The Memoir of Mebibi Mebi
A series of vignettes connecting past to present
(WIP)
The Child of Peace
“You’re a dead ringer for your mum with your hair that long, Meb.” My dad says with a churlish grin, playfully flicking at my ponytail with one hand as he smokes a cigar with the other. I push his hand aside, clicking my tongue and focusing with deliberate intensity on the book in my lap as I try not to rise any further to the provocation. He loves to tease. If I give him the satisfaction, I’ll never hear the end of it.It’s a sleepy, sunny evening in Vylbrand, and we’re sitting in the garage of our family home, wide open to the balmy breeze. The smell of the orange grove down the hill wafts up and in, winning a narrow victory over the cloying stench of tobacco smoke and ceruleum.He exhales a smoky sigh before replacing the cigar in the ashtray next to me and squatting back down to sweat over his pride and joy—a self-made, one-of-a-kind motorcycle. “The lug wrench, if it pleases milady.” He asks with a jovial tone, but I already have it ready in the vain hope of cutting off his jab before he completes it. I’ve been watching him tinker with this machine my whole life; I can’t pretend that I know it as well as he does, but I have a fairly good idea.…But my annoyance gets the better of me, and my tongue slips.“Does it really bother you so much that I keep my hair long?”I surprise myself with how bitter I sound.He pauses to glance back over his shoulder, equally surprised.“…No. Not especially.”“Then why do you tease me about it so often?”“Do I, now…? Huh.”He seems genuinely shaken by the revelation.“Well,” he continues, “I suppose…I worry.”“What about?”“D’you get mistaken for a girl often? At school?”“…Sometimes? Why?”Lalafell are easily the most androgynous of the races in Eorzea. Even amongst ourselves, we can have a hard time distinguishing which is which. Gendered signifiers are especially important for us to signal to the world at large how we wish to be perceived....Though I don’t give a damn about any of that. People can see me how they see me, it makes no difference. I grow my hair out because I want to. That’s all.But it’s one thing to be mistaken, and another entirely to be ridiculed.“I just figured, well,”He scratches his messy white hair with his hand, leaving behind a black motor oil stain and prompting me to check my own for the same. (It’s clean.)“You know… you don’t…”Here it comes. I brace myself instinctively.“You don’t bring any friends home. Me and your mum, we worry, you know? You’re not being bullied, are you?”I close my book with a sigh and look out to the horizon.I hate this conversation.“No, dad, I’m not being bullied.”“Are you doin’ alright, then? Making friends? Having fun?”“…Yes.”The same lie as always. I know they know. Otherwise, they wouldn’t keep asking.“…Alright. Bring ‘em by sometime. I’ll cook up something good, provided I’m free.”Which is almost never. Today is the exception, not the rule.He heaves himself to his feet with a grunt, deposits the wrench back in the toolbox, and leaps up to close the shutter. Grabbing the ashtray on his way back inside, he stops.“…Sorry, Mebi. I’ll cool it on the jokes.”“Thanks.”“Shooting practice tomorrow. We’re heading out before dawn. Don’t stay up too late reading.”Whenever he has a free weekend, we go hunt game in the highlands to train my marksmanship. It’s also a convenient excuse for him to take a scenic trip on his beloved bike and go camping with his son.It’s exhausting.…but I don’t hate it.
Mebi Merlebi, The Child of Peace. I’ve heard it so many times it scarcely even registers anymore. Nevertheless, it’s hung over my life like a dark cloud since the day I was born.Eorzean unity has historically only been a popular idea in times of profound external threat. The precipitous rise of the Garlean Empire in the last century and its cancerous growth across the Three Continents has made its way to our collective doorstep and presently threatens to batter it down. In response, the ever-bickering leaders of the city-states have been prompted to set aside their longstanding differences and collectively reinstitute the Grand Companies as a means of consolidating their military power against this encroachment. But although politicians and militaries may be nimble when pressed, culture is implacably slow to change. The streets of the city-states are yet rife with mutual distrust. Just because it’s in the people’s best interests to open their minds and trust one another doesn’t mean they will.And thus, symbols are needed. Stories to inspire and move the hearts of men.Or, to put it more bluntly, propaganda.I can’t imagine the opportunistic slavering of those in the halls of power when they learned my father, Chopo Chipo, Engineer of the Maelstrom, and my mother, Dadaba Daba, Commander of the Immortal Flames, were to be wed in the midst of that tumult. “A love that transcends national boundaries!” the papers breathlessly declared, “The Future of Romance in Eorzea!”They didn’t marry one another for politics; they married for love. But nevertheless, they consented to be used for the sake of peace. And thus, as their first and only child, so too was I used to further the same end. Before I was even old enough to remember, I was called the “Child of Peace” and smothered by the heaviest of expectations.In primary school, teachers would clap me on the back and praise me for the virtue of my parenthood, unaware that their transparent favoritism singled me out and made leveling with my peers impossible. Adults adored me, but to other children, I was alien. Perhaps they resented me for the excessive attention, or maybe they wanted no share of the scrutiny I was clearly under—I’ll never know. Despite this, I did make a few friends, here and there. But I could never keep them for long. A proper friend needs to be available, after all, and I never was.Beyond school, my time was taken up by extracurricular study under the tutelage of my parents. My father was an orphan adopted by Lominsan swashbucklers, a career pirate who went straight with the consolidation of his crew into the Maelstrom’s navy. A crack shot and dab hand with machines of all sorts, he now works to shore up the technological deficit between the Crimson Fleet and Garlemald’s state-of-the-art magitek warships. In what little time he has to himself, he imparts what he knows to me. He—like everyone else—expects me to follow in my parents’ footsteps and enlist when I come of age, and endeavors to prepare me as best he can.My mother, a master of both strategy and swordplay, comes from a veritable dynasty of military officers stretching back as far as the time of Mhach. Like my father, she trains me in her areas of expertise when available, but she lacks his zeal. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been exhausted by the weight of leadership and has no love of war or combat, despite her unshakable sense of duty. Unlike my father, whose passion and intention are transparent in his demeanor, my mother is opaque; I’m never sure at any given moment how she’s feeling, besides tired. She loves me—of that I’m certain—but nevertheless I find it hard to relax when she’s around.And so, on the nights I don’t return to a dreary, empty home, cook myself dinner, and bury my nose in a novel, my parents all but monopolize me. It’s not an environment I’ve ever felt comfortable bringing a stranger into. But there’s no one to blame. It’s the only time we’ve got to spend together, and we spend it well. I’ve long accepted that this is the life I’ve been given: blessings, curses, and all.But even so, I still dream. I read novels incessantly, of adventure and romance and mystery, and imagine what sorts of lives I might have lived if I was born under different stars, with a different fate than this one. I can’t help it. Flights of fantasy are the only way I know to shed this burden.But fantasy is all it is.The stories end and life goes on.As sure as the sun sets and the moons rise, the child of peace will go to war.What I am will always triumph over what I want.
“Done for the evening? Or shall we do one more?”The last dregs of the twilight sun drain from the sky as the sound of crickets rise in crescendo to drown out the sound of my own heavy breathing. Kneeling in exhaustion, I watch a bead of sweat fall to stain the dirt of the dueling circle—the center of our small yard pounded perfectly flat by a lifetime of footsteps—before fading away.Before me stands my mother, practice saber planted in the dirt with her hands resting atop the pommel. She looks down upon me with neither compassion nor scorn, just statuesque indifference.You wouldn’t know at a glance that we’re tied for the evening at 6 wins each. I’m doing better than usual. Or she’s doing worse. It’s difficult to say. If I win the next bout, it’d be the first time in my life I’d triumphed over her without a handicap. The temptation is too great to pass up.“…One more.”I steady myself and rise to lock blades.The cricketsong fades and the wind grows still.A beat of perfect silence.And then, in an abrupt flash, the fight begins.I am the inheritor of a nameless school of swordsmanship that has been passed down exclusively within my bloodline. Historically, the practice of one-handed swordsmanship within Aldenard has been accessorized—the Paladins of the Sultansworn wield theirs in concert with a shield, and the mythical Red Mages of Gyr Abania use their rapiers as a conduit for spellcasting. In the Far East, the lone sword flourishes in the hands of the Samurai, but in Eorzea we are a vanishingly rare breed, and protect our monopoly accordingly.“It is with our swords that we carve our names into history’s register,” my mother likes to say. And we keep our swords close. We have cultivated a unique manner of wielding the saber that maximizes our strengths as Lalafell—utilizing our small stature and innate agility to evade or parry all oncoming attacks, and then leap in with a burst of speed for the decisive blow. It’s as efficient as it is risky—the slightest lapse in focus could prove fatal. A sound and present mind is a must, if the practitioner values their life.We do not use soul crystals—we pass on all that we know through years of direct instruction, and are expected to iterate and advance the art within our lives to ensure its continued efficacy as times change. If our art is lacking, then we will die, and if we die, our art dies with us. As it stands, I am the 50th generation, but I may well be the last. My aunts, uncles, and cousins have all met their end on the battlefield. Time may have found us wanting at last; it falls to me to prove otherwise.Clang!The daylight has long expired, but even in the meager lamplight spilling out the windows of our home, I feel as though I can track her movements with perfect clarity.Clang!The flash of our collision briefly illuminates my mother’s face. Her expression is as infuriatingly placid as ever, but her exhaustion is writ plain in the lines beneath her eyes.Clang!Meanwhile, I somehow managed to find a second wind in the midst of this bout. I’ll finish this duel less tired than I began it.Clang!And soon, at that. Her guard’s too low by an ilm. This is it!I dive in for the finishing blow, but as I do, I notice something amiss.Her guard is sinking fast. Too fast.The saber drops from her hands and clatters against the ground as she slumps over.She’s going to collapse…!Instinctively, I drop my own and reach out to support her.But as I do, I feel a gust of wind followed by cold steel resting gently against my throat.“You mustn’t hesitate, Mebi.” my mother whispers, her hoarse voice scarcely audible against my ear. “Charity has no place on the battlefield.”I lost.
“That was a dirty trick!” I scold exasperatedly, “I was genuinely worried, mum!”As we rest beneath the eaves, rehydrating and reviewing the day’s session, the smell of dinner—aldgoat stew, it seems—drifts from an open window. Dad must have gotten home sometime during our final spar. I can only pray that he wasn’t watching.“It was no trick.” She says with a wan smile, “I didn’t falter in order to deceive you, I promise.”“That’s even worse, then!” I exclaim exasperatedly, “Are you sure you’re alright?”“I imagine I will be, after a hot meal, a warm bath, and a long sleep.”Somehow I doubt that will be enough. She’s been home less than usual the past month, and I have no idea how much rest she gets when she spends days on end out in the capitol. Likely none at all.“You know…if it’s rest that you need, then…we don’t have to—”“Absolutely not.”This hasn’t been the first time I’ve urged her to take time for herself out of my training, but she’s adamant in her refusal. Seeing her in this state, though, I can hardly stop myself. She’s withering away. And for what?I do follow the news: hostilities between Eorzea and Garlemald have only increased since Silvertear—especially so, as of late. The times are undoubtedly trying, but I'm not privy to specifics. The internal affairs of military command are highly classified, after all. Whatever it is that they have her doing, I’m sure it’s of critical importance.Even so, I’d throw the whole of Eorzea to the dogs if it meant she’d gain some measure of peace.“Oh, Mebi.”“Yeah, mum?”“About that book I got for you…did you finish it?”“Oh! Yes! The ending was phenomenal! Want to know what happens?”“I would! Over dinner.”“…Ah.”“Hm?”The book in question is the final installment of the hit romance serial Wishing on Sunflowers—a century-long slow-burn love between a pair of Viera, a florist and a farmer, living in Dalmasca amidst the turmoil of the Garlean conquest.“It’s just, well… I don’t want dad to tease me about it.”“Oh, he won’t.” She replies, her warm smile contrasted sharply by her frosty tone. “I’ll make sure of it.”Most of the books I own come from my mother. She always brings at least one back with her after a long stint away.She told me once that she used to read as much as I did when she was my age, but she doesn’t have the time for it anymore.So now, I read for the both of us. In these brief quiet moments, I make sure to regale her with those tales in my own way.“…Now then, I’m starving.” She says, prompting me to rise to my feet and offer a hand for support, which she gratefully accepts, “Shall we?”
Mortal Coil
The First Month
Nothing can prepare you for an Umbral Calamity. Not the foreknowledge that, slowly and surely, it is approaching. Nor the assurance that mankind has survived, to date, six such cataclysms and will almost assuredly survive another. All calculations, philosophies, and delusions buckle and snap like insects under the boot of impending total doom.I sit huddled on the floor in the corner alone, surrounded by VIPs and their families, students of academia, and harried staff of the facility—a shelter constructed within a vast underground habitat on the isle of Old Sharlayan known as Labyrinthos. In light of the impending fall of the lesser moon upon Eorzea, and the alliance’s clash with the instigators of its descent—The Garlean Empire—at Carteneau Flats, Sharlayan declared its neutrality and evacuated its colony on the mainland in an act of self-preservation. Perhaps out of contrition for abandoning its erstwhile allies, however, it extended an offer of asylum to those seeking refuge.Naturally, its capacity was far outstripped by demand. Thus a priority system was instituted. Asylum was to be granted first and foremost to those “best-suited” to raise Eorzea from the rubble. Not carpenters and farmers—those who would perform the labor of rebuilding. No, instead I sit surrounded by bureaucrats, monetarists, and their kin. I suppose even the almighty rationality of Sharlayan kneels to the mightier gil.It is only by virtue of my parentage that I was permitted to join them, and given that I lack extended relatives on either side, as my father is an orphan and my mother’s kin are either dead or estranged, I do so alone. So awfully, terribly alone.The madness in the air is palpable. Strewn all about me are the entrails of broken psyches. As the world around us rattles and bellows under the tug of Dalamud, none can deny the nearness of death. The wealthy incessantly pester the scholars for promises of safety they can’t make, the scholars hem and haw amongst themselves over our chances of surviving the collision (grim, at best), and the staff remain in perpetual motion as if being chased by the beast of their own anxieties. Periodically the din is penetrated by a new tidbit of news transmitted from the front lines, but these provide little solace, and the agony quickly resumes apace.I can’t stand it. I don’t want to be here. My parents are out there, fighting. If I were older, I’d be fighting with them. But instead I’m left here to boil in a soup of aimless worry until the morning comes or until we’re swallowed by hellfire. I’m drenched in sweat; it’s so insufferably humid. My heart is pounding so hard it feels primed to explode. I hate all of these people. Stripped bare by stress, a single overwhelming desire exposes itself to me:If my life ends today, then I want to see it for myself!With no one to watch over me, it’s too easy to slip out amidst the chaos. The exit isn’t even guarded. Who would even think to escape to the surface at a time like this? As I climb the long cargo ramp up and out, and catch a whiff of the curious smell of the outside air—like a coming storm, yet somehow wrong—I feel a mania overtake me, my thrumming pulse elated to be put to some use. I didn’t belong down there. I’m free.I arrive short of breath at the overlook in front of the forum, with a clear view of the southeastern horizon. In the distance, across the Bloodbrine Sea, unmistakably hangs Dalamud, painting the night sky a visceral red. It hasn’t fallen yet, but it’s perilously close. With trembling hands, I fish a telescope from my bag to investigate.At a closer look, I can see the individual prongs of the moon—in actuality a satellite designed by the late Allagan Empire some millennia ago. It was for this reason that the Garleans were able to usurp control over it and coax it down from the firmament, though it defies all reason to do so. I was given to believe those imperial bastards were driven by conquest, not annihilation. And yet their emperor sanctioned this scourge. I can’t fathom what madness drives them……Wait.Something is happening to Dalamud. It’s…crumbling? Have we won?But as I squint through the telescope, my open eye is blinded by a flash powerful enough to momentarily turn night to day. I yelp inadvertently in pain. With my remaining good eye, spared by virtue of being closed, I look back.Meteoric shards cascade across the skyline, blanketing the far continent in explosions.I should be afraid, and yet, in that moment, my fear is eclipsed by a deja vu so severe that seems to suspend time itself.It’s strange…I can’t shake the sense that I’ve seen this once before, long ago.I certainly haven’t, I know this.And yet…why does it feel so familiar…so sad…?But before I can grasp the source of that nostalgic reverie, the thunderous boom of the blast arrives, knocking me to my senses. Get a grip, Mebi! You came here for a reason! Don’t you dare miss a single moment! I wipe the inexplicable tears from my eyes and look again.There, in the eye of the storm, hangs a titanic dragon, large enough to discern clearly even from so many malms away.Was that… inside of Dalamud? Why…?“What in Thaliak’s name are you doing out here?!”I whip around to see a member of the Sharlayan forum, a wild-eyed Auri man more than twice my size, barreling towards me at a frantic sprint. Before I can even sputter a word of protest, he heaves me up under one arm like a sack of flour and hurries back towards the entrance to Labyrinthos.“Put me down!” I holler, trying in vain to wriggle free. “I said unhand me! I need to see!”“Absolutely not! Do you have a death wish, lad?!” He retorts. “Quit your squirming!”I clench my fist and plant it squarely in the sage’s loins, forcing him to drop me as he doubles over in pain.“You little…” he wheezes agonizingly, “Oh no…you don’t…!”“Sorry!” I curtly apologize as I rush back to the overlook. But as I reach for my dropped telescope, I feel stricken with a sudden drowsiness. The pavement rises up around me as if to swallow me whole.…Huh…?…Ah. It must a sleeping spell……Damn i—
I awake from dreamless slumber to the find myself prone on one of the benches in the shelter I’d escaped, now largely empty.I’m still alive, it seems.“Is it over…?” I wonder aloud, my voice crackling with residual grogginess.“In a manner of speaking, yes.” An attendant echoes from across the chamber, “Go and see for yourself.”I heave myself to my feet and shamble slowly back up the ramp to the surface. A feeble dusklight spills forth from the exit, and I emerge to a sky painted a sickening pink. The sun hangs directly overhead, dim through the ashen haze—gloaming at high noon. The city glistens as people bustle to and fro hauling buckets of water from flooded buildings back out to sea.“…Oh. It's you.”It’s the man from last night, scowling in disdain. He stomps over and I wince reflexively, expecting renumeration for my mischief, but instead of a beating he thrusts a bucket into my hands.“The collapse of the lesser moon and release of its pull upon the seas precipitated a series of tidal waves, the largest of which was over 100 fulms high. Structural damage was negligible but our fair city was inundated, as you can see.” He taps his foot in the puddle at his feet to emphasize his point. “Anyone topside at that time would have been crushed to a pulp or, failing that, sucked out to sea and drowned.” He bends over and lowers his glasses to stare me dead in the eyes with cold, mortal seriousness. “You were very lucky. I hope you understand that.”So he saved me, then. Even though I punched him in the nuts.“I… I’m sorry. Thank you.” I stammer, bowing my head.“Mm. So long as you understand. Now then,” He points out to the city in question. “We’re asking any and all able-bodied individuals to help until such time that the seas calm, at which point refugees will be returned home. Your gratitude to Sharlayan will speak louder in action than words. Get to work.”
After several days of manual labor, mopping and pumping pools of standing water all across the city, we were all loaded onto the first available ship back to the continent. While I was kept too busy in Sharlayan to think about what I’d be returning to, on the voyage home, I was at last besieged by my postponed anxieties.I saw for myself the carnage of that day, and what I’d learned after the fact promised little in the way of hope. The dragon that emerged from the cocoon of Dalamud was the legendary Bahamut, who razed the realm before falling at the hands of the archon Louisoix, who gave his life to summon The Twelve and lay the dread wyrm low. The city-states yet stand and their leaders live, but the very topology of the land has been warped beyond recognition, and countless men and women died in the carnage.I likely won’t know the fate of my parents for some time, as it will take time to tally the nigh-innumerable dead. They were both there, at ground zero, at Carteneau. More who were present there died than not, but there were survivors. I can only pray that they were amongst those fortunate few.From arriving in the port of Limsa Lominsa, to boarding a carriage to my family home deep in La Noscea, I feel as though I’m trapped in a nightmare I can’t wake from. Nothing is the same as I left it. We are still suspended in a perpetual twilight by smoke and ash. The horizon, once an undulating green, is now punctuated by sharp, orange crystalline formations swirling high into the sky—the clotted blood of the land itself. My head throbs with a dull ache as my mind strains itself in a vain attempt to process the scale of the devastation.As the carriage draws near to my home. I brace myself. The orange farm some few malms away has been reduced to a crater by a still-smoldering shard of Dalamud, and caramel smoke clouds the air. Surely, there’s not even a shingle left of the house my father built……Unless?As we round the bend, I can see it clear as day! The house stands! It’s a miracle! I hop off the carriage and run up to the door, which remains stalwart on its hinges. I rest my head against it and let out a heavy sigh. Thank the Twelve… I still have a home. We still have a home.I open the door and my excitement is blunted by the carnage inside. Every window has been blown out, every shelf has toppled over—nearly everything that could break has broken.…Well, it’s no matter. I roll up my sleeves and grab a broom. This can all be fixed.With nothing to do but wait, I’ll work hard to make sure my parents have a place to return.
The Second Month
I hear a knock at the door and my blood freezes.It’s the first visitor I’ve had since the Calamity. The postal service has yet to resume operation. Without any friends or extended family who might visit, this can only mean one thing.I set down my sandwich with trembling hands and rise from the empty table.That’s not mum. Or dad. They wouldn’t knock. They’d just come in.I twist the doorknob with exceeding difficulty. It’s never felt so heavy in my hands.“Good afternoon.”The sight of the bloody crimson of the Maelstrom uniform, utterly unsurprising, still manages to suck the wind out of me. I look up through the threshold to see the bandaged face of a Miqo’te man, stricken with genuine remorse.“Mebi Merlebi, I presume? …May I come in?”Unable to muster a verbal response, I nod and gesture weakly inside. He ducks low through the entryway and takes a seat, his legs just barely able to fit beneath the table. I take my plate and deposit the remainder of my lunch in the garbage, my appetite obliterated, before returning to my seat.“I come bearing ill tidings. The Admiral of the Maelstrom has entrusted me to—”“He’s dead.” I cut him off impatiently, my voice cracking under the weight of grief, “My dad’s dead. …Right?”“…Yes. He was killed in action at The Battle of Carteneau.”“How did he die? Can I see him?”He takes his hat off and sets it his lap with a sigh before continuing.“There is no body. All present at the epicenter of the blast were vaporized by the extreme heat of the explosion. Multiple reports corroborate that he was there at that time.”“So what you’re saying is that you don’t truly know whether or not he’s dead? Just that he ought to be?” I protest half-heartedly. In truth, I believe him, but I don’t want to.“He is.” The hat in his lap crumples under his grip as he winces. “His unit stayed so mine and others could escape beyond the aetheric bulwark. I saw it myself. You have my word.”I close my eyes and hang my head back as I slump down into the chair.So he died a hero’s death.That’s just like him.Stupid old bastard.He produces a folded handkerchief from his pocket and places it on the table to carefully unwrap before me.“This is all we were able to recover.”Inside is a single dog tag, pocked and creased, but still legible enough to make out my father’s name.I cradle it in my hands. My lip quivers.Why? Why you?I squeeze it so tight my palms ache. I can’t hold back the tears any longer.It should have been you at the door today. Not him. Not this stranger.“Dad… damn it all… Dad…!”
“…Right then, once the post is up and running again, we’ll have his remaining effects sent along. Or, you can come by headquarters at any time to claim them.” The soldier turns back at the door, his guilt still writ plain on his features. “…Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything at all?”After my tears had ceased, I’d nodded my way despondently through a dry conversation of funerary rites and gratuities that, in my wretched state, I was unfit to commit to memory. But hearing him drop his professional affection to address me personally pierced like a beam of light through my bereaved stupor.“My mum…”The words spill forth abruptly, like a dam bursting,“…My mother! Flame Commander Dadaba Daba! Do you know anything about her?! Is she alive?! Dead?! Please, you must tell me!” I grip the hem of his coat in wild desperation, startling him.“Ah— well, that’s, er,” He stammers, “That’s not information I’d be privy to, as an officer of the Maelstrom…”I release my grip and sink back into despair. “…Right. Of course not. Sorry.”He mills about anxiously for a moment before producing a notepad and fountain pen from his breast pocket.“Look, I can’t make any promises and I don’t mean to inspire false hope, but, I’ve heard that the Flames ought to have completed their rounds by now. Notifying the next of kin, that is. Pure hearsay, mind you. I could very well be wrong about it.”I watch the movement of his pen breathlessly as he scribbles.“Moreover, their hospital is utterly swamped. It’s the same story in Limsa too; booked up to the Seventh Hell and back again. The staff are too busy to get out and personally hunt down relatives—many of whom are still missing—exacerbating the problem.”He tears off the note and hands it to me. It’s a simple map and a series of directions to the Flames’ hospital in Ul’dah.“If she is alive, there’s a good chance you’ll find her there. Again, no promises.”I accept the note with dazed reverence, as if receiving gospel from the Twelve themselves.“Thank you…!” I grasp his hand and shake it vigorously. “Truly! Thank you so much!”“Don’t mention it,” he says, turning away to half-conceal a relieved smile, “You take care now. May the Navigator guide you true.”So long as I have cause to hope, I will. I must.
Unable to restrain myself, I traveled to the hospital that same evening. After some difficulty navigating Ul’dah’s labyrinthine halls, even with the provided directions, I at last arrived at my destination, as evidenced by the throng of ailing men, women, and children.After some fruitless wandering, advancing with great care so as to not step on one of the many writhing in agony on the cold stone floor, I pick out one whose condition seems the least dire to ask:“Er, excuse me… do you know where I might find a nurse or orderly?”“You’re not looking to skip the queue, are you? Because that’s not happening.” He replies with a withering laugh that gives way abruptly into a hoarse, bloody cough.“Oh no!” I offer the poor sod the handkerchief I’d received from the officer, “I’m just trying to find someone. With any luck, I’ll free up a bed and move the queue along.”“Appreciate it.” He accepts the handkerchief and wipes his hands and mouth clean before stowing it away, “Well, you haven’t even reached the foyer. The hospital proper is yet further in.” He points into the thick of the crowd. Only by jumping can I discern the top of the entrance. “Best of luck. For both our sakes.”Squeezing my through the anxious and aching clot of people with great difficulty, I at last manage reach the front desk.“Hello? Excuse me! Is anyone there?” I have to stand on tiptoes to see just over the lip of the counter and, to my surprise, I find myself eye-level with a Lalafellin nurse doing the same.“Yes?” She replies curtly, “What ails you? Quickly now!”“I’m looking for Dadaba Daba! Is she in your care?!” I inadvertently shout, my suspense bubbling over.“One moment.”I hear papers shuffling across the divide.“…Yes. Follow me.”Gods be good, she’s alive!My heart sings in my chest as she leads me down the corridor, deftly evading the half-dead nurses and chirurgeons as they rush single-mindedly from room to room.“It’s good you came. She’s ready to be discharged but…well…” Her voice trails off. “You ought to see for yourself.” She stops me just before an imposing pair of double doors. “Wait here, please.”After several arduous minutes, she returns, bearing my mother in a wheelchair.“Mum!”I can’t restrain myself. I dive forth and hug her tightly. Her body hangs limp and light in my embrace—she’s lost a considerable amount of weight. She doesn’t say a word; instead, she murmurs incoherently, her voice no louder than a whisper. I pull back out of concern and examine her features. Parting her bangs gently with one hand to examine her sallow features, her glassy eyes stare blankly at nothing in particular.If she recognizes me, or anything for that matter, she gives no sign of it.“Mum…?” I turn to the nurse, “What’s happened to her?”“Severe catatonia. Induced by shellshock, we suspect.”“You suspect?”The nurse sighs. “She was brought in with only light-to-moderate burns; we couldn’t find any evidence of physical trauma: not to the head, nor anywhere else on her person. Thus, it stands to reason that her condition must be psychosomatic in nature. A novel expression of post-traumatic stress, to be sure, but considering the horrors she must have borne witness to, it’s understandable.”A bead of drool falls from my mother’s mouth into her lap. Remembering what I saw that day, I shudder to think what it must have been like to be directly beneath that storm of fire.“As for treatment, she’s presently incapable of self-care. You’ll need to do it all of it for her. And I mean all of it, until she demonstrates that she can do it herself. Liquid foods only—she won’t chew, so anything solid is a choking hazard. You may have to force her to swallow.”Does she even want to live…?“At any rate, there’s little more we can do for her here. Frankly—and I mean no offense by this—she’s a handful. She stands the best chance of recovery at home with family—with you. We’d greatly appreciate it if you took her off our hands.”She pushes a clipboard with paperwork into my chest.“Sign there, and there, and you’re good to go. Leave it at the front desk on your way out. Now if you’ll excuse me...” Before her sentence even finishes, she’s already in motion, disappearing around the bend.“Well, mum,” I take her wheelchair in hand, “…Let’s get you home.”
The Third Month
“Here’s another bite, mum.” I say, pushing a spoonful of potato stew gently against her lower lip. After some cajoling, her lips part and accept the bite, and she chews it slowly, her enervated gaze fixed on the great splinter of Dalamud embedded in the earth some few malms from our home, clearly visible from her bedside window.We’re making progress, I think.The last month has been trying. The nurse didn’t mince words—my mother has been utterly incapable of taking care of herself. I’ve had to learn much and more just to keep her alive, and while that labor pales in comparison to the thought of losing the only family I have left, to call it exhausting would be a gross understatement. To my relief, however, her malady is finally beginning to improve. She’s capable of chewing soft foods again, and her complexion is improving. While her speech has not returned, she does occasionally utter a single word:“…Bahamut…”The locus of her trauma, no doubt. I imagine even now she’s waging a war against that damnable wyrm inside herself.While I worry that having a remnant of that battle in clear view would be deleterious to her mental health, it hasn’t seemed to be so. However, she harbors a single-minded obsession with it. During the few hours she’s awake a day, she is always staring at that ominous crimson shard. And during the times it is not visible to her, she still insists upon looking in its general direction. If I try to coax her away from doing so, it agitates her, but if I refrain, she remains calm.I’m sure… this must be part of the process. Her memories, her vibrant self, they’ll all return once she’s conquered the demons within.But even so……she hasn’t once looked my way.Or said my name.Or exhibited any sign that she recognizes me at all.It’s painful.I can endure it, easily. It’s a trifle, compared to the pain of knowing dad will never return to us.But even though she’s so close to me, even though I can reach out and touch her, she feels worlds away.I hope she gets better soon.
Clatter!I awaken with a start in the dead of night. A book falls from my face onto the floor. I must have fallen asleep reading on the sofa.What was that noise?I put on my glasses and light a candle. Wasting no time, I hurry upstairs.It was probably just the bedpan, I assure myself. Maybe she’s trying to use it on her own. …I hope she didn’t make a mess.I turn the bend and open the door, and in the limp light of the candle, I see her. My mother, collapsed in the middle of the floor, the dry bedpan overturned beside her.“Mum!”I rush to her aid without a second thought. No blood, no broken bones, she’s still breathing. Probably just a tumble. Maybe she tried to walk and tripped? She’ll likely need more rehabilitation before she’s ready, but it’s good that she’s trying.“Saints preserve! You scared me!” I set down the candle and bend down to lift her, “Let’s get you back to bed…”But as I do, with a sudden lurch, she grabs me: one hand on my wrist, the other clutching my opposite sleeve. She squeezes me with such force my wrist pops and the seams snap.“Mum…?”My voice is thin. I’m afraid. She’s never done anything like this before.“That hurts, mum…”And then, in a fit of spasm, as if yanked by a puppet-string, her head flings upward and she locks her eyes—dilated with terror, twitching in their sockets—with mine.She’s looking at me.She’s looking at me!It’s really her! That’s my mum!But why… does she look so…“Aa— a… Uu…” She vocalizes laboriously amidst gasps, as if drowning.“Mum… I’m right here! It’s me! Mebi! You’re safe now!”“Mm… U…uh…” She attempts again to communicate something to me, but it’s no use. The words won’t come. Hot tears stream down her cheeks as her breath quickens. Her eyes roll back into her head.…I’m losing her. She’s fading.“Mum…! Stay with me, please, mum! You have to stay with me!”I pull her into a tight embrace. Her arms go limp as her body convulses and her bladder empties onto the hardwood floor.“Please, mum… Please stay… Please… You have to…” I sob.But it’s no use. She’s fallen back down deep inside herself, too deep for me to reach. Her body goes slack, and she turns her gaze once more towards the window, towards that monstrous spire glowing faintly in the darkness.She’s gone.
In the days following that bizarre incident, I observed her closely for even the smallest sign of change, but found none. Her behavior is as it was before that flash of lucidity—impenetrable and hollow, save for her fixation on Dalamud.Unable to remove the image of her face that night from my idle thoughts, I spent my spare time during the day reading stories aloud at her bedside. Though she continued to ostensibly ignore me, I felt a faint hope in the idea that my mother might still be listening, even if she can’t show it. Perhaps my voice could be a lighthouse—a waypoint to guide her consciousness back to me.“…with a flourish of his knife, the rogue sneered, ‘Aye, you’ll be compensated fairly.’ And in the blink of an eye, he bounded forth to lock the merchant in a grapple, pressing steel so firmly against his throat that it produced a bead of blood, ‘This concludes negotiations, I trust?’ ‘Y-Yes!’ The merchant squealed, ‘Yes! Please! Spare m—”“Ba…ha…mut…”I pause my dictation to look up at my mother, gazing as always out the window, the titanic shard beyond partially eclipsing the setting sun and bathing our home half in shadow throughout the evening.It might be my imagination, but I feel as though she’s been saying the wyrm’s name more frequently.“Yes, mum. Bahamut. The Calamity that decimated Eorzea. Do you remember? What happened that day? At Carteneau?”These inquiries always fall on deaf ears, but since that night I’ve begun feeling a palpable irritation at her obsession. It might be jealousy.“…I…remem…ber…”…What?It takes me a moment to register. Those are the first new words she’s spoken since coming home. But she droned them in her usual stilted monotone, her gaze neither blinking nor budging from the window. Without an accompanying change in her demeanor, I wonder if I’d only imagined it.“Y-you… remember? Truly?”No response. I lean forward in my seat and press her further.“That terrible dragon bursting forth from the moon! The hellfire raining down from above! Dad—” I stop myself abruptly. I don’t know if she’s ready yet to hear about the fate of her husband.Her lips quiver as if struggling beneath the weight of the syllables. I watch her with rapt attention.“…Pr…aise…Baha…mut…”…?…I must have misheard.“…Come again?”“Praise Bahamut.”Her diction is clear. The words came easier the second time.“How could…you say that…?”No response.“That monster ruined everything!” My restraint evaporates as my blood boils, “It killed Dad! Your husband—my father—is dead!” I grab her shoulders and force her to face me, “If that’s a joke, it isn’t funny! So why—”Her eyes at last meet mine as her face contorts itself into the picture of hatred. She raises a hand to strike me, but in her atrophied state, it only brushes gently against my cheek.I pull back in shock, knocking over my chair in my haste.Why?! Why is she like this?!“Blasphemer.” Her voice is so full of loathing I scarcely recognize it.She spits at my feet and resumes her vigil, her countenance returning to its usual opaque blankness.I stumble weakly down the stairs in disbelief, my thoughts racing.The mother I know would never speak that way.
Nor would she ever slap me.
Is this really shellshock…?
It’s more akin to brainwashing.
That night, I saw her. My mum. My real mum.
She looked like she was fighting for her life…and losing.
What manner of demon has taken host inside her?
Could it be a curse? A hex? Possession?
Dragons wield powerful magic, but I’ve never heard of anything like this.I make for our bookshelves. We must have something that can explain this.Aha! Here! The Alliance Field Guide to Aetheric Arts.Let’s see… Spells… Wards… Ailments!It’s not Fear. Nor is it Misery. Seduction? No, the effect of the spell is brief and always disappears when the user dies.Possession by voidsent? “…victims are stricken by a rapacious, bottomless hunger for aether…” Her appetite is all but non-existent, so probably not…Enthrallment…?“Enthrallment, known colloquially as ‘tempering’, is a method of aetheric corruption utilized by primals, or eikons, to brainwash and control their victims, thereby bolstering the ranks of their faithful, who will be then compelled to continue summoning them in perpetuity. Symptoms are stagnant aether (with a bias towards the primal’s elemental affinity), a reduced sense of self, and involuntary, single-minded devotion to the primal’s will.”This! This is it!I’d heard about the primal scourge on a few occasions from my parents. Tribes ostracized from the city-states summon them to enact revenge on their oppressors; primals are exceptionally powerful, and can’t be permanently killed, exhausting the Alliance’s scant resources on an unending campaign of deicide.If I pressed them for details, however, they’d shut me down with a grave expression. “It’s classified,” they’d say, sometimes followed by, “…You’re better off not knowing.”I’m beginning to see why. How many tempered soldiers have been discretely put to the sword by their own comrades? Can the tribes truly be held culpable for their actions if they’ve all been brainwashed? Did we not incite their rancor with our theft and prejudice? These are dangerous questions to ask a fragile nation.But if this is true, then that means must mean that Bahamut was a primal facsimile of a dragon…? Is that why it was imprisoned by the Allagans? Because it couldn’t be killed?…This is all very interesting, but I can think on it more later. How do you cure it?“…Enthrallment is irreversible. No known cure exists. Those enthralled must be euthanized in order to prevent repeated summonings. Soldiers are advised to consult their commanding officers before engaging primals so as to prevent…”No…No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no……NO!I re-read the passage once more. And again. I scan the remainder of the section looking for anything else her condition might be and find nothing.My trembling hands drop the book. My knees buckle and give way. I clutch my head in despair.Tempering might as well be a death sentence!Does that mean…when I found her…my mother…was already dead…?No! Absolutely not! I can’t accept that!She’s alive! She’s home!Beneath the tempering, she’s still there! I saw it myself!I slam the floor with both fists and wail aloud in anguish.It’s not fair…!