Work Text:
Compared to that of the Source, the First’s Aetherial Sea is sluggish. Subdued. Far too bright for comfort.
…In hindsight, the sensible choice would have been to cast Return. The pit was more than deep enough. She would have had ample time to cast. Alas, she has not the power to do so now. She can only wait, and hope she fares better than the last time.
The sensations are familiar enough. The lack of physicality, the blurring of boundaries between her self and her surroundings. Aethersense is all that’s left to her, but there’s a richness and texture to it unique to this state of being.
Sluggish though the currents may be, they remain disinclined to release her. A path back to the surface remains stubbornly out of reach. How long had it taken for the others to find her, last time? Weeks? Moons? Even her mind feels as though a fog is slowly creeping into it. A worrying sign.
She regrets nothing. The Night’s Blessed will mourn her loss, Runar most of all, and it pains her to imagine it – but they shall be alive. The others…they shall not give up so easily. Doubtless someone among the Scions will realize what she’s done. Thancred’s experienced the same. Urianger knows the theory. And Syrene? She’s cleverer than she gives herself credit for. She may well notice the signs. Either Y’shtola shall find a way back to them, or she shall not.
And if she does not…well, it’s nothing she hasn’t steeled herself for before. One way or another, she shall know the Sunless Sea the Night’s Blessed hold in such reverence.
Time passes. She knows not how long. It’s becoming harder to think.
…
She hopes someone tells Syrene what may become of her should she stay this course. She deserves to know.
…
Y’mhitra will be furious. The true Master Matoya will be heartbroken, and the stubborn old crone will never let anyone see it.
…
So much left unseen. So many mysteries left unsolved. A shame.
…
How did she get here, again?
…
…
Something reaches for her – something powerful. It surrounds her, grabs onto the still-unraveling fabric of her being, and tugs. Just as last time (last time?), she emerges into the physical world, her soul solidifying once more.
She hears a snap, feels the weight of her dress suddenly appearing over her skin, and stands, unsteady.
Her vision flares to life mid-conversation, though she recognizes Thancred and Urianger’s voices even before that. That’s right. That’s what happened.
The Ascian’s darkened silhouette is unmistakable, as is Ryne’s, its unique gleam faint compared to the Light surrounding them. And Syrene, blazing like an earthbound sun and nearly drowning out the shape of the others' aether.
She’s going to need to tell her.
She hears Runar before she sees him, and before she knows it, he’s swept her up in his arms. Honestly, in front of everyone else?
Well. Better this than another funeral. She lets, the relief of the moment wash over her, grateful as she is to be alive. After that, she gives the Ascian his thanks, though she hopes she shall never have need to do so again.
On to the Qitana Ravel, then. No time to waste.
Syrene draws closer to her – though not too close, she notices. “You just might be the luckiest woman in the world,” she remarks, her voice a mix of relief and frustration. “Good to have you back with us.”
Luck had no part in it. ‘Twas thanks to her companions’ resourcefulness that she stands here now.
…Still, she’s not wrong. “Good to be back,” replies Y’shtola.
Quiet, for a while, save for the distant sounds of the jungle and the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath their feet. “Will you tell me what you know of the Qitana Ravel?” asks Syrene. “Best to know what we’re getting ourselves into, aye?”
“Indeed. That much, I can do.”
The shapes of the others draw closer as Y’shtola reviews what frustratingly little she knows of their destination. That much, she can do.
(Superstitious though it may be, she hopes with all her heart that her luck rubs off on Syrene as well. She shall need it.)