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She fascinates him, this Warrior of Light. In turn, she has both helped, if unintentionally, and limited his efforts to restore his people, and along the way, she has ever drawn his eye.
The fete he finds himself slowly trailing after her at it a festive one. Tis one of Ishgard’s many Grand Balls, however, this one lends itself to his favor. A masquerade. Fortunately, he is an authority in wearing masks. He’s worn them for millennia, longer than the memories of these beings stretch back, and longer than even their very god’s existence.
He had waited for hours before the event has even begun, watching servants scurrying about lighting candles in the massive chandeliers above the room, taking care to leave the room dim enough to aid in the mystery of the masquerade. The room is painted in the glimmering spots of the silver snowflakes the servants have hung, the light reflecting off them and causing the room to nearly shimmer. Wreaths of green and bows of red adorn the walls, with a large magically snow-laden conifer taking up the center of the room, its starry topper the focal point.
The ballroom the event takes home in is the grandest of Ishgard, allowing for nearly five hundred of Hydaelyn’s children to spill into. While Ishgard holds such gatherings seasonally, this, their winter ball is the darling of Ishgardian nobles, eager to spend a night under a veil of mystery and intrigue.
Many guests have taken advantage of the mask to let loose. Their typical rules for dress have been left behind for revealing outfits as if in an attempt to as thoroughly disregard propriety as possible, taking advantage of the situation to the fullest. These nobles are unrecognizable to even their own families, and he has heard more than one giggle of a lady flirting with a paramour, safely hidden away in darkened alcoves from judging guardians.
The orchestra plays a slow tune, and he hesitates, fingers twitching against his side. Once upon a time, he had performed in concert halls dozens of times the size of this room. Rarely had his duties as Emissary allowed him enough time to play for the people of Amaurot. Truthfully, he can no longer recall the last time he sat down at a piano and struck itst keys.
When he sees the unattended instrument he preferred long ago, he is tempted. A half-step takes him toward it, before a glint of light off the mask of a nearby elezen snaps him free from the temptation. With a shake of his head, he returns to his task of following the Warrior.
She is dressed modestly on this night, which does not surprise him. From what he knows of Hydaelyn’s Champion, this event is not one she would typically attend.
Despite her choice of attire, it is not only his eyes that have followed the Warrior around the room on this evening.
Her dress is simple, though it flatters her figure in its slim fit. It’s a thick dark green cotton with a modest bust displaying just a hint of decolletage. Black leather belts at her waist and opens to reveal a sparkling red underlayer. Matching straps with silver swirling clasps cinch her wide dress sleeves above her elbows, leaving the bell-shaped sleeves to reveal their own additional layers of red. The delicate silver mask covering her face enhances the cat-shaped green irises nearly hidden beneath raven bangs trailing loose from the high ponytail she has pulled her long hair into.
She’s lingering in the shadows on the fringes of the ballroom floor, almost concealed behind a potted plant. He can sympathize with her desire to hide away,. ever has he felt like the outsider of events such as these. He has always favored the company of his instruments over people, with few exceptions.
While his role as Emissary has taught him to feign social interest, he can’t help but note that her allies have done a disservice to leave her unattended during these festivities. She is clearly uncomfortable alone, and the least they could do is bestow the Warrior their company..
It also leaves her incredibly vulnerable. It would be devastatingly easy for him to away with the Warrior. While the Lord Commander of Ishgard is present, and several of her fellow Scions are in attendance , none have seen fit to keep an eye on their Champion. How foolish of them.
Yet, he finds himself reluctant to take advantage of the situation. Truthfully, the event harkens back to memories Elidibus recalls only infrequently, back to the days before his city had fallen and his people were still whole. The merriment they had celebrated back then did not differ so far from that these blips of life as Emet-Selch likely would have claimed. For a moment, Elidibus allows himself to mourn his fellow paragon. With the death of Emet-Selch, he is the only one of his kind that remains.
She is responsible for the death of many of his fellow Convocation members. But for tonight, he finds himself more interested in the soul lingering on the edges of the ballroom than of the ones that have been returned to the Lifestream. Before Emet-Selch had met his demise, he had told Elidibus of his theories that the Warrior long ago had been one of their own.
He had not bothered to tell Emet-Selch that he had ascertained as such years prior.
It had been a point of pride to Elidibus to find out what had happened to their missing Convocation member after the ardor, only to discover that it had been her that had summoned the Mother crystal. Hydaelyn, in turn, had raised up the Fourteenth as her Champion, and so she had lived on, again and again, the various shards of her soul causing them difficulties on every shard.
What many of the Convocation members seemed to have forgotten was that long before the Fourteenth had resigned, before their world had begun to waste away from the Doom that had befallen it, the Fourteenth and the Emissary had been friends.
Some may have called it something more significant than that.
And tonight, even more than he blames the Warrior for the state of the world, for causing him to become the sole survivor of his people, on a night that once would’ve found the two of them quietly celebrating in his home... he misses her.
Though this Warrior is but a mere echo of the Fourteenth he had known, shades of the woman he knew can still be found in her. So too, would the Fourteenth have lurked at the edges of the party, never quite fitting in. All despite the fact that the Convocation nearly revolved around her. Every one of them had been drawn like moths to her flame. Just as this Warrior ever draws people toward her, the Fourteenth had done the same.
Abruptly, he realizes that he is not content to merely watch the Warrior again. Taking on a form that others can see is simple enough, thought giving form to a hyur man of nondescript height, long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, bangs hanging loose over golden eyes. Like the Warrior, he keeps his clothing simple. His long white coat covers a green shirt, sashed at the waist by a matching emerald green tie. Silver swirls, reminiscent of the Warrior’s mask trim the bottom of the coat at the hem and along the larger, widened cuffs of his sleeves.
“Excuse me,” he says, giving the Warrior a small bow, “but you looked so lonely over here. Might I request a dance from the Warrior of Light?”
At his words, the Warrior doesn’t quite startle, but he sees the quick flick of her surprised ears.
She doesn’t respond immediately, emerald eyes looking him over. Though he is not in his typical garb, his red mask is not entirely dissimilar to one she has seen him in before. He can imagine that after fighting Emet-Selch she has become even more familiar with the masks of his people.
She hesitates, eyes flicking over the angles of the mask, the sound of his voice, before she seems to shake off the similarities and grants him a smile.
“I’m sorry - hello,” she says, “and please, call me Lara. I’d rather avoid being the ‘Warrior of Light’ for the night. Not that er-, I mean- tonight, I would just like to be another guest at the ball.”
She is blushing furiously, and he is struck by how much it seems to suit her. Through all of the times he has seen her before, those eyes of hers, so similar to the Fourteenth’s, had been lit by fury. It is… nice, to see something else be reflecting in them for once.
“Of course, Lady Lara.”
“Really, just Lara is fine. I’m- I’m not really a lady.”
“I don't quite think that is true,” he replies back, “you may not have been born as such, as these nobles were,” he says, gesturing to the room in front of them, “but that does not change the fact that you have more than earned being addressed as such. I daresay the Lord Commander might agree.”
“I- thank you,” she says, causing her blush to spread from her cheeks to the rest of her face.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. What can I call you?”
“Mercury,” he responds, surprising even himself.
It has been… a very, very long time since anyone has addressed him as such. Even amongst the Convocation members, he has always been ‘Elidibus’. So long has he served on the council that he is not truly even sure anyone can recall that he has another name. By the end, even the Fourteenth had stopped using it in her fury with him.
“That’s a curious name,” she says, taking a sip of the drink she expertly plucks from a passing waiter, who does not even seem to have noticed the Warrior’s quick movement.
“An old one, I’m told,” he says with a small smirk, “Lara is an interesting name as well. Your very name seems to have predicted your life.”
“Yes, my mother finds it amusing that she seems to have named me for both Protection and Fame given,” she groans, pausing for a moment and gesturing to herself, “everything, I guess.”
“There’s an older association with it as well, though I believe it has been mostly lost to the ages,” he replies, eyes scrutinizing her once more.
“And what might that be?” she asks, taking a sip of her drink, body fully turned toward him.
“Silent, or the mute one. Given the storiesI’ve heard describing you, it seems fitting as well. “
“I like to take things in!” She says hotly, before that blush once more spreads across her cheeks, “I mean - I’m sorry. I just… get told a lot that I let others speak for me, like Alphinaud, and I just… I like to know all the facts before I come to a decision about something or someone.”
“I did not mean it as an insult, my apologies if it came across as such Lady Lara, I think it tis an admirable trait that many would benefit from.”
“Oh! Well then. Uh. Sorry? Thank you, I mean,” she mumbles, frantically looking at him and then away, and back again.
“I never did answer your question before, either, did I? About the dance?”
“Not as such, no. The offer does remain, however.”
He watches with a raised eyebrow that the Warrior can’t actually see as she tosses back the remainder of her drink. When it’s finished, she looks at the empty glass, seeming to come to a decision with herself.
“I would. Except. You see, Icantactuallydance?”
His hand pauses on its journey to take her emptied glass from her, before dropping to his side. The Warrior cannot dance? Of all things, he had not expected to hear in response to his offer, that had not been among them. It had been the Fourteenth who insisted that as the Emissary, he would need to know how to perform any number of dance and had dragged him from one class in Amaurot to another.
For ages, they had taken everything from ballroom waltzes to the country dances the far-flung civilizations preferred, Elidibus putting up a fight about how unlikely it was that he would need to know this one or that one. They both knew he was only doing it for show as he dutifully showed up to every class, rearranging Convocation schedules if necessary, to Emet-Selch’s unending amusement, and Lahabrea’s protests about favoritism.
He may also have spent an inordinate amount of time learning the Fourteenth’s favorite songs, playing them for her in the privacy of his home, enjoying the way she would almost irresistibly end up dancing for each song. Some of her dances were orchestrated, pre-written things they had both learned in class, but his favorite were the ones where she just closed her eyes and lost herself to the music.
How long had it been since he had been the sole recipient of her attention?
It makes him reflect, considering the music currently trilling from the orchestra.
“This would be an easy enough one to follow my lead on if you were so inclined.”
He lightly tugs the empty glass from her grasp this time, placing it down, before reaching out the hand toward her once more.
Her tail behind her is waving slowly from one side to the other, the occasional quick twitch-twitch of the tip belying the considering look she sends him in response to his request once more.
“Alright. But I apologize if I step on your feet.”
Her hand reaches for his, and he feels the tingle of familiarity that flows through him, impossible, yet there all the same. Hers is a broken soul, her physical form entirely dissimilar to the one she had before the Sundering, and yet when they reach the dance floor and he pulls her into place, carefully placing her arms in the correct locations, the feeling of right remains.
For all her worries, the Warrior effortlessly follows him through one step to another, his slow start beginning to build with each turn of the room they make. When he says as much to her, she briefly stumbles.
“Ah - I’m sorry. Was I? Every time I’ve tried before, I just make a fool of myself. I’ll admit, the steps have seemed much easier when I’m doing them with you.”
The song ends all too soon, the cheery waltz altogether too short, leaving them both standing on the edge of the dance floor. The Warrior looks up at him, quietly requesting, “Another, please?”
“Tis my pleasure. I’d be happy to dance so long as you desire it.”
“Thank you,” she replies, her voice partially muffled by the music.
He’s not sure how long they spend gliding across the dance floor, one song seamlessly blending into another. They chat occasionally, but the majority of their time is spent in a comfortable silence. The candles lining the room have long burned low in their chandeliers, casting shadows over the revelers who remain when he finally leads them to a corner of the ballroom.
“My thanks. I truly enjoyed our dances, but I believe I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“Mercury - Elidibus -,” the Warrior says softly as he starts to pull away, leaving him momentarily stunned. When had she realized who he was? Or had she known the entire time?
“Were we - friends, too then? Like I had been with Emet-Selch? Once upon a time?” she asks, one hand still clutching the sleeve of his coat.
He can’t look away from where she’s reached out to him, “Something like that.”
“I’m sorry then. For what it’s worth. That we find ourselves on opposite sides,” she’s pulling away now, and he can feel the cold air brush against him, the divide of more than just the space he’s putting between them, but that of Zodiark and Hydaelyn once more.
“As am I, Warrior.”
They would meet again, he knew. The next time they did so was unlikely to be as pleasant as this one had been, but for now… he opens a portal and appears in the place he calls his own. Marching his way across the room, he stares down at the dusty piano, the very same one he had played for her time after time, and sits down at the keys to play once more.