Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Today has been exhausting, all around, but it isn't as bad as it could have been, you think. You've at least been able to rest, which is always nice. You're bored, though, so — probably best to go pester the other Scions for a bit, just so that you're not alone. The corridor isn't too long, at least, so it's not far to walk — but some conversation pricks your ears.

"What's that about my name?" You stand at the doorway, tail flicking, and scan the room. A quick glance shows several of the others, but —

Oh. There's a new face.

A short Miqo'te man, dressed in the standard starting adventurer gear given to Miqo'te. His hair is red, bangs framing his face and falling over one eye, and it's rather long (you can see, when he turns his head to talk to one of the others, a braid, falling a few ilms past his shoulders). His ears are either perked up, or are simply placed higher on his head, but they're too short to be Viera ears, and the long, thick-furred tail further disproves that possibility. His skin is pale, and absolutely covered in freckles, and there's a reddish gradient on his nose. His face marks stand out in contrast, a darker brown, smaller arrow-shaped marks than your own. (You're too far away to see clearly, even with your glasses on, but you know that this man has beauty marks, one by the corner of his lips on the left and one just below the corner of his right eye.) His eyes are the most striking thing, you think; one is a seaglass shade of blue, deep and desaturated and slightly blue-green, a tealish color, but the other is a bright vivid red, like rubies or blood, glimmering almost gold when the light hits.

You know this man instantly, despite having never met. (you'd know this face anywhere, from how much you'd stared at pixels on a screen in a different world, in a life two steps to the left from this one. you know this man more than you know your own skin.)

The thought that circles in your head is how is he here? How and why is he here? (the part of you that is the god thinks and wonders. because this is far far too soon for g'raha tia's appearance. you've not even crawled through the thousand maws of toto-rak, the story is far too early for him to be here.

the part of you that is merely k'pheli, mortal, looks at that face and thinks he's very pretty.)

For a small mercy, your staring is broken when Heimdall waves you over with a light cheer. "K'pheli, hi! I was only saying nice things, I promise!"

Hah. Typical Heimdall. "So you were." You agree, after a few moments. You're not quite sure where to sit, but you'll meander over regardless. Eventually. . . (well. You know he isn't the G'raha Tia of the story, you know he's his own person — but you are still so fascinated. You want to know everything.) "Do you mind. . .?" You ask, making a little gesture at the empty space beside where G'raha Tia, Student of Baldesion, sits.

"Ah -- oh, no! No, no, I don't mind at all." He scoots over to the side a little, and it's appreciated — easier (more comfy) to sprawl out a little bit. Sitting so close to him, it's — kind of funny that this is what you notice, but wow he has very nice collarbones. There's a hint at muscle beneath the shirt and. . . right, right, he's an archer, of course he'd have strong shoulders and arms and pectoral muscles. (You hope you're not blushing. You feel a little bit like some Victorian maiden right now. You are not immune to buff men with pretty faces.) You smile at G'raha Tia, and hope you're not making an absolute fool out of yourself.

"So! We've all gone our turns introducing ourselves." Aulie says, and she nudges G'rahas shoulder. "What of you?"

"Me?" His ears flick. The poor man is very obviously surprised. "Well, ah. . . I am a scholar from Sharlayan. I arrived here no more than a fortnight ago, though 'twas only recently that I arrived at the Waking Sands to join the Scions." He pauses a moment. Maybe trying to think of what else to say? "My initial purpose for coming to Eorzea was to aid in a project, but as that project is on standby until further notice, and 'tis not expected to be otherwise until some summers at least, I found myself coming here." Ohhh, that makes so much sense.

(You wonder, now, if this is the same as in canon, that story you're enmeshed in, and if the G'raha Tia of Final Fantasy Fourteen had also arrived from Sharlayan so early, and only had been around Mor Dhona, instead. It doesn't matter much, you suppose — this G'raha is here, now.)

"So how'd you get invited to the Scions, then?" Says Una Tayuun, and you prop your cheek on one hand, elbow on a nearby crate. You're curious about the answer, yourself.

G'raha's answer this time is much faster. "My younger sister, Krile," (Oh, she's his sister! That's nice, good for him) "is friends with Minfilia -- she, too, possesses the Echo, and so their friendship was built off of that fact, as I recall it." He shrugs (and you are very politely appreciating the muscle moved in that action. Very politely.) "And my organization, the Students of Baldesion, have worked towards discovering the truth of the Echo, thus Minfilia seeing fit to welcome me to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn." Huh! Right, you'd forgotten that Minfilia and Krile were friends (it isn't like it's something that's brought up often, and. . .well. it isn't as if anyone is seeing minfilia often, after her death. the divine part of you is all so very interested in all of this.) "I admit I am not particularly well-versed in the workings of the organization, but, I hope that my academic knowledge, and whatever other skills I have, can do us all good."

You have the sudden urge to grab this man by the shoulders and shake him. Does he have any idea? Any concept of how important he is — will be — to this world, and to others? Would his self-esteem allow him to even consider it, the way a future version of himself will be so beloved? The way he, as a Scion, will be and is beloved? (He isn't the G'raha Tia from the story. He's G'raha Tia, but he's himself — but even still. He has no idea just how beloved, just how important he is, just how much good he can do.) You don't do that, though. (It would draw too much attention.) Instead, you only nod.

And then — a question comes to mind. "You said you were a scholar?" You ask, and tilt your head to the side.

"Ah -- yes, I did."

You him, slowly. Everyone else has gone on to have their own little conversations (and part of you is selfishly grateful — you want all of his attention on you. The mortal half of you preens under having the attention of this very pretty, very attractive man, and the divine half. . . that half is fascinated by him still, wants to be the only thing he has on his mind, wants to reach in and unspool all the secrets and little facts that may be hidden inside his head, the way you'd wanted to do for Minfilia and Foulques and Lyse and those other people who you know as favored fictional characters).

It takes a few moments to find the words you'd like to say. Your mind is adrift, and then, and then — you remember. The first words "spoken" to "you" by G'raha Tia. (The words that had caught Your attention, when You were not you but instead were You, when You were a tired young-adult not knowing just how much Your life would be changed by this short cat man.) "Would you say that. . . 'tis your vocation to record history as it is made by mortal men?" The words are familiar in the way that an echo is, and you remember them clearly. "That you prefer to chronicle the accomplishments of the bold and the mighty?"

"I-- I suppose so, yes." G'raha stutters, and you feel a moment of regret for causing the unbalance. "Why -- why do you ask?"

You shrug. You've no idea what expression lies on your face. "Well. . . I may not be as active as Mehka, but. . ." There are so many things you could say but won't, so many words trapped between your teeth (and still, still, you feel as though you are forgetting something). "I have a feeling that I'll end up tangled up in things like that. I forget a lot, so could you. . . write about me?" Your voice grows soft, at the end of the question. (It is — a vulnerable question. You forget so often that you wish you could record your own story, but literacy is yet beyond your grasp, and it grates at you like stone against stone. As someone who adores journaling, as a Gelmorran who values the recording of history — the inability to do so gnaws at you like a thousand sharp fangs sinking into your bones.)

G'raha is . . . more caught off-guard by the question than you'd thought he'd be."You want me to record your history?!"

What the hell, you're this far already. "Yes, please. If you're willing." You hope he's willing.

"I -- of course! Of course. If you'll allow me." G'raha's tail thumps on the floor beside him. It's cute.

"Oh -- I almost forgot." How you'd managed to forget this is confusing, becuase it's one of the most important things about G'raha Tia, fictional character or real man, out of anything. "You know stuff about Allag, right?"

"However do you know that?"

"I. . . was I not supposed to know?" You blink at him, and teeth bite into your bottom lip, just a little. You're not sure how to explain this away, but maybe. . . "No, my apologies, it's just. . . well, my tribe -- the hipparion tribe -- we keep oral history through song, and there are a few songs of the other tribes from many millennia ago, and your eye seems to be similar to the eyes of the gryphon tribe mentioned in one of the songs, and, well, I assumed, but it was rude of me, I'm sorry." It leaves you in a rambled rush but — none of it is incorrect. None of it is a lie. (It's leaving out the story you know, the fake character G'raha Tia, but it's still not a lie. The gryphon tribe is mentioned in younger songs, but their red eyes are one of the traits most strongly associated with them, just as the hipparion tribe is associated with the sea shore, just as the lynx tribe is associated with their perseverance in hard times.)

"Ah -- no, no, you are fine, I assure you." Oh thank gods. "'Tis not as if you are incorrect, I was simply -- surprised is all. And -- 'tis reassuring to know that the other tribes know of mine own, even loosely. If I may ask. . .is there aught else you know of the gryphon tribe. . .?"

Ah. You shake your head, slowly. "I'm sorry, but no. Only that they exist, or existed, and had red eyes like blood." You hate to dissapoint G'raha, but you can only imagine that being dissapointed must be even worse. (He hasn't been in Corvos for. . . many years, yes? The poor man, so separated from his kin. You ache for him.) You narrow your eyes, tilting your head again. "Though, I don't know much of history anyways. You do know about Allag, right? Could you tell me about it?" Maybe you can cheer him up. He enjoys talking about allag, right?

"You truly wish to know?" G'raha's voice is a bit too even, and comes quickly, but you understand. You won't comment on it. "I warn you, I can speak of Allag for. . . many bells."

"That's fine!" You smile at him, and the relief makes you feel just a bit lighter. You've been looking forward to eventually hearing the many tangents about Allag, from G'raha Tia's lips, so who are you to deny yourself this? "I'm off-duty for a while anyways, I'm supposed to be resting because of all the strain when I fought Ifrit. I like listening." (The fact that G'raha has a beautiful voice, which is smooth like silk and is lovely to listen to, is only tangentially related. You can tolerate having to rest if it means you get to hear G'raha speak.)

"If you are quite sure. . ." and then he launches into his explanations and, well, rambling. It goes from a basic history overview — how the nation was founded, geographical reasons for it starting where it did, talking about the nation as a whole — to a more in-depth digging into things, like about the earliest days of the empire and what little is known and stuff like that. Honestly, you're fairly sure you're going to forget at least half of this, but it's all so fascinating. (not as fascinating as g'raha tia is. not that much. but still fascinating.) You do your best to pay attention and ask questions when you're confused or want clarification on how something relates to something else. It's nice.

(It aches, the way he so clearly is not used to this much attention being paid. He is so, so kind, and so willing to slow down or elaborate, and you decide here and now that, regardless of whatever other feelings you have or may have about him, you are going to listen to him as much as you can whenever you can.

Something lurks at the edges of your memory, something else that you're forgetting, but you don't care to pay mind to that right now. For now, you'll enjoy the words falling off of G'raha's lips, the gentle steadiness of his voice, the warmth of him against your side. You're half falling asleep, but. . . it's a nice time for it. You're comfortable. You're enjoying a new friend speak of his interests.

You think that that soft, glowing joy, the kind that makes G'raha's eyes sparkle and his ears perk up, the kind that makes him loosen like an unstrung bow, is your favorite expression now. You hope you won't ever forget it.)

Chapter Text

You want to write. You want to crack open your skull and pour each and every word onto the page, sear them into the paper in ink dripping scarlet and crystalline blue and you want to write. Frustratingly, maddeningly, your fingers fail to grasp the things you wish to say. Your tongue locked, your mind empty like a boundless abyss.

With a snarl, you fling the journal away from you further into the tent, pen set somewhere as well.

"Now, what's all that for?"

You jump — (not a dragoon's jump, but more a quiet startling) and turn to look. Raha stands there, beside you, looking as composed and patient as he always does. He's holding, gently as if it might break, a small pillow and a bowl of soup.

As you blink at them, mind careering to a halt, they carefully set the pillow down on your nearby cot, and reach forward with the now-free hand to brush your bangs to the side, out of your eyes. (It doesn't keep them there — your bangs fall in front of your eyes again — but it's kind of them to do.) "Would some soup help calm the mind, beloved?"

You lean backwards, and try to force yourself to untense your muscles. (You hadn't noticed how tense you were, vexed as you'd been.) "Soup would be nice." You agree, quietly.

Raha is kind enough to shuffle things about on your desk, until there's enough free space for the bowl to sit (going the extra effort to neaten things up, your pens and bottles of ink and various trinkets set down and all). "It's not much," they begin, "but I did ensure this bowl is free of any vegetation. I know well your dietary preferences."

You snort. "Stop making my issues with food sound so elegant."

"I cannot help how I word things." He complains, though there's no real bite in the words. "And besides, did you not enjoy my ellegant wording?"

"Well now you're just showing off." You say the words fondly, though. It's hard to stay upset when Raha is here, with his smooth words and pretty face and gentle care suffused into every inch of him. Stretching your arms backwards (and popping the shoulders in the process — ow), you take the offered spoon and try the soup. Very tasty. (You'd have more energy to describe the taste, but all you care to know right now is that it tastes good and that it is warm and isn't horrible. In fact it's actually really nice. You're kind of sad that you can't appreciate all the finer details of it right now.)

"A thousand pardons for the interruptions, my love," Raha sits besides and behind you, on your cot, though he's leaning forwards with his palms braced on the edge of it, "but may I ask again why you're so upset?"

You sigh, and try to scrape out the remaining bits of soup. It's not a very large bowl, and you're hungrier than you thought you'd be. Alas. "I wanted to write something." You tell Raha, not looking at them. "But I couldn't figure out how to write it or what I even wanted to write, and it felt like I just had all these words locked up in my head, and I. . . I got frustrated."

"I'm sorry to hear that." And from anyone else it may have sounded fake or like an attempt to placate you, but Raha makes it sound genuine. (They always do.) "Is there aught I can do?"

"Not about the words." You frown down at your empty bowl. Is it worth getting more food, or do you need a nap right now? You've been sat here for so long that you don't even remember what actual time it is.

"It can be not related to the words." A hand, set on your own, and you blink to see that Raha's moved, now, standing beside you. (He looks worried. Probably about you. There's the smallest furrow in his brow, a downturn of his pretty lips. Raha isn't wearing lip gloss today, you notice.)

You waver, but eventually. . . you do probably need a nap. "I think I need a nap." You say softly. "Would — do you wish to lay down with me?"

It is always so interesting to watch Raha's expressions melt away, as he shifts from one mood to another. His brow smooths, his lips quirk upwards, his eyes narrow as the smile becomes more apparent in the shape of them than in the lift of his lips. His ears relax into a more upwards rest rather than the downwards slant, and the most fascinating part is that this happens so quickly. "I would enjoy nothing more." They say, words warm and weighty, and in no more than a moment they've scooped you into their arms.

He holds you tightly. Gently. An arm bracing your back and the other just beneath the backs of your knees, you feel somewhat like a cat being held on its back — but you're comfortable, like this, with your head pressed against Raha's chest. (You can hear their heartbeat best, like this — and it's a good sound. It soothes something in you, settles some anxious creature, to know that Raha is still here. Alive and well.

And at the times when Raha is purring, and they hold you like this, you can hear the purrs best as well, can feel the rumble of them in Raha's chest. It's nice.)

The world is washed in darkness as your eyelids slide closed. There's movement, and noise, but you let that slide away, and focus on the steady thump-thump of Raha's heartbeat. Pressure against your side, as you're set down, and more noise and movement, before more pressure and weight as Raha returns, pulling you close again. (You're on your cot now, the both of you — these blankets feel familiar. And messy. Your nest of bedding will remain un-neatened for another day.)

"Does this help?" Raha murmurs, arms wrapped 'round your back, legs tangled with yours, tail draped over your hip and back.

"Mmh. G'night." You find the crook of Raha's neck, that little space between the neck and shoulder, and tuck your head into there, where you can ignore everything else that isn't Raha.

A gentle shake, as Raha laughs, and then one hand cradles the back of your head. Not pulling you away, not pushing you further, just — cradling. Holding gently.

(Your earlier frustration is forgotten, as you sink into this. Dreams find you quickly, and in all of them is the familiar scent of lemon and beeswax and the unnameable and unmistakable scent of Raha.)

Chapter Text

You are, draped over top of your beloved beloved scholarly archer of a man, very bored.

"Sae'pheli'ehva."

You blink, and look at the little creature beside you. Your V-mon, gold-eyed and eternally exasperated with your shenanigans, looks at you with an expression you can only describe as "tired and suffering, but too tired to do anything about it".

"Sae'pheli'ehva." V-mon repeats, tugging at your pants. "You told A'mehka'ahma that you would help her and Y'shtola with figuring out the mechanisms of the Void."

You whine, and melt further onto Raha. "Don't wanna."

Raha, the traitor, laughs, and scoops you up so that you can't melt onto him anymore. (Well. You can, technically, but not as much as when you're draped overtop of him.) By their side, their Lopmon blinks slowly at you.

For a few brief, wonderful moments, you're able to sink into Raha's arms and stay there.

Then, tragically, you're set on your feet, and Raha stretches, making it impossible for you to be held again. "You'll live." They say, not unkindly, and nudge you forwards with a shoulder. "Best to go fulfil your obligations and return as soon as you can, yes?"

You sigh, dramatically, but you do stretch yourself, scooping up V-mon and giving Raha a kiss. "I'll be back soon. And I demand cuddles once I've returned."

Raha waves you off, humming some song under his breath, and — it's nice, to be able to return to him. (You'll come back soon, though. It shouldn't take too long to help Mehka and Y'shtola out.)

Chapter Text

You're drunk on his touch. Each brush of skin against yours has you melting even further, mind falling even more into a pleasant haze.

(Raha would never do it on purpose, you think. He wants you to be comfortable — to know that you're loved — but Raha is wary of when you get like this. They're scared of taking advantage of you. A noble fear, you're sure, but you've never quite found the right words to explain that you only get like this because you trust them enough to never do that, to you. Trust them enough that you can sink into a pleasant bliss and merely. . . be.)

"Phelye?" The hand running through your hair stills, setting behind one ear.

With your eyes closed, burrowed into Raha, you trill in a wordless question.

The hand doesn't resume its movement, but the arm holding you tightly (a well-muscled, steady arm, warm the way the rest of Raha is warm, and so very very gentle and reverent) shifts, to adjust how you're being held. An ache (one you hadn't noticed) lessens, and you melt even further.

"Phelye." Raha's voice is firmer, too, now, but no less soft. No less reverent. (Everything about him is reverent. Everything Raha does or says to you, about you, for you, is reverent in some way. That is what the two of you are. You are his god and he is your most devoted follower, and you are the host organism and he the endosymbiont. The two of you are as inseperable as mitochondria is from a eukaryote cell.)

"Mmh?"

"Arrrrre you well?" You can so clearly picture their face, despite the strong purring — lips downturned in a small frown, brows drawn together, eyes turning downwards at the outer edges where they pinch in worry.

For that reason, and that reason alone, you stretch, and heave yourself up. You leave your legs and lower body draped atop of Raha, but you'll brace your weight on your hands and shoulders. (It's far from the first time you've done such. You've got strong shoulders, now, from the months of using spear or katana or your crafting tools, from the months of using crutches at the Scions' combined insistence. So it ain't much of an effort.)

"Hi." You say, softly.

"Hello."

You blink at Raha, slowly, and push your weight onto one hand — the other (the right hand), you reach out, and gently (gently, gently, because they're fragile, these bodies are fragile, mortals are always so very fragile) cup Raha's round cheek in your hand. "I'm okay." You answer, and brush your thumb beneath Raha's left eye. (You miss when it was blue-green, still. You miss that seaglass shade. You're grateful for the brilliant, beautiful red, of course, and the advantages of having Royal Allagan blood fully thickened, but — you still miss the seaglass color of the iris.)

"Arrrrre you quite surrrrrre?" His ears are tilted just slightly back (and it's only that you know him so well that you notice, for it's such a subtle movement that Raha tries so hard to keep hidden).

"Mmh. I promise." And you sigh, and settle your weight on both hands again, and press your forehead against his in an affectionate bunt, just-not-quite feeling the vibration of Raha's loudly audible purrs.

"Well." He says, "if you prrrrromise."

With that said, you let your weight drop onto them, and once more return to that blissful comfort. (Laying atop their chest like this, experiencing what you can only describe as bone-deep rumbling, is very nice.)

"You know." You begin. "When you purr so much an' talk at th' same time, y'r letter r's 're a lot more pronounced. Kinda sounds like y'got a little'a my accent creepin' in."

"Is that so."

"Eyep." You can't see, but you can certainly feel when Raha laughs, chest shaking beneath you. "'S cute." You add, relaxing further into his hold again. Your thoughts are foggier again, in that pleasant way, and you are so close to dozing off. . .

"Rrrrest well, my love." Raha murmurs, quietly, and you drift to sleep in his reverent, warm embrace, a hand running through your hair, feeling the safest you've ever been.

Chapter Text

His song is as sweet as the taste of stars, as haunting as your empty hollowed-out bones, and as loud as the ever-screaming skies and seas.

His lips shape each syllable with the reverence reserved for prayer to the highest of the gods. His throat is stready even as it shakes, his chest shifting as the tides with each breath. His face is calm (it could be carved from crystal, with its stillness).

His eyes gaze into yours. A seaglass blue, greenish in the soft blue glow of this space, and a red so bright and bloody it breaks the world, just a bit, with its vivid hue. (It glows, too, that eye; brilliant red like a beacon, sheening gold the instant light hits the iris, pupil an even deeper seaglass blue that swallows the light instead.)

He is beatiful, and he is haunting, and every ilm, every breath, every piece of him is woven into this serenade, this ballad, this canticle.

Carved from crystal, voice smooth as silk and ringing in your skull like the swaying of bells, he sings to you. You don't know the words. You don't know if there are words. It doesn't matter, anyways. Anything and everything pales in significance, falls away from you, like a new knife through weak skin, like skin and muscle sloughing off of bones —

all of it gone, all of it pointless and meaningless.

Here, and here only, you are remade again.

(your mortal body aches at the edge of your awareness, gnawing in the back of your mind like an unpleasant half-forgotten memory, but it, too, falls silent. this moment is not for the mortal half of you. this song is not sung to k'pheli tia the person.)

You sigh, with a breath made of ice and fractaled crystals lining the inside of your throat, of your bones. You lean forwards, slowly, with claws made of frozen stars and blood swimming like a thousand koi reaching for the ascension to dragonhood. Your skin is as cold as death and your voice is a thousand rustling wings and a thousand beating hearts and a thousand choirs all whispering.

He has fallen silent, now. G'raha Tia. Your Raha. (your raha, the one that belongs to you, the one that will only belong to you, the one who is brave enough and foolish enough to sing to you, thinking they know what that means.) He waits. Sitting in a kneel, in this empty echoing chamber made from your own bones and sinews. Barely breathing, chest far more still at the end of his song than others would be. (he is eerie, cast alight in the blue-green light that glows, this crystalline carcass of yours which the two bodies now reside in. he, the mortal. you, the god and mortal both.)

The silence stretches on, unbreaking. He has prayed, has sang to you. (it is not the tongue of gods, not the all-encompassing song of your kin. it is a very, very good effort, however.) It is your turn, now, to respond.

"For what purpose have you sang to me, you who invoke me?" Your words scrape out of you, this body not meant for the weight of them. (this body has never been meant to hold so much of you. mortal bodies are never meant for divinity. you keep trying to fit yourself inside of them, even still. a narrator's attempt to cut themselves down until the ink of all their words stop soaking through the novel's pages.)

Only now, only with your question, do they dare answer. They look at you, and their voice is sweeter, still, for having sang beforehand. "You had said, once, that you missed the songs of your kin." There is not even the span of your arm, in distance between these two bodies. Close enough to touch, close enough to sink your teeth into their throat should they misspeak. (never will they do so. you know them too well, and they know well the dangers of your being like this, know well the caution needed for entreating with gods.)

(that they do this — that they bare themself so readily to you, that they invoke you and your name even with myriad warnings from the half of you that is more mortal than not — speaks of unwavering, insatiable faith. a yearning, empty and hungry and always wanting more, that would drive a mortal man to seek a meeting with your divine self and know what answers you held.)

You blink with mortal eyes, but you still see. Every breath dims the glow of crystal, every exhale illuminating it once more.

"It was a gift?"

"For you." Raha answers, so gently, so reverently. "I cannot understand your divinity, nor how your nature twists it. I cannot understand the greatest, finest workings of this universe. I cannot restore your ears to the song of gods. But I—" a falter, here. (if they had been aught else, in this moment, you would have lunged, snapped with teeth and consumed every inch of them. if you had been aught else, you would have torn them apart for the fun of it. but they aren't. and you aren't. so you give the grace of a moment to recover.)

"I can sing to you, my god." He says, and isn't that arrogant?

"You presume me to be your god?" And your fangs sharpen in your mouth, and your words drip with curioisity and warning and you can see the flex of their throat as they swallow.

It would have been a misstep. (should have been a misstep.) But they sang to you, with such a sweet voice, bleeding their heart into the sound. But they have been so kind to you, even as a mortal. But they have been nothing but devoted, even when you were not yourself enough to feel such devotion.

"In the way that a heart belongs to its ribcage, yes." And oh, oh, you want to preen at the way he looks at you — as if you are the sky bleeding starlight, as if you are a thousand brilliant iridescences, as if you are the answer to each breath, as if you are everything to him.

You cannot stop yourself anymore than the stars can stop their brilliant burnings. Only a thought, only a breath, and you are closer to them still, hands cradling their face, lips only an eyelash's distance from their own. "Oh, you are going to be the death of me," you croon, and the look of awe on Raha's face is the final cut to shear through your already-thin composure.

You kiss him. It is a simple action, but you cradle his face and you kiss him and you can feel him shake, held this close, and you can see the tears pool and trail down his cheeks onto your hands, and you can see the way his pupils drown out the irises, as if he wants nothing more than to look at you. (Perhaps he does.)

The moment. . . ends.

Something in you settles back into place, and you are — not better. No more or less whole. But you are more Sae'pheli'ehva, now, than you are whoever you had been. Not quite more mortal than god, but you are still mortal enough.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, pulling back. Raha is still shaking, quietly, but you are, too, a buzzing just beneath your skin. (your head, though — your head is clear. clearer than it has been in many a moon.)

"Yes." And you do not doubt Raha, but you still worry.

"Did I scare you? Did I hurt you?" You want to pull him close and draw away in the same breath, desires at war with each other. (You do not want him to leave. You think it may break you if he does. You feel very fragile, now.)

"No, no." Raha rushes to reassure, hands quick to settle on your shoulders. A grounding weight. "You did neither of those."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

A moment's breath, and then you sigh again, slump forwards to rest your face against their neck and shoulder. "If you're sure."

Raha laughs, a soft, quiet thing. his arms shift, to hold you closer. one wraps around your waist. The other cradles your shoulders and spine. It is warm, and it is comforting, and it is grounding still.

"I didn't pay attention to the words." You say, quiet as a rabbit's blink. "I don't remember them. I'm sorry."

"I don't mind." Raha says, impossibly fondly. "I did not expect you to. You have said before that your grasp on yourself becomes. . . tenuous, when you are more deity than person."

You hum. "Even still. I'm sorry."

Raha's breath is still steady. You're almost (almost) envious, for your own is not nearly so, your body fatigued as if you've fallen out of a fight. (It's not an unfair metaphor. Your body was never made to hold so much divinity at once — there is a reason it was killing you, in your youth. You are only better at handling it, now, but it still leaves you drained and weak, when your soul settles back into your living bones and blood.) "I don't mind." They repeat, and pulling you closer still, they begin to purr.

"Shall we leave this place?" He asks, claws skimming through your unbound hair. "A proper tent to rest in would be better than within your organs, Phelye."

You hum, and feel every part of this body go boneless. "'Twould be nice." You agree, softly.

"Alright, then." Raha says, simply. "If that is what you wish." And with care that you are beginning to realize is endless, Raha draws you into their arms, holds you strong and steady and gentle. (and still, and still, so reverent.)

The steady purr vibrating you from outside in, and the quiet hush of the moonless night, your eyes slide closed as you're carried. The steady sway of Raha's footsteps never falters, even climbing up and out of this trench that the deepest part of the Tower is cradled in (this place neither of you are supposed to know exists, yet, but that the story proves must be). You drift off to sleep, like that. (safe. loved. sang to, both a gift and a greeting and a promise.)

You'll never know for sure if this is the love that people mean when they speak of it in stories. If this is 'romance'. But, you think to yourself, it is good enough for you. Whatever this is — it is enough for the two of you. If this worship is religion and love both, then you will accept it gladly and cradle Raha's soul in yours, nestled in the space where your heart goes. (You do not think you will ever love the way a "normal" person does. But as long as Raha wants you, you will try to love him in whatever way you can. For the two of you, that is enough. It must be.)

(It will be, for eons and eons afterwards. Love enough to change a god is not a weak force, nor a common thing. Raha has no idea what they've done to you, but the both of you will learn. In time, you will learn.

In this moment, though — in this moment, you drift to sleep in the arms of your lover, and are content in the sureness of your knowledge of being loved for every facet of yourself.)

Chapter Text

You curl your fingers into the fabric of his vest and try to pretend that you're not shaking.

"K'pheli?"

You don't answer, but G'raha doesn't need you to. You've learned to read each other like that, in the time you've been here. (You don't know how long it's been. A while, at least. Long enough that the both of you have a few more ilms of hair.)

G'raha is careful, as he pulls you closer. They know that you ache. (You've ached since the two of you were taken to this place, a deeper ache than the normal muscle or joint pain you'd been familiar with.) Still, his hands are warm, and he carefully, carefully rests one hand on your back, just at the point between your shoulderblades, and one on the back of your head. "Is there aught I can do to aid you?"

It feels selfish to answer. You ache, and there's holes in your memory, and you are so often cold, and if you move wrong the sharp pain in your chest flares up and leaves you teary-eyed and whining and curling into yourself as to become a black hole — but it still seems much less worse than what G'raha is enduring.

(He had mentioned, after all, how he was born in Corvos. How his family had sent him away to the far isle of Sharlayan, in hopes no Garlean would ever get their hands on him. It surely must be a childhood nightmare made visceral horror, then, to be here — trapped in a Garlean castrum, by people who know the significance of their one red eye, forced to aid in reassembling some horrific warmachina lest they be slain outright.

You feel guilty for your part in it. You know G'raha would have put forth much more resistance if not for you. You're the weakest link, here, fragile body and soul rebelling against whatever it is the Garleans want with you. Your aether, probably. Regardless, it's worrying about you that leaves G'raha as compliant as they are, gritting their teeth and pinning ears back but no more than that. You both learned quickly that rebellion only begot more pain.)

"K'pheli." G'raha's voice isn't — isn't sharp, but there's an edge to it that pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts. "K'pheli, please. Is there aught I can do to aid you?"

Everything hurts, and you have to move slowly (slowly, carefully) to not pull at that sharpness lodged just beneath your sternum, but you do eventually raise your head, propping your chin on G'raha's shoulder instead. Your thoughts swim and careen about and it takes you a moment to piece together the shapes of the words you want to say. (Eorzean isn't English, after all, and for all Gelmorran sits just atop your tongue, G'raha doesn't know that language. Yet. You're working on teaching them, whenever both of you have the energy to spare.) "Call me Pheli?" But even as you speak you're changing your mind. "No, no, wait."

For a few moments, it's silent (the desperate scrabble to piece together words and sounds has no volume, after all). "I'm waiting." G'raha says, softly. A tremble is present, in their voice, but only just. "I'm waiting."

"Did I tell you about Gelmorra?" You have to ask, because you don't remember (because your already-poor memory has gotten even worse, each day bleeding into the next, and time is starting to lose linearity and it scares you, because you know what that means and you don't want to stop being mortal yet). "Did I—?" You cut yourself off. Start again. "I forget what I've said. But."

You press your face against G'raha's throat and try to breathe around the exhaustion and horror that this situation has folded into you (like browned butter into brownie batter, your brain spits out, and you want to laugh except this is not the time). "Call me Pheli. Or Sae'pheli'ehva 'f you gotta. Just. We're close 'nough, right?" You cling tighter, even still. Just in case.

". . . then call me Raha, please." Says he, as he, too, pulls you tighter.

You both politely pretend not to notice that the other is trembling. (It's hard not to. If the two of you ever get out of this, somehow — you're probably going to be incredibly codependent. You can't be bothered to care right now, though, because — Raha, because Raha is one of the few things that still feels safe and you can pretend that as long as they're still here you won't ever get hurt again.)

"Okay, Raha." And even in this place, you can't stop the gentle, affectionate curl of your tongue around the syllables. You hiss on the h a bit more than you're supposed to, draw out the first ra-, but you are tired and you ache and you are sure it will be fine.

"Thank you. Pheli." The warmth in Raha's voice is enough to make you melt, just a bit. (Like browned butter. Maybe.) It eases the ache, some — or maybe that's just because Raha is warm. (He's always run warmer than you.) Or — oh, maybe it's the purring.

When did they start purring? It doesn't matter. It's nice.

. . . Raha moves and you can't stop the whine that slips out — you were comfortable. (But maybe they weren't, that's a good reason to move.)

"Sorry, sorry—" Raha adjusts you, once he's settled back into place on the cot you've both been sharing, in the cell. (There's two of them, the cots, but easier to share with Raha. Easier to hear his heartbeat and be sure he's still alive, that way.)

"'S fine." You pull your head up, and carefully roll yourself onto your side, then your back. You try to stay so that you'e still touching Raha, but it's hard to be very precise when you're too tired to move much. Raha's kind enough to help you sort of scoot so that you're laying down on top of them again, though. "Chest was hurtin'." You answer the unspoken question. "Easier t' leave pressure off."

"Mmh." Raha's arms rest over your collarbones and across your waist, then. (Normally he'd wrap them 'round your chest, when holding you like this, but when your chest aches sharp like this it's better not to. Their arms are still safe either way.)

It's silent. Your heartbeat flutters. The fatigue weighs you down, down, down. . .

"I kind of want to kiss you." You say.

Raha inhales, sharply, but they don't make much reaction aside from that. The purring stops. "Are you sure?"

There's a humming in your bones. Is Raha still purring? You wriggle around, just a bit, until you're on your belly again and can look him in the eyes. Mmh. Still purring. That's nice. You stretch your legs out behind you, and nod at Raha just the once.

They exhale, slowly, and carefully roll the both of you onto your sides. "Alright." They say, soft as a prayer. "If you want."

"You get a say in it too, y'know." You point out — not quite sleepy, but not not so.

Raha laughs, loud enough it nearly startles you. "Pheli, my dear," (and you can't stop the little squeak you make at the fondness in the words) "I have wanted to kiss you for moons. I have wanted. . . much and more," he breathes, now, "but I would not dare take it. You deserve more than me forcing my desires upon you."

"I'm asking." You say, softly. "Raha, won't you kiss me?" And despite the teasing lilt you are trying so hard to be genuine.

You watch as his pupils swallow up the iris. "I will." He breathes. "I will."

Raha still moves so slowly, so careful. Like they're afraid touching you will shatter you. It's a short, gentle kiss, all considered — a press of lips against yours, and then pulled away.

(The moment is this—

Raha slowly moves closer. His lips press against yours, and they're a little bit chapped, but his lips are still warm. He tastes faintly of citrus, and something sweet. You want to taste that sweetness again. You want to know if his tongue is sweet like that too.)

"Was that what you wanted?" He asks, purr returned and strong enough to shake you. "Is that okay?"

"Yes." You answer, and then you lean forward and kiss them yourself. (You don't get to learn if their tongue is sweet. That's a bit much for a second kiss. But the little noise Raha makes is just as sweet, as is the taste of their lips, as is their little shudder.) "I hope that was alright, as well?"

"Of course." They sound offended that you'd even say such a thing. "You've been so kind as to give me this, how could it not be?"

You shrug, but you're smiling now. You don't ache as much anymore. (The purring is nice.) ". . . we should sleep."

"Mmh. We should." Ever-so-carefully, Raha draws you closer again, pressed with your head tucked beneath his chin. It's a bit awkward like this, always, because you're that much taller than him to make your legs stick further than his, but you wrap your arms 'round Raha's shoulders and a leg over Raha's hip, and your tail curls around his waist just as his does yours. The two of you make it work, finding the most comfortable ways to sink into each other's weight.

. . . oh. You're not shaking anymore. (good.)

"G'night, Raha."

"Good night, Sae'pheli'ehva."

"Promise to see me in our dreams?" You murmur, sleepily, and Raha chuckles.

"I'll do my best." His voice is lower, in the quiet, and it sinks atop of you like soft velvet blankets, for all this cell has no actual blankets to be found. "Sleep well."

You won't remember, tomorrow or the days afterwards, what you said in response. If you said anything in response. But you'll remember the soft way Raha held you, and that's what you're fond of most.

Chapter Text

The first time you say it, it's by accident.

You're holed up in your tent (well, technically Raha's) as Raha carefully tends to a scrape on your knee, from when you'd fallen trying (still) to adjust to your changed balance. It's gentle, and tender, and soft.

"There," Raha decides, after a few more seconds of carefully looking at the now-bandaged wound. "That seems well enough." They look at you and smile, with that squint to their eyes.

"I love you." You say, and it comes out far more tender and soft than you'd known you could say anything.

The room falls silent. Raha blushes, a bright ref flush covering their cheeks and neck and shoulders, and is carefully not looking at you. (You understand. If you saw them looking at you, you'd probably combust at that very instant.) "Ah, w-well — I see that you're well, now, so I shall, ah, I shall go — go check on how the Sons are deciphering the tomestones we've found." And then he all but runs out of the tent.

The second time is much more casual, an ordinary moment.

This time, you're curled up next to Raha after managing to scrape your way through the last of the defenses in the Tower. It has been a long, exhausting day, made worse by the loss of Unei and Doga. But Raha is still there, beside you, holding you oh so gently. (You can feel the heartbeat of the Tower, now, even so far away. Upon its waking, a part of you you'd not paid attention to was thrown into focus. Even still, Raha doesn't mind, doesn't leave.)

"I love you." You say, quiet and soft, and Raha sighs in contentment.

"I love you too." He replies, and draws you closer into the bedding, tucking himself against your chest and his head 'neath your chin. "It will be alright." He promises, and you've never been more certain.

(You hadn't told him, yet, what you were so scared of. All the same, when you were on the edge of sleep and they not far behind, they'd whispered a quiet prayer against your skin, and it sank into your bones the way all of Raha's prayers had.)

You lose count of how many times you say the words, some time after that. It becomes — not any ordinary phrase, but 'tis less awkward and more familiar, and you mean it more each time that you say it. (It's never quite romantic love, but Raha never expected it to be. You're grateful, each time you remember, that Raha is so loving as to accept your gifts for what you can give, and not demand what you can't.)

It must be the thousandth time you've said the words, now, but you don't bother to keep track. It's a quiet night, now, in the gentle embrace of Sharlayan's chilly autumn. (It's comfortable for you, but less so for Raha — Corvos had always been warmer, and Raha was never built for the cold the way your Gelmorran bones were.)

"I love you." You say, sleepily, and nuzzle your face against Raha's cheek. You're both sprawled over each other, tangled limbs and blankets, books having once been on the bed but long since forgotten about to be wherever they were.

"I love you as well." Raha replies, the time-honored dance, still smiling that same squinty-eyed smile that you've come to think as being your smile, the one for you. "'Tis getting late, my god."

"Mmh." You look at him, just. . . looking. His eyes are still one of the prettiest parts of him, you think, even if his gentle hands are what hold you so carefully. (You're glad, selfishly so, that the seaglass blue hasn't gone entirely — surrounded by the sanguine ruby red, yes, but still present, and always more visible when Raha looks at you, from how their pupils grow like waxing moons.)

"Rest well, Phelye."

"Rest well."

I love you, you think, an incurable and endless fondness welling in your breast, and you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. (You'll never stop loving Raha, you think. Never.)

Chapter Text

"It's your day today." You casually comment, ignoring how Raha double-takes.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's your day." You repeat with the same casual tone as you'd used just moments ago, but glance back at Raha. "It's not anything special today, I mean, there's no significant dates or aught like that, but. . ." you shrug a shoulder. "It's been some while since we did anything for just the two of us, what with all of this world-saving business, and. . . I thought you might like to do something nice?"

Raha looks at you now, softly, and you catch the look in your glance — you look away, then. Still not quite comfortable, yet, with all this softness. (Not after having died a second time. Not after having clung to your bones and clawed your way out of your muscles and skin, rejected your ascension a second time to grasp every one of Raha's fervent prayers and use them as chains to keep you in this body. Not after having to readjust, again, to being alive — but not quite right. Still so much visibly more monstrous and divine; not to the extend that you had been in Norvrandt, but enough that even after saving the world 'tis clear to all that you are different, and unlike the Crystarium's loving embrace you have no certainty that others will accept you as you are.)

(Other than the Scions, and your kin, and Raha. Even still, you can't quite feel comfortable with the softness yet. Raha doesn't begrudge you for it. You still feel guilty.)

The worry is forgotten, soon, as you need to sit and rest lest your traitorous hip give out entirely — Raha scoops you up as easily as ever (easier, now, for you've lost weight again from the strain of healing yourself and recovering), and continues walking their journey to. . . wherever they're going. You forget. "What sort of thing would you like to do then, my love?"

"Eh." You shrug. "I figured I'd let you decide. 'Tis for you, yes?"

They hum, and you can't see the flick (or lack of) of their tail but you can see the way their ears swivel as they think. Raha's ears, you've learned, are some of the most expressive parts of him, sometimes.

"A picnic?" They suggest, when their wandering has taken you from outside the Baldesion Annex to the Agora, perusing various stalls.

You hum, and let your eyes slide closed. "If that's what you want."

"A picnic, then." Raha decides, and you decide that you don't mind being carried around like this, if it means getting to lean into Raha's warmth and tether yourself to him even further. (Each breath of his is a prayer. You wonder if Raha knows just how much faith he's poured into you, filling up your veins and arteries. They probably do. They wouldn't have done this by accident, after all. Even still.)

"Promise you'll get me food I can eat?"

A quiet laugh, even as you don't open your eyes, even as Raha has to wait to reply in favor of speaking with the merchants and other people who greet the two of you. (They think you're asleep, all of them. You're not. But you don't blame them for thinking that.) Eventually, however, Raha does reply — a simple "I promise", and that's enough for you.

A picnic. . . it has been a long, long time since you have had one of those. You'll look forward to it.