RESONANCE
ACT II, SCENE I
ACT II, SCENE I
The cave behind Burgundy Falls, southwest of Highbridge, in Eastern Thanalan. Dusk.
A breeze had picked up in the pockets of broken land east of Highbridge. The area was already slightly cooler than the parched lands to the bridge's west, pocked as it was by projecting rockfaces and the sparse yet persistent grasses and thin trees that dared to take root in the sandy soils, giving shelter to the Qiqirn and the phurbles that made the area into a home.
Cooler still was the cave interior. Burgundy Falls splashed into the skinny waterway just outside the cave, and the flowing breezes blew the resulting mists into the cave mouth, and collecting in a deep pool within, making it a solace for travelers. There was said to be gold dust in the bottom of the pool, and veins of gold within the walls, but no miners were there today, and the lone figure within the cave at the moment carried neither pick nor pan for prospecting.
Instead, the tall Hyur was dressed entirely in greys and deep brown leathers, a muted choice that would have surprised those who knew him. The vest covered his torso but left his arms bare, and airborne dust and misty air had formed a dirty sheen on the exposed skin. The pants were simple and tough leather, as were the boots. Only the long and gaudily-decorated case hanging from his back by a strap, and the feathered hat on his head, betrayed the man as anything but a simple foot traveler or worn courier.
He was seated against a rock next to the pool, and took a moment to wipe the grimy dust from his forehead and cheek with a silk handkerchief. It had been a good hike from Camp Drybone, where he'd left his chocobo stabled. The walk, though hot and dry, had done him some good, he felt, and there was no sense risking the faithful bird in whatever his actions might incur. He patted a pocket at his chest, and opened it to place the bit of stained silk back within. There might have been a piece of parchment there, could have been, but his attempts to recover it had gone awry, in ways both heart-wrenching and invigorating. The memories flashed like a pulse through him, bringing the sound of his blood pumping in his head to attention. She'd have had a fit if she knew what he'd been after, but he really didn't need it. After all, what bard worth his hat couldn't memorize a song?
He rubbed his forehead, squeezed the memory back into storage. Things were different now, and the world perhaps a bit colder, but wider, more open, filling his gut with hints of butterflies he'd not felt for a long time, not since nights camped out in Swiftperch with but a dim campfire, his instrument and a small cup of broth to keep him company. Those nights were chapters past, but the lessons from them, and the sights of bright stars and the lit spires of Limsa Lominsa in the distance, had not been forgotten, only stowed.
Or, maybe he'd not learned a damn thing in an entire cycle. The thought made his face crack in a smile, and shake his head. He was here, after all, doing something he'd put off for a year, for her sake, for a lack of need, or drive. But Nathan Telluride was a man who knew what his gifts were, and weren't, and when a chance came to use them, he could be more stubborn than a wart, even if it cost him dearly, which, in a sense, it had.
But a doorway opened, and not passed through, was an affront to Oschon, and thus, here he was.
He stood, stretched, and scratched, imagining he must look every bit like some discarded refugee who, maybe, had simply robbed a real bard of hat and instrument along his travels. Maybe there was some truth to it, but night was falling, and a sense of urgency stirred his legs to life and banished thoughts of philosophy for the moment.
Through the other end of the cave, as he came to it, the Burning Wall glowed like a sea of frozen, floating candles.
It was, of course, aether: aether corrupted, crystallized, left upon the landscape in a iconoclastic reminder to the races of Eorzea that all they built could be destroyed, and that there would always be forces they could not control. It had no purpose but to be a blight, a reminder, one all the more effective for the brash beauty of it. That corruption and destruction could be scenic, compelling, was but a further jab to those who would seek to control and shape the fabric of Hydaelyn herself.
And thus could a bard feel no guilt about giving it his own little test.
He stopped just outside the cave entrance, and looked to his right. A relatively small crystal, only eight fulms high and four wide in branching measurements, was there, unconnected to the greater formations of the area; he reached for it with a gloved hand, gave it a push, ensured that it was solid. It wasn't a simple shard, and yet, it wasn't so big that it might obliterate the landscape. It would do, and he had his plan.
He stepped back into the cave, which angled enough to take him out of view of the crystal, and unslung the lute case from his shoulders, setting it to the ground, and opening it to reveal the green-gilted instrument, his family's legacy, his one connection to them and all he was, all he wanted to be. He reviewed the plan in his head once more, as he lifted the instrument, and set it in place before him, checking the tune with a few plucks as much from instinct as need. It was simple - stay in the cave and let the natural acoustics carry the sound like a funnel, and test the effect. He'd be sheltered from the results, and risk no more than perhaps a phurble and the sheer rockface itself. Anyone coming up the path before him would have been there for likely no good purpose, anyway, seeing as the winding rock led through naught but the crystals, coblyns and some of the winged monstrosities below that never left the crystals, likely drawing sustenance from them in some way. Let them wonder at what might happen.
He took a long breath, and stared for long moments through the cave opening, letting himself fall back into memories of faces. He blinked, cleared his throat, and strummed the opening chord.
The sound echoed through the cave, carried along by and ricocheting against the walls; the plan seemed to be working. He attuned his breathing to the difficult rhythm, putting his whole body into generating the song. Was this how the ancient bards felt - elated, powerful, as if their very forms were merging with their songs, their voices, spreading power to those they hoped to inspire? Was this something like... what mages must feel? He almost slipped on the sudden thought, but discipline held out over thinking, and he adhered to the tune.
He felt a resonance, a vibration, as if it were suffusing the very air around him; he'd felt it before, in practice, but the cave amplified it, too. Dust and dirt fell from a section of the cave wall behind him. But on he played.
The second verse began - this was when the shards from his earlier attempts had begun to shimmer, as if taking notice of the music; more dust fell. His heart raced, feet tapped.
A keening sound came from the mouth of the cave, where he knew the crystal to be. He played on.
Heat, determination, anticipation seemed to coalesce in the sheen of sweat spreading across his arms. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed at it, hastily. No stopping... and his mind seemed to raise a surge of pressure in his skull, but he willed it back. Was he not a man, a man who could choose, or would be be gripped for the rest of his life by concern, fear that he dare not assert himself, ever, that he was indeed just some sort of manchild? No... the word echoed in his mind as the building notes did in the cave. A man finds his will and makes it known. Faces seemed to arise in his thoughts again, some contorted in argument, others in open smiles of encouragement.
He played on. His fingers began to ache.
The wall thirty yalms behind him burst, a sound of shattering and crashing, sending dust and grit into the damp air of the cave. It was too far away to impact him, thank the Twelve; but why... unmined shards? It could be... and his fingers, unrelenting and unheeding in their motions, played on...
And a sound of a hell unleashed followed. It was sharp, explosive, alive with crashes and tinkling and it seemed to boil the very air, and... a shock wave pushed him near from his feet, only reflexes keeping him afoot, and a booming echo in his ears nearly deafened him, leaving a whine in his hearing as he recovered.
The scene from the cave mouth looked as if sparks from a million bonfires had congregated into the air, flying fast and freely, some settling to fall, others still arcing skyward, illuminating dust that had been thrown into the air. In the distance, the wall still burned as it always had... he stepped closer, moving the lute to hang from his back again, a perhaps damned curiosity driving him forward.
The wall still glowed... minus the outline of a sphere. It was not eight fulms. Sparks and glittering pieces of fading orange crystal glittered in a globe of dusty, dying light, a hundred yalms from the cave mouth. He could see just enough of the winding, rocky path beyond to give a thought to it - scathed. It was as if a sandstorm of godly strength, or a mad primal, had blasted all in the sphere into ash, motes and scoured rock. Winds were already carrying traces of light and ash into the air. If there had been coblyns, or ought else in that sphere, they could be naught but ashes, wet or dry.
The bard stood limply in the cave mouth, feeling nothing but throbbing, hearing naught but the high-pitched whine in his ears.
It was likely that Highbridge would have stories to tell travelers of the night that pocked the Burning Wall. It would be said that corpses of the winged humanoids, battered as if by the fist of a god, would be found decomposing at the bottom of the ravine, and that the hole in the wall would be visible for malms away. But they would not speak of the bard, for he had run, and it was all that he could do to hold his hat upon his head as he sprinted through the desert, trusting to the cover of night to hide him.
Back at Drybone, among the wave of perking heads and gasps, two particular figures touched their linkpearls.
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."