#arr fic

[scionshtola]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love💗(hi kels ily and your writing so much!)

🥺this is so cute, ty friend!! (hi azia ily and your writing too 💗)

the pain of perception | cori/y'shtola (shb, pre-relationship)

Corisande lifts her head in Y’shtola’s direction, her familiar features—the heart shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, her downturned eyes—just as obfuscated by the light as the rest of her body. There was a time that Y’shtola could have known what Corisande was thinking just by a simple shared glance. Now, though she could make her best guess, she could never be sure what was written in their expression. What Y’shtola might give to see the curve of Corisande’s gentle smile once more, before they venture toward a battle that could change her forever.  Y’shtola glances down at their hands, still pressed palm to palm between them. Corisande had not shied from one touch—perhaps she would not shy from another.

with certainty | cori/y'shtola (arr, pre-relationship)

Y’shtola prodded at the scars, her eyes narrowing when Corisande did not react. She turned their hand over and skimmed her fingers along the inside of their wrist, brushing the singed edges of what was left of their wrist wrappings. They had not found a moment to replace them since the battle, swept from one task to the next as they were. “Pray, which healer is responsible for this remarkably poor work?” The sharpness of her words contrasted the gentle hold she kept on their arm. “I should like to have a word with them. A burn so deep as this one appears to have been would take hours to heal properly.” Corisande would laugh, if it did not feel like so much work. If her skin did not itch, did not feel stretched taut over her bones, fragile and paper thin, at war with the ironic spark of warmth blooming in her chest. Still, that Y’shtola should take such immediate offense to the shoddy quality of care they received was enough to bring a small, fond smile to their face. If only they had someone else to blame. “I will keep that in mind for next time.”

an echo of loneliness and a growing hope | cori/y'shtola (arr, pre-relationship) (why did i title it this lol)

When she opens her eyes, Corisande cuts a lone figure against the dark horizon, the blue crystals of their Ironworks gear glowing in the night. Visage hardened into a grim expression, hair blowing gallantly in the breeze as the moonlight coalesces around them, they look every inch the hero Eorzea knows them to be and very little like Y’shtola’s dear friend. Loneliness echoes in her chest at the sight.  She approaches Corisande and touches their elbow lightly—always their elbow, avoiding the flinch that comes when she touches their wrist ever since the day they defeated the Rhitahtyn sas Arvina. She tilts her head down to meet Y’shtola’s gaze, and a myriad of things to say run through her head. You should not have to do this alone. Please be careful. I will come with you

sweet distraction | cori/y'shtola (rodeo au 🤠)

Their lips curled into a sly grin then. “You look like a quick study.” Y’shtola did not like the way her heart skipped a beat at their words. Music started up again on stage, and Y’shtola’s protests died in her throat when Corisande moved their hips in time with it. They tugged on her hands with each slow swivel, and Y’shtola could not stop her gaze from following the long line of their legs, from where their dark jeans tucked into their tall brown boots to where they clung tightly to the curve of their ass.  “Please?” Corisande asked. “Just one song.” “One song,” Y’shtola relented. Corisande beamed down at her, and Y’shtola could not help but smile back.

untilted tipsy kiss prompt | cori/y'shtola (post enw)

They pull her closer, the silk of her robe smooth under their fingers. The taste of wine lingers on her lips, sweet and inviting, and they chase after it, deepening the kiss. “You let me go on for so long,” Y’shtola says between kisses, breathless and giggling against their lips. “I enjoy your going on. Though,” Corisande says, her body warm and mind abuzz from more than just drink. “You may have to repeat some points.”

[totaldramadrawingsandstuff]

Some art I did of one of my favourite fics (don’t judge me) called ‘Expect the unexpected’

The creator of said fic is Hashag_i

my drawing is of chapter 7, my personal favourite chapter

Please go and show their fic some support!

[vihola]

How do I get over this

[lost-khione]

Invisible Thread

Summary: What if Akiyasu’s father died before he was old enough to know about being an onmyoji? This is a story about little Aki and his encounter with a certain ayakashi. The story assumes that his mother knows that his father is an onmyoji but doesn’t have complete understanding of the details.

Note: I missed writing and for some reason my comeback fic is about Aki bc I saw a prompt ‘Invisible Friend’ but uhh it turns out the prompt was actually ‘Invisble Guest’ and well,, anyway, I’m still thankful for stumbling on that prompt that resulted to this fic!

To Sae, my Aki stan friend, this is for you

Word count: 680 words

----------

Mother and I are at the Capital today. We visit from time to time when mother needs to buy some things. I’m starting school this year so we bought the supplies that I will need. I think we already got everything. Mother is still talking with someone she knows. I got her permission to visit this shop filled with various knick-knacks to pass the time. 

I walk further inside to check the other items in the shop when I feet a little tug from the supplies I am carrying on my back. I stop and look backwards but there is nobody behind me. I take a step forward and there’s a little tug again. I retract my foot and start turning around but I feel it again. 

There must be something in my bag, I think to myself.

I take a step backwards and take off my bag. On a closer look, I see an almost invisible thread stuck on my paintbrush. I try to remove it but it remains stuck. I can clearly see it going somewhere. I look around and see the people walking on the street oblivious to the thread.

It must be something that only I can see. Mother told me that my father has some sort of spiritual power and the things i can feel and see is because of that. She told me that she will show me my father’s belongings once I am older but for now, she warned me against doing anything reckless. I think my father’s death is connected to his powers which is why mother is not that keen on letting me use mine.

I take the paintbrush out of my bag and walk out of the shop. I check and see my mother still busy talking with her friend. I know my mother warned me but I can’t ignore it when it is stuck on my paintbrush. I decide to follow the thread and see where it leads me. I gently tug on the thread and it seems really sturdy. Whoever is on the other side must want this paintbrush.

The thread eventually led me to a shine not far from the bustling market. I have spun the thread on the paintbrush as I follow it. I give it another tug and this time, I can see it lead to a tree. The person who made it must be on the other side. I tug the thread strongly this time as I approach the tree. Surprisingly, a dango fell on the ground. Just as I am about to raise my head to get a look at who attached this thread on my paintbrush, I hear my mother’s voice calling for me worriedly.

“Aki! Why did you run off here?”

I sneak a glance up the tree but all I manage to see is black hair swaying in the wind. That person must have hidden inside the tree hole. I turn around to look at my mother and notice that the thread hangs beside him. That person must have cut it. 

“I’m sorry mother. A thread is stuck on my paintbrush and I can’t get it off,” I explain to her while showing my paintbrush with the thread spooled on its handle. 

My mother looks at my paintbrush and replies, “Akiyasu, why are you playing with a spider’s web?”

“This is a spider’s web?” I ask my mother, feeling confused. “I thought it was some sturdy thread. I tried pulling it off but I couldn't. I followed it here.”

Mother seems to understand what happened. She stops asking me any more questions. She must have felt that this is because of my ‘power.’ Mother gets like that. Whenever I see or feel something and try to investigate, she asks me but then stops herself eventually. I think mother doesn’t really perceive such things which makes it hard for her to ask me about them.

We go home with my paintbrush and the spider’s web. I hope that the next time we go to the Capital, I can meet this spider.

[laspocelliere]

Day Four: Reticent

“Cold little thing, isn’t she?”

With the arrogance of youth, Thancred threw himself onto the sofa. Propping his feet languidly up, one arm dangling rakishly across his forehead, he tried to arrange his posture in a way that conveyed that he was exhausted, truly, by these recruits and his weighty responsibility in their gathering.

“Barely says a word, no matter how high I turn on the charm with her.” He flashed an easy smile over towards the desk, but Minfilia wasn’t having any of his roguish antics today. A frown was lurking somewhere around the corners of her mouth, and that small, insistent worry line between her brows had appeared.

“It might be good for you, to have someone immune to your charms,” she said absently, looking over the reports in front of her on this strange Coerthan girl. Out of her line of vision, Thancred started, just barely, at the implication that Minfilia didn’t include herself in that immunity group. 

“She didn’t seem very willing to talk to me either,” the Antecedent continued, the frown on her forehead deepening as she thought over every interaction they’d had thus far with the young sellsword. “I don’t think it’s shyness, either; warm welcomes and willing friendships have always been a solution for that, in my experience. Look at how far Yda has come.”

“I don’t think ‘shy’ is a word I’d use to describe Yda,” Thancred mused, hand dramatically draped across his forehead once more, blotting out the candlelight. “But I concede your point.”

“There must be a way to get to her,” Minfilia continued, tone vaguely reminiscent of when a puzzle was placed before her and she needed only to find the right piece for everything to slot neatly into place.

“That’s your problem,” Thancred replied languidly. “You think everyone is secretly as warm and as accepting as you.” He peeked out from under his arm with one cracked eyelid, but Minfilia still wasn’t looking at him. He adjusted his stance where he lay, trying to get a more picturesque version of himself and flexing his growing shoulders just so. “This one’s a perfect example that that isn’t true. Some people are just frigid, Minfilia, and she’s a perfect example. Getting any warmth or even conversation out of her is going to be like trying to bleed a stone.”

He went back to his pictured version of relaxing, but the tension in Minfilia’s shoulders didn’t ease. It was true that the newest addition to their little band was far from a cheerful type. She was wary and reticent, like a fierce bird of prey who suddenly found herself underground.  Her eyes were unsettling to say the least; dark and unreadable, with a certain sharpness to them that seemed to say that everyone beneath her gaze had been examined, analysed, and found wanting. 

What life could you have been living, Minfilia thought mournfully, for you to have those eyes so young?

The irony of such a thought was completely lost on her. 

“We’re not giving up on her,” she said aloud, straightening her spine purposefully. From his devil-may-care perch, Thancred sighed dramatically. “She has the abilities we need, and the Mothercrystal has clearly brought her to us for a purpose.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Thancred said on a sigh, hauling himself upright and raking his fingers roguishly through his hair in the same practised movement. Minfilia’s gaze landed on him at last, and he grinned his crooked smile. “She’ll bend to my graces sooner or later.”

The expression on the Antecedent’s face was enough to make him dial himself back, but not without a reassuring wink. “Don’t worry though, Minfilia. You’re still my number one girl.”

He strode out the door on a hasty retreat without a backward glance, both of them wondering exactly what sort of expression her face had made at the declaration.

[kannedia]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 16 - Third-rate

*insert corny pick-up line*

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Remain calm, Beatrix told herself before reminding herself that she could handle what she had planned to do. The advice she had was good.

She approached Mikoto with her nicest smile.

"Want a raisin?" She paused deliberately. "No? How about a date?"

Mikoto looked up at her confused. As did Lilja.

"Oh, no thank you. I'm not hungry." She replied before returning her attention to her research.

Beatrix had a feeling Lilja was trying to give her a look of sympathy, but it was hard to be certain with the shades she always wore.

---

Gerolt snorted, putting his hammer down on one of his many worktables with a solid thud.

"Don't know what's funnier lass," He said with amusement. "Those lines or that ye tried them."

Beatrix merely groaned and leaned back against the least used worktable. This would be the last time she went to Thancred for advice. The third-rate flirt.

[sharlayandropout]

Food

At the Find, in the months between the Labyrinth and the Tower.

[shonenkun309]

May is very promising I'm telling y'all!!!

THE WAY HE'S LOOKING AT HER IS- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[altruistic-meme]

why do i always end up in the position where i get pissed off about fandoms villainizing specific characters. why do i set myself up like this.

[lem-argentum]

it took me until dt to change rudy's hairstyle, but i ACTUALLY think he would've cut it back in post-stb when he became a reaper. the trope of "character cuts hair to feel more in control of their life" is cliché but REAL. and also the visual of him cutting it with his scythe is fun

[mx-paint]

.

[biff-adventurer]

today i met tiny chris

poor wean's da got et by a 'bon. now he wants 'em all dead. wiv' crossy eyes like them as drawed in the picture shows. dinnae get et and ye might be his new da.

he actually made me think about two things - the npcs/people we've helped along the way, and the writing of accents.

it's no secret i gave biff this accent - it tells you he ain't a city slicker but rather a rural boy, it tells you his folks ain't got a lotta money (at least, one would think), and it associates him with a specific cultural/ethnic profile (gaelic, i know/studied a little more about irish than scots so i lean irish)

i think we should, as a society, be wary of continuing to associate class with specific ethnic communities, but i'm not learned enough to make a post dedicated to my specific thoughts on that (yet? tbd)

mostly, i think it's important to look at the way characters speak as a vehicle of writing. when you write a character's accent, is it useful for what you're trying to establish in the scene? is the noble supposed to fail to understand the vernacular of his server? is it useful if the character is always going to say "dinnae" instead of "do not"? when dealing with non-western characters with accents, how far is it okay to go until the dialogue goes from representation to racist charicature?

writers have the power of flexibility. writing is about persuasion more than anything else, and we should remember to persuade our audiences that these are people. they aren't real, so don't bother with "realistic" - but they represent real ideas, concepts and associations in our world. it's important to be careful what you do with these, intended or not! and if you make an oopsie? acknowledge, accept and continue on your journey to being your best.

my preferences for writing accents based on my experiences, observations and education lean thus:

pick and choose what words require emphasis. if the whole sentence requires it, then so be it! but make conscious choices. words weigh differently, and they carry double the weight when they're written out to represent an accent. just really think about whether or not this is the point you want to say to, t', ta, or tae. the whole sentence doesn't need to be written out phonetically b/c avoiding doing that helps us steer clear of reiterating caricatures.

include culturally specific verbiage. "what's the craic" or "how's it hangin'" depending on who your character is. in india, lots of people greet each other with religious phrases (in english, it'd sound like saying "god is good"/"good is god" call and response) - so a thavnairian character could say anything between "sisters be with you" to "mindhurva guide your path today" (and also yours, brother/sister). but also: wain, wean, child, sweetling,

be careful which non-english words your character uses. i don't call it chai tea latte, i call it chai latte. my wife doesn't call it green tea latte, but matcha latte. i actually don't drink chai latte, i drink chai. but i call it both chai and tea interchangeably; so, when i want someone to know how to prepare my tea, i might ask for chai instead of tea. because with chai, you get half or whole base milk instead of water. you get dried ginger or an array of spices depending on the auntie. with tea, you get dried up leaves and some hot water. big difference for me.

above all, make sure it's legible most of the time. you can do this by avoiding writing a character's accent out completely phonetically. this isn't to say "conform your character to what people think they should talk like". this is about being aware that writing implies an audience. if you want your writing to connect with people, the important parts should be clearly communicated in the text. especially if you're writing in english. if i wanted my characters to speak hindi, why would i bother writing the story in english at all? you want people to see your character a specific way. write them the way you hope they'll be seen--if you've done a good enough job, it will lead to so much joy and satisfaction. if you haven't--it's back to the drawing board! but you get the chance to learn even more.

[shimaiitsoh]

[myreia]

To Ash and Ember

Rating: M (for canon-typical violence, trauma, and language) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Lahabrea, Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureria/Thancred (pre-relationship) Words: 2057 Notes: Set during ARR. Spoilers for the end of the base game. Read on AO3

It is impossible to breathe in the scalding heat.

Aureia skids backwards, narrowly avoiding a blast of concentrated magic. She once thought herself so clever, climbing easily through the ranks of the Thaumaturge’s Guild and proving herself as a black mage. Spellwork is as intuitive and natural to her as breathing—she feels the pull of her aether, guiding it, commanding it. She is a master of fire and ice and lightning, calling upon it to bend it to her will. She has slain primals, defeated enemies thought untouchable.

In her hubris, she thought she was untouchable as well.

How sorely she was mistaken.

She twists, searching the battlefield for Lahabrea. Since entrapping her in a circle of flames, the Ascian has proved to be more than her match. The air is thick with ash and smoke, stinging her eyes and searing her lungs. Her mind—usually so clear, so adept at perceiving her surroundings and reacting accordingly—is a haze. She knew she would face him eventually, but nothing could prepare her for confronting him like this.

Not when he is possessing Thancred.   

Lahabrea hunts her across the field, appearing where she least expects, showering her with waves of dark magick. His power slams against her, breaking her focus, giving her very little time to throw her own spells back at him in return.

That she is still standing is a feat in and of itself.

Aureia pauses, a faint crackling echoing in her ears. She spins, staff raised, just in time to see him soar several feet above the battlefield. Her heart pounds, panic rising in her gut. Her ward is almost gone, its power all but sapped. If she can’t raise another…

She has to finish this quickly—and without harming Thancred. But how? The Ascian has shrugged off every attack and every spell, slowly draining her energy and her focus until there is nothing left. She can’t fight forever.   

“You are strong, I will concede,” Lahabrea drawls. “But even your strength is limited, Bringer of Light.”

That voice. How it curdles her blood and fills her with rage. The Ascian speaks in a manner all his own, but beneath it she can hear the remnants of Thancred’s familiar cadence. His voice, his laughter, warped and distorted into something foreign and impossible. Something horrific.

She wets her parched lips and searches his face for some semblance of recognition. Is he in there somewhere, fighting to seize control? Or has his consciousness been suppressed and locked away, all but putting him to sleep? Worst still—is he there, watching their enemy thrash her thoroughly through his own eyes and unable to stop it?

Her fingers tighten about her staff, her nails scratching the wood. “As is yours, Ascian!” she shouts. “Why else haven’t you ended me? If your strength far exceeds my own, surely you could kill me here and now.”

Lahabrea laughs, twisting Thancred’s expression with malice and spite. “Your limitations are no mere matter of raw power. You are weak in mind and spirit, girl, and you cannot hide your shortcomings. Even the lowliest of mages in your Thaumaturge’s Guild have sensed how you restrain yourself.”

She freezes, bile rising in her throat. “I’m not, I haven’t—”

“Then come, adventurer!” he snarls, eyes blazing in the red light of his glyph. “Unleash yourself here and now, if you dare. Yet know that if I should perish, so too will the mortal within whose flesh I reside—”

Aureia screams.

Forgetting all semblance of form and stance, she hurls herself forwards and releases a blast of fire. The flames shoot through the air, propelled on a storm of rage and fury, and collide with the Ascian. He falters, pushed backwards by the force, but recovers quickly. Hanging in the air, Lahabrea throws back his head and laughs—frenzied, cruel laughter. His hands move, fingers gleaming with the workings of a spell.

Too late she realizes her ward is down.

Shit.

The spell strikes her in the chest.

Aureia flies through the air, tossed like a ragdoll, and crumples on the ground. She grunts, pain flaring outwards from the point of impact. Her limbs seize, numb and useless, leaving her immobilized facedown in the scorched earth. Her staff splits and falls from her hand, the lacquered wood cleft in two from the blistering heat. Its orb flickers once, twice—and goes out, its power shattered.

Cinders sear her face, her hair, her mouth. The fire is everywhere now, uncontrolled and all-consuming. Flames wreathe her body, coiling up her back, setting her ablaze. The horrific scent of melted cloth and flesh assaults her senses. For a moment, she doesn’t understand that she is the one burning, that it is her skin that is melting. The impossibility of it leaves her dazed. Fire is her domain: her comfort and her protection, the one bright constant in a life shred to pieces. How could it betray her?

A fresh wave of flames shower across her and the blistering pain overwhelms her all at once. She would scream if she could, but voice fails her. Her throat is scorched. That, too, he has taken from her.

Her friend, her strength, her weapon, her voice. It would have been easy enough for him to kill her outright, but no—it had to be done this way. He’s playing with her, toying with her, torturing her to satisfy some wretched desire she can never understand.

Aureia groans and rolls over, head throbbing, back blistering. She sucks in a deep rasping breath, desperately clinging to her last vestiges of life. Tears leak from her eyes, clouding her vision as she bites down on her tongue to keep from screaming. The pain is intolerable. Suffocating. It hurts to move, it hurts to think, it hurts to exist.

Somewhere high above her, Lahabrea laughs, the crowing sound buzzing in her ears. But even as the Ascian celebrates his triumph, something hums in the back of her mind. A flicker of hope, searching for one last catalyst to set it alight.

Aureia stirs, pressing a hand to the blackened ground. A circle of flame roars around her, the remnants of her own spellwork and Lahabrea’s combined, one strengthening, one weakening. There is truth in what he said. Her strength is limited—and she has all but sabotaged herself.

She is holding herself back out of fear.

For every spell she throws at the Lahabrea’s smug face in anger, there is a part of her siphoning off its strength the moment before impact. Ascian or no, she cannot bring herself to hurt Thancred. The thought of killing him with her own magicks is more than she can bear. But now she must accept that eventuality.

Neither of them are walking out of this alive. Either she ends Lahabrea here and now—and possibly Thancred alongside him—or he kills her. And if the Ascian slays her with Thancred’s own hands… She doesn’t want to think about what that would do to him.

If it’s a choice between her and him, there is no question of what he would want. What he would beg her to do.

Aureia raises her head. A hot wind tears across the battlefield, pulling her hair free from its braid and blowing it about her face. She blinks, clearing her vision, and apprises her foe. There is a second part to this equation. For too long, she has rejected a fundamental part of herself—the power that resides deep within her. Hydaelyn’s gift. She has suppressed it, pushed it away, terrified of what it will mean should she accept it as a fundamental part of herself.

No more.

Mark not the Dark Minion’s subtle words. Only Light may banish the Darkness.

The presence brushes her mind like a gentle embrace.

This time she welcomes it.  

She rises on unsteady feet and turns to face her foe one last time. The remnants of her staff lie on the ground beside her, charred and broken. She takes a step, then another, white ash and glittering embers swirling about her in a cloud. She has no weapon other than herself—and that must be enough.

There is no other choice now.

Lahabrea stares at her, startled out of his victory, mouth twisted with contempt. “How—”

Aureia raises a hand, palm sheathed in blinding light.

“Get the fuck out of him, you bastard.”

The brilliance explodes outwards and engulfs them in endless white.

***

Aureia has no memory of Lahabrea’s defeat. One instant, she is crashing into him with the full force her rage and the power of her blade of light, and the next she is kneeling on the ground, shaking and hazy. The inferno roars, the circle closing in around her, as the stronghold beyond collapses into fiery ruin. She takes little note of the surrounding destruction. There’s only one thing that matters to her now.  

Thancred lies some distance from her face-down on the ground, still and unmoving. Back blistering with pain, she grits her teeth and crawls through the blackened ash to his side.

“Thancred…” His name is little more than a whisper, her throat and mouth too dry for speech.

He doesn’t answer.

She inhales a rasping breath, forcing it through her singed lungs. Blinking away panicked tears, she shoves her hands fruitlessly against his side, but her strength has been all but drained away. She curses her weakness, murmuring his name again and again in a desperate hope he will respond. Finally, after several tries, she rolls him over onto his back.

His head lolls, white hair stained grey with soot. His face is ashen, his eyes closed, his expression frozen in cool serenity.

He isn’t breathing.

“Thancred…”

Aureia clutches desperately at his hands, ignoring the painful red blisters bubbling across her palms. She is usually so certain, so controlled, but now… The uncertainty at what to do terrifies her. She is no healer; she has never had the capacity. Magic has only ever been a tool for war and destruction.

She knows little else.

“Thancred…”

She thought herself prepared for this actuality, but now she is facing it, she cannot accept it. It can’t have been her hand that struck him down. She can’t lose him, not again. Not like this. Not this way.

Not without trying to save him.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she places her trembling hands over his heart and presses down as hard as she can. She mutters the count, anxious not to lose track, giving little care to the ash in the air and the burning ruins around them. When the count is up, she tilts his chin back and presses her mouth to his, gifting her breath to him.

“Come on, Than,” she murmurs. “Breathe, damn it. Come on.”

She presses her hands into his chest again, shoulders shaking as she gasps back her sobs. Another set. Another breath. Again and again. She will do this as long as she has to—even if the whole Praetorium collapses around her—until she is certain there is nothing else she can do.

“Come on…”

Aureia stills, slowed by the pain of her injuries and her crushing fatigue. Knowing she has nothing else left in her, she presses her mouth to his. One last try. It is all she has.

Thancred groans, a faint, stuttering sound rumbling in his throat. She reels back, knuckles pressed to her mouth, and stares at him. He coughs, eyelids fluttering, and cracks his eyes open.

“Aureia…?” he croaks.

She lets out a stuttering, sobbing cry and tears roll down her cheeks, staining her face with smudged makeup and ash. Shoulders shaking, she collapses at his side and rests her head on his chest. He stares at her, a faint, exhausted smile on his face, and raises a hand, weakly threading his fingers through the singed tips of her dark hair.

He is too weak to say anything else.

They lie there for a moment, exhausted and worn, too fatigued to rise to their feet. The surrounding fires burn, explosions from the stronghold’s collapse thundering in their ears. Though the danger remains imminent, for the first time since the raid on the Waking Sands, Aureia knows peace. She has no doubt they will make it out.

He’s alive. That is enough.

[ievaxol]

Alphinaud: Oh yes, I was so very clever. “Become a guardian of Eorzea,” I implored, and sat back to watch my perfect army cleanse the land of chaos.

[laspocelliere]

Day Thirteen: Butte

The heartbeat of nature.

They were words she hadn’t heard – wouldn’t hear, not for many years – but were written on the inside of her bones regardless. Imprinted, somewhere on her soul, where none could take it away. The sunrise over the hills of Thanalan was sharp and golden, warmer and wider than the watercolour mountain sunlight she’d first seen as a child. The one that had entranced her, and first opened that calling in the ice-packed recesses of her bruised heart, had become the resting place by which she measured every subsequent sunrise she made sure she was there to see.

Stretched out on her meagre bedroll, she watched the colours unfurl across the sky with something almost like reverence. Pearly pinks and dreamy purples wove in and out of fiery golden light, stretching across the desert horizon so fully that it was nearly impossible to find the edges of the world. From where she’d made her camp, near enough to the edge of the cliffside, it looked as though she were peering out from over the edge of the world.

Shifting onto her stomach, she watched the light grow stronger, chasing away the barren shadows from the land far below. Nearby, alerted to her movements, her chocobo lowered his head towards her, a gentle rumbling sound near-purring from his throat as he laid his feathery head near her arm. Absently, she stroked the soft down of his head, surprised at the fondness she felt for a creature she had only agreed to take on for practicality’s sake. 

It was only because of his gift of flight, after all, that had allowed her to spend the night safe atop this isolated butte. Steep enough on all sides to prevent anyone sneaking up, and high enough for her to see them coming anyway. A monolith in the desert, surrounded by an ocean of stars at night, and swimming with sand and sunlight at dawn. It was a raw, untouchable beauty, so far removed from the lush mountains and rivers of her childhood, that it all nearly caught in her throat just trying to breathe it all in.

Silent, yet strong.

With her fingers buried in the soft feathers of her chocobo’s head, his doelike eyes fallen shut with contentment at being petted, she stared forwards at the endless horizon as the sun rose. Somewhere beyond, there were people she’d been sent to meet, tied to her by the inexplicable curse she’d been saddled with from birth. The one that was suddenly being referred to as a gift. A Blessing.

Warrior of Light.

The title tasted strange in her mouth. Like metal.

Or blood.

She couldn’t say yet that she trusted these Scions that had appeared, nor Minfilia’s intentions. But they allowed her her space, and it kept coin in her pockets more steadily than it ever had been as a gladiator in Ul’dah, or the sellsword groups before that. That, at least, was worth seeing through, even if she didn’t necessarily believe that earnest look in the Antecedent’s eyes – the one that almost spelled out the word messiah in bright, crystal blue – when she looked at her. 

Sighing, the young adventurer, rolled over, her back pressing firm against the unforgiving rock beneath her. Her chocobo – she really should give him a name – rested his head comfortably somewhere near her shoulder, and she let her shoulderblades press into the bedroll, the dry dirt beneath, and the malms of solid stone beneath that. Beneath the cloudless sky, her arms were yet unblemished, her hands still to grow the callouses that would become permanent fixtures from years of swordplay. She slept through the nights without issue, and her mind was quiet.

In her mind, the horrors were behind her.

She was younger than she’d ever be, and had no idea of it.

Dawn broke over Thanalan, and she stared up into the sky as the colours changed. Until the blue was so bright she needed to shut her eyes against it.

Or be blinded.