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starwardbestrewn2023-07-16 11:23 am
oncedriven) wrote in starwardbestrewn2023-07-16 11:23 am
together we'll be older, older
You fall, and fall, and fall... Your duty discharged, your sins burned away.
You cannot feel your hands anymore, your feet, even your stomach. The only thing you can feel is the wind in your hair. Beneath your armor, you're sure that so very much of your skin is white stone. You imagine that you can feel it creeping higher. The inevitable fate of the Dominant - to burn their life's candle to its end.
You wonder which will claim you first. The stone within, or the stone below -
(But the impact you feel is soft, and cold...)
----
It's still cold. Someone is speaking -
"We must get him in from the cold first. Run ahead and alert the twins, would you?" That might be a woman's voice. Despite the phrasing, the question's tone is more that of an order than a suggestion.
"Are you sure you can manage by yourself?" A young man's voice.
"I've survived far more dangerous situations, Jullus, as you should well know by now."
The young man sighs. "Fine, I'll fetch Alphinaud and get a bed ready for him. But be careful, alright? We can't afford to lose you now."
A pause, and then footsteps with the faint sound of crunching.
You're still cold, you realize. Cold, and pillowed on something soft, at least until someone lifts you from where you lay. They pull you against their chest - armored, with plate rather than mail. You feel it against your cheek, as they shift you so that your head tips into their shoulder.
That is when the third realization strikes you - that you are alive. Despite everything, you are alive.
You twitch, nearly thrashing in the grip of the person who found you, as memory comes back to you. You can't bite down entirely on the groan that escapes you. The arms holding you up do not falter, though you feel the sensation of a gauntlet digging into your side as your bearer tightens their grip.
Like the snow, it is gentler than you deserve.
"Settle down, boy. You'll be warm soon enough."
The voice is gentle, too, even if it is as iron as the grip. As the initial panic passes from your mind, you go still, instead. In return, you feel the sensation of being lifted, and then carried, as your rescuer begins to bear you away.
A snowflake lands on your bare cheek. You dare not open your eyes, instead tilting your face into the shoulder of the breastplate against your head. It's chill, but no worse than the ice.
"Move your fingers and toes, if you can. Even if you can't feel them."
You can, is the thing. You can feel more of your fingers than you have in - months, perhaps years. You are too weak to lift the arm that dangles freely from your bearer's grip, but the one tucked against their chest... You focus on one limb at a time, wiggling your fingers and toes.
Wondering why you bother. But even now, the will to live is strong.
"That's the way, now. You've a long life ahead of you yet."
Do I? you think silently. Another wind gusts over you, the snowflakes scattering across your face, and you don't have the strength to shiver. Soon, the darkness takes you again, the steady sway of being carried lulling you to unconsciousness or sleep.
----
You wake, more properly this time, on a bed, or at least something that passes for one. The lights are low enough that you can't see them glaring through your eyelids.
There is warmth radiating from your left. On your right, the low murmur of voices. Your half-awake mind fights to put them together.
"I don't think I've ever seen such a case of severe aether deprivation." A young man's - different from the one before. "If you could put the Burn into a person..."
"Good thing we were here, then." A young woman's - same accent. Just a bit tired, but relieved, too. "The Garleans couldn't have treated this on their own."
"He'll live, then?" The ambiguous, commanding voice from before.
"He's out of danger for now." The boy's, again. "As long as he's kept warm, at least. What do you make of this armor?"
"It is of no make I recognize, but I have limited exposure to chainmail. My people abandoned it in favor of the ceruleum-treated fabrics not long after it was invented - most of the examples I've seen are Ishgardian."
"It's not that, that's for certain. It's no style I've seen before, either."
"With our luck, it's a Meracydian style, and Aodhan's about to have a laugh at the lot of us." The girl, this time.
"He's waking," says the young man from the snow. You give a half-hearted grunt.
Fate isn't done with you yet, it seems. Great Greagor, but you are so tired. Even so, you grudgingly open your eyes.
It takes you a long moment to make sense of what you're seeing. The ceiling above you is dimply lit and unfamiliar. There's a glow from a lamp on the wall, but it doesn't flicker like a torch or flame. The heater beside you, when you tip your head to focus on it, glows with blue flame, which is only slgihtly less strange.
You are laid out on the floor. On the side with the heater is a young man in a thick grey coat, the style unfamiliar but clearly designed for warmth. His hair is nearly as blue as the flame, and there is a... disfigurement? in the center of his forehead. He's a few years your junior, but old enough to be an adult. He sits on a cushioned bench of some sort, his arms folded but his eyes on you.
You twist your head, slowly, to look at the other side.
Kneeling beside you are two youths, nearly identical. They too are in thick coats, and have stark white hair and ears that come to long points, like elves in children's stories. The one closer to your head is in blue, and they meet your eyes with a relieved smile.
Behind them, on another bench, sits an older warrior in armor - plate with fabric underneath, bright silver over black. Forty summers at least, though the similarly snow-white shade of (her? you've never known a woman to wear armor such as that, but it is more believable than a man with such a face) makes it hard to guess her age. Like the blue-haired young man opposite her, there is a circle of pearl in the skin of her forehead. Her eyes are so white they nearly glow, the iris somehow paler than the sclera and nearly reflecting the blue firelight of the heater.
Your armor and cboots are laid out along the bench beside her. When you glance around, the rest of your clothes are laid out on the bench on the other side of the heater, presumably to dry from getting soaked through with snow and ice. You make to push yourself up, only for the blue-dressed elfen youth to place a hand gently on your shoulder.
"Please accept our apologies - " It's the boy's voice, the one who said that you had aether deprivation. (The girl must be the other. Twins? They must be.) " - but we needed to remove them to check you for injuries, and they were wet. You've been through quite a bit."
You don't need him to tell you that, but in the process of sitting up, the blankets that wrap you to the neck slip slightly off your shoulder, and you become aware that in spite of the heater, the room you're in can barely be called warm. Mindful of the chill, you nod slowly, and lay back down, allowing the blanket to be pulled back up over you.
The clothes you're in underneath are warm - wool, and well-used. It's not your favorite sensation in the world, you've always much preferred linen, but you've never been to such a cold place, either. Only in the Iron Kingdom do they continue to bundle themselves so when within buildings, and whoever these people are, they are surely no Ironbloods.
You should thank them for their care. You do not know if you can bring yourself to.
"I should be dead," is what you say instead. And then, because it is the most pressing question - "Where am I?"
Because this is not the Dominion, nor any other place you've seen or heard of. The North got such snows, but the North is dead, Blighted lands, and you - you have experienced enough of the Blight to feel the difference. Even indoors, you can tell.
Here, the land is alive, and aether flows freely. A normal person would not be able to tell. But even with Bahamut stripped away from you, you still have some level of gift as a Dominant. You can feel it. If anything, you feel more powerful than you have since before Clive stripped your Eikon away.
Aether deprivation, the boy said. You've never heard of such a thing, but you can imagine the implications. The opposite of an Akashic; carrying the curse of the deadlands within your own body.
From his side, the blue-haired man says, "Garlemald - or what remains of it."
Your lack of recognition must be clear on your face, because the girl down near your waist says, "In the north of the continent of Ilsabard."
"I've never heard of such a place," you say.
The twins glance at each other. "We considered that that may be the case," the boy says. "But - you are safe here. Of that you have my word."
You don't bother to point out that the word of a stranger may as well mean nothing. The look on the boy's face is simply too earnest. If he's that talented a liar, you have no hope of detecting it.
So, you'll have to make do with what you have. Even if that's nothing more than the clothes on your back and your life, paltry as those possessions are.
You cannot feel your hands anymore, your feet, even your stomach. The only thing you can feel is the wind in your hair. Beneath your armor, you're sure that so very much of your skin is white stone. You imagine that you can feel it creeping higher. The inevitable fate of the Dominant - to burn their life's candle to its end.
You wonder which will claim you first. The stone within, or the stone below -
(But the impact you feel is soft, and cold...)
----
It's still cold. Someone is speaking -
"We must get him in from the cold first. Run ahead and alert the twins, would you?" That might be a woman's voice. Despite the phrasing, the question's tone is more that of an order than a suggestion.
"Are you sure you can manage by yourself?" A young man's voice.
"I've survived far more dangerous situations, Jullus, as you should well know by now."
The young man sighs. "Fine, I'll fetch Alphinaud and get a bed ready for him. But be careful, alright? We can't afford to lose you now."
A pause, and then footsteps with the faint sound of crunching.
You're still cold, you realize. Cold, and pillowed on something soft, at least until someone lifts you from where you lay. They pull you against their chest - armored, with plate rather than mail. You feel it against your cheek, as they shift you so that your head tips into their shoulder.
That is when the third realization strikes you - that you are alive. Despite everything, you are alive.
You twitch, nearly thrashing in the grip of the person who found you, as memory comes back to you. You can't bite down entirely on the groan that escapes you. The arms holding you up do not falter, though you feel the sensation of a gauntlet digging into your side as your bearer tightens their grip.
Like the snow, it is gentler than you deserve.
"Settle down, boy. You'll be warm soon enough."
The voice is gentle, too, even if it is as iron as the grip. As the initial panic passes from your mind, you go still, instead. In return, you feel the sensation of being lifted, and then carried, as your rescuer begins to bear you away.
A snowflake lands on your bare cheek. You dare not open your eyes, instead tilting your face into the shoulder of the breastplate against your head. It's chill, but no worse than the ice.
"Move your fingers and toes, if you can. Even if you can't feel them."
You can, is the thing. You can feel more of your fingers than you have in - months, perhaps years. You are too weak to lift the arm that dangles freely from your bearer's grip, but the one tucked against their chest... You focus on one limb at a time, wiggling your fingers and toes.
Wondering why you bother. But even now, the will to live is strong.
"That's the way, now. You've a long life ahead of you yet."
Do I? you think silently. Another wind gusts over you, the snowflakes scattering across your face, and you don't have the strength to shiver. Soon, the darkness takes you again, the steady sway of being carried lulling you to unconsciousness or sleep.
----
You wake, more properly this time, on a bed, or at least something that passes for one. The lights are low enough that you can't see them glaring through your eyelids.
There is warmth radiating from your left. On your right, the low murmur of voices. Your half-awake mind fights to put them together.
"I don't think I've ever seen such a case of severe aether deprivation." A young man's - different from the one before. "If you could put the Burn into a person..."
"Good thing we were here, then." A young woman's - same accent. Just a bit tired, but relieved, too. "The Garleans couldn't have treated this on their own."
"He'll live, then?" The ambiguous, commanding voice from before.
"He's out of danger for now." The boy's, again. "As long as he's kept warm, at least. What do you make of this armor?"
"It is of no make I recognize, but I have limited exposure to chainmail. My people abandoned it in favor of the ceruleum-treated fabrics not long after it was invented - most of the examples I've seen are Ishgardian."
"It's not that, that's for certain. It's no style I've seen before, either."
"With our luck, it's a Meracydian style, and Aodhan's about to have a laugh at the lot of us." The girl, this time.
"He's waking," says the young man from the snow. You give a half-hearted grunt.
Fate isn't done with you yet, it seems. Great Greagor, but you are so tired. Even so, you grudgingly open your eyes.
It takes you a long moment to make sense of what you're seeing. The ceiling above you is dimply lit and unfamiliar. There's a glow from a lamp on the wall, but it doesn't flicker like a torch or flame. The heater beside you, when you tip your head to focus on it, glows with blue flame, which is only slgihtly less strange.
You are laid out on the floor. On the side with the heater is a young man in a thick grey coat, the style unfamiliar but clearly designed for warmth. His hair is nearly as blue as the flame, and there is a... disfigurement? in the center of his forehead. He's a few years your junior, but old enough to be an adult. He sits on a cushioned bench of some sort, his arms folded but his eyes on you.
You twist your head, slowly, to look at the other side.
Kneeling beside you are two youths, nearly identical. They too are in thick coats, and have stark white hair and ears that come to long points, like elves in children's stories. The one closer to your head is in blue, and they meet your eyes with a relieved smile.
Behind them, on another bench, sits an older warrior in armor - plate with fabric underneath, bright silver over black. Forty summers at least, though the similarly snow-white shade of (her? you've never known a woman to wear armor such as that, but it is more believable than a man with such a face) makes it hard to guess her age. Like the blue-haired young man opposite her, there is a circle of pearl in the skin of her forehead. Her eyes are so white they nearly glow, the iris somehow paler than the sclera and nearly reflecting the blue firelight of the heater.
Your armor and cboots are laid out along the bench beside her. When you glance around, the rest of your clothes are laid out on the bench on the other side of the heater, presumably to dry from getting soaked through with snow and ice. You make to push yourself up, only for the blue-dressed elfen youth to place a hand gently on your shoulder.
"Please accept our apologies - " It's the boy's voice, the one who said that you had aether deprivation. (The girl must be the other. Twins? They must be.) " - but we needed to remove them to check you for injuries, and they were wet. You've been through quite a bit."
You don't need him to tell you that, but in the process of sitting up, the blankets that wrap you to the neck slip slightly off your shoulder, and you become aware that in spite of the heater, the room you're in can barely be called warm. Mindful of the chill, you nod slowly, and lay back down, allowing the blanket to be pulled back up over you.
The clothes you're in underneath are warm - wool, and well-used. It's not your favorite sensation in the world, you've always much preferred linen, but you've never been to such a cold place, either. Only in the Iron Kingdom do they continue to bundle themselves so when within buildings, and whoever these people are, they are surely no Ironbloods.
You should thank them for their care. You do not know if you can bring yourself to.
"I should be dead," is what you say instead. And then, because it is the most pressing question - "Where am I?"
Because this is not the Dominion, nor any other place you've seen or heard of. The North got such snows, but the North is dead, Blighted lands, and you - you have experienced enough of the Blight to feel the difference. Even indoors, you can tell.
Here, the land is alive, and aether flows freely. A normal person would not be able to tell. But even with Bahamut stripped away from you, you still have some level of gift as a Dominant. You can feel it. If anything, you feel more powerful than you have since before Clive stripped your Eikon away.
Aether deprivation, the boy said. You've never heard of such a thing, but you can imagine the implications. The opposite of an Akashic; carrying the curse of the deadlands within your own body.
From his side, the blue-haired man says, "Garlemald - or what remains of it."
Your lack of recognition must be clear on your face, because the girl down near your waist says, "In the north of the continent of Ilsabard."
"I've never heard of such a place," you say.
The twins glance at each other. "We considered that that may be the case," the boy says. "But - you are safe here. Of that you have my word."
You don't bother to point out that the word of a stranger may as well mean nothing. The look on the boy's face is simply too earnest. If he's that talented a liar, you have no hope of detecting it.
So, you'll have to make do with what you have. Even if that's nothing more than the clothes on your back and your life, paltry as those possessions are.