Author's Note: Hello, dear reader! This story revolves around my Warrior of Light from Final Fantasy XIV, Al'ashar Charen, who is a Duskwight Elezen and a Dragoon. Timeline-wise, this will take place sometime after the Dragonsong War, after the 3.3 patch, to anyone who plays the game. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Also, X'ranmaia, a Miqo'te Bard who has a large presence in the story, is user Chouzoar's character, and she has written about her character as well, so please go ahead and check her out!

Chapter 1

The smell was so debilitating, she could hardly stand. Stabbing her lance into the dirt, the Duskwight Elezen woman drew a light blue scarf around her face, her nose screwing ever so slightly. All around her, tentacled corpses lay at rest, already attracting flies, their buzzing filling her ears in irritating cadence.

Light golden eyes surveyed the area around her. Swampland filled with Morbols...which would mean this would be the South Shroud.

They were getting close.

The shadows shifted around the woman, and a group of figures emerged from the dusk, weapons at the ready, watching for more danger. However, upon seeing the woman standing in the middle of a ring of Morbol corpses, her pale irises digging into each and every one of them, they lowered their guard, one of them letting out a chuckle, a nervous sound in the silence.

Letting her scarf fall over her breast once more, the woman glared into the darkness at the sound of the laugh, then wrapped her hand around her lance, pulling it from the ground and balancing it on her shoulder.

"...It stinks." Cold words from pale lips. While the Morbols surrounding her reeked something awful, the detached sound of the woman's voice seemed to suggest that she wasn't talking about anything she smelled at the moment - besides, she'd already gotten used to that stench. She'd experienced far worse, in her time.

"...Anorette?"

A quiet voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and the woman sharply turned toward its source, her brows lowered in a glare. The expression quickly faded, however, when she saw who it was, addressing her. Another Duskwight, with pale skin, his complexion suggesting a very recent emergence from boyhood. He seemed stunted in height, and Anorette' must have stood at least a head taller than him. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards with the very hint of a smile, and she reached out, ruffling his unkempt hair.

"Relax, Enois. We'll find our big brother." Though her tone carried kindness and reassurance, it held a cold tinge, and the last word was offered with an unsettling hardness. Looking off into the distance, the Duskwight woman narrowed her eyes, as if she could see her target there, on the horizon, just within reach.

"I promise you...we're not about to let a traitor soil our name any longer."

I'm dreaming.

I tell myself that a thousand times, but that doesn't stop the memories from coming back.

"It's not fair!" I'm yelling through my own laughter - this must be a happy memory. My neck hurts; I'm looking up. Up, up, up the length of a massive tree, where a familiar face laughs down at me, goading me on. "You know I'm no good at climbing trees! Come down, An-"

I'm interrupted when something light hits my head - a pinecone? "Hey!" My yell is met with only more laughter, and then she drops down in front of me, hands on hips, a satisfied and cheeky grin on her face. "Come on, Alleroux! Can't even climb a tree? There's a limit to how flimsy you can be! You can't keep letting your little sister beat you at everything!" I just laugh and ruffle her hair. It's always peaceful, being around her, isn't it?

"Alleroux! Anorette!"

A stern voice calls out. Immediately, my sister straightens up, arms at her sides, as if about to receive an order from an especially heartless general. I just flinch, then sigh, turning around. I can feel my face dropping into a scowl already.

I'm sure to be punished anyways. No use in trying to butter up to him now.

He approaches with the gait of a dying man and the eyes of a coeurl, an ancient skeleton of a Duskwight, his silver hair hanging down in wisps. He leans on a cane as he made his way toward us children, giving off the illusion that he was tired and helpless. An illusion quickly swept away when he whips said cane up like a blade, my back suddenly stinging from his strike, my knees buckling and my body collapsing-

Al'ashar Charen woke with a start. Putting a hand to his rapidly moving chest, he tried to calm his breath, feeling his own heart beat at an unnatural pace. His eyes still half-closed from sleep, he looked around the quaint room, the scent of moist wood filling his nose as he realized that he was safe.

Safe, and at home.

A light groan captured his attention, the quiet sound of someone still deep within the clutches of sleep next to him. With a soft smile, Al ran his hand over X'ranmaia's cheek, the Miqo'te Seeker of the Sun letting out a quiet purr of appreciation in her sleep. Her hair was messy and matted from a night of sleep, and when framed against her perfect skin, she looked to the Duskwight like a goddess of beauty and peace, resting by his side.

Whispering a quiet word of affection to his wife, Al'ashar let his legs slip out of their bed, feet quietly making contact with the floor. With that same careful silence, the Elezen left the bedroom, finally taking the time to stretch once he was out of his love's auditory reach. His jaw hung open in a long yawn, and as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, Al took a look around the home they'd made for themselves.

By the Bramble Patch of the East Shroud, Maia and Al had built their house. With love and effort, their new home had come together, just close enough to the Hawthorne Hut to allow them to stock up on supplies, but far enough away from civilization for them to enjoy the fruits of nature.

And what fruits they were.

Stepping outside in his sandals, the Duskwight picked up an axe from the porch - no Marauder's weapon, but a simple tool for a simple homeowner. The wooden grip felt comfortable in his hand, and as he breathed in the fresh morning air, Al relished in the feeling of peace this tool brought him. It wasn't built to cut anyone down, not like the lances he'd wielded in battle for so long. It was not a tool fit for a hero - and for every reason possible, this thought filled him with an unimaginable joy.

Al wandered towards the woodpile with a slow step, clearly not in any rush. The sun had likely risen about an hour ago, and the birds were just now sleepily starting to sing from their nests. Much like himself, marveled Al'ashar, splitting a log with a single swing, a light smile on his face. He held the axe with the strength of a seasoned warrior - some things could never be burned out of his body, no matter how much he rested. But he could live with that.

If he were called to battle again, he'd be able to face up to that. And, in the end, he knew that it was an eventuality. For his friends, he'd have to go to war again and again and again.

But, for now, he had this home. He had Maia. And that's all that mattered.

"Al'la?"

Picking up a couple of logs and tucking them under his arm, the Duskwight turned towards the source of the familiar voice, the smile widening on his face. Standing on the porch in a nightgown and slippers similar to his own was Maia, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Slinging his axe over his shoulder, Al began the slow walk back towards the house, tilting his head back to the woodpile.

"For tonight's fire. Figured I could get an early start."

Leaning in when he got to the porch, Al planted a soft kiss on Maia's lips, his wife chuckling softly and placing a hand on his arm as he made his way back inside. "The kettle's on the fire, dearest." She followed him in with those gentle words, urging him to sit down for breakfast.

Life, as they knew it, was good.

In a way, it was like a dream.

And if, in some cruel world, it was nothing more than a dream, then they never wanted to wake up.

Indeed, their days dragged on much like this. Al'ashar was an aspiring botanist, and he spent the early hours wandering the Shroud, searching through the bounty of herbs which grew in the rich forest, occasionally finding something he could sell for a comfortable profit, occasionally stumbling upon something which could make the house's tea all the sweeter.

X'ranmaia, in the meanwhile, was an able huntress with her bow, and through her efforts, there was never a shortage of food to eat or stories to tell, as a bard of her caliber was wont to do. And stories were told, indeed, by the fire at night or in bed on lazy mornings, when the loving pair could curl up and forget about the troubles of the world, lulled into comfort by the peaceful forest around them, the Elementals smiling upon their hearts. Only the occasional sneeze from Al'ashar could break their reverie, and even then, Maia would simply laugh with her husband, knowing that despite his mild allergies to the fur of her kind, nothing could break the bond of love they shared.

After breakfast on this particular morning, Al left the house dressed in his comfortable, if less than fancy, forester's gear, after giving Maia a soft kiss of farewell and some words of encouragement for today's hunt. Then, humming a happy tune, the Duskwight made his way down the dirt path which led away from their home, just as he would any other day in this peaceful, perfect life.

But, as fate would have it, this would not be one such day.

As he wandered, a sickeningly familiar feeling began to grow in Al'ashar's gut.

He wasn't too far from home, so he payed the sensation little heed, but even so, his golden eyes began to focus just a little harder on the world around him, trained on the deep forest surrounding him. Something, he knew, was off, and though he did not wish to acknowledge anything which could possibly mar the peaceful existence he led, the accursed warrior instinct within him fought against all of his desires, causing him to handle his sickle just a little more carefully, and his head to duck just a little lower, like that of a mouse knowing it was being stalked.

Stalked, indeed - that was what he experiencing. Somewhere amid the brambles all around him, Al'ashar sensed the presence of another, watching him. A mysterious rustle of leaves, or the glint of hooded eyes; occasionally, the fighter within acknowledged their presence, and soon enough, it was taking all of his willpower for him not to drop into a combative stance, prepared to face the danger head on.

That was a life he'd come here to escape. If whatever was out there wished to attack, he would fight back with all the power at his disposal, but for now, all he wanted was to exist. His life, his peace - these were the most important things to him now.

In his heart of hearts, however, Al'ashar knew full well that this meant this was the day all that would end. With all of his soul, he despised that feeling. Even as he moved, he could feel his teeth grinding together, and his heart sinking into his stomach. Every time he'd fought a foe, he remembered this feeling. They'd called him the Grinning Spear, for his unnatural ability to remain calm and even smile at the enemies who stood in his path. It wasn't so long ago that he'd truly existed as one with his Grinning Spear persona, because he fervently believed his path to heroism was one he'd have to spread by smiling, by always being hopeful and optimistic. But deep, deep inside, he'd always been afraid and wrathful. Feral, like a beast.

The beast he could never become.

The first blow was easy to predict - an amateur move by an inexperienced assassin. As Al'ashar ducked, following the sound of a small blade cutting unevenly through the wind, he pivoted his body, placing a single palm on the ground to support a swinging kick. Though his knife-wielding opponent managed to dodge his counterattack (just barely, judging by the light sensation of cloth Al felt catch on the sole of his shoe), the Duskwight managed to turn his kick into a somersault, putting some distance between himself and his assailant.

Well, now there really was no avoiding it.

Pulling his axe and sickle from his belt, Al'ashar gripped a weapon in each hand - for the millionth time, he marveled at the feeling of the tools' handles, how imperfect they were, how unsuited for battle. In this skirmish, he was at a disadvantage, at least when it came to equipment. As for his opponent...judging by his figure, he was a young man of slender build, likely very agile but not extremely strong. The reason for this guesswork, Al noted, was that his enemy was completely covered in clothing and leather plate, his face hooded and covered with a dark scarf, only the occasional glint of bright eyes reflecting in the light.

"...Shite, friend...don't suppose you really wanted to take my head off there, huh…?" Al'ashar muttered his complaint in his enemy's general direction, slightly shifting his own stance. His enemy might have had a clumsy start, but he had managed to evade one of Al's more powerful kicks, and judging by his gear, he meant serious business.

So, this wasn't going to be a complete pushover fight, then…

They moved at the same time, as if pushed forward by a silent alarm only the two of them could hear. Shoving off of the dirt, they clashed momentarily in midair, Al catching his foe's blade with his sickle, before breaking apart again, dancing a bizarre rondo with their blades. As soon as he was back on the ground, the assassin knelt into a crouching stance, launching himself at Al'ashar's midriff. The Duskwight had other plans, however, And hooked the underside of his axe's blade around his attacker's wrist with perfect timing, knocking the invasive arm aside and giving him the freedom to swing down with his sickle. Despite the weak blade, he hoped, perhaps with a strong arm he'd be able to break through...but his enemy was just as quick, and Al found his own wrist being grabbed by the man's free hand.

Immediately, Al moved to twist himself out of the restraint, but as he moved, he made the mistake of looking his enemy in the eyes, those glinting orbs that shone from within the depths of his hood.

In those eyes, there was hatred. Not a simple, animalistic hatred, either, but the hatred of a burning grudge, one which might have lasted a thousand years. Al froze at the sight of those eyes, which dug into his soul and screamed for his defeat at the hands of their owner. This was...strange. What had he done - to deserve such a gaze? In an instant, all the battle fury he'd built up faded away, and as he twisted his arm free, Al pulled himself away from his foe - but not fast enough.

As he pushed himself backwards, his assailant swung his knife-arm across in a wide arc, and instantly, the chest of Al'ashar's clothes were stained red with blood.

It was not a deep cut, hardly even reaching muscle, but Al still felt its sting. Dropping his axe to the ground, he winced in pain, clutching at the gash in his chest while gasping for air, his vision blurring due to the pain. Even so, he couldn't focus on that pain. His eyes, his heart - all were trained on this enemy, who Al now knew to be filled with hate - hate for none other but him.

Feeling his top soak through with blood, Al attempted to balance himself out on his now-quivering legs. Seven hells, he cursed silently to himself, the knife must've been laced with some sort of poison. He'd been careless, underestimating his opponent from the get-go. Even as the cloaked figure moved steadily closer to him, Al'ashar realized that he could no longer move at all - as if his very bones had turned to stone. Then, that stone cracked, and his knees buckled beneath his weight, bringing him down to kneel before his shrouded foe.

Standing above him like a monument to despair, this hateful enemy held up his poisoned dagger, and as he did so, he let out a cold chuckle, the first sound he'd made, Al realized in his stupor, for their entire combat. Kneeling down so he was face-to-face with Al, he placed the knife just under Al's chin, so that with a single thrust, he could finish it all. But just before he made the finishing blow, he tilted his head - and, with a voice so smooth it could have come from a dream, he whispered.

"Pathetic, Alleroux. After all this time, you can't counter a single kni-"

Before he could finish, however, the glint of sudden awareness appeared in his eyes - not because of Al, but something else, beyond his victim-to-be. And then, as if pulled backwards by an invisible string, the assassin leaped back, just as three arrows sprouted from the earth in a line where he had just been kneeling. Al's vision was getting blurrier and blurrier, but he could see the murderous shadow vanishing into the distance, hidden by the branches and leaves as arrows continued to rain from above around him in desperate pursuit.

By the time X'ranmaia landed by his side, yelling his name, Al'ashar had lost consciousness completely, slumping to the ground in a bloody heap. And yet, even so, those cold words still echoed in his head, mocking him in his dreams, his nightmares.

Pathetic, Alleroux.

That brief peace he'd longed for...was over.