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driftward · 4 months

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Title: Connection Characters: Zoissette Vauban, Y'shtola Rhul, Thancred Waters, Klynt Gohtawyn Rating: Teen Summary: Zoissette does her best to make sure Y'shtola is taken care of after her encounter with Zenos Notes: StB period, shortly after Zeno's attack on Rhalgr's reach. This started as two separate works, one of which was an FFXIV Write Entry.

She looked so frail.

It was startling. Zoissette had gotten so used to her strength. From how tall she held her head, to how sure she was in herself, and how her confidence was usually imbued in every ilm of herself, her power obvious in her posture, her self-assuredness present in every gesture. Even when she was soft, gentle smiles and warm touches, she was still strong.

She was Y'shtola.

And now she was lying in the infirmary, her skin pale, her body still, her breathing deep and labored, her eyes unopening.

Zoissette's fingers twitched, and she found herself unable to stop herself from replaying the memory in her mind. Garlean soldiers everywhere as she crested the path to see Y'shtola fallen, and that monster standing over her.

She had tried to fend him off, but to no avail. Her mind had scattered, and she very nearly followed it in the ensuing fight. She still had no idea what had convinced him to move off. The advantage was his, and he could have pressed for a terrible victory.

Instead, he and his forces withdrew, leaving her and hers to pick up the shattered pieces of what was left of the resistance.

And in this small room, it felt as though there were the shards of her heart.

She wondered if this would forever be her fate. To always be the one left standing when those she loved and cared about around her fell, when those she was trying to keep from harm were still, somehow, the ones to absorb it.

She shook her head. She could feel sorry for herself later.

Krile was elsewhere, asleep, for now. They had done all that they could for Y'shtola. The rest, as they so often said, was up to her. As Zoissette surveyed the room, she saw Thancred as he sat in a chair next to his long time friend, resting his head on his hands, still awake. He looked behind him at Zoissette as she finally entered the rest of the way. She was still nursing her own injuries, but found herself unwilling to stay away.

"Ah," he said, starting to stand up. "You may have my chair, if you wish. I was just going."

The polite part of her would have thanked him quietly and bid him good night.

"No you were not," said Zoissette as she moved to the other side of the bed, her eyes tracing over Y'shtola's injuries.

"...I suppose I wasn't," he replied, settling back into his chair.

Zoissette looked at Y'shtola with a practiced eye. She was no chirurgeon, but she was a Nymian scholar, with many summers of practice behind her. She knew what to look for, and what could be done, and as near as she could tell, Krile and the others had done all that they could, and had done it well, at that.

She felt that she could do more.

She wished she could call upon Foxglove, but that was no longer an option.

Instead, the words of a handmaid from a lifetime ago whispered in her.

She clumsily hefted her grimoire to a side table to get it out of the way. Her left arm was still healing, but that was of no matter to her.

Though it did remind her of one of her an early misadventure where Y'shtola had needed to look after her afterwards. She smiled thinly at the memory.

Well. She would try to return the favor.

"I am going to be attempting a bit of hedge magickry," she said quietly to Thancred. "It will not be pleasant."

Thancred shifted in his seat, and looked up at her darkly from under his bangs. After a moment, he dipped his head to nod, just once.

"What do you need from me?"

Through hell and hells. Good man.

"Do not let me fall on her if I lose myself," said Zoissette, reaching a hand out towards Y'shtola.

Thancred stood up on the other side of the bed, and got near, ready to act.

"I am beginning," she said, as she closed her eyes, and gently touched Y'shtola's shoulder.

Hedge magicks were any of a number of informal practices practiced throughout all lands. Minor magicks, capable of no great miracles, but nevertheless a means to an ends for many people. They were, of course, considered heresy in Zoissette's homeland, but a minor heresy oft overlooked. A cantrip to starting a fire was simply too useful to punish, for example, or the simple gust of wind a wandering mummer might use to add flourish to his performance.

Or a medicine woman providing succor to those who could not spare the time to wait for a proper conjurer or chirurgeon to arrive from the Holy See.

Zoissette had learned hers from one such woman, her handmaid, Lavender, who hailed from Gridania. She had been taught the basics of sympathetic magicks, of how to ask for the land's grace, and hear the whispers of elements through the world.

She was not very good at it. It leaned greatly on intuition and feel, and Zoissette far preferred logic and the cold certainty of encoded symbols, but without Foxglove, her preferred approach was far diminished.

So she reached for that oldest of tools, and she reached out to attempt a connection with Y'shtola. Often, reaching out like this was slow and meticulous, as the aether had to be convinced to pass through the boundaries between beings. A connection, spiritual, emotional, as well as the physical of the touch, so that living aether could wax and wane and flow across that boundary between healer and patient. Zoissette was surprised, then, at how smoothly the boundary between them thinned, the aether beginning to flow nearly immediately.

A testament to how bad Y'shtola's injuries were, she surmised, that her body was so ready to cross the barrier, but she could not spare the effort to speculate further. What would come next would require all of her attention.

She gently reached through the weaves of life to find the injuries in Y'shtola's body.

And she did. She could feel them as she went along. Trickles in her veins, cold at first, but then warmer as she delved deeper. Her breathing quickened, as the heat turned to spikes, slivers scraping themselves along her insides, as she took some of Y'shtola's aether and pain into herself. The nature of the healing of sympathetic magic was to shift aether between the injured and the healthy, to convince damaged humors that their home was here rather than there, and replacing it with healthy, fresh aether that did not carry the memory of the wound. It was slow healing, and rarely complete for but the mildest of wounds, but it could convince a body otherwise lost that it had a chance to recover, and speed already tended injuries along.

Even as the practitioner had to take on that pain themselves. It had to be done slowly, drawing it out, giving themselves a chance to soothe fouled humors. Shifting still aethers to flow, and soothing angry ones to calm, before allowing them to settle once more. It was a risk. Many were the hedge mage that saved a life only to be overwhelmed and lose their own as instead of healing and soothing, they simply recreated the wounds in themselves wholesale.

Zoissette felt the cold blade in her chest, and for a brief moment, she was Y'shtola, in those last moments, feeling the desperation, the need to protect others, the knowledge that she would not hold but for every second that she did not fold was another second for her friends and allies, staring up at the face of that monster, wondering in awe at such puissant strength, wondering whence he got such power, but refusing to yield willingly before it -

And then the shattering, and the parting of her breath from her chest, and falling into unconsciousness, and a final thought, that she had done what she could.

You have to let go.

She knew she had to let go.

She was aware that her teeth were clenched tight enough that she could feel it in her jaw all the way down through her neck. She was still touching Y'shtola, her hand was still on Y'shtola's shoulder, she just had to pull away.

It was like trying to roll away a boulder, her arm shaking as she pulled back, one aching ilm at a time. Maintaining touch, but no longer lost in the work. She held onto the aether, stilling the humors, felt the energy trying to bring them both into the abyss, but she would not let it. She sucked air between her clenched teeth, bore down, and focused.

She was back. She still had to let go. But she would do what she started out to do before she did. Carefully. If done too fast, the aether and humors would snap back to what they last knew, and very well could make both of them worse.

"Zoissette?"

Thancred's voice was rough, and he was still near, but he hadn't interceded yet.

"I am still here," she managed to grind out. "Just... takes... time."

He did not respond, but she could sense him nearby. Alert, tense, but not interfering yet.

Good.

She proceeded forward once more, more carefully this time. She felt her way through with invisible energies, flowing through Y'shtola, unknotting twisted muscle and clearing damaged tissue. She pushed her feelings through troubled aether and smoothed it out, calmed it. She replaced rotted humors with clear, cool fresh ones.

It was all minor. Hedge magick could not perform miracles.

But it could provide succor.

At last, satisfied that she had done all that she could, she cried out and let go. She felt the world spin as she did so, falling, falling.

Zoissette was in the infirmary. She was on the ground. She was holding her good hand to her chest. She was sucking for air between clenched teeth. She had been stabbed in the chest.

No she had not.

She had not.

She was Zoissette.

There was a shadow over her, and she looked up.

Thancred.

He knelt next to her, a frown on his face.

"That was damn foolish," he chastised.

Zoissette just nodded, and clenched her eyes shut.

"Did not expect - did not expect such a - deep connection - not so fast. Normally... much more difficult. She - she was - she is - very hurt."

Must have been closer to the aetherial sea than any of them had thought, but she did not say that out loud. She swallowed.

"Nature - of sympathetic - magicks."

"I'm aware," he said quietly. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"You think me unfamiliar with hedge mages?" he said.

Oh.

Worldly Master Waters. Of course she would not need to explain further to him. He had almost certainly met any number of practitioners of esoteric arts in his travels. So she just nodded, and pressed her hand to her chest.

She would be feeling that pain for a while.

"Do I need to get Krile?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. All of our energy should be - should be on Y'shtola. I shall be fine."

She felt him pulling on her arm, and she reluctantly allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

"All the same, I think you should be returning to your own bed."

She looked over at Y'shtola, and he sighed. "I promise she'll be looked after."

Zoissette hesitated, and then nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "I'm going to tell Klynt about this."

Zoissette groaned, and that got a faint smile out of him.

She hesitated before leaving, to watch the swell and fall of Y'shtola's breast, noticing how much smoother and easier it seemed to be now. And it may have been her imagination, but it seemed there was a bit more color to her face.

Well, she hurt like the hells, and would be carrying that for a while. But she had not told a lie. She would be fine.

Reluctantly, she sloughed off to her own bed. And hoped that it would be devoid of dreams.

~*~

They would be leaving soon. The Alliance would dig in and hold the line, and the Vanguard of Light would make for Doma, to hopefully open a new front against the Garlean empire, free a nation, and in so doing, relieve pressure on Ala Mhigo.

She should have been researching. Learning everything she could about the culture she would be seeing soon, and developing stratagems that could help them win the day.

Her heart was not in it.

Instead, her heart was here, in an infirmary under a banner of war, her eyes closed, and the rise and fall of her chest slower than it should have been.

Zoissette set her codex on the nightstand next to where Y'sthola yet lay unconscious. She could not go to Doma. Not like this. Not with things the way they were.

But that was where the mission was. She could not stay. Nor could she let herself remain distracted. Her lack of focus had cost the Alliance one battle, and dearly, at that.

Pen scribbled forms on paper, enchanted inks forming intricate geometry.

She could not remain here, not in person. But she could stay connected. It would not be easy. The distances would be great, too far for linkpearls, too far for most magics.

But Zoissette had tools at her disposal that most did not.

The spine of her codex had a fine filigree of metal inlaid through it, ending in a spiral on the top of the book. Into that spiral, Zoissette carefully inlaid one of the crystals of light which she bore.

It was a risk, she knew. With the elemental circle missing its member, the blessing of light would be incomplete, and she might find herself once more at the mercy of an Ascian bent on her doom.

But this war seemed more a matter of men than a matter for the paragons of eld, and anyroad, she had faced the Ascians before, and would face them again. If she had to do so as merely herself, then so be it.

The crystal's light glowed softly as it came to hover in the middle of the spiral. Light flowed like liquid from the crystal, into the spiral, down the spine of her codex, and then it lit the geometries, powering her spell. The other crystals of light resonated with it. One of them, she placed into a second codex that had been prepared in ways similar to the first. That codex would allow her to share aether and cast enchantments across the distance. Another, she placed into a pocket, where she could monitor it more easily. It did not have the same capabilities as her codex, but it would allow her to check in quickly, and could be used for simpler matters, such as communication.

The rest she tucked away. The blessing of light at half strength, for now. With the two crystals she had employed, she could, in a pinch, put them back into service as part of the blessing.

The last would stay here with Y'shtola.

A risk.

But she was worth it. And if the crystal of light, fought and bled for, was so precious, then how much more precious was this life it would help her guard?

And if her decisions caused her downfall, well. She trusted Klynt and Nyx and others aside. Someone else would see to the work. They would get the job done.

At last, a test. She focused, and shifted into the space between, traveling as far away from Ala Mhigo as she knew, arriving at the Limsa Lominsa aetheryte. Quickly she made her way to her quarters there, which were kept in her name, even as she was away. Privileges of her former life in the Maelstrom, and an affordance from a grateful Admiral.

And in that room, where she had lived for a short time as her journey took her from adventurer to Warrior of Light, she tested her codex. The crystal of light was aligned, her preparations total, and she sought out its sibling through the distance.

The connection was made. She tested it with a simple healing spell, and felt it touch Y'shtola, despite the distance. She could sense the familiarity of that connection, from crystal to crystal, between her and her friend.

Too far for linkpearl, so once she was done, she gathered up her energy, and shifted through the aetherial sea once more, to arrive at the aetheryte in Rhalgr's Reach and rushing to Y'shtola's side.

The spell had left its mark.

She had been successful.

She sagged in relief, nearly weeping, a weight not quite lifting from her shoulders, but resettling into a way that she could carry it.

Now. Now, she could leave this place, and do the job demanded of her.

They would set sail soon, and she would go with them, as now she knew she could leave an important part of herself behind.

She went to sleep that night, restful. To prepare for the journey ahead.

~*~

Klynt was sitting on Zoissette.

Well, sort of sitting, sort of lying.

Sort of lying, sort of having to keep shifting to maintain her locks and holds.

Klynt had Zoissette pinned neatly beneath her in her hammock, where she could get up to no further trouble.

Zoissette wiggled a bit under her. "Get off, Klynt."

"No."

Zoissette was the sort of person who did not handle being idle for long periods of time very well. Oh, sure, she had a soldier's discipline about things like standing watch or keeping a lookout, and she could be occupied for bells with the right book. But she was a woman wound up with the kind of energy that could only be let loose by trying to find some way to be helpful (annoying), or sticking her nose in places she should not be (obnoxious), or by climbing up the ship's rigging, getting to the top of the yardarm, declaring herself queen of all she surveyed, and promptly diving into the drink (entertaining, but also exasperating).

Captain Carvallain had been amused, but he had a ship to run. So he had asked Klynt to intervene, and she had.

Zoissette was still for now, staring at the ceiling, all limp noodle arms and legs, but Klynt had been fooled by that act once. So even as Klynt carefully picked her way through a trashy romance novel, she kept one eye on the canny Elezen, looking for any sign of possible mischief.

A glint of light caught Klynt's eye, coming from one of Zoissette's many pockets, and she felt Zoissette stiffen. She shifted her weight, prepared for yet another bout of strenuous activity to keep the woman pinned.

"Klynt, off," said Zoissette, in a tone of voice some small part of Klynt vaguely recognized as danger.

"Are ye gonna be-"

Zoissette somehow twisted under her, and Klynt learned several things in rapid succession.

One, apparently, Zoissette had been pulling her punches more than she had thought.

Two, the Elezen was willing to fight dirty.

Three, there was no space or time for three, as a loud clap thundered very specifically on her left side, and the same ear was roaring pain, and the ship felt as though it had dumped itself sideways and was now in freefall just before she hit the deck. Zoissette was free, and so was she, and they were both out of the hammock, and she clawed up a hand, intent on grappling Zoissette to the deck-

She got a kick to the soft spot in her armpit for her efforts that drove her whole arm cold, followed by a knee to the solar plexus. Zoissette rolled off her, and Klynt was just as fast to get up, roaring, ducking her head, tackling Zoissette to th-

Zoissette had rolled with it, and now Klynt became aware of an almost oppressive freezing miasma rolling off the woman's very essence, choking the air somehow. Or maybe that was just her imagination from the impressive throat chop Zoissette had managed to drive the full force of her roll into. It may've collapsed the windpipe of a lesser woman. As it was, there was a moment of black, and Klynt was gasping, and she felt a strong kick to the side of her knee as Zoissette got back up again.

Klynt rolled to what was now her one good knee, hand to her throat, gasping. She felt the tide retreat, and looked up just in time to see Zoissette with a glowing crystal in her hand, sprinting for the door, and somehow the most galling part was that Zoissette was not running -from- her. She was just running -to- somewhere, Klynt now completely ignored.

And then she was gone.

Klynt took a few moments to get her bearings. A small part of her wondered what just happened. That was not Zoissette she had fought. That was some kind of otherworldly thing, all lightning-snap-fast kraken tentacles and deep ocean void and promises that there was enough space in the depths for two.

A larger part of her felt the storm rise in her chest. She had not been nearly diligent enough, and Zoissette had caught her unawares, and that was on her but the consequences were absolutely going to be on that damnable Elezen's head once she caught back up to her. Klynt growled as she came to her feet, and stormed out after where Zoissette had gone, too angry to notice that the deckhands were already frightened by the time she got out there.

She spun on the bosun. "Where the -hells- did she go," she snarled, and they just shook their head slightly and pointed to the hatch that led to the cargo area, currently having been left open.

She stalked over. She would have charged, but that kick to the knee had hurt and she was going to walk it off before she shoved her boot right up Zoissette's ass. Klynt spilled into the lower decks, past crew members who were still hugging the wall in the wake of Zoissette's path, until she was in one of the void spaces where nobody hardly ever went.

She could see a hatch that had been left part way open, and she nearly pulled it off its hinges. Whatever state she found Zoissette in, she was going to make it worse for the trouble. She stomped over the threshold.

The storm inside of her breast rumbled, and then held, suddenly still in that moment before the torrents could be unleashed and hell be wrought. Its energies did not fade, but they shifted, turning to tight arcs that lanced into her limbs and locked them into the static that laid in the air just so, promising ill omens to those on the ground.

Zoissette was crouched in a corner. Here, in the deepest, darkest, and coldest part of the ship. A place where nobody went. And she was curled up in on herself, her hands cupping the light of a crystal, her shoulders shaking. The hold was filled with the soft sound of her sobbing.

The storm died out into rains inside Klynt. She approached Zoissette slowly, carefully, wary, reaching a trembling hand out. She did not know what this was, she did not understand what was going on, but fury had been replaced with worry, and it was her duty as a friend to find out more.

"...Zoey?" she said, softly, and Zoissette turned towards her slowly, all ugly sobbing, her face wet with tears and snot running down it already in the short time she had been down here. She saw Klynt, and she hiccoughed, and she was laughing around the tears, her face was split near in two with her smile, and she was rocking back and forth, unable to contain herself.

It took her several tries to say the words in a way that Klynt could understand, but she kept trying until she did, and Klynt managed to tease the words out from the noise and the blubbering.

"She's awake."

And the clouds pulled back and the waters receded and the rains flooded the low places and Klynt collapsed, wrapping herself around her friend, hugging her tight, even as she said those words several more times, and now Klynt understood.

"She's awake. She's awake. She's awake."

#final fantasy xiv #zoissette vauban #y'shtola rhul #thancred waters #klynt gohtawyn #a campfire tale #heart tending #202311-15 #biot writes

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driftward · 5 months

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Title: Terminal Calculations Characters: Zenos viator Galvus, Nyx Blackmoon Rating: Teen Summary: Nyx reaches end of line. End of a hypothetical Nyx versus Zenos fight at the end of Endwalker. Notes: What if Nyx was the Warrior of Light? How would their story end? This has sat in my roughs for a while, from back when I was outlining Nyx as the Warrior of Light. I have since chosen other paths, and this has sat in my roughs for a long time. I've decided to post it - an answer to many questions I am unlike to ever commit to asking.

Nyx saw Zenos approach, that manic expression with his mouth, and that look of a kind of human insanity in his eyes. He was here, he was completely here, he was perhaps the most real thing out in this realm beyond reality, and right now, that made him the most dangerous person in existence.

They had just clashed with an energy of cataclysmic proportions.

It should have stopped him.

It would have stopped anyone else.

But he was back on his feet, drawing his fist back, and charging in hard.

They saw the faint flickering of possible futures, and all of them converged in a spot just in front of them, where they would have to meet him.

They steadied, getting their feet under them, and focused.

This would have to be it.

Release limiters

There would be nothing else after this exchange, they decided.

A warning was felt.

Core unstable

They felt what faint wisps of aether remained to them open up and align as they charged in, drawing their fist back.

Thresholds exceeded

In cases of uncertainty, in situations where there was no calculation that led to their desired outcome, when all possibilities terminated in failure, when there appeared to be nothing that could close the gap, there was but one recourse available to them. They decided on a future they wanted, projected that into the possible futures, and then they would simply have to close the distance. The difference between probability and possibility was a differential they could only solve blind.

Blind, but not unseeing. In their mind, they picked the result they wanted that was closest to the plateau of futures they could foresee, and simply decided to form a new path to cross the gap.

They would hold nothing back.

Their energy reserves shot downward as reality slowed down, as they watched him carefully, making minute adjustments on their approach, watching his form, watching every muscle movement he was making and was going to make and would never make again.

Another warning.

Containment failing

That didn't matter.

All that mattered was ending this, and protecting the fragile future the Scions had secured.

There would be no ever again.

Every onze of them was propelled, pushed far beyond any possible limits.

Zeno's swing came in high, his whole body glowing red, blood spilling from the edge of his lips, his eyes red with resonance.

Nyx ducked in low and came up.

Lightning struck, booming three times, rolling across eternity. A bright flash of dynamis seeming to ignite, and lit the great plain for an instant. Thunder rolled from their fist down their arm and into their spine, with a deep rumble that they felt in every ilm of who they were.

Zenos's body flew backwards through the air, his charge broken, his assault ended, and his essence shattered. He landed a few feet away, and rolled on the ground, eventually coming to rest on his back. They watched. He landed roughly. He was not moving to get up, but his chest still yet moved with the exertion of his breathing.

The difference between possibility and reality was almost closed.

Nyx stood where they were, arm still extended into the punch they had thrown. Their forearm was bent in a place it shouldn't have been, and their shoulder blade had settled back, far out of its usual position. Their spine was a spiral lattice of ice and fire. In one of their legs, they could feel nothing except the rhythmic flicker of lightning arcs inside of its mass.

They had gained three major breaks in that exchange, and the force of the feedback from the impact had blown out almost all of their major internal supports. Muscle anchors were torn out. Linkages had snapped. They were on life support, now, leaking blood and fluid and aether and life.

Core failure

They stood, barely, watching Zenos' form. They watched as, with great effort, he began to lift a single arm towards the sky. They tensed for new action as his body trembled, as he attempted to get up one more time, and they tensed too hard, too hard by far for their weakened state. Feedback signals were not matching status correctly. Their leg buckled, and they fell down to one knee. Systems were going dark, flesh was seeming to grow cold. A cascade of fresh failures rippled through their body, and the arm that had hit him with such overwhelming impact on the last punch dropped to their side, useless.

And yet they were still ready and willing to take what action might be needed to finish this. They waited.

Fortunately, Zeno's arm also dropped, and at last, he was down. He was still breathing, but he was down, and though their vision was flickering and their aetherometers were filled with static, the important parts of the signal came through.

Possibility became reality. It was finished. Nyx had accomplished their desired objective.

Zenos was down. And he would not be getting back up.

And then so was Nyx. Unlike Zenos, they did not fall to the ground, but rather instead, they began to slowly fold towards it, as though the pressure that was their existence that had allowed them to keep going this far was finally being released.

Which was true. Interstitial pressures were dropping, and they were leaking a lot of working fluid, and few of their cutoffs were operational.

Zenos lay there, his breath only coming out in wheezes.

"That I should lose again, " said Zenos. They thought he might have tried to laugh. It was hard to tell. What he definitely did was cough blood, on to the ground, before steadying his breathing and continuing to speak. "How disappointing."

Nyx's mechanical eye locked onto and fixated on him. Through the static in their sight, they could still see his vitals. They would watch until he was dead.

He kept talking.

"Never have I understood those around me. Understood their obsessions. Besieged by their banality, the world was a mire of tedium and trivialities."

His voice was quiet. They tried to boost their hearing, but there was no reserves to do so. They would have to make do.

"But in these fleeting moments, there is... a spark. Blinding, brilliant... gone... too soon..."

Fresh warnings were still coming in. They ignored them. It did not matter. Their aetherochemical eye wandered, a bit.

The plain was interesting. That there was somehow a sun here to either rise or set was interesting.

"What of you, my mirror? Born into this world, bestowed name, bid to seek out strife and adventure... Was this life a gift...or a burden?"

Nyx wanted the opportunity to share these experiences with others.

Unfortunate that it seemed their probability trees would not extend that far.

They shuddered as pressure continued to lower, as they sunk lower to the ground. The flow of their blood thinned to thin rivulets. Their working fluid was no longer coming out in a flow but in spurts as the force of the remaining pressure approached the force of opposing fluid friction.

"Did you find...fulfillment?"

Zenos took one more shuddering breath in. Through the haze of static and fuzz of malfunctioning instrumentation, Nyx could nevertheless observe as his aether passed below a threshold.

"I..." he rasped.

And then he had leaked out, and there was no more him.

Just the collection of parts that used to be a man.

The task was complete. Nyx considered their objectives, and realised there were none left.

They released all remaining processes.

Their flesh was cold. Their systems were dark.

All that was left was the thin running state of their gestalt, that hybrid of modified Omicron circuitry tied in with aetherochemically adjusted Miqo'te biology tied together with Allagan ingenuity to drive a chimeric life form across time and space to here.

Nyx was only aware of themself. The entirety of existence now just beyond them, and shortly, they too would be beyond it.

Their mind was blank for a time. Just darkness and dim awareness.

An impossibility occurred to them.

I would like to continue to share experience with others, they thought, at last.

Core containment re-established.

Unexpected.

Gestalt online.

One task on the task list.

Hear, feel, think had been completed. Now...

Experience.

Continue system restoration?

Continue.

Their sense of the outside returned to them. It was still full of static and noise and false readings and fuzzy signals and just so much, but they could just barely hear a faint beeping noise, not so very far away.

And then a chime, and they were riding aetheric currents away, and towards the continued shared experiences of life unending.

Zenos' body remained. It had reached the only terminus that had ever been available to it.

#endwalker #final fantasy xiv #zenos viator galvus #nyx blackmoon #a campfire tale #terminal calculations #202311-17 #biot writes

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