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Chapter Text

Were Naillebert to mark the Crystal Exarch's demeanor as reminiscent of anything, it would be that of his and Theoloix's first tutor.

'Tis not a flattering comparison. Master Moernronn was exceedingly intolerant of his charges, treating them as he would adults over thrice their age yet refusing to divulge anything (that is, everything) he thought them too young and immature to truly understand. He was reticent, unwilling to discuss anything regarding himself or clarify his stances with anecdotal evidence. He kept secrets and dictated that they do the same, a stance that was revealed to conceal his own criminal attempts at defrauding his employers.

The Exarch will not explain his command of Syrcus Tower, which only answers to an extinct royal line from the Source. The Crystarium knows not his origin, nor his motivations or machinations. He asked to speak with Cielle alone soon after they arrived; the next day, she told them of her Echo-witnessed portents of doom, yet could not confess the topic of their discussion.

His useless aether is not necessary to know that there is a hidden game afoot.

However, baseless speculation would get them nowhere. The Exarch claimed that naught but Arbert could save this shard - once again, without explaining why - and refused to truly act until his arrival, but the Scions were not bound by the same constraints. Cielle's plans currently involved a driven and passionate attempt at learning the Vrandtic script; Naillebert, for his part, heard tell of an empire named Ronka, where all truths were once known.

It seemed as good a place to start as any. All he needed to do was mention to the Launch attendants that he was the Exarch's guest, and they fell over themselves to provide him with transport to Fort Gohn. The benefits of powerful assistance, I suppose.

The Crystalline Mean also offered him some supplies: trail rations, a canteen of clean water, a set of thick robes stitched with metal and gems. A wooden rod lacquered black, tipped by silver points spiralling around a bloody red stone. Either the Exarch didn't know, or he didn't care to disclose it, but both options left Naillebert in the position of awkwardly turning down a weapon he couldn't use. 

(Another point against him. For one who claimed great insight, he was remarkably uninformed on certain pertinent topics.)

Amaro were broader than chocobos, with four wide wings offering far more stable flight paths; the journey to Rak'tika took a half-turn of the hidden sun, his exhaustion an antithesis to the eternal day by the time the wooden stockade came into view.

After sending off his mount, Naillebert made his way into the fort itself. The majority of the townsfolk were dressed in black and feathers with white paint daubed down their bare chests and arms, and moved around the settlement with the air of practiced quiet as he brushed past the axe-wielding gate guards.

According to his informant at the Launch, the fort's solitary inn lay just to the left of the western entrance. On the way, he stepped aside to let a gigantic armoured Roe-no, Galdjent pass him by-

-only to stumble to a halt as he caught a glimpse of the traveller's face, green-skinned and broad-nosed and framed on all sides by familiar gray-brown hair.

I was right the first time, he thought. Roegadyn. Out loud, he said, "Blanhaerz?"

The man in question - who had frozen in his tracks, prompting glares from those trying to use the path he was blocking - stared, then smiled wide and bright. "Halone be praised, Naillebert!" he exclaimed, one friendly palm sending the former black mage staggering when it connected with his back, "I expected to wait far longer before having the chance to look upon a familiar face once more."

"'Tis good to see you in fair health," he smiled, drifting towards the stockade wall to get them out of the thoroughfare. "Your body is in Krile's expert care, lest you wonder."

"I did, and you have my thanks." Blanhaerz rested a hand on the blue-hilted sword at his hip, absently rocking it back and forth. "When last we spoke, the lord Exarch made mention of attempting to summon Arbert once more. I assume that explains your presence, but did-"

"No. He stole away Cielle and I instead, and bid us wait for our friend's arrival before attempting to aid this world."

Blanhaerz snorted. "Aye, he said much the same to me - the Echo is supposedly no protection against the magicks of these Lightwarden beasts. Out of respect for my solitude, I made no attempt at trial combat, but with Cielle and I together..." He winced in anticipation, eyes flickering aside. "You are only soul and spirit here, my friend. Does your inhibition persist?"

There was no answer worth giving, so Naillebert didn't bother. Pointedly avoiding whatever expression lay on Blanhaerz's face, he said, "If you were unaware of my presence, then I take it word has yet to reach you of what Cielle foresaw."

"Correct." Turning to face him fully, he asked, "What disaster did she bear witness to this time?"

Lowering his voice, Naillebert began, "Supposedly, the Eighth Umbral Calamity."

One condensed explanation later, and Blanhaerz muttered a curse under his breath. "Black Rose I remember: we found its initial testing grounds in the Dimwold, yes?"

"Indeed."

"Hells." He scratched at his beard, far less groomed than was typical, then moved to continue on his way. "If work on this side is indeed required to prevent the future from coming to pass, then mayhap there are benefits to being stranded here. And if we plan to stay a while, then maybe..."

Weighing his need for a nap against his want to not end their reunion so soon, Naillebert decided to follow along. Even in a forest where larger Spoken seemed common, Blanhaerz's muscle and countenance was akin to a battering ram; all he had to do was tread at the burly paladin's back and watch him part the crowds with ease. "'Tis why I chose to visit the Greatwood. If I am unable to fight alongside you, then my energies are best served in research, and Ronkan history is ripe for discovery."

"About that," Blanhaerz said, pausing on the edge of a bare dirt field. "Have you never considered an alternate field of study?"

"You know the answer to that." Naillebert then looked around, noting the striking dummies and marked chalk lines dotting the area, a Hr-Ronso stripped to the waist smashing wrapped fists against a target. "Blanhaerz Usynhaerzsyn."

To his credit, he had the politeness to appear chagrined. Unfortunately, he rallied quickly, and did not drop the subject. "The brawlers here practice an art more akin to Ul'dahn pugilism than Lyse's monkhood, with very little aether manipulation involved. I - and no doubt our friends - would be far happier knowing you had some way to defend yourself in times of crisis-"

"I have been perfectly fine thus far!"

"You have been lucky thus far. That cannot last forever." Blanhaerz could tower over their entire order - save possibly Hoary - while slouching, and was unafraid to make use of that gift. "What if we had not arrived in time for the assault on Rhalgr's Reach? What if the Warrior of Darkness had ignored all your attempts at negotiation, and we were too slow to save you?"

Naillebert would be dead. There was no need to guess.

More than ever, he wished for his Gem of Shattoto: nearly inert in his hands the crystal may be, but the weight of eons of knowledge was comforting nonetheless. Alas, all that made the journey with him was the memory of his body, complete with all its damning flaws.

Then, cutting through his indulgence of silence, came a voice. "'Scuse me! You wouldn't happen to be looking to join, would you?"

The Ronso from the training field stood nearby, having apparently acquired a shirt along the way; hunching shorter than both Scions, his bare feet and arms were swathed in tawny fur. Amber eyes flicked hopefully between them, and Naillebert went to deny his question before Blanhaerz interrupted. "My friend here is considering it."

"Really?" he gasped, before composing himself and adding, "My apologies. It's just that we don't get many recruits anymore, since the business with the eaters and the Children and-but I'm rambling. Sorry. My name is Motya. Welcome to the Brawlers' Guild!"

Motya bounded off towards a nearby building, waving for them to follow. Casting a glare at his unrepentant arse of a friend, he hurried to keep up as they stepped into a barren training hall.

"The Guild's been around for generations, since way before the Flood," he explained, gesturing up towards the leaf-green banner emblazoned with a tricoloured circle that hung in pride of place on the back wall. "Almost as old as Gohn, and the art itself's even older, tracing roots back to the techniques codified by the old Ronkan military. Sure, anyone can make a fist and punch the enemy, but we teach you how to do it right. And also how to not break your fingers and toes in the process. That's important." 

His curiosity piqued despite himself, Naillebert interjected, "For such a storied profession, there seem to be very few practitioners."

"I did say that we're going through a bad patch," Motya sighed. "There's me and my dad - we're the groundskeepers - and there's the guildmaster and there's Judine and Loe-Ladd and Ladie-Loe, but that's it." Flashing a smile over his shoulder, he added, "But now there's you too! I hope."

From back by the door where he had abandoned Naillebert to a flood of sunny enthusiasm, Blanhaerz asked, "Is any prior experience required to join?"

"Nope! Though you do need to be at least a bit fit." Striding forwards to take Naillebert's measure, Motya looked him up and down before inquiring, "Could you run ten laps around the field in a row? Swim the width of the Lozatl in under thirty seconds? Kick your big friend there in the belly?"

Ignoring Blanhaerz's snicker, Naillebert rapidly assembled his answers; a mage he may have been, but the life of a Scion was a very active one. "Yes, probably, and I have no way of knowing." 

Another moment of scrutinisation, and Motya's grin grew even wider. "Good enough for me! I'll go get the guildmaster, and she likes you then you're in and I can get all the forms sorted out, but it's boring and a pain so I'll only do it if you're definitely gonna join." He paused, rubbing his hands on his slops. "Are you?"

Here are some facts. One: Naillebert has been unable to manipulate aether since his and J'rhoomale's desperate attempt to escape the Crystal Braves through Flow. Two: this has not stopped him from continuing his duties as a Scion of the Seventh Dawn, though he no longer takes the field against primals in favour of diplomacy and business and the study of the past.

Three: in Norvrandt, their numbers are greatly reduced. Six Scions heard the Crystal Exarch's call; it follows that only those six could make the journey across worlds. Six to combat the sin eaters, six to vanquish whatever Ascian lies behind this latest scheme. (And that is a maximum value reliant on the assumption that either the Exarch will call Arbert last, or he will not stop summoning the moment he properly aligns his aim.)

But it is only six if he is able to fight.

Motya's gaze was wide-eyed and hopeful, desperate to bring some life to his struggling guild. Blanhaerz's face held a practiced neutral expression, but the slightest of smug smiles curled his mouth up at the corner. The correct course of action or no, there will be vengeance held for this.

Naillebert set his shoulders and lifted his chin, arms folded firmly across his chest. "I am."

Chapter Text

Cielle is an excellent actress.

Her brother is partially to blame: Sharlayan may tout itself as a bastion of wisdom, but that only lends itself to war between factions touting their truth as the only one. Fourchenault's position in the Forum was won through debate and intrigue and massaging the truth to appeal, and she shared a house with him while he learned how to do it.

The other half is genuine talent. She can play the villain magnificently, leaving no doubt as to her pretended intentions; she can parley straight-faced with the Paragons and emerge the undisguised victor. When she was younger, she read all her brother's textbooks, and from them learned how to manipulate emotions and control narratives and all the while pretend to have the world securely in hand.

Father disapproved of duplicity, though, and so her skill in the field went unused for some time. He disapproved, yet recognised its necessity, and so she laid Mezaya's prophecies at Eorzea's feet and welcomed Garlemald to waste their energies on the chase for her truth.

None of her comrades at the time, Circle of Knowing and Path of the Twelve alike, could have played the same part. Cielle acts a hundred parts in service to the light, and she isn't afraid to do so.

It sets her apart from her friends. Arbert can't spot or tell a lie to save his life, literally, and Blanhaerz was much the same before the debacle with the Crystal Braves taught him to examine the words of others more closely. Lamimi and Naillebert are as Sharlayan-taught as she is, but both cling powerfully to honesty for their own reasons, while J'rhoomale's bardic rhythms lose all their power if wrapped around a false tale of heroism. They are heroes, brave and true - Cielle is the only one to have embraced deceit as a tool in pursuit of the world's salvation.

Which is why, when Elidibus introduced her to the Warrior of Darkness, it was unsettling to find a kindred spirit.

The Warrior's attire was pitch-dark, a long-tailed doublet concealing layered chain armour and soft-soled Doman kyahan. She bore wicked twin knives akin to Yugiri's, albeit with golden hilts and violet tassels; Lamimi's attempt at spying on them in the Great Gubal Library nearly ended with a smaller blade, silver and smooth and perfectly hidden, buried between her eyes.

Cielle lied adroitly, and knew to recognise the same act in another. When the Warrior made her pitch atop Xelphatol, she watched from behind her full-face helm and catalogued the idiosyncrasies.

She laughed, she twirled, she drowned herself in her role: the perfect opposition to the kind and noble Warrior of Light, a gleeful villainess who delighted in trickery and held no care for preserving bystanders. Her familiar roiled at her heels, a living oil slick oozing shadows so its mistress' feet would not be tarnished by dirt and snow and bloodied wood.

When the Warrior divulged news of the First, the glint of fear in her eyes flared to life. Her lip curled when she spoke of her 'allies', she clenched her fists at the explanation of the Light. She used "we" instead of "I", once, when referring to her deeds as Hydaelyn's champion.

She lied. She spoke the truth, yet hid reality in every grandiose line of her body.

After, there came the business with the mountain and the primal and the broken grieving beastman. The Scions proved victorious without her, as usual. Elidibus bid Cielle inform her charge of their plans going forward, as usual. As such, she proceeded to the Silver Bazaar, the flight from the Horizon aetheryte short and blessedly silent. On the balcony, there were no souls in sight - Cielle nearly decided to try another locale before a voice rang out from above.

"The stars are the same, or near enough to not matter. Did you know that?" it asked. Glancing up, she found the originator: the Warrior of Darkness, sprawled out on the roof's edge with her legs swinging free, one hand raised to observe the night sky through the azure filter of a Crystal of Light.

(Cielle's was identical in hue, now safely consigned to Arbert's care. Water is fluid, and changeable, and the wellspring of life. It murders the unwary without mercy or restraint.)

Ignoring the question, Cielle said, "I would have thought you to abandon your gift alongside your former title."

"Some burdens are necessary to survival," the Warrior muttered, tucking it away and vaulting down from her perch. "Nonetheless! If my tour guide has arrived, I take it the man in white has exciting news for me?"

"Exciting, though not fortuitous." Cielle took the time to watch her mirth extinguish itself, then continued. "Titan is dead, though not as we planned: a kobold child disrupted the summoning, and the Warrior of Light dispatched the malformed primal in such a manner that the patriarch's distress did not deepen the fears of the populace. The Emissary counsels that-"

"We wait." The Warrior's voice dripped with acid. Against the wall, a shade shifted, unfurling itself in two dimensions to answer its mistress' vitriol. "I wait for the Ascians to grow a spine and act, while the Flood devours my home alive."

Cielle is a liar, and a politician's sister, and practiced at the art of the turncloak. She knows an easy mark when she sees one, and the Warrior is too blinded by her own desperation to notice the wolves licking their jowls around her. She is pressured, and terrified, and isolated far from home. She will grab for any solution presented as plausible, without looking deeply into the offerer's higher schemes.

"In my contemplations, I have come across an alternate path," she said, measured and calm, and felt no satisfaction in the way the Warrior's eyes instantly snapped to her own. "You have clearly demonstrated your willingness to kill for your home, and your surpassing skill at the art."

Both were true. The Warrior of Darkness in combat was a sight to behold, her natural proclivity for shadowy magicks only amplified by swearing herself to Darkness; her familiar alone could raze platoons of ordinary soldiers, and together they brought down Ravana and far more.

In the silent halls of her mind, Cielle composed an apology to the collateral of what was about to be set in motion.

"Our Ascian allies set you against beastman primals and called it good. I propose you aim higher: slaughter the Warrior of Light who leads your opposition, and the Source's trajectory will be permanently forced askew," she counselled, gauntleted hands clasped neatly before her. I am so, so sorry. For everything.

A brief, stunned moment passed. The Warrior's eyes widened and air hissed between her teeth, bulging out into a full-bodied fit of laughter that rattled and cracked through the empty night air. The one-sided shade stepped out from the wall and gained its third dimension - a void of black in the vaguest reminiscence of a coeurl, endlessly dripping midnight ichor - curling around her and providing an unstable surface to lean against. "You-heh-you know," she giggled, head lolling back into her familiar's viscous hide, "you remind me of someone."

"Oh?"

"The man who taught me of the stars." With one hand, she gestured carelessly to the heavens; the other, she ran along her familiar's caricatured arch of a spine. "Formal, wise, knowledgeable. Secretive." She smiled, a broken, grieving thing. "Traitorous."

Ah. Cielle set her face behind her helm, and asked, "Does that mean you agree with my proposal?"

A nod, and the Warrior made to extricate herself from the summoned not-liquid that left no stain or wet or mark. "'Tis a suitable option, and one I can easily accomplish. But I wonder..."

Two long strides brought them shoulder-to-shoulder. "...when your friends learn the truth, will they mourn what they shared with you? Will you feel the reverse, or was every act taken in the knowledge that it would one day be invalidated by betrayal?"

Thank all the Twelve, Cielle saw this coming. She doesn't hesitate for a second in answering, "My father once believed that 'to ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom - it is indolence'. To give up one life for one world is a trade I am sure he would approve of." After all, it was his own.

"Hah! 'One life for one world.' I like that. I think I'll use it." The Warrior began to trot down the stairs, only pausing to say, "Appoint the hour, and we will arrive to win the day. Avilix!" Her familiar's mass dipped in a mockery of a deferential nod, leaping fluidly over the railing to accompany its mistress into the dark. Her stride was strong, her head held high, her shoulders set in a strangely-

Arbert. The Warrior of Darkness, in that moment between moments, resembled her opposite number. Powerful and courageous, faced with an impossible foe and determined to succeed regardless.

Arbert, whose greatest failing was his strength of faith. Too friendly, too trusting, believing that the Braves were his allies until the blade was at his throat, believing that Archbishop Thordan genuinely sought the right path until blood scattered the Vault's shining floors. Tricked and manipulated by those cleverer than he, seeking the advancement of their own secret agenda.

Cielle is an excellent actress. She waited, poised and serene, until the Warrior vanished from sight, before finding a place to be quietly sick.

Chapter Text

When Rhoomale hit puberty, she stopped needing both hands and her chest as a bracing point to carry the infusion jar. It wasn't fancy - Master Matoya wasn't one for fancy - but it was huge, tall and exceedingly wide, designed so that filling it once at dawn would keep them both in stock for the whole day. She was a short kid, so it was a little annoying.

Now, so long as the lid was tight, she could fit it under one arm. It made the mornings much easier, being able to move it without painstaking effort.

"Miss J'rhoomale!" Raro Roggo ribbeted from his post by the entrance, hopping forward to scrutinise her bare legs. " Please , I beg of you, wash before returning from the garden! This is the fourth time this sennight, Broomsy will pitch a fit..."

Dumping her armful of herbs on the nearest barrel, Rhoomale blinked down at her body: splattered with mud from waist to toes, the bottom fulm of her tail matted and bedraggled. Oops. "But Raro, I had to fight the orn flies again! They've been really pushy lately, and kicking dirt up stuns them long enough to get me a clean shot."

"You kick-" Raro's little face scrunched up in horror. "But what of the garden? The herbs are delicate, Miss J'rhoomale, you must mind yourself around them!"

"They're fine," she said, rubbing her filthy palms against her tunic. "It was just the path dirt, and I put it back when I was done."

"And sullied yourself in the process!" Face darkening, Raro waved his wand and fired a shower of sparkles in her direction. "Out! Out! And don't come back until you've cleaned yourself up!"

Forced to scramble for cover from the shining onslaught, Rhoomale begrudgingly left the cave. Outside of the opken migration season, Quickspill Delta was fairly peaceful; the waters were clear and cold as she waded knee-deep to wash. Any nearby bullfrogs were keeping quiet, thank the Twelve, so the loudest noises came from the singing crickets in the bushes. It was a good morning, despite her scolding.

It'd be a better one if she could work out why Master Matoya had been so grumpy lately.

The poroggos said that there had been a lot more visitors, but she never saw them: they were always when she was out hunting or exploring or studying with Master Jehantel. When they went into the city for Rhoomale's medical assessments last moon, it was busy and crowded and so loud with people shouting and arguing and moving boxes everywhere, even through her earmuffs, that Master Matoya needed to cast a spell to make it so she couldn't hear anything until they arrived at the clinic.

They hadn't been moving any boxes, or packing anything away, or calling chocobo couriers over to the cave. Cielle had come by last moon to talk about her father's plan to help out Eorzea; Rhoomale wanted to stay with Master Matoya, though, so her friend promised to write letters whenever she could.

(So did J'moldva, when she went away to fight. In the last one, her favourite sister had become a hero of the Coliseum, and was poised to win it all - she needed to remember to ask if she could go watch the match next Thundersday!)

Ducking down to scrub out the hem of her tunic, Rhoomale's ears pricked up as the sound of someone's approach cut through the familiar morning din. Swishing fabric, clattering metal, a steady stride even on the uneven wooden walkways: someone armed but not armoured, who knew which slats sunk down weirdly and which ones would remain firm under an adult Sharlayan's full weight. Someone who'd been here before.

By the time they turned the corner, she was finished washing and out of the delta, wringing water from her tail as she tried not to stare. The visitor, an old Hyur in fancy brown robes and a matching pointy hat, slowed down to say, "You must be Matoya's newest pupil. J'rhoomale Hena, yes?"

"Yes." Rhoomale tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, asking, "Who're you?"

"An old colleague of your esteemed teacher," he said, stepping past her and revealing the black-gold star globe strapped neatly to his back. "I assume she hasn't suddenly sprouted the urge to wander from her hovel." He swept past the garden and into the cave without waiting for a response, sending Raro bouncing out of his way as he knocked solidly on the wall. "Matoya!"

"Mace." Master Matoya emerged from the shadows, tilting her head to look at him from under the brim of her own pointy hat. "Didn't I tell you not to return for another sennight?"

The professor's face hardened. "Aye, you did. But this cannot wait."

"Really." Master Matoya's gaze flickered over to Rhoomale as she hurried in, and she asked, "Have the herbs been infused into my tea yet?"

"No, but Raro made me go all the way back outside to-"

"Enough. See to the tea while I speak with the professor." Master Matoya jerked her chin towards the kitchen, then gestured for her guest to join her by the study table.

Momentarily confused, Rhoomale shook it off and retrieved the herbs, discarding the few that had begun to droop and piling the rest onto a counter. Pulling out the spent fire crystal from the last few suns, she fitted a fresh one into the burner and set a pan of water to warm.

"You plan to stay alone, then."

"Do I look like I'm alone? I have servants and my student for company, and even if I didn't you assume I cannot abide in solitude."

She flipped the chopping board over to the clean side - she'd wash it tomorrow - and pulled one of the smaller knives from the block. While she roughly chopped together the cow bitter and gaelicatnip, their sharp fragrance rising from every laceration, Raro hopped over to keep an eye on the boiling pot.

"This accursed continent bathes in the flames of destruction, Matoya; the Spear has been thrown high, and conflict sails in its wake. There is a reason that the Forum's convictions are to abandon it."

"The Forum's convictions are of no import to me, as you should well be aware by now. I am old, this is my home, and I have nowhere pressing to be."

Hopping onto a stepstool, she retrieved two earthenware pots, messily daubed with a child's fingerprint art. From the larger, dried cloud banana slices, half-empty of last season's crop; from the smaller, frozen snurbleberry chunks, the container enchanted to keep them perpetually cool. Raro passed her a glass bottle from the last time Master Matoya let Poro Roggo take her to market day, full of precious powdered nutmeg from a place called La Noscea.

"Hah! Aren't we all. What of your student, then? Isolation is no place to keep a child, Matoya, you must know that."

"Rhoomale's studies aren't my duty alone, you know, and she gets along with the brooms and poroggos. She isn't easily broken - she couldn't be to get this far."

After being sliced apart and warmed by proximity, the herb leaves were friable (a word learned from one of Master Matoya's books, that meant something like 'falling apart'. The important thing was that Master Jehantel complimented her on her vocabulary when she used it in front of him, so it must be something good) in her hands, easily splitting apart when she tossed them into the jar along with the fruit and panful of now-boiling water. Working quickly, she jammed the lid on top, then carefully shook it back and forth so everything would swirl together behind the clear glass.

"Bah, you're as bad as Louisoix. Speaking of, that boy of his asked me to deliver a missive, since I was already making the trip out to your hovel: it concerns the ongoing care and upkeep of the Antitower."

"This hovel suits me just fine, Mace. Now if you aren't staying for tea, go and make sure you and Rufin haven't 'lost' your poroggos like every other so-called master in Sharlayan."

With everything in the jar, all that was left to do was wait. She piled up the board and knife for later cleaning and put the leftover ingredients away, wrapping crawler silk around the spare fresh herbs to bunch and hang them out for drying.

"Of course, of course. May the stars guide you, Matoya."

"Hmph. When your stars can shine through the stone of my roof, we'll see about their guidance."

The slight scuff of shoes as the professor descended the stairs, jewellery jangling with every step - Rhoomale heard it all, resting her chin on her crossed arms as she stared at the infusing plant life. When the faint hum of the entrance's illusory wards returned, she heard the distinct click of Master Matoya's staff aiding her trip across the cave. "How long until the tea is ready?"

"Half a bell," Rhoomale replied, unmoving. "Is everyone leaving?"

"...Too much to wish you hadn't been listening in, then." Master Matoya stopped moving, her sleeves whispering against her arms and the wooden table as she sliced open the letter from Cielle's brother. "Aye, girl, they're leaving. The Forum, in their infinite wisdom, has decided that to keep their traditions of avoiding war they need to abandon Eorzea altogether. Which means the colony here is returning to the Old World; Louisoix's girl isn't heading home, though I doubt she and his students will be staying in Dravania."

"I knew that already." Pushing herself to her feet, she turned to watch her master peruse the missive with a furrowed brow. "But we're not."

"I'm not, Rhoomale, for all the reasons I won't repeat and because the Forum needs someone to babysit the Antitower," Master Matoya replied. "And you? Should you wish to attend the Studium, now would be your chance to acclimatise to Old Sharlayan."

When Rhoomale was nine years old, Moldva led their tribe from the burning ruins of Ala Mhigo. Gridania didn't want them, and neither did Ul'dah, but she knew how to string a bow and hunt and listen and learned the tread of the Wailers' boots. She saw an old woman collecting herbs, thought her an easy mark, and was bound flat on her back by magicks in under thirty seconds.

She can't remember her mother's face, turned away to distract the Garleans with feats of martial might. What she remembers is this: ruining heirloom pots in a child's paint-fuelled rampage, only for her master to cackle and put them in pride of place.

Besides, no Sharlayan could teach her to sing like Master Jehantel can.

"No thanks," Rhoomale grinned, shrugging off any annoyance at the secrecy. "I like it here."

Master Matoya smiled, satisfied and warm. "About what I expected. Now, why were you so late in preparing our morning tea?"

Chapter Text

One of these days, Arbert was going to remember that: one, Blanhaerz significantly outweighed him in both muscle and sheer size; two, paladins were innately resistant to mundane toxins as a result of wielding an abundance of purifying light magic...

And three. That Arbert Fischer, veteran of Carteneau, slayer of primals and Warrior of Light, couldn't hold his alcohol to save his bloody life.

"In his defence, 'tis our last chance for revelry in quite some time," Cielle mused, head leaning heavily on her fist and loose strands of hair spilling out of her customary braid. "Cid promised to have the aetheric ram ready by Firesday, aye? And we hope to set out as soon as possible, at which point we are embroiled in our business until the archbishop is laid low."

"Yes, fine, but this is getting ridiculous," Blanhaerz huffed, his tankard in desperate need of a refill. The Forgotten Knight was heaving despite the late hour, Aymeric's revelations of the past and Thordan's flight from the Vault spurring on a flood of patrons seeking to distract themselves from Ishgard's uncertain future - Tataru secured them a table in the crook of the stairs, where they could converse in relative peace. "Near enough an epoch of friendship, and he is still yet to learn."

The fool in question was nigh-unconscious after only a few of Gibrillont's weaker ales, and had been for at least a bell. Over time, he had gradually oozed out of his chair and onto Blanhaerz's thankfully-unarmoured shoulder, and by now he was numb right down to the wrist.

As he shifted in an attempt to alleviate the prickling pins in his arm, Tataru danced over with a tray full of drinks. "And here we go! A highland whisky for you, Cielle-"

"My thanks."

"Of course!" Emptying her load onto the table, she darted back to the counter and returned the borrowed tray before sorting the rest of their orders. "Amber-eye cordial for me, the Knight's finest, most expensive twice-mulled wine for Blanhaerz-"

"'Tis truly worth the expense." Gibrillont's favoured spice blend was a guarded trade secret, heady and warming to the bones, and the greatest boon for frozen nights within the walls of Ishgard. He'd missed it dearly during his exile.

That said, his younger self had usually favoured the cheaper varieties.

"Do remember that your stipend isn't to be squandered on carousing! And finally, a healthy mug of water for our dear fallen friend, just in case he miraculously rouses himself," she chirped, pushing the drink in question within reach of Arbert's limp hand before stretching over to ruffle his hair.

A brief dance ensued as Blanhaerz attempted to both retrieve his wine while not tumbling Arbert to the floor in the process; after a minute or so of awkward movement, he got his arm securely around the inebriated warrior's back and successfully grabbed the tankard. "To the Scions," he grinned, lifting it up high, "and to Arbert eventually working out that he'll never beat me in a drinking contest."

Cielle snorted, but mimicked him. "A wistful hope, but I'll certainly toast to it - if only in Naillebert's stead." She threw her head back and downed her whisky in one fell swoop, slamming it back on the table after.

Tataru, for her part, only sipped at her fluted cordial, rolling it in her hand to watch the play of light through the glass. "I wish he was here," she said, glancing at the empty spaces around the table. "And Minfilia, and Yugiri, and Lord Haurchefant..."

(Ser Charibert had roasted J'rhoomale alive within her protective leathers, still unsteady after the Lifestream stripped her of her hearing - bereft of Lamimi's presence, Blanhaerz was forced to use his limited magicks to stabilise the worst of her wounds, remaining behind in the Chancel while his allies hunted down the archbishop. Aymeric pleaded, Cielle shouted, Blanhaerz's Echo screamed - and then it was over.)

(He still doesn't know what Haurchefant whispered as he died. The gaping wounds behind Arbert's eyes warned him off ever asking.)

"We'll find them," Blanhaerz promised, taking a swig of his wine. "Naillebert and Minfilia both. And who knows? By then, Lamimi may have decided to throw her lot back in with the Scions, and we shall come to full strength once more."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it! The heroes of Eorzea, all together for the first time since...since your trip to Northern Thanalan, wouldn't it be?" Tataru asked, blinking innocently as Blanhaerz nodded and Cielle stared firmly down into her drink. "But now you're off to face the archbishop."

Lady Matoya's stories made Azys Lla out to be an abomination, the twisted and broken remnants of Allagan curiosity and hubris. Blanhaerz opened his mouth-

And closed it as an ear-shattering snore ground the moment to dust, its immediate and repeating successors drawing irritated eyes from all about the tavern.

Instead, he rolled his eyes. Tataru's seriousness dissolved in favour of giggling. Cielle laughed, "And that would be the sign bidding us retire for the night."

"I suppose so," Blanhaerz agreed, and swung his cloak around his neck. Unceremoniously slinging Arbert - now truly unconscious and snoring like a reaper engine - over his shoulder, he picked up Bravura from where it leant against the wall and said, "Shall we, my lady?"

Tataru chuckled, draining her cordial and hopping off the chair, but Cielle glanced over to the blazing fireplace. "There is someone I wish to speak to before the night is out, but rest assured I will be certain to get some proper rest once done." With sword and shield in hand, she turned to wind her way between heaving tables, approaching a black-armoured Au Ra who immediately stood to engage her in conversation.

Blanhaerz left her to her secrets. Careful to not knock against the banister, he stomped up the steps and out into the night, the heat of the wine simmering in his belly a solid bulwark against the cold. Between his size and his hauling of the slayer of Nidhogg around like a sack of chocobo feed, they garnered a bevy of strange looks during their procession up to the Pillars; passing by the Congregation, he remembered to mention, "Tataru, I have business to attend to in the Western Highlands early tomorrow. If you would-"

"I'll inform anyone who needs to know, don't you worry." She winked, little legs working at a trot to keep up with his far-longer stride. "Is it about that student of yours?"

"Constaint, aye: he's thought of a new plan for chasing down Oathkeeper. Halone willing, we'll be able to recover it before I take my leave of Coerthas." And, if my suspicions hold, find out the truth about all this.

Tataru smiled as she mounted the final set of steps. "I wish you all the luck I can give, then!" Then, abruptly sobering, she added, "For tomorrow, and for what comes after."

Pausing at the Last Vigil, Blanhaerz looked out over the Steps of Faith - Daniffen's Collar shimmered faintly in the dark, an man-made aurora designed solely to defend. Beyond it - beyond the aegis that his father taught him marked the boundary of what was civilised and safe - lay Coerthas, and Mor Dhona, and the Rising Stones, where he and his friends and Minfilia would one day return in triumph.

"I wish the same for you," he said, and turned towards his rest.

Chapter Text

When J'rhoomale first brought Arbert to Eulmore, he thought, it's just like Limsa Lominsa. The bulwark of ships, the gleaming pillars of white stone, all perched on a precarious outcropping with a single defensible land entrance. In Gatetown, all you could feel was the sea - in the weathered driftwood houses, in the smell of the salt on the wind.

He was wrong. All the boats were broken, barely fit for scraps. Banners and spotlights unfurled over the edifices, gaudy shields protecting a lavish interior. The waves were weak and idle, imprisoned and constrained by the Light on the horizon.

The Canopy was a perfumed nightmare, any ocean scent banished to the beneath.

It got marginally better after they beat the hells out of everyone inside. The Scions carried mud and sweat into the plush hallways, meol-poisoned blood slicking their blades and magicked boulders and Naillebert's whirling fists. The grooves in his sollerets ground Kholusian dust into the lavish ilm-thick carpets, ruining the weave and filigree forever under the weight of conquering heroes.

Ran'jit, his familiar's scales curled around his neck and sweeping out into a tailed scarf, drowned out the fragrances with smoke and ozone and ash. Dodged fireballs set curtains ablaze, a deflected sphere of roiling lightning sailed into the aetheryte pool and flash-burned the petals within. Unable to muster any diplomacy of his own, Arbert put his head down and fought - the ignited heads of monstrous serpents collapsed and dissolved with their broken summoner's breath, and then it was all over.

He left the Warrior of Light squatted on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees and unwilling to acknowledge his questions or attempts at distraction, in favour of helping round up survivors for Ryne's ministrations. When he returned from the Derelicts, both ghost and corpse were gone; during a lap around the Skyfront to check for hiders, he found the former staring up at the endless blinding sky.

I'm probably due a break after all that work, anyway. Quickly checking to make sure nobody was around to see him slack off, Arbert braced himself on his forearms and asked, "Was it always like this?"

The Warrior's perch on the railing meant that, for once, he had to tilt his head up to get a look at her blank face. He went on, "Eulmore, I mean. Everyone talks like it's always been Vauthry's paradise, but..."

From here, he could see all the way back to shore and beyond. Despite the stagnant air surrounding and choking him, windmills still turned in the distance, and Arbert tracked their languid movements until she finally whispered, "No."

"Aye, thought not. You don't get merchant ships that size pulling into a pleasure capital." The tips of the rotting masts were just about visible if he leant all the way over, heels lifting off the varnished wood as he scanned for any glimpse of a docking area. "Did there used to be a proper port, or was everything shipped straight up the banks?"

"There was a port." The Warrior kicked one foot out in an arc, gesturing vaguely to the edges of the Buttress. "It floated on the water, and every anchored boat was its own shopfront. They tore the boards up for refugee homes when all the trade dried up." A pause. "It's not right, what he did to this place."

Arbert snorted out a mirthless laugh, saying, "Preaching to the choir there, aren't we? Feels like I have to scrape all the opulence out of my skin, like sticky oil or korpokkur goo."

It was halfway a joke, halfway how genuinely unsettling Eulmore feels; when he looked back up, he caught the last eddies of a smile slipping off the Warrior's face. "I think I was here a lot, following Ran'jit around. Before you arrived. I could see it get weirder, and worse, and wrong." She clenched her fists in her lap, relying on balance alone to stop her falling a couple hundred yalms straight down. "S'not like I could help, though."

"You followed Ran'jit? Specifically?"

"Aye." Opening her hands, Arbert noticed a dark stone cupped between them: four-pointed and rough, with a familiar red circle etched in the center. "I knew him, before."

Furrowing his brow, Arbert pointed out, "Wouldn't that mean he was over a hundred years old? That's really old for a Hyur - or Hume, I suppose - especially one in the military."

The Warrior startled, snatching at the railing as she wobbled dangerously - Arbert valiantly resisted the urge to try and help by seizing her arm. Once she stabilised, she stuttered, "Um-maybe. Or maybe I-maybe it was his father, or his father, or-"

"It's fine," he interrupted, nodding down at her free hand. "That looks a lot like Yugiri's ninja soul crystal. Yours, I take it?"

"Oh, uh. Yes. Not 'ninja', but yes." She tilted her hand to give him a better view, near-black facets swallowing up the Light from above instead of reflecting its corruption away. "Nightwalker and ascetics' soul crystals resonate with the attuned bearer's spirit to birth familiars. Can't summon like this-" she gestured vaguely to her body, blackened cloth and leather washed pale by aetherial radiance, "- though, so it's useless."

Now there's a familiar ability. Raising an eyebrow, Arbert said, "You mean that horrible coeurl monster of yours?

"Avilix's not horrible-"

"It's a dripping pile of darkness and teeth that lunged out of thin air and could hurt us but not be hurt back," he drawled, grinning. "Seems pretty horrible to me."

"You're horrible," the Warrior shot back, but a traitorous half-smile pulled at her lips. Pulling her legs up and tucking her soul crystal away in some invisible pocket, she spun to lightly hop down from the railing, absently taking Arbert's hand when he held it out to assist-

And jerked away when the Light in his marrow blazed to life, gasping a sharp, empty breath at the fleeting contact.

He hadn't meant to do it - it was a habit, born from years of helping Lamimi down from cliffs and rubble and particularly high tables, and he'd been trying to keep his distance since the first disastrous time. "Sorry, I know you don't-"

"It's alright."

The Warrior of Light stared at her hand, sheathed in black and silver armour that ran nearly up to her elbow. She didn't panic and she didn't disappear, only dazedly repeating, "It's alright. I'm not hurt. It's..."

The first time around, Arbert hadn't known what to do. He'd been trapped in surprise, Minfilia's final words echoing ceaselessly in his mind, and only after had he thought of all the clever ways he could have convinced her to stay and talk instead of fleeing. All those reasons and arguments vanished like smoke, in the moment, leaving him unable to muster anything worth saying.

For all the Light's perfect stillness, Kholusia was still an island and the Canopy still raised high: wind swept through the open air, shifting massive banners and spurring what little waves rolled far below. Granson had compared it to Il Mheg's mountain vibrancy, on their last trip to find-

Oh, right.

"I meant to say," Arbert began. "I know what your name is now. Want to hear it?"

Whatever the Warrior had been muttering cut abruptly off as her head snapped up. "You do? How?"

Scratching his ear awkwardly, he continued, "The Echo. I walked in some memories from before the Flood, a few sennights past, and one of your friends used it. A white-haired man named Tharris?"

"Who-oh. Dikaiosyne." If anything, she seemed more uncomfortable at the revelation, folding her arms tightly around her chest. "Don't tell me."

"Don't-wait, why not?" Out of anything she could have said, Arbert hadn't expected a denial. "It's your name, and you've forgotten it. Why wouldn't you want to know?"

"Because I don't need it. I'm a Warrior of Light," she stated, refusing to meet his eyes, "that's all. The librarian told you."

"But that's-"

He remembered Moren's storybook, his Echo visions, conversations with his friends about their own revelations in hunting the Virtues. By all accounts aside from history, the adventurers who caused the Flood were good people in life, tricked to their ruin by Ascian machinations. 'Villains known as the Warriors of Light.'

(He remembered a banquet on the Source, in a brighter time now lost to memory. A confession from the sultana, a toast to Ul'dah's future, and bloody wine spilled across the tiled floors. 'This man stands accused of poisoning Her Royal Majesty...' )

Arbert only knew the real names of a few of her friends. If the Warrior even remembered, she didn't see the point of referring to them as anything other than the monsters they became.

"That's a title, not a name," he said, stepping forward. "You- we're more than just what we fight for - more than just Hydaelyn's champions." Taking a breath, he held out his hand once more, turned palm-upwards and loosely open. "We have to be."

Her hand twitched as she thought, nearly reaching out before she shifted them to be properly folded. "After. I'll hear it after," she decided, finally turning her face up towards him. "Once Vauthry's dead."

Breaking into a smile, Arbert nodded. "Then it's a promise. Besides," he added, stepping around her to head back inside, "it'll be nice to be able to get your attention with something other than 'hey, you'."

Even if she wasn't dead, he doubted he'd be able to hear her move; regardless, he could sense that she was matching his expression. "Aye. It'll be nice."

Chapter Text

For Lamimi, the week after the assault on the Praetorium was fragmented by exhaustion. She could only wake in fractional slices of time, enough to be examined and fed and overhear snatches of conversation, the cycle of consciousness and dreamless sleep listing relentlessly in favour of the former.

It took ten suns before she could remain roused for more than a half-bell, which spoke wonders as to the strain placed upon her body.

The bulk of it was sheer mental exhaustion, a mind-deep ache born from reckless casting with no regard for mortal limits: her aetheric channels felt like misused magitek, a reaper chassis forced to run on blood instead of ceruleum, congealed and clotted and sluggishly leaking through the cracks of arcane misuse. Her body teetered on the edge of collapse, deprived of sleep and sustenance in favour of Ascian machinations.

On the physical side, she had gained several new scars, all from sources better lost to memory. A slight crookedness to her nose from blunt trauma, a near-invisible gash along her neck from the clumsy severing of a necklace.

The thick, vicious band of a bone-deep axe wound, stretching from shoulder to hip.

Even if the healers hadn't told her outright, Lamimi knew how to determine her own recovery time. With luck and diligence, she'd be on her feet within the moon, though banned from participating in her duties for a while longer - she kept a strict regimen of rest in hopes of shortening the wait, as the Alliance threw themselves into business in preparation for the celebration of their grand success.

As such, she didn't see many visitors. Karoro, equally bedridden, sent a letter bulging with well-wishes from the Cieldalaes; Raya-O, likely egged on by her attendants, had a care package delivered full of nothing but 'healing' kupo nuts; Minfilia stopped by once, desperate to apologise, but was called away quickly after.

(It was lucky, to be honest. Lamimi's memories had been ripped to shreds, with barely enough remaining to construct a coherent narrative. It wasn't Minfilia's fault, she knew that, but she could have at least tried to fill the holes.)

(Right?)

Then, another sennight in, a familiar feathered hat ducked through the infirmary doors, kicking them shut in lieu of dropping the steaming bowls in her arms. Nearly dropping the book in her hands, Lamimi said, "J'rhoomale?"

"In the flesh!" The bed was sized for Hyur, so J'rhoomale had no issue sitting down on the wide swathe of duvet that had gone completely unused and proffering half of her load. "Are you okay to have normal food?"

She nodded, taking the soup and a plain traveller's spoon: it was a hearty, buttery orange, chunks of pinkish bream and chopped onion rising to the fore as she stirred it. A comfortable silence reigned as they both ate their lunch, Lamimi taking the chance to enjoy the marked detachment from her prior military fare.

J'rhoomale, at least, hadn't changed much. The Artemis Bow was as well-cared for as ever, any recent nicks and scrapes invisible to her eye, and the one unfamiliar injury - a small wedge sliced out of her right ear, near the base - had healed over nicely. She still ate like a chocobo, her layered choral shirt and impeccable Sharlayan table manners hiding a bowman's muscles and appetite.

Once they were both finished, J'rhoomale picked Lamimi's bowl out of her lap and asked, "Has Arbert come by?"

"He hasn't." She could understand why. "Is something wrong?"

"We don't know." Sighing, J'rhoomale explained, "I haven't seen him since we all delivered you to the medics. Neither have our friends, and the one time Yda did - while taking a message to Gridania - he fled before they could talk. She thinks he's avoiding us."

Lamimi expected Arbert to avoid her , with his battle against Lahabrea fresh in both their minds, but not everyone . In that case... "Mayhap it is due to Hydaelyn's restoration of our memories?"

She was unconscious when it occurred, which almost made the revelation worse - she fell into slumber having been saved by a near-stranger only her possessor had ever spoken to, and regained lucidity only to discover him as her dearest, Calamity-lost friend. The suddenness had been jarring, to say the least.

For her part, J'rhoomale's ears flattened to the brim of her chapeau. "He's being an idiot if that's the case. I understand why he kept his distance from us before, when we couldn't remember-" her eyes flickered with regret, a drowning flood of missed chances and broken promises, "-but that problem being fixed shouldn't have made it worse."

No, it shouldn't have. Absently rubbing her chin, Lamimi decided, "Dithering over it won't help, I think. Regardless of the problem, we must needs allow Arbert the space he desires." Then, in a bid to change the subject, she asked, "Rh-may I still call you Rhoomale? I understand if our lack of contact since the Calamity would-"

"It's fine, Lamimi." J'rhoomale's mouth curved up into a smile, bright and genuine, in contrast to her prior anxiety. "We're still comrades, aren't we? Through thick and thin?"

"We're-" She stopped, taking the moment to shuffle through restored memories. Years ago, during their first travails against Ifrit in the southern deserts: once stripped of how and why and with whom did she fight , now there lay an echo of starlight and blazing campfires, laughter in the face of their impossible success. "Right. We are, aren't we," she said, feeling long-lost warmth curl deep inside her breast. "Rhoomale, then. Have you seen any trace of my garb of succor?"

"As in your old gear?"

"Yes. The accessories can be replaced, but my healer's robe cannot." Lahabrea's initial onslaught had overwhelmed her exhausted defences, only for elemental might to roar out in defiance of his blackened magicks-

The accursed Ascian stripped Oha-Sok's rebellious gift from her stolen body, casting it aside to rot. What became of it after, she had no chance to know.

Tail flicking in thought, J'rhoomale replied, "I can't say I have. The Ascian wasn't wearing it when he showed up to the Sands in your body; I figured you'd decided on a change in outfit."

"...I see," Lamimi mumbled, hands twisting in her lap. Of all the prices to pay, this was truly heart-wrenching - the loss of her promise to bring about a brighter Eorzea, to act as a beacon of hope and lead the elementals towards the peace they sought.

J'rhoomale hummed, then offered, "Do you want me to go searching? Minfilia doesn't need my aid right now, so I have some free time."

"You would do that?" Lamimi blurted out as her gaze darted over to the still-grinning bard. "Where would you even begin?"

"The Twelveswood?" she shrugged, stacking the empty bowls in one hand. "I'll talk to Master Jehantel and Kuplo, see if either of them have heard anything, then see if any of the Hearers will speak with my 'woodsin-soaked Ala Mhigan' arse. If he's still in the area, I might even be able to track down Arbert while I'm at it."

Huffing out a laugh, Lamimi advised, "If you need aid in the South Shroud, ask for Raya-O-Senna at Camp Tranquil - she will know what you search for, and may be able to offer aid."

"Of course." Tugging the door open, J'rhoomale looked back over her shoulder, adding, "I'll make sure to message you by Umbralsday for an update if I haven't found it yet. Until then, just worry about recovering!"

When J'rhoomale first came south from Dravania, she nigh-immediately came down with an Ul'dahn seasonal flu; the five of them had taken turns running innumerable errands alongside their duties as Walkers and Archons, all to ensure her good health. "I will. May Thaliak guide you, Rhoomale."

"And may Rhalgr keep you abed," she winked, closing the door softly behind her. Lamimi, in the quiet, reached over to retrieve her book, pulling a thin raptorskin bookmark from the chapter on recent Eorzean history and resuming her education on the world she planned to rejoin.