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Jullus had warned them of the mercurial weather, but the storm that blew out of the north still caught them by surprise. The wind whipped snow into whorls of white, their companions trudging ahead dancing in and out of view, each glimpse further and further apart until the white-out was firmly established. The Warrior of Light and the man formerly known as the Exarch had fallen further and further behind, doing what they could to help their handful of stragglers. The small group of refugees had been discovered in an isolated settlement, west of the city, barely surviving on scavanged rations and pure cussed stubborness, as far as he could tell. That stubborness accounted for their predicament now. They’d have been back at Camp Broken Glass already if the Scions hadn’t had to spend the better part of the day convincing the Garleans to leave the dubious safety of their hideaway.
He’d noticed that about the people living in this harsh land. It was as though they didn’t know how to give up on clinging to even a shred of survival. He supposed that was something you figured out when your home was an arctic wasteland — how to thrive on innovation and stubbornness and spite.
That was also probably what had kept the last of their entourage going this last hour as the storm surged in strength. If magitek couldn’t kill them then no self respecting Garlean was about to be defeated by mere weather.
“If we keep going we’re going to get hopelessly lost,” G’raha’s voice reached him over the howling wind, itself even louder than the growl of his bike’s engine. Silently Patches admitted he was probably right as he worked to rock the bike’s wheel free of the soft snow it had become mired in yet again. The once proudly paved causeways of Garlemald were pitted and uneven from the fighting, hazards concealed by the accumulation of snow so even the snow chains he’d attached for this expedition were of limited help. He couldn’t even see the path forged by the twins and the rest of the group that had been ahead of them. He glanced back, noting their three charges shivering in the laden sledge they’d hitched to the back of his bike. A fierce older woman and her two grandchildren, too weak to trek on foot no matter how stubborn they might be. The pause to dig out his bike had already allowed half an ilm of snow to accumulate on the blankets they huddled under.
His linkpearl warbled, vibrating lightly against the sensitive base of his horn and a moment later Alphinaud’s voice came tinny and staticky over the connection.
“Patches, …re you there? We’ve compl….ost sight…you.” At the same moment G’raha grabbed his arm suddenly and he tensed to pull away. The miqo’te was pointing to the side and the warrior caught a glimpse of a shadowy bulk looming out of the blindness.
“The train!” he heard himself shouting and G’raha nodded vigorously.
“What was..at? Are…ou…alright?” the linkpearl crackled again, “Ca…ou…hear me?”
“We’re not able to go any further,” Patches said shortly, channeling aether into his own linkpearl. “We’ll ride out the storm in one of the train cars here. We’ll meet you in Broken Glass tomorrow.”
“Sheltering…? Understood,” came Alphinaud’s response. Nodding their mutual agreement to the plan, the two men turned their efforts to reaching their chosen shelter.
They fell into a half familiar rhythm setting up camp, bringing to mind the nights within the Crystal Tower so long ago, with that other G’raha. Patches unloaded the sledge, sheltering it and his precious bike beneath a firmly secured tarp between two derailed cars. They occupied the least tumbled of the two, half toppled, but shoved up against the leeward side of a hill. It looked to have once been a freight car, although the empty interior had since been stripped of anything useful. Patches was relatively certain this was the train they had cleared of tempered soldiers not too long past, but he kept attentive for any hint of movement in the blustery dark as he worked.
While the warrior of light braved the storm and the heavy lifting, G’raha settled their charges in the refuge, feeding Patches’ small camp stove with fire crystals to warm the space. His bike saddlebags were well stocked with supplies for a night on the road, par for the course for any adventurer, so it wasn’t long before the makeshift sleeping car was as cozy as any inn room…at least physically.
G’raha chattered through his work, a steady stream of meaningless one-sided conversation to fill the quiet and ease the fears of the too-quiet Garleans, who huddled together in exhaustion. Yet even when Patches came in from the cold the chatter remained rather solitary. Patches found himself trying to tune the miqo’te out, responding with grunts or short replies when addressed directly.
“The variety of items in your pack is nothing short of miraculous, Patches,” he commented as the warrior produced a spread of ingredients for them to cobble some kind of meal together. Patches merely shrugged, trying to exude an air of stoic concentration as he chopped veggies.
Their Garlean charges’ tension eased by the time the smell of warm stew filled the car, even going so far as to smile a thank you as they accepted their food. It seemed they were all feeling the strain as even G’raha’s words ran down to silence while they all ate, the scrape of spoons against tin interspersed with small sounds of appreciation the only things to break the quiet. Patches consumed his portion of food with mechanical focus, but G’raha only pushed his about his plate thoughtfully after the first few bites.
“I cannot help but recall our nights exploring the Crystal Tower,” G’raha mused, glancing aside at the silent au ra. Patches shifted, tilting his head in agreement and managing a neutral grunt, trying to push away the melancholy the words evoked.
“One could argue this experience is more peaceful, I suppose. None of the bickering from Cid and Nero.” He chuckled lightly, offering a tentative smile that slipped away when Patches failed to respond encouragingly. G’raha cleared his throat in the drawn out silence. “Fond memories, those days,” he continued gamely, “We made a good team.” He trailed off and the silence stretched out heavy and fraught, until Patches stood abruptly and made for the door.
“Something amiss?” G’raha asked, clearly trying to sound curious rather than concerned. The Garleans were fast asleep now, so no need to worry about being overheard. G’raha’s words grated over Patches’ nerves, but he just shook his head sharply.
“See to the bike,” he said shortly, ducking out before the other man could respond.
As soon as the door closed behind him, leaving him alone in the tarp covered alcove with his bike, Patches could feel his shoulders relax. He ruthlessly emptied his mind, letting himself sink into the familiar predictability of tinkering with the ceruleum engine. Alas, he was not successful in stopping his mind from circling the unspoken unease he felt around G’raha. Being alone with him like this made the deeply buried discomfort impossible to ignore, he realized.
Ever since the First, ever since helping the Exarch merge with his younger self, Patches had found it impossible to be alone with the new-old G’raha. He found any excuse to avoid it, a stew of feelings so turbulant and tangled it was unpleasant to even glance at them, let alone try to resolve them. Anger, resentment, guilt, betrayal, grief, all knotted together around his thoughts about everything the Exarch had done to rewrite the Eighth Umbral Calamity, everything Patches had been through.
The wind outside snapped the tarp against it’s moorings, like an angry beast trying to bellow it’s way inside, but it held. Despite the cold the space was quiet and solitary as he checked over each ilm of the engine and exhaust and tires. He had no idea how much time had passed before the door clicked softly in a pause between gusts.
He knew it was G’raha without looking, could smell the clean, sharp scent of him, a blend of bergamot and old parchment. The miqo’te didn’t speak for long moments, but when Patches didn’t break the the silence he finally gave a short cough. Patches held back a sigh and looked up. G’raha shuffled slightly from foot to foot, hands twisting around the trunk of his staff. His tail swatted restlessly and his ears flicked back and forward in a clear sign of anxiety.
“Ahem, Patches,” G’raha finally spoke, smile flickering, “I wondered if…it seemed to me that…the ease w-we once had is…missing.”
“I suppose it is,” Patches acknowledged, not inclined to deny the obvious.
“Ever since we - ah - returned,” G’raha forged ahead, “I sense a-a coolness between us.” Patches thought he was rather understating things, but maybe he was trying to be diplomatic. “It seems clear you are upset with me. I would ask you tell me the reason. If you are willing. Please.” The request tumbled out in a rush at the end.
Patches looked down at the spanner in his hands, turning it to and fro. He thought about fobbing the other man off with a platitude, avoiding the discussion for another day or week, but quite suddenly the thought of postponing it yet longer was too much to bear. The resentment was like an ever growing ocean dammed up behind his teeth, poisoning his mood drop by drop. Perhaps it was time they confronted this all head on.
“Is this G’raha asking or the Exarch,” Patches finally said bluntly. Scarlet furred ears flattened swiftly, fingers tightened their grip, before the miqo’te took a deep breath and visibly forced himself to relax.
“Ah—pardon?” he stammered weakly. Patches sat back from his crouch, leaning back against the sledge behind him and folding his legs, consciously or unconsciously trying to appear unthreatening…even reasonable. He didn’t feel reasonable.
“I’m just trying to determine who I’m speaking with,” Patches said flatly, “G’raha Tia, who I once called friend, or The Crystal Exarch, the man who saved the First no matter the cost to those he drew into his schemes.” G’raha did flinch then, cheeks paling and eyes going wide and liquid. Patches almost relented, heart protesting the hurt he saw in those ruby eyes, but he steeled himself against the temptation. No matter how painful, he needed G’raha to hear this, if they were ever to repair what they had once had. Assuming it could be repaired. Or that he wanted to.
“I—,” G’raha began to respond quickly, but paused, grimacing and nodding as though to some inner admission. He lowered himself to sit, giving some thought to how he should respond. Patches waited. Finally G’raha looked up with a solemn expression. “You are angry with me and I should have expected it. It was perhaps naive of me to think all would be as it once was after everything that happened.” The staff in his hands twisted, slowly drilling a divot into the snowpack. “As soon as my plan failed at Mt. Gulg I knew that one day I must face the consequences of my actions. I should have realized…”
“Should you have?” Patches countered sharply. “That’s the Exarch speaking, assuming he can anticipate every possible outcome, convincing himself of the righteousness of his purpose, even as he refuses to see the mess he made to get there. I guess that answers my question.”
“Does it matter? If I’m one or the other or…or…someone entirely new, a blend of both? Does it lessen your feelings either way?” He asked pointedly, showing his own hint of a temper.
“I…I don’t know. Maybe…not.” Patches sighed, running palms across his horns in agitation. “All I know is, I don’t know how to trust you anymore.” There it was again, that flicker of hurt in G’raha’s eyes.
“If there is something you need to tell the Exarch, then do it. Tell me,” G’raha insisted.
“Oh,” Patches gave a mirthless chuckle, “there’s plenty I never got to say to the Exarch.”
“You’re clearly angry about something he did…”
“Something? Hah,” Patches muttered.
“What was I supposed to do? Let you all die? Let the world burn in an orgy of chaos and darkness and..”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then tell me…”
“YOU TOOK HER!” Patches shouted, shoulders lunging forward, breathing heavy. He pressed clenched fists to his knees, as though holding himself down as he battled the anger. “You took her and it ruined everything.” There was a frozen silence in the wake of his eruption. Patches could feel his rage receding and embarrassment warmed his cheeks.
“Oh,” G’raha let out on a near soundless puff of breath, staring at him with startled eyes. “You mean…Y’shtola,” he said with soft understanding. Patches glared at the shuddering tarp rather than look at the man in front of him.
“Yeah, ‘Shtola,” he confirmed gruffly. “We’d only just started figuring ourselves out when you took her,” he said heavily, “And by the time I found her again…it had been years for her. She’d had time to mourn, to…move on… It had only been weeks for me, days, hells I can’t even remember now. And now we have to try and pick up the pieces, glue them into a shape that makes sense… And even saying it makes me sound selfish and greedy. Don’t think I don’t know that — the absurdity of being angry over losing something that I get to try and recover. But it wasn’t just that, and you know it.” He looked at G’raha now, tried to impress on him the feelings he was trying to express.
“It was all of them, their souls snatched to another world, stranding them. It was making Urianger lie again because Gods forbid you trust me with the truth. It was the—the arrogance of refusing to share your whole plan with us, of—of letting me take all that light, knowing it might be the death of me, and deciding that was ok because you’d sacrifice yourself to stop it, so why bother telling us anything? You—gah!” He couldn’t find the words for the rest.
“I did things one might consider unforgivable,” G’raha said in a low, soft voice, “but I was willing to bear the burden of those sins to save the future.”
“How do you know? That they’re unforgivable?”
“What?”
“You don’t know, you never considered, you’ve never even asked for forgiveness. And I think that’s because you assumed dying would clear every slate and you wouldn’t have to take responsibility for atoning for anything you’d done to achieve your goal,” Patches said flatly. G’raha paused thoughtfully.
“You’re right,” he said. “Dying would have been easier than living with some of the things I’ve done.” Allagan eyes met his, full of empathy and blazing determination. “But had I done nothing, had I never pursued the mad plan to rewrite the future, what then? You would be dead. So would she. So would everyone, here and on the First. I…”
“I know,” Patches snapped. “I know that. All of it. I know and…” He sighed heavily. “If it had been me…I would have done the same.” The admission hung heavy between them.
“To answer your original question” G’raha said softly after another long silence, “I may have his memories, but…I’m not really him. Nor am I the man you left asleep in the tower. I am both, or neither.” He shook his head, frowning briefly, an odd expression to see on that face.
“But I understand now,” he continued, “why we can’t go back to being as we used to be. For what it’s worth…I am sorry, for all the pain, but I’m not sure I’d do anything differently. Perhaps one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” He sounded resigned, as though sure such a day could never come to pass. Patches shot to his feet as G’raha reached for the door.
“G’raha,” he took a deep breath, then stepped closer, looking down at the smaller man. “Just one more thing. Sacrificing yourself like that, making the unilateral decision to martyr yourself, I think that might be the only thing I wouldn’t be able to forgive. So…don’t do that again, okay?” G’raha smiled, full of understanding and affection.
“Patches,” he said, voice full of sincerity, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to live with the fact that if it means you live on, I don’t care if you forgive me.” With a rueful smile, G’raha slipped back into the train car, leaving Patches alone to consider the aching warmth the miqo’te’s words had left in his heart.