Archive of Our Own ^beta

Botany was by no means your most favoured Disciple of the Land activity, but being around the literal roots of nature gave a soothing tone that none of the other Disciples were capable of achieving.

After borrowing a book from Moren, inquiring Chessamile about stock in the Spagyrics per the cooling season, and warnings of destabilizing weather like the harsh winds, you arm yourself with the tools necessary and step out into Lakeland.

(They seemed oddly pleased with the interest to go herb hunting. And insistent that it was Lakeland you had to search.)

The cool wind of Norvrandt slips through your clothing and armor as you scale to the highest point of the area, eyes searching keenly for the specific herb in the book before something else snags your attention.

The hood was tugged up, though judging from the guard keeping watch a respectable distance away, it was less about privacy and habit and more the Exarch deciding Lakeland was cold. His staff was strapped to his back as always and upon closer inspection you can spot a bag tied to his person.

You whistle out a tune to catch his attention – a tune from a song sang by the Exarch himself – and grin pleasantly when he looks your way. You would’ve sung to the former Bard yourself if it weren’t for the fact you were second-best known in the Scions as the fool who tripped over words like they were learning how to talk.

The Idol of the Crystarium raises both hands, one keeping his hood in place and the other to wave in greeting.

You jump off your location and rush at him, slowing down to retain a bit of your dignity and not sweep the man in an immediate hug.

(The last time you did that, he slumped fast enough to make you worry if he’d fainted.

He didn’t, but it was besides the point.)

“I did not realize something outside of an attack of a nearby village was capable of getting you out of the Tower.” No words were capable of expressing how pleased you were to see him jolt in surprise.

“I was reading scripts with Moren when Lyna had demanded I take a break,” he muttered, one hand grasping at the other nervously, “and all choice had been taken out of my hand when Moren agreed.”

Yes, that made sense. When the local historian and bibliophile Moren of the First Shard said someone needed a break, it was quite serious.

You gesture to the bag on his side. “Would it be bold to assume you had an idea of what medicines were lacking in the Spagyrics and forayed out here?”

The ears weren't visible from how far the hood was tugged up but you can easily imagine them flattening. “I find that botany is quite soothing, really.” The shoulders slump in what was definitely amused resignation. “I find it impossible to relax when there's something to be done, so I'm making myself useful.”

“Oh, G'raha.” The name slips out easily and you relish in the reaction before continuing. “Raha, have you completely lost all meaning of the term ‘break’? I've no Sharlayan academics under my belt, but I can at least remind you of what the word means.”

“Wh –“ G'raha takes a notable step back, hands falling to his sides and the wind picks up again enough to tear the hood from his face. Sure enough, the ears are pressed down and one of them seems to be twitching. “I’m aware, yes.”

Distinctly, at the corner of your sight, the Exarch's guard looks like she's having the time of her life just by watching you two.

“Excellent. Pray tell why you seem so insistent on over working yourself?”

“I –“ He flushes and reels back slightly. “I assure you that I genuinely find botany appealing. I simply wished to remain productive amidst my…”

“Forced vacation.”

“… Not in so many words, but yes.”

(You remember a wide-eyed historian nearly five summers ago, pouring over books and scrolls in an attempt to contribute to the findings of a long-lost tower, a layer of worry hidden underneath cheery songs of inspiration.

Many things have changed, but the final member of Allagan royalty has not.)

You relent, sighing quietly and he twists his hands archaically. “Fine,” you say. He seems to properly relax now. “I’ll bribe your personal guard to not say anything about your audacity to work.”

G’raha lets out a squawk. You can't help the grin that appears and he eventually returns it just as warmly. “In return, since we're here, we ought to put our efforts together, hm?”

“Ah,” he replies intelligently, such as one of Sharlayan upbringing, “I had not realized you had interest on the natures of the First.”

You lean over and snag an herb from his bag, twirling it lightly between your fingers. It looked like the one you were sent out to hunt for. “There’s enough difference from the Source that it gained mine interest. To pass up on a chance to experiment with new items, ‘twould be a crime.”

Slipping the book out your pack, you compare the herb in your fingers as you flip to the page pinned. “Are we of similar goals, then?” G’raha asks and you nod, putting the book back.

“If you’re not opposed.” Squinting at him, you mourn the fact that his ears aren’t of a Hyur. “Hold onto this.” You reach over and push the flower near his ear, resisting the urge to stroke it and grabbing the stem of the flower. It was long enough for you to wrap around the ear without making contact with it. Satisfied, you let the flower drop innocently on his head.

You take a step back and admire your work. The winds have calmed enough so that his robes shifted against the force. The medicinal flower used for painkillers sat cheerfully against the ears that pressed themselves down. The Exarch looks as if he’s ready to pass out. G’raha Tia is likely screaming internally.

Excellent. You grin. “Shall we get to work then?”

He sputters and you tug at his arm, bringing him with you as you both cross the expanse of Lakeland.

It’s hours later when the light begins to dip and the skies turn a fiery orange that you two settle against a tree, watching as the sky changes colours far different from the everlasting light. You check your findings against the dying light and tie it off, satisfied with the yield. Beside you, the Exarch hums quietly, near imperceptible against the wind threatening to build up.

It’s a tune you recall fondly, the notes and lyrics scrawled upon the remains of G’raha’s notes when you were assisting Rammbroes and Cid in finding notes that the last son of Allag left behind.

When you analyze the best time to join in the song, the strong winds mentioned by members of the Crystarium blasts through once more. You find it a perfect temperature but you can see G’raha shiver lightly from the chill. Ironic, really, from the name of the song he’s humming.

And an idea comes to mind.

You stare down at the grass under your feet. You’re an experienced botanist, and while admittedly not all grasses and weeds were the same from the Source, your instinct says its fine.

Like every hardened warrior, a fighter of Primals and Ascians, you move to sit, trip on your feet, and land gracefully on the grass.

Perfect.

You can sense G’raha staring at you and you respond in kind. He shifts awkwardly and you gesture at him to come closer. “Are you alright?” He asks. His voice is quiet against the wind, and you’re sure the chill is making it sound quieter, sound weaker.

“Quite. Though I would be much better if there was something to join me.”

“… Oh?” He sounds timid now as he steps closer. If only he’d stop shaking from the cold.

His robes graze your fingers and you grab onto them tightly, pulling him down with enough force to surprise him and you cushion his fall by letting him drop on your lap. “Much obliged.” You already felt better and you hope much more he feels better as well.

The sound G’raha makes is akin of one drinking water after a trek in the desert. The herb from earlier is still dangling from the ear.  “I – pardon me?”

You wrap an arm against his form and he relaxes into it, shifting into a seemingly comfortable position. “How are you feeling?” You ask. “Still chilly?”

“N-not within your grasp, no.”

The wind speaks up against him. As much as you like the feeling, you’re getting tired of it speaking over you two.

You toy with his hair lightly and he moves into the touch. “Excellent. If you are not opposed, then we’ll stay here until the winds calm.” You’re not sure where the guard assigned to the Exarch’s protection is, exactly, but you put your magical skills to use and send out a symbol signalling your position.

“That’s – it’s not necessary –“

You press a finger to his lips and he quiets. “Indeed, it’s not necessary, but if you’d humour me, I’d much appreciate it.”

G’raha exhales lightly and you pull the finger away. In response he turns and presses his face lightly against your stomach. “My apologies for distracting you from your duties,” G'raha murmurs. You tighten your hold on him ever so lightly l but it's enough to make him shift closer. “’twas not my intent.”

“Nonsense. Truly, there is a selfish reason why I volunteered.” G’raha kept quiet and pressed the side of his face to your arm. “I was out here to collect herbs for you,” you press a hand to his chest, over the location of his heart, “to assist in your healing. But I suppose keeping you warm counts as helping build your health back up.”

One of his hands reaches up to poke the flower at his ear. It’s very likely he knows exactly what the herb is used for.

“… Mayhaps my experience with botany is less than yours,” he says, “but I do not think this is how medicines are meant to be used.”

That certainly answers your question.

(Many things have changed, but the final member of Allagan royalty has not.)

“Cheeky,” you reply and you tug at his hair lightly, making him show his face and you dip down to press your lips to his. An innocent kiss against the transitioning skies. “Let us hope that I shall have the time to show you how it’s done, then.”