son of the cruel dog

        The Scions had travelled on weary feet back across the suspended village of Fanow, passed the cerulean path winding through Yx’maja, returning safely to Slitherbough. The sanctuary of the Night’s Blessed was humming with activity, all overjoyed to behold the blanket of twilight. Lovers embraced, grandparents wept, children were roused from their sleep to experience the beginning of a new era.

        It was within little time that a celebration of sorts began to form, wines being uncorked and preserved fruits from their stores being served in clay dishes. The Scions were promptly seated, toasts were made, and praises were sung as they mingled with the Blessed, spent from the day’s challenges with all but Minfilia welcoming the drink; she was instead served a sour fruit juice the other youths happily savored.

        It was after some time seated at the wooden table that Abarbluom had lifted from his chair, pardoning himself with a cordial excuse of the call of nature to Thancred, who gave a knowing man’s nod in reply; a small fib. He felt Y’shtola’s eyes on him as he left, and did his best to ignore them.

        He exited the village towards Lake Tusi Mek’ta, travelling through the candlelit tunnel to the open air on the other side. Regarding the trails leading both north and south with a glance, he chose instead to cut a path across the wilds directly west, giving each creature a wide berth as he approached the lake proper.

        With the lake gently rolling against its banks, Abarbluom began a private ritual of his which had become habit. Raising a hand to his spectacles, he removed them with a smooth motion and began to study the surrounds. The stirring of branches in the trees overhead, the various aquatic fauna scattering about below the surface, the twinkle of the returned stars, all barely discernible to his eye. Blurred beyond recognition, all but a flickering of melding colours.

        With a sigh, he replaced the glasses to the blunt bridge of his nose. His vision now returned to clarity, he knelt down and touched a cursory finger to the water, immersing more of his hand into the lapping chill. The sensation grounded him in the present, though his mind still wandered.

        Keep up the good work, he had said.

        With a grimace he retracted his hand, rising to his feet and shaking loose the droplets of water. He heaved a sad breath, exhaling into the night and turning to leave.

        “Am I disturbing?”

        Emet-Selch stepped out from behind one of the stocky tall trees swathed in vines, one gloved hand resting against its surface. His expression was surprisingly grim, a haunted and shadowed visage approaching Abarbluom in the dark, the lines in his face distinct and bold with gloom.

        “Not at all,” Abarbluom answered plainly, opening his palms to him in an admission of innocence. “I just needed some fresh air before I returned.”

        Emet’s gaze lowered to Abarbluom’s boots before he spoke again. “The fables I spoke of earlier, the murals on the walls; did any of that resonate with you?”

        “I can’t say,” he replied to the sudden query honestly, now feeling a curiosity tug at him with Emet acting unexpectedly straightforward. He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Is that why you found me here?”

        Emet linked eyes with him again, the former seriousness seemingly abandoned; though there was still a glimpse of what seemed like sorrow in the golden glint of his stare. “You interrupted my evening nap, so I came to see what you were sulking about.”

        “Well, I apologise,” Abarbluom sighed, meaning it only a little bit, believing it just the same. “I didn’t think you one to fret over me.”

        Emet flinched as his arm fell to his side, façade collapsing, drawing closer with a step.

        “Your visual impairment will not be cured, nor will it cease in its severity over time if you continue to fight.” Another step. “Your allies feign sympathy while remaining silent as you destroy yourself for their sake.” Another. “You shoulder a lone burden and sacrifice everything with a smile. Why? Do you wish yourself dead?”

        Punctuating himself with a final step, the space between them becomes little more than a single yalm, and the utter fury on Emet’s face is plain as he spits his last word. He’d worked himself up into a breathlessness, decorated shoulders crushed into his neck, hands clenched tight into fists at his sides, frowning up at Abarbluom. A silence takes hold, the whisper of the winds among the leaves and the stream of water deafening.

        “I... am thinking I disturbed a little more than your nap,” Abarbluom said, so quietly, his own voice sounding alien to himself. “Unfortunately, I do not have an easy answer for you, nor do I owe you one. I wouldn’t expect you to understand one’s duty.” Ah, that was a bit...

        “You — !” In a flash, Emet reaches up to take the fabric about Abarbluom’s collar in hand, pulling him down to his height; Abarbluom reflexively clasped a large hand around the offending wrist. “You would speak to me of duty?” He gave a shake. “Is it beyond you to think there are people who care about you?”

        “Was it not you who continued to urge me on?” Abarbluom said through clenched teeth, his grip on the wrist tightening, bitter tears brimming in his eyes despite himself; his unfortunate emotional response. “Who are you to care, if you will not stand in my way and stop me from this?”

        There was a flicker of hurt in Emet’s softening expression, like a knife through his rage, pulling himself an ilm closer still.

        “Because I can’t,” he said in a small voice, all the fury melting away. “Because, once again, I feel my resolve crumbling in your presence. And I can’t believe it’s true.”

        Abarbluom didn’t have a second to ask what he meant before he was drawn into a hard kiss, more of a clash than a soft union of lips. They parted for a beat, just long enough to link eyes once again, sharing each other’s breath. Abarbluom pulled him by the wrist to the same nearby tree, wrenching the arm over Emet’s head and pinning it against the wood, re-engaging him in another kiss.

        There was a flurry, his free hand snaking beneath Emet’s cropped jacket, gloved fingers knotting in his own hair, and Abarbluom felt his words were no longer needed. They could talk this out later, argue over ideals once again, but for now It was enough to feel this strangely familiar warmth, and to take it in hand with passion. It was about the fond pressure of Emet’s touch at his neck and chest, and how Abarbluom didn’t think he could bear parting from it (again?).

        The plaza was positively abuzz once Abarbluom had made his way from the powder room, the more spirited attendants transforming the court into a large ballroom while others opted to remain seated and eat. An impromptu musical band had formed near the storefronts, its members composed of men and women in various tiers of dress, a heartfelt tune teased from their instruments. Children weaved between the crowds while playfully chasing each other, almost certainly looking to eat more than twice their fill with sweets alone.

        He looked over the crowds for a familiar face, linking eyes over bobbing heads and feathered hats with Thancred, who heartily waved back. Both Minfilia and the twins sat at his side, who rose a glass of water in his direction, rousing a smile to Abarbluom’s lips; he dared not envy Thancred’s evening charge as babysitter. He continued to scan about the hall and caught a glimpse of the Exarch himself, rushing out the corridor leading to the Beehive, cane in hand as he pulled his hood over his face in shame. Smoothing down his robes and composing himself, he strode into the main hall and took station beside Urianger, muttering something to him before he replied.

        “The chaste Exarch, at the Beehive?” Y’shtola’s voice. “What will the people say?”

        She had come to Abarbluom’s side without his knowing and gave him a friendly touch on the back, smiling up at him.

        “We mustn’t tease him,” he responded, laced with sarcasm. “The poor man just had the shock of his life.”

        “All in good spirits. An exposed thigh may temper the lad.”

        The two shared a chuckle as they observed the crowds, now sharing a silence. Music and laughter mingled into a single sound that reverberated about the chamber, bringing a tap to Abarbluom’s foot.

        “It’s blinding, you know,” Y’shtola spoke, almost to herself. “That Aether of yours.”

        Abarbluom swallowed. “I almost want to apologise, but I understand that would be quite foolish of me.”

        She turned to him, concern touching her face. “You will tell us when it’s too much, won’t you?”

        “You have my word.” Reassuringly, having absolutely no intention of doing so, betraying the thrumming, encroaching pain at his core. “Care to dance?” he dodged.

        She sighed, gesturing down. “I believe you already have a partner.”

        He was jostled by a small hand tugging at his petticoat then, only to be met with the large pleading eyes of a young Mystal girl of no more than ten Summers, sporting a gown covered in mismatched patches.

        “What a wonderful dress!” he remarked, kneeling to her height, confrontation with Y’shtola sufficiently avoided for now.

        The girl beamed, emboldened. “My mum made it for me, she did, the other kids laugh at me for it but... she said I could wear it today because she says the night time will come again soon!”

        She spoke in that excitable ramble-on way children were known to, performing a wobbly curtsey for Abarbluom who applauded in reply.

        “Well, we’ll show them then, won’t we?” He offered his hand and she took a finger in hers. To Y’shtola, “Duty calls.”

        The girl led him by hand amongst the twirling dancers, their faces a blur in motion. She was at most a third of his full height, but he tried his best to take her hands in his as she stood on his boots, her dress fluttering as they turned about. They fell into a very simple box waltz, the girl giggling and smiling all the while as he spun her round, pausing only to stick her tongue out at the boys who assumedly teased her.

        With a rousing flurry the song ended, and the two parted to bow before honouring the band with a round of applause with the others. It was in the moment or two of silence before the band resumed that Abarbluom had bid farewell to the girl, sending her off with a raise of his hand —

        crack

        — vision clouded with pain, pleasant music transformed into discordant tones, the Mystel confused and anxious, inner voice screaming to get away from the crowds before he, before he —

        Barely composing himself, Abarbluom gave her a gentle pat on the head before excusing himself to the fresh air of the balcony surrounding the plaza, scarcely aware of his own actions; he met with Y’shtola’s eyes wide across the hall, giving a weak smile.

        Rounding the corner which led to the outer terrace, he exploded into a violent coughing fit, haggard breaths racking at his chest. A passing group of Eulmorans looked and laughed, thinking him yet another overindulgent party-goer, leaving to give him privacy. Shining white spattered about the top of his hand as Abarbluom fought to compose himself, fought back against the light inside him.

        His vision clearing and breathlessness passing, he stared down at the slick of fluid as it glimmered, luminous even in the shade, as exhausted tears began to prick at his eyes. Shifting his weight to lean against the wall, he slowly drew a handkerchief from his inner pocket, listlessly cleaning his hands before taking it to his lips. The beams of light bared down on him harshly, assailed with its majesty inside and out.

        “Are you alright?” A chair grated across the floor.

        Abarbluom heard them approach, his vision bleary through tears, now desperate to recover and control himself in the presence of another. He combed fingers through his hair and wiped at his face before the stranger firmly took his wrist in a gloved hand.

        “I’m sorry, it’s nothing —”

        “Enough, quit it.” Commanding. “Calm down.”

        He righted his spectacles suitably to see, finding Emet-Selch looking up at him with a furrowed brow; not in anger, but in genuine sympathy. Abarbluom sighed, arching down to take him into an embrace as Emet kept his hands at the Roegadyn’s waist. They parted, Emet taking a hand to Abarbluom’s cheek as he leaned into the touch, giving a single soothing rub.

        “Come.”

        Much like the Mystal earlier, he was led by hand to where Emet had been, promptly being seated himself as Emet kneeled by his side, their fingers linked together. The shaded terrace had been prepared with a handful of tables, each with a pair of chairs. It was common to enjoy lunch or breakfast out here, with the evening air often chasing patrons inside. Abarbluom shakily took a glass of water at the table to his lips before slumping in a sigh.

        “I don’t think I can do it,” he choked, gazing out at the cliffed expanse of Kholusia and the radiant halo of Mt. Gulg. “Not again.”

        There was a twinkle in Emet’s eye then, scarcely noticeable as he rose to his feet. “It’s too much, is it not?” He took the seated Abarbluom in his arms, pressing his head to his chest. “They ask far too much.”

        “It has to be me,” Abarbluom mumured against the cloth of Emet’s sleeve, eyes fluttering closed. “I can’t fail them - my duty. I already owe so much.”

        Emet paused his gentle ministrations at the words, a pang echoing about his core as he inwardly cringed. “Has the coughing passed?” he detracted, no longer interested in chasing his avenue of interest - for now. It could wait.

        “I feel… a lot better.” Abarbluom replaced the glass on the table, giving him a tiny smile. “This isn’t the first time, I just - I will never get used to it.”

        “Not much longer,” Emet cooed with a peck to Abarbluom’s brow. “A true hero worth his salt must be strong.”

        “And you would know?”

        Emet pulled a soured expression. “Would you dance with me?”

        Abarbluom blinked at the query, the jubilant music from within the plaza finally audible to him once again. “I would like that a lot.”

        He left his seat and pulled Emet into an intimate embrace (a sharp intake of breath), the two slipping into a slow dance. With his palm snugly at the ancient’s slim waist - a single hand almost wrapping entirely around - he dipped his head low, meeting the crown of Emet’s head. They stepped in rhythm to the muffled notes, Emet’s robes unfurling, Abarbluom tenderly dipping him low.

        The song reached its crescendo, and they sealed it with a kiss.

        “How debonair of you,” Emet chided, flustered despite himself. “I’m not some Spring maiden to be swept off her feet.”

        “And I would’ve obliged you much sooner had you approached me,” Abarbluom countered, releasing Emet from his hold and watching him trail away. “Instead of gloomily sulking out here.”

        He turned back to give a sly smile. “You forget, dear hero, how else would I get to be with you alone?”

        The way he had spat the empty sympathy with such bitterness had stirred Abarbluom’s innate curiosity, and his ire. With Y’shtola missing presumed dead and Runar in tears at the fact, he felt a pang of shame at the selfish nature of his inquisitiveness, and opted to shake the inquiring thought away; though a part of him was confident Y'shtola yet lived, it felt wildly rude to feel the way he did. While Urianger pensively worked his healing Magics and Thancred bristled where he stood, he turned to glance at Minfilia, who met his gaze with a twinkle of questioning in her clouded eye.

        It was only through dropping the matter had Abarbluom recalled the rush of wind following Y’shtola’s fall, to which Thancred had his memory jostled of the ancient Magic of Flow. Confident their ally now traveled among the boughs of the Lifestream, what remained was the task of plucking her from them.

        Belying seemingly all actions hitherto, Emet-Selch himself had extended a helping hand on the matter, smugly expressing his sensitivities to the Lifestream itself; he claimed a suitable place to work was necessary for his ritual, and Abarbluom was guarded on his approach to obtain what was necessary.         “So, to locate Y’shtola…” He trailed off for an answer.

        Emet had slipped a gloved finger about the interior pocket of his jacket for a moment before fishing a palm-sized orb from the slit; and Abarbluom had definitely tried his hardest to not acknowledge the shape of his pectorals accentuated by his white blouse, nor the intimate glimpse beneath the outerwear. Being taller had its perks, he supposed.

        “Take it, an Aetherial lamp of my own design,” Emet said matter-of-factly, sliding it into Abarbluom’s hand with a lingering touch. Calm down. “Keep it close to you as you venture out into the woods; the brighter the glow, the stronger a location’s resonance with the Lifestream.”

        Abarbluom held it up to his face to study the orb more closely. “A lamp? What a curious concept, you must design one for me someday.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

        Emet smirked. “For what purpose?”

        To have something of yours. “No reason in particular, it simply fascinates me. I have an interest in such baubles.”

        “That bauble is about to save your friend’s life,” he quipped, crossing his arms before continuing his instructions. Once a likely spot is found, all you need to do is whistle.”

        “Ah, a function of the lamp?” Abarbluom had perked up with genuine intrigue.

        Emet gave him a look. “To call for me, fool.”

        “C-... Call for you… Indeed.” The familiarity of the term brought heat to Abarbluom’s face and he quickly chanced a few whistles, sampling lip placement and blowing speed to dispel the flush.

        “You do know how to whistle, don’t you, hero?” Emet breathed, his emphasis on what could easily be categorised as a pet name catching Abarbluom’s attention instantly; his weak whistling trailed off.

        Emet had leaned closer, arms still crossed, his head almost resting on Abarbluom’s chest, ear just brushing the fabric of his robes as he turned his head. A bang fell over his forehead, and he peered up at the Roegadyn through the strands.

        “Just put your lips together and blow,” he murmured, low and close.

        He could hear his friends in the next room talking amongst each other over a meal, the voices layering together into a steady stream. G’raha’s own would intermittently be heard sheepishly interjecting in casual conversation, something to be cherished following their safe passage from The First. There were some tones of agreement, and the scraping of cutlery against a plate.

        And yet here Abarbluom was, brooding in the dark.

        It’s true he had spent some time locked up indoors, leaving only to visit the lavatory and to fetch something small to eat from the communal kitchen, and even then those appearances were scarce; Y’shtola had taken to leaving a tray of tea at his door every morning, a gesture which never went ignored. Despite their successful return of body and soul some suns past, the battle with Elidibus had done its damage and had left Abarbluom shattered and desperate for answers; most of all his brief reunion with one he had loved across time.

        He winced in the dark at the memory, upper lip raising into a grimace. He remembered their farewell, Emet’s hand at his mouth silencing any protest, his form fading until it was nothing more than a particle of Aether, Abarbluom’s tears falling on quiet ground. He lifted his other hand to thumb the earring which now adorned his left ear, the piece of jewellery the only physical reminder he had left, the perpetual duty to remember thrust upon him at lover’s parting. How selfish, how painful.

        He tested the mechanism of the scissors with a few snips at empty air. His reflection looked back at him in the blade, eyes brimming with tears and teeth grit—

        “Even back then, it was this long.” Emet pressed the braid with a smile, recalling something precious. “I would be grateful whenever you allowed me to brush it.”

        Y’shtola rose from her seat across from him at the table to skirt about it, taking his other boot from the floor and offering her palm for Abarbluom to pass her the other. Once in hand, her thumbs began to explore the sole’s surface, one for each, eyes closely scrutinising the surfaces. Soon enough, she gave a satisfied smile.

        “Well done, very impressive.”

        Abarbluom let loose a breath he didn’t know he was holding, taking the boots back from her. He studied them himself for a second, running a finger along the grooves.

        “All due to your diligent instruction, Master Matoya,” he teased.

        “Now, now, young pupil,” she swiftly countered, belying the rose in her cheeks. “It was your own hands which toiled, you mustn't neglect your own efforts.”

        Some suns ago, Y’shtola had kindly offered to impart her wisdom regarding leylines, and their magic-enhancing properties when physically carved into a surface. Today she had at last invited his company here to Slitherbough, for a small lecture and demonstration regarding the craft. After some theoretical study, she had Abarbluom practice carving on some other pieces of material, before deeming him ready for the real thing.

        “I’m quite happy with it myself.” He hummed contentedly. “I just hope the next time will be just as much of a success, I have far too much footwear as it is.”

        “You’ll do fine,” she beamed. “Come, I tire of the dark for once; let us catch some sunlight.”

        Abarbluom returned the smile, leaving the newly carved boots to the side and rising from his own seat to accompany her. He offered his elbow as courtesy and she gently took it in hand as they strode side-by-side into daylight.

        “Do you think we’ll see rain later today?” he wondered to himself aloud.

        “I certainly hope not, I have some fresh laundry out.”

        As the twins continued bickering further and further out of earshot, the Crystarium townspeople went about their everyday business. Crowds mingled about the Musica Universalis in clumps here and there, craftsmen busying themselves with labour as customers inspected their wares, leaning to and fro. The soft afternoon sun filtered through the azure glass above, skies no longer a haunting reminder of ages past, since rectified and restored to their natural likeness.

        The natural light settled about the crown of Y’shtola’s head, a white halo unsettled only by a pair of pert feline ears. Raising her teacup, she pauses a beat before taking a sip, lowering the porcelain to meet eyes with her companion over its lip; a mere courtesy given her sight. The feathers about her neck rustle softly.

        “You know what it is you imply?” she prods, barely concealing a small smile.

        Thancred sat with his hands linked together across the wooden surface of the table. Knee bouncing, he looked away as if Y’shtola hadn’t said anything at all. It’s with some difficulty he turns back to engage in conversation.

        “I’m merely being observant.” He leans back in his seat to cross his arms over his chest. “I thought I could trust you as well as Urianger to pick up on it too.”

        Y’shtola replaces her cup to its saucer with a faint clink. “On the contrary, I am trying to permit our friend a modicum of privacy. But you were never one for subtlety, Thancred.”

        “Gods, nevermind.” Eyes cast away.

        “I think it’s quite sweet, really. Our companion is walking this road alone, the least we can do is pardon some romanticism.”

        Thancred’s lips part with stunned incredulousness, eyebrows bunching together into a squint. “You’d excuse bedding an Ascian, Y’shtola?”

        “So blunt Mr. Waters.” She shifts in her seat to cross one leg over another. “But, yes, bedding an Ascian;” — mocking now — “you would forgive me to be grateful to him in some way.”

        And he can’t find the words to dispute her yet, so he falls silent. They stay like this a while, Y’shtola taking intermittent sips while Thancred studies the crowds. It’s true a part of him believed it was none of their business, as Alisaie had said, much like the rest of Abarbluom’s romantic affairs over the course of their adventures. He had never stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, but due to the sensitive nature of current times, he felt the need to at least strike up conversation with a trusted shared friend.

        “I believe,” Y’shtola began, retrieving Thancred’s attention. “There is little more valuable than the happiness of a close friend. To see Abarbluom smile despite the pain, despite the burden, and to see him love, despite it all… I am content in this.”

        Thancred allows the words to wash over him, suddenly feeling a little guilty. He looks down at his calloused hands resting at his lap in reflection.

        “And besides,” she scoffs into her tea. “I do not think I will ever tire of the dark lipstick marks about that man’s neck; Abarbluom is a liberal lover, it seems.”

        On an endless plane of aquamarine bright particles listlessly waver about, and a person comes into view; a man! Brunette, not too tall, with a hint of scruff to his chin, clothed in garb fit for an adventurer you suppose. At your manipulation, the man transforms into a myriad of manifestations; a petite dragoness, a 6’9” hulking mass of musculature, a pint-sized gentlewoman, or perhaps… a cat?

        The current ephemeral setting strikes you as inappropriate, and at the mere thought suddenly you find yourself standing atop a windy cliff near the ocean - no, in the middle of a desert road. The sunlight is hard across the form’s shoulders, and a feeling of empathy takes you to the intimacy of what seems to be an inn room, dim flames flickering in their sconces and casting light about the wood panel walls. You believe this will do.

        You set about molding the appearance of the figure to your preference, such as clay in the experienced hands of a skilled artisan. Hair style and colour, skin tone, face structure, blemishes. All that which you wished you could choose from birth just as this being can; a part of you might even envy that. They experimentally vocalise, trialling a variation of pitch and cadence, motioning to themselves dramatically much like an actor on a theatre stage. They rage, cry, smile, and dance; you particularly enjoy the smiling.

        Satisfied with your handiwork, the form is rendered with a variety of weapons with accompanying attire, each suited to a diverse range of roles. Upon choosing one, you’re astonished to find you can even choose when they celebrate the day of their birth! As you feel yourself nearing the end of this experience, you are requested to name this new life, much like a parent might name a child. With a flourish the form is given a moniker, and they show their joy with a cheer, knowing no greater happiness than coming into existence; you might even envy this as well.

        It’s with this flourish that your creative work comes to an end. The form — the avatar — gives a warm gesture of farewell; there’s that parent and child feeling again. You wonder what awaits them, what adventures or trials they might encounter. You feel like it’s farewell, but for them it’s hello.