#drawing this made me miss anpan so much

[powerup-the-revolution]

Happy anpan day birthday ‘Zaki \o/

[starswornoaths]

A Shard of Eternity

This is my Secret Santa gift for my Secret Santa partner: @anpan-chan! @aetherstitch was kind enough to host a secret santa this year, and I’m delighted to be able to participate! I hope this is to your liking!!! \o/

nondescript WoL/Exarch, spoilers for all of 5.0 and the 2.0 tower raids under the cut!!! (I kept it nondescript mostly out of fear of getting your WoL wrong, but I am also more than happy to change anything you want!)

The first time the Warrior of Light is mentioned by name, it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes. Another high and mighty adventurer who got a little lucky here and there, from what you had gleaned from the whispers around Saint Coinach’s Find. It had bearing on neither your research nor your work, and so you paid it little mind and went back to your books.

Rammbroes interupts your reading, as he often does, asking you to scout ahead of this supposed Warrior of Light that is coming to gather what is needed to venture further into Syrcus Tower. You resist the urge to snort— scout ahead of a vaunted hero to ensure their safety? If they truly were just like the heroes in the fairy tales, it would stand to reason that this Warrior of Light would be more than able to handle themselves.

Still, the request does present an opportunity to test their heroism and cunning for yourself, and so you leave for the Shroud with a swish of your tail, a bow at your back, and a book tucked in the crook of your arm.

This Warrior of Light fancies themself a hero, do they? You aim to make them prove it.

**

*

They follow along with your little game of cat and mouse, despite how tired they look of it all from the first moment you call to them through the treetops. Halfway through the chase, you aren’t entirely certain who is the hunter and who is the hunted. It was...fascinating, seeing them follow your clues and give in to your goading with a dogged, foolhardy curiosity tempered by the sort of cunning that kept you on your toes, kept you scrambling to stay the more clever of the two of you.

You hate to admit it, but it thrills you.

Still, the thrill does not outweigh the promise of getting closer than you’ve ever got to unlocking the secrets of Allag, and so you reveal yourself with a flourish at the game’s end. The Warrior of Light is sardonic with their traded quips, barbless but all the same sharp as they are. There’s a cleverness to them, you note on your way back to the Sons of Saint Coinach, and the glimmer in their eyes makes you wonder how often they’re allowed to be clever. 

When you return to Rammbroes with your newfound companion you watch, a little dismayed, as that wit is hidden behind the mask of professional indifference, behind stoic nods and two word answers, because the hero is rarely allowed to be clever outside of their use. Seeing it happen before you reminds you of younger years best forgotten, where others would mock you for your red eye while manipulating you for your intellect in school. 

It’s almost frightening how readily you become the perfect picture of the hero’s merry companion, ready to catch some of the glory for yourself. Luck permitting, more than just some.

For you are G’raha Tia, after all, and aught less than being remembered in the annals of history for all time would just not do.

**

*

“Do you think yourself clever?” The Warrior of Light asks you one night at Saint Coinach’s Find. 

A glib answer dances on your tongue, ready to be used as a shield like you’ve done for years now against those who mocked your romanticism for fairytales and legends. Ordinarily, it is bittersweet, sharp cunning and bitter loneliness make for a poor taste on the palatte. But tonight, with the stars hanging heavy overhead and their eyes looking at you in that quietly ponderous way, you feel...safe. Safe enough to be honest, if only a little.

“I am all but certain of it.” You reply with a grin. “It’s kept me alive for this long.”

“Good.” They seem satisfied, nodding. “I think you’re brilliant, you know? For someone with the bravado you’ve got, though, you keep that brilliance quiet. Why?”

You are prepared for neither the compliment nor the question that follows, and it takes longer than you’d like to answer.

“I like seeing others be brilliant, too.” You finally admit in a soft voice. 

Because you do— and you’ve especially liked seeing their brilliance as they pushed through Syrcus Tower, through the mysteries writ in the pages of the ancients and scrawled on the walls of their tombs. 

Their hand on yours sends a shockwave through you— you had not expected touch, much less one so gentle from a hero so used to exerting great strength. Yet to look up at their bright eyes, you see a different sort of strength that you aren’t sure you can even name.

“I like seeing you be brilliant, too, G’raha Tia.” They reply quietly.

You tell yourself that squeezing their hand is just to calm your heart, and that looking up at the stars is because they are soothing, and not at all because you’re terrified of the warmth that suffuses through you. You pretend you’re not terrified of missing that warmth when the time comes to part.

**

*

You couldn’t resist sealing yourself away in the tower when the opportunity presented itself. Part of it was a want to be a hero yourself— after all the feats of great power, integrity, and heroism that not only the Warrior of Light, but those around them, exuded, you feel it only fitting that you be given an eternity to try and reach for the same heights.

“My destiny lies in the future.” You say with clear conviction, the doors closing in behind you.

Cid promises to work to build a future that you would be proud of, and it humbles you. The Warrior of Light’s eyes are so bright as they look at you, too bright for you to truly read. You feel as though even with eternity all but gift wrapped for you, you will never truly understand what they’re thinking. You’re all but certain that even given eternity, you couldn’t even find the words to ask.

“Goodnight, G’raha Tia.” They say in a soft voice, but the look on their face is one of pain.

You let their words carry you to slumber, and try not to think on how you might have hurt them. Better to forget. They will be gone by the time you awake, besides, you remind yourself somberly.

And you dream of tomorrow.

**

*

Tomorrow comes too soon, and with the smell of ashes, smoke, and ceruleum. 

The people who managed to crack into Syrcus Tower had scarcely even known to look for you, had thought mentions of you waiting like a sleeping prince high in his castle has been the stuff of fairytales. They look at you with soot covered faces and wide, haunted eyes, and you understand before they’ve explained anything that everything has gone wrong.

You just aren’t prepared for how thoroughly it’s all gone up in flames.

Even though you had accepted that you’d wake up long after your friends from the Sons of Saint Coinach and the Warrior of Light were dead, you’re still woefully unprepared to see their graves. Less so because of how they all died.

You’re told the Warrior of Light fell first, that the Black Rose had claimed them in the midst of battle because the Empire hadn’t been able to handle losing for once. It boils your blood, knowing they— and everyone they had inspired to fight alongside them— were slaughtered by a weapon with no counter. By a coward’s invisible guillotine.

It’s almost frightening how quickly you are incandescent with rage for them. For Cid, for everyone who had fought to keep Cid’s promise to you, robbed of the chance to do so.

The anger only grows in your breast as you read the recorded tales of the Warrior of Light, of one Lord Edmont de Fortemps’ account of how they ended the Dragonsong War, of Lord Hien’s illustrated tales of how the Warrior of Light liberated two nations from the tyranny of an Imperial Regime. 

The Warrior of Light, inspiration to all who met them and beyond, had become the sort of person you read about in texts of historical legends, in fairytales. A hero, in every sense of the word. 

They deserved better than this.

So you focus on the fact that, in some twisted way, Cid had kept his promise to you: the prospects of this timeline were bleak, but the collaborative efforts of everyone rallying for the sake of saving the Warrior of Light— a fable to these people for how many centuries had passed— showed you that perhaps there was still light within the shadow.

All the same, you would see this shadow banished before it was ever cast at all.

**

*

You try to commit to memory the names and faces of everyone who you left behind, being sent to the First. For a time, you manage most of them, though you are made to endure a century of waiting and planning, and by the end of it you have to remind yourself of your own name.

The Crystal Exarch? G’raha Tia? Was there even room for the both of you that now coincided in that half shimmering, half shivering body that was only yet half yours?

For all the knowledge of the Tower, you find no answer. So you ask different questions as you go: what will help the people in this world, in this moment? What sort of world did you want to present to the Warrior of Light when you see them again?

The Crystarium takes the shape, takes the light, takes the land around the Tower, and becomes a home to all those drawn to its hopeful, glimmering beacon. A monument to hope, in memoriam to hope’s greatest chamion.

You certainly hope that it is enough.

**

*

You had thought the years had tempered your arrogance, though with the five failed attempts at drawing the Warrior of Light to the First staring up at you in varying degrees of bewildered and enraged you realize, perhaps, that you were mistaken. Your research— ever meticulous, even a century on —had told you their names and what roles they had played alongside the Warrior of Light, before the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

You knew which one you could trust with the truth.

Uriangier seemed reluctant to agree to your plan of secrecy, but you recalled the tales of his false duplicity during the time during and after the Dragonsong War. You knew he would ultimately capitulate.

The others were more reluctant to trust— most ultimately didn’t at all. You couldn’t fault them, even if that had complicated the plan a bit.

They were like you: side characters to the hero. They would fall into place when the time was right, you were certain.

So you reached out a sixth time with a foci and an implanted dream in the Warrior’s mind, and pulled.

**

*

It doesn’t surprise you how reluctant they are to trust you, the moment you meet them at the gates of the Crystarium. It’s to be expected; even without five other instances to serve as warning, they were never ones to trust strangers with stranger powers than they had seen before. You suspect you are the strangest that have come across yet. It’s a little flattering.

Even as you welcome them, you note that their eyes rarely stray from the Crystal Tower looming overhead. It’s hard to tamp down on the ancient, buried hope that you were remembered, that you were missed. Surely you were but a blip on their radar, a passing ship in the eye of a storm they sailed straight into. 

You are scarcely through explaining that you came from the tower when you are cut off.

“You came from the tower?” The Warrior of Light’s wide, startled eyes snap to you. There’s something akin to a recluctant hope there, one you are reluctant to define. “There was— there was someone dear to me. His name was G’raha Tia. He sealed himself away in there. Know anything about that?”

There is a moment, only one, where you have to reconcile what you presumed and what was true. You don’t know what to make of the knowledge that, perhaps, you meant more to them than you had thought.

“I found no one by that name in the tower.” You dance around the truth with something that is technically not a lie. 

“And you’re certain there was no one named G’raha Tia in that tower?” The Warrior presses with eyes sharper than you remembered.

“No one that I found.” You reply, and remind yourself of your convictions as you move on.

G’raha Tia was not in that tower, after all, and had not been in some time.

**

*

“Do you think yourself clever?” The Warrior of Light asks you on the first night Norvrandt has had in a century. 

There is a moment where you are a century younger and have no other title than a name you were given at birth, no power but a bow at your back and an eye that you ache to see the secrets of, and you have to remind yourself of the years in your bones and the weight of the parts of you the tower claimed before you can answer.

“Just clever enough to get by.” You settle on, biting back words from a younger you that looked out on a starry sky like this one a world and a lifetime away.

You sit in silence that is both companionable and weighty. You can feel how many questions your old friend has for you, and you are glad they do not ask. You would not answer them, much as you want to.

You can’t. You mustn’t. 

So when they heave a sigh and rise to their feet with a soft, “Goodnight,” you pretend it doesn’t hurt that you can’t just be honest with them, knowing your heart so much better than you did when you were so much younger.

All the power in the universe at your fingertips, and still you can’t reach out to close the distance. You tell yourself that it’s all worth it, just to save them.

You tell yourself that’s enough.

**

*

The more Lightwardens they defeat, the more it’s easy to see them disappearing behind the blinding light they absorb. It frightens you, even as you try to put it out of your mind. They’re a hero, you remind yourself— and Uriangier, who comes to you in his own moment of doubt. They will be fine.

You will see to it yourself, even knowing what it will cost you.

**

*

When there is so little of the Warrior of Light left that they are scarcely able to stay conscious, when the skies are filled with light across all of Norvrandt as they are poised to become one of the very horrors they had been fighting against and all seems lost, you come to them. 

Your posturing as a villain is a poor showing, but you try anyway. It’s the least you can do, ease their guilt, help them not miss you or feel as though they could have saved you. They couldn’t. And you did not want them to.

This plan was too carefully crafted, too many years of waiting and scheming and lying have led to this moment. You will not falter. You will save them. It doesn’t matter that they see your face now and know your lies, know your secrets. You will not be around for the aftermath anyway, and they will all be free.

“G’raha Tia!” They cry out as you begin to cast the spell that will take the light from them. 

You hesitate. Blinking away the tears in your eyes you offer them the first real, genuine smile free of the cowl and cowardice. You tell them that it’s going to be alright. That they will be alright.

The sharp crack of lightning that broke the sky was not lightning at all, you realize when you felt your abdomen grow cold, felt the air leave your lungs. Your concentration shatters as you look down to see the blood blossoming on your robes like a lily.

You’ve been shot.

Attempts to regain your focus are fleeting and weak, weak like your legs giving out under you. No...no! You’ve gone so long planning, done so much and lost so much and hurt so much, it can’t end here! It can’t end like this!

You close your eyes and dream of tomorrow again.

**

*

When you are more aware of yourself and your surroundings, the Warrior of Light is healed, resplendent, more than you had ever seen of them before, and challenging the bringer of Darkness himself, Hades.

You will not leave them to fight alone. You refuse. Not again.

And so eons become instant, and the expanse contracts in the palm of your hands, and you bring forth other heroes from other stars, people who might uplift the Warrior of Light in their time of need, that might lend their light to piercing the veil of black that shrouded them all.

And you watch them rise with a new dawn, triumphant and tired, taking in their greatness like the merry member of their band you had always wanted to be.

“Good morning, G’raha.” They tell you, and you can’t see them for the tears that come. 

You didn’t even know you were waiting a century to hear them say that, after all.

**

*

The bedlam and joyous shivaree of the celebration that night in the Crystarium is a distant roar as you stand on the balcony beneath the stars but above the din of festivities. Close enough to the merriment that its energy vibrates beneath your skin but not so close as to overwhelm you. About as close as you’ve let anyone in, save your granddaughter.

When the door behind you opens, you are not surprised to see the Warrior of Light slip out to join you and shut the door behind them. Much as the sight of them fills you with a sort of deeply instinctual fear and need to run and hide, you tighten your grip on the balcony railing and rally your courage. They deserve your honesty, they always have, but especially after everything that’s led to this moment.

“I’d wondered where you went.” They say as they draw near. “Lyna was helpful.”

You want to laugh; of course your granddaughter would ensure you are properly taken to task for your behavior. Doubtless she’ll flog you herself when she has the time. 

“You have me at a disadvantage.” You say, unsure of what other words you could even offer.

“A welcome change of pace, then.” They reply with a wry twist of that clever mouth of theirs.

That overwhelming need to hide takes you again, and you can’t help but reach up for your hood to pull it over your eyes. It shocks you to your crystalized core when they reach out a hand and wrap it around your wrist to stop you.

“G’raha.” They say, and something ancient and aching and lonely quivers at that. “Don’t hide from me anymore.”

When they pull you toward them and press their lips to yours, you find you have no ilm of yourself left to keep from them, and you sink sweetly, softly into their arms with clutching hands and a century of desperation. Ever the hero, they keep you from falling anywhere but for them, exactly where you’ve always wanted to be.

[obviousleeanonymous]

Chutes and Ladders CH2

Summary: To climb to the top, you gotta fall down a chute or two or three or four… and break a few bones. But it’s okay, 'cause time heals all wounds. Right?

Chapter One

Chutes and Ladders Chapter Two: What an Awkward Fish

Not a clown, at least. From the furtive glances you stole, the blue haired man possessed a definitive boyish quality. Handsome, with nary a doubt, but room to grow still. Or perhaps his youthful visage would linger for many years hence. You grit your teeth—he still did not put on the seat belt!

Your hand halted momentarily over the radio dial before switching on the heat. Though the setting remained quite low, the sound blaringly sliced through the uncomfortable silence. You disliked new clients for this very reason—glancing at the time—you really did not like new clients at 2:17 in the morning. Should you speak, or wait for him first? Did he know his destination? Or did he not want the heat on—

“Is the heat okay?” you blurted.

God, why did you always speak your mind so untimely, so clumsily, so unprofessionally?

“Oh, it’s quite fine.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between long, slender fingers. Great, now you clearly annoyed him. Was he a model—you wagered on a hand model.

Biting your lip, you caught yourself before you fell further into tommyrot-ery.

“Know the coffee shop on 43rd Street?” If he seemed bothered, his face revealed nothing. He was probably great at poker, and played on the weekends in a speakeasy. With bourbon. He doesn’t smoke because you cannot catch the scent of tobacco on him.

“No, but I can get you there in a crash and a flash, Mr. Sweet Mask…” Why did he have such a weird name? Did he prefer a different title? “...Sir.”

He chuckled melodiously. Bets changed from hand model to singer... or former singer turned hand model. He definitely sang cheesy love songs from two generations ago in the shower. For sure. “Just ‘Sweet Mask’, if you would.”

Shit. You did it again!

Nodding, wordlessly because you lacked faith in your mouth-spewing, you began to drive into the heart of A-City. Compared to the bustle of day, traffic proved marginal, practically nonexistent, at best. All the better, for it gave you ample time to regulate your breathing and curb the glares at the seat belt not belted.

After roughly ten minutes of mundane maneuvering, you idled in front of Queegquegs. Sweet Mask, wearing ginormous sunglasses that screamed “I’m famous so look at me”, sauntered into the coffee shop. Regardless, you would remember the place—not too many choice shops operated twenty four hours, after all.

For all intents and purposes spacing out, you regarded the large intersection of 43rd and Anpan. Desolate, empty, serene. Yet, only a few feet further, you saw the remnant debris of the carnage from sometime earlier that day or late the day prior—a monster attack, for what else could it be in this day and age? By now, most of it appeared clear, or rather, by comparison to last you glimpsed it. This time, you did not turn your gaze.

When did monsters and heroes become so commonplace?

People died yesterday.

As you tried to find another distraction, you spotted a tall building in which a large segment had newer paint and construction—people surely died when that structure became so compromised. If a Demon or Dragon Disaster happened, did the populace even have a chance to evacuate?

You wondered how many parents said they would be right back and never say “I’m home.”

“D—” Thankfully, Sweet Mask opened the backseat passenger’s door, effectively killing the words from your mouth. Damn your word-sputtering.

The interior smelled of wonderfully brewed coffee, and, judging by the small size of the container and bold aroma, likely legitimate espresso. The temptation to garner your own beverage of the roasted bean variety proved strong, almost too strong, but you were working. To give in would be disrespectful to your client. And he still made no attempt to use a seat belt.

“Have I done something to offend you, or do you always glare, miss driver?” Shit. He caught you—fix it, now. Deflect the question.

“N-no. Not really. But you haven’t put on your seat belt. That’s illegal.” Change the subject! “Why do you wear your sunglasses at night? Doesn’t that draw more attention?”

You kept prattling, barely even breathing. You needed to change the goddamn topic! “You must work mad late, right? Are you a hand model? I hope you are because—I mean—I’m super happy you’re not a clown. They just aren’t funny, you know? Not to say that you aren’t funny. Are you?”

Sweet Mask took a long sip of espresso, and you just had to add, “I know I’m an awkward fish… Please don’t sue me.”

And then he choked, spitting the drink in an undignified manner.

“Or die. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up now. Are you okay?”

+_____+_____+

Several days after, mercifully, not losing your job, you stopped by the local Wells Embargo branch in A-City. You expected the venture to be relatively quick, for a bank anyway. But. Well. Bank robbers.

And they sucked at it.

Sporting tacky leather jackets, with no weapons drawn or otherwise, the group of three ordered everyone against the walls, kneeling. Everyone complied, including yourself, but you simply wondered how they spoke with green grasshopper faces.

After almost fifteen minutes of the would-be-crooks unsuccessfully attempting to open an oversized safe, you stood up, calmly walking to the exit. Hell, you were several feet away before the grasshopper-man realized and grabbed your arm in a weak-sauce grip. Why did everyone listen to them? They had no weapons. Not to say of the biggest mistake they made—

“Where are you going, girl?”

“How do you talk, Mr. Grasshopper Face. I mean, I’m going to work.”

He growled, or more accurately, chirped. “Don’t disrespect us Kamen Raiders! And we are cricket men. Do I need to hurt you, little girl?”

“With what,” you deadpanned. Nope, he still failed to grasp the situation.

“Our Kamen Bikes,” he stated though it sounded much more like an unsure question. Even his grip loosened, indicating his doubt.

“Okay, Mr. Kamen Raider. Look over there, please.” You pointed at different segments of ceiling sporting black half spheres. “CCTVS. Outside, with your bikes that you threatened me with, are more CCTVS at every corner. And the Hero Asso—”

“—They won’t make it!” He yelled, rudely interrupting you.

“...They don’t have to make it.” You shrugged at him. His antennae drooped. Confused? You continued, “It’s not very smart to rob a bank when the police station is literally across the street. Look, the good policemen even got your bikes.”

+_____+_____+

After the police escorted the Kamen Raiders to their new home less than fifty feet away in pretty silver bracelets, you went up to the somewhat shaken teller. “Hi. I need to make a withdraw from my savings account.”

The frazzled lady tried to hold a pen, but her grip proved much too shaky. “Oh, if only Sweet Mask saved us…”

Snapping a finger in front of her face, she jolted, and finally looked at you. “Can I get my money, please? I gotta get back to work soon.”

+_____+_____+

Knowing full well that you would be certifiably late picking him up, you pulled over, hazard lights flashing ominously.

Then you screamed at the top of your lungs, not giving a hot damn if people heard through the windows or not.

Sweet Mask. Handsomely Masked Sweet Mask. He was a hero. Good thing that, 'cause heroes don't murder people. Right?

You were so screwed. “Fuck.”