Work Text:
His blood burns.
The anger and loss are as fuel on the fire of his life, and he snarls, heaves the greatsword in his hands with all of Halone’s rage. There’s a sharp, short scream, a crunch of bone, a rush of blood- and then another Garlean, another Ala Mhigan who sold their soul to the Crania Lupi lies in pieces on the dirt, and their viscera stains his sword. And the aether dark and grieving and boiling in his veins howls for it, rushing across him, siphoned aether stitching thin lacerations on his limbs back together in burning thread. The creed of the Dark Knight - bleed others to heal yourself, be the shadow of justice and vengeance in a world which rewards cruelty and laughs at suffering. It’s only fitting that the death he brings heals him with pain.
He grits his teeth against it, and lets the regret drive him on.
Three more of these paperlike squads crumple in the face of his agony, the grief eating him up inside made manifest and dark and curdling, layering on his skin and fur like a layer of armor. Blades shatter on his skin, magics hissing to halt against the darkness he drapes around himself like a shield. And he strides through the attackers, blade aflame now from the fire-aspected metals drinking the aether of those who stand in his way. He has to- there’s no one else, and never has been.
Corrain charges into Rhalgr’s Reach and finds a bloodbath.
For a brief moment, he can only look at the bodies strewn about the last refuge of the Ala Mhigan Resistance. He can only look and realize that he was not here to prevent this loss of life, that even if he had been here all he would have done is kill anyway -
The sound that escapes his lips is less a growl and more a whimper. He’s never been fast enough when it’s mattered. Not now, not when Haurchefant-
There’s a cry from across the Reach, and he looks round just in time to see a man clad fully in armor with hair like the gold of sunset shatter a barrier of gleaming aether with nothing more than a single sword. And the katana arcs down, a smooth movement. The firelight of burning bodies and tents and supplies dyes it red even before the blood sprays and paints the dirt dark and maroon.
He screams, he thinks, when she falls, but the voice that passes his lips isn’t his.
“Y’shtola!”
Instead, it’s Lyse, charging the man before her, bare fists against a swordsman strong enough to shatter an Archon’s barrier. Corrain starts running, the blade in his hand near his height and yet like only a simple dagger in weight, so fierce is the desperation that clots his blood and turns his soul cold with fear. But he knows. He knows before he gets close.
He never makes it in time. Not when it matters.
Lyse is thrown away like a ragdoll, and then - Zenos , he hears the whisper from someone, somewhere - advances, long sword raised to execute rather than kill. Corrain cries out again, and this time the voice is his, raw with fury and fear and all the desperation of a wild thing and- He does the only thing he can think of to distract the menace of a conqueror before him, and throws his greatsword.
It turns in the air once- and then there’s curt yell from the woman next to Zenos, watching the carnage, and he turns simply, the blade missing his helm by ilms and thudding into the earth blade-first just fulms beyond him. Corrain’s upper lip curls, baring sharp fangs, and he knows his pupils have contracted to thinner slits, his ears canted back in aggression.
“Touch them again and I’ll take your head ,” he snarls, and draws the twin daggers belted beneath the off-white and bronze-plated longcoat he wears. The darksteel gleams, and he drops low, ready to strike. But when Zenos looks at him, and Corrain can only let himself burn at the consideration. At the condescension of it.
“...Yes, perhaps you’ll be able to provide the sport I desire. Come, then.”
He needs no second invite. Behind him, he can hear Krile and Alphinaud hurrying to stabilize Y’shtola and Conrad - they need cover. He can be that, if he can’t do anything else. So he lunges, and disappears into a whirl of shadow.
His first strike is blocked. So too the second. And the third. No matter how nimble his steps or the dexterity with which he strikes, the soft shadows of the shinobi training he’d learned to hide in and strike from do not hide his intentions well enough. And slowly, as the mudras he’s learnt send bolts of lightning and blasts of fire and water and let him spin wind aether into each of his steps- he realizes.
They’re evenly matched.
Zenos can’t hit him. Each of his strikes is too slow, Corrain too nimble on his feet, and even when the Garlean resorts to explosions Corrain shifts into shade and spirits himself yalms away, safely out of reach. And yet in the same breath Corrain’s twin daggers do not have enough reach or force, and Zenos’s guard is too tight, his defenses too solid, and even the blasts of elementally-charged aether do little but slow the man down.
It’s a death by a thousand cuts, Corrain thinks to himself, some strange hysteria settling over him, calm but for the hum of blazing adrenaline and fury in his limbs. Zenos too has little cuts, scratches in his armor that just nick skin, and- and Corrain doesn’t know when the snarl on his face curls into some kind of vicious smile. But all he knows is that they’re at a standstill, that the collapsible staff he uses to channel White Magic is still hidden safely in the hilt of his greatsword, and if he can just turn the tables on their speed and strength-
He springs forward, calls lightning to strike true, and skates low under the swing of Zenos’s blade, sprinting for where his sword stands protruding from the dirt.
It’s a mistake. One Zenos was waiting for.
He hears the unmistakable crack of steel on bone and the weightlessness of flying through the air before the pain radiates, and he hits the ground with a half-choked gasp of pain, crumpling in on his left side, ribs screaming agony up through his left shoulder and pulsing with every breath. In sprinting for his sword, he’d left his back momentarily open. And he’d been kicked in the ribs hard enough to throw him for his trouble.
“Corrain!”
Alphinaud cries his name in shock- but he breathes, steels himself against the throbbing ache, and drags himself back to his feet, wheezing around the pain. He can’t fall here. No matter how it hurts. He can’t let himself stop. Because if he stops- then Haurchefant died for nothing, didn’t he?
He won’t let that be true. He won’t . His brother didn’t die for nothing, and he will prove that to the entirety of this uncaring world no matter how he has to bleed and cry for it.
He will.
“...I’m fine, Alphinaud. Focus on Y’shtola.”
There’s blood in his mouth- he’s bitten the inside of his cheek again. Sometimes having fangs for canine teeth is frustrating.
He spits it out, and raises the dagger in his right hand defensively. Every breath sends agony flaring through his chest and down into his tail - but he’s fought through worse before. He has. He has to.
Across from him, Zenos sighs.
“Disappointing, that this is all you and yours have to offer me,” he drawls, and before Corrain can react, with the ache blazing through his ribcage and one arm half-useless from the broken ribs shooting pain down the muscle- there’s a blade in his face. He barely has time to block, the blade of his dagger cracking- blood rushing in his white ears-
And then there is only Darkness.
“He is not yours , Garlean.”
There’s a familiar snarl, echoing and cold- and then he’s pushed back, shadow gently setting him down a few yalms away, Zenos thrown far across the dirt in a single strike. Corrain stiffens, staring outright, the fur on his tail bristling, and-
There’s an Ascian standing between him and Zenos now, an unfamiliar- familiar? Has he seen it before, somewhere? He feels like he has - sigil in glittering scarlet shining brightly over the red mask on their face, and Dark magic, cold and distant and so unlike the burning dark rage of his own dark spells- leeches from their hands and robe into the air around them. Across the Reach, Zenos slowly stands- his helm cracked asunder to reveal deadened eyes. There’s a heavy silence now, the silence of death and disbelief and confusion.
“Well…this is irregular,” Zenos says softly. “I have heard of your kind before, Ascian. But I rather thought you…disliked Eorzea’s champion, here.”
It’s a question he’s not alone in wondering. And for all that he’s irritated by this tyrant asking it- he can’t help but want to know the answer as well.
“...They do,” he coughs out, and tries not to wince at the flare of pain from the broken bones in his ribcage. “I’m not exactly their favorite person, considering - what? The Scions and I have killed three of your number, or assisted in their deaths in some way? What in the seven hells are you playing at?”
There’s no answer- not to his question anyway, and not to Zenos’s either. The Ascian merely raises a hand, still staring directly at the blonde man, shadows wavering about them.
“Leave or die, Zenos yae Galvus. There is nothing for you here.”
For a brief moment, Corrain can see that consideration come back. The same consideration that he’d been given just before the invitation to cross blades. And- with a sinking chill in the pit of his stomach, Corrain realizes he understands it. Because he too is appraising the Ascian between them, wondering. Half-toying with the idea of fighting them.
He doesn’t like it, seeing a mirror of his own face In Zenos’s expressions. He doesn’t like it at all.
And then the Ascian in front of him sighs and reaches up into the air, and Darkness gathers around them.
“I will not waste my time fighting you. Leave .”
And snaps their fingers.
Zenos and the woman following him both disappear into portals of Darkness, and then vanish entirely from sight- and Corrain stares at the spaces they’ve left behind. Gone, and so easily. He’s going to have to be careful, now. Facing an Ascian while already injured- it’s not a good plan. It’s an awful plan, actually. But that doesn’t mean he can afford not to neutralize a threat.
He’s just trying to get his feet under him again, trying not to shake now that the adrenaline is fading and the pain worsening for it, when they turn back to face him. He raises one dagger, gripping it tightly to try and stop the trembling, and bares his fangs again, ears pulling back. They don’t move from where they stand, only watching him for a moment behind a small red mask with silver detailing - softer, somehow, than the masks he’s previously seen. They’ve let their sigil fade - a sign they are no longer calling upon their power, he thinks - but why?
“...You would have gotten yourself killed,” they tell him, and he blinks, nonplussed. “Don’t.”
He would have- what? Why is that what they’re saying here?
“...and since when is that something an Ascian wouldn’t breathe a sigh of relief over?” he finally asks, and can only just keep the incredulity in his voice to a respectable level. He’s in no condition to easily win if it comes to a fight, after all. Breathing alone hurts at the moment. “I’ll ask again - what in the seven hells are you playing at? I thought your organization wanted me dead?”
They don’t say anything for a while, just regarding him from behind their mask, quiet. It’s unnerving, after a little bit - more so than any of the monologuing, maniacal types have been. But then, after an awkward pause-
“...You cause us problems, yes. But I don’t- I’m here to watch. Not to scheme- I don’t scheme.”
He wants to laugh, but the first twitch of his chest hurts and silences the disbelief more quickly than self-discipline ever could.
“What Ascian doesn't scheme?” He asks, limping towards where his great sword is still planted in the dirt. They make no move to stop him - odd, but he'll take it - and he reaches the blade after a few moments. Then it's a simple matter to pop the collapsible shaft of his staff out of the hollow center of the hilt, and with a flicker of aether, extend the silver beam to its full height - taller than both his greatsword and himself by not quite a fulm.
“Lahabrea schemed enough to make up for my lack,” the Ascian suddenly deadpans, and- it's such an unexpected show of derision for a supposed colleague that he can't help it. Corrain laughs, the sound bursting from his mouth before he can stop himself- and then the broken ribs cut it short, and he wheezes on the spike of pain.
“Fair enough,” he coughs out, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ow. Wasn't expecting that. No matter- Afflatus Solace.”
The lilies of light bloom over his face and hands, shining and brilliant from the top of his staff, and he can feel it when the aether of the land shifts, a gentle current flowing through him. The pain dissipates into motes of glittering pollen, bone and bruise weaving itself fresh and new beneath the surge of Light. And he exhales, long and slow, when the pains fade entirely. Perfectly healed.
He's always been painfully average at conjury, at calling upon earth and wind, though he'd grown skilled and powerful through sheer determination and study. But when the soul stone with White Magic had appeared, and he'd learned to channel Light…maybe it was his connection to Hydaelyn. But he'd taken to it so naturally it was hard to remember a time he'd struggled to heal.
Well. Aside from now. But he knows why he can't bring himself to be a healer anymore.
A smile better suits a hero, little brother.
And yet- and yet even a true White mage hadn't been enough then. Better to take the hits meant for others than watch as they died in front of you.
“...that magic…”
Corrain shifts with less than a thought, pulling his staff around to plant between him and his unlooked-for savior, only to find them staring. For a moment, he just watches- but they make no move for aggression, and he relaxes after a long moment. Their eyes are wide and- violet, beneath the mask, he notices. Familiarly so. Where has he seen them before, that he'd remember those eyes of amethyst?
They only stare in silence.
“...I know you from somewhere,” he says, eyes narrowing. He's certain he does - how could he forget a gaze like that? “And yet you say you do not scheme.”
That seems to startle them into speaking again, and they wrap their arms around themself, rocking slowly in place. Abruptly, Corrain recognizes the movement - a self-soothing one he's only had a habit of since childhood. An uncomfortable tightness climbs up the back of his throat.
“...no,” they say, and their voice is clipped. “You knew- no. You don't. I have not been in the Source for some time.”
It's a statement that he can't quite bring himself to believe- and yet. This is the first time he remembers seeing an Ascian so clearly unbalanced in front of him. Lahabrea had been unhinged and maniacal - and scheming, as they'd said - and Nabriales had been an annoying twit. Igeyorhm had just been hot air, a hanger-on of Lahabrea's.
This is the first Ascian he's seen to show anything like true distress - and it hurts some part of him that he does not know how to name.
“...who are you, Ascian?” he asks, and tips his head to the side. The Light atop his staff dims only slightly- the link to the light in his soul too strong to snuff it out entirely. But he knows Ascians are creatures of the Dark, so if he's pretending they can be cordial, he can at least try to temper the glow within.
“...Azem. Of the Unsundered,” they day quietly- and that name is familiar too, though he cannot say how. “...the boy called you Corrain.”
There's a brief flare of triumph when Alphinaud is referred to as a boy . Being the same age as Alphinaud - a fresh-faced nineteen and all the more rash for it - and yet looking less like a toddler has its perks. But it's quickly dimmed when he glances over and sees Y'shtola still breathing shallowly in a puddle of her own blood.
“...Aye, that's my name. Corrain de Fortemps, though I'd rather not put myself at your service, if you don't mind overmuch,” he replies calmly, and for good measure gives a short little bow. Nobody could say Artoirel hadn't taught him manners, now- even if using them with off-kilter Ascians was probably not how he'd intended those skills to be put to use. Azem watches him for a long moment, then turns that sad violet gaze onto Alphinaud and Krile healing Conrad and Y'shtola respectively, and stares some more. Corrain fights the urge to edge between them and the injured, instead collapsing his staff again, stowing it in the hilt of his greatsword, and swinging the blade up onto his back in a single smooth motion. It clearly catches their eye, because when he next turns his gaze on them, they're watching him again.
“...No. I'd rather no one be in my service,” they say, and- it hurts, the lingering wry sorrow so plain in the tone of their voice. He wonders if they meant it that way, or if they meant the crooked twist of their mouth to be a smile, and the comment a joke. He thinks both are a different kind of depressing.
“Ah.”
The awkward silence that falls then has him- antsy, and he wants to cringe away from that because- this is an Ascian. It's one of the beings that has visited so much death on the world in their haste to create their Ardor, one of the beings who took Thancred's body to wear like a horrid shell, one of the beings who gave the secrets of summoning to the beast tribes and people like Ysayle and led them all to their deaths and the land to infirmity and weakness. This is one of the creatures that want him and all the Scions dead for the simple crime of trying to prevent calamities.
And yet. And yet this one seems-
“...if you only observe,” he asks, unsure he wants to know the answer. “...then why save me? I don't understand.”
The violent eyes disappear behind the red mask, the glow of familiar amethyst falling into shadow, and the hooded figure ducks their head slightly. The red of their mask turns wine-dark in the gloom.
“You…I am not done watching you. I need to know.”
The murmur is so soft he's not quite sure he hears it properly, even with the keen hearing granted to him by virtue of being Miqo’te. It’s almost as if they don’t mean for him to hear the answer to the question he’s asked. Perhaps for good reason- their answer only leaves him with more questions, and no few prickles of confusion and nervous fear besides. They’re not done watching him? How long has he been under Ascian surveillance without realizing it? How long will he be still haunted by them?
He edges slightly back when they don’t make any move to address his question more audibly. He can’t tell if they notice.
But a moment later they shift some, shaking their head.
“...Elidibus will be displeased,” they say then, absently but for the way those gleaming violet eyes now shine behind their mask again. And Corrain- tenses.
Elidibus. The Emissary, clad in white, most recently responsible for the Warriors of Darkness trying to cut his throat - and for Minfilia’s permanent departure from this world. The one who wore a facade of peace and yet did nothing to honor it. That was a name he knew. And…Elidibus would be displeased, would he?
He can’t help the way his eyes narrow, but he at the least goes still, forcing his tail and ears both to relax and not prick up with interest. It’s entirely possible this too is a lure, a lie of division in the Asican ranks meant to distract and yet- and yet he isn’t sure this one is lying. There’s something about them that’s more fragile than the others he’s met and killed - or at least, fragile in a different way. He’s not about to say Lahabrea was the most steady of opponents, after all.
“...if it would displease your Emissary, why do it?” he presses, itching to know the truth behind their intervention. If he’s just another pawn in an Asican game, after all- well. He’ll have to find a way to smoke them out. And- and if there’s something else happening- some strange other reason this Azem wants him alive-
Then he wants to know. To understand. To- to comprehend why they’re doing this - because as it is, he can’t understand why they want so much death aside from insanity and none of the Ascians he’s yet met have seemed quite that unhinged. Well. Perhaps Lahabrea. He’d been cracked through and through. But Nabriales had at least seemed rational. And this Azem does too, if strangely withdrawn into themselves.
Their gaze turns cold.
“...It’s personal to me. To the dead person behind my mask,” they say then, their voice devoid of emotion- and Corrain pauses, stares. His throat closes up.
And the worst part is that he cannot even condemn them- for didn’t he too reanimate a corpse, so desperate was he for a teacher, for someone to grant him the ability to manifest his own pain into magic? At the very least it sounds like they at least have an iota of respect for the person whose body they took, if they’re choosing to adhere at least to some emotional tie of that once-living being. And…
And it implies that they saw that person as living. As- as worth that last gentle respect.
He stares. This Ascian truly is an odd one.
They stare back.
“...Elidibus will understand,” they say. “Our seats are similar. Sometimes with, sometimes against.”
There’s movement behind them then- Alliance Soldiers in Grand Company colors, led by Raubahn, all staring at the Ascian in their midst, weapons raised in caution but not attacking, taking their cues from Corrain himself. He blinks once, flicks an ear irritably to dislodge the buzz of movement echoing in his eardrums.
“I will take your word for it.” He keeps his voice slow. Unhurried. “But only on that, and only this time, Azem.”
Then he glances at Raubahn, an obvious tell of the Grand Company’s presence, he knows, but even as his face curdles with a dislike of what he knows he has to do to prevent escalation here, he shakes his head slightly.
Stand down.
“...and I suppose I also must thank you for intervening, however bitter I find the taste of this admission. I would not have been able to block that strike in time.”
They did save his life, after all. And while it is true that they can afford to take no quarter with Ascians, it’s also true that they dissipated Zenos and Fordola with nary a thought, banishing them to an unknown place - and while he may be equipped to take on an Ascian, the Eorzean regulars most certainly aren’t. He will not see them throw their lives away here.
Azem follows his glance casually, looking over their shoulder at the gathering soldiers behind them- and then just as casually turns back to face him. He nearly allows a flush to color his cheeks, heat rising up his neck. Of course they knew - he should have expected that. At the least, the deliberate dismissal of Raubahn’s presence seems to have had a calming effect on the low hum of tension he can feel simmering in the destroyed Reach.
“...Zenos is an irritant. I don't know why Varis tolerates him. He causes chaos, but…”
Azem’s voice is slightly huffy when they speak next, and on their face beneath the mask their lips are twisted in annoyance. It’s almost endearing, somehow.
“He causes so much damage,” they complain after a moment of quiet musing on the topic, and then sober slightly. “And…it is harder each time to see you as not truly alive.”
Corrain stiffens.
Not truly alive ? Not truly-
“Not truly alive?” he says, and his voice breaks along the seams with all the fury he stores and sits on for use with his greatsword. That well of aimless, corrosive pain that’s been eating at him slowly since that first fatal massacre in the Waking Sands and growing with every death.
It bleeds from his tone.
“Not truly alive ?” he snarls. “And who are you to decide that? And don’t say a god - I kill those easily , and those deaths at least I can never regret.”
Azem just looks at him for a long, breathless minute, and then their gaze slides past him and locks onto some vague point in the distance.
“...no. Of course I'm not- I'm not a god. Zodiark isn't a god. but I....we came before. I remember the World Unsundered. I remember....there was nothing left but shades.”
Corrain pulls up short as they visibly begin to dim before his eyes, staring in askance. Their voice drops into soft mutters, and even with his hearing he can only barely make out the words “save” and “put it back”. But- of the sentences they’ve just spoken, he only truly knows the meaning of one. And the implications send a thrill of fear down his spine, a flare of cloying disbelief that he clings to desperately.
Zodiark isn’t a god .
The god that the Ascians have been fighting so hard to bring back, destroying the world as they do so- isn’t a god. And they are the progenitors of primal summoning, those false manifestations of belief and prayer and horrors uncounted, committed in their tempering names.
But if Zodiark is- by implication, at the least, a primal then- then what is-?
No. It’s not possible - he’s not tempered . He can’t be. She can’t be- not Her, who Minfilia gave everything for, who shielded him from Ultima and speaks in the faintest whispers he can only just hear with the Echo. She can’t be - primals temper. They steal the will and minds of their followers, and he-
Would he kill Her, if it was the right thing to do? If She was a primal- could he? Could he stop Her, stop Her plans for the star wholly, if it meant free will? If it meant- no.
No. She isn’t.
And even if She was- She opposes Zodiark. She opposes a being whose followers will kill millions just to see his return. Who only ever speaks in whispers- and yet hasn’t for months, but through Minfilia. Who seems entirely content to remain aloof, even when he’s bleeding from the soul with grief.
If She was- he rather thinks he’d agree with what Her goals were, anyway. He can’t imagine otherwise. And if he ever didn’t- if She was ever cruel or demanded death or bled the star for the sake of it- She wouldn’t be the Hydaelyn he believed in anymore, would She?
He shakes himself slightly, and wills his fur not to stand on end anymore, with limited success. Azem doesn’t appear to have noticed his brief crisis of faith- but neither have they given an actual answer to his question, only gazing far into the distance with empty vacancy behind the purple shine of their stare.
“...my duty. My duty is to my people, to the souls. That is what decides it. Because if- if you were, I.... then you would be my- but I have to- the Rejoinings are the only way to save them. I have to do my duty. I have to.”
They’re rambling now, voice soft but getting more agitated as they speak, and Corrain takes a surreptitious step toward them, the dawning realization that they’ve…lost hold on the present, perhaps, or on their own train of thought starting to creep into his heart. And through the anger, through the grief and loss that the Ascians have caused- he can’t help but feel an ache of sorrow, too.
Their eyes snap to his face, wide and fixed and feverish with- with some kind of terrible recognition, and a drowning emptiness to accompany it and-
“You can’t come back,” they whimper. “You can’t come back until the world is whole and perfect again.”
And then- in a turn of frigid Darkness that burns with cold- they are gone.