Archive of Our Own ^beta

When I wake, the sun has not yet risen, and I find myself in darkness. For a moment I know not where I am, for the bed is not familiar. And then my stomach tightens as I remember, once again, that he is gone. 

It hurts, no less than it has on any morning since that wretched day; but at the least, I have awoken in silence, and not screaming his name as his body crashes against mine again in that dream of his final moments. A horrid dream, and yet for a fleeting moment as it begins he is with me again, and oh… that is nearly worth the pain of what comes next.

I breathe, and sit up, and remember my course: to retrace his steps, and ascend to the churning mists if needs be, to find the Lady Iceheart - for she might stand in his stead, and bring low the primal Bismarck.

With effort I rise and make ready for the day, the sounds of the men and women stationed at Falcon’s Nest beginning to filter though the shutters. Work goes on, even with the Archbishop known to be unaccounted for; yes, we all must find some work, to give us purpose. To move forward, even as grief bears down upon us like an avalanche.

My father relieved me of my post for the time being; officially, it is for my recovery from the injury I sustained at the Vault. The bruises that came with the crystal shards buried within my skin faded passing fast, though the shrapnel itself would not be moved.

I would not part with it, even if it were possible. For the shards are his, and though they mark me as the man whose life was paid for by his (the man who would have saved him, and failed) they also mean that I carry him with me, in more than simply spirit. As I finish donning my armour, my fingers go to my cheek to touch them, and I am struck with a memory - his touching me there, the night before - 

I breathe a shuddering breath out, and take some moments to compose myself.

Amid the early morning bustle of Falcon’s Nest, I made my way to the stables, where Joy awaits - the black chocobo I raised and gave to my husband, during those first days of his time in Ishgard. She is glad, as ever, to see me; and yet, as I stroke her plumage and set to work readying her saddle, she warks and looks about, trying to spy the man who would be as a balm to my melancholy.

Though it breaks my heart, it is for this reason that I have chosen her for this task, for she accompanied him much of this way. And so, to retrace his steps, I suspect her keen memory will be useful, indeed.

As I am about to make my way, a pair of voices who had erstwhile been whispering to one another suddenly quiet, and then a woman says: “Excuse me, but…  is it true?”

I turn to face them - they are knights of House Durendaire, both of them young and fresh-faced, though with the bearing of some service about them - and I watch as their eyes take in my features; even in the dim morning I know those shards of the Crystals of Light will catch their namesake.

“Yes,” I say, though they have not asked the question aloud; I will voice it for them. “The Champion of Eorzea, and he who slayed Nidhogg with the Azure Dragoon, is dead.”

They both pale, and share a look. “Were - were you not…?”

“Married,” I finish for her again. “Until I failed to save his life.”

They begin to tumble over one another with condolences and apologies, but I have not the time for such things. I wave them off and mount up, and with all haste I make my way north, toward the camp I have been told is manned with dragon hunters. From there, I will press on to Tailfeather, where my late husband said she had friends, and then…

My late husband.

The wilds of the Western Highlands are no place for tears, for they will freeze, just like everything else. I wipe my eyes and pull Joy aloft, just to get my bearings; she is a little small for me, so our trip will be on foot for the most part. Slower, perhaps, but I care not overmuch. So long as I am moving.

(Had it been a kind of grief that made him crave a life of movement? If only I might ask him. Oh, I would give anything for the chance.)

I thought the Lady Iceheart might have returned to her heretic friends, but what little intelligence I have gleaned suggests she headed north from Falcon’s Nest alone. Not travelling by Aetherite, which is passing strange; but then again, she must be accustomed to avoiding such travel, for one’s movements might be marked and traced. Better to go on foot if one is of a mind to be alone.

I wonder what she has heard; has the news of her friend’s fate reached her ears? Does she consider him a friend at all, or a colleague of necessity only? Has she room, amid her other sorrows, to mourn him?

As I make my way north, days blur together like the horizon with the sky as the snows ever swirl in the harsh winds. Word from the encampment is promising, at least, as there have been rumours of a solitary traveler moving ever northward as well, some weeks past.

For Joy’s sake, I take proper rests, and set up camp; if she is meant to eat, then I suppose I must as well, though the rations of travel have little appeal. I eat, for I must move.

At last, the cold eases, and the canopy shifts, and I find myself in the place where chocobos roam free and brazen. These wild birds, when captured, will become working birds, stock lesser than those bred within Ishgard, but plied for trade and simple work. Joy appraises them cautiously, her latent jealousy creeping to the fore.

The sight of the Aetherite in the distance tells me that my mount has indeed kept us on course, and at last, with the sun low and the eerie shadows of the great, strange trees deepened, we arrive in Tailfeather. It was here that he (my dearest one, oh my dearest one) began to learn more about the woman I seek. I send up a little prayer to the Fury, that I might continue to follow in his footsteps. Just a little longer.

Though my initial inquiries are not met with open hostility, I sense the simmering unease beneath the surface of their bland, unhelpful replies. She has been here - perhaps still bides her time here, in fact - and she is being protected.

Careful not to press overly hard, I slow my steps, and secure lodgings for the night, for myself and for Joy. The next morning I offer my help about town, any simple takes that require a pair of hands and a strong back; as I work, and feel the barriers breaking down through the camaraderie of shared labour, I ask about those who first knew the woman I seek, in the wake of the Calamity. From there I learn of the man who took her in, and ere the sun has fully set I seek him out.

“Awful long way for a Knight to come, all on his lonesome,” the man says, by way of reply to my careful inquiry.

“I have urgent business with her.” I draw myself up, bracing for the words that must come next. “And tidings of a personal nature, that she may have heard in rumour only. But I would give her this news directly, for a friend of hers has… passed.”

He straightens, and his eyes take in my visage and my shards with renewed interest. “If I were to come across her, what name should I give?”

“Haurchefant.”

Unable to find my rest now that I know she is close, I take up a lantern and go to the stables, and see to some care of Joy’s plumage and her talons while the amenities for such things are readily at hand. She is a little ill at ease, seeming restless herself, cooing and looking about as I finish filing her claws. I stand, and take her head in my hands.

“I know, girl, I know.” I press my forehead against hers. “I miss him, too.”

The next day, I receive a tip-off from the man who well knows the Heretic Queen: it seems she is gathering herbs this day, in the shade of one of their great trees to the north. I am told this off-hand, an acknowledgement that she likely did not intend for this information to be dispensed to a traveler from Ishgard seeking an audience with her. But in times of introspection and turmoil of the mind, it is often that one wants one thing, but needs another.

I go on foot, leaving Joy stabled in town, and follow the directions given to me - in half a bell I see her, knelt in the grass, next to a large woven basket. Her long, white-grey hair has been pulled back, and she is garbed in the tawny colours of the hunters and chocobo tenders of Tailfeather. An ordinary woman, one would think.

She surely marks my approach at a few dozen yalms at least, though she does not speak until I am but a road’s breadth away. “You are come from Ishgard,” she says, not turning to face me as she places some herbs in her basket.

“I am.”

“At whose behest?”

“The Scions of the Seventh Dawn,” I lie. “There’s a Primal threat which may bar their way forward.”

She tosses another herb into the basket. “And why would they have need of me?”

“You are blessed with the Echo, or so I was told.” Again, I steel myself against the words. “The Warrior of Light… is no more.”

She stills, and then looks over her shoulder to regard me, her expression one of pained surprise; as many others have done, she takes in the look of me as well. “I had heard rumours,” she says, her gaze cast down. “I admit, I thought them… spurious. A foolish hope of mine.” She stands, and takes up her basket. “I am sorry. He… spoke of you warmly.”

I swallow. “Thank you.”

For a moment she stands quietly, seeming lost in thought. Then, with the basket upon her hip, unhurried, she makes to walk past me, heading back toward Tailfeather. 

I fall into step beside her, and for a time we walk in silence. Her expression is one that I might describe as thoughtful, were it not for the haunted look in her eyes - not a new expression, it seems, but one that has settled upon her quite soundly. 

At last, I must speak. “I am loath to press you to lend yourself to our cause. But I am not so proud a man that I will not beg your aid.”

“Are there no others you might beg?”

My mind goes to my husband’s colleagues; those who are not missing are yet scattered to the four winds, in spite of the clearing of their names. “None that might come with swiftness. Do you know not of any amongst your people, who share your gift?”

“They are no longer my people,” she says, then turns a queer look on me. “You would accept their aid, if there were?”

“If… they came with your recommendation, I would.” I look away, finding her gaze a little intense. “Do not misunderstand - it feels strange beyond belief to accept the aid of those who until lately have been our enemies. But the world is changed.”

“It may be so. But men’s hearts are not so easily changed.”

“Some men’s hearts.” I turn my gaze to her. “But if my husband trusted you, I would be a fool not to let my heart be changed.”

She walks in silence for a time, then shakes her head. “There are none, that I am aware of, who possess the Echo among those who followed me.”

“A shame, then; but I must redouble my request to you.” She speeds her step slightly, and so I do as well, staying in lock step with her; I feel my emotions begin to run a little hot as desperation nips at my heels. “Nidhogg is dead, but those who murdered one we both held dear remain at large. We must not let them carry out their heinous plans. Please -” I reach out to slow her step, and she whirls on me, stepping back out of reach.

“Do not touch me.” Her tone is that of a commander, but I hear the fear in it as well.

I hold up my hands, quickly catching my breath. “I am sorry, my Lady. I acted without thought.”

With a deep breath in and out again, her posture softens. For a long moment she regards me, and I can only imagine what war rages in her mind. What struggles does she endure, now that she has lost her place at the head of her people? What is tomorrow for a woman who has given herself so wholly to a cause that no longer exists?

At last, she says: “I cannot help you. My strength came from a misguided belief, one which I no longer hold. I will not suffer my delusions to consume me.”

I would speak, but a sudden pain in my head nearly sends me reeling. My heartbeat thrums in my ears, and my vision shifts, shatters -

Another time, another place; an image splintered, glimpsed through broken stained glass. 

I see this very woman - Ysayle - facing a great dragon, white and horned and terrible. They speak, but I cannot parse the words, for they are fragmented as well, syllables tumbling over one another, their meaning lost.

I am everywhere and nowhere as this scene plays out, struggling to hear, struggling to understand, and then…

He is here.

Some part of him, in the echoes, in the space between the cracks; I can feel him, the glow of him - his light. I reach out but I have no arms, I scream his name but I have no voice - 

“Haurchefant.”

My name from her lips - firm, commanding - brings me back to myself, in the place I expected to be. I suck in a breath, blinking hard. She regards me warily.

“Apologies, my Lady,” I say,  my voice a little uneven, as I right myself; my posture had shifted into a ready stance, borne of my years of training no doubt.

“I am no Lady.” Cold and quiet. “I never have been, and never will.”

Her words somehow bring forth the meaning from the vision that had overtaken me. “You… spoke with Nidhogg’s kin. You asked him to - to…”

Her expression darkens. “You saw .” She is quiet a moment; when she speaks, her eyes are cast down. “While the Warrior of Light made preparations for his battle with Nidhogg, and the Dragoon brooded over the Aery, I was left to my own company. I sought out Hraesvalgr, and I… I begged him to consume me, as he had once done his beloved.”

More meaning pours into my mind as she speaks. “You thought to purge yourself, of her… shade. And of your pain. But…” The echoes and fragments I had heard at last coalesce. “He refused.”

“He left me to a fate of my own making.” Her sharp eyes seem to cut to my core. “Do not look at me so,” she says, with quiet ice. “You would pity me, and forget my sins.”

“I do not forget them.” The image of the Foundation burning after the wyvern attack floods back, the scent of smoke and fear; with a sharp breath in I dispel it. “But I also remember how you swayed the heretics who had pressed into Ishgard, and spared both our people untold bloodshed. You have let your heart be changed. And so I pity you, for your pain.”

We walk in silence for a time; when we are within sight of Tailfeather, she says: “I am truly sorry that I cannot help you in your quest. For your husband’s sake, I would bend myself to it, if I thought I had the strength. But… I fear there is little left of me, after all that has happened. He would not suffer me to snuff it out.”

I wonder if the ‘he’ she speaks of is my love, or Hraesvalgr, or one of her other companions on the journey north. “I would ask for no such sacrifice myself. But I thank you for your ear, all the same.”

She stops, and I turn back to regard her. “I will part ways with you now,” she says. “The herbs must be cleaned; and I would not have it known that I have parleyed with a man of Ishgard so easily.”

I bow lightly. “I shall speak not of it, except to those we both count as friends.”

Her expression softens then, for the first time. “Please… send them my regards,” she says, the words quiet on the wind. “Tell them… that I endure.”

With a promise to do so upon my lips, I part ways with her, and make once more for Tailfeather.

As I seek out the man who had given his charge’s movements away for my benefit, I am stopped in my tracks by a cry of my name, equal parts relief and anger. I turn and see Alphinaud running toward me from near the Aetherite. His expression is one I have never seen upon him, though there is a haughty note to it that is familiar.

I raise a hand in greeting. “My friend. I did not think to meet you here. Has the investigation in the Sea of Clouds come to naught?”

He frowns up at me, clearly with other concerns burning just below the surface, though he sets them aside to address my question. “Master Garlond goes to his work, as always. We shall find a means of bringing the Primal to heel.”

“Indeed.” I sigh. “I had hoped to return to you with yet further aid, but I confess… I have failed yet again in my duty.”

“From what Lord Edmont has said, you were to be relieved of your duty.”

“And so I was - and therefore I was free to pursue a line of inquiry. To help in your quest. His quest.”

I see the flash of pain in his eyes at the mention of his fallen friend. “Your help is appreciated, Lord Haurchefant. But if it was Ysayle you sought, I would like to have been advised.”

I regard him. “I thought we had dispensed with titles.”

“And I thought we were as family. But I confess, I have little experience in mourning, here in Coerthas. Perhaps shunning one’s brethren is commonplace.”

The words sting. I find myself at a loss. “I… I’m sorry, my friend,” I say, simply, the words sounding somewhat pitiful from my lips. “How selfish of me. He…” I swallow, forcing a trembling breath in, to keep the words from stilling once more. “He was not mine alone to lose.”

Alphinaud has no reply for a few moments, while the town of Tailfeather bustles about us, yet full of life. At last, he sighs, and looks down. “I have no appetite for quarrel. Let us start again, and share our tidings as friends.”

Though I am gutted that I was unable to sway Ysayle to our cause, I am gladdened to share tidings of her with Alphinaud; for the first time since that fateful day at the Vault, I see a glimmer of true relief in the boy’s eyes. 

“I will not hold her reticence against her,” he says, as we share a small cold lunch at the place where I have secured lodgings. “Still, I worry for her, carrying on alone.”

“Indeed - though… she sought out Hraesvalgr once, when she was at wit’s end; I can only hope she might rely on him again, should she have need of comfort.”

“She sought him out? Alone?”

“Yes. Though what I saw of their meeting, I think, bears no repeating.”

His brow furrows. “What you saw? Did this occur only recently?”

I let out a breath as I think through what I would say. I am not certain yet how I feel about the strange, fractured vision that came upon me with such swiftness and totality. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced; and so I keep private the details of the exchange I witnessed as I describe to Alphinaud the experience as a whole.

“I admit,” I finish, topping up our mugs of tea with the last from the pot, “I imagined it to be somehow tied to your friend Ysayle.”

He looks quite thoughtful. “And Ysayle said nothing to you about the nature of this vision?”

I shake my head. “It surprised her, I think. But no. She seemed to proceed as though it were a… normal occurrence.”

“Certainly visions of this kind are not unheard of. And the somewhat jumbled nature of yours is not something that I have familiarity with. But…” He hesitates. “Forgive me, but does not the onset of your vision - and the event to which you bore witness through it - strike you as being much like those visions granted to the Warrior of Light, by the way of the Echo?”

I am struck by these words - by the truth of them, and by the fact that such a thing had not so much as occurred to me. “I… was never present for one of his visions,” I say, my voice faltering only slightly. “But he spoke of them, and how they… felt.” My hand goes to my cheek, fingers grazing the shards embedded there. “I… I felt him, within the vision. As though the memory of him somehow… lingered.”

His eyes widen. “Truly? Could it be that…?” He regards me for a moment, then sighs and slumps. “I dare not voice my inexpert thoughts. Would that I could speak with Minfilia. Or any of my colleagues.” For not the first time, his countenance betrays his age, and the weight unduly resting upon his shoulders. “I have made inquiries, to those wayward Scions who are blessed with the Echo; some few fly to our aid, but they are none of them scholars of it, nor a match for your husband’s prowess in battle.”

“I know of none who are.”

“They need… guidance.” He says the words carefully, but his eyes - old beyond his years again - fix on me with a quiet question, one he dares not voice.

As the implications of my vision settle upon me, I feel a new course has opened up, one terrifying in its enormity; and yet, if it might help to bring justice to those who orchestrated my dearest one’s demise… (oh, I would gladly spend my life to see this done.)

“Let me help you.” I rise from my chair, unable to be still. “I will not claim that I would take his place - this will never be. But I have the experience of command and battle against winged foes. I would use these things to help you. And if there is any chance - any chance at all - that some part of his Echo has come to me…”

His look is almost desperate. “I will not ask this of you. Not with so little known. Not after…”

“You have not asked. I offer myself freely. Please. Let me help you.”

He regards me, his expression twisted with warring needs and fears. At last he looks down, shoulders drawn. “I thought, after Grandfather died… that nothing could hurt as much. That I had been inoculated against the worst feelings of grief through his passing. But… it hurts, in a different way. Now that I’m older. Now that I… might have done something.”

I cross the small distance to him, and lay my hand on his shoulder. “Then, if you will have me… I will share in these doubts with you, as I share in your work. At least for now.”

In the morning we resupply, and begin the journey back. Alphinaud could travel by Aetherite if he so chose, but he seems to have taken some comfort in my presence - that, or he has sensed the comfort he has brought to me, with his vision of a way forward, and his commiseration on our recent past. Perhaps we are good for each other, in this awful time. And perhaps moving more slowly through the world is not remiss - at least, until a way forward is found, with the great Primal in the Sea of Clouds.

Before we depart from Tailfeather, he stops me as we bring our chocobos - a porter beast for him - past the Aetherite there. “You have never been able to travel this way, is that correct?”

I shake my head. “Not that I have tried - my aptitude for such things was determined to be insufficient in my days of training as a knight, by some Astrologian or other.”

“I see. Perhaps it is for naught, then, but… might I instruct you in the method of attunement? If your Anima has been found to change in this this way, perhaps there is yet further hope about the transference of the Echo.”

A frisson of fear goes through me, but with a breath in, I steel myself. “I would try, then; but I know not if I hope for success, if I am honest.”

Alphinaud calmly talks me through what I must do, for all the world as though he were explaining how to open a door. Dubious, but committed to making a wholehearted effort, I reach out with my hand and my thoughts, as though reaching through the air for a strand of cobweb on the breeze.

To my surprise, I see - I feel - the aether reaching back to me, and suddenly this place is a part of me, like a memory I can recall outside of myself. I gasp, drawing my hand back, and the aether fades. I realize the great crystal has been spinning faster, though it slows now. “Have I…?”

Alphinaud reaches out himself, seeming to commune with it for a moment before the glow of aether fades, and he turns to me with a triumphant smile. “I can confirm that your essence has been recognized by the Aetherite network. Now you have only to attune elsewhere, and you may travel between these points at will.”

“Indeed,” I say, endeavouring to keep my fear at bay. “I suppose Falcon’s Nest will be our next opportunity, though a frivolous journey back here seems… well, just that, I suppose.”

Our journey there is cold but uneventful, and mostly quiet; Alphinaud seems to pride himself on his skills at finding firewood, though he has a little yet to learn about tending the fire once it’s burning. 

When we are nearing Falcon’s Nest, Alphinaud receives word through his linkpearl that a possible way forward in the Sea of Clouds has been forged. And so, after attuning to the Aetherite, Master Garlond arrives in the Enterprise to speed our journey.

He briefs us, as he brings us aloft, on the task at hand: drawing the attention the great sky whale, for it seems it has consumed the key we seek. “As for putting the Primal to the sword, well… that part is like to be a bit tricky.” He turns from the ship’s controls, for the first time meeting my eyes since the day he spirited away my dearest one in his quest to fell Nidhogg. “I’m hardly about to complain at the lack of volunteers, but I’ll be damned if I don’t say I miss that Miqo’te of yours.”

His rough and easy speech is almost a balm to me, after these weeks of solemn condolences. I nod, and I feel a faint smile touching my features. “I expect that will be a common refrain.”

“Some few Scions did heed our call,” Alphinaud says. “But the task ahead is daunting, to say the least - even if they might have the protection of the Echo.”

“So. You do too, then?” Master Garlond’s gaze studies my face, and the shards of crystal visible there. “Something else you’ve borrowed from him?”

“We… are not wholly certain,” Alphinaud says. “Haurchefant has experienced a vision, not unlike those bestowed by the Echo. And his Anima has been invigorated so that attunement to Aetherites has been achieved. But as for further protection…”

Master Garlond frowns. “There’s an awful lot resting on an assumption, sounds like. Not exactly the kind of science I’d hang my hat on.”

“There is no time to wait for certainty,” I say, turning from his gaze to look out on the horizon, vast and white, as we make ready to be properly underway. “The Archbishop and his men must be stopped. At all costs.”

For a moment, there is silence, apart from the whir of the motors and the swirling of snow on thin air; oh, how such a thing might have lifted my spirits, in the time before. But now, there is no joy in it. Only the promise of movement, for a pawn upon the board, desperate for a checkmate.

“... Are you certain you would not visit Ishgard first, my friend?” Alphinaud steps up next to me at the rail. “Time is of the essence, but…”

I shake my head. “Long have I lived with the mantle of service to my people, and every day has brought with it the chance of paying the final price. This is no different. I will see justice done.”

Though I sense some uncertainty at my words, he does not question me again.

Before long, we make landing at Cloudtop (and attune to another Aetherite, though thank Halone I have not yet had cause to attempt any travel by them), and our plan begins to come together. While the logistics of towing a small island to lure the whale are discussed by Master Garlond and his crew, I spy a small group of adventurers standing apart from them on the platform. To the untrained eye, they might appear relaxed, even bored; to mine, they seem worried.

“Those who have answered the call,” Alphinaud says, stepping up next to me.

“Indeed.” I look down at him, and find him looking up at me with an encouraging smile. I nod, and make my way toward them.

Every one of them marks my approach, and I watch as they confer together, confirming my identity. I see uncertainty in their eyes, doubt in their posture. If the Warrior of Light might fall, what hope remains for them?

“My friends.” I stand before them, and speak with the voice of command, for the first time since I last stepped foot in Camp Dragonhead. Though they are none of them soldiers, they all heed in their own ways, grateful or needful. “Would that I had the pleasure of coming to know you under better circumstances; but we can but play the hand we are dealt. And further still, I would greet you with greater certainty of our success. But I may only give you the certainty that is my due: I will give my all to this endeavour, not only to honour the man…”

I force a breath in, steadying myself in the wake of the sudden remembrance of his smiling face. I swallow. 

“To honour the man who has been taken from us by those we pursue; but also, I will give my all to you, his colleagues and friends, for he would give nothing less to keep you safe. Today, we take the first step in righting this great wrong. From the bottom of my heart: thank you, for your service.”

With a somber but spirited cry, their fealty is secured, and all that remains is to make our plan of attack and set out. Having done the first, Alphinaud comes to me again with one final bit of business.

“My friend,” he starts, then stalls; “Haurchefant. I am certain you are aware of the risks inherent in laying low a Primal. Beyond those of standing against their cunning and might.”

I stand quietly, watching the assembled men and women as they prepare to fight, each in his or her own way. “You speak of tempering.”

“I do.”

“I know the risks. I knew them, even when he made his first foray against Shiva without me, all those moons ago.” (Oh, how strange and distant is that memory of our first quarrel now; what I would not give to have a hundred hundred more.) “I am aware that if our assumptions are wrong, I may be tempered by the great sky whale, as have been many of the natives of these islands. Should this occur, you have my support - my most fervent wish, in fact - to… deal with me as is required.” I turn to look upon him. “Swiftly.”

His expression hardens, and he swallows. “I will pray that no such evil shall come to pass.”

“As shall I.” I chuckle once, though there is little humour in it. “I dare not imagine what reception I might have in the Fury’s halls if I am bent to the will of another.”

He’s quiet again; a great clamour of chains in the near distance draws our gaze, as the final connections are laid into place by Master Garlond for the towing of the island.

“Do you think… you would find him there?” His voice is soft, for the first time seeming almost child-like with this question.

The answer, of course, is not so simple. “I… have pondered this, and things of this nature, since I was but a child. I have always thought that whatever lies beyond must surely be more complex than the stories would say.”

A cold breeze cuts across my face, colder where the shards lay within my skin. I touch them again, and despite the cold I feel the warmth of love in my heart, and still… still, that cord that binds me to him, the link which shall never be sundered.

“I will find him.” The words come unbidden from me, and yet I know them to be my truth, my future, awful and wonderful. “I will trace my way to him, when the time comes that I must move on from this world.”

He has no response to this, though I sense a little worry in him still.

“All aboard!” Master Garlond’s voice draws us from our reverie. “Time to go fishing!” With nothing left to say, we make our way to the Enterprise.

A hundred times - a thousand times - I dreamed of joining him in one of his great battles. But to take his place in one, to see that great whale again, and know that it falls to me and some few brave fools to put it to the sword?

And yet here we are, bracing ourselves as the soaring beast rams the island upon which we stand, the ground shaking hard under our feet. I call out the order to fire the Dragonkillers, and the great chains thrum out to pierce and drag in the Primal. 

There is no time to wonder if its proximity will lull me into its sway, tempering me, ripping my fealty from the Fury and breaking my mind. It must come, writhing, calling out into the churning sky, begging for release as we make ready to jump.

Together we run, and as the beast writhes those who were closer leap the small distance to the whale’s back, and strike where it is weak. But the beast does not take this quietly, and so when I, the last to reach the edge, take my leap, the distance is too great.

All slows in that moment, as I feel infinity ‘neath my feet.

So this will be my end, after all. I will fail him yet again, and the ground will rush to meet me, wild and rugged beneath the impenetrable sea of clouds. Fitting, for my final resting place to be so alone, when he was denied his own place to rest.

No.

Then I feel it - a tug on that cord, a rush of knowledge not my own, and a will so tenacious and wild it would pierce the darkness of the void even without the Blessing of Light. 

I cry out, in joy and in grief, and set my sights on the Primal, and through a blast of aetheric might I close the gap to my target, finding purchase on its hull-like hide, burying my sword home alongside my colleagues until this semblance of a god made of wishes and prayer at last meets its end.

With a roar to rend the heavens, it bursts and sends us careening back onto our little island, and it vanishes in ropes of purple energy, like the specter it has been revealed to be. As we recover ourselves, cast aside so unceremoniously, I see it - but a yalm away, similarly cast aside: the key.

I am reaching for it when I find I cannot reach any further - it is as though I have been cast in glass, stillness enforced by some unseen menace. At first I fear that this is some damnable technology of the Garleans (for they had been spotted in these parts, also searching for the key, or so it seemed); and then the air parts before my eyes, revealing darkness behind, like a curtained void - and the figure of a woman, cloaked, crimson-masked, emerges. It must be - it can only be…

Ascian.

I struggle to speak, desperate to call out to my colleagues, to curse this being - oh, if only more of my departed love’s blessing would reveal itself to me, that I might break free! But despite the clamour of my heart within my chest, I am still - even as she tilts her head in study of me, while an airship makes landfall against the island just outside of my field of view. (Dare I hope that it is the Enterprise?)

“What’s this?” The Ascian closes the distance between us, and despite how mortal she appears, there are none of the hallmarks of life about her: no rise and fall of breath, no scent of sweat, no flicks of the eye behind the mask. Cold, puppet-like fingers reach out and touch the shards on my face. “I thought naught would remain of the Warrior of Light, but it seems some scraps have been left behind.”

“Your worship.” A brassy voice, cool and sure, makes my blood run cold - for it belongs to Ser Zephirin, dashing my hopes about the airship. Footsteps approach from that direction, and a sword is unsheathed. “Shall I finish it, now that we have the chance?”

“There is no need.” A voice follows, one that sounds so out of place here in the open, instead of in the reverberant chambers of the Vault - and it sends a shiver down my spine even as I feel my blood run hot again with rage. “My loyal subject has just procured for us the key to Azys Lla, with some… assistance. He must be thanked.”

The Ascian slides away, and in her place the robed figure enters my frozen vision, and bends; and the Archbishop’s placid face stares into mine, smiling. “Perhaps, in time, you will be proud of the role you have played, Son of Ishgard. For by my hand, with the power of the ancients, I will protect our people. Once and for all.”

I hope my eyes show even a mote of the vitriol that boils within me, to hear these words from his poisoned lips; but he shows no emotion. With a prayer to Halone (oh, how dare you spit her name from your wretched mouth!) he stands, and then for what feels like an eternity they plan their course using their stolen trinket. I am ignored by all but Ser Zephirim, who guards me with a wary eye. Their work complete, they depart at last.

I crumple to the ground as I am released from my prison, taking but a moment to recover before I drag myself to my feet and check on my compatriots - largely unharmed and ignored, thank the Fury. I have just seen to the last of them when -

A flash, in my mind - a pain - I clutch at my forehead -

I am someplace dark - endlessly dark, though it is not empty; I feel a presence there, keenly, all around me. A point of light nearly blinds me, drawing sigils beneath my feet. A warmth without form, a light that sputters and flickers like a candle that clings to its dying flame, whispers broken echoes.

Child… hope…

Then there is another presence, and the two seem so wholly different and yet equally powerful. This one is an ageless ache, dark and cynical.

Voices, then, from the darkness - doubt and hope, words fractured like those from my prior vision.

Sorry… must…

Do they speak to me, or merely converse in my presence? Sound and light and darkness all echo around me, and the crystals in my skin - my face, my neck, my chest - glow in their many colours. 

And then I feel a tug upon the cord of my love, and with it, the joy and the ache of the truth: my love endures, and somehow - somehow - he is with me.

“... Haurchefant…”

A boy’s voice, distant at first, draws me from this place, which echoes still with fractured hope and doubt to match it. At last I feel the world coalesce around me once more.

Alphinaud is next to me, knelt in the grass where I have fallen, his hand outstretched with healing aether. He sees that I am once again behind my eyes and says, with relief: “Are you all right, my friend?”

“I… seem to be.” With care and help, I sit up, and turn my head to see the looks of concern and relief upon the faces of my comrades.

“Gave the boy quite a fright,” says a gruff voice from my other side, and I turn to see Master Garlond approaching; his airship has now been docked against the island in the same fashion as the Archbishop had done.

There is some chatter about triangulating vectors from what they saw of the key’s use, and some apologies for their inability to intervene, but it washes over me as I find myself reliving those few moments in that other place, suffused with darkness and light, and the words that were spoken there. As with the scene I glimpsed some days ago from Ysayle, the meaning slowly comes to me in these quiet moments of reflection: the dark voice a challenge, and the light voice a hope and a plea.

A plea for me. For me to -

I am brought back again by Alphinaud’s hand on my shoulder. “Come,” he says, his words firm with resolve. “Let us not lose another moment in our pursuit. If they mean to enter Azys Lla, then we have no choice but to follow.”

It is with yet another mystery to unravel that we find ourselves again returning to House Fortemps unannounced, the way to Azys Lla having been so resoundingly closed to us. My father is sitting with Artoirel in the receiving room, and our entrance startles them so that my father swears and leaps too quickly to his feet - only to have Artoirel reach up to steady him and help him to sit again, the blood having rushed too quickly to his head.

“Haurchefant,” my father says, his voice terse with relief, as I come before him, kneeling to check that he is well.

“Father…” I take in a breath and slow my swift-beating heart. “I return with mixed tidings, I’m afraid.”

“Tidings be damned,” he snaps, grabbing me by the shoulders with surprising force. “You return.”

“You left,” Artoirel says, “more than a fortnight ago. Without a retinue, without supplies. Father was beside himself with worry.”

The shock at being called out in this way is no doubt apparent upon my face. “I… I’m sorry,” I manage; I feel small under the intensity of my father’s stare. “When I learned of the foe that my friends would face, I could think of nothing but to do… something.”

There is a tense silence, followed by my father waving me off so that he might once again stand, leaning somewhat heavily upon his walking stick. He looks from me to Alphinaud, who is standing near the door, watching this play out with wide eyes. “Your news, then.”

We bring him up to speed; he labours to maintain his stoic expression, though the tale of the foe we faced, and those we encountered after, causes the colour to subtly drain from his face.

“Through the efforts of Master Garlond,” Alphinaud supplies, “we divined the location of Azys Lla. But our attempts to enter were thwarted for want of the key.” He hangs his head. “Though Master Garlond labours once again to find our way forward, I lament the absence of our colleagues.”

My father, who has been pacing through the delivery of these tales, slows in his step, and is quiet some moments. “On that point, at least, I may have some news.” His tone is still quite gruff, though he meets Alphinaud’s startled look with a small smile. “Mistress Tataru is meeting with a messenger at the Forgotten Knight as we speak. I know not the details, but I spied some hope in the young woman’s eyes ere she set out.”

Alphinaud leaps to his feet. “Truly?! Please, Lord Edmont, might I beg your leave?”

“You may have it without begging.”

“Thank you.” He bows quickly, and turns to me next; in this moment I feel once again, so keenly, the absence of the man he would have looked to, had he lived. 

(The man who dreamed of the day he might meet his friends again.)

“I will send word,” Alphinaud says, and he takes his leave with haste.

I am of a mind to speak with my father further, but he waves me off, citing urgent business that demands his attention. As he exits in the direction of his study, Artoirel levels me with a look - one much less hard than I have grown used to from him.

“He is heartbroken,” he says, simply. He stands, and makes to leave. “You might lean on him, rather than compound both of your suffering.”

With that, I am left alone.

It is some time ere I can bring myself to go up to my room of old - our room. 

I had slept in it, some few nights, after my discharge from the infirmary, while the haze of disbelief had still lingered over me, and I felt sometimes that I might simply manifest my departed husband through the strength and fervor of my love. But each night I would dream of those last moments, and awake screaming into the awful stillness of the truth. I would sit up in my cold bed, and weep, like I had not done since I was a little boy.

By this ritual I would empty myself of feeling, and then face the day with the appearance of knightly stoicism.

Until the day I awoke quietly, and could not cry, and could not bear the feeling of being here while he is not. That day I asked what success my Scion friends had seen in their work, and learned of their foe: the great Primal whale. The first great foe that must be felled by another, for the Warrior of Light was no more.

I knew not how to rectify this, but I was compelled to do something - to find some way forward, in his stead. And so my quest to find the Lady Iceheart - Ysayle - began.

Now that I am back at last, I do all I can to delay that moment of returning to my room. I speak with the staff and servants, immersing myself in their stories and their troubles, sharing a late meal with them in the kitchen. At last, I make my way upstairs.

The sight of that room is… not so painful as I had imagined it would be. Memories flood back, of course, but they are many, and varied, new and old and older still. For the first time, I breathe in, and feel it deeply; for the first time, I can imagine how I might, some day, feel once again whole.

I’ve just donned my dressing gown when there is a knock upon my door. I am immediately reminded of a night, seemingly long ago, when I was visited at a similar hour; and as I open the door, I see that it is indeed the same visitor.

“Father.” He merely regards me, somberly; I step aside and gesture for him to enter, which he does. I’ve just barely closed the door when he whirls on me.

“Not a word? You would take a solemn march all across Coerthas ere you would spare one word with me, with your friends?”

I am left a little reeling at this. “It was not my intent to -”

“To what? To share in the burden of our grief? Or did you think it rested only upon your shoulders, that you might bear it away like a bloodied flag of war?”

“I… I thought -”

“You did not think.” He turns away and takes a few paces, standing with his hand on the back of my fireside chair. “I relieved you from your post to take from you, for a time, the burden of thought. Grief is not laid out in roads of logic. It is a sea of feelings, deep and daunting.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “One cannot think one’s way out of such a place. One must take each wave as it comes, else…”

He does not need to finish this thought, but I voice it, so that he knows I understand. “Else he might drown.”

“Or drown himself.”

For a moment, a long moment, there is silence between us, and my mind whirls with questions about my own motives, these past weeks. Would a man in his right mind cross the barren wastes of Coerthas with naught more than a chocobo and a hope? Can I truly say that, by throwing myself against a foe far beyond my experience, no part of me hoped that it might speed my demise, that I might follow the cord of my love into the Aetherial sea?

Have I shunned the support of my family, my friends, for fear it would make me hesitate?

An errant pop from the fireplace startles us both - I move to tend the fire, but my father stops me with a raised hand. He directs me to the other chair, and I sit.

Inexpertly, he tends the fire while I watch him, noticing every sign of age upon him; oh, how clearly do I realize the treasure of mortality. The brevity of life, this moment of joy, with expectations that come before it, and regrets that come after. Fury, how fleeting it is, and yet… how precious. Oh, how precious, every moment.

Tears stream freely down my face as he finishes his work, and stands, laboured; he makes to sit in the chair next to mine, but seeing the state of me, his look softens. He goes to my washing table and brings a handkerchief for me, cool and wet and well wrung-out, and I take it gratefully.

He settles into the other chair with a deep sigh, while I cool my face and breathe deeply. The arhythmic pop and crackle of the fire is comforting, bittersweet in all the memories I have made to its melody.

After I have recovered myself, I take in a breath, and say: “I… have his Echo.” I twist the cloth in my hands. “I may have… inherited other things of his. Manipulation of aether. Vigorous anima. His… Blessing of Light.”

My father takes this in without a sound. His voice, when finally he speaks, is quiet, and a little rough. “I thought, at the least… I had not lost you.” He puffs out a difficult breath. “A coward’s thought.”

Would that I could tell him that he has not lost me; would that I could tell him my days of risking my life were at an end. “If I might honour him… if I might see this story of our people to a proper end, as he would have done… I will.” I breathe in a shuddering breath. “I must.”

Into the silence, I hear him murmur a quiet prayer. After this, he stares into the fire for a long moment. “I will not begrudge you the carrying of his mantle. But if I am to lose my son to a hero’s calling, I would beg him to do so with my blessing, and my support. And that he take these things, and be made stronger by them.” His breath catches, and his voice breaks. “That he might live.”

The sound of his voice, ever sure, ever certain, breaking so - I reach over and take his hand firmly. “I will. I will, Father. I will not throw my life away, in hopes of speeding my journey to Halone’s halls to meet him. I will not grieve alone, and slip into the sea of despair.”

He nods, jaw firmly set, wetness in his eyes.

This visit from my father is perhaps the longest I have ever had; for what feels like hours we speak, of loss, and grief, and the pain of becoming a widower. We speak of my mother a little, of my childhood; of the cautious revelry in the streets of Ishgard in the wake of Nidhogg’s demise, and the uncertainty of the future. I promise to attune to the Aetherite in the Foundation, that I might return, and speak of my travels; we talk of who might take up my post in Camp Dragonhead, at least for now.

We talk, as men, as father and son. As family.

In all the days since I lost my love, I had felt only shades of despair, numbness or rageful sorrow. But this night I laugh, for the first time.

I’m sorry, my dearest. I know you would not have me wait to be my whole self again. You would want my joy, my laughter. My ease.

You said to me that as long as I will have your love, it is ever mine. And oh, I will have it. It only took some time for me to let it mingle with the love of those yet living.