Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As a young lass, Lleidspaer Grymhaswyn was endlessly curious.

Her mother was a chemist, which sparked Lleidspaer’s thirst for knowledge about how the world worked. Her father was a sailor, and his stories about all the different shores he had seen only made Lleidspaer more eager to see the whole thing. The family had lived at Halfstone for a time, but when the locale was no longer convenient for the family’s respective careers, they moved across the Strait of Merlthor to the western coast of Thanalan. 

Lleidspaer’s mother, Zealous Current, had originally come from Ala Mhigo. This was back well before the Garlean occupation, which had happened when Lleidspaer was around twelve years old. “It’s one of my biggest regrets, that I wasn’t there to stand with the rest of my family against the Garleans,” she told Lleidspaer once. Looking back, Lleidspaer thought the incident might have been what prompted the move to Thanalan.

Lleidspaer’s father, Grymhas Frydmyrgansyn, was a sailor with a storied past in one of Limsa Lominsa’s innumerable pirate crews. His name, in the old Roegadyn tongue, meant “Cruel Scar,” which he always said referred to the wound in his heart from being away from home so often. But he was a sailor, and a Lominsan sailor at that, and he could not stay shorebound nor could he acclimate to Thanalan. 

Starting when she was sixteen, Lleidspaer accompanied her father on a number of sailing trips and learned the basics of nautical life. Other times she stayed at home as an assistant around her mother’s laboratory. She was content to take care of them — she had few friends of her own, and it gave her something to do.

It wasn’t that she lacked interests — Lleidspaer was an avid student of history. She learned her letters at the small village church in Halfstone, and she even studied the basics of chemistry out of the thick tomes that her mother brought back from her colleagues at Frondale’s Phrontistery in Ul’dah. Her favorite object of study, though, was the old and partially-waterlogged treatise on naval tactics she had rescued from a shipwreck in Moraby Bay during her first ever sailing trip with her father. 

Grymhas was skeptical — he did not want his daughter growing up to see such bloodshed, he told her with a haunted look flickering behind his easygoing smile — but Lleidspaer was dedicated, and before she returned to Thanalan, she bought her own cutlass and buckler from Naldiq & Vymelli’s. Training was fun for her, the one passion she could truly call her own. She might even have sailed as a deckhand with the Lominsan navy for a time — she did not fully recall — but she never fully moved out. 

At last, when Lleidspaer’s twenty-sixth nameday came, her mother could no longer condone Lleidspaer stunting her own future to take care of her. “Go live your own life,” she urged. “I’ll still be here whenever you want to come home.” So Lleidspaer had sailed away from Vesper Bay one final time, set to enlist with the thalassocracy’s dockworkers, deckhands, secretaries, and couriers.

Alas, fate likes to play cruel tricks. Before Lleidspaer turned twenty-seven, Zealous Current died in an operation with the Ala Mhigan Resistance near Northern Thanalan. “She was trying to atone,” Lleidspaer recounted numbly at the funeral. “For not being part of the Resistance the first time.”

That was all it had taken to ignite a fire in Lleidspaer’s breast. She threw herself into her sword training, joining the Resistance for an operation that should have been tactically sound. She could no longer recall the details — ripped along with so many others from her memory — but she knew that it had been disastrous.

Everything from that point forward was hazy and fragmented. She enlisted with the Maelstrom once war with the Empire crossed the line from “inevitable” to “imminent”. She joined a campaign to try to stop the moon from falling — though she no longer remembered who her erstwhile colleagues were. And she personally witnessed the chaos of Carteneau, could not forget the sight of the massive black wings unfurling in the sky above her, the smell of fire searing her lungs, and then light, so much light…

Lleidspaer grimaced. Even the memory of the light was painful. Shaking her head to clear it, she returned to the present.

She sat — as usual — in the healing waters of the Warmwine Sanitorium, at the Lominsan encampment at Bronze Lake. The makeshift military hospital had grown entrenched over the past five years. They seemed to be there to stay.

But Lleidspaer would not be staying with them.

Just this morning, the lalafell attendant — she thought his name was Rukusa — had told her that her physical therapy regimen had run its course. 

“I’m sorry to see you have to go so soon,” he said apologetically. “But there’s really nothing left we can do for your leg. You can use it again, with a functional range of motion nearly identical to before the injury, so long as you warm up well and don’t misstep — and I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how miraculous that is!” He attempted a reassuring smile, which he quickly aborted when he saw her stony expression. 

“A-anyways,” he continued, flipping through the medical notes, “we’ve done everything we can think of to get sensation back into your leg again. It’s going to be prone to misstepping and locking up if you can’t feel where you’re putting it, but there’s nothing we can do about that save amputation and prosthesis — but the limited articulation of prosthesis, not to mention risk of catastrophic injury, is a strong contraindication.”

What he very diplomatically didn’t say was that the Maelstrom couldn’t afford to try anything else, nor house her here for the rest of her life while she… drifted uselessly along. But what else was there for her to do? She had no prospects. Her mother was dead; her father had not been seen since the Calamity; her career as a soldier was obsolete with the ending of the war.

“We can charter a carriage for you to any Lominsan port you’d like to go to,” Rukusa continued. She stared at him. He looked away. “Ahem… would Limsa Lominsa be a good destination?” 

Lleidspaer tilted her head dismissively. Rukusa did not even come up to her waist. 

“I-I’m sorry to have to see you go so soon. I’ve packed some extra ointments in case the pain comes back. Feel free to return if you need anything at all, okay?”

She did not respond.

Rukusa looked up at her anxiously, then darted away. Lleidspaer felt a twinge of regret at that; she had not been extremely personable during her convalescence, but Rukusa had been nice to her. No, getting attached was foolish — to a person as much as to a place. She gathered her belongings around herself and climbed up into the carriage.

The cart sped down the road past the obliterated ruins of Quarterstone — Halfstone had not even been lucky enough to have ruins, a fact which made Lleidspaer grit her teeth in dismay — as it headed east and south, past Swiftperch and Summerford, on its way to the city of Limsa Lominsa. The city looked fragile. It made Lleidspaer’s stomach twist.

When the carriage dropped her off outside Bulwark Hall, as she wove through the hustle and bustle of Hawker’s Alley, as she stared across the docks at the stagnant Astalicia , one emotion echoed through her head.  

Bitterness.

As she walked through the white stone streets, Lleidspaer gripped the hilt of her smallsword like she was trying to choke the life out of it. Like the firmer she held to it, the deadlier it would be. The safer she would be as she drifted in and out of these unfamiliar memories of pirate ambushes, treachery and villainy behind every corner.

Lleidspaer had made it to the shadow of the Astalicia when someone jeered, “Oi, lass, ye lost? This ‘ere be the ship o’ the Bloody Executioners, not a fuckin’ tourist destination!” Lleidspaer looked up and saw an emerald-haired miqo’te girl shouting over the side of the ship. Lleidspaer paused in confusion. This wasn’t the marauders’ guild she knew. She had dueled with the marauders before, here on this very ship; she could remember the rush of steel on steel; the irony of her opponent’s massive battleaxe being countered by her own flimsy cutlass.

Lleidspaer turned away abruptly, ignoring the miqo’te’s heckling. She stalked in the direction of the ferry docks. This city chafed at her. She had to get out. She couldn’t do this. Why had she come here?

There was nothing for her in Limsa. No, she would buy a ticket to Vesper Bay, putting this life behind her and returning to the house where she had grown up — if it even still stood. 

She paused. She hadn’t thought about that. It was not likely that her house — a lone building amidst the wilds of the Footfalls, where her mother had set up shop — even still stood. It would have been considered abandoned after the Calamity — been looted or worse. And seeing her house in that state would chafe a dozen times worse than walking these streets that were at once stranger and familiar.

Her hands shook. She wasn’t at Bronze Lake anymore. She was on her own. She had to think about tomorrow — the physickers wouldn’t be there to keep her trapped and secure in the interminable daily routine — there were no guarantees — the winds were changing, and if she didn’t adjust the sails she would capsize.

As she stood, yalms away from where the ferry ticketer sat, Lleidspaer realized she didn’t have the gil for the trip anyway. Her deliberation was cut off as a pair of officials — customs assessors, judging by the cut and color of their robes —brushed past Lleidspaer (“Excuse us, miss,”) to stand at the pier and greet an incoming ship that had just settled in at the dock. 

“From Sharlayan,” one assessor said, just within earshot. “They’ll not be carrying anything suspect. Those scholars may be the only people more meticulous than we are.”

“That may be,” another replied, “but policy is policy. Mealvaan’s Gate did not earn its reputation for quality by trusting others to do our jobs for us, Sharlayan or no.”

Lleidspaer tuned them out as a distant memory slowly emerged from the fog. Mealvaan’s Gate. The Eorzean home of arcanimatic study. It was no Frondale’s Phrontistery, but Zealous Current had worked with arcanima before — something to do with aetherial conductivity. Lleidspaer had never grasped aetherochemistry, but maybe she could learn.

She would have to do something . She had left Bronze Lake. Gods only knew what else there was for her here, but she’d taken the first step. The stagnant, unrelenting drone of Lleidspaer’s life was breaking. Althyk’s hourglass began to turn, and the stasis of fate which had held the world in suspense these five long years was broken.

Lleidspaer stood up straighter, turned to face the Arcanists’ Guild, and steeled her gaze. She would not get swept up by the tide.

Nia’a Tsara would be quick to insist that he was not a romantic.

And yet, as a child, whenever his mother, Nia, brewed up another mug of silverwine and sat on the gnarled root in the garden, staring out at the moon’s reflection dancing in the waters of the Rootslake, and started to talk about her husband: Nia’a was the most attentive listener.

As his mother always told it, she had been a young maiden, destined to become a matriarch in her own right, when she had fallen in love.

Each retelling put a different spin on the love: sometimes she recounted a playful summer of mischief and smiles; sometimes she lost herself in the nostalgia for the days when she had made a stand and chosen her own path; sometimes she was solemn and lonely, wrapping her arms around herself as if to remember what it had felt like to be held.

In short: the fact that she had been deeply in love with T’rhowa was never in doubt.

Not everyone approved of their liaison. T’rhowa was, after all, a Seeker of the Sun — an outsider among the secretive and distrusting Rootslake clans.

Nia would always recount how baffled she was to learn about the differences between the two miqo’te cutures. Yet this bafflement, she would add with a twinkle in her eyes, led to numerous nights of cultural exchange under the twinkling stars on the shore of the Rootslake.

When the two were wed, Nia had insisted to know the name of the woman who birthed T'rhowa so she could give him a Keeper name. T'rowha had smirked playfully back and retorted that, in fact, it was he who had to know her father's name so he could give her a Seeker name. Neither could answer the other's question, of course: it was too large a culture gap.

As a youngling, Nia’a had found this entire exchange fascinating — but he was his father’s son, playful smirk and all, and could not help but find the situation dramatically unfair. Why should Nia’a be given name that meant no more than “Nia Tsara’s first son,” when his dear father had a name all his own?! Nia’a once declared his proper name to be T’nia’a Tsara Tia, and his parents had shared a long meaningful look as they both struggled not to laugh.

Those days were long dead.

Now, Nia Tsara lived alone. T’rhowa Tsara, her beloved, had not been seen in over fourteen years. On the other edge of the Rootslake, Nia’a did not even know if his mother and sisters remembered him. (Since the Calamity, few people did.) 

He hoped they had forgotten him. It would dull the pain of absence, if nothing else. If they still lived. But Nia’a was not about to end his self-imposed exile to see how well they were getting on. Not until his search was over.

No, Nia’a was definitely not a romantic — he was a coward. He tried not to think of his family anymore. But like his mother with her silverwine, sometimes when Nia’a got a little too deep in his cups at Buscarron’s tavern, and when he looked out at the Rootslake and the silent, mourning moon stared back, he could not help but remember.

He had left home nearly a decade ago. Or thereabouts. Nia’a barely bothered with timekeeping anymore. His father had vanished six or seven years prior. Nia’a was approaching marriageable age and dreading it all the while. The last straw fell when he heard a girl from another family had her eyes on him as a mate. Honestly, given the circumstances, Nia’a would argue that he took it relatively well. He calmly considered all the options, and then — rationally — he wrote his mother a goodbye note and fled into the night. 

Only a year or two before the Calamity, Nia’a had found a lead. There had been an airship crash in the middle of the forest years prior; a rogue presence had tried to rebel against the Elementals; entire swathes of the forest had been bathed in woodsin. All of this took place the exact year T’rhowa had vanished. If Nia’a had only chased after him then — but no, Nia’a had been a mere ten years old at the time, hadn’t even started his apprenticeship. 

It was pointless to dwell on that, anyway. The fact of the matter was that T’rhowa was gone, and almost a decade later, Nia’a, by then estranged from his family, had picked up the trail. And that meant contending with all the mysticism and judgment of the city of Gridania. 

Today, he could not even remember if he had found the answers he was seeking. All Nia’a could remember was himself, hatchet in one hand and needle in the other, distilling herbs into a poultice for the Twin Adder troops. He remembered the sweat beading on his face as he labored, his ragged breaths as he exhausted himself for the very city that had, quite possibly, taken his father from him. At the least, they had covered something up. Something big. Nia’a thought he could remember a tree burning — a child screaming — but it was the barest fleeting memory, and it was gone.

When the Calamity neared and Dalamud reared its ugly head in the sky, Nia’a gave up the search to serve the forest and the Elementals — or, at least, the Gridanians. Such acts were tantamount to treason among the Keeper tribes, he knew, but he could not help feeling proud of himself as he fought to save his homeland from its certain destruction.

He remembered very little of the war, aside from the endless rows upon rows of imperial soldiers in the red glow of Dalamud — and the blood on his hands that seemed to never come off. No matter how many times he washed, there were always more wounded to stitch up.

His insomnia became worse. He barely slept. He was sick all the time — he didn’t even have the strength to brew himself any potions that would alleviate his headaches, let alone lull him to sleep.

After the Calamity, things hadn’t gotten better. Nobody seemed to remember him from his days in Gridania — days that he himself could barely stitch together in his own mind — and, truth be told, he preferred it that way. Living as a phantom on the outskirts of oblivion.

He had started sleeping better, though. Buscarron had opened up his Druthers, not far from Rootslake, and was always willing to hand out a glass of mead in exchange for several odd jobs nearby. It helped him sleep, it really did — both the mead and the odd jobs.

Today, Nia’a was gathering plants near the Upper Paths when he overheard an altercation between poacher gangs. The Redbellies and the Coeurlclaws, most likely. He froze.

He was, of course, unarmed. That was one of the lines he had never crossed.

If he moved, he would be seen. He shrunk down and peered through the foliage to surveil the confrontation. The Redbelly swung her boar-tusked lance like a vicious hook, and speared the Coeurlclaw — no — Nia’a felt sick.

Mere seconds later, the Redbelly had departed, leaving the miqo’te corpse laid out on the uneven soil. Nia’a crept closer. Was the man beyond saving? He took quick stock of the wound. Fatal. A pang of grief roiled through him, but he forced himself to stand. 

As he stood and made to return to the Druthers, Nia’a’s eyes fell onto the Coeurlclaw poacher’s bow. It was a familiar make. The man had been from the Tsara branch of the woods, for all that he was a stranger. But the bow, it felt… like family, in a way. Nia’a picked it up, tested the draw. He had never wielded one before, not since early childhood training. Nia’a did not recognize the Coeurlclaw: he could have been an uncle or a cousin, and Nia’a would never know. But the man’s bow was the first artifact that Nia’a had come across in years that brought him back home. If he learned how to wield it, he could… he could…

Visions — memories — nightmares — of corpses, riddled with arrows, leaking rivers of Dalamud red onto the ground —

Nia’a flung the instrument of death away from him, took two steps back in horror, and promptly passed out.

When he awoke, he found himself flanked by Gridania’s Wood Wailers, staring at him askance. They needed to question him on the issue of the poacher whose body Nia’a had been found unconscious beside. He was helpless to refuse their summons, no matter how many times he repeated that he was just a healer, a traveling apothecary, who had stumbled upon the wounded by happenstance.

He asked them to conduct the interview at Buscarron’s, or even at the nearby outpost of Quarrymill. But they regarded him with distrust, which meant they needed to “confer with their superiors”. So Nia’a had been marched down to a comfortably furnished cell known as an “inn room” in Gridania’s most deceptive gaol.

That was when he heard it.

The sound itself was hard to describe. It sounded like whispering, not in the way that speech does, but in the way that the wind whispers through the leaves of a tree, or the way that water whispers its way over the rocks of a stream. To the north and west, the whispers were agitated.  

Nia’a sat, and heard.

The agitation reached a peak before subsiding into murmurs and fading entirely, drowned out by a new, very human sound. Screaming. It was coming closer and closer.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door.

There were wounded, the Wood Wailers said beneath their hollow-eyed masks. If Nia’a really was an apothecary as he claimed (and as his tools attested) then he would ply his craft in service to the people of the forest to clear his name.

So Nia’a ended up doctoring the wounds of a young, dark-skinned Elezen man so overcome by grief and rage it took three Wood Wailers to restrain him so Nia’a could sew the lad’s scratches closed. The boy — well, the man; Nia’a couldn’t ignore the proof of his neatly trimmed goatee — was near incoherent with sobs, but Nia’a caught “Father” and “Mother” amid the syllables and his heart sank. 

Eventually the boy fell silent aside from his ragged breathing, and in the silence Nia’a couldn’t help eavesdropping on the soldiers’ gossip.

“We lost Hyrstmill. Poor kid was found trying to use his dad’s pitchfork to hold off three birdmen at once.”

Hyrstmill — Nia’a was unfamiliar with the name, but surely a farming village — overrun and bathed in blood. Nia’a felt sick again, but steeled himself to the task at hand. Nobody would appreciate an apothecary with a weak stomach.

That night, as Nia’a stared at his hands, he swore he could still see the bloodstains — perhaps the blood spilled at Hyrstmill today; perhaps the five-year-old stain from Carteneau. He stared at his hands, heart pounding, until the alien susurrations of the wind and water around him finally tempted him to a fitful, uneasy sleep.

Vivimani Qiqimani whistled a merry tune as he cast his line back into the sea. Another herring or two and he would be set for the day. If he was lucky he might find a haddock, but he would be fine either way. That was who Vivimani was: a lalafellin man who was, at his core, just fine with his lot.

(That was a lie, of course. But what else was there?)

The Silver Bazaar was far from bustling — its populace had dwindled since he had first set down roots there in the aftermath of the Calamity. The fish he caught there were nothing special, either. Usually. Sometimes, instead of fish, he would catch little bits of junk — discarded coin, ruined Garlean weaponry, once even a corpse — but that messed with his head, sending him into a stupor of nostalgic reverie so trite his teacher would have smacked him across the head for it.

But remembering his teacher was so off-limits that even the attempt gave Vivimani a headache. One of those godsdamned holes in his memory that he had discovered when he awoke in the aftermath of Carteneau, covered in burns and other people’s blood. All he could remember about his teacher was — was foggy. Anger. The glint of a knife. The sensation of white-hot flames across his face. 

And when he’d awoken, somewhere not far from the Yafaemi Saltmoor, even his magic had abandoned him. He liked to tell himself he barely even felt where it once had dwelled in his mind or soul or whatever. But it was still there. Like the blackened stump of a long-dead limb he swore he didn’t even care about. The worst part was that he didn’t even know what he’d done five years ago to burn out his magic. It had to have been something awful. After all, that was the way things went. Curses were always, always karmic.

The fault, of course, lay with Ul’dah — the temptress, font of covetousness and adventure. Which was why Vivimani did not allow himself to travel to the city for so much as a change of clothes. No, his traveling days were over, and now he was but a simple fisherman who caught everything he needed to survive here on his own doorstep, or else bartered the catch of the day to others in the dilapidated hamlet.

It wasn’t that Vivimani was scared to leave. Not scared for his safety, at any rate. His magic might have been burnt away, but Vivimani still knew his way around a knife, and not only for fileting fish. No, Vivimani was scared of what he would feel, climbing up the Eighty Sins of Sasamo and passing through the Gate of the Sultana — blessed be her name and lineage. 

The first time he had walked through those gates, he had felt something akin to jubilation. He had just set out on his own, a junior archaeologist (read: treasure hunter) joining a troupe of mercenaries, miners, and a few down-on-their-luck laborers gambling for a windfall. And they succeeded. They had found a relic of Sil’dih not far from Highbridge, and brought it to Ul’dah to be assessed and sold. Their journey ended in a night of celebration, with the most expensive libations their palates could discern and their coffers afford.

Their second expedition ended in a mass funeral at the lichyard of Saint Adama Landama.

If only that were the end of it. But no: a conversation with the priests at the funeral had summarily led to a few lessons in the principles of thaumaturgy. Those lessons became a thrilling lifestyle among the splendors and shadows of Ul’dah — until everything became more complicated inside the city. 

Vivimani didn’t remember what, but the rumors circling the city like vultures spat words ranging from extortion to assassination to necromancy most vile. And he could believe any of those accusations — because the holes in his memory were merciful (or cruel) enough to leave faint glimpses. Whatever treachery had brewed, Vivimani — and his teacher — had sat at the center of the controversy.

They had fought; Vivimani could remember that. His memories were fractured, but they had been bathed in betrayal and grief, leaving a trail of bodies.

So: clearly, Vivimani could not be trusted to have learned his lesson about plunging headfirst into dangerous environs, bringing his family, friends, and coworkers into the pit of peril at his side. That was why he wouldn’t allow himself to leave the Silver Bazaar. He would grow old here, become tempered and domesticated with age, and let time wash away the blood that had once stained his hands.

Except it seemed he wouldn’t be growing old here at all — because when Vivimani strolled back into the center of town, haddock in hand, his whistling was cut short by the sight of yet another problem.

Kikipu Kipu, the de facto leader of the Silver Bazaar was being pushed aside by none other than the very same land prospectors who had been hounding her for the past moon. “They want the land,” she had explained. “The whole area the Bazaar is founded on. Probably the lighthouse too. But we’re not going to let them have it, are we?”

It seemed they weren’t going to take no for an answer.

Galfridus — Vivimani’s only competition as angler, age be damned — hobbled up to yell a few words about unlawful eviction. He earned himself a backhand across the face so hard it knocked him to the ground. The old man landed on his flimsy fishing rod, which broke with an echoing snap.

Vivimani saw red.

“I regret to inform you,” he said in his most commanding tone (which, Vivimani would proudly admit, was quite commanding indeed!), “that the Silver Bazaar is under my protection.” It was unfortunate he was wearing commonfolk clothes and bearing the catch of the day, but Vivimani could improvise. 

Grabbing a gnarled stick from the ground, he marched forward and spun it around, chanting as he did so. The chanting was unnecessary — just some old Mhachi noun declension — but it would have some dramatic effect while Vivimani struggled to wrest a sliver of mana from his battered self. 

Not much — and his scars flared up again as he tried — but he eventually managed to light the end of the gnarled stick, desiccated as it was in the Thanalan climate. It was much less intimidating than it should have been due to the height difference: Vivimani barely came up to the other man’s chest. He was able to flick the embers at the sheaf of eviction notices in the man’s hand, however.

The man yelped and jumped back, dropping the offending papers. Those would need to be extinguished posthaste, or Vivimani would have just accomplished his task for him — but Vivimani did not have the magic to accomplish anything more, so he left that for his townsfolk and advanced, slowly, on the retreating hyur. “By the authority of the Sacred Order of Nald’thal, and by all of the arcane teachings of Mumuepo the Beholden, I command you to begone ,” Vivimani hissed. 

And that was that.

As the sun set, Vivimani cooked up some battered fish and spiced wine. Fancier fare than usual, but he had caught a prize haddock, and his neighbors were willing to part with some local popotoes and newly purchased La Noscean olive oil. The meal had to be fancy — this would be the last meal he ate as a resident of the Bazaar. Kikipu was watching him, eyes still red from the tears she pretended she wasn’t shedding, inscrutable expression on her face, and he knew.

Vivimani’s charade was up. No matter what he had wanted to be, he was now known to be more than a simple fisher.

He entrusted his rod and net to Galfridus — the people here would still need to eat — and walked over to face whatever judgment Kikipu saw fit to impose.

“This whole bloody time,” she said numbly. “We’ve been struggling for so long, and I had no idea you were someone who could do something about it! I saw your burns, and I thought for sure that was an injury from the Calamity, not the mark of a veteran!”

Vivimani said nothing. 

Kikipu turned away slightly. “I don’t know if you were lying about all that — if you’re secretly a deserter or a fugitive or what — but they’re not going to stop trying to chase us off our land unless someone puts a stop to it.” She looked at him again, and he saw the tears in her eyes she was trying to hide. “I don’t know if maybe you can’t be that someone — but at the very least, would you take a letter to the city for me? Byregot only knows how long our little Bazaar can stay standing — but I’m not ready to… not ready.”

Vivimani considered it — and he was considering, he just already knew what he would decide — until, finally, he nodded. “I will,” he said.

So the simple fisherman Vivimani, content to stay in the Silver Bazaar until he grew old, gazed upon the lights of the city of Ul’dah in the distance and something fluttered in his heart. The place he’d avoided for so long — the place he’d lived and worked and enjoyed himself — the den of evil at the end of every road —

Vivimani’s last vestiges of wanderlust were suddenly alight, like embers caught in the dry desert grass. His past five years’ labor of trying to bury it was undone in a single evening. Magic or no — it was all he could think about. 

And then the fear swarmed in like a pestilence in the wake of a flood. Free to what? To reveal himself as the figure behind the knife flashing in his shattered memories? To surrender himself for judgment for all the bodies his decisions had left behind? To become the rot that festered in the heart of Thanalan — or to learn that he always had been?

I can’t stay here, he reminded himself in the morning, as he set out. I’ll deliver the letter. For Kikipu. I’ll set things right at the Silver Bazaar. Satchel on his back, letter in his hand, he stared up at the Eighty Sins of Sasamo with determination and no small amount of dread. 

The stories said that Princess Sasamo had been given a penance for her treasonous plot to usurp her sister’s throne. She had been made to walk the eighty steps, eighty times a day, for eighty days — and she had seen her sentence through. Upon taking her final step, however, the weight of her sins was relieved from her, and her soul was judged — and she perished right before the gates of the city.

Vivimani shivered. That would be his fate one day, if he didn’t watch his step. Maybe even if he did.

I’ll do what I need to do in the city, but no more. And then I’ll come home.

(But Vivimani had never been good at lying to himself — the Bazaar wasn’t his home. He suspected that it never had been.)

Chapter Text

Lleidspaer rubbed at her temples. Why had she come here again?

“I am not here to become an arcanist,” she repeated for what had to be the hundredth time. “I simply wish to learn the fundamentals of arcanima for personal edification.”

The receptionist, trying to keep the murderous rage from entering her eyes, somehow smiled harder, tuning her voice to be the barest hint of apologetic. “I’m sorry, miss, but the allocation of guild resources is thin enough as it stands. If you truly wish, I can find a time to set up a meeting with the acting guildmaster for you so you can explain your circumstances in detail?”

Lleidspaer had had enough of this. Mealvaan’s Gate had to be one of the Hells, truly.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said with a bow a little too shallow to be polite, but far too proper for the impoliteness to be construed as an accident. “If I may ask just one question related to arcanima? Then I can be out of your hair.” 

The fake smile on the receptionist’s face wavered somewhere between loathing (of the additional time Lleidspaer insisted on taking up) and relief (at Lleidspaer’s assurance this would, at last, be over soon). “Certainly! What can I help you with today?”

Lleidspaer wasn’t sure she wanted to do this — to be here at all. She could get her question answered just as easily from the Alchemists’ Guild in Ul’dah. But the idea of heading back to Vesper Bay was too daunting. As if maintaining a respectful distance from her late mother’s home would keep the past buried.

…What foolishness. If Lleidspaer truly meant to leave the past buried, she wouldn’t have unearthed this old journal and started trying to fill in the remaining questions that Zealous Current had never been able to.

So Lleidspaer had two options. She could head to Thanalan and inherit her mother’s business and reputation. Or she could address the receptionist here at Mealvaan’s Gate, where she had been waiting for the past bell to have the opportunity. 

The receptionist stared expectantly. It was worth an attempt. Lleidspaer doubted the assessor would give a genuinely helpful answer while there were customs to be appraised, so she would have to be strategic about this. She raised her voice — just a bit — to make sure she would be heard throughout the chamber. “How many elements of aether are there? In my childhood teachings about the gods I was told there were six, but this historical monograph on the subject heavily implies there are only four — while citing another book that plainly states there are ten. Which is to be believed?”

The receptionist’s eyes narrowed, and she bared her teeth in her smile just a margin more. “While it is true there are debates in the scholarly community about the classification of aether, for all practical purposes outside of advanced study, it is best to conceive of them as six: lightning, fire, earth, wood, water, and wind. Will that be all?” 

The woman had just rattled off the most basic textbook definition, which would enlighten questions for children, not questions left unsolved by a leading chemist! But before Lleidspaer could give voice to her discontent, another figure pushed his way into the scene from behind the desk. “I beg your pardon, Murie, but the answer is somewhat more complicated than that. Fundamentally, these elements may be broken down into as few as three, or as many as eighteen, depending on the scope of analysis. Furthermore, aether-as-observed is heavily linked to the soul, and the soul to belief, so theologians have recently postulated—”

“Thank you, Ivan, but our patron was just leaving,” the receptionist snarled politely. But, Lleidspaer noted smugly, the damage had been done. She got the impression that the idea of eighteen separate elements was more than a little controversial: At Ivan’s words, lines around the room were held up as assessors had turned their heads to listen to the academic discussion. Some were whispering violently to each other, and others looked like they were practically vibrating with the urge to add their two cents.

Ivan looked suitably chastised, but not enough to stand down quite yet. He turned to Lleidspaer. “May I ask, at least, what the scope of your question pertains to, that I might provide you with a reading list suitable for your purposes?”

Now Lleidspaer was suitably impressed. All she’d wanted was a quick lesson, but a reading list would more than suffice. “I’m trying to decipher a notebook from an alchemist discussing something about soul aether.”

“This is all very fascinating,” the receptionist said firmly, regaining her authority over the situation. “I might remind you, Ivan, that you are still on your shift, and may pen this reading list on your own time. As for you, miss…”

“Grymhaswyn.”

“As for you, miss Grymhaswyn, you may come by tomorrow to pick up the reading list. Any further discussion on this topic or otherwise will require an appointment.”

Again Lleidspaer bowed, this time a touch deeper than strictly polite, both to make up for the earlier slight and to show her gratitude at finally having her question answered. “Thank you, Murie and Ivan. I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you with the acting guildmaster when I have the chance to schedule an appointment. Good day.” 

Then Lleidspaer turned on her heel to leave, feeling a touch of remorse for the chaos she had sown, only to jump back in startlement to find a young miqo’te girl standing mere ilms behind her, staring piercingly.

“Hmm,” the girl said, tapping her chin in thought, though her eyes never wavered. “That was no normal conversation, but a battle of wits. Every word out of your mouth was calculated to shift the balance of power in the room to your advantage. Even your bows were very precisely calculated — stiff, not showy, and measured down to the fraction of an angle. Military-adjacent childhood, no doubt, given how closely related your bow is to a civilian’s salute.”

These were statements, not questions, so Lleidspaer didn’t respond, feeling quite unnerved.

“Of course, that’s just your bearing,” the girl continued. “Intellectually, you may not know the fundamentals of arcanima, but your verbal stratagem belied a familiarity with academic discourse, suggesting an acumen for rigorous study. We will, of course, need to make sure your aether has sufficient power for practical use, but otherwise you will make a fine addition to the guild.”

Lleidspaer blinked. “I have no intention of becoming an arcanist,” she repeated.

“No? Hmm.” The girl looked around the room, until her eyes fell on the receptionist’s desk once more. “Aha. Yes, I believe we can come to an agreement. You will join the guild, and you will receive the reading list you desired.”

Bemused at the ferocity of the girl’s demeanor, Lleidspaer faltered ever so slightly. “You’re threatening to withhold my mail unless—”

“Threatening? Of course not. I am merely stating what I have objectively calculated to be the most likely outcome of this conversation. Training starts promptly at seventh bell in the morning. Dress appropriately.” Without further pleasantries, the miqo’te girl stretched, turned away from Lleidspaer, and walked away while scribbling something in her journal.

Dismissed from Mealvaan’s Gate and with nothing else to do as the day slowly inched toward a close, Lleidspaer found herself exhausted — a sensation she had grown deeply unaccustomed to over the past five years.

The thing about recovery was that it was an incredibly slow process, both physically and mentally. At first, Lleidspaer had been engulfed in despair, unable to see the light of hope in her future. Near the end of recovery, when thoughts of freedom went from cloyingly optimistic to logistically imminent, Lleidspaer felt like she was being evicted from her home. But during the vast encompassing middle period of her stay at Camp Bronze Lake, circumstances were a perpetual swirl of doom, impermanence, and utter helplessness to do anything about it.

Lleidspaer was not usually one to characterize herself as helpless, but she had to admit she left Carteneau in terrible shape, in more ways than one. She’d spent the first few months since her mother died forcing her grief aside and carving a path forward. After Carteneau, when she was kept in place by the Maelstrom's physickers, her dream of vengeance having been rendered obsolete, things had been difficult for while. She'd had to come to grips with letting go of her purpose. Then, when she wanted to get back into things, she’d had to learn to walk again, which was made far more difficult when she could barely feel a thing in her bad leg. But because she wanted to be able to stay an effective combatant, she’d resumed her swordplay training as soon as the physickers gave her the all-clear. 

So she spent her time healing, training, and waiting for her superiors to reinstate her contract, until eventually she had to concede that would never happen. Her stay at Camp Bronze Lake was terminated abruptly, with a small pittance of gil to get her to Limsa Lominsa to find something else to do with her life.

That was how Lleidspaer had ended up here, at the base of the long, winding stairs leading up from the Lower Decks to the Aftcastle, staring at the incline with trepidation. She’d been to Limsa Lominsa a handful of times but had forgotten — had never quite noticed — how difficult the city would be to navigate. 

“Oi!” called a woman behind her. “You headin’ up or what?” 

Lleidspaer turned. The woman wore a striking red woolen shirt, tall leather boots, and a conspicuous gold-trimmed tricorne that marked her as someone of import. The foggy recesses of Lleidspaer’s memory supplied the name. “Captain Rhoswen,” Lleidspaer said, almost without meaning to.

Rhoswen squinted. “Ye look familiar. ‘Ave I worked wi’ ye before?”

Lleidspaer wasn’t certain. “Not that I recall.” Bending stiffly into an uncomfortable bow, she introduced herself. “Lleidspaer Grymhaswyn.”

Rhoswen eyed the bow askance. “No need to salute, miss. Especially since it seems ye’ve fucked up yer leg somethin’ fierce. Come on. I’ll show ye to th’ lift.” She turned away from the stairs she’d been about to climb. Nothing in her face or voice betrayed a hint of empathy, and yet… “Ye get that from th’ Calamity, or?”

Lleidspaer’s head was spinning from everything that was happening today. “Aye. Carteneau. They had me at Bronze Lake ‘till today.”

Rhoswen snorted. “Bet ye’re glad t’ be free o’ them sawbones. Anyway, I don’t know a Grymhas. Who’s yer mum?”

“Er. Zealous Current. She might’ve gone by Yferonn Wastmyndwyn here in Limsa?”

Rhoswen shook her head. “Don’t ring any bells. Speakin’ of, there’s the lift,” she said, pointing across Bulwark Hall. “‘Ave ye got a place to stay tonight? Me sisters an’ I can get ye a meal an’ bed.”

“I appreciate your generosity,” Lleidspaer said, unsure, “but I…”

Rhoswen spun around, looking offended. “But ye what? Ye think yerself too good fer the likes o’ the Sirens? Just because ye talk all posh like Car-bloody-vallain? If that’s how ye feel, ye can bloody well piss off an’ sleep in a ditch fer all I care!” The Lift arrived at the Lower Decks with a ‘ding!’ Rhoswen stepped in.

Lleidspaer stepped in behind her and took a deep breath. This was just how sailors and pirates always talked. It had been some time since she’d had a conversation partner that wasn’t another permanent inpatient, so she’d forgotten how vivacious Lominsans could be. “I won’t decline your offer,” she said. “I simply don’t have much gil on me, and—”

Rhoswen was placid again — she still wasn’t smiling; Lleidspaer would be surprised if she ever smiled — and waved her hand dismissively. “The Sanguine Sirens might be a scourge to our enemies on th’ seas, but we take care o’ our own. Ye can ‘elp in the kitchens if ye really need t’ repay the debt. Now, The Missing Member is this way…”

When Lleidspaer awoke in the morning, the sun had not yet risen. The sky was lightening, forming a gradient of enchanting color that Lleidspaer hadn’t seen since before Bronze Lake, where there were too many trees to catch a glimpse of the sky except for the bit directly overhead. Here in Limsa Lominsa, the dark mirror of the sea glistened with the reflection of the pale lavender and the greenish tinge that separated the blue horizon from the lightening sky overhead. The sight transported Lleidspaer back to the sunrises of her days before Carteneau, sipping strong coffee at the docks in Aleport or Vesper Bay.

The girl at Mealvaan’s Gate had told Lleidspaer to ‘dress appropriately’. Lleidspaer was no tailor, though, and knew little about what attire was most suitable in what circumstances. A nice, sturdy, all-purpose uniform usually sufficed, but the assessors at the Gate all seemed to wear a specific type of uniform — a steel-gray halfrobe made of a fine canvas material. Lleidspaer’s old garments from before the Calamity — from before she joined the Maelstrom — were probably still locked away in her closet in Vesper Bay, and that was if the house hadn’t been assumed abandoned and left for looters.

So, on her way to the Arcanists’ Guild, Lleidspaer stopped by the stalls in Hawker’s Alley. She didn’t want to buy a set of robes, as they seemed to be specialized for arcane usage rather than simply serving as a standard uniform. She eventually settled on a doublet and paired slops in the traditional Lominsan Riviera style. (She briefly considered purchasing the Riviera-style dress, which was more typical for women, but settled against it. She’d always felt more comfortable in men’s clothing, norms be damned.)

It was to Lleidspaer’s chagrin that the training room beneath Mealvaan’s Gate was only accessible by a long, winding staircase. Still, not one to balk at a physical obstacle when tenacity would suffice, Lleidspaer slowly worked her way down the stairs. Seventh bell had not rung yet, and in fact Lleidspaer thought it had only been a few minutes since the sixth, but the room was not completely empty. Its occupant, a tired-looking Lalafell named Mozon Dalazon (“Please, not another word! If I am ever to become an official assessor, this training exercise must be the focus of my full and undivided attention!”) was straining to get his familiar to cast a fire spell.

Lleidspaer took a seat and began skimming through her mother’s journal on aetherochemistry until seventh bell. A roegadyn woman dressed more finely than the other arcanists soon entered, stifling a yawn. She must be the Acting Guildmaster , Lleidspaer thought.

The woman looked around the room, face lighting up upon seeing Lleidspaer. “You must be the new applicant. Surprising to hear one so eager to begin training so early in the morning — ah, judging from your expression, this was not your doing. K’lyhia’s then. The girl is passionate, if sometimes unwilling to yield the floor.”

Then the woman smiled, and the appearance was so warm that it made Lleidspaer briefly recall her own mother’s smile. “My name is Thubyrgeim Guldweitzwyn, and I am acting guildmaster of the Arcanists' Guild. It is important to explain the premise of what an arcanist is before you decide to join. Arcanima, in its simplest terms, is the application of mathematics to quantify and explain natural aetheric phenomena. Through the use of these mathematics, arcanimists study what we call “arcane geometries,” in order to describe, predict, and influence the reality that manifests from these phenomena.” 

Thubyrgeim paced around the bookshelf as she spoke, likely for dramatic effect. If Lleidspaer had to guess, the gesture was intended to draw one's eye to the massive scope of texts contained in the guild's library, to punctuate the guild's emphasis on study. “Of all the types of magic practiced in Eorzea, ours is most closely related to the pure study of aether for the purpose of understanding it, how it works, and why.”

The pure study of aether… That would be appropriate for answering the aetherochemical questions Lleidspaer had inherited, but she would hesitate to call the discipline ‘pure’, at least from what she’d seen of her mother’s practical work on a day-to-day basis. Thubyrgeim seemed to sense Lleidspaer’s hesitation, and she maintained eye contact for a second as if trying to signal to Lleidspaer that she could ask a question if she so desired. Lleidspaer did not.

Thubyrgeim nodded as if to herself and seemed to take a moment to remember what came next in her speech. Lleidspaer wondered if it had all been memorized, or if this was the sort of improvisational explanation that came from years of experience not just with the core material but with the discipline of teaching. “The essence of our work here at Mealvaan's Gate, moreso than any practical evocation, is found in the pursuit of definitive solutions to any potential quandary. Even on the field of battle — nay, especially on the field of battle — this principle takes precedence.”

“When our trainees join forces with the navy of Limsa Lominsa, or, indeed, with adventurers the realm over, they are measured by their ability to calmly analyze a situation from moment to moment and respond with the most appropriate spells at hand. That is the core of who we are.” Lleidspaer could all but see the battlefield as Thubyrgeim spoke — men and women of Mealvaan’s Gate, trading their steel gray robes for Maelstrom red, standing strong against the VIIth Legion at Carteneau. Lleidspaer herself had been but a courier at the same event.

Again sensing Lleidspaer’s uncertainty, Thubyrgeim spoke gently, but with confidence: “Foreseer K'lyhia sees these qualities reflected in you, but I would hear your introduction from your own mouth. Please, tell me about yourself.”

Lleidspaer pushed her doubts aside. “I am Lleidspaer Grymhaswyn. I was a courier for the Maelstrom prior to the Calamity, and I have been recovering in Bronze Lake since. My mother was an alchemist before her death, and I am seeking a new path to follow in life, partially through following up on questions in her notebook. I am not interested in becoming an Arcanist, but I would like to find the answers to… resolve her unfinished business.”

Thubyrgeim hummed thoughtfully. “That would explain the number of alchemical titles on this reading list I was told to deliver to you. Well then, your lack of enthusiasm for the arts notwithstanding, have you ever shown an innate aptitude for magic?”

“Not that I can recall. Your apprentice, K’lyhia, enrolled me due entirely to my demeanor. I truly hoped only to bring questions from my mother's notebook for explication.”

Thubyrgeim nodded and consulted a sheaf of paperwork Lleidspaer hadn’t noticed her withdrawing from some pocket or other.. “Considering that you have an interest in learning arcanimist theory, there is no better means than through a standard combination of theory and practice. If you are amenable, let us begin with a brief lesson on the core of arcanimist practice: the Carbuncle familiar.”

Hours passed, and Lleidspaer’s mind wandered. She had wanted clarification on one aspect of her mother’s notes, and now she was being inducted into a mages’ guild? But she had nothing else to do, so she applied herself to the lessons as well as she was able. Though she was able to grasp the theory without too much struggle, the most she could summon was a faint wisp of the appropriate color of aether. 

In the end, Thubyrgeim had to concede that without a Carbuncle to fight at her side, Lleidspaer’s offensive capabilities would be limited to her swordplay. Still, she paced around the room, brow furrowed, occasionally retrieving some notebook or other to flip through.

Eventually, Thubyrgeim reached a conclusion. “Though it is highly unorthodox, your position in the guild will be as a contracted front-line combatant. I daresay K’lyhia will be thrilled to have someone with your physical abilities among our ranks.”

Lleidspaer blinked. “I… Surely my inability to summon a familiar disqualifies me from the Guild?”

“Were it for your theoretical acumen alone , I would not extend such an offer. But having heard your story, I see in you a young woman seeking refuge from the interminable tides, clinging to the flotsam of a distant past life. I am reminded of how our guildmaster took in young K’lyhia when she was… similarly lost.”

Thubyrgeim’s gaze fell on the bookshelves surrounding the training room, and she flipped through one until she found the page she was looking for. “Now then. As you have experienced, the Arcanist’s Guild, as an organization of magecraft, is interwoven with Mealvaan’s Gate, our customs office. This intermarriage of purpose is because, of all the talented individuals in Limsa Lominsa, talent in sums and talent in arcanima share a great deal of overlap. Typically, guild applicants who wish to join us without venturing into magecraft do so for their passion for customs inspections, and are exempt from our more adventurous tasks.”

Marking the page, Thubyrgeim closed the book and set it on a small desk, returning to the shelf to find two small diaries, which she placed atop the first. “However, Limsa Lominsa can be a dangerous place. Your father, if I am not mistaken, would have known that all too well, and imparted his life lessons onto you. Grymhas, you said? He was a good man.”

“He’s not dead.” I just haven’t seen him in six years. Lleidspaer had always carefully avoided learning why, especially so soon after her mother…

Thubyrgeim paused, a complicated expression on her face. Lleidspaer schooled her own face to be stonier. She did not need to be seen as emotionally volatile at the first career opportunity she had stumbled into post-recovery.

Thubyrgeim's odd expression faded, and Lleidspaer sent a brief prayer of gratitude. Thubyrgeim continued, “I am certainly glad to hear he still lives. Mealvaan’s Gate is in his debt. Though, make no mistake, it is not on his behalf that I am welcoming you into our guild.” She thumbed through another book, frowned, and put it back on the shelf, finding what she was looking for a few books down. “Ah, here we go.”

After adding the book to the pile, Thubyrgeim knelt down to grab a worn canvas sack from a small cupboard. Lleidspaer watched, nonplussed, until Thubyrgeim noticed the attention. “I do apologize. These are the books that Ivan wished to recommend to you. The larger one is somewhat of a comprehensive survey, so I have marked the chapter most pertinent to your interests.”

Lleidspaer was, again, nonplussed. When she had walked into the city the day before, she had been so full of resentment, so habituated to the grudge she had built up in her mind as she simmered in the healing waters of Bronze Lake, that she had written off the whole city as a waste of time. And Rhoswen had treated her like a sister, and Thubyrgeim was showering her in such maternal care — and after years of lethargy and avoidance, she had walked into the city yesterday and immediately started a fight with the receptionist instead of asking for help — she had almost refused Rhoswen’s offer of room and board for no reason but pride — she had woken up entirely too early today, and consumed nowhere near enough caffeine to warrant —

She realized she was glaring a hole in the ground, not listening at all to whatever Thubyrgeim was saying. Schooling her face back to a semblance of neutrality, she tried to catch what was being said.

“...wench, who can point you in the best direction for the job. I am unsure of any mentors for swordsmanship still in the city, but assuming you have the fundamentals down already, you should be up for the task.”

“I’m sorry,” Lleidspaer interrupted, cheeks coloring ever so slightly. “Which… wench… were you referring me to? For the job?”

Thubyrgeim let out a most inelegant snort before catching herself. “Zoning out already? Well, I suppose we have been at this for several hours now. …Ahem. I was referring you to Baderon, proprietor of the Drowning Wench, and head of our city's Adventurers’ Guild. In the absence of a Fencers’ Guild, Baderon will be the best next option to look for work of a suitable caliber for your skills. Once you have impressed him, pray return to the Gate and we will continue your training.”

Trying to banish the humiliated flush on her face, Lleidspaer bowed, again, in three swift, angular motions — really, how did one bow as to make it look less like a salute? — and took the sack of books from Thubyrgeim. “Thank you, Guildmaster.”

“Acting Guildmaster. I have hope that you will one day meet the true one, when his whimsy leads him to nest here again for an evening.”

“As you say.” Unsure how to respectfully end the conversation, but unwilling to drag it out any longer, Lleidspaer let this brief closing statement speak for her as she turned stiffly and began to ascend the stairs leading back to the customs-house proper. 

By the time she had arrived at the Drowning Wench, her moment of weakness — the tears she had nearly shed for no good reason; the petulance she had wallowed in the day before; her shame at her comportment before the receptionist — had been entirely forgotten, replaced in her mind only by the rough-hewn beauty of the chalky, limestone pillars standing tall and bright against the impossibly blue sky. How had she ever felt so claustrophobic here?

How many years has it been since I’ve set foot on a ship? Just for sailing’s sake? Entirely far too many, if she had to guess. She remembered grinning widely as a child, accompanying her father on quick trips across Galadion Bay, as he explained each of the important knots one by one. He had pointed out all of the sails on the ship, explaining their names, and what they were used for at which angles of wind. She knew that, on still days, the ship wouldn’t move anywhere, but she still felt a little silly to find out that there was such a thing as too much wind.

Her eyes ached. She reached up to touch them and found that they were wet. How odd. She remembered once she had something stuck in her eye — a piece of debris from a windstorm — and her mother had been so unpanicked, so reassuring that everything was fine, whistling a sailing tune she had no doubt learned from her husband on one of their dates together as she rifled through a cabinet for some eyedrops. Lleidspaer was not a frequently emotional person, and every time she shed a tear she was called back to that afternoon, beneath a similarly blue sky, her worried father being calmed down by her mother’s calmness.

“There you go! You’ll be just fine now,” Zealous Current had said with a confident smile. “But why don’t we stay inside for a couple hours? Just until the wind dies down a little?”

Today, as Lleidspaer stood on the bridge by the Aftcastle, right outside the door to the Drowning Wench, staring at the blue of the sky, the wind — as it had been every day for the past five years — was still.

Chapter Text

“Here you go,” Lleidspaer said. “Proof of employment.”

Baderon scratched his chin thoughtfully. “An’ ye’ll enroll in the ‘Venturers’ Guild?”

“Guildmaster Guldweitzwyn lacks jurisdiction over my training so long as I use a smallsword and buckler in lieu of an arcanist’s tome, sir. I also should be in the city’s records from before the Calamity — I was a courier for the Maelstrom.”

Baderon studied Lleidspaer for a moment more. His eyes were astute, even as his rough and casual demeanor tried to hide it. 

“‘Tis a pleasure to ‘ave ye join us,” he said eventually, face crinkling into a welcoming grin. He reached behind the desk and pulled out a thick binder, which he snapped open to a blank page. “Put yer scrawl right ‘ere. Since ye don’t got a place t’stay, I’ll talk wi’ the Gate about a dispensation fer rooms ‘ere. We’ve a few openin’s.”

Handing the registration book back, one signature heavier, Lleidspaer bowed in accordance with what would be polite as an address to a direct superior — surely as the head of the Adventurer’s Guild, Baderon was owed that much, even if he did insist on carrying the airs of a simple tavernkeep.

The innkeep, one Mytsesyn Iyrnwoerdsyn, led Lleidspaer through the iron gates separating the tavern floor from the inn rooms. But instead of the main corridor, he brought her down a narrow circular staircase, stained with the occasional spot of rust, to a more cramped hallway. Four doors down, he showed her to the room where she would be staying for the near future. “Ordinarily, we’d not be lendin’ out rooms all left an’ right,” he explained as he fiddled with an angular iron key in the door’s heavy lock. “But with so many o’ ours dead in the Calamity, we’ve more vacancies than usual.”

The door creaked open, revealing a small chamber with barely enough space for a small cot and a solid oak chest for belongings. “‘Ere’s yer key. Enjoy the space!” the innkeep said with a merry grin.

Once the door was firmly shut once more, Lleidspaer took inventory of her possessions. Two changes of clothes, not counting her sleepclothes and armor; three books, including two of her mother’s journals and one nautical almanac, which she added to the pile she had received from Thubyrgeim; her fencing smallsword and leather buckler, along with all materiel for their upkeep; a worn spyglass; a spare tarp; a large fishing net she believed had once belonged to her father; and a satchel full of salves and ointments she had received upon her discharge from the hospital at Bronze Lake. 

Lleidspaer pursed her lips, then set to arranging the meager furniture in her room so as to have a makeshift bookshelf and writing desk. She found an old but functional oil lamp in the corner, and spent the rest of the morning writing in her journal. She catalogued the books she had received and made a plan to review them thoroughly, then documented her finances — she would need to take on some jobs from the guild as soon as possible to keep her room and board here.

Well, there was no time like the present.

Her first mission, simple enough, was to repossess a crate of cargo stolen by a Qiqirn bandit. Lleidspaer felt a rush of satisfaction upon learning that Foreseer K’lyhia was indisposed and would be unable to attend — in fact, Lleidspaer had tried to arrange her coming and going from the Gate to coincide with K’lyhia’s absence — though she could not quite say why she felt so compelled.

The mission did not pose her any difficulty, and Lleidspaer quickly found herself returning with the rescued crate to pick up her payment. She paused outside Mealvaan’s Gate, steps away from the city’s Ferry Docks. Once she weighed her pockets down with a few gil, she could easily buy a ticket on the next boat to Vesper Bay — no. There was no time for foolishness.  The past was the past. Lleidspaer had made it to Limsa and found employment beside, and she was determined to stay the course come hells or high water. There was no need — no time — for indecision. Dwelling on the dead would not serve anyone.

“A sailor never sleeps ‘til she returns to the tides,” Lleidspaer murmured to herself.

Lleidspaer returned to the Missing Member for dinner that night. The Lominsan demographic being primarily pirates, deckhands, fishers, and the occasional bureaucrat or chef, the clientele of Rhoswen’s tavern was not all that different from that of the Drowning Wench. Aside from the gender balance, of course.

The conversation was interesting. As Lleidspaer munched on her food — a tasty soup of bream and tomato with a side of crumbly cornbread — the Sirens voiced their ongoing dissatisfaction with the reconstruction efforts, the Admiral’s recent inaction, the actions of the other pirate powers (and especially the Kraken’s Arms, which Rhoswen hated more than anyone else), and anything and everything else in the city. Including Mealvaan’s Gate.

“Ye’re not all bad,” Rhoswen conceded after taking a swig of ale. “Could be worse. Could be feckin’ Carvallain.” It was very faint praise. Though, Lleidspaer considered, not unexpected. As the measuring arm and appraising eye of the Admiral’s port, Mealvaan's Gate proved a tantalizing scapegoat for any and all grievances the pirates had with the Admiral's handling of domestic affairs.

“The Admiral ain’t the problem,” one of the Sirens continued a train of thought from earlier. She was one of the more talkative, and though Lleidspaer hadn’t caught her name, she seemed to be rather politically minded. Perhaps Rhoswen’s secretary. “The Trident is one of our most famous traditions. Whoever wins gets to make all the rules. That sort o’ upheaval ain’t good fer stability durin’ a bloody Umbral Calamity. I don’t begrudge ‘er wantin’ to make sure Limsa’s got a firm hand on th’ wheel.” 

She shook her head emphatically. “The problem’s the crew. Some of ye’ll be too young t’ remember, but the Knights o’ the Barracuda — our national military — is half Yellowjackets, an’ half Merlwyb’s own crew from ‘er piratin’ days. That’s how it works. Whoever wins the Trident gets to lead, and gets to install ‘er own crew and cabinet to do so. Which is why it’s so bloody frustratin’ that she’s called off the last two contests, leavin’ all ‘er people in charge of the entire island, and leavin’ the rest of us to squabble over scraps.”

A cheer of sorts rose around the tavern as Sirens toasted the sentiment. “‘Specially since she banned piracy!” a lalafell near the door called, standing on the table to make her point. “She got the seat and immediately started to choke the rest of us out! She may be a great Admiral, but are we really goin’ to abide all that?!”

Interesting. 

Under the guise of repaying the Sirens’ kindness from the previous night, Lleidspaer volunteered to help wash the dishes in order to listen in to the political discontent. She made a mental note of the most passionate points, and after drying off and hanging up her apron, started the walk back to the Mizzenmast to write down her observations. 

Her first priority for the morrow was to interview the other prominent pirate powers about the political situation in the city. If unrest really was threatening to boil over, it seemed wise to apprise herself of it. And quickly.

Carvallain de Gorgagne was an Elezen from Ishgard, and seemed to be a highborn from his general bearing (though Lleidspaer had had precious little dealing with Ishgard, so that could easily just be how all Ishgardians were).

“The Admiral may have outlawed mindless pillaging and wanton brutality, yes,” he said dismissively. “But she has also endorsed the raiding of Limsa’s enemies — the Garleans — through the writ of privateering. It is not my problem if the other great powers in the city have been slow to adapt to this new, focused way of life.”

That was true. Carvallain had risen to power as a foreign enlistee from an Ishgardian ship that the Kraken’s Arms had raided in his youth some decades before. Compared to Rhoswen, he was much more worldly, the very picture of adaptability. Yet he was also a foreigner, captain or no.

“It does not trouble me overmuch if the Admiral sees fit to extend her rule. Yes, the Calamity is over, but as many imperials fled or died as dug their heels in.” Carvallain looked bored with the conversation. “Judging from the goods they’ve been shuffling about in their ships of late (and I would know), they don’t seem like to quit our shores anytime soon. Which is good for my coffers if nothing else.”

“And this doesn’t trouble you?” Lleidspaer demanded. “You don’t miss the days of pillaging your allies, you say, but would you as a leader do anything for the fishers of Swiftperch or the millers of Poor Maid’s Mill?”

Carvallain looked affronted for a split second, then caught himself. “Not at all. That’s not my job, is it? That’s for the Admiral, and you’ll be glad to know I don’t begrudge her that position. I’m no Rhoswen.”

“And do your crewmates begrudge the League of Lost Bastards their position at the helm of Vylbrand?” Lleidspaer retorted, feeling ashamed of herself the second she did so. She had gotten too caught up in her dealings with the Sirens, had gotten defensive when Carvallain insulted Rhoswen out of hand like that.

Carvallain frowned at her impertinence. “I think,” he said frostily, “that you should go.”

With a shallow bow, the sort given to an equal rather than a superior — Lleidspaer had already insulted him, and was unwilling to grovel for forgiveness, captain or no — Lleidspaer turned and left the Seventh Sage.

That left the Bloody Executioners to talk to — the last of the great pirate powers that had been party to the Galadion Accord. There had been more groups prior to the Calamity, but the Salthounds had come ashore for good, the Hollow Barons had been exiled on pain of death for siding with the Garleans, and the Dancing Reeds had either dispersed or died out.

The Bloody Executioners could be found at their flagship, the Astalicia , which sat, as always, docked in Galadion Bay. Their leadership was absent. Hyllfyr was bedridden with a nasty cough and had been for weeks; his right hand, Moenskaet, was away on “pirate business,” whatever that meant; and Moenskaet's junior, a hyur named Sicard, didn't seem very willing to talk in great detail about political affairs except those concerning plunder.

“She'll lift the ban on piracy as soon as ‘em Garleans are gone,” he said confidently. “An’ if she don't… ha! I may have t’ pay ‘er a visit!” He would say no more on the matter.

Before leaving the Astalicia , Lleidspaer decided to get an opinion from the members of the crew. This was easier said than done, as they were all drunk. A pair of hyurs were challenging each other to a drunken step dance contest (Lleidspaer thought she could do better).

“Anything of interest happening these days?” she asked an anxious looking hyur in the corner, trimming his nails with a small knife while trying to look less nervous than he really was.

“Well, ye’ll know that the Serpent Reavers are acting up again, o’ course, but have ye heard that the Barons are back?” He paused pensively, stashing his knife somewhere beneath his clothes. Lleidspaer idly wondered how many times he had nicked himself practicing that action. “The ‘Ollow Barons, rotten spineless whoresons, in bed wi’ th’ Garleans. Me contacts wi’ the Sisters told me they's back (the Barons, not the Garleans), and working wi’ th’ fishbacks besides. If ye scholarlies want t’ go after someone, tha’d be a good place to start. Ye can’t go after the Serpent Reavers themselves, but the Barons? That’d net ye a fine bounty.”

Well then. That was interesting. “I’m sorry, your contacts with the… sisters, you said?” Lleidspaer inquired perhaps a touch more politely than would be altogether polite in this crowd. As soon as she spoke, she regretted it.

Just as she feared, the man clammed up. “S-sisters? I’m afraid I don’ know what ye mean, lass, ha ha. Did I say sisters? I must’ve meant t’ say… somethin’ else. Now if ye’ll excuse me.”

He ducked around a trio of deckhands competing over the size of their biceps, nearly tripping over a lalafell lass who was trying to invent a new form of acrobatics to get a better view of the competition, and then he was out of sight. 

Pity.

Lleidspaer had one lead, and she would need to pursue it more subtly, it seemed. Which should I look into first? she wondered. The Barons or the Sisters?

The linkpearl in her ear flared to life, and her decision was made for her: neither. “All assessors trained in field combat, report. There is a situation in Aleport. Contraband has been found that slipped past our initial inspection. We anticipate a highly mobilized armed resistance.”

Lleidspaer swore and stalked off to find a ferry to Aleport. Hopefully she would arrive in time to prove her value to the Gate.

The assessors were still gathering a force when Lleidspaer arrived. By the looks of things, their numbers were going to be underwhelming, even if more reinforcements were en route. Those who were present were overwhelmingly mages, and they were being organized into units by none other than K’lyhia. As Lleidspaer stalled, K’lyhia turned her head, catching sight of Lleidspaer from across the port. Eye contact. 

Well, there was nothing else for it now.

“Assessor Grymhaswyn, how fortunate to see you! As you have been avoiding me since you first signed up, I had calculated only a 27% probability you would arrive to reinforce us. With a second melee combatant among our ranks, we can adjust to Stratagem Shipwright. With a carefully placed swordswoman in our ranks to exert a pressure against the fulcrum—our marauder here—we can bend the enemy line like a plank of wood, carefully in position to nail down the edges. The aim of our opponents will, of course, be to buy time…”

Lleidspaer listened to the young girl enumerate the stratagems that would be in play, and felt a headache begin to form. Why was a young girl who, by the looks of things, had never experienced real war, dictating strategy to these trained combatants as if fights would ever play out exactly as choreographed? The girl’s confidence, at least, did not extend to a complete reliance on a single infallible plan, and Lleidspaer was — tentatively — reassured that there were contingencies. But at the same time, it was… frustrating.

“...and I of course will be joining you, to supervise the execution of the stratagem,” Lleidspaer heard K’lyhia say, and her jaw set.

“That’s not a good idea,” she interjected — a mistake — but could do naught but continue. “We have heard your strategy; how well we execute it is not your responsibility. Should we fail, our reinforcements will need direction as well, and you will be best equipped to infer why we might have struggled, and how our reinforcements might mitigate…” Lleidspaer trailed off as K’lyhia’s grin widened immensely.

“I appreciate your candor and your zeal, Assessor, but you are quite mistaken,” K’lyhia said. “We at Mealvaan’s Gate are instructed quite thoroughly in the appraisal, development, and execution of battle tactics. I have full faith that any reinforcements on the field would be able to understand our movements and adapt instantly.” Lleidspaer’s headache grew. If we’re all trained in tactics as you claim, why is your supervision needed at all? K’lyhia continued, oblivious to Lleidspaer’s mounting frustration: “And there is no need to worry that this strategy will fail. This is an inspection, not a warzone. Our enemies having a grasp of combat strategy to oppose mine is incredibly unlikely.”

Lleidspaer grimaced. This sounded incredibly bad. One could never rely on one's opponent being less competent than you. That was a good way to get killed.

The short ride out to the ship did nothing to assuage Lleidspaer’s fears. Instead, she spoke with the other members of the ship. There was Aersthota, a mercenary and ex-soldier from the Marauders’ Guild, and Geissfryn, an itinerant medic and cleric of Menphina, as well as two apprentice arcanists who sat on the other side of the boarding vessel, deep in conversation with K’lyhia.

Upon boarding the Morningstar , Lleidspaer’s worry had not subsided. They hadn’t encountered any armed resistance, and the crew on deck was welcoming enough. K’lyhia, of course, stepped forward to speak for the boarding party.

“I am Foreseer K’lyhia. By the authority of Mealvaan's Gate, I request that you surrender your goods for assessment!”

The navigator of the ship scratched his neck apologetically — that’s a signal! Lleidspaer's anxious brain deduced — and bowed as courteously as he could. “Well, now, yer timin' couldn't be worse, lass. The 'old door's all rusted up, ye see. Bloody thing won't open. Ye'll 'ave to come back another day after we's fixed the 'inges.” Lleidspaer scanned the crew, and, indeed, they all seemed to be reaching for…

“I will see that cargo now ,” K’lyhia barreled forward. “Any vessel entering a port of Limsa Lominsa is bound by law—” A flash of steel, then—

CLANG. As the knife flew right from K’lyhia’s blind spot and nearly skewered the brave girl, Aersthota smacked it out of the air with her axe. All hells broke loose. Over the din, the Morningstar navigator bellowed, “Lads, I reckon it's time our “guests” 'ad 'emselves a little accident. Pitch 'em over the side!”

“Stratagem Shipwright! Now! Lleidspaer, pin their forces against—”

“What is the point of code names for our tactics if you are going to spell them out in enemy earshot?!” Lleidspaer snapped, her handle on her temper loosened by the stress of combat. Still, her comrades were trying to execute the stratagem to the best of their ability, so Lleidspaer did what she could. Unsheathing her smallsword, she leapt into the fray.

In order to maneuver around to funnel the enemy toward where the arcanists were aiming their elemental assault, Lleidspaer poked the pirate trying to shove her to the edge of the ship right in the sternum—he’d be armored, but hopefully the impact would distract him enough where—yes, she was able to disarm him. With a quick swipe downward, she whipped him on the wrist and then lunged forward, driving her blade into the crook of his elbow. As he dropped his weapon and staggered, Lleidspaer tripped him, ducking and rolling through the space he opened up. She stumbled, short of breath. She had not tried that move since before her leg injury, and standing up took a second longer than it should have. 

But she was on the other side of the ship now, trying to funnel the remaining crew—those without the benefit of ranged weaponry—into the middle of the deck between herself and Aersthota.

“Well done, Lleidspaer!” Kly’hia shouted. “Keep it up!”

Lleidspaer gritted her teeth. It was not easy to hold the line armed with a dueling sword. One of the opponents, a lalafell brawler Lleidspaer hadn’t seen until too late, wove beneath the weapons and stabbed a knife at Lleidspaer’s bad ankle. She moved her leg away to dodge and winced. She had definitely messed it up. It wouldn’t do her any good to be caught in a fray while off-balance, so she kicked the lalafell off and took a couple steps back. It was no use if she was too close, her sword too long to hit. 

K’lyhia’s gemstone familiar ran up and… barked? It made some sort of noise at the lalafell, who immediately jolted as if electrocuted, looking dazed. “Hold the line! Stratagem Shipwright requires—aah!”

Across the deck, K’lyhia recoiled back into the railing, an arrow protruding from her robes just over her forearm. Her familiar winked out of existence as her tome went tumbling over the side. Shit. 

“Defensive formation! Geissfryn, tend to the Foreseer!” Lleidspaer shouted, ducking under the fray and marching up the steps toward where the archer sat in a fortified position. Her leg still twinged in something that was not entirely dissimilar to pain.

She breathed in, and out. The battlefield was a dangerous place, but in a world full of danger, someone had to deal with it. And Lleidspaer was not one to shy away from difficult realities.

She gritted her teeth and climbed.

The deck of the Morningstar was quiet, as the dead were piled up for identification and processing. Not a real battle, my arse. That had been more harrowing than any battlefield Lleidspaer had ever seen, save Carteneau… Hadn’t it? Flashes of battlefields she didn’t remember remembering drifted through her mind, but they were gone before she could grasp them. She closed her eyes firmly, opened them again, and took stock of the situation.

“It seems we have seized ourselves a ship,” one of the assessors said. Geissfryn, holding up his moon-shaped pendant, was whispering prayers over the bodies of the skain. Aersthota was wiping the blood off her war axe, but still stood at attention — to Lleidspaer. Not K'lyhia. 

K’lyhia, arm newly bandaged, was still breathing heavily. She didn't seem to have noticed — no, this was K’lyhia, of course she had noticed. She was intentionally averting her gaze from Aersthota to save herself embarrassment. “I—I apologize,” K'lyhia said. “The probability of such severe resistance was only 13%, I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry about apologizing,” Lleidspaer cut her off. “In the field, we don’t have time to dwell over mishaps. We adapt and we press forward.”

K’lyhia’s face crumpled, though she fought to keep it under control. “They… of course will have been fighting to delay us as long as possible in order to throw their contraband over the side. We will open the hold to find it empty, save for their remaining crew and officers, whom we will be unable to indict on any lasting charges,” she predicted.

Lleidspaer wasn’t so certain. If they were fighting to delay an inspection, their goal would be to survive and escape imprisonment or censure. Why would all these men fight to the death for such a goal?

As K’lyhia hadn’t yet regained her momentum, Aersthota, limping slightly, stepped forward to open the door to the hold. It didn’t budge. She tried again. “Don’t tell me the bastards were telling the truth about the hinges!” she muttered.

“It will be locked, of course,” K’lyhia said, reaching for her tome and rifling through the pages to find a specific diagram. “But as arcanists, we can manipulate the aetherial energies around the locks, aaaand voilà!”

The door to the hold swung open.

The room was not empty. Instead, it was filled with unmarked crates of all sizes. “Everyone! Take stock of what sort of contraband we’re dealing with!” Lleidspaer commanded, then froze realizing she had, once again, wrested authority from the Foreseer.

Putting the chain of command out of her mind, Lleidspaer stalked over to a crate and began prying it open. Around the room, she could hear the other assessors doing the same. As the lids of the crates popped off, one by one, a chorus of gasps filled the room along with an ethereal blue glow.

“Crystals,” Lleidspaer whispered.

“Not just crystals,” Geissfryn said. “This one has weaponry.” Lleidspaer turned to look. Sure enough, Geissfryn stood before a crate stocked with firearms. Some were of Garlean design, but the style was distinctly Lominsan. There was an odd brand in the metal: two crescent moons, one inside the other, set within a twelve-sided shape and intersected by a stylized bident. Lleidspaer reached in and grabbed a pistol, inspecting it. 

“This is a large-scale operation. We need a full inventory,” K’lyhia said. “We can do the accounting when we land, but first we need to make sure this is all they’re hiding.”

Crate by crate, the party worked their way around the room, until a panicked yelp from one of the assessors cut their work short. “Agh! Abandon ship! It’s a bomb!” Lleidspaer should have felt panicked, but instead felt strangely calm, as if standing and watching puzzle pieces slide together.

Aersthota swore and wrenched the door to the hold back open. “Go, quickly! Swim as far as you can and just stay afloat!” She stood and held the door. 

The two apprentice assessors dashed outside, and Lleidspaer heard a pair of splashes a second later. Geissfryn looked back, but Aersthota urged him forward. Muttering a prayer, he sprinted up the steps as well. K’lyhia jumped up the stairs just an instant behind, reaching a hand behind her to pull Lleidspaer up. The three ran across the deck toward the edge of the ship, until Lleidspaer’s bad leg locked up in a very unfortunate manner and she tumbled in a slow arc toward the deck and collided with a painful smack.

“Lleidspaer!” K’lyhia cried, turning around.

“Go! Leave me!” Time seemed to slow down. “Minimize casualties! Go! ”

Were these her last moments? Lleidspaer had expected it to feel more dramatic. She could hear her heartbeat, she could csense every grain of wood beneath her fingers, she could all but sense the explosive in the hold.

But he world wasn’t going to stop for her. Either she’d manage to get back up, or she wouldn’t. Like tripping over a rock in a race: from everyone else's view, it was an instant embarrassment, quickly forgotten as they sped past.

K’lyhia didn’t appear to see it that way. She turned around, defying Lleidspaer's final orders. Panicked, arms outstretched, the girl actually ran back to grab Lleidspaer’s hand and pull her to her feet—

The deck exploded into fire.

Lleidspaer raised her tiny buckler and angled out toward the explosion, as if that would do anything. She turned her body to shield K’lyhia from the debris even as the ship splintered into pieces, its buoyancy evaporating into the blue sky as its husk tumbled into the water. K’lyhia screamed as she and Lleidspaer, holding on for dear life, plummeted beneath the surface of the waves.

Chapter Text

Khadne Asherah was not accustomed to sea travel, no matter how many times she experienced it. (Not that she’d traveled by boat frequently.)

She wasn’t quite sure when she’d feel well again, as she braced against the wall to not fall over. She tried to meditate the way her mother had taught her, but the churning of the waves outside was too persistent, so she gave up.

There weren't many other people relaxing down in the passenger room on the boat, but Khadne didn’t have the room entirely to herself. A grizzled merchant was humming to himself as he flipped through some sort of magazine. Further down the room, a pair of twin elezen children napped in the corner, and Khadne briefly wondered where their parents were. But then, Khadne herself probably looked just as young to most of the people on the ship. She was only seventeen, just a bit past the Sharlayan age of adulthood. Not that she felt at all like an adult.

That was one of the weird differences between Sharlayan and Dravania. In Sharlayan, there was a specific age you had to be, and everyone below that age was a child, and everyone above it was an adult. In Dravania, things were a lot more practical. If you were old enough to fend for yourself and aid your village, you would be expected to pitch in, and if you were too young or untrained, you would be cared for and taught.

Khadne vastly preferred the Dravanian way of doing things. Her mother was Dravanian, and had married her father when Sharlayan had a colony there. But her mother was also Au ra, and stayed with her tribe when the Sharlayans all skipped back off to their homeland just after Khadne was born. Her parents both agreed that she should spend her infant years in a place of stability rather than adventure.

As Khadne glanced about the room, she couldn’t help but feel a little bit disappointed at the adventure she was having so far. Boat travel was such a major theme of the adventure novels she loved so much, but those were all about brave captains with an eyepatch and a rapier, standing proud at the front of a boat while sea monsters dashed themselves against the hull. 

From the steady and lethargic onwards shove of the ship Khadne found herself on today, a completely different image came to mind: that of a lumbering giant, half asleep, plodding ever onward at a snail’s pace, yet the advantage of its size meant that malms passed under its feet with a quick inevitability. The image made her sad, for some reason. Khadne didn’t much like plodding, and she definitely didn’t like inevitability.

The weird back-and-forth of the gravity on the ship was beginning to let up, and Khadne was bored, so she found herself heading abovedecks to stand at the ship’s railing and look out across the waves. Someone already stood there, and Khadne made an attempt not to disturb them, but soon her curiosity got the better of her and she inched down to see if perhaps they’d like to have a conversation.

“Lovely weather we're having, isn't it. What are you traveling all this way for, if you don’t mind me asking?” she asked the stranger.

The stranger, a young miqo’te man with vibrant hair, turned to look at her and smiled in greeting. “Hello! I’m a… well, I suppose you could call me a researcher. Limsa Lominsa isn’t my preferred port of call, but Sharlayan isn’t sending any ships closer to my destination these days.” He sounded… immensely proud of being a researcher. That was another thing Khadne didn’t get.

Her father, a geographer by trade, was infinitely patient and infuriatingly calm. His job involved a kind of research, and it had a lot of adventuring to it, but even that was still far too dusty for Khadne to care about. Maybe it was the Dravanian in her, but in the stuffy old nation of scholars, Khadne could feel the weight of how much she didn’t fit in. There were more physical barriers to her fitting in, too—Au ra were not exactly bullied off the streets in Sharlayan, but most of them were foreigners, and Sharlayan was distrusting of foreigners even on good days.

Still, staying cooped up in Sharlayan grated on her father, who had the benefit of his educational status and social circle, almost as much as it grated on Khadne, who had grown up on tales of her mother and of life in Dravania. And so, on her seventh nameday, her father had brought her back to Dravania to live the life she had dreamed of, until five years later the Calamity hit. Upheaval had ravaged Eorzea, and Khadne had been shoved back on one last refugee ship before all travel between Sharlayan and Dravania had been suspended “until further notice”. Which, five years post-Calamity, still hadn’t come.

During her years in Dravania, she’d been a young apprentice to her doting, fierce-eyed, unshakably bold mother. She’d learned how to gather firewood, how to craft makeshift shelters and keep warm in the ferocious winters, how to hunt and prepare small game, and how to run away and hide and stay safe when a monster was nearby. She’d received a pair of hatchets, blunted for safety, and had learned how to use them in hunting, foraging, and, if absolutely necessary, self-defense. Most importantly of all, she’d learned how to be at home on an open plain, how to sing the old Khotogo songs around the campfire like the elders did, and how to feel alive, the wind singing in her ears. 

Here on the deck of the ship, as her new miqo’te friend explained his life’s research, she understood why some people liked sailing. The wind that pushed the ship along towards the port of Limsa Lominsa rushed through her hair with its maritime chill. For a brief moment, she thought she could feel the similarity between this ship and those ships in the adventure stories she had grown up on.

Instead of the grammars and histories that Sharlayan expected her to read, when Khadne returned from Dravania she buried herself in tales of adventure, feats of derring-do, and all sorts of epic monster fights and far-off landscapes. Although she was far from the first Sharlayan to be clumsy at learning, she knew her teachers were muttering and gossiping about the exact reason she was so inadequate. Not just her teachers, either. She once—briefly—tried to make friends her own age, but she could tell her soul was just fundamentally the wrong shape to fit in.

“Why am I different?” Khadne once asked through tears. Her father sighed, wiped the tears from her eyes, and spent a few seconds choosing his words.

“My darling daughter, you are precious because you are you .” He poked her cheek affectionately at that, smiling with his ever-present calm that frustrated Khadne so much, but with such paternal pride in his voice that Khadne knew he meant every word. “You see the world the way your mother and I saw it: a wild, untamed land full of dreams, treasures, and beauty. But when the world fell into chaos and the sorrows of war, we decided that your safety was the most important, so we brought you here, that war might never touch you. Here in Old Sharlayan, there’s not as many new things to see, so some people fear that which they’ve never seen before. But you are worth seeing, and worth knowing, and worth loving.” Then he gave her a big hug and made her a cup of hot chocolate from a recipe he learned in a place called Ishgard, which was apparently not very far from Dravania. Then Khadne felt better, for a while. 

In the end, though, that conversation convinced Khadne of one thing, and one thing only: she was not meant to live in Old Sharlayan. Which is why she found herself on a ship set for the port of Limsa Lominsa shortly after coming of age. Her father, patient and proud, bid her farewell with that infuriating calmness of his. Khadne had turned around in a huff and put Sharlayan out of her mind.

Now, as this Sharlayan researcher (whose name Khadne wished she had remembered to ask) carried on and on about the specific subject knowledge he had dedicated his life to gathering, she saw the glimmer in his eyes that reminded her of her own dreams. Honestly, he wasn’t too different from many of the academics she had come to know and tolerate in her years at Old Sharlayan, but the more he spoke, the more she realized there was a kinship they shared in their thirst for adventure.

“What about you?” he asked, suddenly, and Khadne realized she hadn’t been listening to a single word.

“Oh. I, uh, I’m also just passing through. I’m headed for Dravania. That’s where my family is,” Khadne said, making some weird gesture with her hands to convey the whole family thing. “Y’know, with the Sharlayan colony and stuff.”

She’d meant to explain further, but the boat lurched and suddenly Khadne was preoccupied with many more urgent matters than conversation. When she stopped being ill, she found herself lying on her side, fatigued, and noticed that the other man had vanished into a book across the deck. He didn’t look seasick at all, and Khadne resented him for that, briefly, as she closed her eyes again and focused on meditating the discomfort away for the rest of the journey.

Upon arriving in Limsa Lominsa, Khadne immediately realized she’d made a mistake. She’d had a fantasy of living off the land, putting her hinterlands training to use, that she’d completely forgotten about all the cities involved. Limsa Lominsa looked even more imposing than Sharlayan was. And in order to get to the wilds of Eorzea, where she could live off the land as she journeyed north, she’d need gil for the ferry to Thanalan—not to mention sturdy clothes and equipment.

As the daunting task before her started to overwhelm her, Khadne forced herself to silence her thoughts using her favorite meditation exercise, one that her mother had taught her but her father used too sometimes. Everything one step at a time. Let the present moment wash over me. I’m here now, I’ll be here tomorrow.

First, she would need a place to stay and a source of food. That shouldn’t be too hard if she could manage to hunt for fresh meat, and she could set up a shelter with some rocks and branches if worst came to worst.

The meat was easy to find with the roaming dodos and lambs just outside the city gates, but after one night of surviving the elements, Khadne decided she didn’t want to do that again. Bracing oneself for a cold, dry night among the thickets of the Dravanian treeline was tough enough, but none of her novels had mentioned the rainstorms that plagued La Noscea. 

After getting dry and warm again, Khadne resolved to look for a source of actual income. She tried asking around the city, did a couple delivery jobs it seemed nobody else wanted to bother with, and gained a few pennies in the process. Someone let slip a piece of pertinent information: if she signed up as an adventurer at a place called the Drowning Wench, she could sign up for one of the guilds around the city and learn how to defend herself against the threats of the realm.

That sounded like a good idea. Khadne already knew how to wield a weapon, though her childhood hatchets were much too small for her, and hadn’t been maintained in years, so she hadn’t bothered packing them with her. In the end, Khadne would need a new weapon if she wanted to have any hope of hiking from Thanalan to Coerthas, fending off every monster in her path. Plus, being part of a guild meant more routine income (as far as she could tell), which would help pay for room and board, however dingy or undignified. So she signed herself up at the Marauders’ Guild and hoped for the best.

After showing her worth by smacking a rock with an axe and then hunting a few wharf rats (which didn’t look at all sufficient for dinner, though Khadne made the most of them), Khadne was tired and sore and more than a little cranky. She spent almost all her hard-earned gil just to get a bed for the night. It wasn’t a private room, just a bunk rented out by the Sanguine Sirens to female marauder recruits (“We look after our sisters, an’ we’ll look after ye as well as long as ye ‘and over a few gil.”) but it was several steps up from a tent made of leaves nestled in a stony crevice on a windy meadow prone to excessive rain.

The next day was much better. Khadne’s muscles still hurt like the seven hells, but that was to be expected swinging around a greataxe like it was nothing. She missed her twin hatchets she’d learned to use in self-defense back in her time in Dravania. Today, the guild decided to send Khadne to fight off some giant crabs, which was slightly more nerve-wracking than hunting wharf rats. This time, however, Khadne was part of a team, and it was much smoother knowing that the guild’s healer, Solkwyb, had her back. She’d never hunted animals this big or this hostile before, but she’d watched as hunters from her mother’s tribe had taken down an entire woolly yak that migrated too far west. 

In the end, Khadne made it through wholly unscathed. Her axe was dented, but the guild promised her a new one. The healing magic must have dulled her sense of tiredness, because she felt none of the soreness she had the day before. The pay for this job being substantially better than yesterday’s, Khadne decided to treat herself with dinner at the tavern owned by the local Adventurers’ Guild instead of foraging. The fare wouldn’t be anything to die for, but surely nothing could go horribly wrong. 

Right?

“Welcome to the Drowning Wench! We’ve got the finest fruits of the sea a sailor could hope for, all from the comfort of the Mizzenmast!” the perky serving girl said with a pose and a wink that made Khadne blush involuntarily. “Can I get you anything to drink? We’ve got ale, wine… more ale… water… and we could try making some tea, but our specialty is the ale!”

Khadne only came here for a warm meal, but when presented with a list like this, she didn’t quite know what to say. She wasn’t old enough to drink back home in Sharlayan, but the culture here in Limsa Lominsa seemed different. She didn’t want to seem impolite or—gods forfend— weak by refusing to partake in the local customs. She’d never had to order food like this in Sharlayan, which didn’t believe food should be enjoyed, and especially not in Dravania, where everyone ate what the tribe could put together. 

The serving girl blinked at her expectantly, and Khadne suddenly realized she was taking too long to order. “I-I’ll have a weak ale,” she said, heart beating just a little too fast at the unfamiliarity of the situation. She immediately regretted asking for it weak. Would the girl realize how young Khadne was? How foreign and uncivilized?

Her fears were confirmed when the serving girl’s eyes widened in surprise and offense. “A weak ale?! Miss, our ale may be cheap, but we would never water it down! Unless you’re… asking about the underground menu ?” Her facial expression seemed to imply something, but Khadne didn’t quite know what.

But she didn’t have time to think. She had to salvage her night on the town at any cost. Khadne took a deep breath and returned to her meditation technique. Calm. One step at a time. “Yes, exactly,” she said, and that seemed to be the right response—or something?—because the serving girl slid into the seat opposite Khadne and pulled out a couple pictures from her pocket.

“Alright, here’s the info we’ve been able to dig up. Our mark’s name is Skaenwaek, captain of an unusual group of former pirates calling themselves the ‘Dainty Demolishers’. They’ve taken quite a bit of Garlean magitek weaponry specifically, which is easy to track down because it’s so unique. It usually ends up in the hands of the nearby goblin tribes, and their nearest camp is right outside Summerford.”

…What? Khadne nodded, trying not to let her confusion show. It seemed she’d stumbled upon some sort of… pirate murder ring. She’d heard of this sort of thing, in the adventure books and the gossip that she’d digested to prepare herself for this journey. And now that she’d stumbled into their work, she had to see it through or she’d be killed. Above all else, she could not let this serving girl—this pirate spy —know that Khadne wasn’t a part of their…gang. If the hitmen realized Khadne knew too much, it would be her face on the next mark.

Wait. Shit. The serving girl was staring at her now. She’d been silent a bit too long. “Uh.” Khadne cleared her throat, scrambling for something to say. “Can I still get an ale before I’m off?”

To her relief, the serving girl laughed. “Of course, of course! Gotta keep up appearances!”

After downing her glass of what was decidedly not weak ale, Khadne stumbled out of the Drowning Wench trying to remember which direction Summerford was. She wasn’t sure if the odd feeling in her gut was the alcohol or the fact that her next target was a human instead of a beast. She tried not to think about it too much. Breathe in… breathe out… She went to the calm meditation place in her mind to try and get a grip on the situation. Ok, this was bad, but assassination jobs typically paid quite well, as far as the stories said. She could use the money to hop on a boat to Thanalan, and none of these pirates would ever see her again. Honestly, depending on how much the job paid, this could be her one-way ticket to Dravania!

She was snapped out of her reverie upon seeing a familiar face: it was him. The mark. He was sitting on the ledge of the Anchor Yard, weapon on the ground behind him, glass of wine in hand as he warbled what sounded like a love poem, perhaps Ishgardian. Khadne froze. No way. Could she just… do the deed?

Her stomach turned. Skaenwaek failed to hit the high note. The promise of gil taunted her. She felt heat rushing to her cheeks which had to be either the effects of inebriation or utter mortification. Skaenwaek paused his ode to take a sip of wine. Khadne’s axe was in her hand. Skaenwaek turned, mid-swallow, and locked eyes with her. Down on the docks below, a fisherwoman reeled in a large catch. Khadne could feel her heartbeat in her temples. Skaenwaek wasn’t singing, was grabbing for his spear. Khadne squeezed her eyes shut, went back to her meditation place. Someone stepped forward—was that her? She felt a sting in her shoulder and flinched. Skaenwaek made a garbled, burbling noise before he was out of earshot, tumbling several yalms into the water below. Khadne heard the splash and opened her eyes. Her axe was a mess. Khadne stopped to clean it. She couldn’t feel her face. She heard someone calling out to her, but it sounded like it was yalms away. It felt like minutes passed before she remembered to turn her head to face whoever was speaking.

It was the miqo’te guy from the ship. Someone who knew she was from Sharlayan. Someone who could track her down, report her to the Forum and have her sentenced to death. Someone she’d mentioned her quest to Dravania to. There would be checkpoints looking for her at every dock on this island. She was going to die.

Khadne leaned forward—when had she dropped to all fours?—and promptly vomited up her entire serving of ale she had so looked forward to spending her gil on.

“...what in the hells you were doing. Is that how they resolve disputes in Dravania? Don’t answer that,” the man was saying. His tone was somewhere between reprimand and pity. “This is… probably an eminently foolish idea, but I don’t want to see you suffer any sort of eye-for-an-eye vengeance these pirates hold to so dearly. Follow me. I’ll lead you out of the city.”

Khadne’s mouth was very dry, though she could feel her face and her limbs now. She tried wiggling her fingers to see if it would work (it did). Then she tried standing on her feet to see if that would work (it didn’t). The miqo’te man swore and leaned down to pick her up. He sounded nervous too.

Small wonder. He thinks I’m an axe murderer.

Khadne looked down at her stained sleeve where she had tried to wipe off the blood from her axe.

I am an axe murderer.

Afraid or no, the man was helping Khadne walk away from the scene of the crime towards an exit to the city. Before they got to the checkpoint, Khadne’s heart began to race again. With all the blood on her clothes, she’d be caught in no time! She yanked off her shirt and tossed it into the sea without a second thought. Except she was still on the upper decks, and it fluttered down, caught by a breeze, and Khadne suddenly wanted to close her eyes and wake up in her bed in Old Sharlayan and not be a fugitive murderer.

Next to her, the miqo’te man removed his support to cover his face, and Khadne collapsed to the ground again. 

“Ow,” she said, because her brain wasn’t working otherwise.

Behind his hands, the other man started giggling. It sounded more than a little hysterical, and Khadne suddenly felt bad for him. She felt even worse when he stripped off his own shirt—wait, that was just a jacket, he had another shirt on beneath—and tossed it at her. 

Khadne slipped it on quickly. It was a bit too small for her. If she didn’t look so young and scrawny it would look downright indecent; instead, it just looked horribly awkward. Still, the task of getting dressed again was surprisingly helpful at clearing her mind. She could actually hear the sounds of the city again instead of the roaring din of her pounding heartbeat.

“Thanks,” she said uncomfortably, not sure how else to broach a conversation.

“We can talk after we get you to Summerford,” the miqo’te said curtly, dragging her along again.

Neither of them noticed a third figure, knives in hand, silently slip back into the shadows.

Lleidspaer’s day had gone from bad to worse, but ultimately none of that mattered. What mattered was that K’lyhia had survived the explosion, but the perpetrators were, most likely, still at large.

When Lleidspaer, still sopping wet, made her way back to Limsa Lominsa that evening, her mind was busy rotating the mystery to inspect it from all angles, when suddenly she was hit in the face by a shirt.

A shirt that stank of blood.

Lleidspaer looked around. This wasn’t her concern, she really should just hand it off to the nearest Yellowjacket and be done with it. And yet…

And yet this could end up connected to the other investigation. Or perhaps she hadn’t yet made up her mind about trusting the Yellowjackets. Or perhaps, deep down, Lleidspaer believed that she would do a better job investigating this lead than almost anyone else in the city. 

Sighing, she folded the shirt and stuffed it away. Such egotistical thoughts ill became a woman of her experience. She was acting like K’lyhia. The thought was sobering. Well, actually, for all K’lyhia’s youthful naïveté, the girl was more than competent, and deserved that recognition at the very least.

So Lleidspaer trudged onward to the Drowning Wench, leaving puddles of water in her wake. She would investigate on the morrow. Tonight, she needed to think. 

Preferably somewhere warm and dry.

Chapter Text

The cliffs and meadows of La Noscea had been plunged into the darkness of night by the time Khadne reached the outskirts of Summerford. She was still breathing in, breathing out, focusing on the step in front of her, then the next, then the next, closing off her mind to the fears of the future and the regrets of the past, limiting her field of vision to only the brief, bleeding present. She was sure her miqo’te companion had been talking to her at some point, but she had let it flow in one ear and out the other, and he was silent now, so she guessed he must have given up.

Summerford Farms was, in all truth, a very small settlement. There would be no chance of her getting any rest there, not without baring her face to people who would just as soon see her hanged, so if she was to finish the job, she’d have to do it and then camp out here. But why did she even care about the job? Why was the job more important than…

A thought suddenly occurred to her: even if she retrieved the cargo from the goblin settlement, how was she supposed to deliver it back to the city without facing immediate arrest? Had coming out here all been for nothing? 

She tried to focus on keeping her breath steady, her sight set on the present, but the looming despair of having closed her only door to safety was overwhelming. She felt herself beginning to sob.

The miqo’te man stopped walking, and since Khadne was leaning on his arm as they walked across the fields, she stopped as well. His expression was bewildered, and more than slightly conflicted. She swallowed back more tears.

Eventually, the miqo’te made up his mind. “I know this might be a complicated question, but I need to know. What prompted you to attack that man?” he asked.

Khadne opened her mouth to speak and an ugly noise somewhere between a squeak and a cough came out unbidden. She clamped her mouth shut and swallowed again. She would never make it to Dravania if she couldn’t even control herself in a crisis.

“They… told me to. Thought I was a pirate assassin,” she said, then fell into a brief coughing fit. The miqo’te pulled out a waterskin from his travel pouch and handed it to her, and she paused to gulp down its contents before continuing. “He stole Garlean magitek and gave it to some— to some goblins around here. Needed to retrieve it. But I can’t— I can’t go back. They’ll know I wasn’t in their gang. And now I know— I know their password. So they’ll realize I can’t be allowed to live either.” At this last word, her lip trembled, and before she knew it she was crying again. “He was a bad guy but he…”

The miqo’te hesitantly, uncomfortably, pulled Khadne in closer and patted her on the head in consolation, letting her sob into his shoulder. He doesn’t think I’m an axe murderer, he thinks I’m a tragic… lost child who fell in with the wrong crowd. Khadne realized with a start that her entire situation mirrored a storytelling premise Khadne had never liked. But in this case, it seemed like it was all too accurate — except it wasn’t! Khadne was a stranger to them! It wasn’t fair!

And someone had died over it! Someone had died because Khadne had, what, become one with a band of ruffians? Typical faceless thugs? That wasn’t how the stories were supposed to go!

But thinking of her own misadventure as a story — as she didn’t have any real-life examples to follow, in this case — pulled Khadne far enough out of her own head long enough to breathe again. She was still gripping on tightly to the miqo’te man. Suddenly very self-conscious about her crying fit, Khadne pulled away from the stranger and regarded him warily. “Why do you… why do you care? Who even are you?”

The miqo’te was silent for a long, drawn-out moment. In the distance, Khadne could hear the flutter of wings, small splashes, and the rustling of leaves as the animals here went about their lives, completely oblivious to the idea of moral crisis. It took maybe even a full minute, Khadne guessed, before the stranger decided to speak.

Finally, the miqo’te answered her. “My name is G’raha Tia. I told you much of my story when we met on the ship — I am a researcher, nothing more.” There was a quietness to his words that seemed so at odds with the look of excitement in his eyes the other day when he explained — at length — the subject of his study. “I too have known what it means to be alone in the world. …Very well. I will deliver the magitek to the city for you. When next we meet, I expect you will repay this debt with some small kindness of your own?” He gave her a smile which almost reminded Khadne of her father’s ever-calming expression, except it was more than evident to Khadne that G’raha’s smile was forced.

“Don’t… don’t kill them. Please,” she said. Enough blood had already been shed today. It wouldn’t have been so jarring if she hadn’t heard the man trying to form words as she…

G’raha’s smile faded. “I won’t.”

Khadne thrust a hand holding the emptied waterskin toward him, and he shook his head.

“Consider it a boon, from one traveler to another. The jacket as well.”

Khadne wanted to argue, but realized just then how unimaginably tired she was, so she just nodded, sat down on the ground, and curled up.

She could hear G’raha trying to speak to her again but couldn’t summon the energy to sort the sounds into words. She hoped it wouldn’t rain tonight. At some point, she noticed he was gone. Some time later, she lapsed into a fitful sleep, her dreams plagued with the memory of a garbled yell followed by a hollow, echoing splash .

“A young auri woman?” Lleidspaer asked, looking over the notes she had gathered one last time.

“Indeed,” said the bandaged man lying in the infirmary bed. Two Yellowjackets stood posted at the door, and Lleidspaer had the immediate impression that upon recovery, the man would be facing a criminal trial of his own. “The poor reprobate wielded an axe of no small stature. Were I not confined to this bed, I might seek out her like at the Marauders’ Guild. She was evidently inexperienced in its use. Had she not caught my clavicle with a lucky blow and knocked me off-balance, I doubt she would have succeeded in this— this remorseless attempt at assassination.” Lleidspaer briefly considered pointing out that the assassination attempt didn’t succeed regardless, but it seemed gauche to rub even more salt in his wound. “Had it not been for the auspicious presence of the anglers directly beneath the Anchor Yard, I doubt I would have been fished up ere I succumbed to the abyss,” he finished with a dramatic flourish.

“I pray for your continued recovery,” Lleidspaer said with a slight bow, already turning to follow up on her lead.

The Marauders’ Guild, housed in the Coral Tower, could not have been a more convenient destination, as it served as the headquarters for the Yellowjackets themselves. After speaking with Guildmaster Wyrnzoen, and learning that a young female Au ra was indeed among the guild’s recent recruits, Lleidspaer turned her attention to the tower’s other function. 

The Yellowjacket headquarters was always swarming with enquest after enquest, and though they had yet to release any confidential information regarding the untimely sinking of the Morningstar or last night’s murder attempt, there were always leads to pick up by speaking with the more gossip-inclined among their staff. The problem was that this usually led to an excess of leads, which was often even less productive than a deficit.

Today, though, the Yellowjackets had one singular priority, all neatly bundled up. One which seemed to bear no relation whatsoever to the two investigations Lleidspaer currently found herself pursuing; nonetheless, the Yellowjacket on duty was not the loose-lipped type, and refused to speak of any other investigation, at least until the problem at hand had been addressed to the organization’s satisfaction.

“You will have heard rumors of the abductions, aye?” At Lleidspaer’s blank look, he sighed. “Look, lass, for the past couple weeks, citizens have been disappearin’ from every corner of Limsa Lominsa as if plucked from the face of Hydaelyn, boots an’ all. You are at least familiar with the Serpent Reavers?” he asked.

“Pirates who have allied with the Sahagin and their dread god Leviathan,” Lleidspaer said. “It would be hard to find a Lominsan who does not know at least their name.”

“Indeed. Well, the boss stationed at Summerford Farms has noticed some of the rotatin’ plowmen on ‘is field sport poorly-disguised azure tattoos on their faces,” the Yellowjacket said. “Tattoos that appear all too familiar to a man who fought off crews of Serpent Reavers before ‘is retirement.”

“But surely if those are his own employees, he must have seen their faces when he hired them on for the job, no? And if he knows these plowmen are the Serpent Reavers, why can we not simply take action? Why place this in the enquest pile?”

“I’m glad you asked. These men weren’t hired, so to speak. The man claims never to ‘ave seen them before. They don’t sleep or eat in the farmhouse. And they’ve committed no actual crime as we can determine, so we’ve no cause for a warrant. All we got is rumor — paranoia, if I’m bein’ honest. The farmers in the farmhouse are convinced to a man that these blue-tattooed ruffians are behind the string o’ disappearances, but they’ve naught to back it up. We need to find out two things: where they’re comin’ from, and what they’re up to.”

Lleidspaer sighed. “Very well. Send information on the job to Baderon at the Adventurers’ Guild. I shall take a look around the area and see what I can uncover.”

Today was one of those days where Lleidspaer felt like tearing her hair out over every slight inconvenience. The tavern had been too noisy in the morning; the coffee had been slightly burnt; the porridge had been cold by the time she received it; K’lyhia was still not speaking to her (or anyone); Thubyrgeim had no idea how Mealvaan’s Gate should proceed; and, worst of all, Lleidspaer couldn’t just stay nice and warm in bed while all these unsolved mysteries continued. She had still not had a chance to follow up with that odd fellow from the Astalicia who spoke about the Hollow Barons and the Sisters — most probably the convent by the Fishermans’ Guild — and here she was, dragged into yet another mystery.

At least the pay was good. Being an adventurer was rough, and her favorite outfit had been damaged in yesterday’s explosion, but Mealvaan’s Gate had reimbursed her for it free of charge, and paid extra for the physical risks incurred onboard the Morningstar. At this rate, it was a matter of mere months before she would be able to upgrade her living quarters from a room at the Mizzenmast Inn to an apartment she owned. Which would, of course, be an improvement, from a practical point of view. The fact that thinking of such a future failed to make her happy was, for all intents and purposes, utterly inconsequential. 

She sighed. Being miserable wasn’t helping anything either, and though it was occasionally gratifying to revel in being irritable, it wouldn’t make this go any faster. Based on her geographical estimations, there were only a few locations near Summerford that would function as makeshift lairs for a band of ne’er-do-wells. This search should take no more than a handful of hours. She could return and collect her pay; she would eat dinner at the appropriate scheduled time; and if she truly wished to contemplate happiness, she could do so from a warm bath after working through her current investigations.

As dawn alighted upon the meadows and fields of Summerford, Khadne wasn’t sure where exactly to go. G’raha Tia had left sometime last night, and though Khadne still had her axe, a nice jacket, and a freshly refilled waterskin, she couldn’t show her face in the city right now, and that was the only option she knew of for crossing into Eorzea proper. 

Deep breath in, deep breath out. There was no rush. Her mother would still be there in Dravania, whether Khadne left today or in several months.

The first objective was to get onboard a ship headed to Eorzea. What Khadne knew of pirates in general from adventure stories was very unlike the actual tedium she had seen in the city. But for however strong the iron grip of the city’s guards were, there were bound to be dozens of pirate factions that had at least a little bit of agency. Even if there was a city-wide law against violent disputes, there was no way Khadne was the only person to lash out at a… rival?

She buried her face in her hands. She really knew nothing about how to be an effective criminal. She wasn’t strong enough to be a notorious outlaw, nor deceitful enough to adopt a cunning disguise and slink away unnoticed. That left one option: working off her sins. She steeled herself and prepared herself for atonement.

Staelwyrn, the person in charge of the farms here at Summerford, was eager enough to take on new hands. Khadne knew she would undoubtedly stick out (Au ra were not very common in Eorzea, at least south of Dravania), but he hadn’t yet received word of the bounty that was sure to be on Khadne’s head before long. He directed her to Grynewyda out working the fields, who promptly handed Khadne a shovel and told her to get to work clearing away debris.

After several grueling hours of repetitive manual labor, Khadne felt exhausted for the third day in a row. This time, it lifted her spirits. She was working off her crime — even if nobody had approved the penance in the first place or even knew about the crime it was for — and she was doing a good deed for the city in the process. The other farmhands glanced at her as she worked, but Khadne made no move to speak to them, and they didn’t care enough to question it. 

When she returned to Staelwyrn, he had a thoughtful look on his face as he sized her up. “You seem handy with that axe,” he said casually, and Khadne’s heart leapt up into her chest. Had she been caught? Was it over? “Am I right to think you’re an adventurer?”

“Y-yes, I am,” Khadne said. Maybe she hadn’t been found out yet.

“I’d ask you to take a look at Seasong Grotto before headin’ back to Limsa tonight. The farmhands keep sayin’ there’s been someone there, and I’d feel a bit safer if someone as can defend herself takes a look, instead of some hapless gardener.”

“Sure,” Khadne said without really thinking. She hadn’t been found out, and she could stay in his good graces and keep doing good deeds if she checked out this grotto he spoke of. “Do you have a map?”

Staelwyrn shook his head. “Nay, but just look over that way.” He pointed. “See those lights? That’s where the grotto is. You can’t miss it.”

It truly wasn’t far. It took Khadne maybe five minutes to walk over to the entrance of the cave and peer inside. The cavern was deserted. In the center stood a large stone slab covered with carvings. She stepped closer to read it.

I am the waves that bear.
I am the winds that guide.

I am the evening stars.
I am the morning sky.

I am born of the sea.
And there shall I die.

“Have you a fondness for the Sailors’ Requiem, carved into yonder stone?” someone asked behind her. 

Khadne spun and came face to face with a pale-haired miqo’te woman.

“Such words describe the lives of countless Lominsans, past and present. They are a litany against misfortune for those out on the waves… and a prayer that the souls of those who perish on land might find their way back to the sea.”

Khadne cleared her throat. “Not to be rude, but who are you? What brings you to this location?” Surely she wasn’t one of the suspicious figures. She announced her presence far too easily to be considered a ‘lurker’.

“Ah, no one of any importance. I find myself here likely for the same reason as you: I thought myself on the trail of the kidnappers, but it would seem I have missed my mark.”

Before Khadne could respond, there came a deafening bellow from the mouth of the cave, and a beast more enormous than any Khadne had ever seen charged forward before she could react, thrashing about in a frenzy.

“By the Twelve!” the miqo’te woman gasped, grasping at her waist for a twig. Must be a magic wand , Khadne thought as she herself grabbed her axe and moved into a combat stance. She was grateful to be fighting a beast once more rather than another human.

“We can’t take this thing down,” Khadne said. “Not with just the two of us. Hunting game this size requires a team of four or more, and that’s when it isn’t actively trying to kill us.”

The other woman nodded. “And this is no mere beast. This would be Kujata, a dread bull aurochs from the highlands with quite the count of bodies in his wake. I don’t know what has driven him into a frenzy, much less down from the highlands, but we must drive him off and get out of this cave.”

That would be easier said than done. Kujata dwarfed the pair of them, not to mention nearly filled the entry point to the grotto. He would be unlikely to calm down enough to turn around and maneuver out of here.

“Here’s the plan,” Khadne said. “I’ll try to get him to go after me. You can use some sort of magic to distract him right before he charges. I think I can slip around him. Dash under his legs and we’ll see if we can get to the entrance. Once we do that, he’ll be caught like a fish in a net.”

What with Kujata’s thrashing about, getting his focus would not be the easiest thing to do. His hide looked tough, and in order to get the force to slash at it enough to be noticed, Khadne would need to get in close quarters and stay there. But at least this plan gave her a chance of survival. If she stayed in here with this thing, she would seal her fate.

She widened her stance, trying to root herself to the ground. Her voice was far more terrified than she wanted it to be. Why couldn’t she sound like her mother, leading the hunt with measured ferocity, boldness, and pride?

Kujata swung toward Khadne and she tried to intercept with her axe. There was a loud clang, and she realized she had hit one of his horns instead of his hide. Kujata barely flinched at the sound, growling in the mage’s direction. That wasn’t good. If there was one thing the Marauders’ Guild had drilled into her head, it was that marauders needed to protect mages by getting the enemy’s attention.

So Khadne let out a war cry and swung her axe forward with all the force her arms allowed. The blade buried itself into Kujata’s hide and he yelled in pain, pausing his assault on the mage to turn once more toward Khadne.

The bad news was that the axeblade was now firmly lodged in the beast’s hide, and when he turned, the axe wrenched itself free of Khadne’s grip, throwing her off balance directly into the path of Kujata’s next charge. 

That was it, she was going to die here. …Wasn’t she?

She opened her eyes to see the mage holding Kujata back with a translucent, spherical shield. “Go!” the woman said.

Khadne regained her footing, recentering her brain in her meditation place as she did so. She took a breath in, a breath out… and she ran.

“Not towards him!” the mage yelled. “Flee this place! Kujata is too strong!”

Khadne ignored her. She ducked under a raised hoof just before it could pummel her into the wall, rolled sideways, stood up —

And grabbed the handle of her axe, pulling it free with a grunt of exertion. 

Kujata screamed. Khadne felt alive . 

“I’m not fleeing until I can get you out too!” she yelled back to the mage. Things still weren’t great, but with the use of this shield spell, Khadne began to feel hope that they would be able to escape with their lives.

Then Kujata reared back and slammed into Khadne, and everything went black.

Lleidspaer was crossing off the fourth area of interest off her list when she noticed the screams coming from across the fields of Summerford. As soon as she heard the sounds of danger, she was already stalking towards it. She would have sprinted if she trusted her leg, but yesterday’s own crisis had taught her better than that. Finally, she arrived at the source of the screaming.

Of bloody course. She should have checked the Grotto first, but she’d deemed the monument too conspicuous a place for a band of villains to organize. She hadn’t stopped to consider that the villains would have obviously been smart enough not to go around with their tattoos in plain sight unless they wanted to be seen. In which case, a conspicuous location was the best staging site…

For a trap.

When she got to the entrance to the Grotto, her fears were confirmed. Two figures were on the ground before an enormous beast: one unconscious, and the other kneeling over the other, using what appeared to be healing magic. The beast bearing down on them was temporarily obstructed by a magical shield, but judging from the destruction that had been sown around the cavern, it would soon cave in.

Lleidspaer took quick stock of the situation. The beast had taken a wound to the side, and after moving to get a better view of its entire body Lleidspaer noticed it had been penetrated by a fairly large harpoon. That would certainly suffice to rile it up.

As far as battlefield tactics went, Lleidspaer was no expert in beast psychology. It was much easier to guess how opponent humans would break down a situation. Still, it couldn’t be too different from trying to play with a pet cat. 

A murderous, 5,000-ponze pet cat.

Perhaps it would be possible to get the beast to turn around and rampage at Lleidspaer, fleeing the Grotto. That would allow the two civilians in the cave to escape… but would also position Lleidspaer herself in the direct path of the beast. If Lleidspaer escaped its wrath, it would be free to wreak devastation on the surrounding villages. So the only option was to distract without letting it free. 

“Hear.”

…What was that? Lleidspaer could swear she heard a voice just then. Bah, this was no time for distractions. Lleidspaer considered her smallsword and focused. A flimsy blade like this would serve for nearly nothing, but if she could just get the beast’s attention another way…

Lleidspaer quickly calculated an angle, reaching in her pouch for a quick healing salve. These salves had a strong medicinal effect, and stung like fire when they touched a wound. “You there! Mage! Can you direct its focus toward the eastern wall?” Lleidspaer yelled.

“I believe so, but are you sure whatever you’re planning will work?” the mage yelled back, sounding somehow perfectly composed despite the strain evident in her voice. 

“It’s a better shot than you’ve got now,” Lleidspaer said, uncorking the medicine vial to add a potency reagent to it. This had better work. She really had no other plans, no backup, and no time to get either of those things.

“Feel.”

Okay, Lleidspaer knew she heard a voice then. She looked around, trying to find the source of it. 

“Now!” the mage inside the grotto yelled, and Lleidspaer snapped back to attention. Right. Here goes nothing , she thought, shaking up the salve and brandishing it. Three… two… one…

She hurled the medicine at the gash wound at the beast’s front-right side. It hit its mark, and the liquid dripped down the beast’s fur, mingling with the red of the blood as it fell on the cavern ground. A second later, the liquid still on the wound began to bubble slightly. The beast twitched, turned its head to look at Lleidspaer, and let out a pained cry. It hit its head on the wall, and its horn cracked slightly. It was momentarily dazed.

“Quick, Y’shtola! Grab the girl and escape!” Lleidspaer yelled.

But it was too late. The beast was no longer dazed, and at the movement from deeper in the cave, it spun around and reared back to charge at the target. At a weakened, strained conjurer who was trying to drag a wounded body out of the cave. Burdened as she was, there was no way Y’shtola would be able to get out of the way in time.

“Think.”

Lleidspaer ignored the voice. There was no time for thinking. She had to do something — anything —

Lleidspaer whipped out her smallsword — she had no other options — as desperation rose in her chest. She lunged, angling the dueling blade at the beast’s back leg. 

That was when she noticed the small gemstone on the sword's hilt was glowing. A second later, and the entire blade was cloaked in flames. When had that happened? Lleidspaer darted in, aiming for where she knew the tendons would be weakest, and hopefully the hide as well. As the fire scorched the beast’s fur, the beast recoiled, stopping right before its charge. The combination of injuries overwhelmed the creature, and it momentarily lost its balance.

The conjurer — had Lleidspaer just said her name? — dragged the other girl out of the cavern, reaching the top just as the beast roared again and stood, though it looked somewhat more lethargic than before.

Lleidspaer pointed. “See that harpoon in its back? I imagine that’s what riled it up.”

The conjurer nodded. “Very perceptive. I’d hardly expect anything less from you. Or… was it you? …I’m sorry, I thought I remembered you from somewhere before but I must have been mistaken.”

“We should save the pleasantries for later. It is distracted, but we cannot slay it ourselves with our forces as they are. With the medicinal effect of the vial I threw, its fury should… lessen…”

A sudden, piercing headache hit Lleidspaer and she stumbled, falling to one knee. She blinked, trying to stay lucid. The sky was… filled with… falling stars…

“Hear. Feel. Think.”

Chapter Text

When Nia’a had fled from home, in his mind it was for a very rational reason: namely, the romantic advances of one of his oldest sister’s friends, which he was compelled to avoid at all costs. Meia Oribhe was not unkind, but Nia’a was not predisposed to reciprocate her advances, and he didn’t want to cause a stir or (Twelve forfend) an incident by refusing them. Nonetheless, there were two glaring issues with the situation at hand.

The first was that Nia’a was not, in fact, predisposed to reciprocate any advances made by a woman. It had been just a few years after running away from home that Nia’a had realized this, having just polished off his first pint at the newly-constructed Druthers when he caught the way the light reflected off the tavernkeep’s beard and something in his heartbeat changed. He had stammered a hasty apology and gone outside to process this revelation. 

In the end, he had to admit that if a man were to proposition him, being a husband and father of a household would be far from the worst lifestyle he could imagine. Yet, even then, even if it had been Meia’s brother Kiht’li who had professed a romantic interest in Nia’a, there was a more pressing issue at play: Nia’a could not ‘settle down’ by any definition of the term until he had found his father, T’rhowa.

Nia’a would stop searching for nothing. Even if his mother and sisters were convinced that T’rhowa was dead or worse, Nia’a would not go home empty-handed. Even as the years dragged on and his optimism gave way to cynicism. Even as the pace of his search slowed, nearly to a standstill, and he pursued it out of bitter stubbornness moreso than hope. Even when he doubted he was still searching at all anymore, but rather staying away from home as a form of self-punishment for his failure.

Yesterday had been among the worst days he’d had since the Calamity. He would never have come back to Gridania again were it not for a series of coincidences. Nia’a nearly suspected there to be another force at play, with how perfectly they were all timed.

The silliest coincidence had led Nia’a to pick up a poacher’s bow and contemplate breaking his vow of pacifism. The silliest coincidence had led the Wood Wailers to detain him for questioning right before the Ixal overran Hyrstmill. The silliest coincidence saw Nia’a press-ganged into picking up a needle and a poultice and fighting to save the life of a young Elezen who screamed not in fear or pain but in pure grief, hand still clenched around the broken haft of a pitchfork that was the last gift of a father to a son. 

And for some reason, ever since yesterday, Nia’a was able to hear alien whispers in the breeze, the brook, the stones beneath his feet—the voices of the Elementals. He had no idea how. He had thought only hyuran children were able to become Tree-Blessed—yet Nia’a had aged into adulthood and shown no sign of sprouting horns. What was going on?

Nia’a had a hard time sleeping last night, due to the still-vivid memory of his hands stained red with blood, his apothecary pouch significantly lighter after all he had expended to save the life of the Elezen on the ground before him. Hearing that a child had recklessly attempted to save a dying father, he had expected the patient to be young, but the man on the ground before him sported a well-groomed, if sparse, goatee. He’’s probably around my age, Nia’a thought numbly, trying to picture himself grabbing the nearest tool to fend off invaders from his own home.

Surrounded by the silliest coincidences, drowning in the whispers of the rulers of the forest, weighted down by almost seven years of regret, staring into the eyes of what could feasibly be Nia’a’s own reflection in another life, Nia’a did the only reasonable thing and tried to flee again into the night. He made it only as far as the entrance arch of the Carline Canopy before he faltered. His heart wasn’t in it. His mind was still with the recovering Elezen. Sure, Nia’a had saved him from immediate death, but would he be alright in the days and weeks to come?

He had tried to push those thoughts aside and keep walking. Gridania was home to myriad healers; surely one of them could occupy themselves with nursing the boy back to full health. And yet… Nia’a had stopped to watch as a group of fireflies danced near a tricking stream of water, without a care. The city was silent under the shroud of dusk. Of the few citizens still milling about, several were seated on the intricately carved wooden benches placed around the city, calmly basking in the beauty of the forest. Nia’a had remarked about how lucky each and every one of those citizens was to be alive. 

Just like that, Nia’a’s mind’s eye had conjured an image of the wounded Elezen sitting on one of these benches, whole and happy, next to a blurry silhouette that stood in for his father. An instant later, the picture changed to Nia’a himself, his own father beside him, smiling proudly. Gritting his teeth and bemoaning the fact that he had to make the decision that T’rhowa would be proud of, Nia’a had turned and stalked back to the Canopy for the night. For better or worse, Nia’a was a healer, and he would stick to his creed.

That was how Nia’a had ended up in a room in the Roost, tossing and turning on the bed they had provided. It felt unnatural, and Nia’a wasn’t sure whether to attribute his fitful sleep to the environs he was unaccustomed to, or to the dreams—the memories—which plagued him in his slumber. 

Growing up, Nia’a had been ‘special’, which was his mother’s way of saying he was a coward, but she loved him anyway. The rest of the clan had definitely not been pleased with him, nor with his mother for coddling him. Still, even if he was too scared of blood and death to join the hunt, he could help the clan as an apprentice to Tabit Tsalahn, the wizened medicine woman of the Tsara branch of the woods. 

From that day forward, Nia’a had spent a good portion of his childhood as Mistress Tsalahn’s apprentice: assisting her in gathering herbs, grinding them into powders and pastes, and mixing them in precise doses by the light of the full moon.

“That’s the secret ingredient,” Mistress Tsalahn had said. “Menphina’s blessing. She watches over us and keeps us safe, and we, in return, keep her forest safe and clear of intruders.”

For over a decade, growing up, Nia’a had taken that to heart and fulfilled all the duties, all the prayers and rites that a good Keeper should know to show reverence and obeisance to Menphina. He’d felt like he was defiling a part of himself the first time he stepped out from the treeline into the city—however natural and harmonious it was—of Gridania. For over a year, Nia’a had walked among the city's wooden spires and decorated boughs prior to the Calamity; now, only bits and pieces trickled down through his clouded memory. He had genuinely thought he would never return.

But now, thanks to a set of coincidences Nia’a could not help but fixate on, he awoke once more beneath the city’s roofs. Tossing on a fresh travel tunic (he would have to slip away to wash the bloodstains out of yesterday’s garb), Nia’a squashed down the roiling foreboding in his stomach and left to barter for a plate of (unfortunately vegetarian) breakfast. As he snacked on the meal, a small loaf of some nut and vegetable bread, he took a few deep breaths and started charting out a plan for as long as he stayed in the city.

Nia’a knew from experience that while most of Gridania was guarded towards outsiders at best, the Botanists’ Guild was welcoming. Guildmaster Fufucha was no Gridanian native and had in fact come here from Thanalan as a child, so she knew something about the coldness the Gridanians offered outsiders. Before the Calamity, Nia’a had worked with the Order of the Twin Adder, mainly interfacing with the Botanists for materials, but he had always found Fufucha pleasant to work with. If he wanted to find an ally in the city, the Botanists’ Guild would be a good place to start.

As Nia’a made his way toward the Greatloam Growery, he realized that, becoming a Botanist might also be the most practical choice for an itinerant healer—which he had already claimed to be his occupation. 

When he arrived, Fufucha didn’t seem to recognize him. Almost nobody did, and Nia’a himself had several holes in his memory from the year or so leading up to the calamity. Nia’a privately thanked the Twelve for this small blessing, which would make it much easier to lie low. He gave a fake name—T’nia Tia—but otherwise didn’t bother with any comprehensive disguise.

After a brief conversation filled with pleasantries, Fufucha moved on to the meat of the interview: quizzing Nia’a about all manner of plant trivia to determine his suitability for the guild. He did his best, but in the end she noted his knowledge about plant health was lacking. Nia’a won some points with his knowledge of the plants’ medicinal uses and how to prepare them, but, nevertheless, she warned Nia’a that in order to progress within the guild, he would need to show signs of progress on his knowledge of plant health, lumber, and—most daunting of all—interfacing with the people of Gridania as part of his craft.

Fufucha must have seen the look of apprehension on Nia’a’s face, because she immediately softened her tone. “Don’t you worry about all that for now,” she said. “There’s a reason we take on apprentices here. We’re always thrilled to welcome someone new to the world of horticulture. Let’s start you off with something more up your alley. Could you make an herbalist’s kit and show it to Yannie at the guild hall for review?”

Nia’a nodded and walked off to start his work. He found a secluded spot in the shade of a tall oak tree. He was a bit apprehensive about becoming a full-fledged guild member—he only planned to be in Gridania for a few weeks—but he may as well gain as much as possible from the opportunity. 

Taking a sprig of Tinolqa mistletoe—it was known as cha’daht back home—Nia’a focused on extracting the juices from the leaves of the plant. One thing he had learned early on was that extraction didn’t only benefit from physical precision; the salves worked better when the herbalist was calm, self-assured, and guided by Menphina. As Nia’a coaxed the healing juices from the leaves and out the stem, the rustling of the forest grew louder around him. His ears twitched and he realized he wasn’t hearing the rustling of leaves, but of the Elementals again.

Tail twitching in irritation at the new sensation, Nia’a looked up to confirm his suspicions just in time to see one of the horned children, the Tree-Blessed, duck behind a bush. Nia’a guessed the boy was trying to be inconspicuous, but even if his attempt at subterfuge would hide him from a hyur or elezen, Nia’a’s miqo’te senses made detecting the Tree-Blessed a simple task, even without the miasma of whispering that followed the boy.

Only after Nia'a had presented the herbalist’s kit to Yannie did the Tree-Blessed strike. “Greetings,” the boy said, all but barring Nia’a’s path out of the guild hall. “I am O-App-Pesi, a healer stationed near Quarrymill. I believe I have had the fortune to make your acquaintance near Buscarron’s Druthers in the recent past.”

Had he? Nia’a could recall no such thing, at least not in the past several months. The boy did look vaguely familiar, but… No. Nia’a couldn’t waste time rationalizing things. O-App-Pesi had to be lying. “Hi. My name is T’nia Tia,” he said, hoping that he could keep a straight face as he lied.

“T’nia Tia?” O-App-Pesi mused. “An… interesting name.” Nia’a silently prayed that he had inherited enough of his father’s looks to support the deceit.

“What do you want from me?” Nia’a asked. Best to be blunt about these things. Gridanians did not like lying, but they also didn’t like being vulgar or impolite, and they could talk a tree into bending sideways for them. Tree-Blessed especially, Nia’a imagined. Best to force them into a direct response.

“I couldn’t help but notice your work yesterday, in the aftermath of that tragedy in the North Shroud. The way you healed that injured refugee was… nothing short of miraculous, I must say.”

Nia’a narrowed his eyes.

“Of course, I have had my suspicions ever since we met a few years ago,” O-App-Pesi continued. Really, a few years? By no stretch of Nia’a’s imagination did that qualify as ‘recent’. “I count myself fortunate I was able to have you brought to Gridania to assess your talents personally. And, if your healing hands weren’t proof enough, I happened across you putting on a similar show for the Botanists’ Guild just now.”

A sudden shock of ice-cold anxiety rammed its way up Nia’a’s sternum and into his throat. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. He had thought himself so careful, so obscure, that he had been led by the nose right into a trap.

“Of course, it is odd to find a Rootslake native with such knowledge of the old woodland herbal tradition… yet who belongs to the Seekers of the Sun. Odder still to find one who prays to Menphina rather than Azeyma.”

This was bad. “How long have you been stalking me?” he hissed, his tail lashing to the side as he lost his grip on his anger.

O-App-Pesi made a placating gesture. “Please, calm yourself. I mean you no harm. I only require a bit of your time. When we have finished, I assure you will be able to return to your clan unmolested.”

Nia’a crossed his arms, tail whipping to the other side. “What do you want with me?” he asked.

O-App-Pesi smiled. He looked like a disrespectful child gloating over winning an argument with his mother and scoring an extra dessert. “I’m not sure if you’re aware that the way you have been using your healing poultices is far from the norm. By my observations, you have been subconsciously using aspects of conjury in ways we have not tested, and you are otherwise untrained. This is likely to pose a physical risk to your body in the years to come, especially as you have not been using a magical focus that I can discern.”

“What risks? This is how we’ve always done it,” Nia’a retorted, still too on-edge to keep his mouth clamped shut.

O-App-Pesi’s face remained the picture of serenity, but Nia’a thought he could detect the boy’s eyebrow twitch upward, just the slightest fraction. Damn it all, he thought. I’ve said something I really ought not to have.

The two stood, staring at each other, Nia’a glaring and O-App-Pesi scrutinizing, until Nia’a could take no more of this and turned to leave, only to be stopped in place by the wind itself. Nia’a heard it whispering as it coalesced around him to stall him.

“I care not to pry your ancestral teachings from you,” O-App-Pesi said, and Nia’a heard the unspoken ‘for now’ at the end. “Nevertheless, if you are using conjury, it is the law of the forest that you must first be taught and trained until you have passed the trials of the elementals and warded off the woodsin you otherwise risk invoking. Do I make myself clear… T’nia Tia ?”

The Tree-Blessed’s words were laced with the threat that, should Nia’a refuse, O-App-Pesi’s grace in allowing Nia’a the small deceit of a pseudonym could easily be revoked. Nia’a, trapped as he was, could only nod. “Fine,” he growled. 

It was not fine, of course.

Back during the aftermath of the Calamity, when the moon had fallen and the wyrm been banished, when the dead and dying littered the streets of every city in Eorzea, Nia’a had made the second greatest betrayal of his life. He knew that with Gridania focused on recovery, all the healers in the Shroud would need to pitch in. The prospect scared him: surrounded by conjurers, apothecaries, chirurgeons, and even those few Tree-Blessed who draped themselves in White and wielded the ancient magics of Amdapor, the risks were too high that his ancestral healing traditions would be recognized. 

So Nia’a had fled, again, abandoning all the wounded he might have otherwise saved.

Buscarron had heard him, had listened to his drunken sobs in the late hours of the night, had consoled him in his gruff way when Nia’a overshared about how sometimes he looked at his hands and all he could see was the bloodstains.

The thing about fate was that it always caught up in the end. Nia’a had been outmaneuvered by this O-App-Pesi and locked into place by his own troubled morality and healer’s creed. The only thing Nia’a seemed to be good at was running away, and he had made a rather elementary mistake by staying so nearby last time. He would not make the same mistake again.

He couldn’t go back to Buscarron’s, of course, and the Ixal had taken the North Shroud, which left only eastward. Toward the Sylphlands, and Ala Mhigo. He couldn’t buy maps of the area without arousing suspicion, of course, so he would have to wing it. He counted himself rather adept at making ends meet surviving in the forest, though since he didn’t hunt—even years later, Nia’a refused to kill animals—he would have to stay near bodies of water where fish could be found or else stay in contact with local traders for his rations of meat.

Sometimes, Nia’a hated being an obligate carnivore.

As Nia’a tore into the perfectly-roasted duck O-App-Pesi had brought him, he reconsidered. Learning Gridanian conjury might end up helping him, in the end. Especially if the Guild continued supplying prime cuts of meat as a daily bribe. Or, he thought, if the Elementals to which the Gridanians were so beholden continued allowing for the slaughter of these animals for meat.

Nia’a wasn’t a fool. Everyone in the Shroud knew how the Elementals enforced their will. Gridania had been the first nation to entreat with the Elementals and receive their direct blessing, but the Keeper tribes would hardly be there if the Elementals truly wished them gone. The Gridanian concept of Woodsin did not exactly translate, but Nia’a could see parallels in the rituals beloved by the two cultures. Interesting that, in the end, it mattered little whether the rituals were in Nophica’s name or Menphina’s. 

Exposing these rituals to the Gridanians was out of the question. From the way the Hearers at Stillglade Fane spoke to him, it was clear that they thought of all Keeper Miqo’te that had not been brought into the fold of Gridanian society as poachers and brigands, reaping Nophica’s bounty without sowing goodwill in exchange, and it was a matter of time before the Matron chose to smite them. Revealing the rites of Menphina would either see Nia’a branded a heretic, or see the Hearers suddenly find the need to invade the deepwood clans and ‘observe’ these rites.

Brother E-Sumi-Yan was the Treeblessed assigned to the Conjurer’s Guild. O-App-Pesi bowed deeply, as if Nia’a had done him a great personal service, before returning to Quarrymill to continue his work. E-Sumi-Yan seemed polite enough. He didn’t ask any probing questions, and exuded an aura of calmness. He asked Nia’a for two things in exchange for today’s meal and a comfortable bed for the night: firstly, that Nia’a demonstrate his process of healing; and secondly, that Nia’a attempt to use a traditional conjurer’s healing technique.

In the orange light of sunset, the shadows of the city’s trees stretched at incredible angles across the forest floor, twinkling like candle flames in the gaps between the leaves. E-Sumi-Yan led Nia’a and a second apprentice, whose name Nia’a hadn’t had the chance to ask, across the city from Stillglade Fane to a large building next to the Aetheryte Plaza. The patient Nia’a was to test his skills on was an apprentice carpenter who had cut himself with a saw blade—nothing life-threatening, in case anything went wrong.

With a patient in his hands, Nia’a pushed all his other worries aside and let a healer’s professionalism take their place. He quickly extracted three vials from his pouch: the largest one would serve to clean the wound and extract any infections; the second one, more of a paste, was a topical painkiller that would numb the wound and allow Nia’a to stitch it up; the third and smallest vial was the healing agent itself, which had to be made fresh every day or it would lose its potency. Given the severity of the wound, only a single drop would be needed.

E-Sumi-Yan watched, his ageless face betraying no reaction as Nia’a went through the process. Nia’a wondered if E-Sumi-Yan’s unflappable calm hid a mind as calculating and devious as O-App-Pesi’s, or if E-Sumi-Yan was just that secure in his devotion that nothing fazed him. As Nia’a finished stitching up the wound, E-Sumi-Yan raised a hand to his chin in a pensive gesture, though Nia’a could not have read the expression from his face alone. It was unsettling.

Nia’a cleared his throat. “Were this urgent, I would use a higher amount of the healing agent to accelerate recovery. I have an elixir of replenishment as well that recovers the body’s energy and recuperative capacity in the event of blood loss or severe internal damage.”

E-Sumi-Yan nodded slowly. “It is the mark of a wise healer that you are able to measure your patient’s needs, and not overexert yourself outside of an emergency situation. I confess, however, that I would like to see how well your methods serve you in a more severe situation.”

Nia’a frowned. “Wouldn’t that put a fragile patient at risk?”

E-Sumi-Yan smiled. “In this case, there will be no risk, as I will be here to administer a cure myself. Though we have no such cases at the moment, the next time my services are called upon, I wish to bring you to show what you are capable of—without exerting yourself, of course. You are as yet untrained in matters of conjury.”

The apprentice who had come with them piped up. “Matters of conjury? All he did was stitch up a wound. There wasn’t any magic involved.”

“Calm yourself, Syphie. I brought you here to train your eye for the uses of aether. Considering how little aether was channeled here today, I do not fault you for not noticing, but there was indeed a trickle of conjury guiding T’nia’s hand.” Nia’a started at hearing E-Sumi-Yan using his fake name. Surely O-App-Pesi had conveyed to his colleague that Nia’a’s identity was suspect. Why was the guildmaster indulging his deceit?

E-Sumi-Yan continued, voice taking on a more teacherly tone. “An ordinary painkiller would not have taken effect so quickly without a force massaging it into the patient’s body, and when T’nia cleaned the wound, the ointment served almost as a focus for the casting of Esuna to cleanse the poisons. While an approach rooted in conjury would have started with a Cure, the end effect of T’nia’s ministrations can be likened to a long-term Regeneration enchantment, worked into the medicine itself so that it lasts nearly twenty-four hours.”

Nia’a stared. Had he really been doing all that? He knew that there was a reason Mistress Tsalahn was selective with apprentices and strict about the rituals of training, but he hadn’t imagined her work to be that similar to the Gridanians’, or—according to legend—the Amdapori.

E-Sumi-Yan caught Nia’a’s face of surprise and smiled reassuringly. “O-App-Pesi told me the use of conjury he detected was subconscious and untrained. I see now that he was mistaken. Having observed closely, your use of magic is measured and precise. You must have been very well-taught. In your time at Stillglade Fane, rather than control, we will prioritize teaching you to command greater volumes of aether from the elements around you, at will and without leaning on an herbalism kit.”

“From the elements?” Nia’a asked.

“Conjury is a branch of magic that channels aether from the elements: water, earth, wind, and fire. This channeling must be borrowed with permission from the elements themselves, and so the Shroud, as the meeting ground between the Elementals and the races of man, is the perfect ground for the practice of conjury. Though we channel the aether into restorative magics, it is necessary for every young conjurer to attune to all four elements by passing four trials.”

Nia’a noticed that Sylphie looked as put out as he himself felt. “But what if I don’t want to channel the elements?” she whined. “I can heal the sick and wounded just fine already!” Inwardly, Nia’a shared the sentiment, though he knew it would be futile to voice it. Not when the Tree-Blessed already had their minds made up.

E-Sumi-Yan smiled again, and this time, Nia’a saw in his face the barest suggestion of the sternness that came with age, power, and responsibility. “The two of you will complete these trials. On the morrow, the two of you will begin this pilgrimage as a team. I have high hopes for the pair of you. Am I understood?”

Sylphie pouted, and Nia’a didn’t bother mimicking her because he knew it would do no good—it would only make him seem more childish in the ageless eyes of his guildmaster. “Yes,” he said plainly. He didn’t have to be enthusiastic about it.

E-Sumi-Yan’s tension and sternness left his face. “Very good. I will be returning to the guild now. T’nia, Sylphie. The evening is yours.” He bowed, just as deeply as O-App-Pesi had earlier, and walked away.

Nia’a looked at Sylphie. She was still pouting over the chore assigned to her tomorrow. He suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable with how the day had gone. The guild had made him a nice meal, promised him a nice bed, and suddenly all his fight had left him? His father would be appalled at how weak-willed Nia’a had become. Seized by a surge of disgust, Nia’a stalked away without so much as a nod to Sylphie. 

He’d figure out what to do tomorrow. Maybe he could lose Sylphie during the pilgrimage— what, and leave a teenager out in the woods alone and unattended? Nia’a sighed. He couldn’t fight, either, so unless Sylphie revealed an as-yet-undiscovered martial prowess, the pair would need a bodyguard. After hiring one for the day, Nia’a could slip away during the trial without feeling guilty.

Maybe. He was still undecided. Flee to the Sylphlands, near the border of Ala Mhigo, and head north into Abalathia’s Spine? Or stay in Gridania and learn traditional conjury?

…If Nia’a fled the Twelveswood, he would never find his father, would never earn the right to return home. If it meant he could keep up the search, Nia’a still had a handful of morals he could sacrifice.

Chapter Text

When Nia’a awoke in the morning, weighed down by the blanket of dread he had been carrying for years, it took him a second to remember where he was. The wood here was too shiny, as if it had been polished regularly; Buscarron did not have the time nor the inclination to so prune his Druthers. Which meant…

Ah, yes. The Roost: the inn attached to the Carline Canopy, the teashop which served a secondary purpose as the site of Gridania’s Adventurers’ Guild. 

Halfway through squeezing his eyes shut in frustration as the events of yesterday caught up to him, Nia’a paused. The Adventurer’s Guild was actually a good idea. He had not personally worked with the guildmaster before, but knew her by reputation as a strict but fair arbiter of all adventurers in the city, be they local or traveler. Most crucially, Miounne kept her surname a fiercely guarded secret; Nia’a had heard rumors that she was an Elezen from the Duskwight clans, which likely (hopefully!) meant she would sympathize with Nia’a’s own pseudonym as a Keeper of the Moon. 

Nia’a planned out the day in his head as he plodded through the necessary transactions with the guildmaster — yes, he was a botanist; no, he didn’t want to register as an adventurer; no, he did not have a permanent address within the city, so she would need to hold his mail; he was here because he needed to post a job for a capable adventurer. Miounne nodded politely, jotting down the pertinent information in a fluid, looping script that seemed to Nia’a too ornamental to be entirely practical. But then, what did Nia’a know about the common Eorzean script? Perhaps they were all like that. He could not recall.

Any adventurer willing to escort him would be fine, he informed her, so long as they were not from the Conjurer’s Guild, as the party would already consist of two budding healers and would need a more physical form of protection. There were few adventurers actually within the city at the moment, she informed him, so would he be alright with hiring a member of the local combat guilds? The thought gave him pause. A local would always be a risk when it came to concealing a false identity. Eventually, Nia’a assented. Nobody remembered him, regardless of what he might have done years ago. An obnoxious taunting voice in the recesses of his mind insisted that the false identity plan was a pointless waste of time and brainpower, but Nia’a shrugged it off as he always did.

As Miounne stepped away from the desk to make a few brief calls on her linkpearl, Nia’a dwelled on his dilemma from yesterday. E-Sumi-Yan had assigned Nia’a and Sylphie to the traditional conjurer’s pilgrimage, and Nia’a was considering actually complying with the Tree-Blessed’s wishes. 

Miounne returned, smiling warmly. “We’ve sent a request to the guilds and located a suitable escort for your travels today. To whom should we assess the recruitment fees?”

That was a good question. Nia’a had no money of his own, but he would be earning some, working for Fufucha, so he could carry the costs. But the look in Miounne’s eyes suggested a deeper significance to the question. Indeed, her wording implied a reluctance to charge Nia’a himself for protection on guild business. He supposed she would know how business practices worked around here.

“Stillglade Fane,” he replied. An idea hit him. “Brother O-App-Pesi.” The move was petty and impulsive, and Nia’a felt ashamed of himself immediately after voicing it. True, O-App-Pesi had, apparently, stalked him for years, prying into the affairs of the Keeper clans — but if Nia’a badgered the man with a thousand pokes and nudges in exchange, he would only further imperil his tribe’s privacy. And for what? A vindicated ego? 

What a headache.

Miounne frowned — only slightly, but it was still a frown, Nia’a thought — though in the end she nodded her assent. “Very well. I would have you seek out one Leih Aliapoh at the Archers’ Guild. She has agreed to escort yourself and Sylphie Webb for the day.”

Nia’a let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Guildmistress.” He made an attempt at a bow and scurried out into the light of the dawn.

On his way to the Quiver’s Hold, Nia’a had the misfortune of not watching his surroundings carefully enough. He trotted into the field, in broad daylight. A stern — no, an outright hostile Elezen man spotted him from across the courtyard and openly scoffed.

“Who might you be?” the Elezen heckled. “Another moon-drunk savage, here to plunder our guild’s knowledge of the bow?”

Oh, he was one of those . Nia'a supposed the usual self-righteousness that kept Gridanians like this man from being confrontational toward Keepers must have faded since the war had ended and they no longer shared a common enemy.

“T’nia Tia,” he mumbled. “A client for the guild.” 

The Elezen’s gaze lost its fervor immediately. Funny how Seekers of the Sun were given preferential treatment, due to not being locals, in a city that was otherwise so distrusting of outsiders. Better a traveler than a poor neighbor, in this man’s mind. He did not apologize for his disrespect, of course, but Nia’a was not the kind of prey he wanted, so his hawk’s eye lost interest. “I assume the job went to Leih? I’ll never understand why the guildmaster entrusts her with jobs around here, but very well. You will find her inside.”

Truly awful.

But engaging with Leih was worse in its own way. “You’re Nia’a, right?” she asked as soon as he stepped inside. Eyes around the room turned to him, and he felt the color drain from his face. He could only hope that none of the onlookers was knowledgeable enough to catch the minutiae of Keeper pronunciation. 

“Yes, that’s me, T’nia Tia!” he said with an attempt at a jovial smile and a clumsy simulacrum of a bow. 

Leih’s eyes narrowed. She knew him, then. Or at least knew of him. How? Nobody else Nia’a had met in Gridania still bore any memories of him from before Carteneau. 

“Well then, T’nia, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” she finally said, and her voice didn’t even sound convincing to Nia’a’s ears. No, his best option now was to flee. 

“Shall we get going?” he asked, hoping his impatience did not show on his face. But his ears were flatter against his head, and Leih at least would be able to read his stress from yalms away.

Indeed, they had barely left the Archers’ Guild before Leih hissed, “What’s with that fake name? You’re not fooling anyone!”

Instead of whispering back, Nia’a gestured with a tilt of his head towards where the rude Elezen from earlier stood, adjusting the tension in his bow.

“Ohhh, I see,” Leih mused. Her voice had an edge to it, now. “You’re afraid of having to go through what the rest of us do, here in the city. So you’re pretending to be your father’s son, and that’s why your mother hasn’t seen you in—”

“That’s not it!” Nia’a snapped. Gods, he should have gone with the Elezen. “How do you even know about my father, anyway? I’ve never met you before!”

“I’m from the Rootlake! It’s not like a woman marrying a Seeker of the Sun is commonplace news! People talk . Everyone thought you died. The runaway healer? The pacifist herbalist? Everyone was worried sick, since you never carried a weapon with you.” She scanned him up and down. “And it seems you still don’t have one, which explains why you’re hiring a guild escort.”

Nia’a scowled and made to stalk off in the direction of the Canopy. 

“Hey!” Leih had to jog to catch up to him. “Where do you think you’re going all on your own? You could die out there!” 

Nia’a flushed. There weren’t any people around, presently — the aetheryte plaza was still behind them — but Leih should know better than to yell such things. “If I’m such an embarrassment to you, wouldn’t you be grateful?”

She looked hurt. “I— I didn’t say I want you dead . What is wrong with you? Why are you so bitter and… Oh.” Recognition flickered in her eyes. “That’s why you’re here, why you’re scared, isn’t it? They’re blackmailing you too?”

Nia’a didn’t say anything, just trudged forward. 

Leih gasped. “That’s why you want them to think you’re a Tia! So they leave your family alone — leave our clan alone. That’s why you’re hiding from them? For their own protection?”

Nia’a whirled around. “Can we please not discuss my sordid misspent youth as a shame to my lineage in the middle of town where everyone can hear?!” he hissed. 

Silence fell. The wind calmly rustled the leaves through the trees. In the distance, a hawker bellowed something or other about wooden trinkets. 

Truthfully, nobody was around to overhear their conversation. Nia’s outburst was out of order. Uncalled for. Unbecoming. “I— I’m sorry, I’ve had a long week. Can— I’m sorry, I’ll… Can I… I need to lie down for a bit. It’s been a long week.”

Keeping his eyes fixed on the forest floor — he didn’t want to see the injury written across Leih’s face, not now, not ever — he slipped quietly down a side path and into the dense underbrush behind the Carline Canopy toward Black Tea Brook.

When he first joined Gridania’s forces during the war on Garlemald, this brook had been a favorite spot of his. Nestled in the crevices just below the town’s aetheryte, just out of sight from the massive water mills that powered the Carline Canopy, it was a small place of respite from the bustle of the city. It reminded him of the streams of the Rootlake.

It was an interesting experience, returning here and hearing the elementals sing to him. He slowed his breathing in time with the murmuring of the water and the chattering of the soil. It wasn’t exactly relaxing, and even the sight of his favorite place couldn’t quite set his mind at ease, but it helped.

He lost track of the amount of time he spent, sprawling listlessly at the forest’s edge, staring vacantly at the waters as if they could wash it all away. At least the whispering was nice. Was soothing. It sounded almost like a song.

Mind elsewhere, Nia’a barely noticed when his foot slid into the river. He shook it once or twice, sending drops flying — the elementals sounded like chimes as they splashed against the dry stones. The bottom cuff of Nia’s trousers was soaked, and his ankle was quite cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It would dry on its own. 

He sat, listening to the chirping of the world around him. Time slowed down. Before Nia’a could even notice, he was pulled into the first restful sleep he had had in weeks. 

Slightly bleary and with the ankle of his trousers damp where his foot had fallen into the stream, Nia’a awoke and found himself — surprisingly — in a less negative mood than usual. The time spent here really had helped. Nia’a felt guilty for not having attempted it earlier.

It took only a short while to find that Leih had returned to her guild. Nia’a approached her contritely — he had prepared an apology, but she waved it off. He didn’t think she could have forgiven him that quickly; more likely she just didn’t want to hear more of his excuses. Well, fair enough. If he were in her position, he wouldn’t want to press the issue any further either.

Leih gathered her bow and fixed it to her back. “Alright. Let’s get started, for real this time. Where’s your other party member? Still at Stillglade?”

“Let’s hope so,” Nia’a replied. “She doesn’t want to perform the pilgrimage, so she may have fled.” If she had, Nia’a would have an excuse to join her. But the idea seemed so childish now that Nia’a had gotten over a very public altercation with his guild-hired escort. 

Sylphie was, thankfully, still in Stillglade Fane, sitting through a lecture from E-Sumi-Yan. When she saw Nia’a, her face brightened and she leapt up and ran towards him. E-Sumi-Yan, interrupted midway through a sentence, just sighed and shook his head.

“What took you so long?” she hissed. “E-Sumi had to invent about five new things to scold me for. Let’s be off, before he remembers a sixth.”

With that, Sylphie dashed out of the Conjurers’ Guild with such enthusiasm to be free of her tutors that Leih and Nia’a had to hasten their gait in order to keep up. The rest of the city flew by in a blur of colors and noise until, at last, the trio stood outside the Blue Badger Gate.

Sylphie looked rather small and unsure, dwarfed by the wooden gate as she was. The bustle of the crowd had given way to the quiet vastness of the forest. It was a well-used section of the forest; the grass underfoot had been trodden down by centuries of use, and the treeline was broken up by nearby outposts and wooden spires. The boughs overhead were sparse here, too. Even the Gridanians’ sacred Twelveswood could not escape the ravages of human cohabitation.

Eventually, Leih broke the uncomfortable silence. “Where are we heading?” she asked as she removed her bow from where it hung at her back.

“To the Hedgetree near the Hawthorne Hut,” Nia’a answered. He gestured to Sylphie. “We have a flask of purified water we must use in our pilgrimage.”

“And once we do that, we need to find Brother Joacin,” Sylphie added. “He’s the Hearer who knows most about water elementals. He should be at the Hawthorne Hut along with Sister Kan-E.”

Really? The Conjurers hadn’t mentioned the presence of a Tree-Blessed to Nia’a. He grumbled at the indignity as he fell into line behind Leih’s confident figure. 

He let his grumbling give way to silence as they passed into the eastern corner of the Shroud. The Elementals’ whispering picked up as they traveled. Nia’a tried to determine what they were whispering about, but to no avail. The noises were as alien as they had been when he first heard them.

The Eastern Hedgetree was a sad, dismal looking tree standing in the towering shadow of the Bramble Patch. Once upon a time it had been tall and majestic, but now it stood crooked, many of its branches sheared off years ago. It had withstood a fire once, when Nia’a was yet very young. But despite all the hardships, it still stood, maintaining the protective Shroud over the forest so many in Eorzea called home.

With the offering of the sacred water completed, Nia’a and Sylphie made ready to return. Leih stood nearby, bow at the ready. She had already loosed a number of arrows at a pack of agitated antelope stags to chase them away.

“Hey, T’nia. Can I tell you a secret?” Sylphie asked in a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if the Elementals really exist at all. Pouring a flask of water on an old tree — I mean, really? Nothing happened. It all seems so pointless. Silly, even.”

Nia’a hummed noncommittally. Sometimes the rituals did seem silly. There was more to it than that, of course. The Elementals did exist; Nia’a knew that for a fact. The tree, the soil, the water, even the air around them had erupted in a chorus of pleasant harmonies the second the blessed water soaked into the surrounding Hedgetree. To Nia’a’s ears, at least.

Completing a ‘padjal’ ritual was an interesting experience. It wasn’t unlike the rituals he had grown up with — mix a cauldron of water from the source springs of the Rootlake with one of the sacred herbs, let it boil from new moon to full, and then return it to the Rootlake at the darkest part of night. There were different herbs for each occasion, but the most sacred were the rosemary, trillium, and camellias. They could only be harvested at specific times of the day to preserve their essence, so only the most skilled Keepers were sent out to gather them. Nia’a wasn’t sure how the Hearers purified and blessed the water for their own rituals, but it probably worked in a similar way.

Still, Nia’a could sympathize with Sylphie’s rebelliousness. He himself had rebelled, in a sense, against the martial norms of his clan. The Tree-Blessed expected him and Sylphie to immediately fall in line and obey, while offering little incentive to do so other than fear and reverence towards the Elementals. It was frustrating and humiliating and it made Nia’a’s hackles rise.

But Nia’a would not be quick to describe himself as truly rebellious — he was fond of traditions and rituals, not breaking norms and blazing new paths. It was so much easier to accomplish things when there were step-by-step instructions rooted in centuries of practice. It was dealing with the new and unusual that gave Nia’a headaches.

Meeting Sister Kan-E-Senna that evening was much like meeting the rest of the Tree-Blessed, though thoughts fizzled inside Nia’a’s fractured memory. He had seen her before, hadn’t he? When he had come to Gridania the first time, before Carteneau. She had led the Twin Adder, and though Nia’a had been a lowly field medic and had no reason to speak with her directly, he might have attended a speech or ceremony where Kan-E-Senna had been present. He could not be certain. 

Like the other Tree-Blessed, Kan-E-Senna’s face betrayed almost none of her internal thoughts. She seemed to glide from place to place instead of walking, as if the material world were beneath her. Yet despite her airs, Nia’a could tell she was younger than the others he had met by the way she held herself. Her robe of pure white wrapped around her as if to cloak her within the symbol of her station. Her face was decorated in an attempt to appear more physically mature. Even the way she had her travel packs ready spoke to a youthful adventurousness, a sort of fierceness and desperation to prove oneself that every deepwoods clan knew how to spot in a new huntress who had just claimed her title for the first time.

Her voice, at least, was as serene as E-Sumi-Yan’s had been. “T’nia, Sylphie. It warms my heart to see you are well. The Elementals have spoken to me of your progress with your pilgrimage.” Kan-E’s eyes shifted in what might have been intended to be a smile. “In your time with the Conjurers’ Guild, you will additionally visit the Hedgetrees of Earth and Air. …Would that the Hedgetree of Fire yet stood.” Her voice carried undercurrents of unimaginable loss.

“What became of it?” Nia’a asked.

“It was destroyed, along with much of the West Shroud, when Dalamud fell. Despite our best efforts, we have been unable to clear the wreckage from the crash site to revitalize the region.” 

The conversation fell silent, then — abruptly, as if just noticing her solemnitude — she smiled. “Pray, do not trouble yourselves over it now. Once you complete your training, perhaps Gridania can make use of your talents in restoring the region. For now, it is growing dark. We must eat, and then you shall need to sleep. Joacin has prepared beds for you and your bodyguard.”

The meal was terrible: naught but a bland bowl of salad. Nia’a stared glumly at the vegetables, working up the willpower to force himself to eat. Where was the meat? Surely Leih could have finished off one of the antelopes earlier and brought it to camp. Or would that have been “forbidden by the Elementals?” He had not heard anything from them in response to Leih’s hunting earlier. Granted, he had not been listening that intently. But still. Surely Kan-E-Senna did not want Nia’a to starve and die out here. Surely not.

Nia’a was still pouting over the lack of meat in his meal when he slipped into another night’s uneasy slumber. 

The first sign that something was wrong was when the whispers changed.

Somehow, over the past day or two, the sounds from the Elementals had truly faded into the background cacophony of forest life. The burbling of a brook or the whistling of wind through the boughs overhead were much the same as the soft and constant hum of the nature spirits to whose presence Nia’a had only recently been made privy. Barring any special circumstances, it was surprisingly easy to forget they were even there.

Most of the time.

But in the middle of the night, the noise that awoke Nia’a from his slumber was not a soft and constant hum. It was the noise of a pack of prey animals stranded in the lair of the hunter; it was the hubbub of a crowd of onlookers when some minor catastrophe was occurring; it was the discordant peal that accompanied the Garlean intrusion; it was nails on a chalkboard; it was the rush of water that came with the breaking of a dam; it was the crackling of a wildfire tearing through a homestead.  It was loud, and it was unpleasant, and it woke Nia’a up.

Squinting his eyes shut (as if it would have any effect on shutting out the noises), Nia’a looked around to get his bearings. He was outside — he often liked sleeping outside, as long as he had sufficient shade — but the rest of the travelers were inside the Hut. Nothing was visibly off, at least to Nia’a’s eyes. A band of Wood Wailers stood sentry nearby. Leih stood with them, chatting about something-or-other in a low voice so as not to disturb their surroundings.

Something was off, but… what?

The door to the Hut swung open, and Brother Joacim and Sister Kan-E-Senna walked out at a brisk pace. Joacin looked alarmed, like he had dressed in a hurry; Kan-E looked for all the world as if she were unhurried, but she had to be at least as frightened as Joacim. Anyone who had heard the screaming would be.

Something was going to happen.

Nia’a put his head back down and closed his eyes. He mustn’t let slip that he had heard the Elementals as well, not with one of the Tree-Blessed nearby and monitoring him. They would take him in for testing and he would never see his family again.

Over the dissonant wailing of the Elementals, Nia’a heard a shock of flapping wings. A flock of birds must have taken flight from the trees nearby. Odd for this hour of the night. He thought he heard the thundering of hoofbeats as well. Something was happening. Something was—

The ground shook.

It was the Earth Elementals who bellowed the loudest. Nia’a covered his ears. The Wood Wailers threw themselves to the ground or clutched the support beams nearby.

Nia’a sat up. The shaking stopped, and the screams of the Elementals faded out. They were still yelling, but it was off in the distance. Probably near the epicenter. 

Sylphie came stumbling out of the Hut. “What’s going on? What was that?” 

Kan-E-Senna’s voice was uncharacteristically clipped. Urgent. “An earthquake. It seems to have come from the Hedgetree of Earth, in North Shroud. There may be wounded. We must go at once. You are skilled in Healing, are you not? Come with me. Both of you.”

“North Shroud?” Nia’a repeated. “But North Shroud was taken over by the Ixal only a day or two ago.”

Kan-E-Senna set her jaw grimly. “Then let us pray that only these intruders were harmed in the quake. Nevertheless, it would seem the next step of your pilgrimage starts immediately.” No, the urgency in her voice was not uncharacteristic at all. This was the true Kan-E-Senna. This was why she had been chosen five years ago to lead Gridania into Carteneau.

Sylphie met Nia’a’s eyes, worry written all over her face. She was scared. She was young. Though her appearance was all wrong, she reminded Nia’a of his younger sister. With effort, he twisted his face into a comforting expression. They would be fine. After a moment, Sylphie’s worry began to subside. Another moment or two, and her attention redoubled. Was there something on his face? Sylphie looked… curious? Inquisitive? With a jolt, Nia’a realized what she had seen. Panic flooded into his gut, but it was too late. He could not undo what had been done.

Oblivious to the doom that spilled from her mouth, Sylphie gave voice to her impulse. “Hey. T’nia,” she asked, “what’s wrong with your eyes? They’re all round right now. Like a Keeper’s eyes. Are you… Wait, you couldn’t be…”

Would that the earth had opened up beneath him and swallowed him during his slumber. 

Kan-E-Senna’s eyes turned to glance quickly at Nia’a’s form, and he shivered. The wrath of the Elementals would be a much more peaceful end than whatever the Tree-Blessed could contrive.

But no wrath came. “It is of no importance,” Kan-E-Senna said. Her voice suggested a rebuke — but of what? “What matters is the pair of you are here, tonight, with a bounty of healing magic and with lives in need of saving. We depart at once.”

With a swish of her cloak, Kan-E-Senna marched out of the campsite. Her white attire, gleaming in the moonlight, looked more like armor than anything else now. A hushed chorus of gossiping Elementals bobbed after her as she carved a path for the party. She was the very embodiment of the wrath of Menphina or Nophica. If E-Sumi-Yan was the sage counsel of the Seedseers, Kan-E-Senna was their judgment. It was very difficult for Nia’a not to admire her.

Tonight, Nia’a would stride into battle under the direct command of the leader of the Order of the Twin Adder for the first time since Carteneau. His own judgment would have to wait.

Chapter Text

Night fell. Celestinaux opened his eyes. 

His injuries didn't hurt anymore. They were nothing to him. His soul was being rent apart by grief; how could a few scrapes even compare? But if he quashed down the grief entirely, he could manage to stand. 

He breathed in pain and exhaled grief. It felt trite even in his own brain; this was grief? Celestinaux had been stabbed in the abdomen! He very easily could have died out there, bled out like his—

He very easily could have, should have died out there! The wound had not been shallow. It had truly been the worst pain he had ever sustained in his twenty years of life. But it was truly nothing compared to the churning, the endless churning that threatened to tear him apart with each breath—

It hurt. She had been running for her spear, for gods’ sake— 

There was no mortal agony that could ever compare. Gods, this had to be a nightmare. It had to be! It had to be!

Celestinaux’s breathing — inhale pain, exhale grief — quickened as his chest tightened. The barely-healed wound, imprisoned under layers of bandages, stung. He was feeling lightheaded. 

Why — why had he woken up? If this was a nightmare, why couldn’t he escape it? Blindly he reached up to scratch at his face.

Distantly he registered the feeling of pain under his fingernails.

Not a dream then. Gods, he was angry. 

…No. Not angry. His churning stomach didn’t seem capable of firing up into good, proper anger. It didn’t seem capable of… much of anything, really. He couldn't be anything. 

He wasn't anything. Not anymore.

The roiling subsided.

He began to breathe again. Slowly, this time. His head throbbed — was that from the hyperventilating? He would need to manage his breathing better if he was to avenge—

If he was to return to his—

Get a grip! he told himself. Plenty of time for wallowing later! 

It was not precisely a lie. There would be plenty of time for wallowing in Halone’s halls. Right now, Celestinaux had a job to do. The only thing he had space for in his mind was avenging his family.

That was all.

Celestinaux bandaged up his grief and set it beside his wound. He fluttered like an autumn leaf as he once more pushed himself onto his feet from where he had collapsed back onto the bed. 

That was no good. He needed to stay balanced. But at least he could stand. The chirurgeons (or whatever passed for such in these parts) thought him too feeble. Their mistake. 

(He had almost been too feeble, he reminded himself. He didn’t dare get a swelled head.)

Celestinaux slipped out the door and crept out of the infirmary into the town of Gridania. The grief was manageable; once or twice the strain pushed him into a limp, but nothing he couldn’t push down with practice.

The grief was manageable. He was managing it.

The air had a chill to it, a bite that came with the fall of darkness over the land. The streets were lit, though, with massive wooden lamps that proclaimed the Gridanian district where he found himself. 

Gridania was an unfamiliar world to him. He had never been inside the city. His family's house was to the north and west, in the hamlet of Hystmill. Their house, to be precise, but not their home. Celestinaux would never debase himself that far.

Hyrstmill wasn't home. No, Celestinaux’s home was the Coerthan village of Hemlock, which had been buried in snow when the eternal winter came after the Calamity.

Hyrstmill wasn't home, which made it all the more infuriating that his parents had died over the awful place. 

Hyrstmill wasn't home, which made it a grave insult that Celestinaux now had to… to avenge it. 

He grabbed a wooden spear leaning against a building (the Lancers’ Guild? Celestinaux noted its location for future reference) as he felt himself remember how to walk. The cold sting of the night air was… refreshing. His head felt clearer now, too. He let his grief and anger fall away like shedding a dead skin. It would all be over soon. He scanned the town around him. If he knew his directions right, Hyrstmill would be… that way. To the north and west.

(Much further to the north and west lay Coerthas. Hyrstmill was the first stepping stone on the path to Ishgard. As if his parents had sought refuge in Gridania, but kept the smallest portion of Coerthas in their hearts and on the horizon.)

It took a short time — a few minutes, no more — for Celestinaux to get his bearings. He had never been to the city of Gridania, even though his parents lived in the village right beside it. Why should he have? He didn’t even want to be here. He wanted to return to Hemlock, and that was all.

That was all.

It was never going to happen. Not for his parents, anyway. The dream was dead before the story even started.

His fingers tightened their grip on the haft of the spear he held. 

The treeline of Hyrstmill came into view. Celestinaux ignored the stings imparted to him by the thorns and branches that barred the offroad path past the Black Boar Gate. He spied figures standing sentry over the hamlet, dark though the night was. He would be able to slay them, but not undetected.

But what did that matter? He didn’t come here to win a battle. He came here simply to avenge his parents. 

He would still need to think smart. The entire troupe of birdmen that had marched into Hyrstmill would have to bleed before Celestinaux would allow himself to fall. Here he was, one day out from nearly bleeding out, and scheming to take on an entire stronghold, alone? 

His head throbbed. The grief was manageable. As long as he kept reminding himself of that, he could do anything. He could—

He knelt down to give himself more cover. Then he wrapped his coat closer around himself to block out the biting wind, and he watched.

There were two sentries: one standing over the southwest ingress to the village, and one guarding the former manor house. No other Ixal walked the village this late at night, so Celestinaux could not be certain if they were even still here. Maybe revenge would have to wait. 

He crept toward the manor house. It had not been lived in for years, not since Elenjya had gotten married and moved away. It was the largest and most sturdy of the Hyrstmill buildings, so it was a likely guess for the occupying Ixal’s base of operations. That, and it had a dedicated guard posted at its entrance.

Celestinaux crept through the underbrush as silently as he could. It was not very silent, all things told — just how the locals managed it he would very much like to know — but the sentry’s attention did not turn to him, which was enough of a success. Once he made it to the treeline, he crept along the perimeter at a slow crouch to avoid being seen in the Ixal’s periphery as he slowly maneuvered himself to be in what he imagined must be its blind spot.

Those few childhood lessons by Ser Gorgagne were finally paying off. The Ixal were not dragons, but close enough when it came to escaping their notice. 

And, when struck by a flimsy wooden spear from behind, Ixal died much more easily.

Celestinaux stood still for several seconds, panting. The beast’s blood had sprayed all across the ground and probably Celestinaux’s own clothes, but that didn’t matter now. Not when whatever the manor held was still—

Someone shoved a hand over Celestinaux’s mouth and tried to drag him to the ground.

He lashed out with his spear, only to have it effortlessly blocked and wrested from his grip. His next instinct was to scream, but that would be the absolute worst thing he could do right now. Besides, the hand was human. Not Ixal.

“What in the seven hells d’you think you’re doing here?!” whispered a surprisingly light female voice. “You’re going to get all of us caught!”

…All of them? How many more were there?

“Who are you?” Celestinaux whispered back.

“Shh! You whisper too loud,” the female voice responded. “I’m Yda. And I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I’m on a very sensitive rescue mission. The Ixal took a very important prisoner, and I’m here to break him out.”

Celestinaux swallowed. 

A prisoner. Someone who needed to be broken out.

Well, it was better to have someone to rescue than someone to avenge. (Why couldn’t it have been my parents?! Why weren’t they important enough to leave alive?!)

“...How can I help?” he whispered back.

Yda sighed. “Just don’t get in our way. Stand guard out here and throw a rock through the window if it looks like they’re sending reinforcements. Then flee through the woods for your life. Ixal can’t see fine details through the foliage in the dark; they’re… what was it? Diurnal.”

Celestinaux bit back a rude reply. 

Yda shook herself: “Here I am getting carried away. Look, you just— stay safe, alright? I’ll be back quickly.”

She vanished into the manor. The biting night air whispered around the forest, trees shivering at its touch. Winter would be here soon.

Celestinaux looked around. He neither saw nor heard any sort of movement. His spear — the stolen spear he handled dangled limply in his grip. It was too late at night to stand around listening to the breeze.

He craned his neck to try and catch a glimpse of… something. The implacable dark stared back, unfeeling.

Hyrstmill wasn't home. In the shadows it was unrecognizable. 

Seized by a fit of frustration at the avalanche of nothing that had swallowed the night and choked his revenge mission — the one thing he had to his name — Celestinaux scrabbled on the ground for a pebble and threw it in the direction of what he assumed to be the manor house’s window.

The stone thunked impotently off the softwood and rolled to a stop in the soil. It sat there, waiting. Just like Celestinaux. He was a stone in the night — dull, immobile.

That was all.

Silence returned. Hours passed, or minutes, or some span of time that was weighing Celestinaux down bit by bit.

Just what was taking her so long? His blood ran cold. Were there more Ixal inside the house? Did Yda get captured? Ambushed? Slain?

Celestinaux shook off his boredom and rushed in.

There were lots of Ixal bodies on the floor around the manor halls. He couldn’t hear anything; he would have expected murmurs; the clacking of talons and the shrill, whistle-like breaths the invaders made as they… whatever it was they were doing here. 

But now there was nothing but silence. Perhaps they were all dead.

He should have felt glad they were dead. Instead he felt nothing as he trudged his way through the cramped halls, blood sticking to the bottom of his boots. 

At the door leading to the cellar, finally Celestinaux heard sounds of life. What sounded like a heated argument wafted through the blood-tinged air. He crept closer to try to make out the ruckus.

It was a man’s voice, hard to understand from how heavily the words were slurred. “—tol’ ye already, I don’ give a rat’s arse who or (hic) what ye are, I ain’t escapin’ one prison (hic) to land meself in another one! I (hic) can tell from yer eyes that bitch Rowena sen’ ye t’ (hic) bury me in more debt. The birdmen are crazy, sure, but at least they (hic) give me all the ale I could dream of!”

Yda’s voice followed. When she wasn’t whispering, her voice was higher pitched than Celestinaux had expected. Almost princess-like, if not for the roughness of her words. “Will you get a hold of yourself! I don’t know any Rowena, but I’m not here to take you prisoner! We’re trying to save your godsdamned life! The Scions would happily recruit you for your skills as an artisan, not at spearpoint but through an honest and fair commission — do you have no pride at all?! These are your people you would sell out!”

The man’s response was in a low voice, but Celestinaux had heard enough. This was the so-vaunted rescue mission? None of these people were worth any of this. He squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough to scrunch up his entire face. Better to just set the whole village to the torch and end the occupying Ixal. More respectful to the dead, too. Their ashes could sleep peacefully, at least. Celestinaux doubted his parents had been buried at all, but if they were, it was surely in the Gridanian fashion, foregoing all the Halonic rites. Despicable.

That was, of course, if their remains had been discovered. Now that he thought about it, Celestinaux wasn’t sure they hadn’t ended up in one of the Ixal cookpots. His breathing began to come quicker and shallower. How dare they— 

His face distorted with disgust, and he took a step back. No way in hells— their bodies, their lifeless, limp bodies— nothing more than—

A growl rose in his throat. He would kill every last one of them than risk allowing such desecration to go unpunished. And he would survive to read the verses to send their souls up to— 

An Ixal bone crunched under his boot. 

He jumped, lashing out behind him. No one was there. Celestinaux caught his breath. It was an Ixal arm caught beneath his boot. That was all.

That was all.

He leaned against the wall and tried to catch his thoughts. The grief, he tried to remind himself as he slowed his breathing, is manageable.

The Ixal body he had nearly tripped over was slumped against the wall, its head smashed into the wood paneling. There was an overturned stool beside it — had it been sitting? Judging by the angle of its limbs, it had been caught entirely by surprise, its weapon just out of reach — it barely had time to react, but its soldier instincts taught it to look for a weapon, the closest weapon — the closest thing she could find was the pitchfork against the stable wall — the birdman had been too slow, tripped over the stool — her armor was tarnishing in the attic instead of protecting her from — the Ixal’s horned skull was twisted around on its neck, its head colliding with — the soft, tilled ground, her autumn hair spilling and — spilling and spilling and spilling and

Celestinaux’s hands were covered in blood before he realized he had grabbed the caved-in Ixal skull. Seized with disgust and horror and fury, Celestinaux slammed the Ixal’s head once — twice — thrice — into the dented manor wall.

He heard it. He heard it over and over and over and over — the sickening crunch, the dull thud, the splintering — the noise of the spear being driven in through the back of the spine and knocking her off balance — then as it withdrew, catching on her —

Celestinaux was on his knees in the pool of blood, doubled over, as he vomited the contents of his stomach (largely blood).

His head throbbed. His skin felt too tight. He would wager his wound had opened again. He was going to die here, having avenged nobody.

He couldn’t hear anything but a high-pitched ringing and the repetitive crunch of the Ixal corpse he had defiled echoing in his head over and over and over and over. 

Had he made too much noise? Yes: the cellar door creaked open. 

Yda stood, arms in a fighting stance before she recognized Celestinaux there. “You! What are you doing here?!”

Celestinaux swallowed. He couldn’t appear weak, not in front of… “I was just…” The grief is manageable! he scolded himself. Pull yourself together!

Yda sniffed. Her hands were clean of blood — her hora at her belt bore all the weight of her onslaught. “This is no place for an adventurer! I told you to keep watch outside, in case—”

Celestinaux, partway to his feet, felt himself snap. “In case the birds come back to pick off you and the spineless, gutless blacksmith?”

Said blacksmith — the town drunkard whose name Celestinaux had never managed to learn — cleared his throat right behind Yda. “Heard that, did ye? I… It weren’t me best moment. I didn’t mean it, o’ course, but… Hells, it’s hard to feel like there’s any hope at all when things get this bleak. But she sobered me right up, so she did.” He nodded in Celestinaux’s direction, a fresh bruise on his cheek still red in the lamplight. “I’m sorry about yer ma an’ pa, lad. I know how—”

Celestinaux let out a wordless scream, a roar of all the pain he had ever felt, and charged at the man, shouldering Yda out of the way—

—except Yda didn’t let him. “Get a hold of yourself!” she hissed. “I get it — gods, I get it, I really, truly do — but there’s a time for mourning that won’t get us all killed before we can set things right!”

She was easy to ignore. Everything was easy to ignore. Celestinaux didn’t want to hear anyone talk to him about grief like they— like they could possibly understand! 

Celestinaux gathered more of his strength and launched himself again in an attempt to shove past Yda, but no matter what he did, she held him back. She was strong, for how slight her frame was, and Celestinaux was genuinely surprised at how effortlessly she prevented him from gaining so much as an ilm. But Celestinaux flailed his long, Elezen limbs in the drunkard’s direction with all the vile, murderous fury he could muster. 

What felt like minutes passed before Celestinaux fell slack, spots appearing in his vision as his voice shredded his throat from roar after roar. He was kneeling on the bloodstained wooden floor — Yda must have set him down — hacking and retching as his limbs gesticulated violently of their own accord.

“Oh shit, you’re bleeding—” Yda said somewhere above him.

Was he? He hadn’t noticed. Gods, he truly was pathetic, wasn’t he? He couldn’t avenge anyone.

He wished he had never been born.

Celestinaux jolted awake. Where was he? He sat up, grabbing for his spear, he must have dropped it — no, he couldn’t sit up. Shit. He couldn’t sit up. 

Where was his spear? Where was he? What was going on?

He began to thrash with his arms and kick with his legs. If someone had captured him, he would not let them do him in without at least making the ordeal as miserable and unpleasant for them as he could. 

“Steady now!” a sharp voice called. Celestinaux looked over.

It was an older Elezen man, in a deep blue robe. Celestinaux recognized him. He had been the Hearer in Fallgourd Float, not a long walk from Hyrstmill. “Ser!” Celestinaux cried. It was not the correct honorific — but Celestinaux did not know what terms the Gridanians used, so it would suffice. “Does… What news of Hyrstmill?”

It had been a dream — a nightmare — surely —

The man’s face became drawn. “The raid by the Ixal was over a day ago, now… Such shocks can afflict the mind and prevent the formation of new memory. You have been in the custody of Stillglade Fane since the attack.”

It had not been a dream. Celestinaux swallowed, listless, as more of the previous day’s memories came trickling back.

“Wait! The rescue mission! Were there… Where is Yda? Did she make it out?! How did I get back? How did I survive?” Celestinaux pulled against the restraints keeping him shackled to the bed. What was going on? He looked down. Not restraints. Bandages.

“...Rescue mission? Yda?” The Hearer shook his head. “Forgive me, lad, but I fear you may be confused. That, or you are privy to some information I myself lack. …On behalf of the entirety of Stillglade Fane, I swear that should word of Hyrstmill reach us, you will be sent for at once.” Digging around in his satchel, the man continued: “For the time being, I am here to administer your daily healing draught.”

Celestinaux lay back, feeling defeated. No news. No hope, no escape, no freedom, no home, no parents, no revenge. All the fight bled out of him. The grief was… It wasn’t even a question of managing it, really. He just felt empty. Empty and tired.

Suddenly sleeping sounded like the single best thing in the world. His eyes wanted to close. “I don’t need a healing draught,” he informed the Hearer. “I’m not in any pain.”

The Healer raised both eyebrows. “None?”

Celestinaux paused. He should be in pain, by all rights, but… He concentrated, then shook his head.  “None.”

The Hearer whispered something under his breath that Celestinaux suspected might have been a curse. “In that case, I would like to give you some… hmmm… energy draught. To get you back on your feet.”

The man was a shit liar, but Celestinaux’s body was in no state to refuse a chirurgeon’s orders. With a look of distrust, Celestinaux accepted the poison and swallowed it down in a single gulp. It tasted miserable. Acidic, watery — it tasted like what Celestinaux imagined leaves and grass would taste like. 

He missed Coerthan medicine. The chirurgeons had a good sense for how strong to make their concoctions, and what spices kept them good not just for the body but also for the soul. The chirurgeon Celestinaux knew best, Father Wealdtheow, was always on duty out near the Dusk Vigil — everyone was always on duty in Coerthas, because the second Ishgard turned their eyes away, the sky would be beset by a cloud of dragons to blot out the sun — but when the supply caravans from Ishgard set out from Falcon’s Nest en route to the Convictory and beyond, Celestinaux would hitch a ride with them to spend the day with Ser Vairemont and his wife Jettiene. They were good friends of his parents — his father lay motionless in the field, forgotten under a bale of hay that had come dislodged when the Ixal came; his mother never made it back to grab her spear — they were good friends of his parents, and Ser Vairemont had even been his mother’s first admirer back in their days in training. And when winter stood at the gates, the people of Hemlock, too, would all stock up on Wealdtheow’s medicine for the whole village. Admunt — the village healer at Hemlock — only had a small cabin to his name, and he didn’t travel much anymore at his age, so Celestinaux was more than happy to convey the delivery in his stead.

Admunt had died of hypothermia trying to save his poor chocobo chicks from the sudden frost after the Calamity hit.

Just another death.

That was all.

Just one more death. One more meaningless, insignificant snowflake that added to the crushing field of white that blanketed the world. If you stood far enough away, they all blended together. Just a blank field of vision, a clean slate, an endless plain of death that stretched out to the horizon as far as the eye could see. And still the skies opened up and vomited more and more snow. 

Celestinaux fell asleep to dreams of ice.

The gold of sunset danced off the trees just starting to turn yellow with the changing of the season. Celestinaux's stolen spear served as a walking stick as he limped his way past the Apkallu Falls towards the Lancers' Guild.

If a nighttime ambush was doomed to fail, he would do things the proper way.

…Except that the Guild’s reception flatly rejected his appeal. The Elementals had not guided him to the Guild under Mother Miounne’s blessing, or some such bullshit. He snapped something in response (he didn't pay any attention as to what) and stormed into the guild hall regardless.

His head throbbed. Just what had happened last night? Just what was in the phial he had swallowed? A man with a fancier lance than the rest (must be the Guildmaster) was yelling something. Celestinaux braced himself against the wall — if he fell, he would just be confined to the infirmary again — and waited for the tirade to conclude before muttering a passable apology and retreating.

The gold of dusk was now a deep amber. Celestinaux let himself collapse onto a bench to catch his breath. 

Gods, he was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. He needed to meet his final rest with Ixal blood staining his spear, but it would be worth it. He could let go, and that was all he needed. 

A figure interrupted his spiral. A charcoal-skinned Elezen dressed in armor that resembled — mocked — the Lancers' Guild. His face was cold, his eyes nearly vacant, but his lips were twisted in a mildly amused sneer.

“Ywain turned you away, did he?” the man asked. “Some horsedung about personal responsibility and inner balance?” He chuckled. “Good old Ywain. Still clinging to what's best for everyone. Well, you're more than welcome to take his advice. But if you've got the stomach for real courage, come with me.” His eyes trailed Celestinaux’s body. “... If you think you’ve the stones for it, farmboy.”

He vanished before Celestinaux could respond.

It took the space of an eyeblink for Celestinaux’s brain to catch up. He lurched to his feet, his balance finding itself under his gait as he walked, then sprinted to catch up with the other man.

The Duskwight turned, mild surprise quickly morphing into a vindictive sort of approval. He smirked. “Good boy,” he said as he stuck out his hand for a polite shake. “Foulques. From Gelmorra.”

Celestinaux met Foulques’ hand with his own. He kept it from shaking with effort, made sure his grip was firm. Though he was a little breathless from running to catch up, he didn't let his voice waver or crack. “Celestinaux. From Coerthas.” 

It was a good introduction. He need make no mention of Hyrstmill — not yet, at least; he would head there in time to ply his trade in blood, and would be buried alongside his parents, Halonic rites be damned. What was important was that he would take down as many Ixal with him as the Twelve would allow, and when it was over he would be allowed to close his eyes for the last time.

But until then — he was Celestinaux. From Coerthas.

That was all.