FFXIV Write 2024 - T W O H E A D S A R E B E T T E R T H A N O N E
“Hey, Aika?”
“Yes, Yoki?”
“Do you think they're actually... dead? My parents? My brother?”
Two Lalafells sit under the evening sky, decorum and their rift of status discarded under the watch of the stars and moon above. Ul'dah's night life quiets near their restaurant, both clad in more pedestrian garments than their norm. It's incognito, in way. The world breezes past them, ignorant to their deeper stories.
“In all technical and probable likelihood, Yoki, they are dead.”
“... But do you think they are?”
“No.” Aika speaks before her mind can catch her heart, and she swallows hard. Her fingers twitch near the collar of her dress, looking for something to claw at, but she stills her digits. “I do not,” she reinforces eventually. “It wouldn't make sense?”
“Dramatically speaking, it does. We are... 'were' a rather tumultuous family. It's kinda hard to find the good notes hidden in discord. I remember some. But a lot of it was drama. The silent kind of drama that slowly out from inside holes. 'You didn't notice me when you started this', it's gonna whisper as it eats a rib, 'and now you'll regret it'. That kinda drama.”
“You are wonderfully melancholic, Yoki,” says Aika with a loving sigh. “But, no. I don't think they are.”
“Why not?”
“I saw the family's drama too. I've lived through it. But I've also seen the kindnesses they've shared. The pain. The... well, pleasure. I think it's more complicated than just a sweeping 'they were bad'. Even if some parts were certainly ill.”
“All it takes is a weakness for the Final Days to steal your soul, to my understanding.”
“Maybe. But they are not weak people. They're less stubborn than you, but fight hard for second place.”
The younger woman giggles a touch. “I'd like to hope so.”
“Don't just hope. Keep surviving. Thrive. Eventually, I'm sure the chance will come for you to reconnect with them, wherever they might be.”
“You too, right?”
“... Pardon?”
“Aika. I know we have this sorta-weird relationship of money going between us, but I do like to think of you as... I don't really know the word. You're a part of my world.”
“... I appreciate that, Yoki. I do.”
“I've another adventure to go on. It's something... I don't really know what it's about yet. But I'm setting out for an airship tomorrow to meet with a bunch of others. I hope it goes well. When it's over and I come back, do you think you could help me look for my family? I want this to end. I want proof, or I want them in my arms.”
Aika looks down at her lap. Her palms tingle, and she rubs them together to try to fight back the nerves. “I would like to do that. I will. There's things I know I've kept to myself, I suppose. Out of care. You understand, I hope? I-”
“I understand. Well, I don't, but I demand myself to understand.”
“Pfeh.” Aika's laugh, despite all her normal airs of decorum, was always her most undignified trait. It rumbled in her throat and bubbled to the back of her mouth, coming mostly through her nose. When she recovers, she continues. “I'll be open about anything you ask, and even things you wouldn't. I want my life to start its next chapter as well.”
“... Then here's to a good adventure for me, and a fine tomorrow for us.”
Yoki's sister smiles and picks up her glass on the table. It's empty, long-since drained, but she feels the bounty of grapes in it regardless. “Here's to.” She sips air.
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I'll never have their prowess on the field. Their candor attitudes. Their capability, martial or mystic. I'll never have their hearts, proud and kind. I'll never. I'll never. I'll never.
Yoki flips through her old diary entry, penned from the most painful month of her time with the Unsung. Their delve into the Black Shroud's depths was one that plunged into her heart, and quietly clawed at her every weakness. It was marked with so much failure. Nothing was satisfactory. The adventure gave no great obstacle to triumph over. The aftermath offered political strife and moral torment. And all throughout it, she saw the people she'd later try to call her friends having their hearts broken, while she was incapable of offering much to balm the wounds.
She's penned dark thoughts on each of them. Her pride of being an outsider made the act into reality. She wasn't an adventurer, she was just there as a hobbyist, she'd claim. She couldn't relate to them, her noble stature required her rejection of her humanity. It hurts to scan through these notes so recent.
“I'm still not sure if I belong,” says Yoki, flipping to yet another entry about her anguish from a one-on-one interaction. “But I don't really care for your voice anymore,” she continues, closing shut the book.
The dark thoughts are tucked away on her shelf of self-lore, right next to her freshest diary. She gives it barely a thought before she grabs her heavy satchel, and slings it over her shoulder, quick-marching to the door. Her steps are light, matching the natural smile she wears.
Why bother writing every day, when she can live every day?
Thank you for accepting this correspondence from her maid, as is our norm. And thank you, again, for continuing to have your identity remain unsaid.
It's frustrating to my lady how slowly these proceedings are going. Her family is beginning to become a distant image beyond what memorabilia she happened to have in her home come the purported calamity upon their island estate. While they were by no means a great house of Eorzea, their exaggerated demises in the upper crust are taking a toll on her. It's frequent enough that she has to listen to someone mouthing off about which of her family members would do harm upon the others.
The transition into adventuring seems to have done her consciousness some good in this regard. Whereas before she herself was beginning to pen theories as to what happened, at least now it's simply a background thought for her. I can't say I know too much about her new peers beyond her admittedly cute wonderings on which of them would be good matches for one another, but they seem to be a good lot and fine company for her. Shame the tea house was sold off, I wouldn't have minded hosting them, but I think such a public festivity at her most well-known holding would be a poor idea.
Speaking of the reason it would be dangerous, her aunt is in disbelief that Yoki's somehow winded up in the far east. I'm still shocked too. I thought she didn't do aetheryte travel. Apparently it was some machination of an infiltrator or impostor. Eh, adventuring, I worry it comes with too many surprises. But then, she does seem to enjoy that sort of thing. Anyway. The barely-a-privateer captain is refraining from sailing out to find her, out of blatant suspicion that we're trying to pull a fast one on her. I'm not sure why she's so adamant on not leaving Limsan waters. I can't imagine her form of maritime mercantilism is doing too well with how peaceful Eorzea is. It's only a matter of time before the Admiralcy makes the waters the safest they've been in living memory.
I do encourage my lady to maintain hope. It's what carried us through the Final Days. It's what'll carry us to our loved ones, one way or another. I do hope dearly you discover some means of breaking this strange stalemate between her and her aunt. I want to move forward with my life. I want her to as well.
With kindest and warmest regards,
Aiaika Aika
P.S. Great Azuro, Top-Right. An obvious move, I fear, but I don't think Reverse really makes for interesting games beyond the novelty of it. On another note, apparently the Twelve have cards now? How delightfully blasphemous. I'll try to get you a set. Well, most of a set.
“I play Bomb in the upper-right quadrant! This attack allows me to take both the center-top and middle-right through the Plus ruleset! Furthermore! It chains into...” a breath is taken. Then two more. “It chains into here! I think? I think I win? I do, right?”
“Incredible. High level Triple Triad play, sister,” says Totolili to the younger Yoki, cheek resting on an upturned palm. “You did maths.”
“I did do math, yes, thank you for noticing!” beams the littler Lalafell. “It helps that the Twelve gave me a Bomb to use!”
“I appreciate this phrasing,” says the man, smirking at the tween. “May you have all the Bombs you need in the future. Right. I'll put the cards away. We're holding up dinner, I think?” He looks to the warm chamber's doorway, one of the estate's maids standing in it. The most important one, he likes to remind himself. She nods to his query, and ushers for Yoki to depart with a hand. The little lady does, inconsiderate of the mess of cards she leaves behind, but caring enough to give a curtsy to the servant. With a sigh, Totolili gets to his firstborn duty of tidying up after younger people.
“Did you win at all?”
“No, of course not.”
“It might be unwise to let repeat victories get to her head.”
“Maybe.” He sighs, picking up the victorious Bomb card. “I think later I'll crush her dreams at being a card shark, once she has some time properly living. She spent so much of it confined to a bed chamber, I'm not inclined towards sending her back there for fear of losing to me in a children's card game.”
“Fair,” says Aiaika, who comes over to tidy up the things only a background actor would notice. “... It is improbable for her to keep winning, though. She's going to notice. Especially since you tend to play the more random rulesets.”
“I doubt it. I'm fairly good at cheating.”
“Cheating against your own sibling?”
Totolili pauses to look up at Aiaika. “I cheat constantly. Hold on, I don't get to talk about this sort of thing often. My father has this whole ridiculous philosophy about Nald'thal holding your life's events to a coin flip.” He rolls a wrist dismissively. “Mother has her own that's a bit more practical, if mean. Limsa things. Mine's a bit more simple than either of theirs.” Totolili flourishes the Bomb card, holding it in singular, before making it vanish in a flash of motion.
“... Just cheat?” Aiaika guesses.
“Yep. Why bother chancing a coin toss in the first place when you can rig the whole thing? Pick what face the coin will show through your own skill? Sod the Twelve – respectfully.” His fingers twinkle at the mundane magic performance.
“But what if I know you're cheating? Doesn't that bring us back to it just being a coin toss?”
“Do you know how I'm cheating?”
“... It's in your pocket. Or your sleeve. Or your collar. Somewhere.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm just going to check, Toto.”
“See? I didn't even need to flip a coin to get what I wanted.”
Aiaika blinks her eyes wide before the two share a smile, one more mischievous than the other. Dinner's delayed.
TW - Pet death, 'willfully dying' but happily, Endwalker Ancients stuff
In white robe, an ancient of Etheyris sits, hind on her heels. Beneath her, flowers of fading hues are crushed, the unlucky few to accompany her to the star. She breathes easily, smiling, stroking gently the feline familiar on her lap. The beast struggle to enjoy her company, its own draws of life ragged and cruel.
"There, there," says the ancient. It's a strange term for one with such a youthful mien, so few years to her life compared to the other white-robes. "I'm sorry this form's end is cruel. But it was nice while it lasted, yes? Did you enjoy it?"
The beast cranes its head ever so slightly, looking its master lazily in the eye. That much was a struggle. Though, there was no pain in the effort; that had been blissfully denied. There's love in the gaze the pair share, and the pet nuzzles its head against her belly.
Hey smile lingers, though the upward nudge of her cheeks loosens a millisecond stream down her features. "I'll be right there with you, and when the time comes for us to be born again, we'll find one another. Such is our design. So please, don't worry. Don't fear. It's okay."
A few of her peers had disagreed with the motion of letting her life fade alongside her work. Apparently, it wasn't the first time she'd done this. "Nini," they had pleaded. "It's far too early to go. Linger still. For a day. A week. A month. A year. An eternity." Their words were more passioned and less obvious than that, but that's what she heard. And she did feel for their pain. But a time had come. A time to say goodbye. Better to declare it now than wait until they grew bored of her. Better to dream of the next time they should be so blessed as to cross paths.
"Death is just an end," she says, more to herself than to the beast she makes her magic still. "From an end, a beginning. Everything was once another. The only thing we treasure, really, is consciousness; isn't it?" She feels her pet's final breath against her fingers, and she sighs. "It's that end which we fear. It doesn't really matter what comes after, the idea that this... ends. That is terror. I feel it every time I ponder too deeply. But the truth is, well, eventually, something new will happen, even if we don't remember it.
"When everything dies, when all consciousness fades, no one will remember however millions or billions of years it takes for the next consciousness to form. There will be no record of Etheirys. Maybe another world or two would have happened before a conscious thought begins. No one will know how many times we've reset. All that matters is that something will always exist. And all consciousness will know... is what it knows."
With a final, gentle stroke of her hand, she bids her friend's journey into the lifestream, its body glittering into the raw aetheric makeup of creation. That same hand finds its way to her chest, and weaves its way to her heart.
"Something will live again from me. This version of Ninisina fades tonight. But the next will have only lived because I died."
Expert fingers pluck loose life's hold on her soul. Her body begins to flow shortly after her beloved companion. She looks to the heavens with a smile.
"I hope you live as wonderful a life as I have. May you achieve all you dreamed, as I have. And may you die with love for yourself, as I do."
The ancient's final words carry her away, blown to the hereafter on a divine wind.
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A Xaela sits in solitude at the eatery's patio, the ocean breeze blowing back their dusky locks. There's a gentleness to the air as it caresses their midnight-toned face and shoulders, touching back a light, summery attire acquired from the locale. Beyond the tavern, Tuliyollal sings its spiteful joys, defying the pain so recently bestowed on them by a significantly more technologically advanced power.
A common thing, isn't it?
They breathe in their thoughts as they sip from a tiny glass, teasing a decorative umbrella with their nose. Is it simply the nature of the powerful to dominate others? It wasn't too long ago that Garlemald gave its dictations to the Xaela's second home. Eorzea seems to have only just recently became aware of its own cruelties. An idle drink brings the thought that if one of the western nations made it out to the Steppes, would they have been regarded as a 'Beast' people?
The thick aroma of spiced meat hits them. Sandals clap against the wooden floor. The Xaela readies themselves, and puts on their metaphorical mask. Or maybe it's better to say that they take a second to adjust it. The mask never really comes off, does it?
“Uh, this is Kuro's table? Is that you?”
Kuro gasps, hand on their chest, stolen from the reprieve of relaxation. “Ah! Of course, that is me, apologies.”
“Oh, I'm sorry to have startled you,” says the hyur server with a smile. Or, Kuro supposes, the Tonawata attendant. So many ways to just say 'person'. “Your food.” A trio of taquitos steam on their platter as they're put down.
“Thank you.”
“... If you don't mind my asking and my assuming..?”
Kuro tilts their head. “I don't.”
“That really isn't a full meal. It's... all you ordered?”
The Xaela scoffs into a smirk. “It is.”
“We could put something on for you?”
“No, I quite like this. Thank you.”
“Right. Apologies.”
“Oh, don't. You were being kind.”
The pair share a smile at one another, the call of duty demanding their separation in short order. Kuro looks down to their bounty, delicately plucking one up. The scent of the food is pleasant, relaxing, but puts their tongue on edge. Their body is already reacting to what's to come, craving the feast. For a moment, they suck their teeth, enjoying the moment of want. It would be so easy, and frankly just outright enticing, to slam the whole thing down. They could handle it. But, no. A sectioned bite, an eighth of the tortilla roll. The coarseness of the flatbread contrasts with its juicy contents. Kuro's careful bites keep flavor from exploding out the back. There's a technique to this sort of thing, and it deserves to be appreciated, like everything else.
“Maybe the world would be kinder,” they ponder aloud in their home tongue, gently finishing the first third of their meal, “if people stopped to ask 'what's this' instead of grabbing and saying 'mine'.” They sigh and gaze upwards. “At least, my world's kinder for the chance to do such, now.”
“To peace,” they say in mock-prayer, and portion out their next taquito.
“Kssshok, are you sure-wise this is good idea-think?”
“Y-yeah. Just... just hit me again.”
A trio of goblins stare dumbfounded at their temporary employer, a small lalafell wearing a blue dress that was slowly but surely being torn apart, the pile of small bombs next to them and the black craters upon the arid earth telling the story of their struggle. One of the three fishes through the pile for another explosive, grasping through assorted weaponry, testing them briefly with a shake, before passing on a satisfactory instrument to a fellow.
“Gobbie not happy-confident this will do anything good-productive for small uplander.”
“It might! It might not! … I'm just flipping a coin until it does!”
“There is no coin-metal here, uplander.”
“The money is a metaphor!”
“Kssshok.”
Plain-faced, elaborate makeup ruined by the sweat breaking out of the smog on her cheeks, Yoki Yokiki staggers until she can stand firm again. Her breaths are heavy. Beneath her torn tights, bruises are beginning to form. Tomorrow, her body will make certain its absolute hatred of what she's doing to herself. But it only takes a glance down at the azure jobstone in her grip to be reminded her goal. Her path to providence.
“I don't care how many tosses of the coin it takes,” she whispers to herself, fixing her hair back into a high ponytail. “I don't care what the odds are.” She ties the strands with a red ribbon, snapping firm the silk. “If I just toss enough, if I toss every one I can hold, eventually one has to end Sultana-side up.”
“... Why are you murmur-speaking to yourself?”
“I'm talking to my dad!”
“Kssshok, adventurer-mages are like this,” another goblin speaks up to their fellow bomber, putting a hand on their shoulder. “Don't question-think about it.”
“... I am like this!” she says back. From a mix of exhaustion, embarrassment, and commitment, she laughs. A goblin shirks back at the mad display, another stares, and the third ignites a bomb. Yoki braces as best she can, fighting to keep on despite how her knees buck and back aches.
“Let's go. Again. Until it's done.” She stares at the next weapon to be set against her. As it flies through the air, her eyes shimmer with understanding. Her joy, her bliss is short lived, as another small explosive wrecks any dignity she might have.
But she still laughs, because the gods must be laughing too at this comedy of sorcery.
TW: Parallel to stem cell research, messing with unborn chocobo for Magic Science. Nothing graphic is shown, but there's uncomfort in the story.
Zazamato stares down at the chocobo egg with wide, unblinking eyes. His heart pounds in his chest as he drifts his vision from the marked reality of others into the world of aether. A smile dares to pull his lips, but his cheeks have lost their strength from a lack of use. Instead, the mad glint of delight is held in his gaze.
"Zazzy," his partner, Kikiyo says. "Did it work?" Her voice echoes in the darkness of the lab, cold stonework swallowing all it can.
"It did." He takes a breath. "The vessel is empty. Its prior cargo vacated peacefully. Returned to the lifestream, bereft of pain. But a husk remains." His finger rolls over the white oval. Inside, a body is still being gently coaxed to life, but that life will be bereft of purpose beyond his intention. ... Whatever that intention could be?
The foundation for work is made, but what would that work be?
"Then it's done, is it?" Kikiyo leans closer, to the egg moreso than the man. "We can move on?"
"Hardly." The young man pushes back his hair into a shaggy ponytail. "A door opened usually just shows more doors. More possibilities. More chances."
"I'd think we could deal with a touch of oversight."
"No!" Zazamato says, snapping his gaze to look into Kikiyo's eyes. She shrinks back. "The work of a committee would but taint the process. We'd be slowed down. They'd get it wrong."
"Sure," Kikiyo says quietly. "But do we need to..." it's hard for her to focus on Zazamato. She keeps looking down at the egg. "... We can do this in a more peaceful way, couldn't we?"
"I will. This is just one necessary step to understanding the tether between soul and form."
"Was it necessary? I'm sure we could have found another path to this, or consulted a tome?"
"You won't find it."
"How are you so certain?"
"I am."
The two are quiet for a long spell. Zazamato's gaze focuses sharply on the egg as it becomes his world. Its aether irrevocably altered by his hands. His pen taken to the script of its existence, scratching out whatever its creator unconsciously willed. The work of a higher being had been undone, and in so defying this nameless god, he would have it know his name. Eventually, it's Kikiyo's breath that breaks the silence. "We should retire for the evening."
As she dims the world, coaxing each illuminating flame into nothing, Zazamato still stares. Darkness is but another part of creation.
Zazamato looks at his daughter across the lonely dinner table. Her mother was out on an excursion, gods know where. Her brother… well, he normally just took his food to his room. It was really just his teen daughter that spent time with him for these sorts of things.
“I can’t say I do. Why?”
“… So why do you practice magic, then?”
“… Yoki” Zazamato actually has to put down his silverware for this one. Whenever she speaks, she tends to drift his attention back to this world. Such strangely simple questions can be… weirdly provocative. “Do you think magic is just a road towards conflict?”
“Well, it seems to be? There was a whole calamity about mages blowing eachother up.”
“A bit of a simplification.”
“Our country is at arms with Garlemald because they don’t like us using magic.”
“There’s entire sociopolitical studies on the reason for the Garlean Empire’s existence.”
“And didn’t you used to do that sort of thing? When you were younger? Grandpa spoke about it.”
Zaza’s quiet again. This time, his gaze looks beyond his daughter. He takes a long breath, buying a moment of concentration. “Father — err, Grandpa Jajamato, tended to view the world in terms of conflict. He interpreted every interaction as a number of wills colliding, and the strongest would impose its reality upon the other. It’s part of why he was so successful in the bloodsands. Even if he technically lost a bout, he had a weird way of still ‘winning’ for the crowd. He was quite popular.”
“You’re dodging my question!” She really was of his father’s blood. “Did you do wizard duels?”
“… It’s not really a ‘duel’, moreso a weighed coin flip.”
It’s Yoki’s turn to look dumbfounded. Zazamato continues. “At the exact moment two bodies decide one must be destroyed for the other to exist, Nald’thal flips a coin. Thus, it’s not really a ‘duel’. It’s just a rigging of the coin flip in your favor. Even if a master of magic confronts a mere novice, there is no guarantee. The coin flip still happens. A 1% chance of victory is still a chance, and it’s in those odds that miracles happen, and the Twins give their greatest rewards.”
“… So it was competitive wizard math?”
“Yoki, my angel, I beg you, I cannot abide the simplification of my craft.”
“Did you or did you not do wizard duels!?”
“I did! There! Are you satisfied?” Zazamato harrumphs into indignation with a smile. “As a skilled thaumaturge, I did chase those who used our sorceries for wicked intentions. Every time I flipped a coin. And every time, the Twins turned it in my favor. I would not be where I am today without such providence.”
“Why are you making wizard duels sound so… pious?”
“We invoke the Traders with our every action. Each business deal is based on probability. They pay more attention the closer to the knife’s edge you dance. After all, they are there to watch your swift ascent, and wait to take you when you fall. You yourself are living proof of their attention paid to incredible risk.”
“… What?”
Zaza looks away. “I… don’t want to get into it. I will simply say that despite every probability stacked against you, consciously or otherwise, you exist. You breathe. You flourish in your own way. And I think, if they are watching, one day you’ll earn the greatest rewards of the Traders.”
“… Maybe they’ll convince you to let me practice thaumaturgy again?”
Zaza closes his eyes and sips wine. “Absolutely not,” he says casually. “There’s only one Twin waiting for you down that path, and it is the last god you’ll meet.”
“Do you think Halone and Nophica are rivals in a, well, more-than-rivals way?”
“Theuchet, I'd expect that from our fellows, but yourself? Come on. You're supposed to be as docile as they come.”
Two younger members of Ishgard's vaunted military body, the temple knights, sit across from one another for a meal. Their chainmail, shiny and new, glistens in the faint flames of nearby lanterns. The aroma of smoked meat joins with well-seasoned vegetables. The faint grinding of silver on stone hums underneath the chorus of voices in the eatery, as one of the pair slides salt from their shared pillar.
“I'm simply stating an errant thought, and I figured you'd be equipped to dispel it. I've met... passionately combative women in the past. Men and more too, of course, but I suppose my mind falls upon one singular person.” Theuchet swallows a well-cut cube of rare meat, garlic butter making the tender flesh sing. “Are we certain they're enemies? They share a pantheon. Would we not be at arms with Gridania if we were to take their rivalry in a seriously bitter fashion?”
“Do you want to go wood wailing?”
“I could. I might.” The man hadn't been to Gridania. He hadn't even left the borders of his native nation. Still, there was an image in his mind of the folks from there. Soft of heart, filled with sage wisdom, and probably carrying a basket predominantly of squash. Why... why squash? “And what if I did?”
“You'd be a shame to your family, of course.” His companion says this with a slight chuckle, elbows on the counter as he leans on his food. Already, the barely-older man's gaze drifts to their server, and he scratches at his stubble.
“Are you going to educate me on shameful conduct, Leoix?”
“You've dogged at my heels since you first signed up for the order. I'm sure you picked up a thing or two.”
“Well, let me turn your question back on you. Would you wed a woodly waif?”
“... I would not marry, Theu.”
“Date? Woo? Pursue?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“But you wouldn't...”
“No.” Leoix sighs. “There'd be too much trouble for it.”
“But the idea of the trouble, there's something... fun about that, no?” The younger man leans forward, fork idly jabbing at the neck of an asparagus stalk.
“Theu. No. It's not about that.”
“Then what?”
“I like attractive people. I take them into my life for a night. I discard them.”
“So, what if Halone and Nophica feel that way about one another, and theirs is a dance of on-and-off again? And that's why they're rivals? They both entice and shun the other, again and again.”
“They're gods. Holy figures. They don't... I-”
“You're taking my line of thought too quickly. This is just dinner chatter, Leoix.”
“I apologize for taking your blasphemy seriously.”
Theuchet smiles. “Appreciated.”
“Maybe you can ask your family to find you a woodlander so you can stop dodging your other 'courtly duties'.”
“I'd put in a good word for you if I did.”
“Pfeh. A bachelor's life is for me.”
“... Aye. Maybe that's for the best.”
The lads smile at one another, and promptly get back to their food. Mead is slammed, meat is gorged, and the Moon glowers her frustration at them both.
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So asks the maid Aika to her designated mistress. Flat words elicit a sharp gasp from the younger woman, who puffs her cheeks and puts a pouting hand on her lavish chair's armrest. Youthful indignation becomes pointed as her eyes narrow into slits, nose scrunching, shoulders squaring as she leans forward. The sun shines through massive windows in the personal home, glinting off gilding.
"It's a classic tale of love and chivalry, as penned by one of the greatest authors in all of Ishgard. The saga within its many volumes is an epic journey for a singular knight, their trail crossing through fields of fiery passion, his love always just an ilm out of reach, fingertips reaching for what he might never have."
"Right," says Aika. "And at the end of every volume, he continues pursuing the same woman?"
"Of course. He loves her!" It's so simple. Aika can't help but smile at Yoki's simple retort.
"But shouldn't he... I don't know. Shouldn't he just accept that things aren't going to work out at some stage? Maybe make a direct move to liberate her from oppressive parentage? Make a move to further his standing within his own house, so that he might stride out to claim her hand in public, instead of just... being so private and quiet about it?"
"The forbidden nature of the love is what makes it so enticing."
"I just feel that if you actually had to live through such a romance, you might find it... tiresome at some stage."
Yoki's quiet for a moment. She looks deep into her maid's eyes, sight broken as the uniformed woman steps aside to pour tea. "What do you mean? It's fiction. It's fun."
"Maybe. I suppose I've just been through something similar to this."
"Aika! You never tell me about your love life!" Yoki immediately scoots forward from her seat, sliding stockings into slippers, scurrying quickly to her maid's side, defeating the purpose of tea on a tray in short order.
"Well. It's private."
"But that just makes it more desirable to know!"
"Unfortunately, it's not my place to divulge such information. It takes two to tango."
"Or more!"
"... Well, in this case, it's two. But, Yoki, I'm not bringing this up to dwell on my own life. I just wanted to comment on the six volumes of repetition I've endured."
"They're not repetitive! There's adventure! Dragons! Dragon-slaying. Passionate kisses in various locale."
"I promise you, if I had the inclination, I could write a formula for the series. The pair are introduced to the reader at a party, struggling to maintain decorum while proving their love. Then, oh no, the dame is kidnapped or absconded with. After several chapters of mewling, the knight draws steel and pursues her. There is a rival, whom he dispatches. There is a great obstacle -- like a dragon -- which he dispatches. He finds her, they embrace, and then return home to another party. Is this... truly something you find enjoyable?"
Yoki leans against a counter. "I do. But, to your point... perhaps I would not enjoy living it. This sort of thing is just comfort for me, you know?" Her hand comes to her chest. "I don't imagine I'll ever have something like this. So, it's nice to just be able to put myself in either character's shoes, to become something else. To roleplay. I... I can't imagine if it's anything similar to actual love. I mean, I've seen these sorts of things play out in person, and they never go the way they do in the great epics of the romance genre."
"Would you prefer to read something a bit more inspired?"
"Maybe. I do enjoy my comfort, though."
"I'm glad you're comfortable." Aika, satisfied with the golden drops into two teacups, sets the pair aside. She waits for Yoki to sip before indulging herself. "You don't have to be anything more than comfortable. Would you want a challenge, though?"
"Hehe. Sure. Do you have a suggestion?"
"Your elder brother gifted me a poetry book not too long ago. It can be a bit intense, and the stories within it are very short, but I think each moment shared -- err, expressed in those pages is... well, it's very sweet. It's... it's very vulnerable. I like what it says."
"... What's he doing with poetry?"
"Oh, he gifted it to his partner at some stage, and now it's in my possession. It has some sweet nothings from him to her. I think she'd have been very flattered by them."
"Him? Flattering? ... I'll believe it when I read it."
"Just don't read too hard into it. His love life is complicated enough as it is," Aika says with a slight smile, taking a drink herself.
The offices of the Immortal Flames are a bustling place, packed tight with freelancers of martial and mercantile prowess alike. Commerce and conflict mingle together as orders are levied out, hunts are posted, and the fate of Ul'dah is decided on a hourly basis. There is no time for dawdling, those who linger are shoved aside, the interruptions to the flow of state cast out into the sun. It would take a particularly stubborn person to linger for no reason.
So when one Mi'qote, sun beat dark by the blazing sun, lingers overlong, that sort of thing gets noticed eventually. Her ears twitch to life when she hears an “Oi!” across the room. Panic swivels her eyes, hunting the directed words. “You! What're you doing? Mi'qo in the corner!” Golden eyes find the receptionist, slits narrowing to focus on the speaker. Standard hyur, oversized brown hat, thick blue coat. They were a kinder sight than the typical armed enforcer in Ul'dah for certain, a red sash and visor typically meant a bad time. It was fitting that the Brass Blades hid their eyes.
“Uh,” T'orii starts, uselessly. “I'm just here,” she says, voice trailing into further disuse as it goes on.
“... Just here?” the hyur calls back. He briefly chats to his cohort at the counter, then steps out to march to her. And it is a march. You'd be shocked how fast a man on a mission can move. “No one is just 'here', woman. Either give me your purpose for it, or get out.”
“... I can go,” she says back, eyes barely able to look back to the outside. Her hand clutches her wrist, pulses of anxiety shown in the way her palm squeezes again and again.
The secretary watches this all. The way she curls in on herself, shoulders hunching, breathes puffing through the tiny gaps in her teeth. With a sigh, his hands come to his hips, heavy gloves commanding her attention with their quiet clap on fabric. “Do you want to leave?”
“No,” she blurts back after a moment's silence.
He eyes her up and down. “There's a group of recruits in one of the back rooms. They're sweating themselves dry doing exercises. You look like you'd fit in with them.”
“Am I sweating?” T'orii asks.
“Pfah! Might as well be, woman. Now. Do you remember why you're here, a novice adventuring sort of thing who wants to get in a back room? Or do you want to leave?”
T'orii looks back to the sunbaked streets of Ul'dah. She looks in the swirl of faces in the crowds outside. There's only about five she cares to remember, and these five would still her heart if she showed. “... I'll do situps.”
“No need. Just get in back. Go. Stop wasting time.” The secretary moves closer to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but stops. The way she recoils. No, bad idea. Instead he just gives her a thumbs up.
She gives hers back, shaky, but joined with a slight smile.
Zazamato Gogomato, inheritor of the Gogomato fortune, sits quiet in his study. His son had recently retired for the evening, eager to sleep until the End of Days, well, ended. If only the young Totolili saw what his father did. He would know that doom was coming. Beyond mortal vision, the aetheric hues of the world, once so beautiful and pure in their information, were tainted by... something. Zaza imagines that if he had unlimited time, he'd decipher... something about this fog of horror that occludes reason. No, worse than a fog. It's a predator veiled in want, waiting for the moment Zaza lets his mind drift enough towards questioning before pouncing with the answer of demise.
What cruelty, to force me to still my thoughts. Perhaps I deserve this.
There hadn't been much point in pursuing life. The end was coming. His children were relatively estranged. His wife, in the headstone fashion he loved, went off to relax her own way. His sister-in-law... well. Best not to dwell on that.
What a horrible, spiteful mistake.
He turns to look at his father's portrait, bold and imperial, perched high within this chamber. The late Gogomato's smile shone as keenly as his blades. They never got along. The shy, curious son who pondered too deeply could never relate to a man who thrust his heart into the face of all who crossed his path. Zaza would never be that man.
“... But I am you, aren't I?” he asks the effigy of his progenitor.
His connections are mirrors, even if the reasons are wrong. His children want to be as him, but cannot. His partners are left broken behind him. The unifying reason, as it was for Zaza's father, is the masculine element. That need to be superior, and to constantly march forward, even if others are discarded.
Is it worth it to shine so brilliantly if it means snuffing other lights?
His hand strikes barren his table, sending book upon book tumbling to the ground, worn pages creasing in a way that his inner archivist would do the same to his neck if it had hands. But he silences it. No. In this moment, he must finally raise a voice silenced too long, chained within his heart. The voice of the father. The husband. The mortal soul. That which simply loves.
A free parchment is ripped from his drawer. A quill stabs into pot with the jut of a dagger. It's here that his motion hesitates. Not for fear of what he is to pen – for what fear is there when you're certain the heavens or hells will claim you soon – but for the wondering of where to start.
How many have I hurt? How much reconciliation can I yet offer?
The beginning, then. The first.
He thinks of her. Kikiyo. His first love. The woman who he studied with, adventured with, and plunged into the truth of the universe with. Were he not so focused on knowledge, he could have seen her, seen her suffering, prevented it all from turning so, so terribly. But no, don't dwell on those things, Zazamato. This is not your time for self-pitying. This is your time for acknowledging.
I took his arm, and he took my world. Gods, it was supposed to just be a friendly 'haha' thing, not... not this. It was a friends' outing to a bar, not a date, not even that awkward prelude date to a first real date. Out mutuals, waiting for two unwitting lovebirds to develop a single brain cell, would twist their heads sideways trying to figure out how the burning in my chest could come after what was, no subtext, just hanging out.
Maybe that's what made it good, though?
My ears and tail twitch as I keep my hold on him, sepia underscoring his steely sky in the crude painting we're drafting. Maybe at first I was trying to think of how to keep my nails from digging into his skin, but at this stage, I'm thinking too much about every individual ridge of my thumbprints are painting a tiny, indecipherable message onto his body. I measure the exact distance friends can keep their bodies from one another before one needs to back down, but I can't keep the count. Every time we brush close to one another, it scrambles any semblance of math from me, sends me careening from a well-educated scholar into the more primitive thoughts drifting downwards.
I wish I could see his eyes from down here. For starters, trying to look up and stare, see his thoughts reflected in that tiny dance people do with their gazes, would be too much. But a metal visor prevents even that invasion. I keep my grip on him from tightening, my fingers tense from their want to rip apart that mask, throw him to the ground, and stare into his soul until I've drank my fill. And then once I've taken that barrier down, well, what's to stop me from stripping oth-.
My cheeks burn. Does he feel it? I try to think of facts, anything really, to bind me back to reality. The Goblet streets are lit only by the evening sky and sporadic streetlamp. Sounds beyond our footfalls drift in from last words loud enough to drift from homes. Maybe there's an argument I can zero in on, something to cut the fog of the heart and let the shield of cynicism make its stand.
… Does it need to, though?
Does this need to be ruined by that urge? It's just anxiety, right? Worry that, for some strange reason, this man would turn out like the other man I had to drag out of my heart and lock up after. This one isn't going to use me. He's going to say 'good night' to me once he gets me home, and turn in for himself. That's the kind of guy he is. So why am I worrying that he's suddenly going to be the worst thing that'll happen to me? That suddenly I'll just be a dumb teen again, and I'll just 'okay' when he makes me the impact of his calamity. Where will my spine go? Turned to putty the moment his fingers trace down my back, sending it arching from just the touch of his fingernails? When he-
T'orii, stop that. Come on. He's taking you to your apartment. You have a roommate. Nothing is happening.
… But what if something did happen?
Yeah, sure. I can allow it. I'd be the one touching, though. He'd be, I don't know, just there. A body. My index would be much less kind when it traces, claw cutting lines in the thin fabrics of his wear, giving me one morsel after another. When my hands are done with this shaming of his preening, they'd seep into his clothes, feeling his waiting skin underneath. I'll find every spot of his body that makes his soul stand at attention, and squeeze. I would knead him into being mine. I'm not being his this time – well... not his.
Some other guy's.
You know, an important other guy's.
.. One who's not important anymore.
He can't be.
Where was I?
Oh, fuck, my tail. It's swishing so fast I'll be the second death of anyone in an urn on an unfortunately waist-high table. Yeah, that's it, think of dead relatives, that's a buzzkill. Gods, did he notice? Did my tail hit his? Like, ten times? Twenty? I can still feel the soreness in the base of my back from just how hard it was working, but every time I've touched him, it was like falling into clouds. How does he even feel? Is this too much? It seems it. He's walking like it's any other day of the week. I need to know. If I opened his chest, how would his heart beat?
“Hey, Vahri'a?” It's the first thing I've said since taking him. It's the last thing I say too, the need for a question breaking before the realization of 'oh fuck, I asked a question'. I answer it, by reaching up to – I think gently – pluck that damn visor off his face and put it over my own.
A gentle sunshower pools and falls in uniformity down the edge of a parasol. Upon its violet fabrics, the light of the sky scatters, the tool's wielder safe from all its attentions. Though the rocky path to their home has shifted ever so slightly, they still know the way. There's a strange sort of adjustment from so many years nudging forward in zori and shifting to the wide legged swings of gutal. Once in a while, they play at returning to a demure step, shifting their gait ever so slightly-pigeon toed, and laugh at the theatre of it.
Occasionally, this Au Ra's shining pink eyes glance to their heavy black horns, watching the water pool and drip down onto their bare shoulders, sliding across scale and skin until it reaches the fur of their undone coat. Once in a while, they flick midnight-painted nails at their slight body, dispersing the excess with precision.
In the distance, across the rolling green fields of the Azim Steppes, they see it. Home. At least, it was. They remember their brief forray in play, a gang of children with them. Barely teenagers. What was even the game? It barely mattered. Their jeers of joy turned shrill when they heard the thundering hooves coming of black-hearted opportunists. Of course they'd be run down. Captured. Killed. It was a given. But still, most of them ran, save the one who knew they wouldn't make it.
Did curling up in a ball save them? The rainbow of colors for their coat offered no shelter from sight. But the fetal position was the universal sign of submission, wasn't it? Maybe if they were stronger, they would have been speared. A quicker step would have meant being run down. Maybe it's a sign of strength, to just admit you've lost before you've fought.
Their clothes are darker now. Pleasantly earth-toned, mind you, but darker. They wouldn't be caught out again. If they were in that glorious ensemble again, perhaps the watchpost on that singular outcropping would see them now. Would they even be recognized by their blood? It's been so long.
Their fingers twitch at their side. Survival would be a given if they went back home. While their people would hopefully respect them turning from designation of 'househusband' they were raised to be, they'd probably serve as a spouse anyway. Who would be theirs? More accurately, who would they belong to?
"I'm tired of belonging to someone," they murmur. The voice doesn't feel their own. It's bereft of put-upon kindness. Taken by poachers. Sold to scum. Pulled to contract. Drafted by tyrants. How many owners have they had? What would a wedding be, if not telling yet another master that they're to be owned.
"Sorry," they whisper louder, staring at the distant post. "I'm not ready to be loved, I suppose." They pull their hand back through their hair, combing at their bob. "I don't think I ever will be."
"But I do love to be surprised." They tilt their parasol down, and smile into the rain. The sun shines back its blessings.
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"Cactusflower, does this dress say 'I'm both elegant and a cold-blooded killer?"
So says Yoki Yokiki as she shows off a newly acquired azure gown, swishing it around her knees. It catches the sun's light with a reflective twinkle, glistening with pride. Her boots are soft black affairs, the soles painted a vibrant red. Legs clad in tights, a subdued tone to bridge the gap from paradise to abyss. Here and there are accents of gold and ruby red. She sticks out like a sore thumb.
Cactusflower, chocobo, merely stares at his master. There's no head tilt. There's no 'kweh'. He gave those sounds as a chick before he met the Lalafell, and ceased soon after. He recognizes, because it's impossible not to for a bird, that there is no environment he would not spot her in. There is no practical bend to Yoki, whether in personality or practice. Each day she plays at this new school of magic, she throws herself into the jaws of death, and it's usually him plucking her from them.
Somehow, he wouldn't have it any other way. He'll accept her for all eternity... and the eternity beyond that if he's so lucky.
"Oh, don't be silly," she says, pulling out a pocket mirror to inspect her 'war paint' as she calls it. It's just her usual makeup routine, but with a touch more flare of eyeliner, a bit of glitter on the cheeks. "The point is to be seen. I'm asking if I would be feared, but in a way that says 'I would like to fall into the arms of this striking villainess'.
A villain? This causes his head to tilt.
"It's a character, Cactusflower. I'm working on an identity. It's very in for Blue Mages. I need to convey grace and murderous intent both, preferably with a basic adjective-into-noun name. Like... Murder Grace. Murder Face? No, no, that's stupid. Ugh. Cactusflower!! Help me, please."
Well, he has no intention of coming up with an evil moniker. That goes against his very nature, his beliefs. A dark and brooding 'bo he might be, but it with valor and dignity he serves, not blind obedience. Perhaps she could pull from that, instead?
"I'm hardly a knight or paladin, Cactusflower. I can't really use a name along those lines. Besides, I want to be taken by one, not be one."
Can a savior not be saved themself?
"I've read novels about that sort of thing, where the heroine is somehow simultaneously hyper-competent but also hopeless in ways that break my sense of immersion. The hunt for a persona truly is vexing, isn't it?"
Must it be a persona?
"Must it be a persona?" Yoki pauses now, tapping her index against her chin. "Do I really need to go into an arena with some farcical name? I'm more than just a singular aspect. Do I want to constrain myself to a stage presence? A hero does more beyond a title, and few dictate their own titles."
"Kweh," Cactusflower helps, an ilm more enthused than his norm.
"You're right. We should just go on until someone offers a title."
Cactusflower nods with shallow speed.
"... But it can't hurt to come up with a signature move and phrase first! I'll announce it boldly, and all will know they're to be bested by... by my signature move! Perfect!"
The sun hates her eyes. Its glare radiates pain in the core of her skull. Rays send pins across her skin, the ghost-tones heating fast. Once in a while though, this child does risk the pain of parting a curtain. She sees her home. How could anyone see it all?
Her family's mansion rests at the height of a hill, manmade and magnificent. Garden trails lead from the docks of the private island up until the delicate stonework step ascending to her porch. It's as beautiful and painterly as any within her books. When she has strength to make the journey, she likes to go out to those flowery fields and find one to be her friend as long as she can keep it.
Each one's name is catalogued and pressed into a book. Its little details are etched in alongside it. Name, birthday, list of friends, a conjured story of its life. Maybe even a tiny adventure the little lady went on with it in the depths of her imagination. Knights and beasts wage their wars for a flower's affection, all within a single crude sentence, penned with a shaky hand.
She chances her glance to the hurtful free, shielding her eyes with a downturned palm. It hurts. Would that she wouldn't want, maybe the Builder would take her into his embrace and say 'now you may be whole'. Maybe the Lover and Fury would join hands and send her a champion to say 'now you may journey'. Maybe the Traders would show, and simply say 'now you need not worry'.
