Anstarra Silverain, lieutenant of the Maelstrom's First Foreign Levy, liaison to Coerthas, sometime Adventuress, long-ago graduate of the Gridanian Lancers' guild, onetime aspirant to Ul'dahn nobility, former bodyguard, secretary, mercenary and Dragoon... was extremely disappointed in herself.
"Gods damn it."
Principally this state of being came about because as she stood on one of the grandiose, ancient, soaring, gravity-defying walkways surrounding Tharl Oom Khash, and asked herself how in Hydaelyn's name she had come to be here, in this place and time, preparing to face a mad former Inquisitor alongside dragons and dragoons alike, she had come to the inescapable conclusion that it was almost entirely her fault.
"Gods damn it."
Distantly, in the recesses of her mind, she could hear another voice laugh in mocking amusement. How convenient were it truly a psychosis... but no, this was just the other part of her, more persona than personality, the one whose mask she had worn in order to escape the unwanted burdens of being a hero.
"I'm NOT though! I'm not a hero!"
The empty vault of the sky - so grand, at this height - gave no reply. Inside, Skybreaker only laughed harder.
Anstarra sighed.
Down below, the figures of the Ishgardian knights, drilling and patrolling, were virtually ant-like at this distance. Small wonder, in what might well have been an amphitheater for dragons, in ages past. Those men and women down there, they were heroes. Noble Orrin too, obviously, and bold Enju, helping prepare for the conflict. Even Leanne, for all that she and Anstarra did not get along, was undoubtedly a hero. As were the others who intended to fight in this battle, and those who had contributed. Even her beloved, kind and pacifistic Nihka, was a hero in her way; she fought when she had to, not because she wanted to, and she saved others' lives. Those were the actions of a hero.
So different, from herself.
Anstarra used to tell herself she didn't want to be a hero because it was an inconvenience. She didn't want her everyday life tangled up in adulation and obligation. And ever since her defeat at X'zarann's hands, and the... geas, he had put on her (if not mystical, then certainly psychological, and just as binding if not more), she had been shorn of any need to worry about it. No Skybreaker, no prodigal fighter from a land of killers, no hero, no worries, nothing. Just whatever amusements and projects she launched herself into.
But... more recently, she'd been forced to acknowledge the truth of why she had never wanted to be a hero. Because a hero was someone who fought for others, and she had only ever fought for herself. Oh, she'd learned fear for others, and caring. Had almost gone mad when Nihka was taken. But that risking of self had been for herself, because Nihka was hers, her beloved, and it hurt Anstarra herself to lose her. Of course she would avenge such a thing, and did. And when she wrought bloody, murderous retribution on the man who took her fiancee.. it was not for Nihka's own good.
Anstarra let out a slow, shivering breath, as she remembered both the horror on her lover's face, and the depths of hatred in her own heart, for Weylan. That beast still coiled within her. Within her soul, the soul of a killer, who fought only for herself... clearly not a hero by any means.
So why was she here?
Why was she standing at the roof of the world, waiting to engage in a life-and-death struggle against gods-knew what odds, to prevent, of all things, the summoning of a bloody Primal that might well manifest on a scale not too unlike bloody gods-blighted Bahamut? This was.. was Warrior of Light stuff. Hero stuff. So why was she, Anstarra, here? They had plenty of fighters, warriors, yes, heroes. And artillery, and allied dragons, and just... they didn't need her. So why?
Images floated before her, reasons, justifications; irritation with Xanadu, retribution against Friont, a global sense of self-preservation, a sense of possessiveness over Enju and attachment to Orrin (or was it the other way around? or both at once..), vague pseudo-patriotism for Ishgard, her own pride...
All these were valid excuses, and could hold up to outside scrutiny... but searching herself, the most vivid image reared its uncomfortable head again. Of a woman led off in chains, for liberating fools. Of another woman, broken and sobbing, to see her taken. Of the reason, the knowledge of the plot that led poor, desperate men and women to that place, turning them into pawns that needed to be rescued by the woman.
A need to validate that sacrifice. That pain. To vindicate.. and avenge them.
Anstarra gritted her teeth, staring down at the site. She hadn't acted then, couldn't.. but she could act now.
"FINE. Just this bloody once."
She turned, and lifted herself up on her chocobo, so that they could go down and join the other damned idiot heroes.
"Gods damn it."
Principally this state of being came about because as she stood on one of the grandiose, ancient, soaring, gravity-defying walkways surrounding Tharl Oom Khash, and asked herself how in Hydaelyn's name she had come to be here, in this place and time, preparing to face a mad former Inquisitor alongside dragons and dragoons alike, she had come to the inescapable conclusion that it was almost entirely her fault.
"Gods damn it."
Distantly, in the recesses of her mind, she could hear another voice laugh in mocking amusement. How convenient were it truly a psychosis... but no, this was just the other part of her, more persona than personality, the one whose mask she had worn in order to escape the unwanted burdens of being a hero.
"I'm NOT though! I'm not a hero!"
The empty vault of the sky - so grand, at this height - gave no reply. Inside, Skybreaker only laughed harder.
Anstarra sighed.
Down below, the figures of the Ishgardian knights, drilling and patrolling, were virtually ant-like at this distance. Small wonder, in what might well have been an amphitheater for dragons, in ages past. Those men and women down there, they were heroes. Noble Orrin too, obviously, and bold Enju, helping prepare for the conflict. Even Leanne, for all that she and Anstarra did not get along, was undoubtedly a hero. As were the others who intended to fight in this battle, and those who had contributed. Even her beloved, kind and pacifistic Nihka, was a hero in her way; she fought when she had to, not because she wanted to, and she saved others' lives. Those were the actions of a hero.
So different, from herself.
Anstarra used to tell herself she didn't want to be a hero because it was an inconvenience. She didn't want her everyday life tangled up in adulation and obligation. And ever since her defeat at X'zarann's hands, and the... geas, he had put on her (if not mystical, then certainly psychological, and just as binding if not more), she had been shorn of any need to worry about it. No Skybreaker, no prodigal fighter from a land of killers, no hero, no worries, nothing. Just whatever amusements and projects she launched herself into.
But... more recently, she'd been forced to acknowledge the truth of why she had never wanted to be a hero. Because a hero was someone who fought for others, and she had only ever fought for herself. Oh, she'd learned fear for others, and caring. Had almost gone mad when Nihka was taken. But that risking of self had been for herself, because Nihka was hers, her beloved, and it hurt Anstarra herself to lose her. Of course she would avenge such a thing, and did. And when she wrought bloody, murderous retribution on the man who took her fiancee.. it was not for Nihka's own good.
Anstarra let out a slow, shivering breath, as she remembered both the horror on her lover's face, and the depths of hatred in her own heart, for Weylan. That beast still coiled within her. Within her soul, the soul of a killer, who fought only for herself... clearly not a hero by any means.
So why was she here?
Why was she standing at the roof of the world, waiting to engage in a life-and-death struggle against gods-knew what odds, to prevent, of all things, the summoning of a bloody Primal that might well manifest on a scale not too unlike bloody gods-blighted Bahamut? This was.. was Warrior of Light stuff. Hero stuff. So why was she, Anstarra, here? They had plenty of fighters, warriors, yes, heroes. And artillery, and allied dragons, and just... they didn't need her. So why?
Images floated before her, reasons, justifications; irritation with Xanadu, retribution against Friont, a global sense of self-preservation, a sense of possessiveness over Enju and attachment to Orrin (or was it the other way around? or both at once..), vague pseudo-patriotism for Ishgard, her own pride...
All these were valid excuses, and could hold up to outside scrutiny... but searching herself, the most vivid image reared its uncomfortable head again. Of a woman led off in chains, for liberating fools. Of another woman, broken and sobbing, to see her taken. Of the reason, the knowledge of the plot that led poor, desperate men and women to that place, turning them into pawns that needed to be rescued by the woman.
A need to validate that sacrifice. That pain. To vindicate.. and avenge them.
Anstarra gritted her teeth, staring down at the site. She hadn't acted then, couldn't.. but she could act now.
"FINE. Just this bloody once."
She turned, and lifted herself up on her chocobo, so that they could go down and join the other damned idiot heroes.
![[Image: MBLxxyE.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/MBLxxyE.gif)
