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ofdragonsdeep · 3 years ago

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31 (Buckle)

Surprise extra ffxivwrite day! You get my cat being a stubborn teenager. This is technically another quick prompt from the Bookclub, and again is. Significantly more than 100 words, though we're not at "Star" levels of ridiculous this time.

Neither he nor Thancred held up well to scrutiny.

(m!WoLxHaurchefant)

The hum and bustle of the Rising Stones was quiet as the evening gloom settled over Mor Dhona. All but a small few of the Crystal Braves were otherwise engaged, and the remaining Scions spread out over the space. It did not quite feel empty, but it was far from full.

In the back room, which had but a few moons prior been converted to something akin to a training area, Ar’telan was stood opposite Hoary Boulder and Coultenet, grimoire in one hand, the other held out to better command the egi he had summoned. A small group of Domans had gathered around them, watching with awe and interest as Coultenet did a few minor feats of thaumaturgy to test its endurance. The robes that the Sons of Saint Coinach had recovered from their dig site did not fit as well as they might, but the aetheric threads woven throughout the fabric were still more than enough for Ar’telan to feel the difference.

“These constructs are truly fascinating,” Coultenet remarked as the egi dispersed with a burst of heat and light. “To be so similar to the primals from which they are drawn, but safe and contained… A fascinating art to revive.”

“Assuming people want to get close enough to a primal to try,” Hoary added, and Ar’telan grimaced.

“I think I would avoid it given the chance,” he agreed, returning the grimoire to its bag, clipped onto the belt of his new jacket. “Thank you for the tests.”

“Any time, my friend!” Coultenet replied, and Ar’telan offered a slight smile as payment for their time.

F’lhaminn nodded at him as he passed the little bar, Moenbryda and Thancred clearly making use of it in a table off to one side.Thancred was far worse for wear than Moenbryda was, which was impressive given the constitution Ar’telan knew Thancred had for drink, but a sideways glance at Moenbryda’s half of the table also suggested she had not exactly been keeping pace with him.

“Oh, are those the summoner robes?” Y’shtola remarked, looking up from the documents she was staring at. Ar’telan nodded, and she got to her feet, examining the outfit with a nod of appreciation. “Y’mhitra has told me a little of what you have been doing. I hadn’t realised it had come so far.”

“It was luck more than anything else,” Ar’telan replied. “The Sons found some coffers in their site by the Crystal Tower.” Y’shtola nodded again, one hand raised to her chin in thought.

“Considering where they found the soul crystals, that is unsurprising,” she said. “Have you not the horn?” Ar’telan cringed, fishing the bright red contraption out of one of the jacket’s many pockets.

“It looks a little silly.” he said, but Y’shtola motioned to him to put it on, so he fastened the straps around the back of his head, adjusting the front until it sat on his forehead in a way that passed for comfortable. The horn channeled aetheric energies, he knew that much, but the vibrant red creation made him look like a particularly well-dressed unicorn.

“Fascinating. I have read a few studies on the subject of summoning, though nothing like as many as my sister,” Y’shtola said, reaching up to help Ar’telan adjust the horn. “They never did find anything quite so adept at focussing primal aether than these creations, though as I understand it a number of potential designs existed.”

“What on earth is that on your head?” Moenbryda said, leaning back in her chair to get a better view of the allagan miscreation.

“An evoker’s horn,” Ar’telan replied, feeling embarrassment sink into every fibre of his being.

“It is an Allagan artifact of immense power,” Y’shtola clarified, not that she had seen his response. “It aids in amplifying the primal energies that summoners call upon to command their egis.” Thancred squinted. Ar’telan wasn’t sure if it was to focus, or just because of the alcohol.

“Y’know what it looks like,” he started, and Moenbryda rolled her eyes.

“An ancient. And powerful. Artifact?” Y’shtola offered, her voice terse. Thancred made a noise that might once have been amusement, but just sounded like a sideways cackle.

“Could prob’ly’ve got one cheaper in th’ right alley in Limsa,” he slurred, Moenbryda gently confiscating the bottle he reached for lest he make the situation worse. Ar’telan reached up, but Y’shtola put one hand gently on top of his arm to stop him from just pulling the horn from his head.

“Thank you for your contribution, Thancred,” she said, shaking her head at his antics. “You are fine, Ar’telan. Perhaps if it bothers you a glamour prism may assist?”

“Y’mhitra said that might interfere with the aetheric signatures,” Ar’telan said. “Something about the weave having its own-”

“Gotta have somethin’ worth takin’ t’... th’ ‘lezen you’re after,” Thancred said, and Ar’telan tensed. He could feel Y’shtola try to pull him away, but he turned back around regardless.

“We are not-”

“Wha’, he’sh a slut f’any advent’rer in, in Eorzea, but not f’you?” Thancred said. Moenbryda grimaced. “M’be you need a bigger ‘horn’.”

The silence carried the same tension that it always did when he and Thancred argued now. Y’shtola had told him not to rise to the beat, that Thancred would regret what he said when he sobered up, to be the bigger man. But it stung. Stung that he hadn’t been good enough to repair things after Lahabrea’s meddling, that Thancred would rather trade jipes and drink himself into unconsciousness than try.

“Haurchefant doesn’t-” Ar’telan started, but Thancred waved a dismissive hand at him and looked away from his attempts to sign a defence.

“Thancred, I think you have had quite enough to drink,” Y’shtola said, hands on her hips, disapproval colouring every syllable of her word. Thancred snorted.

“Y’ know ‘m right. Goin’ up to Coerthas ev’ry hour he can. Might’s well kneel at ‘is desk an’-”

Ar’telan pulled the evoker’s horn from his head and threw it across the room. It hit the table in front of Thancred, scattering the remains of bottles that rested there in pitiful emptiness, startling Moenbryda.

“Maybe they are more welcoming than my ‘friends’ here,” Ar’telan said, jaw clenched, and turned and walked from the Rising Stones. The door slammed behind him on the cacophony of noises that his swift departure started, from Y’shtola calling after him to Moenbryda attempting to salvage the situation with Thancred.

He didn’t care. He was tired of it. Over and over again they tried to reassure him, but for all they talked, none of them could ever stop Thancred when he was deep in his cups. Maybe Lahabrea had been right. Maybe he was just another tool to them, a primal-killing weapon, a convenient servant, content to smile and nod at every job they gave him, no matter how grim.

The crowd in Mor Dhona parted around him as he stomped through Revenant’s Toll, the workers on their breaks from building the walls to the refugees to the House of Splendors vendors all aware from the lines of tension on his face that he was not in the mood for talking. He took the north exit, the purple-tinged gloom of the Toll giving way quickly to the sharp cold of Coerthas.

Was he proving them right? Gods, maybe he was. His linkpearl chimed in his ear, and he ripped it out and stuck it in one of the pockets that the ancient robe had so many of. He had stood against primals, mastered the trails of aether they had left indelibly on his soul in their wake, torn tiny pieces of them from the aether, and his reward was crude jokes and the reminder that he did not matter beyond what he could give them.

—

The night had set in quickly, and Ar’telan was too far down the road to turn back by the time the cool air cleared his senses a little. The snow crunched under his feet, his passage leaving deeper marks in what was left of the trail than he was used to, and the wind was howling at a wicked clip. He didn’t want to go back to the Rising Stones, even though he anticipated that Thancred would be out cold, because Y’shtola would have that look on her face that spoke of despair at his childishness. Alphinaud wouldn’t even know what the issue was, just tut at his outbursts. He could go on to Dragonhead - they were not expecting him, but Haurchefant would always find room for him regardless. He had his grimoire, but he hadn’t intended to wear the old robes for long, and had basically nothing else. Not even enough gil to get to the aetheryte. Well, if he walked he would at least make it by morning.

The snow drove itself with a wicked sharpness into Ar’telan’s face, the collar of the coat doing little to protect him from its ravages. The knights of Ishgard had long since given up on lighting the trail, probably glad for the inhospitality keeping out the nosy outsiders who might try to weasel their way in. The glimmer of the aetheric core of Ice Sprites took Ar’telan from the path more than once, hoping it was the distant glow of the Observatorium’s tower, or even the one at the border, but with the deepening snow he was not even sure where the path was.

In short, he was lost.

With a huff of effort and a poorly-concealed shiver, Ar’telan picked a direction and walked in it. He could barely see in front of his face in the snow, so he pried the tome from his side with stiff fingers and invoked fire. It was not enough to warm him, but the glow inherent to Ifrit-egi’s being would serve the twin purposes of letting him not fall into a chasm and keeping away hungry beasts who thought to brave the cold for a quick meal.

After more trudging through thick snow than Ar’telan had even wanted to do in his life, he found - not civilisation, far from it, but an outcropping of rock, shielded from the worst of the storm. He ensconced himself within it, calling the egi close to him to try and get some of the warmth back into his fingers. Piling the snow up around his sides kept it from becoming a slurry of water wherever the egi hovered, but he was still freezing. Allag’s summoners had fought in warm places, he supposed - Meracydia was warmer than this, and surely it must also have been before the Calamity that had devastated so much of it. Maybe they hadn’t thought of how to fend off the snow.

He was tired. Everything felt heavy after his hours of walking, and now the tension was gone there was an ache in every muscle that had stiffened in misplaced anger. Huddled in a miserable heap with the feeling leeching out of every extremity, he wondered if it would matter if he closed his eyes, just for a moment. He pulled the coat from his back and put it over his head, to stop the wind from sneaking in. The egi would keep him safe. The beasts wouldn’t be out in this weather. If he closed his eyes for just a moment, the snow would stop…

—

It felt like breathing through slurry. He could hear voices, but couldn’t make out the words. With more effort than he had ever thought to put into something so simple, he forced his eyes open, and everything was blurred and out of focus.

He couldn’t see his egi, nor feel its presence in his aether. Couldn’t feel his fingers either, for that matter, or indeed most of his limbs. He heard the voices stop as he managed something akin to a groan - a distant cousin, perhaps, a whispered sound from what was left of his throat. Most of the figures left, but one walked up to him.

“Master Qin. Can you hear me?” The curt tones and painfully Ishgardian accent of Camp Dragonhead’s lead Chirurgeon. Ar’telan had worked with him more than once, helping to heal the wounded knights brought in from defending Ishgard from her many enemies.

Ar’telan tried to raised his hands to agree, and found them unresponsive, so he made a vague noise of assent and nodded his head. The chirurgeon sighed, and a little blinking brought his face into something resembling focus.

“They found you out on the road to the Observatorium. You were lucky-”

“Ar’telan!”

Haurchefant’s voice cut the chirurgeon off mid-sentence, and with a flurry of sound and movement the elezen was beside him. He could feel, just about, Haurchefant’s hands taking one of his, but it was still heavy and bitterly cold.

“When they brought you in we thought you dead. What possessed you to do something so foolish?” Haurchefant said, worry lining every word. “Out in a blizzard with nothing but a coat - you could have teleported to the aetheryte, something-”

“Lord Haurchefant,” the chirurgeon said, and Haurchefant shook his head, attempting to regain his composure and failing most utterly. He did not look like a man who had done much sleeping recently. With effort, Ar’telan willed his hands to respond, and signed something that came close to sorry.

“I know. Don’t try to move too much,” Haurchefant said. “They said they found you before the frostbite could set in properly, but it was a near thing. By the Fury, have you any idea how worried I- how worried we were?” Ar’telan managed a weak, pathetic little smile. He wanted to explain - wished it was so easy as speaking, though even that would have been difficult even if his throat was not damaged. Felt very foolish for needing to explain something so embarrassing as the sequence of events that had led him to this shameful state.

“We have contacted your friends in the Scions,” the chirurgeon added, making Ar’telan grimace. “The runner should be reaching them presently, assuming they were not waylaid by heretics, as seems to be the flavour of the moon.” Haurchefant made a weary noise, a harried look on his face at the reminder.

“It will take you a few days until you can move about properly again,” he said, looking as though it pained him to say it. “Though the chirurgeons will stay with you, of course. Just… promise me you will never do something so foolish again.” Ar’telan tried to flex his fingers, and Haurchefant took his hand again, the warmth of him radiating through every digit, though not quite enough to stir them to action.

He nodded his head, and hoped that it conveyed a promise more than a yes.

#what the FUCK is WRONG with you???#welcome to the train from Haurche #ffxivwrite2021 #Both Ar'telan and Thancred have made a number of mistakes lately it's true #Ones they will both in fact regret #Warrior of Light (solo story)#Haurche is too busy being ride or die with the WoL to note that the second half theoretically exists and he's very angry about that

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