Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Aren’t you simply melting in this heat, hero? I must say, that black armor looks absolutely stifling.”

He sauntered out of the shadows behind the Warrior of Light, pleased when they whipped their head back at him in annoyance. The dust of the desert quickly caked his boots within seconds, the mild breeze puffing hot air into his face. Lazily, he walked up to their side, making a show out of stretching his arms above his head.

Emet-Selch wouldn’t admit it, but he felt absolutely wretched in this heat, the incessant light only adding to his irritation. He would have been content to observe from the shadows, eagerly watching the Warrior inevitably triumph over all obstacles that stood barring their way. But their sudden bout of melancholy had led them away from their little nagging group, guiding them to the cliffs overlooking the small rundown town. It was an opportunity just too enticing for his traitorous heart to ignore.

He peered down the cliff side, observing the little shapes of people milling about. He noted languidly quite a few huddled around a lone Talos, no doubt fixing what was once broken. There was an air of anticipation caught on the breeze, the scent of hope palpable enough to reach him even up here.

Or perhaps hope just follows them, even in this life.

He cast the Warrior a sidelong look when they didn’t answer his long forgotten question, wondering instead what it was that had brought them away from the town’s excitement. They quirked a sweaty brow, scoffing as they gave him an exaggerated once over.

“I at least have a good excuse, seeing as monsters and sin eaters roam around these sands.” They tapped a gauntleted hand over their chest plate for emphasis. Their tail twitched with amusement, a glint of mischief sparking in their eyes.

“You, on the other hand, look like you got into a fight with that gaudy overcoat and lost, its victorious weight bearing you down more so than usual.”

A bead of sweat dropped down the side of his face, his loathsome body silently agreeing with the Warrior. He gave them a non committal shrug, his smug countenance lessening just a touch. “One must keep up appearances.”

They hummed in response, maintaining their gaze on him. Another bead of sweat ran down his brow, a gloved hand instinctively catching it before it could fall into his eyes. The Warrior tracked the movement, curiousity blooming in those crimson eyes.

Their feet shuffled them closer, pausing about an arms breadth away. He made no move to stop them when they reached for one of his hands, holding perfectly still when they peeled his glove away. His breath caught as they took off a gauntlet, tentatively holding his now bare hand with their own.

It was just a touch smaller than his, rich brown skin full of scars and calluses, strong and assured. Emet-Selch found it all too familiar, painfully so. Involuntarily, his thumb brushed against their scales, a glaring reminder of who this was not. He searched his heart to find that long held disgust, dissatisfied when he was met instead with crushing loneliness. All too soon, that same doubt crept once again into his mind, unsure about his plans, his duty.

“They’re softer than I would have thought.”

It took him a few seconds to realize that the quiet statement was about his hands, so entranced was he by their contact. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady, “it’s not my real body.”

A gentle reminder to himself and the Warrior about the parts they had to play.

His eyes flit to their face, reading undisguised pity and sadness in their expression. His fingers tensed just slightly, mildly insulted that they would look at him with such emotions. They opened their mouth to say something, only to be cut off by someone calling their name.

He gently pried his hand away, going so far to take a step back, but chose not to leave just yet. Light, hurried steps rushed to meet them, words tumbling out in a similar pace, “Urianger wanted me to let you know that the Talos is-oh!”

The little Oracle stopped in her tracks upon seeing him, confusion writ plainly on her face. He gives her a condescending smirk, reveling in her discomfort. She glances at the Warrior for answers, struggling to find the right question to ask.

With a deep exhale, the Warrior blows at their sweaty bangs, kicking up dust as they walk away from him, giving the little Oracle nonsensical assurances as they pass by. He watches their progress until they become obscured by the rocks and boulders on the path, feeling that little ache creep into his chest once again.

“Ummm…”

Annoyed, his eyes flick back towards his unwanted intruder, astonished that she had still lingered. He dips his head slightly, anticipating her next words. Her uncanny blue eyes flit downwards nervously, a tiny flash of white teeth showing as she worried her bottom lip.

“You’re missing one of your gloves…”

Genuine surprise lifts his brows just a little, his focus shifting to his bare hand. He looks back down to the town, searching for a figure garbed in that coveted color of night, still remembering the touch of their hand on his own.

“So it would seem.”

Chapter Text

Life, as it turned out, was more fleeting than Venat had initially expected. The first few peoples lived simply, roving from place to place aimlessly, always in search of meager sustenance. They never lived very long.

Many died from petty squabbles with other groups, choosing to fight each other over their problems instead of joining hands to solve them. She watched countless suffer needlessly in their bid for survival, the selfish adding to the misery of life.

She had tried to call out to them, desperately begging them to show mercy, pleading for anyone to find a better way. But none would hear her. Deaf were they who had first come to walk the star.

When Midgardsormr crashed through the sky and plunged into the Great Lake, Venat was initially fearful that the creature was an emissary of destruction. To her great relief and sadness, they were of like situation; refugees of dying stars, losers of a game where they lacked all the pieces. She felt a pang of envy of the children he carried with him, his loneliness stymied by their subsequent hatching. Bitterness clouded Venat’s thoughts for a time, but nonetheless, she permitted the dragons to share the star.

The first rejoining felt like a stab to her gut, millions of voices snuffed out in the same breath of a careless dousing of a candle. The twist of the knife was accompanied with the red hot anger of Lahabrea, his unhinged laughter reaching her from across the void.

She wished to rage against him, to smite his cruel injustice with her own wrath, but her guilt kept her in check. After all, her own crimes were no different from his; She who had ended the old world. This was only the beginning of her punishment.

Life grew a little easier on Etherys after that. People raised their arms in tentative greetings now instead of weapons, offering helping hands and exchanging cultures. Gone were the days when they roamed without purpose, seeking now to build and prosper. She watched as the different races coexisted together, yet peace between them was a fragile, flimsy thing.

Kingdoms and countries rose, establishing man’s first firm foothold upon the star, the rich, secret intricacies of life trickling into their open minds. It was then that she heard the whispers of a name spoken in reverence, an all mother that cared for every being of the star.

Hydaelyn.

Laughter spilled unbidden from too pale lips, the irony of it all not lost to her. To have been given a title, to be seen as a mother again after casting off those roles so long ago…..

Venat’s thoughts wandered, not for the first time, towards her unsundered brethren, who lurked in the shadows desperately scrabbling to reverse her scar to the star. She could feel through her shackles the damage she had wrought upon Elidibus, the once young man reduced to little more than a husk overly willing to perform his sacred duty. Not too unlike herself. There was much that she regretted with the young man, that perhaps if she had been more present in his life before this mess, then maybe…

Such thoughts would not bring her comfort now. Not when he no longer remembered her name.

The second rejoining aimed this time for a lung, the pain of it piercing her and reducing her screams to strangled wheezes. Her broken voice called out once again over and over as cities were razed to the ground under steel boots and bloody banners, giving weight to a word that had never once been used in her lifetime; war.

The plot was too subtle to attribute towards Lahabrea, the man as destructive and unrelenting as the fire magics he boasted his proficiency of. No, this was the work of Emet-Selch, his clever wit sharpened to a blade which would slit the throat of pauper and prince alike.

She remembered the once kind man, brought down low by rage and despair, openly weeping when he had discovered the fracturing of souls. She would have thought that his loss would have broken him, shattering whatever will had survived the final days previously, But his eyes were ever forward, ever reaching for those halcyon days. She hoped that one day, he could forgive her.

Calamities came and went, each one worse than the last, each one mercilessly tearing out a piece of her. How many times had she watched the innocent die? How many of her champions have been slain for naught? She no longer had the strength to weep. Now on the precipice of the seventh calamity, she calls out once again.

There is only one answer this time. A quiet, unsteady voice that belied a difficult life. She draws them close, a faint stirring of recognition warming her heart. Finally, she thinks. Finally, it will soon come to an end.

“Hello, my child.”

Chapter Text

His fingers gently glide over two-toned keys, the careless weight of his motions startling out a few notes from the grand piano. The sound reverberates out from the stage and into the stands, the glaring lights fixed on the instrument turning the empty seats into a black void. Hythlodaeus mused that perhaps blinding the performer was the intention; One could hardly fear an audience they couldn’t see.

His lips tugged upwards, amused at the notion of stage fright. As per the rules of the theatre, a performer was granted full freedom from his anonymity on stage. With this, some found that their plays worked better with bared faces, subtle nuances of expression enhancing the experience for performer and audience alike. Eccentrics doffed their black robes for colorful costumes and grandiose acts; A favorite of children and the bane of more ancient individuals.

These displays were few and far in between however, with most entertainers preferring to wear the hood and mask, retaining their talents as secrets that could still be shared publicly, albeit briefly. As the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, Hythlodaeus deemed it wise to keep himself anonymous, going so far as to perform under a pseudonym, Philos.

He sits down at the bench, quietly mulling over which pieces he should play today. He has a little over a bell to decide and practice, a small boon considering the auditorium is his for the evening. Absently, he presses on a couple keys, just nonsense noise to settle his mind.

Eighty-eight keys….and not a one telling me where to begin…

In truth, he had not planned for a performance today; a last minute cancellation had uprooted the theatre’s meticulous schedule, and in desperation they had begged him to fill in, promising compensation in the form of some choice box seats for a future night. Those coveted seats were extraordinarily difficult to obtain, with even the most favored ones being booked decades in advance. He had practically jumped on the offer, only pausing to argue for more than one seat. The bookers were loathe to concede, but with no other options available, they had no choice but to cave.

Hythlodaeus smirked at the thought, his fingers unconsciously pressing a few happy notes.

Perhaps a quiet, slow start should be best; A melody to settle their hearts before the excitement catches them.

His fingers begin a slow waltz over ebony and ivory, the peaceful tune one beloved by many. His eye close, letting himself become caught in the music. Song after song swept by, his fingers dancing upon the keys. His heart soaring as they flew from note to note, the thrill of it brightening his soul.

Hythlodaeus never once understood the supposed joy of battle high; in those moments he was far too concerned with the well-being of himself and the others around him. He was considered a good marksman, yes, but his heart was never in it. His only consolation being that the bow could be plucked like a beloved harp. But here, lost as he was in the joyous cacophony of his own making, here, he was alive.

His hands freeze over the piano at the sound of clapping, panting as he is shocked out of his own trance. He casts his gaze out to the seats, searching for his intruder amidst the glare. He shifts his sight, relieved when he spots a sunset soul approaching the stage.

Still recovering, he wheezes, “Azem! I hadn’t expected you to return so soon!”

He watches as they clamber up stage, heedless of the dirt and dust they bring up with them. He skooches over just in time as they plop down on the bench, their broad grin warming him.

“A little birdie told me that the grand piano player, Philos, would be playing tonight.” They push a couple keys, unsubtly coaxing him to play along. He chuckles, “Was this birdie rather surly and broad of beak?” They nod, filling the auditorium with haphazard notes and mirthful laughter.

His hands return to playing, sweetly accompanying anything that Azem presses. They often complain that the piano has far too many keys for their liking, opting instead for woodwind instruments. It suited them, he mused. Loud and happy, quick and fleeting; a perfect fit to carry smiles and melodies.

“Do you suppose Hades will be here tonight?” Hythlodaeus’ eyes slide over to Azem’s mask, glimpsing a twinkle of mischief in the hidden crimson. His fingers dance around theirs, the corner of his mouth twitching in delight.

“I imagine that Hades-“

“I can’t imagine my name being uttered by either of you bears me good fortune. Pray tell, what are you two plotting?”

Voice sour, Emet-Selch walks into the light of the stage, convocation mask turning crimson in the glare. He saunters right up to the piano, arms crossing as he waits for a suitable answer. Hythlodaeus spares Azem a quick look before they both turn back to the Third seat, fingertips striking ominous chords.

“Your doom!”
“Your demise…”

With a heavy sigh, Emet-Selch palms his face, no doubt chiding himself for even bothering to ask. Despite his outward exasperation, it’s not enough to hide his good mood from either of them, and thus, Hythlodaeus finds his heart full.

He lets his fingers dance upon the keys again as they start to bicker, uncaring if they recognized the beginnings of a love song. After all, it was just him, and his ebony and ivory keys.

Chapter Text

“Shhhhhhh, it’s ok, it’s ok…”

He was trapped. Cornered into the cliff side by a pale, scrawny thing of which he had only ever seen from a distance in his adolescence. His heavy tail hung off the edge, dislodging pebbles from their comfortable perch facing the valley, clashing against the jagged rocks that lived down below. He dared not to look back, lest he gave an opportunity to this creature, this human, to end him.

There was a tradition amongst his herd, a dangerous but necessary measure taken to ensure that all fledglings knew of the dangers that lurked in the world. An older, wisened amaro would take the young to wing, and in the safety of the sky, point out all the hungry beasts that wished to feast upon the herd. Most watched the flyersby with drooling maws, unable to reach them, but wishing to all the same. He remembered distinctly the smell of fear from his fellow nest mates, made all the more palpable as they crested near a settlement of wood and stone, the air choked by smoke and ash.

‘Keep flying!,’ Their elder bellowed. ‘Get a good, long look at them!’

They were taller than he expected, all different colors and shapes as well. They seemed to cluster or mill about with no purpose, aimless, reminiscent of the journey taken by fallen leaves in autumn.

‘They are clever, and cruel.’ The old bull warned. ‘More than any other beast that preys upon us.’

He had his doubts, weak and slow as they looked from his vantage on high. He held steadfast to his assessment, until one day a new face had unexpectedly added to their number. A huge, scarred, bull with broken horns; fearless in the face of hungry hunters, reduced to a quivering, whimpering mess of feathers at the mere smell of metal. ‘The last survivor of his herd.’ The others whispered.

Would that he could have avoided these dangerous creatures for all of his life, if not for the mangled wing hanging uselessly at his flank. He growled at the human only a yalm away, trying not to let fear overtake him to a harsh, slow death upon the rocks below. He hung his head low, gnashing his teeth and pressing his working wings out as far as they could reach, hoping to look bigger than he actually felt.

It seemed to work, if not just a little. The man backed off slightly, raising strange long-toed paws in the air. He growled a little louder, tensing his legs as those paws strayed closer to the hunk of metal strapped to the human’s back. The man stiffened, eyes wide and holding himself completely still as if to imitate the trees around them.

A heart beat passed as they stood locked in place, the wind rustling the trees the only other noise apart from his own snarls. Another beat passed. And then another. And another.

Feeling the minutes drag on, his eyes dart from side to side, searching for an opening wide enough to charge past when he hears garbled noises pass through the human’s small, fangless mouth. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he cooed. “I just want to help you…please.”

Instinct told him to focus solely on the threat to his life, to not waver in his gaze from that sharp metal branch, (the more he looked at it, the more he was sure that it was like a branch) but the man didn’t sound hungry, his voice too soft to be a hunting cry. To his tufted ears, it sounded more like the reassuring croons that mothers would call to their chicks, promising food and warm nests. Against his better judgement, his gaze wandered, meeting the eyes of his potential killer.

They’re blue….

There’s a pang in his chest, a great longing overcoming him as he sees the sky reflected in this human’s eyes. He had spent weeks alone in his misery, broken wing shackling him to the earth, consigned to his death by the departure of the other amaro. To his great shame, a whimper passes his maw, his wings trembling from their outstretched positions. He would die, he thought. Never again to crest the hill near the nests, nor to feel the wind carry him up to the stars that he so loved. A pathetic mewl escapes his leathery lips, body drooping as he surrenders himself to whatever whim this lanky human has in store for him.

Something plays across the man’s face, odd wisps of fur diving downward to touch at his hooded eyelids, mouth barely open enough to see the outline of teeth. (Is he disappointed? Left wanting to test his strength against a willing foe?) He billows out a remorseful huff, unwilling to find a reason to care anymore. Just waiting for the inevitable. In the next moment, the man takes a deep breath and, to his shock, falls over backward, grunting lightly as he hits the ground.

A piercing cry echoes from the trees, the lonely call of a falcon in search of its mate. Is it a trick? He thinks, raising his horned head to peer at the strange being before him. He shuffles forward slowly, trying to get a better look at what could have caused the man to suddenly fall over.

There’s no smell of blood in the air, nor scent of sickness or madness coming from the splayed body before him whatsoever. Still cautious, he leans his snout forward to nudge one of the human’s sprawled legs, and just as quickly steps back. He needn’t have done so, for the man doesn’t so much as twitch.

Fear abating and curiosity growing, he ambles closer, wanting (for he supposes that’s what this feeling is) to see those eyes again, only to find the human’s pale face scrunched up and lids firmly shut. Confusion washes over him, and in a fit of impatience, he noses the short brown fur sprouting from the man’s head, a little snort blowing the tufts out of place. The man’s expression loosens, and gradually, one eye opens to look up at him. (He finds the color just as lovely as the first time he saw it.)

More quiet nonsense tumbles from that tiny, harmless mouth, the unintelligible words soothing the lasting worries of his heart. He flinches a little when those strange paws touch his neck, calming only when blunted nails scratch at an undiscovered itch found there. In the haze of contentment, he catches one word from the string of soft syllables that rumbled from the man’s chest (he’s more sure than anything that it’s a name.)

Ardbert!

He sprints towards the Hume, taloned feet leaving deep indentations in the earth, marks that will persist long enough to entertain many a child’s wild imagination for years after Ardbert and his band have departed. The amaro crashes into his rider, head and horns painfully bashing into Ardbert’s chest, knocking the air out of his lungs and most definitely leaving bruises to be discovered later. “Guh! Hey- easy there, Seto!” He wheezes, just barely catching enough air to form words.

My name!

Admittedly, it was only one of the few words that Seto recognized; A gift received when he had accepted both bridle and saddle from Ardbert, his wounds healed and a friendship kindled between the two. The memory of that day is enough on its own to pull Seto from any sort of gloomy mood, and here it only exemplifies his joy at Ardbert’s return. A low rumble of contentment thrums through Seto’s barreled chest, a sound that many unfamiliar with the beast of burden mistake for an active hive of bees, laboring diligently to make their sweet nectar.

‘A happy amaro makes honey with the bees in its belly!’

It was a common enough saying amongst keepers, undoubtedly the most steadfast in their love for the feathery beasts. Even the tiniest village owned an amaro pen, and though he was not allowed to ‘bother the handlers,’ Ardbert was instilled with the same adoration held by them. Keeping Seto however, was a long string of firsts, mistakes made right only by his earnestness, though, his amaro of choice’s easy continence helped a lot there too.

Ardbert had lost himself to a laughing fit when he had first heard Seto make the buzzing noise, having only ever heard the first part of the phrase and believing for a great deal of his childhood that amaro somehow had the ability to produce honey. Lamitt poked fun at him for days after, gleefully adding to her ammunition of silly stories about how foolish the man was. The tales were lost on Seto, garbled jumbles of sounds and syllables to his ears, but he found that didn’t matter with how widely Ardbert would smile back at him.

“Hey buddy, I’m ok! I promise!” The newly dubbed Warrior of Light was still winded, frantically doing his best to dodge Seto’s horns as the amaro nuzzled dangerously close to his throat. Seeming to remember just how delicate human skin was, (he still felt bad after catching the hume’s jaw one evening, his over-excitedness leaving a permanent scar on his friend) he backed off just a step with a throaty whine, mollified but still expectant.

His companions passed them by, each giving Seto a greeting and a good natured ruffle of his feathers, some perhaps, a little more “well-meaning” than others. He liked Ardbert’s friends well enough, but he paid them no mind, intent was his focus on his most favored person on the whole star. “Missed me, did you?” Finally recovering the use of his lungs, Ardbert emits a low chuckle, using his fingers to work their magic under Seto’s chin, the Amaro closing his eyes in complete bliss.

Time was nothing in that moment, just happiness for happiness’ sake. He had been very worried for the Hume lately; it seemed like each battle was getting tougher than the last, each bout won coming at the cost of more scrapes and bruises, broken bones and scarred limbs. He admired Ardbert for what they did, truly; His band of adventurers saved the lives of countless people, their deeds being praised across Norvandt and even further, but the coward in Seto wished that they would lay their weapons to rest, and make a home instead of a name.

He had found a piece of himself that he never knew was missing that fateful day up top on the cliffs, one that he was sure he couldn’t bear to be parted from.

The amaro shut his eyes tighter, trying to shut out thoughts of Ardbert failing to return from battle. Of the man dying without Seto ever knowing. He couldn’t live like that. He didn’t know what he would do without-

Ardbert!!

Seto chuffs at his rider, worried sick by his and his friend’s prolonged absence. Ever since they had left, the air had steadily become stranger, charged with a feeling of unease, wind currents becoming unfamiliar under wing.

Ardbert limps towards him, axe coated with gore and his left eye crusted shut with dried blood (Seto hopes that it’s not his.) He barrels into the man, nearly knocking him over, loudly voicing his displeasure at the state in which Ardbert had returned to him. Seto knows he’s making a ruckus, knows he’s drawing unwanted attention from onlookers with his wings fluttering and feet angrily stamping the ground. His tail lashes against the grass, stilling only when he feels familiar hands gently scratching at his neck. He quiets then, letting those clever fingers scrape away his fears for the moment, losing himself to the comfortable ritual that started so long ago. When they were simply just a man and his amaro.

“I think…I messed up this time, old friend.” Ardbert croaks, his hands no longer willing to seek Seto’s warmth. He lifts up his horned head, searching for those sky blue eyes. He can only pick out a few words, the rest as intangible as the malignant aether that tainted the air. A drop splashes on his snout, tears having welled up in Ardbert’s good eye.

The man buries his face between Seto’s feathery ears, arms encircling his snout in a tight hug. His hold is crushing, painful in its desperation; Seto lets out an aggrieved grunt, ready to shake off his friend. Until the sobbing reaches his ears, wracked with utter defeat and despair. The amaro’s heart fills with dread, unable to recall a time when Ardbert had ever felt this lost and fearful.

Seto takes in a deep breath and croons gently, like a mother would to her chick, promising companionship and happier days ahead. Eventually, the tears run dry, and the embrace becomes less painful. He feels the hands move to pet his face, fingers lingering around his jaw.

When Ardbert pulls away, Seto feels the reins go with him, the bit slowly being pried from his maw. He tilts his head in confusion, unsure as to why Ardbert is taking away a gift of their friendship. “I’m…..not coming back, Seto.” He chokes out, the last word broken and strained. Seto swivels his tufted ears forward, braying questioningly.

Ardbert looks down, his expression one of that of self-loathing. “I’ve done something unforgivable, and now I have to make it right.” His hands ball into fists, the leather of the bridle creaking in strained protest. Seto didn’t understand- the words were clearer than ever, but he still didn’t understand why Ardbert was leaving-

What did I do? What did I do wrong?!

His groan of protest is cut short by his best friend drawing his axe, a scary, determined expression settling over his face. Seto never forgives the coward in him that backs away at the sight of it.

“Goodbye Seto.”

Chapter Text

Venat picks her way in the darkness through the crumbling masses of marble and stone, scattered bits of homes tossed about like mixed up puzzle boxes, broken pieces indistinguishable from where they belonged. A little ball of soft light followed in her wake, shadowing her expression from underneath the hood and mask, body movements stilted and awkward as if she were fashioned from the splintered timber that still pointed skyward, deeply rooted and trying to hold up what was no longer there.

Her muddied hands shook as she checked another body, still hoping beyond reason to find a heartbeat despite its lower half being crushed under a building that should have never crumbled.

Fifty-five…..fifty-six now…..

It was supposed to be a standard settlement; A small colony that was to take advantage of the nearby mountainside for its unique minerals and even better earth-aspected aether. It proved itself to be a useful resource, both to Amaurot and other earth deficient colonies, setting itself up to house important research facilities and schools in the near future. An easy path for all that would come here.

Her foot kicked the stray shard of a porcelain mask, causing Venat to stop in a sudden jolt, stooping to pick it up with stiff fingers. The approach of her were-light revealed blood splattered on its pale surface, blue eyes trailing what spots remained on the ground it came from to a dark puddle that still oozed ‘neath a jagged boulder. The remnant cracked in her grasp, the sudden noise causing her to drop it as if it burned to the touch. She stared at it dumbly for a moment, agonizing over the fracture on it’s surface, before resuming her morbid march.

Fifty-seven…

In truth, Venat was initially called to the town at the insistence of one of her old friends from her academia days, coaxed from her wanderings as Azem with the thought of warm company and the promise of a surprise on her friend’s part. She and Argos were still but half a day away from the settlement when they felt the first terrifying tremors of the earth, the imposing mountain seemingly becoming aware of the bugs that scuttled upon its back, furiously shaking to rid itself of them.

Fifty-eight…

By the time they arrived, the sun had set and the earth had gone still. She had called out then, hoping for crying pleas, hoping that someone would answer. Her voice grew hoarse long before she finally stopped.

Her legs finally gave out when she reaches the other side of the settlement, knees impacting the cruel debris and cutting into her skin. Her hands fly to her face, scrabbling at her mask and flinging it away, too distraught to be anything but just Venat. She wept freely then, her body heaving with choked sobs.

‘Azem is a witness to the world, my dear pupil. It is your duty to behold its splendor hand in hand with its peoples to ensure that it shines all the brighter.’

Her mouth tastes of bile, the overwhelming stench of death having long since removed the contents of her stomach. Argos looks at her pityingly, finely tuned to his master’s turmoil through their bond.

‘But do not be fooled into thinking that it won’t be arduous. To be Azem also means to watch as people die despite your best efforts. That death will be an…. uncomfortable acquaintance.’

She almost misses it in the din of her own misery; A small wail, weak and quiet amidst the loud silence of the rubble. Venat pushes herself to her feet violently, stumbling over to where she thought the cry came from, praying that it would not stop. “Argos, find!” Her sore throat barely forms the command, her golden haired dog trotting beside her, eager to help his master.

He shoots off towards her left, to a building that was miraculously still half standing. She had passed by it not too long ago, seeing the blood seeping from under the marble and believing that there was no one left to be saved. She hastily dug into the debris, a stasis spell poised on her tongue lest the rest of the roof fall, Argos faithfully pointing the way. Her arms ached and cracked fingernails bled from the desperate effort until finally she pulls away a great slab of stone, revealing to her the source of the noise.

It was a woman, hunched over on her hands and knees like a table, blood soaked robes turned black from wounds she could not see. Venat set her hands upon her, healing aether flowing from her fingertips, only to realize that the magic wouldn’t take, that her soul had long departed..

…..Fifty-nine…but, where is….?

Another piercing wail shatters the silence, coming once again from the woman- no, from below her. Venat carefully tugs away the body, the muscles stiff as if they were still fighting to protect what lay beneath them, too big robes finally revealing the babe that had been so preciously guarded.

Her muddled mind is slow to process the child before her, its features achingly familiar. Her eyes slowly shift to the dead mother, dread grinding her thoughts to a complete halt. She stares at it, all at once needing to know and not wanting to, stubborn fingers tangling themselves in the ripped cloth of her robes.

‘Youre leaving the city? I would have thought you quite taken by the words of Loghrif.’

‘What, and be smothered with countless colleagues and too few actually interesting specimens? You wound me, Venat.’

Argos nudges her, a whine escaping him. He noses her sleeve, gently latching onto it and pulling.

‘It’ll be more exciting to see you too, if rumors are to be believed about the next Azem~’

‘Oh? I must know the identity of your rumor monger. Regardless of its credibility, however, I still have to pay homage to everyone on the star, not just you, Theia. Unless…you could make me a convincing argument.’

With shaking hands, Venat lowers the hood and removes the mask, despair creeping into her chest.

Oh….Theia…..

A choked sob wracks through her aching throat, redoubled grief reopening the still weeping wound in her heart. Twin wails echo through the empty streets, a deep, wretched noise that lamented the loss of someone dear, and the other, a keening plea to know the mother it would never have.

She considers, for a moment, what would happen if she decided to just leave the mask where it lay. To silently denounce the title of Azem, and wander the lands simply at her own whims. ‘Or you could quietly return to the star….’ a small part of her whispers, from a concealed place where she keeps all of her regrets. The dark ebony mask stares back at her without judgement, the emblazoned sun sigil gently reflecting the soft glow of her werelight.

She bites the inside of her cheek, ignoring the sting of pain as she works over the sore muscle, the faint tang of copper registering in some far corner of her mind.

What good is duty if I can’t even save those I’m tasked to help? There is no guide for me to follow, no knowledge for how to deal with…unforeseen accidents ... .tragedies…

Her thoughts still as the babe in her arms gurgles, seemingly disturbed by her morbid thoughts. She shifts her grip to check on it, carefully adjusting her arms to see its little round face. It looked a lot like Theia; dark skin and hair, a strong grip and lopsided smile. The only real striking difference were its eyes- Theia had possessed rich brown eyes, as if each mischievous glint and mirthful crinkle were a gift from the earth itself. Ruefully, Venat wonders if her friend had ever noticed that the chocolates they shared matched the particular shade of her eyes, though, she was always complaining that they were a touch too bitter.

The babe’s were red, too similar to the blots on its swaddling clothes, as if the bloody hue was a permanent reminder of the death they had narrowly escaped. Those orbs were trained on her now, mouth open in obvious wonder, tiny hands grasping at the tangled wisps of white hair that had slipped out from under her hood.

“Are you still hungry, little one?” She coos. Earlier, when she cobbled together enough sense to realize that she was needed, she had minorly transformed the anatomy of her body, accommodating for the hungry infant in place of its mother. It was a messy first attempt at feeding, she not knowing precisely how to hold the babe and distinctly not liking the sensations associated with it. Venat was no mother; her desires had begun and ended with travel, the friendships she forged having been enough to satisfy any sort of lonely itch felt on the road. Love had flitted across her vision from time to time- unremarkable trysts that never quieted the call of the unknown. Settling down was already an unfamiliar notion to her, having children was a foreign concept in its entirety.

The baby babbled incoherently, determined to stuff her wayward hair in its mouth, drool coating the white strands. She cannot help the small smile that curves her cracked lips, feeling bittersweet joy that she felt belonged to another.

“I wonder if you’ll like Amaurot, little one. A word of advice though; If you like fun, then avoid important offices- that’s where they put all the boring, stuffy people.” She huffs, feeling the phantom disapproving glare that Pashtarot always gave her the second he smelled trouble. She catches argos’ gaze, the familiar disdainfully eyeing the infant’s wet chin. “Yes, the only joy to be had in those places is to become a nuisance.” She adds with a whisper, “but you didn’t hear it from me.”

She bends down just enough to swipe her mask up off the beaten earth, resigned to continue on, to keep living for the sake of those who could not. For Theia… She affixes the mask back to where it belongs, relieved to find that it is more of an embrace than a weight on her soul. The child in her arms squeals with delight, reaching for her face- for her mask. A wry chuckle escapes from her lips, incredulous to the whims of this child.

“If that is what you desire, then you will have to work for it.” Her feet shuffle forward, steps becoming steadier the longer she walks. “It’s not an easy road, mind you, and you will find your resolve tested, over, and over.” The first rays of sunlight break through the horizon, dazzling her and the baby both. Through cracked lids she glimpses bright crimson, wide and unblinking, wholly entranced by that distant star. She clutches them closer, feeling the dying blaze of her heart rekindle.

“Oh, alright then.” She sighs. “If you are the one that comes to claim my seat, then so be it. But first-“

She kisses the child’s brow, delighted when they laugh from the tickle of her lips.

“ I think you need a name.”

Chapter Text

A calloused thumb runs across the surface of a dark soul crystal, the jagged edges catching and threatening to pierce overworked skin. Outside, in the frosty streets belonging to the icy nobility, none roamed save the few unlucky bastards charged with the night watch. Cold silence haunted the eaves of the high houses, heresy poised upon the lips of those who watched one another from clandestine windows. In this, house Fortemps was little exception.

Steel boots tramped on the stonework not too far from the array of uncovered windows, the dining hall itself designed to face the main thoroughfare of The Pillars, as if by shedding its privacy like a snake, so too would accusations be left behind in the discarded skin. The not-too distant footsteps paused in their march, perhaps perplexed by the faint warm glow that belied the hall’s occupancy, suspicious even, of the activity hosted therein the midnight hour.

Hidden eyes watch the knight, silently goading the arm of the law to move, hoping to implicate the untouchable House Fortemps in something delightfully scandalous. After a second of contemplation, the knight moves toward the windows slowly, a wary hand resting on the pommel of his ornate sword.

Closer and closer he creeps, searching the dark room until he can make out a lone figure in a high-backed chair, a small object glittering in their hand.

The knight lets out a sigh of relief. Whatever business the nobility had with their baubles was none of his- unless it was payment, of course. He straightens, allowing his stiff muscles to relax, eager to resume his easy patrol, when a dark shape flits just out of his vision. Confused, he scans the room again, trying to figure out what he just missed.

There! behind the occupied chair…a haze of shadow in the shape of a….person…?

The knight isn’t allowed much time to process the strange shape. He chokes back a gasp of alarm, panic rising as the shadow turns around-

There’s a loud jangle of chain mail as the knight sneezes wetly. He curses, no doubt alerting-

Wait….

Whatever was there was just….gone.

The knight lets out a belligerent groan, no doubt regretting his choice of employment. The scrape of steel on stone resumes, if not a hair faster than previously. Whatever the man thought he saw in House Fortemps could be ruminated upon later, once he was sat next to a roaring fire and had a hot meal in his belly. The sounds of the night watch grew ever more distant, not that mattered much to the Warrior of Light, seated comfortably at one of the ends of their gracious benefactor’s dining table.

The hearth housed a few scant embers by now; Most of the staff had already turned in for the night, presumably getting ready for their early chores tomorrow, whilst the nobility slept in. The midnight chill had long since crept into the grand room, its cold claws sinking into The Warrior’s bones, doing nothing to aid them against their somber mood. Perhaps rather disrespectfully, a greatsword had been haphazardly tossed onto the table, thankfully clean, but nonetheless, not where it belonged.

With tired, half lidded eyes, The Warrior studies the crystal before them, recounting in their head the events of the day in sluggish detail. The encounter with Fray, the tepid acceptance of their shadow, and a chance meeting with their fellow dark knight, Sidurgu, and his charge, Rielle.

Straight from one problem right into another. Still, it was a wonder that they hadn’t been unceremoniously kicked out of Ishgard, let alone pardoned for the damage that their shade had wrought. In the low light, the faint sigil of their order gleams, the stone thrumming with every beat of the Warrior’s heart.

‘But know that when you tire of this charade, I shall be here,…waiting to take the reins…’

Dark brows narrow, their thoughts concentrating on the crystal, grip becoming all too tight.

It had been infuriatingly silent since noon, refusing to make itself known no matter how much their mind probed for them. That’s not to say that it wasn’t there- they could still feel it, their shadow, just out of reach in some hidden corner of their mind (or perhaps, some hidden part of their soul). Tentatively, they try to call out to them, unsure of its name, still hesitant to use their own for it.

No answer.

With a weary sigh, they toss the crystal onto the table, frustrated that the shade’s presence doesn’t leave with it. They slump down into the finely carved chair, rubbing their eyes as they try and suppress yet another yawn.

‘Another thing added to the long list of new, unwanted changes.’ They lamented. ‘Maybe if I stop collecting soul crystals…or if I just say ‘no’ whence they are foisted upon me.’

The discarded crystal glitters as if to mock them, and in a sudden fit of indignation they-

“What’s that you’ve got there?

Their arm freezes in midair, fingertips barely brushing the stone’s cold surface. Bright red orbs slide to the entryway of the dining room, relieved to see windswept teal hair, and a familiar, kind face. With an aggrieved huff, they return to leaning back in their chair, glaring back at the offending crystal as the elezen stoops down next to the fireplace to tend to it. Ever a man of duty.

“A nuisance.” They seethe.

With a chuckle, Haurchefant pokes at the dying embers in the fireplace, carefully adding a fresh log to feed the hungry embers. The Warrior watches his progress with tired interest, idly plucking at the lace tablecloth. Their fingers seize upon a loose thread, tugging and marring the stitch under the disapproving stares of several family portraits, all of them with stern faces and cool countenances. Just like everyone else had on the first day of their arrival.

‘These proofs of heritage date back to the founding of house Fortemps’. It was… an interesting start of their tour of the manor, shown to them by an over-eager Emmanellian; Arms sweeping in grandiose gestures that befitted a buffoon more than a Count’s son.

‘A record to be proud of, as well as a future to look forward to.’ He pontificated, beaming at one of the frames that showcased the current line, his smile an exact mirror of the one in the portrait. Despite the unimpressed looks his captive audience gave him, the young elezen moved on quite unaffected, excitedly ushering them to follow him towards the study. The Warrior reluctantly let themselves be dragged along leaving behind a stiff-backed knight that stood alone amongst a sea of ebony haired ancestors.

Up until then, The Warrior had only seen Haurchefant as the friendliest (perhaps too friendly at times) face in all of Ishgard, his code as a knight being the leading force behind his kindness. But now they could see his conduct was for no benefit of his own, and that his ideals aligned with the Warrior’s.

No one had made them this way. They just couldn’t help but lend a hand to those that needed it.

His work finished, Haurchefant wipes his sooty hands on his tunic before meandering over to their side, hand resting atop their chair, searching for the object of their ire. In a second he spots it, and the chair creams with his weight as he leans forward a fraction. “A dark knight…” he mutters. The Warrior cranes their head up to read his expression, observing the quirk of his brow as one of bemusement.

“I don’t suppose the rumors of an evil entity clad in dark armor with black horns and scales near Whitebrim were about you, were they?” His smile is charming, but it does little to restrain the groan that tumbles from their lips, shoulders beginning to bristle. Their head falls into their palm, their minor destruction of finery forgotten in favor of a flash of anger. “I’m starting to see why Sidugru rarely leaves that damn tavern.” Their voice is muffled between their fingers, as if they’re trying to conceal the contempt that drips from their mouth. “I’m almost inclined to believe that Ishgardians would jump at the sight of a lizard, what with their damn fear mongering and blatant hate of dragons blinding them to the point of idiocy.”

From the corner of the vision, they see Haurchefant dip his head solemnly, clearly trying to find the words that would abate their ire. “I’m sure it makes for a poor apology coming from my lips, but I do beg your forgiveness for the way my people have treated the Au Ra.”

They palm their face further, unwilling to look at the elezen. Though well meaning, his heartfelt statement would change little; The privilege of being permitted into the city did not stop the vicious turn of its peoples’ demeanor, noses upturned and foul prayers uttered at the sight of the Warrior’s reptilian features. Their victory at Alphinaud and Tataru’s trial earned them some measure of respect, if one could call spitting when their back was turned instead of face on respectful. For the briefest of moments, they feel their shadow flit closer to the surface, just barely out of reach, no doubt responding to their seething thoughts.

A tentative questioning of their name brings the Warrior back to the present, finding Haurchefant’s hand gently placed on their shoulder, worry softening his sharp features.

They try to rein back the venom that lingered, not wanting to hurt him. “Don’t apologize for what’s not in your control. I’d rather hear it from those who are guilty of it anyways.” They give his hand a quick squeeze, as a minor reassurance and chastisement all the same.

Suddenly abashed, he displaces his hand off their shoulder, clearing his throat as if it had the power to cleanse the air of awkwardness, finding their earlier topic and presenting it again, “I don’t suppose you tire of sharing the title of Azure Dragoon with Estinien, do you?” He gestures to the too large sword lounging on his family’s table, genuine curiosity for their answer overlooking their impropriety.

They consider his words for a moment, weighing each answer against the other, finding each to be of equal impart. The lance had always felt comfortable in battle; It’s long reach was certainly a boon, and the dragoons had taught them how to fly with it, to strike with agile, devastating power. It was thrilling in its entirety, and clashing with Estinien had showed them that there was still much to learn. But…. The greatsword felt…right… somehow…in a way that the lance never did. It required less thought about positioning and weak points, and more about putting everything they were into each swing, to bleed their volatile emotions into the black magic that enshrouded the blade. It was freeing. powerful. Addictive.

They chew their lip a bit before speaking, wanting to be honest while yet concealing their apprehension, “I’ll keep up with Estinien a while longer. It’ll not do to let his head swell with thoughts of vengeance with no one worthy or strong enough to keep him in check.”

There’s a loud ‘pop’ from the hearth, and then the cinders settle once more.

The elezen politely hides his mouth with a glove, the bare minimum effort given of concealing a breathy chuckle. They hadn’t meant it to be funny, but upon reflection a shy smile quirks their lips, the thought of the lean dragoon with an oversized head too silly to resist the mirth that blooms from their chest. They both laugh at the same time, unable to hold it back any longer.

When was the last time someone has made me smile this way? The scions raised me upon a pedestal not long after the fight with Ifrit, and afterwards perhaps the only hand extended was Minfilia’s. They felt a slight twist to their gut. And perhaps that was only due to our shared gift….

The shadow ripples under the surface, eager to feel the rush of emotions that accompanied those memories. The Warrior shoves them down deep, unwilling to face anything but the issue of today, the problems of tomorrow.

“Would you perhaps like to get something to eat with me? It seems that I’ve seen to all but my poor stomach.” They rise from the table, pleased to see Harchefant’s throat bob nervously, the tips of his pointed ears a deep shade of red. Their tail flicks just once in the time it takes for him to recover, and with a flourish, he extends his arm to them, a hopeful smile on his face, “it would be my honor.”

It’s so, so cold…

The Warrior stared, hunched over on their knees and unmoving as the snow began to fall, blanketing the upper halls of the Vault. Their unmoving hands lay still next to a patch of darkened marble floor tables, forever changed with the blood that had seeped into them. Haurchefant’s body had been gently carried away, with Aymeric and the others already planning on their next course of action. Alphinaud had tried briefly to rouse them, his weak grip doing little to move them. He had briefly tried to reason with The Warrior, sharing in their sadness and swearing his vengeance, all of it passing through them, unheard. They wanted to cry, to scream at the others that their friend just died saving them; What good would plans do now that all the warmth in the world was now gone.

He didn’t deserve this…

They wanted to claw at their chest and rip out their still beating heart, if only to stop the hollow ache that pulsed there. Their shadow flickers, imperceptible to all around them.

‘This isn’t fair.’

Their fingers twitch involuntarily, the ice in their veins snapping to white hot fury. They wanted to tear apart the Heaven’s Ward, to feast on their anguish as their blood coated their sword. They longed to throttle the Archbishop, squeezing his throat until the old man wheezed for mercy.

The change is gentle, like the passing from wakefulness into deep slumber.

‘I already told you.’

The Warrior rises unsteadily to their feet, walking past their long loved lance to the stairs that would guide them back to the city.

‘Allow me to take the reins,’

The Warrior’s shadow grows, enveloping them in black armor. Their back straightens to accommodate the heavy sword strapped to their back, their light steps becoming heavy with foreboding. They had no need for mercy. Not when none was paid to Haurchefant.

‘You need only ask.’