tired™

It’s strange. A few years ago, her first meeting with Ardbert was one of contention. She was prepared to cut him down, and vice versa. Her in self-defense, and him out of desperation for his dying world.

Now they’re alone in the figment of Amaurot. Everlasting evening down in the depths of the Tempest. Quiet melancholy along the streets as the shades of the Ancients loop their final moments, none the wiser to their circumstances of being.

And here she is, dreading the possibility of what’s to come. The proposed last resort neither one of them actually says aloud. But they’re fragments of the same soul—of she who once called Amaurot her home. How can they not come to the same conclusion?

He tells her not to cry, for any intense emotion risks tipping her over the precipice. They can’t afford for the light to consume her. Not now. Not when they’re so close to ridding the Source and its shards of a menace, once and for all. Him and his delusions of bygone days under halcyon skies. 

Him and his stubborn perspective that their lives, and all of sundered existence, are and were always worth less than his memories.

Memories are all she will have of Ardbert should worse come to worst. He is her friend, and a companion. Someone she never thought would be as dear to her as he became.

He is already dead, is what a rational mind would think. He deserves peace.

But is it truly peace should he simply become a part of her? Potentially lose his consciousness in the process of fusing with her? Is her life truly above his even if they are of the same foundational essence?

The latter is likely what assists her in the aetheric manipulation. Something she experimented once with him after they realized there was a physical connection when they attempted to fist bump. He was solid for but a moment, yet it was enough for her to practice making more of him whole.

Perhaps it’s a mercy now for what’s to come later. A consolation prize that she can make him tangible entirely in this very moment. Only to her, she’s sure, for it takes a lot of her focus to keep him from fading back into his spectral state. But his weight supports her nonetheless as he holds her close. She neither knows the reason, nor asks for it, when he embraces her. She simply trembles in his arms, her hands gripping his back, slipping underneath the shaft of the ax strapped there.

“Not about to let you succumb to this,” he tells her. “You’ve endured too much to let it all be for naught.”

She breathes, and sniffs snot away as she keeps him close. “You have also endured—”

“That I have. ‘Tis why I can’t let you end up like me. Or worse. My time is long over; won’t waste this chance to make sure yours continues.”

She tries excuses. How unfair it’ll be should it come to that. But she knows he makes sense, and being the Warrior of Light has taught her time and time again that the path she’s chosen to walk is paved with sacrifice. Of which caliber greatly varies.

She’s afraid that it will inevitably come to that, for as much as she’s tried to stand on her own two legs, the light within her makes it difficult to tread forward, or to even see clearly. She can’t let down the Scions. Not when they’ve worked so hard for her survival.

Not when the Crystal Exarch—G’raha, actually—spent over a century doing his best to ensure she doesn’t meet a premature end like she did back in his timeline.

Though her tears cease, she still doesn’t let Ardbert go. She jests that her comfort in his presence can be attributed to the fact he’s her literal soulmate. He groans, which makes her smile, for she knows he finds it cheesy and even told her not to say it since they found out a while ago from the shade of an Ancient by the name of Hythlodaeus.

But it isn’t until now that she understands why it bothered him so. 

His embrace alone would’ve been indication enough, though it’s made all the more apparent when the intensity of his gaze and the beating of her heart clouds the realization of their lips meeting until a moment has passed. She refuses to let him go, instead deepening their shared affection. She holds back her sobs, but a tear rolls down her cheek nonetheless.

It truly is cruel for fate to do this to her. To believe she would never find love again after the death of her precious Haurchefant, only to ‘save’ her the repeated sorrow by giving her another who has already long passed. 

She wonders which one is worse. They both break her heart, albeit in different ways.

“In another life—,”she tries to say when they part, “perhaps we could have—”

“Don’t,” he says quietly, holding her face between his hands. His forehead rests against hers. “Not now. Far too late for either of us to lament on ‘maybes’ or ‘what ifs’. It’s—and we’re even the same—we were the same person. Once. How would that even—no, just don’t ponder on it.”

There’s bitterness laced in his smile. His eyes are closed as he shakes his head. “This would happen to us. To… figure out the connection goes beyond quite literally being a fraction of another.”

“Ardbert, I—”

“Please don’t say it,” he says, looking at her.

She swallows hard, a little frustrated with his adamant ignorance. “No, I will, because if things are going to end the way we know they might—that… that they will, at the very least, let me say it so you know that—”

“You don’t need to say it. I know. I know.” He cradles her face again in his hands. “And you know that I know, right? And I hope you know that… that I feel much the same. But it’ll be worse if we speak aloud of it. Moreso for you who will have to live with the memory of what I say were I to do so. No, no I won’t do that to you after the sorrow of your previous loss lingered so long in your heart.”

There’s a part of her that hates how much she agrees with him. But like him, she’s stubborn. He sighs in mild frustration when she opens her mouth to speak, and she wants to smack him for shushing her with yet another kiss. Her anger dissipates quickly, for the last thing they should be doing is arguing over three simple words. They don’t need to be said. Actions always spoke louder. So she kisses him back, and hopes through that, he can hear her heart clearly.

Though Ardbert’s no longer beats, his hold on her and the softness of his lips is enough of an adequate translation.

She grows weary, and her companion once again fades to his spectral state. The palm of their hands face the other, hovering a sliver apart. He smiles at her, and she manages a sad one in return.

“Can’t keep your friends waiting now, can you?”

“No. They’ve been patient long enough.”

“Then let us be about it, hero.”

—

If there is one thing she finds oddly comforting about her experiences on the First, it’s that she can, in fact, die. As formidable as she is, the Warrior of Light is still just a mortal. The illuminated aether she’s absorbed from Wardens overwhelms her after navigating the frightfully hazardous recreation of the Final Days in Amaurot. She only vaguely recollects the valiant last stand of the Scions. Everything is growing white, and all she can hear at this point is the cracking of glass.

Her legs give out, and she falls.

When she comes to, it’s a blank void. Bright and enduring. She is alone until she notices the other figure in her peripheral vision.

Ardbert is there staring ahead. His posture is impeccable, and his fists are rigid at his sides. Looking at him from profile, she can see why Lamitt was once so taken with him by appearance alone. She wishes to cup his cheek, perhaps feel the prickle of the coarse hair on his chin. But he speaks before her thoughts betray her further.

“If you had the strength to take another step, could you do it?”

He still focuses forward, brow furrowed in what she can only describe as determination. The same as when he was prepared to cut her down, believing the farce the Ascians fed to a guilt-ridden man. There is retribution to be had, and she will gladly help him achieve it.

“Could you save our worlds?”

“What,” she tries lightly with a smile, “all by myself?”

Ardbert looks at her way and huffs out half a laugh.

Her smile falls when he offers his ax to her. Its blade is dulled and crusted with blood along the edge, but it still glimmers in the everlasting light.

“Take it,” he says. “We fight as one.”

She stares at the weapon, and then up at him. The last resort has come to pass. In hindsight, it was inevitable, yet it saddens her all the same.

“I’m going to miss you,” comes her soft admittance.

His gentle smile is a kindness. “I’ll always be with you.” Ardbert lightly taps the left side of his chest with his other fist. “Right here.”

“That is true,” she says, reaching out for the weapon. “You are, after all, my soulmate.”

“Aye,” he agrees with a shake of his head, though there’s a fondness upon his visage, “that I am.”

It’s a small comfort hearing those words. She takes the ax and the light around her dissolves. Though Ardbert goes with it, she’s able to stand on her own two feet once more. Yet it’s almost as if she’s being lifted by a second pair of arms, a hand along the small of her back and an encouraging squeeze on her shoulder.

A voice not her own speaks. But the warmth in her heart is familiar.

“This world is not yours to end,” they say. “This is our future. Our story.”

She can’t quite hear what Emet-Selch says after the burst of light is gone, but his frustrated shout at seeing the Exarch come to her aid in the eleventh hour is unapologetically satisfying.

There’s a vitality she’s never felt before as she glides through the ensuing final battle. Lighter on her feet, and more force behind her blows. Hades’ large and imposing monstrous form fails in coercing fear and hesitation. Perhaps that is why, upon his defeat, he shrouds their surroundings in darkness, no matter how hard the Scions tried to banish him via auracite.

Bring this chapter to a close, she thinks. Or is it Ardbert speaking to her? Many more adventures lie ahead, but this one is long overdue for a conclusion.

An ax of light forms in her hand and she tosses it forward. When everything grows completely dark, she wonders if it was enough. The sole light from her armament manifestation bursts and narrows, piercing through the weaker will between them.

A promise is made under the dawn sky, atop a decaying memory of that which is no more. To remember that they once lived.

On the edge of the platform, lit by the waking sun, is the ax of light. Firmly planted into the ground, its glittering specks are carried along the breeze until it is no more.

“This could have been avoided.”

“Perhaps. But this is my choice, and I won’t be swayed into another option.”

Dulce sighs. She sits back in the chair, rubbing at her eyes. The tea she’s offered Korrine has gone cold, for she had much to say about her decision to remain behind in Radz-at-Han. While fair and compassionate, the Hyuran woman did not appreciate fibbing. So Korrine told her everything. About the confession to U’mir, and S’imula’s subsequent rage at hearing about it from her faithful husband.

Korrine did her best to hide the bruise on her cheek with cosmetic powder.

Her free company leader glances at her, still sitting back in the chair with her arms crossed. “I’m once again willing to dismiss her from the company.”

“And I already told you why that’d be unwise. Of us all, she’s able to easily adapt to different fighting styles. Besides, if you dismiss her—”

“Yes, yes. We’ll also lose U’mir, loyal husband that he is.” Dulce sighs, looking at her lap. Then she regards Korrine again, brown eyes meeting her rolanberry ones. “Your absence will be felt.”

Smiling weakly, Korrine reasons, “We have more than enough competent healers. And… I shared with S’imula all I know about the art of the dancer—from whatever my own mentor had taught me. Losing me won’t be detrimental. Besides, if the Warrior of Light truly needs one more person to assist him in battle in the future, you’ll know where to find me.”

Dulce is quiet, her stare unwavering. “I’ve failed you as a leader, but I won’t ask forgiveness.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Yes there is. Over time it became clear how S’imula was treating you when her husband’s back was turned—and when the rest of us were none the wiser. I shouldn’t have listened to your past insistences to leave it be, and now look where we are.”

Korrine huffs, dragging the saucer and cup towards her. Though the tea is cold, she drinks it anyway. “No, I wanted you to drop it. Aside from… U’mir’s near fatal injury in the Azim Steppe, our teamwork hasn’t been affected. But for my own personal reasons—the ones I’ve told you before—I need to leave. I can’t… I don’t want to keep living like this.”

“This is truly the only solution you could come up with?”

“It’s the only one with the least amount of consequences.”

Dulce opens the record book sitting beside her on the table. She flips through a few pages. “Very well. But I won’t budge on giving you your fair share of our coffers. You’ll need it if you wish to build a new life for yourself.”

Korrine finishes her sad leaf water, and then says, “Thank you, Dulce.”

“I’ve done nothing of late to warrant your thanks. So instead, I will support your decision. And thank you for all your help in Sol y Luna.”

“It’s been a pleasure, truly.”

Though she doesn’t smile, Dulce doesn’t frown either. She simply nods and gets up from her seat to open the wooden chest tucked under her bed.

—

Supper was going well in the meyhane. Everyone had a full plate of savory Hannish cuisine and laughter spread as cups were refilled to the brim. Korrine was the only quiet one, smiling here and there as she listened to quips or gossip from the others in the company. Wedged between Nieve and Pierrepont, two companions much taller than she. You wouldn’t even know the Auri woman was there had they not been chatting her up.

That is why Itztli isn’t the least bit surprised at the subject of her announcement.

“I won’t be returning to Eorzea with you all.”

All noise is vacuumed into the nether, eyes on her where she stands at the edge of the table. Before anyone can bombard her with questions, she explains her reasoning. Feels like she still has a lot of room to grow, and gil is thinning with every new addition to the company. She likes Raz-at-Han, a beautiful city with its vibrant architecture and delectable dishes. She can learn Hannish alchemical techniques to supplement her healing magic, not to mention this is where her mentor learned the art of the dancer, and thus passed it on to her.

Many more reasons flow easily from her lips. It’d be innocuous had Itztli not been aware of the true cause of her willful resignation.

U’mir looks as if he’s been shot with an arrow as he says, “You’re… leaving?” though Itztli doubts anyone but him hears it. Everyone else is beginning their barrage of questioning and attempts at convincing Korrine to stay. When U’mir receives no answer, he looks to his plate. Slowly his ears begin to fold against his head, and a frown creases his otherwise sunny disposition.

Itztli himself is silent. He’ll get his chance later to confirm his suspicions with Korrine. Right now she’s holding her ground, shaking her head and insisting it isn’t anyone’s fault. She just feels she could be of better use here, there are enough healers in the company, etcetera and etcetera.

“Well if this is truly what you wish to do,” Nieve starts, “then tomorrow we must spend some time together! All of us! I know it’ll be you who is seeing us off, but we don’t know when we’ll meet again! Ooh, Korrine,” the Viera woman holds her close, “why didn’t you say anything sooner?!”

“I’m sorry, Nieve,” she apologizes, returning the hug. “We’ll just have to make the most of tomorrow.”

Everyone starts asking her what she’d like to do. Some offer to treat her to a meal, others wish to browse the markets, a few want to spar—and so on it goes. Nieve begins organizing a list, so Itztli reaches across the table to slip the quill out of Pierrepont’s hand when the Elezen man has finished penning his own activity to do with Korrine.

“Must you be so impatient, Itztli?” he asks with a tired sigh.

“You’re all going to suffocate her with well-wishes and tearful sentiments tomorrow.” The Viera drags the paper over to himself, quickly jotting down his contribution. “Someone needs to offer her a moment of reprieve. Need to volunteer myself for this very thing before anyone else steals my idea.”

U’mir looks at him and asks, “May I have the list next, Itztli?”

S’imula side eyes her husband, partially hidden by her bangs. Itztli grins, handing it over to him. “Sure. Everyone ought to be part of the itinerary. Don’t you think, S’imula?”

Both Miqo’te look over the list. U’mir rubs the quill between two fingers, eyes scanning the page. S’imula frowns when he finds a timeslot, though Itztli has a feeling it’s his small smile she’s discontent with, and not the list itself. That smile of an assured bonding event with a close friend, one who has always been important to him.

“Aww, but Mirmir,” she says, pouting and batting her eyes at him as she places a dainty hand on his arm, “I thought we were going to have one last look around before our departure!”

U’mir blinks at her, an eyebrow quirked. “We’ve sort of done that a lot already, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes of course. But we didn’t get a proper honeymoon,” her voice grows a level louder, “and Thavnair is so lovely!” She leans her head on his shoulder, ear flicking against the side of his face. “Besides, once I’m further along, we won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

Well. That’s definitely a development.

Yeyepahe, one of the company’s marauders, sets his pint of spirits down on the table. “Let’s ‘ave it here, U’mir. Yer takin’ too long.”

Before U’mir can tell him to wait, S’imula slips the paper away from him and slides it to the marauding Lalafell. She then plucks the quill from U’mir’s hand and passes it over to the smaller man beside her.

“I wasn’t done,” he says, frowning.

“Eh, ‘m sure it’ll be passed ‘round again later.” Grunting, he looks over the list and begins to scribble in an empty space. He gives a quick belch before rubbing at his eyes. “And further along with what, S’imula?” Snorting, he adds, “How much ‘further’ can ye get from home? We’re in bloody Thavnair!”

Oh to be that stupid while intoxicated. Itztli can’t relate.

“Imula, we discussed—” U’mir starts, but she’s already standing and clearing her throat before he can finish his sentence.

“Since we’re on the topic of surprising announcements, I have one of my own.” She bounces on her feet, clasping her hands together over her chest. “Mirmir and I are expecting!”

“What?” Nieve shouts. “S’imula, really?! You’re pregnant?!”

She nods, placing a hand over her abdomen. Everyone now shifts their focus to her, several mimicking Nieve’s astonishments with their own questions.

“I know! I just found out the other day.”

“S’imula,” U’mir’s mouth is in a thin line, brows furrowed, “I thought we agreed we’d tell everyone later.”

“Oh but everything is so festive right now! I couldn’t help it!” She pouts at Korrine, sighing. “I’m sorry, Korrine. I know this was a big deal for you to tell us about your stay in Radz-at-Han.” Itztli bets she does. “But you inspired me to share our own new beginnings!”

Her expression is neutral for the first few ticks. Then she smiles, and replies, “It’s okay, S’imula. You’re right that this is a happy occasion for everyone to share their own news. Congratulations,” she then looks at U’mir, “to the both of you.”

It’s odd how sheepish U’mir looks when caught in her line of sight. No, more… guilty? There isn’t embarrassment there. No reddening cheeks, or a sweaty face. He looks away to the table, and then another quick glance up at Korrine before he says, “Thank you. It’s—yeah, we’re really excited about it.”

Are you really?

The conversation tilts in S’imula’s favor, Korrine’s list having been passed around back to its inception. The Miqo’te woman is asked if she’s thought of names yet for her child, do they think it will be a boy or girl, how much longer are they going to stay in the free company because of it—and Korrine once again remains wedged between Nieve and Pierrepont, partially hidden by their arms. 

She looks over the list when it returns to her. Eyes scroll over the page. A quick glance up in U’mir’s direction, though his attention is occupied with answering supplemental questions mostly directed at his wife. Korrine looks at the parchment again and frowns, placing it beside her cup on the table.

Pierrepont asks her something, and she quickly smiles up at him, shaking her head. Whatever it is she says, he doesn’t push her for more. Instead he passes her a platter of confectionaries hidden behind a half-empty bowl of fruit. As she eats a few, he periodically glances at her, frowning once, before offering the parents-to-be some advice on raising a child.

Korrine stares at a random spot beside her plate, slowly munching on the sweets. Eyes unfocused, arms close to her body. Dulce watches her for a good moment before reprimanding Yeyepahe about ordering yet another large pitcher of his spirits. S’imula laughs and tells him to drink enough for her since she won’t be able to again for several moons.

In between her job at Mehryde’s Meyhane and bargaining for furnishings—other than one bed and a chair in her new apartment, Korrine hasn’t had time for much else. Least of all to mull over the reason why she decided to stay in Radz-at-Han instead of continuing her tenure with Sol y Luna, the free company she’s been a part of since she began her journey as an adventurer.

Any chance she had with U’mir is long gone. Being the sweetheart he is, his rejection was gentle. She even helped him, encouraged him to say there was no amorous future for them. It stung hearing she was like a sister to him, but she took solace in that he held her dear regardless. U’mir looked so guilty when she began to cry, with that deep frown and his ears folded back. She knows he would never deliberately upset her, but she hopes her constant reassurances that his rejection was a kindness will help ease his doubts that any of this was his fault.

Drowning herself in “what could have beens” will do her no good at all. Her tears offer no more relief, eyes having long dried since she stood at the pier of Yedlihmad to see the company off on their continued excursion. It’s only when the ship was but a speck along the horizon that she allowed herself to indulge in weeping back in the city of her dusty apartment.

They’ll still be friends, at the very least. A mercy despite her selfish decision to confess to a married man. (Or Hydaelyn’s pity for taking a jab in the face from his irate wife.) In hindsight, she should’ve told him how she felt long ago. Before he married S’imula, and before she discovered she was with their first child.

Korrine does genuinely hope his future with his beloved is a happy one. If they lose touch at some point, well, that’s to be expected, all things considered. She just hopes he’ll at least try to respond to her letters every now and again. But if he stops replying, that’ll be her sign to know she ought to not bother him further.

Whether she’ll ever see U’mir again, the man she once called her best friend—and her first love—only the Twelve know. This distance is necessary. She can’t very well expect anyone to love her if she can’t even love herself. Or even find who she really is away from the one closest to her heart.

That’s why she’s going to make Thavnair her new home. Learn some alchemy to assist in her healing practice, and continue to train in the art of the dancer. Live on her own, without anyone to pick her up should she fall. Start over, because the only way to go is forward.

Yet as she sweeps her sparse apartment, the echoes of her footsteps are too loud.

“Maybe I simply need a respite from cleaning. Perhaps a trip to the markets. I have yet to buy anything for supper.”

The shouts from vendors and bargaining patrons takes her mind off of her woes. The waft of spices prickle at her nose while she munches on a fruit from three stalls before her. She fills her basket with vegetables, meats, and herbs, making a mental note to buy some fabrics the following week to weave herself a new garment. Not wanting her coinpurse to grow too light, she returns to the residential district and climbs the steps to her abode on the second floor of the unit.

It truly does look pathetic with a bed and one chair in the corner of the room. She has a dresser, at least in her imagination. It’s really just her unpacked luggage, but it suits the purpose fine enough. It’ll be a while until she can afford proper apparel storage. Nothing else is in here except for the kitchenette on the opposite end, and a small round table beside the window. 

Setting the basket on the counter, she goes to said window to open the wooden shutters. The apartment comes with a planter some ilms away from the windowsill, although she has yet to plant anything.

This is how she knows a lone flower resting there isn’t one she placed herself.

Korrine glances down, but no one unusual is about. Just an Arkasodara family below her residence having their usual late afternoon snack outside their front door. She glances up, turning around to see if perhaps a bird dropped it, but there isn’t even a nest in sight. And no tree for a flower to fall either.

The flower is small with simple white petals. She picks it up and gives it a sniff. Must be some variant of jasmine from its fragrance.

“Well, I don’t have a vase for this. Can’t have you wilting on me either.” She looks to the counter where the basket is. Going to the markets while meat is just sitting there wouldn’t be wise. “Though I suppose asking my fellow neighbors for some soil won’t take long.”

Her mammoth-adjacent neighbors are more than happy to gift her extra soil for the planter. She fills it nearly to the brim before smoothing it out. The jasmine is planted in the corner and sprinkled with water from a cup.

“There. I hope you can thrive in your new home. Now I better cook that meat before it spoils.”

Over the next few days, she keeps watch of the flower whenever she can. The following week, she finds a new one in the morning. A different bloom entirely, but no less beautiful. She plants it next to the jasmine, hoping their roots won’t compete beneath the soil.

Still no bird’s nest above, so where this second flower came from remains unknown.

The third week is much the same. Another delicate treasure of nature left on her planter. Like the first two, she adds it to her mini garden outside the windowsill and makes sure it’s properly watered before she leaves for work. The pattern persists for two moons, her floral collection steadily growing into a colorful display for passerby to see.

Her coworker Yana, a Miqo’te dancer from the meyhane, takes the greatest interest in this innocuous conundrum.

“And no one knows who is leaving them?”

Korrine shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of.” She takes the brush from the vanity and gently strokes it through her friend’s hair. “I even asked around, and no one has seen anything.”

“You know what that sounds like? A secret admirer!” From the mirror, her eyes sparkle as she addresses her Auri companion. Clasping her hands together, she adds, “How romantic!”

“Now that sounds like you’ve been deep in the bottle,” Korrine replies with half a laugh.

Yana pouts and crosses her arms. “Why is it such an absurd idea for you to have a secret admirer?”

“Because I’m a fixture of a backdrop. Only fellow fixtures would notice me, and they don’t catch others’ attention for a reason. You, however,” Korrine smiles at her from the mirror, smoothing her hair down with a hand after the latest brushstroke, “are the apple of many a man’s eyes.”

“Well I wish sometimes they’d close them entirely.” Korrine laughs at that. “I’m serious! Of course I do like the attention, but not when it’s clear what their goal is in chatting me up after performances.” She hands Korrine an elaborate ribbon which is then promptly secured within her locks.

Rummaging through her jewelry box, Yana pulls out two ruby earrings. She reaches up to clip them on her soft fluffy ears. Korrine meanwhile takes all the loose hair out of the brush and throws it in the rubbish next to the vanity.

After a moment of silence, Yana gently says, “I know you’re still heartbroken over your friend U’mir. But Korrine, you ought to be the apple of someone’s eye too. That’s why I hope, whoever is leaving you those flowers, is doing so with the best of intentions. Don’t you think you deserve that much, at least?”

Korrine adjusts the fabric ties from Yana’s brassiere, making sure it’s secure and comfortable. She knots it neatly, then assists her with the rest of the flowy ensemble. Yana remains silent, and Korrine knows she’s waiting for a response. She takes the decorative bangles from a nearby table and hands them over to the dancer.

“Don’t forget these.”

“Thank you,” she says as she slips them onto her wrists. She looks overself in the vanity mirror, and smoothes out her skirt. “Everything looks excellent; thank you for helping.” She takes Korrine’s hands in her own, staring down at them. Her thumb gently rubs the edge of the ivory keratin pattern along the skin. “Raen scales are so pretty, you know? Like pearls embellished into you, iridescent in the light.”

She only gets a smile in response and a gentle pat over her hands from Korrine. “You’re lovely just as you are, Yana.”

“Oh I know,” she says with a giggle. “But… I want you to remember you are as well.” To her surprise, she’s tugged into an embrace. For as lithe as Yana looks, her grip is firm, and even if Korrine wanted to wiggle away from it, she’d only tire herself out. Instead she returns the gesture.

A hollow memory looms over her. One of a shared hug with S’imula when the woman first joined the free company. They used to be friends, much like this. Until the mutual knowledge that they both harbored feelings for U’mir. And well, they might as well have not been friends at all from how things worsened after that point.

All of this over a man. He is wonderful; I wouldn’t love him were he otherwise, I’m sure. But I’ve lost them both now because of this, and things will never be the same again even were we to meet once more in the future. I wonder, was it truly worth it for her?

“Yana!” The Hyuran dance instructor opens the curtain from the hallway. “Lollygagging again are you? I hope you’re nearly ready because you’ll be on quite soon. Another full house of diners tonight.”

The Miqo’te woman lets go of Korrine to address her mentor. “Yes, yes of course! I shall be there anon!”

“Good. And you,” with a manicured finger, she points to Korrine, “the men’s dressing room needs a bit of tidying up. Go assist them after their performance.”

“Yes, of course.”

She grunts, then says, “I know it’s disheartening doing something so unglamourous as cleaning up after others, but until you can prove you have grace and style fit for this fine establishment’s standards, you won’t find yourself on that stage anytime soon.”

The woman leaves without another word. Yana huffs. “She’s so hard on you. I think your dancing is marvelous.”

“Well I mostly used it for combat, as I’ve said before.” Korrine gathers discarded robes from the armchair nearby. “Trying to adjust to a more performance-oriented style will still take me a while.”

“I believe in you. And I bet you’ll figure out how to turn that vigorous style into an elegant one in no time!”

“Thanks, Yana. That means a lot.”

Her Miqo’te friend gives her another hug before leaving. The crowd’s applause can be heard even from the dressing chambers, and then the music suspends all other noise emanating from the hallways. Korrine finishes organizing Yana’s room before walking over to the men’s quarters some doors down. She spends the rest of the night cleaning their living space and filling in for waitresses in the meyhane.

When she gets home after such a long shift, she flops onto the bed. The worn and dented bronze chakrams hang on a rusted hook Korrine hammered into the wall herself. She hasn’t gotten a lot of practice since settling down in Thavnair, but that’s more of work taking a lot of her time. Until she can get some financial stability, it will be a few moons longer until she can comfortably sling out her old armaments for practice again.

Sighing, she gets back up after a few ticks. She hasn’t eaten supper, but there are leftovers from the other day in the icebox. She’ll just have to heat them up again on the stove.

Korrine takes a small pitcher of water from the counter and opens the shutter. As expected, a new flower is there amongst the planted ones. She sets the pitcher on the table beside her before reaching out to pick the newest addition.

The petals are remarkably soft as she brushes one between her index finger and thumb. The idea that someone is leaving these here for her specifically is ludicrous. It has to be a bird, surely. A very clumsy one, but definitely a bird all the same. She can’t see how any person could reach up here and not be noticed by the neighbors.

Even so, the thought is appreciated. She won’t tell Yana, but receiving these every week does lift her spirits. Gives her something to look forward to whenever she returns home from her long days, or after she rises in the morning.

It’s likely this will stop one day, but for now, she hopes the planter is a positive response to her anonymous florist.

—

Itztli watches from his seat on the opposite building, his lance resting against the stone wall beside him. The sun is partially dipped beneath the horizon leaving the sky an ombre of orange and purple. Korrine touches the newest flower with all the delicacy of a needleworker. Her soft smile as she sniffs the bloom tugs at his heart and births a smile upon his own face when she plants her new addition in the soil.

He’s been looking after her from the shadows for a while. Though he respects her space, he’s certain she intentionally cut herself off from any support network she may have had in Sol y Luna because of S’imula. Back then, the day after she made her announcement of depature, he believed the Auri woman when she admitted to him she wanted to grow on her own, away from her feelings for U’mir. But he was only the cause of her broken heart. It was his godsforsaken wife intentionally making her feel like shite in the interrims of privacy ever since the wedding. Jealousy is such a rancid, ugly beast.

He’s still a little upset Korrine chose not to disclose it to anyone except him and Dulce, their company leader. She cited that S’imula is invaluable to the company for her quick competency at just about everything. Even when Dulce offered to kick the other woman out, Korrine reasoned—admittedly fairly—that they’d also lose U’mir should that happen. His hand-to-hand combat is unparalleled, and they’d be lesser for his absence. 

S’imula didn’t deserve that consideration, in Itztli’s opinion. 

Whatever. Korrine is away from that noxious entity. Though her posture still slumps some, her smiles look genuine again, at least. He doesn’t know how she’ll take it when he reveals he’s been in Thavnair for a while, but he hopes she won’t smack him. For a tiny little thing, she’s got a solid right hook.

One of the many reasons his affections for her remain unchallenged. While he fully expects her to never return them—even after he nonchalantly offered to be an amorous consolation some time ago—it doesn’t matter. She needs support regardless. U’mir created a rift in her heart, unintentionally, for the man is simply too kind to ever do anything with malice. Not a rift of just romantic connection, but of platonic familiarity. If she so desires it, Itztli is more than happy to become a substitute for the latter.

As a Viera gifted with longevity, he’s learned to have all the patience in the world.

Right now, it’s enough for him to see she’s slowly recovering from her mental and emotional mire. And making new friends, like the Miqo’te dancer. The gods know she needs people like that in her life. He’ll continue to leave her a new flower every week until their reunion.

“It’s my hope you can create a happier life here,” he says to himself as he watches Korrine disappear into the apartment. Itztli takes an apple out of his satchel, flips it into the air once, before catching it again in his hand. He takes a bite out of it, looking up at the warm twilight sky.

“Yes,” she sniffs the freshly made quiche, “this ought to be satisfying. Or at least, I hope it will be for her.”

Korrine sets it on a tray along with a pitcher of apple juice. It’s a gentle cool evening in Mor Dhona. Some of the Scions are enjoying supper in the Seventh Heaven, while others are still out on assignment. As she strolls through the halls of the Rising Stones, she passes by Homei who’s walking to the residence wing.

“Time for rest, Homei?” she asks.

“Only because I won’t hear the end of it from Hozan,” he replies. Eyeing the tray, he smiles at her, wrinkles along his mouth creasing further. “Missed supper, did you?”

“It’s for Minfilia. Haven’t seen her leave the Solar for several bells.”

“I don’t envy her,” he replies with a shake of his head, “but my gratitude for her kindness and dedication will endure until my dying day.”

“Let us hope that won’t be for several more years.”

He laughs, then grunts as he moves along. “If the kami are gracious, perhaps.”

Continuing on her walk, Korrine balances the tray in one hand when she reaches the door of the Solar. With the other, she knocks. No answer. She knocks again, three times, and finally Minfilia’s muffled voice says, “Come in.”

She pushes herself through with her hip. “It’s me,” she announces, closing the door in the same way. “Just thought I’d drop by for a bit.”

Minfilia smiles, though doesn’t look up from the paperwork sprawled on her desk. “Well, I do believe I’m nearly finished with this current task, so if you wish to chat—,” she looks up when the tray is set on the edge of the desk, “now what is this?”

“Supper!”

“Oh Korrine,” her shoulders slouch, “you really needn’t trouble yourself so.”

“Nonsense. You haven’t eaten since… well I don’t even know when was the last time you ate. But I figured you were low on sustenance, so I whipped you up a little something.”

“Well it smells absolutely delicious,” she says with a gentle sniff. Looking at her with a grateful smile, she adds, “Thank you.”

Korrine pulls up a chair and serves them both a slice of the trapper’s quiche. While tea likely would’ve been better, they’re low on Minfilia’s favorite leaves. Mirror apples were stocked, however, from Korrine’s last foray into Dragonhead a few days ago.

“Nicely chilled and refreshing,” is the compliment she receives when Minfilia takes a drink. “This is lovely.”

“Apologies for not offering tea instead.”

“No no! All is well. Besides, our budget should be spent on staples rather than luxuries. Even with your meticulous foraging sense, I wouldn’t ask you to go out of your way for something like tea of all things.” She slides over a parchment that was hidden underneath a thin stack of documents. Skimming it, she adds, “Other than the leaves, our stocks of food are still plentiful according to Tataru’s inventory report. We have more than several tea aficionados within the Scions, it seems.”

“Perhaps now we’ll save money with Alphinaud recovering in Ul’dah.”

“Yes, he is partly the reason our stores empty quicker than they used to.” Minfilia smiles as she cuts her slice of quiche with the side of a fork. Eating the first bite, she gives a gentle hum, then says, “I wonder if Y’shtola recruited you prematurely. Why, I’m certain you would have been a remarkable addition to The Bismark.”

Korrine shoos her hand at her. “Oh, stop! My food is good, but that’s a little much.”

Minfilia giggles. “No, don’t downplay your skill! Not everyone can say their home cooked meals rival that of a prestigious fine dining establishment.”

“Well,” she cuts into her own quiche, “I do love to cook. Had I decided not to become an adventurer—and a Scion by extension—I likely would have continued my tutelage under Guildmaster Lyngsath. I go back when I can for some guidance and constructive critique, but recent events have kept me quite busy to do much else there.” She looks to her current companion and notes, “You’ve been kept locked away in the Solar as well, Minfilia.”

“Paperwork never ceases,” she replies with a tired smile. “Aside from drafting reports for the city-states on Leviathan’s summoning and downfall, there is still more I must oversee. The wages of the Doman refugees, for one. Slafborn would like such matters handled in a timely manner. And while Tataru does make a fantastic effort of bookkeeping, I needs sign off on expense reports, review our inventory, and other matters to keep our organization afloat. That is, if we wish to remain neutral.”

“Which we do.”

“Indefinitely.” Minfilia takes another sip of apple juice. “That is why gestures like this,” she motions to her plate, and then to Korrine, “really cannot be understated. I lose track of time when I’m embroiled with work. Earns me no small amount of worry from Thancred, even if he might not voice it aloud to you all.”

“He’s yet another who ought to relax more—contrary to his… social habits around women.” Having finished her current slice of quiche, Korrine serves herself a second helping. “If he wishes to avoid another potential Ascian possession that is. I ought to sit him down one of these days and make him have a bite too.”

“Of your meals,” Minfilia snips another piece of her food with the fork’s edge, “or yourself?”

“Min—!” Korrine catches herself mid-chew before the mush can tumble out of her mouth. Now how unseemly is that? Quite, as if it isn’t bad enough her face is scorched like Ifrit’s infernal flames. “Minfilia! I would never—that is not what I m-meant! And Thancred is, just… j-just a fellow Scion so—”

The blonde woman laughs, her hands pressed together in front of her. “I jest of course! You needn’t protest, although it’s rather charming to see you flustered so.”

Korrine huffs, pouting. She stares holes into her quiche, cutting a massive piece from whatever remains of her slice. “At the very least, I should be glad I don’t have flesh ears like everyone else for them to turn a shade of tomato. Or that my horns are capable of changing color. They’re light in hue as it is….”

“I can imagine that would be a bit of an inconvenience, yes.”

There is still more quiche to get through, and so they pass another half of a while clearing the plate of the flaky meal. While Minfilia doesn’t bring up Thancred again, Korrine avoids speaking of him anyway. No need to open the door further to that line of questioning. Especially from someone who can effectively be considered his younger sister.

When the pitcher of apple juice is near its end, Korrine pours the remainder of it into Minfilia’s glass. The latter covers her mouth as she yawns before giving her thanks again for the beverage.

“You ought to sleep,” the Auri woman suggests. She takes their empty plates and sets them on the tray. “The paperwork will be there in the morning. And might also haunt your dreams at night.”

Minfilia half smiles. “I suppose you have the right of it.” She sets her quil in its stand beside the inkwell. Standing up, she organizes the loose parchment sheets into relevant piles before stacking them neatly on the side or in a drawer. “Once I tidy up here, I promise I’ll retire to my bedchambers.”

“Good. Or I’ll have to brew you a concoction to assure it.”

“So long as it tastes pleasant, I likely won’t mind. But you as well, Korrine. Being the Warrior of Light is no small burden. I worry I overtax you with assignments, so please, rest as often as possible. Not just to keep you attentive and healthy for the battles to come, but simply for yourself. You will promise me this, yes?”

“I promise, Minfilia.” Korrine smiles and lifts the tray in her arms. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good night and,” she turns her head to yawn into her shoulder, “excuse me—and sweet dreams.”

“Good night, my friend,” she replies with a gentle countenance. “May you sleep soundly. And… thank you once more for that respite. I truly do appreciate it.”