rune-writes

[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 ~

[rune-writes]

Autumn Moon Traditions

Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI

Word Count: 2922

Rating: G

Pairing: Clive Rosfield/Jill Warrick

Summary: Twenty years has passed since Jill first witnessed the Mid-Autumn Festival in Rosalith Castle. Now she finds herself in the kitchens, helping Molly bake mooncakes as Clive means to bring the tradition back to the hideaway.

Notes: written for the Clive/Jill Autumn Moon 23 event on twitter.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The Rosarians used to hold a harvest festival in mid-autumn every year. Everyone would gather around in the town square with a big bonfire, and they’d laugh and dance and share all the harvests they’d gathered the past week. Some of the more well-off families would hold small banquets and gatherings. They’d set up little altars in their homes with fruits and cakes as an offering to the Moon Goddess. The Archduke’s family, however, had a more subdued tradition. They would hold a ritual in the garden, beautifully decorated with white draperies and banners, where platters of round yellow cakes called mooncakes were served at the center. Here the nobles would have their feast.

On Jill’s first mid-autumn festival, she’d asked the Cook if she could watch them prepare. It’d fascinated her. She had no such celebrations in the North. So the Cook had let her on the condition that she didn’t disturb any of the kitchen staff. They had had to prepare a hundred batches at the least, if not more. Some were for the Archduke’s ritual and feast, others would be given to the less fortunate people. 

“‘Tis the time for gratitude,” the Cook once told her. “For the bountiful harvest the Goddess has given us, and to pray for another bountiful year after.”

So Jill had watched with rapt attention at the way the mooncakes were made, the delicate hands the cooks used to form such perfect round pastries, and the variety of pastes they’d used as fillings. She’d tried one when a kitchen staff offered. The crust broke easily in her mouth. Then she carefully chewed against the thick paste, rolling it against her tongue, feeling it stick to the gaps between her teeth. It was not something she had ever tasted before, but once she managed to gulp it down, she lapped her tongue, licked her lips and teeth clean, and found that she had, unexpectedly, enjoyed it. 

The kitchen staff had giggled when Jill reached for another. 

“Another time, my lady,” she’d said, gently wiping fallen crumbs from Jill’s dress. “I’ll be sure to save you a portion.”

Jill had beamed. 

Some twenty years had passed since then. Now Jill found herself in the hideaway’s kitchens, helping Molly recreate those self-same mooncakes she’d tasted as a child. 

“Can’t believe we’re doing this, after all these years,” Molly, their head cook, said, checking the oven to see whether their previous batch was ready. 

“A nice little change of pace won’t hurt anyone,” Jill replied. “We’ve had little to no celebration since moving here—not that we had any at all before. It’ll help boost everyone’s morale.”

“We barely have any harvests to celebrate, though.” Molly shut the oven, then leaned against the table counter. Jill glanced at her from her corner where she was making the little round pastries. Molly shot an accusing stare. “Tell me true: whose idea was it really?”

“Well, it wasn’t mine, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Molly quirked her eyebrow in question. Jill sighed, though she couldn’t help the small smile parting her lips. 

It had been no single person’s idea, to be perfectly honest. She had been speaking to Mid, who, after smelling a whiff of fresh-baked cookies from the ale hall, had suddenly told her of the cakes Cid sometimes brought her when autumn came. They’d sounded a lot like mooncakes to Jill, which had then prompted her to recall the festivals she’d seen in Rosaria. And then Gav had come and asked what they’d been talking about, and sounded quite keen on these autumn festivals as he’d never seen them himself. Several others had followed, chiming in with opinions and memories of similar yet somehow different traditions from all corners of the Twin Realms.

Then night came. Jill was standing on the rear stacks with her arms folded, half-listening to the silence, half wandering distant memories she’d thought long forgotten. Laughter and music and bonfires flooded her mind—warmth she could almost feel, a sweetness she could almost taste. And then she saw it: a flitting image, swiftly flying in and out of her consciousness as though carried on the wings of a bird. Under the brightest full moon, Clive had smiled so joyously… 

Footsteps shattered her reverie. They hadn’t been loud per se—merely thudding footfalls over wooden planks—but Jill had come to familiarize herself with it over the years that she could recognize Clive’s approach in her sleep. He was coming out of the main deck in his nightshirt, smiling as their eyes met. 

“On a midnight stroll?” she asked, returning his smile.

“Sort of.” He stopped beside her, leaning his arms down on the railing. Cool wind drifted from the lake. Jill shivered, the heat she’d felt receding back to memory. 

The lake was tranquil that night, broken only by the quiet ripples stirred by the wind. The clouds parted, and the moon—waxing and almost full—bathed them in gentle light. 

“Something on your mind?” Clive asked after a while.  

“Nothing, just…” She gazed upon the moon. It seemed to beckon her, teasing those long-forgotten memories she’d locked deep in the far reaches of her mind. “It’ll be a full moon soon, won’t it?”

Clive, who’d been training his eyes on her profile, slowly shifted them to the sky. “I believe so,” he said.

“There was a time, when we were children, when we snuck out of the castle together, wasn’t there? I wanted to see the bonfire—or… you wanted to show me the bonfire. But the crowds were larger than we’d expected, so you kept your hand on mine throughout the entire night, never letting go.”

Clive’s soft chuckle filled the silence. “Yes, I remember. There was a huge feast, probably bigger than our feast at the castle, and there was music too. Lively music. You wanted to dance, but you had no knowledge of any Rosarian dance, so you asked me to show you.” 

“I believe you asked me to dance first.”

“Only because you looked like you would’ve died had you not joined them around the fire.”

Jill laughed. It was true. She remembered it now. The sight of a blazing fire at the heart of town, the merriment ensuing as people laughed and talked and toasted and served each other platters of fruits or cakes or soup. Then the band stood on stage and started playing music. It had seemed like a cue. People young and old, men and women stood and found their partners. She’d watched their feet, a flighty sort of movement unlike anything she had ever seen. Her body had coiled tight, begging to join. So when Clive tugged her hand and asked for a dance, she had gladly accepted it. 

That seemed like a lifetime ago now. She watched the moon. No doubt in a few days’ time it’d be the brightest night yet. 

Beside her, Clive spoke, half-amused:

“Murdoch wanted to kill me afterwards. Someone untowards could have kidnapped us and asked for ransom, he’d said.”

“You never could stay out of trouble, could you?”

“Never when it concerned you.”

She looked at him then, and found him looking back. His lips had broken to a soft smile; he reached for her hand. 

“There’s barely any harvest,” he said, “and I doubt we can get a fire up, lest we want to burn all our stalls. But we have food, and we have music.” He closed his hand around hers. “What say you? Should we bring the mid-autumn festival back?”

Bringing the festival back hadn’t been Jill’s intention when she brought up the topic, but she wasn’t surprised when she found herself easily agreeing to it. Clive’s smile grew so large, part of her wondered if he’d already wanted to bring the tradition back. Too long had they been robbed of their identity. It was as much as his wish as it was hers, and probably every other resident of the hideaway’s, to see some semblance of normalcy return to their lives. And if Molly was looking for someone to blame for this unprecedented task of preparing several batches of mooncakes, then she should as well blame herself. It had been her cookies which had prompted Mid’s wistful recollections. Those talks had probably reached Clive one way or another. 

“But it’s not as if you hate this, Molly,” Jill now said when she was finishing their third batch. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned around to look at the older woman. “You love baking pastries.” And Clive had made sure they received all the eggs and sugar and flour they needed for it, not to mention their backyard had been thriving lately. 

Molly shrugged. “I’m not saying I hate it. It’s just… sort of nostalgic, is all.”

The number of mooncakes they planned to make was a far cry from the amount the Rosalith Castle Cook baked every year, yet still two people were not enough. Yvan, who’d been taking care of their patrons for most of the day, came in to help in the afternoon, as well as Mid, Tarja, and a couple others. Mid, however, almost burned the entire kitchen when she set the oven fire too high. They immediately sent her off to help with the others afterwards. She grumbled, but knew kitchen work would be too much for her. 

They made it in time with the final batch of mooncakes late the next night. Then the full moon came the evening after with a clear sky and the brightest night anyone could ask. Everyone gathered on the main deck where they’d set up a little stage upon which the bard would play his lute. A few even volunteered to sing. Gav unexpectedly had a decent voice. A small table to the side was set up with foods and drinks and incense to worship the Goddess. Some went outside and set off floating lanterns—a tradition from another part of the world, Jill was told.

Perched on the counter seat with a glass of ale in hand, Jill watched with a quiet smile as Mid and Otto argued about one thing or another while Tarja tried to pry Gav away from the stage. The night had grown deeper by then. More than a few had gotten a bit too tipsy and Shirleigh had long since sent the children to bed. She felt a tap on her shoulder: Clive, his face a battle between amusement and exasperation at his comrades' behaviors.

“Give them a reason to be merry, and they forgot how to hold their liquor.” Clive chuckled as he grabbed a couple bottles of ale from the kitchen counters. A group of cursebreakers broke into a fit of laughter at something one of them said. Clive’s gaze turned endearing as he watched them. 

“They’re happy,” she said. “It’s been a long time since they had a reason to be.” 

“What about you?” 

Jill noticed a little smirk quirking his lips as he glanced at her. She scoffed, rather in good nature, and figured she’d not give him the satisfaction of knowing her mind. But perhaps it was the alcohol, or the atmosphere, or the fact that she hadn’t felt bliss for… more years than she could count. The ale glowed a light, inviting gold. Quinten’s best. The words naturally left her mouth:

“I’m happy.” 

It was by no means a substantial admission, but it warmed Jill’s face nonetheless. She blamed the alcohol after all. Downing the last of her drink, she rose from her seat and smiled at Clive.

“Aren’t you happy, Clive?” she asked. “It’s not much but we have enough food to fill our bellies and clear water in the middle of the deadlands. There’s a sturdy roof to shield us from the weather and fine clothes to wear every day. It’s not much, but it’s enough cause to be grateful, wouldn’t you say?” 

Jill was truly feeling the alcohol now. Her head swayed and a giddiness she couldn’t describe slowly bubbled to the surface. Clive didn’t say anything for a while. As Jill reached for the bottle in his hand, Clive stopped her. She turned to protest, but found his lips pressed gently against hers. 

“I’d say that’s enough ale for the day, my lady.” Again with that little smirk. Her face burned, and definitely not because of the way his low, rumbling tone had set her pulse under fire. He took Jill’s glass from her hand quite nonchalantly and placed it on the counter. Then he reached for her hand and said, “Think a breath of fresh air is in order. I’ll leave the place to you, Molly.” 

Molly responded from inside the kitchen. Jill glanced at her and saw the older woman stifling a grin. 

Clive led her past Blackthorne’s forge to the rear stacks, past a group of people watching the moon and the lanterns they’d set afloat, and up the first flight of stairs toward the atrium where Shirleigh held her daily lessons. They were far from the crowd now. Sounds of the merriment could still be heard drifting from the main deck but muted in the silence. Jill took a deep breath, letting the wind cool her face. 

The scent of water washed over her, along with the hint of rich burning incense. When she opened her eyes, the full moon greeted her—round and big and looking so close, she could almost make out the craters and cavities dotting its surface. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Clive murmured beside her. 

When they were children, while a festivity occurred just beyond the gates, the castle itself had been more pensive and calm, with the royal minstrel performing soft, lilting music and another reciting poetry. Nobles had come from all corners of the duchy to stay for a night or two as the Archduke and Duchess entertained them to a feast under the moonlight. And once the main event was completed, everyone would retreat back to the castle proper, with Clive and Jill and Joshua forced to obey their governess that it had been time for bed. 

She later learned that some of the nobles would stay up to gaze at the moon. For what reason, she never quite knew. But once when she was eleven, she'd snuck out of her room when her governess had left, and she’d gone up to the balcony, expecting to see Lord Byron with the rest of the nobles still roaring with laughter down in the gardens. But instead, she’d found Clive sitting on the parapet. The sight of his back had stopped her in her tracks, all intentions to see what the adults had been doing flying out of her mind. 

The hand that was still ensconcing hers ever since they’d left the main deck now felt uncannily warm. 

“Do you remember,” Jill began, “that time we met at the balcony–when we first watched the moon together?” 

From the look on Clive’s face, he knew perfectly well what she was talking about. He nodded. 

“I was always curious why people liked to view the moon in mid-autumn, so I snuck out to spy on Lord Byron and the rest. But the gardens were mostly empty save for a couple nobles and the minstrel. Instead, you were there, sitting quietly like you tended to do. The maidservants did tell me, though, that it was a family gathering sort of thing, to enjoy and share in the beautiful view of the moon. But they also told me of another meaning, one which carried a romantic connotation.”

“What was that?” 

She looked at him, a coy smile playing across her lips. “A midnight tryst with your lover.” 

Clive’s chuckle was like a soft tremble under his breath. He pulled her to him, loosely intertwining his fingers around her back. Then they began to sway, his steps leading her in a slow circular motion that teased her memory. 

“Would you care to know my thoughts?” he asked. 

“Yes.”

“That night you found me, I was praying to Metia that you would slip your governess and come out to the balcony.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’d heard the tale of course—I’d seen a lot of the young maids and soldiers sneaking out at night. I’d always thought it sweet. And then that night, my thoughts wandered to you.”

Now Jill remembered. When she’d called out to him, Clive had looked so stunned, he had almost lost his footing and fallen two-story down. He’d looked at her as though looking at a specter, and when she’d confirmed that she was, indeed, real—at which she had laughed because Clive had been been silly to think she a specter—Clive had smiled so joyously, he could have rivaled the moon, or even the sun, itself.

The thought warmed her heart. Jill leaned her head on his shoulder. The bard’s lute could still be heard from the main deck. They moved slowly, falling into rhythm, with no particular set of strict movements she’d cared to learn in her childhood—not unlike the dance he had invited her on that first night, yet back then they’d been children dancing in the way children had danced. 

She felt a kiss at the top of her head. Then his arms circled around her shoulders, bringing her closer. 

“I love you.” 

His voice came out as a whisper, a quiet confession carried by the wind into an otherwise silent night. 

Jill closed her eyes, feeling the firm beating of his heart beneath her fingertips.

I love you, too.

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

In the Garden of Everything

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Word Count: 1109

Rating: G

Pairing: Zack/Aerith

Summary: After years of hardships and predicaments, upon a paradise of flowers, Aerith and Zack find their peace.

Note: final chapter and entry written for @zerith-week. Day 7 Prompt: Floral Paradise / The Garden of Everything

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

The garden she had planted was now in full bloom. It’d started with a patch of dirt just outside their little cottage, which Zack had built for her. When he’d returned, he’d immediately dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him. There had been no hesitation when Aerith said yes. Happiness had burst out in an elated scream as she’d jumped into his arms and met him halfway in a passionate kiss. Next, he’d found her a little stretch of land far from the prying eyes of Midgar’s foremost electrical company. He wanted to free her from her cage, he’d said; though after everything they’d been through, Aerith doubted Shinra would still chase after her. It was there where he built her a little cottage, and it was there where, after diligently plowing the land year after year, the small patch of flowerbed she had planted now blossomed into the most beautiful and breathtaking garden she had ever seen. 

“You could make a whole park out of this,” Zack once said. 

Indeed, her garden was no mere flower garden one could find in any old backyard. With the help of Zack and all of their friends, Aerith had somehow gathered every kind of flower seed the Planet had to offer, and now it colored her entire yard in a plethora of pigments, shades, and scents. It was hard work taking care of each one and fulfilling all of their needs, but the land was rife with lifestream. What should have taken some twenty or more workers could be done by Aerith herself. With a flick of her hand, she could direct where the stream had to go. She would sometimes head to where attention was needed most (which was usually due to pests or weeds). The blooms rarely died or got ill. 

To be perfectly honest, Aerith thought the abundant lifestream was partly to blame at how vast her garden had spread. She’d only meant to build a small patch like the one she had at the sector 5 church, or perhaps the one she’d cultivated in front of Elmyra’s house. But one day when she got out of bed just as the sun hit the horizon, she saw the blossoms had reached the distant hills behind their house in dots of pink and yellow.

Aerith was making her way toward that said hill now. It overlooked the valley where her cottage stood. On the other side, the landscape opened to another stretch of plain that ended in a strip of sandy beach. Ocean as far as the eye could see spread before her. The waves were mostly tranquil, but once in a while, they would lap at each other, racing inland before retreating back. Some days, Aerith wondered how Zack had managed to find such a lovely spot. 

At the top of the hill stood an aged lone tree. Its trunk was wide; its thick, gnarled roots poked the earth in ways that provided hollows to sit or settle for an afternoon nap. There, she found Zack leaning against the trunk, dozing quietly. The dense boughs shielded him from the glare of the sun, and the soft breeze from the sea offered cool respite after a day’s work. The perfect place, as he liked to say. 

Aerith crouched before him, a smile playing across her lips. He didn’t stir when she called his name. She touched his face, brushed his bangs away from his eyes. He looked so peaceful. She hadn’t seen him like this for a very long time. In fact, she couldn’t quite remember when that was. When she tried to recall anything before the time Zack returned to Midgar, her memory was fragmented at best. She remembered their final call; she remembered the sleepless nights waiting for his return. A part of her thought he never did, but if that was true, then who was this sleeping before her? What were these—the garden and cottage and sky and ocean? A little girl was sleeping on the second floor of their house, with eyes as blue as his and hair as brown as hers. Was her daughter a lie too? 

Whenever Aerith tried to recall, the pit of her stomach would jolt, and an excruciating pain would shoot up her body, leaving her gasping for air. She’d always expected to find blood there only for her hand to come out clean. She’d asked Bugenhagen once, and the old sage only said to rest her mind. She was never satisfied with his answer, but if the simple wish to retread her memories brought forth such powerful rejection from her body, maybe there was merit in taking his advice. 

Zack stirred under her touch. He blinked back sleep, squinting against the light. When his bleary eyes found hers, he broke into a content smile.

“Good morning,” he said. 

Aerith chuckled under her breath. “Good afternoon, mister.”

“What time is it?”

“Just a little past three. Ifalna is still asleep.”

“Like father, like daughter, eh?” He reached up and cupped her cheek, bringing her face closer for a kiss. He smiled wider. “Now that’s a good way to wake someone up.”

“Oh you,” Aerith said with a playful swat at his chest. But she was smiling nonetheless. 

Zack looked at her. “Something on your mind?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your forehead has a tendency to wrinkle when you’re thinking of something difficult. Like, so.” He pressed a finger to her forehead, and instantly, Aerith found herself laughing. 

She rose to her feet and grabbed her husband’s arm. “Get up. Help me decide what to make for dinner.”

“But it’s still nice out, and it’s only three in the afternoon.” With a quick tug of his hand, Aerith’s knees buckled from under her and she tumbled onto his chest. Zack’s arms quickly circled around her. As he adjusted his position against the trunk and roots, Aerith soon found herself locked in his warm embrace. Zack sighed. “This is more like it.”

Looking up from her position, Aerith found Zack had already closed his eyes again, but the smirk on his face told her he wasn’t quite sleeping. She had a mind to tease him, but being in his arms with the cottage and garden on one side, and the sky and sea on the other—Aerith couldn’t help the blissfulness enveloping her heart. Soft salty wind caressed her cheek. She found herself staring at the blue-tinted sky where the sun was slowly making its way to the distant horizon.

Sighing in contentment, Aerith settled her head against the crook of his neck. 

It really was the perfect place indeed. 

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

When Rain Falls

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Word Count: 2053

Rating: G

Pairing: Zack/Aerith

Summary: Zack is on the run, stuck in a forest just outside Nibelheim. As he took refuge in a cave while waiting for the rain to let up, he is reminded of a conversation he once had with Aerith.

Note: written for @zerith-week. Day 5 prompt: Yearning / alt prompt: The Rain Falls

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

Rain fell. It pittered and pattered against stone and wood and every leaf and blade of grass the forest had to offer. Zack blinked open his eyes. 

His head was fuzzy, an ache pounding slowly from inside his skull. Bile rose up his throat and he threw it up, heaving and gasping, blinking back tears and rain and squinting against the dark. Dusk had settled. He didn’t quite remember how he got there. They’d been running out of Nibelheim—well, he’d been dragging Cloud out of Nibelheim—doing his best to dispatch the troops stationed around the uncanny normal-looking village (because he was quite sure he’d seen it burn just the other night) when a shot pierced his ears. He’d staggered, saw blood dripping from a graze in his arm, then the man who’d shot it standing just behind the water tower. He shuffled back when Zack found him. In one swift movement, he’d grabbed a discarded knife and threw it across the air. It’d hit the man on his shoulder. Zack hadn’t waited to see what had become of him—he shouldn’t have died—but their commotion should have alerted the remaining troops, and somehow between then and now, Zack had managed to find refuge in this forest unscathed.

He noticed a bloodied bandage around his arm. At least he’d done a somewhat proper treatment before passing out. Now he looked around for his charge and found Cloud still propped against a jutting rock exactly where he’d left him some hours ago. The man hadn’t moved, not even an inch. His chest rose in steady rhythms and his half-lidded mako blue eyes stared silently at the ground. Zack wanted to think that his friend was only dozing, but he knew better. There was almost no going back from mako poisoning. He’d seen too many candidates fail the SOLDIER test, fell from the list and were discarded just like that. 

“Don’t worry, Cloud,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. He nudged Cloud’s head with a knuckle and, receiving no response, pulled him to his feet and propped him against his shoulder. “We’ll get you home and find you a doctor.”

They were still in the Nibel area so they had to be careful with their movements. Kunsel had informed him via mail that a battalion was coming for a couple escaped experiment subjects. No doubt he’d meant them. Avoiding it wouldn’t be hard, Zack thought. It was the Turks that worried him. They were sure to be deployed and he was certain they would find him. Hiding in a dark forest might delay them but it would certainly not stop them. He had to find a hiding place. 

Think, Zack! 

The forest hadn’t looked so eerie when he first got there, but now he couldn’t help the chills running down his spine. It wasn’t ghosts he was afraid of. He didn’t believe in ghosts, though he wouldn’t mind seeing one or two at the moment. If Angeal were there, he might have an idea where to go and what to do. No; it wasn't ghosts he feared, but men. The shadows were thick the farther he went. Anyone could be hiding anywhere without his notice, despite his heightened SOLDIER sense not picking up another presence. When lightning flashed and turned the forest white, the shadows seemed to lengthen, prompting Zack to stop dead in his tracks. Half his mind was ready to reach for his buster sword while the other half was confident he hadn’t heard footsteps. But what good were footsteps if Shinra had deployed their assassins. Those men left no sound as they executed their duties. Zack’s hand was almost at his sword hilt when the light vanished and the shadows along with it. His PHS beeped just as thunder cracked the sky and split his ears.

Curse Kunsel and his timing. Zack’s heart was still racing when he opened the new message and read:

WHERE ARE YOU?

Zack could almost hear Kunsel’s scream. But if Kunsel didn’t know his whereabouts, Zack doubted Shinra’s Intelligence knew about it. A small relief, though short-lived for sure. Zack still couldn’t feel another presence in the forest. He decided to trust his senses and stashed his PHS back in his pocket, then dragged the comatose Cloud farther into the forest.  

A small cave nestled on top of a rocky upsloping looked like a haven after what seemed like hours of walking. It was more a hollow than a cave, with stone walls on both sides and a ceiling made of dirt. Roots and twigs protruded from its surface. But it was dry and seemed to be big enough for the two of them. Zack set Cloud down, tried his best to wring water from his uniform. If only he had a blanket or could start a fire. Cloud wasn’t shivering at the least, but the cold would get him. Zack was starting to shiver and he had bested colder climates before just in his SOLDIER garb. 

“Hey, Cloud,” he called softly. Cloud didn’t respond, as he knew Cloud wouldn’t. Zack sighed. There was nothing to do but wait until morning. 

Rain poured outside so hard, Zack almost thought the sky was pelting rocks. And maybe they were, in a sense. He leaned against the rough stone wall after wringing water from his own uniform and looked outside. Aerith once said she didn’t like the rain. It reminded her of things she’d rather forget. He’d asked what it was, but Aerith had only smiled and asked him to sell flowers with her. 

What was she doing now, he wondered. How was she holding up? The wish she’d penned on a piece of paper so he wouldn’t forget was still tucked away in his pocket. He reached for it now and found it damp. The writing had become somewhat illegible, but maybe that was because of the lack of light. Zack’s lips pulled into a wry smile. 

I’ll come visit, he’d said. I’ll see you, he’d promised. And now he was stuck out here in the middle of a storm thick in enemy territory, hanging onto the little hope that Aerith was still waiting for him in Midgar. 

***

“Hey, Zack,” Aerith said. “What’s it like outside?”

They were sitting on one of the pews, doing nothing but gaze at the rain pouring from the break in the roof. It had been that way for a while now. He should probably be getting back. His PHS had been notifying new incoming mails for the past fifteen minutes. But he and Aerith were sharing the baked potatoes her mother had asked her to take. One more bite, he kept telling himself, but his hand grabbed one potato after another until there was only one left in the container. He wouldn’t have any reasons to prolong his stay after this.

Zack bit into his last not-quite-hot-anymore potato. “Well…” He pondered, deliberately slowing his munching. The sky seemed to light up briefly beyond the roof, followed by distant rumbling that didn’t quite reach them. Beside him, Aerith noticeably stiffened before she relaxed once the thunder passed. He decided to go with a teasing answer. “It’s raining outside.”

Aerith’s features twisted into a dumbfounded look for a few heartbeats before she whipped her hand and slapped his arm. “That’s not what I meant!” she exclaimed with a laugh. Zack laughed with her. “I mean what it’s like when it’s not raining. You go around a lot of places, right?”

“Right.” He kept on munching, slowly, savoring every bite. 

Aerith didn’t take her eyes off him. “Well?”

“Well…” He leaned back and gazed at the plates barely visible through the sheet of water. His PHS beeped again. Another message: a mission or two to keep monsters out or bring something back. Other times, he would be sent to the most obscure locations in the Planet to obtain some rare materials needed for some highly-advanced technology development. Quelling rebellions was still his job too whenever the company deemed it necessary. 

As he recalled his past missions, his mind conjured pictures of vast green plains and sprawling hills, snow-capped mountains and deep red canyons. He told her of the westernmost continent called Wutai he had the chance to visit the previous year with its pink cherry blossom trees and huge pagoda castles. He told her of the small isolated islands off the main continents where springs of blue and green water shot up to the sky like sparkling crystals. 

“They sound beautiful,” Aerith said. 

They really were. Zack remembered how the sight of it had taken his breath away that he had forgotten what he had been sent to do. He looked at Aerith. “I’ll take you there someday,” he promised. 

Aerith’s smile was wistful, as though she didn’t quite believe him but appreciated the thought. Zack was about to say that he really would take her there somewhere, maybe once they’d made some money from their flower selling to afford traveling abroad, when lightning flashed once more. This time, the thunder cracked the sky so loud, and Aerith screamed next to him. 

“Why are you so afraid of thunder?” Zack asked.

“I’m not,” Aerith replied bravely, though her voice shook ever so slightly. “It’s just the loud sound they make. It’s the rain I don't like.” 

“Why?”

Aerith glanced at him. She didn’t say anything. But when she looked away, Zack noticed the way her brows drew back just like when she talked about the sky. He wondered if the two were connected. 

In the end, she didn’t answer, and he finished his last potato. He needed to head back. Someone was calling his PHS now: it was his superior. He told her just that. Aerith looked crestfallen, but she smiled and waved at him. 

“Be careful,” she said. “I’d lend you an umbrella if I’d brought one.”

“Don't worry about it. SOLDIERs are made of sturdier stuff. No storm would get us down.”

“Don't go crawling to me with a heavy flu then.”

Zack chuckled. He made to leave. Aerith turned around on her bench to watch him go. “Careful of the ghosts, Zack! It’s gotten dark out.”

That made him laugh. 

***

Birdsong raised Zack from his sleep, followed by a sharp pain shooting up his neck and back. He’d fallen asleep in a weird position, it seemed: his neck crooked and his back slouched. Sunlight slanted in through the cave mouth, blinding his eyes for a second. Zack groaned, stretching his arms and muscles and trying to free them from their cramps. 

Cloud was still in his unmoving state. It unnerved him somewhat. Zack crawled over to him, his voice coming out in a croak as he called Cloud’s name. He reached out a hand, and sure enough, Cloud’s face felt hot. 

Still in a half-groggy state, Zack fumbled for his pockets. He remembered snatching a potion or two from the mansion. He didn’t know whether they’d gone past their expiration date, but it was better than nothing. It’d at least keep the fever at bay until Zack could find a village and a doctor. 

It was hard moving around. His clothes were stiff, his skin was sticky. His damp hair hung in clumps. He needed a bath. Cloud needed a drink. There should be a lake somewhere nearby. He was reaching to grab Cloud's arm when he noticed a piece of stiff paper on the ground:

Aerith’s wish, still lying where his hand had been. He picked it up. Her writing had indeed become illegible, but he could still make out some words: like to, time, you. 

I'd like to spend more time with you. 

It was light out. Ghosts didn’t exist. Zack had figured Aerith had only been trying to scare him when she’d warned him of the ghosts, because she had been grinning too afterwards, but now he wondered if she had been telling half-truths. Had ghosts appeared before her on dark rainy days? Perhaps ghosts of people she’d loved or people she’d lost conjured purely out of her desperation to see them. Last night, Zack wouldn’t have minded if Angeal had visited him if it meant he could find a safe road. Now, staring at Aerith’s slanted handwriting, he couldn’t help wishing Aerith would magically materialize in front of him.

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

The Stranger

Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI

Word Count: 2546

Rating: G

Pairing: Clive Rosfield & Jill Warrick

Summary: When Jill first arrived in Rosaria, fear had been the only thing occupying her mind. That is, until a friendly face decided to appear before her.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

I was six when I first saw him. He was leaning over the parapet above the city gates along with several men on guard. He had jet-black hair and wore a simple black and white tunic with a red shirt peeking underneath. They all wore red, as did the flag flapping beside them. 

Rosalith, I thought. One week’s ride from the capital. One week since Archduke Elwin took me from my home. It is your duty, Father had said, as it is mine to obey the terms of our agreement. I’d wanted to cry, but all I’d done was nod. There had been nothing to be done. Father had looked so sad—even sadder when we finally had to part. His only gift was a silver pendant that now rested over my chest. Something to keep with me, he’d said, to remind me of home.

The shadow of the gate loomed closer. I could hear the horns now, blaring loud and clear in a rhythm I now knew was the Rosarian anthem. I’d heard it enough times in the North, heard the guards singing phrases to the tune around campfires. A movement drew my eyes upward and I saw the boy staring right at me. He pointed. I didn’t catch what he did afterwards, because I’d shut the curtains close and ducked beneath the window sill.   

Before I could process what I just did or whom I just saw, shouts were hollered to open the gates and then shadows slid past. Then light came, and with it were the cheers of a thousand upon thousand voices. People hooted and cried and clapped and sang, their voices rising as one like the high tides against the northwestern cliffs. I suddenly felt trapped.

Father had said that I was to be a ward, that I was no prisoner taken hostage after the fall of my homeland. I’d like to believe it so, what with the rich red velvet cushions in the carriage and the gentle ways the soldiers had treated me during our travel. But the wood now felt pressing; the bolted door was the only thing keeping me safe from the showers of praise and exclamations of triumph—triumph over a war that had lasted for several years before I could even remember. 

And then the cheerings stopped, as did the carriage. Horses huffed and neighed and all around, mailed feet dropped onto the hard ground. I pulled away from the door, fighting against fear and trying to remember what Father had told me. “Your Grace,” I heard someone say. “Welcome home.” And then locks clicked. The door swung open. Blinding light entered the doorway and for a split moment, I could not see anything. Then my eyes found a hand, outstretched and not frightening at all, followed by a grizzled face I recognized who’d never strayed far from the Archduke’s side. 

“My lady,” he called me, a quiet prompt to take his hand. After another heartbeat, I took it and stepped into the light. 

***

The boy stood next to a woman with eyes as cold as the northernmost reaches of home. Blonde hair tied to a perfect bun, back straight, her posture spoke of nothing but regal pride. My heart quivered but I refused to let my shoulders droop. Head tilted just at the right angle. Meek. Just like what Father had told me. When the Archduke called me forward, my feet moved by themselves. I curtsied and murmured, “My lady.” Her disdain was plain in her upturned nose and refusal to acknowledge my greeting. And then I turned to the boy and murmured, “My lord.” I took a quick peek and found his eyes—the richest blue like blazing sapphire—locked into mine. It was impossible to look away, but I did so anyway, though not before I caught his smile blooming like an unfurling lily from ear to ear. 

His name was Clive—Clive Rosfield—first born son of the duke, and he was nine. The grin didn’t last; a glare from the duchess cut it short. They then directed my gaze to the other boy on the duchess’ other side. Blonde fluffy hair unlike his brother’s jet-black strands; but his eyes were alike, albeit brighter like the sky. 

“And this is Joshua,” the Duke went on. 

Joshua’s smile was a shy curl around the edges. I’d barely offered my greeting before the duchess pulled him aside and called for the maidservants to take me to my room. “Dress her in a more…proper attire, if you please,” she said before turning in a swath of layered dress up the leftwing staircase with Joshua in tow. I heard a groan and realized it came from the Duke. The Duchess reappeared soon on the second floor, before disappearing again behind the first door. I caught a glimpse of Joshua’s bright blue eyes looking back at me before the door shut behind them. 

“Well,” the Duke broke the silence. He turned toward me; I tried not to cower in front of him. “Welcome to Rosalith, the proud capital of Rosaria. This will be your home from now on.”  

I kept my eyes downturned—it was not good to meet the eyes of your liege, as Father said—but I noticed the change in tone. 

“Lift your head, girl.” 

And I did. And whom I saw was not the sovereign who’d crushed my father's army, but a father. 

He gestured for one of the maidservants. One stepped forward.

“Show her to her room and attend to her needs,” he said.

The maidservant bowed her head. “Right away, Your Grace.”

***

Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind, I had imagined a lone room at the top of a tower, small and cramped, with furnishments barely enough to suit my needs, and I would need to call on a maidservant every time I would like to go to the washroom. Instead, what I found was a space big enough to possibly hold a host of ladies for an afternoon party. A draped bed to one side, a dressing room on the other, then a fireplace and a set of couches and coffee table along with several shelves of books lined one corner. I even had my own washroom, where hot water had been prepared in time for my arrival. She had me shed my clothes. My skin tingled as I stood naked amidst the unfamiliar stone. The light was bright enough that I noticed how pale I looked compared to my maidservant’s southern skin. 

She was gathering my dress from the floor when I remembered what the duchess had said and immediately asked her not to throw my clothes away. She looked surprised, though a gentle crinkle quickly took over her hazel eyes. 

“Of course, my lady,” she said. “I’ll just have these washed. For the time being, I’ll lay out a dress for you on the bed.”

She couldn’t have been more than ten years my age, I thought as I gingerly stepped into the water. My skin hissed, but after the coldness of the North and the long trek hither, the warmth was welcome to the touch. I eased into the tub and settled in the corner. My necklace, still attached to my neck, floated in the water. 

The Silvermane, they’d called my father, for the unruly silver hair that ran down his shoulders akin to a lion’s mane. The necklace he gifted used to belong to Mother. A light blue crystal hung from its diamond-shaped pendant, upon which was fastened a black-indigo jewel. It looked icy cold yet somehow felt warm on my palm. When Mother was still here, I would look upon the jewel hanging around her neck with awe. I’d heard tales of Shiva the Ice Queen and had once entertained the idea that the pendant carried her essence. Mother had laughed, of course, but she’d told me afterwards that, with the right bearer, the pendant held enough magick to freeze an entire kingdom—or so her family had said, at least. She’d told me that it brought her comfort, that wherever she’d gone, home would always be with her. I felt no such comfort now. No matter how I thought about it, home was thousands of malms away, and the only thing left of it was probably already burning away in the furnace somewhere in the depths of the castle. 

A heavy sigh lay over me. I let the pendant go, leaned further against the tub, hugging my knees close and submerging myself until all anyone could see were the bubbles rising up to the surface.

*** 

I didn’t stay long in the water—only long enough until my skin grew pink and my head hazy from the heat. When the maidservant returned, I’d finished my bath and was reaching for a towel. She fussed over me, said I should’ve stayed in the water longer. It felt odd, yet familiar, to be fussed over, so I let her. 

She helped me dry myself and led me back to my chambers. A white dress made of soft silk lay on the bed. It reached my shins, the light fabric hugging my body loosely. It was a bit too big, which the maidservant also noticed, and the high neck felt rather stuffy. She promised she’d get the measurements right for my other dresses and it surprised me that I would have other dresses. 

“Shall I bring some food, my lady?” she later asked. “Supper wouldn’t be until another three bells.”

I would’ve said no—I could wait another three bells—but exhaustion seemed to finally take its toll and my stomach grumbled before I could answer. The maidservant let out a chuckle, which she quickly disguised as a cough. 

“I’ll see what the Cook has ready in the kitchens.”

She backed away and the door clicked shut behind her. The silence that followed, somehow, felt deafening, much more so than the crowd that had flocked our carriage on our coming. The walls loomed around me, dark and foreboding. A single fire lit the entire room, no doubt powered by the same crystal from the bath chamber. Yet despite it, I shivered. I blamed the light fabric; wished I had my old clothes back. I hoped the maidservant hadn’t really burned them in the furnace somewhere. I longed for the fur-lined cloak, the emblem of my father’s house, the way it snugly ensconced me throughout my long trek.

I longed for my father, and my mother, and the mountain peaks and the snow. 

A sob threatened to burst through my tightened throat when a knock suddenly broke the silence. 

“Y–Yes?” I managed.

I figured the maidservant would’ve opened the door by herself then, but the knock came again, so I wiped my tears and took deep breaths. It wasn’t the maidservant waiting for me on the other side of the door. It was the boy, first son of the Duke who, for some reason, was not the inheritor of Phoenix’s flame. 

Clive Rosfield stood agape with his eyes slightly wide, and for several heartbeats we stood in silence. He spoke first, his voice sounding uncharacteristically high-pitched to me who had been surrounded by gruff old men for a week. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. 

And that was when I regained myself, realizing where I was and whom I was addressing. I dropped into a curtsy and stammered a “m–my lord.” 

He disregarded it, taking a step forward and leaning down to peek through my bangs. I instinctively dipped my head and shuffled back several feet. 

“Is there something you need?” I asked, then hastily added, “my lord.” 

I felt his scrutiny and wished the walls would swallow me whole. But he didn’t push. Instead, his shadow receded, and I dared myself to look up. 

He was looking at the hallway for whatever reason I didn’t know, his finger reaching up to scratch his cheek. I had half a mind to follow his gaze, to see if maybe my maidservant was back, but before I could, he caught my eyes, and I averted my gaze on instinct once again. His following chuckle was not something I’d expected to hear. It was light and breathy and…free somehow, like the way the winds on the mountain peaks felt free. Cool and comforting. It pulled me in. Propriety be damned. I looked at him and found him smiling—not the ear to ear grin he’d shown me before, but a small smile, restrained yet gentle, and it made my own lips waver.

“I’m sorry if I surprised you,” he said. “I saw Lady Ada step out of your room, and I wanted to see how you were holding.” 

So that was her name. I hadn’t asked. 

I cleared my throat. “Lady Ada said she would fetch me something from the kitchens.” 

“Are you hungry? I can bring you to the kitchens if you like.” 

“Is…is that all right?” 

“The Cook wouldn’t mind,” he said, but he seemed to remember something, because then he added, “My mother probably would, though. Decorum and such.” 

“Are princes not allowed in the kitchens?” I asked, because back home, they never minded my presence. I even sometimes helped the kitchen hands.

“It’s more about the proper way of things, I would say,” Clive said. 

He sighed, then looked around the hall again. He never crossed the threshold. Another proper way of things, probably. This might have been a guest room before, but it’d be my chambers from now on. This would be the place I called home. My heart lay heavy at the thought. Then Clive spoke again: 

“Would you like to see more of the castle? Lady Ada wouldn’t be for a while. I’ll show you the garden or the library or maybe if Joshua manages to escape Mother’s grasp, we can meet him, too. Though, maybe we could make a quick visit to the kitchens so Lady Ada will know where you’ve gone to lest she panics when she finds the room devoid of its resident. As long as Mother doesn’t know, I think it’ll be alright.”

“What if she finds out?”

“Then I’ll say it was all my idea.”

“My lord—” I began in protest, but he shook his head. 

“Please, just Clive.”

“Then—Clive—” The name rolled easy on my tongue. Clive’s face brightened at the sound. I resisted the urge to look away. Looking at his face had been making my stomach knot in odd ways. “I will not have you take the blame for something I did.” 

“It won’t be something you did but something I prompted you to do.” He then held out a hand, and with a little smirk to his smile, said, “Well, my lady?” 

A part of me would rather stay and wait for Lady Ada carrying a steamed bun or whatever it was these Southerners serve for supper. Yet being alone in the room, with the pressing walls and distant shouts and hollers drifting in through the window would only emphasize my solitude. Mother's pendant lay heavy over my chest. Home would always follow me, Mother had said. Rosalith would be my home now. 

I dispelled all unwelcome thoughts with a shake of my head and took Clive’s outstretched hand. “Alright, then,” I said, and attempted a smile.

~ END ~

[rune-writes]

Hero

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Word Count: 1230

Rating: G

Pairing: Zack/Aerith

Summary: Set after losing Angeal in Modeoheim. Zack goes to Aerith's church where he crumbles under the weight of his grief.

Note: written for @zerith-week. Day 3 Prompt: Devotion / alt prompt: Hero

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

When Zack came into the church that day, Aerith thought they could spend the day outside. He’d been away for the entire week. The kids at Sector 5 said they missed “the big brother with the big sword”. Maybe Zack would indulge them in a game or two. And the sky looked clear; even with the plates, Aerith could tell when rain clouds had gathered. That particular day, the clouds that had hung ominously the entire week had frayed without even one drop of rain. A brief respite, perhaps? All the more reason to enjoy the sun as best they could. But when Zack entered the church with his face cast down and a sluggish gait to his steps, all plans for a date disappeared from Aerith’s mind.

Aerith rose half-way to her feet, his name at the tip of her tongue just waiting to be said, but before she could, Zack looked up and his face split into a smile—if one could call a stiff crook of his lips a smile. It didn’t even reach his eyes, as his smiles often did. “Aerith!” he called in a forced cheerfulness that, coupled with the way his brows drew back and his voice trembled ever so slightly, broke her heart. But Zack reached her nonetheless, feigning vigor and carefreeness, and asked her, “Were you waiting for me?”

Aerith knew grief when she saw it. She’d felt it herself before when her mother passed away; witnessed it not long after when Elmyra received word of her husband’s demise. She was no stranger to it, as was she not a stranger to how she had handled it. It had been precisely like how Zack was trying to hold up now, acting like everything was fine despite the tears she spied welling in his eyes. He blinked them away, saying dust was caught in his eye. And maybe it did. She decided to play along. Zack rewarded her with a laugh, quiet and languid, his eyes cast down once more, before he perked up—or attempted to—and crouched down by the flowerbed. 

Aerith gingerly sat across from him, carefully listening to him talk and muse about SOLDIER and Shinra and training and missions. About someone named Kunsel and Cissnei and Luxiere. How they were out of his favorite sandwich that morning in the cafeteria and he had to settle for some disgusting gray gruel. “Said it was good for stamina,” he went on. “Well, not good if it twists your stomach and locks you in a bathroom for a good hour afterwards. Kunsel said I just have a bad constitution, but I say his stomach is made of steel. Not that it’d mattered to him. He'd gotten the sandwich and not the gruel.”

Aerith figured she should laugh, but Zack’s face was oddly unanimated telling such a funny story that she felt a laugh would be out of place. It was disconcerting seeing him so listless. He’d always been full of energy, his presence like a shining beacon of light as though his soul was composed of nothing but sunlight. Aerith often stole glances at him as they worked at the flowerbed. He didn’t notice; or maybe he didn’t care. She’d offer responses, enough to make him continue talking. Because talking was good. Talking would distract him. She remembered how Elmyra would get her to talk—about flowers or food or her new home or the ribbon she wore. Got her to come to the kitchen and help with the cooking. Anything to distract her, really, because once she got quiet and the memories rushed in, she would plunge into a never ending spiral of self-loathing with only one sentence hammered into her brain: it was her fault her mother had died. 

Zack had gotten quiet. Aerith stole another look. His usually bright blue eyes were dull, like a faraway sky, locked in some distant recollection. Aerith searched for something to say. Then her eyes found the abandoned flower wagon they’d started building halfway before, and she began to ask, “Zack—”

She had barely said anything when Zack took a sudden sharp intake of breath. His eyes flew wild, gasping as though he’d just broken through water. And then he met her gaze, and Aerith saw the raw, unbridled fear, regret, and guilt swimming across those navy orbs, chipping away at the crooked cheerful mask he’d attempted to don and failed to regain. 

“I—” His voice broke. Tears welled and it seemed to take his all to keep them at bay. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say. He stood up. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.” He backed away and probably meant to rush out, but halfway down the aisle, his legs crumbled under him. Then the sobs came, every rock of his body sent a shattering tremble to Aerith’s heart. Had it felt like this when Elmyra saw her broken self? Wanting to do something but unable to do anything. Knowing full well that whatever she said would not bring back whoever Zack had lost. Her own eyes brimmed with tears. 

Outside, the sun was still out. Aerith could imagine the sky spreading far and wide beyond the plates. Boundless. Endless. 

“Hey, Zack,” she began, fighting against the lump in her throat. “The sky is closer in the city above, right?” She rose to her feet. “Kinda scary, but the flowers might like it… maybe.”

The flowers at her feet swayed in a non-existent wind as though in confirmation, but when Aerith looked back, her attempt at distraction hadn’t ceased Zack’s sobs at all. 

Perhaps it hadn’t been distractions that Zack needed after all. He’d had plenty of it, judging from his ramble. He was seeking a quiet haven, free from prying eyes. Gods knew how many times Aerith had sought it—why she had sought the church all those years ago. And that was what it had become to Zack; what she had become to him, just like how Elmyra had coaxed her out of her little hiding spot in her room and pulled her into her arms. Aerith had never felt safer in all her life. 

Zack’s back shook. Somewhere along the way, it had shrunk, and before her was not the savvy SOLDIER who had crash-landed into her life, but a distraught seventeen-year-old boy who was trying his best to hold his ground while his world fell apart. Aerith moved and wrapped Zack inside her arms, small as they were.

“It’s not your fault, Zack,” she whispered to his ear.

Zack’s breath hitched, his body going taut. For a split second, Aerith thought she’d stepped over a line, but Zack instead grabbed her hands and cried into them. 

Later, she let him sleep on her lap. His eyes were puffy, but his breathing was even. He didn’t stir even when Aerith brushed his bangs back and patted his head. Aerith didn’t know what he had gone through, but she hoped he would tell her someday. With their fingers interlocked over his chest, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, she would like to think that he trusted her that much at least. She would be his rock and haven when all else failed him. 

With that silent vow taking root firmly in her heart, Aerith bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Zack seemed to smile in his sleep.

~ END ~