Personnage

Starlight, Heavensturn, Valentione's Day, and now Little Ladies' Day.

I thought of writing, and....I could blame the festivities, but.....it's a weak excuse at best.

Little Ladies' Day is...."safe" is probably the best word for it. But I've spent every Starlight since then in Coerthas, and Heavensturn--it trails too closely, takes on the bittersweet flavor. Then Valentione's Day...

There are.....questions best left unasked, and....I've learned I shouldn't look for their answers.

But the common knowledge in Ishgard doesn't reach Gridania, and some well-meaning celebrant will always

....I don't lie, for the record. A half-truth with a smile, words I'm never sure of, but....never a lie, I think.

I meant to write--I really did.

If not the others, then Starlight, at least--no Blasphemies, no hiding, and no gaps in memory--from alcohol or anyone else.

Uneventful, compared to voidsent and archfiends, but.....a banquet in the Firmament, with nobles and commoners breaking bread together--that, too, is a mark left on history, is it not?

An "uneventful" event. And.....warm. So, so warm.

Enough to melt holes in my icy dam of denial. A trickle of memories, swelling into a torrent of....truth, I suppose.

It starts as it always has--the sound of an airship taking off, the trail of blood from his mouth.

I can only think of how little blood there is. That his injury must not be as lethal as it appears.

Delusion. Anything to keep other thoughts away.

I can see stone, where his stomach should be. A wound deep enough to lose aether instead of blood.

It takes all his remaining strength just to speak, but the cold air turns his words into fog, and mercilessly blows them apart.

At first, it was a white mage's staff that lay on the ground. Out of reach--discarded, not forgotten. Useless.

I blamed my teachers, for giving me such strong discipline. For preventing the taboos of desperation, even though they, too, would not have saved him.

Then, it was a star globe, rings knocked out of alignment from colliding with the stone tiles. It couldn't help the stars fading from his eyes, and I couldn't find any others in my despair.

I blamed my childhood friend, for throwing our weapon far enough that I would have to let go of his hand to retrieve it. Just far enough to stop me. Far enough to keep his death from being in vain.

Then, it was a codex, pages crumpled from frantic searching, circuits burnt from rushed activation. Lily dissipating for three more pulses of Lustrate, but a faerie's worth of aether wasn't nearly enough to fill the hole.

I blamed myself, for being so selfish in the face of his selflessness. Even though using my life still wouldn't have saved him. Even though he would've stopped me by force--would've used the last of his life to do so. But I knew it would be futile, and so selfishly didn't even try.

Of course, none of those ideas came to me in the moment. Regrets born of retrospection, choices that never had the chance to be deliberated.

As I said, all I could think of then, was how little blood there was. How his story couldn't end like this. Denial.

But part of me has never taken well to denial or delusion. And so my dreams argue, "there was nothing anyone could do, it was impossible."

Except....I've never taken well to "impossible", either.

And so it goes, over and over. A thousand tries, a thousand little changes, a thousand dreams.

Still, I thought I'd found some kind of acceptance in the Aitiascope, or in knowing that the sage's arts are no more powerful than its peers', but....regret has proven itself as quite the artist.

His hand in mine, the nouliths lay scattered around us--their formation abandoned......but Kardion still binds us.

A curse, for with it, denial can find no foothold.

I can feel the flow of aether in his body, and the fabric of his soul--every fold, every patch left by old scars. And I can feel the ragged tear Zephirin's javelin left through both.

He struggles for each word. Fights to keep his pain from showing.

But I know the effort behind each syllable intimately. I've clung too tightly to the spell, closed the distance to nothing. As if his heart lay on my bare chest, each beat ripples through me, weaker and weaker.

He knows he can't be saved.

And I can feel him unraveling.

Regret. Sorrow. Fear.

Fibers unwind from their threads, break off, and are swept out to the aetherial sea.

He forces a smile. Warmth in the turbulence.

The waves lap at his fraying edges. Currents too gentle to move the living, pulling him apart.

His hand squeezes mine, and his soul reaches for comfort like a small child.

I grasp for it--too eager. He realizes what I refuse to acknowledge.

His hand squeezes mine, and his soul slips out of reach. Pulls back, by his own volition.

I could lessen his pain, buy him a moment more of life. Yet he remains as mist.

His breath catches, and he hesitates. Starts to reach again, thinks better of it.

Neither of us know when the levee of shock will burst, how long the tears will flow unchecked....or the devastation their flood will bring. Already, they threaten to spill over.

His eyes struggle to focus, but still he refuses my delusion.

Instead, he asks for one tiny, selfish indulgence.

He deserves so much more, but it's all he asks of the star.

Of his remaining time.

Of my crumbling heart.

Somehow, I manage a smile. A succor no healing art can grant, and the only one he accepts.

He steels himself. Pulls away. Defies instinct with discipline. Tries to release me from Kardia, even though he has neither the knowledge nor remaining strength to do so.

He knows that the moment my smile falters is a moment he does not want to see.

I should sever the connection. Something will shatter if I don't, and in a way I won't be able to hide.

Instead, I strain at it. Strain to reach him. Strain to keep him a moment longer. He tries again to spare me, but he no longer has the strength to evade, let alone resist.

The distance between us grows, but no longer due to his efforts. His soul is now too delicate to grasp, and I hesitate. He does no such thing, slipping away with caresses, each touch costing him the finger that left it.

Kardia thins--my soul can only stretch so far. I know what comes next, and I know that this time, there will be no relief.

I cannot save him. I can only grasp his hand, knowing that the comfort it gives won't be enough--that his senses will fade before his journey ends.

I need to sever the connection. Now.

I leave myself bound. Penance.

I could not save him.

I could not even relieve his pain.

I have failed him, and I deserve no quarter.

What's left of the spell ripples with worry, but underneath it is relief. I won't regret my decision.

The difference is almost imperceptible--the snapping of a single thread.

His hand is still warm.

I can no longer tell if I'm smiling. It feels like I am--like I can't afford to stop.

But it's warped. It can't not be.

Faltering. Stuck. Beyond my control.

Were it a cane, a star globe, a codex--Estinien's clawed fingertips would gently peel my hands away. Pull me to my feet. Guide me, dazed, back to the manor.

They're sharp, but I do not feel them, nor give way as easily. Not even when he backs his mercy with his strength, and their points dig firmly into palms and joints. He can't be gone, if I don't let go.

Estinien is murmuring something to me, but I don't respond. Can't. I don't understand, don't recognize any of the words.

He tries again, and again. Firmer. More urgent. Grabs my face, forces me to look at him.

One word, he keeps saying more than the others--like it's important, like I should know that one, at least. More and more, until it's all he's saying, and his voice has an edge of panic. But being louder doesn't make me understand.

Aymeric interrupts him, gets him to stop, calm down--a little, but not completely. Puts a hand over mine, waits for me to meet his gaze.

He speaks softly, gently. Short, simple phrases. He doesn't use Estinien's word, but another important one. His expression is calm, but the eyes he's searching mine with are scared of what they see.

Am I still smiling?

Should I be?

I don't know.

I don't know.

I don't know.

I find myself in the manor. In his bed. I wouldn't stand, couldn't walk--Estinien had carried me.

I don't remember, though, because that would mean remembering being separated. His hand is no longer warm. He is no longer warm. Gone.

Muffled voices, coming from the parlor. News I should be delivering, in words I still don't understand.

A thousand tries, a thousand little changes, a thousand dreams.

But only scattered nouliths turn me into another casualty.

I don't regret my decision.

I'm left incapable of regretting my decision.

Sorrow. Regret. Revenge.

I do not feel them, only the orphaned Kardia. The void in my chest, where his heartbeat should be.

I close my eyes, not to escape it, but to follow it in my dreams. Find its twin. Bring him back.

Of course, the ending of the tale doesn't change. The star still needs a hero, and it will settle once more for a weapon.

But that weapon won't be me, and I need suffer no longer--a world where time and death hold no power over us awaits. A measure of peace in this madness. And someone else will take the reins.

All I had to do was ask.