Coping With Nightmares

Roses turn to ash in her dreams again, blooms amidst an inferno the ice can no longer temper. The roar of the fire drowns out the lyrics of a song, it consumes the light and as usual she falls wholly to the black. Silence devours the flames, and the ice in her throat gives way to ash, thick in her mouth, in her lungs, choking out life and sound. Eyes of charcoal and hate cradle her as she falls, and croon to her, a mother’s soft coo.

“You’ll be your own monster one day. Just like me.”

 

 

 

Enambris’ eyes snap open and she suppresses a yelp, hand flung to her mouth to silence it should her self control falter; she doesn’t know how thick these walls are. A glance with bleary silver eyes at the curtained window informs her that it’s still far too early to be awake. The sun is still long from the dawn horizon, the night sky as deep a black as the silence in her nightmares, dotted with an array of twinkling stars and painted light that eases some of the pounding in her heart, a pounding made all the louder by the nova-like crystal that fills its hollows. She rubs her face with her left hand, the fingers of her right instinctively seeking out the smooth, faceted surface amidst the skin of her breast beneath her cotton shirt. She finds it easily and presses her palm to its warmth, a comfort to her trembling fingers. Its once-blistering heat is now under control, else she would burn up all the clothing she owns.

“Just another Black Mary,” she whispers to the night. They’re more frequent now that the shadow in her veins clashes every moment against the fire of the aether that cleanses it, burns it away. Her mind’s way of drawing out the poisonous thoughts it would otherwise be forced to endure. A small price to pay, really, considering the circumstances.

She listens to the quiet of the night and her own steady breathing, the only sounds to reach her ears. Satisfied that she has woken no one, she rises from the bed, tugs on a thick dressing gown and slips out the front door and into the sleeping city beyond the little house. A few minutes of fresh air will do her some good, and she needs to clear her head, despite the inherent danger of such an activity. Though, she reasons, it’s not like she’s unarmed. True enough, she’s been armed every moment of every day since her room had been broken into regardless of the activity: sleeping, bathing, eating, reading, or any other facet of her existence. While her sword is carefully leaned against the wall in her room alongside the steel kite, the knife strapped to her thigh offers her a comfort she would otherwise desperately miss.

Normally on these nights of Black Mary’s and elusive sleep, she would find her way from her room into the tavern proper, where she would sit by the fire and softly serenade the late-night patrons with her foreign songs, much to their delight. Tonight is a little different. She steps out the door, closing it as softly as she can, and sits atop Ishgard on the front step of the house, smoothing her dressing gown over her lap and resting her hands on her knees. With a deep inhale she parts coral lips and sings gently to all the city and the Aurora of the quiet night sky.

“Land of bear, and Land of eagle. Land that gave us birth and blessing. Land that calls us ever homeward. We will go home across the mountains.”

Her voice carries like the chimes of soft temple bells in a starlight celebration, gentle and shimmering on winter night air, a song of candlelight against the sky. The thundering of her heart quiets.

“We will go home, we will go home. We will go home across the mountains. We will go home, we will go home. We will go home, singing our song.”

Like the strings of a harp she plucks the notes of the melody, each note held in the air amidst a soft flurry of snow, the delicate hands of winter. An old man and a woman pause to listen to her song, like the glow of a fire on the hearth awash with warmth. Another pair stops, a man and his wife, eyes filled to brimming with memories, thoughts and feelings long forgotten. She weaves for them the Song of Exile, and those memories bubble to the surface. Memories of home, love and loss, sweep through her mind too.

“Land of Freedom, Land of heroes. Land that gave us hope and memories. Hear our singing, hear our longing. We will go home across the mountains.”

Another small handful of curious onlookers pass by. Apparently, it must not be as late as she thought, the number of people she’s drawn informs her. She can’t hear the bells chime, so the time is lost to her, and as she finds herself absorbed into the chords of her song, she finds she doesn’t care.

“We will go home, we will go home. We will go home across the mountains. We will go home, we will go home. We will go home, singing our song.”

A small crowd has gathered, silent awe on elezen and hyur faces. She turns her palms to the sky and cups her hands together, a tiny little flame born there as she sings. A few soft voices join her chorus, melodic and hopeful; some sing along, others hum. Images of the ice and sea flicker through her little fire, of stone towers and spires, of a pale white tree in a hoarfrost courtyard. She smiles, and the stained glass of the cathedral, the great pillars, the temple steps and baroque bridges shimmer past like water welling up from soft earth. Thoughts of home change, give way to a new home. A tavern, friendly faces, new allies and friends, a fire clashed against ice.

“Land of sun and Land of moonlight. Land that gave us joy and sorrow. Land that gave us love and laughter. We will go home across the mountains.”

Her left hand remains rested atop her knees, cupping the little candle flame, while her right finds its way to her chest, pressing her fingers once more to a comforting warmth she can just feel through her shirt and dressing gown. Her gentle smile lights the little square. Vaguely she wonders who she might be disturbing, but finds ultimately that if she were disturbing anyone, such a spectacle would have been shooed away by now. She sings on, her heart woven into her lyrics, and she softly brings the chorus close.

“We will go home, we will go home. We will go home across the mountains. We will go home, we will go home. We will go home, singing our song.”

Formations on Horizon

This has been, by far, the strangest week of my entire life. I rarely take time to compose these entries, but I feel I must, if only for posterity, or a reminder of what it is I fight for and why, should I need one.

At the start of the week, I was yet recovering from burns of the Void. How they arrived on my person is still under heavy question, but the implications of what their presence means is not lost on me, and gives me no measure of comfort. I agreed to see the priest, on the surface to put the matter to rest, but I am truly, thoroughly, terrified. If the Void has made itself known to me, it has done so as quietly as can be imagined. And if it has not, then I fear for his life, his heart, and for his very soul. Halone be with him, Althyk keep him. And me.

My shield has been utterly destroyed, my armor dented, and while the repair work is well enough on the latter, there is no bellows hot enough to return the shattered remnants of my protection to its once-glorious state. I have replaced it with a steel kite, but it is awkward, and does not handle as smoothly as The Phalanx. This has been no more evident to me than during combat, both within the Antitower, and in the alleys of Ul’dah.

That I was accused of heresy is still enough to boil my very blood. Whether that is the work of the shard, or my own outrage, it matters naught. The inquisitors had no intention of letting me leave that alley alive or unscathed. Their refusal to name my accuser, to give me fair trial, and to provide their writ of accusation not only piques my suspicion, but fills me with a dread I cannot abate. They fully intended to ensure that whatever accusations have been branded to my name would remain, regardless of the outcome of any trial. Halone was with me, and saw fit to grace me with allies. Were it not for Eli and the dark knight Zack, the trial would have been an execution.

Still all of that is small by comparison with what now courses through my veins. Barlow told me only that they were from “The Coil”, and truly they are the most powerful crystals I have ever held in my hands, that now both reside within my body. Justice on my breast, Truth in my heart. They have altered me in a way I cannot wholly explain. The world is rendered in sharp relief. Color is more saturated, sound is more vibrant. I tried to heal my leg and almost seared my own fingertips with the aether collected. Quite frankly, the only possible descriptor that does this feeling justice is to say that I feel alive, and even that does not give this the gravitas it deserves. I have never seen eyes cast so wide as when he beheld Justice alone. Were he to see Truth, and the majesty of the sun’s light it holds, I fear he would find his way straight to the heavens.

And so I must put to paper the most troubling thing of all. I have yet to tell anyone of how the shard has affected me, why I had to go to such drastic measures to ensure its abatement. The crystals purify me, they expunge the shadow from my veins, but it is a process that will never end. It mustn’t. The pieces left behind when the shard was removed wrought damage I am afraid to elaborate on verbally, but I know it must be done. It is both a blessing and a curse. They stoke the fires in my heart, they operate the great bellows that breathes my purpose and drive. But it is a shadow that waits on periphery, ever seeking to drag me to the depths if my guard is to fail. I have entrusted him everything. My shield, my sword, my song, this heart, and so I will have to entrust him with this burden, should I fail and fall to a darkness from whence I cannot return. I won’t speak of it now, not yet, not so soon after so much joy, but it is necessary in the end. Maybe I should ask the priest.

So finally I must write down one last point: The Craftsman and his gallows glass. I was elated to discover a name to the shadow cast over Eorzea. The shadow is yet only over Ishgard, and I wonder if the glass is to blame for the waves of violence of brother against brother. I would hardly be surprised if it were. The traveler has not returned yet, but I will let his end be swift and painless when next he crosses my path. He’s already a walking dead man, it’s only a matter of when his fire dies and darkness fills that vacuum. He sells the glass and calls it shards from the Cathedral, daring to profane such a holy site with his desecration and lies. I cannot say that I wasn’t terrified when Lily had said she had stolen the shard from someone in Ishgard. So relieved was I that she had called her victim Abigail, but it leaves me a discomfort I cannot shake. Thousands upon thousands of glass shards are now in circulation, and while most of them are only cloudy pieces made from smaller skirmishes, I received confirmation that mine was not the only shard blown from the sands of Carteneau. A tidal wave of bloodshed is on the horizon. I have gathered a few allies, ones I’m not yet sure if I can trust, but any allies I can get, I will take. Memith and her clan worried me at first, but I think I can trust them, at least with this task. I only hope Lily’s vault is enough to hold them all. We have the formation of a response, just a budding beginning… but I don’t yet know if it will be enough.

 

For now I will put these thoughts to rest. This new room is small, but I admit that I feel more relieved than I have since arriving in Ishgard after Ilithien was lost to the sea. I think I will sleep peacefully for the first time in a very long time.

Gallows Glass

She’s so peaceful asleep, a shadow ponders to itself. Her room is cold, as most rooms at the Forgotten Knight, and all of Ishgard, tend to be. The fire has gone out, leaving behind naught but smoldering ashes in a blackened hearth. She doesn’t seem to mind the cold, laying across her feather bed, blankets askew, fast asleep. The shadow has eyes, and they linger on her form, soaking in the details: her left arm draped over her stomach, her right to her side, bent at the elbow, both covered in the fading remnants of void burns winding like pale ribbons on her porcelain skin. Silver eyes are closed, flicking to and fro behind her eyelids as she dreams, something decidedly peaceful, or the shadow assumes she would appear more perturbed.

It watches in silence, for what could be an eternity, the only light in the room the pale moonlight spilling in through a haphazardly-closed curtain. Her weapons are out of reach, carefully placed upon the rickety table off to the side; her armor and the remnants of her shield lay beneath, dented and shattered and otherwise unusable, shards of silver and gold peeking out from beneath the plates, tassets, chain mail and skirt that lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. It ignores these things after brief consideration, and watches on.

Long red hair is spread over the sheet, a few unruly locks brushed across closed eyes. She shifts, turning her head, but doesn’t wake. Still the shadow watches. It takes in the bruises on her diaphragm and arm, the clear signs of fracturing in the bone beneath the skin. As the moonlight moves across the wall with the passing of time, the shadow slithers with it, filling the room, the air, her lungs, her dreams. It peers through her eyes, sees the letter on the table, Gallows Glass scrawled hastily across bloodstained parchment. The shard is with it, and then it’s gone.

Her breathing quickens. With a devil’s maw the shadow spreads a jagged smile.The letter lies on the table, but the shard is missing. Beside it sits a small pile of trinkets: a pair of rings, earrings, a locket on a worn silver chain, a tiny, black iron key, a bangle scuffed where a blade had struck it and glanced off. No shard. It spreads to the armoire, fills the pockets and creases of fabric piled within. No shard. It fills the hearth, the chest of drawers, the chairs and blankets, beneath the bed. Still no shard.

Determined and undaunted the shadow turns yet again to the woman on the bed. There’s ice in her dreams again, a song that paints the air and hovers over a bridge like a thick cloud. More ice, silver eyes and blue eyes, the song rings louder, a bonfire flares in the darkness. Fire and ice, a scream, the splitting of a barrier, a kiss to the forehead, a whispered prayer, a stolen glance. A frozen island swallowed by the raging sea. The shadow fills her dreams again and, again, it watches. The shadow is good at watching.

Counting Wounds

I was considering my records today, common thugs and unnamed individuals notwithstanding. To date, I have suffered the following:

Enad of Ashes– Four proper duels, seven Warsongs, three fistfights. Four wins, ten losses. Several black eyes, one broken wrist, twice run-through, four cuts to the arm, seventeen cuts to the legs, twenty four cuts to the abdomen. Zero scars.

Ana D’mira the Ruthless – One duel. One win, zero losses. One cut to the face. Zero scars.

Alvild, Wings of the Far Reach – One duel, one Warsong. One win, one loss. Seventy separate burns, two cuts to the face, thirteen cuts to the abdomen, thirty four bruises. One scar.

Octavian Stonewold, professional prick – Fourteen duels, one sparring match, one fistfight. Sixteen wins, zero losses, one draw. Forty seven bruises, two concussions. Zero scars.

Dilacey Gray, street urchin of Ishgard – One duel. One win. Zero wounds. Zero scars.

Kra’yg Wardenblood of the Mass’ef – One Warsong, one fistfight. Zero wins, zero losses, two draws. Thirty four bruises, one broken rib. Zero scars.

Kale Aideron, Bloodsworn of the Immortal Flames – One battle. Zero wins, zero losses, one draw. Zero wounds. Zero scars.

Raphael Delarue of Ishgard – One Warsong. One win, zero losses (I believe this to be a draw). One cut to the face, one cut to the neck, one cut to the abdomen, one cut to the leg, one reopened wound, several bruises, several severe burns, one minor concussion. Recovery incomplete.

Bordeaux the Black Berserker – One duel (near Warsong). One win, zero losses. Zero cuts, one massive bruise to the abdomen, bruises on legs, one massive bruise and fracture to the left arm. Recovery incomplete.

I’m growing stronger, and I’ve yet to discover how to apply it effectively. But I do have some ideas.

Dragon Song

An arrow’s shaft protruded from just below the chink in her armor, most of it snapped off but enough left to see that it was yet there. She couldn’t feel it. Besides, she had more important things to focus on. Like not drowning; she could see it through the grate on the deck, water pouring rapidly into the brig, threatening to drag the ship down to a frigid, watery grave. They would have to abandon the vessel, or else be buried with it there in the sea.

“Captain!” a voice called over the din of battle that suffused the air around them, a clamorous chorus of steel against steel. She drew her attention away from the arrow shaft to the voice, mind still a little blurry from the wonder of the steel head embedded in her shoulder. “How near are we to the shore?”

The man addressed as ‘Captain’ thrust his blade into the belly of his unfortunate assailant, nonchalantly tipping the dead man over the edge of the ship’s rigging and directing his attention to the knight. “Too far to swim.” The man’s reply was somber, his face as grave as a funeral pyre. He was a mountain of a man, garbed all in leather and a massive, wide-brimmed hat. As much the vision of a pirate as she had ever heard described, all haggard and wind-worn and pock-marked. He thrust one boot into an oncoming attacker’s face, knocking the man off the deck, and thundered down the stairs from the quarter deck. “But if you want your lass to live, you’ll send her on a’fore these sods take ‘nother shot at ‘er-”

His sentence was interrupted by a cannon ball, which carried only half of him to the stern of the ship. The girl screamed, not in fear, but in a rage and anguish audible even over the tumult of the storm, howling gales quieting just a moment to allow her voice to be heard. The knight scooped her up, sprinting away from yet more massive balls of lead that peppered the drowning carcass of their ship, and thrust her into a dinghy.

“NO!” she screamed, but her protests proved in vain as the rickety little boat careened off of the deck and down to the water below.

 

It had been at least a few hours when she finally came to, head splitting and eyes burning from the salt of the sea. The slow, steady thud, thud, thud of her little boat gently striking a rock is all she could hear besides the gentle roar of waves crashing against a jagged, rocky shore. She peered up, eyes following the cliff’s edge, looking for somewhere to climb where she might find purchase to grip and clamber up the craggy face. She rolled off of her back carefully, not eager to rock her tiny vessel, and pushed herself to her knees. The climb would not be fun.

Her left arm felt as though it were on fire, but she paid little heed to the throb, instead slowly drawing deep, even breaths as she climbed, mentally cataloging each movement. Her plate armor felt heavy on her shoulders, the steel blade at her hip and bow on her back only adding to the drag of the armaments on her climb. But yet she pressed on, one push and pull after another, pausing only as needed to catch her breath, take a swig from the canteen on her hip, and continue on. She found herself simply thinking to pass the time, dwelling for brief moments on the men and the ship and whether they had survived, only to force her mind to change direction and circle back to those she’d left when her uncle had forced her to be spirited away. The last though was interrupted, rather rudely, as she found herself at the top of the cliff, but unprepared for its uneven footing, which sent her tumbling down onto the rock and sliding into the stone cauldron beyond it; her blade came unhooked from her belt, her bow snapped in twain, and she finally came to a pause as she struck a scaly pillar, abruptly ending her inertia. She lay her eyes on the thing that had blocked her continued descent, and found herself staring at a beast.

The beast, enormous, winged and scaled, leveled two great, slitted yellow eyes at her. Slowly she stood from her perch on the ground, and spread her arms, palms holding the sky, silver gaze locked, unwavering, on those great eyes. Her weapons were out of reach, and she was alone.

“Child of mine enemy, what dost thou seek in the Far Reach?” it purred, almost bemused. The language in which it spoke was foreign, and she knows its not her own, but she could feel the words the thing spoke, the resonance vibrating in the hollows of her heart.

“I seek only to pass,” she replied evenly. The monstrous creature hissed what she presumed to be a laugh, and tendrils of smoke and steam spewed from a sharp, scaled snout. She didn’t blink.

“You are brave to come so far from Ishgard.”

She shook her head. “I’m not of Ishgard. I am a child of the ice and sea. Please let me pass.”

The creature stared at her long and hard, a piercing gaze she could feel in her chest; she could feel it burning her, but she stood fast, unwavering and unbroken. “A child of the ice and sea,” the rumbling voice echoed, a deep shudder of boulders crushed together. She nodded, and the creature continued to stare.

She inhaled deeply, parted her lips, and began to sing; the beast, though watched her with the intent of a hungry predator, amused for the moment but prepared to pounce. “And old man by a sea shore, at the end of day,” she chorused. Her voice trilled and sailed. The great creature watched on curiously, canting its head. “He gazes the horizon with sea winds in his face. Tempest-tossed island, seasons all the same. Anchorage unpainted and a ship without a name.”

One great, clawed foot stepped forward; its eyes were perfectly level with her, growing closer and closer, eying her like a cat might eye a shiny bauble or trinket: curiously, but without the need to bat the thing.

“A sea without a shore for the banished one unheard,” the song continues. Her voice wove through the air like a serpent through the sea, a lovely dance of lyrical notes waltzing and dipping and swimming through sound. “He lightens the beacon, light at the end of world. Showing the way lighting hope in their hearts, the ones on their travels homeward from afar.

“This is for long-forgotten, light at the end of the world. Horizon crying the tears he left behind long ago….”

The yellow eyes narrowed in scrutiny, absorbing every detail of her fair visage, her armor, her wild, red hair, and the silver eyes that held their gaze so defiantly. Another hiss of laughter, this time filled with mirth, escaped its maw. “You share with me your songs,” it observed, encircling her with its great body and long, armored tail. “What is your name, child of the ice and sea?”

“Enambris,” she replied, and bowed.

“It is a great pleasure, little rose of the north,” the creature offered its own bow, dipping its massive head. “I would ask that you sing for me again. Share your song with me, and I will share my wings with you.”

Nightmares and Ice

Another salve gone and the pain has yet to subside. Between oceanic waves of unbearable torment that sear their way up crisscross patterns of angry, raw red flesh, Enambris works, trembling fingers diligently crushing herbs, mixing and grinding and eventually applying. But each one does naught to quell the pain, and after another failed attempt, she braces herself for the coming fire.

Right on time it begins. The stick she had broken off of a now-defunct wand is all she has to grit her teeth and bear what comes next. It starts at the tips of her fingers, rapidly snaking its way up her arms to her shoulders, jumping over the parts of her skin that had been fortunate enough to have cover from the whatever-it-was, down to the tiger stripe lines on her stomach. Her eyes clench shut as it blazes its path across her skin, tears coming unbidden and streaking along trails down her cheeks. Enambris screams through  the stick clenched desperately between her teeth, the howling winds that blow over the height of Zenith the only sound by which her pain is muffled. Healing magic is no good here.

One, two. One, two. She counts her breaths again to focus her mind on anything else. One, two. The last rays of sunlight dip below the distant horizon of soft white and painted clouds. Her heart skips a beat, she can hear it pounding in her head, the blood rushing in her ears. One, two. Another scream rips from her chest, long and feral and pleading. She would pray, but the gods were not wont to answer the calls of the desperate. Only the diligent.

One, two.

Trembling comes next, the pain-wracked tremors like an earthquake shake her bodily. She draws her knees to her chest, presses her forehead against them and screams again. How long has it been since she slept? One day, perhaps two now, though she does remember managing a short respite sometime early in the morning. She needs rest, needs to find someone to treat this madness.

One, two. The burning fades, the trembling slows. She rubs her face dry with the remnants of a dress she’ll never wear again. It’s gone, subsiding for now. It will be back.

 

 

“I want you to sing to me.” The words are simple enough, a statement, not a request. They hang on the air behind a bloody hand and icy eyes. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes forth; there’s ice in her throat. Silver eyes are wide, they see the ice, the mist, the wind. They take in the details of his face, the resonance of his voice, the sudden change behind blue that drew ice from fire. Silver eyes are full of fire, blue eyes full of ice.

“For me.” She tries again, coughing. The ice is choking her, it fills her chest and heart, it tries to fill her mind. Silver eyes see something black on periphery, never quite able to glimpse it fully it but certain that it’s there. The black, the void, the yawning maw of oblivion. It waits around the edges, ever-moving, ever-watching.

“Only me.” There’s a finality in that statement, and she tries to sing, frantic, her lungs devoid of air again, ice clinging where oxygen ought be. The grip on her throat tightens, the ice spreads hoarfrost across cheeks smeared with blood, eyes full of fire. It threatens her, the blackness, tries to swallow her.

“Hello darkness, my old friend…” the words finally come, soft as a prayer and they reverberate through the ice, through the air. There’s a shiver there, it hangs on the wind, paints it red like her hair. “I’ve come to talk with you again.” Tears roll down porcelain cheeks, dragging trails through the hoarfrost blooming there. A plume of steam escapes icy blue lips. “Because a vision softly creeping, Left it’s seeds while I was sleeping…”

Another gasp, another cough, more steam issues from her mouth. Ice gives way to a gentle flame, she feels it in her core as it tears through the frost that coats her slow-beating heart.

“And the vision that was planted in my brain… Still remains within the sound of silence.”

 

 

The world swims back into focus, and she finds herself clawing at grass and dirt and stone. The pain surges again, fingertips onward, another trail blazing up painful, now-bruising bands of deep red and purple. She grits her teeth, fire blooming where silver used to be. She won’t cry this time. She pushes herself to her feet, fists clenched tighter than her jaw, and she screams, a raw pulse of aether exploding from her body, radiating outward. The stones tremble, and the storm begins anew.

 

Kindling

Burned

The poultice smells herbal, vaguely fragrant the pungent odor stings her nose, an aroma that mixes with the sweet smell of hot iron that is her blood. She walks, limps rather, one foot before the other delicately, as though she were floating across glass. Perfect stitching runs the length of her leg, her back, and her collarbone, her stomach, expertly-knitted flesh held fast from where the tip of a blade had seen it separated.

As she guessed, it was more telling than she could have imagined. She just isn’t sure what to make of the soul she had glimpsed. The cascade, fire and ice, just like he’d said. Except where she was all fire, kindling threatening to become an inferno, he is a war of ice and fire, a battle done in his heart, the equilibrium threatening to tip and send all into darkness. It’s a precarious line he walks, the edge of a knife.

“My lady, are you quite well?” asks the haggard-looking gentleman behind the counter as she passes. She waves a hand dismissively, offering the ghost of a smile and a nod.

“Aye, well enough. Just need some rest.”

“You’ve a guest in your room,” he calls after her. She pauses, stiff, breath caught in her chest.

“Thank you,” she says over her shoulder, and limps through the door.

 

 

Warsong. The music encompasses the bridge, fills it with light and color with each note. She feels herself sing, feels the words leave her lips, but she doesn’t hear the song. She feels the music shiver on the air, hears it vibrate through her chest, from her lips, into his ears.

The fire envelopes them both, ties them together, blankets the stone beneath them. But the ice creeps in, choking out her song. She gasps for air, but no air comes, her lungs remain painfully devoid of oxygen. The ice swallows the fire, snuffs out the warm light and blazing heat, replacing it with cold and silence. The song stops, the wind goes still. She falls, all the while staring into frosty blue eyes.

“NO!” she shouts, startled, snapping upright from her prone position on the stone. Wind whips red tangles around her face, only the glimmer of a sliver of moon casting a dim light onto the great structure around her. Despite the low light, she knows where she is. How she got here, however, is another story altogether. It’s not entirely unwelcome, finding herself at the summit of Zenith, but unsettling it most assuredly is.

Burns. That’s right, she was burned. Haleine hadn’t appeared to treat the burns beyond a layer of salve or poultice, but now they’re on fire. She strips off the pauldron coat rapidly, fingers fumbling for the fasteners and nearly ripping them apart, desperate to remove the cloth from her skin. The moment the burns are exposed to the air, though, her vision becomes white, the world turning to snow for two heartbeats, and another two heartbeats more. The pain is unbearable.

Trembling hands search for a piece of cloth, a discarded stick, anything, to absorb the sound. But she finds nothing in time, and throws her head back to loose a guttural, heart-wrenching scream. Shuddering breaths. One, two, one, two, she tries desperately to count out her inhales and exhales; her arms are shaking, body-rocking tremors. It’s only a wave, it will pass, she tries to tell herself. It will pass.

More gasping breaths, more frantic counting, another surge of pain that runs up her arms along solid red tracks of flesh. She’s never had burns like this, and Enambris is more than familiar with flame.

A flash of lightning illuminates the horizon, a bright, sudden surge of aether across an umbral sky. There’s a storm brewing. And just like that, the pain subsides, the rapid rise and fall of her chest eases, the thundering of her heart softening. There’s a lull in the pain, and she must take advantage of it. Whatever this is, whatever was waiting inside the starglobe, she knows the pain is only just beginning.

 

FFXIV; Balmung; Kindling

Stoking Embers

She’s been sitting there for some time now, cross-legged upon the hearth, quietly staring at flames licking the fireplace, dancing to and fro across smoldering logs and lapping hungrily at fibrous flesh. The pub around her is mostly noiseless, the occasional murmur of conversation the only sound beside the crackling fire, none of it really loud enough to wake her from her trance.

It’s not until a few bells have passed that a man enters the pub and stands over her, bronze skin becoming copper in the firelight. He drops down to sit beside her, the thunder from his movement rattling her awake. Eyebrows raised in surprise she grins widely.

“Where’ve you been, Kra’yg?”

A massive hand sweeps over pitch braids and loops and he simply shrugs. “Away. I see you have been getting into trouble.” His accent is thick, but his deep bass carries with it a nobility that his tribal heritage might otherwise suggest. He called himself “Warden’s Blood”, which she could only surmise had something to do with his people’s line of succession, but had never really wanted to pry too much. Kra’yg is an intensely private man.

“A bit, yeah,” she says, patting the damaged helm in her lap. “I’ve been hoping you’d come around again, actually, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.” Her silver-grays rest on his face a moment before turning back to the fire. They’re a little brighter than they were before.

“Speak and I will listen,” he says mildly, the vestiges of a grin playing across his face as he settles in, back leaned against the stone of the hearth and legs crossed.

“I have some… concerns. Well, ‘concerns’ isn’t really the right word. Thoughts? Anyway. I’ve been set back on a course I had thought lost to me. The path itself doesn’t bring me any great concern, but…” she trails off, chewing her lower lip, and her words. “I feel that I’ve been overlooking something, and my trust, as you know, is not often easily won.”

“Of this I am well aware,” he confirms with a nod.

“The man responsible, I know very little about. I hadn’t thought to question his motives, his past, even his driving fire. He’s worked so diligently to rekindle my flame that I hadn’t though to look at the kindling itself.”

“I feel you are beating about the bush with so many words,” Kra’yg interrupts with a hand. “What you need is not to ask questions. What you need is to know a man’s soul. True intentions, flowery words, they are nothing. Know the man’s soul.”

She blinks and turns her eyes back to meet his amber ones. “Know a man’s soul?” she echoes. “I don’t follow.”

He leans forward, palms facing the ceiling as though he were effecting the great scales. “When man is still, or with inaction,” he begins, the words coming a little broken, “he finds himself able to wear many masks.” She quirks her head as he speaks. It’s clear that he possesses a great intelligence, trapped beneath the barrier of language, one that is slowly breaking away. “But when a man enters into combat, true combat, it is then he undresses his soul and his heart is laid bare. You remember when we met?”

She grins. “Aye, and I remember it fondly. One of my favorite brawls, as I recall.”

“That day, you laid bare your soul to me. I saw your heart’s inner workings, those things that drive your passion. Warriors see warriors. Do you understand?”

She gazes at him for a long time, almost scrutinizing. “I think I do,” she says at length. “There are many kinds of intimacy, and few understand that it is more than simply physical gratification. Engaging in a real fight… I see.” She closes her eyes, a new smile flickering across her lips. “Thank you, Kra’yg.”

He nods and pushes himself back to his feet, arms folded over the expansive musculature of his chest. “Always a pleasure. Now, maybe you can repay me by pointing me in the direction of a particular feline who stole something of mine?”

 

FFXIV; Balmung; Kindling

The Cold North

The Ruthless

“I don’t care what you have to do,” the woman snarled, feral and wolf-like she snapped her jaws. The man withering under her gaze looked up meekly at her. He was brawny, his physique described as “like a wall” by his fellow knights, but the hurricane of a woman before him had cowed any arrogance his form might have otherwise armed him with. Intense amber eyes did not blink, their gaze did not waver, instead they bored into him like a drill through ice.

“My lady, it is simply not-”

“I said, I do not care!” she bellowed; her boot came up and thrust into the man’s  chest, sending him off of his knees and onto his back. “The fleet will be ready to sail by dawn.”

The man lay sprawled on the floor. He said nothing, only managing a meager nod, before rolling onto his stomach to clamber meekly to his feet. He hobbled away, passing a gleaming white suit of armor on his way out of the chamber, closing the door heavily behind him. The suit of armor cleared its throat pointedly, a noise vaguely feminine despite the masking echo of the helm.

The woman, amber eyes ablaze and red hair wild and untamed, turned her fiery gaze on the armor. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her hands found their way to her narrow hips, and the suit appraised her for a moment. She was a little shorter, perhaps one or two ilms over 5 fulms, despite the size her immense presence might otherwise suggest. Her cheek bones were high, almost etched, and sharp. Her nose was pert, her lips thin. She looked like Halone remade, a goddess who mongered war and reveled in it.

In all, her daughter looked only a semblance like her. Where Ana D’mira was narrow and sharp, Enambris was distinctly not. Their faces held only the barest traces of matrilineal similarity. Her uncle had always told her she had her father’s eyes, silver-grays that outshone the fiery amber of her mother.

Slowly she tugged off the helmet, stowing it under one arm, and turned to face her mother. “You called for me,” she reminded her flatly, her face and eyes devoid of any expression at all. Her jaw was set, mouth a hard line.

Ana D’mira held her gaze for a few moments, as though challenging her to speak again. “So I did,” she said at length, the fire softening for but a moment. “You will go with the raiding party.”

Enambris blinked. “Beg pardon?” she asked incredulously, almost petulantly. “Since when?”

There was something in Ana D’mira’s expression she’d never seen before. Surprise, perhaps? Mingled with rage, and a dash of shock, her visage was twisted into something a little ugly, lined and haggard, like an ancient tree about to catch fire.

“I said you will-”

“No.”

The fire exploded. “What did you say to me?” she thundered, the hurricane sweeping the room again. The girl stood fast, narrowing her eyes.

“I said no.”