armful of worried Lalafell. 

The hug is nice, even though it doesn’t last long. Tataru pulls back to examine them, and after she’s satisfied the Warrior won’t be bleeding out from any wounds, leg height or otherwise, she escorts them inside personally. Upon entering the Solar, Minfilia rushes around the large desk, grasping them by the solid shoulders and staring into their eyes.

They blink. It's more contact than they're used to getting from any of the Scions, or…. Anyone, really. With how Tataru had also hugged them, it feels odd. But they're not complaining.

Behind them, the door opens. Their ears flick backwards, but Minfilia’s hands do not let them go, and she does not seem alarmed.

“They’re clean.” Thancred says behind then, sounding rather relieved. At that, Minfilia sighs, and lets go of them.

The Warrior, beach sand in their boots, a couple sauce stains upon their jerkin, and a heavy sack of foreign fruits hanging from their belt, stares in confusion. And then they notice the bulky apparatus Thancred’s holding before his eyes. Like spectacles.... Ah. The.... devices. For aether viewing. The ones that ever since Lahabrea, he's kept looking at people through, and then taking them off with a sigh of relief. 

Quizzically, they tilt their head, before their eyes widen with realization. 

“No.” They say. “I’m still me.” They haven't…. Haven't been taken over. Haven't had someone slip into their skin, and use their hands to harm those they care about. For whatever reason… It doesn't seem like Elidibus wants to use them to destroy the Scions. If anything, it felt like they hadn't registered to him as a threat. As if they'd just slipped in through his walls.

It's a worrying thought. Both as it is, as if they're so far beneath his notice that they aren't worth stamping out, and what could happen if he changes his mind about them. If he looks at them like every other Ascian has.

The thought makes their chest tighten. Casually, they stretch to chase out the feeling.

For whatever reason, they keep having to remind themself that he's a dangerous Ascian. That part of him feels alien to the part that feels like their dear friend, that they miss and want to go home to. To make food for him, to make sure he isn't overworking. They want to make of him their pillow, head resting on his side or arm as they doze after a long day.

They want his hand on their head again, they think with a frown.

Instead, they tell Minfilia and Thancred the story of their day. How they'd followed the Ascian north, and found themself overcome by the fumes. Their audience winces at that, and they see Minfilia scrawl a note down.

Hm. Worrying. She might try and keep them from the assortment of leves they have planned for tomorrow.

When they get to how the Ascian had healed them, and then stolen them away, Minfilia's eyes narrow. Whatever she has upon her tongue, though, she bites it back, gesturing for them to continue.

"….What caught his attention…. Was that I had an echo vision." They say. And clearly neither of them is expecting what they say next, which is- "He was… close, with a past life of mine."

"…." Says Minfilia.

"….Huh." Says Thancred, looking angry for them.

"Before he was an Ascian." They clarify, which only seems to bring up more confusion. A significant amount more confusion. "Not like what Lahabrea did."

By the time the discussion is finished, Urianger and Y'shtola have been summoned and are arguing over a historic record, Papalymo and Yda are coming back from Gridania, and Minfillia's head is in her hands.

"And you're sure you didn't eat something spoiled. Mayhaps a fruit left out in the sun…?" She says, not for the first time. Not for the second, for that matter, nor the third. "Or the possibility that he was, in fact, already an Ascian, and deceiving you." Thancred had come up with that one. And it would be unnerving, if they weren't so sure down to their bones that they're right.

"…He had his mask." They say, quietly. Not sure how to say their complex feelings other than this simple way. It's insufficient. "It was his."

There's a moment of confused silence, then, the room looking at them. Perhaps a mote of the weight of those long-dead emotions was communicated, they think.

They're bundled out of the room and towards a warm bath, Tataru at their knees. Once inside the small but comfortable Ul'dahn bathing room, they start stripping, with Tataru promising through the door to bring them tea. Softly, they smile. She didn't have to.

Tataru is even more powerful than they'd thought, because it can barely be a minute or two of melting into the rarity of a floral-smelling bath before she's coming in with a mug. They blink slowly at her, and sink everything up to their nose below the water level.

…She also steals their clothes to wash. Whoah. It's been a while since they did that.

It’s comfortable, and warm, making them truly melt into it. Distantly, they contemplate the scent. Azeyma’s Rose, maybe. And maybe a bit of Thaliak Lavender. The same stuff Minfilia's hair usually smells of... 

So, of course, it's when they're perfectly cozy, eyes drifting shut, that there’s a distant scream.

Their ears, still mostly dry, perk straight up, and for a moment they’re not sure where they are, dangers from their past dancing through their thoughts. And then, seeing the color of the stone walls, they flinch, memories of bloody horrors seen rushing back, overwhelming them. 

No, they tell themselves. Not this time. This time they’re here. 

Leaping from the bath, they grab their sword and careen out the door, wetly slipping and thudding into walls in their haste to get to the danger. 

At the door to the Solar, they see Thancred. His back is to them, as he frantically tries to force the doors open.  

Coming down the hallway, they yell, and Thancred turns, eyes widening as he flattens himself to the wall, giving them plenty of space to lunge forward and bring their sword down in an aetheric strike. 

Weaker than the Ultima Weapon had been, the door crumples like rusty iron. They see a flash of the key, sitting uselessly in the lock.

Inside, both Minfilia and Elidibus turn to look at them, whatever conversation there had been falling flat and dying. 

Well. More accurately, Minfilia yelps and jumps back, sensibly putting the desk between her and the loud violence. Elidibus doesn't so much as twitch.

“I was enjoying that bath.” They growl, still dripping upon the stone floor.. 

“That much is obvious. Did I not give you a robe?” Elidibus says, odd and ghostlike voice distinctly amused, and not in the least frightened.  And then, “I must admit, I did not expect you to have managed to return so swiftly… What shall your response be?” He orients himself towards them, his priorities clear, despite Minfilia reaching under her desk and Thancred crouching behind them with bared knives. 

Raising an eyebrow, they raise their sword at him. Despite how irritating the situation is, their mouth is twitching upwards.

There's a moment in which they stare at each other, and they can feel him leaning towards them. Clawed fingers curling, ready to weave strands of aether into a spell.But then, woefully, he pulls back into his composed self. “…Hah. I see. Another time, then.” And with that, darkness swirls around him, and the Ascian is gone. 

A moment passes. A breath, making sure he’s truly gone, and and they sheath their sword. 

Or, they go to. And then realize that, they lack a sheath. Along with other, more notable bits of clothing. 

Well, they think. Their dignity comes second to lives. They sigh, cross their arms, and look over at Minfilia. 

Minfilia, for who fear is turning into vexation. There’s a sheaf of papers on the desk before her, and she snatches them up, glaring down at them. “He... shared intel with me. About the Castri, and their supply shipments... What does he want... If he thinks the Warrior of Light's soft spot extends to the rest of us, he had best think well and hard over where he has gone wrong."

Thancred darts over, peers over her shoulder as she flips through them. His brow furrows, but he says nothing. 

That is, of course, when a combination of Hoary Boulder, Coulternet, and Tataru burst in. Hoary Boulder in specific sees them, and proceeds to walk face first into a wall, open mouth meeting hard stone. 

They sigh, and as nonchalantly and confidently as they can, walk back to the bathing room. Leaving the cluster of busy Scions to their commotion.

"But that's what I don't get." Thancred says, once they're alone again in the Solar. His brow seems at risk of staying in that furrow. "With this…. Look at this. Shipment times, supply routes, passcodes, personnel records… We could run the remaining Garleans right out of those castrums. Out of Eorzea, even."

"If it's not a trap." Minfilia says, fingers still gripping her dagger.

"Of course it's a trap of some kind. It's an Twelve-damned Ascian."

"I am not unaware, Thancred."

A pause.

"Maybe it's true, just more intelligence gathering. To take our measure, before finishing the gruesome slaughter that his fellow Ascian started."

"And what, steal off with our Warrior of Light? Carry them out the door over his shoulder like a sack of valuables?"

A pause.

Thancred throws his hands up. "Who are we kidding, they'd let him. You saw that. And the worst part is that it's clearly mutual. Ugh. Can't it just be like with," There's the smallest flinch upon saying the name. "…Lahabrea."

"It would certainly be simpler."

Another pause, silence falling as they make notes from the supply schedules.

"There's no intel on Meridianum or Centri in here." Thancred muses. "And more detail the further south the Castrum is. Bunch of passcodes for the Limsan ones especially."

"Do you make anything of that?"

"Maybe he wants to sip a drink at Costa Del Sol without worrying about the neighbors." Thancred snorts at the image, and then loses the levity. "Whatever his game is, it's unclear yet."

There's two dark figures that the Warrior sees out of the corner of their eye, after defeating Ifrit anew. They're gone as soon as they turn their head to look. Someone else might have assumed their eyes were playing tricks on them, fire-shadows burned into their eyes.

For some weird reason, the Warrior's ears twitch, and they think of how it had felt to be pet.

As the Warrior takes the stairs up from the Waking Sands, they crunch upon one of the orange fruit they'd brought back from that other city. They're nice, juicy, with a mild taste.

They pass Tataru, working away upon yet another assortment of papers, and pause. Their fur still smells nice. And their jerkin, too. Somehow. So they reach into their sidebag, and start taking orange fruit out.

Once the pyramid has reached its third layer, Tataru looks up. And blinks. "I… Didn't see you there. What… Are you doing, exactly?"

"Thanks." The Warrior says, starting on the fourth layer.

"Oh." Tataru sits there. Staring curiously.

The pyramid reaches a respectable six layers before they put a crowning piece atop it. So, seven, really.

Tataru gathers herself up before standing upon the chair, and slowly reaching out towards the top. She takes it, first in one hand and then in both, and bites into it, before making a delighted face.

With a tiny grin, the Warrior takes one more fruit from the bag, and replaces the top piece. They nod at her, and head out for the day's quest list.

"Will you do me a favor?" They ask the presence behind them, their back turned to him, watching their prey below. There's a waiting silence, and they continue. "When I die. Will you find my next life? Is that something you can do?"

"A curious request." Elidibus finally says. "Is there more to this request? What would you have me do with them?"

"That's the good part." They're smiling just a little bit. "Just talk with them. Maybe pet them. You like doing that. It wouldn't be this fur, but, well."

"Are you dying, Hero of Eorzea." His voice is even more flat than usual. "Is your body failing you?"

Their ears twitch. There's looming intensity behind his empty tone. "No. T'was just thinking ahead." They say, turning back to him, suddenly aware of the possibility of waking up in some room akin to an alchemist's laboratorum.

"…A worthwhile endeavor. Take care not to become lost in the attempt."

He's mocking them, presumably because he's unsettled. So they stick their tongue out at him. Only for a moment, before they look off into the distance. Time feels especially heavy, today. And the idea of knowing someone they wouldn't have to mourn is… Strange. "It would be nice. To know a friend in the next life."

A moment, and then. "Oh? So we are friends, now?" Elidibus says, waspishly. "This is a fine way to announce as such. You presume much, Warrior of Light."

"I've been told I'm bold." They say blandly. Not always in matters of speaking to other people, but if he doesn't already know that, they don't need to say it. "But everyone dies. Everyone… Except Ascians." Even if that's what Minfilia and Urianger are quietly working towards. "I'd be someone else, and you'd still be you, and clearly you get along with my soul. See, it's good for both of us."

"It would be far simpler to avoid dying in the first place." Elidibus says.

As if it were ever not an option for them. As if there wouldn't constantly be more struggles that call their name, where they can make a difference, make things better. Even when the coin needed is their life. They know that cost all too well, and paying it is something they've grown dreadfully practiced at.

It's the other way around, for the Ascians. They don't die. And they make things worse.

Not dying isn't in the cards for them.

So instead, they turn back to their prey, draw their blade, and leap.

(Friends, Elidibus thinks again, watching the Warrior bludgeon their way through dozens of enemies. How insulting, for a sundered to call him a friend. Not someone whose skin he was wearing- Him, the Emissary himself.)

(Disgusting.)

(He banishes any pleased thoughts far, far from his mind. Unbecoming.)

(…The distress at the thought of them perishing is from losing a resource. That is all. That Is All.)

The Warrior isn't quite dripping blood, as that would be rude to get on someone's doorstep. They're definitely splattered in it, though. As per usual, it's only somewhat theirs. Blood sprays take on an entirely new dimension when it's a dozens of fulms tall dragon raised for colosseum fights.

Huh, they think. The pyramid of orange fruit is gone. Had Tataru been that hungry? Did she have enough food? How much did a Lalafell eat again?

The Lalafell in question looks up at them, and her Dunesfolk eyes go wide.

They blink back.

"You just had a bath!" She plaintively says. Her eyes then narrow at them, as they're looking sheepishly away. "And you're not getting in one of our beds like that. No!"

They back away, ears going flat.

Tataru looks at them, and then deflates. "No, nevermind that, that's what they're there for. It's… Been a long day." She stares, hauntedly, off into the distance, and shudders. "But on the bright side, I've had several ideas for those fruit! Can I put them in pastries, do you suppose? Or make jam out of them? Maybe crushed in water for a refreshing drink…"

Quietly, the Warrior determines that they have to bring her more finds from their travels.

It swiftly grows hectic, with the Doman children around. Such is, of course, the nature of children. But it also means that the Warrior is keeping their tail very, very close to their body.

They had not, previously, while sitting relaxed upon the warm ground, and had paid the price. It's nothing like a large enemy- All it had been was startling. They had still yowled and spun towards the much smaller spoken, who had then burst into tears.

It takes Tataru, and one of the still existing orange fruit, to call them down. She whips out one from her pocket, and waves it in front of the child, who is apparently easily bribable. Or hungry. A hungry kid will forgive a lot for food, as the Warrior recalls. Although admittedly a hungry adult will as well. Hunger is a constantly gnawing manner of foe. Apparently appeased, though, the child runs off with the fruit.

It's later that Yugiri slinks into the entrance to the Waking Sands. They're sitting with Tataru, sharing what they know of Mor Dhonan foraging, when their ears twitch backwards, and then there's a polite cough.

Tataru still jumps.

"Thank you." Yugiri says. "For sharing the persimmon. Harvest season is a much beloved time back home, and the association will lift the child's spirits."

The Warrior, understanding most of that sentence, nods agreeably, and files away the fruit name.

"Persimmons!" Tataru, on the other hand, says brightly. "So that's what they're called!"

"…Yes?" Yugiri says. "I… You grow them here, what is your name for them?"

"We don't?" Tataru replies. "I'd never seen them before."

The Warrior sips their tea, and says nothing in the ensuing silence.

"….I see." Yugiri says, at last.

Before she can turn to leave, the Warrior reaches into their pocket, takes out their last persimmon, and offers it out to her. After a moment, she takes it.

"….Thank you."

"Mm."

The hooded woman leaves, and after another moment, just to be safe, Tataru turns back to the Warrior.

"So. Doma."

"Mmm."

"That's two months ship travel. You're really okay, right? Not about to keel over?"

"Mmhmm." They can't help but smile a little at the concern in her voice. It's nice to be thought of.

"Good!"

They both sip at their tea.

"…How much was the sack?"

"…Couple hundred gil."

"That's not horrible."

"Mm."

"How much would you like another full bath?"

Their ears perk up.

Sprawled out as they are in the shallow water, their ears still twitch when a presence draws near. There are no footsteps, no whispers as the lakeside breeze rustles through clothing. What approaches is formless. Shadowless. And more welcome than is likely wise.

It draws near. Settles itself down beside the rim and folded towel that their head rests upon.

They crack open one eye. Tilt their head up at the pale-robed apparition, standing there like the ghost he is.

Moments pass.

"You're setting the Sahagin up to summon Leviathan." The Warrior finally says. It's calm, factual, if disappointed.

Elidibus is staring down at them like a curious, sharp-beaked bird. "Yes."

"It's going to kill people. A lot of people."

"One would think you had grown used to mortals, and their penchant for dying even without our movements. It is a unique talent, to be so capable of it."

Ah. Swiving Ascians and their lack of death. Was that why they paid such little regard to what it meant to other people? To those left behind? Their other eye slides open, stares at him. "They still have lives. They still grieve when those they care about die. They're still as much people as either of us are."

For the briefest moment, there's a swell of vitriolic rancor from him. The anger of a grief-tinged wound that had never healed, instead covered up and left to rot. It's only there for a moment, and then any hint of it is pulled back. Folded back inside himself, undoubtedly rubbing raw and painful in his background.

"Grieve…." Elidibus says, distantly. "Yes. They do. I know full well they do. I am not deaf, Eorzea's Hero." He stares down at them, still floating casually in the hot spring. "They grieve, they survive and die anyways, they slaughter each other, and grieve more. The cycle repeats without end." There's a bitter bite to his words, as vicious as a Coerthan winter.

So the Warrior sighs out a breath, and basks in the warmth. There's a knot in their shoulder that feels like it's finally coming undone. The blasted thing has been bugging them for weeks.

…They also want someone to curl up against in the water. Wrap their arms around, feel a body against their stomach, and doze off against. But, well, they can't have everything, and. Well. Elidibus probably wouldn't humor them that far.

Their eyes lazily crack open. Huh. He's staring down at them, from the tilt of his mask. Wonder why.

…His ankle's right next to them. It looks very grabbable.

The Warrior sighs, and their eyes close again. Really, a nap sounds so nice right now, rather than arguing basic ethics with an Ascian that won't even cuddle them. "Then if we don't stop Leviathan, I'll be the one throwing myself at it. Should be interesting, at least. Primals are always exciting." As always, weariness wars with curiosity.

"Exciting, you say." Elidibus says, amusement and some meaning they don't get lurking in his tone. "Well. I trust a hero such as yourself will make a good showing of it." There's shadows lurking beneath his hood.

Giving in, the Warrior grabs his ankle and yanks.

Awful. He comes down in the water, but doesn't even have the decency to let the water get his aetheric shape wet. Just floats there midair and stares at them indignantly as they flop back into the warm water.

After a minute or so of their lack of further response, he perches on the ledge- just out of reach this time- and gets out a dark crystal, projecting sigils from it and poking at them with the same air that Tataru has while poring over stacks of taxes.

They hum quietly, and let their eyes close again. It's warm, they're loosening up, and now they have company. Perfect circumstances to drift off in.

At some point, they think someone is petting their hair, but when they blink awake to an evening sky, they're alone.

Rushing through the Sahagin caves with Y'shtola, the Warrior sees flashes of white robes in the corner of their eyes, yet never there when they turn around.

Is this what passes for Ascian entertainment? A mortal knocking down what they've built up, instead of the other way around? Or maybe it's just watching them stumble around, for Elidibus. It's probably that option, they think while vigorously disarming a Sahagin of their cane. Well, it was a cane. Without a person attached it's just a stick hitting the far wall. These things happen.

It's messy, the way Leviathan devours the Sahagin Elder. What finally makes the Warrior flinch, however, is what he calls out for. Who, even, he calls out for.

There's that flicker of white, in the corner of their eye. For a moment, they feel an odd lack of him at their side, and they want to turn to him with a welcoming grin, to wave him towards them.

But they don't.

He doesn't come to them, just as he doesn't come to the aid of Sahagin Elder, who curses him with his last breaths.

Not even a day later, they’re on a boat. Two boats, really. Two of them, keeping the massive platform between them steady, despite the best efforts of the cresting waves and howling winds. The shield generator at least has kept the waves from sweeping them overboard, but even it is stuttering beneath the onslaught of strikes from the God’s jaws and tail. 

For a moment, a mere flash lit by the storm above, they see it. A clear shot forward at the massive and writhing head, as it arcs back, roaring in pain from a newly stabbed tail. 

In that moment, naught exists but the opening. They burst into motion, blurring towards the edge of the breaking apart boat, springing off the railing and leaping high, high. Aether swirling around their hands and taking form as a massive blade, as they shoot straight through mortal limits. 

With a mighty, reverberating crash, the blade comes down on the mass of aether that is a god of water. Meets resistance, yet the sheer force of it that collides will not be denied.

Between the two, it is Leviathan that crumples, the luminous blade cleaving through its projected presence, its very aether. With a wobble as liquid as the raging waves surrounding them, its shape distorts around the blade rending it, and- bursts. 

The Warrior’s momentum sends them careening through the wet mass of aether that used to be Leviathan, the massive sword dissolving in their hands as water sprays their face. And then- the ocean’s surface, abruptly crashing into them.

The icy waters hit them head on as they slam through the surface and plunge beneath, eyes reflexively closing and their body curling in and going still with shock. The cold of it is brutal, stealing warmth and strength alike from their limbs- and the air from their lungs. It escapes their throat as their mouth opens, bubbles of lifesbreath joining the turmoil of their entrance, floating upwards through dark.

In the lack of movement, their armor, so protective against the blade-sharp scales launched by Leviathan, pulls them downwards, downwards.

Distantly, far above, a wave crashes down upon the heavily damaged platform, finally cracking it in twain. Were there sailors, they could perhaps save it- but there are naught. For none could have survived the pull of a primal long enough to do their job. None could be there to catch the exhausted Warrior, mortal limits claiming them once more and cold water burning like flames in their lungs, to save them from sinking down into dark water’s depths.  

In such darkness, a twisting and blooming of shadows goes unseen.