Chapter Text
When Laku’s aim to understand the keystone in his safekeeping led him to a new, experimental therapy, scepticism filled his thoughts. The practice promises contact with one’s past lives, and its practitioner, a former Dotharl relocated to Sharlyan, has received some acclaim for their work. That much sounds like it could take him down the right path, but Laku can’t bring himself to jump in head first before consulting his friends.
“It sounds either a complete scam, or else a new application of the Echo we’d yet to unearth,” Y’shtola surmises when they meet to discuss the prospect.
“I guess it isn’t impossible,” Laku mutters in response, arms and legs crossed as he leans against the shelves near where she’s spread the subject of her own research. Documents snatched from the Everkeep in hopes of better grasping Calyx’s aims with their key litter the desk. Laku was hardly the only one left with questions about its purpose. “I mean, if my specialboy can figure out shit like bodyswapping and controlling primals…”
A soft scoff escapes the mage at the nickname, but she doesn’t bother to comment. Laku is a man who does what he pleases, especially when it comes to speaking his mind. And choosing his partners, but that particular point of contention has long since been solved via the way of acceptance. As long as Zenos doesn’t aim his violence at any allies, his presence is one they’ll have to at least tolerate for Laku’s sake… even if they still cannot bring themselves to cherish it like he does.
“Just because the man is capable of such feats is not at all conclusive proof that this so-called therapist is legitimate in their practice, however,” she points out. “You ought to be cautious before delving into something so unpredictable.”
“This is me being cautious.” Laku rolls his eyes. “You think I’d be seeking more opinions if I was convinced?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Y’shtola concedes. His impulsive tendencies are another matter they have both long since resigned themselves to, as hopeless as it is. “But I assume you also intend to hear what Urianger and Krile have to say on this matter?” She sets aside her current stack of papers and turns in her seat to face him with not a small hint of curiosity.
“Couldn’t get a hold of the shady fucker, but Krile and G’raha shared their thoughts,” Laku grumbles in a way that reveals the conversation had mostly gone over his head. These expert opinions often did; perhaps he should have been satisfied with Zenos’s view that it sounds like a waste of time. “They pointed out that the Aetherial Sea’s wiping of my soul might make trying to see anything a struggle, but did then contradict themselves with this long, boring talk of traits passed over and whatnot. I heard Fandaniel’s name and checked out of that talk.”
“Of course you did,” Y’shtola sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She leans back in her chair, tapping her fingers against the armrest. “So, in summary: you have no idea whether this will work, but you will do it anyway?” A smirk tugs at her lips despite herself. Isn’t that just the Scion way? Old habits have a way of outliving the organisations that breed them. “At least tell me you don’t plan to drag Zenos along as your emotional support murder-husband.”
“Murder-fiancé for now, thank you. I’ll let you know when that’s going to change with a wedding invite.” Laku’s back straightens and he sniffs in mock-offense, but his lips in turn curl into a little smile of fondness. “But, no. He opted out of this one. Said something sappy about any past lives without me being pointless to see.”
Y’shtola presses a hand to her forehead. “By the Twelve, spare me the details of your romantic drivel.” She waves him off, though her tone remains more amused than exasperated. “Fine, go ahead and indulge in this questionable therapy. Just promise me you won’t come back possessed—I believe I speak for everyone when I say we’ve had enough of that nonsense for one lifetime.”
“As if I’d give Azem the honors after all the other trouble he’s caused me,” Laku snarks as he walks away. Zenos alone reserves the right of piloting his body that way, and he’d be cross to hear he let someone else take a ride. “We’ll see how it goes. If I get even a glimpse of what the hells he was thinking, I’ll take it as a victory.”
She may roll her eyes, but that small smile still plays on Y’shtola’s face as she watches him leave. “Well, if anyone can wrangle with ancient souls, it would be you.” She shakes her head once more at the silly mental image. “Good luck, you reckless fool.”
Oh, how Laku wished he could not wrangle with any more ancient antics for quite some time. But when your ancestor leaves you with this many unanswered questions, there never seems to be an end to stones turned in search for answers.
And thus the Traveler’s heir resigns himself to a journey to the therapist’s office.
Warm lamplight flickers against shelves of ancient tomes, the scent of aged parchment and faint incense lingers in the air. It could be cozy, if Laku wasn’t already thoroughly on edge. The Dotharli practitioner, a wiry woman with narrow eyes, way too much jewelry and a knowing smile, gestures for him to take a seat across from her.
“So,” she begins, folding her hands neatly on the table. A bowl of water rests before her, surrounded by glowing blue crystals that could very well originate from Hydaelyn, did Laku not know his fiancé engorged on every last pebble of Her before traversing the stars to him. “You seek the traces of who you were before the sea washed you clean.” Her gaze holds amusement and eagerness in equal measure. “A bold endeavor. But then again, you are the Warrior of Light. Boldness must be your default state.”
Laku snorts. “Flattery won’t make this any less weird.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” she chuckles. “Now, shall we begin? Please tell me what—who you hope to reach tonight.”
The key burns in Laku’s pocket before he digs it out to present to her. “He went by Azem,” he abridges the tale; no sense in confusing her with the entire explanation of the world unsundered and its inhabitants. “I found this… thing some time ago, and I have reason to think it was his. And I have this too.” In his other palm, he takes the crystal bearing the selfsame symbol.
He does not hand either over for her to inspect; Calyx has made it so he dreads to part with his inherited trinkets for even a blink. She appears content to view them from across the table, at least. “Wonderful. Having an artifact to ground your thoughts to is a great asset in accessing the memories you seek, and two is all the better,” she says with a nod. “Is there anything else you know about Azem? Sight, sound and scent associations may also help me set the right mood.”
“Nothing so… concrete.” Laku’s brow furrows as he tries to remember what all he heard about the man behind the mystery during his times in Elpis. Venat’s fondness, Hermes’s wistfulness, Themis’s misguided admiration. Emet-Selch’s exasperation and Hythlodaeus’s humor at the fact… wait. “Grapes, maybe? All I can do is guess.”
“Grapes…” The therapist stands and moves to a cabinet of dark wood. She opens it to browse through rows of small bottles, which Laku assumes contain perfumes or essences. The assumption proves correct when she pours one drop into the bowl and the room fills with the fruit’s fragrance. “For future sessions, I shall serve you some from Labyrinthos, but for now, I hope this suffices.”
Laku closes his eyes as he lets it stick to his nostrils. Unfortunately, it brings to mind nothing of importance.
“I see you’re ready to dive in,” the therapist notes. “Open your eyes. First, we must quiet the present—let the past rise like silt stirred in still water.” She gestures to the water shimmering under the lamplight. “Keep your thoughts on the aroma and the items in your grasp, and your gaze upon this bowl.”
Laku obliges; he exhales to ground himself, grips the keystone tighter. The water’s surface ripples, not from touch, but from something deeper. His brows rise in surprise.
Then—
A flash of scales. The scent of burning fields. A voice, his voice, rough with laughter and edged with defiance: “You think Meracydia will simply roll over dead? You think you can withstand the dragons’ might?”
Laku’s breath hitches. The therapist’s smile widens. “There you are.”
“No,” Laku gasps as intrusive memories flood his head. His eyes shut as if that could keep it all out. Fluorescent lights in greens and teals. Syringes and restraints. “Farther back. Much farther back,”
The therapist’s expression falters for the first time. Her fingers twitch as the water in the basin darkens before her. “Laku, you’re pushing too deep—”
But he wrenches—
—and the world fractures.
A laboratory. Cold metal under his claws. The scent of blood and aether, thick enough to choke on. A masked figure looming, familiar mockery dripping with malice: “Let us see how much of you we can remake before you break.”
Laku screams—not in his voice, but a cacophony of dozens of them, all in unfathomable pain. Farther, farther. Until he opens his eyes, and the source that no longer is his own mouth stands before him: its massive form coiled and multitudes of clawed limbs scratching at its own scaled hide.
He’s seen this chimera before, he remembers with a lurching sensation in his gut. It stalked him in the Syrcus Tower, made the entire structure’s ventilation system rumble before it revealed itself. When his youthful cheeks drained in soul-deep disgust upon the encounter, and his chainsaw freed the monster of its suffering… It felt different, then. More bestial, less emotional. The one he beholds now makes him resonate with familiarity.
“Laku, take a deep breath.” The therapist’s voice breaks through from far away, muffled through the din in his head. “You’re getting too close. Disassociate!”
He tries to focus, he does, but this is so much. The reek of burning flesh and blood mixed with the scent of ozone and dragon. The taste of ashes and bile stuck to his tongue. The sound of his own roar piercing his eardrums, rattling his brain. His grip on Azem’s stone tightens until it digs into his palm.
“Laku! Laku, calm down,” The therapist rises to her feet, hands outstretched in an attempt to reach him without daring to touch. “You’re destabilizing—you have to let go—”
Laku hears none of it. The past consumes every sense he has. Images flare in his head: countless battles, endless bloodshed, and an unspeakable transformation. The chimera’s limbs jerk, its body convulsing as if fighting an internal war.
“… Hey.” Laku does not know what else to say. That same nausea he’d felt upon last perceiving the creature assaults him again, but he braves through it, takes a step and another closer. “So… you’re me, huh.”
The chimera writhes under his approach. Its eyes, multiple and beady, scan him with what could be best described as fear. But it does not lash out, merely coils around itself tighter as it tries to retreat into the shadows. A low, warbling hiss leaves its throat. It sounds almost like… pleading.
He should disengage, to try and retrace the steps his soul took back in time until he meets the one he came to see… but spotting his own red eye nested in between the others stops him. He wants to reach out, to soothe this being, to find out what lies under the warped hide. There is something to be learned here; not the secrets to the keystone like originally planned, but perhaps some other part of himself that has yet evaded his understanding.
The therapist’s voice cuts through the haze with urgency. “Laku, stop! You’re merging!”
But he’s already reaching out, fingers brushing against the chimera’s side where weeping faces greet him.
A jolt of agony.
More memories burst forth—
—the taste of betrayal, the sting of chains, the hunger—
—and then, abruptly, laughter. A voice, a different one, low and smooth as poisoned honey:
“You always did fight prettiest when cornered.”
Laku recoils with a gasp just as the therapist yanks him back by the collar. The connection snaps like a frayed rope. The basin has shattered. The water has evaporated into steam. Faint embers flicker around him.
Silence, broken by the therapist’s shaky exhale. “Well. That was ill-advised.”
Laku, still trembling, stares at his own hands, half-expecting long, bloodied claws. “… Yeah,” he rasps. “No shit.”
The therapist regards him with concern, brushing back her singed, disheveled hair. “I’ve dreamed of having a client with the Echo since I started my practice, but… that was nothing I was prepared to handle, I’m afraid,” she apologizes. “You are lucky I was able to break that connection before you burned the building down.”
The weight of what he’s witnessed clings to him like the chains he could swear gripped his limbs, and his mind reels from the onslaught. “Why did I see that?” he manages to ask in between deep, shuddering breaths, attempting to compose himself. “That… that thing.”
“You will have to tell me,” she states as she slowly gathers pieces of broken glass. “I cannot see what my clients do, only how they respond… and rarely if ever do I get reactions that intense.”
Laku pockets his artifacts and stretches his trembling fingers. Still human. Only two arms. “The best I can explain it is I guess my past life was a centipede.”
“A centipede…” she repeats, mulling over the image. “Interesting.” She resumes picking up the glass, her movements precise and methodical, before meeting his gaze again. “Centipedes often symbolize transformation, resilience, and adaptability,” she muses, calm but intrigued. “It could be that your past life mirrored those traits.”
“No, you don’t get it—literally.” Laku rocks in place, eyes glued to the shards littering the table and his faint reflection in a particularly large one. “Lots of eyes and limbs. Wings and faces all over. I’ve seen that thing before, I’ve fought it. I killed it. How could it be me, when I’m me now?”
The therapist stills, her fingers hovering over a shard. She lifts her gaze to meet his—her expression unreadable. “Ah,” she says softly. “A literal centipede, although an unconventional one… Well. That explains the violence of the reaction.” Leaning back in her chair, she folds her hands. “Tell me, Laku: when you fought it, did it recognize you?”
Laku stiffens. Because… Yes. It did. And that realization settles like a stone in his stomach. “It…” he hesitates, then nods. “Yes,” he whispers. “It seemed mindless, but fixated on me. And not just ‘cause I held its aggro.”
The therapist’s expression betrays none of her thoughts. She watches him like a hawk, her chin resting on her hand. “Fascinating,” she murmurs. “You fought it, you said? Was it hostile?”
Laku can still feel the phantom ache in his arms, the echoes of the battle from so many years ago. So strange how sensations from his early Scion days could come back so readily. His jaw clenches. “Very. Tried to eat the entire party.”
She raises her brows at that, but her tone remains level, calculating. “And what prompted the hostility? Had you provoked it?”
His eyes darken, and he bristles—more at the implication than the question itself. “We were defending ourselves,” he snarls, the edge in his voice as sharp as his blade. “We stumbled into its path, and it attacked on sight. It was probably some fucked security measure of the tower. Not the first nor the last Allagan monstrosity we faced there.”
The therapist hums, not at all perturbed by his sudden defensiveness. Instead, she leans forward even further, unwavering. “I see. And this tower you mentioned, it was of that dead empire’s make?”
“Yes, as I said,” Laku bites off. “The Crystal Tower, in Mor Dhona. Where are you going with this?”
“Simply gathering information,” she replies coolly. “Humor me. What happened next? Your battle with this… centipede, after it attacked.”
Laku lets out a huff, crossing his arms. He’s starting to feel less like a patient and more like an experiment. If that thing was him from the past… his aversion to such situations suddenly makes much more sense. Still, he obliges, if only so he can get this over with. “We fought, we killed it. End of story.”
The answer does not satisfy her. “You make it sound simple.”
“That’s because it was,” he snaps. “It was a battle. We won. What else is there to say?”
A small smirk plays at the corner of her lips. “Oh, perhaps the psychological aspect? You said it tried to eat you and your companions. How did that make you feel, Laku? Scared? Angry?”
“You ask that like it was anywhere near the scariest thing I’ve gone through.”
The therapist shrugs, unruffled by his flippant response. “I can believe it wasn’t. But I’m willing to bet it left some kind of mark, even for a seasoned warrior such as yourself.”
Laku falls silent, his expression tensing. She is right, and he hates it. There was something, a lingering sensation he couldn’t shake off, one left buried until this experience dredged it back up. Something he doesn’t want to dwell on.
“Cat got your tongue, hm?” the therapist teases. “Or… your centipede did?”
Her words hit a nerve, and Laku snarls. “Cut the bullshit, alright? I get it: you want to prod and pick at my brain until you find some hidden nugget of trauma. Fine. Go ahead. But quit pretending you care.”
“Oh, but I do care,” she said, her tone bordering on patronizing. “That is precisely why I ask these questions. Trauma responses can reveal quite a lot about a person.”
Laku’s grip on his arms tightens. “I don’t have any trauma,” he grinds out. “I’ve seen worse, done worse. This is nothing.”
“Ah, the classic denial,” the therapist replies dryly. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.” She doesn’t let his rising aggression deter her from leaning forward again, her elbows resting on the table. “You insist you don’t have any trauma, yet here you are, reacting so strongly to the memory of a battle you apparently think is insignificant.” Laku opens his mouth to argue, but she isn’t finished. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how your jaw clenched the moment the word ‘trauma’ came up. Or the subtle twitch in your eye.”
“Whatever. Whatever!” Laku stands up. The table and the chair he vacated both shake from the movement. “I came here to talk to Azem, and all you’ve shown me is a worm!”
“On the contrary, I’ve shown you yourself,” the therapist replies, her voice still infuriatingly even. “A version of you that you vehemently refuse to acknowledge.”
Laku’s hands curl into fists, his knuckles white from the pressure and his claws sunk into his palms. He wants to yell, to rip the answers from her with force if need be… but the fact that such violence is under his consideration only proves her point.
“If you’re calling me a monster—” his voice drops dangerously low, “—know it’s nothing I’ve never heard before.”
“I’m not calling you anything. But you are refusing to look behind you.” She gestures to the shattered basin, the remnants of their session. “The worm wasn’t just some random beast. It was you, once. A version of you that suffered, that was twisted beyond recognition. And whether you like it or not, that torment still echoes in you now. It may very well even prevent you from peering deeper into the past.”
Laku’s breath hitches just slightly, but enough for her to spot instantly. She folds her arms in silent challenge. “So. Are you going to keep running from it? Or are you going to face it?”
All Laku gives her for long seconds is silence and shifty, avoidant eyes. Finally, he gives in. “… Fine,” he mutters.
The soft chime of a bell interrupts the exchange.
“Sounds like our time is up,” the therapist sighs. “I hate to leave a session on a sour note. Would you be amenable to another as soon as tomorrow?”
Laku purses his lips in distaste. The prospect of returning so soon does not please him, but he needs answers, doesn’t he? “Fine,” he repeats, running a hand through his bangs. “Tomorrow. Same time.”
The therapist nods. She pulls out a pocket calendar and jots his name down. “Same time it is. Oh, and Laku?” she adds, “I sense you traveled from afar. It may be wise to stay in town overnight, and not further unsettle your aether with Aetherytes.”
“Ah. Right.” Laku’s shoulders slump, his agitation giving way to exhaustion. What she says makes sense. He isn’t in any state to be teleporting right after that fiasco… and mayhaps tomorrow will go better if he hasn’t fast-traveled across the star beforehand. Reluctantly, he nods. “I’ll go bother Ojika once again, then,” he grumbles to himself.
The therapist gives a soft laugh to further diffuse the bad energy in her space. “Ah, Ojika. That man never gets a moment’s peace, does he?” She stands, smoothing out her robes. “Rest well, Laku. And try not to give the poor Lalafell too much trouble.”
Laku shoots her a half-hearted glare, no real heat behind it. “No promises,” he mutters, already turning toward the door. As he steps out into the evening, he inhales his lungs full of fresh, incenseless air and lets the tension bleed from his shoulders. Tomorrow will be… interesting.
But for now, he activates the linkpearl attached to his ear. “Hi, babe,” he opens when Zenos picks up. “How’s a night at the Annex sound? I need nothing more than to bury my face into your tits and not think about anything for the next twenty hours.”
Some emotional support is in order, after all.