lazybox | our tears are painted in red

our tears are painted in red

A shade of white fading away, and a severe feeling of deja vu, as the magic disperses...

But not entirely. And so Aodhan hovers on the wind, not even noticed, as the Crystal Tower draws deep, and this memory plays through to its conclusion. (He remembers thinking, at a time he was still too afraid to fly, how good the wind must be up here, at the Emperor's throne. Now, he knows it to be truth.

The scene plays out, and he takes the time, to confirm what he saw, a child left alone and then gone -

When it is just him, the Auri woman, and the crystalline figure of a friend, Aodhan takes the mask from his face. No reason to imply any alliance with the defeated and the lost. It goes on his belt, in front of the faint humming of the flight engine, which he flicks off with the turn of a switch.

And then he touches down, heels a distinct sound in the silence as they land on the stone. It's good as an announcement of his presence, before he actually speaks. A moment for her to react, to spin and see his hands held up without any obvious weapons in them. He considers several forms of address, but... There are none that aren't weird, in this situation, so better to leave all of them off.

"I hate to interrupt," he says instead, "but I'm afraid I must point out that the 'sending back' part of your summoning did not work exactly as intended." He gives her a weak smile, with enough genuine cheer in it to seem strange from someone who was swinging a greatsword and the powers of bone-deep hurt only half an hour before.

(He hopes she didn't look too closely at Asch. He'd die again before wearing a helm over his hair.)

Just another day and another problem for the Warrior of Something or Other to solve. Hopefully more quickly than the last few.

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Era clutches G'raha to her breast as she turns to face the one who hadn't left, fully aware of just how precious and fragile what she holds in her hands is. Her Carbuncle stands between them, though its posturing is neither offensive nor truly defensive. With her mind in utter turmoil she does her best to focus on the situation at hand.

"You are from beyond the rift," she says, voice thick with emotion she refuses to let herself feel. "I'm not sure why you weren't sent home. Will you be able to wait a handful of days?"

He pauses, considers, then gives her an expression that's half sympathy and half exhaustion. "We can only hope," he says finally. "Knowing our luck, there will some kind of unfathomable disaster beating at the gates when I return, as usual."

A pause, and then he looks down at the crystal vessel in her grasp. "...He'll be fine," Aodhan finds himself compelled to say, even though the how and why are something perhaps better saved for later. "He's more stubborn than he gives himself credit for."

He speaks with a certainty he should not have, but Era hasn't the mind to question it in this moment. She simply holds the crystal closer, staring at the man who shouldn't be here without really seeing him. There are so many things. Too many things.

The Scions are most assuredly close by, and Era knows they will have questions. They will want answers, then seek them, putting off their return for a short while longer in order to help. But they did not see their soulless bodies. They hadn't felt their flesh. How it was like cold wax to the touch, with only the barest flicker of life left behind.

There is no time left—not for them, or for Krile.

They can't know of this stranger from another world. Not yet.

"Can you access the aethernet?"

"If I can't, I have ways of getting places," Aodhan answers, fluffing his wings slightly at his shoulders for emphasis. Though it's somewhat riskier in a Crystarium that doesn't know him; he's had enough of being mistaken for a sin eater already, thank you very much.

(Of course, there are also Asch's methods of getting places. The only person he's like to run into along those routes is Thancred, and he'll be busy for long enough.)

"Then get elsewhere," she tells him. "Immediately. If you know him, you know the Crystarium. Meet me at the top of the tower to the west of the entrance. A quarter-bell past sunset in one day's time."

"I know the place, too. I'll be there," he says. "... And mind you take some time to rest. I'll not have anyone saying the hero of another star is exhausting herself for my sake."

For a moment, his own words hit so close to Ardbert's delivery (if Ardbert had grown up in what Voeburt was now and had the fae accent to match) that Aodhan finds his own heart aching. He takes two quiet steps back before he turns away and sprints without warning across the floor, wings snapping out with a powerful downbeat to carry him away from the Tower.

The good thing about being this high up is that to anyone below who might still be looking at the now-quiet sky, he'll seem nothing more than a bird, if they see him at all.

----

Properly sneaking into the Crystarium is easy when you're intimately acquainted with it and the direction the look-outs are looking. Though it's a little bit opposite of the norm, to have guards who are too busy looking up to see him.

Admittedly, being able to hover on aether is almost too big a help in climb the walls. And the Crystarium at pre-dawn may be noisier than other cities, but it's been enough months that its people are beginning to have some kind of diurnal cycle.

So, into the city before dawn, keep hidden inside until dusk. Catch a nap in the amaro stables, tucked under the wing of one of the beasts. Wash the worst of the amaro-stink off in the grey water reservoir near the gardens. Fight his wings back under the glamour-bearing vest. Nothing to it.

When Era arrives at the tower-top, she might not even see him at first. Aodhan is sitting with his feet hanging over the ledge of the look-out, but tucked up next to one of the supports to the side and mostly-hidden in its shadows.

Era doesn't see him at first. It honestly takes her far longer to notice him than she'd like, and she only does so by virtue of her Carbuncle's keen senses. She should have told him to meet her in two day's time. So much has happened... Her family said their goodbyes to the First, she took them home. Restored her family, then G'raha. She then came back, informed everyone that all went well, and now she's... here. In a place she does not wish to be in this moment.

"My apologies. I was waylaid by... duties."

It is only a few minutes past the time she arranged to meet the stranger, but punctuality is important to her. Era seats herself a few fulms away from him.

"I don't know why you weren't sent back. I may need to reverse engineer the spell... Invert it so it is a variation of Return rather than a summoning. I will seek council from my friends once they've recuperated. Unfortunately the process may take some time."

He's sitting watching the horizon, but turns his head towards her as she sits.

"Didn't I tell you to rest?"

Although the pitch and timbre of the voice is the same, the rest is not; the fae-alike accent is gone, replaced by something with a musical lilt that runs at a counter to the exasperated irritation of the words.

And then Aodhan clears his throat slightly and the accent shifts back to what it was on Tower-top as he continues, "There are no lives that hang in the balance that will end in the difference between one day and three. I'm confident that the people I left behind will be able to handle things for a little while."

(There is always some level of panic, but he's accepted that he can't be everywhere at once, even if it's taken him a life and a half to manage it. He's here now, so he'll do good where he is, even if that may mean dragging the local hero off to her bed.)

The sun has settled below the horizon, though the warmth has yet to fade entirely from the sky. She watches as the soft reds and oranges bleed away behind the mountains, soon to be overtaken by the deep pinks and violets leading the procession of stars twinkling in the inky black curtain of true night.

Once the moon makes its appearance she stares down at her hands where they lay upon her lap. She remembers the phantom touch of knuckles against her own. She looks away from her hands, back to the sky.

The sunless sea.

The thought causes her to lace her fingers together, grip so firm her knuckles turn white.

He never got to see it again.

"...I am resting," Era says after far too long a pause. "And it will likely be more than three days. I will speak to the manager of suites to arrange room and board, and with the captain of the guards to ensure you've free run of the Crystarium."

Her eyes are still locked on the stars.

"Thank you for the aid. I'm Era... And I'll need a name to organize things for you."

"You're so exhausted it's a wonder you managed to get up the stairs," he replies. "It's written in every line of your body."

So is the weight, but he can hardly critique that. Nor will simply resting do very much for it.

"Aodhan," he replies. "And if you would warn them as well that I'm of the race known on the First as Flumen, that would be appreciated." He rolls his shoulders, making the glamour hiding his wings ripple slightly to a keen eye, like a heat distortion centralized to his back. "Rather not get taken for some stripe of sin eater at this point, you understand."

"And yet if called to arms I would have the energy to fight."

Era rolls her shoulders, shrugging off his statement. He doesn't know her. Barring unconsciousness or extreme circumstances, she will always have the strength to take another step. To fight. To protect. It is why she exists.

"...I have learned of the races in this world and never heard tell of any 'Flumen'." To say that current historical records are lacking would be generous, so it's possible the Flumen exist somewhere on the First... But unless there is inhabitable land on the far ends of the Empty it is doubtful. "I will say you are an ally of the fae, as most here will understand that descriptor."

And as Aodhan is an ally to her, he is technically allied with the fae as well.

"What is the other one's name?"

"They left to the mountains beyond Il Mheg in the wake of the Flood. Or were driven away, perhaps more accurately." It's not hard to put together why. And there's a sfierceness to his eyes as he says, "Speak the name and let them be remembered. If someone doesn't know what it means, they can damn well find the library."

The idea that the Moren of this world wouldn't also still have those handful of records and gasp in recognition, as he did the first time in the wake of Vauthry's defeat, is absurd. And somehow even though he's still sitting, he seems to draw himself up, the harshness of his face leaving little doubt but that he is a knight without need of a shield, in word and fact.

"The sins the people of this world committed out of fear and ignorance did not begin with Vauthry. Those who live now cannot come to terms with that unless they know of it, so let their names be spoken." There's something almost ritual in the last words, a beat and cadence of a land long dead. It's important, and he doesn't know how to express how important it is if she doesn't understand.

Except perhaps...

A softening of his brow, now something more wistful. "They too once lived, after all."

If that doesn't carry exactly why the feeling is so fierce, he knows not what will.

She bristles, too tired to deal with 'other world' nonsense right now.

"They are not in the library. They are not in the mountains. They do not exist here. You do not know the sins of this world because it is not yours."

Her tone is icy. Sharp. There is no softness left in her in this moment, when all she wishes to do is curl up inside of herself and cling to what remains of her soulmate.

"And so I will tell the people you are an ally of the fae, because that is both what you are and what they will understand. If you wish to speak the names of your kind then so be it. Share them with the people here. Remember, as all deserve to be. But do not place the sins of your worlds upon mine. We've enough of our own."

"If you will not tell them the truth, then tell them nothing," he says. "Just because the sin is not yours, hero of the Source, does not mean it is not real."

(The idea that this world could be so different never crosses his mind, because it would be too much to bear.)

Aether flickers and settles, darkside-red and an unknown gold, before he yanks at the tie around his neck, pulling it free and undoing the glamoured bindings that hide his wings. "I'm leaving before I say something that I'll regret," he says, fluttering the stiffness from them. "When you have rested, seek me at Holminster Switch."

There will be something to occupy himself with there, at least. A pull at the aether around them that Era will surely be able to feel, and he pushes himself from the tower's heights into a fall that turns into a glide, out over the walls of the Crystarium and away.

"There is never only one truth," she snaps. Her Carbuncle growls along with her. "And just because a sin is real does not mean you can foist it off on any you feel deserve it."

Era barely registers the shift in aether, or the man's words. It is a struggle to keep herself together; the tenuous grasp she has keeps wavering. Esteem is so loudloudloud even with their soul crystal untouched by her aether. The Abyss all but screams at her. She wants to scream back. To shriek and sob and rage.

She uses Return instead.

☉

The Macarenses Angle feels the same as it did the other day. Alive. Dead. Remnants of Hades' aether all around. Era makes it all of four steps before she falls, legs finally giving out from under her. Her temple hits the ground hard enough that she feels Carbuncle dissipate. She exhales; slow, damp, shaky.

Why did she come here?

My dearest friend.

That's right.

Answers.

She pushes herself onto her knees. Hisses at the pain in her head. It gives her focus enough to get back on her feet, leaving her to wander around her new-old-lost home in an exhausted daze. There are no memories to guide her. No stars to follow.

How much of this home her soul yearns for (weeps for) is real? How could Amaurot be so utopian and yet... The ones meant to guide them had done that to a child. He had only been a child. So young he hadn't an identity beyond the one they gave him.

Era knows Azem disagreed with the plan to summon Zodiark. She had sought other answers, relying on the allies she made as the Traveler. Era knows that while she dissented then, it was not until Elidibus was chosen that she left.

Children are precious, beautiful gifts.

And she had killed one.

☉

Later, when she wakes, her memories are hazy; distant, like fevered dreams. Hems of a dark robe brushing over too-quiet footsteps. A soft, sad, familiar laugh. Large hands carrying her like a baby bird fallen from its nest. The whisper of a name she knew but does not know.

The bench she's laid upon is fit for an Amaurotine, but the robes draped over her for warmth are fit for an Au Ra. Era runs her fingers over the textured fabric (mournful, reverent) then clothes herself in them. Wrapped up in the gift of her first dearest friend, she falls back into a fitful slumber.

☉

Era does not know how many days it has been since she last surfaced, though knows it was at least one. She would not say she was rested, but she at least managed enough sleep to feel vaguely functional again. She still feels raw, like she'd been flayed open and had her heart ripped from her chest. The weight of all she has done and gained and lost is as salt to her wounds.

Walking through Holminster's Switch she finds herself missing the dark, quiet comfort of Amaurot. She squints against the evening sun, Carbuncle trotting along at her heels. Wearing her hooded robes affords her some measure of privacy even if her aetherial companion gives away her identity.

By the time she reaches the spot she slew her first Lightwarden she is already worn. Era sits opposite of it, making sure to give it a wide, superstitious berth. Memories of that sickening aether are all too vivid.

How different could things have been? If they'd found another way to store that Light?

Would Ardbert still be with her?

Her soul stirs. Warm. Faint.

It isn't the same.

It isn't the same.

Holminster Switch, that is.

The ruins are still ruins; there's little he can do for those. And the corpses are long since buried, after the coming of night.

But the buildings that are somewhere in-between, the ones with enough frame that something new could be built out of the wreckage - those are different, if one knows where to look. Stripped down of all the broken pieces and rubble. Those parts, along with assorted other debris - broken fences, shattered dreams, half a dozen vegetable patches worth of weeds - are piled in the yard where Philia once bellowed a challenge at the belighted heavens.

Few people have actually returned to the settlement yet, to live instead of burying their dead. So if the culprit for the work wasn't obvious by implication, then Aodhan's arrival back to the square - half of a shattered roof beam, longer than he is tall across his shoulders - makes it obvious enough. His wings are furled against his back but visible, helping to balance the wood he's carrying.

He isn't trying to hide, after all.

Era's arrival doesn't get so much as a greeting as he walks past her to deposit the beam against the pile. When the weight is off, he sighs.

"You know, usually I'm the one who gets off on the wrong foot with people." The accent is the strange and musical one, rather than the Aodhan who spoke before.

Era does not hate, but she hates it here.

She wraps her arms more tightly around her legs and rests her chin atop her knees; a faint shudder runs through her, most notable in her tail as it moves to curl around a leg. Her Carbuncle remains alert and agitated, ever vigilant in the face of its mistress' unease.

The changes Aodhan has made to the 'arena' are catalogued and appreciated. Not so much for the benefit of the people (she wonders if this place will ever be more than a graveyard) as much as for how it helps remind her of the present.

"You speak as though you haven't this time."

"You observed it correctly before," he replies, sliding the broken beam off his shoulders and leaning with one elbow on the top, the splintered end dug into the dirt. "There are two of us, and usually Aodhan is the friendly one. The nice one."

Then again, what about these circumstances is 'usual,' really? It's just another in a long line of unusual happenings and circumstances.

He sighs. "To answer your question - and I wouldn't hold it against you if you've forgotten that you asked - most people call me Asch, if they know I exist at all. We don't exactly advertise it."

She snorts inelegantly.

"You may as well for how poorly you hide it."

"Most situations are not that stressful," he responds, expression and voice about as bland as they can get.

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our tears are painted in red

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