memory of fossil energy

Jin, the Paragon of Torna, was stolen. Lost to an Indoline vault, and then rustled away by a half-Ardainian half-Urayan mercenary who bummed a ride on a modest Gormotti trade ship. Cultured, aren't you? Touring the world?

Perhaps that's a racist joke. But isn't it true? Don't you have to speak of it? The ways and means and nuts and bolts of the mechanics of your machinations in the world. By who, for what, in when?

And so that's the thing. Jin's not afraid of Indoline, or Ardainians, or Urayans, or Gormotti. Jin isn't even afraid of most Tornans.

The imperial contingent will seize upon him, he knows, if he should ever come into their view. Likely, they won't do it in a fashion summarily uncivilized. But they are humans, and so for all that he can trust of them, he mistrusts and distrusts exactly everything else, and then all of the same as well.

The only one Jin trusts is Lora. Lora was the victim of her father's abuse, and Jin likens the arrow's target. We persecuted, we shall run. We don't need those we came from.

We don't need them, Lora. It's okay, your mother will be fine. I haven't got a mother, see? So you shouldn't need one either. All you need is me. All I need is you.

All we need is us.

Right?

Perhaps the only Tornan (exact composition thrown aside) Jin is afraid of is Lora. Because someday, Jin knows, she will grow up. Humans always do.

"But what about Mother?" she gives to the general vicinity of a heart in his chest in the hushest of tones as they steal away.

"Don't worry about it," Jin soothes. "I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you."

The words are surface-level, because it's only been two minutes, but Jin already knows, forefront and foremost, that his life with Lora is now the utmost thing. Not her mother, and certainly not her father. Simply them. Simply the two.

She's twelve. It's been two years. She still holds his hand whenever they walk, and sometimes when she sleeps.

"Jin?"

"What is it, Lora?"

"Why don't we ever look for Mother?"

Jin doesn't answer, at first. He's not quite sure himself, after all.

"It's not safe," he manages eventually. "You could be arrested."

Killed, even, Jin thinks. Arrested? Lora thinks. But I'm just a child!

They walk on.

She's fifteen. It's been two years now since she started using to handle his sword. She doesn't hold his hand anymore, except when it braces over hers as he takes the nodachi after a fight when the monster's more exploded in its icy prison than disintegrated like a being of natural life should.

"I wonder about Mother sometimes," Lora says, still frozen in her stance. She's being genuine, not crafty. Completely innocent.

Jin doesn't feel so innocent. "I'm sure she wonders about you too," he says, and turns Lora away from the monster. Turns her away from the change.

Seventeen. Lucky number seventeen. Lora's smart, now. She knows how to couch things.

"Jin, it's still been a while. Do you think Mother's safe, wherever she is?"

Jin's taken aback by the new pattern, but he still answers, "I'm sure she is. She would want to know that you are, too."

Haze is born at the age of twenty-two. Just before her awakening, Lora asks, "Jin, don't you think it's time we started searching for Mother? Like, really looking, with our eyes peeled?"

Jin's response is automatic, snapped off. "It's too dangerous. I could lose you."

I could lose you. I could lose myself.

"You always say that," Lora bats back, whinging on the bite-away of a whine.

"It's always true," returns Jin simply, with his trademark smile that's warmer than any ice should ever be.

With his lie. With his lie about the truth. With his truth about the lie. With his lie.

Ice Blades are attuned to truth. So are Wind Blades. Sometimes Haze squints at him, in her nascence, and seems to catch on to what he's thinking. Not wholly, of course, because she's not so tapped in as Lora is. But she is whirring her gears, snitching her seams.

Haze could never be apart from Lora. That much is plainly obvious. To separate the two would be like separating sisters whose ages are disparate but whose hearts are one. You just shouldn't do it. It simply isn't done.

But Jin? There's nothing binding Jin to Lora. Not any more than any other Blade to their Driver. His armor is different, his eyes are different, his ether is different, his motions are different. She, short and spunky, and he, tall and somber.

Not any more than any other Blade to their Driver. Say it's not true. Because Lora is better than all other Drivers. And I am better than all other Blades.

There is everything binding Jin to Lora. There is love, there is fear, there is jealousy, there is envy, there is sloth, there is pride, there is greed, there is gluttony, there is lust...everything but wrath.

You're not angry at Gort. Not angry enough, that is. Your stunt was so purely performative, that you should touch the sword so close when you knew exactly what Lora would say.

Oh, but isn't Jin so honorable? How can you defile him so?

I did not call Jin a sinner. I don't need to. By and by, he realizes that himself.

It happens, and the deadliest drifts summon themselves to the forefront of Jin's mind, directly into the mounting point of his Core.

Sinner, you. That you would steal her heart. The old Jin thought about it, but he didn't do it. He chronicled it, but he did so strictly so that he would not act upon it.

Truly, he would never even consider such a thing. But here you are. You're not him. That's what you wanted, isn't it?

Isn't that what all Blades want?

I...I am better than all other Blades. Because I remember my Driver. Right? I've won. I'm winning. The Architect looks at me and asks, are you winning, my son? And I say yes. I and your other son, we are winning.

His lie. You're no better. You just shouldn't do it. It simply isn't done.

Lora screams in his bones. If you had just looked for Mother, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be here, trying to kill God. You and Haze and I would be living in a little house - no, a big house - in Lasaria, looking out for lost children.

Looking out for children. I don't think you did that very well, did you, Jin? Paragon. Paragon, indeed. Your title was stolen from the good little soldier who carved it out for you. Give it back, won't you?

No you won't. You're a little too selfish for that, Jin. Giving your life to Malos is a bit petty of a gift, don't you think? When it's been forfeit for five hundred and eleven years.

Your fault. All your fault. Not the Paragon's fault. Not Lora's fault. Your fault, Jin.

Living with ghosts, you are. So you can't complain when they remind you of everything that you stole.