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Urianger stepped from the dimly lit interior of the Bookman’s Shelves, squinting against the brightness of the Il Mheg morning. The sun, seemingly oblivious to the horrors he and his compeers had faced at the bottom of Malikah’s Well only days before, lay warm and heavy on the rolling hills. Longmirror Lake was a smooth sheet of glass, barely rippling at the corners as it lapped onto the shoreline. Far above the submerged city, the spires of Lyhe Ghiah stretched towards the newly-revealed firmament. Fluffy clouds, no longer hidden by a foreboding sheath of Light, drifted lazily towards the distant horizon.
The breeze stirred his hair as he crossed the threshold, pulling the heavy oaken doors shut behind him. The hills surrounding the Shelves were carpeted in a dazzling array of wildflowers, humming with life as morphos the size of large birds fluttered amidst towering stone formations. Pixies darted to and fro above the dewy petals, scampering about and giggling like children in their play.
A well-worn cart path led towards Lydha Lran; he followed it down the slope, breaking away at the last moment to make for the young sapling that grew in the shadow of his borrowed home. The newly-christened Ryne sat beneath its shady boughs, hunched over something in her lap. As he drew closer, Urianger found that she was hard at work making bullets for Thancred’s gunblade. Her lap already contained far more than the gunbreaker would ever need, even with present circumstances taken into account. Ryne lifted her head at the sound of his approach, her worried brow smoothing in welcome.
“How fares thy task?” he asked, taking a seat beside her. The earth was warm beneath his crossed legs, the tree bark rough against his bared shoulders. From far away, his sensitive ears could make out the faint sound of the herd that sheltered in the abandoned stables. “’Twould seem there are bullets enough to furnish the Crystarium guard to a man.” Ryne’s cheeks flushed deep with color at his mild teasing, chin dipping into her neck as she hid behind the long curtain of her hair.
“I want to make sure that Thancred is prepared,” she explained, cupping her fingers protectively around the bullets in her lap. “I remember when he rescued me, how hard it was to escape Eulmore. And now we’re going back…. But we have no choice.” A resolute nod punctuated the statement. Even so, Urianger had the sneaking suspicion she was trying to convince herself of the fact, rather than express it to him. “There’s no other way to save everyone. We all have our roles to play, and we have to succeed, especially now that… that….”
“Ah. Thou art worried about our friend.” He put a soothing hand on her shoulder; the muscles were rigid beneath his palm, fraught with nervous energy. Ryne shook her head, chewing absently on her lower lip.
“It’s just… they’ve already done so much to help us, and it’s clearly starting to take a toll. We need to do more to help! I know the Warrior of Darkness is the only one able to defeat the Lightwardens and contain the Light within them, but it doesn’t seem fair that they’re suffering while we’re sitting around doing nothing!”
“Why isn’t there something we can do to help ease that burden, even a little?” She hiccoughed, turning aside in a vain effort to wipe her eyes without being noticed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t raise my voice. It’s just that I feel so… so helpless whenever I think about it.”
“I understand thy frustrations.” Urianger rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades, attempting to loosen the tense muscles. “I too have oft lamented that I should stay behind, in relative safety, while others… bear that burden.”
His heart twisted as the faces of Scions lost in battle flashed through his mind. The happy voices in the Waking Sands, silenced forever by Garlean arms. Louisoix, who bore the prayers of a nation as he faced the primal Bahamut on the bloodstrewn Flats. Papalymo, standing tall on Baelsar’s Wall as he followed his master to oblivion. Moenbryda—
Swallowing thickly, he cleared his throat and tried again to impart what wisdom he could to his young friend.
“Though these words may ring hollow in the present moment: do not underestimate thy own ability. Not everyone is built for the front lines, but there are other ways in which thou might offer assistance to thy comrades. There is no shame in supporting those who fight for our sake.” He picked up a bullet from her lap, turning it between his thumb and forefinger so that the smooth metal surface caught the light. “For instance, would’st thou proclaim the smith who forged these bullets has less claim to a victory on the battlefield than the man who wields them?”
“Well….” Ryne thought a moment. “No, I suppose not.”
“The soldiers of the Crystarium would be remiss in their duties were it not for the food, armor, and shelter provided by those who live there. They who provide succor are not weak for eschewing the path of a warrior. Neither are we the lesser for our more modest roles in our friends’ success.”
“You’re right, of course,” Ryne admitted softly. “Even so, I suppose I just feel… useless, sometimes.” She looked down at her hands, still curled protectively over the bullets in her lap. “I did everything I could to help the Warrior of Darkness to contain the Light, but they were still unconscious when we left the Crystarium. Since the day we met, they’ve done their best to help Thancred protect me. But when they needed my help, I couldn’t do the same for them.”
“If I tried my very best, why does it still feel as though I’ve failed them somehow?” She sniffed, no longer attempting to hide the tears pooling in her eyes. “And what if I can’t—what if I fail the others, too? We’ve lost so many already! What should I do? What can I do?”
Such heavy thoughts, for one so young…. Urianger frowned. Ryne was yet a child in many ways. Her days ought to have been filled with studies, with friends and outings and all measures of happiness. Instead, the universe saw fit to grant her a life of warfare and bloodshed. He cast about for something, anything that might be a balm to her troubled thoughts. But his mind was empty; there was nothing within him that could ease the ache in his own heart, much less hers.
“Failure,” he began slowly, attempting to formulate something whole from the fragments of his thoughts, “does not always mean defeat. Sometimes ‘tis simply….”
Simply what?
Ryne looked up at him with large eyes, keen for answers he could not readily give. What could he possibly tell her that would bear the weight of her hope? Sometimes failure was simply failure. Sometimes one’s best was not enough, never enough.
Work thy fingers to the bone, until thy last reserves of energy are depleted, until thy every breath is a desperate struggle for air. Even that is not enough to keep the ones you love alive evermore. And when they are gone, when their souls have departed this mortal coil, no amount of desperation will be enough to undo what has been done. Fall to thy knees, scream thy grief unto the heavens, pray until thy voice is broken—it matters not. The gods will not deign to answer. Accept this, or go mad with grief: no other choice is at hand.
A simple truth in and of itself, but not the sort of truth a young girl needed to hear. Laid bare, its sharp edges would scour the depths of her soul. But neither could it be sugarcoated; to lessen the blow would be a disservice.
As he pondered the best way to move forward with the conversation, his ears caught the familiar rasp of a long coat against tall grass. A white-clad figure was heading towards them from the direction of Lydha Lran, taking a shortcut through the fields in his effort to reach the Bookman’s Shelves.
“T’would seem Thancred hath returned to us unscathed.” Ryne followed his gaze, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her guardian. She hurriedly scooped the bullets from her lap, gathering them into a leather pouch before racing to meet him as he crested the hill.
“Thancred!” She pressed the pouch into his hand, hovering at his side with a hopeful expression. He greeted her with an absent smile, letting fall the linen sack that hung over his shoulder.
“Supplies,” he explained brusquely, stretching his neck now that he was free of the burden. “Just for tonight. I thought we might join the others at the Crystarium tomorrow— Still unconscious, I’m afraid,” he added, already anticipating Ryne’s question. “Though resting more easily than before, if Y’shtola’s word is to be trusted.”
“Oh.” She wilted, wringing her hands in the folds of her dress. “Well, at least we’ll see the others tomorrow….”
“Hmph! A fat lot of good that does us!” Without warning, a pixie descended from the treetops, hovering inches from her face. Ryne blinked in surprise, flinching away from the iridescent wings glittering in the dappled light. “If you leave, we’ll have no one left to play with!”
“How rude!”
“Selfish! You people never stop to think about how we might feel!”
More pixies emerged from the flowers, buzzing angrily around their heads like so many indignant flies. Thancred—who had never quite mastered the art of weathering their mischievous antics—swatted at the lithe bodies irritably. He retreated beneath the outstretched boughs, leaning against the sapling’s knotted trunk with a scowl.
“We would love to stay and play with you, honest!” Ryne said appeasingly, allowing the pixie—Jul Feo, if memory served correctly—to rest on her upturned palm. “But there are more important things we have to do right now!”
“Oh, you’re always saying that!” Aenc Uin groaned, clinging to strands of her long hair.
“Perhaps we should change them all into leaf men!” Wyd Lor giggled. “Then they can’t leave!”
“Yes, let’s! Then we can all play together forever and ever!”
“Oh, no!” Ryne protested weakly. “Don’t do that!”
“Aye, we best not.” Jul Feo sighed, thin shoulders slumping. “They’re protected by the King, after all. You know what they said would happen if we didn’t play fair.”
“Well,” Aenc Uin huffed, “if you’re all leaving tomorrow, the least you can do is play with us today.” Thancred glared at them from beneath the tree, but did not answer. Defeated, Ryne glanced at Urianger, who often played the role of mediator in these sorts of conversations.
“Hmm… very well.” He settled into place, lifting his hands amicably. The pixies descended, clambering over his long arms the way younglings scaled trees in the Gridanian forests, dangling from his fingers before dropping to his lap with peals of laughter. “Ryne and I will gladly play with thee, provided thy antics will not disturb Thancred. Now… what game shall we play first?” he asked, lifting his hand to eye level. “Or shall it be a tale?”
“A story! A story!” the pixies chirruped happily. Though they enjoyed their little games, they seemed to adore Urianger’s fairie stories and tales of grandeur even more. Many a night he had successfully thwarted their mischief by capturing their attention with the same tales beloved by youths across the First.
“Yes, a story,” Ryne agreed, sitting back down and crossing her legs beneath her. The pixies settled in around her, some perched on wildflowers at her side while others braided knots into her hair. “I could use the distraction,” she added with a heartfelt sigh.
“Very well. If we are all in accordance… what tale shall it be? Something from Voeburt legend, perhaps?”
“Oh, we’ve heard all those stuffy old legends,” Aenc Uin protested. “Tell us about the Warrior of Darkness.”
“We’ve met the Warrior of Darkness, you ninny!” Wyd Lor snapped. “Who cares about them? Tell us about the Warriors of Light instead.”
“As if we haven’t heard that story a million-bajillion times over in as many years!”
“What’s your grand idea, then? All you ever want to hear is how the queen looked at her own arse in Handmirror Lake—”
“You take that back or I’ll— I’ll rip your bloody wings off!”
“That’s enough!” Urianger raised his voice just enough to silence them. A hush fell over the small crowd, leaving only Thancred unaffected by his sharper tone. “’Tis clear the classic tales of yore no longer hold thy interest. Instead, I shall enchant thee with a new tale, one thou hath never before had the pleasure of hearing.”
“But you’ve read us so many stories already!” the pixies gasped. “Do you mean there’s something you still haven’t told us?”
“Aye, the very same.” Urianger smiled. “’Tis an old fairie tale from my homeland, which goes by the name of….” He paused, looking around at the little mismatched group. Eager faces stared back at him, waiting with bated breath for the grand reveal. “Erm… the name escapes me at this particular moment. Nevertheless, ‘tis a harrowing tale of an ageless sorcerer and his many heroic adventures—”
“Oh, for the love of—!” Thancred jabbed him in the spine with the toe of his boot. “Would you stop with that already?! I’ve never heard any such tale.”
“I am unsurprised, seeing as thou art no ready scholar,” Urianger retorted plainly, his face an expressionless mask. “I discovered this tale within an ancient tome dating before the rise of the Allagan Empire. Furthermore, I believe its contents may impart some wisdom on those gathered here.” Lifting his brows, he gazed impassively at his friend. Thancred acquiesced with a groan, shaking his head in defeat but making no marked effort to leave their little gathering. “Now, if there are no more question, I shall begin.”
Once upon a time….
Long, long ago, in a far-off realm known as Eorzea, there once lived a magnificent and ageless sorcerer. Though he hailed from a kingdom beyond the sea, he was known far and wide by the people of this land, for his deeds were the stuff of legend itself.
The sorcerer, it was said, had the ability to conjure amber beasts from the aether to enact his bidding. He could use the power of the stars to protect his comrades. It was even rumored that he could foretell events before they happened, being a master of prophecy. He was adept in all manner of magics, having studied at the feet of the realm’s greatest minds in his distant youth.
And, of course, he was impeccably handsome.
Being a benevolent man, the sorcerer had sworn from a young age to only use his powers for the benefit of the star and its people. Along with his comrades, he dedicated his life to protecting others from wielders of malevolent magics, who used their power for ill-gotten gain. It was their dream that every living being upon the star would know what it meant to live in a time of peace. Though this dream often took them far from home, they were determined to see its fruition.
The sorcerer was just as determined as his compeers to see this dream fulfilled. Though at times he yearned for the serenity of his island abode, he could not deny the inherent value of his work. He traveled to distant lands, and beheld sights that took his breath away with the scope of their majesty. He encountered the best and worst of mankind in equal measure, with valuable life lessons gained from both. Each encounter, each experience gave him cause to expand his knowledge even further, and as time passed his abilities soared to even greater heights.
Upon first glance, one might easily believe that the sorcerer had everything a heart could desire: a handsome mien, a wealth of knowledge, a plethora of tomes at his fingertips. He could travel wheresoever his heart desired, his associates were loyal and kind, his understanding of their star was ever-expanding, and yet….
Although he was eternally grateful for the opportunities provided by his position and his powers, the sorcerer often found himself discontent with his lot in life. Rather, he felt that there was something missing: a deficit that ought to be easily discernable, even unmistakable… yet he had no idea what that something might be.
Sometimes, when he was too tired to apply himself to his work, the sorcerer passed time on a solitary bench near the harbor where he made his home. The rushing call of the waves, the creaking ships, even the seabirds dancing above the glittering ocean all reminded him of his homeland. When he sat there, immersed in his thoughts, he felt closer to those he had been forced to leave behind.
But as he watched the sailors and merchants, at work or milling about in the plaza, the sorcerer found himself envying their existence. They seemed overjoyed as they reunited with loved ones following a long voyage, or spent their meager earnings on food and drink at the market stalls. Some chose to flirt with the dancers that entertained the layfolk, while others retired to their warm beds at the end of another long day. But while their lives were simpler, more piecemeal than his own… why was it that they seemed all the happier for it?
The sorcerer knew that they had the answer to his conundrum, the hole in his heart that would not be filled no matter how hard he tried. But how had they found that answer, and how could he arrive at the same conclusion?
It was not in their profession, to be sure; in any case, the sorcerer had no intentions of trading his livelihood for the life of a dockworker or merchant. It could not be in coin, for he lived a lifestyle that—while not extravagant by any stretch of imagination—left him wanting for naught. They laughed with their friends, pursued their interests, shunned pain and embraced joy. He did the same. At the end of the day, they seemed perfectly content. He… was not.
What, then, could it possibly be?
More puzzled than ever, the sorcerer sought the help of his most trusted compeers. His closest companion in this foreign land was a sage bard: a man well-entrenched in the world and its workings. After hearing the sorcerer’s troubles, the bard advised him to be more social in his spare time.
“You should spend your time in the company of pretty women! That’ll cure what ails you!” the bard stated confidently. “In fact, come drinking with me tonight. Together, we shall find you a bosom companion to wile away the midnight bells, and tomorrow you’ll rise an entirely new man.”
The sorcerer attempted to follow the bard’s advice, but to no avail. He awoke the next morning a new man indeed: bleary-eyed and nauseated, with the sort of pounding headache that only an overindulgence of ale can provide. The hole in his heart remained.
Next, he sought the aid of a powerful witch, a fellow conjurer who shared in many of his interests. The witch invited him to tea, and listened patiently to his troubles without saying a word. When he was finished, she explained that rest and relaxation was the key to his recovery.
“You are working yourself too hard, my friend,” she said, the words punctuated with a cryptic smile. “If you would only spend an evening to yourself, with your favorite tomes as your companions, you will find your woes are naught more than a symptom of overwork.”
The sorcerer again took his friend’s advice. However, instead of relaxing and taking his ease, he found that he had more time to fret and worry about his dilemma. He spent a sleepless night pondering the reason for his heartache, and when dawn came he found himself neither relaxed nor refreshed.
Finally, the sorcerer brought the problem to the Antecedent who oversaw their workings on the star. The Antecedent, rather than advising him to rest, wondered aloud if he might not be working hard enough—or, rather, if his work was taking an unexpected route.
“Perhaps, my dear sorcerer, you find that your mind is not adequately stimulated? When was the last time you took it upon yourself to invent a new spell? Or pursue a new avenue of research? You always seem happiest to me when you are elbows deep in a new mystery to solve; maybe that is what your heart desires.”
The sorcerer did find temporary relief in applying himself to his work. But the moment he glanced up from his notes—roused to action by hunger, or thirst, or exhaustion—he found his mind again wandering to that ever-present ache in his breast.
At his wit’s end, the sorcerer awoke one day to realize that he was obsessed with finding the answer to his exhausting riddle. The spells and inventions which had once captured his attention no longer held any interest for him. He no longer felt joy in his life’s work, nor did he frequent his bench near the sea. Instead, he holed himself up in his bedchamber, shunning the company of his friends and only emerging when on the brink of starvation. Night after night, he meticulously dissected every aspect of his life in a desperate bid to discover where—if indeed anywhere—it had gone wrong.
One such night, when all hope seemed utterly lost, the sorcerer threw open the shuttered window in the hopes of clearing his mind with the fresh air. The plaza was deserted, the harbor quiet; the ships rocked to and fro on the calm waves, the seabirds nestled in their nests along the cliffside. His only companion was the moon, hanging low over the far horizon. The pale light flooded his bedchamber, calm and serene, at odds with the heaving turmoil in his breast.
In that moment, it seemed as though he was the only person left on the face of the star. Clasping his hands, the sorcerer bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“Divines,” he began, the voice of a man at the end of his tether, “if ever in thy benevolence thou doth heed the prayers of mankind, let it be now. What is it that I crave more than aught else upon this star? Why doth my soul spurn that in which it once delighted? Am I broken? Bewitched? Should this be a simple ailment, with a simpler cure, I beg thee: impart thy wisdom upon thy humble servant!”
In truth, the gods rarely divulge their secrets to mankind, and the sorcerer did not expect much of a response. He had only wished to believe, even for a moment, that a higher power heard and understood his plight.
But the moon glowed even more brightly as he spoke, and when he opened his eyes the sorcerer found that the room was flooded with a near-blinding light. A blast of icy air, far colder than he had ever experienced in Eorzea, sent him to his knees. At that moment, he realized that he was no longer alone.
Standing before him, illuminated in the ethereal glow of the moon, was a woman. Her hair was the color of the northern seas, a glacial blue that hearkened to the distant winters of his homeland. She was dressed in regal garments, and upon her brow was a golden crown. Their eyes met, and the sorcerer recognized the divine presence for who she was: Menphina, the Lover.
Amazed and dumbfounded, the sorcerer immediately prostrated himself at the feet of the goddess. He dared not lift his eyes from her sandals, lest she strike him dead for his arrogance. But Menphina smiled, guiding him onto trembling feet with one wave of her golden gauntlet.
“Gentle sorcerer, dearest child,” said she, in a voice that rang throughout the bedchamber like finest crystal. “Thou art most loved.”
“B-Blessed am I to stand in t-thy presence,” the sorcerer managed in reply. “I-If it should be that my prayer hath offended thee—” The goddess shook her head, silencing him without a word.
“Thy prayer was both earnest and entreating. If anything, it served to move my innermost heart to action. Come.” Menphina sat upon the windowsill, beckoning him closer with a gentle smile. “Place thy woes at my feet, that I might grant thee succor.” The sorcerer was emboldened by her winsome nature and, basking in the glow of her brilliance, he found the words spilling unchecked from his lips.
“Sweet goddess, I am perplexed by this ever-enduring pain in my heart. I hath scoured every treatise, every tome that crosses my path in search for answers, yet there are none to be had. In good faith I asked the guidance of my closest companions, but their many suggestions brought about no relief. Even now, I ache with the want of something—I know not what! Merely that I am without it, and I suffer all the more for its absence.”
As he spoke, his words choked with emotion, Menphina sat motionless before him. When he was finished, his reserves exhausted, she took his hand in her own. Resting in her palm, his long fingers were like that of an infant’s, delicate in their mortality.
“The answer to that question, my darling one, is love.” Menphina smoothed the back of his palm with her unarmored hand in a comforting gesture. The touch of her skin was like freshly fallen snow upon the vast Coerthan plains. “To be sure, there is love in they heart, and in thy life.”
“Thy love for our star drives thy determination to protect it from those that might cause undue harm. In love, thou sought answers from thy companions, with the trust that they should not lead thee astray. ‘Twas love for the Twelve that brought thy prayer to mine ears, and in return my love for thee brought me to thy realm, so that I might offer the answer thou seekest.”
“But the love thou cravest is deeper than that of friendship, or duty. ‘Tis born of understanding, of being nearer to one who sees thee for the person thou truly art. The pang in thy breast is not a spell gone awry, my dear one. ‘Tis loneliness of a profound nature, and its cure lies within true love.”
As she spoke, the sorcerer found that he had known the answer all along. His comrades loved him, but they did not understand him. His quirks endeared him to them, but what he wished for more than anything in the world was for someone who not only recognized his many eccentricities for what they were, but also made room for them in ways his friends could not. He wished for someone who could know his mind as well as he knew it, perhaps even better.
To be sure, the sorcerer was a man of solitude. But was it wrong of him to wish for more? To see that long days and longer nights might well be spent in the company of a kindred spirit, and long for a time when that might be so?
“I see thy point,” he stated slowly, “but where might such a person be found? In the whole of my travels, I have never known another who was like myself in nature.” Menphina laughed, the sound cascading over him in a refreshing burst.
“My child, the answer is not to seek thyself in another. Instead, it can only be found in one who compliments thy own nature, and is complimented by thee in return. Together, thou art like the two halves of an interlocking puzzle: different on the surface, yet part of a whole.”
“Ah, but I see doubt within thee yet,” she exclaimed, catching a glimpse of his vexed frown. “Thankfully, ‘tis within my power to reconcile.” Rising to her feet, she reached into the sky and gracefully plucked a moonbeam from the heavens. “I will create for thee a bride from my very essence, that thou might understand what it means to love with all thy heart.”
“I shall use these moonbeams for her tresses,” she explained, gathering more of the silken light in her fingers, “and her eyes shall be the brightest stars the firmament may offer. Her skin shall be as soft and white as moon dust, and her strength shall be equal, for ‘tis the power of the moon that moves the tides. So shall this moon bride move thy heart.”
Although the sorcerer had no recollection of falling asleep, or even retiring to his own bed, he awoke in the morning as though from a dream. The night had passed, and through the open window the sun filled the bedchamber with the first rays of a new dawn. Rubbing his eyes, he lifted his head to find that he was not alone in the room. A strange woman stood in front of his desk, studying the papers scattered across its cluttered surface.
“Who goes there?!” Alarmed, the sorcerer yanked the bedsheets up to his chin in fright. The woman turned from the desk, and he saw at once that she was uncommonly beautiful. Her eyes twinkled like stars, and her skin shone fair as finest porcelain in the morning light. Long, silken hair fell over one broad shoulder like moonbeams across a rippling lake. She grinned at him, and the sorcerer’s heart fairly leapt in his chest at the sight of her face so animated and gay.
The visit from Menphina had been no dream. Before him, clothed in the pristine garments of an accomplished scholar, was his moon bride.
“Good morning!” she greeted him, in a voice that thundered like the tide. “I suppose you’re my sorcerer then, eh?”
“I-I believe that I am.” He managed to untangle himself from the bedclothes and crept towards her, his wariness overshadowed by his mounting curiosity. When she beamed down at him, the sorcerer saw his reflection mirrored in her pale eyes. Before he could move, he found himself caught in a crushing embrace. His feet left the ground and he was unable to free himself from her tight grip; neither was he entirely certain that he wanted to free himself. No one had ever dared to touch him in that manner, not even his closest comrades.
He found that he almost… enjoyed it.
“I think I’m going to like you.” The moon bride rested her forehead against the sorcerer’s, peering deeply into his startled gaze. “Now that you’re awake, what shall we do first?”
“I… erm… we shall breakfast, I suppose.”
“Wonderful!”
“Do… Doest thou know what breakfast is?”
“Not a clue!”
- ☾ - ♡ - ☾ - ♡ - ☾ -
As time passed, the ageless sorcerer found that he was more often than not puzzled by the behavior of his moon bride. He was a calm, contemplative sort of man, not prone to outbursts or fits of wild passion. His life was one of careful order, with the sort of practiced fastidiousness that many of his companions deemed “rigid”.
In contrast, the moon bride found delight in everything that passed through her eager fingers. Being new to the star, she sought to learn anything and everything about its workings; there was no end to her quest for knowledge, and no bounds to her enthusiasm upon finding the answers she sought. She studied the finer details of spellcraft, and after a fashion began to branch out and test new theories on her own. In addition she quickly befriended his compeers; often she could be found in the Antecedent’s castle, assisting others both at work and in pursuit of leisure. But no matter how far she ventured, the moon bride would always return at the end of the day, overbrimming with news of her latest discoveries.
There were times when the sorcerer felt driven to the brink of insanity at her more irrational behavior. More often than not he was called to assist with some scrape she’d gotten into, only to find that his well-meant scolding fell on deaf ears. But for all his new frustrations, he could not shake Menphina’s words: different on the surface, yet part of a whole.
First weeks, then moons flew by, and he found that the goddess had spoken true. The moon bride was not like her sorcerer on the surface. She was loud where he was quiet, boisterous where he was calm, quick to act where he hesitated. Even so, despite these difference they made perfect companions for one another. His patience tempered her enthusiasm, and her vigor mellowed his more assiduous traits. In time, the sorcerer found that he did not wish to spend even a day without her company. He valued her above any other upon the star, and—though he did not know how to properly convey these feelings—his loyalty and devotion knew no bounds.
For her part, the moon bride was almost overbearing in her wealth of affection, both to him and their associates. While the sorcerer was often reluctant to touch her, even in passing, she thought nothing of tackling him in one of her constricting embraces, or peppering his face with more kisses than a meteor shower has falling stars. On the coldest nights, when the ocean breeze rattled the shutters and wailed in the surrounding cliffs, she cozied up beside him beneath the thick quilts and listened as he read to her from his favorite tomes. Then, when they could no longer hold their heavy eyelids open, they passed the night in peaceful repose.
Sometimes, when he believed her to be sleeping, the sorcerer would press his ear to her chest and listen to the steady pulse of life within. I see you, the rhythm seemed to say, firm beneath his cheek. I know you. I love you. In these unfathomable moments, the sorcerer would find himself overwhelmed with the profundity of his emotions, and wholly unable to offer them a proper outlet. It was at those times that he wished himself the sort of man who could pour his love into her the way she poured hers into him, overjoyed exaltation and physical affection in perfect tandem. But it was simply not in his nature to do so.
In the end, it was all he could do to press his lips to her forehead in ardent fervor, wishing that the gesture might leave a permanent mark upon her brow as proof of his love. Each time he would pull away to find her awake, her answering smile sleep-sodden and content. He did not have to explain himself to her; without his speaking a word, she seemed to understand what it was he meant to convey. It was then that the sorcerer knew that he had not misheard the thrum of her heart, and that every word it spoke to him was infallible truth.
To his surprise, the sorcerer soon found himself perfectly happy for the first time in ages. The presence of his moon bride awoke within him emotions he had never before cared to explore, and her opinions on the star—and everything it contained—served to broaden his own horizons, which he was astonished to find were quite narrow. She was his soulmate, a gift from Menphina herself; their entire lives were stretched before them, full of boundless possibility.
At least, that was his thought.
During these halcyon days, the nefarious sorcerers had been working harder than ever to plunge the star into utter chaos. Of course, the moon bride had joined the ageless sorcerer and his comrades in their efforts to undo these schemes, and for a while they succeeded in staving off what some believed to be inevitable.
One day the moon bride rose early, so early that the only other creatures awake were the chattering birds in the harbor. She packed up her latest creation and set off for the Antecedent’s castle, a long and rather perilous journey that would take her the better part of two suns. When the sorcerer awoke, he found the bed empty and a note on the bedside table promising a heaping plate of cockatrice meatballs upon her return.
But unknown to either the sorcerer or the moon bride, the evil sorcerers had discovered the castle’s whereabouts and were lying in wait, ready to attack. The sorcerer was roused from his work by an alarum, a call for aid that sent him running for the nearest chocobo porter. He raced to the castle, forgoing food and drink in his hurry, his heart pounding in his chest. As he rode, he could not help but wonder if the moon bride was already at the castle. Perhaps—he hoped beyond hope—she had been waylaid on the road, and was even now heading back to their shared home with disappointment in her eyes.
By the time he arrived, however, he found that it was already too late. The enemy had stormed the castle, attacking his comrades with ruthless abandon in their attempts to bring about a Calamity upon the star. In their wisdom, which far exceeded the sorcerer’s own knowledge, they had worked out how to reverse Menphina’s spell. They unraveled the moon bride at the seams, returning her to naught but moonbeams and starlight. When he reached the inner sanctum, panicked and panting, he found that there was not even a body left to hold.
The ageless sorcerer was alone once more.
In his foolishness, he had thought himself immune to heartbreak. Many a compeer had been felled by these cruel wielders of magic over the years, and though he was always severely grieved, he had not yet been stricken by the powerless anguish spoken of in poems and prophecies. But at the loss of his moon bride, the sorcerer felt his heart shatter into countless pieces, too small to even make an attempt at mending. He feared that he would die from the agony in his breast, which seemed to choke the very light from the room. Never before had he felt as bereft as he was in that moment; no matter which way he turned, seeking solace and succor, all that lay before him was endless despair.
In his pain, he called to Menphina for aid. When the goddess did not answer, he called to the rest of the pantheon, praying with all his broken heart and shattered soul that his moon bride might somehow be returned to him, and all could be as it was before. But the gods heeded not his cries, his prayers left unanswered. It seemed to him that their silence was at once mocking and cold, wanton in their malice.
His companions were no more able to aid him now than they had been before the moon bride’s coming. They could only attempt to comfort him in his sorrow. The bard sat with him when he could not sleep, plying him with drink and allowing the tears to fall upon his shoulder. The witch scoured the realm for anything that might bring him a modicum of happiness, arriving unannounced first with his favorite foods, than a new tome. The Antecedent spoke to him with calming words of shared pain and solace, taking his hand in her own whenever he felt that he was truly alone in the world.
The sorcerer loved his friends all the more for their efforts, but their labors were ultimately in vain. He felt that he had fallen into deepest despair, unable to feel anything beyond rage at the evil sorcerers, and grief at the loss of his beloved bride. The void within his heart, which had so recently been filled to overbrimming, was now a gaping chasm—
“Stop it!” Jul Feo interrupted with a screech. “I don’t like this story!” They covered their ears, willowy limbs trembling with anger. “I won’t hear another blasted word, I tell you! I won’t, I won’t, I won’t—”
“Fairie stories are supposed to be fun and… and full of adventure! And happy!” Aenc Uin flew to their feet in a tizzy. “This is not happy in the slightest, not at all! I hate it!” The other pixies voiced their agreement, scolding and posturing in equal measure.
Faced with a less than enthusiastic audience, Urianger turned to Ryne. She sat amidst the buzzing swarm, a serene statue in the face of their growing fury. Her blue eyes were large and sad in her wan face, hands wringing in her lap.
“That… that’s not the real ending, though, is it?” she ventured, when he made no efforts to quell the shrill protest. “Surely there’s a way to save the moon bride, to bring her back… isn’t there?”
Urianger was all too aware of Thancred’s heavy gaze pressing down on him, a terse silence that spoke of action. A moment’s hesitation, one sidelong glance, and he would scatter the pixies with a few brusque gestures. A man all too willing to shoulder the burden of (temporary) villain, if it meant even the shortest respite from the echo of a bone-deep grief. The pixies would be sent scurrying to the flower strewn fields, and Ryne would be assigned some mundane chore of little value, leaving him alone to gather his thoughts as he might.
A welcome relief, to be sure… but it would solve nothing.
“Calm thy anger,” he commanded his little assembly, clearing his throat to mask the sound of his pain. “Settle, and I shall bring this tale to its rightful conclusion with due haste.”
It seemed as though the ageless sorcerer would be eternally mired in his pain. Time passed slowly, the weeks no longer seeming to fly on joyous wings. Day and night held no more meaning for him, nor did the passing of the season. He ate only when pressed to by others, bathed only when could no longer bear the feeling of dried sweat on his skin. Not once did he attend to his many duties, nor could he bear to look at the workbench which he had but recently shared with his departed bride.
One by one, his associated attended to him. They commiserated, cajoled, scolded and pleaded in turn, but for once the sorcerer had no ear for their many supplications. He appeased them in the moment with false smiles, only to sink back into the familiar embrace of his stupor once they were gone. Finally, with all other hope exhausted, the Antecedent left her castle—a rarity for one so imperative to their cause—and traveled to the sorcerer’s home. On bent knees, she begged him to rise and shake off the yoke of grief.
“Without your assistance, I fear we are losing ground,” she pleaded, in tones that plucked at his frayed heartstrings. “Please, we are in desperate need of your expertise! I have lost a dear friend; I cannot bear to lose another. Do it for her sake, it not for ours.” In the end, the Antecedent returned to her castle alone, hopeful nevertheless that the sorcerer in his wisdom would heed her words. The sorcerer had not the heart to refuse her, but no longer did he share in her unshaken conviction.
“Let the star be destroyed,” he muttered as he lay in the semi-darkness. “If I am dead, at the very least I shall no longer feel this pain.”
Well! That’s a bloody awful way to think, isn’t it? And after all we’ve done to stop it from happening? Honestly, I’m surprised at you.
The sorcerer sat up in his bed, his heart a thick lump at the base of his throat. He looked around the empty bedchamber like a man crazed, searching the shadows for the source of the voice.
“Who—? Or, what—?”
Who else? It’s me, you silly old fool.
The voice was his moon bride, but he could not see her. Moreover, her voice did not come from the room itself, nor the world beyond his shuttered window, nor even the corridor beyond his bedchamber. It seemed to come from inside of him, from that place deep within that ached so terribly at the mere thought of his beloved.
“Oh, gods!” the sorcerer cried, clutching at his chest. “Have I gone mad? Is this the end?”
Not hardly!
“What doest thou want from me?” He shrank into the bedclothes, trembling with fright and not quite convinced that he had not fallen into insanity. “Specter or spirit, fiend or friend, what would’st thou have me do?”
Our friends need you, and you’re not about to lie around feeling sorry for yourself just because I’m not there to drag you out of bed. Go on, get up!
“I… I cannot,” he admitted feebly. “I did always admire thy strength of spirit, but I never possessed the same. ‘Tis… ‘tis too much.”
Oh, rubbish! It’s just a matter of standing up and taking that first step. Go on, take your feet out from under that musty old quilt. The sorcerer obeyed meekly, shivering as the cold night air touched his bare skin. Now swing them over the side of the bed—that’s it! He found himself standing on trembling legs, faint with hunger and exhaustion and heartache. Take one step.
“I tell you, I cannot!”
Just the one? For me?
In that moment he could see her in his mind’s eye, as lovely and radiant as ever, grinning widely as she stretched out her hand for him to take. Do it for her sake, if not for ours.
The sorcerer took one step. Then another, and another. Stumbling across the bedchamber, he finally reached the workbench and stared down at its cluttered surface for the first time in weeks. Tears blurred his vision at the sight of her familiar handwriting, her notes filled with dreams of the future. Ideas that would never reach fruition, hypotheses that would remain unsolved. He picked up her final creation, the key to stopping the evil sorcerers in their tracks. A revolutionary concept, but unfinished, incomplete. Waiting for hands that would never again touch anything with joy or delight.
You know what you must do.
The sorcerer wept bitterly, for he did know what must be done. His moon bride must be allowed to claim her part in the salvation of the star she had so loved, however briefly. If she could not be here to complete it, then it was up to him to complete it for her. He sat down at the workbench, dried his tears as best he could, and began to work.
As he poured over her notes, the sorcerer found a smile on his face for the first time in what felt like centuries. The pain remained, of course, but the sorrow was tempered with something not unlike joy. To continue the work that she had so loved was to keep a small part of her alive in some way. It was proof that she had existed, that those shared moments had not been a figment of his imagination. He had loved, and he had been loved.
The sorcerer’s work lasted him many days and many nights. When at last it was finished, he threw open the shutters and looked out upon the world for the first time in ages. The night was balmy, calm and quiet. It seemed so much like that same night so many moons ago, when he had cried out his pain and the gods deemed it fit to answer. They had been silent since; he knew without trying that should he pray now, they would remain so. A sudden flash of anger flooded his veins and he gripped the windowsill where Menphina had sat with white knuckled hands.
“Why!?” he called to the stars, trembling with rage. “Why grant my wish, when I was ever fated to lose her? Was it a mere whim, or do the Twelve see fit to curse me in mine innocence? What lesson was I meant to have learned? What knowledge did I gain? Oh, that my prayers had never been answered! I wish that I had never known her!”
His only answer was the distant lap of waves, the quiet contemplation of the faceless moon. In the wake of his anger, the silence seemed magnified. He sank to his knees, fresh tears glistening on his cheeks in the moonlight.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, sobbing as the pain swept over him afresh. “Oh, forgive me… I did not mean it! She was my light, my life. How am I ever to continue on without her at my side?”
“My poor child… my poor, suffering child….” Perhaps the sorcerer had fallen asleep, or perhaps he had been transmuted elsewhere by a higher power. When he lifted his head, he found himself floating in a sea of stars. A light shone down on him from somewhere high above, a comforting presence that seemed to fill all the emptiness inside of him with some to spare. He basked in its radiating warmth, stretching out his limbs to take as much of it into himself as possible. The goddess Menphina had been nothing to this… to Her.
Hydaelyn, the Mothercrystal, creator of all things.
“My child,” She said again, and tears flowed freely from the sorcerer as he beheld Her voice. It echoed all around him, inside and out, thrumming through his blood and organs. How small, how insignificant his life must seem when compared to something so great and powerful as She! But in each word he could hear Her love, the bottomless wellspring that seemed to cup him and hold him the way a mother holds a crying infant close to her bosom.
“Why?” he asked, too awestruck to voice anything else. The Mothercrystal has no face, of course, but he could almost feel the way She drew away, pained by his pain.
“It is simply the nature of thy existence,” She finally answered. “To live is to suffer. An unfortunate truth, but a truth all the same.”
“But why must it be so? Why… why allow me to know love, and to love so deeply, only to allow that selfsame love to be stolen from me at the height of happiness?”
“Stolen?” She echoed. “My dear one, thy love remaineth! I see how brightly it shines within thee, even now! It is thy misfortune that sorrow maketh love shine all the brighter. Thy moon bride cannot be returned to thee, but she remaineth forever in thy heart. Tell me, hath she not spoken to thee when the need arose? Doth thou not feel her at thy side, even now? So long as thou lov’st, and lov’st true, she will never be far from thee.”
“Thou speaketh true, Mother Hydaelyn,” he ventured after a moment’s reflection. “But thy words heal not the wound which, even now, gapes too wide to be closed. If to live is to suffer, why should I carry on? Why… why bother?”
“Because thou art yet loved, and thou art yet needed. Think of thy comrades, thy friends. Think of those thou hath watched upon the bench in the harbor, or met upon thy travels. We have lost many to the powers of Darkness, but there are many we may yet save. Live, sorcerer. Live so that her memory is honored through thy deeds. Live, and be comforted with the knowledge that thy moon bride waits for thee, even now.”
“She… she waits for me?”
“Death is not “farewell”. It is “welcome home”. One day, when the candle of thy life burns dim, when thou hath breathed thy last, she and I shall welcome you together.” Her light shone even brighter, surrounding him, embracing him. “Thou shalt be reunited in my sea, never again to be parted.”
“I understand.” The sorcerer’s wiped his eyes, his tears suspended in the heavens as though they were stars themselves. “I shall live for her sake… and mine own.”
“It brings me such joy to hear that. May you walk ever in the light of My Blessing. Know that thou art loved, my child.”
And so it was that the sorcerer awoke upon the windowsill, as warm and safe as though he were still held in Hydaelyn’s calming embrace. Her words did bring him some small measure of comfort, and he found himself with a new determination to live the sort of life that would have brought his moon bride happiness. As time passed, the burden of his pain grew easier to bear. It did not leave him, not entirely, but he found strength in it, for it was proof of their enduring love.
It is said that the ageless sorcerer and his associates went on to have a great many more adventures, and—lest anyone remain in doubt—they are probably still having them to this very day.
“The end.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Then—
“That’s it?!” Wyd Lor groaned. “Cor, that was the most boring fairie story I’ve ever heard! There wasn’t a single sword fight!”
“The bad guys didn’t writhe about in their blood or anything!”
“We should have just asked to hear about the Warrior of Darkness again. At least that has sin eaters in it.”
“At least give it a happy ending!”
“I am afraid I understand not thy meaning,” Urianger asked, blinking in feigned shock. “’Twas a happy ending if ever there was.”
“If you were going to make it that boring,” Jul Feo concluded, “you could have at least had the moon bride brought back to life as a revenant or something.”
“Oooh, yes!” Aenc Uin giggled. “With her blood and guts hanging out about the place!”
“She wouldn’t have blood and guts, you idiot! She was made of moon dust!”
“Oh, what do you know? Anyway, come on Ryne.” They rose into the air. “I’m tired of all this ancient fairie tale rubbish. Let’s play tag instead!”
“Yes, let’s do!”
“Well?” Urianger said, rising to his feet and holding out a hand for Ryne. “Doest thou share in their discontent? I fear I may have bored thee with my tale.” Ryne did not reply, instead rushing forward to wrap her arms around his torso in a tight embrace.
“I loved it.” Her voice was muffled by his tunic as she hugged him even tighter, as though attempting to squeeze the life from his bones. “Thank you, Urianger.” From the way she clung to him, it was clear that she was grateful for far more than a simple fairy tale. Still a child yet….
“Thou art most welcome.” He patted her head fondly, his surprise melting into a calm smile. “Now run along, and enjoy what remains of the sun. I fear it may be the last calm afternoon we see for some time.” She nodded, returning his smile before racing off to join the waiting pixies.
“Don’t fly so high, Aenc Uin! That’s cheating!”
Thancred joined him on the rise, the two of them silent as they watched Ryne and the pixies tumble amidst the wildflowers. For the moment she was a young girl, engaged in a lighthearted game with her friends. All was as it should be, and yet….
“Do you ever wonder?” Thancred began, crossing his arms with a pensive frown. “If one day she’ll think of us the way we think of them. Moen and Minfilia, I mean.”
“She will.” Perhaps one day, Ryne might draw strength from his memory the way he drew strength from the memories of those long departed. His love would remain etched onto her heart the way others were etched onto his: Moenbryda, and Minfilia, and Louisoix…. But these were somber thoughts for such a sunny afternoon. He turned to Thancred, offering a nugget of his finest wisdom:
“I would believe Ryne loath to ever forget her dearest bodyguard for his curmudgeonly nature, if naught else.”
“Curmud—! On that subject…” Thancred advanced towards him, a sinister grin lifting the corner of his mouth, “sage bard? As though I were sitting in some tavern with a pipe dangling from my lips and a lute in my hand? Furthermore, I don’t recall telling you to drink that much—you did that yourself, seeing as you can never remember to stop after the first tankard!”
“What?” Urianger rolled his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “I cannot discern thy meaning, Thancred. As I said, I discovered that tale in an ancient Allagan—”
“Allagan my arse! I’ll wring your neck first, before I hear it again!” He scowled, but his lips quivered in the beginning of a true smile. A chuckle escaped his lips before he could hold it back. “Ancient sorcerer, really?”
“Ageless sorcerer. There is a difference.”
“Shut up.” He fell into real laughter, and Urianger found himself joining in despite his attempts to remain stoic. It was a welcome relief after the stressful events to simply be, laughing with one’s friend, enjoying the fresh air, the troubles of tomorrow pushed to the side.
This was how she lived, he thought to himself, wiping his eyes before the tears of mirth could fall. This is how she would want me to live, too. Urianger turned his face to the heavens, gazing up at the perfect blue, unimpeded by Light. He lifted a hand to his heart, taking a deep breath.
I am grateful to have known thee, he thought, not for the first time. I am grateful to have loved thee. To love thee still… my Moen. Somewhere far away, perhaps in the aetherial sea, perhaps betwixt the pages of another star’s tome… she repeated the words back to him.
The echo of love everlasting.