starwardbestrewn | minfilia: have a fucking WEEK

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minfilia: have a fucking WEEK

It is almsot, almost relieving to be meeting a more typical new recruit to the Scions, after the last week. Between Anna reappearing and Almond showing up out of nowhere to defeat Ifrit, you'll take the semblence of normal that is Y'shtola having scouted an adventurer with the Echo who stood up for a poor woman in Ul'dah for little and less reward, after spending somewhere around a month running about Limsa investigating the recent slew of kidnappings there.

You're not entirely sure what to expect - viera are so rare in Eorzea as to be nonexistent, and their menfolk even moreso. The young (or at least young-looking - you've heard it's imposible to tell the age of an adult viera until they begin to decline, and that that happens somewhere around the beginning of their third century) man has long red hair that cascades down from around the ears that add almost another fulm of height, and his skin is dark enough to pass for a desert native. The way he carries himself, with easy confidence, says that he might yet be older than he looks.

There's something arresting about his eyes, you think. The light gold is framed by a darker gold eyeshadow, light on dark skin, that seizes hold of you like something you can almost remember. A word on the tip of your tongue, a smell that brings to mind a memory you can no longer reach.

"Welcome to the Waking Sands," you begin, starting the words you've delivered countless variations of these last few years, and then the memory catches.

You're familiar with the sensation of the Echo, and that is what this is, but it also isn't, because too much flashes by, in the first moment, for you to comprehend. Pain, first of the body and then of the heart, and you have some awareness of catching yourself on your desk, but it very much in the distance compared to -

and he shall be called the light of the sacred flame -

I'd intended to save Ion with that, but now I have no choice. I can't afford to lose you.

The ground opens up, the ground falls away, there is nothing left -

Nothing but white, and halls of white -

Looks like I had a little trouble... The rest is up to you.

You come back around, clutching your chest with one hand (the pain - the pain, how could anyone stay standing through one of those swords in their chest, let alone three?), and the other flat on your desk, keeping you from collapsing into it entirely.

Aodhan Feol - a name that doesn't feel right, against the memories you saw, but the name that belongs to those memories is lost as the details of the vision fade away - has come around your desk, his hands still extended to catch you if you had collapsed. You cannot help but stare at him, taking him in anew as you pull in breaths to steady yourself.

"You..." You aren't even sure how you were going to continue that statement. The authority of the Antecedent has deserted you entirely, leaving you nothing more than the young woman that hardly anyone ever sees, the young woman who struggles like anyone else.

"I'm sorry," Aodhan says, quietly. "I think I can guess what you saw."

Your hand is still pressing into your chest. It takes a greater effort than you understand to pull it free. You can almost, almost still feel the steel, how it would move as you straighten back up. You take his hand, refusing to acknowledge that it's because you need it, allowing yourself to believe that it's for his sake.

"How?" you say. "After all of that - how can you still be kind?"

There's a twist to his mouth as he helps you up, an ironic little grin, a joke told between himself and no one else, or perhaps himself and everything. "Because that's exactly what he tried to keep me from being," Aodhan answers, "and I am first and foremost a spiteful bastard."

You find yourself laughing in return, just a little, a drop of cheer to ward off the weight of what you've seen. You know who 'he' is, even if Aodhan didn't name him, even if you'll likely never know. The man's voice rings yet in your head, and you think that it will take some time to fade.

Your Echo is one that is particularly gifted in allowing you to understand the hearts of others, and this man is a blaze that refuses to be quenched. You do not bother to ask his aid in defending the realm; to do so feels an insult, when you can still feel the steel in his chest.

(Even though it makes no sense for the person standing before you now - a wound that no one could survive, a wound that your heart knows he did not survive, and yet, and yet...)

Instead you ask, "Why did you come to Eorzea?"

"Because there are answers I need to find," he says, "and because I couldn't stand to remain where I was any longer."

Answers. It seems that everyone is seeking those answers, these days. You won't begrudge him that. But there is one thing you must know -

"And where was that?" you ask. "Forgive me, but I imagine you've seen well enough for yourself that viera aren't common in this part of the world."

Aodhan chuckles. "Meracydia, far to the south."

You realize that you are still holding his hand for support, and force yourself to let go. "That is quite the journey," you say. "I didn't know that there were still people living there. It seems that all mention of Meracydia in history ends with the Allagan Empire, three thousand years ago."

"There are still some few trade routes that go there," Aodhan says, "but for the most part - Meracydia has neither forgotten Allag nor forgiven it. We have good reason to be wary of another empire conquering these lands and then turning their attention southward."

You understand the meaning of that well enough. Garlemald. To think that news of that empire had reached so far... Well, of course it would. And if Allag left clear enough scars on Meracydia that they are still remembered by even the common people today as a source of fear, it makes sense enough that someone would come.

It may not be the whole reason. You think that it almost certainly isn't, considering what it is you've seen. But it is reason enough, and you have no desire to pry any further than you have. To investigate and put a stop to the movements of the Garlean Empire is reason enough to defend the realm, and you will accept any hands that can swear to common cause. All the more so when it is not their own realm that they are defending.

"Eorzea thanks you," you say instead of the questions that still bite at the back of your mind. "Be welcome to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn."

You bow, and he bows back, but there's that ironic little smile on his face again. "If you have need of lodging or any assistance, we would be happy to provide," you say.

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass for now," Aodhan replies. "I don't do well in large groups of strangers."

That's fair enough, considering what you've heard of how viera culture treats their men. Someone used to wandering on their own would naturally be more comfortable continuing to do so. You'll have to keep that in mind for him in the future.

The last thing that remains in your mind, after all the paperwork and linkpearl exchange is complete, is what you hear Aodhan murmur as he takes his leave from your study. The words are understandable enough, but the accent is almost wholly different - the third accent in as many days that you swear that you've never heard in your life.

"It always is the Seventh, isn't it..."

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You're away from the Waking Sands when it happens. You're almost always away from the Waking Sands.

It doesn't stop you from feeling like you should have been at the Waking Sands. It doesn't stop the feeling that you have been able to do something, change something...

Well, there's no point in dwelling on it. Your decision was made the moment you heard the name 'Jade' and saw the person it was attached to. Even if he doesn't recognize you -

(but then, Jade Curtiss was never a Seventh Fonist. That was the entire reason fomicry came to exist.)

- you know him. And you'll be damned if the bastard is going to go off and die before you get the chance to ask him the questions you need answers to.

Even if the questions don't mean anything to him, that will at least tell you something.

----

"I suppose tis not surprising that you escaped the slaughter," Y'shtola says.

"I was further afield than you were," you return, folding your arms. She just raises her eyebrows, ears twitching forward, and you elaborate, "I've been investigating the aetherial disturbance that caused Coerthas to fall into perpetual winter, while also keeping an eye on the Ixal."

"Ah, so you are the source of our intelligence regarding Garuda's summoning, then?" Y'shtola asks, and you nod. "Interesting. I'd not taken you for an aetherologist."

You're not. Not formally, anyway, but how are you supposed to explain? You've caught on well enough that no one else in perhaps the world feels the elements the way you do, can point to currents of aether without assistance. Accordingly, perhaps, no one else steps into Coerthas and follows immediately the way any heat is swallowed by the red, crystalline impact site at the Boulder Downs, the leeching of fire from the entire landscape. It's second nature to you, but there's little you can do about it.

Instead you say, "I have all the more reason to be interested now, considering what happened."

"You mean the Allagan weapon," Y'shtola says, and sighs. "I don't suppose Meracydian history has any insight to share on the matter?"

"None that's especially helpful now," you say. "Considering that the damn thing's already consumed enough primals to fuel itself."

"Well, it was a long shot, I suppose," Y'shtola says. "Anna and the others have started preparations to rescue our friends from Centri. Will you be joining in the efforts?"

"I would love to," you say. "But truthfully, I have my suspicions that some of the others were captured primarily as bait. Minfilia, certainly, is useful, and Urianger and Papalymo have expertise in the matter of primals that the Garlean Empire would certainly find a use for - but a receptionist?"

You let the question hang in the air for just a moment, and then say, "There's no reason to have kept all of the people they kept except to make for more attractive bait for the Warrior of Light and the eikon-slayer. And I'm wary of staging a rescue that is, in itself, putting all our eggs in one basket."

"All or nothing may yet be all that we possess," Y'shtola says. "Especially when it comes to those who possess the Echo - there were few enough of you in the first place."

"I know," you say. You offer, "It's not hard for Centri to call for back up from Meridianum. I'll keep them occupied."

Again, Y'shtola does the thing where she raises her eyebrows and her ears at the same time. "All by yourself?"

"You've never seen me raise hell," you say. Almond has been handling all the primals since you joined the Scions, and as for everything else... "It's been a while since I raised some hell."

"Well, with an attitude like that, I suppose I can't talk you out of it," she replies, some amount of mischief twinkling in her own eyes. "Much as I'd feel better about you going with some back-up of your own... Be careful, Aodhan."

"Be careful yourself," you reply. "I'm just causing chaos. You're the one who might yet run into trouble."

At this, Y'shtola jsut shakes her head, but she doesn't argue with you further before the two or you go your separate ways - her back north into Mor Dhona, and you further south, to approach the Thanalan castrum from the back.

They'll never know what hit them.

The faint buzz of a linkpearl against your ear (it still feels strangely high up until you remember that it's supposed to be there) -

"Aodhan," Yda's voice, "We're starting."

"Good luck," you reply quietly, easing yourself up out of your crouching position. The tricks the shinobi taught you for stealth are really coming in handy. That alone was worth the cost of admission.

"Good luck yourself!" Yda says. "Are you sure you don't want backup? There's still time - "

"There's really not," you reply, as quietly as you think the linkpearl will actually pick up, "but thanks for the thought."

"...Right," Yda says. "Stay safe, then."

The connection goes dead, and you allow yourself a moment to snort. "You mean 'have fun,'" you mutter.

Getting into the base is easy. Getting out is what's more likely to be a problem, but you just have to start enough fires for them to not have any spare hands, and that won't be difficult. The corrupted crystals embedded in the ground around the castrum sing. They're waiting for you.

You take a deep breath, settling invisibibly behind a wall not far from one such cluster, and attune yourself to the right frequency. There is almost none of the Seventh Fonon in this world, and more often than not what you can find is locked within these very same crystals, a part of the very 'corruption' that makes the crystallized aether unsafe to be around. That means that pushing the instability of the crystals too far doesn't even require you to touch them, just to get close enough to resonate with the Seventh inside, and push that over the edge.

No matter what else happens, the Seventh Fonon answers your call, because it is a part of you can no one and nothing can take away. And so you push on it, gently but firmly, and you sing to it, and with a series of cracks that cannot be heard by ears, it gives way.

The corrupted crystal explodes. Technically speaking, the crystal annihilates, offering its aetherial bounty up to the air, to the thick haze that hangs over Northern Thanalan due to the ceruleum production facilities. A little more Seventh, into the atmosphere, for if you someday need it.

Also, a massive hole in the retaining wall that keeps loose sand and grit from spilling into the castrum's open ceruleum tanks. Oops.

In the thirty seconds it takes for the guard on duty to process what's happened, another set of crystals goes off - a sympathetic explosion, not your doing, and not a hyperresonance's annihilation. That's the other part of what makes the corrupted crystals so dangerous - that's the dangerous part of what you're doing, not the Garlean forces. You've taken on an army before.

(You didn't win, then, but you were damn close.)

(Just not close enough.)

As the chaos begins to collect eyes on this part of the castrum, you slip away, off to another large outgrowth of crystals. The annihilation of this one puts a hole in an interior wall, rendering the checkpoints at the gate pretty much meaningless. While all eyes and spotlights are seeking the culprit of that one, you jump up and scale the last couple feet of another wall in order to blow a hole in the exterior.

Five more explosions - three you caused directly, and two just because the corrupted crystals are sensitive to further instability - and you judge the castrum to have enough problems to keep them busy while the Scions are at Centri. The legatus himself has come out of his sanctum to investigate the disturbance, which means it's time to be gone.

Still unseen, you slip off to the north, along under the bridge that carries the train between the two castrums. While you're there, you set off one final outcropping that will take the track out of commission for at least a few days, hopefully a week, before you shimmy down into the mists and disappear entirely.

Only once you're at the bottom do you sit down and bury your face in your hands. You hadn't been sure that that would work. You hadn't been certain that you would be able to do it. The entire time, you hadn't been sure that it was all real. That Auldrant wasn't just... A delusion, something your mind made up.

You breathe in and out and listen to the frothing of the river below you, and the distant sounds of alarm sirens. It was real. You're real, and really here, and that -

That holds no answers that satisfy you, but those answers must surely exist.

For now, you can pat yourself on the back for another Special Operation completed with no one the wiser, and start the trip back up the Mor Dhona side of the cliffs. You haven't gotten any word from the group at Centri, but you can wait.

It's not like you really have a choice, anyway.

"You know," Alphinaud says, coming to stand over your shoulder at the Crystarium's railing, "for the entire first year I knew Aodhan, I was convinced he hated me."

It takes you a moment to reconnect that that name belongs to Asch now, but when you do, you look up.

"He's kind of like that," you say. "He acts like he hates everyone, a lot of the time."

Alphinaud chuckles and shakes his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the rail. "It was different with me. He actively avoided me - unless it was well and truly a moment of crisis, he wouldn't even be in the same room with me."

Kicking a foot back to rest it on the ground with just his toes, he continues, "Of course, I was a bit arrogant at the time. After the consequences of my naivete blew up in my face, I thought I understood the why of his dislike for me. After all, why wouldn't anyone avoid someone so full of themselves?"

You can't help but wince in sympathy. Oh boy, you know that feeling, all right. But before you can say anything to that effect, Alphinaud continues, "But to my surprise, in the depths of my despair, he treated me with an unexpected kindness. A warmth that I didn't know him to possess. He was always there, asking me, 'how will you do better in the future?'"

He pulls away from the wall just enough to look down at you. "I asked him about it, eventually. It turned out, the reason he avoided me didn't have much to do with me at all."

"'You reminded me of someone I hurt. Someone I was never able to apologize to, because he didn't deserve the way I treated him.' I wondered who it was that could have left him with such deep regrets."

You shift, suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze, and rub the back of your head with your hand. "He really said that?"

Rather than answering you directly, Alphinaud says, "By that time, the Calamity was six years past. That's more than enough time to reflect on your mistakes, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so," you say. "It's just so hard to imagine. He really did hate me, you know? It's not like he just avoided me, he..."

You can't bring yourself to say it. Not to someone who looks up to Asch so much and relies on him. But Alphinaud only nods.

"While I know that it isn't really possible to start over with your sibling," he says, which hits you like a punch in the gut, because that's not a term you would ever have applied to Asch, considering everything, "I do think it possible to try. And if you are both willing to attempt a fresh start, then that can only increase your chances of success."

You sigh, but it's quiet, mostly because he's right. "It doesn't feel like it should be that easy," you say.

"I'm sure it won't be," Alphinaud answers. "The question is if you're willing to walk that road even when it isn't easy."

You huff, this time, crossing your arms. "Stop being right," you mutter.

"Why, I'm just taking one of the few chances I can get," Alphinaud replies, eyes sparkling. "It isn't as though Alisaie lets me get away with it."

"Ugh," you say. "Right. Then I guess I'd better go... Talk to him, then."

You start pushing yourself up, brushing the dirt off your clothes. You still don't feel prepared, after everything, but you feel a little less unprepared.

"Best of luck," Alphinaud says, as you turn to take the long stairs back down to the main level of the city.

"Thanks," you say. Even if Asch has changed, you're probably still going to need it.

There's a particular sort of silence that falls when Aodhan is well and truly angry. It's as though sound itself has taken a moment to go still out of respect; sound ceases to carry through the air in the way that it should. In the same way that a too-silent night in the forest makes the hair on your arms stand on end, silence falls over the room in the wake of Emet-Selch's statement.

"Care to repeat that?" Aodhan, Asch says, almost conversationally, almost cheerfully, and it does make you experience something to realize that his model for an expression that should make any rational person back away in fear is you.

Emet-Selch hesitates, but not out of concern for the potential harm the young man in front of him could perform. It's a thoughtful pause, and then he smiles in turn. "Oh. Oh. My, my... How very interesting." And then the wondering tone turns suddenly sharp. "You aren't supposed to exist, boy."

"Two thousand years of prophecy would disagree with you," Asch says. "Two thousand years and quite a lot of effort."

Emet-Selch shrugs. "Your pardon," he says, no apology at all in his voice. "You aren't supposed to remember."

"That's what happens when you create a primal to represent memory," Asch returns.

You see Luke reach out towards him, and you can't be sure whether it's to offer comfort or to stop things before they progress any further. In either case, you're compelled to put a hand on Luke's shoulder yourself.

This is revealing, of the fate of the world that you cannot remember, and in a way far different from the questions you have asked of Luke. The architect of Auldrant's destruction, and the boy who tried to become its savior until it tore him apart -

"Such qualities do not outlast the summoning of the entity they are associated with," Emet-Selch pronounces, and you would not doubt his expertise save for that which you already know to the contrary. He folds his arms thoughtfully around his chest, one hand on his jaw. "Though, were those properties to be imbued in a living person..."

His gaze, which had been drifting across the room towards you and Luke, refocuses on Asch. "You do have my sympathy," he says at length, tone light (but it is a kind of lightness that you use, too, to hide the genuine feelings underneath). "To recall a world that is lost is a heavy burden. Even if yours was no paradise, I do understand how much it might weigh."

"I don't want your sympathy," Asch all but hisses. "Take your understanding and shove it."

The Ascian turns towards you, briefly, or perhaps paues on you as he glances around the room. You don't allow it to ruffle you, because you're not responsible for Asch, whatever this man might think.

"What is it that you seek, then, I wonder?" Emet-Selch answers. "To bring back your dead? I'm afraid such a thing isn't possible, not in this case. Those fragmented souls have been returned to their proper places, and there is nothing that can undo a Rejoining that has been completed." Another shift in tone, darker, almost huskier with an anticipation that you can imagine all too clearly in Garlemald's war room, fanning the desire for conquest. "Or is it revenge?"

Asch narrows his eyes... And then very pointedly withdraws, folding his arms and inclining his head, a gesture that looks strange without the height of a viera's ears to balance it out.

"It's no kind of revenge that you can comprehend," he replies.

"Do keep me on my toes," the Ascian condescends, before turning back to the chamber at large.

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