Arden and Arenvald spent the rest of the day at the Gold Saucer. Arden sanded down a spot on the end of his horn and had a goldsmith bend a hot ring of silver around it. As it cooled and shrank, it embedded itself in his horn, where it would remain for the rest of his life.

"Elderly Au Ra have all sorts of rings and trinkets in their horns," Arden told Arenvald. "The richer the life, the more tale his horns have to tell."

Arenvald laughed and tapped his bare right horn. "We need to get you married off so you can start decorating this one."

"Find me a nice Auri girl and we'll talk," Arden laughed.

They spent much time among the games and amusements. Arenvald had to leave to report to the Sultansworn in the late afternoon. "Have to let them know I'm alive and all," he said. "Two weeks in La Noscea is a long time, especially with a primal at the end of it."

"You do that," Arden said. "I'll report to Minfilia for us both."

Arden returned to Vesper Bay just after sunset. Relaxed and cheerful, he strode toward the Waking Sands, thinking of how to describe the Titan fight without bragging too much about his lilies. As he neared the waterfront, he found a crowd of people and lights outside the Waking Sands.

"What's going on?" Arden asked as he approached.

"Screams and shots," said a woman with a lantern. "It's all gone quiet now, but none of us dare go in."

"Screams?" Arden drew his shortsword and cautiously pushed the door open. Nothing moved inside, and no lamps were lit. Tataru's desk in the entry had been overturned, her papers scattered everywhere. The Lalafel herself was nowhere in sight.

Arden conjured a lily to one hand for light and crept inside, prepared for bandits to be lurking within. He descended the stairs and found the door at the bottom hanging open. Beyond it was a silent, black void, but he could smell blood. Heart pounding, he gave his lily more power, increasing its size and brightness.

Bodies lay everywhere. The merchant folk who worked for the Scions had been cut down. Younger Scions lay among them. Arden knew all their names, had greeted them, shared meals with them, bought goods from them. At first he stood frozen, staring at them all. It was like Ifrit all over again–they were dead and he could do nothing.

Then he rushed to the solar and threw the door open. "Minfilia!"

Her office had been ransacked, her books and papers thrown on the floor. But Minfilia was not there. One of the younger Scions lay on the floor against the wall in a pool of blood – a male Miqo'te named Z'mona Tia. As the door opened, he groaned and shielded his face, the first living person Arden had seen. A hole had been blown straight through him, but he was still alive. Arden rushed to him and cast his lily upon the man's wound. The Miqo'te's glassy eyes lifted to Arden's.

The Echo clutched Arden's skull with sudden blunt claws. He winced as the vision poured into his mind. Z'mona had been working in the stock room when he heard shots and shouts. He rushed out to find a troop of Garlean soldiers in their red and black uniforms butchering everyone in their path with gunblade and spears. A woman in white armor and a helmet with a face on it like a mummy's death mask led the attack. She went straight to the solar. Minfilia confronted her, unarmed but courageous.

"Where is the one you call the Warrior of Light?" the Garlean woman said, covering Minfilia with her wrist revolver.

"He's not here," Minfilia said, her hands up. "I don't know where he is."

"If he's here, we will find him," said the woman in a businesslike manner. "In the meantime, we can learn much from you."

"I'll come quietly," Minfilia said. "Just please, spare the others."

"You're in no position to bargain, savage," said the woman.

Before the woman could grab Minfilia, Z'mona foolishly leaped out and tried to attack the woman from behind. She merely shot him without even gracing him with a look. Minfilia gave him an agonized look as she was marched out.

The vision faded. Arden shook his head to clear it, then poured more healing magic into the man's wounds with even greater conviction.

"They took her," Z'mona gasped. Blood stained his lips. "Tried to stop them–"

"Wait," Arden said. "Hush. Save your strength. This healing won't be easy." The size of the wound astounded him. But the strange thing was, it had somehow missed his vitals. What was killing him was blood loss. Arden focused down on his medical training, combining conjury and white magic to mend the torn flesh and halt the bleeding. Z'mona stared up at him the whole time, his chest heaving with labored breaths.

Beyond the circle of light cast by his magic, the Waking Sands was silent and eerie. The hair rose on the back of Arden's neck. The Garleans had come for him. Everyone was dead or captured because of him. How had they gotten in? What if they came back? Why had he gone to the Gold Saucer and amused himself instead of coming straight back? He might have been able to prevent this slaughter by handing himself over. The specter of Ifrit lurked in the back of his mind, and the blank faces of the tempered as they raised their hands in worship.

Z'mona's breathing grew easier by degrees. The holes in his chest and back shrank under Arden's lilies. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his arm, his ears flattened to his skull.

"We can't stay here," Arden murmured to him. "Is there a safe house in Ul'dah?"

"The chapel of Saint Adama Landama," Z'mona whispered. "We were supposed to regroup there if something happened to the Scions. We may … may find survivors there."

"You need a bed and rest," Arden told him. "Where do you live?"

"Here," said Z'mona with a pathetic smile. "Had no place to go. Minfilia took me in."

Arden couldn't leave the injured man in that place, especially if the Garleans returned. He would have preferred to walk out to the chapel, but Drybone village was several miles away, and Z'mona couldn't walk that far. Arden had left his chocobo in a stable in La Noscea, expecting to return there to pick him up. He'd travel by aetheryte, except Vesper Bay didn't have one.

"I'll see if I can rent a chocobo," Arden said. "Stay here and rest."

"Don't leave me here!" Z'mona exclaimed. He sat up and clutched his middle with a gasp.

Arden groaned. "I'll carry you, then." He worked his arms behind the man's knees and back and lifted him with surprising ease. Miqo'te were not a tall race, and Arden was strong. Z'mona whimpered and tossed his head from side to side.

Arden carried him out of that den of death. The onlookers still waited outside, and gasped as Arden emerged.

"Garlean attack," he told them shortly. "I don't know how they got in. There's a large number of dead inside. Notify the city guard."

"What about you?" one man called. "And him? He's a witness!"

"I have to get him to safety or he won't live out the night," Arden said. "I'll return tomorrow."

He didn't want to return. He wanted to run straight back to Othard and bury himself in the Steppes where no Garlean force would ever find him and where Ifrit had never been heard of. But he had a patient to worry about. Even with his wounds closed, Z'mona was weak from blood loss and needed care. Arden thought of his fellow healers in Ul'dah, but he didn't want to enter the city right now. If the Garleans had attacked the Waking Sands, they might have assassins posted in Ul'dah, looking out for him. How far did their net spread? To his paranoid, guilty mind, nowhere was safe.

Arden carried his patient to the transport rental office and hired a carriage to Drybone. The people there were horrified at the sight of the man in his arms, with his tattered, bloodstained clothing and glassy stare. They gave him the carriage, and they set out.

The jolting of the carriage wheels over the dirt road caused Z'mona much pain. Arden kept his healing magic active for most of the journey. The task kept terror and grief at bay, although it lurked on the periphery, waiting to strike the moment Arden's focus wandered. Z'mona groaned and cried out much at first, but grew quiet as they neared Drybone. Arden carried him into the inn there and laid him in a bed.

There he doctored his patient as he'd been trained, giving him drink after slow drink of water. It was past midnight by this time, the inn kitchen was closed, the staff gone home. He had no way of getting him any broth or juice.

Z'mona stared up at him from the bed. "What if they track us here?" he whispered. "They want you, right? What if they come to Drybone?"

"I'll hear the ruckus as they approach," Arden assured him. "I doubt they'll come so far. They have Minfilia." His words caught in his throat and he bowed his head. "Gods, I don't even know if she'd live the night."

"Why do they want you?" Z'mona groaned. "Why not Arenvald?"

"They may have been after either of us," Arden said, resting his head in one hand. "I don't understand. None of it makes sense." He caught his own tail up across his knee and stroked the spikes on the end, something he had resisted doing in public until now. But this wasn't in public. At the moment, it felt like he and Z'mona were the last Scions in Eorzea.

Z'mona watched him. He smiled. "I thought only Miqo'te did that." He flicked his own tail up and stroked the end.

Arden didn't answer. Exhaustion pressed hard upon him. He had slain a primal that day and could not stay on his feet much longer.

Z'mona pointed at the other bed. "You look done in. Might as well sleep. I'm about to doze off, myself."

Arden wavered, torn between duty to a patient and the desperate need to sleep. He waited until Z'mona shut his eyes, then crawled into the other bed.

He barely seemed to close his eyes when it was daylight, with light making the window curtains glow. Z'mona was asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. Arden's fear and grief rolled over him like a great heavy stone. Minfilia and the Scions had been his friends since he arrived in Eorzea, and now they were gone. Perhaps some had escaped and gone to the church? Perhaps some would arrive today. Arenvald was probably all right, but who else had been captured and who lay among the dead?

Hunger finally drove him to his feet. The inn was serving breakfast, and Arden ate a huge plate of eggs, fried ham, bread, and aldgoat yogurt. When he explained about his patient, the kitchen gave him a large bowl of broth and a jug of fruit juice. He took it back to his room.

Z'mona was awake and watching the door with a worried expression. He relaxed when he recognized Arden. "I was afraid they got you."

"No sign of enemies," Arden said. "Can you manage this bowl? You need the salt in the broth."

Z'mona took the bowl and drank the whole thing in one long, slow draught. Then he started on the juice. "I'm starving," he reported. "My wound aches, but not like last night."

"You need nutrients for the healing magic to work on," Arden said. "We'll make sure everything stays down, then we'll see about breakfast."

Z'mona did keep everything down. The light began to return to his eyes and his color improved. Arden had a chance to get a good look at him. Had he been a cat, Z'mona would have been a black one. His ears, tail, and hair were black, and his skin was a deep, rich brown, like a crusty loaf of bread. His eyes were bright yellow-green. His tunic was a complete mess of blood and gore, and Arden made him take it off and bathe in a tub the inn servants brought in. Then Z'mona devoured a huge breakfast.

While his patient was thus occupied, Arden bought him a new tunic out of his own rapidly diminishing pockets. The rest of his money was in the Bank of Ul'dah, with a smaller account in the Gridania bank. He was afraid to go near either of them.

"You know," Z'mona said, sitting on the edge of his bed in a fine new tunic, "you're not at all like I thought."

"What did you think?" Arden said gruffly, collecting the dishes to return to the kitchen.

"That you're fierce and cruel," said Z'mona. "A healer who kills. But you saved my life. You weren't cruel at all."

Apparently this fellow had observed Arden's swaggering ways and drawn the same conclusions as the rest of them. The news that Z'mona now saw through his facade was disconcerting. Arden didn't want anyone to know that behind the horns and scales, he was tormented with fear and guilt.

"Appearances can be deceiving," said Arden. "Besides, I have plenty of time for cruelty later." He bared his teeth in a snarling smile.

Z'mona watched him carefully, his green eyes missing nothing. "I don't think you're cruel at all. You just pretend."

Arden didn't know what to say to that and busied himself tidying the inn room so they didn't charge him extra. Blast it all. He needed to get rid of this catboy as soon as possible. The first opportunity that presented itself was the most obvious one. "I need to walk up to the church and see if anyone else shows up. Stay here and–"

"I'm going with you," Z'mona said at once, picking up his shoes.

"You should spend the day in bed," Arden said.

"And get picked off? Not a chance," said Z'mona. "Without the Scions I have nowhere to go."

Arden watched his movements with a critical eye. The young man was stiff and careful, drawing on his shoes with a wince. He really needed a week's rest, but he was right about perhaps being picked off. If the Garleans could strike the Waking Sands, they could hit anywhere in Thanalan. Maybe the church would take him in, like they had so many other strays.

They walked up the hill to the chapel in the bright, hot sunlight. Z'mona leaned on Arden's arm, walking slowly and with difficulty. "If I was shot in the middle, why don't my legs work?"

"Your stomach muscles move your leg muscles," said Arden, helping him along. "Everything in your body is connected."

As they labored up the hill, Arden scanned the cemetery for any sign of familiar faces, or worse, fresh graves. But there was no one about. A breeze bent the dry grasses, and little birds sang from the mesquite trees.

Still, someone must have seen them coming, for Father Iliud met them halfway up the hill and helped Z'mona along. "What happened here?"

"Father," said Arden gravely, "the wild roses are dead, and we do not know what to do."

The priest looked at Arden sharply, then at Z'mona. "Wait until we're indoors."

They dragged on in silence until they reached the welcome shelter of the chapel. There Arden and Z'mona collapsed into a pew. Z'mona immediately curled up on his side and lay still, his breathing fast and shallow.

Arden told Father Iliud of the attack on the Waking Sands. "Many are dead and Minfilia, at least, was captured. I don't know how long the Garleans would keep her alive. The worst of it is that the Garleans wanted me. So … it's really all my fault."

Father Iliud sat beside him with a sigh. "None of this is your fault, son."

"B-but they wanted me!" Arden stammered. "If I hadn't gone to the Gold Saucer–"

"You did not summon the Garleans," said the priest. "You had no control over their actions, and you are not liable. All we can do is see if any survivors turn up. I'm going to contact a friend at Vesper Bay and see if the Brass Blades have any updates."

Arden leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head. "They're dead," he whispered. "I should … should have checked to see if I could resurrect any of them. But I had to save Z'mona, and I didn't … and now it's too late …"

A teardrop spattered on the stone floor, followed by another.

Father Iliud rose to his feet and rested a hand on Arden's shoulder. "Wait here. Others may return. If you have a linkpearl, try to contact whoever you can. Do not leave this church until I give you leave."

Arden nodded and covered his face with both hands. The priest departed for his office and the sanctuary fell quiet. The only sound was the rustle of grasses outside, the whisper of wind over the roof tiles, and Arden's low, moaning sobs.

"Lady Hydaelyn," he whispered, "watch over your children now. Protect Minfilia and whoever else has survived this. Watch over us and grant us your Light."

Beside him, Z'mona struggled to sit up. He sat there for a moment, seeming to witness Arden's suffering. Then he flung an arm around Arden's shoulders and bowed his head, too. "Hydaelyn, please hear us," he said in a broken voice. "Darkness has struck many of us down. Lift up those who remain and help us find each other again."

At first Arden bristled at the touch, then accepted it. Miqo'te had a different sense of personal space than Au Ra, and Z'mona meant no harm.

The two of them remained like that for hours, weeping, praying, or resting slumped in the pew. Arden often worked low key healing magic on Z'mona, which sent the catboy to sleep in a ball on the thin cushion. Then Arden lay back and slept, too, only to awaken, remember that everyone was dead because of him, and wept and prayed again.

In moments of calm, he tried his linkpearl. Arenvald was safe, but frightened. He was staying with the Sultansworn for now, in case the Garleans had actually been targeting him. Papalymo and Yda were safe in Gridania, and horrified to hear about their friends. Y'shtola and Thancred didn't answer any calls, and there was no sign of Urianger. Alphinaud and Alisaie were not among the slain, but neither of them could be reached, either.

At noon, Father Iliud brought them some bread and dried fruit. As Arden and Z'mona refreshed themselves, the priest said, "The Brass Blades are gathering the slain and sending them here for burial. They request that you help with identifying and moving the slain. It will be hard, but it may bring you closure."

Arden rose to his feet and clenched his fists at his sides. "This will be my penance. I failed my fellow Scions in life. At the very least I can honor them in death." The way he had been unable to honor the tempered.

Z'mona jumped to his feet. "Me too," he said defiantly. "They were my friends, too."

"I will await your return this evening," said Father Iliud. "May the Twelve watch over you."

Arden and Z'mona took the aetheryte to Black Brush Station and rode rented chocobos the rest of the way to Vesper Bay. Z'mona was much better, although still weak. Neither of them said much during the journey. Their shared grief was bonding them, despite Arden barely knowing Z'mona existed until yesterday.

They reached Vesper Bay and found the Brass Blades had carried out the dead and lined them up on the sidewalk, ready for identification and carrying to the waiting chocobo cart. Arden grimly told the waiting soldier the name of each person. Those he didn't know, Z'mona did. The soldier wrote them down so their next of kin could be notified. Then they rolled the bodies in old sheets and carried them to the waiting cart. There were nine dead and seven missing.

The long carriage ride out to the church's graveyard should have been a silent, solemn affair, except that the carriage driver passed around bottles of wine and told them to drown their sorrows. Arden and Z'mona became very merry after that, and sang ribald songs all the way back to the chapel. There they staggered about, laughing and being extremely irreverent. Father Iliud would have sent them away, except that he needed Arden's earth magic for digging graves. This Arden did, knowing that under the drunkenness was a raw, unending ache, and ignoring it.

He and Z'mona returned to the inn in Drybone and slept it off, awakening late the next morning groggy and hungover, both from the drink and from grief. After eating a weary breakfast, Arden set out for the chapel again with Z'mona tagging along.

"You don't have to stay with me, you know," Arden grumbled as they climbed the hill to the church. "I prefer to work alone."

"By alone, you mean with Arenvald," said Z'mona. He was much more cheerful this morning, even though his steps still dragged sometimes. It seemed that the Miqo'te healed quickly. "What part of 'I have nowhere else to go' don't you understand?"

"Surely you have friends or family somewhere. Don't Miqo'te live in tribes?"

"I'm a Seeker of the Sun," Z'mona said. "One alpha male, the Nunh, and a lot of females, his wives and daughters. His sons, the Tia, are cast out to start their own tribes. Notice my name is still Z'mona Tia. My tribe lives far out in the desert and I nearly died before reaching Ul'dah. When I got there, I found that the refugees had taken all the jobs. I had no one and nothing. I scrounged a living until I fell in with the Scions. Minfilia had pity on me after I begged to water her chocobo after she returned from a journey. She took me in, gave me a job and a place to live."

Arden cast an eye over Z'mona's black hair and fur. "You're a little dark for a Seeker of the Sun."

"My mother was of the Moon people," said Z'mona. "The Nunh bested her in combat and won her fair and square."

Arden grunted and was quietly horrified. The tribal practices of the Au Ra seemed so tame by comparison, with their matchmakers, formal visits, and gifts exchanged.

Z'mona smacked one fist into his palm. "That's why I'm going to rescue Minfilia."

"Wait," Arden said. "We don't know where she was taken."

"Not yet," said Z'mona. "But that's what we're going to do next, right? There has to be ways to find out where the Garleans have moved people."

Arden thought about this as they entered the coolness of the chapel. Father Iliud was in his office, speaking to Marques, the amnesiac who worked around the chapel. Arden and Z'mona sat down to wait.

"I'll call Papalymo," Arden said. "I know that part of his duties is to keep an eye on the Garleans near Baelsar's Wall. Maybe he's seen something."

"The Brass Blades may have seen an airship or a boat," Z'mona said. "The Garleans had to get into the Waking Sands from somewhere."

Arden called Papalymo and asked him about transports in the last few days. Papalymo said that he hadn't seen any.

"But that doesn't mean much," said Papalymo. "The fourteenth legion has several bases of operations around Eorzea. They may have taken Minfilia to any of them. I'll ask around and keep you posted. Tell Z'mona hello."

Arden hung up and relayed this message.

Z'mona beamed. "He remembered me! Good ol' Papalymo." He sighed and stared at his hands in his lap. "I wish we could move faster. Rescue Minfilia before they do something horrible to her."

"I know," Arden said miserably. "I hate sitting here with nothing to do."

Father Iliud emerged from his office with Marques following meekly in his wake. Marques seemed to be an old man. He wore a brown robe with a hood, and the bit of chin that showed beneath it sported white whiskers. Father Iliud plucked a broken timepiece from a shelf and handed it to Marques, who fingered it and turned it over and over.

"I believe I could fix it," he said slowly. "If I had the right tools."

The priest left the room and returned with a toolbox. "Try these. Feel free to use my office as a workspace."

"Thank you," said Marques, and retreated from the room. As Father Iliud turned to Arden and Z'mona, the chapel doors opened and a familiar teenaged Elezen strode in. Arden carefully checked the ribbon in the hair before he said, "Alphinaud?"

"Arden and Z'mona Tia?" Alphinaud said in disbelief, halting in the doorway. Then he strode up to them with an uncharacteristically wide smile. "I had no idea you two were still alive! I only came here in the faintest hopes of finding another Scion or two."

Arden shook hands with the boy, his old reserve returning. Any other time he might have hugged him, but one did not hug Alphinaud without his permission.

Z'mona had no such compunction, and he hugged Alphinaud with abandon. "Alph, you're alive! We didn't find you among the slain, so I was scared you'd been captured."

"I was in Limsa Lominsa," Alphinaud said loftily. "Alisaie is still there and also safe." He turned to Arden. "The Ixal beast tribe have summoned Garuda, the primal of wind."

Arden folded his arms. "What do you expect me to do about it? After the amount of preparation it took to defeat Titan, I haven't a hope of defeating another without the Scions for planning."

"I disagree," said Alphinaud in his maddeningly confident way. "Oh, when it was just Alisaie and I, I came close to despairing. But here are two of you, and one of you is a Warrior of Light. Z'mona, you're good with a blade, aren't you?"

"Passable," Z'mona said.

"See, it's a start," said Alphinaud. "I have my own skills. The three of us could almost take down Garuda ourselves."

"Yes, and be tempered for your sins," said Arden. "The reality is that only Arenvald and I stand a chance against a primal, and the two of us aren't strong enough to take one down. I know nothing of this god."

"Goddess," Alphinaud said. "And she has surrounded herself with an impenetrable wall of wind. Only the Ixal can enter it."

Arden opened both hands. "Well now. Sounds impossible."

"Excuse me," said a voice.

The Scions looked up. Marques stood there in his robe and hood, the timepiece in one hand. The hands on its face ticked along healthily.

"I believe a crystal of the proper aspect could negate a wind barrier," Marques said. "I … I used to know about such things." He looked at the repaired clock in his hand.

Alphinaud looked at him hard. "Do I know you?"

"Do you?" Marques said vaguely. He seemed to be thinking of something else.

Father Iliud emerged from his office carrying a leather apron full of tools, rolled up neatly. He carried it to Marques and placed it in his hands. Marques took it reverently.

"When you were found," Father Iliud said, "these were on you. You were in such a state that I feared you might injure yourself or others, so I took them for safekeeping. But every time you repair something mechanical, I see a little of your mind return. I think it's time I returned these to you."

Marques pushed back his hood and unrolled the apron. Rows and rows of tools hung from it, many of them tiny, delicate things like a jewel smith's.

Alphinaud didn't bother with the tools. He stared at the man's face. Despite his white hair and beard, Marques could have only been in his forties. A pair of goggles was strapped around his head, and as he turned over the apron, Arden saw that the man's arms were corded with muscle.

"Cid?" Alphinaud said in disbelief. "Cid Garlond? But they said you died in the Calamity! Your ship crashed!"

"My … ship?" The man looked up, eyes slightly unfocused.

"Cid Garlond," Alphinaud said slowly and clearly, taking his hand, "you are the foremost expert on airships and magitek in Eorzea. You defected to us from Garlemald. Don't you remember?"

Cid raised a hand to his forehead and looked wondering. "I … I don't know. It all sounds …" He held up one hand and stared at it. "The name is familiar. The tools…" He bent over them again, murmuring their names to himself. "Socket wrench, screwdrivers, hand drill…"

Alphinaud turned to Arden, at once excited and accusing. "Was he here this whole time and you never told me?"

"I'm new to Eorzea," Arden said gruffly. "I didn't know the crazy old man was a genius inventor." He looked warily at Cid's forehead, but the third eye was hidden by his goggle strap. "Or that he was Garlean."

"He defected when his father went insane working on the Meteor project," said Alphinaud. "And other reasons. Eorzea is indebted to him. The airships that travel between the city states are his inventions."

Cid looked up, his eyes a little sharper than they had been. "Airships?"

"Yes, airships," said Alphinaud. He turned to Father Iliud. "Where was he found?"

"Wandering the hills in northern Thanalan," said the priest. "Just south of Mor Dhona."

"Then I'll start there," Alphinaud said. "Arden, go back to Gridania and ask the Woods Wailers if they remember seeing an airship fly over the northern Shroud. It would have been about five years ago, hours before the Calamity."

"Any particular airship?" Arden asked. "The transport ones look about the same."

"This one would have been smaller and sportier," said Alphinaud. "Almost a pleasure craft, with a blue balloon."

"Blue?" said Cid, rising to his feet. "Boy, take me with you. I must know what you find. Word of an airship lights a fire in my mind. I think, if I return to where I was found, it might grow."

"Very well," said Alphinaud. "Z'mona, what will you do?"

"I'm staying with Arden," said the Miqo'te, his tail twitching like drumming fingers. "We'll hunt this airship together, although I don't see why."

"I believe it could help us defeat this wind primal," said Arden. "Or at least save us a long walk."

Z'mona grinned. "I'm all about less walking."