call it fate, call it karma (5/?) | pt 4 | pt 3 | pt 2 | pt 1 | (Ao3) Their remaining free time evap

call it fate, call it karma (5/?) | pt 4 | pt 3 | pt 2 | pt 1 | (Ao3) Their remaining free time evaporates in the blink of an eye. Leves and innocuous adventures become something of a luxury as they’re sent across Eorzea on a seemingly endless list of tasks.On some days the mantle of ‘hero’ still feels novel. The weight of responsibility is nothing new and while the title doesn’t particularly bother him, it was never something he thought about chasing. Sure, it keeps them both busy and offers a steady stream of challenges, but sometimes in the quiet moments he’s afforded he wonders if he’s finally bitten off more than he can chew. He eyes the looming figure of the Agrius with dread pooling deep in his stomach. The old, dilapidated airship looks stable enough from across the water, propped up by crystal and debris both, but something about it sets his teeth on edge. It may be linked to his piss poor experiences with delving into imperial structures. It may be the winding, massive corpse of Midgardsormr. Chances are it’s probably both. “Ready to set off?” Mihren asks, checking her satchel one last time. “I’ve been told we can take the boat across. Less attention and all that.”The longer he stares the higher his hair stands on end. The great wyrm has been dead for years, he reminds himself. The biggest threat will be from whatever has decided to make a home in the ruins—and whatever forces Castrum Centri sent for scavenging. “Meteor?”He shakes off the unease. “Let’s go.” The swim across the lake is subdued, marked only by the quiet slosh of water. There’s no activity to be seen from the imperial base nearby and only the faint murmur of civilization heard from Revenant’s Toll. All signs point to a quiet, uneventful night. Perfect for an investigation into Lucia’s claims of the wyrm awakening. It does nothing to soothe the sense of danger prickling at his senses. Something about the stillness in the air reminds him far too much of the suspended moments before a battle.Finding a place to disembark at the base of the ruins, at least, is easier than expected. He holds the boat steady while Mihren leans out to grab at a piece of wreckage. Watching her tip dangerously close to the edge has him shaking his head.“Got the rope ready?” she asks over her shoulder. “I’ll do it.”“You sure?”“Quite,” he drolls, remembering the last time he had her moor something. “Move over.”She snickers and raises her hands in defense, but carefully slips past him as they switch positions. He makes quick work of securing the boat, firmly tugging on the rope to test, before slipping out and onto some protruding crystal. A cursory glance reveals the coast to be clear. Mihren hops out behind him, using his offered arm for balance. “Thanks.” “Will you be able to focus?”At her questioning look, he gestures upwards. The air above rolls in on itself in incandescent waves, teeming with aether. The pressure of it is easy enough for him to ignore. She, however, had previously complained of the headaches it caused.“The density is particularly bad tonight, I’ll say that much. But—” she smiles up at him, “—ignoring it has gotten much easier. I’ll be just fine.” He gives a curt nod. “Let me know if that changes.”“Will do,” she agrees easily, keeping pace as he sets off for what looks to be a way up. “But on that note: are you all right? You’ve been tense ever since we left the Rising Stones.”He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Just a bad feeling.”“Of this place? Or in general?”He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t say. Bits of scattered crystal crunch under their feet as they ascend into the wreckage of the airship. He grips the handle of his greatsword as unease gnaws at his nerves. He still can’t pinpoint the cause, can’t put his finger on what’s got him so on edge, and the inability to recognize the threat alone is almost enough for him to turn and send Mihren back to the Rising Stones.But he’d promised. And if Lucia’s claims are true, then all of Eorzea would be in trouble. They make short work of imperial magitek and soldiers both, pausing only when their path forward becomes the carcass of Midgardsormr himself. Mihren lingers at the edge of the platform, toeing the hardened scales. “Is there no other way up? Walking on a corpse feels… in poor taste.” He’s inclined to agree. “None that I saw.” “Right.” She exhales and sets her shoulders. “Up we go, then.”Wyverns block their path in numbers on the ascent, and after he cuts down a seventh he begins to think the astrologians in Ishgard may have spoken true. The creatures snap at them as though frenzied, invigorated by reasons unknown. Mihren slows as the corpses of two large dragons greet them at the top. “Mm. You know that bad feeling you mentioned? I didn’t say it then, but my stomach started turning about halfway through the Garlean’s makeshift base. Worsened when we started walking up here. I think—” “Who treadeth now upon my bones and waketh me from slumber sweet?”  “—…that this may have been a bad idea.“He wishes, not for the first time, that his instincts would be wrong for once. Battling the twin dragons—reinvigorated with life from their ghostly sire—turns out to be an unremarkable encounter. He swings and dodges in a repetition of familiar motions, reflexes honed by the incessant trill of danger in his head.The real enemy is the hulking shade of Midgardsormr. Meteor’s nerves fray further when the wyrm doesn’t directly participate, instead content to merely watch. He keeps an eye out for unsuspecting attacks, keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop as he parries away gnashing teeth, but nothing happens. Midgardsormr listens to their words as a parent would a misbehaving child—claiming that Ishgard is as good as gone—and it isn’t until a brilliant light appears above them that Meteor finally keys in on the threat. He twists to find Mihren already reaching for him. “Don't—!”A flare goes off behind his eyes. Crystal shatters in his ears, reminding him of the gravel they’d crushed underfoot to get here. Then, nothing. A muffled silence. When the world sharply clicks back into place, he finds Mihren staring back at him with the same wide-eyed shock he feels. She fusses. He’s learned this fact well. As much as she pokes fun at Minfilia for being a mother hen, he sometimes thinks Mihren can be worse—particularly when she thinks he’s injured. Minfilia’s worry at least stops at the doors of the Solar. Mihren hounds him until he relents. “I’m fine,” he repeats, trying to step around her. Her hands press more firmly against his chest in protest, nudging him back. “I’m—”“Hold still.”He sighs and resigns himself to wait. The warmth of her aether prodding at him is a familiar sensation. Still, he doesn’t need her to confirm that which he already knows: Hydaelyn’s blessing is gone. He can feel it. A nothingness sharpened by the sense that something had once been there.Mihren’s mouth presses into a grim line as her hands fall away. "You didn’t tell me your side was bruised.”He ducks his head. That explains the dull throb he’d felt. “I didn’t notice.”She gives him an exasperated look.“Sorry,” he adds wryly. “I swear I didn’t.” “Your ongoing lack of self preservation aside, everything else appears to be fine. Hale and whole as can be, the both of us.” Her shoulders slump. “Which is not the verdict I was expecting to reach." Things could have gone worse. Much worse, if he cares to consider what would’ve happened to them had they lacked the blessing to begin with. Mihren’s expression turns as solemn as his thoughts. "Her blessing isn’t the sole source of our strength,” she murmurs, brows furrowed in determination. “We’ll be just fine without it, won’t we?“He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t say.  That which follows, when he thinks back on it, is a domino sequence of events which could have been avoided. If only he had the foresight. Splitting in Northern Thanalan is a pragmatic approach to yet another imperial threat. They’re both formidable even without Hydaelyn’s divine intervention and the dredges of soldiers left behind are an enemy they can afford to divide their strength on. They’ve done it before and with the Crystal Braves spread thin it makes sense to do so again. But—He should have waited before setting out to find Moenbryda. Should have waited for Mihren to return with the rest of the Scions.But how could he have known? Nabriales falls on them with the severity of an executioner’s axe and Meteor has no time to wait. He and Moenbryda throw themselves towards the Rising Stones, and then he throws himself into the rift after Minfilia. Cold creeps in through the cracks of his armor. The dimensional rift compresses around him, closing in until his ears pop. His body feels heavy, sluggish and unresponsive as though his very existence is clashing with whatever laws govern this space.The one boon he’s given is that Nabriales, like Lahabrea before him, likes the sound of his voice. He gloats over Meteor’s lack of Light and throws spells about with the air of someone already assured of their victory. The blatant disregard and smug attitude is easy to ignore. The amount of effort it takes to so much as land a hit on the Ascian isn’t.  We’ll be just fine without it, won’t we?  Meteor spits the blood from his mouth. There are no cure spells coming to reinforce him. He’s alone in this rift, and if he fails, Minfilia is as good as gone. He should have waited. By the skin of his teeth, he succeeds. The Ascian is dead—a momentous achievement in itself—and Minfilia is safe. No one blames him for Moenbryda. Her funeral is a quiet affair far at the edges of Mor Dhona. Part of him thinks it too dangerous for everyone to venture so close to Castrum Centri. The other part yearns for a distraction as his mind buzzes like a beehive, loud and incessant. Battles force him to filter everything out, to leave space for naught but himself and the threat before him.  He lingers in the back while Minfilia and Yda deliver an eulogy. Papalymo spares some words. Urianger speaks, too, voice thick with grief. Meteor says nothing. He’d only known the Sharlayan woman for mere days.No one blames him because there is no blame to give—how could any of them have known?—but he feels it all the same. Later, Mihren finds him on the western terrace staring out at the sharp figure of the Crystal Tower. Her footfalls hesitate at the base of the stairs for but a moment before he feels a hand come to rest against his back. Like clockwork her spells wash over him, soothing the lingering scrapes and aches left behind from a marathon of battles. You are my pillar of strength, Minfilia had confided in him. The declaration comes as no surprise; he’s used to being the last man standing. And yet—The hand against his back is soon joined by another and before he knows it, her arms are wrapped around him. "Next time will be different,” Mihren mumbles, cheek pressed against his back. “You won’t be alone, and we’ll do better.” Tension drains from his shoulders like water down a stream. He can’t help but sag as the events of the past few days finally catch up with him. I’m fine, he wants to say. “Next time,” he agrees quietly. Next time he’d wait. -- source link

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