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On his ride back to the Crystariam - mounted on an Amaro, speeding away from the scene into the velvety night that had blanketed Norvrandt only moments ago - the Exarch repeated Alisaie’s words to himself like a mantra, grasping onto them as if they were all he had. He kept his eyes on the stars as he traveled, marveling at the gift she had given them so easily. He was grateful to have escaped the gaze of the warrior before she could see the flood of emotion that was overtaking him. So quickly had she begun to solve the problems which had plagued them for countless years. Lyna had never gazed at a night sky before, had only heard his stories - and here was his warrior, around for only a few days and had already gifted Lyna with the one thing the Exarch thought she would never have.
Why do you risk yourself so readily?
Seeing her stand before the Lightwarden, aether swirling around her as she absorbed it as if she were born to do such tasks, the way she charged through Holminster Switch without a hint of hesitation… he was validated, then, in his hero worship, he reasoned even as his heart swelled twice its size. At times during his quest he felt foolish, wondering if it was rose-tinted nostalgia encouraging him to put all his eggs in that particular basket. He wondered if he was being selfish, if his reasons for seeking her out were not so pure, if he was wasting his energy based on the fantasies of a young miqo'te who didn’t know aether from dust. Still, like a man possessed, he could not stop trying to summon her. Once he knew that such a task was possible - once he had transferred himself, and had appeared on the first along with the tower, he knew it was possible to see her again. As her fellow scions appeared before him, one by one, he became convinced she would appear, and that was enough to endure the pain he experienced with each summon.
Why do you risk yourself so readily?
He remembered visiting her grave, in that dark, terrible future he had experienced. The grave had been unmarked to protect her from graverobbing or desecration, but was known by those who survived the calamity, and was custom for the survivors to pay their respects. He had sat with her for hours that first day, lost in time as he was, clinging to the memories he had of his last moments with her before the door had been sealed.
A world without the Warrior of Light. The pain that he felt when Cid had told him - nothing could have prepared him for that. He felt as though he’d been branded, his flesh seared open with a hot iron. He could not forget the wound once it had opened, could not forget her even if he wanted to. From then on, finding a way out of that hell had become his goal. Get out. Find a way to right their wrongs. Bring her back.
He knew then that he would give up his life just to see her one last time. It was preferable to an eternity without her, even if it took him another hundred years or so to see her.
Why do you risk yourself so readily?
Why indeed? What Alisaie did not know was that he did not act on impulse, did not act out of a desire to lose himself, did not even act on a desperate whim to save his people. As much as he tried, as much as he had come to care for the first, his actions were not made out of a desire to be a hero. He wanted to save them all, of course, as he had come to love his people and desired to see them saved - but the reason he was there? The reason he continued to exist? It was for her. It had always been for her.
He arrived at the Crystarium flushed, eyes heavy with unshed tears. He gripped his staff with more strength than usual, though the fight and his separation from the tower had exhausted him. It was no matter. People were gathered in droves, pointing at the stars above and expressing their shock and joy. Bottles were already opening, people cheering left and right while lanterns rose along the peripheries. The dim glow of the tower and the stars kept everything bathed in a strange blue light. G’raha Tia took a deep breath, pushing back the emotions that had come unraveled in his journey, and schooled his expression to be fitting of a leader and not one of the foolish young miqo’te that had risen to the surface. He stepped into his role as easily as he stepped into his robes every day, and began to help his people light up their home.
XXX
The celebrations carried on throughout the evening, with alcohol flowing freely from the bars as Crystarium residents drank their fill and then some. Pastries and candies were brought out on silver trays as people danced and sang from every corner of the city. Bards brought out their instruments and played throughout the night, switching off to refill their tankards and embrace their friends. The Exarch did not partake; rather, he supervised the residents, handing out dusty lanterns that had been locked away in storage for a hundred years or more, as well as providing the bars with ample drink and keeping tabs on some of the more rowdy drunks. Overall, it was a good and happy eve, and he would’ve enjoyed himself thoroughly if he was not fretting over a newly-titled Warrior of Darkness.
The light from the Lightwarden he knew was not so easily absorbed as it seemed. He wondered if she felt it coursing through her veins, the toxic substance which plagued Norvrandt for so long. He had practically spoon-fed it to her himself, and he knew that when the deeds were done, she would no longer be able to contain it. That was where he would step in, when the time was right.
Still, he itched to check on her. The idea of using the scrying glass was tantalizing, and visiting her room himself even more so. His presence, he knew, was not required or even wanted. She knew little to nothing of him, was probably deeply suspicious of his motives even as he made grand gestures of hero worship and respect. And she had every right to be, just as he had no right to be hurt. Everything was going according to his carefully laid out plans, and to expect or want otherwise was beyond foolish. He had been alive far too long to allow himself to give in to such selfish desires.
As the evening went on his fretting turned into an ache, a pit in his stomach that was urging him to do something to ease the stress. Shakily he lowered the tray of pastries he had been about to deliver, dropped it to the counter as he counted his breaths. He was a nervous wreck, all because things were going exactly the way they should, and he just wanted to see her. He wanted to be known by her. Longed to stand in her presence and see that she was okay for himself. For the first time that evening he could see the appeal in uncorking a bottle all for himself.
His feet began to carry him to the pendants before he could talk himself out of it, and then he began to run, heedless of the now thinning crowds of drunkards milling about. They were too far in their cups to pay him any mind. Despite the fact that it had been hours, many were still gazing upwards, dumbfounded smiles on their faces.
The Exarch slowed his steps as he approached the Pendants, his breath quick as he walked by the front desk. The manager of suites barely raised an eyebrow, but he saw a flash of a knowing smirk as he made his way to her room. He chose to ignore it, though a creeping heat had made its way up his neck as he desperately tried not to think about what he was doing.
He paused when he found her door, listening for the telltale sounds of light sickness. As he suspected, when he held his breath and listened closely he could hear the unmistakable sound of retching through the door. He frowned at the sound of it, knowing he was the cause of her discomfort.
Resolved, he lifted his spoken hand and knocked on the door, brow furrowing under his cowl.
“Just a sec,” a hoarse voice said. She sounded miserable.
After a pause the door swung open, and the Exarch’s heart swelled.
Her hair was loose about her shoulders, and the armor she’d worn in Holminster Switch was cast aside, a fresh black shirt and leggings taking their place. She was grimacing at him, clearly not thrilled to have a visitor or to be seen in her state, but she let him in regardless, making her way back to her feather bed. A metal bucket was on the floor by her pillow, a sickly white glow reflecting off the insides. She had turned off the lights, her curtains pulled back to let in the moonlight. A few candles were lit, but the room was mostly shrouded in darkness. It seemed even she had missed the night, though she had only been without it for a short while.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly, moving to sit at the table while she collapsed in a heap on the bed. He knew it was a foolish question, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. She groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes.
“We brought the night back,” she said, unmoving. “That’s what matters.”
You matter, he thought to himself reflexively. You brought the night back. “I’ll make you some tea to settle your stomach. Light sickness is not kind, but it should be better by morning. I am sorry, warrior, for what I have asked of you.” The Exarch rose from his seat and began rifling through the cupboards for tea leaves. He had stocked the room himself, after all.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
He paused when she spoke, knowing he would need to answer carefully.
“Doing what?” He spotted the leaves he was looking for and removed them from the cabinet. He made his way back to the kitchenette to light the kettle, grateful for the cover of darkness to hide his fumbling.
“Apologizing for asking me to be the hero. You must have known for a very long time that you would ask me to do this.”
The Exarch dropped the tea leaves into a mug, watching the kettle heat up with rapt interest. “I have known for quite some time that you would save this shard and your own. And I have known that I would ask this of you. Still, I regret the burden I have placed on you. Adding more to the Warrior of Light’s plate is not something that should be done lightly.”
He glanced up at her from under his hood. She had moved into a sitting position, and was facing him, her bare feet on the ground.
“You told me something that I found strange,” she said as the kettle came to a whistle. The low sound of her voice in the dark room was causing him to feel drowsy, though most nights he did not sleep. Perhaps it was also the stress of the day - it had been a while since he had spent so much time away from the tower. The Exarch removed the kettle from the flame and poured it into the mug, steam billowing up around his face. He placed it back on the burner and turned the flame off, inhaling the smell of ginger interlaced with chamomile.
“I imagine I have told you many things that you have found strange,” he mused, smiling.
“How long have you been tied to the tower?”
In true Warrior of Light fashion, she had cut him to his core, threatening to expose him after felling a single Lightwarden. He thanked the twelve that the room was dark and his hood kept his face hidden - she had been on the first for almost no time at all, and was already seeing straight through him, asking him questions he could not begin to answer, could maybe never answer.
Instead of answering he reached for the jar of honey, screwing off the top and dissolving two teaspoons of honey into her drink. He tried not to think about how he knew she would like it this way best, how she had prepared it that way at a campsite in Mor Dona several lifetimes ago. The fact that he had retained the knowledge of how she liked to drink her tea was humiliating in itself. Do not panic Raha, he reminded himself sternly. Panic would ruin everything.
He carried the mug over after, her question still suspended in the air between them. How long, G’raha Tia? Or is it just Exarch now?
“Thank you,” she said quietly, accepting the mug from him. He was standing much closer to her now, and could see that her hair was wet from a bath she must have taken earlier. He was glad she had taken the time to rest, though her body was recoiling from the light she had absorbed. She cleared her throat before taking one long sip of the tea without letting it cool.
He watched as her face became questioning after tasting the mixture. He breathed out a small sigh; she had no way of knowing his torment, could not know that he had known from experience how she liked her tea. Still she seemed suspicious, as if she knew his secrets but could not quite put words to them.
“That’s very good. I feel better already.” He laughed as she set her mug down on the bedside table. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you didn’t answer my question.”
He sat down carefully on her bed, maintaining his distance but not enough to avoid the terror he felt.
“There are many questions I cannot answer at this time… you must believe me when I tell you that if you had every answer to your questions, it could put this entire shard at risk, which is something I am unwilling to do.”
She sighed and looked down at her mug, her back partially to him as she turned his words over in her mind.
“However,” he continued, “you must also believe me when I tell you I wish to tell you all, and in good time it will make sense to you. I did not bring you here on a whim, my friend.”
“G’raha Tia.” He froze in his spot, unmoving under his robes. “The name of my friend who once lived in your tower. Did you truly not know him?”
He truly believed he was put on this shard to suffer.
“In regards to young G’raha… I cannot reveal to you his path. But I am sure he would like for me to convey his regrets that he could not be here to greet you.”
The Warrior, still turned away from him, did not react, except by lifting the metal bucket to her face and retching again. He watched her retch until she had nothing left, unable to console her, unable to answer her questions, unable, even, to be her friend. He sat in silence while she tugged her blankets back over her head, and still he could not move from his spot. He felt no pain, strangely. It was as if the crystal had already spread, and his heart could no longer be broken. He was a statue.
"If you don't mind," she said, her voice also devoid of feeling, "I'd like to get some rest."
He stood from his spot quickly, apologies heavy on his tongue. He made for the exit wordlessly instead, not trusting himself to speak to her in the darkness of her room any longer. She had exceeded his every expectation, as usual, and he could not even do her the courtesy of being her friend or her enemy, coward that he was. He left the room, the closing door behind him reminding him of the last time he had closed a door between them. How many centuries had come to pass in his life? Yet he still made the same mistakes, still found nothing inside when he searched within himself for answers.
The Exarch wondered what would be left of him after all this.