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“My, look at the time! You know, I was thinking that the two of you would be perfect to help with these letters I need to send.” Krile hops down from the stool by the table in the little room in the Annex that Iolaine has claimed as her own, giving her a knowing look as she goes to one side of Alisaie while Alphinaud stands and stretches beside his sister.
Alphinaud picks up on it quicker than Iolaine would’ve expected, his eyes going wide as he looks from G’raha to Iolaine to Krile and back. Then he nods and turns his attention to the matter at hand. Iolaine gives Krile a grateful nod over the twins’ heads as the Archon works to herd them out of the room, or rather herds Alisaie now that Alphinaud is on the same page.
“We’re honored to be asked, Mistress Krile,” he answers, his hand hovering by Alisaie’s back without touching her. Hopefully the push won’t be necessary, but Iolaine knows he can take the consequences should it come to that.
“G’raha could help too,” Alisaie protests through a yawn. She starts to turn to look back only to be sent stumbling forward by Alphinaud’s hand.
“Raha has other matters to attend to, I’m afraid. I already asked.” Krile puts on her most disappointed expression as the three of them finally leave, having enjoyed a long dinner together upon finding out that all of them were in Sharlayan at the same time. She casts another glance back to Iolaine and smiles before disappearing past the door frame, flanked by twins.
Alisaie’s voice grows quieter as they make their way up the hall. “Wait, when did you ask?”
Iolaine watches the door long after they’ve left, sorry to see the evening end but grateful to Krile for maneuvering to give her and G’raha some time alone. Iolaine arrived to find the twins already there, and after that there’d been no shaking them for the rest of the day. Dinner from the Last Stand and catching up about Garlemald and Eorzea wasn’t what she’d planned, but she was happy to see them well, and see them coming to Sharlayan of their own accord.
G’raha waits for the sound of their voices to recede, then moves to close the door behind them. “At some point we shall have to explain it to her,” he sighs, turning around and leaning against the door. “She’s grown quite fond of me, I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Iolaine replies, chuckling a little as she folds her arms across her chest. “She knows, and it’s by turns why she’s so fond of you and why she gets so angry with you.”
It’s not that it’s something to hide, but Iolaine never found that she needed to tell the other Scions, and so she simply hasn’t. There were small acknowledgements from each of them in time: An approving glance between them and a nod from Thancred, Y’shtola leaving a place for them to sit together at a meal. Urianger and Alphinaud both said something, each of them expressing their happiness for her in the way they knew best. Alisaie might seem harder to read, but her treatment of G’raha when they’re together tells Iolaine all she needs to know.
The orchestrion ticks over to a new song and they both pause, familiar music from Lakeland filling the room around them and lifting the weight on Iolaine’s mind, if only a little. G’raha catches her gaze and holds it as they both sift through their own memories of the First. After a moment his eyes widen and he pushes off from the door, setting his staff on the table as he moves towards her with deliberate steps.
“There’s something that's been on my mind, and since you’re here again, I was wondering if you would indulge me.” He takes one of her hands in both of her own while he talks, weaving their fingers together and not looking up at her.
“When you say things like that, it usually ends with mortal peril,” she replies, her tone lighter than her heart. They have dangers ahead of them, but when he asks the worst of her, he usually looks in her eyes. This is something different, though she won’t deny the bolt of concern that shoots through her at his choice of words.
G’raha huffs a soft laugh, one ear twitching. “There should be no peril this time. Or, well. I hope there isn’t, at least. Perhaps only to my pride.”
He looks up at her, red eyes filled with the endless reservoir of hope that is so much of who he is. Iolaine combs the hair out of his face with her free hand, warmth spreading in her chest when he leans into the touch.
“I’ve been reminiscing lately about our time on the First, and I remembered the day that the Top Rung was reopened. It was such a magnificent thing, seeing so many people work together, and there was a celebration.”
“You weren’t there.” The words come too quick for her to stop them, the memory of it dulled but still stinging. She’d been surrounded by friends old and new, spent the still-bright night laughing and talking, people eventually forgetting that she was supposed to be some sort of hero. It was wonderful, but time and again she’d scanned the crowd hoping for a glimpse of copper or crimson, only to find someone else eager for her time.
“It didn’t feel right to join in the festivities personally,” he replies, lowering his eyes and nodding. “I was still set upon a course that was to lead to my own end, and I, well. I observed. I remember how beautiful you looked when you danced.”
He lets the words trail off, and she doesn’t push. They’ve talked about it before. His plans to take the Light with him would’ve meant his death, and so he worked to keep a distance between them, from all of them but Iolaine especially, not wanting to hurt her with his inevitable loss.
The sickly swell of longing fills her stomach and pushes into her throat as she recalls all the times she’d wished for his company, or had it and found him distant. Things are different these days, but the memories ache still, even if they are softened and sweetened by the knowledge that he also wanted what they have now. She’d wanted him to be there then, when she’d demonstrated the Kriegstanz and felt the same power and relief as during her travels in Eorzea, being able to cheer those around her, if only briefly.
“Will you dance with me again, Iolaine?” His whisper is barely audible, and he clutches at her hand as if in supplication. “I know I can’t promise the fire of Y’shtola or Urianger's grace, but--”
She presses a finger to his lips and holds it there, lifting her hand to tilt his head so that she can look into his eyes. He smiles back at her, the lines in his brow easing as she nods, his expression opening to delight as she swings their joined hands out to one side and steps in close to him.
Again. Though she wouldn’t have doubted it, she’s glad to hear that he remembers the first time they danced together. It had been like something from the tales she listened to as a child, invited to dinner in a magic tower by a mysterious lord, then dancing in his beautiful chamber afterwards. She hadn’t fully understood at the time why the Exarch, so careful about keeping space between them, had wanted to share the evening with her before she and the others ascended Mt. Gulg. It was to be a last good memory before he took the Light from her and saved them all, and while she can, with time, appreciate the sentiment of the idea, she is far happier to have been able to continue making memories with him instead.
“Perhaps a Sharlayan waltz?” Iolaine settles a hand on his shoulder, smiling as his free hand comes to her waist, his thumb brushing over the sash tied there.
“Or I have a Thavnairian dancing dress I could put on,” she offers, mostly to see his reaction to the idea of her in the revealing outfit.
Color blooms on his cheeks and he shakes his head. “No, no, please. Well, perhaps some other time,” he adds with a low laugh, “but I like this on you. I always have.”
Unsure of what sort of warrior he might be receiving, G’raha as Exarch had given exacting instructions to the artisans of the Crystalline Mean to create armor of every sort and have it ready for her arrival. While he trusted them to the construction, he’d been most specific regarding many details, or so Katliss had explained to Iolaine when she’d been given the first set. Sharlayan and Thavnair offer sturdier stuff but she still prefers the look of the Exarchic pieces, often mixed with the newer styles from Ishgard.
Iolaine pulls him into motion, falling easily into the steps of a simple waltz. G’raha follows at first, finding his footing after only a moment, and she is happy to give over and let him lead.
They move in small circles in the space between the table and the step up to her bed. Cool night air wraps around them from the open window, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the city below, the sounds of artisans at work in the square mingling with the music. Iolaine closes her eyes and for a moment imagines they are sharing the evening somewhere else, with deep blue stone and golden accents instead of pale marble, where the darkness of night is a splendour not to be taken for granted.
“Did you ask me to dance with you that evening because you saw me with the others at the Top Rung?”
“I asked you to dance with me because I could think of no better way to make you happy while spending an evening alone in your company. Such as things were at the time, at least,” he adds, his voice shifting from soft and matter-of-fact to something suggesting that he has other ideas about how to spend time with Iolaine now. He brings their hands in to press a kiss to her knuckles and it’s her turn to blush, cheeks hot in the cool air of the room.
G’raha’s hand moves by degrees from her side to the small of her back as they drift closer together in the dance, their joined hands coming in close to their sides until he is clutching her hand to his chest, little more than a breath between them.
“It is said that there are mystic powers in a dancer’s movements,” Iolaine says, opening her eyes again and looking at G’raha, “which can serve to heighten senses, lift spirits, and drive despair and worry from people’s hearts.” It sounds more like a recitation than she means it to, but he greets her smile with one of his own as he listens.
“Perhaps it is dancing which will save us all,” he replies, one corner of his mouth curling in a gesture belying the thoughtfulness of his voice.
This is hardly the dance that Nashmeira taught her, but as she feels the warmth of G’raha against her and the peace and calm that flood through her as they sway together, she can’t help but recall what her mentor said, and wonder if perhaps those words can apply to more than just the Kriegstanz.