#wolchefaunt

The wind cuts through you sharper than a knife when the sun hasn’t risen, a fact Yachiyo had to learn the hard way during her first year in Ishgard. Cold, she had always assumed, was, well, cold, and the presence or lack of a star in the sky shouldn’t change that. Even now, that she’s used to it, it bites into her skin all the way to the marrow of her bones, but she still trudges forward on Boco’s back.

“At least,” she says to the bird beneath her, “the wind is at our backs, eh?”

The chocobo whistle in response, muffled by both breeze and his winter clothing. Hardy though the Ishgardian breeds tend to be against the cold, Yachiyo still feels better when she can at least assume he’s warmer than she is. They make their way uphill, past the cold and hungry animal denizens of Coerthas, left alone mostly; starved though the wolves may be, they also know a chocobo isn’t to be trifled with, and they turn away when they smell Boco coming. Yachiyo grips the reins tighter, though. She has no time for dispatching foolish monsters today - she’s already late.

The moon has crested the horizon by the time they reach the top, and Yachiyo dismounts, reaching up to sink her fingers into the warmth of the feathers surrounding Boco’s face.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Boco lowers his head and Yachiyo presses her forehead to his beak briefly before turning around and making the trek of the final few yalms on her own. She places one hand on Menphina’s mark as she passes, but her real destination is—

“Hello, old friend.”

The wind has knocked his shield over, and Yachiyo rights it, pressing it further into the ground in the hopes that it will stabilize it a bit more. The snow crunches under her boots as she kneels in front of the stone, eyes closed.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I’ll spare you the details. You’re more than aware of your people’s custom for bureaucracy, after all.”

She pulls out the flowers she’d been keeping in her rucksack, setting them down at the base of the stone before taking her seat at the side, pressing her back to the cold surface. It seeps down through her layers of wool, but it’s always felt wrong to not have that physical connection, while she sits here.

This way, she can pretend.

“I went to the First.”

She pauses here, like she’s waiting for an answer. There’s nothing but the wind, of course, but sometimes she thinks she can hear something. Or maybe it’s sometimes she wants to hear something, and so she does.

“I know I’ve spoken of it, before, but I went back, recently, to check on Ryne and Gaia. They’re doing fine, on their own in the Crystarium. Gifts were exchanged, of course. Ryne’s learning how to make coffee biscuits of her own, and had me bring some back. I’d have brought you some, but they were so good all of the Scions ate them - including Estenien. He’s one of us now, you know? Funny, that. He’s the last one I thought would have been willing to join, and yet here he is, the first.”

She smiles to herself, eyes lowered. If she concentrates just so, she can almost hear laughter in the wind.

“We all know you would have been the first.”

Her smile drops, and so does her head into her arms, eyes screwed shut.

All that power, all this destiny and fate, and still.

Still.

Yachiyo swallows, thick. Every time she comes here, she tells herself she won’t give into despair. That she’ll follow his last words to the end of her days - a smile for a hero. But every time she comes here, it’s as if it all comes crashing down on her once more. She lifts her head and wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her poncho; if it lingers on her skin in this weather, it’ll likely cause frostbite, and she’s had enough of the chirurgeons fussing over her for the rest of her entire life.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the towers, by now.” She continues on, trying to ignore her voice cracking.

“That Ascian I told you about, Fandaniel. He’s made it worse, and now… well, now we’re going to the moon, I suspect. Do you think they’ll have rabbits there? It’s an old Doman legend - that there’s a rabbit on the moon that makes mochi.”

She goes quiet again, resting the back of her head on the stone behind her.

“I wonder if we’ll win this time.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken her doubt aloud, and it seems to ring louder against the chill in the air, the wind choosing not to take her words off into the distance this time for some unknown reason.

“I hope we can,” she says, finally, her breath escaping in a sigh at the end. “I don’t know what we’ll do if we can’t.”

She leaves her worry on the air and lapses into silence, eyes drifting up to gaze at the stars in the sky, watching them slowly march along their paths to and from the horizon, following the moon in it’s slow orbit. It’s long past midnight when the chill starts to cause her bones to ache, and she stands up, stretching, resting a hand on top of the stone marker.

“I’ll see you soon, Haurchefant. One way or another.”