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At first you almost don’t realize who he is -
But then, did you learn naught from Fray? and something in your stomach drops out. You know him, you do not know him, his name is like a word from your childhood lost to the haze of memory.
(Fray knew him. You know this like you know listen to my voice, listen to our heartbeat, like you know everything you know about Fray.)
You tell him everything, and yet, you tell him nothing, because you do not tell him just how much of Fray is left. You don’t know yourself how much it is, but there is more than you tell him, more than you are ready to deal with.
His name is Sidurgu.
----
Her name is Rielle, and when you first see her you have to bite back How is the conjury going, child? Ready for another lesson?
Her name is Rielle and she calls him Sid and you know where she picked it up, can hear it repeated ad infinitum in your voice echoing through the streets of the Brume.
(Except it’s not your voice.)
The sight of her makes you angry, because who could do this to a child, and the sight of her makes you feel better, because at least that idiot has SOMEONE watching out for him. The sight of them together makes you want to reach out, smooth out the gaps in the places where they bump rough against each other, because they're yours -
They're not.
As soon as is socially acceptable, you flee the Forgotten Knight and throw yourself into your bed at Fortemps Manor, wiping away someone else's tears into your pillow.
----
Fray doesn't go away.
Fray is there like a niggling feeling, even when you put his sword down, when you pick up something else. Bow or tome or metal fists, it doesn't matter. He's there.
(There are some things you don't dare pick up, yet. Conjurer's canes are too familiar, warrior's axe too volatile, ninja's daggers wrapped in shadows a little too close to the abyss - )
Even when you submerge yourself in the intricate workings of stars and planets, of bullets and hot steel, you come back at night and the greatsword leans against the wall by your bed, waiting for your hands.
Like Fray, it is here to stay. Hiding from it isn't doing any good. When the time comes to journey forth to Dravania, you take it with you.
----
Alphinaud doesn't act like anything has changed, and in some ways it's refreshing. He is absolutely yours, and even if he's young, his sharp wit and relative practicality make that darker part of you relax.
Estinien, at first, puts Fray's hackles up. The Azure Dragoon, the golden darling of the Holy See, who just walks in on your mission and adds himself to your number (like he owns the place, don't they always act like they own the place?).
But then he pulls out Nidhogg's eye, and while Alphinaud flinches back that voice in your head says oh, says that the feeling that washes off the eye like the waves of the tide is nothing new, says that perhaps he understands after all. Not everyone who knows the abyss gets there by the same path.
Iceheart - Ysayle - watches you, sometimes, but she doesn't judge, and for that you are grateful.
----
In the end, you wish you could have asked her -
Did Shiva ever go away?
Or was she always there, quiet, watching, that goddess of your own creation?
If she left, would you have missed her?
----
You could have asked Estinien, about Nidhogg, about that anger, about walking the path, but you never do that, either.
----
Fray is more real than Shiva, less than Nidhogg, and he won't let you hide from your questions forever. Upon your return to Ishgard, the urge to seek the Forgotten Knight is a nagging compulsion, an itch beneath your armor down somewhere deep in your soul.
It doesn't let up until you see them, Rielle silent but bright, Sidurgu a surly shadow curled around a drink. It feels like coming home, at least as much as Fortemps Manor and Alphinaud bent over a book until he falls asleep, at least as much as -
(The Rising Stones, the Waking Sands. Eventually you lose all your homes.)
Conversation between you is stilted, confused, tense - he is still grieving and you want to comfort him, offer him some familiarity that is displaced in the strangers you are to each other. Rielle's problems at the least give you something to discuss that isn't how you knew the texture of his scales under the pads of your fingers before you met him.
----
You leave them again too quickly, overwhelmed, and are almost glad that Nidhogg occupies so much of your mind for the next several days, until the deed is done. After that, even Fray is tired.
----
You wish, standing before the Vault, that you had thought to ask him to come with you. Sid would love the excuse, any excuse, to assault the building, and surely Rielle could have been left with Tataru for a few hours.
When Haurchefant falls - a smile better suits a hero - you are glad that he did not. You are rent in twain enough as it is. For some days you drift, more Fray than yourself, because you knew him and Fray did not and being yourself hurts.
But not as much as the thought of black armor and ice-white skin, already constantly looking touched with frostbite. Haurchefant was your friend, and Sid is your friend, but he was also -
You loved him, you tell your shadow, when no one will hear, and Fray doesn't answer.
----
In the end, the moogles didn't tell you anything you didn't already know. Fray laughs, bitter and deep, inside your skull - Well, he was always better at the angry sword-swinging part of the job.
On the way back to Ishgard, Sid claps you on the back hard enough to make you stumble, and for a moment it is all right. But then you both stop, realizing, and Rielle doesn't see it happen but she does notice that neither of you speaks to the other on the rest of the journey.
Of course, she and Sid aren't really speaking, either, but that is from the hot flash of anger simmering to a cool, not the awkwardness that seizes up in your throat.
At least Y'shtola is the same as ever.
----
The appointed hour approaches, and you do not know which weighs heavier upon your mind. You breathe deep the scent of ice, feel the echo of her aether, for the last time...
You cannot hope to outrun your problems by juggling them forever. But just a little longer, perhaps, just a little longer.
(You do not tell Rielle the names Fray calls her mother. She's learned enough curses from him already, when he was flesh and blood.)
Off with her head, and good riddance. It sends a shiver down your spine, not just the feeling of the job done, but the watching, the way Sid swings the blade in a single, quick arc -
Rielle can't look away from her mother. You can't look away from him.
And then it is over, and Thordan is calling, priest-king-god, and at least there's one less of his faithful to make trouble afterwards.
(Because there will be trouble. Nothing hates change more than the church.)
You are turning away from the table, when Rielle catches your hand. She has no fear of rough mail and sharp gauntlets, now.
"Come back," she says. "Don't leave us alone."
You nod. She smiles, expression still pained, but healing.
"Good. I don't think Sid could handle losing you again."
It isn't until you're outside, already on your way, that you realize what it is she said.
Children see everything, don't they? Observant little buggers.
----
You come back. Not to the Forgotten Knight -
You know the way. You KNOW. You were just afraid to walk it.
Sid's house, such as it is, is another among hundreds of such Brume dwellings. The doorway is almost completely hidden behind repair scaffolding, and the top of the frame is worn in the middle.
He hit his head on it so many times growing up, the idiot. Took him years to learn to duck. except it's not so much words as you simply know it.
Sid answers the door, and part of you is startled to see him out of armor. He stares at you for a moment, open shock on a face that tries to hide everything behind surly anger But he can't hide anything from us, not really.
"How - " he starts, stops himself. Looks you over, like he's seeing you for the first time again. "Right. Come on in, then, but be quiet about it. Rielle's asleep."
Your sword fits next to his in the stand beside the door. There's cheap tea in a kettle over the stove, an Ishgardian blend - a Brume blend - that is unfamiliar and home all at once. Sid makes you a cup with a little milk, exactly how you like it, without being asked.
That's how you know he knows. But still, you tell him, the words tumbling over each other in a confused mess, not just Fray but Haurchefant and Ysayle and Nidhogg, and you let yourself be angry, at all the people taken from you, at the people you have lost and at the people who have thrown themselves onto spears of light and Garlean cannonfire and the swords of Brass Blades to make sure that you lived.
You let yourself be angry, that no one did it for Fray, that nobody saved him. You let Fray be angry that he is dead, just fragments in a crystal that have seeped into your mind, and you deliver harsh words in hushed tones over three cups of tea in the course of two hours before you have finally, finally, worn yourself out enough that you can cry.
When you're done, you lean into his arms with a sigh, and tuck your head under his chin just so, that's the way, and drift off as he strokes your hair and think that maybe, maybe, someday we'll be okay.