Minfilia senses the Echo in the girl nearly the instant she brightens the doorstep of the Waking Sands. Though Y'shtola has brought reports and sketches depicting their new friend's appearance, she finds herself rather shocked by just how tiny Aldera Lightwing, hero of Limsa Lominsa, truly is. Tataru measures up to Aldera's slim hips, and Papalymo much the same—which says much, considering that Lalafells are known for their lack of height, themselves. Why, Thancred towers over her, and— oh—
She hides her smile behind her hand. The others do not notice it, of that much she is certain, for Aldera makes use of her unusual appearance to veil that which she does not wish to be seen. The quick look sent in Thancred's direction is one she's seen many a lass (and lad) toss his way, much to the contrary of his previous bemoaning of her unaffected mien as he escorted her around the premises and attempted to work his charms. If her senses have the right of it, this next chapter in the Scions' tale will have many amusements to behold, for dear Thancred, who feels so bound to protect them all and fill Louisoix's shoes, has a glimmer in his eye beyond his usual degree of interest in ladies of all sorts as he regards Aldera.
Even as Aldera's attention is taken up by Yda and Papalymo's bickering, her body tells Minfilia that she is still aware of Thancred: the most telling part of it is the base of her tail, which twitches every time he speaks, but there is more to see in the tense line of her shoulders and the tilt to her head, bent slightly toward him, as if attuning her horns to his presence.
It all speaks to the panicked stirrings of youthful feelings, fresh and new. If Thancred were the first to catch their new friend's eye, Minfilia should hardly be surprised.
"Whenceforth comes thy amusement, Antecedent?" asks Urianger at her side, and that his voice is pitched low tells her that he likely already knows what unspoken meaning she has discerned in their friends.
Still, Minfilia turns to him, smiling. "Doubtless it can only be that which you yourself have perceived as well—a sprouting bond to be well-watched. I do believe we shall have some charming times ahead of us, do you not?"
"Thirty-one?!"
At the exclamation, Minfilia quickly returns her attention to the scene at hand. Aldera is gawping up at Thancred, who looks mightily amused, and Y'shtola is eyeing her as if she is a particularly fascinating insect—unintentionally, she is sure. It is the first time Aldera has spoken and proven herself capable of the feat, and the girl's voice, while currently heightened in surprise, is low and soft, pleasant to the ear.
Thancred crosses his arms, smiling down at her. "Indeed, 'tis so. And you, fair lady? Twenty-four, perhaps, to my eye...?"
"Hmm..." Aldera frowns to herself—and begins counting on her hands. Yda giggles. Papalymo whacks her knee; Aldera ignores Yda collapsing dramatically to the floor and mumbles under her breath as she apparently calculates how many summers have passed her by. "...beach... dragon... K'layne's job... ah, in all... nineteen, I believe. Probably. Maybe."
She seems quite proud of this proclamation, a smile gracing her face, politely ignoring the stunned silence that has enveloped her.
Minfilia cannot wait to have the place to herself. She would certainly like to laugh about her instincts being proven correct, but though among friends, she needs must maintain the image of the Antecedent whenever she should happen to be standing in the solar.
"...You believe?" Y'shtola asks, recovering admirably.
Good work, Minfilia thinks fondly.
Aldera nods. "I cannot be certain. I may be older, but there is much that escapes my recall prior to the first time I was shipwrecked..."
"The first time?!" Yda takes Aldera by the shoulder, checking her over as if she might still sustain an injury from any prior misadventure. "You don't mean to say that you were shipwrecked more than once?"
"Three times," is the rather cheery response.
Y'shtola shakes her head. "Then I suppose we must be grateful that Hydaelyn's grace has brought you to our door unharmed. You must endeavor to be more cautious from now on, Aldera."
Aldera nods again, seeing that as sufficient response, and the conversation resumes. Thancred, though, is blinking to himself.
Nineteen, Minfilia watches him mumble, near-soundless. I must be more careful...
"Dear Urianger," Minfilia says, struck by a rare bout of mischievousness, "what say you to a small wager between friends?"
Urianger smiles. She rather wishes he would do so more often—it's nice to see, from such a serious man. "What sort of wager, milady?"
"The length of time taken and the method by which it occurs. Simple, really."
He considers this for a few moments. "Years," he says finally. "As to the last, such is beyond my reckoning."
"You mean to say you do not know the stirrings of a young maiden's heart?" Minfilia teases. They each know full well he has little interest in such things.
Well. Except where Moenbryda is concerned—but she has no desire to cause him to withdraw. Which he would, were she to voice it.
It only earns her a slow shrug. "'Twere a thing far from my youth, and further still from adulthood. But our friend is slow to realize that which truly matters—you know this well, as do I."
"Indeed." Somewhat more somber, she surveys her friends, glad that they are all here, healthy and whole. For the moment. "With luck, perhaps we will see developments soon. I intend to send them to Thanalan to investigate the Amalj'aa—so I will put my lot in for moons. How does that sound?"
"As milady wishes," Urianger says with rich irony in his voice.
The days that follow see many firsts for Aldera. Though the Scions have expressed the direness of their need for her skills, they do not seem intent on putting her to work, which sets her off-balance. Life on a ship is full of its own drudgeries, but the rhythm of it is at least familiar and constant, rising and falling like the waves; now she finds herself learning a different timeline of motion, one with more starts and stops than she entirely likes.
Now is Minfilia's kind smile as she guides Aldera to the wing of the Waking Sands that houses the senior Scions' quarters; now is I hope these rooms will be to your satisfaction, now is—
She swallows. There is a bed in the corner with freshly-turned sheets that look beyond soft, and a dark oak end table at its side that is sturdy and elegant in equal measures. On the cool stone floor is a rug, and at the other end of the room are doors to private facilities. Likely a washroom for at least one of them. Maybe a kitchen unit for the other? She isn't sure, and besides, it's all so... nice.
Once again her voice will not work. Out comes her journal, and with haste she scrawls out: Is this truly all for me?
"Of course it's for you!" Minfilia exclaims after she takes a moment to read, her hand landing on Aldera's shoulder. "We do no less for those in our organization who have no permanent lodgings of their own here in Eorzea. It would be remiss of us not to care for your needs. So long as you are of a mind to continue working with us, these quarters are at your disposal."
Ah. Though she couches it kindly, as she does so much else, there is the condition upon which this hinges. Despite herself she relaxes: all such kindnesses have their costs. Thus it was living upon the sea, and so it is now, poised to begin acting out a role in a play much grander than the already-eventful life she has led.
My thanks, then. Is —here she pauses for a moment, thinking on how to phrase it in a suitably sophisticated manner— there anything else I should be aware of in regards to what happens at the Waking Sands?
Minfilia gives it some thought, her brow furrowing as she brings her hand close to her chest, and finally shakes her head. "Nothing that you will not learn in time, I do not think. Thancred escorted you about the premises already, I hear?"
Again her heart seizes up at the memory of Thancred's eyes, warm and hazel-brown, kind even as they watched her with veiled, calculating interest. Feeling heat rise up her cheeks, she nods.
"Pay no mind to his demeanour," Minfilia says with a small smile that crinkles at the corners, returning her hands to her sides, and Aldera's shoulder feels cold for the absence of that soft hand upon it. "He is a habitual flirt, but he is a good man. Simply express your wishes and he shall abide by them."
Are her cheeks on fire? It feels like they are. Her penmanship is not up to her careful standards when she scribbles out I —
She pauses for a long moment, scowls down at the jagged line, blacks it out and starts again.
I don't mind.
"Is that so?" Minfilia asks with interest, one brow quirking as her smile, already soft, takes on an air of mischief.
Aldera breaks eye contact, looking down at her feet. She nods.
Again Minfilia's hand lands on her shoulder. "Then be sure to let him know if you do start to mind. And worry not. This shall be for you and I to know, and him to figure out, hmm?"
One more nod, even as she wonders what, exactly, Minfilia means. Habitual means done frequently means not special, which, having watched other such men, means it is simply a matter of course, to be expected in the way he interacts with anyone—
"But you will have plenty of time to bear witness to his habits on your mission together," Minfilia says, wry, ignorant of the way Aldera's train of thought grinds to a complete stop at the bombshell that she's just dropped like it's nothing . "If you are amenable, I had a thought to show you about Vesper Bay when you have gotten your things settled in. How does that sound?"
She blinks several times. Get it together, she rebukes herself. They are giving you a chance.
I should like that, she writes, and Minfilia smiles, eyes brightening.
The investigation wears on for weeks.
"Tired yet?" Thancred jokes one night as they sit in the corner of the tavern, lying in wait for the merchant they'd caught wind of near the start to return to Camp Drybone. The man's been out on a trip of some sort, ostensibly short-term and local, but he's taking rather a long time to finish whatever his business out in the wilderness is.
Aldera, who has been idly sketching patrons as they come and go, needing something to do with her hands, shrugs one shoulder.
"Ah, and still you do not grace me with your dulcet tones," he laments, propping his chin up with his hand as a smile tugs at his plush lips. "Won't you spare me even a word? Just one will do, darling. Anything you like, even. I'll accept handsome or wonderful or even amazing —if it please, that is."
Oh no, this again, she thinks, her face growing hot, and she ducks her head. She tugs her other journal over, the one that's for talking, not sketching, and pauses for a moment, biting her lip. He watches, his eyes at half-lid, true curiosity sparking behind the good humor.
She doesn't want him to get the wrong impression. I can't, she scribbles out by way of explanation, angling the journal for him to read as she writes. In demonstration she clears her throat and tries, but again the words catch in her mouth, again her breathing stutters. So heightened are her nerves that unlike the usual she finds herself coughing and shivering, and she curls in on herself, trying to regain her composure.
Alarmed, Thancred leans over and wraps an arm around her shoulder. "Good gods, Aldera. Are you alright? —Don't try and answer that," he says, wry, and though the warmth of him and the scent of Ul'dahn spice soap that lingers on his skin is distracting, it's distracting in a way that grounds her. "Take your time, sweetheart. I suspect our man will only make his appearance upon the morrow, if he intends to appear at all."
I'm fine. It just happens every time, so I stopped trying. I was just as surprised as you all to hear myself on my first day, she jots down, and her face must be absolutely ablaze by now—he's still trying to support her, she thinks, but even with his head angled away to read he's so close —
"Ah. Then pray do not push yourself on my account. I apologize—I meant only to tease," says he as he withdraws, that smile accompanied by woeful wide eyes like a coeurl pup that knows it's misbehaved, and—and if all of this has been him trying to set her at ease, which she thinks it might have been, Twelve forbid he progress to trying to establish friendship—she tries very hard to breathe, and even mostly succeeds, but gods, looking him in the eye is going to be a problem.
Where's the old man when you need him, she thinks, somewhat wildly, looking down at the grungy tabletop and its sticky underside. Sure, he comes and he goes, and he's going more often than not, but Riol was the one to introduce her to K'layne and the Sisters, he would know how to handle this—what would Riol do?
Despite herself, her lips thin into an amused line. Riol would hide behind her and her levin-touched eyes and pretend it was truly a great pity that he was haunted and simply could not talk to whoever he didn't want to talk to. Though he would know how to handle— this —he would instead simply laugh at her. Lady Luck be with ye, little ghost.
It's fine, Aldera writes. Could you tell me more about Thanalan? I want to— she worries at her lip again— help how I can, but there's much I do not yet know.
"Luckily for you, I am a scholar," Thancred says, leaning his elbows on the table, something in that smile easing an ilm, and she had hardly even realized there was an edge to it until that edge was gone.
Dangerous, this is. She is doomed.
...And she is watching his lips move as he speaks and hearing almost none of what he says.
What in the hells is happening to me? Aldera thinks, forcing herself to comprehend , worrying at the frayed edge of her cloak, wondering at the intensity of feeling roiling through her. It's like a firestorm out on the southern oceans. Or a riptide. She feels as if she is being pulled toward him—like he is an inevitability, somehow—but it feels like no inevitability she has known beforehand.
If this is attraction, she understands why the sailors sing songs about it, now.
Whatever else it is, though, it is first a problem, one that must be ignored if possible. The Scions are larger than this thing in her chest, their purpose grander—she must find it in herself to live up to the job they recruited her for.
Besides, she thinks, eyes cutting to the door briefly as a serving girl comes back in and the old hinges squeal in protest, a man like this would never look twice at a little ghost. No one does.
Reprimand to herself firmly in mind, Aldera does her best to fulfill the Scions' expectations of her. She is keenly aware that Thancred's presence on this mission is in part to mind her, new as she is to the way the organization works and the tasks that will be required of her as time goes on. But she has lived too long as a pirate to be surprised when the mission inevitably goes straight to shit despite said best efforts. So it goes.
But still. Even with a member of the Flames whose name she does not know as her only ally, surrounded by Amalj'aa, it is not the most dire situation she has ever found herself in. She has reasonable hope, even, that with her carbuncle's protective magic she may yet manage to pull out an escape, though almost certainly not a victory.
And then they hit her with the sleeping dart.
Please don't be a lethal dose, she thinks, hazy, as the world begins to fall away. Cap'n 's gonna get my arse for this...
Time blurs. The shipment of raw auracite is going to be late, the Kraken needs her for a job, K'layne is cooking raw auracite for the many children of Limsa Lominsa but Aldera has to go back, she has to return—
To return—
Return to where? There is an answer, she's sure, but all that comes is a red moon over a city made of gleaming spires, the shattering sky, the stars falling, and that's not it, it can't be—
Cool blue, unearthly blue. It gleams, brighter than the spires. Too bright. The Light rings out, resounding, grating. It is not supposed to be like this.
Aldera sleeps.
The fire doesn't even burn.
That's what gets to her later—the flames licking harmlessly over her. But in the moment all she can think is: Ah, fuck.
And with strange certainty: I have lived this moment before.
The air has a tang to it, and a tenor too, a low thrum of distortion in the aether that grows louder and more insistent when Ifrit reels back, denied his prize. Thou art of the godless blessed's number, says he, and the Paragons warned of thy kind, and thy existence is not to be suffered.
Well, she knows what that means. So also does she understand the fell intent in Ifrit's gait.
But that part of her that knew from the very first time she found herself in a backstreet Lominsan brawl how to throw a punch whispers to her now: like this, it says as the tempered Amalj'aa fall back, and Aldera reaches in, deep into the aberrant, flickering aether, and with her grimoire as catalyst pulls —
Ifrit howls. Staggers. One clawed mockery of a hand grips his own maw in pain. In the back of her mind, a part of her crows with glee.
Alright, Aldera thinks, tilting her head as she observes. She adjusts her stance from a rogue's low center of gravity to a caster's firmness. Alright. I can do this. Like that behemoth in the isles. Similar size... only with added fire.
There will be time for everything else. Later. Now another, hotter flame scorches the ground where she stood seconds before; now her carbuncle chitters in offense and leaps up to kick Ifrit with its hind legs, scratching him across the eyes with its claws; now she is running rings close to the outer wall of flame, thankful, for once, that she took the time to memorize the essentials of her spells. Each second she acquires by stripping the casting process of its fanfare is another second she has to destroy this thing before it destroys her.
Her heart pounds in her ears. Every breath is a battle, smoke and thick clouds of aether mingling to create a thick, crackling Mist that seethes and burns with a tang of copper on the way down her windpipe.
She does not think she has felt alive like this, before.
She does not let herself dwell on it.
Ifrit falls.
Aldera shuts her grimoire with a snap and attaches it to her belt again for the sake of portability. She watches as the false god dissipates into aether, after a quick glance at his followers reveals them staring in grief and disbelief. Whether that will hold remains to be seen... but her grimoire's not the only weapon she has on hand, and she's a far quicker draw with her knives.
The most trouble she had throughout the whole fight was endurance. Even though the smoke is clearing, she still tastes it on the roof of her mouth when she swallows, and Ifrit's dark eclipse still blots out the sky, still sees his hellfire smoulder in flickering tongues at its edge and upon the ground, as if seeping in from another plane of existence.
She's sweaty beyond belief and probably going to feel the bruises in the morning, but for all the raggedness to her breathing, at no point did his claws ever rend skin. Neither did his flame scorch her to cinders.
Unharmed. Aldera wants to laugh. Riol and the Captain would find it a riot, they would. Ye tore him limb from limb, did ye, lass? And ye're no worse for the wear? Knew I 'ad ye managing our cannons for a reason. Aye, may be that ye take on Titan next, just like old Riol! Ha!
Footsteps, plenty of them, rapid and also behind her. A ways off. She picks up the crystal Ifrit left behind and for a moment her eyes see darkness and only darkness—then the ground beneath her sings as it lights up, and Aldera takes a step back, startled, standing in Ifrit's proving grounds as if she had never been anywhere else. She stares at the crystal.
Was that... supposed to be comforting? she wonders, but she has no time to contemplate it. The footsteps have drawn much nearer, and sooner than she expected, Thancred approaches her at a trot that has only just slowed from his prior sprint.
Aldera gives him a little wave.
"Pray forgive my lateness," he says, wide-eyed as he rakes his gaze down the line of her body, coming to a stop in front of her and taking her shoulders in his hands. He looks half-ready to conduct a full medical examination, what with the worry in the line of his mouth, the furrow to his brows. "I was delayed by a congregation of Amalj'aa zealots. I swear, each seemed more evangelical than the last. It feels a bit mad to ask, but... are you... alright?" Before she can even try answering, his eyes flick up, behind her, and sharpen at what he sees. "—Ah. Hold for just a moment, sweetheart."
She turns as he leaps into the air—oh no, he's not only got training, he's good at what he does—and finds herself distinctly unsurprised that an opportunistic thrall thought to try for her head. It was kind of him to take care of the issue for her, she thinks as he lands on the opposite side of the fallen Amalj'aa warrior, a single knife still left in his hand.
He looks at her over his shoulder. Her heart stutters.
Oh gods, she thinks as he steps over the warrior to return to her, sheathing the knife and once again grasping her shoulders. He seems almost... wondering, and then his brow furrows as he checks her over for a third time, and then, finally, he meets her gaze. "Now. Have you any injuries I can't see? Or, failing that, any injuries at all?"
She doesn't have her journal with her. And the words won't come. She takes Thancred's hand, and, too slow for her tastes, traces Eorzean letters with her finger: I A M F I N E.
He watches with a furrowed brow and something completely indecipherable behind his eyes. After a moment he sighs. "Still, be a dear and allow me to at the least tend to your scrapes, assuming you have any. Once we're in the clear to do so, of course."
He's touching you, provides her own voice, helpfully. Right in front of you and he's touching you —
Aldera shakes herself and nods. He squeezes her shoulders, takes her wrist, and pulls her along at a run as they make good their escape, the Bloodsworn close behind.
Her face feels hotter than Ifrit's fire. His hand positively engulfs her wrist. She is doomed.
"I owe you an apology," he says that night in her inn room, his face lit in warm golds and soft orange-reds by the lantern light. His hands are deft and perfunctory as he checks over her shoulders; she winces when he pauses and gently presses in to a particular spot, yielding a dull throbbing pain around it. "...If I had known this mission would prove as dangerous as it did, I would have never left you to face it alone. You have been given a veritable baptism by fire."
Facing the wall as she is to allow him to work, feeling now the blows she did get before Ifrit from his less-than-caring worshippers, she cannot see his face. But she can well hear the sincerity of the regret in his voice. Perfunctory though his hands might be, he is still handling her with the care one would afford to a comrade; she tries not to grimace as he spreads healing ointment across the collection of contusions and shallow gashes decorating her upper back.
It feels cool, and tinged with an aetheric hint of mint. When he brought it out it wasn't in any kind of standard-issue jar, but rather one that looked old and worn, as if it had seen one too many knocks in his travel bag.
She wants to say... something. She's not sure what. It was bound to happen eventually, maybe, or his flames did not touch me, but they would have touched you. All of it only boils down to the simple fact of having no other choice.
Thou art of the godless blessed's number.
Many years past, five if the reckoning they've all agreed on holds true, the world ended in fire. The sky shattered, the moon fell, blazing red and angry, and the aether was in turmoil as the fabric of the star frayed, as the Calamity unraveled all that was. The Captain was at sea, and gods only knew where Riol was. Aldera—
Aldera had been called. Lured.
She realizes that, now.
There is an abandoned church secreted away some distance from the waterfront in the heart of Limsa Lominsa, accessed through an unmarked stairway deep in the scrambled network of whitewashed tunnels that spreads far beneath the visible surface. Once the tunnels had belonged to the kobolds; later they were used by pirates, a veritable godssend for the black market trade of two things in particular: spice... and crystals.
Strange thing, to find sanctity in the blackened depths. Pirates are a superstitious lot: not a one ventures into open water without a prayer to the gods, and she knows more than a few who keep little icons of the Navigator close at hand, to be clenched in their fist when things are going badly, to remind them that their deeds are being watched.
Not that the gods approve. But they watch, or so pirates tend to believe, and that is enough for many of them.
So perhaps not so curious. Not for that reason.
Cased in by high stone walls, built over with the passage of the years, a thin sliver of sky was all that whispered of the derelict little building, almost more a shrine than anything. The gods within, carved of stone and standing silent watch over dusty offerings of jewels and cloth pouches that looked so old that she had feared they might disintegrate should she touch them, were unfamiliar to her.
With the end of all the days that had gone before at hand, and Aldera left to her own devices, she could not get out of her head the resonating grief in the aether. It had taken the form of a song, faint, ever just out of reach, tingling at the edges of her horns.
It was irritating. And so it was that she set out to find it—if only to make it stop, or hear in full the song of the land, to be a final witness to its cry, if nothing else.
In the church, one of the idols was made of crystal. It took the form of a woman. It sang. It mourned. It... it...
Even now she can hear it, when she tries to remember. The land —
The land, the land, the land —
The land is alive —
O my wandering child, open your eyes — remain deaf to our plight no longer —
"Aldera?!" Thancred exclaims as she full quavers on the stool, her head landing in her hands as she grips her hair in pain. "Stay with me, here! You didn't go and overexert yourself felling a god, did you now?"
Free —
Free —
Free the land —
"What in the hells," she hears him mumble as she tries to resist the urge to scream like the bloody dead, her head pounding worse than her last exciting bout of aether sickness. It feels like the back of her skull is being hit repeatedly with a hammer, which is why it takes her a very long moment to see the crystal in her bag on the bed, glowing brighter than Ifrit's fire—gleaming— gleaming —
Aldera makes the scream soft, but it is a scream all the same. Thancred's hand is the only grounding she has. She turns her head away. "...Cover... it..."
"What—"
"Cover it cover it cover it cover it," Aldera hisses. "Echo—gods—the Echo!"
Gods be praised that he is quick on the uptake. He seizes one of her spare tunics, strewn carelessly about the bed as it was, and throws it over the bag. Tears of pain burn in her eyes, but do not fall; the agony blessedly recedes, and though she feels as though she has been wrung out like a sponge and twisted into several shapes wrong for the make of her, at least that is gone. She shudders.
The land, the land, the land...
Thancred's hand rests on her bare shoulderblade. Once again she curses the bodice she chose to wear, gods above, so much larger is that hand that his fingers spread half across her back— why so many casters' tops insist on open shoulders she knows not—but part of her welcomes the sensation of his palm against her skin, the sheer distraction of how it ties her into knots. She swallows as he speaks. "I see life is never a bore around you, eh? You wouldn't happen to have any inkling as to what all of that just was... would you?"
It's a probing question, one with a thread of wariness behind it that sends a lance of fear through her. If this causes them to rethink their recruitment of her—well, she would simply return to adventuring, but she can see the righteousness of their cause. She wants to render what aid she can. Some part of her needs to have a cause, she thinks, and this is the first chance she has had that feels right.
Even if that means fighting primals like Ifrit.
Aldera shakes her head, her throat too tight, and does not uncurl from her huddled posture.
"And, once more, your voice has deserted you," he observes, sympathetic. She hears him settle back onto his stool, and then she feels him set to dressing her wounds, allowing her time to recover. His silence is thoughtful, now, rather than regretful, so—at least there's that, she thinks. "That crystal—you found another, before, did you not? With Y'shtola." Apparently he notices her surprise; his hands halt for but a fraction of a second before he continues on. "We were apprised of the events in Vylbrand that brought you to our door, and that aspect was of particular interest to Urianger and Minfilia. You may find them more able to explain what has just occurred than I."
No need, she thinks to herself, grim and exhausted. It is a thought she now knows she will not be permitted to put into words, but she understands the truth all the same. The Mother... the Mother has need of her.
There is no other way. There is no other end.
Late one night, she finds him lurking in the storeroom. It has been some days since their return from Camp Drybone, and after he'd left her and Minfilia in the solar with that worrying proclamation of his own (needless) guilt, she's not seen hide nor hair of him. Not that she's had much opportunity to—Minfilia has been intent on introducing her to the administerial aspect of Scion work.
"I would see you learn all you can, my friend. I understand you find knowledge to be half the battle," she'd said, allowing Aldera to sit in on meetings (there's far more than she thought possible in the amount of time they've had to hold them—she understands keenly now the thermos of strongly-brewed tea Minfilia ever has at hand) and sparing the time to answer what questions she had between them.
As a result, Aldera now knows much more about the minutiae of the city-states than she expected to. The Grand Companies she was aware of, and Limsa's inner workings moreso, but the vagaries of Gridania's various businessmen trying to act in accordance with the will of the elementals and the many, many Ul'dahn merchants who understand contracts, terms, and conditions only in terms of coin are new to her.
It is one such meeting that she and Minfilia leave from that sees her decide to wander a little afterward, to unwind. Minfilia departs to her rooms with a squeeze of Aldera's shoulder and a warm smile that seems, in every way that matters, weary but genuine.
She disappears around the corner. In every way that matters, for the first time in many weeks, Aldera has been left to her own devices.
The storeroom, she reasons, is comfortable and lit enough to read by. A postmoogle nearly interrupted one of Minfilia's earlier meetings in search of Aldera, and by the look of the handwriting on the letter, she's gotten a missive from the Captain.
First she's heard from him since he set her on this path moons and moons ago. Typical. While in person Grand Storm Marshal Eynzahr is punctual in all matters, trying to get ahold of him from afar is like trying to lasso a feral, grizzled old chocobo with a makeshift vine from across an islet, which is an experience she knows she never wants to repeat. Ever since he threw his lot in with the Admiral he's learnt to at least respond ... but reaching out? Reaching out is new.
Preoccupied though she is, she notices that Thancred does not call out to her when she enters the storeroom.
This is her first clue that something is not right.
The second is the sensation of being watched.
Aldera feels her heart run roughshod in her chest, and with a fluid ease whose origins she can only attribute to the adrenaline in her veins, she makes it to the table nearest the door and drops into the seat closest to the wall. Habitual, habitual, habitual, she thinks, trying to recall Riol's lessons. Do what you usually do. The more you try to look like nothing is wrong, the more something is wrong.
So she pulls one of her smaller knives out from the collar of her cloak and opens the letter. She scans it, initially, not really seeing any of the words, then closes her eyes for what feels like a half-second, trying to gather herself enough to comprehend it. When she opens them again she nearly jumps eight yalms out of her skin: Thancred is standing but a few fulms away, his expression indecipherable.
She tries. Really, she does. But all that comes out is a croak of a sound that might've been the beginning sounds of his name, in another life.
"You knew I was here," he says, his tone as blank as his voice.
Aldera blinks several times. Her mouth runs dry. Shit.
"...I ought to redouble my training." Finally he does something other than stand there like a tall stone: he slumps into the other seat at the table, the one with its back facing the room, and buries his fingers in his hair. "You truly were not injured. Not one bit, not from Ifrit. All the damage was from their—handling. How in the names of all the gods—no. Never mind." He looks so tired. He lifts his head and looks her directly in the eye. She cannot help the way her mind goes blank at the intensity in his gaze. "I'll not trouble you with that. How goes your work with Minfilia?"
Uhhhhhh...
A moment ticks by, and then another, before she remembers that he's asked a real question and he'll be expecting some sort of answer. She scrambles for her journal— good going, Aldera, look wack-jawed and dewy-eyed like a newborn seal pup for the only man here with more knives than you. Fantastic work, she congratulates herself—and, once acquired, tucks the letter away in its pages before flipping to the first blank page she can find.
It goes well, she writes. Pauses. Peers at his eyes. Watches the way his shoulders tense. She knows that dread, she thinks. ...Ul'dahn politics seem exhausting and infuriating in equal measure.
He chuckles, dry and grim, running a hand down his face. "Indeed. Have you ever wondered why we've no aetheryte to speak of here in Vesper Bay?"
Good gods, but I have, she responds with a swiftness. The patrol guards in Horizon know her name and she's never even spoken to them.
Thancred half-smiles, ignorant of how the small quirk of his lips makes her heart turn somersaults. "The culprit behind that particular lack of convenience—as it is a crime, if you ask me—is the Syndicate. As our organization is housed in Thanalan, if sequestered away at its very edge, they've a vested interest in our activities..."
Ah. She understands. And our movements?
"Exactly so," he says, his smile warming an ilm, and, having no clue what to with her hands, or her eyes, or where to put her arms, she looks down at her journal and fiddles with her magicked quill. "Ostensibly there is simply a greater need for the funds required in other areas under Ul'dah's governance. While this is, in part, true enough, it is also true that the Scions' careful tabling of more than a few overtures to court our specific interests and loyalties have resulted in a rather lukewarm attitude toward our operations. They will not hinder us, but neither will they extend us their hand in friendship of the sort we would prefer."
Delicate balance, she comments.
"That it is. Sometimes I find myself hard-pressed to keep up," he replies, rueful, and though that smile remains on his face, the good humor behind it has vanished.
Aldera tries not to frown, or to make much of any kind of an expression. Her habit of pausing and hiding out of sight when she hears voices about has meant she has heard a fair few of Minfilia's conversations in the solar—his insistence that he had failed her by not being present when she was ambushed included. I cannot see Y'shtola having the patience, or Yda and Papalymo the inclination, to balance out the mess I witnessed Minfilia dealing with for bells on end.
But Thancred waves that off. "While my talents do lie considerably more in the direction of navigating the intricate webs of Ul'dah's elite interests, any of them could manage it should there be need for such a thing. Minfilia handled them with an adroitness, did she not? Should worst come to worst, she would be well able to handle affairs in Ul'dah atop that of her regular duties... though seeing as she takes on quite enough already, I would rather see to it that worst does indeed not come to worst."
She looks down at her feet, this time. He seems to care about Minfilia quite a lot. It's easy to understand why, thinking about that smile and the way she expresses herself with such earnest faith. She's known Minfilia for but scarce moons and she can tell that faith was hard-won. People flock to her, drawn not by the Echo or martial prowess, but her magnetic belief that the world can be better.
In truth, it brings to mind that adamant determination that lives in the Admiral—the same determination that captured ol' Cap'n's heart surer than any uncharted breadth of the sea, that saw him transform his life for her, all the better to see her dreams realized.
Aldera swallows. What can a little ghost do, in comparison? What has she to offer either of them? Such devotions have ever been foreign to her, and the expression of them even moreso.
But she knew better than to think herself capable in—social pursuits—in the first place.
What can she do, then? Protect, probably, if nothing else. Minfilia recruited her for the Echo, seems to have faith enough to spare for her, and her abilities in combat have proven serviceable, so.
So if to see that dream of hers realized, Aldera can be the Scions' blade, to strike where they will not.
With that in mind, she pens her next words. Do you think you might be able to help me with some things? Aetheric things, she clarifies. There's this spell — my grimoire describes its function, but mastery of it eludes me. I cannot seem to catalyze the aether quickly enough.
"...It would be my pleasure," he says after a surprised moment in which he checks twice to ensure he read that right. He cocks a brow at her. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait for Y'shtola's expertise, though, come morning?"
I don't like waiting, she replies. I want to have this down before something else happens.
"Well, then. No quicker way to learn than through experience. What say you to a little spar?"
Now that's a language I'm good at speaking.
It startles a laugh out of him. "Oho?"
Forcible violence, Aldera explains, pleased when he turns his head away, hiding his smile and laughter behind his hand as his shoulders shake with restrained mirth.
It's easier, somehow, to look him in the eye when she's standing across from him with her grimoire in hand.
She has seen very little of him in combat—and, she realizes, she... she wants to. To see him in motion, to see bared his steel, to know and understand how his mind works and his body moves in response.
How positively baffling, she thinks, perfectly bemused as he stands before her in the belowground training room in the Waking Sands, his posture loose and ready, whatever knives he intends to use concealed upon his person. She wants this. She chose this. And she is already enjoying this, even though they have not yet begun.
"On my mark," Thancred says, the half-smile vanishing as he focuses, and Aldera knows well enough after the countless occasions on which Riol saw fit to pull a fast one or five on her not to expect a clean fight from a rogue. She waits, watching his every small movement, watching him watch her, and in the space between one rapid heartbeat and the next, he lunges for her.
Just a moment before he reaches her, she releases the spell she'd been holding. Aether coalesces and explodes, forcing him back, and his eyes widen for a moment before he smirks, flipping his daggers in his hands—a reverse hold, a different tack. Then he leaps over her, and when he lands, he drives one dagger at her from below.
Clever man. With how close he is and the angle he has chosen, the attack necessitates her breaking her stance, giving her less time to cast.
Instead she falls back. She can always start another spell.
He tests her defenses this way, thoroughly methodical in his approach, and understanding this for what it is Aldera stands as an unyielding pillar for a little while longer—practices the spell, manages it well enough to keep him from reaching her person.
But.
But to stand still—this has never been her way. Spellcasters have to for a time, if they don't strip their spells down of the extra "edges", as it were, of aether, and while it really would be better to do so in order to practice, and Thancred makes for an excellent sparring partner in his willingness to allow her to dictate the pace... she wants a fight.
She wants to live.
Her eyes dart about the room as she wards his strike at her stomach off with the between stage of Ruin and its strengthened fellow. What has she got to work with? Ifrit's arena had been large, and Limsa's many backstreets, alleys, and docks cramped and narrow. Both she knows, both she can work with—this, however, is both an open room and a small one.
"Thinking about something, darling?" Thancred questions, and the intent in his voice brings her focus back to him, sharp and sudden. He tilts his head. "You've got that look on your face again. Do try not to forget my presence, would you? A man needs some dignity at times."
Aldera surveys him for a moment. Then she grins.
Dignity? Honor? Worse men've died to that, standin' all stalwart an' whatnot. Sometimes, lass, what ye've got te do is...
Run.
And run she does, her tail flicking from side to side, her grin widening when he makes an exasperated noise and sprints after her in pursuit. He's fast, but she tags him with several spells—weakened versions, ones that do not injure so much as sting—and it distracts him enough to slow him down, just a tad. He grumbles when, in a fit of mischief, she flings an inhibiting cloud of aether somewhere in the direction of his feet. It doesn't stop him, but he groans and exclaims, "Stay still!"
She laughs at him and pirouettes on one foot to watch with one hand on her hip as he slogs through the cloud as if treading through ankle-deep mud. Each ilm he progresses sees her hop an ilm back; she is bouncing, just a little bit, ready to spring into motion the second he breaks free.
He slows. He hums. He frowns in concentration.
"— Hah!" With that small shout he kicks the cloud, dispersing it, and something in her whispers move but she is near the wall, left or right would only result in a loss—
Forward. Through, say her instincts. There is just enough space to duck under his open arm with the grab he is making for her—oh, when did he put his knives away?—and so she dives beneath and rolls, grunting as she hits the ground. The resulting scramble to her feet is less than dignified, but where a noble warrior might need an elegant flair to the act of recovering themselves, pirates don't much need dignity, and he's been spending those precious seconds getting to know the wall quite intimately.
"Gods be good," he says, laughter in his voice, leaning against said wall with one palm pressing into its cool stone for purchase. He turns his head to peer at her, an absolutely dazzling smile accompanying his arched brow. "You did say you'd been in... oh, what was the tally again? Three shipwrecks? Why, I ought to have caught on from the get-go."
Aldera blinks owlishly at him.
"You can run, sweetheart... but you can't hide. Not from me." His voice is low and intent, and as she shivers at the promise there, he pushes off the wall, making use of the leverage to flip over her. All she manages to do before he catches her legs and drags her downward is turn to face him—quite suddenly the ground is beneath her back and he is looming above, the lamplight casting strong shadows across his face.
He has her wrists pinned above her head. He is sitting on her thighs, the weight of him more than sufficient to keep her immobilized.
And he leans in, just a few ilms, his eyes half-lidded and his smile smug. "You were a pirate."
Didn't I mention that? some part of her thinks, but the rest of her is too busy trying not to hyperventilate. She swallows and prays the flush on her cheeks comes across as a result of the exertion of their training session—a prayer she must pray all the more fervently when his eyes track the bobbing of her throat before drifting back to her gaze, as if categorizing every small reaction to his words.
"How many bar fights have you been in, by the by?" he asks, tilting his head. Five, her memories say, but as always she chokes on the answer. His eyes soften a fraction. Not enough to give her any wiggle room, given the way his grip on her wrists tightens for a moment when she tests it. "Oh, I can wait for you. It does seem you're in a situation, here, doesn't it? Now, the question: what will you do to get out of it?"
What indeed. Assuming she even wants to. Don't think about that.
She hums, thoughtful, even as she grasps for her aether and attempts the task of weaving it together despite the little issue that is her catalyst—the grimoire—lying some fulms away from her on the floor. Thancred must sense her at it, she thinks, but he seems somewhat distracted even as she builds her spell in the space between them. He is staring at the spot where the base of her horn meets her jaw, his eyes glazed over, the tired hollows beneath all the more prominent, and part of her feels a tad regretful that she's pulled him into this when he's so clearly exhausted...
...but the rest of her is running on the heady sense of being alive, and the stray thought makes it click: the Ruin spell pulls from what is alive, usually, upsetting the balance of the aether from astral to umbral or umbral to astral, setting off a chain reaction as the rapid agitation of aetheric particles causes an explosion—
—so if she just— pulls harder —
It is so simple she nearly laughs as she releases the spell. Thancred draws in a sharp breath right before the force of it going off rips him off her, blowing him half across the room. He lands hard and groans, curling in on himself a tad.
Aldera sits up, grinning. She did it! She did it!
"Could've... gone a little easier," Thancred says, sounding pained, but he sits up easily enough and spares her a tired smile. "But, it seems, you do not do anything by halves. Congratulations: you've figured it out, and given me more than a couple of bruises. Possibly some internal injuries."
Her mouth drops open. He isn't kidding—she can tell by his tone, and the way he's holding his stomach, careful and wary. With a little panic she scrabbles for her grimoire and then staggers over to his side, flipping rapidly through the pages. Ah, fuck — shit — I know there's Physick in here somewhere, I read it and I ignored it —
His hand lands atop hers. She freezes.
"It'll be near the start," he says simply, returning his hand to his lap when he sees he has her attention.
So much for not being helpful, she thinks, holding his stare for a long moment—she knows what the tattoos on his neck mean, an old man who was kind to her on one of the passenger ships she worked once had the very same, just on his head, as Urianger has his on his face—and, when understanding lights in his eyes, he inclines his head, a slow acknowledgment of the truth.
Satisfied with that for the moment, she returns her attention to her grimoire. He's right. Just a few pages backward, the diagram for Physick's basic aetheric flow is painted bold, though she thinks it may have less detail than its sibling in the scholar's codex she'd leafed through once moons ago out of curiosity. Still, it will suffice. She extends her hand and channels according to the grimoire's instructions.
Thancred groans softly, his brows knitting together, and worry sparks anew in her until his whole upper torso loosens and he sits back easier. He opens his eyes to watch her, his gaze once more half-lidded. "You have a remarkably gentle touch. And a skilled one, if you've only just now picked that up."
Another probe. She's still healing him, and this does take focus, so she only half-shrugs her shoulder at him. Your guess is as good as mine.
She'll have to write it down, for him to know. But he gets the picture. He sighs through his nose, a little puff of tired air, and once she's healed what internal damage she did, she keeps the flow up as she tries to ease the physical effects of his exhaustion. This was, after all, an exertion intended to help her, so—
"...Hey now." He takes her wrist, his fingers overlapping as they curl around it, and he shakes his head. "I'll not have you waste your energy on me, sweetheart, not when I shall recover well enough with a hearty meal and a good night's sleep. Besides, I'm hardly a babe in the woods—you needn't overextend yourself beyond the necessary. I can take care of the rest."
But...
But I want to.
Aldera frowns at him, but there is something unflinching and hard in his demeanour, and with no cause to gainsay him as of yet she would be as a cur to refuse him and continue on regardless. Reluctantly she lets the aether flow disperse, and he smiles at her with a crooked tilt to the curve of his lips. "Why don't you get some rest yourself? I daresay Minfilia will have need of your steady presence with the particular... distinguished personages involved in many of tomorrow's meetings."
Still she hesitates. Something is wrong.
"Ah, I see. You're reluctant to take your leave from my thrilling company." The smile is tight, now. She shifts back on her heels. "As you well know, my dear, there is no rest for the wicked. I've a few matters to attend to before I lay myself to rest. While I would never object to your own sparkling companionship, I daresay you would not fancy a venture through the sewers in such trailing robes."
All the frowning in the world will not sway him on this, she can see, but he didn't have to ward her off with an excuse like that . She hauls herself to her feet and offers him her hand. He watches her, then, when satisfied with whatever his examination yields, takes it, allowing her to help him up.
Before he can reclaim his arm or step away or any of it, Aldera gently squeezes his hand. She stares him dead in the eye. He opens his mouth, his brow furrowed slightly, and tenses when she slowly reaches out with her other free hand.
She pats his shoulder, still staring at him. Then, equally as carefully, she withdraws her hands and steps away. His face is utterly bewildered.
That's alright. He'll come to one conclusion or another, but the sheer absurdity of the motion will keep that busy mind of his occupied through whatever it is that he intends to do. Hopefully. He can't seem to resist secrets, and while she has plenty of her own, she can give him the harmless ones. Or make harmless ones. Whatever works.
Aldera leaves, absently thumbing through her grimoire, too aware of his baffled stare burning into her back. "Outburst"... hmm. It seems kind of weak...
