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“It’s actually not my name…”
G’raha could not remember how the topic at hand came to fruition. Adehn had quite simply come to visit Sharlyan after fully embracing his “retirement.''Pulling the Miqo’te away from his ever expanding research with the Students of Baldesion, they managed to find a seat at the Last Stand and procure some much needed food.
He had expected the evening to be filled with idle chatter, but as their conversation stretched until there was barely anyone left at the cafe–least of all the employees themselves–and that is when their talks came to something more metaphysical.
Viera culture, to be precise.
And it is as Adehn swirls the wine in his cup, the liquid having sat there for perhaps hours now, that G’raha realizes he does not know his hero’s name.
“... Well, not anymore?” The Viera cocks his head, amber eye closing as he thinks on the matter. “I suppose that name is as dead as my life in the forest.”
“I only ever read a handful of books on Viera. Most of your kind are content to remain unreachable.” Adehn peeks open one eye, an ear jumping in question and G’raha knows what it is before he can even open his mouth, “The Viis of the First are different from the Viera of the Source. The few who were left after the destruction of their homelands you saw in the Greatwood and I did not have time after discovering them to approach their tribe.”
Adehn seems pleased with the answer, at the least, and props his cheek on his fist, losing himself in thought for a spell. G’raha watches him silently, having pushed away his food for later a bell or so ago and craving not the fill of food but that of knowledge.
“The name I have now was gifted to me by dear friends.” The Viera finally says after what seems, to G’raha, like an eternity. “It was originally a Seeker name. One that has been modified so that I am not mistaken for Miqo’te in the written sense.”
“Keen of them.”
“Quite. I took on the moniker ‘of Ul’dah’ after we had established ourselves in the city. It seemed only right.”
It strikes him that he knew of the people Adehn spoke of. They were a footnote in his tales, the party of people he had run with before the battle of Carteneau. The selfsame ones that died on that field. He had never thought of them as having a large stake in the Viera’s life and yet…
It makes his heart hurt.
He reaches out, grasping the very end of Adehn’s fingers. Curling their hands together slowly as his love watches him with one, keen, amber eye.
“It was a long time ago, Raha.”
“I know, and yet it plagues you still.”
Adehn shifts, allowing their hands to come undone. It does not bother G’raha, especially as his love weaves a hand into his own hair, playing with the white feather that hangs there.
“It is an old wound. With my cur–dynamis–gone, I suppose I think about it more these days.”
“It is a wound all the same.”
Adehn looks at him then a tired sort of acceptance in his eyes. “You are right, as always.”
“Not always.”
“No. Not always. I specifically remember you turning yourself into a bridge–”
Just as G’raha’s tail puffs in barely contained embarrassment–and just before he can rebuke the claim–the bell begins to toll. Adehn looks to the tower, brow furrowed and it is only now that they both realize it is well into the midnight hours.
“You should rest and I should return to the others.”
“Yes I am sure Krile will want to continue our work well before noon.”
Adehn stands, the scratch of his wooden chair against hard stone echoing in the empty courtyard. “You were always one for sleeping in.”
G’raha does not give the comment any attention, “Do not forget, you promised a visit to Ishgard.”
“How could I?” Adehn turns, obviously setting course for the large Aetheryte in the midst of Old Sharlyan. G’raha makes busy gathering the food scattered over the table, packing it into little boxes for later. That which is untouched will go to Krile, an attempt to appease the Lalafell for having stayed away for so long.
He barely hears the footsteps behind him in time to prepare for the arms that wrap around his middle. They squeeze him tight against Adehn’s chest and the blush that works over his cheeks is one that he is unable to control.
“It’s Leif.” His warm voice rumbles into one perked ear and before G’raha can even respond or truly acknowledge what has been given to him, the Viera is gone.