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When Fyfnar found Lyna in the training yard, she was thoroughly occupied with issuing instructions to the new recruits. She glanced briefly in his direction, and he smiled, to reassure her that he did not bring bad news.
She gave him a quick nod, but made no other acknowledgement of his presence until she had finished with her drills. Then she came over to him, with a crisp salute. ’I had not expected to see you back so soon,’ she said.
’The Exarch’s plan was successful,’ Fyfnar said. ’I thought you’d like to know.’
Her eyes widened. It took a moment before she cleared her throat and said, rather stiffly, ’I’m glad.’ And then, her voice younger, more hesitant: ’How… how is he?’
’He is well, and recovering his strength,’ said Fyfnar. He thought back to Raha’s face when he had first woken up, smiling up at him with warm, surprised recognition. Of his halting but determined steps into the world he had known long ago. ’He’s still growing accustomed to things, but he is entirely himself.’
’That is good to hear,’ she said. There was an unaccustomed little tremble in her voice.
He thought he understood, a little. He had come to like Lyna immensely in his time here; she was a captain to be relied on, a forthright, loyal keeper of their peace. She had been raised by Raha and his vision, and her steadfastness had grown to complement the expansiveness of his dreaming, to support the city he had dreamed into being. She had been splendid when they set out: she had smiled, and said stirring and inspiring things. She had been honestly happy for them; she had not begrudged Raha his choice, or their world.
He remembered the time Raha had sealed himself into the tower the first time, without a word of warning. With the impending resolution of the Crystal Tower’s enigma, Fyfnar had meant to go over to Raha’s rooms again that evening, looked forward to getting to know him better; it had seemed the start of something new. But Raha’s rooms were empty now, so instead he had roamed abroad in the crystal night. He hadn’t let himself mourn; instead, he had sung softly to himself under the sky, and let the crystals ring the notes back to him.
Raha had sealed himself into the tower so tidily, with his pretty speeches, in good time for them to get back to Revenant’s Toll for dinner. He had planned it all out, and he had never said a word until it happened. They had had no name for the hole he had left in the afternoon, in the future. And he had done it again, in this future where, despite all the odds, they had managed to meet again.
Really, Raha could be impossible sometimes.
Fyfnar knew Captain Lyna was a stern taskmaster, and harder on herself than on anyone else. She would not let herself mourn the fate that Raha had wanted, just as Fyfnar had not let himself mourn back then; it had seemed disloyal not to believe absolutely in the future of Raha’s vision, and join in working for it. And when the dreamer was gone, it was their part to take up the dreaming themselves.
He found himself regretting that he had not remained longer at the Crystarium, in the days after his encounter with Elidibus. It had all been a little too much for him, even knowing that this was not his farewell, to Raha or to the city. It was too fundamental a change to the world he had known; it was the end of something they had loved.
He had seen Lyna only once before he had left to look for the others. He had gone with Beq Lugg to break the news to her. They had found her half-expecting it, but still it had not been an easy thing to witness the wild grief that filled her eyes at its confirmation. When they told her of the Exarch’s plan, she had been longing, and still half fearing, to hope.
She had struggled to master her emotions; soon enough, she had turned away from their attempts to comfort her, seeking only the relief of solitude. Hope was a heavy thing to ask of anyone at the best of times, and in this one thing Raha could be as audacious as the Warrior of Light.
Lyna stood up, squaring her shoulders. ’I must return to my duties. I thank you for bringing this news to me.’
Fyfnar stood up too. ’I’ll keep an eye on him, Captain Lyna,’ he said. ’You may be sure of that. And I’ll bring you his letters myself.’ He thought to himself that he would make certain Raha remembered to write. He knew that Raha could never forget to care for her, but he could be heedless of the passage of time, and hesitant when it came to gestures of affection. He understood it, for he was the same himself.
She saluted, smart and crisp. ’You are very kind, Warrior of Darkness,’ she said. The formality was back in her voice, but it was less a shield now, and more the Captain of the Guard taking up her role again. She really was wonderful.
*
He went to look for Ryne next. He found her at the Wandering Stairs, with Gaia by her side. He couldn’t see her face, but Gaia had leaned over, and was whispering something earnestly, urgently, in her ear. Her hand covered Ryne’s with gentle pressure.
He waited until Gaia drew back, and he espied a soft, watery smile on Ryne’s face. Then he stepped forward and called out a greeting.
’They have all returned safe,’ he said. ’I thought you should know. Thancred particularly asked to be remembered to you.’
Ryne uttered a quick gasp of relief. ’All of them?’ she asked. ’The Exarch too?’
Fyfnar nodded. ’He is weak, as might be expected, but Krile is certain he will recover his strength.’
’I’m so glad,’ said Ryne. A tear shone in her eye.
Gaia crossed her arms. ’Didn’t we tell you?’ she said.
’You did,’ said Ryne, with a sniffle and a smile.
Fyfnar lingered a little with them; to talk of Eden and the Empty, and to talk more of Thancred. The latter’s feelings had never been tidy enough to compress into a message, but Fyfnar knew he felt more than he would say, and that he would wish to hear more than he would think to ask.
Urianger, too, had sent Ryne kind messages. All the Scions had given him something to say, or to convey. Tataru had sent Ryne some delicacies, and Alisaie had sent her many stern injunctions to take care of herself.
*
When Fyfnar returned to the Source with the others, he hadn’t been able to contain himself. He’d run straight to the Crystal Tower, hastening over the winding paths and steep rocky ways. He hadn’t stopped when he got to the tower; he’d held up the auracite, and the doors had opened before him in slow, soundless majesty.
He’d run straight through the gap, not tarrying long enough for them to open all the way. He’d sprinted up the winding stairs, until he found his Raha lying in a pool of light.
An odd hesitancy had come over him then, and he’d sunk to his knees, holding the auracite with the Exarch’s soul carefully in his hands as he looked down at his sleeping friend’s face. Raha looked so small, curled up there on that wide ancient floor, with a soft smile on his lips. He was breathing, but so lightly that Fyfnar could barely discern the movement. His tail, so bright and fluffy, was curled around him, twitching lightly as he dreamed.
For a moment Fyfnar was overcome by tenderness for this fragment of the past: for the young, impetuous man whom he had only known for a few weeks, but who had transformed his life all the same; he had taught him to seek and to wonder, and finally he had taught him the vivid ache of longing, the unquantifiable pain of farewells and inexorable sunsets. He had saved their world, but Fyfnar had loved him long before that, when the future he envisioned was only an impossible dream.
The Exarch had grown immeasurably dear to him, but the G’raha Tia of the past had been dear, too, with his face like an opening flower, his smile full of infinite joyous potentialities. If this didn’t work—or even if it did—perhaps this would be the last time he’d see this particular G’raha, with his curious, confiding smile. And if it didn’t work, he might lose the Exarch too, with all the warmth and memory of two hundred years.
But he had promised his friend he would take him on his next adventure, and what could be a greater adventure than this? G’raha had turned his face to the future like a flower, and Fyfnar held the future he had longed for in his hands.
He held the auracite out before him, bringing it close to Raha’s chest.
As the auracite began to glow, the smile on Raha’s face widened, like something blooming. The auracite hummed softly as the light sank into his soft chest, and his breathing deepened into something warmer, more natural. Then Raha opened his eyes, wonderingly and without hesitation; they were red as embers. He turned his face up to Fyfnar’s and smiled.
It was like the sun had risen. The G’raha who was smiling at him had all the Exarch’s warmth and wisdom, but it was the old G’raha’s smile, too, with all its inquisitive daring. They were here in the Crystal Tower again, the Crystal Tower of their own day, and with the light and the scent of the lake the past seemed nearer than it had ever been. He needn’t have feared: his friend had loved him in the past and in the future, and he was here now. He was always G’raha.
‘Fyfnar,’ said Raha. ‘I hoped you would be the one to wake me.’ And then he began to chuckle softly, though his voice was ill equipped for it, and soon he had to stop and cough.
‘Stop talking, Raha,’ said Fyfnar. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’ He slipped an arm under his chest and lifted him up. Raha sat up in his arms and looked around him, his ears lifting with interest. Of course Raha’s capacity for curiosity would be equal even to this; he had always moved through the world as a historian, seeking to learn and to understand, finding in everything a fresh source of discovery and delight. And now he was doing so in his own old world, his eyes opening wide with wonder.
He could barely sit upright, so he leaned on Fyfnar, and his hand rested in the folds of Fyfnar’s coat. How soft he was, this Raha of the past and future! And how comfortable, too, nestled close to him here, with all the barriers of his hesitancy gone. For so long Fyfnar had yearned to hold him, and now, finally, he was here – stripped of artifice and restraint, with his soft hair falling on Fyfnar’s neck. Here was a miracle of its own, as wonderful to him as the glory of Raha’s future.
The restraint fell from Fyfnar too, and he bent to kiss the tip of Raha’s ear. Raha squirmed delightedly, and a little giggle burst from him as he hid his blush in Fyfnar’s shoulder, and wound his arms tighter around Fyfnar’s waist. Fyfnar stroked Raha’s hair gently, and fondled his big fluffy ears. He couldn’t seem to get tired of touching him, of feeling his warm hair, the flushed softness of his skin, and the slow rise and fall of his breath. It made it start to seem real to him that Raha was here, his Raha, who had slipped from him even in dreams. He was alive, and safe, here where Fyfnar was holding him. He was alive, with dreams on his brow and soft down on his arms.
They sat there comfortably a while before Raha looked up at him, smiled, and squared his shoulders. ‘I believe I’m ready now,’ he said.
‘Are you sure? There’s no hurry at all,’ said Fyfnar. What glorious words they were to say!
Raha nodded. ‘I’ve waited a long time already,’ he said.
Fyfnar helped him to stand, and supported him as he walked, slow but determined, into the wide passageway. Raha seemed entirely unafraid until they went out through the great wide doors and into the bright daylight. Then he shivered, and clung to Fyfnar, hiding his eyes in his shoulder. The faint breeze off the waters made him tremble, as though it would blow him away. He was terribly small and light in Fyfnar’s arms.
‘After all those years in the light, you would think that I’d be equal to a sunny day,’ he said, with a tremble in his voice that tried to be a laugh. ‘But these eyes have been in the darkness, and they are tired.’
They stood there a moment in the light and the wind, Fyfnar holding Raha in his arms. Then Fyfnar whistled for his chocobo, and lifting Raha up, he bundled him onto it. Raha closed his eyes and buried his head in the chocobo’s neck as Fyfnar led them slowly and carefully up the path, keeping his hand on Raha’s arm.
He hurried Raha through the Seventh Heaven; he could feel how the lights and the music made him tremble. When they were in the Rising Stones it was easier; the lights were dim and pleasant, the floors muffled and quiet.
Now Raha was recovering, looking about him delightedly. ‘The Rising Stones!’ he said. ‘The historic headquarters of the Scions. To think that I should visit!’
It was like Raha to turn his knowledge of the future into a source of wonder. If he had visited the future and returned to the vanished past, Fyfnar thought it would have crushed him. To walk in a world with the knowledge of how it was destined to end: even if they had averted the Calamity, they were still mortal, and he didn’t think he could have borne such a familiar knowledge of that. How would that feel, to see decay in everything you witnessed? It made Raha a little terrifying. It also made Fyfnar want to hold him gently in his hands.
And still Raha had chosen to return to them, to glory in the things that existed, even if they were destined to fade away. He had seen their end, and it made him look upon their brief existence as a wonder and a miracle. He had walked hand-in-hand with death and immortality, and he had come back to live a mortal’s brief bright life with them in the end.
’This is no visit,’ said Fyfnar, smiling down at him. ’You know this is a home for you, as long as you want it.’
Raha’s smile faltered momentarily before it returned, warmer than before. ‘Then I shall trespass on your hospitality a while,’ he said, ‘for I certainly do want it.’
Fyfnar sensed hesitation in Raha’s steps at the door to the Dawn’s Respite, and he took his hand and squeezed it. Raha turned to him, with a quick nod and a smile of gratitude, before he threw wide the doors and walked in.
*
The Crystarium had grown to be a home to Fyfnar over the past months. He had come to look forward to the Manager of Suites’ pleasant greeting and smile of recognition, as he welcomed him to the Pendants every night, or glanced at him with warm concern when he returned battered and exhausted from some misadventure. To the way the guards at the gate saluted him, and wished him luck on his adventures. To gentle, careworn Moren, who always had a moment to help him find an obscure scroll, to talk of the lands they lived in and the history that had shaped it.
And to Ardbert, waiting for him at the end of every long day, offering him refuge and understanding when the world pressed down on him without reprieve. Though he was far from the world he knew, he had never felt alone in the Crystarium, for Ardbert was there. Which was odd to think about, for he hadn’t known Ardbert at all when he arrived.
*
The Manager of Suites was deep in his accounts, but he looked up with a smile at Fyfnar’s approach. ’If it isn’t the Warrior of Darkness! I trust your endeavours were successful. Will you be staying with us tonight?’
’Not this time,’ said Fyfnar regretfully. ’I promised I’d be back within the day, so this will only be a brief visit to my suite. I do hope to return here before too long, though. I hope things have been peaceful at the Pendants.’
’Things have been most peaceful,’ said the Master of Suites. ‘And what news of your world?’
‘The Exarch has returned safely,’ said Fyfnar. ‘And so have our other companions.’
‘That is good to hear,’ said the Manager of Suites. ‘The best of luck to you and your companions, Warrior of Darkness. It has been an honour to have you among us.’
‘And to you,’ said Fyfnar. ‘The honour has been mine, and I will always be grateful for your kindness.’
In truth, Fyfnar didn’t know the Manager of Suites very well, but he had always been so unfailingly pleasant, and so quick and ready to come to Fyfnar’s aid when he needed it. When Fyfnar met him at gatherings of the townsfolk, he’d found him full of eloquence and zeal, as ready as anyone to do his part for his city. And with the first return of the night they’d danced together in the crowd, and afterwards the Manager of Suites had swept Fyfnar a courtly bow. Then they’d shared a drink beneath the stars, and toasted to the night.
There was something a little comical about the solemnity of their leave-taking, when they had spoken so little, when Fyfnar intended to be back to the Crystarium fairly soon. But it would have felt remiss not to do it. He had missed his own leave-takings in all the bustle of the others’ more permanent departure, and his own preoccupation with returning them safe, but now it felt incumbent upon him to mark the occasion in some manner. Perhaps Raha was rubbing off on him.
*
When Raha had returned to the Rising Stones, he had been rather embarrassed at all the attention lavished upon him, but delighted too. Though it hadn’t been so very long since most of them had last met him, there was a kind of gravity to the occasion, and it made the Scions’ smiles warm and their words effusive. And of course it had been far longer for Krile, and their reunion even more worthy of celebration. For a few minutes they were all full of enquiries and exclamations, and Raha hadn’t known what to say at all.
Fyfnar stood by him through it: when it all grew too much Raha looked to him for help, and Fyfnar stepped in, gently quieting the others. Then Tataru came to his rescue, with her brisk bright manner and wonderful efficiency, shushing all chatter and taking him over to the table where the tea-things were.
Once they had him comfortably ensconced, with a cup of tea and a nourishing slice of Archon loaf, he was at leisure to be curious, and curious he was with a right good will. He had to know everything about the Rising Stones, and the Scions, and their organisation—though it turned out he already knew a surprising amount, more, perhaps, than some of the Scions themselves, whose inclinations lay rather in the direction of combat than administration.
He had changed, a little. He had always had a knack for drawing people to him—without it, he couldn’t have accomplished the magnificent things he had—but he sat more easily at the centre of a conversation now, the tones of his voice more settled and expansive, less pre-emptive flurry and ceremony in his movements. But there was a fragile tenderness to him, too, stripped of his former bustle and ado. He flustered quick and bright, his young body reacting with all the impetuousness of its warm, pulsing blood. Though he had forgotten nothing, the transference had brought his memories of the time before his sleep nearer to the surface, and every time his glance met Fyfnar’s he smiled a quick, happy smile of renewed recognition.
Fyfnar couldn’t take his eyes off him; every sight of him was like seeing him for the first time, learning again the soft flush of his face and the tones of his voice.
*
When the Exarch was in the Tempest, and Ardbert pressed Fyfnar to get some fresh air, he had gone to the Cabinet of Curiosities late at night, seeking answers, or at any rate a refuge from his fears; perhaps yet hoping for an unexpected piece of knowledge that would be their salvation after all. He hadn’t entirely expected the Cabinet to be open, so late at night, but it had been an object for his ramblings. He hadn’t wanted to be alone, and he’d been half-afraid to face Ardbert just then, feeling certain that Ardbert would resent him for his failure to contain the Light. He had considered that Ardbert had every right to do so, with everything he had sacrificed for the world that Fyfnar had now imperilled; weighed down as he was by guilt, it was hard to meet Ardbert’s grave forthright eyes.
He had found Moren shutting the doors, but Moren ooked him up and down, and asked if he would care for a drink. They had repaired to Moren’s rooms, and Moren had taken down a bottle of wine from his shelf.
In the Cabinet of Curiosities, Moren had something of the dependable constancy of the scrolls he presided over; he was a force of nature, like the Exarch. In his own rooms he seemed younger, and more fragile, though he was still considerably older than Fyfnar was. The shadows under his eyes were deeper, and his face pale, nearly transparent. His voice still had its accustomed gentle gravity, though Fyfnar discovered he could laugh, too, on occasion. And he was quite lovely; he didn’t ask more merriment than Fyfnar was capable of, and the mild thoughtfulness of his gaze was balm to Fyfnar’s restless spirit. He seemed to understand more than Fyfnar felt capable of explaining, and he did not press him for answers.
They had talked of the Exarch and the city late into the night, and when Fyfnar grew too tired for conversation, Moren’s gaze lingered on him with a smile of gentle understanding.
’I am accustomed to burning the midnight oil,’ he said, ’and if you do not wish to return alone to your rooms, you are welcome to stay.’
He had resumed work on the illumination he was copying, and provided Fyfnar with paper and ink when he asked. Fyfnar had occupied himself drafting a long, rambling letter—he wasn’t sure at first who it was addressed to, until he found that he was speaking to the friends of his past—Aymeric, his companion in caring and waiting; Estinien, who had returned to them and shed doom from his shoulders. He hadn’t thought of them in a while, but the thought of them came to him easily and naturally: they were his friends. He had not written of his despair; they would learn of that eventually, when it had its conclusion for good or bad, but in the mean time he wrote as he was accustomed to write, telling Aymeric of lovely ruined Norvrandt, of the cool mystery of the greatwood, the vastness and vivacity of Kholusia, the desolate beauty of Amh Araeng and the enchantment of the pixies’ lands; telling Estinien of his hunts and the terrible beauty of the sin eaters, of his antagonists and his companions, of what he had fought for and what he hoped to accomplish. Telling them as stories let him hold memories at arm’s length and examine them, turned them into something he had, rather than something that had happened to him.
He did not mention Haurchefant, but he thought of him as he penned every line of his letter, and he knew Aymeric would, too, as he read it. He found himself thinking, too, of the last time he’d seen Estinien in Ishgard. He’d been worn out and convalescing, and yet more vital, more at ease than Fyfnar had ever seen him. It had been a lovely sight, a reminder of what they’d accomplished, in the face of all they had lost.
Estinien would have understood what was happening to him now. But he couldn’t tell him; he couldn’t face the thought.
When they finally went to bed Fyfnar was swaying from tiredness, and when Moren caught him, he found his touch as soothing as his voice. Moren led him to bed, and drew the covers over him. When he lay beside him, he was a comforting presence, and his voice was gentle when he bade him goodnight.
He had woken to Moren rising like a ghost in the grey dawn, but Moren had whispered to him to stay as long as he wanted, and dropped a light ghost kiss on his hair. So he had stayed, and dozed in the soft strangeness of Moren’s bed, until dawn brightened to morning. Then he had gone up to the lookout, where Ardbert and Feo Ul came to him, and made everything better.
He had misjudged Ardbert in the depths of his guilt; he ought to have known that Ardbert’s kind heart and generous spirit would never condemn him, that Ardbert would understand even if no-one else did. That the First’s Warrior of Light would never, ever walk away.
He understood Ardbert better than anyone else now, or perhaps not at all.
When he saw Moren again, he was still wise and thoughtful and pleasantly peculiar, with a smile for Fyfnar when he particularly needed it, and time to help him whenever he asked. When they were alone, Fyfnar witnessed his wry, unexpected sense of humour more often, and he delighted in calling it forth.
It was Moren who had told Fyfnar that Raha had been waiting for him, that he had brought with him the fulfilment of a long-cherished dream.
*
Now, he found Moren dusty and dishevelled, busily engaged in cleaning out the bookshelves. Fyfnar called out that he had no wish to disturb him, but Moren climbed down to talk to him anyway, hastily brushing the dust from his hair.
Moren listened to Fyfnar’s tale without interruption, and when he was finished his eyes shone. ’I see that once again, you and your companions have succeeded in the impossible,’ he said, with awe and wonder in his voice.
He shook Fyfnar’s hand warmly, and wished him well before he retreated into the depths of the bookshelves again.
In his way, he was as unknowable as the Exarch, but he was a friend, too, like the Exarch. Things were right at the Crystarium with him there.
*
It was an odd thing, coming back as an outsider to a city that had been his home. Of course he would be back again; there was still Eden to be dealt with, and messages to be carried, and he was too invested in the future of this world to simply walk away. But he wouldn’t belong to them, as he had the past few months. That gave this visit the air of a farewell, though in truth perhaps it wasn’t one. He had grown accustomed to farewells, but he had never learned to be good at them.
*
Fyfnar thought of Ishgard, where the snows would be falling once again from that unending dawn sky. Ishgard, where he had been tried for heresy and threatened with death, and where he had found people who would fight for him. Ishgard, that had offered the Scions sanctuary where no other city would, because of Haurchefant.
When he thought of Haurchefant the memories were insistent and crowded. When he’d first made his way to Coerthas, Haurchefant had taken him in, and offered him shelter from the snow. And he had continued to do so: he had taken Fyfnar into his home and his arms, paying no mind to convention or orthodoxy. He had never feared Fyfnar, or doubted him, though Fyfnar had brought doubt and discord into the city he loved. When Fyfnar was in trouble, he had always been there to help him. Fyfnar had led him to strange and fearful places, and he had never hesitated to follow where he led.
Ishgard was not a city to be loved lightly. It was a hard city, cold and cruel, and one he had soon learned to fear. Its history was proud and terrible, like its high stone walls. He had not forgiven the city for what it had taken from them all – from the dragons, from Estinien, from Haurchefant, even from Hilda and Aymeric. He doubted he ever would.
But it was the city Haurchefant had loved; it was the city Aymeric had devoted himself to. It was full of people and memories dear to him, and perhaps its forbidding facades had grown dear to him for that.
The first night they’d walked in there with him, through the falling snow, Fyfnar had clung to the sound of Haurchefant’s voice, to his warm, expansive tones as he told them of his city. The great spires of the city had made him feel very small and desolate, but he would not have said so to Haurchefant for the world. Instead, he had clung to the sound of Haurchefant’s quick, eager step, and followed his pointing to the minute patterning of the cobblestones, the quaint avenues, and the myriad small, odd, lovely things that were easier to take in than the entirely of the city. That was part of Haurchefant’s kindness, to make things lighter and friendlier to the forlorn strangers he had ushered in.
There were no trees in Ishgard. When Fyfnar first arrived, that had made him feel more bereft than anything else; he could not feel at ease in a city that had no trees. But in Ishgard, as nowhere else, he had come to understand the voices of the wind. He had come to know intimately the colours of the sky, that seemed nearer than it ever had before. He had learned to understand the many moods and colours of snow, and the ways it danced. He had learned to dance in old draughty rooms, and felt the touch of brocades that had all the colour the city lacked. Huddled within those cold walls, he had appreciated for the first time what it meant to be truly warm: to lie beneath thick and luxurious blankets, with a warm stone by his feet, and lay his head on Haurchefant’s still warmer chest. He had learned how it felt to lean far out over the balustrades, and breathe in more air and silence than he had ever thought his chest could hold.
As he listened to the caresses of Haurchefant’s voice, he had learned to see more colour than he could have ever imagined. He had come to feel that Ishgard liked him, because Ishgard, to him, was Haurchefant.
He recalled the night in Haurchefant’s arms when he’d first haltingly spoken of Ishgard as a home, and watched a smile of proud tenderness spread over Haurchefant’s face.
Another night, he’d told Haurchefant of Raha, and when Haurchefant held him, it had been easier to believe in Raha’s impossible future. How he wished Haurchefant had got to witness how things turned out, to meet Raha in person! Haurchefant’s warmth had extended to all of Fyfnar’s friends, to the causes he was invested in; he had cared unstintingly for everything that was important to him, without jealousy or reserve. He had welcomed his friends, aided the Scions, and in every way made his concerns his own. And Fyfnar was certain he would have liked Raha very much; he would have met his liveliness with laughter, and his hesitancy with warmth.
After the events at the Vault, Ishgard had been so full of painful memories that it had been rather a relief to be called away. But it was time he paid another visit; it would be pleasant to see Aymeric again. He had seen him a few times since in Ala Mhigo, but all too briefly. Aymeric always met him with endless warmth and affection, but with an eagerness constrained, an unwillingness to ask more attention than he knew Fyfnar was at liberty to give. They had written to each other in the intervening months, with fond curiosity, and lively, expansive accounts of their own doings. On his travels, Fyfnar had looked forward to the letters, and he had liked writing to him, too; the letters were a constancy to return to in the ever-changing whirl of his life, a little reminder of a home he had left behind.
But their correspondence had fallen off, what with Fyfnar’s journey to the First and Aymeric’s preoccupation with the war. And Fyfnar had the impression Aymeric and Estinien didn’t write to each other, just as Estinien didn’t write to him; though Estinien had been there to rescue him when no-one else could, and his first instinct had been to hand him over to Aymeric. He had carried him carefully from the battlefield, shielding him from all harm. And then, probably, he had dropped him unceremoniously in Aymeric’s arms, and informed him brusquely that he wouldn’t be staying. Such depths of both consideration and individuality were peculiarly Estinien’s own. Their bond was a strange one, but a dear one for all that.
It had been pleasant to wake up to Aymeric by his side, and to such a proof of Estinien’s friendship. Too brief, but precious nevertheless. He knew that when he did go back to Ishgard, Aymeric would rush towards him with his hands out, and a smile of dawning hope and eagerness. He wouldn’t press Fyfnar to stay, but he had a way of looking at him with continual wonder, of letting his eyes speak what he would not say. Perhaps, this time, Fyfnar might stay longer, and pick up the threads of the conversation they’d been interrupted from once and never resumed.
It would be nice to look in on Count Edmont and Artoirel, too. As for Estinien, one couldn’t find him by looking without an extraordinary stroke of luck, but it would be nice to walk in his city, and ponder a miracle.
Perhaps, after, he would go back to the Black Shroud. He would have to be very lucky to find his mother and sisters at home at once, but it would be pleasant to visit home anyway, and sit comfortably by the fire with whoever was there.
When this was over, he would write them a letter that would delight them: that would make them shudder, and laugh, and grow silent in wonder. It wasn’t hard to write to them, though he hadn’t seen them in many years. He had grown accustomed to the language of writing, and the distance between them was of a very comfortable sort. He had watched with warm interest how his sisters’ voices changed in the course of their correspondence, and his mother blossomed into yet more unexpected branches.
He felt close to them, but still half-shy at the thought of meeting them again.
Raha had come back to his own world as a stranger; that was the part of him Fyfnar had always understood.
*
There were people who recognised him and called his name in every city, but it was different here; he had come to the Crystarium as a friend of Exarch, and so the city had adopted him. It was different here, because the Crystarium was unlike any other city. It had been a vision of defiance and daring: a symbol of hope persevering, and of hope actualised.
He could say now what he had instinctively felt before: the Crystarium had been built by someone who loved him, and the certainty of it shone in every inviting curve and corner of its halls, every smile from the citizens who knew him, every window and opening that let the bright air in. He saw in it constant, fresh proof of the brightness and sparkle of Raha’s vision, of the care and hope that had gone into its creation, and the blossoming of that vision into something warm and living. It was a city of people who strove united for their future, who were quick to come together, who looked after each other, who worked and laughed as one. The people of the Crystarium were so few, and yet they had accomplished the impossible. Their city was kindness, in a world where it was in short supply. Their city was Raha, with all the freeing expansiveness of his dreaming, the minuteness of his care and the warmth of his smile.
It was a city where anyone could find a home, as he had. It was home to him, because Raha had built it. It was still home to him, though Raha was no longer there.
*
And Ardbert, too. What was one to say of him, when there was everything to say? He was part of it, of everything. He had been a stranger to the Crystarium too, and yet all of the city was suffused with the gentle glow of his presence.
He had given his life to this future, and lost his companions to it. He had come to Fyfnar in ruined Amaurot, with his eyes of ash. He had laid his hand over Fyfnar’s, and his cool shadow had fallen like water over Fyfnar’s torn, ragged soul.
Most of the time Ardbert’s memories lay quiet in his mind, and he could not hear them, but sometimes something would strike a chord of recognition that he could not immediately place. Sometimes he felt Ardbert’s smile, and the warm certainty of his presence, as though the fog of his thoughts had parted, and let Ardbert peer through. Sometimes, when he slept, he heard Ardbert speak to him, like a voice from the clouds. He was achingly near, his presence bursting from everything Fyfnar touched, like a sprig of flowers.
There were times when he could sense Ardbert’s voice more clearly, as he had in Il Mheg, when his intent was firm and powerful enough that it shone through independent of Fyfnar’s own. Even then it never overpowered his; they were always a harmony of two notes, and Ardbert’s was a gentle melody, his soul at rest from seeking and striving. But when Fyfnar sensed his voice, he would withdraw into the background for a moment, and let Ardbert speak for himself.
He was learning to turn towards him, to catch his memories and the sound of his voice before they drifted away. But he couldn’t watch him smile, or make him turn away in embarrassment, or witness any of the little peculiarities that had grown so dear to him on the First. And he couldn’t touch him, or feel his warmth. He never could, since he’d come to the First, except for right at the end. It was everything, but it hadn’t been enough.
It was not truly a farewell, and yet it was, to the kind, brave Warrior he had known, who had been so dear to his companions and his world. Ardbert had been ready and willing, but Fyfnar’s heart still rebelled at his Fate.
And yet, whenever he was inclined to grow melancholy over it, he could hear Ardbert’s sigh of fond exasperation.
*
As he walked through the courtyard, he half-expected to see Emet-Selch materialise from a flicker of nothingness, as he had the first time they’d met, and stroll over to tell him he was being a fool.
It would be just like him to appear, as he had at the first, without ceremony or reason: when they’d mourned him, and packed the incident away with its consequences, and thought him properly dealt with. He’d set no store by the fitness of things, and the proper decorum of farewells. He had never had Raha’s tidiness, or his horrible propensity to be in the right.
But the courtyard was warm and sunny, and its shadows trim and docile. Emet-Selch was gone, and there was no-one to laugh at Fyfnar but himself.
*
When he stepped back into the Source he found Raha waiting for him in the Crystal Tower, reading a book. At the sight of Fyfnar he got to his feet, and tucked a stack of books under his arm. ‘I came here to get these,’ he said, ‘and I thought we could walk back together.’
’Let me carry the books,’ said Fyfnar.
’I wouldn’t dream of it!’ said Raha. ’I imagine your packs are full to bursting after your trip to the First. I may not be of much help, but I did not come here to add to your burdens.’
Fyfnar laughed. It hit him then that he was very tired, and he thought how pleasant it would be to return to the warmth of the Rising Stones, and drink a cup of hot tea with Raha by his side.
Walking beside Raha made him see as Raha did, discovering a world ever renewed, filled at every instant with change and promise and revelation.
’I’m glad you’re back,’ he said.