iso-calamistra

[iso-calamistra]

a bunch of steppe friends!!

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On namedays.

As of yesterday, I am twenty and seven.

The Scions my friends put together a little celebration. I specifically requested for it to be private, and not some grand feast; in fact, I asked for it not to be at mealtime at all. I know that's customary, but I can't stand that sort of thing these days. We just sat in the Rising Stones and told each other stories.

Namedays are strange. When my friends spoke to me about celebrating mine, I felt... ashamed, though I can't imagine what for.

In my family, a nameday was celebrated with food. No delicacies or anything, just plenty. Plenty was a special thing.

It wasn't as though we were starving. We found our ways. Even when resources dwindled— and they always did— my grandmother would never let us think of ourselves as poor or destitute. I am told we used to be nobility, the clan of Calumistre. This would have been long, long past, in the days of a thriving Gelmorra, of course— by the time my siblings and I came around, all we had were eighth, ninth, tenth-hand retellings.

I'm also told that other kinds of families have a sort of expectation that their children, at a proper age, set out on their own. I only heard that sort of thing in faerie tales. It was all very dramatic to me, at the time— it always had a fancy name like "leaving the nest" or somesuch. How foreign.

I'll be honest, dear reader— I was not the brightest child. Not well-suited to practical physical labor, nor crafting pomanders, nor any particular field of study. Daydreamer. Sick. Et cetera. I liked faerie tales. They felt about as real as the rest of it, to me.

So, what's something only a dull child who likes faerie tales would do? I asked my grandmother, the once-great Radegonde Calumistre, if I could leave.

"You wish to flee to the surface, where we are so clearly despised? This is the only home for us. It has been our home for hundreds of years. If you leave, know well you can never come back. If you abandon this place, the Gridanians who walk over our heads will spurn you, shun you, and bury their dead where you used to sleep. Is that what you want, Isolée?"

I can only approximate the words; it was a long time ago, now. Only the venom is still there.

It wasn't as though Grandmother was a monster, or anything. She helped us live. I remember, on one of my namedays (maybe my tenth? Thirteenth? I haven't the foggiest) she talked some Keepers that lived nearby into getting us a jar of honey. I was so scared of wasting it, I put only a drop in my frumenty. Oh, she was incensed. Something like "I work myself to bones, and you refuse to eat the stuff?! Two more spoonfuls!"

It makes me want to laugh, thinking back on it, but back then I was so confused. I remember feeling like I always was, about everything.

I remember toad legs and dried plums. Fermented mun-tuy. Mushrooms roasted over fire.

This nameday was the first time I told most of the Scions where I'm from. Lyse and others more familiar with the Shroud weren't surprised, but the twins were shocked that there are still a few settlements in the ruins. I made everybody guess at what age I first saw the sun. Everyone was way off until Yugiri finally got it. Ten and nine. I thought the reaction to that was somewhat excessive, but I guess that's partially on me for giving it a dramatic set-up.

When the rest trickled out, Thancred and I had a drink. He may be one of the only people on this star I trust to pour me anything. I miss him when he's gone.

We shared our own stories, quieter ones, the kinds you don't tell around a table. He talked about Minfilia. The early days with Ryne. Times before that, times when he was alone. He talked about Papalymo. I wasn't as close to Papalymo as the other Scions, but I cared for him, and I have a little scar on my stomach to show for it. I showed Thancred. He laughed, and then he wept.

I talked about Zenos yae Galvus, about seeing my face reflected in his and wanting to vomit. His blood, red on the pink flowers. The colors clashed so horribly.

I tried to talk about the light-poisoning, but my throat closed up. Thancred knows how it feels to have your body betray you.

We went through lists of both our dead, and drank to each and every one. Once we were well and truly inebriated, we confessed things; our tiny childish fears, our stupid hopes, everything we didn't know how to explain. For his sake, I will not repeat what he told me, and I've already written my worst. I needn't repeat myself.

I've rambled on quite long enough. The writing has served its purpose in distracting me from this murderous hangover. My apologies for any ink smudges; it's early enough that the light is yet low, and my hand is unsteady besides.

I have no philosophical revelations, no sage closing remarks for you, but I have sentiment to spare; overflowing, sappy sentiment.

I still don't believe that love is the answer, but it has to be, or we'd never have made it this far. It is all we have.

[iso-calamistra]

On a twinned soul.

Like me, he travels quiet. He tries not to watch me constantly, but it's not like I would mind much if he did. He keeps the rest of me company.

Last night, Ardbert and I slept half-overlapped. It's so much easier to walk forward, now, I think. We keep our footfalls in time. One foot in front of the other, with half the weight.

It must have been designed to happen this way— "fated to meet" but without the fate part. I think perhaps this comical burden of ours must needs be shared.

I still haven't told anybody, not in any real way. Other people don't need to understand it, and, no matter how much it grates against my nature, neither do I. It's alright.

In the blackest nights, on the edge of hearing, I fall asleep to the conversations of two dead men and a little boy.

[iso-calamistra]

On the Exarch.

Sleeping beauty. Bloody fool. All alone in his tower. If I never see him again, I will never forgive myself for not ripping that hood off the moment I suspected it was him. He needed to know that I saw him. I saw him. Not from above, like a statue on plinth. Not from below, in the pages of a faerie tale. Eye to eye. He idolized me before anybody else did, and I forgive him for everything, all of it.

If I do see him again, it'll be when he kills me. I hope I'm too far gone by then to know.

Symptom diary

• Pain comes from somewhere in my core. White-hot, piercing. Doesn't disorient, sort of pulls me into harsh awwr awareness

• Everything inside me is bright. My spit, my tears, my sweat. I cough, and aetheric mucus(? blood? bile?) spills, the most luminous, rest is pretty faint

• Now disorientation. Everything comes slowly. Thoughts come slowly. Movement comes slowly. Takes an age to use my face or m y hands. End me now. I don't want Alisaie to see that child's face in mine

• Joints keep locking up. I trip over my feet. Writing is hard. Holding a quill. Presice precise wrist move. Bad

• Maybe more irritib irritable. Mad at everyone, mad that I have to say I'm fine, make them calm, happy. Comfort them. I hope that's sickness, not me. Do n't want it to be me

• Why did they let me do this to myself? I don't care if there was a plan, I cannot see myself as G'raha saw me, or Haurchefant, or anyone, I see my limbs flicker, dead , featureless as the dolls my sisters played with, I feel like a child again, and this city knows it, all these ghosts. Do they call you a child t oo, Emet-Selch? I'd like to wake up now.

[iso-calamistra]

On Longmirror Lake.

When I was first studying conjury, a lot of E-Sumi-Yan's other pupils got stuck on their understanding of water. People associate water with soothing, healing, cleansing. Water is all of those things.

Water is a vessel for poison and salt. Water is the death of air. It is dangerous, for the body is too eager to accept it. It sinks in through the skin, rushes to fill the lungs, passes the throat.

Il Mheg's waters are fragrant with flowers, and kept me buoyant enough to soothe my aching limbs, once the pixies had worn me out. Freed me from the burden of gravity.

Il Mheg's waters took all control from my body and tossed me, limp as a ragdoll, against the seafloor. I came to with a mouth full of silt and a cut on my head and the feeling of a thousand stares boring into me. Those slimy, bug-eyed voyeurs.

Balance is the rule of faeries. I do not like faeries.

[iso-calamistra]

On the First.

What a comfort it was to learn that in a barren world, after a calamity to rival calamities, there are still people selling dried fish.

Even if I fail, something will remain. That something may be broken, and its people may scorn my name until their dying breaths, but there will be something.

Putting it to parchment, that sounds worse. But is total obliteration kinder? Softer?

I wish this wasn't a question I had to weigh. Or think about. Can you weigh a question? Weight. Weighing. Whatever. I should speak of present affairs.

If I must spend another second in Eulmore, I am like to throw myself off the balcony and go for a swim.

It reminds me of the worst parts of Gridania. When I started as an adventurer, it felt like this. Like we, our class, were goods to be bought and sold. Our bodies were. It is a feeling I did not wish to relive. I wonder if Alphinaud feels it, too, or if he's set his mind to the grand scheme, as always.

And there's Ardbert.

I know better than to question what manner of apparition he is. I'm sure he's like Fray: born of a corpse, but borrowing from me. I won't speak of him to anyone, not yet. I don't need to. I don't think he would want me to. (When I was getting those terrible headaches, the first couple times, I thought that might have been his voice calling me here, but what reason would he have to do that, if he truly believes this all to be a waste of time? I know it was the Exarch. And I know his voice, too, I swear I do, from somewhere...)

Now, when I have time to rest, he stays with me in my room. His presence is— I don't know how to put it. I can be unguarded with him, because we are the same thing. The same stuff. Same role.

I hope he doesn't think I'm mocking him by fighting his world's battle. I had no choice.

[iso-calamistra]

On a nameless war.

Everything is wrong. We are twisting words and practically forcing people into fighting a foreign war, on foreign soil. We are deploying Allagan tech we don't fully understand. And me and Krile are the last ones left in our bodies.

Didn't they hear his voice? I know that voice, I do. We need to stop. The center cannot hold.

But what do I do? There is no stopping, not for me. There is no withdrawal. It was all too easy for me to be a gonne to be picked up, pointed, and shot. I have done it for too long, and now it is all that can be. There is no room for "actually, I can't fight your crucial battles, I think it's upsetting the aetheric balance." What would Raubahn say? Or Lyse? Or the thousand infantrymen who rally around me?

I can feel the pull when it happens. I know he's trying to take me somewhere, too. Still, some part of me thinks it'll just be me left awake, left alone here forever. Anything, anything but that.

(A note: Sorry for crumpling this page. I wanted to tear it out, but decided against it.)

[iso-calamistra]

working on making my own wol oc Mire! I'm still working on the story but she is going to wield dynamis instead of just aether. Also trying to learn more about drawing characters with disabilities!

[iso-calamistra]

On choices of venue.

I write because otherwise I forget. Such is the inconstancy of my memory. That said, I also write to complain.

Every time the Scions are summoned to the Lotus Stand, someone makes a quip about how pleasant and pretty it is. Say what you will, but at least the offices of the other city-states have enough chairs. Some of the finest woodworkers in Eorzea are so close as to practically be in earshot, and does Kan-E have anything to suggest that? One massive table, which I have never seen her use, and but three chairs, which I have never seen anyone sit in. If we're going to discuss matters of grand importance at length, gods be good, at least let me sit. This is one thing Ul'dah has right.

And may I say— though I appreciate Doman custom, as well as other occasions in Eorzea where an informal and collegiate feeling is required, I cannot abide sitting on the floor for these things. I ache just thinking about it. Hells.

Other things have been happening, of course, they always are, but I have no desire to put them to parchment. If I don't, maybe I'll forget.

I really do despise diplomacy.

[iso-calamistra]

Day 6 - Traveling to Gelmorra.

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thinking about omega raids

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Allister my beloved freak

Keep reading

[iso-calamistra]

When you accidentally get promoted to head of state

[iso-calamistra]

On mirrors.

I don't see myself very much.

I can't speak for others in the adventuring profession, but the nights I spend in rooms with beds and armoires number far fewer than the nights I spend... anywhere else, really. I look at my reflection to try on new gear, or to make sure I look presentable before a meeting of some kind, and neither of those events are all that common.

When I took up a sword, I realized I couldn't wear my old robes— long, baggy sleeves just got in the way. I needed something with no frills.

That was the first time I saw myself without a long coat on in a very long while. My arms had changed shape. My legs had changed shape. That Elezen in the mirror was suddenly a stranger.

I was unwell, that day. All these hard curves, these bits of bulk and flesh where they didn't used to be. It was as if they had sprung up overnight. I locked myself in the inn room, convinced I was somehow... not myself? Somebody else? Somehow "false." There's no point in explaining it; I've lost the feeling now.

When I first came up, I was scrawny. People didn't know my name, then— they called me "the lanky one," or "the dhalmel-looking young lad," or "that twig of a Duskwight." That was what I was to people. I am not that anymore.

But, I suppose, just as I had no choice but to keep moving, my body had no choice but to change.

My shoulders broadened so as to carry more of the world. For this, I cannot fault them.

[iso-calamistra]

mobility aid

[iso-calamistra]

On raising.

If there's one thing I've learned in my work, it's that brushing up against death strips everyone bare. People on the brink behave incredibly strangely, and I make a habit of raising strangers. I learn to expect the unexpected.

A short list of things people have done upon being brought back to life:

1. Vomit.

2. Immediately begin to curse me out. (This one is quite common. Don't be alarmed. Usually, it's either because they're in pain, or they think you're the enemy. Only sometimes are they actually cursing at you. Those are interesting times.)

3. Sock me in the jaw. (Related to the above.)

4. Tell me what they "saw on the other side" like it's a deeply urgent matter. All well and good, if you aren't on a battlefield. We are usually on a battlefield.

5. Completely ignore me and get right back up.

6. Die again. (This one was supposed to be funny, but it's not, is it?

Another tip for those learning the art of succor: your sense of humor will change. Learn what jokes not to tell in casual settings.)

The first time you raise a fallen warrior and see them finish out the battle, see them live to have a drink with their companions that night, you will feel like a god.

The first time you pour your magic into a corpse that just won't get up, trying one more time, two more times, five more times, and only realizing you're too late when someone lays a hand on your shoulder... Well, you won't feel like one anymore.

Listen to me right now. You will fail. Nobody should expect you to keep everybody alive forever, and if they do, they are ignoring the truth of war, which is that people are going to die. Your job is to make that number lower than it would be otherwise.

I am telling you this as much as I am telling myself.

It has not stopped hurting. I don't imagine it ever will.

Love is the flame in the abyss. It is the wellspring of our strength.

It is said that grief and love are one and the same.

If he saw the way I struck down Zephirin, would he be starstruck, the way he always was? I think so. I think he would rest his hand in its usual place on my back, smile his usual smile, the one I see in my sleep.

I suppose the good news is I have had incentive to sleep.

If you have laid eyes on this parchment, be you friend or stranger, I would ask something of you. Make a journey to Providence Point in Coerthas and find the headstone with the shield. Read the name and sit awhile.

If the stone is dirty, clean it. If there are no lilies, bring lilies. If there are lilies, bring more. Never let anyone forget.

Never let yourself forget.

[iso-calamistra]

(If some future scholar does find these papers— well, my feelings on that matter are best left alone for now, but if some poor sod is holding this and wondering why this page has been ripped out and reattached to the previous one, it is because I write out of order. I do not process things in the order in which they happen. Accordingly, I leave gaps in my writing, which I fill in later, when I remember what I was feeling. Don't worry about it. It needn't make sense to anyone but myself.)

Sidurgu told me everything. Well, as much as he knows.

Everything that happened before that still feels like a dream. Maybe it was. I don't know what those Ishgardians saw, but it wasn't what I did. (I pressed one of them to tell me after the fact. I got nothing.)

Here is what I know: I let that part of me that was not Fray hit me. I didn't want to fight it. But then it ran me through with its(? his? my?) zweihänder, and I thought to myself how much it hurt. It sounds ridiculous, writing it out, but it surprised me then. It hurt, so I fought back.

That's all.

Well, not all. It's never "that's all."

Hydaelyn's gift stuck. More visions. Midgardsormr seems proud, somehow. I feel a hundredfold less tethered, but a thousandfold relieved. I am useful again.

(I'm sure Cid didn't mean it that way when he said it, but I still hear it in my ear, his voice distorted through the linkpearl. Can't die. Too useful. Now, when I die, I keep walking.)

I can't spend much time holed up writing nowadays. I have to care for Rielle. I stay with her while Sidurgu goes on supply runs for Gibrillont, and we talk for hours at a time. Of course, there are hours when we are both silent, but that is a kind of talking, too. We share stories.

She has been through things no child should ever, ever go through, and yet she's still so... Brave is the wrong word. Sounds condescending. I mean she is full of love, and she knows who she is. Even surrounded by death, Rielle is alive.

I hope one day I can be that, too. I'd like very much for her to see that.

On dark knighthood.

I thought I was getting better, you know. After the dragon ripped the Echo out of me, I stopped receiving its visions. Some part of me did appreciate the break— I don't know how long it had been since I'd spent a full day in control of my own head. One day where time and space and aether are all lined up, like they're supposed to be. I thought I was keeping that streak going.

I thought Fray was really here. That was stupid of me.

I should have realized it was too good to be true: somebody doing everything I cannot do, saying everything I cannot say. All those wretched thoughts I blocked out. The only person who knows how much time I've spent washing the blood off myself. (Note: It is so much time. Every day, so much. I stopped, like Fray said I should, and I realize now that people do not laud my deeds; they laud themselves for shirking the work. Their noses wrinkle at the smell. They don't want to know.)

Nobody has ever understood me like that before.

Of course he's not real.

Not as real as I thought, anyway— I still don't understand it. I don't understand why he comes and goes, but when he's gone, I miss him. Isn't that funny?

Sometimes I sit there, in that corner on those steps, and wait until the cold takes the feeling out of my limbs. I wait to hear a voice. His, or the other one, I don't care.

I wish I was part of him, and not the other way around. He doesn't deserve the things I do to myself.

If Tataru or Alphinaud or Haurchefant or anybody else left on this star who cares about me ever finds this rotten piece of parchment, they'll think know I've gone off the deep end. I don't want them to find out, not yet. Who do they

Fray asked me if I wanted to leave everything behind. I don't want    I can't    I don't know how.

I can't be the one to make that decision. He's the one who does things like that. I wish he'd just take me with him, or leave this weaker half here to waste.

Not sure I can write anymore. Words don't go brain to quill. Mixes up on the paper. Brain won't shut up.

The only thought is the same one all day, all week: one foot in front of the other, over and over again. To the ends of the world, and back again. Time has no end. Over and over again. Over and over again.