Chapter Text
D’var closes his eyes and breathes -
A breath.
Every breath he has stolen from the death of another is here.
A moment.
Every moment of hesitation which has been paid for in their blood is now.
And that sound.
Every scream, every death rattle, every rip of flesh, every crunch of bone is her
song.
Everything shatters around him.
Everything shatters within him.
He forgets the hopeless emptiness of the lands around him.
He forgets the weight of history, forgets the keening cry of the child-thing above him.
The roar of Shinryu was something he never once wanted to hear again, yet now, now he is grateful. Even if he can still taste in its aether the mix of Lahabrea and Nidhogg, even if in its shout he hears an echo of the dying scream of both Ascian and Great Wyrm, he is grateful. Zenos’ single-minded obsession may have nearly destroyed the star, but too will it save it, it seems. He has never known what to make of the last of the Garlean royal line, not until now. Even from their first encounter, the man simply hadn’t made sense, given all he knew of the Empire, even then. How had such a problem been allowed to fester, especially before Solus zos Galvus’s supposed death? It was so outside what D’var had learned of first the Empire, and then later Hades’s persona as Solus, to have let such an issue run unchecked, unredirected. In Garlemald he had understood. In the ruins of Zodiark’s fall, and Fandaniel’s death, he had understood.
(Sky blue eyes of the loporrit tending at his bedside are the first thing he remembers after cracking what felt like every bone in his hand on Zenos’ jaw the final time. There had only been one possible outcome. Zenos would only let there be one outcome. His words still ring in his ears even as he wakes. “What of you, my mirror? Born into this world, bestowed name, bid to seek out strife and adventure. Was this life a gift, or a burden?”
He is alive. And he is alone. Again.)
(We fought and we fought, and we fought, until there was no one left to fight. We won.)
He fights the thing which the little Meteion has become, fights it with a tenacity as he has fought every foe put before him. From the first time Hydaelyn had called him, before the moon fell, before he saw his first Primal, before all of it, he has fought. He did not earn his first scars under Hydaelyn’s charge, far from. It feels right to face this creature with axe in hand once more. His healed body - his new body - only carries the single mark of Phoenix's magic. The injury that took his axe from him is no more. The blade of the hooked weapon he favours cuts into feather and flesh, his armour and aether reflecting spell and magicks. The Endsinger’s song turns to screams.
(Ceruleum blue eyes, wide and innocent blink up at him. She had not understood. Hermes for all his skill, all his empathy, had not ever been skilled in the mental aspects of a construct’s creation. It was a difficult task. And yet he had created these poor creatures, equipped them so poorly, all simply out of hope and wonder. Meteion had looked up at him, and finally, finally she had understood. And it had broken her. Her words had echoed, across that small field of elpis blooms. “No expression of regret will undo what my sisters and I have done. Will restore what we have stolen. But one day, life will fill the universe again. And Hermes will see this, and smile.”
He is alive. And he is alone. Again.
(We did everything right, everything that was asked of us, and still - still it came to this!)
In the end, of course Zenos demands what is his due. D’var understands, even as empty, as cored out as he is. The Endsinger, for all that she was, had not been the most difficult foe he had ever faced. Powerful, yes, terrifying, yes, but once he had understood what he was seeing, the fight had been... disappointing. If he could feel no thrill in this fight, no joy in overcoming her, even to save all life as he knew it, it was hollow. As hollow as ... he tastes the phantom memory of light aether and blood on his lips and shudders. Let it be as it should. He raises his axe, the grin on his face that of the berserker he had so long sought to tame via its art. Zenos’ long scythe met the first strike effortlessly, and the thrill of this fight sang through his veins. Zenos’ answering grin tells D’var he understands. If he was nothing else, he could be this, here, without shame. Here, he is known.
(Sword silver-grey eyes meet his own now yellow-green, and D’var sees the pain of betrayal written in Thancred’s eyes. He is still weak, in the small infirmary bed, when the man bullies the loporrits from the room to confront him. He accuses, before he asks, he sneers, before he frowns, all the things D’var had feared. His words still ring in his ears even as he leaves the room, door slamming. “He was an Ascian! I know, more than anyone, what they are capable of, have you forgotten? And you! You were, what, fucking him? We thought he had taken you! I thought I knew you.”
He is alive. And he is alone. Again.)
(You of all people should understand!)
It is two days aboard the Ragnarok after he awakens that the word comes, they are within sight of their Star. It is another four bells before they land. D’var is still weak, even for the combined efforts of two mages, but he must be seen, must be celebrated. He is, after all, once again the saviour of the Star. At least it is an excuse for the drink, at least it is an excuse for his exhaustion. At least it is an excuse that no one notices so many things. He cannot fault them for this celebration, even if it rings as hollow as every other past, for him, but he will not begrudge them it. Not ever. The sounds of fireworks and cheering are all he hears for days, even outside the sickbed he is confined to when not needed as a figurehead. He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes.
(White-on-white eyes are watching him, thoughtfully, when he awakes. Y'shtola, whom he has known the longest, even though she does not remember the first time they met, has been a distant, watching vulture at his bedside for several days now. But now, unusually, she is alone with him. Quietly, she speaks, and he nods and answers where he can. She casts no judgement regarding Hades. Yes, he has stopped eating. No, he does not blame her, not for anything. She bends low and speaks in his ear, words echoing after she leaves him, “I will not tell the others. But they will worry, even if you think they will not. It may be yet for the wrong reasons. We will see.”
He is alive. And he is alone. Again.)
(I've died before, Arbert. I'm not afraid to die again.)
The Scions are disbanded, officially, though it marches on paper only, and D’var knows very few will be fool enough to see through such a thin pretence. Back at the Rising Stones, he cannot meet F'lhaminn’s eyes, as always, for all that he knows the woman has long forgiven him. He grows weaker each day, but hides it well. Krile, to her credit, attempts to apologise for sending Zenos, for allowing him the last of the Mothercrystal’s aether. D’var laughs, genuinely, and tells her it was the best possible thing she could have done. Over the next few days, he hears all of the Scions talk of things to be done, tasks that still need doing, how alone or in groups they each intend to return to things that need their hands. He smiles for them, laughs with them. They notice he fails to really heal from his injuries, they notice, eventually, that he is fading.
(Steel grey eyes surprise him when he wakes from one of his many long rests. Estinien looms over his bed, concern twisting his usual dour expression down further still. Another he knew before, who does not remember his face. Another he met, and re-met. The once Azure Dragoon asks simply if his mourning has become so deep, he intends to let it take him. D’var cannot lie, not to him. Would he not rather a death in battle? One might be found, after all. D’var merely shakes his head. He is too tired, too spent, to find a sword to throw himself on. The elzen frowns, and in a rare moment, his words strike as true as his lance, echoing in the Seeker’s heart, “If that is your choice, I will see your cairn raised next to his at Dragonhead. Perhaps then the Endsinger has won, in the end. Often did I see men give in to despair, when faced with foes as mighty as dragons, when friend and blood might be here one day and gone the next. Would that I had better answers.”
He is alive. And he is alone. Again.)
(To have known the depths of sorrow and embrace the highest sacrifice.)
Everything rejoins within him.
Everything rejoins around him.
Every laugh, every cheer, every victorious shout, every joyous cry
is her song.
And that sound.
Every moment of action which has been born from a shared spirit is now.
A moment.
Every breath he has been given freely in trust is here.
A breath.
He forgets the warm comfort of companionship around him.
He forgets the long span of happy years, spent here with the stone above him.
D’var closes his eyes and breathes -
“Are you such a fool, to think I would ever lie to you?”