Chapter Text
← [ouroboros.]
PLEASE HEED THE CONTENT WARNINGS.
"Thancred!"
The familiar voice made him start with a jolt. The door opened, and illusions of his comrades darted to his side. How foolish of Lahabrea to think he'd fall for the same trick twice. With jaded eyes he diverted his gaze, and fought the urge to shrink back from the fake Urianger's touch while the fake Y'shtola shattered his bindings with her magick.
"Come! We must make haste," Urianger said, and attempted to help him to his feet. But Thancred would not be fooled. He dug his heels in, closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw. "Is he bewitched?" Urianger asked, voice painfully worried.
Y'shtola stepped in to press the back of her hand to his brow, as though to check for a fever. "I do not believe so. I can't sense aught out of place with his aether. Thancred, please. We must go. The Warrior of Light and G'raha are keeping the Ascian busy, but 'tis our priority to extract you first, above all else."
"What more do you want?" Thancred replied at last, voice flat. "As lowly as you think of me, I won't make the same mistake again."
Y'shtola and Urianger exchanged a look, understanding quick to dawn on their brows. The Miqo'te brushed Urianger aside, knelt, and braced Thancred firmly by the shoulders. "This is no ruse, Thancred. 'Tis your allies, real and in the flesh. I cannot apologize enough for our delay, but we must hurry. Come with us. Please. It will be faster than carrying you."
"Will it?" Urianger asked, "How much time will it take to undo the villain's curses? To convince him of our authenticity?"
"You are more convincing this time around. I'll give you that," Thancred said, shrugging off Y'shtola's hands.
She exhaled sharply through her nostrils, frustrated. "Thancred. What will it take to prove our intentions?"
He stared, wondering duly if this was a dream. What would it take? He mulled it over, lips hesitant, then asked: "The one who brought me to Sharlayan. Who-"
"Master Louisoix."
"No," he murmured to himself, "You would know the answer to that. What… what wouldn't you know?"
She did a double take before she realized he was not referring to her. "Ask anything you desire. But please, make it quick."
"How did we meet?" He asked, and even then he wondered. Would Lahabrea recall that minute detail? Somehow he would, Thancred reckoned, and the hesitation crept into his features before she even spoke.
"You wanted a second helping of food. You stepped on my tail to cause a ruckus, but I knew ‘twas you and not the boy you tried to frame." Her recollection was immediate, rapidfire, eyes firm upon him. "I told you there was no need for thievery. That you could take what your heart desired, to have your fill. You looked at me in disbelief... quite like you are right now." Y'shtola paused, and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Satisfied? Or shall I continue?"
"To hell with it," Thancred whispered, uncertain whether to cling to his skepticism, or come unraveled with relief then and there. With shivering breath he braced a hand against the wall and rose to his feet. "You'll torment me regardless of my choice. I'll take the gamble."
It wasn't quite the vote of confidence that they were looking for, but it was enough. Y'shtola retrieved her staff from the floor. With a nod and a worried pinch of the brow, took the lead. Thancred followed close behind, Urianger hovering at his side. For once, he was grateful for the proximity- yet still couldn't help his backward glances, paranoid that any instant the jig would be up, and he would regret ever stepping foot outside his cell.
In the distance, he heard the echo of combat. A detail that Lahabrea hadn't bothered with last time. Restrain yourself, he commanded. Do not be fooled. It may all very well be a more elaborate ruse. His heart had already been torn asunder, the shredded pieces loose within his ribcage. To have his hopes dashed once more would surely break him entirely. With distrusting eyes he looked between Urianger and Y’shtola, desperate to find the piece out of place. “Wait,” he said, quiet, and at once both of his fellow Scions drew to a halt. With careful hand he reached out for Urianger’s face. Expecting his senses to be in conflict as they were last time. That eyes would be hung up on a mere glamour, and fingers would trace not Urianger’s distinct Elezen features, but the obsidian mask of an Ascian instead.
He choked on his breath when his hand brushed against his comrade’s beard. Coarse to the touch. Urianger placed his palm atop Thancred’s, and though it wasn’t his intention, the feeling of rings against his hand further proved that even if this was a trap, the fellows in front of him were not illusions.
"Gods," Thancred murmured, and took Urianger’s hand to give it a squeeze. A slow awe dawned on his face. "You're real. This is real."
"It is," Urianger replied, heartbroken. "I am."
Thoughts shifted in an instant. This place was dangerous, the keeper of the dungeon personally preoccupied by his comrades. "Will they be…?" Thancred started, but Y'shtola would not be deterred.
"You forget yourself. The Warrior of Light will not be felled by a mere Ascian," she said, "Worry not for them, and worry not for yourself. Allow us to bear that burden on your behalf." With a flick of the tail, she gestured with the tilt of her head that they needed to continue onward. “‘Tis a reprieve I only wish we could have offered sooner.”
“What doesn’t kill you,” Thancred quoted, voice flat.
As they passed a nook, he stopped in front of a suit of decorative armor– debating for but an instant before he moved to prise the blade from its metal gauntlets despite Y’shtola and Urianger’s clear concern. “It’s not for a lack of trust,” came his explanation, quick and pinch-browed as he accustomed himself to the weight of the weapon. “I’ll not be the dead weight at your ankles if we come across trouble.”
“Thancred,” Y’shtola came closer to give his shoulder a squeeze, “If it comes to that, you will only be within blade’s breadth to the enemy over my dead body.” He expected that to be that, but her hand wandered– up, slow and uncertain, until it brushed past the collar at his throat. A black band adorned with crystals that he himself had almost forgotten about. “I’ll have none of this, either,” she said, firm, and hooked a finger beneath it to tug it forward. Rather than drag him, however, the band shattered from the gentle force, his bare neck exposed in a sudden rain of magicked dust. “Urianger, is there anything else I’ve missed?”
Blind hands reached to feel for his sore wrists, appeased only when Urianger replied, “Nay, ‘twas the only remaining adornment.”
“Good,” Y’shtola said with a nod. “Now let us put this place far behind us. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can put a worthier weapon back in your capable hands.”
His lip twitched with a smile. Too exhausted to fathom anything more, and yet his soul wept for the voices he missed so dearly. Thancred rubbed absentmindedly at his neck, probed at the tender bruises left behind, but marched onward.
Capable. It almost felt like a backhanded compliment until Y’shtola, keen as ever, said, “Who else would so readily pick up steel, fresh from their shackles?”
“A fool,” Thancred quipped back.
“Yes,” she agreed, “A fool who would fight ‘til his last breath for his comrades… and a fool I am relieved to have found in one piece.”
They rounded a corner, and the chill of a night draft through doors still thrown open had never been more welcome. So many bitter evenings spent frozen to the bone, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from pushing past Y’shtola to stumble ahead, to look up at the starry sky that had not felt so liberating to see since his time on the First.
Blue moonlight. The kiss of gently falling snow on his skin. His knees felt weak, and if it hadn’t been for Urianger’s touch at his shoulder, he knew he would have fallen then and there. “I wonder if this is how she felt,” Thancred murmured, jaw agape even between his words. “When she took her first steps beyond Eulmore’s gates.”
Y’shtola barked a command on her linkpearl behind them, but he paid her no mind. The sky had him in its thrall, so much so that Urianger guided him with little resistance to the airship nestled downhill. “Warmer vestments await upon our craft,” Urianger assured him, but truth be told, the sting of the wind, the bite of the snow at his heels… it was pain, to be certain, but for once it was a pain that told him he was alive.
Alive to see the twin heads that perked at their approach, alive to receive the blanket around his shoulders from Alisaie and to hear Alphinaud’s insistence that he sit to receive immediate treatment.
They had come for him, and he knew then as Y’shtola boarded and called out for their allies, sprinting down from the castle gates, that he never should have doubted.