There’s never enough time. From the First to the Source, one adventure to the next without pause, without rest, without time to process or say good-bye.
They've told him he’s fine — better than fine, even. More than he had been before. Purged of his excess light. Cleansed. And utterly unharmed (at least, physically).
He doesn’t argue. Doesn't mention that, weeks on, his nervous system, forehead to fingertips, still roils in quiet moments, the whole-body churning of a bad hangover. Doesn't ask about the strange green life that sprouts from his skin or whether the color will ever come back to his hair. Doesn’t tell anyone that fine feels far away now.
Because there are so many already lost, and too many more he can yet save. Because a smile better suits a hero. Because, well, there's just not enough time. Too much else to worry over. Like this Allag business, and the mess that’s come along with it.
Truth be told, Viktor doesn’t quite get it. Maybe he would’ve if he’d paid attention, but that debriefing had gone on and on without so much as a snack break. All political theater and over-delicate diplomacy. Not nearly enough actionable planning or meat miq’abobs. And, oh—Shtola had been there, too, and in his estimation, her presence was a free ticket to turn off his own brain. Details, remembering, that's her wheelhouse.
But, Allag. Weird, right? They’re back. Or…revealed? Something like that. Hopefully better behaved than they had been a few eras ago. Ostensibly eager to peacefully rejoin the world stage — after an obligatory diplomatic tour of the Allied Nations, of course.
Of course. And that’s why Viktor is here. Home. Vesper Bay. Standing so near to the former headquarters of the Scions — a proximity that is thankfully only fleetingly painful. Who better to escort the crown prince of Allag across Eorzea than the Warrior of Light, himself?
Having grown tired of waiting for the procession of diplomats and guards to disembark, Viktor steals a glance at himself reflected in a nearby window. He’s just getting over the shock of his still unfamiliar pearly gray hair when his gaze settles on the reflection of the ship and the outline of a familiar form setting foot on land. Viktor thinks passingly that the line of his mouth, perfectly reflected by the glass, is so achingly right that it might make him sick. Entirely undignified, he whips around, heart and head fighting over who it is exactly he expects to see.
His head wins out. A miqo’te, yes, but a whole one. No blue crystal skin, no walking staff, no wise, mysterious smile. Viktor does his best to school his disappointment. His voice cracks all the same when he chirrups, "Well met…er, your highness?"
allagan prince au
They've told him he’s fine — better than fine, even. More than he had been before. Purged of his excess light. Cleansed. And utterly unharmed (at least, physically).
He doesn’t argue. Doesn't mention that, weeks on, his nervous system, forehead to fingertips, still roils in quiet moments, the whole-body churning of a bad hangover. Doesn't ask about the strange green life that sprouts from his skin or whether the color will ever come back to his hair. Doesn’t tell anyone that fine feels far away now.
Because there are so many already lost, and too many more he can yet save. Because a smile better suits a hero. Because, well, there's just not enough time. Too much else to worry over. Like this Allag business, and the mess that’s come along with it.
Truth be told, Viktor doesn’t quite get it. Maybe he would’ve if he’d paid attention, but that debriefing had gone on and on without so much as a snack break. All political theater and over-delicate diplomacy. Not nearly enough actionable planning or meat miq’abobs. And, oh—Shtola had been there, too, and in his estimation, her presence was a free ticket to turn off his own brain. Details, remembering, that's her wheelhouse.
But, Allag. Weird, right? They’re back. Or…revealed? Something like that. Hopefully better behaved than they had been a few eras ago. Ostensibly eager to peacefully rejoin the world stage — after an obligatory diplomatic tour of the Allied Nations, of course.
Of course. And that’s why Viktor is here. Home. Vesper Bay. Standing so near to the former headquarters of the Scions — a proximity that is thankfully only fleetingly painful. Who better to escort the crown prince of Allag across Eorzea than the Warrior of Light, himself?
Having grown tired of waiting for the procession of diplomats and guards to disembark, Viktor steals a glance at himself reflected in a nearby window. He’s just getting over the shock of his still unfamiliar pearly gray hair when his gaze settles on the reflection of the ship and the outline of a familiar form setting foot on land. Viktor thinks passingly that the line of his mouth, perfectly reflected by the glass, is so achingly right that it might make him sick. Entirely undignified, he whips around, heart and head fighting over who it is exactly he expects to see.
His head wins out. A miqo’te, yes, but a whole one. No blue crystal skin, no walking staff, no wise, mysterious smile. Viktor does his best to school his disappointment. His voice cracks all the same when he chirrups, "Well met…er, your highness?"