the sky and the setting summer sun's harmony

[oncedriven]

You breathe. Today is -

(ten, twelve, fourteen.)

Bahamut's song echoes in your ears. You can hear it now, as you couldn't then.

(when's the last time someone called upon you to play that role?)

The memories flicker, twist, as somewhere beyond the sky a red moon cracks open like an egg -

(Thank you, you say to some stranger, whose sacrifice resounds, half a world away. Whose mantle lays strewn across the fields of Cartenau, waiting for you to pick it up.)

You are no dragon. But neither is that dragon who falls from the sky.

"Aodhan?" you hear someone asking, as the crashing outside renews. The madness, the despair. The twisted song of Dalamud, which all of your people can almost hear, even if it doesn't yet beckon them into madness.

To them, you imagine, it must seem that you drift as though you're in a trance, making your way to the doors with a grace that sixteen-year-old you never possessed.

(turn it back, take it back, we can make it better this time - )

No one actually tries to stop you until you're at the doors. Holy child, dragonspeaker child, fragile child.

It's your mother who is the first to act to stop you, of course. A hand on your arm, rougher than anyone else would dare.

(In your heart there is loss. Somewhere in another future, another you lives out another life, through to the end.)

(But the you in this moment - )

You say to your mother, "I'm going out there whether you allow it or not."

"Don't be foolish," she says, and it's more than an admonishment, it's a command. Her grip tightens on your arm.

(Beneath your skin, aether prickles - )

(What would happen, if someone tried to make a primal ou of dynamis?)

You stop only long enough to tell her, "Let go or you'll be dragged. Someone has to stop Dalamud's song."

(When it comes to making things right, you have to start somewhere.)

(Why not here?)

You turn your head away just as you see the shock bloom on your mother's face, and then you begin to walk.

As you'd promised, your progress isn't even slowed by the hand in a death grip on your arm, even as she digs her claws into it. Even as she digs in her feet - even for viera, the kind of ceremonial heels she's wearing aren't great for balance. When you reach the end of her reach, she stumbles half a step after you and lets go.

If you wanted to really be impressive, you could blow the doors off their hinges, you think. That's not the point, though. Golden lights already beginning to float through your fingers, you pause on the doorstep, and shoot a cocky grin over your shoulder before sliding out the double doors like a child sneaking out after curfew.

As soon as your feet touch the ground, the power floats up into you -

With the hymn of a dead world on your lips and the memory of an unmade god in your soul, you step forward onto the air, and become the sun.

The creation of primals is flawed, because they are not - have never been - creatures of aether alone.

Prayer, after all, is a staunch requirement. Belief, faith, whatever it is you choose to name it -

Half a world away (but only half), the primal Bahamut, the rage of Bahamut, roars and screams a song of destruction across Eorzea.

You are but one person. Your voice cannot reach so far, even with the grief of a dead world to carry it. Even if your hope reaches further still.

(For a moment, you imagine you can feel them, those who would hear this song in the tongue it's meant for. Four wyrms with their heads tilted to the sky, to the song only they can hear, the grief that they too bear.)

(Dawn will come, you sing. Not a hope but a certainty.)

A dancer's footsteps, to calm the heart. To draw the poison out and make it something you can fight, something you can kill.

Every hatred, you take, and you swallow it. Fuel for your next steps, across the horizon line, sunbeams flickering in your footsteps and the sound of your voice.

Every hatred, every grief, rooted in love -

(What is the sun?)

(Those who study the heavens posit that it is a great orb of flame, set in a distant abyss, shining its light on all creation.)

You burn, until there is nothing left. Until all that there is has gone still.

Only then do you slump forward, in the silence that follows a battle, strength leaving you with little more than pinpricks of starlight -

Someone catches your shoulder, as you spit up a last few notes of gold, and that's the last you remember.

Comments

[oncedriven]

The tale is longer, this time, than it was to convince Zero. Zero, after all, had few concerns before your arrival in her world.

Vrtra's, naturally, are many. You speak over the food for a long time, not just of Azdaja but of Tiamat and Hraesvelgr and Nidhogg; of Midgardsomr and Hydaelyn and Omega; of the end of the world, and what it is you hope to do.

Ahewann looks, understandably, overwhelmed. As would anyone, you think, finding themselves thrown into the true reality of what it means to be a companion to a dragon. He spends as much time staring at his plate as eating.

Zero, as is her wont, eats with very little pause, cleaning her plate thoroughly of every scrap that contains aether. Those bits that can't be disgested by her humanlike body, she takes the energy from as voidsent do, leaving a bowl of blackened hamsa bones beside her plate.

(She takes yours, as well, which you are used to. One thing about living with a voidsent in your pocket is that you know very well that nothing goes to waste.)

"Were your account not so very accurate," Viradahn says between plates (he consumes less food than a true human of his apparent age), "I would think you mad. However, the details of your tale are too consistent to dismiss it as mere insanity."

"I like that 'mere,'" you mutter. "It implies that you already know I've lost it."

Viradahn smiles, then. "In Radz-at-Han, there is a longstanding belief that the mad are given fragments of wisdom from the gods," he replies. "To go so far to change the course... It must surely be madness, but it is one I will gladly be a party to. Even if it were not for Azdaja's sake, or that of my people..."

He glances at Ahewann, almost shyly, but you can guess the thoughts in his head. You do not, and never have, believed that hiding the truth of someone's fate from them does any good. Since that point, Ahewann hasn't eaten a bite, only sat before his plate with his eyes closed. You spared the details - it would put any mortal off their food, yourself included - but you can still imagine how heavy the knowledge must sit.

And you can imagine how it must feel to him, to be told that, and then in the same breath to be told, I came to save as many as I can, you included.

Finally, Ahewann says, "Then we are in agreement. Whatever it is you would ask of Thavnair, you shall have it."

"Thank you," you say. "Truthfully - for now, while there is much work to be done, I need to get my bearings. I'm in this land three years ahead of time, and don't know the shape of how things stand. Following that, I shall need to get in contact with the Garlean Imperial Palace - I'll drag Emet-Selch out by his hair if need be. It's my understanding that His Radiance has an impressive beard? Because that will do for a handle."

Ah, good. Ahewann's recovered enough to look at you like you're insane. Vrtra says, in his own voice, "In all the centuries I have ruled here, the Ascians have only but rarely darkened these lands. I confess, I know little of their ways."

"You and your siblings are some of the only beings who could hope to compete with the Unsundered in sheer might," you say. "It only makes sense that they'd avoid you, in the same way that they avoid the greater voidsent lords. That's probably why Thavnair has been allowed to remain neutral for so long in spite of being only across the sea from Corvos, honestly."

"The voidsent..." Vrtra muses from Viradahn's mouth. You're beginning to pick up all the more clearly the tells of when he uses one or the other. For now, his vessel straightens and says, "It's a pity that you can't reproduce the recipe of the warding scales as accurately as you can the principles behind the tempering cure. But now that we know it can be done, there is no reason to wait in doing it."

You nod, and say, "The sooner that work begins, the better. I shall leave that in your capable hands, then."

Viradahn nods, and says, "Is there ought else to put in motion before you approach Garlemald?"

You roll things around in your mind. "I should pen a letter to Sharlayan as well," you say. "The sooner I can bring the Forum into order, the sooner we can resolve the issue of the Final Days. Eventually we'll need to figure out a way to the moon, as well, but that can wait. The loporrits aren't going anywhere." You work your way backwards up the list, and then finally say, "I would like to free Tiamat as soon as possible, and that would be much easier with your assistance. My personal store of aether is large, but it is not infinite."

"She is still my sister," Viradahn replies. "Though we were never close in comparison - as indeed I was never close with the trio of Hraesvelgr, Nidhogg, and Ratatoskr - I have no wish to leave her to continue to suffer. Yes. For that I will offer my aid gladly."

"Then we'll start with that as our items of action," you say. "... Tomorrow. After some sleep."

You have years of head start. You don't have to rush into everything.