Midnightamant

Stephanivien had always understood, in a way. "A machine of a sort! A strangely crafted machine, but a machine nonetheless," he said one evening, when he was over at the Fortemps manor.

"I would hardly compare art, the kind Nika is talking about, to machines," Artoirel chimed in, taking a sip of his tea.

"No, no, he has a point," Nika replied, reclining in his seat. His hands went up emphatically. "A— mind machine! Fleshy machine. Doesn't follow the same pattern as making an actual machine, which is, in a way, a much more deliberate process in that you have to choose the right things so it doesn't blow in your face, but a wrongly played note cannot blow in your face, physically, and all it can get you is grumbling audience and perhaps less money for that performance, but still!"

That night, he dreamed of dancing cogs twirling with rifles and little pistol-shaped musicians playing flutes, while cannons drove the rhythm forward with their drums. Apparently, one pistol really liked one cog, but couldn't tell her. She never noticed him in the crowd of other pistols, playing music just for her.

He pointedly does not wish to return to whatever the fuck that could mean.

But he does return to his mind machine, to the liminal space where heroes meet, especially now that he's laid the title of Warrior of Light and Darkness to rest. He's just Nika now, not a strange mix of man and myth. It feels like a weight has fallen off his shoulders. His chest feels lighter than it has in years.

Now, when he breathes, he breathes freely. He breathes something unconstrained by the yoke he'd taken up when he first joined the Scions. Space before him is wild and open, familiar yet wider than he'd ever known it to be. Wherever he looks, there's something he hasn't seen yet.

So he looks for liminal spaces.

He has since learned to accept that change for him is difficult. It's always been. From everyday things, like changing where he works on the very special commission he'd promised Aymeric he'd do, to bigger shit like… changing jobs. Or is it returning to an old job, technically? Either way, he finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to take a step forward.

Liminal spaces, Nika. Liminal spaces.

The repetition of sounds makes him very happy.

Sometimes, it's a battlefield. Sometimes, it's a night out at the inn. And sometimes, it's a high society party in Ishgard.

Nika's dressed to the nines, wearing his big feathered hat and a tailored waistcoat, metal shining bright on his fingers, hands and ears. There's lots of heroes here - hyur, elezen, miqo, weird lion-like people, roes, all of them here to celebrate being brought to Ishgard as Edmont's wards and ending the Dragonsong war.

Or at the very least, that's what he suspects. Gods know he's attended many high society balls with the Fortemps. He and Artoirel would always occupy one corner like shy debutantes, at least until Nika is drawn away, for a time, by the bustle of the party, and Artoirel by the people who seek his attention.

Nika hated it with an intensity he had not felt in a very long time.

He has a pleasant conversation with a white-haired Keeper of the Moon who says they should meet up sometime and grab a drink. An auri woman with a gorgeous, lopsided hat tells him how she goes to the pirates in Doma and how she has a boyfriend there. Nika dances with a red-haired Highlander woman who looks magnificent in blue. An Elezen is apparently the Lady of Doma?

Then he spots a familiar face.

"Hey, Hilda," he says. He doesn't know why he's seeing Hilda, but he doesn't mind seeing friends.

Hilda - an older Hilda, he notices now that he's a bit closer - lifts a brow and offers a small smile. "I'm not Hilda."

"Well, madam, you look like Hilda. You two have the same hair, the same eyes, and even the same pointed ears. You're half-elezen too? Didn't know there were so many of you."

"There aren't, in truth," the Not-Hilda replies, adjusting her sparkling, black gown almost imperceptibly. Her hair is pinned up in a bun, and in a way Hilda's never would be. Come to think of it, Nika's never seen Hilda without her signature ponytail, except that one time they had sex. Not-Hilda catches his gaze. "My name's Aureia."

"Uh, hi, Aureia," Nika offers his hand, suddenly remembering that it's a way to greet people. Was he supposed to offer to kiss it instead? He blinks owlishly. "I'm Nika. Welcome to the liminal space."

"The liminal space?" Aureia asks, curious.

"A space where heroes meet," he explains. "It's a story. A machine, of a sort. It's not real, but it's also not entirely made up either. What lies beyond simple sounds and words and ideas? As I said, a story."

"Now that's a very interesting idea," Aureia offers. Nika adjusts his hat. "And how did you figure this out?"

He swallows. "I have laid down the title of the Warrior of Light. I have plenty of time on my hands."

Aureia's makes a face - a mix of emotions - that Nika can't read. "And your replacement? Because I assume you haven't damned the world with your early retirement."

"She's doing a good job, I think," Nika shrugs. "I never wanted it in the first place, but I haven't yet explored what's in front of me. It's very, very vast."

He doesn't know why he's telling her these things. Maybe because she looks older than him. Maybe because she looks like Hilda. Maybe because he's just fed up with hiding shit. Maybe because he's just that desperate for someone to understand.

A thankless task, for fuck's sake. Most days, Nika doesn't understand himself.

Aureia looks at him. She's searching for something, and it's beyond him to know what. All he can do is stand there, ramrod straight, unable to continue the conversation because he has no idea how to, but also not sure how to divert her attention from him. Nika looks at his hands, his impractical, archery-inspired gloves and laughs nervously.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," she says, in a softer voice. "Would you take a walk with me?"

"Sure," Nika replies, once again owlishly. Fortemps manor is familiar to them both, a well-paved path of a similar journey - exile from Ul'dah, arriving at Ishgard's gates, being accepted as the ward of the House… He wonders how much she did differently, if anything at all. He wonders how she felt.

Was she angry too? Was she angry for a long time?

His boots click and clack in a pattern between party-goers. How many of them have traced the same path? How many worlds apart are they, yet how similar?

His eyes widen. Now that's a story worth sharing.

The balcony is empty. Nika knows this particular balcony. Haurchefant had brought him here the first Fortemps party Nika attended, all excited to ask him about his first experiences in Ishgard. Nika was angry. Artoirel was looking at him all strange and haughty, like a prideful lordling, and Nika wanted him so much.

Those times are long gone. Now, he's here with a hero of another world, after putting down the mantle of being a hero of his own.

It's summer in Ishgard. That does not mean warm. Aureia rubs her arm as fresh air hits her. Nika unbuttons his waistcoat and gives it to her. She nods in gratitude.

"You said you don't know what lies in front of you," Aureia starts, leaning against the rail. "I suspect your journey has brought you far and wide, as mine has me. We're all here because we walked the same path. How'd you call it again? A liminal space?"

"It's a nice sounding combination," Nika says, quietly. "I like the word liminal, it's just so nice to say."

"It is a pretty word," she agrees and moves a stray strand out of her face. "And it's fitting for this stage of the journey that you - and me, and everyone in this room - have been in. At some point, you do what you were meant to do, and after that.. well, what after? I can't help in a truly meaningful way, Nika, but I can say that it's not something you alone are experiencing."

Nika feels his eyes prickle. He squeezes them and blames it on the mild, tame wind.

"I can't give you answers, unfortunately," she says dryly. "And the conclusion you reach for yourself might just be a gods-awful choice, and you might have to start over again until you reach a better one. But it's worth trying anyways. Tell me, were you happy as the Warrior of Light?"

"After a point, no," he admits, and the truth feels like daggers being taken out of his flesh. "After a point, it all became someone else's legacy that I didn't want to carry anymore, but didn't know when or where to drop. They were not here to pick it up anyway."

Aureia looks at him. "You were made to do this?"

"It's complicated," Nika says, grimacing. "But it wasn't my original intention for my life. It gave me a purpose, but that's not the purpose I wanted, at the end of the day."

"So you've been at this place once before."

"What?"

Aureia adjusts Nika's coat around her shoulders. It looks good with her dress. "You tried to change your life once and it didn't work in your favor. Now you're trying again, hopefully armed with more experience than the last time."

Nika takes a deep breath. When she says it like that, it makes so much sense. This feels — it's a familiar space, but when has Nika known anything beside discomfort with his lot in life? Last time he recalls being happy where he was, truly, was before his dad died, and even that feels like a fairytale he tells himself rather than a part of his life.

He squeezes his hands together. He has a strong urge to move. He frowns. "I wouldn't say I'm more experienced now. It's always been — it's always been like this."

"Nika," Aureia says, in a serious voice, "can you imagine yourself happy?"

Nika blinks. The wind pricks his eyes again. His voice cracks. "Only recently, I.. Only recently I felt like I could be."

"Well, chase that feeling!" The intensity of her words makes him look sharply in her direction. "If you don't, it will remain unreachable. And the more unreachable it grows, more miserable you'll be!"

"Have you had to chase it, Aureia?" Nika whispers, hoping it doesn't get swallowed by the wind.

A pause. She collects her cool once more. "I have."

"And did you get it?" His heart beats wildly in his chest.

"After a fashion," she says and takes a step closer.

Nika's hands fall helplessly at his sides. He stares at his shoes. One hand goes up, to rub at his throat as he usually does when he's feeling like this, but he feels something wet slide down his hand.

He's too afraid to speak. "I'm sorry—" he manages to bite out before crying overwhelms his voice. "Were you— were you angry? Were you angry too? Where did it all go?"

"I am less angry, not angerless," Aureia replies. "There's a difference. Anger can't go away completely. But it doesn't have to become you."

Something in him breaks. He doesn't trust himself to speak anymore. Instead, he just buries his head in his hands. Aureia stands beside him, in his coat.

Because here, in this liminal space, sometimes that's all you can do.

Visitors are welcome!