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It catches his gaze when they explore through the curious labyrinth. Strange that it would, as he has both the Sons of Saint Coinach milling about excitedly around him and a whole labyrinth chock full of Allagan technology with purpose unknown to him. Those should have occupied all of his attention, grabbing his thoughts and sight.

Yet he finds himself captivated by this particular sight, watching in fascination until the so-called Warrior of Light turns his head around and gives him a puzzled look.

There is no verbal question that follows the gesture, only a comforting silence that always accompanies the hero. Which is why it takes him a few seconds longer than necessary to process the questioning look, before a sheepish laugh sputters out of his lips. An apology follows as he averts his gaze back to the curious contraptions all around them, busying himself in identifying their purpose.

Focus, he reminds himself. He has a monumental task at hand: a discovery he had been dreaming about to see for so long. Driven both by the tales from his old folks and his own desire to understand the empire which had long perished to the calamity. The Warrior of Light has risked life and limbs to clear the labyrinth off of any hostiles, he should be doing his part and concentrate on his task.

But–

But isn’t that exact title that piqued his curiosity in the first place. To see with his own two eyes, a real 'hero of eld' as spoken by people in Eorzea: the so-called Warrior of Light. His eyes drift once more to the slightly shorter miqo'te, who has found something of interest on the ground.

One would say it's a privilege to see a hero in action, worthy of being bragged about over a drink in a tavern. But to see him doing something not dissimilar to a little kid finding a curious pebble is definitely an even more rarity. 

Then, as if it isn’t silly enough of a view, the hero picks the artifact up and shows it passionately to the nearest researcher he can find. An elezen who looks flabbergasted at the sudden strange item being shoved up to his face. With as much composure as a scholar whose privacy is being invaded can muster, the researcher starts explaining the ethic of 'please don't touch anything until we identify it is harmless'. To which the hero pouts at, still holding the artifact like it's a lost baby chick.

He chuckles at this, involuntarily shifting the seeker's attention toward himself. 

Not a tick later, the Warrior of Light bounces toward him, eyes sparkling. 

While it warms his heart for the hero to rely on him, the previous scene makes him mull one important question. Something that is as trivial as the weather, yet has been lingering in his mind the moment he met the seeker.

How small is the back for one who is called the 'Warrior of Light'?

Granted, they both are seekers with the same height and the same build - he notes how they, too, wield the same weapon. And while it is something he'd rather not admit, he is not the tallest seeker among other miqo'tes.

But what would that make the hero be?

He takes a deep breath and returns his attention back to the artifact offered before him.

There will be a time when he can ponder about it. For now, he has a duty and that is what he’s going to preoccupy himself with.

(But the hero's back is small, he thinks and perhaps, perhaps, wonder how it is when compared to his own)

Crystal tower is a tiring climb.

He notes the crystalline interior, gazes upon the architecture and feels the tower hum with untapped energy. One that is not unlike an enormous chunk of crystal bursting with untouched aether. 

Climbing it is no easy feat, obviously.

It took a group of capable adventurers and the Warrior of Light to spearhead their expedition before they dare to climb to the top. And yes, it is a tough climb, one that saps your strength easily if you're not sufficiently prepared.

As his feet start to ache, he tilts his head upward to see how far they are from the top when he hears the sound of quick footsteps from above. 

A tick later, the Warrior of Light's face appears at the furthest distance of his sight. The seeker practically flies down the flight of stairs, gradually coming into view. There's a wide smile on his lips when G'raha finally can define the features of his face. As well as a gleam in his eyes when he spots him among the researchers dragging their feet upward.

The seeker says nothing when he reaches him. Only snatching his hand and points upward. He looks giddy as he awaits for consent, which he gives with a nod and follows it with a cut-off yelp when the Warrior of Light immediately pulls him upward.

His enthusiasm is contagious that even his waning excitement from exhaustion lifts up upon seeing the hero's smile. Eventually, he also matches his companion's pace, the eagerness affecting his own desire. They run ahead of everyone, with the small party of researchers and the two enigmatic individuals from the lost Allagan civilization following closely behind them.

Ah…yes…his excitement falters a little; Unei and Doga, the two clones born from Allagan technology, who had revealed far too little about his eye; the Royal Eye as they named it. While that name alone had been more than what his father had told him, he knew they were withholding some other secrets, revealing nothing more than what they deemed necessary to keep him going. Their tactic works like a charm, though unfortunately, it has provoked his thoughts further regarding this expedition.

The Baldesion indeed have entrusted him with the task of researching Allag through this expedition. But this task is in his hands due to a research he had made, one that had piqued his interest for far too long. One that had earned him his Archon privilege. But now that the two Allagan 'residents' had told him about the eye, a set of new questions bubbled up to the surface of his mind.

Has this curiosity been borne merely from this eye? Is his desire to solve Allagan's mystery a product of said civilization's gene instead of his own independent thoughts?

These musings hover around in his head during the climb, slowly festering into doubts, into fears. 

The more he knows about the lost civilization, the less he understands about himself. His desire, his past, his…

A squeeze stops his free hand from covering the crimson eye. He turns his gaze up, directing his gaze to the peak–

– and the hero's back, walking steadily upward; their hands intertwined as one.

There is not a slightest hesitation in his step. 

He blinks at the sight and wonders: for what purpose does the hero walk forward with such conviction? Was it because of his obligation after he accepted the task thrusted into his hands? Or was it for glory, for the reward of power like how Cid’s…former colleague had openly stated?

But then, the miqo'te looked excited when he took his hand. The glint of curiosity in his eyes, the tail wagging shamelessly behind him and the way he wordlessly dragged him along, how animated he was as he pointed upward to their goal. 

That is not how someone who merely wants something as fleeting as power or treasures would act. 

His eyes are sparkling in delight, the smile on his face conveys genuine excitement.

Just like him whenever a new discovery is made. A promise of an entirely untouched site that conceals abundant knowledge would stir his wandering heart and ignite his burning desire to comprehend its secrets. 

How he longs for anyone to share his joy upon finding it. Something he had shared with the Warrior of Light through their nights of staying up late to exchange stories; him with his vast amount of books he had consumed and the hero with the many places he had seen around Eorzea first hand along with the silly adventures he has gone through.

A smile quirks into his lips as his steps grow firmer, surer, the doubt smothered into little embers for now.

He squeezes the hand holding his own and relishes in the way it squeezes back as reciprocation.

With a reliable hero leading his way, he must see this through to the end.

An oil lamp burns by his feet. A somber light tinting the inside of their tent in calming warmth – a contrast to the turmoil within his mind.

Unei and Doga had entrusted the Crystal Tower in his care, believing that he would choose the best decision for the Allagan legacy. That it may not fall into the wrong hands; that it may not be used for anything similar to Emperor Xande’s ambitious and selfish vision. 

And after he mulled it over, he had come to a conclusion: a plan. One that would ensure the safety of both the Crystal Tower and Eorzea who's not yet ready to fathom the full extent of its power.

One that grips his heart with a slight fear.

His head turns to the side, to the - now dear to his heart - friend he shares the tent with. The Warrior of Light who had fallen quiet half a bell ago. Asleep most likely. Not a surprise, considering the ordeal that they've been through. He should be following suit, his body begging for him to rest.

Yet here he is: a half-formed plan boiling inside his mind and the fear that comes with it clutching his chest. As it becomes unbearable, he seeks the other occupant of his tent, watches the rise and fall of those shoulders, the peek of that now-familiar back, half-wrapped in the blanket a few ilms apart from him. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, the tip of his fingers quivering as he presses his palm over the expanse of the hero’s back as fleetingly as he can. 

How small - a smile tugs at the corner of his lips - yet it carries so much hope within.

A hero who is also now his inspiration to take that first step. To be brave as he faces the difficult choice.

A hero, whom he will not see again, should his plan come to fruition, yet whose future would be kept safe if he executes it well.

He falls asleep like this, warm hand over warm back, feeling each breath the hero takes as he gradually falls into slumber, lulled by the steady rhythm of their shared breath.

By the morning, his decision had been made.

Though the leather book in his hand is worn and torn, he lovingly reads every single line of the ragged journal with no less keener eyes than when he is faced with an academic report. Each line is written with honest sincerity that it's clear the writer had tried his best to capture what he felt with words. Some, however, seemed too painful to write; the words jumbling together with creases over the page and stains of something wet smearing the ink.

Every name the warrior had lost was written in simple, mournful lines.

And then between the pages, written on a rather crumpled paper, he reads the aftermath of a somber triumph in the wake of a thousand years long war.

He smiles at the clumsy attempt of using complicated phrases, at the lines scratched over misspelled words, or the dog-eared pages and sometimes, small drawings of people and creatures the writer met in his journey.

(He even spotted a hand-drawn portrait of his visage between the pages detailing their expedition together and chuckles at the hero’s valiant attempt to replicate the Archon’s marks on his neck)

(He definitely denied reading the heartfelt message penned into the page, addressed to his name)

It is by itself a complete story of the hero. Something that is only mentioned in another book about the Dragonsong war, written by another pair of eyes witnessing the hero's tale in Ishgard: The former count of Fortemps, who had opened his house for the mournful Scions at the behest of his son's plea. The book itself needs be retrieved before he can peruse its content, but it's worth the trip to Ishgard despite the risk.

In contrast to the warrior's journal – not that it makes him like it less – the elezen wrote in concise yet beautiful prose, elaborating each and every part of the tale as he witnessed the fate's course directing the Warrior of Light’s journey.

From the heavily snowed landscape of Ishgard, to the field between the people branded as heretics by the Holy See and even walking among the dragons up in the clouds. There is no shortage of wonderment weaved into the pages and he reads on, fascinated by the foreign land the Warrior of Light traversed.

His favorite, however, would always be when Count Edmond describes the final defense of Ishgard, the day when Nidhogg was truly slain and his vengeful spirit dispelled forever.

But it's not the triumphant outcome that he anticipates, no, that outcome is predictable as Ishgard still stands today. In shambles, yes, but where in Hydaelyn that is untouched by destruction these days? They even have dragons helping them with their military and transport; a boon in this cataclysmic disaster, though they, too, eventually succumbed before the calamity.

Count Edmont had immortalized this climactic confrontation into eloquent words. Though for him the grandiose finale is underwhelming when compared to the penultimate sight before the clash. The description has enthralled him, capturing that moment into a vague yet powerful image through orderly sentences and poetic narration. He knows not how accurate this prose is, as Count Edmont wrote like a bard would a lyric. But his mind could conjure the scene after the Warrior of Light disembarked from the dragon’s back all the same.

How the footsteps of retreating soldiers thundered across the stone bridge, either those with wounds on their body or those whose fear had taken over their mobility. 

How the sight of the dragon’s horde would surely instill fear to any soldier who had just arrived at the battlefield. 

Yet among the fleeing soldiers; the injured and the hale carrying their wounded comrade to safety, the Warrior of Light stood tall. 

Slight as he is between the elezens and the hyurs that made up most of Ishgard’s military might, in that moment, perhaps everyone can see him. A ray of hope between the clouded skies.

Without a single doubt in his steps, he moved. Forward. Never back, just forward. Silently, with his weapon drawn, he walked as the soldiers looked on his back; maybe in quiet fear, perhaps in genuine awe, he couldn’t tell how it felt to see such a sight before your eyes.

The cacophony of battle roared all around him: the screams of pain, of fear, and the slowly fading spirited battle cry from the Temple Knights as the dragons gained on them.

Yet here the Warrior of Light was, ignoring it all and pushed on, his sight set onto the dragon who had taken the Azure Dragoon’s body.

Ah…what a powerful sight it must’ve been…

…

How he wished he had been there to bear witness to such a glorious sight.

When he decided to follow Biggs' advice and take a rest after working on their plan for a week straight without sleep, he saw...something.

Not a strange sight lately, but there were people; a flock of them, shambling around the field. Their gazes were hollow, their lips opened and closed as if they were mumbling something that even his ears couldn't catch. He saw them shuffling around aimlessly, not knowing where to go and simply existed.

That was not an uncommon sight.

They live in the end of time so those who are overcome by despair is not a rare sight to see as with each passing day, they bear witness to how close the end looms over.

How each day, there would be new names carved into the tombstones with tired hands clasped into a prayer for any gods still existing somewhere.

How each day, he watches how hope is slowly dying, fading away from every face he meets. 

How each day, he holds onto his own hope, poring over any surviving literature that could give him a sliver of clue to help save the star.

He's quite fortunate that the Garlond Ironworks helps stoking the fire of hope in people, keeping it burning under their breasts as they press on to find a chance, however little, to unravel this tragedy. 

It's not just them too, there's also the tale of the heroes of eld; spreading from mouth to mouth, written in books, or told as people gather around a campfire. This tale keeps the fire alive, reaching deep within them to ignite their hope. He sat around sometimes when someone was telling this story, animatedly gesturing or even imitating the event; each twist and turn as best as they could. There even exist several renditions of the story, depending on who was conveying them. But they share one similarity and that is how each storyteller always looks so alive, their face glowing with hope as they recite each sentence with giddiness in their voice. It's infectious, their hopefulness, and he is always so fond when someone begins opening their mouth to tell their own tale about the heroes of eld.

Yet sometimes the bleakness still weighs down on his shoulders. The helplessness of it all becomes unbearable for him to carry. It is only then that he visits the pages inside the worn journal of his friend; reads through what the Warrior of Light had threaded upon, reliving the journey that the hero had walked on; in the eyes of the hero himself. Not through the embellishment peppering its twist and turns from the minstrel over the campfire.

Until he reaches the end – at the last written page of the rather bulky journal, he finds the hero's own passing. 

It's not written down explicitly as the last entry for the obvious reason. Nor does the page scream finality. It is like every other entry in the journal, filled with hope for a better future with an undertone of exhaustion. It even ends with a wish for a new adventure, one that will take the hero to somewhere he hadn’t seen before. 

But before that, the seeker wrote, there is a war he must win. 

Even at the cost of other people dying by his hands.

He can tell the world had molded the Warrior of Light into what the star needs. No longer is the hero sounded curious and driven purely by his virtue or thirst for adventure. Instead, he was bound by duty and obligations, saddled with expectation from the world to triumph against their adversary. 

As their weapon of light.

And the journal concluded there, abruptly. 

Empty pages that tell even more than those with words.

The hero had written a note in the first page: a clear instruction of what to do with the journal should the worst come to pass. And it's clear the brave soul had heeded the instruction as it eventually ended up in his hands.

Bringing with it both a legacy of hope as well as questions that started of as a passing thought before it boils over in his mind:

How?

And with it comes the next question:

By whose hands?

He is the Warrior of Light, blessed by Hydaelyn herself to fight on Her behalf. Why would Hydaelyn let Her champion perish?

These questions linger inside his mind, fueled by his curiosity, until he justifies it to the cause he's pursuing. To look to the past for guidance.

So first, he consulted the journal. He has read it countless times now, but there's never a harm in reviewing any literature content. From its pages, he finds the location of where the hero was going to go as his final journey. A rather vain clue, considering how the star has changed drastically and the map is not as reliable as it should be. No mapper even wants to undertake the task of re-mapping the whole realm. Not one with common sense that is. It’s no surprise, knowing that anyone could try to stab you on sight for resources or the danger from the poisoned land itself, their star dying due to Garlemald's mindless scheme.

Then, he consulted books depicting the final war against Garlemald before the world tumbled into ruin. From one obscured tome among the stack, he fishes out a name for the battlefield, though it is said to be long gone from the map now. Forgotten, mutually forsaken by both sides; due to both the bitter memory it brings to anyone whose bloodkin had fought in the war and for the dense amount of poisonous gas in the air; the original Black Rose that is spreading across the land originated here, after all.

And finally, when he runs out of literature resources he asks around, apologizing prior for asking this question as he knows how painful it might be for these people to recall the beginning of their suffering. Some don't answer his plight - understandable, he apologizes to them - and some refused to meet his eyes as they told him bits and pieces of history they remember; spoken from their grandparents' lips.

“My great great old da always said that very few soldiers had returned from the frontline…very few that he could count with one hand. They returned sickly and pale, coughing and vomiting before succumbing eventually to whatever madness those accursed Garleans had resorted to”

But the rare few, which among them is a lone viera, who has scars all over her face, gives him this look. A look of someone who has seen the answer and doubts that he would believe them.

He returns her gaze and nods, expressing trust as best as he can. Perhaps his nod is not as powerful or 'talkative' as when the Warrior of Light does it, but he did it regardless of results. The viera mulls his gesture momentarily, eyes fixated at him.

Whether it's resignation or willingness that drives her to accept, he knows not. He holds his tongue from asking lest he would jeopardize this opportunity. What's important is she's willing to walk down the memory lane for him. Live through the tragedy and voice her account of the event. And he will wait if she needs time to gather her thoughts, to prepare her heart before the walk.

She opens her mouth,

"Our field operator received no report for many bells after a certain operation was carried out by the Garleans," she says, "...it was unsettling to hear every single linkshells connecting us to the frontline went silence all at once"

She pauses briefly, draws a deep breath, "So they asked me to check on the battlefield. Where it has gone far too quiet to anyone's likin', no wind in the slightest that breathing is a struggle – heck I remember the chirurgeon said that he can hear a gil drop," she continues, her fingers are clenching, unclenching her own wrist, "...so there I was, about to follow the command when one of them Ala Mhigan's foot soldiers stumbled in," she stops momentarily, a hesitant look flashes on her eyes,

"You reckon Ala Mhigo, yes? Know your history bits and all?" She asks and he nods, remembering the courageous Lyse Hext written as a passionate friend in the journal, "...aight, so this Ala Mhigan soldier came in, stumbling, his skin pale ashen grey, we thought he had seen death. He spoke naught but gibberish, but what we could discern from his gurgled words were to not approach the battlefield"

She trails off, chews her bottom lip as she visibly reasserts her thoughts, "We thought it's bullshite at first before he…" she pauses again, this time, her discomfort is palpable. What words she has prepared are caught at the back of her throat.

She closes her eyes, inhales deeply and opens her lips once more.

As she recounts what she had witnessed, her eyes start to glaze over – unseeing. Understandable, she is reliving the event that had robbed every living soul in the star of their future and their light of hope.

To place her gaze on the somber aftermath and lived to tell the tale. The weight of the truth and the guilt for surviving the cataclysm must have burdened her so, leaving a dull ache from the invisible scars it left her. His question only serves to rip it open anew.

Her voice falters as she finally whispers to him the story of how the world ends. 

Not in a grand explosion or a bloody, epic clash worthy of a grandiose book. 

But in silence. 

A deep, deafening silence.

.

.

.

After all, dead bodies can't speak.

He thanks her after she finishes her recollection, apologizes for making her recall such a painful part of her memories and finally excuses himself. 

That night, he dreams of the hero standing tall as people - comrade or foe -  grew increasingly agitated. With the Garleans running away and the Alliances giving chase; a chaotic front. Yet his gaze was set to the front. Forward, never back. With his weapon drawn, ready to serve as his sword and shield both. The Leveilleur twins always present behind his back, equally alert, but visibly reassured for their warrior's presence; their hope embodied. 

Before eventually, he, too, succumbed to the Garlean's machination, forced to his knees as he swatted the invisible foe with his weapon weakly. And when he understood that his effort was futile, he lifted his hands for one last time and wound them around the dying twins. Smiling, he apologized for leaving too soon and wished that he could do more to keep them safe.

A protector until his last breath.

He was found in the middle of the field of corpses; his arms were embracing the lifeless twins, keeping them both in his protective hold like a cradle. 

His sob quietly lingers into the night as he finally, finally mourns for those brilliant souls that the star had lost.

It's remarkable how his mind remembers every detail that made up his hero.

From the messy hair due to his adventuring romp to the reassuring smile he always wears that would always soothe distressed people who cried for his aid. Even the markings on his cheeks and the way his ears flick whenever anyone calls for him.

He doesn't change, is his very first thought when he lays his eyes on the Warrior of Light after a hundred years. The only difference he can spot is the weapon he wields. It had been replaced by another; something he must have picked up along his journey.

It is when the smile fades that he finally notices other little differences. From the dark smear beneath the dimmer twinkling eyes to the occasional twitches of his hand as the hero gauges him. Are you a friend or a foe, he can see the unspoken question flickering back and forth across his face. The dark furred tail is stiff, not relaxed as he always used to see back in the Source.

A slight wariness stays in the hero's eyes when he greets him like an old friend. His memory faintly recalls the excited gleam in the warrior's eyes when they first met. Way back when they were strangers and he only knew of the hero by his unbelievable deeds that were spread from one mouth to another. And the hero knew him from the ridiculous challenge he issued.

Ah… bless his past's eager youthful soul.

Now, that gleam has diminished into this cautious gaze which sweeps up his form as if trying to decide whether to put his trust in him or not. He smiles at the hero's alarmed face, leading the younger mystel to a safer space, away from the ears and eyes of his people. It hurts to be gazed at with such distrustful eyes, but nevertheless, it is prudent for him to withhold his identity from the hero. 

When they reach a quiet spot with no listening ears, he opens his mouth and speaks.

About this reflection of the star they are in, about this world and the horrible plague that had nearly ended its life. The light, the First, the sin eaters, and the inhabitants who are none the wiser that they are merely a reflection of the Source; a fragment of something that used to be whole. He watches the hero listening aptly to each word he has spoken. A brief image flashes in his mind.

Inside a tent. A lantern between their feet. The scent of leftover stew lingering among the ozone smell of crystal that Mor Dhona wears proudly like a coat. 

He shoves the image away.

The hero gives him a look, his lips open to finally ask a question that he is not surprised to hear with such demand in his voice. About his comrades: the Scions and their well-being.

As much as he wants to answer the question, explaining what he had done - and partially failed - would take time. Time that they shouldn’t have spent standing outside the safe confinement of the city. With a tilt of his head, he gestures toward the gate, welcoming the warrior to the settlement he had seen built from nothingness.

The look of curiosity that graces the hero’s face the moment he steps into the Crystarium's welcoming gate warms his heart.

At least that trait of his stays, he thinks fondly, chuckling when the hero gives him an eager look as if to ask for a wordless permission to explore. Which he promptly gives - along with some points of interest - and watches with an amused smile as the mystel immediately scampers off.

Lyna approaches him once his 'guest' has departed, not surprised anymore by his ease of allowance for a stranger of unknown origin to roam the Crystarium unsupervised, but worrying about the town nonetheless. He gives her a reassuring smile and tells that everything will be fine if only to assuage her leftover worries. She simply needs to relay an order to the patrol that should they spot this certain unknown mystel in the town they need not be alarmed as he is the Exarch’s guest and if possible, to direct him to the door before the Ocular.

"And don't forget to give him some pointers to reach there," he says with a twinkle in his shrouded eyes, indulging in a little reminiscence of his younger days, "...he can be quite directionally challenged despite his seemingly confident gait" he adds, chuckling when Lyna gives him a look.

While it is understandable how no one should not be able to miss where he lives, the adventurer from the Source is definitely one who can and will probably miss the obvious answer, considering what he wrote about attempting to navigate Limsa Lominsa confusing ups and downs along with Ul'dah's twisting maze of streets. Emphasize on attempting.

Being lost, to the adventurer, however, seems to only mean a new discovery to be made or a new face to be met. There is a certain charm to it, one that draws his wanderlust heart back then as well as ignites his longing to accompany the adventurer. Obligations and purposes, unfortunately, shackled him. So he wishes to merely cherish what he has and being allowed to bear witness to the days to come.

Lyna, as usual, asks nothing more of his mysterious guest. The shake of her head tells him that he is out of trouble. For now. 

She leaves after a salute, doubtless to carry out his words.

He waits for exactly two bells before the warrior of light finally reaches the stairs to the Ocular. The mystel's eyes are sparkling, his feet jittery; the joy of new discovery is simply oozing from his body. And when their eyes meet, he feels relieved to see that his wariness has ceded.

He greets him and asks whether the hero enjoys the town. His question is met with a smile, a nod, before the warrior opens his mouth and says:

His name.

A question; a word that tingles something at the back of his mind. Faintly stirring emotions beneath his cold, crystal chest.

He replies with a shake of his head. A finality. 

His answer.

"I have never met anyone residing in the Crystal Tower with that name before"

Technically, not a lie. He knows better than to lie to the other's face. Yet still, he doesn't dare look at the hero's face as he invites the warrior into the Ocular.

Once the door behind them closes, he starts with, of course, the Scions whereabouts and well-being. The latter he immediately relays - "Yes, they are all quite well" - while the former, he tells with a vague description; especially for ones who have no knowledge of the First's geography. A decision that brings a frown to the hero's face, his mouth pursed as he waits for him to elaborate further on what he wants to know the most.

He smiles knowingly and continues.

A trained speech that grows with each Scion arriving at the First.

The hero listens with rapt attention, his gait is a telling hint that he would take off the moment a map is laid down and markers come to play. 

He, however, has another plan.

"A room has been prepared for you to peruse," he says, "...I shall escort you there so you may rest"

It is a suggestion that the mystel immediately refuses to do, insisting that he sees the Scions first; to know that they are well by his own eyes. 

While his concern for his companions is admirable, he'd rather delay their reunion if only to let the hero rest. 

"They are relatively unharmed, I assure you.  Should I allow you to reach them now when you are drained from your…'trip', regardless of how you miss each other's presence, they would never grant me forgiveness" he says, remembering Alisaie's rather… creative choice of wordings upon her arrival. That is merely one among the many. He definitely will remember Y'shtola's sharp jab regarding the 'brilliant' timing of his summon.

And yes, he much prefers the warrior to rest if only for one night. Traveling between shards had been deemed an impossibility. It took him - through the research from everyone else in a future they want to change -  a hundred years to perfect the method and even then, he had failed to execute it perfectly. Five times.

The beacon helped.

And Hydaelyn must have given him a helping hand for his last attempt, ensuring Her champion to stay whole after the Call despite his less than stellar performance.

After he promises to reveal everything as soon as the hero is well rested, he walks him to the Pendant. A short but sweet walk where he entertains the restless mystel with stories of the Scions during their stay in the First. A few mishaps here and there as they adapt to its culture before they settle into each of their roles comfortably, almost naturally so. 

That, at least placates his worry by a fraction.

They stop by the market for a tick, he needs to introduce the hero to someone else. The Crystarium's trading boasts a wide variety of goods, though there are some that only the Source can provide. And so he calls out, the name sounds both familiar yet strange in his tongue; an effect that always comes whenever someone addresses a pixie.

In a blink, Feo Ul appears. They wink, turning into his new companion with glowing interest, examining him with as much careful consideration as a pixie can give. In return, the mystel watches the small fae creature fleeting around him, mystified. Eventually, Feo Ul makes a satisfied hum and thanks him for this beautiful [Sapling] he had given them. A small arm stretches as an offering to the warrior, asking for his hand. It delights him that despite looking perplexed and awed by this sudden turn of event, the mystel raises his hand obediently. 

Feo Ul grins at his cooperation and with mischief in their eyes, asks for the hero to close his eyes. 

There is a rule in this world about the fae folks and despite how he can vouch about Feo Ul's trustworthiness, they, too are not immune to making fae mischief. The hero, however, knowing nothing of the rules, readily accepts the term and to his relief, the pixie does not tease their new [Sapling] and their pact was made with a warm glow from where their hands connect.

Feo Ul lets out a cheer for a new bond formed, promising to take good care of their new precious [Sapling] as a wonderful [Branch] before they, quite literally, dissipates into particles of aether.

The hero stares at the spot where the pixie has disappeared into thin air, his jaws open and his ears perked. There's a curious gleam in his eyes, a question at the tip of his tongue, doubtless he will ask for the rest of their journey. And of course he indulges him, regaling his guest with tales of the Pixies: Feo Ul's to be precise.

Before he even realizes it, they are already in the Pendants. The suite manager eyeing him with a gentle, meaningful gaze - that he couldn't discern its meaning of - and a respectful bow. 

They exchange goodbyes and he watches as his hero enters the suite, wooden door closing with a soft click behind the retreating back.

Then, he sighs. Relieved. 

A lot of thoughts are running through his head as he makes his way back to the Ocular. From his lengthy plan to the Scions, and eventually to the very hero he finally had succeeded on summoning. Despite how pleased he is for this accomplishment, a hint of guilt gnaws at his chest. What difference will his plan be from the Eorzean who hailed the warrior as their revered hero only to shove all their problems into his capable hands?

There is no other choice, his mind whispers when he pushes the door open.

He dismisses the thought, promising himself that he would not demand from the warrior. If his hero does not desire to act, who is he to command him to take action?

(He ignores the soft chiding from the corner of his mind that he knows the altruistic hero will always, always accept a request to aid anyone; big or small) 

And besides, he believes the Crystarium's residence wouldn't stand idly by once everything is set in motion. They are built like that, he chuckles to himself, valorous souls with a penchant to go along with his reckless plans. People who hold onto hope until the last of their breaths is drawn.

With that thought safely tucked to its nest at the back of his mind, he walks to the expanse of crystal. His own reflection is returning his gaze; the crystal invading his flesh, cold like ice. Dismissively, he waves his hand over the reflection, letting it morph into a shimmer instead. A thought echoes inside his head. Checking up on the hero would not hurt, right? A quick peek out of worry, he reasons when the rational part of his mind berates him for this sudden attempt to breach someone's privacy.

The shimmer swirls into a shapeless picture, the crystal surface ripples like water before it shows him the image he has–-

The Exarch sputters. Common sense urges him to wave over the reflection shown before his very eyes in full. Let the hero have his privacy, a voice in his head pleads.

But fascination and perhaps a tad bit of his ravenous curiosity pushed by attraction from days spent in his forsaken past had taken hold of his mobility. And before he realizes what his action implicates, his hands have stalled while his eyes are glued to the view.

Of the Warrior of Light's back, bare as the day he is born, divested of his armory.

It's still as small as he remembers; not broad or wide like what you'd expect a hero would have. A back that would blend well with others in the throngs of people - a part of the stars - yet had carried thousands, thousands of wishes and prayers…

…which were answered by the myriad of wounds painting the expanse of his skin. From scratches of fading old scars to the long, nasty pinkish gashes that are yet to heal and bruises in various hues that tell their stages of recovery. 

If this is how the backside looks like, what would the front be?

Zenos, his mind abruptly recalls that name in particular from a certain part of the journal, a hunter without peer who walks the burning frontline like an evening stroll before tea. The ease of his sword finding prey and how he managed to best the Warrior of Light in a duel.

Which one of those cuts were a parting 'gift' from the Garlean prince's merciless blade? 

Then there's Nidhogg and his horde of dragons, his memory readily adds. The vengeful wyrm whose quest for revenge did not stop upon his death and instead renewed. How he breathed a searing wave of flame fueled by his ire toward mankind.

Which one of those burnt marks were from the dragon's hateful flame? 

Or, oh, which one of those old scars were the first that the warrior obtained? The very first when he was still as clumsy and green as the journal had written himself to be.

What tale hides behind which scar?

"I apologize for the interruption, my lord"

With how fast his hand moves to banish the image from the mirror, he's surprised he hasn't pulled a muscle.

Formidable as Ran'jit is, once a momentum is broken, propelling himself to take over the runaway party would be quite an ordeal even for the Eulmoran general. The displeased frown thrown his way is quite intimidating, though he knows the general would not try to harm him. He is a man of order; not one to be driven by simple emotion like rage. And his order was to retrieve the Oracle of Light incarnation, not subduing the Crystarium leader. Even when said man is obstructing his attempt to complete his mission.

His title comes in handy in times such as this. Vauthry has yet to declare opposition against the Crystarium openly, so hurting her leader would be the last thing in the general's choice of action. A boon for him, that artifact only lasts for one usage and when he says he has no other card in his hands, he truly means it. 

Ran'jit scoffs at his remark, certainly doubtful of the truth he lies down so readily. 

He shrugs and casts his gaze instead to where the Warrior of Darkness and his comrades are bound for. From this distance, they look too small for a clear view, but he would never mistake the hero's retreating back, growing distant with each step he takes. 

"They're bound for Il Mheg," he informs helpfully, chuckling when the general's eyes widen and a slight irritation flashes, if briefly, across Ran'jit's stoic visage, "...I wish you luck in your pursuit, general" 

He turns on his heels and walks away; a smile tugging at his lips.

His task here is done.

Vauthry housing the last of the Lightwardens' light is of no surprise to him. With the amount of sin eaters under his command, he has his suspicion though no concrete proof yet of who exactly sits atop Kholusia's 'throne'. A mere hume is far down the list of possibilities so the revelation of Don Vauthry power didn’t catch him off guard at all.

What bewilders him more is how the Scions and the Warrior of Darkness have managed to convince those wealthy Kholusians who barely step out of their privileged abode to go against their leader. To give them hope after they finally discovered the cruel truth behind their convenient life. And even inspire them to go further, to create their own path to a better future with their own hands. 

As expected of the Scions and his inspiration to achieve what most people in the First would deem impossible. 

Experiencing their accomplishment first hand rather than merely reading their deeds is nothing short of exhilarating. He relishes his journey with them; speaking with and listening to the Scions, giving him glimpses of how the Source is faring in their time. Then, the brief excursion with the Warrior of Darkness, whose presence is always capable of nudging those memories resting at the back of his mind to surface. He cherishes every last second of it. 

Until the giant talos takes its first step with all hope from the First imbuing every move it makes. It grabs at Vauthry's paradise, holding the grandiose fortress as it paves the path to their new, brighter - hypothetically - future. He watches the people celebrate: Kholusian, his people from Crystarium, and those who live in the outskirts of Kholusia, along with those who hailed from Ahm Aereng and Rak'tika – everyone of the First without exception cheers at the top of their lungs. 

This is it, he thinks as he watches the Warrior of Darkness preparing to set forth. That familiar back blends well among the crowds; almost indistinguishable. It will look smaller as the warrior ventures further, carrying his hope, carrying the burden of the whole shard that he shares with the Scions who follow him steadfastly.

And with this, his own role is coming to an end.

No regrets, he thinks as he slips away from the masses and gets ready for his own journey to see this through to the end.

(The Warrior of Darkness pauses, his eyes flashes in worry momentarily as he scans through the crowds. A frown tugs at his lips before he feels a pull on his arm and meets Alisaie's eager face. Reluctantly, he turns away and faces the duty they bestow upon his shoulders to bear)

There are many things that he has to process regarding all the events that have unfolded in his absence. 

First and foremost is that he is still alive and breathing despite having resigned himself to his fate. To have his plan reversed by the wild card from the outside was predictable, but not to the scale that accursed Ascian had done. He supposes it was foolish of him to think that Emet-Selch would sit idly by as he prevented the rejoining that all the Ascian sought after.

But to let his guard down enough for the Ascian to shoot him down during that crucial moment was nobody's fault but his own. 

To think that one call of his name from the Warrior of Darkness could strip him of his decade-trained cautiousness.

When he woke up, he was somewhere he didn't know. The Ascian didn't elaborate either, simply letting him bleed out on the floor at first. He held back from asking anything, focusing instead to gather what’s left of his aether to knit his wounds. The distance from Crystal Tower is taking its toll as he barely could draw enough aether to stop the bleeding. His magic sputtered and fizzled, too weak to heal him completely, but enough to keep him from dying out of blood loss. 

He glanced toward Emet-Selch, expecting him to make a new wound to ensure his demise. Yet the Ascian touched him not and he took it that either his death is either of no consequence anymore or that he knows that the Exarch will survive and to the man's benefit, weakened enough to break through his secrets. 

Once he could breathe easier, the Ascian began to speak, nay, interrogate would be a better word to describe the rapid fire bout of questioning he was pelted with. 

He answers little, elaborating nothing but vague hints of his helpers from the future. In return Emet-Selch scoffs at his attempts to weaponize the question back at the Ascian.

Though knowing that Emet-Selch wants an answer out of him is enough telling he would be kept alive. For knowledge, yes, but also perhaps, for him to bear witness of the Warrior of Darkness he had plucked from the Source to transform into the beast he had vowed to eliminate.

Either way, he manages to force a stalemate; one that either party stubbornly does naught to break, leaving him with a silent, seething Ascian who makes it perfectly visible how irritated this exchange had been.

The moment the silence settles in, however, a stray thought immediately made itself known inside his head: his hero. 

Titania had harbored one of those Lights and got corrupted in the course of mere hours. Even Vauthry, despite having total control over it and being born with the natural power to harbor those lights, had been overwhelmed by the Light in the end. He had lost control albeit briefly and had his body transformed to what the Light deemed as better. It had taken over.

Vauthry had claimed it a blessing.

He would name it a curse.

Meanwhile, the Warrior of Darkness only has Hydaelyn's blessing to keep himself safe. While potent, the blessing itself is not enough to keep that much light at bay for long. From what he had seen before the excruciating pain robbed him of his consciousness: his hero is a few moons short from losing control. White coloring the tips of his dark hair, liquid light spilling between his lips – all the symptoms of those whose aether is contaminated by the Light. 

It's a miracle the mystel hadn't turned into a Light Warden upon Vauthry's demise.

The flutter of footsteps snap him back to the present, just in time to witness the Scions’ arrival. One by one, he turns his gaze toward each of those who are attempting to defy fate. Before finally, his gaze settles on the Warrior of Darkness who is holding on with trembling limbs. Behind him, the Scions and Ryne are watching with keen eyes, ready to intervene if it looks as if their friend would buckle down.

The hero moves.

Stumbling in his steps toward Emet-Selch, yes, with the light dripping down his lips as its corruption writhes inside him in an attempt to take over, true. 

But not with any ounce of fear in his eyes.

Instead, defiance is written all over the warrior's face; the determination to keep walking through the pain. To crawl to the end if he must.

He only responds to that defiance, that last glimmer of hope that this isn't over yet. His staff rises, what pool of aether he has left stirs as the spell rings clear inside his mind and he merely evokes it, calling forth all across the stars and time for heroes of eld who can answer his call. A desperate plea in the form of a spell. A prayer.

And they answer.

Briefly, the composed visage of Emet-Selch falls at this turn of event, shooting him a dismayed look that hints a regret for not ensuring his incapability to do anything. A tick later, the Ascian sighs. His shoulders slouch forward even more as if the weight upon them had doubled. Then, a scowl tugs at his lips, eyes blazing in fury. No doubt he is no less determined to bar their path. With a swish of a hand over the face, he reveals his mask, the true Ascian's name falling from his lips.

What follows is a clash of will. Between the Ascian's desire to save his brethren that he's willing to sacrifice this world he had deemed inconsequential and the hero's determination to simply protect those he holds dear.

They barely triumph. 

He would not dare to think what would happen if the Scions aren't supporting the warrior's back. What kind of future would it be where the hero fights alone? What outcome will they have instead of this one where they had slain Emet – no, Hades?

He dismisses such a chance from his thoughts.

They won.

Indulging in other possibilities would dampen the relief he feels with unnecessary ifs and maybes.

What surprises him perhaps is that the Ascian accepts his fate with a peaceful look on his face. He even bids the hero to remember them, of their struggle and their story.

The warrior had stared at the Ascian for a moment and though he can't see from the back, he can tell that a smile is spread across his hero's face; gentle yet resolved. 

Then, the hero nods.

Hades snorts at his response, shaking his head in disbelief. But when he lifts his head to give the mystel one last look, it is with a tranquil smile on his lips; free of the burden he had carried through his countless lives. For a moment, there is light. A spark that belies the nature of an Ascian who serves the dark. Then, in a flicker, the form dissipates into little particles of light, floating into the sea of stars. Never to be returned as his kin wont to do.

Hades dies with a smile.

As what’s left of the Ascian dissipates into nothingness, he turns to the warrior, and flinches when all attention shifts toward him abruptly.

A sheepish smile tugs at his lips, not knowing where to start explaining about everything; of his plan, of the world, of why he is here, and how he reached the First. There is so much he wanted to tell, so much he wanted to talk about that no words can justify how to even begin it.

To his surprise, his hero speaks first.

"Tis good to see you awake, G'raha "

He stops.

To hear that name being uttered again; a name he had discarded so long ago out of necessities from the past he had meant to change with his own sacrifice. A name that he thought would be forgotten with time, a footnote in the grand story of how the world is saved by the Warrior of Light – or darkness as the people of the First would call them.

A name that his hero says so fondly with a wide smile on his face and a hand offered to him. 

And it's all coming back to him, all those memories: his journey, the path he has taken for this moment to unfold, their shared nights at the tent in Mor Dhona, the hero's eyes watching him as the door of Crystal Tower closed behind his back, his own awakening to the world in ruin, and eventually his own journey to the First, carrying the hopes of people in the future they wished to unmake.

Every single memory he had locked behind his obligations. 

Shakily he reaches for the hand out of need for a ground to hold onto from the overwhelming amount of memories that are stirred inside his head. The next moment, he is engulfed in warmth, a familiar warmth that he had dreamt of feeling yet never had the courage to reach out and hold onto. 

Now he is holding that warmth in his hands under his palms. He feels each breath that his beloved friend takes. He can even hear the heartbeat thrumming beneath the chest against his own. Everything that signifies that he is alive – that they both are alive.

"Tis good to be back…" 

Elation. 

He finally knows what word he can put to name this welling up emotion beneath his chest. Not a mere happiness, nor even a relief after a hundred years of duty has ended. It's a pure joy that bubbles from within and it takes him all those years of training his self-restraint not to express these feelings outward so openly. 

To stand by his hero and the Scions and be acknowledged as their equal. 

Especially here, now, climbing the Crystal Tower with said hero leading his path. A surge of nostalgia hits him in waves; overlapping his sight with the last adventure they had together. A distant memory yet so familiar now with the presence of his adventuring partner. His eyes fall to the seeker's back, a smile tugging at his lips as it reminds him of all his past thoughts on how strong it has been. It had guided him forward before as it is guiding him forward now.

Then, his gaze shifts to the swing of the other's arms. He remembers it had grasped his own, guiding him along for the last climb to the peak. 

Now, he looks at it from afar while his own hand grasps at nothing. The crystal hand creaks when he does so and the reminiscence quickly dissipates. In its place, his duty awaits. His last.

If there is something Elidibus manages to do, that is to hasten his demise. He can feel the pull from the Crystal Tower, how it creeps up his body, how it turns what flesh he has left into crystal; a part of its structure. 

Abruptly a sting of pain lances through his entire being; where his flesh meets crystal aches and throbs; hurts.

The pain doubles with every breath he takes; a visceral, wet, and raspy inhale that even sounds ugly to his ears. He can still move, thankfully, but with the crystal steadily invading his flesh, turning what’s left of him into its kin, he has no idea when his mobility privilege would be stripped off of him. Soon, perhaps, considering he is now crouched on the floor, panting heavily.

A hand enters his field of vision. An offer. 

He tilts his head up, a gratefulness at the tip of his tongue before he pauses.

No wonder people will feel reassured by such an expression. 

Warm like a gentle sun, kind like a familiar friend. 

And for him, perhaps, wistful like the breeze of his past memories.

When he takes it, the hero's smile brightens visibly and with a tug, he is back on his feet, stumbling for a few moments whilst the hand acts like an anchor. A steady, patience anchor that allows him to stand his ground.

Once he manages to stand in a semblance of stable feet, he replies with a smile of his own and watches when the warrior's smile shifts into something even softer; fonder. 

The hand doesn't leave him until Elidibus summons the countless summoning circles to bar their way. He lets go willingly and barks for the hero to move.

…

He already misses its warmth.

Disorienting, is what he feels first when he finally rises from his uncomfortable bed made of crystal. Xande's throne was cold and lonely, a fitting throne for the mad king. He stares at its humongous size that dwarfs his own. And turns away, back to the path that has been laid before him. To the familiar presence who has shaken him awake and has sobbed when he roused. A rather concerning yet lovely sight to wake up into; one that he wants to comfort. To dry his tears if he could.

Then, the memories start pouring in. Slow at first, like a trickle of light rain before it comes in droves. People he shouldn't have met, events he shouldn't have experienced and knowledge he should have never had; everything that runs through his mind is staggering. It is, after all, two hundreds years worth of memories and knowledge seen through the eyes of someone that feels both distant yet so close to him. 

He's seen people who are fated to die, the future that he had helped prevent with those brave souls’ sacrifices. Then it was the Crystarium; every smiling face that all of the people there had shown, Lyna's shy chuckle, Feo Ul's excited giggles, the hopeful and resilient people of the Crystarium and the children playing in the garden while dreaming dreams of a brighter future. 

And through it all he glimpses of what he and the hero had gone through.

Every loss, every pain, each of it swimming in the sea of his memories. 

Which eventually ends in his own 'death' - joined with the crystal tower as parts of its spire forever.

He feels overwhelmed by the amount of stories ringing inside his head. It throbs as nausea starts to climb up his stomach despite him not remembering whether he had eaten or not. A pair of hands are quick to catch him before he slips, a concerned face follows, looking up at him in worry. 

His lips are quick to open, ready to reassure the other mys– miqo'te that he is perfectly fine when G'raha, with all the graces of someone who just rolled out of bed after a long hibernation, proceeded to let out whatever still left inside his stomach to the gleaming surface of the crystal tower's flooring.

There is not even a chance to apologize as he promptly loses consciousness. 

Two hundred years of memories is probably a little too much to take for someone who had been asleep for almost one year. Or was it more? Less? He couldn't tell. For him, the flow of time had ceased the moment he sat on the throne and the tower took his consciousness with it to slumber.

When he wakes up next, it is to the tickle of soft black locks on his cheeks, and the warm body pressed against his chest. All around, he can hear the familiarly nostalgic bustling of Mor Dhona's heart, filled with adventurers milling about doing each of their own business.

The old him would be embarrassed for this piggy back ride in the middle of crowds, but now, he buries himself further to the crook of the warrior's neck - chuckling teasingly at the flinch and gasp his dear friend makes - and lets himself revel this indulgence, before he sorts his memories again.

(Ah, his hero is ticklish, he notes, hoping this piece of information is privy to him and him alone)

A painting, that is what he will call this tanned expanse of skin filled with untold tales and hardships. The lines of red and pink, the spots of fading blue. Gashes that people would flinch at, scars that most would avert their eyes from. Every blemish that he can touch, the scratches peppering the divots made from shoulder blades. Everything that had marred the hero's body. 

And of course, the sound the miqo'te makes when he brushes the skin with his bare hand; a mixture of a gasp and a moan, followed by a restrained flinch. As if he's trying to run away, but holds himself back from squirming too much.

Adorable. 

He wants to hear more.

"Are you two done?"

His hand retracts from its phantom path, a nervous grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Alisaie is staring at him, impatience rolling off of her though the mischievous grin on her face tells another meaning besides. She easily plops herself down by their side, a wide grin tugs at her lips. Both of her palms are pressing against her own cheeks to support her head as she gestures at him. A wordless 'go on' is playing in the glimmer of her eyes as she nonchalantly greets their mutual friend. Who - none the wiser of his pandering touches - greets her back amiably.

Heat warms his cheeks when he returns to his task, much faster this time to find the open gash and cleans it. The cure spell fixes the rest for him and he feels a little pang of regret to see that it wouldn't leave a new scar.

He lets his finger run over the former wound under the guise of making sure it has healed completely. There is a flinch from his hero when he does so, followed by a shudder. It takes everything in his power not to repeat the motion again. 

Once he's sure the gash won't reopen, he flashes a smile at the Warrior of Light and nods. 

The seeker immediately beams at him, eyes twinkling in gratefulness as a 'thank you Raha' slips out of his lips. He starts to put his armor back on; the light shirt, the coat, and the bangles that jingle as he moves. Finally, he helps the seeker stand ready to resume their progress through the heavy snow.

Judging by her sneer, he assumes Alisaie senses his disappointment. 

Begrudgingly, he admits that she is correct. He vaguely recalls seeing this through the hazy memories of the Ocular's mirror. How he had wished to run his hands over each scar and asked what story is written behind each wound. And now when he gets the chance to do just that, it has to be cut short due to how pressed they are for time.

After all, he doubts their foe would wait for his prodding before they launch their assault.

So he swallows his desire and decidedly avoids Alisaie's gaze for the rest of the day.

At the end of the universe, their foe stands.

Countless despair from all across the stars congregating into one being. That is what lies before them, looms like a shadow over their head.

If standing against mother Hydaelyn had been a trial; a test of mettle and determination where she merely desires to gauge their strength.

Here, at the end, they are standing against a being whose sole goal is to end them. To end all of Etheirys regardless of the hope they have carried. For why must one live when everything eventually ends up in death? 

So she rises in a chorus, she and her sisters, joined as one to sing the song of the end.

They are the last wall between destruction and the stars, those who are brave or foolish enough to carry all the hopes and dreams of the future from the people of Etheirys and bear it to contend against the bringer of the end.

Yet, she had nonchalantly obliterated them like bugs. With the stars under her command and the overwhelming despair clawing at their feet, it takes her no less than five minutes to scatter the Scions to the empty skies, leaving only him and the Warrior of Light. 

With his shield raised, he stands his ground if only to protect his dearest friend. 

Not enough, he grits his teeth as the continuous onslaught batters at his barrier, cracking it little by little until his feet falter. A touch on his back surprises him and he feels more strength flowing from the contact through his body in gentle warmth before it reaches the tip of his hands. A different aether signature than his own, yet not intrusive. It twines itself with his, renews his energy as he stands his ground even more firmly, his barrier shines brighter.

It's still not enough.

In the face of countless despair, he is swept away, leaving his beloved friend to stand alone. Again. Yelling his name in fear and worry. 

He struggles to find his bearing; being airborne snatches his dimensional perception. And once he does manage to take a glimpse of where he once stood, he sees that familiar sight which had graced his eyes too many times. The small figure of his friend, facing their enemy alone. The back he chases after, who had stopped for him and turned to offer a hand whenever he falters. 

That very same hand which slowly rises, revealing a glint of something he can't distinguish from this distance.

Alisaie's scream of refusal is enough clue for him to hazard a guess and the countdown beeps finalizes the answer along with a familiar voice. He tries to twist his body, hands moving in a motion that is not unlike swimming. His effort is useless, however, and he can only watch helplessly as the teleporter lets out one final beep that seems to last forever.

One tick he is watching the Scions scattered in the air.

The next, he is laying down on the cold floor of Ragnarok, ushered by Alisaie's scream that tapers seamlessly into a curse to the Twelves. 

To his right, Thancred is glaring daggers at the floor, a fist clenched tight until his knuckles turn white. 

Y'shtola sits beside him, a conflicted look passes over her eyes. She may look indifferent to what has occurred, but it is clear she is worried for their mutual friend.

His gaze sweeps over to the rest of the Scions. From Alphinaud gritting his teeth in frustration to Estinien growling under his breath, looking away and lastly, Urianger who is somehow struggling to construct a sentence to reply to one of the Lopporits who had bounded their way, questioning their sudden arrival.

"That idiot–" Alisaie's voice finally breaks the silence, snapping each and everyone's gaze toward her, "...we have to go back!" she declares, leaving no room for refusal. With seething determination, she stomps toward the control room, where all of the Lopporits are supposed to be located. 

Silently, he rises from his involuntary seat on the floor and follows the younger Elezen. 

From the collective footsteps that follow them, everyone, for once, is of the same mind as Alisaie.

(Who wouldn't, the little voice in his head says, repeating the last sentence he hears vaguely between the silence and Alisaie's panicked scream:

"Thank you for everything"

He damn well would not let that be the last sentence he hears from his dear friend.)

Little G'raha always wondered what a hero's welcome party would look like. He read them in picture books, absorbing all the vibrant pictures depicting princes and princesses with the kings and queens and the delightful faces on the commoners or nobility alike. 

There were banquets on long tables for everyone to feast upon and the trumpets and the cheers and even the creatures from Coeurl to Karakul are celebrating the joyous occasion. Everyone erupted in joy, chanting the hero's name at the top of their lungs. 

A bard would be there to weave a song, perhaps with more embellishment than what actually had occurred, but nevertheless, it will become a heroic tale to be passed down from one generation to the next.

There is, however, no such a hero's welcome party here.

He sees the Lopporits scampering around, bringing rolls of bandage and potions and ethers as the rest of them navigate the ship back to their home.

He sees Thancred holding a bloody gauze in one hand and a clean one in the other. There's pain flickering in his eyes, an unspoken plea caught at the back of his throat.

He sees Y'shtola scrunching her face in concentration at the patient before her. Her eyes are unblinking as she barks a command to hold that near chopped off limb steady which another immediately carries out.

He sees Estinien by her beck and call. His hold is gentle and steady despite how fragile the limb on his palm looks. That calm and composed visage is only betrayed by the deeper creases between his eyebrows and the way his lips tremble as he voices a soft affirmative.

He sees Alphinaud on the verge of tears, his eyes glassy and his hands quivering as he continues his spell, not stopping until Alisaie presses a bottle of ether insistently to his cheek before he falls over.

He sees a shaken Urianger, speaking with the Lopporits and directing the moon bunnies to transport supplies. Though he may look as composed as he usually does, his worried glances and offers to replace the soon to be exhausted Alphinaud is anything but perfectly calm.

He sees Alisaie crying; frustrated anger masking the deep anguish within. Her tears spill down her cheeks as she speaks to the unconscious recipient. She begs, she pleads, she beckons. She's the one voicing out their mixed emotions, ones that not all the Scions can afford to express with such vulnerability.

He sees…

He sees the bloodied back beneath his hands. The old and new wounds. The blood, the scars, the cuts and the bruises. There is an open gash under his fingertips, fresh blood painting the marred skin. His mouth is chanting a cure spell, the bruise beside the gash is the size of a fist, another bottle of ether is dropped to his lap–

Focus.

Focus.

He opens his eyes. His friend's back under his hands is rising and falling slightly. Even that movement alone is kept with tremendous effort. This sliver of proof that their beloved friend is still clinging to life.

Beneath his fingertips, this body is growing warmer by the second, unlike when they found him, laying on his back in the middle of Ragnarok. Bleeding. From all sorts of places they can and can't see. Cold as a corpse.

Yet he lives.

They had erupted into various kinds of panic, but immediately went into work, delegating one or volunteering themselves to take care of one task or two.

The arm twisting in an unnatural angle had promptly been set by Thancred and the rest of them had continued the effort with anything they could do. Whether knitting every wound close with their magic or attempting to stop the bleeding with a clean roll of bandages.

This is how he ends up with the back he had long to know the story of, to explore to his heart's content whilst his friend tells him the tale of how each scar came to be when he traces them one by one.

But not like this, he thinks bitterly. Not with a dozen new wounds he has to tend to. Not with the owner of said back, laying on the floor, flickering between life and death.

He vaguely hears the Lopporits declaring that they are arriving in Etheirys and Thancred conveying their situation through Linkshell. But those soon become useless buzzes ringing inside his ears as he focuses even more at the wound under his fingertips.

Somehow amidst the loud ring in his ears, he can clearly hear Alisaie exclaiming that the forum better have an army of healers and chirurgeons ready when they disembark or she would shove their regulations and rules up their unmentionables.

And frankly, he supports that notion.

Estinien gives them both a pointed look. 

"I do not wish to question this, but pray tell, why does our friend look as if he took a tumble down a cliff whilst wrestling a wyrm?"

He purses his mouth, trying to find a good explanation for the mini adventure they had as a detour during their journey from Sharlayan. Eventually, he settles with a sheepish smile. It was supposed to be a harmless trip when he followed the other seeker who had accepted a request for a treasure hunt. 

An au ra man had asked the miqo'te pair for aid in seeking a possibility of treasure left by his late friend. Ever so virtuous, his friend had stopped to listen to the plight, nodding and humming at the tale before accepting the request without hesitation. 

They both couldn't really help the pull of an exciting adventure, especially if it pertains to a discovery of something new. The treasure matters less than the curious riddles written on the map and the process of retrieving both the key and the boxes. They had had fun up until a certain series of tumbles that end up with the current disheveled look the former warrior has.

"It's not a wyrm," his companion says, "...but there's this Ulfiti that can throw anyone ten yalms up in the air…"

The look on Estinien's face is now akin to a father hearing his son's latest mischief; disappointed yet impressed.

Beside him, Y'shtola chides in, "I assume you think that makes it better?" she says, not unlike a mother ready to scold her unruly troublemaker of a child. A sheepish chuckle is her answer and she returns it with a shake of her head along with a fond sigh.

Then, with gentleness only seen when handling a tome, she cups the disheveled miqo'te cheeks and examines him, top to bottom before returning back to the starting point. 

"You seem unharmed despite meeting this so-called Ulfiti capable of hurtling people into concerning height"

"It only caught me off guard once"

Y'shtola raises a skeptical eyebrow.

The former hero continues, "And I have Raha with me, I would be fine, Shtola"

He can feel those perceptive silver eyes switching targets to him - if briefly - before she lets go of her hold, a meaningful smile playing on her lips.

Urianger taps at both of their shoulders; a physical contact, something he expects the least from the astrologer. When their attention turns toward the older Elezen, he finally says, "Thou art certain that there is no lingering pain in or on your person? Either of you?" He asks, addressing them both.

He shakes his head and so does his partner in crime.

Pausing momentarily, the astrologer finally nods, seemingly satisfied with their answers.

"Very well, though should thy and thine feel any degree of discomfort at any given time, do not hesitate to relay thy words to our ears"

All of them may know how powerful each former Scion is, but they will worry for one another in their own way. Especially for their dear mutual friend. Who despite having proven time and again that he is resilient and tougher than most, is so prone to do reckless stunts if it means aiding people in need or protecting anything.

Or it may be because they almost lost him too many times. Now they wouldn’t risk losing him again if they could have a say on it. 

His attention returns to his companions when he feels a nudge to his shoulder and gazes down to a pair of yellow eyes, twinkling in anticipation. 

How familiar, his mind revels; remembers. 

Those stairs he climbed toward the peak of Crystal Tower; both as the young, brazen G’raha and as the ancient, hopeful Crystal Exarch. How he had chased after that back, allowing those hands to take his and lead him to this path he lived with no regrets. Until now…

Now, in this moment, he nudges back at the shoulder by his side - laughing when the miqo’te returns that too - and accepts the hand slipping to grasp his as they walk to the boat where their comrades are waiting. 

Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. 

Two partners finally embarking on a new adventure they've promised one another to.

The gate is not closed. Yet.

Though by the blur of red in between the imposing gate, he knows he has no time to dilly-dally.

So he hurries through the long hall without any pause, his feet carrying his weight with little to no care about how exhausted he had been the day before. That matters not, he thinks, it matters not compared to what will happen if he does not intervene.

It is only when he reaches the gate that he slows down, coming to a stop right before the wide open door to the tower. With his companion standing on the other side, smiling at him; morose yet hopeful. The twinkle of curiosity he has is still there, brilliant like the crystal within the tower. The way he stands there; confident and sure of the choice he makes. Something that pleases him greatly yet at the same time grips his chest with a feeling he can't put his fingers on.

"G'raha"

The name rolls so easily from his tongue despite the weight it carries; the unspoken question, a plea with no words that is capable of conveying its true meaning. 

G'raha closes his eyes and starts to speak.

About the Crystal Tower.

About the Royal Eye and his duty.

About his decision. One that he chose after Unei and Doga entrusted the Allagan legacy upon the miqo'te's hands.

It's logical, the reason G'raha lays out for his choice. Even he, an ordinary adventurer, can understand the need to protect this knowledge despite the tower's current stability. But the thought of not seeing a dear friend for an unforeseeable future, perhaps, for the rest of his lifetime, has taken hold of his heart, giving it an itch he can't scratch.

Yet if this is what G'raha desires, then, he can only let him go. At least with a smile.

"I will miss you" he settles eventually. It is an honest exclamation, he will miss the scholar along with his quips and brilliant knowledge. Miss their exchange of stories in the tent of Saint Coinach over dinner after a long day of exploration. Miss the adventures, however brief, that they have shared together.

G'raha laughs at this exclamation, a healthy red hue brushes at his cheeks as he replies with, "And me, you," then, the scholar continues, "...I will definitely miss all of your stories; past achievements and future triumph both. I expect to hear a plethora of your exciting adventures when I wake up, yes?"

A pause.

Before his hands start to rummage his belongings, fishing out the slightly worn leather journal - a gift from Mother Miounne - he always brings with him everywhere. There had been no days that he had missed a single entry as he traversed Eorzea and absorbed all the new sights he had never seen, penned down all the things he had experienced. 

It was…difficult at first, his childhood is full of hunting excursions with his siblings and farming crops with his parents. He barely ever sat down and practiced the Eorzean alphabet, preferring to run outside and do laps around the forest while seeking game to cook at home.

Yet Mother Miounne's words convinced him to write the journal; to immortalize what he had seen in Eorzea as each view unfolds itself before him and his world grows wider with each malm he travels.

G'raha looks at the journal, raising his eyebrows quizzically at the sudden display of a familiar book. He's shown the scholar this book before, when his words failed to convey what manner of creatures he's seen, he turned to the doodle of said creature on the page of his journal. Not the best picture, but it's better than his broken Eorzean.

"I'll write," he says, "...what I hear, how I feel, what I think about the things I see - everything, so you can experience them too!"

The seeker blinks.

And his smile widens.

"It's a promise, then?" G'raha asks.

He nods vigorously, the book in his hands swinging along with the motion, "Promise!" he answers, offering his hand, one pinky raised; a gesture his older siblings had taught him when he was a kit. 

Confused, the scholar imitates him; a little hesitant, but curious on what he means by this rather 'unique' gesture. He beams and twines their pinky together, moving them as one would during a handshake. 

There was a song that follows this bit, he remembers, one that his siblings loved to sing at the top of their lungs, annoying the adults though they always managed to drag a smile out of them as well. Its lyrics are simple though he was far too little to remember it word by word without tripping in some parts. So, rather than singing, his eyes flutter to a close instead. With a prayer for his friend and a prayer for the future on his lips.

When he lets go, it is to a feeling he can't place his fingers on.

And it continues to fester as he watches G'raha turn away, their twined fingers slipping apart. That resolute back, with no hesitation, moves to the depth beyond. Before him, the door slowly slides to a close, gracing him with its final view: of the scholar looking over his shoulder - the one with the tattoo - and smiles.

The door finally closes with one final thud, leaving him with a question that only G’raha can answer.

…

He should seek Y’shtola and Papalymo to teach him more of that Eorzean alphabets…