Chapter Text
Moro’a startled as the stranger emerged, rising out from a cluster of crumbling gravestones in the middle of the lichyard.
Is that him? The scholar kept his own head down, doing his best to pretend he was preoccupied with clearing the spent offerings from the grave at his feet as he watched the man step into the shade of a large tree. All Moro’a could see from this distance was that the onlooker was dressed in a worn, hooded garment that matched the dirt beneath their feet, and that judging from his height and build, he was likely a Hyur. The man might have blended in perfectly with the rest of the church’s residents or one of its visitors had Moro’a not been fortunate enough to see him skulking about, and the way his gaze was now fixed upon the church windows with unguarded intent.
I know I'm being watched. It seemed Marques’s nervous hunch had been right after all. More concerning than that was whom the stranger pledged his allegiance to, and what reason he’d have for stalking a lone refugee in the middle of the desert. Perhaps he simply had a personal quarrel with Marques, or a past grudge…but as much as Moro’a wanted to believe so, this felt more significant, more sinister.
Moro'a glanced around, wondering if anyone else had noticed the strange man. Further down the slope he could just about see Eluned; the woman was tending to a fresh grave, oblivious to either of them. So she’d buried that dead man at last. Abruptly, Moro’a recalled the Garlean horologe Eluned found, and the back of his neck prickled. A suspected informant for the imperials, she’d said then; one whose body now lay in this very lichyard.
There was little doubt now that the stranger’s presence boded ill.
Plan your strategies with clarity of mind, and carry them out thus – the Arcanists' oft-repeated phrase echoed in Moro'a's mind by force of discipline, but anxiety still clung to him like burrs to the tail, and the dull headache that had hounded him all afternoon wasn’t helping. If this stranger was an imperial, that made him a soldier, or worse, a spy – an imperial frumentarius. The word sent an irrepressible shiver through Moro’a, calling to mind the cautionary tales he’d grown up hearing in Corvos of loved ones vanishing without a trace, of informants who hid in plain sight, feeding information to the IInd legion even as they continued to live among their own clansfolk.
He’d barely made it out of Corvos at the age of seventeen, ever a hair’s breadth away from being caught by patrolling soldiers for days till he’d reached the Anchorite’s shores and sailed far, far away from Ilsabard. The memories were ones better left in the past. But ever since riding out of Vesper Bay three nights ago on Sal’s back, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he was being hunted; if the man was after him, and not Marques…with an effort, Moro’a forced the thought away. If Marques was right, the man had to have shadowed this place for more than a handful of days. Moro’a had heedlessly come and gone from the Church on multiple occasions in that time, where the man would’ve confronted him already.
The reasoning wasn’t foolproof, he conceded. Too little information, but he wasn’t about to get more, not without significant risk. If Marques was the man’s target, Moro'a might still have the advantage of surprise, at least for now.
Forward or nowhere , he thought to himself grimly as he settled on a plan. Fortunately the lichyard was quiet, and largely unoccupied – if he could pull it off, he wouldn’t have to worry about endangering the residents if things turned dangerous.
As quietly as he could, Moro’a reached for his grimoire and recited an incantation, taking care to include the words for a concealed summoning. Biru materialised at his side with nary a sound, sniffing at the air. “Follow him as closely as you can without being seen, and attack if you see my signal,” Moro’a instructed, and the carbuncle dutifully bounded off towards a cluster of rocks.
The stranger had yet to notice either of them, but he’d started to walk again, and was now reaching the graves nearest to the church’s main gate. To Moro'a's alarm, someone was exiting the church at the very same moment – Marques! More than likely worried about him, thinking he’d been gone for too long. Moro'a had no choice but to grab the stranger's attention.
"Are you looking for someone, ser?" he called as he stepped forward, hoping he sounded more jovial than harried. The man's head whipped around, and he was squinting in what looked like surprise – or perhaps suspicion.
"Aye," the man answered gruffly as he turned to face Moro’a. He kept his head pointed downward, and under the late sun his damned hood shadowed most of his face; Moro’a couldn’t make out any distinguishing features. "My aunt. S'my first time here though, and I’m…having a little trouble finding her." His accent seemed Eorzean enough, but there was something about the way his vowels rolled and stuck to his mouth that sounded uncomfortably familiar.
Moro’a was unsure if the man had seen Marques, but he needed to lead him away, and fast. The Keeper pointed towards the lichyard’s eastern section ahead of them. "Have you searched around that side yet? I’ll help you look. As it so happens, I've yet to clear the spent offerings from there," he replied, indicating towards the wilted Nymeia lilies in his arms. The eastern section was secluded, hidden from view in several places by the walls. A gamble, more or less.
The man was silent, contemplating his offer. "Lead the way, then," he grunted eventually. As they walked, Moro’a risked a glance to the left, and saw that Marques was nowhere to be found. Good. It wasn't long before they’d gone past the Flames guards who stood at the lichyard’s entrance, and then they were out of sight altogether.
It was unwise to let the man trail behind him for long. “Could you tell me your aunt’s name, ser?” Moro’a asked as he turned around. His breath stopped short as the man drew a long blade and pointed it at his chest.
“Hands up and back to the wall,” the man growled. Moro’a complied, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the stranger. Now that he was finally close up, he could make out some of the man’s features. Young, about his age, with pale skin that had yet to be touched by Thanalan’s sun and a frown that whittled his already thin lips down to a fine line. The blade trained on Moro’a was shiny and black, with a notch on either side towards the point – Garlean steel. “Friend of his, are you?” the man hissed. He’d dropped his accent, and his words were now as frigid as winter frost. “I’ll see if I can’t wring something useful out of you. And if I can’t, well, there’s bound to be an empty grave here that I can borrow.”
Moro’a’s thoughts raced. The man was a frumentarius after all. He was here for Marques, but had only called him Marques’s friend; he didn’t know who he was. Moro’a almost felt relieved.
In the corner of his eye, the scholar saw a flash of bright blue, and he urgently flicked his right ear twice in its direction. “Who is this friend you speak of?” Moro’a asked, eager to hold the frumentarius’s attention. The blade came closer, and he flinched. “Do not play coy with me, caenum,” the frumentarius retorted. “This man, this ‘Marques’ cannot hide from the XIVth legion forever. Bring Cid nan Garlond to me, or forfeit your life.”
Moro’a was now genuinely confused. What did the missing inventor have to do with this? “If Marques is who you want…I’ll bring him to you,” he answered slowly. Biru was less than two yalms behind the frumentarius; as the carbuncle readied to jump, the scholar reached for his grimoire.
“What are you– aaghh!” The man screamed as Biru pounced, dragging him backwards with its full weight on his head. The manoeuvre gave Moro’a just enough space to dart out of range of the frumentarius’s sword. “Get off!” the man cried out. As he wrestled with Biru, Moro’a opened his grimoire and hurriedly casted Ruin. His incantation struck the frumentarius in the face, and the man collapsed onto the dirt with a loud crash.
Rushing forward, Moro’a kicked his sword away and tackled the man without further thought, unsure if the spell had taken him out. Sure enough, the frumentarius still struggled. His hand swung forward and grabbed Moro’a’s ear, tugging and clawing at it painfully as he pulled him down. Fighting through the haze of pain, Moro’a coughed out the first spell that came to his mind and planted his palm on the frumentarius’s chest, wincing as the man screamed louder.
Bio’s toxicity was swiftly fatal, provided one knew where to strike – it wasn’t long before he felt the man’s heart shudder, then come to a stuttering stop as the rest of the man stilled. Moro’a rolled off to the side and fell to the ground, breathing hard as footsteps thundered towards them.
“Moro’a!” It was Marques – no, Cid , if the frumentarius was to be believed. The man’s eyes were wide with fear. Moro’a had never seen someone look so terrified, relieved and remorseful at the same time. The Flames recruits were right behind, and all three stopped at the sight of the body next to him.
“What is the meaning of this?!” said the lalafellin recruit as he stepped forward. “What did you…is that a Garlean sword ? ”
“He was a frumentarius – an imperial spy,” Moro’a gasped, still out of breath. Reaching towards the dead man, he ripped off his hood, and the Garlean’s third eye stared up at them, white and opaque.
The mood instantly darkened. “Thal’s flaming balls,” the other recruit cursed under his breath. “The captain must know at once.”
Once they’d determined that none of the church’s residents had come to harm, Moro’a and Marques returned to the church. The latter had excused himself and was standing a ways off to the side, wringing his hands and muttering to himself, no doubt in a terrible stress over the knowledge that he was right about being watched, and by imperials no less. And honestly, Moro’a wasn’t faring much better – the encounter had left him on edge, and his safety in this small building felt more precarious than it had ever been.
It helped little that Father Iliud was beside himself with worry. “That such a thing should happen on holy ground!” he fretted. “It is madness. Thank the Twins you were there to apprehend the man…the Immortal Flames must ensure that this incident is not repeated.” Moro’a only nodded silently. Despite what had happened, the thought of having to leave and seek shelter elsewhere was almost more than he could bear.
Iliud glanced in Marques’s direction then, speaking in a hushed tone. “I worry for that poor child.”
“It’s the shock. Give him time to calm down,” Moro’a sighed. He was beginning to feel light-headed, and his ear hurt where the frumentarius had pulled it – he slumped down onto the nearest pew, closing his eyes. He wasn’t sure if the light-headedness was an impending Echo vision or his nerves, and he wasn’t enthused about either possibility. If Father Iliud had more to say, the priest wisely held his tongue.
No Echo vision came. In the ensuing silence, Moro’a wondered about the frumentarius’s words again. Bring Cid nan Garlond to me. Did Father Iliud know about Marques’s true identity? He was about to ask when the church doors swung loudly open.
Moro’a’s grimoire was open in his hand by the time he’d turned to face the door, but there were no imperials there to greet them. Instead an elezen boy stood at the entrance, dressed in strange garments. With a studied air about him and an appraising expression that better suited a grown man, he looked completely at odds with his surroundings. It took Moro’a a moment longer to realise that he recognised him.
“Hmph,” the boy scoffed as he approached with a light step. “I fondly hoped that I might be the first to speak with him...would that I had been so fortunate.” He locked eyes with Moro’a and smiled. “But please, be at ease, adventurer. I, Alphinaud Leveilleur, am no enemy of yours – I come to revive the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.”
Hours later, Moro’a lay in the rickety bed that had been his for the better part of the week. Sleep had only come to him in snatches in this small, shared room, but after everything that had occurred today, drifting off felt just about impossible.
Eadduard, the young boy who lived in the church was sleeping fitfully in the bed across from him, murmuring every now and then. The poor boy was tormented by his own demons almost every night, something about losing his sister, and the worn blankets only staved off the worst of the desert chill. Moro’a drew his own blanket closer around his shoulders, feeling cold and uncomfortable.
There’d been so much to take in from the moment Alphinaud stepped into the church. His mission to rebuild the Scions, Cid’s true identity confirmed, even a new primal threat. And yet each had seemed like nothing more than the next task on the list to Alphinaud. The young Elezen was remarkably knowledgeable and independent for his age, but also as off-puttingly vainglorious as he had been in all their past meetings; what Moro’a disliked most, however, was how he’d been subsumed into the boy’s grand plan without so much as a “yes”, much less a “what?”
But it was his task to slay primals, was it not? The Scions were scattered, a shell of its former numbers. If Alphinaud had a plan that might save those who remained, he’d be a fool not to lend a hand in it. He’d do his part, and whether Alphinaud was capable of putting paid to the rest of his lofty goals was down to him.
To that end, they would depart for Fallgourd Float at dawn in search of the Enterprise , Cid’s very own airship that had disappeared during the Calamity. The prodigious inventor had vanished in the wake of Dalamud’s fall as well, only to turn up five years later at the very place Moro’a had sought sanctuary. He’d heard of the Garlean defector's tale before of course, during some idle conversation or other, but had never once thought he would meet the man; it was as though fate itself had been designed for their lives to intertwine.
Would that fate had led him to the Waking Sands sooner, he found himself thinking bitterly.Moro'a glanced at the cracked old chronometer on the wall – three and a half bells past midnight. With a sigh, the Keeper closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, but it didn’t take long for him to see the same unwanted sights that had haunted him since he’d entered the Waking Sands and found it a tomb. He thought of the bodies he’d carried to the wagon, heavy and lifeless. He’d not been particularly close to any of the Scions, at least not those who had been killed, but there’d been enough camaraderie between them for friendly conversation; enough that they had celebrated well together on the night of Ifrit’s defeat, well into the morning.
Were they waiting for his triumphant return when the imperials stepped through the door? The thought made him feel ill. Had he stumbled upon the ambush, could he have saved some of them? Don’t be a fool – you would have been killed for trying, the voice in his head snapped. Feeling even more miserable than before, Moro’a looked towards the chipped dresser against the opposite wall, where a lone candle’s flame cast long, wavering shadows on the wall.
He watched the shadows dip and spin, as though with fluttering wings. Like a sylph in flight. Without warning, he felt an all too familiar ache in his throat. Stifling a sob against his arm, Moro’a couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, feeling waves of emotion that threatened to crest over as he thought of Noraxia. She’d been so small and so light in his arms, her life slipping away with every laboured breath. There’d been no time to heal her injuries; she’d died as soon as she’d passed Minfillia’s message to him, an effort which had in all likelihood kept him alive.
Moro’a drew in a deep breath; things had to be better from here on. They hadn’t lost all hope; somehow, when they had dealt with Garuda, he would rescue the rest of the Scions who still lived. Even if it meant facing more dangers, more frumentarii, even the XIVth legion’s best soldiers. He owed it to those whose memories and deeds were all that was left of them.