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[Homecoming - Part Two]
The Airship always provides two things in bountiful plenty: scenery, and time for thought. While the Shroud rolled on beneath the billowing sails of the graceful wooden vessel, the Ayas thoughts were fraught with turmoil.
To those who know her only as Momodi's bubbly barmaid, she would have seemed unrecognizable. Or those who saw her only as a poster girl, a glamour model. To those who only knew her as the face and figure of Gridanian fashion. Even to those who had seen her dance, and thus witnessed a brief, if clear, glimpse of her heart. It would not be fair to call the smiles facade: she loved every day's simple pleasures and company. But the warmth of her outward expression could not hope to penetrate the fullness of the heart within. She was simply human, after all.
One sentiment had hung in the back of her mind: dereliction (manquement, trahison, she could never decide the fullest severity of it all). It had been there for more than days, more than weeks and moons. Years had passed since the fateful day of her irrevocable decision: immediate flight at all cost. It had meant freedom. Freedom to pursue her own happiness, to discover herself, and to explore the world around her: she had escaped the stone cage that was Ishgard, but at the cost of all that had been left behind.
It was unlike her. She always let go. She focused on the here, the now, and the future, wasn't that right? The past was a millstone around the neck of those who failed to move on and adapt. In the rapidly changing landscape of Eorzea this seemed more important than ever. But this was different, wasn't it? This was family. Downcast eyes were accompanied with a feeble grip on the side-railing. Why did it always feel like this when she thought of home?
She had rolled through the justifications so many times that they were now summoned forth with the summarized rapidity of a well-rehearsed argument. The dangers of her place in Ishgard seemed to be closing in around her. One too many enamored admirers, too many of whom were blessed with the very power of birthright and status that could make life for her or her family difficult, or worse. Parents insistent that she serve their familial expectations, and their concept of propriety and tradition. The deep-hewed contours of a society sculpted to prevent the rise and success of an outsider, and daughter of refugees. An endless winter that snuffed hope, happiness, and health with the same sureness with which it it smothered spring in its blanket of endless snow and frost.
But no matter the justification, her heart ever returned to the same conclusion: dereliction. Abandonment of family, of friends, of home. She had left behind her brothers, Kael and Osvald, and their adoptive sister Enna. Mother was left without a daughter of her own. Father left bereaved of his very joy and purpose. Uncles, aunts, and cousins to whom she owed so much felt the sting of her sudden disappearance. The friends, patrons, and fellow performers whom she had left without word or farewell.
To what, to whom, could she ever think herself loyal? Could there be a greater betrayal than that of blood and sororal bonds?
Her eyes focused on the landscape passing beneath the ship. She had been here before. In this strange, darkened mood. With eyes cast uncharacteristically backward, brimming with self-criticism and doubt. Yes, father was overbearing. He insisted that she live the life he desired, rather than that which she had desired: but was that not his right? Had he not seen them all through the gravest of danger? And what had she done with it all? Just what had she accomplished to make her family proud?
She let out a heavy sigh, eyes closing as she wondered whether this trip was just one more bad decision to compound the rest. Over the years this sense of betrayal had carved a hollowness in her heart. A hollowness that sought to undermine everything she loved in life. "I am happy," she would repeat to herself, as though the proof were in the words themselves. Yet, simple irresolution ever seemed to deny her peace. She could draw upon ample evidence of her failings. The violence of her days as a sell-sword, and the cowardice and cravenness that followed her departure from the Shroud. How could they even understand what life had been like for her in Ishgard, let alone Ul'dah?
News from the Tower City did nothing to settle her. She had first learned of father's illness from V'aleera's letters, but it was Osvald who wrote to tell her of the despair into which he had sunk upon her flight - which they had all believed was her demise.
Of course, she failed to reckon with her father's own story. With all the ghosts of the family history. These were not perfect men and women: all were failed in their own way. When faced with the decision to stand in brave defiance with his countrymen had he not turned and fled with his family? Just how deeply did he compromise in order to survive the reign of the King of Ruin? He had overseen the loss of everything they had once possessed. Betrayal, dereliction, it seems, runs in the family.
When news reached the family that she was alive and well, it lifted a heavy burden, but father had simply never been the same. Once irascible, and full of energy, he had grown tired and morose. She wondered if he would even want to see her. If mother would. Aya could not but wonder what sort of welcome awaited her in the belly of frostbitten stone.
The airship docked in the heights of Gridania's wood-craft skyline. Calmly, she gathered her belongings from below.
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