by Jun Eishima
“When are you gonna quit treating me like a child?!”
“You want to go clear out daemons with the rest of them? Come talk to me in a decade.”
“I’ve already waited a decade!”
They had a lot in common. Aranea had thought so since the beginning. What she hadn’t counted on was raising the girl to be even more strong-willed than she was herself. But teens would be teens. They have to start lashing out at some point.
“The life of a foster parent is a hard one,” she sighed, looking at Wedge.
Aranea hadn’t had any parents left to rebel against when she reached adolescence, but she’d probably made life plenty difficult for the villagers and mercs who’d looked after her. Still, this wasn’t the past. For one thing, when Aranea was a teen, the world still had daylight. Things had been peaceful, more or less. A little girl playing grown-up among mercenaries had a decent chance of making it without getting herself killed.
Now that Eos was locked in perpetual night and daemons roamed around wherever the hell they pleased, irresponsible decisions were more often than not served up with a nice, cold side of death. The fact that Sol was a few years older than Aranea had been when she’d started fighting didn’t bring any peace of mind.
That was why, even when there was a whole group of hunters going out on a patrol, Aranea made certain to send Biggs and Wedge along. But apparently, Sol had grown sick of her little security detail. She’d cooked up a plan complete with fake rendezvous details to ditch them. This was a first.
When are you gonna quit treating me like a child?! The girl’s tone had been defiant.
“Never would’ve pegged myself as an overprotective parent,” Aranea said.
“What’s overprotective about it? Parents are supposed to worry about their kids. Why am I even saying this? I gotta get out there. I gotta find her!”
A slight smile formed on Aranea’s lips. At least she wasn’t the most overprotective adult in Sol’s life. That title belonged to another. Two others, in fact.
“I gotta get a message over to Biggs, and then . . . Oh geez. Listen, Lady A. I’ll see you later, all right?”
“Thanks, Wedge. I owe you one.”
The man left in a fluster, and then, for the moment, Aranea found herself alone.
“Guess it’s ’bout time to radio in the day’s report,” she told herself.
But when she stepped over to the transceiver, she realized it was earlier than she’d thought. She still had some time, and an idea formed about how to burn it.
“Hmph. How long has it been since I last made that?” she wondered out loud.
There was one more can of beans left, and if she put some of that dehydrated meat to soak now, there’d be just enough time to reconstitute it. It’d be a little sparser than usual, and she’d be making do with only what they had on hand, but still, it would be a home-cooked dinner. Her famous cassoulet.
More often than not, nights at the outposts meant eating straight out of a can. It was nice to enjoy a proper meal together every once in a while. There was always the chance that Sol wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, but if so, she could reheat and serve it again. Cassoulet was just as good the next day, if not better. Sol would come home to a clean bed and a big bowl of her favorite food―after she got an earful for running off on her own, that is.
Aranea opened the little cabinet and began pulling out ingredients, humming as she set about the task.
The ocean’s depths are much like the sky. As light passes through water, the playful shimmers trace the same graceful arcs as petals falling through the air. A dance of beauty, but one mingled with a trace of sadness.
Luna.
She heard her beloved’s voice calling her name. Whether real or merely an illusion conjured by her overwhelming desire to see him again, she could not tell. He was there, far off in the water, his image wavering and softly distorted by the current, as if revealing him to be no more than a mirage born of longing.
His lips formed her name once more.
Luna!
Shouting her name, brow knit with desperation, he was seemingly on the verge of tears. She had seen him like this once before, on a day twelve years ago, when they’d still been children, when they’d only barely met. His expression and words now were a perfect echo of what they’d been then. His arm, too, was again outstretched, as if he might bridge the great and growing distance between them.
That was the day when the peace in her home of Tenebrae was suddenly shattered. Soldiers of the Niflheim Empire stormed Fenestala Manor and captured it, and then she was running, being pulled along by the hand. Failure to escape meant death―not for her, but for one much more important than her. Prince Noctis.
The title of Oracle was not yet hers, but still she understood the duties with which she would be tasked. She was to aid the king of Lucis―the future king. That was her calling, as bestowed upon her by the gods, and she would see it fulfilled even if that meant casting her own life aside.
They will not be able to escape with me slowing them down. If he does not have to protect me as well, I know for certain His Majesty will be able to bring Noctis to safety.
She released her grip on King Regis’s hand. She was not afraid. There was only the ache of sadness at knowing she might never see Noctis again. But that was a small price to pay if it meant the prince would live.
She watched as he was carried off into the distance. Not wanting to forget a single moment, she kept her head held high, eyes trained upon him and ears open. She saw his outstretched arm, reaching for her, and heard his desperate cries. She watched, unmoving, even as the imperial host swarmed around her.
Now, here in the ocean, she saw the face of the young boy, the same one long burned into the backs of her eyes. And superimposed upon it was the face of the adult.
The time has come for us to part.
For some reason, it was harder this time than it had been before. The old grief ached, ready to tear a hole straight through her. Why was it so difficult? She was older now. She’d come of age. Quite some time had passed since her ascension.
So why did she feel like this? Why did she wish to cry like a small child?
She bit her lip. Her king’s last memory would not be of tear-stained cheeks. He would remember her happy.
Gathering together every ounce of willpower she possessed, she put a gentle smile on her lips and silently stretched her arm out toward his. A blue flower was lightly clasped in her hand, one of the sylleblossoms she loved so much.
I give this flower to you. This is sure to be our final moment.
When the world falls down around you, and hope is lost, when you find yourself alone, amid a lightless place, look to the distance. Know that I am there, and that I watch over you always.
Farewell, dear Noctis.
He flailed in the water. Their outstretched hands drifted apart. It was so like that other day, all those years ago, and yet this time they drew apart slowly, almost gently. She felt grateful to the sea, for there, immersed in its water, her tears could not be seen.
And with that same gentle momentum, she continued to sink, deeper and deeper, to a place that would never know the rays of the sun.
I can cry now, she told herself, for no matter how loudly I wail, I needn’t worry that Noctis might hear.
A kind voice interrupted her thoughts. “Let not sorrow overwhelm.”
She knew the voice well, for it had been at her side since she was very young.
“Sleep now, just for a little while,” Gentiana continued.
Gentle fingertips softly lowered her eyelids, as they’d done so many times in the past. Somehow, Gentiana always knew. It had been a mysterious constant of her childhood: whenever Luna woke late at night, troubled by frightening dreams, the Messenger was there. Mother and Ravus would be sound asleep, but Gentiana would be at her bedsi
de, coaxing her back into slumber.
She still ached with grief, but the loneliness and worry lifted as though they’d never been there. Tranquility bathed her mind under Gentiana’s soothing hands, and she allowed herself to be carried away by sleep.
It was a mysterious sleep, not unlike a shallow afternoon repose. She hung in the space between dream and consciousness, and everything radiated warmth. Thought no longer held shape. Time was forgotten. There was nothing left but the tender, nebulous hands of warmth gently cupped around her.
How much time passed like that?
Suddenly, she felt her body rising. It was not a comforting sensation. Instead, it was a stark, jolting difference from the hazy warmth of before. Slightly disorienting, like being woken up. No. She was waking. She felt a distinct weight against her eyelids and forced them open. A wave of prickling sensations and then pain came rolling in. Her mouth opened, hungry for air, only to find foul-tasting liquid. She realized she was underwater and flailed her arms about, grateful to find firm ground below and the surface not far away. She sat up, freeing herself from the water’s embrace, and coughed repeatedly.
The shallows in which she found herself would have been difficult to describe as clean by any measure. Her eyes stung, streaming tears as she blinked the water’s dirty residue away.
“Where am I?” she asked aloud, half to prove to herself this was not another dream. One hand came to her throat as she spoke. The clear vibration of the words brought further proof. This was reality, true and certain.
Finally, when her eyes were clear, she looked about. The world was dim and her surroundings hard to discern. The air was cloyingly humid, and she heard the sound of something else―something not liquid―spilling to the ground at intervals.
“Is that sand?”
If not sand, it was certainly of similar quality. Fine grains of something rained down from above. Her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dimness, and she looked about. There was a hewn ceiling but no windows, as far as she could tell. Not far away, she could see the edge of the shallow body of water she was now sitting in.
Where in the world was she? It was not a building, but neither did she feel herself to be in some purely natural cavern. She couldn’t say for certain because of the darkness, but some aspects seemed familiar. The thick odor, somewhere between moss and mold, and the way the chill hung in the air brought memories of long ago. A place she’d once visited had been like this. It, too, had been dim, but not so oppressive. Perhaps given the light of several braziers, the similarity would become more apparent. What had that underground tomb been called?
“Reciele.” Just as the name came to her lips, another memory flashed to mind. She saw the chancellor of Niflheim, Ardyn Izunia, eyes full of anger and hatred, and in his hand, a dagger.
“I’m . . . alive?”
It seemed impossible. She remembered the indescribable pain as the dagger was driven into her side. She remembered the blood gushing from the wound and the fear as her consciousness slipped away.
A hand unconsciously moved to her flank, where the blade would have entered. At the site of the wound, she found an unnatural concavity of skin pulled tight, surrounded by a raised ridge of scar tissue. So her memory of being stabbed by Ardyn was truth. How, then, was she here, alive and well?
An involuntary shudder coursed through her body, not prompted by such macabre thoughts, but rather by simple cold. Her arms trembled, goose bumps forming across her skin. When she attempted to rub warmth into them, she realized her clothes were soaked. She looked down. This was the dress she’d worn the day she was stabbed. It clung to her skin, torn in several places, stained and ruined.
How could this be? She was supposed to be dead, but here she was, somehow transported to some mysterious underground space. It was all too much to fathom.
“It’s freezing,” she said to herself. Her voice was small and wavering. Her teeth chattered. Pushing all her questions aside for later, she stood. She’d need to get out of here before she could do anything else.
The world spun. She let out a small gasp, then found herself collapsed back on the ground, her left shoulder having taken the brunt of the fall. Standing hadn’t been as easy as she’d thought. In fact, it was almost as if she’d forgotten how to walk at all. She rubbed her shoulder and tried once more, slowly and carefully.
With a hand on one wall, she shuffled forward. She could feel a draft, and the direction in which the air flowed. If she followed that, she’d find her way outside.
After a few steps, strength seemed to return to her legs. As she walked, the heels of her boots clacked against the flagstones, and the sound continued to echo across the stone surfaces of the rooms and corridors. A little farther, and she felt certain she’d find a long stone stairway leading to the surface. Either that or a short slope leading upward to a higher level. All the tombs were built like this. They had to be, to accomodate the ceremonies when the dead were carried down to their final resting place. As Oracle, she’d visited a number of such places in order to perform the rites.
Although the layout was not unfamiliar, this time there was no one leading the way with light in hand. Doubt formed in her mind; suddenly, it seemed unlikely that her outward journey would be straightforward. She might wander here, lost in the darkness, for some time.
A sudden rustling noise reached her ears, along with a sensation of something like dry leaves underfoot. The clear, unsettling sound interrupted the steady clack of her heels and forced her to a halt. She stooped and groped at the ground, discovering the object at her feet to be an old, crumpled newspaper. Next to it was a small bundle, like withered branches. A bouquet, most likely, brought as an offering to the dead who rested here. The newspaper must have been wrapped around the flowers.
Lunafreya felt a flush of anger at the irresponsible soul who had left an offering on the floor rather than seeing it properly to the intended grave. She took the erstwhile bouquet and situated it properly on the stone coffin near where she stood, though not without some guilt. A gift of dry, withered stems seemed ill consolation for a departed soul.
She began neatly folding the newspaper, intending to dispose of it once she reached the outside. It wouldn’t do to leave rubbish behind in a tomb. When her eyes fell on a small photograph on one page, though, her hands paused.
“ . . . Noctis?” she gasped. Despite the photo’s size, there was no mistaking his face. But in the darkness of the tomb, she couldn’t hope to make out the words of the article. All she caught when she strained her eyes to read were scattered phrases: “third year since the disappearance of” and “king of Lucis.” When she looked to find the date at the top of the page, she realized it had been torn away.
“Noctis? Missing?” she whispered. “That cannot be.” She tried to calm herself. She hadn’t read the article properly yet. Perhaps it was not Noctis who had disappeared.
“Three years ago, His Majesty King Regis would have been alive and well,” she reassured herself. “If the article was about the king, then . . . ”
But how could she be sure Regis was king at the time the article was printed? Three years ago from when? From today? When was today? How much time had passed?
Another chill ran down her spine. Something vile was trying to crawl its way up her leg. She wanted to leave this place at once. She wanted desperately to be outside. She had to hurry.
When she turned to continue on her way, she felt a tremor at her back. From over her shoulder, she saw a burst of debris rain down from the ceiling. Then another, and another. Each time, the quantity seemed to increase, a steady mix of gravel, dirt, and who knew what else. Something up above was trying to break through the ceiling. What that something was, she had not the faintest clue.
Then the intruder was seeping in: some black, wispy thing that floated in the air, reminiscent of a worn and dirtied rag, and yet far more massive. As it broke through, it u
nfurled itself to fill the narrow passage, blocking her view of the newly formed hole, as well as the way from whence she’d come. A knot formed in Lunafreya’s stomach. Her fears were soon confirmed. From the eerie dark mass stretched a huge pair of hands―if they could truly be called hands at all. Pale, bluish-white bone curved in great arcs, forming scythe-like claws. The havoc those claws could wreak was obvious at merely a glance.
If there was a god of death in the world, this was undoubtedly the form it would take. But in truth, she knew it for neither reaper or beast: it was a daemon. Some type she’d not encountered before, but a daemon nonetheless. She could faintly make out the telltale black miasma exuded from its billowing figure.
Even when she’d ascertained as much, her body somehow failed to react. She had to run. If she did not, the creature would prove reaper enough. She knew this, but her legs only trembled, failing to afford her even one step to safety. She stood transfixed by the daemon’s two glowing eyes, like holes gouged out of darkness. As her body shook, she felt a scream rise within her chest. It tore from her throat, and then Lunafreya’s curse of stasis was gone. She turned and ran, thinking of nothing but running as fast as she could.
Up the incline of the tunnel, through the dark corridors, running, running, without a spare moment even to look back at her pursuer. If she slowed even slightly, she would be overtaken, and once she was in the grasp of those curved claws, it would all be over.
Up. The only answer was up. Get to the surface, and if her luck was any good, it would be daytime and the daemon would be unable to follow. She still knew not whether the tomb was one she’d visited in the past, but it didn’t matter. The layout would be similar. There would be sloped tunnels, stairways, and small rooms cut into the stone, with crossroads running between them.
A daemon so large would not be able to squeeze through the crossroads. It might not even be able to push its way through one of the narrow stairways. As long as she stayed away from open spaces, she might have a chance. She might distance herself from the pursuer while still in the tomb.