Chapter Text
Tyr was dying. He’d seen enough of it to know.
There was nothing to be done for his broken ribs, the great gashes on his chest, the broken scale here and there, simply for there was nothing here save for the body of a disgraced imperial prince. Only distant stars to watch over him.
He was dying alone, but it didn’t scare him.
For all his woes and tragedy, he had lived a good life. He’d gotten to wander until he fell off of the horizon. Dig into forgotten caves and see the echoes of what once was for himself.
He’d met people that he would protect unto his last breath.
Dying didn’t scare him. Not at all. Not that he wanted to die. What with those precious people waiting for him. The reaches of even the world he knew yet unexplored. With all the things to find that he would never see. It was better than seeing all he knew and loved burn again.
He lifted his arm to the empty sky.
He was alright with it. Really he was.
Really-
No… no he was angry.
The blazing conflict that had taken over his life the past few years put out, and when the air was to clear of smoke, he would not be there to see it.
He wouldn’t be there to see his friends celebrate the end of the long struggle. Or see if the last of the shadows that crowded his father’s face would disappear. Had they even escaped in the first place?
Were they even alright?
A tear slipped down his face. Then more.
He wouldn’t be able to begin his wanderings anew, with the same or similar spring in his step from when he first set foot off of that old chocobo cart in Gridania. Gods when he could smile after a victory.
The world set on his shoulders and in the end he was to be denied it.
It was unfair, as life was wont to be, but gods did it sting.
He wanted to live. He’d already escaped oblivion once before on the First, but here he was, in all his greed asking for it again.
His vision was fading, whatever strength he’d held onto was failing. His arm fell to the floor.
And then he slipped away.
——————
Every second since Metion’s departure had dread building throughout the Ragnarok. She said that Tyr would be right behind here. But with Zenos in play the worst could come about. And not one of them was there to help him.
G’raha was sure he could taste blood from where he was biting the inside of his lips. What had he done? Yes, the responsibility wasn’t solely on him, but he had still been amongst those placing the fate of the world, the universe, on one man’s shoulders. For the second time he’d done this knowingly, even if this time he’d tried to stay with him.
He clung to the little promises made. An adventure. A proper trip to Ishgard. Oh how they bent against oblivion. The illusion of surety that making them made was a candle in the wind. Yet here he was, shielding that little flame, for fear of what would become of him if it were to go out.
He wouldn’t let it, even if the wind were to cut him to the bone he wouldn’t. He would stand and protect it. Unyielding as crystal.
Not far from him, holding onto each other, we’re the twins. Alphinaud grappled with a similar turmoil.
For as long as he’d know him, he was setting Tyr against problem after problem. Had he ever seen him as he would be in true peace? There… was that time after the final fight in Ala Mihgo. When Arenvald had invited them on a hunt for the Mad King’s lost riches.
Good gods, was that all he could come up with? A scant few days a couple years into knowing him? That’s the closest he knew of an unburdened friend that faces death again and again for him, for all of them?
He would do better, he told the air. Let him live, bring him back and he would do better. That was his deal, his plea.
Alisaie, unlike her brother, was inviting no dialogue. Her foot tapped frantically against the cold metal floor of the ship, her face her best attempt at passive.
How she itched to pick up her sword and cut her way to wherever he’d gone. She’d failed to stand by him twice now, out of the three times it’d come down to it, she’d only succeed once. And even that one time, with Emet-Selch staring down at them, she’d been useless. Useless, useless, useless.
By all the strength of her will, this time, this time she would see him through this. Whatever was left out there would see. He would make it out if she had any say in it.
Over in a corner Estinien stood with his head bowed.
He had never prayed a day in his life. He didn’t count following along with the village priest’s scripture as praying. But here he knew he alone had not the strength to accomplish what he wanted.
Twice he'd fallen into Nidhogg’s power. The first time he had asked. Finding his own strength lacking when facing Tyr in a duel at the Steel Vigil. The second had been accidental, relief taken too soon, guard dropped at the wrong time, and he was lost to his friends.
And yet, he was not given up on. The foolish lot couldn’t- wouldn’t accept it. They clawed his life out of blood and gore and ancient anger, even as he gave them the chance to end it without doubt. He bared his neck to Tyr’s blade, and bade him cut it, and he denied it.
So he would not give up. It was foolish aye, the odds were against his survival, but he simply wouldn’t. Tyr would be alive until he was presented with a body. Simple as that.
Uriangier, had more of a disposition to prayer than his companions. His limits were great. He had not the strength to cast down gods or defeat armies. He did however, have enough guile in him to act as agent to those who did. Stand as support. So long as the outcome was of the greater good, he would take the role, come what may, and be damned for the consequences.
But this time, the consequences bit too hard for him to stomach. He was tired of them and what they took. He had not the strength alone to pull Tyr from wherever he had gone, he knew. One last push, this time he was the asker, and universe his agent.
Beside him, Thancred willed his own wish.
A man ever struggling to protect, even when he shifted his techniques to specifically do that. He couldn’t shield Minifillia from fate, he barely kept Ryne alive on the First, and now he couldn’t do a thing for the man who had protected them all.
Let the gods hear him. This time he wouldn’t fail.
A ways off, standing ever tall, a part of Y’shtola was lost in her thoughts.
There was a way for everything, that she knew. There was a way for Tyr to survive. Ultima Thule was a place of emotion, will and want. If she and the others could theoretically, pull their friend to them, the question was if their desire could prevail against the despair.
Individually they had done it. Each of them creating a way forward against each of the long dead peoples who’s despair sought to halt them. But would they be enough against the whole of it?
She would find out. If that didn’t work she would find another way. There was, in fact, nothing truly impossible.
——————
There was the whirr of teleport magic followed by an alarming thud and their wish was granted.
Tyr was unceremoniously deposited on the floor of the Ragnarok in front of them, a blood broken body.
There had been no time to breathe a sigh of relief before they crowded him. Were they too late?
“Come on. Come on, please.” It wasn’t clear who was begging.
The twins were near to crying until Y’shtola, seeing his ever more flickering aether, spoke. “He’s alive, but barely. Quickly now.”
Anyone who knew healing magic was frantically pouring it in him. Consequences of over healing be damned. Anything they could do, all they could give.
After the first few spells they had to ration it over the long minutes, turning to hours. Enough time to get most of the way home. They managed to pull him off the brink, keeping him from slipping back with their efforts.
What would they say if they didn’t make it? What would they do? His father would have to be told. Who would face the man and tell him his son, his only family left, was gone?
Then finally, finally Tyr stirred.
“Can you hear us?” Someone was speaking, though he could not tell who. It felt like he was underwater, muffled, cold, and dark. Each rise and fall of the tide pushed him higher and higher, louder and louder and brighter and brighter.
“You can’t leave us! Not like this.”
There was crying. More than one voice. And blearily, he opened his eyes. The light made him want to snap them back closed, but he willed them to stay open.
He… he had made it. Somehow, somehow he did.
“Are you… are you with us?” Alphinaud asked, tears slipped down his face. He smiled. “Thank the heavens… for a moment we thought…”
Tyr mustered his voice from somewhere, raspy and broken as the rest of him. “Is everyone alright?”
“After everything you’ve done… you… you are the last person that should be asking that.” G’raha on the verge of crying too.
And on they went, everyone getting a word of concern and relief in. Estinien, Y’shtola, Thancred, Uriangier.
Then Alisaie, reprimanding him, tears.. good gods he couldn’t stand it. Seeing the kid, both of them really, like that, it brought back images of their sacrifice, all of their sacrifices. Even as tears threatened anew behind his own eyes, he reached out, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders. After a moment of surprise she wrapped her arms around him in return. And when Alphinaud inched closer he caught him too.
Gods they were alive- he was alive. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t in some kind of pain but it hardly seemed to matter.
With some help, he was hauled to his feet to watch them land. And with still more he was lugged to the Baldesion Annex with the scions other than Urianger and Estinien shielding him from the mob of well wishes, thank yous, and all other things a returning hero received.
He nearly passed out again when he hit the bed. They were shooed out when the Sharlyan healers came in. He resisted the childish urge to twist his hands into his friends clothes to get them to stay.
He tried to stay awake during their poking and prodding. He really did. Answer their questions and hope the slight slur to his speech didn’t hinder him. Trying not to wince but doing it anyways whenever they hit a particular painful spot.
He was… slipping. He just hoped him… passing out again didn’t cause… too much worry.