Chapter Text
The first time E'vahli returns to the Rising Stones, he carries with him a small wooden crate.
Though bulky, it appears not to weigh much. He hefts it under his arm as the children of Mor Dhona surround him at the aetheryte, clamoring in excitement. Tataru pushes open the doors of the Seventh Heaven and shoos them away, yanking E’vahli into the sanctuary of the tavern.
Inside the crate is a traditional Yanxian tea set, packed snug between several layers of straw and cloth to survive the jostling of the long journey home.
It was gifted by one of the lieutenants, a gesture of gratitude for E’vahli’s continued aid in the training of Resistance recruits at Ghimlyt. Plainly, he’d been quite busy while the rest of the Scions readjusted to life in the Source.
G’raha looks on as Tataru clasps her hands together with delight, the gleam of the delicate porcelain sparkling in her eyes when E'vahli relinquishes it to her. While the Scions sit for dinner, she gingerly places each piece on the shelf behind the counter with utmost care, humming quietly to herself and arranging the little scene just so.
“You think that’s bad?” Thancred’s voice pulls G’raha from his thoughts.
The evening’s conversation had somehow morphed from business to a competitive sharing of anecdotes, all in a matter of minutes.
“I once scolded him for napping on the job. Turns out he was just rousing from being poisoned.”
A chorus of laughs. G’raha’s ears perk up. They must be talking about E’vahli. Though the Warrior of Light doesn’t speak a word in reply, his sheepish smile tells all.
“Mind you,” Thancred continues, “This is the same man who later set off a very obvious Imperial trap while we were exploring the Saltery with Lyse–– waltzed right up and turned the bloody thing on himself.”
“In his defense,” Alphinaud manages between fits of giggling, “You did tell him to investigate everything .”
The Scions dissolve into more laughter. G’raha’s eyes linger on E’vahli, whose gaze has become distant and blank.
“That reminds me, Alphinaud,” Alisaie chimes in from across the table. “I was told that Vahli was once accused of heresy during your time in Ishgard. Is that true?”
Alphinaud’s smile vanishes. “…Those charges were dropped.”
“After all he did for them,” Thancred mutters. “Who would accuse the Warrior of Light of heresy?”
Y’shtola folds her hands, a telltale sign of her piqued interest. “What in the world did he do?”
None can answer that save for E'vahli, who, having surfaced from his distraction at the mention of Ishgard, is now intently burying his gaze in his uneaten soup. Perhaps Alphinaud or Tataru could chime in, as they were the only ones present at the time–– but the former has gone pale, and the latter is still blissfully arranging her tea set.
Sensing the tension in the air, Alisaie shifts in her seat. “Speaking of Ishgardians, how fares Estinien? Still sporting that little ponytail?”
The resulting eruption of opinions devolves into a rather heated discussion of Ishgardian aesthetics until the subject of heresy is long left behind.
But the Scions do not easily forget such things, much as they might pretend to for the sake of their friend, and the change in the air lingers for the remainder of the night.
It weighs on G’raha’s mind most of all. Long after dinner, he turns restlessly in bed as he recalls the writings of Count Edmont de Fortemps.
The memoir mentioned an accusation of heresy only in passing. In fact, the brevity of it was what made the passage stand out to G’raha when first he read it.
But that had been over a century ago, and he had scarce been able to skim the contents before the ceiling caved in. Had he missed something? Or, perhaps, had the Count intentionally obscured a dark moment in the Warrior of Light’s journey? That couldn't be right; for all his affection for E’vahli and the Scions, the Count was well-known to be meticulous in his recounting of even the most gruesome and unflattering details of the war. Why, then, was this description so lacking?
His thoughts are interrupted by a loud thud against the wall opposite his bed. E’vahli’s quarters.
He listens in the dark, ears pricked toward the sound.
Silence.
The quiet stretches, growing unbearable, until he forces a cough from himself to disrupt it. The loudness of his own breath surprises him. He listens again.
Still, silence.
He pulls his blankets close, lights the candle beside his bed, and leaves it to burn out through the night.
The next day, E'vahli makes his rounds at the Stones, giving each of his friends a turn to apprise him of all that he’d missed while away at Ghimlyt.
He helps F’lhaminn with her errands in the morning, staggering behind her as she piles heaps of groceries into his arms. Hoary and Couletenet challenge him to yet another sparring match, which lasts all of thirty seconds before both are spent from their efforts and leave satisfied with fresh bruises.
The evening is spent poring over old tomes with Y’shtola and Urianger between sips of warm tea, the peaceful quiet broken only by an occasional hum of interest or the sound of a page turning.
Between errands, E’vahli roams the city. He is frequently interrupted to give kind smiles and words of encouragement—and, at times, the occasional autograph—to eager passersby who recognize the fabled Hero of Eorzea. For a short while, it feels as though he never left.
But after just a few suns, G’raha wakes to find that E’vahli has disappeared just as soon as he’d arrived, having taken his leave for Gyr Abania at first light.
Each day as she passes the hutch, Tataru takes a moment to look upon her tea set, murmuring a quiet prayer that the Warrior of Light is safe and sound.
***
The second time E'vahli returns to the Rising Stones, he walks with a limp. A weathered bandage is wrapped around his forearm, caked with dirt and ash. He appears stifled by the crowded city, wary of the bustling crowds after so long in solitude.
One of the Resistance captains calls upon the Scions by linkpearl, asking if the Warrior of Light has returned safely. Y’shtola teases E’vahli about it from across the dinner table, but there is a sincerity behind her remarks.
In the quiet hours of the evening, G’raha finds himself restless again. He pauses outside E’vahli’s door, debating whether or not to knock. But just as he raises his hand, a voice halts him where he stands.
The sound is muffled from behind the door, and the words too soft to hear. But one thing is certain: it is not a voice he knows.
G’raha hastily retreats into his quarters, faced with a sinking feeling that he has borne witness to something he should not have.
At dawn, E’vahli’s quarters are empty, and G’raha fears he has gone away again. But a half-asleep recruit in the final bell of his shift informs him that the Warrior of Light is out running errands, and promised to return by noon.
The Scions gather for lunch at Rowena’s café, basking in the sun and watching the bustling city below. E’vahli arrives late, clearly distracted. But his limp has improved, and a clean bandage has replaced the old one on his arm.
Mealtime conversation proceeds apace. G’raha watches him toy with the measly pastry on his plate, and recalls the tale Thancred told over dinner. He ponders the type of paranoia that comes in the wake of having one’s drink poisoned.
More than ever, E’vahli is more careful. More hesitant. During the expedition of the Crystal Tower, and even in the First, he was always the one to charge headfirst into danger. Perhaps burdened with the knowledge of the doomed future that G’raha had worked so hard to rewrite, the Warrior of Darkness now worries for the fate of a world without him in it.
Rightly so , G’raha thinks to himself. But somehow, it doesn’t seem fair. The burden of saving everything and everyone rests squarely on those shoulders. No one person should be made to bear that weight.
G’raha himself bore it eons ago. And he found himself lacking, were it not for his hero’s intercession.
“Watch this!”
Alisaie rises from her seat to show E’vahli a new spell she’s learned–– much to the envy of her brother, whose gushing about his latest diplomatic endeavours is rudely interrupted by the stunt. When she nearly disintegrates a nearby pile of dishes in her excitement, the rest of them take that as their cue to make for the Stones and resume the day’s work.
A few paces before the entrance to the Seventh Heaven, G’raha startles at a hand upon his shoulder. He turns, his gaze following the slender arm to the stern countenance of its owner: Urianger.
“Thou sensest it too,” he murmurs. “Dost thou not?”
“Oi!” A shout cuts off G’raha’s reply. It’s Rowena herself, stomping toward them. She waves a small object in her hand: the pale shard of a shattered plate.
G’raha gulps and turns back to face Urianger, only to see him fleeing into the tavern, dooming him to face Rowena alone.
The subsequent scolding (and apologetic washing of dishes) occupies the rest of G’raha’s evening, but his thoughts remain fixed on Urianger’s words.
A few suns later, E'vahli takes his leave once more. Time passes slowly in his absence, with the war locked in a standstill and the Scions handling their own endeavors in the meantime.
So dedicated is Tataru in her routine of praying to the tea set each morn that, as G’raha passes it, he finds himself whispering a prayer of his own.