#eirk'a

It had taken her an entire bell to find Eirk’a Demau in the maze that was Kugane. When she finally did, she had to fight back the urge to scream. She wasn’t sure her voice would carry that far, anyway.

He was really high up. Worse, he was waving at her. “Come on! You have to see this view!”

She stared up at him—fifty feet above the ground, arm wrapped lazily around a support beam and tail coiled around his perch like a drop from that height wouldn’t kill him, Echo or no. “...You’re bloody joking, aye?”

He flashed his fangs in a grin she could see from where she stood. “The climb’s not as hard as it looks, I promise!”

She eyed the decorative molding that wrapped around the spire, which he must have used to make his way up. Some of it had his claw marks in it. “You’re mad.”

“Am not! Come on!”

Honestly, she’d done stupider things in the heat of the moment, and she could probably use her magic to float back down if she lost her grip. And if the view of the city from above was as lovely as he said, it would probably be worth seeing at least once. Sighing, she summoned Garuda-egi and started to climb.

She made it roughly ten feet off the ground before she started regretting her life choices. She made it twenty before she started really regretting her life choices, starting with leaving the Shroud and going through every one that had led her here, in Kugane, trying to climb up the side of Shiokaze Hostelry in the middle of the night. Bloody...swivin’ hells...my arms are killin’ me, Eirs, how do you do this every day?!

A clawed hand reached down and pulled her to a ledge. “Here.”

She immediately flicked his ear. “This had better be the kind of view people write poems over, mate.”

“See for yourself!”

The rest of the climb went much easier when she had help. After another small eternity of aching muscles and suffering, she and Eirk’a sat together near the top of the tower, him leaning against her with his tail curled loosely against her back. It was comfortable here, in the silence.

And the city spread out below them, still brilliant with its lanterns in the darkness. Words failed her.

“...You were right.”

“See?”

She elbowed him. “Wait until Gan gets back from the Steppes and sees this. We’ll never see her at ground level again!” She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her at the thought; the third member of their squad was exactly the sort of person who’d never stick to the streets if she could jump from roof to roof instead. It was how she and Eirk’a had became friends.

Eirk’a chuckled. “She was the one who showed me!”

“She didn’t. Are you saying someone actually beat you in your quest to be the first to climb every tall thing in Eorzea?!” She was laughing even as she spoke; it was increasingly difficult to retrain her natural squeaks. Sound carried.

He sighed, ears drooping exaggeratedly. “She did. While I was dealing with Hancock.”

Objectively, the Crystarium was beautiful. Objectively, the Crystarium was safe. Objectively, the world of the First Shard was where her friends were, where she had an obligation—a duty—to remain until both it and the Source were free of the threat of looming Calamity.

Ritanelle didn’t feel much like being objective.

She walked through the crowds to the rooms she shared with Eirk’a, conscious of the weight of her bag on her shoulder. She’d tried closing her eyes and sitting in the shade of the buildings, but even that hadn’t helped. The noise of the market was different. The voices were different. Her own people had always been rare, but here in the First they seemed to be nonexistent. She’d caught the locals staring at Eirk’a’s eyes and the length of his fangs. And there wasn’t enough shadow.

Eirk’a, thank the Twelve, wasn’t in. She wasn’t sure she was up to talking to him without screaming. Instead she threw her bag on her bed with an audible thump and an involuntary sigh of relief—she’d forgotten how heavy it was, carrying most of her possessions around with her—and stood blankly for a moment, staring at the worn multicolored coverlet. The Exarch had suggested they all rest. It was probably a good idea, if they were going to be fighting things he’d summed up as the Light version of voidsent.

Instead, she crossed to the window and sank onto the seat, staring out at the city below her. Of course they’d wound up in an upper story. Eirk’a was probably thrilled. Ritanelle looked up at the great glass wall encircling the city, gleaming in the perpetual sunlight and doing absolutely nothing to block the glare, and thought about Ishgard. About the dark stone and gray skies and the cold that sliced even through her most luxurious fur coats. About the people, hard as that stone but welcoming once it was cracked.

Mugs of hot spiced mead, warming her down to her bones.

Dark hair flopping into its owner’s face or laying like silk on a pillow, showing its proper shade of muted purple only in direct sunlight.

A smile, radiant.

And she’d never—

I am trapped here. The thought hit her like a knife between her ribs. Without so many blessings of Hydaelyn or a pull from the other end strong enough to tear souls from bodies, to attempt to traverse the rift would be almost certain suicide. We are trapped here.

Holding one end of a paper pattern steady for Tataru as she pinned around it. The bone-deep tremor of magic coursing through her as she sparred with Coultenet. The cool glass of Dariustel’s spectacles as she cleaned them on her shirt for him, his leather armor being unsuited for the task. Rrisya’s tail curled around her waist and into her lap, a friendly gesture that she’d never expected from a lancer taciturn enough to rival Estinien. Emmanellain’s arms around her, warm and solid and safe, guarding her from nightmares the way he wanted—recklessly but so sweetly it melted her heart—to guard her against everything else.

Things she’d never feel again.

The worst part about fighting the summoned primal Titan at his full strength wasn’t the actual battle itself. That had been a blur of coiling aether and shrieking fury, the sound of the earth like the world’s heartbeat in her bones, but it was what she was used to. As Ritanelle and her companions (all safe, thank the gods, though the dragoon had had a close call at the edge of the platform) trudged squinting back into the sunlight to rejoin those who hadn’t been blessed with the Echo, she saw something far worse. Raising a hand to shield her eyes—gods, she had to wear shaded glasses more often—she could just make out the redcoated Maelstrom detachment waiting for them at the overlook.

Along with several others, not in uniform. The kobolds had long since scattered, but these newcomers ought to have been firmly in the center of the pack. Instead they pushed forward, and she realized with dawning dread that several of them held notebooks and clipboards.

Eirk’a swore; when she turned to look at him, he’d vanished.

“You arse!” Just once he could talk to them instead of me, but no… “Hey, Gan—“

Gantsetseg took several large steps back, shielding herself with Arenvald’s bulk. Desperate, she glanced around at the rest of them—only to be treated to the sight of a dozen adventurers and no fewer than three Scions performing a synchronized inspection of their armor, their surroundings, and their nails. Nobody looked in her direction.

Arenvald at least had the grace to look sheepish, and winced when she sighed at him. “Ah, Ritanelle, you know I’m not great with interviews.”

“Aye, it’s alright.” Grimacing, she adjusted her mask and patted at her hair in a vain attempt to tame the locks that had escaped her many braids. There was nothing she could do about the state of her armor, but hopefully that wouldn’t make it into print. At least she could wipe the remnants of her lipstick off on her gauntlets; she was privately amazed it had even lasted through the fight.

And then there was nothing else to do but square her shoulders, make her way across the rocky ground, and try to look professional. She was a Scion. She killed gods and reshaped their aether to suit her. Now, she faced her least favorite and most tedious task.

“I know you’re afraid, but we can’t hide in this closet forever.”

Rita doesn’t care. She knows Eirk’a’s talking to her--indeed, he can’t be talking to anyone else, their hiding space is so small he’s all but wedged into her chest--but she can’t move. She can barely even breathe. There are Gods’ Quiver officers out there, and if they see her--if they see her...

Run. Hide.

I don’t care if you call yourself a Scion, you’ll only ever be--

Murderer!

He squeezes her arm and makes a noise, and after a small eternity she manages to loosen her hold enough for him to pull away. She’s stunned, then, when he leans against her again and starts to purr. It’s deep enough that the air vibrates with it, steadying the frantic pounding of her heart. Slowly, she starts to breathe deeply again.

His voice is so quiet she can barely hear it. “We’re Scions. You’re my best friend. They won’t be able to do anything to you out there, because you’re not alone.”

She nods.

“...So I’m going to open this door now, alright?”

It starts off as a day like any other day. For assessors, mornings in Mealvaan’s Gate mean a hasty breakfast, double-checking their assigned patrol routes, and setting off to the docks with their carbuncles. As an aetherophysics student, Ritanelle technically shouldn’t be out on assignment without a senior assessor, but they’re short-handed at the moment—something about a bad stomach bug going around—and so she’s trudging down the pier alone. Her emerald carbuncle trots along behind her, proudly displaying the collar that marks it as a creation of the Arcanist’s Guild.

Her first ship is a tall Lominsan galleon, the crates of cargo stacked neatly on the docks. The captain, a wiry hyuran man with a downright explosive beard, nods politely at her approach. Her gaze is on the cargo.

“This is it?”

He sounds half-asleep. The sun is warm enough that she really can’t blame him. “Aye.”

She pulls out her clipboard, frowning at the unopened crates. “Hmmm...” The ship’s declared two dozen crates of Ul’dahn wheat, and she waves a hand to set her carbuncle on alert. It leaps into action, sniffing around in a sparkling blur, while she tries to figure out if she’s going to need to open anything. It looks alright so far, and she relaxes a bit at a good start to the day. Maybe her streak will hold until her lunch break.

And then the carbuncle freezes, tails slowly rising up as it focuses on an unassuming crate near the back, and she sighs. Well, so much for that. “Sorry, sir, it looks like—“

The crate springs into the air. She has a moment of terror before realizing it’s launching itself behind her, making a break for the rest of the docks. “Mimic! After it!”

The sailors and dockworkers don’t need to be told twice; mimics are more than capable of wreaking havoc anywhere they can camouflage themselves, and the longer they hide the bigger (and hungrier) they get. She’s heard of mimics large enough to swallow a roegadyn whole. Somehow, she finds herself at the head of the furious pack chasing after the bouncing crate, legs pumping and lungs burning as she tries to keep it in sight. Beside her, the captain is hurling some spectacular insults; she tries not to let it distract her as she frantically attempts to pull out her grimoire and run at the same time.

“Get—back ‘ere—ye great bloody bastard!” Her carbuncle is keeping pace with her for now, but she can’t even think of commanding it; if only the mimic would slow down so she could breathe! She prays it’ll head into the alleys. If she can get it against a wall, they have a fighting chance of subduing it.

She sees the flash of sunlight off steel a moment before the knife finds its mark, and has just enough time to stop herself from tripping over the suddenly inert mimic. The miqo’te who springs down from an upper story window to retrieve it is a head shorter than her, dark-skinned and dark-haired, and his face splits into an easy smile as he picks the mimic up. (With his hands. Granted, it’s at arms’ length, but is he insane? Really?)

“...Is this yours?”

She blinks down at him, feeling distinctly wrong-footed. Her heart is still pounding painfully. “Well. Uh. Technically it’s his...I guess...”

Unphased, the man holds the mimic out to the captain—who by now has caught up, and is eyeing them both with a sort of horrified suspicion. “Congratulations, you have a mimic.”

“I don’t want it!” Grumbling, the captain turns to stomp off, leaving Rita looking from him to the miqo’te in despair.

“So...I’ll be leaving that out of my report, then?” Gods, I hope I don’t get in trouble for this. This is gonna look so bad on my grades! He ignores her. “Hey, wait!”

Belatedly, she realizes the miqo’te is looking at her with clear concern, ears twisting this way and that. “Are you alright?”

She’s still a little out of breath, but she’s not telling him that. “Oh, aye. Thanks for that, mate. You’re with the Little Sisters?” They don’t have anything like a uniform or a badge, but after living in Limsa Lominsa she’s learned to recognize the Little Sisters of the Edelweiss by their stance. And their eyes; like every one she’s met, this miqo’te’s eyes are never still, always scanning the area around him.

After a moment’s hovering around her left ear—he probably wasn’t expecting to be marked out—they focus on her. “...Ah...yeah. I am. Name’s Eirk’a.”

“Rita.” She’s sure to bow before he offers a hand to shake; the uniform of an assessor doesn’t include full gloves, and she’d rather not have another attack. She’s gotten good at predicting what will trigger them by now, and unexpected skin contact seems to be a big one. She does not want to ruin a decent first impression by passing out on the boardwalk. Accordingly, she smiles at him. “You free around noon? I’ll buy you lunch, I owe you for that.”

They say that Castrum Abania is impregnable.

They have not yet faced Ritanelle Soleil.

While Eirk’a melts into the shadows and Gantsetseg lights up the sky in spiralling flips of lightning, leaving death and destruction in their wake—while her other comrades charge ahead, clearing a path through Imperial resistance—Ritanelle walks. Her pace is measured, controlled; her face is a mask of fury, but she does not scream and launch herself at her foes as others do. Not yet, at any rate. (Maybe if it was Zenos, just after the fall of the Reach. Maybe if it was Regula, again, just after Ysayle’s death. Maybe if—when—she comes face-to-face with rem Lupis, who brought a tower down on her friends’ heads—she’ll lose her temper. But that is not now. Now, her friends’ lives depend on her self-control.)

(In Ysayle’s name, she thinks. For all those I’ve lost, and all I can yet save.)

“I don’t know how.”

Eirk’a was staring at her as though she’d grown a second head, and she lashed her tail through the grass as she hurried to explain, “Look--have you ever been to the Azim Steppes? There are not a lot of trees! It is very flat!” Rocks and cliffs, yes--those, she could scramble up and down like an aldgoat. But Eirk’a had suggested scaling a tree in the midst of the Black Shroud, and her face burned at the admission that she didn’t know if she could. I am the worst representative of the Bayaqud.

And then he grinned at her, all sharp and bright and familiar. “I’ll teach you, then. It’s not hard.”

It was harder than she’d expected. Bark scraped her hands, twigs knocked into her horns, and she had to stop several times to swat hungry insects. All in all, she’d much rather have been climbing rocks.

But when she finally sat on a branch next to Eirk’a, gazing out at the sky above the Shroud’s canopy, she decided it had been worth it.

“...You were right.”

“Hm?”

Ritanelle Soleil and Eirk’a Demau join your party!

Starting line - “Alright, let’s do this!”Assisting - “Y’know, I’m pretty sure the Echo doesn’t actually make you invincible.”Being assisted - “I would have been fine! Probably.”Witnessing Eirk’a KO - “No. Oh, no. Eirk’a!”Upon revival - “You bloody arse, you scared me half to death!”Witnessing Eirk’a LB - “Well, now you’re just showin’ off.”Finishing line -“Are we done? Great, let’s hit the pub.”