A Legacy in Blood

[Roen]

A Woman In White

_{Part II}

 

 

 

 

 

Hell.

 

Many often invoked it, or cursed it, believing themselves to be suffering even a minute aspect of it when they encountered what they could not comprehend or endure. Some wished others' descent into it, fueled by hatred and vitriol.

 

But what did anyone truly know of hell or any of its seven incarnations?

 

Raelisanne Banurein had often wondered. Was hell a state of physical suffering, or one of the mind? It was likely both. Could it be of one's own making? Could hell exist amongst the living? She believed it so. If hell was something that one suffered, enough suffering could be manifested anywhere to create the worst nightmares.

 

It was not the darkness or the perversity of the concept that drew her attention. She had no interest in causing or watching the torment of others. Far from it.

 

It was what came of such perdition. Some say the journey is the thing, and not the destination, yet do we all not strive toward them regardless? A journey was nothing without some form of destination. The more the better, perhaps.

 

Transformation is both journey and destination. It was one of her core beliefs.

 

What was the product of a broken soul? Was man still man, or was something new made in his place? Or did a broken soul equate to a broken man?

 

These questions she has asked many times and over many corpses. Trying to break someone down to their essence often resulted in insanity or violent death brought on by lunacy. She had yet to find the perfect subject, much less the answers that she sought.

 

"What is a soul?" she had asked Delial Grimsong.

 

"It is... a spark of sorts," the Highlander had responded, trying her best to hide her puzzlement; her hesitation gave her away, however. "It is a flame, that which makes life more than just... life.”

 

"What is a man without a soul?"

 

"A husk. A ghost."

 

"This one..." Raelisanne had turned from Delial even though the taller woman would not see the barest hint of a smile behind the mask. "This one will be a beast."

 

Raelisanne watched through the thick glass window that overlooked the metal cell below, her violet eyes intent upon the single occupant that sat hunched within. Gharen Wolfsong was leaning against the wall, his wrists bound in heavy iron shackles. She could already spot the raw flesh where he had continuously tested the limits of his bindings over the many suns that he had worn them. His bare torso was marred with old and new wounds; the ones that bore freshly dried blood coming at the courtesy of Delial Grimsong.

 

The Highlander woman’s skills in the art of blood sacrifice was impressive, as Raelisanne had previously noted. Delial made circular geometric incisions upon Wolfsong’s flesh, while the man was held immobile, bound bodily to a metal table and heavily drugged. But screams came even in that altered state, as each wound was treated with alchemic powder that made them smoke, bubble and sizzle. As blood magic and alchemy coursed through his veins, Raelisanne added her own augmentations--that of the voidlings, her own specialty.

 

Sanguine fluid turned from a crimson hue to something darker and more unnatural, and Raelisanne watched it snake through him with quiet anticipation. This was the beginning. A part of her wondered if the slight quickening of her pulse was akin to delight, or even the hint of disquiet. She had not felt anything that would approximate true emotion in cycles; she had almost forgotten what that felt like.

 

But there was anticipation. She wanted success. Wolfsong had been a resilient specimen. And with the numerous scars upon his body, along with clear evidence of previously broken bones... the things she had learned of his history…

 

He was perfect. Just what she needed. He had survived the physical augmentations so far, and with Delial’s aid, the infusion process had been more efficient and complete. But the silver-haired woman knew breaking him was not about just affecting the body. There was still the mind. And his spirit. The things that made him who he was.

 

He had endured savage beatings, sun after sun after sun. He would then be left to try and rest, but just as his pulse slowed and his eyes began to drift closed, the door to the metal cell hissed open with a high pitched alarm. Uniformed guards would enter brandishing long rods that sparked and spat with electricity or thick blunt wooden batons. Wolfsong had even dislocated his thumb to liberate one hand from his bindings, surprising the first set of guards and killing a few of them with just one hand free. Astounding strength and force of will, she had marveled at the news, lips pursed to hide her delight.

 

But she had more. And he was but one man, drugged and poisoned. His limbs moved slower and more sluggish than before, as if an anchor had been strapped to them. She knew sooner or later the fight would be beaten out of him physically. Each time he pushed past his fatigue and pain to fight back, she knew his strength would fail him faster. His fist would lose its tightness, his legs buckling without warning. She did not bother to count the suns until his body gave in; it happened as she predicted, the Highlander eventually just lay still when guards entered his chamber.

 

Raelisanne watched as he only attempted to mitigate the worst of the blows. Her lips pressed primly. He is ready.

 

When the cell door hissed open again, it was Raelisanne's own shadow that fell over him. The guards parted to make way for her, and she approached the bruised and beaten Highlander. Her white coat was pristine as were her gloves. Her mask was in place--an enchanted article that gave her a constant scrolling reading of his vitals, as well as allowed her to see the aura of void energies that coursed through his body’s aether.

 

She kneeled beside him, her voice low and even behind the mask. “Your strength leaves you, Mister Wolfsong.”

 

He looked at her with one eye now swollen shut. The other seemed to want to shut due to the weight of exhaustion, which was expected. Raelisanne could still see see a flash of defiance behind his hazel gaze, and his bruised jaw tensed with unspoken words.

 

Her hand came to lightly rest against his arm, his skin slick with sweat and blood. "And now your aether turns on you as well." She clucked her tongue and canted her head slowly; she could see the glowing blue eyes of her mask reflected in his one open eye. "Why the defiance, Mister Wolfsong? Why do you hold on to this idea that you should fight? Aren't we all simply creatures seeking survival? If you give yourself to me, this will be easier. And I promise, you will survive this."

 

His breathing remained heavy as he shifted slightly to turn his head fully to her, a low growl rumbling from his chest. He spat out some blood on the floor, murder in his gaze. "Best get on with killin' me then. Cause if'n I get out of here? I'm comin' fer ye." Despite his resistance, his voice was strained and tired.

 

Raelisanne shook her head. "Is this that spark? The thing that makes you more than a mere beast? That thing that makes us think that we are more than just particles of aether, fibers of muscle, and connections of nerves?" Her gloved fingers trace his arm, down to the manacles. Her attention lingered on the streak of crimson that marred her white glove. "What happens when your aether runs black? Your muscles no longer obey you and your thoughts betray you?"

 

She turned her masked gaze back towards Wolfsong. "We are all nothing but beasts within. Beasts with basic instincts that urge us to survive. We will kill our neighbors when threatened. We will eat our young when starved."

 

She felt the muscles in his arms slack a little, and he flashed her an uncharacteristic toothy smile that spread wickedly across his face, "Pretty well certain I've burned yer image inte my brain, an I'll be comin fer ye regardless."

 

First rage. Now malice. He is ready.

 

Raelisanne felt her own pulse quicken just slightly. "Very good then, Mister Wolfsong." She said, her voice never faltering.

 

She lifted her hand, a single fingertip glowing blue. It reflected the cold shimmering hue within the mask’s orbits. She reached out and lightly touched his forehead.

 

“Let us begin.”

[Gharen]

How long has it been? Suns? Moons? Time had turned into a blur, it meant nothing here.

 

Gharen remembered being bound in that dimly lit cabin. Then blackness fell. He drifted in and out of consciousness, drugs? Poison? He could not tell.

 

He remembered being strapped down to a cold flat metal surface and he could not move. It was almost a dream, this memory, as the two women stood over him. Dark skinned one, Delial, she had something sharp in her hand.  And she was tracing his body, no she was cutting him, in slow precise circular motions. A searing burn followed each line, each curve. It made his visions blur, it slowed his thoughts, sending them into a dizzying spin. It made him unable to focus.

 

Then the black things were placed on his body again. And as they attached, they bit into his flesh. From their fangs he could feel their venom slowly swim into his veins, like snakes, slithering through his body.  His muscles twitched in protest, not of his own volition. White fanged smile split the dark woman’s face, she smiled at him as if proud of what she had done.

 

Then there was the masked woman, and her glowing blue eyes. And as the eerie light pulsed, so did his veins, as if the black vipers that ran through them suddenly writhed in pain as if on fire. Gharen could not remember if he screamed, he did not stay conscious long.

 

When he woke again, he was no longer bound to that cold metal thing, he was lying in a dark cell.  He could feel the smooth cold steel chill his skin. On his bare chest he could feel the dried blood that traced geometric symbols that had been carved into his flesh.

 

Sleep attempted to claim him, but each time uniformed Garlean soldiers entered the cell heralded by a painfully loud alarm.  As the door opened, they filed in wielding batons, some of them crackling with electricity. Gharen didn't need an explanation; he had enough scars that marked the majority of his body to know what was coming. His heart rate quickened and he took several deep breaths in preparation. He jerked his body to one side attempting to partly shield himself, as the savage beating began.

 

What the guards did not hear was the sickening pop of Gharen's left thumb as it was dislocated, giving him allowance to slide his left hand through the manacle. He swung back viciously, perhaps desperately, but he received more punishing blows than he could return in kind.

 

In the end, while some of those guards did not walk out of that cell, he was but a man in a losing battle, fueled by anger and rage. Whatever they did to him while had been bound previously, he could feel its lingering effects, that blackness that gave heaviness his limbs.

 

Bell after she came.bell, sun after sun, how long had he been here? In the blackness of this cell, time didn’t seem to exist anymore. His strength was failing him now, and his will to fight back was beginning to wane. Eventually the best he could hope to do was to mitigate the worst of the blows. It was then

 

A thousand threats swirled through his mind as she spoke, but he said nothing. His remaining act of defiance was refusing to give the woman the satisfaction of a response. The more this woman talked the more he wanted to kill her. Her words elicited a growl to well up from within him, he had noticed himself doing that. How often did he do that? He'd never taken conscious notice of it before. But when he looked back at the masked woman, he felt a burning within him and he wanted nothing more than to throttle the life out of her.

 

But as she continued, Gharen started to feel numb and an overwhelming feeling of detachment settled upon him as if his consciousness were no longer in control of his body. Was it the poison running through his veins that fogged his thoughts? He was fairly certain he’d said something in return to the woman, a threat maybe, but he couldn’t make out his own words. It was then that she said something; the eyes of her mask glimmered blue as she touched his forehead.

 

All went white.

[Gharen]

At first, there was a feeling of relief that washed over him as he finally felt the call of sleep tugging at him. But then a realization hit him. Why? Why was she giving him what he wanted suddenly? No, this was all wrong! Indeed, the thought came too late; his body had already given way to exhaustion. The aether that flowed in him wanted to obey her whims. In that moment of relief, it let her in, and his mind went blank.

 

When he opened his eyes, it was a clear day. The autumn air was thin and cold within the mountains where his father hunted. He would bring his son to some of the hunting trips, and Gharen remembered how tall his father seemed then, with a long thin spear strapped to his back.

 

Gharen was tall for his age, at five winters at almost four fulms, "Almost." his mother would say, even though he barely passed three fulms in spring. But with her smile reassuring him, Gharen could not argue. Something tugged at the back of his mind, as if to say something was out of place, but... he could not quite remember what. But this, this was a relief beyond measure. To be hunting by his father side, his mother waiting for him at home. What else could a boy want?

 

A breeze blew past them as he and his father lay in the tall grass. The leaves of the surrounding trees swayed with each other to mark the passing of an autumn wind, even though it all looked like something out of a painting as the colors ran together in his memory. The child did not care.

 

His father had been tracking a buck all morning, and in doing so teaching his son how to read the signs of the wilds. Together they watched as the buck entered their line of sight, his father muttering quiet words of wisdom to the boy. A part of Gharen wondered why he couldn’t hear his father’s voice, nor could he remember what it sounded like. But the boy knew what was expected of him. As his father got up quietly to attempt to get within striking distance of the animal, Gharen watched as he had been instructed.

 

In what felt like an eternity passing as he watched and waited, a chill ran over the boy and the hairs on his neck stood on end. Moments passed as they watched the buck, but then something happened that seemed odd. Suddenly his father was next to him, thrusting the spear into young Gharen's hand.

 

Gregor nodded to him, his deep set eyes expectant. He looked from the young boy to the full grown buck ahead of them.

 

Gharen took his father’s spear in hand, his jaw agape that his father wanted him to make the kill. Curling his small hands tightly around the shaft of the spear, he tried to get up without making a sound and approach the buck as he’d seen father do previously. His heart raced now as was close enough to see the buck grazing; he was within throwing distance. He glanced back to his expectant father who nodded. But as Gharen turned back to focus his aim, he could not shake the feeling that just beyond the edges of his vision there was something there watching him.

 

The young boy was careful. He was taught well by his father. And yet there was a slight blurriness to the ground he stepped on, and his foot cracked on a dry pine cone, shattering it to pieces and breaking the careful silence. The buck turned in an instant, and spotting the boy with the spear in hand, it stomped the ground once. Gharen thought that it may attack in panic, but then he heard the footsteps of his father behind him, and the buck spun and bolted into the woods.

 

Gharen was not given the moment to consider or even react. Soon as he turned, his head snapped to the side with a hard backhanded slap from his father. The boy fell onto his back, as his hand reached up to his cheek that was now burning.

 

”Yer a worthless sod!” he heard his father say. And yet… something in the back of his mind said this was not his father’s voice. It was someone else. Someone else that he should not have yet known. Gregor stood over him, angry, sneering, and with a bottle in his hand. When did the bottle get there?

 

"I... I'm." Gharen started to stammer as tears started to well in his eyes. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t focus on it beyond the pounding in his chest. He wiped his eyes to clear the moisture there, and for a moment he glanced to a lingering darkness behind his father. He could swear for an instant he saw the flash of yellow-green eyes and heard a distant growl.

 

His attention returned to the towering man before him who was now seething with anger. Gharen tried to stammer out an apology, but was cut off as Gregor spun from him. The man was never one for many words, this he remembered. He snatched up the spear in one hand and walked away from him in long quick strides. "Home!" he barked. "There be no meat fer ye this eve."

 

As he pushed himself up off the ground, Gharen rubbed his cheek and watched his father’s back. He looked down to the ground and followed his father quietly, afraid that anything he might say would set the man off again.  And yet, as he followed, he was sure of it. The feeling of being watched. He glanced to his left and right, and occasionally he'd catch a glimpse of something else, perhaps someone else just outside of the periphery of his vision.

 

They walked back in silence, Gregor’s stride angry and long, swaying with drunkenness. Gharen had not remembered him this way, but he saw it now as clear as day.  His mother waited outside their home, as usual, waiting for their return. Her hazel eyes were warm, and she always had a smile for young Gharen. She would welcome him with open arms. But when she saw the dark look on Gregor’s eyes, her smile gave way to a frown. “What happened?” Again, Gharen could not remember the sound of his mother’s voice, and like his father, this was someone else that he should not have yet known.

 

“Th’ uselessh boy shcared off th’ buck we’d been huntin’ all day. It looks like he’s goin’ tae go hungry.” Gregor’s speech was slurred with anger and alcohol.

 

Aline clucked her tongue, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “My oldest and only son. Gharen m’dear, sweetling. When will you be of use?” Her voice was sweet as honey. One eye seemed to have gone somewhat pale.

 

The boy’s shoulders drooped as he looked to the floorboards, "I... I'm sorry." He had no excuses, he had indeed failed to bring down the buck, scared it away. There was a cold feeling within his chest as if an icy hand slowly gripped his heart and began to squeeze. Then the cry came from within the house. That of an infant babe. The young thing was wailing, her cry echoing into the woods around them.

 

“Shut that thing up!” Gregor bellowed. He was becoming angrier. Gharen recognized it easily enough. He knew what would happen when … his guardian, no his father, became angry. It would not go well for him. Or any target of his temper.

 

“She’s hungry, my dear husband.” Aline shrugged, shaking her head with a sad pitying look to Gharen. “But since we have no meat for the dinner table, we shall all go hungry, I’m afraid.” Gregor kicked back a wooden chair on the porch. He threw his empty bottle away, letting it shatter against a tree, and snatched up another one near the door. “If she doesn’t shut up, I will shut ‘er up.” He stormed inside the house.

 

Realizing what was about to happen, Gharen rushed to the doorway after his father. "It was my fault, I'm sorry!” That brought Gregor to spin around, easily redirecting his anger at something or someone else. He gave Gharen's chest a hard kick, knocking the air from him and sending the young boy to the ground. There was a painful crack at the impact, and his chest burned. And still the baby wailed behind them, now screaming in fear.

 

"I said.. shut up!" Gregor yelled angrily, taking another swig from the bottle in his hand.  He spun back towards the cradle on the other side of the room. Gharen clutched at his broken ribs as tears rolled down his face. Somewhere in the forest beyond, he heard the growl again, louder now, though it didn't seem to register to his family. He pushed himself up to his knees and looked to his mother pleadingly, but her indifference was clear. This was all wrong, none of it felt right.

 

The thought of Ortolf harming his sister made Gharen’s blood boil. "Leave her alone!" he shouted after his father. Gregor -- no Ortolf -- Gharen could see both men standing there. His memory transposed the face of his abusive guardian, whose voice he did remember, over his father's visage. The images began to flit back and forth. And both... were furious. He ceased to advance towards the cradle, instead he stomped back towards young Gharen and brought his booted heel down on his hand hard. The bones of his fingers cracked. “I dinnae tell ye te get up boy!”  Another drunken angry sneer. A fist flew at him, landing a hard impact to one side of the boy’s head.

 

As the pain in his hand shot up his arm, young Gharen called out in agony, and the force of the man's punch bounced his head off the floor. A gashing wound began to pour blood and clouded his vision, and Gharen felt his body going into shock. But as his vision blurred as unconsciousness began to take hold of him, the angry growl of the wolf rang in his ear.

 

"Let the beast out, Mister Wolfsong." A soft distant voice echoed from the darkness he had spotted earlier. Who was that? The boy could not place the voice. But she sounded familiar. Calm. Yet forceful. "Or you will die... as will she."

 

Aline seemed not to hear it, she stood there, her arms crossed. She wore a sad expression. Completely fake. Gregor -- Ortolf? -- no Gregor, squatted in front of him, sneering. He set the bottle on the floor next to Gharen. "Ye be a good little boy... and stay right there while I shut 'er up. Then ye will be next." His father stood, and Gharen blinked through his blurry vision to see his booted feet walking away, towards the cradle. The wailing was now deafening. The babe was terrified.

 

Panic. That was the only thing Gharen felt now, he saw movement and looked to the door of their home. There stood a great grey wolf, snarling at his father’s back. The beast was easily taller than the five year old boy. The snarling animal and the boy shared a look for but a moment before Gharen reached out to touch the animal.

 

Gharen watched as the great wolf disappeared into dark wisps of smoke, just before he slipped into unconsciousness and his muscles went slack. The growl was coming from him now as the wolf pushed them up off the ground and reached for the bottle set next to him. He felt his muscles coil with bloodlust and breaking the bottom of the bottle agaist the floor, he lunged at his father, at Ortolf. The jagged edge of the glass cut deep into the man’s heel severing the achilles tendon causing his prey to fall while screaming in agony.

 

As soon as Ortolf hit the ground, the wolf went for the throat, hand wrapping about his father's windpipe. He felt the flesh squeezing beneath his grip as the glass in the other gouged a deep wound in the man’s neck. The wolf tore the ragged flesh free as his father lay there gurgling helplessly.

 

The wolf rose as the cries from the crib drew its attention. But the babe was not a threat, not prey. Its gaze then fell to Gharen's mother still standing in the door way uncaring. Blood began to boil again, and the wolf lunged. Aline let out an ear piercing scream, but it was short lived.

 

The memory faded into a blur of red, and a new one began. One by one the memories of people he loved were visited and defiled, Qaeli, Miss Jara, Miss Brynhilde, all ended the same, in some form of betrayal. Each time, the wolf was present, and each time it took control more easily than the last. And each dear friend and loved one that fell to its fury left a deep wound upon his soul.

 

Then finally he found himself within Ul’dah. He could recognize the entrance to the Quicksand, but before he could remember why he was there, he saw Obsidian Hornet standing before him. He recalled this memory with some hesitation, for it was the day she left him. She had told him goodbye and that she was going to help people and bring balance to her life. But as it did with the rest of his memories, an icy hand gripped at his heart again as they exchanged farewells.

 

"But not only that," Hornet said, her voice turning cool, "I am leaving YOU, Gharen. You're not the man I thought you were going to be." He felt that tightness in his chest constrict. He looked to the ground between them attempting to remain stoic in the face of what she was now telling him.

 

"You're..."  Hornet paused, searching for the right blade, "too weak.  I realize that I was blinded by what you could have been but you're just not that man.  You're this man."  She makes a gesture towards him. "Weak and ugly.  The scars were novel I suppose, but why would I want to spend a life with something so hideous?  You understand of course." The words weren't delivered with malice exactly. Instead they were delivered with a cool, uncaring dispassion. As if she were talking to a dog.

 

This was what he'd always expected to hear, he'd wondered why she'd shown such interest in him from the start. He continued to look to the ground between them for he was certain that if he looked upon her, the facade of his stoicism would crumble away. He nodded in understanding and spoke just loud enough for her to hear. "...Aye."

 

That meek response seemed to infuriate her and she sneered, venom seeping into her words. "See? This is what I'm talking about. You're nothing! A man would have fought for me! You're no man! You're barely a dog! Sniveling and shrinking. Disgusting."

 

He could hear the Wolf's growl again, its pitch changing to that of a vicious snarl.That voice echoed amidst the streets. "Even she betrays you Mister Wolfsong." Hornet and the faceless citizens that passed did not seem to hear or react to it. "Give in, and the pain will end." Hornet said something else that Gharen could no longer understand, but the look of disgust on her face was clear as she started to turn away. There was a sudden feeling of numbing disconnect, it was a feeling that was becoming more and more familiar. The wolf took control easier than ever.

 

The faceless citizens did not react to the attack, instead the colors of the memory became that of a painting smeared. The only clarity was that of the Wolf and Hornet. Before she could fully turn away, it lashed out at her, a closed fist striking her in the throat. She collapsed to her knees gasping desperately for a breath that would not come, her hand rising in front of her to try and  hold off the rest of the wolf’s assault. Somewhere, a part of Gharen cried out for it stop, as he watched another loved one destroyed by the wolf’s rage.

 

“Well done," came the voice from the shadows, even as the dark crimson pool grew on the floor, flowing and expanding out over the stone.

 

Then there was that familiar high pitched hiss, the door was opening to his cell. His senses were waking, brought back to the world by the blinding light that flooded his room. Silhouette of guards stood at the door way, rods in their hands. Gharen knew this sight well. Except this time... his hand was not bound. Nor were his ankles. Manacles were gone.

 

"Let the beast out, Mister Wolfsong." That voice rang in his head again. The silhouette eclipsed the light of the door as figures entered his room. There was little to no goading required, this time the wolf was in control now. The beast heard the hated female’s voice and a deep, angry, feral growl rumbled from the man's chest as he rose. The wolf grabbed its dislocated left thumb and pulled it back into place with a sickening pop. Its upper lip quivered as it bared its teeth at the guards entering the room. The wolf remembered these ones as they approached, with weapons at the ready. All were threats, and none were leaving this cage alive.

 

The wolf lunged at the first guard, going straight for the man's throat. In a sudden tackle, Gharen's hand crushed the young man’s windpipe as teeth came down on to flesh breaking skin. Repeated strikes from batons were leveled onto as it killed the first of its prey, and the blows it suffered only angered it further. It snatched up the dead corpse’s weapon, as the wolf spun around and attacked two more.

 

All wore the Garlean masks and the uniforms. All held the rods that had prodded and beaten him before. All screamed as they met their death, those that did not have their windpipes crushed and ripped. And one by one, they dropped, and the dark red pool of blood grew at his feet. And the cell door hissed closed behind the grisly scene, even as blood splattered the walls.

[Roen]

((the following is written with much thanks and collaboration with the player of Jameson Taeros))

 

 

 

The Night Life

 

 

 

"Oh Jameson, must you go so soon?"

 

Jameson Taeros curled a charming smile to the Miqo'te dancer who wiggled on his lap. "Alas, beautiful. Business does not wait." He gently uncoiled her pink tail from around his leg, feigning an apologetic frown for the girl's benefit. He had not bothered to learn her name; she and two others served well as a distraction for the guests he entertained that evening at the Golden Bazaar. The transactions went as predicted. He knew his employers would be pleased with the profitable agreements that were made this eve.

 

Gently setting the pouting dancer to the side, he rose and nodded to those still indulging in the company and the fine wine at the table. They mumbled some semblance of thanks as he bid them farewell, and James noted their glazed eyes and flushed faces. This was a good thing; clouded minds became negligent of the details in favor of pleasures after all, and he attributed more than a few successes to lascivious loins. The men paid him no mind as he bowed, for they saw him as a mere subordinate to the heads of the Syndicate. It was his employer they sought to gain favors with, not him. That suited Jameson just fine. He only paused at the door to retrieve his cloak, for the desert skies looked to drench the travelers venturing into the roads that night.

 

Stepping outside, he wrapped the cloak about him. Leaves and fliers were tossed haphazardly throughout the bazaar by the stormy winds. His mind was already going over the meetings that would await him in Ul'dah later that evening; his Monetarist employers had a couple of new hires for his perusal.

 

Alabrous Tane, a man skilled at forgery and obtaining the right papers from the right people for the wrong reasons, definitely could be of use. Tane was grudgingly recommended to him by a Highlander bard named Callae, who had just won the favor of one of his employers with her charms and swaying hips. (As well as her skill with whips; training chocobos was only one of her talents in that regard.) Despite her sordid connections with the Ala Mhigan Resistance--a fact that Jameson discovered when he vetted her--his employer elected to forgive such inconvenient details when given the right incentive. In Callae's case, she provided just the right amount of leg, sass, and smile. James reminded himself to keep a careful eye on her from the moment she was hired.

 

But the bard had already provided something useful. If it wasn't for her, James wondered if Tane would have been considered at all. The man wore his lewd nature upon him like a gaudy piece of jewelry, and his proclivity towards losing large sums of money whilst gambling made him somewhat of a risky investment. Still, knowing the right people could carry a man far in the Jewel, and Tane at least seemed to have that going for him--even if he too had somewhat of a distant past with the Ala Mhigan Resistance. But even more than Callae, Tane seemed eager deny that that part of his past ever existed.

 

Then there was the matter of his other employer. James often thought of her when subjects like the Resistance rose in his mind. But he had not heard from the silver-haired woman in almost a cycle. She had always preferred to keep their connection out of the public eye. He had known the woman since before the Calamity, years ago when she escaped from her home and her family to find a new haven and a new purpose within the Empire. Jameson marveled at how their positions had reversed since that day, that now he answered to her. He no longer saw the darkness in her violet eyes--those short glimpses of the shattered woman she had been beneath the surface.

 

Now all that remained was a cold and calculating scientist, one whose interests lay in manipulating people’s thoughts, their will...their very being.

 

Communication with her had gone silent, as it sometimes tended to, but it had now been over a cycle--the longest span of silence yet. She never did call upon him often, granted, and a part of him preferred it that way. He had his own life and business to conduct, after all, far away from whatever she wanted. Or the Empire. Serving Lolorito and the interest of the Syndicate had given him a new path in life, one that he did not expect when it all began, and now he thrived in this many-faceted role.

 

Would he prefer that she never contact him at all? He had pondered that on nights where he found himself restless. But he did not wonder for too long; there were things to get done, and far too many pieces to move on the board. The Syndicate’s work was never done. The cog of the wheel that turned beneath Ul’dah never stopped for anyone.

 

Drawing the hood over his head, Jameson began to make his way across the courtyard. It was mostly deserted. The rainy gusts would usually have the vendors scrambling to cover their wares with protective canvas, but none were at their stands. Even the chocobo stables were closed. Odd...

 

He narrowed his eyes, spotting a singular figure walking toward him, with a beggar tray in hand. The man had a tattered hood about him, and mumbled something about food and gil.

 

“I have nothing to spare, dear man.” Jameson maintained his casual stance, waving the man off. But his attention never left him.

 

The beggar continued to advance toward him, holding out his bowl. “Just a gil to spare.” As he extended his hand, Jameson noted the empty bowl, but the hand that held it was free of grime and dirt, and his fingernails were well trimmed.

 

Jameson stepped back once as the bowl was thrust toward his chest. The beggar’s other hand had disappeared into the tattered robe, so it was no surprise when it shot back out, jabbing a sharp blade intended for Jameson's abdomen.

 

What he did not expect was two more shadowy figures peeling away from the building behind him.

Edited March 5, 2018 by Roen

[Roen]

The jab of the knife was thrust aside as James struck the attacker’s wrists, first the one holding the knife then the other with the bowl, which went bouncing across the muddy ground as the assailant lunged again with his knife. James dodged to the side and grabbed the arm holding it, pulling his assailant in closer. Two quick strikes with the elbow to the man’s throat sent him staggering back, choking for breath. James noted the man’s eyes as the tattered hood was tossed back with the wind. They shot to his flank.

 

More assassins.

 

His hand slipped within his cloak to draw out three small throwing knives hidden beneath his doublet. Two figures wearing dark leather to make them blend in with the night approached him from either side, the glint of steel in their hands. They wore masks, only their eyes visible. Jameson did not need to know who any of them were, but their purpose was clear.

 

The beggar was a decoy.

 

The assassin to the right flicked his wrist, sending a deadly projectile Jameson's way. Fast and accurate. James shifted his weight slightly to lean to the left, and the throwing dagger sailed past his head only an ilm away. He heard the rush of footsteps from the opposite side of him, the rain lending even the quickest and quietest footsteps a small splash in warning. Jameson afforded but a glance to both his flanks, that briefest glimpse allowing him to duck the swing of the long serrated dagger that arced for his neck.

 

Short blade. Close-quarters assassin. The one bearing down on him was already bringing his dagger low, wasting no time. James struck the swing aside with the side of his palm, jutting the butt of his other hand at the man’s underside of the chin. Taeros sprang up as the man’s head snapped back, affording him that precious second to coil his arm around the man’s extended hand with the dagger. His feet digging in, he pivoted at the waist, spinning the man in front of him.

 

Two more throwing daggers thudded into the man, one on his upper torso, the other on the nape of his neck. Quite accurate, James noted. He glanced to the second assassin over the shoulder of the man who was now gurgling blood by his ear. But overconfident. Seeing the human shield in between them, the second assassin drew a scimitar from his hip. With a slight pivot of his feet, Jameson flung his arm, sending the three knives nestled within the web of his fingers towards the assassin that was rushing him.

 

The assassin batted two away with his scimitar as he charged forward, though the third one found its mark just below the left collarbone. But that barely slowed him down. James pushed the bloodied human shield between them, the dying man now grasping at his neck in a futile attempt to slow the spurting of his lifeblood. The second assassin sidestepped his partner with nary a glance, his scimitar cutting rain in quick smooth arcs in front of him. Jameson hopped back out of reach of the first swing, sidestepped another, then hopped back away from the third that sought to disembowel him.

 

This one is quicker, he observed, and in the back of his mind he remembered that the beggar still lived; his strikes had not quite broken the trachea. But he could not spare a glance elsewhere -- the scimitar strokes came fast. He turned sideways to dodge two more swings, though one came close enough to leave a tear on his sleeve and draw blood.

 

Jameson backpedalled toward one of the deserted vendor tables. In their hurried escape, the merchants had left their goods strewn about. James grabbed a silver plate from the table, flinging it at his assailant. The man brought up his arm to shield his head from the oncoming objects, his advance slowing as he did so. But by the time his hand lowered, James had a brass candlestick in one hand. He turned his wrist, holding the candlestick upside down, lining up the length of the candlestick against the side of his arm.

 

The assassin with the scimitar advanced again, seeking quick strikes to end the fop. But this time Jameson stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The first swing of the scimitar was parried, metal of the blade scraping loudly against the brass candlestick where it should have sliced into the nobleman’s forearm. A quick and vicious swing of the elbow struck the assassin’s neck; James’ arm then uncoiled to shoot behind the attacker’s neck, grabbing and pushing him downward. James brought his knee up to meet the man’s face, an audible crack telling of shattered nose and broken cheekbone. He brought the metal candlestick down on the back of the man’s skull with a sickening crunch.

 

The assassin's scimitar dropped to the ground with a wet clang and the body fell away. James spotted the beggar five fulms away. But the man was already eyeing the limp body on the ground. He spun and broke into a full sprint out of the bazaar. James yanked the throwing knife that was embedded in the man at his feet, and launched it at the fleeing figure. The beggar had worn no armor as part of his disguise, which left his legs exposed. When the knife pierced his left hamstring, the man fell hard, skidding across wet gravel and mud.

 

Jameson straightened, looking about. Undoubtedly there were eyes behind the closed doors, peering through the cracks in the wood and the windows. But he knew none would speak of it; they all knew better than to talk of these kinds of business dealings. He checked the bleeding wound on his arm, one that was now staining his lovely doublet. Even as he strode the distance between himself and the man struggling on the ground, James gave the building he left a sidelong glance.

 

There was the possibility that any one of his guests within could have sent the assassins. Or that this was a gift from another member of the Syndicate. Or any of the Royalist families. These sorts of treacheries were the norm, hidden--if barely--in the underside of that faceted Jewel that was Ul'dah.

 

The "beggar" was desperately trying to crawl away with one good leg; the other was sliding behind in the wet dirt, useless. The man's eyes widened when the nobleman reached behind him and drew out a small but wicked looking serrated knife.

 

“I suppose this means I am going to be late for my meeting.” Jameson sighed. Then he smiled. "I apologize for what's to come, in advance."

 

Civility was still expected, of course.

[Roen]

"Go on as if nothing is amiss. I know it is difficult, I know it is infuriating. But that is what you must do. One false word and she will know. And she may kill Gharen rather than risk another attack."

 

Delial Grimsong’s warning echoed in Roen’s mind throughout her days. The memory of their conversation under the stormy skies of Drybone had casted a dark shadow over every thought and every interaction since. She had returned to her duties in Ul’dah and said nothing. She knew in the back of her mind that both Natalie and Kage had noticed that something had changed, though neither of them prodded her about it. But it was in their eyes, as they regarded her just a little bit more carefully than usual.

 

Even before her confession to them of her Garlean heritage, both Natalie and Kage had always allowed Roen her secrets, and especially after her admittance, they had left it to her to come to them should she want to share any other truths.

 

But this truth, Roen could not share. Gharen’s life depended on it.

 

So when Natalie summoned both Kage and Roen to the middle of the Sagolii desert, the paladin came without much thought, her attention entirely elsewhere and on someone else. Her gaze was fixed on the distant setting sun, its fading rays elongating the shadows of the ruins there.

 

"Ul'dah had a sister city once,” Natalie broke her contemplative silence as she too was watching the sun’s descent. “It's name was Sil'dih." She glanced over her shoulder to the two apprentices behind her, the orange sky setting the Miqo’te’s unruly locks ablaze. Her usual mischievous tone had given way to a pensive timbre. “It was Ul'dah's match in all things, and even greater in some."

 

Roen remained silent, absently regarding the distant ruins. Kage fidgeted alongside her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

 

"There was war--over water of all things--and even to this day, this area is famed for its springs,” Natalie continued. "Do either of you know why this area crawls with the undead? And why we paladins train in the holy arts?"

 

When Kage shook his head, Natalie turned back to the ruins. "Sil'dih was a city that had put its faith in the arcane, in magic and sorcery. In order to try and gain supremacy over Ul’dah, they ensorcelled their dead, believing Ul'dah could not stand against such a relentless force." She paused a moment. “But Ul'dah had a force more relentless than death.” There was a proud grin audible in her words, "Paladins."

 

"They were many in number then, and found ways to match their holy techniques to force of arms." Natalie gestured with a sweep of her hand towards the ruins. "They pushed back the undead and sealed this place. Only recently have parts of it been uncovered due to the Calamity.”

 

When Kage fidgeted again with his armor rustling, Natalie turned back with an amused grin. "You're probably wondering what this history lesson is for." She flicked a glance to Roen first. “Roen, what keeps Gridania safe? What do they turn to for protection in times of need?"

 

"The Wood Wailers? The Order of the Twin Serpents?" Roen answered distractedly, trying to concentrate through her haze of worry.

 

Natalie shook her head. "The Elementals." The Miqo’te then looked to the lalafell next to her. "Kage, what keeps enemies from Limsa?"

 

Kage scratched his chin. "The Maelstrom's navy?"

 

Natalie nodded. "The Sea.” She turned again and pointed to the distant horizon. "Those are the lights of Zahar'ak, where the Amalj’aa gather and plot against us. And you cannot see it, but out there lies the city of Ala Mhigo, filled with Imperial soldiers. Beyond that lies Garlemald itself."

 

Roen stiffened, her eyes narrowing. Garlemald… Her homeland, and the greatest threat to all of Eorzea. She was still struggling to reconcile the two.

 

"Ul'dah is surrounded by enemies, and we are not protected by the elementals, nor by the environment.” Natalie’s tone had turned to steel. "Both of you, what keeps Ul'dah safe?"

 

"Us,” Roen said quietly.

 

Kage nodded. "The Sultansworn.”

 

Natalie answered with a nod of her own. "Aye.” Her eyes then narrowed, her expression hardening. "What then happens if we falter?"

 

Kage bit his lip. “Ul'dah falls."

 

Natalie nodded and stepped closer to her two apprentices. "That is the oath I would like for you to swear.” She held out her hand to them, palm facing down. "Place your hand on mine." When Roen and Kage’s hands joined atop hers, the Miqo’te Sultansworn closed her eyes.

 

"I will not falter," Natalie said, her voice strong as steel. "This I swear.”

 

Both Roen and Kage repeated those words, their own voice unwavering. "I will not falter, this I swear."

 

Natalie opened her eyes as she withdrew her hand, her expression gleaming as a newly forged sword. "Welcome to the Sworn, brother and sister.”

 

Despite the glow upon both her mentor and her fellow Sworn’s face, Roen could not share in the joy. This was the moment that she had been training for since arriving in Ul’dah over a cycle ago, and yet on the day she swore her Oath, her thoughts were elsewhere, mired in dread. It was a struggle just to keep her composure intact. But she could not let Natalie nor Kage know that.

 

“I will not let Ul'dah down.” Roen furrowed her brows in concentration as she locked her gaze with Natalie. “It will not fall under our watch."

 

Natalie smiled genuinely as she gave her a nod. "I believe you, Roen." Her eyes lingered on her a moment longer, before she sighed. "Ul'dah can be a confusing place sometimes. It's not always clear what is right, or where your loyalties should lie.” She turned from them to face the last of the sun’s rays on the horizon. "When that happens, try to remember this feeling. Follow it, and you won't be lead astray, no matter what the others say. Know what you stand for. What you believe in.”

 

Roen blinked, lowering her gaze. She knew her mentor’s words should carry more weight, and yet any spare thought fled towards the life of one man.

 

Natalie stepped in between her two apprentices, taking their hands in hers. She stood with them and watched the horizon in the distance as the day’s light finally gave way to the dim of twilight. After a long pause, Roen felt a small squeeze of her hand.

 

"Roen..." Natalie said softly. "You can do it.”

 

That brought her attention back to the Sworn, Roen looking to the Miqo’te who still held her hand. Natalie had turned to fully to face her, warmth in her green eyes. Roen nearly trembled at the sympathy she saw in her smile.

 

"You can,” Natalie said quietly. “Whatever it is."

 

"I have to," Roen answered, swallowing past the tightness in her throat.

 

"But not alone,” Natalie added, her grip tightening just a little more. “Remember that, Roen. I know there is more going on than you are willing to share. Despite that, whatever may come, you are not alone."

 

Kage stepped up next to Natalie, tapping his breastplate. "You can expect me to be there for you too."

 

Roen managed to curl a small smile for them both. "I know." She nodded. "I know that I do not have to do this alone. I know I can call on you and Kage. And Kayah. I know I have a family and friends.” Her eyes narrowed as she then paused. She could not tell them why she could not call upon them. Not yet.

 

Natalie released her hand, shrugging casually. “Good. Because now that I’ve sworn you in, I'd have to fill out a lot of paperwork if you die."

 

Roen’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "I will…try my best to relieve you of that duty, Natalie."

 

The Miqo’te’s countenance split with a wide grin. “I trust that you will, Roen.” Natalie placed one hand on Roen’s shoulder and another one on Kage.

 

“And you can trust me. We are Sisters of the Shield now. I will forever stand by your side.”

[Roen]

It was the First Annual Royal Ball held by Her Majesty, Sultana Nanamo Ul Namo.

 

The Hustings Strip was bustling with activity, women and men dressed in all manner of finery gathered and mingling with each other. Music drifted through the air as bards made their talents known, their dulcet melodies weaving in and out of conversations. The Gold Court's central fountain seemed just a bit quieter this evening, its thin mist lending a cool air to the central halls of Ul’dah. Noblemen swayed and twirled their ladies around the waterfall, some lost in each other’s gazes and others taking delight in showing off their style and finesse.

 

Roen barely noticed any of it; the grandeur of the event was lost on her, as her thoughts were far away. She had reported to her duty as bid, and stood vigilant guard next to the Sultana herself as endless rows of citizens and visitors alike lined up to pay their respects. Erik, Natalie, and Kage all stood at attention alongside her, and a part of Roen knew she should have been awed to be in Nanamo’s presence. And yet her mind was elsewhere. She was merely performing her duty to make certain nothing seemed amiss.

 

So when they dismissed her from her duties to go ‘enjoy the festivities', Roen found herself at a loss. She had donned an elegant white dress gilded in gold--one that was sent to her by a mysterious benefactor--and walked about the crowded halls aimlessly. Even her Oath-sister Siha’s warm greeting did not break Roen from her trance. She distantly murmured her polite responses to anyone who greeted her, silently thankful that those who knew her well enough seemed pleasantly distracted with the Ball to notice her dour mood.

 

It was not until she spotted Delial Grimsong, her dark complexion split with a wide smile, that the Sultansworn snapped to attention. The woman looked like a cat that had just swallowed a baby dove. She gave Roen a pointed look before sauntering away--one that indicated that there was more to be exchanged.

 

What is she doing here?!

 

Roen’s panicked thoughts raced through her mind as she tried not to think of the worst possible scenarios that would explain her presence at this ball, especially wearing that ominous smile. This was not the same woman who spoke of debts owed and made her promises at Drybone.

 

The Sultansworn made a motion to follow the Highlander, when she spotted yet another familiar face in the periphery of her vision. It was a face she had not seen in sometime.

 

Kiht Jakkya beamed at her, her dark Miqo'te eyes fond with recognition. It had been moons since they had spoken last, and when they had, it was about Roen’s undecided feelings regarding her mentor at the time. The Sultansworn could not deny the irony that the one person that Roen had confessed her feelings to would find her now, when his life was in danger.

 

“Kiht,” Roen said, her eyes wide. “I am surprised to see you here. But glad none the less.” She exhaled in immediate relief as she stepped closer to the Miqo’te.

 

"Kage told me you have recently become a full Sultansworn,” Kiht said with a bright smile. “Congratulations. I came hoping to see you." Roen and Kiht had come to know each other over many moons. They were both similar in their reserved demeanor, but in appreciating each other’s unobtrusive company had kindled a friendship of unspoken trust. It was this trust that drew Roen to the Miqo’te now as she glanced again across the hall to where Delial had gone.

 

Kiht was quick to notice her somber expression and distracted gaze. "Is something amiss?”

 

Roen gave her a quick shake of her head, though she knew it was not at all convincing, and the Miqo’te stepped up closer. Her dark eyes were trained on Roen’s. "If there is something you need help with, all you must do is ask," Kiht said softly.

 

They were watching Natalie. And Kage. And all the Sworns. But they could not know about Kiht. How would they?

 

Roen swallowed, her eyes locking onto the hunter before her. "Kiht, how skilled are you? As a tracker." Her voice had suddenly dipped to a whisper."...I cannot lose her this time.”

 

Kiht narrowed her eyes, wary. "That is something I have done all my life. It is how I found C'kayah, and how I united a group of… Exiles."

 

There was a twinge of guilt that made Roen pause, but only for a moment. "I am sorry, I know you must have come to the festivities to enjoy yourself... I do not want to ask this of you. But I cannot lose her again. If she disappears again..." She curled her hands into tight fists by her side.

 

The hunter shook her head calmly. "Worry not, I came here to see you. What is it you need? Ask anything."

 

"I will be approaching a woman, dark skinned Highlander. Remember her face. I need to know where she goes after she leaves this ball." She bowed her head slightly, as if to level her gaze with that of the shorter female in front of her. "She has someone I hold very dear."

 

Kiht’s eyes widened in understanding. "Very well. You go. I will follow.”

 

Roen just gave her a firm nod. Kiht asked for no other explanation. It was always how it had been between them. Unspoken trust. Silent understanding.

 

Steeling herself, the Sultansworn turned and made her way through the crowd, weaving between dancers and singers, to find the Highlander. Kiht fell behind her and was soon lost to her sight, but Roen had expected as much. She had always suspected that the Miqo’te was a skilled hunter who often traveled about unseen.

 

When Roen spotted Delial, the woman was standing by the railing with a drink in hand, watching the dancers below. The Sultansworn placed one hand over her stomach to quell the shaking there before approaching her.

 

“You are not supposed to be here,” Roen said quietly.

 

"Dearest Roen," the Highlander murmured, her lip coiling into a smile.

 

"You made me a promise.” Roen did not bother to hold back her tone of accusation.

 

Delial did not seem to care for her ire. "I was rather enjoying myself. A lovely boy on my arm, though there is not nearly enough wine. A shame. But it is said that even the Sultana's pockets are not infinite." She gave Roen a lazy sidelong glance. “I have made you a promise. And I've kept it."

 

"You are not supposed to be here. You said…”

 

“I said he would be safe. And he is. At least... in the sense that he won't be dying any time soon." She rolled her shoulders in a casual shrug. “In this I have not lied. Dear Roen, I have... no. I've not lied much at all to you. Though even if I did... well. You were very easy to nudge."

 

Roen’s knuckles were white as she clenched her fists. "We need to talk."

 

The Highlander’s lips broadened, it was akin to a crocodile."Yes. Yes, we do."

 

The Sultansworn looked around quickly and gestured to the stairs leading towards the lift. “So we can speak more freely.” She had scanned the area for anyone suspicious, but spotted none. Not even Kiht.

 

“As you wish, duckling.”

[Roen]

“Where is he,” Roen nearly growled.

 

The Highlander crossed her arms, her drink set aside. She eyed the Sultansworn up and down, an iciness to her gaze. The smile that touched her lips was not a pleasant one. "Silly girl. Even if I told you... well. What could you do? Pull together that little band of yours, march in? You caused quite a ruckus, my dear. People are angry." She added after pause with a cant of her head, “And angry people do not forget."

 

Roen swallowed, trying not to react to Delial’s change in demeanor since they had spoken last. She felt herself grow cold. "Then why do you taunt me with his fate? What do you want?"

 

Delial’s smile hooked wickedly as she flashed her fangs. "I'm not doing this for me. Gharen... well. Gharen made a mistake."

 

"What is it you want? Need I return? I will. You must want something!"

 

"You will return, my dear, regardless of my wishes. I do not care. Your father does, however, and... as I said. Angry people do not forget. It was sheer coincidence that your fate would intertwine with mine. With Gharen's. Such an interesting predicament."

 

Roen paused, her eyes narrowing. "What do you speak of?"

 

Delial tilted her head and raised her brow in mock surprise. "Poor, poor child. You don't even know what you are, do you? Roen Deneith, Sultansworn, prodigal daughter. It is much more fitting than you think."

 

The Sultansworn shook her head. "I do not understand. What does this have anything to do with... with his fate?”

 

The Highlander canted her head, then fished about somewhere beneath her robes. "He didn't believe me," she said idly, "When I told him. Perhaps it was the drug. Or the rage. I cannot tell - that man has a great capacity for rage. Did you know?" Her smile brightened some as she apparently touched upon whatever it was she sought and she withdrew a picture. She extended it to Roen. "I don't need this anymore. You know what happened to Greyarm."

 

Roen opened the picture in her hand, her eyes blinking rapidly. "What is this...?" She saw her resemblance to the older woman in the portrait. “Who is this?!”

 

"It is a dreadful thing to be so... oblivious to your ancestry. Perhaps it was better that you were taken,” Delial said nonchalantly.

 

“Taken... what?"

 

The Highlander sighed patiently. "I promised you I would lead you to your ancestry. So... here. I am an honest liar, duckling. Do not mistake me for anything less."

 

"Who is this other woman?" Roen’s eyes darted between the portrait and Delial. She pointed to the younger woman in the picture, one that bore Gharen’s eyes. "Who are they?"

 

"That, my dear, is your mother." Delial clucked her tongue. "No imagination in that pretty little head of yours. Honestly."

 

Roen staggered. "No. This is not. I know my mother. She... she died when I was young. I-I knew her face."

 

The Highlander rolled her eyes."Had I kept you to myself that night," she sighed, "You may very well have known me as your mother. Thank the Gods for small favors. Truly, a lost child."

 

Roen stiffened. "You are lying."

 

"The only lie I've told you, my sweet, is that I am on your side." Delial cracked that wicked smile again.

 

"I do not know what you have to gain, but you are lying about my mother. And this has nothing to do with--" Roen did not want to believe. "What does this have to do with Master Gharen?!" Her hand lowered to her side with the portrait, as if to dismiss it for now. "I do not wish for your games! I only wish to insure his return!"

 

Delial slowly tilted her head. "It almost breaks my heart, this. How long have you longed for that boy? I wonder what sort of dreams you've dreamt of that man? It is... well. Tragic, perhaps. Tragic." She tsked slowly. "I do not know how well you think you know him. But... honestly. Did he never tell you of his sister?"

 

Roen swallowed. "She... died." Her voice shook, her words were slower to come. "When she was a baby..."

 

"That's odd."

 

"When the Garleans..." Roen stopped. She felt herself sway, one step taken backwards as if she was struck. All breaths left her for an instant. She shook her head. “No.”

 

“I should have killed you. Killed him. Ended the line there. It would have been a mercy." The Highlander shook her head. "Your... 'father' was quite insistent. And I was young, and idealistic. We all make mistakes."

 

"No,” Roen said again, just shaking her head. "You are lying."

 

"Do you believe that?"

 

Roen stared at the portrait in her hand again, and what it showed plainly was difficult to deny. The older woman had her face, her eyes. And she also bore some resemblance to the younger woman in the picture, one that had Master Gharen’s eyes. Had she been so blind until now?

 

"You will behave yourself, Roen Deneith. For as much as you have that traitor's blood in you, you are valuable. And so is he." The Highlander crossed her arms, smug confidence exuding from every pore.

 

Roen curled one hand into a fist by her side. "I want him back."

 

"Of course you do.” Delial smirked. “And it would please me to have him dead. But it is not up to me."

 

“What do you want,” Roen growled.

 

"Such a dangerous question.” The Highlander’s dark complexion split again with a broad white grin.“What would you do for him, hmm?"

 

"Anything,” she rasped.

 

Delial’s single amber eye seemed to shine with delight, she too sensing the Sworn’s desperation. "My employer wants you. But I want your peers. The boy or his wench. Have you killed anyone before, sweet Roen?"

 

Roen blinked, blood draining from her face. "You cannot be asking me to..." She shook her head immediately. “Nay. I cannot.”

 

"This... lack of resolve. It is disappointing to say the least." The Highlander tilted her head, still staring at her. "Why the loyalty? You understand what they are, do you not?" She sighed heavily, heaving her shoulders and shaking her head. "Tsk. I knew you were innocent, my sweet, but this... Ah, very well. They sought a bomb. What, pray, do bombs do?" When she was met with cold silence from Roen, Delial continued. “I wonder. How many lives have been saved because these... these rebels. Were they not given the chance to have their toy? Do you honestly think Ala Mhigans look any different from Garleans? Do you wonder if they bleed the same?"

 

"I care not about--” Roen began, her jaw set. “I just want him returned."

 

“You care about the lives of two worthless Ala Mhigans. Surely you care about the lives of thousands." Delial’s words were sharp and unrelenting. "You want your brother back. Then give me the Resistance.”

 

“Do not give me such a choice,” Roen shook her head. “It is an impossible choice. You want me to kill for you.”

 

"You are much too soft, my dear.” The Highlander tsked. “It is no small wonder how we've carried on so long, you and I."

 

Roen’s mind raced. To refuse the woman outright, she may be damning Master Gharen--no, he was her brother now--to his death. She swallowed hard. "Give... give me some time. Please. I need to think on this.”

 

Delial cocked her head to a side, seeming to eye her with a slice of skepticism. But eventually she nodded. "... Soon. Pray it is soon. I will remain in the area for a time. But when I am gone..." She shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.

 

"Very well." The words sounded dead in her mouth.

 

"I'll be awaiting your word.” Delial’s face split with another wide grin again. “Enjoy the rest of the ball, my dear. And know that the choice is far, far easier than you think." The woman bowed with a flourish before turning away. "Do not make me your enemy, Roen Deneith. Things will be easier for you."

[Shael]

Today

 

 

 

Three shots. It was supposed to be three shots. Shaelen flexed her hand. The Kinslayer had survived. Shaelen had meant to put three slugs in Delial Grimsong and yet after the first shot she had paused. What made her pause?

 

How many cycles had it been since she left the violence and brutality of the Resistance behind? Hadn’t she swore to herself back then, loudly even, that she was done with that life? That all it left her was this black void of regret and bloodlust. When she left that life, she never wanted to go back.

 

But she cut off his head. And delivered it in a box.

 

The memory of Aylard’s desiccated head, still bearing a pained but enraged expression even in rigor mortis, still ignited such a rage in the smuggler that Shaelen had to close her fingers again to quell the shaking there. She picked up the extractor and the pin instead, focusing on her task in assembling the barrel of her gunblade.

 

This isn’t about the Resistance. This is about blood for blood. This is about family.

 

Family. That word made Shael laugh out loud without mirth. The very idea brought bile up to her throat. Here she was helping Roen and the pirate the paladin had allied herself with, while her brother was protecting the woman that killed their parents and tortured him. At least her own sense of family wasn’t as fucked up as Wolfsong’s was.

 

Gharen Wolfsong, once touted to be the next leader of the Resistance (if one would believe Aylard’s words), was telling Shaelen in one breath about how his sister was in some “Black Cell” and in the next breath how he would not stand in the way of justice coming to find the Kinslayer. He agreed to deliver Delial to her, but then warned the witch ahead of time of the ambush. Then he got in the way after a single shot fired, and somehow arranged for the Blades to be there conveniently just in time to drag her way before the actual deed was done.

 

Either he didn’t care about his sister, or cared more about the fate and well-being of the woman who killed his parents. At least I got my priorities straight. No way in seven hells I let that woman live… and leave my family in the mercy of my enemies.

 

Hroch Greyarm was safe. The Sworn kept her word and she released Hroch to Shael’s custody when Lazarov’s contact was revealed. Shael was not happy to give up information on a client, but the pirate had ended their business contract. More importantly, blood was blood. She could not leave Hroch in the hands of Grimsong, lest she receive more bloody fingers with each passing sun.

 

Shaelen checked over the metal parts spread out on the table before her, reconstructing her beloved gunblade, Jolienne. She was going to get one more opportunity. The smuggler knew she was running out of chances.

 

I should have ended her back then. When we had the Kinslayer’s family in our hands…

 

 

 

______________________________________________________________

 

 

 

Sometime before...

 

 

It was Roen Deneith, of all people, who voiced the idea. The paladin knew that Delial Grimsong, the woman who had lied and lured Gharen Wolfsong into a trap, had a brother of her own: Harvard Blackstone. For whatever reasons unknown, the Kinslayer had shared with Roen that she still had one person who still mattered to her, one surviving family member.

 

It impressed Shaelen that the paladin would suggest kidnapping the man, who seemingly had no involvement in anything that had to do with the Grimsong’s treacherous ways. But the look in the young woman’s eyes was one of desperation, and offering to trade brother for brother was her last hope. Shaelen could not argue. A part of her wanted to applaud Roen for her cold pragmatism while another part tried to ignore the bitter taste in her mouth at involving one’s kin in matters they had no part in.

 

Shaelen suspected that the latter was more of an obstacle for the paladin’s conscience as well. Roen had brought the smuggler and one other, a former champion of the bloodsands named Qaeli Varily, to assist in capturing Delial’s sibling. The silver-haired Hyur was one of sharp tongue and remorseless efficiency and she too had no qualms about doing whatever was necessary to free Wolfsong. Mayhap the paladin brought us along to do it because she knew she would hesitate when the moment came, Shael thought.

 

Finding Harvard Grimsong was easy enough, he was working as a retainer for some goldsmith in Ul’dah. And luring the seemingly oblivious man into an alley in Pearl Lane was child’s play. Shaelen drew him away from the crowded market streets with an offer of business and a carefree smile, while Roen watched their backs and Qaeli watched their fronts. Once they brought up his true surname however, Blackstone as it back in Ala Mhigo, his docile expression gave way to one of apprehension.

 

Shaelen did not give him the chance to plead his innocence, the paladin was already starting to try and reason with the man. Shael delivered one quick kick to the retainer’s head, and the man crumpled to a heap on the ground like stacked cans being knocked over.

 

No one in Pearl Lane cared. It was a place for the poor to fight amongst themselves, after all. So they paid no mind to the unconscious man being dragged away by three women. Shael also knew well enough to grease the palms of a few Blades in the area to turn the other way. But after he was secured in Qaeli’s safehouse, Roen Deneith would not have them harm the man any further and personally saw to his bindings. She also insisted on talking to the man alone.

 

Shaelen complied. She thought then that Harvard would be the perfect lure to bait out the Kinslayer and get Wolfsong out of captivity, and get vengeance for Aylard’s murder.

 

So where did things go wrong?

 

And why didn’t she see it through?

[cuideag]

Then.

 

“There’s a place,” Daena whispered to him once. The two of them were exhausted and drained and beaten down, and they spoke quietly when they settled in their makeshift shelters out among the crags and the rocks. What had been a map scrawled haphazardly on Hroch’s one and only shirt had become a mess of circles and crosses. The Castrum gave them Roen Deneith’s father and an astounding number of possibilities. It was no secret that Garleans maintained a presence in Thanalan, but they were unprepared for just how many places they had secreted beneath the Ul’dah’s very nose.

 

Hroch Greyarm had grown up around strong people but what strength he did take from them was failing him rapidly. If it was not for Daena Ghurn, he might have given up. Every door she kicked down took its toll, and every empty shack and cave left him wearier and wearier than before. They had raised alarms going into the Castrum and it seemed as if its claws had all been pulled back to the fortress by the sea, but they would not stay drawn out of Thanalan for long.

 

Suns after they pulled out of Vesper Bay, they lay in the cold and the dark. “We need help,” Daena said to him softly. Her own reserves were dwindling and he could not blame her for it. “There’s a place. My pa used tae speak o’ it...”

 

Settling into Little Ala Mhigo had not been easy. Aylard had spoken his fair share of harsh words and Hroch could not help but ponder them as well. Huddling in the caves, fighting for every scrap of food and drink rather than for the city they had fled; it pained him to see his kin that way as much as it filled him with shame. Many men looked at him with cold eyes. If they knew of his father, they held their tongues. That Daena Ghurn was never too far away and never too shy to give anyone who thought they could push them around a piece of her mind was a blessing. If it was not for her, Hroch did not know where he would be.

 

There was little that could be spared but Daena made sure they were given a tent at the very least. It was small and it could not stand without the help of the cracked and dusty crates and barrels that they managed to salvage from a passing merchant wagon, but it was theirs. Now and again he caught himself just grinning at Daena Ghurn like the fool he was.

 

That was before Roen found them.

 

“I am… sorry.”

 

There was a box in her hands. Her knuckles were white as ghosts. She did not meet their eyes - his eyes.

 

“I am so sorry...”

 

The box was in his hands.

 

Aylard Greyarm was dead.

 

---------

 

Now.

 

The first thing he noticed was that his belly ached almost as badly as his head.

 

The second was the smell: it was not the musty, earthy odor of the caves they had made their home. There was stone and there was dust and the lingering scent of blood, but it was not Little Ala Mhigo.

 

“Daena?” he croaked, squinting and scrabbling for… bars? Were those bars?

 

“Daena? Where in th’ hells--”

 

His hands planted against them and his fingers wrapped around them and that is when he noticed the bandages around his left hand. That was disconcerting enough in itself as he did not remember getting into a scuffle. He had been keeping watch over their tent while Daena was away. The people of Little Ala Mhigo were honest and they did not steal; if no one saw the thief then no one could be justly blamed, yet it still happened to those who were not careful. It was only supposed to be a few bells, and then…

 

… then the woman came. She called herself Tilda Blackdale. Cloudy thoughts buzzed and throbbed. He gave her his flask and she gave her an ivory brush to pass on to Daena. “If ye’d be willin,” she said, “I wanna give ye something from th’ city I brought. It’s nae much, but when I left the city t’was all ah had left.”

 

Her hair was red and her sword hand was strong. She smiled at him easily as she passed him back his flask. “S’almost gone anyway. Might as well finish it.”

 

Hroch hardly registered the round and unsettled face of the lalafell standing guard just on the other, much less the hushed tones with which he spoke into the linkpearl in his ear. He stared at his hand and the startling asymmetry that had taken to it, for where he should have had four fingers and his thumb peeking out from the bandage that had been set around it, he was shy a whole two.

 

---------

 

The guard could tell him nothing useful. He knew of no Tilda Blackdale nor of Daena Ghurn and after several bells of begging and pleading he settled into an uncomfortable silence. He was just a Flame, he insisted. He didn’t know anything.

 

When the bells stretched out over a whole sun, Hroch could find no more reason to try. A dried smear of blood was on the floor and a line stretched to where he had been propped up against a wall when he first woke in that place. He squeezed himself in a corner opposite it, drew himself into a ball, and wept into his knees.

 

There was little Hroch Greyarm had wanted more than peace. Losing his father struck him hard and he tried to pick up where Aylard had left off. He had his father’s name to back him and a few of his contacts but almost none of the iron strength that had made his father a leader. He had heard others whisper among themselves that he had been too soft on Hroch, his only son. He met the eyes of people around him and thought they looked pitying.

 

If it were not for Daena…

 

He did not know what day or time it was when finally the door to his cell was opened. He looked at none of them as they pulled him up to his feet and pulled him out into the sunlight. Shaelen Stormchild was waiting but he did not look at her, either.

 

It was not the first time that Hroch Greyarm did not know what to do, but it was the first that that he could not find his voice through the terror that clenched at his heart.

[Roen]

((The current portion of this post occurs sometime after this post.))

 

 

 

 

Then.

 

 

Raelisanne Banurein stood at the edge of the precipice overlooking Camp Bluefog. As dry and unwelcoming the rest of Thanalan was, Northern Thanalan was thrice more so, with a plethora of deadly beasts, a distinct lack of vegetation, a strong Garlean presence, and even cults taking root in deserted pockets of the region. Harsh environs fascinated her; it was under the most severe of conditions that the need to adapt and change was the greatest.

 

The woman regarded the jagged stones that made up the mountainside, absently following the upward spiraling curl of the blue wisps of smoke that emanated from the Ceruleum Processing Plant to the north. Despite obvious audible footsteps behind her, she made no move to acknowledge the approach of the Highlander woman who made her way up the ramp.

 

“Ah. Here you are,” the dark skinned woman greeted her flatly as she stepped up next to the scientist.

 

“Miss Delial,” Raelisanne answered without turning. “How are things.”

 

“I’ve been… occupied. Though things have been quiet, too, in the city.” Delial’s tone was neutral, if not careful. The last time Banurein and Grimsong spoke was before the Highlander was going to deliver a head of Aylard Greyarm, as a message, to the Resistance. The Kinslayer--as Grimsong has been known in the past--had been quiet since her attendance of the Royal Ball in Ul’dah. Raelisanne knew of the woman’s goings ons of course, but expected a report from the Highlander none the less.

 

“We are to release Mister Wolfsong soon.” Her eyes still looked to the grey landscape and the giant boulders beyond. “I am nearly done with him.”

 

"I may have already got that covered, actually." Delial rolled her shoulders. "We shared some words, Roen and I, at the ball just recently. A trade, of sorts. Master Gharen's life for the last scraps of the Resistance cell here. I expected it would have been an easy choice. The Resistance means nothing to her... or so I would think. She's quite sentimental, that one, of people she does not know."

 

"She was always a foolish girl." Her words were clipped, but her placid expression did not waver. "But even if she refuses, she will get her wish. You will see soon enough that Mister Wolfsong is no longer himself." She gave Delial a sidelong glance. "I will equip you with the necessary equipment to control him until the release."

 

"Ah? You've... done it then. His soul?"

 

There was but a smallest lift to the corner of Banurein’s lips. "He is undone." Her gaze returned to the camp below, idly watching a line of recruits doing push-ups. “What emerges remains to be seen.”

 

"Name a time and a place. Roen will be eager to collect, no doubt. As will I."

 

"I will warn you Miss Delial,” Raelisanne tugged at the cuffs of her white gloves. “Mister Wolfsong will not take kindly to your presence, lest he is subdued by methods I give you."

 

"That goes without saying,” Delial said wryly.

 

"I also wish to see the last cell of the Resistance gone." Her eyes paused at a speck of dirt on her sleeve.

 

"She will hand them over. She has no choice in this." Grimsong sounded confident.

 

"You have a few suns.” Her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles, but the calm tone in her voice did not change. “Use it as you will. Mister Wolfsong should be ready in less than five."

 

Delial nodded. "As you say, little dove. I will make the arrangements."

 

"That will be all." Raelisanne lowered her hands, her eyes going back to the landscape.

 

There was a pause, the Highlander lingering by her side. "A... question, if you would humor me."

 

"Speak, Miss Delial."

 

"This... Hm. Those creatures you... used." There was a pause, hesitation in the woman’s voice. "The damage... is it permanent? Will he just... live on like this?"

 

"The voidlings.” Her lips pressed primly. “They will continue to swim within his veins. His aether feeds them. They will go more hungry when given more aether." She glanced to the darkening sky, her face blank. "I suspect they will try and heal him at some point. They have the capability to find more hosts if given enough time and aether."

 

Gravel whispered below the Highlander’s feet as she shifted her weight. There was a slight dip in the woman’s tone, a change that Raelisanne would identify as one of discomfort. "Ah," Deilal said after a long pause. "I see."

 

"They are a creation of mine.” A hint of satisfaction leaked into her words. “I mean to test their tenacity in the field. And this is the perfect opportunity."

 

"Quite so,” Delial’s voice was flat. "I... wonder, though. Would Roen be that much more inclined to return, if... with Wolfsong as he is?" There was another pregnant pause. "Or... do you intend to..."

 

Raelisanne released a quick breath through her nose. “She would see nothing but a waste of a man. A shell. A snarling beast. What would she see in one as such."

 

Delial was staring at the scientist now. "...they are blood. I do not know if they trust my word on it, but... she loves him regardless. I don't imagine she'd... no. She would not leave him if she thinks she can help him."

 

Raelisanne narrowed her eyes, a frown threatening to darken her countenance. "You may be overestimating this sibling attachment, Miss Delial. If she tries to heal him with aether, she too will contract the voidlings.” She released another breath through her nose, her expression turning placid again. “She will need to turn to me to cure it."

 

"Ah."

 

“But his mind is beyond help."

 

"I don't expect that will matter much to her."

 

Raelisanne gave Delial another sidelong look, this one much sharper than before. "It is irreparable. How long do you feed a sick rabid dog before you realize you need to put it to rest?"

 

Grimsong did not meet her gaze for long. She glanced instead to the path behind her, the way she came. "...He is blood," she murmured at last, as if that was all that mattered.

 

With a blink of an eye, the scientist’s expression returned to the blank mask. "He is a beast. Sooner she understands that, sooner he will be put down. Or. He may kill her. And all those around him."

 

"As you say. Yes... I expect it will... eventually come to that. Very well." The woman bowed at the waist. "I've wasted enough of your time. I'll make the arrangements."

 

"It is an experiment I will look forward to seeing to completion." Raelisanne curled a small smile, actually sounding pleased. "Do what must be done, Miss Delial."

 

"Always have, my dear.” The Highlander’s pale eyes turned a shade darker as she nodded. “Always will.”

 

 

________

 

 

Now.

 

 

Raelisanne watched as the bare chest of the man rose and fell with even breaths.

 

The room no longer echoed with screams, its cold steel walls ever sterile and impervious. It had stood as mute witness to many of her experiments, from dissections to transformations. More often than not, and much to her displeasure, most ambitious of her experiments ended with a dead body, a corpse of yet another specimen that was unable to endure the stresses that had been put upon it.

 

Death was never her goal. After all, it was in the mind and soul of a living being that the potential remained limitless.

 

As her gloved hand came to rest over the heart of the man who laid upon the steel platform, the woman canted her head. Her attention went from his short but disheveled black locks, to his unconscious face. It then followed the mid-line of his torso to the scars that remained over his abdomen. The two gunshot wounds were barely visible, just a faint web of scars remained where once there was a gaping hole that was quickly draining the man of his life.

 

Soft velvet gloves slowly caressed the pink fibers of aetherically stitched flesh, and the skin beneath her touch responded with goosebumps. Raelisanne smiled.

 

The man stirred, his lungs suddenly filling with a deep inhalation, as if the body suddenly remembered how to breath. Eyelashes fluttered open, and amber eyes flickered about the room, as if to try and get his bearings. He had always been quick to adjust and adapt, she recalled.

 

Now she remembered why she had missed him so.

 

“Where…” His voice was hoarse and cracked, his throat not having had the taste of water in suns.

 

“Welcome back to the realm of the living, Mister Taeros.” Raelisanne canted her head, regarding the man with an expression that almost touched a smile. Her gloved hand came to lay once more upon his chest.

 

“We have much catching up to do.”

[cuideag]

Then.

 

Ala Mhigo. All Delial Grimsong ever needed to do whenever she felt her will threaten to sway and falter was think of Ala Mhigo. She was born in the city on a bright summer's day and had scarcely left its walls until the day of a most grievous mistake. Around Ul'dah she saw those who claimed themselves the sons and daughters of the city, but what had they to show for it? Little else but dust and hunger and the contempt of fat southerners. She watched them from time to time but never for very long. She could not bring herself to pity them. We are what we fight for, and they fight for naught but themselves.

 

Delial growled and turned and gave up any pretense she might have had for comfort in the small cot she claimed for herself. The warmth of day had faded into a comfortable chilly night but there were thoughts swarming in her head, hot and bright like so many fireflies trapped just behind her eyes. If she lay still enough she swore she could feel them thudding against her skull, though it could have just been the beginning of another headache. It was pain by any name and she had long since grown tired of it. Sleep - good, honest, soothing sleep uninterrupted by the scritch and scratch of imagined daggers at her door - was a luxury she saw less and less of in those suns.

 

So she pinched her eyes at the ceiling she could not see, and suffered thoughts that gave her no peace. If we are what we fight for, then what is Wolfsong?

 

She told herself it did not matter. He was an accomplice to an atrocity that would not come to pass thanks in no small part to her personal intervention. That other elements beyond her ken had also played parts did not matter much in her eye for it was not they that ended up with Aylard Greyarm captured and executed. It was his plan that threatened the lives of so many Ala Mhigans, and it was his word and his reputation that so many others followed. His death was a victory for Ala Mhigo as much as it was a victory for Delial Grimsong, and she would not have anyone take that away from her.

 

Less than five suns was what Banurein, the white haired Garlean, told her: less than five suns and Wolfsong would be ready and delivered to her that she might pass him back into his sister’s waiting arms. Delial had not set foot in Banuein’s laboratory since her part had been played, when the true weight of Banurein’s ambition was laid bare for her to see. The chains that held him upon the cold metal table looked as though they were meant more for a beast five times the size of the man they shackled instead, and she remembered they way they clanked and snapped against steel and flesh alike every time she cut into him.

 

“What is a man with a broken soul, Miss Delial?" The question was asked so casually that it had caught Delial off her guard. It must have been then, she supposed, that she finally saw that the even, almost gentle timbre she took masked something far more grave than she had realized.

 

"This one," said Banurein, "Will be a beast." In the back of her mind, restless as ever, she could still hear the way he screamed.

 

She turned.

 

----

 

Now.

 

It was well known that Gharen Wolfsong did not take too kindly to the cities. She knew his habits well enough that she knew he prefered nature to the walls and rooftops of civilized society; that he drifted, likely, night by night so that only those who were invited might find him and his fire and be welcomed.

 

It was also known that he was, in his way, an honorable man. To slight another was not his nature, nor was it to break his word. That Delial nor the others would hear no word from him was not especially surprising: he was a man of the wilds, after all, and the mail could not be expected to find a man who held no address. That he would repeatedly fail to keep his appointments, however, was something else entirely.

 

When she bid farewell to Limsa Lominsa she damned herself a fool for it and not a sun passed where she did not do so again. The journey across the seas to Thanalan was one she had taken many a time before but from there to the Shroud - through the Shroud, rather, was one that filled her with unease. But there were plenty of caravans eager to trade a spot in their wagons for a bag of coin, and she supposed she might have looked as the adventurers did, eager as they were to seek out new and fascinating ways to get themselves killed.

 

“You’d think they were rats,” said a man whose name she did not bother to register, “With how many of ‘em come passing through. Like fleeing a sinking ship, I tell you. What’s south? The Jewel, was it? Hah. Never did care for it myself.”

 

Delial said nothing, just as she had said nothing the entire time she suffered his presence. It was a futile gesture of course: the man insisted on leaning one way and the other, rocking between two one-sided conversations (the other being, Delial suspected, with a man who was either dead or dead asleep). It was a mistake, she decided, to bring the staff. Normal, common, unimportant people likely didn’t carry staves about but she would be damned to leave it behind after all the trouble it took finding it.

 

“Not like the north’s any better. Ishgard? Dragons? Bugger them all, I say. Am I right, or am I right?”

 

Again she declined to speak, occupying herself with fixing her eye upon the passing trees instead. They were near enough the border that their leaves carried upon them the lightest sheen of frost, slips of crystal white that made them glisten like knife blades. Upon leaving Buscarron’s, she thought to distract herself by counting the trunks as they passed. After the sixth time losing count, she gave up the idea entirely and settled for glowering at them instead, lest she catch herself glowering at the fellow beside her and somehow encouraging him to continue being unwelcome.

 

As was the trend, he did not actually need the encouragement. Delial braced herself as he swiveled back towards her as if his torso was set on a swing. “What’s your story then, miss? Eh? Don’t much look like the type for dragon-slaying. Uh, no offense of course!”

 

Had she been feeling charitable, she might have spoke of missing persons and ominous names. Roen Deneith purportedly had joined the ranks of dragon hunters in Coerthas and her brother, Wolfsong, had vanished with little else but meetings unfulfilled to betray his absence. It was at her request that Delial delay Wolfsong for the sake of giving her time to do whatever it was she thought she needed to do with Nero Lazarov, just as it was to her that Delial promised to keep an eye on Gharen. Now both were gone, hidden or worse.

 

Banurein. Ser Crofte brought her a bottle of wine and the name that had been Jameson Taeros’ final word. As far as Delial knew, the Garlean she formerly hunted for had gone silent after "returning" Gharen, chained and broken as he was. In allying herself with Taeros, she had hoped more information - any information - regarding Banurein or her plans would surface but the pirate proved to be more distracting than she had hoped. It seemed everyone was on his tail, Gharen Wolfsong included.

 

Her fingers tightened around her elbows. Wolfsong himself had seemingly vanished without a trace, leaving only promises of meetings that would go on unfulfilled. Deneith had asked her of all people to keep an eye on her elder brother, a request that, if she were feeling honest with herself, need not have been made at all. It was true that she no longer hunted Wolfsong for Banurein, but it was also true that she still hunted. Was it solely at Roen’s request?

 

It took her a moment to realize that her unwanted companion was still starin, with one brow merging into the creases of his forehead. It also took her a moment to realize that a most unwelcome feeling clutched at the core of her chest, the hot/cold chill that came when the rigid structure of her thoughts and feelings were flustered into disarray. Absurd, came the thought, a command more than anything: hard and swift, it fell like a blade through her mind to pare away the distraction that troubled her.

 

She looked at the man, stared at him for whole moments too long without saying a word. In another time (another age, she thought, before she ever knew little Wolfsong still lived), she might have found an easy smirk and sweetened words; humoring the fool might have been amusing if nothing else. If she had been feeling charitable at all, the moment swiftly passed, and took with it all but the hollow ache of exhaustion and dread.

 

“I have often wondered,” she said in a frigid deadpan, “Just how long it takes for a grown man to burn to ash. There are bells yet to pass, yes? Bells yet until Coerthas, and we shall be cold soon enough. I wonder.”

 

It was a lie but it did not matter. (Two bells, almost three, beneath an open sky; two bells and the smell.) The man had the decency to be perturbed. He furrowed his brow, his eyes drifting up to the staff that peeked over her shoulder. Then he muttered and pivoted with a harrumph! back to his other side to busy himself over his possibly sleeping neighbor. Delial stared until she was content that he would bother her no more, but even the new found silence gave her little peace. The wood passed by, trunks blurring together into a featureless brown that would be coated in frosty white. Delial hardly noticed for the thoughts roiling through her mind.

 

If we are what we fight for, then what am I?

[Roen]

Over twenty-five years ago...

 

 

“Make certain nothing is left behind. I do not ever wish to return here again.”

 

Maids and valets alike hurried about with nervous energy, eager to not catch the notice of the lady of the house. She stood still and statuesque--an ice queen in all but title at the top of the stairway. Her violet eyes were half lidded as they surveyed the servants scurrying about below, like frantic little ants across the marble floor of the foyer. She gave her orders; her sharp, glassy voice always echoing sharply beneath the vaulted ceilings, her words perfectly pronounced--always with an air of authority that would brook no argument from any who stood before her. The pale white hair that flowed like a ghostly waterfall down her back lent the woman an otherworldly quality, as if she never quite belonged amongst those she was with.

 

Such was Lady Juliana Brooks’ repute within her household. When she demanded haste, all the retainers took notice and responded without question.

 

Lysa Grieve was the one exception. She had been the lady’s personal attendant for years, and she could sense that there was an unease about her mistress. A hint of skittishness had clipped the usually fluid and elegant mannerisms of the midlander noblewoman for the past moon, and Lysa had spied a wariness to the woman’s glance more than once as she looked about her manse.

 

But Juliana Brooks never gave voice to what cast the shadows over her usual unwavering serene expression. Juliana was the mother of two, and the wife to an ambitious nobleman. Lysa had never seen her falter in her composure. But when she spotted the slight tremble to the noblewoman’s delicate fingers as Juliana handed the hairbrush to Lysa two nights ago, the handmaiden realized that the worries that plagued her mistress were more than mere politics and finances.

 

It was after Lord Lyndon Brooks left this morn, endeavoring for a two-day trip, that Lady Brooks ordered all her possessions be packed with haste.

 

“Are you certain about this, my lady?” Lysa approached the noblewoman, her hands clasped deferentially in front of her abdomen. She kept her voice a quiet murmur, as to not be heard by the rest of the household as she peered up at her mistress imploringly.

 

“I know what you will say, Lysa.” Lady Brooks did not meet her handmaiden’s gaze. “But you do not know what I know, and it is for your sake that I do not share my reasons.” Her perfectly manicured hands curled just slightly tighter around the stair railing.

 

“Should I... then prepare for a long journey? Or…”

 

She was instantly answered with a sharp look, Juliana's violet gaze unwavering. “No. You will not be coming with me. You are to stay here.”

 

That robbed Lysa of her breath. She had never been apart from her mistress for as long as she had been in this profession. Serving Lady Brooks and her children had been her sole occupation and livelihood for years; it was something that she took great pride in. She loved the woman who stood in front of her, much as she would her own kin. The Brooks were her family. Lysa felt the blood drain away from her face as she stared eyes wide in shock at the noblewoman.

 

“Am… I being dismissed… my lady?”

 

Juliana turned from the view of the foyer to face her, dipping her head slightly to level her gaze upon the handmaiden. The noblewoman’s expression had softened, as did her voice. “Would that I could take you with me, Lysa. As well as my children. But I cannot. If I am to completely cut my ties with my lord and husband, it has to be only me.”

 

Lysa’s eyes widened even more when she realized what her mistress was implying. “You are… leaving the children behind as well?” She felt her fingers tighten painfully in their grip around each other. She took a step forward, although her voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “But what of Lady Rissa? And Master Lewan…”

 

When Lady Brooks’ hand came to lay upon her shoulder, Lysa quieted. “I need you to look after them, Lysa.” Juliana’s quiet yet firm tone would brook no argument. “In my stead.”

 

“But… what will I tell them?” Lysa shook her head vehemently, trying to impress upon her mistress the absurdity in all this. “They cannot do without their mother… I am a poor substitute. My lady, please reconsider…”

 

Juliana exhaled and for a moment, there was a flitting shadow of doubt that crossed the woman’s face. “He loves them too much to harm them.” Those words were spoken forcibly, without conviction, as if she was trying to convince herself. “As long as they all abide by the ordinance set by the Holy See…”

 

“What do you mean, my lady?! Of- of course they… we all abide by the rule of the Holy See!” Lysa knew that to even consider anything even remotely less could bring about the suspicion of heresy--that utmost dreaded word that struck fear in any heart who resided within the Gates.

 

Lady Brooks quickly shook her head, a nervous glance given over her shoulder to the foyer below. She exhaled after a moment, when none seemed to notice their conversation. She turned away from her handmaiden, her focus remaining on the luggage that were quickly piling up in front of the main door. “The children will have to adjust. Change. Adapt. They will be fine.” Her fingers gripped at the edge of the railing again.

 

“But my lady…”

 

“That will be all, Lysa.” Juliana drew herself up and her manicured fingers straightened the hem of her dress. Her violet eyes adapted a cooler hue, and her countenance became porcelain perfect once more. “Take care of the children and serve your lord.” The noblewoman strode by the handmaiden and descended the stairs with quick fluid steps, the long fall of her dress whispering over the carpet.

 

Lysa had naught another word to offer her mistress, to try and plead for her to stay. Within moments the lady of the house was gone through the doors, three retainers in tow lugging her bags and boxes. It was only a few breaths later that Lysa turned, spotting something in the corner of her eye.

 

Rissalyn Brooks sat behind the stairway railing on the third floor, her hands clutching at the wooden bars. She said nothing, and her expression was difficult to discern as the light from the chandelier above reflected off her glasses, hiding her eyes behind the glare. But Lysa knew that she had heard everything. The sullen child was staring out at the door that remained ajar, as the frigid winds began rolling into the house.

 

 

Two months ago…

 

 

"So. Y'all were askin'..." Edmund grunted from beneath his helm. “‘About names ye shouldn't be askin' about."

 

The winds were whistling loudly beneath the Black Iron Bridge, tossing the Highlands snow into a chaotic spin around all the occupants gathered there.

 

Lysa tugged on the thick woolen cloak around her form to try and ward off the chill. But her old bones ached and her joints had stiffened, as it always did in the cold. She leaned closer to the thick metal pillar to use it as a partial shield against the gale, even as the voices of the conversation on the other side drifted to her ears.

 

"Ye brought more gil? This only goin' ta happen if there are rewards to be had." She heard Edmund call out to those whom they had come to meet.

 

Lysa moved slightly to her side to peek around the pillar at the people they had come to bargain with. She could see a tall, dark-skinned Highlander woman step forward, her hand spread out in front of her.

 

"The universal motivator, is it not?” the Highlander woman answered languidly. “And there is more to be had, of course. This could be the easiest job you and your friend have ever had. If, of course, the information is sound."

 

Why were they inquiring about her? Lysa frowned. It had been years. She had nearly forgotten about the house she had served. About her mistress who had left the fate of two children in her hands. And the youngest... the one Lysa had failed the worst. It was Rissalyn that these outsiders were asking after.

 

Was it a mere coincidence that she had seen the ghost of her only a fortnight past? Deprived of wealth and opportunity, Lysa had made a humble home in the crumbling areas of The Brume. And once a sennight, she, along with many other residents of Brume, came out to greet those who often brought donations of food and firewood. Such benevolence was not often seen, but Lysa had come to know at least one of them with some familiarity. A soft spoken man who smiled to her when she prayed to Saint Reinette. He had given her an extra woolen blanket and clasped her hands in his in joined prayer.

 

It was with this same man that Lysa had expected to meet when she saw the vision of Juliana Brooks.

 

There she was with her silvery hair straight and sleek down her back, cold violet eyes deep as the darkest amethyst, and the perfect porcelain complexion that seemed untouched by nature. Lysa thought it was the spectre of her mistress who had come to visit her in the darkest depths of Brume.

 

But it was not. The woman had been shorter in stature than the noblewoman Lysa had served over two decades past. And this phantom who resembled her wore a pair of spectacles, something that Juliana Brooks never needed.

 

It had to have been Juliana’s daughter that accompanied the charitable man. Lady Rissalyn Brooks always did bear the strongest resemblance to her mother, though her hair had been black in her youth. At least, when her mother had left.

 

The last memories of Rissalyn’s fate--the horrible memories Lysa had kept hidden away for so long--had made the old woman cringe and flee from the man who brought her food and firewood. The white haired woman did not seem to notice her.

 

"Lysa! Tell them something useful!"

 

Edmund’s gruff voice broke Lysa from her reverie. She found herself staring at a group of strangers--the dark skinned Highlander woman standing the closest to her, with an armored Lalafell bearing an axe next to her. They were accompanied by a Highlander man and an armored Miqo’te bearing a lance. Lysa found herself at a loss for words for a few breaths.

 

It had to be the Spinner’s work. Or Halone’s will, Lysa told herself. It could not be mere happenstance that these outsiders were asking about the young lady she had served so many years ago.

 

"You speak of Rissa,” Lysa said after a long moment's pause. Her voice was hoarse. “How... how do you all know her? I had not seen the girl for many years."

 

"I once knew her,” the Miqo’te answered first. “I talked to her several times in Gridania. I once... protected her before..." She paused and there was clear regret in her face and her downward ears.

 

Lysa craned her neck from her woolen cloak to get a better look at the Miqo’te. She could hear the same remorse in the Miqo’te’s voice that she herself felt in her heart. "Gridania. Ah, yes, she always did love green things. Anything alive really." Some small warmth filled her chest as she recalled their unmarred childhood, the life Rissalyn had led before the Mistress departed.

 

"She needed protection you say." Lysa closed her eyes, her tone growing forlorn. "She needed it here too. Then. I wasn't enough though. None of us were..."

 

"All I knew at the time was that she was an Ishgard exile who may have been hunted by the same assassins after my mentor.” The Miqo’te stepped forward, her words grim. “It was a short alliance born of ignorance."

 

Lysa did not look back up, she just nodded. "Aye. She would have been an exile, then."

 

"Alright, enough." Edmund cut her off. "Any actual useful information is goin' ta cost ya more."

 

"And just what do you plan to do with so much gil?" The other Highlander man drawled.

 

"Ye outsider, eh?” The scorn in Edmund’s tone was obvious for all to hear. “Have ye seen The Brume? What ye think we goin' ta do with gil? Hang it up on the wall?"

 

Lysa paid no attention to the haggling. That was not why she had agreed to come. She had ran away from the vision of her past, and then these outsiders came asking about a name she had long tucked away in the darkest corners of her mind. It could only mean one thing. That the girl she had failed, the daughter she had thought long dead, had returned.

 

"Praise Saint Reinette,” she said with a shudder. Lysa raised her hand to the sky. “That Lady Rissa still lives. And now has brought deliverance upon us!"

 

Lysa hoped that perhaps this would be her second chance to redeem herself, to atone for her failures. To ask for forgiveness from the child she had allowed so much suffering to be visited upon. Her eyes began to well with warm tears despite the icy touch of Coerthas Highlands.

 

She did not hear the subtle crunch of snow behind her, nor the slick sound of metal piecing leather. Lysa did turn at the dull thudding sound as Denston fell to the ground next to her, his body limp. A crimson stain was slowly growing beneath him.

 

Then she felt the cold, cold touch of metal pressed against her throat. "Old one should be a Quiet one,” a growling voice hissed next to her ear.

 

Lysa was never given an opportunity to answer, for the metal blade pressed further into her throat then slid to the side, opening the arteries there. She felt the warmth of her lifeblood as it began to spurt forth, and her breaths quickly turned into desperate gurgles.

 

The surprised cries of the Lalafell warrior and the armored Miqo’te were distant muted echoes to her ears as Lysa fell to the snow. She died before she could draw another breath.

[Roen]

Then

 

Everything about this is wrong.

 

Roen stared at the man's unconscious form lying on the basement floor. Like most Highlanders he was tall of stature, his head shaved clean, dark-skinned like his sister.

 

But Harvard Blackstone bore only a slight resemblance to Delial. The paladin studied his breathing; it was even and steady. Her brows creased when she spotted the growing welt on the side of his head, where Shaelen had delivered a swift but hard kick to knock him unconscious.

 

What was she expecting, after all, when she had suggested to the two mercenaries that tracking down Delial’s brother was their only option of negotiating with the woman? Roen herself knew quite intimately the quick and brutal violence that Shaelen was capable of. The paladin could see the anger simmering just beneath her cocky retorts--an anger all due to the the death of Aylard Greyarm, suffered at the hands of Delial Grimsong.

 

The second half of the mercenary pair was Qaeli Varily, the silver-haired former champion of the Blood Sands. She had been on Gharen’s list of ‘people to contact’ should there be any trouble involving her brother. Both the paladin and the former gladiator had received each other with a measure of caution, neither knew the other had existed until Roen sought her out. But at the word of Gharen’s impending fate, the heavy accented Hyur woman readily offered her help.

 

Much to Roen’s chagrin, she also showed a penchant for brutality, if her verbal threats were to be believed.

 

Roen did not want either of them anywhere near Harvard Blackstone. She glanced down to the loops of coarse rope in her hand; she had demanded to be the one to talk to him alone and to see to his bindings. The paladin frowned as she set the rope aside on the floor, coming to a kneel next to the man. When she lightly touched his bruised scalp to examine it further, the man began to stir.

 

“Ow…” the Highlander muttered sourly, his lashes fluttering open. It seemed to take him a moment to focus on her, but when his eyes seemed to clear, he immediately frowned. He flinched at her touch.

 

"Apologies... about how we got you here," Roen said quietly, lowering her head, her voice kept low. "But this matter is of great import." She continued to watch him, and although both Qaeli and Shaelen warned her of some possible attempt at an escape or violence from the man, Roen did not have such apprehensions. Resignation hung upon his slumped frame like a heavy robe, and even his attempt at sitting up straight was abandoned half way. His form was wiry, suggesting he did not do much heavy work, and he had worn no weapons on him when he was searched. The man was no fighter.

 

When Harvard propped himself up with one elbow and leaned his head back against the boxes behind him, Roen continued. "I would like to talk to you. One on one." She held his gaze intently. "About your sister."

 

"I already told you all that I don't know what she's up to,” the man muttered, lightly touching his head. “Had to go and kick my head in anyways."

 

Roen winced, knowing exactly what that kick felt like and the ache it left in the aftermath. She sat on the ground, leveling her gaze to his. "I believe you, that you do not know where your sister is. Or that you support her. What she does.”

 

"Then why am I here?" He looked around blearily at the rest of the darkened room. It was a storage room in the basement of Qaeli’s residence. The room had no windows, only rafters, wooden columns, and crates. The small space was only dimly lit by a distant lantern. "Is this... even Ul'dah? I just wanted to do my job, that's all. I have bills to pay, same as anyone."

 

"Delial told me of you, that while you two do not share a family bond, she still considers you the most important person in her life." Roen looked away, guilt darkening her expression. “You are here because I was desperate."

 

She closed her eyes, and when Harvard only answered her with an expectant silence she swallowed. "I am desperate to save my own brother,” Roen confessed, looking back to the Highlander. "And your sister has him."

 

Harvard regarded Roen silently for a moment, his lips--thin already--seeming to draw tighter.

 

His restrained ire only brought more words to come tumbling forth. "I do not want you harmed. I only... want her to think we may consider it." She made a face, those words tasting bitter as soon as it left her tongue. She turned away from him again, instead looking behind her to the stairs leading up to the main floor. "Delial knows me well enough even to suspect my bluff... but she will not call theirs."

 

“Do you think she really cares?" he asked incredulously.

 

Roen blinked, turning back to the man. "She does. For you."

 

Harvard shook his head, then bumped it back against the crate behind him. A momentary wince gave way to a scowl. "I'm sorry you think so. I don't know what you expect she'll do but she's... I don't think she cares about anybody." His jaw tightened. "Not if it doesn't help her."

 

Roen stiffened. "She twists truths, but she claims she does not outright lie. If that is the case, you are the only thing she cares for. Perhaps the only thing in her life." She fixed her gaze on the man. "She said she would do anything for you. You are blood."

 

The Highlander met her gaze with his own eyes - an odd icy blue - before he looked away and settled them somewhere on the far wall. "If I'm the only thing it's cause she made it so. She didn't care for the rest of us. Westor, an' dad. They were blood, too. It's all just blood to her."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

“What do you think?” he retorted with a sharpness not unlike his sister’s. “You know what they call her back home? What her legacy is? Kinslayer.” Harvard’s stare returned to Roen for a breath but she could see the accusation and the anger kept close, kept cold and hard beneath his skin. “It don’t have anything to do with me. Not that it matters. Here we are all the same.”

 

Roen froze, just staring at the man. "Kinslayer..." she echoed in a whisper. She found herself searching her memories, reevaluating all the conversations she and Delial had in the time that the two had gotten to know each other. When Delial had somehow earned her trust. Roen had been certain, at least until this very moment, that Delial’s words of her only surviving brother was genuine. That he was the only person that mattered in her life. It was an uneasy truth that Delial had shared begrudgingly, and Roen believed it to be true. Was it? "Why does she care for you so?" she asked hastily, fighting the pitting feeling in her stomach.

 

“I’m the last one. I don’t know why. Sold me out, too, just like with the rest.” His face fell and his fists clenched. “Said it would be safer. Ain’t so bad in the south. Better than dying a traitor. Pretty words all plenty rich comin’ from--” A bitter grin flashed across his lips and a harsh breath hissed out through his teeth. Gingerly, he tapped the side of his shorn head not too far from where his skin and darkened and swollen. “Got me right here, too, right before clappin’ on the chains.”

 

Her hands closed tightly, and she pressed them upon her lap."It is my brother she holds. He is an Ala Mhigan, just like you.” Roen sighed heavily, her gaze going to the floor. Her knuckles had turned pale in their grip. “She knew of our relation from the beginning. She did not tell me this until after she had him."

 

“I'm sorry about that," Harvard said quietly after a long pause. Roen could hear that some of his misgivings had faded from his voice. "But... do you even think he's still alive?"

 

"He is. At least, she has said so. She offered me a trade. Two lives for his. Lives of two young Highlanders that belong to the Resistance." Roen swallowed. "I... cannot make that bargain."

 

"Still chasing the Resistance..." The Highlander shook his head slowly. "So... that's what I am, then. The card up your sleeve."

 

Roen sat up straight, looking to him imploringly. "I cannot harm them, nor will I allow anyone to harm you." She leaned in, shaking her head firmly. "I will not. But... if she at least is willing to bargain for you, her brother..." She felt her shame tighten its grip around her heart. "I may have a chance yet for the return of my own."

 

A long pause fell between them, where the paladin and the Highlander regarded each other, taking each other’s measure. “Will you at least, stay here, until I get him back?" she asked tentatively.

 

In that moment, Roen glimpsed an image of Delial in her brother, for there was a certain stoic quality the man shared with his sister. But that gave way to another resigned sigh as he slumped in his seat. "I don't wanna get beat up again," he mumbled. "And I don't think you're just gonna let me go even if I wanted to."

 

Roen bowed her head in apology. "I just need you to stay out of sight. And anywhere else, Delial will find you, I fear. Then my own hopes are lost." She frowned, her frame tense. "But I will give you my word, I will do my best to return you to your normal life. Very soon."

 

Harvard seemed to contemplate that, before he nodded. "She's not going to let this go, you know. Delial. She doesn't... she never liked being wrong.” He added then, his voice lowering further, “And she never liked people getting in her way."

 

The paladin narrowed her eyes on Harvard, her expression hardening. "She made enemies as soon as she took my brother. She of all people, should expect no less."

 

"I hope you stop her. Stop her taking people."

 

Roen blinked at that. She reached for the coil of rope and slid it across the floor toward him. "If they come to check in on you, just put your arms behind you with the rope. I will explain to them soon enough." She rose back to her feet.

 

"Right," Harvard grumbled, staring balefully at the rope.

 

"Gratitude." It was a pointless thing, but she said it anyway.

 

"Don’t."

 

It made the paladin pause, but she had nothing else to offer. She turned and left the cellars, locking the door behind her.

[cuideag]

All things considered, it wasn't a bad place to live. It was longer than it was wide, almost as if it had been a simple albeit generous hallway in a past life. The door seemed fitted on as an afterthought and the corners of the far wall creased and cracked far too suspiciously to have been part of the original design. There were no windows but a single window-shaped square of plaster that was just a shade lighter than the rest of the surrounding wall. Dust and detritus from the street puffed inside in tiny, curious gusts, and gathered in the hard lines along the floor. A broom, resting in a corner beside the door, watched with bristles clogged and defeated.

 

Given that there wasn't much to house there besides a cabinet of well-worn clothes and a bed that was not much more than a pallet padded with a generous few layers of rough blanket, it was not a bad place to live. The man who held the keys - lalafellin, simply dressed, hooded eyes - reminded her again and again that he charged a fair price for being within walking distance of the markets. She had not tried to suggest otherwise but the man, small and dusty as the rooms he rented, seemed to brighten considerably while deflecting any perceived question of quality on his part. She allowed him the pleasure all the way from his small shaded office at the other end of the row.

 

Delial shifted her weight from one boot to the other. She was an intruder here and had its occupant still been in the area she would have never dared cross the doorway. That he stayed there had not been a secret: the gil she left moon to moon was easy enough to follow, with virtually no effort made to conceal its use.

 

“Like a fella what has punctuality,” the lalafell was saying from where he had parked himself just outside. “But rent is rent and rent needs payin’. Now, I’ve been real generous about it--”

 

“You have,” Delial agreed. She could not tell if there was an unusual amount of dust coating the surfaces of the room, given how freely it entered. It was neat and orderly otherwise, each and every of his few possessions placed precisely where they ought to be.

 

“-- and it’s just not reasonable,” continued the landlord, albeit with a satisfied nod, “To lose my living on account of a boy what up and left with no rent paid at all! None!”

 

“None?”

 

“None.” The landlord sounded aghast. Delial was more concerned with checking the drawers, however, and carefully sifting through rows and piles of neatly folded garments. “An’ let me tell you, I got mouths to feed! My family needs a home, too, same as any other.”

 

“A predicament, of course. And this is the first time that this has happened…?” Her knees creaked and what she hoped to make a graceful kneel to examine the contents of the bottom drawer ended with an ungraceful flinch and crack as her knee slipped and hit the hard floor harder than she would have liked.

 

“Ha!! This is Ul’dah, rem… oh,” paused the lalafell, clearing his throat. “Well, with this fella, certainly. Came over, what, two years ago? Didn’t ask no questions, didn’t give no trouble. An’ he paid.” The last word was stretched out and Delial was certain narrowed eyes were pinned upon her back.

 

“I expect so,” she said. Deneith had actually done it once, taken Harvard off the street with that Qaeli woman, with Stormchild, and shattered what little sense of safety he might have had living so near the walls of Ul’dah. He must have seen the refugees every sun. Did he help them? Did he know Greyarm? Is that where my money has gone?

 

Did sending him away from the Resistance push him further into its arms?

 

“What’re you sniffing around for, anyroad?” The landlord huffed, aggravation edging into his voice. “I can’t be standin’ around here all sun. Got work to do, same as anyone else!”

 

Delial stood stiffly, grateful that the stinging in her knees distracted her from the slow sink of her heart. The question and it’s questioner went ignored as she turned and scanned the room once more. To say the walls were in perfect condition would have been much more kind than the truth, and were one truly of the mind to crack plaster and stone to conceal something behind it then it would not have stood out at all. Her brother was not the sort to place undue damage on something that did not belong to him, however. That left the bed.

 

“Vanishing has become quite fashionable,” she said. Delial had to force herself to commit to jostling the single pillow, light and lightly dented, and to feel through and pat down the blankets. (He would have fussed at her, slapped her hands and stomped his feet. Dust motes and sunlight and a red-faced boy, the youngest of three, and no no no--) “Many friends of mine have gone without a word,” she continued with the shake of her head. He might have thought her to be regretful. “But one does not simply cease to exist, no, not unless one truly wished to. Even then, there are things left behind.”

 

“Don’t know nothin’ about that,” said the lalafell, his tone dipping lower. Delial did not look at the man but she thought she caught his previously withering gaze direct itself elsewhere out of her peripheral vision.

 

The Highlander said nothing. Her hands tugged the neat creases free from where they had been tucked between the pallet and the thin mattress, and then she lifted. Stuck between the slats was a small wooden box, no larger than the palm of her hand, and with a gentle tug she pulled it free and let the mattress fall. It clattered in her hands as she turned it and slid the lid free.

 

(He wouldn’t look at her, even as she pressed it into his hands, whispering promises into his ear: This is for your own good. This will keep you safe.)

 

“I won’t abide robbery,” warned the lalafell, but Delial hardly heard him. There was a rushing in her ears and a chill in her heart, and she had to ignore the quake in her fingers. A slender pouch of coins rested atop a few browning scrips of paper, letters if she would have had to guess, but it was the ring that she lifted out. It was wrought of a cold, dark silvery metal, the face of which was dominated by a square cut black gemstone flanked on either side with engravings of griffons with talons raised and wings outstretched. Her breath left her in a hard gust, as though she had received a blow to the gut, and she nearly forgot to suck in more air.

 

No, no, no. He would not have left this, not if he left. Passage, food, and lodgings easily paid. He would not leave them if he had the choice. Her innards twisted as fear and fury fought inside her, and numbly she shoved box and ring alike into her pack for fear of dropping them, losing them again just as she lost--

 

“I said, won’t be abidin’ robbery,” growled the lalafell again, this time his voice coming from somewhere just in front of her. Delial focused just briefly on his greedy eyes eyeing the ring before, with a swiftness that caught herself off guard, she stepped around the shorter man and out into the ill-kept lane. The Twelve must have thought to bestow some small mercy in that she could not feel the pain in her knees until she was already in a dead run out into streets, kicking up dust and the screams of an angry lalafell echoing farther and farther behind her.

[Roen]

[[Events here follow this post.]]

 

 

 

Delial stood by the railing overlooking the water, wisps of black hair wafted by the gentle afternoon breeze that rustled the leaves above. The pounding of the waterfall moistened the air around the Bobbing Cork, the cooling caress of the wind providing a soothing company for those who lingered on the side deck.

 

It had been almost a sennight since the meeting at the Sanctum of Twelve, where Roen had confronted her brother along side Delial and Kiht. The meeting ended on a note of animosity, somewhat reminiscent of a another encounter two years ago where the circumstances were eerily similar. Except Roen and Delial had opposed each other then, where the paladin held the Highlander responsible for the condition she found her brother in.

 

Now it was the opposite. Last they spoke, Delial had blamed Roen.

 

She had not spoken to Delial since, and it was with some measure of anxiety that the Highlander’s summons to Fallguard was received. The wooden boards of the deck creaked with the weight of the paladin’s armor, to which Delial turned her head slightly with a nod. Both did their best to keep their expressions neutral.

 

“Did I tell you?” Delial said as Roen came to stand beside her. She had a wine glass that was, oddly for her, daintily perched on her upheld hand. A wine bottle was precariously balanced on the railing. “I do not recall. Things grow… blurry of late. She came to me. Banurein.”

 

Roen arched an eyebrow, although she was not altogether surprised. Kiht had told her much the same after all. “She has not quite lost interest then, as I had thought from all those months of absence.”

 

“Never.” Delial took a generous swallow of wine. “It did not end as she wished it, of course. A loose thread that yet remains." Her gaze shifted to the paladin, then she glanced away just as quickly. "He wishes her demise. As do I, of course. Too dangerous to be left alone. There was something she did say, however, that has given me pause in all this. That Gharen's... affliction is not an affliction at all, no, and ought not be treated as such. That such a thing might not be excised as one might a leech."

 

Roen studied the woman from the corner of her eyes. "You are telling me this because of what I said to him. At the Sanctum."

 

Delial did not answer right away. The Highlander emptied her glass, then busied herself with pouring herself another. Apparently as an afterthought, she held the bottle out to the paladin. "Such shocking things were said. So very strange to have heard them coming from you. You understand that I cannot allow any of the, ah... mentioned things to happen, of course?"

 

A long exhale escaped through her nostrils as Roen shook her head. She too recalled those words, where she threatened to end the man she was speaking to. "Do you think I would actually run my own brother through with a blade?" She dipped her head and crossed her arms. "It was mostly bravado on my part."

 

“I thought it best to remain cautious.” Delial shrugged and set the bottle back on its perch on the railing. “None of us, I think, are who we were... and it becomes harder to read what may or may not come. I imagine most of what he said was likewise, bravado. Certainly fond of barking."

 

"He thought I was weak.” Roen frowned as her indignation leaked into her voice. “I am willing to do what needs to be done. But killing someone... even to save them from themselves… could I do it again?” She paused, her gaze absently watching the light ripple off the waters. She slowly shook her head. “The wound still bleeds."

 

"That rage of his, it is strong. It always has been, I am certain, but he has conquered it before. Conquered it again and again. It ought not be any different now. Only a matter of time." Again she looked Roen's way, though it lingered this time.

 

"I am not sure what will come of this.” The paladin sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Or what will happen. But you need not worry about me trying to kill whatever that stands in my brother's body. Despite my words."

 

Delial took another sip, then leaned against the railing to rest her elbows upon it. She looked down at the glass held between her hands, like it were an offering to the water below. It was after sometime that she spoke again. "I am inclined to believe one does not get over it. Such wounds. Else they would be more easily forgotten."

 

"You bore such a wound as well,” Roen murmured. "When does it stop bleeding?"

 

The Highlander let out a soft snort. "In my experience? Never. Though mayhap you find one day that the taste of copper does not turn your stomach, and it matters no more. That, I pray, is a line you need not cross in your lifetime."

 

Roen fell quiet as she pondered that for a moment. "You crossed that line some time ago. And yet here you stand, willing to defend a man turned murderer, from his sister's own blade." She canted her head in Delial’s direction. "Is it that you take sympathy in the broken? The warped? Or that you are not as warped as I think you to be?"

 

Delial lowered her head as she forced out a low chuckle. "I will give you a confession. But I imagine you will only think me mad for it." The distant roar of the waterfall filled the space between them for a time, before the Highlander broke the silence. “The... war did do much good for my family. No, quite the opposite. It shattered it, as it did our nation. He was not the first man I -- that I lost," Delial drew out the word, stressing it, though she glanced elsewhere. "But my... my father, he..."

 

Delial paused, and Roen did not dare interrupt. The Highlander was frowning, her gaze fixed intently on the waterfall.

 

"The war did not seem real until he was gone. I did not know what I had done until then, I think. And to think it happening to your brother... It is mad, of course. They share a name. How infuriating it is. How maddening!" Her words had gained a frantic energy to them.

 

"What did you do...?"

 

"The Resistance... even then, cared not for peace. So I did what was... right. Garren Blackstone, and Westor as well, were dangerous. Fighting against the King only made them more so." The woman’s fingers seemed to tighten around her glass, her tone sobering. Her gaze did not rise to the paladin. "There is a certain heartbreak that comes when you destroy something beloved to you. I know your pirate did not leave the continent, despite what the Sergeant suggested. But when it is your blood, it does not leave you. It is a dark and heavy thing, and it poisons you until the day you die."

 

Roen stared long and hard at the Highlander. "And yet, to this sun, you believe you did the right thing."

 

Delial stared down at her hands. Moving slowly, she swallowed what wine remains in the glass, and then dropped the glass into the water. "My... conviction comes and goes. Some suns it is easier."

 

"Hindsight is a strange thing,” the paladin whispered. “It wears at your certainty." Another long pause fell between them, before she glanced at the woman again. "How do you deal with regret?"

 

Delial snickered, taking up the bottle and giving it a waggle. It sloshed noisily, before it too was dropped in the water. "Poorly, I should say. I think a normal, sensible person would have at least had the sense to find some.... some hobby to pour themselves into.”

 

The Highlander watched the bottle bob and sway in the water for a moment before she admitted quietly, “All I have is Gharen. You. Kage, I suppose, that poor, poor man!"

 

Roen blinked, and it was with some effort that she let out a quiet, nonchalant snort. "I think Kage believes himself fortunate enough to know you and call you friend. Strange that," she murmured under her breath. "Considering how both of you began. I suppose, same could be said about the rest of us as well. Odd. Is it not?"

 

"Very strange. So very strange. I had always thought it an exaggeration that the... the world would cease to make sense as you grow older. And yet... here we are. Befuddled as ever."

 

Roen watched the bottle's journey as it spun in the water, before it tilted to the side and the water bubbled in. "I do not think you poisoned. Not completely."

 

"It is a kind thing to say, untrue as it may be.” Delial snorted weakly. “You are all the more lovely when you are being kind. Sometimes I find I miss it."

 

The paladin did not speak for a long time, her eyes now fixed on where the bottle had submerged under the water. Her voice was a raspy thing when she spoke again. "I thought kindness was my weakness. Only now… I find that my biggest regret... was my lack of mercy."

 

Roen Deneith grimaced, chiding herself for allowing her voice to waver. "I do not think I will ever be who I was before. But... even those who have done far worse than I could ever imagine, can still care. They come to the defense of a murderer.”

 

"Such strange, bewildering times. Small blessings, mayhap, that we may still be surprised,” Delial said as she continued to look out over the water.

 

The two women allowed the waterfall to fill the silence again, a blue bird coming to perch on the wooden railing near them before taking to the air again. "I dreaded seeing him again," Roen murmured as her gaze absently followed the bird’s flight. "For too many reasons that I cannot say."

 

When Delial remained quiet, Roen inhaled deeply and continued. "But knowing you and Kiht were there... ready to aid him in whatever way that was needed… it made it easier, in truth." The paladin finally spared another glance towards the Highlander. "That even if I failed, he would not be lost. Not truly."

 

“It was... a good thing. Certainly a brave thing. For all the unkind things I said to you before, I know it must have been difficult." Delial lowered her head but turned slightly, her amber gaze peering up at Roen. She curled a small smirk. "I should think Kiht would have tried to strangle the poor dear for you had anything happened. She is so very worried for you. I think she would do nearly anything if it may make things easier for you."

 

The thought of the Keeper, even if it was fleeting, softened the paladin’s visage. "I owe her much.”

 

“It is a fortunate thing to hold one so close. Even if she is, as he says, just... a touch dense. Very kind, however." Delial nodded.

 

“And I owe you as well,” Roen gave Delial a side eye. “Once this ordeal is over, perhaps some time of rest is needed. For everyone." She let out a long sigh. "But let us get through this first. However it plays out."

 

The Highlander snorted. "Kage has already insisted that he and I have ourselves a trip to Costa del Sol when all is done. I think I shall take him up on it."

 

Roen just raised an eyebrow. "You should take him up on it,” she said blankly. Somehow she could not imagine the two of them sunbathing together in the sand. She found it oddly amusing.

 

"Perhaps you and the others might come as well? You could use a little sun, I think. Gharen, too, once he overcomes this… a little fun may do him some good. Though I imagine he would head straight for that waterfall he was so fond of."

 

Roen regarded Delial, and to her surprise, a protest did not readily leave her lips. Her eyes wandered, giving it some thought. "I think I have forgotten what warm sun truly feels like."

 

Delial pushed herself back up straight, with considerable effort. "A travesty. If the Gods are kind and merciful, you may never again feel ice in your bones. Nor will I ever, ever, see another of these damned trees again!" Roen almost thought the Highlander would raises her fist to the woods.

 

The paladin snorted, a hint of an ironic grin touching her lips. "I call it an act of attrition."

 

She was answered with an ornery harrumph from the Highlander. "As you say. We need to have a talk, Kiht and I... and Gharen and I, too, supposing I did not anger him out of any thoughts of cooperation. Temporary, to be sure - he always was too charitable for his own good."

 

“Keep me informed.” The paladin nodded, stepping back from the railing. “I believe I have lingered here too long.”

 

"Thank you for meeting with me. And, err..." The dark woman’s lips twisted as she seemed to search for a word, an effort that that only left her with a deeper frown. "That is, allowing me to... ramble."

 

Roen canted her head, and the edges of her eyes softened. "It is a side of you that you do not allow often, if at all. It brought me some measure of comfort, whether you meant to or not. You should allow yourself to do so more often."

 

When Delial narrowed her eyes but maintained her silence, Roen nodded with a teasing curl to her lips. “I will bid you farewell on this rare note between us. Stay well, Delial.”

[cuideag]

Years ago.

 

 

She held her tongue.

 

When they knocked on the door of the small shack her brother had called home, Delial opened it and stepped aside. There was no need for words, after all: they had their arrangement, their task, their payment safe in the city. There was nothing more to be said.

 

It is the right choice. It is the safest choice. The words crawled slow circles through her mind even as her brother fought and struggled. He howled at her, voice taken to a defiance so unlike him. She could not look at him. She had nothing more to say. It is the right choice. It is the safest choice. It is the right choice.

 

She held her tongue, and when her brother was gone, she closed the door behind her.

 

----

 

Now.

 

Two years ago, Gharen Wolfsong was as good as dead. He was poisoned and broken and, miraculously, brought back from the edge. He accompanied her to a ball, danced with her while his sister glared. He spared her life again and again, to the discontent of everyone who called Wolfsong ally.

 

One year ago, Gharen Wolfsong was dead. His sword, bloodied, had been abandoned with is belongings and the man who took his life growled and snapped from behind an iron helm. Chained as he was, Delial held no doubt he was as volatile, as hostile as ever, yet he suffered their presence as well as a mad thing who likened himself to a wolf could if one did not think too hard on how he nearly killed or maimed several of the number that had been called in to deal with him. Once he had been unmasked, directing that violence elsewhere had been a simpler matter than Delial expected.

 

Banurein gave it its voice, the wolf that lingered in Gharen's skin. Banurein gave it fangs, black and dripping, and let it loose. Carved into his chest were the reminders of who it was that marked him as hers to begin with.

 

Delial took a breath and pushed on, leaning heavily upon her staff. She parted ways from her ride not far outside the Observatorium, giving her thanks and goodbyes once the road split westward. The cold was not quite as she remembered it when her heart was heavy with worry, when she spent her days wondering if she would find Wolfsong mangled and half-eaten somewhere in the snow. It sank into her bones sent shivers down her spine but it was numb, felt at a distance if she felt it at all. A heavy cloak was pulled tight around her shoulders and pressed near her heart beneath the layers that she wore was a stone, black and humming, warm in a way though it did little for her poor fingers and toes.

 

The road and her company continued on north where they would inevitably come upon Ishgard. It was the fork west that Delial took, gauging the mountains ahead against those in her memory. The wagon trails had long since been buried by fresh snow but she did her best to remember, as tricky as it was when the landscape was perpetually redressing itself in fresh, unmarked snow. If she called for the Huntress then surely she would come, but she cast the thought aside. Eager as Jakkya was to lend aid to Gharen and Roen both, Delial had no desire to drag her back to that place.

 

The three of them had hoped to confront the Pale Lady but it would not be so. Banurein had agreed to attend to the lingering plague in Gharen's veins albeit at a distance, suspecting a trap. The men she had sent in her stead unknowingly led them to a manor left to ruin at the foot of a mountain. It sat broken but proud, ringed by bent iron fences and frozen boulders. The crag overhead seemed a mouth intent on devouring the place, with gigantic icy fangs reaching ever closer one patient ilm at a time. The wind howled and whipped around them, furious and implacable, one final and nearly deafening warning they had no choice but to ignore.

 

Bells past sunset, Delial finally found it again. The moon did little to guide her and when daylight finally faded she could rely on little else but instinct and the stone, black and yearning, at her heart. The head of her staff glowed with burning aether, casting deep and wavering shadows as she trudged past the fence and into a yard that might once have been the envy of neighboring nobles. Though the windows were stained opaque with ice and dirt, the light gave the appearance of things writhing inside. Delial might have written them off as just shadows had she not known the truth of the place. As she drove on to the door, one lurching step at a time, she could hear the scratching from the other side of the wood. It did not stop when, groaning, the door opened and slammed shut behind her; it only dispersed, scritch-scritch-scratching from corners, from walls, from joints in the high ceilings.

 

A grand foyer yawned out before her, tattered and broken as the building that housed it. The taste hit her first as she gulped in the stale air, ignoring the dull ache of her knees and feet. It was stale and musty and overpowered yet by the harsh tang of vile aether, the sense of which had nearly overwhelmed Gharen when they found him there. "This place pulls at me in all directions," he told them, and it had only gotten worse the further they ventured. It was yet another thing he had survived, Gharen Wolfsong, and when he slew the winged thing that hid deep in the cavernous basement they took him and fled the place without a glance back. It was at her insistence that they visit Costa del Sol, seas far, far away from the manse beneath the mountain. There was no doubt in her mind, however, that it could not be forgotten.

 

They are your kin. How could you let this happen? Voices whimpered and wailed as they tore down the things that haunted its halls, though Delial could never tell from what or where they came. Her first concern was Gharen's safety but the voices stuck in her mind like bee stings, left to trouble her. If they were echoes then to whom did they belong? Why did Banurein chose it? Infest it?

 

You left me to this fate. I had no choice.

 

I would do anything for you. Tell me.

 

Delial took another hard breath, banging the butt of her staff into the floor once. For a moment, the scratching subsided, echoing only from the further halls hidden behind rubble and rubbish. Her obligations had been attended to save for one, one which she sat on silently for the better part of the year. The Huntress knew and so, too, did the Wolf; but she was dismissed to her own duties and he, he no longer remembered. It is better that way, she reminded herself, coughing into a sleeve. It is the right choice. Her staff blazed brighter as she centered herself, one hand clutching the stone, black and throbbing, by her heart. She was beyond certain time had long since run out for her brother, gone from Ul'dah so many moons. All that remained was to make certain the favor was repaid in kind.

[Roen]

“I want you to be happy, Marcus.”

 

Happiness.

 

What was it? Happiness: an elusive ghost of an idea that pitted everyone’s lives, leaving a void that all felt compelled to fill. The emptiness that existed in its absence was like a distant wail that nagged at the edge of one’s thoughts, oft leading one down a dark alley to despair. Some hunted for it with ambitious precision, desperate in their hope that things like wealth, power, or love would bring them this abstract trophy. It was a lie, like a mirage in the desert. Some might swear to have seen it, hovering just out of their reach. But it was envy that distorted their vision; they would see it upon others like an invisible aura, like the waves of heat burning off the sand.

 

Jameson Taeros could never recall ever feeling truly happy. There was always somewhere else he wanted to be, some other trouble that loomed on the horizon, or some other person that was standing in his way. He had always looked to those shadows of uncertainty and marked them in his mind. They were just obstacles to be eliminated or conquered. He had always prided himself in identifying his place in the world and learning about others, so that he could do what was needed to elevate himself. He enjoyed this game, and even the smallest victories he acquired along the way eventually amassed into what he considered was his peak of wealth and power.

 

So how did it all fall apart?

 

“You have run out,” a sultry voice nudged Jameson from his reverie. A dark-skinned Elezen clothed in nothing but a small strip of silk wrapped around her hips leaned across his leg and sprinkled a pinch of herbs into the small metal flask next to him. Only then did the Midlander notice that the tendrils of heavily scented smoke had given way to withering fibers and he could feel the edges of his senses sharpening again. But once the dried roots were dropped into the ornate vase, a quiet hiss of the burning plant heralded a new fountain of smoky serpents as they began to spill back out into the tented room.

 

“Are you hurting…?” The woman laid her hands upon his bare chest, pressing her breasts against him. “I can replace the noise. This will flush out your head.”

 

Jameson barely heard her gravelly whisper. He tilted his head backwards against the pillows, just as the Duskwight leaned in for his lips. The female only smirked at the subtle rebuff, then proceeded to greet the underside of his chin with her tongue, slowly working downward toward his chest. The smoke began to cloud the air around them, unable to dissipate under the canopy of silks that hung low from the ceiling. The flickering light of a candelabra was further dimmed by the thick air, although it provided just enough illumination to outline the naked curves of the woman on top of him. But the once-renowned Monetarist of Ul’dah paid no mind to his surroundings nor the rousing sensation that rose from the rest of his body. Only the intoxicating scent of burning milk root pushed at his consciousness, sending this thoughts plunging back into the pool of memories and reflection.

 

Lazarov. Deneith. Melkire.

 

Those were the names that ruined him. After the years he had spent carefully navigating through the Ul’dahn maze of schemes and lies, somehow he had let a pirate, an ex-Sultansworn, and an ex-Flame undo all that he had worked for.

 

It was because of her.

 

Jameson wanted to lay the blame on someone else. The thought that he had underestimated Lazarov’s expansive influence upon the seas, Deneith’s willingness to recruit spies and civilians against him, and the Flame’s readiness to commit murder without even a trial… they had all caught him unprepared.

 

He had lost focus. It was likely his paranoia, but it seemed the Jewel wanted to collect all the heat of the Thanalan sun and focus it right upon him. Someone had dared to try and stand up to the Monetarists’ power and it was put upon him to eliminate the threat. At the time, he had welcomed the opportunity: finally a stage upon which he could shine! In retrospect, he should have sent assassins earlier. There were other methods, crueler and dirtier means to accomplish what had to be done.

 

But Jameson thought himself too clever. He had gone the slower, more methodical route. He decided upon a defensive strategy, a lawful one no less, relying upon the Ul’dahn law enforcement to apprehend the outlaws that were threatening Monetarist shipments. The Sworns did not deliver. And the Flames were just employed thugs for Raubahn. Even now those mistakes pained him.

 

But was it his lapse in judgement that soured his pride... or the possibility that he had stayed on that course for the sake of a mere woman?

 

“I want you to be happy, Marcus. You deserve more than a woman who cannot return your affections.” He could recall Melia’s face, the tears running down her cheeks. Her beautiful, sad eyes were framed by her auburn curls as she broke his heart and wedded another man.

 

After Melia, Jameson had sworn never again. Never again would he risk humiliation and failure for the sake of a woman. And yet, he carried her picture close to his heart, hidden within a golden pendant even after all those years, did he not?

 

Was he one of those sentimental fools he so despised all along?

 

"You have given me all I could ever want. I merely wish to meet with your approval."

 

The memories of another woman’s voice and the vision of another set of auburn locks returned to him yet again. The scent of the desert that lingered in her hair seemed to be woven into the smoke somehow, and he could imagine the green eyes that always regarded him carefully from beneath those long lashes.

 

He believed that Coatleque Crofte was a kindred spirit: a creature who had clawed herself out of a pit of misfortune with her eyes directed upwards at greatness. Someone who was made of ambition and grit as he was. It must have taken such perseverance to rise so high from a broken past that was hers. Why didn’t she want more? As he did?

 

She was nothing like me.

 

He remembered his deep disappointment when she admitted that she held no further ambition, that she herself was amazed to have gained such authority. A highly ranked Sultansworn serving the Sultana, answering to Jenlyns himself, Coatleque seemed befuddled as to how she had stumbled upon such a position of power. All the things that drew him to her at the start, had proven false. And yet…

 

She loved me.

 

Jameson hissed as he felt the bite of incisors upon his skin. He took a handful of hair and pulled the Duskwight off of him. Her teeth gleamed white as a hungry smile split the Elezen’s dark face. That look of lust in her eyes, it was one he knew well. He had seen it in so many others, for it was an easy thing to manipulate. And yet, he had no inclination to take part in such a diversion now.

 

“If you like it violent,” the woman purred as she clawed her way up his chest, her nails drawing red lines upon his flesh. “We can play rough and tumble.”

 

The Midlander simply sneered at her.

 

“Just why are you here, lordling?” she barked back impatiently. When he did not answer, she snorted and rolled off of him, grabbing for a thin wooden pipe, taking a deep draw of it. As she exhaled the scented fumes again, her vexation melted off her face.

 

Jameson could still feel the thin rows of welts where her nails had raked against his torso. The Duskwight had not been the only woman to mark him so.

 

I could have come to love her, he tried to convince himself, his eyes fluttering closed. The vision of auburn locks washed away like ocean waves, leaving behind a field of golden hair, one that he had pulled free from their prison of tight braids. He could recall the softness of her bared shoulders, the prominence of her collarbone, and the fullness of her breasts. And yet, there was no stirring of lust within him.

 

“Pity is the death of desire.”

 

In the moons that they had slept beneath the same roof, Edda Eglantine had seen him brought low, trembling upon his knees. The pains of withdrawals from whatever cursed alchemical toxins Banurein had pumped him full of had robbed him of his precious control through many nights. And Edda had discovered him on one such an occasion despite his efforts. He hated showing such weakness in front of anyone, much less one he was engaged to marry. But then that exasperating enigma of a woman would show glimpses of wisdom and strength where he had expected none.

 

"I do not pity you. I do not pity myself. Pity is for those who do not fight."

 

The marriage to the Eglantine was only the first step to his return. After losing everything in Ul’dah, he had come to Ishgard to start anew, empowered by his engagement and invigorated by fresh opportunities. He was ready to play the game again, he was ready to regain what was lost. It was in his blood.

 

“Favor for favor.”

 

Why had he not sent Coatleque away when she found him again? She would have only dragged him down, like links of chains wrapped around his ankles as he tried to swim to shore. Why had he not cut himself free of the woman? He needed to only say the right words. Even when he had returned from presumed death, and revealed his secret engagement to another, the damned Sultansworn refused to leave his side. He told her that he was engaged. He told he intended to make his marriage work for Edda's sake. And yet, he did not send her away.

 

It was then that Jameson rose and grabbed the Duskwight by the shoulders, throwing her down against the pile of pillows. The woman’s smile gleamed with impatience and she arched her back in anticipation. But it was not the view of the woman’s naked form that fed the fire that now burned in his chest. He leaned in, his body knew the motions; but it was another place, and another woman that he saw before his eyes.

 

Was the tease the game or the consequence? Was it worth the fall? He always loved taking risks, playing both sides. He had never wanted to make Coatleque a mistress, and yet the thought of her by his side, it pleased him. Perhaps his past was the weakness. He remembered enjoying the day they had spent in Fallguard. There was an air of comfort, warmth, and familiarity that brought back memories of their time together in the desert city. Flimsy things they were, he thought them unimportant to him, and yet they returned to him all the same to pull at his emotions.

 

“When I first came to you that night at the Bismark. It was not for distraction.”

 

Then she shattered it all to pieces with her confession.

 

All those nights, all those talks, all the secrets they had shared, the violence, the laughter, the intimacy… they were all a lie. She did it to help his enemies break him.

 

He did not think. His past had been war. His reflex had been sharpened by conflict and ambition. And he had learned, painfully so, how he would pay for indecision born of empathy. Never again.

 

There was much blood upon her naked pale flesh, flowing freely from the deep cut upon her neck. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, and even as they began to lose their color, she stared to him. What else could he have done? She had betrayed him. The one woman he thought he could trust above all others, the first woman to whom he had confided in about his past, his insecurities, his plans for the future. They had even spoken of children...

 

What else could I have done?

 

It was with a guttural gasp that Jameson stumbled back, falling ungracefully backwards onto the floor. The Duskwight had been writhing beneath him, but he had been deaf to her moans and cries. His chest rose and fell with desperate breaths like a fish out of water, and his amber eyes stared in disbelief at the naked woman in front of him. There was no blood that soaked the silks around her.

 

The Elezen propped herself upon her elbows and gave him a perturbed look. “Perhaps you have had too much of the milk root, lordling.”

 

“Get out,” he growled.

 

“But we were just getting to the--”

 

“Get out!” he screamed, hurling the metal vase at the Duskwight. She bolted to her feet, cursing at him loudly in a tongue he did not bother to try and recognize. She snatched up the scattered pieces of clothing and left the room in a hurry.

 

For a long moment, no sound rose to the silk draped ceiling except heavy, stuttered breaths. But when the distant peal of the morning's second bell faded to an echo, the quiet muffled sounds of his weeping filled the heavy silence.

[Roen]

The room was full of shadows; the single flickering candle allowed only a glimpse of the coiling smoke that wafted through the air. The scent of milkweed stung her nose, but Raelisanne cared not. It was one of many drugs she had become immune to.

 

The man splayed out in front of her had enabled her to do so, so many years ago.

 

Due his current state of impairment, it was obvious the man had not followed his own teachings. Precise measured quantities administered at regular intervals, steadily increasing the dose over a period of time… the process of gaining immunity against mind-altering substances was a mere matter of alchemy. Committing to continuing the small doses over the years would have been a matter of dedication. It was a small price to pay for an assurance of self control.

 

This was something Raelisanne always believed was of utmost import to the man in front of her. But his shallow breathing, glazed eyes, and slowed reflexes all spoke of a man who had surrendered his own fundamental code of self discipline and preservation.

 

To see him brought so low by despair… it displeased her.

 

The man eventually stirred. While Raelisanne made no effort to be silent, she said nothing after entering his tent, and the rest of the inhabitants of the brothel had made themselves scarce. The herb in the metal vase was left to burn, and any passing observer from outside the tent would only spot two silhouettes within, one standing unnaturally still, the other struggling to sit up.

 

“Of course you are here,” the man growled at her, his disgust obvious.

 

“You are in poor shape,” Raelisanne observed as she continued to stare down at the Monestarist noble. “You need assistance.”

 

“Do not presume to know what I need,” the Midlander retorted hoarsely. His lips were chapped and his cheeks sunken in. “Begone from my sight. I do not need you.” The bloodshot eyes belonged to a man who lacked purpose, ambition, and will--all the things that Raelisanne had once admired about him.

 

My, but he was still so stubborn. That brought a small curl to her lips.

 

“You seek to break free from the fetters that weigh your conscience.” She slowly tilted her head, and even in the dimly lit room, she could see the lines of his jaw tighten. “I too was once lost. Deprived of all the things that I thought I needed to be whole. You remember the damaged little girl. That was when you found me. You made possible a whole new life.”

 

Raelisanne lowered herself onto one knee, her violet gaze peering over the rim of her glasses to level with his. “I would like to return the favor.”

 

“Favor for favor…” the Hyur mumbled groggily. His focus waxed and waned; the air was still thick with tainted fumes. Raelisanne watched him struggle to maintain his composure, flashes of emotion contorting his angular features without warning. She wondered if he too was recalling their very first encounter. Did it leave an indelible mark upon his memory as it did hers? But so much had passed between them since. And it was the latter years that he seemed to remember with crystal clarity. He suddenly bared his teeth to her like a threatened animal. “Last time you saved me, I was forced to endure your toxins running through my veins.”

 

“You were nearly dead, I had no choice,” she answered matter-of-factly. “You eventually fought to free yourself from those effects.” Her tone remained neutral, even though her expression brightened slightly. She had been mistaken. He still had some resolve yet. “I never believed you would remain crippled for long. Consider my methods unusual, but they remain effective.”

 

To that the man said nothing, his gaze shifting away from hers. There was bitterness that remained in the downward curl of his face, that fought off the weariness that weighed his entire frame.

 

“You lost what you had built in Ul’dah. Then you lost again your second chance.” Her voice carried no sympathy. “Is that it? Do you have nothing left?”

 

“How childishly simple you make it sound,” he spat out. “Is that how you have framed your life? You lost what you were, and so you made yourself anew? You see that I have lost my toys, so you are going to give me new ones? Or am I to be another one of your experiments? Torn down like Wolfsong? Made a freak of nature like Renatus? Or whatever twisted games you are playing with Grimsong? Deneith? Don’t forget…” he hissed. “I know you and your obsessions.”

 

Raelisanne remained still as a stone statue. Her expression did not flinch, she did not blink, her violet gaze did not waver. But she also had no words for the man.

 

His eyes narrowed at her stillness, but when she continued to stare in silence, he glanced away. “What do you want from me…?”

 

“As I said, to repay what I owe.” Her face did not show it, but there was a sting that lingered with his rebuff. He understood, and yet he did not. She adjusted her spectacles, her gaze shielded by its reflective surfaces.

 

When his eyes returned to her albeit reluctantly, she continued, more coolly than before. “The aid I now offer is of different nature. It will mean the end of your old life. You will no longer have a place here. Not in Ul’dah, nor Coerthas.”

 

“A new life…?” he rasped. He was fighting for consciousness now. The air was thicker. “Away from all this?”

 

“Yes.” Raelisanne nodded.

 

The man’s amber eyes darted to various points throughout the room, and yet to nothing in particular. His dark brows were pulled low, his struggle and doubt screamed loudly in silence.

 

“Marcus,” she said his name softly as she extended her gloved hand. “Do you trust me?”

 

“No.”

 

“But you will come with me?”

 

A long moment passed between them.

 

“I have no choice,” he finally said, his voice cracking, failing on that last word.

 

"No," she quietly agreed. She guided his hand to hers, so that he might grasp it.

[Roen]

[[ Following the events of these posts here. ]]

 

 

 

Potions, leather collars, scalpels, amputation saws, forceps...

 

The long steel tubing of a syringe gleamed pristinely under the artificial light that shined from the ceiling above. White gloved fingers hovered over the array of instruments, occasionally adjusting their position. Raelisanne had long been familiar with these tools, often favored amongst many Inquisitors. She marveled at how effective they were, in transforming the subjects they were used upon.

 

“Are you a truthful and goodly child, Rissa?”

 

She had gained intimate knowledge from her own experiences, after all.

 

The sense of helplessness that came over once the paralysis potion took effect was strangely overwhelming, she recalled. It was as if her body was akin to lead, her limbs too heavy to lift. A part of her idly wondered why the straps around her wrists and ankles were even necessary when the body refused to move. But curiously, goosebumps still crawled up her arms; her skin was still able to feel the chill of the stone basement. She remembered pondering if that was what it was like to be a golem, to have skin that weighed like stone and yet be able to feel the blade when it was cut...

 

Raelisanne also remembered learning the purpose behind the restraints. Because the nerves of her body were still awake to all the sensations, her muscles would go into uncontrollable convulsions when a burning liquid was injected into her veins and all her nerves felt like it was on fire. It was also said that the binds were to prevent self harm. She could appreciate the logical and practical sense behind each instrument. After decades of honing their skills, of course the Inquisition would have refined the methods of interrogations down to a science.

 

She could not remember the exact questions that were asked of her so many years ago, only that it had displeased her father. Lord Lyndon Brooks had remarked once that she had a keen mind, exceptional for her youth. She overheard him wondering out loud if she would someday prove to be worthy of the Inquisition. He believed that one of the most valuable decree of the Inquisitors was their relentless pursuit of truth, unhindered by civility or sympathy. It was his way of trying to relate to his strange daughter who seemed to be most curious about unusual things. A part of her younger self too fancied herself following in her father’s footsteps. Their unapologetic quest for knowledge had been appealing. And yet, through her own interrogation, the girl of fourteen years came to learn that the infallibility of the Church was just a myth and that the Inquisition had no interest in the truth. Was it at the hands of her own father that she had decided she would aim to become much more?

 

“Miss Reeves, the rest of the equipment has been packed.” The breathless voice of her assistant made her turn around. Aurelieaux regarded her carefully, his brows deeply bent with apprehension. The revelation that their main laboratory had been discovered and burglarized had disturbed the Duskwight alchemist greatly. “Shall I… pack those as well?” He glanced to the tools on the table behind her.

 

“Nothing must be left behind,” Raelisanne said, nodding as she made her way back to her desk. Violet eyes gazed upon the opened drawer there, behind which she knew remained an empty compartment where her magitek tablet used to be. It too was gone, along with the mysterious stone bearing ancient allagan runes. It was an opportunity lost; she could not deny her own disappointment at being unable to complete the final step. To have a chance at eliminating a part of someone’s legacy that ran in their veins, to alter what had been etched forever into one’s heritage… it was far beyond the meager goals of her father’s career ambitions.

 

But now the entire project had been thwarted. The keystone’s magic was supposed to enable a rewriting of the memories of anyone they wanted, en masse. It would have far surpassed her own personal research into altering a person’s thoughts and perceptions, which took time and care with each individual subject. Even with all the progress that she had made with Kavir’s preserved blood and eyes, without the keystone, her experiments would have to return to single specimens.

 

Perhaps it was for the best. The variables would be much easier to predict and counter when dealing with a limited number, compared to a large population. The promise that she had made the Court was ambitious and plausible at best, but they were willing to go forth simply on her calculations and theory without an actual successful field test. She had to admit, she herself was curious at the prospect, and was looking forward to seeing the unpredictable outcome.

 

As Aurelieaux ushered the last of the boxes carried by laborers out of the laboratory, Raelisanne scanned the empty shelves and the barren cabinets. So many possibilities this place had held… and now they were lost. Her white-gloved hands were splayed out against the smooth wooden grain of the desk, but slowly her fingers curled inward. It was a setback. Any research worth the effort was bound to face such trials, and she had found ways to adapt and revise her course in the past. Even if it took great sacrifices to do so.

 

“Give me what I need and this will stop. You do want to do right by your father, do you not my dear?”

 

She could still recall clearly the desperation in his voice. How it trembled with fear, but made hoarse with indignation. Absent was the unwavering composure she usually admired in him; but even while his eyes were wide and frenzied, she could see that it was still driven by his single-minded belief that he was in the right.

 

Perhaps that had been the moment when his pursuit of truth was marred by his emotions. He was afraid for his own life and his place within the church. What he wanted was to erase the suspicion of heresy from his family’s name, even if that meant offering up his daughter’s life instead.

 

A soft snort escaped her nose. He had offered up a sacrifice to readjust the course of his ambitions. Perhaps her methods were not too different from her father’s after all. But she would be more than he ever was. He was driven by doubt, jealousy, and fanaticism. Never would such petty emotional fragility cause her to err.

 

“I would do anything for you. Tell me.”

 

Raelisanne glanced up as the chandelier and the lanterns on the wall flickered. She pushed off from the desk and made her way to the exit, tucking her hands into her pockets. The final group of laborers were filing in, ready to grab all else that remained. She ignored the questions that echoed from behind her as a few of them gathered around the center desk and pointed at the deep claw marks that marred its polished surface.

[Roen]

Delial stood alone with her back to the road, her dark silhouette starkly contrasted against the white canvas of the northern mountains beyond. Beneath the woman’s boots, the icy ground seemed thinner, slipperier, and few trees nearby looked charred, marred with blackened spots. The woman’s shoulder rose and fell with heavy breaths.

 

Roen paused momentarily to study the Highlander’s frame before she approached, her sabatons crunching the frosty ground. Something about her seemed... different, but she could not put her finger on what it was.

 

“Of all the places, I did not expect to meet here.” Roen broke the silence as she scanned the snowy alcove around them. Delial always hated the cold.

 

The Highlander turned her head slightly to give her a sidelong glance. “Could do worse than this, I think. Not by much, but… well. Necessity, regardless. It has been sometime, my dear. It is good to see you again.”

 

Roen came to stand next to the woman, both the skirt of her armor and her ponytail whipping about as the north wind whirled around them. "The fact that I had not heard from you, I assumed at least there was no bad news." She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear, looking to the road behind Delial that led to Whitebrim. "How is my brother?"

 

“Gharen is… he's well. Focused. Helping me focus. Though I think he's got -- surely you have heard. Of the happenings in the Shroud."

 

“The news of the war that may be brewing.” Roen nodded. “Kiht paid me a visit to voice her concerns on the matter. I suppose such news would interest him." She paused a moment, before turning back to Delial. "And you too, I would imagine."

 

Delial snorted. "We saw it on our way here -- hanging, silent. Wretched. And still he has thoughts of joining in the resistance. Again." Her eyes rolled and her lips thinned. "That Kiht -- she does not help with it. But I suppose he will do what he thinks is right, foolhardy as it may be. She mentioned that you had similar thoughts."

 

"I feel that it is something I cannot ignore." Roen’s voice lowered. "Although... I fear, my intentions or my hopes for what happens may not be exactly the same as it is for Gharen and Kiht." She bowed her head to hide her doubts. “I do not know what I would seek to do, in truth. What would you do? Could you simply stay out of it?"

 

The Highlander shifted. "I know not, either, truth be told. What could I do? I have been... disgraced, I suppose, from either side. I do not think I belong any more. But it is still home, and it would... I long to see it. I miss it too much to sit back." She exhaled. “There are things yet to attend to, here. I cannot stray for now, as much as I may wish to. And I am not certain if I do."

 

Roen nods. "I suppose we will all find out what is to come in due time."

 

Delial raised an eyebrow. "It is quite plain to me what is going to happen, but -- ah." The woman paused as both of them turned to the sound of another approaching from the road.

 

"So tha's where ye've gone an' snuck off te. Remind me te teach ye how te hide yer tracks, Delial.” Roen recognized the voice immediately and it was only after hearing it that she realized she had missed it so. Her eyes squinted as her brother appeared through the heavy snowfall. “Did ye stop te check on our comatose friend on yer way?"

 

Delial shrugged, giving her heels a bit of a shuffle. "You would have found me regardless, I think. And I did not, alas -- did not wish to keep our guest waiting."

 

"Well, I thank ye fer th' trail o' breadcrumbs te follow lest I miss gettin' te see my dear sister." Gharen came to stand next to them both, giving her a small but warm smile.

 

Roen found herself returning the expression, and it was easier than she thought. There had been a nervous flutter in her stomach lately whenever she anticipated seeing her brother; it was a strange feeling that was both unfamiliar and unwelcome. But their last parting had not been so cordial, with most of the blame falling at her feet. She quickly directed her attention to his physical well-being as she gave him a careful look over; his gait was steady, his stance strong, and he no longer needed the aid of a walking stick. And in that, she felt the anxiety within slowly fading.

 

"Gharen." She uttered his name quietly. "You look well."

 

"Eh, no worse fer th' wear. Nothin' gettin' a boot te th' ass from Osric offa cliff could nae' fix." He shrugged.

 

Roen slowly blinked. Twice. "What was that?" She must have misheard.

 

"Oh, I started trainin' under Osric nae long ago since my other lead dried up.” His tone remained ever casual, as if to purposefully not raise any alarm. “Bastard planted his boot upon my arse an' shoved me inte Nophica's wells." He met his sister’s gaze and grinned, as if amused by the befuddlement he saw there. "So. How've ye been? An' tha' lanky significant other?"

 

"Ah? Is that -- the au ra fellow?” Delial also chose that moment to pipe in. “Or perhaps someone new?" There was a strange hint of mischievous curiosity to the woman’s tone. Clearly, she could not resist gossip.

 

Roen’s brows shot to the sky and she coughed to clear her throat. "Signifi--" She glared back and forth between them. "He is no such -- there is no such thing." She made one slashing motion of her hand as if cutting through the air. "Besides, he has gone home," she said more quietly. "Back to Othard." She also gave Delial a pointed look as if to chide the woman. "And I have time for anyone new. There is a reason I wanted to meet with both of you.” Her head swiveled back and forth, giving both of them a stern reprimanding look.

 

It did not seem to deter Gharen. "Well I thought ye'd make a cute couple." He was met with a dead stare.

 

“A strange boy, that was," Delial said flatly, looking somewhat disappointed. "But... there was news, yes, as I recall."

 

“Well, anyroad.” Roen cleared her throat. “What is this about a comatosed patient? Are you in need of looking after someone?"

 

"You recall that Tengri fellow.” Delial crossed her arms. “A lead he gave us brought us here, and to this... man."

 

Roen frowned. "A man?"

 

"A cavern with a secret room with even more secrets. Least of all, a man simply..." The Highlander woman trailed off, raising her hands to gesture vaguely at herself -- trailing her fingers down, like drapery. "Tubes in his body. Some sort of magitek. We pulled him out of it, and have been keeping him here ever since." She nodded in the direction of Dragonhead, to the east. "He has not yet woken. I am not certain he will."

 

"He looks familiar if'n ye ask me.” Gharen scratched his chin. “I've taken it upon myself te name him Bob if'n only because it'll confuse th' shite out o' him when he awakes, if'n he is who I suspect."

 

"Who do you suspect?"

 

"Jameson Taeros."

 

Roen stared at Gharen wordlessly, her lips parted. It took a moment before she was able to gather her thoughts. "No wonder you have kept a watch on him then. I knew he was in Ishgard. I had learned of it from Edda, when they were still engaged. But... as far as I know, he had disappeared again without a trace." She narrowed her eyes, her thoughts jumping from one thing to another. "They had known each other for a long time, Taeros and Banurein.”

 

"Could nae tell ye anythin about how he got there. But when yer thrown in an underground cell te sweat it out under th' desert, ye tend te remember faces.” Gharen tapped a finger against his temple. “I will say I was pleased te see him jump like a fish out o' water when we tried te wake him ourselves."

 

Delial gave a slow shake of her head. “He was plugged into these... machines. The cave collapsed while we were trying to get out, else we could show you."

 

Roen frowned. "I wonder if she was experimenting on him as well,” she thought out loud. “When did the cave collapse?"

 

"Over a moon ago now, I think. I know not if you have scouted it again.” Delial glanced to Gharen, "But I know I have not bothered myself."

 

"Th' tunnel we took out remains. But I've nae entered again lest there be more surprises waitin' te bury us in th' mountain.”

 

"Then that was not the underground laboratory that I found.” Roen sighed. “There must be multiple facilities. There was another lab that we came across, this one under the Pillars. I am certain that the one we found also is no longer used, our presence there must have been discovered by now." She glanced between Delial and Gharen. "I believe she has made some influential connections within Ishgard. She worked for a cult under the guise of an alchemist. I believe she promised them unnatural results."

 

"I am of the mind she knew of us well before we arrived.” Delial muttered. “Tengri's promise was hollow. It would not be so simple.” She turned her amber gaze toward Roen. "Unnatural results? Of what sort?"

 

“There was a group I was looking into in Ishgard. They had looked to sever their blood heritage with the dragons.” Roen reflexively looked about even though they were only surrounded by ice. “We found some evidence of experimentations that were being done with the Elezens, the Au Ra, the dragonkin… and some ancient artifact." Her gaze darted between Delial and Gharen. “I suspected Banurein to work for them, because I found evidence of both research into the Void and the use of magitek by this group as well. And I know that they hired an outside alchemist for the job.”

 

"It would not be much of a leap, no. Not for someone like her,” Delial growled.

 

“Blood heritage... with dragons?" Gharen scratched his head, clear confusion in his eyes.

 

Roen nodded. "Aye, I am not too familiar with the intricacies of Ishgard's ties with dragons, but historically, through blood of the Knights Twelve, the Elezens of Ishgard carry some trace of dragonblood in their veins. And there are zealots who wished to purge themselves of this influence. They would go through any means to do so.” She paused with an exhale. “I think Banurein may have promised them such results. Although as I understand it, she was only a new addition to their plans. But they had much resources she could have drawn from."

 

Delial squinted, looking puzzled. "Perhaps... what was being done to Taeros -- or whomever that is -- was but a test? I could not even begin to guess what it was meant to do. Perhaps something else entirely."

 

Gharen shook his head. "Tha' woman is like an insect ye cannae swat."

 

"Reeves.” Roen tapped her chin, recalling all that she had discovered in that lab. “That is the name she goes by in Ishgard, I believe." She gave Gharen a sidelong glance. "She may have lasted this long, but now we know the people she has allied herself to outside of Garlemald. And if what you say is true, you also have Taeros." She canted her head. “Do you think she will come for him?"

 

"It is a distinct possibility she already knows o' where he is. An' will come when she requires him."

 

"She has not yet.” Delial shook her head. “If she has been searching for him, surely she would know of a tube-riddled man brought out here. Hardly the sort of case one comes upon often I should think," she grumbled with another shake of her head. "Though I wonder now of Ishgard. If there are others undergoing such treatments?"

 

"I know not, only that there have been bodies that were found on the landscape.” Roen’s voice turned grim. “But none that seemed... experimented on. Only murdered in some ritualistic fashion."

 

“Well,” Gharen said dryly. “It sounds like somethin' right up her alley."

 

Delial hugged her arms a little more closely about herself, settling into a deep frown. "She knows us, of course. And I would wonder if there are those who still remember us -- or me, I suppose, from our last blunder in the Brume. To be frank, I care little enough for Ishgard. Taeros can rot, and I would not care. But if she has my brother yet -- I must know. I care for nothing else."

 

"Of course,” Roen nodded, her eyes lingering on Delial. She has been in her shoes before, so long ago. How strange now that the tables have turned. “I will make my way back to the city and see what I can find. For what it is worth, I have not heard of any Highlanders being found, hurt or otherwise. At least none that fits Harvard's description."

 

"What if we used Taeros as a bargaining chip?” Gharen crossed his arms. “We certainly have nae love fer th' man."

 

Roen gave Gharen a strange look, then stared at nothing particular beyond him. Something within her did not quite like that idea. But she could not say why. "Aye. Perhaps."

 

Delial offered a small nod, her gaze also not quite on either of the siblings. "Anything at all," she muttered. "I would wonder of Taeros' value if she has failed to seek him yet. Unless she is waiting for something."

 

"I know not of her madness,” Roen murmured.

 

“I think it’s worth it.” Gharen nodded in agreement. “She's hauled his fat out o' th' fire before."

 

Delial snorted softly, clearly lacking optimism for the idea. "If it pleases her, I could dress him up in bows, place some color back upon his cheeks. Whatever I must, I will do."

 

"I would rather see her no longer with the world of the living, but..." Roen set her jaw and stared intently at the Highlander woman. "Your brother first."

 

"Well, it is one more idea than we had previously. An a possibility o' gettin' yer brother back, regardless how slim."

 

"Of course. Of course." Delial nodded as she raised her eye to flit between Gharen and Roen. "As ever, you have my gratitude. Both of you. I think I would have gone restless and mad long ago without you."

 

Roen snorted quietly with a small smile, in an effort to reassure the woman. "There are suns, where I still find our circumstances remarkable. It is as if we have come to a full circle."

 

"I have never much cared for the Weaver," Delial muttered. "But at least I can expect I shall not be delivered a bloodied box."

 

That brought an oddly shocked look from the paladin. Just when she thought she understood the woman, Delial would prove her wrong. There was a pause before she spoke again. "Alright. I should get going then. Sooner we know where this Reeves is, sooner we can get your brother back."

 

Delial gave a nod to Roen, a bit more deeply than usual -- quiet and perhaps even a humbled sort of gratitude.

 

"O'course, need te be gettin' in touch with Osric eventually te continue my trainin,” Gharen nodded. “An' th' whole cliff thing had te do with openin' what th' monks call Chakras. Would have been much worse if'n mine had nae been opened before hand."

 

Roen slowly narrowed her eyes at her brother, in scrutiny. "Well, if he throws you off another cliff as the training goes on... I will be very vexed."

 

"I can't expect he would do it twice," Delial added, a note of finality in her voice.

 

Her brother grinned. “Why do ye think I let th' two of ye in on it? Best form o' revenge short o' directly returnin' th' favor."

 

Roen exhaled slowly, but the furrow to her brow eased, just a little. "Well, good. I think." She fell quiet for a moment, just taking some measure of comfort in their familiar presence. "Well, I shall be off. I will send word when I have something to report."

 

"If there is any way I -- we can help you... do not hesitate.” Delial took a step forward. “We will be near."

 

"Aye, we're at th' inn in Dragonhead.” Gharen thumbed over his shoulder eastward. “Already caught Kiht passin' through nae long ago."

 

An amused grin curled Roen’s lips. “Perhaps she is still keeping an eye on you, in her own way."

 

Gharen smiled back. "I don' mind. She is a good ally te have on our side."

 

She was about to turn when one other thought crossed her mind. “Does… Ser Crofte know? Or Edda? Anyone? About Taeros?”

 

"I've nae seen Crofte in... well I'm nae sure how long more'n a cycle I think?" Her brother shook his head.

 

"I have told no one,” Delial said flatly. “I did not think that it could be him."

 

“Hm.” Roen hummed in thought. “No matter. It is entirely possible he will never regain consciousness from what you have said. Perhaps waiting is best.” She nodded to them both one more time before turning and making her way toward the road with haste. There was still much to be done, before the leads they had disappeared like tracks in the snow.

[cuideag]

Before.

 

She waited exactly one sun before she took the aetheryte shard. Crystal blue melted, faded into silken, crystalline everything, and when her feet finally found solid ground again she swallowed hard against the disorientation and the near overwhelming nausea that rose with it. To say it was silent could not be true: the dust-tinged sky of Thanalan was replaced with metal walls and ceilings and artificial light. Around her, everything hummed. Castrum, Delial reminded herself, anchoring herself to the word while the rest of her wound her senses around it. Banurein. Then, sourly, Wolfsong.

 

Someone nearby cleared their throat. Raising her eyes from the fading pale blue halo at her feet, she regarded her attendant: a woman of precise shapes and crisp edges, not a guard though Delial noted a slim weapon at her hip. She said nothing at all but her lips pursed and pale eyes looked away the moment she recognized she had their guest's attention. The rest of her followed, spinning not a degree too far or too short, and she marched without so much as looking to see if Grimsong was following. It was expected for she was expected and Delial allowed herself the time to take quick deep breaths, one, two, before she took pace behind her.

 

The halls wound and coiled into themselves, a blur of grey tubing and hard light. Long wires, sometimes in bundles thick as limbs, bounced between round nodes pierced by thin tube-like projections. They walked beneath several before she could confirm that they followed their movements, whirring in sockets, tiny red lights flashing back to a gentler white only when they passed. There were doors and pipes and things she assumed were engines, lit in hard patterns and lines; sometimes there were windows and sometimes they were barred. The one time she veered towards one to try and take a look, her guide gave her boots a particularly sharp click and Delial grudgingly fell back onto the path the woman was setting for her, unobtrusive and safe dead center through the halls. If something had scratched at the other side of that door, then Delial would never know.

 

Eventually one side of the hall was overtaken by broad double doors flanked by two proper guards. They may as well have been statues for they did not move nor utter a word as the guide-woman punched some pattern into a panel beside one of them. Several turret nodes ringed the ceiling there before the doors, perpetually blinking warning red at them. The doors hissed open much more smoothly than Delial would have expected given their size, spilling a pool of softer light into the unending hall. Again the guide spun, this time to face the Highlander with a wordless and near expressionless stare. Her lips remained pursed, haughty and disapproving, impatient for Grimsong to pick upon meaning without speaking a word. The door yawned wide and beckoning. Repaying silence with silence, Delial turned and stepped through. Then behind her, the doors hissed shut, gouts of steam erupting from vented pipes on either side.

 

This new room was even wider than its doors and its high ceiling, covered again with ropes and bundles of wires and broad tubes and pipes, was speckled with spotlights instead of turrets. Only a few were lit, casting broad circles on the sterile grey floor. The biggest and brightest of them was in the center of the room, where a woman in blue stood beside a table and a metal cart. As Delial strode closer, she could make out tubes and jars, trays of shining instruments, vacuous crystals and books etched with pulsing glyphs. Upon the table, a man.

 

"Miss Grimsong." Raelisanne Banurein spared little courtesy. She did not speak loudly but the chamber carried her voice clear as a bell. "You decided to join us. Good."

 

Wolfsong appeared unconscious though he breathed hard and harsh against the chains that bound him. It was not difficult to spy the black, otherworldly things that were introduced to him in the house where he had been held captive back in Vesper Bay. Nor was it difficult to note the beginnings of new scars, thin but laced with residue, glistening in oily shades of black and indigo. Beneath closed lids, his eyes rolled wild.

 

Banurein did not wait for Delial to respond. "You brought your weapon, I trust. We have a great deal of work ahead of us." Then, at last, the pale woman's head turned and hard eyes settled upon her guest. "Can you do it?"

 

Delial took a breath to speak but something twisted inside her, a momentary vertigo rising through her alongside a memory: a voice, vast and dry as wind through dying leaves, spoken by a woman who wore shadows defiant of the firelight in her hall. Hands upon her own, heavy and too large, too long, cutting shapes across her skin like ink as a cold shape was pressed into her palm. Quick, easy. Everything has it's cost and it all begins with a cut. My little dove, she sang, and Delial remembered the shine of teeth beneath shaded veils. Can you do it?

 

She heard, muffled, Banurein with an edge of impatience drawing her cold tone even colder. "Yes or no will do." But as Delial gathered herself she felt the blade already in her hand, a cold and solid comfort reminding her of her task, of the resolve she had cut out of better men than traitorous Wolfsong.

 

“Yes,” she said, more hoarse than she would have liked; the stale air of the Castrum dried her throat, she insisted inwardly, stole away the strength in her voice. On the table, Wolfsong writhed against the terrors in his blood.

 

“Good,” said Banurein, though there was no hint of pleasure in the word. The scientist turned her attention back to her subject and then to her instruments, running her fingers over them as she considered her choices. Beneath her fingers, the vials pulsed an impossible violet light, staining her otherwise pristine robes. “Come. Show me what you can do. What we can do,” she said, and for the barest instant Delial thought she saw the other woman was grinning. “Together.”

 

---

 

On the quiet days they permitted her entry, alone that their patient not be disturbed, and never with her weapon once they identified the burns. It was a mystery to her why she even bothered. He was as much a corpse to the world as he was the sun they found him. After the first few visits, she gave up on talking.

 

Delial was certain they had explained it to her once: his condition, their thoughts and theories on the what’s and why’s, but it had all gone right over her head. Just as she could glean nothing from their words, they could gain nothing from her. That they hadn’t turned her and Wolfsong in on the spot had been miraculous in itself, but there was nearly nothing they could explain of the man they’d brought or why someone had embedded tubes into his flesh.

 

It was Banurein’s work, of that there was no doubt. But what was it? What was it meant to do? Why Taeros, and not...

 

Her heart had fallen when they found him, secreted away in an already secret place. The last thing she had expected to find was a man that looked suspiciously like Jameson Taeros. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her until Gharen made mention of it, and some small part of her wondered if it was guilt that drew her to his bedside. It was not her brother hidden in that room and so it may as well have been a stranger. It was not him and so he did not matter.

 

Except he did. Clearly, he did - Taeros always mattered to someone, somewhere and in her silent vigil Delial resented him for it. In her loathing, her thoughts wandered to Crofte and Lady Eglantine, and what they would think of his state. Enjoy your pickled man, something had said in that room and Delial hadn’t given it much thought.

 

“At least someone,” she said aloud, “Is having a worse time than me.”

[Roen]

“Well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Jameson Taeros.”

 

Shaelen Stormchild poked a finger at the tubings that protruded out of the man’s ribcage. She tilted her head this way and that, then crossed her arms. “I would’a never guessed this was the same man that made the headlines in Ul’dah a few years ago.” The Highlander woman cocked a brow. “Someone’s sure done a number on him.”

 

Roen stood on the other side of the unconscious man, giving a nod of reassurance to the physician on who hovered at the doorway. He was lingering, giving a suspicious eye to the Highlander woman who wore a large gun upon her back. While Roen had assured the physician that Shaelen intended the patient no harm, it was obvious his attention was drawn to the metal packs that hung from the Highlander, that flashed and glowed with magitek gadgetry. The man bowed reluctantly, and with a disapproving frown, before he exited the room.

 

“So, can you help him?” Roen glanced back to Shael.

 

The Highlander snorted loudly. “Hells no! I can tell you how to rewire an aether drive or hotwire a magitek engine, but this…” She made a face as her eyes skipped from one duct to another that coiled in and out of the man’s body. “I can say that these look like conduits of some sort. Not sure what is flowing within, but I suspect his body is dependent upon it somehow, since it hasn’t killed him yet. Maybe… it’s like a new fuel pipe of some sort? I haven’t the slightest clue without actually opening him up, but that might kill him.” When the paladin gave him a look of dismay, Shael held up both her hands. “But…! I’ve thrown out a few hooks out to some experts I know, to see who bites. Shooey should be getting back to me soon.”

 

“Oh!” Roen arched both her eyebrows. She bent down into her pack, and withdrew a thin polished metal tablet. She extended it to the smuggler. “Would this help?”

 

“Oh ho ho!” Shael’s eyes lit up as she eagerly snatched the magitek pad. Her fingers deftly began to work on its surface, and the tablet responded with illumination. The smuggler smiled gleefully. “This will work. Oh definitely.”

 

Roen sighed with relief, lowering herself into a seat next to the unconscious patient. “The physicians have done what they could here to keep him alive, but they know not what to do with the magitek.”

 

“I am not surprised,” Shaelen did not look up, her face buried in the tablet. “This is some intricate stuff.”

 

Roen regarded the woman for a moment, but as she seemed to be completely engrossed in whatever information she was gleaning off the screen, Roen turned her attention back to Taeros. The man in front of her looked nothing like the proud noble she once knew; his cheeks were sunken in and his dark hair was a matted mess. Someone had shaved his grizzled beard, but that had only highlighted the pallor and gaunt features underneath. How long has he been this way? And why? She had always thought that he was an ally of Banurein.

 

“I still don’ get why you even want to help him, Red.” The smuggler looked up, giving her an odd look. “Wasn’t he the one that got you dismissed from the Sultansworns, then threw you in a dungeon when you were with Lazarov? It’s people like him that you were trying to bring down. Now you want to save his life?”

 

Silence was the only answer that Roen could give. She was not sure why she wanted to do this. Was it because he had confessed his love for her mother once? Or that he had told her that he had actually intended then failed to protect her? Even when she had that one opportunity with a blade drawn against the the man’s neck, Roen had spared his life. She was not quite sure why she couldn’t kill him then either. But she knew one thing for certain. Trading him like a simple bag of grain, back to the woman who was responsible for his dire state in the first place, just felt wrong.

 

“There is still so much we do not know,” Roen murmured. “Perhaps he could answer so many more questions.”

 

“Huh,” Shael huffed, setting the tablet down on the bed next to Taeros’ head. She folded her arms and propped her elbows onto the mattress, bringing her gaze to Roen’s level. She stared straight at her. “This is just like the last time. With the Kinslayer’s brother. You couldn’t honestly go through with the exchange then either. Even after everything, you still haven’t changed.” She snorted. “Still soft.”

 

Roen frowned and stood, pushing off the bed. “That plan worked, did it not? Delial agreed to the exchange: Gharen for Harvard.” She spun and paced to the window. She absently rubbed at her neck at the memory that rose, of the fury she remembered in Qaeli’s eyes, when she found out that Roen had released Harvard, even before the exchange had taken place. Back then, she was not willing to risk Qaeli delivering on her promise of taking Harvard’s life if the trade had not gone as planned. No matter what the circumstances, Harvard had been innocent.

 

“Yeah, we got lucky I guess.” Shael shrugged and returned her attention to the magitek pad. “Be glad your brother didn’t come back in a box.”

 

There was a tinge of bitterness in the smuggler’s words that Roen could not ignore. Shael had never forgiven Delial’s murder of Aylard Greyarm. And why should she? Roen had come to realize that Shaelen had deep loyalties to Greyarm. Had Delial returned Gharen in the same gruesome manner… how would have things turned out?

 

The thought sent a wave of nausea through Roen and she quickly shook her head to disperse the mental images that rose. That was not who Delial was now; the woman had been slowly trying to atone for all that she had done. But Roen knew that Shaelen would be the last person on Eorzea that would be convinced of it. Besides, this was not the time nor the place.

 

Roen looked to the courtyard to make certain that there were no signs of either Delial nor Gharen. She knew that it was very possible that things could turn violent should the two Highlander women cross paths. Shaelen had also voiced on more than one occasion of her disappointment with Gharen, in siding with the Kinslayer. So Roen conveniently decided to omit the detail of their involvement in rescuing Taeros. It was a risky venture in not telling either side of the other, but if Shael could wake Taeros, Roen believed it would be worth it.

 

“Shael, you’re brilliant,” Shaelen told herself with a beaming smile as she tapped decisively onto the glimmering screen. Her artificially lit face then looked to Roen, expectantly. “Red, say I’m brilliant.”

 

“You are... brilliant?” Roen stepped away from the window, approaching the bed. She wanted to sound hopeful but her tone came off more skeptical. It was met with a disappointed half-lidded glare.

 

“Someday, someone’s gotta teach you how to be a more convincing liar.” The smuggler shook her head, but quickly her elation returned. “I think I have an idea on how to fix him.”

 

Roen immediately brightened. “Can you do it?”

 

“Well, it’s a longshot.” Shaelen gave her a toothy smile. “But I’m willing to bet his life on it.”

[Roen]

“What do you mean he is gone?”

 

Roen stared eyes wide at the empty bed in the small stone walled room. No matter how hard she glared at it, it remained vacant. The man that used to lay there, with tubes protruding out of his chest… was simply no longer there.

 

Shaelen gave a helpless shrug. “He stood up, swayed, and then stumbled out.” She was leaning back on a wooden chair, precariously balanced on its two hind legs, her feet crossed at the ankles atop the table in front of her. She looked as relaxed as one could be given the fact that she had just lost her patient.

 

That exasperated Roen even further. “And you did not think… to stop him?”

 

Shaelen lowered her head, her eyes looking over the red shades that rested upon the bridge of her nose. She arched one eyebrow. “What was I supposed to do? Knock him out? Tie him up? He wasn’t my prisoner. You just brought me here to make sure he woke up. Well, he woke up and wanted to leave.”

 

The smuggler was met with a look of dismay. “Certainly he was not in any condition to...?”

 

Shaelen rolled her shoulders again. “I have to give him some credit. The man is one tenacious bastard. Once he made up his mind to leave, nothing was going to stop him. Unless… you know, I knocked him out unconscious. Which I did consider! But…”

 

Roen threw both hands up in the air, incredulous. “But…?”

 

Shael uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, almost strangely casual... before saying, “He offered me a lot money.” She immediately bolted to her feet and held her hands up before Roen could reply. It may have been the heat Roen felt rising in her cheeks, or the rolling indignation that was twisting her face that prompted the smuggler to do so. “Now now, Ro, before you unsheath that sword or something crazy, let me explain!”

 

Roen breathed once in, and once out. She somehow forced her voice to calm. “Explain.”

 

Shael’s blue-grey eyes darted from the paladin’s face to her sword hand and weapon then back to her face. She parted her lips in a toothy smile, one that seemed to only vaguely hint at an apology. “He woke up and started asking a lot of questions. Where he was, who I was, and so on and so forth. I told him he was in a safe house and mentioned how you called on me to help him, and he seemed to calm a little. But he seemed set on leaving, saying that if he didn’t, his life was good as forfeit. I said you had a lot of questions for him, and likely didn’t mean him any harm. I mean, he would have died otherwise. He owed you, you know?” She sat back down, this time onto the bed. Her hand went to the tablet that laid upon it. “But he said either I stop him physically or that he will be on his way.”

 

“I would have preferred that you stopped him physically.” Roen crossed her arms, her expression stern.

 

“I know!” Shael chimed back eagerly. “I considered it! But…I have a feel for these things. And while I could have forced him to stay since he wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a fight, he was likely going to be a lot less cooperative if we went there. So… I waited until he offered me a sizeable incentive, and said I’d release him on one condition.”

 

“And what was that?”

 

Shaelen scooped up the tablet and held it out for Roen. “He left you something. A message. Okay, a long message. I told him to record a confession, telling you everything you might want to know. He seemed to know what you wanted from him, but still he went on to say more.”

 

Roen took the tablet in her hand, the screen lighting up as she activated it. She glanced from it to the Highlander seated on the bed. “You read it?”

 

Shael made a face and snorted. “Of course! I had to be sure it was worth letting him go. I read it after he left, but I could have tracked him down if I needed to.”

 

Roen felt some of her anger starting to fade, although her disappointment still lingered. “You better hope he left me what I needed to know,” she grumbled.

 

Shael crossed her legs, leaning back against the bed with both her hands splayed on the mattress. She shrugged, smiling coyly. “Or what, we’re no longer friends?” There was a cocky smirk to her lips as if she already knew the answer.

 

That only made Roen roll her eyes although she really had no appropriate retort for that. For as long as she has known the woman, the Highlander was impulsive and brash, with a streak of recklessness. It reminded her of another smuggler, and a part of her wondered if all pirates were this way. Or why she found herself always getting involved with these types of personalities. Roen quickly shook her head free of such silly questions and furrowed her brows. She still had not told Shael about Delial and Gharen’s involvement. With Taeros now gone to the winds, perhaps the encounter between them did not need to happen after all. She recalled the displeasure on Delial’s face when she informed her of Stormchild’s part in awakening Taeros. But for the sake of finding Harvard, Delial had agreed to a form of truce, or at least to not incite violence first should she and Shaelen ever cross paths. But now with circumstances being what they were, was it even necessary?

 

“Gharen told me he held you at knife point once,” Roen heard herself blurting out even before she knew it. “And went back on a deal he made to turn Delial over by having the Brass Blades arrest you.” Even now, she found those revelations unfathomable. When had Gharen and Shael’s relationship soured so?

 

Shael flicked her an odd look, some mirth fading from her face. “Why do you still come to my aid?” Roen asked as she regarded the smuggler, her question sincere.

 

The Highlander squinted her eyes, her lips pursed in thought. “Your brother did break his promise,” she said blandly. “But I knew he was bluffing when he held that knife to my back. As for turning me into the Brass Blades…” the smuggler snorted out a laughter. “Come on! If I couldn’t get out of some trouble with the Brass Blades, you’d think I’d still be in the business I’m in?”

 

When Roen continued to study her looking somewhat perplexed, Shaelen sighed and shrugged. “In my line of work, you can’t hold minor grudges for too long. Else you run out of people to do business with. If they didn’t do you any real wrong, then you need to move on and do what you need to do to keep afloat. Don’t mean I will ever trust your brother though.

 

“You, on the other hand…” Shaelen cocked her head, giving Roen a long look over. “You’re easy to read and you wear your heart on your sleeve. I can see you coming from a malm away.” She shook a finger at her. “And well, as I recall, I am the one that knocked you upside the head first… and here you are still talking to me. What does that say?”

 

Roen chewed her lower lip with some hesitation before she took a seat next to the smuggler. “So, you do not hold me accountable for what happened to Aylard?” It was a fear she had always kept deep within, one that she had tucked away and never voiced. But for some reason, she needed to ask now.

 

Shaelen went still, even her breathing seemed to cease for a moment. Her expression darkened. “No, that is all on the Kinslayer.” Her voice suddenly chilled as well as her demeanor. “That kind of wrong you never forgive. Or forget.”

 

If Roen had thought that this was the opportunity to gently broach the subject of Delial’s involvement in all this, Shael’s cold disposition quickly changed her mind. Perhaps this was not the right time either. She looked onto her lap, her fingers absently tapping upon her leg. She did not like keeping secrets from those she considered friends.

 

“Gratitude,” she finally murmured. “For helping me. With Harvard, Mister North, and now Taeros.”

 

Roen had not raised her gaze yet to look upon the Highlander, but when a shining metal object suddenly spun in front of her, she looked up. It was a silver Garlean timepiece. “You should probably have this.” Shaelen said, holding out the relic, the polished metal medallion hanging from a thin chain. “It belonged to Lazarov.”

 

Roen blinked as she carefully cradled the watch in both hands. “How did you…”

 

“He was lousy at cards!” She released the chain to let it fall onto fall into Roen’s hand, then hopped off the bed. “And I drank him under the table. Although he thought he was drinking me under the table. Ha!” When Roen regarded her with a bewildered look, the smuggler scratched her head sheepishly. “It was a long time ago.”

 

Not knowing what to say, Roen returned her attention to the gift in her hand, her eyes combing over its details. This would be something that Nero would have cherished for himself. He did always love clockwork gadgets, and this was Garlean, no less. From the corner of her eyes, she could see Shael striding to the table, picking up her equipment and gun that laid there. The Highlander swung it over her shoulder and set the weapon to rest against her back, before looking at the paladin again. Roen was still at loss for words.

 

Rather than offering one of her usual wisecracks, Shaelen just gave her a nod, her smirk curling into a softer expression. “He wasn’t all bad.” To that, Roen just smiled.

 

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone with Taero’s latest diary entry. Enjoy!” The smuggler gave the air a vague salute before striding out the door.