Chapter Text
Nobody batted an eye as Lyria slipped into one of Tailfeather’s short alleys and tucked herself in a narrow gap between barrels of what smelled like ale long past its best. The others were out canvassing the locals, showing them Alphinaud’s sketch and she would join them soon she just… she needed to be alone for this.
She sniffed and bit back tears as shaking fingers unfurled the parchment. She hadn't been nearly as tearful recently but the day's events had left her feeling strung out. A thousand small heart attacks will do that to you. She'd felt like her chest might burst as she willed their meeting with Vidofnir to end early, as Krile had explained her theory, as they'd waited in Matoya’s cave while she followed Thancred's trail through the lifestream. Lyria had gripped Y'shtola's hand so hard it was a wonder the mage hadn't scolded her for trying to break her bones. Perhaps her empathy ran deeper than they often assumed.
And Krile had found him, and Lyria’s heart felt like it stopped again. They were certain he was here, somewhere in Dravania, but the joy and relief this news had brought her had been quickly extinguished by an equal measure of dread.
There had been another time he'd been lost. Another time she'd been forced to question why, if he'd been alive all along, he had not found them. The memory of Lahabrea itched like a scab.
She swallowed and smoothed out Alphinaud's sketch of Thancred. She'd expected a wave of emotion but it hit her with unexpected force. Knees weak, she slid down the wall until she was sat on the soggy ground.
It wasn't difficult to recall the last time she'd seen his face. Every night she relived their final moments beneath Ul’dah. For the first few weeks she would awaken crying, heart racing, sometimes screaming, unable to distinguish that the nightmare was but a memory. Now she awoke with a sort of weary resignation.
In the same way she'd spent countless nights silently crying herself to sleep, hoping her travelling companions wouldn't hear. Eventually, after weeks of weeping herself dry she would simply lay there in a numb stupor until she fell unconscious.
She sometimes thought perhaps there were only so many tears one person could cry and she'd used them all up.
But of course, they had come for Haurchefant. And for Ysale. For Estinien, and whatever torment Nidhogg was even now inflicting upon him.
And they came now. Alphinaud was talented, no doubt about it; the likeness was astonishing and she couldn’t stop the scene from replaying in her mind.
He stood by Y'shtola, clenching his jaw with a look of grim determination.
“Keep Minfilia safe,” he said, one hand gently tipping Lyria’s chin so he could kiss her. “I love you.”
“Thancred! Y’shtola! No!” Minfilia cried, realising what the pair intended.
“Don’t…” Lyria whispered, though she knew it was futile - she loved all of him, even his apparent compulsion to sacrifice himself for the sake of others at every opportunity. Moreover, she knew it was necessary. Minfilia was the linchpin. The heart and soul of the Scions. Someone had to make sure she made it out of this. Which meant someone had to hold back their pursuers.
“I’ll find you. After.” He pressed his forehead against hers, then kissed it.
She willed herself to believe it. That he would leave these tunnels alive and find her. Believing was the only thing that gave her the strength to do what she must. “I love you, too.”
It felt like wading through mud but she managed to turn away from him, grabbing Minfilia by the wrist and dragging her away as she protested. She wouldn’t look back. Couldn’t look back.
“Don’t look back,” she whispered to herself. It had become a mantra of sorts in the months since the bloody banquet. A necessary hardening of her heart. The memories would eat her from the inside out if she dwelled on them overlong and so when they threatened to overwhelm her she would force herself to look forward, keep going, step by step by laborious step.
Forwards, now. They might be about to find him at last.
Lyria furled the parchment, stood and wiped the mud from her trousers before slipping out of the alley and back into Tailfeather.
*
The trail of rumours led them to the Vath and, subsequently, to the Gnath and the arena in which she’d faced their primal god, Ravana.
As they raced towards the summoning ground her mind ran back through her prior encounter - Ravana’s tells, patterns, weaknesses. But, as it turned out, she needn’t have bothered. Another party was mopping up as they arrived, the primal defeated before she could so much as unhook the scythe from her back.
There was something strange about them, oddly familiar and yet… she couldn’t have met them before. Her wariness proved well founded when, after Alphinaud asked them to identify themselves, the party attacked.
Y’shtola warded off a barrage of arrows from the Mi’qote archer, while the sword-wielding Roegadyn charged for her. Lyria tried to get up but the Echo had left her weak. Her legs shook, vision blurring. The Hyur with the axe noticed and grinned as he swung his weapon and made a beeline for her.
He was stopped in his tracks by knives thrown into his path. His head whipped around to the direction they had come from and Lyria followed his gaze.
Thancred perched above the battleground, one eye covered, the other fixed on the stranger and narrowed with rage. He leapt down, a pair of daggers now in his hands and blurring as he met the unknown warrior with a flurry of blows. The stranger was pushed back and with a growl of frustration beckoned his comrades to retreat.
“Not very sporting of you to interrupt, but so be it.” He spat. “Mark well our faces, Warrior of Light, for we are the Warriors of Darkness. Walkers of a different path. And we shall meet again.”
They all winked out of sight, teleported gods knew where.
“Warriors of Darkness? ...Really?” Krile muttered, but Lyria's attention was on one thing and one thing only. It felt like the world around her was dimming, focusing in on him, until she couldn't stand it anymore and she hurried to his side pulling him into a rib-cracking hug.
He was here. He was really here. In the flesh and looking remarkably healthy for his ordeal in the lifestream and the wilds. The eye patch was concerning but clearly not life threatening and, gods he was here.
She pressed her face into his shirt feeling it grow damp against her cheeks - how long before they called her the Warrior of Weeping? - and she felt Thancred patting her back. Rather chastely, it had to be said.
She leaned back to look up at him but he pushed her away - not roughly, but certainly not lovingly - refusing to meet her eye.
“Thancred?” she said.
“Later,” was all he said.
“Thancred! Are you alright?” Alphinaud bounded over, Y'shtola on his heels.
“Pleasantries can wait,” Thancred replied. “I'd rather not be here when the Gnath arrive. Agreed?”
Krile and Alphinaud nodded and followed him as he jogged away. Y'shtola paused a moment and gave Lyria a questioning look. Lyria shook her head, blinking at his back, at a complete loss.