There
are things they tell you when you enlist in the Imperial army. They
tell you that the Eorzeans are savages, little better than the beast
tribes, that their reliance on gods has made them weak and stupid and
in need of ruling. They tell you that you are doing a glorious thing,
that you are (following in your father’s footsteps and) bringing
civilization to these fools who don’t know how good their lives
could be if they just accepted our rule. They tell you that if you’re
captured, you’ll be fed to wild beasts. They tell you to return
with your shield or on it, that you’ll bring honor to your family
and your country if you die well.
You
think of your father (the
Agrius in flames).
You think of your elder sister (the
radio had called it Operation
Archon,
and there had been no survivors).
You sign the papers.
There
are things they do not
tell you in the army, things
you only learn later. Ala Mhigo is hot and dry and dusty; its people
are miserable, trod into the dirt by your peoples’—no. By your
booted feet. You cannot flinch away from this, nor
from the dull resentment in their eyes.
The
men you’d hoped to lead are naught but a pack of ravening jackals,
and you must be cruel to restore order. (If
you lay an unwanted hand on these Aan, you
tell them, I
will shoot you dead.
They don’t believe you—you’re too soft, too kind—until the
day you’re forced to prove it, and
then they hate you.)
(You
clad your heart in iron, and don’t think that maybe you hate
yourself.)
You
take a lover, and that is some small bit of happiness until the day
you find him in another man’s arms. The wound to your heart is
still raw when you meet him.
He
is oen Capsari. Vivian,
and you remember the name because
he
doesn’t look as lively as it would suggest; there’s too much
strain around his eyes and in his hands, and before you can think
better of it you’re buying him a drink in
the canteen and having a—well. Having a very pleasant conversation
and remembering
your damned ranks
and not thinking (much) about his lovely clear eyes or his too-long
hair or that you want so badly to ask him about the magic he uses.
You
don’t get the chance. Your first deployment is
to the Fringes, and it goes…poorly. The Alliance says they will
spare you—will spare your men—if
you surrender. You are an officer of the Imperial Army; you expect
death for yourself, but if it will spare your men (who are not good
men, no, but they don’t deserve the ends they would see at Alliance
hands) you will bow your head and accept Alliance custody.
And
then you find out—those things they told you, when you were yet bas
Gallius
and had only dreams of your decurion’s rank?
Those
things were lies.
The
Eorzean Alliance has honor, and trials, and when they take your armor
and weapons they make you sign a receipt and promise you’ll get
them back if you’re released. (You think that part’s probably
bullshite.) They feed you and give you a mostly bug-free cell and
never lay a hand on you. They ask you questions, and when they don’t
understand you (you
never were good at Common, the words tangle themselves on your
tongue) they
only sigh and take you back to your cell.
You
remember the whipped-dog eyes and scarred backs of the Ala Mhigans.
You remember the rumors of the Resonatorium where Capsari stood
guard. You don’t believe it at first when Alanais
pyr
Venditor—Alan
Vesper—comes
to you and says that your sister lives, but as you lay in the dark of
your cell that night the iron in your heart starts to fall away. The
anger strikes first, hot and savage, but then comes the grief. A man
who’s surely going to die anyway has no use for revelations, does
he?
When
Capsari is put in the cell next to you, it
doesn’t take more than a few nights of conversation for you to
discover
something you dread more than your own death, more than never seeing
your home or your family again. Capsari has magic, yes—but he also
has the Echo.
The Scions of the Seventh Dawn want him to fight gods.
He is brave and sharp-witted and kinder
to you than he should be (and he
should hate
you,
he’s a citizen conscript and you’ve been a bloody idiot),
and they’re going to get him killed.
You
remember your shield.
And
when the Scion—Miss Ritanelle Soleil, all clad in purple and gold
and wearing the claw-tipped gauntlets you heard she’d strangled an
eikon with—walks up to Vivian’s cell and announces he can go
free, you don’t
think twice before asking
if they need another right hand.
If
you’re going to die anyway, you’ll die
for
someone worth protecting.
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