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Chapter Text

Y’shtola

Y’shtola first saw her in the Waking Sands’ solar— the latest prospective Scion of the Seventh Dawn, singled out from the larger body of adventurers by Hydaelyn’s light. A gladiator, Thancred had told her, who’d decided to use her winnings to make a go of it as an independent adventurer. And she’s beautiful, Thancred added, because he was Thancred and therefore constitutionally unable to describe a woman in any other terms.

Y’shtola wasn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t the slip of a thing that Thancred ushered into the solar. Y’shtola never thought of herself as particularly tall, but the miqo’te adventurer was still several ilms shorter than her. She was petite but wiry, hungry-looking, her golden eyes warily sweeping the room even as Minfilia gave her customary speech about the nature of the Echo and the history of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Her armor was brand-new and polished to a sheen, but the surcoat beneath it looked a bit threadbare. She was young, too, with spatter of freckles over her aquiline nose, but every bit of exposed skin-- her hands, the thin gap between her gauntlet and the chainmail protecting her upper-arm, those taut, freckled cheeks-- was crisscrossed by scars.

Frankly, Y’shtola felt like she looked ready to bolt at any second. She’d carefully positioned herself behind the gathered Scions, not exposing her back to anyway, nothing between her and the exit. Her hand lingered near the hilt of the gladius at her hip-- not so close as to be provocative, of course, but still conveying a sense of readiness. She remained still as she listened to the Antecedent’s proposal, but she was a coiled spring, all tightly-wound kinetic energy and potential.

“If I may,” Thancred said, shaking the conjurer from her reverie, “The lovely maiden beside me is named Y’shtola.” He glanced back at his friend, grinning wolfishly. “Limsa Lominsa has the pleasure of being under her care.”

Y’shtola pointedly ignored Thancred, instead looking the newest Scion directly in the eye. “Greetings,” she deadpanned.

“...hi,” said the adventurer. Her face was darkened by a slight blush-- embarrassment at Thancred’s antics, no doubt.

***

Y’shtola learned a few more things about the adventurer as she and Minfilia worked out the particulars of her recruitment into the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Her name was Rinh Panipahr. A Keeper of the Moon, born and raised in the Black Shroud. Not in Gridania or its environs, though-- the deep woods, where sunlight barely pierced the canopy of boughs above. She came to Ul’dah five years ago-- and those were her words, “five years ago” , carefully talking around the Calamity. Everyone knew what that meant-- even Yda wasn’t so tactless as to pry further. She had a young son, apparently, although she’d left him in the care of a brother back in Limsa Lominsa when she’d journeyed to the Waking Sands. “You know,” she said, “In case this was just an elaborate trap, or something.” She laughed, but there was an edge of genuine apprehension.

Y’shtola knew she wasn’t the best at reading people-- she wasn’t like Thancred, who took to gladhanding strangers like a fish in water, or Yda, whose headstrong confidence was able to propel her through all but the most awkward social interactions. She was well aware she could come across as curt or brusque without meaning to-- although, of course, very often she came across as curt or brusque while very specifically meaning to. Only people who’d known her for years could really tell the difference.

She supposed Rinh was a bit intimidated by her, then, even though it was hardly Y’shtola’s intention-- she liked the gladiator well enough, she supposed, and certainly had faith in her ability to contribute to the Scion’s great project.

It didn’t really matter, though. Adventurers were always coming and going from the Waking Sands, and this Keeper of the Moon was just one face among many.

Rinh

The sun was shining in Costa Del Sol. Rinh had long since gotten used to sunlight-- all those long years in Thanalan had seen to that-- but her eyes were still more suited to the dark. The weather was nice, at least. It almost always seemed to be in La Noscea-- that cool breeze blowing in off the ocean blunted the sun’s bright heat.

Anyway, the weather hardly mattered compared to the feast that had been spread out before her, courtesy of the Company of Heroes.

She had just poured herself another glass of wine of a vintage as rich as unicorn’s blood when she noticed Y’shtola had drifted away from the proceedings, sitting down alone on a bench under a shady canopy.

She’d rather talk to Y’shtola than anyone in the Company, who were still near-strangers to her. She took a few steps towards the Archon before a thought occurred to her. She backtracked, picked up the wine bottle, and set it down on the bench beside Y’shtola. Wordlessly, she refilled the other woman’s empty glass before taking a seat next to her.

“You seem rather comfortable here,” Y’shtola said, expression unreadable as she raised the glass to her lips, “Considering the circumstances.”

“Oh,” said Rinh, “I might be enjoying the feast, but the circumstances are terrible. I wouldn’t relish playing errand-girl to satisfy some stupid mercenary tradition even if it didn’t mean sitting idle while an unchecked primal is off gorging itself on aether and doing Twelve-knows-what. I’ve had my fill of dancing to the tune of men like Gegejeru in Ul’dah, thanks.”

“...but?” Y’shtola said, eyebrow quirked.

“But,” Rinh said, smiling wanly, “I’m not going to say no to all this food. Especially if it’s meant for me, right? Or for ‘Rinh Panipahr, Titan’s Bane’, I guess. The title’s maybe just a bit premature, but if I am to face the lord of the crags, I might as well do it with a full belly.” 

“Ah,” said Y’shtola. She had the slightest hint of a smile on her face, too, which by now Rinh knew was a sign Y’shtola was thoroughly amused-- by Y’shtolian standards, anyroad. “How very pragmatic of you, ‘Titan’s Bane’.”

“Now, look here,” said Rinh, after taking a lengthy sip from her wineglass, “I just-- I don’t like wasting food, that’s all. Especially it’s been offered to me, specifically.”

“‘Offered’ to you after you did all the work, one can’t help but notice,” said Y’shtola, rolling her eyes.

“Even more reason not to let it go to waste, then!” said Rinh. She felt a bit hot in the face-- perhaps, she thought, she’d had slightly too much wine. She was too proud to admit it, though.

A silence just long enough to be awkward elapsed.

“What was the Y tribe like?” Rinh blurted out, finally.

“The ‘Y tribe’ ?” Y’shtola asked, “Really, Rinh?”

“I mean, we met the U— and obviously I can’t imagine they’re anything like the Y. I haven’t got any first-hand knowledge of Sharlayan, but I’ve read a lot about it, and I’m given to understand that it’s not very much like the southern reaches of the Sagolii Desert--”

“No, they’re exactly the same,” Y’shtola said drily, “The only difference is the drakes all have tenure.”

“--and anyroad, ” Rinh continued, “Even if I couldn’t make reasonable inferences about Sharlayan in general, I know that every Keeper of the Moon family is different, and I’m sure Seeker tribes are the same, even if they’re bigger and not so isolated as we are-- so, seeing the U tribe still made me curious.”

Y’shtola looked ready to unleash another barb, but then her expression softened-- she’d thought better of it, evidently. “In all honesty,” she said, softly, “It was less a tribe and more an ex post facto attempt to project traditional tribal structures onto the serial philandering and dalliances of Y’rhul Nunh.”

“Sorry,” Rinh murmured, feeling like she’d stepped over a line she wasn’t meant to.

“It’s all right. I don’t care,” Y’shtola said. “When you get right down to it, my mentor at the Studium did the yeoman’s work of raising me. Don’t tell her I said that, though. And it’s not as if I lack for family-- I’m on perfectly good terms with my half-sister, of course, but most of those I consider family came to me later in life.”

“Oh yeah?” Rinh said, draining the remaining contents of her glass, “What are they like?”

Y’shtola favored Rinh with another of her rare smiles. “You’ve met them already.”

Chapter Text

Rinh

“Is this near where you grew up?” Y’shtola asked, fallen leaves crinkling underfoot with every step.

“Sort of. We were this far east, so we could see that eyesore—” Rinh said, indicating the distant lights and looming cermet ramparts of Baelsar’s Wall with a sweeping gesture, “But south of here, well removed from any settled Gridanian folk, where the Shroud starts to thin out a bit. There’s less game down there, but also fewer Wood Wailers. Or—” Her face fell. “—or there were , anyroad. It’s all long gone, now.” Too many of her stories only existed in past tense, she thought, too many of her life’s threads were cut by Dalamud’s fall. Everything since then felt disjointed, like she was lurching abruptly from one self to the next; from hunter to refugee to gladiator, from adventurer to hero to Warrior of Light .

The title didn’t sit well with her, if she was being honest with herself. It felt as hollow as the supposed Seventh Astral Era the leaders of Eorzea proclaimed after scarcely five years of the Seventh Umbral had passed, when everything was still completely fucked up from the Calamity. A declaration of victory in a war that had barely begun, a savior anointed in a realm with no salvation in sight.

Y’shtola said nothing, expression taciturn as ever, but she gently placed her hand on Rinh’s arm. They spent some time walking in comfortable, companionable silence.

“I guess talking to me must feel like a bloody minefield, huh?” Rinh said, after she’d collected herself a bit. “Sorry about that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Y’shtola said, “Nor are you obliged to talk about anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Remembering’s hard,” Rinh said, “But forgetting’s way worse. We always believed— we believe , rather— that no one is ever really gone, that the Panipahr ghosts will look after the living if we tell their stories.” She shrugged. “I just need to… pace myself, that’s all.”

“Speaking of pacing ourselves, it’s probably time to take another set of aetheric readings,” said Y’shtola, “We must be at least a malm away from the last ones by now.”

Rinh carefully— and rather reluctantly, truth be told— extricated herself from Y’shtola’s hand on her arm. She opened up her satchel and rummaged around for her aetheroscope— a compact, rugged-looking unit she could stow away when not in use. Y’shtola, like most of the Sharlayan Scions, had a more ostentatious device worn on a strap, but since part of the Warrior of Light’s job description was being hit by swords constantly, she’d decided having a delicate magical instrument exposed on her person was probably a bad idea.

She raised her aetheroscope to her eyes and peered through it, looking this way and that. The novelty of observing aether with her own two eyes still hadn’t worn off— the Shroud was a riot of light and color. Trees were sparkling waterfalls; animals were pinwheels of aether leaving cascading ripples in their wake. A subtle current flowed through everything, everywhere— the visible traces of the Lifestream’s rushing waters. And— even more faintly— enormous silhouettes slowly drifted past, like the shadows of leviathans. There were a great many things in the Black Shroud that were vast and terrible and old, often unseen but never unfelt.

“It’s settled down a lot now that Ramuh’s been sorted,” said Rinh, “It’s still elevated over the baseline, though.”

“Mn,” hummed Y’shtola, lost in thought and— frankly— looking slightly ridiculous with her enormous aetheroscope covering her entire face.

“Could be nothing,” said Rinh, “Or just leftovers from Ramuh that haven’t dispersed yet. Or maybe we’re just standing downstream from someone practicing their thaumaturgy.”

Y’shtola lowered her aertheroscope, her silver hair left in slight disarray by the straps. “It’s beyond the level of variance one would expect from the natural ebb and flow of aether, in any case.”

“Think it’s cause for concern, Y’shtola? You’ve got a better eye for aether than I do...”

“I’m not seeing the sort of spikes that would require immediate action,” Y’shtola said, folding her arms, “However, we should present these readings to Papalymo and Urianger upon our return to Vesper Bay— perhaps between the four of us, a clearer picture will emerge.”

Rinh’s ear twitched; somewhere nearby, a twig snapped underfoot. She stopped dead, sniffing at the air.

Her blood ran cold: A whiff of ceruleum. 

She looked back at Y’shtola, one hand held up: Stop. Danger nearby. The older scion took out her conjurer’s branch; Rinh drew her sword and raised her shield.

Three magitek bits came screaming out from amidst the trees. Y’shtola was ready for it, though— with one quick motion she sent a boulder humming with aether hurtling towards the formation of flying machina. Upon impact, the bits’ own speed became a liability— they were utterly pulverized. The debris that rained down was barely recognizable as something man-made, much less the remnants of sophisticated magitek drones.

“Nice shot,” said Rinh, grinning, “Careful— there’s still at least one on foot, though.”

The crack of a shot rang out. A startled flock of crows took off from the boughs; what little sunlight got through the forest canopy was blotted out by black-feathered wings.

Rinh heard a sharp cry behind her, followed by the sound of a body hitting a blanket of dead leaves.

A second shot ricocheted harmlessly off of Rinh’s armor, which apparently really did live up to the rather outlandish claims of protection from small arms fire its Ironworks designers had made. She barreled towards where the shot came from, shield first, expending a bit of aether to give it a little more momentum than her muscles alone provided. It was more than enough to knock the Garlean taking cover in the underbrush off his feet. Disoriented, he scrambled to retrieve his rifle and scoot away from her.

Rinh raised her sword.

The legionary, arm outstretched towards his gun, looked up at her. His eyes widened. “Oh fuck , it’s the eikon slay—”

Rinh’s sword swung down.

She immediately turned on her heel and rushed back to Y’shtola’s side, silently praying to every ghost that called these woods home that the conjurer yet lived.

Y’shtola still laid where she fell. Her pristine white dalmatica was spattered with blood. But her eyes were open and tracking Rinh’s movements, and her chest was still rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“W-well,” said Y’shtola, as the Warrior of Light knelt by her side, “It… it could have gone worse.” Rinh took stock of her friend’s injuries; she’d been shot in the side, apparently— nothing vital seemed to have been hit.

But she was bleeding quite badly, and looked to be in terrible pain. Rinh felt a rising sense of panic, but with a deep breath she forced herself to calm down. 

She could still fix this. 

She could fix this.

She clasped Y’shtola’s hand in hers. Nothing about the gesture was ideal— Y’shtola’s grip was weakening by the second, and Rinh was still wearing an unwieldy gauntlet, but it was at least some semblance of an anchor between the two women.

With her free hand, Rinh picked up Y’shtola’s conjurer’s branch and began to weave aether in patterns she hadn’t since before Dalamud fell. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Y’shtola’s hand held hers more tightly. The pain seemed to drain from her features.

“I’m not half the conjurer you are,” Rinh murmured, “but this should get you back on your feet for now, at least.” Y’shtola draped her arm across Rinh’s shoulders, and Rinh gingerly helped her stand up. “We should get moving— if Castrum Oriens is sending out patrols again, there might be more about. Amarissaix’s Spire is just to the south— we can get help there. Here, lean on me— it’s okay.”

Getting to Amarissaix’s was slower-going than Rinh would have liked. Supporting Y’shtola’s weight was easy enough, but Rinh still moved cautiously, keeping an eye out for any other Garleans— or any of the other more ordinary dangers of the Shroud, for that matter: large predators with a taste for miqo’te, vengeful spirits of old Gelmorra, poachers, or— worst of all— Wood Wailers who thought she was a poacher. One would hope that literally being the Warrior of bloody Light would cancel out being a Keeper of the Moon in the Wailers’ eyes, but she didn’t particularly want to put that to the test— not with Y’shtola depending on her, anyway.

Eventually, though, the two miqo’te could just about make out the spire rising above the treeline. With a little more walking— and one extremely awkward conversation with the Wailers stationed there— they were safe.

***

It was a few hours later. Y’shtola’s wounds had been seen to by a proper conjurer, but she still needed to rest for a while. She reclined on a cot, while the Warrior of Light sat up on the neighboring cot.

“I wasn’t aware you counted conjury amongst your many talents,” Y’shtola said.

Rinh smiled softly. “I was my aunt’s apprentice before— well, before .”

“Ah,” said Y’shtola, “She was your clan’s healer, I assume?”

“Midwife, actually,” Rinh answered, a note of pride in her voice, “And not just for our family— Aunt Sizha delivered children for Keepers all over the southeastern Shroud.”

Y’shtola closed her eyes. “I have her to thank for saving my life too, then.”

Rinh grinned. “She’d be glad to hear it. It’s like I said— our ghosts look after the living, Y’shtola.”

Y’shtola was quiet for a moment, looking as if she was deliberating with herself over some thorny dilemma. “You may call me Shtola, if you’d like,” she said, finally, “There’s no reason to stand on formality between us, after all.”

Y’shtola

“So,” said Thancred, leaning against the wall, as infuriatingly casual as ever, “What do you think of our esteemed champion?”

The sun was setting over Ul’dah. The spires and domes were thrown into sharp relief— half painted in golden light, half shrouded in deepening shadow. With the day’s heat fading and the splendid view the balcony Thancred had found afforded, Y’shtola thought, Ul’dah was actually almost tolerable.

“She is an inspiration to us all,” Y’shtola said, cautiously, “A hero who’s saved this realm on innumerable occasions, a dear friend, and a shining light—”

Thancred scoffed. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know that’s not what you mean,” Y’shtola conceded with a sigh. “ However, for the time being, I am content to admire her from afar.”

“What, really?” Thancred said, dubious. He raised two fingers to his ear, as if he was speaking over a linkpearl. “Excuse me, could you put Y’shtola on the line? I seem to have accidentally been connected to some shrinking violet I’ve never met in my life.”

“Thancred,” Y’shtola said.

“I’m just saying—” he replied, “I thought you were bolder than that.”

“Shut up.”

“Y’shtola’s decisive, I thought,” Thancred said, “A real woman of action, who always knows just what she wants.”

Y’shtola sighed the same long-suffering sigh most conversations with Thancred Waters eventually drove her to. “What I want is to not create complications and unwelcome entanglements for a woman upon whom so much depends.”

Thancred rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure all Eorzea’s grateful for your noble self-sacrifice on the Warrior of Light’s behalf.”

“Anyroad,” Y’shtola said, “I don’t even know if— if she favors the company of women.”

“Y’shtola, please,” said Thancred, “She’s a Keeper of the bloody Moon, of course she does.”

Y’shtola folded her arms, skeptical. “The only past romantic connection she’s mentioned even in passing is the father of her son.” 

Over the long months they’d been working together as Scions, the story of Rinh’s life before the Calamity came out in dribs and drabs. Y’shtola never pried, of course; she’d seen the way an ill-timed question or thoughtless comment could make Rinh freeze up, and the thought of being responsible for that sort of distress was extremely upsetting. So every time the Warrior did choose to confide some bit of her past to Y’shtola, it felt like a gift, a token of trust, a secret shared between friends.

Y’shtola had met Rinh’s son several times by now— Rinh’a Panipahr was a shy lad some five summers old and possessed of bottomless curiosity about Limsa Lominsa, where his mother made her home when she wasn’t rushing hither and yon across Eorzea, slaying primals and legates. The boy’s father was still something of a mystery to Y’shtola, though. He existed as a collage of scattershot details— his name was Koh’sae Ganajai, and he was a wandering adventurer— a bard, apparently— a few years older than Rinh. 

And he died in the Calamity.

Y’shtola had seen the Calamity first-hand, of course, bearing witness to the terrifying spectacle of Bahamut’s fury raining down upon Limsa Lominsa’s whitewashed towers, the world itself set ablaze. And she’d seen all the hardships of the aftermath, the scars— to the land and people both— that would never heal, not really. All these years later, she still felt an ache in her heart whenever she saw the shattered remnants of Tupsimati, utterly inert in their glass display case.

But it was still hard for her to fathom the near-totality with which the Calamity represented a breaking point in the life of the Warrior of Light. Out of all the people Rinh told stories about— Auntie Sizha, midwife, witch, and wisewoman; her mother, the family matriarch and a deadly markswoman; sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews— the only one who Rinh knew to be alive was her brother, an assessor at Melvaan’s Gate, who’d been with his Seeker of the Sun father when Dalamud fell.

The closest point of comparison Y’shtola could think of was the evacuation of the Sharlayan colony back to the motherland, which was an enormous disruption to her life, the exclamation point that ended her youth. But even then, the threads connecting her to that time were stretched thin, but not broken. Old Sharlayan was much like New Sharlayan— the Studium, Archons holding court, academic feuds that last decades. And she was but one among many in the exodus— most of her friends and family found themselves in the Old World, too. Leaving Matoya behind was— if Y’shtola is being honest with herself— a blow, but it was softened by the knowledge that in all likelihood her mentor was still in a cave, enchanting brooms and frogs, reading hoarded books, maintaining her lonely, stubborn vigil over Sharlayan’s abandoned secrets. Perhaps, one day, circumstances would conspire to bring Y’shtola to Dravania’s hinterlands, and she could call on the irascible old Archon.

But the people who shaped Rinh’s mind were ash; ash, dust, and ghosts.

“You should just say something to her,” Thancred said, shaking Y’shtola from her reverie, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh?”

Y’shtola frowned, arms folded. “One cannot gamble without staking something precious.”

“Come on, I don’t mean you should make some sort of passionate declaration of eternal devotion,” said Thancred, “Just… ask her to dance, or something. Tonight, even.”

Y’shtola laughed. “I’m certain this isn’t going to be that sort of party.”

“Every party is that sort of party once everyone’s got enough wine in ‘em,” Thancred said breezily.

Y’shtola shook her head. “It’s a formal diplomatic banquet, Thancred. The only courting I expect to see is the Alliance’s leaders trying to woo Ishgard back into the fold.”

“And I expect to see the Fragrant Chamber filled with liquored-up political and military leaders. Everyone’s going to be in the mood to celebrate the victory at the Steps— Rinh’s going to be the belle of the ball. So if you don’t make a move, someone else will.”

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tower began to toll; it was eight o’ clock. The feast would be starting imminently, if it hadn’t already.

“You’d better get a move on, Y’shtola,” Thancred said, “ I plan on being fashionably late, but you won’t be fashionably anything in those shoes, so chop chop.”

Y’shtola aimed a gentle kick at Thancred’s shin. “My shoes are the singular creation of a gifted leatherworking artisan! They’re one-of-kind.”

“Yes, and for good reason,” Thancred said, smirking, “Too late to do anything about it, though. You’re expected in the Fragrant Chamber and pronto.”

Y’shtola sighs. “I shall take my leave, then. But tomorrow , we’re going to talk about your extraordinarily unwelcome attempt to play matchmaker to the Scions.”

Thancred waved her off.

The stars over Thanalan were beautiful.

Chapter Text

Y’shtola 

The warrior of light’s dress was beautiful.

An absurd thing to notice, thought Y’shtola, given the circumstances. The banquet had descended into utter chaos— the Ishgardian delegation hustled out of the chamber by a party of armed Temple Knights. Raubahn— mighty Raubahn— paralyzed with shock as Teledji Adeledji (who, Rinh once told her, owed the Warrior of Light 500 gil for a shift spent moonlighting as security, as many gladiators did, at the Platinum Mirage) needled him over the Sultana’s death.

And Rinh Panipahr— free paladin, Scion of the Seventh Dawn, slayer of primals, vanquisher of the XIV Legion, the celebrated Warrior of Light— tossed roughly to the ground by a phalanx of Crystal Braves, arms bound behind her back.

And wearing a lovely red dress.

Y’shtola knew she’d agonized over what to wear. Her Scion comrades all attended in their customary dress— looking elegant was far less important than visibly and unambiguously appearing as the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Even now, Yda’s armored boots clanked softly as she warily shifted her feet as the probability of having to punch everyone in the Fragrant Chamber between the Scions and the door steadily increased.

But Rinh was surprisingly fastidious about her appearance. She wore makeup whenever time and circumstances allowed. When she wasn’t in her armor, her clothes tended towards the dapper and fashionable: tailored suits, elegant dresses, rich fabrics. And even her armor was color-coordinated— black and white, to match her fellow Scions.

Making a striking impression at the banquet was especially important to Rinh. When you’ve starved and fought and bled and killed and suffered for Ul’dah’s wealthiest, she confessed to Y’shtola, when you’ve seen the city’s alleged best and brightest in their luxury boxes at the Coliseum, dressed in rich silks and glittering jewelry and baying for blood, the temptation to come back with your head held high and better dressed than any of those tacky bastards was overwhelming.

And here she was in her dress— a dark, wine-red evening gown, high-collared but revealing a tasteful amount of décolletage, floor length but slit up to the hipbone-- lying on a cold stone floor at the feet of one of the wealthiest men on the Syndicate.

Y’shtola was almost as enraged at the sheer humiliation of it as she was by the spurious accusations of regicide. Although, she assumed, the latter was much more consequential in the great scheme of things.

Teledji Adeleji, Y’shtola was sorry to say, had played his cards magnificently in a game the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, for all their collected wisdom, hadn’t even realized had begun. But, for some reason, he couldn’t resist gloating, self-satisfied at outflanking the Royalists as he was.

Raubahn’s shock turned to horror, and then into rage. And then, in a flash, Tizona was unsheathed, Raubahn lunged, and Teledji Adeledji was cleft in twain.

For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence. Y’shtola found herself wondering how Teledji Adeledji deliberately goading the grieving Flame General played into his plan, unless its end goal was suicide-by-Raubahn .

Then, all hell broke loose. The gathered dignitaries and aristocrats screamed. Raubahn turned on another monetarist Syndicate member, murderous intent in his eyes. Ilberd, captain of the Crystal Braves, drew his own sword and sliced off Raunahn’s arm in one swift, clean, terrible stroke. Kan-E-Senna and Merlwyb were all but forced by their guard detail to quit the scene. The Bull of Ala Mhigo staggered to his feet again, though, and the two highlanders were locked in a whirlwind of a duel; every wild stroke that missed its mark had the strength to break the very ground the men stood upon. Dust and debris filled the air.

But, in the chaos, the Brass Blades and Crystal Braves regulars had scattered.

And Rinh was left unattended.

Y’shtola just had to get to her. Get to her, and...

Well, she’d think of the and later; she didn’t have a plan beyond get to Rinh, but that would be a start, at least. So much depended on her, so many hopes were borne on her slender shoulders. Her life was precious-- to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, to all the realm.

To Y’shtola.

Raubahn, evidently, had the same idea. There was a brief lull in the fighting as he and Ilberd caught their breath. Ilberd looked to have the advantage, but the very fact he was so hard-pressed by a man who’d just had his arm lopped off spoke to the Bull’s sheer resilience. As the duelists circled one another, Raubahn positioned himself near the warrior of light. Then, with one precise, delicate stroke of Tizona, he cut her bonds. Y’shtola was there a moment later; she took Rinh’s hands in hers and helped her friend to her feet.

Rinh kicked off her high-heels. When she took a place at Raubahn’s flank, Y’shtola realized, to her dawning horror, that Rinh looked as if she was going to fling herself into the fray, as if she thought she could somehow prevail in a fight against Ilbred and some dozen Blades and Braves armed with nothing but her bare hands and an evening dress. Her fangs were bared, her golden eyes lit with the sort of fire Y’shtola had only ever seen when she was about to face down a Primal.

Rinh was a paladin-- a flash of light to illuminate the darkest shadows, Eorzea’s shining shield. Of course her first instinct when faced with danger was to put herself in front of it, Y’shtola realized-- protecting others came to her as naturally as breathing air.

It was an instinct Y’shtola admired, fiercely, proudly-- but, if acted upon, it was almost certainly going to get her cut down where she stood.

Ilberd began to advance on Raubahn again, his blade sparking dangerously with aether.

Y’shtola put her hand on Rinh’s arm, ready to drag her out of the Fragrant Chamber, if needs be (after all, how much could she possibly weigh without armor?), but a firm, steadying touch was all it took for Rinh to take a deep breath, relax her stance, and take a halting step back towards the door. She takes a second deep breath. Her eyes swept the room, alert and focused, until she found her fellow Scions in the crowd, themselves making their way to the exit.

“Go!” thundered Raubahn, “Clear your names!”

Rinh spared one last glance for Raubahn. She made a gesture that Y’shtola couldn’t recognize, but looked to be a sort of salute.  Some gladiator thing, probably. The bloodsands were common ground between them, even if their time there was decades apart. “Give ‘em a show to remember, Bull,” she said, before turning decisively towards the door, beckoning her comrades to follow.

They’re already halfway around the Hustings Strip when Y’shtola realized she’d never let go of Rinh’s arm.

***

“Ul’dah,” Rinh said, voice echoing in the cavernous tunnel, “Of course this happens in fucking Ul’dah.”

The Scions were deep underground, hurrying down a secret escape route built, apparently, by the Sil’dihns. Or that was what the bits of architecture Y’shtola could see looked like, anyway. Otherwise, it looked, sounded, and smelled like a sewer; the hem of Rinh’s expensive dress trailed through stagnant wastewater. Y’shtola’s shoes, which she still perfectly liked despite Thancred’s slander earlier that evening, a million years ago, were thoroughly ruined. If she gets out of this, she thought, she really ought to get herself some higher boots.

The tunnel was nearly pitch black, save for a guttering lantern Thancred held. It swayed erratically as he ran, illuminating in turn each of Y’shtola’s companions. There was Minfilia’s worried face, there was Thancred’s determined one. There was Rinh’s back; she’d taken point— her eyes had already adapted to the dark, and she likely didn’t want to be blinded if a lantern shined in her face.

The light never found Yda or Papalymo, though. The last Y’shtola had seen of them was an iron gate slamming shut as a wave of Brass Blades was about to crash upon them.

“Blood and money,” Rinh said, voice punctuated with the sloshing of water, “Everything in Ul’dah comes down to blood and money. This godsdamned city’ll suck you dry of both, and swallow up your empty husk.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Thancred, “Ul’dah has its finer points, too.”

“Thancred ,” Y’shtola snapped, impatiently, “I don’t think the quality of the city’s pillowhouses is particularly relevant to our current situation.”

“That’s not quite what I—” Thancred began, before he was cut off by Rinh laughing. A hollow, broken, exhausted laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Honestly,” said Rinh, “I’d trust those girls with my life over anyone else in this bloody viper pit of a city. To the Ul’dahn aristocracy, courtesans and gladiators are just two sides of the same coin.”

“Yes, well,” Thancred huffed, “As the window of opportunity for backtracking and linking up with a crack battalion of pillowhouse girls has sadly closed, we’d better keep moving.”

“After we get out of these tunnels, think we should make a break for Vesper Bay?” asked Rinh, “Urianger’s still there, right?”

Minfilia nodded. “His counsel and aid would be invaluable now…”

“The Brass Blades are surely there in force,” Y’shtola cut in.

“Right,” added Thancred, “It’s a safe bet that the town with a giant statue of Lolorito in it is hostile territory!”

“We can’t just abandon Urianger,” Minfilia said, “We’ve already lost too many this day.”

“We could warn him, at least,” Rinh said, “The Crystal Braves took my linkpearl when they searched me, but you lot have probably still got yours—”

“Are you kidding?” Thancred said, incredulously, “It’s trivial to intercept linkshell messages with the right equipment.”

“And the Crystal Braves assuredly have the right equipment,” Y’shtola added, curtly.

Rinh frowned. “All right, all right, I get it, everything is completely and irredeemably fucked.”

“So long as a single light still shines,” Minfilia said solemnly, “Dawn will one day come.”

For Y’shtola, this was a reminder of what it meant to be a Scion of the Seventh Dawn— a reminder to steel herself for what might be asked of her in the near future. But she’s spent enough time with Rinh to tell that her vocal frustration was just a flimsy mask over a rising sense of panic. She was seeking not inspiration, but reassurance; concrete facts rather than abstract ideals.

So Y’shtola said, “Urianger surely had contingencies in place for any sort of attack on the Waking Sands; I know that prior incidents weighed heavily on his mind, and he would not brook their repetition.”

And, sure enough, this seemed to quell Rinh’s worries— her strides through the muck were more confident, the doubt on her face hardened into determination.

Y’shtola’s ears twitched; a noise, behind them and approaching fast. One glance in Rinh’s direction was enough to tell she’d heard it, too— miqo’te might not have the preternatural hearing lalafells had, but their ears were still more sensitive than those of either of the hyur in their party.

“Someone’s coming,” Rinh murmured, “Sounds like a dozen at least .”

And then Thancred’s lantern was joined by a second beacon of light cutting through the darkness—a small army of Brass Blades and Crystal Braves had just rounded a corner and was bearing down on them.

“You two go on ahead,” said Y’shtola, as Thancred handed his lantern over to Minfilia, “Thancred and I will deal with this.”

“Shtola--” Rinh began; the dropped Y, a token of affection in better times, landed like a blow on Y’shtola, “You can’t seriously mean to--”

“Rinh, ” Y’shtola said, taking the younger woman’s hands in hers, “You need to protect the Antecedent.” Then, when Rinh showed so sign of budging, she added, “We’ll catch up with you-- now go. ”

Rinh hesitated for a moment, her golden eyes meeting Y’shtola’s teal ones, as if trying to commit the sight of them to memory. Then, she nodded silently, gave Y’shtola’s hands one last squeeze, and took off down the corridor, Minfilia in tow.

It would be a shame, Y’shtola thought, if the very last thing she ever said to Rinh Panipahr was a lie. She knew that-- barring a miracle-- she and Thancred would be dead within minutes. But if that’s what it took to deliver the Warrior of Light and the Antecedent to safety, well, then, surely it was worth it.

“What is the plan, milady?” Thancred said, drawing his knives, dropping into a fighting stance, “Shall I take the dozen on the left, and you the dozen on the right? The odds are not exactly stacked in our favor…”

Aether began to converge within Y’shtola’s cupped hands. “Numbers will count for little when I bring the tunnel down upon their heads. Though I cannot say I relish the thought of being entombed with you for all eternity.”

“You wound me!” Thancred grinned, “I will have you know that many a maid would kill for the chance to spend forever at my side!” By this point, the enemy was almost upon them; Y’shtola could see the brass buckles on the Braves’s greatcoats glimmering by the light of the lanterns they carried. “Now, may I have the last dance?”

Steel flashed.

Blood spilled into the Sil’dihn waterway.

A blinding light. The rumbling of collapsing masonry.

Y’shtola felt herself born away on the swift currents of the Lifestream.

Rinh

A blinding light. The rumbling of collapsing masonry.

A golden goblet falls to the ground.

A golden goblet falls to the ground. A sword slices through bone and flesh. An iron gate slams shut. A blinding light, and the rumbling of collapsing masonry. The voice of Hydaelyn calls one of her daughters home.

These moments kept repeating themselves in Rinh’s head, far more vivid than anything happening in the present. She was as a distant spectator watching herself emerge from the tunnels and into the chilly Thanalan night, finding Alphinaud and Raubahn’s son. (A sword slices through bone and flesh.)

A chocobo-drawn wagon pulled up. She barely noticed the gentle hands helping her aboard. She watched herself sit across from the very merchant who’d brought her to Ul’dah in the first place, years ago. (A golden goblet falls to the ground.)  Surely, she thought, this was a sign she was dreaming.

The ride to Black Brush Station took either thirty seconds or twelve hours. Alphinaud was saying something, but his voice had faded into a soft white noise. (The voice of Hydaelyn calls one of her daughters home.) The wagon bobbed gently beneath her as it raced through the night; maybe it wasn’t a wagon at all, but a boat. Or an airship, perhaps? Yes, definitely an airship; Cid Garlond was at its helm; its hull shuddered as it lifted itself from the ground. (An iron gate slams shut.)

Thanalan dropped away beneath them. Nothing seemed to exist anymore beyond an endless sea of clouds, set ablaze by the first glimmers of the rising sun. (A blinding light, and the rumbling of collapsing masonry.)

She watched, with passing interest, as she sank to her knees on the deck and began to slump forward.

Darkness overtook her.

***

She’d passed out aboard the Enterprise, Cid had told her, as they began to descend towards Coerthas. For one brief, glorious moment, she thought that perhaps everything that had happened in Ul’dah was a dream-- a lurid nightmare instantly banished by the morning’s light.

It wasn’t, of course. In one horrible night, her world had been dashed to pieces. Yda, Papalymo, Thancred, Minfilia, Shtola-- all gone now. Dead, more likely than not.

It seemed deeply unfair, Rinh thought, that this had happened to her a second time. She hadn’t learned her lesson from the Calamity, maybe; she’d let herself come to depend on others again, and brought nothing but doom upon all their heads.

“We should make for Camp Dragonhead,” Alphinaud said, more to fill the silence than anything else. The walls and spires of the Ishgardian fort already loomed over the snowy hills and leafless trees. There was nowhere else to go. It was either Camp Dragonhead, or just stand around in the Coerthan highlands waiting to freeze to death.

Which was a tempting possibility, given the circumstances.

But Rinh put one foot in front of the other. Then she did it again, and again. She tried thinking of what awaited her at Camp Dragonhead-- a warm fire in a hearth, the hospitality of Haurchefant Graystone.

A fucking coat, maybe.

But even these simple comforts felt too far away to hold onto, abstract possibilities in a remote future.

So she did what she did after the Calamity. One foot in front of the other, over and over again, until she no longer felt the flames at her back.

Chapter Text

Y’shtola

The Lifestream was a blinding torrent of pure aether, without beginning or end, coursing through everywhere and nowhere.

And then Y’shtola heard birds singing— far away, seemingly, but unmistakable. A mourning dove. A lark. A murder of crows. More subtle sounds followed: the rustling of leaves, water flowing down a quiet stream. She felt a cool breeze hit her face, carrying the earthy scent of an old-growth forest. 

She was somewhere again— somewhere full of sounds, scents, and sensations that made her think of Rinh Panipahr— the Black Shroud, surely.

Rinh herself was there, she realized. The world was hazy, still, like the Lifestream hadn’t quite released her from its grip, but its raging river of undifferentiated aether had begun to resolve itself into the more organized aetherial forms of living things. She felt the Warrior of Light, even if she couldn’t see her. Her relief was profound and overwhelming; whatever else had happened, Rinh had emerged from Ul’dah hale and whole, so Y’shtola’s gamble in the tunnels had paid out in full.

She sensed a number of other familiar presences gathered nearby— Y’mhitra, Tatauru, and Alphinaud, and the less familiar but still instantly recognizable aether of Kan-E-Senna. She felt as if she was slowly sinking— and then, when she felt living soil and grass pressed against her bare skin, she realized she’d literally been sinking to the ground, recaptured by the star’s gravity after so long adrift.

She was more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life; when one of the Seedseer’s guards rolled her up in a blanket and lifted her into their arms, she offered no resistance.

She just barely had enough energy to turn her head in Rinh's direction.

“I said I’d catch up with you,” she murmured, nearly inaudibly.

And then she slept.

***

Y’shtola was sitting up on a soft bed in the Carmine Canopy’s finest suite. She still felt bone-tired, but it was an ordinary sort of tiredness, like she might feel after a day of strenuous activity, or a night spent burning the midnight oil on her Archon’s thesis.

The world looked different to her, now. Perhaps look wasn’t even the right word to use, now— her mind was parsing not light through her eyes, but her perception of the aether around her. Some of the things around her felt unnaturally dim; the room’s furniture, once-living but now dead wood, looked shadowy and indistinct, coming into focus only where the echo of a craftsman’s care and attention left ripples in the aether. Living things, on the other hand, were luminous, dusted with delicate constellations of aether, more real-than-real.

And Rinh, who’d dozed off in an armchair in the middle of her bedside vigil, was more luminous than most. She opened her eyes sleepily, awakened by the sound of Y’shtola stirring in her bed; she always had been a light sleeper. “...Shtola?”

Once Y’shtola got past the vivid light of her aether, she could tell the younger woman had changed during her absence. Her hair was longer, now; when she’d watched Rinh vanish down a Sil’dihn tunnel, her hair had been cropped short— shorter than Y’shtola’s. Now, though, her hair was a dark curtain framing her face, nearly shoulder-length. She’d been lost in the Lifestream for several months at the very least, then.

Several eventful months, apparently. Beneath Rinh’s palpable relief at Y’shtola’s safe return, the weight of a heavy— and still raw— grief had settled upon her. The Panipahrs kept their ghosts close, Rinh often said, but some ghosts were especially close at hand.

“How fare you of late?” Y’shtola said.

“Well,” said Rinh, straightening her posture and sitting rather primly, “We’re trying to get to Azys Ala— the Archbishop and his knights were headed there, so we’re currently exploring options for breaching the aetherial barrier—”

Y’shtola shook her head. “I’ve already been apprised of our overall situation in its broad strokes. I’m asking after you . How are you? ”

Rinh smiled weakly. “Awful, honestly.” She seemed smaller in that moment— the Warrior of Light often felt larger-than-life, her actual four fulm ten ilm height notwithstanding, but not when she was sitting in a chair built for an elezen, feet dangling off the ground, swimming in an Ishgardian cloak several sizes too large for her. Her fingers brushed over a brooch clasping the cloak shut; Y’shtola could just barely make out the arms of House Fortemps engraved upon it. “No sense dissembling when you’ll see right through me anyway, right? I’m thoroughly wretched— finding you again is honestly the only good thing to happen in moons. ”

“I’ve heard you haven’t found any of the others yet,” Y’shtola said, cautiously.

“No,” Rinh said, “Although you were right about Urianger— he was holding down the fort at the Waking Sands just fine. But for those of us at the banquet? It’s just you, me, and Alphinaud.”

“I see. What happened to Minfilia, then?”

Rinh slumped back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. “She— she said Hydaelyn spoke to her. In the tunnels, I mean, right after— after we last saw you. She told me to keep going— that so much depended on me, specifically— but that the Mother asked her to remain behind. I don’t know why— our pursuers were still stuck behind several tonze of collapsed rubble, I could already feel the fresh air from the end of the tunnel on my face, but— but off she went. If Hydaelyn had Her reasons, She did not deign to elucidate them to me at any point.”

“I’m sorry,” Y’shtola said. As a Scion of the Seventh Dawn she fought in Hydaelyn’s name, of course, but the will of the Mother always felt obscure to her. She had a fairly dry understanding of the Echo as an aetheric phenomenon, but the Scions who had the truest insight into its mysteries were the ones who came up through the Path of the Twelve, not the Circle of Knowing.

“In the moment,” Rinh continued, “I was too numb to do anything except keep going forward. But when I finally had some time to stew in it, I was furious.”

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow. “At… Minfilia?”

“No,” said Rinh, taken aback, “No, no, no, I was furious at— well, myself, firstly, for not just— I don’t know— grabbing her and running? But mostly at Hydaelyn. Which I realize is a completely insane thing to say, but— it was like— it was like She didn’t care that everyone else risked their lives to get the Antecedent out of the city safely— She had something else in mind, so that was that. It was just so— so bloody pointless.”

“We did what we did to protect you, as well,” Y’shtola said softly, “And— here you are, hale and whole.”

Rinh buried her face in her hands. “Why me, though? What’s so special about me? ”

“Because—” Y’shtola began, but Rinh cut her off.

“And don’t say it’s because oh, because you’re the Warrior of Light, since that— that’s not me. It’s a title they put on me, and— and I play the part, I have to, but— but I was just lucky.” Her voice was raw; she sounded on the cusp of tears. “And— and I ask— why me? Why did I get to survive the Calamity when my mum and my aunt and my sisters and— and my nieces and nephews all died in the flames? What makes me different from all the gladiators who died on the bloodsands— some at my hand, or different from all the adventurers who got killed on their first big job?” She stifled a sob. “Why am I the one Scion who just had to get away, whose life was worth— worth everyone else putting so much on the line for?”

“I can only speak for myself,” Y’shtola said, “But I so readily risked my life to protect you because I care for you, dearly.”

At this, the dam burst; the Warrior of Light was crying freely now. Y’shtola scooted over on the bed and patted the space this opened up, a silent invitation for Rinh to sit alongside her. Rinh stood up from her chair and took a shaky step forward, before more or less collapsing onto the bed. She leaned against Y’shtola, resting her head on her shoulder.

“Much depends on you,” Y’shtola murmured, her fingers softly carding through Rinh’s dark hair, “And I shan’t patronize you by suggesting otherwise. But you must remember that the things expected of you are not, and never will be, all that you are, nor is your worth as a person predicated on them.”

“Haurchefant died for me,” Rinh said, abruptly.

“Tataru informed me of his death at the Vault,” Y’shtola said, as gently as she could, “But not the manner of his passing.” She went over the things she knew of Haurchefant Greystone already-- the bastard son of Count Edmont de Fortemps, and commander of the garrison at Camp Dragonhead. In this latter capacity, he’d apparently been quite helpful during Rinh and Alphinaud’s efforts bringing Garuda to heel, and again during the hunt for Lady Iceheart-- Ysayle, now, she supposed-- and the events leading up to the defense of the Steps of Faith. His good word had brought Lord Commander Aymeric to the banquet in Ul’dah-- for all the good that did him. After that, Haurchefant was apparently the remaining Scions’ foot in the door for being taken in by House Fortemps.

A fairly dry set of facts painting a picture of a dependable ally, slain in the line of duty. Y’shtola knew she was missing something.

“After Ul’dah,” Rinh said, “We couldn’t go straight on to Ishgard. We were stuck in Camp Dragonhead for ages while we waited for various sclerotic ecclesiastical bureaucrats to decide whether to open the gates for us or not. After a close call with some Crystal Braves, I realized not even Coerthas was safe. So my world began and ended at the walls of Camp Dragonhead. For months, Shtola— for months. I couldn’t get in touch with anyone in the outside world-- I couldn’t even send word to my son.”

“And you and Haurchefant became close over this period, I presume.”

Rinh nodded. “Close. Closer than close. I— I had to perform this role around everyone else, I had to keep it together— but with him, I let my guard down. He-- he loved me. And I… I loved him. Reluctant as I was to admit it. No, ‘reluctant’ isn’t the right word; frightened would be more accurate.” She looked up at Y’shtola for a moment, cheeks streaked with tears, eyeliner running, before burying her face in the conjurer’s shoulder once more. “Since I— I’m not worth that sort of devotion, not when loving me is so dangerous. He— he— he loved me, and all he had to show for it in the end was a broken shield, and a spear of light meant for me.”

The aether around Rinh rippled frantically as her body was wracked by great, heaving sobs. Y’shtola was at a loss for words; her course of study at the Studium trained her to mend bodies, not minds. Matoya had honed many skills in her pupil, but bedside manner wasn’t one of them. It was all she could do to wrap the smaller woman in her arms; she could be her anchor in this storm, if nothing else.

Eventually, by ilms, Rinh’s trembling subsided; the aether flowing through her, though by no means placid, was no longer so tempestuous.

“Since then,” Rinh murmured, “I’ve had to be the Warrior of Light constantly. And— it’s just a role, it’s just performance. One which suits me better than the stage name and exotic persona my lanista cooked up for me in the Coliseum, but with just as much artifice. It’s exhausting, Shtola. I was already barely keeping it together after Ul’dah, and now— now I feel like I’m hanging by a thread.” She sniffled. “And… and now you’re back, and all of that just came tumbling out, even though you’re the one who’s been adrift in the Lifestream. So… sorry.”

“My time in the Lifestream has taken a physical toll-- most of which shall be mended with time and rest, some I shall carry with me for much longer,” Y’shtola said. She realized she was probably coming across as blunt and matter-of-fact as ever, possibly to the detriment of the point she was trying to make. When she began speaking again, she took care to keep her tone of voice gentle, even when speaking the truth unflinchingly. “But time flows differently in the Lifestream than it does in the world of material things-- or, perhaps, it is more accurate to say that a soul unmoored perceives time differently than one anchored to her body. My ordeal began and ended in the blink of an eye, whereas you suffered through months of grief and anguish.”

“I… I suppose,” Rinh said, “Although I imagine that also means that what happened in Ul’dah feels a lot more raw.”

“Yes,” said Y’shtola, never one to mince words, “But the burden of that pain is borne equally between us.”

They sat like that for a while, side-by-side, clinging to one another. Eventually, though, Rinh gently extricated herself from Y’shtola’s arms. She gave Y’shtola a searching look.

“We’ll find them, Shtola,” she said, with conviction in her voice that surprised Y’shtola in its intensity, “Thancred, Minfilia, Yda, Papalymo… we’ll find them.” She smiled, fangs showing. “We managed to pluck you from the the bloody Lifestream, which is mind-bogglingly improbable— so I can’t imagine any of the others are out of our reach.”

Looking into the Warrior of Light’s bright eyes, Y’shtola could almost believe it.

Rinh

“It’s odd,” said Rinh, boots tapping on whitewashed cobblestones, “seeing a city this big so dark and quiet.” The cobbles, like everything else in Sharlayan, looked as if they had once been painstakingly laid out with geometrical perfection by mathematicians moonlighting as architects, but now were gradually drifting askew as the entropy of nature took hold. “I suppose it must be even stranger for you, Shtola. You saw this place in its prime.”

Y’shtola hummed contemplatively. “What’s left of Sharlayan is less familiar than I imagined it would be, although I cannot say how much of that is the toll taken by fifteen years of neglect, how much is simply my own memories of this place fading with the passage of time, and how much is the result of looking upon it with, quite literally, different eyes.”

It was a dark night; the only light came from a sliver of moon, and the bed of stars it rested upon. She’d asked Y’shtola to come along on a nighttime stroll along Sharlayan’s streets; neither of them could sleep after they’d settled into camp, and getting the lay of the land seemed a better use of time than spending the next several hours uselessly tossing and turning. Rinh could see perfectly well in the dark, of course, and Y’shtola— well, Rinh supposed aether shined just as brightly at dusk as at dawn.

Rinh gazed out towards the Cenotaph, still majestic atop its lofty rise, still instantly recognizable from the engravings of it she’d seen. “I always wanted to see Sharlayan, you know. It figured prominently in the history my aunt taught me— and a lot of her books on aetherology and such were written by Sharlayan scholars. I imagined myself sitting in cafés, sipping tea and listening to the finest minds in Eorzea debate theory, browsing the shelves of the Studium’s great libraries, utterly losing myself in the noble pursuit of pure knowledge, that sort of thing.”

Y’shtola smiled, clearly amused. “A very romantic view of our city; unfortunately, it’s one which falls apart under the slightest scrutiny.”

“I may have idealized the place a bit,” Rinh admitted.

“Just a bit.”

“Cut me some slack, Shtola, I was— what— thirteen, maybe fourteen years old?” She shrugged. “Also, I had no idea that the place had already been abandoned for five years.”

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”

“My aunt’s library was pretty comprehensive, considering our meager circumstances, but we weren’t exactly getting books hot off the presses in our remote corner of the Shroud. In the histories I learned, Sharlayan was still one of Eorzea’s great city-states.”

“I suppose you were disappointed by our cowardice,” Y’shtola said coolly.

“‘Cowardice’ seems like a harsh word…” Rinh began, but Y’shtola shook her head.

“It is too kind, if anything. Louisoix famously said, ‘To ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom— it is indolence.’ One would be hard-pressed to name a clearer example of such indolence than the decision to abandon Eorzea to its fate at the first sign of trouble. It was foolish— if Eorzea was subjugated by the empire, there is no reason to expect they would refrain from crossing the sea to strike at the motherland— but, more than that, it was cruel. The Forum elected to quit the continent, taking all of its assembled wisdom and power with it, while the citizens of Eorzea’s other nations had no such option.”

Rinh stopped walking, peering at the cityscape around her— marble domes with vines climbing up their walls, collapsed arches, stately manor homes stained by years of rainfall. “I would’ve liked to have met Louisoix,” she said.

“Well,” Y’shtola said dryly, “You’ll get to meet Matoya, at least.”

Rinh smiled brightly. “Oh! I read her monograph on analyzing the observable properties of the Aetherial Sea, and I’ve been dying to ask her some questions about it.”

Y’shtola chuckled. “Good luck with that; she published that twenty years ago. Also, she’s probably just going to make you do chores for her.”

“I feel like half the people I meet have got chores for me to do.” Rinh exhaled heavily, taking another look around the intersection they’d arrived at. “Hey, Shtola, where are we now? What sort of neighborhood was this?”

“A residential section of the Collectors’ Quarter,” Y’shtola said. “Home, mostly, to citizens of means but without academic connections that required living closer to the Answering or Rulers’ Quarters— more space for grand houses than the crowded districts adjoining the, say, the Studium. There is far less residual aether here than elsewhere in the city; the people who lived here were mostly bankers, traders, and the like, rather than researchers, students, or faculty.”

“When you see aether… is it much like looking through an aetheroscope?” Rinh asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Not particularly; however, it still conveys similar information…” Y’shtola trailed off; something behind Rinh seemed to catch her attention. “That’s my father’s house just down the road,” she said, finally.

Rinh turned around and took in the villa of Y’rhul Nunh. It had the same austere sort of architecture that characterized most Sharlayan buildings, all whitewashed walls and marble columns, but it still put Rinh in the mind of some of the gaudier residences of the Ul’dahn elite. The high turret looming over the dome and breaking up the estate’s elegant silhouette hardly helped matters, nor did the swimming pool now filled with fetid standing water.

“We should look inside,” Y’shtola said, already walking down the road, “It’s possible some important family effects were left behind in the exodus, and it would be remiss of me to leave them here. Some of Mhitra’s things, perhaps.”

“Er… all right,” Rinh said, hurrying to follow. She was curious about what was in the mansion, and-- flimsy excuses about abandoned heirlooms aside, she suspected Y’shtola was, too.

Y’shtola climbed the stairs to the building’s portico, running her hand along the wrought-iron railing as she went. She looked up at a rather imposing front door, took a deep breath, and pulled on the handle.

The door refused to budge.

“Ah,” she said, “It’s locked.” She glanced over her shoulder, where Rinh was following just a few steps behind. “Will you do the honors, Rinh?”

Rinh cocked her head to the side, not entirely sure what was being asked of her. “As much as I enjoy the idea of breaking into some rich fellow’s house,” she said, finally, “I don’t know how to pick locks.”

Y’shtola rolled her eyes. “I was asking if you could break down the door.”

“Oh. That… that makes more sense.”

The Archon performed a pantomime of a particularly courtly sort of curtsy as she stepped out of the way, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes. “Pray lend me your strength, O Warrior of Light, and slay this foe who seeks to bar our way.”

Rinh took a few steps backwards, grateful that the portico was big enough to let her build up at least a little momentum. Then she raised her shield-- a borrowed Ishgardian kite shield, hardly-used and bearing no device, rather than the buckler she’d trained with, or the Ironworks monstrosity some Crystal Brave probably nicked from the Rising Stones after her flight from Ul’dah. It was sturdy enough to suit her purposes here, though, even if it wasn’t the sort of shield that could stop, say, a javelin of light hurled by a---

She couldn’t let her thoughts go down that road, not now. She bit her lip until she could taste blood. She counted to three and charged the door.

The door was effortlessly torn off its hinges, rusty and brittle after so many years of disuse. The door tipped backwards and hit the floor with a tremendous thud. A cloud of plaster dust billowed out of the entryway.

Y’shtola smiled at Rinh before taking a dainty step over the fallen door and into the foyer.

Rinh followed, her eyes sweeping the room. The foyer was spacious, but seemed to contain little of note. The floor was covered in mosaic tiles depicting the Twelve arranged around an elemental wheel. Rhalgr and Byregot presided over Lightning at the far end of the room, so she supposed that Halone and Menphina had just been smashed to bits by the weight of the door. The remaining Ten all sported their traditional attributes, although their dress was uniformly and pointedly Sharlayan.

“Is this where you grew up?” Rinh asked; she spoke quietly, but her voice still echoed in the cavernous vestibule. “Before Matoya took you in, I mean.”

“No,” said Y’shtola, “I was only an occasional guest in these halls. My father, generally, considered his daughters to be their mothers’ problem. My mother, in turn, foisted me on Matoya the moment I was old enough to show even the most rudimentary aptitude for magic-- but she, at least, saw to it that I was provided for until then. My father had absolutely no inclination to raise children, the fact that he sired twelve of us notwithstanding.”

“Sounds a bit like my father, I guess,” Rinh said, “Or what I’ve been told of him, at least-- he was already long gone by the time I was born.”

Rinh sometimes, in her idle moments, wondered whatever became of her father. All she really had was a name-- Dhen’a Epocan-- and the knowledge that he utterly failed to live up to even the modest expectations Keeper of the Moon fathers are held to. Her sisters were all older than her, but their fathers were still regular visitors when she was growing up, bearing game, gil, and news from other parts of the forest, trading on the family’s behalf in settlements, or pitching in when it was time to move the camp or gather firewood for the winter. Her younger brother’s father-- a Seeker of the Sun who lived far, far away from the Shroud-- still managed to be a regular presence in her life. 

And when she herself was pregnant, Koh’sae doted on her. His wanderings never took him far from the Panipahrs, and he always brought back something useful. Food, usually-- there was never quite enough to eat, and it was getting worse as Dalamud hung lower and lower in the sky. When she was too far along to hunt, he became a more or less permanent fixture in the camp, taking on her entire share of the hunting. He was better at it, too-- a much better shot than Rinh, although still nowhere near the master archer her mother was.

Which meant he was with everyone else when the Calamity struck. If he’d left-- or even wandered further afield-- he never would have--

She exhaled sharply. She could not-- could not-- let herself go where her thoughts were carrying her.

“Frankly,” Y’shtola said, “It would have better if my father had also mysteriously disappeared. As it was, he would invite us to visit to celebrate our various accomplishments-- when I was made an Archon, for example. It was transparently an attempt to bask in reflected glory in hopes some of our lustre to rub off on him. A largely successful one, regrettably.”

***

The foyer set the tone for the rest of their tour of the house-- grand, spacious interiors, stripped of all furniture, moveable decorations, appliances, clothes, books, kitchenware, valuables, or indeed anything at all that might have yielded some clue as to the character of its former inhabitant. The miqo’te’s footsteps echoed up and down empty corridors. Wooden floorboards and stairs creaked from the weight of Rinh in her armor. In one room, even the mosaic flooring had been removed, pried off tile-by-tile.

“I don’t know what I expected to find,” Y’shtola said, stepping once more over the fallen door, into the cool night air of the hinterlands. “The evacuation of the colony was carefully planned far in advance and carried out in a systematic and orderly fashion. Of course my father wouldn’t have left behind anything behind of import.”

“I did get to bust down some rich guy’s door, though,” Rinh said, climbing down the portico’s steps, “So that was fun, at least.” A gust of wind blew down the road-- cold enough to be invigorating without chilling. Clear, fresh air filled Rinh’s lungs-- a welcome change from the stale, dusty air of the manor house. She sat down on the steps.

“Silver linings,” Y’sthola said as she sat down beside her.

Rinh leaned back, looking up at the sky. A sea of stars greeted her-- thousands and thousands of sparkling pinpricks of light scattered across a sunless sea. “Gods,” she breathed, “Look at those stars. It’s like we’re in the middle of the countryside-- but I suppose we are, more or less. None of the city lights that blot out half the stars here, not anymore.”

“I can’t see them,” Y’shtola said, quietly, “When I behold the night sky, I see nothing but a thin skein of water- and wind-aspected aether, and above that-- an endless void. The distances between us and those foreign stars are such that no aether could bridge the gap-- or, perhaps, such stars do not have aether as we know it.”

“Oh--” Rinh stammered, abashed, “Sorry, I-- I didn’t--”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Y’shtola said, craning her neck to gaze at the sky-- such as it was. “The knowledge that the stars still shine upon us is of genuine comfort.”

Chapter Text

Rinh 

“So Ishgard’s a republic now,” Rinh said, “Which I suppose means it’s technically the best-governed polity in Eorzea.” The sky was bright and clear and cold. Ishgard loomed in the distance, shining in the harsh winter sun. The heavy overcoat she’d wrapped herself in kept the chill from being too biting; so did the mug of hot chocolate she cupped between her hands, still nearly as hot as it was when she’d prepared it back in Camp Dragonhead thanks to a couple of tiny fire-aspected crystals she’d added. It was a useful trick she’d learned during her time at the Falling Snows, although it was— and this could not be stressed enough— absolutely imperative that one avoids swallowing the crystals by accident.

Another mug just like the first sat on the ground, just in front of a small stone marker. A House Fortemps shield was carefully leaned against the stone, its unicorn marred by a ragged hole. Offerings for the dead. The Panipahrs had left such offerings in the Black Shroud for generations— it was a way to remember the family dead, and a way to tell them that they were still remembered.

Rinh didn’t see any reason not to do the same for the family she’d found outside the Shroud, too.

“Admittedly,” she said, between sips of cocoa, “The bar for good governance in Eorzea is on the bloody floor, so that’s not saying much. Maybe it would have been different if anyone had listened to my helpful advice about expropriating the nobility, but still— it’s something. The war’s over, the Ishgardian Republic has a future to look ahead to, and every piece of shite who had a hand in doing this to you is in the fucking ground.”

Rinh let a few moments of silence pass. 

She wasn’t expecting an answer, of course. Her aunt, who’d been the one to teach her all about the family ghosts and how to remember them, also gave her the grounding in modern aetherological theory to know that empirical evidence proved that souls, in death, do not linger as they do in the old stories. And even if Aunt Sizha hadn’t taught her that, she had an eyewitness account of the Lifestream to refer to. Panipahr ghosts were tied to certain places, certain selves, a link in the chain connecting past to present. Y’shtola described the Lifestream as placeless, timeless, a total negation of the objective self.

So she knew that Haurchefant lived on in some abstract way— the aether that flowed into the Lifestream as he died in her arms flowed out again into new lives, just as his mortal remains were slowly returning to the earth. It was a beautiful thought, honestly, which often brought her solace over the past year. It just wasn’t always quite what she needed. Sometimes, she needed to talk; she’d just have to take it on faith that someone was listening.

But she knew no reply was forthcoming; pausing to leave space for one just felt like the polite thing to do.

“We… we’ve lost Minfilia again,” she said, softly, “For good this time, I think. I won’t bore you with all the cosmological details— I’m not here to talk your ear off about the connection between our star and its sundered shards… but I understand what Hydaelyn had asked of her, at least. One life to save one world— when put like that, it’s hardly a choice at all.”

The wind picked up, the cold sliced through Rinh’s overcoat. She took another long drink of hot chocolate, and warmth bloomed within her— but only for a moment. “I keep on thinking about these adventurers we met, though. Arbert… J’rhoomale… Blanhaerz… Naillebert… Lamimi. The ‘Warriors of Darkness’, I guess, but they were champions of Hydaelyn just like us, like me. Yet all they got for their sacrifices was their home being swept away in a wave of Light… Losing everything like that is already too much to bear— I can’t imagine how that’s compounded by feeling responsible for it. We had to fight them— it was this whole thing with this convoluted Ascian plot, Urianger was a triple agent, the details aren’t important. But… but the look in their eyes afterwards— the resignation, the grief, the anger. The little glances they exchanged, speaking to one another without words— you could tell that they’d known each other for a long, long time, and clearly cared deeply for one another. And… and it was just so easy to imagine our positions reversed. The Warriors of Light facing— I don’t know— the Scions of the Seventh… Dusk, or something. So easy to imagine losing everything— everything — in one fell swoop.”

She fell silent again, partly because she felt like she’d been talking too long, but mostly just to gather her thoughts. “So,” she says, “There’s this girl I know. Shtola… Y’shtola Rhul. I don’t think you met her? But I’m sure I’ve talked about her.”

Another pause. She thought of those first few awful days in Dragonhead. She’d felt utterly numb, just trying to push through her rage and grief— but Haurchefant had asked her to tell stories about the Scions. Eventually, she obliged— he knew, intuitively, what generations of Panipahr mothers taught their daughters: remembering is hard, but forgetting is far worse.

“And—” she began, “And I’ve… come to care for her. Care for her a great deal, in fact. But— but I don’t know what to do about that. Now, please don’t misunderstand me— I’m not here to ask for permission, or anything daft like that. I remember the approximately seven-hundred times you’ve told me my happiness matters.” She raised her mug— not to drink, this time, but to feel the steam rising from it warm her face, to take in that rich, sweet aroma that always made her think of Coerthas. 

“It’s just… happiness is easier said than done. I’d be quite unhappy if my… romantic bungling wound up costing me a friendship that means the world to me. I’m not even one-hundred percent sure she likes girls. Although… I can take an educated guess.” A small smile; the sort she often had when talking to him. “The crux of it, though, isn’t really that sort of dithering over prosaic concerns like being as terrible at talking to girls as I am at talking to boys. It’s… it’s knowing how precarious it all is. How people like us— like those Warriors of Darkness— could lose everything in an instant.”

She finally lifted her mug to her lips again, drinking the last of the hot chocolate. “And I can’t decide if that’s a reason to not say anything, to avoid getting hurt, to avoid hurting her— or a reason to say something now, before it’s too late.” She fished the fire crystals out of the now-empty mug, wiped them off with a handkerchief, and pocketed them. “There are things I wish I’d said to you. Not many, maybe— you always made it easy to bare my heart to you. And there are a lot of things I wish I’d said to Koh’sae.”

Wispy clouds had begun to encroach upon that cold blue sky; a few flakes of snow were in the wind, now. “I suppose when I put it like that, though, what I should do is pretty obvious, huh?”

She smiled, and leaned down to place her empty mug next to the one already placed before the gravestone; one last finishing touch to her offering. “Thanks for hearing me out,” she said, standing up, “I’ve still no bloody idea what to say to her, but I should probably ask someone a little more talkative for advice on that front.”

She began her careful descent down his hill, towards the Gates of Judgment.

Y’shtola

Ishgard, frankly, looked pretty boring from the air. 

Its towers were dull and lusterless. Its walls and battlements were blank grey slabs. The wards outside the gates still blazed brightly, but in the city proper only a few sparks of aether lit up the gloom. A thin lattice of earth-aspected aether reinforced the lower levels, strengthening them just enough to keep the city from tipping over and tumbling into the abyss. A second layer of delicate lines corresponded to the city’s aetheryte, aethernet, and the infrastructure supporting them. Nestled high up among the Pillars, the Athenaeum Astrologicum glimmered prettily, but not consequentially.

Y’shtola had a number of theories about this. The first, and most obvious, was that aether simply didn’t travel as far as ordinary light, so it stood to reason that it looked dark and indistinct from the deck of an airship high overhead. Also relevant was the possibility that Ishgard simply didn’t have the sort of sophisticated magical public works projects the other great cities of Eorzea had— maybe it was one of the approximately six thousand things considered heretical by the old regime.

More likely: Ishgard simply was a dull place Y’shtola did not particularly like. That seemed uncharitable, though. Rinh surely saw something in this place, after all.

Y’shtola supposed she saw something in Ishgard, too: Rinh. Rinh was down there somewhere.

As the airship began to descend towards its mooring and the city grew nearer, it sharpened into focus. Thousands and thousands of people, the things they made, the places where they came and went— all were distinct ripples in the aether.

The airship docked. Y’shtola was one of only a few passengers. Airships plied Ishgardian skies far more frequently than they had in years past, when air travel still carried risks like being blown out of the sky by an enormous dragon, but the demand just wasn’t there. Regularly scheduled flights meant mostly-empty vessels.

Still, there were a fair few people gathered on the other side of the ticket gate. The noble passengers seemed to have entire retinues waiting for them, apparently unwilling to spend any length of time unattended to. A handful of smartly dressed Maelstrom officers disembarking were greeted by their Temple Knights counterparts. A father and daughter rushed to meet another man as he passed through the gate— a family’s joyous reunion.

And there in the middle was Rinh and her son.

Rinh’a was sitting up on his mother’s shoulders, staring agape at the airship itself. Their combined height was just about equal to some of the hyur milling about; the elezen, of course, still towered over both of them.

Rinh seemed to find Y’shtola amidst the passengers queued up to disembark. Their eyes met, Rinh smiling radiantly, Y’shtola’s heart fluttering.

When she’d finally had her ticket inspected and stepped past the gate, Rinh was gently setting her son back onto the ground.

“Wow,” Rinh’a said, excitedly, “They let you get way closer to the airships here than back in Limsa Lominsa! You could see the helmsman and the propellers and everything.”

Rinh’a was six, now. He took after his mother in many ways— the same golden eyes, the same freckles, a miniature version of his mother’s aquiline nose. He was just a touch paler, though, his hair a very dark brown, not quite matching his mother’s raven-black locks. Clues about what Koh’sae might’ve looked like, Y’shtola thought idly.

“Oh!” Rinh’a said, as she approached the two of them, “Hi, Miss Y’shtola.” His voice was small, and he looked a little reticent, but this was still positively outgoing by Rinh’a standards. Y’shtola remembered the first time she met the boy, all that time ago in Limsa Lominsa; he’d seemed thoroughly intimidated by the prospect of meeting a stranger, barely said a word, and spent the whole conversation doing his best to hide in Rinh’s shadow.

Rinh, meanwhile, was still smiling like the cat who got the cream. “Shtola,” she said, simply, before pulling the other woman into a tight embrace.

The moment was interrupted by Rinh’a’s piping voice. “Can we stay and watch the airship take off again, Mum?”

Rinh, disengaging herself from Y’shtola’s arms, seemed to— for a moment— actually consider this. She squinted, looking past Y’shtola, who turned around and realized Rinh was literally consulting the airship timetable.

“Sorry,” she said, not unkindly, “This thing’s not leaving for another two hours. That’s a little long to be standing out here in the cold, isn’t it? Especially when I’m sure your maths tutor’s waiting for you to get back. You wouldn’t want to miss out on fractions, would you?”

To Y’shtola’s surprise, the boy looked positively dismayed about the possibility of missing a lesson on fractions. He would fit right in at the Studium, she decided. 

So would his mother, she supposed, if her life had gone down a different path.

***

A steward in House Fortemps livery bowed. “Welcome home, Mistress Panipahr.”

This wasn’t Y’shtola’s first visit to Fortemps Manor, of course, but it was her first time visiting when there wasn’t some crisis or another demanding her attention— and Rinh’s.

The word home jumped out at her. So did how at ease Rinh seemed in here. So did Rinh’s overcoat, as she hung it and Rinh’a’s on a coat rack— it wasn’t some borrowed Ishgardian cloak this time, but one of a decidedly Limsan cut, clearly tailor-made for Rinh. So was the way she sank down onto a sitting-room couch once she’d seen her son safely delivered to his maths lesson. Y’shtola wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Rinh quite so at peace before.

She sat down next to Rinh, as close as she dared without breaching propriety. Rinh surprised Y’shtola by sliding a little closer still, their thighs touching slightly, her hands gently brushing against Y’shtola’s.

Rinh and Y’shtola had touched one another many times. Gestures of support, of comfort, of healing or reassurance or guidance. All intensely intimate things, in their own way, but this felt different. Closeness for closeness’s sake.

“So,” murmured Rinh, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say, Shtola. But I haven’t really known the best way to say it.”

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow curiously, and tried her best to not look as if she was suddenly and unaccountably nervous. “Oh?” she said, mildly.

“So I asked around a bit and came to the following conclusion; I am absolutely horrible at talking about things like this and no amount of advice can change that. So if I just wait for the right words to come, I’ll wind up keeping my counsel indefinitely, since I’m resigned to the fact that they never will.” Rinh was fidgeting nervously, now, folding and unfolding a tiny piece of scrap paper she’d found in her pocket. 

Was she talking about what Y’shtola thought she was talking about? Y’shtola dared not hope— indeed, she actively tamped down her expectations— it wouldn’t do to find herself frustrated with the Warrior of Light due to her own selfish desires.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

She did her best to tune it out. Eyes forward, Y’shtola.

“Shtola,” Rinh said, “I’m terribly fond of you.”

Silence, save for the ticking of a grand old clock.

“Um,” continued Rinh, “Romantically, I mean? Since obviously we’re friends and that already implies some degree of fondness by definition. And— and— and I completely get it if you want to keep it at that, so— so, just say the word and we can forget I ever said anything, since the last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable. I— I want what’s best for you, whatever else I feel, so if—”

Y’shtola held Rinh’s trembling hands, leaned in, and kissed her on the lips.

“Oh,” breathed Rinh, as Y’shtola drew back.

Y’shtola smiled as confidently as she could, but she could feel the heat of a blush blooming on her cheeks. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” She kissed Rinh again, just because she could, enjoying the heady thrill of a world of possibilities that had suddenly opened up before her.

When she went in for a third kiss, though, Rinh stopped her with a finger to her lips. “Ah, we should probably continue this, um, discussion somewhere that isn’t Count Edmont’s parlor.”

***

Rinh’s bedroom at Fortemps Manor was, Y’shtola was fairly sure, formerly a guest room. Most of the large furniture— the plush armchairs, the sofa, the vanity, the bed— had clearly been picked out with Elezen visitors in mind, so everything was about one and a half times too big for the room’s current occupant. There was a small escritoire with a chair off in one corner, though, much less ostentatious than the Ishgardian furniture and covered in letters, papers, and personal correspondence.

Indeed, the whole place was filled was filled with clutter of various sorts: books (but only on the lower shelves of the towering bookcases, with the overflow stacked on the floor), clothes, knick-knacks, mementos of past adventures, teacups, a whetstone, a hunting knife, jewelry, a small arsenal of makeup supplies, and no fewer than half a dozen swords of various shapes and sizes. Together, they painted a clear picture: this room belonged to Rinh Panipahr, Warrior of Light, no matter who it had been meant for originally.

“I’d say sorry about the mess,” Rinh said, closing the door behind her, “But I’ve seen how Matoya lives, so honestly I deserve a medal for having at least two thirds of my books on actual shelves.”

Y’shtola laughed quietly, mouth hidden behind her hand. “Yet another accolade for the great Warrior of Light— slayer of primals, champion of Hydaelyn, peacemaker of the Dragonsong War, and only thirty-three percent of her books are lying around on the floor.”

“Quite the catch, aren’t I?” Rinh said brightly.

“So, Rinh,” Y’shtola said, “When you suggested we adjourn here for a more private conversation, was it because you wished to discuss today’s development away from the prying eyes of Ishgardian gossips? Or was it the rather obvious euphemism I took it for?”

Rinh bit her lip. She looked this way and that. The blush she’d had since that first kiss in the parlor darkened further. “Um,” she said, finally, “Which… which would you like it to be?”

Y’shtola’s eyes swept hungrily up and down her body. As was almost always the case, the Warrior of Light was the single clearest, sharpest, brightest thing in the room. Her hair was cut short again, like she’d worn it before Ul’dah. She’d gotten a few more scars since then, too— a thin line cutting across her brow, a tiny notch taken out of her left ear. She was wearing her usual makeup— sharp eyeliner, black lipstick, the slightest hint of eyeshadow. When not out in the field, Rinh’s style of dress regularly oscillated between feminine and masculine. Today, apparently, she’d been in the mood for the latter— she was wearing a tailored black suit. Her morning coat flattered her narrow waist. The cut of her trousers was immaculate. The bottom button of her waistcoat was undone.

How, thought Y’shtola, had she ever entertained the possibility that the woman standing before her was straight? She felt an odd sort of giddiness, now, but she did her best to keep her features arranged into an expression of perfect confidence.

 “The… the latter. If you would have me.”

Rinh grinned, fangs on full display. “Shtola… I would love to have you.”

And then she got on her knees. Quickly but methodically, with clever fingers, she worked her way down Y’shtola’s boots, unbuckling straps and unbuttoning buttons.

“How do you have the patience to put these things on every day?” Rinh said, halfway down a boot, “I’ve worn plate armor that’s less complicated.”

“I simply think of the time I had to wade through sewage in thin cloth leggings and my favorite pattens,” Y’shtola said.

“Wow,” Rinh deadpanned, finally reaching the last button on Y’shtola’s right boot, “You say the most romantic things.” She began peeling leather away from skin, planting kisses along each newly-bared stretch of thigh.

Y’shtola tried to think of some witty rejoinder to fire back, but she could hardly think clearly, not when she’s faced with the sight of the Warrior of Light on her knees, the feeling of soft lips pressing against her skin, the warmth she felt pooling within her.

When she’d finished with the boots, Rinh stood up again, pressing her thigh between Y’shtola’s legs. Y’shtola’s breath hitched; she ground against Rinh, seeking more friction, more sensation. Through the thin fabric of her halftights, it was just enough to be utterly tantalizing without actually satisfying .

Rinh tried to unfasten the ornate clasp holding Y’shtola’s coat closed, but it was a fumbling effort, and met with little success.

“Your hands are trembling,” murmured Y’shtola.

“I’m a bit nervous,” said Rinh.

“We don’t have to—”

Rinh shook her head. “It’s not like that. Call it… performance anxiety? I— ugh, this is embarrassing— this is the first time I’ve done anything like this with another woman? And I— I want this, badly, but I’m so, so afraid of fucking it up somehow.”

Y’shtola kissed Rinh on her forehead. “You’re doing wonderfully so far.”

Rinh smiled. “I wish I could be as confident as you about this, Shtola. But I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice sweeping pretty Sharlayan girls— or boys, if you’re so inclined—”

“I’m most assuredly not,” Y’shtola cut in, laughing softly.

“—off their feet,” Rinh finished.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” said Y’shtola, “However, I fear I must make an embarrassing admission of my own: I haven’t ever had this sort of... intimate encounter with anyone before. My affected confidence notwithstanding, we are deep in uncharted waters.”

“Well,” said Rinh, “We’ll figure it out!” She pulled back just enough to look up into Y’shtola’s eyes, carefully studying her. “What do you want? What do you think you’d like?”

Y’shtola thought this over for a moment; there were a great many things she wanted, but most of them still felt difficult to articulate. Her life was built on service to others— for Sharlayan, for the Circle of Knowing, the Scions, the people of La Noscea. Her hands could direct the elements to protect those whom the Ascians and their pawns would harm; her touch could heal those whom she was too late to protect.

This suited her, of course; it felt like a solid foundation to build oneself upon. Yet perhaps that didn’t preclude wanting things for herself.

Perhaps in here, alone with the Warrior of Light, she could afford to be a little greedy.

“You can start small,” Rinh said; apparently she’d noticed Y’shtola’s indecision.

“I think,” Y’shtola said, stroking Rinh’s cheek, “I’d like to undress you.” When Rinh nodded, her hand drifted down Rinh’s neck, and she set about untying her cravat. A moment later, it came loose.

Rinh shrugged off her morning coat, letting it fall to the ground in an undignified heap. When Y’shtola started unbuttoning Rinh’s waistcoat, she noticed Rinh staring intently at every movement of her fingers. The waistcoat fell away, revealing a white dress shirt with a high starched collar, held shut by still more tiny buttons.

“And you had the temerity to say my boots were hard to take off,” Y’shtola purred.

“Look, this is Ishgard-- dressing in layers just makes sense, okay?” Rinh protested, with mock-indignation. Beneath the shirt, Y’shtola discovered, was a pale chemise. At least it didn’t have yet more buttons, though; Rinh pulled it over her head and off in one fluid motion, leaving her bare from the waist up.

Y’shtola’s instinct was to avert her gaze, but she pushed away her self-consciousness; in these circumstances, she was more or less being invited to stare all she wanted. More than stare, really; Rinh was gently guiding Y’shtola’s hands onto her breasts. 

Y’shtola took this as a cue to be a little bolder exploring the other woman’s body, caressing soft skin, tracing the lines of old scars, brushing across stretch marks; when her fingers grazed across a stiffened nipple, Rinh exhaled so sharply Y’shtola’s bangs were blown out of place. She responded with a lingering kiss, her hands never leaving Rinh’s body.

When Y’shtola finally pulled away, Rinh sounded more than a little breathless. “Off— off to a good start, I’d say.”

So, Y’shtola thought, she responds positively to a certain degree of decisiveness. She decided to summon up some semblance of her earlier confidence, but as a knowing act of artifice this time, a role deliberately stepped into with a wink and a nod, rather than an affected façade over her insecurities. “You looked quite fetching when you were on your knees,” she said, taking a step back towards the bed. Without further instruction, Rinh was on her knees again, looking up at her with eager, hungry eyes.

It was electrifying.

“N-now,” Y’shtola said, trying her best to sound commanding despite the obvious quaver in her voice, “I— I want you to go down on me.” Rinh’s hands glided up Y’shtola’s legs, pausing briefly to admire the slight indentation still visible where the lip of her boots had squeezed her thighs, before making their way to her hips. Rinh hooked her thumbs into the waistband of Y’shtola’s halftights and smallclothes and slid them down.

Y’shtola sat down on the very edge of the bed. Rinh gently eased her legs apart. She looked up at Y’shtola one more time; after a single nod from the conjurer, she set about her task with the ardor and thoroughness expected of the Warrior of Light.

Rinh started slow— not exactly hesitant, but perhaps a bit tentative. Her fingers ghosted across Y’shtola’s folds. Her tongue glanced across Y’shtola’s clit, feather-light. Even these small touches were enough for Y’shtola’s breathing to become ragged, enough to leave her slick with want. Nobody had ever touched her like this before. Part of her could still barely believe any of this was real. Another part of her was rapidly forgetting that anything besides this was real. The world, in all its complexity and glory, for all its beauties and terrors, had shrunk down to herself, her lover, and this bed.

When Rinh finally provoked Y’shtola to cry out, she assumed a steadier rhythm. She licked and sucked her clit fervently— relentlessly. Rinh’s tongue and lips were soon joined by two fingers sliding into her, building up to fucking her at the same pace.

“Fuck,” Y’shtola breathed, “Keep going, keep going—” She realized she was being quite noisy. Nosier than she ever expected she’d be. By this point, though, she really didn’t care. She barely cared about anything, now— all that mattered now was pure physical sensation, bright and overpowering as the Warrior of Light’s shining aether. “Keep going!” she repeated, “Keep going, keep going, keep going keep going keepgoingkeepgoingkeep—”

She threw her head back as she came, the noises she made no longer even slightly resembling words, carrying no meaning beyond pure, exultant, sensual pleasure. Rinh didn’t stop; instead, she gradually slowed her pace, helping Y’shtola ride out the cresting waves.

When she finally came back to herself, she’d flopped backwards onto the bed, fingers and toes still tingling, panting and spent. Rinh hopped up onto the bed, sitting beside Y’shtola’s prone form. She looked down at her with something like the air of a craftswoman admiring her handwork, running her hand through Y’shtola’s pale hair.

“So,” Rinh said, more than a little breathlessly, “That what you had in mind?”

“One could say that,” Y’shtola murmured.

Rinh took a handkerchief out of her trousers pocket and dabbed at her mouth and chin. It was a gesture so incongruously dainty Y’shtola had to laugh.

The fact Rinh was still wearing trousers at all, though, reminded Y’shtola that this was still a deed only half-done. “Off with those,” she said. Her affected imperiousness felt even more ridiculous now, her face flushed, her hair and remaining clothes in disarray, her arms and legs trembling as she pushed herself back into sitting upright. Rinh seemed more than happy to indulge her, though, standing up and slithering out of her trousers. Y’shtola took the opportunity to finally finish unfastening the clasp on her coat Rinh had only gotten half-open before getting distracted, unbuttoning what she couldn’t help but pointedly think of as a perfectly reasonable number of buttons, and slipping out of her coat.

“Gods,” Rinh murmured, rejoining Y’shtola on the bed, “You’re beautiful.” Y’shtola ran her hand down Rinh’s side, appreciating how different Rinh’s body was from her own, how well they complemented one another, sitting side-by-side like this. Y’shtola’s body was all supple skin and soft curves; the Warrior of Light, on the other hand, had her share of sharp angles and hard edges. Between her size and how much power she drew from her seemingly bottomless reserves of aether, it was easy to forget just how physically strong she was beneath all that armor. Her slight silhouette hid lean, wiry muscle. Those delicately-proportioned hands were calloused from years of swinging a sword. She was covered in scars, but still standing, still pressing forward.

Y’shtola’s hand slid further down, dipping between Rinh’s legs; when it reached her smallclothes— soaking by this point— even the slightest friction against her was enough for her to roll her hips frantically, looking for any sort of purchase. When Y’shtola lightened her touch just the slightest bit, Rinh actually whined, impatiently.

“Eager, aren’t we?” Y’shtola said, amused.

“Guh— guilty as charged,” Rinh stammered, between gasping breaths, “Shtola, please— fuck me already. With your fingers, with your mouth, with— with anything, I don’t care. Just— just fuck me, Shtola— please. Please.”

Y’shtola decided she quite liked the sight of the Warrior of Light begging for her, but filed this information away for future reference— for now, she had no intention of ignoring so earnest an entreaty. She pulled her smallclothes down, just enough to get them out of the way and give Rinh what she so desperately wanted. Her fingers easily slid into Rinh, wet as she was, while her thumb slipped and slid over Rinh’s clit.

Every tiny movement Y’shtola made was enough to make Rinh writhe, twisting her whole body this way and that in time with her fingers. Rinh was murmuring something under her breath with the fervency of a prayer. She’d lapsed into Huntspeak, Y’shtola realized. It was a language Y’shtola had never learned— neither traditional tribal life in general nor hunting in particular had featured prominently in her upbringing— but it was still instantly recognizable, a chain of hisses and whistles and tongue-clicks and phonemes only miqo’te could pronounce.

“Shtola,” she gasped as she came, clenching around Y’shtola’s fingers, stressing the h in a way she never did when speaking the common language, “Sh-h-h-htola—”

When Rinh finally came down, they more or less collapsed into one another’s arms, falling onto the bed together, a limp tangle of sweaty limbs and twisted bedsheets and swishing tails.

Y’shtola lay like that for a while, listening to Rinh catching her breath, watching her chest rising and falling.

“Well,” Rinh said brightly, “I think our discussion went pretty well!”

Chapter Text

Y’shtola

It was a period of unusual calm in Eorzea. The crisis in Ishgard was well and truly over, while the dark clouds gathering over Ala Mhigo had yet to break into a storm.

Rinh and Y’shtola were still both extremely busy, of course— even with the realm at peace, the services of two of the most experienced and well-known of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were ever in demand. Y’shtola spent hours poring over the Athenaeum’s astrological observations and records, tracing the movements of stars she’d never again see for herself, but rendered in exquisite detail as long columns of figures and mathematical formulas compiled by the astrologians, looking for any sign that the danger once posed by Nidhogg’s rage still lingered amongst the remnants of his brood. Rinh, for her part, spent much of her time with her son, trying to be around for him as long as she could before the next realm-threatening danger once more tore her away for months and months. She also, for some reason, had been called upon to deliver a speech at the House of Commons— about what, Y’shtola could scarcely guess. And some of the time they did spend together was still swallowed up by Scion business— chiefly going over communications intercepts from the Garlean military, since apparently the entire Eorzean intelligence apparatus ran through Tataru Taru’s table at the Forgotten Knight.

Still, compared to how things were even a few weeks ago, the pace of daily life felt positively languid. Nighttime was especially open-ended; a perfect opportunity to explore this new space that had opened up before them, to learn one another’s bodies, to draw a map of themselves, their landmarks, their boundaries.

Y’shtola learned that Rinh enjoyed being guided by a firm hand, but never a rough one; she liked to be held—and even, on occasion, held down, but never grabbed. Y’shtola got more and more comfortable taking control (and Rinh more than happy to cede it), but always as a role knowingly adopted, a game she played with Rinh, a pretense to take care of a woman who so readily accepted others’ burdens as her own.

Y’shtola learned all about Rinh’s scars. Most of them were from her gladiator days; many of these she barely even remembered getting. “It all just… runs together when I try to remember it,” she’d murmured, once, as Y’shtola planted a line of delicate kisses along the contour of an old, imperfectly healed slash cut into her thigh, “When your job is to stand there and get hit with a sword, a new scar was just— just part of the routine.”

Some of the scars did have stories behind them, though. “A Wood Wailer gave me this when I was sixteen,” she said, when Y’shtola delicately ran her fingers across a jagged scar on her waist, sounding almost proud of the fact. The long scar across the bridge of her nose was a token of her first appearance on the bloodsands— the only blow her opponent landed that day. The small mark at the base of her thumb was the result of the knife slipping while she was cutting some medicinal herbs for Aunt Sizha. The notch taken out of one ear happened during the rescue of Raubahn Aldynn from Ilberd’s Crystal Braves— one gladiator pulling another from the depths of Halatali— while Y’shtola was still lost in the Lifestream.

Y’shtola learned about scars less visible than the ones criss-crossing the Warrior of Light’s skin, too. Scars seen instead in the way she tensed up whenever someone behind her back touched her, or her request that Y’shtola never held her hands by the wrists, or her refusal to drink anything poured by someone other than herself— not even Y’shtola.

Y’shtola, too, was marked by the hardships she’d suffered, loath though she was to admit it. Even after Thancred had been found, after the mystery of Minfilia’s summons from Hydaelyn had been unraveled, after welcoming Yda and Papalymo back into the Rising Stones after months spent skirmishing along the Gyr Abanian border, that one terrible night in Ul’dah still weighed heavily on her. Her ability to see aether was a wonder much of the time, but sometimes she’d wake up in the middle of the night and panic when the only thing she could see was aether swirling all around her, as if she was still helpless and drowning in the Lifestream. Sometimes, she felt herself still buried under the rubble in a Sil’dihn sewer, like she had been for a brief, terrible moment between the tunnel collapsing and Flow swiftly carrying her away.

But now Rinh was there to reel her back when she was caught in the past’s riptide, holding her tightly, murmuring reassurances softly in her ear.

Neither of them have had particularly easy lives. But, like all burdens, the past was easier to carry with help than alone.

***

Y’shtola almost always woke up before Rinh did. Rinh was generally a light sleeper, easily roused, but part of her still rebelled against the idea of living her life on the sun’s schedule. Still a Keeper of the Moon at heart, thought Y’shtola, even after so long away from the place that made her. She came to enjoy waking up to the sight of Rinh sprawled across the bed, sleeping peacefully, sunlight tracing delicate patterns on her bare skin, aether gently pulsing in time with the rising and falling of her chest. A fine way to start one’s day.

Even if Rinh did have a certain tendency to steal all the blankets.

When Y’shtola woke up today, though, she was alone in bed. This wasn’t exactly surprising— and certainly not cause for concern; if she actually had to be somewhere, Rinh was punctual to a fault. Still, those lazy mornings were a small luxury Y’shtola missed on days like this.

Odd, she thought, how in just a few weeks she’d gotten so used to sleeping with another by her side. She’d spent so much of her life alone; even after she’d found family among the Circle of Knowing and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, her duties often left her on her own, with Thancred in Ul’dah, Papalymo and Yda in Gridania, and Urianger staying behind at the Waking Sands. She had a great many trusted, reliable allies in Limsa Lominsa, but few friends.

***

As Y’shtola climbed down the stairs, she could hear snatches of conversation coming from the dining room.

“You are, of course, under no obligation to attend— or even to represent our House if you do attend,” said a man’s voice Y’shtola recognized as Count Edmont de Fortemps, “If Artoirel suggested otherwise, then he forgets himself and I shall have to speak to him anon.”

The familiar lilt of Rinh’s voice answered. “Artoirel’s… trying. I guess. I don’t think he tried to be patronizing on purpose, but— well. It was rather patronizing of him to suggest I was especially suitable because the Speaker of the House of Commons would be favorably disposed towards ‘a fellow commoner’.”

Y’shtola stepped into the dining room, where a conversation over breakfast was already well underway. Rinh and Edmont seemed to be discussing some sort of thorny political issue, while Rinh’a’s eyes ping-ponged from one to the other as they each spoke in turn.

“Morning, Shtola,” Rinh said, a bit sleepily in spite of the large mug of coffee she’d been nursing. Y’shtola sat down next to her and poured herself a cup of tea.

“That said,” Rinh continued, “I do want to go. Getting dressed up for a fancy ball sounds fun. I quite like dancing, actually, but it’s not often I get a chance to do it.”

“I didn’t know that,” Y’shtola said, mildly.

“Yeah, I learned how to dance properly back in Ul’dah,” said Rinh.

Y’shtola took a sip of her tea. “I suppose there is a lot of common ground between dancing and fighting.”

Rinh shook her head. “Not… really? I mean, I told my lanista something like that to justify the expense of engaging a dance instructor, but the reason I took lessons was because I wanted to do something that didn’t all come back around to the Coliseum in the end. A little bit of Rinh Panipahr he couldn’t have.”

Y’shtola set down her teacup and silently laid her hand on Rinh’s. She didn’t know the full history of Rinh’s time with Eadwulf, the man who trained her as gladiator in the years before she caught the guildmaster’s eye, and she supposed she never would, unless one day Rinh chose to share it of her own accord. Y’shtola didn’t need to know the details to recognize the subject was painful to her as few others were.

Edmont, gallantly, pretended not to notice this clear breach of dining etiquette.

“Anyroad!” Rinh said, brightening a little, “How would you feel about showing up at a ball with the Warrior of Light on your arm?”

“Of course,” Y’shtola answered without a moment’s hesitation.

Rinh beamed at her with adoration.

Edmont gave Y’shtola an appraising look. “Are you familiar with Ishgardian dance-steps and ballroom etiquette, Mistress Y’shtola? If not, I’m sure one of my sons would be happy to instruct—”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Y’shtola, who had never been to a ball in her entire life.

 ***

Aether hummed. Light shined, reflected in crystal.

There was an audible pop as a Y’shtola Rhul-sized volume of air was suddenly displaced.

The aetheryte dimmed, and Y’shtola stepped onto the cobbled streets of Revenant’s Toll.

***

“Y’shtola?” asked Thancred, “What are you doing here?”

“I told you on the pearl,” Y’shtola said, shutting the door behind her, “I wished for your counsel regarding a sensitive matter.”

“Well, yes,” said Thancred, “but I wasn’t aware that by that, you meant ‘I’m teleporting halfway across the continent, see you at the Rising Stones in a quarter-bell.’ Just how urgent is this?”

“Extremely,” Y’shtola said, “This needs to be resolved by nightfall.”

“Well…? Out with it.”

“The Warrior of Light,” said Y’shtola, expression grave, “has asked me to accompany her to a ball.”

Thancred sighed heavily. “Really, Y’shtola? Well, congratulations on getting another crack at asking Rinh to dance with you, what, a full year and a half after I suggested you give it a try? Now, goodbye and have a nice trip back to Ishgard.”

“Ah,” said Y’shtola, “I fear I’ve buried the lede. The Warrior of Light has asked me to accompany her to a ball because, some weeks prior, we became— as the Ishgardians say— paramours.”

Thancred was dumbstruck for a few long moments. “...huh,” he said, finally, “Alright. Congratulations…? I’m not sure what you need my advice for, then— it sounds like everything sorted itself out nicely for you.”

Y’shtola folded her arms. She looked around the Rising Stones; it was, thankfully deserted save for the two of them. “When I accepted Rinh’s invitation, I… I may have very slightly exaggerated my familiarity with such events. So...” She took a deep breath. Time to face the music, Y’shtola. “I need you to teach me to dance.”

Thancred, to his credit, didn’t start laughing, but Y’shtola could tell from the way the corners of his mouth twitched that it was a near thing. “Fine,” he said, “In recognition of the fact that you’ve finally tumbled the Warrior of Light after pining away for Twelve know how long, I’ll do you this favor.”

Y’shtola scowled. “That’s a rather crude way of putting it.”

Thancred’s grin was somehow even more wolfish now that months in the Dravanian wilderness had left him decidedly scruffy-looking. “...Am I wrong, though?”

“No,” admitted Y’shtola.

“Now then!” Thancred said breezily, sauntering towards the countertop at the back of the Stones’ main room, “Being able to move through high society is part and parcel of an espionage Archonate, and that includes reams of ballroom etiquette for nations great and small across the Three Continents.” He hopped over the bar and began rummaging around behind it for something. Y’shtola caught herself hoping it was a stiff drink, so she was slightly disappointed when Thancred set an old orchestrion and a pile of music rolls onto the countertop. He vaulted back over the bar. “Considering the time constraint you’re under, though, we’d best condense that curriculum down to the most popular dance among the Ishgardian elite.” He picked up one of the rolls and blew a thin layer of dust off of it. “The waltz.”

The music the orchestrion began to play sounded tinny and scratchy— this was clearly an old recording, made when the technology was still in its infancy, rather than the higher fidelity audio afforded in recent years by Garlond Ironworks’ adaption of magitek recording and storage media. It sounded rather like a string ensemble had been submerged in molasses, yet still valiantly played on.

Thancred began tapping his foot in time with the music. “You must’ve studied at least some music theory before you picked your focus at the Studium, right?”

“A bit,” said Y’shtola. The Sharlayan musical tradition was nearly as dry as Sharlayan art, architecture, and cuisine. It was regarded— and taught— as a more or less abstract combination of mathematics and acoustics. The very best Sharlayan composers’ pieces had a beautiful complexity to them— dozens of interwoven parts, performed with perfect precision, layered into a nearly fractal soundscape. Most Sharlayan composers tried and failed to achieve this effect, though, creating something like a musical Archon Loaf— dense, bland, and unpalatable.

“So,” Thancred said, “Waltzes are in 3/3 time, so the first thing you need to learn is counting out the beats, since all the steps flow from that. Count— one two three, one two three, one two three…”

Y’shtola joined him. “One two three, one two three…” She felt rather foolish, but she did manage to keep to the music’s tempo.

“Now,” said Thancred, apparently pleased with his pupil’s performance, “Let’s go over the actual steps.” He carefully took hold of Y’shtola’s hand, so conspicuously cautious that she couldn’t help but feel a little miffed— did he think she’d snatch her hand away? Crush him with a giant boulder? When she did neither of those things, though, he put his other hand on her waist.

“To start with,” he said, “Just follow my lead.”

On their first turn around the room, Y’shtola stepped on Thancred’s toes no fewer than six times.

On their second, she only did it twice.

The third time around, Thancred deemed her steps “adequate enough.”

Just after they started the fourth, the door to the Rising Stones opened, and Krile stepped through.

She stared at at Thancred and Y’shtola.

Thancred and Y’shtola stared at her.

“I’m not even going to ask,” she said.

***

Twenty minutes later, Y’shtola was back in Ishgard, climbing up the spiraling stone stairway connecting the aetheryte plaza to the Pillars. She felt a bit light-headed; maybe making two aetheryte jumps in the space of three bells was a bit more taxing on her aether reserves than she’d assumed— or hoped. Maybe she’d forgotten to account for the small but constant drain of her aethersight? She still felt slightly rattled by Matoya’s warning about the toll it was taking on her, although she’d taken pains to conceal it.

Oh well. She’d made it up the stairs without fainting, and was free to just lounge around Fortemps Manor and rest until the hour of the ball was at hand. She could run the numbers later.

***

Rinh and Y’shtola, arm-in-arm, stepped into the foyer of a large townhouse in the southeastern Pillars— the residence of the Right Honorable Alexois Eugeoiret, Speaker of the Ishgardian Republic’s House of Commons. The moment they were past the threshold, attendants hurried over to take their coats.

Rinh was wearing the same red dress she’d worn that fateful night in Ul’dah.

Perhaps she should be bothered by that, Y’shtola thought. It didn’t, though— in fact, she appreciated the chance to admire it in a new context. The fact that this time it wasn’t one of the worst days of Y’shtola’s life helped. So did details of the dress she hadn’t been able to see before— the aspected threads and fabrics the dressmaker had used made the whole dress seem to shimmer slightly, lightly dusted with aether.

But mostly it was just how comely the Warrior of Light looked in it— the way the dress clung to her curves, the extraordinarily daring slit up its side, the tantalizing glimpse of cleavage offered by its cut.

And this time she wasn’t an object of distant infatuation— Y’shtola knew exactly what was under that dress, now. She was Y’shtola’s, and Y’shtola was hers.

Y’shtola’s own attire was rather more conservative— unlike Rinh, tonight would form the Ishgardian gentry’s first impression of her. She didn’t much care what they thought of her per se, but she felt that whatever she did would wind up reflecting on Rinh, too. She was wearing the sort of long, white gown that had been fashionable in Sharlayan seven or eight years ago— the last time she’d visited the Sharlayan motherland, and also the last time she’d needed any sort of formalwear. In true Sharlayan fashion, it was cut from a single large, precisely measured rectangle of fine cloth, artfully draped and folded and pleated and cinched until it looked almost architectural— the sort of thing an ancient caryatid might wear.

Y’shtola didn’t particularly like this dress— it made her feel like she was a fluted column holding up some stately edifice of learning— but it was either this, or borrow an Ishgardian gown sized for a Midlander woman and hope for the best.

They were ushered into the main hall, and Y’shtola immediately noticed something was amiss— the music was very obviously not in 3/3 time. Her sinking feeling was confirmed as she looked around the ballroom and took in the other guests—a mixture of nobles and their functionaries and the well-to-do commoner gentry. Their dance steps didn’t even slightly resemble what Thancred had shown her. Instead it was a sort of group dance where couples would turn around one another with small, dainty steps, arms extended and hands just barely touching, before twirling away and switching partners according to some complicated schema she couldn’t quite follow.

The next time she was in Revenant’s Toll, she was going to kill Thancred.

“Oh! They’re dancing a quadrille!” Rinh said, gently tugging Y’shtola towards the dance floor. A confession that she’s in way over her head was on the tip of her tongue—

—and then Rinh doubled over, clutching at Y’shtola’s arm, one hand pressed to her temple. A small, strangled gasp of pain escaped her throat, her grip grew slack, and she fell to the ground—

—and suddenly whether or not Y’shtola knew her dance steps was the least important thing in the world.

Rinh

A cavernous hall, richly ornamented.

The band’s playing dance music as a crowd of indistinct figures sways back and forth.

Your friends are here, your family, faces you've missed dearly, presences long absent. You've come home after a long journey.

The band begins to play your favorite tune.

“Listen,” you say, taking your lover’s hand, “That’s our song.”

The two of you glide out onto the dance floor. You missed this. You missed this. You missed this. 

These sounds, these feelings, these lofty thoughts.

Hear. Feel. Think.

***

When Rinh came to, she was crying.

She was laid out on a chaise longue, in what she supposed must be Speaker Eugeoiret’s drawing room. Y’shtola was there, though, and surely that meant she was safe, that everything was going to be alright.

“Was that the Echo?” Y’shtola asked softly, running her hand through Rinh’s hair.

Rinh sniffled. “Y-yes. But… but it’s been a long time since it’s kicked my arse like that.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw…” Rinh’s head swam, and she felt a wave of nausea. “I’m not sure what I saw. It’s like… I can’t quite parse what I was seeing; when I try to remember the details they just slip away… or maybe it’s bits of me that are slipping away?” She tried, experimentally, to sit up again, but dizziness forced her back down to a reclining position. “It… it was someone arriving at another ball? Or I think it was a ball— there was dancing, and music in a style I couldn’t recognize. She… she was coming back after a long time spent somewhere else, seeing the people she cares about for the first time in ages. But it wasn’t crisp and focused the way the Echo usually is.”

“How are you feeling now?” Y’shtola asked, “Are you in any pain?”

“A bit light-headed…” Rinh said, “The headache went away as soon as I came out of it— that much is the same as it usually is, at least. But it still… it still took something out of me; I feel exhausted… exhausted and sad. The feeling I get when I think about the Shroud, about Mum and Auntie and my sisters…”

Y’shtola knelt alongside the chaise and held Rinh’s hand. Rinh felt a little more present than she had before, a little less unmoored from when and where she was.

She took a deep breath. “Shtola,” she said, “We should go home… I want to be home, again.” She smiled sheepishly. “I know we just got here, but…”

“It’s all right,” Y’shtola said, gently planting a kiss on Rinh’s forehead, “I didn’t actually know how to dance the quadrille, anyway.”

***

By the time they got back to Rinh’s bedchamber, Rinh was already in better spirits. The memory of what she’d seen receded further and further into the distance, taking the weight of the deep melancholy that had settled over her with it. She was safe, in a place that was hers, with the woman she loved.

A fire was burning merrily in the hearth, driving away the last of her chills from the long walk through snowy streets from the Speaker’s townhouse.

“I’m a bit embarrassed about what happened tonight,” Rinh said, standing by the fireplace, warming her hands.

Y’shtola smiled reassuringly. “You have no cause to be; you can hardly be held responsible if Hydaelyn chooses to speak at an inconvenient moment.”

Rinh sighed. “I know, I know. It’s still bloody embarrassing, though— just walking in the door and immediately eating shit.”

Y’shtola turned to look at Rinh. “I’d like to think that ended a thousand-year war thoroughly overshadows fainted at a party once.” The sight of Y’shtola was utterly entrancing. Her features were lit by the dancing flames in the hearth; her bronze skin practically glowed, alive with light. Rinh wondered if that was how she looked to Y’shtola, dusted with shining aether.

For all that Rinh had lost in her life— far more than anyone should, more than anyone would have in a kinder world— for all that the Echo burdened her with larger and far older sorrows, for all that she was caught in grief’s long shadow— right now, right here, Y’shtola was with her. The desolate loneliness she’d felt after emerging from her vision of that strange ball, separated from those she loved by a yawning chasm? It was just a shadow of a fragment of somebody else’s memory, in another place, another time.

Even those she had lost were never far away; the Panipahrs kept their ghosts close, always.

And Y’shtola was even closer.

She wanted Y’shtola’s hands on her body, she decided— she wanted that sort of closeness, that sort of intimacy.

“It’s still rather an anticlimactic end to the evening, isn’t it?” Rinh murmured, “Although… I suppose that doesn’t have to be the end.”

“Whatever could you mean?” Y’shtola asked, mischief in her eyes, “Shall I break out the Triple Triad deck? A round of charades, perhaps?”

Rinh laughed. “Don’t make me beg, Shtola…”

“I like it when you beg, though.”

Rinh could feel her cheeks burning. “Fuck me already, Shtola.”

Y’shtola leaned in, but all she did was lightly kiss Rinh’s cheek. “You can do better than that, surely?”

“Please,” Rinh breathed, “Fuck me. Fuck me any way you want to, just— I just— I want to feel you.”

“That’s more like it,” Y’shtola purred, rewarding Rinh with a more lingering kiss on the lips.

She pushed Rinh towards the bed— lightly at first, a suggestion rather than a command; when Rinh yielded readily and eagerly, though, Y’shtola was more forceful.

Rinh knew could have kept standing there motionless; Y’shtola was lithe and athletic, but as a paladin Rinh was well-studied in the art and science of being an immovable object. She let herself get pushed onto the bed anyway, though; she liked the idea of trusting someone enough to tame her strength.

“Feeling a bit frisky, huh?” Rinh said, as Y’shtola straddled her, as Y’shtola’s hands caressed the bare skin exposed by the slit in her dress.

“From the moment I saw you still had that dress,” Y’shtola said, “I’ve wanted to fuck you in it.” Her hands touched Rinh more insistently, now, moving up her thighs until she reached their apex. She ran a finger along Rinh’s silk pantalettes. “My, but these are fancy, too.”

“Yes, well, I—” Rinh began, but her breath hitched when Y’shtola applied just a touch more pressure. “I— I had a feeling things might go like this. B-but maybe later in the evening than this…” She could already feel a heat building up inside her, and her lover had barely even started to tease her. When she tried to rock her hips against the heel of Y’shtola’s hand, though, Y’shtola pulled back.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, dearest,” Y’shtola chided gently. She nipped softly at Rinh’s neck, pushing her dress’s collar aside and leaving a faint love-bite. “You’re mine. Let me take care of you.”

Rinh grinned a fangy smile. “Assertiveness looks good on you, Shtola,” she quipped— but she did make an effort to stop squirming.

“Good girl,” Y’shtola cooed, stroking a velvety ear. Rinh couldn’t help but sigh contentedly; in most circumstances, she disliked having her ears touched, but other miqo’te always knew how to do it just so; she’d forgotten that in the years since she’d lost Koh’sae. Y’shtola’s other hand, meanwhile, found its way back between Rinh’s legs and under her dampened pantalettes, rewarding her with a more sustained touch than before, eliciting a series of a rather different sort of sighs.

When those sighs became breathy moans, though, Y’shtola pulled back again. “Fuck, Shtola,” Rinh murmured— but when the other woman slid off the bed and stood up, her frustration was shot through with a thrill of anticipation.

Y’shtola had something of the air of an antique priestess performing a ritual, although Rinh wasn’t sure if that was because of her rather archaic-looking Sharlayan finery, or just the general quiet dignity with which she almost always conducted herself with, even here, even now. She unbuckled the belt cinching her dress’s high waist and unfastened the clasps at her shoulders; the whole dress, with all of its artful drapery and architectural pleats fell away— by the time it hit the floor, it just looked like a heap of undifferentiated fabric.

Rinh, meanwhile, was trying to wriggle out of her smallclothes with whatever the exact opposite of quiet dignity was.

Shed of her vestments, Y’shtola leaned down and retrieved an ornate box from underneath the bed. It looked like the sort of thing one would store something both precious and fragile in— a set of hand-carved chessmen, perhaps, or an expensive pair of field glasses, or some sort of delicate instrument.

She unlatched the box. The toy was a sort of a delicate instrument, Rinh supposed, although she was pretty sure it was made out of some sort of recently-formulated durable polymer, quite at odds with its faux-antique container. When they’d first bought it from an especially furtive merchant at the Jeweled Crozier (a “godemiché”, she’d called it, even though it was fairly obviously just a dildo in a fancy box), the whole thing struck Rinh as a pretty decent metaphor for the Ishgardian attitude towards sexuality.

Now, of course, watching Y’shtola carefully securing the toy in its harness, strapping it on, and rubbing lubricating oil along its length, the sociology of it all was absolutely the last thing on her mind.

When she clambered back onto the bed, Y’shtola— as she frequently did— started off cautiously, gently pushing the toy’s tip into Rinh, carefully studying Rinh’s reaction. It was only when Rinh thrust her hips up to meet it that Y’shtola moved more decisively to sink the toy’s curved length further in.

The next thrust was quicker, the next quicker still, each time sending a new jolt of pleasure through Rinh. Before long, Y’shtola had worked up to a vigorous tempo, with Rinh’s shuddering gasps keeping perfect time.

“Shtola,” Rinh breathed, lapsing into the hisses and trilling of Huntspeak, “Don’t— hh— don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

Rinh’s hand dipped between her legs, and she ghosted her fingers over her clit, the contrast between the finesse of these light touches with the blunt, overpowering thrusts of the toy sharpening both sensations into something overwhelming, something that left her seeing stars. She was vaguely aware of the sound of fabric ripping, but she really didn’t care about the state of her dress anymore; that was a problem for Future Rinh. Nothing mattered but right here, right now— not fears for the future, not the burdens of the past.

She was at the edge— she was at the very edge— but she almost didn’t want to let this moment end; she was fast approaching a summit but still reluctant to begin her descent.

Y’shtola’s husky voice cut in. “Come for me,” she said, willing as ever to offer her lover direction.

Permission duly granted, Rinh let herself let go.

And Y’shtola kept up the pace until the last of the aftershocks faded, not letting up until she was satisfied that Rinh was left completely sated.

For a few moments, Rinh just laid there, listening to her own ragged panting as she caught her breath and the rustle of leather and metal as Y’shtola struggled to get the harness off again. The bed was a mess. So was Rinh’s dress. So was Rinh herself, really.

The older woman was the first to speak. “How do you feel?” she murmured, the iron in her voice vanishing immediately.

“Like if I tried to stand up, I’d immediately fall over,” Rinh said, an exhausted grin on her face, “But, you know, in a good way.”

Y’shtola laughed softly. “I can always tell you’re really enjoying yourself when you start murmuring things in Huntspeak. Which I still don’t speak a word of, by the by, but given the context clues I think I got the gist of it.”

“Anyroad,” said Rinh, “I suppose it’s my turn to take care of you, now.”

“We can worry about that presently. For now, I shall simply bask in the satisfaction of a job well done.”

There was a soft knocking at the door.

“Go away,” Rinh said, weakly.

“The lady is indisposed,” Y’shtola added, when the knocking continued unabated.

“Mistress Panipahr?” said the muffled voice on the other side of the door, “There’s a message for you. I’m afraid it’s quite urgent.”

“Can’t he just slide it under the door or something?” Rinh muttered, but Y’shtola was already standing up and wrapping herself in a dressing gown. As an afterthought, she tossed the bed sheet over Rinh, since there was absolutely no way to make her presentable on such short notice, and sauntered casually to the door. Rinh heard her exchange a few quiet words with the steward, the door shutting, and an envelope being torn open. 

When Rinh finally poked her head out from beneath the sheets, Y’shtola’s expression was grim. Wordlessly, she handed over a slip of paper.

With trembling hands, Rinh read it.

Garlean forces are massing at Baelsar’s Wall. Reports of sporadic fire between imperial pickets and unknown third party— Griffin’s scouts, maybe? Need you back at the Stones as soon as you can manage.

Thancred

Her stomach sank. A storm was coming.

Chapter Text

Rinh

A cold, dead weight settled in the pit of Rinh’s stomach when she saw the column of black smoke rising from Rhalgr’s Reach, when she heard the thunderous peal of artillery fire echoing across the Fringes, when she smelled the unmistakable scent of burning ceruleum.

Her dread deepened when, as she approached the Reach with Pipin and Alphinaud, she started seeing bedraggled survivors coming from the other direction: the shell-shocked with their thousand-yalm-stares, the walking wounded leaning on one another, the vanquished. 

When she saw Krile and Arenvald shepherding a party of Resistance soldiers, including an officer as senior as M’naago, defeat in their eyes, Rinh began to worry that she was about to fling herself into not a battle, but a rout.

And yet the scene of carnage that greeted her once she finally got to the Reach still stopped her in her tracks.

The artillery fire had mostly ceased, replaced by the sharp cracks of small arms and the clamor of metal hitting metal. The air was filled with enough smoke— gunpowder, exhaust, and sporadically burning fires— to make Rinh’s eyes water. A couple of Garlean troop transports were dark silhouettes against the slate-grey sky; an ominous sight, but not half so ominous as the silence of the Resistance’s anti-aircraft guns.

The ground was littered with the dead— some in imperial black and red, some in the ornate armor of the Skulls, but most— by far— in khaki resistance uniforms or brightly-colored Alliance greatcoats.

Rinh took a deep breath. No way forward but through, as always. Nothing to do but put one foot in from of the other, over and over again, until she no longer felt the flames at her back.

She squared her posture. She raised her shield, the crimson arms of House Fortemps brilliant even amidst the smoke.

And she charged.

She cut through the imperial lines, swatting away conscripts and centurions, nimbly dodging blades and bullets, always putting herself, her body, her shield between the Garleans and the wounded.

Nothing could stop her. Even when an enemy landed a blow, Krile and Alphinaud were right behind her, their healing keeping her on her feet, preventing her from losing even the slightest bit of momentum.

And then she saw Y’shtola, crumpled on the ground beside Lyse, in a pool of blood.

She skidded to a halt. 

Krile, thankfully, had the presence of mind to keep moving, rushing to Y’shtola’s side, Alphinaud close on her heels. Only when she saw the telltale shimmer of aether passing from Krile’s hands to the fallen Scion did Rinh’s heart begin to beat again. She hustled to catch up with the healers, thinking that maybe— maybe— the situation, dire as it was, could still be salvaged.

“Your friends were a disappointment,” said a man’s voice, right behind Rinh. He spoke utterly without affect, but perhaps just the slightest tinge of piqued curiosity, as though catching the Warrior of Light flat-footed in the middle of a battlefield was of only mild interest.

Rinh turned around, and found herself confronted by a veritable giant. Pureblooded Garleans tended to tower over her as a matter of course, but this man was nearly as tall as a roegadyn— and, in his bulky armor, nearly as broad as one, too.

“But you…” he said, stepping forward, “You will entertain me, will you not?”

Zenos yae Galvus. Legate of the XII legion, viceroy of Gyr Abania and Doma. The crown prince.

Shite, Rinh thought, this could be bad. But there was nothing for it but to do what she always does— square her shoulders, raise her shield, and put herself in between those she would protect and those who would dare to harm them.

“I’m no one’s bloody entertainment,” Rinh spat.

Zenos drew a long, lethal-looking katana, which was already something not going to plan; she’d expected a gunblade, so she’d been bracing herself for a volley of shots that weren’t coming. She hastily adjusted her stance.

Zenos began advancing on her, his pace deliberate but utterly implacable. “I know all about you, eikon slayer,” he said, “I know where you came from. Where you sharpened those claws of yours. This is a dance you have long known the steps to; the question is merely how well you perform them.”

For a moment, Rinh really did feel like she was back on the bloodsands, and the prince the opposing gladiator and the crowd baying for blood both.

She was at Rhalgr’s Reach, she reminded herself. She was at Rhalgr’s Reach. Y’shtola was behind her. Y’shtola, and Krile and Alphinaud and Lyse. Zenos can think whatever he wants; she was fighting for them. For the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, for her family.

Zenos was intent on closing the distance, she thought, and for good reason-- his size and the length of his blade gave him a clear advantage in reach. But a strong sword-arm was hardly Rinh’s only weapon; bright aether swelled around her.

“Requiescat!” she barks, and a lance of unaspected aether shoots towards the prince, blooming into six radial blades of pure light upon impact.

He didn’t stumble— he didn’t even flinch— but he did take a half-step backwards, breaking his stride.

And then, with inhuman speed, he was upon her before she could mount any sort of defense. All she could do was spring backwards, barely avoiding a slash that passed less than an ilm from her face.

After that, the onslaught was relentless. Every blow she parried, every strike she dodged, every vicious slice that cut through armor instead of flesh forced her further back, giving up ground, letting Zenos inch closer to Y’shtola and the other wounded.

She tried pushing back, but every riposte she attempted was effortlessly turned aside, every attack seemed to result in her sword being where Zenos suddenly wasn’t. He was far, far faster than his massive frame and heavy armor suggested; more than that, he was expertly reading Rinh’s movements, anticipating her every action, always staying a half-step ahead of her.

She couldn’t let herself get forced any further back, she decided; otherwise, it would only be a matter of time before he pushed past her and reached those she was trying to defend.

She didn’t want to even think about what would happen then.

So she drew on still more of her aether, redirected it into her shield, and pushed. Zenos seemed to be caught off-guard, as if he’d been bracing himself against Rinh’s natural weight, not a blast of pure magic. She’d managed to stagger him.

But only for a moment. He swiftly regained his footing and lunged at her, swinging his sword in a wide arc. It connected with her shield not with the terrible clang she expected, but the screech of metal tearing.

Her shield— her precious shield, a gift from Edmont de Fortemps himself, a token from a father mourning his son to a woman mourning her love— was rent in twain. Its two halves clattered to the ground.

Oh, thought Rinh, I’m a dead woman.

With no real defense left to speak of, she unleashed a furious offense, a flurry of hacking and slashing. But she was desperate, now, and sloppy, and more than a little afraid.

Zenos was just a man, she tried to tell herself. He was just a man, and she’d faced far mightier foes— incarnated gods, ancient dragons, enormous warmachina— and won.

But never alone.

He grabbed her wrist. Her blood ran cold. Her heart was pounding. Somewhere, a thousand thousand malms away, she heard her sword hit the ground. Every nerve in her body wanted to freeze in place, every animal instinct told her to submit, to back down, to let whatever is to happen happen.

If I do that, she thought, he’s going to kill me. And then he’s going to kill Shtola.

So she struggled to free herself from his grasp, she kicked, she thrashed, she even tried to bite. It was almost certainly futile— but as long as she kept fighting, there was a chance. If she didn’t, she had no chance at all.

He lifted her off the ground by the wrist, easily bearing her weight one-handed, looking her in the eye with that death’s head mask of his.

“No hunter at all,” he said, shaking his head, “Just another snarling beast.” He tossed her roughly to the ground. She tried to scramble backwards, to pick up her sword again, to get on her feet and fight. She cannot— cannot— let it end like this.

Just as she was staggering to her feet, he kicked her, hard, in the head, sending her sprawling backwards into the sand. She felt dazed. Blood was running down the side of her face. But she had to keep fighting, she had to at least stand up again.

He swung his sword at her; a line of white-hot pain exploded all along her side.

Everything hurt. Her vision was blurring at the edges. She wondered, vaguely, if she was already dying.

But she got back up again, coughing up blood; what else could she do?

This time, he aimed a more decisive blow at her, right at her center of mass, his bloodied blade singing with aether. He landed a vicious slash diagonally across her torso, shredding her armor from her collarbone to her waist.

She had to… she had… she…

She looked up at Zenos, but he had eyes only for his blade; that last blow had broken it in half. He carelessly let it fall to the ground.

“Pathetic,” he said, although whether he was referring to the sword, the vanquished Warrior of Light, or both, Rinh couldn’t say.

She tried to crawl forward; even if standing was beyond her, she had to try something. The salty Gyr Abanian earth stung in her wounds. She was covered with blood; the ground around her was too, now.

“Rinh’a,” she murmured hoarsely, “Koh’sae… Haurchefant… Shtola…”  She slumped over, face down, and the world went dark.

***

“Lass?” said a gruff voice, “You all right, lass?”

“I’m… not dead?” Rinh said, weakly. She opened her eyes to find Raubahn Aldynn looming over her.

“To best the likes of you…” he said, looking not quite at Rinh but past her, “Zenos is not what I took him to be.”

A conjurer in the yellow greatcoat of the Adders-- a fellow Keeper of the Moon-- was kneeling beside her, channeling aether into her body; Rinh could feel some semblance of strength returning to her as her bleeding stopped and slowed. “That’s the best I can do for her, but she’ll live,” she said, setting her branch down. She smiled at the fallen Warrior of Light. “Glad you pulled through, miss. You’re an inspiration to all us Keepers.”

“What happened to the Garleans?” Rinh asked.

“They withdrew,” said Raubahn. He looked around the Reach; fires were still smoldering here and there, the ground was still strewn with the dead and dying. Those left physically unharmed were mostly milling about in various states of shock. “Suppose they decided the damage was done.”

Rinh took a deep breath— or tried to. Her chest hurt; she realized that even with her wounds closed, she must still be covered in heavy bruises, tender scars, maybe a cracked rib or two. “Well,” she said, “They weren’t wrong.” 

With a pained groan, she got herself up into a half-sitting position, supporting her weight with her elbows. She could see Krile, Alphinaud, and Lyse a short distance away, still tending to Y’shtola and Commander Kemp.

“Rinh?” said Krile, looking back over her shoulder, “I hate to ask this of you when you’ve only just regained consciousness, but you’re a healer and you’re not dead, so I could really use your help right now.”

“Alright,” Rinh said, without hesitation; if anything, she was glad for an opportunity to do something useful after being so soundly defeated. When she tried to stand up, though, the line carved across her body by Zenos erupted with pain. She felt woozy and light-headed; for a few moments, she was even worried that the wound had opened up again. Relief swept over her as the pain faded back to a dull buzz and what blood she had left stayed in her body, where it ought to be. She looked up at Raubahn. “...Can you help me up?” she muttered, embarrassed.

The Flame General bent over to gently hoist her to her feet. “Up you go, gladiator.”

She still felt dizzy, but if she leaned on Raubahn, she figured she could probably stay upright long enough to limp a few yalms to reach the other Scions.

Anything but being carried. That would be humiliating; it would be frightening. Eadwulf, her lanista, regularly used his much greater size to manhandle Rinh whenever she didn’t do what he said, or when her showings in the hypogeum were sloppy. When he lost money on her. When her attitude was “insufficiently gladiatorial.” When he was just in a bad mood. Zenos lifting her up off the ground was as shocking a blow as the loss of her shield.

Pathetic, Rinh thought, Zenos’s final declaration echoing in her mind, that the mere memory of Eadwulf can frighten her even after all this time, even after everything she’s done.

She smiled nervously. “If I’d put on a performance like that as a gladiator, my lanista would’ve almost certainly had me whipped.” 

She expected a knowing look from Raubahn, a nod of recognition at their shared ordeal; instead, the highlander just looked horrified.  “...Who was your lanista, lass?”

Oh, right, she thought, Raubahn had already owned the Coliseum during her tenure as a gladiator, even if his reconstituted Grand Company occupied most of his attention. Were the things Eadwulf did not supposed to happen? “Eadwulf,” she murmured, not looking him in the eye, “Eadwulf Thorne.”

“Hm,” said Raubahn, but by this point, he’d gotten Rinh to her destination; no more time to talk, then. She fixed the image of a soul crystal in her head; one brighter and paler than the one she drew upon as a paladin. The aether around her rippled. Then, all at once, a staff appeared in her hand, and her dented, torn, bloodstained, ruined armor was instantly replaced by a set of pristine white robes. The woman in those robes, however, was still as beaten and bloody as she’d been beforehand.

Leaning on her staff, she carefully lowered herself to the ground to kneel beside Krile, took a deep breath, and joined the fight to save Y’shtola’s life.

Y’shtola 

When Y’shtola woke up, the first thing she saw was a blaze of artificial aether: ceruleum lights suspended from a cermet bulkhead. She could only barely move her head, but a glance in either direction was enough for her to get a sense of her surroundings: a brightly-lit Garlean infirmary, all stark white walls and humming magitek equipment.

For a moment, she felt nothing but pure panic— the reputation of the XII Legion’s medical and research corps preceded it, and it was hard to think of a fate worse than being left to their tender mercies. Then a more rational part of her mind stepped in; if she squinted past the glare of magitek and ceruleum, she could see the distinct aether of familiar Eorzean schools of magic, and a few figures milling about wearing Alliance colors. Clearly, she was in Castrum Oriens.

Well, she thought, closing her eyes again, that’s all right, then.

***

Two days later, Y’shtola was awake, alert, and bored out of her godsdamned mind. She knew she had to rest; a healer herself, she knew better than to disobey chiurgeon’s orders— and even if she didn’t, she was still too weak it was difficult to do anything more strenuous than sitting up in bed.

The only thing to break up the monotony, then, was the occasional visitor who came calling on her. She saw Krile the most, of course, but still not very often— now that Y’shtola was no longer in danger of dying, a healer of her calibre was usually needed elsewhere; the debacle at Rhalgr’s Reach had left many, many casualties in its wake.

The other Scions drifted in and out whenever they had a moment to spare amidst their preparations for an audacious— and, Y’shtola thought, rather desperate— attempt to open up a second front against the empire in the Far East. Lyse was apologetic, as if being in the path of a murderous prince was due to some sort of personal failing on her part, but Y’shtola knew she was talking about Papalymo as much as she was about what had happened at the Reach. Alphinaud’s tone was chiding; Y’shtola had known him long enough to tell that this was just his way of expressing concern, and did her best to be patient, but she still felt slightly put out by it.

Rinh was the last to come by; her injuries, while nowhere near as bad as Y’shtola’s, were still enough to keep her off her feet for several days.

When she did make an appearance at Y’shtola’s bedside, she still looked rather worse for wear— bruises on her face, a black eye, bandages visible underneath the loose shirt she wore. “Shtola…”

“I suppose you’re here to scold me for my recklessness, too,” said Y’shtola.

Rinh shook her head. “That’d be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”

Y’shtola managed a pained smile. “Extraordinarily so.”

“So,” said Rinh, lacing her fingers through Y’shtola’s, “What I’ll say is this: I’m so sorry you got hurt, I’m so relieved you’re going to be okay, and I’m so bloody grateful you saved Lyse’s life. And I’m going to fucking kill Zenos.”

“That is easier said than done.”

Rinh shrugged. “Fair.”

“But, in any case— thank you.” Y’shtola gave Rinh’s hands a little squeeze; Rinh answered by leaning in to softly kiss her forehead. “I wish I could repay your kindness by lending actual material aid to your efforts in Doma, instead of being stuck convalescing and contributing nothing— but it will be some time before my wounds are healed, and longer still before I’m in any condition to take the field.”

“Hey,” murmured Rinh, “You’re not doing nothing. Auntie always said that recovery is work. This one time my sister Navri got her leg caught in a trap some asshole left lying around in the woods. Kept her off her feet for weeks, and it drove her up the bloody wall. Since she was our family’s best hunter besides Mum herself, and there was never— never enough to eat. So Navri felt like she had to contribute, but couldn’t, wasn’t.”

“I think I can see where this metaphor is headed, Rinh,” said Y’shtola.

“Yes, well, it still applies, all right?” Rinh said, the ghost of a smile playing across her features. “Anyroad. When I was helping Aunt Sizha take care of her— mixing potions and such— she reminded my sister, over and over again, that getting better was contributing; being able to hunt again meant taking the time to let her leg heal properly.”

In the years since she’d first met Rinh, Y’shtola had heard a lot about Sizha Panipahr— witch, midwife, and family wise woman; rigorous scholar, gifted conjurer, and forest polymath. 

She’d never met Sizha, and she never would meet Sizha— but she loved Rinh, and it was clear her aunt had done much to shape the woman she grew up into, so Y’shtola felt a sort of affection— gratitude, maybe— for Sizha. Something about the way Rinh spoke of her aunt always reminded Y’shtola of Matoya. Maybe not as stubborn as Matoya; certainly not as prickly, but formidable in much the same way.

“So,” Rinh said, “Shtola. Don’t feel bad about concentrating on getting better for a while. For the sake of everything you’ll do when you've healed.”

***

It had been two months since the balance of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had decamped to the Far East; Y’shtola figured the Misery would just be reaching Kugane around then.

Provided the ship hadn’t met some sort of misfortune at sea.

Y’shtola did her best not to think about that.

Her own progress felt agonizingly slow at times. She was back at the Rising Stones, at least— much more comforting surroundings than the commandeered Garlean infirmary of an ex-imperial castrum— but familiarity alone did little to blunt her frustration that the most strenuous physical activity she could handle was a slow lap around Revenant’s Toll once a day.

So she sought out mental exercise instead. Studying occupied much of her time; she wouldn’t let her period of enforced physical inactivity be compounded by letting her spellcasting get rusty. But even that only got her so far; she needed a goal, she needed something to work towards just to stop her mind from scratching itself raw.

After a sennight spent loitering around the Rising Stones, she finally found it: she would, by hook or by crook, find a way to beat Rinh’s brother at cards.

S’vash Tia— or, as his sister fondly called him, Vash’a— had joined the Scions at around the same time as the handful of ex-Crystal Braves who became Scions, but for precisely the opposite reason: they joined out of loyalty to Alphinaud, he joined because that was after the point a teenager was no longer in a position of authority, which had made the whole enterprise seem dubious. He resembled his sister in many ways— he had what Y’shtola was coming to think of as the Panipahr family nose, he was handy with a sword, and he put as much effort into his personal appearance as Rinh did, albeit with a calculated ostentatiousness she lacked. On the other hand, he stood nearly a fulm taller than her, he was charismatic and supremely self-assured, and he was much, much better at cards than she was.

Rinh was infamously terrible at card games; she had a good head for numbers, pattern recognition, and probability, but these advantages were more than canceled out by her complete inability to bluff convincingly or read her opponents; one could generally guess the contents of her hand with startling accuracy just by noticing her expression or the twitching of her ears as she looked at her cards, but she would still take everything other players said or did at face value. It had become an unspoken rule among the Scions that, to protect the Warrior of Light from herself, she should never, ever be allowed to stake actual money on a game.

S’vash had his sister’s aptitude for figures—  before coming to the Scions, he’d been an Assessor at Melvaan’s Gate, and few magical disciplines were more mathematical than arcanistry. Unlike Rinh, however, he could read people like an open book, and had the acting chops to easily lead opponents astray.

He always beat Y’shtola.

It was infuriating.

On this particular occasion, they were playing in the public area of the Seventh Heaven. Y’shtola didn’t like the idea of having an audience watch her get trounced repeatedly, but it was nice to be around people again— people at their ease, not clashing on a battlefield. With Rinh, Lyse, Alisaie, Alphinaud and Tataru en route to Doma, Urianger minding the Waking Sands back in Thanalan, and most of the others still in Ala Mhigo, the Rising Stones was nearly deserted, and unnervingly quiet.

Y’shtola, as was her wont, was playing fairly defensively, conservative in her bets and raises. She knew she couldn’t do that forever, though— it just meant she was slowly losing a war of attrition, her piles of chips eroding away as S’vash’s waxed. With Rinh safely located a hemisphere away, there was real gil tied up in this game, too; the pot didn’t exceed the price of, say, a nice meal at the Bismarck, a bottle of La Noscean white with a decent vintage, or the first edition of a somewhat uncommon book, but it was the principle of the thing.

She realized that she was more or less exclusively thinking of the money in terms of things Rinh would like— the Twelve know she deserves a gift, after everything. All the more reason to win, then.

Y’shtola’s hopes were revived when she drew a new hand and found herself with a truly excellent set of cards. She affected nonchalance. 

“Fold,” said S’vash, tossing his own hand aside; he’d seen right through her, evidently.

Or perhaps he’d seen something else; there was a faint fluctuation in the aether around him, like someone had skipped a stone over the surface of a placid pond some moments earlier. It was similar in kind— if not in magnitude— to an aetheric phenomenon she sometimes saw around Rinh, and had learned to recognize after she’d collapsed at that ball in Ishgard— the Echo.

“You always play circles around me,” she said mildly.

S’vash grinned as he shuffled the deck. “Call it natural talent.”

She considered calling him out on this, but decided against it. She was going to be stuck here convalescing for quite some time, after all— she might as well pick out a goal that will keep her busy for as much of it as possible.

***

She got a letter from Rinh the next day.

Shtola,

We’re finally back in civilisation. Stepping into Kugane after months at sea provoked something like sensory overload. The lights! The colours! The throngs of people from all corners of Hydaelyn crowding the streets! It’s quite overwhelming.

Not that our voyage was completely uneventful. We did take a detour through some sort of… haunted island? (and learned Alphinaud is v. afraid of ghosts; admittedly, the ghosts out on the high seas are considerably less friendly than our family ghosts) But for the most part I rested. I expect to have barely a moment’s ease once we get to Doma, so I’m glad that I was able to take a brief break from my exciting lifestyle of being hit with swords (bullets, axes, magic, &c.) and let myself recover a bit from the Reach. I’ve a few new scars to show for it, but that aside I feel more or less like my old self again. I hope your own convalescence is proceeding equally well.

There’s something eerie about being on neutral ground after all that time fighting tooth and nail on the Gyr Abanian front, about walking by a Garlean embassy and exchanging icy glares with the soldiers posted outside when more or less anywhere else in the world we'd all be trying to kill one another sharpish.

Later. A spy attempted to sell us out to the Garleans, forcing us to dispatch someone half dozen of them and then traverse Kugane’s back-alleys and canals as alarums rang out and the local constabulary combed the city looking for us, which is much more in line with how I expect things to be.

Anyroad. Its moral cowardice in aiding and abetting the empire via ‘neutrality’ aside, I think you’d like Kugane. Excellent tea houses, legions of booksellers, a parallel geomatic system of aetherology to plumb the depths of, a general air of cultivated refinement— this, I thought, is a city that has Y’shtola Rhul, Ar.Aet written all over it! Some day— when all of this is over, when we have opportunities for leisure more substantial than, say, convalescing after a mad prince tries to slice us in half— we should come here together. Just you and me.

Something to look forward to, anyroad.

Miss you terribly.

Love,

Your Rinh

P.S. These letters likely aren’t secure— please see our coded messages from Tataru if you want to be apprised of our progress re: non-sightseeing endeavours. The (rather pricey) aetheryte courier service I’ve engaged to see this letter delivered in a timely manner can be trusted with private correspondence, but not secret correspondence.

P.P.S. Please find enclosed a daguerreotype of my tits.

Y’shtola’s wounds still troubled her, her fears for the future— for Ala Mhigo, for Doma, for the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and for her beloved— still harried her. But the letter restored to her a warmth she hadn’t felt in months. Even across such an inconceivable distance, the tie that bound herself to Rinh had yet to snap. She was with her, still, the seas and continents separating them in space notwithstanding.

Chapter Text

Y’shtola 

All of Ala Mhigo— perhaps all of Eorzea, or even all the free world— was still in a festival mood, a full day after Zenos yae Galvus and his pet Primal had been vanquished and the capital city liberated.

Y’shtola’s feelings were a bit mixed. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn were— rightfully— the toast of the town. But Y’shtola’s own contribution felt meager compared to the heavy lifting the likes of Lyse (“Commander Hext!” She’d come a long way from the girl who hid behind her sister’s name and mask, trying to outrun her grief) or Rinh (because of course it all came down to her, in the end) had done for the cause of liberty. She felt like an imposter, basking in others’ accomplishments, the way her father used to.

Rinh, she knew, would have none of this. Rinh would remind her that she’d sacrificed for Ala Mhigo, bled for Ala Mhigo. Her convalescence had kept her out of the action— even now, with her wound itself more or less healed, she needed some time yet for the physiotherapy and reconditioning needed to prepare her for the rigors of the battlefield— but the reason for that convalescence was a confrontation with the crown prince himself.

Possibly, it was simply that she just never knew what to do with herself at parties. This celebration was nothing like the fiercely competitive fetes her parents threw, which were invariably excruciating affairs from start to finish, but she still felt distinctly out of her element. Mingling did not come naturally to her.

She worked her way through the people thronging the streets in various states of euphoria, revelry, and inebriation, looking for a familiar face. Contending with the crowds was difficult enough on its own, but she also found herself needing to take frequent breaks to stop and rest; her wounds still troubled her and she was rather out of shape.

It was during one such breaks that she felt a hand on her shoulder; she looked up and Lyse’s grinning face hoved into view.

“Shtola!” said Lyse, “How have you been?”

Y’shtola shrugged, but a smile played across her own face; seeing Lyse’s high spirits did much to lift her own. “A bit overwhelmed, truth be told.”

“I know, right?” Lyse said, laughing, “Here we are, in the streets of an Ala Mhigo that’s free, but it’s still barely sunk in! A year ago, the empire felt invincible, and now they’re gonna have to redraw the maps for not one but two continents!”

“I meant to refer to my feelings about being surrounded by a richly-deserved but still extraordinarily raucous celebration,” Y’shtola said, “But I suppose that does rather pale in comparison to the grand sweep of revolutionary history, the crumbling of once-unassailable empires, et cetera, et cetera.”

A few yalms away, Y’shtola noticed a small stir in the crowd. She supposed it was a collision between the celebrants and someone carrying out the business left to attend to after victory— an Alliance runner, perhaps, or one of the engineers sent to salvage and remove the broken imperial warmachina littering the streets.

Finally, though, the crowd parted, and out came the Warrior of Light, bounding towards her comrades, arms outstretched. She more or less collided with Y’shtola and Lyse, pulling both of them into a tight embrace.

“We did it!” said Rinh, “We actually did it!” When she finally let go, taking a half-step back from the other Scions, Y’shtola noticed she had tears in her eyes. “It still barely feels real, you know? All this time where it felt like the most we could do again the Garleans was slow the bleeding, and now— and now— holy shit?”

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen Rinh since her return from the East, of course— Rinh had made a point of calling upon her at the Rising Stones before she leapt into the Ala Mhigan fire once more. By that point, however, events were unfolding far too rapidly for her to linger overlong; the war was entering a critical phase, the Eorzeans were preparing to make another push across the Velodyna, and Krile was being held somewhere behind imperial lines. Rinh— quite understandably— seemed to have one foot out the door the moment she arrived. She was already suited up for action— wearing a new set of armor, a hefty Bozjan-style gunblade strapped to her back. The whole time Y’shtola and Rinh had spoken, Rinh was anxiously charging cartridge after cartridge with aether.

Now, though, one look was enough to make it clear a weight had been lifted off Rinh’s shoulders, both literally— she was unarmored and visibly unarmed, although Y’shtola knew that she habitually kept a knife hidden on her person since the banquet— and figuratively, with a spring in her step and her shining aether sparking and bubbling with joy.

“How are you feeling, Rinh?” Y’shtola asked. 

“Exhausted!” answered Rinh, with a wide smile on her face.

“Can’t say I blame you!” Lyse said, “Fighting primals is tiring work!”

“Hey,” says Rinh, “That was just the coup de grâs . I’d have never even got through the city gates or up into the Menagerie without everyone else at my back. We’ve all come down a long, long road together-- so this victory belongs to everyone.”

Y’shtola couldn’t help but think guiltily of the fact that she’d spent the bulk of that long road lying in bed, reading and writing letters, and losing a small but steady stream of gil to Rinh’s brother in her failed campaign to best him at cards.

On the other hand, she reminded herself, if she hadn’t thrown herself in front of Zenos’s sword, Lyse would be dead-- and that thought was too horrible to contemplate further. She remembered Rinh’s words to her at Castrum Oriens-- I’m so sorry you got hurt, I’m so relieved you’re going to be okay, and I’m so bloody grateful you saved Lyse’s life. And I’m going to fucking kill Zenos. The debacle at the Reach, the defeat she suffered, was still a link in the chain of events that ultimately saw Ala Mhigo free and its viceroy lying dead in a pool of his own blood. That was something, at least.

“Aw, Rinh!” Lyse said, “I love it when you do this thing where you’re so humble but also give a little speech about being humble that sounds like something Alphinaud would say.”

“Oh, gods,” Rinh said, wincing, “Is that really what I sound like?”

“Sorry!” said Lyse, who did not look even slightly sorry.

Y’shtola smiled as she watched the easy back-and-forth between Rinh and Lyse; the two of them really had been thick as thieves since their Far Eastern sojourn.

***

“Can you believe we’re just… going for an evening stroll through the streets of Ala Mhigo,” said Rinh, “Somehow, that makes all this feel way more— way more concrete than seeing Zenos dead in the dirt, or seeing his surviving tribunes surrender to the Resistance, or everyone singing the national anthem or whatever. It’s like… this is just a place, you know? Am I making any sense?”

The three women had drifted away from the noise and crowds of the celebrations; Rinh had been too polite to say anything, but Y’shtola could tell that Rinh had started to find it all a bit taxing— the unstructured socializing, the drinks of unknown provenance offered to her by strangers she dared not touch, the hours and hours of having to be the Warrior of Light in a semi-official capacity. The Warrior of Light had more than done her bit, Y’shtola reasoned; surely Rinh Panipahr deserved to have a nice time, too, even if it took a bit of prodding on Y’shtola’s part to get her to acknowledge it.

Lyse seemed to have much the same idea; once Y’shtola had steered them away from the party, Lyse took the lead, clearly with some more specific destination in mind. “I always wondered about what this city was like,” she said, “I can just barely remember Ala Gannha, but not this place. I think… I think Dad took me here, once, but I must’ve been so little… So I only ever knew it from stories Yda would tell me.”

They came to a heap of rubble stretching across the width of the street. Y’shtola supposed it was the remnants of a triumphal arch-- the stone was a dark, polished Ilsabardian marble, rather than the warm sandstone quarried in Gyr Abania; she could see fragments of fluted columns and the ornate capitals that sat atop them, instantly recognizable to anyone who’d spent time in Sharlayan, where similar columns held up many a roof and lined many a colonnade. The inscription on the shattered and half-buried frieze was still partially legible: C·V·BAELSAR·LEGATVS·AUG·PRO·PRAETORE·FECIT. Beneath it lay a toppled statue of Emperor Solus zos Galvus, staring off into eternity with features frozen in an idealized youth even now, dashed to bits on the cobblestones. Two soldiers-- one in Resistance khaki, the other in the white armor of a Temple Knight-- were perched atop the debris, laughing at some private joke as they passed a bottle of arak back and forth. They seemed to have eyes only for one another; neither of them so much as glanced at the Scions as Rinh and Lyse helped Y’shtola clamber over the fallen monument, each holding one of their still-convalescing comrade’s hands.

Y’shtola was a bit embarrassed that she still wasn’t able to just scramble up and down the heaped rubble under her own steam, but that was more than made up for by how well taken care of she felt with both Rinh and Lyse doting on her. When Y’shtola’s feet were once again firmly on the flat surface of Ala Mhigo’s cobbled streets, Rinh leaned in and gallantly kissed her on the cheek.

“This neighborhood is where a lot of imperial officers and bureaucrats lived,” said Lyse. Some of the buildings around them were stately old Ala Mhigan townhouses, some of them were newer Garlean villas, and all of them had been lightly ransacked. “We’ve been billeting troops and refugees who lost their homes in the fighting here, but I guess right now everyone’s off partying?” She shrugged. “Anyway! Seems as good a place as any to take a load off— get off our feet for a while, right?”

Y’shtola appreciated Lyse’s use of the word our when proposing taking a rest, instead of calling attention to the fact that Y’shtola was the one slowing them down— Lyse seemed possessed of her usual boundless energy, and Rinh’s fatigue clearly wasn’t mere physical exhaustion.

***

Lyse had commandeered for herself a relatively humble living space— a suite that once housed a junior attaché to one of Zenos’s tribunes, Arcadius sas Caepio, whose more spacious residence had been pressed into service as a headquarters for the local Resistance. Not much could be gleaned about the attaché from what he’d left behind, but apparently he’d done well enough for himself to assemble some fairly nice furniture— when Y’shtola finally sank onto the sofa, it felt positively decadent. Rinh, of course, sat right next to Y’shtola, holding her hand and contentedly laying her head on Y’shtola’s shoulder. Lyse, meanwhile, chose an armchair right across from the couch.

Lyse— if Y’shtola was being perfectly honest with herself— looked absolutely stunning. The contrast between her dress, with its ornate embroidery and flowing fabric and graceful aetheric weaving, and the tantalizing glimpses it afforded of the solid, toned muscle beneath it was nothing short of arresting.

Not sure what to do with this information, she exchanged a glance with Rinh before deciding to look down at her own hands folded in her lap instead. She felt a bit hot in the face.

“Y’know,” said Lyse, “I can tell from the way you two are looking at me you’re not just admiring the stitching on my dress. Well, Rinh might be.”

“H-hey,” muttered Rinh. Then, in a smaller voice: “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Lyse said, “I’m just saying— I noticed. And, I mean, if you’re interested, let’s talk.”

“Um,” said Rinh, looking rather bewildered, “What?”

“She’s propositioning us, dearest,” Y’shtola said, “Jokingly, presumably.”

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t have to be a joke!” Lyse winked. “I mean, we’ve all gone through hell this year, so I think you’ve more than earned a chance to just have some fun for a change, right?”

Silence. Somewhere in the apartment, a Garlean clock precisely marked the passing seconds. If Y’shtola strained her ears, she could just barely make out the hum of fluorescent ceruleum lights.

“I mean,” Lyse added, a crack appearing in her mask of self-assured bravado, “If— if a tumble with your friend sounds fun to you, anyroad.”

Rinh lifts her head from Y’shtola’s shoulder and, with a little shrug, gives her an inquiring look. It stood to reason Rinh would be up for this, Y’shtola thought; she was bolder than she looked, even if her desires often outpaced her ability to articulate them. Rinh, like many more traditionally-minded miqo’te, Keepers and Seekers both, hewed to the idea that one should love ardently, fiercely, whole-heartedly, but not necessarily exclusively. They’d talked this over, of course, and Y’shtola certainly found the idea appealing in an abstract sort of way, but those conversations had lived strictly in the realm of the hypothetical. Given the years of mutual pining that preceded their relationship, Y’shtola frankly thought it a minor miracle that she even had one girlfriend.

Now, though, it was hard to think of anything less abstract or hypothetical than Rinh’s unspoken question, or the look on Lyse’s face as she nervously twirled her hair around one finger.

Y’shtola closed her eyes and did something contrary to her instincts but often gently encouraged by Rinh— she asked herself what she wanted.

Well, she thought, it’s not like the liberation of Ala Mhigo happens every day.

It’s not like being reunited with your lover and a dear, dear friend after nearly half a year of only the most fleeting visits, after half a year spent without touching or being touched, happens every day.

Y’shtola nodded.

Lyse exhaled a deep breath she’d obviously been holding in, undisguised relief on her face. “Great!” 

She practically sprung up from her seat to kiss Rinh on the lips. Then she turned to Y’shtola, angled her chin upwards with calloused hands, and kissed her too. 

“Oh,” said Y’shtola, as Lyse took a seat on the sofa to Y’shtola’s right; Rinh was still to her left, leaving her flanked on both sides.

“So, um,” said Lyse, “Are there any, like, ground rules I should know? Things you wouldn’t want me to do? Things you’d definitely want me to do?”

“Uh,” said Rinh, “The fact that you’re strong enough to just pick me up off the ground is extremely hot, but if you actually do that, I will bite you.”

“And not in the fun way,” Y’shtola added.

“Duly noted,” Lyse said, laughing but still quite obviously listening intently.

“And, er,” continued Rinh, “Sorry if this sounds weird, but since you’re hyuran, could you like… not touch my ears or tail? Since in my experience only miqo’te really know how to do it right— people who haven’t got ears like this tend to either push or pull too hard and it hurts a bit, or overcompensate and just sort of ineffectively bat at them, leaving everyone involved feeling kind of silly.”

“Leave the ear scritches to Shtola. Got it.”

“I think…” Rinh began, leaning forward a bit so she could get a good look at both Lyse and Y’shtola, “Maybe a little more gently than usual, Shtola? To start out, at least. Because this is new. Because over these last few months, most of the people who’ve touched me were trying to kill me.”

Sometimes, hearing Rinh say things like that so matter-of-factly broke Y’shtola’s heart. “Of course,” she said softly. She stroked Rinh’s cheek, her hand brushing across a topography of scars still intimately familiar to her, even after months apart. Rinh closed her eyes and exhaled; some of the tension seemed to leave her shoulders.

Lyse, meanwhile, had tentatively laced her fingers through Y’shtola’s, like she was still getting used to the idea that she was allowed to touch her. Her thumb idly traced circles along the soft skin at the crook of Y’shtola’s forefinger and thumb. She had an expectant, reverent look on her face Y’shtola had often seen from Rinh, too.

Ah, though Y’shtola, it’s like that. She supposed she ought to take charge of the situation. “Shall we adjourn to the bedchamber, ladies?”

“You’re already there” Lyse said, as she advanced from merely holding Y’shtola’s hand to toying— somewhat indecisively— with the clasp of her coat, “The couch folds out into a bed.”

“So Garlean engineering’s good for something besides killer machina, giant walls, and experimental superweapons after all, actually,” said Rinh.

“Ah,” said Y’shtola, “For the moment, then, I think its present guise as a couch will more than suit our purposes.”

Rinh laughed. “Gods, Y’shtola, listen to yourself.”

“I— I am simply trying to get in-character for a role I’ve not had the good fortune to step into for quite some time.”

“So clearly, me being a brat about it is helping you out,” Rinh said, trying to stifle her giggles. It was true, though— this sort of play-fighting was an important step to the dances she and Y’shtola shared. It was mostly for Y’shtola’s benefit, really— things like her self-conscious acknowledgement of adopting a role and Rinh’s gentle pushback against her affected imperiousness were prerequisites for her own comfort. Rinh, she knew, would take equal pleasure in yielding herself fully to Y’shtola’s firm will, in becoming pliable as putty in the hands of the one person in all Eorzea she’d trust with that sort of power over her, and trust to never step over the hard lines she’d set beforehand. When they tried that, though, one gloomy winter night in Ishgard, Y’shtola had been the one to invoke their safeword.

Sex involved a lot more trial and error than the torrid romances she furtively read when she was younger had implied, it turned out. A methodology familiar to any Sharlayan scholar worth her salt, although perhaps not in this particular context.

She supposed bringing Lyse in would be much the same: a process, a conversation.

Y’shtola turned to Lyse and kissed her; Lyse reciprocated adeptly, eagerly and not a bit hungrily. She managed to get the clasp undone, revealing an expanse of bronzed skin which only grew as Rinh reached around from behind Y’shtola and began unbuttoning her coat.

Y’shtola’s own hands, meanwhile, had begun to explore Lyse in earnest. Her fingers easily slid under the silken bodice of Lyse’s dress and onto her breasts, eliciting a soft, pleased sigh.

But then something seemed to occur to Lyse. “Wait,” she said, “Hang on a second.”

Y’shtola immediately stopped what she was doing and drew back. She couldn’t help but think of the massive scar on her chest, bared for the first time to Lyse and Rinh. Was Lyse shocked? Repulsed? Still blaming herself for Y’shtola’s injury? None of those seemed likely, but...

She took a breath. “Is aught amiss?”

“Sorry, sorry, I just—” Lyse began, “I just don’t want to mess up this dress, is all.”

Y’shtola thought back to that last night in Ishgard, after the ball, when she’d accidentally left a massive tear in Rinh’s favorite dress. Fair enough, then.

Lyse hopped off the couch and briskly lifted her dress off over her head. She wriggled out of her leggings and smalls. She neatly folded up these garments and set them on a table— but not before she took a moment to shake her ass in Y’shtola’s general direction.

Y’shtola stared. Rinh also stared, peeking out from behind Y’shtola’s shoulder.

Lyse had fantastic glutes. No wonder she always used to wear those little shorts all the time.

Rinh and Lyse each had such different kinds of strength. Where Rinh was wiry and sharp, Lyse was well-built and statuesque. Literally statuesque, honestly; her nude form put Y’shtola in the mind of the sort of statues of athletes in motion that were in vogue in old Sharlayan a century or so ago, meant to demonstrate an artist’s skill as sculptor and anatomist both.

Rinh, her eyes never straying from Lyse, finished unbuttoning the coat and— somewhat frantically, truth be told— pulled it off Y’shtola’s shoulders, while Y’shtola rapidly divested herself from her halftights and pantalettes. She beckoned Lyse forward.

“On your knees,” Y’shtola said, doing her best to sound haughty and dignified in spite of the thrill of anticipation which shot through her, in spite of the feeling of Rinh’s hands on her body and Rinh’s mouth nipping at her neck, “And we shall see if you’re as talented with your tongue as certain graffiti in the women’s lavatory at the Rising Stones has led me to believe.”

Lyse laughed as she got down on her knees. “Oh, I’m a virtuoso at eating pussy.” She grinned up at Y’shtola from between her legs.

“They should give out Archonates for that,” Rinh quipped.

Y’shtola smirked. “Yet another institutional shortcoming of the Studium, I’m afr—oh! Oh!” Before she could finish her rejoinder, her train of thought was instantly derailed by that first electric contact of Lyse’s lips and tongue on her clit.

Lyse approached the task before her with confidence, skill, and a bottomless enthusiasm.  She made minute adjustments as she went— angling Y’shtola’s hips slightly, moving Y’shtola’s legs into a more comfortable position, quickening her pace as she sensed Y’shtola teetering on the edge— with the air of a master violinist tuning her instrument.

It stood to reason, Y’shtola supposed. Lyse had more experience with women than Rinh, and more experience in general than Y’shtola, since before that first night with Rinh, the fact she was a lesbian felt largely academic— so to speak— aside from determining who she’d pine away hopelessly for with no expectation of reciprocation or intention of acting upon her desires.

After so long spent in relative solitude, to suddenly find herself being touched like this— behind her, the weight of Rinh pressing against her, Rinh’s hands all over her body with their delicate, precise movements, Rinh’s insistent kisses on her neck and shoulders; beneath her, Lyse, her lips wrapped around her clit, her fingers curling inside her, bringing all of her expertise and attention to bear for the singular purpose of making Y’shtola feel good— was utterly overwhelming.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was perfect, perfect, perfect.

***

As the last embers of her climax finally faded, Y’shtola found herself sprawled across the couch, a fine sheen of sweat on her skin. Her head was resting on Rinh’s lap; Rinh was seated demurely, her legs folded beneath her, still fully clothed, but her golden eyes positively smouldered. She smiled, lips parted just enough to show a hint of fang. It was an expression Y’shtola seen many times before Baelsar’s Wall and all that came after forced them apart; an expression she’d yearned for as she touched herself on long, lonely nights in Mor Dhona. The gears in Rinh’s head were turning; Y’shtola reckoned she was weighing whether to wait patiently for Y’shtola’s instructions and be rewarded, or mouth off and earn herself a punishment— although both amounted to the same thing in the end.

Lyse, meanwhile, still knelt alongside the couch, massaging her aching jaw and looking extremely casual about all of this.

Rinh seemed to be holding her counsel for now, so Y’shtola was still— nominally, anyway— in control. Somewhat reluctantly, she removed herself from Rinh’s lap to sit up straight again. “I think that our dear Rinh is still wearing altogether too much clothing,” she said, “Take care of it, Lyse.”

Rinh was dressed in a rakish Limsan style, relatively casual by Rinh Panipahr standards, but that still meant Lyse had to contend with a justaucorps, a waistcoat, a billowy undershirt, breeches, stockings (which Y’shtola felt showed off her toned calves to good effect), and various other garments and accessories which needed to be unbuttoned, unbuckled, or untied. This gave Y’shtola a moment or two to consider her next move.

Unfortunately, as far as she knew, le godemiché was still sitting in its box underneath Rinh’s bed— their bed— at Fortemps Manor. That was all right, though— she was more than willing to take matters into her own hands.

So to speak.

Lyse took a step back from the couch, Rinh’s chemise balled up in her hands until she carelessly tossed it aside. “Ta da,” she said.

“Shtola,” whined Rinh, “Hurry up and do something to me.”

Instantly, Y’shtola’s hands were all over Rinh; she traced the shapes of Rinh’s scars, some familiar, some new; the long, jagged mark left by Rinh’s own wounds from the Reach she treated with particular reverence. When she had worked her way down between Rinh’s legs, just the slightest touch was enough for Y’shtola to confirm that her lover was already soaking wet-- and enough to make Rinh gasp and squirm.

“Impatient as ever, then,” Y’shtola murmured, amused. “Lyse, be a dear and hold her in place. Gently but firmly.” She glanced in Rinh’s direction for confirmation; when Rinh gave her an encouraging little nod, she continued, “We can’t have her getting too far ahead of herself, now.”

“Wow,” said Lyse, “You two are such dorks!” She slipped behind Rinh, straddling her, wrapping those exquisitely honed arms of hers around the smaller woman’s waist. “It’s really cute, honestly.”

Y’shtola took a moment to make sure she was positioned comfortably— she anticipated being between Rinh’s legs for quite some time, after all. Satisfied, she leaned in and kissed Rinh— first on the lips, then lower, on her neck and shoulders, on her long scar from the Reach, on her breasts, mouthing at a stiffened nipple. Her hands, meanwhile, slid downwards, across a muscled abdomen criss-crossed by scars and stretch marks, through the dark curls at the apex of her thighs, and finally into the liquid heat below. Without further preamble, she buried three fingers fingers to the knuckle inside Rinh.

“Shtola,” Rinh breathed, as Y’shtola began to fuck her, thrusting her fingers into her at a rapidly accelerating pace, rubbing her clit with her thumb, “Fuck, Shtola, just— fuck!” Rinh’s breath began to hitch with each new thrust— her murmured obscenities became a jumbled stream of Huntspeak before descending into complete incoherence. Her brilliant aether pulsed and vibrated like water mere moments away from boiling over.

So— of course— Y’shtola abruptly withdrew her hand.

“Shtolaaaa,” implored Rinh, her hips bucking wildly, “Shtola, please, just let me come—” She wriggled and writhed, looking for relief, for friction, for anything, straining to no avail against Lyse’s grip; Y’shtola thought that lended a certain frisson to the proceedings, which she appreciated.

“Shush,” Y’shtola purred, pressing a still-slick finger to Rinh’s lips, “Only good girls get to come. Are you a good girl, my dearest?”

Rinh took a deep breath and nodded.

“Then trust that I shall take care of you.”

And she did.

Several times, in fact.

Rinh

Rinh woke up as the first rays of a crimson sunrise crept across the room.

Y’shtola, as usual, woke up before her, but hadn’t gotten out of bed yet; she was reading a book, one hand idly carding through Rinh’s hair. They’d seamlessly stepped back into their old routine, as if the time they’d been oceans apart had passed in the blink of an eye.

On the other side of her, Lyse was still asleep and snoring quietly, one arm draped over Rinh. This, too, struck a familiar note, Rinh realized— she and Lyse had spent much of the last six moons in close quarters.

Lyse had been with her at the Reach; in the aftermath, they’d huddled together, watching each shallow rise and fall of Y’shtola’s chest. They’d been cabinmates on the Misery, hammocks slung side-by-side from the night they’d left Limsa Lominsa to the day the lights of Kugane appeared over the horizon. They shared accommodations at the Shiokaze Hostelry, they’d slept in yurts, in trenches, in caves and castrums, under the sheltering boughs of trees. On one occasion, they’d slept under the stars— when they’d finally returned to Mol Iloh in triumph after the Nadaam, they’d been so bone-tired they fell asleep right on the grass, nothing below them but the naked earth, nothing above but a billion billion stars.

No wonder, then, that they’d grown so close— although the exact nature of those tender feelings had eluded Rinh until Y’shtola was at her side again and able to give a helpful prod in the right direction.

Lyse looked so soft like this, Rinh thought; muscles she’d seen shatter stone and break bones lying slack and at rest.

Rinh sat up— carefully, to avoid jostling Lyse awake— and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“Good morning,” murmured Y’shtola, closing her book— a rather hefty Sharlayan monograph called Towards a New Aetherology: An Aetherodynamic Approach— and setting it aside. She smiled sleepily at Rinh; Rinh could feel her heart flutter in response.

Rinh blinked, and blinked again, and then she realized she was blinking back tears.

“Is something wrong?” Y’shtola asked softly, wrapping her arms protectively around the Warrior of Light.

“N-no,” Rinh mumbled, sniffling, “It’s just— it’s just that I can’t believe how happy I am right now. I’ve— we’ve all been through so much, but here we are. Here we are, having a lazy morning in a free Ala Mhigo.”

“It is overwhelming in any number of ways,” Y’shtola agreed, her thumb drawing slow circles in the close-cropped hairs at the nape of Rinh’s neck, “But you’re right: here we are.”

“When— when I think back to before— to after the—” Rinh trailed off. “After the Calamity,” she continued, tears flowing freely, “I— I didn’t think I’d even be alive all this time later, much less alive and loving so much, and being so loved in turn.”

Y’shtola kissed her on the forehead. She kneaded Rinh’s ear with just the right amount of firmness and pressure, eliciting a noise halfway between a sigh and a purr.

***

They whiled away the whole morning like that, Rinh and Y’shtola, and Lyse when she finally woke up. They talked, they read (even when traveling light, the two miqo’te tended to have at least a few books stowed away somewhere), they dozed, they fucked. They just generally lazed around for hours and hours.

For once, there was nowhere else to be, nothing else to be done, no pressing matters or brewing crises to attend to. 

For at least one morning, they could just be.

Chapter Text

Y’shtola 

One moment, Y’shtola was discussing Thancred’s condition with Rinh, Urianger, and Alisaie.

The next, she was being torn apart. Something had gotten its hooks into Y’shtola’s soul and was pulling it away, swift and strong as the Lifestream’s current. Aether was churning around her in patterns she couldn’t even begin to interpret, while all traces of the familiar— Rinh’s luminous soul, the dim but homey aether of the Rising Stones, the feeling of her feet planted firmly on the ground— receded into the distance. She reached towards Rinh, desperate, floundering. Rinh’s eyes were shut, her ears pressed flat against her head, fangs bared, face contorted in agony.

And then Y’shtola finally felt herself wrenched away.

***

She was somewhere else, in freefall through time and space. It was almost like the Lifestream— a chaotic torrent of everywhere and everywhen— but the very fact she was able to make that observation meant she had to be somewhere else. The Lifestream, after all, swept her objective self away along with everything else. 

Huge chunks of crystalized aether— or something that looked like that to her eyes, anyway— tumbled through the void, leaving echoes of memory in their wake.

Matoya, decades younger, when Y’shtola first met her: “The girl simply wants for useful occupation.”

Y’rhul Nunh, leading a toast in sparkling company: “Your accomplishments have reflected well on the Y tribe, daughter of mine.”

Louisoix, giving a fiery speech at the last meeting of the Forum before it fled across the sea: “To ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom— it is indolence.”

Thancred, deep underground, daggers glimmering in rapidly-approaching lantern light: “Now, may I have the last dance?”

Rinh, Rinh, her Rinh, sitting in an Ishgardian parlor: “Shtola, I’m terribly fond of you.”

Minfilia, silhouetted against a wall of burning Light.

***

Y’shtola was lying naked on a cold marble floor. She had no idea where she was; she was disoriented enough that she couldn’t make sense of the aether around her, familiar and foreign and shot through with something stale and dead.

“Oh dear,” said a man’s voice, refined and Sharlayan, “I only thought to bring one robe.”

Then he tossed a robe at her and scurried away, echoing footsteps fading into the distance.

After she’d gotten the robe on and stood up, Y’shtola took stock of her surroundings. She was in a circular room with some sort of portal and one end and a door and the other. Urianger was sitting upright, but still seemingly dazed; Y’shtola, regrettably, added him to her mental list of Scions of the Seventh Dawn she’d seen naked. Neither Rinh nor Alisaie were present; they had, thank the Twelve, been spared whatever fate had befallen Urianger and herself.

The architecture of the room was distinctly Allagan— the more ornate, monumental style seen in places like Syrcus Tower, rather than the brutalist geometry and exposed magitek works found in, say, the various laboratories and installations that dotted the landscape of Azys Lla. When she focused on the aether surrounding her, though, it was clear that beneath the marble floors and gilded columns, powerful Allagan magitek was churning away.

There was something else about the aether here that bothered her, but before she could put her finger on it, the man from before returned bearing a robe, which he duly flung in Urianger’s general direction without looking directly at him. He was wearing robes himself, with a hood casting his face in shadow. No, that wasn’t quite right— there was a subtle aetheric irregularity that indicated he was using some manner of illusory magic to deepen the shadows cast by the cowl, concealing his features. Between his slight build, the pains he took to conceal the top of his head and his eyes, and the way he smelled, Y’shtola reckoned that he was a miqo’te.

He also looked as if he was something like a third of the way towards turning into crystal, but Y’shtola— for the moment— refrained from making any suppositions about this.

“Who are you?” asked Y’shtola, arms folded.

“I am called the Crystal Exarch,” he said, “And we have much to discuss, Y’shtola Rhul.”

***

“So,” Y’shtola said, staring up at the silhouette of the Crystal Tower, incongruously familiar next to the unfamiliar city of bricks and wrought-iron beneath it and the blazing dead sky above, “To summarize: We are on the First Shard of Hydaelyn, from whence came Arbert and his fellow Warriors of Darkness.”

“His true name was Ardbert,” said the Exarch, prompting Y’shtola to roll her eyes, “But yes, that’s correct.”

“You intended to summon the Warrior of Light here, as this world’s salvation is required to forestall an Eighth Umbral Calamity on the Source, but instead brought Urianger and myself here.”

“My deepest apologies about that, by the way,” said the Exarch, “I sincerely regret any distress I have caused.”

“And this—” Y’shtola gestured at the gleaming spire, “—is the same Crystal Tower we are familiar with from the Source summoned to the First, correct?”

The Exarch nodded.

“Are you G’raha Tia?”

“I have never met anyone by that name,” said the Exarch.

Y’shtola hadn’t been present for the expedition into the Crystal Tower, but Rinh had written up detailed reports, which they had discussed at length. The Exarch spoke like a Sharlayan, smelled like a miqo’te, was of a height and build matched Rinh’s description of G’raha, and demonstrated a mastery over the Crystal Tower that could only be exercised by one with the Royal Eye. The idea that there were two such individuals was patently absurd.

Y’shtola chose not to press the issue, however. Instead, she silently took note of the fact that, under scrutiny, he had more or less immediately resorted to bald-faced lies.

***

Y’shtola’s temporary lodgings— a suite at the Catenaries— were commodious enough, but she still felt ill-at-ease. Everything about this place felt wrong. The architecture itself— like in the rest of this “Crystarium”— while pleasant, well-built, and airy, was deeply unfamiliar, not corresponding to any culture she was familiar with, ancient or modern, save for a handful of ornamental flourishes presumably inspired by the Crystal Tower itself. Otherwise, it was all an alien combination of utilitarian exposed brick, industrial ironworks, spiraling staircases, and high crystal domes. Everything felt too clean, compared to other cities she knew, too uniform, too regular. Cities generally had strata from which one could read their history. Limsa Lominsa slowly spread across the natural sea stacks dotting Galadion Bay to accommodate the ever-expanding maritime commerce passing through its ports. Ishgard— so dear to Rinh— was a city constantly being built and rebuilt and built again; homes for the displaced and dispossessed built after the end of the Dragonsong War and the establishment of the Republic sat atop foundations from the age of Thordan and his Knights Twelve. Even Sharlayan, which aspired to a sort of stately timelessness, had clear divides between the faux-antique and the truly ancient. Nothing in the Crystarium looked more than a few decades old— save for the Crystal Tower itself and its various outbuildings.

In any case, the strangeness of the city barely mattered compared to the sky, the sky, that bright and merciless sky. Dying aether drifted languidly through the air, stagnant and foul as any cesspool. The wind never blew, the birds never sang, water barely flowed— the sounds of a living world had all been smothered by a hollow, echoing emptiness. She had to strain herself just to sense the Lifestream; in this place, it trickled by like a babbling brook.

It hurt her to look at. It hurt her just to be here— she’d developed a low headache within minutes of her summoning, and days later it hadn’t gone away.

This was a sickly, dying world. She had already known that, of course— she’d heard Rinh’s recounting of Ardbert’s tale of the First’s plight, and she thought of it every time her thoughts drifted to Minfilia. Now, though, she felt it, deep in her bones.

As she lay awake in bed, thinking of these things, she heard a soft knock on her room’s door. She glanced at her clock; it was well after midnight, even if you’d never guess if you looked out the window, or at stark shadows frozen in place for a century.

She stood up, smoothed the wrinkles out of her borrowed nightclothes, and strode over to the door to answer it.

“Good evening,” said Urianger, his expression grave. Y’shtola waved him into the room and shut the door behind him.

“I take it you’ve thoughts to share on our current predicament away from prying ears,” said Y’shtola.

“Thou hast the right of it,” said Urianger, “However, I would precede mine own thoughts with a query for thee: during thy summoning to this realm, amidst the raging waters of the rift, didst thou perchance experience… visions?”

“Of a sort,” Y’shtola said, folding her arms, “I suppose more like fragments of memory than anything else; echoes of people and places from my past.”

“Hm,” said Urianger, not meeting Y’shtola’s eyes, “I, too, was granted insight into other times and places, although not entirely as thee described. I saw… I saw a future , which hath yet to come to pass, and must needs be averted at all costs— the Eighth Umbral Calamity.”

“The result of a Rejoining between the First and the Source, presumably.”

“Without a doubt. It was… difficult to see, and… and still more difficult to speak of, but I shall endeavor to recount it for thee…”

The tale of the Calamity told by Urianger was appalling in its every detail. Apparently, after being fought to a standstill on the Ala Mhigan frontier, a desperate Garlemald resorted to deploying Black Rose. Y’shtola was vaguely familiar with Black Rose— a potent aetherochemical weapon that was apparently too heinous for even Gaius van Baelsar, a man who thought nothing of unleashing Ultima Weapon to lay waste to Eorzea. She was under the impression that it was some sort of biological agent, but actually it worked by rendering the very aether which flowed through all living things utterly inert. When coupled with the excess Light-aspected aether overflowing into the Source from the First— already observable as the aetheric thinning Y’shtola had been studying— the results were catastrophic. Millions were dead, vast swathes of the world were rendered uninhabitable, and civilization itself unraveled.

And every single one of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn was slain.

Given the scale of the destruction Urianger had already described, that they, too, had all died almost seemed academic. That didn’t make it any easier to hear, though. Lyse-- no longer a Scion in name, but still part of the family-- was the first to fall; she was the tip of the spear of an Alliance counteroffensive at Ghimlyt Dark, pushing the empire back until the empire decided that if they can’t have the world, no one can. But at least she got to die on her feet, at least she went down fighting. The others, Urianger said, were scythed down all at once at the Rising Stones. Tataru and Krile, Thancred and the Leveilleurs, Hoary Boulder and Coultenet and Ephemie and Alianne and all the familiar faces who’d been fixtures in her life since they’d first arrived in Mor Dhona. And Rinh, oh Rinh, her glorious aether forever becalmed, Y’shtola’s silent and clay-cold body held limply in her arms.

“Why are you only telling me about this now?” Y’shtola asked, hating how small and frail her voice sounded.

“I struggled to find the words to impart this baleful tale,” Urianger said, soft-spoken as ever but weighed down by a grief she hadn’t seen in him since they’d lost Moenbryda, “Especially given the… the particular fondness for Rinh which burneth in thine heart.”

“Urianger,” she said, “Since when have I ever been one to flinch from an uncomfortable truth?”

“Mine apologies,” he said, bowing his head, “Given all that hath transpired, I should not have doubted thy fortitude.” Before Y’shtola could respond to that, though, he continued, as if eager to keep the conversation moving. “In any case, this prophetic vision, grim though it may be, would seem to corroborate what the Crystal Exarch hath told us thus far.”

“Agreed,” said Y’shtola, “And nothing in either tale flatly contradicts our prior knowledge of Hydaelyn’s shards, the nature of Rejoinings, or my study of the aetheric thinning I have already observed throughout the Source— although I had yet to draw any conclusions when I was torn away from our native star. Rinh, perhaps, will be able to expand upon the data I’ve left behind. Aetherology was not among her formal studies, but she has an intuitive grasp of it thanks to her multidisciplinary magical expertise.”

“Her scholarly input is one among many reasons her presence here would be dearly appreciated,” Urianger said.

The three of them always did do their best work together. Well, the four of them, really— Papalymo was the fourth member of their quartet. Sometimes, when Y’shtola, Rinh, and Urianger were poring over towering piles of tomes or batting some thorny theoretical concept back and forth, she still caught herself waiting for Papalymo’s voice, high but authoritative, to fill the silence, encouraging Urianger to be bolder in moving past the established literature, tempering some of Rinh’s wilder ideas, unspooling Y’shtola’s tangled thoughts when frustration set in and she got stuck in her own head. Even more than a year on from Baelsar’s Wall, they’d never quite settled into a new rhythm.

The thought of having to find that rhythm without Rinh, too, grieved Y’shtola. A prophecy of the future, however terrifying, was abstract in a way in a way the bare fact Rinh’s physical absence in the present was concrete.

“It’s odd that the things I saw in the rift were so much more jumbled than—”

“Mayhap the aetherial churn was such that it overwhelmed thine aethersight,” Urianger cut in. This was Y’shtola’s hypothesis as well, but something about how ready he was with that answer struck her as odd. It was probably nothing, though— the low headache she’d had ever since she’d first come to this world and its poisoned aether robbed her of any truly restful sleep, leaving her groggy and irritable. Like she did in the later stages of her Archon’s thesis, really, except, as the fate of two worlds and the lives of all her friends and family did not depend on the quality of a dissertation on aetherodynamics, it was perhaps slightly lower pressure, if only because the one member of the faculty whose opinion she really cared about was across the sea, in the ruins of the Sharlayan colony.

“Y’shtola?” Urianger said, no doubt noticing she’d been lost in thought.

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

“For the moment, at least, I feel that any effort to effect a return to the Source is a lesser priority than seeking the salvation of two worlds.”

“Ageed,” said Y’shtola, “Returning home only to be cut down at once by Black Rose would be the very definition of a pyrrhic victory. I mislike how evasive the Exarch is on many subjects, but he does have a vested interest in preventing an Eighth Umbral Calamity.”

“We should also seek Thancred’s counsel,” said Urianger, “He hath seen more of this star than either of us, and abided upon it longer.”

“Right. The fact he’s been here for two years when mere days elapsed on the Source points to another advantage— time, it seems, is on our side. We needn’t be concerned that the Calamity is imminent— we have time to plot out a course of action, and— when Rinh arrives— execute it.”

Which meant, of course, that from Y’shtola’s perspective, it could be a very, very long time before she saw Rinh again.

***

Her reunion with Thancred came much sooner, although it was still some months.

Y’shtola had much to occupy herself with in the meantime, however. She had the knowledge of a whole new world to absorb, from teaching herself the blocky letters of the Vrandtic script to studying deep history already nearly forgotten centuries before the Flood, from ancient grimoires of esoteria to brand-new treatises on practical magic in the midst of a widespread artherial imbalance. The Crystarium, for all its flaws, had a first-class library— without a doubt the finest remaining in Norvrandt, and indeed hosted a larger collection of volumes than she’d seen anywhere outside of Sharlayan. She could feel the weight of history in the Cabinet of Curiosities in a way she couldn’t anywhere else in the city. And Moren, the head librarian, was unfailingly courteous and helpful. Even if he did keep on trying to recommend children’s books to her, for some reason.

Y’shtola found she quite liked the people of the Crystarium, even if the architecture and geography of the place set her ill-at-ease. They hailed from all corners of the world, from the fallen kingdoms of Voeburt and Nabaath Areng to the old Lakeland fiefdoms of the elves; from the husks of Kholusian villages and ports sucked dry by parasitic Eulmore to the furthest reaches of the Rak’tika Greatwood. 

There were even some who traced their roots back to nations now swallowed by the Flood of Light, the last, proud heirs to a vanished world. She heard folk songs passed down for generations from the lost western periphery of Voeburt— the land which she knew as the Dravanian Hinterlands, site of the Sharlayan colony, but simply called Westland by its inhabitants, and those who now preserved their memory. Westland was a string of hardy villages and rustic trading posts, exchanging timber, furs, and coal for agricultural produce from the estates surrounding Voeburtenburg, which were then exported to Eulmore and Nabaath Areng. This lucrative trade built the wealth that once made Voeburtite coinage the soundest in the world, and its loss following the Flood left the rump kingdom which survived in the east a paper tiger quickly overrun by the sin eaters.

She met a viera— or a viis, rather— who told her about the mountains and highlands east of Rak’tika, which flowered into half a dozen vibrant city states when Old Ronka fell. The viis were as prodigiously long-lived as their counterparts on the Source, so the woman was able to give Y’shtola first-hand accounts of walking the streets of long-dead cities, and recite monologues from great tragic plays which once played to packed theaters, learned by heart and preserved as the last flickering embers of a culture.

She met a refined drahn dancer, poet, and singer who traced her roots back to the First’s far east. All she knew of her forebears were a few fragments passed down to her from her parents, who were themselves relying on their parents’ recollection of their childhoods-- a few dance steps. A line or two of a poem her grandmother liked. A few bars of a song. When she was a bonded citizen in Eulmore, she told Y’shtola, she often attributed her own work to these vanished ancestors to earn her keep; Eulmore’s aristocrats loved feeling like they owned something precious, something unique. In the Crystarium, however, she was writing under her own name-- writing for a posterity she had to believe will exist, in spite of all of this dying world’s contrary evidence.

The Crystarium was cosmopolitan enough, then, that Y’shtola didn’t have to worry about being conspicuous because of her exotic name or unfamiliarity with local customs, nor was she wholly dependent on the half-truth that she was “from the Exarch’s homeland.” Which wasn’t to say there weren’t misunderstandings— she had a handful of awkward conversations with mystel acquaintances informing them that no, Y is not her given name, and eventually took to just spelling it Yashtola when she signed her name— but they were always taken in stride.

She still never really felt comfortable, though, not really, not in the glare of that damnable Light. She supposed that the enormous crystalline domes built over many of the city’s public areas tinted and refracted the sky into something more pleasing to the eye, but that was no help to Y’shtola.

The Wandering Stairs, where she was nursing a glass of wine as she waited for Thancred, was built under one such dome. She still had that headache; she supposed this was just what she was going to feel like for the duration of her time on the First.

She was just wondering if she should have brought along something to read when Thancred finally showed up.

The Thancred who sat down across from her was very different from the Thancred who’d collapsed at that Alliance summit in Ala Mhigo. He was clean-shaven, for one, and his hair neatly trimmed, like he was before Y’shtola invited him to take a dip in the Lifestream. Rather than giving him a boyish or youthful aspect, though, he looked severe and careworn. But then he offered Y’shtola one of his easy smiles, and the years seemed to melt away.

“Y’shtola,” he said.

“Thancred,” she said, “I thought you knew better than to keep a lady waiting.”

Thancred laughed. “I’d’ve swung by sooner, but the Eulmore-Lakeland airship is, oh, a hundred years or so late.” He glanced at the bottle of wine, but then pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher the waitress had left on their table.

“How have you been?” Y’shtola asked, “I see you’ve taken some inspiration from our dear Warrior of Light.”

“What?” asked Thancred. Y’shtola gestured at the gunblade conspicuously strapped to his back. “Oh, that. Right, well, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s rough out there. Sin eaters. Dangerous animals. Dangerous animals which became sin eaters. And without Rinh around to helpfully stand directly in front of any threats, I thought it prudent to adopt a more… defensive fighting style.”

“Reasonable,” said Y’shtola, “And I presume the reason you’ve opted for this particular weapon is because its cartridges can be aetherically charged in advance.”

“Got it in one. Speaking of which…” Thancred pulled a pouch full of cartridges out of his coat-pocket and tossed it in Y’shtola’s direction; it landed beside her wine glass with a rattle. “I’m sure you’ve seen Rinh do this enough times to get the gist.”

“I suppose it’s only fair,” Y’shtola said, emptying out the pouch and arranging the cartridges into a neat pile, “It is my fault you can’t channel your own aether, after all.”

“Yes, yes, I’d have much rather been crushed flat by several tonze of rubble with my aetheric abilities intact.” Thancred’s wry grin faded into a more somber expression. “Anyroad. That day left its mark on all of us, one way or another.”

Y’shtola nodded solemnly. “It’s hard to think of a worse day in all my life. Maybe Rhalgr’s Reach, although I was unconscious for most of it.” She set the first cartridge in the palm of her left hand, raised her right hand over it, and began to suffuse it with aether. Seeing a trickle of her own living, free-flowing aether compact itself into the rigid structure of a magitek device was abstractly fascinating; a most striking example of microaetherodynamics.

“Does Rinh ever talk about the night of the banquet?” Thancred asked, voice uncharacteristically soft, “After the bit we saw for ourselves, I mean.”

“A little; it’s hardly a pleasant topic to dwell on.” Y’shtola set the first charged cartridge aside, and picked out another from the pile. “She… she’s told me there are long stretches of it she can barely remember. Like trying to recall a particular nightmare one had years ago, or piecing together a historical narrative from scattered and contradictory ancient documents.”

“Poor girl,” Thancred said, “When I first met her in Ul’dah, years ago now, she said much the same about— ah, but that’s not my story to tell.”

Thancred was referring to Rinh’s gladiator days, she realized. Rinh rarely talked about them, and when she did, it tended to be scattershot details— scars attributed to this or that bout in the arena, the stage persona of a half-civilized and exotic Keeper of the Moon imposed upon her by a domineering lanista, a deep-seated loathing of almost anyone in Ul’dah who had real money to their name. The corollary to Rinh’s fervent belief that the past lives on in stories was that sometimes the past ought to be left to rot. She had the sense that Thancred had gotten Rinh out of some sort of terrible situation, first by helping her get on her feet as an adventurer, and then, once she’d made a name for herself, bringing her into the Scions. 

Y’shtola didn’t know many of the specifics of Rinh’s circumstances, but she didn’t need to; she remembered what Rinh was like when she first came into the Waking Sands, barely speaking to anyone and in a perpetual state of hyper-vigilance, looking like she was expecting a knife in the back at any moment, carefully keeping a spear’s length of space between herself and everyone else in the room.

Thancred, in short, was the reason Rinh had the chance to grow into the woman she was today and the space to spread her wings, and thank the gods for that.

“I don’t suppose she’s mentioned anything about what happened to Minfilia?” asked Thancred, cautiously. “Besides what she told all of us, I mean.”

“When I first discussed it with her, shortly after I was recovered from the Lifestream,” said Y’shtola, “I recall her saying that she felt furious— furious at Hydaelyn. At the time, the Antecedent’s abrupt departure at Hydaelyn’s beckoning when she and Rinh were so close to making it out of Ul’dah together struck Rinh as pointless and callous.”

“Did you agree with her?”

Y’shtola shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I did, given the information I had access to at that time. The Echo— and therefore the Mother’s will itself— has ever been opaque to me. It is well outside the bounds of my scholarly expertise, so I’m reluctant to ascribe motives to Her. It’s not Rinh’s scholarly interest, either, so she’s also cautious about drawing conclusions, but since she has lived experience of Hydaelyn’s voice I lack, my inclination is to defer to her.”

“With the information you had at the time,” Thancred repeats, “I suppose now that we’re on the First and sitting together in a bar, rather than dying in a featureless wasteland after all the aether’s been sucked out of our empty husks, you could say the results of heeding Hydaelyn’s call rather speak for themselves, don’t they?”

“I suppose they do,” said Y’shtola.

An awkward silence fell over the table, with neither Y’shtola nor Thancred meeting the other’s eye.

“So,” Thancred said, finally, “What’s the news from home?”

“There is less than you might think,” said Y’shtola, “Riol has taken charge of the espionage operations you proposed at the conference in your stead. Urianger met Rinh, Alisae, and myself at the Rising Stones to discuss our situation. Urianger also reported that the aetheric thinning I observed in Othard was occurring in Eorzea as well.”

“What happened after that?”

“Urianger and I were summoned here,” Y’shtola said, “Thancred, less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since you were taken.”

“Wow,” said Thancred, “The Crystal Exarch told me time flows differently here, but two years to one day is a hell of a discrepancy.”

“It’s for the best, of course— this way, we needn’t worry about events on the Source spiraling out of control in our absence,” said Y’shtola, “Nor will we be compelled to rash action by a lack of time.”

“Sure,” said Thancred, “But it’s been a long two years. A long time spent on my own. I’ve kept busy, but...”

“Well,” said Y’shtola, as she finished charging yet another cartridge and set it with the others, “At least you’ll have some company, now.”

***

Her first foray outside the Crystarium, then, was alongside Thancred, accompanying him on a circuit around Lakeland to cull the local eaters. She’d learned much from her research at the Cabinet of Curiosities, of course, but she still wanted to get her feet on the ground. She’d never fully grasp this world’s plight from study alone, after all.

Lakeland, supposedly, was one of the safer parts of the First; its roads were patrolled by the Crystarium’s soldiers, with checkpoints, fortifications, and watchtowers placed at strategic points. But safety is relative— sin eaters still hunted living aether throughout the region, especially in the less built-up backcountry. And there was always the looming threat of a swarm; the Crystarium itself could raise its barriers, but the rest of Lakeland lacked this last line of defense. 

Y’shtola, therefore, deemed it prudent to make preparations. The most important, of course, was procuring a new staff for herself. When she had more time, she’d have something custom made to her own exacting specifications, but for the moment the sturdy if unexceptional ebony rod she’d bought at the Crystalline Mean would have to suffice. She also decided that the loose scholar’s robes she’d been provided with upon arrival were unsuited for the field, so she put together a new traveling outfit from things found at the Musica Universalis: a pair of high leather boots, a knee-length skirt, a riding cloak. All in black, which was hardly her color, but she felt like this place could use a little darkness.

Lakeland itself was not what she was expecting. She’d studied its history, she’d seen maps, she saw engravings of elven ruins in their pre-Flood splendor— but the image in her mind’s eye was some sort of wasteland. Instead, it was in many ways more intact than Mor Dhona. This was a place that had never been torn asunder by successive calamities, never played host to anything like the Battle of Lake Silvertear. The earth beneath her feet was not pincushioned with crystals, no shards of Dalamud pierced the landscape, the waters of the Source ran fresh and clear, teeming with fish. Trees with violet leaves were thriving. Amid the tumbledown majesty of the elven ruins, new settlements had grown— military installations, yes, but also villages of farmers and fishers, market-towns, even some hot springs.

There was life here; there was beauty.

But above it all, that terrible sky still blazed; the air was still stale, the wind dead, the aether stagnant. Lakeland’s beauty was as a butterfly in amber.

And lurking horrors abounded.

The first sin eater Y’shtola ever saw was a frail little thing, with long, ungainly limbs and a pair of scrawny wings which looked quite insufficient to keep the creature aloft. It almost just looked pathetic, but it was filled to bursting with putrid aether. It took but a single stroke of Thancred’s gunblade to fell the wretched thing; Y’shtola hadn’t even finished raising her staff yet.

It lay there in the dirt for a few moments before its body burst into a haze of Light, which quickly dispersed.

“One of the lesser sin eaters, I presume,” Y’shtola said, carefully studying the fluctuating levels of ambient aether caused by the sin eater’s sudden arrival and still more sudden demise.

“Right,” said Thancred, “The little ones can’t do much harm on their own; they’re no more dangerous than, say, a particularly ravenous wild animal. When stronger eaters are on the move, though, these buggers swarm, and then you’ve got problems.”

“I suspect even a single sin eater of any size might pose a significant danger to any travelers less heavily armed than ourselves.”

“Hence the need to hunt ‘em.” Thancred shrugged. “Even so, at least these ones can’t turn you. If that sort of eater gets you, at worst you’re just dead. There are things a lot worse than dying.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d prefer if neither of us died,” said Y’shtola. She takes one last look around the area; the last remnants of the sin eater’s aether were now so diffuse as to be imperceptible. “We should keep moving.”

The second sin eater she saw came in the night.

Or in what passed for night in these parts, anyway. 

They had made camp after a long day of uneventful travel. Thancred volunteered to take first watch while Y’shtola slept. He circled the perimeter of the camp, weapon at the ready, while Y’shtola was in the tent, curled up in a bedroll, and wide awake.

Her suite at the Catenaries was equipped for this situation— like most buildings in the Crystarium, every window had shutters and a thick blackout curtain. Even then, she still often had trouble getting to sleep. With nothing between her and that bright and awful sky but a canvas tent, trying to fall asleep felt like a losing battle.

She wondered what Rinh would make of all of this; if nothing else, at least Rinh was used to slumbering even when it’s bright as day outside.

But if Rinh had gotten used to sleeping at night and being up and about in the daylight after years spent doing it the other way around, then surely— surely— it was possible for Y’shtola to get used to this.

For the moment, though, she admitted defeat, and slipped out of the tent.

“Can’t sleep?” said Thancred, looking at her over his shoulder.

Y’shtola opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, a terrible shadow swept across the camp. She raised her staff, looking up, as Thancred took up position before her in a defensive stance.

An avenging angel hung sickeningly in the sky, wings of pure radiance fanning out from its back and a sword of fire in its hands. The expression on its alabaster face was one of blank perfection, but its eyes revealed nothing but a bottomless hunger. All around Y’shtola, aether shuddered and quaked, as if the very fundaments of life were shaken by mere proximity.

Thancred chambered a round in his gunblade. “If you knock it out of the sky, I’ll finish it off!”

“Right!” answered Y’shtola, already weaving wind-aspected aether around her staff. She spun it into a raging tempest, which she sent careening towards the sin eater.

In the hands of a conjurer as talented as herself, Aero could be as dangerous as any fireball or bolt of lightning. She’d seen it strip the armor plating right off of war machina, send whole formations of soldiers flying at fatal velocities, and level entire gun emplacements.

The sin eater couldn’t shrug off this attack; buffeted by these preternatural winds, it was knocked badly off-balance and went into a tailspin. Its physical form endured perfectly intact, however; Y’shtola had hoped it would have shattered into a cloud of aether right then and there. Oh well.

In any case, it didn’t stay intact for long— the instant it hit the ground, Thancred was upon it. He pierced the thing’s carapace with a downward thrust of his blade and pulled the trigger; the sharp report of a magitek round echoed across the woods. For a moment, Y’shtola thought the fight was over— and then, in a sudden, violent movement, the sin eater spreads its wings, knocking Thancred out of the way.

“Shite,” hissed Thancred. He managed to keep his footing— what could have been a fall became merely a skid— but the eater had still cleared a path between itself and Y’shtola. It began to rise into the sky again, the tip of its burning blade pointed right at Y’shtola.

So she dropped a giant boulder on its head.

The local aether was already jolted out of balance by the sin eater’s disruptive presence; earth-aspected aether was practically seeping out of the ground. It was child’s play, then, to tilt the aether she wove around her staff towards this aspect, condense it into stone, and send it sailing towards the foe.

The boulder hit the ground. Nothing was left of the sin eater but a few dying sparks of light.

“Hm,” said Y’shtola.

“‘Hm’ what?” said Thancred, who’d composed himself by this point.

“Ambient levels of Light aether in the vicinity have dropped precipitously. Lower, even, than I noticed before its arrival. Curious…”

“Is that something we can use?”

“I don’t know,” Y’shtola says, “Not yet. The Light might have merely dispersed in such a way that a sort of aetheric vacuum was left, in which case the overall aetheric imbalance of the First diminishes not one whit. On the other hand, if that aether is de-aspected or lost— or even just a portion of it bled off via aetheric entropy— it suggests that the destruction of a sin eater removed Light from the system. A negligible amount from a single eater, perhaps, and tracking down every individual sin eater and killing it is an impractical plan, but it still could point the way towards a more actionable vector of attack. Either way, I need more data.”

“Well, it’s promising, at least,” said Thancred, rubbing the back of his neck, “I think. Aetherology isn’t my field, so I’ll take your word for it.”

“Also,” Y’shtola said, “I should probably expand my repertoire of offensive spells. When the most dangerous beings on this star inflict wounds no healing magic can salve, thaumaturgy might serve me better than conjury.”

***

The next day of travel passed without incident, which was fortunate— Y’shtola never did get to sleep the prior night, and so she was operating at something less than her full capabilities. She’d also yet to recover all of the aether she’d expended fighting the eater— another practical limitation of conjury, in these circumstances.

When the two Scions arrived at the village of Holminster Switch, the stately clock tower adorning its town hall indicated it was the early evening. She supposed she’d have to trust it; the golden sky was pitiless and eternal as ever.

Despite being lit so unwholesomely, though, something of Holmister’s charm shone through. It was a quaint farming community, containing many excellently preserved pre-Flood buildings. A few of them even had ornamentation with motifs associated with the old Church of the Light— cornices emblazoned with solar rays, and the like.

The village inn was homey, inviting, and featured heavily shuttered windows. As she and Thancred tucked into their dinner— shepherd’s pie and a hearty stew— she could almost believe this was somewhere back home.

“So,” said Thancred, “Got any plans for what you’ll be doing while we wait for the Exarch to finally bring Rinh over?”

“Only broadly,” said Y’shtola, “I’m still finding my footing here, after all. That said, I expect to mostly be occupied with research. We need as keen an understanding of this world as possible, both to be as prepared as possible for when Rinh is summoned, and to explore alternative avenues in the event the Crystal Exarch’s high hopes of summoning the Warrior of Light fail to materialize.”

“I might have something on that, actually. Do you know much about Eulmore, Y’shtola?”

Y’shtola shook her head. “Pre-Flood, it— like its Limsa Lominsan counterpart— was Norvrandt’s premier maritime power. Post-Flood, I know only that its ruling class reminds me of Rinh’s accounts of Ul’dah’s elite, and that it is unlikely to be of any assistance in an attempt to challenge the First’s status quo, however objectively unfavorable that status quo might be.”

Thancred grinned, steepling his fingers. “Correct on all counts, which is why I expect getting in and out of the city to be a bit of an undertaking. I’ve got to, though— they’re keeping Minfilia there.”

For a moment, Y’shtola believed, her knowledge of the Oracle of Light’s arrival a century ago and the present Vrandtic notion of Minfilia as a sort of title notwithstanding. Hearing the name from Thancred’s lips, hearing the conviction in his voice, she could imagine the Minfilia she’d known, the Minfilia she’d lost on the night of the bloody banquet, was out there somewhere.

That wasn’t how these things worked, though. “You refer, of course, to the current Minfilia.”

“Yes, of course,” said Thancred, “But since the girl’s inherited our Minfilia’s blessings, surely she’s in there, somewhere.”

Y’shtola frowned. “Hm.” 

***

Once again, Y’shtola lay awake in bed, the more commodious accommodations afforded by the inn notwithstanding. She closed her eyes, more out of habit than anything else—her eyelids might block light, but did little to mitigate Light.

For want of something else to occupy her restless mind, she thought through what she knew of this world’s aetherology. Umbral Light and Astral Dark— Rinh, always skeptical of the political and cultural values assigned to lightness and darkness, would get a kick out of that. No wonder Arbert and his comrades presented themselves as Warriors of Darkness when they came to the Source. Even if in their time the notion of the Warrior of Darkness as some sort of psychopomp figure who shepherded lost souls to the Sunless Sea hadn’t taken root, they probably still grasped the title’s double meaning in a way none native to the Source could.

She missed the dark.

She missed the darkness of the night sky— although the last time she’d seen the stars was that night in Ul’dah, on a balcony with Thancred as he tried to prod her into asking Rinh to dance and made fun of her favorite shoes, she’d gotten used to the sight that instead greeted her when she looked up. That slate-black, empty void threw the natural aether of the world below into sharp relief. The beauty of the stars had been taken from her, but in its place was a strange new beauty, an aurora of aether dancing in time with the world’s heartbeat.

She missed the darkness of the night sky, of long shadows cast while the sun hung low over the horizon, of the sea on an overcast day. 

The darkness under the sheltering boughs of trees— the deep woods, where Wailers feared to tread and Keepers lived free.

Rinh’s sable hair. That black lipstick she always wore. Her brown skin, with its constellations of freckles and nebulae of scar tissue.

Her very own Warrior of Darkness…

Y’shtola’s wandering thoughts faded into dreams. She slept soundly that night.

Rinh

The forward operating base was much closer to the Ghimlyt frontlines than the fortified headquarters set up in the rear; Rinh had been assured that it was still out of range of the Garlean artillery, but it was connected to sectors that were under bombardment by communications trenches, so the fighting still felt close at hand. Every few minutes, the Alliance’s guns— the berthas, repurposed dragonkillers, and Maelstrom cannons dragged off the decks of ships that had seen service in the siege of Ala Mhigo having long since given way to more modern quick firing 18-ponzers, ack-acks, heavy antimachina guns, and the like— thundered as they fired off a volley; the low, deep rumbling in the distance was the imperial counterbarrage.

So while Rinh had to admit that there were places more dangerous for Lyse to have set up shop, the forward base still didn’t seem particularly safe. The Garleans hadn’t made another push since the Alliance and its eastern allies turned back the offensive launched after their “parley” with Varis zos Galvus, but it was easy to imagine a later effort pushing the Alliance back enough to leave this particular trench open to bombardment.

When she stepped into Lyse’s dugout, the Resistance commander was hunched over a radio set. For a moment—

—just a moment—

Rinh expects the static to resolve itself into a song.

Then she heard M’naago’s voice, though, which made far more sense when she thought about it. “You were right about the raid on grid sixty-six just being a feint,” she said, audible even through heavy interference, “So we were ready for ‘em when the hammer fell further down the line; the Garleans walked right into enfilade fire at grid twenty-one, which sorted them out right quick. No casualties.”

“Great news,” said Lyse, “But keep an eye out, okay? It might’ve just been them feeling our defenses out. Conscripts’ lives are cheap to the empire, so I wouldn’t put it past them to get their own guys killed just so the scholae know what to expect in the ‘real’ attack.”

The radio fell silent. Then and only then did Lyse turn around to look at Rinh, offering her a tired, sad smile. “Rinh,” she said.

“Lyse,” said Rinh, “You’re not wearing Yda’s dress?”

“Yeah, well,” Lyse, clad in simple Resistance fatigues, gestured around her— at the timber-braced earthen walls of the dugout, the barbed wire curling above it on the trench’s lip, the roiling darkness above lit only by sporadic tracer fire, “I thought maybe she wouldn’t want to be a part of all this.”

“Suppose it’s not exactly Liberation Day out there, huh?”

“Guess not,” said Lyse, “Hey, is there any, uh… news from the Rising Stones?”

“No,” said Rinh, “There’s been no change in anyone’s condition. Not for the worse, not for the better. Thancred, Urianger, Shtola, Alphinaud, Alisaie— they’re all still… wherever they’ve gone.”

“Fuck,” mumbled Lyse.

“So I suppose I’m the last one left, then,” Rinh murmured, looking down at her feet; the hem of her white mage’s robe was already stained with dirt and mud even though she’d only just arrived in the trenchworks. Her skill as a healer was more in demand of late than her blade or her shield; she tended to the wounded behind the frontlines, and to the Scions’ slumbering bodies at Dawn’s Respite. “The last one who hasn’t had my soul yanked away to gods-know-where by… by whatever’s targeting us.”

Someone else might have responded with some inspirational platitude, or— more usefully— some sort of appeal to pragmatism. Lyse did neither of those things; what she did say, she said without any words at all, taking Rinh’s trembling hands in hers and softly kissing her knuckles one-by-one. Rinh looked up at Lyse, taking a deep breath, and then another, and then another.

“It— it seems pretty inevitable that it’s going to get me, too,” Rinh said. Her brows were still knit with worry, but her voice is more even than it was a moment ago. “I’ve been trying to— you know— get things in order.”

“Rinh…”

“So many people want so many things from me— or from the Warrior of Light, rather— and I know so, so much depends on me, but sometimes I feel like I can barely keep up. Especially now, with Garlemald at the gates and so many of us already gone. And— and if I can’t—” Rinh’s voice caught in her throat; she could tell she was on the edge of tears, but pressed on. “If I can’t be the Warrior of Light the world expects me to be, if I can’t bear that weight anymore—” She sniffled, the first few teardrops already rolling down her cheeks. “If— if I leave someone else to be crushed by this burden, if someone else has to contort and bend and break themself into the Warrior of Light, because I couldn’t— I can’t— I—”

“Rinh,” Lyse repeated, softly, “Everything’s going to be okay.” She squeezed Rinh’s hands.

“You— you don’t know that,” murmured Rinh, trying to stifle a sob, burying her face in Lyse’s jacket.

Lyse let go of Rinh’s hands, but only to pull her into a proper hug. “Look, I can’t say I get all of this stuff with souls, but Krile and Matoya figured out that nobody’s soul’s dissipated, so they must be somewhere.”

Rinh nodded weakly.

“So if it happens to you, too, you’ll be wherever they are.”

“Yeah...”

“And with you and Shtola around,” said Lyse, “I’m sure you’d make short work of whatever the problem is and bring all those souls home.”

And she smiled so brightly that Rinh couldn’t help but meet it with a small smile of her own.

***

Rinh made the rounds in Dawn’s Respite, checking on each Scion as Krile got some much-needed sleep. No one’s condition had improved, but no one’s had deteriorated, either, and in times like these, she was prepared to take good news where she could get it.

Satisfied that no one was in need of her immediate attention, she sank into the chair in what was quickly becoming her customary spot at Y’shtola’s bedside.

Y’shtola, steadily breathing through parted lips, really did look like she was just asleep. It was so easy for Rinh to believe that if she reached out and shook Y’shtola, her eyes would flutter open, a sleepy smile on her face— or, possibly, a withering look for rousing her without good reason— and she’d be back. Her Y’shtola, just like that.

But when Rinh holds Y’shtola’s hand, although her skin is soft and warm to the touch, her muscles relaxed, and her pulse beating at regular intervals, she does not stir. Wherever Y’shtola was, it’s not here.

“I’ll see you soon,” whispered Rinh, “Promise.”

Chapter Text

Y’shtola 

Taking an amaro to Rak’tika was, perhaps, a mistake. The Crystal Exarch had offered her speedy conveyance to the Greatwood when she declared her intention to plumb the secrets of Old Ronka, and she had accepted. She wondered if he still would have offered up a prize amaro to Y’shtola if he knew she had no intention of returning to the Crystarium until she received word of Rinh’s arrival— but he didn’t know. G’raha Tia wasn’t the only one who could traffic in secrets and half-truths.

Still, she thought, clinging to her amaro, perhaps she should have just taken the time to get to the forest on foot, or on chocoboback. It wasn’t that she had any particular aversion to flying— one cannot spend as much time with the Warrior of Light as she had without taking to the sky on a bewildering variety of creatures, magical contrivances, and strange contraptions. She’d ridden on yols, on giant falcons, in a manacutter whose sails rattled alarmingly in the umbral winds of the Churning Mists, in the passenger seat of some sort of absurd Ironworks prototype of a four-wheeled ground vehicle that could fold out into a small airship. She’d ridden on Midgarsormr, for gods’ sake.

Nor did she have any particular misgivings about her present mount. The bird— whose name, apparently, was Vanilla Tart— was strong-backed and indefatigable, but possessed of a sweet temperament that reminded her of Rinh’s chocobo, Sports. (“The hazards of letting your then-five year old son pick out a name for the Grand Company bird the Maelstrom sent us,” Rinh had said, laughing.)

The problem— as it ever was on the First— was that damnable sky.

Even on the Source, she often had difficulty discerning things on the ground from high up; aether did not travel as light did, nor with as much clarity; everything but the most powerful enchantments seemed dim and indistinct when seen at bird’s eye. Cities were dull shadows, forests a hazy fog, people nothing but faint sparks.

The Light’s glare obliterated all of these faint vestiges. All around her, in every direction, all she could see was that awful sky.

Vanilla Tart, close at hand and full of living aether, might as well have been the only thing that existed on the whole reflection. So she held the amaro tightly, burying her face in its fur, trusting it to reach her destination.

***

She landed just at the edge of the swamp of Citia. This, she had read, was one of the sparser and therefore more settled parts of the Greatwood. Sparse was a relative term in places like this, though; it was still more life in one place than she’d seen anywhere else on the First. Sparse in the way that Rinh meant when she said she grew up “where the Shroud started to thin out.”

Y’shtola patted Vanilla Tart on the nose and offered it a carrot; pleased by the treat, the amaro ate it right out of her hand. Its duty discharged and payment rendered, it took wing again, flying westward, back to Lakeland.

She, on the other hand, set off to the northeast, down the road to Fort Gohn. As she walked, she took in her surroundings, trying to get a sense of the lay of the land. In spite of the beauty around her, this still was the First. It was still stiflingly quiet; no breeze rustled the leaves, no birds called to one another from bough to bough. The air was still thick with stagnant aether.

And yet…

And yet, when Y’shtola chanced to glance upwards, she saw more than just an endless expanse of Light. Living aether flowed this way and that, weaving through the wretched sky, sheltering her from the glare of a dying star.

The canopy, she realized; she was looking at the forest canopy. Living trees and their haphazard growth shielded her from the Light far more effectively than any amount of glass-and-steel artifice at the Crystarium.

She took a deep breath, feeling more clear-headed than she had in months. The headache she’d had since arriving on the First was clearing up, she realized.

She had a good feeling about this place.

***

Y’shtola heard the Night’s Blessed before she saw them; a rustle of leaves, a scent on the wind, and then a voice calling out: “Allin tuta?”

She was being addressed in Ronkan, she realized. It had taken her a moment to recognize it— the pronunciation was different from what she’d gleaned from her studies. This wasn’t Ronkan, the ancient language dutifully preserved by scholars like a lepidopterist’s prize specimen. It was Ronkan, a living language, still growing and changing centuries after the empire fell.

“Allin chi’si!” she called in response, in her dry scholar’s Ronkan.

Two people stepped out of the long shadows cast by trees. The first was a tall elven woman— a Duskwight, in Eorzean terms, although such distinctions meant nothing in Norvrandt— conspicuously holding a bow, lowered now but likely pointed right at Y’shtola mere moments ago. The second was a ronso man, massive, powerfully built, yet clearly of mild temperament.

“What can the Night’s Blessed do for you, traveler?” said the ronso, a gentle smile on his face.

The elf eyed her suspiciously. “You were coming from Lakeland, but you don’t look much like a trader.”

“I am a scholar,” Y’shtola said, “I have come to seek the wisdom of Ronka, and refuge from the Light.”

“By what name are you called?” asked the ronso.

This Y’shtola expected— details of the Night’s Blessed culture were hard to come by in the Crystarium, but even the traders who occasionally plied these roads knew about their customs around names. True names were too sacred to be profaned by the Light.

“You may call me Matoya,” said Y’shtola.

The ronso grinned. “And you may call me Runar. Now, come, come— Fort Gohn is just down the road.”

***

Fort Gohn was larger than Y’shtola expected; it had walls and a watchtower offering a commanding view of the surrounding area, but in most respects it looked more like a small village than a fortress. Runar led her through the gate and past simple but sturdy wooden structures, eventually ushering her into the darkened inner sanctum of a small temple. At its center sat a basin of water, glittering with reflected candlelight and a fine dusting of aether.

“Usually, when someone new comes to our little community, we have a little ritual to welcome them,” said Runar.

“To cleanse the Light’s taint, I presume?” said Y’shtola.

“You’ve done your research, then,” said Runar, with an approving smile, “Then again, I’d expect no less from a scholar of Ronkan wisdom.”

Earlier in her life, Y’shtola saw little use for ritual. Sharlayan rationality looked down its nose at such things, although, like all Sharlayan virtues, it was shot through with hypocrisy: a contempt for the superstitions of others even as Sharlayan life was rife with ponderous ceremonies— convocations of the Forum, graduations at the Studium, the announcement of prestigious academic appointments, debates over which deceased sages were deserving of commemoration on the Cenotaph— such things set the rhythm of the Sharlayan civic religion. There were spells that involved some degree of ritual to invoke, of course— to deny this would be to deny the empirical realities of magic— but practitioners were advised to consider them dispassionately as just another spellcasting tool, of no more ideological character than a conjurer’s branch or a thaumaturge’s scepter.

Her attitude softened when she came to Eorzea— or, rather, when she came into direct contact with the Empire. It was easy to see how Garlean attitudes were a dark mirror of Sharlayan’s— an arbitrary conception of objective reality and contempt for everyone and everything outside its bounds. The Sharlayans might merely tut in disapproval at what the Garleans would crush underfoot, but ultimately both could be traced to a similar set of assumptions: the world split into us and them, with the superiority of us over the primitive other taken for granted.

And then, she met Rinh, and her feelings on the matter became still more complicated. Rinh was, of course, a superb scholar with a keen intellect and a comprehensive depth and breadth of knowledge. She could hold her own against any archon— in other circumstances, she could have easily become an archon herself. She, in short, knew how the world really worked.

Yet there was the conviction of true belief behind it when she left offerings for the dead, when she told stories of the family ghosts, when she sought counsel from her ancestors. To Y’shtola, so steeped in Sharlayan rationality, it seemed as if the Keeper of the Moon somehow held two different, contradictory versions of the world in her head. But to Rinh, this was no contradiction at all; it was simply two ways of seeing the world, which she moved between as easily as she slipped between Huntspeak and the common tongue. 

And so, even after everything her family had endured— the scorn of Gridanians, the encroachments of the Galeans, the persecution by Wood Wailer hands, the Calamity— there was still an unbroken thread connecting herself to her forebears. Rinh was teaching her son the stories and songs she was taught by her mother and aunt, who were taught by their mother, who was taught by her mother, and on and on, across generations of Panipahr women, through wars and plagues and Calamities. Through the Sundering itself, perhaps— some Sharlayan linguists had proposed that certain Keeper of the Moon family names predated the First Astral Era.

Y’shtola knelt before the basin, and Runar carefully sprinkled her with water. The water possessed no substantial aetherial qualities— it was slightly more rich with aether than average, imbued as it was with the crystallized intent of generations of priests, but such trace amounts of aether were quite insufficient to affect the water’s overall aetherial balance or grant it magical properties.

But the connection she felt to the Night’s Blessed was nonetheless concrete.

***

Over the next few months, Y’shtola spent far more time learning about the Night’s Blessed than about the ancient Ronkans. Not that these were mutually exclusive, of course— Ronkan language, culture, and beliefs were all woven into the fabric of daily life among the Blessed. For more conventional research, the Blessed’s priests maintained a respectable collection of tomes— perhaps not as exhaustive as the Cabinet of Curiosities’ towering stacks, but considerably more esoteric, which suited Y’shtola. The only way she’d make any headway unraveling the secrets of Ronka was to come at them sideways, after all. She’d also made some cursory surveys of the Ronkan ruins situated near Fort Gohn, although, with many of them submerged, her observations were limited by how long she could hold her breath until Rinh or Alisaie came along.

Some of what she learned about the Night’s Blessed themselves was through similarly traditional means— the priests were not merely keepers of ancient lore, but authors of modern texts— histories, religious texts, genealogies— all could be studied and cross-referenced with books she’d read in the Crystarium, filling in more of the gaps in her imperfect understanding of Norvrandt.

But the most important lessons about the Night’s Blessed were taught simply by continuing to live and work alongside them. Every day she spent tending to the crops of the village’s humble commons, every heartstone she saw consigned to the Sunless Sea, every broken bone set, every sin eater she slew— each of them was another thread tying her fate to the Blessed’s.

“Master Matoya,” said Runar, preceded by the sound of his surprisingly soft footsteps, “Theowren would like a word with you, if that’s all right.”

Y’shtola closed the book she was reading and stood up. Runar led her back to the humble temple where, all those months ago, she’d been cleansed of the Light by the Blessed’s sacred waters, where Theowren— or the drahn woman Y’shtola knew as “Theowren”, anyway— was waiting for her. Theowren was one of the Night’s Blessed’s most venerable priests; although the Blessed had little use for formal hierarchies, the oldest and and most learned of their clergy tended to lead the community through sheer force of gravitas. Yet this deference didn’t make Theowren cold or imperious— it was clear that she was possessed not only of a bottomless compassion for the Night’s Blessed, but also a palpable sense of joy at all they’d accomplished together— surviving and thriving in spite of everything this dying world had thrown at them.

Rinh had often described her Aunt Sizha in similarly terms— wise, nurturing, proud of her people, and stubbornly defiant of the marginal circumstances they were forced to subsist in through cruel circumstance.

But then, a lot of things about the Night’s Blessed reminded her of Rinh, Rinh and her stories of home, family, and the deep woods.

“Allin tuta, Matoya,” said Theowren.

“Allin chi’si,” replied Y’shtola, with an accent somewhere between the reconstructed Ronkan she’d studied and the living Ronka she’d picked up from her time amongst the Blessed. “I hope I’m not in trouble, Master Theowren,” she added, a wry smile on her face.

Theowren laughs. “Quite the opposite, in fact. The other priests and I have been conferring with the community, and we’ve decided it’s past time we recognized you as one of us. Runar, if you’d be so kind…”

With a flourish, Runar handed Y’shtola a small package wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it carefully and reverently, revealing a small, pristine gemstone. It was alive with aether— a jeweler’s sharpened internet behind its cut facets, imbued with the subtle tinge of ritual belief.

Y’shtola recognized what it was at once. “A heartstone,” she said, awe in her voice.

“We decided to use amethyst for it,” Runar said, “The purple matches the stone set in that new staff you’ve been working on, so I thought— sorry, I’m just babbling.”

“I—” said Y’shtola, “I don’t know what to say. Or how to repay you for this honor”

Theowren smiled, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Your presence in our community is recompense enough.”

“Thank you,” said Y’shtola.

“I would ask a small favor of you, however,” added Theowren.

“Of course,” answered Y’shtola.

“Tell me again how it was to behold the Sunless Sea.”

***

“Have there been any new developments since last we spoke?” asked Y’shtola.

“Nay,” said Urianger, “However, I come bearing some few of the volumes thou hast sought; the Bookman’s Shelves hath availed me of myriad tomes absent from the Crystarium’s collection.” He handed Y’shtola a rucksack; when she peered inside, she saw the baroque typography of the Kingdom of Voeburt at its height. Satisfied, she closed the bag and slung it over her shoulder.

The Urianger who stood before her was much changed from the one she’d left behind at the Crystarium. He had already abandoned the hood and goggles he habitually wore back home, but by now he had also stopped hiding himself behind shapeless robes. The sleeveless chiton he wore— in addition to making him look like an allegorical figure from a Sharlayan monument— revealed a figure that was fit and trim. He was draped with golden jewelry and fine chains radiating starry aether, betokening not only his newfound interest in astrology and divination, but also a hitherto unknown willingness to accessorize.

Then again, she supposed she looked rather different, too. She’d done some accessorizing of her own, for one thing— she’d had the amethyst heartstone set in an ornate silver brooch dangling from a choker, and like many of the Night’s Blessed— and Keepers of the Moon, for that matter— she’d taken to decorating her hair with feathers. The black robes she’d arrived with had been so heavily modified over the past year that just about the only thing left unchanged was the color. The bodice had been taken in, the skirts augmented filled out with layers of ruffles, and it was decorated with typically Night’s Blessed ornamental elements— fur lining, zigzagging lacing, a low neckline. The ensemble was rounded out, of course, by a pair of handmade, perfectly-fitted, leyline-imbued leather boots— by far the finest footwear she’d owned to date.

She was doing more than just trying to fit in, if she was being honest with herself— her favored outfits tended to have a flair for the dramatic that she could only describe as Panipahrian. She understood, now, why Rinh found such pleasure in this method of expressing herself. It was a means of choosing how to present herself to the world, a medium of communication as freighted with meaning as speech.

She missed Rinh. Her heart still ached for her every day. But the reminders of Rinh all around her— this forest, these people, this new home of hers— were a source of comfort rather than pain. Remembering is hard, Rinh had often said, but forgetting is worse. And so, as she walked this path, the Warrior of Light still guided her every step.

“I must say,” Urianger said, “Thou hast taken to thy new surroundings well, and carry thyself with an ease I seldom saw from thee even on our native star.”

Y’shtola smiled. “I suppose that given my upbringing and my tastes in romance, it was only a matter of time before I became some sort of reclusive forest witch.”

***

Nighttime. Y’shtola’s hosts were well aware of the drawbacks of her particular way of seeing the world, and so provided her with a living space in a sturdy stone cellar. When she lay in bed, she could almost imagine it was actually dark out. She’d been sleeping better, lately, although still irregularly— her circadian rhythm still hadn’t adapted to this place without darkness, no moon in the sky, no sun sinking beneath the horizon.

She wondered what Rinh would think of her little hidey-hole. Would it remind her of Gelmorran tunnels? The passages beneath Baelsar’s Wall? Or would she just think of the perfectly ordinary basement this place actually looked like? She’d take the lack of lighting down there in stride, anyway— she was a Keeper of the Moon, after all. Perhaps, like Y’shtola, she’d even find it a relief after time spent beneath the First’s burning skies. She didn’t have Y’shtola’s sensitivity to aether, but she was much more sensitive to ordinary sunlight than Y’shtola had been when she’d still seen the world through her eyes.

Certainly, she could see Rinh feeling at home here, among all these cluttered books and papers. It was easy to imagine Rinh’s things here, mingled with Y’shtola’s, like they had in Rinh’s bedroom at Fortemps Manor, in Y’shtola’s chambers at the Rising Stones.

It was easier still to imagine Rinh lying alongside her, curled up in Y’shtola’s embrace, a bare shoulder peeking out from under the covers, black hair spilling onto the pillow. 

Y’shtola’s hand drifted downwards, between her legs, and she thought of Rinh’s hands, small but not delicate, scarred and calloused and strong. She imagined how those hands felt inside her, curling against her inner walls, gentle but decisive. The way Rinh’s skin felt pressed against hers. The way she looked as she came undone beneath Y’shtola, eyes half-lidded, lips parted to reveal fangs, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

Y’shtola came gasping Rinh’s name.

Her last thought before drifting away into a contented sleep was a profound relief that the building above her cellar was a storehouse rather than someone’s home.

***

Some hours later, Y’shtola woke with a start. The constant dull throb of the Light had sharpened suddenly. Something unsettled was in the air. By the time she’d gotten dressed, wrapped herself in a cloak, taken up Nightseeker, and ascended the narrow stairway up to Fort Gohn’s courtyard, the sensation was almost painful.

Sin eaters, she realized, sin eaters were bearing down on the village.

The Night’s Blessed had clearly already sensed that something was amiss; the able-bodied adults were arming themselves with bows, spears, and staves. Others were running to and fro, knocking on doors, trying to make sure no one was caught asleep. In the center of town, the priests-- Theowren among them-- were gathered in a circle, coordinating the flurry of activity. Urianger stood a few paces behind them, clearly intent on helping somehow but without a clear task.

“Matoya!” shouted Theowren, as she caught sight of Y’shtola.

“Sin eaters are on their way here,” Y’shtola said, catching her breath.

“As I suspected!” answered Theowren, “Take your friend over there--” she indicated Urianger with a jerk of her chin, “--go up the watchtower, and see if you can get some specifics about what we’re dealing with! We’ll keep getting ready for an attack as best we can in the meantime.”

With a nod, Y’shtola dashed to the tower, Urianger in tow. Together, they climbed the rickety wooden stairs, up through the forest canopy, to the tower’s apex. The higher they got, the more focused Y’shtola’s perception of massing Light became.

Finally, they had the right vantage point for Y’shtola to sense the sin eaters precisely, without the teeming, living aether of the Greatwood itself masking their approach. There were fewer eaters than Y’shtola expected— which was actually a bad sign, because if sin eaters so few in number were capable of causing such an aetherial surge, they must be truly formidable. And by far the brightest Light, shining like a terrible beacon, belonged to an eater scarcely larger than a hyur or a miqo’te.

She recognized it, she realized, from the illustrations in those children’s books Moren was so enamoured with. The Mystic Knight Eudoxia, the famous Spellblade of the North, equally skilled with spell and sword, respected for her counsel, dreaded on the battlefield. Something like a Red Mage, Y’shtola supposed, hailing from the chilly northern continent which, on the Source, played a far more infamous role as the cradle of the Garlean Empire. In its hands it clutched what was clearly Ragnarok, Eudoxia’s sword, a gift from King Lue-Rhei after she saved his life, depicted in many a tome detailing artifacts of arcane power.

But she recognized the it from somewhere else, too, from a far more recent source-- the pamphlets and posters that circulated at the Crystarium warning of particularly dangerous sin eaters. Nothing was left of wise old Eudoxia save an empty form and raw aetheric power-- the thing delineated in burning aether before her, held aloft by stone wings, covered in veins of gold which converged into talons, was Forgiven Vengeance.

Forgiven Vengeance raised Ragnarok high into the air, fire-aspected aether rippling through its blade.

And then, abruptly, the world burst into flames. Fire rained from the sky, and everything in its path— the trees, the underbrush, the wooden walls of Fort Gohn— was set ablaze like so much kindling.

Something about the scene before her, she realizes, was oddly, sickeningly familiar. The day of the Calamity, perhaps? But that couldn’t be it-- she’d been in Limsa Lominsa then, and though fire rained from the sky, the city’s stone buildings were battered and smashed but never caught fire. Rinh’s descriptions of her flight from the Shroud, then? But, no, that didn’t make sense either-- Y’shtola had never seen that for herself, nor were Rinh’s descriptions, elliptical and cautious as they were, sufficient to summon up such a vivid mental image.

Something else was going on. Fire raining from the sky, the world she knew coming to an end, a sense of panic, of indecision--

“What sayest thou, Master Matoya?” asked Urianger, who’d apparently noticed how Y’shtola was frozen in place, momentarily at a loss, “We may accept this fate, or defy it, but we cannot deny it.”

“Deny?” Y’shtola answered, firmly rooting herself back in the here and now, “I am not wont to run from my troubles.” 

After only a moment more to consider her options, she elected not to climb back down the tower. It was on fire, but it wasn’t like anything on the ground was less on fire; at least up here, she had a clear line of sight to Forgiven Vengeance. She reached out to the aether around her and, with a wave of Nightseeker, tilts its aspect towards ice. This aetherial imbalance quickly cascaded into a fierce blizzard, snow and ice whipping around her.

This served two purposes. The first, of course, was the obvious-- the cold would, with any luck, counteract the heat and the flames. The second, however, was more important. By the principles of thaumaturgy, the umbral charge of the aspect of ice would draw in more aether than it expends. Sin eaters, with their single-minded instinct to gorge on as much aether as possible, would turn their attention to her— and away from the Night’s Blessed below as they frantically tried to put out the fires spreading through their homes.

Forgiven Vengeance turned its baleful gaze upon Y’shtola. Eudoxia’s fine hume features were perfectly preserved on the eater’s petrified face, but its eyes held none of the knight’s sagacity or compassion— they were just two pools of polished, blackened stone set in a statue’s eye sockets. With a sweeping motion of Ragnarok, a tree burst into flames and collapsed in Y’shtola’s general direction. 

But she stood firm, even as the tree missed her by scarcely a yalm or two and the updraft blasted hot air at her, stinging her cheeks, blowing her cloak’s hood out of place. "Until our friend returns,” Y’shtola said, Nightseeker held aloft, “I will hold the line!”   

With a murmured incantation, the aether she’d gathered around her tilted towards the aspect of lighting, and a bolt of crackling electricity lanced directly towards the sin eater, the sharp peal of thunder rising even above the roar of flames. The eater, its carapace fracturing in this onslaught, swooped towards her, blade pointed right at her heart.

Oh, thought Y’shtola, and the blade plunged into her chest.

And then— Urianger’s astrolabe spun, a new hand of cards was dealt as the stars subtly realigned themselves, and a kinder fate was woven for the sorceress.

Oh, thought Y’shtola, and the blade smashed the watchtower’s guardrail before getting lodged in the sturdier wood of the observation deck.

She knew she only had a moment to act— she could already see the floorboards around Ragnarok starting to smoulder— but a moment was all she needed. She was still surrounded by lightning aether, and it was child’s play to discharge it directly into the blade’s conductive metal.

Forgiven Vengeance exploded— first into chunks of stone and shards of gold, and then a burst of Light, and the lesser eaters following in its wake scattered.

***

The fires had been mostly doused, or at least kept at bay by conjured ice and water. The immediate danger had passed, leaving the stunned Night’s Blessed to take stock of their surroundings.

They found little that was encouraging. Fort Gohn, the home of the Blessed for decades— the only home many of them had ever known— was a smoking ruin, its walls and temples and homes nothing but skeletons of charred wood.

But this was nothing compared to the loss of life they’d suffered. Countless of the Blessed— from hunters and guards marshaled for the fort’s desperate defense to townspeople caught unawares in their homes.

Theowren was dead. So were most of her priestly colleagues, all of their collected wisdom and power and experience reduced to ash.

“You saved our lives, Master Matoya,” Runar said, “But I fear the Night’s Blessed are finished, now, anyroad. What future can we have, after a thing like that?”

Y’shtola looked around; no one seemed to be taking charge of the situation.

So Y’shtola stepped forward. She might be a more recent arrival, but she, too, called these woods home. “Tomorrow will always come, Runar,” she said, “whether we forsake our ability to shape it or not. Night’s Blessed!” she added, raising her voice, “We have suffered a grievous blow this day. But we will not be felled by it. You are resilient— you have not only endured the Flood, but kept the promise of the night close to your hearts, even as the Light shines mercilessly. You will endure this, too. We shall continue on, towards tomorrow, carrying the memory of all who we have consigned to the Sunless Sea with us. From here to there. From now to our future. From this terrible dawn to the coming night.”

One foot in front of the other, Y’shtola thought, unbidden, until she no longer felt the flames at her back.

Chapter Text

Rinh

“Thancred,” said Rinh, “Can I ask you something?”

Thancred looked from Rinh to the dying embers of the campfire, to the tents where the rest of their party still slept, to the sky above, stuck in an odd sort of half-light, camped for the night at a mid-point between Lakeland, where darkness had returned, and Rak’tika, where eternal Light still reigned. “What?” he said, rather testily.

“What happened in the last five years that made you such a dickhead?”

Thancred crossed his arms, not meeting Rinh’s eyes. “Five years happened, Rinh.”

“Believe me when I say I know what it’s like to have a lousy five years,” said Rinh, “Remember that little thing we call the Seventh Umbral Era? You first met me at the end of it. You know what things were like for me, back then.”

“And I know you wouldn’t have appreciated some busy-body scoffing at your experience of it.”

“If I was taking it out on a child,” Rinh said coldly, “I’d deserve to be worse than scoffed at. If I had been treating, say, my son as some sort of weird proxy for Koh’sae, I’d—”

Before she could continue, Thancred cut in. “Oh, so this is what you’re on about. Do you really think I don’t know that girl isn’t our Minfilia?”

“No, I know you know that. And she knows you know that. The problem is that she’s internalized the idea that it’s her fault. Like the very fact of her independent existence is something she needs to constantly apologize for.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thancred snarled. He finally looked Rinh in the eye, but there was nothing but venom in his gaze. “Go back to sleep. Leave this watch to me, before you say something you’ll really regret.”

“Oh, no,” said a sardonic voice, “Don’t stop just when you’re really getting to the heart of the matter, now.” Darkness briefly contorted itself, and then, there, sitting on a stump between the two Scion gunbreakers, was Emet-Selch, a smirk on his face.

Emet-Selch. Or, as Rinh still couldn’t help but think of him, Emperor Solus zos Galvus. Architect of so much of the world’s misery, hands dripping with the blood of Garlean conquests, Allag’s atrocities in the name of knowledge, and seven Rejoinings.

Rinh and Thancred’s growing ire at one another immediately redirected itself to a common target. Undeterred, however, the former emperor glibly pressed on. “I’m a bit surprised at you, hero, being so quick to give up on your lost comrade. Where’s that famous stubbornness of yours? The determination! The grit!”  

Rinh offered him nothing but stony silence.

He circled Rinh, still towering over her in spite of his stooped posture. “I look and you and think— here is a woman who’d tear out Nidhogg’s eyes with her bare hands and cast them into the abyss before giving up on that Azure Dragoon friend of hers.”

He regarded Rinh intently, no doubt expecting an answer— or at least a reaction of some sort. She provides neither, instead merely fixing upon him a defiant glare. His eyes were nearly the same gold as hers, she realized. That never came across in the statutes, propaganda daguerreotypes, and stark profiles on coins from which she learned to recognize the visage of the great Solus zos Galvus.

“What’s that your lot always keeps saying? ‘For those we have lost, for those we can yet save?’ Thancred here remembers that, at least.”

“Fuck you,” Thancred growled.

Emet-Selch laughed. “My! What a couple of sourpusses you are! Perhaps you’re both feeling a bit fatigued. You could always ask me to pick up a watch or two, you know. Or all of them, really— it’s not like I need to sleep. I merely like to sleep, when the fancy strikes me.”

“You’re what we’re watching, Solus,” said Rinh.

“Must I remind you yet again that I am here as a mere observer and— on occasion— a font of ancient wisdom? I’ll come back when you’re in a better mood, I think; neither of you are particularly engaging conversational partners when you’re in a snit.” And with a dismissive wave of his hand, Emet-Selch faded back into shadow.

Thancred and Rinh stood in sullen silence for nearly half an hour before either of them dared speak.

“Rinh,” said Thancred, less angry than before, but still rather chilly, “You should actually try getting some rest.”

“Whatever,” she said.

“I mean it,” he said, his manner now genuinely softening, “We’re headed back into the Light, and you’ve already told me the constant brightness makes you groggy.”

“Like long summer days in Thanalan,” said Rinh, taking a tentative sidestep towards Thancred.

“Remember the first time we headed out to Vesper Bay?” said Thancred, “You told me to wake you up if you nodded off, and then fell asleep before the carriage even started moving.”

“Still wasn’t used to spending all day in the sunlight, I suppose. I had to keep a diurnal schedule in Ul’dah, but in the city proper there was plenty of shade, and in any case it’s not like Eadwulf let me go out for strolls whenever I pleased.”

“Every time I woke you up, I asked if I should just let you sleep, since Twelve knew you seemed like you needed it, and you always said no.”

“I didn’t want to be caught asleep— especially not in such a confined space, alone with a man who was still a near-stranger. And somehow I trusted you to wake me, but not to watch my back while I slept? Which, in retrospect, doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But you know how I was.” Rinh shook her head. “I was so scared back then. All the time, of everything, everyone. And yet you were always so patient with me.”

“Anything I could do to make you feel even a little safer was well worth the trouble,” he said, “You’d been through a lot.”

“I’d been hurt in so many ways, so many times,” Rinh murmured, “I’d forgotten how to expect anything but more of the same, forgotten what it was like to be offered even the smallest kindness without it being an iron trap ready to snap shut on my leg, what a tender touch felt like without an implicit threat behind it. And then I ran into you...”

“The Sultantree,” said Thancred.

“The Sultantree,” Rinh echoed, “And then one thing led to another, and I had friends, a home, a family. A life. A purpose.”

Thancred smirked, but not unkindly. “Not many people would consider being the Warrior of Light an improvement in their circumstances, Rinh.”

Rinh laughed. “Well, not many people came from such absolutely shite circumstances.” There was another lapse of silence, but this time it felt almost companionable. Finally, though, Rinh spoke again. “Anyroad. Obviously you’ve seen more of Minfilia’s specific situation than I have, but I know what it’s like to be confined in a place like Eulmore, and governed by the whims of men like Ran’jit and Vauthry. And I can tell she’s scared in the same way I was.”

Thancred looked away from her. “Good night, Rinh.”

***

Rinh, exhausted as she was, still found that sleep eluded her for a time, the Light’s soporific glare notwithstanding.

Things had been like this with Thancred since their first encounter at Laxan Loft. Always running hot and cold— fiery anger and frosty resentment, warm sentiments and cooling tempers. It wasn’t as if the Thancred she’d known on the Source was entirely altered. Their shared history, their years of friendship, a foundation of implicit trust— it was all still there. This was still the man who’d thrown her a lifeline when she was all but resigned to being carried away by the riptide. But in their time apart, something had happened to him— or her— or both of them— that left them broken and jagged such that they no longer seemed to fit together. So on and on they went, burning and freezing and thawing in turn.

In all likelihood, she’d be meeting Y’shtola tomorrow. It was a reunion she’d spent months yearning for, and had been avidly anticipating since the moment she’d set foot on this world. But now the worry gnawed at her— what if Y’shtola, too, was changed by years spent on this dying star?

What if they didn’t fit together anymore, either?

It had only been three years for her, rather than Thancred’s five. Urianger had been here for three years, and he seemed to be doing just fine. Better than fine, really; he somehow seemed more himself than he’d ever been on the Source.

It was probably going to be fine; every bit the joyous reunion she’d hoped for.

***

“Did you really think I was a sin eater?” Rinh asked, aghast.

“No,” Y’shtola said, softly, “However, the aetheric effects preceding your arrival were typical of a powerful Eater’s approach. Caution was warranted.”

Rinh glanced behind her; Fort Gohn’s ruins had largely receded into the distance as they walked down the road to Slitherbough, but its charred, skeletal watchtower still loomed over the tree line.

She couldn’t help but think of another burning forest, another home reduced to ashes. All right, then. Caution was warranted.

“When I realized my error,” said Y’shtola, “When I discerned the form hidden behind the Light’s glare… I was dismayed by the thought I’d caused you such distress.”

Rinh took off her gauntlet and reached her hand out to Y’shtola; she felt a flush of relief when Y’shtola took it, her fingers intertwined with Rinh’s. Y’shtola seemed to have a few new calluses, and more than a few new rings, but their hands fit together as comfortably as they had on the Source, three months ago, three years ago.

“I missed you so much, Master Matoya,” Rinh murmured.

“Ah,” said Y’shtola, “I see you’ve been informed of our customs around names. ‘Tis passing strange to hear you address me so, but I expect I’ll adapt rather quickly. Speaking of which, what should I—”

“Sizha,” said Rinh, without hesitation, “Call me Sizha.”

Y’shtola smiled, and gods was it wonderful to see her smile again. Seeing her at all felt like a miracle, but after seeing Y’shtola sternly facing down an apparent enemy, and then stricken with guilt over a mistaken identity, her smile was a precious gift, singular and beautiful as the night sky. “Of course,” she said, “Who else could it have been?”

“Rak’tika’s got me feeling nostalgic,” said Rinh, “This seems like her kind of place, her kind of people.”

“True,” answered Y’shtola, “I confess, since arriving here, my thoughts have often turned to your chosen namesake as well. Your stories of your aunt, and your time as her apprentice, were an invaluable lodestar as I found my way in the Greatwood.”

“I was going to say,” Rinh said, giving Y’shtola’s hand a squeeze, “You’ve got something of a Keeperish look about you, now. Which I quite like, although I’m admittedly rather biased on that account.”

Y’shtola chuckled into one hand, a gesture still achingly familiar even though her raiment and surroundings were so altered by the passing years. “Slitherbough is just ahead,” she said, “We have much to do, and therefore should avoid tarrying overlong, but— Sizha, I think you’ll feel quite at home there.”

***

Rinh did indeed feel quite at home in Slitherbough. The rituals were different— the cleansing water from the Font of Seeing, the traditional greetings and responses, the consignment of the departed’s heartstones to the darkness of the sunless sea— but their meanings were familiar: sanctuary from a hostile world, recognition of friends and family, remembrance of the dead. The rhythm of daily life amongst the Night’s Blessed so strongly resembled that of the Keepers of the Moon that it was nearly half a day before she realized the only two mystel present were herself and Y’shtola, who were, of course, no mystel at all.

Not that that mattered on the First, for the most part. Not once— not once— was she singled out for being the wrong sort of mystel. On the Source, despite the number of times she had saved the realm in general and Gridania, specifically, she still attracted unwelcome attention from Wood Wailers. When they recognized her— if they recognized her— they always acted abashed, but as far as Rinh was concerned, that first reaction was the one that mattered. Gridanian law, such as it was, had two tracks— one for Midlanders and Wildwoods, and one for Keepers of the Moon and Duskwights; a hierarchy based on clan distinctions that, so far as she could tell, didn’t exist on the First.

Obviously, it wasn’t as if the First didn’t have its own systems of social stratification— she’d been to Eulmore, and even if she hadn’t, she knew that as a newcomer, many of Norvrandt’s fault lines were yet invisible to her.

Still— in Slitherbough, in this community of elves, humes, drahn, ronso, and one single Seeker of the Sun— she didn’t feel at all out of place.

***

Y’shtola’s bedchambers were dimly lit, even by Night’s Blessed standards, which, to Rinh, felt like a relief after so much time squinting through the First’s glare. It was significantly more rustic than Y’shtola’s rooms back home, but still clearly recognizable as a distinctly Y’shtolian living space.

There were books piled up everywhere, for one thing. “I apologize for the mess,” Y’shtola said, as Rinh gingerly made her way past a particularly precarious-looking stack of grimoires, “I keep meaning to organize these volumes, but you know how it is…”

“Well,” said Rinh, “If I were going to criticize you for an untidy library I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. At least you’ve got the excuse of a lack of shelf-space. I just leave books strewn about because I can’t reach the high shelves.” She smiled. “So when I see all of this, I just think it’s homey.”

Y’shtola angled Rinh’s chin upward and kissed her on the lips. “Your forbearance,” she breathed, “is appreciated.”

Rinh pulled Y’shtola into an embrace; she slipped her fingers through the lacing holding the dress’s back closed, fingertips lightly brushing across the bare skin beneath. Y’shtola shivered.

“You all right?” asked Rinh, softly.

“It has been a long, long time since I’ve been touched so,” answered Y’shtola, “It’s a bit overwhelming.”

“We can slow down,” Rinh said, “Or stop. Just being here with you is already enough to—”

“No,” Y’shtola cut in, “I want to be overwhelmed. After all this time alone, I want all of you. I want to empty myself of everything but you.” She closed her eyes. “If only for tonight, before we resume our monumental work on the morrow.”

“Holy shit,” said Rinh. She took a deep breath. “Okay. Right. Yeah…” And Y’shtola kissed her again, more insistently this time, more hungry, her teeth gently grazing Rinh’s lip. Her hands, meanwhile, practically tore at Rinh’s clothes, hastily— frantically, even— opening button after button; a couple of them just pop off and fall to the floor.

Abstractly, absurdly, as she shrugged the shirt off, Rinh wondered if she remembered to pack her sewing kit, or if she’d need to buy a new one at the Crystarium. Before she could further pursue this line of thought, however, Y’shtola’s hands were on her again, sliding under the thin fabric of her chemise, tracing the lines of old scars but not lingering, and finally finding purchase on Rinh’s breasts, nipples pebbling under her nimble fingers. Rinh, her hands still momentarily free, lifted the chemise the rest of the way up and over her head, lest it be shredded in her lover’s ardor. She lifted her thigh, pressing it between Y’shtola’s legs. Y’shtola began rocking her hips— even through the successive layers of fabric of Y’shtola’s skirts and Rinh’s trousers, she could quite obviously feel a quickly-building heat.

“Get this dress off me,” Y’shtola ordered. When she noticed Rinh reaching for the dress’s front, she added, “Oh— it unhooks in back.” In an instant, Rinh’s hands were on her back, feeling around for the clasp; when she found it, she unfastened it in short order. Y’shtola’s bodice slipped down past her shoulders, and Rinh began peeling it the rest of the way off; when the fabric got bunched up around Y’shtola’s waist, she joined in, and the two of them pulled it down past the swell of Y’shtola’s hips; the dress limply fell to the floor. Y’shtola unceremoniously kicked it out of the way. The dress landed— where else— on a large pile of books.

Y’shtola pushed gently on Rinh’s shoulders, and when Rinh readily yielded, the Seeker’s grip became firmer, and she shoved her onto the bed— not roughly, but certainly forcefully. Even after this three year interregnum, Rinh realized, Y’shtola still knew what signs to look for, and how to communicate in their private language without words, the silent cues which let Rinh exercise control over the very act of ceding control.

“How long has it been for you?” Y’shtola murmured, even as her hands worked her way down Rinh’s body, seemingly taking stock of every detail she touched— her modest breasts, the long and jagged scar across her chest Zenos inflicted upon her, the toned muscles of her narrow waist, the stretch marks left over from her pregnancy, and a thousand other things Y’shtola was re-familiarizing herself with.

Y’shtola was already toying with the waistband of Rinh’s trousers by the time she got it together enough to answer Y’shtola’s question. “Three months,” she said, “Two back home. One here. Drop in the bucket compared to how it was for you.”

“I suppose I shall have to think of a suitable punishment,” breathed Y’shtola, as she divested Rinh of her last garments, “For making me wait so long.”

“Hopefully—” Rinh began, before her breath hitched as Y’shtola’s fingers found their way to the apex of her thighs, “Hopefully the great Master Matoya will find it in her heart to be merciful—”

Abruptly, Y’shtola withdrew her hand. “Please do not call me that when we’re in bed,” she said, laughing.

“Shtola,” said Rinh, panting, longing once more for her lover’s touch, “Shtola, please.”

“Better, dearest,” said Y’shtola. But her attention was no longer focused between Rinh’s legs. Instead, she merely smiled coyly— and then abruptly pounced, pinning Rinh down onto the mattress.

Rinh looked up at Y’shtola. Y’shtola looked down at Rinh. She favored Rinh with a slow, affectionate blink before bowing her head and nuzzling at her chest, lavishing more specific attention on places her fingers had merely scouted out. She mouthed at Rinh’s breasts, lapping at their stiffened peaks. She planted a row of soft kisses along the arc of Zenos’s scar. She nipped at Rinh’s neck, gently, gently— for the moment.

“I would like everyone to know you’re mine again,” said Y’shtola, “May I—”

Rinh nodded. “Y-yeah. Yes.” She could feel the curve of Y’shtola’s smile against her skin.

“This is going to leave a mark,” Y’shtola purred. She pressed her lips to the spot she’d claimed for herself between Rinh’s neck and left shoulder. 

Rinh felt the rasp of teeth and the pressure of suction; Y’shtola lifted her head to look up at Rinh, evidently most pleased with herself. Rinh couldn’t see the sorceress’s handiwork for herself, but it was tender to the touch and sensitive to the heat of Y’shtola’s breath; she could imagine what the love bite looked like as it bloomed into a delicate, flowering bruise.

“Now,” said Y’shtola, affecting haughtiness despite the deep blush spreading across her cheeks and the wide grin on her face, “I want you to give me the recompense I richly deserve after three years of waiting. If your efforts are satisfactory, I shall see to it you receive a fitting reward for your services.” Speaking more softly, she added, “Use your hands. I have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about your hands, these past few years.”

Rinh eagerly complied, her fingers skating across Y’shtola’s folds, unsurprisingly already slick with desire.

“More,” breathed Y’shtola.

Rinh slid a finger into her; her thumb brushed Y’shtola’s clit. Even these tentative touches were enough to elicit a pleased— and pleasing— moan.

“More,” repeated Y’shtola, regarding Rinh with half-lidded eyes, “And faster.”

A second finger quickly joined the first, and Y’shtola shuddered as Rinh began to thrust them in and out, as Rinh stroked her clit at a more regular pace. Every movement of her hands seemed enough to set Y’shtola writhing, to provoke an insistent roll of her hips. Before long, Rinh realized Y’shtola was the one setting the tempo, now— Rinh wasn’t fucking her with her fingers so much as she was fucking herself on Rinh’s fingers. Y’shtola had taken control, quickly and seamlessly, with a completeness that sent a tingle down Rinh’s spine.

And yet, even as Y’shtola kept the reins firmly in hand, one look at her was enough to see that she was coming undone in a way Rinh seldom saw— eyes shut, back arched, face flushed, mouth agape, skin beaded with sweat. Rinh was entranced by the sight of her, utterly.

When Y’shtola finally came, it was less a sudden paroxysm and more of a sustained series of waves, each one overtaking her before the last had subsided. Eventually, though, the rhythm slowed, and Y’shtola’s movements became halting and irregular; she fell into Rinh’s arms, slack-limbed, exhausted, thighs still trembling.

“Good girl,” she cooed, as she caught her breath, “Y-you were wonderful.” She gently kissed Rinh on the forehead. “You’ve more than earned your prize.”

“My prize?

“Good girls deserve nice things,” murmured Y’shtola, “Under the bed— there’s a box. A few things I picked up at the Musica Universalis before my departure from the Crystarium— a sign of my faith that one day, you would find your way back to my side. You will forgive me if I don’t immediately hop up to retrieve it.”

Rinh swung her legs over the side of the bed, floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. “Is it a strap-on?” Rinh said, glancing back at Y’shtola, “It’s probably a strap-on.”

“Rinh,” laughed Y’shtola, “It is, yes, but I was planning on doing a whole thing.”

“Sorry!” said Rinh, as she felt around under the bed for the box, “Guess I stepped on your line, there.”

“Oh well,” Y’shtola said breezily, “I suppose you’ll have to make do with merely being fucked senseless, rather than being treated to a dramatic reveal and then fucked senseless.”

“What a terrible hardship,” Rinh said, setting the box— cardboard and nondescript aside from the familiar logo of the Facet of Production— onto the bed, “Nothing for it but to find some way to muddle through, though.” She lifted the lid off the box, revealing a truly magnificent instrument— something that made le godemiché look positively quaint. The SDS Fenrir of sex toys, more or less. “Wow,” she said, running a finger along its length, “This thing’s bespoke.”

Y’shtola winked. “Only the best for my dearest Rinh.”

Y’shtola 

In the darkness of the Great Pyramid of Ux’ner, the bottle of antidote seemed to glitter as it tumbled into the abyss, its surface polished to a sheen and catching whatever light there was to be had so deep underground. Its aether shone brightly, too— it was magically potent enough to counter the Children’s artisanal poisons, after all.

There really wasn’t any option other than leaping after it. She hated to think that she was breaking Rinh’s heart, but if she let the Night’s Blessed die, she didn’t think she could bear to face Rinh, anyway.

Y’shtola strained to reach it, arm outstretched, hoping against hope she hadn’t miscalculated her trajectory.

Her fingers wrapped around the bottle’s narrow neck— success. With the antidote in hand, lobbing it gently in Rinh’s direction was the easy part.

This wasn’t necessarily the end, she thought. She’d done this once before. Rinh would certainly suspect what had really happened; if a means to retrieve her from the Lifestream existed anywhere on the First, the Warrior of Darkness would surely find it.

Just before Rinh dropped out of sight, Y’shtola saw her catch the antidote.

That’s that, then.

Flow.

***

The first thing she heard was someone snapping their fingers.

She heard a second snap, and she was in her robes again, staff in hand.

Immediately, she felt more alert, and far more present than she had when the elementals and Kan-E-Senna had pulled her from the Lifestream. Her surroundings snapped into focus before her feet even touched the ground. She was still in Rak’tika— still in Yx’Maja, with paths of azure flowers winding through the underbrush. Rinh was there, with Thancred, Minfilia, and Urianger, all looking more or less exactly as she last saw them— clearly, she was not gone for very long. Days at most. Possibly mere hours.

Runar was there, too, hale and healthy— the antidote had worked well, apparently. So far, so good— everything seemed to have worked out splendidly.

Someone else was there too, though, standing next to Rinh. A lanky Garlean man, tall but stooped, weighed down by the regalia of an emperor.

Emet-Selch. The Ascian.

Well. That was different.

He leaned in to say something to Rinh— a private aside, but delivered theatrically, for the benefit of a whole audience. “I hope you know how lucky you are, hero,” he said, “To lose someone you care for, only to see them restored at the snap of the finger.”

***

“Y’shtola Rhul,” said Emet-Selch, “Or perhaps I should say Master Matoya? No stranger to the power of true names am I, of course. No stranger to the power of assumed names, either, granted. Many are the roles we take up as we wander life’s winding roads, after all.”

“What do you want?” asked Y’shtola.

“Merely a word or two in private before you and yours set off to the Qitana Ravel for your little date with destiny,” said Emet-Selch, “After all, I’ve been ever so eager to have a proper conversation with one of the vaunted Scions of the Seventh Dawn, but your fellows have proven to be… shall we say… a tad reticent, perhaps.”

Y’shtola shrugged. “I can’t imagine why.”

“But you— you stand out from the rest. I imagine you’re first in our dear Warrior of Darkness’s affections for a reason , after all. And you were polite enough to thank me for plucking your soul from the the raging torrents of the Lifestream, thereby saving you from a total annihilation of the self.”

“I am grateful, of course. But surely you’re not so naive as to think that alone is enough to bridge our differences.”

“No— although I do think it’s a start, at least. But for the moment, I simply hope it’s enough to open a good-faith dialogue between us.”

Y’shtola very much doubted Emet-Selch was capable of doing anything in good faith. Still, perhaps she’d learn something if she indulged the man, and it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do— Rinh and the others were asleep, so they could come at the hunt for the Lightwarden fresh and rested, but Y’shtola’s little jaunt in the Lifestream left her hours out of sync with everyone else— as if the passage of time on this world wasn’t disorienting enough. “Very well,” she said, coolly.

“See, was that so hard?” Emet-Selch grinned. “You Scions are an intriguing bunch. Our esteemed eikon-slayer, Warrior of Light and/or Darkness, hero of Eorzea, and so on, most of all, of course, although I hardly need to convince you of that. But you’re rather interesting yourself, though. It’s not just anyone who flings herself bodily into the Lifestream not once but twice. That speaks to a certain flair for the dramatic I can’t help but respect.”

“In both cases,” Y’shtola said quietly, “I was merely doing what I had to in order to protect those dear to me.”

“Of course,” said Emet-Selch, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “A most commendable motivation. That doesn’t mean I can’t particularly appreciate doing so in style.”

“What is this really about, Emet-Selch? Because at the moment, you’re coming across rather like a particularly inept and wildly misguided suitor, and I doubt that’s your intention.” Y’shtola frowned, giving the Ascian an appraising look, “At least, I dearly hope that isn’t your intention.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You’re as far beneath me as the rest of the Sundered. You just seem... familiar, that’s all.” Emet-Selch folded his arms, lost in thought. “Sharlayans in general do, really. I’m not sure if your nation was the result of one of us indulging in a little unauthorized side-project, or if academics are just like that, but either way, it’s enough to strike a certain nostalgic note. But you— you remind me of a specific someone I knew.”

“From the allegedly superior world that existed before the Sundering, I presume?”

“‘Allegedly,’” Emet-Selch scoffed, “What we lost to Hydaelyn’s meddling was manifestly superior to these faded remnants, these shattered reflections, this cosmological flotsam and jetsam you myopically call a world, that the mere comparison is an insult to the Ancients.”

Y’shtola decided not to rise to that obvious bait— this conversation had the potential to yield actual insights into how the Ascians think, but only if she kept it on track.

Also, as an immensely powerful sorcerer of eld and Ascian paragon, if sufficiently provoked there was a good chance he could kill her more or less instantly, erasing her from existence with the same ease he’d conjured her up. She couldn’t let herself forget that and get wrapped up in a verbal fencing match— however tempting the prospect of a battle of wits was, he was in a position of power and she was in one of weakness. This wasn’t the likes of Brother Magnai she was dealing with.

So instead, she said this: “Could you tell me about this mysterious someone? Rinh— who you seem to have at least some regard for— has often told me that those we have lost will live on as long as we tell their stories.”

“That’s a rather primitive and superstitious way to put it, especially from a woman who clearly fancies herself some manner of wise warrior-scholar. But her heart’s in the right place.” Emet-Selch’s expression softened; the sneer he habitually wore had vanished. “There’s an emotional truth to that, I suppose. If something is lost, it’s lost again when it is forgotten— irrevocably, this time. Memory alone isn’t enough to restore the departed, but the absence of memory is tantamount to a complete annihilation of the past.”

Again, Y’shtola elected not to dignify his backhanded comments about Rinh with a response. She merely nodded, and listened intently.

“So— this fellow. A scholar, of course— you’ve likely surmised I came up through academia— and an old friend. A dear friend of my wife’s, too— he’s the one who introduced the two of us. And before you ask, yes, she was an academic, too.”

“I’m beginning to see why you find Sharlayan so oddly familiar,” Y’shtola said, deadpan.

“So, to make a long story short— brevity being the soul of wit, after all— both he and my wife were the sort of person who, if I had to drag one or the other of them out of the Lifestream following some ridiculous stunt, I’d have been completely unsurprised.” Emet-Selch shook his head, but there was genuine fondness in his eyes. “She was a… field researcher, let’s say, and he… well, let’s just call him a librarian, since that’s easier than trying to explain the sorts of concepts he dealt in to the likes of you. Think of the particular sort of librarian you Sharlayans have got in places like the Great Gubal Library, where the tomes are decidedly rambunctious and liable to bite unsuspecting students. Both of them were always trying so stubbornly to do the impossible, if it was between them and their purpose. Something like three-quarters of time this resulted in some sort of complete disaster, and I was inevitably the one obliged to pick up the pieces, but when it didn’t, their achievements were extraordinary.” He closed his eyes, fingers steepled. “But those were extraordinary times, I suppose. Everything since is— at best— just fading echoes.”

Y’shtola stared at him— feeling, for once in her life, at a total loss. For a moment, Emet-Selch seemed to become a different person entirely— a person who, yes, would have felt right home in Sharlayan, moving through a world of researchers and scholars, archives and archivists, grimoires and graduate students. A vivid person, describing a vivid world, now lost forever. She thought of the children of lost nations she met at the Crystarium— the viis who recited lines from once-famous plays, the drahn woman with her dance-steps and scraps of poetry from the other side of the world. She thought of the way a part of the Shroud burned to ashes nearly a decade ago came to life when Rinh told stories— stories of her aunt’s sagacity, her mother’s prowess— of her sisters, her cousins, her nieces and nephews— of the kindly dead who watched over all of them.

And then Y’shtola thought: Emet-Selch was more or less directly responsible for all of those people losing the world that made him. His machinations left nine-tenths of this realm swallowed by the Light. His empire set in motion the fall of Dalamud. All in the name of his precious Rejoinings.

The moment had passed for him, too, evidently— when she met his eye again, whatever flicker of recognition he had of her had died, and he regarded her with his usual barely-disguised disdain, as if she was something unpleasant he’d just discovered on the bottom of his shoe.

And then his attention drifted away entirely, and he stared out across the bridges and canopies of Fanow. Y’shtola followed his gaze, and was disconcerted to realize he was looking directly at Rinh— even some dozen yalms away, sleeping peacefully on a hammock, her aether shined like a beacon.

“My, but she is just brimming with Light, isn’t she?” said Emet-Selch. He patted Y’shtola on the shoulder, the very picture of insincerity, “Still! I’ve every confidence in her ability to just keep slurping up rotten aether indefinitely. Because of… Hydaelyn’s blessing. Or those little crystals Hydaelyn’s champions always seem to find lying around. Or her celebrated fortitude. Her sheer stick-to-itiveness. That sunny disposition of hers, perhaps? Something like that, anyroad.”

Y’shtola did her best to remain poker-faced.

He shook his head, amused. “The Warrior of Light indeed!”

Chapter Text

Rinh

In the scalding Light of Rak’tika Falls, Eros snarled and gnashed its teeth.

With a sudden swipe of its massive claws, the ground itself— the roof of some old Ronkan ruin— began to break apart under Rinh’s feet. It was only with a burst of aether— channeled directly, rather than metered out in cartridges— that she was able to leap out of the way in time.

She was still feeling reasonably confident about the fight, though. Eros (who names these things?) was being kept constantly off-balance, its attention ping-ponging between herself and Thancred, one of them always landing a heavy blow or well-placed shot before the lightwarden could launch itself at the other. Minfilia and Y’shtola were wearing it down all the while— whenever the gunbreakers gave them an opening, Minfilia nimbly came in from below with her knives, and Y’shtola hit it with a barrage of ice and fire from above.

And all the while, Urianger’s astrolabe spun as he plucked at the strings of fate, ensuring that Fortuna was on the Scions’ side.

So, all in all, Rinh wasn’t terribly worried about whether they could bring the thing down.

It was what could happen afterwards that frightened her. She’d overheard Y’shtola grilling Urianger about it. She didn’t have much time to process it, as events accelerated completely out of control immediately afterwards— the arrival of Eulmore’s troops, the flight to Fanow, the exploration of Ux’ner, and the sudden loss and miraculous resurrection of Y’shtola Rhul all came in rapid succession. It wasn’t until the night after that she really had time to dwell on it.

The blessing may spare her the fate of becoming a Lightwarden, Y’shtola had said, but you cannot be blind to the nascent corruption! She is not as she was in the Source.

This would have been alarming enough on its own, but in the context of Y’shtola having previously mistaken her for a sin eater, it was terrifying.

She knew she had no option other than staying the course— if she failed to destroy the Lightwardens, she’d be dead anyway, and so would everyone else she’d ever cared about.

But still— she thought of the patients waiting for death at the Journey’s Head. She thought of Tesleen as her body warped and bent itself into something monstrous. She thought of Titania, all alone in their castle, clinging to the barest vestiges of their true self. Any of those fates could lie in her future.

So when the Lightwarden finally collapsed onto the ground after a final blow from Minfilia, and it didn’t get up again, Rinh felt a twinge of dread.

Still, she approached the fallen Eros. One foot in front of the other, again and again. Its ivory carapace began to break down into pure Light, which was drawn into Rinh by the gravity of her soul.

It hurt. She felt as if she were trying to eat glass. She felt like hairline fractures were spreading through her very essence. She felt an impossible weight pressing down on her.

But then the feeling passed, and she felt herself again. She took a deep breath of cool night air. Birds were calling to one another in distant boughs, underscored by the steady white noise of Rak’tika Falls’ rushing waters. Above her was the dark expanse of the Sunless Sea, dotted with stars that shone like gems. It was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Maybe, thought Rinh, craning her neck to gaze at the night sky, just maybe things would work out for the best. She was, after all, blessed by Hydaelyn as a Warrior of Light, however ill-suited the title felt at times. Minfilia— Minfilia of the Source— had such power over the Light she was able to stop the entire Flood in its tracks. Compared to that, was it really inconceivable that she could bear the aether of a few more Lightwardens without succumbing to corruption?

That’s all just supposition, said a more scholarly part of Rinh— a huge leap to make without nearly enough data. Y’shtola was a much better aetherologist than Rinh, and was moreover able to actually scrutinize her aether directly, which Rinh couldn’t do unless she found an aetherscope somewhere. And, in any case, as critical as Hydaelyn’s gifts had been for the realm’s salvation time and again, they weren’t unique— the fact that she had been declared the Warrior of Light was a political decision, to put a bow on the Seventh Umbral Era after scarcely five years had elapsed, to stand in for the Warriors of Light lost at Cartenau and blotted out from memory in the chaos of the Calamity.

She heard the murmur of conversation behind her— Urianger and Y’shtola were discussing something sotto voice, just barely out of earshot. Her deteriorating condition, perhaps? She took a few steps backwards, straining to hear what they were saying.

“...Would you describe it to me, Urianger?” Y’shtola said, “Paint for me a picture with your words.”

“A sea of shimmering stars,” answered Urianger, “Diamonds strewn across a raven gown, boundless and beautiful. ‘Tis an exquisite sight not unlike that of the Source. Calm and gentle…. and forgiving…”

“I can see it…” murmured Y’shtola, awe in her voice.

Well, thought Rinh, if— in spite of everything— the two of them were able to set aside their worries and take a moment to quietly admire the night’s beauties, she could, too.

***

Even back in the depths of the Ravel, Rinh fancied she could still feel a difference now that the Light so far above had been banished. The air felt fresher, somehow. The ruins, no less abandoned than before, felt alive in a way they hadn’t on the way in.

It was nice. It put a spring in Rinh’s step. It was a reminder that the Greatwood, so achingly like the home she had lost all those years ago, was complete again.

It almost made up for the fact that Solus zos fucking Galvus had shown up to deliver a lengthy lecture on the subject of why Zodiark was good, actually.

Thancred was the first to try pushing back. “I'm sorry,” he said, “I can only assume I misheard, but it sounded an awful lot like you were implying both Zodiark and Hydaelyn are not gods, but—”

Emet-Selch raised an eyebrow quizzically. “What? Not gods of the First?” he said, with the air of a professor whose pupil had just asked a particularly stupid question. “Is that what you thought these paintings depicted? Or...?” He trailed off as he finally worked through the true intent behind Thancred’s line of inquiry. He stared at him, scrutinizing him properly for the first time. “Oh! Ohhh… They are gods after a fashion, yes, but no different from the kind with which you are so intimately acquainted. Formed of faith and prayer, of conviction and devotion… The eldest and most powerful...” Emet-Selch continued, a look of triumph on his face, “...of primals.”

What.

But while Rinh wrestled with the cosmological implications of this, Y’shtola— no doubt remembering that any new data is only as reliable as its source— had the presence of mind to push back. “You have spun quite a tale,” she said, “Yet you have not explained the role of the Ascians in all of this. How is it you are privy to ancient secrets lost to time?”

Emet-Selch’s face lit up with something almost like genuine admiration. “Finally, finally, you ask the right question! And shrewd questions,” he said, “warrant honest answers...”

***

It wasn’t until hours later, when they were safely back in Slitherbough and alone in Master Matoya’s chambers, that Y’shtola and Rinh finally spoke about Emet-Selch and his honest answers. 

“How much of Emet-Selch’s tale do you believe?” Y’shtola asked.

“Honestly? Most of it. I mean… obviously I don't agree with the ideological conclusion he reached about how the ‘old world’ is so thoroughly superior to ours that killing all of us for a shadow of a hope of bringing it back is morally justified. But as a factual recounting of events? Sure.”

“How lightly Hydaelyn’s champion accepts the notion her mistress is a mere primal!” Y’shtola said, although Rinh was fairly certain her intent was less to disagree and more to tease out more of her reasoning.

“I mean, it just… makes sense. Hydaelyn isn’t one of the Twelve. She isn’t an ancestral spirit, or a ghost eternally wandering the Shroud. She’s an entity who exerts a concrete influence on the material world, in a way that’s empirically provable.” Rinh shrugged. “I’m grateful for the Gifts she’s given me— otherwise my adventuring career would have ended a few months in with me getting tempered by Ifrit or whatever. But it’s not a matter of faith— it’d be like having faith in gravity, or maths, or the orbit of our world around the sun.”

“I’m positive someone in Sharlayan has tried all of those things,” Y’shtola said, “but I grasp your meaning.”

“So,” Rinh said, “Is that that the only thing you wanted to meet me in private about, or…” She smiled, and could feel herself blushing.

Y’shtola’s reply, however, was somber. “There is one other thing.” She regarded Rinh intently, concern evident on her features. “I thought to keep my suspicions to myself, but after witnessing your victory at Rak’tika Falls, I fear they prove true, and so I must share them with you.” She stepped closer to Rinh, gently resting a hand on her cheek. “From the first when we met at Fort Gohn, your aether has appeared… tainted.”

“Oh,” said Rinh, “I was worried something like that would happen.”

***

Rinh had been hoping to use the long journey back to Lakeland to think things over. She had a lot on her mind— revelations about Hydaelyn’s true nature and the history of the star, the uncertainty now clouding her quest to slay the Lightwardens, the putrid Light Y’shtola had seen eating away at her soul, whatever the hell Thancred’s problem was— and needed to to process it all.

Unfortunately, Emet-Selch had other ideas, and— the moment the Scions made camp, Emet-Selch emerged from the shadows and tapped her on the shoulder.

Rinh did her best to avoid visibly tensing up. She didn’t like being touched from behind even by people she loved and trusted— and it was hard to think of anyone in all the star’s reflections she loved and trusted less than Solus zos Galvus, imperator of Garlemald. But she didn’t want to look weak in front of him. So instead she slowly turned around, the picture of sullen calm.

“Can I help you?” she asked, flat-voiced and deadpan.

“Just hoping for a little tête-à-tête,” said Emet-Selch, “In private, if you would?”

Rinh actually laughed. “If you think I’m stupid enough to let myself be alone with you, you’re not half so astute an observer as you think you are.”

Emet-Selch sighed theatrically. “See that stump over there? We’ll just go there. Out of earshot from the others, so we can enjoy a modicum of privacy, but still within sight of the camp, so your fellows can still come rushing in if I spring some sort of dastardly trap.”

“Fine,” said Rinh, although in truth she felt more calmed by the comforting weight of Urianger’s white auracite in her pocket than any of the Ascian’s backhanded reassurances. She began trudging towards the stump, leaving Emet-Selch to follow in her wake.

The stump was a jagged thing, twisted and shattered and charred. “Stuck by lightning,” she murmured, running a hand along the gash where the trunk had been rent in twain by levin.

“Quite the phytobiological connoisseur, are we?”

“I grew up in the Shroud,” Rinh said, “We’d always check out lightning strikes to make sure they didn’t start forest fires.” She glared up at Emet-Selch, stubborn and defiant. “And then some absolute piece of shit dropped a moon on us and it all burned down anyway.”

“Oh, that’s a rather harsh way to speak about Nael van Darnus when the poor dear’s already dead and bur—”

“Shut up,” Rinh hissed, “Stop being so bloody glib about this. The whole reason you built the Garlean Empire was to be an engine of chaos and misery to push the world off the cliff of an umbral calamity.”

Emet-Selch, infuriatingly, smiled at her. “My! What a little spitfire you are!”

Rinh scowled, folding her arms.

“Hmph,” huffed Emet-Selch, “I try to compliment you on having a good eye for the ancient and respected art of phytobiology— sincerely, I might add — and look what happens. I don’t suppose you even know what phytobiology is.”

“A synonym for botany when you want to show everyone what a pretentious windbag you are.”

“Harsh but fair,” said Emet-Selch, “Although, before the Sundering, there was a fair bit more to the discipline than the mere study of plants. Among the Ancients, phytobiologists were in the business of designing plants. Look around you—” He indicated the woods all around them with an expansive gesture. “—some of these trees might be the distant progeny of an artist’s crowning masterpiece, disfigured and warped by the passing millennia and the indifference of Nature, but— perhaps— perhaps— still possessed of some echo of that original spark of genius.”

“My gods, do you even listen to yourself?” said Rinh, impatience getting the better of her. “Oh, our trees were so much better than your trees, arboreal design’s gone to the dogs since Hydaelyn came along, blah, blah, blah.”

Emet-Selch rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. My intention was to earnestly ask after your well-being.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s just… I couldn’t help but notice you’ve seen a bit out of sorts since your little chat with Master Matoya in her private chambers. I wondered— a lovers’ quarrel, perhaps? Did I err in plucking her from the jaws of oblivion? But no, you two seem as inseparable as ever. And so I can only assume that you and your amata discussed something that left the both of you shaken.”

“We were going over what you told us in the Ravel.”

“Ah, there it is,” Emet-Selch said, “No doubt you were furiously denouncing the scheming Ascian and his slander against Hydaelyn.”

“Not really,” Rinh said, “I don’t have any reason to think you were lying about that. Nothing you said about Hydaelyn, Zodiark, the fate of the Ancients or the origin of the star’s reflections was inconsistent with any of the priors. It just felt… correct, like it clicked into place.” She paused, considering. “Pending more data, anyroad.”

Rinh looked up at Emet-Selch, expecting to see his usual look of sneering superiority. Instead, his expression was— in truth— difficult for her to read. His eyes seemed to bore into her, but they were lit with something like hope. “Sometimes,” he murmured, almost fondly, “You really do sound like her.”

“Sound like who?” Rinh said, softly.

“Never mind,” said Emet-Selch, shaking his head, “More to the point— if you’re convinced of the truth of my words, why do you still insist on opposing me at every turn? Can’t you see that everything I have done, all of my plans and schemes and millennia of effort, has been for the singular purpose of restoring what’s been lost? Of mending this broken world?”

“I believe in your retelling of history and description of the general… metaphysics of the Source and its reflections. That doesn’t mean I agree with the implicit value judgment behind your version of it, though. Just because the Sundering was a tragedy doesn’t mean that everything that came after is so unworthy that torching it all for a shot at turning back the clock is even remotely justified.” Emet-Selch was still giving her that odd, fascinated look— so Rinh met his gaze unflinchingly, and continued pressing her case. “I— I know what it’s like to lose everything you thought you had, to look around and see the only world you ever knew go up in flames. To go on alone, carrying the memories of the dead on your back. But the reason I know what that’s like is because you Ascians saw fit to visit that misery back upon the world sevenfold.”

Rinh expected a sharp rebuke from Emet-Selch— was hoping for it, even, since that would jolt the conversation back into more well-trodden territory. Instead, though, he hummed thoughtfully. “I see,” he said, “Your perspective is ultimately short-sighted, but I can, at least, follow its internal logic. You’ve set the terms of a philosophical debate over what constitutes the greater good, rather than resorting to a zealot’s my-god-is-better-than-your-god chest-thumping. This, my friend, is progress.”

Rinh gave him a skeptical look.

Emet-Selch, evidently quite pleased with himself, waved Rinh off and began ambling deeper into the darkened woods— no doubt in search of a tree to curl up and take a nap under, as was his wont. As he went, he started whistling a song.

A familiar song.

A song that somehow struck a nostalgic note.

She’d heard it before, she realized— or, rather, she’d heard someone else’s memory of it in the Echo, while Ishgardian gentry gently twirled their way through a quadrille.

“What’s that song?” she blurted out, before she could stop herself.

Immediately, the Ascian turned on his heel to face her again. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she said, “It just reminded me of something. Forget it.”

Emet-Selch, however, showed very little sign of forgetting anything. He strode towards her, daring to approach her more closely than he ever had before. He rested one hand on her shoulder, and even through layers of fabric, armor, and fur, she felt her skin crawl. “I have such high hopes for you, little wanderer,” with stomach-turning tenderness. His other hand, she realized, was stroking her cheek, silk gloves sliding across a network of scars— scars she mostly only had because of this Ascian and his machinations.

Before she could even react, though, he abruptly pulled away. And then, with a snap of his finger, he was gone.

Y’shtola 

And it had all been going so well.

Rinh had looked magnificent as she fought Innocence; the Warrior of Darkness bringing all her strength to bear against an angel with radiant wings and golden hair. She drew on every power she had at her disposal, every skill picked up on her unending journeys. When Innocence unleashed a flurry of attacks, she parried them with her gunblade, again and again. When Innocence aimed a heavier blow at her, Rinh’s armor became a set of pristine white robes, her magitek blade was replaced by a gnarled wooden staff, and she conjured up exactly the sort of aetheric barrier Y’shtola used to rely on. Clad in red, a narrow foil in her hand, she leapt back from her adversary and unleashed a blast of stone and flames. She surged forward again, a graceful whirl of silk and steel. She darted behind Innocence before springing into the air in sleek black chainmail, plunging a spear into the Light’s last warden’s back. Innocence spun around to strike back, but his riposte was met by the unyielding shield of House Fortemps, now reforged, Rinh wearing the ornate armor of a paladin once more.

All those soul crystals, each bearing the knowledge of generations of heroes past; the memories of the dead lined up behind Rinh like the chorus in a Sharlayan play.

Vauthry didn’t stand a chance.

***

And then, things went awry.

The Warrior of Darkness’s body finally began to break under the weight of all that Light. G’raha Tia showed up, unconvincingly playing the villain. The plan Urianger had assured Y’shtola was in place was thus revealed— the Exarch would take up the Light’s burden and cast himself into the rift, dispersing the Lightwardens’ corrupting aether at the cost of his life.

A shot rang out. A disappointed Emet-Selch decided to wash his hands of the Scions, abducting G’raha for his trouble.

So: this is what it was all leading up. The sacrifice of Minfilia and Ardbert’s Warriors of Light to stay the Flood, a century of the Exarch’s planning, years spent by the Scions finding their way and forging bonds in a new world, the exhausting search for the Lightwardens, Rinh’s struggles to contain their Light even as it tore her apart, the peril faced by the Night’s Blessed and Y’shtola’s own near-death, the impossible decisions Ryne had to make, a revolution in Eulmore, and all of Norvrandt coming together to lift the the Warrior of Darkness and her companions up to the very heavens, and all they had to show for it was Rinh doubled over in agony, hacking up blood and liquefied aether, beneath the burning Light of the First’s pitiless skies.

The sight was horrific; the Light within Rinh churned and boiled. Blazing cracks appeared in the skein of natural aether Y’shtola had perceived as the form of a living miqo’te woman.

It hurt to look at her; it was like staring into the sun. But Y’shtola dared not turn away.

“Ryne!” said Thancred, fear in his voice, “Can you do something for her?”

“I— I’ll try,” answered Ryne, kneeling beside Rinh’s writhing form. Y’shtola joined her, taking her place at Rinh’s other side. This was well beyond Y’shtola’s abilities and she knew it, but perhaps the stricken Warrior of Darkness could draw some strength or solace from her presence.

Rinh was totally unresponsive, now, seemingly unaware of anything but her own agony. Y’shtola held Rinh’s hand in hers anyway.

Light welled up in her scars; the last vestiges of Rinh Panipahr sloughed away, and something new and terrible was rising in her place.

An angelic heroine. A knight in cold, shining armor. Ivory skin veined with gold. A savior crowned by a radiant halo.

The sainted queen of all sin-eaters: the Warrior of Light.

And yet—

And yet— hard as it was for Y’shtola to discern amidst so much Light, none of the others seemed to be reacting to this final apotheosis. Ryne was still kneeling right where she’d been, doing her best to shape the aether tearing through Rinh. Urianger and Thancred were still looking over Ryne’s shoulder. The Leveilleurs were standing a few yalms back, clearly worried for their friend but trying not to get in the way. It was still a moment of panic, but no one was scattering for cover or drawing their weapons or otherwise reacting to the sudden appearance of a Lightwarden.

And Y’shtola was still holding Rinh’s hand. Her skin felt cold and clammy, her muscles were still spasming, but it was unmistakably living flesh, not the marble carapace of a sin eater. Her aethersight was playing tricks on her, Y’shtola realized— aetherial conditions around Rinh were so extreme that she could no longer discern the woman in the heart of the storm.

But through touch alone, she knew that Rinh, her Rinh, was still in there somewhere.

A slim hope, but a hope nonetheless.

***

It was strange to see the Crystarium bathed, once more, in Light; Y’shtola felt as if the clock had been turned back three years. The whole realm teetered once more on the brink of annihilation, and the Scions were forced to find a way to muddle through without Rinh’s help.

Except this time, time really wasn’t on their side. Except this time, Rinh was not merely absent— she was halfway to transforming into something monstrous, on the threshold of a death that could take all of Norvrandt down with it.

No, thought Y’shtola, she mustn’t think like that.

She had to do what Rinh always did— keep fighting, if even the frailest sliver of hope remained.

So she pursued every avenue of inquiry available to her. She combed the Cabinet of Curiosities for every scrap of pertinent data, she corresponded with the best arcane thinkers among the Night’s Blessed, she sifted through the books Rinh had brought from Eorzea just in case they happened to contain something that had eluded Norvrandt’s scholars.

There had to be something.

There had to be something.

***

When nothing else availed her, Y’shtola often went to sit by Rinh’s bedside at the Pendants. Leaving her all alone felt wrong.

As she stepped into the suite, however, she realized that she and the Light-ravaged body of Rinh Panipahr weren’t alone. Thancred was maintaining his own vigil for his friend. He was hunched forward in his chair, holding Rinh’s hand, shoulders trembling.

He was weeping, she realized.

“Oh,” he said, lifting his head, “Y’shtola.”

“Thancred,” she said softly, “I can come back later.”

“No, no, stay—” said Thancred, with the most miserable-looking smile she’d seen in her life, “I think she’d appreciate having some company from someone she isn’t mad at.”

Silently, she sat down beside him, trying not to let her gaze linger overlong on the blazing aether shining from the bed.

“She was right about everything, you know. So were you. About Minfilia, about Ryne. After— after Amh Areng, right? After Ryne— after Ryne made her choice. I realized that I’d never mourned Minfilia properly, in her own right, instead of just denying it or putting it all on Ryne. Rinh always said that remembering the dead is hard, but forgetting is worse— but just denying it all is even worse than that. And then…” he shook his head. “Shite. Just… shite. Finally coming to terms with losing Minfilia only to be staring down the barrel of losing Rinh, too. Can’t believe I was arrogant enough to think I could protect either of ‘em.”

Y’shtola blinked; this was the most Thancred had said to her in months, even after the gradual thaw that followed the death of the Lightwarden of Nabaath Areng. She was struck by the fact Thancred fancied himself as Rinh’s protector, even though he’d be the first to admit she was one of the most formidable women in Eorzea. But she supposed this made sense given the situation Rinh was in when he found her languishing in Ul’dah, hurt and hurting and alone.

Not too different from how he first met Minfilia, really.

“Thancred,” said Y’shtola, “You know you’re not responsible for this.”

“I know. It’s that Ascian bastard who did this to her. I’m just… I can’t stand to see her like this.”

“When you look at her, what do you see? I… I can no longer discern her form within the luminous aether that shrouds her.”

“So, what,” said Thancred, “You see her as a blaze of Light?”

“Something like that,” Y’shtola answered. She forced herself to look at Rinh, at the Warrior of Light, angelic and terrifying and still as a statue— or a corpse.

“Shite,” said Thancred. “She… she still looks like Rinh, if that’s what you’re worried about. She looks… unwell, a bit pale, a bit feverish, but she’s still herself. Ryne’s managed to slow the progress of the physical damage, even if I’m told her aether’s still a right mess.”

Cautiously, Y’shtola reached out towards the Warrior of Light’s luminous helm. Her hand passed right through the armor and found Rinh’s face, cool to the touch and sweaty and alive. She gently brushed Rinh’s hair out of the way and leaned forward, delicately kissing her lover’s forehead.

“How many times has this scene played out in reverse?” Y’shtola murmured, “How many times has she kept a steadfast vigil at my side, after my retrieval from the Lifestream, after my soul was pulled from my body and into the First?”

“Don’t ask me,” Thancred said, “I was lost in the Dravanian wilderness and already in the First, respectively.”

“It was a rhetorical question, Thancred.”

“Anyroad,” continued Thancred, “I think she’d be glad someone is here with her. When we first met— good gods, ten years ago, now. Well. Ten for me. Five for her. Eight for you. Time on the First is so annoying. So, when we first met some length of time or another ago, she was always extremely hesitant to be caught sleeping by someone she didn’t trust-- which, at the time, included me. Which I suppose was reasonable, in retrospect-- to her, I was just some guy. And the last guy who found her and claimed to see potential in her was Eadwulf.”

“I imagine the little charming, roguish ladies’ man act you always put on hardly helped matters,” said Y’shtola.

“Ha, no. When I first saw her I trotted out some dreadful line about a Shroud rose blooming beneath the shady boughs of the Sultantree.” He looked down at Rinh fondly; Y’shtola could see tears in his eyes, glistening in the nimbus of Light radiating from the fallen heroine. “No, it was even worse, I called her a Twelveswood rose.”

Y’shtola managed a frail laugh at this. “Oh my gods, she hates it when people call the Shroud ‘the Twelveswood’.”

“‘That’s what the Gridanians call it,’” Thancred said, in an honestly pretty decent imitation of Rinh’s lilting accent— presumably mastering various regional dialects was something an Archonate in espionage covered. “Honestly, it’s a miracle she didn’t just slice me in half right then and there.”

“And been perfectly justified in doing so,” Y’shtola quipped, “No jury in all the realm would convict her. I imagine you learned your lesson after that, though; I can’t recall ever seeing you flirt with her.”

“Yes. No. Sort of. It wasn’t just that it went over like a lead balloon.” Thancred closed his eyes, a more somber expression on his face. “It was that she looked genuinely uncomfortable. Afraid, even, for a moment, before she hid it beneath a steely-eyed glare. And you know I’m good at reading people— I could tell she’d been someone who’d been hurt very badly, who hard experience taught that strangers trying to get close to her were looking to take advantage of her. So I felt as if I was the worst person in the world.”

“But eventually she did come to trust you,” said Y’shtola, “Which speaks well of your character, I think.”

“It says more about her virtues than mine,” said Thancred, “When you’ve been trained by circumstance to fear the kindness of strangers, taking a hand that’s been extended to you is brave as all hells. And there aren’t many people braver than Rinh Panipahr. I feel honored that she trusted me with that, and so, so privileged to get to see how far she’s come since then.” 

“You still never flirt with her, though.”

“I suppose that by the time we really were close, that just… wasn’t what our relationship was.” Thancred shrugged. “Anyroad, by that point it was obvious you were besotted with her, and I wasn’t about to get in the way of you finally, finally managing to kiss a girl.”

Y’shtola just rolled her eyes at that. “Your forbearance is appreciated.”

And then they lapsed into silence.

Thancred took a deep breath. “This can’t be the way her story ends. It just can’t.”

“It won’t,” said Y’shtola, with— in all honesty— more hope than conviction, “She’ll wake up before she turns, and then we shall have time to act. It’s like when we were waiting for her to arrive on the First; we simply need to make sure we have a plan waiting for her.”

A plan. That felt right, that felt doable in a way that coming up with a cure for a condition that a century of Norvrandt’s best scholarship couldn’t manage wasn’t. But… a plan. They could make a plan.

Hopefully, a better plan than absorb lethal amounts of Light-aspected aether and hope Urianger knows what to do next.

Chapter Text

Rinh

The warm glow of city lights was visible over the horizon from miles and miles away, well before the skyline itself— that ever-growing forest of skyscrapers, that shining beacon of modernism, Amaurot— could be discerned.

Soon, you think, you’ll be home. As much as you enjoy your travels, as much as some part of you will always belong to the road, Amaurot is home. You’re enjoying the return hike, of course— it’s a beautiful, clear night, and the meticulously engineered nature of the greenbelts running parallel to the highway is very picturesque— you even recognize, in the blooms and branches, the work of some of your old colleagues from the Word of Halmarut. Still, at that first glimpse of the city, your heart swells.

By the time you get to the outskirts of the city proper, there’s a car waiting for you, engine idling. Amaurotine vehicles had moved past the need for combustion engines centuries ago, but the artisans who designed transportation concepts were of the opinion that an automobile ought to look, sound, and act a certain way, and careful attention was paid to replicating the noise, vibration, and physicality of technology long since supplanted by sufficiently advanced magic.

The car is sleek and black, with chrome detailing drawing the eye along its aerodynamic curves. Its license plate indicates it’s a Convocation vehicle, intended for official state business. When you open the door, though, Hades is in the driver’s seat.

“Didn’t know you were moonlighting as a chauffeur, Hades,” you say, “What, Emet-Selching not paying you enough for that fancy Macarenses apartment?”

“Yes, well, the esteemed Azem deserves a personal touch,” he says, grinning.

“That’s what she said,” you shoot back.

He laughs, in spite of himself. “Ah, just the sort of sweet nothings I expect from my dear Persephone.” You slide into the passenger-side seat, and close the door behind you.

You peck him on the cheek, lightly, teasingly. “You just want me all to yourself,” you say, pulling back.

“Guilty as charged!” Hades says, breezily. He turns the ignition; the simulacrum of an engine rumbles to life as the magicks actually propelling the car silently engage. “You know I’ve always been a bit greedy.”

***

Rinh bolted awake in her Pendants suite with a strangled gasp, choking on the stale air of the First.

And somehow, her day only got worse from there.

***

Rinh found herself wandering the Crystarium in something of a daze; from the moment Ardbert had her open up suite’s window to a Lakeland once more bathed in Light, everything the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had done to pull this world back from the edge of oblivion having come to naught, she felt numb— as if she had been sent reeling from some great blow before the pain even registered.

As she paced around the Musica Universalis, however, as she saw the people of the Crystarium looking up at the sky, as she overheard hushed conversations over stiff drinks at the Wandering Stair, as she passed through the harsh and unmoving shadows cast as Light streamed in through crystal and wrought-iron lattices, the utter hopelessness of her situation set in.

It wasn’t quite fear— fear had long been a fact of life for her. Being the Warrior of Light required bravery, but she never thought of bravery as the mere absence of fear. Bravery meant acknowledging fear— respecting it, even— but putting one foot in front of the other regardless. For those she had lost. For those she could yet save.

It wasn’t like the despair she felt after Haurchefant was killed, either. She was left in a similar sort of benumbed shock, but she still had a direction to keep moving in, if only out of sheer inertia. She was reduced to a half-broken automaton of the Warrior of Light, trudging through a morass of woe, but in the end, that still got her from here to there, from yesterday to tomorrow, until the hope in her heart could be rekindled.

No, this reminded her of something far worse: her time as a gladiator. Her time with Eadwulf. For all the pointless brutality, for all the ways she suffered, for all that he made a habit of humiliating her, of exulting in the power he had over her, the worst of it was that she saw no plausible way out. Her life was just this, now, and it would be forever until the last part of Rinh Panipahr was finally chipped away and all that was left was some thing made in her lanista’s image. She felt like the trapped animal he probably saw her as.

And sometimes…

Sometimes, when she was especially beaten-down, when her heart couldn’t even sustain the threadbare hope of a better life for her son, at least, if not herself, the one way out she saw…

…It was a tempting prospect. It would have been so easy, too, in a profession like hers. If she left herself open to an attack just so… well, gladiators died all the time.

But she didn’t. Even if she had given up on herself, she couldn’t give up on Rinh’a. She was all he had— and he was all she had.

And everything afterwards— being gently pushed towards adventuring by Mylla, meeting Thancred, finding a new family, falling in love, seeing the fine young man her son was growing up into, liberating nations and toppling empires— it was only because she made the choice to keep living, day after miserable day.

So, she thought, she needed to do the same thing now. Things seemed dire— things were dire. Her enemies had very nearly triumphed. This world she’d fought for and come to love was on the verge of being swept away. Her home teetered precariously on the brink of the Eighth Umbral Calamity. She was halfway to becoming a monster and destroying everyone and everywhere and everything she ever cared about. It was very hard to see any cause for hope.

But if she gave up, then there definitely was no hope. The star’s death warrant was all but signed.

Didn’t it always come down to this? One foot in front of the other.

Until she no longer felt the flames at her back.

And after she made that choice, setting upon a specific course of action was academic.

***

A few hours later, head buzzing with the Umbilicus’s secrets and dissuaded from a nigh-hopeless plan to search the Tempest alone, Rinh once again had a clear course of action to pursue, with her friends and comrades-- her family-- by her side.

Her spirits were still low. Trying to track down Emet-Selch, defeat him somehow, rescue G’raha Tia, and hope he knows what to do about the Light would be a desperate plan even if their only lead wasn’t they’re at the bottom of the ocean somewhere.

But she was moving again, and that in and of itself was a small victory against the eternal stillness and stagnation of the Light.

And so Rinh bustled around her suite at the Pendants, packing her bags for an excursion of indefinite length and uncertain character, and occasionally nibbling at a sandwich she’d found in the icebox. She didn’t have much appetite— even with the Light contained for the moment, she felt distinctly unwell, and overcome with periodic waves of nausea.

But she knew she had to eat something.

And, anyway, it was the last of G’raha’s sandwiches, and wasting it felt wrong.

Rinh heard a soft knock on her door that could only be Y’shtola. She unlatched the door and Y’shtola glided past Rinh and into the room.

“Rinh,” she said, eyes downcast.

“Shtola,” murmured Rinh, “Is everyone else ready to go or something? Should I be picking up the pace getting my things together?”

Y’shtola shook her head. “No, I…” She trailed off, uncharacteristically reticent. “I was simply… feeling lonely, I suppose. Things are about to start happening in rapid succession upon our departure, and so this might be my last opportunity for a quiet moment in your company for some time.”

Or ever, Rinh thought, darkly. Y’shtola folded her hands, gaze still fixed on the ground. “You’ve barely looked at me since I woke up,” said Rinh, “Is my aether that jacked up?”

“I’m afraid so,” answered Y’shtola.

“Well, shit.” Rinh sighed. “I guess that makes sense; I’m pretty much a dead woman walking at this point.”

“That’s not true,” Y’shtola said softly, “My perception of your aether is merely one thread in a larger tapestry.” She reached out to Rinh, but the gesture was oddly hesitant, as if she wasn’t quite sure where Rinh actually was. Eventually, though, her hand brushed Rinh’s cheek. It was just a fleeting, fumbling touch, but it was quickly followed by a more determined caress. Gentle fingers delicately traced the lines of Rinh’s scars. “Every other sense confirms that you’re still you. Your strength, your wisdom, your courage and compassion and love— no Light could scour such deep roots.”

“Shtola— Shtola, I…”

Y’shtola still couldn’t seem to meet Rinh’s eye, but her hands easily found her waist; she pulled the smaller woman into a tight embrace. “All the things that brought you so far,” she murmured, “All the things that made you the woman who saved worlds, who slew gods, who toppled tyrants and ended wars and liberated nations— they are all still at your disposal. This storm, too, you will weather.”

Y’shtola’s tender touch and soothing voice alone helped to arrest Rinh’s rising sense of panic, but she still felt anxious, still felt as if a great foreboding had settled upon her. “I didn’t do any of that alone,” she said.

“And you aren’t alone now, either,” answered Y’shtola, “Every step of the way, we’ll be with you.” She angled Rinh’s chin upward and kissed her, lips soft and warm. “I’ll be with you.”

***

Amaurot was a city of ghosts.

Not in the obvious way— the shades of the Amaurotines looked wraithlike in their drab robes and pale masks, but it was clear to Rinh that they were as much a product of Emet-Selch’s artifice as the stage of wide boulevards and glittering towers they stood upon.

It was something more intangible than that, some effect this city had on her beyond the blunt fact of its physical presence. 

It made her think of home.

Which was absurd, of course. It was hard to think of a place less like the deep woods of the Shroud than this alien city and its uncanny geometry.

But it was rather like encountering a familiar place in a dream— even if Rinh’s waking mind knew full well that, say, the Waking Sands was not actually a labyrinth of narrow sandstone tunnels, in the dream itself, as she crept her way down dark and twisting corridors she knew with a dreamer’s conviction that this was the waking sands.

That same dream-logic was at work in Amaurot. These wide boulevards, these glittering towers, these carefully manicured parks and plazas— it was home, as surely as was the old forest she grew up in, those familiar landscapes wandered by the family ghosts, lost to the Calamity.

Y’shtola 

“So, Shtola” said Rinh, sitting by one of the benches at Macarenses Angle— not on it, of course, because Rinh was not twenty fulms tall, but still leaning against it, “I’m going to say something that perhaps sounds slightly mad.”

“Go ahead,” said Y’shtola. She felt relieved that Rinh seemed to be in decent spirits, and seemed more animated than she had since before Mount Gulg. She couldn’t really assess Rinh’s physical state, but every time she heard Rinh’s voice, or saw Rinh’s body language in the movements of the pale and angelic limbs of the Warrior of Light, it was a reassurance that Rinh really was still there— she hadn’t turned, yet, not for good. Physical reality had not yet caught up with Y’shtola’s aethersight.

“This is probably the weirdest place we’ve ever been, right? Which is saying something, given the… you know. Everything.” Rinh shrugged. The Lightwarden’s mask was placid and immobile, but something in the familiar lilt of her voice made Y’shtola think of her smile, the arch of her brow, her golden eyes sweeping her surroundings, taking everything in. “But even a place like Azys Lla— which is pretty weird, don’t get me wrong— isn’t like this. Allagan ruins are all over the place, you can’t throw a rock in Ablathia’s Spine without hitting five different flying islands, and Azys Lla is just both of those things in the same place.”

“A fair assessment,” Y’shtola said. She sat down beside Rinh, leaning back against the bench’s legs. Rinh laid her hand on top of Y’shtola’s. She was wearing an armored gauntlet, Y’shtola realized, but she still felt real weight and warmth, not the cold, hard carapace she half-expected. “The Lifestream was stranger, perhaps, but it also wasn’t really a place as such.”

“This is the weirdest place we’ve ever been,” Rinh repeated, “But I still keep on feeling a sort of déjà vu. It’s like… like that sort of nauseous about-to-get-an-Echo-vision feeling, but… but deeper, somehow. Stronger. And facing inward, like whatever memory I’m about to fall into had been pulled up out of myself.” She sighed; the gesture was too subtle for Y’shtola to see, but she still felt a little puff of breath on her cheek. “Which is absolutely daft,” continued Rinh, “Since, obviously— obviously— I’ve never seen this place in my life, so why do I feel like I’ve come home? Home home, I mean. Shroud home.”

“No, I see what you mean,” said Y’shtola, “While I cannot say I feel anything so strong as déjà vu, there is a certain air of familiarity to this place. This place has many things in common with Sharlayan— architecture obsessed with geometry and symmetry, scholars debating logic and rhetoric while half the world burns, all under the auspices of a small circle of narrow-minded academic bureaucrats. Although… these are all rather superficial similarities . Perhaps I’m overly influenced by something Emet-Selch said to me— that Sharlayan reminded him of Amaurot, and mused that perhaps an Ascian hand shaped it.”

“Maybe it’s the other way around?” said Rinh, “Maybe the memories of Amaurot that shaped Emet-Selch’s illusory city were influenced by much fresher memories of Sharlayan, since he already had that comparison in his head.”

“Also an intriguing possibility,” Y’shtola said, “Still, none of this fully accounts for my emotional response. It’s more than just a political, cultural, and aesthetic connection to Sharlayan. It’s…” She folded her arms, lost in thought. Something was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite articulate it. “Do you remember when we were in New Sharlayan?”

Rinh nodded.

“It’s that feeling. It’s walking down a familiar street slowly falling to ruin and trying to remember what it was like when it still bustled with activity. It’s seeing the homes of friends and family overgrown with ivy and moss. It’s sitting beside you on the steps of my father’s empty estate, listening to you tell me about stars that had so recently slipped beyond my reach.” She shifted her weight, uncomfortably. She wondered if she was even slightly making sense; she glanced in Rinh’s direction, trying to gauge her reaction, but whatever expression was on her face was lost behind the luminous visage of the Warrior of Light.

“Makes sense,” said Rinh, simply, to Y’shtola’s relief. “It’s pretty clear Emet-Selch built this place with an audience in mind, right? He invited me here, even though his plan would still work if he just hid somewhere else and waited for me to become a sin eater and kill everyone. He made these Ancients perceive us as precocious children, so that they’d earnestly answer our dumb questions about Amaurot. He didn’t exactly make it easy to get here, but once we got to Achora Heights he basically rolled out the red carpet for us.” Rinh, as she often did, rested her head on Y’shtola’s shoulder. Y’shtola forced herself not to flinch away from the baleful gaze of the Lightwarden, focusing instead on more familiar sensations— Rinh’s cheek nestled in Y’shtola’s furred mantle, Rinh’s weight pressing into her, the way she still smelled faintly of the Facet of Production’s soap, the way it tickled when the tip of her ear brushed across Y’shtola’s face. “Why did he do all of this if I’m dead anyway? Why all this set-dressing?”

“I’m not sure,” Y’shtola admitted, “In our prior discussions regarding Amaurot, I suspected that Emet-Selch was trying to sway us to his cause, convince us that the world he would burn everyone and everything we know on a pyre to restore was worth it. Now, though, it’s clearly too late for that.”

“He wanted me, specifically, to join him here, to walk through his memories of home, to show me what he’s fighting for,” Rinh said, “And I’m not sure if that’s our in for sorting all this out, a trap we’ve wandered into, or some part of a plan we just haven’t accounted for. It’s—” Rinh stopped, suddenly, as her aether began to boil and spark dangerously. Y’shtola heard her take a deep breath, and felt her hands clutching at the fabric of her dress.

“I’m— I’m okay,” said Rinh, voice wavering, “I— I—” Another labored breath, followed by a sharp cry of pain. The Light flared. The Warrior of Light stretched its wings, as if preparing to take flight.

But Y’shtola when gathered Rinh up in her arms, she knew at once that she was still herself— Y’shtola’s hands found no feathered wings, no rigid carapace, no pitiless blades of Light-- just a miqo’te woman, hurt and afraid, convulsing as something inconceivably powerful and terrible fought her for control of her own body. All Y’shtola could do was hold on until, slowly, the pain began to subside. The Light still blazed, but it was becoming less volatile by the second. Finally, with one last shudder, the struggle ended, and the inevitable had not yet come to pass.

“Shtola,” she said, a little breathlessly, her voice still weak, “We’re running out of time.”

***

Far above Macarenses Angle, the great spire of the Capitol beckoned.

Chapter Text

Rinh

If arriving in Amaurot felt like coming home to the Shroud, to witness its final days was like losing that home to the Calamity’s flames all over again.

Skyscrapers tumbled down like burning trees, shards of glass collecting on the pavement like desiccated leaves. Fire rained from the sky— the spitting image of Bahamut’s wrath. The dead lined the streets, smoldering bodies in black robes strewn about. Mum, she thinks, passing one. Auntie Sizha, as she steps over another. Koh’sae. Miah. Navri. Amh. Each and every fallen shade represented a person who meant that much to someone— to Emet-Selch himself, perhaps. Friends, family, lovers, all gone up in smoke.

Rinh forged on, because what else could she do? Time was against her— even as she fought and fought and fought, she felt stretched to a breaking point— like if she exerted too much effort or brought too much of her magic to bear, something already all twisted up inside her would burst, and she’d be swept away completely.

So still Rinh was the vanguard, the strong shield-arm sheltering those she loved from monsters which defied description. Y’shtola and Alisaie were at her flanks, blasting away anything that got too close, levin and ice standing out against the burning city. Urianger and Ryne stood behind her, doing their best to keep her on her feet— Urianger seeing to the health of her mortal body, Ryne doing what she could to tend to Rinh’s fractured soul and rotting aether. Alphinaud and Thancred were the rearguard, because things pulled straight from the Ancient id kept coming from all sides; the Scions were constantly on the verge of being swamped. They never stopped. They never even slowed down. There was nothing for it but to forge ahead, but there were tears in Rinh’s eyes all the way.

Eventually, the Scions found themselves boxed in at what was once a stately rotunda, but by now was little more than an exposed circular platform surrounded by skeletal ruins. Hordes and hordes of shambling nightmares swarmed around a grotesque and bloated bellwether; the Second Doom of Amaurot was upon them.

When it finally fell, however, there was a brief respite. Fire still rained from the sky, the air still choked with ash and dust; in the distance, Rinh could still hear the din of battle, sirens, screams. But for the moment, no more monsters pursued them; they could all catch their breath, and see to their wounds.

“Looks like we’re at a dead end,” said Thancred, squinting at the hazy silhouettes of a ruined time line. “Perhaps we’re meant to turn around?”

“Merely the end of a first act,” said Emet-Selch. They had heard his voice the whole time they were running this gauntlet, but here was the man himself, picking his way through the rubble and onto the rotunda, “You still have Act II to look forward to. And then, of course…” He stepped towards Rinh, scrutinizing her, peering at her with those bright golden eyes. “…the grand finale.”

Rinh— perhaps rashly— swung her gunblade at Emet-Selch and pulled the trigger. His image dissipated in a puff of smoke.

“You people,” said Emet-Selch, suddenly right behind Rinh, practically murmured into her ear, “I can’t believe you lot fell for that twice.”

“What’s this about?” Rinh hissed, through gritted teeth and bared fangs, “Have we passed your little trial? Are we suddenly worthy in your eyes?”

“Not just yet,” said Emet-Selch, “But I’d still like a word with you. A bit of advice from the director to the star of the show before the curtain rises again.”

Before Rinh could say anything, he raised his hand and snapped.

***

You’re in your office. When you first took up the seat of Azem, years ago, now, you found it rather funny that they even bothered giving you one. Your duties were outside the circumscribed city limits of Amaurot, out across a wide world full of wonders— not cooped up in some Capitol office like a glorified bureaucrat.

Later, though, you understood why you were furnished with one— so the other members of the Convocation remembered that you were their equal. So you could call upon your peers in a place that was all your own, instead of perpetually being a guest, or an interloper.

Now, though, you’re just glad you have the privacy. Your face is buried in your hands as you cry bitter tears. You’d presented the rest of the Convocation with a most dire warning— across the ocean, a hemisphere away, the world itself was coming unraveled. They had listened to your report as intently as ever, nodding along, debating its merits— and then they voted to do nothing.

It wasn’t unanimous, of course. Emet-Selch— your Hades— believed you, as always, and counselled a more proactive course. Lahabrea, too— crisis makes for strange bedfellows, it seems. He trusted you in so few things, but the quality of your scholarship was one of them; when your narrative came to a close and you went over hard numbers, he went white as a sheet. Had a tiebreaker vote from Elidibus been needed, he would have come down on her side— but there was no tie to break. The others all closed ranks in favor of caution, observation, aloofness from the world.

“What you have laid out is certainly cause for concern,” Halmarut had said, “But rash overreaction will avail us naught. Amaurot itself remains unassailable, which means we have time enough to carefully consider what, if any, action is appropriate.”

Halmarut’s rejection stung you the most. Once upon a time, in your Akadaemia days, he considered you his finest pupil. Years later, he was the one who put your name forward when the seat of Azem was suddenly left vacant. But now you’re just another troublemaker, unwelcome as a randomly-evolved weed in his perfect, unchanging, eternal garden.

You hear a cheery popular tune from a tinny speaker. You left the damn radio on, you realize. Its incongruously jaunty tone just reminds you of the way the whole city’s just sticking its head in the sand, but you can’t muster up even the effort to stand up and turn it off. The clock ticks, completely out-of-time with the music.

Your office door swings open; as you look up, you see Hades and Hythlodaeus stepping inside. They doff their masks and hang their robes on the cloak rack. You offer them a miserable, tear-streaked smile.

“Persephone,” says Hades, circling behind your desk, “They’re fools not to listen to you.” He softly lays his hand on your shoulder. Offering comfort might not come easily to your husband, but he always does for you, always tries his best.

“I’m used to those numbnuts being short-sighted and pig-headed, but this takes the cake.” You sigh. “They’re so comfortable here in Amaurot that they can’t even imagine anything out there could be a real threat.”

“I’m just surprised Lahabrea’s on your side,” says Hythlodaeus, “I thought Hades was pulling my leg when he told me you and him voted together until I read the minutes myself.” He’s standing a few paces back from your desk, but although his words are sardonic and his posture aloof, his voice is filled with warmth.

“Hah,” you say, but your heart’s not in it.

“He didn’t even need to be wrangled into cooperating by the Emissary first,” says Hades, “If that’s not a sign of the impending apocalypse, I don’t know what is.”

“That’s not goddamn funny,” you snap.

Hades looks taken aback. But then his expression softens into something more tender. “No,” he murmurs, “I suppose it wasn’t. I’m sorry, Persephone.” He gives your shoulder a little squeeze.

“I guess it must still feel pretty abstract for you,” you say, “I’m glad you believe me, and I’m even more glad you voted with me, but you… you still haven’t seen the things I’ve seen.”

“Tell me about them,” Hythlodaeus says, taking a step forward. Hades nods encouragingly.

“I’ve seen… concepts turning on their creators and slicing them to ribbons, concepts engendering themselves right out of their matrices and running amok. Columns of smoke on the horizon, one more for every town, suburb, and city that goes up in smoke. And it’s not just out in the sticks, either. In Anemolia, the syphogranti were arguing over minutiae when the whole damn city was falling apart around them. Airships exploding in the sky, ten-mouthed beasts swallowing people whole, kids screaming in the streets, reservoirs just boiling away, the works, and those goddamn idiots were haggling over budget earmarks for a blue-ribbon committee to maybe look into some of this. And now there’s nothing left of them but ten smudges of ash on the floor of the Traniborum.” You slump forward in your chair, resting your head on the cool marble surface of your desk. “And now the same damn thing is happening here. And if those idiots back there could only see what I saw— maybe they’d get off their dumb asses and do something.”

“Well,” said Hades, “I do intend to get off my dumb ass and do something. If we haven’t got the votes, we’ll just do it off the books.”

You lift your head, allowing yourself to feel a sliver of hope. “You have a plan?”

“The rudiments of one. Persephone, Hythlodaeus— we’re going out to Anamnesis Anyder.” 

***

Rinh was suddenly sitting in a leather office chair, in an office all done up in Amaurotine style. Something was off, though.

Everything here is my size, Rinh thought.

She was still a bit dazed from the Echo vision of… well, whatever that was. She glanced about the room, trying to orient herself. The office seemed to be in good order; the lights were on, the inlaid marble floor polished to a sheen. Papers were spread out on the desktop, not quite messily but certainly in a manner that suggested frequent and active use. She picked one page up— it seemed to be covered in dense, handwritten mathematical calculations she could just about follow and schematic diagrams that made her head swim. A radio in the corner of the room was switched on, but playing only static.

Outside, through airy windows, she could see the skyline of Amaurot still ablaze. The Final Days were still upon the city; this was merely an oasis in the midst of it.

She looked back to the desk. Her eye was drawn to a framed daguerreotype. It seemed to show some people at a party. There was a man of middling height with silver hair and tanned skin, a champagne flute in his hand and a knowing smile on his face. His robes hung open; Rinh could just about make out a sharp pinstripe suit underneath. He was resting his arm on the shoulder of the woman in the center of the picture, who was giving the camera a toothy grin. She was in a robe, too, but somehow it had gotten askew— a bare shoulder and the strap of an evening gown had slipped free. She had short bobbed hair, cut with nearly geometric precision. Her eyes were bright, her complexion dark, and a spray of freckles on her cheeks lent her a youthful aspect. She looked a little like Rinh, truth be told, despite being a hyur, or a hume, or whatever— the same sable hair, the same aquiline nose. She looked soft, though. Her skin was smooth and unmarred. Her hands were elegant and manicured. To her right stood a tall, lanky man, his arm looped through hers. He had pure white hair and a confident smirk on his face. This man was a bit familiar, too. He almost looked like—

“Ah,” said Emet-Selch, still right behind her, just like he’d been in the ruined rotunda, “Graduation day. I love that she kept that old thing, even here— she always had a sentimental streak.”

“Emet-Selch,” growled Rinh, “What is this place? Where have you taken me?”

Emet-Selch spun her chair around so that she faced him once more. He was so close. If he were a mortal man, and not an Ascian, Rinh could kill him in seconds. Her gunblade had been left behind, but she probably still had the knife in her boot. Failing that, some of the fountain pens on the desk looked pretty sharp. It’d be messy, but she could work with it.

Idle fancies. This was a man who was nigh-immortal and nearly invincible. Even if she could overpower him— which she couldn’t, not on her own, not like this— Thancred was carrying the white auracite. They’d decided keeping it on her person was too risky with her aether in such a volatile state.

“You’re in the eye of the storm,” Emet-Selch said, casually. Behind him, fire rained from the sky. “I don’t suppose you recognize any of this?” 

“Why the fuck would I?” asked Rinh.

He shrugged. “You’d be surprised what memories can come jostled loose in the right circumstances.”

“Wait, I— I have seen this place, this office, this photo. The… the Echo. I saw it in the Echo.”

“How uncharacteristically helpful of Hydaelyn.”

“It was the memory of someone who worked here, right? A member of the Convocation. She knew the Final Days were coming, but the Convocation couldn’t agree on a course of action. It’s the vote those guys at the Hall of Rhetoric were arguing about.”

Emet-Selch’s eyes lit up, which Rinh honestly found more worrying than his usual cold contempt. “Yes? Go on…”

“I recognized a lot of the names that came up. There was… an interventionist bloc in the Convocation. The lady at the desk, Elidibus, Lahabrea, and… well, you, I guess.” Rinh folded her arms, wracking her brain for more details. Keeping Emet-Selch talking struck her as a good idea, after all— he might let something useful slip. “The three Unsundered and a mystery woman. Are they the ones who wound up summoning Zodiark?”

Emet-Selch sighed. “Surprisingly astute observations, but they seem to have led you to completely the wrong conclusion.”

“How was I seeing that, anyroad? This isn’t really the office from the Echo vision; it’s just a copy. It probably didn’t even exist a week ago. There wouldn’t be any memories tied up here. And it can’t have been your memory since I was clearly seeing you through someone else’s eyes, and in any case it started before you and Hythlodaeus showed up. So…”

“You’re so close, little wanderer. It’s infuriating, honestly. This would be so much simpler if you were malms wide of the mark. I could just drop you back with all your little friends and let nature take its course. Instead, you keep scuttling up just to the edge of the truth, but then flinching away from it like a child touching a hot stove.”

“You’re just toying with me.”

“You’re a scholar… a rudimentary sort of one, but a scholar nonetheless. Use some of that empirical reasoning you’re so enamored of. Apply Occam’s razor: if it’s not my memory, and it’s not the room’s memory, then… who’s left?”

“No,” said Rinh, “No, that doesn’t make any sense. Last I checked, I’m not thousands of years old. Or, you know, a bloody Ascian.”

“Ugh, you’re really not making this easy, but I shall charitably assume you are simply in denial, rather than stupid.” He prodded Rinh’s chin so that she was looking up at him, eye-to-eye. “The particular lump of flesh called Rinh Panipahr was formed by some disgusting biological process, oh, twenty-nine years ago or so. Your soul, on the other hand… well, you ought to know how the Lifestream works, given that your little catgirlfriend had to be fished out of it not once, but twice.”

Rinh glared up at him. Emet-Selch, sorcerer of eld, Paragon of the Ascians, architect of empires and shaper of histories, reminded her of nothing so much as Y’shtola’s stories about her least favorite professors at the Studium, both in his use of the elenctic dialogue to lead one to his favored conclusion and his casual disregard for his female students’ personal space. “The Ancients’ souls are still cycling through the Lifestream,” Rinh said, cautiously, “And they got sundered along with everything else, but they’re still out there. And I, specifically, have inherited the soul of a member of the Convocation of Fourteen.”

“Well, around half her soul— one fourteenth of it went down with the ship on the Thirteenth, and the other three sevenths are still split across Hydaelyn’s remaining shards.”

“Souls aren’t a zero-sum game. If you see your reflection in a mirror, it doesn’t diminish you somehow,” Rinh said, “The world’s population was way higher in, say, the Third Astral Era than in the Second Astral Era, but that didn’t mean the Lifestream ran out of souls.”

Emet-Selch rolled his eyes. “Souls have density, Rinh. It is an observable, objectively true fact. Your soul, seven times rejoined, shines far more brilliantly than the pallid souls of the First’s natives.”

“A soul having different aetheric qualities doesn’t matter! It’s still a soul. Even if— and that’s a big if— in certain contexts a ‘denser’ soul is more powerful in a narrow set of magical applications, power isn’t the same as worth.” Rinh realized she was likely provoking him, but at this point she hardly cared. If her life was nearing its end— and by all accounts it was— she would speak only truth to the very last, defiantly, proudly. “Then again, I wouldn’t expect the piece of shit who built the Garlean Empire to grasp that.”

Emet-Selch sighed, looking utterly world-weary. “You know, that really is the sort of thing she always argued for. It’s what made her who she was— and it’s what got her killed and her soul blasted to smithereens in the end. And now it’s about to get you killed, too. I really don’t know why I bother.”

“You—” Rinh began, but Emet-Selch hushed her, a silk-gloved finger pressed to his lips.

“You saw this office in an Echo vision,” he said, “You must remember something of this place. Does nothing here ring a bell?”

Rinh shook her head.

“Ah!” Emet-Selch said, “I suppose I’ve left this little tableau incomplete.” He spun the chair around again, so that Rinh was once more facing the office door.

He snapped his fingers, and, with a soft pop , Y’shtola appeared on the other side of the desk.

She immediately turned to face Rinh— and Emet-Selch. “Don’t you dare hurt her!” she thundered.

“Why would I bother doing that?” said Emet-Selch, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Either I simply wait for the Light finish consuming her and all my plans come to fruition, Q.E.D., or you lot do something truly astonishing, in which case all my plans are upended and it’s back to square one.”

Y’shtola, plainly, saw blood in the water. “Why even give us that chance? Why bother taking such an interest in us, for that matter? Could it be that you’re secretly hoping you fail, that the reason—”

Emet-Selch snapped his fingers again, and she was gone. “Well that was a waste of time,” he said. Once more, he spun the chair around so that he and Rinh were face-to-face. “What? Don’t look at me like that; I’ve just sent her back down to Amaurot with the rest of your merry band. You’ll be reunited presently, free to enjoy her company for however long you’ve got left before you break her open and slurp all her aether up like so many Doman noodles.”

In response, Rinh just scowled.

“I wouldn’t have bothered building all of this—” he pointed out the window, where the skyline of Amaurot was still aflame, “—if I didn’t have some hope you’d find it edifying. Surely— surely— now that you’ve seen the apocalypse for yourself, you understand the import of what I do?”

“If anything, I understand it less,” Rinh said, “Like— you’re right. The things you’ve shown me— they’re awful. They’re the sort of thing that no one should ever have to go through— not you, not anyone. And yet your response is to do it all to other people, for generations, again and again and again.”

“Your myopia does you no favors,” said Emet-Selch, “You’re so wrapped up in your own little corner of the world, your little toy cities, your tiny bonsai forests, that you’ve completely lost sight of how much we’ve really lost— and how much we can regain.”

“You’ll never bring them back,” Rinh said, “You must know that. Maybe you’ll achieve the Ardor, maybe you’ll free Zodiark from His shackles, maybe you’ll even conjure up some semblance of old Amaurot. But you won’t bring the people back. Images of them, maybe, history given flesh and form, but it won’t be them. The dead are never truly gone if we tell their stories, if we honor their memory— but they’re still dead.”

Emet-Selch snapped.

Rinh was back in the shattered rotunda at the end of a world.

She looked up at the sky, lurid oranges and reds streaked with black smoke and white-hot fire.

She leaned down, picked up her blade, and rejoined her comrades, ready to move forward again.

***

So, this is it, thought Rinh, This is how I die.

She was in agony, just barely crawling forward on her hands and knees, her very soul aflame with Light. She was losing herself, slipping away bit by bit, as if her own body was a chrysalis to be shed by something new and terrible and alien. She could barely see. She could barely breathe, coughing up bile, then blood, then aspirated Light.

And the worst of it was that she was alone. Emet-Selch had effortlessly swatted the other Scions away as they tried to come to her aid, leaving them incapacitated— or worse.

And still she crawled forward, even as her soul fractured, as her skin pulled itself taut, even though she felt like she was swimming through a pool of broken glass.

She knew it was an utterly quixotic effort. Even if she did manage to reach Emet-Selch, in this condition he’d make short work of her. But what else was there to do?

Emet-Selch was saying something, but she was past the point of being able to hear him. All she could hear was the torrent of molten aether threatening to drown her, and her own ragged breathing. All she could see of him was a blurry and indistinct shape, receding further and further into the distance as the Light encroached more and more of her field of vision.

She was hungry. She was so hungry. She’d spent far too much of her life hungry. In her childhood, there was never quite enough to go around. As a refugee, she went hungry so Rinh’a didn’t. As a gladiator, whether or not she ate depended on her performance on the bloodsands. Later in life, when food was more abundant, she still never quite trusted that it would last, always half-expecting it to be snatched away without warning.

But this hunger was something harder, something sharper. Sin eaters always sought to gorge themselves on aether, and that was what she was rapidly becoming: a sin eater, a sin eater. An eater. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat.

And still she crawled forward. Her head swam, and it was harder and harder to think lucid thoughts. Memories were sloughing away, context flattening out. She tried to remember who she was, how she’d gotten here, but pain and fear and hunger clouded her mind before she could frame any answers.

Who was she? The Warrior of Light. The light of the sun. The sun, Azeyma, the Warden. A Lightwarden. An eater of sins.

Forward, said the tattered remnants of whoever she was, you have to move forward.

***

And then, briefly, shadow— like a moon eclipsing the sun on a sweltering day, shrouding the world in cool, compassionate darkness.

She was Rinh, she remembered, Rinh Panipahr. Fourth daughter of Vash, the family matriarch. Apprentice to Sizha, the family witch, midwife and healer. Sister of Miah, Navri, Amh, and Vash’a. Mother of Rinh’a. Lover of Koh’sae Ganajai, of Haurchefant Greystone, of Lyse Hext and Y’shtola Rhul. Adopted daughter of House Fortemps. Scion of the Seventh Dawn. Warrior of Darkness.

“If you had the strength to take another step,” said a voice she recognized as Ardbert’s, clear and crisp and kind, “Could you do it?”

She looked up at him, weakly smiling. “What,” she said, voice unsteady, “All on my own?”

Ardbert smiled right back at her, and offered her his axe.

So she stepped forward. One foot in front of the other. Again and again, until she no longer felt the Light at her back.

*** 

Amaurot was in ruins; the Final Days had come and gone, and left behind a shattered city. Once-lofty skyscrapers, each a monument to the wealth and power of a great civilization, were skeletal shadows of themselves, tangles of twisted girders jutting out at odd angles.

But fire no longer rained from the heavens, and monsters no longer stalked the broken earth. The sky was bright and clear— and not with the stagnant Light that befouled the skies of Norvrandt for a century. This was the light of a sunrise, of a new day, of a beckoning future.

Emet-Selch— Hades— stood alone, looking remarkably calm for someone who’d just had an axe thrown through his torso.

“…Hades?” Rinh said, taking a half-step forward.

Hades shrugged, and threw back his hood. The skein of his existence was rapidly coming undone, but when his golden eyes met Rinh’s, she saw no rage, or defiance, or even resignation. Just a serene, exhausted acceptance. Like somehow he always knew it would turn out like this. Maybe Y’shtola had been right, and some part of him even wanted it to.

“Persephone…” he murmured, barely audible even to keen miqo’te ears.

“What?” said Rinh.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He glanced around, looking at the ruined skyscrapers, the gold-dappled clouds, the blue sky above.

“Remember,” he said, his gaze once more meeting Rinh’s, “Remember us. Remember that we lived.”

“Of course,” Rinh said, without hesitation. Remembering was hard, but forgetting was far worse. The dead were never truly gone from this world if the living tell their stories.

He smiled at her.

And then he was gone.

***

In the skies above the Crystarium, the stars once more shimmered. Pale moonlight cut through the dark of night, filtered and refracted by the city’s crystalline domes.

The people of the Crystarium were— quite understandably— raucously celebrating their final liberation from the Light. Rinh made an appearance, of course; everyone wanted to see the Warrior of Darkness herself. She shook hands. She smiled and offered words of encouragement. Complete strangers offered to buy her drinks at the Wandering Stair, and she politely refused each one, over and over again.

If she wanted to drink, she knew she had a still-sealed bottle of La Noscean white wine back in her Pendants suite, which she could trust had not been tampered with. She decided she didn’t want to, though. She didn’t want to be here at all, honestly. She still felt jumpy and agitated, above and beyond her usual discomfort in crowds.

“Shtola,” she said, “Is my aether still okay?”

“It is,” said Y’shtola, kindly and patient, even though Rinh had been periodically asking this all night. She still couldn’t quite believe she was safe. Every time she took a breath, she braced for that broken-glass feeling of roiling Light, ready for rotten aether to boil up and come pouring out of her, but it never happened.

“All right,” said Rinh. Another deep breath. Another flinch in anticipation of pain that never came. “Sorry for being so annoying about this.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” said Y’shtola, “Putting your mind at ease is hardly an imposition.” She leaned in and kissed her. “And I never tire of seeing you in the flush of life and health.”

“Thank you,” murmured Rinh.

“Would you prefer to go somewhere quieter?” asked Y’shtola, “I know you often find this sort of gathering taxing.”

“Yeah,” said Rinh, “I… as much as the title Warrior of Darkness suits me better than Warrior of Light, it still isn’t quite me. And today I— I nearly lost myself. I… I need to just be me again for a while.” She glanced around her— throngs were still gathered in the Exedra, the Rotunda, the Musica Universalis, in every public space large enough to accommodate a crowd. People were dancing, singing, drinking toast after toast. Somewhere, a bard was playing an electric guitar.

“The Pendants?” said Y’shtola, taking Rinh’s hand.

She nodded. “The Pendants.”

Y’shtola

“Is… is my aether still okay?” Rinh asked, as soon as her suite’s door closed behind her.

Her aether was, of course, quite more than merely okay. It was resplendently, wonderfully alive. For the first time since Y’shtola had been wrenched away from the Source, all those years ago, she could see her love in all her glory, beauty undiminished by encroaching Light. Rinh’s form was clear and sharp and solid-looking; to Y’shtola’s eyes, few aetherial forms more closely resembled how they looked before the Lifestream stole her old sight away than the living. As Rinh deteriorated, as her aether was corrupted, she looked less and less alive to Y’shtola, until her final transformation at Mount Gulg stripped away the last vestiges of her living self. Now, every time Y’shtola looked at Rinh and saw Rinh served as a reminder that she was alive, alive, a living, breathing woman.

“You’re beautiful,” said Y’shtola, slightly in awe.

“Really?” said Rinh, “I sort of look a right mess, now.” She glanced into a mirror; Y’shtola, of course, only saw the faintest traces of reflected aether, but Rinh seemed displeased with what she saw. “I’ve been in this armor for forty-eight hours straight, the last time I had a proper bath was in Eulmore, my makeup’s all smudged to shite, my hair’s a bloody bird’s nest, and since we wound up having to swim for gods know how far, I’ve got sand in my… everywhere.”

Y’shtola shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re beautiful.”

“Well, thanks,” said Rinh, “I think I’ll feel a lot more beautiful after I’ve had a bath.”

“Would you care for some company?”

Rinh smiled. “Please.”

While they ran the bath, Y’shtola set about freeing Rinh from her armor. It was something she’d done for nearly as long as she’d known Rinh; it was perhaps the first form of intimacy they’d ever shared, long before Y’shtola had even admitted that what she felt for Rinh was love to herself, much less to Rinh.

This particular suit of armor was new to Y’shtola; she hadn’t really gotten a good look at it amidst all that Light. It still looked a bit indistinct compared to Rinh herself, but the enchantments woven into its fabric and bolstering its steel were enough for Y’shtola to get the jist. Despite the Bozjan gunblade Rinh had taken to fighting with, her armor was still distinctly Ishgardian— which meant it was necessarily bespoke, as not many knights of the Republic shared Rinh’s slight stature-- and even fewer needed holes for their tails. The armor’s plates, as befit a Warrior of Darkness, were mostly black, but with details and filigrees picked out in polished white steel.

First came Rinh’s gauntlets; Y’shtola carefully undid the straps keeping them on, and then slipped off the leather gloves underneath, leaving Rinh’s elegant and calloused hands bare. Next, she carefully removed the couters protecting her elbow joints, and, with these out of the way, it was simple enough to unbuckle the vambraces and rerebraces. Rinh’s dark grey surcoat, as was her wont, was not only ornate but downright dramatic— a calf-length, finely tailored garment, with fur trim and decorative patterns embroidered with silver thread. Rinh shrugged the surcoat off, and then held out her arms so that Y’shtola could get to the armor underneath. The pauldrons and gorget came off easily enough, but the cuirass itself was a bit trickier, and Y’shtola found herself feeling around for the hinges, fingers brushing over oxidized steel. Finally, though, she got the cuirass off, revealing the padded gambeson underneath.

Rinh sat down on the edge of her bed, and Y’shtola methodically worked her way up Rinh’s legs: sabatons, then poleyns, then greaves and cuisses.

This hardened outer layer shed, Y’shtola moved on to the padding and garments underneath. She briskly unbuttoned Rinh’s gambeson and peeled it away. Then, with a lighter touch, she unbuttoned the fine silk shirt underneath. Y’shtola unbuckled Rinh’s belt, next; Rinh stood back up and slithered out of her trousers.

Finally, Rinh was clad only in her smallclothes— a chemise, a pair of stockings, some utilitarian-looking pantalettes— the softest, innermost layer of her protective shell. These were easily dispensed with, and the Warrior of Darkness was left bared in front of Y’shtola.

Y’shtola’s eyes swept over Rinh’s body, drinking in all the details she’d not laid eyes on for three long years, details she’d felt in her chambers at Slitherbough, but not seen unoccluded by the Light’s glare since she had been stolen away from the Source.

Every ilm of her was captivating. Here were those bright golden eyes, the spray of freckles on her cheeks and shoulders, the elegant curve of the Panipahr nose. Here were wiry muscles, chiseled limbs, old stretch marks. Here were her scars— the slash across her face from her gladiator days, the wound on her midsection from a Wood Wailer’s lance, the notch taken out of her ear while Y’shtola still drifted through the Lifestream. Burns from the Calamity on her arms and shoulders and back, sustained when she needed to shelter her newborn son from the flames with no shield at hand but her own body. That horrible, jagged line carved across her body by Zenos, the mirror image of Y’shtola’s own.

Y’shtola took a half-step backwards, stunned, silent, and reverent.

Rinh sniffed at the air. “Wow,” she said, “I stink. Really hope that bath is ready.”

***

They bathed, scrubbing off days of accumulated grime and ash, dried sweat and sea salt washed away by hot water and sweet-smelling lavender soap.

The tub was big enough to fit two, but it was still a slightly tight fit. This close, Y’shtola saw a few streaks of Light-aspected something, burning bright and terrible against Rinh’s dark skin. Y’shtola’s blood turned to ice; she opened her mouth to say something, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words.

And then Rinh wiped it all away with a washcloth. It was just a bit of residue left over from the liquified Light she’d been coughing up during her long walk through the Final Days, Y’shtola realized. But before that image could replay itself in Y’shtola’s memory, Rinh nonchalantly wrung out the washcloth, and the Light swirled down the drain.

Y’shtola slowly exhaled, and let herself sink deeper into the warm and soapy water.

***

They emerged clean and dry and wrapped in frankly decadently fluffy bathrobes. Rinh more or less fell into bed, flopping backwards, arms outstretched and legs akimbo.

“Sleepy?” asked Y’shtola, sitting down beside her on the bed.

“Not really,” said Rinh.

Y’shtola idly ran a hand through Rinh’s hair. “I would hardly blame you if you were, of course.”

“Are you sleepy?”

“Not particularly,” said Y’shtola. Even now, hours after they returned to the Crystarium in triumph, Y’shtola still felt the nagging fear that all of this was just a dream, and if she dared sleep, it would dissolve away in the morning; she’d wake up down in the Tempest, the lights of Amaurot all around them, Rinh nearing closer and closer to death with each passing hour.

“Hey, Shtola?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Can I go down on you?”

Y’shtola laughed softly. “I thought it was my job to be blunt and direct about these things.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose I didn’t feel like going through a whole song-and-dance to get my face between your legs tonight.”

Y’shtola did her best to smile knowingly, but she knew her cheeks were burning. Something about how direct Rinh was being made her think of their first night together in Ishgard, when she gently led Y’shtola through the new world that was opening up between them. “I suppose I shall allow it,” she said, with only a thin veneer of haughtiness Rinh would surely see right through, “You’ll behave yourself once we get started, of course.”

Rinh’s only response was to wink, and scoot out of the way, down to the foot of the bed.

Y’shtola shrugged off her robe and reclined on the bed. “If you’re a good girl, and do a good job,” she said, making an effort to assume her usual role even as Rinh put her hands on her knees and gently parted her legs, “Then I shall— I— I’ll—” Y’shtola was having some difficulty maintaining her train of thought; Rinh was planting a row of kisses along her inner thigh, each press of the lips a little higher and making her heart flutter a little more than the last.

Finally, Rinh’s lips found her clit, and she softly kissed her there, too. Y’shtola exhaled sharply— an exhalation that turned into a breathy moan when Rinh followed up this brief press of the lips with a more sustained laving of the tongue. Soon, her mouth and lips were joined by those strong fingers of hers, skating across Y’shtola’s slick folds and pushing into her entrance.

“Rinh,” she said, although it came out more as a gasp than a word, “Oh— oh, Rinh…” She reached down to stroke Rinh’s hair, and then her ears. Rinh actually purred in response, and the sudden vibration was almost enough to make Y’shtola come right then and there.

Y’shtola felt rather like a marionette whose strings were in Rinh’s hand— but not unpleasantly so. Everything she did— her moans, her gasps, her murmured encouragements, the way her back arched and the frantic roll of her hips— was directed by some tiny movement Rinh made, every flick of the tongue, every curl of the fingers. She constantly thought she was finally about to come, but Rinh kept finding ways to push her a little farther, coax out a little more pleasure without quite letting her go over the top.

Even Rinh couldn’t keep this up forever, though, any more than an orchestra could sustain a perpetual crescendo. Soon, the cresting wave overtook them both, and Y’shtola was blissfully washed away.

***

Y’shtola, as she usually did, woke up before Rinh. It had been a long and difficult and above all strange three years, but here she was again, opening her eyes and being greeted by the sight of Rinh sleeping beside her, utterly at peace, aether gently pulsing in time with her breathing, skin dappled with the warm light of the rising sun. It was a different sun, around which spun a different world, but she still felt as if she’d come home after a long journey.

Y’shtola wouldn’t have minded whiling away the whole morning like this, but eventually Rinh began to stir. She offered Y’shtola a sleepy smile, and followed it up with a gentle kiss.

When she pulled back, though, she looked slightly apprehensive. Her eyes darted across the suite, and she seemed a bit more awake and alert.

“Shtola,” she murmured, “Is my aether still okay?”

“Of course it is,” Y’shtola said, softly.

“Eventually I won’t need to be reassured about that constantly,” Rinh said, but the relief on her face was palpable.

Y’shtola pressed a kiss to Rinh’s forehead. “Take as long as you need. You have been through a terrible ordeal, and seeking comfort or reassurance in its aftermath is hardly unreasonable.”

“Okay,” Rinh said, with a deep breath, lacing her fingers through Y’shtola’s, “Okay.”

“Would it help to talk about it?”

“Yes. No? Maybe? I don’t know…” said Rinh.

Y’shtola gently squeezed Rinh’s hands. “Take your time.”

Rinh hesitated for a moment or two more, but, finally, haltingly, she began to speak. “It… it hurt, Shtola— it hurt so much. I— I— it was hardly the first time I was sure I was about to die, which I suppose says something about sort of life I live, but nothing— nothing— felt like that. And you know the sorts of things I’ve been through.” She guided Y’shtola’s hand to her chest, to the scar carved by Zenos. “The sorts of things that have been done to me.”

Y’shtola nodded, slowly.

“But this— this hurt so much more and was so much scarier than any of that. I could feel myself slipping away, bit by bit, my own body betraying me as it warped and bent and broke, every thought and memory and feeling I ever had being drowned out by the overwhelming drive to consume all the aether I could. I was so close to just turning on my heel and killing you, all of you. For at least a moment or two, I was a sin eater. I— I— I swear I was.”

“But you still fought,” Y’shtola said, “You fought until help arrived, and you survived.” She tried not to think about how she’d seen Rinh as more or less already being a Lightwarden for days and days leading up to Amaurot. Instead, she gazed upon Rinh as she was now, whole and healthy and alive, biology and aetherology ticking away in perfect tandem. “And you survived.”

“I almost wish it left a scar or something.” Rinh’s eyes glistened with tears, Y’shtola realized. “Like— I don’t know. A blotch of alabaster flesh. A shock of Light-bleached hair. Something— something I can point to and say, here is a thing that happened to me, here is a thing I survived.  Like— like this.” Rinh pressed Y’shtola’s hand onto the ridge of her scar; Y’shtola could feel her heart beating a rapid rhythm. “This says Zenos stuck a fucking sword through me, but I’m still here. This— ” She indicated the notch taken out of her ear. “—shows that Ilberd came within a couple of ilms of beheading me, but I’m still here. But— but the Light— it was so much worse than any of that. But there’s nothing to show it’s a thing I lived through, another thing that tried and failed to kill me. Which sounds stupid, I know. I— I should be glad that I’m just— just fine. Like it never happened, like it was just a bad dream.”

“Not everything that scars us leaves a mark one can see,” Y’shtola said.

“I— I should be grateful I’m fine,” Rinh continued, choking back a sob, tears running in rivulets down the contours of her face, “I’ve seen what the Light can do to people. Titania locked in their castle. The desecrated corpses of Ardbert’s friends roaming about as hollow-eyed virtues. Discarded servants ground up into meol. A—and— ah…” A great, heaving sob wracked her body. “At— at Journey’s Head— the patients, Halric and the others, and— and Tesleen, oh gods, Tesleen, and— and— and— it could have been me, it was me, b-b-but I’m fine and alive and lucky because— because Hydaelyn says I’m special— I’m— I— gods damn it, I—”

Rinh was sobbing, now, her whole body shuddering. She seemed to be folding in on herself, trying to make herself as small as possible. She was taking quick, shallow breaths.

She’s hyperventilating, thought a part of Y’shtola trained in arts gentler than the elemental destruction of thaumaturgy, a lifetime ago and a world away. She’s having a panic attack.

Rinh was still clutching Y’shtola’s hands to her chest; Y’shtola extricated them, as gently as she could, so she could gather the Warrior of Darkness up in her arms. “It’s alright,” she murmured, “You’re safe. You’re safe, and you’re not alone; I’m here with you, for as long as you need.”

“It— it— it’s not alright,” Rinh stammered, shoulders trembling, eyes squeezed tightly shut, “What if— if— what if it’s still in me? One wrong move and all that Light just comes rushing back and I hurt everyone around me? What if I hurt you?”

When Rinh came down from this, when she was more lucid, Y’shtola reckoned that she’d benefit from a systematic breakdown of the state of her internal aetherodynamics, from getting a clean bill of health from an eminent expert in aetherology. Under ordinary circumstances, few things were more reassuring to Rinh than facts, empirical analysis, having more and better data in front of her. This wasn’t the time for that, though, not yet.

“You’re not alone, and you’re safe,” Y’shtola echoed. Rinh was trembling less, now, and her tears were starting to subside, but her breathing was still rapid and irregular. “Dearest,” she said, “I want you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

Rinh made a muffled noise that might have been affirmation.

“All right,” said Y’shtola, “Breathe in… breathe out. In… and out. In… out… in… out…” Soon, Rinh’s ragged breathing slowed down to match the pace Y’shtola had set. She still clung to Y’shtola, but no longer with such white-knuckled intensity. Her aether, no longer so tempestuous, glittered placidly. “You’re here,” murmured Y’shtola, “It’s eight o’clock in the morning, in suite 819 in the Pendants, just off the Musica Universalis, in the Crystarium, at the east of Lakeland, in Norvrandt, on the First reflection of Hydaelyn. And you’re safe.”

They lay silently together for a while, Rinh nestled against Y’shtola. Y’shtola ran her fingers through Rinh’s hair; her thumb traced slow, gentle circles over the close-cropped fuzz at the nape of her neck.

“Shtola…” Rinh said, sniffling, “You’re always so good to me.”

“You deserve all the kindness in the world,” answered Y’shtola softly.

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Y’shtola allowed herself a small smile. “And I, you.”

***

It was a slow, quiet day in the Crystarium; Y’shtola supposed everyone was still sleeping off their hangovers from the previous night’s revels. The Musica Universalis was nearly deserted when she and Rinh finally emerged from the Pendants in search of some breakfast; when they found a little café Y’shtola remembered from her earlier stay in the city, the only other person there was a bleary-eyed barista.

The quiet seemed to suit Rinh, though; she looked quite at ease as she sat across from Y’shtola, drinking coffee and nibbling on a croissant.

“I’m surprised the clerk didn’t recognize you when you ordered,” Y’shtola said, as she waited for her tea to steep.

“I know,” said Rinh, “Isn’t it great?”

***

After breakfast, they spent a little while longer browsing the markets, hand-in-hand.

“You’ve got to get one of these, Shtola,” Rinh said, at a shop selling electronics reverse-engineered from the Crystal Tower’s caches of high technology, Allagan and Ironworks alike.

“I just don’t see the point,” Y’shtola said, “It’s just a linkpearl you need to hold in your hands to use, which seems needlessly cumbersome.”

“But it can send text as well!” Rinh said, “That opens up all sorts of new use cases!”

Y’shtola laughed. “I’m not altogether convinced that allowing people to instantly send me a text missive whenever they please is a good thing. It seems rather a vexing demand on my time and attention.”

“It takes daguerreotypes, too!” Rinh said, undeterred, “And then you can send those, too.”

“Hm,” said Y’shtola.

“So if we get one for Lyse, too, we can totally send her dirty pictures.”

Y’shtola shrugged, amused. “All right, fine. I’ll buy the bloody things.”

Rinh grinned.

***

They returned to the Pendants laden with shopping bags. When all was said and done, they’d bought two tomephones (or whatever they were called; there had to be a better name than that), a couple of the cheesy romance novels Rinh liked, a couple of the ponderous history books Rinh also liked, new copies of some of the reference tomes Y’shtola didn’t feel like lugging all the way from Slitherbough, a pair of high-heeled shoes that caught Y’shtola’s eye (suitable for formal occasions and towering over Rinh even more than usual), a pair of hand-knit scarves (designed to commemorate the first brisk autumn day Lakeland had felt in over a century), half a dozen boxes of tea bags, a coffee grinder, and a mug with a picture of the Crystal Tower on it. Rinh had paid for it all; Y’shtola hoped the sudden influx of Ishgardian gil into the Crystarium’s economy wouldn’t lead to monetary inflation.

“You know,” Rinh said, “I think this is the first ordinary day I’ve had in months.”

Y’shtola unceremoniously dropped the shopping bags she was carrying in a heap. “In that case, it’s the first one for me in three years.”

Chapter Text

Rinh

Rinh was drowning.

Above her, the sky burned. Beneath her, a sea of scalding Light seethed. She flailed and thrashed as she tried to stay afloat, but just as she breached the ocean’s surface, her heart was pierced by a lance of Light, and she slipped back under the waves. Her lungs filled up with stagnant aether, her body rotting from the inside out. She was bleeding molten gold.

She woke up screaming.

“Shtola,” she gasped, eyes squeezed shut, not daring to look at her own hands for fear of seeing a stark white carapace in place of familiar scarred skin. “Shtola, is my aether still okay?”

No answer, save silence.

“Shtola,” she pleaded. 

But still no one answered. She was alone in bed.

Now completely terrified, she forced herself to open her eyes and face whatever gruesome fate had befallen her.

She was in a pitch-black room; within a heartbeat, though, her eyes adapted to the dark, and she was greeted by the familiar sight of her chambers at Fortemps Manor.

On the Source.

Oh.

She took a deep breath, and another, and another, wiping cold sweat from her brow. She slipped out from under the covers and stood up. Her legs wobbled alarmingly, and for a moment, she feared she would simply topple over and shatter like a vase, Light spilling all over an heirloom Ishgardian rug.

She steadied herself just enough to make it to her little escritoire. Among the scattered papers and piled books was a rugged-looking bit of magitek— her old aetheroscope. She switched it on and peered at her arm and hand.

Just the usual pale constellation of aether, same as any other living being.

She went back to bed, but sleep eluded her for the rest of the night.

***

Eventually, Rinh gave up on getting back to sleep; not sure how else to occupy herself, she wrapped herself in a dressing gown and headed downstairs to the library. The halls of Fortemps Manor were still quiet, even as the first light of the morning sun shone through the windows.

As soon as she stepped through the library’s door, though, she realized she wasn’t alone. She could hear floorboards creaking, and a book being carefully slid off a shelf. Edmont de Fortemps, count emeritus, was perusing the collection; perhaps he, too, was grappling with a bout of insomnia.

He looked up from the volume of poetry he was paging through, and smiled at Rinh. “You’re up bright and early, I see.”

Rinh just laughed, miserably. “I’d rather I wasn’t, honestly.”

Edmont closed his book and gave Rinh a more appraising look. “Something is troubling you, child.”

“Besides the fact that I had only got, what, something like… two hours of sleep?”

“Besides that.”

“I had a nightmare,” said Rinh, “It’s not a big deal. I’m… I’m just a bit rattled, that’s all.”

“Rinh,” he said, warm and kindly but still a bit firm; he’d seen more than enough of Rinh’s tendency to bottle things up to know that she sometimes required someone prodding in the right direction to reach out for help.

“On the First,” Rinh said, “I was hurt very, very badly. In a way that’s sort of aetherologically complicated and therefore hard to explain, but…” She was getting off-track, she realized; she took a breath and forced herself to get to the point she actually wanted to make. “Well, the specifics don’t matter. I was a hair’s breadth away from dying in just about the most awful way I can imagine.”

Edmont looked right at her, brows knit with concern.

“Well, I’m fine now,” Rinh said, shrugging. “Like… completely fine. Not even ‘I was healed and made a full recovery’ fine-- it’s like… it never happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hah. I suppose I am going to have to get into the weeds explaining it, after all,” said Rinh, “The short version is that-- okay, remember how the First was being overwhelmed with umbrally-charged Light aether?”

“Ah, yes,” said Edmont, nodding, “One of the truths revealed in your encounter with the Warriors of Darkness, I believe?”

“...what? Oh, right, that’s what Ardbert and them called themselves here, wasn’t it? Sorry, I’m extremely tired right now. On the First, they call me the Warrior of Darkness, but, you know, in a good way? Okay, that’s also very complicated.”

“I can already tell I shall have my work cut out for me if I attempt to chronicle this episode in my memoirs,” said Edmont.

Rinh smiled, in spite of herself. “I can see it now— ‘To a land nearly swallowed by a flood of Light, to the First reflection of Hydaelyn, they came.’ And then right after that it just abruptly becomes a fifty page treatise on elementally-charged aetherodynamics co-authored by Shtola and Urianger. It’d pad out the page count, too!”

“I’m fairly certain my publisher would be rather cross if I did that.”

“Oh, I bet they’d eat it up in Sharlayan, though.”

“In any case,” Edmont said, “You had something more serious you wished to talk about.”

“Right,” Rinh said, with a heavy sigh, “The Light. The Light has ways of just… getting inside you. Messing up your aether, tilting it more and more towards umbral stasis, until eventually you become what’s basically the Light version of a voidsent-- a sin eater, bodies and souls and minds being all twisted up in ways I didn’t think were possible. It… it’s… the transformation is awful to see, just awful— It’s the sort of thing I just didn’t have any sort of frame of reference for. It’s like… Gods, I don’t even know what I’d compare it to.”

“The transfiguration wrought when those of Isghardian descent imbibe draconic blood, perhaps?”

Rinh shook her head. “Not really. I mean, maybe visually, but, if that happens to you, you’re still a living being made of muscles and bones and stuff, you’re still… well, you. Maybe if it’s before the war ended, you hear Nidhogg’s refrain and go on a rampage to try and torch Ishgard, but that’s still… political, emotional, ideological. It’s still a decision you’re making, even if it’s a compromised one. And in peacetime… well, it’s like that Marcelloix guy in the Firmament, right? He was one of Ysayle’s people, he turned into a dragon, and now the war’s over and he’s come back, but he’s still just, you know. A guy. A big scaly guy, but just… a guy.” She closed her eyes, thinking her words over; on so little sleep, her thoughts still felt sluggish and disjointed. “Becoming a sin eater isn’t like that. It’s just… a total abnegation of the self. A sin eater is just a thing; all it does, all it can do is mindlessly seek out aether to gorge itself on. It’s not even really alive, not really. It’s just a bunch of condensed aether that might bear some passing resemblance to something or someone that used to be alive, that’s all.”

“Hm,” said Edmont, considering this, lips pursed, “Perhaps a better comparison, then, is that it is as if the Church’s old lies about the fate of heretics were actually true?”

“Yeah, yeah, that seems about right,” said Rinh, with a nod, “Anyroad. That… that almost happened to me.” The mere thought of it was enough to make her shudder; for a moment, she could have sworn she felt the prickly sensation of the Night’s Blessed’s cleansing water meeting her tainted aether, up and down her body. She took a deep breath— carefully, carefully— and hugged herself, as if trying to keep her aether inside her body, where it belonged.

“Rinh…” said Edmont, “Child…” He softly rested his hand on Rinh’s shoulder; the warm weight of it grounded her a bit.

“It started off subtle. I didn’t even know anything was amiss until Shtola got a look at my aether and was all like, what the hell, Rinh, why's your aether all goofed up? And then it just got worse and worse and worse and worse— as I took in more and more Light, I lost more and more of myself. Bit by bit at first, then all at once, until I was hanging by nothing but a rapidly fraying thread. And— and I knew that if that thread snapped, there’d be nothing left of me but this mindless thing. A weapon, a bloody weapon in the Ascians’ schemes, to be turned on my friends, my family, and then the world.”

“Yet, here you are, returned to the Source in triumph; by the Twelve’s grace, that fate never came to pass.”

“No, it never did. Ryne’s mastery of the Light and Shtola’s love and conviction were both just about able to hold what was left of me together until we finally confronted Emet-Selch. But it was a close thing. I felt myself— breaking up, I guess. Physically and metaphysically. My memories all just sort of sloughing away. Drowned in the Light. I was gone, Rinh Panipahr was just… gone. Nothing left but hunger and an impulse to move forward. But then— well, it’s even more complicated. Shards of sundered souls merging, champions summoned from beyond the rift, dream-cities under the sea, standing aetherially downwind of an Ascian Paragon’s dying gasp— but the upshot is everything worked itself out fine, just fine, all tied up with a lovely little bow.” She closed her eyes; when she speaks again, her voice is small, frail, whisper-quiet. “So it’s stupid that I’m still feeling messed up about it.”

“I won’t pretend to understand the aetherological concepts underpinning your tale, but I still know enough to tell that you’ve endured a truly harrowing experience. There is no shame in being affected by that.”

“I guess,” murmured Rinh. “But after everything I’ve been through, this is what’s too much? I’m fine. None of us died. We saved two worlds. Honestly, the end result was better than it would have if things had gone to plan. So, really, I should just suck it up.”

“Emotional repression has ever been the watchword of the Ishgardian nobility,” said Edmont, “and as the former head of a High House, I suppose I could be considered an authority on the subject.”

Rinh looked up at him. “What’s your expert opinion, then?”

“It never, ever works, child.” He pulled Rinh closer, into a more firm embrace; the scent of hearthfire clung faintly to his clothes. “Far better to let yourself feel what you feel, deeply and honestly— to seek comfort when needed and offer it when called upon. Haurchefant always excelled at this, and we could both stand to follow his example.”

Rinh nodded, slowly. She blinked back tears— and only then did she realize she’d started to cry some minutes ago. “He had that way about him, didn’t he? After— after the banquet in Ul’dah, when I was holed up in Camp Dragonhead, I fancied that I was just being… stoic. The epitome of heroic virtue. Like my grief was a predator that wouldn’t see me if only I held still.” She sniffled. “He saw right through that. Of course he did. He could tell that, no, it wasn’t stoicism, I was just, you know— traumatized? Severely depressed? And only after actually facing that could I even start trying to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.”

Edmont is silent for a moment or two. “It brings me no small amount of solace to see all the ways his boundless warmth persists in this world,” he said, finally, his voice sounding a bit hoarse, a bit raw. He kissed the top of Rinh’s head.

Rinh’s family always did keep their ghosts close, Panipahrs and Fortemps both.

***

Later, Rinh had sat down to eat a proper breakfast, and although she was still exhausted, with a cup of coffee in hand and a plate of waffles before her, the world began to feel a little more bearable.

Bright, cold sunlight streamed into the dining room through arched windows. Much of the household had gathered here, although there were a few absences. Emmanellain and Honoroit were still minding Camp Dragonhead, although Rinh was sure they’d come calling sometime before she left Ishgard. But Edmont sat across from her, and Artoirel, comte de Fortemps, sat to the left of her.

Rinh’a sat to her right, ignoring his breakfast in favor of an animated discussion with Saulette about a new sort of airship he’d seen moored at Ishgard’s airship landing.

“This was my first time seeing it up close,” he said, “But I’ve read about them— they’re a new Ironworks design. They’re rigid-bodied, so they’re more durable. Which is really useful in Coerthan weather! But they’re also heavier, so it takes more ceruleum to keep them up in the air.”

Rinh couldn’t help but smile at his sheer enthusiasm. He was almost eleven, now, and nearly as tall as she was; he dreamed of becoming either an airship designer or a naval architect, and his always insatiable curiosity was fixed upon disciplines relevant to his goal—- maths, physics, draftsmanship, and even some basic principles of magitek when Cid or Nero were around and had some time to spare.

He was also old enough to understand what, exactly, his mother does on her adventures , which made things simultaneously easier and so, so much more difficult. There could be no more shielding him what it meant to be the Warrior of Light— how dangerous it was, how often the star itself teetered on the brink of annihilation.

Sometimes she wondered if being the Warrior of Light and being a good parent were impossible to reconcile. But there was nothing for it but to try as best as she could. If she couldn’t be the mother he deserved, she could at least help build the sort of world he deserved.

“Hey, Mum,” he said, “Do they have airships on the First?”

She smiled. “Yes, but frankly they aren’t very good airships. Magitek in general was a lot less prevalent, except around the Crystarium— and the Crystarium wasn’t exactly sitting on a big ceruleum stockpile, so they still mostly relied on chocobos and amaro. Eulmore’s got a fairly sizable fleet, but they aren’t too different from the airships Highwind Skyways was building decades ago, besides being encrusted with pointless gold bric-a-brac.”

Rinh’a frowns, concerned. “Gold’s really heavy! Wouldn’t they have to burn way more fuel?”

“Yeah. It’s all terribly inefficient, but that's just how things go in Eulmore. Well, up until a revolution happened, anyway.”

Edmont chuckled. “Sometimes, it seems rather like wherever you go, a revolution follows hot on your heels.”

“That’s only happened, what… two, three… four times? Five at most.”

Before she could elaborate on the subject, though, the manor’s steward stepped into the dining room. “Excuse me, Lady Rinh,” he said, “There’s a delivery for you waiting without.”

“Oh!” Rinh said, brightly, “That’s probably the rest of my baggage. I could only take so much of it with me through the aetheryte, so the rest had to be sent up from Mor Dhona the old fashioned way— including a few things for you, Rinh’a! Let’s take a look at them after breakfast, okay?”

Rinh’a beamed ear-to-ear.

***

If Rinh’a’s room was anything to judge by, clutter seemed to run in the family; it was nearly as full to bursting with books, papers, writing tools, and other assorted knick-knacks and keepsakes as his mother’s.

Calling it messy, though, would be uncharitable, Rinh decided. Rinh’a, evidently, wouldn’t countenance anything like the chaotic whorl of notes and maps strewn about Rinh’s escritoire, or the piles of books that collected at the foot of her bookshelves, their proper places out of reach for a woman standing a mere four fulms and ten ilms. Rinh’a’s books were carefully arranged on their shelves, the papers covering his little desk sorted into neat stacks. The desk’s centerpiece was a half-assembled model kit, the distinct profile of the Enterprise Excelsior slowly coming together. Above, its completed fellows were proudly on display— miniature boats, machina, and airships lined up in perfect parade order.

Meticulous for his age, Rinh thought. She hadn’t been like that when she was ten— although she supposed she had far fewer possessions to organize in the first place, and no fixed abode to keep them in.

Right now, though, the newest additions to the room were still scattered across Rinh’a’s bed, nestled amidst the shredded remnants of the parcels they came in— some half dozen books from the First.

“I can’t believe I’m holding a book from another world,” said Rinh’a, leafing through one he’d chosen at random, eyes wide with wonder at the alien Vrandtic letters and engravings of entirely unfamiliar people and places. “It’s amazing.”

“That one’s a history book,” said Rinh, “It’s about the old Ronkan Empire. Shtola picked that one out; she’s been spending a lot of time studying the Ronkans. And speaking of Shtola, she wrote a letter for you.” She slipped an envelope out of her pocket; it was inscribed, in Y’shtola’s looping, elegant handwriting, simply For Rinh’a. She passed it down to her son, who excitedly opened it.

***

Dear Rinh’a,

I hope you enjoy this selection of volumes from the First curated by your mother and myself. I can imagine everything you’ve learned of this distant star has simply prompted more questions. It is our hope that this collection will allow you to discover some of those answers for yourself, for knowledge seeks no man.

The language of Norvrandt is— for the most part— identical to our own, but the Vrandtic script they are written in may be more unfamiliar. Your mother would be happy to instruct you further on the subject upon request; however, should you wish to decode them for yourself, I have found that thinking of them as a simple substitution cipher for Eorzean letters is a fruitful approach.

Know that you are ever in my thoughts, Rinh’a. There are a thousand thousand things I wish to tell you about— the wonders of this world, the history we have unearthed, the ways of the myriad peoples who abide here— and, in time, I shall. Until then, I can but hope that this correspondence will serve as a soothing balm to the sting of separation.

Yours affectionately,

Shtola

***

A light so brilliant it hurt, her sensitive Keeper’s eyes overwhelmed by excruciating brightness.

Eventuality, though, the light dims into a lurid red glow— the city of Amaurot, in flames. Two vague shadows resolve themselves into distinct figures— a Garlean man in the uniform of the old republican legions, and an Ascian looming over him, floating above the broken pavement and shards of shattered glass.

“I really don’t get what your damn problem is,” says the Ascian. A woman’s voice, oddly familiar. “All of this is for the sake of the Source. It’s like, what, are you afraid you won’t make it through the last few Rejoinings? Maybe that’d be true if you’re just some random nobody, but you’re Hades. I can pull some strings, make sure you and your pals make it to the other side.”

The man glares up at her, golden eyes defiant. “You keep calling me that,” he hisses, “Hades. My name is Solus van Galvus. And the world you’d so casually sweep away is my world, my home, with all its history and culture and great civilizations.”

“You just can’t get past that, huh?” the Ascian scoffs, “It’s like— hey, you know the Allegory of the Cave? You’re the guy in the cave! And here I am offering to break your chains and show you the real world and you’re all like, ohh nooooo, don’t do that, the shadows on the wall are so beautiful! And— well, we’re called Ascians for a reason. We’ve seen the real world— not just the shadows it casts, not just just the fading echoes of when it blew up.” She sighs. “The world was beautiful, once, and it kills me you can’t see it. That’s what this is all about— we’re trying to build the world you’ve deserved all along. If you’ll just let us.”

“I swore an oath, Azem,” says Solus, “To the Senate and the people of the Republic. And when Hydaelyn saw fit to lift me up as Her champion, that oath extended to all the world. If you think anything would make me forsake all that I fight to protect, you’re bloody delusional.”

“Ugh. Fine. Whatever. Have it your way, ‘Solus’. Let’s start over. No more bullshit. No more pretenses.” The Ascian sweeps an elegant, be-ringed hand across her face, and a scarlet glyph appears in its wake. “Hi, I’m Persephone, and you’re about to get your ass kicked. Prepare to die, idiot.”

***

Rinh sat bolt upright in bed, cold sweat running down her brow, nausea taking root in the pit of her stomach.

She just barely managed to stagger her way to the washroom before she doubled over and threw up.

Another nightmare, she thought, another damn nightmare.

***

The next day, Rinh decided— more or less on a whim— to take a day trip to Ala Mhigo.

It was a decision she could make so lightly because, for whatever reason, aetheryte travel never seemed to take much out of her— in the past, she’d taken six or seven hops in a single day with no ill effects— not even fatigue or minor aether sickness. It was a big advantage early on in her adventuring career— once she’d attuned herself to a decent number of aetherytes in strategic locations, she could be first on the scene for jobs all over Eorzea. As the Warrior of Light, of course, she regularly went even further afield. Teleporting from, say, Aldenard to Othard was a lot more draining because of the sheer distance involved, but she could still make such trips a couple of times before she even needed a nap. It was as if constantly being in motion was just her natural state.

Compared to such feats, a quick jaunt from Ishgard to Ala Mhigo and back was trivial. So when Rinh called Lyse on the pearl to say she’d be visiting in half an hour, Lyse sounded surprised, but not too surprised. By the time Rinh’s feet hit the sun-baked cobblestones of the Ala Mhigan Quarter’s aetheryte plaza, Lyse and M’naago were already waiting for her.

“Rinh!” exclaimed Lyse, throwing her arms around Rinh in about as tight an embrace as she could without accidentally lifting the smaller woman off the ground. “I’m so, so, so glad you’re okay!”

“Right back at you,” Rinh said, “Things were looking pretty dicey on the frontlines for a while.” Black Rose, she thinks.

“Yeah,” said Lyse, letting Rinh slip free from her arms but keeping hold of her hands. “But… here we are!”

“I’ve heard the frontier’s been quiet lately— is that true? Or am I going to need to go down into the trenches and knock some heads together?”

“It’s true for now, anyway,” said Lyse, “A lot of the Scholae have been withdrawn altogether, if you can believe that.”

“The shinobi have reported some movement from the VIIth, though,” added M’naago, “It’s possible they’re going to be rotated into Ghimlyt Dark in place of the Scholae.”

“The VIIth?” asked Rinh, glancing between Lyse and M’naago, “Like… the Nael van Darnus, Project Meteor VIIth?”

“Sort of,” said Lyse, “But most of those guys died at Cartenau, so it’s really only the same legion on paper.”

M’naago nodded. “Intel said they’ve still got substantial R&D facilities, but geared towards the production of warmachina, not, you know…”

“Calamities,” Rinh finished. “Do we have an ETA on them reaching the front, or…?”

“Nope!” said Lyse, with a shrug, “Honestly, everything is kind of up in the air right now. Garlemald is in, like, full media blackout, state news channels just playing the national anthem and the test pattern mode. Rumor has it— totally unconfirmed rumor, so don’t spread this around— that the emperor’s dead.”

“Holy shit,” said Rinh.

“And there’s an even more unconfirmed rumor that he got assassinated by Gaius van Baelsar.”

“What? I thought he was still running around destroying Black Rose stockpiles? Which, well, seems to have got done…” Rinh scratched her chin. “Going on a detour to kill Varis doesn’t really seem like his style, though…”

“You believe he’d be too focused on his mission, then?” M’naago asked.

“What?” Rinh shook her head. ”No, mostly I just think he hasn’t got the stomach for it. He strikes me as the sort of man who disapproves of how the empire’s being run, not that it’s an empire in the first place. When he was a legate, he put Black Rose in mothballs just because if it were deployed, there’d be nothing left to conquer. And I think he still thinks that, even if he says he left that life behind.”

“There’s another story, too,” said M’naago, “Some of our sources report that the crown prince killed his own father.”

“Zenos... which is to say… Elidibus, then. Maybe Varis was trying to get out from under the Ascians now that Emet-Selch’s out of the picture? Varis certainly seemed a bit disgruntled about all of that in the parley. He was tired of killing everyone because the Ascians want him to when he could be killing everyone because he wants to…”

“Who knows?” said Lyse, “But the point is— things probably aren’t going to fall apart in the next couple of days or so, so you’ve got some time to just put your feet up and catch your breath.”

Rinh let out a sigh of relief.

***

“So,” said Lyse, “Do you have any news?”

Lyse, Rinh, and M’naago were up on the parapets of Ala Mhigo’s walls, which offered a brilliant prospect of the city below. The sun was low over the western horizon, painting warm sandstone masonry in delicate reds and golds. The streetlights were being lit; many were still that harsh ceruleum blue. The signs of battle had mostly been cleaned up years ago, but scars of the occupation lingered everywhere, right down to the infrastructure, to the city’s very blood and bones. Cermet ramparts and landing-pads bolted on to dignified old temples and townhouses. Asphalt highways slicing through residential neighborhoods. Sleek, expensive cars sitting on parking lots and out-of-the-way side-streets, abandoned by their Garlean owners and covered in two years worth of dust and rust. Divots in the pavement marking the former locations of checkpoints and security cordons.

Still, it was beautiful.

“Gods,” said Rinh, with a helpless laugh, “Where do I even start?”

“Well,” said Lyse, “You could start with Shtola and the others. How are they doing?”

Rinh smiled. “Funny you should mention that,” she said, “I’ve got a couple of things for you Shtola asked me to pass along...”

“Oh yeah?” said Lyse, intrigued.

“The first is this letter she wrote.” Rinh took an envelope out of her pocket and pressed it into Lyse’s hands.

Lyse tore it open and began to read.

Lyse,

Lyse, oh Lyse, my dear Lyse— how I miss you, fiercely and ardently. 

I’m sorry to have left you alone for so long. Rinh assured me that ‘mere months’ have elapsed on the Source during my absence, but that’s still a substantial amount of time, even if it seems brief compared to the three years I have lived upon this alien star.

Rinh also told me that you were a great help to her after the other Scions and I were left… indisposed, let’s say. Thank you for looking after her; it brought me no small amount of comfort to know that she was not forced to face such a trying time unaided, that in spite of everything you were still a wellspring of strength, of compassion, of love.

I hope it does not come across as trite to say that the way you love has been revelatory to us. You are so free with your love, so open with your affections, so adept at baring your heart and voicing your desires. Yet I know that comfort with us and with the others you love is born of a comfort with yourself you fought long and hard to achieve. It speaks to a capacity for introspection that does not come naturally to me. Sometimes, my attempts at introspection dissolve into mere rumination. I have often found myself ruminating, in your absence.

Case in point: the above paragraph, I suppose. Let me try again: Lyse, I love you, and I miss you. I fondly dream of a day in which you once more hold me in your arms.

Love,

Your Shtola

Rinh waited as Lyse read the letter, watching as a smile slowly spread across her face and her cheeks darkened with a faint blush. Finally, though, she folded the letter back up, and reverently placed it in her jacket’s pocket.

“What’s the second thing Shtola asked you to pass along?” asked Lyse.

Rinh pulled Lyse into a tender embrace, stood up on her tippy-toes, and kissed her.

“That,” she said.

***

The Scions are gathered in the Rising Stones. Y’shtola, in her crisp white coat. Thancred, face half-hidden by a ragged bandana. Urianger, peering out at the world through smoked-glass goggles. Alphinaud and Alisaie, Tataru and Krile. And Rinh, looking like she’s not slept for the last week.

Y’shtola is the first to break the heavy silence hanging over the room. “There’s truly been no word from the front?”

“None,” says Thancred, “The Alliance notified us of a Scholae counteroffensive, then reported a gas bombardment, and then— nothing. Total radio silence. All the military linkshells are down.”

“Black Rose,” Rinh says, softly, eyes fixed on the ground, “It’s got to be. Gods damn it.”

“Lyse was leading operations in that sector,” Y’shtola says.

“I know,” says Rinh, still not meeting anyone’s eye. Y’shtola steps forward and gently takes Rinh’s hands in hers; her expression is the most heartbroken Rinh has ever seen her look.

“We need a plan and pronto,” says Thancred, “Since in addition to everything else, the imperials must have breached our lines. We could be the only thing between them and the rest of Eorzea.”

Y’shtola nods, slowly. “We… we can do nought but carry on the fight.”

“For those we have lost,” says Rinh, “For those we can yet—”

The nearly silent hiss of gas entering the room.

And all at once, the Scions are dead, strewn across the floor of the Rising Stones, scythed down like a field of wheat.

And then— nothing but bright, umbral stagnation.

***

Rinh woke up in Lyse’s little Ala Mhigan apartment, tangled up in the sheets of Lyse’s couch- cum- bed.

The room was shrouded in almost total darkness— it was clearly some ungodly hour at night. Still, Rinh could easily make out her surroundings. Lyse was beside her, eyes open, breathing, awake, alive.

“Rinh,” she murmured, quietly as she could, not wanting to wake up M’naago, still peacefully slumbering on the other side of the bed. “You okay? You were tossing and turning. And you, um, elbowed me in the sternum.”

“Sorry,” said Rinh, “In my defense, though, this bed is thirty-three percent over capacity.”

“I forgive you. Even if your elbows are really pointy. But… are you okay?”

Rinh closed her eyes, thinking this over. “Not really,” she said, finally.

“Can I help?”

“Hold me,” whispered Rinh, “Just… hold me.”

Enfolded in Lyse’s strong arms, Rinh fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Y’shtola

Y’shtola, once more, found herself in Slitherbough, without Rinh, awaiting her arrival.

The circumstances were considerably less dire, of course. The First was saved. The Ascian Emet-Selch was dead. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn and all the peoples of the First had done everything they could on this end to avert a Calamity at home. The night had returned— the Night’s Blessed had finally seen the boundless skies and stars of the Sunless Sea. The headache Y’shtola had been nursing since her arrival to the First three whole years ago had finally cleared up.

The wait would be much shorter, too. Rinh was spending just two months back on the Source. Y’shtola could hardly begrudge her that. She had to report what happened here, deliver messages from the First and collect messages from the Source, research the question of bringing the Scions home from the other side of the Rift.

But, more than that…

Rinh had spent months on the First. She’d been away from her son for so long, and by the end was certain that she would never see him again. She had come within a hair’s breadth of losing herself utterly to the Light. Of course she wanted to go home and be with her family. (The rest of her family, Y’shtola reminded herself— Rinh considered the stranded Scions family, too.) Her presence at at Y’shtola’s side meant her absence from the lives of everyone she left behind on the Source— Rinh’a, Lyse, Vash’a, Krile and Tataru and all the other Scions back home, the Fortemps, and so, so many others. Wherever Rinh went, she made connections— and she was constantly in motion.

Y’shtola felt a tinge of envy at the thought of it. She dearly loved many people on the First— Slitherbough was as much her home as the Rising Stones was, and more of a home than Old Sharlayan had ever been. But she dearly loved many people on the Source, too, people she hadn’t seen for three years. How much growing up had Rinh’a done in her absence? He was ten when she departed the Source, so now he must be…

…still ten. Mere months had passed on the Source, of course. Presuming G’raha had been correct in his assertion that the passage of time in the First was, at present, synched up with the passage of Time on the Source, it was still a good two months before the boy’s nameday in the Sixth Astral Moon.

What if that wasn’t true, though? What if time had once more come unmoored between reflections? What if Rinh was gone for not two months, but two years? Two decades?

Or, worse still, something could have gone wrong on the Source. What if the Rejoining itself being averted failed to prevent the deployment of Black Rose? Without the aetherial thinning caused by deteriorating conditions on the First, the weapon’s effects might be less capital-C Calamitous, but it was still fully capable of cutting a brutal swath through Eorzea. What if Rinh, after fighting so hard to stop the calcifying rot of the Light from killing her, was still struck down by umbral stagnation by another means?

Or perhaps some entirely new crisis had broken out. A new Primal, a fresh imperial offensive, a betrayal from within the ranks of the Alliance, the machinations of Elidibus, last of the Unsundered? Possibility after possibility cycled through her imagination, each more lurid and horrific than the last.

Get ahold of yourself, Y’shtola, she thought, taking a deep breath, one hand on the cool living stone of her chambers, doing her best to ground herself.

Rinh wasn’t even overdue yet, she reminded herself; she’d said she expected to come back this week, not necessarily the first day of it. And if something had gone wrong, surely Feo Ul would have stolen into her dreams and passed along a message.

Unless— unless—

Stop this, thought Y’shtola.

She took another deep breath, and closed her eyes.

But all she could see was the image of Rinh crawling forward as her very soul cracked apart and something monstrous rose in its place.

Y’shtola put the grimoire she was studying aside and stood up from her desk. She wouldn’t get anything done like this.

She shakily made her way to the door, and stepped outside, into the sunlight.

Runar looked up from the pot of stew he was stirring. When he saw Y’shtola, he immediately sprang to his feet. “Master Matoya!” he said, “Is aught amiss?”

Y’shtola managed a tired smile. “And here I thought I was the very picture of stoicism.”

“Ah, I’m sure an untrained eye wouldn’t have suspected a thing.”

“In any case,” Y’shtola said, “Nothing is amiss per se; I was simply ruminating on things I have no way of affecting, unhelpfully, until my thoughts had got hopelessly tangled up.”

“Would talking it through help?” he asked, in that gentle way of his.

Y’shtola hesitated. Runar was a close friend and a trusted confidante, and often had advice worth heeding. But he was also quite obviously infatuated with her, and although he took the fact that his affections were doomed to be forever unrequited with remarkable grace, going on at length about her own romantic attachment felt like it’d just be rubbing his nose in it. Certainly, Runar cared a great deal for the Warrior of Darkness in his own way, but, in this particular context, perhaps…

“I merely need something with which to occupy my mind and busy my hands,” she said, instead. “I think I shall help tend to the village commons for a while.”

Slitherbough’s village commons have been especially productive of late. The land was more fertile, new seeds with better yields imported from Lakeland and Kholusia were being cultivated, and the crops thrived in natural sunlight and rainfall. At the moment, a veritable bumper crop of maize and popotoes was being harvested— enough to not only keep all the Night’s Blessed fed, but also trade a surplus for ore from Amh Areng and manufactured goods from the Crystarium.

It was a modest sort of prosperity, but even that much would have seemed inconceivable scant months ago. Plans for rebuilding Fort Gohn were now under serious consideration, rather than simply being a fond and distant hope.

Y’shtola spent the rest of the day working in the gardens. Runar briefly protested that the great Master Matoya didn’t need to dirty her hands with such labor, but only half-heartedly. In truth, he obviously appreciated the help— and the company. She knelt in sun-baked soil and planted a row of seeds. She allowed herself not to think about the fact she’ll likely be back on the Source by the time they were ready for harvest— that was a trouble for another time.

Around her, the business of everyday life in Slitherbough went on. Runar gathered ingredients for his stews. Children playing hide-and-go-seek ran across the village square and into the caves, taking advantage of all of Slitherbough’s nooks and crannies. A few teenagers lounged about, practicing their Ronkan by coming up with creative ways to insult one another. Quinfort and Valan passed by, and Y’shtola heard a snatch of conversation— apparently, said Quinfort, the Great Serpent of Ronka had some extremely specific ideas about the most auspicious date and time for their wedding. A party of hunters set out, proudly carrying new bows crafted by the viis of Fanow.

Sometimes, Y’shtola supposed, talking really wasn’t necessary. Sometimes, it was enough to simply be around other people rather than stew in her thoughts in solitude.

***

Late that night, as Y’shtola was getting ready for bed, pleasantly exhausted, her tomephone softly buzzed.

She unlocked the thing and was delighted to find a message from none other than Rinh Panipahr. Without even reading it, Y’shtola knew that Rinh must have returned to the First— making calls from across the rift was not among the thing’s features.

The message itself was short and sweet:

back from source. tired as all hells. see you in slitherbough tomorrow 

zzzzz

This was followed by a very small glyph of a woman sleeping in a bed.

Y’shtola smiled. The tomephone was a ludicrous object, of course, but it was ludicrous in a way that was so very Rinh.

***

The moment Rinh appeared by Slitherbough’s aetheryte, she broke into a run, headed directly for Y’shtola at full speed. The two women more or less collided, laughing and embracing. Rinh’s aether glittered brilliantly, like stars in a pitch-black sky. She kissed Y’shtola, and kissed her, and kissed her again.

Y’shtola was vaguely aware that some of the Night’s Blessed were staring at the two of them— but she doubted they were perturbed. This was the arrival of the Warrior of Darkness, after all, and the people of Slitherbough knew— better than most— that Darkness was the aspect of emotion, of life, of love, of all the sacred things the Light sought to scour from this star.

“Allin tuta, Master Matoya,” said Rinh. She bowed her head slightly, shading her eyes with her hands— still the traditional greeting of the Night’s Blessed, even in the absence of the Light’s glare.

“Allin chi’si, Sizha. I trust your time on the Source was enjoyable?”

“Definitely,” Rinh said, with a nod, “Seeing everyone back home… it’s something I needed rather badly. I hate the way we’re all… spread out. I wish… I wish it wasn’t like that. I wish we could all be together again.” Rinh hesitated for a moment, drawing herself back. She looked up at Y’shtola with bright, imploring eyes. “Matoya,” she said, softly, “Is my aether still okay?”

Rinh… Oh, Rinh. Y’shtola smiled as reassuringly as she could. “It’s beautiful and lively as ever, my dearest Sizha.”

Rinh sighed with relief. “Sorry to, you know, immediately go into that, but… I don’t know. I’m never quite sure the Light’s really gone.”

“Do you have reason to think it endures?” asked Y’shtola, “Are you suffering any lingering ill effects?”

“Not… quite,” answered Rinh, “Uh, hey, can we go inside? I don’t… it’d be easier to discuss this without half of Slitherbough staring at me.”

“Of course,” said Y’shtola, and gently ushered her towards the door to her chambers.

***

Rinh sat down on the edge of Y’shtola’s bed, eyes downcast, hands folded in her lap. “So,” she said, as Y’shtola stepped over half-collapsed towers of books to sit at her side, “I’ve been having these nightmares. More than usual, I mean. Every night, like clockwork— nightmares. At least— at least I hope they’re just nightmares.”

“Do you believe they might be something more?” Y’shtola asked. She gently laid her hand on Rinh’s; Rinh leaned on her, head resting on her shoulder.

“They’re all about… about things that could have been. Paths not taken. Disasters narrowly averted. Dreams where I succumb to the Light down in Amaurot, or of dying in that doomed future where the Eighth Umbral Calamity happened. Dreams where I really am that woman from the Convocation Emet-Selch seemed to think I was, and he’s the plucky hero facing me down. Dreams where Ser Zephirin’s lance pierces my heart, and Haurchefant watches me bleed out on the floor of the Vault. Or— or—” Rinh smiled weakly, “Well, you get the idea. And— they’re probably just dreams. But I can’t help but wonder if— if my Echo broke, somehow?”

“I’m hardly an authority on the Echo,” Y’shtola said, “But if you’d like to go over the relevant literature together, I shall try to be of some assistance.”

Rinh shook her head. “Research about this is probably best done on the Source. Krile can probably help me out with that. I just… if it looks like I’m having a nightmare or some such, could you see if there’s any aetherial traces of the Echo?”

Y’shtola nodded. “Easily.”

“All right,” said Rinh, “Okay. That’ll be a really useful data point to have in front of me if I’m going to sort this out.” She sighed in relief. “Anyroad. Enough of all that for now. I expect you’ll want the news from home?”

“Please,” said Y’shtola, “Presumably nothing too catastrophic has transpired during your sojourn on the Source?”

“All’s quiet on the Ghimlyt Front,” said Rinh, looking quite glad the conversation had moved on, “Oh, the emperor’s dead, or something, but the consequences of that are still working themselves out. Short-term, though, it’s brought all Garlean offensive operations to a screeching halt...”

Y’shtola watched Rinh carefully as she continued her rundown of where things stood in Eorzea. The anxiety that she’d somehow missed some remaining irregularity in Rinh’s aether gnawed at her— that Rinh’s continuing discomfort was the result of some negligence on her part. But Rinh’s aether sparkled prettily as ever, and her soul was whole and healthy. She looked like Rinh, no more and no less.

***

Rinh, as always, seemed at home among the Night’s Blessed; as the day progressed, she looked more and more at ease.

Runar, of course, had insisted on holding a feast to welcome the Warrior of Darkness back to the village, and this time there was no plausible reason to beg it off. Y’shtola knew that Rinh generally didn’t like being the center of attention at social functions, but here she seemed content enough. Feasts in Slitherbough always felt less like formal banquets and more like big family dinners; the Blessed treated Rinh not as a hero to be feted, but rather as a sister returning home after a long voyage.

“This was nice, Matoya,” Rinh said, as the feast slowly wound down and the gathered Blessed began to disperse, “It makes me think of when I was a little girl, and Keeper families from all over the eastern Shroud would get together sometimes for moots when the seasons changed, and it was the most people I’d ever seen gathered in one place— a glimpse of a world so much bigger than our one little corner of the woods. But usually that was… I don’t know, like… maybe fifty or sixty people, tops. So looking back, it was just… cozy. But at the same time, I still remember that sort of dawning wonder.” She smiled, fondly. “My first kiss was at a moot like that.”

“Was that when you met Koh’sae?” asked Y’shtola.

Rinh shook her head. “No, I was actually on my own when I met him,” she said, “I was out hunting, since even Auntie Sizha’s apprentice still had to do her bit to keep the family fed, and he’d taken on a leve to clear out some Gelmorran ruins full of dullahans, and it just so happened we crossed paths. But this was a few years before all that. I was fifteen, I think? And there was this girl with eyes the color of moonlight I was absolutely smitten with.”

“Ah,” said Y’shtola, wryly, “I’m not the first woman to win your affections after all, then.”

“Hah, no,” said Rinh, “I know for a lot of people realizing they’re interested in girls or boys is a hard-won epiphany, and I respect the hell out of that. But I just knew. Like it had never even occurred to me not to be bisexual.”

Y’shtola supposed she’d had just that sort of hard-won-epiphany when she was younger, freshly admitted to the Studium in those twilight years of the Sharlayan colony, well before the exodus but after the Forum decreed its necessity. Against that uncertain backdrop, Y’shtola subjected her feelings about her female classmates to the same sort of sharp, analytical focus she brought to magical research or deciphering old tomes. No hypothesis seemed to fit the priors, not really. Was it a sort of… fierce admiration? Aspiration? Envy? Did she just want to be friends? Good friends? You know, extremely good friends?

None of the above, it turned out.

It hardly seemed to matter at the time; romantic entanglements were for people with more time and fewer responsibilities than Y’shtola Rhul. But she still felt she’d arrived at a satisfactory answer to her quandary; the abstract pleasure of a puzzle piece fitting in its place just so.

“So,” said Y’shtola, “How did things go with Miss Moonlight Eyes?”

“There was music and dancing that night, and I’d somehow managed to work up the courage to ask her to dance. And so we danced, and danced, and danced. I hadn’t actually learned how to dance yet back then, but I still had fun trying, even though I’m sure it just looked like I was inelegantly flailing about. And then, when the last song finally ended…” Rinh said, the slightest hint of a blush coloring her cheeks, “She kissed me good night. And then she laughed, and said my breath smelled like mun-tuy sauce.” She looked askance, her expression growing wistful. “I never saw her again after that. Presumably her family moved along to another part of the Shroud. Which, well, good idea, in retrospect.” She sighed. “I can’t even remember her name, now. It’s not like there’s anyone to ask. I hope she’s having a nice life somewhere out there.”

“That really does sound rather like the sorts of festivals the Blessed have on occasion,” Y’shtola said, “Once again, I can see why you always feel so at home here, Sizha.”

Rinh nodded. “The details might be all different,” she said, “But the soul of this place is just like home.”

***

The inner sanctum of Master Matoya was dark, as usual. The only light was a low fire burning in the hearth to ward off the autumn chill, dimly illuminating the great heaps of tomes Y’shtola had collected.

Y’shtola hardly needed light to perceive the room’s aether swirling around her, and Rinh’s sharp Keeper eyes could see perfectly well in near-total darkness. So the chamber’s darkness felt homey and comfortable; it marked this as a private place, for Y’shtola and Rinh alone.

“Oh,” said Rinh, rifling through her bag, “Before I forget— I’ve got some letters for you.” She retrieved a small stack of envelopes and passed it to Y’shtola. 

“Thank you,” said Y’shtola. She decided to set the letters aside for the moment, leaving them on her nightstand to peruse later.

Rinh, meanwhile, had shed her overcoat. She glanced around the room, looking for somewhere to hang it. With no coatrack in sight, though, she settled for draping it over the back of a chair.

Underneath the overcoat, she was wearing a rather sharp-looking suit. Sharp in more ways than one, Y’shtola realized— aetherial threads had been woven into its fabric, so she could see its form with remarkable clarity. Rinh’s jacket was of the full-skirted, narrow-waisted Limsan cut she tended to favor; her trousers were crisply pleated. A dark waistcoat, a starched-white dress shirt, and a slim, modern-looking necktie completed the ensemble.

Rinh must have picked this outfit out just for her. A small gesture, Y’shtola thought, but a very romantic one. “You’re looking quite dashing tonight, dearest.”

Rinh grinned, the barest hint of her fangs tantalizingly visible. “It’s easier to look dashing when I don’t have to go tromping around in heavy armor everywhere. It’s a lot safer to travel on the First than it was a few months ago, let’s say.”

“And what could have possibly caused that?”

Rinh shrugged with mock-uncertainty. “Improved economic conditions allowing for more reinvestment in regional infrastructure, maybe? G’raha Tia finally has room in his budget to fill in all those potholes on the Lakeland-Rak’tika post-road.”

“Self-effacing to a fault as ever, I see,” said Y’shtola, amused, “But I still think you deserve some acknowledgement for all your good work on this star’s behalf.”

“Maybe the Facet of Production will send me a nice set of steak knives or something.” Rinh winked.

“The bespoke products of the Facet’s artisans are of a uniformly high quality— and you do so adore collecting an astonishing variety of sharpened implements,” said Y’shtola, “However… if you are amenable, I would fain show you my personal appreciation for all that you have done.” She kissed Rinh on the cheek— a brief press of the lips, but enough to leave her blushing.

“In a way that also involves a bespoke implement crafted by the Facet of Production, I suppose.” Rinh giggled, one hand delicately covering her mouth.

“Sharp as ever, my dearest Rinh.” And as easily flustered as ever, thought Y’shtola, which never ceased to be endearing.

Still, she was fairly certain she could make Rinh even more flustered in short order. She grabbed ahold of Rinh’s necktie and gave it a little tug— when Rinh offered no resistance, she yanked it, pulling her in close. She kissed Rinh again— more insistently, this time, more hungrily, open-mouthed; she felt the rasp of Rinh’s fangs across her tongue, sharp but feather-light. When their lips finally part, Rinh is flushed and breathless.

“I missed you,” murmured Rinh, “Two months isn’t even that long, but it was still hard to be away from you— and so soon after you waited three entire years for me to show up, too.”

“And you know how I feel about being kept waiting,” Y’shtola said, voice husky in Rinh’s ear, “Don’t worry, though— I’ve put more than a little thought into ways you can make it up to me.”

“Ah,” said Rinh, “I’m going to be pressed into service as your research assistant for the rest of my time here, then.” Despite her quip, though, it was clear that the last threads of Rinh’s composure were quickly coming unraveled. Before Y’shtola indulged herself tugging that thread the rest of the way, however, there were still some particulars to sort out.

Time to drop character for a moment, then. “Do you have anything in particular you’re after?” Y’shtola said, “Or not after, for that matter. You… you have had a trying time of it as of late; I would understand if you want to be handled more gently than usual.”

“Actually,” said Rinh, “I… I’d like it if you were a little rough with me.”

“Are you sure?” asked Y’shtola.

“Yeah. I am. I…” Rinh trailed off, considering her wording. “It’s a bit hard to articulate. I… I want to… I don’t know. Feel present in my body? Assert control over myself by giving myself over to you?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, deep in thought. “Sorry, that probably all sounds like complete gibberish. Just— just really let me have it, okay? Just fuck me silly.”

Y’shtola kissed her on the forehead. “That can be arranged.” Then, more softly: “I’d feel a bit more comfortable, however, if you went over the— the things you’d rather I avoid.”

“Sure,” Rinh said, nodding. “All the usual big stuff, obviously. You know, don’t grab my wrists. Don’t restrain me in a way I couldn’t get myself out of in an emergency. Remember that my fangs can break skin and be careful of ‘em— I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you, even by accident. You’re a miqo’te, so I don’t mind if you touch my tail, but still don’t pull it. Tease me, but don’t degrade me. But obviously you know all that stuff, anyway.”

“It never hurts to be precise.”

“Yeah,” said Rinh. “Um, I guess, more specifically about the particular sort of thing I’m after... I don’t mind if you pull my hair this time— in fact, I think I’d quite like it if you did a bit— but mind the ears. Not that I’d ever accuse you of not knowing how to handle a lady’s ears, but you know. Oh, and I don’t really care what happens to this suit—” Rinh gestured at the aforementioned outfit. “—since I picked it out specifically for you to enjoy. In whatever way you please. What about you, though?”

“Keep talking to me, if you can,” Y’shtola said, “I want to know you’re still with me.”

Rinh smiled innocently. “Well, of course; you won’t have anything to punish me for if I’m not mouthing off at every opportunity.”

“Do you remember our safeword?”

Rinh nodded.

“Say it.”

“Bergamot.”

“Good.” She stepped up to Rinh, and gently placed a hand on her chest. “Are you ready?”

“C’mon, Shtola. Fuck me up.”

A smile spread across Y’shtola’s face; she licked her lips. The field of play was set, and the game was on. “Rinh, dearest,” she said, giving Rinh an experimental shove towards the bed, “You’re well aware that’s something you must earn.”

Rinh was already blushing profusely, Y’shtola noticed, and those bright eyes of hers met Y’shtola’s, eager and expectant. It was something she never tired of; sometimes, all it took to send the vaunted Warrior of Darkness into a swoon was a small gesture and a certain tone of voice.

No reason not to press the advantage, then. She shoved Rinh down onto the bed, leaving her sprawled out across it. Before Rinh could react, Y’shtola was on top of her, pressing her knee— still covered up by her high boots— between her legs. Rinh exhaled sharply— not quite a moan, not yet, but still plainly trending in that direction. Y’shtola decided to let Rinh grind against the leather for a few moments— denying Rinh what she wanted was so much sweeter when she’d already been allowed a taste. Before long, though, Y’shtola withdrew the pressure.

“Shtola,” Rinh whined, “Seven hells, Shtola…” Y’shtola was amused to notice that she was still rolling her hips against nothing, desperately seeking friction and finding none. Rinh seemed to realize how silly she looked, too; she was trying to stifle a giggle.

“My, but you’re impatient,” Y’shtola murmured. She manhandled Rinh out of her jacket, flinging it across the room, and tore open her waistcoat, not even bothered to unbutton it properly first. She slid her hand under the fabric of Rinh’s shirt and onto her breast and was pleased to find her fingers touching bare skin; apparently Rinh hadn’t bothered to put on a chemise or a bra underneath. “The sight of you! The mighty Warrior of Darkness, hero of two worlds, on her back and mewling like a cat in heat.” 

Rinh stuck her tongue out at Y’shtola. “You’re so lucky you’re also a miqo’te and therefore allowed to say stuff like that, since otherwise I’d be so cross right now.” Rinh’s own hand, meanwhile, had dipped between her legs and down her trousers, apparently hoping Y’shtola wouldn’t notice— or, more likely, absolutely hoping she’d notice.

“Touching yourself without permission, I see.” Y’shtola sat upright, forcing Rinh— still prone— to crane her neck to see her. “Extraordinarily inconsiderate of you. Clearly— clearly— I’ve been far too lax with you; sterner measures are required. Off the bed and onto your knees. I have some things to get ready.”

Rinh, clearly eagerly anticipating the forthcoming “sterner measures”, wasted no time scrambling out of bed to kneel down on the floor. Y’shtola, on the other hand, had every intention of taking her time.

First, she began to disrobe. She decided to make a little show of it, sensuously opening laces and clasps, slithering out of her dress as gracefully as possible, deliberately turning herself this way and that so that Rinh always saw as much of her as possible. She felt a bit self-conscious and silly about this, especially once she got to her boots, lost patience, and wound up unlacing them in a fairly brisk, businesslike manner. Rinh still looked absolutely spellbound, though.

“Are you sure I can’t touch myself?” Rinh asked. She rested her hands on her thighs, fingers drumming against taut fabric.

“And sate your want before I’ve taken care of you properly? I think not, dearest.” Y’shtola turned her back to Rinh and began rummaging about the suite until she found a small bottle of lubricating oil and a nondescript cardboard box bearing the mark of the Facet of Production.

“Is that—?” Rinh began, before Y’shtola looked back over her shoulder at her. She was still kneeling obediently; her hands kneading at her own thighs but still not daring to wander further up her leg.

Y’shtola lifted the lid off the box and tilted it so Rinh could see its contents: a leather harness, and the the exquisite and more than a little imposing instrument Rinh had dubbed the SDS Fenrir of sex toys. Y’shtola winked.

“Aw, Shtola, you get me the nicest things.”

“Yes, well,” Y’shtola said, fastening the harness around her hips and between her legs, “Perhaps I’ve simply thought of a better use for that smart mouth of yours.” She stepped back towards Rinh. Rinh looked up at Y’shtola, slightly in awe.

And then— Y’shtola must have adjusted her stance at exactly the moment Rinh was leaning forward, and the toy gently poked her on the forehead.

Rinh stared, blinking. Y’shtola looked slightly mortified. The toy wobbled comically. And then Rinh broke out into giggles, and soon Y’shtola had joined her.

Eventually, Y’shtola managed to at least somewhat compose herself. “Let’s… let us… hm. Where were we again?”

“Oh, you know,” said Rinh. She winked, and nonchalantly took nearly the entire length— and girth— of the toy into her mouth.

“Ah,” purred Y’shtola, “Equally accommodating at both ends, are we?” She was genuinely impressed, truth be told— apparently one of the Warrior of Darkness’s many talents was the complete lack of a gag reflex. Y’shtola put her hands on Rinh’s head, fingers tangling in her hair. The reins now firmly in hand, she drew back slightly, withdrawing the toy by a few ilms— and then she thrust her hips forward, and they began in earnest.

It was an arresting spectacle— every thrust met by a bob of Rinh’s head, lips wrapped around the toy’s shaft, cheeks hollowing, looking up at Y’shtola with half-lidded eyes. Every time Rinh started to drift away from the tempo Y’shtola set, she redirected her efforts with a quick tug of the hair. Even like this, with Rinh in no position to talk back, there was still something of their usual push and pull. 

All the while, the harness’s straps were rubbing between Y’shtola’s legs, sending a dull thrill of pleasure into her core. She’d never come like this— she needed more stimulation for that — but it certainly added a certain frisson to Rinh’s performance.

She decided it was time to move things along, though. She took a half-step back, and gently pushed Rinh away from the toy. Rinh grinned up at her, fangs proudly on display.

“Look at you,” said Y’shtola, “The state you’re in.”

“Is Slitherbough really a state?” Rinh said, “It struck me as being more of an autonomous commune.”

Y’shtola sighed in feigned disappointment. “An absolutely dreadful pun, dearest.”

“…well, I liked it, anyroad,” said Rinh.

“Clearly, becoming a parent causes some sort of neurological change that makes you think extremely highly of your own terrible jokes.”

“It’s… clever wordplay! It’s the sign of a quick wit! A facility with vocabulary!”

“Enough,” said Y’shtola, just barely managing to avoid cracking a smile. “Stand up and strip.”

Rinh readily obeyed, of course; Y’shtola watched her intently as she undressed herself, neatly folding up each garment she removed and set aside; her constellations of aether, once veiled by fabric woven with magicked thread, were now laid bare.

“Like what you see, Shtola?” said Rinh, clearly noticing the way Y’shtola was staring at her.

“Very much so,” said Y’shtola, “I was simply taking a moment to decide how best to show my… appreciation, shall we say?”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Rinh, “Starts with F, ends with -uck me.” 

“A most vexing enigma,” murmured Y’shtola, stepping closer to Rinh, “Fortunately, I believe I can decipher it.” She ran a finger across Rinh’s chest, tracing the arc of one of her old gladiator scars. “I am an archon, after all.” Y’shtola pressed her lips against Rinh’s neck, first kissing it softly, then sinking her teeth in, eliciting a surprised but pleased little gasp. She inspected her handiwork— a perfect little love-bite blooming before her eyes, the slightest rippling of aether as blood flowed towards bruised skin.

“Fuck,” breathed Rinh.

“I thought you could do with a reminder of just who’s in charge here,” Y’shtola said breezily. She gave Rinh a small nudge towards the bed.

“W-well,” answered Rinh, “Consider me reminded.”

“Sit down,” ordered Y’shtola. She found a bottle of lubricating oil and began spreading it down its length; the toy was already warm and wet to the touch from Rinh’s earlier efforts, of course, but Y’shtola felt that for this particular use-case, there was no such thing as being too lubricated.

Rinh sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Is this new? It’s softer than I remember.”

“Rinh,” hissed Y’shtola, making a point of pronouncing the name the huntspeak way, drawing out the aitch. Y’shtola only knew a few words of huntspeak, mostly picked up from Rinh over the years, but she was a miqo’te, and more than capable of voicing those ancestral phonemes the other Spoken races would mangle.

Similarly, Y’shtola was never much for hunting— studying in Sharlayan, the closest she came to that was chasing down a specimen or two when the Gleaners were too busy to field her requests— but she could still pounce.

They tumbled onto the bed together, laughing, fingers interlaced, an undignified heap of miqo’te.

“Fuck me, Shtola,” pleaded Rinh, legs obligingly spread, “Please.”

Y’shtola briefly entertained the idea of making Rinh beg a little bit more, but, in all honesty, she was starting to feel a touch desperate herself. “Well, all right,” she purred, “Because you asked so nicely.”

Rinh opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but whatever it was became a breathy moan as the toy slid into her with a roll of Y’shtola’s hips.

She quickly assumed a more rapid pace, each thrust coming practically before Rinh was done reacting to the last one. Rinh was always pretty loud when she’s being fucked, but tonight she exceptional; her cries of pleasure quickly became a resounding crescendo. Y’shtola couldn’t help but worry that even the thick stone walls separating her chambers from the rest of Slitherbough’s caverns and tunnels would be insufficient to muffle the din.

Then again, it wasn’t like anyone in Slitherbough didn’t know what it meant when Master Matoya summoned Sizha to her chambers; a community so small and tight-knit was a terrible place for keeping secrets.

Y’shtola could feel the leading edge of fatigue from her exertions, but one look down at Rinh— neck arched, fangs bared, face flushed, aether alight— was enough to spur her on, to renew her vigor. She was so beautiful like this.

“You’re doing so well,” said Y’shtola, “Taking my strap like the good girl you are.”

Rinh’s response to the praise was a jumbled stream of inarticulate noises and huntspeak that Y’shtola supposed wouldn’t have been coherent even if she did comprehend that ancestral tongue— but it was clear she was delighted by the compliment.

And all the while, the harness rubbed against Y’shtola just so, sending a jolt of sensation deep into her core each time the toy plunged into Rinh. By the time Rinh finally— exultantly— came, Y’shtola herself was teetering on the cusp. The very moment Rinh finally came down from that sustained peak, Y’shtola displayed exactly the sort of impatience she’d chided Rinh for; she fumblingly loosened the harness’s leather straps just enough to allow her hand to slip underneath and between her legs. By now, she was so sensitive that it only took the slightest touch of her fingers to her clit to send her, too, toppling over the edge.

They laid limply in one another’s arms for a while, exhausted and utterly spent, too out-of-breath to even say anything.

Y’shtola was the first to break the silence. “Dearest,” she said softly, as she gingerly eased herself into sitting upright, “You did wonderfully. You were wonderful.” She ran her hand through Rinh’s hair, tangled and sweaty though it was, when her fingers found Rinh’s ear, she scratched it in just the right way to elicit a contented purr.

“Do you need anything?” Y’shtola asked, softly, freeing herself from the already half-unbuckled harness. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ll still be walking funny tomorrow,” Rinh answered, with a laugh, “Can you get me a glass of water? I’d get it myself, but if I tried to stand up I’d probably just immediately fall on my arse.”

Y’shtola kissed Rinh’s forehead. “Of course.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and carefully— carefully— stood up. She felt a bit unsteady on her feet, still, and her arms and back were sore, but she was still clearly in better shape than Rinh. She padded across the room in search of an empty glass, finding one she’d apparently abandoned on top of a cabinet filled with loose papers and parchment.

A few small gestures and a short incantation sufficed to tilt the ambient aether’s aspect just enough to fill the glass with water; with an even more minute nudge towards the ice-aspected, a handful of ice cubes coalesced in it.

It’s the little things, sometimes.

***

The very first sight that greeted Y’shtola when she woke up the next morning was Rinh’s peacefully sleeping face. Y’shtola watched her for a while, remembering Rinh’s concerns about her nightmares, her Echo, the state of her aether.

Nothing seemed amiss, to Y’shtola’s relief; Rinh lay there serenely, her breathing even, her aether shimmering with life. 

Y’shtola sat up in bed, careful not to disturb Rinh’s slumber. The small pile of letters she’d left on the bedside table caught her eye. She shuffled through the envelopes— a few of them looked to be official correspondence of various sorts, and she set these aside for when she was properly awake. There were also some more personal letters, though, and these she decided to read right now.

The first she opened was written in Rinh’a’s neat handwriting.

Dear Miss Shtola,

Thank you so much for the books! Figuring out how to read Norvrandt’s alphabet was really fun. I’m still getting used to it, so I’m not getting through these books as quickly as normal ones. Maybe that’s okay, though! If I take my time, it’ll be that much longer before I don’t have any more to read.

The Ronkans are so interesting! They’re a little like the Allagans, but from not nearly so long ago. Also, they seem way nicer. They still have ancient ruins and robots and floating cubes and stuff, though, and that’s pretty cool.

I miss you, and I hope you can come home soon! I know what you and Mum are doing is important, though. Saving two whole worlds! That’s such a big deal. I’m really proud to have people like that in my family.

Love,

Rinh’a

Y’shtola smiled. The lad was precocious, wasn’t he? To think Moren had suggested sending him picture books; Y’shtola still felt a little offended on Rinh’a’s behalf.

The next envelope she opened was unmistakably written in Lyse’s energetic hand.

Hi Shtola!

Okay. So! Rinh told me all about what you guys were up to over there, but I still have a few questions:

• What the fuck?

• No, really, what the fuck???

• also can you send me a picture of yourself in your gothy witch dress because I’m very intrigued 

• Seriously, though, what the fuck?

I thought running a revolutionary army was complicated! And here you’ve been, dealing with umbral Light, alternate worlds, time travel (???), fae king succession, and that guy from the expedition to Crystal Tower like five years ago is there too, for some reason? And not only was Varis (RIP idiot, by the way) telling the truth about the empire’s founder being an Ascian, but he was just following you around for a couple months? And he saved your life? But also tried to kill Rinh?? But also also thought he knew Rinh from a past life? And all that happened in a fake city he built underwater? Everything Rinh told me pretty much just left me with more questions. When you get back, we’re gonna have to go over all of this again, all three of us. Hopefully over drinks!

I got the point, though, which is that everything worked out, which is great, but it also came really really close to being a total disaster. And maybe I don’t know about reflected worlds or sin eaters or floods of Light, but I do know a thing or two about close calls. They stick with you, even if you end up getting through it. Rinh’s pretty clearly dealing with something like that; sometimes, she had the same sort of look in her eyes I’d seen from soldiers who’d been dug out of the rubble at Specula Imperatoris, or were bombarded for days straight at Ghimlyt Dark. So I get why you’re worried about her, why you wanted me to look out for her.

But please try not to forget yourself, too. You should have someone looking out for you, too. You’re tough as nails, but sometimes you push yourself so hard, and I can’t help but worry. So just… well, remember that you’ve kind of been through it, too, and be kind to yourself.

Wow, look at me, getting all sappy! I know you won’t mind, though.

Love you. Miss you.

xoxoxo

Lyse

Y’shtola couldn’t help but smile— so much warmth, so much affection in these letters, passed along from one world to another. In a sense, the First and the Source were separated by a vast cosmic gulf. But not an insurmountable one— even now, Rinh was a bridge between worlds, a precious thread connecting here to there, a medium by which the love of those on the Source for those exiled on the First, and the love borne by those on the First for those left behind on the Source, could cross the rift itself.

And, with that momentous first step already taken, the task of bringing the Scions home felt doable in a way it hadn’t in months.

Chapter Text

Rinh

The sky seems a little brighter than it should be. Ardbert would like to imagine he’s just been dazzled by the sun hitting Eulmore’s whitewashed spires, but he knows that’s just a comforting lie. Nyelbert’s suspicions were confirmed by a flurry of correspondence across Norvrandt, from the court mages and nu mou enchanters of Voeburt to the sages of the ancient city states just past Rak’tika’s western fringes: ambient aether levels were slowly thinning out all over the continent— and, very likely, across the world. What aether persisted was tilting dangerously towards the stasis of Light.

Renda-Rae’s been making inquiries of her own, consulting with the hunters, rangers, and adventurers who were constantly coming and going. Beneath the usual boasting and posturing, she’s noticed an undercurrent of fear. A few distant cities seem to have dropped off the face of the star— no one had heard from the great castle-cities dotting the Far Eastern archipelago for some time, for example— it was as if they’d been swallowed up by the earth, or swept away in some terrible flood.

And all of these phenomena seemed to begin just after the Warriors of Light did what Hydaelyn bade, and dispatched the Ascians Mitron and Loghrif. Whatever is happening— and it can’t possibly be good— was all the fault of Ardbert and his comrades. They did everything right, but still— everything is coming unraveled.

He folds his arms, staring out across the sea. Ships are coming and going from the dockyards sprawling out from Eulmore’s central spire, just as they had since he was a boy in Kholusia, watching sails appear over the horizon and dreaming of the far off lands they’d come from. To the west, a barquentine is launched from its drydock at Venmont Yards. To the east, fishing boats just off the coast haul in their first catch of the day. To the north, the Ladder slowly ascends the cliff-face. Everyone is going about the business of everyday life— but there’s something in the air. The tides don’t quite look right. The wind blows weakly, or not at all. Everything is just a little off— a little too still, a little too silent.

“Hearken to my words, Warrior of Light,” says a voice right behind him. He spins around, hands tightening around the haft of his axe, and finds himself face-to-face with an Ascian. His robes are white, but the red mask he wears is unmistakable.

Ardbert hefts his axe, but the Ascian stands there, unperturbed— nonchalant, even. “You and yours have erred greatly,” says the Ascian, “You’ve surely realized that your rash actions have permanently disrupted the balance of Light and Dark upon which life up on this star depends. However— it is not too late to right this wrong, to restore equilibrium. If you’ll only listen to what I have to say.”

Ardbert grimaces; his instinct is to just cleave the bastard in two, but he knows Ascians are harder to kill than that.

And all of this started because Ascians were slain by his hand.

Could he have gotten it all wrong? Was Hydaelyn misleading him and his friends? Was the Echo just a siren song leading the unwitting to ruin?

He should at least hear this one out.

He takes a step back, axe still at the ready. “All right, I’m listening,” he says, brusquely, “Talk quick.”

The Ascian smiles, although there’s a grimness to it. “Far faster simply to show you.”

“What—” Ardbert begins, but before he can say another word, he’s somewhere else entirely.

He and the Ascian are both suspended high in the air, above a landscape Ardbert can’t quite place. The sky is so bright that it hurts to look at.

No, not the sky— it’s a wave of pure Light; it takes a moment for Ardbert to even parse what he’s seeing, such is the sheer appalling scale of it. Far below, he can see tiny buildings being swamped by it as it grinds forward— seemingly slow and inexorable from this height, but likely at terrifying speed for someone standing at its base. A whole city is being enveloped by the Light and swept away— Ardbert is watching thousands of lives being extinguished right before his eyes.

“Behold, the fruits of your good work,” says the Ascian. His voice isn’t smug or gloating, though—instead, he strikes Ardbert as just being tired. Tired and sad. “Behold, the fate of stars fallen to Hydaelyn’s machinations.”

Ardbert is speechless. The Flood of Light looms ever larger.

And then— and then something emerges from the tidal wave, something brighter still than that terrible wall of Light. A winged figure wielding a blazing sword, a pure white shield, clad head-to-toe in knightly armor, an angelic avenger with feathers like blades.

Ardbert can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at himself.

Which doesn’t make any sense— he can barely process what this creature is, but it’s certainly not in his likeness— the figure in the armor is compact, feminine, mystel. The armor itself looks Voeburtite— certainly nothing like the sturdy steel and furs he favored.

But he can’t shake the feeling this is him, the traveler, the wandering hero. The Warrior of Light.

But she can’t shake the feeling that this is her, Persephone, Azem, counselor to the people. The Warrior of Light.

But she can’t shake the feeling that this is her, Rinh Panipahr, daughter of Vash, mother of Rinh’a. The Warrior of Light.

She’s at the summit of Mount Gulg, spreading her wings for the first time and rising into the air. Below, people scurry about in various states of distress— a pair of hyurs, three elezen, a miqo’te. She can barely make them out as Light clouds her vision, but she senses that they’re important, somehow.

“Rinh!” shouts the older of the two hyurs, hand outstretched towards her, fear and desperation in his voice.

The miqo’te woman steps in front of him. “She’s gone, Thancred.” There are tears in her silvery eyes, but her voice is firm, her stance resolute. “All we can do for her now is grant her peace, and see that her soul finds its way to the Sunless Sea.” She raises a gnarled wooden staff; fire-aspected aether begins to converge around it.

The Warrior of Light swings her sword, and—

***

“Rinh?” said a voice, as she was gently shaken awake. No, not a voice— the voice from the dream. “Rinh, wake up.”

She opened her eyes, and flinched away at the sight of that same woman with silver eyes staring her down.

She blinked, momentarily disoriented— but then she remembered when and where and who she was. She was in the quiet dark of Y’shtola’s sanctum in the caverns of Slitherbough.

“Shtola,” murmured Rinh, as Y’shtola took her into her arms.

“You were having a nightmare,” Y’shtola said, voice quiet and gentle, “But it’s over now, and you’re safe.”

“Okay,” breathed Rinh, “Okay.” She was silent after that, but her trembling subsided, and a haze of panic seemed to clear itself away from her mind. “My aether— is it… you know?”

Y’shtola gave Rinh a long, appraising look, before nodding slowly. “At the moment, you are the very picture of aetherial health.”

“Before you woke me up, did you— did you see any trace of the Echo? Because this one really felt… Echoey.”

“I did.”

“So, what’s the prognosis? Has my Echo slipped out of control? Did it get all screwed up by the Light, or something?” Rinh almost felt eager; if all of this really did turn out to be the Echo going haywire, that meant that perhaps everything she’d been going through of late— the panics, the nightmares, the insomnia— was part of a puzzle to be solved, data points in an aetheric conundrum. It was something that could be fixed.

“Yes and no,” said Y’shtola. She draped her arm around Rinh’s shoulders; Rinh leaned on her, letting Y’shtola support her weight. “Based on my observations, I’ve been able to put together a working theory. I did, indeed, discern the telltale aetheric signature of the Echo— less intense than it is during an ordinary vision, but recognizable. But I did not observe this until after your aether was already stirred up with the characteristic emotional tumult of a nightmare.”

“Oh…” said Rinh, deflating a little bit, “So they’re just like regular dreams, except they’re pulling things out of the Echo instead of just from memories.”

Y’shtola nodded. “That’s my hypothesis, at least.”

“Makes sense. The Echo can be triggered by strong emotions, and it taps into memory, so…” Rinh sighed. “It adds up.”

“Yet you sound somewhat skeptical, dearest.”

“Not skeptical, just…” Rinh said, “Well, ‘your aether is all goofed up in an empirically observable way’ just feels more fixable than just, you know… just feeling so bloody rattled by nothing. By my own mind and heart.”

“You’ve been judging yourself so harshly,” said Y’shtola, “Holding yourself to an impossible standard. You needn’t do that. To be affected by surviving something so harrowing is not a moral failing.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot, lately.” Rinh closed her eyes, head still resting on Y’shtola’s shoulder. ”But just because I can think that doesn’t mean I feel it. So I… I don’t know.”

“What is it you feel, then?”

“I feel as if I’m being… ungrateful, maybe? Since everything worked out basically as well as they possibly could have. If… if things had gone according to plan and I’d been spared the agony of turning into a bloody sin eater, we may very well have still saved Norvrandt and forestalled the Eighth Umbral Calamity… but G’raha wouldn’t have made it, and Emet-Selch would still be lurking about doing gods know what.”

“One can lament a misfortune that has befallen them without tacitly hoping for whatever outcome would have resulted had that misfortune been erased from history’s annals,” said Y’shtola. She rubbed Rinh’s shoulder soothingly, and Rinh felt a little more grounded, a little less harried. “But if you must think of it in those terms, consider going back a step— what if there had been a plan that took into account the Exarch’s survival, Emet-Selch’s machinations, and the toll that the Light took upon your body?”

This made a certain sort of sense to Rinh— when she thought about it, the way things turned out wasn’t totally free of negative consequences if she counted her own anguish as one of those consequences. If everything really had worked out as well as it could have, she wouldn’t feel like this. Her suffering still counted, her pain still mattered.

Rinh tried very hard to make herself believe that.

***

That morning, Thancred and Ryne arrived in Slitherbough.

“Here to whisk her away to the Empty, then?” asked Y’shtola, a wry smile on her face.

Thancred shook his head. “Not just yet. Urianger is still minding the shop out there— we, on the other hand, were just passing through, and we thought we’d drop in for a friendly visit.”

“Passing through?” said Rinh, “Passing through to where? The only things further out than here are Fanow, Qitana, and Ux’ner. None of which really seem like your scene.”

“Well, uh…” Thancred looked askance, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “We may have diverted ever-so-slightly to get here.”

“We were going from Amh Areng to the Crystarium,” said Ryne, “Which wouldn’t take us anywhere near here, but Thancred was worried about you, and wanted to check in on you.”

“My secrets betrayed!” exclaimed Thancred, laughing.

Y’shtola chuckles. “A shocking twist of fate, to be sure.”

“Uh, check in on both of you, I meant,” said Ryne, not terribly convincingly. The girl was a worse liar than G’raha Tia, which was no small feat.

“It’s all right,” Rinh said, with a shrug, “The three of you—” She glanced from Ryne to Thancred to Y’shtola, “—were there with me at Mount Gulg, at the Tempest, at Amaurot, so you know exactly how rough things got.” Probably more than anybody else, thought Rinh— Y’shtola could see her aether boiling away, Ryne was sensitive to every eddy in the churning Light, and Thancred… well, he’d seen Rinh when she was suffering in ways even the rest of those closest to her never knew about. “It’s just… stuck with me longer than I’d have liked. I suppose an excruciating near-death experience has a way of lingering in one’s thoughts.”

Y’shtola and Thancred exchanged a look. “At this particular moment,” Y’shtola said, “I feel as if Rinh would benefit from finding a way to get her mind off what could have been.”

“It’s hard not to think of it,” murmured Rinh, gaze firmly focused on the dirt beneath her feet. “All that Light… the memory of it can just rush in to fill any quiet moment.”

“Hm,” Thancred said, “Something to keep your mind off your ordeal…” He smiled. “I believe I can oblige you. Rinh, do you still keep that knife hidden in your boot?”

“Of course.”

“Have you been practicing with it? Keeping your skills sharp?”

Busted, Rinh thought. “I, um… not as such, no.”

“Rinh,” said Thancred, his tone chiding but not unkind, “If you pull a knife on someone and you can’t use it—”

“I know, I know.”

“—then all you’ve done is give them a knife once they’ve knocked it out of your hand.” He smiled. “Hey, Ryne, how would you like to spar with the great Warrior of Darkness?”

Ryne nodded, a look of determination in her eyes. “I’ll— I’ll do my best!”

“All right,” said Thancred, producing a set of wooden training daggers from somewhere inside his duster’s voluminous pockets, tossing one to Rinh and the other to Ryne, “Warrior of Darkness versus Oracle of Light— let’s go!”

Rinh and Ryne each took a few steps back from one another; Ryne bowed to Rinh, which was very polite of her. Rinh tested the weight of the wooden knife in her hand— it was unfamiliar, and honestly a bit heavier than a real dagger would have been, but the grip was comfortable and it felt well-balanced.

The two combatants dropped into fighting stances— Ryne doing so with easy assurance, Rinh reaching for muscle memory that just wasn’t there anymore.

They circled one another warily, each looking for an opportunity. Rinh thought she found one first, but Ryne easily ducked under her clumsy slash, and an instant later Rinh felt the blunt wooden dagger prodding her in the gut.

Ryne stared for a moment, blinking, like she couldn’t quite believe she’d won.

“Rest in peace, Rinh Panipahr,” said Thancred, “And good work, Ryne. Let’s try this again.”

So the fight started again. This time, Ryne struck first, catching Rinh off-balance with a feint before sweeping her legs out from under her and knocking her down.

“You don’t need to go easy on me,” said Ryne, even as she held the training blade to Rinh’s throat.

“I’m not,” Rinh said, miserably.

“She’s really not,” said Thancred. “Let this be a lesson to you, Ryne— no one is good at everything.”

They sparred again and again, and although Rinh eventually managed to fend off defeat for minutes at a time, it always came for her in the end.

It was a bit embarrassing, truth be told— Ryne was a specialist with these weapons and Rinh wasn’t, of course, so she had no illusions about her prospects for victory, but she would have at least liked to be able to say she got a good hit or two in first.

It more than got her mind off the Light, though, so— mission accomplished.

***

Rinh is running across the parapets of the Vault, Haurchefant at her side, the Archbishop’s airship— and the man himself— almost within reach. One last push and all this is over.

And then a lance of pure Light rents the sunset-dappled sky in twain. Haurchefant sees it before Rinh, so he’s the one who raises his shield to block it.

So he’s the one to be transfixed by it as it pierces his shield, then his armor, then his living flesh. He collapses to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Rinh is kneeling at his side in an instant; an instant later, her chainmail becomes a White Mage’s robe, and her blade a gnarled wooden staff.

She can fix this, she thinks, pouring every bit of her aether she can into Haurchefant’s dying body. But he never stops bleeding, his wound never closes. Potent as white magic was, whatever force struck him down was more potent still.

But she keeps trying because, gods, what else can she do? Even as his life ebbs away, she pours her life into him, willing him to survive, willing his heart to keep beating.

He’s coughing up blood, now. And then, he’s coughing up something that isn’t blood— it’s liquified aether, bright and stagnant, umbrally charged with Light.

And then— white feathers.

Something that isn’t Haurchefant but still wears his face stares up at Rinh, eyes cold and hungry. It spreads its wings and lunges at her.

And Rinh, too, finds herself skewered on a blade of Light.

***

Rinh screamed, and screamed, and screamed. She barely noticed being gathered up in someone’s arms, barely felt the warmth and weight of a body pressed against hers, barely heard gentle voices calling her name.

Then she heard music— a man’s voice, singing softly— and this was incongruous enough to get her attention. She recognized the tune, she realized, from a song she remembered hearing her sister Miah sing when she was very little.

The lyrics, though, stirred up a later memory— this was an Ala Mhigan resistance song set to that old melody, after Baelsar’s Wall severed the western Fringes from the eastern Shroud, and the stories and songs once shared across the whole region began to diverge. Koh’sae taught it to her; he’d been east of the wall a few times— the Ala Mhigan Resistance always had jobs for romantic young adventurers for whom idealism was more important than things like being paid on time or not getting shot by legionaries.

When Rhalgr’s fire is in my blood

I think of Mhigan freemen

For monks most bold who bravely stood

Against the Mad King’s treason

And then I prayed I yet might see

Out fetters rent in twain

Abania, long a province, be

A nation once again!

She’s heard this version of the song more recently than that, though, in a voice other than Koh’sae’s. No, it wasn’t during the liberation of Ala Mhigo, when revolution was palpably in the air; this was a song of yearning for a distant future yet unwritten.

She’d heard it sung by Thancred, years before Ala Mhigo, but years after the Calamity. Yda— the Yda Rinh never met, Lyse’s big sister— taught it to him. He styled himself a bard back then, and he was always looking for new additions to his vast mental catalog of stories and songs. It was to be expected that there’d be overlap between his repertoire and Koh’sae’s, after all. Hearing those old songs again was a painful reminder of Koh’sae’s death— but it was also a reminder that he once lived. Remembering is hard, sometimes, but forgetting is always worse.

So hearing Koh’sae’s old songs, even sung by another voice, was a comfort to her.

Sometimes, in those early days in Thanalan, as Rinh’s initial wary trust of Thancred was blossoming into a closer friendship, and he and Rinh were on the road, he’d sing to her when she couldn’t sleep.

And he was singing to her right now.

This puzzle box of memories worked through, Rinh finally came back to herself— badly shaken by her nightmare, still, but more grounded in the here and now the past had guided her back to like a beacon.

She was in Y’shtola’s bedchamber at Slitherbough; Y’shtola herself was in bed beside her, arms wrapped protectively around her. Thancred, still wearing pajamas, was seated on the edge of the bed.

“Sh… Shtola…” Rinh managed to say, although her voice was hoarse and raw, “Is my aether okay?”

Y’shtola’s silver eyes swept up and down Rinh’s body before she nodded her assent.

Rinh sighed. “I figured. There’s no empirical reason my aether would just abruptly curdle into Light for no reason. But… but I felt…” She trailed off, not quite sure what to say, not sure how to articulate the intensity of her fear, how violently and painfully real it felt until the very moment she woke up.

“It’s all right, Rinh,” murmured Thancred, “You’re safe with us.” Strangely, though, he was still turned away from her, like he couldn’t bear to look at her— the way Y’shtola couldn’t after Mount Gulg.

And then she realized he was probably just being polite because Rinh, as she usually did in Y’shtola’s company, had been sleeping in the nude. Very considerate of him, very gentlemanly, but the gesture still made her think of Y’shtola flinching away from the sight of her in Amaurot like a Keeper of the Moon who’d accidentally stared directly into the sun.

“You can turn around,” she said, “…I don’t…” But then she faltered once again— if she’d ever had the words to explain why such a trifling little thing was enough to send her right back down to the Tempest without sounding like she’d completely lost it, they’d slipped through her fingers. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” she said, instead. This was true, of course— in that lovely little lull after the end of the Dragonsong War but before the crisis at Baelsar’s Wall, Rinh, Thancred, and Y’shtola had all treated themselves with an excursion to the hot springs at Camp Bronze Lake. Probably the last time she’d had a proper vacation until… well, she still hadn’t really gotten one since then.

Thancred slowly turned around, and his eyes met Rinh’s— and then, for just a heartbeat, there’s a look of faint alarm on his face, before it’s hidden again with a master spy’s artifice.

The scar from Zenos, she realized, that long, jagged diagonal that arced from her collarbone all the way down to her hip. That, apparently, wasn’t something he’d seen before.

“Zenos’s handiwork,” she said, delicately running a finger along its length, “Shtola and I are a matching set.”

“I… I always assumed he didn’t get you as badly as Shtola, since they had you on your feet again after, what was it, a week?”

“I sort of had to be,” Rinh said, “I was basically just barely being held together with enough bandages, ether, and hi-potions to limp onto the Misery under my own steam. But they needed me on that ship, so I found a way.” When Thancred gave her a look of faint alarm, she added, “Er, don’t worry, I did get to rest up most of the way to Kugane, and Alphinaud was there to make sure I was healing properly. So it’s not like I just directly launched myself into the fray.”

“Didn’t you tell me that ship was waylaid by ghosts?” Thancred said, skeptically.

“Oh, that barely counted as a fray. A scuffle at best. Lyse did the yeoman’s work of beating the tar out of a bunch of ghosts, anyroad; I just stayed in the back line and healed for that one,” said Rinh, “…I was still pretty surprised at how mean those ghosts were, though. I finally got why Vash’a told me that S-tribe teaches that ocean ghosts are way more dangerous than the Shroud ghosts I’ve always considered rather cordial.”

“The ghosts of sailor’s yarns are far more interested in luring unsuspecting ships into dashing themselves to pieces on rocky shores than coming around for a civilized cup of tea, I suppose,” said Y’shtola.

The three friends fell silent for a few moments before Rinh heaved an exhausted sigh. “Gods,” she said, quietly, “Is this just what my life is like? Things like this never stop happening.”

“You mean… hauntings?” asked Thancred.

“Well, less that, more things like getting skewered by a prince-legate. It just… it never stops. Not for more than a few weeks, tops, and that’s not even enough time to catch my breath, much less rest. It’s just this long chain of events… from the Calamity to Stonesthrow to the bloodsands to Ifrit, Titan, and Garuda; from the Bloody Banquet to the Vault to Azys Lla, from Zenos in Ala Mhigo to Zenos in Doma and back to Zenos in Ala Mhigo again. And I’ve always kept going, because what else am I going to do? Let the empire win? Let the Eighth Umbral Calamity happen? I know I need to keep going, since, you know, plights, those one might conceivably save, wisdom, indolence, et cetera, et cetera. And— and I’ve done it. One foot in front of the other, from here to there, enduring the day’s sweltering heat for the promise of a cool, starry night.”

“Your strength has ever been an inspiration to us all,” murmured Y’shtola, before pressing a kiss to Rinh’s forehead. “The moon in our sky.”

“I… I don’t know if I can keep that up forever,” said Rinh, sniffling, trying so, so hard not to start crying, “But life is just going to be like this forever, until finally something comes along that kills me. Or breaks me for good.” She shuddered; for a moment, she could have sworn she heard that awful breaking-glass noise of living aether crystallizing into umbral Light. “Maybe that’s already happened. What if all that’s left of me is a hollowed-out and broken husk? Too broken to be the Warrior of Light so many people need me to be.”

Rinh felt oddly ashamed, admitting this. She was meant to be resilient, after all. Unyielding. The immovable object shielding the world from the unstoppable forces threatening to tear it asunder. Some irrational part of her expected to be chided for her weakness.

It was Thancred who broke the silence. “What are your hopes for the future, Rinh?”

“Um…” Rinh began, caught off-guard by this apparent non-sequitur. “The empire still needs to be dealt with— it’s badly weakened, but if it lashes out in its death throes—”

Thancred shook his head. “I meant hopes for your future.”

“I… I don’t…” Rinh said, “I… I don’t know. Given the sheer appalling scale of the crises we face, right at the fulcrum of history being written— or unwritten— that just seems so… I don’t know… so inconsequential. Maybe a little selfish, even. What’s so important about my future when weighed against the fate of nations? The fate of stars?”

“Rinh,” Y’shtola said, softly, taking Rinh’s hands in hers, “You have ever labored tirelessly to build a better future for all the peoples of the world. Taking some time to see to your own needs or wants doesn’t change that.”

“Anyroad,” said Thancred, “I think it’s important to be a little selfish, sometimes. I’m not even saying you should drop everything and embrace a life of hedonism or anything like that. Just try to remember that you matter, too.”

Rinh closed her eyes, turning this over in her head. The idea that she could stand to think of herself a little more wasn’t exactly a novel one. She’d thought she’d taken it to heart, even— it’s why she allowed herself her little indulgences. A fancy new suit. A pretty dress. An expensive delicacy at the Bismarck. The occasional morning spent sleeping in with Shtola. A rare first edition of some scholarly tome. These were the sorts of things she once felt guilty about, until she managed to unlearn habits picked up when bare survival for herself and her son required every onze of her time, energy, and gil.

Those luxuries were all just momentary diversions, though, for whenever she had a little bit of spare time to string together. She tried to think on a grander scale, but she just couldn’t. It was as if, without even noticing, her field of vision had narrowed and narrowed until all she could see was what was right in front of her. The next day. The next crisis. The next scar. The next ordeal to be endured. The next step she needed to take to outpace the flames at her back.

When she was in the final throes of her transformation into a Lightwarden, she remembered a similar narrowing of her vision. Her world had shrunk down to the path stretching out before her, the distant form of Emet-Selch, and the hunger gnawing at her until it drowned out all other thoughts.

She shuddered at the memory of it; Y’shtola pulled her in a little closer, guiding her back with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

“You know, I used to think about things I’d do ‘after all this’ ,” Rinh said, looking up at Thancred, “Then it sank in that there isn’t any after all this. There’s just… this. Ever since the Calamity, really. Trying to plan for a future that’s always in flux is utterly quixotic; it’s a castle built on quicksand. It’s… okay, I can probably make some reasonable assumptions about tomorrow. But what about the next day? The next week? The next year? Pinning any sort of hopes on all those tomorrows lining up just so is a bloody fool’s errand.”

“All right, then,” said Thancred, “If you’re having trouble imagining your future much further than tomorrow— and Gods know I’ve been there— then we can start with that. What are your hopes for tomorrow?”

“For tomorrow?” said Rinh, “I hope… I hope it’s another peaceful day.” But she knew that was an inadequate answer before she had even finished saying it; she needed to fix her mind on something concrete, something more specific than the mere absence of misfortune. “I… I’d like to… to… oh! Shtola, there’s this really nice restaurant in the Crystarium I’d like to take you out to— you know, a romantic candlelit dinner like we used to have at the Bismarck. Do… do you…?”

Y’shtola nodded, a smile on her face. “‘Tis a date.”

This felt like a pathetically small thing to hope for, but it was something. It was eminently achievable, which made it feel concrete in a way no wistful talk of after all this ever could.

Chapter Text

Y’shtola

When Rinh said she wanted a dinner date like she and Y’shtola used to have at the Bismarck, she didn’t just mean that it ought to be fancy, candlelit, and romantic— although she still meant all of those things— she was being much more specific. The Crystarium restaurant she’d chosen, like the Bismarck, featured an open-air balcony offering a splendid prospect— the latter of the Rhotano Sea, the former of Lakeland’s great Source (and above it, Y’shtola supposed, a sea of stars, although those distant motes of light were well beyond her seeing).

The lake was much more discernible to her — although from the restaurant’s balcony it was still past the distance where the clarity of her aethersight began to wane, where the world began to get soft around the edges, she could still make out the water’s aether gently drifting with the currents, flowing around the living forms of the lake’s flora and fauna; in the distance, the Isle of Ken— no, Bismarck — was visible as a bright mingling of air and earth.

Then there was Rinh, sharp and crisp and clear, a living woman and a golden soul and a constellation of aether.

“Evening, Shtola,” said Rinh, before offering Y’shtola a quick but affectionate kiss.

Y’shtola smiled. “You look absolutely gorgeous, dearest.”

“Like my dress? Lyse helped me pick it out.”

The dress, of course, looked dim and indistinct— it was as suffused with aether as anything else crafted with intentionality by an artisan, but compared to the brilliance of a living being, it was but a wispy cloud before the sun. It was red, and had a distinctly Gyr Abanian cut which flattered Rinh’s trim silhouette, but that was about all the detail she could make out.

Rinh, of course, was one step ahead of her. “Here, feel the fabric,” she said, taking Y’shtola’s hand and guiding it to the dress’s bodice. Y’shtola ran her fingers along its length, finding rich, ornate embroidery— an arboreal scene, trees and flowers and thorns.

“It’s from western Ala Mhigo,” Rinh said, “The Fringes, you know? But it’s not that different from what we wore on the other side of the Wall. Well, I say we, but obviously we, the Panipahrs specifically, couldn’t afford anything nearly this nice. Except for a set of conjuror’s robes, all my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sisters. Who were all taller than me, by the way.”

Y’shtola tried not to dwell on the word were. “Speaking of sisters, how is Mhitra doing?” she asked, instead.

“As well as can be,” Rinh answered, “She’s worried sick about you, naturally.”

“Understandable, I suppose. I’ll… I’ll write a letter to try to set her mind at ease— provided you’re willing to deliver it when you return to the Source, of course.”

“Always,” said Rinh. Then— “Do you want me to try to get in touch with any of your other sisters while I’m at it?”

Y’shtola hadn’t spoken with most of her other sisters in years— in many cases, not since she first left Sharlayan with Louisoix and the Circle of Knowing. The only member of her blood family she’d had any meaningful contact with as an adult was Y’mhitra, a few years younger than Y’shtola and therefore closest to her in age among the twelve daughters of Y’rhul Nunh. They were always seated next to one another at family gatherings— Y’rhul liked to arrange the girls from youngest to oldest in much the same way as he filed away his ledger books by year.

Her older half-sisters were particularly mysterious to Y’shtola. (Even the fact she thought of them as half- sisters is telling— all four of Rinh’s siblings had different fathers than her, but she’d never refer to them as anything other than her sisters or her brother, no further qualification needed.) The next-youngest after Y’shtola (number five of twelve, invariably seated to Y’shtola’s left at Y-tribe functions) was still eight years Y’shtola’s senior. She always wondered if her father simply took a break from sowing his wild oats, or if Y’shtola had even more half-siblings out there he never deigned to recognize. Certainly it wasn’t that he was replaced as Nunh for a time— no one else thought the Y-tribe of Sharlayan even needed one. No one else even believed that the Y-tribe of Sharlayan was actually a Seeker of the Sun tribe in any meaningful sense and not just the self-serving affectation of a serial philanderer.

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Y’shtola said, “Even if I had their addresses, I don’t know what I’d even tell them. They… they hardly feel like family, honestly. More like… acquaintances I happen to share a tribal letter and a patronymic with.” She crossed her arms, looking out over the lake— placid and harmonious water-aspected aether, with the spiny form of Bismarck shining like a beacon of antique power. “…I suppose that must strike you as a rather cold way to speak of one’s close relations, Rinh.”

Rinh shakes her head. “Nah, I get it. Family’s more than just blood. It’s like… my father could conceivably still be out there somewhere, right? And if so, he’d be my closest living blood relative besides Rinh’a. But if I met him tomorrow he wouldn’t be, like— hm, how do I put in Eorzean— let’s say… family family. Even if he somehow has a good reason why he just ditched Mum before I was even born, that wouldn’t change the bare fact of his absence from my life.” She stepped towards Y’shtola to hold her hands, fingers delicately interlaced. “…I suppose I don’t need to tell you that, though. Remember what you said when I asked about your family at that banquet in Costa del Sol?”

“…Not really,” Y’shtola admitted, “If I recall correctly, I’d had more than a few glasses of wine in me, and the whole thing was eight years ago. Or, well, eight for me, anyroad— I suppose from your perspective, it was only five.”

“Right, right. Well, you told me I’d already met them.”

“The Scions…” Y’shtola said, half-remembering the conversation.

“The Scions,” said Rinh, “I remember… I remember thinking how nice that sounded. I felt a little envious, really. This was past the point where it really was just me and Rinh’a against the whole world— I had a few friends in Ul’dah by then, and obviously Thancred and I were already close before I met everyone else, but I missed— I missed having that sense of… belonging, of affiliation.” She sighed, and held Y’shtola’s hands a little more tightly. “Maybe Keepers of the Moon just aren’t very good at going it alone? We need our groups, we need that mutual support. If Rinh’a and I had been left on our own after some disaster but without, you know, the world ending all around us, the done thing would have been for another family to have taken us in. Even when there’s not enough to go around— and by the time I was growing up, there never was— we always did what we could to take care of one another. After… after the Calamity, being cut off from all of that, being all alone… it was as scary as the fires. Scarier, even. And even after I knew I had Thancred in my corner, and then you and Minfilia, I didn’t really stop feeling like that until… until a few months after that mess at the Praetorium, when one day I looked around the Waking Sands and thought, maybe this could be home.” She managed a frail smile. “Turns out it was. I mean, not the Waking Sands itself, obviously— we had one foot out the door by then— but— but the people around me.”

Before Y’shtola could frame a response, the restaurant’s hostess called out, “Panipahr-Rhul, party of two…?”

The name Panipahr obviously meant a great deal to Rinh; the name Rhul meant very little to Y’shtola beyond an accident of birth that appeared on forms and official documents. (Somewhere in Sharlayan, in a box or filing cabinet somewhere, there was an Archon’s degree solemnly inscribed to Y’shtola Rhul in exquisite calligraphy.)

Still, hearing their surnames joined together like that stirred something in Y’shtola’s heart.

***

The candles burned low. The remnants of dinner lay scattered across the table– empty bowls once holding hearty stews, the detritus of sautéed chicken, a few crumbs of pirozhki. Rinh even felt at-ease enough to order a glass of wine, although she only drank half of it. If there was anywhere she didn’t have to worry about being poisoned or drugged by some unseen enemy, Y’shtola supposed, it was probably the Crystarium. “Anyroad,” Rinh had added, “If anything happens to me, you’re right here to avenge my death.” Gallows humor, granted, but the fact it was humor at all was an encouraging sign given Rinh’s emotional state of late.

The cuisine was unfamiliar to Y’shtola, although it reminded her a bit of Garlean fare— traditional Garlean fare, as cataloged by Sharlayan culinarians from before the fruits of empire found their way to Garlean tables. This wasn’t surprising; like so many of the other people and places in the Crystarium, the restaurant preserved a little bit of the world lost to the Flood— in this case, the northerly land of Borea, whence came Eudoxia, Spellblade of the North. (Y’shtola tried to think of her as that, rather than remembering hollow-eyed Forgiven Vengeance, Fort Gohn burning all around her.) A few of the Boreans who happened to be in Norvrandt eventually wound up taking refuge in the Crystarium, and their descendants kept their culinary tradition alive. It was necessarily an adaptation— changes were made to reflect the milder climate of Lakeland, the availability of ingredients provided by the Facet of Nourishment, and, yes, the changing tastes and fading memories of successive generations, each more removed from the old country— but it still carried forward the spirit of a dead nation.

“I’ve been thinking about what Thancred said last night,” said Rinh, after taking a tiny sip of her wine, “About making plans for the future.”

“Oh?” said Y’shtola.

“I’m trying to think a little more long-term, but also not fall into the trap of after all this, since… what does that even mean?”

Y’shtola nodded. “Past a certain point, that whole formulation just becomes a pretense for putting things off indefinitely.”

“I still want to be— to be realistic. There’s still so much to be done, Shtola,” said Rinh, “Getting all of you home, for starters. Elidibus is still out there somewhere, walking around in Zenos’s body and doing gods know what. The empire is falling apart, but it’s not dead yet. The First is still aetherically unstable, and once Urianger and Thancred are back on the Source, it’s just me and Ryne and Ryne’s girlfriend fixing up the Empty. And— let’s get real— by the time any one of those things gets sorted out, a dozen entirely new crises will have popped up.”

“And I suppose we can’t just put our feet up and assume someone else will pick up the slack,” Y’shtola said, “‘To ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom; it is indolence.’”

“Yeah. And with the sort of power and knowledge we have at our disposal— well, there’s no shortage of those who we might conceivably save,” Rinh said, “So instead of after all this, I’ve been thinking— or been trying to think, at least— in terms of when I have time. Things will never stop happening— the wheel of history keeps turning— but I also know that sometimes things at least slow down. Sometimes there’s time between the worst crises.”

“So,” said Y’shtola, “What will you do when you have that time?”

“Admittedly, it depends on how much time we get before someone tries blowing up the world again— some of this might be, you know… over-ambitious? But I’m trying to let myself think that way, to be a little over-ambitious.” Rinh looked this way and that, suddenly a bit unsure of herself, but she took a deep breath and continued speaking. “I… I think I’d like to do an Archon’s thesis. I’ve always felt like the odd woman out— you’re an Archon, Thancred is an Archon, Urianger’s an Archon, G’raha is an Archon, Papalymo and Moenbryda were Archons, and Lyse— well, I guess she’s not really an Archon and Papalymo was actually just committing academic fraud on her behalf. I know I don’t need some Sharlayan faculty member’s stamp of approval to be taken seriously as a scholar, I know I don’t need a cool tattoo and a fancy parchment diploma to recognize that my apprenticeship with Auntie Sizha measures up to a more formalized education, but I still— it’d still be nice to be able to point to something and say, I did that, I put the effort in and illuminated some lost truth or made some new discovery. Something I earned that’s not from swinging a sword around, right? Not from shedding blood, be it my own or others’.” A small smile. “Plus, the Noumenon only lets Archons see the real good shite.”

“Many of the truly exotic volumes were left behind in Gubal or are currently strewn about on Matoya’s floor,” said Y’shtola, “But I grasp your meaning, Rinh. I’ve observed many times before that you’re as sharp a scholar as any Archon, so I know that should you choose to formally pursue a degree, you’ll excel at it.”

“I also… I wish I had more time for my family. Sometimes I feel like I’m the worst mother in the world, since I’m away from Rinh’a so often. I can’t not do that— and I know that if the world does blow up, that’s also bad for Rinh’a, so obviously if I want what’s best for him, I’ve got to keep at it, right?” Rinh folded her hands, eyes downcast. “I’m… I have to be a lot of things for a lot of different people, but one of those things is matriarch of the Panipahr family. Rinh’a should get to learn all the stories and songs Auntie and Mum taught me— he should get to learn Huntspeak— he should learn how we lived in the Shroud, even if everything’s different now. And— and this is probably really a pipe dream, but I… I’d like to have another child one day. I don’t know what it would take to make that happen given… you know… everything. But I think about it a lot.”

Y’shtola was struck by the fact that, to Rinh, pursuing a postgraduate education and having a second child were somehow less stressful than her everyday existence— something to do when she finally has the chance to kick back and relax. It was the same sort of calculus at work as when Rinh told Thancred, in all seriousness, that being the Warrior of Light was honestly an improvement on her prior circumstances.

“And…” said Rinh. She glanced at her half-glass of wine, but did not reach for it. “Well, there’s one hope for the future I’ve got that applies no matter how much or how little time we have got, whether I drop dead tomorrow or actually live to see that after all this after all.” She looked up at Y’shtola, eyes bright in the candlelight, aether shimmering like stars birthed from a nebula. “I want to spend my life with you, Shtola— however long that ends up amounting to.”

In one sense, that sentiment should be completely unsurprising to Y’shtola— her life and Rinh’s had been intertwined for years, now— since before they’d even realized their romantic feelings for one another were mutual, really. Still, she found herself caught off-guard by hearing it stated in such concrete, unambiguous terms. “Rinh…” began Y’shtola, but she was suddenly at a loss for words. Instead, she reached across the table and took Rinh’s hand in hers. “Of— of course,” she managed to say, eventually, “Always, always, always.”

Rinh’s free hand drifted to her handbag, where she worried at and fidgeted with something in it. She was smiling, but still seemed possessed with a certain nervous energy, one foot tapping arrhythmically on the floor. “So, um,” she said, “I… damn it, I thought I knew just what to say, but suddenly it’s got away from me. Maybe I should have written myself a note, or something? I don’t know.” She closed her eyes, taking a moment to compose herself, before blurting out, “Wanna get married, Shtola?” Then, as an afterthought, she retrieved the object from her handbag— a small jewelry box. She fumbled a bit trying to open it one-handed, not wanting to let go of Y’shtola; when the hinges finally popped open, a ring was launched from it, bouncing and rolling across the table before dropping right into Y’shtola’s lap. “Shite,” murmured Rinh, now extremely flustered, “That wasn’t— I didn’t— I— oh gods, I’m bloody mortified.”

“Rinh,” said Y’shtola, as calmly and reassuringly as she could, “The answer is yes.” To underscore the point, she slipped the ring— silver as moonlight, delicately engraved with constellations and the mark of Menphina— onto her finger. The ring’s details were clear as day, aether-rich channels following the engravings’ contours. This was clearly a ring made just for her.

“Okay,” breathed Rinh, “Okay. I— I wasn’t really sure how settled folk do this, but I knew there was supposed to be a ring, and a question, and some sort of— of romantic setting, but I got it all mixed up and made a mess of it.” She steadied herself, sitting up a little straighter in her chair. “But everything’s okay,” she said, running her thumb along Y’shtola’s fingers, lingering a while on the ring, “It all worked out.”

The mention of settled folk reminded Y’shtola of something. “You’ve said before that Keepers of the Moon weren’t much for marriage,” she said, curiosity getting the better of her, “Why the change of heart?”

“I don’t know,” says Rinh, “It… it’s not like we don’t have ways of marking a commitment to someone. Handfasting ceremonies and such. It’s not quite marriage marriage, but it’s still… it’s still two lives tied together by a promise, you know? And— well, obviously we spend a lot of time among peoples who do have capital-M marriage— Sharlayans, Ishgardians— the Night’s Blessed, even. I like the idea of making it clear in those contexts what we are to each other, you know? Like getting that Archon mark even though I don’t need one to prove I’m smart. Because… because I like the idea of dressing up fancy and getting all of our friends together and telling them all how much I love you. Because there’s something I find very lyrical about the Eorzean phrase ‘her wife.’”

“Or ‘her fiancée,’” Y’shtola said, trying the phrase out, and liking the feel of it. Since they’d first gotten together, Rinh had always described Y’shtola as her girlfriend, but by now, after so many years, after going through so much together, Y’shtola felt like the word fell a bit short of the mark. Too casual, too informal. Yet she couldn’t really think of anything better— ‘partner’ felt too businesslike, too sexless; ‘lover’ was perhaps closer to the mark, but it made Y’shtola feel like a character in one of those cheesy romance novels Rinh liked reading when she wasn’t in the mood for ponderous tomes on aetherodynamics or sociopolitical history. Fiancée, though— that was a word with some gravitas to it. It had a fancy, Elezen-ish sort of ring to it, which made her think of Ishgard, which made her think of Rinh.

Rinh smiled, gold eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. She licked her lips, and leaned across the table to kiss Y’shtola. “My fiancée,” she breathed, when she finally pulled away, “Mine.”

***

Rinh’s suite at the Pendants looked like pretty much any other space she occupies for any length of time— dim and cluttered, homey and inviting. There were the usual piles of books, of course— some written in sharp Vrandtic script, others in the more familiar rounded letters of Eorzean. 

Rinh immediately headed for the suite’s little kitchenette. This was much more organized than the rest of her things; Rinh was haphazard with many of her possessions, but not food— never food. Oh, it wasn’t entirely unlike the rest of the room— the counter had a few cookbooks scattered about as a garnish, there were dirty dishes in the sink, and the coffee machine was surrounded by a small entourage of empty mugs— but her pantry, cupboards, and icebox were organized with the precision of a woman who spent years having to wring all the nutrition she could out of whatever scraps of food she managed to get as a matter of basic survival for herself and her family. By the time Y’shtola met her, the situation was no longer so dire— she was making a decent amount of gil adventuring by then, and the Scions paid her a stipend— but she still had plenty of habits from leaner times. She hoarded food, ate more or less anything that was even slightly edible if offered to her, never wasted anything, with leftovers’ leftovers’ leftovers finding their way into stews, soups, or sandwiches. She even extolled the virtues of Archon loaf— a compact, cheap, shelf-stable, and nutritionally complete miracle of the culinary sciences. Y’shtola had literally— literally— never met anyone else not raised in Sharlayan who’d put up with the stuff.

All this time later, Rinh seemed to finally accept that she wasn’t at risk of imminent starvation— Y’shtola imagined that access to the House Fortemps larder helped in this respect— but she still took pains to make sure she never took this abundance for granted.

Rinh pushed the used mugs crowding the coffee machine aside, retrieved a clean one from the cupboard, and started brewing a fresh pot of coffee. While waiting for it to percolate, she put on a kettle of water and began gathering the accouterments of tea-making — teapot, teacup, teabags.

Rinh attended to this task with the brisk efficiency of routine; before long, she set two steaming beverages onto her little dining table— black coffee for herself, tea with two lumps of sugar and a splash of milk for Y’shtola.

The aroma wafting from her teacup was hauntingly, achingly familiar. One sip was enough to confirm Y’shtola’s hunch. “Hannish tea,” she said, a smile spreading across her face, “My favorite blend, too. You remembered, after all this time…”

“Well,” said Rinh, a little sheepishly, “It hasn’t been that long on my end. But— yes, I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I understand the Hannish trade has been severely disrupted by the chaos in the empire. Getting your hands on this couldn’t have been easy…”

“Oh, there’s ways around that. Vash’a still knows people with pull at Melvaan’s Gate,” said Rinh, “And apparently some tea smuggler didn’t pay his customs duty so the whole lot got impounded, and they had a crate to spare, so, you know...” Y’shtola found herself feeling a pang of nostalgia for Limsa Lominsa, their government’s status as war-mongering, treaty-violating expansionist land-grabbers notwithstanding. Her time as the Scions’ woman in La Noscea obliged her to— begrudgingly— learn how things worked around there, so she recognizes the idea of paying customs fees on smuggled goods as quintessentially, charmingly Limsa Lominsan. 

“An entire crate of black market tea!” said Y’shtola, genuinely impressed.

“Please, Shtola,” answered Rinh, grinning, “It’s grey market tea. Much more reputable.”

“And then you had this crate of grey market tea hauled all the way to Mor Dhona.”

“It— it wasn’t that big a deal. Supplies for Camp Dragonhead have been moving through Revenant's Toll since— well, since Haurchefant arranged it,” said Rinh, “So being an adopted daughter of House Fortemps means knowing traders who can reliably get things from the rest of Eorzea to Mor Dhona.”

“Presumably after that, you had to carry the crate all the way to the Crystal Tower.”

“Only as far as Syrcus Trench! Also, Hoary Boulder helped.”

“Next, then, you and your crate had to traverse the rift between worlds—”

“Which is routine at this point.”

“And then you had to take get the crate from the Ocular to the Crystal Tower’s ground floor…”

“Lyna unlocked the service lift for me.”

“And then you had to lug the thing all the way across the Exedra, through Musica Universalis, and then up the stairs of the Pendants.”

“Okay,” Rinh said, with a laugh, “That part was pretty miserable.”

“All this trouble…” said Y’shtola, “Just to make me a little more at home.” She moved her teacup aside so she could leave across the table and kiss Rinh. “Rinh— thank you.”

Rinh blushed, looking this way and that. “I just— you know— did what came naturally.”

Y’shtola believed it. Caring for and providing for others was the very air Rinh breathed, the ground beneath her feet.

***

Eventually, of course, Rinh and Y’shtola’s attention was drawn irresistibly towards the suite’s bed.

Rinh sat on the edge of the mattress; Y’shtola’s eyes drank every detail of her in— her starry aether, her moonlit soul, the wispy mist of a Gyr Abanian dress.

“Shtola,” murmured Rinh, “Kiss me, please.”

Y’shtola obliged her immediately, of course, leaning forward, cupping Rinh’s cheeks in her hands, and pulling her in for a long kiss, hungry and open-mouthed. 

But then, when they parted, Rinh hesitated, fingers worrying at the hem of her skirts. “Shtola,” Rinh said, softly, “Does my aether still look okay?”

Chapter Text

Rinh

Rinh wakes up, a sheen of sweat on her brow— it’s too damn hot in Ul’dah, even at night, even in the shade of the gilded cage Eadwulf has built for her in his villa.

She half-remembers a strange dream— a dream of grand adventures, of scarcely-imaginable wonders, of the winds of change sweeping across the world. A dream in which she experienced great pain but also deep loves.

But when she tries to fix any particular details in her memory, the whole dream slips through her fingers like so much fine desert sand.

And before long, even the last vestiges of her dream have vanished, replaced by the usual blend of dread and resignation with which she meets every new day. She glances at the clock— Eadwulf is expecting her downstairs. He hates to be kept waiting— Rinh learned that the hard way earlier in her time studying under the great lanista Eadwulf Thorne. So she hastens to get cleaned up, dressed, and brace herself for whatever is to come.

When she finally makes it to the courtyard Eadwulf likes to hold his “lessons” in, Rinh is dismayed— but not surprised— to find him in a foul mood.

“Your performance on the bloodsands last night was a fucking disgrace,” he says, without preamble.

“I won, though,” she protests, weakly.

“And did it so sloppily the next fighter will know exactly how to make sure you don’t win the next one— unless you shape the fuck up.”

Rinh contemplates a rejoinder, but decides the path of no resistance is safer. Better to just let him harangue her and dole out whatever discipline he sees fit than to prolong the agony. So she stands in sullen silence, waiting for whatever the lanista does next.

He strikes her, six and a half fulms of muscle impacting against her slight frame. She’s not ready for the blow— usually, he says more before he gets to this part. He must really be cross, she thinks, vaguely, as she’s knocked over and onto coarse sandstone cobblestones.

“For fuck’s sake, Moonkissed,” he says, “Don’t you even know how to take a hit like a fighter?”

“You—” she says, staggering to her feet, “If— if— you don’t need to call me that if we’re not actually in the coliseum, right? It— it’s my stage name, sure, but my name is Rinh Pan—”

But before she can finish, Eadwolf has his hands around her neck as he lifts her into the air; her feet, more than a fulm off the ground, kick uselessly at the air. “Your name’s whatever the fuck I say it is, you stupid cunt!” he hisses, tightening his grip around her throat, “It’s mine like everything else in your sorry life!”

Rinh can only respond with a strangled gasp for air.

“Who put a roof over your head?” he says, shaking her, “Who puts food in your belly— in your son’s belly?”

His fingers slacken just enough for Rinh to croak out something that sounds like “You.”

“That’s right,” he says, finally letting her go; she collapses onto the rough-hewn stone ground, trying to catch her breath. “Look at you,” he sneers, “On all fours and panting like an animal.”

“I— I’m not an animal,” Rinh can’t help but say, even though she knows pushing back never turns out well, “I’m a free woman— not a noxius, not your toy, not—”

He kicks her in the face, hard— he must be wearing steel-toed boots, because the pain is sharp and excruciating. She stares up at him, dazed; she can feel a trickle of hot blood dripping from her nose.

Whatever meek fight was still left in her burns out. Eadwulf would never listen to anything she says— appealing to reason or someone’s good nature only works if they’ve got either of those things. Physical resistance is beyond the pale; she could perhaps beat him in a struggle— her youth and speed and endurance could conceivably be enough to trump his advantages in size, experience, and raw strength— but what would it accomplish? It’d leave her alone and friendless in Ul’dah, without a gil to her name, without any way to feed herself— or Rinh’a.

The best she can do is nurture the guttering flame of memory deep inside her— to keep some part of who she really is, where she really came from, alive in her heart even as Eadwulf tries to break her and reshape what’s left into something more to his liking— his investment, his weapon, his doll to dress up and play with and manhandle as he sees fit.

Because it’s either this, or die. And she’s not quite ready to die just yet.

***

Rinh woke up, a sheen of sweat on her brow, the cool air inside the caverns of Slitherbough notwithstanding.

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Y’shtola, curled up in front of her and sleeping serenely— quietly snoring, even— and a feeling of profound relief washed over her. The sight of her bare back, the curve of her spine, the pale hair at the nape of her neck was enough to remind her where she was, who she was, and that she was safe here, and loved.

But she couldn’t bear the thought of waking her from such a peaceful— and well-deserved— slumber.

She quietly slipped out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and stepped out of Master Matoya’s chambers, silently closing the door behind her. She found Slitherbough’s village square nearly deserted; even the most ardent of stargazers amongst the Night’s Blessed seemed to have finally turned in for the night. A handful of lookouts were scattered about, spears, bows, and staves at the ready, warily watching the sky. The occasional stray sin eater still came by sometimes, and besides— old habits die hard.

And then she saw Thancred, sitting by a fire. His gunblade was disassembled, its components neatly arrayed across a wooden table. Thancred was swabbing the firing chamber with a rag, polishing away scorch marks and powder burns.

“Hey, Rinh,” he said pleasantly, looking up— but then he got a better look at Rinh, and she realized she must look like complete shit, since his expression quickly became one of concern. He stood up as Rinh took a stumbling step towards him. He hesitated for a moment, arms outstretched— but when Rinh gave him a tiny little nod, he swept her up into a tight embrace.

“N—nightmare,” she managed to say softly, even as her words seemed to slip away from her, “A— a bad one.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It— I— I—” stammered Rinh, frantically trying to keep her voice from coming all the way unmoored from her thoughts. She was safe here— she knew that— she knew that. On the First, in Slitherbough, beneath the comforting blanket of a starry night, with Thancred, a scant few yalms away from Y’shtola. Yet her heart still raced in her chest, her skin was still prickled with goose-flesh, a sense of incipient danger hung in the air. “Ea… Ead…” she began, voice weak and wavering; she seemed to be having some difficulty breathing, as if his name had gotten caught in her throat, as if his hands were still clamped around her neck.

Thancred, at least, was able to tell what she was getting at. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Rinh,” he murmured, “You’re safe here.”

Rinh knew that— that was the infuriating thing, really. The First was about as far away from Eadwulf as one could possibly get without retreating all the way to the moon or the stars in the sky. Traversing the rift between Hydaelyn’s reflections was well beyond the means of some shitty lanista. Yet this did nothing to quell her rising terror, her ineffable sense that he could just step out through an open door wherever and whenever he pleased. The danger felt tangible enough to reach out and grab her. Her head swam; if Thancred hadn’t been holding her, she may very well have fallen over.

“If it were anyone else,” murmured Rinh, “I’d say no. But— but you’ll get it.” She took a deep breath before she continued speaking. “I woke up and realized that everything that happened over the last seven years— becoming an adventurer, meeting you, joining the Scions, and everything after that— was just a dream. And that I was right back where I started— with Eadwulf.”

“Shite,” said Thancred, “I’m sorry, Rinh.”

“And then I forgot even about that dream of a different life, and it just became a straightforward Echo vision of that time he broke my nose even though I won his stupid fight.” She clung to Thancred more tightly; the buckles and straps of his armor pressed into her face, but she hardly cared; if anything, it was a welcome reminder she wasn’t alone. “I never understood what he really wanted from me. He hurt me over and over again, in so many ways, to ‘teach me a lesson’, but he never bothered telling me what the lesson was.”

“Well,” Thancred said gently, “He’s not one for internal consistency. We know he just liked hurting people. He liked exerting power.”

“Exerting power over women— miqo’te women— specifically.” Rinh said, “There was a girl before me, and there was a girl after me. And someone else after her, probably.”

“Didn’t he get blacklisted from the Coliseum?”

Rinh nodded. “Raubahn saw to that on his way out the door to take up his post in Ala Mhigo-- and that he wouldn't have much of a future doing anything in Ul'dah. Part of me… part of me is still worried Eadwulf will find some way to retaliate against me for… ratting him out, or whatever? Which doesn’t make any sense. There’s no plausible way he could hurt me, not now.”

“There really isn’t,” said Thancred, “For a woman who’s killed gods, a washed-up ex-lanista isn’t much of a threat.”

“Right,” agreed Rinh, “But, more than that— I’m not a stateless refugee anymore. I’m the one with the institutional power, now. Which is still weird to me, but it’s true, isn’t it? As annoying as it is when people look at me and see the Warrior of Light instead of… well, me… I’m not insensible to the politics of the title and how it can be leveraged. I have the ear of political and military leaders all over Hydaelyn. I mean, shite, my adoption into House Fortemps means I’m technically Ishgardian nobility. I could be Lady Rinh, Mademoiselle de Fortemps if I wanted to. I don’t— Edmont is like a father to me, but a Keeper of the Moon bears her mother’s name— but there’s some paperwork stuffed into a drawer somewhere that says I could be. Eadwulf is just some guy. He can’t touch me.” She laughs, bitterly. “It’s a moot point, anyway, since he hasn’t even got a reason to even try to go after me— after he got turfed out of the Gladiator’s Guild, he just skipped town and set himself up as an instructor of novice adventurers. He trades on my name, even— ‘Learn the trade from the man who trained the Warrior of Light herself!’ It’s infuriating.”

“There must be some way to stop him from doing that, at least.”

“He’s on Gridanian turf, and I haven’t exactly got much pull with the Gridanians, so I can’t think of a way that wouldn’t be a whole public… thing, Thancred, and I don’t know if I can take that. Or even if I could— well, no one wants to hear that the Warrior of damn Light got raped by some guy— some shithead lanista with gambling debts and a catgirl fetish. There’d be— political ramifications— the whole mythos around the Warrior of Light is load-bearing—”

“Do you really think it would turn out like that?” Thancred asked, “After everything you’ve done?”

“I… I don’t know,” Rinh said, “I honestly don’t know. People expect the Warrior of Light to just— stand there and take it no matter what happens to her— bear any pain, endure any loss, be the immovable object that stops whatever unstoppable force is headed her way. And you know and I know and Shtola knows it doesn’t really work like that— that it’s so much harder than that— but we’re not talking about family discussions behind closed doors, this is— this is the public arena.” Rinh sat down on a wooden bench, leaning back, looking up at the stars— so beautiful and so far away. “The Warrior of Light as a symbol— there’s power tied up in that— diplomatic, ideological, spiritual— and it’d be irresponsible to just throw that tool away when it can still do the world good.”

“Is that how you think of yourself, Rinh?” asked Thancred, gently, sitting down beside Rinh, “As a tool?”

“I’m not a tool,” answered Rinh, “The role is, though.”

“But if you’re embodying that role so much you let it grind you up into dust…”

“…Then I’m treating myself like a tool anyroad,” Rinh admitted, sighing. “Ugh, I don’t know— maybe being the Warrior of Light and not just grinding myself into dust are just plain mutually exclusive, and so if I don't grind myself up into dust, the world blows up and everyone dies. Did Shtola tell you how I looked to her towards the end? After Mt. Gulg?”

“Only in general terms,” said Thancred, “A blaze of Light, or something like that— but I got the impression there was more to it than that.”

“She saw— a saint, an angel, a knight in shining armor, a savior and avenger. An ivory-white shield in one hand, a flaming sword in the other, fears and imperfections burned away— impassive and inhuman and relentless,” Rinh said, still staring up at the sky rather than meeting Thancred’s eye, “She saw the Warrior of Light.”

“A vision of the Warrior of Light that’s antithetical to everything about you,” Thancred said.

“But also a vision of the Warrior of Light a lot of people would have liked to have got instead of me,” said Rinh.

“They probably wouldn’t like that Warrior of Light when it kills everyone, gorges itself on their aether, and ushers in the Eighth Umbral Calamity, as Lightwardens are wont to do.”

This was enough to get a small smile and a frail little half-laugh out of Rinh, which, considering her grim mood, was nothing short of a miracle. “Yes, I have got that going for me, at least,” she said. The brief moment of mirth quickly faded, though; the actual matter at hand still weighed on her. “It’s all just— just too much. I’ve been trying— gods I’ve been trying— to— you know— look forward, imagine a future that’s still got myself in it, and all that. To not just be Emet-Selch sulking around in his Amaurot, dreaming of burning tomorrow on the pyre to save yesterday. But— but it’s hard. Things accumulate, until I feel like I can hardly bear the burden— and they’ll still just keep piling up more and more as time passes.”

“The passage of time can also ease burdens,” Thancred reminded her.

“If that’s the case, why am I still feeling this fucked up about Eadwulf, of all things? It’s been years since I slipped his net,” said Rinh, frowning, arms crossed, “I don’t know— maybe the news from home has got me spooked.”

“The miraculous recovery of Zenos, I presume.”

Rinh nodded. “Somehow, Zenos being Zenos again is much more alarming than when it was just Elidibus walking around wearing his face.”

“I suppose Zenos recovering his body also means Elidibus is just… in the wind, somewhere,” said Thancred, “Instead of being considerate enough to stay in one place where we can keep an eye on him.”

“I don’t love that we haven’t got eyes on Elidibus, obviously— I’m sure he’s up to something now. But I know what he wants, at least. Rejoinings, the Ardor, killing everyone and freeing Zodiark— normal Ascian stuff, right? But I don’t know what Zenos wants, just that whatever it is he wants it from me. Me, specifically," said Rinh, once more gazing up at the distant stars, "I don't even know what he's doing or where he is. He killed Varis and then just vanished into thin air while the empire came crashing down." She managed a small-- if somewhat bitter-- smile. "It'll be so annoying if it turns out he's the one who finally dealt the telling blow to the empire."

“How are you feeling?” asked Thancred, “Getting some sleep might do you some good— but if you don’t think you can manage it, you’re welcome to keep me company for a while.”

“I’ll take you up on that. I’m feeling— a bit more centered, but I just know if I go back to bed, I’ll just be lying awake, alone with my thoughts. And I don’t want to wake Shtola up tossing and turning, anyroad,” said Rinh. She looked down at Thancred’s gunblade, still lying in pieces across the table. “I need something to do with my hands, I think. Have you got some cartridges that need charging or something?”

Thancred nodded, and slid a pouch of ammunition across the table. “Knock yourself out,” he said, “Just remember it’s a smaller caliber than what you use, so don’t overstuff ‘em.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how gunblades work,” Rinh said, although her grousing was good-natured. She was honestly interested in examining Thancred’s weapon and ammo more closely— the Facet of Production’s best attempt at reinventing Bozja-style gunblades from first principles, with only a bit of help from the various magitek gewgaws and tchotchkes the Ironworks left lying around in the Crystal Tower.

For a while, they worked in companionable silence; Rinh infusing cartridges with her aether, Thancred carefully packing them away until needed in the field.

“I asked Shtola to marry me,” Rinh said, abruptly, “And rather made a mess of it, but she still said yes.”

Thancred grinned. “I thought I noticed a new ring on her finger,” he said, “Congratulations, Rinh!”

“But…” said Rinh, “But is it fair to ask her— ask anyone— to share their life with me when my life is just— you know. One thing after another, forever. When I’m already carrying so much grief, so much pain. I’m already just barely keeping it together— what if it gets worse? What if I can’t shoulder the burden anymore? Does she know that’s what she’s getting into?”

“I have a hard time believing Y’shtola does anything without knowing what she’s getting into,” Thancred said.

He had a point, Rinh supposed. Even when she leapt into the abyss, or put herself in front of an enemy’s blade, or dived headfirst into the Lifestream, it was never carelessness— always, always it was a calculated risk towards some specific end. Y’shtola and Rinh were much alike in that respect.

“So,” said Thancred, filling in the silence, “When’s the wedding?”

Rinh brightened a bit– this was a much more pleasant topic to discuss. “Well, we’re going to need to have two– one here, one on the Source, right? Or maybe it’s more like… two half-weddings. Since, you know, a wedding wouldn’t feel right without Rinh’a and Vash’a and Y’mhitra and Matoya and Lyse and Edmont and everyone else back home, but it also wouldn’t feel right without Ryne or Gaia or Feo Ul or the Night’s Blessed. So on the First the wedding will be right here in Slitherbough, in Night’s Blessed fashion, but then on the Source we’ll need to figure how how to somehow graft Keeper, Seeker, Sharlayan, and Ishgardian customs into one ceremony that’s coherent enough not to annoy everyone.”

“Sounds complicated,” said Thancred, drily.

Rinh smiled wanly. “Well, we’ve got complicated lives. And sometimes that isn’t such a bad thing.”

***

Rinh eventually went back to bed.

She never got back to sleep, but she did go to bed. 

She was no longer on the edge of panic— Thancred had talked her down and Y’shtola’s mere presence calmed her further; each breath in and out soothing her frayed nerves.

She still didn’t sleep, though—  she had no desire to see what else the Echo could dredge up from her memories and fears.

Y’shtola

Y’shtola’s sleep was uneasy, her dreams disjointed and strange. She is tumbling through the rift, drifting along the Lifestream, buried under Sil’dihn stone, tumbling into a Ronkan abyss. Amaurot is aflame— or is it Fort Gohn— or Limsa Lominsa on the night of the Calamity-- or is it Mount Gulg, awash with Light? Magitek gunships and clouds of noxious smoke hang in the skies above Rhalgr’s Reach as a steel blade is driven into her heart. Rinh reaches out to her as her soul is pulled out of her body by some unseen and terrible force.

She awoke abruptly— not quite with a start, but still with a jarring suddenness, ejected from a nightmare and into a darkened world without light or aether.

It only took a moment to get her bearings and shake off her disorientation, though. Even without the conscious effort of engaging her aethersight, her remaining natural senses told her everything she needed to know— she could feel a mattress under her and sheets over her and cool air on her uncovered face and shoulder; she could hear Rinh’s breathing and smell her presence with miqo’te precision. She sat up in bed, and was mildly but not unpleasantly surprised when Rinh reached out and held her hand; she’d risen earlier than usual, then.

“Morning, Shtola,” said Rinh, before pressing a kiss to Y’shtola’s hand. Y’shtola still wasn’t using her aethersight— maintaining it took effort, concentration, and energy, which was generally worth pricing into her days, but of late she’d gotten more and more comfortable with quiet moments like this, alone with Rinh, when she doesn’t need to.

“Did you sleep well, dearest?”

“Not really,” answered Rinh, her voice sounding a bit raw, “I had a dream about Eadwulf. But I—I really, really don’t want to talk about it.” Rinh pulled her into an embrace; Y’shtola could feel Rinh’s bare skin pressing into hers— the ridges of scars delineating familiar contours. “So enough about me— How are you feeling?”

“A bit… scattered, perhaps,” said Y’shtola, fumbling around for the right words to use, “Not tired, exactly, but perhaps not entirely rested. Whilst my sleep was more than sufficient in quantity, it was perhaps somewhat lacking in quality.”

“Well,” said Rinh, “We can be bleary and out of it together, then.”

Y’shtola smiled. “Perhaps by combined effort the two of us shall add up to a single freshly-rested and alert individual.” This wasn’t really her best quip, Y’shtola had to admit, but it was apparently still enough to make Rinh laugh that lyrical laugh of hers, so it got the job done.

***

Y’shtola and Rinh meandered their way through a lazy morning— washing up and getting dressed at a leisurely pace made possible by a day with no particular obligations. Rinh made a cup of coffee for herself– strong and black, as was her custom– and poured a cup of tea for Y’shtola.

And then Y’shtola’s ear twitched as she heard— well— something out past the subterranean quiet of her chambers. Some sort of commotion outside, in the village square; voices calling out in confusion and concern.

She couldn’t help but remember when she was roused by a similar commotion the day Forgiven Vengeance graced Fort Gohn with its presence.

It was two years ago to the day that Fort Gohn burned.

Cries of alarm– of pain– the air choked with smoke– a community reduced to ashes– Theowren’s craggy face thrown into sharp relief by the infernal light of flames– an angel’s wings flap, and Y’shtola is buffeted with a blast of hot air and sparks– her vision clouded by a whorl of Fire and Light-aspected aether–

“Shtola,” said Rinh, lacing her fingers through Y’shtola’s, “Shtola, hey– I’m here, all right?” She gave Y’shtola’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

Y’shtola took a deep breath, composing herself, taking stock of her surroundings– the quiet sanctity of her chambers, Rinh at her side, the only unusual scent in the air the aroma of Hannish tea left to steep for too long. She couldn’t see anything amiss about the ambient aether– or Rinh’s aether, for that matter.

“Well,” said Y’shtola, “We had better see if aught is amiss.” The two women– still holding hands– stepped out of Matoya's inner sanctum and into the antechamber with its heaped books. As they were picking their way through the piles, Y’shtola heard someone knocking on her door.

“Master Matoya! Is Sizha there?” Even muffled by the door, the voice is easily recognizable as Runar’s; he is clearly agitated, but not outright panicked; Y'shtola supposed that was a good sign.

“He’s asking for me?” murmured Rinh. She shrugged, and opened the door; Runar’s relief at seeing her and Y’shtola was palpable. “What’s up?” asked Rinh, “Is there a stray Eater on the loose or something?”

“Sandine’s gone into labor,” Runar said, urgent but composed, “But the child’s turned around the wrong way, and–”

“A breech birth,” said Rinh, not waiting for Runar to finish, “Shit.” She closed her eyes, and with a dazzling pulse of aether, a gnarled staff appeared in her hands her slacks and half-buttoned shirt were transfigured into White Mage’s robes. “Take me to her.”

The three of them cut across the village square, skirting the edge of the commons, weaving their way through the dozen or so Night’s Blessed who had congregated outside and currently milling about; in a place like Slitherbough, news spread quickly. “Make way,” said Runar, “Make way, please.” Once they’d made it to the other end of the square, Runar opened a door set directly into living stone and led the way down a staircase descending down into the system of caves and tunnels which tied Slitherbough together. Y’shtola could already hear cries of anguish from below— as homey and inviting as she’d come to see the Night’s Blessed’s subterranean dwellings, the way those echoing corridors carried the sound of screaming still brought a dungeon’s torture chamber to mind.

Although she supposed there was still a chance this would be a happy occasion rather than a tragedy— if the fates were kind, if Rinh’s presence and steady hand would be enough for circumstances to take a turn for the better.

When Runar finally opened the door to Sandine’s bedchamber, Y’shtola was confronted with a bloody and chaotic scene. There was Sandine herself— a young drahn woman of slight build, belly big with child and face contorted with agony. There was her husband Evardt— a hume man who was understandably shaking like a leaf and looked about ready to faint.

It occurred to Y’shtola that she’d never actually been present at the birth of a child. She knew basically what to expect— she’d had a proper Sharlayan medical education, after all— but once she’d left Sharlayan for good, her healing skills were almost always used for battlefield medicine. She staunched wounds and dulled pain to keep her comrades in the fight; she set bones and knit together sundered flesh after the battle had ended. Before the burning of Fort Gohn, children born to the Night’s Blessed were always delivered by Theowren or one of the other priests; after Fort Gohn, no one was feeling particularly inclined to start a family.

Rinh, of course, was in her element, taking charge of the situation with a calm and measured urgency. Midwifery had been her vocation before the Calamity, after all.

“The Warrior of Darkness…” said Evardt, looking more than a bit over-awed. Sandine was in no shape to talk, but even though a haze of pain and fear, her surprise at seeing the great heroine of the sunless sea was apparent.

Rinh smiled reassuringly. “Right now, I’m just Sizha the midwife.”

***

It was a long and difficult childbirth, but Rinh maintained her composure throughout; Sizha the midwife was as adept at bringing lives into the world as the Warrior of Light was at ending them. She handled every complication with cool-headed decisiveness, murmuring soft reassurances to Sandine throughout her ordeal.

It was easy for Y’shtola to lose track of the passage of time in the caverns beneath Slitherbough, but she reckoned that the sun had already set by the time the child was safely delivered. Y’shtola was struck by the sight of Rinh in her blood-stained robes cradling a newborn baby girl in her arms, tiny and perfect, aether flaring as she took her first breaths. Rinh gently passed the girl to her mother; Sandine held the girl to her breast.

The first child born to the Night’s Blessed since Forgiven Vengeance cut out the heart of their community; the first child of the Blessed who would never have to look up and see a sky full of stagnant Light, who would never know a world without night.

There was one last formality to be observed. Sandine was understandably exhausted, but when she spoke, her voice was steady and serene. “In the Light, you shall be called Bethana,” she said, “But in the gentle night, beneath sheltering Darkness, your true name shall be— Sizha.”

Rinh smiled at this young family, a few stray tears in her eyes. “Allin tuta, Sizha,” she said.

This could have been Rinh’s life, Y’shtola realized— if the world was softer, if fate had been kinder— if the Ascians weren’t so hell-bent on their precious rejoinings; if Baelsar hadn’t built his wall; if Wood Wailers didn’t make themselves the Twelveswood’s judge, jury, and executioner. If men like Eadwulf or Zenos hadn’t forced Rinh to make a weapon of herself, sharp and hard as a knight’s sword and shield.

Chapter Text

Rinh

Rinh and Y’shtola’s wedding on the First was simple, straightforward, and heartfelt, as most rituals and observances were among the Night’s Blessed.

This was just as well, since circumstances did not exactly permit elaborate plans. Untangling Elidibus’s plan to raise up Warriors of Light, combing the archives of Anamnesis Anyder, devising a means to return the Scions to the Source as the connection between their souls and bodies continued to fray— each of these needed to be attended to in turn, which didn’t exactly leave much time for trying on wedding dresses or drawing up seating arrangements.

But ultimately they were able to get it done in the short window of time in between the defeat of Elidibus and the Scions returning home, because all that they really needed to do was pick a time and a place and decide who to invite; the Night’s Blessed would handle the rest.

So everyone piled into the Darker, Rinh was formally inducted into the Night’s Blessed by the bestowal of a heartstone, and Runar (who, considering his feelings for Master Matoya, was being a preternaturally good sport about this) officiated a little ceremony where both the brides and their heartstones— Sizha’s ruby and Matoya’s amethyst— were ritually purified with water from the Font of Seeing, and their union was sealed by a whispered exchange of true names and a kiss. This was followed by one of the Night’s Blessed’s trademark feast-cum-family dinners held under the stars— a new step to an old ceremony added after night returned to Rak’tika, and that was that.

On the Source, however, things would not be nearly so easy. 

They had the luxury of time, though. For the moment, Eorzea was at peace. The last stragglers of the VIIth legion had retreated from Ghimlyt Dark in disarray in an attempt to hold their home territory in Werlyt– a doomed attempt, because every warmachina the VIIth deployed was met by Alliance and Werlyt revolutionaries armed with the best magitek the Garlond Ironworks had to offer. Noah van Gabranth’s attempt to make his IVth legion a nation unto itself met its demise on the battlefields of Bozja– as did van Gabranth himself. With Bozja and Dalmasca liberated to their west and Eastern Alliance forces steadily advancing from the north, the demoralized remnants of the XIth occupying Nagxia were cut off from any hope of resupply or reinforcement from the other provinces. A few cohorts surrendered to the Nagxians– others fled into the Burn, and were never seen or heard from again. The Ist and IIIrd legions were still pummeling one another senseless in the pile of smoking rubble that used to be the Garlean capital. The XIVth and XIIth had never been properly reconstituted after the alleged deaths of their Legati; whatever was left of the VIth that managed to evacuate Azys Lla was deemed combat ineffective and disbanded. The handful of legions which had managed to stay out of both the civil war and the rapid disintegration of the provinces were holed up in their castra as their officers waited to see which way the wind would blow, so no counter-offensive out of Corvos or central Ilsabard by the IInd or Xth seemed likely.

In short– there was no pressing matter that required the Warrior of Light to take the field. There was time enough for the Scions to recuperate, and for Rinh to throw herself into wedding planning.

***

“I’m still not even really sure where we ought to hold the ceremony,” said Rinh. She, Y’shtola, Thancred, and Lyse were seated around a table in the Rising Stones. It was a war council of sorts, but convened to plan a wedding ceremony rather than chart a course through crisis and conflict and was therefore very slightly less high-stakes.

“I figured you’d just have it in Ishgard,” said Thancred, “You live there, after all.” Thancred had more or less become Rinh’s self-appointed “Best Man”, which was apparently one of the myriad roles and titles which had accumulated like barnacles around settled folks’ wedding customs. Best Men, Maids of Honor, ring-bearers, flower girls, bridesmaids and groomsmen (but not, perplexingly, groomsmaids or bridesmen)— it was all a bit bewildering.

“To the extent you could be said to live anywhere in particular given how often you’re rushing hither and yon across the star,” said Y’shtola.

“And also that other star,” said Lyse, “Um, does the First count as a separate star? Or does the star mean all of Hydaelyn’s reflections together? I never was sure about that. What I do know is that nothing ever seems to slow you down.” She smiled at Rinh.

“Well, you know, I’m pretty good at being Azem,” said Rinh, brightly.

“Emet-Selch would be pleased to see how faithfully you execute your office,” said Y’shtola; her tone was somewhat teasing, but Rinh supposed she wasn’t wrong.

The way Emet-Selch looked at her and always saw the ghostly afterimage of his Persephone quite reasonably never sat right with Rinh, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a genuine connection of any sort between herself and her Ancient predecessor, or that that connection wasn’t important. She had come to think of Persephone as an ancestor of sorts– one where the line of descent was traced through soul rather than blood, but an ancestor all the same. Persephone had taken her place among the family ghosts– it was as simple as that.

The office of Azem, on the other hand, seemed to fit Rinh like a glove, solar connotations aside. A traveler, always in motion, always building connections with the people she walked among, never content with a status quo reinforced by centuries of inertia if there was something to be done. That was as good a description of what she did as anything, she supposed. It was still a title– it was still a mask– but it was one that fit far more comfortably than Moonkissed or Eikon-slayer or Warrior of Light or even Warrior of Darkness.

“More to the point,” Rinh said, getting back to the subject at hand, “Having the wedding in Ishgard proper would basically lock us in for having a traditional Halonic ceremony, which— well, I don’t think any of us would enjoy that much. It would be hours of sermons and benedictions.”

“Also, you were on the bleeding edge of a revolutionary movement that utterly discredited the Holy See and more or less permanently ended a thousand years of ecclesiastical primacy,” said Thancred.

“I did do that, yeah,” said Rinh, more than a bit proud of herself.

“They were furthermore rather hostile to Keeper of the Moon beliefs regarding Halone, if I recall,” said Y’shtola.

“Halone is the bride of Menphina,” said Rinh, “Why else would they both dwell in the Heaven of Ice? It just makes sense.”

“All right, so Ishgard’s out,” said Thancred, “Somewhere in the Black Shroud, then? Lend the proceedings a certain Keeperish air even if they haven’t got— as you put it— marriage marriage.”

“That does sound nice,” said Rinh, “But it means dealing with the Gridanians, which I’m not sure about.”

“I still know people in Gridania,” Lyse offered, “Who to talk to, who to lean on, that sort of thing. You kind of had to, to get anything done. And Papalymo and I always had a lot we needed to get done. So I’m sure if there’s any problems, I can figure out how to, you know, smooth it over.”

Rinh was unconvinced, though. “I’m pretty sure the Wailers have still got a warrant out for my arrest, for one thing.”

“You know they’d never dare make good on that,” said Thancred, “Not after everything you’ve done.”

“I mean, obviously they wouldn’t, but any sort of official interaction with Gridanian bureaucracy would call attention to it, which would be a whole thing, you know?” said Rinh, with a shrug. “It’d be embarrassing for Gridania— they’d probably look pretty bad. Which they deserve, but it would make the whole business about that.” She reached across the table, resting her hand on Y’shtola’s. “It ought to be about us, Shtola.”

Y’shtola nodded emphatically. “By all rights it should.”

“Anyroad,” added Rinh, “I am the Panipahr matriarch, and no Keeper of the Moon matriarch should let Gridanian law have any say in matters of family.”

“What if you just had it here in Revenant’s Toll?” suggested Lyse, “You know, on neutral ground.”

That sounded all right to Rinh, but this time Y’shtola spoke up. “Our convalescence has more or less restricted us to Revenant’s Toll for weeks,” she said, “Such narrowed horizons have left me restless, and quite keen to be somewhere that isn’t here.”

“I guess it is a bit like getting married on your own porch,” said Lyse, conceding the point.

“I don’t suppose we could make Sharlayan work?” asked Rinh, “Travel time might be a bit of a hassle, but it would certainly be neutral ground. Neutral to a fault, really.”

Y’shtola, Thancred, and Lyse exchanged a significant (and honestly rather alarmed) look with one another.

“The problem isn’t having to sail there,” said Thancred, “It’s the small matter of having to get everyone who’s not already a Sharlayan citizen past the Bureau of Worldly Affairs.”

“Ugh,” muttered Lyse, “I hate those guys.”

“I am reasonably— though certainly not entirely— confident I could induce the Bureau to allow you in, dearest,” said Y’shtola, “Considered together, your scholarly attainments and your status as the fiancée of a Sharlayan national would perhaps be enough for them to give way. They might be less at ease with the arrival of an entire wedding party, though.”

“Especially if that wedding party consists of a passel of revolutionaries, adventurers, some Ishgardian nobles, a sprinkling of important political and military figures in the Eorzean Alliance, and… oh yes, the balance of Louisoix’s band of malcontents,” said Thancred, “They might assume they’re being invaded.”

“A fair point,” Rinh conceded, “It would be funny, but not really conducive to a wedding.” She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “l hate being well-known enough that everything is so bloody political, that just showing up in public somewhere has diplomatic ramifications we’ve got to take into account.”

“Hm,” said Lyse, leaning forward, looking at Rinh and Y’shtola in turn, “Well, since politics is unavoidable, maybe you should think in terms of what message you want to send instead of just wracking your brain trying to find a way to avoid sending one at all.”

“Ala Mhigo,” said Rinh, without hesitation, “Let’s have it in Ala Mhigo.”

“Great, we’ve narrowed it down from all of Eorzea to just the vast expanse of Gyr Abania,” said Thancred.

“We should perhaps further limit ourselves to the city of Ala Mhigo proper,” said Y’shtola, “Otherwise, difficulties with travel and logistics will begin to compound themselves.”

Rinh nodded. “I probably shouldn’t make our wedding-guests fly all the way to Ala Mhigo and then have to hike the rest of the way through Ablathia’s Spine to get to Ala Ghiri or Coldhearth or something. So, the capital city and its environs— any thoughts, Lyse?”

“The throne room, maybe? It’s big, it’s fancy, and I can totally get it set aside for the two of you.”

“Isn’t that where the council meets?” asked Y’shtola, skeptical.

“Only for ceremonies,” Lyse said breezily, “Sitting around on the marble floor before an empty throne is great symbolism, but for the day-to-day the councilors tend to prefer somewhere that’s actually got, you know, desks and chairs and stuff.”

Rinh thought this over. The empty throne had been a brilliant little bit of political stagecraft on Lyse’s part— for someone who didn’t consider herself a politician, she’d very deftly forestalled any calls for the crowning of a new king and thereby more or less guaranteed that the new Ala Mhigo would be a proper republic. Making sure that Ishgard would be a republic had been a much more difficult and acrimonious process, achieved only through a lot of horse-trading between the Great Houses, a concerted effort to sideline the church in negotiations by making concessions to the nobility, marathon shouting matches in drawing rooms, and a hefty measure of sheer good luck.

“It should be somewhere outdoors, I think,” said Rinh, returning to the issue at hand, “At night. That just feels correct. Keepers of the Moon haven’t got any wedding customs per se, but the important ceremonies we have got— namings, coming-of-age ceremonies, offerings to the dead, moots, that sort of thing— they’re all under the stars, bathed in Menphina’s light. So a wedding ought to be, too.”

Y’shtola smiled. “A sentiment the Night’s Blessed would enthusiastically support.”

“The Royal Menagerie,” Lyse blurted out, and instantly regretted it. “Wait, no, I guess that’s where Zenos—“

“Where Zenos died,” Rinh said, “Which isn’t the worst association in the world, honestly, even though he didn’t have the good manners to stay dead.”

“Still, maybe a touch macabre for a wedding,” said Thancred, wryly.

“I don’t know…” Rinh said, “There are places that are inextricably tangled up with Zenos in my memories— places where we fought. Rhalgr’s Reach, obviously— or Monzen, where he beat the shit out of me and Yugiri. But the Menagerie? I didn’t even fight Zenos there, not really— I fought Shinryu, with pretty much everyone else with the Echo the Alliance could scrape up helping me.”

“But Shinryu was Zenos at that point, right?” said Thancred, “Or was being controlled by him or embodying him, or something like that— his soul, mind and will with far more power at his disposal than as a man fighting on foot.”

“It wasn’t still wasn’t the same as being face to face with him. With Shinryu, it was just another fight against a primal, which is— well, maybe not routine, but precedented, at least. I’ve fought other primals, other dragons, other primals shaped like dragons. But Zenos the man— I’ve never fought anyone like that, before or since. He’s not a primal, or a member of the First Brood, or an unsundered sorcerer of eld or a Light-gorged sin eater or a giant magitek construct— he has all that power while still fundamentally being, you know, just a guy. Just a guy with a sword.”

He’s like me, Rinh realized. 

Oh, not for any of the reasons he thought he was like her— every time he went on about how he saw in Rinh a friend and companion, a fellow hunter, a solitary predator and mirror image, all she could do was roll her eyes; clearly, her way of thinking was every bit as alien to him as his was to her. She was a hunter in a very technical sense, she supposed, but to him, hunting was sport— to her, it was a means to keep a family fed. And she was in all honesty kind of a mediocre hunter— she couldn’t hold a candle to her mother and sisters. (Rinh reckoned her mother was probably the best archer in all the Shroud. No one ever seemed to believe her when she said it, though; the Gods' Quiver seemed to have a monopoly on archery in Gridanian public opinion.)

But there was one single way she really was his mirror— power, the sheer terrifying power of a mortal man or woman who was a one-person weapon of mass destruction, whose mere presence could bend and warp international relations, distort history itself. There were entities far stronger than either of them, obviously—  primals wearing the faces of gods, Paragons of the Ascians, dragons mad with a thousand years of grief and rage, Lightwardens who could drown a world in stagnant aether and steal the very stars from the sky, nightmares made flesh and steel by Allagan science, and a thousand other things— but they were all categorically different than just being a guy with a sword, governed by their own rules and logic. Rinh was a woman with a sword, or a staff or a couple of chakrams or very occasionally a lance; Zenos was a man with what was basically a golf bag full of stolen katanas. 

But when they fought, they could still shatter worlds.

“Rinh?” asked Lyse, gently, “You kinda drifted off for a sec.” Rinh’s silent rumination hadn’t gone unnoticed, then.

“Uh, where was I? Right, the Menagerie. Even Shinryu isn’t really the first thing that comes to mind when I think of the Menagerie. I think of— I think of what came after that. The flag of the Resistance flying over a free Ala Mhigo, everyone singing The Measure of His Reach. Even I sang, and you all know how dreadful I am at carrying a tune. There was joy in the air— hope— possibility,” said Rinh, “That’s what the Menagerie really means, if you ask me.”

“Where the dream of a free Ala Mhigo was finally consummated,” Y’shtola added.

Lyse giggled. “Ha— consummated, huh?”

Y’shtola’s riposte was utterly deadpan. “I know what I said.”

***

The next time Rinh found herself in the Royal Menagerie of Ala Mhigo, it was not for her wedding.

The wedding date had been pushed back, and pushed back again, but Rinh could hardly complain about that given what the Scions were up to in the meantime— Alisaie’s quest to apply what she learned ministering to the patients of at the Journey’s Head Inn to the plight of the tempered had, astonishingly— no, miraculously— yielded a permanent cure for tempering. The flurry of diplomacy that followed was no less astonishing or miraculous— the leaders of the Eorzean city-states finally abandoning the untenable and monstrous idea that a clean line could be drawn separating the Spoken into men and beasts. Even Merlwyb— Merlwyb— finally admitted that her government had wronged the kobolds and sought to make amends. (Rinh remembered how unflinchingly Y’shtola had confronted Merlyb’s hypocrisy and colonial ambitions after the summoning of Titan; it was one of the many moments when, bit by bit, she found herself a little more in love with Y’shtola.)

A better, kinder world was emerging before Rinh’s eyes— a world which, just a few years earlier, would have been considered idealistic to the point of naivety. That was worth a few week’s delay to a wedding ceremony.

Then came a series of ominous signs and portents. The Garlean capital, so recently a battlefield, was now quiet as a tomb. People began to vanish; towers began to appear on the horizon. The very star seemed to hold its breath. Whenever Rinh looked up, she half-expected to see crimson Dalamud hanging in the sky.

Then, finally, a ceremony in the Royal Menagerie, with the Ascian Fandaniel serving as officiant and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and Ala Mhigan military as official witnesses; the curtain rose on the Final Days. Something Fandaniel called Lunar Bahamut loomed alongside him– a twisted mirror of a primal which was a twisted mirror of a dragon who once lived. (The association of the creature with the lunar, with Menphina’s love and the grace of moonlight, felt very nearly obscene.) The Menagerie’s gardens burned, crimson flowers devoured by cold flame.

Yet Fandaniel saved the worst blow for last: “My esteemed patron, Lord Zenos, eagerly awaits you at the heart of the chaos,” he said, a sneer plastered across Asahi’s dead face, “He exists solely to relive a certain… transcendent moment with you, and it is for that reason he would reduce all to ash. Pray see to it his dreams do not go unfulfilled.”

And Rinh knew, with dread certainty, that whatever horrors were to come, whatever gruesome spectacle was about to unfold– Zenos was at the heart of it, and he was doing it all for her.

Y’shtola

The closer the Ilsabard Contingent got to the city of Garlemald, the worse Y’shtola felt. At first, she thought it was just nerves. The threat posed by Zenos and Fandaniel, the unnatural silence and halting movements of the tempered legions which tried to block the Contingent’s path through the Magna Glacies, the fresh memories of the horrors she’d seen at the Tower of Zot— it was more than enough to break the composure and poise she expected-- no, demanded-- of herself.

By the time the allied forces halted their advance to dig in at Camp Broken Glass (née Laterum), it was obvious there was something foul and uncanny in the very aether. They were still on the furthest outskirts of the city, malms away from the palace, but the ambient aether was already every bit as warped and rotten as the reliquary at heart of Zot. She had a splitting headache— the worst she’d had since her first days amidst the stagnant Light of the First. Simply perceiving her surroundings was enough to strain her aethersight; everything close to her looked dim and indistinct, everything far off in the distance looked lurid and monstrous.

In short, aetheric conditions were so extreme that there was a nauseating wrongness hanging over the whole Eblan Rime like a stormcloud- or, as Lyse might say, the vibes were rancid.

Y’shtola almost welcomed the cold— it was a very ordinary sort of discomfort compared to what the aether was doing to her; the sort of discomfort that served as a sharp reminder that she was still a physical body in a physical place with physical sensation, not a soul torn asunder and dragged through the Rift or drowning in the Lifestream.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t freezing and miserable— nearly everyone was freezing and miserable. Even Rinh, who had long claimed she’d gotten so used to Ishgardian winters that the cold didn’t bother her anymore, was freezing and miserable. It was just that, given some of the things Y’shtola had experienced, the mere fact she was still capable of noticing things like her cheeks stinging in the wind or the numbness in her fingers was reassuring.

Slowly, she made her way across the camp, working her way through engineers trying to repair burnt-out heaters, medical personnel trying to get the tempered indoors post-haste, sutlers unloading supplies, soldiers munching on hardtack dipped in freshly brewed coffee already gone cold. All fairly ordinary sights for a military operation in the winter, but which seemed to drift in and out of her perception. A Xaela scout playing a morin khuur was suddenly stringing a bow instead; soldiers' greatcoats flickered from Ul'dahn black to Gridanian gold to Crystal Braves blue; a bivouac set up as the command post of a Maelstrom levy became the canopy of a circus tent, and then the skin of some terrible beast stretched out on a tanner’s rack. (Mount Gulg came to mind— trying desperately to find Rinh behind the Warrior of Light’s alabaster visage. But she couldn’t let herself think of that or she’d go to pieces.)

If she strained herself, she could just about sort out the signal from the noise, but it required constant, conscious effort. Her aether was depleting at a faster rate than she'd like-- after just a few bells of this, she knew she'd need a flask of ether and a nap.

Just outside the building Lucia and her staff had commandeered as a makeshift headquarters, she found Rinh and Lyse huddled together. They were readily recognizable, at least— maybe the familiarity of their aether gave her something fixed to focus on. They were both in military garb, but cut two very different figures; Lyse was wearing a bulky winter jacket over her Resistance fatigues, while Rinh managed to look dapper and elegant in spite of everything in a tailored naval greatcoat.

“Shtola!” said Lyse, pulling Y’shtola into the huddle, “Come over here and warm up!” Pressed against the bodies of her lover and her fiancée, she did feel a bit warmer, which helped. She also felt a lot less alone, which helped even more.

“Feeling any better, Shtola?” asked Rinh.

“No,” said Y’shtola, never one to mince words.

Rinh frowned. “Damn it. Can we do anything to help?”

“The physical discomfort I shall simply have to find some way to endure; needs must, after all,” said Y’shtola, thinking this over, “But— but I am also having difficulty getting my bearings; my aethersight cannot be relied upon in these conditions. Rinh— Lyse— pray lend me your eyes; even if I can’t trust my own, I can trust the two of you to describe this place as you see it. Let us start with Laterum— Camp Broken Glass— what does it look like to you?”

“I think it was some sort of… border checkpoint?” said Rinh, not sounding terribly sure of herself, “Some ceruleum tanks, some outbuildings, a car park, something I think used to be a tavern or a café or something based on how many tables and chairs they had to push out of the way to clear space for the command post...”

“It’s a rest stop!” Lyse said, “They left a ton of these behind in Gyr Abania— whenever they built one of their stupid highways, they’d put up one of these depressing places every few malms, so a Garlean driving to the city could stop for a bite to eat and top up their car’s ceruleum tank without having to, you know, look at or talk to any Ala Mhigans. Guess they have ‘em in the home provinces, too.”

“A fairly ordinary sort of place, then,” Y’shtola said, “What about further afield? Can you see the—” She hesitated a moment, not entirely sure how— or even if— she ought to describe the gruesome spectacle crowning the northern horizon. “The Imperial Palace,” she said, deciding on nonspecificity, on disambiguating without describing.

“The Telephoroi have really done a number on it,” said Rinh, “Even from out here, you can see it— it’s the same sort of skeletal, organic architecture we’ve seen in the other towers, but somehow even more so. Bristling with horrible spikes everywhere, emanating a blood-red miasma which I assume is umbrally-charged aether. Awful, monstrous bloody thing.”

“Ah,” said Y’shtola, “So in this particular case, you and I actually are seeing the same thing.”

“The spikes and such seem like a weird waste of resources,” said Rinh, “Building out the systems needed to siphon aether on that scale has got to be hard enough without diverting time, manpower, and personnel to… aesthetic flourishes.”

Lyse shrugged. “Zenos’s still thinking like a Garlean, I guess. Imperial architecture is as much about projecting power and sending a message as it is about actually building anything functional. Take Specula Imperatoris— they could have set up their regional surveillance by just putting up a bunch of normal-sized watchtowers and checkpoints and giving the garrisons radios, or putting some cameras on airborne machina, or building their observation post on the summit of a mountain, but instead they built a giant cermet spire you can see for malms in every direction and flew the biggest flag in Gyr Abania from it. And that constant presence sends a message to everyone in the Peaks— we are here, and we are always, always watching.”

“So the tower’s design is meant to inspire feelings of dread and fear,” Y’shtola said, “The question of who the intended audience is remains, however. The people of Garlemald? The tempered? The untempered? The Contingent?”

Rinh, who’d been silently studying the tower, finally spoke again. “Gods, is it me? I think it’s me. It’s got to be me, right? Fandaniel said he was waiting for me, expecting me.”

An unhappy conclusion, Y’shtola thought, but very likely a sound one.

Chapter Text

Rinh

Rinh had never really been sure what the end of the Garlean Empire would look like.

For most of her life– growing up in the shadow of Baelsar’s Wall, surviving amidst the ashen desolation left when Nael van Darnus knocked the Lesser Moon out of the sky, adventuring in an Eorzea pockmarked with XIVth legion castra and castella– the very notion that an empire unassailably powerful enough to carve the world into any shape it pleased would ever end was absurd. Even after Operation Archon swept Gaius van Baelsar, his legion, and his Weapon off the board, the empire proper seemed to operate on a fundamentally different scale than anything remaining free peoples of the star could bring to bear. The squabbling city-states of Eorzea, the Ishgardians and Dravanians locked in a millennium of war, the Sharlayans demonstrating the indolence of ignoring the plight of those they could save, a Hingan bakufu cowed into neutrality by imperial gunboats, the New World an ocean away from the troubles of the Old– the idea that any of them could breach those cermet and adamantine ramparts girdling the world from Ablathia’s Spine to the Ruby Sea was laughable.

Then came the revolutions: Ishgard rejoining her Eorzean sisters and binding the Alliance that much more tightly. Doma, the outrages committed by Zenos yae Galvus finally avenged. Ala Mhigo, born in blood, a nation once again. Then, with the doors to the frontiers kicked in, the whole rotten edifice began to collapse in on itself. Provinces fell away, one after another– Dalmasca, Bozja, Werlyt, Nagxia. Whole legions collapsed. Suddenly the empire was looking eminently beatable– Garlemald was an empire in terminal decline.

Still, even with the knowledge that the empire’s fall and the triumph of liberty might one day come, it was hard for Rinh to imagine that triumph in any concrete way. She thought of Eorzean and Eastern Alliance armies of liberation marching shoulder-to-shoulder, storming the capital, sweeping aside the Scholae and the Ist legion, fighting their way into the palace and putting Varis to the sword. But these images rang false– she was just transposing memories of the liberation of Ala Mhigo onto the streets of Garlemald.

Instead, the end of the Garlean Empire looked like this:

One last true believer hiding in a subway tunnel, holding his subordinates and the civilians under his ‘protection’ hostage, launching a truly half-assed surprise attack on dug-in Ilsabard Contingent forces with two magitek reapers running on fumes and a handful of underfed and under-equipped legionaries, waiting for a Xth legion counterattack that would never come. News came through that the scattered remnants of the Xth surrendered in Ala Mhigo; the ambush fizzled out, the iyls stood down, and a gunshot rang out in Tertium. Bang, whimper, the end.

She could hardly rest easy— she was still in the midst of a humanitarian disaster, the threat of the Telephoroi still loomed, their tempered playthings still unwilling instruments of the apocalypse. She could tell that just being in this place was taking a toll on Y’shtola, even if Y’shtola was doing her best to simply power through it.

But she still allowed herself a moment or two of grim satisfaction: the Garlean Empire was dead, dead, dead, and it was never ever coming back. The beast was slain; the people Emet-Selch forged into a sword pointed at Hydaelyn’s heart would once more take up plowshare and scythe.

She kept this thought to herself— it was likely to go over like a lead balloon among Garlean refugees and the more idealistic Contingent members alike. Rinh knew that diplomacy was important, even if in practice that often meant knowing when to shut up and let Alphinaud or G’raha do the talking.

Lyse, on the other hand, felt no particular need to hold her counsel. “Wow,” she said, “Rest in fucking pieces.”

***

The day ended; cold sunlight gave way to soft moonlight. The stars in the sky were met by earthbound constellations of ceruleum heaters and wood-burning stoves and cook-fires, of oil lanterns and aetherial beacons and electric lights.

Lucia had bid Rinh to seek out Y’shtola, but Rinh hardly needed to be told to do that. She was easy enough to find— she was standing just outside the little shop (“A convenience store,” Lyse called it, familiar as she was with the architectural detritus of the imperial highway system) the Contingent had pressed into service as a makeshift infirmary, tending to the wounded, tempered, shell-shocked, hypothermic, and frostbitten. She was warming her hands at a steaming and sputtering Ishgardian heater, wrapped in a coat woven from the hardiest and most insulating fabric the Facet of Production had to offer— a gift from Rinh, who’d ferried it from the Crystarium back to the Source.

“Shtola,” Rinh said, with a friendly wave.

“Rinh,” answered Y’shtola; her face was turned to Rinh, but her eyes seemed to stare right past her until she blinked a few times and her gaze became focused— a telltale sign she was struggling with her aethersight. Usually, these instances were fleeting— moments of disorientation when awakened from dreams of the Rift or the Lifestream, moments of fatigue after a day spent over-exerting herself and her aether. Now, though, the strain seemed constant in a way Rinh hadn’t seen since— seven hells— since the aftermath of the disaster at Mount Gulg; Rinh halfway to become a Lightwarden and Y’shtola looking at Rinh but seeing only the Warrior of Light.

Eventually, though, Y’shtola’s eyes met Rinh’s and stayed there; with a warm smile, she beckoned her forward. Rinh obliged, and without further ceremony Y’shtola stuck her hands into Rinh’s pockets. “Thank you, dearest,” she murmured, “A much better way to warm chilled hands and benumbed fingers than a steam-heater on its last legs.”

“One of the many invaluable services I provide,” said Rinh, kissing Y’shtola’s cheek, hot lips on cold skin. “Unfortunately, another one of those services is fretting over my lovely fiancée’s health and well-being in aetherically extreme conditions. So— how are you feeling?”

“It isn’t getting in the way of my work,” Y’shtola said, which might even be true but certainly didn’t answer Rinh’s question.

“Shtola,” breathed Rinh, with equal parts gentle teasing and sincere concern. “Are you pacing yourself?”

“Yes—”

“Are you managing your aether?”

“Yes, of course I—”

“Have you had anything to eat? Rations? Hardtack? Soup? Archon loaf?”

“At lunch, yes.”

“Shtola! That was bells ago! Have you at least been taking breaks? Staying hydrated?”

“Yes, yes, I have been taking proper breaks and imbibing sufficient water and et cetera, et cetera,” said Y’shtola, with fond annoyance. Then, expression and voice both softening: “But what of the Warrior of Darkness? She has got an established history of reckless disregard for her own well-being.”

“I regard my own well-being sometimes! In fact, I’m doing so at this very moment— it’s why I’m milling about here waiting for supper instead of trudging through the Eblan Rime with the twins and a bunch of stragglers from Tertium.”

“Well,” said Y’shtola, “It’s a start, I suppose.”

“Anyroad,” Rinh said, softly, “I know just being here is difficult for you. If the aetheric disturbances are so severe I don’t even need an aetherscope to see ‘em, they must be miserable for you.”

“A fair point,” Y’shtola said, “But there’s nothing to be done short of storming the palace and flushing out the Telephoroi, so there’s no use dwelling on it.”

She had a point, Rinh supposed— no amount of fussing over Y’shtola could dispel the miasma of corrupted aether blanketing the whole region. On the other hand, befouled aether was hardly the only reason Y’shtola was uncomfortable, as the cold hands stuffed into the pockets of Rinh’s greatcoat attested. “Maybe I can at least help with the cold, though. That’s more fixable, at least.”

“And miseries do have a way of compounding themselves,” Y’shtola conceded.

“How about some hot chocolate? The Ishgardians have brought tonze of the stuff, and Haurchefant showed me a way to fix it so it stays hot instead of just congealing into a lukewarm sludge.”

“All right,” said Y’shtola, slowly— and a bit reluctantly— withdrawing her hands from the coat’s pockets. “Loathe as I am to keep my hands to myself, I suppose it can’t be helped if you’re to fetch me a hot beverage. But don’t take too long, dearest.”

Rinh smiled. “I’ll be back in a moment.” She kissed Y’shtola— properly on the lips, this time— and turned on her heel, following the aromas wafting from Ishgardian camp stoves and cooking fires from across the parking lot.

***

Making her way back through the snow, a piping hot mug of cocoa in each hand and the shield of House Fortemps upon her back, Rinh couldn’t help but feel like Haurchefant was walking alongside her. The family ghosts look after the living, after all.

***

Then, it all went to shit. When does it not? It’s always one fucking thing after another.

An ear-piercing wail from the summit of the palace spire, warding scales flaring to life, the voice of Varis zos Galvus on the radio, cries of fear from the Garlean survivors— the empire might be dead, but the Telephoroi could still command the corpse to dance.

A soldier of the Maelstrom in a smart red coat trying to get her attention. The leering face of Asahi sas Brutus— of Fandaniel— under the shako’s visor.

Rinh felt her mind becoming sluggish, her limbs leaden— Falcon’s Nest all over again, except this time she didn’t even get a drink.

Fandaniel’s hands on her body as she collapsed forward.

Two mugs clattered to the ground, spattering hot chocolate and a few tiny fire-aspected crystals across the snow.

Darkness.

***

Rinh drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes she thought she saw lights— sometimes she thought she heard voices. Isn’t she small? said the voice of Asahi, or Fandaniel, or Amon, So like a pretty little mammet, or a doll.

In that flesh dwells inconceivable strength, purrs a second voice, Eyes to pierce darkness. A nose to sniff out prey. Claws to rend flesh. Fangs to tear out throats. The perfect predator– a hunter who stalks gods and empires as a lesser animal chases down beasts. No room for Rinh to doubt whose voice that was. A finger traced the lines of the scars across her face, then the contour of her jaw.

She was being restrained somehow– whether physically, chemically, or magically, she couldn’t move a muscle, or scream, or even bite down when that finger found its way to her mouth to force it open and bare her fangs. She felt cold metal pressing into bare skin— needles or wires or electrodes or something like that.

He— because of course it was him putting his fingers in her mouth and hands on her body— leaned over her, massive frame blotting out harsh operating theater lights above. She felt a hand close around her throat, just lightly enough to allow her to breathe, just firmly enough to remind her he could snap her neck. Slowly, with something approaching tenderness, he ran his hand along the arc of the scar he’d carved at Rhalgr’s Reach— starting at her left shoulder and working his way down, over her collarbone and between her breasts and past her waist and onto her right hip. Then, he pressed a single finger into the terminus of the scar, finding the most sensitive spot and bearing down with an appreciable fraction of his strength. Her instinct was to yelp in pain— but she couldn’t, of course.

Admiring your handiwork, my lord? Hard to imagine such a dainty little thing can break armies, topple kings, and rub out so many of my erstwhile colleagues, said Amon, or Fandaniel, or Asahi, But do it she did! Which I appreciate– things are so much more fun without Elidibus looking over my shoulder or Emet-Selch demanding progress reports or Lahabrea… well, without Lahabrea, full stop.

Cease your prattling and get on with it.

Of course, my lord! One moment, please!

Then, suddenly, there was excruciating pain, as if a thousand hooks were digging into her flesh and trying to pull her apart. She had suffered so much pain in her life– the thrust of a Wood Wailer’s lance, the agony of a childbirth with no midwife or witch or conjuror to relieve it, the Calamity’s flames at her back, Eadwulf’s fists and Eadwulf’s feet and Eadwulf’s hands around her throat. Swords and axes and arrows and bullets; her body scorched to cinders by a monster wearing Thancred’s face, beaten and broken by Crystal Braves and Brass Blades and tossed onto the cold stone floor of the Fragrant Chamber by a man who mere bells ago she trusted with her life. And him, of course– carving her up like a turkey at Rhalgr’s Reach, trampling her into the dirt at Monzen, spilling her blood onto the marble floors before the mad king’s empty throne.

Even setting aside afflictions of the heart (blood pooling on another marble floor as Haurchefant bleeds and bleeds and bleeds) or of the soul (crawling forward in the depths of the tempest, choking on aspirated Light as her soul broils away), it was so much for one body to endure. Too much, even.

The hooks dug deeper and pulled harder, wrenching her open.

Then, mercifully, darkness again.

***

Another flicker of fleeting consciousness. Her entire body was numb; she smelled antiseptic and tasted blood. The experiment was a success, said Asahi or Fandaniel or Amon. Never a phrase you want to hear, especially in a Garlean facility, especially in a Garlean facility presided over by–

***

Zenos yae Galvus.

The first thing Rinh Panipahr saw when she came to was Zenos yae fucking Galvus.  

The second thing she saw was a plate of food set out before her; a second glance towards Zenos revealed that he had a plate of his own, disinterestedly cutting a steak from across a candlelit dinner table.

The third thing she saw was her own hands– or, rather, what she assumed would be her own hands, but were unfamiliar as a stranger’s– gloved, armored, long-fingered and boney.

Her whole body felt wrong, like she’d been stretched out on the rack or broken on the wheel. She felt nauseous and dizzy; her senses were dulled, as if she’d been wrapped tightly in a funeral shroud. She lifted one of those stranger’s hands and touched her face, but found only metal– the sharpened brim of a Garlean helmet, the intricate workings of a Garlean respirator.

When she looked down and saw the body of a Garlean woman, tall and lanky where Rinh was taut and compact, she wasn’t even surprised by it, or by the fact she was dressed in the uniform of an imperial officer. A centurion, she thought, examining the insignia and badges of rank, a centurion of the XIIth legion. Zenos’s old command. Not many of them around in Garlemald— pretty much every soldier they’d encountered, tempered and untempered, was of the Ist or IIIrd, or else not from a legion at all— urban cohorts or vigiles, mostly. A Dalmascan scout well-versed in such things reported seeing a few Scholae lurking about the old Senate building— but no one from the XIIth. The XIIth barely existed anymore— whatever remnants of it made it out of Doma and Ala Mhigo were obviously combat-ineffective, and given the total meltdown of the empire’s command structure and logistics, she doubted it could have been reconstituted. How did this woman get here?

Maybe if Rinh thought enough about that mystery, she wouldn’t have to think about the mystery of what had been done to her, or where her own body was.

But Fandaniel— dressed as a gentleman’s valet and prancing about the table like a harlequin— was there to keep her on task. “Good morrow to you!” he said, glib and chipper as ever. “Here— have a taste before it gets cold!”

The food did look pretty good, which— frankly— annoyed Rinh. Food— and the labor used to prepare it— being wasted on this gruesome little spectacle. Serving a guest a hot meal was a nearly-sacred rite of hospitality— to see it profaned like this—

“Oh, but be sure to remove your helmet,” said Fandaniel, once again noticing that Rinh had found something to think about besides the abject horror and degradation of her situation, “Take a moment, too, to familiarize yourself with that borrowed flesh.”

“What is this—” she started to say, before trailing off, shocked at the sound of her own voice— or, rather, of a voice that was very much not her own. Deeper, older, turned to sandpaper by years of smoking military-issue cigarettes, resonant in all the wrong ways, plucking unfamiliar chords in an alien throat. And yet— through all of that, though the filters of an officer’s respirator— she could still recognize her own lilting Black Shroud accent. She was not quite herself, and not quite this centurion, but rather something stuck between the two.

“So? How does it feel?” asked Fandaniel. “I, for one, find those first moments in a new body to be most refreshing!” An adherent to the Lahabrean school of serial possession, then.

Rinh, finally, wrestled a full sentence out of this stranger’s mouth. “What have you done to me, asshole?”

Fandaniel seemed happy to answer. “You remember Aulus mal Asina, don’t you? I believe the two of you met in Ala Mhigo.”

Rinh did remember. She remembered the abduction of Krile to fuel the creation of an artificial Echo. She remembered hundreds of body bags lined up in the defiled temple to Rhalgr the Garleans called the Resonatorium. But, most importantly, given her current situation, she remembered– “Soul extraction and implantation.”

“His was rather a sticky end, wasn’t it?” said Fandaniel, flippant as ever, “Thankfully, he was thoughtful enough to leave behind his mindjack technology. I took the liberty of making some improvements– and selecting you as my esteemed test subject!”

“Give me back my body,” hissed Rinh. It felt very odd to refer to her body as something apart from her self. (Then again, that was the situation the other Scions had found themselves in not too long ago– but their bodies were accounted for, at least.)

Fandaniel, of course, was in no hurry to return her body– or even tell her where it was, or what had happened to it. Zenos barely even looked up from his meal.

Indeed, the whole dinner went like that. Zenos ate in sullen silence. Fandaniel talked, and talked, and talked– about the trouble he went through to bring her to Zenos’s table, about the decline of the empire and the death of Varis zos Galvus, about the primal Anima summoned into his dead flesh by bereaved subjects. He went into a lengthy explanation about how a primal could be summoned in the image of a nation rather than a god, apparently under the impression that Rinh was too stupid to know such a thing was possible, like she hadn’t realized that when she encountered King Fucking Moggle Mog XII, like she couldn’t rattle off half a dozen primals called from history rather than faith– Saint Shiva, King Thordan and his Knights Twelve, Queen Gunnhildr, Bahamut, Elidibus-as-Zodiark and Venat-as-Hydaelyn…

“...and just as the wealth and power gravitate towards the empire’s capital, so too does aether, from every corner of the globe!” said Fandaniel, “The towers with which you and your allies have been so preoccupied with were created as an extension of Anima itself. An ingenious design… would you not agree, my lord?”

Zenos, after spending most of Fandaniel’s harangue in a posture of studied disinterest, finally set down his knife and fork and returned to the conversation. He still seemed to be ignoring Fandaniel, though– he had eyes only for Rinh, staring at her, through her, pinning her in place with his gaze.

“Does the pursuit of prey you have bested before excite you?” he asked. Without waiting for Rinh to answer, he said, “Of course not. Absent the challenge, the thrill, your prize is a hollow victory. Butchery. Perhaps you think that to be the extent of my promise– I have no doubt fallen in your estimation since Ala Mhigo.”

Is that what he thought she was thinking? What she cared about? Seven hells. As always, she couldn’t help but be astonished by the fact Zenos managed to be completely obsessed with her while somehow learning absolutely nothing about her and not understanding her the slightest bit.

Not that she understood him, not really– but at least she didn’t pretend she did and then rearrange her whole life around it. She just wanted him to go away and leave her alone forever.

“Fair enough,” said Zenos, interpreting Rinh’s silence as the answer he expected to hear, “But do not let your disdain deprive you– deprive us– of an opportunity to craft an even more majestic moment of euphoria. I have been honing my craft as I set the stage for our reunion.”

“There– there was nothing euphoric about fighting you,” Rinh said, hating how much fear was seeping into this stranger’s voice. With Zenos, she could never seem to find the fire within herself she brought to bear in her confrontations with, say, Emet-Selch, unflinchingly speaking the truth in Azem’s office even as he toyed with her and she faced nigh-certain death. Zenos was a cold wind that extinguished those flames, leaving only fear and a flimsy, empty veneer of bravado.

“Unsurprising that you deny your true nature– I have closely studied you following my defeat. You require provocation before you bare your fangs and claws. You delude yourself that you’re above such delights; you instead play the heroine– wheresoever there is suffering and despair, you appear, to fulfill your duty as the defender of this star.”

“So–” said Rinh, once again trying and failing to master her rising panic, “So all of this– it’s all–”

“The chaos and destruction my hordes have wrought… are my gifts to you alone.” Zenos smiled, and the sight of it was enough to silence Rinh “At a loss for words? No matter. As you will learn, I have only just begun.” He pushed his plate aside, and stood up, turning towards the imperial throne– or what had once been the imperial throne, anyway; it was as distorted and uncanny as everything else in Zenos’s spire.

There was a figure slumped in the throne, so small Rinh hadn’t even noticed it in the dim light until Zenos drew her attention to it; face to face with Zenos, it was hard to take her eyes off him.

The figure was a woman– a miqo’te woman, less than five fulms tall, feet danging off the ground. Short black hair, brown skin with a spray of freckles criss-crossed by scars, a sword at her hip and shield on her back.

No– no–

She barely heard the snippy exchange between Zenos and Fandaniel which followed, or Zenos’s further goading. What she saw was enough– Zenos’s body falling limp to the floor, and Rinh Panipahr sitting up in her throne. Everything about her was intimately familiar– the aquiline nose and golden eyes, the eyeliner and lipstick she’d applied this very morning. There was the notch Ilberd took out of her ear; there was the scar carved by the first gladiator Rinh fought on the bloodsands. The earrings dangling from her ears were an arts-and-crafts project undertaken by Rinh’a when he was six or seven, blue droplets with wide-eyed, grinning faces painted on; she was never sure what they were meant to represent, but she was charmed nonetheless, and continued wearing them well after her son was old enough to be embarrassed by it. Her left ear had an additional adornment— a Keeper of the Moon clasp her mother had given her when she came of age, which was one of the vanishingly small numbers of things from before the Calamity she still had. There was the greatcoat she’d had made by her favorite Ishgardian tailor– the sort worn by the captains of the republic’s airships, with red facings to show affiliation with House Fortemps. This had been a very calculated choice– she wanted something that could keep her warm in a Garlean winter, was sufficiently official in character to make it clear at a glance she was a member of the Ilsabard Contingent, and still look good. The airship captain’s coat squared that circle. Underneath the coat was a sensible turtleneck sweater Papalymo had given to her for her 25th nameday. Y’shtola had helped her pick out the boots— she was basically a subject matter expert on footwear. Her gloves— designed and knitted by Tataru— had been pulled off her hands and now sat neatly folded in her lap. The hands themselves are adorned— with rings (a house Fortemps signet ring Haurchefant had giver her on one hand, an engagement ring created by the artisans of the Facet of Production on the other), with nail polish (badly chipped by now— the last time she’d touched them up was on the ship to Sharlayan), with nearly thirty years of accumulated calluses and scars (the first time Rinh saw a daguerreotype of Persephone, the first thing that struck her was their similarity, but the second was how different their hands looked— tokens of two lives lived very differently).

A folded map of Garlemald sticking out of one pocket; the outline of a pair of field glasses visible through the other. She couldn’t see the knife she kept in her boot, but she doubted it’s been removed if her sword (a gift from the people of Slitherbough, faintly imbued with moonlight) still sat in its scabbard (a utilitarian looking thing from the stockpiles of the Ala Mhigan resistance; the more ornate one the sword came with was beautiful but impractical).

A thousand little things like that, things that made Rinh a little more like Rinh, things with stories woven into the tapestry of her life.

All of these things had been seized by Zenos, his cruel smile on her face.

She leapt from her chair, trying to make a run for the throne before Zenos could do anything more than smile, but her unfamiliar body (no tail, higher center of gravity, different proportions, sensations of third eye proprioception that made her dizzy) left her off-balance— she nearly tripped over her too-long legs.

By the time she righted herself, Zenos was gone, taking her body with him.

“Oh dear! Whatever would happen if my lord were to greet your friends as you? I shudder to imagine what carnage he would wreak!” said Fandaniel, once again glibly stating the obvious, and once again not bothering to let her speak— before she could even turn to face him, he whisked her away to the city below.

***

Fandaniel set her down right in the path of a tempered legionary.

“Time to familiarize yourself with that new body,” he said, staring down at her from where he was floating, “Might I suggest a little fight to the death?”

Rinh tried to ignore him and focus on her opponent. A common legionary of the IIIrd legion, kitted out in battle dress and armed with a gladius and scutum. He had the glassy-eyed, far-off look of the tempered, but wasn’t too far-gone to go through the motions of Garlean infantry tactics. If there was some way to subdue him and bring him to Camp Broken Glass or Tertium, he could still be saved.

He lunged at her— a textbook attack for a trained hoplomachus. It was an approach she’d seen dozens of times— even when lacking her usual strength and speed, she still had her accumulated knowledge and experience. The centurion whose body she was stuck in was armed with a gunblade, and she knew how to counter an attack like this with one of those— block the blow, turn the enemy’s blade aside, thrust and pull the trigger.

She drew her weapon, bracing herself for the shock of impact. And then—

—and then the gladius cut right through the gunblade. She’d been trying to fight like a gunbreaker with a flimsy Garlean officer’s gunblade. What did she think would happen? Somewhere above, Fandaniel laughed.

There was little room for fancy tactics and a structured exchange of blows and parries in a fight where her opponent has a sword and shield and she’s got half a gunblade. She got in close— taking a glancing hit in the process, but she’ll worry about that later— and kneed the legionary in the groin. Then, before he could get his guard up again, she pressed her jagged half-blade to his neck and cut his throat.

A spray of arterial blood, a wet and horrible gurgle, and the thud of a body on an asphalt street.

“Not bad at all, given your diminished capacity!” Fandaniel quipped, still floating out of reach.

These, then, were the rules of the game— traverse the ruins of Garlemald, try to keep herself alive, fight the unwilling tempered without the luxury of sparing their lives, and catch up to Zenos before he marched her body down to Camp Broken Glass and murdered everyone he came across.

And that’s what this was to Fandaniel and Zenos— a game, a game where the pieces were the lives and bodies of others— Rinh, her body, whatever XIIth legion staff officer had been the involuntary donor of the body she’d been trapped in, the unsuspecting Scions in Camp Broken Glass— and the young man who could conceivably been saved lying at her feet in a pool of his own blood, doomed never to wake from the nightmare of Anima’s chains.

All for this game, this trifle, this bloodsport.

She tossed aside the ruined gunblade and picked up the dead man’s scutum and gladius— intimately familiar weapons, favored by Garlean hoplomachi and U’dahn gladiators alike. She could practically feel Eadwulf breathing down her neck, ready to pounce on any flaw in her technique.

A gladiator lies on the bloodsands– a young man, not any older than Rinh herself. She had to win the fight– she’d been on a losing streak, and Eadwulf was getting impatient. So far, his punishments had only fallen upon Rinh herself; Rinh’a had been insulated from the lanista’s wrath. So far, so far. But the situation was desperate. Moonkissed needed a victory, and fast.

She didn’t know anything about the fallen young man besides his stage name– the Ruby Ripper– but his circumstances were likely as desperate as Rinh’s. Again and again, he got up, even when he should have known he was beaten. And then, after a particularly telling blow, he never got up again; Rinh, daughter of Vash, trained by Auntie Sizha in the gentle arts of conjury and midwifery, had taken a life.

The crowd roared. Eadwulf was pleased. Ruby blood trickled down the Coliseum’s drains.

She shook the thought aside, and tried to get her bearings, but it was nearly impossible. She could barely smell anything, besides the faintest whiff of ceruleum. Somewhere, she could hear small-arms fire, but Garlean ears weren’t keen enough to discern any further details. A fight between the tempered and survivors of the Ist? A probing attack towards the city center by the Ilsabard contingent? Haywire machina firing uncontrollably? For all she knew, Zenos or Fandaniel was having the tempered fight one another for their amusement. There was no way to tell— just an impossible to parse cacophony of white noise coming from everywhere and nowhere.

Her sight was about as sharp as she expected it to be— neither miqo’te nor pureblood Garleans were outliers in that respect— but her ability to see in the dark was much diminished, so it also wasn’t very helpful. Despite all of the time she spent studying maps of the Garlean capital and her careful observation of the route Jullus took to Tertium, she couldn’t say where she was with any more specificity than somewhere in Regio Urbanissima. There were no legible street signs and no recognizable landmarks save the looming spire of the palace.

Well, better than nothing; at least she knew what direction Camp Broken Glass was in: away from the tower.

She began creeping through the ruined streets and avenues, sticking to the shadows, avoiding the tempered and the swarms of runaway machina, always keeping the tower at her back.

Rinh stalks through the shadowy boughs of the Shroud, a bow in her hand and a quiver on her back, because even Auntie Sizha’s prize apprentice has to do some of the hunting.

She follows an antelope through the underbrush, only to realize she herself was being hunted— boots tramping on dirt and fallen leaves. Her first thought is the Wailers, but they’d never make so much noise; say what you want about them, but they do know how to move through the Shroud. No, it’s the one thing even worse than the Wailers— the steelmen, ranging out from their wall, reconnoitering the deep woods beyond their empire’s frontiers.

Soldiers of the steelmen are much less likely to actually find her than the Wailers. They’re loud, move in too-large groups, are ignorant of the strange and ancient things which called the Black Shroud home. Occasionally, entire patrols would just be swallowed up by the woods— devoured by the greenwrath or led to their deaths by will o’ wisps or drowned in quicksand.

But if they found her—

Well, a Wailer might beat her, or arrest her, or ‘confiscate’ her things. Or they just might kill her— she has a fresh lance scar to attest to that— but it wasn’t necessarily a foregone conclusion.

But the steelmen? The steelmen would assume any stray ‘savages’ they came across was a partisan or a saboteur or spy reporting on their little extraterritorial incursion to the Gridanians and summarily execute them right then and there. If they got their hands on her, they would without a doubt kill her stone dead.

But they’d have to find her first.

***

Rinh was pretty sure she was going in circles. The swiftest route south was blocked by a military checkpoint, dozens of tempered legionaries, and some magitek rippers scuttling about, so she picked her way through alleys and sidestreets, trying to circumvent the barricade. Eventually, though, she always found a dead end— a street abruptly cut off by the rubble of a fallen skyscraper, a collapsed section of the Alta Strada, a burning ceruleum station with fumes that made Rinh’s eyes sting from a good forty yalms away, a pile-up of cars and emergency vehicles hastily abandoned by their drivers.

Garlemald— or Garlemald as rebuilt by Solus zos Galvus along rationalized, pseudo-Amaurotine lines, at least— was a city built for ease of navigation. Long, wide radial avenues intersecting concentric beltways, with a principal road leading right to the palace. Now, though, the capital was a labyrinth.

And Rinh paid for every wrong turn— in lives uselessly ended, in the blood of a centurion who never asked for any of this, in time left before Zenos reached Camp Broken Glass and commenced his massacre.

She was forced to conclude that there was no other way forward— she had to find a way through the enemy forces blocking her way. But she couldn’t just charge in— it’s a fight Rinh Panipahr could win, but not an out-of-shape staff officer with a sword. And if she tried anyway, she’d not only get herself killed, but that out-of-shape staff officer as well. Rinh was no stranger to gambling with her own life, but gambling with another’s felt beyond the pale.

So her next task was getting a magitek reaper up and running. She found one with operable cannons but no fuel. Then, when she found a full tank, she had to lug it all the way back to the reaper; by the time she got there, her arms and back were sore. Clearly, she was stuck in the body of someone not used to manual labor.

She paid for each of these diversions, of course— in lives, in blood, in time. So she was dismayed to realize that even gassed up, the reaper’s controls were locked out.

Before she could turn back to the labyrinth to begin looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, though, she heard a voice from a bombed-out storefront— weak, wavering, and clearly trying to get her attention. 

“I’m over here! I’m inside this building— come quickly!”

She wasted no time following the voice, hoisting herself through a broken window and into what appeared to have been a shoe shop. Propped up in the corner, teeth gritted in pain but with the clear and focused gaze of the untempered, was a Garlean soldier in a pilot’s coverall.

“Ma’am,” he said, saluting with a ruined arm wrapped in dirty bandages, “Duplicarius Victorinus oen Constans, IIIrd Legion, seventh cohort! Are you with the IIIrd?”

Rinh briefly considered lying, and then briefly considered telling the ‘truth’ that ‘she’ was with the XIIth. But the former would contradict the clearly legible insignia on the centurion’s armor, and the latter might prompt questions about why the hell an officer of the XIIth is in Garlemald that Rinh can’t answer. Instead, she simply said, “That doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

“Guess it doesn’t,” said Victorinus, “You’ve not been turned, so we’re all in this together now. Thank goodness– thought I was the only one left.”

“You’re the pilot of that reaper outside, aren’t you?” said Rinh, hoping her decidedly un-Garlean accent would go unnoticed.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, “Bastards got my hand when they took it down. The ankle joint’s turned, but the guns are probably operable and I saw you gassing it up, so– here.” With his remaining hand, he dug around in his pocket until he produced his identification key. “I don’t stand a chance out there, but you– if you clear a path, maybe you can get out and send for help. If there’s even anyone left to ask. For all I know it’s just the two of us.”

“There are survivors from the Ist holed up in Tertium,” she said, “If you see an opportunity to make a run for it, head that way.” (Tertium was also host to an assortment of Ilsabard Contingent representatives, but she couldn’t think of a way to explain that without breaking character.)

“I’ll see if I get a chance,” said Victorinus, with a note of skepticism that implied certainty that no such opportunity was likely to occur, “But if you get out, to Tertium or wherever, you’ll tell someone I’m here, right?”

“I promise,” said Rinh as she took the key and put it in her pocket, despite the fact that she had absolutely no idea how to make good on that promise. She’d think of something, surely.

Leaving the pilot behind, she returned to the reaper and clambered into the cockpit. This, at least, was familiar; she hadn’t sat at the controls of a magitek reaper since she rode Maggie out of the Praetorium, but it was hard to forget escaping from an exploding castrum with the unconscious body of her first and dearest friend stuffed into the seat beside her, just a few minutes after—

She wakes up to the sight of Lahabrea’s rage and hatred on Thancred’s face as the woman he thought he’d burned to death gets back onto her feet and picks up her sword.

She has that slightly nauseous after-Echo feeling; Hydaelyn has intervened. She can still feel a backwash of emotions not entirely her own— not fear, but panic, raw and overwhelming panic at something that wasn’t meant to happen but has gone horribly, catastrophically wrong.

She never knows whose emotions those were. Surely not Hydaelyn’s— for all that Hydaelyn is a benevolent protector of the star, She’s also a giant crystal floating about in the aether, distant and cold and calculating.

She tells the Scions that Hydaelyn shielded her from Lahabrea’s flames. Only Minfilia— the one person Rinh can talk to about the Echo and the Blessing of Light without feeling like she’s losing her mind— knows the truth: Hydaelyn breathed life into a corpse.

— after she’d blown up Ultima Weapon and sent Lahabrea running.

The reaper was slow and sluggish to respond to her commands. Her first thought was that the controls were damaged or the electricals had burned out, but then she realized: Maggie had a mammet’s heart; her sister machina, by comparison, was but an empty shell dancing on marionette strings.

Still, it was enough to clear the checkpoint (more lives spent); she powered down the reaper and pressed south, the tower at her back.

***

Even without miqo’te ears, Rinh could tell there was fighting very close to her, just around the corner of a ruined street. The sharp report of gunfire— the clash of metal-on-metal— and, curiously, the howls of beasts. She rounded the corner and found a three-way battle— a few tempered soldiers and stray machina, wild animals encroaching upon the city as nature began to reclaim abandoned blocks and empty insulae, and a ragtag group of Garleans defending a makeshift barricade of wrecked cars and broken machina.

They were almost all civilians— a couple of them were in the uniforms of the urban cohorts, but none of them were regular soldiers. The cohorts had their service revolvers, and the rest had a motley assortment of scavenged weapons— a few modern guns taken from the tempered mixed with antique muskets and hunting rifles, ceremonial swords pried from mantelpieces, repurposed box-cutters and kitchen knives and garden tools.

They seemed over-awed by the sudden arrival of a living, untempered centurion. Rinh was nothing of the sort, but she knew she couldn’t abandon these people to their fate, so she played the role— giving encouragement and orders, organizing the Garleans into a tighter defensive formation, putting herself and her shield in front of the most vulnerable. She supposed the centurion, too, was a bystander whose life she was now responsible for, but here she was putting her in harm’s way to protect others. She hoped the centurion would be willing to make that trade— surely, even commissioned officers of the XIIth feel some responsibility to their own people, at least. She has no way of knowing, though— whatever Zenos and Fandaniel had done to this woman to make her a vessel for an extracted soul, it left her a silent passenger, along for the ride as Rinh made trade-offs paid in her blood.

And it was all for nought, anyway— one of the wrecked warchina piled onto the barricade was still carrying its munitions. A stray shot set them off in a blinding flash, and soon the whole barricade went up in flames. Ceruleum tanks and unexploded ordnance and electrical generators blew up one after another, civilians were thrown into the air like ragdolls, and a blinding, white-hot pain drowned out all other sensation.

***

Gradually, she came back to her senses. The pain didn’t recede— not exactly— but it felt less acute, less able to blot out all other thoughts.

Her ears were ringing. The snowdrift she’d landed in was soaked in steaming blood. Her vision was blurry— she might have a concussion. She was freezing, too— the centurion was in ornate, parade-ground armor, not winter gear. She was able to ignore it when she was running all over the city, but now she was in no state to run. She could barely move at all— her legs were shredded by shrapnel and shards of plate glass, her body battered by debris, blood streaming down her face and into her eyes.

The civilians were scattered about the crater the explosion had carved into the asphalt, all very still and very dead.

She was dying— the centurion was dying— but she wasn’t dead yet. The spire of the palace loomed behind her— an open road lay before her. A metal sign embedded in the asphalt, bent and burnt and twisted and melted but still just about legible, read:

LATERUM - NEXT EXIT

FOOD - CERULEUM - LODGING

She couldn’t run. She couldn’t walk. She could barely crawl. But, slowly, agonizingly, she dragged herself and a centurion’s broken body through the snow, towards the distant lights of Camp Broken Glass.

The Light has finally caught up with her. Everything she is, every memory and every love, is rotting away. The bodies of the Scions are scattered like ragdolls; Emet-Selch in his imperial regalia looms ahead.

She’s in agony— her soul itself is breaking apart, her flesh freezing into cold marble, her body oozing Light from every orifice, her mind unraveling. But she knows she can crawl, and she knows she needs to go forward, so crawl forward she does. 

Even if it’s hopeless— even if she and all the world are doomed— it won’t be because she gave up. Forward, until the bitter end.

She could just barely make out a figure in the distance, further down the highway, a dark silhouette against a stark field of snow and ice. A woman, compactly built, a midlander or au ra or miqo’te, in a black greatcoat with red facings. On her back was a shield— Sable, a unicorn couped contourné Gules within a wreath of thorns proper. A knight of House Fortemps.

Haurchefant grits his teeth as with shield aloft he tries to hold back a lance of light; the metal rattles like the shield is shaking itself apart. Then, it breaks, and a knight meets his calling.

It’s me, she thought, scrambling to stand up, murmuring apologies to the centurion for treating her maimed legs so roughly.

It’s him, she thought, breaking into a stumbling half-run, trying to tune out the pain that got worse with every step.

It’s—

Zenos

Since the day he tossed his gunblade aside and picked up a Doman samurai’s katana, Zenos was a collector and connoisseur of weapons— blades of legend, magiteknical miracles, swords that had tasted the blood of gods and kings. It didn’t bring true purpose or fulfillment, but it held his interest, which was more than could be said of most things in the long grey nothing that was his life before that fateful day in Ala Mhigo.

The body of Rinh Panipahr was by far the most exquisite specimen in his collection.

Possessing it without the raging soul within was a deed half-done— he wanted all of her to himself, body, mind, and soul. Nothing short of that could ever really satisfy him.

Still, taking her body was fascinating— intoxicating— and enlightening. A hunter must understand his quarry as a suitor understands the object of his affection.

The body was quick to meet his every whim. He thought of taking a step down the broken streets of the city, and the body took a step. He thought of sitting down on the steps of a ruined basilica, and it meekly obeyed.

(What would it be like to have the woman herself so compliant? Perhaps that was what victory would look like— a beast as powerful as he was defeated, broken, and tamed. An idle fancy— he knew that when the final confrontation came, it would be to the death— he expected nothing less of his friend.)

The other bodies he had taken weren’t like this. They were no exquisite weapons— they were barely even people. Just tools, means to an end, legs to carry him from his grave to the Ascian wearing his flesh. He never even learned their names— when the Scholae manning the palace’s outer pickets asked to see his identity papers, he struck them all down and cut a bloody swathe from there to the throne room.

His friend’s body wasn’t like that— the strength residing within it was different from his own, but no less powerful, no less capable of breaking empires and shattering worlds.

In other words— the body could teach him things worth knowing.

He started with her sword; with the pull of a puppet-string, the body drew it from its scabbard and set it on its lap so he could study it.  

It was new to him— she hadn’t carried it in Rhalgr’s Reach, Doma, or Ala Mhigo. Her weapons then had been fine enough— a razor-sharp and perfectly-balanced Ishgardian longsword, a masterwork Bozjan gunblade— but they weren’t like this sword, forged from a shooting star, imbued with Darkness. crackling with otherworldly power and potential. In the years of absence and separation, his friend had not been idle— she was sharpening her claws. This was a blade worthy of his collection— if not necessarily his use; in the hands of his true body, it would look like a toothpick.

The shield, on the other hand, was just as he remembered it— a simple recreation of the one he had sheared in two at the Reach. He wondered why she kept it around— to remind herself of past failures, perhaps.

These were far from her only weapons— he had seen her call upon the power of soul crystals to use many others. In her hands, a knight’s sword and shield could become a dancer’s glaives or a white mage’s staff or a red mage’s foil. He couldn’t inspect any of these for himself— however she did that, it wasn’t something her body absent its soul could perform on command.

When she was stripped to prepare her for the excision of her soul, they had found one other weapon— a simple dagger hidden in her boot. It held little interest— no credible account existed of the mighty eikon-slayer fighting with this glorified kitchen knife, and the blade itself was clearly unbloodied and unused. Fandaniel hadn’t even bothered putting it back when they were dressing the body to ready it for his use. He couldn’t imagine why she kept such an unworthy instrument on her person— some sentimental reason beyond his ken, perhaps. 

Sentimentality had always been her most glaring vulnerability— she was so strong in so many ways, yet too weak to cut away the parts of herself that undermined her. This had been her undoing at Monzen— she had honed her technique since the debacle at the Reach, but always sought to position herself between Zenos and her fallen shinobi accomplice, which left her easily outmaneuvered by a more ruthless adversary.

Weapons dealt with, he sought more intimate details, more personal insights. His friend was willful and stubborn, and every new thing he learned about her was a potential leverage to get what he wanted.

He had the body turn out its coat pockets, carefully scrutinizing the objects thus scattered across the basilica’s steps. There was a map of the city, long out of date but covered with annotations and marginalia in cramped, tiny handwriting— hers, presumably. Next, a pair of field glasses, ordinary-looking but of an unfamiliar make; Made in the Facet of Production was stamped on its casing. This was followed by a leather wallet, containing an assortment of bank notes (Total face value: one thousand Eorzean gil, five Hingan koban, and two hundred in various denominations of something called “Crafter’s Scrip”), a library card, and a few small photos of other miqo’te (a boy of twelve or thirteen summers and a woman he remembered running through with a sword at Rhalgr’s Reach– he assumed the former was her son, and the latter her Sharlayan lover, although what his friend could possibly see in a woman so feeble as to be felled by a single blow he couldn’t say).  Then a set of keys, then fifty-one gil in Ishgardian coins, then an Eorzean Alliance identity card with a grainy photograph of its owner pasted on. A button, a rubber band, some pieces of string, a compact mirror, some stray hairpins, a stubby little pencil, a couple of loose linkpearls, a crumpled-up to-do list dated several months ago (full of trivialities like Book caterer or Get suit taken in or Send invitations) , and a slice of misleadingly heavy and unpalatably dense bread, half-eaten but carefully re-wrapped in wax paper.

It was all so— so ordinary . Mundane. Provincial, even. It was a mix of the sort of things he’d expect to find in the pockets of a common soldier and a domestic servant, not the accouterments of a peerless warrior. Then again, he had always gotten the impression his friend was either ignorant or in denial of her true nature– it made sense that she’d affect the posture of a savage everywoman to court the affection of the masses. The masses should fear her– an apex predator walked among them.

The body returned most of these items to its pockets, but Zenos kept the compact mirror in its hands, popping it open and examining the reflection therein. He turned it this way and that, studying her makeup (as meticulously done as his own, he had to admit) and her scars. None looked to have been carved by his own hand, but he supposed he’d had enough time to admire his handiwork from the Reach when she was stripped bare on the operating table. He wished his own body had such a token of her attention; unfortunately, Elidibus seemed to have knit any recent wounds back together when during his possession.

Unlike the things she carried, the face in the mirror suited her well enough. Her golden eyes lent her an air of authority, her scars were testament to battles she’d fought, the perfectly-applied eyeliner and lipstick were evidence of a steady and precise hand, and the fangs– well, those spoke for themselves.

There was just one thing he saw at odds with face of a hunter and a killer– the earrings. He hadn’t paid them much mind before, but now that he saw them up close, he realized they were crude and vulgar things, quite at odds with the deadly sophistication which she otherwise exuded: two teardrops molded amateurishly from lumps of clay, painted unevenly with thick blue paint, and adorned with wall-eyed, smiling faces.

He thought of plucking the offending jewelry right out of his friend’s ears, and her body readily complied, gritting its teeth at the sharp pain of its piercings being torn through. Two perfect droplets of blood dripped from her leonine ears, which Zenos thought suited her much better.

He let the earrings fall from the body’s hands and onto the asphalt, then ground them to dust with the heel of its boot.

He’d seen enough for the moment, he decided, and snapped the mirror shut. The body began walking down the ruined streets of Garlemald, making good time; the tempered instinctively recognized the soul of their master and kept their distance, and the body’s agility and endurance made short work of the mounds of rubble occasionally blocking his path.

Then he head the sound of footsteps through snow in an alley a few paces behind him– her animal ears were most discerning. The body turned on its heel, following the footsteps, and the scent of the the person making them. The steps were uncertain, the body odor redolent with fear– this, clearly, was not one of the tempered.

Finally, he found his quarry– a lone legionary of the Ist. A young woman– a girl, almost– in a bloodied greatcoat, holding a rifle in her shaking hands. Probably a conscript from the provinces– the armies he commanded in Ala Mhigo and Doma were full of such wretches. The best amongst them could be trained into passable hunting-hounds, but this, clearly, was far short of the best.

“Stay back!” said the girl, raising her rifle, pointing it at his friend’s heart.

Zenos ignored this, and the body took a step forward.

“I said– stay back!” said the girl; by now her hands were shaking so badly that even if she did have the guts to pull the trigger, she’d miss her target despite the fact it was mere fulms away and getting closer. Then, though, her eyes lit up with dull recognition. “Wait, are you the eikon-slayer?”

Another step forward.

“I– I heard on the radio that we’d capitulated, that the war was over,” she said, lowering her weapon. “The instructions were to, uh, surrender to any Alliance forces we encountered and follow their instructions. But I didn’t think– I didn’t think they’d send you.” She put her weapon down entirely, now, kicking it away from herself across the icy pavement. “I’ve heard the stories– we’ve all heard the stories– but still, better you lot than the tempered.” She put her hands up. “I’ll come quietly. Just get me out of here, please.”

A domesticated animal, then, ready to serve the whatever master will feed it.

A form of beast lower even than prey, which at least seeks to prolong its own existence. Livestock fit for nought but the slaughterhouse.

Once more, he tugged on the puppet-strings, and once more his friend drew her moonlit sword from its scabbard.

This time, though, he wouldn’t sheathe it again until it had tasted blood.

Another step forward, and–

A shrill scream, mad with fear– and abruptly cut short.

Not a particularly challenging kill, but there was at least some novelty in seeing how this body killed— the way a sword felt in her hands, the way her muscles flexed to thrust that sword, the scent of blood in a miqo’te’s nose. His friend had the perfect balance of raw power, speed, and precision— it was an important insight into how she bested him in Ala Mhigo despite his greater strength and longer reach, what qualities she leveraged with that tenacious killer instinct of hers.

Still, what he really wanted to know was how this body fought. He’d need to go further afield if he wanted a real fight. The city belonged to the mindless tempered and cowering survivors who’d found a bolthole to hide in.

He had to follow the road south, to Laterum, to Camp Broken Glass.

Y’shtola

It took a while for Rinh’s absence to be noticed. It had been a chaotic situation— subduing and restraining the tempered before they could hurt themselves or others amidst aetherial distortions thick enough to choke on. It was a reasonable assumption that Rinh would have thrown herself into the fray, rushing hither and yon, trying to be everywhere and everything to everybody at once.

In fact, she was nowhere at all; Y’shtola felt as if they’d all taken her presence for granted, and now she was gone without a trace.

Or, well, nearly without a trace. She remembered Rinh had walked off in search of hot chocolate, and, sure enough, a Mol volunteer at the mess tent reported seeing Rinh just before the tower roared to life and shattered the tranquil evening, filling two mugs with hot water and retrieving two packets of cocoa powder. From there, Y’shtola could just follow the footprints to a pair of mugs lying in a puddle of cocoa and half melted snow. If there had been any doubt these were Rinh’s footprints and not those of someone who happened to wear Atelier Fen-Yll boots in Rinh’s size and also picked up two mugs of hot cocoa, it was dispelled by closer inspection of the mugs— Y’shtola could just barely see the last embers and sparks of a couple of nearly depleted crystals aspected to fire. This, as Rinh often pointed out, was how Haurchefant had made sure even a desolate outpost like Dragonhead could serve guests and garrison alike a nice hot drink that stayed hot. (“Just don’t swallow the crystals,” Rinh added, a warning Y’shtola hoped wasn’t based on experience.)

Unfortunately, there was precious little evidence where she had gone after dropping the mugs— the tracks stopped abruptly after that.

“She could have teleported away, perhaps?” said Alphinaud, kneeling down to take a closer look at the footprints.

“Great. So she could be basically anywhere in the world with an aetheryte she’s attuned to,” Alisaie said, with an exasperated sigh, “Which is most of them, if you were wondering.”

Y’shtola shook her head. “If she had left of her own accord— although I can’t imagine why she would— she would still be able to answer her linkpearl, no matter how far afield she’s gone.”

“A linkpearl suffices not for bridging the great rift twixt Hydaelyn’s shards,” said Urianger, “A limitation which doth not apply to our friend, who so easily leapeth between worlds.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound right,” huffed Alisaie, folding her arms, “You’re saying, what, she teleported all the way to Mor Dhona, hiked out to the Crystal Tower and down into the Syrcus Trench, and arrived in the Crystarium? In the middle of a fight? All in the span of time between when she was last seen and when Y’shtola tried raising her on the pearl?”

“One quarter bell, by the way,” Y’shtola added.

“Right– so she did all of that in fifteen minutes flat, for no apparent reason? Get real! That’s not what happened and you know it.” Alisaie sighed. “Has anyone got a real idea? One that makes sense? And isn’t stupid?”

“Of all the bloody times for a disappearing act…” muttered Estinien, standing– as he often did– aloof from the other Scions.

“Right when the first wave struck,” Thancred snapped, “We'd be fools to think it a coincidence.” He had joined Alphinaud in making a closer study of the scene of the crime, sitting on his haunches and staring at the final pair of footprints.

“While I know full well she can handle herself, I worry all the same…” said Alphinaud

“Take a look at this,” Thancred said, interrupting Alphinaud, “Look at these last two prints– the heel of her boot’s dug more deeply, kicking up all this loose snow, and the toe’s barely touched it.” He frowned, increasingly unhappy with what he was looking at. “She fell over, and was caught by someone standing– here. These two prints.”

“Maelstrom standard-issue,” said Y’shtola, giving the two boot prints a quick once-over, “An enlisted soldier’s– the officers have their boots custom-made.”

Thancred whistled, impressed in spite of everything. “Seven hells, Y’shtola, you’re good at that. Anyway, I’d suggest we start talking to our friends from dear old Limsa Lominsa, except there are just these two big bootprints on their own, nothing leading to it or away from it. Someone– or something– appeared from nowhere, incapacitated Rinh, caught her before she hit the dirt, and then whisked both itself and her off to gods know where.”

“Conventional teleportation magicks would have left behind an aetherial trace,” said Y’shtola, “I see nothing– although I concede that in these umbral conditions, my ability to fully discern the subtleties of aetheric forms is impaired.”

The gathered Scions fell into a sullen silence– they’d found the only clues to Rinh’s whereabouts left behind, and it only left them with even more questions than before. There was nothing for it but to find Lucia and ask her to assemble an Ilsabard Contingent search detail.

***

Then, abruptly, a familiar figure was spotted coming down the road to Camp Broken Glass.

“Ah,” said G’raha, all of the tension draining out of him, “Speak of the devil!”

Alisaie grinned. “Well! Time to call off the search!”

Thancred sighed in relief. “Hmph. Case closed.”

Y’shtola squinted at the woman on the road, trying to make sense through the haze of roiling and rotten aether which suffused Garlemald. Everyone around her, without exception, seemed sure they were looking at Rinh Panipahr. It was difficult for Y’shtola to make her out, though– she was the right size and shape, but her aether seemed– off.

Yet she couldn’t be sure. She remembered the time she looked at Rinh in the ruins of Fort Gohn and saw only a sin-eater intent on slaughtering her people, and how hurt Rinh looked when she realized the truth.

She turned to Urianger. “That’s her? Over there?”

“Aye, ‘twould appear so,” said Urianger, nodding, “Thou art struggling to perceive her presence?”

“I am. Perhaps, in the aftermath of the wave, there is some residual effect interfering with my faculties, but–” but before Y’shtola could finish what she was saying, Alisaie had already darted out to meet this not-quite-Rinh, G’raha just a few paces behind her.

“Where have you been?” said Alisaie, “We’ve been worried sick, Rinh!”

Could that really be Rinh? Her aether wasn’t the right sort of shimmering sunset orange, which up until now had still been quite recognizable even through all of Garlemald’s aetheric irregularities. Yet conditions had deteriorated still further since she last saw Rinh. And something about that aether did strike a familiar note.

“Now, now,” said G’raha, patting Alisaie on the shoulder, “All’s well that ends well!”

Y’shtola— straining herself to see with more clarity, worsening the headache that had settled behind her eyes the moment she’d set foot in this blighted land— finally realized, with cold certainty, that this was not her dearest Rinh.

Why did her aether still seem familiar, then? Where had she seen it before?

“Are you all right?” G’raha asked.

Rhalgr’s Reach. She saw it at Rhalgr’s Reach.

Not-Rinh stood silently, hand resting on the hilt of her sword, a cold smile on her face.

“Are you all right?” Alisaie asked, relief giving way to skepticism; something was clearly amiss.

Zenos. It was Zenos. He was possessing Rinh’s body— an Ascian’s trick he’d picked up from somewhere.

G’raha had reached the same conclusion, and stepped in front of Alisaie. “…Who are you?”

Not-Rinh’s only answer was to draw her blade, rippling with Darkness— not the life-giving astral Darkness of the First but the tempestuous umbral Darkness of the Void. The ripple became a blinding flare, and a voidsent Avatar tore its way into reality.

It hurt to look at— it was like an inversion of how Rinh had looked at Mount Gulg, trading a frozen statue of umbral Light for a furious storm of umbral Darkness. The Avatar was hooded, feminine, and wielding a scythe— Y’shtola couldn’t fix any details about it on her mind beyond that.

Then, suddenly, miraculously, before the blade could fall, the voidsent abruptly dissipated— someone had thrown a sword right through it.

“Get away from them, you monster!” said a voice Y’shtola couldn’t recognize, but with a lilting accent she knew quite well. Her head snapped in the direction of the voice, and she saw Rinh, her golden soul as recognizable as ever, even through all the umbral aether, even contorted into the shape of a lanky Garlean officer, grievously wounded and limping on mangled legs and still resolutely moving forward.

She shoulder-checked Zenos, and the two fell onto the ground, looking for all the world like they were about to tear one another limb-from-limb. Zenos-as-Rinh sank Rinh’s fangs into the officer’s arm, soaking her uniform-sleeve in blood; Rinh-as-the officer tried to push him away with her free arm.

She couldn’t hope to best him like this— not when Zenos could turn Rinh’s own strength against her— but she’d bought time for the Scions to react. They lined up, weapons drawn—

—and then Fandaniel showed up, declaring it was time for everyone to get back into their own bodies. 

The game, it seemed, was over.

***

With a shuddering, raspy breath, Rinh Panipahr woke up, her golden soul restored to its proper place. Then she coughed and wretched, spitting out a centurion’s blood. Rinh only used her fangs in situations that were truly desperate— a weapon of last resort if even her dagger is lost. Outside of that, she made a point of never biting anyone (even when asked nicely, to Y’shtola’s disappointment).

Zenos had made the decision to use them much more lightly.

“Thank goodness,” said Alphinaud, “She’s awake! Unless…?” He looked at Y’shtola expectantly.

“It’s her,” Y’shtola said.

“Bwau–” muttered Rinh, still coughing, “Bwaudyn Zenos esti fisdyn drosun-umun ulai fis– bruk guni, aenbod wi–” She was using Huntspeak, Y’shtola realized; she still didn’t know much Huntspeak, but she knew enough to tell most of what Rinh said was just swearing. A glance in G’raha’s direction was enough to confirm this– he knew a little more Huntspeak than Y’shtola did, and he’d turned red as a beet. “Sorry,” Rinh said, remembering her Eorzean, “Is– is everyone all right?”

“Perfectly fine, yes!” said G’raha, rapidly composing himself and eager to move on. “I hope the same can be said of you.”

“What do you think?” hissed Rinh, “Er, sorry, I mean– I think I’m all right…? I'm exhausted and sore but I don’t feel injured, anyroad. Shtola, is my aether okay?”

“It is,” Y’shtola said, “Do you think you can stand?”

“Probably,” answered Rinh, “I feel dizzy, though– light-headed– can you help me up?” She reached out; Y’shtola took her hand, and– with a grunt of effort– Rinh hoisted herself onto her feet. She clung to Y’shtola, leaning on her, as if afraid her legs might give way beneath her unsupported. 

“Everything in working order?” asked Alisaie, “That’s a relief.”

Rinh looked at the knot of people who’d gathered around her– Y’shtola, Alphinaud, Alisaie, G’raha, Estinien, Thancred, Urianger, Lucia, Maxima, and a few Contingent healers and medics, although they were keeping a respectful distance.

She rubbed her eyes. “Where’s the, uh– the officer?”

Alisaie raised an eyebrow. “The who?”

“The, uh– uh– the centurion, the Garlean centurion who I was, uh– with.”

Maxima stepped forward; while everyone else had rushed to Rinh’s side, he’d seen to the body of her unwilling companion; he was standing next to where it had fallen into the snow, a marionette with its strings cut. “The body you were forced to inhabit turned cold and stiff the moment you were returned to your own.”

“Shite,” said Rinh, “Shite, shite, shite.” She took a few halting steps towards the fallen officer, dragging Y’shtola along with her, nearly collapsing onto her knees alongside it. “I was hoping– I don’t know– I was hoping she’d made it. That I could shake her hand, and apologize for– for using her when she didn’t ask for this any more than I did.”

“You know that isn’t your fault, dearest,” said Y’shtola.

“I got her fucking killed, Shtola– Zenos and Fandaniel might’ve been the ones to put her life in my hands, but I’m the one who– who used it up, who bled her body dry–”

“Perhaps the soul it belonged to is long gone,” said Maxima, “Let us pray it is so, for I doubt it would be better off in the care of Zenos or Fandaniel.” 

Rinh looked unconvinced by this line of reasoning; Maxima had been trying his best to reassure her, but he clearly didn’t know her well enough to do it well. “She didn’t seem like a corpse– which means her soul had to be somewhere, right?”

“The corpses possessed by Ascians are often restored to the blush of life,” said Y’shtola, who had a better sense of how to talk to Rinh about these things, “You were there when Asahi sas Brutus was killed, and from what you’d told me, there was little doubt he was dead.”

“Yotsuyu turned him into a bloody pincushion, right– but–” Rinh said, following Y’shtola’s logic, “But Fandaniel looks lively enough in his body, I suppose.”

“The same could be said of Zenos’s body when possessed by Elidibus,” said Maxima, realizing this was the right tack to take, “I met him face-to-face, and notices nothing amiss– yet we know his soul was accounted for elsewhere.”

“I guess,” Rinh said, “It’s possible I didn’t kill her. That’s as far as I’m willing to go right now.” Still knelt beside the body, she carefully, reverently took off its helmet and mask, revealing the face of a Garlean woman in early middle age, with pale skin streaked with dried blood and limp, flaxen hair. To Y’shtola, she had the look of a victim of severe hypothermia. She recognized all the signs of it– a deathly pallor, purple-blue lips, cyanosis of the extremities, and, of course, skin ice-cold to the touch— Rinh recoiled in surprise when she tried to close the body’s eyes.

Rinh looked up at Maxima. “I assume you don’t recognize her? She was posted in the capital, but she was XIIth legion.”

Maxima shook his head. “I’m afraid not. She might have been on Zenos’s staff, but his patronage of Asahi and the populares was concealed from me.”

“Well,” said Rinh, “Let’s see if we can figure out who she was. She ought to have her story told, if nothing else. She deserves that much.”

***

There was precious little to go on— an officer in parade-ground dress doesn’t have much in the way of personal effects. All they found aside from a uniform and an empty scabbard was a set of dog-tags. Her name was Euphemia quo Casca, centurio of the XIIth Legion, posted as an adjutant officer to the Garlean general staff. Born in the 45th year of the reign of Emperor Solus, service number 201172, blood type III.

Also dangling from the chain was a tiny silver statuette in the likeness of one of the numina pre-imperial Garleans worshipped— a seemingly odd thing for an officer of the empire to carry, but apparently it was common enough for soldiers to carry good-luck charms which were notionally secular but bore a suspicious resemblance to one numen or another.

It was scant evidence to reconstruct a whole life. If the dead lived on as long as their stories were told, Euphemia quo Casca was as dead as dead gets.