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.”

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.

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 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.”

 

Finding Purpose

The dull sound of metal striking the floor reverberates through the walls, but by now most anyone staying at the Forgotten Knight had grown quite used to the ceremony of the foreign Hyur woman removing her armor and letting it drop heavily to the floor upon returning for the night. She stands in her room, pauldrons beside her on the floor, and sets her jaw. Usually, removing her armor takes but a moment, so familiar with the rote of it as she is. This time she fumbles with the fasteners, bolts of pain making the trembling in her fingers worsen. But Enambris doesn’t flinch. She just needs to get this bloody plate off.

The plate unbuckled, it hits the ground with a loud thud and she exhales her relief, slowly wiggling out of her mail and gingerly wiping away blood from the inside of the chain shirt, lips set into a hard line. The wound was bleeding again, the stitches, despite being expertly sewn, somehow still blooming tiny trails of blood. She exhales, her breath becoming steam despite the roaring fire in the hearth.

Her sword and shield are leaned safely against the wall, over which is draped a pair of gauntlets and a belt. She drops the chain beside the rest and leans briefly against the wall, eyes closed, swallowing the pain. She’ll heal, she reminds herself. This is nothing.

A smile crosses her lips. The meeting itself, while being a somewhat awkward and revealing affair, had only in its aftermath served its ultimate purpose. She had been called Enambris of the Embers. She was embers now, barely smoldering on the surface. But it was intended for her to be stoked, to stir the ashes and reveal the blistering coals beneath; adding kindling to the heat and sparking off the great bonfire she had long ago shone. That thought prompted another: if her fire had gone out, what had doused the flame?

With care and caution she would never reveal to another living soul, she gingerly makes her way to the bed, sitting on its edge as though preparing to sit upon hot coals. How long had she been aimless, a wandering soul with no rest, a blade with no opponent to hone itself against? Had she lost her spark before coming to Eorzea?

In her life, Ana D’mira the Ruthless had spoken to her naught but three times. First as a child, clinging to her uncle’s breeches and staring at the severe woman from behind his towering form; second as an adolescent, the exchange polite but terse, as Ana D’mira questioned the girl thoroughly of her intent when she eventually ascended to take her birth right; and finally, the last, the cold water that doused a growing flame.

It was only days before the woman’s death. Enambris had been growing into her own womanhood, still a rose yet blooming. By then she’d taken up her armor. It was different from the knights, from the lords and their vassals, who lived to serve The Ruthless. Her armor was, to them, unique; a prize brought home from the nearest sovereign nation, gifted to her by her uncle. He called it “Ishgardian”, an heirloom from a distant land. It fit her glove-like, perfectly fitted and with enough give to allow her to grow. She wore it daily, trained in it, lived in it. Ana D’mira had not approved.

A wry smile overtakes Enambris’ lips. She had never burned hotter than the day she defied the woman that had given birth to her. The biting words flung viciously from the woman’s mouth as Enambris had stood triumphantly over her low form had served to change the girl, but not in the way intended.

A sudden, but expected, knock at the door interrupts her thoughts, the wry smile becoming a wolf-like grin. “You can come in,” she calls.

“Hey Rosen’ash… er… you busy?” a voice behind her asks with embarrassment that cannot be masked. She pulls her robe up over slender porcelain shoulders and sashes it at the waist.

“That’s why I asked you here.” She waves absently to a small chair perched next to an equally small , rickety table, and as he takes the seat awkwardly, she strides across the room, rifling through her pack for something yet unknown. She turns, and triumphantly slaps a folded handkerchief onto the table.

“What’s this s’posed to be?” he asks incredulously, running a hand through pitch hair.

“Open it,” she says, the fire in the hearth reflecting little sparks in bright grey eyes. He examines it closely; there’s blood on it. Gingerly he pulls the first fold back, then the second, spreading it out on the table to reveal…

A black spot?

“No seriously lass, what is this supposed to be?”

“A knife,” she says plainly, her gaze unwavering, unblinking. “Part of one, anyway. One that found its way here,” she points to the general location of the surgery stitching beneath the white cotton robe. He deigns not to look, though, as she gestures to the back of her right hip. He clears his throat and delicately lifts the tip of the blade pinched between the kerchief and his fingers.

“So this is the shiny, or not so shiny, bit that was stuck in your guts, then,” he comments, turning it over. It’s like nothing he’s sever seen; black as the darkened sky, tiny pinpricks of light appearing and vanishing as quickly as they’d come. It doesn’t reflect light, just a patch of night hanging in the air. “You want me to find the whoreson, then?”

“No,” she says, the glint in her eye unsettling him. “He’s already dead. I want to know who made this, and who paid for it.” Her jaw is set, stormy gaze boring into his.

“That’s doable,” he replies, scrutinizing the piece. “But it won’t be easy. It’ll be a pretty penny, kid.”

“Done.”

He stares at her, brow furrowed. “That… are you sure? This may take some time, an’ I can’t promise it’ll lead anywhere.” He pauses and adds, “You feelin’ alright, lass?”

She leans on her hands over the table, scooting a small pouch of gill across the pale gray of the wood. “Better than I have in ages,” she replies. “I had a brush with death, thought that I’d become a ghost. Turns out, I’ve been a ghost for some time now.” Confusion evident on his face, she leans back again and folds her arm across her chest. “I had a reminder recently. When we met, do you remember what I said I was going to do?”

He snorts. “Save the world. You finally wake up?” he asks, tone thick with incredulity.

“Nope!” she replies brightly. “Just found the road through the mist, is all.”

He continues to stare at her for another heartbeat longer, and finally shrugs. “Alright then,” he folds the piece of knife away and tucks it into his vest. “I’ll be in contact.” With that he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Alone once again, she sits back down upon the bed, smile still tugging the corners of her lips upwards. The pain grounds her, keeps her mind centered. She hasn’t thought this clearly in years, that burning that travels through her veins and makes her heart pump. But despite her smile, despite the exhilaration pounding in her heart, despite the flood of memories and reminders washing over her like the heat of the hearth, there’s something else she knows she must address.

Enambris isn’t fond of deceit, and that’s not what this is. Or at least she hopes it’s not. But she’s also not a fan of being in the dark, she ponders to herself. There was no obvious reason, at least not on the surface, to drive a spark into her smoldering embers, no real need to throw more fuel on her fire. If anything, there were dozens of men, usually the absurdly wealthy men who were so often impacted by her work, that wanted to see her little flame extinguished altogether. So why? She has some semblance of purpose now, however daunting or impossible it seems. An errand that won’t be completed in her lifetime, a purpose that will not only draw attention to the already-present target on her back, but light it up like fireworks. That part she doesn’t mind.

But damn it if he isn’t being cryptic, and damn it all to the seven hells if she isn’t going to find out why. She has questions she intends to have answered.

 

FFXIV; Balmung; Kindling

A New Understanding of Life

He was so small, she observed, five tiny fingers curled around her pinky. The rash that wound its way around his chest like a band was angry and red, but it was far less severe than it had been just a few hours previous. Had she more time to devote to him alone, maybe she could have cured him without Victoria returning with the ingredients she desperately needed.

But then another mother had arrived with a coughing infant. And another, and another yet. Now she sat amidst a makeshift nursery, rocking one tiny little human life while others slept soundly in the mostly-quiet. For their illness, they were surprisingly calm, and that worried her.

Enambris Rosen-Ash sighed heavily. The baby she cradled gasped a tiny, almost inaudible yawn, and she finds herself smiling. But he closes his eyes again and drifts away to sleep, leaving her alone to wonder: what has she missed?

It’s not with fondness she recalled the wailing and screams that pocked the dark winter nights of Ereden’s south ward, the incurably, terminally ill and the woefully displaced. Sobbing children robbed of their parents, screaming victims robbed of their dignity, all while men and women too high-born to care and too terrified to let through the supplies desperately needed by an all-but-decimated population watched from their lofty towers as the poor suffered and died. Even then, there had been some medicines that had reduced the symptoms, made the passing of the victim a little easier, but there was no cure. Even then, she had read books and scrolls and tomes of every shape and size, looking for something the ancient city and its impossibly magical walls held secret that would deliver them from such hell.

There had been nothing then. But now, now was different. Victoria had come back with the ingredients, and she put her to work crushing the Terse Moss into a fine powder. It had to be exactly perfect, she surmised. The aloe had been expertly crushed and milked of its healing liquid, and the King’s Weed had already been set to be turned into a fine paste. Time was going to tell if this would work. Still though, she felt something was amiss. She had overlooked… something.

The paste, then finished, was hauled back in by Victoria, her explosive enthusiasm a welcome change to Enambris, who despite her initial dislike of the woman, had started to grow fond of her. That Victoria had any drive at all, especially to help children, only helped that along. She took the stone mortar, filled near to full with the pungent paste. She could tell the babe in her lap wasn’t enjoying it, because he scrunched up his face. He didn’t cry though, so she went about her work, carefully dabbing the paste over the rash, around his glands, and on his forehead. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and she worked patiently and diligently, the occasional presence of Victoria peering over her shoulder the only minor distraction. The mothers had been ushered away, the doors locked; Lavi and her curiously-wounded pirate subordinate had been banished to another room, a problem she would have to resolve later. The rash began to fade, and so she set Victoria to work dabbing what was left of the paste on the cloth over the babe’s forehead.

Enambris picked up the next child, a tiny little girl that was worse off than she had originally understood. She set to work, steadily spreading the paste, cooing and soothing the baby girl with soft humming and little songs as she went. Beginning with the uppermost flash, the rays of the sun in her Caste mark ignited, and the light of Dawn illuminated the room. Whether or not Victoria had taken notice she didn’t know, so wholly wrapped in her work as she was. The second child done, she moves to the next.

As she picked up the yawning, swaddled bundle, a thought occurred to her. The light of her Caste mark cast a soft glow on the babe’s tiny face, illuminated it by the essence of her dawn’s light.

“I think I can…” she muttered softly, picked up the rag, and set to work. Her fingertips began to tingle, where tiny motes of essence had pooled there. Under those tips, she could feel something. A little current, just a stream, yet to become a river, but she could feel it. She felt the ebbs and flows, the curves in the stream, and where the stream had been dammed, its flow stopped. That was it.

A flash of light filled the room; Enambris pressed her forehead, and the glowing symbol of the dawn’s light, against the babe’s forehead, and, still singing softly, lifted something from her, tiny and inky. It dissolved, the light dimming with it, but by then she had already captured that moment, held it in her hands. With a wide grin she turned to Victoria. “I can finish this right now,” she said. With that the bonfire erupted and the rising nova cracked; her wings split from it, spread wide, molten gold made to form, and she set to work.

 

EXALTED; Dawn-Caste Anima Banner; Medicine Charms

The Longest Road Traveled

The water is cold, it bites her skin as she plunges beneath its glossy ebon surface with a tremendous splash. The perfect glass-like spirals and ribbons of jet and silver foam are marred, mingled with crimson that inks the water and disperses in its churning current; her body feels as though yet more knives are plunged into her chest, and she desperately wants to gasp for air, but knows it would be her end. The shaft of an arrow slips by her, its trajectory ruined by the rapids. She’s carried away, far from the manor on its magnificent cliff-side and her wounded assailant. There’s no more time to think on it though, vision blurry and extremities numb, and eventually the black of the water swallows the rest of the world.

It’s not until the first pinks and lavenders paint the sky that she’s aware of herself again. Her chest is on fire, erupting water that sputters from her mouth; she chokes and gasps several agonizing, wheezing breaths and rolls onto her side, coughing violently to expel it from her lungs. Not her most graceful morning, certainly. Her matted ruby hair is splayed around her, somehow coming loose from the tight, elegant knot it had been the night previous, now interwoven with seaweed and small, glossy pebbles picked up from the river’s mouth. It’s only a wonder of the gods themselves that she had not been wholly swept out to sea, and Enambris knows that if she had been, she’d surely be dead.

“Where in Althyk’s balls am I…” she mutters aloud to no one in particular, paying no attention to the fishers and beach-goers that have taken notice of her alarming appearance. Some stop to whisper amongst themselves, audible enough for her to understand that she must certainly look a fright, skin of porcelain, pale as death, bloody clothes and ruby hair a wild, tangled mess. She probably looks like a drowning victim, and wonders to herself how that was very nearly true. By the white sand, temperate climate and scores of people, she surmises she’s likely somewhere along the shores of La Noscea, probably near Limsa. How did she wind up here?

Enambris clambers slowly to her feet, pain wracking her inside and out as her muscles pull against severed tissue, the wound reopening anew and blooming fresh, slick crimson against wet silk. Whatever is left of her dress, it’s mostly a tattered mess now, the bottom torn away in the midst of a very-nearly-lethal brawl, and she wishes a little desperately that she still had that fabric now, if only to further wrap around her waist to stem the bloody river threatening to spill from her back. The wound burns, sears her like fire inside her body racing its way to her heart to stop it cold. But she can’t. She’s not ready to let go just yet, and she has favors yet to call. With a resolve so great it might strike down a god, she takes a step, one trembling, painfully-explosive step, against all the agonizing protests of her body. Then another, and another, each more difficult than the last, but builds her the momentum to keep moving. She can’t hold the mouth of her wound, and time is of the essence.

Four steps become eight, eight becomes twenty, and twenty becomes a malm in what feels like the space of all eternity passing in tandem, too long and yet precariously short, as she pushes herself to take another step, and another. She’s near the Mist, and the houses upon their gently-sloping hills are within sight. The doctor’s clinic is near, she only need take a few more steps. Through the gate, down the lane, a sharp left, she loses track of the steps she’s taken, only knowing she needs to take just a few more.

Just a few more steps…

The house is in view, the door of the clinic lay just beyond. Victory in this battle is almost hers, but the jaws of defeat, of death itself, are snapping ever persistently at her heel. The jaws close in, she can feel the bite tingling at her back. Past the first door, one more hall to go. Three doors. Two. She reaches out, one bloody fist, and musters the last of her strength to collapse, loudly, against Doctor Molly Harlan’s door.

 

FFXIV; Balmung; Embers