#trauma stare.....or according to some friends the autism stare. or both.

[hitogeki]

Portrait of a Viera Hoplomachus, 1570 -Sirius cen Juventus, b. 1528, Sixth Astral Era

An interesting subject. The Garlean army recruits from its conquered nations, certainly, but viera make up very, very few of its numbers. This viera, who I am under good authority is named Pasha, was dragged out of the Golmorre Jungle kicking and screaming. Thankfully, cohort II of the IVth Legion proved their excellency in breaking savages. Now he's a productive, talented soldier- though reports say he can still be disagreeable one on one. Further attempts to recruit other viera resulted in expeditions returning only with genuine volunteers, if they returned at all, all female; considering the nature of his acquisition, Pasha was likely a young buck when pressed into serving our glorious Garlemald. Any older, and he may have proven too much for his captors. He serves mainly in Ala Mhigo, as per the tradition of sending recruits to countries outside their home to prevent fomenting rebellion.

Incidentally, Pasha aan Golmorre is reported to have been one of many who died or disappeared during the Battle of Carteneau. Recent reports say a viera matching his description has been spotted back in Ala Mhigo, now calling himself Minka Vasiliev. It is uncertain if these are the same person.

[cw violence, sexual assault implications; endwalker spoilers]

Dmitri eyed the portrait. It hung in the slightly squalid home, the frame damaged, but considering the end of the world was rapidly approaching, it was amazing its artist had hung onto it at all.

The artist, Sirius cen Juventus, sat before him then. Older- the painting was easily twenty years old at least, and he hadn't been young when he did it- hunched under a blanket to ward off the chill. Dalmasca could be cold at night, being a desert, and the ruins of Rabanastre were no different.

Dmitri paid no heed. He was used to it, even if Golmorre was better at keeping in the heat. "You met him, then?" he asked, voice low, rumbling.

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. His eyes, too, were fixed on it, eyes going over the brushstrokes, the way the lights seemed to catch at the eyes. "We didn't talk- he barely spoke, and I was told that was normal. He just stared. It was quite captivating, really- I couldn't tell if he was staring at me or just through me."

"Did they treat him well?"

"As well as they treated any savage- no offense." Sirius must have caught how his lip curled. Dmitri kept himself quiet, waiting for him to continue. "They were fond of him, certainly. Like a mascot. When I told his manipulus I wanted to paint him, they were excited but explained they couldn't pay. Not with money, anyways."

The old man took a deep breath, letting the sound of the fire (tiresome, overdone, just made the room stink of smoke in such close quarters and made him sweat) breathe life into the silence. "A very talented boy, that one."

The only sign of Dmitri's current mood was the grit of his teeth. He kept himself composed otherwise. "I see. You said he disappeared?"

"Aye, at Carteneau. I got ahold of some witnesses. They say he saw the meteors, saw Bahamut, and went mad. Took over some magitek armor and started firing on his own. Guess you can't completely civilize them." This time, Sirius didn't apologize, just reached over to the endstand nestled next to the chair he sat on to take a sip of his tea. "There've been sightings of him recently, too, or-"

"Someone who might be him," Dmitri finished. "Minka Vasiliev."

"Aye. Gridania first, I heard, then he made quite a name for himself at Ishgard. If Minka is Pasha, then he certainly was brave coming back to Ala Mhigo, considering everything he was personally responsible for there." The man laughed. "Recently he was seen at Radz-at-Han. That's when my contacts dried up. Since, you know."

"The end of the world."

"The Final Days."

The reason he was out of the jungle, after twenty years of his cousin being missing. After a nearby clan was almost entirely wiped out- nearby on their terms, considering the viera liked to stretch themselves out. After one of the survivors, a young girl, had turned into- into-

He couldn't even think about it without his gut churning.

The sky in the jungle was red and burning. The sky in Rabanastre wasn't entirely dissimilar. From what he had understood, they were dealing with much the same- as was the world, which was cold comfort to him, that the viera weren't alone. But they were strong. Together, they could hunker down and weather this, tend to the Wood and remain strong. They just needed their matriarch, his- and his cousin's- grandmother, Vilmenja, to remain steadfast.

(And as much as he hated her, had hated being raised by her, seeing how she turned his cousin into a warped version of her that he'd spent far too little time trying to iron out, it was still bizarre to see her refuse to get out of bed. To hear her only mumble his cousin's name, her favourite grandchild, the one she'd always lamented turning out as a buck.)

(And it was his fault, really. For not dragging his cousin back from the interlopers, for not coming back quickly enough. So it was only right if he fixed this, even if it seemed like his cousin had no desire to return home.)

(Even if the Green Word would now no longer be theirs to follow. Even if the jungle would reject them, in all probability.)

"Old Sharlayan, too," the old man added in afterthought. "A lot there, though I don't know if that will stay true."

None of these names meant anything to him. Dmitri nodded and turned to the door, where his spear was resting.

"Now, can I ask why you barged into an old man's home? Surely not just to ask questions about one of his many portraits."

He paused as he reached for his spear, contemplating for a few moments the heft of it in his hands. "Hm. I'd been asking around for this viera. Someone said you might have information. Isn't that obvious?"

"Truly? Seems an odd time to be looking." Sirius laughed again, this time harsh, bitter. "We're all going to be dead here soon, the way this-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence, of course. Dmitri spun around, hurled the spear- and, gloriously, it found its mark in the man's chest. Through a lung, if the strangled, wheezed cry he let out said anything. White hot fury, barely held back through the entire encounter, surged through him; he watched rather than felt as he stomped forwards, grabbed the haft and used it as leverage to throw the man out of the chair onto the ground. Mechanically, almost dispassionately, he ripped it out and stabbed down, again, again, until his pants were spattered with blood and the old man, while twitching, was silent past low groans.

There must have been noise. He didn't hear it; the blood had been rushing in his ears too loudly. Ordinarily, he loathed violence, abhorred taking a life if he could drive off the person instead.

There were always exceptions.

'A very talented boy, that one.'

Dmitri felt his stomach heave, though he swallowed it down. Turning again on his heels, he walked out of the house, quickly as he could, hoping that he could either leave before anyone came to investigate or that the dark of night and how dark his own clothes were hid the gore. (If anyone did care to still investigate such disturbances; they feared the monsters- blasphemies, they were apparently being called- quite a bit)

Minka Vasiliev. His cousin, Minka Vasiliev. He’d changed a lot since he’d last seen him in that portrait alone- that was the shortest he’d ever seen his baby cousin’s hair, and even in portrait form, there was something off in how those eyes looked- but it was him. It was undeniably, unmistakably him.

Radz-at-Han.

Gridania.

Ishgard.

Old Sharlayan.

Wherever these were, whatever blasphemies they were besieged by, Dmitri Vasiliev would go there. He would find Minka and drag him back to the safety of the Wood's embrace, and even if they were the last people still on earth, there, the viera would be safe.

He just had to find him.

[canvas texture overlay courtesy of here]