Chapter Text
Revenants' Toll — and Mor Dhona in whole, to be frank — were drastically different from the time Fourchenault had last been there.
Some twenty and three summers ago this crossing housed no more than a humble adventurer outpost, and the scenery was far from the bizarre aether-filled landscape he witnessed now. The city was bustling around him, traders, sellswords and travelers alike hurrying away to either the market or the city gates. It was easy to get lost in the crowd, but the building he was looking for was just a stone's throw away from the aetheryte — a bar with a weathered placard saying "The Seventh Heaven" in a messy drawn out handwriting.
Entering the premises, Fourchenault was immediately greeted with the stench of cheap ale and even cheaper food being cooked right in the dining hall, some miserable minstrel plucking at a lyre's strings and some drunkards' laughter, even though it was currently just some bells past noon. Being used to the much more refined atmosphere that Sharlayan public places had to offer, Fourchenault only grimaced slightly and strode past, towards an unsightly door at the back wall of the bar. A woman immediately called out:
"I'm afraid that section is off limits, good ser," she chirped from behind the counter, mindlessly scrubbing a stained wine glass. "Employees only."
"I'm here to see the Scions of the Seventh Dawn," well, if this woman was the only thing barring entrance to all and any curious passerby, Fourchenault would have words with the person responsible for the Scions' security…
…if they weren't among the ones that had collapsed, that is.
"You a messenger?" she asked, putting the glass down.
"Something of the kind. From Sharlayan," he decided to clarify, even though he was bearing no official missive.
"Well, the warrior should be there…" the woman mused. "Come in, then. But she'll know if you bear any kind of ill intent."
Fourchenault just shrugged and pushed the door, feeling a slight tingle of a warding spell against his skin. Maybe he was judging the Scions too poorly — the spell seemed to have been masterfully crafted and meant to ward off voidsent and the kind. A sensible precaution in a place so close to the Yafaemi moors and the Crystal Tower...
He found the Rising Stones completely empty. The only thing marking it as habited was the faint cracking of a fireplace back against the wall and the dim lights lit at the ceiling. The air was thick with aether from a spell that had been cast recently, some kind of healing magick — being a healer by speciality himself, Fourchenault knew enough to tell such a spell from the others. The man came at the desk standing near a bookshelf, with various papers and books lying in a perfect mess, but before he could steal a glance, a side door opened and a tired female voice called out.
"Who goes here?" an Elezen woman stepped out in the light, wiping her hands with a towel.
The first thing Fourchenault noticed were the scars marring her face — one relatively old and faded winding through the hair down to the temple and the second fresh, red and angry against the cheekbone. She was almost as tall as himself and was wearing some kind of robe, dark gray and faded. The long ears and ashen-pale skin marked her as a Duskwight, as well as the eyes dimly shining in the scarce lighting of the room, but the way she rolled her “r”s suggested she was an Ishgardian.
"I'm here because of the missive sent out by your associate," Fourchenault said, clearing his throat. "One Krile Mayer Baldesion."
"Oh," the wariness in the woman's eyes seemed to have faded a little. "You're from Sharlayan, then?" She threw the towel on the nearest chair. "Have they decided to help us find the cure to whatever caused this condition?"
"I'm here not as an official envoy, but as a private visitor," Fourchenault corrected her, "but I have a personal interest in assisting you with finding the cure to whatever ails your associates, Scion."
The woman furrowed her brows, looking at him in a judging fashion. A faint glimmer of recognition flared in her eyes, and she mouthed a silent Oh.
You must be Alphinaud and Alisaie's father," she guessed. "You look really similar to them," and your father — though that remained unvoiced, hanging heavily in the air between them.
"That I am. You might have heard my name from them, but I'll introduce myself regardless — Fourchenault Leveilleur."
She simply nodded, as if confirming something to herself, and gave him a small smile, clearly out of simple courtesy.
"Aunelle de Sailieux. Warrior of Light and a white mage of the Stillglade Fane. Pleased to make your acquaintance, master Leveilleur."
***
He never thought he'd see his children for the first time in almost three years in such a state — lying on the beds in a dimly lit room, still as corpses, breathing ever so slightly. Aunelle kept her distance, quietly fumbling with potions at the alchemical table in the far corner of the Dawn's Respite.
They've grown, certainly — though not as noticeable to an outsider's eye, but even like this, under the blankets to keep the chill away, they looked more mature, more weathered and tired in their adventures. Their condition seemed to offer their bodies no way to recover and rest, however.
The adderstones in his nouliths glimmered slightly as Fourchenault tapped into his aether to perform several diagnostic spells. He had had little practice in the healing side of somanoutics, ever paying attention to the offensive side of the discipline, but he had received enough tutelage to be able to tell a simple state of sleep (caused by a spell or whatever other means) from the stasis the Scions' bodies were in. Their aether looked to be constantly draining, seemingly vanishing into thin air, though surely not dispersing in the chill air of the Rising Stones.
This would surely require more research — and he trusted the Baldesion heir had already looked through every archive available to her, but the Noumenon's storages could offer much, much more to a dedicated researcher with the necessary clearance level. He would have to return to Sharlayan and consult people better versed in aetherology than himself.
"I trust you also haven't found much success," a quiet voice sounded out just from behind him. The warrior was surely a master of silent movement. "I've spent a moon already constantly monitoring their condition."
"To no avail, I presume."
"I can tell you more outside. Come on, let us not linger here needlessly."
They returned to the main hall, and Aunelle rushed behind the bar counter, fishing out two cups and a teapot.
"We don't have much in terms of food, but tea I can offer," she mused, putting on a magitek monstrosity of a kettle. "Come on, Mr Boilmaster, don't let me down."
"Mr Boilmaster" let out a shrill whistle more befitting a voidsent than a mechanical contraption and soon started shaking from pent up energy. Aunelle carefully stepped away and held her hands out in front of herself, probably ready to cast a spell of some kind. Several moments later the kettle let out another whistle and went still. The warrior sighed silently.
"It didn't explode," she said with clear relief. "This time," she added in a moment, putting the monstrosity away under the counter and soon approaching the table with a small tray in her hands.
"So, I presume you're also trying to find a cure through the means available to you?" Fourchenault asked when the silence had become too uncomfortable to bear.
Aunelle nodded. "I'm a white mage, as I've already said. Brother E-Sumi-Yan of the Fane granted me unlimited access to all the archives the Amdapori have left behind and that remained in Gridania's possession, and I've already tried some of the methods described there, but as you can see — to no avail."
"I'd suspect voidsent intervention as the first possible cause," the man mused, taking a careful sip of the tea. It was, unexpectedly, bearable — something of the Eastern kind, Doman or Hingan.
"We ruled that out first. I too thought, at first, that it was the Void calling and forcing the Scions into this state one by one, but we would have felt their souls being spirited away there. And they're just," she shrugged helplessly, "gone."
"In Baldesion's missive I read a description of the influence you experienced every time a comrade of yours collapsed. An Ascian, mayhaps?"
"Don't know, but not ruling that out," Aunelle took a sip of her own tea, "they've been suspiciously inactive until recently. But I don't presume they had a hand in this, no… Or they would have done the same as Elidibus long ago."
"And so, you're the only remaining active Scion as of now?"
"I don't know what you mean by active, master Leveilleur."
"As far as I know, the organization had some sort of an inner circle made up of the former members of the Circle of Knowing and the Path of the Twelve, both created by," he coughed, "Louisoix Leveilleur, and the Scion associates, basically, the cannon fodder for fighting primals. I meant them as the active members."
"The cannon fodder, as you've so neatly put it, were my friends," Aunelle said calmly, "and they were almost all slaughtered some two years ago in a Garlean raid. So I'd ask you to refrain from such remarks."
Fourchenault said nothing. He only answered when the silence had yet again become too tense to bear.
"I apologize, mistress Sailieux. I did not mean to offend either you or your fallen comrades."
"Apology accepted," Aunelle shrugged, clearly not having much energy in her for a fight. "Besides, your intel is basically outdated. We Scions are a much smaller organization now, and all our members actively take to the field when it is necessary. There are a small number of us now in Eorzea — some people are scouting out in Garlemald after they've withdrawn from the Ghimlyt fortification zone, some are busy with excavation works at the Crystal Tower. The only people around are me, Tataru, our receptionist, Krile and… that would be all," she glanced towards the door at the end of the corridor, as if meaning to mention someone else, but finally deciding to omit the information. The man decided not to pry.
"That's quite a few people in case someone decides to attack while you're at your weakest," Fourchenault reasoned.
"I can fend for myself and for them long enough to last and no one would be able to summon a primal in our hideout. And we don't have it situated in such a location just because of a flight of fancy," again, Aunelle didn't care to elaborate.
"So, what do you mean to do now?"
"Try to find a cure myself. Wait for the excavation to probably achieve a result. I don't have much to do these days."
"I'll make inquiries that wouldn't require my immediate presence," Fourchenault decided. "And try to assist you in your search for now."
"I'd be thankful," finally said Aunelle.
The Forum was at a standstill — they were waiting patiently for the outcome of Eorzea's clash with the Empire, some clearly voicing concern over the intel of Garlemald's new chemical weapon. The ark’s construction was proceeding apace, and several members have assigned their votes to be cast while they were absent, assisting either the Isle of Val's reconnaissance mission (they were all former Students of Baldesion and harbored tender feelings towards their suddenly regained homeland) or the construction works in Labyrinthos. Even though Barnier wasn't enthusiastic over him leaving the Northern Empty, he sympathized with his old friend's concern for his family and promised to cast Fourchenault's vote in case an urgent decision needed to be taken. He had time to carry out research in Eorzea — not that much, though.
Little did Fourchenault know that fate had entirely other things in store for him.
***
The news of a breakthrough at the excavation site came several days later and found him and Aunelle looking through the tomes on the Void she had brought from Ul'dah — they weren't ready to rule out this possibility entirely. The warrior was far from an orthodox researcher — her notes were chaotic and unsystematized, she'd switch from one book to another midway, scribbling something on the margins, and she'd always hum a song — irritating Fourchenault to no end.
"We'll go right away," Aunelle nodded at what had been said to her through the linkpearl. "Master Leveilleur, would you like to join me?"
"Have they found something?" he tore himself away from a book written by some Arrzaneth Ossuary functionary.
"They've drilled through the first layer of crystal and they want me to take a look. I'm far from an expert in all things Allag, but they seem to expect me to have a different percpective."
"And you are content with this state of affairs? Being used as a guinea pig for them?"
"Do you have any other ideas?" Aunelle snapped. "I've been at it for weeks now, ever since I've fought Elidibus. Nothing has come up. This is as good a chance as any."
And so they headed out — Aunelle, wearing a set of heavy black armor, with a greatsword strapped to her back, looking unsightly ghastly and pale, the circles under her eyes only adding up to her image, and Fourchenault, armed with his nouliths.
"You seem to have changed your fighting style."
"It's to better accommodate you in case we have to fight," Aunelle shrugged, walking down a beaten path to the Silvertear Lake. "I don't know much of somanoutics, but you seem as much a long-range fighter as myself. In case it comes to close-quarter combat, I won't be able to cover you as a white mage."
"I'm not as capable as you've found my children, but I assure you, I'm not as defenseless as you think me to be."
"This is not for my lack of faith in you. It's just my way of managing a battlefield," Aunelle smiled thinly and wandered on, clearly wordlessly threatening to leave him behind if he didn't rush to keep up.
The excavation site was a short boat ride away from the shore. They were greeted by several unfamiliar adventurers, Aunelle warmly smiling at them and asking directions. The further on they went, the darker it became, only the crystal massif around them offering a meager source of lighting. Aunelle didn't have to squint in the dark, unlike Fourchenault, who could hardly make out the path.
"Oh, hey, Aunelle, you're here!" a Lalafell's voice rang out.
"Wedge! Biggs!" the woman greeted. "Any leads?"
"Sadly, no. We were about to start drilling into the second layer, maybe there would be something deeper. But you're welcome to look around if you like."
"We also found a hole right about here," Biggs pointed out on the map. "Too small for any save a Lalafell to squeeze through. I suggested Wedge should go."
"Why me?" the Lalafell whined. "It's too small still, what if I get stuck?"
Leaving their bickering behind, Aunelle went up to the wall, looking it up and down, and then she slowly crouched down to pick up a round item.
And then Fourchenault felt just the worst bout of headache he had ever felt in his forty summers. His vision darkened, a stranger's voice ringing out in his head.
"Now… now I have you!"
Aunelle nearby seemed to be experiencing just the same thing, kneeling down at the wall, trying to grab at the crystal, her expression pained.
"Focus on my presence! Focus on my voice!"
What was left to him if not to do the same?
"Let expanse contract, eon become instant!"
And a moment later Fourchenault found himself flying through the vast and cold dimension, myriads of crystalline shards floating beside him.
***
He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar, pale golden sky. His limbs ached as if after a long walk, his head wouldn't stop spinning, and he was pretty sure that not one, but two Warriors of Light came into his vision a moment later.
"Hey!" she snapped her fingers twice at his face. "You okay? Can you stand?"
"I assume," he grunted, sitting up and pinching his forehead. "Where are we? What happened?"
"I assume we're in another world. Connected to ours in the same way as the Void, only if a little more hospitable…" Aunelle sighed. "Come on, we need to go. I sense a lot of foul aether around, and I'd hate to have to fight in my — and yours — current condition."
And so they started their stride towards the familiar crystalline needle of a tower on the horizon.