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Was this life a gift… or a burden?
Did you find… fulfillment?
The pain of his wounds kept him from answering. Truthfully, Z’tahra had no answer, even if he could muster the strength to do so. His tongue was dry, scraping against the roof of his mouth. Somewhere off to the side of his consciousness, he knew he was bleeding profusely. He should put pressure on the wounds, but… He couldn’t move. Or wouldn’t? No, he couldn’t. His fingers gave a weak twitch that he barely felt.
He had expected the edge of creation to be cold, but only now, as he laid in a pool of his own blood and sweat, did he feel it. He would be shivering if he had the energy to do so, but the only movement he could muster was the slow blinking of his eyes, until they shut completely.
Was this life a gift… or a burden?
Visions of Haurchefant, hot chocolate in hand, appeared before him. All the mornings they spent together, blurring in his mind’s eye. The moments with him were all a gift too precious to name. The hot chocolate not nearly as sweet as the nights they spent together, pretending that the world was not out to ruin what happiness they had managed to find in a world midst a war.
The burdens… Oh, there were so many burdens. Feeling Haurchefant’s blood on his hands after his partner had blocked the shot of energy meant for him. Smiling through tears as he felt the life leave his lover’s body. That alone was enough. Gods, that was enough. But there was more, because of course there was. Ysayle, Papalymo, Emet-Selch, Venat, Minfilia, Moenbryda… Their absence still felt keenly each day.
“Tis good to see you, my love.” A familiar voice cut through the melancholy. Z’tahra was suddenly energized, and realized he was standing. Was this… the intercessory? At Camp Dragonhead? Z’tahra’s eyes cut towards the voice, the all too familiar voice…
“Haurchefant?” Z’tahra couldn’t force any more words out, his vision blurring through the tears. He choked on air and launched himself forward, feeling the soft wool of Haurchefant’s tunic against his skin. “This-- this isn’t real, this isn’t… this isn’t…”
“This is very real.” Haurchefant said quietly, arms wrapping themselves around Z’tahra’s frame.
Z’tahra touched his skin, finding it cool to the touch, but very real. “What is this?”
“You have a choice to make, my dear.” His voice was quiet, sad. Z’tahra felt the urge to find whatever was causing Haurchefant such distress and deal with it, but… Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he wouldn’t have to go far. “You are very near death. Your friends are tending to your wounds while we speak, whether you wake up… is up to you.”
“So this is… where are we?”
Haurchefant shook his head slowly, a stern look crossing his face. “I need not tell you. It is unimportant. I am here to…” A brief flash of pain crossed his face. “To determine whether you are willing to fight for your life, or if you’ve had enough.”
Z’tahra was stunned into silence, his grip on Haurchefant loosening. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, if he were being perfectly honest. Had he had enough? If someone had asked him that, hell, last week, he would’ve said yes. Yes, but he has a job to do. A world and its shards to save. So many people on his shoulders, that if he gave up now they would all die. Why was the answer evading him now? He could leave. The world was saved. He could rest, but…
“You still have so much to do. So many people who love you.” Haurchefant whispered, pressing his forehead into Z’tahra’s hair. “You cannot come with me. Not that I ever expected you to do so. I merely had to come speak with you one last time.”
Z’tahra still couldn’t speak, but the tears began leaking from his eyes freely at this point. He hiccupped, burying his face in the soft material of Haurchefant’s shirt.
“I miss you dearly. I see what you’ve done. How strong you have become… My love, you deserve respite more than anyone. However, I feel you can achieve it amongst the living. Your duty is done. Pray, take time to yourself when you wake. I daresay it will be forced upon you whether you like it or not…”
Z’tahra laughed, hearing the echo of Alisaie crying in the back of his mind. He couldn’t leave her. His dearest friends, gathered around his coffin… Where would they bury him? With his parents? He had no true allegiances to any nation… “I found your ring.”
“The fact that I wanted to marry you was never a secret, Tahra.” Haurchefant whispered, kissing the top of his had. “Mayhap in another life we will have the ending we deserve.”
Z’tahra let out a breath that wracked his entire frame, his friend’s voices echoing in his head. Louder, and more insistently. “I have to go…”
“I know.” Haurchefant let him go, gently holding him at arm’s length for a moment. His eyes were red, but a pleased smile was on his face. “Forgive me, I must leave you again. But fear not, my love, for we will meet again. Perhaps you will have an interesting story or two to tell.”
Haurchefant leaned down and kissed his forehead, prompting a true smile to appear on Z’tahra’s face. Tears still tracked down his cheeks, but he felt far more peaceful than the last time Haurchefant had to say goodbye. “I love you.”
“And I, you.” Haurchefant’s voice echoed softly in his ears, and he watched as his former lover disappeared into sparks of light and left him for the second, or third?, time.
The first thing he was aware of as he woke, was how heavy he felt. How heavy, how thirsty, how cold. It was all a very unpleasant waking, but he was aware of the fact that he had to do it.
Open your… please!
Open his what? His mouth? If he did, he feared sand may come pouring out of it. Did he recently eat sand? Is that what had happened? Is that why he felt so crummy? No… No, there was a battle. At the edge of the universe. Why would he eat sand at the edge of creation? He wouldn’t. There was a dragon, wasn’t there? And Zenos… Zenos was the dragon.
Someone… hand…
Z’tahra tried to lift his hand for Y’shtola, but found himself unable to do so. Everything was so heavy. His eyes, limbs… He felt as if someone had placed a boulder on top of him and was asking him to stand up. It was nearly impossible. And yet… the longer he was in control of his thoughts, the more feelings were coming back to him. The warmth of healing magic along his side and back was the most prevalent sensation, outside of the pain.
Please…
You can’t leave us… Not like this…
If you do, I’ll never forgive you… So, come on! Open your eyes and get up!
First of all, why in the hells did Alisaie think he could stand if he could hardly open his eyes? That really was quite rude, and he’d like to tell her so. He really would. But… yeah, still feels like there was sand in his mouth. The most he could muster was a deep sigh, while his eyelids fluttered. He tried his hardest to open them, and was eventually able to crack them. He swallowed around the dry feeling in his throat and caught a glimpse of… well, everyone, looking like-- well, like they had been the ones to fight the Endsinger and Zenos. Back to back. “Wh- Who died?” His voice was throaty, and it felt like he has swallowed one of his knives for a moment.
“You nearly did!”
Z’tahra could barely understand what was being said to him, over the next few moments. He saw the twins crying, G’raha crying, Y’shtola looked like she was scolding him. Nothing entirely new, and probably nothing he had to verbally respond to anyway. Alphinaud helped him up to look outside as they flew around the world, and he felt the stinging of tears try to form in his own eyes. He was home. He had never had any ties to a nation, but… This was it. His friends, his family… The were all on this ship with him, minus Tataru and Krile. They were here. They were here.
His eyes drifted to G’raha, who was trying his best to wipe his own eyes with some discretion. Z’tahra reached over and grabbed his shoulder, making it seem as if he needed someone to help him balance. Given his wounds, it wasn’t far from the truth. However… it was more than that. It always was.
“You gave everyone a fright.” G’raha whispered, wrapping an arm around Z’tahra’s waist to steady him. “Never do that again.”
Z’tahra couldn’t help but snicker into his hand, looking at G’raha out of the corner of his eye. “You’re one to talk, G’raha.”
“I haven’t planned my death ever since I woke up, I’ll have you know.” G’raha’s tone was indignant, and his tail lashed irritably behind him.
Z’tahra leaned his head on G’raha’s shoulder, slowly putting more weight onto the other for support. His wounds were still serious, and it hurt to stand. “That isn’t nearly as good a thing as ya think it is.”
“...maybe not.”
Z’tahra slept soundly for the rest of the victory tour, as it had been dubbed, and woke up in the Baldesion Annex. His torso was bound tightly to keep his insides where they were supposed to be, and moving tugged on every muscle in his body unpleasantly. The ache felt similar to the headache he got when drugged, but it was body-wide.
Time passed slowly after that. Extremely slowly. Krile, Y’shtola, Urianger, Alphinaud, and Alisaie all threatened him with bodily harm should he move from bed for more than to take a piss. So, confined to bed rest at the Baldesion Annex, he stared out of the window in lieu of reading. Well, daydreamed. Thought. Exercising his brain was not something he was particularly adept in. He was quite a good pickpocket, fighter, and mage, but… The school of thought was never his strong suit until it was forced down his throat with a smile by Y’shtola and Krile.
Was his meeting with Haurchefant real? Was that really…? He hadn’t said anything surprising. Nothing Z’tahra didn’t already know. So, the details were a bit fuzzy. More than fuzzy, actually, he could barely remember more than the fact that he appeared. The words of the encounter were lost on him, no matter how much he strained to remember.
All will be remembered in the aetherial sea, he thought. He would remember eventually.
“You will damage your eyes, staring at the sun like that.” The sudden noise had Z’tahra reaching towards his knives that were mysteriously not where he put them.
“...did you really hide my weapons before speaking to me?”
“Well, I’ve nearly been killed enough times by an attempted haircut that I thought it prudent.” G’raha’s answer was not surprising at all, but Z’tahra glared at him anyway. With an exaggerated sigh, the kniveswere placed back on the table by the bed, which was already laced with a brand new round of potions. “Krile tasked me with administering your potions this afternoon, and to examine you.”
Z’tahra did his best to hide his wince as he moved to lay on his good side in response, refusing to admit he was still in pain. If he could see G’raha’s expression, he would know his attempt at hiding his pain was piss-poor at best. However, G’raha knew better than to ask at this point.
Instead, he began unwrapping the bandages with practiced ease. “Well, you are healing.” G’raha’s voice was quiet, and Z’tahra flicked his ears backward to hear him better. “Albeit, slowly. I’ve been studying, while you have been stuck in here, about how the body has just as much a say in healing as the magicks imposed upon it.”
“If you say what I think you’re about to say--”
“I believe you’re healing slowly because you want to.” G’raha finished, rushing out the words in a single breath.
“Yes, G’raha, I am choosing to stay in this bed, day after day. I am choosing to be in pain for all of my waking moments.” Z’tahra hissed, muscles twitching as G’raha began applying some of the healing salves.
“There is no need to be cross with me.” The rebuke was said sternly, and Z’tahra felt his ears press flat against his head. It had been a while since Raha had deemed it necessary to be forceful with him, and the feeling was still surprising. “I am merely saying… that sometimes, if a person does not have the will to live, their body doesn’t have the means to heal.”
“Believe you me, I have the will. If I wanted to die I would be in the ground.” The way G’raha’s hand felt on his back and side was a strange sensation. The aching of his healing muscles along with the feeling of G’raha’s cool hands on his skin was a strange mixture, but Z’tahra decided it was nice. For now.
“You misunderstand me.” G’raha rubbed the creams along Z’tahra’s wounds with practiced ease. Z’tahra briefly wondered where he had learned to heal outside of battle, but the answer was probably on the First with a hundred years of practice. “What I meant to say… was more along the lines of ‘your body is punishing you for never resting’.”
Z’tahra huffed, the simple movement of his chest still managing to bring about new lengths to the aching. “I really would prefer… anyone else be doing this. Hells, even Thancred…”
G’raha’s hands wavered on his skin. “Are you truly still angry with me? I thought-- well…”
“I am angry with you because I can be.” Z’tahra whispered, finally admitting the fact to himself. If Haurchefant were with him, oh he’d be furious. So how could he possibly forgive someone else for standing with a shield in front of him? How could he possibly…? “You shielded me. You-- just like him, you shielded me. How could I possibly forgive you? How could I possibly-- I can’t lose anyone else, you know this… and yet…”
“Z’tahra—”
Z’tahra began crying in earnest, trembling under G’raha’s hands.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I don’t care!” Gods, it felt good to yell. To finally-- to finally unleash his anger. His anger at Haurchefant, at G’raha, at the world for draining him dry again and again and still asking for more. “The man I wanted to marry took a fatal blow for me, my good friend sacrificed herself for Hydaelyn and the First, my friend-- my friend sealed himself in a tower… and when I finally see him again…” Z’tahra was sobbing now, finding it hard to breath. “He’s not himself. He’s a politician, lying to my face and-- and… if he had just told me… if you had just told me…”
G’raha turned him over onto his back and pressed a hand to Z’tahra’s cheek, wiping his tears. “Damn everyone who ever asked anything of you. Breathe, Z’tahra. I cannot bring back Minfilia or Ser Haurchefant. You know that they are gone. I, however, am not. I am different. I am… a hundred years of memories mixed with my life before, but I am still here. I will be here, for as long as you will have me.”
“I am angry… I am angry at you, because you have the audacity to believe my life is worth more than yours. If I lost you, I wouldn’t be able to continue.” Z’tahra paused, leaning into the hand still resting on his cheek. It smelled vaguely like the creams G’raha had been using. Z’tahra’s tears slowed as he braced himself. “I can’t lose another man I love.”
The laugh that came out of G’raha could best be described as a dry sob. “How long I’ve waited for you to admit that.” He leaned down and rested his forehead against Z’tahra’s, staying still for a moment. “I love you, as well. Be angry at me all you like, but I cannot say I would do anything different. I will shield you, I will heal you, I will do anything you require of me, if it means I can stay side by side with you. I’ve no intention of leaving you prematurely.”
Z’tahra leaned upwards, as much as he could, and kissed G’raha on the cheek. “Admitting that was--… Well, I’d prefer to face Titan again.”
G’raha laughed and leaned away, beginning to pack away the creams he had with him. “If we are to act on this, I do have a condition.”
Z’tahra raised an eyebrow and cracked open his eyes.
“None of this-- bottling everything up until it explodes. Tell me next time you feel angry. Tell me when you’re sad or upset. Please.”
How could Z’tahra ever say no to those eyes?
“Of course. It was unfair of me to be angry with you at all, when… when I really was just worried, to begin with.” Gods, talking about feelings… What had he become?
G’raha nodded, a pleased smile on his face. His tail lashed quickly behind him, betraying the nervous energy he was doing his best to hide. “Perhaps a meal at the Last Stand, once you heal is in order. Alone, of course. Though it will be quite a challenge to have everyone leave you alone for long…”
Z’tahra raised his hand and placed it on G’raha’s wrist. “We have the rest of our lives to have dinner, Raha. I’m sure we’ll figure out how to go about it eventually.”