Sigurd Rainecourt/Stories
Stories of Sigurd's past, told in prose.
Contents
Five years before the Calamity
He walked on the railing of Highbridge, one foot in front of the other, not even paying attention to his feet. He had his nose in a dusty tome while carrying a bone staff with a single marbled eye in the other. A few traders passing through the area were wrought with concern over the teen hyur’s actions but the locals were relatively accustomed to seeing such an act.
Sigurd had to get out of the house. His blue eyes focused on the book. He spent the last few suns hearing people fawn over Fredderick and that blond hussy’s eternal bonding. Sigurd never found himself more frustrated over people than he had with his brother’s new wife and her pushy family. They were from The Burning Wall, relatively unknown. The marriage was arranged, and the choice for Fredderick’s wife seemed odd. She was chosen either for her child-bearing hips, her copious amount of cleavage, or because her parents paid an excessive dowry. More than likely all of the above. Lyell spent most of the ceremony staring at the woman’s chest, drooling over himself like a fool.
And so Sigurd wanted out of the house. He encountered a tradesman who had thaumaturgy staves and stopped him on his way. He’d taught himself a lot about gems, both aspected and non aspected, when he’d sit on the Highbridge railing, pouring over books, and he put that knowledge to the test, trading several books and a ring for the best staff in the bunch.
“Stars above…..” he mumbled, reading the words of the spells aloud from the pages of his book. He paused momentarily, one foot planted in front of the other on the railing as a strong gust of wind swept across the bridge, lifting up an airship from its dock underneath the bridge and sending it on its way. “….burning bright. Hm.”
Alvoki steloj
Sigurd looked up from his book, glancing around still perched on the railing. People bustled by, going about their business. He was certain he heard something whispered in his ear just then, but no one had stopped to speak to him. Merchants passed by. Children ran to the railing to watch an airship dive down to land at the station. Some adventurers strode by in strange gear, rattling on about some mundane quest to gather water from the nearby stream. Everything seemed normal.
He returned to his book, skimming over the spell. Fire, the most basic offensive spell. The words seemed easy enough to remember. Stars looked like fire in the sky. They did burn brightly. “Grant me the strength….” He took another few steps forward, memorizing the words and the diagrams in the book.
Kial atendi?
Pausing again, this time standing on one foot, he kept his face towards the book but glanced around with his eyes alone. And yet again, he saw no one attempting to talk to him. “Who are you….” He mumbled at the book.
Amikon
He set his other foot back down on the railing. Someone, or perhaps something, was whispering to him. Hopping off the railing, he traveled down the incline towards the railing overlooking the landing docks, opposite the large and expansive carvings inset into the walls of the ravine. He was alone and he could now be absolutely certain he wasn’t hearing someone else.
Vi estas nun MIA eterne.
A voice. Could it be the wind talking to him? The aether? The crystals arriving on an airship shipment below? With a twist of his wrist, he stuck the staff to his back, then flipped through pages and pages of the book. Could aether even talk? Was that possible? “What are you?”
FRIEND. Vi neniam LASAS min. NENIAM.
Something definitely spoke to him. He shut the book, tucking it into a satchel hanging off his shoulder. Friend was the only word he understood so far from the whispers. Whatever was speaking to him, perhaps it was simply lonely. Or perhaps it was somehow linked to learning to control aether. Nothing in the book seemed to corroborate this, but books only told part of the story. “What do you want from me, Friend?”
Krei fajro. FIRE. Nomu ĝin. VOKU lin NIN.
Fire? Had this ‘friend’ been reading the book over his shoulder? He couldn’t deny that he’d been itching to cast his first spell. He’d read book upon book about magic and aether, and now that he’d made his first trade to get his first staff, he couldn’t see a reason not to try it out.
Sigurd glanced around as he pulled the staff from his back with his right hand. Despite being left-handed, the staff simply felt more natural in his right. The place was pretty devoid of targets, though there were a few parched bushes within reach. He focused on one, reciting the words from the book. “Stars above, burning bright.” As he spoke, he drew his staff to his left shoulder without thinking or reason. “Grant me the strength of your fiery might.”
The marbled eye on the staff light up and fire gathered at the staff as Sigurd thrust it forward. The small fireball traveled from his staff on an arched trajectory, landing in the parched bush, lighting it ablaze until the strong wind blew the flicker out.
Bona. BONA. BONA. Tiel estas kiel vi faras ĝin. JU pli vi FARAS ĝin, des pli vi DEVOS doni al MI.
Sigurd stared at the staff in his hand. He’d created fire. He did have a skill that none of his siblings had. It was magic.
....
Two suns had passed. He’d spent most of them away from the house and the fawning over the newly bonded couple. He knew an arranged marriage soon too would be his fate, yet he had time before that happened. Yet marriage wasn’t a concern of his right now. He was more interested in this book, the staff, and the mysterious whispers. He felt a strange bond with the whispers, even though he couldn’t understand them most of the time. He’d traveled to the Burning Wall, staring at the aetherial gate, listening to the whispers chatter on about something. They grew more talkative when he’d approached the gate, reasoning the aether was what spoke to him. Perhaps understanding those voices would help him become better at spells.
Over the last two suns, he’d found he could cast other elements as well as fire. They weren’t worth much and tended to fizzle out at the target, but they were something. Everyone had to start somewhere, right? He poured over the book, staff in hand once again.
Pli. Pli. PLI! Donu al MI.
“Must get better…” he murmured at the book. He needed to be good at something. He wasn’t going to devolve into Lyell, the most useless member of the family. Lyell had no trade skills nor ability to make deals or even understand one. Sigurd had long known he couldn’t craft a thing, save his life. He burnt water, sewed his finger to a shirt, bent metals the wrong way, and splintered a piece of wood in half. While he knew his way around a trade and had even modified his speech to seem more approachable, that was really all he was good for. Trading. While magic wasn’t a tradeskill, it was something unique he and he alone could do.
He poured over the book some more, unaware he was being watched.
The dark-skinned red-eyed lalafell stood on the end of the railing on the bridge above, watching Sigurd stare at the book for the better part of a bell. How boring. Why wasn’t he flinging spells like some wild mage or something? She sighed before leaping into the air and landing on his shoulders. “Siggggyyyyyyy!”
Sigurd stirred from his thoughts, nearly jumping far enough to knock his friend to the ground. “Ru!”
She shifted on his shoulders to stare at the book. “Ya’ve been starin’ at that book forever!” The page talked about managing the aether flow within, balancing the offensive and restorative spells by shifting between the destructive fire and the restorative ice. “Ya do somethin’ wrong ‘n burn off all the peach fuzz on your face?”
He stared up at her, first with a flat look but eventually gave way to laughing. “There’s nothing wrong with my peach fuzz, thank you. It’s just taking it’s time growing in.” He pointed at the scorched bush surrounded by wet dirt and various scorch marks, no doubt caused by lightning strikes. “And besides, there’s a lot more to just flinging fire around. There are different elements and a caster requires a balance of them lest he finds himself spent.”
“So it’s basically my wallet,” Ruruna frowned.
“Are you broke again, Ru?” Sigurd peered up at her.
She settled onto his shoulders, resting her chin on his head as she stared out into the desert. “Yeah. I ain’t a trader like you are, Sig. I’m always broke. ‘n Ma won’t gimme my allowance this week. It’s always bloody taxes! When’re we not payin’ ‘em?” She pulled her turban down over her eyes and sighed. “Third time I’ve seen them bloody Blades at the tavern this moon. Always hasslin’ Ma ‘bout payin’ this ‘n that. Taxes, taxes, taxes. Maaaaan, bein’ an adult must be hard.”
He chuckled. “Well, we’ve got a few years before we’ll be in that spot, you know,” he pointed out, “before we’re both married off and eventually have our own family of kids to deal with.”
“Why don’t you ‘n I get married?” Ruruna jabbed at the back of his head. “Then we don’t hafta marry some weird stranger like Fredderick’s new hussy.”
“Bah,” Sigurd scoffed. While certainly it would prevent being married off to someone like Fredderick’s new wife, interracial marriages were just frowned upon, not that he was even sure it would physically work. “Our parents would never go for it. I don’t think it’d work anyway. Our kids would turn out to be some monster or a four-eyed giant lalafell.”
Ruruna cringed before cackling wildly. “Could ya imagine that? Hells, what a monster that’d be! Looks like we ain’t getting’ hitched any time soon. Worth a shot, anyway.”
Sigurd snerked at the thought as he shut his book, tucking the book back in his satchel. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, at least. Let’s go to your place.”
“W-what? Why mine?!” Ruruna whined.
“Because,” he replied, waggling his finger as to make a point, “I don’t feel like paying for your meal, you freeloader, and you don’t have to pay when eating at home.”
Ruruna groaned. Why did she have to be broke again? Then they could get something tasty to eat.
Two years before the Calamity
It was a hot day in Highbridge, but every day was like that: blistering hot with the sun bearing down on the people below. A hot wind rushed through the ravine below the bridge where the airships sometimes visited, but it was quiet today. Two years before the Calamity, Highbridge saw a great deal of trading traffic, on foot, by coach, and even by airship. Pity the weather was often unbearable, but that was also incredibly good for business.
The Rainecourts had a tradepost set up just east of Highbridge on the Royal Allagan Sunway. The midlander family had been there for generations, marked by their typical two-toned red and orange hair. Most were rather short, save one, the middle child Sigurd, who wasn’t at home today. He’d taken up trading on his own outside the tradepost. He had no discernable crafting skills, so he took to gathering and trading what he could find. He was an excellent tradesman when it came to jewelry.
Despite the high winds, Sigurd sat on the Highbridge railing, his feet wrapped around the posts as he stared out into the ravine. His back was to the bridge itself, but no one around seemed surprised by his choice of seating. He’d spent years dicking around as a kid, challenging his best friend, Ruruna Runa, to walk on the railing and not fallen off. By now, the height didn’t bother him and he just sat there, staring out at the fuzzy horizon. It was never really clear to him, but he was a tradesman. It didn’t need to be.
He wore the typical robes of a tradesman. A simple long vest with a loose shirt underneath over a pair of shorts and kneehigh boots. The cloth was remarkably light, serving as a shield from the heat so he didn’t turn redder than a tomato. A simple thaumaturge’s staff clung to his back, the bottom end clanking against the railing as the wind pushed it back and forth. He wasn’t all that great at thaumaturgy. Some days his magick would work, some days it wouldn’t. He needed training in it, but it wasn’t particularly a priority. Even so, he always kept the staff with him.
A young lalafell approached him. Dark-skinned with glossy red eyes, the dunesfolk had on a similar outfit to Sigurd, though she’d chosen a pleated skirt beneath instead of shorts. She walked along the railing, one foot in front of the other, her hands out as if she were pretending she was an airship or for balance. It was hard to tell. “Siiiiiigurd.”
Sigurd looked up at the visitor, a smile crossing his lips. He focused on her with his golden eyes. She was close enough to be clear. He didn’t have the protective coating on his eyes like she did, probably causing things to just not appear clearly in the distance. “Hey, Ruruna.”
She scrunched her lips together, pouting, as she flailed her arms at him. “Where have you been, Sig!? We’ve been looking for you!”
“Exploring,” he replied simply with a tilt of his head, “and making trades, of course.”
She frowned sharply at him. It was expected, really. In the past few years, Sigurd had strayed away from the post, venturing out to make his own business deals. It was expected really. He was from a trading family, while Ruruna came from a tavern family. She also knew that his mother would get angry at him for being out so long and chase him down with a frying pan, shouting at him for making her worry. That had ceased in recent years, however, as Sigurd wasn’t a kid anymore, but Ruruna was still certain she worried.
“What did you get, another book?” she jabbed at him with her sharp words.
He held up his left hand as a reply.
Ruruna immediately stopped pouting, glued to the shiny new ring Sigurd had around his finger. The band was a whitish silver with a blue gem imbued in it. “Is that mythril?!”
“With a lapis lazuli gem in it,” Sigurd replied with a bit of a smirk. “I had to pick scorpions for this, but it was definitely worth it.”
“They wanted scorpions for this?!” Ruruna stared at him in shock. “Bloody hells, Sig, who’d trade a ring for scorpions?!”
“Alchemists are an odd sort,” he replied, turning it over so it would catch the sunlight. Mythril tended to glow white in the bright sunlight but settled to a silver color at night.
Ruruna had never met an alchemist before. “I didn’t think that sort traveled. I always thought they were booky and city-dwellers.”
“I thought so too,” Sigurd shrugged, “but this one had come out to do some field work. Travel took him all the way from Ul’dah to Drybone on foot. He was more than happy to trade me something valuable for my time.”
“That sounds like Adventurer work,” Ruruna frowned.
“Does this look like a reward an adventurer would get?” Sigurd pointed out. “I offered a trade, and I got a good deal on it. I wouldn’t settle for anything less for my efforts. Those scorpions get cranky in the middle of the day.”
“Who doesn’t?” Ruruna shrugged, choosing to sit down next to him. She pulled her feet up, bending at the knee to fit perfectly on the railing. “It’s bloody hot out here.”
“But we’re used to this,” Sigurd added. “That alchemist looked incredibly hot and weary. He wasn’t Thanalanian, that’s for sure. He had an odd accent.”
“Did he sound like a pirate?”
Sigurd glanced at her, an eyebrow quirked.
“All La Nosceans are pirates!” she stated assuredly.
“What makes you so sure of that?” Sigurd countered.
“What makes you so sure they aren’t?” Ruruna countered back.
She had a point. He didn’t know and nor did she. They hadn’t even been past the boundaries of Eastern Thalanan. The region was vast enough as it was, and they hadn’t even reached the far edges into new territories.
“Ever wonder what it’d be like to travel there?” Sigurd mused aloud.
“That’s crazy talk, Sig,” Ruruna frowned. “We’ll be stuck here our whole lives, married off to someone and start our own family. That’s just how things are.”
“That’s just it, Ru,” Sigurd leaned backwards a bit to counter a strong gust of wind hurtling over the bridge. “Why not explore before we’re married off? Kineburga, Fredderick, and Averil have already been married off. Next is Lyell, which leaves probably two years before me, though 20 would be a bit late for an arrangement.”
“They’re probably planning it right now,” Ruruna added, rocking back and forth in the breeze. “Lyell’s not marriage material, you know.”
“He is a lazy aldgoat’s ass,” Sigurd sighed. Lyell was a rather useless member of the family, probably doomed to live at home for the rest of his life. He had no noticeable skills and couldn’t make a trade save his life. He had no purpose, no drive to do anything. Even Leofwin, his youngest brother, could craft things. And while Sigurd couldn’t craft, he had his trading skills. Lyell had nothing. “But that’s all the more reason to go now.”
“La Noscea’s across the water, Sig,” Ruruna protested. “How the hells would we even get there?”
“Then how about Gridania?” Sigurd countered. “It’s just east of here. Can’t be that far, maybe a couple malms? Be there and back in a day.”
“Your mother would shat herself,” Ruruna added, knowing very well her own mother would do the same. She would be out with a frying pan, hunting Ruruna down before she could even leave Thanalan. “Now come on, Walter, Momobusi, and Aelesia are waiting for us. We’re going to the tavern at The Burning Wall. They’re having some sort of mongrel festival.”
Sigurd stared at her flatly. “The hells is a mongrel festival?”
Ruruna shrugged, pushing herself back to her feet. “No clue, but supposedly they’re having all sorts of special food and drinks. So we’re going to see what it is, Mr. Explorer. C’mon!”
The Calamity
“Rain again?” Sigurd stared up at the cloudy sky, holding his hand out for a moment to catch the raindrops. Ever since Dalamud started getting bigger and bigger in the sky, the weather had gotten strange. It started raining quite a bit.
Adjusting the staff clinging to his back, he shrugged, continuing on his way. He was going out again. He'd done it more and more frequently since his arranged marriage was announced. It was finally his turn to get married to some girl he’d never even met. He wanted to see the world, not be tied to some marriage. Sure he wanted to continue the family business, but he just wasn't ready for a marriage.
He trekked down the incline, careful to not slip in the rainy weather. His shoes weren't made for mud, and he nearly lost one in a puddle when the mud attempted to thieve him of his footwear.
”Ĝi venas! Dalamud falas!”
Sigurd paused, the rain falling down his face. It was that voice again. He hadn't heard it much but the crystals spoke to him. At least he thought that was what was speaking. It was odd. Crystals were just a chunk of Aether. They didn’t talk.
”Ĝi venas!”
Sigurd frowned. They were really noisy. It probably was related to the moon somehow, as Dalamud had been falling for weeks now. Everyone knew something was going to happen. Rumors had spread about the place, talk that Dalamud would fall to the ground or that it would simply go poof and the gods would save them. Who knew? It wasn't important.
”Ĝi venas! Ĝi venas! venas! Ĝi venas!”
Why couldn't the crystals go annoy someone else? He arrived at Drybone, now very much wetbone, and stared up at the crystal. There were rumors of a very strange creature sitting on the aetherite, sucking the Aether dry, but nothing was there. The crystal had dulled, though, no longer glowing bright blue but instead was now clouded with some sort of dark black. Whatever had been there had gone.
Sigurd felt drawn to it, reaching out a hand to touch the aetherite.
”Ĝi venas! Ĝi venas! venas! Ĝi venas! Estas finfine ĉi tie! La tempo finfine venis! DALAMUD IS FALLING.”
Sigurd jerked away, hearing the crystal speak common. He felt a surge in his body. His head felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. Was it still raining?
…
Sigurd jerked awake in the inn bed. His cloak was hanging on the back of a chair next to his duckbills. He only wore his loose shirt and culottes. Tossing the sheets to the side, he slipped his shoes and jacket on and flung open the door. “How long have I been here?” he asked, leaning on the reception desk.
The girl looked up at him. “Four suns. The Blades said you had Aether sickness. We let you rest.”
Aether sickness? That didn't seem right. He’d touched the aetherite and heard the voices. Maybe it was Aether sickness. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He slid a few gil across the counter before heading out the door.
”THEY'VE VISITED.”
Sigurd paused, frowning at the aetherite.
”THE LAMBS HAVE visited your HOME.”
Lambs? Sigurd’s eyes widened. He'd heard about them, those nutjob cultists the Lambs of Dalamud. He didn't give it second thought and he darted up the entry way, running all the way home on the Allagan Sunway. He stumbled a bit, tripping on the front stairs before practically rolling in the doorway.
“Sigurd!” his younger sister Hilda exclaimed in surprise. “You’re alive!”
Sigurd blinked stupidly. “Why wouldn't I be?”
Fredderick, his oldest brother, emerged from the back. “The Lambs of Dalamud took mother, Kineburgha, and Averil. The Blades found them eviscerated yestersun.”
“E-eviscerated?!” Sigurd stammered. “I need some air.” He stumbled out the front door and onto the porch. He felt like he was going to vomit. He leaned on the railing with his elbows, placing a hand on his forehead. First the crystals started speaking Common and now this? It was too much. Far too much.
Sigurd stared up at the horizon. Dalamud really was getting huge. The crystals were right about the Lambs visiting his house, would they be right about Dalamud falling?
It was getting larger the more he stared at it. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, thinking he was seeing things. No, it really was getting larger until suddenly he could no longer see it.
“It’s coming! It’s here! It’s finally here! The time has finally come!”
Fire streaked across the sky and rained down far too close for comfort. Sigurd leapt from his spot on the porch, staring at the streaks for a moment. They impacted nearby, throwing dust and sand into the air. “Everyone get inside!” he shouted at everyone nearby. No one bothered to question the barking order and immediately dove for cover inside the tradepost.
Something else streaked across the sky and impacted the ground with an ear-shattering crash. Sigurd stuck his finger in his ear as the last trader scurried inside, using his free hand to shut the door and bar it with whatever he could find.
No one was entirely certain what was going on. Sigurd figured it either the Garleans had finally invaded or another Calamity was upon them, neither of which would be survivable, given their flimsy wooden tradepost roof. Sigurd had only read stories of previous Calamities, part of the natural cycle of the realm to renew and restore resources and Aether. He knew what they were, but he never wanted to see one. He was pretty sure they all would die when one of those fireballs impacted the tradepost. They were close enough to Thal’s respite. Maybe Thal would take pity on them and make the afterlife pleasant.
Time passed. No one was quite certain how much had. The bells stopped ringing. The dust in the air was still quite thick, no visibility to see much past the dusty trail a few fulms out. It seemed bright enough, it was probably still daytime. Sigurd bravely moved from his spot leaning against the door to peer out the window. It had shattered from the noise, the glass strewn across the floor. Something glowed in the distance. Everything was deathly quiet.
…
Several suns had passed since the rain of fire and the moon had fallen. Rumors flew around as everyone attempted to understand what happened. Some had fled the area. Others wept, mourning the complete loss of The Burning Wall. The entire area was now gone, covered in some strange glowing crystals. No one had survived.
Sigurd looked down over the edge of the Highbridge railing, still wondering if he could find the giant dusty mongrel from the legends about aldgoats. It was a stupid thing to think about at a time like this, but he didn't want to think of anything else. The odd voices had finally stopped. It was finally quiet.
He heaved a sigh. Now wasn't the time to mope and stare down mindlessly to the bottom of the ravine. There was a lot of work to be done and he had responsibilities. Adjusting the staff clinging to his back, Sigurd headed back to the tradepost he called home. That rickety thing still stood despite the windows shattering and a few roof tiles knocked out of place from the impacts. He paused at the porch stairs when he heard shouting.
“He’s nothing but trouble! He’s bloody cursed!” Fredderick’s voice carried out through the broken window. Sigurd plastered himself against the side wall of the tradepost, listening, wondering what had gotten Frederick so angry.
“Brother please!” Hilda shouted back. “A lot has happened. You're not thinking clearly. You can't blame this all on him.”
“I'm not thinking bloody clearly!” Fredderick scoffed. “The seven hells I’m not. That magic of his has been nothing but a curse on this family. They all died because of him. If he hadn't gone out on one of his bloody pointless excursions, those bloody cultists wouldn’t have lured them out by telling them they could find Sigurd. They would still be alive! They would all still bloody be alive! It would be best if he just went and died somewhere!”
Sigurd’s heart sank. This was his fault, wasn't it? He couldn't explain where he'd been four days prior to that weird firestorm. He couldn't explain why he wasn't there. He didn't understand it or the weird voices he kept hearing. He couldn't tell anyone, not that it would matter anymore. It was all his fault.
He pushed off the building, not waiting to hear any more of the conversation. He'd heard enough. It was his fault. All his fault. He reached the bridge and descended the stairs to the airship station. No airships flew today. He wasn't expecting any. He wasn't sure they'd ever fly again, either, but that didn't matter. He wasn't here to take an airship. He was here to do exactly what Fredderick had suggested. It was all his fault. The curse had to end.
He stood with his toes at the edge of the walkway where the airships would dock. It was all his fault, and it was about to end. Thal would never take mercy on someone who was cursed. He’d send him down to the deepest of the seven hells to perish for all of eternity. He deserved it, didn’t he? He'd killed three of his own family members. It was completely all his fault. Sadness panged at his heart. It had to end. The curse would end here. The strong wind pushed against him. He picked up his right food. It was all his fault. It had to end.
He paused, staring across the ravine at the rocky wall and bridge supports on the other side. “What am I doing?” He put his foot back down firmly on the walkway. Images and thoughts of his mother flooded his mind. She was always so supportive of him. She praised him for his magic, even when he'd accidentally light something on fire. He pulled the crude staff from his back, staring at it for a moment, looking at the marbled eye gem. He traded everything he had for this thing. He worked so hard to get it. Was he so willing to throw it all away so quickly?
Sure, it was all his fault. Entirely. Without question. But perhaps he could atone for everything, do some good and help the people affected by the firestorm Calamity. It wouldn't bring his family back but at least he could do some good for the realm. Maybe.
A change of luck
Sigurd leaned against the stones lining the passage between Eastern and Central Thanalan. He was worn out, mentally and physically. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. He stared up at the stars in the sky. Thousands, perhaps millions of them, dancing together in a nightly dance. He'd almost forgotten how many there were. The skies had been clouded with rain and strange lights he'd never before seen. The lights were pretty but foreboding. They'd stopped since Dalamud crashed into the realm.
It was truly odd seeing only one moon in the sky. The golden moon hung low in the eastern sky, back towards the place he once called home. It was the only place he knew but it was now the place he felt least welcome. He wasn't sure where to go and still questioned his decision not to throw himself off the walkway under the bridge. He resolved to do something to help people, but he'd done nothing but ache. He buried his face in his hands. He hadn't slept for days.
“Hey, kid, you alright?”
Sigurd looked up to find a man leaning over in the seat of a caravan pulled by two chocobos, both of which looked ready to retire for the night. Sigurd didn’t yet offer a reply. He wasn't sure what to say, though his stomach spoke for him, grumbling loudly against the chirping crickets.
“You lost everything in the Calamity, didn't you?” the man thumbed over his shoulder at the odd glowing crystalline structure on the horizon. He took a step off the caravan, planting both feet on the ground. He was a tower of a man, standing over 7 fulms tall with deep red skin. He dug in his bag, removing something wrapped in a light brown cloth. Leaning over, he offered it to weary hyur. “They call it La Noscean toast. Damn fine toast if you ask me.”
“Aren't La Nosceans pirates?” Sigurd babbled as he took the offered food. He recalled a discussion with Ruruna about it sometime prior as they pondered what lie beyond the borders of their home.
The man bellowed heartily at the comment, highly amused. “Not all, son! They're actually a hearty bunch, once you can get through the accent. They love their ale as much as we love Pickled Piestes.” He held his hand out.
Sigurd frowned. He shouldn't expect any generosity from a trader, but desperation had taken over logic, leading him to take whatever he could. “I don't have any coin.” He glanced at his hand. There was the ring he'd traded two years prior. It was mythril, surely worth a lot of money.
“I don't want your coin, boy!” the man chuckled once again. “I’m taking you somewhere safe so the mongrels don't chew on your bones.”
Sigurd paused, his fingers still wrapped around the ring, ready to yank it off and surrender it. “Excuse me?” He wasn't sure he heard the towering man right.
“I’m gonna take you to Blackbrush for shelter and some work,” he reiterated. “There’s plenty of work for you magicky types, like quelling those godsdamned spriggans and coblins. Bloody pests’ll undo all our work and eat all the ore!”
Sigurd hesitated for a second before taking the man’s massive hand and getting pulled to his feet. Even at nearly 6 fulms, he barely reached the strange man’s broad shoulders. “Why are you helping me?” he blurted out, then quickly covered the question by shoving half a piece of toast into his mouth. It seemed truly odd to help out a complete stranger. For a moment he considered the man a cultist, luring him away just as the Lambs had lured away his family. If he fell to the same fate, that would be just fine. The curse he bore would simply be coming back round to him and finally doing him in.
Yet he wasn't certain that would happen. The crystals had stopped babbling after Dalamud fell. They had remained completely silent, not even uttering a strange word in whatever language they spoke. Perhaps the curse had lived out its life and he survived, and he had to live with his decisions. The guilt still panged at his heart. Worry panged at his mind, as he considered that the curse may simply be lying dormant, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
“I’m just a simple miner, boy,” the man replied, seeing Sigurd’s expression twist into concern. “Not the sort to revolutionize the realm or nothing. But sometimes someone just needs an extra hand back on his feet. Now c’mon, get in. The bloody birds are tired, and they'll sleep wherever they damn please if it gets too late.”
Sigurd glanced at the birds. He'd never seen a chocobo up close. They were so rare to see, something about them only being bred by the upper class or in some far off place he'd never heard of. As soon as he'd paused to stare, the man had picked Sigurd up like a toy and planted him into the seat before getting in himself. The man snapped the reins, making an odd tutting sound before the birds finally moved. The sudden jerk of the cart had nearly knocked Sigurd out of his seat.
“The name’s Lofty Cactus,” the man introduced himself with a hearty thump to the chest.
“Sigurd,” he introduced himself, omitting the family name. He didn't exactly belong with the family anymore, so he didn't see a point in including it. It was his fault half of them were gone anyway, so detaching himself from it was for the better.
“Good to meet you, son!” Cactus laughed heartily as the chocobo treaded down the hillside and towards the watering hole in the south end of Central Thanalan. The birds suddenly lurched, rearing back and squawking up a storm. “Bloody creatures! What in the seven hells is your problem?!” Cactus peered around the riled up birds to spot the source of their distress. “Bloody hells. It’s those damn frogs again.”
Sigurd peered around them, nearly falling out of the cart to get a good view. Eyes widened as he stared at the giant creature. He'd never seen anything like it before. The giant toad had turned, spying the birds and licking its face with its tongue. “I'll take care of this,” Sigurd offered, stumbling off the cart. “Consider it thanks for helping me out.”
Cactus peered at his traveling companion, curious how the boy could walk given how famished he looked. He wore the clothes of a trader but had the staff of a thaumaturge. The kid was certainly an interesting one.
Pulling at the staff on his back, Sigurd took the bone staff to hand and drew it across his body, right hand to left shoulder. He felt the aether pull in his body. He didn't have much to give. He was exhausted from traveling and the trauma of the entire ordeal over the past few suns. He wasn't entirely certain he could muster much more than a tiny static charge.
But an idea popped into his mind. He'd felt it before when the aether rushed through his body four suns before Dalamud fell. It was common knowledge that aether permeated every ilm of the realm, but it wasn't common to see it. After he'd been afflicted by aether sickness, he began seeing the ebb and flow of something in the air. It wasn’t clear and it was very faint. He figured his eyes affected by all the dust kicked up by the glowing crystals that crashed into the Burning Wall, but the flow had only slightly subsided since then. What if he could tap into those flows and utilize them instead of his own aether? He only had so much of it left, and currently the reserve was nearly empty. If he used that last bit up, he wouldn’t have any left and would die.
Death. It had crept up on him again. Sigurd had worshiped the entity of death his entire life, but he'd never come so close to it so often. He'd passed the brink of it but returned then nearly threw it all away again to rid himself and his family of this curse. Could the curse have manifested this aetherial flow he saw? Or perhaps it was a side effect of being cursed? What if he could use this to help people, to redeem himself from everything he'd done wrong?
Truly there was no redemption from getting three family members killed.
If this magic was a curse, he'd simply have to use it so that others wouldn't be cursed from being near him. He could bear the burden himself and attempt to make a difference in his tiny corner of Eorzea. It matched up with what he swore to himself as he stared into the ravine below Highbridge. His mother admired his spell flinging but she seemed to be the only one. He'd lived with magic for 10 years and not once had he realized how much everyone else abhorred it.
But then here was Cactus, telling him his skill was useful in some nearby place called Blackbrush.
Burying his fears and worries deep within his mind, he watched the odd flow ebb around his staff. Was it responding to him his silent call? Perhaps there was something here. He squinted at the frog in the dark of night, seeing it saunter forward, licking its face with its large, grotesque tongue.
“Stars above, burning bright,” Sigurd mumbled the chant he’d read within his thaumaturgy books. He'd tried various spells from them, reciting the rhymes and chants until one of them worked. “Grant me the strength of your fiery might.” The odd flow around him began to ebb and churn. He could feel the aether rushing past him. He was drawing from around him instead of pulling it from within. He only borrowed a little of it, but the result was phenomenal. The spell worked. It responded to his call, and fire flew from his staff as he whipped it forward, pointing the gem at the frog. The frog writhed at the impact, eventually giving in to the burns and collapsing on the ground, its long tongue hanging from its mouth.
Cactus applauded with his large hands. “Bloody impressive, Sigurd!”
Sigurd stared at his hands and the staff gripped in his right. The flow around him had returned to normal as if he never tapped into it in the first place. He still stood, his heart still beating in his chest. He hadn’t fainted from aether sickness or lack of aether in his body. He still stood there. Perhaps he could use this. Perhaps he still had a purpose in this realm.
A voidsent encounter
Three years had passed since the Calamity and Sigurd had moved many times, run away from a curse that seemed to follow him. When the crystals began to whisper, he fled wherever he was staying, first Blackbrush then Horizon and Vesper Bay, fearing that the whispering would lead to more deaths. He didn't want any more blood on his hands.
Sigurd didn't have many places left to go, and so he found himself in Ul’dah little more than a month prior, drawn to the Thaumaturge’s Guild to improve the magic he'd been given. His brother called it a curse; his mother, a gift. Sigurd wasn't entirely certain what it was though he leaned more towards curse, but he'd found the guild anyway and sought out their help to control the aether which flowed around him.
Sigurd had arrived with the skill and power surprising for a new thaumaturge, but his accuracy was off and the power of his spells fluctuated. “Volatile aetherflow,” Cocobani had said. “Aether is drawn to you, and you're affected by it. It’ll consume you if you don't get it under control. We need to find you a way to meditate and clear your mind.”
Meditate, he’d said. Sigurd was terrible at clearing his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by memories of the Calamity. But Sigurd had found an unusual means to clear his mind. Research. He had only just begun to crack open the books. He wasn't drawn to anything in particular, but he'd read every introductory book he could get his hands on.
The morning air was crisp and cool, a slight dry breeze blew in from the doorway of the Arrzaneth Ossuary as it opened. Sigurd paid the doorway no mind, taking to a knee before the towering statue of Thal. Placing a small dish of incense on the offering altar, Sigurd dipped his head in prayer, begging Thal to keep the curse at bay for another day. He'd finally found a place to belong, and he didn't want to run anymore.
“Sigurd.” The small lalafellan guildmaster Cocobani approached him. “I think I may have found a solution to your accuracy issue. Come with me.”
Silently the hyur rose and followed the lalafell for a short distance. Cocobani pointed at a banner at the far end of the Ossuary. It was a long banner hanging from the ceiling and reaching only a few fulms from the ground. Intricate writing decorated the banner along with decorative symbols and shapes. “Tell me what that banner says,” Cocobani instructed.
Sigurd squinted at the indicated object. He'd seen the banner multiple times but never stopped to read it. “That’s too far. I can't read that.”
“That’s what I thought,” Cocobani tapped his chin thoughtfully. “The reason you're missing your spells is that you can't see your target. It’s an easy fix, though. I’ve sent a message ahead to Serenity at the Goldsmith’s guild. She has a pair of glasses made for you. Go pick them up and then I’m sending you on a quest.”
…..
“They look lovely on you, Sigurd!” Serenity clasped her hands together proudly.
Sigurd pushed them up his nose mindlessly. He'd never worn glasses before. They felt unnatural, as did the sight he now had. “Everything’s so clear now.”
“As it should be!” she smiled as she offered a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Now come back if you need any adjustments!”
With a polite bow, Sigurd was on his way. He had attempted to pay for the glasses, but they were already covered. He'd simply have to pay back Cocobani for his kindness somehow. Heading out the gate and into Central Thanalan, he pushed his glasses up his nose again. They felt like they were eternally slipping off his face or that they shouldn’t be there.
At least this quest was simple. Cocobani had sent him to deal with a rather rampant coblin problem. Sigurd’d dealt with them before while living in Blackbrush Station. They were a rampant problem but not too difficult to handle. He stepped into the cavern dug through the hillside to allow railroad rails to run through. Sure enough, a nest of coblin were there, munching away at the rails. This would be simple.
Pulling the bone staff from his back, he pulled it to the opposite shoulder, reciting a small spell Cocobani had taught him. It was a basic fire spell that could span an area and certainly enough to interrupt the coblin dinner party. Yet as he recited the last word, the coblins scattered before he could even fling the spell. A strangely shaped shadow overtook him, and the thaumaturge whipped around on the balls of his shoes and suddenly stopped.
Before him loomed a rather wiry thing, all black with stringy limbs and bony wings. It emitted a strange guttural sound, staring at Sigurd with its thin, beady yellow eyes.
“Bloody hells….” Sigurd gasped, tripping backwards and falling on his back. “W-what are you?!” The thing was huge and overwhelming. The aether flowing around it was chaotic and dark. He'd never seen anything like it.
The thing reared back, preparing to swipe with its stringy clawed hand.
”La flugilhavajn unu venis! Vi fariĝos unu kun la malplena!”
They were whispering again. Those godsforsaken crystals. This was it, wasn't it? This thing was here to carry out the curse he bore since the Calamity and destroy him in the cave. The coblins would chew on his bones. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled the staff to the opposing shoulder. “The stars…. W-w….” He suddenly couldn't remember the words to a simple spell, as he was quickly overwhelmed with a strange sense of gloom and dread.
The thing swiped but instead of striking Sigurd, the claws impacted with something metal. “You should be more careful,” the blond stranger informed him with a suave tone in his voice.
“Who…?” Sigurd stammered.
“That doesn't matter right now, does it?” The strange blond swiped at the creature with his knife, landing a deep cut on its arm. “I'll keep it busy. You do your magic.”
Sigurd nodded with some uncertainty, but regardless he pulled the staff back to his shoulder. The words for the spell suddenly came spilling out like a waterfall. He cast spell after spell with ease. The gloom in his heart had been lifted suddenly, and he could think again. He no longer felt as though his life would end. With the blond stranger’s help, the creature fell, collapsing then dissipating into a strange blue aether. “What was that thing?”
“A vodoriga,” the stranger replied. “A particular nasty voidsent. Strange to see one around here.”
Voidsent. Sigurd had read only slivers of information about them. The books offered a paragraph here, another there, but nothing concrete or cohesive. He'd never read about a vodoriga in any of the books and knew nothing on how to combat them.
The blond patted the thaumaturge on the shoulder. “I have elsewhere I need to be. Stay safe and try to avoid losing your head to voidsent.” He left without even an exchange of names, but it left Sigurd with much to think about.
“Vo-do-ri-ga,” he repeated the name as if it were in some foreign language. A twist of his wrist, and he stuck the staff back on his back. This decided his fate, didn't it? He'd finally found something to obsess about, something to research and clear his mind with. He would become the foremost prominent researcher on voidsent so that no one would find themselves in this sort of position he just had.
The Ifrit encounter
This story is based off an in-game event where the Coral Sea fought several incarnations of Ifrit in Eastern Thanalan. This section details the lead up and the aftermath of the event from Sigurd's point of view.
Research
Five years had passed since he’d been back here. He looked different from back then, arriving on his chocobo he’d received as payment for research. Gingersnap, a feisty chocobo with a taste for nopales and gysal greens, came to a halt in the middle of Camp Drybone, allowing Sigurd to jump off. He’d almost forgot how dusty Drybone could be, and here he was in a long black and ceruleum blue robe, his ram-horn staff clinging to his back. He only planned to stop to stable the chocobo before heading up to Wellwick Woods on foot to start his study of phurbles.
The chocobo protested profusely. He hated being stabled and left behind. He wanted to stay with Sigurd, but the thaumaturge placed a hand on Gingersnap’s head to calm him down. “It’s only two days. I’ll be back.” He handed the stable keep some gil and some nopales before heading towards the east exit of the Camp. So far so good. No one had stopped him to bother him or ask him where he’d been for the last five years.
“SIGURD RAINECOURT!” The lalafell donned in Immortal Flames armor came flying out of nowhere in a huge arching leap, landing at Sigurd’s feet to promptly kick him in the shins.
“Thal’s balls!” he yelped, grabbing for his leg. He knew that kick anywhere. There was only one person he knew that could pull off that sort of assault. “Ruru?”
“Don’t Ruru me, ya aldgoat’s ass!” she hissed. “Leavin’ without sayin’ a bloody thing! I thought ya were dead!”
So much for being discrete and not making a scene. “That was kind of the point.”
“Why would you be so----,“ Ruruna promptly cut her selfish words off. She took his disappearance personally, of course. He was one of the few friends from their little circle that she figured had survived. But then she’d heard rumors surfacing that Sigurd had disappeared, guilt-stricken with the pain he’d caused the family. Probably dead, Fredderick had told her. “Shite, Sigurd,” she huffed. “I don’t normally believe anything Fredderick says, but after five years, I started believin’ him.”
Sigurd could only imagine what sort of hate he’d been spreading about Sigurd. Half of it was probably true. He was cursed. “I’m not here for a family visit. I’m here to do research.”
“Research?!” Ruruna blinked. That didn’t sound like the Sigurd she knew at all. He was a trader and a damn good one at that, but the Calamity did change people.
Sigurd nodded. “I’m a researcher with the Thaumaturge’s Guild now.” He reasoned it must’ve sounded strange to her as her jaw nearly dropped to the ground. She had only known him as a tradesman with an interest in thaumaturgy. A lot had happened in the last five years. He’d settled down in Ul’dah, joined the guild, become a researcher, and even joined a free company called The Coral Sea. But the tradesman side still showed, given the number of fancy rings on his fingers. He dug in his satchel, pulling out an adjustable bracelet. He knew she liked them. “I’ll give you this if you promise NOT to tell Fredderick I’m here.”
Her eyes lit up. She liked to think she couldn’t be bought, but in truth, she liked shiny jewelry just as much as Sigurd did. “It’s a deal!” She made grabby hands at him. “But ya hafta promise me somethin’, too.”
He relinquished the bracelet, looking down at her curiously. “What’s that?”
She turned the bracelet over in her hands. It was mythril with emerald accents. Surely this was worth a small fortune. He really wanted to lay low. “Write ta me. Tell me of your adventures, trades, don’t care. Just keep in touch. We’re the last two left.”
“That I can do,” Sigurd nodded.
“And one more thing!” Ruruna added, pointing at him furiously. “Stop talkin’ so godsdamned formally!”
“Can’t guarantee that, Ru,” Sigurd shrugged with a sly grin. “I should tell you one thing before I head out for research.”
“Mh?” She pried her gaze away from the shiny bracelet to look up at him.
“Not everyone in Limsa’s a pirate.”
Her eyes lit up again. He’d traveled, and far at that. “Ya better keep your bloody promise, ya ass!” she shouted at him as he turned to leave via the east entryway. “I wanna hear all ‘bout it!”
Awakening
FAJRO FAJRO, la Inferno VENAS. FAJRO fajro. La ETERNULO el la FLAMOIJ estas ĉi tie! FAJRO FAJRO ĈIU bruligos.
Sigurd jarred from his research so much he’d hit his head on the tree branch above him. He’d situated himself in the foliage, watching and observing the daily habits of phurbles trying to reason their behavior and habits. A member of the Syndicate had been concerned with the recent advent of phurbles as pets, and he’d hired Sigurd to write a very detailed report on them. So far, in two suns, the phurbles hadn’t done much more than shiver. They had to be the cute pets of voidsent or something. They were completely and utterly harmless. The only thing creepy about them was their piercing blue eyes. They looked like a demonic baby doll’s face.
But it wasn’t the phurbles which concerned him at the moment. It was that whisper. For two years, it had been quiet. Not a word. He thought that he’d finally gotten rid of the whispers, and yet here it was, shouting in his ear in that weird language once again. He tucked the quill into his notebook before pulling at the collar of his robe. When had it gotten so hot?
La regno FALOS al la FLAMOJ DE LA INFERNO.
Inferno. Well he sure recognized that one. Wait a second. He paused, nearly dropping his book. Lord of the Inferno. Ifrit. But that wasn’t possible. The Amalj’aa had no means to summon their false god, but those whispers sure did say inferno pretty clearly.
Shoving his journal back into his satchel, he reasoned a trip back to Camp Drybone wouldn’t hurt his research. The phurbles didn’t show any signs of migrating, and he already had two suns worth of notes scribbled into his notebook. They just didn’t do much of anything.
The trek back to the Camp was rather quick, and the instant he had arrived, he knew something had happened. Flames moved about the camp, bustling and stammering something about fire. Sigurd searched for signs of Ruruna to at least ask about what had happened when someone grabbed him by the shoulder. “Thal’s balls!”
“So you are alright, Sigurd.” The old man offered him a weary smile.
“Isembard!” Sigurd heaved a sigh in relief. “What’s going on?”
Isembard shook his head. “It’s troubling, really, and you should flee while you have the chance. It seems---“
He was promptly cut off by an adventurer stumbling and landing at his feet. The girl was covered in ash, her robes singed at the ends. She faceplanted on the ground, her ears pressed against the back of her head as even her tail came to a halt. She held onto the top half of a healer’s crook, the bottom half was somewhere else, probably lost to the world. “They’re all gone. That bastard took ‘em all. They turned against me, an’ I ran away with my tail b’tween my legs,” she fussed into the ground.
Isembard knelt down, placing a hand on the girl. “Fighting them wouldn’t have been wise, D’lain.”
“It’s my fault!” she sobbed. “I’m the healer. I’m supposed t’protect ‘em.”
“Tempering is something even the best healers cannot prevent,” Isembard attempted to console her.
“Tempered?” Sigurd echoed. He’d heard the term in passing. He thought it was something only that happened to the beastmen. It was supposedly the reason they were so fiercely loyal to and desperate to summon Ifrit.
Ifrit. Lord of the Inferno. The temperer. It was all adding up. The whispers had sent him a warning again, and he just didn’t understand it until it was too late.
“Siggyyyyyyyy!” Ruruna bounded over as fast as her small legs could carry her. “Thank the bloody gods ya ain’t among the tempered.”
“Ru!” Just the lalafell Sigurd had wanted to see. His last friend remaining from their circle. He had to admit he hadn’t been the best of friends in the past 5 years, but they’d made amends two suns earlier when she promptly kicked him in the shins. For such small feet, she sure did wallop pretty well. Yet now wasn’t the time for walloping. “How many?”
She skidded to a halt in front of him, bending over to pant for a moment. This heat was suffocating. “What?”
“How many have been lost? How many tempered?” he clarified, glancing over to see Isembard attempt to get the adventurer back onto her feet. She collapsed into him, sobbing miserably as he wrapped his arms around her attempting to comfort her.
“Dozens,” Ruruna frowned before stomping her foot into the ground. “We’ve lost count. There was a siege earlier. We were victorious, but the enemy was our friends tempered. Sig. I’m afraid that Leofwin was among ‘em.”
He felt faint. He took a knee, placing a hand on his head. This couldn’t be happening. This just couldn’t be happening. Damn those beastmen. This had to be some sort of nightmare. Could this be his little curse lashing out again? No, it couldn’t be. This was the beastmen’s doing. It was their fault.
An idea flashed in his mind. He recalled meeting Renaud on the beach a few moons ago. While certainly now wasn’t the time to think about that man fondling his chin, it was the words which accompanied it. The purpose of The Coral Sea was to help better Eorzea. It was a longshot, but felling Ifrit would certainly help Eastern Thanalan at the very least. It would impact people here. It would impact Sigurd himself. “Ru, I’m going to call for help. I think we can stop this menace.” He moved to place a finger on the linkpearl embedded in his earring.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, grabbing for his arm. “Sig, ya gone nutso?! There’s like 3 or 4 Ifrits out there! Not even them crazy adventurers can handle ‘im!”
“What would ya want me to do, sit on my bloody ass an’ cry ‘bout it?” Sigurd hissed back, attempting to pull his arm free. “I’ve made some good friends in the last few moons, and I’m gonna see if they can help.”
She blinked, surprised by the forcefulness and lack of formality in his words. Conceding, she released his arm with a sigh. “Sig, just promise me you’ll come back alive.”
He paused. He wasn’t sure if he could keep this promise. It wasn’t exactly within his control, but he understood the sentiment. They were the last two alive in their circle of friends, and for the last five years, she had believed she was the only one. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m gonna hold ya to that!” she huffed before turning around to dash back into the Flames’ headquarters.
“Thal save us all,” he prayed to himself before putting a finger on his earring, tapping the linkpearl. He’d never used it before, but now he would, and he prayed someone would answer. “Please, if anyone can hear this. Please help. Come to Camp Drybone. Ifrit’s been summoned. We need to stop him.”
The Aftermath
He pushed up his glasses, rubbing his eyes. He was a mess, both emotionally and physically. His hair was singed, his face caked in ash and dust. His hands were burnt, as were his arms. The bottom of his robes now hung with a line of burnt fabric at the bottom. The only thing which had fully and properly survived was his staff which now clung to the back of his robes.
Only a sun prior had it all went down. Ifrit had been summoned. Several of him. He’d made a panicked request for help over the linkpearl and people came. A lot. There were about 20. He’d gotten to know most of them over the few moons since he’d joined The Coral Sea, but he was still surprised they’d showed up.
They’d split into several teams, each heading off to fight an incarnation of Ifrit. He led the main assault against the strongest Ifrit himself, using the extreme shift in aether to their advantage and bringing the stars down themselves from the sky to help bring them victory. One team barely escaped with their lives. A team of wild adventurers had finished off the last incarnation, weakened by the loss of the original Ifrit and by the battle with that one team.
He’d thanked everyone profusely as they all left Drybone that day. He didn’t understand why everyone had come so quickly, but Renaud’s words glued themselves to the back of his mind. You can think of us like your family. Heavy words, considering how his own family had chased him away, but something told Sigurd that Renaud meant it in a genuine sense, something he was incredibly thankful to hear.
He stood in the front area where Coralites had gathered only the sun prior. Outside the rain continued to pour as the aether attempted to realign itself. He watched the Flames carry bodies in, wrapped in blankets. The tempered, no doubt. There was no cure for tempering. They simply had to be put down mercifully like the wild animals they had become. “This one’s him.”
Sigurd stirred from his thoughts, staring at the wrapped bundle in front of him. “Leofwin.” His youngest brother had been among the tempered. He was still young, barely even a teenager and no doubt stupid like one. He probably got lured away by the false priests who had apparently been plaguing the area, luring people away to never return.
Sigurd knelt down, pulling the blanket down to see his brother one last time. Leofwin’s features had been twisted into something of insidious devotion. He wasn’t himself anymore, nothing left but an empty shell of a hyur. Sigurd dipped his head down, offering final prayers. “Please, Thal, grant my brother comfort within your Halls so he suffers no longer.”
Ruruna placed a hand on his back. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly decided against it. Sigurd had lost so much. Half his family had died, and from what she’d heard, the rest attempted to throw him out. For nearly five years, she’d believed him dead and he suddenly showed up one day on research. She’d kicked him in the shins for letting her believe he’d died. That was three suns ago. That was before everything started spiraling downward. That was before Sigurd had done what seemed impossible, rallying people so quickly and bringing them here to help deal with their own problem.
Sigurd lifted his head from prayer, fishing in his singed satchel for some gil coins to place on Leofwin, an offering to Thal for safe passage. “Sorry.”
Ruruna blinked stupidly. “Why the hells are ya apologizin’? Ya helped save us all.”
He placed a large coin in Leofwin’s shirt. “I’m a terrible friend. I didn’t write.”
She heaved a heavy sigh before promptly kicking him in the shin. “Jus’ shut up. I’m glad you’re alright.”
Sigurd offered her a weak smile. Even after five years, even after she’d joined the Flames and after the Calamity had nearly taken everything away from the both of them, she was still the same Ruruna as he remembered. “Oh, before I forget.” He rummaged in the scorched satchel again, removing some paper and a quill. “This is how you can contact us if something else arises.” He scribbled down the contact address for the company’s offices in Limsa.
“Ya mean, contact you,” she corrected him. “Ya did promise.”
He glanced up at her, pausing halfway through writing a word. That certainly wasn’t his intention of writing the information. Not initially at least. But she did have a point. They could keep in contact. And he did promise. “What sort of tradesman would I be if I couldn’t keep a simple promise.” He scribbled out the rest of the word before handing her the paper.
“Ya better,” she pointed a finger at him matter-of-factly as she took the offered paper.
He pushed himself back to his feet, moving to dust off his robe but ultimately decided against it. His robe was a mess. A little dust wouldn’t do any damage at this point. “I should head back to Limsa, let everyone know the situation has calmed down.”
“You’ll come visit, right?”
He paused, turning as he was halfway towards the door. “Maybe.”
She huffed. “Fine. I guess I could live with that.”
“Well well, look who decided to curse this place again.”
Sigurd and Ruruna’s attention immediately snapped towards the door. Sigurd’s older brother, Fredderick, and his younger sister, Hilda, had arrived to retrieve and bury Leofwin. Despite being the older brother, Fredderick stood several ilms shorter than Sigurd, his reddish hair cut short and shaggy. Like Sigurd, he had streaks of orange in it, but unlike Sigurd, his eyes were a deep blue.
Hilda had a similar look, her reddish hair pulled back into a low bun. She stared at Sigurd with piercing blue eyes. She hadn’t seen him since the Calamity and was pretty certain Sigurd had run away or even thrown himself off a cliff somewhere.
Fredderick stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Sigurd’s chest. “You really think you can just waltz in here after five years, hm? That little curse of yours causes everyone around you to die. You should’ve just gone and thrown yourself off a cliff by now.”
“Fredderick!” Ruruna hissed.
“Shut up, Ruruna,” Fredderick seethed. “This doesn’t concern you. It concerns him. I don’t even know why you still favor him. He’s cursed so badly Thal won’t even take him in.”
Sigurd felt his heart sink. He’d felt accomplished for once, that he’d help do something good for the realm and it all unraveled so quickly. He tried to use the curse for good, listen to the whispers he didn’t understand, and make a difference. But in the end, Fredderick was right. Death did follow him, and now it had claimed his youngest brother.
“Don’t listen to ‘im, Siggy,” Ruruna chided. “You helped save us all.”
Fredderick scoffed. “Don’t bother. He’s not worth it.”
Taking a step back, Sigurd simply routed his brother and sister, not even honoring either with a word. Sure, he was cursed. Death did follow him and perhaps Thal would cast him into the deepest hell when he finally kicked it. He pushed open the door, digging his chocobo whistle out of his pocket. He didn’t need to take this. Not anymore. He didn’t even want to carry on the Rainecourt name anymore. He’d found a new family that accepted him even with his faults. And as Gingersnap heeded the call, Sigurd left Drybone and headed towards a new home.
