By now, Aranea Highwind thinks that she should be used to seeing such destruction. The sight of Tenebrae steeped in fire should not be astonishing. The almost tangible stench of shit and all things burning should be familiar to her. In her experience, Niflheim preferred to take a sledgehammer to any pesky flies. It was common practice. But even then, Aranea had witnessed worse devastation in Altissia during Leviathan's rampage. That experience alone should either have broken her or desensitized her to things such as this. At least, she thinks it should have.
But seeing Tenebrae fall is somehow different. She finds it hard to look right at the destruction. Finds it harder to look away. Aranea has never seen Tenebrae before. Now it is the only chance she will ever get.
The topography of Tenebrae is like nothing she has ever seen anywhere else. Its numerous isles defy gravity in ways she has only ever dreamed of. On one of these islands is Fenestala Manor. It is easy to identify by its sheer size. It burns titian in the night. Smoke pours out of it like it was one of the smokestacks back home in Gralea. That comparative alone tells her that Tenebrae has already burned to the ground. Its ashes lie scattered across this train platform. Aranea should be familiar with all noises ashes like this make too. She has seen people cry and beg before. Seen them hurl strings of curse words at the sky. How they hurl words and more at each other. She has seen before the vacant expressions that she sees now.
But she is not used to them trading these particular words between them: Oracle. Princess. Lunafreya.
Lunafreya will be devastated when she finds out. It has not even been thirty-six hours since Aranea had last seen her. The princess had asked Aranea to drop her off in the Ghorovas Rift without providing any explanation. Aranea just assumed it was an Oracle thing. It hardly mattered to her then. She had only been asked by a pompous ass to make sure that Lunafreya made it out of Altissia alive.
Just hours later, news of that same man's impending execution hit the airwaves. Her communications technician had caught wind of the attack on Tenebrae shortly after that.
Aranea does not know the princess well, but it is hard to believe that she would be anything but devastated. Noctis clearly is.
He looks at the burning manor with his jaw slightly unhinged. It is enough to let her know that the sight has hit him in the gut. Then he jams his hands into his pockets and tears his eyes from the ruined view. Noctis reminds her of a spent bullet casing. There is something bent about his form and expression. Something empty.
Aranea realizes then that Noctis must think Lunafreya is dead. Before the announcement of the ex-commander's coming execution, most radio stations had been on about nothing else but the wreckage of Altissia and the Oracle's passing. She thinks it is premature of them to declare her dead without a body. But she gets why they assume she is. Altissia was hardly more than a collection of boats and roofless houses by the time Leviathan was finished with it. Truth be told, Lunafreya nearly did not make it out alive.
But she had not pegged this pretty boy as a pessimist. When she glances at his miserable-looking entourage, she finds they are down a man. Blondie is no where in sight. He could use some good news.
If you see him, I ask that you do not tell him about me, she remembers being told. He must heed their call.
Aranea sucks in a bit of her lower lip and presses two teeth to it.
On the radio, those who spoke of the Oracle lauded her for her kindness and her grace. Testimonials from those she had healed claimed her presence alone was a kind of balm. Aranea had seen her featured in magazines and newspapers. In them, the princess had always appeared just as Aranea thinks Tenebrae would have if it were not burning now: like she had stepped out into Eos from a wonderful dream.
In the two weeks they had travelled together, Aranea did not tell Lunafreya that she owns three recordings of her sermons that were broadcast on radio. Aranea did tell her that she had never put much stock in the Astrals or in the cult of the Oracle. But she did not tell her that her soothing voice helped her to fall asleep on rough nights.
He must heed their call, Lunafreya had said.
There was not much she could glean from Lunafreya's vague explanation. If it could even be called that. But one thing is clear: Noctis is important. He has some kind of greater purpose. Only, it is hard to believe that when she looks at him as he is now. Inexplicably, she remembers how calmly Lunafreya had said that. Remembers how serene her expression had been when she had descended the platform down onto Gralea snow.
Lunafreya should be devastated by all this. She should. Or maybe she will not even bat an eye. Aranea cannot help but wonder just how many lives Lunafreya has saved over the years. And how many she has seen extinguished. That normally does something to a person. But Lunafreya is not just some human: she is the Oracle. Aranea is not sure what the difference between the two things might be. Or what that difference might mean. A part of her digs into her memory and looks among the testimonials that claim the Oracle is kind for one that calls her empathetic. But she cannot remember any of those testimonials perfectly.
Aranea does what she can for Noctis. Biggs and Wedge do too. Her trusted subordinates give Noctis a ride on the northbound train for Gralea. She sees the remnants of Tenebrae boarded onto the southbound one before she takes off in her airship again.
Hundreds of thousands of feet above the ground, Aranea wishes she could let out a sigh of relief now. But she cannot. Instead, she cusses under her breath. Curses sentimentality and all that it does to her.