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Sometimes, the Crystal Exarch would shut himself in the Ocular and bar the door. Sometimes, when the Ocular was empty but unlocked, he wouldn't answer the knocks on the door to that room he always spent time in. Sometimes, he wouldn't even answer Lyna. Sometimes, quiet and distant noises of what sounded like crying could be heard from within those doors.
Then, when all was said and done, he would act as if nothing happened. As if everything was okay. When asked if he was alright, if he was hurt, he would reassure those worried souls that he was perfectly fine and just needed some rest, that the times of seclusion were simply for recuperation. For some, this answer was enough to calm their concerns, but for others, like Lyna, it did nothing but strengthen their concerns. They all knew he had his reasons for keeping quiet, for hiding his pain and pretending that all was well and good under that hood of secrecy he wore. They understood. He was a leader. Leaders were supposed to be strong, wise, a shoulder for everyone to lean on, a shoulder to support them. He was what kept the Crystarium alive and thriving. And so they stayed silent, knowing that that was what he wanted.
On those days, the days where he felt like breaking, he hid himself away to grieve. In the sideroom that only he had the key to, he sat alone. The only sounds to accompany him were the low hum of the Crystal Tower's energy flowing through its walls and his own breathing. The only thoughts swirling around in his mind, the memories of days long gone. Of the days he treasured, the days he had spent with the Warrior of Light at the expedition sight just a short way from both Mor Dhona and the Crystal Tower. Though they had only known each other for a short while, the time they spent together meant everything to him. Even back then he thought so. Even 300 years later, the memories of those days were memories that he treasured above all else. They were precious to him, more precious than anything.
When they weren't devising plans and sharing thoughts together with Rammbroes and Cid, they were messing around and playing games with each other, running all over Saint Coinach’s Find like little kids at a playground, showing off and trying to outperform one another. And then at night when they would return to their shared tent to sleep, they would talk instead. Well, G'raha did most of the talking and Meteor did most of the listening… until he would ask the warrior about his many, many adventures. The hero of a few words would suddenly become a chatterbox with his limitless amount of tales to tell. Various facial expressions would dance across his face as he recalled his experiences, and G'raha would listen with great interest to all of them, his heart racing with every word that was spoken. The ones that were full of excitement, the ones that were painful and stressful, the ones that didn't have happy endings… each and every one of those stories that the Warrior of Light held close to his heart and had felt willing to share with him, from mundane fetch quests to grand expeditions into ruins that were lost to time, he felt honored to recount them together with the other man. Back then he would have never admitted it, but being able to listen to the legend himself talk about his travels as friend, as equals… To have someone who was his inspiration, someone he admired and looked up to, share with him the stories of his life was a privilege that not many could relate to.
The time he spent together with the Warrior of Light had helped him understand that, just like everyone else, that hero was a person. A normal man that liked to help others and cared for the world he lived in, as well as the people who walked its soil. So long as he was still able to go dungeon delving on the side, that is. Of course G'raha knew this already, but there were those that didn't think of it that way. Some people regarded the legendary Warrior of Light as a tool, a means to an end, a weapon of war and mass destruction. They no longer saw him as a person, but a god who walked the streets. Some revered him. Some were terrified of him. Some thought that he was a plague to not only Eorzea, but to Hydaelyn itself. If those people had the opportunity that he did to stand beside that man and get to know him, to see that he was just a regular person that helped people a little too much, then maybe they would feel differently.
Recounting those days wistfully, the Crystal Exarch sat on the floor up against the wall, tomes stacked high on both sides of him. This was one of his more regular spots, a spot he went to when he felt his emptiest and loneliest. The books surrounding him made him feel secure, like there were others who knew his pain sitting beside him. They were silent and had no words to share, but they wrapped him in a paper blanket of understanding to provide him as much comfort and warmth as they could.
They say that when you lose someone you love, their voice is the first thing that you forget. G'raha didn't believe that until a short while after he was awakened by the Ironworks. He should have seen it coming when he didn't remember the lilts present in Meteor's voice when he would talk about his adventures. But he didn't and the realization hit him like a shockwave disabling every piece of machinery in range. He had froze in place only to crumble to the ground in a fit of tears. He couldn't stand, he could barely move; the shock of it had completely shut his body down and the only thing he was capable of doing was sobbing into Biggs III's back as he carried him all the way to their destination. The voice he loved, the way he would say his name, how he sounded when he was happy, laughing, sad, angry, numb, how he would yell at G'raha while they were playing around, how he cheered when they finally gained access to the Crystal Tower… Oh how deeply he missed it, how desperately he wanted to hear it again. To remember it. From that day forward, there was an emptiness in G'raha's heart that could not be mended. A wound so great that he still feels the effects of its trauma to this day. It was paralyzing, dizzying, soul-shattering; He remembered all of the stories, but the voice that spoke and the words that came out… They were all lost to him. The stories he treasured above all else and the person who told them were fading from his memory more and more with each passing day.
It terrified him. He didn't want to forget.
And so he would sit in the sideroom that only he had the key to. In his arms, clutched tightly to his chest, were the memoirs of Count Edmont de Fortemps; its pages stained with the tears of its current owner. A book that he and Biggs III fought so hard to recover in the ruins of Fortemps Manor. Heavensward. Scattered in front of him were papers filled to the brim with words; details of a time long gone, details of the friend that faded from his memory each day. What his face looked like, his hair, the shape of his eyes and what hue they were, that scar over his right eye, his smile, his body, how much taller than G'raha he was, how big his hands were, how he would pet G'raha's head and brush his fingers over his ears… How much he longed for that touch again. This collection of words, he prayed, would serve as a reminder to him to think of Meteor. To grieve. To remember. Do not let the Warrior of Light's image disappear from your mind. You lost him once. You cannot lose him again.
Do not forget his face.