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fortunatelyenchantingtaco · 2 months

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You ever read so wonderful you get inspired huh. Yeah read @/god-blues she’s brilliant

And here is my own little VERY self-indulgent snippet of the mythology of ffxvi mixed in with a pitch of real world mythology cause i can’t let the gods die in peace, kind of conntected to these ffxvi myths pieces one two three but not necessary to know. Some worldbuilding and some Barnabas/Clive pining. Odin loses an eye✨

Godhood was, in Barnabas's experience, largely uneventful. People seeped powers from them, creating a weird transactional relationship. The stronger humans pray and worship, the stronger you grip over reality becomes, but intervention was largely reserved for big catastrophes. None of the Eikons were keen on bringing back any calamities, especially after the last one, so the most unexpected thing recently was the sudden appearance of people near Barnabas's home. They seemed to be in need of shelter, and he promised them protection even if they were evidently unaware they happened to settle at Odin's side. This particular tribe seemed to be native, but also had black feathers all over their knees and elbows, reminding him of Garuda's flock. Hopefully, they won't be here long, Barnabas has grown rather fond of his solitude in the recent years. They’ll need time, maybe years to readjust and move, but that’s not an issue.

So it's not an exaggeration to say that he was ready to kill when he woke up after a long slumber to his right eye missing, and ravens staring at him, dipping in and out of his shadows together with Sleipnir - also rather distraught at the addition. He was always a bit of a jealous horse, ever since Barnabas met him thousands of years back, and never changed.

"Calm yourself," he said then, putting his head between Sleipnir’s ears, and turned his attention to the ravens. They're made from his own shadows, he realized. While Sleipnir steadily changed into a creature made of aether just as Barnabas ascended, those weren't normal animals. He could see through them, he realized then, as if his left eye was broken into pieces, and while it's all still under his control, Barnabas has no idea why it happened. When he squeezes one in his hand it dissipates and drips down in a splash of darkness, only to reappear on his shoulder.

It seems it's time to pay a visit to Ifrit.

The ravens, annoying bastards, are infuriatingly good at, well, looking for things, even if Ifrit was never hard to find. Ever since Phoenix ascended he relocated from living in the hearts of volcanoes to wherever Phoenix was nesting at the time. And Phoenix likes people. As far as Barnabas knows, Ifrit's yet to initiate another sea of smoke and fire, but it still seems unreasonable to be so close to mortals when magma seeps from your fingertips, especially now. Not that it's his business in any way.

While he's normally not one for stealth, not with the way he travels the land by his horse that's very much an identifying feature. But now ravens croon when he steps out of the shadows and it's getting old really quickly.

He finds both of them in a rather wealthy looking town, with the Phoenix's nest located right in the middle of it, flagged by high walls, and seemingly being the ultimate protection from harsh elements for the townsfolk. As far as possible from Shiva and Leviathan's dominions, true Eikons of Fire.

But the ravens tell him Ifrit isn't in the city, just near it, in the old ruins, his aether surprisingly hidden. Barnabas banishes both the annoying birds and Sleipnir at the entrance to the Fallen ruins. It's more a courtesy than anything else. Other Eikons may not treat Ifrit like the bringer of death and war, but Odin is old, almost as old as Bahamut, and he had heard the legends of the destruction brought by inferno, and it’s never wise to disrespect the hellfire.

So Fallen ruins is how Ifrit keeps his fire at check. Funny how it is, when he's far older than they are.

Phoenix is with him, Barnabas recognizes immediately, as he steps in to see two men arguing. Before he can even think about stepping into the shadows to conveniently listen in, Ifrit turns to him.

“My greetings to the Warden of Inferno and the Warden of Fire.” Phoenix smiles at him, unruffled for the interruption, but clearly irritated. Ifrit presses his lips together — has told everyone multiple times that the two of them are both Wardens of Fire, but Barnabas can’t bring himself to disrespect their first like that. Someday Phoenix is going to lose his favor, but the memory will stay. Nonetheless, it’s good to see Ifrit’s eyes still shine the way they always, bright blue, brighter than the sky. Barnabas feels oddly giddy that his shirt is just close enough to match. He guessed right, despite hasn’t seeing the man for a good couple of decades.

“Warden of Darkness,” Phoenix greets.

“Odin,” Ifrit says, much warmer, with a smile. “It’s good to see you, is there anything you need help with?” Always so helpful, always kind. Ramuh assured him they can change their appearance however they want, but for some reason Ifrit always stays the same, just shy of thirty, endearingly young.

“Mind you telling me why I woke up without an eye?” Barnabas raises a pointed eyebrow and points at the empty eye socket, which prompts both Phoenix and Ifrit to cock their head to the side, confused. A dog and a bird, yet oh so similar. “And the crows,” he complains, as one rises from Ifrit’s shadow to peck at his black armor. The heat emanating from the man immediately melts it back down, and Ifrit sighs.

“Well, if it wasn’t you who did it…” Ifrit thinks aloud with a distant look while Phoenix steps further, overly cautious, telegraphing his movements, and presses his healing fire to Barnabas’s face. It burns, damn it, it’s too bright and full of life, and it also doesn’t do anything to get him his eye back. Ifrit can do it himself, there is no need for Phoenix, he thinks acidly. “Nothing?”

“It’s not an injury, it’s old. I’m more inclined to think it was always there,” Phoenix hums. “I don’t know, but I’ll check in with the books if you want me to. Otherwise, I’ll leave you to it,” he then quickly storms off, heat behind him, and Ifrit huffs a chuckle.

“Don’t mind Joshua, he doesn’t like that I’m still here. Why don’t you sit and we figure this out?” That he’s still here? Is there trouble in the royal nest? Barnabas joins him on the walk further into the ruins, until they reach something that can be loosely called something between a bedroom and a living room. Ifrit shrugs awkwardly, despite the place being strikingly clean, and motions to the two chairs in the middle. There’s no hound of his In sight, and Barnabas wonders if it’s prowling with Shiva in a climate that actually suits it. “Is it that recent, Odin?”

“I told you ages ago to call me Barnabas,” he can’t help but grumble before settling down in an only wooden chair in the room, clearly for guests. Ifrit himself sits in the stone one, always careful not to set things on fire. It almost hurts to see a firestorm so containet, chained down in one man, so old but so kind.

“Alright, Barnabas, then you should really call me Clive,” never, “here are my thoughts: have you been keeping up with what your people think of you?” Barnabas blinks at him slowly, then shakes his head. Ifrit laughs, then gets up again to pour him wine, clicking his tongue when it starts boiling in the cup and quickly setting it down at the table between them. Barnabas watches him struggle, and can’t help but laugh. Truly a power that has set humanity free.

“Don’t bother, just tell me what you meant.”

“Well, the myths about you have changed recently, Barnabas,” how sweetly he says his name, “they say that Odin has given his eye in exchange for some kind of knowledge. And that now ravens are his eyes, his messengers,” the same birds chirp happily, as if agreeing, reshaping from the shadows, safely tucked away in a corner as to not melt in Clive’s presence.

“Are you saying their belief has started to affect me?” He can’t help but hiss and Ifrit nods, unbothered.

“You are theirs, Odin, it would make sense you get affected by their thoughts. But I may be wrong, this is the first time I see anything like this,” Barnabas looks and looks and doesn’t understand. “So you tell me I’ll die if they forget me?”

“No, of course not!” Ifrit quickly amends. “You might lose some of your power, but it was always coming from your mastery of the blade. All Eikons,” Clive flinches, “were human once, but all of them connect to aether in different way. Leviathan will weaken if the seas dry out, but most likely won’t die.”

“Bahamut has killed dragons and still alive, isn’t he theirs? Is that why he did it?” Ifrit flinches again at the mention of the draconian and Barnabas feels a weird sense of satisfaction.

“It’s different. They blessed him, he was their doom from the start,” he sighs. “But you’re right. Phoenix is connected to fire more than to people, and Bahamut takes his power from the dragons rather than light. But light is still there. Darkness won’t leave you, Barnabas, even if people do.”

“Don’t compare us. Light blinds and light binds.” Ifrit freezes, and Barnabas bites his lip. He never wanted to say that again out loud. Those are old, dangerous words. “Stories about those events have lived for a long time, but please forgive my reminder.”

“No, no, It’s alright. You’re right. But you are different, Barnabas.” Such kind words, as if Odin doesn’t know Ifrit could kill him if push comes to shove. Darkness and all elements once resided in this man, would it be so hard for him to take them back? “In any case,” a light smile returns to Clive’s face, “don’t the legend say that you’ve gotten knowledge for your eye? Is there something new you can see now? Some kind of new spell?”

That is indeed a good question, and Barnabas summons his ravens closer: they just blink at him, confused. How is it… Odin opens his eyes to see the world bathed in shadows, in darkness, and a fire burning against him. Burning bright and deadly, but also waning. Barnabas blinks again, now looking at Clive, in all his glory, waiting patiently for him.

Ifrit burns like a kaleidoscope of colors, lighting up everything around him in a warm glow, and Barnabas can’t resist the urge, the wild craving, so he raises his gloved hand until it reaches the heart of fire, placing it carefully on Ifrit’s cheek. The man, the god before him, smiles bashfully.

“Barnabas, your glove is burning now,” and the magic is gone, forcing him to take his hand away unless he wants to see his bones burn in hellfire. Not the worst fate, truly. The jagged rags that was his glove fall to the ground. “What do you see?”

“Your essence. It’s fading, is that why the Phoenix is furious with you? Why?” He can’t help his hiss, the sense of urgency. Why? Is that because Ifrit is being steadily forgotten? He doesn’t appear anymore, and only those living near volcanoes remember the god that was sleeping there. But even with his limited appearance, he can’t die. Is that even possible? Will someone who killed the creator of the world just disappear into oblivion? Nonsense. If humanity and fire will forget, Barnabas will remember. “Is there something I can do?”

“Of course you’d see that,” Ifrit complains, turning his eyes away. Magma falls from his hair, betraying his dismay. Heat always radiated from him, but never like that, never so potent. It’s waning, but it’s also bubbling to the surface, threatening to burst. “It’s nothing major, I’ve just spent too much time in cold. I’m a weak man, Barnabas, I’m tired of being alone.”

“And they die, Ifrit. Their deaths hurt more.”

“Death is inevitable; it doesn’t mean we need to live a lonely life,” he huffs, suddenly tired. “But both of you are right, I need to leave until something horrible happens.” He stays sitting, head turned to the empty hollow ruins, leaving a clear view of the levels below.

“You won’t be alone.” Barnabas then decides.

“What?” he squints at Barnabas, suddenly seeing something in face that makes him panic, “Odin, that’s impossible, you’ll die in that heat!”

“I won’t. Someone has to keep the fire going, right?” Ifrit, against all his expectations, starts to burn, both red in his cheeks and setting fire on everything around him. It catches on his stone chair, on the bedding in the room, on the ravens that were itching ever closer to Clive, licking at Barnabas’s boots. He can’t help but laugh at Ifrit’s embarrassment, and leans his chin on his hand. “Do you like the idea of being handled that much, Clive?” And damn if his burned beard wasn’t worth the sheepish look he got for that.

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altairtalisman · 1 year

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Kau's Bio

"Travelling's a tried and true way to find yourself!"

More details on Kau is under the cut

Name: Kausar "Kau" Ayad

Age: 1193

Height: 159 cm

Birthday: 14 Primna 829 (Alfabr)

Orientation: Genderqueer Omnisexual

Pronouns: They/Them

Species: Ifrit

Country of Birth: Underworld

Likes: Jewellery, baklava, vegetable soup, meeting new people

Dislikes: Meat, alcohol, confrontations

Hobbies: Playing the piano, dancing, travelling

Personality: Playful but avoids confrontations to the best of their ability, is also a surprisingly good judge of character

Style: Eye-catching clothes that allows them to be always at the centre at attention as well as an Underworld magma scarf draped around the elbows

Status: Alive

Abilities: Knows how to wield double-headed spears and able to conjure small fireballs as they please. At full power, they're able to conjure larger fireballs and manipulate them as they please

Background: Growing up in the Underworld, they were made aware of the different ranks demons fell under and the single explicit rule of not killing demons ranked higher than them. This suited Kausar just fine as they knew that unlike their brother, who could easily overwhelm the highest ranking demons, they were unable to hold a candle to those higher than them

They spent centuries travelling across the Underworld, with occasional visits to the mortal plane. In 1566, Nasir had gotten into trouble with a demon of the highest rank. He wanted to pursue the matter, but Kausar advised him otherwise, fearing that their family would be harmed in the crossfire. Thankfully for them, Nasir listened and moved on with his life

However in 1568, news of the highest ranked demon slaughtering Nasir's lower ranked patrons spread across the Underworld. This culminated in the potter hunting and brutally killing her by ripping her head off from her body, much to the shock of everyone but the Ayads as no one had expected someone of Nasir's rank to be able to easily overwhelm a demon of the highest rank

Instead of being put to death, he was exiled to the mortal realm above the Underworld. Even so, the Ayads' reputation plummeted and demons became wary towards them, fearing that they would suddenly go on a rampage similar to Nasir. Kausar, recognising that they would be watched wherever they go, decided to leave the Underworld and travel the mortal world as extensively as possible

Their travels brought them to Kruzagné in 1806, where they encountered Frieda. Interested in the sylph, they approached aer who in turn, expressed fascination towards the ifrit. At aer request, Kausar taught her how to play the piano, then the keyboard. Frieda then asked if ae could accompany Kausar in their travels, the latter seeing no reason to refuse

They eventually made their way to Selvraddur, where they decided to busk near the harbour as they were running low on money. At some point, Frieda had noticed that a fishing vessel had caught Ragnar and asked Kausar about it. They responded that merfolk were considered a delicacy amongst humans and that the world adopted a survival of the fittest mindset to begin with, while also hoping that the sylph would leave the merman to his fate in order to avoid confrontation

Unfortunately for them, Frieda didn't feel comfortable knowing that Ragnar would be eaten by humans and expressed interest in buying him to the owners of the fishing vessel. The owners called aer bluff as they knew that ae couldn’t possibly have money shortly after arriving in Selvaddur, prompting aer to physically retaliate by blasting the fishing vessel into bits which horrified Kausar

Shortly after freeing Ragnar from the fishing net that trapped him, Frieda and Kausar parted ways as the ifrit believed that travelling with aer would drag them into more unwanted confrontations. They continued to travel across Ratein, forming a friendship with the Fourteenth Dullahan in mid-19th Century

Overtime, Kausar felt tired and decided to set up base in Teqaejan for a few years. They had a chance meeting with their brother, who surprised them as they didn't expect Nasir to adapt to the mortal plane well. Their decision to rest in Teqaejan motivated their brother to settle down in the country and hold a permanent job, which led to him being discovered by Hana years later

Kausar left Teqaejan in 1900, and resumed travelling across Ratein with the intent on visiting the Celestial Plane one day even though the celestials they met during their travels repeatedly told them that the Celestial Plane can't be perceived by non-celestials

Full Power:

#Hallowed Hotel #Kausar Ayad #Altair draws

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hopskipandarump · 2 years

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im crying with laughter i did expert and the nail adds in cagnazzo turned into cocks

and i didnt know what mod was doing it so i sat there and tested fights until i realised that ifrit has nail adds

i have a mod to give ifrit a cock

i went into ifrit ex and

a literal arena full of flaming magma cocks is truly a sight to behold

#spicy #rumprabbiting #im crying i forgot i had this fucking ifrit cock mod until now bcs i never get ifrit #i just have a penumbra folder that i disable when im gonna record or stream so i dont have cocks that turn up but i keep small stuff like m #my blind eye etc #fucking hell this made my night #ffxiv

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elveny · 2 years

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Have you ever wondered about the Echo of the Undying?

M-rated | Read on AO3

You have been cursed.

You don’t know when or why, but somewhere along the line, someone decided you had a job to do and nothing would get you out of it.

Not even death.

You can still remember that first time, the rush of adrenaline, the high of success and confidence as you charged into Titan’s lair. He was so much bigger than Ifrit, all stone and magma and strength, but you still stood fast with gritted teeth despite the tremble in your hand at his presence. You were the slayer of Ifrit, you stood with the Scions, you could do this! After all, you managed to win the confidence of those old adventurers, you managed to jump through all the hoops that were meant to make sure you would be able to actually win against Titan. That were meant to prepare you.

As if anything could prepare you.

There are screams and hectic running as you’re caught in the stone gaol; stones closing in around you and pressing ever closer until you can barely breathe anymore. Someone yells, and the taste of bile and magic is on your tongue — and then, freedom. They get you out, because that’s what friends do, they stand together.

You take a blessed, deep breath, gripping your weapon as you turn back to the primal, but there’s a crack in the ground and suddenly, you’re flying, high and higher, flying and… falling.

There is no moment of your life flashing before your eyes, just the drop in your stomach, the terror of that horribly endless second while rock and stone rush by. You remember thinking, ‘Oh shit.’

A ridiculous and meaningless last thought if ever you heard one when you think back now.

Dying hurts. Not long; being smashed upon rocks is quick at least, but you still feel it. Lightning fast, searing, horrible, red pain, then nothing.

A gasp.

And you’re back. The moment of disorientation is by now familiar and fleeting, but back then, it nearly caused you to die on the spot. Again.

“Hey, are you with us?” your friend yells at you and you shake yourself, diving out of the way of that crack that sent you tumbling over the edge a minute ago.

You win, but there’s a taste of ash in your mouth, something you can’t quite place. At first, you’re convinced that it was a vision. Something like the Echo, but in reverse — a possible future you managed to prevent.

And it’s not like you can properly process it anyway, not with what you’re returning to in the Waking Sands. Blood on stones and walls, the heavy smell of your friends’ death imprinted on your mind forever.

Weeks go by until it happens again, weeks of grief, and anger, and determination. Weeks of exhaustion. And in the end, it’s that exhaustion that kills you, just outside Camp Dragonhead as you hurry towards Witchdrop to help Lord Francel. You can’t quite remember when you properly slept last, caught in Ishgardian politics and yet torn between the need to stand against the newly summoned Garuda and the desire to find your abducted friends. It’s a single wrong step that sends you to your death; a fall so short you can’t even scream before the ice turns pink and white with the insides of your skull.

It always hurts.

By now, you have lost count of the ways you died. Cut in half by swords, crushed by falling stones, torn apart by dragon teeth, boiled alive, trampled, shot, poisoned. Once, you choked on a single peanut. Another memorable time, a morbol took its sweet time with you before it ate you — that one lingered particularly long in your mind, and sometimes you can still taste the foulness of its breath.

And always, always you come back to the moment just before the misstep that took you to your death.

You quickly realize that it’s not pain that is prevented, nor injuries. You come home battered and bruised just like the rest of them all, you can even lose consciousness — as long as you don’t die, all is fair in games and war. It leaves you more bitter than you thought you could ever be.

Of course you have considered that you lost your mind, and a few times, you’re pretty sure that you actually did. Some rumors about your battle prowess stem from the times you abandoned all caution, not even bothering to use defenses or trying to dodge attacks, screaming and laughing in turns. You found yourself sobbing at the edge of a cliff with no memory of how you came there and flung yourself down into the waters just to see what would happen. Turns out that being smashed by waves against a cliff is not much different than falling down on them, just a lot wetter.

You woke at the top of the cliff as usual, so you assume the mindless walk towards it was not yet part of that death. Not this time, at least.

There was that one time you came back to life not a minute earlier but a whole month, so you are convinced that at least a part of your sanity is considered essential by whatever entity wants you alive at all cost. It made you think a lot about what you would need to do to return back to the beginning, but so far, nothing has worked to break you out of the endless cycle.

The worst part of it all, though, is not the pain you can remember in far too many details, not the fights you had to do a dozen times before you made it through alive, not even the nightmares that keep you locked in perpetual horror.

It’s that you are the only one who realizes that it’s happening.

You have tried to talk to your friends a million times, you tried to demonstrate and argue, but nothing works. Oh, they believe you, begrudgingly sometimes and eagerly at other times, and always, they try to help. Urianger trying to find something in those ancient prophecies and texts, Y’shtola in aetherology. You have listened to a dozen theories and ideas… but it never holds.

The moment they look away from you, the moment the conversation ends and they want to go and do something about it… they forget everything you said.

“I can't die,” you tell them, but there is no recognition in their eyes, no reaction. As if they cannot hear the words, cannot see your mouth move.

“I can't die,” you say, you yell, you cry, you beg. “Listen to me, I cannot die!”

The words stop existing the moment they leave your lips.

“I’ll be careful,” you learn to say when they’re worried. I’ll be careful, instead of the one burning on your tongue, heavy with bitterness and sarcasm. Don’t worry, I can’t die.

You cannot even share the burden you’re carrying, because something prevents them from knowing the burden exists.

You have made it a part of yourself. What else were you supposed to do? It’s easy for you to jump in front of a comrade to save their life. Dying is easier than watching others die, you have learned that the hard way.

After the Bloody Banquet, after months of self-reproach and grief, you promised yourself that nobody would ever put themselves before you again. Not when you just wake after the arrow hits home or the ax cracks your armor.

But then, that wonderful, idealistic knight had to be a hero. You jumped off the cathedral the moment you saw that spear of light hit Haurchefant, you tried to push him away and rushed into the light yourself, at least a dozen times. And always, always you returned to the moment of his death.

It broke something in you, irrevocably.

Something that apparently isn’t essential to whatever it is you’re needed for.

It made you more of a hero in other people’s eyes, but you know that it’s an empty word. As empty as you feel.

Hydaelyn.

It has to be Her, you are convinced. It was Her call that woke the Echo, Her voice that took Minfilia away, and Her duty that binds you to this star.

Hydaelyn.

You start to hate her.

The first time Zenos calls you beast, you laugh so hard he decapitates you in disgust. You don’t laugh the second time because seeing your own headless body stand and collapse before it goes dark has something unsettling about it that you don’t care to repeat.

You pity him. You can’t help it. You wish you could tell him that there’s no rush in either living or fighting when nothing matters. You cannot die, so what brings an inkling of enjoyment to him brings only boredom and pain to you. But you don’t even try to tell him, knowing that your words wouldn’t take hold in his mind.

At least until he returns from his own death.

The knowledge brings a breathless moment of excitement into the remains of your heart. Was it a sort of recognition that made him so obsessed with you, a hint of Same that touched him when he looked at you? But the excitement is short-lived. Nobody remembers your returns from oblivion while everybody remembers his, so there is clearly a difference between you.

You’re not the same, whatever he says.

The First brings something back to your life that you had nearly forgotten existed:

Fear.

In a sea of pain and a thousand deaths and returns, there is a fate worse than death, and you can feel yourself tipping closer to its edge with every Lightwarden you slay.

Or is it? Is it truly worse?

The questions swirl in your head every bright night, and every morning, you ask yourself if you will find yourself thrown back another month the moment you go to meet the others. Which thoughts will your tormentor deem too much?

Is being turned a true death? Would you wake over and over again, crying tears of Light? Or would you be trapped inside the Warden, unable to die but unable to return as well? Would you be obliterated in the moment of turning?

And why, oh gods, why does this thought taste so sweet?

Your fear doesn’t help you, and nothing you do turns the Light from you. You die and return a few times, sometimes deliberately, but the amount of Light inside you doesn’t change. You checked.

“Hero,” Emet-Selch scoffs as you find him alone, and you think, ‘If only you knew.’

“Would you kill me?” you ask.

He starts at the question, eyes narrowing at you.

“Careful, my dear,” he purrs, with that strangely familiar sneer in the corner of his mouth, “that sounded nearly hopeful.”

You laugh, and suddenly you cry.

You don’t know which one of you is more surprised at the force of your tears.

He doesn’t try to comfort you, but he doesn’t leave either. It doesn’t strike you as odd until much, much later.

“How often have you died?” you ask him when you are able to talk again, slumped over on the ground.

Again, he scoffs. “My dear, I have lived a dozen millennia, do you truly think I keep track of something so trivial?”

No, you think and shake your head. If only he knew how well you understand.

“Do you remember the pain of death?”

Do you remember the pain of living is the question you actually want to ask.

Emet’s eyes sharpen as he looks at you. “What a peculiar question, my dear. What is it you truly want to know?”

There is only one way to find out.

You take your knife and slash your throat. By now, you have seen the moment of horror, grief, and shock at your death on many faces, but you did not expect to see it on Emet-Selch’s face. Huh, you think, then you no longer think.

“What a peculiar question, my dear. What is it you truly want to know?”

You blink, then you shake your head. You’re back, and he has noticed nothing.

“Nothing,” you say, exhaustion lining your every move as you get up. “Nothing at all.”

If only you couldn’t understand Emet-Selch’s smile at the end of it all so well. There is something relieved in his eyes, and at that second, you know he knows in his soul that you understand him in a way nobody else could.

You weep and grieve for him, an earth-shattering sadness inside you that is paralleled by a hope you had forsaken long ago.

If he can die and return to the star, maybe you can too.

One day, your duty will be fulfilled as well.

Somehow, it gets easier afterward. You guide Elidibus to rest, then return the souls of your friends across time and space.

After they wake, you go and die, just to see what happens. After all, all the Ascians are gone now, surely Hydaelyn can’t ask more of you?

You return home somewhat subdued and vaguely unsettled. What could keep you here if there are no more Rejoinings to be feared?

The answer does not keep you waiting for long, and another battle follows, another cycle of death and return, another cycle of pain and nightmares. The only difference is the fact that this time, nightmares become real.

You’re not worried about turning into a Blasphemy yourself, but you worry about your friends. The End of Days brings a perspective you had thought long lost, making you realize that while you cannot help but yearn for a respite, even an end to it all, you don’t want it for everyone. If the torment of these last years has taught you one thing, then it's that everyone deserves to have a choice. It makes you fight with more fervor than you remember having in a long time.

Elpis.

You spend a whole night in the middle of its flowers and their ever-changing colors. You want to cry and scream and laugh, all at the same time, but all you do is sit and stare at the stars, trying to wrap your mind around everything you have learned; and Hermes’ watchful, grieving eyes linger on you like a touch.

“I have never seen them change color before,” he says.

“You have never met me before,” you answer quietly.

You feel like this world is a broken mirror, split into a thousand silver pieces that each reflect a different aspect of all that was and all that will be. The disconnect between the people you have come to know in your time and the ones you met here is staggering, and you cannot help but compare yourself to them.

How easily people judged Emet-Selch, even he himself, but now, you can only admire him for how much he preserved of the person he was after a thousand, thousand years. You’re not sure if there is that much left of yourself even after these short years of endlessness.

“I will hate you,” you tell Venat when she is the only one left who remembers, thankful for the kernel of sorrow you’re still able to feel for her. “I will hate you with all my soul for what you’re going to do to me.”

She covers her brilliant blue eyes with one hand, just a moment, then she nods. “I know,” she says. “I would too.”

“My Warrior of Light,” Hydaelyn says in your head in the moment before she dissipates, “I won’t ask for forgiveness for there is none. But I will ask you to bring it to an end. All of it.”

One last time, you think and your fingers tighten around your weapon.

It hasn’t all been bad, you realize as you watch them gather and send you off. It wasn’t all death, even if it felt that way at times. There was life happening in the cracks between pain and death, life and laughter and love. You’re wistful as you watch them, but not bitter. That’s something.

The Shepherd of the Stars, of Souls.

The crystal burns in your pocket as you have to let your friends go. For once, you cannot jump in their way, cannot take a blow meant for them. For once, you cannot die for them, and that is a burden even heavier than the one you carried thus far.

When you’re alone, so very, deeply alone, you scream until your voice gives up. And then you begin the long walk.

There’s a silence at the end of it all that speaks of finality. Zenos has stopped breathing, and you hope for his sake that this time, he doesn’t find himself in another body again.

Heaviness settles onto your limbs and into your soul as you lie there, at the end of everything, at the cradle of hope.

This must be it, you think, and to your own surprise, there is an edge of regret inside you even amidst the overwhelming relief at the promise of rest. You have made it to the end, through an ocean of pain and countless deaths, you have brought it to an end. Just like She asked of you.

You smile and breathe out and give yourself to the darkness.

“Oh thank the Gods, you’re back!”

You blink and look at your friends, at the tears and the relief. Your body is made of pain, but that is something you know so well that it no longer bothers you. Strange, you think, I normally go back in time.

“Don’t worry,” you say, your voice cracking over your blood-crusted lips, “I cannot die.”

A disbelieving huff of laughter is your reward.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Thancred says with that rogueish smile of his.

They are the most beautiful words you have ever heard.

#ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #endwalker spoilers #suicide cw #death #elveny writes

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weatheredpileoftomes · 1 year

Text

the essence of style

For FFXIVWrite Day 12, “dowdy”. Helenne, early/mid-A Realm Reborn, ~550 words. The thing about summoner gear is from Encyclopedia Eorzea II; I love lore.

There’s a lot to be said for arcane geometries.

“I hope you don’t consider it impertinent,” Y’mhitra begins.

This is either a promising or a distinctly un-promising start to a conversation, in Helenne’s experience. She gives Y’mhitra a look of polite interest.

“Was that the sort of outfit you were wearing when you defeated Ifrit?”

What an absolutely baffling question. Still. “It was,” Helenne says with caution. Y’shtola values practicality highly, never mind that Helenne is perfectly capable of imbuing clothing with arcane protections, and has in fact done so; and never mind that wearing longer sleeves or longer skirts would do no good to protect her from magickal fire, whether from a primal or a Garlean thaumaturge, any more than it would protect her from arrow or sword or spear.

Y’mhitra nods, though. “Excellent. You may have noticed that other mages have a preference for heavy robes.”

Helenne has noticed, without delight. Some of the robes have a certain charm, like Mistress Thubyrgeim’s overgown, but none of them are the sort of thing Helenne particularly desires to wear herself: for one thing, she could have worn them any time under her parents’ watchful eyes; for another, it is far too warm in La Noscea, or Thanalan, or even here in the Black Shroud, for anyone accustomed to the biting cold of Coerthas to wear that much cloth. Helenne has gone for walks in snowstorms in the sort of clothing that people around here seem to find suitable for a sunny day at the markets.

“It is practical, as a rule,” Y’mhitra says. Helenne nods, resigned. “However, our research indicates that summoners, in particular, found the opposite to be true—that the fewer barriers between the summoner’s skin and the defeated primal’s essence, the more easily that essence may be absorbed.”

“Fascinating.” Helenne holds her arm out in front of her and considers it, front and back. It looks the same as ever, to her—perhaps a little more brown, with the sun, but in the end perhaps not. It doesn’t look as if she has absorbed Ifrit’s essence, though she has no idea what that would look like. Glowing cracks in her skin? Unsettling. A fiery glow, perhaps, like the shifting blue-orange of the Bowl of Embers itself.

She runs a finger along where she knows the veins lie, imagining fire and magma running through them. What is a primal’s essence, anyway? Would it have soaked into her in one of Ifrit’s bellowing bursts of flame, or more slowly, more sadly, with his dying groan?

Y’mhitra says, “There are limitations to many forms of equipment, though the Allagan summoners had particular attire designed most specifically for their purposes, with arcane geometries worked into the fabric and perhaps even painted or tattooed onto their skin.”

“I see,” Helenne says. She considers her arm again. She is a reasonable hand with a paintbrush; she is not sure how she feels about tattoos, which would be impossible to change later if she wanted to. Perhaps a healing magick could restore her skin to its original properties, though, and it might be interesting to try. “Well! I’d feared I would be treated to a lecture on dressing properly for the job, not offered the opportunity to consider how my own aether can best interact with that of the world around me.”

“You have found the right place, I think,” Y’mhitra says with a smile. “And in the interests of securing it, allow me to explain the Austerities of Flame…”

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #my fic #my fic: helenne #my fic: helenne: gen #my fic: 2.0 #helenne frossard #y'mhitra rhul

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