Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Table of Contents

• The Good Ship Ishgard - FFXIV Writing Challenge Prompt 1: Steer
  
        A day in the life of Ser Elish of House DeMaiste - idle musings when he should be otherwise occupied.

• Who Said Chevalerie was Dead? - FFXIV Writing Challenge Prompt 2: Horizon    

               Where I indulge in more Elish centric pontification and literally say the name of the prompt and smile smugly about it

• TBD - FFXIV Writing Challenge Prompt 3: Tempest
  
       Catching up

• TBD - FFXIV Writing Challenge Prompt 4: Reticent

Chapter Text

It was yet another day of shouting and stomping, screaming and spectacle. Elish leaned back in his seat, watching the proceedings of the House of Lords with a decidedly disaffected air. The Lord Speaker had been presented with a unique question: where had the Dravanian Horde gone?

If Ishgard was a ship, the Lord Speaker Aymeric was constantly dealing with mutiny day after day. The House of Commons disdained him for being a noble, the House of Lords abhorred him for bequeathing power to the commons. And yet, indisputably, Aymeric helmed Ishgard and it's future. Or, at least, if Ishgard ran aground, that's what everyone would say when it came time to place the blame.

There were conversations about whether or not to trust Vidofnir's accounts, the spokesdragon for Hraesvelgr and the Dravanian Horde as a whole. 'What would we do without an Azure Dragoon', some angrily spoke, the memories of Nidhogg's assaults against Ishgard not yet forgotten. Others yet still used this as a time to bring up the crimes that the noble families must have been complicit with and therefore were all deserving of summary execution, 'we wouldn't need to fear the Dragons if it wasn't for the sins of those noble ancestors'. It sounded rather like the roar of the Ocean Elish decided, when one submerged their head beneath the waves and the sound of the water and salt pounding against one's body threatened to drown one in a cacophony of sound and fury.

Some ambassadors to Sharlayan had reported, evidently, that the Students of Baldesion had left Aldenard's shores for Tural, a land across the Indigo Deep. If Vidofnir's accounts were to be believed, these events were related. And, if that were the case, the more suspicious members argued, shouldn't Ishgard send a delegation to far flung Tuliyollal? At minimum to determine that these movements were as innocuous as everyone claimed that they were. At maximum, to prepare the Holy See for the worst.

As the conversation veered from topic to topic, the banging of a gavel attempting to herd agenda seeking politicians, eventually it came to be that a combined delegation of diplomats, knights of eminence, and notables who had worked with the Eorzean Alliance would be sent. It should have been the end of the conversation by all accounts.

Except then the question was raised who would have the honour of bringing the Ishgardian Delegation across the sea.

As a landlocked nation, it might seem to some that this was a foolish question. That they would simply charter a ship from Vylbrand, or Sharlayan. But what those people might have forgotten was that the Holy See had attempted to overcome the issue of transportation in a fairly modern way-airships.

Elish had been politely sitting in on behalf of the Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine. As one of the few Inquisitors with a reputation that wasn't absolutely black, he had been called upon to serve as a representative to the Eorzean Alliance. And, now, he could be chosen to go to those tropical shores-not specifically, of course. More as a matter of course and propriety. All in service to tradition, as it were.

Someone brought up the potential of chartering an airship, as many of Ishgards were still involved in the rescue efforts of the outlying Coerthas regions, or the exploration of the Sea of Clouds. Elish sat up a little straighter when someone suggested the Highwind Skyways, but relaxed as a member from House Haillenarte refuted it. His betrothed, the Lady Susan of House Vanderbilt, had mentioned something about the business with relation to her own Houses fortunes once, and he was loathe to find himself more indebted to the noble and honourable House Vanderbilt than he already was.

It was something he had considered often, and more and more as the days drew longer and the nights a little bit colder. How strange the idea of nobility could become, how contorted noblesse oblige and chivalry, honour and justice could become. Just how many differences there were between his own city, and the city state that he so often frequented now-that rose in the desert, the jewel of Thanalan.

After all, for Ishgard, airships were survival. They were food shipments after another Twelves damned dragon exploded out of the Red Moon and blanketed his beautiful green Coerthas , they were defense from Bahamut's vile brother Nidhogg when he still flew Eorzea's skies. The Protector spoke of the focus and drive of the Sky Steel Manufactory, that the ship was hardened against sky pirates and warded against dragonfire. They were honour, as the delegate from Haillenarte advocated.

Meanwhile, for Ul'dah, airships were as so much else seemed, money. The private holders of the Highwind Skyways weren't interested developing airships to protect Ul'dah against the Garleans or any outside threats. Lightweight, pushed near their passenger capacity, the only way that those without the requisite anima or aether might travel long distances. And, more importantly, not currently servicing a route to Tural, meaning that if Ishgard tried to charter a Highwind Skyways Airship, it would be exorbitantly expensive. Prohibitively, the representatives in the House of Commons pointed out.

Elish stifled a snort. If honour could be bought, was it honour at all? If instead of Lord Aymeric at the helm of the ship, it was a small pile of gil, perhaps the assorted noble peers might listen, but does a pile of currency have anything to say? He sneered, stifling the thought that began to worm in the back of his mind: that that was what he was doing, marrying the daughter of House Vanderbilt. Selling what little reputation his own House held for the currency that the crime lords turned proper lords had.

He had become quite proficient at stifling unpleasant, incongruous thoughts during his tenure at the Inquisition.

The day ended with tired footfalls and bandied whispers, angry declarations and resigned agreements. Elish stood from his seat, watching the closing of the House of Lords with a decidedly disaffected air.

Chapter Text

Elish had ridden on airships before, but none had he become so acquainted with as he did during his time aboard the Chevalerie. He was by no means an engineer, and though he had spent time at the Skysteel Manufactory, it had been in a purely bureaucratic function. Even the term acquainted was perhaps overly familiar-he had grown accustomed to the strange creaks and groans of the ships deck when put under pressure, and the chittering and scampering of the ships hands when there was a squall. It was as though they rode their own leviathan-each creature aboard it's back living in an ecosystem only they understood.

While he was only a temporary guest, it was fascinating to behold. These people who otherwise could claim to have visited so many different cities and vistas were residents of only one home, their vision narrowed to the cramp confines and corridors of their steel shelter. Not unlike those who only lived within the city, he supposed, though the towering edifice that was the Holy See could fit a hundred hundred Chevaleries within it and still have room for more.

At first, the crew were understandably apprehensive of him. After all, to carry a noble alone was an admirable if not onerous undertaking, let alone one who worked at the Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine. But eventually, Elish wore them down. Now he was begrudgingly accepted, like a flea upon the back of a particularly mangey dog, or a cough that one cannot shake despite having recovered from it's illness of origin. Now they spoke around him at their usual volume, carrying on with gossip from the latest airship landing or some tall tale about flying fish that ate lalafells.

Rumors, however, had a way of conveying more than the content of it's tale. While many things had changed in Ishgard, an Inquisitor's responsibility to the Holy See was to root out corruption and decay, to purify and correct. Were stories of flying fish that ate lalafells excuses for airshipmen to hide their attempted murders? Was a faulty landing sabotage? And, a troubling recent development, were Sky Pirates indicative of something else?

The particular subject of choice this trip were the recent developments involving the Redbills, that notorious gang of Sky Pirates. Elish had expected them to be spoken of in quivering tones and reticient admittance, yet the crew of the Chevalerie seemed practically awestruck with their exploits. Elish refrained from bringing up their endangerment of their fellow man by their cavalier attitude when it came to provoking all manner of danger.

Once, not so long ago, Elish would have dismissed their claims that it wasn't the Redbills to blame, but rather, their sworn enemies, the rival gang the Talons. The very notion that thieves and vagabonds might have a code of honour and then adhere to it nearly begged the question of why be pirates at all, at that point.

But then, the same could be said of heretics. Why would some chose, willfully, to worship dragons when it was those same dragons who flew down on Ferndale, on Hemlock, who killed Ishgardians en masse and swore to never give quarter? Once, Elish could have easily said insanity. But he had long given up his faith in Halone, the symbol of the Warden now adorning his necklace. He had been charitably called an apostate. But he could have easily and uncharitably been called a heretic.

Why did some give up their way of life for another entirely? He felt the wind rushing past his face, heard the sounds of crewmen laughing, and drinking, and swearing at one another. If he hadn't been a noble, if he hadn't worked so closely with House Haillenarte and the Skysteel Manufactory, would this be something that he would be allowed to experience?

He shook his head. There was no point in such sentimentality. After all, he was here on a mission.

And it wasn't to expand his horizons.

Chapter Text

Grass, that stabbed up to his knees. The bright sun overhead, promising a day full of adventure. It was the sort of day that filled someone's body with the desire to do something. Run, jump, shout with joy. 

And Elish was sitting on a wooden pew inside of a church.

It was a nice church, his parents had told him. It had a beautiful stained glass relief of some significant event taking place. Elish had gotten worse at studying ever since the nice priest in the big city started helping him recover from his sickness. Now he didn't need to stay indoors, so was there any wonder at his distress being forced to stay within the stuffy, warm walls of stone when the meadows and forests of Coerthas outside sang sweetly with the sound of birds and the burbling of brooks. The servant who had been assigned to keep an eye over Elish glared down at him, as he wiggled and squirmed to keep himself amused during the monotony of the priests sermon.

"Young lord, you don't want to anger Halone, do you?" The servant put a finger to his own lips, not daring to touch the heir. "You should sit still and listen to Father Feicheux. Otherwise a dragon might see you moving around like this and swoop down and take you, and Halone would do nothing to save you."

Elish was in the sort of precocious mood to tell the servant that he didn't even think dragons were real-he certainly had never seen one, and it was exactly the sort of thing told by grownups to make children behave. And Elish was not in a behaving mood. But as he turned, the servants finger somewhat led the eye to a stained glass relief of a Saint, holding a spear, stabbing it downwards into the body of a wyrm. Elish loved that window and had asked which Saint it had been a thousand times and forgot it a thousand times more. Reinette, maybe. Or Valoyerant. But whoever it was, they looked so beautiful as the sunlight shimmered through their contours and curves, the dull grey and silvers contrasted with the blue and whites of Halone and the red and black of the beast the Saint stood over. Maybe some day, with all the treatments the nice priest from the city was giving him, he would be able to be a Saint himself. Then no one would force him to sit still in a church.

"...the duty of nobility. See, how in their place, they send their son and heir to show proper devotion and deference." Father Feicheux gestured with his entire hand, gnarled and wrinkled skin. As Elish slowly turned his head to look at the priest, he reflected on how much more he enjoyed Father Feicheux's company at the banquet hall, with a few bottles of wine down him. Father Feicheux and his own Lord Father seemed to be friends, but it felt as though there was something Elish had done-

-to cause everyone in the church to turn and look at him. Elish felt his eyes widen involuntarily, and Father Feicheux's smile widened, the curve of his lips not reflected in the light of his eyes. Elish heard the quiet laughter of the other children, the disapproving tutting of parents and other adults. He didn't understand what he did wrong, and it started to make him angry. Why wasn't Father Feicheux kind and nice, like the one from the city? Elish glanced toward the servant to his side, and wasn't surprised to find his head bowed in prayer, sweat dripping down the side of his face and onto his steepled hands. It's not like Elish's own parents would have provided him with more support than this stranger had. The sermon continued onwards, and Elish felt an anger building in his chest. Who did this simple backwater preacher think he was? Elish was a noble scion! House DeMaiste's accomplishments could be traced back nearly one thousand years, and a priest thought he could talk that way to him! Well, after the sermon concluded, Elish would give Feicheux a piece of his mind!

Eventually Elish woke up to the sound of bodies setting to their feet, and the drumming of footsteps as people began to leave. He had nodded off, and he blearily rubbed a fist against his eyes, realizing that the servant was standing up and making way for Father Feicheux to slide into the pew next to him.

His eyes darted from the priest's face to the servants. He didn't want to deal with the impending lecture, the lessons on his responsibilities and the expectations that he would be a good leader. He didn't want that. He wanted to get out of this hot stone prison, wanted to go out and do anything besides extol the virtues of the Fury. Elish jumped to his feet and began to run, pumping his little legs as fast as they could. Both Father Feicheux and the servant started after him, but they were too old, too slow. Above them, the stained glass almost seemed to wink at him as it darkened, spurring him on. He turned and confidently put his hand on the wrought iron handle of the big church doors.

He pulled his hand away, screaming in pain. His entire palm was red-burnt, like the time he had tried to play in a blacksmith's forge. He looked at the door again in disbelief before turning around to look at the approaching forms.

They did not look like the usual faces of disciplinarians, gleeful at the prospect to punish. Instead, they looked scared. Elish realized that the pounding in his ears had given way some time now, and while the thick doors and walls had done a good job of muffling sound, outside there was screaming.

The sound of shattering glass signaled the end of consciousness.

He awoke, for the second time that day, held roughly in the arm of a knight. She was covered in ash and soot. So was he, he realized. His parents would be furious at him for getting his fine clothes dirty, they didn't want to have to keep commissioning new outfits. The knight roughly put him down, and Elish blinked in surprise as the knight moved on, giving him an unobstructed view of the hollowed out carcass of the church.

So much had been singed, as though a wild fire had suddenly started within the building. The knight went to two burnt body shapes, and Elish turned as his mind struggled to put together the thoughts, and he started dry heaving as the knight turned over one corpse, then the other. The sound of dry rustling followed by heavy thudding accompanied his gaze of the grounds right outside the church. More charred remains. More knights grimly combing through, looking for survivors. Wearing the drachen mail of the Order of Knights Dragoon. 

Elish turned back, his eyes upturned to try and avoid looking at the corpses he knew personally. As he did, he saw the shattered stain glass relief, and as he looked down and around, he found the shattered remains of stained glass buried under detritus here and there. He got up and, on uncertain legs, he walked over, digging in the ash for the broken parts of the window. He picked one up and held it in the dull orange of the setting sun. He couldn't make out what it was supposed to be-just a few colors on sharp glass. The knight, finished with her search, came over to Elish and touched his shoulder. Said something, perhaps. But he was unable to focus, as he looked at the glass.

Or, more accurately, at his hand through the glass.

It was fine. The hand that he had burned was fine. He was fine. There was no wound upon him, no scratch nor bruise. Just dark smudges on his clothes and the unshakeable certainty that nothing would ever be the same.

Chapter Text

"Next."

It was textbook. Boring, in some ways. The long wait, the imperious voice booming throughout the room. As though Elish and every other Inquisitor in the room had not used some variation on this technique. That was the problem with reviewing each and every Inquisitor, he reflected. During the reign of Archbishop Thordan VI, he'd simply have removed each and every one of them, and replaced them with agents loyal to himself. Not so with the son, it seemed, as Elish stood and approached the desk. His footsteps echoed throughout the wide halls and off the masonry, a testament to the incredible construction of the Vault. 

"Name."

Elish felt his lip curl involuntarily, an eyebrow twitch. It wouldn't pay to be intransigent here. But the nerve. "Ser Elish, of the House DeMaiste."

"Fourth room down the corridor, knock before entering." The woman handed him a scroll, before gesturing over her shoulder. She didn't even look up as she handed it over, and Elish felt his blood begin to boil.

That was the game, though. Each and every inquisitor who lost themselves in these 'interviews' would either be subject to criminal investigation or removed from the Tribunal entirely. Nothing here was designed to be pleasant, let alone humane. Most Inquisitors only knew what it felt like to hold the rod, and so these would be tests insurmountable, trials unfathomable. Yet that was the right and privilege of the Great Houses-faceless compared to the High Houses, never having to touch the stuff of the Lower Houses. Even amidst the nobility, it wasn't enough to have the right pedigree. Nobles had to have never once touched a shovel or a pitchfork. Never once plunged their hands into the dirt or eat day old bread. Because the second the smallfolk infected a noble with their commonness, well. That was it, wasn't it? The illusion shattered. The nobility were people just like the peasants. 

One knock. Then another. Two sharp raps to signal his arrival. He cleared his throat and waited, hands clasped behind his back for only a breath of a time before the door swung open, and a young woman gestured him in. 

Standing, sitting, standing again and sitting again. That was the problem with everything Ishgard did. It just reminded him of Church all over again. The woman before him sat down as well, back straight, posture perfect. Elezen, so more likely to be above him in station. She hadn't spoken yet, so he had no way of trying to gauge accents or education. Instead, he simply placed the scroll in front of him on the table. She looked at it, and smiled. 

"Why didn't you try to read it?"

"I hadn't been instructed to. Would you like me to read it?" He raised a hand

She waved dismissively. "It's nothing you wouldn't know. It's your service record, as gathered by the scribes within our Dicastery. We need to acquaint ourselves with the individuals we'll be speaking with before we render judgment upon them. Sort of a more humane interrogation, wouldn't you say?"

"I trust the Lord Speaker and the House of Lords and Commons to have done everything in their power to improve upon old designs."

She began to write something down, the scratch of a metal bib against parchment a comforting sound in an otherwise unpleasant situation. Elish didn't glance down, didn't care to read what she wrote. It simply wouldn't matter. The Holy See was a machine, with each and every part a gear or cog meant to smash you into particles or cut you into pieces. If she didn't do this, someone else would. It was better to not fight, to not resist.

"I'm sorry, I didn't give you my name. I am the Lady Ibinne, of House Neurtaille. I'll be performing your interview today."

Elish introduced himself, a series of pleasantries and awkward interactions. He didn't trust it. A disarming display, he was sure. Lower one's guard, show weakness in solidarity, and then strike while the soft underbelly was within reach. They discussed all the changes that had happened to Ishgard, the intricacies of work. But finally, she unfurled his scroll. It was quite funny, when all was said and all was done. He found it unlikely that she hadn't read it or become acquainted with his work history before he entered. Most likely another piece of pageantry, another song and dance. Perhaps to make the Inquisitors angry at the lack of professionalism, or to make them feel like they could sway their interviewers. But instead, Elish simply waited, his leather clad fingers interwoven as he waited for her to make her play.

"So. You understand why you're here, don't you?"

There it was. The position of power, the creation of distance and space. The Lady Ibinne had the power to call him here, and it was for something that he had done. Of course. "I understand that the Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine is undergoing rigorous internal audits. I assumed I was here as a part of that."

She nodded, marking something else down. "Indeed. You have served the Holy See faithfully, rendering over five hundred cases complete-"

Five hundred and thirty eight, his mind traitorously thought. Fortunately, his lips did not listen to him.

"-and have a remarkably low death toll for the volume of cases assigned to you. Some odd twenty six heretics to be disposed of, when you were through with them. Why is that? Ideological differences, perhaps?"

Lady Ibinne could have been trying to twist a knife, he considered. Elish's apostacy was a relatively public secret. He attended service like a good Fury fearing Ishgardian, but he venerated the Warden with much the same fervor. Luckily, the Tribunal wasn't, strictly, a religious organization. If Elish had entered into the clergy, well, this was the sort of thing that was quietly and discretely taken care of. But for an Inquisitor to praise a Goddess of Investigation, well. It just meant he was good at his job, didn't it?

"It simply wasn't efficient. Yes, the approved methods for enhanced interrogation allowed Inquisitors to kill their subjects. But why do it?" Elish held out two hands, as though the opposite ends of a scale. "Inquisitors develop a reputation for always murdering turncoats. No heretic ever wants to come back to Ishgard, to confess their sins. No useful information is gained, and the Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly continues to stumble blindly through the snow. Or, Inquisitors allow a few to walk away. They lead the Inquisition back to their homes, to their friends. To their former workplace associates. They spread word about potential clemency. More heretics get tired of burrowing into solid ice and decide that they want to return to the home of their forefathers. What was the saying again? You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?"

Lady Ibinne was taking notes, easily keeping pace with his words if the expression on her face was anything to go by. "And so that was it? Efficiency?"

He nodded.

"Then why do it even when the First Inquisitor had repeatedly corrected you? I am given to understand that he was not the most gentle of mentors."

At this, Elish started. Everything else were reports, records, the sorts of things that were done in the capacity of any official business. How much did Lady Ibinne know? It couldn't be everything, or else no one would have risked being in the same room as him like this. Perhaps other Inquisitors, then. Rumors and rancid gossip that had flowed throughout the spire which housed the Tribunal.

"The former First Inquisitor," the words tasted like wine upon his tongue. "Had taken an undue interest in my development. You are correct. Many of the enhanced interrogation techniques were used upon myself or others of his personal retinue with some frequency. I certainly do not think I spared my charges to get back at the First, but perhaps it was not the incentive to shy away that he thought it was."

"Ah, so all of the deaths at your hand were because of Charibert de Leusignac?" 

"No." The movement of Lady Ibinne's quill stopped as she looked up at him. Elish made no indication that he was going to continue. 

"Ser Elish." Her tone was curt, even brusque. "I am trying to help you here."

The absurdity of it was almost too much to bear. Straining to hold back the bark of laughter, Elish looked at her. What did she know of the transformative properties of a heretic's rosary, watching a young child eat a man's finger and be suffused with aether which formed scales and claws and fangs? What did she know of the schemes of noblemen, who sought to vie with one another for power instead of looking outward towards the world in disarray? There was nothing she could do for him, or for any of the other Inquisitors who waited out in that infernal lobby, each of whom would be subject to similar interviews, asked by people who never held another person's life in their hands, watched their essence slip through the cracks of their fingers and pool in the crevices of the flagstones beneath their feet. He could have told her. Told her that each and every thing they were doing here was one large, damning lie.

Instead he said "I'm sure you are."

Chapter Text

"What is it?"

The Au Ra put out an affable, pleasant aura, which was impressive considering his significant height. "It's a stamp card! I thought they were quite common, actually. You know, to reward to repeat customers? Though I suppose I don't open often enough to justify a lot of these, and we haven't been seeing a huge volume of customers coming through, so maybe it's a little premature of me. But you came in alone, so I thought maybe it could cheer you up."

Elish rotated the cardboard rectangle in his hands. The sound of it grazing past his gloves was pleasant enough, and it was made out of a surprisingly thick, hardy stock. It wouldn't survive the ice and snow, however. He'd have to place it by a fire, or store it somewhere. The colors were charming, and the name "Uotake" was emblazoned upon it in both Hingan and Eorzean characters. Frowning, Elish put the cardboard on the table. He never really intended to visit this place again. Ever since he had been 'restructured' into the more office work oriented Fur Collar Crimes within the Tribunal, he had put himself up for each and any opportunity to claw himself above his peers. Volunteering for diplomatic committees was just one of the most recent tasks, and where he had no knowledge of the world outside of Coerthas boundaries, he was a quick study and was already used to debasing himself to those higher in the social hierarchy. Most of his business was for the Eorzean Alliance, which made travel fairly easy. He had been born with an aether sickness, which meant he was neither proficient in spell craft nor the use of aetherytes. Inside of the Eorzean Alliance was a chocobo ride away, maybe an airship if one was being particularly generous. 

Othard was an entirely different beast. Elish had to plan travel arrangements weeks if not months in advance. In some ways, it made him feel more disconnected from the changes that were overtaking his city. In other ways, it made him quietly proud to be able to keep a snapshot of the Ishgard that once was in his heart, like the Coerthas that once was before the fell dragon exploded out of the moon and ruined his home. 

Frankly, he had stumbled upon Uotake the same way that one stumbles upon rocks hidden amidst thick, tall grass. He had come once before, the sound of life and activity drawing even his dreary soul. He supposed, his long musings before the proprietor starting to stretch into awkwardness, that did make him a repeat customer. 

"It's frivolous. You're wasting time and gil printing these. How many people have even returned with one of these?" Elish spat out.

The other man looked taken aback. "I mean, I just started handing these out recently, so I suppose not too many. If you don't want it, I can take it back-"

Elish shook his head. "There is no need. I have finished eating, and would like to pay my outstanding bill." He stood from his seated position, and as he left the other man would turn back to discover that the cardboard was missing.

Stamp card indeed.

Chapter Text

"How was I supposed to prepare for the end of the world?" The man on murmured. The other gamblers at the table had long since left, after they had asked the man to leave several times-after all, he was out of chips. The croupier had left to get security, and there was no one around to listen to whatever excuses he was offering. No one but the Twelve, perhaps.

"I was given one foot up, and the other in the mud. And those who came before me! They let the mud drag them down. But not I. I am a genius. Did I tell you that I have a foolproof method for getting my gil back?"

A shadow loomed over the back of the man, but it didn't weigh any more than pile of sins upon his shoulders. The man snored slightly, waking up and coughing as his own spittle caught in his throat. "How could she have resisted me? How could anyone have resisted me? They didn't, that's how. I had that sort of personality where no one could say no to me. No one would stand in my way. And if they did, I ran them roughshod. Who could land speculate like me? Who could dream like me? No one. And she loved me for it."

Two arms had reached out for him, recoiling as though they had been burned. "She didn't think it was a dream. A vision from the future. A vision from the Fury. She believed in me." He scoffed. "Why would she? Why did anyone listen to me. A lineage, they said. A right in the blood. She had good blood by that same argument. Why isn't it her fault that we're in ruin? Why is the blame laid squarely at my feet? Why didn't anyone help me?"

The two arms crossed. "And then she had the gall to give birth to that sickly child. Sure, at least it was a son. But weak. Always so weak. How can they blame me for focusing on things which were important? If he was strong, he'd grow up strong. But he was weak, and that's why he grew up weak. Why would it be my fault? How could it be my fault?"

The two arms turned, getting ready to leave, when the man picked up a small crystal goblet and threw it across the room, shattering into a thousand pieces against a wall. "I loved her! I did everything for her! How could you take her away from me? It wasn't her time! Aren't you supposed to watch over us? My Menphina, my wife! She worshipped you! How many nights did she spend with that child in your churches, with your priests! And you made that child just strong enough to kill his mother? What did you think would happen? I'm no Oschon! I'm a man! A mortal man! What was I supposed to do?"

An arm raised, and slapped the man. Elish's face emerged from the gloom, then his shoulders, his arms picking his drunk father up from the table. "Behave like a noble. Like you taught me to."

The Head of House, Lord Regineaux of House DeMaiste, gazed blearily up at his son. "Don't you know who I am? I am a noble! You can't treat me like this!" His breath was rank with alcohol, his eyes bloodshot. Elish grabbed him and foisted him over his shoulders. "What was I supposed to do?" Lord Regineaux beat his fists against Elish's shoulder. "The croupier cheated! The other players at the table were conspiring against me! You should be taking them out of the building, not me!"

As Elish headed towards the doors of the Platinum Mirage, several Brass Blades filed in. They started towards him, though one recognized the insignia on his breast. "Inquisitor! I didn't realize the Holy See of Ishgard dispatched people to deal with common drunks." The Brass Blades started to laugh, and Elish bit back the acerbic response that began to well in his throat. He simply kept moving, his father beating his shoulder. Lord Regineaux caught the doorframe and tried to hold onto it, until Elish yanked him hard enough that he cried out.

The moon was bright overhead. Elish's footsteps echoed through the crisp Thanalan air, echoed off the walls of the sandstone buildings. Perhaps that was why he missed the sound of sobbing at first. "How was I supposed to prepare for the end of the world?"

"None of us could have known what would happen with Dalamud." Elish snapped. "Stop pretending like you are the only person who suffered."

"Not that!" Regineaux screamed. "The world didn't end when the stupid red moon fell! It didn't end when that wyrm exploded out of it! It ended when my wife died! It ended when you showed up with that bastard from the Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine, and you wouldn't stop crying about the loss of your mother! What about me? What about my wife?"

Elish grunted. He so sorely wanted to drop his father, perhaps beat his head against a lamppost. Whenever his father blamed him for the death of 'his wife', though, he always faltered. He didn't remember his mother very much. Didn't recall much about those early days. He thought she had been severe. Cold to him. But whenever she took him to church, she truly seemed happy. It made him like attending the sermons, the special anointments the priest had performed for his health. Perhaps they should have been focused on healing his mother. Or at least screw on his father's head correctly.

The Inquisitor took the man to his inn room, a fairly large and comfortable affair. Elish had long asked why his father didn't simply purchase a residence, and had been told it was the lack of servants to prepare meals and clean up after him. When Elish asked why his father didn't return to Ishgard then, he answered that there wasn't any gambling halls like the Platinum Mirage there. He allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps being banned from the Platinum Mirage would force him to return to the Holy See. He laid the man down on the bed, the feather down cradling his father in the only embrace he'd get.

As Elish turned, his father slurred something out. If he lied to himself, if he pretended, the consonants could be forced into the shape of "I love you, son". But Elish had long since stopped pretending. He knew that his father blamed him for the sudden death of his mother and that priest, all those long years ago. Elish couldn't shake the feeling that he was right, on some level. If he hadn't been so sickly, hadn't been so weak, perhaps his mother wouldn't keep taking him to that church. But he had been-born with weak aether, as he still had now. His father took his apostacy poorly as well, saying that this was the punishment House DeMaiste had received for being sacrilegious. Elish didn't think the gods cared about what sweet nothings were whispered in the bedroom. He had to believe that they had bigger affairs to tend to, or else if they wanted to make everything perfect and picturesque, they'd never allow people like them.