Phyna's Story (Final Fantasy XI) Part 1
FFXI: Phyna's Story
by J.M. Frith
**
Twenty Years Ago...
**
It would be a long time before the memories of that day ever returned to her, and even then, years later, Phyna would only be able to scrape together disjointed fragments and call them a recollection. It had been a battle, she knew that much. Such a great and terrible struggle that she was sure that either it was remembered to this day in history texts and songs, or no one had survived to tell the tale but her, and the specifics had been long forgotten. She never sought to find out, the cold memory of that day in the frozen wastelands being more than enough for her.
She had been a fighter, a warrior. Unrefined, some would say, in the art of fighting. But she was good, knew she had been one of the best, good stand beside one of those specialist fighters, and as many would fall to her sword as the next one.
It had been a last stand, a final struggle. Against what, Phyna wished she could recall, but no matter how hard she tried to remember, the knowledge slipped away from her. She remembered the cold metal of her armour reaching her even through the leather and woollen padding underneath it. Her sword had been held in slowly numbing fingers, the exposed skin on her face painful from the wind chill, and ever so slowly, her motions had become more and more sluggish as the cold penetrated to her bones, and fatigue as the unrelenting hordes swept over the army in wave after wave.
She had stood as close as she could to a man, someone close to her, she thought. A friend, a lover, a husband... yes... her husband, she would later remember, vaguely, thinking of a man who smiled down at her and who would dance with her in the same graceful fashion as he swung his Samurai katana. She often wished she could remember his name.
They fought back to back, she and her husband, protecting one another and cut off from the majority of their forces. The enemy, the Beastmen, the Demons, had tried to break up the ranks as much as possible, and unfortunately Phyna's comrades had succumbed to the enemy, and each was surrounded, fighting for their lives.
Phyna ducked below the deceptively slow strike of one monster, only to raise her shield and deflect the fists of another that would have crushed her before she could regain her footing in the ice and snow. What had been nothing more than a little flurry of snow had turned into a blizzard, making it almost impossible to see any distance. Most of her memory consisted of that blank whiteness, with the dark spiky forms of Demons moving through it, and it filled her dreams on those rare occasions when her sleep was uninterrupted.
She didn't remember when it happened, or even what happened, exactly. She felt more than heard the great crashing blow that sent her husband to the ground, and the way he lay there unnaturally still, the snow already beginning to cover his battered and dented armour, and the manner in which the monsters instantly dismissed him from their attention spoke to her. It told her he was dead, and she stood alone against these creatures.
But she would not idly wait for death to take her, not rely on someone to save her like some sort of weak mage. She was a warrior. She was trained to fight to the very last. And so she did. Though her limbs were heavy, and her grip on her weapon was more a force of will than physical strength, she fought the Demons. No matter where she struck, her sword was no match for the armour of the enemy. And so she simply focused on trying to stay alive, dodging, deflecting, and praying to anything that might have been listening that she would survive to bury her husband.
Any Gods that might have heard her plea were unmerciful. Her foot caught on a rock hidden in the snow, large enough that it caused her to lose her balance, and the next blow from a Demon weapon sent her crashing to the ground. How many times it hit her, she didn't know. It seemed unhurried, content to torment her by beating her bluntly before striking a killing blow. By now she couldn't move, the cold, her injuries, and her fatigue meant she could do no more than lie there, powerless to fight any longer. Had she had the strength, she might have wept.
Then something happened, and she never could remember what. One minute she was feeling bones break and blood seep into the snow, and the next nothing but an eerie silence reigned, punctuated by the howling of the wind. She might have seen the Demons turning towards their fortress of black spikes, but all she knew was that one minute she remembered them there, and the next minute, they were gone, almost as if they had never been.
It was the last, and sadly, firmest memory that Phyna had of her life before. What happened later, was nothing more than scattered words and sensations. She felt herself dragged across the ice, felt the rocking of the ocean, as if on a ship. She remembered a hand swiping across her face, and a voice saying her name.
“Phyna,” she remembered hearing, “Oh, Phyna.”
She remembered the rocking worsening. She remembered screaming.
And then she woke up.
**
Phyna had once, in her youth, thought that the idea that when returning from unconsciousness, hearing is the first to come back, was silly. It was true, though. She could hear the sound of someone moving about the room, and in the distance she could hear the sound of ocean waves roaring in the distance, the sound of the tide. She vaguely tried to move, but it felt like her hands were pinned beneath the blanket tucked about her, and she couldn't even make a finger twitch.
“How is she?” she heard. It was a man's voice, strangely accented. Strange in what way? Phyna found she couldn't quite recall.
“Lady badly hurt, yesh?” There was the clacking of what sounded like something ceramic being moved and set down. “Very wet, lots of bone broken and smooshed. Lady ship crash on reef?”
“Who knows?” A soft grunt, perhaps of displeasure.
“Ooh. Poor Lady. Her ship crashed and no one left. Very sad.”
Phyna vaguely felt she might have enough energy to try and and move, but in the end, she only managed to prise open one eye, and couldn't focus. She saw a hazy shape of blue, and a smaller one of brown before she was forced to close her eyes once more. She tried to move, and this apparently drew the attention of the others in the room.
“She awakens. Tend to her.”
There were footsteps and a low voiced grumbling. “Tend to Lady. Valaroon been tending to sickies longer time than silly Immortal.” A small hand, gentle, touched her forehead, and Phyna felt a cool cloth being gently laid there. She prised open her eyes and found her strength returning enough to focus on what could only be described as an impressively long nose.
The creature was small, with ears as long as its nose and had hands ending in three long claws. All in all, it looked rather like a rather oversized mouse. It was clad in loose leather garments, and was peering at her with an unerringly curious expression in its blue eyes. “How Lady feeling?” it said, and Phyna connected the voice with this 'Valaroon' that had been speaking.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice cracked and nothing emerged but a dry whisper. She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue felt like rough paper. The creature waddled out of sight for a moment before returning with a slightly chipping mug. “Lady drink this,” it said and Phyna, after a moment of listening to the voice and mannerisms of the creature gained the sense that it was female, “and slowly.”
Phyna did as she was told, cautiously sipping a little at a time at blissfully cool clean water, and only Valaroon's prompting stopped her from guzzling it all down. The mug was empty soon enough, and Phyna found swallowing wasn't so much of a chore. Valaroon took the mug from her, her claws clinking against the porcelain and turned the cloth on her forehead over with her other hand.
“Now, you tell Valaroon Lady's name.”
What was her name? She licked her lips, trying to impart moisture to them.
Phyna... oh Phyna...
“Phyna...” she said uncertainly, and was faintly dismayed at how rough her voice was. There was an odd catch in her throat and she reached up with a hand that she managed to worm out from under the blankets to touch an ugly-feeling scar that ran in a slash diagonally down to her collarbone.
Valaroon watched her trace the scar and set aside the mug, saying, “Looks like Phyna's ship got into a fight with the jaggedy-jaggedy rocks and lost, yesh?”
“No, I...” Phyna hesitated, and found suddenly that she couldn't remember. “I was in a fight but... a battle I... where was I? Where am I?” She struggled to a half-sitting position, but her body betrayed her, leaving her sagging back against the padding of the bed she was lying in, her strength having deserted her. She glanced around. Brick walls, pots and jars of various types, and an ornate door blocking the chamber off from the rest of the world. None of it familiar. “What's going on?
What are you? Why...” She raised a shaking hand to her face and pressed the bridge of her nose tightly. Pain spiked behind her eyes and she almost felt like crying from the sheer confusion of it all. “Oh dear Goddess what...?”
Valaroon was looking at her with clear concern. The little creature pulled over a wooden stool and hopped onto it, putting her at eye level with her patient. “What /do/ you remember?” she asked.
“I... nothing...” She did cry then, feeling the dampness welling up, helpless to stop it. “Help me, I don't even... who am I?
I don't know... I don't remember...”
Valaroon took the cloth from her forehead, dipping it in a bowl of water next to her, wringing it out carefully. “This is what Valaroon knows, yesh?” She carefully, gently, wiped Phyna's face, wordlessly cleaning her tears, and Phyna couldn't help but feel somewhat soothed by the wordless gesture of comfort. “Fishing boat goes out and finds you in little dingy drifting along waves like poor little leaf, yesh... poor Phyna battered and bruised and broken, and the Immortals sees you and brings you to Valaroon. Heal Lady, they says, so I does the healing.” She rinsed and wrung the cloth out once more, before replacing the cloth on her forehead. “They thinks you some fisher person. Imperial doctors too good for Lady, so little Valaroon sees to things.”
“Fishing? I...” Phyna struggled to remember. To remember a life, a place anything... but every time she tried to reach into that past that she knew /had/ to be there somewhere, all she could see was... “Ice. I remember... ice. And a battle. Dark spikes and shadows. A big battle.”
Valaroon's nose twitched. “Perhaps you is from the Middle Lands, yesh?” The little creature seems quite excited at the prospect. “Whispers in Al Zahbi say great battle fought in the icy cold of the Middle Lands. Great great battle. Many warriors die, maybe...” Valaroon faltered, and the small clawed hand carefully patted her arm. “Maybe this is where Phyna came from, yesh?”
“I...” Phyna just closed her eyes and tried to will her thoughts into order.
“This is also what Valaroon knows,” the small healer said, “This is Al Zahbi, the Imperial capital, yesh? Valaroon is a healer, only little skill. Little magics, potions and poultices. Little things. Valaroon is Qiqirn, since Phyna asked.” She make a little snorting squeaking sound that Phyna guessed was supposed to be laughter. “And you don't remember maybe because of being so battered and broken, yesh? Lady hurt her head and things go all scrambled funny. Like eggs.” She hesitated and added, “Phyna has been here nearly two weeks already. Immortals not tell Valaroon anything else. Except that strange one here just now. Maybe thought you were spy, yesh?” The Qiqirn seemed amused. “As if you could spy in your state.”
“If I'm a spy,” Phyna said, her voice hollow and sounding odd to her own ears, rougher and catching on occasional words.
“Then I don't remember it.”
Valaroon eyed her carefully. “If you are,” she said, slowly, “Then you are to be disappointed. No way back to the Middle Lands, oh no. The Empire doesn't let just anyone travel abroad, and the Immortals will be watching you.” She tapped her claws together in a thoughtful gesture.
“Think they'll arrest me?”
Valaroon snorted, but it sounded more like a sneeze. “Doubtful. You can barely walk. If you're a spy, Valaroon is a Mithra.”
Phyna didn't manage to stop herself from reflexively glancing down, looking for a tail. Valaroon caught the glance and laughed, a high pitched sound that wasn't as piercing as it should have been. “Well, Miss Probably-Not-A-Spy Lady, you're getting better. You'll be out of Valaroon's claws quick-quick if you're good.” She pulled a large mug off the sideboard and held it out to Phyna.
“Now,” she said, “Drink your soup.”
And that, it seemed, was that.
**