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It was easy to get lost in Noumenon. Not just the library but the many pages therein, the vast ocean of knowledge that painted itself in one's mind as eager eyes flew across carefully-pressed letters far too quickly, as if the words might disappear if lingered upon. Itrice was given to spend days without sleep pouring over everything from religion to philosophy to the ancient magicks of sagecraft and archanima.
It usually went something like this: a passage piqued her interest, so she studied the footnotes, which led her to another book, which she'd hunt down and pull off the shelf and start to read, only to be distracted by another fascinating concept—and so on and so forth, until it suddenly occurred to her hours later that she had veered so far off course that she was now headed in an entirely different direction. And she would ponder on that and wonder whether she ought to resume her original topic or continue down the rabbit hole.
Itrice always, always chased the rabbits.
So it was that one bright morning in Sharlayan she found herself sequestered inside the dim library, having spent all night on an aetherial metaphysics binge, and quite unaware that someone was trying to catch her attention. The lanky elezen man soon gave up on subtlety and placed his hand atop the very page she was reading.
Itrice blinked, focusing on the well-kept nail beds and slender fingers (in contrast to her own, carelessly-bitten and petite), studying the hand intently for a moment trying to figure it who it belonged to before it occurred to her that she need merely look up and meet their eyes. "Antichole," she greeted him. "Good evening."
A smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "It's morning, Miss Inglair."
"Hmm? Oh." She scrunched her nose, examining herself for signs of fatigue. She only noticed them now that she was no longer focused on her task; her shoulders were slumped, eyes itching faintly. Her stomach rumbled, protesting its neglect, and Itrice glared down at the traitorous thing. "So it is."
Antichole shook his head, sliding into the bench next to her. "You must take better care of yourself, Itrice."
"I brought food this time," she said in her defense.
She rummaged around in her bag a moment, coming up with an archon loaf. She unwrapped it and tore a piece off, offering it to him. He declined, and so she shrugged and ate it herself. She uncapped her water flask and took a sip, if only to appease him. He seemed to care a great deal about these things, which Itrice couldn't quite fathom, but there it was. He had a habit of checking on her whenever she had been gone too long.
"What's captured your attention so thoroughly this time?"
"Difaltis," she said, tipping up the cover of the book to show him.
"Ah," he said in understanding. "Thaliak knows how you've managed to get through the ramblings of Difaltis without a wink of sleep."
She gave him a cheeky smile. "Tis a power only Archons possess. Your frail mind could not possibly comprehend half of what mine does after forty-eight straight hours of research."
"Good grace. Will you ever not lord your status over me?"
"No," she answered, "I shall never not." She took another bite, chewing and swallowing quickly. "What brings you here? Are you not being kept busy enough with your students? Shall I recommend to Montichaigne that he heap more classes upon you?"
Antichole fingered his temples briefly. "Would you like me to say again that I regret it? That I should've done what you did so I could while the hours away with research instead of going through the painstaking process of shaping the minds of the younger generation?"
She shrugged. "You might as well. I do so enjoy being right about everything."
He reached out to tap her on the nose, but she saw it coming and caught his hand. He seemed surprised but not bothered as he slowly threaded their fingers together. Itrice ducked her head and tried to pull away, but he held on tight.
"Come to The Last Stand with me," he said, not quite a request. "Have a proper meal. My treat."
"How many times do I have say 'no' before you stop asking?" She sent a spark of magic through his hand, and he hissed and let go. "I've told you I'm not interested in any of that."
"Not interested in what? Sustenance?"
She leveled him with an unimpressed look. "Courting. I am wed to my research, and you shan't pry me away." She brushed the crumbs from her hands and pointedly resumed reading.
"Itrice," he said softly. She did not look up. His voice took on a sing-song tone. "Itrice. Come, now. You're not even a little intrigued by the prospect?"
"We've been over this," she said flatly. "There is a modicum of intrigue, yes, but even should I agree, I can guarantee you will fail to hold my interest long-term. Thus, there is no point."
He let out a long sigh. "If you don't try, you'll never know."
"You may rest assured that the theory I am operating upon is sound."
He trailed a finger up her arm, causing her to shiver. "We can still have a nice time. Don't you ever think of that night?"
Itrice bit back her response. It did come to mind occasionally. He had been a gentle lover, sweet and thorough. It wasn't as though as she hadn't enjoyed herself; she just wasn't interested in anything that might take time away from her studies. Antichole wanted far more than a single night from her, and if she agreed, she would feel some obligation to follow through. Itrice didn't do obligations. She liked her freedom, and she wouldn't be caged.
"Whether I think of it or not is irrelevant."
"That sounds like a 'yes' to me." He lifted her hand, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Indulge me only once more, and I shall leave you be."
She looked up, leveling him with a narrow-eyed stare. "That is a lie, Antichole Thelian."
He smirked in reply, releasing his hold on her. "There's no fooling an Archon, it seems."
"If it's an Archon you're after, why don't you go try Y'shtola?" she suggested.
He laughed and said, "I quite like my vital organs where they are, thank you."
"So all I have to do to get you to leave me alone is rearrange your vital organs?" She held a hand out to cast, palm up. "Child's play."
"There's no use making threats when we both know you won't follow through," he said, sounding smug.
Itrice kept her hand raised and stared him down for exactly four seconds before she broke with a sigh. "You know me too well," she muttered. "I ought to murder you on principle."
"Well, you haven't murdered Thancred yet," Antichole reasoned, "and he's far worse than I."
"I'm fairly certain Thancred would bed a pig if it were scantily clad. You, meanwhile, are for some reason fixated upon me and me alone."
He propped his chin up with hand and gave her a lazy smile. "Is it really a mystery as to why? Shall I extol your many virtues in the form of a ballad?"
"If you're that keen on being slapped," she said sweetly, "go right ahead."
Having entertained his foolishness quite enough, Itrice returned to her text and studiously ignored any further attempts to win her affections. Seeing that he wouldn't made any headway, Antichole eventually left her be.
It had to have been sometime around midday that Itrice reached a stopping point, and she stretched her arms high above her head, letting out a little grunt. Perhaps it was time to retire. She'd been furnished with a small apartment upon being elevated to Archon, which was free for her to use as long as she was in Sharlayan. Not that she didn't receive a generous stipend from the Studium for her work in aetherological medicine, but Itrice had never held much interest in owning things. This was in great contrast to her parents, both of whom had seats on the forum and liked to throw around their status.
Itrice could've done more with her life, as they never failed to remind her at the monthly dinner parties held at the Inglair estate. They'd been briefly appeased when she was named an Archon, but that was years ago now, and they had recently begun to realize that she had no intentions of putting her theoretical work into practice. She had assistants for that.
It wasn't that Itrice was uninterested in practicing the way of the sage as the Inglairs had done since the field's inception. She practiced extensively in her laboratory, finding new ways to utilize her nouliths to perform more and more complicated spellwork. She just had no interest in going into the field like her counterparts. She had never left Sharlayan and felt no need to. Why should she venture outside her little bubble? She had everything she needed at her disposal, her name was respected, and no one bothered except for Antichole and her parents (and her sister, Cwendele, whenever she was in town—but she was usually too busy with one of her adventures to bother much with Itrice these days). Her little brother didn't give two whits about her, not when he'd had to endure being compared her every day at the Studium by his instructors. They may live in the same city, but they'd hardly spoken in years.
Itrice was a recluse at heart. She wasn't interested in company, and she wasn't interested in power. She was at her happiest while pondering some complex dilemma that only she could solve. If you had asked her in those days if she was content, Itrice would have said, "Yes, I am perfectly content. I do not feel as though a piece of my soul is missing, and I have not spent my entire life looking for it in books. I unequivocally do not wish I was free of the sensation that I am incomplete, and I am not at all tempted to leave my homeland behind forever and immerse myself in something entirely new in a fit of pique, because I do not think it is a terrible waste to spend my entire life in pursuit of an unattainable goal for the simple pleasure of trying reach it, knowing that I will fail. I have less than zero interest in discovering the missing pieces of myself, because in fact, I am whole and hale as I am, and there is no need to fret."
In short, Itrice would have lied. Indeed, she had become so adept at lying, she had nearly convinced herself. And then she received an invitation to tea at the Leveilleur estate.
Louisoix was a figure of some mystery and much controversy. Itrice had never interacted with him much, though he had tried to recruit her into… something, years ago. He wouldn't say exactly what it was. He asked her not to mention it to anyone, and so she had kept his secret. Louisoix disagreed with the Forum often, and loudly. Her parents had warned her away from him, and in this, she had heeded their advice. He was a radical man. A dangerous man.
He had invited her for tea. Itrice knew this could mean nothing good. She had a mind to refuse, to make some excuse about being very terribly busy, which she was, although it was nothing urgent. Her quill hovered above the page, but something stopped her. It was a vision: a crystal, a woman's voice, a man in a mask. She hadn't the faintest idea what it meant or what to do with it. So of course, she immediately hied to Noumenon to explore whatever literature might be able to explain this strange phenomenon, completely forgetting about the offer for tea until the next day when the clock struck twelve, and then she remembered.
She was supposed to be there at one. And- well, it would be bad manners to refuse now, wouldn't it? She hadn't accepted either, of course, but she couldn't very well have him think she was just ignoring him. Itrice made haste to her apartment, had a shower, dressed, and pulled back her messy white hair. She barely made it to the estate on time, where she was shown to an empty parlour and sat at a tea table littered with fine china and crumpets.
The old man swept in right on time, looking far more presentable than Itrice ever would. She stood from her seat, giving him a slight bow. "Master Levilleur."
"Miss Inglair. I had not thought you would join me today."
Itrice winced. "Yes, well, I- I'm terribly sorry I didn't reply. I meant to, only something rather strange happened to me, and I-" She covered her mouth with her hand. "Anyway," she said, muffled. "Here I am."
Louisoix swept across the room, seating himself across from her. "Here you are."
They made small talk over tea and pastries. Louisoix inquired after her studies, which got her rambling for quite awhile. Somehow she thought if she just kept talking long enough, he wouldn't have room to say what he had asked her here for, and she could leave without ever finding out.
"Fascinating," he commented. She opened her mouth to go on, but Louisoix held up a hand, and she closed it. "If you will permit me to ask you a question." Itrice swallowed hard, nodding. "Why do you study medicine?"
Itrice blinked. "Oh. It is a tradition of House Inglair."
"Yes, I am aware. Is there anything else that drew you to it?"
She squirmed in her seat a little. No one had ever asked her why. Her studies were a foregone conclusion. She had immersed herself in them so thoroughly over the last ten years, she ought to be well past such questions. So why was she struggling to answer?
"I suppose…" She tilted her head. "It is appealing to think one is bettering mankind through their work. Though my research is mostly theoretical, my thesis on the use of eukrasia to advance the healing potential of the nouliths was fundamental in advancing sagecraft. It is why I made an Archon."
"Yes, one of the youngest in recent memory to achieve the title. I remember well." He took a genteel sip from his teacup. "So the driving force behind your work is the betterment of mankind?"
"Of course, sir," she said, her brow furrowing. "It's medicine. Any pursuit of knowledge in the subject will have that effect."
He gave her a wan smile. Somehow she wasn't answering the question to his satisfaction. "I will ask you another way: what keeps you in your laboratory those long hours? In Noumenon for days at a time, subsisting only on archon loaves as your pour over a mountain of texts despite your fatigue?"
Itrice looked down at her hands in her lap. "I am dedicated to my research."
"Yes. But why?"
Very much uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking, Itrice bit the inside of her cheek. "Something-" she started quietly, then stopped. "Something's missing."
"Missing?" he repeated.
She nodded and said, "There's a hole in my head. A great, big hole that sucks things in and swallows them. No matter what it absorbs, it persists. It is hungry and relentless. I… haven't found a way to fill it yet, but I'm looking. I'm always looking."
He gave her a smile that could only be called wicked. "Ah. As I thought." She flushed as he observed her carefully, and she refused to meet his eyes. "Some years ago, you declined my offer to join a group of talented minds interested in changing the world for the better. I wondered why, for a long time. I spoke with a few people who are better acquainted with you."
She was surprised enough to meet his eyes. "Did you?"
"I did. In particular, your friend Antichole had much to say about you."
Itrice huffed. "I'm sure he did."
"He told me of your habit of sequestering yourself from the world, which of course, I knew already. But he also told me of how you rebuffed his affections. How you are friendly with very few. He seemed to think you must be very lonely."
Unable to help herself, Itrice snorted. She immediately covered her mouth, horrified by her lack of manners. "Forgive me, Master Leveilleur. For as much as Antichole claims to be an expert on the subject matter, in truth he knows very little about me. He has never… understood."
"Understood what, pray tell?" Louisoix inquired.
Itrice pressed her lips together. She had dug herself into a hole, it seemed. There was nothing to do now but answer, as naked as it made her feel. "That I do not require company. I often find it to be a hindrance. I only want… to know myself. That is all I have ever wanted."
"Mmm. And has it not occurred to you that others could assist you in this endeavor?"
"It has occurred to me," she clarified. "I simply find it is not the worth the hassle."
She was surprised to hear him chuckle. "Miss Inglair," he said softly, "it seems in all your research, you have failed to uncover a vital truth of this world."
"Oh? Enlighten me."
"Everyone needs help," he said simply. "In some way or another. I often find that helping others helps me. My endeavors to aid to those plagued by the Garlean Empire are, in fact, quite selfish." He folded his hands on the table. "I find I know myself better for having shared my soul with others. Perhaps if you tried, you may find the same."
They were getting to the heart of it. The reason he had called her here. "You want my help with something."
"Yes, I would like you to help me. And in return, I shall help you."
She lifted her chin at him. "How?"
Louisoix smiled. "Listen carefully."
***
Itrice left the estate not quite sure how she had been convinced. She was still reeling from it. It had made sense, though, his position that she would help herself by helping others. Not that she hadn't done enough of that, from a distance. Her research had doubtlessly saved many lives. But she had never gotten to see it before. That was vital, Louisoix insisted. She had to witness the effect she had on the world.
She was on a ship to Eorzea by week's end. That journey would change her life. It would show her who she truly was, what she could have become years ago if only she'd been less stubborn, less determined to accomplish everything on her own. She would throw herself into healing, righting wrongs, fighting primals. She would stand alongside the Eorzean alliance at the battle of Carteneau, and though she would lose Louisoix, they would win the day.
And then she would wake up in a field hospital with no memory of any of it.
***
Her recovery was long and arduous. She knew she was an Archon—the aetherial tattoo on her neck was evidence enough of that. That meant answers would likely be found in Sharlayan, but she could not go to Sharlayan. She had to be here. There was a task to complete, but for the life of her, she could not recall what it was.
It was plain that she had some talent in healing. Her academic knowledge was not barred to her the way her personal memories were. She was found with a set a strange implements that no one had a name for. Obviously a Sharlayan design. It took her months of research to find out they were called nouliths, which led her to the realization that she was a sage. A practiced battle-healer, though that much had been evident.
To her great dismay, Clarity (for that was what she called herself, in the hopes that she would one day reach it and regain her memories) found herself short of funds to supply her research endeavours. She needed a job. Despite the fact that she knew very little of her own skills and limitations, she decided to become an adventurer. She could faintly recall fierce battles, though she couldn't say what or who she had been fighting. Suffice to say, she had the necessary experience, even if she couldn't bring to mind the finer points.
Her adventures, at length, brought her to the Arcanist's Guild in Limsa Lominsa, where she met a curious miqo'te who seemed to be suffering from a similar ailment as she. L'morne remembered her more distant past far better than Clarity did, and she proved to be a capable research partner. They spent more time trading theories than making progress, but Clarity refused to give up. She had to find what she was supposed to do in Eorzea. She was sure that it was something vital, but it remained out of reach.
One such research session found them huddled together in the guild's own library, Clarity's nose deep in a tome she'd had specially shipped in while L'morne pretended she was not just as eager to read it. Something felt right about this, research, the way she could lose herself in it. Threads of understanding dangled before her, remnants of a past life that she could no longer recall.
L'morne let her book fall with a thunk. "Clarity," she said with utmost seriousness, "I shall perish."
"You have no patience," Clarity informed her. She glanced at the miqo'te, who met her eyes with a most pleading expression. "No mention of visions yet. The author seems to think the Nymian marines deployed a technique to pinpoint weaknesses in the body. They used this to exploit enemies, but I do wonder if it could instead be employed in healing. Much of the knowledge has been lost, it seems."
"We must be on the right track," L'morne insisted. "I'm all but certain the Nymians employed unique healing techniques that remain mysterious. It could be what we're looking for."
"It could be, yes. They possessed something we do not, however."
L'morne's ears perked up. "What's that?"
"If you would let me continue reading, perhaps I'd be able to tell you."
The miqo'te pouted and said, "What am I to do, then? Sit here being useless?"
"You are not useless. I enjoy your company."
"Oh, is that all I'm good for?" she teased. "Company? Ah, I see, I'm only here to stand around and tell you how clever you are."
Clarity smirked. "You are quite suited for the role."
"You're very clever," L'morne said flatly. "Will you at least let me peek at the appendix? Perhaps it'll reference something that could be of use so I'm not whiling away the hours chasing leads that go nowhere."
"We will find the answers, L'morne." Clarity reached out, covering L'morne's hand with hers. The miqo'te seemed surprised by the contact. She flushed faintly, then adjusted her hand so that it was gripping Clarity's, squeezing lightly.
There was something about L'morne that was undeniably arresting. Her hair was black as night, her eyes a deep blue. Her facial features were delicate, and yet, she exuded a quiet strength. At times Clarity had thought that if she had a mind for romance, she might've done something foolish to appease the faint flutterings of her heart. She did not, however. It was a passing fancy, nothing more. She valued L'morne for her mind. She was a dependable companion, and Clarity enjoyed having someone to bounce ideas off of.
Things continued in this vein for some years. Each time it seemed they were close to an answer, it was dangled just out of reach. L'morne's condition improved with time, but Clarity found that she remained much the same. The urge that there was something she must do never quieted, but try as she might, she could recall nothing and no one from her former life.
An easy fondness developed between the two. They were rarely seen apart, and when they were, each talked only of the other. It became so common for them to be mistaken for lovers that Clarity wondered if they ought to sit down and acknowledge what was between them. However, it seemed L'morne was content with the state of things, and so too was Clarity, and so they never did have that conversation.
Eventually, L'morne was called back to the Twelveswood. She seemed hesitant to leave, and Clarity pressed a soft kiss to her cheek as she prepared for aetherial travel. L'morne's eyes fluttered, her cheeks pink and lips parted.
"Clarity," she whispered.
"Yes?"
Her hands twisted together. "I will- I'll be back soon."
"I'll be waiting," Clarity assured her.
A wide, slow smile spread across her lips. She nodded once and prepared to cast. Clarity watched her wink out of sight, feeling a slight ache in her chest. She cleared her throat, absently rubbing the place where her heart resided.
***
Clarity continued her work alone. Her adventuring funded her studies, and eventually she became a figure of import in La Noscea. And that was how she ran into Y'shtola.
"Itrice?" Clarity turned from the inscription she'd been reading to give the strange miqo'te a raised eyebrow. "Do I dare believe mine eyes?"
Clarity cocked her head. "Have we met?" she asked.
"Do you not recall?"
She took in the tattoo on the woman's neck. "You're an Archon? You knew me in Sharlayan?"
"Not well. Not in Sharlayan, at any rate." She stepped forward, reaching out to touch Clarity's face. She flinched back, and the miqo'te lowered her hands. "What has happened to you, my friend?"
They didn't have much time to speak before they were set upon by beasts. After that, though, Y'shtola—and the name really didn't ring any bells—insisted on accompanying her back to Limsa Lominsa. Clarity agreed with some trepidation. Full eager was she to meet someone from her past, but she had a foreboding feeling about Y'shtola. It was a sense that something terrible had happened, the memory just out of reach.
They retired to Clarity's room at the Drowning Wench for privacy, Clarity sitting at the edge of the bed while Y'shtola leant up against the sideboard. "It pleases me to see you hale," she said, "I searched for you after the battle. We all did, but it was as if you'd vanished. No one we asked seemed to recall you. Admittedly even I had trouble. I suppose had we not been acquainted for many years, I may have forgotten you as well. A most curious phenomenon, though unfortunately not an uncommon one."
Clarity's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Have you not heard tales of the Warriors of Light that saved us from the Calamity?"
"I have," Clarity said hesitantly. "I thought perhaps there may be some connection, but since no one seems to be able to call to mind a thing about them, my research bore little fruit."
"After our clash with the goobbue, you seemed out of sorts a moment." Y'shtola cocked her head. "Does that happen often?"
"Not to me," Clarity admitted. "I had a vision of your travels. I must write my friend in Gridania, for she has experienced similar symptoms."
Y'shtola nodded. "As you say, little of the phenomenon is well understood. However, should we assume you are one of these great heroes—and knowing you as I do, such a conclusion does not seem far-fetched—we may also assume that you have been chosen by Hydaelyn herself to serve a greater purpose."
"Mmm. I have felt much the same, though I could not put a name to it. Despite the fact that I well know Sharlayan will hold answers to who I am, something has compelled me to remain in Eorzea."
"You do not remember, then?" Y'shtola asked. "Who you are?"
"Not even my own name."
The miqo'te gave her a small smile. "I may be able to help with that. I knew you as Itrice Inglair, a fellow Archon and a sage of great renown. We fought many battles together under Louisoix's banner."
The name stirred something in her, a faint memory tingling behind the ear. "Louisoix. Louisoix Leveilleur?"
"The very same. He was a great man." She bowed her head solemnly. "It is a terrible shame indeed that he was lost to us."
Clarity pondered on the faint rumblings of memory. "Would that I-" And she stopped, clutching her head as a vision overtook her.
She and Y'shtola traipsed over roots and branches in what appeared to be the forests of the Twelveswood. Y'shtola was speaking. "I only meant to say that if he offends you so, you should consider being more clear in your refusal. Thancred may be incorrigible, but I hardly think he would continue to pursue you if he knew you were truly opposed."
"It is not that I am opposed, necessarily," said Clarity, carefully stepping over a fallen branch. "It's just that… he reminds me of someone."
"Oh? A lover back in Sharlayan?" Y'shtola covered a giggle. "You've been holding out on me, Itrice."
"He wasn't a lover. Well, briefly, but that was a mistake. I didn't think I had any room for lovers back then. I was not quite yet the intrepid adventurer you see before you."
"Ah, I remember well." She used her staff as a walking stick, giving her an easier time of it than Clarity. She was unused to all this traveling through rough terrain. She had put on some muscle, but she still tired quite easily. "You were quite the mysterious recluse in those days. When you were named Archon, I remember thinking, 'Who? That skinny little Inglair girl? I thought she retired to a cave somewhere.'"
Clarity scoffed. "Only if I could take all of Noumenon with me. Whenever I got lost in my research, it would be Antichole to come check on me. It was… sweet, I suppose. He wanted me for his wife, but I denied him time and time again."
"Just as you deny Thancred. Could it be that they are not to your persuasion?"
"My persuasion?" Clarity repeated.
Y'shtola shot her a devious look. "Men, I mean. I've seen those longing looks you send L'morne's way."
A deep red flush started at the back of her neck, and she stuttered, "Why, I- I-" She frowned, reaching over to swat Y'shtola on the arm. "You are wicked."
The miqo'te laughed. "So I wasn't imagining things, after all." Clarity didn't reply, picking her way gingerly through the forest as she tried to hide her embarrassment. "If it matters, I have seen the very same looks from her direction."
"Have you?" Clarity stopped suddenly. Y'shtola smirked, stopping beside her. "Don't make a fool of me."
"I see no fools," said Y'shtola, "only two women who seem drawn to each other. You ought to do something about that."
They resumed walking as Clarity pondered the comment. "How does one begin to…? You understand, most of my knowledge of romantic pursuits comes from the likes of Thancred."
"I strongly recommend against that approach." Y'shtola glanced over at her. "Simply tell her how you feel."
Clarity made a noise of protest. "I shall come across as the wrong end of an ass."
Y'shtola laughed freely and said, "You won't, provided you are genuine. I am all but certain she will return your affections. But somehow, like you, I doubt she has the courage to put a name to them." They at last appeared to reach their destination, for they both stopped. "If you've a mind to continue dancing around each other for eternity, then by all means, go right ahead. I just thought I'd suggest another option."
Clarity placed her hands on her hips. "Thanks ever so much, Shtola."
"You are quite welcome."
When Clarity returned to the present moment, Y'shtola said beside her, channeling aether into her. Once she saw Clarity was again present, she stopped. "Another vision?"
Her mind was reeling, pieces connecting together. "Know you anything of a dark-haired miqo'te called L'morne?"
Y'shtola tilted her head. "The name is familiar. I can't quite call to mind her face, though. I see only… light." She frowned and said, "She is like you."
"A Warrior of Light," Clarity confirmed, for there could be no mistaking it now. Puzzle pieces were slotting themselves together quickly. "We've spent the last few years researching our memory loss together in the arcanists' guild. Neither of us had any idea we'd met before."
"But she was in your vision?"
"No, just you and I. But we spoke of her. It seemed as though we knew each other well." She placed her fingers to her temples, rubbing them faintly. "Y'shtola, it all fits. The memory loss is centered around the falling of Dalamud. No one can recall the Warriors of Light, and it seems we can't even recall each other or indeed ourselves."
Y'shtola tapped a finger to her chin. "It would seem to line up. I can have the Scions investigate the matter. Full glad they'll be to hear you are well." She smiled that vaguely familiar but forgotten smile. "I've work to finish here first. Will you assist me? Then we can return together."
"Of course. I'll have to write L'morne." Oh Thaliak, what would she say? She was pleased to have answers, but they had brought with them ever more questions. "I suppose she'll be with the Conjurer's Guild. I can leave the message for her there. What's this business you need help with?"
Y'shtola gave her a grim smile and told her the tale.