Work Text:
My name is Puhla’ir.
I guess you know that. Everyone does, now.
It’s strange, you know, being loved by people I’ve never met. I guess I shouldn’t say things like that, though. At least I’m loved, you know? Anyways. That’s not what this is about. Not really.
The beginning. That’s what you want, right? The Warrior of Light’s humble beginnings . But to talk about the beginning…
How much do you know about us? About the Keepers? Our culture? Yes, we’re a matriarchal folk. Sons take their mothers’ names, take a signifier denoting birth order.
I am Puhla’ir. Sixth son of Puhla. But I wasn’t always.
No, I was always her son.
Yes, I had a different name.
No. I won’t tell you what it was. Only that I wasn’t an ‘ir, or a ‘li, or- get it now?
Yeah. Anyways.
The women of my family, to quote my mother, walked hand in hand with life and death. They have been Arcanists for generations, the techniques and sigils passed from mother to daughter. It’s how it’s always been.
Gods, I hate that phrase.
Puhla’ir. Sixth.
They were so excited. I held their hopes, a family legacy. I felt guilty over it for a long time, you know. Thinking that that legacy would die out because I was selfish, and tired of lying to myself.
But it didn’t bloody have to, did it?
Still, that guilt took me to Limsa. To learn that which my mother refused me. That guilt is why the sigils are burned into my palms, always a whisper of aether away. Hand in hand with life and death. I don’t think she ever meant it that literally.
My name is Puhla’ir Bheeltoju.
I know I could have taken a different name, instead of hers. But I am her son , dammit. I carry the name with pride. But my friends… my friends call me Bheel, and that name holds my heart. Because yes, I am her son, but I am so much more.
Maybe this wasn’t the story you wanted. Maybe it was. It’ll sell, I can promise you that much. Not sure I like the reasons it will, but…
The story needed to be told. I needed to tell it.
My name is Puhla’ir. I am the Warrior of Light.
I am the sixth son.