chasing daybreak

Aureia sits cross-legged on her bedroll, comb in hand, as a strange sensation creeps across the nape of her neck. It’s been with her since they crossed the perimeter, the suffocating dead aether of this place scratching at the edges of her being. Sometimes it’s strong, sometimes it’s weak, but it is always present. When she asked Ryne about it privately, she theorized it must have something to do with her body being sensitive while it recovered from her light sickness. Like an allergy or food intolerance, she said.

Allergic to the Light. Fancy that.

She pushes the thought away.

Their second day in the Empty was uneventful. Thancred scouted while Aureia worked to breathe some kind of life into their campfire, funneling her own aether to create a small bubble within the void. Urianger and Ryne, meanwhile, studied the environment around their campsite, taking copious notes and speaking in quick, excited tones that reminded her of Y’shtola when she pursues a new theory. It feels strange to have the four of them here without her. But she was clear when she turned down the invitation—someone needs to assist G’raha with his research and find a way to return the Scions’ souls to the Source before their situation grows dire. And besides, there is the question of how well she can see in a land devoid of aether. Y’shtola is not one keen to venture in blind, not without preparation and not without alternatives.

It’s late in the evening now. The sun set, casting an orangish glow across the blank white hills as it sank beneath them. They ate dried rations around a struggling fire, then retired to their tents in the hopes of an early start the third day. The last one before they need to turn back, lest they risk corruption from the barren land.

But they can’t give up now. Ryne said it herself—they need to act before Eden wakes from its slumber. Now that they’ve disturbed its threshold, it’s possible there is no time to retreat to Amh Araeng and return later.  

Aureia chews her lower lip, lost in thought as she resumes working the knots from her hair. It has grown long now, far longer than she’s ever had. It’s come a long way since the day she knelt on Camp Dragonhead’s floor and hacked it off with a knife.

A little prickle rolls down her spine and this time it has nothing to do with corrupted aether.

Thancred lies beside her, sprawled on his bedroll with one leg pulled up and bent at the knee, his hands clasped over his stomach. With the tent flap closed to shut out the endless white outside, it’s dark inside the tent save for the golden glow of the lanterns. Thank gods they work; they weren’t sure if they would, but like the skyslipper they are powered by more than just aether. The light flickers over him as he watches her through heavy-lidded eyes, a small smile on his lips. It’s been three weeks and she still hasn’t gotten used to his presence at her side. Not like this, that is—and not at night.

It doesn’t feel real, like a dream from which she will soon wake.  

“Think they have finally talked themselves hoarse for the night?” he asks.  

The comb catches on a knot and she pulls it through slowly, mindful of the ends. “Maybe,” she replies with a smile, careful to keep her voice low. “Finally.”

Both nights, Urianger and Ryne have stayed up well past sunset, conversing freely into the night. While they spoke at great lengths about their plan to use Aethernet shards to find Eden’s core, it devolved quickly to general aetherology and other related ideas. No theory is too out there, no topic left untouched. According to Thancred, this is something they used to do whenever they visited the Bookman’s Shelves. Urianger’s patience and gentle nature bring something out in Ryne that others do not—an assurance that she is not going to be dismissed, that her ideas have value because they are hers.

“Two jade peas in a pod, those two,” he continues. “I never imagined Urianger would meet his match for loquaciousness, but here we are.”

She chuckles. “It’s good for both of them.”

“Aye, you’re right in that.” Wool rasps against leather as he shifts his weight, rearranging his position. “He is a much better mentor to her than I, that’s for certain. That fervent inquisitiveness and need to decipher the truth is a scholar’s trait, not a spy’s.”

“Don’t say that. She needs you both.”

“And you. The fact that you are the only one who can slay a Warden is far from the only reason you are here.” He pauses. “She may lack focus from time to time, but her instincts are sharp and her mind is keen. Many would have given up on this venture before even beginning, and yet here we are, only a few yalms from the inaugural sin eater. I cannot fathom the task that lies ahead of her now.”

The comb hits another knot. “You’re worried.”

“Of course I am. How could I not be? We do not know what awaits for us within the beast, and we must be prepared to retreat should we encounter the worst.” He’s being realistic, she knows he is. Others might call his assessment overreactive or skeptical, but he does not doubt her. Behind the veneer of pragmatism lies pride and faith, hidden in plain sight. “Perhaps it was a fool’s errand, coming here. But as long as there is a chance at restoration, as long as there is hope for this land’s future… she has to try. We must help her try. And if this plan of hers actually works we might have to stop calling this place the Empty.”

“Can you imagine it?” She tugs on the comb, carefully working out the tangle. When did her hair get so unmanageable? “What this place must be like with aether flowing again. The rivers and the hills and the mountains. We might just live to see it.”

“You might.”

You. Not we. You.

She puts down the comb and glances over her shoulder.

Thancred lies with his hands stretched above his head, bare chest rising and falling with steady breath. His skin glistens in the dim light of their lantern from the day’s activities; a reddish bruise flares across his ribcage, the consequence of an unexpected fall during scouting. Nothing significant or unusual—she has a couple bruises like that herself. Hard to believe that his appearance here is a physical manifestation of his soul and not flesh and blood. He can breathe, he can bleed, he can die, but he is still…  

Impermanent.

“It is not a possibility I am preparing for, Aureia,” he continues quietly. “It is a certainty. Your existence here is guaranteed; mine is not. We cannot take our souls for granted, and for myself and Urianger and the others there are only two ways this ends. Either we find our way back to the Source, or we perish here. And if it is the latter, I will be the first to go on account of my addition years here. This dalliance with Eden… it is a great undertaking, and great undertakings take time. I know—just as Ryne does—that it is very likely I will not be here to oversee the completion of the mission at hand. The day will come when she will have to finish what she’s started on her own.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, as if he has given it thought every day until he has numbed himself to the realities and accepted it as truth. She pauses, her heart heavy in her chest. She has always valued pragmatism—and he is the most pragmatic person she knows—but she can’t help but wish that this time he wasn’t so quick to be realistic.

Even when she knows he is right.

“I know,” she says, turning the comb over in her hands. “I’m not blind to it either, I just… No matter how close or far away that moment is, it’s still in the future. I’ve spent so much of my life worrying about what is coming next that just this once I want to think about what is with us. Right here and right now—”

He sits up and kisses her. “Will that do?” he murmurs. “Right here, right now?”

Her breath catches in her throat and her words abandon her as she falls into the kiss. His mouth is warm and soft, his touch gentle as he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close. Impermanent he may be, but he is alive. The brush of his lips against hers, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his hand on her hip, the steady beat of his heart—he is wonderfully and beautifully alive.

His fingers lift the comb from her hands. She mumbles in mock protest and he chortles, kissing her deeply before pulling it free. Nuzzling her cheek, he sits behind her, then pulls the comb carefully through her hair. She closes her eyes, exhaling a contented breath as he works out the last of the knots.

“It hasn’t changed much,” he says quietly after a moment. “I thought it would have returned to normal by now.”

Her hair. Light sickness leached the colour from it, leaving it as ashen as the landscape around them. The red remained, staining the ends of her hair as it always has, though the shade is sickly compared to what it was before. “It’ll take time,” she replies. The raven black is returning, albeit slowly. Already there is new growth showing at the root. A sign of healing. “I could dye it in the meantime. Or cut it all off and start over.”

“Would you want to?” The comb scrapes gently against her scalp. “Begin again?”

She pulls her legs into her chest and loops her arms around them. “I don’t think I could look at myself in the mirror again if I had hair that short, it would look too much like...”

Too much like Garlemald. Hair sheared short to keep it tidy beneath the helmet. Practical solutions for practical times. She was just following orders, then.   

“I’m sorry.” He pulls the comb one last time through her hair, then sets it aside. “Whatever you decide, it’s beautiful as it is.”

She bows her head, hiding a smile. Dexterous fingers tug at the crown of her head and he slowly begins to braid, looping one lock of over another, then going back to gather more.  

This is another thing she hasn’t quite gotten used to—simple gestures in simple silence. There was a time when neither of them could keep their mouths shut around one another; there was always something to say, whether they were exchanging friendly banter or tripping over themselves with one biting comment or another. Silence, more often than not, marked times of anger and strife, when they were going out of their way to avoid each other.

There is ease in these quiet moments now. No matter what waits for them in the future, it cannot take away the here and now. Nor can it change how good it is to sit with him, to feel him beside her. Despite the concerns and fears creeping back in, it doesn’t change how right this feels. It has been a long time—a painfully long time—since she has known happiness like this.  

More than happy. Content.

His hands move down the back of her head. “I suppose we are fortunate in that there is truly nothing out here,” he says. “Save Eden, that is. Anywhere else and we would have to prepare for bandits or monsters or gods know what else barring the way. Suffice to say my venture today was almost relaxing, barring a few scrapes and bruises.”

She leans into him with a satisfied sigh. “How did you get those again? I thought there was nothing here.”

“Aye, but rocks are rocks and a hill is a hill. No matter how much pride I take in my skills, even I cannot fight nature.” Gentle fingers brush the tips of her ears as he pulls hair back from her temples. “I wish you had come with me.”

“Probably a good thing I didn’t. I’m attuned to light-aspected aether in a way I wasn’t before. It would be just our luck for me to wake the whole thing up. But I suppose I’ll see Eden up close soon enough if all goes well tomorrow.”

“True, but that… ah… isn’t quite what I meant.”

Her pulse quickens. “Oh.”

He chuckles. The bedroll creaks beneath them and he leans in, his breath caressing the shell of her ears as he passes by it to kiss her cheek. “Any excuse to spend time with you alone, I will take,” he says, returning to her braid. “Such moments are harder to come by than I thought.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“One would think Hydaelyn would grant us a moment’s pause after preventing catastrophe and dispatching an ancient enemy, but I suppose it is not to be. The sun sets and another day dawns and problems big and small do not stop simply because you finished what you set out to do. But at the risk of turning maudlin, Aureia, I want time with you. Alone and without interruption.”

She holds her breath, warmth flushing her cheeks.

“What we are doing here is important, and I cannot fault Ryne or Urianger for being here. We would not be here without them. But this is no holiday, and our attention is divided. Whether it be a day or a week, it doesn’t matter. I want something to hold onto before whatever comes for us next arrives.”

With that, he finishes the braid and gently twists a small tie around the end. For a moment her heart sinks, desperately missing the feel of his fingers in her hair. She pulls the braid over her shoulder, fiddling with the end, and glances behind her. He’s staring at her again—no, not staring, looking, as if he already knows every part of her and there is no uncertainty left.

The feeling melts away.

She meets his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “What kind of excuse would we need to run off together?” she asks. “Trouble in Il Mheg? Pirates on the Kholusian coast? A gathering of gremlins in Lakeland?”

His eyes widen, as if he hadn’t quite considered it. Then he breaks into a grin and pulls her into his arms, kissing her firmly on the mouth.

They stay there for some time with her draped in his lap, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and a hand cupping her face. It’s easy to get lost in this—his gentle kiss, his soft touch, the uninterrupted calm of the barren world outside. There is nothing here in this cursed land, and for this one moment, it is a blessing.

His fingers brush the back of her hand, his thumb running across the ring on her index finger. A band of silver inlaid with black stone. “You still wear it,” Thancred murmurs.

“I’m not going to get rid of it,” Aureia replies, relaxing in his arms. She clasps her hands loosely together over her abdomen and her gaze lingers on the ring. Nanamo’s gift, so long ago. “Not after all the work you did to get it back.”

“You give me far more credit than is due. I haggled with a merchant, nothing more.”

“But you didn’t have to. You saw it and you thought of me, even when you had every reason not to.”

“Aye, well…” He coughs awkwardly and clears his throat. “A better man would have stayed out of your affairs, given the circumstances. You had your reasons for pawning it in the first place. I oft wondered if I crossed a line in retrieving it.”

“Then a better man would have been wrong. If a stranger had done what you did, the gesture would have been unwelcome. But you were no stranger to me. Not even then.” She pauses, exhaling a breath. “I regretted pawning it, you know. I was so angry that first moon in Ishgard, I had to get rid of anything that reminded me of Ul’dah. Having that ring on my finger… it made me think of what was lost. And what was taken. Needing the gil was just an excuse. I went back to look for it once after I sold it, but it was gone. To be honest, I’m surprised it ended up back in that pawnbroker’s stall instead of melted down for parts.”

“Call it fate.”

“I prefer luck.” She falls silent, extending her hands before her. There’s a collection of silver rings on her fingers now, one that keeps growing. A simple loop on her pinky, warped and scuffed with marks—it was her first attempt at jewellery under Serendipity’s watchful eye. A set of stackable bands she purchased from a vendor outside her apartment in Shirogane. A complex knot twisting over itself gifted to her by Rielle the last time she saw her. An engraved ring, pressed into her hands by an Ala Mhigan mother as thanks for saving her son. Remembrances of where she has been and the people she has met, promises she will carry unforgotten in her heart.

The fourth finger of her left hand remains empty.

“We are lucky, Thancred,” Aureia continues after a moment, looking up at him. Her fingers brush his cheek. “And every day I’m grateful for it. Grateful for you. If I stop to think how many times we almost failed, I… I don’t know where that would have left us. Any of us.”

His expression softens. “Nor do I,” he says. “I oft think of when you were stricken with illness. How close I was to leaving the Crystarium to hunt Emet-Selch alone. Knowing what we know now, I do not see how that could have ended in nothing but the direst of circumstances had Lyna not turned me back.”

Her chest tightens. It’s truer than he knows. Despite fighting to quell the Light inside, failed cure after failed cure piled up against her. Red magic, white magic, it didn’t matter. Not even the arcane pull of celestial aether made a difference—everything she tried aggravated her symptoms. She had never felt so useless, so broken by her own ineptitude and lack of control. If he had left her then, she would have followed.

And if she had followed, she may have never been able to contain the Light.  

“I do not wish to linger on the thought,” he continues. “We live now, not in what could have been—”

The tent rustles.

She sits up, alert, her gaze drawn to the flap. The hem flutters to and fro as it pulls against its ties, as if someone or something is outside. But there is nothing out here—just a breeze rolling through the campsite. Save for Urianger and Ryne—and the sleeping Eden—they are alone in the great vastness of the world beyond.

“Aureia?” Thancred asks, resting his hand on her arm. “What is it?”

She catches his eye, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Do you want to see the stars?”

Without waiting for a reply, she scrambles to her feet and pulls the tent flap open, letting in the night. The Empty stretches out before them, its white hills and valleys shining brilliantly in the moonlight like sunlight reflected upon the snow. Above, a sea of stars swim in a velvet expanse, endless and eternal.

The night here is unlike any other.

Aureia sits down, settling at the edge of the tent with her legs crossed and her back straight. Thancred shuffles next to her, reluctant but willing to go along with it anyway. She leans forward, peering out at the landscape beyond, eyes on the sky.

“They’re the same stars as on the Source,” she says. “I don’t know why, but when I first came here, I thought they would be different. A misunderstanding of the planet and the shards, I guess. We’re in the same reality, just a different sliver of it.”

He chuckles. “When you look at it that way, I suppose one could say there is a piece of home up there.”

“Where do you think we are, compared to the Source? Judging from the sky and how far we travelled from Amh Araeng.”

“I… cannot be sure.”

“Not sure? Come on, Thancred, you’ve travelled most of Aldenard and parts of Ilsabard on foot—”

“Aye, and you’ve travelled twice that. Or more.”

“Give it your best guess. For me?”

Thancred runs a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his neck. “Best guess? I’d say…” He blows out a puff of air. “According to the skyslipper’s compass, we ventured east, then north. We flew above deep chasms, which I would deduce were once ocean. Considering the position of the Bole’s central star, I would say we ended up on one of the islands near the equivalent of Cape Mete. Not quite as far as Thavnair, but far enough.”

Ilsabard, then… The spark of curiosity fades as the thought of Garlemald creeps along the edges of her mind. But there is no Empire here, no sworn enemies, no rivals on the hunt for her blood. In a way, despite the dangers of this land, the First is her sanctuary, cut off from the troubles that await her back on the Source.

She closes the door on the thought. There is no place for it here tonight.

Exhaling a breath, Aureia curls into him and rests her head on his shoulder. He murmurs with content and slips an arm around her waist, holding her close. They sit in silence, watching the barren landscape shine beneath the stars.

“For such a chilling wasteland, I suppose there is beauty to be found here,” Thancred remarks after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“The land is not dead, but rather dormant. Desolate, aye, but full of promise.” He looks out to where Eden rests in the distance, its large, silent form blending into the swells of the valley. “If I have learned anything in this life of mine, it is that which is broken can be made whole again, so long as one is willing to take a chance.”

Her heart pounds. Slowly, she slips a hand into his, twining their fingers together as she follows his gaze to Eden. “Thancred… why did you ask Ryne to give it a name?”

“Truthfully? I don’t know. Perhaps because I knew we would all grow tired of talking circles around it if we had nothing to call it by, or we would need some title to refer to it in reports. The First Sin Eater, the Primordial Lightwarden… all titles we could easily give it, but a title differs from a name. And everything deserves the respect of being known. Even abominations.”

“And she named it Eden.” She squeezes his hand. “Utopia.”

“Utopia.”

He glances down at her, a knowing look in his eyes. Calloused fingers brush her cheek, pressing gently against her jaw as he kisses her again. They linger in it, his hand now cradling the back of her neck and her fingers raking through his hair, and slowly—ever so slowly—they pull each other down into the mess of blankets atop their bedrolls.

At last, Aureia breaks the kiss and curls onto her side beside him, her legs tangled in his and her head resting on his chest. She cracks her eyes open, watching the moonlight filter through the open flap and looks to the stars beyond. They could sleep now, though the call has not quite reached them yet.  

His chest rises and falls, rises and falls, his heartbeat thumping solidly in her ear. Strong. Enduring. Full of life.

“Aur,” Thancred murmurs after some time.

“Yes?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tugs at her braid, pulling out the tie and running his fingers through her hair. It unravels beneath his touch, the sections falling free.

Rise and fall, rise and fall. His heartbeat quickens, and so does hers.

“Marry me.”

Two words. Two simple words. She blinks, taken by surprise. Pushing herself up on an elbow, she stares down at him, ruby eyes wide, loose hair tumbling about her shoulders. He meets her gaze, steadfast and certain. He means it. This is not some frivolous thought or empty gesture. Nor is it a decision made lightly. Their relationship is new—too new to reasonably take a step like this—and yet…

Her heart pounds.   

He raises a hand and brushes a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Marry me,” he repeats.

In any other circumstance, this would be sudden. In any other circumstance, this would not make sense. She has been asked the question before, a long time ago on a very different night, by a very different man. She said no then, knowing in her heart that she would never have the desire to be another’s wife. But time passes, and all things change. Right here, right now, there is no doubt of what she wants.  

She smiles. Slowly, she leans down and presses her forehead to his.