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Gisele was trembling, but the palsy in her weary limbs was the furthest thing from her racing mind. Only stricken Ysayle, silent and still in her arms, warmth leeching from her body, and Shiva’s resplendent song grown soft and faded. Gisele held her tighter, her mouth dry with fear, then—

“Gisele!”

It was Y’shtola’s voice, stern and calm, which snapped her out of the panic of despair. She remembered then where they were; the humming of the engines filled her ears, the scent of burning munitions smoke caused her to choke, the rush of wind in a gust of speed. Solid wood beneath her feet.

Ysayle’s pallid fingers still clutched the Crystal, though its aether was near spent. Gisele pressed a gentle, far darker pair of her own to Ysayle’s neck.A thread of life yet remained, though frayed, and near severed; Ysayle yet lived, if barely, and could be saved. But not even Gisele’s prodigious stores of aether were enough to revive her ill-fated companion; it was all she could do to shield her from the onslaught of a Garlean dreadnought, and that took Minfilia’s aid. The Dreadwyrm Trance had taken everything from her, and she had so little to give to Ysayle. 

Ysayle, who would have given everything to see her saved, if even her life. 

Tears fell from Gisele’s blurred eyes, splashing upon Ysayle’s alabaster cheeks, though it was not grief so much as frustration, and a powerful anger. She was the Warrior of Light, was she not? Why could she not do this one simple thing on her own?But she was not alone; she saw Y’shtola kneeling beside her. 

Y’shtola, who said nothing, but merely nodded to Gisele, her enigmatic smile warm and reassuring, and she reached out a hand to Gisele, grasping it within her own.This was a harsh and mysterious land, this floating Allagan isle, dark and eldritch, but it was no construct; it was land of a surety, aspected to the elements, and rich in aether. Gisele felt rather than heard the gentle whisper, a light breeze at first, fluttering across the crags. She closed her eyes, Y’shtola’s hand her anchor, and she joined her will to the conjurer’s, listening, coaxing in gentleness, the wisdom of A-Towa-Cant her guide as it had been so often, when wielding the White. 

And then, in tandem, the Scions made vessels of themselves: vessels of air and light, swirling about fallen Ysayle, filling her with the heat of a summer wind warmed by the sun, replenishing what was lost with the bounty of this strange and inhospitable place, mending flesh, soothing pain.A bit of color returned to Ysayle’s cheeks, and Gisele cried out wordlessly in relief, pulling her stricken comrade into a tight embrace.She was safe. She was hale. Bent, but not broken. 

“Shtola,” Gisele whispered, her voice choking on her very name as she gazed up at her sister Scion. 

“She is past the worst of it, I believe,” Y’shtola said, “but we can do no more here.” 

Gisele nodded, then gazed up at Cid, who had been watching the entire scene unfold with eyes wide in awe. “Master Garlond…we can press no further into Allagan territory with the Excelsior as it is. Is it possible for Ysayle to be ferried back to Ishgard for treatment?” 

“You needn’t ask, Gisele,” Cid said. He began giving orders to Biggs and Wedge immediately, while Gisele glanced up at Estinien. 

Estinien, who had already placed his fingers to his helmet-sheathed ear, speaking in hushed tones with Ser Aymeric upon linkpearl. 

Ysayle stirred a moment; for an all too fleeting moment, Gisele thought she might awaken, might say something—anything—but then she was still once more, and Gisele gently brushed a stray lock of silver hair from her brow, bending down to place a kiss upon it.“Halone keep you, her truest servant,” Gisele murmured softly. 

Biggs glanced down at her, hesitant but a moment, but Gisele nodded, and the hulking rogadeyn effortlessly lifted Ysayle from Gisele’s lap with care.“We’ll get her right to the Lord Commander, Mistress Surana. Never you worry. She’ll be right as rain,” Biggs said. 

Gisele smiled, with a grateful little nod. “Thank you, Biggs. For everything.” 

Y’shtola, Estinien and Alphinaud had already ventured down the gangplank to ground, and waited for her there.“Come, my friend. We’ve an archbishop to hunt—and whatever Garleans yet remain after that performance,” Y’shtola called up to her, smiling rather impishly.