Chapter Text
Lyankhua was so terribly, terribly stupid.
She had left her home for the Far West to heed the Echo, and had solved myriad problems for Eorzeans as an adventurer. She had single-handedly defeated the primal Ifrit, then chored far and wide for former Company of Heroes members to finally face Titan. And after reporting her victory to the Maelstrom in Limsa Lominsa, she had been summoned by Minfilia to return to headquarters.
But the Scions were dead. In the time between Minfilia’s call and Lyankhua’s return to the Waking Sands, the Scions had been butchered by the ironmen. From what the Echo had shown her, Minfilia, Tataru, Urianger, and Papalymo looked to have been taken alive, but so many were not. The guards, the other adventurers, Aulie and A’aba Tia, that girl who was just starting to remember her party from before the Calamity…all of them were dead.
And Noraxia. Oh, the poor creature. The sylphs were such a friendly and adorable people, who had been willing and helpful in the Scions’ eternal quest to lay low the primals, even their own Ramuh if necessary. Noraxia had just wanted to help the Scions, the first of the beast tribes to do so. So weak as they were, Noraxia had struggled to speak Minfilia’s final instructions on where Lyankhua was to seek asylum before dying in her arms. “A church in western Thanalan” was vague, but she had known of only one, the one where she had been once before, during that very first mission with Thancred – the Church of Saint Adama Landama, near Camp Drybone.
Her legs had ached from running, and her armour had been heavy with rain and mud when Lyankhua had trudged up the hill to the lichyard. She’d been so exhausted the clergy had rushed to settle her on a pew and give her some hot tea when she refused to doff her sodden clothes before them. Father Iliud had taken her in and entrusted her to the care of his son, the lichkeep Marques she’d met before.
Now wearing the woollen robes lended to her by the clergy, the weight she felt was not physical, but forced her to take a seat on the pews nonetheless. At least Noraxia could be at peace, their body returned to their people, along with her condolences and deepest apologies. So good were the Sylphs that to cast guilt upon her for Noraxia’s death had not even occurred to them. Now they could be mourned according to Sylphic traditions. The other dead Scions, whose many names she did not all know, Lyankhua had interred in the lichyard outside only the day before.
It was the least she could do for them, for they had never been the Empire’s true target – Lyankhua was. She had still been in Limsa Lominsa at the time. The Scions had been massacred, and what did she have to show for it? A fucking haircut from that colourful Elezen man. It had been swiftly drenched and ruined by the rain as she’d fled to Saint Adama Landama, anyway.
And how was she to proceed now? She had no clue where or how to look for the remaining Scions. With some of them having been taken by the Empire, using her linkpearl was probably unsafe in some way, and so she’d crushed during her flight. She knew how to passably write in Eorzean script, but she couldn’t encode messages, nor did she know who she would even pass them to safely. There was nothing she could do but wait for any of the remaining Scions to find her, hoping that they knew Minfilia would have told her to seek safety here. If anyone knew where to find her, it would be Minfilia’s most trusted colleagues.
Perhaps Thancred would know, having been here before. Lyankhua hoped he was safe. They had worked well together, in the end. Her missions with the other Archons to investigate primal activity in the Black Shroud and to subdue Titan had gone swimmingly as well, apart from all the choring she’d had to do to prove herself to retired heroes. Thancred, Yda, and Y’shtola hadn’t been in the Waking Sands at the time of the raid, nor had she seen any signs of them when she’d returned to clean up the bodies days later.
It was as she considered this that Marques approached her. While the other clergy kept their hoods up in reverence, his appeared to be hiding him from the world – it was little wonder why Father Iliud had encouraged them to work together. Though he had been introduced as the person she ought to rely on, his timid nature had him relying on her just as much for errands which required leaving the grounds. It was only on those errands that she had begun to see what little things brought him joy; he made himself small and quiet, but what he had of his mind was sharp, and his calloused fingers were clever.
Now, he seemed even more nervous than usual. He had never been the one to approach her before in such a manner – she was usually the one to approach him, begging for something to do to earn her keep. He hunched over further, wringing his hands, but was too tense to sit down beside her.
“I...I’m not imagining it, Lyankhua. I know I’m being watched… This is different – sinister. It is as if I am...under observation.” His eyes were round as they scanned the church from under his hood, lingering on the windows and doors. Marques spoke with doubt threading through his words, but it was of the kind she knew well – a paranoia you cannot quite place. She sat straighter and turned her body towards him, nodding for him to continue. “The feeling comes and goes...but I felt it when last I ventured outside. Yes. I know I felt it. Will you look outside for me...please? It will only take a moment.”
She’d stood before he’d even finished speaking. Marques was an anxious man, certainly, but not unreasonable. To ensure there was nobody outside spying on him would take very little effort. To assuage anxieties and the fear of being followed was a task she knew well from growing up in her tribe. She had done this many times before, and one could never be too watchful for hostile Xaela on the open plains.
(Not for the first time, she was struck with a homesickness that turned her stomach and ached in her chest. But she could not return home now, not without fulfilling the purpose for which she had been brought to Eorzea, and not without righting all that had gone wrong because of her.)
Even if it was nothing, she needed to ensure her own safety, too. She was a wanted woman.
With a firm nod to him, which prompted a shuddering sigh of relief, she fixed her cowl before she headed outside.
For a blessing, the Empire did not know what she looked like, as she had hidden her Auri features even from her allies. In a church run by clergy who always wore long, hooded robes, she would not stand out for this, even as her horns shaped the cowl a little strangely. The clergy were kind enough not to ask any questions – they were probably used to Marques’ nervous behaviours. All Lyankhua usually saw of his face was the thick white beard. Or perhaps Father Iliud had told them to let her origins be.
One circuit of the upper grounds later, with no signs of life other than a pilgrim and the swarms of blowflies, she followed the path down the hillside. She kept her steps quiet in the dry grass, placing her feet with practised care. The flowing robe was unusual, and the clothing over her horns dampened her hearing and sense of space, but she knew how to move silently through grass.
The hood limited her vision as well, so it took her a moment to recognise the glint of steel behind the tombstone.
She span, grabbing her hora from beneath the cloak. Her swinging fist collided with a round shield. Lyankhua hissed at the impact vibrating up her arm. The man—Hyuran, dressed with a long robe over armour of some sort—lunged with his sword. She leapt back, opening her chakra. He followed from behind the tombstone.
Lyankhua shook the ache out of her arm, and growled out a deep breath, once.
No time for twice. He swung his sword. She ducked to the left, striking his exposed flank and switching to coeurl form. Grunting in pain, he swung again, and she sidestepped behind him, back to where she’d started, before snapping a punch at his mid-back. The man stumbled forwards. In opo-opo form, she punched him further off balance.
His shout was cut short as his skull cracked against the tombstone before him. He collapsed limp to the ground, crushing the flowers offered to the grave.
Lyankhua waited, her chakra still blazing, for several breaths. He didn’t move again. She stepped closer, fists raised, but he remained still. His chest wasn’t moving.
Shit.
Leveraging his shield arm, she rolled him onto his side, back against the tombstone. The weaponry was simple, but the round shield was familiar to her. She lifted his robes to look at his clothing underneath.
Light armour, with black and red details. Along with that shield, it was of the same make as she’d seen in her Echo vision of the Waking Sands – Garlean.
Marques had been right. They were being spied on. But what would the empire want with a timid lichkeep? Or had Lyankhua’s safety been compromised from the start? How? By whom? The only person here who knew she’d been of the Scions was Father Iliud, and surely he would not…
But clearly Minfilia’s trust had been abused before – otherwise Noraxia, Aulie, A’aba Tia, and the others would have been alive.
Lyankhua sighed. However they had found her, whether the Imperials were after the “Eikon-slayer” or the lichkeep, she was not safe here. And, perhaps, neither was Marques.
“Fuck.” She hadn’t meant to kill him. She couldn’t ask him any questions dead!
She twisted and looked around one more time over the lichyard, but no more suspicious characters revealed themselves from behind tombstones – the opportune time to do so would have been while their comrade distracted her, so it was likely safe enough to assume he had been spying alone. With a sigh, she loosened her grip on the hora and grabbed his sword. Then, she returned up the hill.
Marques was upon her before the church doors had fully swung shut behind her, eyes falling to the blade in her grasp. “You were attacked, weren’t you? Are you unharmed?” She nodded. “Thank the gods.”
Father Iliud stood at the front of the church, where she’d first spoken to him. Marques must have summoned him.
“Heavens forfend…” he whispered. “That such a thing should happen on holy ground!”
Lyankhua strode forward, gait loose, chakra still blazing. Marques followed, muttering, “I knew it. He was watching me. But why was he watching me? What did he want with me? Did he, perhaps...know something of my past? If only I could have asked him…”
Lyankhua lowered her head. “He’s dead now.” Ignoring his gasp, she presented the sword to Father Iliud. “It was a Garlean soldier. I recognise his weaponry.”
He stared at the length of the blade, before nodding carefully. “I agree, child – this is Garlean steel. Which means the man watching Marques was… Oh, goodness!”
She shook her head. “Father Iliud, he cannot stay. And neither can I. It’s no longer safe for us here.”
His face fell as he looked at the Garlean weapon, then Marques. “Oh, dear children...”
From under his hood, Marques’ lip trembled. “But…”
Behind them, the heavy church doors creaked open.
Lyankhua tightened her grip on the blade. She was not trained in any sword arts, but whoever might be approaching did not know that. How different was it, really, to wielding a spear?
She almost dropped it when she saw person who came in. He had pointy Elezen ears, but was shorter than her, with white hair and dressed in a blue tunic. His eyes widened at the sight of the blade in her hand, but he swiftly schooled his expression into a guise of confidence.
“I say, I had hoped to be able to speak to these men alone, if you wouldn’t mind. I have most important business with them, for which I require the utmost privacy.” Seeing she did not lower the blade, or perhaps recognising the make of it, his right hand drifted, carefully, to the grimoire at his hip. “And I shan’t tolerate you standing in the way.”
A phrase her khan liked to say came to mind then: confidence is quiet.
Now she remembered where she’d seen this imperious child before. He’d delivered his unsolicited commentary to her during the ceremonies in the city-states, candidly expressing his dislike for every one of them. She’d also seen him in the Waking Sands, if only once.
A Scion had found her, and she was scaring him. What was this one’s name again? Alfi-something?
She lowered the blade. “You’re one of the twins.” He stayed tense, his eyes growing even more suspicious, but Lyankhua knew she was right. “At the remembrance ceremonies. You told me about the different Grand Companies.”
“Then that would make you our primal-slayer.” She nodded, and he finally relaxed his stance. Then, he scoffed – or was that meant to be a laugh? “Then I am fortunate, after all, to find you here, for I mean to revive the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. And to that end I have come in search of a legend – the greatest engineer of our time.” He turned to Marques. “Master Cid Garlond, I have come for you.”
She recognised the name ‘Cid Garlond,’ too.
Marques scarcely reacted at first, only frowning in thought.
“I fear you are mistaken, child,” Iliud said in a tone of gentle correction. “He is but a poor soul who bore witness to the horrors at Carteneau. I beg of you, leave us in peace…”
“Wait... I…”
Marques fell to his knees, clutching his head and moaning in pain. Lyankhua quickly knelt beside him, but there was nothing she could do against this pain. He was breathing like he was about to be sick, so she prepared to catch him if he collapsed, but still did not touch him – like her, he seemed the type to flinch away from even a helpful touch.
Garlond Ironworks. Hadn’t Biggs and Wedge mentioned a master of theirs who’d gone missing during the Calamity? As for Marques, for such a timid man to be a legendary engineer, whatever that was…did it have something to do with his gift for mechanics and his clever fingers? Didn’t mechanics also mean Garlean things?
“Hear me, Cid! Eorzea needs you!”
She desperately wanted to hiss at him. Legendary genius engineer or not, he was inflicting only further pain on the man! Yet Marques quieted then, and seemed to brace himself before standing back up. As if answering the boy’s call, he walked unsteadily toward the nearest pew, before turning back to look at his father, gaze lost.
Iliud’s smile was...complicated, and with a nod that clearly meant something to Marques, he stepped out of the room and into the back of the church, where supplies—as well as Marques’ and Lyankhua’s modest accommodations—were stored.
Lyankhua stepped closer to Marques, conspicuously barring the boy from his view (and ignoring his offended huff about it).
“Do you want to do this?” she asked.
Marques blinked, breaking his stare with the door Iliud had left through and turning it to the ground. “I…I don’t remember. I don’t know…”
If the boy spoke true, then this was the man Biggs and Wedge always spoke of in reverent, mournful tones, their master who had gone missing after Carteneau. That was why rescuing Biggs and Wedge—as well as their airship—had been so important in the first place; Cid Garlond had supplied Eorzea with airships and instructed the people in the ways of magiteknology, making him a high-priority enemy of the Garleans. If Marques was Cid, the pieces fell into place perfectly: how Iliud had found him, why such a built man had such deft fingers for tinkering, and why an Imperial spy had been watching him.
But he did not remember, and he was being given little choice in what came next. Perhaps the same could be said for Lyankhua.
Iliud returned with a chest, which he heavily set down before them.
“Cid, was it? Here…these belonged to you. I thought you bore the mark of greatness... It seems that I was right.” Iliud’s eyes shined with tears, and his wrinkles deepened with a smile. Were he anyone else, Lyankhua would have feared he’d wrap Marques in a tight, unwanted hug, but he restrained himself. “Our time together was all too brief, but it felt as though my son had returned to me. You have brought joy to an old man's life. But it is time for you to help those who truly need you.”
Marques—Cid Garlond?—blinked back tears of his own, then knelt to open the chest. From what Lyankhua could see, it was relatively empty aside from some garments filling the lower half of it. Atop those was a hammer, which he picked up. He held it with a firm, sure grip, just like he’d held the tools he’d used to fix the trinket days ago, just like how Lyankhua held her lance; the set of his shoulders eased in a way she hadn’t seen before.
To the Elezen boy, he asked, still holding the hammer in the loose-firm grip of a master, “Who...are you?”
“Alphinaud Leveilleur, at your service. As a Scion of the Seventh Dawn, I stand against our primal and imperial foes—”
“Where were you?” Lyankhua asked.
Alphinaud huffed. “Whilst you were catering to the Company of Buffoons' every whim, I was gathering information on our newest foe. As a result, I was not present when the Garleans came. I suppose we should be grateful for our good fortune.”
“...Good fortune.”
“Yes, adventurer,” he said, a little impatiently, as if it was simply bad fortune which had seen the other Scions slaughtered. “Had you been present at the Waking Sands, we’d be short our primal-slayer, as well. And that brings me to my next point: the Ixal have summoned their primal, Garuda. And the Empire will be the least of our concerns should she grow powerful enough to bring every city-state of Eorzea to heel first. Her appetite for destruction exceeds that of other primals. And in her present incarnation, our Baldesion colleagues believe she surpasses both Ifrit and Titan in strength. Yet therein lies an opportunity. Were we somehow to defeat Garuda, it would serve as a warning to the other beast tribes that even their mightiest gods can be felled. If we are to face our foe, we must first circumvent the tempest that shields her sanctuary. And for that,” he turned to Marques, “we need an airship ─ your airship, Cid.”
“I… I have...an airship?”
“Yes, Cid, you do. Your very own airship.” Lyankhua wanted to spit at Alphinaud for his tone. He spoke as though to a misbehaving child instead of a sick, grown man! “It was last seen in the skies over Gridania, not long before the Calamity, so let us begin our search there.”
“A-An airship...? My airship...?” Marques, or Cid, said, as though testing how the words felt as he spoke them. Then, he picked up the chest, looked at Lyankhua and Alphinaud, and bade them, “W-Wait.”
He retreated out of the back of the church, to his chambers. Despite the persistent stutter, he’d sounded sure of himself for the first time. So, that was his decision. At least, she hoped it was. Alphinaud had mostly pressured and coerced him, and he was growing a self-satisfied smile on his face.
She could count the number of times she’d spoken to the boy on one hand, but that was more than enough to know – they would not get along.