But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.

Jeremiah 29:7, English Standard Version

"So, where does this go?" Wyvern asked, hoisting some lengths of cut lumber onto his shoulder.

"Emil's fixing up a barn just south of us," Andre, the woodcutter, answered. "Out the gates, about half a malm. Can't miss it."

"On my way." Walking through the village, Wyvern nodded in acknowledgement and returned each greeting given to him by those he passed. It never ceased to amaze him how alive Eistla felt, even as small as their community was. This was a stark contrast to the stories he had heard and his own wisps of memory.

"Out on patrol, are ya, Wyvern?" Parnella, a young agriculturist, called out to him as he reached the gate. It was true that, though his primary responsibility was protecting the village, Wyvern had made a habit of picking up small tasks to help others as he went about his routine trek around the perimeter. This became known as his patrol. "You work too hard."

"Hardly," Wyvern protested. "Everyone else does their part. This is the least I can do for everyone who has been so kind to me, accepting me when I was a stranger, even to myself."

"I think you've more than earned your keep," Parnella smiled. "Though that could hardly stop you. Just see you don't overdo it."

"I'll do my best." He continued on his way and soon found himself at the barn, receiving a couple of freshly grown apples in return for delivering the lumber. Eating the fruit as he returned to his normal route, he marveled at how well it grew in the land still recovering from the Blight. Before he knew it, the sun was setting, and he passed back through the gate just as the night watch was taking their post.

Wyvern made his way to the dining hall, and was soon seated with his meal. Confident no one was watching, he took out a piece of parchment and a stick of charcoal from his pocket. He hadn't thought himself the creative sort at first, but over time he had picked up the habit of sketching, scrawling out images from his mind on whatever leftover scraps he could find. Tonight, as he ate, he worked on his latest piece, a portrait of a woman. In his mind's eye, he saw her silver hair and grey eyes as clear as day, and he could hardly do her justice with his crude skill.

I'll be back, his own voice rang out in his mind. I promise. Who was out there, waiting for him? How much longer until he could fulfill this promise? As glad as he was to keep busy helping the village, it did little more than temporarily distract him from his restlessness. The sword on his back never let him forget that there was a life he needed to get back to.

"And who's that pretty lass?" Stan took a seat across from Wyvern, glancing at the sketch.

"Someone I see in my dreams sometimes," Wyvern admitted. Stan was the only person he felt comfortable sharing these things with. He knew better than anyone else the ghosts that continued to haunt Wyvern both night and day.

"I see," Stan cleared his throat. "Speakin' of that, I got a stolas just this morning. A supply ship is comin' into port within the week."

"Truly?" After all this time, would he finally be able to cross over to Storm? He would not lose this chance to follow the only lead he had to his past.

"Sure as I'm sittin' here. Think you'll be ready to go?"

"I'm practically packed already." It wasn't hard, seeing as he had little more than what was already on him.

"Good. And I'll be comin' with you," Stan declared.

"Are you certain?"

"I'm due to report to our patron in person, anyway. 'Sides, wouldn't do to have you loose in Boklad with no direction. I feel responsible for you like that."

"I don't know if I see it that way," Wyvern shrugged. "But I would be grateful not to be alone while I'm chasing after information on my sword."

"Good," Stan crossed his arms, a grin on his face. "That's settled, then."

A few days later, the two found themselves on the deck of the ship, half of the village of Eistla waving goodbye to them on the shore. It was surprisingly bittersweet for Wyvern, leaving the closest thing to home that he remembered, the life he had made over the last four months. Would he ever come back to this place? Would he find what he was looking for on the other side of this journey? If he did, what then? He fought against his own uncertainty, holding fast to his faith in his quest, determined to finally find out who he was.

Several weeks passed as the ship delivered supplies and workers to another reconstruction site, newly created farther to the north of Ash, then take a circuitous route towards the Strait in an attempt to avoid the worst of the continent's infamous storms. Mercifully, this was successful, and they finally landed on Storm, near the bustling town of Boklad.

After a moderate trek from the pier, Wyvern was suddenly hit by a vast array of smells and sounds, several market stalls coming into sight.

"Welcome to the Thousand Tables." Stan stretched out his hand, waving it over the horizon. "Once upon a time, the biggest market in the Twins. To be fair, though, it ain't too bad off these days, what with the Triunity arranging trade with merchants from the Continent."

"It's impressive," Wyvern nodded.

"Our operation's funded by a business here, the Crimson Caravans. Why don't you take a look around while I call on the proprietress? If you get lost, just look for a sign with a red chocobo. Soon as I'm done, we can find the blacksmith."

Wyvern agreed to the plan, parting from Stan to wander the stalls. All over, people were calling out the wares they had for sale: fruits, spices, and various other goods. He used some of the gil Stan had given him to purchase a portion of dried meat to snack on, then found a wall to lean against when he didn't see anything else that interested him. Instead, he glanced deeper into the town proper to see if he could pick out the blacksmith's.

Before long, Stan had caught back up with him, and they set out towards the building Wyvern had thought was a good prospect. Sure enough, as they approached, they heard the telltale sound of metal rhythmically hitting metal.

"''Cuse me, friend," Stan started. "If we could have a 'mo?"

"Only if it's just the one," the smith replied, barely looking up from his work. "I'm behind as it is."

"We were just wondering about this sword," Wyvern explained, drawing the blade from its sheath. "We're looking for whoever made it, and would be grateful if you could tell us anything about it."

"Impressive piece of work, that," the craftsman whistled. "Far beyond anyone in these parts, I'll tell you that. The engravings alone are something that you'd only see come out of Dravozd."

"Dravozd?"

"Of course," Stan nearly shouted. "Half of the old masters came from Dravozd. It's an entire smithing town, southwest of here. I'll bet anything whoever made your sword came from there."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"

"Hold your 'bos. Dravozd is a fair trek. We had best get some supplies, stay the night at the inn here, and start fresh in the morning. The heat is killer to the unprepared."

"Fine." Loathe as Wyvern was to admit it, this was the wisest move.

He was restless the entire night, wondering what awaited him in Dravozd. He must have crashed at some point, because Stan shook him awake as the sun was coming up. They broke their fast on bread and cheese as they started out on the road, talking only to complain about the heat. There were few travelers to encounter, and fewer monsters.

It took almost a full two days, but they finally reached the gates of Dravozd. Stan and Wyvern stepped through, glancing around at the smiths at work. They finally settled on one person to inquire about Wyvern's sword.

"That looks like the chief's work," the smith said. "Too bad he's off to wherever he goes with Blackthorne."

"Actually," a man working alongside him said. "He's just come back. He's over that way. Name's Zoltan."

Stan and Wyvern went in the direction indicated, and found a man examining his work, back turned to the newcomers.

"Are you the chief?" Stan asked.

"Who's asking?" the man demanded.

"Someone in need of answers," Wyvern answered. He drew out his sword once more, holding it gingerly in his hands. "We understand you made this blade."

"I tend to do finer pieces, such as engraving," the smith explained. His back straightened, though, and he turned to face the callers. "The only sword of any real note that I've worked on is- oh, bloody-"

He gaped at the weapon, and stared back up at Wyvern. "Gotterdammerung. Yes, I had a part in crafting this blade. But, how…? Cid, do you really not remember it? What it was made for?"

"Cid?" Stan quirked an eyebrow. "That his real name?"

"He doesn't even remember that much," Zoltan muttered his breath. "Of all the bloody- How am I supposed to-? Look, I'm not the person to answer all your questions. I don't know who your friend here is, Cid, but if you trust him, I'll take you to the other man who worked on this blade, to your people."

"My people?" Wyvern marveled. He had a people, someone he belonged to.

"They'll have all the answers you're looking for, and then some."

"Where are they?"

"A safe place, known only to a select few. It's only because it's you that I feel comfortable bringing in an outsider without permission."

"Me?" Wyvern wondered. "Why am I so special?"

"All in due time," Zoltan promised. "I'll send a stolas to let them know to be expecting company. We'll leave as soon as we get a reply."

Wyvern-or, rather, Cid- would be ready.

*AN: I know, I'm sorry to cut it off right there! I thought about it a lot, and I think this is the best way to do the ending I have in mind without having a chapter a mile long. Thank you all for hanging in there with me through this ride, and once again for all the views, favorites, follows, and kind reviews. Until next time!*