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

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