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Ori had little need for her old persona now that the eternal night she wore it for had come and gone. The credentials and resources it commanded, however, still proved useful from time to time. A mysterious island castle had parted waves between Solistia’s two continents during the Long Night and the Delsta Times wanted answers, fast. With this half-truth and a friendly sum, she was able to contract a merchant runner’s services to set sail across the Sundering Sea as dawn’s first light greeted the land.
Ocean winds buffet about her new wardrobe, a long dark-gray jacket and conical U-fashion sun hat woven of straw resting atop a simple white linen longsleeve and brown pants, and remind her once more that she never had fully accustomed to sea travel. Her legs could churn through all manner of shifting sands and searing pain to accomplish her goals, an ability put to great use for the Delsta Times and the Moonshade Order. The gentle sway of a ship on the water, however, still managed to reduce those sturdy columns to crooked fenceposts. As much as she wanted to brave this challenge and see the moment her destination breaks the sea’s horizon, discretion proves to be the better part of valor as she’s driven below deck.
Safely hidden away from that intimidating, infinite expanse of water and possibility, Ori ponders just what she’ll say when she arrives. Of course she doesn’t need to investigate this place; she is one of likely nine people still living that know Castle Vidania had escaped the histories. That it had risen in the first place meant that the Moonshade Order, under her brother Oboro’s direction, succeeded in opening the door for Vide’s return. But the aftermath of Claude’s selfish fumbling meant the Order was without a vessel, and required Brother to be immolated upon the wicked god's flame to complete the ritual. Just thinking of the lecherous Blacksnake and his damnable preferences sends Ori’s stomach roiling to a degree the Sundering Sea could only hope to match. Maybe Brother could have been spared that specific end if Claude played his part like he was supposed to. Why couldn’t that skeevy bastard have just accepted his lot in life and died quietly like everyone else?
With a sharp breath Ori pointedly refuses to answer the question. Somewhere along the way she’d ended up inside a glass house, and she has come to rather appreciate the view. In any case, reflecting on the Moonshade Order’s failures distracts from the matter at hand: Upon a desecrated altar, surrounded by forgotten waters of the Sundering Sea, lies her brother’s unmarked grave. And she had come to pay her respects.
The right words remain elusive, a disappointingly common occurrence of late for one who built her reputation on the gift for gab. Part of the issue is that this scene had never been in the script. It was always supposed to be her before him, to quench the Flames alongside Petrichor, Tanzy, and whoever Brother could give to the Darkblood Blade. Then, through Vide he would see to the world’s end, and his own. Her life’s story, though, had slipped past the structure his pen defined, onto blank pages illuminated by a light that persisted despite his best efforts. Her whole life, she had his guidance to follow. Now, for the first time, she didn’t. Those pages were hers to fill, and like any writer thrust onto a project without a solid outline she felt paralyzed by the possibilities. The implications of their pact cast a grim shadow over her proceedings as well: what would it mean to wish for his choice to be undone, when they both had planned it for so long?
She thinks of centering her eulogy on marginally simpler days, before the intrigues of the Moonshade Order motivated their every act… and finds her memories of those times to be sorely lacking. Try as she might the words he spoke when they first met, the ones that had calmed her so as everything around her lay in ruin, remain a secret held firm by her three-year-old self. She also fails to recall if personal enrichment for him extended beyond being in his cups; early on he was so very busy with any work he could find to put food on the table. Not that he ever willingly shared just what that work entailed. And after he parlayed a failed assassination into steady employment as a strategist, the drums of war would keep him from home for weeks at a time rather than just days. Whatever he did to build a life for the two of them, whatever he found worth going through it all for, he had kept those secrets to his grave. The realization that she knows far less than she ought to about the man she mourns creeps upon her, and ensnared in its chilling grasp she decides that the wood grains of the ship’s interior walls are now fascinating points of focus.
Luckily a member of the ship’s crew grants her a more meaningful diversion: “Hey, miss. That island is coming into view now. There’re a lot of rocks between us and land, so we’ll need to go slow and steady with several turns. You might want to stay down here if you’re having trouble.”
Ori hops up and approaches the staircase he calls down from. “Thanks, Sesque,” she starts, the false pep of her old mask bleeding into her voice as easily as ever. “But the travel column needs an eyewitness account of what’s here and how safe the surrounding waters are. Scoops don’t just write themselves, y’know!”
“Suit yourself,” Sesque responds with a chuckle, and the two head above deck.
The stone formations surrounding Castle Vidania start like any other at first. In close proximity to the tower they increase in frequency, turning violet and jagged, looking for all to see like an angry welt on the surface of the water. Like a blight that refuses to heal and will never allow the bearer of its mark to forget. Ori takes a deep breath and holds a hand to her heart; the sight is all too close to the mess her attempt had left behind. She feels the impression of aggrieved scabs through her shirt, and as if resonating with the Sundering Sea’s own wound they begin to dully ache.
The captain brings the ship wide of a particularly large spire, and the crew prepares to lower a smaller rowboat that can take Ori and Sesque to shore. She peers out over starboard side while they work, and she can see that a similarly small skiff has already docked where she intends to land, with the larger vessel it must have launched from looming nearby. “Hmm,” Sesque muses as he steps to her left side. “Someone’s already here. Sucks that they beat you to the punch in scoping the place out. Journalism’s all about getting there first, right?”
Ori’s too lost in contemplation over what that skiff could possibly mean to give a typical canned response. There was no chance that an innocent adventurer had come to this place. Therefore, she could only assume that she was about to come face-to-face with one of the eight people she been pointedly avoiding ever since the dawn returned. She stammers uncharacteristically, and he’s quick to assuage what he assumes is her trepidation: “Well, if it is trouble, I’ll be right there with you. I don’t lose a lot of fights.” He flexes a bicep, an assurance of the boundless power that rests within. The crew finishes preparations on the rowboat, and Ori takes Sesque’s hand as they load in.
“You’re sure you want to go it alone, Ori?” Sesque says as he docks the boat near a ledge of low and uneven stone. He eyes the massive staircase that leads to Castle Vidania’s pinnacle with several degrees of doubt.
“I am,” she responds, her voice stern and lacking her character's playful wit. “This is something I need to do myself.”
He scoffs lightly, then relents. “Alright, but you come running if anything happens, yeah?” Sesque hands Ori’s satchel to her as she steps off the boat and onto what he does not know is the broken seal of a wicked god.
She wants to marvel at the stonework of a bygone era as she climbs. The quality condition of the ground torches and archways belies the untold millennia they’d been resting on the ocean floor, and contrasts nicely with the ugly chaos of rock that girds Vide’s prison. However, the question of which Travelers waited at the tower’s apex was simply too present to ignore in favor of idle fancy over architecture. Given the size of the other boat docked on the landing, it couldn’t be more than two or three of them. It probably isn’t Partitio, she thinks with a relief that she quickly moves on from before the feeling can spiral off its axis. Otherwise, it would have been the Grand Terry the crew saw as they arrived, rather than a generic vessel from the Western Continent. The others only knew Ori in passing if at all, and that should make it possible to bluff her way through any awkward conversation she might find herself in. She reaches the pinnacle and sees a single figure, clad in red and black with hair drawn in a ponytail, facing away from her in a kneeling position.
Before the castle dais and the awe-inspiring stained-glass sigil famously depicted in the histories, Ori stops dead in her tracks. She very much had strewn her journal across the Fellsun Ruins, hadn’t she? Once the private world she used to escape from a hellish childhood under Ku’s control, she had found her soul tethered to this world by its binding, and that she would not go on into the Night until the damn thing lay in blood-soaked tatters among the dust and the bones of the Kal. If the Travelers delved into those ruins to restore the Flame she destroyed, they would have seen those notes, been able to piece together who she was, what she’d done, what she planned to do, how she so wanted to fulfill her purpose, how she no longer wanted to-
“State your purpose.”
The voice is soft, inquisitive rather than accusatory, yet for just a moment it seizes her whole body and mind in its arrest. She would not yet have to reconcile, once and for all, the hope and pain and confusion Partitio’s light revealed within her. King Hikari of Ku, though, was doubtlessly the next worst of the Travelers she could have run into. As the moment passes and she finds she has not yet been struck down by the wrath of gods or men, Ori remembers her mask and answers his request: “I’m, ahh, a scrivener. I write stories for a gazette, the Delsta Times. Castles don’t just up and rise out of the ocean every day, you know! Folks’ll need to know what it all means and if it’s dangerous.” Her ruse may very well be already up. Still, she sees no need to call attention to that if he doesn’t force the issue.
A beat passes, then Hikari says “I see,” as he rises and turns to face her. Despite his new station, he still wears the common warrior’s garb she knows from her days shadowing the Travelers’ travails. “An understandable concern,” he commiserates. “I myself have had the same worries after Solistia’s Long Night. You can never be too careful.”
If Hikari recognized her and her fell deeds, he did not deign to immediately show his hand. Even a two-leaf scrivener would be able to clock the ruler of a regional superpower though, so she thinks little of establishing her own familiarity. “Is that right?” she responds with a light mocking laugh. “Because it doesn’t seem like you came here with much of an entourage, Your Majesty.” That the words are spoken in jest don’t do as much to reign in her disgust at addressing a royal of Ku in this manner as she would have liked.
He's taken aback briefly, but the surprise fades just as fast and he joins the mirth he hears with a subdued chuckle of his own: “You speak true. My business here today is something more personal, so I did not wish to have a large retinue of guards as an audience.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, were you… praying just now?” Ori recognized his posture from when he knelt before the dais, a ceremonial Hinoeuman form held perfectly still.
“Yes. It was in remembrance of a fallen friend,” Hikari admits. His eyeline drops from hers for the first time, and she now notices the paper lantern he holds. “He… did not survive the Night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ori responds, and she is surer now that, between her new wardrobe and his lack of prior familiarity with her, Hikari does not realize he speaks to one who called down that very Night. “What was he like?” she asks, as if she does not already know the answer.
“He was a brilliant and observant mind.” Light returns to his eyes, his gaze steady and true. “It was as if his vision extended into the future and into men’s hearts; whatever trouble befell you he always had an answer, often before you even brought it to his ear. There are few in this world that I trusted more than him.” Hikari’s voice takes on a note of fondness, a smile creeping to his lips despite himself. “He had something of a capricious side to him, as well. As he often said, ‘To trick your enemies, start with your allies.’ If he had you swept up in the midst of his games, you’d often only ever know it once all the cards were on the table.” He turns to contemplate the horizon and the ocean blue. “Even so, I considered him a most stalwart ally. He was ever at my side in my campaign to end Mugen’s tyranny. My vision for peace would be but an idle dream without his aid. Which is why I find it so hard to accept that he…” He has to stifle a sob as a single tear rolls down his cheek. “I must apologize.”
Not even in Ori’s most bizarre, far-flung fever dreams did she envision a king of her hated nation breaking down in tears before her, and the sight inspires mixed feelings. Her estimation of Hikari, the foundation formed from Brother’s account and reinforced by her own observations, is that he is an earnest and sincere person when not weighed down by his lineage’s curse. He is not one to say things he does not mean. His grief for Brother’s passing, therefore, is the genuine article. Hikari felt that he knew the man deeply, and trying to describe what her brother’s absence from this world made him feel left him at a loss for words.
And yet, she thinks, you didn’t know him.
Ori feels a twinge of remorse for the way that statement felt like it minimized Hikari’s pain. Was he not here to mourn the loss of someone dear to him, same as her? Hikari was making the effort to remember Brother fondly when few would or could. Even if it was the mirage he missed more than the man. Even if he was just an enemy to be tricked at the end of the day.
‘To trick your enemies, start with your allies,’ she plays back. That really is something Brother would say.
‘To trick your enemies, start with your allies.’ The echo in her mind shifts ever closer to her brother’s voice, its sound nearly as clear as when he still lived.
She… was the exception to that, right? She was more than an ally, she was his sister. So what if she didn’t know what his favorite breakfast was? They were family, each all the other had in this life.
The specter, shrouded in knowledge withheld, repeats its call: ‘To trick your enemies, start with your allies.’
No. No, that was how he engaged with the likes of Harvey or Mugen or Hikari, cards to be played to advance the board state and then dismissed. In that old storehouse in Ku, the morning of what was to be her freedom from a world she thought wretched, he said he loved her back. Admitting that she valued a life amidst her nihilism threatened to invert everything she knew and felt about her own; he wouldn’t just… use those feelings against her, to lock her into his charted course. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t use such dispassionate manipulation on her when he had worked so hard all those years to keep her safe, to teach her how to write, to prepare her for the world around them…
…To mold her into the ace hidden up his sleeve to cheat the dawn.
Ori calls to the echo of Oboro’s voice for his assurance that she was not just another one of his cards. She hears nothing back.
Desperate for affirmation that the dead cannot give, she faces opposite Hikari as she struggles to mask the turmoil upon her face. Thankfully, she finds that he remains too lost in his own to notice. In silence her catastrophizing worsens; the validity of her familial love, the joy she took from writing, even the very nature of how she met Oboro, are all called into question, the words of her sacred text spinning into dense, meaningless scribble. Hikari’s mournful whisper of a false name then pierces the noise, gives her listless flailing a target to cut down and feel better than.
“Kazan…”
"That was never his name."
Hikari recoils as if struck. “What do you…,” he starts as he turns to face her, but the realization sets in and he redirects his inquiry. “You are… Oboro’s sister, then. He never spoke of you in earlier days, so I do not believe we have had the chance to meet.” At first, he extends a hand in greeting. After a moment it tenses and his eyes narrow. Ori sees the connection form for him between ‘Oboro’s sister’ and her earlier ‘scrivener’ alias and his hand draws back half-way. “What do you intend to do?”
She’s made… some improvements here, yet the erstwhile scrivener still finds speaking from the heart to be a mortifying affair. Reeling from the sudden onrush of unregulated emotion she replies in halting breath, “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know. After some things happened on our end I figured this – this would be where he died, so I thought I’d –”
With severity Hikari’s tone slices through her rambling: “Do you intend further harm to the dawn and to the people of this world?”
“What?! No!” Ori shouts, then she confesses, “I don’t – I don’t want that. Not anymore.” Hikari does not allow her even a single moment of reprieve; wordlessly he stares her down, as if watching for an opponent’s opening strike. “Look, you re-realized Oboro had a sister because you read the notes in the Fellsun Ruins, right?” She paces, scrambles to work an angle that lets her escape and regroup. “I won’t deny that I thought humanity deserved the worst after everything we’d seen. But I-I’ve had time to think about how things really are, and…”
Silence uncompromising swallows her words in its void. Hikari’s glare is the desert sun, and under its withering heat something furious within Ori ignites: A scion of Clan Ku dares lecture of harm to the dawn? How many had been severed from its light forever by their steel? How many lived and died shaded from hope by their imperial rule?
“Oh, what, you’re gonna give me that look? Look at yourself, son of Ku.” Raging drumbeats, loud as the day she first saw crimson, set her blood ablaze in her veins and spit her seething rebuke. “I know about the Shadow’s hold on your bloodline. You really never did anything you regret while in its embrace? You really never participated in your family’s conquests? Maybe if you and your ancestors weren’t so committed to making the desert a living Hell for everyone around you, a lot of people might still be here.” Sharply Ori looks to the altar Hikari knelt before earlier. “Maybe,” she grits, her fury seeking to make its point as painfully as possible, “he’d still be here.”
The fire in Hikari’s eyes chills and his gaze drops to the floor, heavy with contemplation of guilt. Her own guilt immediately follows at the sight of him holding himself as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that was completely uncalled for,” she starts, massaging the back of her head in a nervous tic as she looks away. “I know you’re actually putting in the work for reparations on behalf of Ku. For crying out loud, that was the whole reason you stood up to Mugen in the first place. Meanwhile I’ve got plenty to answer for myself and I’ve just been hiding –”
“It was. Right over on that altar,” Hikari says morosely, his line of sight highlighting the pedestal for Ori to follow. “Where Oboro breathed his last.”
“You – You saw him?”
“Hours before, Agnea and I had rekindled the Sacred Flame within the Tranquil Grotto and received a vision of… Oboro’s truth.” His eyes glisten at the words before he composes himself and resumes eye contact. “All this time I had no idea what his real intentions were, and that he desired oblivion so. The Flames lit the way to this place, and we sailed here in all haste.”
Ori falls silent, eyes wide in rapt attention.
“The pedestal before that sigil you see leads into a deep chasm, and an accursed flame poured forth from its opening. On this very spot he and I spoke of what worth tomorrow holds. I told him that I want to meet its dawn with my friends by my side, and held my hand out to him.” Hikari mimics the gesture to demonstrate, then lets his hand drop and his eyeline with it. “He took a step back and threw himself into the chasm,” he states, and the hand returns to his face to obscure his contrition, voice faltering as memory ignites the pain anew. “I was too slow to reach him.”
What would she have done, had she been there? What could she have done, in her state, with her beliefs as they were? A subdued “…Oh,” is all she can offer.
“All of Ku was indeed a mark to him in the end, and I realize that I was no exception.” Hikari pauses, takes a deep breath. “But I cannot help but think that, had I just been faster, had I realized what he was feeling sooner, things would not have had to end like this.”
“Come on, you shouldn’t blame yourself for his choice. It was wrong of me to put that on you,” Ori says just a little too quickly, but then she thinks on this point and grimaces; Hikari seems convinced that Oboro would have embraced the light of life if only given the chance. In all their time together she cannot recall Oboro even once admitting that he felt happy, and she doesn’t know if bringing that up would ease the blame he feels or just make things worse. Such misery shouldn’t come as a surprise, though. Between enduring the fresh Hell of each new day mired in poverty and conspiring to end new days altogether, when would Oboro have found the time for light?
Then again, she was able to.
Though had she really? It wasn't a lack of trying that skewed her attempt to deny herself the dawn. Just why was she here? In the world she knew, Oboro’s world, everything had been so meticulous, precise. Everyone fit into neatly defined categories, friend and foe, schemer and mark, and she was never without a clear overarching goal to strive towards. Life in the light of the dawn was, by comparison, messy; foes could be friends and somehow still foes maybe, and she had a clear goal no longer. Just a vague desire to find meaning for herself, in this world of honest folks just living their lives that she was never built for.
She may as well be stuck aboard a sailing ship for the rest of her days. And if that’s just what life was going to be now, she can either keep hiding below deck or grow some sea legs.
“The dawn is… Well, to me, at least… It’s something you gotta…”
Ori struggles to convey her point amidst the embarrassment of honesty. Hikari glances her way again, the look in his eyes considerate with a curiosity that encourages her to continue.
“I think it was working with Partitio, that helped me see. Gah, this is gonna sound so stupid…” She shakes her head to rid herself of that weird grin she gets whenever she reflects on their time together. “I’d been counting the days until I could just be done with it all, but then I saw him stick his neck out for some poor kid in Clockbank to chase off a tax collector. I gave him the rundown on Roque Brilliante’s business empire, recited it like I was a damn company rep." Her darkened expression shifts to something a little more incredulous and fond. "When I told him how rich Roque had become, his first reaction was concern for the overtaxed citizens of Clockbank, before going to challenge Roque himself. I didn’t think it was possible for anybody to be that concerned for others. Not without strings attached.” She turns her sight skyward, the hat now upon her head shading her eyes as she casts a fond look near the beaming sun. “But that’s just how he is, isn’t it? When he revived Wellgrove with that department store, that was the first time I ever dared to question what I thought I knew, or ask myself what it was that I wanted. And now… well, here I am.”
“If you are unsure of where you should go next, perhaps you could speak with him?” Hikari offers. “I am certain he would be more than willing to –”
“I was there, when he finalized the deal with Roque for the steam engine rights.” Ori turns again to Hikari; of the other Travelers, she recalls only seeing Temenos, Throné, and Ochette that day. “The man ran the gauntlet of excuses to weasel out of honoring their agreement, then tried to blast Partitio to kingdom come with some kind of war machine when he couldn’t. Despite all that, two seconds after Partitio wins he rolls out a stamped job application. For Roque! Now they’re building some kind of intercontinental road system together.” She makes an exasperated hand gesture as a scoff escapes her; she finds that it really doesn’t get any less ridiculous, no matter how many times she recounts it. “No, Partitio’s not the problem here,” Ori explains, looking again to the open sky. “It’s more like…”
“You tell yourself that it could never be so simple.” Quickly she looks back, and Ori notices Hikari’s somber affect as he contemplates Castle Vidania’s altar once more. “That, after the dark thoughts have whispered in your ear for so long, despair is all you deserve, and to hope for something better would be a farce and nothing more.” He pulls on the sleeve of his sword arm as if the motion brings him comfort. “That it is better to keep your pain to yourself, where you know you at least can manage it, rather than trust others with it and be hurt all over again when it drives them away.”
Leave it to the guy harboring the literal Shadow in his mind to put self-loathing to words so easily, she thinks. Something about the way a son of Ku could recite her most private of thoughts, though, tips over the capacity of what Ori is willing to handle today. She feels the urge to shut down, lest her hatreds falter further and leave her with nothing, and gives only a half-hearted “…Yeah,” as a response.
“I still think you should reach out,” Hikari insists. “Trust me, this does not get better alone.”
Ori’s dejected look remains off to the side, mumbling, “…Yeah. Maybe.”
“You cannot…” Hikari tries, brow furrowed in recollection. “A horse cannot go to market without the herd at its side.”
Her brow also furrows, in befuddlement instead. “…Excuse you?”
“Forgive me,” Hikari says, a guilty grin acknowledging his gaffe. “It was a nugget of wisdom Partitio once shared with me when I was at my lowest, though I fear I have mangled the phrasing somewhat.” Then he straightens, his gaze not quite harsh though serious nonetheless. “But the significance is this: though the light of the future belongs to us all, it is our efforts that make it shine. If you want the future to be a brighter place, you must be the one to polish it. Little by little, day by day.” Hikari steps closer, and Ori flinches. “You say that you have much to answer for. All the same, you are still here because you chose to place your faith in a better tomorrow. Do you truly wish to make amends? Then, please, build that tomorrow with us.” Just as before he holds his hand forward, the sun’s light now cascading from behind him as it rises ever higher.
The miserable creature, so accustomed to darkness, withdraws out of habit. “What does it matter what I do? There’s no place for me here,” she sneers with an affronted look, ready to expound upon the depth of her sins as an apocalyptic co-conspirator. The unshaken tear in his eye alerts her to what he is doing, and she trails off: Upon a desecrated altar, surrounded by forgotten waters of the Sundering Sea, Hikari beckons to a soul lost in the Shadow to lead them back towards the dawn. And Brand be damned, he will not fail again.
“…OK. I’ll do it. I’ll let Partitio know about me,” she finally manages to push out. “Maybe he’ll need, like, a press secretary or speech writer or something as company president. I’ll figure something out.” She attempts a dismissive shrug.
Hikari breathes a sigh of relief. “I am glad to hear it,” he adds, then he gasps with sudden recognition. He reaches into a pocket and produces a small notebook. “Oh, by the way. I found this journal, tucked away in the archives of the palace library, before my exile. It belonged to Oboro.” Ori perks up at the sound of her brother’s name. “He wrote about his early life and the experiences that drove him to embrace the Shadow, though at the time I did not know the significance of his name.” His expression darkens as he continues, “It… hurts to realize that I spent so much time with the journal’s author yet failed to acknowledge his sorrow. I brought it here so I may never again overlook the suffering of those in need, but it should remain with his family,” and he holds the journal out for her thoughtfully. “That is, if you would have it.” She nods and accepts it, holding it close.
”Well, I should be going,” Hikari says after a brief window of silence between them. “My duty to my countrymen and to my neighbors never sleeps, and I have intruded on your visitation for long enough.”
“Wait,” Ori calls to him, a note of desperation in her voice. “About Partitio. Can you not –”
“I will not lie for you,” he states, and again his intense expression returns. It doesn’t last long before it gives way to a resigned sigh. “However, I fear that my list of administrative tasks grows longer by the day. A king must be able to prioritize that which most needs doing, in order to best serve the people he represents.” A wink conveys his true meaning, and when Ori returns his knowing smile Hikari turns for the great staircase to begin his descent. “Safe travels, Ori.”
Oboro’s journal in hand, Ori approaches the pedestal atop Castle Vidania. Before setting down to pray, she opens to a page near its beginning, curious if a passage exists from a time before he cursed the dawn. The entry she lands on dates back to when he and Ori first met. She reads, “It was at that very moment when I decided we would make it through this life together,” and she closes the journal, stores it in an empty pocket on her satchel. She has read everything she needs. Doubts laid to rest, she finds that the right words come easily after all. Ocean winds hear a reforged dedication to life, and carry it to places far beyond.