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Primal slayer. Champion of Eorzea. Shadowbringer. Hero of the Source. You’ve been given countless names in your journey across worlds, each one weighing more heavily upon you than the last, and you’ve taken them all in stride. No need to debate the worth of any of these titles; it was not your place to question the hope you instilled in others by doing what you had to do.
Indeed, you didn’t debate very much at all. Intellectual discourse was left for your more scholarly companions, while you more often got delegated to picking herbs, or slaying large spiders, or shooting blow darts to incapacitate dwarves.
It didn’t really bother you.
Why should it? Alphinaud was far better at explanations than you. Alisaie, quick to anger, expressed herself in ways you could only do through action. Even Urianger, verbose to a fault, could inspire action in others, regardless of how long it took him to get to the point. The Scions were a well-rounded group of diplomatic, adventuring mediators, and you were happy to do the physical tasks they weren’t capable of.
And why worry, anyways? People were thankful enough. You were always endeared with an overflowing amount of gifts, clothing, fine wines, declarations of love, declarations of loyalty, and wind-up versions of your friends. You’ve found being quiet doesn’t really matter, and you wouldn’t have much to say regardless.
Funnily enough, though, your breath catching at the teary smile of your long-lost love, you find yourself wishing you’d specialized in something other than being stupidly strong.
--
Had you been verbose talking to him in the past? Probably not.
Peering at your scruffy self reflected in the vanity at the Pendants, you can’t imagine anything other than being exactly yourself. Which isn’t spectacular.
You deliver a confident smirk. You make a straight face. You give an enthusiastic ‘Lali-ho!’.
Embarrassing yourself, you stick out your tongue at your reflection, trying to will away the feeling. Twelve above, if their companions could see them now. The Warrior of Light, practicing facial expressions in lieu of just learning how to say what they wanted to say.
Excruciatingly roundabout for someone who seemed content to brute force their way through every situation.
You thought back on your time surveying the Crystal Tower, what feels like a lifetime ago. Cid. Nero. Rammbroes. G’raha Tia, his soft, sad smile the last thing you saw before he locked himself away. The memory makes your chest tight with anxiety, forcing you to put a palm on the vanity to steady yourself. Gods, surely he must’ve known then, right? How you pined for him. In your youth, you were more of an open book, akin to a poem that need only be read aloud to discern the meaning.
Quiet in the wake of defeating Lahabrea, you found yourself reflecting his mischievous smiles, pouring over the tomes he brought with him from Baldesion in the late of night with nothing but the faint blue emanating from the crystals around you to light the texts. He’d seemed so strong and self-assured then, cocky even, the excitement radiating from his very aether at the chance to explore the Allagan architecture.
You used to steal glances at him, when you thought he wouldn’t catch you. At his well-defined muscles, lean from years of archery. At his mouth, always quirked, as if he were in on a secret only he knew. You’d wanted to kiss him, so many, many times. He’d seemed like a microcosm to you, a moment in time you wanted to preserve in amber. He spoke so freely, compliments falling easy from his lips. It made the more expressive you choke and blush, waving his words away in embarrassment. You were jealous of him, once.
How fantastic it must feel to forge your own path.
You smiled easily and laughed loudly, then, in love and happy, not knowing what sacrifices you’d have to make in the not-too-distant future.
--
You tried not to let the grief change you. You chose to be a warrior, did you not? When you started all of this, the warm winds of Ul’dah whipping your face, you felt as if the world was molded in your image.
How naive you were. Holding Haurchefant in your arms, his blood warming your frosted hands, you felt like a weak pawn in someone else’s game.
And yet, you got over it. You grew up. You compartmentalized G’raha, mourned Hurchefaunt, fought in the name of Ysayle, and made good on the sacrifice Papalymo made. You did it all. For them. That was good enough, right? That would heal your heart, right? They would never come back, and that was okay.
Or so you thought. Seeing G’raha Tia, beautiful ruby eyes looking at you with nothing but reverence, you felt as though your heart was about to break in half.
Perhaps you weren’t as good at moving on as you thought you were. The thought burns you.
--
Alisaie chokes on her drink, almost falling off her stool in shock. “You want to court the Exarch ?!”
Face hot as coals, you frantically gesture her to please calm down . They’re seated in a shaded portion of The Wandering Stairs, a place you thought you’d be able to speak to a friend in private . Perhaps choosing Alisaie as your first confidant wasn’t as wise as you’d thought it’d be, given how well her voice carries. She may be able to keep a secret, but the Crystarium was smaller than most small cities in Eorzea, and word was bound to travel if she kept this up.
Catching herself, Alisaie composes herself as best she can, tousling her hair in obvious discomfort. “Friend, I don’t mean to insult you, but why did you come to me? Is my dear brother not equally worthy to know who the Warrior of Darkness likes?”
You put a hand to your face in mortification. Honestly, you kind of thought she knew already. Did she not say that ‘the Exarch couldn’t die till the Warrior of Darkness said so’? You hadn’t been very subtle with falling for the Exarch, all of his tricks and wiles and the quirk of his lips reminding you of a certain someone . To find out him and G’raha are one are one and the same emboldened you beyond even that of the power of the Echo,
and also Alisaie was the first Scion you saw after you stupidly self-reflected in your chambers.
You had to get your feelings out then and there , and assumed she’d be wiser than you in the ways of love at the minimum, right?
The way her mouth twisted sour when you told her as much refuted that theory.
She fiddled with her nails, suddenly finding the glass windows of the Crystarium ceiling very interesting. “I-I only said that to make sure he wouldn’t do anything rash! It was heat of the moment, I assure you. I-I’m not as good at reading you as my brother, obviously. But...” She paused, looking at you in the eyes for the first time since you made your declaration. “C-congratulations?” She mustered up a meager smile, the thing daring to fall at any second, and you could tell that speaking of such things too girly or emotional must physically hurt her.
Perhaps you should’ve consulted with the more sensitive of the Leveilleur twins.
You lean back, contemplating what to do next, a defeated look on your face. The younger girl takes in your pitiful look and sighs, worn out from even having to entertain the thought of the strongest person alive being in love with the weird guy they helped in the First.
She presses her lips together, thinning them in a determined stare. “Have you considered just telling him how you feel?”
You feel like banging your head on the table.
--
Okay, so maybe you should consider just telling him how you feel.
Is it really that simple? Surely it can’t be.
You pull at the ends of your hair in frustration. Gods, you feel like a greenhorn in hempen clothes taking on your first enemy. You can slay Ascians with nary a care, but thinking about the cute swivel of Mi’qote ears you can sometimes see happen under the Exarch’s cowl makes your brain fizzle out like a fire extinguished with cold lakewater.
The thought of being privileged enough to see his embarrassment without the cowl, to see his face flush as red as his hair and eyes, makes you kick the bed like a schoolgirl with a crush. Ah, you’re practically burning with it! The inaction of the situation makes you feel crazed, pushing yourself up to your feet.
The determined look you give yourself in the mirror is all you need, your hands set in two fists to psych yourself up. Who cares if you’re not good at speaking? That’s never stopped you, Scions and their quick-wits be damned!
Clothed in nothing but a thin tunic top and linen shorts, you slip your boots on and run out the inn door, giving a quick salute to the manager. He’ll figure it out, probably. At least your room will remain untouched, if the townspeoples’ admiring stares are anything to go by. The Warrior of Darkness is off on another important mission to save the First, so important that they couldn’t even put on their armor! Such a tale could only be extraordinary, you could be sure.
You raced up the steps to The Dossal Gate, the gatekeep noticing your nearly panicked expression and ushering you in as fast as he can physically open the double doors. He points you to the Ocular and you run, nearly tripping over yourself in your enthusiasm to get to your love.
Love, love, love.
Your exhilarated by your own action, so excited you don’t even realize you have no plan whatsoever until the Exarch sharply turns in shock, his cowl falling off of his head at the motion.
“Warrior!?”
You stop on a dime, an ilm away from falling on your face.
Suddenly, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.
G’raha Tia is obviously shocked to see you in the Ocular, unannounced and almost in your smallclothes. The Warrior of Light suddenly feels like a candle extinguished, sheepish instantly. You want to leave. Right now. Surely if you just leave fast enough, the Exarch will think you’re just an apparition and leave it be, right?
The smaller man walks closer to you, alarmed but, perhaps, a little entertained. You can see the outline of his tail swatting the insides of his robes in confirmation. The corner of his mouth quirks up and you feel your face grow hot. Oh Gods, is he making fun of me?
You would make fun of him too, if you saw him in just his smallclothes.
Don’t. Think. About that right now.
He peers up at you, his eyes squinting in mirth at your discomfort. “My Warrior, is everything all right? You seem a bit disturbed.”
You can’t even answer him, your throat going dry. You swallow thickly. It’s all you can do to look him in the eyes, your stare trying not to waver, giving him that much. This is causing you more physical damage than fighting any primal.
Trying to compose yourself, you put a hand on his left shoulder, the warmth of it making you flush even further. Friendly-like. You try to give a small smile. Welcoming-like. This is how you court someone, right? Now for the final part of courting- expressing how you feel verbally.
You open your mouth and all that comes out is a croak.
G’raha Tia’s eyes grow wide as saucers.
Then he lets out the loudest laugh you’ve ever heard him give, in the Source or in the First. He holds his sides, the physical image of getting stitches from laughing. Red in the face, he’s almost bowed over, he’s laughing at you so hard. His hair is falling in front of his face with the exertion and you just want to die.
He lets out a few more chuckles before wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, kindly trying to save you any more embarrassment. “M-my warrior, what has gotten into you? Are you quite alright?” He’s smiling now, practically grinning. He reminds you so much of that young man you fell in love with, so long ago.
You kiss him.