#yet another self indulgent WoL backstory fic

[chrysalispen]

x. the mirror of malicious eyes

When Aurelia next awakened the only indication of a chance from night to daytime was the angle of a thin sliver of light, shimmering fitfully betwixt a stray crack in the wall’s mortar. She stirred, shivered from the damp chill in the air, and tilted her chin curiously at the sleeping man whose head lolled on her right shoulder. Her cursory inspection of the cramped cell, now dimly lit, showed that this was the sleeping arrangement for everyone: shoulder to shoulder for warmth, if not protection.

A glance into the other two cells confirmed that she was the only Garlean who appeared to be participating in this endeavor. The men in the other two cells had isolated themselves, sitting stiffly back to back against the walls, separate from the others.

“Good morning, my lady,” a voice said to her left.

She turned her head to address the speaker with a strained smile. The owner of the voice was a pretty Midlander woman with straight midnight-black hair, cropped to regulation length. She was holding something in her hands, and Aurelia caught a scent that roused a bodily demand she’d almost forgotten she had.

“Hiro and I saved you some of the rations. The guards brought it by a few bells past, but you were sleeping so soundly you didn’t stir.”

Aurelia blinked at the trencher’s contents. It was some kind of simple stew, lentils and sliced sausage in a thin broth with a rough-cut hunk of dark brown bread.

“It’s gone cold,” the woman continued apologetically, but Aurelia paid no heed. She was already tearing out a piece of bread and soaking it in the broth to soften it, then scooping out a heap of lentils and meat to shovel into her mouth. The food was in fact cold and the lentils overcooked, but she couldn’t remember the last proper meal she’d actually had. It felt like the best thing she’d ever tasted.

“Thank you,” she managed once she’d eaten enough to silence the feral gnashing of her hunger. “How long was I asleep?”

“I think… three full changes of the guard? It was a very long time. The woman with the knives said you’d been conscripted to work in the infirmary back at their camp, so we thought it best to let you sleep. She’s been coming down to watch them, said she was making sure they only do what they’re supposed to do.”

“You could have awakened me. I don’t want to be a bur-”

“Beg pardon, my lady, but there’s barely any room for one set of feet to walk,” was the blunt response. “It’s true we could have awakened you, but ‘tis easier for all concerned to simply bring you aught that’s needful.”

She felt the urge to argue, but let it go. The woman had a point–their quarters, or what passed for quarters, were so cramped that there was little enough room to stand and sit.

“What’s your name?” she asked instead.

“Sayaka jen Hanamori, my lady. I’m - I was - part of the Fifth Cohort signal corps.”

“Sayaka. Is that an Othardian name?”

“I hail from Doma, my lady.”

“Please,” Aurelia winced, “don’t call me 'my lady.’ I’m neither your mistress nor your commanding officer.”

“But you are pureblooded, my lady,” Sayaka said patiently, as if that explained everything.

“…Well, yes, but that doesn’t-”

The rattling clank of metal on stone interrupted them, followed by the creak of the door’s turning hinges. Sayaka immediately froze in place, her gaze cast down to the rushes as an indistinct figure peered between the bars with a torch held aloft. And then Aurelia herself tensed, for she recognized the face that was looking in on them. It was one of the Ala Mhigan men from the cart, the pair who’d harassed her before Bryn’s underling had interfered.

His eyes swept over her as if she were invisible and the light passed along.

After the door closed both women sighed in unison, paused, looked at each other, and grinned. It was a grim sort of camaraderie to be sure, but when Sayaka spoke again she seemed a bit less diffident than before.

“They’ve been coming in every half-sun or so,” she muttered. “Everyone’s been wondering what the Eorzeans are planning to do with us. You wouldn’t happen to have heard anything, would you?”

“I remember hearing rumors about a trial of some sort. Beyond that, I know as much as the rest of you.”

The Doman engineer didn’t say anything for a long time. All she could hear was the slow shuffle of the other woman’s feet in the soiled rushes. In one of the other blocks, someone else coughed, then sniffled, then went silent.

“A trial,” Sayaka said, and she could hear the note of fear there. “You don’t think…”

“Think what?”

“No, my lady, forgive me. 'Tis naught.”

“I’m not your lady. What were you going to say?”

With clear reluctance that pretty face tilted upwards to look at her, dark brown eyes wide. “…You don’t think they’ll just sentence the lot of us to hang, do you?”

The question chilled her. No one in the camp had seemed to want to address anything beyond the immediate needs of the wounded, when she’d been there. Even Bryn had been closemouthed, stating only that it wasn’t her responsibility what the command actually decided to do with any prisoners. That lack of clarity didn’t exactly inspire much confidence, but she didn’t want to say so. The Doman conscript looked to be near tears as it was.

“I don’t have anything against the Eorzeans at all,” Sayaka said plaintively, before Aurelia could answer. “I was a good student and I learned very quickly, so I was able to secure a sponsor to send me and my brother to the capitol. For our schooling, you know- and I thought perhaps if I joined the imperial army and earned my citizenship I might be able to help the people in my village. I didn’t think…”

She nodded. "I know."

“I never would have hurt anyone. I haven’t even laid hand to a weapon since basic.”

“So that’s it, then,” someone else said. “We’re waiting to see if we live or die.”

“Assuming they ever plan to let us see the light of day again,” a gloomy retort echoed from the cell next to theirs, this from one of the other Garleans. “For all any of us know, the savages might’ve bloody well decided to let us rot down here.”

They could do that, she knew. She didn’t think they would, but they could. They could simply let them starve to death down here and no one would be the wiser- and she hoped that notion hadn’t occurred to any of their captors. The Spire was such an isolated location that it could be weeks before anyone thought to check and see how they were faring. If anyone remembered they had been sent here at all.

But what choice did they have save to hope for the best?

~*~

Kan-E-Senna was angry.

To Raubahn Aldynn, who had known the Elder Seedseer for several years and had never known the outwardly mild-mannered woman to even raise her voice save on very rare occasions, it was a remarkable experience. Her eyes were fever-bright and her cheeks rosy and the air about her small frame fair seemed to crackle with energy, as if the Greenwrath itself were contained within her bones.

Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn’s countenance was like a thunderstorm to Kan-E-Senna’s fire: her pale brow knit in a fierce scowl, arms folded in a defiant yet defensive posture across her chest. “I was under the impression that the Levy was under *my* authority. I am *not* going to pull personnel when our numbers are far outstripped as it is!”

“Surely we have enough-”

“Seedseer, I’m aware you mislike the way this has been handled. But what’s done is done. You can make any decision you like with the people under your authority, but Commodore Sletteidin made the same call I would have made in his position.”

The smaller woman took a deep, visible breath, clearly trying to rein in her ire.

“To those souls we granted succor upon the Flats,” she said, “I have already given my word that they will never see the wrong side of a gaol cell. I did this because our plan will not work if we cannot prove our word can be trusted.”

“Then what do you suggest? I’m not going to have imperial prisoners given the run of the camp. I wanted all of these people watched and kept from running to the XIVth, and that is easier done from a holding cell.”

She looked out over the muddy remains of the Foreign Levy’s interim encampment in silence. After a near moon spent here in cleanup, they could afford to tarry no longer despite the widespread destruction that still remained. Their people needed all the hands that could be spared for disaster relief. Now that preparations had been finalized at home, all three leaders of the Grand Companies had given orders to make preparations for departure. Rites had been said over the last of the bodies retrieved from the battlefield, the pyres burnt until the coals had died to embers, and the ashes blown across the land by the southern winds.

The process had been a slow one in part because most of Mor Dhona had been left a crystalline wasteland. Aldenard’s aetherial balance had been badly upset by the Calamity; cold storms better suited to the late fall months had raged off and on for the past fortnight, though without the blizzards that had blanketed Coerthas in heavy snows. Entire swathes of the rainforest had been destroyed, and the area around Silvertear Lake had been flash-burnt by Bahamut’s flares, the ambient aether crystallizing in an instant and half the mountain range itself crumbling beneath the onslaught.

Those who had been held at the camp upon the Seedseer’s arrival had been removed from it nearly as soon as she had seen to their hurts, as if it had been planned specifically due to her presence. Hence her wrath, Raubahn knew. She felt she had been made to give a promise that it appeared she had immediately broken, and he couldn’t fault her frustration any more than he could fault Merlwyb’s logic.

Deciding to break the impasse as the third voice, he cleared his throat until he was certain he had their attention. 

“Do we know exactly how many were taken prisoner by the Levy?” he asked Merlwyb. “Conscripts and Garleans separately?”

“At last count the Levy itself held nine Garlean prisoners all told, eight men, one woman. Most our people encountered were officers who chose either to attempt escape, attack the rescue squads, or take their own lives rather than surrender. As far as the full headcount, I couldn’t say off the top of my head.”

“Where are they being held?”

“The Emerald Spire.” Merlwyb pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll request an exact number. Linkpearl communications are still unstable, but I think if we keep them brief there shouldn’t be a problem obtaining that information quickly.”

“Seedseer, do you know roughly how many of the prisoners Gridania would be able to take in?”

“Twoscore, perhaps. That’s in addition to all the injured conscripts we have already taken as wards of the Twin Adder. I don’t know that we have the resources at present to support many more.” She sighed, bowed her head, and he knew she was thinking of the people who had been lost in the partial destruction of the city. “Should it be needful later, we can certainly revisit that number. Full well do I know you and the Admiral bear your own burdens, and I would not add to them.”

He nodded.

“The Admiral’s exactly right about the logistics, mind,” he said. “I don’t think it’d be advisable to move them again before a decision is made, for a number of reasons. So instead of trying to shift them all about and figure out which group should go to which camp and risk muddying the waters further- 'tis my thinking that we should go to them. Will the space have the capacity to host these proceedings?”

“Most of the Spire has lain in ruins this past score of years,” Merlwyb said, “or so I’m told. But the keep itself, along with its gaol, has been in continuous use by the Twin Adder as a watchtower and is still usable. There should be at least one space that can serve our purposes.”

“We will need judges.”

“Aye, but only three more souls to serve on the panel, I should think. We have other matters to attend; 'twould be best for all concerned to bring this to a swift conclusion.”

“And should anyone wish to speak in defense of any of these poor sods, they’ll have the chance to do it. Aye, that includes the Garleans,” Raubahn said, at the sight of Merlwyb’s lifted brows. “Much as I mislike it, we owe it to ourselves to be as evenhanded as possible.”

She appeared to mull this over for a moment, lips pursed in thought, before slowly nodding.

“I suppose I’ve no objections,” the Admiral allowed at last. “Though I doubt the Garlean prisoners are going to like our terms.”

“Then that is their choice,” he said. “We'll let them be the masters of their own fates.”

~*~

The days and nights had long since blended into each other, a monotony of dim light and fouled rushes and broken sleep broken only by meager rations and the intermittent visits of the guards. Lu didn’t say anything to her even in passing, just kept a watchful eye on soldiers and prisoners alike, and Aurelia understood that matters had not changed between them, regardless of the woman’s connection to a mutual friend. She’d receive no aid from the Miqo'te in either direction save the bare minimum. It was disheartening, but not surprising.

At first she had tried to track the days by the number of times the guards changed, but she soon lost track of that, and the light between the mortar cracks was even less reliable due to the unseasonably cold and violent storms that rolled frequently through the area. Once or twice she heard one of the guards mutter something about odd aether in passing, but she wasn’t sure if they were talking about the weather or something else, and none of them were friendly enough for her to attempt to ask.

One dreary morning the rattle of keys and the opening door woke her out of a feverish doze - between the damp chill and the constant slow leak in the mortar, everyone on the block was nursing an incipient cold, Aurelia included - and a fist slammed against the metal bars of the gaol cell.

“Look alive, Garlean, you’ve a visitor.”

She coughed, shifting herself into something resembling a sitting position, and blinked owlishly at the Elezen man staring in at her. His expression was utterly neutral but the shifting of his feet betrayed his impatience.

“Well, hurry it along, then,” he said. “We don’t got all day.”

Sayaka helped her to her feet and handed her the crutches. The Doman’s face was a picture of concern, but she didn’t speak as she watched the Garlean woman she’d cautiously befriended make her careful way over the floor to the cell door. The tumbler turned with a hollow click and the barred door was opened just enough to let her limp across the threshold.

The guardsman gestured with a jerk of his chin. “This way.”  

Aurelia followed, trying not to flinch at the slamming of the wooden door behind her and wondering who on earth would have come here to see her specifically. Bryn perhaps, but she couldn’t think of anyone else who would have taken especial interest in an imperial prisoner. She limped carefully behind the man up a set of stairs to the main floor, where she saw-

“Sparrow!”

The Roegadyn stood with his arms folded across his broad chest at the threshold of a closed door that led into one of the long-unused rooms inside the keep. His hazel eyes lit up with something like relief at the sight of her. He was not in the scarlet colors of the Maelstrom any longer; he wore a suit of well-used leather armor, his axe strapped over his back.

“You’ve a half bell,” the guard said briskly at her back. “Make the best of your time.”

Once the door had snicked shut behind him, Sparrow reached out to embrace her, walking aids and all. 

“Glad t'see you hale an’ whole, lass.”

“Both of those states are debateable,” she said wryly, “but I still breathe for the time being. How long have I been here?”

“Not quite three weeks. Camp’s breakin’ down to roll out. We’ve done about all we can do at the Flats for now. As far as you and yours go, a panel of judges arrived at first light this morning for the hearings. There was some sort o’ miscommunication - that’s why you've been here so long - but it’s mostly been sorted.” His worried expression didn’t change. “They’ve allowed any folk what want to speak on behalf of the prisoners to make statements.”

“So then the rumor was true? We’re all to stand trial?”

“Eh? Aye, that’s so.” Sparrow scratched the back of his head, looking somewhat abashed. “But if you’re worried about gettin’ rotten fruit thrown at you or the like, don’t. It won’t be a spectacle. Just you and the panel and character witness statements from whomever decided to put in a good word for you. Bryn’ll have given hers, and me an’ Captain Brudevelle already gave ours. You’ve a goodly number of folks in your corner, lass, as it happens.”

She stared down at the stones beneath her feet.

“You’ve never really answered my question, Sparrow.”

“What question?”

“Why are you always going out of your way for me? We barely know each other; most would call us enemies, in fact. And yet you’ve shown me nothing but the utmost consideration.”

For once Cheerful Sparrow, whose lighthearted personality so often seemed to be so fitting of his name, appeared at a loss. He opened his mouth as if he meant to speak, then shut it, then opened it again. This time a sigh issued forth and an old pain flickered at the corners of his eyes, deepening the lines in his face. It muted his smile somewhat, rather like a cloud that had drifted across the afternoon sun.

“My daughter,” he said at last, “was very much like you.”

Her grip on the crutches was so tight her knuckles had gone colorless. She peered up at him, very carefully, eyes half-hidden beneath dirty fringe.

“Her name was Yellow Daisy- looked just like her ma. She was serious and dutiful and very kind, had plans to travel south to Ul'dah and study at their Phrontistery once she came of age. Fair bit of a presence; I could pick her laugh out of a room of hundreds. After my wife’s passing, I took up mercenary work for the extra coin - like aught else in that city, schooling of that sort costs money. I used to worry she resented me for always bein’ gone on jobs, but if she did she never said so.”

“You say 'was.’ What did she… what happened to her?”

His smile trembled in place.

“When the Garleans first arrived in Eorzea, they drove out a host of smallfolk from their villages an’ farmholds an’ took that land to build their fortresses. Most folk fled to towns and cities, but some turned to banditry. Daisy came across an overturned cart in the road one day on her way home from market and tried to help, not knowin’ it were just a ruse. Gave 'em her food, but they didn’t believe her when she said she had no coin. So…”

“Oh, no,” she breathed, “they-”

“The Yellowjackets sent word by linkpearl. I left Cap'n L'sazha’s crew at port with our job half done so I could go home and bury my only child. She was nineteen summers.” She felt the warm weight of his hand on her shoulder. “Now before you go an’ start blamin’ yourself, you should know that Daisy’s death was no more your doin’ than mine.”

“Why?” Another lost life that could be laid squarely at the feet of her people. “Gods’ sake, Sparrow! Why don’t you hate me?”

“Why should I? You’ve not a malicious bone in your body, lass. I saw that much the night we found you. You freely offered to help when you knew your skills were needed.”

“How do you know I didn’t simply do that to save myself?”

“Have you known, at any time, what we planned to do with you?” When she shook her head, he asked, “Then why would you help us?”

"I had to."

"Why?"

She sighed. 

“Because if I know I can help, I can't make myself ignore it. The woman who raised me used to call it my curse.“

"Aye, your Empire would see that as a weakness, I expect. But that kindness takes a special sort o’ strength. Especially when refusin’ to turn your back on folk in need oft repays a body with naught save even more trouble.”

“Well,” Aurelia said with a mirthless laugh, “I expect that shall prove true enough, anyroad. Taking the part of a Garlean prisoner - particularly under present circumstances - is in fact liable to be troublesome for you.”

“ 'Tis like to be troublesome for me an’ Bryn both,” he agreed. The hand on her shoulder gave a gentle squeeze. “But I couldn’t help my daughter. I have a chance to help you and I mean to take it. So I’ll not be lookin’ away, either.”

“You’re a good man, Sparrow.” Her throat felt so raw and tight she could barely choke the words out. “Would that we had been on the same side of this pointless bloody war.”

“Had we been fightin’ on the same side, lass, 'tis unlikely we’d have ever met like this.”

She bowed her head. That was true enough.

“Can you promise me one thing about tomorrow?” she ventured. “Please? Just one thing?”

“What is it?”

Aurelia chewed on her lip, her gaze shifting towards the closed door. “The other prisoners,” she said. “The conscripts, I mean. I know you can’t simply set everyone free, but most of them were given no choice in joining the army and I doubt anyone will listen to me. They deserve a chance as much as I do, if not more.”

Sparrow smiled.

“Still not a thought for your own neck,” he said gently, as the guard opened the door to come take her back to the cell. “I’ll do what I can, lass, I promise.”

[chrysalispen]

#FFXIVWrite2019 - 1. Voracious

let’s see how this goes

No spoilers, just some fun WoL fluffy kidfic <3

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

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1. voracious

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The fat sausage links fair gleamed in their casings under the noonday sun.

From his hiding place behind the stack of crates, Sev felt his mouth water. The boy licked his lips, tail lashing against his dirty legs. He imagined the meat, juicy and flavored with all sorts of spices and just ever so slightly smoky, maybe with a piece of fresh baked bread. At the thought of a proper meal, the tip of his tongue slid over his new sharp canines that he still wasn't quite used to just yet. He'd only lost the last of his milk teeth two years ago.

Two years, he thought, surprised. Two years since Mum left.

At least, he was fairly sure that had been two years ago. Sev didn't have the best grasp on time. Like many of Ala Mhigo's smallfolk, the young Miqo'te largely knew the passing of the year by the turn of the cold months. But that sounded right. He'd dropped the first tooth not long before the old king had died, and not long after that the Northmen had come in their strange flying metal machines and impenetrable black armor. 

The Garleans, as they called themselves, had put the king's council to the sword and sacked the city, and two years later they had the full run of the place. Not that it had especially changed his circumstances.

His thoughts turned away from his newly sharp teeth and back to the meat they wished to tear, as though his hunger had a mind of its own. The old man wasn't looking in his direction at all! He was helping a woman with her purchase, a heavyset lady in fine linens and new leather that probably cost as much as the whole butcher's stand.

Sev felt a surge of hope. If he was careful he could have what he wanted and no one would be the wiser. His prey was one of several draped over a piece of metal that had been hammered into the wooden pole. One good jostle would cause it to fall.

Why, I could just knock that old link right off its hook. 

He'd never have a better chance. Maybe if he just leaned forward as if he were trying to look at the wares...

"Hey!" the lady shouted in alarm. She'd chanced to look up just in time for the boy to lean in from the crates, his hand wrapped around one of the links. "Thief! Thief!"

Sev leapt back with a startled cry, nearly crashing into the crates he'd been hiding behind, and took off running with his prize clutched in one fist and the old man screaming for help at his back.

===========

Two bells later he had to admit to himself that he was hopelessly lost.

Once upon a time, he'd known the way back home by heart. When Sev was little, he always knew when it was getting time to pay the rent on their apartment. Rent week was when the larder was empty and Mum started taking her visitors. She'd hang a length of red cloth outside her door, usually the threadbare handkerchief she kept in the drawer of her ancient desk (which sat under the only window in the whole apartment), and tell him to go amuse himself outside with his friends. When she was done, the cloth would be gone and he'd go back inside and she'd be there waiting to send him to the marketplace and refill their larder.

My Seven, my last and best boy, she'd praise him. Such a good son. Then she'd hug him, her body damp through her homespun, as she pressed a small pouch of gil into his little fingers. Whatever Mum and her visitors talked about, she always bathed before she took her red handkerchief down from the door, and it was that he remembered, his nose full of the stringent smell of lye, and of the scents she liked to use in her bathwater.

Over the next year the red handkerchief had stayed up for longer periods, days at a time, even a sennight sometimes. At first Sev had gone hungry, more than willing to wait for Mum to finish her long visits. But finally he'd given in to his hunger, and sometimes the cloth would be removed from the door and sometimes it would not, and he'd had to dig out his own bolt-holes for sleep, or offer to share his food with one of the other kids in exchange, or. Something.

Then finally one day he'd come home and the red cloth had been gone and so had his Mum. None of their neighbors knew what had happened to her, whether or not the imperials had taken her away or where she'd gone or if she'd ever be back, and none of them particularly seemed to care. One woman had scowled at him and said 'good riddance to that harlot' and closed the door in his face, and Sev had been alone for good.

That first night, he'd curled up on the empty doorstep and cried himself to sleep waiting for her. Eventually he'd forced himself to let those memories fade and grow sepia-toned. He never did return to that little apartment in its old and unfashionable district, a mere stone's throw from the slums where he now scraped out a living. There, the streets crisscrossed and meandered in strange ways into ancient taverns and alcoves so deeply hidden they never saw the blazing sun even in the heat of the day.

But this wasn't the so-called 'Ala Mhigan District' either. All he saw on either side were enormous mansions and iron gates and improbably green lawns.

So, it didn't take Sev very long to realize he was lost.

This place was like an entire world apart from the rest of the city. He stood before a big stone fountain with fresh running water that gurgled prettily out of the top, splashing into a pool with little red flowers floating in it. It was surrounded by carefully groomed bushes and even a stone bench to sit and rest or just take in the scenery. The streets beneath his worn shoes were neatly laid brick lined with black steel, mostly new, free of potholes or chocobo guano, and lined with new trees.

People lived here, he marveled. In the days of the old king, the royals had all lived here. But they were vanished or dead or both and now the only occupants of these fine houses were wealthy merchants and imperial army officers. There'd be no one of his like within walls so grand, unless they were working the grounds as ser-

The loud, thumping rattle of multiple footsteps marching in tandem brought him out of his awed reverie. Sev froze on the spot, his ears laid flat and twitching. He knew that sound well enough: an imperial patrol. They were heaviest in the poor areas, but it seemed even the idle rich saw their share of Garlean steel.

And the patrol was coming this way; he'd be arrested for sure the minute they saw him, thrown in their gaol and left to rot if he was lucky. He knew exactly how he looked: a scruffy, dirty street child, cheeks flushed and golden eyes wild, tearing down the streets of the Palace (no, he self-corrected, that's not right, they call it something else now) District with obviously stolen food clutched in one fist. There was exactly zero chance they would not know immediately what he'd done.

He would have run if he knew where to go, but he didn't even know how he'd got here in the first place. The more he thought about it, the more scared he became.

"You! Boy!"

That voice belonged to a child. His head swiveled from side to side, seeking its owner and finding... no one in sight? Who was talking to him then? Was he imagining things? Was it a ghost? The old folk said the Mad King had killed lots of people, even his own kin; mayhap the streets here were haunted? What if-

He let out a sharp yelp as something hard popped him in the back of the head.

"Ow!"

"Pick that up and get over here! They're coming!" 

He bent over to pick up whatever had been thrown at him and saw that it was some kind of red and green fruit that looked a bit like a pear. Then he saw the small hand waving at him. It dangled down from the branches of a low hanging old-growth tree that stood just behind a thick stone wall near one of the wrought iron gates. 

"Give me your hand, I'll pull you up!"

The voice was young and rather imperious, as if its owner were accustomed to giving orders and having them followed. Still, Sev dashed across the street and extended his hand, and immediately found himself pulled up, bodily, albeit slowly-- there was a small, pained grunt of exertion as they tried to lift him. He forced himself to stop flailing, bracing his feet against the trunk to assist. His shoes, worn down to tattered flaps, scrabbled at the bark for purchase and his tail lashed furiously, trying to help him keep his balance--but it only took a moment for his natural climbing instincts to assume control.

Once he decided he wasn't going to just drop right back to the cobbled street on his arse in front of an imperial patrol, Sev let go of that sweaty little hand, crept towards the trunk, then carefully balanced his weight across the branches beneath his feet like rough and very uneven stair steps.

"This way," the voice ordered, this time a whisper. "Don't make any noise."

He followed the child down through the tree branches, watching his steps carefully and trying to keep quiet and safeguard the only meal he'd probably get for the next handful of suns. Finally they were clear of the tree and crawling down the trunk to land in soft, manicured grass.

"There, boy. You're safe here," that small, oddly accented voice said, with a supreme confidence he wished he felt. "It'll be another half-bell before they report in. As long as you're gone before their shift change, you won't get caught."

Sev sat down with a small exhalation, cradling his ill-gotten gains (which were by now somewhat the worse for wear), and looked up to see the face of his rescuer. A very small Garlean stared back. Her hair was the color of honey, the sidelocks neatly braided, and her eyes were a very deep blue. She wore a fine pinafore dress beneath an apron currently covered in dirt and grass stains.

She also seemed to have noticed his confusion: that pale brow had knitted in a faint and curious frown, the wrinkle of it pausing just beneath the lower curve of her third eye.

"Boy?" she repeated. "Is aught amiss? Are you hurt?"

"I... n-no. I'm... I'm fine. I just..."

His stomach chose that moment to gurgle again, loud enough for both of them to hear.

"If you're hungry, then eat something."

"But these are raw."

"Ew, not those." She plucked the fruit he'd still had in one hand. "Here, you can have this. It's a mango. From Thavnair. They're good."

He just stared at her. She stared right back, carelessly tossing the fruit (mango?) from one hand to the other, those impossibly dark blue eyes tracking over his face. Then she extended her hand.

"I'm Aurelia," she said. "What's your name?"

"I.. um. Sev."

"That's short for something? Some Ala Mhigan name?"

"Uh, no." Sev stared down at the sausages in their casings, feeling small and foolish. "It's, uh. It's short for 'Seven'."

"Seven," the Garlean said, and her voice was flat and matter-of-fact in a way that clearly indicated she thought he was joking. "Right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That's a really weird name," she said bluntly.

"It's not a weird name!" Sev snapped, stung by her dismissal. "Aurelia is a weird name. What does it even mean?"

"At least my name is an actual name!" She scowled fiercely at him and stamped her little leather boot-clad foot against the grass, lower lip thrust out. "Who names their kid a number? That's just lazy!"

"My mum's not lazy, your mum's lazy!"

"My mama can't be lazy! She's dead!"

For a moment the two children glared at each other, Sev's tail thumping viciously against the grass. 

Aurelia's eyes looked a little too bright, and he almost asked her if she was going to cry before he felt the lump in his own throat and the prickling heat at his eyes, at the unbidden memory of lye soap and cardamom, and realized with horror that if anyone was going to cry, it was him.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things about your mum. Thank you for hiding me from the ironhe-... uh, the soldiers."

She shrugged, as if the entire argument meant nothing to her.

"Are you going to carry that thing around all day?"

"It's not a thing, it's food. It's sausage."

The Garlean girl's delicate little nose wrinkled in distaste. "Whatever it is, it smells gross. I bet it's been out in the sun too long."

"It's not gross."

"It is too. If you eat spoiled meat you'll get a sour belly." She thrust a hand towards him. "Give it over. I'm throwing it in the bin."

"But I'm hungry," Sev whined. It earned him a huffed exhalation and a very dramatic roll of her eyes.

"Ugh, just-- just follow me, you big baby. I'll get you all the sausages you'll ever want."

=========

Thus did a boy named Seven meet a girl named Aurelia, and a hapless cook became utterly convinced that her kitchen was haunted by the vengeful ghost of Mad King Theodoric. Aurelia supposed they might have overdone things a little with the wailing and the creaking door-hinges.

The paring knife and half-dozen mangoes missing from the larder were more difficult to explain when Aurelia helped herself to a perfectly sizeable dinner that night, however. Her governess was perfectly well aware that she loved mangoes, was not herself Ala Mhigan, and therefore had no cause to believe in angry ghosts nicking sausages from the cold pantry. No matter how much Cook insisted otherwise.

But at least now, she had her first real friend ever. And that was worth a few stolen sausages and a night confined to her chambers without dessert.

[chrysalispen]

#FFxivWrite2019 - 2. Bargain

more kidfic, a continuation of the previous: how a boy named Seven takes his first steps to become an adventurer named L’sazha.

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

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2. bargain

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"You," the auburn-haired woman said, "are in a great deal of trouble, lad. Do you know what imperial law states the penalty is for theft? Especially for repeat offenders?"

"But Aurelia said it was fine! She said I could come anytime I wa-"

"Don't interrupt adults. It's rude." L'haiya dus Eyahri folded her arms across her bosom and stared him down with her piercing eyes. They were two different colors: one a golden yellow, the other a deep, burnished orange. It made him think of the color the sun made on the stone when it set in the evenings.

For his own part, Sev swallowed back his retort and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of his ear where the woman had dragged him through the back door of the kitchen and into the parlor. Aurelia had mentioned her governess could be strict, but she had completely failed to mention the woman was also terrifying beyond all reason.

"While we are talking about proper decorum, Mistress Laskaris is a scion of the imperial aristocracy, though she be young yet. And as such, you-" she jabbed a finger in his direction, ignoring his cringe, "certainly do not have leave to address her with such familiarity."

"She didn't say anything about any of that."

"She shouldn't have to say anything. You are aan, as I once was myself." Some of the stony disapproval went out of her face, replaced by something like pity. "The rules of this land have changed, boy, and you will need to learn how to navigate them if you've a wish to survive the boot on your back."

"I didn't ask for them," he burst out. Angry tears burned his eyes and his fists clenched at his sides. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"Not a one of us asked for the Garleans to overrun our lands. All you and I can do is learn to live with the hand we are dealt. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he muttered, even though he didn't.

"You can't keep allowing her to pilfer food from the larder to give to you. And sneaking into the Administrative District like this... you're going to get caught, eventually, by someone who will do much worse than give you a lecture."

"You mean the soldiers."

"I mean the soldiers. And the girl's father does not have the sort of personal clout that would put a word in the viceroy's ear. You would be left to languish in the gaol with barely a moment's thought, and that is a hefty penalty to pay simply to hop a fence to the wrong part of the city."

He stared at his feet, at the patterns woven into the nap of the rug.

"How long has this been going on? Have you been taking food back to your family, is that it?"

"No."

"Who for, then?"

"Just myself." He bit his lip and looked up at her. "I don't have any family. It's just me. I don't..."

"Don't what?"

"I-"

"Speak, boy."

"Please don't tell me I can't come back." It came out as a strangled sob. Hot tears dripped onto the carpet and blurred out the patterned nap he'd been trying to trace with his eyes. "She's my friend. My only friend. She’s all I have."

The woman - L'haiya - didn't ridicule him as he'd expected, sobbing over a slip of a girl who he should have hated by all rights. She only watched, and he thought he saw something like understanding in those sunset eyes.

"You have to have a permit to access this part of the city," she said. "A permit issued by legate administration, and signed by Lord van Baelsar."

"I-I don't-"

"Don't interrupt."

He fell silent, sniffling and wiping at his face.

"If you are aan, you must have either a work permit or a work-residency permit, and the latter requires the signature of both the viceroy and the household's comptroller. Fortunately for you, I am the latter." A tight smile crossed her face. "I first came into Lord rem Laskaris' service in Dalmasca and have been with the family ever since."

"Dalmasca?"

She waved her hand.

"A story for another time. But I see here a way we might mutually benefit each other." At the blank look on his face, she released a sigh. "I think we can help each other get the things we want. I want Miss Laskaris to have a friend - one whose world view is not limited to the Empire’s. You need food and shelter, and are in need of a friend yourself, it seems."

Not quite sure where this was leading, he nodded slowly.

"I think," L'haiya said slowly, "that Lord rem Laskaris will be very surprised to hear that a young relative of mine has but recently arrived in the city, having lost his dear mother, one of my cousins. He knows I have been seeking a groundskeeper, so I shall let him know the position has been filled-"

"Miss," he croaked, "thank you, thank you so much-"

"-by young L'sazha here."

Sev blinked. She braced her hands on her hips.

"You must become L'sazha if you want my help. The choice is yours."

"But- but I'm not Dalmascan. I don't even know where that is."

"Garleans know little of the customs of those they conquer," she said. "His lordship is a well educated man and he would still not be able to tell an Ala Mhigan Miqo'te from a Dalmascan Miqo'te, nor will he think or even care to make the distinction. We are naught but savages, and that is all that will matter to him. That indifference, and my story, is the only protection I can offer you. All your basic needs will be provided, and you will have the pleasure of my charge's company whenever it can be spared."

"Aurelia- I mean, Miss Laskaris-"

"Is surprisingly good at keeping secrets when the need arises." Gravely, she lifted a hand and held it out to him. "Those are the terms, lad. Do you accept?"

He stared at it, wondering if he could really give up the boy he'd been so easily. He remembered his mother's hugs, the smell of baking bread- but he also remembered the red cloth, the days of hunger and loneliness, the spare hours when there was nothing at all.

Can I still be Seven if I’m also L'sazha? 

It was a question he didn't know how to answer. Not yet. But maybe he'd find his own way, in the end.

The boy once known as Seven took the hand he was given, and shook it.

"I do."

[chrysalispen]

Reborn by Fire is up!

i’m back on my bullshit, friendos 

and this time it’s a multichapter origin story for this character because i am a goddamned fool who thinks she can actually sustain this pace BUT WE’LL SEE I GUESS

AO3 Link - part i: de profundis clamavi 

[chrysalispen]

iii. shadow of the morrow

AO3 Link

Until Idront's shout, sharp with urgency, pierced the steady hiss of the falling rain, Bryngeim hadn't realized just how much she'd resigned herself to a fruitless search. 

Slowly, as one, she and K'luhia paused and looked at each other. The sudden flare of hope in the other woman's eyes, she suspected, mirrored the hope in her own.

"Weapons at the ready," she said. "Just in case."

And they were off, all but running towards the sound of the elezen's voice, splashing through the water and congealed earth.

The Duskwight was kneeling next to an overturned magitek reaper about thirty yalms northeast of the makeshift pathway they'd beaten into the field. Leaning against the side of the machina, unmoving, was a pale figure clad in a strange black fabric that was utterly unfamiliar: certainly not any standard-issue uniform of the Grand Companies Bryngeim recognized.

K'luhia drew to a halt, the happy light in her green eyes fading at the sight. She glared upon the center of this tableau with open contempt.

"...Piss, Idront, you got us excited over a bleedin' imperial?"

"Hush, Lu." Bryngeim reached over her shoulder and slid the axe back into its leather strapping, keeping one hand ready to draw in case it was needful. The figure in black had not stirred at their approach, but that didn't mean they were truly unconscious. "She's right, though--this one's surely not one of ours. Dead?"

As she drew close she saw a fresh, young face that was soaking wet and smeared with dirt and oil. A very young lad, she thought. That in itself wasn't necessarily so unusual; the Garlean Empire seemed to prefer its cannon fodder practically out of the cradle. Like many Limsan privateers with letters of marque from the thassolocracy, Bryngeim had taken Garlean conscripts into custody before, and more often than not the poor bastards were little more than boys. Her own captain had been one such conscript (albeit not one of her prisoners), barely past eighteen summers himself when he'd first been captured and brought to Limsa.

It was difficult in the fading light to make out much else-- save a strange pale mark on the brow, half-hidden beneath a matted, dirty blond forelock. Bryngeim frowned at the sight of it.

"No, he still breathes," Idront was saying, his own brow knitted in a frown of its own. "If I might make an observation, ma'am? I'm no expert on the imperials nor their outfitting, but by the look of this... suit, it's some sort of undergarment. He looks to have removed the armor. I found some of it in a pile next to the reaper, though I'm not sure why he'd have done that."

"Any idea why he'd be out in the open like this?"

"Might've dug himself out from under this thing." He pointed at the deep furrows nearby, half-submerged in water. "There's drag marks in the mud over there, and more of the same mud in his greaves."

She shrugged uneasily.

"I can't see shite in this soup, so I'll take your word for it." While she appreciated the man's efforts at investigation, they were wasting time out here trying to retrace an enemy's steps. She crossed her arms, fidgeting in place, thinking of the men and women who could be waiting for help. "Well? You found him, Idront. Thoughts?"

"Well, you already know what I think," K'luhia's voice piped from their backs. Bryngeim rolled her eyes heavensward. "...Oh, hang the godsdamned brass, Bryn!"

"Lu, stop it. Even if we weren't under orders to take prisoners, which we are, we're not going to go about killing enemy survivors just to make things easier on ourselves."

"Who'd care, if they even noticed he was gone?"

"Sergeant."

"What?" the Seeker snapped, her temper clearly frayed.

"Go check on the others." Discussing the moral implications of their orders was not the conversation Bryngeim wanted to be having with anyone right now, nor was this particular conversation turning out the way she would have wished. And she knew better than to make any sort of judgment call that might make it appear she'd caved to pressure from her subordinates. "Let them know we'll be along in a moment."

"With or without the Garlean?"

"What we do with him is not your concern, Sergeant. Go." Her voice made it very clear that she was not making a request but issuing a direct order, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the smaller woman's lithe frame stiffen in outrage at her tone. "If we found this one, there's a chance we'll be findin' some of ours too."

"If y'want to bring him in alive, captain, by all means," she said flatly. "But I'll have naught to do with him, ye can be sure o' that--and I doubt the others will either."

She stalked off into the darkness, tail lashing in agitation. Bryngeim ran a hand down the side of her face.

Well, that could have gone better.

"If you think it best to try our luck elsewhere, ma'am, I can take care of this," Idront said quietly. His hand reached for the hunting knife she saw sheathed in his boot, wrapped about the hilt, and tugged perhaps an ilm upwards. Steel gleamed wickedly in the watery half-light of dusk. "He won't feel any pain, and he won't be telling his friends we were here."

Bryngeim... hesitated.

As she did, a soft, cracked groan broke the silence.

"He's coming around," the elezen said sharply. "What're your orders, ma'am?"

The situation -- her sudden and unwanted promotion, the red moon, the primal, everything they'd lost in the space of the last two suns, L'sazha dying a horribly slow and painful death, all of it -- brought a wave of resentment with it. She could actually taste her own bile on the back of her tongue, sour and bright.

Because K'luhia had a point, of course she did. She could turn her back and let Idront open the boy's throat, and the likelihood anyone would be the wiser was next to nothing; certainly her unit wouldn't say a word against her. They could walk away from this now and find someone actually worth saving. One of her fellows, hurt and possibly dying, defending their lands from the endless greed and ambition of the Empire, and far more deserving of rescue. The first survivor they'd been able to find on tonight's search and it was an enemy.

the Twelve certainly had a sense of humor, she thought bitterly.

"...Ma'am?"

She was opening her mouth to tell him orders be damned, Lu's right, no one will notice another dead imperial, just cut the swiving bastard's throat from ear to ear--and then they saw the twitch of limbs, the head tilting from side to side, that soft fresh face contorting briefly in pain, long eyelashes quivering like the wings of a hurt bird against that pallid skin.

And she-

Couldn't do it.

She couldn't give an order like that. Not only for her own peace of mind, but for the look she imagined she'd see on L'sazha's face if he found out she'd ordered her men to kill this boy while he lay unconscious and unable to speak a word in his own defense, even as an act of war. Even now she knew he would bear their Garlean enemies no ill will. He'd been in their army, knew what it was like to fight for a cause not his own.

But more than anything, Bryngeim simply couldn't bear the thought of her commander's disappointment in her.

The moment came, and it passed, and the flow of time moved onwards. She exhaled, the knots in her stomach settling by ilms now that her decision was made. 

I'm sorry, Lu. I can't. You and the others will just have to live with it until we can wash our hands of him.

"Ma'am, I need-"

"Wake him up if you can," she said. "I would have him make the choice himself."

~*~

Someone was shaking her shoulder.

She'd not been properly asleep; only dozing - drifting in and out of consciousness in the broken sleep of the sick and gravely injured. 

For the first time in weeks, there had been no nightmares about the crimson moon. Or rather: nightmare, singular. For over a fortnight now, it had brought her out of a dead sleep, struggling to cut off the scream that lodged in the back of her throat, raw and hot and aching, so that she would not wake her bunkmates or sound any false alarums. Or get herself discharged and sent back to the capitol, a possibility if her superiors believed her to be shell-shocked.

(Seven hells, anything but that. They'd send her back to her family in disgrace, unable to bear the mental and physical strain of even one full deployment, and if that happened she'd never be free.)

But just thinking about that awful dream made the metallic rasp of scraping sollerets echo through her memory.

"Wake him up if you can. I would have him make the choice himself."

The footsteps she'd heard approaching the reaper, however-- those were real, and she knew by the cadence of them that they did not belong to imperial allies. Her proprioception was still in perfect working order for all that the rest of her was in poor shape, and she could easily sense their positions around and within her immediate space. They were flanking her. Preventing escape.

She felt curiously calm.

The weight on her shoulder shook once again. She remained still a moment longer, her weight slumped against the lacquer and steel of the overturned reaper.

Shaking with cold and acutely conscious that she was unable to mount even a cursory defense against any attacks, she slowly opened her eyes and blinked at the twin shapes that had materialized out of the gloom. Both were attired in uniforms bearing the colors of the Eorzean Grand Companies: one a roegadyn woman in the scarlet coat of the Limsan Lominsan Maelstrom, the other a dusk-complected elezen man in a bright yellow she didn't recognize.

The pair were staring at her with eyes as hard as stone, clearly taking her measure.

"I see we'll not have to put you out of your misery," the woman said, sounding none too pleased. That deep voice was quietly menacing and it put rest to any lingering hope that the new arrivals might be in any way friendly. "You speak Common?"

"Yes," she rasped, then nodded her head in case they hadn't heard her.

"Good. That makes things easier. Hands up. Place them behind your head."

Slowly she raised her hands, dirty and wet and numbing from the cold, and laced her fingers together where they pressed against her equally wet, dirty hair, to show them she was unarmed and not reaching for a weapon. She winced when her palm found the tender spot on the back of her head, and a dull thumping pain wove its way through the edge of her consciousness.

"What's your name? Rank?"

"Aurelia jen Laskaris. Third Cohort Medicus."

Both of them blinked at her in a sort of nonplussed surprise as if she'd said something wholly unexpected, exchanging meaningful glances between them. Aurelia herself was confused in turn by their reaction, but given the circumstance she didn't dare ask for an explanation.

" 'Medicus'." The roegadyn was the first to speak, her broad accent rolling like a crashing wave over the syllables of the foreign word. "Don't think I've heard that one before. Garlean word?"

"Ilsabardian. I-I don't-" she stammered, trying to explain, "I'm not- wasn't- in the fighting force proper. 'Medicus' means, it's..."

"Go on."

For a moment Aurelia was at a loss for words. She had expected them to understand she was just a field medic who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time (or right time, she thought wildly, all things considered)... though it was possible they knew well enough what it was and were simply making her sweat. The grimly amused tilt of the woman's mouth made her suspect thus- but absurd jest at her expense or not, she knew she was in no position to be defiant. 

Her exhausted and pain-addled mind raced, scrambling for the word she wanted. Shite, what was it...? Barber? No, not quite, though it was close; as a child she'd heard the local aan use 'barber' interchangeably to mean-

It clicked, then, and Aurelia felt a vague sense of embarrassment that she could have forgotten a word she knew so well even for a moment.

"...Chirurgeon,"  she clarified hastily. "I'm part of the VIIth Legion's medical corps."

Those light brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"You mean to tell me you're a healer and you were traipsing about the battlefield by your lonesome? Bollocks."

"No, not- I-I was dispatched as... as part of a-a unit. We got separated when-" When the moon dropped. She swallowed back the rest of the sentence, deciding it would be wise not to finish it, and kept her statement as simple as possible. "...that- I mean. In the fighting. ...I-I don't have a weapon. I don't even know what happened to my field kit."

"Idront." Her captor gestured to the elezen. "Search her."

Hands prodded at her waist, searching for anything hidden, then the soldier shifted the search to her sides and shoulders and she was looking up into the angular features of the elezen man in yellow. He met her gaze for a single instant before averting his eyes, his face a carefully neutral mask.

"Any weapons? Knives, pistols, or the like?"

"No, ma'am. She's unarmed."

"Then I'll take it from here. Move aside."

The man in yellow hastily scrambled backwards and almost fell on his arse into the mud trying to make space for the woman who was clearly his commanding officer. Aurelia barely noticed; she found herself face to face with the stern and unyielding face of a veteran warrior, staring into a pair of flinty dun-colored eyes. The roegadyn woman's lips were thinned with her obvious displeasure, set and tight at the corners.

A hand fell on her shoulder and with it came the kiss of a sharpened blade at her neck. Every muscle in her body stilled, and for a moment even the horrific pain in her hips was forgotten.

"I've precious little time and even fewer words to waste on you," the warrior said in a low, cold voice. "Not when I've allies in need of rescue, on account of the moon you and yours dropped on our bleedin' heads. So I'll lay out our terms. You'll either surrender now, without a fight, or you'll die trying to escape."

Aurelia's mouth felt as though all of the moisture had left it. Keeping her voice steady with considerable effort, she asked: "Should I surrender, have I any guarantee you'll not kill me regardless?"

"What they plan to do with you lot isn't up to us," came the sour response. "Doesn't matter to me either way what you decide, but you either leave with us or you die here. Your choice."

"You've no need to worry yourself about the possibility of escape. I cannot stand under my own power, let alone run."

She swallowed in apprehension, her heart pounding, unsure what they would do with this news. The woman stared at her for a long and terrifyingly silent moment and the scowl she wore was so fierce that Aurelia fully expected to feel metal dig into her trachea, puncturing flesh and tendon, choking to death on her own arterial spray.

Instead there came a heavy, resigned sigh and the blade was withdrawn. She let her weight sag against the reaper in relief.

"I am Storm Captain Bryngeim Ahrmbraena of the Maelstrom Foreign Levy. Henceforth, you are my prisoner. If at any time you should make an attempt to escape or cause harm to my squadmates, your life is forfeit. Do you understand?"

It was exceedingly likely that the Eorzeans meant only to keep her alive long enough to stretch her neck as an example, in the wake of all that had happened. After all, it was what Legatus van Darnus would have done in their place. But even were she able to do so, she knew that running would be pointless. 

She had nowhere else to go.

Not trusting herself to speak, she could manage only a single nod.

[chrysalispen]

i: de profundis clamavi

AO3 Link

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we looked for peace, but no good came, and for a time of health, and behold: trouble! ...the whole land trembled at the sound of the neighing of his strong ones; for they have come and have devoured the land, and those that dwell therein. --jeremiah 8:15-22

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THE CARTENEAU FLATS, MOR DHONA - 1572, 6AE

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||Hear||

She came awake with a wrenching gasp that was as painful as it was sudden.

Cramped limbs screamed in silent protest as they convulsed, slamming against the edges of what felt like a console. Trapped in a cocoon of lacquer and reinforced steel and cermet plating, she tried to cry out but all she could manage was a hoarse and rasping groan.

Above the loud pounding of her heart she could hear a steady, metallic rattle: one she finally recognized as the sound of water drumming against the husks of unmoving warmachina. One of Mor Dhona's frequent heavy summer squalls must have blown in over the lake. Otherwise-- there was only silence. Even the bright and frantic wailing of the raid alarums from Castrum Novum had long since faded into memory.

The world had been consumed in fire and wrath, but for the nonce she was still in it.

What had happened?

She could recall aught else of her first real battle with a clarity she wished she didn't possess, right up until the eikon's release. After that everything felt curiously vague, memory as muddy and opaque as the dirty water trickling into the small crater that the reaper’s impact had left behind.

Reluctantly she played through the last events she could recall in her mind's eye: the awful sounds echoing from without the relative safety of the VIIth Legion's infirmary pavilions, the glassy staring eyes of the dead and frightened screams and blood-soaked aprons and issuing dose after dose after dose of potions and remedies and combat enhancers.

There had been a call for teams to come retrieve wounded from the front lines-- that was how she had found herself in the thick of battle, but-

(she could vaguely recall the weight of her field kit as the strap cut into her shoulder even through the protective carbonweave that she wore beneath her uniform, carefully compartmentalizing the horror of stumbling over bodies as she tried to focus on her objective. sudden surge of maelstrom forces from the flank, caught and separated from her cohort amidst the skirmish, in a surge of scarlet so like and unlike her own.)

(pillar falling from the sky threatening rumble overhead monstrous shriek of rage and triumph fire and devastation when the moon split apart like a cracked egg and then)

(nothing.)

But what had happened?

||Feel||

Pain lanced anew through her body, arcing across her temples like an aether current and centering itself in her third eye in a relentless throb where it kept unrelenting and awful pace with her heartbeat. Her hands, raised instinctively to grasp her head, smacked uselessly against her helm. Spears of white light danced in crystalline shards across her vision.

Not that damned voice again, not while she was awake-

||Hear. Feel. Think||

She waited for more, dreading more, but the voice was gone as soon as it had come.

After a few shaking breaths the visual artefact passed with it (the pain remained, but she suspected that had more to do with the blood she could feel trickling from her scalp). It took a few moments longer before she realized that she was in almost total darkness save for a sliver of very dim light entering her space, visible against the back of the upside-down chair.

She had to figure out a way to extricate herself or she was going to drown in a few paltry ilms of contaminated sludge and rainwater.

After a moment's thought she wondered if she might be able to get some leverage by bracing her feet against the back of the cockpit seat and pushing until she had enough room to get free. She couldn't properly assess her physical condition in near-complete darkness, pinned and sinking into the mud by a few tonzes of scrap metal.

She took a deep and shaking breath and reached down, arranging her legs so that both of them pressed against the back of the seat. Seven hells, this was going to hurt. She hadn't broken a bone since she was a small girl of nine summers, when she'd fallen out of a zelkova tree in her own garden trying to impress her best friend by showing him how high she could climb. But she knew this pain well enough to recognize that the impact with the reaper had fractured something.

Naught else to be done. Pain is temporary; death is permanent. Get on with it.

She shifted her weight, braced her elbows in the mud, and pushed. White-hot agony blossomed out of her hips and shot upwards, setting her nerves alight. She groaned between clenched teeth, the sound muffled and deadened in the darkness of her helm--and she also caught the creaking sound of shifting metal.

Something had moved, ever so slightly.

Again!

Her gauntlets sank into the ground, water and thick mud pooling in around the elbows, as she braced her feet against the console and shoved with all the force she could muster. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, trickling in warm rivulets down her cheeks, as she kept throwing her weight against the wreckage over and over as best she could manage, as little by little the tiny gap of light grew wider.

She wasn't going to be able to move the reaper, of course, not any significant distance; she had hardly expected that would be in any way feasible. However, there was the possibility she might at least make a space that she could squeeze through and escape with some work.

Her hands dug deep furrows into the earth, soft and loosened by rain and blood and leaking ceruleum fuel, and over the course of the next bell she had dug a makeshift trench she judged just deep enough for her to fit. The pain of her injuries lurked just beyond, a large yammering animal, but the surge of adrenaline and hyperfocus had pushed it beyond current consideration.

Survival came first.

"All right," she muttered. "All right."

There wasn't as much space as she'd hoped---even a scant ilm of slippage into the mud while she tried to adjust her position, and her chest would be crushed beneath the weight of the bloody thing, and that would finish her for sure. But there were no other options available. All she could do was take the chance. She could deal with her hurts as soon as she was able to find a field kit, and failing that- well.

She'd improvise.

The nosebridge of her helm would only pass a hairsbreadth beneath the railing. But it was enough, she judged, only just, for her to get clear.

She rolled awkwardly onto her side, splashing into the mess that had pooled beneath the unyielding metal of the seat. Biting back a groan as the uneven landing jostled her hips, gloved hands grasped the lacquered edge of the reaper's reinforced steel railing. They slid perilously along the wet metal, water squelching out of the carbonweave, before she was able to get enough of a grip.

The moment she was able to find purchase she twisted her body to one side and dragged herself beneath the body of the reaper and out into the open field, ignoring the hot bolts of agony the movement brought with it when the flare of her hips cracked against the edges of the console.

Her nigh-useless legs trailed behind her, greaves catching and digging in the mud as she pulled herself through the gap and the fuel-slicked mud to higher ground. She pistoned her feet as best she could, pulling dead weight along the sides of the reaper until she could prop herself up against the lacquered hull in something resembling a sitting position.

It all seemed to happen in such a torturously long space of time, though it must have been only a brace of minutes.

She was soaking wet, filthy, and freezing, one and/or both legs were definitely not in proper working order, and there was a dull and unrelenting ache in her head. But at least she would not die of exposure or drown in tainted sludge while lying pinned underneath a dead warmachina. She was free, whatever that meant in this moment.

She stared at her gloved hands through her helm's tempered glass visor, trying to force herself to feel nothing, to push past it. Her commanding officer had always said that guilt on the battlefield was self-defeating but- all these months traipsing about the Eorzean wilderness, losing people to local resistance fighters and sickness from ambient aether and foul diseases and the local flora and fauna-

All this death and destruction had been for naught save one man's hubris, and she was left awash in bitterness and disgust at the futility of everything they'd done.

It had all been so bloody pointless. All of it. Naught more than pointless vanity.

That they had been so blind, and so arrogant-

The sight of the broken and burnt bodies littering the field made her feel like a distant and passive observer, witnessing the devastation around her through the relative safety of magiteknical contrivance. Most of the imperial uniforms were worn by the conscripted aan from far-flung corners of the Empire, dead in a fruitless battle for their masters' cause.

What of these trivial luxuries her people took not only for granted but as their due, while those less fortunate by a mere accident of birth were left to choke and die in mud and poisoned aether?

Still unsure of the reason behind the compulsion to do so, she started removing her armor. She yanked viciously at buckles and straps and metal clasps. Gloves off, then tassets, then gambeson: trembling fingers tearing at the buckles and clasps and ceruleum insulation as she disposed of it piece by piece, until her hands ached and her fingers bled and the only remaining piece of protection she wore were the greaves on her legs.

The helm was last. Once she had managed to pull the blasted thing free of the myriad straps and wiring that seemed to bind it in place, she flung it through the air and watched it disappear into the dark and the rain.

Almost immediately she was given cause to regret her recklessness. The scorching burn of fire-aspected aether seared her lungs on her next inhalation even through the chill of the wind, and the air smelled every bit as bad as she'd expected-- blood and sulfur and offal and death.

She coughed into the fabric of her sleeve and had just enough internal warning of impending sickness to twist her upper body to one side before she retched into the mud, overtaxed body convulsing from the spasms and fingers carving wet holes into the rain-slick ground. It was there she remained for some time, stomach heaving until there was nothing left.

When she pushed herself upright again she did so slowly and carefully. She squinted into the sheets of falling rain, trying to figure out what she should do. Through the thick smoke she could make out a few figures moving about the field, but she didn't see anyone she recognized from her cohort. It occurred to her that under the present circumstances, she should have found this fact worrisome. No black-and-crimson meant no allies. No allies meant you are behind enemy lines.

But after everything that happened it was a struggle to care whether or not the enemy found her in this state.

Did it matter now? Did it?

By ilms, by minutes, the pain she'd forced herself to ignore became more and more immediate, demanding her attention. Cold rainwater was steadily soaking into the black carbonweave suit, defying the liquid-resistant lining, straight through her smallclothes and to her skin. Her hair stuck to her face and the back of her neck in thick clumps, the wheat-gold braid absurdly still pinned in place but stiff and tacky with rainwater and dried dirt and blood.

It was getting harder and harder to keep her thoughts clear. She should find shelter. Somewhere. If there was any to be found in this godsawful place. If she was able to move any further---but she couldn't. Rescuing herself from beneath the husk of that metal beast had sapped the last of her strength and all that was left was exhaustion. And pain.

Unable to continue further, she slumped against the side of the reaper and shut her eyes, and let darkness claim her once more.

[chrysalispen]

ii. sullied, the whole world's fountains;

AO3 Link

In the wake of the primal's fury came the rain.

Hail and icy water, more suited to the autumn months than midsummer, beat down upon the ragtag remnants of the command pavilion, dripping in chilly rivulets from the slick oilcloth of the tents and turning the ground into freezing sludge. The back end of the storm cell that had set a raging blizzard upon the whole of Coerthas had ripped open from the influx of aether, confounding most serious rescue efforts.

The leaders of the realm's city-states and their military commanders huddled beneath the windbreak (for at this point it was little else), each in their turn staring out over the near-opaque haze of mist and smoke that blanketed what remained of the Carteneau Flats.

No one spoke in a voice louder than a murmur, rousing themselves only when messengers entered the area to deliver news. Dalamud's descent had disrupted and disabled most linkpearl communications, so the Grand Companies were in most cases reduced to runners on chocobo relaying messages from post to post.

Though none were thus far willing to say so aloud, most of the assembled were waiting for the storm's fury to lessen sufficiently that the Flats could be safely traversed and the dead could be cleared from the blasted wastes below. Any observer passing might notice that no voices were raised-- but just as was the case among the rank and file, the tension was so thick one could practically cut it.

Presently an elezen man in the bright yellow of the Twin Serpents knelt before Kan-E-Senna, proffering a sealed envelope. Conversation among the Padjal's circle faded from a subdued buzz to silence as they watched her take the document, crack open the seal, and unfold the parchment.

Pain twisted its way across her face as she read its contents, tilting the corners of her lips into a trembling downward arch.

"Seedseer?" Raubahn Aldynn said gently.

The big Ala Mhigan had a voice that carried and a laugh she could pick out in a room of thousands, but even he had been reduced by sorrow and shock to a shell of himself, forced to watch the endless parade of death along with the rest of them: the corses of friends and countrymen and adventurers who had fought beneath his banner, bundled into sackcloth and laid on a cart. There was some small hope for those who had been in the drop zone, but it was very small indeed.

He tried again.

"What news from the Twelveswood?"

Kan-E-Senna released a sigh that carried the weight of an entire nation.

"The Twelveswood burns," she said. "And Gridania fares little better. Fully half the city was destroyed. This missive is from Brother E-Sumi-Yan; he and the others go to quell the Greenwrath as best they are able. The Shroud will become nigh-uninhabitable in short order, I fear."

"Bloodydamned imperials," Raubahn swore, slamming one heavy fist on the nearby table. After a moment to collect himself, he continued in a quieter tone: "Will it spread, do you think? The fire?"

"The Wailers have protocols to build firebreaks. They are deploying 'round the large settlements." She folded the parchment and tucked it into her robes. "The worst of it is near the border with Mor Dhona, but this rain may serve to hold it at bay---provided the wind does not change course."

"If we need to deploy-"

"We have no one left here to spare as it is. I will have Vorsaile send people back to the Shroud as we are able, but we must needs take stock of what numbers remain." She turned to the runner, her kind smile strained at the edges. "Send word back to Bowlord Levin: Pray have the Black Boars aid in evacuations, and bolster all defenses at the firebreaks. They must hold, at all costs."

Timidly the youngster queried:

"What of the Garleans? They-"

"Will cause us no mischief now. The imperials have their own worries, likely to match our own. Now go, with all haste."

Hastily sketching a salute, the runner scurried out of the pavilion and back towards the post where he'd tied off his chocobo. She waited until he was out of eyesight before sinking into her chair and burying her face in her hands.

"Would that Louisoix's binding had worked," she murmured. "We won the day, but the cost..."

"I know."

"What should become of us all, if the Black Wolf--"

She didn't need to finish her question. They had brought their combined strength to bear against one, one imperial legion, and it was all the Grand Companies had been able to do just to hold them at Carteneau while the adventurers (which ones? her mind cried, overtaxed and frustrated and on the verge of panic. which adventurers?) had confronted Nael van Darnus at Rivenroad.

All here were painfully aware that the Eorzean Alliance had fought the Empire to a draw only because the XIVth Imperial Legion had elected not to take the field alongside her steel and magitek-clad brethren. Should they now choose to take advantage of the decimation Dalamud had wrought, Eorzea was in no position to offer even token resistance.

How will we recover? We have barely the means to see to the pieces that are left, much less-

Kan-E-Senna forced herself to push that thought away.

Time enough later to worry about Gaius van Baelsar. As she had said to the boy, the Black Wolf had his own problems, and she would not compound their woes by inviting trouble.

"Our own numbers were badly culled by the primal, and I don't doubt that Nanamo will have a damage report of her own for me soon," Raubahn said, into the prolonged silence. "But if there is aught the Flames can do to help, you have merely to say the word. U'ldah repays her debts. You know that."

"I know, General. Thank you." Her hands dropped into her lap, where they fidgeted anxiously for lack of Claustrum's smooth, reassuring grip. She'd propped the staff against the side of the tent where it stood still alongside the assortment of weapons from the others. "...I will be taking a unit into the Flats at cockcrow to search for survivors and heal the wounded."

"The storm will make it slow going."

"Even so, it is the least I can do. I would not sit here in relative comfort whilst others die in our names."

He did not protest further; both of them knew it would fall upon deaf ears.

"Very well. Merlwyb and I will take count of our people and our supplies while you do that," he said, glancing across the tents to where Admiral Bloefhiswyn stood in hushed conversation with her storm marshals. "We do have one more important matter to discuss before we adjourn tonight, and that's what to do with any prisoners."

"We are taking imperial prisoners if able, yes? That was what we decided?"

Raubahn grimaced. Her question was pointed, and for good reason; the argument on this point had been much louder when it had actually happened, and Kan-E-Senna had won only because Louisoix Leveilleur and the others had backed her (no doubt hoping for further intelligence-gathering), and now-

Now the wise old Sharlayan was gone.

Thal's balls, he thought dismally. So many faces gone or missing since the drop. And no time to take stock of the dead right now, much less scrape together the personnel for search parties.

"Aye, that's what we decided, right enough. You already know my opinion of it and Merlwyb's likewise, but we gave our word and we'll not go back on it now. She's passed the order along down her ranks and I've passed it down mine. For better or worse, if we find any of the enemy alive, we'll take them into custody where possible."

"Good."

"Mind you, I've told them if there's any too far gone or too hostile-" He stopped at her pained expression. "...I know, I know. But you are well aware these are likelihoods, Kan-E, and I'd rather not risk getting more of our people killed than we already have."

"Don't see what the point is in taking prisoners," Merlwyb said flatly, joining them at the table at last. Her storm-grey eyes fairly snapped with ire and her gait was a long and decisive stride; just as Raubahn's laugh could be heard in a crowd, Admiral Bloefhiswyn's very presence could fill a room on its own.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a waste of manpower, if we're just going to have them all swing from the hangman's noose the second they get back to the cities," she continued, leaning her weight against the other side of the war table with one hip and folding her arms across her chest. "I suppose it's not very honorable of us, but lining up the VIIth Legion on a gibbet is as good a warning shot as any to fire across van Baelsar's bow."

"No, Admiral," Kan-E-Senna said firmly. "I will not be a party to any such thing. No public executions."

Her blunt statement of dissent, as calm as it was quiet, cut through the agitated chatter of the gathering. As ever, she rarely raised her voice, but then she rarely found it necessary. Though the Padjal appeared young and delicate, all assembled in this room knew that the impression was a false one.

Even so, Merlwyb's expression grew positively thunderous.

"The White Raven dropped a swiving moon on our heads and we're supposed to what--let his forces frolic through the fields all the way back to Garlemald? To regroup so they can finish the job? You've seen the devastation!"

"I will be receiving a very close and personal view of it tomorrow morning. Far more than I shall ever want to see." She looked at them all in turn, her leaf-green eyes solemn. "I still say no. These people are prisoners of war and will be treated accordingly."

"War criminals, more like," the roegadyn snapped. She shoved her seat backwards in a gesture of frustration and braced her arms on the table's surface as she leaned forward. "And the distinction hardly matters."

"Seedseer, as much as I'd like to argue otherwise, she has the right of it. 'Tis not like the people of the realm will see it the way you do." Raubahn's rough-hewn face was pale, drawn, and haggard, for all that his words were carefully measured. "Should the enemy not suffer some consequence for the havoc they have wrought, we will be seen as ineffective--if not outright sympathetic to the Empire. Well you know that could cause trouble for all of us down the line."

"The majority of these soldiers were conscripts given little choice in the matter. To force them to-"

"People are going to expect-"

"...To force conscripts, Merlwyb," she repeated patiently over the angry interjection, "to pay with their lives for a circumstance they could not control goes beyond mere dishonor. It would be naught but cruelty, not to mention the very barbarism of which the Empire accuses us so freely. Such an act would only play into their propaganda."

"If Limsa gave a tinker's damn about the Empire's opinions of any of us," came the flat, matter-of-fact response, "we'd not have spent the last score of years and more harrying their patrols on open water."

She'd half expected that answer and couldn't help a smile. Still, it faded quickly as she returned to the matter at hand.

"Very well, then can we not agree there has been more than enough bloodshed on Nael van Darnus' account? On both sides?"

"Surely you don't believe the VIIth would have shown any of us the same compassion?"

"Of course they wouldn't ha-"

"Or," Merlwyb continued, "that the people suffering and dying for this folly will be satisfied with anything short of Garlean blood? Reparations must be made."

"And they will be made. But not like this, I beg you. Both of you." Kan-E-Senna cast a glance over Raubahn's shoulder, peering through the partially open tent flap to the cratered wasteland that had once been such an open, fertile field. Wreckage and earth were still burning in places below the cliffsides despite the pouring rain. "I harbor no more love for the Empire than either of you. But I look to what must be done in the wake of this disaster. What our people will need most desperately now, and in the coming days and weeks, is food. Shelter. Medical attention. What they do not need is a violent public spectacle, no matter how much their anger demands it."

"Then what do you propose?"

"Work-release, of course," she said simply, as if the answer were obvious. "We make of them wards of the city-states and set them to a labor of our choosing, then free them once their time has been served. They can help with rebuilding efforts. I suspect we shall need all the hands and backs we can find, and now is not the time to be selective."

Silence fell over the tent, then-- but Merlwyb was finally offering a slow nod of acknowledgement.

"A certain justice in that," she said, her concession somewhat gruff but no longer heavy with outrage. "They helped break Eorzea, so their punishment would be to help fix it."

Kan-E-Senna was far from ignorant of the particulars of statesmanship, and she knew that they should at least understand that aspect of her proposal, if naught else. As she'd hoped, it had struck true. The Admiral was, if not exactly mollified, a bit less eager for vengeance, at least in the immediate sense.

"That said, it's not likely that all of the prisoners are going to be conscripts," Raubahn pointed out. "There'll be purebloods among them too- true Garleans, not just the poor sods forced to fight under the ivory banner. Most of that lot aren't going to be grateful or cooperative no matter what we do, and I can't say I'm comfortable with the notion of a bunch of zealots walking free."

"I said nothing about letting any of them walk free, much less those like to remain loyal to the Empire regardless of circumstance." Kan-E-Senna left out a soft exhalation, relief lessening the furrowed lines that worry and fatigue had carved into an otherwise youthful face. "However, even in their case I do not think it fair-minded to condemn all for the obstinacy of a few. We will do what needs must, of course, but I would not put them all to the sword sight unseen."

The big man shook his head, but his expression was one of capitulation. Merlwyb wore a wry smile.

"I think you're being dangerously softhearted," she said. "But for the sake of argument, I suppose we can make the attempt."

"An attempt is all I ask. Despite our differences, they too are people." Kan-E-Senna's answering smile was serene. "And if I have learned naught else, it is that sometimes people can surprise you."

~*~

"Miserable bloody weather," Bryngeim Ahrmbraena muttered.

With an annoyed sigh the Seawolf woman braced one heavy boot against a mud-covered rock and wiped away a mixture of sweat, grime, and rainwater from her brow. In this weather about all the gesture did was move the dirt around her face. Mor Dhona's humidity was harsh enough in midsummer, but she'd vastly preferred the cooling canopy of the rainforest to the blasted waste it had become in so short a time.

As she took a moment to catch her breath, she watched the faces of the half-dozen men and women who followed her, their own faces pale and pinched with exhaustion -- all of them were running on next to no sleep, herself included -- and squinted into the smoke and mist and the sheets of cold rain to scry for any signs of life. For the last four bells, every now and then someone would catch a movement out of the corner of one eye only to be disappointed when it was just a battle standard or the bloodied ruff of a dead chocobo that had caught the northerly winds.

"Ma'am?" asked the yellow-clad Duskwight archer at her side, taking note of her scowl. Bryngeim glanced back over at him, then once again to the sorry lot trudging at her back, and wiped another handful of cold water from her face before adjusting the heavy axe resting on her shoulder.

"Ah, 'tis naught, Idront, pay me no mind. I was woolgathering for a moment. You haven't seen anything?"

The man's brow furrowed and he shook his head. Drops of cold rainwater flickered off the corners of his ears with the motion, but he barely seemed to notice. "No, ma'am. Nothing yet. Might be a good idea to spread the search out a bit."

"Hm. See if we can find anyone we might have missed? Not a bad idea."

"Yes'm. There's a sector a few yalms off-" he gestured to the vague suggestion of a shape through the mist, "-that isn't tagged yet."

It had been her idea to take a strip of bright-colored cloth from... repurposed Grand Company tabards, tie them to a piece of wood or any other bit of debris that might serve as a marker, and thrust them into the ground at set intervals to mark areas that had already been searched and cleared.

Some had thought it ghoulish, but to Bryngeim's mind the dead were hardly able to make use of the fabric; better they be used to enable the survival of the living.

"All right. Just keep your eyes open. Don't stray from line of sight." For all they knew the enemy was still out there, looking for likely 'savages' to cull. "Call if you need us. And if you come across anyone too far gone..."

She trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence. Idront looked away from her, the protrusion in his throat bobbing visibly when he swallowed at the implication of her words- but he gave a short, resolute nod before striding off into the wet haze. While they all agreed that it would be the height of cruelty to give anyone false hope, that didn't mean any of them relished the idea of putting down one of their own.

Of all those who had survived the crimson moon's descent, a few hundred survivors among the combined Grand Company units were able-bodied enough to take on active duty. Bryngeim's captain in the Foreign Levy had relinquished his command; his last act had been to suggest that each squad should take quadrants of those portions of the field that were still passable and search for survivors.

The surviving commanders in the Maelstrom had enthusiastically agreed to the notion, and for the last twenty-seven bells they'd been sending units out in shifts. What had truly amazed her was the way all of them, without really much discussion, had cobbled together what functioning units they could until further notice.

Thus far, they'd only managed to clear a small segment of the area a quarter-malm beyond the cliff where the interim camp had been struck. All of the reformed units were now taking turns looking for more survivors, with mostly middling success. They were to check every corse on the field for signs of life, without exception. Many allies had been trapped underneath destroyed machina, or beneath the dead themselves: too injured to walk under their own power but perhaps still able to be saved by the few remaining healers if their hurts were tended quickly enough.

It was dirty, grim, and thankless work, for all it was necessary. Every minute of every bell counted: every breath spent in idleness a breath that might be stolen from an injured ally awaiting rescue.

And further searches were becoming nigh impossible, now that the weather had taken such a poor turn. The temperature had plummeted in the space of the last eight bells, and a supercell had blown over Silvertear Lake, part of a massive front that scouts said was dumping snow on Coerthas in the middle of the damned summer, seemingly out of nowhere.

Worse, the storm had broken open over the Flats on the latter side of their shift. Had there been a better outcome they'd all be back at the campground seeking shelter in the mess pavilion with a pint and a bowl of whatever currently passed for rations until the worst of the storm had passed. But the sky wasn't going to stop pissing rain just because she didn't like it.

In the meantime, night was falling fast and the haze from the rain and lingering smoke had made visibility even worse.

By the Navigator, we'd be that lucky to find even one person as things are now-

There was a tug on her sleeve.

"Oi, Bryn."

"Hn?"

K'luhia Zhisi, a fellow privateer in the Limsan navy and sergeant as of twelve bells past via dead man's boots, was leaning in a conspiratorial sort of fashion towards her. The rogue's gaze drifted briefly towards the newcomers to their group before they settled on her friend's face.

"Guess I should've asked before, but... ye never said what the higher-ups wantin' us to do with the ruffmans?"

"Eh?"

"Garleans," she clarified. "Should we find any still breathin'. Are we supposed to... you know..."

Bryngeim faltered.

"Ah. That."

"Aye," K'luhia said with somewhat exaggerated patience, "that."

Shite. Obviously she'd meant to say something to the others as part of their briefing, since it was just as likely they'd find survivors from the enemy ranks as their own and they all needed to be prepared for that eventuality. But in the rush and the unending grind of the search and her haphazard attempts to fill her superior's shoes, compounded by encroaching exhaustion, she'd just... well.

Godsdamn it all, she'd forgotten to brief them about prisoners. Of all the basic things she could have forgot-

Twelve, L'sazha, why'd you have to go and get yourself killed?

Bryngeim pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head with a weariness that was in no wise an exaggeration, pushing past her grief. She had her orders regarding the imperial soldiers, all right---and she misliked them heartily, and she knew the others were like to favor them even less, but there was no help for it now.

"Brass says put down any that're too hostile or too wounded, but otherwise we're to take prisoners back to the camp and hold them until they can be moved."

As expected, a fierce scowl creased her underling's brow, nearly matching her own. "What- why?"

"You never mind the 'why', Lu. Ain't ours to be asking."

"The hells are we saving 'em for?!" K'luhia fumed, her ears flattened against her head with her displeasure. "They're murderers, thousands of times over! They deserve worse than death! If I were in charge I'd-"

"Sergeant." She saw the woman's twitching tail and ignored it. "You have your orders. Don't make me repeat them."

The rogue made something like a feral growl in the back of her throat but otherwise kept her retort to herself, sheathing the dagger in her right hand with an almost savage thrust.

In truth, Bryngeim wished she could agree aloud, but doing so would only undermine what little authority she had. She could not fault her subordinate for her anger. The breadth of her own grief and fury seemed nigh boundless and she didn't for a moment think she was the only one.

How many good men and women had they lost? Her own captain and best friend lay dying slowly and painfully in the Alliance's makeshift infirmary, his body burned nigh beyond recognition by Bahamut's unholy fires, beyond saving even by magical means, and he was but one of many. Scores more had died to the Empire's damnable war machine. Already there were rumors trickling down from the command pavilions that debris from the fallen Dalamud had laid waste to entire villages, that parts of the Twelveswood were on fire, that Limsa had partially collapsed in on itself--even noncombatants hadn't been safe.

How many more were they going to lose? To weather? To time?

"Lu, look-" she began, but before she could continue there was a shout some few yalms distant:

"Ma'am! Captain Ahrmbraena, ma'am, come quickly!"

[chrysalispen]

(Reborn by Fire) iv. calling from sad shires

AO3 Link (pending)

The truly heinous scowl on K'luhia's face as she stormed back into the clearing was more than enough of a clue to Cheerful Sparrow that something had gone awry. But she didn't call for reinforcements even though she looked fit to chew nails and spit ingots, so he thought it mustn't be much in the way of an emergency.

"...What's got under your bonnet, lass? Where's-"

"She'll be along," the rogue snapped, hands on her daggers, and strode past them to perch upon the ruins of a nearby colossus.

Sparrow shook his head with a rueful grin. At forty-nine winters, the burly Hellsguard was the veteran of the group, old enough to be father to most of the youngsters in the Levy, let alone this ragtag unit. Like himself, Bryngeim and K'luhia had been adventuring freelancers before answering the thassolocracy's call to arms. After two years fighting alongside her, he could read Lu Zhisi's spates of ill temper like an open book.

Some things never changed, he supposed.

He squinted up at the roiling sky, ignoring the raindrops that pelted onto his cheeks. "This storm ain't givin' ground any time soon."

"It's nigh impossible to see anything in this, Captain Ahrmbraena's right about that much," said the other man at his back with a heavy sigh, drawing his yellow overcoat tighter about his shoulders. "Should we go look for her?"

"Eh, don't worry yourself, lad. Cap'n used to say it weren't a proper mission until them two nigh came to blows over something. Sure wish he was here, though, even to keep the peace. Bryn's a good and sensible lass, she'll be a good officer once she gets her bearings. But it's just not the same."

The grating scrape at their backs broke both men out of their conversation. K'luhia had pulled her whetstone out of her bag and she was running it against the edges of one blade, the noise somehow both ominous and grating. After a few minutes of letting her stew in silence Sparrow cleared his throat, clapped Edwin on one shoulder, and ambled over towards the overturned warmachina she'd commandeered.

"Lu," he said.

K'luhia didn't acknowledge his approach, but he saw one of her ears flicker and swerve in his direction.

"Come on, we don't have time for this right now. You and Bryn will have to work it out back at camp."

Scrape. Scrape.

He sighed.

"...Well then, let me know when you're ready to talk."

At that the Seeker set her whetstone aside and fixed him with a cold stare from leaf-green eyes, her ears now so flattened they nearly blended in with her cloud of wet auburn curls. The expression she wore was shuttered and neutral, but he could see the brittle heat of a surprisingly deep-seated anger lurking just beneath the surface. Whatever they'd crossed words over, he thought, it must really be serious this time.

"You want to know aught that's botherin' me," she retorted, her lips drawn back in an angry sneer, "then ask her."

She gestured impatiently with her drawn blade, pointing with its tip in the direction she'd run with Idront and Bryngeim. Sparrow's eyes tracked the blade and it was then he saw the pair emerging from the wet mist - with a third person cradled in Idront's arms. Bryn's face was a thundercloud, and Idront... well, the Duskwight looked about the same as he ever did, really.

"Sparrow," their captain called, pointedly ignoring the Miqo'te who radiated hostility from her perch, "come here. I need your help."

As he drew close he saw that Idront was struggling with his burden, which was passing strange. The man was not small nor weak and shouldn't have had any trouble carrying a willowy youngster like this--and then he saw why. One of the legs was turned at an unnatural angle, visibly shorter than the other.

"Take her to Edwin," Idront whispered, lifting the youth towards Sparrow like an offering. 

She was in a great deal of pain, he noted upon taking in the haggard face and glassy, half-opened eyes. He bore the woman the last few fulms to lay her down on the ground next to the conjurer, and even that small bit of movement was painful, if the strangled moan that escaped her throat was any indication.

"See to the prisoner's hurts," their captain said shortly. "I'll not have her caterwauling all the way back to base; she'll draw every bloody fiend for malms."

Prisoner? His eyes fell upon K'luhia, whose arms were crossed and whose hard glare was likewise fixed on the tall blonde girl in her strange attire. The Miqo'te turned her head to spit on the ground, in the most deliberate act of contempt he'd seen from her in moons.

"Aye, Birdy, yer ears're workin' just fine. All these poor sods what could be usin' our help and she wastes our precious time on a godsdamned imperial."

Bryngeim's mouth tightened angrily, but she didn't rise to the other woman's baiting. Sparrow, casting an uncomfortable glance between them and thirdly to the injured woman, cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.

"Cap'n, if I'm honest I don't know that we'll find anyone else in this mess. And now we've got a prisoner to worry about," he said, pointing at their captive. "There's a unit after ours set to take the same parameter. Might be we should put down the yellow marker so they know it's not been searched and report in. We found one survivor and that's better than none, even if it’s an enemy. We might still find others on the way in."

The note in his voice said he didn’t think so, but none of them remarked upon it. Bryngeim let out a heavy, regretful sigh, running her fingers through her soaking wet hair.

"Suppose you've a point. I just hate leaving when-"

"We all do," he said gently. "But there's little help for it. There's teams comin' after us that can keep up the search so if there's aught to find they'll find it. We'll be back at this after some rest anyroad. Your call."

Edwin meanwhile had turned his attention to the woman, kneeling at her side and bracing his hands on her cold, pale cheeks. His fingers drifted lightly over the spot of dried blood on the back of her head. "What happened to your prisoner?"

"The head injury's of no import," the prisoner rasped. "Superficial. I'm fine."

"You're not 'fine'. You look half dead." Edwin's hands were already moving, pressing and testing along her neck, arms, collarbone, ribs. Sparrow had seen him work on several wounded in the last few bells and knew the Gridanian's touch would be careful, but even so he could see the woman's jaw clench tight as he reached her hips. It was difficult to watch, though he imagined he was probably the only one feeling much in the way of pity.

The conjurer sat back on his haunches for a moment.

"I've good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"I suppose that depends," came the hoarse reply. "Am I beyond aid? Does your Miqo'te friend up there get to use me as a striking dummy after all?"

"Not unless you've a mind to try and run, and that shan't be happening anytime soon. Your hip's slipped its socket and I'd wager the leg's broken. I'll do what I can to put the joint back in place without causing further damage, but setting the break will have to wait until we're back at camp."

"Anything you do will be better than leaving it like this." She took a deep breath. "I imagine you already know what to do."

"Aye. I'll make it as fast as I can, but it's going to hurt."

"I was hardly expecting it to be pleasant. Just make sure you ali--shite and hellsfire," the Garlean swore as he wrapped one hand about her still-armored calf. "--align the limb first--"

"Let me worry about that."

It took Edwin a good few minutes to position her leg properly before he set to work. All conversation fell silent, the rain punctuated only by the prisoner's harsh and truncated breathing. She'd grasped Sparrow's forearm for purchase and her fingers had dug in so tightly he could feel the pinprick sting of her nails breaking his skin. She'd borne it without any complaints, though, and he couldn't help but be impressed by that.

Seeming satisfied for the moment, Edwin looked at Bryngeim.

"Whenever you're ready to move, Captain. One of us will still have to carry her. But we'll be able to move without drawing attention if there’s imperials about."

Still locked in a haze of pain, Aurelia didn't even cringe when Captain Ahrmbraena's stride came to a stop in front of her. It had taken a supreme act of will to keep herself from another bout of dry heaving. Her leg burned and her head ached and dully she wondered why she had been spared at all. 

It was the rattling sound of iron chains that finally drew her attention back to her captor's face. A pair of somewhat flimsy-looking manacles were clasped in the woman's hands. "Never had cause to use these before today. Hold out your hands."

"Is this truly necessary? I've given my word-"

"Aside from the word of an imperial meaning piss all, I don't hold with special treatment for enemy prisoners. If you weren't too injured to walk I'd drag you across the godsdamned battlefield. Now hold out your hands."

Biting back further protest, Aurelia obeyed. The metal was soaking wet and freezing cold to the touch, and it weighted down her arms as the hasps locked shut.

"Sparrow here," a quick jerk of the head in the direction of the salt and pepper-haired roegadyn who'd assisted their medic, "will carry you back to the camp infirmary. You will not speak to anyone unless you are directly addressed. If you have a request to make, then you make it to me and only me."

"I-... yes. Understood."

That stony, disapproving glare again.

"Yes, what?"

The Garlean felt a whiplash surge of incredulous fury at the other woman's insolent tone before it was smothered by an acute sense of shame. 

Although she wasn't part of a combat unit, she had some knowledge of what the VIIth Legion had done to its own enemy prisoners in the past on Nael van Darnus' orders. Captured rebels and imperial defectors processed in the castrum brig to await trial and execution - the precious few given any such courtesy - were treated exactly like this; their names were usually the first thing taken from them.

She could not reasonably expect her own treatment at the hands of her captors to be aught better, now that their positions were reversed. In truth, such petty indignities were like to be the very least she should expect, the situation being what it was. The Eorzeans could do far more than simply not afford her the use of her name.

And there were fates worse than a hangman's noose.

"Yes, Captain.”

"Much better. Sparrow, if you would."

~*~

They spent the next bell stumbling across the blasted crystal and corpse-littered remnant of the Flats, all of them soaked in rainwater, the fabric of their uniforms splashed with a thin and unpleasant-smelling layer of mud. 

Aurelia absorbed the cold fact of her captivity in tense and painful silence, trying not to make any noise at the roegadyn's heavy footfalls. Captain Ahrmbraena's order to the big, grizzled man called Sparrow to carry her was something she'd found surprising, a small and unexpected concession. Every step he took sent pain jolting through her body, but she bore it as best as she could manage given little other recourse, arms twined about his neck, the manacles binding her wrists keeping her from dropping them to her sides or into her lap even if she'd wanted to.

She tried not to look at the battlefield, at the countless dead on both sides scattered over the ravaged and despoiled land, but the stench was impossible to ignore. It was an awful, cloying reek of incipient decay and charred flesh, and it made her eyes water. 

Surely, she told herself, it was just that. Not the whispers of self-loathing coiling in her own mind.

"Ye doin' alright, lassie?"

Aurelia blinked up into the lined, bearded face. She'd received a range of reactions from her Eorzean captors, running the gamut between open hostility and cool and distant civility. The former intimidated her less than the latter, as she knew the coolness was a veneer of professionalism that could be breached at any time for any reason. 

But looking at this man, she saw only concern.

"I can ask the captain to stop a moment if you need it," he said. "That leg must pain you somethin' fierce."

"I-" She hesitated for a moment, unsure if speaking was allowed in this instance- but then their commander had said she could speak if spoken to, hadn't she? "I'm... I'm all right for now. Just... cold."

"Aye, this wind's gone right through me as well." The smile he gave her was kind, and for an absurd and terrifying moment she thought she felt the burn of tears. "We're almost arrived. The infirmary's terrible short on healers, but I'll try t'make sure you're seen as soon as possible. If naught else Edwin can help patch you up, once we're in a better place to-"

"Sparrow, you're not here to make small talk with the prisoner," Captain Ahrmbraena barked from her position. "Eyes on the field."

He cast Aurelia an apologetic glance and did not continue the conversation further.

By the time they reached the Eorzeans' camp, it was too dark to see aught of the Flats, and for that she found herself grateful. The encampment itself was a series of quickly pitched tents near the cliffsides, on a path that rolled upwards to the escarpment. A few malms south, she knew, lay the town of Revenant’s Toll, the adventurers’ city. 

Men and women in colorful jackets, and not a few in other garb whom she assumed to be sellswords, milled about, gathering supplies, talking to each other, eating meals, entering and exiting their small tents. They paid neither her nor her captors any mind, aside from a few disinterested glances.

"Agilmar!" Captain Ahrmbraena shouted at a burly, tall Highlander, this one in a dark jacket. He held up a lantern, squinting in her direction, and the light from the fire crystal beneath the glass reflected off the falling raindrops. "Where're we supposed to take prisoners?"

"We've only got a handful at the minute. Over in a holding area just by the chocobo pens. Why, did you catch yourself a Garlean?"

Aurelia knew the Ala Mhigan accent almost better than that of the capitol. His presence here meant he was most likely a refugee of the invasion fifteen years past, and deserved ire or not, she cringed at the context that knowledge brought with it. Quickly she averted her eyes and tried to adjust her arms where they lay about Sparrow's brawny neck without causing herself more pain. Her wrists and fingers had gone numb from the awkward angle and the weight of the chains, another layer of discomfort above the keening ache of her broken leg.

"Aye. Just following orders is all," the captain said. Agilmar grunted.

"I'd not have bothered with him, myself. Zealots to the last, this lot. At least their conscripts're forced to enlist. But since you didn't cut 'is throat when you had the chance, I suppose we'll burn that bridge when we cross it. Holding area's over there. Near the chocobo pens."

She allowed herself a small peek in time to see the man gesture towards a small, muddy clearing that had been hastily fenced in and placed under guard. The holding area was little more than a dirt circle, with no shelter from the rain, containing perhaps two dozen people in familiar uniforms. Beyond the water soaking all of them to the bone, the prisoners all looked miserable and frightened, and the men and women set to guard them didn't exactly look happy about it.

"We're headin' to the infirmary first," Sparrow said firmly. "Prisoner's injured. Edwin and I'll see it done."

Captain Ahrmbraena nodded. "See that you explain the situation to the chirurgeons. They'll not be happy about us jumping the queue but there's naught to be done for it."

Really, she understood their anger. None of this would have happened had the Empire, frankly, contented itself to hold Ala Mhigo. She had even looked askance at this campaign, thinking it not only unnecessary but accompanied with a curious amount of subterfuge for something that should have been straightforward. But her opinions, had she felt safe to speak them aloud, would have fallen upon deaf ears. Save a handful of outliers like herself, the bulk of the VIIth Legion had been fanatically loyal to the White Raven. Not that their loyalty had amounted to much.

Worse, as far as she knew the Emperor had felt no particular compunction about the legatus' plan, one that could charitably be called "extreme."

Why do men always wish to make war?

She'd joined the army for practical experience, but she'd quickly found that the only way to keep her own moral compass relatively intact was to remind herself that her duty was to help the sick and injured, not provide moral judgments upon military operations. The fact that she was performing surgeries and healing people who were usually just sent right back out to the battlefield at the first opportunity was something she tried very hard not to think about.

As the veneer of duty had worn thin and the depth of the legatus' depravity became too obvious to ignore, it had become more and more difficult to convince herself of her reasons not to defect.

(Her gens would merely disown her for the act. Would they not then find a way to punish Sazha for her desertion, in whatever far-flung land they had sent him? she would ask herself. Or Lee?)

There were whispers that the Emperor's relatives were already bickering over the throne, as the old man was in his eighties and had still not named an heir -- and as awful as it was, she found herself wishing tensions would devolve into civil war and force the legions to withdraw. She let out a bitter sigh and let herself relax against the roegadyn's broad chest as he wound his way through the collection of tents towards the infirmary.

Mayhap if my people shed enough Garlean blood, she thought to herself, they shall eventually lose their taste for it.