When you wake again, it is more thoroughly, with more awareness. The air feels thin, even to your mountain-adjusted lungs; it reminds you of the Churning Mists, the skies above the treeline where trees somehow yet grew, where you always felt just a little short of breath until you forgot to.
You take a deep breath, and then another, without opening your eyes. The sheets you're on are the sort of rough-spun that's common to hospitals and sickbeds. That is, all in all, a logical place for you to end up, though you don't feel anything more than phantom pains where injuries should be.
You're familiar enough with how shedding Shiva's form also sheds her injuries - that you were even able to walk out of your battles with Aodhan and then Ravana is testament to that - but you could swear that you still remember the impacts of the Garlean cannons. You'll be remembering them, always, for...
However long the rest of your life stretches out, from here. The thought of it does not especially have you rejoicing. What are you to do, from here? Your sources of guidance have gone silent; Shiva because she was you (nothing more and nothing less, in the end, than your own desires), and Hydaelyn has not spoken for many long months. A year, perhaps more, you've naught counted particularly closely, since she was never aught more than a murmur after you found the Shiva inside yourself.
Now you have nothing, not even a crystal of light to serve as touchstone. Feeling more exhausted inwardly than you do outwardly, you push yourself into a sitting position and open your eyes.
It isn't Ishgard, the way you'd half-feared. It isn't anywhere you recognize; certainly not the floating Allagan islands you last recall. There is too much light, pouring in multicolored windows, a high ceiling that reminds you of -
(There was an Ishgardian Orthodox church, in Falcon's Nest. It's presumably still there, dug out from the ice and snow once the Holy See decided to reclaim the town. You remember it only through a child's eyes, ever turned upward while the rest of those attending the service bowed their heads.)
"Ah! You're awake!"
The voice is familiar, but not quite right - you swing your head to look at the speaker automatically, and for a moment something catches in your throat.
But a long habit of biting your tongue catches you from your mistake - the man sitting in a chair beside your bed, wrapped in an embroidered robe, the shoulders set with round epaulettes and the sleeves long and dangling, looks almost like Aodhan. The hair color is the same at a glance, though darkened towards the tips of his ears, and the overall shape of his face is the same - but the cut of hair is wrong, feathered and framing his jaw where you're used to seeing it pulled back.
It isn't your friend, who looked at you with such understanding. You would know those eyes, a light gold not unlike Hraesvelgr's. This man's eyes are too dark to be alike to Nidhogg's, not nearly pink enough but a closer color to rust, but it's that insight that makes you somehow confident that the fact that his face is similar to Aodhan's is not simply because he's only the second viera you've ever met.
"Where am I?" you say, because it seems the most important question, because how am I alive is a question that has to wait.
"Lemures," he says, and when your expression must make clear that that means nothing to you, he hesitantly adds, "The sky continent of Lemures, over Meracydia."
Meracydia. His homeland, near enough the entire world away.
"Fool," you whisper, forgetting you have an audience. "Damned fool. I wasn't worth that kind of salvation."
no subject
You take a deep breath, and then another, without opening your eyes. The sheets you're on are the sort of rough-spun that's common to hospitals and sickbeds. That is, all in all, a logical place for you to end up, though you don't feel anything more than phantom pains where injuries should be.
You're familiar enough with how shedding Shiva's form also sheds her injuries - that you were even able to walk out of your battles with Aodhan and then Ravana is testament to that - but you could swear that you still remember the impacts of the Garlean cannons. You'll be remembering them, always, for...
However long the rest of your life stretches out, from here. The thought of it does not especially have you rejoicing. What are you to do, from here? Your sources of guidance have gone silent; Shiva because she was you (nothing more and nothing less, in the end, than your own desires), and Hydaelyn has not spoken for many long months. A year, perhaps more, you've naught counted particularly closely, since she was never aught more than a murmur after you found the Shiva inside yourself.
Now you have nothing, not even a crystal of light to serve as touchstone. Feeling more exhausted inwardly than you do outwardly, you push yourself into a sitting position and open your eyes.
It isn't Ishgard, the way you'd half-feared. It isn't anywhere you recognize; certainly not the floating Allagan islands you last recall. There is too much light, pouring in multicolored windows, a high ceiling that reminds you of -
(There was an Ishgardian Orthodox church, in Falcon's Nest. It's presumably still there, dug out from the ice and snow once the Holy See decided to reclaim the town. You remember it only through a child's eyes, ever turned upward while the rest of those attending the service bowed their heads.)
"Ah! You're awake!"
The voice is familiar, but not quite right - you swing your head to look at the speaker automatically, and for a moment something catches in your throat.
But a long habit of biting your tongue catches you from your mistake - the man sitting in a chair beside your bed, wrapped in an embroidered robe, the shoulders set with round epaulettes and the sleeves long and dangling, looks almost like Aodhan. The hair color is the same at a glance, though darkened towards the tips of his ears, and the overall shape of his face is the same - but the cut of hair is wrong, feathered and framing his jaw where you're used to seeing it pulled back.
It isn't your friend, who looked at you with such understanding. You would know those eyes, a light gold not unlike Hraesvelgr's. This man's eyes are too dark to be alike to Nidhogg's, not nearly pink enough but a closer color to rust, but it's that insight that makes you somehow confident that the fact that his face is similar to Aodhan's is not simply because he's only the second viera you've ever met.
"Where am I?" you say, because it seems the most important question, because how am I alive is a question that has to wait.
"Lemures," he says, and when your expression must make clear that that means nothing to you, he hesitantly adds, "The sky continent of Lemures, over Meracydia."
Meracydia. His homeland, near enough the entire world away.
"Fool," you whisper, forgetting you have an audience. "Damned fool. I wasn't worth that kind of salvation."