With the new caretaking duties thrust upon him, and the ‘excitement’ of their trip to Tailfeather behind him, the itch to damn it all and abscond into the night grows nigh unbearable. Their inn room had turned suffocating, Myste’s dreary expression silencing the three of them into a state of awkward co-existence, with Rielle being the only one brave enough to comfort him every so often.

Besides, Myste’s attempt to ‘help’ another poor sod today had drained Sidurgu far more than he had expected it to. Not only did he force them deep into enemy territory, a remote haven for the same type of knight who would have sliced Rielle’s neck without hesitation, but he’d been forced to witness yet another misguided simulacra, forced to watch his friend wilt at the sight of it.

And so, damn it all, he indulges his desires, if only for a short jaunt through the forest, hoping none would consider his walk in the middle of the night anything but a customary patrol. He waits until Myste and Rielle are soundly asleep, and carefully makes his way out of warmth of the inn and into the chilled yet tolerable Dravanian eve, leaving naught but plumes of white in his wake.

The cold was refreshing, for once, a welcome distraction. He bid it to push Eithne’s pained expression out of his mind— with little success.

There are few who would describe Sidurgu as soft. His face hardened by sorrow, the scowl that had made a home of his features deep-set and unmoving, and yet he knew that if Fray could see him now, that is exactly what he would call him. Be honest with yourself Sid, he’d likely say, with his usual goading tone, you’ve taken to it like a fish to water. He would disagree, swear up and down that he’s got it all wrong, that you might need to see a chirurgeon and check your eyes, and within his heart he’d struggle to contain the warmth upon hearing Rielle’s laughter, rare and precious, Eithne’s own quiet chuckle never far behind.

He can add Myste’s to it too, now. Sid would admit it to no one, but one look into his sad eyes was enough to, if not melt, at least make his hardened heart become more malleable, perhaps even susceptible to his suggestions. He was but a boy, no matter the scope of his power— a directionless child with too much sorrow and nowhere to put it, like too many back in Ishgard; like he and Fray had been, once.

Sidurgu could never despise him, no matter how he scolded him.

Still— Scold him he must, seeing as no one else would. Rielle was all too eager to play stalwart defender, and Eithne had lost her fire after his thieving hands got ahold of her aether; though he isn’t sure what exactly caused it. It was as if the moment he arrived, she had lost all sense— Unable to deny him the smallest request, unable to denounce his deeds for the sham that they were. The sniveling brat had stolen from her, and yet Sid had grown to believe that had he not been there, she might have given him the rest of her Soul Crystal and more. What was it about him that weakened her so? Sidurgu had let her continue his little journey, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could accept things as they were. Something wasn’t right, but it wasn’t as if he had the right to push the matter.

His steps take him down wooden pathways to trodden dirt paths, across the shallow river that surrounded the camp, as he revisited their activities in Tailfeather up until now. A widow, an all too common sight in their war-torn land, who had attempted to murder Eithne in an act of revenge. His friend was merciful and benevolent to a fault, traits he had long ago given up on criticizing, but today had gone beyond the pale. Eithne was kind, but she was human— how could she look upon the woman and her dead lover with so much joy? Why did her blade tremble, when she reclaimed her aether?

Everything ends, she had said, the weight of those words known to no one but herself.

His thoughts are interrupted, for in the corner of his eye he sees a flash of white, and at a glance he can see someone with tall, distinctive ears somewhere across the trees and the underbrush. A trick of the light, he lies to himself, even as his feet take him away from the moonlit path and into the dark. He had wanted a distraction, a freedom from responsibility, but he knew Eithne’s habits all too well— The woman would make responsibility where there was none to have, were she permitted, and there was little reason to be out here, especially after their arduous day.

He knew all too well how easily she was wont to waltz straight into danger. How easy it was to confuse the weight on your shoulders with the weight of metal in your hands.

It is easy to catch up, thankfully.

“And here I had dared to hope that you would abandon this pastime” , he says casually, and he sees her hand rush towards the handle of her greatsword, her fingers only relaxing once she had turned around to confirm who he was.

“I wasn’t following anyone this time, at least.” Eithne answers cooly, but he sees the tremble in her hand as she lowers it to her side, white puffs of condensation appearing in quick succession as she settled her breathing.

“Why do I even bother, none of you ever listen to my advice.” Sidurgu’s words come out as a sigh, and while crossing his arms he examines the small clearing he’d arrived at—the moon perfectly framed by the treeline, the smell of disturbed earth, a trail of some sort of scalekin prints by her feet. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were nocturnal, seeing as you prefer to loiter about deserted roads than to rest.”

She seemed to bristle at the comment, and he makes a mental note of it; the click of her tongue, the furrow in her brow. It was an offhand comment, not any different than his usual fare, and yet somehow she was already beginning to lose her patience; something was wrong, but there was no way for Sidurgu to begin to guess.

Sometimes it felt as if she knew all there was worth knowing about him, while she remained shrouded in mystery. The brighter the light, the longer the shadow, he supposes— And what greater light walked upon this star, than the Weapon of Light herself?

Eithne remains silent.

“What are you doing here.”, he decides to be direct, dropping the niceties, seeing as she had suddenly decided to become more fortress than friend. It was strange, the distance between them. Not because it was in itself new, but because this time it wasn’t being perpetuated by him. What burden weighed upon her so, that she felt inclined to push him away? After all they had been through together, even as he took the initiative to support her, he couldn’t understand why she would suddenly treat him colder than when they had been strangers.

“Walking.”

Infuriating, this woman. Was this what Rielle felt every day?

“Was today not enough excitement for you? Do you intend to fight any curious beasts with only half a Soul Crystal?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so hostile, but the frustration had begun to coalesce into something hot and ravenous in the pit of his stomach. He hears the click of her tongue again, and he feels as though it must have been building up within her too, certainly— her temper leaking out enough to recklessly saunter about the forelands with a half-useless greatsword, not even bringing her cane.

“Aren’t you doing just the same?” The edge in her voice presses against his throat, forces him to swallow back any vulnerability lest he suffer for it. He thinks back to her behavior at Tailfeather, tries to fit the Eithne he knew with the Eithne standing before him and finds them incompatible.

He had always been terrible at communicating, much worse so when the person in question was likely the only one more incompetent at it than him.

“I’m not the one at a disadvantage in a fight, should the need arise.” There was no Rielle here to chide him, to force him to swallow the knives and smother the rage, and so if she would bare her thorns, he would do just the same. “What in the seven hells is your problem?”

He approaches her, barely tilting his head to peer down at her. Taller than most, sure, but it still surprised him how much shorter than him she was. With how she carried herself, she’d always feel larger than life, a tempest that swallowed anything in her path, the destruction in her wake that of an army— not of a single person barely tall enough to reach his shoulders.

She doesn’t back down, bright eyes of precious gold staring straight through him. She said nothing, a long infuriating silence dragging out the seconds until Sid could swear they were wasting hours on this pointless bickering.

“Fury take me Eithne, what’s gotten into you—” Sidurgu brings a hand to his face, hoping the chilled metal of his gauntlets would cool off his temper— and finding it lacking. “Speak, damn you!”

“If you must know,” she crosses her arms, looking away, and he knows that her next works would be lies, certainly, pointless and made to waste even more of his time. She’s kicking at the tracks by her feet, carelessly disturbing them, “I saw something amiss, and went to patrol.”

Let me help you, the thought could make him laugh, how hypocritical and crass it was coming from him. The man who had rejected everyone and anything, constructed a careful armor of cold indifference, his tongue honed razor sharp, eager to cut whatever strings others might have attached. Instead he brings a gauntlet against the leather armor of her shoulder, shoving Eithne hard enough to make her stumble back a few paces.

“Roaming the nighttime in search of wandering beasts, is it? To me it sounds like you’re just itching for a fight” , he snarls, the familiar weight of the greatsword settling into his palms as he readies himself, “Well here you have it!”

He sees something close to regret in her eyes, the cracks in her cold facade spreading as she pleads, weakly, “W-Wait, Sid, I don’t want—”

“You’d rather I leave you to skulk about the forest to play pretend, then return to us in the morn’ s’if nothing is amiss, is that it?!” Sidurgu is familiar with his rage, made his peace with it, wields it alongside his blade as if they were one and the same. “Draw it, this is your only warning.”

She hesitates, and for a moment he feels as if he has gone too far, guilt threatening to cool the hot blood rushing in his veins; but he knows there is no other way. They were too similar, the two of them, trapped within their sorrow, unable to give voice to that which laid deep within their hearts. Were it not for Rielle and Eithne’s companionship, their honesty, could he have overcome the rage, could he have harnessed the flame in the abyss? Presumptuous though it may be, he feels as though she needs this as much as he had.

He waits until she enters her stance and not a moment longer, and he finds the sword that meets his feeble and trembling. He growls in frustration, knocking her weapon aside and pushing her to the ground with a swift kick. It wasn’t at his full strength, and yet she fell onto her backside easily, “For someone so keen to patrol, you’re fairly quick to destroy your own trail.”

“Was it today? Do not think I didn’t notice the look in your eyes, when that widow’s husband appeared. I let it slide, thinking that perhaps I did not fully understand.” He is towering over her now, his sword pointed at her in accusation “So tell me, why did you seem more hurt than she did, when Myste undid the magic?”

“Why do you entertain the boy and stand aside as he parades these ill-fated mockeries— Your aether, used to summon the dead,” He turns to pick up her sword and tosses it at her feet, “I thought you above such childish daydreams.”

“It's wrong... W-What Myste is doing is wrong...!” , and yet he hears the but on the tip of her tongue, her tone unable to convey the disgust they both know she should be feeling.

“The widow today, she had poisoned you before, and yet so enamored with the boy’s parlor trick you seemed to wish for their reunion more than she did!” He launches forward, his sword slash intended to be a feint for another kick, until the clang of metal against metal reverberates deep into his bones, her sword having found its way back into her hands.

Eithne's eyes flash gold in the night, and Sidurgu knows he's found the right nerve to prod.

For they were no different, in the end.

He had scoured the morgues, trailed the usual spots the Temple Knights ‘forgot’ their victims at for weeks, all for a man he knew in his heart to be dead. Had he met Myste back then, who’s to say he would not have taken his offer? Even if the boy would have had to pull teeth to get him to speak it out loud.

“You wanted to see their reunion, you want Myste to continue this pathetic charade. Not to reclaim your aether, not for anything but your own damned pleasure!” He growls, and the resentment in his voice is genuine. The unfairness of it all, how the love in their hearts could be twisted and turned against them.

“Look! We have made her whole!” He speaks in mockery, his words punctuated with each swing of the greatsword, and he hopes to hammer home the truth he knows Eithne wishes she could forget. “Myste is a fool, but you're too busy licking your wounds to care!”

The scream that follows shocks him, the fire he had been stoking surging into a tempest in an instant. It is a desperate, guttural screech, shrill enough to make him wince, and he immediately positions himself on the defensive. Surrounding her is a mist black enough to swallow even the moon’s pale glow, the swirl of darkness making the air around them heavy and foreboding, and she is transformed into something feral. Her yellow eyes darted about as if possessed, and he would not be caught unawares within her sword’s reach.

“I know that, I know, I know I knowIknowiknowiknow—!!!!”

The flurry of blows to follow it are reckless and full of openings, her relative inexperience with a greatsword known well by the man that had trained her— and yet no matter how the fact frustrated him, Sidurgu had neither the speed nor the dexterity to take advantage.

He could only defend, and wait.

“Moenbryda, Papalymo—!” Foreign names begin to burst forth from her lips, and with each syllable he feels the weight behind her swings increase. At this rate, even if the metal of his sword holds, the bones in his hands might shatter— “Minfillia, Y’sayle— They’re never—! They’re never coming back!”

Until the greatsword slips from his hands, and he is forced to his knees by the impact.

“I’ve had far more than my aether taken from me——!”

He doesn’t know what to expect, when she tosses her own weapon aside with enough force to pockmark the ground. It certainly wasn’t the gloved fist headed straight for his jaw, and suddenly he feels grateful that she never heeded his advice to wear plate instead of leather. It connects, and the rush of blood and adrenaline caused by the impact deafens him for a moment. He sees her clenched teeth, her eyes wet and furious, and beside her he sees her fist raised for a second time. The hand coming up to catch it moves as if by instinct, and Sidurgu finds himself grappling with her by the time the ringing in his ears fades.

“—they’re gone! He’s—”, she gathers her free hand into another fist, and Sidurgu finds that he can easily catch that one too, her hands suddenly feeling so small in his gauntlets. The hands of an Eikon-slayer, the savior of this star, smaller than anyone could ever dream of. “Haurchefant... Haurchefant’s... forever...”

The dam is broken, as she struggles fruitlessly against his grip, tears unlike any he could have imagined the ever reticent and quiet Eithne could shed, and Sidurgu suddenly remembers that he’s never been any good at comforting anyone. He lets go of her fists, and she falls to her knees before him, weeping quietly, the rage from before now cooled to nothingness.

He rubs his jaw as he thinks of what to do, and he realizes she seemed to aim mostly at his scales with that punch— Even in her rage, to be in control enough to avoid his weak points... Fray's mocking voice comes to him in a whisper, are you just going to stare at her?

Right, now’s not the time.

“Few could ever hope to understand what you’ve been through, I know. But godsdammit, do our hearts not bleed the same red? S’okay, to try and talk about them, and about how you feel—” It’s not what Sidurgu should say, he knows, but he lacks the verbiage, or Rielle’s intelligence, to say any better. He looks away from her, resting his arms on his knees as he continues to massage his jaw.

“We’re comrades— Fellow walkers of the path.” There is a pause, as he struggles to figure out what to do with himself, before slowly, hesitantly, resting a single hand on her head. “You are not alone.”