professional grumpypants

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Y'shtola had not meant to be away so long.

'Twas not unlike her, she could admit, to become overly-engrossed in her work, such that time scarcely seemed to pass at all, until some interruption or bodily need chanced to disturb her concentration. She had had good cause, in this case, to be so engrossed. The Warrior of Light's defeat of Titan was cause for celebration indeed… yet with this victory had come a revelation Y'shtola could not ignore. Ascians and imperials, working together…

Mayhap it had been unwise to undertake an investigation without first consulting the others… alas, after days of receiving the runaround from the Company of Heroes, Y'shtola's patience for collaborative work had been all but spent. She bore no resentment for the Warrior of Light, of course. Adventurers could have their peculiarities, to be sure, but Ariane Clairière was one of the most agreeable Y'shtola had known. Mayhap too agreeable, if Y'shtola were honest. She herself might have had sharper words for Whiskeiat, and sooner, if the Elezen healer's courtesy and patience for running all up and down the coast of Vylbrand from sunup to sundown on menial errands had not put Y'shtola to shame. Nonetheless they had been delayed from the vital task of facing the primal for far longer than they ought to have been, and with that matter dealt with…

Well, there were times when it was simply more expedient to work alone.

-

She had thought little of the linkpearl silence. True, it had been a few days. Ariane would have borne word of their victory to Maelstrom Command, and then to Minfilia. Thancred and Papalymo would be busy with their own work. Were her presence urgently required, the Antecedent would have called to inform her.

She had picked up the trail of the imperial engineer in Mor Dhona easily enough. The man was not subtle in his movements. Tailing him, however, proved a futile exercise. If Y'shtola had hoped to witness a second meeting 'twixt the engineer and his Ascian accomplice, it was not to be. What she had managed to glean, however, confirmed what she had overheard at the Navel: the Garleans, or at least this engineer, had an interest in eikons.

To follow the engineer into Castrum Centri was riskier still. Thancred would have had an easier time of it, and for such a vital matter, even Y'shtola found herself willing to call for aid. Her friend did not answer his linkpearl when Y'shtola rang, however, and presuming him to be engaged in a covert operation of his own, she did not try again.

She did not go far in, remaining where there was ample cover, knowing that all too soon the engineer would pass where she dared not follow.

Yet she would be glad she had done so, for 'twas there she overheard talk of a group of prisoners brought to the castrum, one of whom was even now under interrogation by the tribunus—and at this, Y'shtola's very blood ran cold—for this captive was possessed of the Echo.

-

She flew now from the castrum with all haste, and made for Thanalan by aetheryte.

There was no certainty that the imperials had captured a member of the Scions. The gifted were many, after all, even if no small number of them understood little of their gift. If it be such a one, however, their chances of having drawn the attention of the Empire were slim. Far more likely it were one of their own—even, Twelve forfend, the Warrior of Light.

The Antecedent was not answering her linkpearl.

Dread swelled in Y'shtola's breast, even as she arrived at the aetheryte in Horizon and saw naught amiss—naught that would suggest an imperial force had recently passed through. This did little to reassure her—there yet remained every chance the imperials had apprehended one of their own in their travels. And if that be the case, the Antecedent must know at once.

-

Naught appeared amiss as Y'shtola emerged from the Footfalls into the late afternoon sun in Vesper Bay. Merchants plied their trade from tents and stalls, locals and adventurers bustled about the sandy square. A familiar salt breeze blew in from the harbor, and with it the murmur of voices, the creak of vessels docking or putting out to sea, cargo being loaded and unloaded, punctuated with the occasional shout. All appeared as it ought to be.

All, save this: the lobby of the Waking Sands lay empty. There was no sign of Tataru at the table where she customarily sat—her ledger, too, was nowhere to be found. What that might signify, Y'shtola could not say.

She hastened down the stairs, and pushed open the doors.

There was a sharp and smokey smell in the air, a smell Y'shtola knew acutely from the Battle of Carteneau. Garlean firearms had been discharged within this building.

Gods be good.

And beneath it, the copper smell of blood.

-

Amongst the Scions ranks were warriors aplenty. The greater part of their number, after all, were adventurers—those possessed of both the blessing of Hydaelyn and skill in battle, that they might face primals without fear of tempering, and send them back to the aether from whence they had come. They were far from defenseless, even caught unawares.

Yet surveying her surroundings, wand in hand, even now gathering aether that she might swiftly offer healing to any survivors, Y'shtola knew not whether she ought to cling to hope. She saw no one, living or dead, yet the signs of battle were plain. Here and there the sandstone walls bore the damage of stray gunfire, shattered bits of stone fallen from scorched indentations. Broad, deep stains marred the stone floor. Much blood had been spilled here.

Yet no bodies. Was that yet cause for hope?

She must make a thorough search of the building, in any case, looking first for survivors. She must also be on her guard. T’was not out of the question that the imperials might have left an ambush behind. She must needs be prepared to defend her own life.

Approaching the Solar, however, she was arrested by a peculiar sound. She could not put her finger upon it. Only as she drew closer, wary, did Y'shtola recognize the sound of someone weeping.

-

Swiftly Y'shtola threw open the door to the Solar, wand at the ready, for Stone or for Cure she knew not. There was yet the chance it might be a trap.

"Oh—" Y'shtola uttered, lowering her wand as the sobbing figure crumpled on the floor looked up at her in shock. "Oh."

-

Privately, Y'shtola had never approved of Papalymo's indulging the girl so.

That he had made a promise to Yda, she understood. Certainly they should not have turned their dear friend's sister out in the streets; she would ever have been welcome among the Circle, and later the Scions. That Papalymo had wished to accommodate young Lyse's… peculiar way of grieving, she had allowed, foreign as it was to the manner of Y'shtola's own upbringing. You shall walk this path with your eyes open, or not at all. Master Matoya had never suffered her pupil to face anything less than the brutal truth of the world, from the first day of her apprenticeship to the day Y'shtola, then of age, had left to become a disciple of her mentor's bitterest rival. Needless to say, they had not parted on the best of terms…yet the lessons her master had imparted remained with her nonetheless.

'Twas not as though any of them would be fooled by the sight of young Lyse, masked and playacting as an Archon a decade older, their colleague and friend of many years… and yet, at Papalymo's urging, the others of the Circle had agreed to grieve their fallen comrade in secret, and to play along until such a time as Lyse was ready to unmask herself and face her sister's death. Y'shtola had wondered at Papalymo's willingness to accept the charade, but even more at Master Louisoix's doing so. Were it not for his acquiescence, she might have pressed the matter further. In any case, she had expected to keep up the pretense perhaps for a moon or two… certainly not for six years. More than once, she had approached Papalymo, asking whether it wasn't about time to have a talk with the girl and put an end to this. If nothing else, the falsifying of an Archon mark was a serious offense, one which put Papalymo himself at risk of censure should his actions be discovered by the Forum. Papalymo had not disagreed, but bade her leave the matter to him. I shall speak with her… when the time is right. Whether he had, or had not, Y'shtola knew not, but in any case nothing had ever come of it, and they had all carried on as before.

And so she continued to call the girl "Yda," and to pretend, though her heart knew the lie, and misliked it.

-

Yda's black eyemask was fallen beside Lyse where she sat on her knees. Her turban had come loose, letting her long hair spill messily over her shoulders. And when her wide, reddened eyes looked up at Y'shtola, there was fear in them. Fear of what had become of their comrades, certainly.

Mayhap too, a fear that she would have to explain herself.

Y'shtola knew not. And at this moment, it mattered not.

"Yda," she said, gentle but firm, and knelt beside her. "Are you hurt?"

Lyse's face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled over her cheeks.

"I can't find him," she wailed at last, wiping futilely at her eyes, only for them to well anew. "I can't find Papalymo. He won't answer his linkpearl… I've looked everywhere…"

"You've searched the building," Y'shtola said, relieved. She would repeat it herself, of course, but 'twas good to know that much had been done. "Did you find anyone else?"

Lyse hiccuped, and shook her head. "No one. Just… all the blood…"

Y'shtola took a deep breath, gathering her own thoughts. Above all, she wished to act. 'Twas tempting to press Lyse for further information. What else did you see? Any clues as to what happened? When did you last speak with Papalymo? Why were you apart? When did you arrive here? When did you last hear from Minfilia—

She restrained herself. 'Twas plain that Lyse was in no shape to be interrogated, and 'twould be ungentle to treat her so. She had had a shock, and was in great distress. Much as Y’shtola might wish to spring into action, Lyse's wellbeing must needs be her primary concern, for now.

"Are you hurt?" she asked again, and Lyse shook her head. Good. No need for physical healing. Y'shtola's magicks could not heal the turmoil of heart and mind, but other things might. A cup of tea, for one, would not go amiss.

She made to rise, and Lyse grabbed at her wrist. "Please—don't leave."

"I have no intention of leaving you," Y'shtola reassured her. "Pray, accompany me, if you will."

Lyse blinked, and then scrambled to her feet, collecting her mask as she did. "I—yes. Of course!" That this simple request seemed to have rallied her spirits was encouraging.

Y'shtola noticed only then that she had put her foot in some sticky, colorless substance—not blood—which had soaked the rug. As she stepped back from it, examining the sole of her boot, Lyse followed her gaze, and said quietly, "Sylph-blood… it's like tree sap. Not red like ours…"

Noraxia. The sylph ambassador.

Y'shtola said nothing, but closed her eyes briefly in acknowledgment.

-

She had every intention of tending to her companion's wellbeing as best she could, but of primary import was ensuring, insofar as she was able, that their environs were secure. To this end she led them in a sweep of the building.

The common room was utterly ransacked. Whatever the imperials had sought, they had not been delicate in their search. Crates and barrels lay cast asunder, tables and chairs overturned, some of the furniture outright smashed to bits. And of course, more blood. A bitten-back sob told Y'shtola that her companion would prefer to be anywhere else, yet it was a moment before she could tear her eyes from the scene, tail swishing back and forth in consternation.

Here would have been gathered the greatest of their numbers, when the assault had come. Some—those with the skill and weapons to hand—would have rushed to meet their attackers in the corridor. To defend the researchers, the Antecedent… those who could not defend themselves.

Here they would have been forced back before the numbers and the firepower of an imperial legion. Here they would have made their last stand.

This was all, of course, conjecture. With no bodies, it was impossible for Y'shtola to be certain of what had transpired. She could say with confidence only that the room now lay empty; neither friend nor foe remained.

Wordlessly she turned, and led her companion back the way they had come.

-

On the far side of the building lay the Scions' library, and beyond it a little kitchen and the wing of private quarters where some of their number lived. Urianger, for one. A part of Y'shtola had hoped she might find him there; alas, 'twas not to be. His bed was unmade, his desk piled with various tomes, a quill and ink, a cup of tea half-drunk. Y'shtola was loathe to invade the privacy of her comrades, and peered into each chamber only long enough to assure herself that none remained within.

Satisfied at last, she led them back to the library, the one common space not soaked in the blood of their comrades, for a mercy. Urging Lyse to sit, she withdraw briefly to the kitchen. Water on the boil for tea. A cup for Lyse, with honey. A cup for Y'shtola as well. She could do with something bracing at the moment.

As she waited for the pot to boil, she considered. What was to be done? There were none left to decide but Y'shtola, and so it must be she.

It was not for a certainty that the others had all perished. No, she would not accept such a thing without proof. The absence of any bodies was mystifying, given the quantity of blood spilled here, yet it offered hope as well. Some might yet have survived. And surely Y'shtola had not been the only one out in the field at the time of the attack.

She would succumb neither to panic, nor to despair. Should any have survived, they would have need of her.

As Yda's sister had need of her now.

-

By the time she returned with the tea, Lyse had set her mask back in place, and bound her hair back up beneath her turban. She took the proffered cup, but then sat staring at it a moment, unmoving.

"Pray drink it," Y'shtola directed gently. "It will help."

"Shouldn't we…?" Lyse trailed off, helpless. Plainly, she had no idea what they ought to be be doing. And yet, Y'shtola understood the impatience, the desire to act.

Good. They would need that later.

"Drink it first," she urged, and Lyse took a sip, offering no further protest.

Bringing her own cup to her lips, Y'shtola found herself standing before the portrait of their late master which hung on the library wall. The candles Urianger kept ever-burning on the table beneath had burnt out, the rings of remaining wax long since cooled.

She looked up at their master's gentle smile, and it struck her like a kick to the stomach that Alphinaud might have been here as well, when the attack occurred.

Gods be merciful. She could only pray Louisoix's grandson had been spared.

Pray watch over him, if he yet lives. Pray watch over us all.

Turning back to Lyse, she said, "Pray give me your linkpearl."

Lyse did. Y'shtola plucked her own from her ear, and stepped to the edge of the room, where the rug did not cover the stone floor, before setting the two pearls on the stone and crushing them beneath her boot.

She heard a gasp issue from behind her. "What are you doing? What if he tries to call me?"

"He will not, not if he knows what we face. The Scions are under attack by the Empire. Signals may be traced." Mayhap this was how they were discovered in the first place, Y'shtola thought grimly. They had made every effort to secure their channels, to conceal their location, but there were no guarantees… Scholar's quill. How could this have happened?

Kneeling, she swept the fragments into one hand, and cast them into the rubbish bin. "I'm afraid we cannot stay here. There is a chance those who attacked may return. We must seek safe harbor elsewhere."

Lyse nodded. "Oh—of course. Father Iliud!"

"Indeed." It pleased her that Lyse remembered. Father Iliud of the Church of St. Adama Landama was an old friend, and any member of the Circle of Knowing would know to shelter there in a storm.

-

The journey would be faster by chocobo, and Y'shtola had ample funds in her purse to hire a porter. It would be best, however, that they not be recognized. She had no chamber at the Waking Sands herself, nor had Lyse, as both of them worked primarily in the cities and dwelt in inn rooms when not on the move. Nonetheless, they found some spare changes of clothes among the Scions' stores. Y'shtola found for herself an unadorned mage's robe, with a hood that would keep her Archon marks suitably covered. For Lyse, she found a rough linen shirt and trousers. Rifling through the lost-and-found bin, full to overflowing with the misplaced effects of adventurers, she found a nondescript linen scarf as well, and tossed it to her companion. "This ought to do."

Lyse gazed blankly at the scarf a moment. "…Oh! The marks! Of course." She wound the scarf round her neck. "Sometimes I forget I have them."

Y'shtola could only let out a chuckle of fond exasperation.

-

Thus attired, they might travel to Camp Drybone by way of Black Brush Station, in the guise of simple pilgrims. At Drybone they relinquished their birds to the chocobokeep, and took a brief rest, before setting north for the church on foot.

It was evening, the day's light fading and the desert heat beginning to abate, as they climbed the steep path through the lichyard. Even now, Y'shtola dared not lower her hood, not until she could be assured of their safety. She prayed Father Illiud had not yet retired for the night.

Her prayers were answered. The good father came out from the sacristy when Y'shtola inquired, and by his greeting, their disguises had proved effective. "Welcome, good pilgrims, to our humble sanctuary. How may we serve you this evening?"

"We come seeking shelter," Y'shtola said, "and to inquire whether the wild roses yet bloom here."

Understanding registered upon the good father's face. "Thal be praised, that He has not yet seen fit to call you. Be at ease, for you are among friends here. Y'shtola, is it, and Yda? It has been some time. I regret that we must meet again under such circumstances. Yes, your companions have been here. Your Warrior of Light came first, but she is here no longer. She departed not long ago, with Master Alphinaud. He spoke of…" Here Father Iliud lowered his voice. "He spoke of the Ixal… and of Garuda."

"Then Alphinaud is safe." This alone was a great relief. That the Warrior of Light yet lived was a mercy as well. "Full glad am I to hear it."

"What about Papalymo?" Lyse asked urgently.

"Your thaumaturgical friend, yes? I'm afraid he has not been here. However…" Father Illiud brought a book from behind the lectern, and Y'shtola recognized it at once as Tataru's ledger. "Yes, I thought not. According to what Ariane was able to discern, Papalymo was not among the dead."

The dead. Y'shtola had known, of course. With what they had seen, the quantity of blood… it had been all but a certainty. All the same, the words landed heavy upon her heart.

-

The list of names was long.

Somberly, she and Lyse walked the rows of the lichyard, lit by a soft green glow from Y'shtola's wand. Father Iliud had assured them that proper rites had been performed for the fallen, though there were not yet stones for most. Though the sun was fully down now, and night deepening all about them, neither could think of sleep until they had paid their respects.

Notably missing from those marked deceased were Tataru, Urianger, Papalymo, Thancred, and Minfilia. None of these the Warrior of Light could have failed to recognize, having worked closely with all of them. Bitter as it was to rejoice with so many others fallen, Y’shtola could not help but feel some relief.

Lyse wept openly as they stood before the fresh mounds, the stones not yet laid. Y'shtola stood solemn at her side. Master Matoya had misliked it when she cried, as a child, and Y'shtola now found it difficult to summon up tears, even when mayhap she ought to have done. She was not without sentiment, nor without grief. Those interred here had been both friends and comrades-in-arms. Even now, she called to mind their faces, their names: A'aba, Aulie, Liavinne, Percevains, Satzfloh, Una—as if to assure herself she could yet remember, even as she reconciled herself to the reality of their deaths.

Walk this path with eyes full open, or not at all.

She could remember. Small comfort, and yet… in the days following the Calamity, she and her comrades had found some portion of their memories shrouded in an impenetrable fog. For those myriad adventurers, among them no small number of Minfilia’s Path of the Twelve, had vanished at Carteneau without a trace, and they had soon discovered that none the realm over could call to mind either their names or their faces—only the certainty that they had, indeed, existed, and fought beside the Grand Companies.

Many a time had Y'shtola discussed it with her friends, most frequently Urianger, and with no small frustration. No answers had they found. Yet years later, certain adventurers had come to the Waking Sands, insisting that they had friends among the Scions, that they had worked and fought at their side. Y'shtola, it's me, Una! Blast it all, don't any of ye know who I am?

Una Tayuun, now laid to rest for good at such a tender age.

“They’ll pay for this,” Lyse hissed, hands clenched to fists, even as tears streamed from beneath the mask. “By Rhalgr’s fists, someone will pay for this, I swear it. I swear…”

"We shall avenge them, every one," Y'shtola said quietly. "We shall not forget."

-

"What now?" Lyse asked, haltingly, as they made their way back to the sanctuary at last. So familiar, those words—the selfsame words she had spoken when, bereft of their master, they had gathered in the wake of Calamity in a small room in Ul'dah. "We should—We should go find Alphinaud, and the Warrior of Light, right? Alphinaud will know what to do… Maybe Papalymo is even with them!"

Plainly, Lyse was eager to be about it. Y'shtola could scarcely fault her, though there was no chance of them departing tonight. The good Father had offered them supper, and shelter for the night. They would avail themselves of these gifts, ere they set out again.

"Father Iliud said they went in pursuit of Garuda," she said. "If that is the case, then Alphinaud must have known of a summoning, and judged it most urgent. You and I are powerless against primals, I'm afraid. No, we would achieve naught in pursuing them. The Warrior of Light will do what must be done."

"But—" Lyse stammered, hands curling to fists once again in frustration. "But we can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"Certainly not."

"Then what…?"

"I have reason to believe that Minfilia, and mayhap others, have been taken captive—that even now, they may be held at Castrum Centri."

"What?" Lyse exclaimed. "But—why didn't you say so?"

Because I could not trust you not to fly there at once with naught but your fists, and promptly be captured or killed yourself, Y'shtola thought. Instead, she said, "I could not be certain… until I saw the ledger. And I had first to ascertain who else had escaped, and to ensure our safety."

She expected further protest. Instead. Lyse drew herself up tall. "I—I understand. We need a plan, then—we need intelligence, yes? But we'll do it—we'll rescue them! We will!"

For a long moment Y'shtola regarded her companion. Yda’s sister was impulsive, and stubborn, and Y'shtola could not deny that she had on many occasions questioned her judgment. The false marks Papalymo had so boldly laid upon her skin belied an impetuous heart and an immature mind.

Yet there was in her as well an admirable courage and strength of spirit. Aye, Lyse Hext would make a fine Scion in her own right… if she would only let drop the pretense, and claim her own name once again.

Y'shtola thought too of Yda—the real Yda, she who had given her own life to save those she could—Yda who must be on Lyse's mind even now. Y'shtola might have liked to offer some word of comfort.

But Lyse had chosen to pretend, and they had all agreed, for better or worse, to respect that choice. When Lyse was one day ready to speak of her sister's death, to bear her own name, Y'shtola would welcome it.

'Twas not her place to force it. Certainly not now, with more pressing matters at hand. (Was this indeed what Master Louisoix had thought, six years ago?) Y'shtola could no more storm an imperial castrum alone than could her young companion. She would require aid—and if that aid came under the name of Yda, and wearing her mask, Y'shtola would not refuse it.

"Aye," she replied, resolute. "We who remain shall strike back, and bring our comrades home."