Ghosts That Linger
Endwalker Spoilers Below the Cut
Word Count: 2505
Even in a world ravaged by blasphemies, the people of Eorzea found the time for a proper spectacle. Fynta stood in the back of the crowd that lined the harbors of Old Sharlayan. She watched the grieving faces of strangers and allies. Masses filled the courtyard and peered from the decks of ships. She didn’t know how many had come to mourn the vaulted Warrior of Light, but Fynta estimated it was most of what was left of their star.
“She’d ‘ave hated this.” Kirin inhaled through his nose, then let out a shaky breath. His eyes were fixed on the stern visage of a tiny Au Ra woman who’d proven herself to be larger than the gods. He shook his head. “Too many people.”
“Serves her right.” Fynta didn’t glance at her long-time friend when he looked at her. She allowed herself a respectful smile, then slid her gaze to meet his. “She shouldn’t have been so godsamned heroic.”
Kirin snorted, but there was no mirth in the sound. If not for him, Fynta wouldn’t have come. She hated memorials and the weeping of people who had nothing better to do. Their star had lost a hero, and there were too many people present to allow the ones who truly grieved a chance to do so.
True, Kirin and the Scions had been given time with Isashi's body. Fynta thought back to their first meeting in the pugilist’s guild. How she’d used her larger size and strength to overpower the smaller woman. Or, so she’d thought. It had taken a year to convince Isashi to teach Fynta the strike that had laid her out cold. Mostly because the au ra didn’t trust Fynta to use it responsibly. All of that fire and discipline had drained away in those final moments aboard the ship between worlds, leaving Isashi a small, fragile husk with nothing to fill it.
According to Thancred, they’d almost revived her. Isashi’s eyes had fluttered open after her final match with Zenos and she’d spoken. No one had heard what she said, but Fynta bet it had something to do with the miqo’te standing next to her.
“You want to get out of here?” Fynta asked, staring at the platform where Lord Aymeric was no doubt giving a heartfelt speech. Isashi had been a regular fixture in Ishgard during her marriage to Harchefaunt, and she’d befriended many of the Elezen there. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn fanned out behind him, Estinien and G’raha included. Thancred’s keen eyes searched the crowd, but Fynta had positioned herself and Kirin in the shadow of a monolith.
“Soon,” Kirin answered. His ears perked forward, likely picking up on the speech that Fynta couldn’t hear. She nodded and leaned against the stone, searching the crowds for something to occupy her mind.
A red feather caught Fynta’s attention, and she smiled at the gaudy red mage beneath it. No doubt Arya was with him. Fynta was glad that X’rhun had made it. He and Isashi hadn’t dated long, but the worn-thin warrior had found new life during her time with him.
Loud sobs echoed from somewhere behind Fynta, and she didn’t need to turn to know that Hildebrand was mourning the loss of a dear friend too. She’d seen his father earlier, wearing a pair of black, cut-off breeches and a bow tie with little else. All throughout the area, Fynta spied familiar faces. A hulking samurai hovered near the spiky black hair of an eastern lord. The royal crest of the Fortemps family had been engraved into the wood surrounding Isashi’s portrait on the stage. Even the odd tuft of a moogle bounced in and out of view. They had all come to see Isashi into the aetherial sea.
Fynta glanced at Kirin, who had barely spoken since Isashi's body had been lowered from the ship hatch. She had witnessed their final conversation, though that hadn’t been her intent. Kirin had gathered the courage to kiss Isashi, who’d looked more annoyed about his piss-poor timing than the act itself. Isashi had promised to revisit the topic upon her return, as the ship’s great engines had already ignited and the primals were restless. He’d watched her depart from the shadows, never to finish that fateful conversation.
“Okay,” Kirin said, turning from the raised dais as Urianger took the podium. “I need a drink.”
Later that night, while Kirin snored in the bed next to Fynta’s, a knock tapped softly on their door. She ignored it, assuming someone was looking for a good time in the wrong place. Then, light bloomed in the crack beneath. Fynta raised onto an elbow, squinting until it faded. She trod softly, though it wouldn’t have mattered with how much Kirin had drank and pulled open the flimsy door. The hallway was dark, as empty as one would expect for such an ungodly hour, save for a pearlescent crystal on a gilded stand.
Fynta knew it on sight, though she’d never beheld one before. With one more glance up and down the hallway, she lifted the white auracite. It was both heavier and lighter than she expected, with red and blue crystals wrapped in a spiraling pattern. Fynta nudged the door shut and carried it to her bed where she studied it in the dying candlelight. No black smoke swirled out of it, nor did it radiate any sort of aether. For all purposes, it was a pretty rock.
Deciding it would be best to leave the study of such things to more intellectual, and admittedly, sober, minds than her own, Fynta placed the bauble on the rickety table that separated hers and Kirin’s beds and flopped back onto her pillow. She succumbed to the weight of liquor and emotion in minutes.
That was when the dreams began.
