aether - midgardsormr

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stories

stories featuring arthur and his lived experiences

Notes about Arthur:

A more detailed run-down of Arthur's history and background! It goes through everything from his origins, childhood to 1.0, and ARR onward. Some information is written down with images alongside them and subjected to change.

pre-1.0

1.0 (before the meteor)

2.0 (A Realm Reborn)

2.X - 2.55 (Before the Fall)

3.0 (Heavensward)

3.x-3.55 (The Far Edge of Fate)

4.0 (Stormblood)

4.x-4.55 (A Requiem for Heroes)

5.0 (Shadowbringers)

5.x-5.3 (Reflections in Crystal)

5.4-5.55 (Death Unto Dawn)

6.0 (Endwalker)

6.x-6.5 (Buried Memory)

7.0 (Dawntrail)

**
TO BE CONTINUED...**

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arthur references

General timeline of appearance

pre-1.0/1.0/2.0 (A Realm Reborn)

3.0-3.55 (Heavensward)

5.0- 5.55 (Shadowbringers)

6.0 - 6.x (Endwalker)

6.4 (Endwalker) - 7.0 (Dawntrail)

misc references

drawn references

ARTHUR ART (COMMISSIONED)

ARTHUR ART (SKEB)

GIFT ART

FROM ARTFIGHT

personal art (2024)

personal art (2023)

personal art (2022)

personal art (2021)

personal art (2020)

personal art (2019)

personal art (2018)

books

physical compilation of art i've drawn personally of my warrior of light.
volume 1: aria
volume 2: legato
volume 3: cantabile

Misc

Day 1: Cross

One hop across-One more step across the river-His footsteps stuttered at the river’s bank, his breath hitching. Blue eyes stared at the devastation of his village, the debris still smoking from the mechanical men and their machines that had marched across the cloudy hills not a day prior.Cross the river, find your parents at home-No, that way lies danger!How can home be dangerous?He steps into the river bank. The water is cloudy now, littered with the leftovers of the carnage of his village and its remains.“Hey! There’s a kid over there!”“Get him, don’t let him go back to the village, the Garleans are still there!”Rough arms (not his father’s, not his mother’s) wrapped around his tiny body and lifted him off the water. He cries, beating his fists against the stranger’s back- he needs to go back, he needs to cross the river to see if his father and mother were-They carried him away from the river, away from his village, to the sea, a nearby port. His cries had slowed down, his breathing evened out.They put him on the boat headed west without asking. They were going to cross the wide, vast unknown, they told him. It was packed full of other people- women, children his age, the elderly, all huddled together in the tight space. The silence and the occasional cry or sniffle assailed him as he crouched in his own corner, far away from everyone.Mother. Father.His hands scratched across the wooden boards, splinters caught in his dirty nails. With anger, he scrubbed at his cheeks, rubbing at the tears that fell.Don’t cry, his grandfather’s stern words echoed in his ears, crying is unseemly of the village heir.It didn’t matter now. The tears fell, thick and fast, silent and deadly. In shame, he buried his head into his knees.Above him, the sea wind blew- the scent of sorrow lingering in the breeze. An echo of the dead and the past that had just so recently been his present.

Day 2: BOLT

A streak across the night skies, a bolt of white against inky blue-He sits on the hill and watches the myriad of meteors as they fall to the ground, lighting up the sky with little pinpricks of white. Against this canvas of life he sits in silence, the only noise around him the gentle cooing of the Lominsan karakul and the crickets that come out to forage at night.One karakul gently bumps its face against his hand and he rubs its nose back in response absentmindedly.The same bolt of white flashes again, lighting up his face once more.Falling stars, meteors flashing down-He bolts upwards from his lax posture, panting as he looks up frantically, desperately searching the sky.There is nothing, no flaming stars, no meteors- just the twinkling of stars from far, far away.

Day 3: TEMPER

He is tempered, he hears the whispers around him as he walks through the Waking Sands.There is no way he survived the battle with the primal unscathed, the rest gossip in their corners and quieten as he passes them on his way.Tempering, they called it- to have one’s will completely overwritten by a primal force so powerful it renders one helpless before its might.Minfilia smiles at him as he enters the solar quietly.“Did you have a difficult time with the primal?”A pause before he replies. “Is there a cure for it?”She cocks her head at him curiously. “For what, my friend?”“Tempering,” he answers shortly. “What the rest are talking about.”She is quiet for a moment before answering. “Why are you asking?” There is no rebuke in her voice, merely a desire to understand his question.“I-” His voice dies in his throat, the words struggling to escape. “Just in case. If I were,” Again the words are stuck on his tongue. “Tempered.”The breath of air she releases is not the answer he is looking for. “No. There is no cure for tempering as we know it.” Another pause. “Are you scared?”His response is curt. “No.”“You asked if you were tempered.” She pushes against his facade of shortness. “Do not worry, my friend. We will know for certain if you are.”“But how would I know?” He pushes back.“You won’t.” Minfilia exhales again. “Because your mind would be in thrall to the primal, and all you would know would be that burning desire to worship and to serve. Death would best suit one already doomed to tempering.”Silence reigns in the solar. “Is there anything else, my friend?”He folds his arms and hangs his head low as he ponders what he knows. “Nothing.”She is sceptical of him, he can tell, in the glances she shoots his way, but she lets it go just this once. “Remember that I am always here for you, should you have any more questions.” She pauses, a small smile curling her lips. “Arthur.”He startles at his name, but continues hanging his head low as he exits.He can still feel her gaze burning through his back as the heavy doors close behind him.The ghost is waiting outside for him as he exits the Waking Sands. Slouched against the brick wall overlooking the pier, it looks incredibly bored, ignoring the sun shining down directly on it.“You think I’m a primal.” The ghost says as he crosses its path. He stills, but doesn’t turn his head towards it. “You think I have you tempered.”He snorts. “What else are you?”The ghost grins, infuriating him. “I don’t know.”“Stop speaking in riddles!” He growls. He must look positively insane to everyone else around him, talking to thin air, but he cares not at this point. “You have haunted me ever since I was old enough, can you not give me the courtesy of giving me a proper answer?”“How can this one give you an answer if I do not know it myself?” The ghost frowns, tapping a finger against its chin as it looks at him. “One must be careful before giving out untoward lies disguised as answers.”“You are stalling again.” He barks.The ghost smiles serenely. In all its time with him he has never once managed to provoke it to anger. “Mayhap. Or mayhap I am searching for the answer myself.”“But rest be reassured, you are not tempered. And neither am I the primal controlling your will.” It grins once more. “After all, you are arguing with me, are you not?”He spins away on his feet, marching towards the chocobo porter. He’s had enough of entertaining this phantasm, this wisp of his imagination that has done nothing but needled him constantly while mimicking his exact appearance down to the very shape of his eyes and face. It was but a mockery born of his trauma, he had long reasoned, his mind racing to protect itself by giving it an outlet to talk to.The ghost watches him go, the humour in its eyes going out.“Tempering.” It muses. “I see now.” It quietly sighs to itself as it slowly fades out.There is no cure for tempering.But… what if…?

**Day 4: Marked **

The first thing someone says to him when he wakes up in the bale of hay is forever seared into his mind.“Ahoy, lad! That’s a fantastic tattoo on that back of yours- never seen one like that in all my years around these places. You got someplace ya gotta go?”He spits out the mouthful of hay in his mouth, gags, and turns his head to face the speaker. A hearty Sea Wolf stares back at him, and that is when he realises he is buck naked.“Ah- pardon, sir-” He starts, face flaming red as he tries to wiggle deeper into the haystack. “I seem to have lost my undergarments.”The Roegadyn man roars in laughter at his predicament. “I can see that! Best you stay put lad, I’ll get you some of me son’s old things out for ya.”Later when he is clothed and fed by the kindly stranger and ushered into the guest room of the family house, he takes his borrowed shirt off and turns his back to the mirror.His eyes widened. On the top of his back, between his shoulder blades is etched a mark that had not existed the day before.A foreign tattoo he fails to recognise, one of the darkest black he’s had ever seen, is seared into his skin. He raises his arms to scratch at it and it doesn’t flake off, nor does it lighten in intensity.“What in the-” He swears as he spins around almost comically, nearly losing his balance.Where had this mark come from? It had definitely not been on his back before- before-----The red moon falling- closer, closer, closer- the screams of the men around him, Nael’s final words ringing, echoing in his ears-Wings of destruction unfurling before his ears- an earth shattering roar that is heard for yalms and yalms beyond- the prayers they chant rising, rising, rising-Bahamut- oh lord Bahamut, grant us your succor and your aid--He jerks back to the present, panting. He is sweating profusely, the mysterious tattoo standing out even more on his sweat painted back.Had Bahamut done this to him? Nael? Louisoix, when he had summoned the Twelve to his aid-?No, no, no- he had to find them all- ask them questions---Too late, too late, he was too late once again- they were all gone-- Five years since Carteneau, they told him. Five years too late, the words rang in his ears as he trudged around Limsa Lominsa. Nobody could recognise him, nor did they meet his requests for knowledge on the survival of the Circle of Knowing.It was as if they never existed, nor did he.But he is here now- and that mark on his back-He had no answers to his questions. But forward is all he can go, he acknowledges this grimly, as he steps into a new chapter of his story.

Day 5: Cutting Corners

He leaves the edges unsanded, the bows unplucked-Faster, he has to go faster or they will call his name-They call it anyway.Arthur! The scream of his name echoes on the wind and he winces.They asked him once how he had chosen his name, as many seafarers are wont to do, and he shrugged. It had come to him, as many things had, and he had stuck with it.Quickly, quickly- he rubs off the oil on the ingot and puts it back in the box.Some things are just not earned in misery and the degradation of his worth.

Day 6: Onerous

This duty of his, this burden- each day as it passes it grows yet more onerous, weighing down on him-The years passed by and its weight grew more and more crushing-But then, a flicker of light, a call back to his duty and-He saw it again, that blinding light from a soul so intimate and familiar to him. He reached out and-It flickered at his touch, a feeble mimicry of what it used to be but still, still-Warm. So very warm.He shrivelled away, withdrawing to the shadows. No, no he couldn’t- he had to continue onwards, he was the only one left.None would stop his mission.

Day 7: Pawn

That was all he was to them in the end, he supposed. A pawn to be shifted around on life’s grand chessboard.The Scions, the Circle- everyone saw him as a mere pawn to be commanded, to be controlled, to be recalled and sacrificed as needed.He didn’t mind. It was all he was supposed to be.No, no, no- that dark voice whispered deep within. You are meant to control your own fate- to chart your own path, you are not beholden to anyone-He swatted that voice away, locked it deep within the recess of his mind.But still, in his darkest hours, in his most miserable of times, it came back to haunt him.A mere pawn you are, it taunted, nothing more, not ever, not now-Go away, he hissed at it. Go away-And it went away. But always, always it came back-Because as long as he saw himself as naught but an item to be used, deep in his subconscious, he knew it was always going to haunt him.I will be here. Always.You need but ask.

character bio- arthur forrest
written by: writingbunny

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AT THE END OF ALL THINGS

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can you hear me?

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