First, the kin of the Heavens’ Ward, then her erstwhile would-be murderess— Sidurgu found his patience wearing thin, all while the continent’s finest doled out enough mercy to put Halone’s saints to shame.

He knew the cost, had thought her aware of it too by now, and yet she continued. Ishgard’s hero gifting pieces of her heart as if it were bread, its people grown fat and complacent on her charity, just as they had done on the archbishop’s malfeasance. Their spires stood tall once more, their walls reconstructed, the heat of dragonflame all but forgotten— they continue to consume her, until she became a bleached white carcass. Then the vultures would move elsewhere, shredding the next poor sod to the bone, leaving them to rot in the Brume. A familiar story.

She deserved better than this, and yet she continued.

He had seen the shadows under her eyes, the bards singing of her journey long before she trod her way into the Forgotten Knight. Songs of a land finally freed, requiems for the fallen, fanfare for Garlemald’s prince and Ala Mhigo’s eikons slain at the hands of Hydaelyn’s champion. Ravenous bastards, the lot of them, so eager to dehumanize the subject of their tales all so the people listening needn’t lose sleep over the horrors. The hero is the Warrior of Light, the villains are the Garleans, and war is a simple black and white affair.

The flesh and blood paid for victory reduced to set dressing— Even as Ishgard struggled to come to terms with their own losses.

Sidurgu is tired of the story.

They didn’t sing of her weary eyes, the shadows grown deep under them as she tried to smile for Rielle, the way her breath would shudder when she finally—finally—sat her weary bones in front of them. Sidurgu had never been one for words, but even he struggled to remain silent in the face of such a bitter homecoming. He had wanted to walk with her, give her the gift she had always given to him— company, friendship, understanding. Instead, there is more trouble, her Soul Crystal split in twain, a troublesome blue eyed boy to blame. In his heart there is fire, but Eithne speaks of mercy and patience, tries to snuff the stars in her eyes at the sight of him—Myste, he called himself.

That Fray’s former soul crystal would be claimed by a boy of the same name; Sidurgu would rather pretend than question it further.

The boy takes what he learns and weaves the stories into people, magicks giving sorrow a physical form. Just as the scribes take what they remember and stitch together a story, just as the bards take what they remember and sing the songs of glory, and in the minds of all who listen the hero remains on the battlefield, fist raised towards the sky— a snapshot in time, unchanging.

The villain is slain, the hero victorious— and then what?

The hero, bruised and bleeding, smiling— and then what?

The people enjoy peace, the footsoldiers able to return to bright homes and warm hearths— and then what?

Sidurgu thinks of the hero that sat across from him that first night back, long after Rielle and Myste have gone to bed. How she is shivering despite the fire, unable to finish her tale lest the memories take her somewhere dark and dangerous. This hero, unable to drink anything but tea and water, the only things that have yet to betray her, yet untainted by poison’s sweet aftertaste. She looks deep into her cup, and tells Sidurgu the parts of the story none of her adherents would commit to paper: the blood on her hands, the new scars amidst the litany of failures that marr her body. The names of the bodies she buried, how the vicious prince was slain by her hand and yet he still hunted her beyond the grave— through every Garlean who yet bared steel against Eorzea, through the azure eyes of any man who towered over her.

He thinks of Eithne, embroidering Rielle’s clothing, mending that which Sid could not. The way her laughter was as if a bell in the summer wind, quiet and fleeting, a sound which Rielle chased after with a passion; even at the cost of Sid’s annoyance. The stubborn furrow in her brow, the thin line of her lips as she held her ground over things her heart had set upon, be it a bowl of stew or her newest attempt at jumping into death’s maw headfirst.

How she sent them money, quietly, in ways she knew Sid would recognize but could not contest— In the jobs delivered directly to him, easy and handsomely rewarded, in the way Gibrillont would only charge him half as much as Sidurgu knew he should.

How he had heard the quiet whisper of prayer before every battle they had faced together.

How she, too, had braved the wilds to find a new home, only to fall into a den of vipers.

Twenty-five summers, nearly all untold save for two, and of those two it was only the parts touched by the sun, stories now left threadbare by the masses. She gifted them her hard-earned victories, let them enjoy the fruits of her labors, and in the end she was left with nothing but shadows.

He tells her to stay with them, as she tried to leave the tavern at Falcon’s Nest, “I won't have your little lordling believe we sent you home in the dead of night like this.”

She smiles, as expected.

She declines, as expected.

Sidurgu tires of the dance, doesn't challenge her excuses, doesn't offer anything more than she had ever offered him— patience, freedom, encouragement.

It had ever been her story to write, after all. Even if he disagreed with nearly every decision.