bright moons and warm sands

Winter woodlands gradually thin to alpine grasslands suffocated by last night’s snow. Every inch of this land seemed to be covered in snow, she thinks bitterly. The fleeting hope of warmth provided by the sun dashed by impenetrable clouds of gray. Stoic mountains keep vigil on all sides, rocky peaks cutting into the cloudbank. The scenery goes unnoticed by Sori driven forward only by her desire for heat.

It is early evening when a settlement comes into view, roughly twenty structures in total. It is a farming town by the looks of it. A family of Nord workers, a pair of parents and their teen daughter, tend to the fields near a weathered home. Their clothes are worn and stained from heavy daily use, likely the one set of clothes they own, unable to purchase more on a farmer’s wage. Hard work rarely pays well. Regardless, the family appears perfectly content, singing and laughing as they labor away. A glimpse of a life that could have been in another time. Sori refocuses her eyes on the road ahead.

The tavern sits at the end of the street, old and rundown like everything else. Sori makes a beeline for the entrance and the door slams forcefully shut behind her. The dining area is small and clean, aglow from a crackling firepit, but distinctly lacking in patrons. Hurriedly, she removes her gloves and holds out her hands to the fire, watching the flames lap at her fingers. The barkeep, an older Nord man with flecks of gray in his beard, observes her curiously, calling out a word of greeting. Sori approaches the bar once feeling returns to her body, his eyes never straying from the daggers at her side. She scoffs internally. Even here, she is an outsider.

With the last of her coin, she purchases a humble serving of rations, enough to carry her through another day. Though her funds were insufficient to pay for a bed. She makes to leave the tavern, bracing for the blast of frozen air. Sleeping outside without as much as a tent in this weather would be a death sentence. It is dark now, the farmers now huddled inside for dinner and their livestock secured in their stalls. The night grants her the cover to sneak undetected into a barn, the cows ignoring her in favor of fresh hay. She quietly searches around the stalls, pocketing whatever she can find that could be of use. Whatever it takes to survive.

A bale of straw is her sleeping quarters for the night, itchy strands poking and prodding into her skin. She bears the discomfort without complaint. Before dawn’s embrace caresses the fields, she is gone, having made her escape. All before the family notices their ransacked supplies. In and out, without a sound.

The name of the town never did enter her memory, its shoddy structures standing miles behind her now. The pilgrimage continues onward, from small settlement to bustling city, at last arriving until her final destination. The city is easier to navigate. People tend to ask less questions and it is all the easier to slip in within the sea of individuals. Stone archways and buildings surround her as if closing in on all sides, cutting Sori off from the fresh air and mountain peaks. The shadow of patrolling guards is cast upon the streets from the watchtowers above, a deterrent from crime for most people. Good people who rely on the city guard to protect them from the likes of Sori. She dons her hood and turns away from the light, clinging to the shade as her duty decrees. Tonight a woman will die by her hands. It will be neither the first nor the last.

She once more finds herself seated fireside in a tavern. One that is much more full. There is a mood of merriment in the stuffy bar, a mass of patrons partaking in drunken song. In the center of the crowd, the bard strums her lyre in accompaniment to her voice. The bard matches the description of her target, Miranil Faethar. A fine featured high elven woman of golden skin and long pale hair neatly braided down her back. Sori does not ask questions of why her marks are chosen, but her employers were loose-lipped this time. She can recall their sneering lips and cold eyes when they revealed the truth. Before her days as a bard, Miranil was a high ranking officer for the Aldmeri Dominion until she defected, fleeing to the heart of enemy territory for safety. Rather than send one of their own for the deed, Sori was deployed as a conscript. A backhanded threat to uphold her loyalty to the people that had taken everything from her.

The hearth crackles its last breath by the time Miranel exits the bar, instruments strung to her back. Sori counts a minute in her head before rising to her feet. She tosses a clattering of coins for her drink onto the table and leaves in pursuit of her prey. The hunt is on.

Miranil travels at a leisurely pace, humming the tune of a song she performed earlier in the evening, unaware of the danger. Sori lies in wait, a beat behind. Her fingers tighten around the knife bound to her hip, muscles tensing in preparation. The bard makes the fatal error of turning down a less traversed street, one which lacks the precisely placed sconces. Sori is upon her in a mere instant, a flash of steel in the dark.

Resistance is to be expected from her targets. An instinctive drive to survive. The pair struggle under the twinkling light of the stars. Sori succeeds in landing the first hit, a deep cut between the ribs. Miranil releases a gasp of air in shock and pain and turns wildly to face her assailant. Sori preps her next strike, closing in on Miranil against the brick wall. Her elegant features lack the typical fear present within Sori’s previous targets. She laughs, a strange and frantic sound, just as Sori moves in for the finale. Emerald magic swirls from Miranil’s elongated fingers, the burst of energy hitting Sori squarely in the chest. The effects are immediate, Sori’s body stiffens in place. A paralysis spell.

“About time they sent someone after me. You got ‘e good, but it will take more than that to get rid of me.” A second glow envelops the street, the soft gold of healing magicks emanating around the wound. Sori’s thoughts fire off rapidly for solutions as she strains in vain against the spell’s grip. Though her body is immobile, her face is intact with movement. She swiftly schools her expression into one of neutrality. One must never let your enemies see you sweat.

Miranil approaches Sori, regarding her carefully. “Tell me, what did they promise you in return for my demise, assassin? Riches? Power? Freedom?”

Sori retains her silence even as Miranil’s gaze burns into hers. “Not feeling chatty, then? Allow me to take another guess.”

“They took your family and are holding them as leverage for your compliance. Then ask for you to carry out their dirty work. One misstep or hint of disobedience and it falls back on those you hold most dear. Do I have it right?”

Sori says nothing once more but her answer rings clear.

“Ah, so that’s the way of it, “ Miranil’s expression softens into one of pity. “Look, I left those bastards behind, so can you. Perhaps we can come to an understanding, if you are agreeable. Let me help you.”

The offer is not one without risk, as appealing as it sounds. Sori can still remember a time before her family was forcefully torn apart, when they sat together for meals and sang for hours as they toiled in fields of sugarcane. Their love, now a haunting shadow of the past. The choice is obvious, if there ever was one at all.

The paralysis spell’s hold has weakened with Miranil distracted, Sori can faintly feel her sensation returning. Sori does not hesitate. A spurt of willpower overrides the magic force, her blade piercing through flesh. Miranil chokes and sputters, collapsing to the ground unceremoniously. What life is left fades soon after.

The place hums with energy, a primordial force reverberating within and around her, the intensity increasing the further into the expanse she travels. Their presence attracts the denizens, malicious and benign, confused souls that sense they are distinctly other. This is not a place for the living. They send the spirits on their way with a swift beating, and press on.

Their pilgrimage is not without visits from old friends and foes alike, drawn to the oddity as everything else here. A virtuous knight lending his shield, Garlean soldiers twisted from suffering still fiercely committed to their nation, an Archon wielding a familiar staff, the silhouette of the Antecedent leading them forward once again. The remnants of lives cut short, by her hands or another’s, she wishes each of them well regardless. Their duty is done and they may lay down their arms, comforted by the blissful tides of aether washing away their hurts. The Sea will eventually cleanse them all.

As they descend, movement requires substantially more effort, her limbs strain with each step as if wading through a massive pool of water. Sori can feel a pulse of power at this depth, like a voice calling out from afar, it beckons her closer. The energy pulls at her consciousness much like the Echo, there is no doubt that it belongs to Her.

Gradually, her sense of direction begins to fail as well. What is up or down becomes impossible to distinguish in the mass of pale blue. The Sharlayan architecture looming above has long since left her sight. The crystalline paths are the only solid matter, winding and weaving through the aether, continuing to guide their group to the center. As if sentient, the gaps in the walkways are magically patched with floating crystal debris precisely before they are needed. Sori wonders what would happen if she were to fall off the edge with the bizarre gravity acting upon them, but she dares not test it.

For a long stretch, no souls or unwanted visitors greet them. Only the clatter of footsteps hitting the crystal can be heard, the sound waves distorting strangely in the thickness of aether. The unexpected reprieve sends Sori on edge. She keeps her muscles tense and a hand on her blade, swiveling her ears for any hint of unusual activity.

“Sori, my daughter.”

Sori halts in her tracks, warm blood running cold, her heart thumping erratically. It cannot be, but here, it is. Alisaie bumps into her from the abrupt stop. She recovers, taking a step back, and frowns. Concern is written clearly in her eyes. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Alisaie’s queries fall on deaf ears. Sori brushes past her, driven forward to the voice like a siren’s call.

The spectral form of her mother stands before her, significantly less opaque than the souls she encountered earlier. Despite Alassi’s state, her figure exudes liveliness. Alassi stands strong, clad in the set of well weathered armor she favored in life, her lips curving into a loving smile. Light catches on the silver moon earring on her left ear, identical to the one Sori is wearing. Cropped dark hair is tied back with twin strands falling to frame her face. The deep red of her eyes shimmers brightly, her hands resting comfortably on her hips. She exists as if lifted from Sori’s memory.

Sori stops short from her, partly afraid if she gets too close that the image of her mother will fade. And partly because the barbed point of guilt plunges into her abdomen, preventing her from stepping forward. She is the reason her mother is here. Sori’s eyes flick downward from her mother’s gaze.

Alassi is unbothered, making up the divide in brisk, smooth steps. Sori’s mind swirls like static, she trembles, but not from cold. Countless nights she has laid awake, envisioning what she would say to her mother if given just one more chance. I am sorry. I love you. Do I make you proud?

Hazy hands reach to grasp Sori’s face, featherlight and tender, stabilizing the harsh buzz of thoughts. Sori tenses under the contact, she is dangerously close to losing her composure. She can feel the hot tears threatening to spill, but not here. Not now. Not when the most important mission of her life hovers overhead.

Alassi is still smiling at her with pure, concentrated, love. Intense and understanding. Her eyes glisten as they fervently roam Sori, absorbing every detail through a mother’s eyes. She stills her wandering eyes, having found whatever it is she sought, her sights landing onto Sori’s face again.

“I raised you to be strong, but I never could have known how strong you would have to be to face what you have seen,” she says gently.

“So you know all that I have done?” Long, brutal days in Ul’dah, a dishonest thief, but only of necessity. A humble adventurer, lending aid to those in need in exchange for a spare gil. Minfilia, kindly offering her rank among the Scions. Ifrit, bathing her in a mirage of fire.

Battle and sorrow and heartbreak and love and friendship and all the quiet in between.

A Warrior of Light.

Was this life worth choosing over her own?

“Yes, I know your journey. What you have gained and lost.”

“I see,” Sori pauses. “Do you regret your choice?”

Alassi’s face falls, brows knitting together. “Regret..?” Understanding ripples over, collecting into a hardened look. “I have no regrets, daughter. But I sense you do.” She narrows her eyes, voice sharp as Sori’s blades.

“You bear guilt for my death. Why?” Alassi tilts her head, as if she cannot comprehend how such a thing could be true.

Sori tightens her jaw. Was it not glaringly obvious? Irritation bubbles under her skin.

“I left you behind, everyone behind. I saved my own skin when I could have stayed and fought. It is not like I did not know how. Perhaps then…you would have lived.” She’s replayed the scene a million times, a thousand ways. In the only reality that mattered, she was a coward.

Alassi’s grip on Sori’s face intensifies, she rubs soothing circles into her cheeks, unwinding the years of hurt underneath. “So that is the way of it,” she whispers with a sad smile. “You must not carry this burden any longer. You know as well as I, if you had stayed, you would have perished and I could not allow that. If you must hold blame for what happened, blame me, who ordered you to run. But for you, my daughter, I would suffer the same fate again and again, if it meant you would live.”

Streaks of wet stain Sori’s cheeks without permission to fall. Alassi wipes them away wordlessly.

“I..I am sorry..I..” Sori trails off, tears blur her vision. She repeats the broken sentence. “I am sorry.” For what she is apologizing for, she does not know. For being alive? For feeling guilty? For crying? Alassi crushes her into an embrace, steady and strong.

“Shh, shh, never be sorry to me.” She cards her fingers through Sori’s hair. “Let it out…it’s alright…” The tears fall in earnest now. She collapses into her mother’s arms, her body falling limp until Alassi, only two ilms taller, is forced to hold up their combined weight.

She is not the Warrior of Light or a Scion or even Sori , but a child, a daughter, desperately needing her mother.

“Oh, my cub…how could I not protect you? I love you.” Three little words. A simple phrase said every day. Between parents and children, friends and lovers. But it is a string of words that is foreign to Alassi’s lips, and Sori is undone.

How long has she waited to hear her mother say those precious words?

Sori stifles her cries and murmurs, the hurt fresh even after all this time, “Was it as hard to utter those words as you made it seem? Did I not earn your declaration of love while you still lived?”

Alassi’s reply comes thick with grief. “I have never claimed myself perfect. I wanted to make you independent—capable of facing anything the world threw at you. I did not wish to coddle, so I held my tongue, letting my actions speak of my love in place of words. I did not foresee the pain it would bring. And I am so deeply sorry. I love you, Sori. I always have and always will.”

There is naught else to be said. “I love you too, mother.” She clings to Alassi, who is not warm as a living body would be, but it is enough for Sori to feel her mother’s love, fleeting as it may be.

A selfish part of her wishes she could stay here, trapped in this moment. Here with her mother, where the Final Days will never come.

Alas, Sori has never chosen the easy path and she will not do so now. As her mother taught her, she will push forward with a keen mind and an iron will.

Painstakingly, Sori releases her hold of Alassi. Her eyes are dried and she feels grounded though her feet are not on earth.

“Don’t let me keep you. You did not travel all this way for me. Go on, do what you came here to do.” Alassi reaches to brush the strands of hair off her forehead. She presses a soft kiss upon the exposed skin. “No words can express the depths of my pride. Walk forward, and know I will always be with you, my blessing.”

The form of Alassi dissipates in a glittering of bright light. Sori watches the aether fade into the air with a final smile. Her mother is gone, but not truly. Not really. She exists within Sori’s laugh, within every swing of her daggers, in the moon and the stars.

A hand, firm and comforting, touches her back—Thancred. Sori at last tracks her eyes away from the space her mother occupied. She had forgotten she was not alone. She breathes deeply, turning to confront her companions.

Alisaie appears as though she wants to speak, but Sori cuts her off before she can. “Come, let us not delay further.” Sori strides forward, chin held high, a sure footed determination to her steps.