The skies are already dark by the time the Warrior steps out of Lyhe Ghiah, Feo Ul

in tow.
Around them, pixies gasp in awe at the glittering stars overhead. The night paints
fresh shadows across the land, punctuated by the glow of plants and insects -- and
the Scions, still fighting against Eulmore's armies at Lydha Lran, look up to see
the sight of amaro crossing the lake with a brilliant set of wings escorting them.
It is chaos after that. Courage renewed, the pixies dart away from their attackers
and unleash every trick they have on hand, enthusiastically jumbling enchantments
together without caring what magicks they mix. Leafmen shrink to the size of
rodents, wobbling like flan. Sheep bob gently upside-down, bleating softly as their
fleece dyes itself in shades of brilliant pink and red. Fuath and Nu Mou join
together to drive the soldiers away, their intentions in harmony for once instead
of antagonizing the other.
After the tumult dies down -- Eulmore in retreat, Ran'jit stalking away in
irritation -- the pixies swarm in glee. Even the Fuath are well-behaved for once,
gallivanting arm in arm with one another across the cobblestones, splashing wet
trails behind them.
The Warrior turns his head up towards the sky, adjusting the massive greatsword on
his back. Feo Ul's wings are a spot of crimson beside him, hovering in pensive,
uncustomary silence.
Alisaie, batting away one particularly jubilant pixie, jogs to his side. "It's good
to see you both hale and whole! Everyone keeps saying something about there being a
new King?" She peers expectantly overhead, searching the night for any sign of
proof, though it is too late; the King has already vanished, a brief starburst of
gold and orange that had shone like a pyre. In the castle, new lights are beginning
to sparkle in the windows, causing the stained glass to gleam like gemstones. "Was
that Titania up there?"
When neither Feo Ul nor the Warrior speak, she prods again. "That is the new King,
correct? Not some well-spun illusion?"
With a jerk of his head, the Warrior reorients himself back to her question. "Aye.
Feo Ul and I met with a... pixie who had strayed near to Lyhe Ghiah," he explains,
halting and clumsy, as if he has forgotten how to speak at all. "They lent their
aid to me as we struggled against the Lightwarden, and during the battle, they took
on both my aether and seeming to protect themselves from the Light. When the time
came, it made sense for them to assume the duty of Titania in my stead -- else, I
would have had to leave this life behind forever, and stay in Il Mheg myself."
The news seeps through the assembled Scions as they straggle over to the Warrior,
detaching themselves from the revelers. Alphinaud is the first to react, rubbing
his chin thoughtfully. "A fortunate twist of fate indeed. I, for one, would not
have wished to lose our dear Warrior. And the skies give us even more cause to
celebrate," he adds, gaze drawn back already to the heavens above. "Soon, we shall
free all of Norvrandt, and avert this shard's fate."
"Does the King still resemble you?" Imagination sparked, Alisaie latches on quickly
to that bit of information with similar glee. "'Tis a shame they did not come down
to visit us! I would have loved to have seen that. All we glimpsed from this
distance was a bit of color -- to witness how you might look as a pixie is
something that I dare not pass up."
Minfilia makes an equal cry of delight at the thought, clapping her hands swiftly
over her mouth with a remorseful glance in Thancred's direction, as if expecting to
be chastised. Thancred, for his part, only shrugs with a wry smile.
But in the babbling excitement of the newfound evening, it is Urianger who --
frowning -- asks the strangest question. "With such a play of semblance, I fear I
must inquire: when thou didst fell Titania, was it in thy direction to which the
Light did flow?"
For a moment, the Warrior hesitates, answer held upon his tongue. Then he inclines
his head. "To the pixie. Both that of Il Mheg's Lightwarden, and Lakeland's as
well. I promise you that they are safe. Either they were blessed already by
Hydaelyn, or the battle allowed me to gift my own protection -- whichever the case,
they are clearly able to contain the Light safely, or else none of us would be here
now."
The attempt at reassurance only sobers Urianger's expression further. The direction
of his next words is grim, lancing through the merriment of the celebration. "Needs
we must inform the Exarch of this change."
"Why?" Alisaie, cutting to the heart of it fearlessly. "His solution was to have
the Warrior go about and fetch every bit of Light available, wasn't it? If we are
fortunate enough to discover another with the blessing of Light, then that counts
for two among us who would be able to safely contain the corruption -- three, with
Minfilia's gifts."
Yet the logic does little to stem the discussion, for Urianger simply turns upon
Alisaie next, his mouth set in a solemn line. "Art thou certain they bear no risk
of turning?" he challenges. "To what final end hath the King been restored to Il
Mheg, should the threat be returned twofold through our own oversight? The entire
strength of faerie was needed before to cage Titania's powers. I would trust in the
Warrior of Light first, whose prowess hath been tested and found to stand fast --
and not bestow a new influx of tragedy upon Il Mheg."
"Enough. Leave the squabbling for later, both of you. Else Eulmore is like to
return and kill us all while we stand here gaping like newborn fools."
The command silences them all. One by one, the Scions glance towards the source:
the Warrior, glaring down towards the ground instead of meeting their eyes, head
ducked half-away as if to deny his own sourness.
But he calms after a moment, speaking with less heat. "There is no danger. There is
no one safer. Titania is far better protected than even myself, I would imagine."
Urianger frowns, taking an urgent step forward. "Ere we depart, pray allow us to
examine them for ourselves -- "
"I said, there is no danger!"
The sudden burst of temper flares in a snarl -- and this time, the Warrior has no
explanation. He turns away entirely, lifting his head once more towards the night
sky and all its stars, jaw clenched shut.
In the hush of so many startled faces, it is Feo Ul who intervenes. "Let Ul Tyr
rest," they say, their voice ringing in a merry chime. "They... he has been through
much. I will go and assist the King. Titania has much to learn about their new
role, and all of faerie will wish to celebrate both their ascent and the return of
the night. Watch the skies if you wish to see them take wing once more. As Ul Tyr
said -- they may look very similar to your friend, but they are not the same."
No. I am grateful for your offer, Feo Ul. But I cannot allow yet another soul to
pay the cost in my stead. I must accept the crown, and the consequences with it.
The aether from the Lightwarden's death had been excruciating to endure, flare
after flare exploding in lockstep, the vibrations coming so closely on the heels of
each other that it felt like one single prolonged detonation. The Warrior's voice
had been an echo through it all. Each syllable had boomed like drums underwater,
rippling into distortions, parroting a heartbeat that reverberated irregularly on
the edge of life.
Fray, barely able to keep his wits, had crawled towards the noise out of sheer
instinct alone. He had been unable to understand the words fully, only recognizing
the protest in them: a clear sign that the Warrior of Light was about to make some
headstrong, reckless decision that needed to be stopped at all costs.
The hum of wings cut into his hearing suddenly. A higher-pitched voice was replying
now, equal in its agitation. "You would lose your mortal nature, my beloved
sapling. To become a fae is not merely an extension of one's life. 'Twould be a
greater sacrifice for you than I, setting aside your mortal friends, your dearest
loved ones, and your home. You would leave behind all your sweet, fleeting fancies
of what you might have built for the future with them, and see the world as one of
us instead."
Struggling awake had felt like shoving his hands into a snowdrift where every flake
was razored glass. The doubled aether of two Lightwardens had already congealed
into a solid roar, drowning out Fray's sense of the Warrior. The abyss's flame
flared and vanished erratically like a candle in a storm; Fray forced his way
through only by following whichever strands of emotions he could find. Sorrow.
Regret. Resignation. A fresh wave of stubbornness -- and then a drive to protect,
one which refused any limits of sanity and was willing to make itself into a living
aegis, wide enough to encompass an entire world.
Fray caught it as it rose, the swell of devotion curving like the vastness of
Bismarck breaching the clouds into sun, and broke free past the agony of the Light.
The Warrior was shaking his head firmly, caught up in the grip of his own
convictions. "You told me that there would be rules, Feo Ul. Give as much back as
was taken, create as much as is destroyed. Give as much as is received." Turning
slowly in place, he lifted his head to regard the intricate windows spanning the
ballroom around them, monuments to what had once been a bustling castle; Fray,
dizzied from the Light, only found himself nauseated further by the motion. "Eorzea
has shown me that the duties of leadership are not to be taken lightly, whether you
are a revolutionary or a company brave. Your life as a pixie without those
responsibilities is no less precious. How can I treat it as a coin to pay for my
own freedom?"
The growing sense of dread had begun to roar like a flood -- not from the Warrior
himself, but as a clot in Fray's own heart. For all the Warrior's pretty words,
they were still the proclamations of someone about to nobly fling themselves off a
cliff and into the waiting maw of a tiger. He had begun pushing back angrily,
frantically; every time he tried to shout for the Warrior's attention, everything
felt muffled beneath the numbing cocoon of the Lightwarden's aether, smothering him
even as it swallowed his voice.
"I know I cannot make this decision lightly. I may not understand everything about
Il Mheg, but I understand that much." Step by step, the Warrior paced forward,
lowering themselves with small creaks of their armor until they were kneeling on
the spot where Titania must have perished, gloved hand touching the stone.
"Becoming King isn't simply a matter of lifespan. I would have to remove myself
entirely from any part of being the Warrior of Light. Otherwise, I would drag all
of Il Mheg into more than just the battle against the Lightwardens -- it would be
into every mortal concern, every political arrangement and influence, and I saw how
poorly that turned out for the Scions once already. Only by the balance of the fae
folk would I be able to act. I could no longer be the friend they knew. Not as
Titania."
With that, Fray felt the Warrior's fists tighten, a flare of anger sparking through
the man's soul. Then grief opened up next like a cadaver's ruptured belly, and Fray
could not stem the flashes that roared through both their minds: that of elezen
ears and pale hair, blood on stone, a broken shield.
"Is this truly what it comes down to?" The bitterness in the Warrior's voice could
not disguise the cesspool of his self-loathing, ripe and rotting. "Where I must
stand aside once more, and pretend that it is fair for someone else to bear the
responsibility for my actions -- when there is still the chance to do better this
time?"
With a kick of their feet, Feo Ul had lifted higher into the air, flitting closer
to look into the Warrior's face -- and then even nearer than that, veering towards
the man's eyes like a bloodthirsty hornet, and Fray had the sudden, startled
impression that the pixie was somehow seeing him.
"There is," they said, "another option."
"What?" the Warrior had asked, startled, but Feo Ul hushed him with a tiny hand
upon his nose, their wings glittering frantically in the stained glass of the
castle lights.
Not taking their gaze away, they spoke slowly, making each consonant as clear as a
vow inscribed in steel. "Well? Will you be the Warrior instead, my dear Ul Tyr? To
let your Sigun Tyr become King and live in glory with us forever, while you carry
on the thankless task of battling endless beasts, unrecognized save by the name of
another -- to die, mayhap, in some empty corner of the world, far away from the
rest of your soul?"
There had been no doubt as to the answer.
"Yes," Fray had said. "I will."
The words still linger on his tongue even as the Scions make camp for the evening.
The view from Lydha Lran is a paradise of color. The lake gleams with rainbow
reflections, its currents rippling with newfound potency as the Fuath dwelling
within gyrate in glee. There is still a ways to go before the border of Lakeland,
particularly when traveling on foot; the amaro have their own affairs to tend to,
and so the Scions are left to bear witness to the night in all its revelry.
Over at Lyhe Ghiah, fresh lights glitter as the pixies dart back and forth towards
the castle. Titania is larger than them all, soaring through the sky in long,
swooping arcs, like a banner let loose to flirt eternally with the clouds. The gold
of their wings leaves shimmering trails that dust the air in aether. Distant echoes
of laughter announce the King's presence whenever they sweep by overhead, the
emerald of their gown rippling velvet-dark against the night while every faerie
nearby shrieks piercingly in unified delight.
Swirls of other pixies take to the air to join Titania's escort, giggling as they
spiral through the sky. Fray watches them soar, a flock of jubilant sparrows
against the stars. From this distance, all he can see of the King is a blot of
color: a flower of orange and gilt, like a sun upon its first voyage, or a meteor
that never needs fall to earth.
Already, he can feel exhaustion starting to burrow into his bones, both physical
and mental. Lying to the Scions had been difficult enough. Trying to uphold an
illusion of the Warrior's patience had made it worse. Fray will need far more
practice to maintain the lie for any length of conversation. It had already been
more trouble than it was worth to discuss what had happened to the Lightwardens'
aether -- but it is impossible for Fray to conceal that particular change. Rather
than try to pick and choose the necessary balance of aether based around aspected
elements, his separation from Titania had been performed along the polarities of
Astral and Umbral, Dark and Light -- which meant that the energies which went to
form Titania's new body had resulted in taking the aether of the Wardens with it.
Fray had been even more displeased than Urianger upon discovering that.
But there was nothing else to be done. Neither he nor Titania had had any choice in
the matter, not when they were lucky to have pulled off such a feat at all.
Even so, the discomfort in his muscles shows no signs of fading. Fray has rarely
held the reins of control completely, but he can already tell that something has
been drained from the body which he and the Warrior once shared. The hum of the
world around him feels off, skewed somehow, too sensitive in some ways and dulled
in others, as if there is water trapped in his ears after a swim. Feo Ul had warned
him that the division would have side effects, but the pixie's words -- that he was
all smokey now, smokey and swirly -- hadn't offered much insight into what to
expect next.
And there is something far worse than mere aether which he lacks. For the first
time in Fray's existence, his mind is silent of all but his own thoughts. Only a
rigid emptiness remains, like a paralyzed lung that refuses to exhale. Everything
is quiet. He can feel a distant pull towards the Warrior -- Titania now -- like a
tug upon his chest, leading him back towards Lyhe Ghiah, but that is all. Their
soul is gone from his side. Instead of the connection they once shared, Fray will
have to guess at their future reactions and emotions, relying only on what
knowledge he had of them before.
This must be what it's like to be just like any other unfortunate fool out there,
Fray thinks grimly. Never knowing the inner hearts of your loved ones, never
feeling their pain as your own. Never being certain of their thoughts. A barrier of
bone and skin placed between them and you, forever, with doubt perpetually hovering
at the edges as you are forced to wait and wonder if they have begun to grow weary
of your existence.
"Are you well?"
Alphinaud's voice is an entirely unwelcome intrusion. Fray does not want to miss
even a second of Titania's parade -- but he must pretend that he is not hypnotized,
and so he glances down to the boy. "Merely watching the festivities. They certainly
have a great deal of energy, even after routing Eulmore's troops."
Grass whispers beneath the boy's feet as he pads over, boldly joining Fray's side.
"A thing of beauty, I must agree! I see our concerns for their ability to withstand
the Light were for naught. I am as eager as Alisaie to meet this new Titania and
exchange pleasantries with them. They appear in your form, but with wings, is that
it?"
The question would be uncomfortably close to mockery, were it to come from a
stranger -- which Alphinaud does not realize he is, in too many ways. The boy
speaks with ignorance and overfamiliarity, all the carelessness of one who believes
himself to be conversing with a dear friend whom they have survived wars and great
battles with. A trusted ally, who has always supported Alphinaud through both
sorrow and triumph, crossing the full length of Eorzea together and back.
Fray is not that friend. But he must pretend to be, enough that no one decides he
is a trick to discard in order to force the real Warrior to return. "They're a
pixie," he shrugs, and assumes nonchalance. "In time, they will grow weary of my
face and change it for a better fashion. I would be surprised if they haven't done
so already."
The ruse is sufficient; Alphinaud chuckles, planting his hands on his hips as he
surveys the glittering fields stretching out past Lydha Lran. "As long as it is not
myself or Alisaie," he agrees. "I do recall how free the sylphs of the Source were
in assuming similar illusions. This one and that one, dancing one and walking one,
even Thancred himself -- "
Fray closes his eyes with a short, bitter inhalation of prayer to whichever god is
foolish enough to listen. Even that brief exchange has already spent all his
stamina for pretense. Every one of his nerves feels exhausted and raw, scarred by a
loss that he cannot even mourn, for Fray was the one who insisted it be given away.
"Best rest yourself, boy -- Alphinaud," he catches himself, firmly digging out the
few memories he has of how the Warrior had treated the Leveilleurs before. "We've a
long road back to the Crystarium, and there may well be Eulmore's soldiers lying in
wait. There's no need to humiliate ourselves by routing Ran'jit here, only to fall
prey to him a few steps out."
Luckily, Alphinaud's distraction keeps him from noticing anything amiss. All across
Longmirror Lake, the Fuath have begun a new game, shooting up tumultuous
waterspouts which seem deliberately aimed at any low-flying pixies. "Back to the
Crystarium and away from here for the nonce," he remarks pleasantly, and lifts an
arm to cheer as one pair of pixies transforms an attacking waterfall into a pillar
of pink slime.
Fray ignores the fuss. Tomorrow, he must turn his back on Lyhe Ghiah and move on
from Il Mheg. He must pretend to be able to do this with eagerness and not regret,
when every ilm of him wants nothing more than to rush back up to the castle doors
and push inside, and wrap his arms around his missing heart.
The Exarch, unaccountably, looks equally horrified as the Scions describe the
night's return to Il Mheg. Though it is expressed in fractional ways -- the hood
obscuring the majority of the man's features -- Fray can read it in the rest of his
body. The Exarch's knuckles tighten on his staff, shoulders tensing as he angles
his gaze back and forth, as if something troubles him about the folds of his cowl:
some personal agitation that is trapped beneath the fabric with no other means to
demonstrate it.
But his voice remains calm and unflappable as he addresses the room, holding
dominion over the Ocular like an emperor at his own court -- despite his denials of
rulership. "Full glad am I to hear of your victory in Il Mheg, and of the freedom
of Titania! Their imprisonment had been a cruel one, and unbefitting of the memory
of the King they had once been. They were kind to me in the early days of the
Crystarium, and I am grateful that you were able to bring them mercy."
The formalities do not last long; even as the Scions are nodding, acknowledging the
victories won, the Exarch moves on swiftly. His attention swings back to Fray like
a gunner at the sights. "Yet there is more which troubles me about your tale. The
new Faerie King holds not one Warden's worth of Light, but two. We must consider
the risk of their continuing to contain it."
There is a peculiar delight in being able to distress the Exarch, Fray decides; he
savors it like a strong vinegar, letting only a drop of it console his appetite.
Circumstances alone have given him nothing but livid distrust for the man. There
are a million better ways to ask for help than kidnapping someone into a different
world and forcing them to labor for you. Anyone who can reach across the rift and
pluck people's souls like ticks from their bodies is a creature to be wary of. To
target specific individuals, no matter how clumsily -- to target the Warrior of
Light himself -- is as dangerous as an Ascian, particularly when battlefields are
involved.
Entire nations could be robbed at whim. And -- on a practical note -- Fray finds it
far more irritating that the Exarch did not simply purloin the entire Garlean royal
family from the Source, which would have been a much more effective solution for
any number of problems.
He shrugs at the first moment where he can interject a question, keeping careful
watch over his voice to sound optimistic rather than darkly amused. "Is there such
a danger? So long as the Light is contained safely within one whom it cannot harm,
why is it even a problem? The night has returned, and I need only gather the rest,
correct?"
As one, the room turns to him; Alisaie is the first to glance back, pointedly,
towards the Exarch, who clears his throat.
"Indeed," the man acknowledges. "Yet in matters of one's aetheric balance, we dare
not leave each possibility unexamined. The blessing of Light should render the
Light's corruption inert -- so long as it is held by one of sufficient strength.
Thus, the bearer does not become a Lightwarden, nor does the land around them
suffer the consequences. And yet," he continues heavily, tapping his staff against
the floor as he paces in a long, slow arc across the front of the room, "never
before have I heard of the blessing being spread across more than its original
recipient. Even the Oracle of Light has only passed it directly to her own
reincarnations."
Beside Thancred, Minfilia shuffles her feet nervously, her bootheels loud against
the stone floor. The Exarch does not call upon her. It is towards Fray that he
turns instead, watching him from beneath his heavy cowl, and Fray inwardly curses
the hood which blocks the man's eyes and masks his intentions.
All at once, the ornate staff in the Crystal Exarch's grip shifts its balance
slightly, the head of it rotating towards the Scions like a key rolling open the
tumblers of a lock. Overhead, false stars glitter in fresh constellations across
the crystal ceiling: either mere illusions, or a sign of the Tower's energies
gathering to its master's call.
Then the Exarch pauses, sighing deeply, as if some unknown reminder has pulled him
short. "But there is much we do not yet know fully about the nature of the blessing
of Light, as well as the Lightwardens. And, as much as I mislike the possibility,"
he continues, his tone softening even as the words themselves lean into veiled
warnings, "there is always a chance that the Light may not be entirely quiescent
even when nullified by Hydaelyn's protection, though it remains contained within
the walls of its cage. Without deeper investigation, we have no knowledge of how
your newly-shared aether may be able to protect Titania from afar -- or how it
might interact with their own magicks."
Fray does not bother to act surprised at the revelation, late as it comes. He could
feel the corrosive weight of the Light from the very first Warden they had slain,
nesting like a tumor against the Warrior's soul, forcing itself into the corners of
the body -- and harming Fray along with it. It had been hard for him to think
around its influence; now that it is gone, he is not enough of a fool to consider
such effects as mere imagination. It had never been docile, even with the whole of
the Warrior's strength caging it. The Light had always been a threat.
He, at least, knew all along about that part of the Exarch's lies.
Instead, Fray watches the other Scions. The twins react appropriately, dread clear
upon both their features. Thancred grimaces, looking weary rather than intimidated,
and rubs a calloused palm over his face before running a thumb across his cartridge
belt.
But Urianger -- Urianger only continues to look grim, holding his tongue rather
than launching into new conjecture, and that alone is telling.
This is no surprise to either the Exarch or Urianger, Fray decides. Another person
might have glossed over it, giving them the benefit of the doubt -- but Fray has no
time to indulge in such idiocies.
"Yet Titania was unaffected, and the skies are dark." He does not know the Exarch's
game. But it is clear that there is one, and Fray has just upended it. He fishes
again for more insight, returning to the same stubborn point that he had stuck to
in Il Mheg. "Believe me, if the new King had been at risk of changing, I would have
never survived to make it back here."
"And still, the chance remains," the Exarch insists. "As Titania is a being
empowered by nature itself and guarded by all their nation, it will be drastically
more difficult to monitor their well-being, and to perform countermeasures if
something were to go wrong. We would minimize the dangers by focusing your
strength, rather than diffusing it -- and also protect them as well, by taking that
exposure away from Il Mheg."
Once, the Warrior would have meekly nodded along with such logic, accepting such
decisions being made without their input, trusting in scholars and generals and
city-state leaders to declare what might be the wisest course of action. Fray
already knows he is not them. And, for some things even now -- knowing the danger
-- he cannot allow himself to pretend to be.
He takes a different tactic instead, one so blisteringly direct that he expects
none of the Scions have thought up a defense against it. "If Titania turns," he
points out, "then I will handle it, Exarch. Isn't that why I'm here in the first
place? So you can send me out like a pet hound to kill the Lightwardens in whatever
shape they come?"
The boldness of Fray's question draws even Alphinaud's gaze towards the front of
the room. Caught under such bluntness, the Exarch has no choice but to acknowledge
it. "Yes. This is true. But -- mayhap if we could simply examine Titania with our
resources, we might be able to evaluate the strength of their spirit, and put our
minds at ease. Mayhap they have... merely lacked the opportunity to fully consider
the risk."
The audacity of such a ploy earns a snort from Fray, bald-faced as it is. "I've a
better suggestion." Yanking off his glove with short, swift jerks to the leather of
each finger, he shoves his bare hand in the air meaningfully, displaying it for
scrutiny. "Examine me instead. I'll kill the next three Lightwardens, and you can
consider just how much injury I take. If you find any cause for concern before
then, you'll have your answer on Titania's behalf."
As a counterpoint, even Fray knows it's a terrible idea. As an option, it's the
only one he has. As dangerous as it is to offer himself up as a distraction, the
alternative is to allow the Scions to poke and prod at Titania -- and Fray might as
well bring about the rest of the Flood himself at that point.
The attempt backfires, however; the Exarch seizes upon it too quickly, pursuing the
lead like a hunting dog scenting blood. "Urianger told me that your aether had
taken on a different pallor," he remarks, and nods towards the same hand that Fray
has thrust out. "Polarized towards Astral -- which, I must assume, is the result of
what must have been all the Light within your soul having been bestowed upon
Titania. Luckily enough, it does not seem so severe as to not be capable of
recovering on its own, influenced naturally from your environment -- particularly
here, of all places, with the First in such disarray. But, until that occurs, it
may be far riskier to send you against even a single Lightwarden in your current
condition. Can half a blessing truly protect you enough?"
It is at this moment that Fray draws his sword.
The blade glistens with a blue sheen, capturing each stray mote of the Ocular's
luminescence as its own. Fray turns it around effortlessly, the entire mass
rotating neatly in his fingers as he aims it downward -- and drives it, uncaringly,
directly into the Exarch's finely polished crystal floor, so lovingly tended that
not even a scuff has defiled its facade.
Thankfully enough, the blade's point does not shatter, which would have wasted the
drama of the gesture. The stone cracks first, fracture lines cobwebbing out from
the impact, and Fray spares a moment of gratitude for Nero's obsession for his new
Scaevan works.
"It will be strong enough," he declares, and plants both hands on the sword's hilt,
leaning his full weight further into it. "Because it will be as strong as I am."
In the silence, he surveys the room, relishing the way all their protests have
dwindled out.
"Go on," he urges them softly. "Let us see exactly how long a dark knight can stand
against the Light."
He expects the Scions to give him a width berth after that as they all disperse,
trickling back through the Crystarium on various errands. Urianger elects to linger
behind, claiming some need for the Exarch's assistance in interpreting some piece
of Voeburtite history. Thancred and Minfilia disappear to the markets, with the
latter shrouded beneath a heavy hood to deflect too much attention.
But Alisaie drifts closer to Fray than to her brother, until Alphinaud finally
vanishes in the direction of what looks like an eatery in search of dinner, and she
remains. She is lighter on her feet than her twin, trotting along with her sword
bouncing lightly on her hip and her eyes fixed on some point in the distance -- and
perfectly willing to travel all the way back to Lakeland, it seems, judging by how
readily she follows along beside him.
Finally, Fray breaks the standoff first by coming to an abrupt halt; Alisaie stops
as well, so quickly that her boots cut a divot in the grass. He turns a considering
look upon her. "Aren't you hungry?"
"Alphinaud knows to bring back enough food for the both of us, or else he will sup
upon regret," she answers breezily, surveying the walkways around them. Then she
looks back up to him, and some of her brashness fades into trepidation. "I'll not
keep you from your business. I simply wanted to say..."
She trails off there helplessly as her conversational skills skitter out of reach,
pressing her lips together in firm displeasure. Fray can sympathize: far easier to
simply stab something, and call it done.
The crowd files around them, intent on their own errands and meal-taking. Fray
wrinkles his nose in a frown, but resists the urge to kick out to clear some space.
Finally, jostled by one roegadyn -- one galdjent, rather, another thing Fray will
have to learn -- Alisaie gathers herself and opens her mouth even as she continues
to grimace at the necessity of tact.
"You were with us when we discovered our grandfather's fate in the Coils," she
begins. "'Twas was a distressing experience, to say the least. Alphinaud and I
weren't exactly in the best of shape throughout. It... wasn't the best time for
us."
Fray lets her comment pass without protest. He barely has any recollection of the
place, all borrowed from the Warrior's memories during a few campfire evenings with
nothing else to talk about save poor stew and the costs of armor repairs. "If that
wasn't your best, it's still a damned sight better than most," he reasons. "You're
not drowning yourselves early in a tankard, like half the idiots out there."
She does not accept the easy way out, shaking her head resolutely as her braid
flicks back and forth. "It certainly felt like our worst at the time. And then with
that whole ridiculousness with the Crystal Braves! 'Tis a mercy my brother had you
there, or else I can scarce imagine how much worse it would have turned out for
him." With a snort, Alisaie rolls her eyes, and then gathers herself once more to
force her way through the remainder of the speech. "What I mean to say is -- even
if you're not at your best right now, Alphinaud and I are both here for you too. If
you need it."
If the offer had come from someone more fluent in diplomacy, Fray might have simply
turned and resumed walking. As it is, the suggestion feels pointless. It stems from
a foolish, misplaced loyalty to a person who merely wears a familiar face; Alisaie
would not say the same things to Fray if she knew the truth.
But the Warrior would have thanked her, and -- as Fray looks down at Alisaie,
seeing the grit in her expression, the determination that he can recognize and
respect -- he thinks about how she had stood up for him in direct defiance of
Urianger's questioning. How Alphinaud had simply nodded and not remarked on
anything being odd at all; a fact which, Fray had thought, was simple witlessness
on the boy's part at the time.
Even if it is misguided, he can appreciate the leeway of their permission. Two less
people for him to be perfect around means he can keep his energy focused on fooling
the others; Fray can appreciate that much, at least.
"Go on," he encourages Alisaie, not wanting to ruin her gesture by offering some
soppy, sentimental quip back. He makes another jerk of his head towards the
walkway, and feels his mouth quirk in a smile despite himself. "If you don't get
back to your quarters soon, your brother may well eat both your shares of dinner
after all. But if he does, there's a waterway right here for you to dump his
smallclothes down -- and I'm willing to help."
The Crystarium is different when it is only him looking out upon it. Fray hadn't
paid any particular attention to the glittering city when the Warrior had first
arrived, and now he discovers the cost of his neglect as he wanders around and
around in circles after leaving Alisaie, lost like a fly battering against the
crystal domes, trying to use the main aetheryte as some sort of guidepost and
continually getting trapped by all the wrong buildings in the process.
Everyone smiles at him. Complete strangers look at him directly, offering him
greetings that he has no idea how to answer. It's disorienting how they can all see
him, when he's so accustomed to being a whisper on the edge of the Warrior's
thoughts. Now every single person out there has the ability to interact with Fray's
presence, whether he wants them to or not; he can't simply fade away, manifesting a
temporary shell of aether and collapsing it again when he's done.
He tries to offer thin, half-interested smiles back, hoping to look busy enough
that no one might stop him for actual conversation, and rushes past.
The task is monumental. Fray has only his memories to go on, without the luxury of
rooting through Titania's thoughts anymore. He'd become accustomed to idly
reviewing faces and names as the Warrior had slogged through yet another Coerthan
snowdrift, browsing through the collected impressions like a disorganized library.
He barely knows anyone; he never cared before. He never thought he had to.
But now this is all his: his to preserve, and not to ruin, lest the Scions realize
how they have been fooled, and so Fray is in the position of having to at least
falsify the ability to care.
He skirts like a thief around the more populated corridors, getting lost in the
maze of the Crystarium's stairwells and nearly panicking when a merchant tries to
solicit him for a new greatsword. When he finally struggles his way to their room
-- his room now, only his -- he finds himself coming to a halt only a few fulms
within the door.
The Warrior's possessions are still scattered around their quarters. What few
supplies they had gathered on the First are left unsorted in various piles: a wad
of clothes in the corner, a few saddlebags for traveling by amaro. A motley
assortment of potions is lined up on one table -- either too weak for combat, or
too potent to use wastefully -- along with a cordial that needed to either be sold
or used. Even more knickknacks have been entrusted to retainers back on the Source,
their storehouses bulging with objects that were kept purely from sentiment --
sentiments which Fray does not share, and so all those items are meaningless now.
Fray stands there for a moment, half-expecting the body to move without him, as it
has always done before: its reins held by the Warrior, bumbling about their
quarters in the business of winding down for rest, idly setting aside their sword
and armor, and preparing for the next day.
He waits, and waits, and nothing happens.
Eventually, he hauls out a chair and drapes his sword and belts across it, pulling
off bits of his armor piecemeal and remembering -- vaguely -- the process of
eating. He picks halfheartedly at the dinner tray that is brought in when he asks
for it, stubbornly disinterested in the flavors of the food even as his stomach
growls for more. By now, the Warrior would have been undergoing the process of
washing their face and kicking up their feet on the nearest table like an
uncultured barbarian, shaking out their pouches of crumbs and stray coins, and
reviewing scribbled notes and missives from the day's affairs.
All of these tasks will not happen on their own. Fray is alone. He must do it all
himself.
That night, he haphazardly dumps the rest of their armor on the nearest table,
finishing off the last scrap of bread and gravy without savoring any of the taste.
He sleeps in a bed which still smells of the Warrior, breathing in the lingering
sweat and armor polish on the sheets, and when he wakes the next day -- blinking up
at the ceiling in confusion at the silence around him, hands and legs moving by his
intention alone -- he calls out three times for them in his mind before remembering
that it is no longer the name they answer to.
The ache of surprise that follows is already a dull one, settling into what he
knows will be a permanent spot in his chest. Shoving back the blankets, Fray gets
up, and readies himself for another day of pretending to be someone else.
He makes enough noise over the need to practice that the Scions agree to delay the
trip to the Rak'tika Greatwood, granting him a reprieve while they pack their
supplies, hunt out stray Sin Eaters near Holminster Switch, and look for gifts for
Y'shtola and the Night's Blessed -- friendly overtures for the latter, desperate
appeasements for the first. Fray slips through the gates to Lakeland in the
meantime, making a stern nod to the guards as he passes by in hopes of faking
official business.
The body is familiar enough. He knows its proportions, the way it moves. The
weaknesses that make it stumble. The slight hitch in the right knee that needs to
get stretched out if he holds a defensive stance too long: the result of an injury
back in the Coerthas Western Highlands, fighting yeti. But most often, Fray knows
the body as experienced through someone else. Only rarely had he ever stepped
forward and taken direct command; even then, there had always been another's
presence there with him, working in unified intent.
The greatsword fits well in his hands, at least. He makes a few test swings,
gathering up aether with laughable ease and shaping it in circles around his feet.
He works through the basic exercises, stirring up a sleepy anger to help him focus,
and then sets to work on the few triffids aggressive enough to lurch towards him,
vexed at his intrusion in their forest.
Killing them is barely worth the trouble. Fray focuses more on the flow of the
battle itself, shifting back and forth between postures of aggression as he gauges
the readiness of his own aether, now slanted towards whatever nonsense an Astral
alignment might entail. Summoning it has not changed. His spirit feeds him a steady
stream of emotions, allowing him to pick and choose at whatever impulse strikes him
next, so that he rolls fluidly from spite to pride, and from there into malice. The
entire act of combat feels as fluid as a limb which had always been held back
before by a cramped muscle -- and yet, something remains missing.
As Fray finishes his last sweep across the hillside, dispatching another
belligerent seedkin, he stops and stares at the ground as the adrenaline drains out
of him and shows him the difference.
It feels empty. He feels empty. Not from the actual act of slaughter; Fray did not
seek meaning out of it, and therefore isn't disappointed at what is merely a
physical exercise. But as the rush of bloodlust seeps to a sluggish halt within
him, there is no other mind that stirs to replace it. Battle had always been a
means to an end for the Warrior, not a pleasure in of itself. By now, they would
have inevitably reassured their will, counting their wounds and rallying their
strength for the next task ahead.
He already knew that they were gone. Ever since Il Mheg, he had known.
It is intolerable.
Ignoring the woods entirely now, Fray turns his concentration inwards. The abyss
has always been his cradle; his awareness sinks easily within the darkness,
undeterred by the sharp, lingering fragments of the emotions he had wielded in the
fight. Up until so recently, there had been other thoughts there. Other reactions.
Guilt. Hope. Curiosity, even. The Warrior's soul had always been so noisy,
chattering away even after Fray had taught them to meditate upon the abyss for
clarity. They had cared so easily about everything and everyone around them,
fondness leaking out of them at a moment's notice -- so that all it would take
would be a qiqirn or kobold tugging on their sleeve, and they would be off again to
save some filthy pack of rodents, heroically flinging themselves to rescue
creatures they had become fiercely protective of within only a few lines of quaint
conversation.
Even he had been included within their affection. The Warrior had known Fray first
as their teacher, and then as their darkside and opponent -- and then as a partner,
welcoming the other's presence freely, fighting side by side with a grin on their
face. There had been room in their heart even for him.
The abyss remains empty of any flame. Despite how desperately he strains towards
the thin thread holding his and Titania's lives together, Fray cannot hear a thing.
The massive weight of his greatsword slips through his fingers, plunging to the
dirt. He pays it no heed. All his attention is bent towards the abyss. There is a
connection between him and Titania -- he knows there is. And if he can only seize
it, use it to wrench open the doorway again between them, then maybe, just maybe --
"Oi! You there, stranger! Wicked white, you're not an eater, are you? Are you about
to turn?"
The shout rattles through the air like a wheelcart with a broken axle. Jolted out
of his meditation, Fray opens his eyes with a growl of frustration that he does not
bother to hide.
On the path down the hill, a pair of guards are peering up at him warily, their
spears already aimed in his direction. Both wear the colors of the Crystarium. The
shorter one must have been the one who had spoken, for she shuffles a step closer,
shoulders rigid. She is a miqo'te woman; her ears are flattened in distress, tail
lashing as she prepares herself for what she expects is an attack.
Fray can hardly blame the woman for her suspicions. He can well imagine the vision
he must present: a crazed madman out wandering the woods with a sword, standing
around just waiting for someone to approach him so he can drag them off to an
abandoned storehouse and leave a legacy of horror stories behind.
Then the other guard elbows her in the shoulder. "That's one of the Exarch's
guests," he hisses, clearly torn between puffing himself up with confidence, and
looking equally nervous. He looks just as green as her, though not spared from
battle; a still-healing cut puckers the skin over his left cheek, wadding it into
an angry red streak. He loops his thumbs into his swordbelt, trying his best to
look jaded as he grins nervously at Fray. "Just -- performing a foreign custom of
your land, I suppose? Envisioning your next fight to come? Praying to your gods?"
I could kill them both, Fray muses idly out of habit, and then -- when no voice of
refusal rises in his mind to keep him in check -- he closes his eyes briefly in a
resigned sigh.
"Yes." He shifts his eyes away from the miqo'te and back again, imagining the angle
of attack he might make, as if he could somehow bait Titania to leap into his mind
and offer a lecture against murder. "I was praying. No, you wouldn't recognize to
whom. You're safe to move along."
They leave after a series of nods, all too eager to depart without looking back to
see if he's chosen to pursue them. Poor training on their part. If Fray had betting
odds, he would wager on both of them dying within a moon.
He turns a grim stare towards the ground once the patrol has vanished back into the
woods. It is vastly tempting to blame his failure on their interruption -- but that
would be a pathetic form of denial. It is no use. If Fray could have found Titania,
he would have by now. He knew what it would mean when he volunteered to separate
from the Warrior; Feo Ul had not concealed the nature of their division.
Titania is gone from him now. This will be how Fray will fight for the rest of his
existence, free to use whatever darkness he sees fit to lash out at the enemy,
never criticized or restrained -- and entirely without company.
The truth never changes with each fresh sweep of his sword. He wanders through the
Forest of the Lost Shepherd, killing whatever he sees fit, and never once hears any
sign of protest in the back of his mind. With each beast he cuts down, the aether
flows smoothly from his will to his blade, leaping in ragged spikes through the air
and wrapping around him in protective warning. Each time another creature dies,
Fray finds himself waiting for the slightest whisper back.
Only at the end of it all -- as the sky begins to darken to night and Fray finds
himself standing in the middle of the woods waiting for a voice that never comes --
does he remember that he must be the one to head back to the Crystarium. He must
walk the path back, each step of the way. Go to his rooms, clean his sword and
armor, strip his soiled clothes off for washing. Possibly even eat, or drink
something or both. Sleep -- that has to happen as well.
Wake up when the morning comes, in a room empty of all save himself.
As a small mercy, he finds cause to return to Il Mheg soon enough -- without the
company of the Scions, thankfully, for every pixie he meets flutters around him
gaily, giggling and fawning over his arrival.
"Shove off," he growls, resisting the urge to grab them and spin them around like
pinwheels by their feet. "I mean it," he adds, poking a finger into another's chest
as they dare to flutter closer and play with his hair. "I'll squeeze the life out
of each and every one of you, and then let Titania yell at me about it later."
They dart away merrily, somersaulting across the flower-coated ruins -- and then
Fray watches them suddenly point at something over his shoulder, their eyes
widening with delight.
It is either a faerie trick or a faerie bluff -- or both, one leading naturally to
the other -- but either way, he wheels around just in time to see the leaves of Feo
Ul's wings descending like a hawk diving from the air.
At the last second, he leans aside far enough to miss the pixie's enthusiastic
attempt to latch onto his head, and smirks when Feo Ul tumbles end-over-end in a
failed attempt to stop their momentum. Shrieks of amusement erupt around them at
the sight, which rapidly transform into shrieks of horror as Feo Ul dives for the
other pixies next, chasing them back and forth around the overgrown rooftops.
Fray waits for the furor to die down, taking advantage of the pixies' inattention
to check on his armor. A few of the buckles need replacement. His left bracer is
chafing near his wrist, which he dimly remembers the Warrior continually forgetting
to attend to. Somehow, a luminous caterpillar the size of his thumb is already
trying to spin a cocoon on the back of his left boot; he picks it off sternly and
gives it a glare until it has the decency to uncurl and trundle away.
When Feo Ul comes puffing back, one leg coated in what looks like azure ooze, Fray
merely offers them a raised eyebrow and makes the mental note not to let them wipe
it off on him when he's not looking.
"Well!" Hands on their hips, the pixie stomps their dirtied foot in the air,
failing to shed any of the goop. "I see you've been gathering all manner of
admirers, Ul Tyr! I never!"
Unworried by the topic of faerie jealousies, Fray shrugs luxuriously, and hefts his
greatsword back in place against his shoulders. "It's Titania they like, not me. I
suppose I'm lucky that they accept me so easily. I half-expected to come here and
fight my way through riddles once more."
"We pixies are all born of another's aether," Feo Ul replies beatifically. Ire
temporarily sated, they flit forward along the path, rolling in mid-air with the
sinuous grace of an eel to make certain he is following dutifully behind.
"Therefore, you are natural kin to us in this manner, Ul Tyr. I look forward to
your wings as well someday. How lovely they will shine!"
The mental image is a horrifying one; Fray attempts with all his might to ignore
it. "And Titania?" The question is more panicked than he intends. All he had
thought about for the entire trip over was the conclusion that the Exarch had kept
pressing towards: that if Fray had been aligned towards Astral, then Titania would
surely be on the side of Umbral, and already overwhelmed by the balance of Light.
"How are they doing?"
Feo Ul giggles, performing another pirouette on the breeze. "You'll discover that
for yourself soon enough, Ul Tyr. Now, hurry up before the amaro take flight
without us, or else you'll have to swim!"
He spends the flight in restless worry, watching the lake ripple out below them.
Even knowing how thickly the lake is infested by Fuath, the sight concerns him less
than it should; the kami's blessing, thankfully, had stuck with the body, as far as
his experiments with his bathwater had panned out. Instead, he can indulge in
appreciating the clarity of the water itself, allowing him to see all the way to
the bottom, where the ruins of Deepwood -- and the bones of ill-fated travelers --
continue to slowly decay.
It is quiet in the castle, unexpectedly. Fray shoves the doors open with only a
brief push of his hand, the hinges either being engineered or bespelled to be
light. He crosses over the threshold without bothering to announce himself, hearing
the uncomfortable echo of his own boots ricocheting through the foyer -- and then
he is inside.
Titania is there.
The sight of them empties out his mind of all thought save longing. They resemble
the Warrior of Light still in so many ways -- but crowned, regal, sceptre in hand
and necklace around their throat. Their hair is long, a familiar mahogany at the
roots, but ebbing to the color of sunlight by the ends. Unbound, it drifts behind
them in a loose cloud like the flame on a candle or the roots of a fern, suspended
in unseen currents of water and rippling with brilliance. The silk of their gown
laps smoothly down their body, frothing open around their legs: a deep green that
is cousin to oak leaves or pliant summer's moss, and Fray wants to cradle them like
a newborn sun in his hands and breathe in the fragrance of everything they have
become.
But it is their wings which stand out the most, spread wide in a halo behind them
and gently flexing in time with every breath. Each one is like a jewel laid out
into ornate panes of crystal, tinted in shimmering oranges and fringed with wide
streaks of gold. Spots of light speckle them further, scattered haphazardly over
each wing, as if a passing rainshower had decorated them with water and each
droplet is reflecting back pure sunlight.
The pattern is distinctive enough that Fray scours his mind until he can recall a
brief, partial image of butterflies from the Source: orange framed in black and
freckled with white, stark contrasts that only serve to enhance the color within.
Monarch wings, he thinks. It's fitting in every way.
The previous Titania was like silver and jewels, blue oceans and amethysts. This
new Titania is like the earth in summer, warm and rich and growing. They embody a
forest that the Black Shroud itself would envy, its living seasons wrapped into a
single form -- and for all Titania's beauty, Fray cannot help the spike of fear
that wriggles into his chest as he realizes the significance of what that reveals
about the new King.
These are the colors of nature -- but of the forests of Eorzea. Not Il Mheg. Such
hues do not come from a faerie's garden. They are mundane colors of simple earth
and leaves, the world that farmers would expect to see while tilling their fields
and planning for the harvest.
Perhaps, one day, these colors will be the only marker left to prove that Titania
was once mortal, when all else has faded away.
But the illusion of ethereal perfection shatters as an expression darkens Titania's
face, one that does not belong on any pixie: that of sorrow, their mouth twisting
down in shame. "Fray," they begin quietly. "I am sorry -- "
"Don't." Holding up a hand, Fray strides forward, purposefully brisk and unworried.
"Don't even start. This is what I've always asked to have, remember? Control over
the body, while you sit back somewhere safe and watch. If anyone should be
apologizing, it's me, for getting you stuck with these crazed insects. How is it
like, being royalty now? Everything you imagined?"
He had hoped for levity to do the trick, but Titania only makes a small, half-shake
of their head, the kind that Fray recognizes as pensive despite how much they're
trying to convince the world otherwise. "Feo Ul was right. It is hard to be King."
Their arms cross tightly in dismay; even their wings tilt inwards. "I keep
reminding myself not to worry about the rest of the First, or even the Source, and
it seems impossible at times. It was good that we agreed I should avoid the
Crystarium and the Scions while you settle in. Otherwise, the temptation would be
too strong to try and help. To give Lakeland better crops to help the refugees from
Holminster Switch, or offer spies to investigate Eulmore, or to dig up all the coin
of Voeburt for the Crystarium's war coffers." They fall quiet for a moment, their
mouth still struggling on the line between a smile and a frown, sad either way. "It
would seem so easy... and I would feel so guilty for having to say no."
"But the faeries, at least, I hope aren't giving you any trouble." Desperate to
divert the conversation away, Fray flaps his hand back towards the vast, stained
glass windows, dragging his fingers through a stream of rainbow reflections. "Do
they treat you well? Or do they just jabber all day long like a pack of paissa?"
At last, humor softens the corner of Titania's mouth, crooking it upwards before
vanishing all too quickly. "Their only desire right now is that I'm happy. I don't
think I'm very good at it. It feels like something I haven't practiced in a very
long while." They shake their head again, more slowly this time; their hair curls
and drifts through the air in aftertrails to the motion. "I don't know if I'm doing
it right. But all the faeries -- even the Fuath -- say to take it at my own pace.
How long has it been since I've had a chance to actually do that?" The question
wavers with disbelief, turning brittle even as they ask it. "Even on Eorzea, it
felt like one Primal after another, one death after another, again and again -- "
The timbre of their voice hitches. Lifting their hands, Titania rubs at their face
-- and then stops suddenly, holding both palms in place as their breathing goes
ragged and harsh, struggling to master it back under control.
Fray does not wait. He steps forward, reaching out to cup the back of Titania's
head in support as they breathe deeply: in and out, out and in, exhaling grief like
poison forced into their very blood in order to find a place to store it.
"Then it sounds like," he tells them firmly, "that's what you need to focus on
first, as King. I'll handle everything else. Do you trust me?"
Gradually, the pace of Titania's lungs eases up; they no longer sound as if they
are seeking to drown themselves with an influx of air. They stir, lifting their
head, and he can glimpse a faint thread of their amusement: wan, but struggling to
return. "I know you, Fray. You are my darkside. You yourself tell me not to trust
you every -- no. I apologize."
Every day, Fray hears in the gap, cut off after it was already too late to avoid
the sting. Every day.
Not anymore.
He shoves aside his own self-pity as he sees the reminder already starting to dim
Titania's mood. "Good. Then you haven't forgotten the basics -- despite being
surrounded by these fleece-brained gnats." His attempt to ruffle their hair only
ends up tangling his fingers in the cloud-like wisps, and he makes a face as he
frees himself carefully without yanking any of the strands out. "Tell me more about
what it's like to be a pixie. Do you eat flowers? Rocks? Nu mou?"
Titania holds steady until Fray drops his hand, and then they drift back a step,
their gown eddying in the air. "There's a lot that I need to learn, unfortunately.
Everything I thought I knew about aether is completely different now, and I'm
afraid if I get it wrong, Il Mheg may turn completely blue. Or explode. There's
also managing the natural flow of elemental balance throughout the land, and
listening to the Fuath ask for the rights to murder more people -- which apparently
includes an annual event. They hold competitions, with prizes. I'm supposed to
judge." Throwing their palms in the air, Titania makes a shrug of incredulousness,
futility, or both. "I haven't caught the hang of changing my size yet, which Feo Ul
says is basic for any newborn pixie. I also tried my hand at a leafman the other
day, with some poor sheep as the target. It... wasn't particularly good. Even Feo
Ul was speechless."
"But you can at least fly."
"Yes. Somewhat. I keep smacking my wings into doorways and rooftops when I misjudge
the angles," they admit, chuckling, and spread their arms and wings both wide in
demonstration of their girth. "But walking on the ground already feels strange.
Ungainly, like I'm about to trip and flop right over. Be truthful, Fray -- how much
have I changed?"
With all his being, Fray wishes for a different answer. That Titania looks like an
entirely new pixie, or the previous King, or even an amaro. But they are the same,
with their broad mouth and narrow slope of their jaw, the slight rounding of their
nose that they have always disliked and which Fray has always been amused by. The
disheveled tuft of their bangs, which even kingship has not altered. The sheepish
edge of their laughter. Even the faint lines under their eyes, which had seemed to
sink deeper with every new morning endured, and every fresh battlefield conquered.
Fray reaches out and catches their chin, instinctively bridging the gap without
bothering to warn them first; the intimacy between them has always extended past
barriers as flimsy as skin. His thumb strokes along the new smoothness of their
jawline. "You will never need to shave again," he remarks.
Titania's mouth twitches. "You will have to remember. There are troubles to having
a body. Please do attempt to eat."
The sensation of Titania's breath against his skin is a silken caress, and Fray
drops his hand, suddenly pierced by a sharp current of longing. "I make no
promises."
He ducks a punch promptly aimed for his shoulder, and bursts into a laugh, dancing
back from the assault. "Not very kingly, Titania," he tsks, only to watch them
summon their sceptre and attempt to swing it with both hands at him like a club.
After both of them recover from darting around the vast ballroom, laughing like a
pair of namazu drunk on tea, Titania flits close to the ground once more. The gleam
of their wings echoes off the polished marble, conjuring a hurricane of smaller
butterflies in the reflections below; Fray watches the display in willing
fascination before the motion reminds him of something else, and he frowns.
"Your attendants are gone? On some mischief or the other, I suppose," he adds,
twisting around to look at every corner, just in case the brats might be spying on
them both.
Titania shakes their head immediately. "I asked them to leave when I sensed you
coming." Their massive wings flutter in renewed agitation -- no, with excitement
this time, Fray realizes, seeing the smile playing about their face, barely kept in
check. "Here. Feo Ul needs not be the only one who can visit their sapling from
afar. Let me become your branch as well, and then I will not have to send them back
and forth to play messenger between us. Come, then," they urge eagerly, holding up
a hand with their fingers spread, like a child newly discovering their own bones.
"Make a pact with me. Feo Ul showed me how."
Fray already has his own hand raised and halfway there before he can make himself
pause, squinting doubtfully at Titania. "Have you done this before with anyone?"
"Not from the faerie's side of it, no," they admit. "You are my very first one."
Fray's hand lifts another ilm, and then stops again. "This is the same pixie magick
that you just said you're having problems mastering, isn't it."
Titania makes an exasperated laugh, and then it is too late: they are swooping
towards him, catching him in their grip, fingers perfectly knitting with his own.
Their hand is warm against his palm. Each knuckle matches, mirrors in size and
form. Fray struggles to keep his hand still, trying not to let himself become too
concerned at how much could go wrong; then the tingle of aether passes over him,
and it is done.
As soon as Titania makes a nod, he decides he can no longer wait. Scooping his
other arm around their back, he pulls them towards him, as easily as if they were
weightless. Despite the wings -- despite the hair, the crown, the immortality --
Titania fits against him perfectly, unchanged in all the ways he has known so
dearly, that he has shared alongside them in all their struggles. He can feel the
tightness lurking in the muscles along their spine, where they have always stored
their tension; the wings block him from checking their shoulders, but he can guess
to a similar degree.
He tucks his head against them and breathes in their presence, his cheek tickled by
their hair.
"I missed you," he says, honest and uncaring for it. "Everyone imagines me to be a
little mad in my wits, but their opinions are worth as much as Syndicate shite. All
that matters is that you remain safe."
He shuts his eyes tightly as soon as he finishes speaking, unable to otherwise
block out the dread that threatens to choke him. Words are a poor replacement for
raw emotion -- but he has no other way to communicate these things to Titania now,
save in the clumsy, cheap methods of speech and action. Even with them in his arms,
he cannot feel their thoughts echoing back. Their heart is hidden from him here.
All Fray can do is guess and hope, and make assumptions. Make mistakes.
It is an unspeakable relief when Titania's other arm wraps around him easily, palm
resting against his shoulder. "Fray." His name is like a blessing woven from their
voice, a key unlocking him from the chains of pretense he has worn ever since
leaving the castle on his own; he feels the tension dissolve out of him all at
once, leaving him only able to focus on standing upright, too grateful for any
other action. "I am safe because you are. Remember that."
They pull back before he is ready, looking at him from the distance of an arm's
length, which already feels like malms apart. "I'll be able to come visit you
whenever you need it now, just as Feo Ul does. In time, I should be able to manage
crossing to the Source in dreams, once they show me the way. But for now -- this
works."
This time, the smile stays on Titania's face, lingering in their eyes. Fray watches
it carefully, unwilling to speak and scare it away like a mouse. It is only a
little progress -- so tiny that it could be overlooked. But it is a start.
"What?" they ask, their expression changing into a slow, sheepish grin.
Fray can feel his own mouth twitching into an echo, and he lets it: the warmth is a
good enough substitute for the emotions he once could pluck from their heart
directly. "You're smiling."
"I've smiled before."
"Not like this." He tries to resist the impulse and fails, lifting his hand to
trace his thumb over the corner of Titania's lips. "Not for a good, long while. You
might be getting the hang of this whole happiness concept after all."
The curve of Titania's mouth only deepens. They glance at him, the feyness of them
mixing and mingling with everything Fray remembers, like two currents of water
running together, hot and cold. There is so much newness shining in them now, and
it is all keyed to the tune of strength: a fresh, pure joy that he has never seen
in them before, and that he had never been able to gift to them despite all his
hopes. "As are you, Fray. You have full reins over the body, just as you always
asked for. What story will you make of it now?"
He snorts, and drops his hand. "You have certainly given me a poor one to inherit.
I would have liked to run off to the Source -- but I find myself in the position of
having to care for these Scion idiots you're so fond of. We'll be looking for
Y'shtola next, it seems. At least, I hope we are. I've no idea how to deal with
Urianger -- I always used to tune him out whenever he started talking, and relied
on whatever you understood. Now I have to actually listen, and it still doesn't
make any sense." He wrinkles his nose in distaste, and then cocks an eyebrow. "What
about yourself? What tricks will these murderous, clever little bastards have you
doing next, after you've figured out how to turn people into bits of the
landscape?"
The attempt at humor works; with each jab, Titania relaxes a little further, until
by now they are grinning openly without hesitation. "Should I manage to master
basic leafcraft, they've sworn to teach me how to dance. I'm terrible at it, gods
forfend -- you know how terrible we are. Come, and help me practice." Fanning their
arms open at the vast ballroom around them, Titania bends a hand towards him in
invitation. "We can be equally ghastly together."
As satisfying as it is to watch them laugh like this -- to bathe in the rich,
chuckling amusement that seeps out of them, as intoxicating as the rarest wines --
there is an agony to it as well. Fray cannot feel their happiness directly. All he
can do is stand witness to it, watching the satisfaction of Titania's expression
and the pure and uncomplicated pleasure of it all. All he can do is watch from the
outside, and appreciate the cruelty of the situation distantly, like an
interrogator peeling back the skin on his own fingers for practice.
But the concealment of it works both ways. Titania cannot tell either how much he
lies as Fray forces a smile onto his face, chest tight. "I can do no such thing. Do
you remember how poorly you performed in Ul'dah?"
"I had cause to learn more since then. The Vanu Vanu were highly impressed, if I
recall. Tell me," Titania adds, "does our body still recall the steps of the
Sundrop Dance?"
"I have no idea. I've been too busy trying to look like walking around in public is
common practice for me, let alone appearing graceful while I do it."
As careless as the phrase is, something in Fray's tone slips out more than he
intends; that, or Titania simply knows him that well, for they glance back sharply
towards him, eyes narrowing in concern as they search his face.
"Say the word," they promise after a moment, fiercely. "And we will find another
way, and bear the Light together. I will devise an alternative, I swear it -- have
Feo Ul reign in my stead, mayhap, until all the Wardens are slain. I can find a way
to be the Warrior again, so that you will not have to. Say the word," they urge,
their voice soft and fervent as they step closer to grip his shoulder, "and come
back to me."
For an instant -- a horrifying, overpowering instant -- the agreement is already on
Fray's lips, vomiting out of him like regurgitated blood. It moves his mouth for
him, near enough to speaking that Fray bites down hard on his own tongue first.
The brightness of the pain steadies him. He shakes his head, shoving away the
temptation with as much willpower as he can summon, and dredges up every moment of
rancor to keep it there. "And expose you once more to them?" He did not bother to
conceal the bitterness in his voice. "With even more power at your disposal? How
your precious Scions and the Exarch would delight in using you again! Glad enough
they were to throw you to the entire Garlean army on more than one occasion. No."
Forcing his stubbornness back over himself like a shield, Fray meets Titania's gaze
and refuses to waver. "I am selfish enough to claim your fate as my own. You would
break my heart instead to take it back."
"Fray -- "
He moves as swiftly as an assassin's knife, his thumb silencing their lips. "Wrong.
I'm the Warrior now," he corrects. "A mortal fool, sent about by nations like a
courier to fill out lists of the dead. And you are Titania, King of the Faeries.
That is how it will be, now and forever -- and if I have aught to say about it,
then history will know naught else."
At first, Titania resists, a frown beginning to creep around his hand. Then -- as
their eyes close for an instant too long -- their own body betrays them with a
sigh, their shoulders going slack along with all of their wings, revealing the
relief they dare not admit to aloud.
Slowly, like a curtain of water pulling back across stones at a low tide, Fray
watches the dread of it seep out of their face, leaving behind only a bleak, bone-
deep gratitude which he knows they have never dared to share.
It is the right decision, he knows. All he needs do is remain strong enough to
carry it out.
Titania shakes off their melancholy before he does. Their wings spread wide in a
ripple of color, golden spots shining like coins in the air. "Come, then," they
urge, catching both his hands firmly in their own. "As a King to a Warrior, this is
my decree. Share a dance with me, no matter how poorly we both perform, and let no
one stand as judge to our amusements."
Before he can protest, Titania pushes themselves upwards, tugging his arms with
unrelenting authority -- and then faerie magicks nudge Fray in a hard shove against
his back, bunting him like a feisty chocobo and separating his weight from all
gravity save for that which ties him to the King.
His boot scrapes against the ground as he rises, toes barely contacting the
ballroom floor.
His next step is on thin air.
Higher and higher they rise as glittering stairs form beneath their feet,
supporting each of their clumsy stumbles. Aether weaves trails of glass that melt
and reform with every step, spiraling towards the ornate dome of the ceiling. He
and Titania splash through rainbows with each dizzying circle they make, painted in
hues which pour from one arm to another, one hand to the next.
There is no structure to their performance. There are no musicians, no onlookers to
applaud. The ballroom holds only the two of them, and Fray lets himself be lost to
Titania's delighted laughter as they each take turns leading one another by the
hand, following no music save that of their own together.
Emet-Selch, of course, notices that something is amiss instantly.
But the what of it seems to mystify the Ascian, which is amusing enough to see. In
the very first moments of his approach in the Exedra, Emet-Selch seems to have all
the answers already in hand, smugly dripping hints of a truth just barely out of
reach. And -- though the man seems swept up in the drama of his promises -- there
is a hitch in his voice when he looks at Fray sidelong that throws a stumble into
his words, and betrays exactly how much the Ascian is there to investigate matters,
rather than wed them as allies.
Even after Emet-Selch has regained his smooth, showman's patter, he cannot stop
constantly frowning at Fray. At the end of his speech, he turns his head to stare
intently at the air -- towards what, Fray knows, is the direction of Il Mheg, as if
the man can directly perceive the invisible tether that yolks him and Titania
together, like a gossamer thread in the sky.
It is unnerving, the degree of accuracy by which Emet-Selch can pinpoint that bond.
Not even Urianger or the Crystal Exarch had noted the connection; if they could,
Fray expects he would have heard a lecture about that as well.
And, if Emet-Selch can see the energy of his and Titania's souls, then he may also
seek to sever it as well.
Fray opens and closes his right hand firmly once, glove creaking as he imagines the
hilt of his greatsword gripped tightly within it, and allows himself the indulgence
of wallowing in frustration. Rarely is there worse luck than this. Ascians are hard
to kill.
Hard -- but not impossible.
He has more time to assess his potential quarry on the way to the Greatwood, as the
Ascian continues to tag along with the Scions, flaunting his ability to wander in
and out of their lives at whim. Thancred is the most vexed at all, but even the
Oracle takes her own jabs in Emet-Selch's direction, revealing a delightfully tart
wit beneath her meekness. Their ire is useful. Fray can let them make the most
noise on the journey, a living smokescreen while he holds his tongue and watches
for an opening.
The shape of Emet-Selch is the hardest for him to identify. There is a sensation
wrapped around the Ascian which Fray can almost touch, like a skim of gelatin in a
cup, or the moisture of a humid summer evening. No one else seems to react to it.
Fray isn't even certain how he can tell it's there. It is a primal force that
ripples off the Ascian, a whisper of energy that feels inexplicably familiar to
Fray, even though he knows the two are far from kin.
Darkness, most likely. The Astral alignment of his aether, like the scrapings left
behind in a jar after the Umbral had been removed. He does not know all the details
-- Urianger makes just as little sense each time that Fray tries to bring the
subject up -- but so far, Fray has gathered that the First has uncovered new
information about Darkness itself as a force, however scholars consider it.
Darkness is Astral: it is motion, change and creation and all manner of other
useful rubbish, which Fray feels is particularly apt in describing his newfound
existence.
But he is no great arcanist. Magicks of any complexity are beyond him, and he has
no interest in such subjects. Fray's incantations have always been constructed from
raw emotions, spoken in the formulas of desire and need; he grabs for aether as
greedily as a child, demanding it to take shape through sheer force of will alone.
And while Emet-Selch's love for theatrics may dismiss Fray outright, and sneer at
the skills of the rest of the Scions, Fray has no need of the Ascian's respect in
order to kill the man.
It is difficult to keep a placid face during their journey to the Rak'tika
Greatwood. Fray only manages through pure spite as the Ascian wheedles his way
closer into the group, fishing for hints on Fray's connection with Il Mheg with
growing transparency.
Finally Emet-Selch manages to sidle close to Fray's side as the Scions stop for
rest. "First the Oracle, now you. Really, you creatures must stop performing these
matters of division upon yourselves. Your spirits are flimsy enough. Hydaelyn has
truly instilled Her servants with no sense of self-preservation whatsoever."
"Mmhmm." Pretending to make the barest token of understanding of the Ascian's
words, Fray continues to search through his packs for a waterskin. So far, Emet-
Selch has only seemed to feed off Thancred's outright threats, Urianger's
suspicions and Minfilia's wariness. If hostility were enough to drive the Ascian
away, it would have already happened. As it is, Fray finds it gratifying to profess
ignorance in the face of such monumental arrogance, providing only the basics while
remaining utterly honest.
Again, Emet-Selch flitters away through the group -- needling Thancred for a few
rounds -- and then returns as the Scions continue the march, this time attempting
discretion as he oozes back to walk beside Fray.
"Tell me," he murmurs conspiratorially, a sly smirk framing the question. "What did
you do to your soul?"
"Pixies were involved." Fray steps around a particularly slimy-looking toad, which
boggles up at him from the mud. It croaks unhappily before submerging itself within
the nearest puddle, spattering grime on Fray's boot.
"Ah." Judging from Emet-Selch's tone, Fray's answers continue to be entirely
unsatisfactory. The Ascian picks his way with even more care than Fray through the
swamp, as if he might somehow care about permanent stains on his robe. "You must
tell me more about how they performed such a trick."
"No," Fray replies. "I really don't."
The Rak'tika Greatwood offers some basic comfort against the skies, even if Fray
can still feel the Light oozing into the trees overhead, dripping down in acid
waves through the leaves. It itches over his body, seeping directly past the shell
of his armor. Every ilm of his skin feels as burned as if he has spent all day
roasting on the beaches of Costa del Sol. His only comfort is how displeased Emet-
Selch appears to be as well, both of them stifling an uncomfortable wince as they
walk.
The dense forest is enough of a change from Lakeland's bleached trees and violet
foliage that he feels briefly nostalgic for the Black Shroud -- but not safe. They
have one Scion left to meet. This forest may be flush with life and greenery, but
it is equally packed with creatures hungry for any prey sloppy enough to wander
into reach.
And Y'shtola -- not the Lightwarden, nor even the Ascian at Fray's side -- is the
most dangerous thing in it.
The group wanders their way through Fort Gohn, picking at the decaying remains of
the settlement, and then take a slow course east. No one interrupts them. There are
occasional patrols in the distance, skulking hunters with bows -- but little in the
way of true threats. Creatures rustle out of their path, occasionally disturbing
Urianger's patient instructions on the cultural customs of the Night's Blessed.
Fray keeps his hand close to his sword, and watches Emet-Selch watch them.
The suspicions of the guards outside of Slitherbough are enough to banish the
Ascian at last -- likely a convenient pretense, but Fray is glad for the man's
departure either way -- and then, it is finally time to face Master Matoya.
He knows better than to appear too nervous; as the Warrior, Fray should be glad to
find another one of the Scions alive and whole. But when they finally call Y'shtola
out, Fray stands back, allowing her to work through their reunion at her own pace.
Her vision is more than enough cause for him to be leery -- her intuition, even
more so. Fray may claim the face of the Warrior of Light, but he cannot lie about
his aether.
When his turn comes to greet her, moving down the line after she introduces herself
to Miniflia, Y'shtola frowns sharply at him, her head tilting in the same way that
Fray has begun to expect from anyone with a drop of magickal ability -- but at last
she nods, as if in satisfaction that, on the side between two forces, Fray is at
least not friends with the Light.
"'Tis good to see that you have made the crossing, though I regret the means of
it," she acknowledges, and waves them all to follow as she ushers them towards a
cave which must contain her own chambers.
"We have much to catch up on," Thancred agrees heavily, and inwardly, Fray sighs,
preparing himself to recite the story yet again.
As expected, Y'shtola seems less than pleased to hear that their Warrior might have
parceled away his own aether, though she accepts the explanation for what it is.
Ever-practical, she is also the first, unfortunately, to point out the logistics of
the matter. "Caution would serve us well in this regard, if your blessing is
stretched across so great a distance," she reasons. "It may be that Hydaelyn has
gifted Titania as well -- but I would not chance it on whimsical experimentation.
We must assume that the influence of yours is halved for the time being, and act
accordingly."
"Indeed, we risk dispersing the Light once more, should the Lightwardens' potency
overcometh our defenses," Urianger interjects, not wasting the opportunity to
continue pressing his opinion. "The Exarch agreeth that conserving the Light within
those with extensive experience in the blessing would be the wisest course."
"Oh, does he?"
Given the respite of Y'shtola's suspicion, Fray gladly watches the two Scions spar,
exiting himself gradually from the conversation through the honorable method of
backing away slowly while no one is watching. There is no need for him to defend
himself if Y'shtola is more than willing to go another round on his behalf. More
importantly, it is well past time for such mundane matters as dinner and a good
wash of his face -- shaving be damned -- and it is by these excuses that he manages
to scrape out of the conversation, and plead the need to aid Slitherbough with
minor chores in exchange for hospitality.
The settlement itself is -- by all accounts -- a place which Fray expects to hate
immediately. Any village that spouts off words of peace and community is suspect.
It is strange to watch people pray to the darkness for once, giving it their love
and reverence in a way which Fray has never dealt with before. The water that Runar
had poured over him for purification had been equally odd in its refreshment, like
an aloe salve soothing away the perpetual sting of the Light. Yet, the people
around him seem genuine in their humility, and Fray finds his hand drifting away
from his sword as he watches them go about their work.
It is pleasant here, even he must admit. Titania would have been fond of this
place. There is a certain tranquility, a simplicity which lacks the politics and
machinations of larger cities, and Fray lets himself imagine it: the Warrior
wandering through the gardens and shadowed caves, burdened by no other demands save
that of weeding the vegetables or harvesting plants for dyes.
He is not spared for long, however. After dinner, Fray glances up to see Y'shtola
approaching him directly, navigating around the cooking fires with no attempt at
concealment.
"My thanks again for your aid in finding Toddia's heartstone," she remarks when she
arrives, folding her arms assessingly. "Urianger has told me the rest. How are you
enduring it?"
Fray blinks up at her, confused by how she can tell how much he misses Titania --
and then realizes that she means simply the journey to the First itself, along with
what the Scions believe to be the truth of his condition. "As needed. It feels...
strange," he admits, surprised at his own impulse to even say that much. His mind
has felt so barren ever since leaving Il Mheg; Fray has not thought himself the
talkative sort before, but in the seclusion of Slitherbough, the quiet pushes him
forward, as if the lack of honest conversation has left him deficient in some
unexpected, nutritional way, not unlike a dearth of fruit in his diet. "The Light
above is worse. I did not think to ever sympathize with an Ascian, but our guest
does have a point -- 'tis a blistering force worse than even Ifrit's bowels. I'd
rather wash myself in hot marlboro vomit."
Y'shtola's eyebrow twitches in amusement at the force of his description. "Do you
think you will be able to fight against the Warden here, once we uncover their
lair?"
"I have to, don't I?" he points out. "Else we throw a child of less than fifteen
summers into its maw, and wash our hands of the blame."
Far from repulse her, Fray's bluntness earns him a brief, unexpected smile.
Y'shtola ducks her head in a rueful nod. "Such common sense is long overdue here.
When I heard how long -- and how celebrated -- the tradition was of sacrificing the
Oracles before they had time to come into their full strength, I could not believe
that the First had lasted even this long. We know not all the pieces arrayed
against us, but I will admit, I am glad for you being here."
It is Fray's turn to smirk, finding himself well in agreement. "Should I assume you
don't plan to interrogate me as well, then, in fear that I've lost my reason?"
True to form, Y'shtola does not offer false denials too readily; she gauges her own
words and him with it, comfortable with the act of silence as aggression. "Let us
retire somewhere quieter, first," she eventually invites, scooping up one of the
kettles which is simmering over the fire, bubbling with hot water. "Such
discussions are best performed over a cup of tea, I've learned."
The discretion is worth it; whatever questions Y'shtola has in mind cannot be easy
ones. Fray follows her willingly, ducking around the other quiet conversations
still unfolding in the peace of the evening.
Her chambers are an apocalypse of literature. They do not seem emptier with the
rest of the Scions absent; the riddles of history fill in the space, pregnant with
ciphers on every scroll and page. They remind him, faintly, of another cave,
another Matoya -- as if Y'shtola is, like him, doing her best to live up to
another's legacy in more than name alone. The majority of her books are piled in a
corner of the room, but are no less haphazard, organized in a filing system only
she likely comprehends. Others are squirreled away in more modest stacks, as if
hoping to escape notice through strategic use of the shadows. At the back of the
room is another door -- likely to separate out her sleeping quarters, which tells
Fray that she must take audiences regularly here in this chamber, with its tables
and rough chairs and secrets.
Y'shtola digs out a rag to insulate the kettle as she sets it on the nearest table,
and then absently places two tins of leaves for Fray to select from, one brown and
one green. He stares at the decision with dim hopelessness. It's impossible to
remember how strong the Warrior used to prefer their tea, let alone a preference in
leaf; he has no idea what Y'shtola recalls either, or if there's even a right
answer to it all.
He gives up and pinches in a thick handful of the darker leaves into his cup,
resigning himself to either a brew too weak, or utterly gut-wrenching.
Only after both cups have finished simmering does Y'shtola strain them out, and
hand Fray's tea back neatly to him. "Urianger's explanation was basic enough,
though I mislike how veiled he is about his displeasure. For my part, I assumed you
took inspiration -- or at least methodology -- from Hraesvelgr, as you had once
carried his power and protection both by accepting his eye. Though I am glad you
did not parrot the same tactic down to the letter," she adds tartly, handing him
his earthenware mug. "Else you might be borrowing Thancred's patch."
The ease with which Y'shtola's pragmatism jumps over any number of protests that
had bogged down others is astounding; Fray blinks at it, impressed by how neatly
her explanation makes sense. If he'd had her assistance at the start, then the
Scions might have never questioned the ruse to begin with. "I'm surprised you're so
accepting of what's happened."
Dried plants rustle as Y'shtola pushes aside their braided clumps, clearing a spot
on the nearest table for her to lean against. "I'm a disembodied spirit, am I not?"
Shrugging with a dramatic flourish of her sleeves, the woman holds up her hands in
display, jabbing one finger pointedly into the center of her palm. "The very form I
wear is but aether-wrought artifice, conjured by a mind which expects a body to
inhabit. If not for my will, I would have no flesh at all. On what grounds do I
have to criticize for the repurposing of one's soul?"
She exhales then, and sobers from her moment of jest. "No. However, this does not
solve the crux of the present moment. The tilt of your aether is assuredly towards
an Astral polarity, which might either afford you resistance to the Light -- or
worsen the effects of the Lightwardens' aether upon you. And, after hearing how
markedly Il Mheg seems to have affected your well-being in other ways, I feel I
have sufficient reason to question the options remaining to us."
Warned by her tone, Fray straightens up -- realizing only too late that to react
with such clear tension only betrays him further. "I have fought without the full
potency of Hydaelyn's blessing before," he reminds her, recalling dim memories
half-passed along from the Warrior: that of Midgardsormr's interference, and of
exhausted crystals being recharged, one by one. "We must work with what we have,
even if it is less than desirable."
Y'shtola watches each of his motions, leaning back against the table while she
folds her arms, her milky-white eyes evaluating far more about him than he knows he
would like to admit. "It does not surprise me that you would extend your own
protection to another, should the cause require it -- but leaving the Light in Il
Mheg places Titania at prolonged risk, and that is not a matter I think you would
willingly allow." Shrewdly, she considers him, eyes narrowing as calculations run
in well-oiled mastery within her mind. "Is it possible that you cannot retake that
Light from them safely, and so you must leave that portion of your aether in place
to shield them?"
Like a click of a gamepiece sliding forward with lethal grace to suddenly place him
in check, Fray finds his blood go cold. Already, he is outmatched. Allowing such a
misunderstanding would only invite the Scions to turn their wits upon finding a
solution -- one which would drive them to investigate Titania, and the nature of
the aether between them. But rejecting Y'shtola would only invite her to focus her
scrutiny upon Fray himself, digging into explanations that he already knows he does
not have the reasoning to defend.
Winning her over halfway is the only possible means he can think of. Like it or
not, Fray must admit to a partial defeat, and recover what he can from the rubble.
He must give her enough of the truth, or else she may see it all as lies.
"No. It is naught so insidious." He takes a deep breath, hoping that his reasoning
has not already foundered and exposed itself as false. So far, the Scions have
believed that the blessing of Light and the Lightwardens' aether to be linked by
convenience, the latter naturally requiring the former. None of them have cause yet
to know that the blessing belongs to Titania themself, and can never be removed.
"Titania... did not expect to become King," he manages. That much is reasonable
enough. "They are very young for a pixie, and they need time to adjust to their new
role. Time -- and support. Yet, if I had said as much to the rest of the Scions,
they would have almost certainly sought to provide their own help regardless of the
consequences, imagining it would benefit both Titania and myself. Let Il Mheg stay
out of these affairs." It is as close to a plea as he dares, not without exposing
his allegiance further. "If needed, I will take the Light from them myself.
Simply... give them a chance to become themselves first."
Each sentence is like another piece of armor stripped from him while an enemy
watches, marking the best moment to leap for his throat. Pinned beneath Y'shtola's
focus, he cannot evade as easily as with Alphinaud's easy willingness to believe
him, Alisaie's desire to bypass the petty details and cut her way through any
dilemma. He must be at his best, or risk losing both himself and his King.
Y'shtola is silent for long enough that he wonders if he has laid it all bare in as
many words, unrolling both his fate and Titania's upon the table for dissection.
Her fingers drum idly on the table behind her, tapping out some rhythm only she can
parse.
Finally, she remarks, with the deliberate carelessness of a scorpion, "I recognize
your aether from our days on the Source, you know."
It is such a plain observation that it becomes cryptic by default, like commenting
on the dampness of the ocean. Startled, Fray glances up to her, and catches his
breath with a jolt. There is no hostility on her face: only an uncanny focus, the
same as Feo Ul, and Fray suddenly wonders if she can see him. Him, not simply the
aether of the Warrior's body. If she knows -- if she has always known, has always
seen the spectres gathered around the Warrior ever since coming back from the
Lifestream with her eyes mazed and glossy.
But even as he gathers himself for the worst, Y'shtola deliberately lifts her cup
and takes an indifferent sip of her tea. "The Warrior has always had a perpetual
habit of making unexpected decisions, particularly when it comes to aiding others.
And since I can clearly acknowledge that you are the Warrior of Light," she
emphasizes, "there is little worth in questioning your values at this stage, and we
waste time criticizing the past when none of us were there to advise otherwise.
However, your pain is a matter that none of us would turn a blind eye to either.
Can you give a single reason as to why we should?"
Taken off-balance a second time in as many moments, Fray hauls his thoughts
carefully together, refusing to be baited into a hasty answer. Y'shtola's
conclusions have whisked him onto a different battlefield altogether -- but such a
reprieve does not mean he is safe.
Yet when he tries to summon the wit to continue, a sudden flood of weariness bursts
against him, dull and draining -- as if managing the force of all his other
emotions has been so exhausting that a simple invitation to let his guard down is
enough to break him. He knows better than to trust Y'shtola. There is no need to
trust anyone. Even if he had gone mad enough to want to, Fray cannot imagine that
they would tolerate his nature after it is revealed -- let alone the truth.
He sets aside his cup on the table, roughly enough that the tea slaps against the
rim and dampens his skin, and braces his forehead against his fingers. This is the
worst place for him to be showing weakness. If he had even Myste's glibness,
feeding him pretty words -- but no. Fray has only himself, rough and brusque, and
he already knows it will not be enough.
"It is of no importance," he insists, knowing the uselessness of his own excuse.
"It is a personal matter."
The deflection has barely any strength to it. Underneath the relentless patience of
Y'shtola's gaze, Fray winces, feeling the regret of it pinch his eyes.
Finally, she utters an unexpected question. "'Tis said that pixies are born from
the souls of fallen children." The words themselves are grim, but her speech is
purposefully soft. "Souls which are given new forms through aether -- your aether.
Were you unable to save the life from whence Titania came?"
There is it. That is all Fray needs to prevent the Scions forever from digging
deeper into his story. It will take no imagination to conjure up some sad, soppy
tale of a child who wandered too close to the castle during the fighting, or who
had died to eaters in Amh Araeng. Some pathetic, weepy saga where the Warrior of
Light had missed blocking a fatal strike, and then some fragile innocent had bled
away in their arms, begging for their failed savior to live on even as the life had
faded from their tear-filled eyes.
But even as Fray opens his mouth, he finds the lie sticking in place -- as if to
say the words, even in a partial half-deception, is to finalize the Warrior's death
as a mortal hyur. To accept that Fray had been unable to do anything, that he had
been incapable of saving the Warrior otherwise, unable to rescue them from their
own heroics no matter how much their soul had continued to buckle under the
pressure. That stripping them of their former life had been the only way to repair
the horrors that the Warrior had been thrust into, again and again -- and even
then, Fray had had to use another's power. He had been helpless on his own.
Here, in this squalid cluster of mildew-ridden caves, Fray will have to finally
speak aloud the words that will make it all real: the only mortal survivor of a
tragedy which no one will ever acknowledge, even if they knew.
He only realizes how long he has been struggling, silent, staring blindly at the
floor as he grimaces around the words he cannot dislodge from his throat, when
Y'shtola reaches over carefully and picks his cup off the table. Steam trickles up
in coils from the water as she fills it back up to the brim. She presses it towards
his hands, and Fray finds himself accepting numbly, taking a sparse sip to try and
thaw his voice.
"I tried... everything." He doesn't sound like himself when he finally speaks. He
doesn't sound like the Warrior either. What remains is a ragged, grating stranger,
stripped of both armor and sword, orphaned from their home. "I tried. Every
argument, every plea. There was no option left, save to offer myself."
Her verdict is steady. "Then you have done enough."
He does not need Y'shtola's sympathy. He does not need her permission, her
acceptance, her ignorance -- but Fray finds himself grateful anyway, enough that he
closes his eyes briefly and thanks the darkness in gratitude, as if he were a
Night's Blessed himself.
"Titania has taken on more than their share of suffering." The acknowledgement
tastes harsh in his mouth, even as he accepts the necessity of sharing that much.
"Let us solve the world's problems ourselves from now on, and allow no other
casualties."