The
shortsword was a gift.
Her
fellow blacksmiths—her friends, it was still so strange to
think she still had friends—had all but pressed it into her
hands when the chirurgeons had pronounced her recovered enough to
take light exercise. Rolfe, grinning sheepishly, had told her that
she deserved a much better weapon than a wrench, and by now they’d
all had the story of her past service out of her. She ought to have
something to defend herself with, they’d said, in case of another
attack. Speechless, she’d taken it and stammered something about
how they were too good to her, they shouldn’t have—and then she’d
all but fled.
You
really shouldn’t have, she thought as she slid the blade out of
its sheath. It was maybe a fulm and a half long, double-edged, and
someone—probably Etielle—had polished it to a mirror sheen. While
it wasn’t heavy by any means, her fingers itched to drop it; it was
an impulse only stayed by the sight of her own reflection.
Her
roots were growing out silver, and her bangs had fallen in her eyes.
Her hand hovered in the air for a moment, uncertain, before she
pushed them aside to bare her third eye to the open air. No point
in hiding it anymore, is there…? No, I guess not. The last time I
was so exposed…
It
had been three years since she’d sat in the afternoon sunlight with
a sword in hand, her hair pushed away from her forehead without even
a hat over her eyes. Then she’d been oen Gallius, a soldier
of the Garlean Empire, and Eorzea had been the hostile soil she’d
been trapped on instead of the welcoming arms she made a home
in—another thing she could barely believe, she had a home,
and when the Resistance triumphed she would go back to her tiny flat
in Limsa Lominsa with her dog. She would never wear imperial black
and crimson again, and if she took up arms it would be for Eorzea.
It
had been three years since she’d held a sword with intent to use
it. Objectively, it made perfect sense; the imperials were bound to
come again, and even the crafters needed to be able to fight when
they did. Venditor had been a firm teacher, and her muscles
remembered each strike. If she had to, she could fight like that
again.
The
castra had been cold and dim and stinking of fear and hatred. There
had been blood on the walls, in her comrades’ eyes, on her hands.
She had been oen Gallius or you there; her helm had
covered her face. Faces didn’t matter when all anyone looked at was
your rank and nametag, and all they cared about was how good you were
at following orders.
She
sheathed the sword. She’d always been better at hand-to-hand
anyway.
ffxivswarm 