rune-writes

[rune-writes]

Tempest

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Word Count: 1245

Rating: G

Pairing: N/A

Summary: The Final Days have reached Amaurot and Azem has left the Convocation. Salvia, a close friend of Azem's, searches for her.

Notes: written for FFXIVwrite2024 Day 3: Tempest. For context, Leirion is my Azem, who later become my WoL. Salvia is Azem's close friend, who later become my second WoL, Kasia.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Leirion? Leirion! Are you here?” 

Salvia barged into Leirion's office at the Capitol and found the room empty. Pristine, clean, and neat, as though it had not seen any disturbance for nigh on a decade. 

You won’t find her there, Hades had said out at the plaza. He’d donned the most conflicted expression Salvia had ever seen. He’d pursed his lips and the words he’d spoken next had seemed to gut him from inside: She’s left.

Salvia whirled at whoever was left in the corridor and pulled the arm of a fleeing woman. “Where is Leirion!?” she demanded.

The woman only shrieked and shook herself free. She disappeared in the stream of fleeing Amaurotians away to the other side of the corridor. Even in these hallowed halls of the Convocation of Fourteen, no one took note of their storied regulations. Masks hung discarded in their cords around everyone's necks, their screams reverberating against the golden panelings that still glowed bright despite the apocalypse sweeping the streets outside. Had it been any other day, Salvia would have thought them mad, but monsters were crowding the streets and Azem… 

Salvia fell a step back and hit the wall with her back. 

Azem was gone. 

Left… As though there was anything more important than the summoning of their salvation. The rest of the Convocation were gathered at the Square, along with most of their people. A sacrifice, Themis once mentioned, for the greater good. 

Salvia had hated the idea. To sacrifice their people—to sacrifice Themis! Even if it was to save their star, a part of her had wondered if it had been too much. Yet now she had seen the chaos unfold and could not think of another way to protect their beloved home. 

She stumbled inside the office and closed the door. The din promptly ceased. She took a deep breath and leaned against the marble surface. If she closed her eyes, she could still imagine that everything was alright: that the sky did not bleed red; that birds sang and flitted in through the open window. The light, iridescent vitrage would flutter in the wind with Azem—Leirion—sitting behind her mahogany desk, half submerged beneath stacks and stacks of paper. Her friend often muttered under breath about the inconveniences of those administrative tasks, preferring instead to leave all of them to her aides. If they were nearby, Leirion would almost surely receive an earful or two, to which she would dip her head in contrite and grin. 

But you’re better at this than I do, she would say. 

Even through their grievances, Leirion’s aides loved and respected her. None of them ever had the heart to rebuke her when she grinned like that. Call them soft, though perhaps, Salvia was too, but they knew that the feeling was mutual. Come hell or high water, they would always have her back, and they knew that she would have theirs too. So Salvia didn’t believe it when Hades said Leirion had left—couldn’t believe it when Leirion asked her if she wanted to leave with her. 

Salvia stared at the empty desk from which Leirion had laughed in another time. 

The screams continued outside. Through the vitrage, Salvia could see her beloved city burn. A large winged creature flew in the distance. Bolts of light—magick or otherwise—fought to bring it down. Her heart seized. From the deepest reaches of her mind, a dark, ominous claw rose and snagged her heart. 

Salvia, Leirion had called. She’d come for a visit after returning from her travels. They had been lounging in Salvia’s living room, with tea and books to occupy them. Leirion had sounded so quiet, so hesitant, it had been unlike her, so Salvia had looked up in curiosity. But her friend hadn’t looked at her. She’d fingered the rim of her book—apprehensive.

Her curiosity then turned to concern, Salvia had closed her book and faced Leirion. “What’s wrong?” 

Her friend had opened her mouth, then closed it again. It’d taken several minutes before she deigned to ask: 

“If ever I would need to leave Amaurot,” she pronounced the words carefully, “would you come with me?”

Salvia hadn’t understood what she’d meant then. Leirion had never explained. She’d thought her friend had meant in one of her tasks that often took her across the star. So Salvia had beamed and said, “All right!” Little did she know what Leirion had meant was leaving the Convocation and the city when the Fell Beasts began appearing. 

The winged creature she’d spotted in the distance seemed to grow in size. It grew bigger so exponentially fast, it was a moment before Salvia realized the beast was hurtling toward her. She screamed, hands thrown to her sides. She erected an aetherial barrier the moment the beast crashed through the window. 

Dust and debris billowed around her. Through it, she spotted a large snout resting between Leirion’s mahogany table that was now broken cleanly in two. Fangs flashed between thin lips, its mouth half open as its body labored for breath. 

Once the dust settled, Salvia put her barrier down and approached the beast. It groaned, but didn’t stir. Half of its large body was hanging off the broken window and its wings fluttered before falling limply on its side. 

It was dying. Blood as black as tar oozed from its wounds, pooling on the broken desk and marble floor. Salvia took a step back when its muscles twitched, but it had no strength left to fight.  

As Salvia wondered if she could put the beast out of its misery, she briefly met its eye and found it staring back. She froze. Plea, if it could be called that, shone through what looked to be gray irises. Plea—as though these beasts could feel emotions. Plea—or, perhaps what was left of it. 

It shuddered one last time as a gurgle rose out of its throat—a gurgle that sounded uncannily like a word: 

Pl…ea…se… 

Salvia shot a bolt of light straight through its skull. The beast jerked, then stilled, its body disintegrating into tiny flutters of black ash. 

Fire burned outside where her people still battled these abominable beings. Somewhere in the city, the masses were gathering to summon Zodiark. But Salvia stayed rooted to her spot because that creature had spoken to her, had looked at her pleadingly to end its life. 

She'd heard that the moment someone turned into these beasts, there was no going back for them. Their aether sucked; their soul diminished. Yet this creature had somehow retained its mind. 

Was there still hope? Could she save them? Was that why…? 

She gasped. 

Was that why Leirion had left?

Salvia knew Leirion had had secret meetings with Venat. For a while, she had noticed how Azem and her mentor hadn't been seeing eye to eye with the Convocation, but neither of them ever told her why no matter how much she pestered them. 

But why? Why didn't they rally the people? If Venat had concocted a different plan, a plan that might not involve sacrificing their people, a plan that could save even the Fell Beasts, surely the Convocation would agree? 

Unless they didn't… for reasons only they would know. 

Standing around wouldn't help. Salvia would ask Venat herself. Ask, and demand answers. She would not leave until she received one. 

Giving the spot where the beast had disintegrated one last look, Salvia turned on her heels and rushed out of the room. 

[rune-writes]

Horizon

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Word Count: 946

Rating: G

Pairing: WoL & Thancred

Summary: In which Nayra finds solace in the horizon after the events of Aitiascope.

Notes: I'm slowly posting my ffxivwrite fics on tumblr (though I've only written 5 lol), but yea, Day 2 of FFXIVwrite2024: Horizon. For context, my WoL, Nayra, lost her family in the Calamity. She partially blames herself for it, because she's the only one who survived. She is learning to come to terms with it with the help of her friends. During Aitiascope, she heard her parents' voice urging her forward. This story is set right after.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Nayra turned around and spotted Thancred climbing the winding stairs with two large glasses in his hands. She cocked an eyebrow, lips curling into a tiny smirk. Thancred acted like he didn’t see it and instead held a glass out to her. 

“Care for a pint?” he asked. 

“You know I don’t drink.”

“Very true. Which is why Tataru sent me with another glass filled with juice instead. Apple.” He switched his hands and indeed, the new glass did look like it contained juice—if Tataru didn’t pull any tricks. Not that she would. Nayra smiled somewhat wryly before accepting the glass—one of those wooden mugs from the Last Stand. She swirled the mug, then decided to take a sip. A sharp tang of sourness with a hint of sweetness washed down her throat. Apple, indeed. 

“Thanks,” she said. 

“You’re welcome.” He took the spot next to her, leaning over the railing and resting his arms on the balustrade. 

Nayra studied his profile for a moment. She had no reason. She just… watched him. The way he gazed out the open expanse of the sea, how his pupils constricted and his brows winced when the light caught his eyes, how he brought the rim of his glass to his lips and his throat bobbed as pint—or whatever he had brought with him—went down it. It was a moment after he rested his glass arm on the railing once more that he let out a quiet chuckle and glanced sideways at her. 

“You’re gonna bore a hole in my head with the way you’re looking at me.”

Nayra blinked. She hadn’t realized. 

She cleared her throat then took another gulp of her juice. “So what brings you here?” she asked instead. 

Thancred barked another laugh. “For your information, this has been my secret place since before you came here.”

“It’s not so secret with how open it is,” Nayra retorted with a smile. 

They stood on the outermost platform of Sharlayan’s harbor—a circular half tower connected to the rest of the dock by a set of winding stairs. As open as it was, people rarely went there, except, probably, one of the Ironhearts, a family of explorers Nayra never failed to meet in her journey. Babeth Ironheart wasn’t present at the moment, and Nayra had deemed it the best place to be with her thoughts. It wasn’t that she was averse to companionship, but had Ironheart been there, Nayra might have found herself chatting with her about the places they’d visited instead—a feat now made possible with Thancred’s entrance. 

“‘Tis a good place, though,” Thancred concurred. “The sea spreads before you like a glistening sheet of diamonds; the sky expands as far as the eye could see. You don’t often see such an unobstructed view of the horizon.” He paused. “I used to come here because it reminded me of Limsa.” 

Nayra cradled her glass in her hands. She took a sip, then turned around to face the sea. “Did you used to miss Limsa?” she asked.

“I missed the chaos—the cacophony. You have to know: for a street urchin, Sharlayan wasn’t exactly my kind of city.” Nayra laughed; yes, she could see that. “The amount of headache I’d given Master Louisoix and my mentor. Though I ended up acclimating to it, sooner or later, but sometimes I’d go here when I wanted to have some peace of mind.” 

This place did have that calming quality to it, or perhaps it was only their nature to seek the open sky and open sea when their heart and mind lay unsettled. All her childhood, she had always wanted to see where the sky met the earth with neither mountains nor forests to obstruct her view. Her father had been a traveling merchant and whenever he returned home, he would show her the most exotic things he’d found on his journey. So time and again, she would ask to come with him, and she had—she, her sister, and their mother, coming along on his longer expeditions. The first time she’d beheld the sea, the width and breadth had taken her breath away. 

They’d gone to Aitiascope the night before—had met all the people she’d loved and lost throughout the years. Sometimes, Nayra liked to think that she had buried her past behind her, but the moment she heard her parents’ voices as she was making her way out of the aetherial sea, her time had stopped—enough that G’raha had noticed her halt and asked what was wrong. Tears she hadn’t realized she’d been holding trickled down one by one. She’d turned around, expecting—hoping—to see them, to catch a glimpse of them, but she found nothing in the bridge connecting the facility to the elevator. Nothing except coalescing motes of silver light. 

‘Nayra…’ 

Her breath had hitched at the familiar voice. 

‘We’re so proud of you, Nayra…’

Nayra swirled her cup once more. The sky was clear enough that she could almost see her reflection on her drink, murky and dark. 

Thancred hadn’t said anything else. He’d just sipped his pint and looked unflinchingly toward the distant horizon. No doubt he had other problems to worry about, but Nayra had a feeling she knew the real reason he was there. She chuckled to herself. 

“I should thank Tataru for bringing me the juice,” she said. “And an apology. I seem to worry everyone a lot.”

“As long as you know.” Thancred raised his glass. “You’re always there for us at our lowest. I need you to know that we’re always there for you too.”

A small smile tugged at Nayra’s lips. She bowed her head. “Thank you.” 

[rune-writes]

Steer

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Word Count: 831

Rating: G

Pairing: N/A

Summary: In which Kasia learns how to ride a chocobo.

Notes: never did post these here, so here it is, my fic written for FFXIVwrite2024 Day 1: Steer. sidenote: Nayra and Kasia are both my WoLs, though Nayra is my main WoL. She's a Keeper of the Moon miqo'te while Kasia is an Au Ra Raen. For context, Kasia is deathly afraid of chocobos because she got kicked by a chocobo once and never grew out of that trauma.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Nayra, are you sure this is safe?”

“It’s a ‘she’, Kasia, and don’t worry. Hima is as gentle as a fledgling dodo.”

“That’s not entirely reassuring,” Kasia muttered. Dodos weren’t quite known for being gentle. But still Kasia swallowed her apprehension as she gripped Hima’s reins and refused to show her fear. 

Off to the side, she heard someone snicker. Kasia quickly cast a deadly glare, and Zorig, the xaela who’d taken it upon himself to follow her everywhere much to her embarrassment, cleared his throat and looked away. Then another snicker followed his, closer this time, and now Kasia glared down at Nayra, who didn’t even bother to mask her teasing smile. A retort surfaced from the back of her throat. Before she could open her mouth, however, Hima shifted. 

“AAAAAAA!!!!” 

It was only a slight ruffling of feathers and fidgeting of feet, but it was enough to make Kasia yelp and hold on to Hima’s neck for dear life—which, in turn, prompted Hima to wark in surprise and flap her wings, making Kasia scream even more. 

“Sshhh, Kasia! Kasia!” Nayra called. 

“Get me down! Let me down! I don’t wanna do this, Nayra. I don’t wanna ride a chocobo!” 

“You need to learn someday.”

“I have Maggie! And I can teleport!” 

“You can’t fast travel with a magitek.”

“Then just get me a horse or something. I’ll learn to ride anything! Just not a chocobo!” 

Kasia heard her sigh. From her soothing coos, Kasia could tell Nayra was placating her bird, because before long, Hima stopped flapping her wings frantically. Kasia peeled open her eyes. Nayra stood not a few ilms away, one hand stroking Hima’s crimson plumage while the other touched the spot between her eyes. She whispered words Kasia never understood. Like always, warm light glowed between Nayra’s palm and Hima’s forehead, and then the chocobo was suddenly calm, even purring at Nayra’s fingers and pecking her palm affectionately. 

It always astonished Kasia seeing Nayra’s beast-taming abilities. Kasia had never met a beastmaster but she’d heard Nayra’s wasn’t quite the common beastmaster skill. Once, Nayra told her it was part of her echo. A weird ability, Kasia remembered thinking. But after hearing all that had transpired in the First and what the echo truly was, she realized it wasn’t quite so weird anymore. In fact, it was pretty cool, if she could say anything about it. She wondered if she would ever awaken to a unique echo ability like that. 

With Hima placated, Nayra turned her face and caught Kasia staring. She smiled again—a soft, pretty smile that seemed to say everything would be alright. 

“Well, want to give it a go?” she asked. 

Kasia pursed her lips. Slowly, she straightened her posture. She tried to release her death drip on the reins, but her hands shook so she decided to let it remain for the time being. 

“If I must.” Kasia failed to keep the tremble from her voice, and Nayra noticed it. She smiled encouragingly. 

“Like I said, Hima is as gentle as a fledgling dodo. She won’t let you fall.” Nayra started stepping away and Kasia felt her anxiety rise. “Just remember: sit straight and relax your grip. Once you’re ready, squeeze her sides to make her walk, or you could gently kick her flanks with your heels.”

“C–Can’t you just tell her to move?” Kasia asked. “I know you attuned to her.” 

Nayra only cocked an eyebrow. She didn’t even grace her worry with a response before moving on. “And then you steer with the reins. Don’t tug it too hard. Just a gentle pull. She’s smart. When you want to stop, simply apply pressure on your legs and pull the reins to your body. Again, you have nothing to fear. You’ve been with Hima for years now. You have ridden on her back before too.”

“With you steering, though.”

Nayra smiled. “I attuned to her,” she said. “If I sense anything wrong, you can be sure I’ll keep things calm.” 

Kasia could do nothing but sigh. Beneath her, Hima fidgeted again, impatient to start moving, and Kasia felt her body tense. But the chocobo didn’t flap her wings nor ruffled her feathers. She glanced at Nayra and only saw the miqo’te nodding at her to go. 

Fine then, she said inwardly. 

For someone like Kasia, who held unbridled fear toward chocobos, riding a red one that was commonly known to be particularly violent did nothing to alleviate her nervousness, even if she had known Hima and knew her as a gentle and lovely bird. But Nayra was there. She wouldn’t let her come to harm. 

With that thought in mind, she drew a shaking breath. “Well,” she began. “I guess let’s go, girl?” 

It came more like a question than an invitation. Hima shook her plumage as if she was chuckling with mirth. Even the bird was making fun of her. Kasia swallowed her fear and pressed her heels to Hima’s flanks. 

[rune-writes]

Snowdrops

Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI

Word Count: 8053

Rating: T

Pairing: Clive Rosfield/Jill Warrick

Summary: Jill was a slave of the Iron Kingdom. A girl barely of age who had just awoken to a power larger than herself, she was subjected to cruel treatment as befit a Dominant in Haearann. She'd lost everything: from her home, to her family, and the people she loved. And when she thought she would lose herself too, light called out to her.

Notes: written for Moongazers: A Clive/Jill Fanzine! tw: canon-typical violence, slavery.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Her carriage jostled from side to side—although, to be more precise, it wasn’t a carriage per se. An iron cage held her, hoisted over a wheeled, wooden platform and pulled by two beasts of burden. The first thing Jill sensed was the heat. It emanated from everywhere around her, as though she had been shoved inside a box of burning hot coal. Sweat beaded her forehead and she could feel the dampness of her clothes. She groaned, quiet, barely above a whisper. Her neck was stiff; cold metal bars bit into her back. As her consciousness slowly rose to the surface, the backs of her eyelids glowed in a dim orange light. 

Heavy iron cuffs weighed her collar, wrists, and ankles…

Fetters—

A half-formed thought emerged in her mind, but it was enough to jolt her awake and inform her of where she was now. No— She scrambled, desperately grasping at the retreating darkness. Take me back! Take me back to—

Where? 

She couldn’t recall where her mind had been, only that it had been warm, and light. Sunny. Her heart had soared as she rushed across a field of flowers, trying to catch up to… 

The carriage jolted to a stop. A low guttural voice ordered her to wake up. She stayed still, pretending to be asleep. Her senses were returning and she could hear distant chatters and murmurs, the clanging of metal on forge; felt the heat of fire. 

Feet shifted on both sides of her, and Jill fought against the tremble. She recognized those heavy steps. They approached her, stopped right next to her. Foul breath filled her nostrils. 

“I said,” the Commander breathed into her face. His thick Haearanni tongue made her skin crawl, but Jill remained silent. “Wake. Up.” 

He yanked open the door and shoved her off the cage, off the platform, until her shoulder banged against the hard, rocky ground and her body skidded several steps away. The force of the Commander’s shove should have pushed her further, but the chain around her neck stopped her short, gagging her. She gasped for breath. Jeers erupted from the soldiers as Jill coughed and reached for her collar.

“That is why you wake up when I tell you to, witch.” The Commander kicked her hand away, then kicked her chest for good measure. Tears welled in her eyes as Jill groaned and wheezed, feeling the fetters tightening around her neck like a noose. 

“That is enough.” 

When a bone-chilling, familiar voice boomed from across the hall, the chatter immediately died. The fires and forges went still. Jill froze, her coughing ceasing as her eyes whirled then fell on a black robe swishing around bony ankles. Primordial fear gripped her heart and she kicked her feet, pushed her back as far as she could away from this predator of a man; but she had no strength. Her kick was too feeble. Jill cursed herself for the weak whimper slipping out of her lips as Imreann stopped not far from where she lay. Jill averted her gaze, but even then she could feel his repulsive eyes rake through her body. She felt filthy. 

“Congratulations, Commander, for your victory in battle,” the Patriarch said. 

The army commander bowed at the waist. “You are too kind, Your Excellency. The battle would have been won far quicker if not for the witchling’s impudence.”

“Pray, explain.”

“She refused to prime. We had to make an…example of what it means to disobey us.”

“I see.” Another glance; this time with mild annoyance. She heard the click of a tongue. “I would have thought killing her handmaid,” —Jill outwardly flinched— “had taught her a lesson, but it seems that wasn’t enough. I should’ve kept her alive as a hostage.”

Jill shut her eyes. She didn’t want to imagine what he meant by that.

“Take the fetters off her neck. She can’t breathe like that. Remember, Commander: she is our weapon. I will not have her dying so soon.” 

Feet shuffled then rough fingers slipped through her hair and reached around her neck. She felt them brush her raw, sensitive skin before she heard the clink and the metal ring fell off. Jill didn’t dare breathe a sigh of relief, not when the monster was still in front of her. Perhaps he knew what she was thinking, because then Imreann scoffed. 

“Take her to her cell,” was all he said before he, along with his entourage, turned on their heels and headed back inside the mountain. The moment he disappeared, activity around the hall resumed. The Commander barked orders at two of the soldiers, who then grabbed Jill on both arms and lifted her to her feet. 

“Walk,” one of them said. 

As if she could, with her ankles still clasped and chained. Ice pierced her body, but she wasn’t sure whether it came from her magick or the dread of being cooped up far beneath the surface again. But perhaps, that was better than here, better than Imreann, better than outside where her weakness had cost her another child’s life. 

***

Some people thought she was a lifeless doll—a puppet, made to move only under the beck and call of her master. They’re not wrong, Jill thought. 

In a lonely dark cell, Jill lay, bone-weary, on the cold stone floor. No light dared disturb the darkness here—the farthest glow came from a dim torch nestled into the wall some handful yalms away. Not even sound could perturb the stillness. 

Her gray eyes gazed unseeing at her small diamond-shaped pendant clasped in her hand. It had been a gift, or perhaps a memento. When the decision to send her to Rosaria had been made, her father had gone to her room to slip the necklace around her neck. A family heirloom, she was told. To remind her of home.  

A faint hum of a melody drifted into her consciousness, along with a remnant of a familiar voice. 

What’s that song? Someone had asked. That song you just sang.

On a quiet night, Jill had stood on the balcony of a castle. A boy had been with her, looking at her with stars in his eyes.

This? she’d asked, humming the melody again. The boy had nodded. It’s a song from my hometown. My parents taught it to me. 

A memory of bygone days penetrated her mind, drifting aimlessly before it was pulled back into the blanket of obscurity. 

It told of Shiva the Ice Queen. They say she would come to her people in their time of need  and deliver salvation. 

But Shiva had come and no salvation had been delivered. Part of Jill wondered if the legend had been nothing but a bedtime story meant to lull children to sleep. She had certainly fallen asleep to one of Shiva’s tales, dreaming up the Ice Queen and her legion of crystalline armies.  

Perhaps even her necklace was a fraud— 

Jill stopped herself. 

She closed her eyes. Even the utterance of an apology to her father, her mother, her ancestors, took too much energy that she failed to muster. The pulsing warmth she had always sought in her necklace was nowhere to be found. It lay cold in her palm, offering neither solace nor reassurance that everything would be alright. 

How could it be when everything had gone up in a blazing inferno three summers past—all her dreams, all her hopes? 

She had no one else… 

Chill seeped into her skin. Jill barely registered the cold—barely registered the fever that was settling in her bones. Her thin, ragged robe hung in tatters, barely covering her ankles that were covered in blisters and now chained to the wall. Yet still, her chest rumbled as the tune so familiar to her heart fought through her parched throat and dried lips. 

I like that song, Clive had said. Will you sing it again? 

Her thumb brushed over the dim onyx jewel nestled at the center of her pendant. In the stillness, Jill hummed, though she sounded weak and broken. 

***

“There you are!” 

Jill looked up. Clive stood at the door, half-turning, the tips of his raven hair painted silver under the moonlight. 

For a split second, Jill couldn’t remember where she was or what she had been doing. A faint recollection of heat and pain shot up her arms, but the sensation quickly faded. A headache persisted, but it, too, disappeared after a brief shake of her head. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Clive crouched in front of her. “What’s wrong? You disappeared soon after dinner.” 

Jill blinked then gazed around. She was at the Rosalith castle garden, concealed in the shadows of a shrub just outside the castle wall. It wasn’t quite hidden per se. The entire garden was swathed in moonlight that night. The otherwise dark corners were lit by magick-infused torches. If Jill had sought to hide, she could’ve looked for a better place. 

“It’s nothing,” she eventually said. She shook her head, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Clive’s concern turned into a frown. 

“If it’s nothing, then what are you doing here drawing circles on the ground?” 

Jill dropped her eyes. 

“Tell me.” 

The softness in his voice prompted her to speak but when Jill opened her mouth, the words wouldn’t come. So Jill shrugged, then continued drawing circles. He sighed. 

Jill didn’t stir when his shadow moved and settled next to her. While distance remained between their shoulders, she could still feel the heat radiating off his body. It calmed her, grounded her. 

“Joshua was worried,” Clive began. “You seemed down and then excused yourself early from dinner. Did something happen?” 

Jill didn’t say anything, and neither did he. The silence stretched for a while, until Clive spoke:

“The moon’s beautiful tonight.”

Unwittingly, Jill looked up—

—then realized halfway that, again, Clive had managed to coax her out of her shell. She cut a glance at him when she heard his chuckle, finding one corner of his lips tugged into a small smirk. Jill’s own features fought between a frown and a sigh before settling on a little wry smile of her own. 

“How do you do that?” she asked. 

“Do what?”

Jill remained quiet for a moment. Her gaze flicked from his face back to the circles she’d drawn on the ground. The stick she’d used lay loosely in her grip. She dropped it, then folded her arms around her knees. 

“You always know,” she said. “When I’m feeling down. I never say anything, but you always know how to cheer me up…how to make me talk.” She giggled softly. “Like that time you took me to Mann’s Hill.” 

“I would take you there again if it would brighten your mood.” She glanced at him, and he smiled, shifting his eyes upward. “Except it’s already night, and Mann’s Hill is nowhere near the castle. It wouldn’t just be Murdoch who would flay us this time.” 

That prompted a quiet laugh from her. Clive brightened at the sound. In the periphery of her senses, she sensed him reach for her, stopped, then changed course to her head. His gentle pats felt like a salve that soothed her wounds. Jill’s breath shuddered in contentment. 

“Will you tell me what troubles you?” 

She pursed her lips and closed her eyes. 

An image of a cold, dark cell flashed across her mind. She lay alone, shivering, with chains on her neck and around her blistering ankles. For a fleeting moment, her heart seized. Her throat closed and she struggled to breathe. 

“Jill?” 

The image dissipated as quickly as it had come. When Jill blinked, she found herself back at the garden with the full moon and a worried Clive sitting next to her. Warmth radiated from her hand, where Clive was holding it, anchoring her to the present. 

A dream, she told herself. Or a nightmare. Would he laugh if she told him she was afraid of boogeymen? 

“Can I ask you something, Clive?” she asked instead. “Why did you want to become First Shield?” 

She knew part of the reason was because of Lady Anabella. The Duchess’s scorn for her firstborn was not a well-kept secret—not that the Duchess had done anything to keep it secret. Everyone knew—from the handmaids to the kitchen hands, the stableboys and even the soldiers. Jill had also been on the receiving end of such contempt on more occasions than one. Perhaps, that was why they were drawn to each other: two children seeking their place in the world. 

Yet despite all the derision he received, Clive still aspired to become First Shield—the Phoenix’s protector—and had been training for it throughout all the years Jill had lived there. 

She lay her head on her knee, gaze locked at their connected hands. “How did you find the strength to stand when all others expected you to fall?” 

Clive stared at her. “Did Mother say something to you again?” he asked, and Jill almost flinched. His hard gaze bored into her. It was one thing, it seemed, for his mother to disregard him, and another when the same thing occurred to Jill. While Jill couldn’t deny that the Duchess Anabella had made more scathing remarks, that wasn’t the reason behind her question, so she shook her head. It took a while before Clive could be convinced. 

He let out a frustrating sigh and slumped back against the wall, withdrawing his hand in the process. The absence of his warmth made her skin tingle uncannily in the cool evening air. She curled her fingers and tucked them closer. 

“While it is true that I had hoped to earn Mother’s approval,” he said, “the reason why I wanted to become First Shield is simply because I wanted to protect my brother. The Phoenix is our symbol of hope. While Joshua safeguards our people, I shall take my place beside him and shield him from harm. That, at least, is what I hope to achieve. Come what may, I train so that one day I may have the strength to do just that.” 

“You’re already strong, Clive,” she said. 

Clive scoffed under his breath. “If I seem that way to you,” he said, then paused. A furtive glance at her followed by a sheepish smile and a clearing of his throat before he looked away again. “I think that’s because I have you with me.” He scratched the back of his head. “You’re always there to pull me up and hold my back.” 

Jill blinked, stunned. 

Before she could comprehend the meaning of his words, Clive had already pushed himself off the ground. He gazed at the star-speckled sky, where the moon hung low and bright. 

“When things start to go dark around me, I look to my light to show me the way.” The moon lined his profile in silver, and for a moment, Jill thought he looked ethereal. Then he turned and held out his hand. “So when you find yourself in a similar predicament, Jill, look for your light.”

***

Sharp, piercing whispers penetrated the barriers of Jill’s consciousness, along with a pounding headache that almost jolted her awake. She groaned. 

The owners of the voices didn’t seem to hear her. They kept arguing, their frustratingly loud yet hushed voices grating on her ears. 

Jill cracked open an eye and found the rim of a crude bowl next to her face. Odd, she thought. Odder still when she spotted a glass and a tray behind it. Her eyes traced the edges of the tray to the gray stone floor, farther still until they rested on what looked like metal bars standing on their side. The word “cell” came to her mind, but her sluggish brain failed to follow it with a meaning. Her thin drenched garment barely kept the chill away. Jill shivered.

Ah…I want to go back. 

The thought came unbidden. It made her pause. Back, she asked herself. Back where?

Back there. To him. 

Him…who? 

The boy. With the blue eyes.

But he’s… 

Gone. 

A sob tore out of her, except—her body was too weak to let out anything louder than a whimper. So Jill lay on the floor, a crushing weight pressing down on her ribs as she took one deep shuddering breath after another. 

Look for your light—

But there was no light. The cell stood dark and dank. Freezing. The only heat came from the guard’s torch, because yes, that was a guard. She was in prison, deep in the bowels of Mount Drustanus, where they housed the cruelest, most wicked of their felons: a Dominant. 

Jill’s senses were slowly coming back to her. Fetters bit into her skin and cold stone pressed hard against her bony cheek. She tasted salt. Another odd thing. But her jaws moved; she lapped her lips. They…weren’t as parched as she’d thought. She eyed the bowl. Gruel? Was that…dinner? But who…? No one should’ve entered her cell and placed her dinner inside, let alone feed her. 

She lifted her head just in time as the voices finally made sense to her: 

“I am telling you that your precious weapon is ill. If you do not treat her and she dies, whose head do you think will roll?” 

The torch lit the speakers’ faces just enough that Jill recognized the messy bun, brown smock, and plump features. 

“Lady Marleigh…” Jill croaked. 

She hadn’t meant to call—she didn’t even realize she had strength to speak—but her voice was heard, and Lady Marleigh gasped. Marleigh turned, eyes brimming, then pushed past the guard and entered the cell. “Oy—” The guard attempted to grab Marleigh’s arm, but Marleigh was too quick on her feet. Her already feeble energy spent, Jill fell to the ground just as Marleigh arrived at her side. 

“My lady.” The older woman reached over and pressed a hand to her cheek. Even in the dark, Jill could tell how the lady frowned. 

Marleigh reached to her pocket then withdrew a small, thin packet.

“My lady, please drink this. ‘Tis medicine for your fever.”

“Hey—” The guard pushed his way inside the cell then grabbed Marleigh’s arm before she could administer the drug. Big as he was—like all other Haearanni—he easily pulled Marleigh up in one swift motion. Jill watched the medicine spill out of the packet as it fell. Marleigh wailed in agony. “How did you get that medicine?” the guard demanded. 

“Let me go, you big brute! That was for my mistress and you made me waste it!”

“Answer! Where did you get the medicine?!”

“If you won’t treat her, then I will—”

He shoved her down. Lady Marleigh’s shoulder connected with the floor with a sickening crack, enough for Jill to fight through her pain and languor and scream—cracked though she sounded—“Lady Marleigh!” 

“Thieving rat! Did you steal from the Patriarch’s storage?” The guard spat. He made to reach for Marleigh again, but a command from Jill made him pause. The guard looked over his shoulder. 

Jill had propped herself on her arms. Ice surged through her veins—ice that fought and wrestled against the crystal cuffs that kept it at bay. For one split moment, fear washed over the guard’s face as he took a trembling step back. Then the magick abated, and Jill gasped, slumping onto the ground. 

The guard barked a hideous laugh. “You have no power here, witchling! Not as long as you wear those fetters.” He might have thought to give her a kick, but whatever power Jill had about to unleash remained in the air, and it was enough to make him reconsider his next move. The guard ended up grunting under his breath, hoisted Marleigh by the arm, and dragged her out kicking and screaming as the lady attempted to return to Jill. 

“Shut it, you!” The guard hissed. He closed the cell, clicking the lock into place. “You’d be lucky if I didn’t report to the Patriarch.”

With as much bravado as Lady Marleigh could muster, she looked the guard square in the eye and said, “Try me.” 

The guard pushed Marleigh forward. Jill watched them leave along with the light and the heat. Once, Lady Marleigh dared to look behind her shoulder before the guard shoved her forward again. Jill closed her eyes, listening to the patter of their footsteps, growing weaker and weaker, echoing in the empty chamber. Faraway, a door creaked open. A distant bustling cacophony slipped out before the door closed once again, shutting Jill away from the world. 

***

Sometimes, when Jill closed her eyes, she would find herself back in Rosaria: the hustle and bustle of early morning preparations, the chatters and laughter in the servants’ quarters, the shouts and warm camaraderie of the barracks. She might not have been born there—she had only been a simple ward—but the Archduke had treated her like a daughter, and everyone—or, most of everyone—had welcomed her in kind. 

See, that was what most people probably didn’t know. She remembered light. She remembered kindness. 

She remembered the first day she arrived there. 

The sun had risen high and the trumpets had blared. The grandest of welcomes if Jill had ever seen one. While the Archduke and his knights had been the most hospitable, being in a strange land all by herself had given Jill nothing short of apprehension, least of all with the Duchess’s disdain following her every step. Savage, she’d called her. Jill had shrunk into herself. She probably would have locked herself in the room designated to be hers if Clive hadn’t come and asked her to play. 

‘Play’ might not be the exact word, though for a six year old, being taken on a tour of the castle then playing hide-and-seek with the servants had counted as playing. The handmaid assigned to her had looked so disgruntled as she asked Jill not to disappear like that. 

A distant memory surfaced: of a body, broken and spent, tossed in front of her like a limp ragged doll. It left as soon as it came before Jill could make sense of what it was, and then she was back at the castle hall with her handmaid staring down at her. Jill cast her eyes down and shifted on her feet. 

“She’s not harmed.” Clive, his hand holding hers, stepped in front of her. “See? She’s alright. I was just taking her out to see the garden and—”

“My lord—” Her handmaid plastered a strained smile, but before she could say anything else, a hand flashed and smacked Clive on the head—lightly. Clive yelped, then whirled around, ready to fight. Only, a glaring Murdoch stood behind them, looking stern, and Clive paled. 

“I heard your lordship skipped his lesson,” the general said.

“Murdoch, I—” 

General Murdoch dropped his eyes to their linked hands and let a quiet sigh slip through his nose. “I appreciate your lordship’s efforts in welcoming our new guest, but you do have your studies to attend. Or do you not wish to be First Shield any longer?” 

It wouldn’t be until a couple years later for Jill to learn the reason Murdoch’s question had provoked Clive so, but back then, she remembered the guilt she had felt for taking much of Clive’s time when he should have been somewhere else. Clive seemed to notice it because then he promised to see her again after his lesson. Perhaps during dinner, or—

“Or you could come to the barracks—”

“Clive,” Murdoch warned. “Barracks are no place for a young lady.”

Clive shut his mouth, then promised again that he would come see her later. Later on, when Jill was safely back in her room and her handmaid was brushing her hair, she apologized for making her worry, and her handmaid told her she had nothing to apologize for. 

“I should have expected he would come visit your ladyship. The young master is quite… sociable, if a little unpredictable. Truthfully, I’d feared he might have taken you out to see the town unguarded.” Her handmaid offered a wry smile. She set down the brush and patted Jill’s now-sleek hair. Then she took a step back, hand neatly folded over her lap. Not a speck of dust on her dress or strand of hair out of place, even when it seemed she had turned the castle upside down in search of Jill. “Would you like some refreshments, my lady? I brought you bread, and some fruits.”

But Jill couldn’t think about snacks at the time. Instead, a growing curiosity gnawed at her, so she asked, “What kind of person is the young master?” 

Her handmaid blinked, before a smile bloomed across her face. “Aside from the small unpredictability of his actions, he is a sincere and hardworking boy. Kind, and caring, above all else.” 

Kind and caring. Surely that was it. Surely that was why, time and again, Jill had felt her heart stir every time he directed his smile at her—the steadfastness of his gaze, his unwavering conviction…

In the first few months since her arrival, he would spend every spare moment he had with her. He kept her company, brought her to all the places within and without the castle grounds—of course, with a healthy entourage keeping watch. He did all that and more until Jill could say with all her heart that Rosalith was home. 

If Jill thought about it now, she could remember everything fondly. Like through a rose-tinted glass: the light warmer and the smiles brighter. Walking down the pavement of the castle town with Torgal in her arms, she’d watch merchants holler their wares and a boy her age running down the street, trying to catch his chicken that’d just fled its coop. Men swept the stairs in front of their shops and women tended to their gardens. Once, she heard someone call her name and saw that it was the flower lady from whom she’d bought a bouquet of blooms just the other day. 

“Out by yourself, milady?” the flower lady asked. “I see Ada’s not with you today.” 

“No, Clive is here—” Jill turned, but her supposed escort was nowhere to be seen. They were older now, so Murdoch had given them leave if they’d wanted to explore the town themselves. Her handmaid, Ada, hadn’t been so relenting, until Clive assured her that Rosalith was probably the safest place in all of Rosaria. No harm should come to them. 

“Besides,” he’d added, “I’m pretty good with the sword now.”

Or so he had said. Now the boy had disappeared and part of her wondered if she had gotten lost and not him. She exchanged a glance with Torgal, who only whined quietly and cocked his head to the side in confusion. 

The florist giggled. “You two make such a lovely pair. Why, I remember just a few summers ago when the two of you would come to my stall escorted by a guard each. And Lady Ada too, of course. You wouldn’t let go of his hand even when I handed you a flower.”

Jill flushed red, then cleared her throat. “We’re not children anymore. It is not proper for a young lady to hold a young lord’s hand.” She attempted to change the subject—to the snowdrops she had bought the day before. But the florist was still grinning and Jill had to abandon the idea of moving the topic along. As much as it made her giddy to hear that she and Clive looked lovely together, a part of her knew they could never be. Talks had been made to marry her off to another House. Jill had always been just a pawn here. The place she had finally come to call home was never truly where she belonged. Her time here had always been fleeting. She should spend it the best she could with the people she loved.

“Ah, speak of the devil.” The florist’s quiet exclamation broke through Jill’s reveries. Her teasing smile sent a thrill fluttering in Jill’s stomach. “His lordship is here.”

Jill turned in time to see Clive break free from the crowd, looking extremely unsettled as he scanned the street. When his sapphire eyes found her by the flower shop, the lines of his face crumbled in palpable relief. But he kept his posture and strode to her side. 

“There you are!” A soft reprimand, though he looked more pleased than angry. “I was looking everywhere for you.”

“You’re the one who disappeared.”

“You should have stuck close to me. Imagine what Murdoch will say if he finds out I actually lost you.” 

Torgal, for whatever reason, growled at him. Clive looked surprised; the pup had never shown his fangs at him before. But Torgal quickly lost his irritation when Jill petted his head. 

“See?” she said. “Even Torgal said you’re at fault here.” Clive pursed his lips. Jill laughed. “Clive, you said so yourself. We’re still only in the castle town. What could possibly go wrong?” 

Except, everything did go wrong. 

On the night after Clive, Joshua, and the Archduke had gone to Phoenix Gate, the castle burned. 

For the most part, Jill had purged the memories of that night from her mind. In fact, if she were to recall, she would fail to recount every detail that had happened between then and now. All she remembered were the screams and the fire—the flashes of steel—the blood. 

And Lady Ada— 

The image of a body sprawled on the ground flitted across her eyes. Jill lurched forward and gasped. 

Hot, glaring light pierced her eyes almost immediately. Jill had to blink several times before she could see where she was. She looked around, but the sight she beheld made her pause. 

She wasn’t in her room, nor was she anywhere near a town. A swath of white flowers blanketing the entire land as far as her eye could see, undulating under a brilliant gilded sky. She shook her head, then shook it again, but the thick impenetrable fog that shrouded her mind refused to lift.

Where was this, she asked herself. 

Jill rose to her feet, rather unsteady at first, but soon found her footing on the firm ground. She wore no shoes. Her toes curled on the damp earth. How long had it been since she last felt the touch of soft grass? Jill felt her skin prickle, her body seeming to whisper, Hello, old friend.

Like a response to her greeting, a gentle breeze came to kiss her face. Hello, it said. 

A shiver ran up her spine. Jill crouched and held her palm to the little blooms sprouting on the ground. White teardrop-shaped petals hung like pendulums from thin green stalks. She recognized them. She’d seen them before—

Home. 

A vanguard of spring, her mother used to say. One that braved the bleakness of winter as it heralded the coming of change. They’d called them snowdrops for the petals that looked like drops of snow. Jill remembered picking them and weaving them into a crown. They rarely grew in Rosaria, so when she’d spotted them in a stall at the market, she had instinctively bought them for herself as another memento of her homeland. 

Jill expected the flowers to fade or for her finger to pass through them, except she found them solid and somewhat fragile—soft to the touch, yet real nonetheless. As real as the ground she was standing on or the dress she was wearing. 

Yes, it was a dress she wore, not the ragged robe they’d haphazardly thrown on her. A simple white sleeveless gown that fell to her ankles. She had no blisters, no fetters, no lithification. Nothing that bound her. 

She was…free. 

For the first time in years, Jill felt an all-encompassing giddiness that made her bounce on the balls of her feet. Along with it was a familiar freezing heat that surged from within her, burning every tether, every vein until her chest swelled and magick brimmed just beneath the surface of her skin. And then it burst, showering her in a million tiny crystalline snowflakes that glinted silver in the light. 

Jill’s quiet gasp sounded more like an exhalation of the breath she had been holding. The icy crystals landed on her palm and didn’t melt at her touch. 

How—

This couldn’t be real. She’d cast magick and yet no stiffness crept up her flesh. She looked at the snowflakes still floating around her. Then she looked at her hands. From the deep well of her power, Jill drew another trail of magick, letting it manifest in a stream of icy fountain from her open palm. 

She felt no pain. No petrification. 

This place wasn’t real. 

A place as beautiful as this, where one could evoke magick without prompting its excruciating rebound effects. 

A place very much like a dream. 

The thought had just settled in her mind when Jill caught a voice drifting in the wind. Familiar, but not quite so. It sounded deeper, rougher, as though the owner had grown out of his boyish tenor. 

Jill turned, and her world stopped. 

Clive stood a few yalms away in a loose white shirt and dark pants. For a moment, she couldn’t recognize who he was. His hair was longer, somewhat more unruly than the last time she had seen him; a stubble had grown around his jawline, and he was taller—much taller—with a broader chest and sharper features. Yet those eyes: the same stark blue she had always loved looked at her so kindly. 

“Jill,” he called, soft. The edges of his mouth quirked into a familiar easy smile that pulled at her heartstrings. 

Before she knew it, the dam she had been holding back for nigh on four years burst. A sob tore out of her in a sky-shattering wail. Jill kicked her feet against the ground, skipped over rocks and undergrowth, and leapt into Clive’s open arms. 

And she wept. 

Jill wept and wept, one shuddering sob after another. The solid thrum of his heartbeat drummed against her cheek; his breath fanned her ear as he whispered her name again and again. 

“You’re alive,” she murmured. He was real. “They told me you died.” 

The moment she heard that the two princes were lost in the fire, Jill’s world had turned upside down. She couldn’t believe it—didn’t want to believe it. For a time, she had refused to give in. Clive wouldn’t have wanted her to. He was alive somewhere in the world, biding his time to reclaim his rightful place and set everything right again. But being a prisoner of the Ironbloods put a toll on both her body and mind. The light she had religiously relied on slowly dimmed. When a broken body was tossed in front of her, the light sputtered out. 

Jill’s arms tightened around him. Warm leather and sweet cinnamon—his familiar scents washed over her. He was here. He was alive. 

If she could only stay—

But then Clive called her name, and his tone carried a sense of foreboding that made a tiny crack form on the surface of her dream. Memories flowed fresh into her mind. She clung onto him, digging her fingers deep into his back and refusing to let go. 

He tried again. “Jill.”

Jill shook her head, pressed herself deeper into him. She wanted to disappear; wanted to leave that awful world. 

Let me stay, her heart begged. Let me be with you. 

But Clive held her shoulders. With one gentle push, he dislodged her from him. He peered into her face, but Jill looked away. 

“Jill.” The tenderness in his voice threatened another sob to break free from her. “Jill, your place isn't here.”

“No.”

“Jill—”

“No! Don’t make me go back.” She whirled her eyes at him, found him pained, saw him grimace. “Don’t make me return. Not there. Not to him.” 

A muscle twitched along Clive’s jaws.

“They killed her, Clive; right in front of me—Lady Ada…” Her breath hitched. She remembered: the sight of her handmaid’s broken body in the bowels of Mount Drustanus. 

Heat coalesced in the large circular hall of the inner chamber. They’d brought Jill in, cuffed and chained. Jill couldn’t have guessed why they’d taken her there, but when she noticed the figure on the altar, her blood had run cold. 

Lady Ada had lain motionless on top of the slab of stone beneath the crystal mound. Her clothes had been bloodied and torn; her empty eyes gazed almost unseeing. As Jill approached, she’d sworn she saw a flicker of recognition cross her handmaid’s features. Through her parched, cut lip, Lady Ada had whimpered. 

Jill had realized then what they’d been about to do. She screamed; kicked her guard and attempted to run—toward Lady Ada—but the guard yanked her chain and Jill fell back. In one fell swoop, the Patriarch’s blade pierced Lady Ada’s chest. A deafening cry erupted from Jill’s throat. 

Should you fail to follow my command, the Patriarch had drawled, such is the fate that awaits every woman and children from Rosaria.  

Her breath now shook. She could still see their faces: the children who'd been taken as hostages to make her comply. Their fear was etched in the lines of their faces—their utter horror before the blades slit their throats. 

“It would’ve been better had I died with you.” A fervent wish she had never dared to speak aloud, yet it now slipped from between her lips in a whisper so weak, so strained… 

Jill’s knees buckled from under her. Clive held her upright; his strong arms the haven she had always remembered them to be. He patted the back of her head—a familiar gentle touch, stroking her hair.

“I have no one else, Clive,” she whimpered. “I have nothing else to live for.” 

Silence fell between them, a comfortable sort that enveloped her like how she imagined a parent’s embrace would feel like. The wind picked up. The petals rose and danced around her—idly, intoxicatingly—carrying a sweet scent that brought her back to a time of peace and tranquility. 

“Then what about Lady Marleigh?” Clive spoke. “Or the other women and children still trapped under that mountain. Do you not have them?” 

“They would be better off if I died.”

“You know that’s not true.” Clive’s voice was stern. Jill dropped her gaze. “Had you died, the torment they go through would have been far greater than whatever they have to endure now. But you’re alive, and you are blessed with the power of Shiva. Do you remember, Jill? When you asked me for my reasons to become the First Shield, do you remember what I said about the Phoenix?” 

Jill wished she had forgotten, but the memory was seared into her mind, it was impossible to forget. But she refused to speak it. She didn’t want to make it real—to make her hope in a world where hope had perished in flames. Yet Clive was looking at her so imploringly. He cupped her face and stroked his thumbs across her cheeks.

So she said, “You said it was a symbol of hope, that it gave us the power to safeguard our people.” 

“And is that not why Shiva has chosen you? To protect yourself and the women and children in captivity?”

No, she wanted to say, but part of her knew that Clive spoke true. Of all the people in the world, why had the Ice Queen chosen her—in the precise moment when her future and the death of her soul would have been secured? Had she been more pious, she would have thought it was a message from the Gods; and perhaps, that had been her thinking, for a while. But there was only so much a person could endure. The strongest man in the world would break under an endless onslaught of despair. 

She looked into his eyes, so bright and alive. Jill reached out and touched his temple, trailing a line down to where his stubble had subtly grown. Real, but not real.

“But you’re not there anymore,” she murmured, even as she felt her heart hardening into resolve. “How am I supposed to look to my light when I can’t find you?” 

He chuckled then. He took her fingers and held it between his hands. “Light…doesn’t always have to come from one source.”

A quiet sob escaped her lips. Clive drew her into his arms again. 

“You are strong, Jill. You have strength in your heart—unfettered and unseen. If you cannot find that light in yourself, then look for it in the people who believe in you, the way I found mine in you.” 

For the briefest of moments, Jill felt the featherlight brush of a kiss on her forehead. She closed her eyes, held onto him, and willed him to stay, but like every dream, she felt him slip and fade. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. 

I’m always with you, Jill.

A gust of wind tugged at her dress, flapping it around her ankle and pushing Jill off balance. As her feet fell a step forward, she opened her eyes, and found snowdrop petals fluttering on the space where Clive had been. 

***

Jill wasn’t quite sure what roused her. It could be the quiet footfalls dragging against the floor that her ears picked. It could be the unfamiliar warmth flickering beside her. As her consciousness returned, Jill found that her hair was damp with sweat, as well as the thin robe that covered her body, and she realized it might as well have been that too. 

She groaned, then the shuffling feet fell into silence. An unfamiliar ceiling greeted her eyes when she peeled them open. Stone ceiling, still, but it wasn’t the dark and dank cell that she remembered. A warm brown color, lit by torches set in intervals. A lantern lit the cell on a table beside her. Jill stirred and realized she wasn’t on the floor but on a cot—hard, but covered in bedding still—with a blanket over her and a towel on her forehead. 

“She’s awake.”

“Lady Marleigh—”

“Should we inform the Patriarch?” 

“Shh!” A voice rose above the whispers. Footsteps approached her and Jill looked to see a familiar figure crouching beside her bed. Lady Marleigh’s features broke into relief, pulled tight by a cut in her lip and a nasty bruise above one eye. “My lady Jill,” she whispered. “How are you feeling?” 

“Lady Marleigh…” Jill croaked. 

Her throat hurt just to speak. Marleigh reached for a glass and helped Jill to a half-sitting position, bringing the rim of the cup to her parched mouth. Jill downed the water in large gulps. In the periphery of her senses, she heard sighs and a quiet sob which the others shushed. 

“Thank you,” she said, settling back onto the bed. “But where are we, Lady Marleigh? What happened? Why are you hurt?” 

Marleigh didn’t respond. She only smiled as she took the towel off Jill’s forehead and pressed her hand to Jill’s face. “Your fever’s gone down a bit, but you’re still not fit to be up.” She waved her hand and one of the other women stepped forward. “This is your physicker, my lady. The four of us have been taking turns keeping watch.”

“Keeping watch?” 

The physicker—a woman who seemed to be a handful of years younger than Marleigh—grimaced. “The Patriarch did give us leave to tend to you, milady, but we cannot trust those brutes to guard, not when you’ve been out for several days—a week, at the most.”

A week…

Seeing her confusion, the physicker smiled. “Truth be told, I was afraid we couldn’t save you, milady. Thank Great Greagor that you decided to return to us.” 

“Hush,” Lady Marleigh hissed, “don’t speak of such nonsense.”

The physicker bowed. “I shall get your meal.” She excused herself and, along with the other two women, stepped out of the cell quietly. They looked right, then left, before heading away. 

Jill looked at Marleigh, who was already dipping the towel in a bowl of water and wringing it dry. The older woman dabbed Jill’s face and neck, wiping the grime and the sweat away. “Do you suppose you could take some dinner, my lady?” she asked. She pulled the blanket away and began washing Jill’s arms, one after the other. “If not, we could start from something light. Soup, perhaps?” 

“Am I still dreaming?” Jill couldn’t help asking the question. Marleigh’s brown eyes flicked to hers, perplexed. Jill sighed then looked at the ceiling. “I was never allowed such an extravagant meal, Lady Marleigh. Tell me true: did you plead with the Patriarch? Is that why you have a bruise on your face? Did he hit you?” 

Lady Marleigh didn’t respond. After finishing with Jill’s arms, she went on to offer Jill a change of clothes—drenched as they were now in her sweat. “A new set of robes has arrived. And don’t worry, I did not swipe them from the laundry.” 

Lady Marleigh attempted to laugh, but her joke fell on deaf ears. Jill looked at her, worried and fearful for the kind lady’s action. Marleigh pressed her lips together, and then sighed. She went on to dip the towel in water again, wringing it before dabbing at Jill’s face.

“‘Tis nothing for you to be concerned of, my lady,” she said. “My actions are my own, and if they would see you hale and whole, then there is nothing more I would ask for.” 

“Lady Marleigh—”

“I have nothing to lose. My family is dead. I was brought here under the cover of night along with dozens of my people. I thought I would die within the first week if not the first day. But then I saw you, my lady. Terror etched on your face but you refused to back down. You may not know it but a lot of the girls here look up to you.” She smiled at Jill’s apparent astonishment. “Take Ella, for example—the physicker you just met. She was heavily pregnant during the capture and soon lost her child. You soothed her and offered a flower made of paper for the non-existent grave. Beatrice, one of the other girls, once tripped while bringing a meal to the Patriarch’s chambers. She would’ve been beaten to death had you not stepped in and quickly handed her a new tray. She was inconsolable when she heard you’ve fallen ill.” 

“There are more stories to share and I would regale you each and every one of them had we the time, but you see, my lady,” Lady Marleigh went on, “you are not alone.” 

Jill blinked, felt tears already welling in her eyes, felt her throat already closing. Her breath hitched, and she looked away, burrowed herself deeper into her cot, but there was nowhere she could hide. The blanket was paper thin; it could not cover the quake overtaking her body as a sob slowly broke out of her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, brought her hands to her face. “I’m sorry, Lady Marleigh.” 

She’d wanted to die—had wished to disappear. She’d prayed for it so fervently in the depths of her dream, for death to come quick and silent in the dead of night. And perhaps then, she would be free. 

Free…like how she had been in the field of white snowdrops—flowers that now gave her strength the moment she thought of what had transpired there.

Clive was right. Shiva came to her and blessed her with the power to protect these people from harm. Even should she be bait to keep the Patriarch’s attention on her, if that allowed her countrywomen another day to live, then she would do it. 

She held out her hand and grasped Lady Marleigh’s fingers. “Help me get up, Lady Marleigh.”

“But, my lady, you’re not yet fit—” 

“I shall have the change of clothes, and I shall have what dinner my stomach can tolerate.” Despite the quiver in her voice and the tears streaming down her face, she sounded firm—firmer than she had ever felt before. 

She had strength in her, burning and unbridled. If she should sacrifice herself so her people could live, then so be it. 

I will find my light.

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

Blissful Serenity

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Word count: 1189

Rating: G

Pairing: Cloud Strife/Tifa Lockhart

Summary: Cloud returns to Tifa's bar and finds her asleep on the table.

Notes: written for @clotiweek 2024 Day 5: Gentle.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Tifa sat, propped on a stool with her head on the bar counter and her arms folded beneath it as cushion, so when Cloud entered the store and the bell jingled, he reached up with his hand to still it. It was only half past ten. While there were still people up and about, the street outside was mostly empty. The lights at the storefront were still on, but the sign had been flipped to ‘CLOSED’. Judging from the kitchen towel loosely held in Tifa’s fingers, she had probably been in the middle of cleaning the counter when she fell asleep. He wished she had locked the store up. He could have used the back door. 

Quietly, Cloud shut the door, gently avoiding the bell so as not to make a sudden noise that would jerk her awake. It still let out a faint tinkle, but nothing more than that. 

Cloud weaved around the cluster of tables and chairs then, once he arrived at the bar counter, placed the grocery bag on the table surface. He looked at her sleeping posture. Tranquil; her shoulders rose and fell in steady rhythms. 

Cloud pulled a chair from under the counter and sat. Then he set his elbow on the table and propped his face on his fist. Then he folded his arm and rested his face side-ways, looking at her. 

The light cast shadows on her face. With each breath she took and every one she exhaled, her long ebony bangs fluttered. He reached up and stroked her hair, attempting to move the stray strands out of the way, but his fingers caught on her forehead, and she stirred. 

Cloud froze as Tifa groaned. She shifted her head in her sleep, her lips smacking quietly in the silence. With bated breath, he watched—waited—until Tifa nestled into the crook of her arms again and her breathing grew steady once more. A half-sigh, half-chuckle escaped Cloud’s mouth. He cocked his head and peered into her face. When he was certain the deep lull of slumber had pulled her under, he carefully slipped his fingers beneath her bangs and moved them out of the way. 

She was beautiful. The thought came unbidden but familiar now. He’d lost count how much it had jumped at him every time he beheld the full view of her profile. It settled in his mind and inside his heart, a puzzle piece finding its snug fit within the chaos of himself. But that night, something felt different. 

Cloud’s eyes traced the lines of her jaw to the smooth contours of her cheek, up the curve of her brows and back to her slightly parted lips. She looked so… serene, so unguarded. On his last visit, Barret had mentioned how Tifa looked different. Cloud hadn’t noticed it but Barret had said how she’d gotten a lot more relaxed.

“Seems the store’s doing you good,” he’d said with a nod. 

She’d smiled, sweet and small, and Cloud hadn’t thought much about it then, but seeing her like this now, he couldn’t help wondering if perhaps Barret was right. If anything, her countenance was devoid of the quiet agitation he would sometimes spot when she thought no one was looking. Her face looked softer now, her posture a tad more peaceful with herself. She had even left the store unlocked while she slept at the bar. Cloud knew she could defend herself should any unsavory people find their way inside, but the thought that she had to defend herself made his blood boil. 

She shouldn’t. She’d gone through so much. From Nibelheim to Midgar and now here, at the edge of what had been the capital of the world’s leading nation, finally finding the place where she could finally be. 

Cloud’s fingers hovered over her face for a split moment before his knuckles touched her pale porcelain skin. Then he paused, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t stir, so, with feather-light strokes, he caressed her cheek. 

She was so soft; so strong; and yet so fragile. 

What had he ever done to deserve her? 

Tifa groaned again, but this time Cloud didn’t still his hand. He watched her eyelids flutter open. Her ruby gaze glazed over before locking sleepily on him. “Cloud?” Her sleep-laden voice murmured. Cloud had to fight off the smile creeping into his face. 

“Good evening, sleepy head. Sorry I’m late.” 

Her own smile bloomed across her features. She closed her eyes again, and he could see that she was savoring the gentle, soothing touch his fingers brought.

“Hey,” he said. “Come on, let’s not sleep out here.”

Tifa responded by reaching up with her hand and slipping her fingers in-between his. She let their intertwined hands drop onto the table counter. “I’m tired,” she mumbled. “Five more minutes.” 

“We still need to clean up and close the shop, put the groceries away.” Her responding moan drew a chuckle out of him. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“No, I won’t.”

He scoffed, light-hearted in manners. Tifa wasn’t sleeping—at least, not yet. Her brows were knitted in a way that told him she was pretending to be asleep. And if not that, then the curve of her lips gave her away. 

Cloud pushed himself off the table then began stroking her head. She seemed to relax even more. 

“Had a long day?” he asked. 

She nodded. “Busy. Customers wouldn’t stop coming.”

“I guess that new pizza recipe really took off.”

Tifa chuckled under her breath. “It was sold out halfway through our rush hour.”

“No wonder you asked me to get more of the stuff. Yuffie made a good marketing manager, huh?” 

At that, Tifa laughed. She finally raised her head and met Cloud’s mirthful gaze across the counter. Sleeping on the side of her face for the past half hour or so had made some strands of her raven hair stick to her cheek and some to her lips. Cloud pried those strands away, then he straightened her bedhead and patted the side of her head for one good measure. As his hand lingered on her face, Tifa leaned into his touch. 

No word could ever properly explain the swelling in Cloud’s heart every time he witnessed her peaceful expression—as though it seemed to say that all was right again in the world. They still had ups and downs and some days could’ve been better, but those mundane trivialities seemed trifling at the face of all they had had endured. God knew how much she had done for him and sacrificed for him and part of him wondered how he could ever pay her back. Perhaps, one day, he could learn how to console her the way she had always consoled him. But until such time came, he would do what he could to make sure her smile never lost its luster. 

He brought her hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss on the back of her hand. A touch of pink colored Tifa’s cheeks, but her eyes crinkled in delight. 

“Come on,” Cloud said. “Let’s close up for the night so we can rest.”

Tifa nodded. “Sure.” 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

i have loved you for as long as time itself

Fandom: Love and Deepspace

Word count: 1595

Rating: G

Pairing: Xavier/MC

Summary: The first time Xavier saw you, it was raining flowers.

Notes: I couldn't get Xavier's birthday event music out of my head, so I ended up writing something :')) (also somewhat inspired by the flower mentioned in the event - the Wavyleaf Sea Lavender, which apparently means "Eternal Love" in-game)

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The first time I saw you, it was raining flowers. 

The spring breeze had arrived, tugging loose cherry blossoms from overhanging boughs. They danced in the wind, circling around you like metals drawn to a magnet. You smiled and laughed when you noticed, your dainty fingers reaching up to one of the stray petals. You held it to a friend, who scoffed and brushed the flowers from your hair. As though on cue, the lights turned green to walk. Your friend pulled at your arm and the two of you crossed the road. 

Unlike the blossoms that glided elsewhere with the breeze, my eyes followed you—glued as they were to the back of your head, wishing you’d turn but hoping you wouldn’t notice, because then I could watch you for as long as I wanted. 

You reached the other side of the street, and the lights turned red. My heart did a little flip when you did pause and shift on your feet. I turned back to my book, flipping the page as though nothing had occurred. Only, when I dared another glimpse, you were only laughing at what your friend had said. 

You didn’t notice me. 

Thank God, I inwardly said, ignoring the sting in my chest and the lump forming in my throat. 

***

I worked part-time at an acquaintance’s book store, though I wouldn’t really call it a part-time job. I was mostly helping him mind the shop whenever he had somewhere else to be, but he came to appreciate my help, and so I would drop by every other afternoon when I had nothing else to do. 

The shop was small and rather old—an antique, one might say. A lot of the books were worn and dusty. I would air them out and even offer to clean the shelves from time to time. They didn’t have a lot of customers, so the owner often let me take a book and read it on the sitting area by the store window. 

That’s how I knew the exact time you would be coming home from school. 

The store lay on the way between your home and school, apparently. Contrary to popular belief, I hadn’t known that, but Jeremiah didn’t believe me. He thought I had purposefully sought the store owner and planted myself in his life all so that one day I could have the opportunity to work part-time here and quietly watched over you going to-and-fro school. For one, I didn’t have that much free time. For another, planning that much ahead sounded like a pain, so of course I hadn’t done that. 

It was purely a pleasant surprise when I spotted you outside the store. A glimpse of raven hair; a familiar uniform of a different color; you were almost always accompanied by that friend of yours: the girl with the short brown hair. The first time I spotted you, I had rushed out, still wearing the store’s green apron and holding a duster on one hand. You’d already gone, the lilt of your familiar voice the only thing trailing behind. 

The clock chimed 4:30 PM. The store was quiet, like always. I set my book down on my lap and looked out the window. Right on time, you entered my vision; but this time, you were alone. 

I expected you to move along like you always did. I’d found myself content just being able to see you like this. But you stopped in front of the store. You looked at something on your hand, then looked at the sign above the door. I knew what you were going to do, but hadn’t quite processed the idea that you would actually enter the store until you pushed open the door and the bell jingled overhead. 

Your eyes met mine, and I froze. 

“Hello,” you said. 

The bell jingled again when the door closed behind you. 

At my silence, you tried again: “I was hoping to look for a book. It’s for literature class. I couldn’t find it in the stores I usually frequent, so I was hoping I could look for it… here? I heard you sell a lot of old books…” 

I should say something—anything—but my mind had frozen in shock. All I could think of was how and why you were even here. Had I been caught? Had you noticed me somehow? But you stood there, in your autumn uniform, your sleek black hair falling to your back and swaying with each movement of your head as you tilt it in confusion. 

“Um… hello?” you said again, and I blinked. 

“I’m sorry. Did you say you were looking for a book?” I stood from the chair and brought my book back to its shelf. You followed me to the cashier counter. “Can you let me know the title? I’ll look for it in our catalog.” 

You didn’t know me—didn’t remember me. Of course; what had I expected? You weren’t you. You weren’t her. And yet you were her, and I couldn’t see you as anything but her. 

I didn’t know how I managed to keep my composure the entire time you were here, but I helped you find your book, and I kept the amiable clerk smile throughout the transaction. When you smiled your thanks, it was all I could do not to scream. 

Later, I found the owner and told him I couldn’t mind the store any longer. 

***

“And you left, just like that.” 

Jeremiah didn’t even spare me a glance as he moved down the aisle, spraying his flowers as he went. I’d stopped by under the pretext of helping him, but it hadn’t taken long before he noticed something was wrong. 

“I didn’t leave,” I said. “It was already high time for me to look for somewhere else to work anyway. I’ve stayed there for longer than I should’ve.” 

This time, Jeremiah did look at me. He didn’t say anything, however—except, he sprayed water at the back of my head. I whirled at him, ready to give him my own attack, but the look on his face stopped me in my tracks. 

“Fool.” His brows turned down in a sympathetic grimace. 

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t need him to. I’m not daft enough to not notice that I was running away. But I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t risk you recognizing me. 

The turmoil in my heart tore my insides out. I ended up spraying water at Jeremiah too, who later froze. 

Thus began our water-spraying fight in his greenhouse that lasted for almost an hour. 

***

Jeremiah was right; I was a fool. Even after I had left the bookstore, my eyes kept searching for your shadow—at the intersection of a crossroad… or under a blooming cherry blossom tree. The lilt of a familiar voice or a glimpse of raven-black hair would have me looking up, but you were never there. It was never you. 

Perhaps it was for the best. Memories were meant to be buried. No longer could we share a laugh or frolick like in our bygone days. It wasn’t my first time losing you. As long as a fraction of you stayed alive, there was nothing else I would ask for. I could live with this pain a thousand-time fold. 

Or so I had thought. 

And yet here you now stood, a few years older than the last time we had met. 

You looked at me in that way that told me you were thinking of something hard. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Old habits died hard. You were not you, yet deep down it seemed you were still you. 

“Why are you laughing?” Your lips quirked into a familiar pout that reminded me of another you in a distant lifetime. But I found that image of you had blurred, like trying to see through a murky glass, or a rippling pool. I saw you there, but should I reach out, the water would break, and your mirage gone. In its place was a reflection, clear as any day, of a you that wasn’t quite the same but still you nonetheless. 

I smiled, a tender affection slipping beneath the cracks of my indifferent mask, but I didn’t care if you saw. I had loved you for as long as time itself. 

I picked the blooms sprouting in the undergrowth. The small blue petals felt delicate to the touch. I remembered a similar flower growing in Philos; remembered us spending an afternoon idly sleeping on a field of them. You’d weaved them into a crown and set it on top of my head. Your smile then had been radiant. 

“Do you know what these are called?” I asked. 

“Wavyleaf Sea Lavender?”

I rose to my feet, then slipped the little blossoms in your hair. You flinched in surprise but didn’t back away. We weren’t as close yet, so you might have thought it was bold of me to slip flowers in your hair, but I was glad that you, at least, didn’t slap my hand away.

I smiled at that. “It looks good on you.” 

You cocked your head, face conflicted between curiosity and bewilderment. I could see that you wanted to call me mad; and perhaps, I was. I wouldn’t have been surprised had you done so. But in the end, you pulled your phone from inside your bag and used it as a mirror. Your pleasant astonishment was a sight to see. “It does look pretty,” you said. The smile that parted your lips was as brilliant as I remembered. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

His Moon and Her Star

Fandom: Final Fantasy X

Word count: 2K

Rating: Gen

Pairing: Tidus/Yuna

Summary: A look into the moments Tidus and Yuna shared throughout their journey across Spira: the dreams he offered, the promises he made.

Notes: written for @tidunazine ! I was offered the opportunity to become guest writer. Thank you so much ^_^ I had a blast working on this fic~

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*

He was an odd sort: awkward, clumsy, and always telling the tallest of tales. At least, the others thought they were tall tales. Yuna believed him. When she told him so, he broke into the widest grin that barely fit into his face. 

“I wish you could see it,” he later said. “Zanarkand; the city that never sleeps.” His glance cut over to her face, the grin still in place. “I’ll take you there someday.” 

The offer had come nonchalantly, his face a picture of resplendent jubilance, almost bright like the sun, unaware of the fate that awaited her at the end of her pilgrimage.

It was apparent, from the first few moments of meeting him, that Tidus’s Zanarkand was not the same as the Zanarkand they all knew. Sir Jecht, her father’s guardian, used to tell her the same thing. No wonder; they were father and son, as she later learned. She noticed it in the way they carried themselves; their hearty laughs; their staunch refusal to let anything, not even their predicaments, dampen their mood. A trait she would like to copy one day. Tidus always frowned every time someone noted the similarities, but nevertheless, they had become a source of comfort for her.

It was during a warm afternoon that Yuna found him practicing blitzball outside the inn on the road to Luca. Wakka and his team would be competing in the tournament there. Tidus, too, apparently—a trump card to finally break their twenty-three-year losing streak. Wakka had looked so confident when he announced this to everyone, much to an aggrieved Lulu, because it was clear to everyone that Tidus wasn’t—shouldn’t be—right in the head. Not when he spoke of cities of dreams with lights and revelries all year round in a place where ruins had stood for a thousand years and overrun with fiends, right? But when he displayed his skills in front of the Besaid Aurochs, no one could dispute that he might be—at least, regarding his status as a blitzball star player—telling the truth. 

“I see you, you know.” 

Yuna blinked, then straightened her back. Tidus had stopped tossing the ball into the air, now cradling it against his hip as he stared at her through the gap in the leaves. Heat flushed across her cheeks; Yuna covered it with a cough. 

He crossed to her hiding spot behind an array of green plants by the inn's side door, sitting on the white stone steps. His lips curled into a mischievous grin. 

“Wanna play?” He offered her the ball. “You always look like you wanna play with us.”

“I—” She paused, gauging the ball in her hands. In all honesty, she hadn’t wanted to play—never thought to join them. She’d always been content watching from the sidelines on her breaks between summoner training. But there was something about Tidus’s style that reminded her of Sir Jecht and, hence, her father. She looked up. Tidus cocked his head to the side and nodded encouragingly at her. 

He was already moving away before she could give an answer. Yuna found no reprieve. 

“I don’t know how to,” she finally replied even as she followed him to the small clearing beside the inn. 

“I’ll teach you.”

Easy for him to say, but Yuna tossed the ball to him nonetheless and listened to his instructions on how to catch. She never understood the rules but Tidus’s animated face as he tried to explain as simply as he could was enjoyable to see. At some point, she’d begun to smile, which made him pause. 

“What’s that look for?”

“Huh?”

“That smile.”

Yuna wiped the expression from her face. She hadn’t realized. “I just… thought it’s fun.” Tidus didn’t break his gaze. “It’s always fun watching you play—you guys play,” she quickly amended. 

He smirked, seemingly noticing her slip. Yuna shifted her eyes away, a blush coloring her cheeks.

“Wakka said they've been on a losing streak, but I’m gonna change that. Just you watch. The Aurochs will be the one to dominate the Luca tournament.” The smirk turned into a confident grin, and once again, Yuna couldn’t help the smile returning to her face. 

*** 

That night, Macalania Woods stood silent. No wind rattled the trees; not even a breeze to ripple the water. Sitting on the sandy bank with her clothes dripping wet, Yuna had pulled her knees to her chest and whispered the words that had been weighing on her mind: 

I’m sorry. 

For not saying anything. For keeping things to herself. 

Tidus stopped wringing water from his clothes and looked at her. Yuna stared fixedly at the still water. From the corner of her eyes, she saw him prop his arms on the ground then direct his gaze upward to the star-studded sky. 

“If anything,” he spoke, his voice soft, “I should be the one who apologizes. I said all those things without really knowing what your journey is about.”

Yuna shook her head. “I kept it a secret. The others doubted your story but I didn’t—”

“Then it was as much their fault as it was mine!” Yuna flinched at the edge in his voice. “Wakka, Lulu, Kimahri, even Auron… They kept quiet as I babbled on about beating Sin and going places after this pilgrimage was over. But beating Sin would mean—” His breath caught; Yuna’s fists clenched around her hakama. “I wanted to show you Zanarkand. My Zanarkand. But never at the cost of your own life.” 

Silence followed his angry outburst. As though shaken, the previously tranquil pyreflies now bobbed and hovered by the lake. She had always known what her fate would be and accepted it unquestioningly. She still did. 

“But you said you were happy,” Tidus went on, “and maybe I can understand why they let me be.” She glanced to her side. Tidus was looking at her, a smile to his lips tinted blue by the pyreflies’ glow. “That’s why we’ll make lots of memories together—the best, greatest, most fun memories you’ll ever have that you’ll face Sin with the bravest of smiles.”

She wasn’t lying when she told him he made her happy. To see him laugh, and smile, and talk like a tomorrow existed beyond the summoning of the Final Aeon. It had freed her from the constraints of her friends’ worries and sorrow. 

She felt the tension leaving her grip on her hakama. She would leave, but Spira would be protected and her father’s legacy preserved. That was enough for her. 

“Thank you,” she said past the growing lump in her throat. 

Before she could second-guess herself, Yuna leaned her head against his shoulder, relishing his warmth and steady presence. He was her sun: blinding and brilliant against the darkness of the night. Would they call her selfish for hoping that he could stay with her? He anchored her, past her fear and pressing doubt, a reassurance that everything would be alright.

***

It was like waking up from a dream. 

The sun rose on the city of Bevelle, painting it in hues of pink and gold. The people were still asleep. At times, Yuna would hear soft steps on the corridor outside: maids preparing for the day. Yuna’s clothes had been laid out on her bed. She couldn’t sleep. She sat at her desk, watching the backdrop of an inn room within a sphere. Her friends had recorded it when they had been staying in the Calm Lands. That seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Someone cleared his throat. “One, two… Test,” came a voice from the sphere. Her throat ached when Tidus’s face appeared in the projected light. “Hey, is this thing on?” 

“Yes, it is, doofus, now hurry up!” Rikku was barely visible from the corner. 

“Uh, right then.” Tidus cleared his throat, sat straighter, and looked directly at her. Yuna’s breath hitched. “Hey, Yuna,” he said. “Congrats on defeating Sin.” 

It had been a week or so since their battle with Sin. Yuna’s life had been a whirlwind of meetings and reforms with the remaining Maesters of Yevon, and then meetings with the people to confirm that Sin was finally, truly gone. An Age of Eternal Calm, they’d said. Yuna had smiled throughout it all. 

Later today, she would address those same people on a stage at the Bevelle courtroom. Her speech lay beside the sphere on a piece of white parchment. Someone had written it for her, made her promise to read and remember every line. She hadn’t liked the contents very much. Nerves getting the better of her, she had gone and walked around her room, searching every drawer and cabinet for something that would catch her interest, until she came across the sphere in a bag—Rikku’s. 

Now the tears she hadn’t been able to conjure trickled down her cheeks one after another. Her heart had seized at the sight of Tidus’s glowing smile. Rikku quickly shoved him aside after he’d said his piece and said it was her turn next. Yuna laughed at that. Then the others took turns, and when it was almost over, Rikku sat in front of the sphere again, only for Tidus to grab her arm and push her out of the room. She protested, but Tidus said she’d have lots of time to congratulate Yuna later. He shut the door before Rikku could get a word in. 

“Now that that’s settled,” he mumbled. He looked around, looked at the sphere, scratched the back of his head, then sat in front of it again. He closed his eyes for a while before taking a deep breath, and when he opened them, the bright blue of his gaze, so like the pyreflies’ light in Macalania, met hers. 

Her lungs constricted.   

“If you’re seeing this, Yuna,” he began to say, “I guess that means I’m not there anymore.”

The tears that had started as a slow trickle became a steady stream. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you. I guess I didn’t want to worry you. I only learned about it too when we were traveling across Mount Gagazet. Bahamut came to me and pleaded for my help. You didn’t want to abandon your people; I didn’t either. If there was a chance to free you from your shackles, then I’d gladly do it, even if it’d cost me my life.” He laughed, somewhat self-deprecating. “I guess we’re more alike than we thought. Anyway, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep all my promises, but I hope I did keep one. You have all the best memories stored in those spheres I had Rikku record.” He paused. “I’ll always be with you, Yuna.”

The recording stopped. Tidus’s face remained for a second longer, before the light vanished, and the sphere dimmed. 

Yuna gasped. Anguish she’d managed to keep at bay now surged like the high tides of a tsunami, threatening to drown her whole. Sobs racked her body until it was all she could do to remain in her seat. 

There had been times when Yuna thought it had been a dream: the silly laughs, the funny jokes, the kiss in the lake. He’d been too perfect, knowing just what to say and what to do, keeping her spirits up when she had been on the verge of breaking. And then he was gone, just like that, with no trace in the world. She’d whistled at the pier time and again, but no fresh-faced boy with a sunny smile ever rushed to her side. Her father had left her keepsakes to remember him by, but Tidus was someone who should not have existed in the first place. 

The sphere sat silently on the desk. Her fingers twitched; she pressed the play button again. 

“One, two… Test…” Tidus’s face came on. “Hey is this thing on?” 

“Yes, it is, doofus, now hurry up!” 

Tidus left no keepsakes, but this sphere was proof that her memories were real. As the morning light seeped through the curtains, Yuna’s lips curved into a gentle smile. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

His Creed

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Word count: 915

Rating: Gen

Characters: Hermes-centric

Notes: late entry for @applesyrcusweek Day 1: Hope/Despair. This is my first time writing Hermes. I hope I did him justice.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

What does it mean to live? 

Their voices grated on Hermes’s ears: detached murmurs, as though the hippe they had just released on Lethe was nothing more than a simple creation deemed unsuitable for life on Eitherys. Yet, perhaps, that was indeed what was going through the minds of his researchers gathered around the lake that afternoon. Surely the creature which had rampaged across the water and killed more than a few of their subjects should not be deemed worthy to live. 

Hermes had seen his people bind the poor animal with magick, forcefully pacifying it and herding it away. They might have done away with the releasing of aether had they not sensed his presence and asked for his judgment. Any other person would have immediately waved them off, let them do what must be done. It was their protocol; Hermes knew it by heart. Yet he couldn’t help the pause. If only he could detect a semblance of recognition in those depthless aquamarine eyes, he would tell them to wait and let him examine it to see what was wrong. But the binding magick had sealed off any emotion the hippe might have felt. Its eyes had been as soulless as a doll. 

“Yes, you may,” he had quietly said, ignoring the pang in his heart whenever he issued the command. 

His researchers had nodded and bowed their heads, then taken the creature farther away into the lake. Not far enough, however, that Hermes could not see the entire process nor hear their hushed murmurs. 

It had been its final day of testing. Had everything gone smoothly, the hippe would have been deemed fit for life. They would have called the owner to pick up his creation and register its name. But now all that awaited them was a report of a failed concept.  

But was it truly a failure? 

As the hippe’s aether dissipated into the lake, leaving only little motes of light that would soon disappear with the flow, Hermes thought back to the times he had seen to the creature himself. He had taken a liking to it—to this beautiful wavekin with its tangled green mane and robust body. Strong, and regal. The fins on its head, chest, and flanks glimmered like rainbow even at night. Its pools of aquamarine shone with stark intelligence. Sometimes, it would let Hermes stroke the powerful column of its neck or nibble on the apple he had brought from his orchard. It was a good concept and Hermes had felt proud to have witnessed it. 

So then why had it gone berserk? 

His researchers stepped away from the remains of the hippe's light and returned to firm ground. 

“Such a shame,” one of them said. “But nothing else could be done when it had injured one of our staff.”

“That was the fifth attempt at a concept, was it not? Either they scrap the entire thing and start from scratch or…” He noticed his companion’s stare. “Have they done that?” 

“They have. Which is why they should follow our advice and submit a different concept. Clearly wavekins aren’t their forte. Hippes aren’t meant to be docile.” 

Their hushed murmurs faded into the distance as they went farther away from the lake. Hermes remained at his spot, staring at the now-empty water bed. 

He wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed. Perhaps a bell—or had it only been a handful of minutes? He should probably visit the injured staff, but his heart lay heavy. His hands flexed on his sides. So much power on this feeble flesh. To create and uncreate. 

Who were they to decide when someone—something—had no more reason to live? Was the briefest of violent impulses enough of a warrant to kill them? What about sloth? Greed? They said the star had no use for failed concepts, yet that dogma did not extend to the people themselves. They were beings created by Eitherys for Eitherys. How were they so confident in their hubris that they were perfect when each and every one of them were rife with flaws? 

A flutter of wings caught his senses, breaking up his thoughts. Hermes did not turn even when a familiar set of footsteps approached him from behind. 

“Hermes?” came the tentative voice of Meteion. 

The little bird came to his side and held onto his fingers. Hermes’s breath shuddered. He lifted his face, feeling the gentle breeze of Lethe slowly wash away his tears that refused to flow. Once the beating of his heart steadied and the pain subsided, he looked down at his familiar and smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Meteion grimaced. Her small fingers tightened on his.

“I’m alright, Meteion.” He returned the girl’s gentle squeeze. “Just a momentary sense of melancholy.” 

“Has it passed?” 

“It has.” His smile didn’t falter, but both of them knew his words were far from the truth. There was nothing that could be done. It was in their teachings, and no matter what Hermes said, his words would always fall on deaf ears. 

He tugged at Meteion’s hand. “Come; let us go. I will need to see how badly wounded my staff is.” They should be at Anagnorisis or, had the wounds been more severe than any of them could handle, had been brought back to Amaurot. The heaviness still lay on his heart, but he decided not to look too closely. As such, he didn’t notice the troubled expression that graced Meteion’s features.

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

Irreplaceable Memories

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Word Count: 1012

Rating: Gen

Pairing: Zack Fair/Aerith Gainsborough, Aerith Gainsborough & Tifa Lockhart

Summary: Having left Kalm, the party set up camp in the fields where, upon Tifa's prompting, Aerith reminisces about the person who gave her the pink ribbon.

Notes: written for @zerith-week 2024 Day 2: Irreplaceable Memories

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

“Who was he?” Tifa asked as she settled down next to Aerith. “The man who gave you your ribbon.” 

Aerith stared, dumbfounded. 

“Ah, sorry, I overheard your conversation with that stall owner in Kalm,” Tifa hastily added. She bobbed her head in contrite as Aerith recalled the woman—middle-aged and wearing a plain brown smock—who had called her over to her stall to peruse her wares. It had been an innocent remark, Aerith had to admit. Something about how pretty her hair was and that a new ribbon was just what it needed. The woman hadn’t quite spoken it, but Aerith had taken it to mean that her current ribbon was worn and old. She might have been a bit curt with her response, now that she thought about it. 

Aerith tugged at her ribbon and it quickly came loose. 

“Does it look worn?” she asked instead.

Tifa cocked her head to the side then shifted her gaze to the fabric on Aerith’s hand. “Did she say that?” 

Aerith shook her head. “Not really, but she said I needed a new ribbon, so I kind of wonder…” 

She kept it clean, of course—washed it every other day—but now that she held it out toward the fire light, she couldn’t help but think that the pink had indeed lost its luster, and how the fabric felt thin and brittle in her fingers. Six years, was it, since the day Zack bought the ribbon for her? Not a day went by when Aerith didn’t don it on her hair. 

“I got it from someone,” she said at last, then added, “A special someone.” 

“Your boyfriend?” 

Aerith smiled wryly at the word. “Kind of. He… left five years ago.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” 

“We didn’t break up or anything like that, just—” Her eyes flitted upward, scanning their surroundings. The only other presence in their small camp was Red XIII, who was dozing quietly on the other side of the fire. Once she was sure Cloud and Barret weren’t returning any time soon, she dropped her voice once more and said, “He left on a mission and never returned.” 

Tifa’s eyes grew wide as the implication dawned on her.

Aerith spread the ribbon between her hands, pulling it rather taut as she attempted to see the campfire through it. It really had gotten thin. All those washes she’d done, the sunlight it soaked. Elmyra had tried talking her into getting another ribbon—had even bought her one for her birthday—but Aerith had only let it air in the open, or use it to decorate her flower basket. 

They’d never talked about Zack in the years he had been missing. Or perhaps, Aerith had never let her. Countless times she’d seen concern lining her foster mother’s aging face, and countless times Aerith had chosen not to see. Because if she saw—if she acknowledged the gaping maw in her heart—the tides of pain and grief that would crash over her would be unbearable. She’d felt it when her mother passed; she didn’t want to feel it again. 

“It would be a stretch to say that I saved him, but that was what he claimed,” Aerith said with an attempt at being lighthearted, but the thought of saying goodbye to this ribbon—to this first gift she had received from someone she would call her first friend—was like a lead in her mind that she couldn’t keep the sorrow from her voice. She cleared her throat, and tried once more. “He offered me one date, but I told him that was silly.” She giggled, managed it, and smiled. “So when I led him to where he could reach the upper plate, we came across a stall with all the pretty accessories you could find in the slums. They had a collection of ribbons there, and he bought me the pink one.” 

Aerith had thought she had tucked all these memories away in a safe corner where nothing, not even her, could disturb them. But once the words rolled off her tongue, the doors to her mind burst wide open, and all she had hidden rose in perfect clarity.

The grit rolled beneath her soles as heat reflected off steel plates and even more steel constructions. They’d run around the marketplace trying to catch the boy who had stolen Zack’s wallet. He’d needed medicine for a sister, and Zack had dealt with it with a style that Aerith had initially found cute and later learned that that was simply how he was. She hadn’t thought he would let the kid use his money, that’s for sure—whether or not he had the money to begin with. The thought made her chuckle. Tifa looked at her inquiringly. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” 

‘To pay you back for the “hell-llooo”... I’ll buy you something. A memento, for today.’

A familiar feeling tugged at her heart, threatening to unravel her. Aerith’s breath shuddered and her grip on her ribbon loosened. 

Seeing her apparent disquiet, Tifa reached over and held her hand. She smiled when Aerith looked at her. “So what if it’s worn and old?” she said. “It’s important to you and you don’t want to let it go. Isn’t that right?” Tifa quietly took the ribbon and moved behind Aerith, whose hair had come undone and was spilling down her back in soft tawny waves. Her fingers were soft yet firm as she combed through Aerith’s strands, expertly braiding her hair back as though she’d done it a million times before. Tifa tied the ribbon back into its place, giving it a firm tug then a pat once she did so, then grinned at Aerith. “How’s that?” 

Aerith blinked, and in her mind’s eye, she saw Zack looking rather unsure after probably his first time tying a ribbon to a sixteen-year-old girl’s hair. 

‘Does it look right?’ she’d asked.

‘Uh, I think so… Yeah, it looks great!’ 

But it wasn’t Zack’s resplendent smile beaming at her. 

The corners of Tifa’s eyes softened. “We all have things we don’t want to let go. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

Sakura Kaleidoscope

Fandom: Persona 5

Word Count: 4K

Rating: Gen

Pairing: Ren Amamiya/Ann Takamaki

Summary: The day before Ren is set to go flower-viewing with Ann, Sojiro gifts him an old camera he once had. Only, it seems the camera holds more memory than the old coffee master would like to admit.

Notes: it's been so long since i last wrote shuann. so here is a little something for the Week :) written for @shuannweek 2024 Day 2: Photography.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ren found a camera tucked in the corner of an old dusty box at the attic. He had been cleaning his room when he decided to look into the cardboard boxes he had left untouched the entire year he was there. A small black bag sat in the depths of one of them. When he took it out, he disturbed the layer of dust that had settled there, prompting him to cough. 

“A DSLR?” he said to himself, taking the camera out for inspection. He turned it around and dusted it off. It still looked as pristine as new, as though it hadn’t seen much use before it was shelved inside the box. A shame, he thought. Ren didn’t know much about cameras but it seemed like a good model. He pressed down on the power button. It stayed dead. 

Of course.

Rising to his feet, Ren climbed down the stairs into the coffee shop. Business was slow. Only the old couple were present, conversing about nothing in particular. Sojiro sat on the counter as he watched TV, a bored look on his face. He was in the middle of a yawn when Ren approached, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the camera in Ren’s hand. 

“Now that’s something I haven’t seen in a while,” he murmured. 

“I take it this is yours then?” Ren asked. 

Sojiro grunted. “Was mine, I guess.” He took the camera from Ren and fumbled with it for a bit. He tried turning it on, only to chuckle wryly when it refused. “Of course. How many years has it been since I last used it?”

“I didn’t know you used to do photography.” 

“I didn’t.” Sojiro huffed. He didn’t offer further elaboration. 

“Oh come now!” came the old woman’s voice. Having heard their exchange, she countered, her husband nodding his affirmation. “Didn’t you used to bring a camera all the time whenever you went out with that young lady. What was her name again? Ishi… Ishikawa?” 

“Isshiki, I think,” her husband offered. 

“Right! Isshiki! She was such a lovely woman. Smart, too.” 

Sojiro cleared his throat. “All right, all right! That will do! Any more and you’d expose all my embarrassing secrets.”

“My, So-chan, I would think you’re old enough not to be embarrassed by your own story.”

The old couple giggled, much to Sojiro’s affectionate vexation. Although, when Ren deigned to join in the fun—a little smirk and a half-breathy chuckle—his guardian hit him with an ice-cold glare. 

“Sorry,” Ren mumbled. 

“Anyway,” he went on, giving the camera back to Ren, “you can have it if you want. I don’t have much use for it any longer.”

“Really?”

Sojiro shrugged. “Better you than me, in any case. Don’t think she’d like it if it stayed cooped up in a box, collecting dust. I think you’d make a fine new master for it.” The old proprietor gave him a rare grin before his face twisted into consternation. “The problem is I can’t remember where I put the charger. It should be in the box along with the camera. But if not, I’ll take a look at my house.”

It wasn’t in the box, so later that day, Sojiro had Ren mind the shop as he went back to his house. It took a while, but after an hour or so, he returned with the charger, saying, “Sorry, got caught up in cleaning some stuff out.” 

Ren brought the charger to his room, where he connected the cable into the camera, then plugged the other end into the socket behind the TV. A red light blinked back at him. Ren didn’t quite know how long it’d stayed dead, but at least the charger still worked. He only hoped that it was still functional. 

He left it alone then to help Sojiro at the shop until near closing time. He washed the dishes and swept the floor, and when there was nothing left to do but close for the night, Sojiro let him retire to his room. So he climbed back up, intent upon checking on the camera, when he found Morgana pawing it on the TV table.

“Hey.” He reprimanded the cat, swiping the camera off the wooden surface. 

“The light was blinking so I got curious,” the cat said defensively, as though that was reason enough to almost drop it off the table. 

“The light was blinking ‘cause it was charging,” he said. It was now blinking green. He unplugged the cable, sat on the couch, and turned it on. The screen blinked to life. 

This brought him back. He used to play around with his father’s cameras when he was small. Ren directed the lens to Morgana and, adjusting the lens, snapped a picture. The pupils in Morgana’s eyes slitted at the sudden flash of flight; he snarled and growled then hopped off the table. Ren snickered. 

“Let’s see now…” 

Maneuvering through the myriad of buttons and menus on the camera, Ren finally found the gallery, which showed him a photo of Morgana’s blank face. He stifled a laugh and asked the cat to come and see. Morgana wrinkled his nose, but came up to the back of the couch and propped himself on Ren’s shoulder. He hissed at his own picture. 

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” Ren said with a half-smile. 

“For you, maybe.” Morgana’s paw came to Ren’s cheek in what he assumed was an attempt at a playful swat, but the soft pads only softened the blow so it felt like a pat instead, albeit a forceful one. Ren chuckled under his breath as his eyes drifted to the number at the top right corner: 83. He cocked his head to the side. 

Pressing the next button, a picture of an unfamiliar house suddenly filled the screen, somewhat blurry. “Huh,” came Morgana’s quiet comment. The next several images were of the same house but from different angles, then empty streets—a neighborhood. 

“Are they Sojiro’s?” the cat wondered. 

“Probably.” 

The next photo, however, made him pause. Ren saw a sakura tree in what looked to be a sidewalk, but it was the figure dressed in black that froze him. He shut the camera off so quickly that Morgana meowed in protest. Just then, lights from the floor below disappeared, followed by the sound of a jingling bell and the jangle of keys. Sojiro had exited the store, clicking the lock into place. 

Ren sighed in defeat. Perhaps, he could ask Sojiro about it tomorrow. 

***

Ann’s message came early the next morning. 9 AM at the station? She asked.

Ren sent a quick reply then got ready. Sojiro had already prepared curry for breakfast by the time Ren came down from his attic. 

“Hanami, huh,” he mused. “Where are you going? Inokashira?”

Ren shook his head. “Ueno. We decided to go a little farther.” 

An awkward pause fell before Sojiro said, “I see.” 

Ren quietly eyed the coffee master, but Sojiro quickly regained his bearing. He hoped Ren would get some pretty views. It wasn’t quite the season yet but the news had reported some already blooming in places. Ren nodded absently—that was the reason why he had proposed the idea to Ann. He only had a few days left in Tokyo before he had to return to his hometown. They might not have a chance to go flower viewing together. Ann had then decided where they would go. 

Silence stretched, filled only by soft TV noises. Ren cleared his throat. 

“Sojiro, is it really okay for me to have the camera?” 

“I already told you. It’ll only collect dust if I keep it.” He hadn’t even missed a beat. As though sensing Ren’s reluctance, he added, “Just think of it as a farewell gift.”

“What about the photos?”

“I doubt there’s much of it.”

Sojiro grunted and shrugged, as though wanting to drive home that the camera really didn’t mean anything to him. But rather than being nonchalant about it, he seemed to be avoiding the subject altogether. 

“Can I look at them, then?” Ren tried again. 

There, just a quick stilling of his hands before Sojiro returned brewing his coffee, but it was enough. “Suit yourself.” 

Ann was already waiting for him by the time he reached Shibuya Station. It was already a bit warm so she wore a simple loose floral shirt with a pair of jeans. Her hair was unusually undone: long luscious blonde flowing freely down her back, kept in place by a couple sakura-patterned pins near her temple. Ren couldn’t help but grin when their eyes met. 

“W—what?” Pink tinged her cheeks in fluster, though he suspected she knew what he was thinking. 

Still, Ren grabbed her hand and intertwined their fingers together. “You look pretty.” It took all his self-control not to break into the biggest, most idiotic grin he would have made because the way Ann’s face went instantly red looked so adorable, it was hard to contain his affections to a bare minimum in such a public space. Instead, he settled with a smirk—albeit somewhat teasing—which apparently did more damage than he’d realized. Ann’s ears went scarlet, then she playfully slapped his arm, which he deftly dodged. 

“Stop being sassy!” 

“I’m not,” he responded with a laugh. She really was beautiful, now even more so when the hint of a smile slowly revealed itself beneath her pout. He tugged her hand. “Let’s get going.”

The station was unexpectedly crowded for a Sunday morning, though the sakura blooming had reached the news so perhaps Ren should have expected otherwise. As they headed towards the platform, Ann noticed the square black bag Ren was carrying on his shoulder. 

“A camera,” she said when he showed it to her. She studied it, fumbled around with it. “Sojiro’s, did you say it was?”

Ren nodded. “He said I could have it.”

“Huh. I didn’t peg him to be into photography.”

“Neither did I—” The sound of a camera shutter cut him off and Ren looked up. Ann had turned the camera on and directed it at him, smirking. He frowned. “Hey. Delete that.”

“Why? You look good.” She giggled. 

“Ann—”

She stepped away when he reached out to grab her hand. “Candid is best,” she said, still giggling. He tried to catch her but she stepped away again, and again, and again, always keeping herself just out of reach, until Ren sighed in half-exasperation and made to run for her— 

When the intercom announced the arrival of their train. 

“Ah! It's here!” Ann shut off the camera and took his hand. “C’mon, we don’t wanna miss it.”

They slipped into the crowd and managed to grab a seat inside the train. Ann returned the camera back to Ren, who turned it on again at the first chance he had. You look good, she’d said, when all the pictures she had taken were either in an odd angle, blurry, or even downright bad. What was even this shot of his close-up skin that he could almost see his pores? Ann giggled softly again when she noticed what he was frowning at. 

“You know I’ll get back at you ten fold, right?” he said. 

“You know I’ll be ready for it.”

She grinned, and he resisted the urge to bop her head or even kiss her cheek. Instead, he sighed, turned the camera off, then stashed it back inside his bag. He spotted her hand on her lap and inadvertently intertwined his fingers through hers. 

“Ren—” She made to pull away, but he locked their hands together. 

“That’s what you get for teasing me,” he said. 

Her face twisted in such a way that usually bespoke of an upcoming counter, but eventually, Ann settled into his hand and into her seat. 

“You started it,” came her quiet mumble. 

This time Ren did bop her head. Albeit fondly. 

***

Their destination was Ueno Park. It took only a few minutes to walk from the station. The news reported that the sakura blooms had been spotted in the park as early as two days ago. Indeed, as early as it was, a crowd was already trickling into the park. Not as much as peak season but already a hefty amount, according to Ann. They entered the gates, then followed the crowd, letting the sea of people carry them to where the heart of sakura blooms gathered. 

Ren took out his camera again. Letting Ann walk ahead of him, he called Ann to a stop once she reached some distance away. He had already put his eye behind the camera by the time Ann half-turned towards him, and then he snapped the picture. Ann exclaimed in surprise when she realized what he’d just done. Ren, meanwhile, was half-smiling to himself as he checked the result of his work. 

“Not bad,” he mused—it wasn't blurred at least—just as Ann stomped back towards him and said, “Don’t just take my picture like that.” 

“Candid is best, as you said so yourself.” Ann fumed, made to snatch the camera away, but Ren held it out of reach. “I told you I’d get back at you ten fold.”

He grinned, to which Ann scowled. “Fine. But I’m taking your share of the crepe.” Because apparently that was where Ann had been heading: a crepe stall erected on the side of the wide central path flanked on each side by tall sakura trees now in bloom. Yes, it wasn’t peak season yet—not all the flowers had blossomed—but pretty dots of pink and white had decorated the boughs on either side, giving off a sweet scent that only came around once a year. 

Ren could only chuckle and acquiesce at her request.

He followed behind her, capturing moments left and right: a family of three, the father carrying his little girl on his shoulders; the flowers on the trees, going as close as he could to capture the delicate petals in his camera; the tranquil moat, the crowded stalls, then a wide shot of the sakura-lined path leading deeper into the park. 

Ann was still queuing at the crepe stall when Ren returned. Putting his eye to the camera, he zoomed in. He took a picture of her back, at the way she slipped a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, of how she noticed his presence not far behind her, then her frown at the realization of being photographed silently again, and finally her small smile, and a full-on grin. He often thought that Ann’s features were dynamic—expressive. He swore he’d seen her cry, get mad, and laugh all in the span of one minute. Seeing the pictures he’d just taken, Ren knew it wasn’t just his feelings. 

Ren was just stashing his camera back inside his bag and meant to wait in the queue with Ann when Ann appeared behind him. She gave him a crepe—Banana and Lemon. He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Let’s find somewhere to sit,” she said instead, then added with a glance, “and I’m gonna take a look at the pictures you've taken.” She didn’t leave any room to say no. Not that Ren would want to . 

So they walked down the path, enjoying their crepes—hers was Double Chocolate & Almond. Farther into the park, they found a rather empty spot beneath a tree on the bank of the moat. Ann took a picnic mat from her bag and spread it out for them. 

It was nice, he thought. The air was slightly warmer now, the sakura—while still early—was beautiful. Out on the still water, people rowed boats languidly. 

Ren showed Ann the camera gallery after they finished their crepes. They started with the ultra-close skin-pore photo Ann had taken before, which made her laugh and him frown again. Then it cut into the park, and they saw pictures of families, children, and friends—all engaged in different forms of activities.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Ann said at the image of the general crowd amidst pink trees. “Have you ever learned photography before?”

“My father was a journalist so we had a camera at home,” Ren replied. “I used to mess around with it.”

Ann made a non-committal comment. Then she pressed next, and she paused. Ren looked over her shoulder and found that she had arrived at the first picture of her: her body half-turned, face set in inquiry, framed by the pink sakura blossoms on each side. The crowd almost drowned her, but her blonde hair and floral shirt was enough to make her stand out—at least to him. 

He glanced at her, waited for her response, but Ann only clicked next, then next, and next again. 

“You really meant it when you said you’d get back at me ten fold,” she said at last, but her voice was quiet. She’d arrived at her grinning face, zoomed in and angled. The sun almost made her gleam blindingly bright. Ren wouldn’t tell her but he planned to print that shot and slip it in his wallet. 

“Aren’t I good?” he said in a forced smugness because Ann had become speechless. 

“Really.”

Her honesty made him pause. She cleared her throat, shook herself, then clicked next again. Except, they’d gotten to the last of his pictures and were now back at the beginning. A shot of a house front looked back at them. 

“Ah,” Ren said, reaching out to take the camera from her, “I think this is Sojiro’s. I haven’t taken much of a look.” A small lie, but it didn’t feel right to pry into another person’s memories. 

Ann looked at him. “Sojiro gave it to you knowing he still had some photos in it?”

“He didn’t seem too keen about it. But…” 

“But?” 

He glanced at Ann, who was searching his face inquiringly. The camera was technically his now, and Sojiro did allow him to look through the gallery. He decided to show her the source of his hesitancy, skipped the next several images until they came to the one that had frozen him. 

“Is that Futaba?” Ann said with a soft gasp. 

A younger Futaba, barely twelve, they guessed. Her hair was still black, but there were no mistaking the big round eyes and glasses. Then the woman behind her could only be Wakaba Isshiki. They recognized the sleek black hair, sharp features, and neat dress. 

Knowing the history between Sojiro and the Isshiki mother and daughter, there was no doubt the contents of the gallery would be private territory between Sojiro and his heart. And yet, the old coffee master had given him free rein on what to do with the camera as he saw fit. 

“Did you tell Sojiro about this?” Ann asked. 

“Couldn’t. He was avoiding it; wouldn’t even let his regulars tease him about it.” 

Yet Ren was curious; he couldn’t deny that. Perhaps they really were nothing much, as Sojiro had claimed. He pressed the next button, then the next, and again. 

What followed were a series of pictures of Wakaba and Futaba, sometimes together, other times alone. Feeding a stray cat, making curry, a trip to the park. The images felt warm, sincere. Even though Sojiro had claimed his feelings were one-sided, Ren could see how much the old man had meant to Wakaba. He doubted she would have been able to make such a bright smile had it been another person behind the camera. 

Ren clicked next, and it seemed they arrived at a video. 

“It’s so pretty!” A young Futaba ran across the screen; the camera desperately tried to follow her. 

“Be careful, Futaba! You’ll trip!” a familiar voice appeared—Sojiro. 

They spotted lanterns strung between sakura trees in full bloom. It was evening and the lanterns emitted a mesmerizing glow amidst the sea of flowers. Music echoed from the distance—drums. Laughter sounded nearby and the camera swiveled to the source. 

“You’re such a worrywart, Sojiro. Futaba will be all right,” Wakaba said. “It’s not often she gets to have fun like this.”

“Yes, but—” The camera shifted again. Ren scowled inwardly at the haphazard movements. 

Just then, Futaba fell, and Sojiro yelped. But Wakaba only laughed beside him. She rushed to the scene and helped her daughter stand up, murmured something to her, before both of them turned to the camera and Futaba called out with the biggest grin on her face, “Thanks for taking me here, Sojiro!”

They watched her run, watched as the camera trembled as it slowly, shakily, zoomed into Wakaba’s profile. She was watching her daughter frolic with the softest expression on her face. Then, as though she had just noticed the camera on her, she looked to her side and smiled. 

The video ended, and silence fell. 

Neither Ren nor Ann knew quite what to say. It felt like they had just glimpsed into the old man’s diary. Perhaps it was wrong of him to take the camera, but Sojiro clearly didn’t want it anymore. 

A million things popped to Ren’s mind—things he would like to say to his guardian—but the words died before they could reach his mouth. 

“This camera clearly holds important memories for Sojiro.” Ann broke the silence. “How could he throw it away?”

“He said that he doesn’t want it to collect dust.” Ren recalled what Sojiro had told him the night before. “That ‘she’ wouldn’t want it cooped up in a storage box.”

“She?” It clicked with her. “Did Wakaba give Sojiro this camera?”

“If that’s true, I can see why he doesn’t use it any longer.” 

Ann pursed her lips in consternation. “Should you give it back?”

“Honestly, I’ve thought about it but I think he gave it to me as a way to respect Wakaba’s memory. So that the camera can be put to good use.” Sojiro might not remember just what this little box of memories contained, but from what Ren had seen, it was clearly important. The video dated five years ago. He could transfer them, save them somewhere, then give them to him before he left. 

There were still several photos left before they’d reach his picture of Morgana from the night before, but Ren decided it was enough prying. He was about to shut it off when Ann spoke: 

“That’s Ueno Park—those lanterns. It’s the Sakura Festival.”

Ann told him of the Sakura Festival that Ueno Park would hold every year in its grounds. They’d have lanterns strung between the trees and music to decorate the day. Sometimes parades would come down the central path. But it seemed right now the festival wouldn’t be until a few days yet when the sakura had fully blossomed. 

She looked downcast, and Ren noted the melancholy in her tone as she said, “You would’ve been gone by then.” Now he knew why she had asked to visit Ueno Park today. 

“It’s really pretty—” Ann perked up, “—especially at night when the lanterns are all lit up. We may not be able to see it today but I guess now you’ve seen how it would’ve looked like.”

Her smile was tight; her eyes hollow. She really was bad at hiding her emotions. He looked at his camera. Sojiro’s video was still displayed on the screen. A warm, eerie glow painted the trees; the lanterns all frozen in time. Beautiful, and alluring. 

“Maybe we can see it someday.”

She looked up. 

“I mean, we’ll be third-years next term,” he went on. “If I can get into a good uni in Tokyo next year, I should think we’ll be able to meet like this again. And perhaps hold a proper hanami, too.”

Her eyes lit up. She held up her pinky finger. “Promise?”

At that, Ren laughed. “What are we—kids?”

“I want you to promise me that we’ll go flower-viewing together again.”

She looked quite adamant, though the blue of her eyes glinted with delight. Seeing no other recourse, Ren chuckled under his breath, then twined his little finger with hers, locking the promise into place. 

~ END ~

//////////////

A/N: the part about his father being a journalist is an old hc I had that I kinda explored in another fic of mine

[rune-writes]

Divine Lover of the Moon

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Word Count: 19.8K

Rating: T

Pairing: Oschon/Menphina

Summary: Once upon a time, there lived a wanderer whose only purpose was to collect tales from across the star. The tales he would then weave into songs as a source of comfort or entertainment for the people he meets. But when one such tale leads him deep into the woods where he encounters the beautiful Goddess of the Moon, the wanderer finds his world upended, and all that he knew - even his heart - are put to the test.

Notes: my fic written for @fauxlorexiv!! working on this has been such a blast! The accompanying artwork by the lovely @trarioven is embedded in the fic but can also be seen here.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

Legend tells of a man who once coveted the love of the Moon Goddess. Oschon the Wanderer, they call him, for being the first person to have successfully traversed and mapped the entire star, or so the story goes. Others claim that it was his aversion to remain in one place for too long that gave him the moniker. Armed with his bow and lute, Oschon would wander, listening to the people’s plight and breathing succor into their despairing hearts. 

His tale began on the day of his parents’ death. An illness had overcome his village swiftly, his parents succumbing to it soon after the first signs of an affliction showed itself. The day his parents died, Oschon watched the village men cover them in white linen. They placed them in coffins and lowered them into the ground. A flurry of his mother’s beloved moonflowers took to the wind and landed on her coffin lid. When the men began shoveling earth back to fill in the hole, a part of him wanted to cry, but he remained silent, fingers clasped over his brother’s hand. 

He was nine then, and his brother, Nald’thal, was eight. 

Partings are ever a forlorn affair, his father once said, yet therein lies hope for a new encounter. 

Of course, his father had spoken it upon watching travelers leave. He was always a lover of company. He would sit with them by their fires and listen to them talk of lofty peaks and monstrous seas. Their tales had always painted vivid pictures in young Oschon’s mind, and before he knew it, traveling to where the star would take him had become deeply ingrained in his heart. He’d told his father just that, that one day, he would take his father, mother, and brother to a voyage across the star; and once they’d walked the entire earth and beheld all the wonder it had to offer, they would come home where comfort and warmth awaited them. 

The dream never had a chance to come to fruition when his parents left before their time. The moonflower brooch he had received from his mother became a lifeline he held on to. And so, on the day he came of age, Oschon decided to follow it through, bidding his friends, his brother, and his village farewell. Except, of course, his brother couldn't very well leave him alone, so after Nald’thal came of age, he followed in his brother’s footsteps, meeting him serendipitously in a village with Halone in tow. 

“And what, pray tell, drove you to follow my brother?” Oschon asked her over a mug of ale after Nald’thal finished recounting his tale. 

“Nald’thal needs protection,” Halone said in nonchalance, breaking bread and spreading butter across its surface. Under Oschon’s unyielding stare, she sighed and added, “The village is strong enough to fend itself, and I figure I might find worthier opponents by following you. You’ve always had a penchant for trouble.”

His incredulity was eclipsed by the honesty of Halone’s reply that it left him momentarily dazed. In fact, he realized he was more dumbfounded by the fact that it was indeed the response he had expected, set aside, and subsequently wondered if Halone had somehow mustered a desire outside of her lust for battle. No doubt the beasts back home had learned to cower and hide the moment she stepped into the hills. The prospect of encountering even more powerful creatures had probably been tempting enough; she might not have waited for Nald’thal to proffer the idea. Who knew how long she’d contemplated the thought? Oschon wouldn’t be surprised if the seeds had been sown since their early days of hunting together. 

Oschon shifted his gaze to his brother, a man barely eighteen, who was already an accomplished trader by his own rights. He eyed Nald’thal shrewdly, knowing full well he was only there for the profit, if anything. Nald’thal had the decency not to return his gaze. Oschon sighed. 

“Well,” he said, looking at his mug and the pale brown liquid sloshing inside. His heart lay in knots. He didn’t quite know how to feel to have companions at his side when he’d set out with the intention to travel alone. It shouldn’t be too bad, he thought. It would be just like back in the village, when the three of them would run around wreaking havoc or coming home from the forest covered in stinging cuts and bruises. His mother would glower while Rhalgr, Halone’s father and the village’s chief, would give a hearty laugh and slap them all on the back. But neither of them could ever forget the chilly smile he’d offered, promising a punishment harsher than anything their young minds could imagine. The memory brought a fresh pang to Oschon’s heart, so he cleared his throat, lifted his glass, and said, “To our fellowship.” 

Halone and Nald’thal didn’t miss their beats, echoing Oschon’s sentiment and clinking their glasses together to what would be the dawn of their journey. 

***

Ten summers came and went, during which Oschon and his companions had reaped a decent amount of reputation under their belts. 

Halone became a fierce warrior, known for her luscious silvery hair and the gleaming spear she always carried by her side. Beasts upon mighty beasts fell on her feet, and though no man could match her prowess with the blade, she sought ever greater heights to hone her skill. And so did she wander, in search of ever more powerful opponents, to the aggravation of Nophica, the Goddess of Abundance, whom they’d met during their journey to the east. 

Nald’thal grew into his role as a trader. He had already developed the eye and tongue required of a savvy merchant by the age of eighteen. Now, shortly after his twenty-eighth nameday, he had already pocketed the name of every influential merchant, ruler, and figure the realm over. It was not in his way to trick his customers or deal with bribery. Such was the reason how he had acquired so many loyal patrons. 

Oschon, however, could not quite describe himself as having achieved anything worthwhile. His only desire was to learn of the star and its people, to fulfill the promise of his long-forgotten dream. Becoming a wandering minstrel had seemed like an appealing notion at the time. He would travel where the wind took him—be they towns, villages, or simply wilderness—and gather where people were wont to gather. Because where there were people, there were bound to be tales. 

One such tale—though it was less of a tale and more of a rumor—told of a great prowling beast in the woods on the outskirts of a small village. “With eyes like twin crimson pools and a body of the blackest of nights,” the men of the village whispered. “The creature looks like the devil incarnate himself!” Except this was a beast, not a devil, with claws and fangs the length of a grown man’s arm that could easily cut through any who crossed its path. Oschon couldn’t confirm the veracity of the tale, as no one in the village had actually seen the beast, and those who had didn’t live to tell it. But the men’s gaunt faces were evidence enough. Something stalked those woods, frightening the villagers enough that no one had dared to step in it for the past several moons. It was only a matter of time before it took its hunting ground to the plain and the village itself. 

Oschon looked at his companions and saw that Halone had already broken into a feral grin while his brother only shrugged and sighed, offering a little smile. 

Halone stood from the log she was sitting on, reaching for her helmet. “Where did you say this creature was?” 

“In the woods just north of here,” one of the men said hesitantly. He glanced at the others, then pointed a finger toward the northern gate. Even if they looked, the darkness didn’t yield much. There was no moon; the stars barely lit the steppe. Even the small fire failed to penetrate their surrounding gloom. But Halone smirked nonetheless. 

“It’s a new moon tonight,” Oschon said, a futile warning, as his friend was already adjusting her helmet around her head. 

“What of it?” 

“With no light to illuminate our way, it would be folly to hunt a beast who could very well see in the dark. You’d step into its maws before you could even brandish your spear.” 

Halone barked a laugh. She grabbed her spear leaning against the log she had been sitting on. “Is that fear I hear quivering in your voice? The Great Oschon, afraid to be mauled by a beast?”

“Not everyone has an unquenchable thirst for blood like you.” 

Halone sniffed, but not taking the slightest offense, as she knew Oschon’s jibes were, at most, made in playful jest, as it was now, shown in the resigned upturn of his lips. She turned to the men by the fire. 

“Should the beast be as great as you claim, I believe it might feed your village for a moon and a half, probably more,” she said. “My companion here will be more than happy to sort out the payment.” She cut a glance at Nald’thal, who dipped his head at the men. Oschon scoffed softly, though he smiled. Then Halone’s gaze shifted heavensward. Starlight shone on the hard lines of her face. “I need no light to hunt my prey, Oschon,” she said. “I pray it does not hinder you either.” 

She was gone before Oschon could respond. He shared a half-amused look with his brother. The men, however, sat in nervous silence. 

“Do save your concern,” Nald’thal said in an attempt to assuage their apprehension. “Halone is the best fighter in all the realms. No harm shall come to her.” 

“Not while I have her back.” Oschon grabbed his quiver lying on the ground and affixed it to his back. Reaching for his bow, he rose to his feet. “Though whether or not she lets me is another matter. For all we know, she’d have felled the beast by the time I caught up to her.” 

“Best get a move on then,” Nald’thal said.

Oschon lifted two fingers to his brow in farewell before following in Halone’s tail. 

***

Even back in his village, Oschon was known to be one of the best trackers. He could easily read faded footprints, flattened blades of grass, and even the faint trace of aether in the air. No man or beast could avoid his senses for long. Such was the reason why Halone often asked him to tag along her hunting trips. However, as he stepped past the woods’ line of trees now, Oschon found that, for once, his knack for reading trails could not avail him. The trees stood abundantly close, silent like eerie shadows in the night. Their thick, dark boughs spread high and wide like a spider web of limbs. If what little starlight the heavens provided had lit his path toward the forest, now all was engulfed in a pressing darkness. 

As though something was trying to keep him away. 

Swallowing his sigh, Oschon reached out with his senses again, but try as he might, he could not find any traces of Halone’s aether. And not only her aether either—he could not sense another living being in the woods at all. Even the trees around him felt like cold imitations of their real selves. Oschon held out his hand and touched a nearby trunk. A faint warmth permeated from the bark. At least they were alive. 

The thought brought both a surge of relief and a fresh wave of uneasiness. Whatever hid in these woods, it was not their average beast. For a creature to have created such a meticulous, isolated zone with an impeccable barrier that rendered one’s senses mute, they would have had to possess an impressive amount of magical prowess. Oschon couldn’t even find his way out, which made the notion that the barrier covered the entire forest all the more plausible. Reaching for his bow and nocking an arrow, he sent a silent prayer for Halone's safety before he ventured deeper.

The gloom grew ever more pressing the farther he went, so much so that it was easy to think only he existed in the world. Oschon pursed his lips at the familiar feeling. Some said it was the curse of a vagrant, to seek that which they could not attain. Some sought glory while others power; some ventured to the wilds to seek meaning to their lives. Oschon left his village to fulfill a dream. A simple enough goal, and yet each turn of the season had only left a growing pit at the bottom of his heart. Oschon didn’t remember when it started but now he often found himself staying up late past the time Nald’thal and Halone had retreated to their beds. He would find himself a patch of moonlight, sometimes with a mug of ale, other times accompanied with only his lute, and then he would gaze upwards. Always, the moon looked at him, its face round and full. Every night he would unfailingly tell the moon of how his days had gone—the people he had met, the tales he had come across. He would watch how it wax, then wane, then disappear for just a day, and when it returned, he would smile and say:

Welcome back, friend. 

Something glimmered in the periphery of his vision. Oschon blinked. It didn’t seem to be a mirage because the light remained. He approached it cautiously, keeping his grip on his bow secure. The glow slowly penetrated the darkness and shapes of trees pulled themselves away from the shadows. Amidst twigs and gnarled roots, he found a fabric of shimmering stars. 

Like the midnight sky. The thought unwittingly crossed his mind as he lifted the scarf in his hands. The silken fabric was soft to the touch, the color a deep indigo with a scatter of sparkling dots like starlight. Thin and weightless, yet he could feel the ripple of power across its gleaming surface. 

The fabric had so entranced him that when the sound of splashing water broke the forest’s stillness, he jerked, arrow training at the source of the noise. Nothing was there but a pale silvery glow he noted from between the trees. Oschon narrowed his eyes. 

A trap, most likely, but the hunter in him thought if he could only debilitate whatever it was emanating the glow, he could disperse the gloom and return his senses. Should it be their quarry, then that was a job well done. The question was: what if it was a different creature from their mark. Whatever the case, he knew he needed to put down the creature behind this barrier. So, putting aside his doubts, Oschon quietly made his way across the undergrowth. 

He hid behind a tree a distance away from the edge. He would only have one shot. Oschon steadied his breath and closed his eyes, spreading out his senses wider. He found a trail of aether—finally. Except, it wasn’t merely a trail; he found an entire ocean of it, surging and undulating like waves threatening to wash over him, as though whatever creature hiding beyond these trees had gathered all the aether in the forest and kept it to himself. He tasted salt and the cool touch of ice. 

He pulled his bowstring taut. Halone would not be able to best something with this colossal amount of aether, let alone him. Oschon’s throat bobbed in nervousness. One shot, he reminded himself. Steeling his heart, he trained his bow at the clearing—

—and then he froze. 

The first thing Oschon noticed was the great, ebony wolf dozing on the bank of what looked to be a lake, its head resting on its large front paws. The second thing were the giggles—light and breathy with a melodious lilt to it. 

“Llymlaen, look!” 

The pristine water broke apart and two heads emerged. One, with her back to him, had a stream of blue hair down her back, obscuring any shape or size. The other, however, had the face of a resplendent goddess, facing her companion with a grin as bright as moonlight. Oschon stood, transfixed, as the woman brought her cupped hands and showed her friend a frog she had captured. 

Oschon could count on one hand the moments he had been entranced by simple beauty, though such moments usually involved the rush of wind from atop lofty peaks or the gentle dapple of moonlight in tranquil nights. Yet this… iridescent woman, young and… not quite beautiful but pretty, and lovely, with hair a bright turquoise blue tumbling down her shoulders in twin tails and a playful glint in the silver of her eyes, took his breath away. 

He didn’t quite know what happened then. When he recounted his tale later on, he swore he hadn’t made any sound—no breaking twigs or brushing against the undergrowth; Oschon didn’t even remember if he had breathed. But he did recall a dim glimmer on his chest, and the woman with the lovely face turned her gaze to meet his. 

And then the world stilled. 

His senses willed him to move, to run, because whoever—whatever—these people were would pin him to the tree with a stake to his heart in the blink of an eye. But Oschon’s feet were rooted to the spot. He couldn’t shift his eyes away from the young woman. A sweet frosty scent—familiar and nostalgic—came over his senses. He blinked, and the trance was broken. 

“You—” the woman began. 

A whip of a hand; a dagger cut through the air. Another glint from his chest and the dagger hit the tree bark several ilms from Oschon's face. A slit opened across his cheek; blood trickled down his face. 

“Llymlaen!” She whirled at her friend. 

But the older one, Llymlaen, paid her no heed. “Leave!” She didn’t scream. She barely said the word. But the blue-gray of Llymlaen’s eyes blazed like fire and Oschon found himself not wanting to tempt fate. 

He backed a step, then another, his grip on his bow slackening. Oschon stumbled over his own feet before he turned and fled. 

***

How he managed to find his way out, Oschon didn’t quite know, but as he ran past the trees and undergrowth, he realized the pressing gloom had dissipated, and he could hear the wind rustling through the leaves and the chirping of night insects. The forest was alive again, unlike the dead, desolate feeling it had before. 

Oschon realized he was still holding onto the starry shawl halfway toward the exit. He slowed his pace, then thought he would rather not return to the lake again. Not when someone there was ready to kill him. He stashed the silk in his bag, then got on his way. Only, he then heard a distant triumphant cry and he remembered why he was there in the first place.  

By the time he rendezvoused with Halone, the warrior had already felled the beast and was attempting to carry it on her back. A foolish attempt as, just like the villagers claimed, the creature was huge. Black as night, with crimson eyes and claws and fangs the length of a grown man's arm. It almost looked lupine—which brought to mind the midnight wolf he had seen before. Oschon shook his head. 

Halone asked him what took him so long and what had happened to his cheek. When he didn’t offer a straight answer, she instead chided him for missing the fight. At least she hadn’t retained any injury, thank the gods. She would have found the beast while all was still dark. Halone confirmed that the darkness had suddenly lifted while she was fighting, so it had only taken a small effort on her part to deal the final blow. 

Thoughts of the women he’d encountered threatened to breach into his mind, but he waved them away. Instead, he occupied himself with putting a levitating spell on the beast. He then carried it all the way back to the village. 

Nald’thal was waiting for him along with the men who had shared the rumor with them. The men’s eyes lit up the moment they beheld the dead beast, while his brother’s face only held a satisfied smile. Nald’thal then made quick work of the beast, identifying the meat as edible while all other parts had no magical properties. The village chief, having heard of the commotion and their triumph over the monster that had haunted their woods, came out of his house to commend them for their deed. But their village was poor; they had no way to pay them. Nald’thal said as long as they could have several parts of the beast, that would be payment enough. 

“It is almost midnight,” he said. “Let us retire and talk more of this after sunrise.” 

They were offered lodgings at the chief’s home. As Halone and Nald’thal settled in their rented room, Oschon made his way out. He spotted stragglers still around the cut-up beast, reveling on its size now that it was dead. Oschon dipped his head as he passed them, then after a little wandering, found a quiet spot just outside the fences.

He sat on one of the boulders making up the outer barrier of the village. Had the moon been present, he would have gazed at it and confided his recent ordeals with it. He never expected an answer, just a place to unburden himself free from any judgment that would come with confiding in another human. 

But there was no moon tonight. As he gazed at the star-studded sky, his eyes were inadvertently drawn to the brooch on his chest—the moonflower brooch he’d gotten from his mother that now fastened his cloak. He grazed the dull rim, the delicate round petals frozen in stone. If the beast had no magical prowess, did it mean the gloom really had been those women’s doing? There was also the issue of the shawl still hidden in his bag. He should return it, shouldn’t he?

“There you are.” Oschon glanced up at his brother’s approach. Nald’thal offered him an easy smile, took a seat next to him, and leaned back on his hands. He gazed at the sky. “It would’ve been a prettier night had the moon been present.”  

Oschon chuckled under his breath and dropped his hand from his brooch. “What brings you here, Brother?” 

“Halone said you arrived late.” Oschon felt his glance. “Did something happen?” 

Oschon was silent for a while. “I believe the beast is the least of our worries.” He then told Nald’thal about the darkness that had enveloped the forest. Apparently Halone had informed him of it, but he hadn’t known about the other… entities Oschon encountered. When Oschon asked if he recalled Llymlaen, Nald’thal straightened his posture.  

“The Sea Goddess?” he asked after a pause. 

Fear gripped Oschon’s heart the moment his brother voiced his suspicions. The only deities he knew who resided on earth were Nophica and Llymlaen. But while Nophica had been warm and welcoming—he’d dealt with her when Halone almost killed one of her pets—stories of the stormy Llymlaen always managed to send shivers down his spine. Having been at the other end of her blade which would have pierced his skull had she not missed her mark only confirmed his fear. 

“It seemed she and another… goddess… had been in the lake. I think they were the cause of the darkness. I know not why they created it. Or how long they would stay.” 

Nald’thal pondered Oschon’s response. “You mean to say they might pose a threat.” 

Oschon shrugged. He was more inclined to think they would return to wherever they came from soon enough. Nophica never quite left her grove as far as he knew. He reached into his bag and pulled the starlight scarf out. 

“There is also this.” 

Oschon heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath. “Theirs?”

“Possibly.”

“Why do you have it with you?” 

“It was stranded on the ground. I forgot I was still holding it when I ran for my life.”

“You ran?” 

Oschon frowned. “Would you have done differently had Llymlaen attempted to gut you with a knife?” 

Nald’thal wouldn’t, both of them knew. Halone would be a different matter. Part of him was glad he didn’t have to regale her with the tale of how he had escaped a bloodthirsty goddess, but he figured he would have to tell her sooner or later.

“Return it,” Nald’thal said firmly. 

“And risk my life again?” 

“You’d risk all our lives if you keep holding onto it.”

He wasn’t wrong, though it didn’t stop Oschon from wincing inwardly. Hold on to it and be marked by Llymlaen, or return it and risk being killed there and then. But Nald’thal convinced him that the Sea Goddess would do no such thing. If it’d make Oschon feel safer, he could always take Halone with him. 

And be mocked for running away? Oschon would rather brave the danger alone. 

***

The next morning, Oschon apprised Halone of what had happened. True to character, she offered to come, no doubt to perhaps challenge Llymlaen as she had once challenged Nophica, so Oschon told her no. She made to protest, but Oschon turned to his brother and said that if he didn’t return by sundown, they were to search for him. Oschon then left his companions to sort through their quarry’s meat, pelt, claws, and fangs, and made his way back to the forest. 

It took him half the time it had taken him the night before to reach the lake. It was empty; the water still and pristine, almost like a mirror in the way it reflected the sky and trees with perfect clarity. Oschon stepped as close as he dared to the water’s edge, then hollered: “Hello!” His own voice echoed back. 

Oschon steeled his nerves then went on. “I wish to apologize for last night! And to return a scarf I found in the woods.” 

Silence answered him. He traced the surge of aether he’d sensed the night before but nothing could be found. Had it all been his imagination? Yet the scarf in his hand was as real as the scar that still smarted on his cheek. He walked along the bank, then found the tree where he’d hidden himself. Sure enough, he spotted the crevice where Llymlaen’s dagger had burrowed deep. 

As he wondered what he was supposed to do, his senses caught a familiar ripple of power. Oschon whirled around just as the air not ten yalms behind him shimmered. The dress appeared first, platinum-white and sparkling under the sun, hugging a petite body as her torso, arms and legs came into view, then finally her face. Ice-blue crystals draped down her shoulder and a sash of similar color wrapped around her waist. Her skin was pale and flawless; her hair, lustrous and silken, tied on both sides of her head and kept in place by a golden headdress. 

She exuded a most reverent of auras, with waves upon waves of those sweet frosty aether rolling off of her. Her eyes shone silver and her mouth curved into a cold smile. A hazy glow shrouded her that seemed to be coming from inside her rather than outside. 

For a long second, Oschon was back in the forest last night, transfixed and lost. 

“There you are.” The goddess drawled, as though she had been waiting for him. She dropped from the back of her great, shaggy wolf without breaking her gracefulness. Then she held out her hand. “I’d like to have my scarf back, please.” 

Her voice snapped him out of his trance; Oschon stumbled with his words. “Right, yes…” He fumbled with his bag, then with the drawstrings, somehow managing to get it to open. He drew the starlight shawl out to the open. Oschon vaguely sensed the goddess frowning but when he turned to face her again, she looked as impassive as ever. 

“Here.” He placed the fabric on her outstretched palm. She snatched it and inspected it carefully. “The wind must have blown it away. I found it on the ground—” He made to turn and point, but a growl from the giant wolf stopped him. “I did not mean to take it.” 

The goddess sniffed disdainfully. “A likely story, coming from someone who enjoyed peeking on women bathing.” 

“I didn’t—” Oschon began, flushing fiercely. 

“Of course not.” She gave the scarf a flap, then a satisfied nod, before wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. “Good thing Llymlaen isn’t here, or she would have gouged your eyes and fed them to her sharks.”

Oschon swallowed his nervousness. “Please, let me explain. I was here with my companion to hunt a beast that’s been sighted around the area. We got separated. Forgive me, I never meant to trespass.” 

“A beast?” The goddess’s eyes went wide with surprise. It startled him to have elicited such a response from her. “What manner of beast?” 

“A… wolf of some kind,” he said, rather hesitantly, then quickly added, “that’s been taking residence in the woods for a while. I doubt it was your hound, rest assured, please.”

“I see. Have you caught it then?” 

Oschon wasn’t sure what to make of this change in attitude, but he replied nonetheless. “Aye, my companion found it while still blinded by the darkness—” There; the slight recognition of what he was referring to. “—so you see how I might have stumbled upon you accidentally.”

“Ah… Well…” The goddess trailed off, eyes shifting away. Then suddenly, she sighed. “Llymlaen, can we please stop? The human’s not at fault and I sorely hate acting like I’m angry.” 

Oschon blinked. There was a pause, followed by a glint in the sky. Oschon shut his eyes as a trident flashed across the expanse and struck the ground ilms from where he stood. Wind whipped like a storm in the middle of a raging sea and Oschon tasted a tang of salt in the aether. He held his breath and willed his hammering heart to still. He heard the trident being lifted from its perch then felt the sharp tip of its blade graze the skin beneath his jaw. It turned his face upward. He opened his eyes to a countenance as beautiful and terrifying as a tempest. 

“I should have gouged both of your eyes,” Llymlaen hissed.

Oschon fought against the tremble in his knees.

“Llymlaen!” the other goddess scolded. Llymlaen scoffed, nicked his skin, then stalked away. A thin trail of blood trickled down his neck. “I’m sorry. She means no harm.”

Oschon doubted it, but the goddess didn’t seem to pick up on his unease. She was already speaking nonstop.

“I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience I have caused you. The barrier was a safety measure to hide us from prying eyes. Of course it seemed you possessed some sort of knack at following trails more than most, so I could not entirely blame you for it. Not to mention you have your friend with you! Oh, I do hope they are alright—”

Oschon was taken aback by the sudden stream of words pouring out of the goddess’s lips. She spoke too fast about too many things with too little elaboration; it was hard for Oschon to keep up. She might not have stopped had Llymlaen not called her name.

“Ah, forgive me,” she said with a sheepish grin. “As I was saying, thank you for returning the scarf. I need it to return home, you see, and after realizing it was gone, Llymlaen almost hunted you down if I hadn’t asked her to wait. I knew you would’ve returned.”

That made him pause. “You…knew I would return?” 

The goddess gasped with both hands delicately covering her mouth. “Ah, goodness, forgive me for not introducing myself.” She made an elegant swish of her knee-length dress, bent her knees, one ankle behind the other. “I am Menphina, Goddess of the Moon.” She rose from her curtsy and offered him a radiant smile as though that was enough for an answer. Although, now that he thought about it, perhaps it was. The starlight scarf and the soft glow surrounding herself should have given her away—or if not, she wore a full moon brooch on her shoulder that was pretty telling by itself. And yet never had he thought he would meet the Moon Goddess frolicking on earth, because the moon should have…

He recalled there had been no moon last night. 

“And my companion there is Llymlaen, the Goddess of the Sea, as you might have surmised.” Menphina added with no regard to his befuddlement, half-turning to where Llymlaen was standing beside the hound. 

He heard the clearing of a throat, then another warning: “Menphina.” Oschon caught a slight purse gracing the Moon Goddess’s lips. 

“I thank you for bringing me back my scarf again, Oschon.” A pause. “I bid you well.” 

How she knew his name—he didn’t know, nor had he the chance to ask, because by the time Oschon shook out of his trance, Menphina had already climbed atop her hound, who met Oschon’s searching gaze with a growl. “Hush, Dalamud,” the goddess said. She met Oschon’s eyes briefly before her eyes inadvertently fell to something on his chest. 

Before Oschon had the chance to see what she was looking at, Llymlaen had already shot to the sky, Menphina and her hound following suit. 

***

For the next several days, Oschon stayed in the village, helping Nald’thal and the village butchers to skin the beast and distribute the meat to all the villagers. Halone accompanied some of the men back to the woods as protection, and once they were quite certain all dangers were averted, the three of them decided to leave, with the rest of the beast parts packaged in magical containers ready to be sold or traded in the next town they visited. 

Oschon didn’t apprise his companions of all that transpired in the woods, only that the goddesses were gone and the scarf along with them. Halone was still upset that she didn’t get a chance to cross blades with Llymlaen, and sometimes, the conversation turned to speculations on who the other goddess was. Oschon claimed the goddess didn’t introduce herself, and he couldn’t quite remember the scriptures as to guess who it might be. Halone called him daft while Nald’thal couldn’t believe him. But his brother never pressed him further, so Oschon left it at that. 

One night, however, as they were settling at the inn of a small town, Nald’thal offered to have a drink in the yard. They’d made a hefty sum from selling the beast’s remains, and then trading the wares they’d collected since, but Oschon, for once, opted to stay indoors. 

“Something occurred in those woods,” Nald’thal then said decisively. “Do you not notice the change too, Halone?”

Halone nodded. “Spill it, Oschon. You’ve gotten a lot quieter, and never once, in the past few weeks, have I seen you go on your nightly stalks with that brooding manner of yours. What happened?” 

Oschon scowled and folded his arms. “For one, I do not brood,” he said, then added, “nor do I stalk.” 

Halone scoffed. “Then were you being merry every time you drank under the moon?” 

Oschon’s scowl deepened. Indeed, ever since Menphina revealed herself to him, coupled with the fact that she knew him by name, Oschon hadn’t stopped to grace the moon with his tales. He almost did, last week on the night of the full moon, strolling out of his tent to a patch of moonlight beyond their campsite as he usually did. Only, he made a double take at the last second and retreated back inside. He didn’t even spare the moon a glance. Oschon didn’t know why he was making a big deal out of it, nor why he hid her presence from his companions, but in the end, under Nald’thal and Halone’s scrutiny, he waved his hand and said they were imagining things. 

By the next new moon, they arrived in a larger town where Nald’thal had a client who was waiting for the rest of their beast’s jarred, preserved organs. The sun had just dipped beneath the horizon, taking the last of its dying rays and leaving the world painted in black. Aether-infused lamps sprang to life, illuminating city streets and dark corners. While Oschon loved the wilderness, he couldn’t deny a city at night held a certain kind of alluring beauty to it. One wouldn’t even realize it was night at all, except by the streak of indigo sky caught between the rows of buildings. 

Oschon was sitting outside the inn, polishing his bow and humming to himself, an empty dinner bowl on the table before him, when a familiar ripple shimmered in the air. He was on his feet instantly, an arrow trained at Menphina, who had materialized out of nowhere. 

“Could you please point that elsewhere?” she said with an annoyed huff, a delicate finger pushing the tip of Oschon’s arrow to the side. 

“Menphina.” 

The goddess made flesh: silver eyes, sparkling dress, and the unmistakable glow beneath her porcelain skin. The only noted difference was that now the starlight scarf was securely wrapped around her shoulders, just like how she’d donned it right before she left the lake roughly two fortnights ago. No more chance of the wind picking it up, Oschon thought. For a moment, he found himself back in that clearing, spellbound as he’d beheld the Moon Goddess’s resplendence for the first time—a recollection that was cut short by the sight of a silvery glint and the sharp pain across his cheek. 

He heard the murmurs first, then felt the wary glances. They pierced through the thin veil of his fascination, bringing his attention to his spectators. The inn’s patrons were looking at Menphina with both caution and captivation. The only consolation was the fact that there were only a few of them outside the inn that they couldn’t make any significant fuss. So Oschon did what he thought was best: he put his arrow back in its shaft then slung his bow across his back. Then he crossed the yard and asked Menphina to follow him—and for heavens’ sake, to dim her glow. From the corner of his eyes, Oschon saw the goddess tilting her head in confusion though she followed him without question. By the time they left the inn’s premises, her light had dissipated. 

He took her to a deserted alleyway next to the inn. His only thought was to bring her far away from prying eyes. But his mind had strayed, fixed on the question of why she was there and turning up every possible answer that entered his head, that he hadn’t quite seen where he was going. It wasn’t until the goddess asked it herself—“Where are you taking me?”—that Oschon stopped and looked over his shoulder. Menphina’s gaze was clear, almost innocent-like. It almost made him forget she was an immortal being as old as the universe itself. 

He cleared his throat, then turned around. “Forgive me,” he said, then, having decided to come directly with his query, added, “have I, perchance, done something else that acquired your ire?” 

Menphina blinked, puzzled. “I’m sorry?” 

“I don’t believe the goddess of the moon would come to the star for no reason.” 

Menphina cocked her head to the side, then lifted her face skyward. “It is a new moon. I do not see why I need a reason to visit the star when I have no duty that binds me to the sky.” It was Oschon’s turn to look perplexed. And then the goddess giggled. “Forgive me; I jest,” she said. “While yes, I am free to leave as I go during a new moon, perhaps I should say first that I came alone. Llymlaen isn’t here with me. Even Dalamud stayed behind. So be at ease, please. I only came to see you.” 

Her gentle smile brought to mind the day he had returned her scarf. She’d known his name before he had introduced himself. 

“Do you know me?” he asked. 

“I am the warden of the moon,” she replied matter-of-factly. “It would be amiss of me if I do not know the name of the man who regales me with the most fascinating tales.” 

His suspicions were right, then. Menphina had been there in all his brooding and stalking and silent ruminations. She’d listened to every tale and every heartfelt confession he had expressed after nightfall—even when he had nothing to say and would only sit in silence, letting his mind wander to memories he rarely treaded. If only the earth could swallow him whole… 

How long had she been watching him?

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a scary, brooding face?” Cool fingers touched his forehead; Oschon sucked in a breath. “There,” she went on, “the wrinkles.” Her finger moved, smoothing his skin. For a moment, Oschon found himself gazing at the moon, cocooned as he often was in its soothing light. He felt the tension leave his shoulders, and Menphina smiled. 

“After being subjected to the receiving end of Llymlaen’s wrath, I was afraid you’d been left frightened,” she went on as her fingers fell to the scar on his cheek, brushing the faint line there. His still-sensitive skin tingled. She finally retracted her hand, and Oschon could finally breathe again. “But you seem to be very much hale and whole. I am glad.” 

He averted his gaze from her moonbeam smile. “I don’t suppose goddesses usually check up on mortals they’d terrorized.” 

Menphina, however, met his remark—cutting or otherwise—with a delighted grin. “As a matter of fact, no. Which is why you should be proud that you receive a personal visit from yours truly.” She sounded haughty, looked haughty, but the glint in her eyes seemed to say that, again, this was all jest. Oschon didn’t quite know how to handle her, much more so when she suddenly asked to be shown around town. 

As much as he would like to decline, Oschon found himself complying. He told himself he would rather not risk another goddess’s wrath, after having escaped the previous one by a hair’s breadth. Yet as he took Menphina out of the alley and back into the crowded street, he found himself rather enjoying her company. 

Oschon wouldn’t have thought it for a goddess, but it seemed Menphina did have a childlike innocence about her. He noticed it in the way her eyes sparkle at lamps on the streets or the little baubles decorating storefronts. A group of street musicians held a performance in the square and she clapped her hands in rhythm. She walked with a skip in her step, her arms swinging on either side of her, as she took in the people coming and going all around her. And when a street vendor selling steamed buns caught her attention, the goddess squealed and bolted right towards it. Like a child, Oschon found himself thinking.

Apparently, his wasn’t the only attention Menphina had captured either. He noticed several passers-by glancing at her. Even the people queueing in front of the steamed bun vendor gave her curious glimpses. She might have dimmed her ethereal aura, but Oschon realized it wasn’t so easy to hide her foreign nature. 

Oschon reached her side within several quick strides. In one smooth motion, he had unfastened his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. As he fastened it firmly before her chest and pulled the hood to cover her glistening hair, Oschon found that her silver eyes were fixed on him. He let go of her. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “for my impertinence. Just for the time being, until you leave.”

But Menphina didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, she pulled the hem closer around herself and smiled her moonlight smile. Oschon’s heart skipped a beat. 

“This is a moonflower, is it not?” she later asked after they had gotten their steamed buns and were sitting a little ways away, in a slightly quieter spot at the square with benches set under the awning of trees. Heat rolled off their buns in tendrils. Menphina blew at it the way Oschon had shown her, carefully bit into the pastry, then brought her hand up to her cheek as her lips spread wide in a contented grin. “Ah, this is delicious!”

Oschon felt himself smile before he dug into his own bun. “Yes,” he replied, “that brooch is a moonflower.”

“I knew these round petals looked familiar,” she said. “I saw them once, long ago. An entire field of it. They always lit up under the moonlight.” Menphina brushed the rim of the brooch. It glimmered under her touch—which reminded him… 

Had the brooch not glimmered also when Llymlaen attempted to attack him? He vaguely recalled a glint over his chest. 

As though picking up on his thoughts, Menphina added, “Where did you get it from? I sense magical properties in it.” 

Truthfully, the thought had never occurred to him. He’d never felt any of its sort from the brooch, yet there was no other explanation how he had survived Llymlaen’s dagger. The Sea Goddess couldn’t have missed, unless on purpose, and she had seemed to have enough indignation to gut him there and then. Menphina confirmed it as much, saying Llymlaen had never missed her mark. A new sense of dread overcame him, and with it, a new sense of appreciation for the brooch. His eyes dropped to the small ornament, so worn with time, having lived through a little over a score of summers. Yet it was as pristine as the day he’d gotten it. 

“My mother gave it to me,” he said. “I… don’t know much about where she’d gotten it, but I remember my mother giving that to me just before she died. She said it would protect me.” His memory was rather fragmented; part of him had always thought it was a dream. But he knew what he saw: a moonless night, a figure in white, and her mother’s familiar smile. 

“Your mother must have loved you so to gift you such a powerful parting gift.” Beside him, Menphina stared at his brooch with a faraway look on her face. 

They finished their buns, and after throwing the wrappers away, spent the rest of the night walking around town. As the night grew darker, so did the crowd thinned. Lamps were dimmed and doors were locked. In a deserted corner of the town where a stream ran quietly down a canal, Menphina swept her gaze over the sleeping settlement. She stopped, then turned and unfastened the moonflower brooch from around herself.

“Thank you for entertaining me. It is not often I get to witness human life so closely, not one with proper companionship at least.” Her eyes crinkling with mirth, she returned the cloak to Oschon. All at once, the soft glow of the moon penetrated their surrounding darkness. She lingered for a while, then finally said, “I should take my leave. It is nice to finally meet you, Oschon.” 

She turned her back to him, tilting her face upward. Her skin gleamed silver and her dress whipped in a non-existing wind. Oschon knew that the moment she left, he might not see her again. So in one compulsive moment, he blurted: 

“Would you like to visit again?”

Menphina looked over her shoulder. Oschon dug his fingers into his cloak. 

“The next new moon. In another town. I’ll show you other places.” 

Her smile was as bright as the radiance that was slowly engulfing her. “I would like that.” And then she shot to the sky like a silver streak of a shooting star. 

***

“I saw you with someone yesterday,” came Nald’thal’s probing question the next morning after Oschon finally joined them for breakfast. “Who was it?”

“Who was who?” Oschon asked. 

His brother wrinkled his nose, then shared a not-quite-so-subtle glance with Halone. “He’s playing dumb.”

“Which means he has something to hide,” Halone said.

They turned scrutinizing gazes on him, and Oschon quickly wolfed the last of his bacon and coffee before placing his tab on the table. He left the inn ahead of them, claiming he’d found a job for them. 

He would not tell them about Menphina. Ask him why, he couldn’t answer. At least, not yet. Perhaps one day he could tell them about her, but he doubted he would meet her again beyond their next promise, so he saw no reason why Nald’thal and Halone would need to know. 

Oschon wasn’t lying when he said he’d found them a job. He’d met the man the day before prior to Menphina’s visit. Oschon had promised him that they would hear more about the job before deciding if they would accept it. 

On his way to their potential employer, Oschon passed by a clothier that was opening up shop for the morning. A particularly pretty fabric hung at the store front, the color a soft arctic blue. He imagined Menphina donning a cloak in that color instead of the deep green he usually wore. Suppressing all doubts that cropped up in his mind, Oschon strode inside the shop and bought a length of the ice-blue fabric. 

By the next new moon, he had finished commissioning the cloak he had planned to gift Menphina. He’d told himself it was better than having to lend her his—that blue suited the goddess better. He’d seen the finished product. He could just imagine it flowing down her shoulders, hiding her inherent glow while still maintaining her elegance. He had even gotten a snowflake button that matched the cloak’s soft color. Oschon wondered what kind of expression Menphina would make when she saw it, which made it all the more difficult to hide from both Nald’thal and Halone because a smile kept threatening to show on his face. 

In fact, it was already difficult to throw them both off his trail when he set out to meet the goddess that evening. He didn’t know how Menphina would find him, but seeing as she had materialized out of thin air right outside the inn the last time, Oschon figured he would rather have their next meeting place be more inconspicuous. The back exit of the town he was visiting seemed like a good place—a mostly deserted area whose few guards were easily sent away after he told them of a drunken fight that had broken out in a nearby tavern. He checked his surroundings then, making sure no more stragglers were out in the open, before striding out the gates. 

It didn’t take long for Menphina to appear. A glint in the sky, and then a burst of starlight. Oschon almost staggered in shock. He watched the light disperse to reveal a huge black paw, followed by a shaggy ebony head. Menphina, resplendent as ever, waved her hand from atop her hound.

“Were you waiting for me?” the goddess asked, finally breaking Oschon free from his speechless stupor. He shook himself, realized the great hound Dalamud was already sitting on his haunches just a few fulms away, then focused his gaze on the beaming goddess right in front of him who seemed to have no idea what sort of uproar her flashy appearance would have created had there been any other eyewitnesses besides him. 

Oschon had hoped to present the cloak in a more gentlemanlike manner, but the towering dog grated on his nervousness. He half-unwrapped the paper bag containing her garb, pulled it free from its confinement, then threw the cloth around her shoulders, securing the snowflake button in front of her chest as he hissed under his breath, “Unless you have some way to make him smaller, I’m afraid we cannot take Dalamud inside!” 

The hound growled and Oschon glared at him. Underneath the ice-blue hood, Menphina blinked. She shifted her gaze from Oschon to her hound then back again. Oschon knew he’d won the argument when she sighed and gave Dalamud an apologetic look. 

“Forgive me, love.” She held out her hand and starlight began to ensconce Dalamud, diminishing his size until he was no bigger than a common wolf. Dalamud whined and sniffed in dejection, shaking and stretching his now-smaller legs. It was still impressive in form but nowhere near as imposing as before. Despite his uneasiness, Oschon couldn’t help but laugh. Dalamud glared at him and made to bark but even his ferociousness had abated somewhat too. 

Perhaps now, everything could go according to his plan. Except, as he was about to lead Menphina inside, a figure standing at the gate stopped him short. 

Two figures, more like… 

“And who, pray tell, is this, Brother?” Nald’thal asked in a wary tone. Beside him, Halone seemed to be more interested in the goddess Oschon had inadvertently hidden from view. 

‘No one’ would be his immediate answer, but the scrutiny on his brother’s face told him enough that he and Halone had seen the starlight and magick and Dalamud shrinking into his current size. Not to mention they had known about the blue fabric-turned-cloak he had purchased that now flowed from Menphina’s shoulders. Oschon pursed his lips—a last act of adamant refusal to divulge his secret—until Menphina tugged his shirt and gave him a silent nod. Oschon sighed.

He stepped aside and gestured to the goddess. “This is Menphina,” he said, then added in a quieter voice, “the Moon… Goddess.” 

He might have preferred seeing them shocked, but Nald’thal’s lips were pressed thin while Halone’s blue eyes took on an excited gleam. Menphina, however, beamed brilliantly before dropping into another elegant curtsy. “A pleasure to meet the two of you. Oschon has told me a lot about you.” 

Oschon averted his eyes from Nald’thal’s raised brow. 

“So this is the other goddess from the lake?” Halone said, sauntering up to them. She bent down by the waist and examined the goddess’s face beneath the hood. The top of Menphina’s head barely reached Halone’s chin. “You’re rather small for one.”

“Halone!” Both Nald’thal and Oschon hissed, but Menphina only giggled. 

“Would you say you’re adept in the art of combat?” Halone asked. Nald’thal and Oschon made to interject once more, but she ignored them completely. “I heard Oschon encountered the Goddess Llymlaen in the woods, but alas, I hadn’t the chance to meet her.” She threw an annoyed glance at Oschon, who responded with a frown. “What would you say to a bout of spar—”

“She’s not here to spar, Halone,” Oschon cut in, at the same moment as Menphina replied, “All right.” 

Oschon stared incredulously at her, but the goddess only beamed innocently and said to Halone, “I would say I’m good at magick.” Halone smirked at him. 

“Next time then,” he said, reluctantly with a sigh. He refused to give into Menphina’s meltingly sweet smile. 

Nald’thal and Halone ended up tagging along. Oschon couldn’t say anything against it, not when Halone had completely captured Menphina’s attention. The two women were talking animatedly ahead of them while Oschon and Nald’thal followed closely behind, Dalamud never straying far from Menphina’s side. A few times he felt his brother’s glance. On Nald’thal’s fifth attempt to start a conversation and failing again, Oschon bit down on his frustration and said, “What is it, Brother?” 

“I’m just trying to figure out what is happening here,” Nald’thal eventually said. “You told me that the deed was done—the scarf returned, the goddesses gone. Then what is this, Brother? Why in Gods’ names is the Warden of the Moon strolling in some ramshackle street dressed in a cloak from you? Do not tell me she still holds you responsible for taking her scarf, even after you returned it?”

Oschon had expected the string of questions as he had expected Nald’thal to come to such conclusions. He saw no need to correct him. “She wanted to see how humans live their lives, so she asked me to accompany her.”

“As payment for your crime?” Oschon didn’t reply. “Twice?” his brother pressed. He glanced at him, who clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I know she was the woman who was with you last month.” So Oschon saw no other recourse but to nod and shrug, hoping that was enough of an answer. No one could read a goddess’s mind. Even if he were paying for his crime, he doubted two acts of service would be enough to appease them. It might serve as an excuse should Menphina decide she would visit again, now that she and Halone had made some sort of promise. 

Ahead of them, the two women were still engrossed in their conversation. Snippets of “lofty peaks” and “unruly beasts” reached his ears. Oschon furrowed his brows. Was Halone telling her about the Mythic Mountains? It had been on a whim. They’d been chasing some manner of beast Halone had been hunting, leading them to one of the highest mountains in the realm, when they’d then come across an abandoned hut and subsequently made it theirs. Oschon was made in charge of its upkeep. He had then put a self-cleaning spell on the building so that whenever they decided to return, it would still be in pristine condition. 

Seeming to notice his gaze, Menphina turned her head and tilted her head, quirking a brow at him with a small smile. Heat flushed his cheeks. Unbeknownst to him, Nald’thal had noticed the exchange. 

When they reached the town square, a merriment came out of an open door to their right. A tavern—their tavern. Or, at least, the tavern where Oschon usually spent his time performing. It was too late to draw Menphina’s attention elsewhere because then she’d asked. “Can we go there?” 

No, they could not go there, but before Oschon could reply, Halone had already said that they could. He eyed his friend. What was this sisterly bond the warrior had immediately forged with the goddess? She noticed his frown. He bristled at her smirk. 

So inside they went, finding the tavern packed from wall to wall. Unsurprisingly, as it was rush hour, although it seemed the crowd’s size was double the usual. All the patrons were involved in some kind of revelry, everyone singing as one to a melody performed on the stage. A part of him wished he could take Menphina to a quieter place, but the goddess was already joining the swarm of masses with sparkles in her eyes. 

Oschon made to grab her hand, but he felt himself being jerked to the other direction. They pushed and pulled him through the throng, his name chanted in a sing-song sort of way, and before he knew it, he was on the wooden stool atop the wooden stage, a lute thrust upon his hands. “Play for us, Oschon!” a shout came from the back—a grinning barkeep at the counter. Oschon scowled. 

He hadn’t wanted to enter the tavern for this very reason. It wasn’t supposed to be his work day, but the barkeep didn’t care about that now, did he? Nor, it seemed, did his companions, because a brief scan of the crowd showed Oschon a jolly Halone clapping alongside everyone. His scowl deepening, Oschon searched for the ice-blue cowl of Menphina and found her with Nald’thal along the side of the ro a little distance away from the stage. A sigh of relief escaped him. It seemed his brother had gotten her to a safer spot. Nald’thal whispered something to the goddess, who in turn gave him a solemn nod. They then turned their gazes to the stage— 

—and an expectant look from Menphina was the last thing Oschon had expected to see.

He… couldn’t say no to that face. And so, reluctantly, he sat on the stool and brought his fingers to the strings, joining the band for five consecutive songs. 

“That was marvelous!” Menphina exclaimed by the time Oschon joined them. The proprietor had cleared away a table for them, a little to the corner near the doorway. It seemed they had also gotten his permission to let Dalamud in because now the hound was sitting beside Menphina’s chair, spine straight in alert, his growl reverberating every time someone came too close to the goddess, including Oschon. Menphina scratched the back of Dalamud’s ear to calm him. “It really does feel different listening to it in person.” 

“By ‘it’ you mean…?” Nald’thal asked. 

“Oh, well, I often listen to him play during the night,” she replied nonchalantly. Oschon choked on his drink.   

“Of course,” Nald’thal said as Halone patted Oschon’s back. “You would have been there every night…” 

Oschon wished the earth would swallow him whole then if it would help him avoid the scrutiny with which his brother was looking at him. He could just hear Nald’thal berating him: so that’s why you stopped your moonlit strolls—which would then lead back to their previous conversation on why he was meeting the goddess in the first place if he had been avoiding her elsewhere. Oschon hated how his brother knew him so well. 

“Well, not every night. He is not the only human I need to watch over,” Menphina said. “The night is dark and the light I emit can only illuminate so much. But I always try to be there from time to time. Which reminds me, Halone. I promised you a duel next time, but I fear I will not be able to come until the next new moon.” 

“Why is that?” 

“It is the only time I am free from duty. Although, I would very much like to spend more time with all of you. I cannot go past the next day, but perhaps… I might be able to come earlier.” 

Oschon looked up at that. “Would that be possible?” 

“I have not done it, but it should be, yes. As long as I return by the next morning, that is.” Her face brightened. “This has been fun. I would hate to know that I can only experience it during the night.”

***

Menphina didn’t stay long that night. After the tavern, they showed her more of the town’s specialities, which wasn’t much as most businesses had closed for the day. When it was time for her to leave, she attempted to return her cloak to Oschon, who told her to keep it as she would be visiting them again. 

“Until next time, then,” she said. 

“Until next time.”

After the goddess left, they returned to the inn where Nald’thal rounded on him and asked if “paying for his crimes” was truly all it was because the goddess had looked more than ready to visit them again. And there had been no animosity between them. In fact, Nald’thal had sensed otherwise. Oschon pointed out that this time, it was with Halone whom Menphina had made the promise. Halone had the gall to look uninterested. “I wouldn’t have pressed had the goddess said no,” she said.

Both of them knew that Halone would have pressed the goddess if not for a spar but for another visit so she’d have another chance asking for a duel. But that was neither here nor there, so instead, Oschon turned his attention to Nald’thal.

“What have you so ruffled, Brother? You’re not always this bothered.”

For several long heartbeats, they stared at each other. “What bothers me is the thought that you’re falling in love with her. Giving your heart to a divine being will only lead to ruin.” 

Love? 

Oschon wanted to scoff, yet as Nald’thal’s words sank in, Oschon couldn’t help the flutter in his chest which he quickly shut away. Surely what he felt for her could not be described as such—him, a mere human in the face of an ageless goddess. Fascination, perhaps? Or gratitude? For watching him even during his darkest of nights. And yet every time Menphina visited afterwards, a surge of excitement would bubble in his heart and his pulse would skip every time she threw her moonbeam smile at him. 

Radiant—yes, that was the word. From the porcelain skin to her silvery eyes, her lustrous strands of bright cerulean hair. When she returned the next new moon and entertained Halone with a duel, they went to an empty plain astride Dalamud’s back and Menphina shed off the cloak he had given her. Her light simply illuminated the entire steppe that even the stars blinked out of existence. Any other man would have cowered in fear before the massive waves of aether, but Halone stood with her spear drawn out, mouth pulled back in a feral grin. 

It was a sight to behold—Halone’s bladework against the might of Menphina’s magick. Light flashed as blade clashed against ice. When everything was over and done, one would think Halone to be sprawled on the ground, unconscious, but the woman had managed to hold her own against the onslaught of a goddess’s magick. If anything, that deserved its own commendation, and such was what Menphina offered with her squeals of delight and praises for Halone’s skills. 

“Perhaps I should ask Llymlaen to come sometime,” she later mused, to which Oschon and Nald’thal profusely refused. 

Her visits then grew frequent. Always on each new moon she came to wherever Oschon was staying. She had even begun visiting on other occasions, such as during eclipses, though her visits then were usually short. To make up for it, she began arriving during midday. She heeded Oschon’s words and arrived with less fashion, less flash. No more shooting stars atop enormous wolves. If Dalamud did come, she’d made sure to land in a well-shrouded area before shrinking his size and donning her cloak. 

Every little mundane thing managed to grasp her interest one way or another. If she wasn’t watching children skipping rope or browsing the little trinkets on a vendor stall, she would stand in front of a bakery watching the bakers make bread. She basked in the trill of laughter and the everyday toll of a working man. Then when she came across an unsightly part of the human world, she would pause then drag Oschon to a wide area. Her little magick shows drew people to her and they would watch as her light put smiles on even the hardest of the men. 

She truly loved humans, it seemed, and every time Oschon watched a contented smile bloom on her face, it made him feel that whatever this was—whatever it was he was doing with Menphina—seemed worthwhile. 

Having her be part of their group gradually felt like the norm that Oschon never quite realized when Menphina started visiting outside of new moons and eclipses. It was Nald’thal who asked, because he had noticed that Dalamud wasn’t present. 

“I have him guard the palace,” Menphina said matter-of-factly.

“Palace?” Halone asked. 

For once, they were camping in the woods, Menphina having arrived shortly before sundown. They’d caught some fish and were now grilling them on their fire. Oschon offered one to Menphina, who accepted with a grateful nod. She blew away the heat and bit down on the flesh. Her elation and praise of the simple taste was so genuine that even Nald’thal—who had done most of the preparation—looked embarrassed.  

“Yes, my palace on the moon,” she then replied, “as Llymlaen’s lie at the bottom of the seas and Nophica’s hide in the midst of mountains. As is my nature, my spires are built of ice, beautiful and intricate, but cold. Dalamud is my only companion.” 

“Do the other gods or goddesses never visit each other the way you visit the star?” Halone asked again. 

At that, Menphina paused. “Azeyma, warden of the sun, comes sometimes, but the sun is always rising, always moving. She could never leave her palace for long.” She made another lengthy pause, in which she bit into her grilled fish again. “And then perhaps there are Althyk and Nymeia—the Brother Time and Sister Fate as you might know them. But, again, those visits are rare and far in between.” 

“I can’t imagine how lonely you must have felt,” Nald’thal said. 

Menphina smiled. “Which is why I turn my attention to humans. They are such fascinating creatures. I could never be weary of them.” She finished her fish within a few mouthfuls. “But yes, to answer your question, the reason why I had to leave Dalamud behind was because he is my channel to the moon. I cannot quite leave it untended when I should be there lighting up the night.”

Oschon chanced a glance to the sky and indeed, he found the crescent moon—only, it wasn’t as bright as it should be. He’d thought the clouds were the cause of that, but perhaps…

His gaze shifted to Menphina, resplendent as ever beneath her blue cloak. She noticed his stare and grinned. 

“Since I have told you about my home, will you not tell me yours? The village where you all grew up.” 

“Have I not told you about it?” Oschon asked. He swore he could have mentioned it once or twice, but Menphina said he’d only ever told her about his parents passing when he was young. Perhaps he had never seen the need to regale her about it. He…had never liked thinking about his village—a place that held so many memories that he had since forsaken. He’d never quite felt like he fit in there. 

Nald’thal, meanwhile, began telling her of their village on a pasture to the west of the realm. A small smithy village, whose residents either worked on the mines or learned smithing under Halone’s father. Halone took pride in her family’s craft, although she was never skilled at it. She’d joined the village’s watch instead after her battle prowess came to be known. 

“Oschon was a troublemaker,” she said. 

“I believe the two of you were,” Nald’thal countered. “Oschon would go exploring the wilds then come back battered and bruised, Halone in tow. Our mother would scold him all night long.”

“Not to mention her father,” Oschon added, referring to Rhalgr, Halone’s father, who had taken them in after their parents passed. A small smile tugging at the corners of his lips even as his heart made a little twinge of pain.  

“And was there not a flower field nearby where we liked to play?” Halone added. “Moonflower was it? That brooch you have, the one your mother gave.” 

“Ah, yes, I remember that.” He recalled the field, where small, round flowers bloomed as far as the eye could see, covering the entire land in a blanket of white. 

Halone’s gaze grew dreamy. “I used to think that was the most beautiful place in the entire star.” 

“But we left it some ten summers ago,” Nald’thal went on. “We’ve not been back since.”

“Do you not miss it?” Menphina asked. 

“From time to time. But we still send word. And I will not deny that my journey with my brother has been exhilarating, and rewarding, to say the least.” 

Oschon met his brother’s gaze, and Nald’thal offered him a rare smile. 

“Then what about the cottage in the Mythic Mountains? Halone mentioned something about it,” Menphina asked Oschon. 

That had its own different kind of beauty, he thought, with a sprawling landscape all around. Looking at Menphina, he decided he might as well show her rather than tell. “Would you like to see it?” he asked. Her beam was everything he could ask for. 

Their next destination thus then decided, on Menphina’s next visit with Dalamud, they rode the hound’s back to the top of the highest peaks in all the realm—the Mythic Mountains, whose imposing summit pierced the clouds. When Dalamud landed on the outcropping that stretched over the cliff’s edge, the mist that usually shrouded the entire peak dispersed, revealing a small and modest cottage made of wood and enchanted in such a way to keep it clean, safe, and hidden from prying eyes. A large oaken tree lorded over the area, its gnarled roots cracking the earth and hugging the side of the cliff while its thick overhanging branches made dappled light dance on the ground. 

“It’s so beautiful,” Menphina breathed into the cool air. 

The world dipped and rose around them: valleys and hills and towering peaks all swathed in green vegetation. Steep cliffs dropped into the abyss as though once upon a time a divine hand had cut the earth into blocks and erected them in irregular intervals. Menphina dared a look over the outcropping and gasped when she could not find where the bottom lay. From somewhere in the distance, the roar of thunderous waterfalls reached their ears. 

“Come,” Oschon said, holding out his hand for her to hold. He helped her step off the ledge then led her to their cottage. A protective rock wall shielded it from most of the howling wind. 

They hadn’t been there for so long that when Halone opened the door, the air inside felt stiff. But Oschon’s spell had held; the place was mostly clean—the only sign the cottage was uninhabited were the dust motes floating in the air and a general isolated feeling it had accumulated. They had to make it a little more home-like so as they set to work, they let Menphina wander outside. 

The sun was already setting by the time Oschon went outside to search for the goddess. He found her sitting on the bench under the oak tree, gazing absently at the distant horizon. She looked up when he called her name, her face breaking into a gentle smile. She patted the space beside her and Oschon hesitantly took his seat. 

“What are your thoughts?” he dared ask. 

“Hmm.” She pondered. Dalamud had taken his smaller wolf appearance, dozing on Menphina’s feet. He seemed to enjoy being this small now. “I’m thinking how wonderful this place is. So high, and so vast. You could almost see the entire world. I can see why you love it. But a part of me does wonder: does it not make you feel lonely?” 

Oschon stared, speechless. He turned his gaze to the surrounding mountains and watched the sun sink low between two pointed peaks. In the distance, a silhouette of birds soared, crying and searching for prey. He had never thought about it—never felt it cross his mind. Every time he stood in this place, time had always stood still. It was easy to forget it existed—that an entire world existed outside this sprawl of mountains and waterfalls. And part of him thought that that was precisely what he sought—a sort of solace to be had that he could find nowhere else. A place where his heart was free to laugh and to cry. A home. 

And yet…

“Forgive me for my presumption,” she said in his silence. “I only thought you might feel the way I do in my spire. But I only have Dalamud for a companion while you have such a lovely family waiting for you.”

“What are you trying to say, Menphina?” 

The sun cast a golden hue on her smile. It should be impossible for her to be even more radiant than she already was, even with her usual glow dimmed and hidden inside her cloak. Yet there it was—her shine—illuminating brightly under the dying sun. 

What bothers me is the thought that you’re falling in love with her.

“Will you play for me?” she asked. 

He refused to admit Nald’thal was right, but even he couldn’t ignore how deep his feelings for her had grown. He should stop, back away and turn around before he let himself fall any further, but like the fool he was, he acquiesced to her request, picked up his lute, and plucked the strings. 

The melody came to him unbidden. A familiar tune—one that had been dredged up from the depths of his memories along with the rest of his childhood recollections. Oschon played his father’s song, a ballad of love his father had once written and performed for his mother in that field of moonflowers. From the look on Menphina’s face, she seemed to recognize the melody. How—he didn’t bother to ask. But there was one thing he was now certain of: his heart yearned for her, the one person who saw him, and found him, and acknowledged the loneliness he hid even from himself. 

She was the solace he’d sought. He didn’t know if he could ever turn back from it. 

***

News of failing crops came to their attention one day during harvest season. It wasn’t the first time they’d heard of it. For the past few moons, uncanny occurrences had cropped up in various parts of the realm. The current rumors came from a village near the eastern end of the realm, where they came upon Nophica, who so rarely left the confines of her grove. Clad in a flowing silken dress, she held out her hand over a dying field, strengthening roots and invigorating the soil. Her amber hair glinted in the light. 

She nodded her greeting at their approach. “A pleasure meeting you here.”

“A pleasure seeing you here,” Nald’thal replied. “What brings you out of your woods?”

“The villagers’ crops have not been doing well so I came to offer my help.” The goddess spoke lightly, but the setting sun cast light on her grim expression. Oschon dropped to his knees and grabbed a handful of the soil. Brittle. The lands on these parts should’ve been fertile. Nophica confirmed his thoughts as much when she finished her work—or, rather, put a pause on it—and said, “The soil has been acting odd. My magick could not reach it from my grove.”

Oschon felt her gaze discreetly fall on him, though when he attempted to meet it, Nophica was looking elsewhere. 

“No matter how much the villagers work on it, their seeds won’t sprout,” she went on. “The ones that do would simply wither and die. I’ve done what I could to keep their crops alive, but what I could save were of much lesser quality.” 

“How long has this been happening?” Nald’thal asked. 

“For the past few moons. Probably longer.” Another pause. “There is a change in the aether current. Something draws it away from the soil.”

This time, he did feel Nophica’s gaze. He looked up, and indeed, the goddess’s mint-green eyes bore into him. It was only a moment, but he had felt the gravest of predicaments she was trying to convey, and he started to wonder if this was more than a simple matter with the soil.

“Animals that should be fertilizing the soil are nowhere to be seen. There is a shift in the cycle of rain and even the wind seems to have changed course.” Nophica turned to look at Halone. “Have you noticed how violent some of the beasts have become? Vicious.”

Halone nodded her affirmation. 

“That may not correlate directly with the weakening soil, but we believe the disruption of aether is to be the cause of them.” 

“And what, pray tell, is the cause of this disruption?” Oschon rose from his crouch. His heart hammered. He didn't like how Nophica had looked at him—how she was looking at him again.

“Each of us gods represent a certain element,” she began to say. “I govern over land while Llymlaen governs the sea; Azeyma rules the sun and Menphina the moon. We are bound by duty, and as such, bound to the place of our governance. That is how we maintain the balance of this star’s aether. 

“Crossing to another domain is not impossible, though highly regulated, as even a shift of a god’s position could disturb the flow of aether. As such, Althyk, the father of time, and his sister, Nymeia, oversaw it all. They tend to overlook minor disruptions that could mend itself given time, but Menphina’s frequent visits to the star have upsetted the balance beyond natural mending.

“Now the current has changed. The soil loses its nourishment; beasts run rampant; and out on the sea, the tides have grown so restless that Llymlaen has to bring wayward fishermen home.” 

“But that’s—Menphina would never—” Menphina would never do anything that could endanger the star. She loved the star and its residents too much. Oschon felt his throat close up. To blame such a thing on her! 

“Was that why she looked troubled,” Nald’thal mused, “when we asked her about her visits.”

Oschon whirled at him, eyes flashing. “Are you siding with her?!” 

“I side with you.” Nald’thal regarded him coolly. “If you’d not been lost in your affection for her, the thought would have occurred to you too had you spent even an ounce thinking what manner of consequence the presence of the Moon Goddess would have on the star when she should be up there lighting the moon.” 

They glared at each other. Oschon then looked at Halone, someone else in their group who had formed a bond with Menphina, but the warrior looked away. Did she share Nald’thal’s sentiments then? Had they discussed it before just between themselves? Hypocrites! They’d enjoyed Menphina’s company as much as him.

Their silence stretched thin, charged and heavy. Nophica spoke calmly. “Menphina has always had a boundless love for humans, yet what she feels toward you seems to go beyond what is expected from a goddess. So much so that she would go as far as break her word with Althyk and heedlessly follow her heart, disregarding any consequences. And so I beseech you, Oschon, as a goddess of this star, will you not stop seeing Menphina?” 

A muscle twitched along Oschon’s jaw. She was wrong. Menphina wasn’t at fault. Yet even as he thought so, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny Nophica’s claims. How long had Menphina been visiting him? A year? More? Under the dying sun, Oschon found it hard to breathe.

“Why must I be the one who stops her?” he said through the dryness of his throat. “She barged into my life. I never asked for it. If you want to save the star, do it yourself!” 

His eyes flashing, he threw every last bit of venom and hot seething anger that he could muster at Nophica; consequences be damned. The goddess didn’t flinch. She only looked at him with that same sorrow lining her jade eyes. As if she truly was sorry. 

Oschon’s breath hitched. His feet turned before his mind could follow. Nald’thal and Halone called his name but he hissed at them not to come. 

The next day, Oschon refused to speak with both of his companions. They finished their business promptly, the trouble with soil and crops having been dealt with by Nophica herself. They didn’t see the goddess afterwards, but it was just as well. Oschon had nothing to say to her. He stood by what he said. He didn't believe Menphina to be the underlying cause of this unbalance in aether. Perhaps there were other reasons and those of the deities saw fit to put the blame on the obvious change that had occurred in the past year and a half—which was apparently him. 

They left the village shortly after, Oschon trudging quietly behind his companions and giving only the barest minimum of responses when asked about their next destination. He vaguely heard Halone say “somewhere that's not here”, felt Nald’thal’s glance which he refused to meet. More whispered discussions, and then they decided to go to a bigger town where they might settle for a while and look for work. “And for someone to cool his head,” his brother said with a clipped voice. This time Oschon did glare into his back, only to find Nald’thal glaring back. 

Their next town was a bustling port city where ships docked and sailed and merchants brought wares from all corners of the star. They’d been here often enough, though in previous occasions, they had been one of the traders crowding the marketplace. This time, they dismounted their steeds near the inn, booked separate rooms, and went their separate ways. Oschon sought solitude. He’d rather not have either of them speaking quietly behind his back of things he’d rather not hear, or to have his brother’s gaze constantly boring into him. He had heard their opinions loud and clear, and no he was not going to stop seeing Menphina. 

Such were his thoughts when he left the inn, but as Oschon made his way through the bustling city, the everyday talks gradually seeped into his hearing. 

“Good thing the ships made it in time,” a woman carrying groceries said. “I heard the sea’s been unpredictable lately, what’s with the moon going in and out all the time.” 

Her companion nodded grimly. “It’s been so dark lately, people have stopped traveling at night. My husband’s not been out hunting either ‘cause of the attacks and accidents happening outside.”

“Good thing we have the moon out tonight.” The woman smiled at the sky. “I hope it finally stays.” 

Listening to the two women’s conversation felt like lead weighing his heart. He wanted to scream that the moon was always there, that it was never truly “out”, only slightly dim, which would be the case on an overcast night anyway. He mulled the thought, running it over and over in his mind, rejecting the notion that a cloudy sky was not the same as an absent moon. Yet it was all everyone talked about. 

On a deserted bridge in a quieter part of the town, Oschon leaned his arms against the wooden railing and watched the river flow beneath him. One or two men passed by carrying boxes and crates, but otherwise, the place was empty. He spotted the moon’s reflection, beautiful like a lopsided smile. Its soft, gentle glow bathed his back; warm and comforting. 

She was there, yet so out of reach. 

As though sensing his disquiet, the sky darkened. Oschon blinked. Clouds had moved to cover the reflection of the moon. He lifted his head just in time to see the silvery glow completely disappear, replaced by a glint in the encroaching darkness. He blinked again. It was no star. Indeed, just as the thought formed in his mind, the light shot down like a shooting star, but instead of heading to the far horizon, it was moving at full speed towards him. Oschon barely had time to react before the light softly landed in front of him, coalescing into the single iridescent form of a woman.

Menphina… 

Clad in her white dress and the cloak Oschon had given her, the goddess shook the remaining moonlight from herself. And then her silver eyes met his, and her face blossomed into a smile. 

Oschon couldn't help but stare. “Why are you—?”

“Here?” She finished his sentence. Her beam widened. “To see you, of course.” 

And after Nophica told him not to. 

At his silence, Menphina’s brows furrowed. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Nothing—”

“Don’t lie.”

Oschon pursed his lips. He looked away. “I’m not.” 

“I know you, Oschon. I know when you’re hiding something.” Menphina peered into his eyes. “Tell me.” 

How was it that she had so much effect on him? Just the sight of her disarming gaze undid every dread and unease that had plagued him since meeting Nophica. He could almost forget everything the goddess had told him just to have this moment last.

Menphina urged him to speak, her mouth set into a little pout that made her look adorable. If only he could bottle her expressions and bring them with him on his travels. 

Oschon masked the yearning in his heart with a quiet chuckle. “I can’t win against you, can I?” He paused, then said, “Something came up.” 

“Something bad?” 

“Something unpleasant.” 

“Tell me.” 

Oschon’s gaze wandered to the sky where dark clouds now hung as though waiting for rain. “Did you move the clouds to come see me?” he asked instead, half in jest, though judging by Menphina’s guilty expression, it seemed he had hit a mark. 

“I can’t stay for very long, so I asked Llymlaen to move the clouds,” she admitted, pink tinging her cheeks. And after Llymlaen had to bring those fishermen back from being lost at sea.

“Why?” he asked. “Why do you keep coming to see me?” 

Menphina didn’t answer immediately. When he chanced a glance, he glimpsed a flicker of emotion that froze him to the ground. A flicker, still, but telling enough, settling in the depths of her eyes as she looked at him squarely and said, “Because I want to be with you.” 

Never had he thought he would hear those words uttered from Menphina’s mouth. Yearned for them, perhaps; dreamed of them—in all the time they had spent together, watching her smile and laugh and just be there beside him. But now she had uttered them, and Oschon found himself at a loss. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” she said softly. “What is wrong?” 

Oschon sealed his mouth. Could he tell her about this tingling warmth spreading from his stomach to the tips of fingers? In this very moment, he fought against an inherent urge to pull her into his arms and bury himself in her light. 

Giving your heart to a divine being will only lead to ruin.

How right Nald’thal was. 

Oschon cleared his throat and shifted his gaze away to the trees lining the river. Men were stringing decorations between the trunks, the tell-tale of an upcoming festival. 

“Have you heard of the mid-autumn festival?” he asked. “There’ll be one here within a fortnight. It’ll have a huge bonfire with music and dancing and, of course, food to be shared all around.”

Menphina was silent. It took a while but she finally dragged her eyes from him and toward the trees. 

“You’ll find the festivities last all night long.” He paused. “Would you like to come?”

She glanced at him. “Will you tell me what is bothering you then?”

Oschon swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I will.”

“Then I shall come.” 

***

Oschon asked Menphina to come a few hours early. It would be a full moon that night; he didn’t want to take her away from her duty. Menphina, having pondered about it, said that it would be alright. She would think of something—which was precisely what Nophica had warned him about. Still, he couldn’t say anything against it. He wanted to see her one last time. Legend had it that if one were to profess their love for another under the full autumn moon, their love would be granted. It was a long shot, but if there was some way he could keep this bond he shared with Menphina, then perhaps, should they be parted, a day might come where he could find his way back to her. 

However, when the day finally arrived and he waited for her a little outside of town, she never came. Oschon checked the sky, looked at the town gates in the distance, paced, but as the sun slowly dipped, he began to wonder if perhaps she wasn’t coming at all. 

He returned to town and found the square already packed. He spotted Nald’thal in the perimeter, enjoying a glass of ale. Neither of them had addressed the issue with Menphina and Oschon hadn't told him about meeting her tonight; but it didn't matter now. She wasn't here. 

Soon, the last tendrils of sunlight disappeared and the bonfire started. Musicians on the makeshift stage started their performance. People flocked to the stalls and tables where meals were served. Oschon couldn't quite stomach the idea of eating now. A gaping maw had formed at the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong. 

He barely had the chance to form the thought when someone bumped into his back. He blinked out of his reverie, glancing back. A blue hood; a glimpse of turquoise hair. Menphina's round face peeked out from under a familiar cowl. 

“Found you,” she said. 

Oschon stared at her in horror. “What are you—?”

“Come.” She grabbed his hand and led him away just as the first cry of dismay broke from the crowd. What had been a fairly clear sky before was now shrouded in darkness. The moon had disappeared along with the stars. People bemoaned a coming of a storm, but Oschon knew better. It seemed Menphina did too, judging from her brisk pace. The festival couldn’t be held without her holding her fort in the sky. They were on borrowed time, but it didn’t matter to him. As long as she was here… As long as the moon was in front of him… 

“I’m sorry but I can’t stay for long,” she said hurriedly. “I snuck away when Nymeia wasn’t looking and had Llymlaen help cover the moon for a while.” They stopped at the same bridge they had met the last time, then she turned around and faced him. “Now, you promised to tell me something.” 

All was silent. All around, lanterns strung across the bridge swayed in the breeze, which Oschon noticed was slowly picking up. This was borrowed time. Menphina would have to leave soon so the festival could continue. 

“Nophica told me,” he said, “about the disrupted aether.”

Menphina blinked. For once, the goddess looked shocked. 

Oschon smiled wryly. “We can’t be together, can we?” He needed no answers, but please let him have this moment. If he could only confess his love; if she would reciprocate his feelings; then perhaps all was not lost. “Menphina, I—”

Before he could speak any further, a cry resounded across the heavens like a crackle of thunder. Menphina’s eyes flew open as a bolt of lightning struck the other side of the bridge. Instinctively, Oschon pulled Menphina behind him. 

“Menphina,” a voice boomed from the pillar of fire, loud and commanding. The entire fabric of the star seemed to tremble with it. A woman stepped forward from the dissipating fire, clad in a blazing crimson dress. A gold headdress accented her flaming red hair. None of the descriptions Oschon had read of the Sun Goddess did any justice to the wildfire standing before him now. Bright, burning eyes glared at him—or, rather, at the person behind him. 

“Menphina,” the voice spoke again, softer now, almost. “Come home.” 

A tug at the back of his shirt; it was the first time he’d seen Menphina cower. “Go away, Azeyma! I’m not coming with you.” 

Azeyma sighed. “Are you a fool? You know how sacred the harvest festival is! That it depends on the presence of the moon—your presence. You cannot neglect your duty now.” 

Menphina tightened her fist on his back. “I promised Oschon I would see the festival with him. I would have come sooner had Nymeia not lock me in my palace.”

“Menphina!” Under the goddess’s reprimanding, reproachful glare, Menphina flinched and ducked her head lower. Azeyma held her gaze, then slowly shifted it to him. Oschon braced himself. “Mortal,” her booming voice said. “I believe Nophica has informed you of the consequences of your action.” Oschon gritted his teeth. At his silence, Azeyma’s voice sharpened. “Will you condemn this star?”

“No! Don’t you dare put the blame on him!” Menphina leaped from behind him and circled him around, arms spread wide as if to protect him from Azeyma. “It was my fault! All mine! I fell in love. I couldn’t stay away.” Her voice broke and it shredded Oschon’s heart to pieces. “Do not punish him.”

“Very well.” Azeyma waved her hand. Bright red coils appeared around Menphina. It slipped her out of her robe and pulled her away. 

“Wait—” Oschon reached out his hand on impulse but he only grasped air. 

“Our duty is to the star, sister,” the Sun Goddess went on, even as Menphina struggled against her restraints. “We cannot let anyone, not even ourselves, endanger it.”

“Don’t—Menphina!”

The last thing he saw was the wide-eyed fluster in Menphina’s silver eyes; and then they were gone, just as quick as they had arrived. 

***

Menphina stopped coming.

Oschon had thought himself ready, but when the next new moon rolled by and for once his night wasn’t interrupted, he found himself outside the city, waiting for the goddess to appear. She never did. When he returned to the inn, Nald’thal was looking at him with so much sympathy, he felt his heart might burst. Perhaps, he thought, that would have been better. 

He wasn’t entirely sure about the state of the aether, but everyday, the people of the city talked about how safe the roads had become now that the moon was out every night. Beast attacks were becoming less frequent, and out on the docks, the ship crews claimed that the seas had calmed. There was also the simple fact that the bright moon made their evenings all the lovelier. The festival had already passed, but Oschon swore the streets were more crowded than it had been before. It had only been a short while; did it truly have such an impact? Despite his misgivings, there was no denying that the people were happier having their moon back. Oschon, however, couldn’t force himself to join in the rapture. 

The next day, Oschon told Halone he would leave. He needed time alone. Halone and Nald’thal would be alright by themselves. 

“What about you?” Halone asked. 

“I’ll travel,” Oschon said with a shrug. “The reason I left the village was to see the world in the first place.” The familiar words rolled off his tongue easily, but now he couldn’t help the odd taste as they left his mouth. 

“Nald’thal wouldn't be happy.”

“Nald’thal will have to accept.”

Indeed, his brother had prepared a thorough counter argument as to why Oschon’s plan was folly. Oschon deflected, even when he knew some of the points his brother brought up were legitimate concerns. 

“You’re running away, just like you did when you left the village.” 

Oschon averted his gaze. “I’m not.” 

“Yes you are, Brother. Do you think I don’t know what you seek? There is a gaping void in your heart—one you seek to fill. Even now your eyes are empty, as empty as they were the day we lost our parents. But you will not find the solace you seek in your adventures.” 

A muscle twitched along Oschon’s jaw. He knew that. He hoisted his bag, grabbed his bow, then made for the door. 

“You’ve noticed, haven’t you—the reason you stayed close to Menphina?” Oschon paused with his hand on the doorknob. “If you do not open your heart, you’ll never find peace.” 

His heart constricted; Oschon turned the knob and pulled the door open. “Fare you well, Brother.” He let the door shut without a backward glance. 

The seasons turned. Oschon found himself sailing to a neighboring continent, hopping from one city to the next like he had always done. He performed in taverns, listened to people's tales and weaved them into songs. It was easy to return to his routines, Oschon realized, though by the end of each night, he would seek refuge in his room and drink his bottles dry. He refused to spend the night outside where the heavens and all its denizens were for all to behold.

The first time he noticed a change in the sky, he was stepping outside an inn with his arms stretched over his head when a couple men’s remark on the brightness of the moon caught his hearing. He was about to pass it off as idle talk of “yes, the moon is so bright and beautiful, the goddess has blessed us with another wonderful night”, but one of them noted how it lacked its usual luster. That piqued Oschon’s curiosity. The sky had been clear as far as he knew. He stepped from under the inn’s awning then looked up. Indeed, no clouds marred the perfect blue-black expanse. Stars blinked in silver and gold. Then there, the moon, almost round but not quiet, and… The men were right. It wasn’t as bright. 

“You reckon those moonless nights will return?” one of the men said to his friend. 

“Doubt it, but you never know,” his friend answered.

They left, leaving Oschon to his own quiet ponderings. 

He decided to leave it and not delve further. Perhaps it was only a trick of the night and the moon would be as it were tomorrow. But tomorrow came, and indeed, the sphere’s usual glow had dimmed. Oschon’s brows furrowed. 

Was Menphina on the star again? The last time Oschon witnessed a dim moon on a clear, cloudless sky was when the goddess was channeling her aether through Dalamud from the star. Granted, it hadn’t been her full power, so the moon wouldn’t have been as bright. But if Menphina were here, surely he should’ve heard rumors about unruly beasts and rampaging seas again. Yet all was quiet. He asked traders, merchants, and travelers, and all claimed nothing out of the ordinary. It was odd. 

With each passing day, Oschon’s heart grew restless. He scoured the realm for any signs of aether disturbance, but found that all was well. Then one day, he felt a tug—just a tiny twinge—in his heart, and for whatever reason, it drew his gaze westward. 

Toward home. 

Oschon’s jaws clenched. He hadn’t stepped foot on his home continent for almost two years. Would he find Menphina there? Was she waiting for him? He couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t gone to him if she was here. Or perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. Perhaps Menphina wasn’t even there and something else caused the waning of the moon’s luminosity. Whatever the reason, Oschon knew it was time to return, so he turned his steed westward and headed home. 

His first thought was to visit Nophica. The goddess should know something, and her grove wasn’t far from the eastern port city. The moment his ship landed, he steered his steed toward the mountains. 

He had only been there once, when Nophica had called upon him after Halone almost struck her pet down: a massive, labyrinthian oaken grove where the trees grew hundreds of fulms tall, the width of each trunk spanned a score of people. Vines and branches formed such intricate archways that one would feel as though they were walking down ornate halls. The goddess’s elementals ruled over these woods. Oschon treaded carefully with only the help of a torch; no light—not even sunlight—could pierce through the thick foliage. 

It was evening by the time he reached her chambers. There was an opening in the trees, foliage and shrubs that acted as curtains, and the sound of gurgling water that should mark the goddess’s personal spring. He dismounted his steed, then approached the leafy curtains. 

“Nophica—” he began, but stopped short. A ripple in the aether warned him of two powerful beings in the clearing beyond. He recognized the fresh spring leaves as Nophica, but the other—hot, blazing fire—was something he had only sensed once before. 

Azeyma. 

Oschon hid behind a tree, his heart hammering. He heard voices, angry and panicked.

“—she will not stop! We have tried everything—I have tried everything—but she will not forsake him. Talk to her, Nophica, I beseech you. If this goes on, she will die.” 

He heard a sob, then a pause; murmurs as Nophica said, “Calm yourself, Azeyma. We do not yet know what she hopes to achieve.” 

“What else does she hope for by transferring her aether to the moon?” Azeyma seethed. “She plans to relinquish her godhood, and all for her love towards a mortal. She hopes that by diminishing her own aether, she would not disrupt the balance by being here. She hopes the aether she transfers would be enough to keep the moon lit up even after she is gone. But that is folly! What are we if not the accumulation of aether collected from prayers? The moment she drains herself, she will disappear, and once she is gone, the moon will not last for long.” 

“What did you say?” Oschon, having heard enough, stepped out of his hiding place and slipped past the vine curtains. The two goddesses looked at him in a mixture of surprise and rage. He looked from Nophica to Azeyma. Angry tears welled within the Sun Goddess’ eyes. “What do you mean Menphina will die?” 

Azeyma made to leap at him but Nophica held her back. “She’s dying because of you!” 

“Azeyma!” Nophica reprimanded. 

Azeyma ignored her. “She refuses to forget you. She refuses to let you go! And all for this…bond…you two share. The longer you keep her in your heart, the faster she will go!” 

“Azeyma! Do not put the blame on him.” Nophica gave her a hard shake and a stern look. Azeyma pursed her lips, tears streaming down her face. 

When Oschon found his voice, he spoke. “Is Menphina here, on the star?” 

Nophica looked at him. “She has been for some time.” Then her gaze shifted upward, as though she could see the night sky beyond her thick foliage. “It does seem that her plan is working. I have not felt any disturbance throughout her stay.” 

“Where is she?” he croaked. 

It was Azeyma who answered, defeated and frustrated. “In a field of moonflowers.”

He knew where it was instantly. Without sparing another word, Oschon rushed out of the clearing, leaped into his steed, and steered him out of the woods, trusting on his senses and memory to lead him in the dark. 

How could he have been so blind? Since the moment they first met, it had seemed that Menphina knew him. She’d known his name—knew things about him that even he tended to hide from himself. He had set it aside as the moon watching him constantly for the past ten or so years—or, as she had put it herself, the man who had regaled her with the most fascinating tales. But that hadn’t explained her fixation on his moonflower brooch, or the way she had recognized his father’s song, because try as he might, Oschon could not remember any time he might have accidentally played it, or hummed it, aloud. She would have to have watched him since all those years ago when time had been simpler, and happier.

It took him several days to reach his old village. The flower scents caught his senses first, then he looked around and found that he recognized the birch trees flanking the well-trodden road. 

Home. 

The word felt foreign yet familiar. He hadn’t been here for the past decade and a half and yet the familiarity struck him hard like lightning. He slowed his steed to a trot, then veered to the right where a break in the trees revealed an overgrown path. He remembered having taken it countless times in his childhood. Even after nightfall, Oschon could navigate the area purely based on memory. 

The end of the tree line came into sight. Oschon pulled his steed to a stop and dismounted, looping the reins on a low, overhanging branch. He could already smell the blooms from here. Oschon took a deep, steadying breath. Patting his steed’s neck, he crossed the remaining distance between him and the edge of the forest and stepped out. 

Blossoms, as far as he could see, covered the grassy expanse that spread far and beyond, dipping in slow, undulating hills until it reached the distant gray peaks. Shades of white and silver painted the land, illuminating under the moon’s gentle glow. They swayed in a breeze that slowly picked up, and like a hound bounding and welcoming its master home, it rushed at him with all its might, invisible fingers dragging at his skin and locks of hair, almost pushing him back a step. 

Oschon closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet scent. He was home. 

The only thing they’d mentioned to Menphina about this place was that it was somewhere he and the others had often played. But the field carried more memories than that. It was the place his father once met his mother, where he had played the love song with his lute and captured her heart; it was the place they were buried, where Oschon had made a little stone table before he left. It was also where he had cried, as a child, sitting on that jutting rock in the middle of the field, refusing to believe that his parents were gone. And then a figure in white had appeared—

—a figure, which now coalesced into the woman sitting where he had usually sat, resplendent in her impeccable dress, with skin as pale as porcelain and lustrous hair that gleamed in the night. 

Menphina’s features twisted into a form of surprise. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he took a step forward, then another, and another. And then he was breaking into a run, and Menphina was standing in front of him, her arms spread out just as his limbs snaked around her, lifting her up and pulling her into a twirl. Her laughter lilted like music, a song of unbridled jubilance. He set her down and leaned his forehead against her, breathing her in. She was real. 

Menphina cupped his cheek. “You’re here.” 

“I’m here.” 

All those early days after losing his parents, when Oschon had spent his spare time on this very rock, looking up at the moon—perhaps, even back then, a part of him had yearned for her. For a companion. For solace, or peace—comfort. To fill the void in his heart that had been left barren since his parents’ passing.

Oschon held her hand and brought his lips to the heel of her palm. “Azeyma came to me,” he said. Her surprise was transparent in the widening of her eyes. She made to pull away but Oschon tightened his hold. “She told me you’d forsake yourself.” 

She yanked her hand free, then took a step back. Her glare could pierce through the hardest of ice. “This is the first time we met in years and that is what you say to me?”

“Menphina—” 

“What did she say?” 

Her gaze bore into him. Oschon never thought of hiding it from her. He took a steadying breath. “She said that you’re relinquishing your position as goddess, that you’re transferring your aether to the moon. To be here…” With him. 

“And is that wrong? Is it so wrong to wish to be with the person you love?” Her eyes flashed. 

“You’ll die, Menphina,” he said. “And you’ll take the moon with you, along with the star. Is that truly what you want?”

It pained him to hurt her, but she had to see it. She had to see that what she was doing was endangering the humans she claimed to love. Her love for one mortal could not outweigh her compassion for the star. Menphina averted her gaze, eyes hard and mouth trembling. 

Moments passed in silence, in which a cool breeze from the mountain picked up loose petals from the ground. It danced between them. At last, the sharp edge of Menphina’s gaze softened and she sighed. 

“Do you know how I came to know about this place?” she said. “I heard of flowers that bloom under the light of the moon. Isn't it nice knowing the immense gratitude humans have for you that they cultivate flowers in reverence to you? 

“I asked Althyk once so I could come down to the star to witness these blooms. That was when I saw a boy. He came here with his friends and they grappled each other and fought with wooden swords. After a while, the boy broke away from his companions to inspect the blooms. I’d thought of stopping him when he started breaking the stems, but when I realized he was weaving a crown, I couldn’t help but watch. Then his mother came to pick him up, and he presented the crown to her. The smile on his face as his mother wore it was forever seared into my mind.

“I knew there was a limit to how often I could come, so whenever I could, I would, every new moon, hoping to see that smile and the gaiety of these children. Until one day I saw him alone and crying.” She looked at him then, and he realized the truth. “I approached him and asked him what was wrong. His parents had just died, entombed not far from here. I couldn’t quite bear to see him like that, so I sat with him and told him all about the wonders of the world and the stars beyond. And when someone came to pick him up, I plucked a flower for him and transformed it into a talisman in the hopes that should he ever find himself lost, it would remind him that he was never alone.”

Oschon touched the brooch on his cloak. He could never remember that night fully. All he knew was that a figure in white had sat with him throughout the night. The brooch was already in his possession the day after. The villagers then said it might have been his mother’s specter coming to give him her final farewell. 

“So it was you,” he quietly said. 

“It tore my heart every night I see you gaze at the moon,” Menphina went on. “Gone was the jovial boy who had laughed to his heart’s content. So when we finally met again, I couldn’t help my concern. I wanted to see how you were truly faring.” She dropped her gaze, her voice growing soft. “I never would have thought that spending time with you would have me utterly bewitched. I cannot think of a life without you.”

Her words hung in the air between them. Silence ticked by. The moon was barely visible beyond the clouds, like a thin silver bow, its glow barely enough to light the sky. Oschon gazed at it forlornly. 

“If I could, I would leave this mortal realm and join you on the moon,” he said. “But I can’t, nor would you be happy with that arrangement. But should you renounce your godhood, so would you forsake your immortality, and then death will take you.” Menphina didn’t object. His eyes softened despite the tightness in his throat. He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “And I do not want for us to unite only for you to leave in the most devastating way. Could we not go back to how we once were? You love the star too much to simply abandon it.” 

“I would. For you.” 

“You would,” he agreed, “and it would destroy you.” Oschon stepped closer and took her hands in his. He turned her palms upward and gazed at the lines so much like his, tracing them where they intersect one another. Would that things were different. “And it would shatter me to see you broken.” 

Menphina’s breath shuddered. A quiet sob escaped her lips. “And what of you?” she asked. “Even in the time we have been apart, you have closed your heart once again.”

“As my father used to say… Partings are ever a forlorn affair, yet therein lies hope for a new encounter. For starters, perhaps it is time I return home.” He smiled at her, then drew her attention to the brooch on his collar—a steadfast, loyal companion, if he ever had one. “And I have your gift with me. I will never be alone.” 

The sob finally overtaking her body, Menphina flung her arms around his shoulders. “I would’ve shared one lifetime with you, Oschon.” The last threads of her stubbornness crumbling, Menphina sobbed into his arms. “I love you.”

Oschon’s hold tightened. He buried his face in her hair, soft and silky, and warm. Familiar. “Thank you for being there for me.” 

*** 

After sending Menphina off, Oschon stayed in the field for a while. He sat with his back to the jutting rock, one knee drawn to his chest. If he let his mind wander, he could recall the moment he’d received the moonflower brooch—or talisman, as Menphina had called it. The specter had come from the woods. He’d thought it was his mother. He’d been so happy; he’d let himself ramble on and on. And when the night grew deeper and his eyes heavier, he’d lean on her shoulder, her soft and silky hair covering him like a curtain, smelling of ice and frost. In hindsight, he should have known it hadn’t been his mother, but after waking up in his house the next morning, he’d merely thought it a dream. Except for the talisman in his hand that had proven otherwise. 

For the first time in fifteen years, Oschon found himself home. Halone’s father, Rhalgr, was still head of the village it seemed. He clasped Oschon’s shoulder, while his son, Byregot, slapped him on his back. They didn’t show it but Oschon caught tears in their eyes. Not visiting or sending any word was no way for a son—even a foster son—to act, and perhaps that had been one of his reasons for staying away. But he had promised Menphina. He would not run away. 

Halone and Nald’thal had returned home a few moons ago. When they entered the house and saw a teary-eyed Rhalgr and Byregot, they froze, and subsequently tackled Oschon to the ground. Halone made him promise never to disappear again. Nald’thal only glared quietly with his arms folded. Oschon, still pinned on the floor, lowered his eyes and asked for forgiveness. His brother didn’t say anything, until at last he told Halone to let Oschon go. 

“Are you forgiving him that easily?” she said, indignant. 

Nald’thal only offered his hand to Oschon, who grasped it and pushed himself off the floor. 

Later that night, he told his former companions about Menphina. As expected, they couldn’t quite hide their shock. Perhaps, had it been someone else’s story, Oschon would be surprised too that a deity would risk so much. 

“So she’s the one who gave you that brooch,” Halone said. 

“What happens now?” Nald’thal asked. 

Oschon didn’t quite know what happened now. “Life goes on, I guess,” he replied. “And with every parting comes a new encounter.” 

As though agreeing with him, the flower brooch glimmered, like a faint trace of moonlight along the carvings. 

Perhaps a day would come when he could meet Menphina again. The thought brought a smile to his lips. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

Ephemerality

Fandom: Love and Deepspace

Word count: 1827

Rating: G

Pairing: Xavier/MC

Summary: In the outskirts of Linkon City, there is a park listed as one of the Top Ten Romantic Parks of Linkon City. Xavier invites MC out for a Valentine's Day date.

Notes: A belated Happy Valentine's Day~

I wanted to write a cute Xavier/MC fic for Valentine's, but alas, I could only finish it now, and... it ends up not being very Valentine-y either haha.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Mind your step.” 

Xavier offered his hand as we came to a slope, pebbles rolling loosely over a steep incline. It wasn’t particularly treacherous. At least, not for me. I was a Hunter, and I was equipped with hiking boots and pants. A measly slope couldn’t outdo me. So I ignored his hand and said, “I can manage just f—” I couldn’t finish my sentence before I felt my foot slip. 

The wind rushed out of me and the world upended—

Xavier caught my wrist and pulled me up, giving me leverage to fix my posture and land on his side. I gasped, heart racing within my ribcage. 

“What did I tell you?” he said. His voice was carefully leveled, but when I chanced a glance, I caught the mirth behind his pressed lips. His eyes couldn’t lie. 

“Thanks,” I said tartly. 

He released a playful scoff under his breath, then shifted his hold to my hand, his long fingers enveloping mine in a secure grasp. His smile finally on full display, he said, “Don’t let go now.” 

Any counter or retort I had ready evaporated instantly at sight of his disarming face. 

This hike had been his idea. Well, mine if we’re talking about technicalities, but I had only made a passing comment on a passing article I was reading—Top Ten Romantic Parks in Linkon City. I knew most of the ones listed; some were popular spots in the city proper even for single people, which I had been one until recently. The tenth one on the list, however, was a place I had never heard of. A clearing out on the hills in the outskirts of the city; it was a hike at the end of an hour train ride. I’d asked Xavier if he knew the place.

“I do. I often pass by it on my way home,” he’d replied. I had learned not to pry exactly where he had gone. As far as I knew, there weren’t any no-hunt zones in the area. He’d leaned over the couch and I’d shown him my phone. He’d nodded, confirming the place. “It’s a bit far, and you need to climb a fair distance. I can see why it’s not a popular date spot.”

“It looks pretty,” I’d said, looking back at my phone. Rosalea Park: a fenced-in clearing with beautiful cherry-blossom trees overlooking the entire city. It’d make a perfect spot for flower viewing, if they were in the cherry blossom season. I’d looked at the panoramic photographs the writer had attached before I closed the tab and noticed Xavier’s gaze. I’d met his eyes.

“Do you want to go there?” he’d asked.

And so our plan had been born. Fast forward one week later, I now found myself holding Xavier’s hand as he led me down the trail with groups of cherry-blossom trees flanking us on both sides. It’d take another month or so to see the pink buds bloom and grace the crown of every tree on this hill. Apparently, some decades ago, someone had planted an entire grove of cherry blossoms on the hills outside Linkon, providing the citizens a magnificent view when spring came around. I liked to watch them from the window of my apartment. It was like being surrounded by an endless, undulating pink sea. Magical. But the flowers didn’t last long. The blooms would fall once the season passed and be replaced by an ocean of verdant green. But that would take another couple weeks. Now, however, the trees around us bore white flowers, small and delicate, creating a sort of mystical mirage with their ephemeral beauty.

I gazed at them, transfixed. I didn’t realize Xavier’s stare until I heard his breathy laugh. 

“Do you like them?” he asked. 

“They’re pretty.” I reached up and caught a falling petal on my palm. “They remind me of you.”

“How so?” 

“They’re quite hardy, and they foretell the coming of spring,” I said. “But they’re also brittle. A single touch could make them fall from their branch. Blink once and you’d miss the beauty they offer.” 

He paused, then said, “Do I seem brittle to you then?” 

I looked up and met his backward glance. I couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. I didn’t think my nonchalant observation would catch his attention. But then a breeze caught the petal in my palm and I watched it dance in the wind alongside other loose flowers. One landed on Xavier’s head, and I giggled, reaching up to brush it away. 

“You’re not brittle,” I told him as I picked the stray petal from his hair. Holding it between my thumb and forefinger, it quivered as the wind fought to keep it aloft. And then it broke free, and I felt a part of me fly away with it. “You’re…elusive. I fear that if I close my eyes, you’ll be gone from my side.” 

Xavier didn’t break his gaze away from me. I looked ahead and found that we’d reached the edge of the treeline. I tugged his hand, urging him to go faster. And then we were outside, and the view took my breath away. 

We were at the top of a hill: Rosalea Hill, judging from the sign they’d propped just outside the line of trees. But the trail didn’t stop there. It went on past the sign and into the clearing, winding around a plethora of flowerbeds in circles, squares, or crescent shapes. A mingle of scents greeted my senses. It felt like I was back in the flower shop Xavier liked to visit, except the smell was richer here, the colors more abundant and vibrant. 

We weren’t the only ones visiting the park either. Couples were already setting up picnic mats and several were taking pictures on the benches or by the wall overlooking the city. I let go of Xavier’s hand and rushed over to it, leaning over and peering down the stone structure. We were so high; the park ended in a steep slope that could easily break someone’s neck were they to fall over. Or, well, at the very least sprain their ankle. The slope wasn’t too sheer that your feet couldn’t find purchase, but I could imagine someone slipping over the terrain.

Like I had just moments before, to my mortification.

Xavier entered my line of sight and I grinned up at him. “Look,” I said, pointing at the entrance to the hiking trail at the bottom of the hill. “That’s where we came in, huh?”

“It appears so.” 

”Doesn’t seem like this place is unpopular,” I added, noting the crowd that was still trickling into the entrance. 

Xavier chuckled. “I never said it’s unpopular. I only said it might not be a popular date spot.”

Well, there were a lot of couples. Either Xavier was wrong, or they’d all fallen victim to the same article I’d read.

I followed the road, all its winding way back to the nearby train station, then finally to the city in the distance. Under the sun, Linkon City’s numerous skyscrapers glinted brilliantly, towers upon glass towers piercing the sky all the way to where Skyhaven hung with its gilded spires. I could spot the parks—clusters of little green dots sandwiched between rows of buildings. I could hazard a guess where our apartment was, though I couldn’t very well see the building from so far away. I saw the river, a sparkling blue line winding through the settlement, cutting right at the heart and finally draining into the sea beyond. Pristine ivory shores rimmed the city’s western edge. 

The place where I grew up looked so different from above. So serene and timeless, as though we had crossed over a threshold and were now gazing at a frozen sculpture. “It’s so beautiful,” I said breathlessly. Too beautiful, in fact. I couldn’t help the slight pang in my heart knowing that one day, things would change.

I pushed myself from the wall and took a few steps back, breathing in the scent, absorbing the view. I might have stayed like that for all eternity if I hadn’t heard the shutter of a camera going off. I looked to my right and saw Xavier directing his phone camera at me. He smiled sheepishly at being caught. 

“Let me borrow your phone,” he said, stashing his away.  

I blinked. “What for?”

He didn’t say anything, only held out his hand in silent inquiry. I indulged him, fishing my phone from my bag and placing it on his palm. 

“Now come here.” He drew me to his side, maneuvered us so that we had our backs to the city, then directed my phone at us to take a selfie picture. “Smile.” 

The shutter went off again. 

Even with the impromptu nature, it was still a pretty good picture. He managed to capture the city in the distance while also still capturing our smiles. He fiddled around with my phone for a while longer before giving it back to me. I looked at the screen—

—and realized he’d changed my home screen wallpaper to the photo he’d just taken. 

“Now even if you close your eyes, I’ll always be by your side.” 

I stared at my phone, then at his cheeky smile. “I want another one.”

“What?”

“It’s not good enough. Better yet, I’ll just take a picture of you ‘cause you already took mine.”

“Wait—”

I pushed him to the wall, had him pose for me several times. After a while, Xavier could only smile in resign. 

“Happy now?” he asked after his photo session ended. “You know, I only took one photo of you.” 

“And I took five.” I scrolled through my album. I couldn’t quite keep the grin out of my face. He looked so handsome in his jacket and turtleneck, and so cute when he pouted at the last picture because I couldn’t decide what pose I wanted him to do. I decided to use that for my homescreen wallpaper instead. 

“Why are you grinning at a picture when the real one is in front of you?” 

I glanced up, and true enough, the hint of a pout was already forming again in his otherwise poker face. I beamed from ear to ear. “Oh please, as if you wouldn’t look at my picture when I’m not looking.”

His response was a guilty, breathy laugh. 

I grabbed his hand and led him away from the wall to a quieter area. “Come on, then. Let’s set up our picnic mat. I made a lot of delicious meals this morning. I can’t wait for you to try them.” 

Later, Xavier told me that the park was even more romantic at night. They had lights stringed around the flower beds, and around the paths and walls as well. Like artificial fireflies, he said. He promised to take me here again to see it. Perhaps, when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

I Want to be Your Canary

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Word count: 1755

Rating: G

Pairing: Warrior of Light/G'raha Tia

Summary: Valentione's Day is here. While Nayra crowds around Mother Miounne's Mystery Truffles, G'raha seems to be taking part in a public event happening on the stage.

Notes: an idea i had last year inspired by a play of the same name in FF9.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In a season of ardor and affection, the Mih Khetto Amphitheatre was decorated in a plethora of heart-shaped balloons: reds, pinks, whites, and even a couple blues and greens. Nayra was standing by a stall, perusing a merchant's display of cookies and truffles and scones all wrapped in plastic with pretty red ribbons. She’d heard Mother Miounne had provided the confectionery. The elezen had told her herself when Nayra visited her abode a few weeks back and was treated to plates upon plates of chocolate sweets. A new recipe, Miounne had said, to spice things up. Certainly, the chocolate Nayra tasted had literally been spicy. She’d thought it a mistake, but Miounne had only giggled and said that it was indeed her intention to hide chilly or mustard among her sweets. “Think of it like a game of chance. You roll your dice; the lucky one gets the prize.” Except this prize would have their tongue burning like a dragon's spit. 

Yet it did seem Miounne’s little trick managed to liven the festival. A crowd had gathered around the stall bearing the banner ‘Miounne’s Mystery Truffle’. Nayra felt them push her this way and that, from her back, right, and left. Without much thought, she swiped a couple of each, paid the merchant, and ducked under the crowd. Once she managed to put some distance between them, she drew a deep breath. 

“Got them, Nay?” 

Kasia trudged over to her with a bag of candy and a cup of what looked to be strawberry juice. She indicated a stall further back, right at the edge of the amphitheater, where the cooks from Bismark had set up store. 

Nayra huffed a sigh and pushed one of the truffles into Kasia’s hands. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

The limbal rings around Kasia’s violet eyes glowed. “I thought you liked spicy foods,” she said. 

“Not when they’re in chocolates.” 

As Kasia opened the wrapper and popped a truffle into her mouth—Nayra inwardly winced at the prospect that it was some chili pepper flavor (though it soon proved uneventful since the auri frowned and commented that it was only lemon)—Nayra scanned the grounds for their friends. She had initially come here for business, but seeing as it was Valentione’s Day and knowing there was a celebration in Gridania, Raha had of course asked to come. Kasia then tagged along after hearing about Mother Miounne’s truffles, and where Kasia went, Zorig went with her. Now even the big burly Au Ra was nowhere to be seen in this heavy crowd. Honing her senses, Nayra narrowed her eyes and spotted the emissaries in their red-and-white garbs, couples sharing chocolates and intimate moments under the shades of maple trees. Her ears picked up faint traces of a bard’s song drowned beneath the chatter of people. And then there: beyond the gate, on the stage far in the distance, where Astrid de Valentione, young protege of House Valentione and now head emissary of the Valentione celebration, held a hand toward the steps, followed by a series of claps and applauses, a familiar dark figure emerged. 

Nayra wondered how she could have missed him, but maybe she hadn’t thought Zorig would be standing by the stage. The Au Ra stood imposing before the young elezen, his brown skin seemed to blend well into the woods of Mih Khetto but his dark scales stood stark against the light. 

“What is he doing?” Kasia, who seemed to have been taken by surprise by the sight of her friend and partner, hung her mouth, a half-eaten truffle forgotten in her fingers. 

On the stage, Astrid cleared her throat and spoke into a microphone. “Care to tell us your name, good sir?” 

One of the staff had given Zorig a similar microphone. His eyes flitted awkwardly. “Zorig.” 

“And what, pray tell, is your heart’s desire, Master Zorig?”

In her fight to obtain Kasia’s mysterious truffles, Nayra had forgotten that part of the stage’s event was to have people come up and speak their heart’s desire. A public romantic confession, so to speak. It was nothing new, and perhaps it was the most popular event of the festival. Beside her, Kasia seemed to pick up on what was happening, because then, Zorig’s eyes met hers across the distance, and Kasia dropped her truffle to the ground. 

“Kasia!” His deep voice boomed across the speakers.

“Oh dear…” Kasia ducked behind Nayra. “Hide me. I’m not here. He didn’t see me.”

“We started off at the wrong foot, and a lot of things have happened between us since then, but I just want to let you know.” Kasia clutched onto Nayra’s back. Nayra watched as Zorig’s eyes shifted and bored into her—past her—to where Kasia, her smaller stature perfectly hidden from view, trembled in mortification. A moment of silence passed. Nayra heard his intake of breath, and then: 

“I love you!” 

A hush fell over the crowd, more from the loudness of his voice than his declaration itself. It didn’t help that they stood right beside one of the speakers. Nayra’s ears hadn’t stopped ringing from the moment he shouted Kasia’s name. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Kasia said under her breath. 

Nayra nudged Kasia out, but the auri refused to show her face. 

“You need to respond,” she whispered. 

“I’m not going out there!” When Nayra made to move aside, Kasia tugged her back into her place, hissing, “I’m going to kill you, Nayra, if you move from this spot!” 

But the moment passed, and an applause started at the front, followed by hoots and whistles, rippling farther until the entire amphitheatre was clapping for him. Nayra joined in, glancing at the Raen still hiding behind her back. She couldn’t help her smile. “It was cute though.” 

Kasia hit her spine. “Wait ‘til Raha gets on stage.”

“He wouldn’t.” 

He did. 

Because after Astrid thanked Zorig for his heartfelt confession and hoped that his partner return the feeling, Zorig stepped down from the stage, only to exchange fistbumps with a familiar redhead. Nayra’s jaw slackened at the sight of Raha striding across the stage.

“See?” Kasia murmured, peeking over her shoulder. Her eyes flitted over the crowd, then, seeming to notice a certain dark head moving towards them, quickly offered Nayra a farewell before scurrying away. Zorig soon emerged from the thick mass of people. The Xaela looked at her questioningly, and Nayra surreptitiously tilted her head toward the marketplace where Kasia had made her refuge. He grinned and dipped his head. 

“Good luck,” she mouthed. He was going to need it. The least Kasia would do was present him with a mustard-flavored chocolate truffle to get back at him for embarrassing her. At least he seemed to know what he was getting into. 

Nayra was too preoccupied with her younger friends’ plight that she had missed Raha’s introduction. When she returned her attention at the stage, she found Raha was already looking at her. 

“...and I asked myself,” he was saying, “‘where is she?’”

Nayra blinked. The lines he spoke sounded familiar to her ears. 

“The eastern sky grew bright, yet dawn was bereft of its gentle light. Could she truly be gone? Could we not spread our wings any longer, as yonder birds in joyous flight?”

A distant memory rose to her mind, of a play they once did when they were children—a play he had once shown her—as written in one of the books he had brought from the Baldesion library. 

“I sought her, writ to her, yet the star seemed fit to see us apart. For five long years had I lost her in the fires of the Calamity. Ne’er again, I thought. Ne’er again shall I let her slip from my fingers.” 

No, Nayra realized with a sudden jolt. This wasn’t the play. This was their story. 

Raha’s voice rang clear and true. It shook Nayra to her core. His time at their alternate future had been a sore subject to broach, as well as the time she’d spent after Dalamud fell. They had discussed it in passing, but neither wanted to relive such harrowing moments of their lives. And so they had let it rest, opting instead to focus on the future they had promised to build together. 

“I must have faith!” he went on. “Even should this body burn or crumble to dust, even should I need to traverse time and space, she shall appear if I only believe.” 

He stepped down from the stage. Unbidden, Nayra found herself moving forward.

“Hence, I beseeched the moon that gave her succor: o wondrous moonlight, grant me my only wish.” 

She met him halfway toward the stage. Raha was looking at her so earnestly, the only hint of a playfulness was the little smirk that tugged the corner of his lips. Then he spoke the final words that Nayra knew by heart because he had liked to recite the passage to her, except back then, he had used the character’s name instead of hers. 

“Bring my beloved Nayra back to me,” he whispered. 

“‘I Want to be Your Canary,’” was her first response, which prompted a grin from him. 

“I might have tweaked it a bit.”

“Of course you did.”  

It had been years since she last saw him act. He was never the best actor, but he had always liked reciting dialogues, as though it would transport him across time and space to where the heroes of eld had lived. It had transported her, albeit briefly, to a time when all was still good and well and her parents were still alive and the only thing they had to worry about was when to see each other next. 

Nayra vaguely felt everyone’s stares, heard their bated breaths. She cleared her throat. “So, what is your heart’s desire, Raha?”

“To forever stay at your side.”

In another time, such a bold profession would have sent her blushing—sent him blushing, more likely, because the Raha she knew would never make public confessions like this. She blamed Zorig for roping Raha into this. But while their younger companion’s confession was brief, Raha had taken his time to recount his favorite passage from one of his favorite plays. Perhaps Valentione indeed had love in the air, because Nayra then leaned forward and brushed her lips against his in a light kiss. All around her, the audience broke into a collective aww. 

If the stars willed it, she would want to never be parted from him again. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

A Fleeting Dream

Fandom: Love and Deepspace

Word count: 1148

Rating: G

Pairing: Xavier/MC

Summary: Xavier wakes up from a dream and finds MC making lunch for him.

Note: i needed to write xavier fluff because his story hurts too much :') also, i prefer writing from a third person pov, so that's why i use my character name for mc.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Xavier didn’t know whether it was the distant, muffled sounds of scraping metals or the mouth-watering scent of grilled meat that slowly pulled him out of his slumber. His consciousness returned first, flinching back from the light even from behind his eyelids. Then the pain came, piercing through his head all the way down the back of his neck. Xavier groaned. 

“Are you up?” The voice, louder now as Xavier’s senses finally grasped his surroundings, cut through his sluggish sleep-ridden fog. 

“Yeah…” Xavier adjusted his position and his muscles screamed. His neck hurt; his shoulders cramped. How long had he slept in this position?

He peeled open his eyelids, blinking against the sudden glare of the sun. He was sitting on the sofa, head hung, an open book lay on his lap. He felt Kiera’s glance from the kitchen. 

“I tried moving you, but you wouldn’t budge,” she said. 

Xavier made a noncommittal grunt. He pushed himself off, stretching his arms and neck. A yawn overwhelmed his face. He glanced at the clock: 3 PM. 

His bleary eyes found Kiera then, busy in what he thought was the source of the clanging. Smoke wafted from the stove: meat. 

“When did you arrive?” he asked. 

“Not long. Thirty minutes, give or take?” She glanced at him again, the frown firm on her lips. “Have you been out all night again? It’s not good to sleep in the morning, you know.”

He knew; or, rather, he'd heard. Not that that would stop him from venturing out. He stretched again and, finally regaining his bearing, rose from the sofa. 

“What are you making?”

“Steak. I figured you haven’t eaten anything. Though it might be too much on an empty stomach. I brought soup to settle your hunger a bit.” She indicated the bag on the counter. Xavier took a peek and spotted a red-lidded container inside. He took it out. Vegetables, mushrooms, potatoes. His stomach rumbled at the sight. Kiera chuckled, reaching for the cabinet beside the stove then fished for a bowl. “Here.”

Xavier took it without any comment, met the laughter in her eyes, and decided he wasn’t hungry for the soup at all. He put the bowl down beside the container then moved around the counter to stand behind her, slipping his arms beneath hers to wrap around her abdomen. He tugged her against his chest, prompting a surprised squeak from her. 

“Xavier!” 

“Let me recharge.”

Xavier rested his chin on her head and sighed, closing his eyes. Her warm and solid body always fitted so snugly in his arms. It brought him comfort, and solace—now, more than ever. Her breathy laugh was a joy to be heard, and even her playful exasperation sounded endearing. 

“You’ve slept for the whole day,” Kiera said, but she didn’t move away. She gave his hand a squeeze before resuming her work on the steak. 

More scraping of metal on metal seeped into the blissful mist that had settled in Xavier’s mind. Meat sizzled. On the other side, what smelled like mushroom sauce she was preparing bubbled on a pan.

“It smells delicious,” he said. 

“I hope it tastes as good.” 

“You made it. How could it not be?”

She chuckled again, and his arms unwittingly tightened their hold. He didn’t think she would notice the shudder in his breath, but he felt the shift of her head, and then she slipped from under his chin and looked up at him. He cracked open an eye.

“What?”

There, that frown again. 

“Did you dream again?” she asked. 

“What makes you say that?”

“You have a crease between your brows.”

“I just woke up.”

“And your lips are pursed.”

“That means I need a good morning kiss.” He bent down and brushed his lips against hers, quick and featherlight. He gave her a lazy smile. “Or would that be a good afternoon kiss?” 

“Xavier.” 

Xavier sighed and leaned his head on her shoulder, staring at her. “What does it matter if I dream or not? Everyone dreams.”

“You never answer my questions.”

“Your steak is burning.” 

Kiera’s frown didn’t relent even as she turned her attention to her not-so-burning steak. He watched her profile, from the curve of her forehead to the tip of her small nose. Her soft lips were pulled taut, either from the thought of possibly destroying their late lunch—they could order take-outs if need be, or he could go to the convenience store and get some cup noodles—or the feel of his arms around her and what it might mean. She was becoming more aware of the slight changes of his expressions. A poker face couldn’t hide his thoughts any longer. Xavier wasn’t sure if that thrilled or dreaded him. 

She lifted the steak from the grilling pan and set it on a plate she’d placed on the counter beside the stove. He watched her work, turning the stove off and scoopingthe mushroom sauce over the well-done meat. He would have preferred it medium or medium-rare, but he was in no position to complain. Not that he wanted to. He would eat anything she cooked for him. 

Fetching the side dishes, Kiera arranged the vegetables beside the steak, then a handful of mashed potatoes. “Your lunch is ready,” she said. “Now will you please kindly move?” 

He didn’t. 

“Xavier?” 

She made to turn her head again just in time for Xavier to capture her mouth. A small noise of protest escaped her, but her resistance quickly melted into compliance. He heard her sigh, felt her muscles relaxing. Kissing her was like breathing, filling him with air and vigor. He could not imagine living in a world without her, nor would he ever wanted to. 

“I dreamed of a faraway world,” he later said, “with vast, unending plains, and a sky so deep, so impressive you wonder if it would suck you in if you only reach up. I saw you there, laughing, gleaming in a dress of plain white. Beautiful.” He blinked against the vision, the dream slowly fading, and the figure—the same bright light he’d known and loved—coalesced into the person before him. “You looked happy.” 

Gray-violet eyes stared back at him—the same eyes that had always searched his face countless times, as they did now, for any traces of a lie or hidden intent. Xavier’s heart gave a tiny pang at the familiar gesture. 

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” she finally said. 

“No, it doesn’t.” He smiled and leaned in for another kiss, driving away the fractured dream in which Kiera had disintegrated and crumbled into dust in front of him. 

God forbid; she would never have to learn the fate that awaited her at the end of his every dream. He would stop it. Even if he had to render the stars and offer his soul, he would find a way to save her. For good. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

Spruce Tea

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Word Count: 2008

Rating: G

Pairing: Cloud Strife/Tifa Lockhart

Summary: Autumn of 0002. An infantryman suffered an attack outside of the Nibel Reactor after protecting Tifa. Hoping to help alleviate the pain, Tifa climbs the mountain once more in search of spruce leaves, which her mother once said is good for one's health.

Note: written for @clotiweek 2023 Day 1: Spruce - Healing.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mother said spruce tea was good to for one’s health—

Tifa thought as she slowly made her way through the dead leaves littering the forest floor. Pick the ones on the lower branches, wash them, brew them. They used to keep a jar of it all year when her mother was still around. Tifa used to believe that was all her mother needed to get better, so she’d learned everything she could about the tree—where best to forage it, how to best extract its properties—but of course that had all been wishful thinking. No herb could save her mother, if modern medicines couldn’t. Still, the knowledge hadn’t all been for naught. 

Tifa adjusted the shoulder strap of her satchel. Nibel mountain in the fall always looked especially beautiful. An orange glow permeated the red-and-brown foliage, seeming to turn everything it touched into gold. The breeze was cool, rattling the boughs and their leaves and pushing the wide rim of her cowboy hat back. She pushed it back down, securing the cord more firmly beneath her chin. 

It had been a while since her last trek through these trees. Her lessons with Zangan would sometimes bring her deep into the forest, but she’d never gone this far alone. Probably that time when she’d climbed the mountain after her mother’s death only to fall down a cliffside. Cloud had taken the blame for it—the adults all saying he was a bad influence, none of them listening to a word she’d said. That had probably been the start of the rift between them. Not that she was particularly close with him before, but they were neighbors and their mothers were friends. She’d thought they could be friends too. But no matter what she did afterwards, the distance always remained. He was so far away. A glance here, a smile there; her father watching them like a hawk. 

The line of birches and oaks slowly gave way to browning conifers: firs, pines, cedars. The leaves were still mostly green, though Tifa could spot several browns and yellows. She took a path she vaguely remembered from memory, ducking under an especially low bough of fir. The spruce trees should be just around the corner, she thought. 

Somewhere ahead, birds chirped. A gust of wind brought the fresh scent of pine to her nose. Tifa closed her eyes and breathed it in. 

“Tifa?”

Tifa stopped in her tracks, lips parting in a half-smile. “Cloud,” she greeted, turning around and expecting to see a fresh-faced blond-haired boy— 

No one was there. She blinked, then blinked again. Light shimmered in the empty space, a circle of luminance on the forest floor. Her smile turned to a frown. Of course he was not here. She wasn’t seven. There was no Cloud to come and fetch her. 

***

The call had stopped Tifa in her tracks. She turned, then found Cloud in the space next to a birch tree, hand on the trunk as he bent down, catching his breath. Sweat glistened on his forehead. 

“Where are you going?” he asked through his still-apparent exertion. He held a stitch on his side. Tifa looked past his shoulder. She’d gotten well away from the village—she could hear no more of the afternoon din from the village square. Had he followed her all the way here? 

She turned back around and pointed in the general direction ahead. “Somewhere,” she said. She hadn’t actually been there before. Her mother had only told her of the spruce trees in the mountain. Tifa had seen the leaves kept in a jar at her house, watched whenever her mother took it out and ground them before brewing them in hot water. Her mother only drank it when the coughing fits were worse. She noticed because whenever her father came home and saw her mother in the kitchen with a cup in hand, his lips would always pull taut. I’ll make you tea, he’d say, ushering her mother to their bedroom. Now rest. Her mother always went without much protest. 

But then the fits began again that morning. The spruce jar in the cabinet was empty. Her father had been away so she couldn’t ask for his help. She’d meant to tell her mother, but when she’d peeked through the gap in her mother’s bedroom door, she’d glimpsed her propped against the bed frame with her favorite cream shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. Asleep, or trying to; weary lines made creases across her pale skin. Was it just her or did her mother’s cheeks look even more gaunt than they usually were? 

An unwanted thought buried itself in Tifa's mind: that her mother’s health had worsened. So, Tifa had taken it upon herself to look for those spruce leaves up in the mountain. Not that she knew where they grew… She could probably tell from the shape of it, though. She knew them by heart. It shouldn’t be too hard. 

When Tifa explained her reasons to Cloud, she was met with a frown. 

“Do you know where those trees are?” he asked. 

Tifa’s lips pursed in self-defense. “I know they’re up in the mountain.” 

“The mountain is huge. By the time you found it, night would have fallen.” 

Tifa set her jaws. Her mother was sick. She wasn’t going to let her die. 

Tears pricked her eyes. She whirled on her feet, a new sense of purpose in her stride. But Cloud caught up with her, easily keeping pace. 

“I’ll take you there,” he mumbled. 

She cut him a glance. The frown was still there in the stubborn set of his jaws, but his rich blue eyes stared fixedly ahead. She found herself giggling and her steps slowing down. Pain she hadn’t noticed before shot up her legs, and she realized her shins beneath the hem of her white knee-length dress harbored cuts and grazes, the wounds welling red but not deep enough to bleed. 

“Here.” Cloud extended his hand, face angled to the side. With a smile, Tifa grasped his hand and let him lead her to where the spruce trees stood. 

*** 

The trees were where Tifa remembered them. Pride swelled in her chest as her memory indeed proved right. She circled the copse, seeking the right kind of leaves. Not too brittle, not too fresh. A little hard, seeing as most of the evergreen were already transforming to brown or red. But she found it nonetheless, amidst the yellows. Carefully stepping over treacherous ground, Tifa ducked beneath a branch and reached up to touch the hard, needle-like leaves. A small smile formed across her lips. She fished the flip knife from her bag and cut a hefty amount that should last ‘til winter. 

The sun had already moved halfway toward the distant horizon by the time Tifa returned to her house. The lamps hadn’t been lit; her father was still out. She crossed to the kitchen, slid her satchel over her head and placed it on the counter. Grabbing a colander from the cabinet, she dumped all the spruce she had gathered, then placed them in the sink and turned the tap water on. She picked away the dirt as she washed the leaves clean, trimming the dead parts out. Then she let them dry on a tray under the patch of sunlight by the window.

When evening fell, Tifa had already packed the leaves away in their glass jar right before her father got home. She already had their dinner ready, laid out on their small table. He noticed the tea. 

“What’s this?” he said. 

Tifa shrugged, feeling rather self-conscious. “I went out a bit.”

Her father sat down, grabbed the cup, and breathed in the scent. The rough lines of his face twisted in a wash of nostalgia. His lips wavered as he smiled, bringing the ceramic rim to his mouth and taking a sip. He paused, savoring the taste, or perhaps lost in memory. 

“It’s good,” he croaked, blinking rapidly. He reached up to wipe the corner of his eye. Tifa hadn’t noticed the tension coiling in her shoulders until she released it in a long, shudder of breath. Her father cleared his throat. “What’s the occasion?”

Tifa’s gaze fell to her dinner: mutton, grilled and coated in gravy, with a side dish of mashed potatoes and peas. “You…heard of the attack at the reactor…right?” Tifa began. “One of the Shinra men got hurt while protecting me. I wanted to make sure he’s alright.” She felt her father’s scrutiny, her own backlash rising at the back of her throat. Her father had been mostly lenient with her autonomy. He’d let her train with Zangan, explore the forest and mountain alone, and become their village’s official guide, but apparently, it was too much to leave her alone in men’s company, even though Tifa could probably break most men’s arms now with a flick of her wrists. She had suspected—still suspected—it was because of her fall, but that had been seven years ago, and the source of his ire—misplaced, though it was—was nowhere in town. 

The thought sent a pang to her heart. Two years and not even a letter to say how he was faring. Claudia never showed it on her face, but Tifa knew the absence of news from her son gnawed at her heart. 

“I was their guide,” Tifa said again. “I should’ve made sure the path was clear.” It was as much her fault, as the fall had been.  

Her father eventually conceded and Tifa beamed. When it was time for her to visit the inn, she grabbed the glass jar she’d set aside for the infantryman and kissed her father’s cheeks. Zack greeted her at the inn’s foyer. 

“Ah, you just missed him,” the SOLDIER said after Tifa told him the reason for her visit. “But I’ll pass your message along. Your well wishes too.” He meant to take the jar from Tifa, who had a mind to keep it and give it tomorrow instead. But it would probably be better for the infantryman to have the tea tonight, before duty took him elsewhere. She let Zack take the jar from her.

“Is he alright, though?” she asked. “I thought he’d be in bed for the rest of the day.”

“He’s made some good recovery, yes,” Zack said, then paused, noticing her pout. His face softened. “Don’t worry. He’s tough. He wouldn’t have jumped in front of you like he did otherwise. But I’ll make sure he gets the rest he needs. There was a prior engagement he couldn’t afford to cancel.”

Tifa nodded, his reassurance failing to quiet her concern.

“Speaking of, Tifa,” Zack said again, “about that boy you mentioned.”

“What?”

“The blonde-haired boy.”

Tifa blinked. In her quest to gather spruce leaves, she’d completely forgotten her email to Zack, inquiring after Cloud. Heat quickly rose to her cheeks. “Forget about it!” she said, a tad too forceful. She fumbled, hands waving in front of her. “I’ll, uh, just leave the recipe with you, then.” She crossed to the receptionist table, asked for pen and paper, and wrote down her mother’s recipe for the spruce tea. Zack had a smirk on his face when she handed it to him. It made her bristle, rather self-consciously. She ducked her head, murmured a “bye, then” before withdrawing from the inn, Zack’s quiet chuckle following her retreat. 

Outside, fresh, pine-scented wind rolled down from the mountain. Tifa breathed it in, letting it cool her nerves. Across the square, beyond the water tower where Cloud once made his promise, Claudia’s window-lit cottage sat hunched like a small giant next to her own two-story house, with smoke puffing out of the chimney and a pretty arrangement of potted flowers decorating the front. Maybe she’d give the woman a visit tomorrow. Who knows? Claudia might impart some more homemade recipes to her, not least of all her infamous stew. With a silent prayer to the stars for Cloud’s good health and well-being, Tifa slowly made her way back to her house. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

The Pocky Game

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Word Count: 2147

Rating: G

Pairing: Warrior of Light/G'raha Tia

Summary: 11.11 is a day of pocky. What awaits Nayra and G'raha at a festival in Kugane?

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Pocky. It was a new type of snack the stalls in Kogane Dori displayed on their wooden frontage, packaged in small boxes in various colors correlating to the different flavors. 

“Matcha.” Nayra read one label out loud. 

“Would you like a box, miss?” the stall owner said, picking up the box where Nayra had read the word matcha from. “One box for one thousand gil.” He shook his head. “Make it two, seeing as you’re adept at reading our script.”

“Ah, no, that's not—”

Truthfully, Nayra had only been able to read the word because Tataru had shoved this exact box in her face earlier that morning. She had come to Kugane on an invitation from Hancock, to partake in an annual cultural festival. Certainly, the decorated lanterns hanging across the entire marketplace marked the upcoming celebration that evening, and there was an excitable thrum in the air as people chattered and wooden getas clicked and clacked around the stone pavement. Men had stood on ladders to hang colorful banners on what looked to be a stage set near the aetheryte plaza, and around the corner leading to the Ruby Bazaar, Nayra could see a line already forming in front of the Mujikoza. What this cultural festival entailed, Nayra didn’t quite know. Hancock hadn’t elaborated, only mentioning that it was a festival of food and music and dancing, and that the presence of the vaunted Warrior of Light would definitely liven the already enlivened crowd. Not a convincing reason, to be sure, but Nayra was already in Kugane, dressed in a lent pink floral-patterned yukata Hancock had prepared. It was then that Tataru showed her the pocky boxes stacked on their meeting table—one matcha-flavored box, which was already opened revealing— 

“Chocolate-dipped stick biscuits,” the stall owner explained. He picked two: matcha and what looked to be strawberry, then gave one each to her and G’raha. 

“Strawberry,” G’raha echoed beside her. Yes, of course G’raha had come with her, and like her, he had been treated to Hancock’s utmost hospitality which included his own set of yukata—a swath of mountain and eagle pattern in a backdrop of red. “Strawberry-flavored chocolate?”

“Yes.” The stall owner beamed, clearly enjoying his customer's perplexity. He went on a ramble of the different kinds of flavors, the technique with which to create such flavors, which sounded quite interesting, yes, but Nayra was only half-listening. Her mind was already caught on the steaming takoyaki on the next stall, along with those grilled squids Estinien liked so much. G’raha, however, seemed to be engrossed in the stall owner’s explanation, until he realized Nayra had drifted away. 

“Apologies,” he said, coming up to Nayra’s side just as she finished getting them a batch of six octopus balls. 

“No worries, you were quite taken with it,” she said. She deftly picked one ball with her chopstick—a trick she’d learned during her first visit to Kugane—and blew on the steam. Then she angled the ball to G’raha. “Careful, it’s hot.”

G’raha bit the ball right down the middle, spilling squid and sauce and bonito flakes everywhere. Nayra laughed just as his eyes went wide and he began flapping his hand on his mouth. 

“You should’ve eaten it whole,” she said as he gasped through a mouthful of takoyaki, “By the Twelve, that’s hot!”

Nayra blew on the half-bitten takoyaki again, a half-grin on her face while G’raha struggled to down the half already in his mouth. When he finally managed to swallow it, he gasped for water, hurried to the nearest stall, and bought a bottle. He drank it in large gulps, sighing in relief. Once the heat dissipated, the flavor finally sank in, and the red in his eyes glinted in the fading light. 

“That is pretty good.” His tongue lapped across his lips, licking the stray sauce that had clung to his flesh. 

“Here’s the other half.” She brought the second half of his half-bitten takoyaki to his mouth and, now knowing what to expect, G’raha took it whole gingerly. It was still hot enough—Nayra saw it from the tears brimming in the corner of his eyes—but he held his ground and swallowed. She felt the need to clap but her hands were full. G’raha grinned. 

Apparently, he had bought some of the pocky boxes from the previous stall. Three were now tucked in his arms: chocolate, strawberry, cookies and cream. “Tataru already has the matcha one,” he said. “I figured I should buy other flavors.” The stall owner nodded his thanks when they passed by his shop again. 

“Why are there so many, I wonder,” she mused. “Every other stall has it on display.”

“Pocky Day, I would say.”

“Pocky Day?”

“Eleventh day of the eleventh moon. The stall owner told me,” G’raha elaborated. “That would be the sixth astral moon for us; Hingan has a different calendar system.” 

Which would be today, Nayra thought as she nodded, eating through her last bit of takoyaki. She discarded the paper platter on a nearby trash bin, then set off to find another meal she could share with G’raha. Her eyes fell on deep-fried skewers: shrimps, fish, chickens. She arched an eyebrow in a silent question at G’raha, who, noting the direction of her inquiry, nodded, even as he went on: 

“I could imagine this replacing our need for archon loaf. It’s light and sweet, besides. Granted, it doesn’t look like it has all the nutrients the loaf has, but when you are a Sharlayan researcher who has the tendency to forgo meals, a light snack like this would provide enough sugar, and hence energy, during our short breaks.” Nayra glanced at him just as she finished choosing the skewers she would like, which was a little bit of everything if she were honest. She wanted G’raha to taste all the Hingan cuisine Kugane had to offer. G’raha bristled under the scrutiny. “Yes, alright, sweets like this barely carry enough sugar, or even the right kind of sugar we need, to last the day.” 

“Just say you’re tired of the flavorless archon loaf.”

G’raha sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “Flavorless is one way to put it, but regardless—” He lifted the white box labeled cookies and cream, eyes sparkling in delight. “This invention is a marvel. I have to tell Krile about this. Y’shtola might enjoy the alternative too.”

Nayra giggled at his childish excitement. She took the skewers from the seller, then, spying other, sweeter, snacks along the next stalls, proposed to G’raha that they buy all the food that caught his interest and then find somewhere to sit. 

It was almost a bell later when Nayra and G’raha finally retreated from the marketplace, crossed the red bridge connecting the eastern and central sides of the bustling port city, and, miraculously, found an empty seat under red awnings near the entrance to the Shiokaze Hostelry. The sun had long set, the last of its dying rays barely streaks against the purple sky. Stars had blinked to life, along with a waxing moon that was almost full. Cloudless. Perfect for a night of festival. 

Near the aetheryte plaza, the stage had been set and a couple women dressed with vibrant yukata were calling for attention. Nayra and G’raha settled at the back with skewers, dangos, candied apples, taiyaki and a couple drinks, far from the main crowd but still loud nonetheless. She had seen neither Tataru, Hancock, nor the rest of the East Aldenard Trading Company personnels. Were they stuck in the company, for whatever reason? Nayra absently picked at the taiyaki, red bean paste filling her mouth. She closed her eyes. Real eastern food. No amount of culinary prowess could replicate this taste in the west. 

Beside her, G’raha opened one of the pocky boxes: the chocolate one. A safe choice, though Nayra would like to try the strawberry one. He pulled out the plastic wrapper then popped it open. He counted the sticks: ten. Not much, and for the price of one thousand gil. Nayra felt she was scammed. He took one out and gave it a bite. Nayra watched his reaction: impassive at first, then one corner of his mouth curved downward in a thoughtful frown. 

“Well.” He swallowed. “I don’t know what I expected but… it is how I expected, I guess?”

“Why is that a question?” Nayra laughed. 

“It is chocolate. Like any other chocolate-flavored biscuits.” He took another one and offered it to her. She took it, eyed the long light yellow biscuit with three-fourth of it coated in dried chocolate, then bit into the chocolate end. Chocolate burst in her mouth. She took another bite, then another, until the entire stick disappeared inside her stomach. 

“Not bad,” she said, already picking another stick. Back in the Ruby Bazaar, Nayra had seen the boxes stacked like a pyramid in their meeting room. Five, was it? Or maybe ten. All in different colors, all different flavors. As though Tataru was trying to open a shop…

Nayra paused, letting the thought settle. She folded her arms, the pocky hanging between her teeth. 

“Do you suppose Tataru plans to sell these—" 

Soft lips pressed against her own, cutting her off mid sentence. Nayra froze. One moment she was gazing at the activity on the faraway stage—people setting up chairs and drums; the next, a pair of deep crimson eyes had filled her entire vision, their usually slitted pupils had dilated to the size that mirrored her own. She blinked, barely breathing. Her stunned face looked back at her from the reflection in his eyes. 

G'raha closed down on the delicate stick. It broke between his teeth. When they grazed the inner side of her lower lip, Nayra's breath hitched. She felt, rather than heard, the bob of his throat as he swallowed the other end of the pocky. But they remained, neither moving a muscle. A featherlight touch. The seconds ticked; or maybe it was minutes. Nayra couldn't tell. Somewhere far ahead, a muted high-pitched whistle launched to the sky, exploding into thousands of colors.

G'raha let go of her lips, his mouth dragging and pulling for that final touch before breaking away, and Nayra would have followed his movement, would have pulled him back, if not for the hammering in her heart. Noise suddenly erupted around her: cheers, laughs, and a distant sound of drums. G'raha leaned on his seat, face angled sideways, his bangs covering his face. But she caught the telltale hint of a blush on his ears. Nayra felt her own face flush.

“I'm sorry, that’s not how it was supposed to happen.” G’raha’s raw voice barely carried above the din, but somehow Nayra caught it, every syllable of it. “Hancock told me about this game: you and a friend bite each end of a pocky stick, slowly moving closer and closer. The one who lets go first loses.” He paused. His voice shouldn’t have been able to go lower, but it did. “A kiss wasn't supposed to happen, but on the occasion that it does… well…” The red on G'raha's ears deepened, which made her own heat rise. 

Nayra was suddenly acutely aware of the people around them. No doubt they saw. She thought she heard a snicker or a giggle but she didn’t dare look up. Her attention caught on the half-eaten taiyaki on her hand. She slowly lifted it to her mouth, where the ghost of G’raha’s lips still linger. 

It wasn’t their first kiss—far from it. It was the surprise, and the public display of it. Who knew G’raha could be so bold? 

Heart still hammering, Nayra spoke—or tried to, at least. Her throat felt so dry. She cleared it. “I don’t mind it,” she murmured. She nibbled on her taiyaki again. G’raha looked up. His face was even more flushed than hers was. It made her want to laugh. And laugh she did, a soft rumble in her chest and curling of her lips. He frowned. 

“It’s not funny.”

“Of course it is. You kissed me out of the blue and now you’re embarrassed because of it.”

G’raha’s jaws tightened. 

“Oh, come now.” She leaned across and brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth, right where it curled downward. She touched his cheek, smiling. “There, now we’re even.”

It softened G’raha’s expression, but he was not ready to release his pout. “That’s far from even,” he mumbled. 

“I’m not kissing you out in public, Raha.”

“I know, I know, I’m not asking you to. But, maybe later…?”

He let the question hang. Nayra felt another flush rising up her cheeks. She looked away, knowing full well the tease in his voice and his eyes were not leaving anytime soon. 

“I know one thing for sure: never listen to Hancock.”

G’raha settled back on his seat again with a laugh. “I can agree with that.”

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

Deception

Fandom: Final Fantasy IX

Word count: 1998

Rating: G

Characters: Beatrix & Garnet

Summary: Ten years in the past, Beatrix became privy to one of Alexandria's most vital secret: that the Princess Garnet til Alexandros XVII was not, in fact, the princess.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a closely guarded secret within the royal palace that Her Royal Highness the Princess Garnet til Alexandros XVII was not, in fact, the real princess. Only a handful of people knew. The King and Queen, of course, as they had been the ones who had ordered the removal of the girl’s horn. The royal physician, who had examined the girl as she’d lain unconscious for weeks and subsequently removed the horn. Then there was the General, who had found the Queen on the pier one morning as she’d cradled the girl’s unconscious body to her bosom. Still distraught after her daughter’s death, Queen Brahne had readily accepted the girl as her own. 

Beatrix had only been a knight then, not yet risen to her position as General of the Alexandrian Army. An ambitious one at that, coming from a lesser noble family whose only wish was to see her succeed in life. What more could she ask when she landed herself a position as a royal knight. Even at the tender year of seventeen, her fighting prowess was second to none—barring the General herself—who’d seen fit to train the young prodigy after her innate talent became known. So it was at the heels of the General that Beatrix often found herself following, from trainings at the barracks to meetings at the royal chambers. 

It was during one of these meetings—or perhaps on the way to such a meeting—that Beatrix and the General found the Queen in the royal pier with a bundle cradled to her chest. 

The General stopped in her tracks, her conversation with Beatrix ceasing. She stepped toward the path. 

“Your Majesty,” she greeted with a salute. 

The blue-skinned queen regarded her with a flick of her eyes before her gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms. She tucked at the linen, her finger brushing something inside before her lips pulled into a frown. 

“Your Majesty, may I ask why you are at the pier so early in the morning?” the General asked. 

“She has a fever,” the Queen murmured. “That won’t do. Come, let us call on the physician.”

In a flurry of silk and gown, the Queen made her way back up the stone steps, gaze never looking back even as she called to them to keep up. 

By all accounts, Beatrix shouldn’t even be there, but the moment they arrived at the Queen’s chambers, she had been ushered in along with the General. The Queen had ordered only the physician to attend to her, and so it was the four of them in the huge room. The Queen set the bundle on her bed, slowly unraveling the linen to reveal a girl, barely six years old, curled against the white sheet and shivering. 

“Doctor, may you see if she is ill?” the Queen said. 

Beatrix watched from afar as the physician, a lean man with average height and long strands of fair hair tied neatly at the base of his head, bent down to examine the girl. Her damp black hair hung in dirty clumps and her brown smock bore no resemblance to any local clothing Beatrix had seen. Then she spotted a horn protruding from her forehead. Very uncanny. 

“By the Gods,” the General gasped. She’d taken a full look at the girl, her attention shifting to her queen. 

Intrigued, Beatrix took a few steps forward, stopping behind and to the right of her general. The physician was still bent down, but when he finally stood and brushed the black bangs back, Beatrix felt her own breath caught in her throat. 

“Your Majesty,” her general began, caution and disbelief thick in her voice.

“How is she, doctor?” Queen Brahne asked.

“Mark of a fever and malnutrition, but otherwise not much worse for the wear,” the physician said, turning to face her. “I could keep her at the infirmary for the time being until we locate her family—”

“No.” The reply came too quick; the Queen cleared her throat. “That won't be necessary.” Then she added, “The girl will stay in my chambers, and if the King is willing, occupy the rooms upstairs.”

Eyes flashed at the decisive announcement, both from the General and the physician as they shared stunned glances. 

“So until then, you may treat her here. Do not bring your assistants until I say otherwise.”

The physician pursed his lips, then bowed his head. “Very well, Your Majesty.”

“The King will need to be told about this.” Her gaze shifted to the General. “No one is to enter the room while I am gone,” was all she said before she turned with a flourish of her gown and disappeared out the door.

Silence fell. The physician cast a rueful glance at the General before sighing and announcing he would prepare medicine and bring his equipment forthwith. Beatrix was left alone with the General, who looked at the girl with brows drawn even as she approached, her usually determined gait hesitant until she reached the foot of the bed. Beatrix followed, feeling a foreboding at the memory of the General and physician’s uneasy glances, yet at the same time perturbed by the uncanny resemblance the girl had with the little princess who was, as far as she knew, sleeping peacefully upstairs: from the small round face to the clumps of black hair, albeit skinnier, no doubt, and horned. 

As though just remembering Beatrix’s presence, the General whirled around and closed the distance between them in quick strides. The fierceness with which she hissed her order set the already disturbed bells ringing in her mind:

“Speak nothing of this!”

There was nothing Beatrix could do but nod in compliance. 

***

When Beatrix saw the body of the little princess taken from her bedchambers, then in its place lay the little girl from the pier, she realized she’d come to be privy of the kingdom’s most vital secret. She’d been sworn to secrecy. No one should know of this. Her jaws tightened when the physician sheared the horn from the girl’s soft skin. The girl had screamed in her sleep, the pain not enough to wake her from her delirious fever, even as blood trickled from the gash in her forehead. It made Beatrix sick, but she kept her ground, her face carefully schooled into indifference. 

The next several weeks passed by in a blur. The late winter sun shone bright on an empty, cloudless sky, yet its heat could barely penetrate their armor. Beatrix stood on the courtyard, sword drawn out, hardly breaking a sweat as she faced Adelbert Steiner in a duel, already long drawn-out. It should have been finished minutes ago, and judging from Steiner’s heaving chest and sweat-covered brow—despite the cool sun—the taller and stockier knight was barely hanging on. Quite commendable, seeing as his opponent was the undefeatable Beatrix. But she would put an end to this. Steiner’s shoulders had sagged from her barrage of attacks, slightly but noticeable enough, and that would be his weakness. The exhaustion had settled in. His movements would be sluggish. A quick thrust to the chest or his side would immediately topple him. Or if he could somehow dodge that, she’d swerve and swipe at his leg instead. And then she would win. 

The image was imprinted in her mind and muscles. Beatrix adjusted her grip on her sword. Steiner’s jaw tightened, readying for the attack. She thrust— 

“Your highness!” 

The high-pitched shriek tore Beatrix’s concentration apart. Her speed faltered at the last second, long enough for Steiner to step aside and swipe his sword at her side. She fell to her knees; Steiner’s blade right up against her neck. Cheers erupted from his side of the circle. His usually stern face broke into a grin of feral delight. Beatrix scowled—she should’ve won, she’d calculated it perfectly—but she was above being petty over an irrefutable defeat. Swallowing past her irritation, she looked over her shoulder, seeking the source of distress: a woman in dark purple robes Beatrix recognized as the late princess’s governess was flapping her arms in the air on the terrace leading inside the castle, the muscles around her cheeks and jaws drawn back against the shock. She caught sight of a fluttering of silk by the balustrade, strands of ebony hair, before she heard the loud splash, and the entire envoy broke into yells. 

Beatrix was upon the pond in moments, well before the rest of the knights realized what had happened. The governess ran down the stairs, along with a handful of handmaids, footmen, and of course, the ever-present royal physician and his assistant hard on her heels. The princess was sprawled on the pond, knee-deep in water. When Beatrix reached the edge, the princess—or rather, the girl posing as her—blinked at her. Dark beady eyes set in a soft, round face; a faint mark on her forehead was the only remnant where a horn should have been. Tears slowly welled in her eyes and her cries pierced the ground.

Before the governess and her retinue reached her side, Beatrix had already stepped into the water. She crouched beside the girl. “Are you alright, Princess?” she asked, but the girl only cried. Beatrix checked her knees, her legs, her body. Besides the soaked dress and a scrape on her knee, the girl was utterly fine. It was the shock, perhaps. So, taking care not to make sudden movements, Beatrix held the girl’s hands and coaxed her to stand. “Come, let’s get you out of the freezing water.” 

Apparently, the princess had finally awoken the previous night with no memory as to what had transpired before her deep slumber. The physician had assigned it to the heavy illness muddling her brain. No one questioned it, but Beatrix knew better. She met the physician’s glance briefly before his gaze slid away. 

In a bid to jog her memory, they’d attempted to take the princess around the castle. When the view of the central courtyard with its cobbled paving and frost-covered shrub had mesmerized her and she’d stepped too close to the balustrade, her small body had easily slipped through the gaps. 

“We’ll need to get you changed lest you catch a cold,” the governess said with a dramatic flutter of her hands to scurry the princess and her entourage back to her bedchambers. 

Through her shivering and chattering of teeth, the girl looked up from her bangs and locked eyes with Beatrix. It was uncanny to see those similar brown eyes in that same round face but knowing they hosted a different soul from the one she’d known and vowed to protect for the past five years. But the girl did not know; neither did the rest of the kingdom. Was it for the best? Beatrix couldn’t help the pang in her heart when she thought of the real princess in the morgue, lying silent and forgotten without so much as a royal funeral. 

The girl bobbed her head, a little smile parting her lips. “Thank you.” 

Her voice was different, softer, with a lilt that hinted at a songstress. Beatrix straightened and bowed deep at the waist. 

“I serve to protect Your Highness.” 

The governess bowed her thanks, then ushered the girl up the stairs in her dripping dress, the handmaids fussing over the little figure. Once they’d disappeared inside, Beatrix turned to find the other knights had gathered behind her in a loose semicircle. Steiner stood at the forefront, the hard lines of his face softening in a breath of relief. 

“It is good to find the princess hale and whole,” he murmured. 

Another pang in her heart. Beatrix glanced over her shoulder at the empty castle door, feeling her jaws tightening and releasing within a heartbeat. There was no going back. This little girl who’d drifted to their shores would be the princess they were sworn to protect. Giving a silent prayer to the body buried in the morgue, Beatrix nodded her assent. 

“It is.”

~ END ~