Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As they spot the rising smoke and flames clawing through the night sky, R’mina’s inexplicable worry suddenly makes sense in all the worst ways. Relieving as it should have been to bask in the Resistance’s overwhelming victory against Grynewaht and the magitek prototype, the Keeper Miqo’te kept mostly silent after the battle. After the bulk of those deployed had returned to Rhalgr’s Reach, she remained, studying the ruined machine with a deep frown. 

Everything about this felt too easy, reminding her of the countless times disaster had struck in Ishgard, near-totally decimating the Scion’s efforts to broker peace between man and dragon.

Facing Nidhogg, alone, filled R’mina with a unique dread she’d felt only once before; even now, on some nights, she was haunted by nightmares, drawing her last breath as Lahabrea stood victorious.

Despite the Resistance’s triumph, at the bottom of her gut, she felt that same dread had begun to pool; just this once, she hoped her intuition was wrong.

After a while, Alisaie came to fetch her and was quick to ask if she had sustained any injuries. While she remained hearty and whole, brushing off her companion’s concern, R’mina cringed as her hand began trembling anew, tail lashing all the while.

Setting off toward the Reach, she tightens her already vice-grip on the hilt of her rapier, attempting to calm her now-racing heart.

While the fight had only begun, the day was won, and that would be enough for now. One step closer to freeing Ala Mhigo. Just that much closer to giving her homeland a brighter tomorrow.

…But of course, fate had other plans.

Though Alphinaud was quick to volunteer R’mina for the reconnaissance expedition to Castellum Velodyna, she’d had half a mind to refuse. As the others discussed the next plan of action amongst themselves, she sat in silence, distracted.

Silly as the thought might be, what if she was needed here more? By no means a competent healer in comparison to Alphinaud and Krile these days, it having been some time since she followed the path of a white mage, favoring to weave in and out of combat with her rapier, she’d gone to great lengths to maintain a competent grasp on white magick. After all, it'd been where her journey first began.

If being the Warrior of Light had taught R’mina anything, she could never be too careful.

Deaf to her pleas, the previous day’s anxiety hadn’t lessened but done the opposite as the bells went on. Finally having enough, R’mina stealthy departs from the conversation and makes her way to the infirmary. Looking past Krile, she spots Y’shtola busying herself with attending to the Reach’s various patients.

Ignoring the purr that wishes to escape her throat, R’mina slowly makes her way over, leaning against an unoccupied cot.

The only indication Y’shtola hears her approach is the tiniest flick of her ears, but that itself is enough.

“Tell me. Where is it you’re off to now, hm?” Her tone betraying nothing, R’mina has had years to familiarize herself with her fellow Scion, knowing a scheme–or, more often, a tease–when she smells one. Leave it to the Seeker to seize the advantage whenever possible.

“Just some recon over at the Castellum, why?” Smirking, she leans closer, lowering her voice. “No need to get your boots in a twist worrying about me, Shtola.” Stressful as the days have been of late, R’mina feels it all melt away as the pair fall into familiar banter. Unhelpful to her current predicament, her tail moved with a mind of its own, and she could only hope her dear friend remained ignorant to its motions.

She needed this, and a small part of her wonders if her fellow Miqo’te knew the same.

Y’shtola scoffs. “Perish the thought.” Having finished with her patient, bidding them return to rest, she turns to face R’mina, flicking her tail to brush against the Warrior of Light’s shin. “Consider it a mere matter of curiosity. Though I must say,” her pale gaze briefly flicks over the woman’s shoulder, and the Miqo’te's smile turn devilish, “have you longed for my company so dearly?”

Caught red-handed, but not one to back down from a challenge, R’mina takes a step closer, drinking in the sight of Y’shtola’s sightless eyes following her every move, like being trapped under a spotlight. Smirking, she brushes the tip of her own tail against her dear friend’s cheek. “Am I every bit what you expected? Is the scholar in you yet entertained?”

The question is equal parts breathless and expecting, yet the Seeker lets it hang in the air for some time.

Eventually, she taps her chin in thought, smirking. “It remains to be seen,” and she’s already turning away to busy herself with the next task in a never-ending list; such is the life of a Scion.

It takes longer than R’mina would like to admit for her mind to catch up to the present, but any retort she could muster is cut short by Alphinaud’s voice cutting across the infirmary.

“R’mina? We should depart for Castellum Velodyna ere long.”

Throwing a hand over her shoulder in acknowledgment, she prepares to say goodbye, only to be interrupted once more.

“Do take care, Mina,” Y’shtola is upon her now, one hand resting on her waist as the other ventures higher, almost to her lips.

The Keeper can hardly believe what’s happening. “S-Shtola-”

“It would be a shame for Tataru’s fine craftsmanship to be sullied in battle.”

R’mina can do nothing but stare in stunned, flustered silence as her fellow Miqo’te brushes off the shoulders of her tailored coat, then straightens out the collar with a satisfied nod. Until now, she hadn’t given much thought to her choice of outfit; despite the Scion receptionist’s claims the gear was best suited for travel, the whole ensemble had served just as well in the heat of combat.

“As befitting of the Warrior of Light. Now, ‘tis time you were on your way,” she shoos R’mina from the infirmary. “Be sure to return in one piece. The Reach has enough patients already,” the Seeker raises an eyebrow, “unless you would be so inclined as to put your healing talents to use?”

Tempting as the offer is, and much as it would soothe her heart to help the Resistance in as many ways as possible, Pipin’s mission can wait no longer.

“When I return, Shtola. Promise,” she vows.

“And I shall hold you to it, Mina.”

The last she sees of her fellow Miqo’te is the teasing flick of her tail before the woman vanishes back inside, returning to her duties. And it is high time R’mina does the same. Ensuring her gear is secure, she breaks into a jog toward Alphinaud and the others, having all but forgotten her previous unease.

Leaving Rhalgr’s Reach behind, R’mina spares one final glance over her shoulder, whispering a prayer to Hydaelyn, Menphina, then Rhalgr for good measure.

Please… keep them safe. 

…

As they spot the rising smoke and flames clawing through the night sky, R’mina’s inexplicable worry suddenly makes sense in all the worst ways.

Rhalgr’s Reach was under attack.

The frantic beating of her heart was like a deafening roar in her ears as she broke into a mad dash toward the Resistance’s headquarters. Sure, the latest swaths of recruits Conrad, M’naago, and Meffrid had managed to bring under their banner were by no means proficient fighters, but…

…But what horror could have been unleashed upon them to elicit such destruction?

Ignoring the panicked shouts of the others as they fail to match her pace, R’mina can scarcely recall running into Krile, learning the gravity of the situation, and engaging imperial soldiers as she carves a path toward where she hopes Y’shtola and Lyse would be. The world around her was a blur of muted sounds and colors, too chaotic to discern what she saw.

More soldiers fell still at her feet, but she kept going.

Leaving in her wake a path of still-bodies and blood, R’mina reaches the heart of the settlement, but what she finds is enough to leave her body locking up in…

In…

In fear.

Just yalms away, Lyse sits, defeated and shackled, and at her feet… 

Y’shtola lies still in a steadily growing pool of her own blood.

R’mina’s heart stops, but the world keeps turning. Enemy soldiers stand strewn about the camp, but the Keeper ignores them. No ordinary man, nor even Fordola, could best the unflappable Miqo’te in such a devastating way.

The raw power behind such an attack could only come from someone like her, and it takes little time to find the culprit. Too close to her friends for her liking stands a demon encased in armor and shrouded in shadow, flicking fresh blood from the blade of his sword.

R’mina’s instincts warn her that this is no ordinary foe, but her clouded mind ignores self-preservation in favor of launching herself at the bastard.

Later, many moons following the disaster wrought this night, the Keeper will learn his name–Zenos yae Galvus, Crown Prince of Garlemald and Imperial Viceroy–the first soul to ever humiliate R’mina. In the suns to come, she will carve a new path forward solely to kill the man, no matter the cost.

But for now, she pays no heed to his words–lamenting a night of one disappointment after another, hardly giving to the foolish beast who would approach him any attention.

R’mina wants him dead, and before this night is over, she will hang his head from her hip for what he has done this day.

…

But fate would not deign to be so kind.

Despite her best efforts, calling upon every last onze of strength in her veins, the Miqo’te is driven back, slower to rise after each calamitous strike. Panting, her body littered head to toe in open wounds and bruises, R’mina struggles to hold her grip on her rapier, leaning on it for support more than aiming to attack.

Still, she stands, scowling defiantly as Zenos leisurely makes his way over.

Too weak to do anything more than watch her impending death latch its jaws around her throat, readying to strike, her hand goes limp, and the sound of her weapon falling onto the sand is lost over the rumbling of thunder.

As Zenos lowers into his final stance, pouring what looks like darkness into his blade, R’mina takes a final breath, looking over the man’s shoulder.

She sees Lyse, unable to move, yet forced to watch the horror that unfolded since everything went so wrong.

And she sees Y’shtola, likely dead, pale, and still as she is.

In slow motion, R’mina sends a silent apology to the Scions, for failing to save the day when it truly mattered. Like a moth to flame, her eyes are drawn to Zenos’ sword, and the colossal wave of death heading straight for her.

So this is it, then, how the Warrior of Light met her end, bested by a monster wearing the skin of man.

In that final second before the world fades to black, she hears the beginning of Lyse’s blood-curdling scream. For the last time, R’mina Tinthe, Keeper of the Moon, Ala Mhigan, Warrior of Light, and Scion of the Seventh Dawn, closes her eyes…

…and lets go.

…

She wakes to the sound of yelling, rumbling, and the feeling of sand in her mouth; worse yet, the soil is clumped, tasting overwhelmingly of copper. Though most of her body is numb–a fact that would be alarming to someone in a clearer state of mind–enough sensation has returned to realize she’s drowning.

She can’t breathe.

As her body weakly begins to convulse, R’mina opens her eyes, only to find half of her vision has gone dark while the other sees only red. Before… there was a fight, and she… she…

She can’t breathe.

Her first and only attempt at taking a wheezing breath leaves the Miqo’te choking as grains of sand cut and clog her throat. Was death truly so excruciating?

Rise, my warrior.

Suddenly, like a blessing from Hydaelyn, her body finds the impossible strength to move, and she rolls onto her back. No longer at risk of suffocating on blood that’s likely her own, R’mina stares up at what she assumes to be the night sky.

How did she get here? Her mind recalls taking a stroll around Rhalgr’s Reach with Lyse, talking strategy with Alisaie, and saying her farewells to Y’shtola–

Shtola!

Her mind filled with the haunting images of her dear friend lying so defeated spurs R’mina back into the land of the living. Rolling onto her side, the Keeper silently thanks the Mothercrystal as her sight begins to clear, but what she finds is almost too much for her mind to comprehend.

The Reach lies in ruin, and she is but one of the many bodies littering the sand; worse yet, Lyse and Y’shtola are nowhere to be seen.

Go forth.

Spurred on by the ethereal voice she can’t quite place, R’mina looks down to take stock of herself, and what she finds leaves her nauseous.

Two gashes trail diagonally across her torso, rendering flesh and muscle in twain. Judging by the growing sting along the left side of her face, Zenos likely marked her there as well. A deeper part of herself fears what the lacking half of her vision might truly mean, but such thoughts are buried for later.

Gods above… the blood… How was she still alive? Compared to Y’shtola…

No. It would have to wait. She would take what victories were thrown her way, meager or not.

Focusing her efforts on returning control to her limbs, she frowns as her right arm only trembles, and R’mina has to fight to muffle her scream as a particular jerk ignites a fresh wave of agony.

Thankfully, she’s still in one piece, minus the damage, but it isn’t enough. The ringing in her ears has lessened to a more manageable volume, letting her hear the survivor’s movements. There’s too much blood in the air for the Miqo’te to pick up anyone’s scent, but she has to hope Alphinaud and the others weren’t far behind.

Get up, she pleads to herself, only to bite back a wail as the slightest movements aggravate her open wounds–numerous as they are. But what else can she do? Could her aether have remained after everything?

The answer is yes, and R’mina sheds a tear in thanks to Hydaelyn as the faintest touches of white magick begin to trail along her body, only able to haphazardly close the wounds without really healing anything.

It’ll have to do.

Finally, after what feels like years, she’s managed to rise to her knees, greeted by the sight of Tataru’s hard work shredded to pieces and stained with blood.

The apology would have to wait.

“R’mina! Tell me you’re– oh, thank Rhalgr!”

Relieving as it is to hear Lyse alive, R’mina can’t silence the hiss of pain as the blonde sweeps her into a crushing embrace. Hearing this, her fellow Scion drew back, eyes widening in horror. Unable to find the words, a hand flies to her mouth.

“F-fine…” The Keeper rasps, trying her hardest to remain upright without wheezing too heavily.

Lyse looks both affronted and scared. “Like hells you’re–!” But Raubahn’s booming voice cut across the settlement before she could continue.

“Warrior! Hext! If you’re well enough to stand then see to the wounded!”

Lyse, looking torn between wanting to help while also remaining by her friend’s side, bit back a swear, kicking the sand. “Take it easy or so help me–!”

Unable to do more than nod, the Miqo’te rose to her feet; if it was only thanks to help from Lyse, neither chose to comment on the fact.

So long as her body could hold out until the smoke had cleared, it would be enough.

…

Each step she takes feels heavier than the last, but R’mina keeps going, doing her best to hide her injuries from Alphinaud and the others. Thankfully, the sheer number of wounded in dire need of healing makes her task rather easy.

Just… a little… further…

…

Her eye hasn’t left Y’shtola’s body since she was carried from the infirmary to the Chocobo cart.

She’s alive, if only barely, but it's enough to let R’mina stop holding her breath, only for the floodgates she’s been holding back to burst open.

It’s Krile who notices first.

…

"Is everyone ready?" Krile asks, keeping half her attention on the Chocobo cart where Y'shtola's too-still-form rests. "We must needs move before... R'mina?" Her tone becomes low, horrified.

Beyond dazed, with the fog in her head only growing, the Miqo’te's mind sluggishly registers the calling of her name. Unable to spot the Lalafell with her lame eye, she turns her head, only to find the wide-eyed faces of their group staring back.

Alphinaud–or is it Alisaie? She can't quite focus on their face–sounds scared, something so distinctly foreign to her mind. "By the Twelve!"

R'mina isn't sure when her wounds reopened, or the blood started pouring once more. Any words she tries to utter are drowned by the barrage of coughs that assault her throat, and the mouthfuls of blood expelled.

Was the dirt always so red? Had she always been so cold?

She feels faint.

Too weak to stand any longer, her body's last remaining onze of strength vanishes as she collapses. The Keeper's final sight before the world goes dark is panicked shouting as the others break into a frenzy. Someone tries to catch her, but she's too far gone to discern who.

In her final moment of awareness, she prays for Y'shtola, to live, to stay by her side wherever that might be. Together, in this dawn or the next.

Chapter Text

Time loses all meaning to R’mina as she drifts through the darkness, hanging on by a thread. Sights and sounds slip from her remaining sliver of consciousness like grains of sand in a glass. Once, and only once, she pictures a sea of blue, a flash of blonde, and a voice that left her head spinning, but that, too, was lost. Had she died, extending herself too far? 

Not that R’mina minded. It was nice to finally have a chance to rest.

…

Something in the dark had shifted, bringing a minute impression of sensation back to… wherever she was. No voices had come again, leaving her to reason the last time had been a trick of the mind. On occasion, something akin to panic would flare in the void around her, but R’mina felt an inexplicable disconnect from the feeling. It never got easier, leaving her faint.

It burned, but the darkness would claim her if she waited long enough.

…

A touch… Something moving, or was that her? Unbidden, a thought crosses what counts for her mind these days. What if the Imperials had captured her, intent on conducting some mad experiment?

Her panic returned in earnest, and the pain was blinding, almost driving her over the edge. Voices spoke in hurried fervor, but that couldn’t be right.

She was alone in the void.

R’mina had always been alone.

…

Rise, my child.

But deeper she sinks.

…

Return to the light, my Warrior.

The pieces of herself chip away under the pressure, letting water slip through the cracks.

Drowning.

…

At last, something beyond her gives way, but everything has become almost too faint to perceive. Ever persistent, she is called, beckoned to something beyond the horizon.

R’mina–what little is left of her–doesn’t want to go, content to dissolve in the darkness.

It’s nice.

…

When R’mina wakes, it isn’t a sudden thing, accompanied by a flurry of voices and movement. No, instead she slowly opens her eyes, finding a darkened, unfamiliar room that looks several touches too Imperial for her liking.

But that’s not quite right.

Strange… why had her left eye been covered?

Leaving that for now, she reasons to sit up and get her belongings, only for that plan to fall short; the Miqo’te can’t manage more than an ilm of movement before she’s wheezing. Some device behind her line of sight begins ringing in a tone that grates on her ears in all the wrong ways.

If she could only–!

Were she capable of moving, R’mina would have been across the room, leveling her rapier at the intruder who had so rudely forced the door open. Alas, she was forced to do little else but send the Lalafell clad in yellow a scathing eyebrow raise.

“R’mina! Thank the Twelve you’re finally awake.”

‘Okay. Stay calm and assess the situation,’ she tells herself, refraining from sudden movements–lest the woman more able than her get the wrong idea. Though less than she’d like, R’mina knows she’s in some manner of stronghold of Imperial make, bed-bound, and faced with a stranger treating her as anything but.

‘You know me?’ She attempts to ask, only for the words to dissolve into a horrendous coughing fit, leaving the Keeper on the verge of falling unconscious.

“Easy,” the woman fusses, fetching a glass of water. 

Humiliating as it is, being forced to rely on someone else to handle her basic needs, R’mina will take every chance she can get to keep her eye on this stranger. Even so, when she’s presented with a glass, the Miqo’te makes no move to drink.

The Lalafell quirks an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”

Bedbound and exhausted she may be, R’mina is no fool; she’d long since learned to avoid accepting food or beverage from anyone outside of close friends. Ishgard had taught her many lessons, few of them good. 

…Ishgard? Her mind reels in confusion at the thought. She’d only ever lived in the Black Shroud assisting the Conjurer’s Guild.

Seemingly sensing her unease, the stranger nods, taking a small sip. “Satisfied?”

Though by no means placated, she complies with a nod, silently welcoming the cooling balm against her aching throat. Eventually, once the glass, and a second, is drained, she returns to the matter at hand. “Are you with the Empire?” Upon uncovering the ruse, she expects her not-quite-captor’s attitude to change. If anything, the Lalafell looks at R’mina like she’s gone mad.

“Pardon?” She asks, thoroughly confused.

Why hadn’t they killed her already? After years of fighting, the Imperials had the perfect opportunity to finish her off once and for all; Twelve forbid the era would sooner end before she’d consider cooperating.

The ache in her head flares up again. She’s always lived in Gridania… hasn’t she?

“Why go through all the trouble,” she starts, trying not to sound so out of breath, “to keep me alive? Just poison me in my sleep and be done with it.” Surely Hydaelyn could grant her a peaceful rest? Wasn’t she owed well over that by now?

“R’mina, look at me,” the stranger interrupts her train of thought. Her captor’s expression borders on concern that’s growing by the moment.

Reluctantly, she does. Whatever this woman was hoping to find, the Miqo’te will be damned if she makes it easy.

After a time, she’s asked another question, “Do you remember who I am?” Setting the glass aside, the Lalafell leaves R’mina’s line of sight to busy herself with whatever is beeping.

“Should I?”

“Krile.” A name supplied as this stranger returns to where she previously stood. When R’mina remains silent, merely staring her down, Krile thinks for a moment, nodding to herself after a time. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

And that… isn’t as easy as R’mina expects it to be. Since waking up, her mind remained stubbornly clouded, making the simple task of forming a coherent thought next to impossible.

Lyse.

Sand.

Shouting.

Strangers.

Krile, somehow.

And…

The rest fades away as she collapses onto her sheets, feeling more exhausted than what seems like her entire life. Something wasn’t right, but it continued to elude her; not helped by the protests of her numerous injuries.

Wait.

All of this hadn’t been a normal accident, had it?

Blood… and so much of it.

Oh. Y’shtola.

It all comes flooding back, and the world around R’mina dissolves into chaos. Distantly, her mind recognizes Krile attempting to keep her on the cot, but that Lalafell can do little in the face of the Miqo’te’s strength, weak as she is. The only thought in her mind is Zenos.

Finding the bastard and killing him herself.

For Ala Mhigo. Her home.

For her eye. 

For Y’shtola.

R’mina has gone, and in her place stands a beast on the hunt for blood, which only one foe can provide. She’ll do whatever it takes to kill him, even if it means crawling from this cot to the Royal Palace.

“You need– Stop– before your–!”  

She doesn’t hear the words, nor see the panicked healer trying and failing to minimize the damage, seal reopened wounds, and keep her alive.

The Keeper lies in a heap on the floor, blood pooling around her, but focused only on the thought of killing the Crown Prince.

‘Whatever… it… takes…’ she thinks, on the verge of death.

…

Unfortunately, her memory is intact the subsequent times she wakes, but the pain of it all hardly registers; it all pales in comparison to what matters.

She’ll stop at nothing to claim his head.

“How do you feel?” Krile, again. Trying and failing to get a rise out of her. R’mina offers nothing in response, staring blankly at the space ahead of her. She’d chosen silence when it became obvious no one in this blasted Castrum would listen to reason.

How can they stand it?! Every second she’s confined to this bed is time she could spend hunting the Crown Prince wasted! Halfway across Eorzea, Lyse and the others were taking matters into their own hands, and yet, here R’mina was, confined.

She couldn’t ignore how weak she’d become–only just learning she’d been unconscious for moons–be it the tremors in her rapier hand, how she was now half-blind, or her legs, unable to support even her atrophied weight.

Pathetic, all of it.

From the corner of her working eye, Krile shook her head in resignation. “I had considered letting Y’shtola visit, for all the good that might do. But if you’re resigned to brooding.”

And curse her body for reacting, for Krile to catch how her ears perked up if only a slight. The last thing she needs is another reminder of her failure, even if the Seeker had managed to pull through the worst of her injuries.

“Well, in that case!” The Lalafell’s tone was lighter as she reached for her linkpearl, prattling on to whoever answered. 

Why…? If they wouldn't let her away, why couldn’t they leave things well enough alone?!

All too soon, a quiet knock announced a third presence and Krile made to open the door. Despite it all, R’mina couldn’t form the words, her tongue too heavy to move.

Leave her alone!

Let her kill him!

Let her fix things!

Let– Let her die.

But Krile was oblivious to her silent pleas, eagerly waving the pale-haired Miqo’te inside.

Though she averts her eye, fussing with the sheets, R’mina’s heart clenches all the same. Not now! She didn’t want to remember the last time they’d spoken, offering promises broken all too soon.

To stay safe.

R’mina had failed her… but what else was new? Add it to the long, long list that kept growing by the day.

“Have you longed for my company so dearly?”

Stop.

“Do take care–”

Stop it.

“Be sure to return in one piece.”

ENOUGH!!

It takes her some seconds to realize she’s called forth a ball of flame, and even longer to process that she’s lodged it in the wall beside where Y’shtola stands, leaning heavily on her staff.

The sudden cast brings with it a surge of pain, and suddenly she’s coughing up a storm, splattering blood over her hands and the sheets; just as quickly, a wave of warmth settles over her chest, washing the feeling away. Like a moth to a flame, she can’t resist the urge that draws her to the other woman, but the sight is far from reassuring.

Hard as she’s tried to maintain the image of being unflappable, Y’shtola bears her own set of scars from the attack. It’s obvious from how white her knuckles have become, clutching to her staff, or how her other hand hovers protectively over her abdomen–the worst of it.

She’s panting; the use of aether had affected them both.

“Are you alright?” The Seeker manages between pants, catching her breath. “Has the pain passed?”

R’mina… can’t respond to that. Blankly, she stares, feeling too many emotions at once to describe. Her mind repeats all that had just transpired, whispering into her mind all the ways it could have gone wrong.

If her aim had deviated by an ilm…

No. No! 

Her attention is drawn to Y’shtola’s audible wince as she lowers herself into the closest chair, closing her eyes as the Miqo’te steadies her breathing. Setting the staff aside but still close by, she fixes R’mina with her pale stare, as if seeing through her. “I hope you do not mind my resting, but seeing as you appear hale for the moment, pray allow me this.”

Still, R’mina doesn’t say a word, unable to do more than watch.

Y’shtola frowns. “I was under the impression you had spoken with Krile prior. Has Zenos–”

“Don’t,” she growls, fists clenching tight enough her claws begin to draw blood. How could she mention his godsdamned name so casually?

Seeing this, the Seeker purses her lips, beginning to summon a familiar green light from her palm.

“Don’t!” Baring her fangs, it catches the woman off guard, and the spell quickly dissolves into nothing. Her glare is fierce, intensity growing with each word, “I’m not a child in need of coddling. I don’t need your pity.”

“You are hardly in any state to look after yourself.”

The Keeper scoffs, eying the staff. “Like you’re any better.”

Infuriatingly, Y’shtola merely shrugs. “Even so, remaining as stubborn as you are does little good for anyone.” Her gaze hardens, and her words ring no less true, “Do you intend on rushing ahead like a fool, endangering Lyse and the others?”

R’mina snarls. “Don’t act like I’m wrong! I should be in Doma, not confined to a cot like some invalid! You,” the word is venomous, “might be content to laze about while innocent people die, but my place is out there!”

Taken aback for the first time since R’mina met her, the Miqo’te is stunned into silence, words failing her. Eventually, she regains her composure, voice even, “Is that it, then? You have resigned yourself to single-minded hardheadedness, no better than that in Ishgard?”

R’mina’s breath catches and she has half a mind to leap from the bed, weakened body be damned. How– How dare!

“How fucking dare you,” she manages to bite out through to roaring in her ears, the frantic beating of her heart. She feels beyond faint, but won’t give in just yet. “You don’t know a damned thing about what I went through!” She can barely breathe now, her chest growing tighter by the second.

But she can’t stop now.

“I spent moons, moons! Thinking you were dead all because I couldn’t step up when it mattered! But what does me blaming myself for that even now matter right?! I’m the Warrior of fucking Light!”

She’s yelling at this point, can already feel the damage this fit is doing to her sore throat.

“What would you know about what I’ve lost?! The blood on my hands, the people I’ve failed, the burdens I carry, but what the fuck does it matter? Without me, Eorzea would be fucked ten times over, but no one’s ever, ever asked how I was. Not a single fucking person ever thought to check and see if I was still in one piece! Couldn’t save Moenbryda. Couldn’t save Minfilia. Couldn’t save Papalymo or H-Haurchefant–!”

Saying their names hurt all that much more.

“And, yes, I go to bed every night wondering who I’ll lose next! What my weakness will cost me tomorrow!” She had to stop and catch her breath, nearly falling limp against her pillows. “But none of that fucking matters, you know why?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“Because I’m the Warrior of Light… and if I stop for even a moment… people die. Darkness grows. It all falls apart. No one, not even another Scion, not even you,” she spits the word out, “could take my place if I was gone. So, no. I can’t die, rest, or waste time healing. Because if I do, everything’s fucked.”

Silence grew between them, and for her part, Y’shtola looked like she was regretting her previous choice of words, but the damage was done. Even so, she tried to make amends, “Mina, forgive my–”

Only for her voice to be drowned out by R’mina’s screams.

“Get the fuck out! I don’t need you to kill Zenos! Go ahead and waste precious time here for all I care!”

Looking hurt more than offended, Y’shtola lingered in the doorway even as she turned away.

“It seems Zenos t’was successful in creating that monster he sought.”

Y’shtola didn’t visit again, but R’mina couldn’t care less. One of these days, she would find the perfect moment to slip away, and chartering a voyage to Doma shouldn’t be too hard after calling in some favors.

She was the Warrior of Light after all.

…

But despite it all, the guilt still found ways to eat at her. Be it from her traitorous heart, Krile mentioning the Scions off-hand, or the constant loneliness of being confined to a cot for healing, the thought of all she’d said to her friend heart fellow Scion never strayed far.

The yelling…

All that pain finally breaking free from the walls she’d so carefully put up…

Not that it mattered. What’s done is done, so she focuses on more pressing matters. Krile had remained frustratingly tight-lipped on Alphinaud and the other’s movements following their departure from the Reach, but she was no stranger to putting the pieces together.

Even if the Scions weren’t known across Eorzea, no charter would be foolish enough to wedge themselves between the Confederacy and the Empire. Tensions between the two were the sole reason she fled East toward the Black Shroud and not the Western continent after Ala Mhigo’s occupation began.

She’d considered Tural, however briefly, being that much further from the Empire, but an inexplicable pull had kept her within Aldenard.

Hydaelyn’s influence, most likely.

R’mina barely manages to bite back a swear as her dominant arm jerks, igniting a fresh set of tremors that pulls at her still-healing muscles in all the wrong ways. Much as she’s tried to ignore it, the lack of her prized weapon and constant reminders of her injuries can’t be ignored.

The Warrior of Light needs a new weapon, but with her main hand too crippled to hold a rapier steady, she’ll either need to take up a new job or reverse her stance. Though neither sounds appealing, she can’t very well waltz up to… to…

To him.

Her heart clenches, and R’mina has to take several steadying breaths before the room stops spinning.

Then it’s settled, if her fellow Scions and the Alliance won’t help her, she’ll just have to turn to the next alternative–the streets of Ul’dah. She’s never journeyed down the Sapphire Exchange strip, and the bustle of countless patrons and beggars leaves the Keeper paranoid, clutching the hooded cloak concealing her face tight. Blowing a stray bang of hair from her face, the Keeper considers if it was a mistake to leave her hair loose instead of tying it up.

What did it matter? Only killing him did.

She’s alone, unarmed, left at the mercy of a crutch to support her weight; if anyone were to see her face, if he came back–!

No. She doesn’t need protecting. How difficult could it be to find a suitable replacement rapier for a reasonable cost?

Being half-blind doesn’t help matters, and how pathetic she must look, head darting here and there like a cornered animal. How in the hells was she meant to fight by seeing only half the battlefield?! The frustration of it all leaves her growling, scaring off an innocent soul who ventured too close.

“You there.” 

R’mina doesn’t respond to the call, mind wondering if it’s meant for someone else or if her disguise has already failed. The Miqo’te decides to keep walking and find the nearest weapon vendor before she begins pushing her luck.

Something in too short supply these days.

“Warrior.”

Her heart stops, and, to R’mina’s dismay, her body does the same, nearly falling to the floor as her crutch catches on a stray stone. She doesn’t turn to face the stranger even after catching her breath, instead tugging her hood down further. They couldn’t know.

Just keep walking– “Warrior of Light.”

Despite her pronounced limp, she’s upon the man in an instant. He may have left her body broken, but R’mina has strength enough to press this fiend against the wall by his throat. Krile had warned her about expending aether so soon into her recovery, not that the Keeper would heed the Lalafell’s words.

Now secluded in one of Ul’dah’s many alleys, R’mina bares her fangs, ensuring her claws dig into the man’s flesh. If he so much as blinked at her funny…

The man looks unfazed–like he’s stared down death before. His tone is even as he speaks, “You are the Warrior of Light, then?”

She growls, “Who’s asking?” Just kill him and be done with it, a voice in the back of her head whispers. Do it, the same part of her she’d locked away in Ishgard.

“Follow me.” For the second time in her life, R’mina is overpowered, merely pushed aside as the man continues down the alley to a nondescript door. He just– A clearing of his throat has her hurrying to catch up, keeping her distance as she stares warily.

“Inside,” is all he offers, looking over her shoulder both ways, likely ensuring no unwanted guests listen in on… whatever this is. “And be quick.”

But she doesn’t move, fighting an internal battle with her instincts. Her past self would have been long gone, too cautious for something like this. Now, though, she’s intrigued. Whoever this is knew her, and heedless of R’mina’s injuries, chose not to kill her.

Yet.

“You seek power, yes?” The words hook her in like a fish with bait, and the man’s gaze turns predatory as he smirks. “Then inside.”

She should run, do anything to avoid what is looking to be an obvious trap. But the sensible part of her died the day he almost took everything from her, and so R’mina limps past the man and heads inside.

If whatever, or whoever, she’s about to find can grant her power, something she desperately needs to take that bastard’s head, she’ll do it.

Whatever it takes.

…

Inside is an unremarkable room like any other, lined with various bookshelves, plants, and the occasional bottle of wine, but R’mian’s eye catches on what sits at the center.

Rather, who.

A woman–silver hair showing her age, face rugged and scarred–sits with both feet propped up on the desk before her. Her outfit is one suited for combat–a black coat with no shortage of padding and buckles, thick gloves, and high-laced boots. Sitting atop her forehead is a circlet that reminds the Miqo’te of Cid and Lucia. Garlean, then? Upon spotting R’mina, she smiles–a cruel and twisted thing. “Ah, the champion of Eorzea deigns to appear before me.”

R’mina’s grip tightens on her crutch, claws digging into the wood. She doesn’t need both eyes to recognize this woman’s strength at a glance. Her mere aura radiates power and darkness, leaving the Keeper more on edge than before. 

Y’shtola would have chastised R’mina for her folly.

She can’t let this woman find a weakness, so she steels her voice, “Shall we skip the pleasantries already? What is this, has the Empire come to finish the job?”

“Right to business, then,” the woman leans forward, hands clasped, her eyes calculating. “Aye, I’ve heard all about you–who hasn’t? I’ve no desire to draw your ire, rather, there’s a job I’d like you to take care of.”

R’mina scoffs. “I don’t work with criminals,” her eye narrows, glancing at the circlet, “or the Empire.”

The woman doesn’t so much as react, simply removing the headgear and bearing her third eye for all to see. “Perceptive one, aren’t you?” She puts her feet on the ground, legging forward on the desk. “You can call me Drusilla. I’m a reaper–one of many–and a Garlean. What,” she raises an eyebrow, “don’t see many savage Garleans in Ul’dah, do you?”

R’mina’s had enough of her game already. She hasn’t heard of a “reaper” before, but if the woman’s aura is anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ignoring the pain in her chest, she summons a ball of flame. “Enough. Start talking before I kill you.”

Drusilla merely laughs, leaning back in her chair. “The job is simple, need you to take care of a voidsent usin’ some pore sap’s body as a vessel to unleash its singular brand of trouble.” She lets the words hang, evidently waiting for a reaction but continues after receiving none. “Won’t be an easy mark. This monster is the void incarnate, but perfect for a heroic type like you, don’t you think?”

R’mina could honestly care less about chasing a corpse when he is still out there. While her home is still– Later. “I’m not a merc.”

“And I don’t need you to be.” Her smile vanishes, expression firm. “Just one job that's a boon for the both of us. Me? I’m free of one less voidsent to worry about, and you,” Drusilla’s eyes narrow, casting the bait, “can harness the power of darkness. Think about it, the void at your fingertips, enough strength to cast down Gods. I’ll train you in techniques that’ll let you pierce the void and slaughter its kin.”

It sounds too good to be true, that becoming a reaper could solve all her problems. Backed with the blessing of Hydaelyn and Midgardsormr, yet still cast aside like nothing by him. How could the void possibly close that gap?

But… what if?

If the light wasn’t enough… then maybe…?

“Keep talking,” R’mina’s voice is distant, and she can hardly believe the words came from her.

Drusilla’s twisted smile returns in earnest, and she withdraws a small black crystal from her coat, sliding it across the desk. A yellow outline is traced atop the stone in the shape of a scythe, and the Keeper is drawn to it, already limping to close the distance. “I take it you're no stranger to crystals like these.”

R’mina doesn’t answer, her eye only on the crystal.

“Hold your hand out. If you’re made of the stuff I think you are, then you’re in for a treat.”

Still, she doesn’t answer, barely registers the words before her hand clasps the crystal and she is surrounded by a cloud of darkness. Pressure erupts across her body as she doubles over in agony, nerves alight as an invisible fire comes to life.

She can’t scream, can’t form the words, but throughout it all, R’mina never considers dropping the stone even if she could.

This power will be hers to command!

Drusilla smiles as the cloud begins to swell, giving shape to something monstrous. There it is.

When R’mina’s head clears, she finds herself staring down something not of this world. The darkness has taken shape–a cloaked, formless face with rows of teeth shaper than her fangs, and a bony arm sporting luminescent crimson claws longer than her head is tall.

Said claws are pointed at her throat, a mere ilm from delivering a killing blow.

But R’mina isn’t afraid, staring down the beast without flinching. What she cannot see, Drusilla does–an eye turned crimson, and a voice not her own fills the room, devoid of emotion.

“Do it. Kill me.” She leans closer, sucking in a breath as her skin is cut, blood dripping from the small incisions. Her eye never leaves the thing, waiting. “Do. It.”

Nothing happens– until the voidsent’s claws retreat, and it vanishes in a puff of darkness.

“That’d be your avatar. A manifestation of your essence and the voidsent’s connection to the other side. You’re bound to it now, walking a fine line that’s killed weaker men.”

R’mina… doesn’t feel much at all, like the pain and sorrow that’d clung so heavily to her until just recently suddenly vanished. Actually, she–

She feels good.

“You’re past the point of return, there’s no turnin’ away now. Still, I’ll ask anyways. Will you dance with death?”

Her visible eye still crimson, body and mind no longer fully her own, R’mina nods without hesitation. The Keeper’s voice is even, something that would set any of the other Scions on edge, but she’s too far deep now. “Once the job is finished, that’s it?”

Drusilla nods. “Take up that crystal, and attest to both worlds that you walk as a reaper. Bind yourself to the void, and claim the strength that the weak of heart shun. Once our rogue voidsent is dealt with, we go our separate ways. Here,” she sets a wrapped bundle of cloth upon the desk, “the traditional weapon of our order.”

The scythe is… worn–blade scratched and rusted, but no less sharp, its handle burnt in some places, wrapped with wire and cloth in others, and…

The perfect weapon to kill Zenos. She pictures the sight–his head falling to the dirt, blood bathing her blade, Ala Mhigo, her home, finally free.

“It’ll do,” she nods her approval, strapping it on her back. Returning her focus to Drusilla. “Anything else?”

Nodding, the reaper sets another bundle within reach, this time an outfit. The whole ensemble is ratty, to put it mildly. All black–a coat filled with countless holes and tears, with the remaining pieces in a similar state.

R’mina’s eye catches on the eyepatch. The patch itself is nothing remarkable, held together with a band of leather, too small to cover the massive scar spanning the left side of her face, but so long as it covers something.

“I’ll be in touch,” she’s already limping towards the door, mind focused solely on putting the next phase of her plan into action. Taking a detour isn’t ideal, but she reasons it would be less of a headache to go along with the woman’s plans instead of killing her.

But Drusilla isn’t quite finished, “After our business is concluded, what’s next for the champion of Eorzea?”

“I’m going to behead the Crown Prince.” The reaper doesn’t wait for a response before departing. Unbeknownst to R’mina, the jade of her good eye has vanished, replaced by a shade of crimson reminiscent of her avatar.

Night has fallen by the time R’mina returns to Castrum Oriens. She takes the precaution of stashing her scythe and gear in one of the many abandoned corners the Alliance has yet to clear out. Sneaking back into the infirmary, however, is a far more challenging task, but she manages to close the door to her room without alerting anyone.

“I was beginning to think you departed for Doma.”

But, of course, sneaking anything past Y’shtola was impossible.

R’mina doesn’t respond with anger or ignorance at being caught, only brushes past the Seeker to lie down. Loathe as she is to admit it, the amount of travel she’d undertaken today was tortuous on her body now that the soreness was beginning to set in. Her crutch falls to the floor, but she’s too exhausted to care.

Not that she’ll need it–her scythe will be enough.

Y’shtola, bless her, waits until R’mina’s settled before she draws up a chair, frowning. “Where have you been?”

“Out. I wanted some fresh air.”

“And yet I did not detect the slightest trace of you throughout the day.” The Seeker looks serious. “It would take but one word for Krile to keep you under her sight at all times. R’mina,” her voice, ever so faintly, hitches on her tribal letter, “please, tell me where you have been.”

She could never admit the truth, bare what little remains of her heart like that. So she lies, stringing together some half-truths. She’s forced to rely on her right hand to fetch the small satchel from her belt at her waist.

“I’m sorry,” R’mina says in a quiet voice, feigning regret. Her fellow Scion studies it for a moment before accepting it, gasping when she holds the item aloft.

A simple necklace with a striking white crystal for the pendant. She’d imbued the stone with a trace of her aether, hoping to make the inevitable blow sting less. “To match your eyes.” She frowns, searching for the right words, but coming up short. “I know you can’t see like you used to, but– I thought… if it had a little aether?”

“I know I’ve been… distant. Said… twelve preserve, so many terrible things you didn’t deserve.

R’mina feels sick, to be deceiving her like this, but her regret is nothing more than a distant speck in the shadow of her rage.

Once Zenos is dead, she’ll give Y’shtola a proper apology.

A waste of time, her mind seethes. Kill the Prince. Take his head.

She will. No matter what.

“I should have known you would see through my ruse,” Y’shtola’s chuckle is small, but no less full of mirth. She clasps the necklace into place, studying the stone for some moments longer before turning to R’mina. “Though I would hope you not endanger yourself so just for my sake.” Her eyes narrow, smirk somewhere between furious and amused. “Not least until Krile has deemed you fit for travel, anyroad.”

“Of course,” she agrees, tasting ash on her tongue. 

“Might I make another request, R’mina?” Y’shtola’s tone becomes subdued–a rarity.

Throat suddenly tight, she nods.

“Would you allow me to join you?” The question is innocent, the Seeker’s previous amusement gone. “I suddenly find the journey back to my chambers a mite too exhausting, given the late hour.”

“P-please!” R’mina blurts out, wincing as she scrambles to make room on her cot. Though spacious enough for one

Y’shtola stumbles at first, hissing in pain as she clutches her abdomen, and that is reason enough for her fellow Miqo’te to assist her in settling.

“My thanks,” she breathes a sigh of relief, closing her eyes. Eventually, she turns onto her side. Y’shtola brushes the pad of her thumb under R’mina’s good eye. “You have not slept easily since that night, I take it?”

She scoffs, venom unconsciously seeping into her words, “How could I?” She takes a breath, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Every time I close my eyes… I s-see–”

“Say no more,” she presses a finger to R’mina’s lips, quieting what they both know the Keeper would say. That night scarred both of them, inside and out. Ever so gently, she brings their foreheads together, one hand brushing the base of R’mina’s ears while the other rubs her back as the tears begin to fall, and the Keeper devolves into quiet sobs, clutching her everything fellow Scion closer.

“I thought I’d lost you…” R’mina weeps, holding on for dear life, lest her grief swallow her whole. It’d never been easy, living with the pain that came with losing those closest to her, Minfilia especially, but Y’shtola?

That would have truly broken her.

But that didn’t happen, the woman who’s embracing her is proof of that, and R’mina commits this moment to memory; the journey to Doma will be long, more so on her own. Whatever comes tomorrow… who can say, but for right now, she’ll savor every last second.

I love you, R’mina wants to say, has ever since she left with Alphinaud and the others at the Reach, that fateful night.

You mean everything to me, she keeps to herself, burying the knife even deeper in her breast.

My– “My heart could not bear to lose you,” Y’shtola starts, abruptly, eyes boring into R’mina’s own.

Her breath catches.

“Recent… events have imparted upon me how much I have grown to cherish your company, Mina.”

Don’t do this… please. Don’t make it any harder.

“I understand the life we lead is a dangerous one, yours most of all, however, I would have you know my feelings on the matter regardless.”

And– Oh, Y’shtola’s hands are upon her now, soft palms cradling her face within them. ‘Sightless’ her eyes may be, the Seeker is observant in more ways than one, sometimes too much for her own good.

“I would stay by your side, in this adventure and the next, should you have me.”

Always, R’mina doesn’t say, tilting her head up to meet Y’shtola’s lips with her own, allowing herself this selfish want. Just this once, please, Menphina, keep her safe. If the problem is me, if I must stay away, then it is a price I will happily pay.

If someone must pay the price, let it be me. No one else.

She waits until Y’shtola has fallen asleep, truly, before making her escape. R’mina doesn’t look back knowing the sight of her slumbering love fellow Scion would shatter her resolve.

No going back now, and so she gatherers her scythe, a familiar numbness overtaking her as she straps the weapon to her back. Eye crimson once more, she sets out for the closest port, her steps never hesitating.

Lyse knew even with the combined strength of Hien, Gosetsu, and the Mol, besting the other Steppe tribes wouldn’t be an easy task. Still, they had to prevail, both Doma and Ala Mhigo were at stake, and this might be their only chance to turn things around.

That being said, they were cutting it close. 

Dealing with Sadu and the Dotharl had been taxing enough, but add Magnai and the Oronir into the mix and they were hard-pressed to make a move on the ovoo! 

But that wasn’t what bothered Lyse the most.

Throughout their journey from Kugane, Doma, to the Steppe and back, R’mina’s absence weighed heavily on them all, especially Lyse. Be it during mealtimes or fights, there was no filling the Warrior of Light’s shadow. She’d seen her friend’s injuries firsthand that night, knew she was in no state to be up and about, yet never warned Krile or the others.

If only she’d– whoa!

Narrowly weaving past a crushing blow from Magni’s axe, Lyse cursed herself, for not focusing on the fight first and somehow losing the Oronir’s leader in the process. Where had…?

“Lyse!”

Head whirling around, she spied Cirina releasing another volley of arrows before catching her gaze. She looked stricken, uh oh.

“The ovoo!” The Mol archer pointed to the center of the clearing, and what Lyse saw sent her heart plummeting. Magni stood within the light on the verge of winning. 

No! If they lost now all their work would be pointless. She couldn’t fail Naago or Conrad, not with their best chance of freeing Ala Mhigo at stake. But with Hien and Cirina otherwise occupied, it was up to her to– ugh! Not again!

Two Oronir fighters put themselves between her and Magni. They didn’t look like the type to go quietly, unfortunately.

“Come on! Give me a break!” Letting her fists do the talking, she nearly growled at her inability to gain any ground against them. It was now or never, Lyse! Get a move on!

“The Naadam belongs to us!”

“Bow down before the rightful rulers of the Steppe!”

Lyse bared her teeth, sweeping one of the Xaela off his feet while stunning the other, making a mad dash for the ovoo. Faster! But it wouldn’t be enough, and she watched in slow-motion despair as the distance between them never seemed to shrink.

Rhalgr, please! She sent a silent prayer to the heavens. If they couldn’t even accomplish this without R’mina, if Lyse couldn’t make a difference on her own for once, what good were the Scions?

What right did she have to fight for Ala Mhigo–

But like an answer from the gods, faster than sound, a pillar of light erupted from where Magni stood, kicking up a massive cloud of dust; the crack of the impact rang through the air seconds later. As she waited for the veil to lift, Lyse’s heart clenched, hoping beyond hope they still had an opportunity to come out on top.

But when she caught sight of the ovoo, it wasn’t Magni who stood victorious. No, he lay in an unconscious heap, and standing above him was a third party Lyse hadn’t seen even before the Naadam began.

A short female Miqo’te with blue hair, though streaks of brown could be seen, wielding a scythe as tall as her. Clad not in an outfit lovingly crafted by Tataru, but instead a brown cloak that covered the darkened leather armor she sported. It was… so unlike her.

Wrong, was the only way Lyse could think to describe it.

At first, Lyse couldn’t place who it was, but as she began to make the connection, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. R’mina was back in Castrum Oriens with Y’shtola on the verge of death! Sure, it’d been moons since they’d left Gry Abania, but no one could have recovered from injuries like that so soon!

“R’mina?” Her voice was uncertain, reflecting her unease as she waited for the stranger to turn and face them, and only then did the rest of the situation catch up with Lyse. Just in time, she saw the ovoo vanish, its gold light dissolving into R’mina’s(?) body and a Yol feather fluttering in the wind, secured at her belt.

Was it over?

After too long a wait, the stranger turned, and Lyse couldn’t believe what she found. She'd seen the scars Zenos had left behind that night, how he maimed the Miqo'te's torso and face… But seeing one of the many scars after all this time made Lyse’s stomach churn. Missing an eye, R’mina Tinthe, Warrior of Light, and fellow Ala Mhigan had found them, claiming the seat of khagan in the process.

But… something wasn’t right.

Her friend had still yet to say a word, seeming more occupied with tending to her blade.

“R’mina!” A smile still formed on her lips, joy brushing past the concern. “You’re alright!”

Hien looked both impressed and terrified at her strength. “It is truly an honor to meet the Warrior of Light. Lyse and the others have told me a great many things about you. All good, I assure you,” he added with a hearty laugh, faltering when no response came.

What was going on?

Sadu’s usual boisterous proclamations were cut short as Magni stepped forward, nodding to his khagan. “On your guard, udgan. The wind warns of men in iron,” Magni cautioned, but R’mina had already turned away before he had spoken, drawing her scythe once more. She didn’t outwardly react as Grynewaht dared to show his sorry face.

No biting retort or even so much as a sneer.

Lyse expected several things, the first of which being R’mina rallying the Xaela to fight back the Imperials. Maybe they could finally teach this sorry buffoon to take a hint. Instead, the Miqo’te was across the battlefield in the blink of an eye, cutting Grynewaht’s proclamation short.

“Hah-hah! I thought I’d find you– argh!”

Lyse can only wince, her blood running cold, as R’mina tears through the imperial squadron. Leaving no soldier unscathed, she vanishes and reappears all around them faster than Lyse can track, and she barely manages to hold back a cry of terror as her friend summons something from thin air, and the thing rips the soldiers to pieces.

'It's a monster,' she thinks, reminded of Zenos, and how he cut down countless innocent people without flinching, much like R’mina is now. Sure, they were with the Empire, but... Oh, gods!

R’mina’s blade was at Grynewaht’s throat by the time she’d finished, and Lyse realized with growing horror that it wasn’t for show.

She was going to kill him.

He begged and pleaded for his life like the coward her was, but this kind of bloodshed was beneath all of them. Lyse’s worry only grew as she ran forward to stop her, watching as the Miqo’te never said a word.

Only stared.

Crimson eye empty.

Hands and scythe alike stained with blood.

R’mina began to pull up– “R’mina, gods, stop!” Mercifully, the Keeper hesitated, but never once looked away from her prey. Lyse grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her off the man, to which Grynewaht scrambled away on all fours, making for a sorry sight.

“What’s gotten into you?! The fight’s over!” She shook the Miqo’te, trying to knock some sense into her, but it was pointless. R’mina didn’t look… all there, face blank of any emotion.

Faster than Lyse could react, R’mina twisted out of her grasp, lazily extending one hand toward the fleeing Garlean. Despite the yalms of distance between them, the shadowed horror materialized into being, cutting him down for good.

Lyse couldn’t believe all that had happened in the last bell. What kind of twisted joke was this?! Hien, Gosetsu, and Cirina stood in similar states of shock, the Xaela girl in particular looked pale, fighting back bile.

“Tribes of the Steppe,” R’mina’s voice cut across the clearing, sounding as dead as she looked, “you are to prepare for battle posthaste. We leave with the coming dawn, khagan’s orders.” And without another word, she began walking off, not sparing Lyse so much as a glance.

What… what in the hells had happened while they were gone?

…

Thankfully, after some adamant persuasion from Lyse, R’mina had agreed to return to the Mol’s settlement for the night. Now sat around a fire, the Miqo’te remained silent as she stared into the flames, not so much as poking at her food.

“...R’mina?” Lyse tried to grab her attention, grimacing as she waited for any kind of response.

Said response came only in the form of a blank stare.

“I…” Come on, Lyse, get a grip! She’s R’mina, your friend! The same friend who… who singlehandedly killed an entire Empire platoon in no time flat. “I know you planned on sending the tribes out tomorrow, but we were hoping they’d help us free Doma. And you, of course,” she hastily tacked on, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly.

R’mina’s eye narrowed. “What does Doma have to do with anything?”

Lyse frowned. “We– We need their help to fight the Empire on two fronts, remember?” It couldn’t have been that long, and she’d managed to track them down all on her own. Alarmingly, R’mina pursed her lips, looking off in thought as if she couldn’t recall the meaning behind Lyse’s words.

Eventually, she shook her head. “We make for Ala Mhigo.”

Wait… what? “That’s– R’mina, if we don’t liberate Doma then the Resistance doesn’t stand a chance against Zenos–”

“Don’t speak his name.”

She’d pulled her vanishing trick again, gloved hand not quite hovering over Lyse’s neck, and in that moment, the Scion knew she wasn’t talking to her friend, but the thing that had corrupted her during their time apart. Hien had gone still, and from the corner of her eye, she spied the Lord subtly reaching for his blade. “He stole my eye, and so I shall repay the bastard by taking his head.”

Just like that, the moment passed, and R’mina returned to sitting by the fire. 

Everyone released the tense breaths they'd been holding.

That was it. Arms crossed, Lyse plops herself beside the Miqo’te, ignoring the silent panicking of her friends. “Look, R’mina. I don’t know what’s happened to you since the reach,” and how could she miss the Keepers flinch at that mention, “but this power doesn’t make you invincible.”

“We can’t just go rushing on ahead expecting everything to work out, you, Papalymo, and Meffrid taught me that.”

R’mina doesn’t answer at first, and Lyse for the life of her can’t understand what she’s doing wrong. Of course, it only takes a little time.

“Y’shtola said much the same.”

Lyse starts but quickly tries to play it off. “Well, of course she did! She’s the sensible one.” She doesn’t get so much as an eye twitch. Ugh, come on, give her something to work with!

No longer in a talkative mood, R’mina stands to turn in for the night, but Lyse couldn’t leave things like this. She doesn’t realize how close she is until the creature from earlier is hanging over the Miqo’te’s shoulder, and she’s reaching for the scythe on her back in a way that can only be described as threatening.

Her eye looks so red, glowing in the night.

“Don’t get in my way. The only thing that matters is killing Zenos.” And she’s off, offering one final glance over her shoulder, hand still wound around the length of her weapon.

"We make for Ala Mhigo on the morrow. The Resistance will have its army, and I, Zenos' head. Disagree all you like, but I am both khagan and Warrior of Light. I do not answer to you, nor do I need you to take his head."

Chapter Text

R’mina’s strength leaves her the same instant Zenos’ head hits the dirt, his body following a second later. Ahead of her, Lyse curses the man relentlessly for his cowardice, and the Miqo’te knows Alphinaud is similarly displeased, if more reserved in his emotions.

But R’mina–breathless–doesn’t speak or move, uncaring for how her knees sting as she hits the Menagerie’s stone. All she can see is his corpse, how the blood pools beneath Zenos, and suddenly she’s laughing.

Unwilling to restrain herself, R’mina throws her head back as she begins cackling with glee, the image of his severed head is burned into her mind. Distantly, she knows Lyse must be looking at the Miqo’te like she’s gone mad, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s dead! He’s finally fucking dead!

He’s dead!

He’s… dead.

He’s… He’s…

Dead.

R’mina isn’t sure when her laughter–if it can be called that–stops, but suddenly she’s wailing, tears cascading as she curls in on herself, arms clutching at one another tight enough to bruise, were it not for the tattered leather armor she wore. Someone is kneeling before her, saying something, but the words are lost amidst the raging tempest of her emotions.

She should be happy, so why–?!

WHY?!

As Lyse’s unmistakably tender yet gentle hold enveloped her, the walls R’mina had hidden behind came crumbling down, and the pain of it all came rushing out. No matter how tight her–R’mina wasn’t quite sure what the two of them were–companion held her, it wasn’t enough.

Under the blazing Ala Mhigan sun, R’mina Tinthe screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed until her voice went hoarse but kept screaming because it would never be enough even with Zenos dead, she had suffered for twenty agonizing fucking years because of the Empire and she should be happy that it was finally over but the pain wouldn’t stop why wouldn’t it stop–?!

“Mina!” And suddenly, Lyse was all she could see, cradling R’mina’s face far gentler than a monster like her deserved. “You did it! It’s over.” Tears in her eyes, the Hyur smiles, bringing her in for a crushing hug, voice shaky with emotion.

“Ala Mhigo is free… Our home is free!” 

They devolve into tears, holding one another like nothing else in the world matters.

But still, R’mina can’t look away from the corpse for long. Despite Zenos’ many obsessive attempts to convince the reaper they were more alike than different, she never gave his words the time of day. He fought to relish the bloodshed, forever chasing the high of battle until his death.

She fought because the world demanded it of her–always needed a hero to come and save the day. R’mina never wanted this life–would have been content to live in the small bubble of the world that was her tribe, but always, always, fate had other plans.

They were nothing alike!

Snarling, R’mina broke from Lyse’s hold, tugging her scythe from her back and hurling the weapon at Zenos’ infuriatingly still body. It never struck him, but she could do little to rectify that as Lyse and Alphinaud worked together to hold her back.

“Damn you!” R’mina screeches, too weary from the previous battle to free herself from their hold, unable to do more than spit words. “You godsdamned coward! Damn you to this hell and the next! Damn you! Damn you!!”

“Mina!” Lyse calls, but the fight has already left her, and the Miqo’te gratefully leans–slumps, really–against her companion’s weight, exhausted physically and mentally from the day’s events. “Easy, there.”

“May your soul be left to rot,” is the last thing she growls at him, not that R’mina ever cared to grace his myriad of past taunts with a response.

Everything after that is a blur. The Scions, Resistance, and their Doman allies gather at some point, and R’mina vaguely recalls Y’shtola fretting over her in particular, but none of it quite registers like what comes after.

Overlooking Ala Mhigo, hers and Lyse’s hands joined, R’mina couldn’t join the others in singing the anthem of their homeland quickly enough.

After twenty long and bloody years, Ala Mhigo’s occupation had come to an end.

At long last, her home was free.

 “Talk to me?” Lyse’s voice broke through the night quiet, the first words spoken by either of them in some bells. 

The Hyur had made her departure from the Scions official earlier that night, and though R’mina saw it coming the moment they set out to free Ala Mhigo, the loss stung just as terribly. Much as she yearned to do the same–as the Warrior of Light–R’mina was afforded no such freedoms.

No rest for the hero, indeed.

Once they found a corner of the Reach sufficiently away from prying eyes, the two of them savored the silence. Here, neither of them had to be a Resistance Commander or Warrior of Light.

Just R’mina and Lyse.

Moments like these were something the Miqo’te was already missing dearly from their time in Doma. Under the cover of stars, away from Hien and the others, nothing else mattered.

Just them.

Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder like this again should put her at ease–Lyse’s beaming as their eyes meet nearly does it–but R’mina can’t ignore the pit in her stomach.

“Do you think I’m a monster?”

The Highlander looked taken aback, turning to face R’mina. “What’s this about?”

Unable to withstand the scrutiny of the clear-blue gaze she’s gotten lost in countless times before, the Miqo’te looks away, eye boring into her ruined armor; it’d need to be replaced, preferably soon, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

“Zenos, he–” R’mina cut herself off, half wanting to pretend she hadn't brought anything up. Unfortunately, with Lyse, things were never so simple.

“Mina, look at me.” And she did, albeit reluctantly, meeting the Hyur’s eyes with her own, finding her face set with resolve. “That bastard was wrong.”

“Was he?” she asked, voice tinged with bitterness. Before Lyse manages a retort, she snaps her fingers, and without fail, her voidsent materializes into existence just ilms away. R’mina studies it, and her voidsent does the same. “I killed hundreds without batting an eye,” she whispers, holding out a hand just shy of brushing over its claws. 

“Maybe I didn’t relish the light leaving their eyes, but even so, it was never enough. Their screams still ring in my ears, and how could I forget the way they looked at me in their final moments? Monsters,” she says to her voidsent, “the both of us.”

Her voidsent offers only a low howl in response, vanishing in a wisp of darkness.

Whether they were the same or not, R’mina carved a path of blood throughout Doma, uncaring until Lyse had brought the Miqo’te to her senses, but that was a narrow feat accomplished only thanks to the Hyur’s persistence.

Had she failed…

“Stop that,” Lyse starts, demanding her attention. She’s put off by the voidsent’s presence but tries her best to ignore it. “Listen to yourself, Mina. Sure, you can’t undo any of it, but tell me, do you want to be like him?”

“No!” R’mina’s answer is instantaneous, chest tight at the mere thought of letting herself be controlled by darkness again.

Much as Lyse had tried to reassure her during their time in the East, R’mina allowed herself to cede control to her voidsent, relished being led like a puppet on strings. Sure, her mind was clouded by an overwhelming rage, but that was an excuse more than anything.

‘Never again,’ she had vowed after Doma’s liberation, and Lyse swore to help R’mina keep her word no matter what.

“Never again.”

Lyse’s smile warms her heart. “We’ve all had to do things we aren’t proud of, but it’s never too late to try and change.” Her piece said, she gathered R’mina’s hand into her own, closing the distance to rest her head atop the Miqo’te’s shoulder.

Ignoring the fact Lyse was more than a film taller than R’mina, she eases into the contact, appreciating the warmth.

“I’ll miss you.” R’mina curses herself for ruining the moment. Why was it so hard to put Zenos and the battles to come for a mere bell? Had the moons since the assault on Rhalgr’s Reach changed her so irreparably?

Before she’d joined the Scions, R’mina had been content to seclude herself within the Conjurer’s Guild, hiding herself amongst fellow Miqo’te to hide from the Empire. Hardly older than a qitten then, she’d lived a lie, desperate to forget the past.

It had worked–for a time–until Minfilia came along and undid all her hard work, picking R’mina apart piece by broken piece.

She cringes. Minfilia was still a sore subject, one R’mina elected to toss on the growing pile and acknowledge later.

“C’mere, you.” Lyse slides an arm around her shoulder, movements slow and visible–much as she could account for R’mina being half-blind–in case anything was too far, but R’mina doesn’t pull away, and just like that, she’s comfortably situated in the Hyur’s lap, Lyse’s arms wrapped around her chest.

Comfy.

“Is this okay?” The former Scion sounds timid, her earlier bravado gone.

“Perfect,” R’mina whispers in breathless wonder, pointedly ignoring the warmth in her cheeks. “Takes me back.”

It isn’t the first time they’ve been this close, and she knows duty will once again call them apart, but for now, R’mina will take what she can get.

“You don’t have to leave just yet, and I’ll always be a quick teleport away. ‘Sides,” she holds R’mina tighter, “we both have linkpearls just in case!”

“Right,” the Miqo’te agrees with a not-quite frown. “Still, I wish…” But what else is there to say that hasn’t already been aired between them?

“You wouldn’t blame me? If I chose to leave it all behind?”

Lyse’s breath hitches ever so slightly. “How could I, Mina? You never wanted this.”

“Yeah. Yeah…” But it could never be that simple, so long as the Empire and Ascians continued to exist. Maybe that bitter part of her war right, and her fight would never finish until R’mina drew her last breath.

“Maybe in another life,” she utters with a hollow chuckle, resigned. Lyse frowns, eyebrows knit in guilt and sympathy.

How many more times would she be forced to dance with death, to watch as those she loves come to harm?

Like it or not, she has no choice but to continue as the Warrior of Light, but R’mina won’t stand by and let the world decide who she is.

Warrior of Light, sure, but on her terms.

And what better place to start than– “Could you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Lyse doesn’t hesitate to respond, letting R’mina free herself until they’re facing.

“My scythe, get rid of it.” Proficient as she’d become in the ways of the reaper–taking to the profession as easily as breathing–the weapon represented a part of her the Miqo’te wished to leave behind. “I don’t care if it takes fire, a miracle, or tossing the godsdamned thing off a cliff, I just want it gone.”

The Hyur thinks to herself before smiling, “I’m sure there’s someone out there who could use the extra firewood.”

That gets a laugh out of R’mina. “Guess I’ll be needing a new job, also.” She looks at her dominant arm, frowning; it trembles just as it had the day Zenos struck her down. “Any suggestions?” The thought of learning to lead with her left hand is no less appealing, so that eliminates any precise weaponry.

“Are you sure?” Lyse looks at R’mina, her brows knit in concern. “We could find a spare sword in the palace, but…” Her hands find R’minas own, clasping their fingers. “What do you want, Mina?”

Such a simple question shouldn’t catch her off-guard, only, the answer eludes her. How long had it been since someone asked about her wants? Surely, Minfilia hadn’t been the last.

…

Oh.

The tense breath R’mina’s been holding shakily slips free. To think, the same woman responsible for felling Primals and Ascians couldn’t manage a little self-reflection. 

She wants plenty of things, but all of them are beyond unrealistic. No longer having to be the Warrior of Light, for one. There’s also stepping down from the Scions and settling in Ala Mhigo alongside Lyse, never having to worry about the Empire for the rest of her life, finding all of Eorzea has forgotten who she is, and finally getting the chance to know true peace were just a few.

Outside of that, if nothing else… To feel the sweet release of death.

Not yet, and wasn’t that a bitter truth to swallow? Until the Ascians and Empire met their ends, the Warrior of Light wouldn’t–couldn’t–rest. So what then?

The Empire drove her from Ala Mhigo.

Hydaelyn blessed her with the Echo.

Papalymo and ‘Yda’ bid her join the Scions.

On and on the sordid tale that was R’mina’s life went; looking back on it all now, the only choice she’d be granted the freedom to make was the weapon she wielded.

Of course, until Zenos stole even that.

Impaired as her judgment was when taking up the scythe Drusilla offered, she made the choice to hoist the blade upon her back to distant lands. Before that…

Face blank and emotions numb, R’mina conjures a ball of flame in the palm of her hand. How many years had it been since Brother E-Sumi-Yan saw the potential within her? Had he known the trials she was to face with time?

My, how far that timid Miqo’te had come.

Not that it mattered now, but staring at the magick in her hand, an idea came to mind.

Her choice, huh?

Extinguishing the flame with the clenching of a fist, R’mina summons a light gale in its place. She cycles through the elements at her disposal, coming to a decision.

“It has been some time since I’ve used a cane.” The grin she flashes Lyse–who’d been watching her display in wonder–is one of many emotions, but it's a start toward something new. “Suppose some practice couldn’t hurt.”

Besides, she deserves a little selfishness, if nothing else.

Lyse bumps their shoulder. “Think you’ll make Shtola jealous?” She snickers, not bothering to hide it. “First magick, next thing we know, she’ll catch you studying tomes in your spare time!”

“‘Tis a sight I should welcome, should she be willing. I dare say, discerning Urianger’s ramblings would become child’s play to us both.”

The horrified look on Lyse’s face as she’s caught in the act is enough to send R’mina into a fit of full-belly laughter, and she falls back onto the sand as it all becomes too much. Just when she’s begun to catch her breath, seeing the Hyur fighting back giggles of her own despite Y’shtola’s retribution sets her off again.

Her sides hurt! Oh, Rhalgr, that was priceless!

From somewhere behind them, the Miqo’te huffs. “To think I feared to find you both mired in a storm of emotions. Should I leave you to the Sprites?”

“No!” R’mina manages, struggling to catch her breath as she taps the dirt. “Come sit!”

“And stain my coat? I think not.” 

“Aww,” Lyse pouts, patting her lap. “Come on, Shtola! Join us!” Perhaps if the previous rush of emotions hadn’t brought a burst of confidence, the Hyur would have flushed at the implication.

Y’shtola taps her chin in thought as she was wont to do, her impassive expression giving nothing away. “I suppose a little indulgence wouldn’t hurt.” With quick yet assured steps, the Miqo’te closes the distance between them, settling herself between the pair, ensuring her cane wasn’t poking any eyes.

Throughout the exchange, R’mina was silent until she felt a tail curl around her thigh, and then it hit her.

Y’shtola was also sitting in her lap.

…Oh. Huh.

“Problem, dear?” The pale-eyed Miqo’te asks without turning around, her tone awfully smug.

“N-no!” R’mina manages, still trying to process all that’s happened over the last bell. Trying to process the fact that her home is free after all these years is too much for the exhausted Miqo’te–drained both physically and mentally–so she instead elects to focus on the closeness of her…

Her…

What… were the three of them?

R’mina’s mind drifts to the memory of the night before she snuck away to Doma, making an empty promise to Y’shtola as they embraced, broken as the two of them were. Or when they’d brought an end to Yotsuyu’s reign of tower, she and Lyse had enfolded one another until the sun rose, content in their affections.

And now, here R’mina sat with them both, unable to put the question into words, breaking this perfect moment they’d found themselves in.

But she couldn’t. What right did she have to ask for happiness? Like Zenos, R’mina was a monster in her own right, unable to escape the path fate seemed determined to drag the Miqo’te down.

Resistance? Pointless.

How many friends, family, had she lost now?

Fighting? Inevitable.

Would a weary warrior like herself ever know rest?

“A gil for your thoughts, dearest?” Impossible as it was to get and stay mad at Y’shtola, her perceptiveness in times like these sometimes bordered on being too much for R’mina to handle.

“Don’t think I’ve thanked you enough.” She cranes her head to watch the pair with her good eye. “Both of you.”

“Feels like we should been the ones saying that,” Lyse laughs, sneaking an arm behind Y’shtola to once again join their hands. “Without you,” the Hyur trails off, mentally sorting through R’mina’s impossibly long list of achievements.

Achievements the Miqo’te never wanted.

“Truly, it is owing to our own failings that you have endured so much. I myself have worried you beyond measure far too often.” Guilt written across her face, Y’shtola bowed her head in shame.

“Please,” R’mina whispers, unable to bear the weight of their stares. “If you–” Not now, she pleads with herself. Say it. Say it! “I’m here because of you,” she shut her eye, fighting back tears. “Without you,” her voice cracks, “the things I could have done…”

And that was the crux of her worries.

Reluctant to step into the limelight as R’mina could be, to deny her potential would be folly. The strength to topple Gods and Empires alike hung at her fingertips, and Zenos’ assault had nearly driven her over that precarious edge.

One bad day from snapping.

Maybe Zenos was right, and in another life, they were two sides of the same coin.

But in this one–cruel and unforgiving as the world could be–she had Lyse and Y’shtola to keep her sane, draw her back from the precipice.

“Your love kept me going, has so many times I’ll never understand what either of you see in me. But…”

No going back now.

“I can’t do this without you both by my side. I love you. Both of you and I’m sorry for everything my shortsightedness could have undone because I couldn’t–” Oh.

It shouldn’t surprise R’mina how forward Y’shtola could be, but the suddenness of the kiss left her frozen, struggling to process what. Just. Happened.

Satisfied, the pale-eyed Miqo’te drew back to admire her work, patting R’mina’s cheek with a gentle smile. “It seems you elected to forget our previous discussion ere your departure for Doma. Ever has it been my pleasure, Mina.”

Words hardly mattered after that, as the two of them fell into one another, content. It felt like no time had passed since then, and for the first time, selfishly, R’mina allows herself to indulge in the pleasure. Biting back a whine as Y’shtola’s hands wandered under the cracked leather of her armor, R’mina ran her fingers through her love’s hair, trying not to pull on anything too hard.

“S-Shtola–” she gasps, coming undone at her fellow Miqo’te’s fingertips. 

“You neglect yourself, dearest.” Y’shtola restrains neither her words nor satisfaction as she undoes the Warrior of Light. “Allow me.”

Gods, the whole thing is equal parts embarrassing and intoxicating, and R’mina can’t decide which she prefers. After everything, why wouldn’t she deserve to let someone else take charge?

If Y’shtola’s keen on helping her unwind, who is R’mina to refuse?

But before her ministrations can become too much, Y’shtola draws back, coaxing a needy whine from the nearly-undone Miqo’te leaning against her shoulder, panting. “Patience, dear,” she chides, looking to Lyse, smile knowing.

Face aflame, the Hyur looked torn between averting her eyes and continuing to watch. Her most primal of thoughts were made manifest in the way she clenched her fists.

“Something the matter?” Carding a hand through R’mina’s hair, Y’shtola kept one hand hovering just above the base of her tail, claws teasing the skin. 

Swallowing, Lyse tugs at the collar of her jacket despite the night’s encroaching chill. “N-no!” Her rebuttal was weak at best, not helped by how her eyes dart between the pair, unabashed in her longing.

Ever the one to wear her heart on her sleeve.

Brushing herself off, desperate to avoid Y’shtola’s knowing stare, she began gathering herself. “It’s late! I should get–”

“Gods, shut up and kiss me already,” R’mina growls, reluctantly leaving her love’s embrace to pull–yank, really–Lyse by her jacket until their lips lock. R’mina melts into the kiss in the same moment tension leaves the Hyur’s frame and she becomes fervent, holding nothing back.

Y’shtola mischievously raps her knuckles against her cheek as she watches the pair let loose all they tried to bury over the past several moons. There are conversations to be had on the morrow, certainly, but one night of indulgence isn’t too much to ask.

Further Empire plottings and Ascian machinations are unavoidable, but if nothing else, she’ll ensure R’mina’s night is one devoid of strife.

Further adjusting the buckle keeping her chestplate secure, R’mina frowns at her reflection.

Watching from over her shoulder, Lyse kisses her cheek. “Wanna try something else?”

While she wouldn’t go so far as to say she hated the latest set of armor, the chainmail felt restricting, not ideal when your fighting style revolved around weaving through the battlefield with a scythe.

Despite originally planning to leave the profession of reaper behind, further discussion alongside her partners–a mess of tangled limbs and bedding coiled together as the sunlight began to peek out over the horizon–left her deciding to keep the soul crystal and take up her scythe with renewed purpose.

Delivered just bells prior by Tataru–as if the crafty woman had known all along–the weapon looked as beautiful as it was deadly; its blade forged from crystal, hilt a blend of gold and obsidian, and a thin shaft made the thing a treat to handle.

Tataru had apologized for needing more time to craft her a new outfit, not that R’mina had expected so much generosity. Alas, the morning and early afternoon had been spent rummaging through Rhalgr’s Reach and the palace to find something in the meantime.

Unfortunately, outside of heavy armor ill-suited for blinking about the battlefield, her options were… lacking, to put it mildly.

“Don’t see much point,” she sighs defeatedly, letting the chest plate and mail fall to the floor as she slumps across the bed in their shared chambers. “Ugh! I’m better off fighting in my nightclothes at this point.”

“Much as I’d like to see that, love,” leave it to Lyse to ever be the flirt, “surely there’s something… hm…” Trailing off, the Hyur began riffling through her belongings in R’mina’s blind spot. Though she’d loathed keeping any of the gear Drusilla provided, stained with blood as it was, R’mina wasn’t quite so comfortable as to part with the eyepatch just yet.

“A-ha!” Triumphant in her search, Lyse’s quarry plants itself across R’mina’s unsuspecting face.

“Wh- Hey!” Familiar as she was with her partner’s antics, the Hyur’s mischief still found ways to surprise her. For example, how her eye widens when she gets a feel for the suede leather, dyed an unmistakable shade of red she’d seen countless times in Doma.

Lyse’s jacket–courtesy of Tataru.

Tenderly cradling the article of clothing, the Miqo’te shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Lyse…”

“It’s fine, Mina! Really!” Sidling beside her, Lyse clasps their hands, subtly tightening R’mina’s grip around the jacket. “I know this,” she gestures to her silk ceremonial ensemble,” was just supposed to be for the big day, but I want to keep this part of Yda with me for a little longer.”

How could R’mina deny her that? Even so, to take this from her despite the Hyur’s insistence.

“‘Sides, I’d hate for Tataru’s hard work to start collecting dust, and you need something better than dingy armor, so, there!” Pleased with herself, Lyse steals a kiss, then another, and another…

And another…

And another…

And so on until the jacket lies discarded on the floor as they become preoccupied with seeing how long they can go without breaking for air. By the time the two of them collapse into the pillows, breathless and having made a mess of themselves, their gazes drift to meet. Purring up a storm, R’mina wraps her tail around Lyse’s wrist, bringing her lips to the other.

“I love you,” they both say.

Unable to help herself, Lyse’s fingers find themselves entwined in R’mina’s hair, marveling at the locks. “Have you thought about dyeing it again?”

R’mina hums, thinking to herself. “Probably… not? It was only meant to help me hide from the Empire but with our home free…” She studies a lock for herself, eye drawn to where the brown and blue meet. “I feel like I owe it to myself to keep both, carry this part with me, you know?”

“Yeah,” Lyse’s voice is quiet, tinged with emotion, “I do.”

Silence settles between them, each bathing in the other’s presence, their hearts bared.

The moment lasts for all of ten seconds before Lyse breaks into giggles, R’mina unable to resist joining her. Y’shtola finds them like that, lazing about and certainly not readying themselves despite the approaching afternoon bell.

“What am I to do with you,” the pale-eyed Miqo’te muses, leaning against the doorframe.

“Shtola!” Lyse’s glee is downright contagious, and R’mina knows her tail is flicking like mad, but unlike at the Reach, she doesn’t feel the urge to hide it. From the way Y’shtola’s small smile grows as her eyes track the offending limb, she’s pleased. “You should–”

Recognizing one of the Hyur’s schemes before it’s begun, Y’shtola shakes her head. “I think not. It would not do for the Commander of the Resistance to be late on a day such as this.” Before either of the pair can express their disappointment at her ever being the responsible one, the Miqo’te’s eyes drift to the discarded jack. Holding it in one hand, she levels Lyse with an unimpressed look.

“...Oops?” The Hyur winces, rolling over R’mina ‘Hey!’ to hide behind her in a vain hope of escaping Y’shtola’s scolding. “Maybe we got a little carried away!” Were it not for their mussed appearances, her words might have better convinced their love. 

Gesturing to the Hyur’s other strewn belongings, Y’shtola is unamused. “Try again.”

“Oh!” Jumping to her feet and dragging R’mina with her, Lyse looks about their chambers, her brow furrowed in thought. “We never finished!” Turning to her partner, she asks, “What else were you looking for?”

“Um…” Unsure, R’mina considers what she can see in the mess. “Something easy to move in? So long as it doesn’t hold me back in a fight. I’m not picky.” Thinking to herself, she adds, “And I’ll need a new cane.”

“Leave that to me,” Y’shtola taps hers against the floor for emphasis, having caught on to the meaning of their words. “As for your attire, we best be quick about it, lest the Resistance fear we’ve been spirited away.”

…

“Whew!” Lyse whistles, hugging R’mina from behind. “What do you think?”

Uncertain as she was until now, taking a turn or two in front of the mirror, R’mina likes what she sees. Apart from Lyse’s jacket, she’d settled for a simple pair of cargo slacks and high boots, both in black. Add in a half-glove for her scythe hand and a claw on her left for channeling magick, and that was the outfit they’d settled on.

Still, something about her reflection gnawed at R’mina, but she hid it from her partners. “I love it,” and she meant it, mostly. Having Lyse’s jacket as a familiar weight around her shoulder helped alleviate some of the hurt thinking of their eventual parting.

Would that she could stay longer.

“You look quite dashing, dear.” Leaning in for a chaste kiss on her cheek, Y’shtola gathers her cane. “Let us be about it.”

But as she and Lyse made for the door, R’mina hesitated, eye fixated on the mirror.

“Mina?”

The Miqo’te smiles in hopes of alleviating some of her partner’s worry. “Just need a few minutes.” How could she have not realized the answer until now? 

“You sure?” Lyse sports a frown. “We can wait.”

“No,” R’mina politely refuses. “I need some time alone for this. Please.”

Unhappy as she is, Lyse relents, her hand seeking Y’shtola’s for comfort, to which the Miqo’te happily joins with her own. “Call us if you need anything?”

“Always,” she answers without hesitation, already turning back to her reflection.

No going back.

She finds them in the Ala Mhigan Quarter, conversing with Resistance personnel. With the Empire out of the immediate picture, her homeland would need to rebuild. Lyse had mentioned her desire to form a governing council of sorts, and R’mina quite liked the idea.

Ala Mhigo had had enough of tyrants.

Leaning against a nearby crate, the Miqo’te smiles as a Resistance Guard scrambles to salute R’mina when he sees her. Biting back a laugh she shakes her head, holding a finger to her lips. Understanding, the man nods feverishly before returning to his post.

It was any wonder more people hadn’t recognized her yet, but… Well, some things spoke for themselves.

“Alright, keep me posted. Speak with M’naago when you see her.” Waving the soldier farewell, Lyse turns to Y’shtola, only to freeze when she spots R’mina. “Y-your–!”

At a loss for words, her eyes bug out.

“Something wrong, love,” R’mina asks innocently. “Cat got your tongue?” Savoring the image of Lyse’s gobsmacked face, she turns to Y’shtola and sees her fellow Miqo’te squinting. Alas, aethersight was limited, so R’mina leaned close enough for her to feel things out.

At first, Y’shtola reaches for hair that isn’t there anymore, her eyebrows raising when she realizes what R’mian’s done. “Not quite following my example,” she smirks, “but copying perfection is rather difficult.”

Ha! To be fair, she can’t blame her partners for either reaction. Just a bell ago her hair reached past her shoulders, now, it hardly reaches her jaw. The cut was messy at best and she’ll need to clean it up later, but for now…

It’s perfect.

“I–” Lyse struggles to get anything out, face aflame. “Wow.”

Crossing her arms, the blade of her scythe catching the afternoon’s glare, she smiles, flashing her fangs. “My thanks for the compliment, Commander Hext. Now, mind catching me up to speed?”

“R-Right!” Composing herself, Lyse begins leading them toward the Palace itself. “Raubahn’s requested that we all gather to discuss our next steps…”

Nodding along as Lyse outlines their immediate plans, R’mina smiles as they walk through the Quarter’s streets, passing soldiers and citizens alike; whenever someone catches her eye, she flashes them a smile and a nod.

Gathering Lyse and Y’shtola’s hands in hers, R’mina breathes a sigh of relief. This may not be the ending she wants, but it's not a terrible way to close this chapter of her life.