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[To Confront a Nightmare -The Scales Part Thirteen]
Mother kneeled next to her, gently washing away the blood from her face. "Aya, you must know that, 'getting into a scrap' with your brothers is no way for a proper young lady to act." The little tow-headed girl didn't seem to care. Her eyes looked away from her mother's with a childish determination. Her fists clenched.  Father stood several feet away, but his expression was far from upset. Instead, a mischievous pride. Pride—an expression so rarely expressed for his only daughter. "I don't know, dear..." he said, "she was only protecting her brothers."
The woman rose, turning to face her husband with a look of displeasure. She took the few steps toward him, speaking quietly, but not so quiet that Aya could not hear, "You shouldn't encourage her." He shrugged, "There is time for her to be a proper lady yet." His voice grew quiet, but proud, he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. "Just look at those eyes of hers; she's as fierce as those boys of ours." Mother looked at him sharply, "Fiercer. That's what worries me."
Aya's eyes were locked upon the leather-and-cloth wrapped object in her closet. Oil-lantern light lapped at the walls with its gloomy illumination. She had kept the weapon stowed in storage since her arrival in Ul'dah. Only once had she taken it out since then, and that was in a moment of hasty panic.
"Aya," she could hear C'kayah's shaken voice clear through the link pearl. "Something has happened with Natalie. Crofte could be in trouble." She'd been in a hurry then, of half a mind to cut the spear free of its wrappings as she'd thrown on her riding gear. Crofte was indeed in trouble, but not of the sort C'kayah feared. When she arrived in Vesper Bay Crofte was surrounded by officials and armed men near the docks. She was kneeling, silently, over the lifeless body of her former sister-in-arms: Ser Natalie. The moment could not be struck from Aya's memory—the woman she had once relied upon as her bastion in this strange and foreign city lay prostrate, her life cut short by a marksman's deadly aim. Aya could only be thankful that they had put things right between them before the end: she would never have forgiven herself otherwise.Â
She carefully unwrapped the twine that kept cloth tightly bound around the metal spearblade. It was of typical Gridanian quality: simple and efficient. No ornamentation, just the cold, practical elegance of the Shroud. It was so unlike its wielder, yet like her all the same. She wiped the oil from it with a rag. It would have to wait for the whetstone, sharpening could wake those in the rooms next door.
The Wildwood instructor stood a good seven fulms tall. Wiry, powerful, and bearing an expression of serene contempt only summonable by Elezen, he was the very picture of a Wood Wailer. This most recent crop of recruits seemed a particularly feckless bunch. "Thrust!" he spoke. Although loud, very loud in fact, it could not be fairly described as a yell. There was no excitement, no anxiousness, just the dullness of a long exercised routine. "Again! Put your backs into it."Â
He strolled about behind the group, watching each one individually as they stepped into a lunging thrust against the practice dummies. Each had been given a practice spear: worn but sharp, not unlike the instructor himself. He paused, paying particular attention to the voluptuous blonde Hyur who could not have looked more out of place. Eyes narrowed behind his mask. He knew he recognized her.
"Ho!" he raised his hand, bringing the exercise to a stop. "Blondie," he addressed the young woman as she turned around with a look of wide-eyed surprised. "I recognize you. I've seen you serving drinks for Miounne at the Canopy." He lifted his eyebrows, a slight tilt to his head. "What is it you're doing here? This isn't a weekend party-trip, lass." He paused upon the final word, playfully mimicking Hyur intonation and idiom.
She looked back at him with an expression both anxious and sheepish. Her hands shifted upon the spear, demurring and feminine. In that moment she looked nothing at all like a lancer. There was not much pity in the Elezen's hardened heart, but he felt its pangs nonetheless. "There, there. No harm done." He paused again, before asking in earnest, "But why are you here?"
Her thoughts flickered to the day before. She was serving drinks to a group of friendly regular customers. The mostly Miqo'te members of a band of sell-swords: they always laughed and carried on in such good cheer. She'd known them for nearly the full two moons she had spent in Gridania. After serving a round, one of them stopped her, the Alpha Female as she was known, Shizu. "Say, Aya!" she asked, her cheeks red with the flush of wine. "You didn't leave Ishgard to be a barmaid, did you?" Aya remembered turning around, looking stumped. Her heart beat a little faster, she knew the answer already, but would... "Why don't you come join us?"Â
And so, she found herself at the Wailers Guild, applying to be taught the art of the Lance. "I don't want to be just a barmaid any more!" she replied in her heavy accent, with voice bearing a sudden tinge of resistance. The Elezen nodded, doubtingly. He drew his long, slender fingers down the sides of his jaw. "Very well then. Show me why you think you can be a Lancer."Â
She nodded, and turned back toward the dummy. She shifted her grip upon the spear shaft, relaxing and then tightening. She lowered her body, legs tensing like coiled springs. For a moment she felt the spirit fill her, the spirit of blood, of family, of pride. Of everything she had so disdained for so long. Reflecting on the moment later she decided it was not fear of humiliation, it was not pride. It was the sense of future, of not wanting it to be cut-off short from the destiny that awaited her. She was ready to be more. Wasn't that why she had escaped? She was not just a barmaid: she knew that much. But in that moment she found herself without thought; only the clarity of action.
Her legs were powerful and strong. She was a climber, a dancer, a leaper. She sprung from the position like the bolt of a crossbow, lunging toward the target with a sudden burst of speed and power. She did not know what she was doing, she had never wielded a spear before. But into the strike she emptied every last reserve of strength: a single startling high-pitched cry that screamed of a future that would not be denied. The practice spear split the saw-dust filled bag, pierced the oaken stake behind it and imbedded itself deep within.
She took a quick jump backwards, looking as surprised as everyone. Everyone, that is, except the Elezen instructor. With an utter calm he stepped up to the dummy, gripping the shaft firmly with one hand. He gave the spear a tug. He grasped it with both hands, heaving upon the weapon that would not budge. He turned his gaze upon Aya, who stood slack-jawed a few feet away. "Very good." he said with a nod, before moving on to the next in line.
In the distance a group of Miqo'te spectators tittered and laughed. One of them nudged Shizu playfully with his elbow, "What's that you said? 'Couldn't hurt to have a gorgeous blonde in the company?'" They all snickered; they'd make something of the girl yet.
She carefully untied the leather thongs that held the wrapping around the spear's shaft. The intense dryness of Ul'dah's climate was rough on wooden weapons. The wood would dry out, crack, and eventually split. If not cared for they could become a mortal liability. She understood the stakes, didn't she? A layer of oil, regularly applied, kept the moisture out. The leather wrapping ensured that the oil itself would stay in place. She began to clean off the oil, preparing the weapon for use.
The bright silver light of the full moon filtered through the Shroud's high canopy creating shadowy illumination on the forest floor. For accustomed eyes it was enough to see by, barely. The sound of numerous fleet footed runners moved along at a quick, steady pace. They leapt obstacles, ducked branches, and watched their footing with an almost ethereal ease. It was a pack activity, the most sacred and honored in the company: the Moon Run. The leaders howled as they jogged, the new members struggled to keep their pace. They could move no faster than the slowest, encouraged and bolstered by the presence and pacing of the others.Â
The rascal Jack Swift liked to move in the trees. He was true to his name: none were faster, especially in the wood. He took to the trees like a squirrel bounding from branch to branch, where he would sit and wait with wise cracks and jibes for those who passed. Just his way of offering encouragement.
Somehow these were the moments Aya always remembered. The exertion, the rush of the hunt, and the sense of belonging with the other members of the Pack. She had seen the Shroud only once as a child: and she had stared in bewildered amazement. For years she had dreamed of seeing it again, of living in it, of learning its ways. Now, with nothing but the moon to light her way, she scrambled through the depths of the forest at a pace few could imagine. She was fast; quick and graceful. She had taken to nothing else the Hungry Wolf did with quite so much ease. Sometimes it seemed the undergrowth shifted out of her way, as if the forest wished to get to know her, just as badly as she wished to get to know it. She was easier to out run on flat ground, but only a few of the forest-born Miqo'te could outpace her in this environment: Jack was among them.
They were, perhaps, not the quietest. They were not the most numerous. They were not the most skilled in arms. But they moved with a swiftness no one could match. They approached, struck, and vanished with a swiftness that terrified their quarry. That was the way of the Hungry Wolf.
She set the weapon aside, along with a leather thong to tie it with for the ride. She turned her attention to her armor: steel stud reinforced leather. It was recently purchased, an update upon the leathers she had worn as a Hungry Wolf. Really, she had just wanted something that would look better on her. The sort of impulse buy that she never seemed to regret no matter how poor her finances. She applied a little fresh oil, some of the leather was still being broken in. It had not seen much use.
She had not been idle in the wake of Natalie's death. She'd felt the call to ready herself, to return to the form she had left behind with the collapse of the Hungry Wolf. Her sessions under the hot Thanalan sun were part practice, part performance, and part meditation. Mental focus and clarity were impressed upon every Hungry Wolf fighter. To clear the mind of distractions, to banish thought which tempted hesitation. To act with decisiveness and reflex. The heat of battle provided a simple choice: kill or be killed. It felt all too natural to her.
She finished donning her riding clothes, and packed her armor for carrying. She was just to visit Forgotten Springs to see if the Heretics holding Verad and his sellsword as prisoners had come that way. They had reason to believe it was the case, but they did not yet know for sure. It was just a fact-finding mission, but Aya knew there was more to it than that. If, and when, they found Verad his life would hang on the balance of hours if not minutes. There would be no time to waste, no moment for hesitation. She would have to be ready. She was ready.
Verad laughed; that deep joyous laugh of his. She had listened to him regaling one person after another with his pitch: fine, indeed the finest, dubious goods to be found this side of Gyr Abania! She had tried to hide her laughs and her giggles as she walked by carrying drink after drink for other patrons. But, at last, the white-maned Duskwight had taken a seat, and it was her turn to be regaled.
She grinned to him, the amusement in her eyes impossible to hide. "Madame! Your very worst drink, in your very smallest serving!" He raised his finger as a flourish, as if this were a well and practiced routine (which indeed it was). She had laughed all the more, giggling her entire way back to the bar. When she returned she offered a tiny shot glass intended for Lalafel, filled with Qiqirn Firewater. He took stock of the drink, served without a hint of hesitation: this was unexpected. For a moment he must have wondered just what he'd gotten himself into. One swig later he knew all too well.
He gagged and she laughed: a friendship had been born. Sometimes it seemed to her, that he never really knew her. But she knew him, and worse, she cared about him. He simply had that effect on people: a truly endearing man.
"Recklessness doesn't really suit you," that's what she remembered saying to Kiht just the day before. The words had carried a warning barb, and one that seemed to wound the pride of the Keeper Huntress. She and Aya had been friends for nearly a year, but only real associates for a short while. Kiht had not much reason to trust her judgement: the bubbly barmaid suddenly turned serious, deadly serious in a moment of high drama. Kiht paused, and then assented to caution.Â
Now what would Kiht think? Aya packed her Chocobo, freshly rented from a Porter, for the solo night-time ride to the edge of the Sagoli. She was taking spear and armor, ready for whatever would come, whatever would pass. Who was being reckless now?
She had reflected upon the stakes. Staring at the spear as she held it in her hands. The flicker of lamplight reflected off the hardened steel blade. She wondered for a moment about her options. She was under no obligation. She was under no danger, no threat. There was reason for caution. But... she could not banish the nightmare from her memory.
The vision of Verad; his silent, terrified scream. She could recall each scale and claw upon the drake rising before the sun, preparing to take its sacrifice. She shuttered at the sensation. The feeling of helplessness. Verad was surrounded by so many who would come to his aid: from every side they had hacked, and slashed. Sultan Sworn, Brass Blades, Moon Keepers, but something had not been right, none had been close enough, none were there in his moment of need. Now, as the nightmare seemed to unfold in the reality before her, she could not banish the thought: he needs me.Â
She had seemed to know this would happen from the very beginning. It was why she was willing to help Kiht, why she was willing to risk her own safety. She could not let a friend down in his moment of need. She would face her nightmare.
There was no other way. There was no choice to be made. She breathed a little easier.
She mounted the Chococo, taking in a deep breath. She was startled by a sudden voice behind her, Jericho the cook. "Aya what in the hells are you doing?" She turned in the saddle to look back upon him. Her eyes were serious, "Tell Madame I shall not be making my shift tomorrow."
"But.. Aya..." he said, pleadingly. "When will you be back?"
"As soon as I can," she replied curtly, before offering a warm smile.Â
With a nudge of her heels she spurred the Chocobo forward. Towards the Gates of Thal. Towards the Sagoli. Towards her nightmare.
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