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Chapter Text

Having the components of a summoning torn out of you, it turned out, was far more painful than freely allowing it to take root within.

Shiva was resplendent in her majesty, the sheer cold of the memory-Glacier cascading into a flowered cocoon that shattered Ryne under the false sun's radiance and remade her in the image of eternal grace. For one beautiful moment, she held the entire world in her palms; in the next, she screamed, the Light in her bones refracting brighter and brighter until all but itself was scoured from her eyes. It was awful, but it didn't hurt, any part of her capable of feeling pain crushed delicately under the primal's iron heel.

Mitron's assault was different. Creeping fingers of shadow and aether split her head in two, plucking out her deepest terrors like poison-laced stones from amber harcots. The faint pain of her body hitting the ground paled in the face of pure mental agony, lines of blight jolting along the pathways of her mind: he stole Vauthry's golden sneer and the locked door at Ran'jit's back and Thancred's eyes looking through and past her own, ripping them all free in a jumbled mass of fear and security and twisted isolation.

She couldn't tell how long he took to finish with her, seconds or minutes or hours on end. By the end, she was curled defensively on the floor - a cool touch of solidified aether to her hair was met with flailing arms as she jerked a hand down to grab at her knives-

And then abruptly halted to observe her assailant: a large, sturdy carbuncle, aetherial essence gleaming gold in Eden's light, with one forepaw still stretched out to poke her into awareness.

Ryne stared. The carbuncle huffed. Then, glancing around at the otherwise-empty Core, she asked, "If you're still here, then where is-"

"Ryne! You're up!"

Interrupted again, she turned towards the entrance: the aethernet shard flashed brightly as a slight figure in purple materialised, her cyclas fluttering in aetherial wind as she landed. "Sorry for leaving you alone with Tobias. You weren't injured, but I thought you might want to eat something when you awoke," she smiled, lightly shaking the bag in her hand. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible. To think Gaia had to endure this for so long..." Ryne trailed off, then sat up properly. "Though, how long has it been?"

Tobias trilled in delight at his mistress' return, butting at her leg as she dropped down onto the blue-black tiles. "Less than ten minutes - I left once I realised that healing magicks wouldn't help. Do you need some time?"

Immediately shaking her head, Ryne asserted, "However bad this is, it's nothing compared to what Gaia's going through now. I can keep up, Triss."

"Eat first, though." The rough hempen bag was shoved under her nose, a heavenly aroma of butter and beans wafting out from within. Nodding towards it, Triss added, "You shouldn't fight on an empty stomach. Trust me, it doesn't end well."

Conceding the point, Ryne settled the bag between them, donating one for Tobias to gnaw on before beginning to bite away herself. "Have these been in your pack all day?"

"P'rks to b'ng the Warr'r of D'rkn'ss." At the paired looks of bafflement, Triss swallowed and reiterated, "People tend to give heroes free food. And if there's a silver lining to Thancred and Urianger not being here, it's that we can eat nothing but sweets without being told off for it."

And, well-Ryne can't refute it. The Exarch and his sandwiches, meat and caramel from Lydha Lran; when they all left for the bottom of Kholusia's storm-tossed seas, the Facet of Fishing packed them lemon-filled oysters and refused to accept coin in recompense. Whenever she went by the Second Serving, Hanji-Fae imposed a massive discount, preferential treatment that only came to light when Ryne watched another customer buy coffee biscuits for nearly quadruple the price.

While Tobias was content to use his one biscuit as a chew toy, the two Spoken burned through the rest at a terrifying pace. As predicted, having a comforting weight in her belly did help - in what felt like seconds, Ryne reached down and came up with a single remaining piece. After a brief staring contest, she suggested, "Let's leave the last one for Gaia."

Triss narrowed her eyes, then nodded. Brushing crumbs off her leathers, she shoved herself to her feet, moving to scrutinise Eden's main terminal. "Where am I going?"

"I can't tell from here," Ryne admitted, tucking the final biscuit into Triss' abandoned pack. "If the summoning really is based on my hopes and fears, it will most likely create a foe unlike any we've ever fought before. But whatever it may be, we'll find a way to defeat it. I know it!"

Strangely enough, the assurance caused Triss to stall. She tilted her head, tail flicking restlessly, then said, "I. Not we."

"But why not?" Ryne burst out, lurching forward a step before forcing herself to halt. "I can help you, just like I did before. Just because the enemy was made from me doesn't mean I would be unable to fight it!"

"That's not it." Triss patted herself down, one hand slipping into an invisible pocket in her sarouel as she stared firmly at the floor. "Ninja Lesson Number, uh, Eighty-Eight? If your master gives you something to practice before a big battle, then you need to go and perfect it before rejoining the fight. So I'll go fight Mitron's monster, and you'll stay here and work on properly attuning to this."

Training? Now? As she pulled out a dark, four-pointed shape, Ryne felt the need to ask, "Won't you need your soul crystal for the battle?"

"I will. But I'm not always around to help, so I've been working on obtaining one for you." Taking a few quick steps forward to stand right in front of Ryne, Triss caught hold of her wrist. "I originally planned to give it to you after the Empty was fully restored, but I thought that you might need it for our fight against Mitron."

"You-really?"

Triss nodded, firm and certain, and pressed the soul from the Source into her hand. "Oboro owes me lots and lots of favours - I have a few letters from him and the rest, too, but I hid them in my room at the Crystarium - and he claims that the essence in this particular crystal refused to resonate with any of the students in his home village. I've taught you the mudras already, so you just have to get used to using a different soul than usual."

The soul crystal was roughly-faceted in black and three-pronged whirls of red, the flat planes carved all over with the deeds of generations of bearers. It fit between Ryne's palms like her knives, crafted to flawlessly fit her and her alone; she knew the foreign identities forever preserved in crystalline darkness, despite not understanding a single letter of their names.

Her thumb flicked over the central rune, the crimson profile of a raging storm, and the soul ensconced within came alight with glowing acceptance.

Ryne could feel the memories brimming over in her grasp, a noble lineage the same-yet-different to the one Triss used to loan her. A faraway world offered up its bounty of wisdom to her, and she gasped under the weight of their faith in her ability. "It worked!"

When she dragged her gaze back up, a grin had claimed pride of place on Triss' face. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'I told you!' under her breath, she explained, "I knew the man who last attuned to that soul crystal. He wouldn't have wanted it to go to one of his countrymen, bound up in rules and tradition - he would have wanted his successor to be free."

'Free' wasn't a word that Ryne would normally use to describe herself. She knew only a title for most of her life, any former name lost and forgotten; she spent her childhood in a gilded cage. When Mitron scraped her mind raw of hopes and fears alike, he found only protector after protector of the Oracle of Light, (almost all) at the expense of the girl trapped within.

But all of those men were gone, to the grave or to distant dimensions. Now, Ryne stood beside heroes instead of cowering behind them, and a ninja she had never known thought her capable of grasping at freedom.

I'll read the letters, she promised herself. Then, I'll ask Triss to take back my reply.

Feeling the bite of the crystal's points in her clenched fist, Ryne pulled it close to her heart. "I'll do my best," she swore, and a red memory crowed in delight.

Chapter Text

From a theoretical standpoint, Krile understood why the Forum refused to maintain even a single official trade route with mainland Eorzea. The unforgiving eyes of the world could interpret the smallest transference of wisdom as support, they thought. Better to ensure a clean separation, and abandon their southern neighbours entirely.

Understanding was not acquiescence, however, and said policies made leaving home rather difficult.

The very nature of Sharlayan itself - a nation of scholars and academics, seeking to gather and preserve knowledge from across the length and breadth of the star - meant that travel was sometimes necessary in order to conduct proper research, yet their governing body saw fit to make it as inconvenient as possible. Ferries ran throughout the archipelago, of course, consistent and clock-like to the point that one could keep the hour by them, but any other form of voyage needed to be undertaken at the behest of foreigners with ships.

(Krile was grateful for the ferries. Were the Forum to have ruled differently in the close-run contest to determine whether Old Sharlayan would make the shift to aethernet-only transportation, she might have drifted to her doom: floating listlessly in the empty waters where once there was Val, her coat bloating full of brine until it dragged her down to drown.)

Most were one breed of freight or another, bound for Thavnair and Limsa Lominsa and other similarly populated islands; they often would make space for a native with deep pockets, quietly stealing away across the waves like smugglers and somnus. Two crews of brave souls manned the line to Ilsabard, bearing imperials back and forth with the stately ease of those certain in their ability to flee across open seas.

And one, wheeled by the same crotchety captain for nigh on four epochs, took passengers from Old Sharlayan to New Sharlayan.

Or rather, to the remnants thereof. They called it Idyllshire , apparently: a bastion of peace growing out of ruined isolation, where the residents worked and fought and bled together to establish their own little shard of utopia. A town built about the Cenotaph and inhabited by merchants and adventurers alike, surrounded by naught but malms of uninhabited terrain. It sounded lovely.

In addition, it - and the recently-restored main aetheryte - provided a convenient first point of call for Krile's excursion to Eorzea. Moogles flew faster than any ship could possibly sail, so it was a simple matter to send a missive to Y'shtola containing her travel plans before stepping aboard the Enlightened Buffoon .

Name aside, the ship could have been something out of Raha's epics, high-masted and broad-decked with a prow carved in the Navigator's image. The crew and Spoken clients numbered near to sixty all together, a welcome change from the bustle of Old Sharlayan proper; the vessel's moniker was emblazoned in the selfsame sharp green-on-white font utilised for the titles of official Forum decrees, a choice fuelled by spite or mockery or both.

(In the end, her suspicions were confirmed upon spying a masterful caricature of Fourchenault Leveilleur pinned to the mess hall dartboard, layered atop similar depictions of the last half-century of Sharlayan isolationists. Clearly, the captain held some strong opinions.)

It was for that reason that Krile had long enjoyed journeys on the open water. They allowed her a measure of peace and quiet impossible to replicate anywhere other than the most barren strips of land, carried far from the endless cacophony of Spoken civilisation.

The journey itself was not particularly long, and Krile had made certain to pack suitable reading material. One tome on the history of aether-based surveillance, with a thick chapter dedicated to Master Matoya's Crystal Eye; a serial publication determined to chronicle all of Eorzea's Seventh Astral Era, complete with newspaper clippings detailing the rise of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. She devoured them both and more in the span of suns, blissfully uninterrupted by intrusive thoughts, taking neat notes on facts and figures among the focussed bustle of a working ship.

When Sohm Al deigned to grace the horizon, Krile had only one book left in her luggage. It was titled, 'On The Curative Effects of Allagan Aetherochemistry', and it was a nameday gift from Raha.

She knew what happened to him. She knew the broad strokes - the clones, the Cloud, the eye of blood and birthright - from Minfilia, who knew them from the Warrior of Light, who was there to see the doors of Syrcus Tower slam closed behind him. She woke up from her long sleep to discover that the Isle of Val was gone forever, and less than a moon later she received a letter that began, I am so, so sorry, Krile, but-

Did Raha know, when he made the choice to bow to his destiny? Did the lack of any home to return to influence his decision to leave the present day behind?

According to Cid Garlond, he wouldn't wake until long after Krile's bones are dust in the earth, hoping to bring all the best parts of Allag into a brighter future than this. Raha was an intelligent man, despite his boyish insecurities; he must have understood that they would likely never meet again.

So for all intents and purposes, G'raha Tia was gone. Forever.

Krile would never hear Raha's soul sing again, but he wasn't entirely gone. Rammbroes had promised to see his drafted thesis on NOAH's exploits published, and a copy delivered into her hands. She had his present right here in her lap, the first manifestation of his dedication to finding commonality between their respective fields of study. To finding a way to be friends, despite their differences.

He went to Eorzea, determined to live up to his stories of valor, and now Krile was about to step onto the stage of another tale entirely. She would meet with the Scions, find Minfilia and Thancred, do her duty to the realm...

And perhaps, if she ever found herself with time to spare in Mor Dhona, she would pay her respects to a friend.

Chapter Text

Normally, Alisaie would say that having friends who genuinely enjoyed running menial errands was a good thing.

A positive attitude (or, at least, a stoic regard for its necessity) towards the concept came part and parcel with the business of adventuring, if the myriad of Scions who were so employed before being inducted were any sort of reasonable control group. Tataru had once mentioned being incredibly grateful for it, as it resulted in chores around the Rising Stones being completed both quickly and with a reasonable amount of skill, and she imagined that Rowena would be out of business if not for the customers willing to jump through absurd hoops in the name of collecting tomestones.

Specifically, the esteemed Warrior of Light was exceptionally talented at this particular part of the trade, equipped with seemingly-infinite patience for nonsense and an incredible aptitude for combat. She was good at helping people, and liked to do so whenever she could.

Unfortunately, this meant that making her stop was, frankly, a pain in the ass.

It was Ryne's idea that worked in the end, after a good forty minutes of arguing over why rest was important when you were under constant threat of having the Light take any sign of weakness as an opportunity to corrupt you into a sin eater. (Irrepressible stubbornness was another typically-useful trait that had recently become exasperating.) Triss, barely older than Alisaie herself, was still vaguely bewildered at the idea of having a younger student depend on her for answers; Ryne's barrage of questions about ninjutsu theory left her scrambling to construct suitable responses while the rest of them quietly left her behind.

"It's cute," Alisaie commented, tapping the tip of her rapier against the scorched swallow corpse by her feet. "And it'll be good for Ryne to have a teacher who knows the difference between broadswords and daggers, Thancred."

The former rogue didn't bother trying to deny the accusation, tossing a laugh and a lazy wave over his shoulder as he and Urianger split off west in search of Teushs Ooan. Alphinaud turned to keep watch as she squatted down, wrapping both arms around its tail and dragging the body over to the pile. "You can move on if you want, the hunters won't be long."

Moonstone Carbuncle's ears pinned back, weaving between its master's feet as he asked, "Are you certain?"

"I'll be fine, Alphinaud." Carelessly waving a hand at the surroundings, she added, "Do you really think that any monster down here short of Emet-Selch himself could defeat me?"

"Well…" he began, a slight smile crossing his face as she glared. "If the others are set on dealing with the benthos Ondo, that leaves us to visit the Crock of Pearls. The peddler claimed that his excursion was urgent - I will go on ahead, and you may join us once the swallows are delivered for skinning."

She nodded, turning to take Alphinaud's place on watch. With a brief nod, her brother made his way towards the south, illuminated from below in soft moonlit ivory and above in rippling shafts of sickly radiance, no longer the boy he once was time and dimensions away. None of them were, really, after the coming of the Light. The Twelve knew that Alisaie wasn't.

There was something ugly living in her lungs, these days. A lily, perhaps, with sinless-white petals veined in gold and thick roots fit to strangle, forged of radiant crystal that refused to buckle or dissolve. It sprouted as the Scions collapsed under the weight of invisible foes; it bloomed when the Exarch tore her screaming from the Dark.

It shattered under the Light of Amh Areang, and the broken shards punished her for each breath she drew that wasn't matched by one of Tesleen's.

They tore through her even now, as the Ondo hunters who requested the cull arrived to make use of the dead. In with one step, out with the other, the heavy weight of the swallow on her back paling to nothingness in favour of the familiar burning pain in her chest. She dropped the corpse where she was told to, chatted briefly with the hunters about the progress of the Aath's judgement, and then made her way down to the Scions' current refuge to retrieve a change of clothes.

Though Bismark had purged the seas from the vicinity, the Cups still dripped and splattered with the saltwater the Ondo revelled in, the lower levels nigh-flooded entirely to allow the younglings their breath. As she picked her way down the slope, thick-soled boots threatening to slip with every movement, Alisaie curled a hand around her focus and called for the aether within - vermillion sparks eddied underneath the fragile crust of her skin, a warming bulwark against the natural damp and cold.

"I don't mind sharing with them. Really."

The voice, female and tinged with the familiar resonant flange of Echo-translation, caused Alisaie to mutter a curse under her breath. Clearly Ryne wasn't enough of a distraction, she thought, not bothering to soften her footsteps as she stomped towards the source.

"Fruit is a rarity down here, and the oysters alone are enough." The faint splashing of water, and a soft snort. "I mean it. It's not like I would be able to taste them, in the end; better the lemon slices go to those who would appreciate the flavour."

Bubbling laughter from another voice entirely, and a flurry of high-pitched speech in the Ondo native tongue. While many of the adults knew some degree of Vrandtic Common, the children had no reason to do so: Alphinaud knew a few conversational phrases, but Triss was the only one of them capable of opening a true dialogue.

"I like it here." Complete silence, then a laugh the likes of which had been dearly missed. "I do! It reminds me of Father's nursery back on Vylbrand, obsession with citrus fruit and all."

The admission - something Triss would not have said to some random Ondo - caused Alisaie to stumble in her stride, a bitten-off cry lodged throat-deep. Who...

(It wasn't like Triss talking to herself was unprecedented. Back in the dawn of the Seventh Astral Era, among the fires and trials of Dalamud's wreckage, she had caught her soliloquising to her various summons on no less than seven separate occasions, one of which would include more total words than she would say to other Spoken across an entire sennight. Much, much later, Triss had justified it as an uncertainty with speech - Alisaie had always figured that it was down to shyness more than anything else.)

(But all of her summons were gone, drowned or blinded or broken by flawless sickening Light. So either she spoke to empty air in truth, or...)

Either way, she was on a mission. Regaining her balance, Alisaie swung around the corner into a wide room dominated by the fulms-wide entrance to a water-filled tunnel, calling out, "Triss, are you down here?"

Sure enough, a pair of blackened caligae were piled unceremoniously at the edge of the pool; the hero in question had whipped around at the sound of her name, her sarouel bunched up past the thighs and still somehow sopping wet. "I thought you left."

"I came back," she brusquely responded, stepping forwards to peer down into the seemingly-empty water. "Were you talking to someone? I thought I heard voices."

"Whose?"

"Yours and an Ondo's, I believe - I didn't recognise the language," she explained, raising an eyebrow at the hopeful-disappointed cant of Triss' expression. "Why, was there someone else?"

She didn't answer immediately, gaze flickering across to the side opposite where Alisaie stood. "I was thinking out loud, mostly. Some of the hatchlings showed up to ask if they could try lemons, so I gave them the slices out of my oysters."

"Ever the altruist," Alisaie snorted, watching as she picked up her caligae and collected the empty oyster shells into a pouch for later disposal. "Alphinaud and I are making a trip out to the Crock of Pearls to gather gifts for the clutchmother, if you're interested."

"So I'm not confined to the Cups anymore?"

Flashing a smile, she said, "Four bells of boredom is enough to drive anyone mad. Besides, I doubt that even the Warrior of Darkness would be able to kill herself collecting pearls off the ground."

Triss glanced over her shoulder as she stood, briefly tapping her hip, then she turned back to Alisaie and nodded. "I'll help you."

Chapter Text

By Tataru's reckoning, it all started when she heard an almighty CRASH from the direction of the drawing room.

(Triss would have claimed that the palaver began two suns prior, when the entirety of Ishgard dissolved into revelry over Nidhogg's spectacular demise. Alphinaud, meanwhile, considered convincing Lord Aymeric to postpone his interrogation of the archbishop for a short period to gauge the minds of the populace a grand victory indeed, and abruptly came to regret it when the three of them heard news of banquets and balls being planned in their - or rather, Triss' - honour.)

While Gibrillont's business had picked up to no end among the festivities, he had graciously granted her time off to celebrate with her dear friends. Thus was she present in Fortemps Manor to hear the sound of impending disaster, abandoning her weaving in order to rush to the scene of the crisis.

"Watch the vase, Alphinaud, that hurts !"

"Have you not been struck by-oh. Tataru. Th-this isn't-"

The crisis, that is, of both her dear friends tangled up in two soggy rectangles of fabric (an ornate rug and white tablecloth, respectively), one extremely disgruntled Ifrit-Egi scant seconds from setting the room aflame, three books of varying thickness, one formerly-spectacular ornamental arrangement of Coerthan flowers in full bloom, and - naturally - each other. Her arrival prompted a furious scramble to disentangle, a feat which only succeeded due to Triss getting a hand to her grimoire and dismissing Blast from the pile altogether.

Judging from the colour gracing both their faces, the current situation had not been intended; Tataru likely made it worse by bursting into peals of laughter, but she honestly couldn't contain herself. "Hahaha-what-ha-happened?!"

Doubled over as she was, she was unable to see how the pair responded to her fit, but the mortified silence in the room spoke volumes. Instead, she drew her own conclusions as she recovered: the lack of any servants present, the curtains snapped neatly shut to ward against curious eyes, the central table, now lacking its centerpiece, shoved a wobbly fulm towards the wall.

The illustrated tome of Ishgardian ballroom etiquette, ran through with several of Alphinaud's favourite bookmarks.

Brushing the tear from her eye, Tataru stepped forward to rescue it from the blooming pool of vase-water. Absently leafing through the pages, she asked, "Are you two attempting to learn how to dance?"

"Well-"

"Yes," Triss stated, interrupting Alphinaud's honourable attempt at deflection. "Emmanellain said that there was dancing in fancy clothes at balls, so."

True enough, Triss was wearing the traditional Auri gown that she kept around for formal events with her carefully-maintained pair of buckled dress shoes. Alphinaud, meanwhile, had produced an Ishgardian justacorps from Nald knew where, tailored in his favourite shade of blue and matched by shining black boots, and was visibly straining to not flinch under her appraising eye.

"In that case, I may be of some assistance!" she said, flashing the winning smile that laid low accountants and crooked petitioners alike. "Which one of these are you trying for, hmm?"

Briefly glancing at each other, Tataru's impromptu students squatted down to match her level; Alphinaud tugged at the blue bookmark with a red-white tassel, and she dutifully flipped to an explanation that she couldn't read a word of. "This is a traditional Ishgardian waltz," he explained, "supposedly easy to both learn and perform. However, in practice 'tis not nearly as simple as it appears."

"Alphinaud's very clumsy," Triss added, prompting a squawk of horror from her partner, "and we weren't strong enough to move the table all the way, so when he tripped over the rug we both slammed into it."

"I hardly think that detail was necessary to include, Triss."

"It was."

" Anyroad , I'm sure that we can work this out between the three of us," Tataru cut in, preventing Alphinaud from launching his return volley. "Waltzes are two-person dances, yes?"

Alphinaud nodded, then looked Tataru up and down and cringed, slightly. "They are. However, typically there is a certain, ah, maximum relativity of size between partners in order to ensure a comfortable dance for both parties."

"I see." Which also explained why Lord Emmanellain wasn't here in person to instruct them. In that case...

Tataru scrutinised Alphinaud's upper body, noting his thin frame and voluminous hair. Then she jumped forwards onto his knee, using his startled movement as a springboard to vault directly onto the arcanist's shoulders. "Tah-dah!" she crowed, settling into a better position as he flailed to regain his balance beneath her. "An excellent solution, if I do say so myself."

After a few moments of panic, Alphinaud resigned himself to his fate - the two of them combined were taller than Triss on her own, so they took the leader's position as he carefully consulted the manual. "Step one: pay due courtesy to your partner." He then paused, and glanced up at his passenger. "How shall we go about this?"

"I'll lean back when you lean forward," she advised, "now!" Ignoring Triss' giggle as she clumsily curtseyed, Tataru threw her weight back along Alphinaud's spine to avoid destabilising his formal Sharlayan bow. "Next?"

"Hands next. The picture doesn't work with three, but I think-" Latching onto Alphinaud's shoulder, Triss held her free hand out to Tataru, "-this might work?"

With a few minor adjustments, it did: Triss needed to stretch further forward than was typical to compensate for Tataru's shorter arms, but it was functional for their purposes. With basic positioning out of the way, Alphinaud explained, "The typical form of a waltz follows a three-step beat, beginning with both feet together and ending the same way, and typically rotates in a circle around the room."

"I remember from earlier. This was as far as we got before messing up," Triss confessed, taking a ponderous step backwards. Alphinaud matched her, eyes fixed to the tops of his boots, and they both slid to the side before coming to a halt again. "I think I was moving too quickly."

"I can certainly help with that!" Tataru chirped. "On my mark, then. And, one two three, one two three-"

"Oh dear."

"Alphinaud, forward first and then-oops."

"If you would worry about yourself first, Triss, that would likely make this easier."

"I believe in you both! One two three, one two three..."

For two people who should have possessed the proper skills for this - Alphinaud with a Sharlayan aristocrat's training and Triss with a Doman-trained ninja's grace - they were remarkably flat-footed, stumbling over each other and bumping near-constantly. The Warrior of Light, famed across all of Eorzea for her prowess, turned too early and slammed her horn into Alphinaud's nose; the scion of House Leveilleur, capable of speaking circles around adults thrice his age, fumbled his instruction and nearly threw Tataru clean off his shoulder.

And they were both laughing. Raucous and hearty, bright and young as they were both meant to be, bubbling out of their throats with every failed maneuver. Eventually Tataru's beat count dissolved into mirth alongside her partners' focus, shuffling and stumbling around the room like tipsy sylphs at play.

Lord Aymeric's reckoning would not be denied: already he champed at the bit, desperate to confront the archbishop over the lies on which Ishgard was built. There was a raging blizzard on the horizon, moons and malms deep, and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were poised to forge into the thick of it.

But that night had not yet fallen. Right now, Nidhogg was dead, and Ishgard knew spring after a thousand years of bloody winter. Tataru was a civilian surrounded by soldiers, and if she could not fight by their side then she would find a way to help in other little ways.

She leaned out and down to spin Triss under their joined hands, Alphinaud's arm a solid belt across her thighs, and thought, at least we have this time to live.

Chapter Text

When Alphinaud was thirteen, two years into his tenure at the Studium and desperate for practical experience in the art of social networking, Father permitted him to represent their family at another Forum member's wedding.

It was made into a family event, in the end, with Mother and Alisaie's attendance ensuring House Leveilleur's appearance as a united front. In Sharlayan, unions were conducted under Thaliak's watchful eye: the vows were taken as seriously as any Archon's thesis, a pronouncement of your spouse's greatest virtues and a declaration of just how you would ensure their lasting happiness. 

His younger self, politely not leaning out into the aisle in order to actually see the ceremony, was utterly taken by the display of grandeur all about him, but remained valiantly on course to fulfil his intent. He and his sister - far more interested in perusing the Ishgardian-style banquet tables than in engaging in worthy debate - were by no means the only dignitaries' children present; expected to comport himself politely and with honour, his own intellect and wit were more than enough to secure him a place in conversation with the powers that be.

So he spoke, and he listened, and he watched his father wield words and knowledge with an unparalleled mastery. His seat on the Forum was won through as much wisdom as it was political acumen, and Alphinaud learned from his noble example.

As he slipped thick-socked feet into knee-high boots, he wondered what his father would think of him turning his talents in the name of salvation.

He carefully stood, adjusting to the ilm-high heels absent from his typical wear; after a few minutes, his chamber door banged open to admit one Tataru Taru, splendidly garbed in a bustle dyed her favourite shade of pink and dragging a far-less-composed Akentriss Kyndir by the hand. "Alphinaud, are you ready yet?"

"No!" he yelped, hurriedly checking to make certain that his breeches were properly fastened.

His distress was utterly ignored. "I am certain you will look perfectly debonair when you are. In the meantime, I would quite like the assistance in explaining to Triss why she cannot attend the ball in uniform."

Blinking, Alphinaud tore his attention away from his own attire to assess Triss': the familiar pristine white himation with green-blue Allagan silk trailing down from her waist, festooned with golden edgings and ornate jewellery. A gift from Y'shtola's archaeologist sister, if he remembered correctly, and- "A ball is not the same as a meeting with Eorzean political leaders, Triss. What happened to your usual gown?"

"Tataru won't give it back," she scowled, arms bare save for her carbuncle armillae crossed tightly around Nugget's golden earth. "Says it's not appropriate ."

"Well, it isn't," the thief in question asserted, adjusting her customary red beret to sit neatly atop her combed hair. "And Lord Emmanellain agrees! Ishgardian societal functions demand a certain degree of compliance with the latest trends, and a bustle like mine-"

"I'm not wearing it." To cement the point, Nugget's essence ground against itself in a mock-avalanche as he rumbled in defensive anger.

Judging from the stone-like sets of both Spoken faces, this was an argument that had continued for some time. Tataru fought with scheming merchantfolk on a near-daily basis and held sway over stacks of paperwork twice her height and girth, while Triss' own famous resolve had triumphed over gods and monsters  alike - neither would be willing to simply back down, and neither would be cowed by any degree of posturing. 

Which left Alphinaud in the unenviable position of mediating a dispute while half-naked. Excellent.

Rushing to rectify the latter issue, Alphinaud jerked his undershirt on and posed his first question, "Is there a particular reason why you are against wearing the bustle?"

"It's uncomfortable. I can't move in it," came the immediate response, shoulders tense and chin tucked in.

Tataru huffed, resting one hand on her hip. "It's not armour, Triss. You would only have to perform a few steps at most, and even that assumes that you change your mind about dancing tonight."

"That's not-" She cut herself off as Nugget's stony skin flashed brighter, hexagonal panels flickering along his mistress' arms. Interesting.

Father had always impressed upon Alphinaud that motivation was the key to success, a lesson reinforced by many of his Studium tutors and peers. If you understood an opponent's motivations, you knew the biases they applied to their arguments - if you knew their biases, you were in a position in which to overcome them with reasoned debate. Every person brought a new set of experiences to the playing field, and finding out the truth behind them was often crucial.

If the problem was not the dancing (which, admittedly, he also had cause to dread), then something deeper was afoot. Alphinaud thought hard as he swung his justacorps over his shoulders, considering all the formal events that Triss had attended-

And then he understood.

"The count has ensured that the ball will be well-guarded, my friend," he said, watching carefully as three pairs of eyes snapped to him. "There will be no need to prepare for betrayal."

He was correct. Caught in her fear, Triss visibly flinched, and Tataru gasped in realisation. "You could have told me," she gently admonished, before closing her eyes to better consider the situation at hand. "In that case, I understand completely. And I'm sure that-oh!" Hiking up her skirts to rush out into the hall, she hollered, "Wait right there, I'll be back!"

In the ensuing silence, Alphinaud found the opportunity to finish dressing himself. Slipping on his gloves, he said, "Triss, you know that you may confide in us, yes?"

She nodded, the solid leather of her sandals shifting against the hard wooden floor. Nugget pressed back into her chest, his Earthen Armour rippling near-invisibly out from her heart, and she mumbled, "I know nothing's going to happen. It's silly, and you're not afraid."

"Well, I am far more experienced in partying," he joked, stepping over to rub her shoulder. "Have faith in our friends, and try to enjoy the celebration."

A faint smile was all Triss had time for before Tataru barrelled back into the room, Auri-sized clothing piled high in her arms. "Hurry, hurry!" she sang, reaching up to shoo Nugget out of the way. "I think you'll enjoy this outfit much better. Alphinaud, you're officially designated as my assistant!"

"Excuse me?"

"Help Triss get dressed, I need to adjust the outfit," she explained, thrusting a pile of night-blue felt into his hands. He shook it out and found the hidden clasps while Tataru's sudden model stripped her himation off in favour of matching culottes; she kept the circlet and armillae, replacing her sandals with thighboots crafted from wind-weathered leather as she dressed with military efficiency.

The overall effect was that of a rather short dress, with the silken bottoms stretching halfway down her thighs and the ornate doublet reaching only an ilm or so further. Triss threw herself into some basic stretches to test the fit, and Alphinaud felt the need to ask, "Where did this even come from?"

"That's a trade secret, Alphy," Tataru chirped, raising a satisfied eyebrow as the Warrior of Light spun to face them, as light and fast as if she were wearing her normal combat gear. "I think that feels quite a bit nicer, doesn't it?"

"It does," she agreed, shoving one bell-like sleeve up so she could fiddle with her armillae.

Glancing momentarily at the chronometer on the table, Tataru said, "And with not a moment to spare - the ball begins in a quarter-bell, and we need to find the count so he can tell us what to expect." Brushing down her skirts, she asked, "Are you two ready?"

Triss nodded, typically firm. Alphinaud, for his part, felt about his neck for his carbuncle focus, cunningly disguised as a moonstone choker. Just in case. "I am," he replied, and strode directly for the door.

Chapter Text

When Triss was younger, still stumbling through the wake of Moenbryda's sacrifice, she tried to teach Minfilia how to fight.

It was an awkward affair for everyone. With less than two years of remembered life to her name, Triss' ability to explain her own instinctive aptitude at knifeplay was limited to parrotting the words of her various mentors; though she was skilled with a pick and quill pen and blessed with the same Echo-precognition as any other, Minfilia had never been truly trained in anything other than basic self-defence techniques. (By Thancred, who was never allowed to have opinions on rogue skills ever again after he started chucking his gladius like a baselard.)

It was awkward, but it was necessary, especially given the Rising Stones' sudden lack of protection. On a trip home to Limsa Lominsa, she stopped by the Sisters to pick Bochard's veteran brains - Minfilia already had a dagger to practice with, but the quick-scrawled diagrams became a huge benefit in their lessons.

The weapon in question was a nameday gift from Thancred, apparently. Forged from shining blue mythril and carved walnut lacquered black, its curved blade slipped neatly into a leather sheath gilded in precious metal. The polished materia set into the crossguard gleamed violet in the Solar's lantern light, sparking speed and grace along Minfilia's hands under hers as she guided her into the proper stance for Gust Slash.

"Um, Akentriss? Are you feeling okay?"

Suddenly stumbling a step forwards out of her abstracted reverie, Triss sidestepped an encroaching root and replied, "Yes, I'm fine. And just call me Triss, I keep telling you."

"Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot." In the endless dappled shadow of Rak'tika, the Oracle's white top wasn't nearly as blinding to look at, thin ivory loops securing her blue-black daggers to her hips. "But, um...isn't it your name?"

"Technically, yes, but I didn't pick it and chances are it wasn't the name I was born with. Triss is better." There were exceptions, of course - Shun, for example, had threatened on several occasions to only start calling her by her preferred name when she started calling him by his - but most everyone she knew was comfortable using the diminutive. "How do you know that, anyroad? Did Thancred tell you?" Because I didn't.

"Yes," the Oracle agreed, absently tugging at her ribboned hair. "He told me stories about his home while we were travelling. You were in plenty of them, and I wondered."

Triss hummed in acknowledgement, turning her attention back to not tripping over the thick brush of Dyer's Wash. She understood why the Oracle would have been curious about names, given everything. She didn't choose her name, she didn't go by the one granted to her by her parents. She was known to strangers as only the destined Oracle of Light, just the same as the Warrior thereof.

From the woods ahead, Razor screamed down through the buzzing air; swirling once around before alighting on Triss' proffered arm, her verdant aether-form rippled with a warning of approaching danger. In the same moment, Ryne vanished behind a tree, gasping "There! The sin eaters!" in a voice muffled by aetherial silence. 

Throwing her egi back into the air to scout, Triss dragged the misty shroud of Hide over her body and followed suit just in time for a pair of Forgiven Dissonances to sail down from on high. Listening carefully for Razor's whistling calls, she whispered, "Your reaction time is impressive."

"Really?"

"Really. Are all the Oracles trained like you?" Their customary garb is lightweight, easy to move in. Symbolically similar to Minfilia's, yet intended for fighting the Light instead of channelling it.

Strangely enough, however, the question caused the Oracle to falter, her stealth flickering with the sudden jerk of movement. Eyebrows pinched together and mouth turned firmly down, she said, "No. Ran'jit taught the recent ones to fight like him, and before that they trained as knights of Voeburt. Thancred showed me how to use these, after he helped me escape."

Triss' face must have scrunched up strangely, because the Oracle cringed into herself at the admission, shoulders tight and head lowered. Abruptly scrubbing a hand across her cheeks, she explained, "No, I'm not-Thancred used a terrible fighting style as a rogue. It's not a good one for new trainees."

"Ah," came the reply, as the Oracle uncurled slightly. She glanced over to the roaming sin eaters, then down at the grimoire strapped to Triss' waist, then asked, "Could you show me? Only if you don't mind, of course, I wouldn't want to be a bother."

Wait. What?

Eyes wide with surprise, Triss rearranged her thoughts into a coherent sentence and stuttered, "As in-you mean teach you rogue skills?"

The Oracle nodded. Gathering up a sudden spurt of confidence, she continued, "Thancred always said that you were a woman of many talents, and I have much to learn if I'm to be even half the hero you are. So I thought, maybe, that you might have some advice?"

...Well, he wasn't wrong. Scratching at her scales, Triss thought about all the mentors she'd had over the years: Y'mhitra's reckless confidence, Alka Zolka's enthusiasm for knowledge, Thubygeim's serene intellect. The joy and pride the Sisters took in their work, Oboro and Tsubame's precision and utter dedication, travelling home from Doma to find a helpful guide detailing the forbidden fourth mudra that Karasu somehow slipped into her pack. (That she couldn't read, because the Echo didn't translate written words. She'd work out the shadow clone thing eventually.)

They were usually skilled in the field in question, but neither Alka nor Y'mhitra had wielded a tome in their lives. Almost all of them were mature and composed, but put Oboro in front of a pile of laundry and it would likely end up twice as dirty as before. They were universally determined to teach, to ensure that their student succeeded and grew stronger than before.

Aside from the twins, Triss was the youngest member of the Scions, and even they had far more worldly experience than she did. If people looked up to her, they were typically strangers in search of a symbol to adulate. She was weird, clumsy outside combat, didn't understand terms she should have learned in her forgotten childhood.

So maybe she wasn't the best choice. But she was probably better than Thancred.

Snapping her fingers, Triss shoved one hand down her himation (to a squeak of surprise from Ryne) to retrieve a small pouch, tipping a black-edged soul crystal out into her palm. Tucking the other two away again, she asked, "Do you know what a soul crystal is?"

"I do," the Oracle replied, holding out her hand when Triss grabbed for it. "Urianger told me once that his is how he can connect with the stars."

Nodding, Triss went on, "This is a different kind, used by ninja to channel magic. Hold it in your hand, and let your aether reach out to intertwine with it."

The Oracle obediently closed her eyes, and Triss gestured for Razor to move into a patrol pattern as she focussed in order to give them a little peace. Her attunement didn't falter, but the overall sensation of letting another borrow her soul almost resembled a limb falling asleep: present and connected, yet limp and unusable. "Can you feel it?"

"...Yes," the Oracle replied after a moment, rubbing her thumb over the engraved crimson crest. Eyes pooling with sudden worry, she asked, "But don't you need this to fight?"

"Not right now I don't." Snatching a stick off the ground, Triss waved in Razor's general direction. "I have three, I can spare one for now. Promise to keep it safe?"

"Of course!"

"Good. Now, uh-" What was it that Oboro said? "-Ninja Lesson Number One: you need to think of their blades as extensions of their minds in order to fight. If your mind is strong, your weapon will be strong; if it's weak, then you'll probably get killed. So long as you keep presence of mind, your daggers will cut as hard as you need them to." Close enough. "Does that make sense?"

"I think so," the Oracle confirmed, brow furrowed in an attempt to follow Triss' train of thought. "The soul crystal showed me three strange symbols. Are they spells?"

Wiggling her hand back and forth, Triss squatted to doodle the few Doman letters she knew in a bare patch of dirt. "Essentially, yes: I'll show you the important ones, then you can try them out on the sin eaters. Ninja Lesson Number Two: this blocky one is called Jin..."