gwen

In the Thirteenth, Mihri encounters a familiar voidsent, and despite their fraught history, she finds herself drawn to Zero. Together, they'll make a new beginning.

A FFXIV fic about Zero/WoL, established Y'shtola/WoL, and Zero/WoL/Y'shtola.

On AO3 here.

On AO3 here

In the Thirteenth, Mihri encounters a familiar voidsent, and despite their fraught history, she finds herself drawn to Zero. Together, they'll make a new beginning.

A FFXIV fic about Zero/WoL, established Y'shtola/WoL, and Zero/WoL/Y'shtola.

On AO3 here.

(An alteration of "Robin Hood Rescuing Three Squires," aka Child Ballad 140, to be about a Keeper of the Moon folk heroine from FFXIV)

There are twelve moons in all the year,
And for each a place is there,
But the merriest moon in all the year,
Is the moon of Llymlaen fair.

Now Hooded Robh is to Quarrymill gone,
With a link a down and a day,
And there she met a sorry old woman,
Was weeping on the way.

What news? what news, thou sorry old woman?
What news has thou for I?
Said she, There’s three lasses in Quarrymill town
To-day is condemned to die.

O have they a Hedgetree burnt?
Or have they innocents slain?
Or have they robbed any widow,
Nor with any by force have lain?

They have not a Hedgetree burnt, good miss,
Nor yet have innocents slain,
Nor have they robbed any widow,
Nor with any by force have lain.

O what have they done? said bold Hooded Robh,
I pray thee tell to me.
It’s for slaying the Hearer’s fallow deer,
Bearing their short bows with thee.

Dost thou not mind, old woman, she said,
Since thou made me sup and dine?
By the truth of my body, quoth bold Hooded Robh,
You could not tell it in better time?

Now Hooded Robh is to Quarrymill gone,
With a link a down and a day,
And there she met with a sorry old beggar,
Was walking along the high way.

What news? what news, thou sorry old man?
What news I do thee pray?
Said he, Three lasses in Quarrymill town,
Are condemned to die this day.

Come change thy apparel with me, old man,
Come change thy apparel for mine;
Here is eighty gil both spick and span,
Go drink it in mead or wine.

O thine apparel is good, he said,
And mine is ragged and torn;
Wherever you go, wherever you ride,
Laugh ne’er an old man to scorn.

Come change thy apparel with me, old bones,
Come change thy apparel with mine;
Here are forty pieces of good tomestones,
Go feast thy brethren with wine.

Then she put on the old man’s hat,
It fit her ears in the crown:
Tho’ first bold bargain that I come at,
It shall make thee come down.

Then she put on the old man's cape,
Was patch’d black, blue and red,
But her tail it would in full drape,
To pass as Hyur instead.

Then she put on the old man's breeks,
Was patch’d from ballup to side;
By the truth of my body, daring Robh can say,
This man lov’d little pride.

Then she put on the old man's hose,
Were patch’d from knee to wrist;
By the truth of my body, said bold Hooded Robh,
I'd laugh if I had any list.

Then she put on the old man's shoes,
Were patch’d both beneath and above;
Then Hooded Robh swore a solemn oath,
By a woman’s good habit drove.

Now Hooded Robh is to Quarrymill gone,
With a link a day and a down,
And there she met with the proud sheriff,
Was walking along the town.

O save, O save, O sheriff, she said,
O save, and you may see!
And what will you give to a poor old woman
To-day will your hangman be?

Some suits, some suits, the sheriff he said,
Some suits, I'll give to thee;
Some suits, some suits, and gil thirteen
To-day's a hangman's fee.

Then Robh she turns him around about,
And jumps from stock to stone;
By the truth of my body, the sheriff he said,
That's well jumpt, thou spry old woman.

I was ne’er a hangman in all my life,
Nor yet intends to trade;
But curst be she, said daring Robh,
That first a hangman was made.

I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt,
And a bag for barley and corn;
A bag for bread, and a bag for beef.
And a bag for my little small horn.

I have a horn in my pocket,
I got from Robh o’ the Hood,
And still when I set it to my mouth,
For thee it blows little good.

O wind thy horn, thou proud matron,
Of thee I have no doubt;
I wish that thou give such a blast
Till both thy eyes fall out.

The first loud blast that she did blow,
She blew both loud and shrill;
A good dozen twice of Hooded Robh's women
Came riding over the hill.

The next loud blast that she did give,
She blew both loud and amain,
And swift ten more of Hooded Robh’s women
Came shining over the plain.

O who are you, the sheriff he said,
Come tripping over the lee?
They're my attendants, daring Robh did say,
They'll pay a visit to thee.

They took the gallows from the slack,
They set it in the glen,
They hang’d the proud sheriff on that,
Releas’d their own women.

It goes like this: there is a woman, called “hero” by many, and she dies threefold. Once by hanging, once by burning, once by wounding. That is not the whole of it, of course. But it is a place to begin.

Long, long after the Seventh Astral Era, songs of the Warrior of Light are still sung. This is one such tale.

A FFXIV fic in the style of a myth.
On AO3 here