divergence
#endwalker #felstel #wolship #ffxiv #wolshipewfic
“Nah, I dun mind books so much. I’ll stay in Sharlayan an’ ya go to Thavnair, Stel.”
Her violet tail dances in mirth, “What’s that, liar? You’re going to Thavnair, of course.”
“Yes. Please go to Thavnair, Felcy’ra.” Krile’s protest is accompanied by a great sigh and a certain tension to her jawline, as though just the idea of dealing with Fel on a research project team is enough to set her teeth on edge.
Fel pouts, glancing at Alisaie for backup.
The young elezen raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. This is Fel’s battle to lose.
He narrows his one visible eye at G’raha Tia, who is oblivious, deep in scholarly conversation with Alphinaud.
“How many bells a day do you believe we may spend in the Noumenon, Krile? Eight? Twelve? Perhaps fourteen?” Stel asks, her tone sweet and innocent.
Krile, ever quick to cotton on, feigns surprise, “Did no one inform you? Eighteen hours minimum is the planned schedule. Mayhap we will study longer depending on what, if any, information we unearth.”
“I see. Then surely there will be frequent breaks and a ready supply of decent food?” Stel’s toothy grin bears an uncanny resemblance to the expression Fel normally wears. It’s enough to make no small number of the Scion’s blood run cold.
“I must apologize, but no,” replies Krile, quite serious. “I fear we have no time for breaks and the only foodstuffs the much diminished Baldesion budget can currently supply is Archon bread and weak tea.”
At the words ‘Archon bread’ Fel’s ears go flat. ‘Weak tea’ seems to be the finishing blow. “I’m goin’ to Thavnair,” he monotones.
After Fel takes his leave with a distracted kiss across her cheek, Stel raises a brow at her companions, “Can we really only afford tea and Archon bread?”
Alisaie and Krile dissolve into ringing peals of laughter, startling G’raha and Alphinaud out of their discussion.
“Absolutely not. Even if our funding was that dire I would not subject any of you, much less myself, to those sorts of inhumane working conditions,” explains Krile, wiping streaming eyes.
“Excellent. I would have stayed in any case, but if it was necessary to rid ourselves of the sort of mischief only a bored Felcy’ra can manage it seemed a small price to pay.”
The group indulges in personal reminiscences of bored Fel, shuddering as a unit before trooping en masse out the Annex doors and toward the library in high spirits.
In the split second after arriving via unattuned aetheryte to Yedlihmad, a veritable feast of delicious smells assails Fel’s nose. His belly gives an answering rumble and he believes, for one blissful moment, that Thavnair was the better choice.
Then comes a full body wave of mind bending nausea; the sort where you have an absolute certainty that if you opened your mouth, you would be revisited by meals eaten in childhood.
He falls to hands and knees, unable to control his own body, falling into a long series of shivering cold sweats. The belly that rejoiced at the prospect of new and exciting foods but moments ago now gyrates in the back of his throat, ready to empty itself on the baking sands of Radz-at-Han—wrung out like a dirty dishrag.
By the Twelve what sort of torture from the Seventh Hell is this?
Archon loaf would be preferable to this.
Sadly, the thought of the fish laden bread calls to mind an unbidden and unwelcome recollection of its taste. The unpleasant, grainy texture. The heavy chewiness of it—the way it sticks to your teeth and seizes up one’s jaw. And this is to say nothing of the smell: a dockside fish market at high noon in summer, mixed with over processed plant matter of a decidedly unfresh nature, and overlaid with a fragrance not unlike an auroch’s arse.
Estinien’s boots pay the ultimate price for Fel’s momentary lapse of concentration.
The light in Krile’s eyes is ethereal and strange, radiating a peaceful calm that Stel finds unnerving in contrast to the words her friend is speaking.
Words from Hydaelyn.
“In darkness, seek joy. Surrender not to sadness, and see beyond despair. Walk free, and bear the light for others to follow.”
Stel glances with apprehension at the pale blossom in her even paler hand, the petals unfurling gracefully around the delicate center. Reminding her of the halo of light sometimes visible around the moon on the coldest nights of the year. However, its soft pearlescent glow is somehow threatening in its serenity.
A ball of ice slips down her throat, coming to rest in her belly, burning there with cold ferocity.
For a long moment, she thinks to behold the expression on Fel’s face; to sort through her own emotions by observing his.
It takes another moment for her to recall he has gone to Thavnair: he is not by her side—his solid presence an immeasurable source of support—nor he will he know of this development until she tells him the details.
She feels his absence like the keenest blade.
”Stel does alchemy too. Not like dis kind though, the other kind,” announces Fel.
Nidhana looks up from analyzing the drunken deepa’s recorded data, “Stel?”
Thancred and Estinien chuckle. Urianger explains, “Another of our bosom companions. The Lady Stelmaria is the other Warrior of Light and Felcy’ra’s dearest—”
Fel gives a loud, fake cough, the tiniest flush blooming under his cheeks. Urianger fixes him with a stare wrought of solid steel but chooses to let sleeping chocobos lie.
Nidhana throws back her head and laughs, trunk curling upward and eyes crinkling. “A warrior and an alchemist? She sounds quite formidable. I should like to meet her one day when all this is over.”
“Aye,” grunts Fel, absorbed in checking his side arm for microscopic flaws. Thancred watches with barely restrained glee.
The good-natured arkasodara returns to her work. “‘Tis a wonderful thing to have special friends to share your failures and triumphs with, is it not? The bitter turns to sweet and the sweet becomes all the sweeter.”
“‘Tis indeed, my lady,” says Urianger.
Discovered and apprehended.
Called up on the carpet before the Forum like a group of naughty children when they were only asking questions.
And sneaking through disused mine tunnels, yes.
Though if that had gone wrong they would have inconvenienced none but themselves.
The back and forth arguing between her fellow Scions and the Forum members sets Stel’s teeth on edge.
G’raha, showing a glimmer of the Exarch’s gift for public speaking with gravitas, holds forth on the Forum floor about his restricted section discoveries. Every pair of eyes in the place is glued to his face and in watching she recalls—vividly—why she loved him.
Once.
“No longer was knowledge preserved for the benefit of society, rather society was to be gradually reshaped to ensure the preservation of knowledge.
A current runs through the room like levin. Several of the figures clad in graceful, flowing white silk sit straighter in their high-backed chairs.
“The most conspicuous and telling change was the one which befell Labyrinthos. Once little more than an oversized storehouse, an enormous allocation of funds saw it transformed into an advanced research and archival facility.
“I also discovered a fascinating account on the finances of our Dravanian colony. The settlement attracted students from far and wide, and the connections and the tuition fees thus acquired were funneled into further improvements for the archives.”
The rustling of fabric grows louder, the esteemed representatives murmuring to each other in undertones or else settling themselves to stare at G'raha Tia in rapt attention.
To Stelmaria they look rather like a flock of game birds disgruntled to discover a predator in their midst, but rather than flee they choose to flap their wings at each other and scratch the dirt for insects.
“Now there is no question that our nation’s progress is tied to the acquisition of wisdom. Nevertheless the vast resources diverted for this purpose borders on the obscene.
Forchenault Leveilleur's lips pinch into a thin, mottled line.
“But returning to the matter of when…” A pregnant pause allows the crowd to tense in anticipation as G'raha lines up to deliver the final shot. “Our change in course appears to have been made some 270 years ago.”
Y'shtola gasps, “The very same period when Sharlayan scholars in the Hinterlands began a formal study of the aetherial sea.
The two miqo’te share a meaningful glance before Y'shtola continues, tart as a lemon and delivering each word with mocking venom, “You found something did you not, and whatever it was gave rise to your oh so important duty?”
Alisaie stares at her erstwhile father, and only her father.
A strained voice rings out across the marble floors, “Mind your tongue, Archon. If you had seen—” The man stops and grabs at his throat, gasping.
“Some form of enchantment. A binding, mayhap?” G’raha muses to himself in an undertone.
“It puts me in mind of a fae geas. They keep silent in regards to whatever it is they know or they face consequences. Mayhap I should ask [our beautiful branch] what they think,” observes Stelmaria wryly.
G’raha studies the small woman, eyes dancing in amusement, “Mayhap you should. No doubt they have a most enlightening opinion.”
Fourchenault speaks over the rising din, trying to be the voice of reason, but G’raha moves closer to his companion so she may hear his next words with perfect clarity, “Whatever their reasoning, I intend to discover it by any means necessary.”
Bang.
Bang. Bang.
Fel growls in annoyance as Fandaniel seems to magick himself right out of the path of every loosed round.
Even angry as he is, Fel never misses.
Yet, the shots fly wide, embedding themselves in the undulating walls and floors or ricocheting off into nothingness.
It makes him see red.
The voices of the dead and the damned cry louder, ringing in his ears.
He can hear their endless screaming.
He bites the inside of his mouth—sharp, curved fang piercing smooth flesh. The taste of his own hot, coppery blood spreading across his tongue cools his temper enough to focus: Ya can’t win this one champ. Just learn what’cha can.
Not a difficult proposition, as it turns out: Fandaniel is overly fond of the sound of his own voice and freely shares no small amount of details for upcoming plans, but the tantalizing fragments are just enough to make clear the huge swathes of information the Scions lack.
In the end, Fandaniel flounces away unharmed while Nidhana remains trapped within the tower, the prototype scale rests somewhere at the bottom of the impenetrable labyrinth, and Fel struggles against a bitter wave of frustration that threatens to swallow him whole.