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Once the doors to the Crystal Tower close, G'raha Tia tries to come to terms with what he is about to do.
It had been so easy in the moment to hold his head up and declare that he would put the tower to sleep, that he would be it's keeper until such a time that the world was ready for it — now, in the dim light that always seems present in the Syrcus Tower, he wavers.
Hesitates.
The walk back to Xande's throne room is longer than he remembered but that might be because his feet feel encased in lead.
Every step slow and measured and his breathing shallow — excitement and apprehension fight over the majority share of his thoughts as he makes his way forward.
It feels right to do this.
With the introduction of Unei and Doga he now knows what path to take — where he before had been floating directionless he feels a renewed sense of purpose. This is what he was born for, after all, and them passing on the Royal Eye was proof of that.
If this was little more than a puzzle piece in heroic tales come the future, he would be content with that. It would still be worth it. The determination that shines in the eyes of his fellow colleagues in NOAH — all for different reasons, still striving towards the same goal — it carries him onward.
It was an honor to be able to do this
And yet.
When he enters the large circular platform in front of the throne, his throat closes up. G'raha swallows dryly, making a slow lap around the space.
It feels so terribly final.
"I am doing this for the future," G'raha states with all the authority he can muster, his words echoing flat against the indifferent walls of the tower. "I am…" He falters, wetting his dry lips. "I am the adjudicator of history!"
Would that he actually felt it.
It is unsettling how small his voice is in this large room. It sounds pitiful to his own ears, not a trace of the majesty and boom he imagines the heroes of eld had. G'rahas tail swishes back and forth in agitation, his fists clenching.
The adjudicator of history, his own voice echoes in the back of his mind, mocking. As if you have lived long enough to see history be written.
How much time had he wasted away on frivolous pursuits instead of expanding his knowledge? If he had known this was to be what his destiny called for, could he have prepared better?
Could he have studied better, learnt more, loved more?
Rammbroes, Cid, the Warrior — Twelve, even Nero comes to mind. Their faces come and go in a flash as he wonders if they will mourn him. G'raha smiles a little at the thought of Nero missing him, wonders if he and Cid will get along better now that the engineer saved the man's life.
As if anything would make them get along better.
And the Warrior — how he wishes he could see what other wonders they will create space for, how Eorzea will grow and change with them leading the charge against primals.
Rammbroes gives him pause, makes something painful clench in his chest. He can't think of his mentor lest he wants to lose all his courage and so he doesn't, forcing himself to look straight ahead.
Selfishly he wishes he could have spent more time with them all, almost regrets that he didn't make the time to say his goodbyes. One last round of drinks around the fire with the people that didn't see him as an oddity to be observed but rather a fellow researcher, eccentric and playful.
I am so grateful to all of you.
However if he had tried to say farewell he wouldn't have had to resolve to go through with this and he knows it, tastes it bitter in the back of his throat.
He would have cast away his fate for love.
Fate. Such a fickle, wondrous word — how heavy it weighs! How he has carried it on his shoulders even as a small child, hazy memories of his parents comforting him when the others pointed and whispered.
You've got something special, Raha, his father had told him with gentle hands brushing his fringe back. You will understand in time.
He remembers looking at himself in the mirror as a teen, mismatched eyes staring back at him. The tomes he read over and over, chasing the odd familiarity that struck him whenever Allag was mentioned. Remembers forgoing sleep to push himself just a little more, greedily hoarding any and all knowledge that might be useful.
Whilst he might not have known the details of it, G'raha had always been aware that there was a calling out there for him. And he wanted to be ready for it.
Now he knew that he never could have been.
G'raha Tia takes a wavering step towards the throne, and then another, stopping just shy of it. It feels like it should be bigger — exactly how much he doesn't know, only that he isn't awed by it, isn't blown away the way he expected by this place where he will rest for what might be forever.
There are no choirs building behind him, no thrum of power resting in the air — simply the sound of his own breathing and his feet shuffling on the floor.
Emperor Xande's throne is cold to the touch and smooth like silk underneath his fingertips. He traces the forms of it, carefully angling his body away as though he would fall into slumber if any other part of his body came too close.
And he isn't ready for it, isn't sure if he ever will be.
There is no way to tell how much time passes while he maps out his resting place. The soft blue glow of the throne, the grooves and bumps where crystal gives way to a metal alloy he isn't familiar with.
It isn't gold, he's almost sure of it, crouching down with furrowed brows to study it closer. A way to buy time, maybe, as he tries to recall obscure notes regarding Allagan metalwork, mumbling theories under his breath.
But eventually his words grow quieter and dimmer until he is again silent, gripped by a terrible anxiety.
He's scared.
G'raha grips the armrests and leans over the crystalline seat as he dry heaves. He knows what he must do, he knows it, feels it down to the marrow in his bones but he isn't ready yet.
I'm only 24, he thinks, pitiful. How conceited am I, to think I will have aught to offer when they wake me.
If they wake me.
And the thought that strikes him is terrifying — the idea that he might sleep and sleep, until the star burns out. That no one will wake him. That he will slumber undisturbed while his friends get to grow old and die in a world that goes on without him in it.
That this will be his grave.
Don't think about it, he tells himself, bile rising. Don't you think about it, G'raha Tia!
It isn't until the first tear hits the cold crystal that he realises he's crying, touching his cheek with awe. His heart feels like it might beat out of his chest the closer he gets to the moment he knows he must close his eyes and something comes over him, something primal and ancient —
It's grief, enormous and inevitable.
G'raha lets it sit in his chest, breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth in even, measured motions.
Somehow it makes it easier, eases the way for acceptance as he weeps for the many things he will never see again. He grieves until there is nothing less to bury and wipes his eyes with the weight of finality.
And then.
G'raha climbs up on the cold slab of crystal, tear tracks staining his cheeks. He curls up the way he always sleeps, using one armrest to prop his arm up enough for him to rest in the crook of his elbow. It isn't very comfortable but he figures there is no accounting for something as shallow as comfort when doing something this big, or revolutionary or any of the other beatiful words he's read in books and scrolls under dim candlelight.
G'rahas tail comes up to wrap over him, the closest thing to a blanket he can conjure.
As he lays there he wonders if there's anything more to it, if there's anything he should do to make this work.
He'd been so confident that this was the right thing to do that he failed to account for the fact that he didn't have the slightest clue of how to activate the tower, much less how to control it.
With his eyes closed he concentrates as hard as he can, harder than he has ever done in all his life, grasps for the power that Doga and Unei bestowed upon him.
This is my destiny. He repeats it to himself, the sound of the doors closing playing back in his mind. I am the keeper of royal Allagan blood and this tower will be a beacon of hope. I will make it so. I will make it so. I will make it so.
There is nothing and nothing and nothing — he wants to scream, wants to rage and he would except his body feels heavy. Exhausted. It is as if his aether is bleeding out of him and seeping into the very ground, searching for the connection his blood gives him to this place. He has to find it, must fulfill his promise —
and suddenly —
there is a thread.
A connection of brilliant blue that he grasps easy as breathing. It pulses in time with his heartbeat, mingles with his blood and he smiles wistfully.
Now he knows how.
The tower hums, almost contentedly, as G'raha claims his legacy. The air warms and the throne seems a little less unyielding, as if it is forming to his body now that it recognises him.
I eagerly await a future born of your courage and the ancients' wish.
I really do.
G'raha Tia falls asleep.