1. the bow
The first weapon he named was a commission from Gridania's woodworkers, a fine piece in black yew. Half a year's gil had gone towards acquiring it; half a year again in costs for learning how to shoot. The wood had been diligently harvested with the permission of the elementals, blessed and approved in accordance with the cycle of seasons. Each moon that passed had been a breathless one, trembling with anticipation as the Warrior had counted down the days until the work was complete.
In the hallowed hush of his inn room, he strung his new bow with the same reverence as placing a ring upon a lover's finger. Balancing it across his hands, he marveled at the noontide glow through the windows as the sun warmed the wood, a golden sheen glistening across the upper and lower limbs.
"I'll call you Cloudpiercer," he announced, and smiled.
Its arrows took down dozens of foes across Eorzea, flying true to penetrate the weakest points between scales and armor. But, as with any weapon, it was only as good as the one who wielded it; in every handful of shots that it fired, a few always went astray. Its very last one plunged ineffectively into the tail of a voidkin that hurtled itself bodily towards the Warrior, faster than he could escape.
All too quickly, the monster closed the distance, each stroke of its wings gobbling up the space between them. The Warrior scrambled backwards, debris tripping his heels. As the voidkin snapped its head forward, he flung up one arm in a futile attempt to save his face, Cloudpiercer gripped helplessly in his hand.
It was this instinct alone that provided his salvation. The length of the bow snarled the voidkin's mouth; the creature reared back, yanking the weapon away like a chocobo bucking its bridle. Enraged, it clamped its jaws down, a needling whine shrieking its way out of its throat.
Cloudpiercer splintered between its teeth. In a spray of fragments, the remains of the bow were swallowed whole - and then, were gone forever.
2. the axe
"Garlemald has not halted its advance." Exhaustion had deepened the lines around Louisoix's eyes, but the scholar's voice was as firm as the very first day the Warrior had heard him speak. "The Circle has received a few discreet caches of equipment from its allies, and I would see them distributed while they can yet make a difference. This one would be best served in your hands, my friend. As powerful as it is, others would see this weapon as a gift - and yet, we both know it is no such thing."
The Warrior frowned back in agreement, studying the greataxe that slept upon the table, as brutally pragmatic as the sheet of plain linen it adorned. The weapon had seen battle before; the sense of aether coming off the metal was palpable, like the haze of a firepit after the coals had been banked. Even though its blade had been cleaned and polished to a pristine shine, the memory of violence lingered.
He set his hand lightly upon the weapon's haft, neither accepting, nor refusing. "What is it called?"
The corner of Louisoux's mouth bent wryly. "Why, 'tis yours now. Choose a title that fits."
Easier said than done, the Warrior figured. Every part of the axe was tuned for raw efficiency, with no thought towards ornamentation. There were no engravings, no frills or inlays that might have earned it a home in some noble's display cabinet. Neither plant nor beast were inscribed upon its haft. It was as if it had been hewn directly from stone, intended to be overlooked until it turned and crushed you.
"Bastion," he decided, and bastion it was, a solid tower of steel that defended him against every imperial soldier who sought his life. The weight of it became as familiar as his own. His fingers memorized the leather of its wrappings until he could identify the weapon's position with a single touch, a reassurance even in the dark.
It was loyal to him, and he to it. But he lost his hold on it at the same time that he lost Louisoix: the explosions of Carteneau Flats fading soundlessly into waxen light around him, his grasping hands finding only air before they dissolved into aether themselves.
He never found Bastion again, even five years later. Scavengers had already claimed their share, or perhaps the weapon was buried too deep for the Warrior to find, no matter how diligently he combed through the rubble. It was impossible to tell anymore. Like the charred bodies of the dead, parted eternally by only a few fulms - carbonized from the detonations, outlines of ash with outstretched hands - he might have passed by the axe a dozen times unknowingly during his search, two companions left forever reaching for the other.
3. the lance
Not unlike a jongleur suddenly appearing on one's doorstep, Truthsedge was an unexpected addition to the Warrior's life. It was as uneasily mismatched to his expectations as the Warrior seemed to be for everyone else. Training and title aside, he'd never thought to fight as a dragoon in Ishgard proper. Considering how he'd superseded an entire queue of hopefuls aiming for the title of the next Azure Dragoon, it seemed wildly impolite to even try.
But on the very first night they stayed in Ishgard, Count Edmont had taken him down to the armory of House Fortemps, its locks well-oiled from regular use. He'd nodded for the Warrior to enter, and then - seeing only hesitation, the clear assumption that to do so was unwelcome - Edmont had rested his hand briefly on the latch.
"I expect you have left nearly all of your own personal equipment behind," the man acknowledged gently, and then pushed open the final doors.
In the end, the Warrior had selected one of the simpler lances off the rack, one that showed clear signs of repeated wear and upkeep. There were fancier weapons, of course - Haurchefant had urged him towards them - but he hadn't wanted to rob House Fortemps of more when they had already given so much.
The unicorn engraved on the blade's socket reminded the Warrior of that generosity every time he took it into battle. It glinted proudly in the light, its flanks stained red and green and gold with the various bloods he dipped it in. He was diligent about keeping it in good repair whenever he could, making friends with every mender he came across until the lance became comfortable in his hands, and he could finally trust himself with it.
It sallied forth gamely beside him through every obstacle that the Dragonsong War threw his way, faithful even after Nidhogg's demise. He became accustomed to its presence constantly beside his door, his table, his bed. And when word came that hostages had been taken prisoner in the Vault by those who protested Ishgard's changing policies, the lance joined the Warrior there, too.
He and Aymeric entered the chantry just in time to see the massive gate to the inner hallways lowering shut.
There was no time to think. Breaking ranks, the Warrior launched himself forward in a broken trajectory, springing over the fencing that separated the chantry nave from the basilica. He rolled in the air as he flew, the stone archway sailing fast towards him - and then jammed Truthsedge squarely into the gate's bracings, all his weight behind it like a prayer.
He hit with enough force that the spear's point pierced straight through and came out halfway through the other side, gears screeching as they were dislodged out of their careful tracks. The gate creaked to a halt, locked open by the hybridization of twisted metal that pinned it to its own suspensions. The impact mauled both spear and mechanisms beyond repair, regulating them to scrap.
The Warrior didn't stop. He landed neatly, bending low to scoop up the nearest sword from the fighters that Aymeric struck insensate, and kept going: charging madly ahead to clear the way, swapping blades indiscriminately as he drove them into the executioners' bellies and then claimed fresh daggers from their belts.
He ran and ran until his hands were empty of any weapons left to fight with, and when he helped to carry the captives back out again, the remains of Truthsedge were still holding the gate high above their heads.
4. the knuckledusters
Lyse's smile was oddly shy as she watched him unwrap the leather pouch, unbuckling the straps and throwing them open to expose a gleaming pair of steel knuckles inside. "Do you like them?"
At a glance, the dusters looked like any of the other weapons used by members of the Ala Mhigan Resistance: metal forged from battleground debris, with variances in color where imperfections had been blurred into the mix. Garlean magitek, melted down and reborn as new tools of war on the opposite side. It made the steel more resilient to be blended with another material, or so blacksmiths and armorers always claimed; alloys were stronger, more durable under pressure. They bent where pure metals would break.
They were, he realized, very similar to Lyse's own armaments.
She was biting her lip unconsciously now as she watched him evaluate their worthiness - theirs and hers by extension, and he was suddenly reminded of how new an experience it must be for her to take the field alone, without Papalymo at her side.
He picked them up, looping the first set onto his left hand as he gingerly flexed his fingers. "They're perfect."
He named them Lion's Roar, and they tore their way into the imperial forces like a pair of beastkin themselves, metal fangs dripping with oil and blood. They bit into armor as eagerly as flesh, merrily devouring their way up ranks of soldiers - eating legionaries and centurions like sugared candies - until the Warrior found himself facing down Ala Mhigo's own Garlean viceroy in Rhalgr's Reach.
The Warrior had seen a thousand opponents before, each with a different hunger. He knew the feel of a battlefield when his own death walked upon it: the menace that tightened one's lungs, poisoned each panting breath. The fight had been uneven from the start.
As Zenos's sword furrowed through the air towards him, he had barely enough time to raise his fists, and hope that his death might buy enough time for Krile and Alphinaud to escape.
But Lion's Roar held, even under the pressure that sought to obliterate them. With a sickening shriek, their metal flanges shuddered beneath the attack, the edge of Zenos's sword suspended mere ilms from the Warrior's face.
They didn't break.
Pulling back just far enough to turn the lethal stroke into a deflection, Zenos levered his arm out further; the strength of it threw the Warrior away, tossed like a rag to the sands. Both of his arms were so numb that he feared he no longer had them - that Zenos's sword had severed his hands so neatly that only the ghosts of his bones clung behind, denying their abandonment.
Yet the knuckledusters had kept him intact. In their final act of defiance, they had snapped Zenos's sword in half even as they finally surrendered to the assault, giving in only after their enemy had quit the battle first. The aether imbued into their metal scattered in a rush; their rings crumbled into dross.
As the Warrior struggled to catch his breath, he heard the heavy tread of Zenos's soldiers departing, the ruined shells of Lion's Roar falling apart around his fingers.
5. the greatsword
The First found him nearly helpless upon arrival; the weapon he'd brought with him had been one of his spares, a footman's spear that had followed him from Ishgard after the Dragonsong War was over. His armor was equally sparse. It was embarrassing to end up so short on fighting gear, but - in his defense - when the Warrior had gone down to investigate the Syrcus Trench, he hadn't expected to end up on a completely different star.
He'd have to find a way to ask Riol to pick up his repairs from the menders, or else they'd be sold before the month was out.
The Exarch had encouraged use of the markets, and so the Warrior wandered around the Crystarium's stalls, browsing equipment which - luckily - functioned the same way, even down to most of the fittings. One of the weaponsmiths had a greatsword hanging on display; he felt an immediate attraction towards it, but deliberately chose to snub the weapon, circling the Musica Universalis with his eye lingering on every other shop instead.
It refused to leave him alone. The sleek lines of the greatsword tugged insistently like a distant lodestone, teasing his steps back in its direction - strolling by once, twice, flirting with its proximity - before he finally dug the gil out of his purse to pay.
Mercy, he thought as he regarded the massive, spiked blade, and wasn't sure if the inspiration came from himself, or Fray.
He took it in hand the next day when he went in search of a training dummy, learning the tipping points of its balance and how they interacted with his own body. With methodical ease, Mercy parted countless limbs and heads from the Sin Eaters that he faced, their severed parts softening into melting ivory puddles like frozen cream exposed to the sun. It spun aether around its length, deflecting torrents of acid away from the Scions as he defended them from enraged vilekin; it broke the line of Eulmore's soldiers at Laxan Loft, and brushed aside the ancient wardens of the Qitana Ravel like the frailest of cobwebs.
It came with him to face the changed inhabitants of Holminster Switch, and to Lyhe Ghiah to free Titania from a Lightwarden's doom. It bid Tesleen farewell.
It came to Vauthry. To Ran'jit.
In the end, it was Mercy that turned itself into the blazing axe that the Warrior flung into Hades's heart. Without hesitation, the blade immediately accepted the aether that he and Ardbert charged it with, blazing into ash with all the determination that Moenbryda had shown - for even a weapon of Light needed something true to burn as its core.
6. the sword and shield
It took Livingway's help in finally straightening out the matter before the Warrior could get his weapons repaired. Mendingway's fragmented explanations had only become more and more confusing; the misunderstanding had led them both all the way around until the Warrior couldn't figure out if he was being asked to repair Thancred and Urianger's weapons instead, or Thancred and Urianger themselves. He kept gently offering the sword and shield out towards Mendingway, insisting that the armaments were perfectly safe to touch - except that with each attempt, the poor loporrit looked more and more like a master culinarian who'd been asked to eat nothing but Archon loaf for the rest of their days, mortified enough to perish on the spot.
Livingway took in the scene with a glance, briskly grasping the situation within only a few seconds of her arrival. "Right, then! These things you want fixed, what are their names?"
Mendingway still wasn't taking the sword. "They don't have any," the Warrior admitted ruefully, trying to navigate the dance of handing over a weapon when it was larger than the creature receiving it.
An affronted gasp was the only warning he had before Livingway punched him in the leg, hard; he had the strong impression that she would have aimed higher if she could. "Don't have any? And why haven't you done something about that?"
He stared down at her with an unease that only worsened when he realized how serious she was. There didn't seem to be much point in naming his weapons anymore; he'd lost every one. They lay in scattered graves behind him, silent companions alongside other comrades who had fallen, surrendering the whole of their existences in exchange for the honor of being able to serve.
He'd given up on it by now. Everything he put a name to died.
"Is it really that bad if I don't?" he asked.
"Names are good things to have, particularly with matters involving Creation magicks," Livingway informed him crisply. Even her displeasure was terrifyingly cheerful. "It fixes the image in your mind. It makes the aether stick! How else do you plan to distinguish them as special to you if you're just going around calling them the same word as everything else?"
It stung when she put it like that; he'd been struggling with the same dilemma himself of late. It had become a disturbing trend for people to think that he didn't have a given name at all, or that Warrior of Light was what he'd been termed at birth, never mind what sort of childhood that would have provided. Even Alphinaud had begun to stumble during their trips through Sharlayan: there had been a number of telltale pauses in the middle of his usual breezy, and here is our friend, the esteemed Warrior of Light, introductions, where the boy had hesitated midway and had darted his eyes guiltily over, as if he had somehow forgotten.
But Livingway looked far more willing to defend the issue, whereas the Warrior had always allowed it to slide. "Does it make that much of a difference?" he tried again.
Her nose twitched. "If names weren't important, we wouldn't be working so hard on ours, would we?"
That did it. As much as the Warrior could accept being anonymous in his own life, he couldn't insult the loporrits by default.
But being put on the spot was something he'd always been horrible about, no matter how many years had passed; it was part of the reason he preferred to simply nod while others took up the responsibility of being witty in his stead. Something about the moon, he thought desperately. The sun, or possibly a star. Like a stone skipping over a lake, his mind flounced unhelpfully to the associated memory of Urianger pointing out constellations in the evenings around the fire, laying out an endless chain of Bole cards in a wheel of emerald aether.
"Well," he hedged, and then, "ow!" as she punched him again. He'd never be able to explain the bruises to Urianger now.
When she puffed herself up, he instinctively backed away a step. "Bark and Branch," he blurted, clinging to the first parts of a tree he could think of - no thanks to certain astrologians. "In that order."
Livingway's expression sobered. "Do many trees look like swords in Etheirys?"
"None. It's a figure of speech!" he hastened to explain, envisioning the Greatest Endsvale becoming even more elaborate, as well as armored. Before she could offer further questions, he shoved his weapons towards Mendingway, who finally accepted them with a relieved wiggle of their ears.
He didn't think about it after that; people rarely asked. It wasn't until he found himself blinking muzzily at the ceiling of the Ragnarok that the subject came up again.
"Easy, now." Thancred's voice, laughing through the rawness of its relief. There were people crying around them; the Warrior could hear Alphinaud hiccuping through a flurry of sobs. "You're safe."
The Warrior tried to speak, and succeeded in a formless groan. He had only the faintest sense of his body, his muscles tingling all over from the healing aether that had been poured into him. He flexed his fingers gingerly, shifting them back and forth as he tried to work up the courage to check himself for missing limbs.
But Thancred mistook his gesture, and gave him a reassuring grin. "Here," he said; there was a scraping sound of metal nearby, and then Thancred took the Warrior's hand and placed it against something cold. "Don't worry. Your weapons are right beside you. They made the trip back with you in one piece - more or less."
The Warrior blinked in surprise. The bumps under his palm were familiar: they were the outer ridge lines that ran along the perimeter of his shield, intended to trap blades before they could skitter down to impale the Warrior's legs. When he rubbed the metal curiously, it didn't flake away into dust. A few scratches marred the surface, but enough remained to be recognizable.
Hesitantly, he stretched out his hand further, barely allowing himself to hope - only to encounter a sudden, steep indentation that matched none of his memories.
Dreading the truth, he slowly pushed himself upright in order to examine the remains.
His sword was the first thing he spotted, naked of its scabbard and stained with char as it rested meekly on the Ragnarok's plating. Half of it was still coated with the tarry aether that had leaked from the Endsinger's bodies. He'd planted the thing directly - and remorselessly - in Zenos's draconic hide in order to brace himself against the Endsinger's worst attacks, and even then the blasts had nearly taken him off his feet. The punishment hadn't ended there, either. After Zenos had resumed his usual form, the sword had taken a good half-dozen additional strikes that should have shattered it in half; there was a chip near the point which would need to be hammered out before it snapped completely off, and a visible burr along the cutting edge that looked like someone had tried to convert it into a woodsaw.
The worst of it all was the massive depression in the middle of his shield, distorting the ivy-like vines that decorated its surface. A full handspan's worth had gone concave; he could have used it to catch rainwater for a drink. He dimly remembered taking one of Zenos's strikes full-on in the same spot, hearing the crunch of metal as the shield had compressed beneath the force of the blow, leather straps twisting on his arm.
Both sword and shield should have rightfully been in pieces, scattered to the emptiness of the rift. Yet, impossibly enough, they were there beside him: whole and salvageable and real, having journeyed to the furthest reaches of the stars and made witness to their ends. They had survived. So had he.
It shouldn't have happened. It never had before.
His sore fingers curled clumsily around the sword's cross-guard. His other hand, over the shield's embossments.
All his best efforts to pull them closer only dragged them a few ilms - he was already running out of strength simply from sitting up, dizzy and exhausted - but Thancred helpfully reached out and propped them both up against the Warrior's leg, huddled together like two exhausted soldiers.
"A bit of polish, and they'll be as good as new," the man promised. "You're fond of them, aye? What was it I heard you call them once, something about trees?"
"Bark and Branch." It felt like an incantation, as if the Warrior's voice alone was summoning them into shape. The sheer wonder of it made him want to laugh. They were coming back with him, saved from destruction even as they had been the ones to save him first. "It makes the aether stick."
