[Final Fantasy XVI] A Gift of Frost
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rose_in_winterCharacters: Shiva, OC
Rating: G
Contains: Allusions to lore, but no real spoilers
Wordcount: 2023
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2023
Beta:rhi and thesecondbatgirl (thank you both!)
Summary: Shiva does not ask how her siblings choose their Dominants. She knows only that they are compelled to find mortal hands through which to work. She seeks a new Dominant in the frozen Northern Territories.
Shiva does not ask how the others choose their servants.
Servants, but also hands in the world, a way to take shape when the Aether is too thin to sustain their power. The other mortals call them Dominants, and she supposes it is true enough, for as long as their flesh holds out, they can conquer their fellows.
Dominants, too, over the Eikons themselves, for the pact may not be broken by her or her siblings. Once chosen, they cannot unchoose. If they choose poorly, they could dance for decades on a fool's whim.
She does not ask her siblings how they choose, but that is not the same as not knowing. They brag, her siblings: they argue amongst themselves (and she is not immune) about what type of mortal best embodies their will.
Titan loves the strong. A few times she has seen him choose someone with strength of will, not of sinew, but for the most part his chosen are massive mountains like their Eikon, immovable in the face of any threat. Many defend others. Some few are the rage of the mudslide and the earthquake, destruction shuddering in their wake. He once tore a kingdom apart as a child might tear a scrap of parchment, choosing a Dominant with naught but hate for those in power and letting him sink the land entire into a fissure.
Bahamut roars for all the world to hear when his chosen awakens. He has ever wanted those who lead with honor and armor glittering bright, stars that burn too hot, too fast, but oh, the beauty as they do.
Phoenix wanes, then bursts into flame and rises anew when he lays claim: destruction and healing in one. Like Bahamut, his chosen burn bright; unlike Bahamut, his chosen bring growth to the burned remnants of his birth, a renewal of hope or land. Phoenix cares not.
Ramuh's choice is perhaps the most mercurial and the least predictable; lightning never strikes the same place twice, so the mortals say. Ramuh favors naught so much as change, his quicksilver bolts removing obstacles with each flash of light. He does not always choose those of martial skills. A scholar is just as like to bring change, or a king. Ramuh leaps between his Dominants in a way that never makes sense to his siblings, but Shiva knows there is a sense to it.
Garuda, too, is quick in her choices. The winds are never still, never satisfied, and nor are her Dominants. They are explorers and engineers, warriors, and, on one memorable occasion, a satirist so biting in her commentary that she fell to Odin's blade for mocking him.
Odin is a traditionalist. Where Bahamut favors those made for glory and leadership, Odin cares not if he must wash the world in blood to see his points made; there are no rules save those he chooses for himself, and those are few and far between. Of them all it is Odin who hews closest to Ultima's dream, a dark shadow looming over the rest. It is well, then, that he lingers mostly on another continent, content to freeze mortal kingdoms in time and wait for the true way of the world to turn around again.
Shiva is quieter. She blankets her Dominants in the silence of new-fallen snow and the weight of bitter cold. They always awaken in winter. The screaming blizzards of the north are no place for people to live, according to lost Leviathan, but Shiva is proud of her Motes of Ice and their tenacious survival. They hunt, they huddle close in the night's chill, and when the need arises, they crush their enemies like an avalanche, each warrior frail like a snowflake but overwhelming when linked with the others.
Her last Dominant fell to the weight of channeling too much aether, and Shiva was herself briefly weakened by the woman's death--or more accurately, the aether and power she drew in her last battle, a powerful defense of her lands against encroaching Iron Kingdom ships. Shiva gave her the power she demanded, and fell along with the stone chunks of what had been a ferocious warrior, to lie in the drifts of her own snow and sink into the frozen land. Over time, the flow of aether sank into her and filled her well of power again, and now she sought a new vessel.
First, she listens. Her Motes are a warm people among themselves, stories and mead shared generously at the fire, for closeness is the key to survival in the Northern Territories. This does not stop them engaging in internecine warfare--resources are finite and precious, and humankind will insist on hoarding them--but it means there are always people who will welcome a traveler on their doorstep, and tell her of their circumstances and the world. Through these visits, when she pretends to be any other woman traveling alone (questionable, but unthreatening), she hears of a young warrior whom some would see lead. She is sharp but fair, they say, unlike the thane who sits in the central hall now.
Shiva makes her way to this young woman's camp, a small knot of dedicated hunters. She does not claim their fire, but lingers as they wait out a blizzard, rolled tight into hide tents in the lee of a stand of trees. Their leader is young, but already her arms bear the scars of hunting and battle. She has a young wolf pup by her side, and in the stillness of the blizzard, she studies rough maps and tallies her supplies, and what she can share with settlements overtaxed by the thane's demands. It is not altruism, from her conversations with her hunting party. No, this is a woman with a plan and ambition. It shines in her like sunlight. She gathers followers and goodwill, and she plans to use them both.
Shiva approves. She gathers aether, bright and cold and oh so sweet, and she bends and presses icy lips to the woman's mouth. Aether flows between them. The woman's face, already austere, sharpens like planes of ice. She no longer feels the cold of winter, for she is the cold of winter. Magic wraps into her bones, threads through her blood, sinks deep into every bit of flesh.
The wolf pup lifts his head and growls for a moment, but the woman lays a cold hand on his head, and he settles, watchful.
Her name, Shiva finds, is Brigitta, and yes, that is passion and ambition bright as sun on new snow that burns in her heart. We are one, Shiva tells her.
Brigitta bows her head. "You honor me, Ice Mother," she murmurs. Her breath no longer steams in the frigid air.
What will you do? Shiva asks.
There is a long, thoughtful pause.
"You are an Eikon. You have seen many Dominants come and go," Brigitta says at last. "I would know your wisdom, that I may rule well."
She does not seek to hide her ambition. That is good.
Shiva has chosen many who have risen to be warrior-queens of the Northern Territories, fierce women with magic in one hand and blade in the other, defending their territory and keeping their people safe, sheltered, and fed. She has seen their mistakes, and their triumphs, their rise and fall.
She answers Brigitta.
The would-be queen treats her with respect and gravity, neither fawning nor dismissive. In that, she is unique. Shiva has had Dominants who relied on her too much, who drew aether until they shattered from it, who dared not take a step without confirming her approval. She has had Dominants who treated her as a tool in their hands, seeking neither counsel nor closeness.
She prefers Brigitta.
Brigitta talks to her, aware that her position as leader prevents her from speaking insecurities to her followers. But Shiva is safe. Brigitta does not ask for solutions, merely for a listening ear as she admits that a wound pains her, or that she does not know where to go next. She is very sparing in her use of Shiva's power, preferring to rely on her own sword.
Why not use magic? Shiva asks her.
"If I am to pay a price for the weight of magic," Brigitta says, stroking a whetstone over her blade in smooth long motions, "it had best be for something I cannot do otherwise. I do not want to live forever, but neither will I hasten my own fall."
Shiva ponders this. And if it carried no price?
"To lean too much on one tool is to let other skills atrophy," Brigitta replies. She tests the edge of the sword with a callused finger and nods in satisfaction. "I am grateful for the loan of your power," she continues, "but like anything powerful, it warrants care."
Do you fear I will take it from you? Shiva has not yet told her that this is impossible.
Brigitta hums as she puts her tools away. Shiva wonders if she has forgotten the question.
"I would be worthy," Brigitta says when everything is tidy. "And if I would be worthy, I must not be careless."
The wolf pup--less a pup now, he reaches Brigitta's ribs at full stretch--whuffs and sticks his nose in her face. She laughs and rubs his ears, then goes still. "Could I share your power with him?"
None have asked her this before. To what end?
"He is a brave warrior," Brigitta says, "and a fine hunter. He could be more."
Shiva sits quiet in her mind. Ramuh would know how, she thinks, but her elder brother is dormant now. She saw the storm when his Dominant fell.
He cannot pay magic's price for you.
Brigitta's mouth twists; offense is clear in the line of her back. "I thought rather I must pay it for him," she says tartly.
Shiva is taken aback. She did not expect such generosity from a woman who calculates what she gives to others so precisely. Yet the wolf is not the same. He is not part of her scheme, though his loyalty does weigh in her favor, when she speaks to steadings in search of their support.
A gift, then, without the weight such a thing would carry between humans.
I must think on the best way, she tells her.
"I can wait." Brigitta lies down, and the wolf curls near. Their breathing evens into sleep.
Shiva lingers, wakeful. Each Dominant has her own goals, her own actions, and they are never Shiva's to control once she bestows her aether upon them. She has never thought overmuch about it. An Eikon must have a Dominant. It is a compulsion that pulses in the aether that forms their cores, a demand whose source she does not know. She has always known this pull, has always needed a mortal to shape her strength, save for when she must recover after her Dominant's death. She has never thought of liking one.
She is surprised to find that she does now--and that it matters that she might in future.
The tiniest flicker of aether, not enough to bring a cost. The press of icy lips on Brigitta's forehead. A hand on the wolf's head. They sigh and twitch in their sleep. Shiva weaves their aether together, and adds her own.
She does not know if her siblings have ever given such gifts to their Dominants. She decides it does not matter. She is herself, and she is Brigitta, and all who came before her.
She rests, and waits, for in the morning, Brigitta rides to the central steading, to challenge the thane. Shiva knows Brigitta will use magic for this, though not too much. The wolf will, as well, and both will serve to show that she has the blessing of the Lady of Ice.
When the battle is over, Shiva decides, she will shape an unmelting crown for this Dominant, a sign of her direct favor. It will fade when Brigitta does, but until then, they will rule the Northern Territories, and they will rule well.
Rating: G
Contains: Allusions to lore, but no real spoilers
Wordcount: 2023
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2023
Beta:
rhi and thesecondbatgirl (thank you both!)Summary: Shiva does not ask how her siblings choose their Dominants. She knows only that they are compelled to find mortal hands through which to work. She seeks a new Dominant in the frozen Northern Territories.
Shiva does not ask how the others choose their servants.
Servants, but also hands in the world, a way to take shape when the Aether is too thin to sustain their power. The other mortals call them Dominants, and she supposes it is true enough, for as long as their flesh holds out, they can conquer their fellows.
Dominants, too, over the Eikons themselves, for the pact may not be broken by her or her siblings. Once chosen, they cannot unchoose. If they choose poorly, they could dance for decades on a fool's whim.
She does not ask her siblings how they choose, but that is not the same as not knowing. They brag, her siblings: they argue amongst themselves (and she is not immune) about what type of mortal best embodies their will.
Titan loves the strong. A few times she has seen him choose someone with strength of will, not of sinew, but for the most part his chosen are massive mountains like their Eikon, immovable in the face of any threat. Many defend others. Some few are the rage of the mudslide and the earthquake, destruction shuddering in their wake. He once tore a kingdom apart as a child might tear a scrap of parchment, choosing a Dominant with naught but hate for those in power and letting him sink the land entire into a fissure.
Bahamut roars for all the world to hear when his chosen awakens. He has ever wanted those who lead with honor and armor glittering bright, stars that burn too hot, too fast, but oh, the beauty as they do.
Phoenix wanes, then bursts into flame and rises anew when he lays claim: destruction and healing in one. Like Bahamut, his chosen burn bright; unlike Bahamut, his chosen bring growth to the burned remnants of his birth, a renewal of hope or land. Phoenix cares not.
Ramuh's choice is perhaps the most mercurial and the least predictable; lightning never strikes the same place twice, so the mortals say. Ramuh favors naught so much as change, his quicksilver bolts removing obstacles with each flash of light. He does not always choose those of martial skills. A scholar is just as like to bring change, or a king. Ramuh leaps between his Dominants in a way that never makes sense to his siblings, but Shiva knows there is a sense to it.
Garuda, too, is quick in her choices. The winds are never still, never satisfied, and nor are her Dominants. They are explorers and engineers, warriors, and, on one memorable occasion, a satirist so biting in her commentary that she fell to Odin's blade for mocking him.
Odin is a traditionalist. Where Bahamut favors those made for glory and leadership, Odin cares not if he must wash the world in blood to see his points made; there are no rules save those he chooses for himself, and those are few and far between. Of them all it is Odin who hews closest to Ultima's dream, a dark shadow looming over the rest. It is well, then, that he lingers mostly on another continent, content to freeze mortal kingdoms in time and wait for the true way of the world to turn around again.
Shiva is quieter. She blankets her Dominants in the silence of new-fallen snow and the weight of bitter cold. They always awaken in winter. The screaming blizzards of the north are no place for people to live, according to lost Leviathan, but Shiva is proud of her Motes of Ice and their tenacious survival. They hunt, they huddle close in the night's chill, and when the need arises, they crush their enemies like an avalanche, each warrior frail like a snowflake but overwhelming when linked with the others.
Her last Dominant fell to the weight of channeling too much aether, and Shiva was herself briefly weakened by the woman's death--or more accurately, the aether and power she drew in her last battle, a powerful defense of her lands against encroaching Iron Kingdom ships. Shiva gave her the power she demanded, and fell along with the stone chunks of what had been a ferocious warrior, to lie in the drifts of her own snow and sink into the frozen land. Over time, the flow of aether sank into her and filled her well of power again, and now she sought a new vessel.
First, she listens. Her Motes are a warm people among themselves, stories and mead shared generously at the fire, for closeness is the key to survival in the Northern Territories. This does not stop them engaging in internecine warfare--resources are finite and precious, and humankind will insist on hoarding them--but it means there are always people who will welcome a traveler on their doorstep, and tell her of their circumstances and the world. Through these visits, when she pretends to be any other woman traveling alone (questionable, but unthreatening), she hears of a young warrior whom some would see lead. She is sharp but fair, they say, unlike the thane who sits in the central hall now.
Shiva makes her way to this young woman's camp, a small knot of dedicated hunters. She does not claim their fire, but lingers as they wait out a blizzard, rolled tight into hide tents in the lee of a stand of trees. Their leader is young, but already her arms bear the scars of hunting and battle. She has a young wolf pup by her side, and in the stillness of the blizzard, she studies rough maps and tallies her supplies, and what she can share with settlements overtaxed by the thane's demands. It is not altruism, from her conversations with her hunting party. No, this is a woman with a plan and ambition. It shines in her like sunlight. She gathers followers and goodwill, and she plans to use them both.
Shiva approves. She gathers aether, bright and cold and oh so sweet, and she bends and presses icy lips to the woman's mouth. Aether flows between them. The woman's face, already austere, sharpens like planes of ice. She no longer feels the cold of winter, for she is the cold of winter. Magic wraps into her bones, threads through her blood, sinks deep into every bit of flesh.
The wolf pup lifts his head and growls for a moment, but the woman lays a cold hand on his head, and he settles, watchful.
Her name, Shiva finds, is Brigitta, and yes, that is passion and ambition bright as sun on new snow that burns in her heart. We are one, Shiva tells her.
Brigitta bows her head. "You honor me, Ice Mother," she murmurs. Her breath no longer steams in the frigid air.
What will you do? Shiva asks.
There is a long, thoughtful pause.
"You are an Eikon. You have seen many Dominants come and go," Brigitta says at last. "I would know your wisdom, that I may rule well."
She does not seek to hide her ambition. That is good.
Shiva has chosen many who have risen to be warrior-queens of the Northern Territories, fierce women with magic in one hand and blade in the other, defending their territory and keeping their people safe, sheltered, and fed. She has seen their mistakes, and their triumphs, their rise and fall.
She answers Brigitta.
The would-be queen treats her with respect and gravity, neither fawning nor dismissive. In that, she is unique. Shiva has had Dominants who relied on her too much, who drew aether until they shattered from it, who dared not take a step without confirming her approval. She has had Dominants who treated her as a tool in their hands, seeking neither counsel nor closeness.
She prefers Brigitta.
Brigitta talks to her, aware that her position as leader prevents her from speaking insecurities to her followers. But Shiva is safe. Brigitta does not ask for solutions, merely for a listening ear as she admits that a wound pains her, or that she does not know where to go next. She is very sparing in her use of Shiva's power, preferring to rely on her own sword.
Why not use magic? Shiva asks her.
"If I am to pay a price for the weight of magic," Brigitta says, stroking a whetstone over her blade in smooth long motions, "it had best be for something I cannot do otherwise. I do not want to live forever, but neither will I hasten my own fall."
Shiva ponders this. And if it carried no price?
"To lean too much on one tool is to let other skills atrophy," Brigitta replies. She tests the edge of the sword with a callused finger and nods in satisfaction. "I am grateful for the loan of your power," she continues, "but like anything powerful, it warrants care."
Do you fear I will take it from you? Shiva has not yet told her that this is impossible.
Brigitta hums as she puts her tools away. Shiva wonders if she has forgotten the question.
"I would be worthy," Brigitta says when everything is tidy. "And if I would be worthy, I must not be careless."
The wolf pup--less a pup now, he reaches Brigitta's ribs at full stretch--whuffs and sticks his nose in her face. She laughs and rubs his ears, then goes still. "Could I share your power with him?"
None have asked her this before. To what end?
"He is a brave warrior," Brigitta says, "and a fine hunter. He could be more."
Shiva sits quiet in her mind. Ramuh would know how, she thinks, but her elder brother is dormant now. She saw the storm when his Dominant fell.
He cannot pay magic's price for you.
Brigitta's mouth twists; offense is clear in the line of her back. "I thought rather I must pay it for him," she says tartly.
Shiva is taken aback. She did not expect such generosity from a woman who calculates what she gives to others so precisely. Yet the wolf is not the same. He is not part of her scheme, though his loyalty does weigh in her favor, when she speaks to steadings in search of their support.
A gift, then, without the weight such a thing would carry between humans.
I must think on the best way, she tells her.
"I can wait." Brigitta lies down, and the wolf curls near. Their breathing evens into sleep.
Shiva lingers, wakeful. Each Dominant has her own goals, her own actions, and they are never Shiva's to control once she bestows her aether upon them. She has never thought overmuch about it. An Eikon must have a Dominant. It is a compulsion that pulses in the aether that forms their cores, a demand whose source she does not know. She has always known this pull, has always needed a mortal to shape her strength, save for when she must recover after her Dominant's death. She has never thought of liking one.
She is surprised to find that she does now--and that it matters that she might in future.
The tiniest flicker of aether, not enough to bring a cost. The press of icy lips on Brigitta's forehead. A hand on the wolf's head. They sigh and twitch in their sleep. Shiva weaves their aether together, and adds her own.
She does not know if her siblings have ever given such gifts to their Dominants. She decides it does not matter. She is herself, and she is Brigitta, and all who came before her.
She rests, and waits, for in the morning, Brigitta rides to the central steading, to challenge the thane. Shiva knows Brigitta will use magic for this, though not too much. The wolf will, as well, and both will serve to show that she has the blessing of the Lady of Ice.
When the battle is over, Shiva decides, she will shape an unmelting crown for this Dominant, a sign of her direct favor. It will fade when Brigitta does, but until then, they will rule the Northern Territories, and they will rule well.