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It is a dreary day in Lakeland. Rain falls in sheets, pelting the walls of the Crystarium in a ceaseless tattoo that had started up several days earlier and shows no signs of letting up any time soon. With it has come a clammy chill that cuts straight through the lightweight garb favored by most citizens of the First.
The Scions are assembled in the Ocular, giving their reports and trying to determine how best to proceed now that the Rak’Tika Light Warden has been felled.
Emet-Selch is skulking about as is his wont, though after trading a few customary barbs with Thancred he has become uncommonly quiet.
The Warrior of Light, Darkness, and now Dampness, huddles toward the back of the Ocular as her companions discuss their next destination.
Having just returned from a multi-day trek through the area to sweep for sin eaters while the others had made preparations to depart for Amh Araeng, the Warrior is soaked through. She tries to ignore the freezing beads of water trailing down her neck, or the way her undershirt clings unpleasantly to her skin.
The tent she had taken with her had sprung multiple leaks during her journey, and she had never managed to get a proper fire going for the duration of the trip. It is enough to have her wondering whether she’ll ever be properly dry again.
Worse still, she is finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Has the Ocular always been this cold? Or… or hot? Or cold again?
After trying and failing to suppress a nasty-sounding cough, the Warrior finds herself suddenly surrounded by her companions.
“My friend, are you quite all right? You’re looking rather flushed,” Alphinaud frets, glancing over her to assess her condition. The others look on with varying degrees of concern.
She waves her hand dismissively, tamping down the urge to shiver and clearing her throat to fight off another coughing fit. It wouldn’t do to show weakness here, not with so many counting on her.
“I’m fine Alphinaud, just a little tired. Nothing a good night’s rest won’t solve.”
Alphinaud hesitates, and Y’shtola takes the opportunity to speak.
“We were actually hoping to start marching for Amh Araeng this afternoon. However if you’re unwell-“
“It’s nothing to trouble yourselves over, I’m well enough. Just let me put on some dry clothes and I can be ready by the fifth bell” the Warrior quips, putting on her most convincing smile.
The others nod, and start to turn back to their discussion.
In an uncharacteristic burst of energy, Emet-Selch pushes himself from his favorite leaning spot. He strides into the middle of the group, making absolutely certain he has the room’s full attention before declaring “You truly are the most insufferably foolish mortals I’ve had the displeasure of working with in an age.”
Thancred sneers before biting out “What exactly has prompted this most recent wave of disgust?”
The Ascian sweeps his hand in a dramatic arc to settle in the direction of the Warrior.
“Diminished as you are, you still have your faculties about you. Use them! Your precious Champion is clearly not fighting fit. I daresay she looks more like a drowned rat than a hero at the moment.”
The Warrior’s indignant yelp is drowned out by Alisae’s protest.
“She says she’s fine, so-“
“And you believe her?”
An uncomfortable silence settles into the room before he continues in a withering tone.
“She’s lying. And you lot think to spare her feelings rather than point out that she’s obviously barely able to string a sentence together.”
Emet-Selch whirls to face the Warrior now.
“Well I have no such compunction. Hero, are you so eager to transform into a Light Warden? Because charging into battle in your current state is an excellent way to guarantee your failure.”
She draws herself to her full height before barking out “Now see here, I said I’m fine, so I’m fine! My friends are—”
Whatever she is about to say is lost in a series of rather repulsive-sounding wet coughs.
Emet-Selch rolls his eyes in such an exaggerated fashion it nearly seems as though they are about to fall out of his head.
“This is clearly a pointless argument. You!” He points directly at the group of Scions drawing closer to the Warrior, “You are not to disturb her rest for at least two full days. The Light Wardens have been here for over a century, a few days more is of no consequence.”
He turns to glance down his nose at the Warrior.
“You will be coming with me. Best to get you away from your companions before you pass along whatever disgusting magic-resistant illness you’ve managed to contract.”
His arm is around her waist before she can think to dodge away. With a snap, they both disappear in a ripple of darkness, leaving behind the outraged cries of the Scions.
-----------------------------------
When she regains her bearings, the Warrior finds that she is tucked into her bed at the Pendants. Somewhere in that whirl of void, her sopping traveling gear has been swapped for dry sleeping clothes. Her bed, typically furnished only with a light coverlet, is draped in the most luxuriously warm blankets she has ever encountered.
She looks up to find Emet-Selch reclining in an ornate cushioned armchair, which she imagines he willed into existence since it clashes so sorely with the rest of the room. He rests his chin on his palm as he considers her, as though bored already.
It is then that she notices she is clutching an overstuffed chocobo plush.
“Wh- what is this about?” she sputters, holding up the offending toy.
“Hm? Ah yes of course, you’re right to protest. That’s not at all fitting for the First.” He grins deviously, before snapping his fingers.
The chocobo is gone, and in its place is a positively adorable amaro plush.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it! If you’ve brought me here only to mock me…”
Emet-Selch’s tone takes on a harsher edge. “You are acting like a child, and so you shall be treated as one. A grown woman such as yourself should know when it is necessary to rest and recuperate.”
He snaps again, and extends a steaming mug of… something towards her.
“Now drink up, hero dear. This will help.”
The Warrior eyes the proffered mug warily.
“What is it?”
“Poison,” he deadpans, and this draws a snort of laughter from her despite herself.
Emet-Selch favors her with a lop-sided smile before continuing, “It’s a Garlean home remedy for the common cold. You’ll recall that Garlemald’s people are bereft of magic. This is a mixture of herbs with supposed healing properties and a simply tremendous amount of alcohol.”
He leans back after she takes the cup and tries a sip.
“I’ve never been convinced it cures much of anything, but it is guaranteed to help you sleep.”
“Why are you doing this? Why not just let me ‘charge off’ to fight when I’m not fit to do so? Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I simply… failed?”
Emet-Selch considers her for a long moment. “It is as I said before, hero. I do in fact want you to succeed. I have such high hopes for you. To see you fail because of something so trivial as a cold and a stubborn streak would be quite a shame indeed. Now drink up.”
The Warrior murmurs her assent as she takes another draught. It’s not unpleasant, and it is only as the warm drink soothes her throat that she realizes how sore it had gotten. She can feel herself relaxing down into the pillows as she drains the mug.
“I would like to tell you a story, before I leave you to your rest.”
“A bedtime story? Didn’t you already have your fun with the stuffed animals?” she gripes sleepily.
His features soften just a touch, and his voice is gentle as he croons “Indulge me in this, my dear. Once upon a time, there was a traveler…”
He sounds so uncharacteristically wistful that all thoughts of protesting further die on her tongue. Instead she nestles into her blankets and allows his voice to wash over her. He speaks in a comforting cadence that is perfectly tuned to lull someone to sleep. She wonders idly if, despite everything, he’s deigned to tell many bedtime stories to mortal children over his countless lifetimes.
The Ascian speaks of a headstrong woman, who also never took her rest when she sorely needed it. He tells of her travels across the star, befriending people from all walks of life. Of a city with spires that seemed to extend into the very heavens, of a race of people who lived for an age.
She drifts to sleep during his recounting of the traveler’s adventures saving the residents of a small island from a natural disaster, and her cheeky excuse to her superiors about wanting to preserve the grapes which were a local delicacy.
When the Warrior is deeply sleeping, Emet-Selch stands and leans over the bed. Her chest rises and falls steadily, as he peers into the aether.
Yes, it is as he thought. She has stretched herself worryingly thin. The light claws at the gaps in her soul’s armor. If she is to stand a chance of containing the light of two more Wardens, she must be at her full strength. Even then…
He straightens and extends his hand toward the fireplace. It blazes to life, and he suffuses it with enough aether to keep the room comfortable for many hours. A snap of his fingers summons light fare and cool drinks to the table, suitable for someone recovering from an illness.
He leaves in a burst of shadow, before he can lose himself thinking of another time, another place, another warrior who needed to be coaxed into taking her rest.