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The sun is bright and warm, the sky is endless, and blue. The Warrior of Light, Eikon Slayer, Beacon of Hope, Key player in Operation Archon, White Mage, Archer, Gladiator, Scion of the Seventh Dawn, Friend To All, Mochiie Kaisuri, stands beneath that sun, that sky, alone, and feels hollowed out. Moenbryda’s sacrifice is not the first, and by all rights it likely won’t be the last, even if Mochiie desperately wishes it would be. But he can keep up appearances. Everyone has quietly moved on, returning to their tasks. Mochiie does too, though he is alone increasingly often, as he finds solitary things to do; hunting monsters that would otherwise trouble the Sons of Saint Coinach, or pulling down flyers and completing Hunts for the Twin Adders. Intentionally seeking tasks that keep him away from the Rising Stones as long as possible. An entire week goes by like this before Tataru hails him on Linkpearl.
“Mochi! Come here and sit down mister!” She chides him as soon as he walks through the doors, hopping down out of her chair and dragging a stool out from under her desk and dusting it off with her gloved hand. “You’re looking a mess, again.” She tuts, and Mochiie huffs a soft chuckle, as opposed to his usual hearty laugh, and sits down on the stool for her. His hair had started to slip its braid, strands of wavy hair hanging unrestrained.
“Yes ma’am,” he acquiesces immediately, sitting up straight for her while she pulled a comb out of one of the drawers and drug the chair closer to sit on.
“You have to remember,” she huffs, untying the leather cord at the bottom of his braid and working her fingers through the ashen blonde hair that matched the fur along the crest of his tail, “that even you need care sometimes. I haven’t seen you stop by in a week, Mochi. And clearly you have been neglecting my handiwork!” The Lalafell moves onto combing through his hair. Sturdy, cherrywood, reliable.
Mochiie inhales deeply; Tataru smells faintly of ink, and rose oil. “Yes ma’am,” he repeats, “I’m sorry miss Taru, I was tracking down a Coeurl, Sekhmet, in La Noscea. It took longer than I expected to hunt him down and stop his terror on the vineyards,” he explains, turning his head to give her a sidelong look. “I brought you a souvenir,” He offers, by way of apology, though Tataru reaches out with her empty hand and firmly turns Mochiie’s head back frontwards by one of his horns, curled and three pronged like a Dzo.
“Face forward! Let me take a guess… the Vineyards, and region must mean you were near Wineport, which, got its namesake for one very obvious reason. You brought back wine, didn’t you?” Tataru works through her logic while working through his tangles, deft fingers easing snags without pulling.
“It wasn’t much of a mystery, was it?” Mochiie laughs, eyes casting themselves down towards his knees. Being a trained White Mage has its perks; any injuries he’d sustained while fighting alone, he’d healed on his own, borrowing the power of the elements to knit closed the claw and bite marks with nary a scar to worry anyone with. They need an unshakeable, invincible icon to rely on, not a bleeding, spasming Au’ra gasping for air while summoning winds and stone to lacerate a big cat.
“You guessed right. I picked up a nice bottle of red from Shomani Lomani. I think he’s still trying to apologize for the Titan Banquet…” he reaches into a bag at his hip, pulling out a stout, corked bottle with a slender neck wrapped in strips of leather to keep it safe. “He seemed quite proud of this one, though… I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Tataru separates his hair out into sections, using the comb to cleanly divide the strands. “…. well… you’re right, I would!” She answers with a barked laugh. “Fine, I forgive you for coming in in such a state. But you have to have a glass of this with me later!”
Mochiie hums his assent, not daring to nod while Tataru was weaving his hair into another braid. “Yes ma’am, you have my word,” he says with a smile, though it didn’t scrunch his nose or crinkle his eyes the way it normally would. Tataru continues to talk at length after that, informing him of what went on while he was away, that there was no breaking developments yet, still waiting, still chipping away, where odd jobs might be, but Mochiie wasn’t fully listening anymore, feeling the weight of his thoughts settle around his throat like a shackle.
If he’d just been, stronger, if he just knew how to wield the blade of light, if he’d just, had more control over his aether but, or been faster, been smarter, had some kind of plan, then maybe Moenbryda wouldn’t have chosen to sacrifice all she was to take down one Ascian. One terrible enemy of many at the cost of a friend, a daughter, a lover, a scholar, a gleaming star. His throat feels tight.
“There we go! All done, Mochi.” Tataru’s voice cut in clearly with her tiny hands thumping his back twice, jolting Mochiie backwards from his thoughts like being yanked out of icy water.
“Ah? Oh, Th-ank you, miss Taru. I have other things to check on here, by your leave, then.” He excuses himself with a lie, clumsily. But if Tataru noticed it, she did not make any indication of it, letting him stand up from her stool and watching him carefully tuck it back under her desk for her, fresh braid sliding to fall in front of his shoulder.
He took the chance to speak with others in the Rising Stones, Thancred, and Hoary Boulder, and Coultenet. As if things were, mostly fine. Riol had nothing new for him- like Tataru had said, but he hadn’t heard her when she’d said so. With nothing pressing to occupy his time, he filled the rest of his afternoon with other things, keeping up appearances, speaking with the adventurer’s who frequented the bar, finding out what needed doing, who was ailing, what was needed- he could be of use, somehow. Mudpuppy livers, for the merchants, herbs for the adventurers, a culling of Morbols for the safety of all.
It’s only when night fell, that he picked his way through the decimated camp outside Revenants Toll and up the bright orange to blue crystals that tore up through the ground to the highest point, where he’d climbed in Maggie to stress-test her joints for Biggs and Wedge before raiding the Castrum.
At night, the air is cold, and the wind pulls at his clothes and braid and the fur of his tail. He’s not expecting to see anyone so late at night, free to think his thoughts and gaze star-ward. He’s met so many people on his journey, dozens of hello’s, dozens of goodbyes, some more solemn than others.
Like G’raha Tia, who had come into his adventure suddenly, bright red, poppies, playful, and he’d seemed so clear in his intentions and actions even up to his decision to seal himself in the Crystal Tower for some unknowably distant future. A decision he was alone in making, but it wasn’t anyone else’s to make. A soft goodbye, but easier to accept it; he wasn’t dead , simply waiting, sleeping like in a fairytale for the right condition to wake him again. Mochiie hopes whenever he wakes up, he is not lonely.
His fingers twist into the fur at the tip of his tail. A proper bard like Jehantel would have these feelings put to stirring song, an outpouring of emotion and remembrance wrapped up in musical bars. Mochiie doesn’t know the words to put to a yet unknown tune, for Moenbryda. She was fierce and witty and funny, and could out-drink anyone. She put herself in harms way to protect a friend, and then did not hesitate to give her whole self to protect everyone again. She deserved songs , plural. He would write every one of them, in time. Her bravery, her smile, the lush fields of her love for this Star.
The feelings which don’t have names yet squeeze his throat again, but this time there’s no one around to give him cause to fight it, his eyes filling up with his frustrations and regrets without resistance. The stars blur together into wavering trails, even with his glasses on. So he takes them off, the world sliding out of focus as he does so, and the blanket of starlight becomes a river through the darkness.
He considers what would’ve changed if he’d acted differently, perhaps reacted quicker than Moenbryda and jumped to defend Minfilia first. Moenbryda might’ve lived, then, assuming he could take the hit that followed attacking Nabriales directly. Never mind being worn down from the fight with the Ascian he’d just had. Or that he might not have seen the counterattack coming in time to block, and been rendered useless. At least she might’ve had a chance to live, then, and without losing anyone, he would’ve found a way.
Everyone had loved Moenbryda, how could they not have? She was vibrant, with a laugh that made you want to join in with her. She was encouraging, too, even when something failed, or there was a setback, she was the first to encourage everyone to keep pushing forward, the first to think of a new way to try again. Selfishly, she would’ve known what to say to him now. She was good with people, and smart, and understanding, and might’ve told him something comforting.
I’ll live on in your heart, and your memories , she might’ve said. So as long as you remember me I’m not truly gone, am I? Chin up, Mochi. The fights not over ‘til the last man falls!
The smell of nymeia lilies floods his nose, and the invisible dam against his tears cracks apart, rolling down over his cheeks and scales and dripping from his jaw with a wet sniffle. His fingers twist and pull hard enough to hurt, and he flinches away from touching his tail again.
Minfilia had begged her Goddess to intervene, and had been met with silence. How dare she leave them to suffer, when they labored in her cause. Mochiie thinks bitterly, wrapping his arms around himself and squeezing. Tactile comforts, paired with another snotty snuffle. Something five paces behind disturbs a loose rock.
“GH-” Mochiie gasps, throat crackling thickly as he hurriedly wipes his face with the back of his arm, reaching to grab the hilt of his sword a second after. He rushes to stand and turn to face his possible assailant, glasses tumbling out of his lap as he gets up onto one knee, sword not yet drawn but gripped like a lifeline, and a promise. The figure before him is tall, and willowy, wearing a dark robe with a white hood.
“Mine apologies, Mochiie,” Urianger says softly, after having cleared his throat. “T’would seem I hath taken too many notes on subterfuge from Thancred. ‘Twas not mine intent to steal upon thee as an assassin in the night.”
Mochiie looks up at Urianger blurrily, and sits back down heavily with a soft ‘uhnfh’ as he pries his fingers off of the hilt of his blade again. He makes his best effort to inconspicuously wipe his face again, this time with the fabric of his collar, taking a steadying breath and feeling for his glasses.
“No, no it’s alright, Urianger,” He says, with what should’ve been a laugh. He coughs, instead. “I didn’t expect to see you, I thought you’d returned to the Waking Sands, to..” Mochiie picks up his glasses, wiping them on the leg of his pants. “To grieve, in solitude,” He finishes, brow pinched. He slides his glasses back on, hooking them around the base of his horns to keep them in place.
“Thou art correct in thine assumptions, though I found need to come back for a night, to gather material I felt were missed in my sudden departure.” Urianger’s tone is even, unreadable, like his expression, his eyes concealed with red goggles and his mouth a passive line.
“Might I sit with thee, for a moment, my friend?” Urianger asks, head tipping a fraction to one side. Unreadable, ever still.
“Oh,” Mochiie scrubs his face with his hands again, feeling perpetually damp for having cried at all, now. “Yes, of course, c..come sit. Sorry,” He dusts the stone with his hand, as if he could clean the earth, and only succeeds in getting dirt to cling to his palm. He wipes it off on his pants instead, as the Elezen steps closer, sitting down carefully cross-legged, looking out over the landscape. He knows he must look a wreck, but Urianger was kindly choosing to not remark upon it- or perhaps he simply hadn’t noticed. He appreciates the kindness, intentional or not.
“You have my thanks. ‘Tis not a long journey, employing the Aetheryte, yet I find when I try to walk through those doors I… find myself suddenly walking elsewhere.” Urianger says softly.
Mochiie's eyes feel wet still, and puffy, and he wills the tears to stop, while there’s someone to witness them. “Yes, I..” he takes a deep breath in, feels his chest shudder with the motion. “I,” he tries again, and falters. “I’m sorry,” tumbles out instead, like an unwanted spriggan. “I’m so, so sorry,” He can’t look at Urianger’s face, he doesn’t want to see whatever expression was on it, even if he kept that carefully passive expression, instead speaking to the ground. “In her last moments,“ He falters again, frowning at his feet and stubbornly pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, glasses pushed up out of the way.
“Thou needs not explain to me thy perceived failings, Mochiie. Thy heart is known.” Urianger takes the chance to interject, “I know ye brought all thou art to bear, in the face of a formidable adversary. And I know M..” Urianger’s brow furrows, face crumpling with a despairing singular noise, and he clutches his chest in anguish. “My.. dear friend.. remained true to her heart. Ever was she noble and brave, ready to jump to the aid of another, even a daft old coot like me.” His voice wavers, and when Mochiie hazards to glance his way, the Elezen has his face turned unto the heavens, pain writ clearly in what could be seen of his face. The white cowl had slipped down from his head, revealing half tied silvery hair to the cool-blue glow of corrupted earthen crystal.
“‘Tis no surprise her final moments were in the service of protecting others. I doubt she’d have let herself pass from this mortal realm any other way. I’ll begrudge thee not thy tears, if thou wilt not begrudge mine.” Urianger says, while reaching to loosen the band on his red goggles, letting them fall down around his neck to reveal tired burlywood yellow eyes, shimmering wetly.
“I will make sure her sacrifice means something more than the death of one Ascian,” Mochiie promises solemnly, gaze lingering on Urianger’s now-bare face before looking away, down at Urianger’s knee, adding softer, “I’ll walk with you, if you’d like. Into the Rising Stones.”
“Prithee, let us linger here longer,” Urianger answers, almost pleading. “I must needs fortify mine heart ‘fore venturing back into that den of remembered tragedy.”
“Oh, naturally,” Mochiie laughs weakly, and sniffles. “I’m hardly ready to go back, I.. I keep avoiding it too. I thought I'd be better at handling it, considering everything.”
“Grief doth not stand against thee as an adversary thou must needs overcome,” Urianger replies, and though he tries to keep his voice even in recitation, Mochiie still hears it tremble. “Grief is but a stalwart reminder of thy boundless compassion. For thou wouldst not grieve so deeply if thou didst not love just as much. ‘Tis folly to presume thee deaf to the weeping of thine own wounded heart for having heard it before.”
Mochiie’s vision blurs all over again, inhaling shakily and wiping his eyes to try to hurry his tears on their way. “R..right,” He croaks, the words catching in his throat. “ Thank you ,” He whispers.
The conversation naturally rests, after that, granting the two the space to cry in each other's presence, finding simple comfort in merely not being alone. Bugs orchestrate their seeking symphonies in the darkness, and Nix join in noisy, croaking accompaniment, covering in part the sound of the two men’s mourning. Mochiie’s voice carries mournfully through the night air, a low moaning from deep in his chest. Without words, he could still express something. The following days would likely have rumors of some Spectre haunting the campground at the foot of Revenant’s Toll. Urianger on the other hand, was quiet in his tears, for he’d already expelled so many of them alone in the Waking Sands, hunched over parchment that had been drafted and written and drafted again until he’d perfected it. The perfect condolences, the most pristine notary of passing. The crumpled failures pocked with wet stains still littered his floor.
Mochiie lets himself have this ugly cry until his throat feels raw and his eyes can give no more, back hunched and forehead pressed into his knee, tail curled tightly around himself. “Pray,” he rasps, once his every inhale did not cause his body to shudder, “Tell me it gets easier to bear it.”
Urianger doesn’t answer right away, but Mochiie hears the fabric of his robes rustle and starts to worry that the elezen decided to leave, than tell him a harsh truth. Instead, he feels Urianger’s arm rest against his back, and his solid weight as he leaned into Mochiie’s side.
“It shall. This, I swear.”
Urianger’s words, stated plainly as a promise, planted themselves in Mochiie’s heart as a comfort he would gladly anchor himself to. He found it hard to breathe too deeply, not expecting Urianger to lean against him, and not wanting to move, in case he decides to withdraw. Even the night song felt distant and stifled, smothered by the closeness of a companion. The Arcanist had never once seemed inclined to physical contact- the first time Mochiie had seen the man get touched at all was Moenbryda’s spine-crunching hug that had lifted him from the ground. Mochiie breathes in slowly. Cinnamon, book binding animal glue, red dust, sea salt, all flooding his nose now that it did not feel so stuffed up with emotion.
Urianger does eventually move, after a time that felt too long to be real yet too short for Mochiie’s liking, sliding back away like the receding tide as if he’d never been there. Mochiie feels the ghost of his weight even when he straightens up, feeling as though he’d just finished training. Worn out, but somehow, he felt better. Lighter. Doubts did still linger in his heart on if he’d really done enough in the crucial moments, or if Hydaelyn was as powerful and benevolent as everyone proclaimed Her to be, but it was a quieted humming compared to the uncertain and deafening wailing before.
In quiet contemplation, Urianger studies Mochiie’s face: Puffy, swollen eyes, and broad tear tracks turned to rivers of starlight by the crystal's cool glow. Yet to Uriangers eye, at least, Mochiie looked less tense and worn than when he’d first arrived. Urianger’s gaze lingers for a breath longer, then slips away.
Mochiie clears his throat, breaking through their tender silence, “I think,” he says slowly, turning to look at Urianger, “I can head back, now. When you’re ready.”
Urianger nods solemnly in answer, exhaling slowly, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe, and then reaffixing his obscuring goggles and cowl on his head. “If thou art ready, so too am I. As ever I shall be.” He says, and stands first, dusting his robes of grass and dirt. “Doubtless Tataru wouldst worry for thee ere long, as the lonely moon doth approach its peak.”
Mochiie takes Urianger’s offered hand, getting up with a groan. “I already worry her enough lately, she’s going to get gray hairs early at this rate,” he huffs, and wipes his face for what he hopes is the last time- he’s running out of dry sleeve and arm to try with. “Are you sure you’re ready, Urianger?”
“In the presence of the Hero, that which was impossible becomes possible.” Urianger’s tone is back to being barely readable, again, but Mochiie chose to believe him anyways, with a laugh that came easier than it had since Moenbryda’s choice.
Together they pick their way back down the slope, past dilapidated tents and rotting fences, between towering crystal that almost seemed to hum when they got close. The moon is high, and full, the sky is vast, and twinkling. Mochiie Kaisuri stands beneath that moon, that sky, with a friend, and feels the first stitches closing the gaping wound in his heart.