echoes

[surecast]

The morning weather was mild in Thanalan, which for Robyn Lanner meant only that his shirt was sticking to his back somewhat less than usual. It didn’t exactly help matters that his body was already beginning to soften after his return to magical studies, and so was now protesting his trek out from Ul’dah by producing entirely more sweat than Robyn honestly thought was necessary.

But at least he wasn’t alone in his endeavor. His chocobo companion—a rental from the stall within the city gates, but one which he’d rented on some occasions before, and therefore one he considered a companion nevertheless—didn’t seem fazed one bit by the heat. On the contrary, the bird seemed perfectly at home sunning herself in the sand and brush while Robyn sized up a stout, broad-leafed plant for him to commence his training on. Stationary, and only of passingly similar size to a human opponent... Well, it would have to do for now.

“And this is the best you can do? Surely you jest...”

The weight of a sword in his hand wasn’t fully comparable to the weight of a lance in both, but from all the times he’d seen others wielding a blade, he could at least make a guess as to the correct form. He lifted the sword in his right hand, stretched out his left behind him for—balance, for some kind of counterweight? He wasn’t entirely sure, really, but with any luck he would figure it out with a few practice swings or so.

First, a forward jab. It felt clumsy, not right at all; maybe it was just his footwork that was off, or maybe this was a terrible idea from the start and he’d be better off sticking to the thaumaturge’s guild. No, no—this was fine. It was fine. He’d done well enough with a lance to earn himself a bit of coin in Ishgard, hadn’t he, and there was no reason why he couldn’t diversify his martial skills, few as they were...

“Useless, if you ask me.”

Next, a downward slash. The muscles in his upper arm were already beginning to protest and he’d barely gotten started. There wasn’t any real reason for him to diversify, was there? If he was good enough with a lance, then why branch out to the sword? Was there any reason at all past his pride, his curiosity, a simple whim, a whispering voice in his dreams that urged him to it...

“Just do it. I want to see how it performs.”

One practiced thrust, then another. He couldn’t hope to accomplish anything out here if he didn’t shore up his stance first, and while he still wasn’t certain exactly what that stance should be, he had a sneaking feeling that whatever he was doing now was the wrong thing to be doing. It must be that last reason, he decided, even though he still didn’t understand it. He seldom understood anything in his dreams anymore, and oftentimes he wasn’t sure that he wanted to understand them.

“Can it even pick up a sword?”

There it was. The voice cut even more sharply now that he was awake, piercing him straight to the bone. His sword felt unbearably heavy in his hand.

But it wasn’t alone this time: more voices, more distant than before, as though echoing from the village nearby, began to surround him while the sounds of the desert slipped away.

“...remind you again, the data you provided is incomplete. With only a partial aetheric pattern, pre-programmed behaviors are infeasible at best...”

Words without meaning echoed inside his head. His hands were empty. The edges of his vision were fading to black, and he was falling.

“That’s not what I asked, but thank you for wasting my time.”

When he landed, he was inexplicably on his feet again. The air was cold, and his surroundings were dark. There were lights somewhere far, far overhead, but it hurt for him to even try to look.

In the distance was a lone illuminated figure clad head to toe in heavy armor, masked in dark steel, carrying a large sword at its side. Soft cyan light gleamed off the armored figure’s helm, glinted off the curving blade of that impossibly heavy sword, and when it lifted its sword to point straight at Robyn, it spoke with a man’s voice.

“I aim to discover whether you’ve been wasting my funding, as well.”

At once, Robyn realized that this voice was the very same that had haunted his dreams. His instinct was to flee, but his legs were suddenly immobile as stone, rooted to the spot where he stood. No, it wasn’t just his legs; his entire body felt numb as he stared down the length of the armored man’s sword.

It was then that the distant voice spoke again, echoing down from on high:

“Again, I cannot recommend that you proceed with this exercise. In its present state, Mark II is simply unfit for high-level melee—”

“Yes, that much is obvious.”

More words, more words like knives, slicing through the very air to burrow into his heart. The blade of the armored man’s sword seemed to twist in the light.

“If it breaks, then you’ll just have to build a new one.”

An electric current jolted down the length of Robyn’s spine, sparking sensation into his numb limbs. A spotlight flared to life overhead, and when the stars cleared from Robyn’s eyes, he saw before him on the ground another sword—too heavy, too long for him to capably wield. In his mind, however, was a single, simple directive: Pick it up.

The weapon was already in his hands before he’d had a chance to think it over. The directive in his mind flickered, shifted: Defend yourself.

In that instant, his legs were no longer as stone—but still, he could not flee. He could only plant one foot behind the other, bring his sword up to the level of his eyes, and stand firm. Defend yourself. That was all he could do.

In the very next instant, that wicked blade which had once seemed so far from him was very suddenly not. It swung in an overhead arc, traveling almost too quickly for him to see, and it was all Robyn could do to avoid its path, tumbling to the side and barely managing to right himself back onto his feet without dropping his weapon.

“Poor reaction time, I see. Had it waited a second longer, I daresay...”

The armored man’s cutting words faded to static in Robyn’s mind, overwhelmed by the sudden sensation of pain in his right side. Was it just the sudden, unexpected exertion that pained him, or had he actually...

If that sword strikes you, you will die.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Nevertheless, the voiceless directive repeated itself again and again.

If that sword strikes you, you will die. If that man strikes you, you will die. If it hits me, I will die. I will die. I will die.

Once again, the armored man’s blade twisted in the light. Robyn tightened his grip on his own weapon, and as he watched the man stride towards him with purpose, with a singular, clear intent, he grit his teeth and tried to drown out his rising fear with sheer determination instead.

I will not die. I will not die.

The blade came at him in an rising arc this time, and this time Robyn met it with his own—only to be met in turn with crushing strength, a blow with such force that, once the spots cleared from his sight, Robyn could only wonder how his arm, much less his sword, remained intact. But he wasn’t left with much time to wonder before the man came at him again—

I will not die. I will not die.

—and again, and again, each strike somehow even more powerful than the last. If that sword strikes me, I will die. What little strength Robyn had begun this exercise with was already drained, beaten out of him by this armored man’s relentless onslaught. If that man strikes me, I will die. He could try to dodge, but he could not run. He could not flee. He could not turn his back to this man, could not afford to show an ounce of weakness or cowardice before him, lest he dispense any notion of this being some kind of exercise and cut him down on the spot.

I will not die. I will not die.

The man lifted his blade with both hands this time, bringing it down in another overhead swing, and gave Robyn not even the space of a second to react. He could not run; he could not flee. All he could do was bring up his own meager weapon to block the blow once again, braced with both of his own hands—

I will not die. I will not die—

A burst of light flared to life between them, and the air between their swords shimmered and warped itself into something new: a wall of concentrated aether, perfectly shaped into a protective shield around Robyn’s form, absorbing the brunt of the man’s blow where he could not.

“What—is this—?!”

His words barely rose above the din of static in Robyn’s mind, above the crackle of energy that burned between them, above the sound of that massive blade cracking, breaking through the aetheric barrier in spite of all his effort—

I don’t want to die.

Robyn’s foothold was slipping as the force and weight of that mighty sword pushed its way forward, but he knew—if he allowed that barrier to break, if he allowed his swordarm to break, then he would surely—

I don’t want to die—

His throat burned, and something deep inside him felt as though it were tearing itself open, and sparks and bolts of electricity danced along the edge of his blade, and a sudden, blinding flash overtook his senses, and for a long few moments, the entire world seemed to have been drowned in white.

When Robyn came back to himself, he was doubled over on the ground, his hands empty once again. The world had faded back into darkness; the smell of something burning flooded his senses, searing his nostrils and tearing his eyes. Was he safe, or...

An armored boot brought a swift answer to that question, kicking him in the shoulder, forcing him onto his back and pinning him there by his chest. Robyn coughed, tasted copper in his mouth, and once again felt an overwhelming urge to flee—but even if he weren’t being held down by that boot, the sight that met him when he looked upwards would have been sufficient to freeze him to the spot.

“That was...unexpected.”

The armored man towered over him, just barely blocking out the spotlight overhead, his helm ringed by a halo of light—but his eyes were now visible behind the mask, clear and burning bright, bright and golden, golden like the eyes of a hawk that had just snared its prey in its mighty talons.

“A mediocre performance, overall... Until that display, of course.”

Those golden eyes burned into Robyn, searing straight through into his core. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die.

“Intriguing, to say the least. I suppose you deserve to live, after all. But...”

The man removed his boot only to kneel down, to straddle Robyn’s chest, to pin him down with the weight of his entire body rather than just his foot. Not that he needed it; from the beginning, Robyn never had a chance to flee. But Robyn knew that this man did not move without purpose, and as he caught a small glint in the corner of his eye, the glint of something metallic, of something wickedly sharp in the man’s armored hand, he suddenly knew what that purpose was.

“Mark II, was it... You’ll need something to set you apart from the rest.”

Robyn felt a sharp tug on his hair, and the world once again burst into white. The tugging continued, and Robyn realized there were stars in his eyes all over again, only this time they gradually cleared into bright blue, the blue of the sky over Thanalan.

The tugging did not cease. Robyn swatted a hand to try and put a stop to it, and only once he found a handful of feathers and heard a protesting wark did he realize what was going on. The sun was high overhead, he was flat on his back in the middle of the desert, and his chocobo companion was plucking intently at his hair.

“Stop, stop that...” He mumbled without much conviction as he tried to pick himself up, though he didn’t get much further than sitting himself upright before a sudden pounding ache in his shoulder and gut brought him to a halt. The chocobo made another trilling protest, but this time she seemed content to abandon preening Robyn in favor of preening herself instead. His sword—where was it—there it was, lying harmlessly in the dirt some few fulms away.

Robyn thought to pick it up, but his body continued to ache at the mere thought of moving. How strange, he thought, that a dream should leave him feeling so wounded... Then again, wasn’t it even stranger to have a dream in the middle of the day, while wide awake? But if it wasn’t a dream, then what else could it have possibly been... What else...

Slowly, unconsciously, his hands rose to trace over the scars on either side of his face: too long, too thin, too symmetrical and too smoothly carved to have been inflicted upon him without purpose. What else could it have been, if not a dream... If not a memory...

Slowly, more slowly, he pushed himself up off the ground, dusted himself off, and retrieved his sword. If he could do what he’d done then, against that armored vision... If he could do it with purpose, then... Perhaps he might have a shot at this after all.

Slowly, purposefully, he held his sword out before him, concentrated, directed his aether into his arm—and there, right before his eyes, danced an electric spark at the tip of his blade.

Well, it wasn’t anything compared to the burst of aether he’d seen in that dream, that vision, that memory or whatever it truly was. But it was a start.

( originally posted 03/03/2018 on tumblr )