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autumnslance · 1 year

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The Unsundered and Tempering

There's apparently some kinda post going around ruffling jimmies about the Ascians versus the Ancients, with extreme assumptions about a society we see precious little of ourselves in game and mostly get informed of by people still grieving it millennia later.

Most of them antagonists, that like many other antagonists and allies, folks seem to want to take at face value for a lot of what they say, while often ignoring what they do and how, while speaking.

This is something I have noticed among fandom and roleplayers for decades, so it's nothing new, but there's a lot of times the text of any situation is making it clear that even if a character isn't outright lying--even thinks they are being "honest"--that is not necessarily the case.

It also comes back to making sure one is using all the available information--goodness knows I've made a fool of myself before by missing scenes or text that did explain someone's position on lore and characters!

Regardless of how one feels about certain plot points, storylines, or characters, they all inform each other in canon. Different characters say different things at different times in different company. A scene from two expansions ago may inform a new patch cutscene. Actions may contradict words. It all works together.

For an example, since it's come up elsewhere, I've had doubts about how Tempered the Unsundered were from the moment Emet-Selch claimed it, due to one of the last scenes in ARR, cutscene #5 in "Before the Dawn" where we see Lahabrea and Elidibus speak just before Urianger arrives in response to the Emissary's request for a meeting:

Lahabrea: The earth is fertile, and the seeds well sown. By my will, they shall reap salvation unlike any the world has known. Elidibus: By His will. Lahabrea: …By His will.

The Ascians in ARR and HW spend a lot of time telling the WoL about their One True God. Here though, in a moment of privacy before the Archon's arrival, Elidibus has to remind Lahabrea to check his ego as his actions are for Zodiark, not himself.

This is an early indication, alongside Nabriales's actions in the previous patch quests, that not everyone's on the same page in regards to the Ascian agenda. Nor is Zodiark's hold on each red mask absolute--even the ones initially at His summoning.

EDIT: Not to mention Fandaniel's actions in their entirety in Shadowbringers and Endwalker; killing one's god to usher in the end of the world is not the act of a tempered man!

Further doubt is placed on Emet-Selch's claim by Tiamat. We get more of her situation in the Shadowbringers patches, in the "Righteous Indignation" cutscene:

Tiamat: Recall, mortals, that it was I who did first summon my beloved, praying with all my being to bring him forth. You who contend with eikons cannot well be ignorant of the consequence. Alphinaud: …You too were exposed to his influence. That you are yet in possession of your own will is testament to the indomitable strength of your soul. Alphinaud: But were you to meet with Bahamut again, you fear you might succumb. Tiamat: Indeed. Ask the dragonslayer, and he will tell thee the power we of the first brood wield. Were I to lose myself to the eikon's influence, all would pay the price. Tiamat: But it is of little matter. For even had I the strength to resist, I yet lack the strength to break my shackles. This prison shall be my tomb. Alisaie: On the matter of Bahamut's influence, at least, I believe we can be of some assistance. Alisaie: If you're afraid of being enthralled, don't be─we have a cure. And while we've never tried it on one such as you, its basic principles are universal. Tiamat: Speakest thou in earnest? Alphinaud: There is no future for those bound to the past. Alphinaud: That you committed a terrible sin, I do not dispute. But if you feel remorse, you may yet make amends. We offer you that chance. Take it, or you will forever remain a prisoner, not of these cruel shackles, but of your own guilt. Tiamat: A chance to make amends… To lay Bahamut's memory to rest… Tiamat: When our own star faced annihilation, Hydaelyn granted us sanctuary. And now your foes would bring about Her destruction. This I cannot allow. For the debt I owe to Hydaelyn, and to all who have suffered for my sins…I shall fight with you, children of man.

Tiamat is a victim of the purposefully corrupted summoning magic the Ascians distributed. Yet she is not entirely enthralled by the Bahamut she summoned; she fears she would be if she were exposed further to a primal. Tiamat, as a Great Wyrm of the First Brood, is more akin in her aetheric composition to the Unsundered than most others on Hydaelyn. She knows she is influenced by the primal she summoned, and part of her remaining bound is to protect herself and the world from that consequence.

And then she chooses the cure and to move forward with her life, when given the option. As do other enthralled figures among the tribes when granted the option.

While there wasn't yet a cure when still fighting the Unsundered, entreaties to end their crusade and move forward fell on deaf ears--but I doubt very much it was due to Zodiark's influence entirely, and more their own stubborness after having clung to this course for ages.

The first cutscene of "Unto the Heavens" in Endwalker presents finally the intersection of original creation magic and modern summoning, as preparations are made to board the Ragnarok:

Livingway: You've done a fine job of readying the Ragnarok, but for it to take flight, we'll of course need the power of the Mothercrystal. Livingway: Given its immense size, however, transporting it would be an absolute logistical nightmare. Not to mention we'd need to shatter it into tiny shards for feeding to the engines. Livingway: But a brilliant idea came to me: we convert the crystal's energy into forms that can transport themselves! Urianger: Thou wouldst employ summoning…or should I say its precursor─creation magicks. Thancred: Care to explain for our benefit? Urianger: As you may have witnessed at Bestways Burrow, the Loporrits are capable of creation magicks, which they use to shape the moon's environment. Urianger: Yet simple though they make it seem, 'tis a highly advanced and exacting art. To perform it correctly requireth that the wielder holdeth the object in his mind's eye in clearest detail. Alphinaud: Hence the ancients' meticulous management of concepts. Urianger: Drawing upon this art, the Ascians conceived of summoning as we know it. Urianger: A derivative that replaceth the complexity of concepts with the simplicity of zealotry to make manifest a creation. Y'shtola: I see… By combining the Loporrits' magicks and the tribes' faith, we convert the Mothercrystal into primals of purer form and greater obedience. Y'shtola: Summoning as it was intended, one might say. Livingway: Indeed, indeed! Livingway: While Hydaelyn gave us the ability to use creation magicks, She forbade us from using it to make anything possessed of a soul─or similar. Livingway: She didn't say anything about fulfilling the desires of others, though. So! Borrowing our friends' faith, we'll create deities using the Mothercrystal's power, and send them to the Ragnarok! Alisaie: Am I the only one here concerned about the risk of being turned into a tempered minion? Livingway: Oh, right, I was getting to that… From what I've read in Sharlayan tomes, it appears the Ascians incorporated an additional nasty element into their summoning method: the fervent desire to assimilate others into one's belief. Livingway: Beings thus created are instilled with the selfsame desire, and use their powers to enthrall people─starting with the summoner. Livingway: In contrast, our creation magicks─the original and the best, accept no substitutes─don't incorporate any of that rubbish, so there's no risk of tempering. I mean, if the being was on the scale of Zodiark, you might feel a little “tug”…but I think we'll be safe enough.

From what we get here, summoning is quite obviously an offshoot of the original creation energies of the Ancients, but twisted by the thinness of the sundered mortals' aether and using faith and collected aether as a substitute. The tempering part was a later, intentional addition, possibly after the Unsundered had opportunity to examine the effect of Zodiark's summoning on themselves and extrapolating that.

Now, is some of this likely retconning to explain discrepancies in how characters acted and how tempering has been used? Probably! There was supposedly a rewrite of the main Ascian/Hydaelyn/Zodiark storyline, inherited from 1.0, which Stormblood allowed the time and consideration going forward on how they wanted to resolve this long arc. There's a lot in ARR and HW that has been recontextualized to fit, though some things still stand out a bit oddly; they did as good a job as they could, especially given the many years and writers involved.

But from the more recent writings, the intention is not to excuse the Unsundereds' actions with "they were tempered." And the final proof comes from Emet-Selch in Ultima Thule in cutscene #4 of "You Are Not Alone", having been through the preliminary wash cycle of the Lifestream long enough to have had various enchantments removed from him, while yet retaining his self before that too is washed out before reincarnation:

Alisaie: You're leaving!? Emet-Selch: Of course. The encore is finished, and I will not suffer myself to live again by Hydaelyn's magick. Emet-Selch: But more than that, the future you seek is not the past we loved. That is why we fought. And why I lost. Emet-Selch: But though you defeated me, my ideals are inviolate. Invincible. Emet-Selch: Spare me your pity. I have no use for it. If you would do something for me─save our star. Emet-Selch: See this tale to a triumphant conclusion, and with elation in your hearts, bid the final curtain fall. Emet-Selch: Only then may it rise again and a new tale begin─with new parts for all to play.

Through Shadowbringers, Emet-Selch claimed to want to cooperate with the Scions, while only giving bits and pieces of carefully considered information, and moving the goal posts whenever they did prove to him they were able to pass his tests and meet his expectations. It is not until this moment where, his duty to fight finished and the fate of his beloved world in any form at stake, that he is truly honest about what he did and why.

(I may also have an analysis WIP about comparing him and The Sandman's Morpheus and that stubborn refusal to change his mind and ideals, but it's slow going)

So while we mostly do have to go by what characters say, directly to WoL or to other characters in other scenes, each conversation cannot be taken in a vacuum; it is taken into account with their other conversations, with their actions, with other characters' input. And sometimes, the writers change direction, and new information will overwrite the old, even as it builds off of it.

The game is not consistent about Tempering and Summoning, though the double acts of Shadowbringers and Endwalker's story tries to clean that up. I just seriously doubt, from all the evidence, that the Unsundered were as entirely under Zodiark's thumb as say, one of Ifrit's over-hammered thralls and therefore not responsible for their choice and actions, the plans they made and came up with and clung to in stubborn guilt and grief and rage for so long they couldn't do anything else, even when presented proof of other options and chances to change or move forward.

Because another thing ShB and EW have shown us in both MSQ and in the Pandaemonium storyline, is who these men were, to become the Ascians we know, and how their own beliefs shaped them individually when faced with such loss--and how in each case, those past, pre-Zodiark selves would look at the eldritch beings they became by the Seventh era, and be horrified. Not because of any god's influence, but what they were capable of on their own.

...Well OK, Lahabrea already had a pretty good idea of what kind of monster he was capable of becoming. He also chose the worst way to handle it, and never seemed to learn from that. Elidibus and Emet-Selch though, while adamant in their beliefs, were also warped by what they chose to do and be, to where Elidibus even refused to remember his past to avoid the pain, tunneling into his duty with no wavering. Only Emet-Selch chose to remember, wallowing in it, acknowledging the monstrosity of his actions...and choosing to commit them anyway.

EDIT ADDITION: Relevant lore info directly from Banri Oda on Tempering and many other things.

#Final Fantasy XIV #Tempering #Ascians #Unsunderered #Emet-Selch #Lahabrea #Elidibus #Tiamat #Livingway #Banri Oda #lore #character analysis #A Realm Reborn #Shadowbringers #Endwalker

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naelmasn · 3 months

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✨️⛎️

sleeby family

#my art #ff14 #ffxiv #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #themis #elidibus #venat #argos #livingway #from the fic i wrote: backyard memories #i just had to draw the ending of ch.3 bc it was cute in my head 😢#plus any time is a good time to draw mama venat

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garlean-empire · 1 year

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Endwalkers

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brineffxiv · 1 year

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His name is Argos and he is a good boy.

We ride Argos to an interesting facility where-

OMG

Thancred, do you see what I'm seeing?

I'm seeing bunnies.

A lot of bunnies.

If I had a nickel for every time I was mistaken for a child...

The Loporrits were created by Hydaelyn at some point in the long long distant past and ever since have been dutifully preparing the moon to take us - the people of Etheirys - to a new star to resettle. They are unsurprised by the news of Zodiark's demise, as it is the eventuality that they have been anticipating their entire lives. They are the backup plan.

I... Did not realize it was quite so literal. Though I suppose I should have, after all, Zodiark without Elidibus was basically a husk full of power. So Hydaelyn, after a fashion, must be Venat. I wonder how similar the primal now is to the woman she used to be?

Ah. So he is like the shades of Emet-Selch's Amaurot: a simulacrum in the image of a person long deceased. I wonder if he too was one of the souls who gave their lives to fuel a primal's summoning? We don't have any information so far that Hydaelyn required the sacrifice of lives to create... but I cannot imagine how else it would be done. After all, She was only the second primal in existence: it stands to reason that the second summoning would be modeled on the first.

All that aside. The idea that all this technology is the result of Venat and her colleagues' research is... wow. The ancients were scarily close to inventing space travel.

The Loporrits have apparently been getting help from somebody? Somebody who has been providing them with information and materials to prepare for our arrival?

That somebody neglected to tell the Loporrits that we are nowhere near as tall as the Amaurotines were. They probably didn't know the ancients existed, much less how large they were.

This revelation produces much screaming and running from poor Livingway, who now has to deal with a facility designed approximately three times bigger than necessary.

Probably a good idea.

First stop! The Carrotorium. A potentially revealing name if ever there was one. And yes, it does turn out that while there are plenty of varieties of carrots, to meet all our nutritional needs... That's all there are. Just. Carrots. Not even cooked. Raw carrots. Oh dear. This is Sharlayan and their Archon Loaf all over again.

...Ah. I am getting an idea. And it is potentially both hilarious and revealing.

...Or maybe not? Hmm.

I am more than slightly jealous that the Loporrits have creation magics.

Next, clothes!

...It feels like the Loporrits heard that the ancients wore robes and masks and combined that with the knowledge that modern peoples enjoy diverse colors and textures, without ever having actually seen either of the two groups.

Actually, that's probably exactly what happened.

...At least Urianger seems to like his?

I feel so bad for the Loporrits. They want to please and help so badly, but just weren't given the right information to do so. They've tried so hard, but their efforts have come up all wrong.

Another good question from Thancred. Are there Loporrits for the reflections? Do the other reflections even have an outer space to flee to?

It's the same star. It's...

I'm not even having this argument. This isn't Livingway's fault.

*Ahem!*

In light of this answer, I actually have another question.

Does your definition of "people" include the tribes? Or just the ones that look like us? How about the dragons? Are you even aware that they exist? Because, if your collaborators are who I suspect they are, I have a bad feeling about who they will prioritize to save.

#ffxiv liveblog #rhesh'a tag #argos #thancred waters #loporrits #livingway #hydaelyn

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ecosystem-administrator · 7 months

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Portentous

Timeline: 6.0, main story spoilers

Urianger's first day alone on the moon is not going the way he expected.

The air of the room was cool, and the bedding soft and clean but of a wholly unfamiliar texture. Urianger recalled, as his eyes slowly fluttered open, where he was: Bestways Burrow, the underground facility on the moon where its caretakers were busy preparing for the end of days. He was having trouble focusing, no doubt an effect of the long hours he’d stayed awake speaking to the tiny inhabitants before giving in to his body’s inevitable need for rest.

Gradually, he became aware that the other reason he was having trouble focusing was that the nearest surface, a stretch of textured blue cloth, was quite close to his face indeed. And above that was a small furred face with large dark eyes, waiting, placid and utterly unperturbed. “Oh good, you’re awake,” they said, as Urianger began to raise his head from the pillow, confused and alarmed by the sheer proximity. “We had some more questions.”

We? He raised his head further and realized all at once that it was not just one Loporrit: there was an entire line of tiny patient rabbits stretching from the head of his bed and half filling the little room they’d managed to repurpose for him to stay in while the living quarters were refurbished. Dear Thaliak. He closed his eyes again, forestalling any and all possible reactions until his mind could finish processing. There was not enough coffee on the moon for this; there was not, in fact, any, or at least not in a preparable form. He’d checked their stores yesterday.

“We know it’s important for mortals to get their rest,” said a second Loporrit. “So we waited for you to wake up.”

I cannot shout at them. Their actions are reasonable, for a race which requireth no sleep nor hath any contact with mortal society. Shouting at them for this would be unfair. Urianger took a deep breath, and then another, and answered only when he was sure he had regained his composure. “Thy consideration is appreciated,” he said, with at least an attempt at a smile. “I have some additional recommendations to make, for mine own comfort and that of future guests. Pray tell, who would be most apt to distribute this information widely?”

The Lopporits glanced from one to another in wordless consideration, as was their wont, and one of them piped up, “Managingway was the one who said we ought to get in line so you can answer us one at a time.”

“Managingway doth indeed sound an excellent choice for receiving this feedback,” Urianger agreed. “My thanks. As for thy questions, I shall answer each in turn once I have had a moment to gather myself. Mortals take time to ready for work in order to perform our best. May I have some privacy?”

Although the Loporrits clearly did not understand the purpose of privacy, they did understand the meaning of the word, and Urianger was given space to bathe and dress himself before tackling the line of questioners, which continued to fill even as he addressed their concerns; half the day had passed almost before he was aware of it. He was slicing a carrot into more manageable bites and wondering how long it would be before he grew weary of even the specially-bred vegetables the Loporrits had so carefully produced, when Livingway approached.

“I don’t mean to be a bother,” she said, “and Managingway has, um, cleared us up about personal space. But do you have a moment?”

“For thee, always,” Urianger agreed. “Thy needs in particular hold a greater weight, as the leader of this operation; that much hath not altered, nor will it. What aid can I grant thee?”

“We’ve had word,” she answered gravely. “The evacuations are to begin as soon as possible.” She pulled out a device which projected a globe, and the aether currents that overlay it. “There’s been a catastrophic thinning over Radz-at-Han already - see this gap here? It’s hard to know how bad the damage is, but apparently it’s enough that the Forum has been convinced to set their plans in motion.”

Urianger felt his heart drop. “So soon…” he murmured. “…I shall do everything in my power to ensure that we are prepared to receive the refugees.”

“Oh, I know you will,” Livingway assured him. “And the others have been told through our regular channels. I just…thought you should know as soon as I found out. Since it is your world and all. …Oh dear, have I made a muddle of things? Should I find Counselingway?”

“There is no need.” Urianger shook his head and smiled at her past the worry that was filling his thoughts. “…If truth be told, I have lived more of my life under the threat of impending doom than I have in its absence. I am accustomed to the weight.” That was a melancholy thought, but one to address another time. He rose from his meal. “Let us see to the preparations, that we may receive my fellows with the comfort they deserve.”

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2023 #urianger augurelt #endwalker spoilers #livingway #loporrits #this image was too funny I had to write it #they're this fascinating mixture of expert and grade schooler #urianger needs therapy but who has time for that

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tallbluelady · 2 years

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The Road to Mare Lamentorium

#shitpost shaturday #Urianger #thancred #livingway #light endwalker spoilers #the road to el dorado #this has been rattling in my skull for a long ass time #yeah!#annnnnnd post

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dragons-bones · 2 years

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FFXIV Write Entry #30: The Long Road Home

Prompt: sojourn || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: Here we are, at the last. Spoilers for Endwalker. Warnings for blood, discussions of injury and pseudo-fantastical medical procedures. Immediate followup to “At the End of All Things.”

The Ragnarok dropped from hyperspace without even a shudder, and Livingway couldn’t help the grudging respect for the Sharlayan engineers who had built her. While teeny-tiny toy boat, it was a well-made teeny-tiny toy boat, that had withstood the forces exerted on it as it had hurtled to the edge of the universe and back.

Etheirys hung like a brilliant blue jewel against the black of space now, growing closer as Mappingway input their return trajectory. At this speed, the Ragnarok needed to do almost a full orbit before she was slow enough to land safely in Old Sharlayan.

Just slow enough. Any slower and…

“Godsdamned fucking ribcage, I can’t fucking reach—”

“I can, Healingway, move your hand now and—yes, I have it.”

“Someone crack open another aether syrup bottle! No, two, Alisaie one of those is for you—”

“I need more gauze!”

“Here, Thancred—”

Livingway resolutely did not look behind her, staring straight ahead at the viewscreen and ignoring every twitch and jerk of Mappingway and Sleepingway’s ears as the Scions and Healingway’s triage team frantically worked to save the Warriors of Light. Any slower and Hydaelyn’s chosen champions might lose precious seconds they desperately needed.

(Healingway was going to be absolutely intolerable later, when the danger was past, because she had been the one to bully her way onboard with her team right behind her carrying crates of supplies, despite Livingway’s huffing.)

“Ragnarok to Thaumazein, Ragnarok to Thaumazein,” Mappingway called over the comms.

A crackle of the aether-radio: “This is Thaumazein, we read you loud and clear, Ragnarok. Welcome home!”

“Thaumazein, transmitting our return trajectory now; ETA in Scholar’s Harbor is 1300 local time. Requesting immediate medical assistance upon arrival. I repeat, requesting immediate medical assistance upon arrival.”

Krile was at the head of the crowd with Tataru, the pair of lalafell sprinting forward with a tiny carbunclet each hanging from a shoulder, as the Ragnarok smoothly sliced through the waters of Scholar’s Harbor and towards the largest of the berths at the far end of the docks. Giddy relief surged through her; the strange double-sight of Sharlayan’s clear skies and the overlay of the burning heavens of the Final Days had faded to leave only blue behind, and she had dared not hope until linkpearl reports came in of the Ragnarok flying over Othard and Ilsabard and Eorzea. But hope now she did.

She and Tataru came to a stop at the edge of the pier, the Ragnarok gliding sedately into place. As they did, Amandina dropped from her shoulder all of a sudden, and Roksana from Tataru’s, the pearl carbunclets tumbling into one another and vanishing with a pop! of displaced air. Krile felt their pearls tingle on her wrist—Synnove had given the twins into hers and Tataru’s safe-keeping, foci stones and all, with strict instructions to head to Ishgard should the worst come to pass—and then the two returned. With a passenger.

Ser Aymeric, lacking his formal Lord Commander’s armor in favor of simple boots and breeches and a linen shirt beneath a doublet, stumbled a pace forward, dropping to one knee as he cradled the twin carbunclets in his arm. “Girls, we have had words with you about sudden teleportation,” he wheezed.

Sorry, Papa, Amandina squeaked.

It’s an emergency, Roksana added.

His head shot up, and Tataru and Krile’s both whipped around.

We gotta go, Amandina warbled, reaching up to press a carbuncle-kiss to Ser Aymeric’s cheek.

But we’ll be back! Roksana chittered, doing the same.

Take care of Mommy! they chorused, and then in a flash of blue-and-purple aether, they demanifested.

Ser Aymeric stared at where they had been in his arms just a moment ago. Tataru was slowly losing color in her face, and Krile felt the same, as her hands began to shake.

“Make way, make way! Healers coming through!”

Krile raised her head as a full company of city-guard pushed through the crowd, escorting a full complement of sages and conjurers and chirugeons, each wearing the sigil of the Sharlayan Medical Corp; a group of loporrits bull-rushed their way through just after them, pushing four long carts—mobile cots?—with multiple medkits and other boxes of supplies balanced on top of them. With the healers safely arrived, the guards turned towards herding back the crowd, calling for an order and creating a corridor back down the dock. Ameliance and Fourchenault ducked by them, but the guards gave them no notice; the Leveilleurs were beginning to look as worried as Krile felt.

She sprinted to the healers. “Master Healer,” she called to their leader; she didn’t recognize her, unfortunately. “What’s happening?”

“Ragnarok requested immediate medical attention upon arrival,” the Roegadyn woman said grimly. “I can confirm everyone is alive, but the Warriors of Light are in critical condition.” Krile closed her eyes, terror lancing through her even as Ser Aymeric gasped wetly behind her and Tataru cut off her horrified shriek. The healer continued, “Mistress Baldesion, I loathe having to ask, but I must request your assistance, in particular due to your familiarity with the medical histories of the Warriors of Light.”

Krile clasped her hands together in an attempt to stop their shaking. Oh, gods be good, please let this not be because of the decision she had made in allowing Zenos viator Galvus the chance to follow the Scions to Ultima Thule. “You need not ask, Master Healer,” she said. “Though I am glad I will not have to fight through your healers to assist my family.”

The Roegadyn nodded, and then both their heads whipped around as a hatch on the Ragnarok hissed, and swung open. Thancred hung out, grim-faced and blood-stained as he kicked a gangplank into place down to the dock, and Krile and the healers surged forward.

“We’ve got them stable, barely,” he said once they were close enough, ducking aside to let them through, and then leading them towards the bridge. “Alisaie nearly drained herself into her own case of aethershock, Y’shtola had to cast Repose on her to get her to stop. We’re all in minor cases of aethershock, but Synnove is the worst off, and that’s before the physical injuries.”

Krile felt herself go grey as Thancred rattled off the extent of the injuries suffered by the Warriors of Light and Scions both. It was a miracle they had even made it back to the ship and the Scions weren’t sure what had happened between the assumed defeat of the Endsinger and their arrival back on the Ragnarok, but Krile knew. She knew how those injuries had happened.

The floor of the Ragnarok’s bridge was covered in blood. The Scions and Healingway’s team of loporrit healers huddled around the Warriors of Light; even Alisaie, who had apparently bucked Repose, to Thancred’s exasperated sigh.

Krile immediately went to Dancing Heron, shooing an exhausted Alphinaud out of the way so that she and one of the Medical Corp healers could take over. A diagnostic spell told her the Hellsguard’s innards were essentially held together by prayer and fine silk thread; it was another miracle her blood wasn’t poisoned by the toxins from her perforated intestines, or what remained of them. As she settled to the task of blasting infection before it could take hold, Heron’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hi, Krile,” she croaked.

(“Oh, fuck you,” Healingway raged from where she was putting Alakhai’s chest back together. “Stop throwing off Sleep you fucking idiot! I hate paladins!”

“This is the first paladin you’ve worked with,” one of the loporrits muttered.

“Shut the fuck up!”)

“Oh, Heron,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Hey, none of tha’ now,” Heron said, slurring. Her eyes closed, her chest rising with the deep breath she took. “Hate to say it, but th’ bastard made ‘isself useful. An’ then we ended ‘im good ‘n proper.”

“You shouldn’t have fought him at all,” Krile said, reaching up to brush blood-crusted hair from Heron’s face.

“Was in—ugh. Was in-ev-it-a-ble,” Heron said slowly, deliberately. She reached up and gently patted Krile’s hands, her dark red skin too cool to the touch. “Better at th’ edge of th’ universe tha’ where someone could get hurt.”

“And you and your sisters count very much as someones getting hurt.”

“Nah, s’our job,” Heron said, nodding, as if that made it better. “M’gonna sleep now. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Heron,” Krile said, patting the paladin’s cheek, but Heron was already out cold.

Tension filled the bridge; Krile glanced up and saw Ser Aymeric kneeling next to Tataru, holding the young woman close as she cried onto his shoulder, his own eyes focused with horrible intensity on Synnove. Ameliance crouched on Ser Aymeric’s other side, one hand on his free shoulder and the other clutching tight to her husband’s as Fourchenault spoke quietly but firmly into a linkpearl. From the snatches she could catch during lulls in the orders and requests of the healers filling the space, the Leveilleur patriarch was throwing around the full might of the Forum to ready the emergency ward at the hospital.

She lost track of how long they worked, but eventually the loporrits brought over the mobile cots—stretchers, they were apparently called—and carefully they loaded a Warrior of Light onto each. Krile was small and light enough that she stayed crouched over Heron, modulating her conjury to keep her friend stable as they were wheeled out of the Ragnarok and towards the chocobo carts waiting to carry the whole of the Scions to the hospital. Two other lalafell healers did the same with Alakhai and Synnove, and Healingway knelt next to Rereha, frowning thoughtfully at the device she carried in one hand even as the other held the stasis spell steady.

Ser Aymeric followed along next to Synnove’s stretcher, one hand resting on her uninjured arm. The other Scions staggered after them; Estinien had Alphinaud slung over one shoulder, the young man passed out from exhaustion, with Alisaie hiked up under one arm and being fussed over by Ameliance, while Raha, Y’shtola, and Urianger leaned against one another with a pair of Sharlayan sages hovering next to them. Thancred carried a still weeping Tataru, smiling faintly as the coinkeeper scolded him between her tears.

A flash of blue overheard caught her attention, and Krile lifted her head to see a bluebird wing its way above the harbor.

The first sennight was the worst. For all that the four Warriors of Light were stable, any of their conditions could take a sudden turn for the worse, and more than one Scion took up a silent vigil at the side of one of their friends to ensure she made it through the night.

Kan-E-Senna, A-Ruhn-Senna, plus a number of Gridanian conjurers and Ul’dahn alchemists (among them Rerenasu Kukunasu, looking as if he had aged ten years before he even got to his daughter’s bedside), arrived by Ironworks airship the day after the Ragnarok’s return. The Elder Seedseer was immediately whisked into hushed talks with Healingway and the Sharlayan chirugeons who researched experimental treatments. And then they descended upon Rereha’s rooms to begin their attempts to repair the bard’s shattered spine, as the other healers were quickly put into the rotation to treat the others.

Aymeric spent those first days refusing to leave Synnove’s side, to the point the Master Healer, Tyrngeim, sighed heavily and ordered a cot brought to the arcanist’s room on which he could sleep. Not that he truly gained any rest, jerking awake almost as soon as he dropped off for fear something might happen to his lady in so fragile a state. The one time he managed a full night’s sleep was because Y’shtola had marched into the room, Urianger on her heels, and forced a sleeping draught into his hand while saying, “You’ll be no good to her dead yourself. Urianger and I will take the watch tonight.”

Synnove was so awfully still, as were her sisters; the healers were using a combination of thaumaturgical Sleep, conjuration Repose, and a cocktail of potions to keep them in comas. While everyone had returned from Ultima Thule in some state of aethershock—Estinien had been introduced to the disgusting horrors of aether syrup, and his brother had spent a solid two bells growling like a drake as he had kept otherwise silent vigil with Aymeric next to Synnove, grimacing with every tentative sip—Synnove was by far the worst off on that front. Her cheeks were sunken, her skin tight across her bones; any time the Warriors of Light were called to duty, Synnove dropped weight, the demands of her magic eating her body’s reserves, and the Scions had careened from the towers to Garlemald to Ultima Thule in mere moons, with Synnove (as well as the other mages) becoming almost frightfully lean before their journey to the stars. Now his lady was skeletal, and per the healers, her internal organs were badly damaged, particularly her kidneys and liver.

It took Aymeric two days to notice the arcanima sleeve tattoos were gone, and he stared, gaping, until Alisaie arrived.

“It was all the healing,” she said quietly, taking the brush from the bedside table to begin tending to Synnove’s now-brittle hair. “We had to practically shove aether into her and her body just gobbled it up, trying to keep itself functioning. At one point it was like a floodwater, so much magic at once it spilled over, pushed the ink right out of her skin. On her back, too, we had an awful fright when the colors seeped out onto the floor.”

“N’dhovaka is going to be furious,” Aymeric muttered, thinking of the Sun Seeker matron who had done all of Synnove’s tattoo work.

Alisaie snorted a laugh. “Synnove told me she had been wondering about some sort of alteration to the sleeves, refine the arrays. Suppose this is as good an opportunity as any.”

They both spoke in whens, not ifs, as if to do otherwise would invite ill fortune.

For now, all they could do for Synnove was keep getting aether syrup into her, trying to get her ravaged internal reserves to some sort of equilibrium, with healing sessions where the healers guided her own energies to focus on maintaining her brain and heart and lungs. Aymeric listened with trepidation as Tyrngeim and Healingway explained to him on the fifth day what they hoped to do once Synnove was stable enough that they could perform surgery.

“Her left kidney is completely shot,” the Master Healer said. “Now, an adult hyur can live with only one kidney, but given the state of her right kidney, she’s looking at potential failure in the future.”

“Fury preserve me,” he said, dropping his head into hands and pulling at his hair.

“Her best chance is essentially to perform a transplant surgery,” Healingway said succinctly, her small arms crossed. “There’s Allagan tech us loporrits have salvaged, plus what the Eorzean Alliance and Sharlayans have recovered over the years and studied, and there’s some genuinely useful medical uses for their cloning technology. Fuckers used it for some disgusting things—”

“—but my colleagues have had success with using it to grow new organs for badly injured individuals,” Tyrngeim interrupted before Healingway could get going. “Normally organ growth on the scale we need takes moons to ensure everything is viable with the power restraints we operate under—the original Allagan machines had power requirements we won’t be able to match for a couple generations as we reverse-engineer everything—but Healingway thinks since there is some healthy tissue remaining, we can use it as a base and jumpstart the process with loporrit creation magic. And since it’s Synnove’s own flesh, her body won’t reject it.”

“The liver won’t take much,” Healingway said. “Absolutely wonderful organ, the liver, it’s perfectly capable of regenerating itself over a period of time, but Synnove’s is at the point it’ll need some help. And far easier than the lung transplants we’re going to have to do for Alakhai. Honestly, I think the only reason we even have a chance right now is that there seems to be dynamis still lingering around all four of them, though even my tools are shite at judging how much. We’re going to have to do all the gross organ stuff right at their bedsides to harness it, we are literally fueling all this shite with high octane hope.”

Aymeric could not even begin to parse through what the two healers were discussing and the implications of it all. He rubbed his face tiredly and said, “Whatever it is you need me to sign, I’ll do it,” he said. “Whatever it takes to see her through.”

He still didn’t know if Synnove was better off than Alakhai and Heron, their bodies so badly wounded that the healers were still struggling to align bones and fish out stray shards and make sure the right pieces of meat were sewn together. It likely wasn’t wise to compare. It would take a long, long time for any of them to be back at full strength.

“This is going to be moons of recovery, once they’re out of danger,” Y’shtola said at the end of the first sennight, gathered with all the Scions, Aymeric, Rereha’s father, Heron’s mother, and a Lominsan in green by the name of V’kebbe, newly arrived that morning and “representing Alakhai’s family among the Upright, if you please.” They were huddled in the empty room in the same wing that their four family members were being kept that had become the communal space for them. A spread of coffee and juice and sandwiches from the Last Stand was laid out on the center table that they half-heartedly picked at.

Krile cleared her throat, and Y’shtola scowled, ears pinned flat to her head even as she obediently lifted her bottle of aether syrup and took a sip of the concoction.

“We do not ask any of ye to merely return to thy homes and await whatever sporadic crumb of news we can provide,” Urianger said. The other elezen was the most dressed down Aymeric had ever seen him, in soft pants and a thick sweater and knit fingerless gloves on his hand; his own aethershock lingered now in a persistent chill. “But ye will need to make the necessary plans if ye intend to stay in Sharlayan for long.”

“Considering the poor luck many of us have in multiple responsibilities, we’ll need to switch off as needed,” Rerenasu sighed. “As a note, Shushuha and I will cover all transport costs for everyone, airship and teleportation, and please do not argue with me about this, Opal.” Heron’s mother, Radiant Opal, rolled her eyes. “Ser Aymeric, no doubt Angharad will try to do the same, tell her she can argue with Shushu about it until they’re both blue in the face. Miss V’kebbe—”

The miqo’te rogue snorted. “Like Jacke’ll complain about one less thing t’ worry about with our coffers,” she said. “And thank you.”

“We’ve already got rooms set aside for everyone in the Baldesion Annex,” Krile said. “And no doubt Ameliance will do her best to send lunches for us all, no matter the time of day.”

Thancred sighed heavily and slouched in his chair. “Consider this the official first meeting of the Warriors of Light Family Support Group,” he snarked, ducking the swipe Alphinaud took at him and shifting to avoid the pinch from Alisaie.

“Likely not the last,” Alphinaud said with a sigh. But then he smiled, faint and hopeful. “But so far the signs are pointing to a positive outcome, and we must needs contain to have faith in our friends and the healers alike.”

It was the end of the third sennight, and Aymeric was startled awake by a hissing noise. He had fallen asleep in the chair next to Synnove, her limp hand gently grasped in his own, and now he snapped his eyes open, searching for the danger—

“—stupid fucking stubborn gods-be-damned older sisters I swear to Hydaelyn I will beat you bloody—”

That was the familiar tirade of a certain loporrit trauma specialist. Aymeric turned his head, and he stared.

Dancing Heron grinned back at him. She had huge bags under her eyes, and her skin hung lank on her frame, and she was slouching, one arm gingerly cradling her stomach, but it was Heron.

“Heron, what in the name of—” he gasped, scrambling to standing. “You came out of your third surgery yesterday, you’re supposed to be in a bloody coma—” He gently wrapped his lady’s elder sister in a hug, and she hugged him back with one arm.

Healingway raged at their feet. “This fucking stupid two-legger threw off the most potent cocktail of drugs I have ever had to mix and two layers of spellcraft because she had to check on her sisters. For fuck’s sake.”

“I was tired of sleeping,” Heron said mildly.

Healingway spat a curse that had Aymeric’s inner soldier blushing.

“Alakhai gave me a thumbs up,” Heron said as he drew back and pulled over a chair for her. “Then she dropped back to sleep. Rereha stole her mom’s knitting and is doing a cat’s cradle to test her range of motion in her fingers.”

Aymeric laughed as he helped ease the Hellsguard down onto the chair, the only reaction he had in his disbelief. Not even a few days ago, Kan-E-Senna had been fretting about the extent of any paralysis for Rereha, as she was still being kept in a coma, and Alakhai had had her own second surgery earlier today to begin fixing the disaster that was her torso.

“And it looks like Synnove’s doing better, too,” Heron rasped, a grin on her face as Healingway pulled out that strange scanning device of hers to go over the Hellsguard.

He turned, puzzled—and stared.

On Synnove’s other side, her aetheric glow dimmed to converse as much aether as possible, was Galette, tucked under her mama’s arm with her chin on Synnove’s shoulder. The carbuncle was nearly transparent, but she was there. And for the first time in three sennights, Synnove’s breathing was slow and deep, rather than the reedy wheeze that haunted Aymeric’s dreams, her chest rising and falling in steady beats with Galette in tandem.

The best, surest sign that her aether had finally begun to stabilize.

Aymeric collapsed into his chair, put his head on his lady’s shoulder even as he gripped her hand anew, and wept. In her sleep, Synnove’s hand twitched, and gripped back.

(On the tree outside the window, a bluebird began to sing.)

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